Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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dog inside, tapping her gently on the head and scolding her for effect.
A tutored glance showed that the wood was seasoned maple, a good sixteen inches, not short-cut like the townies with pretty stoves wanted. “Over here, please.” Belle pointed at a cleared space near some pallets. “Watch the telephone and hydro lines.” When the pneumatic lift pumped up, the driver opened the tailgate, the wood crashed down and the door clanged shut.
The boy walked over, presenting a paper. “Five cords of dry maple. Sixty a cord comes to three hundred and tax of forty-five.”
Belle caught his eye and arched her brow. “Cash?” Two-thirds of Canadians admitted to avoiding the onerous provincial and federal sales taxes. The underground economy was alive and well even if the primary one was still ailing.
“Sure. Three hundred even,” he said without flinching and accepted the three crisp brown bills she withdrew from her parka. He surveyed the mammoth deck to the endless lake beyond. “What a great spot. Wish I could live here. Do a bit of fishing.” He paused and seemed to be counting the windows. “Big family?”
Belle was ready. “Oh, several of us. And a hungry dog,” she added. Taking the hint, he inhaled a last meditative drag, and soon the guttural chug of the motor faded into the distance. Isolated places were free Wal-Marts for thieves. It helped to have a vehicle visible at all times, even a junker, so she let Ed leave his plow truck by the propane tank to free up his small parking area.
Later that evening, just before she packed Spenser away (poor man was on a heavy case in tropical San Diego; did people get paid for working there?), Belle thought she heard a plane. She stepped out onto the mini-deck off her second floor master suite and tried to home in on the sound. The temperature was back to -30°, and the trees were snapping like rifle shots. Though the moon illuminated the white surfaces and the house lights radiated across the lower deck, a steady snow was beginning to obscure visibility. She turned her head slowly, shutting her eyes to concentrate. Too low and too noisy for a regular airport flight. It came closer, so much so that she ducked involuntarily. A small cream Cessna ski-plane landed and taxied to her dock, where the dish sat collecting snow. Was the guy crazy? Belle threw on a heavy coat, boots and hat and followed her snowmobile path to the lake.
“Good thing I saw your dish,” a man said, getting out of the plane and letting the motor idle. “Where’s Dan? Place sure don’t look like a lodge.”
Belle propped her hands on her hips and yelled over the engine noise. “What are you talking about?”
The man squinted at the house while the snow danced circles around his waist. “Say, isn’t this . . .” He wheeled as he bit off the words and climbed back into the cockpit, throttling up and off in a swirl. She watched him fly down the lake until he disappeared in the shrouded darkness. Too small for instrumentation gear, yet he hadn’t seemed low on fuel or in trouble. She made a note to call Steve Davis, a detective on the Sudbury Force. Besides, Steve owed her a dinner.
TWO
For once, the predictions had been accurate. The vicious storm which had buffeted the area left behind perfect conditions for snowmobiling, only -15° C with lots of fresh powder. Across the lake nestled pockets of fog, trapped in the line of low hills, a parfait of white and green to burn off in the bright daylight. The dog looked up expectantly. “Next time, Freya,” Belle promised. “I’m going too far today.”
Winter fought fairly on its own primitive terms: strap on cross country skis or snowshoes, or drive a snow machine. Sudbury’s graying population of retirees from the mining industry was well-represented, since the “sport” required little more than a strong right thumb and a resistance to cold; youth and muscle were secondary advantages unless breaking trail or attempting aerial stunts. Belle’s compact red Yamaha Bravo 250 lacked the benedictions of reverse gear, instrumentation, automatic start or cushy suspension, but she had installed handwarmers, a cheap but blissful fix. The dependable Volkswagen of the snow machine world got her where she wanted to go, and better yet, allowed her to view the scenery instead of just an eye-watering blur.
Freya moped in the computer room, her ample poundage curled up impossibly in her “cheer,” a stuffed plaid monstrosity shredded by long-gone cats and banished from polite company. Remaining there through the tempting aromas of bacon frying and toast browning signalled a grade-A sulk. Despite the pats and nuzzles, the dog pointedly ignored her, turning her head in a classic snub. Belle buried her face in the thick neck hair, inhaling the comforting smell of a clean, healthy animal. “Back in the Cro-Magnon caves, girl, you’d have kept me warm and safe, fleas aside,” she said as Freya finally sighed in resignation.
Can’t let a dog run your life, Belle told herself, collecting her gear: long red “thunderwear,” T-shirt, sweater, sweat pants, a versatile woollen cowl, felt-pack Kodiak boots and the bulky snowmobile suit. Dressing in deep winter seemed like running a Mobius strip, so she left everything in layers and piles, burrowing in and out with acquired skill. Under her helmet and face shield she wore a balaclava; heavy mitts which reached up her arm completed the outfit. The luggage container held extra oil, topographic maps, spark plugs, tools, lighter and a sinister pick designed for escape from a fall through the ice, useful in summer for preparing ice chips for drinks. Her survival gear, which included a tube tent, thermal blanket, rope, flare and chocolate, stayed permanently in the rear carrier.
Except for a few islands and its southern shore where Belle lived, most of Lake Wapiti was undeveloped Crown land or First Nations Reserve. Scientific opinion had called it the site of a meteor crater, a smaller version of the meteor bomb which had christened the Sudbury basin “Nickel Capital of the World.” Roughly eight miles in diameter, a crude circle, the lake was over three hundred feet deep in the centre. In winter, the sleeping giant opened onto thousands of miles of snowmobiling trails, stretching north to James Bay, east to Quebec and west to Manitoba and Michigan. It was an amazing secondary transportation network, complete with signage, restaurants and motels, slipping through small towns happy to snag the tourists in winter. Teenagers in outlying districts drove the machines to school, often following hydro tower trails to avoid the roads.
Since the day was clear, the sand cliffs or “Dunes” at the North River loomed sharply. This tributary had played a vital role in the lumber trade at the turn of the century. Millions of board feet of pine, oak and maple had floated down it, bypassing rapids via wooden plank runways called “flumes.” The logs were gathered near the river mouth to be transported by a narrow gauge railway straight to town. Much of the wood had rebuilt Chicago after the fire. Within a ten-mile radius of the original smelter in adjacent Copper Cliff, the acid fumes of the open pit nickel smelting, which continued until 1928, had destroyed the remaining growth. Once the vegetation vanished, the fragile topsoil ran down the hills, leaving the notorious moonscape where astronauts came to train.
In a long-overdue response to the ecological disaster, not to mention the embarrassing publicity, forces from industry, government and the community had joined to arrest and repair the damage. The erection of the 1250 foot Superstack in 1972, aggressive liming and reseeding (“Rye on the Rocks”) and summer programs which hired students to plant thousands of trees had started coaxing the shell-shocked landscape back to life. It was a slow process, but by the nineties, black was becoming green again.
Stopping at a pressure ridge where the ice plates collided to form sinister hedges, Belle searched for a safe passage around the weak spots. No one was in danger of going through on such a massive lake, though. Most drownings occurred farther south when novices pressed the season’s start or finish, or on smaller lakes where springs ran all winter, even at 35 below. The year’s snowmobile death toll stood at forty in Ontario, most from crashes into fences, rockcuts, other machines and even trains. She passed one ice hut village and drove on to the next, where trucks and cars were gathered round, chimneys puffed out warmth and hardy children flew Canadian flag kites in the stiff breeze. Although a few lone huts parked over personal hot spots, most people preferred togetherness over privacy. Ice fishing was a social event complete with card games, meals and matching beverages. At the shack beside the customized Phazer reading “Rocket Man” on the hood, she cut her engine and knocked at the plywood door. Inside, his feet