Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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death was a similar master of deceit.
Around four, Belle glided up in front of her house and parked the machine under the deck, covering it carefully, after refilling the fuel and oil. A trip to the bank in town was in order, to transfer funds from her father’s Florida account where his social security was deposited.
When she saw the jammed parking lot, her blood pressure spiked. Inside, the only working machine had a line of ten, while at the wickets, motherly tellers tried to keep the crowd moving through the corded labyrinth.
The people were grumbly but not mutinous. Canadians subscribed to the “Peace, Order and Good Government” policy instead of the more militant American “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”. The right to bear arms would never be inscribed in the Charter of Rights; the right to arm bears, maybe. During the wait, Belle’s hand kept finding its way to the gold drop in her coat pocket. What might Melanie know about this tiny talisman?
A phone call to the Nursing Residence told her that Melanie had just left for dinner next door at the hospital cafeteria. Fifteen minutes later, Belle found the girl at a corner table, probing a grey chunk of shepherd’s pie, heavy on the mashies and dotted with mushy peas. She looked up and smiled. “I’d invite you to join me, but I have too much respect for your good taste.”
“I just got back from the camp.” Belle shook her head. “I know . . . finally.”
“Any luck?”
Belle told her what Jim had written in the log. “He seemed fine the last time I saw him, but that was days earlier. I guess the flu could explain some distraction, but to go so far off the track? And he mentioned seeing . . .” She glanced around the crowded room. Better not use names. Sudbury was small enough to be quite an intimate little family, especially where locals were concerned. She hummed to herself. “Our lodge friend up there in the bush.” Melanie squinted up her eyes in a question, then caught on as Belle continued.
“What about your investigation at the university?”
“It’s been slow. I start to bawl every time people tell me what a great guy he was. Gone through a box of tissue.” She paused and wound a strand of hair around her finger. “Except . . . Father Drew, the chaplain who teaches one of the crisis counselling courses we have to take. He’s a good man to talk to. He gave me to understand that Jim had consulted him once about a student who had a crush on him. More of a bother than anything else.”
Belle perked up. A lady of mystery in Jim’s past? Hard to believe. “Who was it? What did she look like?”
“Forget it. You know Jim. Never a word. I find it strange that he asked for help. Certainly he never said anything to me. He gave me the impression that I was his, well . . . you know.” She lowered her eyes and cleared her throat. “What’s next, then, Belle? Do you have any more ideas?”
“At least the log convinces me that I’m on the right track. The next step is to find a definite connection between Brooks and the drug trade,” Belle said. “And Mel, I have something to show you.” She presented the drop. “Meg found this when she washed Jim’s pants. Could it have been a gift for you?”
The girl accepted the gold like a holy relic, her face softening. “Jim’s? I don’t know. Where would he have got it? It looks like a tear from an angel. God, that sounds so trite. May I keep it?”
How could she say no? Belle told Melanie that she had to consult a few friends who worked with gold first, from raw material to finished product, to discover exactly what it was and where it came from.
Freya got some chow before Belle stirred up a quiche with shredded Emmenthaler and Black Forest ham for herself. Thirty-five minutes later, she hunkered in front of the oven, watching an edible television show. The savory cheese was bubbling, the chopped chervil and capers peppering the top. Finally she could wait no longer, tested it with a piece of spaghetti and doused on hot sauce. Then she watched Miriam’s precious tape of Wild Orchids as a torrid Garbo pirouetted around the hapless Louis Stone. Not too convincing for the twenty-four-year-old to be in love with a man pushing seventy. Had MGM believed the public that gullible? Belle suspended her disbelief and sat back to enjoy the quintessence of the silents, the subtle techniques that made words superfluous. Silent films had been called “shadow plays”, and these shades fluttered around the actors with stunning effect: while Garbo waits tentatively outside her lover Nils Asther’s bedroom door, light suddenly washes over her as the door opens, and his shadow begins to move up her body; and as the image of his cupped hand falls over her breast—she disappears. Just like the solution to Jim’s death is forever pulling away from me, Belle thought.
After the movie, she began her bedtime routine, marshalling an artillery of vitamins, a 400 mg E (not natural, but cheap!), halibut oil, a 1200 mg lecithin and a new B-75 bomber horsepill. She assembled them on the bathroom counter along with her favourite old-timey glass from Mother’s Pizza in Barrie, bearing a wistful portrait of Mary Pickford, Canada’s sweetheart. Slow down, Belle thought, and bite the big ones in two. Or learn how to apply the Heimlich manoeuver to yourself.
FOURTEEN
The local bar scene was a subject far from Belle’s mind. Only in university, in cozy bierhalls or pizzerias, safe havens for women, had she “gone drinking” with friends. Everyone knew Sudbury’s watering holes by sight and reputation, from the upscale Office to the restaurant-bars like Pat and Mario’s to the outer limits like Eddy’s down the alley from the Salvation Army. Later that night she would give Derek a call to find out the best dives to search for a link between Brooks and the local drug trade. He might have friends in “low places,” as the song went. Of course, she would have to go alone. How else to meet people?
After a salty but satisfying breakfast of English muffins, wicked feta cheese and some tempting dried black olives, she drove downtown to check in with Miriam. Her lieutenant and her PC companion were humming in tandem. “Guess what?” the older woman called, sweeping her arm like a grand duchess. “We got the go to sell that apartment in the Flour Mill. Ten units. Low rent is the polite phrase, but well-maintained. I was over there this morning.” She flashed Belle a few Polaroids. “200K if we’re lucky. And the owner has other properties, too.” She sprayed wildberry deodorizer around her desk. “Sorry. Mr. Balboni smokes a wicked cigar. Didn’t want to be rude and lose the sale. The things you do.” She coughed theatrically.
“Windfall, Miriam. We’ll have to celebrate. Dinner on me at the restaurant of your choice when and if. Oh, the Garbo tape was a definite gem.”
Miriam smiled like a Buddha and started dialing. Pushing aside the clutter on her desk, Belle clicked up her files on a lakefront distress sale. Nowadays lots had to be 150 feet minimum so that tiny places did not overtax the waterfront. This lot was 100 feet by the dubious “irregular”. With the bedrooms a weak shot put from the road, it was like sleeping on the pavement itself. Since there was no land for a conventional septic, the owner had tunnelled creatively to put in an anaerobic bed across the road. Uncut, unruly, Tim Horton cups and other detritus nesting in the high grasses, it doubled as a wildlife sanctuary in clear violation of the code which demanded that a septic bed be green and reasonably clipped. A cement block sauna with a sinister hole by the chimney and a rusting trailer with broken windows crowded the last inches of the site. Even the house roof sagged, weighed down by ice dams and no doubt leaking inside. The elderly owners had become unequal to the upkeep. Bring on a dozer, Belle thought, but there was no accounting for taste. The wretched toenail of dirt might attract someone who just wanted boasting rights to lakefront property, thereby providing a retirement cushion for the old pair.
A few groggy hours later, the coffee pot exhausted, Belle trudged back from a lunch run down the block to fetch submarines, Italian salami for Miriam and for herself, a seafood special (fish masquerading as crab). Turbot maybe? In a recent diplomatic contretemps with Spain, a long-patient Canada had surprised the world by defending its fragile Grand Banks, impounding one boat and displaying the illegal nets at the United Nations building. Whatever its origins, the succulent flesh had Belle licking the last calories of mayo from her fingertips. A cold draft blew through the room as a young woman