Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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all the spruce and cedars. That could explain why they were so careless. From the tracks, I’d guess a machine met the plane.”
“The strikes against Brooks are adding up,” Belle said, ticking off points on her fingers. “First, expensive renovations on the lodge, not just a cheap facelift. Second, a stable of new machines, hardly rental jobs. Where did he get them if he’s been broke? Another possibility is that he’s operating a chop shop or feeding one. And third, I met one of his contacts at the Paramount the other night.” She had Franz laughing over the script.
“You met him there? Oh, Mata Hari, wasn’t that unwise? Do you list the martial arts among your many talents or did you carry a pistol?”
“Bah, I wasn’t going to go home with the man to watch David Letterman. Even gave a false name. He got a bit rough, but an officer I know came along in his patrol car.”
“Another knight entering the lists?”
Belle tapped his knuckles playfully. “Not where Jim’s death is concerned. Steve sure let me down there. But look, even if Jim had witnessed something, perhaps a transfer like you describe, how did someone arrange such a picture-perfect accident without leaving one bruise? It just sounds so coincidental. How could anyone even know who he was?” She frowned pensively as she mopped up the last of the eggs, then unwrapped the gold drop and presented it on top of a napkin. “Breakfast at Tiffany’s. One new clue. See what you think of this. I’ve been carrying it around like a talisman.”
The unflappable Franz raised his eyebrows for a nanosecond, his pupils widening. “And where did you get this small treasure?”
“Jim’s mother searched his pockets a few days ago when she did the wash, poor lady. What in God’s name is it?”
He moved it delicately between his fingers, shifting it to catch more light, as his expressive mouth formed a moue, more French than German. “Gold, by the appearance and silken feel. For a piece of jewelry, perhaps, though it is so small. A gift for Miss Melanie or maybe just a curio.”
“That’s what we thought. But it never hurts to double check. For a starting place, I have a friend in the jewelry business.” She retrieved the drop and let Franz whisk the cheque from her hand.
“I am too fast for you today. Your treat next time.” He checked his watch. “We had better be off. The ice has risen, but conditions will worsen as the day warms, especially with bright sun.” To save the long drive home for her gear and the Bravo, he suggested she park at the marina and ride with him over the ice road to his island. “I have an extra snowmobile,” he said, “an old Elan of my father’s. Low on suspension, but ticks like a sewing machine. He used to assure me that a Singer was under the hood. When I was a small boy, I believed him.”
By the time they reached the marina, lake traffic was headed the other way, people helping each other haul their huts off. “This is not my favourite time of year,” Franz complained as the Jimmy bumped along and he waved at a few drivers. “When the ice is breaking up, I have to stay in town for a week to ten days.” Belle wondered if he were hinting for an invitation. What an interesting guest he might be, though. There would be no end to the conversation. And he liked dogs. “Then at ice-out, I pick up my boat at the marina and so it goes until December.” Belle dreaded ice-out, too, prayed against a northeast wind which could skirt the rockwall and blow dangerous floes onto her dock, grinding the satellite dish and everything in its path like a juggernaut. Insurance companies did not cover these acts of God.
As they climbed the wooden stairs to the house, Marta greeted them, her creamy white hair thickly braided and wrinkles of concern lining her cameo profile in the harsh light of day. “Be careful,” she warned. “Franz told me where you are going. The ice is thinning everywhere. My son knows the safe places.” Inside, she gave Belle an extra suit, a pair of boots, and a thermos of coffee.
The old warhorse of the elder Schilling roared into life, shaking temperamentally and spewing out oily gray smoke. “Not very ecological, I suppose,” Franz said as he gallantly presented the keys to his own machine. Belle removed the custom cover like opening a birthday present and crooned, “Where have you been all my life? This was featured in the Ontario Snowmobiler magazine. A Grand Touring SE. What do they call it, Franz, the Mercedes-Benz of sleds? What a yuppie you are!” She brushed appreciative fingers over the thick seat padding and adjusted the oversized backrests. “How fast are we talking? What kind of track? And what other cute little bells and whistles? A CD, perhaps?”
Franz seemed embarrassed about her reference to his conspicuous consumerism. “It’s not really a racing machine; it’s designed for touring.”
“Oh, right, just for plain Jane cruising. A retirement model, no doubt. With 670cc? You could smoke my baby Bravo into cardiac arrest,” Belle moaned, testing the controls.
He sighed elaborately, but a nuance of a smile crept over his lips. “If you insist. She has extra wide and long track, much more suspension than the standard models. I need that for my bush trips,” he offered as a rationale in the face of her disbelieving sniff. “My back’s not what it used to be, so gas shocks, too. I think that’s all. Oh, thumb and handwarmers.”
“Not to mention reverse gear, you greedy man,” Belle snarled, toying with the complicated cockpit of controls.
“Of course, so enjoy it.” He thumped the hard, duct-taped seat of his father’s old machine. “Your pleasure is my introduction to a set of kidney pads.” A call brought Blondi from around the cabin, her tail wagging eagerly for an outing.
“Franz,” Belle objected, “she can’t run that far.”
“No fear. Just watch.” He attached a lightweight toboggan as the proud animal picked her way gingerly down the steps, carrying her famous sunglasses in her mouth. She climbed into the sled happily and settled down with a doggy sigh.
Franz attached the glasses. “She can run the last few miles for exercise. I always take her to the cabin as company, so the extra horsepower is helpful to pull the gear, you see,” he said with an “I told you so” look. When the Elan stalled, he began tugging his starter cord repeatedly, muttering what sounded like arcane Teutonic curses while Belle merely pushed a button and smiled smugly as her engine purred like a cat curled before a fire.
The last vestiges of the winter runs were disappearing. Marshalls from the Drift Busters were removing the red poles across Wapiti that marked the major trail. The year before, the trail had been marked by using discarded Christmas trees complete with shreds of tinsel, a curiously surreal diorama which elicited howls from the environmentalists. Approaching the Dunes, Belle lost all mature restraint and thumbed the gas full-throttle, a move which snapped her head back in shock and rearranged her spinal cord. What a race horse!
At the top of the Dunes, Franz caught up with her like a faithful Sancho Panza. The sight of him bouncing barely inches off the ice, his back probably screaming, drew her sympathy and amusement at the same time. He waggled his finger like a teacher, yelling over the motors. “I thought you would fall under her spell. Why don’t you get a new model? You would like it, you know.”
“No wonder so many riders exit the gene pool every year. Horsepower corrupts; absolute horsepower corrupts absolutely. But stop tempting me. Why buy a VSOP cognac when Ontario brandy will do?” She stood up like a jockey in a steeplechase and revved the engine. “I might be spoiled now, so thank God the season is nearly over.”
As he pointed out on the topo, Franz had chosen the safer land trail instead of the faster route across five lakes. Crossing the bridge over Thimble Creek, Belle stared into the rushing water shimmering with ice diamonds. This was still frozen on her last trip, she thought, but she’s coming up like gangbusters. Wapiti’s going to rise quickly. The Ministry of Natural Resources, keeper of the hydro dam keys, let the lake fall all winter and didn’t close the sluice gates until the ice had vanished, minimizing dock and boathouse destruction and allowing cottagers their rockwall repairs with a backhoe in the narrow window of opportunity.
After half an hour, Franz pointed to a small side trail and signalled