Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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skidded down the driveway after lunch. “They told me you’d been hit again. Look at all the tracks! Grand Central or what! Did you have to trample everything? I got here as fast as I could. Since morning I’ve been north of Parry Sound where a gas transport accident blocked 69 for hours.” In his irritation, he ignored Freya’s barking. Usually he loved to play with the dog.
Belle felt a defensive surge. This was her territory, her violated home. Why did he have to make the situation worse? “It’s been snowing heavily, so any tracks are gone. What do you want to know? Someone stuffed the chimney. From what we found when we pushed down into the stove, it was towels left by my propane tank. I’ve been through a rough night, and I had the funny idea that you were my friend.” She bit her lip and turned away, knowing she was in for a grilling.
He reached into the squad car for his notebook and wasted no time pinpointing the obvious question. “And your smoke detector?”
She sighed deeply. “No contest. I did something stupid. It’s reconnected now in case you feel like jailing me for building code violations.”
Taking a look around, Steve seemed ready to continue the third degree as he scribbled her remarks and his observations, but with a glance at her sitting slumped on the deck stairs, he took a deep breath. “The burglary attempt or whatever that you didn’t even bother to report is one thing. That’s common enough in cottage country in the winter. This looks serious, but I can’t see why they didn’t cut the hydro. Must have had a kind heart or been real amateurs.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Everything should be fine if you mind your own business until Saturday, our big night. Make it look like the scare worked. Lock the doors; look over your shoulder. Maybe have a friend stay with you?” He paused to consider her snort. “No, eh? Well, fine. Freya’s track record is good enough.”
“And I do have a shotgun.”
“Load it with rock salt. You won’t do any real damage.” That got her smiling. “Come on, now. We’ll put Brooks and his sleazy friends away until the Leafs win the Stanley Cup.”
Belle met his eyes and cleared the phlegm from her throat. “I’ll lie doggo. Not a bark.”
After Steve had to make three tries up the slippery drive, somewhat to Belle’s satisfaction, she called a painting firm listed in the Northern Life. With business slow, they promised to come the next day with the colours she wanted. The job could be done quickly if she didn’t mind the smell. Then a small Golf drove down the driveway. Melanie got out, and Freya capered around her, friendly as ever with females, even strangers. Size? Conformation? Pheromones? Voice? Who knew what lurked in the genetic memory of a canine?
The young woman presented the newspaper and widened her eyes at the sight of the lake. “What a paradise, Belle, but it’s colder here than in town. Natural refrigeration. Your sign’s sure easy to find. Neat owls.” Her chirpy tone changed as she noticed the smudges on Belle’s face. “My God, what happened?”
“Just a smokeout. Somebody stuffed my chimney. And I didn’t even have a ham in the rafters.”
“Are you OK? How did you get out?” They walked inside as Belle made coffee and told her story once more. Each time it became more exciting and elaborate, and each time she realized her dumb luck.
“Hope you don’t mind smoky coffee. Maybe it’ll be exotic. I’ve had the place airing, but as you can see,” she said as she pointed to the dirty stone-white paint in the living room, “there is damage. And I’ll have to wash the pine on the ceilings, too, or negotiate for a cheap steakhouse franchise.” They sat on the leather sofas which Belle had swabbed hastily with soap and water. She looked down tiredly and scuffed the rug with her foot. “Good old commercial stuff. Totally resistant against dog hair and wood debris, but I should call a steam cleaner.” She rubbed her bloodshot eyes.
“Aren’t you afraid, Belle? It looks like someone is out to get you.” Melanie’s warm expression reflected a genuine concern.
“Yes and no. It has to be Brooks. But we’re getting closer. Franz showed me a spot near his bush camp where a cocaine exchange was made. It won’t be long until Brooks is sitting in jail, his friends, too. Maybe one of them will talk about Jim’s death and make the connections we’ve been after. Meanwhile, I’ve got Canada’s best security system.” She snapped her fingers at Freya, who trotted out Mr. Chile and obligingly laid him at a bemused Melanie’s feet. “Guess I’ll cruise on propane for a while to be safe. I know it’s stupid, but that woodstove has me nervous. It’ll probably cost the earth to keep the place at 20°, much less my usual 25°.” She pressed at her temples and gave a small moan.
“What’s wrong? Did you fall last night?”
“It’s just a stupid headache. Carbon monoxide, maybe, or my sinuses overreacting. It’ll go away with time and a few pounds of aspirins.”
“Let me try something.” Melanie moved next to her and cradled her head with a touch that was curiously cool and warm at once. “I’ve been taking a healing course, reiki, it’s called. One of the techniques might help.”
Belle made no protests, and after a blissful ten minutes, she sat up with a stunned grin. “You’re a miracle! What did you do, and can I hire you?”
Mel seemed pleased at the praise. “I’m not discounting conventional medicine, it’s my job, but I’m sure therapeutic touch can help any patient, especially where stress is involved. It’s more than just massage.”
“I’m impressed. Anything else to it?”
“I’m glad to talk to someone who takes me seriously. At the hospital I have to walk a narrow line so that I don’t sound like a crackpot. But I’ve been experimenting with sending healing messages from afar, in one case to a nephew who had been in a coma from an auto accident. I surrounded him in white light, tried to rejuvenate him with an aura.” She blushed. “Do I sound like Shirley MacLaine?”
“Hey, I’m not laughing. Flo Nightingale lived before her time, too. And your nephew?”
“He’s in rehab in Toronto. Should make a complete recovery. Prayer, natural energy, modern medicine, luck, who knows? I like to visualize a bright white fluffy cloud around me wherever I go.”
The girl’s too good to be true, Belle thought. Protected by a cloud. Why not? They used to call them vibes; now it was auras. Melanie spoke also of cleansing the mind of grudges, bitter failures resupped from an old menu. For this she recommended buying a candle for each harmful person or experience. Forgive the trespass, and watch the burdens of the past burn away harmlessly. Ageless witchery mixed with common sense psychology. Every day in every way, getting better and better. Murders, however, needed resolution, and sometimes, though “Mordre will out,” according to Chaucer, it needed a helping hand.
SEVENTEEN
A few days later, Belle pulled up in front of Shirmaz Jewellers and Gifts, a tiny shop in the older Donovan area, long bypassed by commercial concerns defecting to the malls. Small, square, compact homes, living relics of Sudbury’s frugal past, showed the blue collar priorities of keeping warm while avoiding a crushing mortgage. A wiser time, perhaps, she thought, waving at a sturdy grandmother shovelling snow, woollen babushka on her head. Omer Shirmaz ran his eccentric store more for hobby than profit. He and his wife Thema lived upstairs in the frame building, a shaky, enclosed staircase running up the side.
A bell jangled as she entered. “Omer, hello,” Belle said to Sharif’s double. What elixir did these men sip, growing handsomer by the years, refining their manners and elegance? Any woman transformed into a queen under their shadowy gaze; the smart ones they complimented for their beauty, the beautiful ones for their brains. Immaculately combed, his dark pewter hair bearing a touch of pomade, a hint of frankincense or myrrh in the air, Omer wore a warm vest with a gold watch chain peeking from the pocket. The fine timepiece along with a stamp collection had been his only baggage arriving from Leningrad at the end of World War Two. An envelope of rare Czarist stamps had bought him his shop, he had told her. “My Russian grandfather was the