Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin
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up with the coffee, nosing the smallest dollop of rye. “Last frost. Right about mid-July before the first frost the day after.”
“Oh, fais dodo, as my Great Aunt Jacinthe used to say. Get to bed with you. Shut it.” Hélène watered her babies with perfect confidence. “We’ll have a dinner of this, and I’ll remind you about your lack of faith.”
Judging from the communal roar of machines from all directions, Saturday night at the lodge had started. Twenty people passed the trio as if they were moonwalking. Some thought travel was safer at night because of the lights, but so many speeders overran their beams that it made little difference. The lake assumed a surreal perspective by starlight, a silvery rink dotted with shore twinklings. Across at the Reserve, the lights which greeted Belle every morning before dawn were still flickering. Nearing Brooks’ island, they could hear booming bass thumps, gradually developing into a passable imitation of Alabama. A large birch fire snapped in front of the lodge, a cheery spot for hardier souls who wanted less music and more privacy. For a moment Belle imagined that she smelled a smoke too sweet for wood as she glanced at a young couple toasting marshmallows and snuggling in the fire’s glimmer.
Pushing through the main door, they carried their helmets into a wave of music and laughter, standing stupefied for a moment in the sudden heat, until Ed commandeered a wooden booth in a side room. Belle’s watch said ten o’clock. Their pitcher of draft arrived with a bowl of popcorn, packed with palm oil, Belle bet, knowing that virtuous canola could not have hit the sticks this fast. Shoving their jackets under the table with their helmets and kicking off their boots, they relaxed in their overalls like the rest of the crowd. As a cheap alternative to live music, the karaoke setup gave volunteers their standard five minutes of local fame. A balding porker in red underwear beneath Farmer John’s began warbling “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” lurching offstage to polite applause, followed by two young lovers who rivalled Kenny and Dolly in “Islands in the Stream”.
“In the steam,” Belle said as she excused herself for the bathroom, ducking a second later as she saw Nick. Luckily he was occupied with what looked like the stripper from the Paramount. At least he wasn’t a cradle robber. Belle chose the door with a winking doe instead of the rampant buck. So this was the fabled septic system. Well, let’s give it a go, she muttered under her breath, and checked out a stall, glad to find a lock which worked. A hand-printed sign in block letters admonished users NOT to flush paper. Miriam’s brother had left his tank unpumped for seventeen years and, thanks to two fastidious teenagers and a wife, ended up with an 800 gallon tank of papier mâché and a clogged field bed redug at the cost of the St. Lawrence Seaway. Belle merrily waved goodbye to an ox-choking wad of tissue to serve Brooks right.
When she returned to the table, the pitcher was gone and so were the DesRosiers. It appeared that they were dancing to the unforgettable “Hello, Darlin’”, Belle’s favourite. “Just for old time’s sake,” Ed sang with a rise to each word, dipping Hélène dangerously as he might have done to the sounds of Don Messer and the Islanders back when he and his only sweetheart had been dancing at their Senior Prom.
Belle’s concept of raids came from scenes where a bumbling array of Keystone cops stampeded into a speakeasy and rousted everyone into a paddy wagon, careering off into the distance as “The End” hit the screen. On an island, logistics might be easier. True, someone could vanish into the night, but not if the cordon were tight, if Steve had brought enough officers. It wasn’t the common variety toker with a bit of hash in his pocket wanted here, though the odd minnow might stick in the net meant for a grandfather walleye. Belle finished off the popcorn while the DesRosiers fanned themselves from the exertion, Ed making a hula hoop motion with his bad hip. “Feels good tonight. Must be a high coming in,” he noted.
Belle snickered and waved some of the fragrant air toward them. “The high has arrived.”
Hélène grinned in mischief as her nostrils flickered. “Well now, Dad. So this that happy grass they been talking about since those Beatniks. Maybe I should try it before I hit seventy. Never too late, they say.”
Ed slapped his hand down in mock anger. “Better not, lady. You want that high, a good Alberta rye’ll do you just fine.”
The signature song that had put the town on the country music map, Stompin’ Tom Connors’ “Sudbury Saturday Night,” sent an explosion of cheers across the room, inspiring one man to snare a Canadian flag from the wall and parade around, joined by a bearded giant brandishing the Fleur de Lys. Here was one place in Canada that French and English were having a royally good time; separatists, take note. The crowd started clapping, and Belle found herself singing along, sorry that her low profile kept her from serenading the crowd with something by Reba.
Just after “The girls are out to bingo, and the men are getting stinko, we think no more of Inco,” the noise suddenly stopped as if the electrical plug had been yanked. All eyes moved to the door as several officers walked forward, spreading out in an unsmiling phalanx. From the kitchen came a yell and a tinkle of glass, chairs started scraping and a young girl cried out. Steve stood before his men and spoke calmly into a bullhorn. “Please relax, folks. You won’t be delayed long. We have reason to believe that some illegal substances are changing hands here.” A male voice bellowed the most frequently occurring word in Pulp Fiction, but Steve ignored it and motioned toward the wall. “Just line up, please. Men over here. A female officer will search the women in the side room. Once you’re cleared, you can leave. Your tax dollars at work.” When boos erupted from the back, he smiled and made a “That’s the breaks” gesture.
Though Belle passed through the cordon quickly, she became separated from Ed and Hélène. The lodge cleared rapidly to the sound of snowmobile motors roaring into the black silence. At the ramp to the lodge sat a police van which had travelled the ice road, and three men, handcuffed behind their backs, were being guided into seats, their heads ducked for them as they entered. One might have been Brooks, but shadows could be misleading. Belle rubbed her hands by the embers of the campfire until Steve strutted up, unable to conceal his satisfaction.
“Got the bugger,” he said proudly, smacking his fist into his glove. “Two of his dealers will plea bargain their snow pants off when we get them to the station. Five more were carrying small amounts, scared enough to tell us anything. And here’s the cream! In the housing for the electric guts of that fancy septic system, we found his main supply wrapped snug in layers of plastic. Guess he didn’t think anyone would be poking around in there. Five kilos of coke. A small bale of pot. And some of these babies.” He held out what looked like a perfume sample vial, tiny and jewel-like.
“So what’s that, swami?” Belle asked.
“Meet the newest nephew of Sudbury’s drug family. Big city crack cocaine. One teeny rock to a person, please.”
Belle shuddered. “Anyone on that stuff wouldn’t have the sense to come in out of the cold. Any stolen snowmobiles turn up?”
He gave her a comical look as if wondering where she had learned about that. “Just one, but it’s enough. Rumour says he managed to get rid of everything but a Mach Z, saving it for someone who could afford the price and use the machine out where registration wouldn’t be checked. Anyway, we’re tracing it to a theft in Sturgeon Falls. I’ll bet that if we cut him some slack, he’ll admit to the two incidents at your house, Belle. This may be his first charge, but the judges have developed pretty tough skins for dealers lately. He could draw a mandatory fifteen-year sentence without parole.” He left her to return to the final details of the evidence collection. No use going to all this trouble and blowing the fine points.
Belle found the DesRosiers having coffee with one of the cooks in the kitchen. “Damn cold out there, girl. Where the hell have you been? Didn’t want to leave you.”
Not long after, all were home suffering only a popcorn and beer bloat. In a hedonistic papaya bubble bath, Belle warmed up, contemplating her toes, probing the big one into the faucet. When it stuck for a moment, she imagined another humiliating finale worse than choking on vitamins: “Woman starves to death in bathtub. Found by neighbour returning from Florida with Miami Dolphins T-shirt gift. Had been gnawed on by desperate shepherd.”