by Lou Allin
The woman appraised her carefully, then shrugged. “Hell, you look OK. Too old for a lady cop. They just started takin’ ’em on the force.” Belle blinked into the mirror, smoothing a third line under her eye which had joined the usual two. “Hey, no offence. Anyhow, that guy you’re with, Nick, you can trust his stuff,” the woman advised as she left.
A final drink later, Nick escorted Belle to her van, weaving too much for her liking, his arm around her shoulders as he sang about swimming the Pontchartrain. The Global Village. At least Timmins’ Shania Twain was making it big in Nashville.
“Hey, how’s about a good night kiss?” he asked, his breath a flammable combination of beer and cheap rye. Belle pulled away and flopped into the seat while he tugged at the door. “Hey, Sue. What’s the matter? I bought you a couple drinks.”
“And I gave you some Paws. Caveat emptor, Nick,” she said as she locked the door and turned the ignition.
“Coffee at what, baby?” He pressed his face against the glass, a confused expression shaping his mouth into an “o” like a cartoon pup booted out of the house.
A white and blue patrol vehicle trolled along Brewster Street. The window rolled down, and even in the faceless dark, a commanding tone assessed the scene. “Some trouble here?”
Nick jumped back, losing his balance. “Uh-uh, had to see my friend got out safe.” He had started to slur his words.
Steve eased out of the cruiser, taller and wider than Bigfoot, his hand near the snap on his holster. “Back off. The lady doesn’t seem interested to me.”
“Hey, sorry, officer, no big deal.” And Nick disappeared back into the Paramount.
Steve glowered at Belle, his voice as furious as his mood. “Do you have a secret life I should know about? What are you doing with these scumbags?” He shot her an appraising look. “Who are you supposed to be? Madonna, Dolly or Joan Baez?”
She yanked off the wig and tossed it onto the passenger seat. “Ouch, that hurts, your comments, I mean. You might not be over the hill, but you’re closing in on the top.” Why not take the offensive? “I wanted information. What’s the harm? He hinted at some lodge owner as his source. How many could there be, and what have you been doing about it?”
“I told you we were onto Brooks,” Steve said evenly. “Other informers have been naming him.”
“Like Nick. The guy you just ran off,” Belle tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s hardly going to trust me now, Lancelot.”
“Is that gratitude! Next time do your own wrestling. Anyway, this is my last warning. Brooks is in our sights. Problem is to catch him in the act or find his goods before he flushes it. He’s careful. It’s a matter of time and timing.” He shielded his eyes as the wind chased a whirl of snow down the street and the siren of an ambulance split the air. “How about a hamburger? I missed dinner by chasing a drunk half-way to Cartier, and I’m due for a break.”
“Maybe a soda water. I’m so overdosed on salt that I’m going to go all prickly like a blowfish.”
As they ate at a nearby truck stop, Steve told her about his new daughter. Belle wondered if the old saw would work, that he and Janet might conceive their own now that the stress was removed. “Anyway, we brought Heather home from Thunder Bay last week.”
“What’s she like? Do you have any pictures?”
“Give me time. She’s a real doll. Three years old. Half Cree and half Italian. Almost as weird a combination as yours truly.” He examined his double cheeseburger, adding ketchup. “There is a problem. She may have suffered some fetal alcohol damage.” His worried eyes revealed more than his voice. “Nothing you can put your finger on now. She’s too young for the tests, but the doctor says she could be . . . what do they call it? Not retarded.” He shovelled his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Developmentally delayed?”
“Bunch of crap. All I know is that it’s been pretty rough.” He explained that Janet had taken a leave to spend time with Heather. By the time Steve got home from work, he was an intruder. The child wouldn’t let him dress her, feed her, bathe her, even touch her.
“If I go near, she bawls up a storm. What’s wrong, Belle? I’ve always gotten along with kids.” In his work with Big Brothers, Steve took groups to Toronto for Jays games and coached a baseball team. Many of his lads had completed college or university; two had even joined the force.
Belle listened to his quiet, frustrated voice, which demanded reasons to rationalize feelings. “Hear what I’m saying, Steve. You’re a big man, a monster to her. Your voice is strange and deep. What might have scared her before she came to you, you don’t want to know. Right now Janet is bonding to her, and it’s leaving you out. But it sounds normal so far.”
“So what can I do? Stay home all day and inhale helium?” He smiled weakly.
Belle touched his large hand, so helpless against a tiny one. “Of course not. But be patient. This is only the beginning, and it must be scary for her. My advice is to leave her alone, but show affection to Janet. Heather will see that another woman trusts you. It’s just like this pup a friend of mine had . . .” While parents told kid stories, Belle turned to dogs. “Nothing is more tyrannical than a dog or a child,” she said. “They’re always testing limits, so establish the hierarchy immediately and stick to it. Then when they see you as benevolent head of the pack, they’ll do anything for you.”
“Isn’t it too late for that? I told you she’s terrified.”
“This time you have to do an end run, if you’ll pardon my mixed metaphors. Janet’s top dog. Show her affection. Once Heather sees that she trusts and accepts you, you’re in.”
“Sure, Belle, but you forgot one thing,” Steve added. “Dogs can’t talk. And if they don’t work out, you can take them to the pound.”
She finished her club soda, stifled a burp and reached over to shine his badge with her serviette. “Never lost one yet.”
FIFTEEN
The strengthening sun pierced the horizon like a jewel, dazzling Belle’s sleepy eyes with its renewing warmth. She spun the handle to open her window and inhaled the pure, liquid ether of the morning. Fearful groans, a basso profundo tympanic plumb from measureless fathoms, echoed across the lake’s impenetrable depths. The ice had risen. Freshets draining the back country were undermining its integrity, wrenching the earth free from the winter’s icy grip. Travel on the lake would still be safe for a wary week or so, but after that, the rotting ice mass would blacken into honeycombs and marry with the water, signalling time to watch for the blessed signs of spring.
As she was outside grabbing at some birch logs under the tarp, Belle heard the phone ring five times and then defer to the answering machine. How civilized to be freed from its imperative jingle, to enjoy a hot meal in leisure instead of being interrupted by a ten-minute long “two-minute” consumer questionnaire. The tape played a familiar voice speaking slowly and precisely, unintimidated by the technology. “Hello, Belle, it’s Franz. At a lake near my camp I found something interesting. It’s a clear indication that you were right about the drug drops. We can go out there this morning if you are free. I’ll be at my office for the next two hours. It’s now . . . eight o’clock.”
Belle called back immediately. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked. “Why don’t we meet at Connie’s?” It was a thriving truck stop on the Kingsway, a main artery through town.
Franz’s Jimmy pulled into Connie’s crowded lot at the same time as Belle’s van. As he held the restaurant door for her, the pleasant scent of a subtle European cologne, perhaps 4711, drifted past. With the smooth pink look of a shave on his cheeks, he placed a shearling coat on an extra chair and sat immaculate in pressed chinos and Pendleton wool shirt. Belle stroked the coat with envious sounds. “Yes, I bought it on a trip to the States last year,” he explained as they ordered the mucker’s special. Three eggs, five sausages, a pancake, homefries, toast and coffee.
A pair of ladies in fox and raccoon coats, dressed for a shopping s
pree, looked over in amusement. “Haven’t they ever seen a woman eat?” Belle sliced into the tender sausages and took a bite with a grateful, dreamy look. “Going to heaven to meet my mother and worth the price.” She crossed herself and thumped at her heart, placing a hand behind her ear. “Is that the sound of sludge forming? Well, what’s the news?”
Franz poured coffee from the urn left on the table in American pancake house style. “First, madame, hear the wonderful results of the rally. I have over 5,000 signatures on the petition, an excellent response from the area. But strong lobbyists on the other side will generate publicity, too; merchants, hotel, motel and restaurant operators who want the tourists.”
“I saw a full page ad placed by local businessmen in the Sudbury Star last night. What shameless propaganda. And of course Brooks is a star member. What did they call themselves? Parks for Progress?” She scowled and attacked her pancakes. “They’ll turn Wapiti into the Canadian National Exhibition fifty-two weeks a year. Condos are coming, did I tell you? A sleazy developer I know is oozing around after the zoning right now.”
Franz clenched a fist and abandoned his continental reserve for a quick pound on the table. “But that’s why this evidence is so important. If we can discredit just one of them, turn the direction of public opinion, we might keep our lake for a few more years.”
“Well, don’t leave me in suspenders, as Uncle Harold used to say. What on earth did you find?”
Franz said that he had been hearing more small planes at his camp near Cott Lake, where he had been preparing lectures and marking papers. The next morning, he searched the area and found the debris. “I left it in place so that you could understand the logistics. Cott’s too shallow for ice fishing and miles from the main trail. Very isolated. And my cabin is nearly invisible from the air with 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 Blondi to jump out. “My cabin is that way,” he said, “but here’s the trail I cut to Cott.” The sun was brilliant, and the winds seemed tropical. It had been seven months since Belle had enjoyed such warmth. Several minutes later, they drove into Cott, skirting the shore carefully. It was a swamp lake, soft and treacherous in spring. A plane landing would be impossible now with the thaw. Franz guided her to a thick spruce growth. “Look at what I found,” he said, rummaging under a bush and pulling out some plastic bags. “Broken open. And they just left it. Why not? One quick gust and gone . . .”
