by Lou Allin
“Oh, Florida’s just a tourist trap now. Maybe fifty years ago it was a decent spot before all those doddering retirees and then the boat people. ‘Castro’s dumpsite,’ my friends who left Miami call it.” Her lips pursed, revealing vertical age lines sucking back fuchsia lipstick while she flapped a bejewelled hand in derision. No compartments, though, just blinding diamonds.
Belle drank quietly, controlling her temper by savouring the smoky tang for a moment. Then she spilled her cup with a clumsy motion. “Oh, darn, don’t get up. I’m closer,” she said, reaching for a nearby drawer and pulling out a familiar red-flowered cloth. “I forgot to ask. How are you getting along with your new neighbour?” she asked as she blotted with vigour, giving the table a finishing polish and flapping the cloth like a flag.
A flush lit the ivory coast of Mabel Joy’s face. “Whom do you mean?” Her little finger trembled as she raised her cup. That pose belonged with the mannered films of the early Thirties. Constance Bennett? Good grammar, though, probably lectured poor Earl about saying “anyways.”
“Why, Charles Sullivan, that charming man. You’re lucky he bought Brown’s place instead of a family with teenagers and noisy Seadoos. He’s done wonders with the property already.” She added a pregnant pause and looked around pointedly. “Say, where are the rest of your dogs? I’m always . . . passing them on the road. Awfully friendly, aren’t they?”
Mabel Joy cleared her throat, fixated on the cloth as if it were the Shroud of Turin. “Well, except for Fluffhead, my baby, they stay at the plant unless we’re at the camp. Earl built a fenced run behind the mixers.”
Poor mutts, she thought, inhaling cement dust twenty-four hours a day. Meanwhile her hands examined the serviette, searching for a tag. “What fine linen. Did you buy it in Toronto, or is this something extra special from the States?”
As she left, Belle felt that Mabel Joy had gotten the message, clunky or not. There was a satisfying expediency about simple social dynamics before governments added complications like jury trials and expensive prisons. Medieval communities policed themselves quite nicely, discounting a few witch burnings. What would they have done to a poisoner? Something poetic, no doubt. She pictured Mabel Joy pressed to death with bags of Cartier tennis bracelets.
Rain began to splatter on the pavement as she drove back across town, and a traffic jam made her detour along Brewster Street. Slowing for a light, she thumped the steering column to the beat of Leonard Cohen’s “The Future,” the apocalyptic lyrics an ironic comment on urban life: “I’ve seen the future, brother: it is murder.” Then the door of a shabby hotel opened, and Craig lumbered out, burdened by a suitcase fastened with rope and a cardboard box on his shoulder, frowning as the rain hit his face. Perhaps he was shifting his belongings to that rooming house Fred had mentioned. Rolling down the window, she yelled, “Care for a ride? I’m going through Garson.”
He squinted for a moment, then gave a ghost of a smile in recognition. With a grunt, he unloaded his baggage and slipped into the front seat, wiping his eyes. “Thanks. I remember you from the restaurant. Craig’s my name.”
“Belle Palmer.” She turned off the radio.
He nodded and shook her hand in an oddly old-fashioned gesture. They travelled a few blocks in silence, past an underpass infamous for muggings. At the petition of women’s groups, safety mirrors had been erected at each end. Belle paused to let a stooped form with a grocery pullcart jaywalk across the street. Bag lady or just a baba heading home to cook cabbage rolls? Poverty was well-clothed in North America, invisible from a distance. A boy, a young man, it was hard to tell in the growing darkness, leaned against a wall of graffiti and moved his slim pelvis suggestively while a Volvo station wagon lingered at an alley. As Belle stepped on the accelerator, an arm motioned from the wagon’s window, and the boy started towards the car. “Stop!” Craig yelled suddenly.
Startled by the command, she slammed on the brakes, and he jumped out, running to the Volvo and pounding on the hood. The driver, his face contorted with fear, screeched away, while the young boy lit a cigarette and turned to leave. Craig touched his shoulder, gesturing more in frustration than anger, but the boy tossed back wet blond hair, yanked a sweatshirt hood forward and ducked into the underpass as the wind picked up and sheets of rain lashed the pavement.
Craig climbed back into the van, shivering, his head in his hands. Belle looked at him in dim confusion, marvelling at how easily fiction blended with fact and how distant this lowlife scene was from her wilderness, though barely twenty miles separated them. How had she survived in Toronto?
“Sorry,” he said, straightening up. “Thanks for waiting.”
“And drive off with your luggage? I could never show my face at Fred’s again.” She laughed to break the tension, juiced the heater to dry him off. “Who was that guy?”
“Never told me his real name. Calls himself Jedi. That’s how they operate. No two the same. Helps clients find who they want.”
“Clients. I should have guessed. You mean male prostitution.” Predators and prey on the pavements. She was surprised to imagine a meat market outside of large cities, but perhaps she had grown naïve, returning each evening to her sanctuary on the lake.
Craig’s voice was gravelly, strong with contempt. “They make me sick. Did you see that station wagon? Fancy kiddie seats in the back. Probably told his wife he had to work late, the bastard.”
“Can you help . . . Jedi?”
“I’m no social worker. And even if I was, he likes his freedom, or thinks he does. Anyway, how can a fourteen-year-old make a living?”
Belle dropped him at a large old building around the corner from Fred’s restaurant. A tattered Canadian flag hung from one window, a gutter broken above, spewing a deluge of rust stains down the cracked stucco façade. Yet hanging by the front door were two pots of geraniums. A young girl sweeping the steps gave Craig a winning smile. As Belle drove away, a devious idea whispered in her ear. If she told Steve about the two-for-one hot turkey sandwiches on Wednesday nights as a special lure, perhaps he might meet his brother there.
It was later than usual by the time she turned down her road and noticed with some dismay that Patsy Sommers’ car was missing. As a rule, she made her shopping trips in the early morning. Visiting relatives? One of those long disappearances nearly every other year? Belle heard the dogs barking inside at the sound of the van. The brief rain had only added to the stifling humidity, yet windows and doors were shut tight.
After a late dinner of pasta salad made with black olives, red peppers and salmon, Belle called Charles to tell him about the impromptu play at Mabel Joy’s. “And you’re really convinced that she was the guilty party?” he asked, dismay in his voice. “A woman of her position? It beggars belief. More like a cheap tabloid.”
“You’re a babe in the woods, Charles. Clearly it galled her to ransom the dogs at the pound. Maybe she stewed about it. Then she remembered Grandmother’s hobby and banked on your naïveté. It’s easy to poison people. I’ve ripped up deadly nightshade in a field by my father’s nursing home. Purple monkshood looks spectacular in perennial gardens. Potato sprouts can be chopped into a pretty salad.” He remained silent as she continued. “We didn’t stand a chance at pinning her down without the note, and with her shrewdness, she probably wore gloves. Doesn’t matter now. I think you’re home free.”
“On that happy turn of events, I’m off for a dip,” he said.
Turning out the light, Belle went to the bedroom window for a final commune with the lake. On the second floor, the heat was becoming oppressive, despite her ceiling fan. A thump resounded on the glass, and the dog nosed slobber on the patio door screen. Dragonflies were back, chomping up the mosquitoes. Warily she eased out onto the narrow deck, a builder’s decoration useful only for blessing crowds Papal style. Not a bite, she cheered, thanks to the helicoptering insects. One neon marvel landed on her hand and sat as content as a trained bird, its isinglass wings catching rainbows from the
reflected sunset, all twelve billion eyes surveying her in an information overload. Across at the Reserve, familiar lights winked, the first greeting each black winter morning. Who it was, she hadn’t a clue, but she welcomed the kinship of all those who enjoyed the lake, like Anni, her friend who was probably pretty damn mad. The end of July already, and no one had the faintest idea who had killed her.
FIFTEEN
It was hellish hot at dawn, but the waterbed thermostat hadn’t gone berserk. The annual heat wave had begun, an all-too-brief experience. Tossing on a madras pantsuit from her historical collection, Belle checked a calendar for appointments, then realized that she had pencilled in an open house for Tuesday. Father’s lunch would have to hop a day ahead, but he wouldn’t mind. Driving to town shortly after seven to get an early start at work, she slowed at the Sommers’ place. No car, and still the dogs sang in chorus. Patsy was probably gone with the children, leaving the poor beasts to roast inside, despite the disgusting ramifications. Meddling or not, she should call the SPCA.
The office was quiet. Belle flicked on the air conditioner, stood in front of it for a moment flapping her arms, then charged up the coffee maker. At her desk, she sat down and pulled Anni’s letter from her briefcase, reading it for the umpteenth time. If only she could find out where the woman had worked, over what Godforsaken place that curious octagonal steeple presided. Might Edith write again? Too Good to be True usually was.
Miriam banged through the door with a box of office supplies and started loading paper into the fax machine. “The last air conditioner north of Barrie has been sold, Sears said, Canadian Tire, too. Sat up half the night with a bag of ice on my head. I came to work to get cool. Can I rent a cot here tonight?”
“Be my guest. No charge.” Belle watched office workers in shorts cross the street, water bottles in hand. Part of her wished that she could bed down here tonight instead of trudging home. “The heat’s going to make tempers short. Steve says crime jumps in the summer. But even if pushed to the limits, can you imagine killing someone?”
Her eyes were red and swollen, but Miriam’s expression was hard to read. Dead pan funny or drop dead serious. “Yes.”
“Are you joking?”
“I said yes. Why do you ask?”
An unusual abruptness. A bad night’s sleep made anyone crabby. Or perhaps Miriam was having problems with her daughter. Belle pursed her lips and sat back in the chair. “Anni’s death is becoming a cold case, so I’m grasping at straws. This was a deliberate murder of a decent woman.”
Miriam spoke evenly, sharpening a pencil with calm deliberation, adjusting the wheel for maximum point until the tip pleased her appraising finger. “Perhaps she was. Perhaps she wasn’t. Once upon a time the most decent man in our family was Uncle Phil. Took the collection at church, kind to animals, devoted to kids. Everyone loved him. The best disguise in the world. Always is. That’s how they get away with it.”
That explained Miriam’s face when they had been discussing the abuse movie. What words to say? No matter how old you got, life always served up a custard pie to catch you off guard, Georgy Girl. She felt her pulse quicken in the silence. Comparing a tragedy like that with dessert. “I never imagined. You’re always so . . . I mean . . . did he . . .” She bit her tongue.
Her friend gave a dark laugh. “Don’t jump to grubby conclusions, Belle. You know me. I settled his hash. Even at twelve I had spunk. But I never opened my mouth. Not until my daughter told me what he tried with her. I was still married to Jack then, and he nailed the old man a good one. No one talks to him now. He’s isolated and lonely as he deserves to be. I’d have him rotting in jail, but Grandma would have died.”
Belle knew Miriam, and no weeping and demure patting of backs was expected. With no further words, they turned to their respective chores, plastering welcome smiles on their faces as a client walked in.
Later, during her father’s meal, and he would insist on the usual hot food, Belle was preoccupied, not only by the brutal temperatures as the day wore on, but by the Sommers situation. The phone line at the SPCA had been busy all morning. She flapped his National Enquirer and nibbled in desultory fashion at a tuna salad sandwich, getting up to adjust the fan and close the curtains against the relentless sun. Air conditioners weren’t standard in most Sudbury homes, much less in an older building like Rainbow Country. Madame exercise lady looked more chipper than ever, and why not, since chipper was her business?
A college student on placement came by with a metal carafe of ice water. “The nurses want everybody to drink as much as possible,” she said. “He’ll get an extra sponge bath before bed.”
Belle glanced now and then at the old man, mildly dismayed at his swelling cheeks. “Swallow now, Father. Take some cold water.” He reached out a gnarly hand for his glass while she read an article about shark cartilage as a possible cure for arthritis. They could be right. Years before doctors confirmed the link, the tabloid had revealed the connection between stomach ulcers and that peppy pylori bacteria.
The last shrimp sat on his plate as the noon news began, flashing scenes of a wicked five-car accident on the heavily travelled Falconbridge Highway the night before. A slurry truck had jackknifed, and the spillage had complicated rescue efforts. Ambulances were arriving from all directions. “All finished?” she asked without looking. There was no answer. “Are you fin . . .” A red chipmunk cartoon had replaced him, cheeks pouched to capacity, eyes rolling back in his skull. Worst of all, he made no sound.
Belle threw aside the paper and fled down the hall, yelling for help. With two husky aides hauled from the lunchroom in mid-spoon, Cherie unlatched the lap seat, and they tried to hoist the old man to apply the Heimlich. A dead weight in their arms, he slumped towards the floor, his legs buckling like limp twigs as his slippers dropped off.
Watching their efforts, Belle stood to one side, helpless, crazy thoughts rushing through her head. “Well, if he dies now, in full sail of his favourite meal, without pain, at eighty-four, it’s not a bad way to go. Lose consciousness. A quick heart attack. And I paid his rent last week for the whole month.” She pounded the back of her head against the wall. What monster would remember his bank balance? Shouting commands to each other, the trio had placed him on the floor and was trying to pry open his mouth, teeth clamped in paralysis, his face plum purple.
At that point Belle surrendered all objectivity and stepped outside, closing the door and sinking into a crouch as her heart hammered. A tiny woman pushing a tripod walker on wheels inched by, bobbing her head like an inquisitive sparrow, a bib dangling from her stringy neck. “What’s his name?” she asked in a weak and tremulous voice that drew out the syllables.
That question threw Belle for a minute. All his life he’d gone by Norman, Sir Norman his girlfriend “consort” called him, with their jokes about the Royal family. But the nursing home used his first name, so he changed back without a fuss. “Uh, Norman, I mean George.”
Three more times did the wizened gnome roll by with the same question while Belle answered in a patient ritual, forcing down fear like a coiled spring. Every silver-haired doll might have been her mother had she lived. Would the old man soon be a memory, too? Like Zack with Anni, she hadn’t told him that she loved him. Not lately.
Finally the door opened, and a sweating Cherie took her arm. “We got his airway open. He’s off to St. Joseph’s by ambulance.” The front door slammed, and footsteps pounded down the hall behind a squeaking gurney. In seconds, a blanketed form swept past, leaving Belle like a character in search of an author, muddling around the scene of destruction to retrieve van keys, mindlessly collecting the unopened pie and ice cream box from the dresser.
“You saved his life. Will he be all right?” she asked the aide on her way out.
The affable giant with a nose stud, who shaved her father with a surprisingly gentle hand, gave a reassuring nod. “They can be stronger than you think, if there’s the will to live.”
“Have you seen
this before? What will they do at the hospital?”
“Oh, just routine. He might have aspirated food, so they’ll want to check his lungs. Pneumonia is more dangerous than the sore throat he’ll have.”
After presenting him with the pie as a meagre reward, Belle navigated downtown, weaving through traffic in a trance, running full speed from the far reaches of the hospital parking lot. Sudbury’s three health care facilities had been ordered by the Ontario government to consolidate. Meanwhile the system was in chaos, only one emergency room in use, a Megahospital the size of Manhattan under construction at the newest site.
“George Palmer,” she said to the Intensive Care head nurse, only to learn that her father was in X-ray and that a couple of hours would pass before all the tests were evaluated. “In the waiting room is a direct line to our station. Call about his condition any time.”
Half an hour later, a can of tasteless iced tea sweating in her hand, Belle fidgeted in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Her eyes felt gritty and her skin greasy. People came and went, mostly in families, picked up the phone for a moment, then spoke to each other in hushed tones. “Gran’s allowed one five-minute visit an hour,” a thin blonde woman said to a sniffling boy and girl. “We’ll go at two, and Aunt Kelly will come tonight with Daddy.” She gave their hair a quick brush and spit-wiped a smudge from the boy’s cheek.
Then Belle was alone with her thoughts. Another problem of being an only child. Nobody to share the pain. Nobody to share the inheritance either, her evil half added. She leafed through tattered magazines dealing with cooking or clothes, interests far from her concern, more restless and jumpy as the clock moved on. Finally she focused on a simple cross on the wall. This oldest hospital, formally the General, had been run by the Sisters of St. Joseph, “nunbuns” her Catholic friend from college called them. Perhaps a prayer would help. Surely there was some dark and quiet place. The light was bothering her eyes.
