by Lou Allin
When she reached the office later, Jesse approached her with a proud smile. “I checked out every lodge from Capreol to Shining Tree. Never heard of Elphinstone. Then I went back into our old records and regional maps. The Royal Regiment Lodge. No telephone number listed. When I made some inquiries at City Hall, I found out that the property’s up for sale for back taxes. And guess what? They need an appraisal. Easy money.” She explained that the late Barbara Bagshaw’s grandfather and parents had run the lodge from 1910 to the early 1950s, an expensive haven for rich tourists who wanted to fish, or hunt moose or bear. The only surviving heir, Barbara had become a recluse, living with an aged caretaker named Heino on the deteriorating property.
“Barbara died a month or so ago. No will. No complications. When it goes on the market, we’ll handle the sale as well, but don’t count your chickens. A run-down place like that won’t move until spring if at all.”
“Everything sells at the right price. What about access?” Belle asked, gearing into professional mode at the sound of a cash register. Her all-wheel drive van lacked the high suspension for deep snow.
“Here’s the number of the gas station in Cartier. Check there first about the state of the road. They’ll get word to Heino that you’re coming.”
“Sooner the better. Hydro sent a second bill. Rather terse. And that cheque to Dumontelle for that lunch disaster smarted. Unless there’s a blizzard, pencil it in for this week,” Belle said, filling her in on the latest developments about Miriam. “Celeste was muttering some odd words. ‘Zane’ this and ‘zane’ that.”
Jesse’s face turned as crimson as her hair. She took a sharp intake of breath and exhaled slowly as her hooded eyes narrowed to slits. “What a bad, bad girl. ‘Zolst hobn tzen haizer, tzen tzimern, tzen betn.’ ”
“That’s the gist. Translation please, rabbi.”
“Oooo. She wished Miriam should own ten houses with ten rooms with ten beds in each, where she should roll from one to the other with cholera. I might turn her over my knee as I used to.” Her strong right arm made a convincing muscle.
Fifteen
Watching too many trashy movies, or haven’t you noticed an absence of bail bond businesses in Canada? Middle class people put up their home for collateral. Too bad Miriam lives in a cheap apartment and is as broke as K-Mart. So can you handle the security or not?” Celeste said with a look of exasperation, tapping her turquoise calfskin-booted toe on the plastic shield under Belle’s chair. The boot bore traces of salt rime at the edges, designed for Ottawa malls and taxis, not Nickel City trudging.
Criminal proceedings were a foreign country. Suddenly Belle felt childish, coddled and ignorant of realities. “How much do we need?”
Miriam was to be arraigned on Friday at the courthouse on second degree murder charges. To facilitate matters, the bail hearing would follow. Since this wasn’t the U.S., where astronomical bail figures were publicized, Belle’s lakeside house would do nicely, provided that it wasn’t a “shack,” Celeste said with her usual manners.
“Friday morning, bring the deed here along with an impartial assessment of the property’s value. Not your prejudiced opinion.” Celeste ran a hand through her fiery red curls, Anne of Green Gables morphed into a cobra, and headed for the door. “I need a haircut, a manicure and a facial, and not one place was open after five.”
“Up here, twenty-four-hour grooming refers to snowmobile trails.”
“So typical. Nothing to do at night except watch sitcoms, or for real kicks, the slag pouring. The latte stinks. What a dump. I’m going back to Ottawa after the arraignment to drown myself in Pad Thai.”
The image pleased her, but feeling like a challenged one-woman Chamber of Commerce, Belle asked, “Did you visit Science North? The IMAX is showing a great bear film. And there’s the Butterfly Pavil—”
Celeste wrenched open the door. “Other than a piece of Alberta beef, do I look like I care about animals? Spare me.”
Belle called a fellow assessor and arranged for a pro bono deal involving an apartment he was leveraging for a second mortgage to buy a ski condo in the Laurentians. The deed she unearthed later at home in her files, looking at it lovingly. Uncle Harold had given her the down payment on the cottage property and left her enough in his will to build the basic package. She’d been proud to act as gofer for the electrician and plumber as well as do the painting to minimize the costs. Sweat equity meant something to her. Yet if anyone deserved a pledge of friendship, Miriam did. She was the heart of Palmer Realty.
On Friday, she handed the brown envelope to Celeste, who examined the papers closely, a smarmy smile crossing her face. “You seem to have hidden resources. Maybe I should be charging you. Anyway, see you at four in Court One. Your responsibilities as a surety will be explained.”
Belle frowned at her departing back, fast becoming the woman’s best perspective. Singing to herself, Jesse opened a large basket and began arranging lunch. The tempting smell of pastrami and mustard made Belle forget her woes for the moment until from the back room came the petulant yelp of a caged poodle.
Jack ambled in around three, and her scowl told him that he was still first on her hitlist. “Don’t be mad. Things are looking up.”
Belle stared at the National Post news page on her monitor. In a candid but hardly politic statement, the Governor of the Bank of Canada had suggested that non-competitive businesses were relying on the soft dollar to sell wares. Screaming, the loonie did another nose dive. The phrase “all-time low” was getting redundant. “About time.”
“No sweat about getting Mimsy out. Got a bet placed for tonight at an off-off-track place, if you get my drift. A sure thing.”
“Forget it. We’re all going to the courthouse at four for the hearing. I’m going to make bail,” she said, borrowing George Raft slang. Gambling. What kind of misguided support was that? She sighed as he accepted a sandwich from Jesse, finishing it in two voracious bites.
He rubbed his head like a chastened kid. “Thanks for coming through. But let’s put my one mistake to bed. Sure I hated the guy. Wouldn’t you if you were me? Fancy talker, rich as hell, all the things I couldn’t give Mimsy. I kept quiet about being in town because I didn’t want to add any complications.”
“A telling error in judgment that police love.” Had they even checked on Jack? Maybe Steve would exchange information. As for guilt, an Inuit sculpture was not Jack’s style.
“Anyways, I’m on the job,” he said. “That guy Elmo—”
“Who has a rifle with a scope, could smash bricks between his hands, but happens to be an officer at the Sally Ann?”
As she eyed his wavering cigarette ash, he cupped a calloused hand, depositing the ash in it without a flinch. “He’s no friggin’ officer now. Canned last month. I asked the general or whatever she’s called for details, but she blew me off.”
Belle’s right eyebrow went into overdrive. “You mean he was lying?”
“Who knows? He got bounced for some reason.” He scratched his ear distractedly like a dog drawing attention away from a misdeed.
“Skimming from Christmas kettles? That’s low.” She sat back to consider the possibilities. “An estranged wife. Her brother. She never tried to hide her contempt.” She paused, crushing a statement from Bell Canada and lobbing it into the basket. “But why bother? There’s nothing doing financially. Any money Melibee might have salted away will be confiscated for his creditors.”
“Let me check the soup kitchens, or buy a coffee for some street people, the real army of the poor. Nothing for them to lose. They’ll tell me what the bosses won’t.”
At the courthouse, Belle found Celeste and Miriam, accompanied by a police officer, seated in the lobby. Minutes later, a bailiff called them before the judge. While Celeste presented the documents, Belle nodded at the conditions of the surety arrangement, barely registering anything except the relieved look on Miriam’s face. “Roots in the community. Absolutely no risk,” Celeste was saying to the benc
h. From a first row seat, Jack gave a thumbs-up.
Outside at last, Celeste left the group to collect her BMW parked in a handicapped space. She roared off, ticket flying from the windshield into a snowpile. The others headed for a pay lot, Miriam carrying one small bag like an orphan. She stopped halfway, looked at the crisp blue of the sky and took a big breath, blowing out frosty clouds. “Free at last.” Jack stepped up to give her a passionate kiss, bending her backward, both of them laughing. Meanwhile a yapping emerged from the van, followed by the poodle, who leaped out as Belle opened the door, and ran on its hind legs, its front feet churning. “Strudel! Come to Mommy,” Miriam called, as it jumped three feet straight up into her embrace.
Jack was left with the dog while Miriam got into the front seat. “I have a million things to do,” she said as they drove, stopping in front of the City Centre building to let a man in a motorized wheelchair part the slush as he crossed. “But how did you raise . . . Celeste said . . .”
“You’re out, and you’re staying out. Just don’t skip town.” She flashed an ironic smile, buoyed by her friend’s sheer joy. “Decompress at home for the rest of the week. Now here are the latest developments.”
Settling Miriam into her apartment with Jack for company, Belle returned to the office. Jesse had gone to Aquafitness at the Y, so she began writing up their Saturday ads. Another snow dump was falling, a vampiric wind was chewing at the windows, and she wasn’t happy about the hungry drive home. Maybe a quick, fortifying all-you-can-eat orgy at Pizza Hut. She pulled a coupon from her bulletin board and began salivating as she imagined plastering her face with a large slice loaded with pepperoni, black olives, and mushrooms. The door shoved open, and a white ghost stomped in, her long purple quilted coat covered in snow. Belle rose with a fresh smile pasted on, when a querulous voice made her wince.
“Damn you. Now Steve’s in trouble.”
Sixteen
Janet?” Belle hadn’t seen her since minding Heather last July First weekend to let the Davises go to the Sudbury Theatre Centre. Thin, blonde and brittle, a candidate for early osteo thanks to a cola addiction, Steve’s wife had regarded Belle as a rival from day one, someone who could talk to her husband for hours, spar without rancour, help without recrimination, understand that his brooding personality ran deep but true. For these reasons, Belle suspected that he concealed their occasional lunch dates. For a moment, she felt pity for the woman, dependent on Steve in a crisis, yet stubborn enough to block his efforts. “You look frozen. Want a coffee?”
Janet yanked off her wool scarf and threw the coat on a chair, thin arms on her hips over a denim dress topped by an angora cardigan. Her pale face with a snub nose that resembled Tuesday Weld at her most brattish creased with resentment. “I never drink coffee, especially yours.”
Belle sighed. Here was the real Janet, not the overly polite hostess around her daughter and Steve, offering endless plates of cookies, a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth smile but never a personal gesture. The sunny, bouncy personality masked a tyrant when she was crossed. “We won’t get anywhere like this. Please sit down and tell me what’s happened. What kind of trouble?” Remembering the difficulties in reaching him lately, Belle felt a warning nuzzle her instincts, but Janet had been known to panic, run to her parents at the first sign of marital problems and pout for weeks until Steve apologized for some imagined slight.
Janet’s hands, toylike with pink glitter polish, shook as she started to pace like a small, caged animal testing boundaries. “We were doing fine, aside from some . . . money worries. Our new carpets and the furniture. Heather’s school fees. Then you had to butt in. Ask him to do your dirty work.”
Leaning back in her chair, observing Janet like a third party, the proprietorial “we” and “our” and the snide “dirty work” rankling her, Belle read from the tremulous tone that it would be best to let the emotionally fragile woman dance to her own metronome. To defend herself against having asked Steve for help would be worse than letting childish charges pass. “Go on.”
Finally the woman stopped and faced her, the back of one hand crossing her forehead in a classic stage pose. “I can’t even see him. Find out what . . . and Heather’s been asking . . .”
Belle sat up, alarms ringing at the unexpected turn of the conversation. “Where is he? Not in hospital?” She laced her hands together and squeezed slowly to concentrate. One hysterical woman was enough. Steve’s familiar words echoed in her ears. “Start at the beginning.”
Sinking into Jesse’s chair, Janet took a long breath, closing her reddened eyes and counting silently with her lips as if following a stress-busting principle from a self-help tape. “The Special Investigations Unit is running everything. He’s relieved from duties, they told me. Relieved. That’s a joke. In a . . . safe house, it’s called.”
Images from prime time crime shows marched across Belle’s mental stage. Mafia, biker gangs, drugs. Her heart thrummed, and she stood, bracing herself against the desk. “So they think he’s in danger?”
“I don’t know. I’m so afraid. The Chief Inspector told me they’d allow a phone call later. I talked to the head of the union, and their hands are tied.” She began weeping, and Belle passed her the office tissue box. Then Janet raised her tear-stained face, mascara dripping from her eyes. Smearing it into a sooty mess, she began nodding her head in rhythm, as if chastizing herself. “Charges. Maybe jail. Mother always said . . . that if you marry a—”
Belle placed both hands on the table and rose like an angry bear. “Charges! That’s a crock.”
Saturday’s paper told a nightmarish story like a horror novel better left closed on the shelf: OFFICER ARRESTED IN DRUG RAID. Following a tip, a storage locker in Azilda rented by a Steve Davis had revealed a small but potent cache of cocaine already divided into glassine packs as well as a dozen VCRs and laptops. Trace evidence in his vehicle showed the presence of “other banned substances” as well. There were hints that he’d been taking bribes to bury evidence in low level cases. A bank account at the Hanmer Caisse Populaire in his name showed over ten thousand dollars.
Belle tossed the paper aside. Ten thousand was chicken feed. Sleaze money. A blond devil with connections to drug traffickers and fencing operations was orchestrating this ugly comic opera, snickering in the background. Brian Dumontelle had succeeded in bringing her friend down. Suddenly, cares for her own safety were eclipsed by concerns for him. She’d go to the police to testify that this was a frame-up. Halfway to her coat, she sighed and sat back down to make a more rational plan. On a weekend, key personnel would be off duty, nor did she want to barge in with guns blazing and make a fool of herself.
What she needed was time to clear her head and marshall resources. Driving in the country always helped, perhaps a trip to that lodge for the appraisal Jesse had arranged.
Assured by phone that the plow had passed recently, Belle took Highway 144 north for an hour towards Cartier, once a lumbering centre, now a lonely gas stop near the remains of a dozen company houses. The railroad depot had closed, leaving toxic debris threatening their wells. The few pensioners remaining had been petitioning the government to pressure the railroad for a massive cleanup.
She turned east on a secondary route and followed an old power line ten miles to McMaster Lake, making a happy mental note that access to town was quick and easy. A three-storey log building centred the complex, dotted with a dozen smaller cabins, set on a jewel of a lake dotted with islands. Red and white pines spiked into the distance toward the virginal Temagami area, scene of many anti-logging protests. Picture postcard perfect, especially when she noticed an army of moose tracks at an open creek. Where better to promote tourism than a spot salvaged from axe and saw? Already her mind was writing picturesque ads.
She parked in the haphazardly plowed yard and followed the roars of a stuttering chainsaw to the rear of a storage barn, where a man barely five feet tall in an orange padded worksuit was cutting birch beside a chopping block. A toboggan
at the side was piled with splits. “Are you Heino?” she asked, introducing herself.
He nodded shyly, furry, pointed ears escaping a striped wool toque dangling halfway down his back. Giving her enough smile to reveal a dark brown eye tooth, he produced a mammoth clutch of labelled keys. “Keep ’em locked for security, except for the bunkhouse. Watch them steps, missus.”
Returning to the house, assessing the broken railings, she picked her way up the stairs, which sagged under her weight. Slant-back Muskoka chairs, their paint peeling, held mute congress on a wraparound screened porch, speaking of comfortable evenings with only the primal sound of loons warbling for their mates.
She flapped open the rusty screen door, peppered with holes, then unlocked a wooden inside door and entered a great room anchored by a massive stone chimney. On her close inspection, a few rocks sparkled with fool’s gold, bearing scratches where gullible tourists had tried to pick it out. Wicker furniture with padded seats cozied up to the fireplace large enough to roast a moose haunch. Frozen in time, she thought, glancing at a picture of stolid George VI on the wall and admiring on the mantel celebratory cups from Elizabeth’s wedding, the resolute young girl foreshadowing the pudgy dowager whose children embarrassed her.
Bookshelves in a snug nook held entertainment for all ages. Mazo de la Roche’s complete Jalna series, Canada’s pre-television forerunner to sitcoms. Children could enjoy Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables series. Then The Little Princess, cover foxed with age. With a grin, Belle opened James Whitcomb Riley’s poems and read aloud from “Little Orphant Annie.” “An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you/ Ef you/ Don’t/ Watch/ Out!” She was tempted to tuck the childhood favourite, an ancient aunt’s dubiously comforting bedtime story, into her pocket for Heather.
