Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  As she drove along the ten-kilometre road skirting the western edge of Lake Wapiti, the rare conjoining of another meteor crater, she became aware of a shape behind her and tensed as a cheeky horn tooted. When she’d built years ago, only a dozen full-timers lived here. Now they numbered forty-five, buying cottage properties, tearing them down, and constructing monster houses even on toenail properties, windows a stone’s throw from the road. She kept her speed at forty, fast enough for the blind turns and hills. Her rearview mirror framed a red Jeep Liberty. On they drove, the Jeep sniffing Belle’s bumper. Though thoroughly annoyed, she searched her mind for a safe pull-off. Why enrage a neighbourhood jerk?

  Time didn’t permit her courtesy. On a wicked stretch over a high culvert with a creek tumbling freshets far below, the Jeep thundered past on the narrow, hard-surfaced road, its gravel and tar crumbling at the edges.

  Belle read the license as the Jeep kicked up a load of dust: HOTTIE. Not likely a last name.

  Another mile ahead, she saw the Jeep parked in a steep drive. She chuckled to imagine how that incline would strike fear under the demands of ice and snow. The house had changed hands three times in the last decade.

  Finally, she pulled into her long driveway, passing her routed sign, “The Parliament of Owls”, displaying the white, beaked Corny and brown, frowning Horny. Slamming the door, she could hear deep-chested barking, the world’s cheapest burglar alarm. Freya, a senior German shepherd, bounded out, ran circles, and left for her ablutions. Ten hours was no problem for her elimination needs; she seemed to sleep the day away in yogic bliss.

  Inside the two-and-a-half storey cedar house, Belle shook out chow, plus a spoon of fibre for the dog, refreshed the water bowl, and headed up to the master suite for a bath. Minutes later, towel-drying her short, red hair, now peppered with grey, she put on comfortable yoga pants and a T-shirt. The wood stove was on simmer, but it warmed the house like a bakery.

  Dinner was a quick linguine puttanesca with black and green olives, a fresh tomato, and tangy Sicilian olive oil, mounded with grated pecorino. Settled in the TV room in a pasha chair with massive ottoman, Belle tuned her television to her only satellite subscription channel, Turner Classic Movies.

  Doris Day and Rock Hudson were starring in Pillow Talk. Remembering his death from HIV/AIDS, she watched the film with an ironic new subtext and an academy-award performance. So many of the screen’s leading men had secret lives. Some, like Charles Laughton, arranged publicity marriages. Raymond Burr made massive donations to children’s charities.

  As the film ended, the gibbous moon began its silvery rise across the back of her yard. No word from Miriam. Should she succumb to nerves and call, or trust her cohort?

  Half an hour later, she was immersed in the wilderness of Rocky Mountain National Park in Nevada Barr’s Hard Truth. If she were to imagine herself an author, Barr, with her brilliant sense of place, would be her model. Then the phone rang.

  “Still up? I knew you’d be fretting. Now you can relax, and I can leave to help Jack. Here’s the answer to our problems.” An old friend of Miriam’s had agreed to sign on for three weeks or longer if necessary.

  “And guess what? She’ll do it for two-thirds of my salary. Am I a ruthless negotiator? Must have learned it from the master.” Miriam knew that her boss loved spinning pennies into loonies and toonies like Rumpelstiltskin at his wooden wheel.

  Despite the windfall, Belle had sudden reservations. She stubbed out her cigarette in the little catcher’s mitt ashtray that remained from the old cottage. “Why so cheap? Does she know the real estate business?”

  Miriam harrumphed in an affronted response. “Of course. A few years ago, she was a secretary at Crown Realty. We took computer courses together at Nickel City College.”

  Crown had gone belly up. Easy conclusions as to the woman’s availability. Why wasn’t she still working locally? “What about updating the website? We need to get those new listings fired up.”

  Miriam made a scoffing sound with her lips. “No worries. She’s a master at Flash, she assured me.”

  Belle let a beat or two pass. “What’s she been doing lately?”

  “Just . . . got back in town from living down south in Milton. That’s why she’s happy to come on board. Yoyo has family here and needs breathing space to find a full-time permanent job again.”

  Belle finished the last dregs in the scotch glass. “I’m not sure I heard you right. Did you say Yoyo?”

  “Short for Yolanda. Yoyo Hourtovenko. You’ll love her. A laugh a minute.”

  “Lots of laughs? That hardly sounds like a—”

  “Did I mention that she owns a German shepherd?”

  Minutes later, turning out the light with a sigh of relief, Belle drifted into a baby-sweet sleep, prepared to adore Yoyo on sight.

  TWO

  The office was dark when Belle rolled into the yard. Yoyo was to arrive at seven thirty sharp, so this was not auspicious. With a grrr, she entered, nudged the coffee maker into action and sat down to polish ads for the weekend paper, normally Miriam’s job. Barring the silly metaphor of her name, could Yoyo handle it? Not everyone could write good copy, fudge but not fabricate, plump but not lie, juggle the jargon. Doll house. Starter home. Retro kitchen. School nearby. Sharp minds knew what those innocent words really meant.

  As the clock ticked past eight, Belle felt her pulse rising as steadily as a jet on takeoff. She’d give Miriam a call at Jack’s tonight and tell her how unreliable her choice had proved. On to number two, a retired bookkeeper from H&R Block whom Miriam had also mentioned but who wanted full salary plus overtime.

  Running her finger down her problem listings, Belle stopped at 1565 Edgewater Road, the Lavoie place. The unique log home had a high price and would appeal only to an appreciative and very wealthy buyer. Meanwhile, it would stand unoccupied, a dangerous status. If no dream offer appeared by fall, it might be an idea to have a firm like Tel-a-Fern keep an eye on the place, mow the lawn, rake leaves, make it look lived in until the snows rendered access impossible. Maybe next spring would bring them all better luck.

  Then the phone rang. She cleared her throat and gave the usual cheerful answer, surprised at the voice. If she hadn’t known Clifton Webb was dead, she’d have thought Mr. Belvedere had a twin. There was also eerie familiarity in the timbre and cadences, but different, as if an oboe had become a bassoon. “Sorry, but we don’t handle rentals. Have you tried—”

  “I know that, dear lady, but bear with me. Someone told me you deal in cottage properties.” He explained that he had been seconded to the Ministry of Natural Resources on a contract to do elk research. “I’ve been bunking at a motel on Route 69 since March, but it isn’t suitable. A real dive, with motorcycles night and day. Peace and quiet are important to me. If there’s a lakeside property that hasn’t sold for a while, perhaps the owners might appreciate a two-year lease. It could be a win-win situation for all of us.”

  His pregnant pause started one particular wheel turning in Belle’s brain. 1565 Edgewater Road. Ivan was retired, and Maureen, a nurse, had joined Doctors Without Borders in Somalia. They wanted to return to their home but were afraid to leave it unattended for such a long period. Teary-eyed, they’d told her to sell. This might be the perfect compromise. She choked back thoughts of forfeiting a fat commission, but balanced that against losing jolly Maureen as a neighbour. Her New Year’s Eve parties were legendary, especially her turkey on the barbecue.

  “You are in luck. I have the ideal house, not far from mine. Can you meet me this afternoon?” That would give her time to call Maureen in Kismayu, where she was volunteering at a free clinic for women with fistulas. Giving birth at too early an age, they needed only a simple four-hundred-dollar operation to repair the ruptures. Cheap in the western world but beyond their means.

  After she had given him directions and they had hung up, she realized that neither had introduced themselves. At her ineptness, Belle shook her head. Working alone had her rat
tled as a rainstick. Where was Yoyo? Grumbling, she sifted papers on Miriam’s desk in quest of the name of that retired bookkeeper. With no success, she flipped the Rolodex and located Jack’s name. Surely Miriam would be in Timmins by now.

  Scarcely had she punched in five numbers, than at nine o’clock, the door banged open. In came a bottle blonde with cropped hair, pink-gelled in every direction, a walking strawberry shortcake with a dog leash draped around her neck. A few inches shy of Belle’s five-four, she wore a silver mini-skirt with a wide chain-mail belt and a shimmery blue clinging top that lifted the veil over a bra that manufactured cleavage where no more was needed. A small mound of stomach riding high testified to . . . impending motherhood? At her side was a magnificent black-and-tan German shepherd with a Canadian flag bandana. Belle’s mouth opened, but words wouldn’t come.

  After scanning the office, the woman stuck out a childlike hand, blazing with custom nail designs of cherub faces. “I’m Yoyo. You must be Belle. Meet Baron. Mimsy set everything up, right? This is a cute little place. Is that my desk over there?” She pointed to Belle’s new fake-cherrywood workstation, a Christmas present to herself against her frugal conscience.

  Only Jack was allowed to call his ex-wife Mimsy. Yoyo must be a very close friend. Belle tried to control her irritation. Yoyo might be the only solution to her personnel crisis. “You are a bit late.” She glanced at the oversized watch on the woman’s plump arm.

  “Baron, down,” Yoyo whispered, and the dog flattened with an oomph, massive head on paws, lively black brows darting. Laid-back must be his middle name. Yoyo tucked the leash into a capacious shoulder bag and met Belle’s eyes with a wary challenge that didn’t match her words. “Sorry, I—”

  “Was there a problem?” Belle needed this woman, but she wasn’t going to roll over and beg. A poor employee was worse than none.

  Yoyo folded her arms, her back straight. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. And I did tell Mimsy that I’d try to get here at seven thirty, but that I needed to find Baron a sitter.”

  “A sitter?”

  “My mom has an apartment in the Flour Mill. They don’t allow dogs. I sneak Baron in and out by the back stairs. One bark could land us on the street.”

  Yoyo’s situation sounded unstable, like trouble ahead. To compound the situation, at ten, Belle was due at a showing. “Yes, yes.”

  “Mom had to get some blood tests. So, is it okay if I—”

  Belle rocked back in the chair. “You’ve already brought him to work. Why not let him stay? We have a kennel in the back room.”

  “For real?” Yoyo’s blue-shadowed eyes widened, then chilled as she searched Belle’s mouth for a smile that didn’t arrive. “You’re making fun of me. Forget it. I’m outta here.” She turned on her sparkly spiked heels. Baron scrabbled up and followed suit. Belle hadn’t even petted him, and he was a handsome beast. His nails were pristine, and his coat evidence of daily brushing.

  “Wait—” Leaping for the door, Belle held up her hands. What was that saying about making lemonade? Why not let the woman show her stuff? A single day would tell. “We’ve had a bad start. Let’s begin again. Miriam said you had realty experience.” She waved the woman to a seat.

  Yoyo sidled into Miriam’s chair, crossed her shapely legs and pooched out her lower lip. “Ten years at Crown. Ninety per cent on the first two real estate courses. Best in my class. I’m gonna be a realtor, just as soon as I take the last course and pay my fee.”

  The easy ticket to wealth, a part-time job, many thought, but 24-7-365 was the reality. The assessment of several thousand dollars to join the hallowed ranks kept amateurs at bay. Belle nodded, blowing out a breath and leaning across Yoyo to punch on Miriam’s computer. She coughed discreetly at a cloying perfume that smelled like cotton candy. “Then you know the ropes. I’ll give you a brief tour and tell you what’s on the schedule.” She pointed to the coffee maker. “Still fairly fresh, comparatively speaking.”

  Grinning, Yoyo pulled a box of chocolate doughnuts from her purse. The dog drooled, and the phone trilled.

  Later that afternoon, Belle drove down Edgewater Road and pulled into a large property bearing one of her business signs. At the entrance to the drive, Maureen had located a six-foot-high boulder, a “pearl”, as rockwall builders termed the valuable commodities. She’d had a wrought-iron sign custom-made and drilled into the rock. “Pebble Beach,” it read, casting artistic ivy shadows when the sun moved to the west. Inheriting the cottage property from her parents, then building a permanent home, Maureen had landscaped the place with a bevy of perennials, rock gardens and woven willow arbours with climbing gourds. A mass of parrot tulips raised expectations for the growing season. Daffodils were nodding in the sunnier areas. If this man . . . how maddening that they hadn’t exchanged names . . . liked plants, he’d fall in love with the yard. Lilacs, white and mauve, were in glorious array, as were the pin cherry trees and a flowering crab. Their redolence filled the air, and each breeze off the water scattered papery petals onto the ground like wedding confetti.

  The same balmy weather that coaxed that picture had also brought a curtain of bugs. The bloody slaughter on her van’s windshield was clear evidence. Belle retrieved a bottle of spray and a roll of paper towels to clear the massacre. Then she sat awkwardly in a slanted Muskoka chair on the covered porch, swatting now and then at a delta-winged fly that tried to burrow into her hair. Each winged destroyer had its signal features. And even the smallest, the no-see-ems, could creep through a large tent screen and leave exposed flesh burning like an iron had scorched it.

  She heard the crunch of gravel. Into the driveway came a GMC 2500 Sierra 4x4. A tall man with ash blond hair got out. He wore sensible khaki work clothes and a red plaid light-wool shirt. She stood as he approached, noticing his trim Van Dyke beard. He polished his glasses with a white handkerchief, a nicety she hadn’t seen in decades. Something in his cerulean-blue eyes summoned distant memories and left her speechless. Her mouth was opening, gaping, in fact.

  “Ms Palmer, or am I presuming? Sorry, I didn’t get your name. Things were happening rather fast, and I was excited about finding a house. I’m . . .” Then as he put on his glasses, he stopped, and the handkerchief fell to the ground like a forfeit in a medieval joust.

  “Gary Myers.” Her boyfriend from Scarborough Collegiate Institute in Toronto, or at least for the three months leading up to the senior semi-formal. At eighteen, he’d been much heavier, called Blubs by cruel peers, and yet his gifts had drawn her to his shining light. In the years since graduation, he’d been a cypher, a vanished man.

  Gary had been the valedictorian with special medals in biology and zoology. More than that, he’d been a talented actor and a sparkling tenor. Goaded on by mutual friends, they’d started dating during Brigadoon, Gary as Tommy Albright and Belle playing trumpet in the orchestra. How she’d gritted her teeth when he’d kissed the female lead, some blonde Swedish sophomore headed for Julliard. He also announced for the football games, sitting high in the box while Belle marched with the band.

  And another oddity. Though they’d dated fourteen times, as tolled in her diary, he hadn’t kissed her until date ten, when she’d summoned the annoyance and gumption to ask him. It had been a well-timed but perfunctory performance. She’d felt humiliated, despite the delightful experience of brushing his soft lips and smooth cheek. After that, he’d grasped the idea that a formal farewell was mandatory. How naïve had he been? Was it her fault? She brushed her teeth three times a day, swilled mouthwash, and had to fend off other comers with a handy knee.

  He cleared his throat, offering his hand, strong and weathered. “Belle. It’s been a long time. I’ve never believed in coincidences, but I’ve changed my mind.”

  The warm contact moved her, a deliciously uneasy feeling spreading from the pit of her stomach. “Despite the territory, the North can be a small place when it comes to people.” She tried not to stare, but it was impossible. Whatever diet or me
tabolic reversal, he was now tall and lean. The clumsy black horn-rimmed glasses had vanished for trendy titanium models. He drew his fingers through a hank of silky hair, an endearing gesture she recalled with a pang. In high school, conversation had been difficult, fraught with teenage angst, double dates the salvation. Now perhaps they could communicate as adults. What kind of man had he become?

  A smile grew on his face, coaxing familiar dimples. He cocked his head at her and firmed his lips as though trying to make a decision. “I do owe you an apology, long overdue. Things were . . . not as they seemed.”

  What did he mean? A hot flash moved from her neck to her forehead, and she feared that she looked like a cartoon. She stammered his last few words. He always had made her nervous, and the feeling had been mutual. She’d completely lost her appetite every time they’d sat together for a meal, had toyed with her food like an anorexic. He had lost the conversational flair he’d had with an audience. “Long overdue. You mean when we were, when we . . .”

  Suddenly the curtain lifted. Hindsight had the clarity of a crystal blue morning at minus twenty-five Celsius, the birches eight miles across the lake as sharp as an Ansel Adams photograph. Belle nodded, then cleared her throat. “How long have you . . . I mean when did you . . .”

  “Forever. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Cub scouts.” He waved his hand. “Not that anything was happening at the time, but thinking back, I knew. Then there was Mr. Kluckhohn.”

  “Our Grade Seven geography teacher? Don’t tell me he—”

  “A sad old man, weeks from retirement. I told him I wasn’t interested in his dirty pictures. Then I played the waiting game until university. It seemed safest, especially with HIV/AIDS on the horizon. I owe you one, Belle. It wasn’t easy in the late Seventies. You helped me maintain a semblance of normalcy.”

  She took a deep breath, laughed in spite of herself. “Are you saying that I was your . . . what do you call it . . . beard?”