Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  Belle didn’t relish giving bad news, so she took a deep breath before picking up the phone and dialling the number. Time for a working person to be making dinner. A thin, nasal voice answered.

  “I’m calling about Mu . . . Malcolm Malloy.”

  “I’m his sister. What’s this about?”

  Belle told the story briefly, without sugarcoating the prognosis. “That’s all I know. Hospitals won’t release anything specific except to immediate family, and then usually only in person. I didn’t have a number for his parents.”

  “I can tell them, if that’s your worry.”

  “When he . . . comes to, he could use some support. After all, he just lost his partner.”

  “I guess that’s the acceptable term, but it sounds like a cowboy movie. Anyway, Mother and Father haven’t spoken to him in years.”

  “Maybe it’s time to mend fences. He could die.” She felt like pushing the limits but was painfully aware that she might be scripting a prophecy.

  Megs sighed, then seemed to be thinking, muttering to herself. “Dad’s been diagnosed with late-stage prostate cancer. He doesn’t have much longer. I guess I should come up. It’s a hell of a drive, though. A cowpath from Barrie, I hear.”

  Belle’s opinion of Megs was growing frosty as the dilemma unfolded. Someone needed to be at Mutt’s side. The woman could stay at Maureen’s now that the furnace was fixed. “Not quite. They’ve four-laned fifty more kilometres. Should be finished about 2025.” To simplify matters, Belle gave directions to the business, where she could provide a map and a key to the house. Did Mutt’s sister look like he did? She certainly didn’t have the same warm personality. What kind of a name was Megs? It reminded her of a rabbit. Yoyo, Coco and Mutt. Was she writing the screenplay to a Little Rascals comedy? She turned for the door and realized that she was ravenous. Time to go home and fatten up Porky.

  ELEVEN

  The next morning, Belle sat at her desk sneezing as dust motes roiled in the strong sun coming through the window. “How about some dusting, Yoyo? I gave you a Swiffer set.”

  “Sorry, out of sight, you know. I’ve never been house-proud. Mom handles that.” Yoyo went to the cabinet, slipped on a fresh cloth, adjusted the wand with elaborate gestures and made a show of covering every surface, humming Faith Hill’s “This Kiss”. Belle shared her opinion of the joys of cleaning. They both should own naked little non-shedding Chinese cresteds.

  The clock ticked past two. Megs was overdue, but traffic might have delayed her on such a long trip. On a sheet of foolscap, Belle began drawing a simple map to the lake. She had mixed feelings about meeting the woman.

  On a break, Yoyo slurped a yogurt drink and flapped a tabloid. “Unreal. Do you know a woman had cosmetic surgery to resemble a cat? And even worse, a guy wanted to look like a snake. So he shaved his head, got scale tattoos, and had his tongue cut in—”

  “Enough already. The Island of Dr. Moreau come to life.”

  “Right, I heard about those islands where the rich and famous go for secret operations.”

  Then the door opened, and in came a woman in her mid-thirties, her eyebrows arched like Gothic windows, giving her a perpetually surprised look. Her upper and lower lips appeared to belong to two different people. “I’m Megs Malloy,” she began, planting herself in front of Yoyo’s desk as she scanned the area. “I thought this was a business. What do you sell here, anyway?” Her snarky voice implied that they were running a Ponzi scheme or rerouting Nigerian spam.

  Clearing her throat from across the room, Belle drew herself up, still six inches from the woman’s height, always an unpleasant sensation. Her eyes flashed to the patent-leather stiletto boots. How did she drive in them? “Belle Palmer. As I told you, this is a realty company. We specialize in cottage properties.”

  “Then where’s your sign? My father always said that a business without a sign is a sign of no business.”

  Belle and Yoyo exchanged glances. “It, uh, blew down in a storm. It’s taking awhile to replace. Custom work.” And about two thousand dollars. Ouch.

  Against her will, Belle stuck out her hand, finding herself enveloping a two-day-old mackerel. Retrieving it, she wiped off the moisture on her back, then pasted on a smile.

  Megs frowned at her surroundings and gave an obvious shiver. She wore a purple linen tunic over pink tights and a long-sleeved turtleneck. Her unnatural ash-blonde hair hung in layers, kissing her shoulders, a casual look running to the triple digits. A monogrammed suede bag rode her shoulder like a bandolier. With a pointed motion, she checked her watch, a slender diamond model that flashed “old money” in Belle’s eyes. “That traffic was outrageous. People up here drive like bloody maniacs. I’ve got to settle somewhere and put my feet up. A nap. Then a meal. What decent restaurants are nearby the house?”

  Belle smiled at the naïveté. “You’ll have to pick something up en route. Going down the Kingsway, you can find Greek, Chinese and the usual chains. There’s also a small supermarket in Garson a few miles later with an LCBO next door.”

  Megs gave a cursory glance to the map Belle provided, then pulled out a pearl compact and scowled at herself in the mirror. “Can I use your little girls’ room?”

  Belle pointed toward the back. “You may.”

  As the woman left, Belle and Yoyo issued a dual groan. “As you can gather, that’s Mutt’s sister.”

  “Shut up!” Yoyo’s voice rose in pitch, and she made a scoffing gesture with her hand. “How did she get Michael Jackson’s nose? And did you see that forehead? Botox city. Some people don’t know when to stop.”

  Belle straightened, wondering if she had heard correctly. “Did you tell me to shut up? What the—”

  Yoyo gave a merry laugh, covering her mouth to contain herself. “Not that. It means, like, are you serious?”

  Belle returned to her desk, feeling a few bones squeak. She knew why she was comfortable with Miriam; they had the same set of references. “Some of us . . . older folk might get the wrong idea.”

  “Hey, even Julie Andrews says it in The Princess Diaries.”

  “A good reason to watch I Was a Male War Bride instead.”

  Yoyo attacked her keyboard with a passion. “Oh, you and your old movies. My mom told me about those black and white ones. Boring.”

  Hair moussed into respectability and fresh fuchsia lipstick applied with a trowel, Megs returned. “I’m out of here. I have your home number from last night. If anything’s irregular, I’ll call.”

  This isn’t the Harbour Castle Hilton, Belle thought, and I’m no concierge, lady. She said, “You might want to visit the hospital now. It’s forty-five minutes to the lake.”

  “He’s still in a coma, isn’t he? Or do I need an update?”

  Belle replied, “Last I heard. That was this morning.”

  Megs closed her purse with the snap of a mousetrap. “I’m much too tired. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “But you never know. Maybe by tonight he’ll–”

  “Listen here.” Megs put one hand on her snake hips and with the other stabbed her finger like a striking cobra. “Before I got into local politics as a councillor, I was married to an ER doctor. The usual treatment is to put the subject into a hyperbaric chamber to clean the gasses from his blood . . . if you country folk have one here in the back of beyond. As for a coma, the brain often needs a rest after a trauma. Perfectly natural.”

  Not perfectly natural to be so nonchalant, Belle thought, as she clenched a fist on her lap. And what kind of a person thought of a patient as “subject”? It reminded her of the terminology used in Nazi death-camp experiments.

  As Megs headed for the door with an impatient stride, Belle added, “The Lavoies have a lovely house. You’ll be quite comfortable. But they’re on a septic system, not a sewer. Don’t flush any paper and especially not tampons.”

  The stricken look on Meg’s face was worth the ugly scene that had preceded it. “Then what do . . .”

  “You’ll figure
it out.”

  Finishing at five thirty, Belle braved rush-hour traffic down Paris Street en route to Laurentian Hospital. If Megs wasn’t going to check on Mutt, she would, and see her father at the same time.

  George Palmer looked flushed but happy. Despite his earlier complaints, he’d polished every compartment on his dinner tray. Once he knew what to expect, he adapted. “I’m going home in a few days,” he said. “Skin’s nearly all better.”

  She inspected his arms and hands. Not perfect, but the blisters were drying up and heading for recovery. Why did it take a crisis like this, at the prohibitive costs of a hospital stay, to diagnose an obvious condition? She felt like filing a malpractice suit against Dr. Vonnie.

  Knowing how he relished a good story, she told him about Mutt and the accident.

  “Are you rounding up the usual suspects?” His eyes twinkled, and he rubbed his gnarled hands together. From a past rich with silver-screen whodunits, he liked to dramatize events.

  “No, this really was an accident. I saw the mouse nest myself.”

  He gave a small cough. “Your old beau and now this man in the same week? Sounds like a bit of a coinkydink. Edna Mae Oliver would know where to poke her long nose.” The Penguin Pool Murders was one of his favourites. He identified with crotchety James Gleason.

  She gave him a kiss and made a lunch date for Tuesday at Rainbow Country. In Mutt’s room on the next floor, a wren of a dark-skinned nurse was changing his IVs. Belle tiptoed in, the smell of a recent Lysol application strong in her nostrils. Yet in the corner, an olive from someone’s tray had rolled to a stop. “Is he . . . conscious?”

  The woman cocked her lustrous black head as she affixed the lines, tapping them for air bubbles until she was satisfied, then making a note on his chart. “He’s come up another level. His blood work is good. I thought I heard him mumbling earlier. That’s a good sign. Somebody called Ben. A friend or relative?”

  “I don’t know. We just met recently.” She looked at his athletic form, covered by sheets, now weak and vulnerable. Someone, perhaps a female aide admiring his beauty, had given him a recent shave and applied a soothing balm from the bottle on the bed table. Outside, she could hear cheers from a kayak race on Lake Ramsey. “Is this the first time you’ve seen carbon monoxide poisoning?”

  The woman nodded, checking a round watch pinned to her uniform. “But I read about a tragic case in the States a few years back. A whole family. The father told their GP that the ancient furnace was faulty, but he said they had the flu and sent them home. Next morning they were dead, all five of them.”

  How lucky Mutt had been, Belle thought. She drew closer and laid a hand on his shoulder, careful not to brush the tubes. “You’re close, Mutt. Keep trying. Swim back to us.” And who is Ben, she wondered, brushing a tear from her cheek and taking a tissue from the dispenser. An old flame? A pet? Megs might know. No doubt they’d meet again, despite her best efforts.

  Aneetha, according to her name tag, ran a gentle comb through Mutt’s clean hair and gave a girlish sigh. Belle saw no ring on her hand. “I shouldn’t say this, but he is a gorgeous man, isn’t he? I’ll keep a special eye on him for you.”

  On the way home, Belle let the speeding Francophones pass her in droves on Radar Road as they headed for Valley East and Hanmer, fertile plains of potato fields, berry farms, and newer subdivisions. Her father would soon be going home, so to speak. He hadn’t complained that she didn’t sit with him for hours on end. Work he understood. Only at seventy had he reluctantly retired, and a year later, the company had begged him to return. As for Mutt, his condition sounded guardedly optimistic. On the darker side, Megs would be descending soon enough.

  Before turning onto the Airport Road, she noticed overflowing boxes of petunias lining the driveway to Freskiw’s Greenhouse. She pulled in past the tree and shrub selection, went inside, declined the hanging baskets for twenty-five dollars a pop, and filled a cart with six-packs of ready-to-go vegetables. June 12, now or never.

  At seven, she opened her front door. As she stood on the deck while the dog streaked out, Belle noticed something strange about her garden. It was prepared in rows as neat as a packet of pins. Minutes later, she hit her answering machine. A message from Hélène: “Got Dad a tiller for his quad for an early Father’s Day, and he had to try it out. He’s done every garden this end of the road.”

  Her friends had come through again. Stressed from the long day, Belle felt no compelling urge to cook. She popped a beer as she opened a friendly blue box. Kraft Dinner, comfort food, with a side of sliced low-fat Spam sprinkled with sugar and fried to a crisp. Typical camping fare. She compensated for the cholesterol bomb by adding a salad of avocados and the delightful mesclun mix which reminded her of the days when only iceberg bowling balls rolled down the alley to Sudbury.

  The heaping plate was ferried to the video room to watch Walk on the Wild Side. In 1962, MGM had been uncommonly gutsy to present the doughty Babs Stanwyck in an implicitly gay role as the madam of a brothel and the lover of lithe Capucine. A stalwart man had to appear to “save” Capucine, but in noir fashion, the exotic French starlet’s character died in an accidental shooting. Later Capucine said that she might have been interested in the queen of the screen, but that Stanwyck had been otherwise engaged. How tragic that as a victim of depression, the stunning Capucine had committed suicide at fifty-seven by leaping from a tall building in Paris.

  In bed that night, Belle noticed Gary’s pocket notebooks, which she’d taken for Mutt and left on the dresser. Curious to see if she could make sense of his jottings, she began reading them in order, cross-referencing them with Mutt’s observations. How meticulous Gary had been in documenting habitat, time and place, temperatures and weather. But where was the one with the dates from his final week? Had he gone camping somewhere, perhaps at nearby Killarney, the jewel of Ontario’s parks, with its blue lakes and white quartzite mountains? The last time they’d talked, just before his death, Gary hadn’t mentioned taking time off. Somehow she felt an intimate contact with him in these letters from the grave. Feeling nostalgic, she hauled out her senior yearbook to find his one message to her.

  In the centre of the right-hand cover page, the place of honour, she read his parting words like visiting Sybil in her cave: “It’s been an interesting relationship. But we’ve had support from dozens of genuinely concerned and benevolent sources—so how can we lose? The psychological ramifications are truly magnificent; quite a study. May the Higher Being bless you.” The message, contrasted with all the usual puerile good wishes and in-jokes of other friends, had confused her eighteen-year-old brain. Higher Being? She’d never met the word “ramification”, and what about that show-off semi-colon? Considering that she hadn’t heard from him after their prom date, the “so how can we lose?” now struck her as a bit cruel, and the condescension was galling, despite the hint that he knew about her network of information from his so-called friends.

  As Freya snored on her sheepskin, Belle sat back in the waterbed and did a slow burn, as much at herself as at him. Had she had no pride? What an embarrassment she’d been, sneaking around on his street in the dark, digging grass from his lawn to plant in her mother’s rose garden, preserving that dried carnation. She filled the shot glass with scotch and sipped slowly. How much had he known or suspected? All her friends had been sworn to secrecy, but that meant nothing. A similar obsession today could lead to a restraining order. Instead, he’d been faithful to his temporary role.

  A gale rushed through the bedroom. She closed the patio doors and cranked the window to an inch. Then shivering, she hauled out the down duvet from the closet to buttress the patchwork quilt she used June to August. Northerners never knew when the weather had a custard pie up its sleeve.

  The next morning, every inch covered with clothing, even her socks pulled over her pant cuffs, and her hands sticky with dope, Belle donned her bug hat and began to plant the garden. The heavy white cowl flowed onto her shoulders and had the
murky face screen of a nuclear clean-up crew.

  Freya kept shaking her head until Belle took pity on the crusts tipping her velvet ears. “That’s enough punishment, girl,” she said and took the dog to the basement patio doors, shutting her inside.

  Sweating in her Canadian burqa, she sat on the edge of the thirty-foot-square wooden crib, site of the old cottage, sorting herb pots of summer savory, thyme and basil when she heard an odd scuffle behind her. Something sniffed at the back of her neck. On instinct she froze. A wangy smell twitched her nose, then came a gentle butt. No question as to what had come calling. It wasn’t Bigfoot.

  TWELVE

  Should she leap up and yell? This bear-aversion technique worked well at a hundred feet. Playing dead was a tactic for grizzlies. Like an automatic camera shooting five times each second, Belle stared at the lake, the dock, her rockwall, pictured herself sprinting to the boulders then forced into the water, still icy enough to kill. Bears were exceptionally fast, and not only did running excite the prey drive, but they were excellent swimmers with more padding.

  The moment drew into eternity. Then as she felt consciousness slipping away, Freya began a frantic bark. Dog noses were 500,000 times as sensitive as a human’s, the olfactory part of the brain a sizable lump. She’d smelled the beast through the open windows, and her claws scrabbled on the sliding glass doors. There was a huffing sound and a series of retreating thumps and scritches on the patio stones. Barely breathing, daring to turn at last, Belle watched her furry boyfriend disappear up the driveway and across the road, galumphing in a fluid and graceful manner like Jackie Gleason dancing his bulk in a slapstick routine.

  Her lungs were threatening to break through her chest, and sweat stung her eyes and pooled under her arms. Hyperventilating, she flung off the hood and flopped down heavily on the grass, lowering her head between her knees. It had considered her and found her wanting, a choosy beast.