Coco guffawed, swiping at the blouse. “Oops, clumsy me. That reminds me of an old joke, honey. But shit, no. I can hitch down Notre Dame from here. Thumb, don’t fail me now.” Brandishing a digit gnarled with arthritis, as she turned, she noticed the picture of Freya on the wall, the noble sable head emerging from a greenery of ferns. “Gotcherself a nice shep. Female. I can tell by the nose. Very refined. À bientôt.” She lurched towards the door, leaving it open as she exited.
Belle blew a sigh of relief as she clicked the handle shut. No doubt there was quite a story in that family. Her own life was so uneventful, all the better for amassing funds on the march to retirement. Only lately had Gary’s return wakened her from her doldrums. Then there was the dumping in the bush. Would anything come of her report to CrimeStoppers? Maybe she’d been a bit hasty in putting up those pictures. Steve would have slapped her wrist.
She picked up the phone to check on her father, but the line was busy. As Belle listened to the weather, Yoyo returned, grinning broadly. “That place is as dangerous as Costco. They had a special on Turtles. Have one. So yummy,” she said, revealing a dozen luscious morsels.
Between nutty chocolate and caramel bites, Belle mentioned Coco.
“No sweat. I saw her get into a panel truck at the lights. Woman never needs a car. The North is so friendly.”
“It’s still not wise. Even though women of her age aren’t usually abducted.”
“Abducted? Maybe with a stun gun. Ma says she has a nose for people. Never wrong. Isn’t she a character? I love her to pieces. She’s my inspiration and the reason I’m not afraid to be a single parent.” Using a compact, Yoyo applied a fresh coat to her glossy red mouth, pursing her lips and giving herself an air kiss. She wasn’t using lipstick, but a kind of paint with a miniature brush.
Belle cleared her throat, speed-reading the sales slip and filing it. The candy must have been separate. Had Yoyo paid herself, or was shoplifting another habit?
Though Belle had enough discretion not to pursue whether Coco had ever been married or even supported by a man, Yoyo continued. “Old bastard took off thirty years ago. Mom had just lost her job as a cook at Burwash when they closed. Got another position at Pioneer Manor with the old folks. Damn, could she whip up meals. Vats of mashies. The bestest gravy. Homemade is nothing like that gluey, tasteless stuff that they—”
Yoyo’s phone rang as Belle was about to tell her to get back to work instead of reminiscing about gravy. Suddenly she craved one of the hot beef, turkey or chicken sandwich rafts that floated the North through winters.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Picking up a strawberry sundae from the convenience store on her way home, Belle stopped at Rainbow Country to check on her father. He dove into the ice cream as if he’d been starving, even though she knew dinner had already been served. Afterwards, dreading the truth, she checked his legs. A jungle infection. The blisters were oozing and broken.
“Still doesn’t hurt, though. They put bandages and cream on every day. The cowards look kind of scared. Am I contagious? Is it beri-beri? Remember Edwina Booth from Trader Horn? When they shot that film in Africa, she caught malaria and nearly—”
She took away the empty plastic container and spoon, her temples pounding. Belle hated making scenes, but enough was enough. “We’re going to find out. I promise.”
Down the hall she walked, choosing her words carefully. Passively accepting her father’s medical treatment had led to this crisis, but the staff wasn’t to blame. “Ann,” she said to the nurse at the desk. “My father needs to get another opinion. I think he should be in the hospital. Do you agree?”
“Cherie and I were going to suggest that,” Ann said with a relieved sigh as she picked up the phone. “I’m glad you’re insisting. The way the system works, the family has to make some healthcare decisions. Frankly, I don’t have much confidence in our Dr. Davison. If he had a decent practice, he wouldn’t have to pad his payroll with nursing home visits. Makes you think.”
Back in his room, Belle put an arm around her father’s thinning shoulder, once so muscular. She owed him the same care he’d given her, even if he had pinned her to a diaper once. Recalling how at only five she could twist him around her finger to take her for milkshakes made her glad her mother had tempered the spoiling with an occasional wooden spoon to her bum. “You’re getting a ride to the hospital. Someone will take a look at you. Let’s hope they have better credentials than Vonnie and Davison.”
“Will I get any food there? When will I come home?”
And Rainbow Country was home. “I’m not sick. I’m just old,” he’d grumbled when he’d arrived, an accurate assessment.
Still worried about the delay in her father’s treatment, Belle stopped at Mutt’s. The soft, warm June evening had brought him to a lounge on the covered porch, where he was sifting through a pile of papers. Gary’s massive pickup sat in the driveway. As she got out, he hoisted a beer. “One for you? Light okay?”
“Perfect.”
When he returned, she let a cool trickle run down her throat. Today had actually passed twenty-five Celsius. Who needed to live in the banana belt? “How’s everything going?” she asked, forced to lean backward in the angled chair until her neck muscles hurt.
“I’m just getting started. It’s weird, though. Gary always typed up his field notes within a few days. There’s nothing from the last two weeks. It’s as if he stopped working.” He shrugged. “Of course, I have his little pocket notebooks. He left a pile here on the desk. From the dates, it looks like the most recent one might be missing. His writing is terrible, though. Could be I have the dates wrong.”
“I didn’t see any small notebooks at the office when we picked up the supplies.”
“Maybe he had it in the canoe, and it’s at the bottom of the lake.” Mutt sounded discouraged.
She told him about the autopsy. “The details are pretty spare, but they’re always upsetting.” She recalled reading her mother’s death certificate. Everyone died from heart failure. The cause made the difference. A massive infection after chemo had triggered Terry Palmer’s final collapse.
“So I heard. Detective Ramleau again. Cold bastard. I didn’t care for his line of questioning.” He gave a disgusted look. “The jerk asked me about any insurance or wills.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Belle swallowed another few ounces and gave what she hoped was a contemptuous laugh. “That’s absurd. Are you saying that they’re investigating you?” Maybe she shouldn’t have pushed Steve to keep the file open.
“The old qui bono has them back on the case. Gary left everything to me. Double indemnity on insurance from the university.”
“But everyone needs a will. And accidents happen. Surely they can’t be—”
“He told me about it when we first got serious—$200,000 on the policy. Then of course our house in St. Catharines. A friend’s occupying it while we . . . I’m away. My name’s on the deed, though I didn’t contribute much. Gary insisted on making us equal partners. Everyone thinks writers are all rich, but I’m just getting started with a small press.”
“So that’s all, then?” She tried to minimize the totals, but the remains of the day would be considerable. Down south, especially in the Golden Horseshoe, house prices had gone to the moon. Half a million dollars bought an ordinary bungalow.
“He’d invested quite well. Mutual funds. All that stuff’s at home, though. I don’t know anything about the exact figures. Frankly, I never paid attention.”
Belle nodded. “Stocks fell into the toilet after 9/11, but values are soaring now.” Mutt waved aside the financial complexities. Was he that naïve? Still, not everyone cared for money as much as she did.
“So