Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. Lou Allin

by surrendering to routine. Into her Adolphe Menjou filigreed holder from the MGM Studios gift shop went one of five nightly cigarettes. On their last trip to the Florida theme parks after her mother died, her father had snapped his Visa card like a roué to buy a bit of nostalgia.

      Freya scrabbled after chipmunks in her sleep. Lucky animal didn’t need tranquillizers, but she didn’t have bills, deadlines and a murdered neighbour. Belle poured a Scotch and hunted for a book. Usually she bucked the seasons, James Lee Burke’s steamy New Orleans jambalaya in January and cold fare in July. The night was unusually warm for northern Canadian summers where a light duvet was often necessary. She gazed at the framed silhouette of her mother, caught in time at what must have been Belle’s present age. Now the daughter grew older than the image she addressed each night. “The old man’s about the same. You should have talked me into becoming a nurse . . . I mean a doctor.” She sighed. “But high school chemistry axed that idea. Give me moles over mols.” Turning to her book, she dipped her feet into the frigid Arctic waters of Dana Stabenow’s Alaska adventure.

       SEVEN

      Still no answer at Steve’s house the next morning. Why didn’t he invest in a machine like the rest of the uncivilized world? Belle would read him the riot act soon enough. Meanwhile, a picnic at Surprise Lake sounded like a peaceful plan for a hot Saturday. With the aquarium, she had hiked there to trap minnows for her live eaters. But the pampered beasts had grown too fast, so she had donated the big boys to Science North, where they would enjoy a giant tank, and given the rest to Popeye’s Pet Store. The delicate little discus had been the last to go. How she missed their luminous blue stripes and dainty acrobatics at feeding time.

      At the schoolbus turnaround where the path began, she noticed Nick Delvecchio’s old Ford truck. Half an hour later, Surprise Lake spread out like a painting from Tom Thomson and the Group of Seven gang, whose daring interpretations had galvanized Canadian art. Shimmering aquamarine water and spiky black spruce were framed by light green poplars and birch. At the far end, a huge beaver dam held water from the bubbly creek and allowed enough depth for a lodge. Her fast clip had outpaced the bugs; now the blackflies dived for the tender space behind her ears while a mosquito inserted a tiny syringe into her sweaty arm. “Whose blood, I wonder? And no side order of the West Nile virus, please,” she said as she mashed the insect. A plastic bag held a hooded bug shirt saturated with dope. After the first few heady moments when the chemicals hit her nose, the loose mesh shirt allowed freedom from the discomfort of heavy clothes. Noticing that Freya was shaking her head and nipping her flanks, she rubbed a few drops of repellent into the exposed flesh on her ears and pink groin, prime insect real estate.

      Out of the backpack came lunch, an eight-foot sausage lasso, banana and soda water. The meat label alarmed her. Best before 2006? What comprised this petrified stuff from Chicago, hog butcher of the world? Pork, beef, salt, sugar, cayenne pepper. So far so good, but then sodium ascorbate, sodium bicarbonate, followed by more sodium, this time in tandem with nitrite and nitrate. Cheaper than day rates but worrisome. “A little knowledge . . .” she corrected herself, “a little learning is a dangerous thing.” Still, she champed down half and gave the attendant dog the rest.