LITMIR.BIZ

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might as well tell you. Now that Heather’s nearly seven, Janet wants to adopt again to give her a sibling. We had some good luck with that agency in the Sault, so we’ll see.”

      “How do you feel about that?” Safe enough question.

      “Heather’s been a miracle. Should we hope for two?” He sloughed off the concern with masculine brio. “The dynamics don’t bother me. We might need a larger house, though. I’ll let you know. Of course, I expect a discount.”

      Normally, the prospect of a sale cheered her, so she forced a smile at one corner of her mouth, wondering if he was joking about the commission. “Anything for the trade, Steve.” Then, seeing that she still had a few minutes, she explained about Jack’s accident. “You wouldn’t believe my temporary secretary. Yoyo Hourtovenko. I’m not making up the name.”

      “Uh-hum.” His strong jaw curved as he took a swig of coffee. “So Yoyo’s out.”

      Belle digested the three words. Out. Was he confusing the situation with Gary’s sexuality? “What do you mean?”

      “I’m surprised you took her on. Or maybe not. Let me guess. Got her cheap, right?”

      Belle spluttered, as too large a sip of coffee made her windpipe ache. “Well, I . . .” What was he implying?

      “Yolanda was sent to the Vanier Pen in Milton for forging checks to feed her gambling addiction.”

      Belle stood up, knocking her paper cup and spilling a pool onto the table. She grabbed a serviette from the overstuffed chrome dispenser, pulling out a half-dozen to her embarrassment. “Gambling? You mean the slots? Sudbury Downs?” A sudden frisson of fear charged through her body, and her knees grew weak. Yesterday she’d given Yoyo the company chequebook and told her to pay the utility bills and the bi-yearly taxes. How could Miriam have done this to her, and what was the plan now?

      “Slots, horses, blackjack, the lady’s into everything.”

      She arrived at the office in marathon time, jayjogging across Paris Street. Yoyo’s blue Ford Probe was in the lot, a rusty hole in one door, the trunk bearing wrinkles of an ancient accident and red cellophane mending the taillight. As Belle slammed through the door, Yoyo looked up from her computer. To Belle’s horror, the outlines of a card game appeared on the screen. Gambling on the Internet? People lost their houses that way. For a moment she froze and rubbed her temple as Yoyo smiled and pushed forward a small plastic bag. On a boom box at her feet, a frantic song was playing.

      “You’re later than usual today. Isn’t this humidity awful? I brought you some of my homemade dog bikkies. Baron’s favourite.” She opened the bag and proudly held up a brown heart-shaped cookie.

      “We need to talk. What’s on your screen? And what’s that music?”

      Yoyo turned it down to sotto voce and smacked a wad of gum. Spearmint tickled Belle’s nose like a mocking retort. “Putamayo. Cape Verde songs. That’s near Africa. They cheer me up. What groups do you—”

      Belle waved her hand as if brushing a swarm of flies. “Never mind. I know all about your gambling habit. A friend of mine told . . .”

      At that moment, into the office came a couple in their early fifties. Belle and Yoyo exchanged glances. “Are you open? We saw someone come in,” the man said.

      “Welcome.” Belle ushered them to her side of the room and seated them in comfortable chairs, offering coffee. She leaned forward on her desk and gave a penetrating stare as Yoyo clicked off and began sorting mail.

      Belle took the information from the Suvaks, who wanted to sell their Mallard’s Landing house to move into a smaller place now that the last teenager had left for college. While they were filling out forms, she noticed Yoyo rise to greet a man dressed in an Armani suit and silk tie. With his brown hair slicked back New York-style, he seemed quite interested in her anatomy.

      “I’ll be with you momentarily,” Belle called, acknowledging his presence with a wave.

      “No problem, Ms Palmer.” Yoyo grabbed a binder of listings. “Follow me, sir. It’s way more comfortable in the back.”

      The small office was getting crowded, but entertaining customers in the rear? Belle ground her molars as she jotted prospects for the Suvaks. When she finished and saw the couple out, she found Yoyo and her client sipping Perrier in the lounge, knee to knee on the couch. The binder was open to one of Belle’s most problematical properties, the Adams horror. No road access. One had to park then climb up and over a rock outcrop the size of a whale.

      The man rose and shook hands. “Yoyo told me about this fabulous camp on Digger Lake. I’m very interested. Can we go out this Friday, say around four?”

      When he left, she followed Yoyo back to her desk. The woman was smiling like the Mona Lisa on Prozac. “That was good. How did you sell him on the camp?”

      “The trout stream over the hill. He loves fishing. My granddad used to go to Digger all the time.”

      “This isn’t a reprieve. We need to resume our talk. The subject is your gambling, common knowledge to everyone in town except for one.” She stabbed at her chest with an index finger.

      Yoyo’s chin quivered. “I did my time. And I’m on medication. Compulsive gambling is a disease. You wouldn’t fire someone with—”

      Belle put up a hand in protest. “If the meds are working, what were those cards I saw?”

      Yoyo hit a few keys. “Solitaire. Comes with Windows. Totally innocent.” She put a hand on her belly, which reminded Belle of the elephant in the corner.

      “And that’s another problem. How . . . pregnant are you? Forgive my asking.” Pregnant is pregnant. Why did she phrase it that way?

      “Only five months. Long time to go.” She blinked, and Belle could swear that her soft, round eyes were filling. “Please, I need this job. My mother’s—”

      “Consider yourself on probation, and not because I’m soft. It would be too difficult to replace you for such a short period. And about that medication. Are you sure it’s safe for—”

      Yoyo nodded. “Not to worry. It’s only St. John’s Wort.”

      With Gary’s death and this revelation about Yoyo, Belle had forgotten about reporting the Skead dumpsite. She dialled CrimeStoppers and to her consternation was routed to Toronto. How efficient was it to describe a bush road to someone four hundred kilometres away who would boomerang the information back to the Sudbury police? “Can you find out anything from the debit slip?” she asked.

      “I only record the case, ma’am.” The dispatcher also suggested that she take pictures of the site if possible.

      Early the next morning, Belle finally reached Miriam at Jack’s apartment. Apparently he was leaving the hospital tomorrow. “Cantankerous as ever. That’s my boy. So how’s Yoyo working out? A gem or what? Didn’t I tell you—”

      “About her gambling addiction?” Belle repeated what Steve had told her.

      A worrisome silence made her squirm. Had she gone too far? Miriam’s voice sounded hurt. “It must be a strain being as perfect as you are. Most of us make a mistake now and then. Like human beings, you see? She paid back every cent. Yoyo was one of those rare birds who actually made a profit.”

      “And you omitted the fact that she’s pregnant.”

      Miriam cleared her throat. “Plenty of time before she’s due. Have a heart for a fellow female. She’s walked a tough road lately.”

      “What’s tough about getting pregnant? I hear it only involves lying down.”

      “Miss Cynical, listen. A year ago, Yoyo fell in love with her social worker at Vanier, Tom Hourtovenko. When she got out, they married, moved into his apartment. Needless to say, the family resented her. Bunch of hoity-toities who show up at charity events

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