LITMIR.BIZ

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finalize building plans. Do you know a good man?”

      Bristling at the sexism, Belle thought about her own home, constructed as finances allowed beside the cottage on the property. She’d done all the painting and tried to drywall before giving up when the dust made her sneeze and the closet angles under the stairs caused tears of frustration. “Bruno Bravo has a reputation for quality work.”

      His wife Dilshad, an East African woman with long, lustrous raven hair and pearl studs in her tiny ears, added a sweet soprano chime to his firm baritone. “The kitchen is the heart of a house. Gourmet cooking is my hobby. So different from Ottawa here. They are carrying tilapia and yams at the A&P, but oh, the trouble I am having buying palm oil.”

      “Try Café Korea in the Montrose Mall. They stock Far Eastern groceries,” Belle said.

      The night before, Bea had mentioned that she would be at work, and Micro would be taking the noisy parrot to school for show-and-tell day. Her husband Dave had been out of town all week. Belle preferred a home furnished but free of fulsome owners hovering at clients’ shoulders like unwelcome ghosts, spotlighting bordello-style flocked red wallpaper, sparkled stucco ceilings, mirrors over the bed, and grotesque hockey-themed rec rooms.

      At ten thirty she drove into the yard and pulled up beside Bea’s trademark Ford Focus. Had the woman gotten a ride to work? Become ill and stayed at home? She inspected her cellphone. Fully charged. Miriam hadn’t sent a last-minute message. She tried to project a professional confidence as she passed a small box attached near the front door.

      “The key’s in the lock box, but since her car’s here, I’ll ring anyway,” she said. From the backyard, she could hear Buffalo barking and added, “Belongs to the family. Only dog on the block.” Could be true as far as she knew.

      The door chime sounded once, twice, then three times. Belle was growing uneasy. On instinct, she pressed the lever on the massive brass handle and found the door unlatched. While she left her house open with Freya on guard, few townies risked that option. Managing a weak smile, she went inside and held the door for the Nortons. They were still chatting about the glorious view across Lake Ramsey.

      “Hellloooo,” she called with no response. Spotting a purse on a table by the door, she turned to them with embarrassment. “The owner may be home. Why don’t you look around the main floor, and I’ll go upstairs? Shouldn’t take a minute.”

      Belle took the stairs two at a time and craned her head into the rooms. “Bea, Bea,” she called softly. In the master bedroom at the end of the hall, a Chinese silk dressing gown lay on the neatly made bed. The door to the ensuite bathroom was open, but she could see that the room was dimmed, the vertical blinds shut. At least the place was tidy. A home needed to look lived in, but not by a band of Visigoths. After a deep breath, she paged through her notebook to refresh her mind about the highlights.

      Downstairs again, she showed the Nortons through the house. As soon as they saw the modern kitchen, the expansive living room and dining room, his smiling wife clapped her deft brown hands, shiny chestnut eyes sparkling. Belle rolled with the flow, prepared to offer reasons against building anew, which might increase her commission since the home would retain its value. “Here’s the best of both worlds. A classic house with refits. But I must be honest.” She paused as Uncle Harold had advised her after using this phrase, an element of theatre in the realty business. They turned to her with wary looks. “The furnace should be replaced. Still, saving the cost of demolition would buy the best on the market. A natural gas line just came down the street, too.”

      “Very tempting,” Dilshad said. “If the upstairs is as wonderful . . .” She gave Dan a sweet smile, her tiny wrenish face lit with excitement.

      “Anything you want, my dear.” His brows contracted, and he shuffled his feet as he checked his watch. An appointment?

      When they passed the mantel in the living room on their way to the winding stairs, Belle saw the cheque for the Doulton figurine. She had left Adrienne in the van. A little personal pocket money. All this and heaven, too, Monsieur Boyer?

      The Nortons looked out the windows of each bedroom, pointing and gesturing, entranced by Micro’s retreat. Belle hoped that a train wouldn’t roar by across the road, though rail traffic was minimal with CN downsizing and their acquisition of U.S. routes.

      Saving the best for last, she led them down the hall to the master suite. Dan cleared his throat, then asked, “Do you mind if I use the washroom?”

      “Of course,” she said. “Over there. The tub is a top-of-the-line Jacuzzi.” He lingered for a moment as his wife pointed out the Superstack in the distance.

      Belle chuckled to herself, admiring a thriving Persian violet on a bay window. That bathroom was the final selling point. Bea had said that they’d combed Toronto for the art-deco fittings, complete with bidet. When the sale went through, she’d take Miriam on a trip to Costa Rica as soon as the prices dropped after the peak season. There they’d be, basking in the cloud canopy instead of shovelling snow. What about mosquitos? In the movies, no one seemed to be bothered by insects, except in The African Queen. She could still see unshaven Bogie slogging along . . .

      A yell came from somewhere. “Jesus Christ!”

      FIVE

      Belle rushed into the bathroom to discover Dan leaning over the triangular ice-blue tub. Bea lay naked on her back, a trickle of blood seeping from one ear, deep-purple bruises circling her neck. Her pendulous breasts, the size of melons, were capped with glistening, dark aureoles. Large sea-green eyes stared at the ceiling as if divining a way to heaven.

      “Quite dead, poor woman,” Dan said, as he stood and studied his hand with a grimace as if despairing of where to wash it. Everyone who watched television was familiar with death-scene protocol. “No pulse at the carotid artery.”

      Turning with protective gestures to block Dilshad from entering, he left the room. Though she could hear voices behind her, Belle remained rigid, her mental camera capturing in grim fascination an assortment of details: the lower body blurred by soap scum on the still surface, a pink bottle of bubble bath on the Italian ceramic tile rim, fruity shampoos, a fresh bar of peppermint-scented soap, an oval pumice stone. The shell colour of the tile echoed Bea’s buffed natural nails. She trailed a finger in the water. Cold. If the woman had drawn the bath herself, hours had passed. The other possibility was even more chilling.

      A discreet cough fractured her thoughts. “Miss Palmer. I called 911 on my cell. We’re to go directly outside and wait.” He seemed cool and clinical, like many specialists.

      On the sheltered porch, she and Dilshad found awkward seats in Muskoka chairs, silent as mannequins. Dan excused himself and disappeared behind a cedar hedge. “Weak bladder,” Dilshad explained with an eyeroll.

      Within minutes came the sound of an ambulance, a squad car siren wailing close behind. Being near a hospital had clear merits. Belle remembered a competitor’s ad for a home on York Street: “St. Joe’s area. Good for newlyweds or retirees.” Pediatric or geriatric care in a thousand feet, cradle to the grave.

      The officer, fresh out of Police College, popping mint gum with abandon, complimented them on preserving the crime scene after he’d asked a few questions and scribbled in a palm-sized notebook. “You got no idea what people do. Grab a brew from the fridge. Make a friggin’ sandwich. Even take a dump in the toilet.” Belle flashed him an evil look, and Dilshad gave a laboured sigh. On this Indian summer morning, fast warming up, they sat protected from wind, but Belle shivered more from the dissolution of an adrenal rush. Buffalo was ready to collect a trophy for consecutive barks.

      A mere matter of course, the ambulance was dismissed, and everyone waited for a team of detectives to arrive.

      “How long will we have to stay? I have appointments I can’t cancel,” Dan asked, mopping sweat from his freckled brow. His wife had taken out a PDA and seemed to be checking her email.

      Belle shrugged and shook her head. In a perverse way, she felt responsible for this disaster,

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