LITMIR.BIZ

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stones surrounding a female statue. “Mary? Aren’t most Germans Lutherans?” she asked. Around the region, in French areas especially, she had seen many similar shrines, some even illuminated. This one was carefully swept with a small bunch of frozen carnations at its feet.

      “My father’s family were Junkers, a landowner class, who took part in the Kulturkampf, the nineteenth century struggle between the Roman Catholic church and the German government,” Franz explained. “Mother keeps the traditions. Since we don’t go to church here, she has her own way of worshipping. This isn’t Mary, but Dymphna, an old Belgian saint from where my grandmother lived. I built it to practice stone masoning.” He shrugged. “Me, I’m just a garden variety agnostic like most scientists.”

      Blondi had followed them down to sit dutifully at her master’s boots. “From her looks and her comportment, her pedigree must be excellent,” Belle remarked.

      “Her parents were Schutzhund Threes. We can trace her lineage to Axel von der Deininghauser Heide, a legendary sire,” Franz recited with clear pride, “but then so can most people who own purebreds. Axel’s there somewhere on the chart. Perhaps Blondi and Freya are related very, very far back, do you think? As for her training, we didn’t see the necessity of putting her through such severe paces since she is a family pet.”

      “I know what you mean. She’s a friend first. And please thank your mother again. It was a privilege to meet her. You must love her very much.”

      “Her heart is not good, I fear,” he said, tightening his lips in a resigned gesture. “You heard the cough. And of course we run a risk out here on the island, though there is the air rescue.”

      “You’re in the right town for heart and cancer specialists, Franz. Anything else and it’s Toronto. I wish her well.”

      Belle waved as she headed off across the frozen wasteland. How did they manage to live here all year? Franz must have to stay in town at freeze-up and ice-out. As she throttled up, behind her the island got smaller and smaller. Knowing how disorienting distances could be, she aimed directly across the lake, sighting off a bare hill near her house, watching the landscape enlarge at warp speed. Whether from her canoe or from her Bravo, the sight always thrilled her, the sun gleaming off her windows and the russet siding glowing in sunlight. Xanadu, a golden pleasure dome, even without Alf.

      Later that night with the help of her German dictionary, Belle translated the motto from the embroidery in the bathroom: “A good conscience is a soft pillow.” She hoisted her glass with a grin. “ ‘Malt does more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.’ And single malt, now that can justify anything.”

      TWELVE

      The Sudbury Star reported that the rally was scheduled for noon at Shield University. The crowd would hear speeches and then march downtown to the provincial government buildings where Franz would present a petition to a Ministry representative. Concerned citizens from the community were urged to join the assembly.

      By nine, Belle was climbing the stairs to the university library, a place of monastic peace overlooking Lake Ramsey. Once the elitist haunt of the nickel barons with their stout brick and fieldstone homes from the twenties and thirties, the lake was now home to doctors, lawyers, politicians, academic upper management and business magnates. Happy pensioners whose tiny cottages had sat there for decades traded their lots at $100,000 or more as the newcomers cantilevered their modern stone and cedar structures over the water. The futuristic complexes of nearby Science North, the Northeastern Ontario Regional Cancer Treatment Centre and the new Superhospital complemented the lake on postcards, along with the ever present stack in the far background, reminding the city of its roots.

      In the companionable silence of the tower, Belle recalled the first time she had driven up from Toronto with Uncle Harold at the wheel of his Packard, chrome-heavy and as comfortable as a galleon. She had yawned at the farm fields reaching toward Barrie, then perked up as they crossed the Severn River. “Entering the Grenville Province now, girl,” he had said. “You’re going to see the rocks at the very centre of the world.” And she did, massive outcrops for the next 150 miles which explained why people shuddered at the reports of a driver “hitting a rock cut”. Three hours of bush later and Sudbury had appeared to her like the city of Oz. Returning to smoggy Toronto at the end of every summer always depressed her, especially as those cliffs and boulders flattened into the boring plains of Southern Ontario.

      To kill an hour before the rally, Belle paged through bound volumes of century-old Canadian Mercury magazines and browsed in the excellent fiction collection. Then she hit the periodical rack for current computer information, copying pages of printer reviews and scanners so that she and Miriam could upgrade their system before tax time.

      Belle yawned, checked her watch and hunted down a restorative coffee in the little refectory in the basement. One rock wall remained, a common basement decor in older homes built when blasting had been prohibitively expensive. The effect was medieval, short a few sets of iron handcuffs as a backdrop for the Prisoner of Zenda. Too bad about the melamine, though, Belle thought as she looked at the modern tables. In the corner, Melanie sat buried in a ponderous textbook. Her sweatshirt featured a bleak clearcut with the slogan, “Pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth.”

      “Perfect verse for a nurse,” Belle said as she put down her coffee. “Do you have room for one more at the rally?”

      The girl smoothed her shirt and gave an A-OK gesture. “We need all the help we can get. Maybe I should comb through the wards on the way and pick up the ambulatory patients.”

      “The premier’s closing beds as fast as he can anyway,” Belle said. A restructuring due to massive provincial cutbacks had left only one hospital out of three. “So what are you studying? Did you did pay by the pound?”

      Mel hefted the book like a weightlifter. “You bet. More than for filet mignon. Medical texts are ridiculous. But this $150.00 model gives valuable pointers on geriatric care. I’m in my last year and hope to specialize in that field.”

      “You’re in the right place. It’s becoming the denture capital of the world.”

      Melanie piled her books neatly. “You look calm enough, so can I conclude that you didn’t get to see Ian yet?”

      With a shake of her head, Belle described her maniacal rendezvous. “You are well out of that relationship. Amusing though he might have been in a warped way.”

      “Well, I’m sorry that the leg ruled him out. He would have made a great villain, a regular sociopath. We’ll just have to keep on looking.” As she shrugged philosophically, a distant chime rang the half-hour, and they both watched students heading for the door, talking and waving.

      “I guess it’s nearly post time. How is Franz arranging the rally?” Belle asked.

      “He told me to meet him in his office. I’ll show you where it is.” She hesitated, a slight frown crossing her face. “I guess you didn’t get to the camp yet, Belle. You haven’t mentioned it.”

      Belle gave her a friendly but firm smile. “I’m not a PI, Mel. My job and an old man called my father make demands on me. I had planned to go the other day, but then I got home in that storm to find my dog attacked.”

      “Belle, no! What happened? Is your dog all right?”

      “Just a slight concussion. I think she stopped a break-in. Anyway, to keep it short, I got off the road in that blizzard, and Franz rescued us, drove us right to the vet. He saved the day.”

      “That was lucky!”

      Belle sipped from her cup and rolled her eyes at the taste. “Yuck. I wish his mother made the coffee here. I went out to the island to thank him and was fortunate enough to meet her. Quite the lady. And what a house. How long have they lived here?”

      “Came here in the fifties, he said once, like a lot of Europeans—‘DPs,’ my parents called them.” She frowned in embarrassment. “Not too politically correct today. There was plenty of work in the

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