LITMIR.BIZ

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centre, sure of safety or anxious of discovery, deadly in any case if the smokeout were an indication. The sudden ring of the phone made her spill her self-righteous decaf all over the table. “It’s Geoff Garson. Pardon the violation of netiquette. I had to hear your non-electronic voice, Belle. E-mail is so cold and mechanical.”

      “And I got your information. The picture came through showing every brick. Top notch sleuthing. But don’t tell me that you uncovered more?”

      “My housekeeper’s son’s friend, I will spare you the nepotistic connections, is an orderly at Forest Glen. From his report, and I know you will handle these facts with discretion since I wouldn’t want to get the lad in trouble, your Eva came there about a year ago. She had been through some trauma, possibly sexual because her psychiatrist specializes in rape, incest, abortion, sad dysfunctions from A to Z, or your Canadian zed. Rather a Dr. Ruth of the Dark Shadows.”

      “That would have been a show to remember. Any visitors?”

      “A brother comes every month or so, only recently with the mother. A breakthrough maybe.” He emphasized words with delicious drama, Clifton Webb as Waldo in Laura. Of course, he could be a quarter-ton Marlon Brando, for all Belle knew.

      Her notepad filled as Geoff continued. “My source is only an orderly, but those seen-and-not-heard types know the inside gossip. Like the servants in a Victorian household.”

      “Right, Upstairs, Downstairs. A fortunate choice.”

      Geoff pressed forward, not at all shy at inventing a scenario. “Playing amateur psychiatrist, Belle, is this a case of molestation or an unreported rape? What do you know of her family?”

      Belle doodled idly as she recounted the visit to the island, the curious saint in her shrine. “Hard to figure, Geoff. The father’s dead years ago. The girl was a lonely figure. No friends, no interests outside her studies. Her brother is beyond reproach, in my opinion. The mother seems loving and warm. It doesn’t make sense.”

      “What was that saint you mentioned? Dymphna, was it? Never heard of that exotic lady; so many have been delisted for lack of documentation. Still, give me a moment. That was my territory at Notre Dame.”

      It turned out that Geoff was not only a retired professor, but also a Jesuit priest. She could hear him leafing pages. “Ah, the patron saint of the insane. Gheel, the Netherlands. This is getting very murky, Belle.”

      “A saint for the insane? This is exotic for a lapsed Anglican like me.”

      “Hmmm. Let’s see. There are hordes, one for every human woe. St. Peregrine for cancer, St. Apollonia for toothaches, St. Fiacre for haemorrhoids . . .”

      “Stop the rogue’s gallery! I’m quite suggestible.” Belle protested. She promised Geoff the latest L. R. Wright mystery, a Canadian favourite set on the Sunshine Coast in B.C.

      Although Belle had a gift for fishing for red herrings and clutching at hypothetical straws, and although she still found Brooks a truly odious man, dog lover or not, she could no longer consider him a serious suspect. He was home on heavy bond, minding his manners, a candidate for several years in prison after his trial. At least his daughter Brenda might get a second chance, maybe even bring those Puddingstone kids to life. Although he wouldn’t admit to the break-in, he had agreed to talk to Belle in hopes of gaining judicial brownie points. And the meeting might fill in some gaps in the picture.

      She reached the Beaverdam shortly after nine. Brooks sat slumped in front of his father’s fieldstone fireplace, oblivious to her entrance. His head sagged, giving him a bizarre chinless look. A beer sat beside him, and ashes flicked onto the handsome slate floor.

      Belle smiled at his red checked shirt; trust a man to prize an old friend too much to toss it out even if it told dangerous tales. “I’ve been looking for a spot to fit this little piece of evidence,” she said, matching the swatch to his sleeve, watching him recoil as if she’d been a snapping turtle.

      “Big deal. I’m already goin’ down far enough. Sorry about the dog, though. That was an accident. I wanted to tell you that.” He stroked an old raggedy collie who gazed up at him with warm, liquid eyes. “Just went over to teach you a lesson, smelling around in the business. Make it look like the place had been robbed.”

      Her savage glare backed him off with a whine. “Hey, now, missus, nothing bad. Just throw a few papers around for show. When I opened the door, and you know, you should lock your doors . . .” He cowered as Belle slammed her fist on the table and stood up to leave. “Your dog ran out and laid into me something fierce. And he’s big. Was going right for my throat when I saw the shovel. Just hit him once. Not hard. Then I heard a car and got out fast.”

      “Self-defence, no doubt. And the dog’s a she.”

      “Why, sure. That’s exactly what it was.”

      Jim’s accident had surprised him as much as anybody, and though he admitted to using small lakes north of Wapiti for transfers, the warmer weather had ended that. One plane had come close to getting stuck. “How about Cott Lake?” she asked.

      “Cott? Up by Bonanza? No need to go all that way.” He paused and poked at the fire reflectively, his voice almost avuncular. “Jim was a nice kid. Never had a boy of my own. He used to do some scut work here when he was in high school, baiting and gassing up for the tourists. One thing I can tell you, his death didn’t have nothin’ to do with drugs. I’m no killer.”

      She gave him a sideways stare, like a wary gunslinger. “No? Then why did you come back and plug up my chimney?”

      “Huh. I heard about that. Not my style. The whole week I was over in Thunder Bay selling two machines.” He drew on his cigarette and coughed. “Hey, your dog is OK, right?”

      Belle drove home, frustrated at not learning more, but admitting to herself that Brooks was telling the truth. Pacing from room to room, unable to concentrate, she remembered the appointment with Ms. Bly. She called Miriam, who agreed to take the woman to Capreol, glad to get out of the office on a slow Friday. Even the coffee tasted bitter and metallic, and when she thought about lunch, she felt no hunger, just the slight nausea which came from too much caffeine.

      Maybe she was suffering from cabin fever, SAD or Seasonal Affective Disorder. A change of place might recharge the brain cells, a trip to Toronto, a cruise of the mall outlets. Sure, run away and shop yourself into oblivion, Belle. That wasn’t the problem anyway. She had failed Jim, failed Ben, Meg and Melanie. Buffaloed, outfoxed, decoyed with this conundrum, riddle, enigma shrouded in a . . . in a wallow of clichés. With a self-accusing sigh, she picked up her mother’s copy of The Diviners, thumbing through it absently, when a line from Catharine Parr Traill caught her attention, something irksomely didactic about getting up and doing when all seemed lost. An Englishwoman’s view of the wilds of Peterborough, well, wild enough in the nineteenth century.

      The temperature stood at -10°, but spring days warmed up fast. In her father’s old-fashioned terminology, a “constitutional”, forerunner of power walking, might help charge the batteries. The last time she had gone into the bush on foot had been New Year’s Day. The dog seemed to read her mind, hyperventilating and nipping her elbow in an annoying dominance move. Belle wapped her toque at the dog’s ample rump. “Yes, I get the point, Freya. Just give me a minute. I wasn’t born with a fur coat.” As an afterthought, she tucked a plastic bag with Hélène’s jerky into her zippered forearm pocket. A snack would taste welcome in the cold. As she walked out onto the deck, the tall cedars, faithful monitors of wind, stood quiet. Good, then. She would march down the road for half an hour, and perhaps spot the gigantic redheaded Woody, insistent in his poundings, or hear the gentle thrummings of hairy and downy relatives.

      Once on the road, Belle felt the wind chew at her back, an ominous sign. Maybe at the corner it would subside. Wind was worse than cold. Her eyelashes were icing, plastered to her face; her glasses had fogged, though she was careful to blow straight out. But Freya enjoyed collecting her P-mail, delivered since the plow’s last trip, and making her own deposits. “Not there, Freya! Of all places!” Belle yelled

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