LITMIR.BIZ

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there he was, propped here by the stove with a book. Hadn’t wanted to take a chance with the storm and the cold or flu, whatever it was. He’d been bored and looked in my workroom for something to read. Once or twice he’d stopped by and knew I kept some technical works there.”

      “Did he recognize the value of the ore?”

      “I told him that it was only pyrite samples. Jim was a forester; rocks held no great interest for him. He pretended to believe me, but I couldn’t take the chance that he didn’t. He was honest, if he was anything. Still, it was his fault that I needed it for Eva. Why would I let him destroy our family again?”

      “And the drop?”

      “Squirrelled it away. I say that proves his intentions. Why else take it?”

      “How did you get him to that lake?”

      He massaged the bridge between his eyes as if easing a headache. “Not very cleverly, even for me. He stayed for dinner while the storm lifted. And even with a fever, his appetite was sharp enough for my lake trout and a salad.” He paused and turned his eyes to the wall.

      “A salad? Out here?” Belle asked in confusion.

      “My mother’s herbal studies have many uses. In winter, however, our choices are limited. What would I have on hand at the camp? To shredded carrots and cabbage, I added some sprouts, potato sprouts, chopped up, innocuous in appearance. The deadly nightshade family, and the beauty of it all, with no apparent taste. It’s so common you wonder why children don’t poison themselves.”

      A wave of nausea forced bile to her throat, and Belle struggled to control her voice. “My God. And then?”

      Franz related the details with the clinical detachment she had come to expect. “After about half an hour, Jim developed a headache, then vomiting, abdominal pain, finally stupor. I don’t think the nightshade would have killed him, a man in such good health, but the question quickly became academic. Around midnight I convinced him to try to reach his parents’ lodge and use their radio phone to call the air ambulance. Except for a bit of wind, the storm was over, and the lodge was only half an hour away.”

      “But you didn’t go there.”

      “Of course not. I rode behind him on his Ovation, holding him close, barely able to tow my larger sled. I had to stop several times to cool the engine.” Sweat trickled down his forehead as he wiped at his face and coughed thick mucus into a handkerchief. “Jim was barely conscious, unable to notice the route, so it was easy to take a turn to that little swamp lake. I know the territory well; ice is always thin there with a spring running all winter. I stopped at the shore and disconnected my machine. When I got on again, I gunned the throttle and we went out a good distance before breaking through. My flotation suit let me swim back to shore, and minutes later I was at my cabin. I didn’t need to watch him go down. The final act, clumsy though it was, was over at last.”

      “And you reversed to cloud the tracks, counting on the blowing snow for cover, in case anyone might have noticed the discrepancy of the wide set over the narrow.”

      He nodded. “You were the only one who suspected. And what was there to find? Without that damn drop, you never would have put the whole story together.” The corner of his mouth rose enigmatically. “Dead men do tell tales after all.”

      “Melanie never believed in the accident.”

      “True, but she didn’t connect me to it either.” He closed his eyes. “She’s so rare. She has Eva’s sensitivity, but an incredible strength. I don’t know how that callow puppy deserved them both.” Then he stood up suddenly, shook himself as if to slough off fatigue, and pulled a length of rope from a hook on the wall. “I tried so many times to distract you, Belle, but you persisted, just like Jim.”

      “So the cocaine was planted.”

      “Purchased on one of my trips to New York. Then a flight from one of the tourist outfits. I paid extra to set down on Cott.”

      “And my chimney?”

      “Whoever engineered the initial break-in, Brooks if you were right, made a helpful suspect. How could I know you would turn off your smoke alarm? I thought merely to divert you until you tired of your investigation.” He bent over. “Put your arms behind your back, please, and don’t make this painful for yourself. I would rather not act violently.” Breathing heavily through his mouth and giving an occasional sniff, he pressed the gun to her temple with one hand while the other looped the rope around her wrists and then her ankles. “The arrangements are simple. You are going to have a serious accident in the deep shaft I no longer use. You go down, and your machine follows. There is plenty of rubble for camouflage. I doubt if you will ever be found unless by an anthropologist of the 22nd century. A predicted wet snow will cover the new trail, long before anyone will start searching.”

      As the realities of his plans unfolded themselves, Belle suppressed an urge to scream. “Jesus, you’re going to throw me down a mineshaft! And you call yourself non-violent?”

      He looked offended. “I am no friend to pain or the indignities of force. Carbon monoxide from my engine can be hosed into the sauna. A quiet and relatively quick door from the world that some people actually choose. Out of caution, I don’t want to inflict obvious damage.”

      “Another murder, Franz? Where will it take you?”

      “Let me give you a familiar and telling philosophy: ‘I am in blood stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.’ To put it in the simplest terms, my obligation to my family outweighs my feelings for you.”

      Out of some Saturday night sitcom formula, Belle tried to keep him talking, as if the DesRosiers, Steve and the entire Musical Ride of Mounties might soon crash through the door with a flourish of trumpets to rescue her. “Congratulations on your Shakespeare. Is this where you tell me that it’s nothing personal?”

      “But it isn’t, you know. My compliments to your successful investigation, despite its cost to us both. I wish I could have been a better Ritter.” He tugged on the bonds to secure them and brushed her face with a gentle hand. Then he opened the door and called. “Blondi. Hier.” Some scrabbling from the porch and the dog padded inside, responding to his signals by resting at Belle’s feet. He took off the sunglasses. “Don’t worry about Freya. I shall call at your business and express loud concern about a broken lunch engagement. Your machine and riding clothes will be gone from your home; any of fifty stretches of open water could have claimed you. The way the melt is coming, searchers will have to wait until your body surfaces, which it won’t. It is ironic that you will be perceived as a victim of your most sensible gene pool theory.” He lifted a pair of snowshoes from the wall and swung the door open. A minute later, a motor faded into the distance.

      TWENTY-ONE

      Belle’s temples began to pound like pumped-up bass speakers on a cheap stereo. Her breath puffed out little clouds, but despite the chill, rivulets of sweat poured down her back; Blondi sat alertly, trusting to her master’s commands, docile so far, but if alarmed? Belle raked, combed and curried her German vocabulary, doubting that the dog was bilingual. Franz and his mother kept their language alive at home. Then she felt like giving her head a smart rap, had her hands been free. So what if the dog were friendly. Would Blondi untie her bonds?

      Belle shifted uncomfortably with her aching hands lashed behind her and her feet rapidly becoming numb blocks. She eyed the painted sides of the venerable old chair. As cottagers well knew, wicker grew brittle over the years, especially in unheated storage. She manipulated and pulled methodically until a twig loosened and her wrist mobility improved. Yet though she tested the hold and ground her teeth until they screamed, no way could she free her hands from the rope or the rope from the wicker. Even if she fell over, could she inchworm out the door and home twenty miles? But concentrate on the improbable, use some of Franz’s famous ingenuity. What does it have in its pockets? Paperclip? Nailfile? Lighter? Five-pound Swiss army knife? She’d dropped the screwdriver at the door. Not one tool, nothing but

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