Graveline to look at Anni’s shoes.
“Moccasins. But household ones. No sign of outside wear. So we’re clear there. She wasn’t marched back at gunpoint.” He raised a coal-black, expressive eyebrow. “What exactly did the woman do? Did she damage any vehicles like she threatened?”
“She said that she had torn the place down. I don’t know about any other sabotage. It’s been a while since we talked.” A picture of Anni on a mission impossible flashed through her mind. “She’d have told me. We had a kind of compact, a stew . . . ardship.” Sobering fast, she thought, flexing her vocabulary.
“A dangerous one. Playing Rambo. Could have made big trouble.”
Belle bristled, her eyes beginning to refocus. “So she was furious. You would be, too, if you were worried about pot shots at you or your family.” Yet “furious” was the wrong word, she thought. Anni was far too methodical and organized. For her, revenge would be a dish best eaten cold.
“OK, I get the point. But what else do we have? Nothing seems to have been taken. Break-ins are common, except that in cottage country, robbers don’t arrive when people are home. Most places are isolated enough for them to wait until the owners are away.” He paused. “Change the channel. Who might want her dead? This house on the lake is expensive property. And whose van is that, anyway? Don’t tell me she drove that monster?”
“Hold on. My head is hurting. One question at a time. The new van doesn’t fit, Steve, because all I’ve seen is a tubercular Geo that could hardly make the big hill. Small pensions. As a realtor, I’d estimate that this place is probably her best asset. Just a guess, though. She didn’t flash bank statements. Anni was a private lady.”
He gestured like an irritated director speeding the pace. “What about relatives?”
“She’s a widow, no children, but there is a nephew. Zack Meredith, a local man.”
“And what’s our nephew like?”
She pointed at the picture on the mantel. College graduation maybe. Short dark hair with a glint of fashionable styling gel. An open face. Boyish more than handsome. “That’s the fellow. I’ve never met him, but she described him as a wannabe entrepreneur. Hare-brained plans that he’s always urging her to bankroll. She was worried about that last time we talked.”
Steve’s scribbling speed increased with this disclosure, making her uncomfortable. “It’s not as bad as that. He gave her a lot of help with chores, and I know she loved him. Still, if nothing turns up, he’s your number one suspect. Cui bono?”
“Stop showing off. We’ll see who’s Mr. Bono when we find out if she left a will, which, at a conservative guess, she probably did. If we don’t find it here, we’ll contact the local law firms. She’s not new to the area, is she?”
Given Graveline’s smooth movements and her own bleary concentration, Belle had almost forgotten that a body lay nearby. Suddenly the back door opened and slammed, and figures moved into the room, rolling a gurney. Even though the attendants performed with surprising grace and dignity, Belle hit nine out of ten on the screaming mimi scale as a still, sheeted form was placed on a stretcher. I’m on the nerge of a vervous breakdown, she told herself.
Then they were alone again, after what seemed like a hideous dream. She swallowed hard and forced her gaze back to Steve. “I think she and her husband had lived here twenty, twenty-five years. Built the place themselves.” She looked around sadly, then closed her eyes, felt the breeze through the screens and heard a gentle lap of waves from the shore. “And she was so independent, Steve. This is no place for bingo lovers, mall hoppers, or people who expect fresh cream for their coffee the morning after two feet of snow.”
“She must have been a tough character. Know anything about her friends?”
Belle considered her words carefully, her mouth dry and sour. “I guess you’d call me her friend. In connection with our love for the woods. She didn’t seem to socialize out here. Did a lot of volunteer work at the Canadian Blood Services, though.” Her fidgeting hands seemed to have a mind of their own. They looked older, more wrinkled. She pressed them together as if in prayer, blinking the sting from her eyes. “I’ll miss her.”
Steve stood up. “This one’s going to be trouble if the nephew has an alibi. No sign of forced entry or any violence other than stick meeting head.” He paused as she gave him a disgusted look. “Sorry about that. Missed lunch and you know me. Anyway, we’ll be checking her records, financial statements, whatever might provide a lead. For one thing, I’d like to know who owns that van, if she doesn’t. And where’s her car?”
Outside, the smell of the roses had become cloying, funereal. Belle fought the urge to drive home at top speed and jump into a bath of purifying water, sloughing off every horrid detail, growing a new skin. Wordlessly, she passed Steve the strawberries she had retrieved. It would be a long time before she enjoyed them again. Their sun-drenched redolence would remind her of the sight of blood. Steve popped a handful into his mouth, tucked the rest into the white patrol car, then pointed down the road to a hollow where a small path began. “Before you leave, tell me something. Is that the trail that leads to the baiting site?”
“Yes, about half an hour in. But everything’s gone. Torn down and buried, remember?”
“These hunters sound like a wild card, but I might as well take a look now as later.” He thumped her back. “Sober enough to travel?”
Belle paused at the water tap at the side of the house and took a long drink. Then she filled her lungs with forest air, its piney coolness clearing her head. “I’ll be five hundred yards ahead of those black cop shoes, Mr. Spitshine.” She took off at a trot, glad to run off the sherry.
At the quick march, the half-hour dropped to twenty minutes. The sun had fallen below the hills, casting eerie shadows across the trail. Belle stepped lightly on the peaty turf, spongy and kind to the feet except for an occasional rock or root. Something fragrant was in the air, Labrador tea, perhaps.
But the wind shifted ominously, bringing a large order of carrion. As they passed the familiar carpet of trilliums now tinged with brown, Belle had a sinking feeling that Anni’s plan hadn’t worked after all. Nothing could have erased that aromatic picnic from the bruins’ primal memory bank. Bait was bait, the smellier the better. At the base of a striped maple lay a large black mound next to a small hump of fur. Steve covered his face with a handkerchief and waved Belle away. She sat glumly on a cedar stump, contemplating a parade of ants and gulping against returning nausea. “Let’s go,” he said a minute later, wiping his hands with distaste. “I’ve seen enough. That was a mother and this year’s cub. Half Freya’s size.”
“Mutilated?”
“Animals have been at them, maybe even other bears, but they’ve been cut open . . . and the paws are gone.” With a groan, he pocketed the handkerchief. “Hunting was part of life for my family on the Reserve. No fancy grocery stores in the back of beyond. Not even a town. We depended on wild game. But it was a partnership, a pact of respect. Leaving meat to rot would have been a crime.”
Belle coughed into her sleeve, breathing through her mouth. “It’s profit, Steve. Bear gallbladders are valuable. Why don’t you talk to the MNR about any similar reports. A car or truck might have been seen in another area.”
“This could fit the time if she caught them in the act, but we’ve been over that. Remember that she went home of her own accord,” he said as they walked, warm with sweat. “We
