you can’t catch the dog and take him to the pound. That’s my usual solution. But Buddy’s too cagey.”
“Buddy. Hah. Normally I’m not afraid of dogs, but that one is a monster.”
That night while reading CNN online, Belle noticed a review of a new book that suggested Abraham Lincoln was gay. Apparently he had shared a bed with a storekeeper’s son early in his career, a common occurrence on the frontier, but the boy’s diary made startling suggestions. How had anyone ever found the diary or Abe’s doggerel poem on same-sex marriage?
Upstairs in her waterbed, as the first loons of the year began duelling across the lake, Belle gulped a handful of vitamins, including calcium bombs, then tucked a cigarette into the jewelled Adolph Menjou holder her father had bought her at Universal Studies Park in Orlando. Before the TIA’s rendered him unable to live on his own, they’d had some wonderful times in Florida. She made a mental note to call the nursing home for an update.
SIX
Belle toyed with a pencil, its point dull as chalk. Yoyo had broken the office sharpener that morning and was off to Staples. She wasn’t that clumsy, just careless, wanting to do everything as fast as possible. As a multi-tracked Gemini and a minimalist, Belle understood the phenomenon.
“I knew you were concerned, so I read the files on your friend’s drowning,” Steve said, coming in the door and putting an attaché case on a table. “Detective Ramleau filled me in. Seems that the autopsy found alcohol in the stomach.”
“That’s not surprising. Mutt said that they found a bottle in his truck. But I didn’t want to believe that he’d been drinking.”
“Mutt. That’s some name. Only ever heard of one. Shania Twain’s husband.”
“Mutt’s a sweetheart. He’s very . . . sensitive. But strong.” She added what he’d said about the cheap brand.
“It wasn’t as if he were boozing all day. Nothing in the bloodstream. The liquor was raw. Undigested.” He leaned against the wall and sipped from an aluminum car mug.
Belle snapped her fingers. “So doesn’t it rule out his being drunk?”
“Let’s say he took a swig just before getting into the boat. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. As for the unusual brand, he could have bought it at some small outlet on 69 where there wasn’t any choice.”
“Any prints on the bottle?”
“Inconclusive.”
“I hate it when they say that.”
A glowering shadow came over Steve’s face. “It’s not all CSI, you know. Shows like that are perverting the legal system. Everyone wants DNA, hard evidence. Juries, like in the Robert Blake trial, aren’t convicting without it, even though witnesses testified that he solicited the killing of his wife.”
Tread lightly. Professional to his core and taciturn about his responsibilities, Steve usually dragged his feet on the details. So far he was being more than cooperative, perhaps because of her former relationship with Gary. “I see your point. Can you tell me more about the autopsy?”
“I’m only letting you in on this because it seems to be an accident, nothing more. No worries about compromising a case.”
Steve opened the case and passed her a photocopied file with scarcely ten pieces of paper. Was this all there was to a life? She scanned the jargon. Major contusions to head. Occipital bone reveals compound fracture and haematoma measuring six centimetres by ten centimetres. Bruising on ribs. Haematology was normal in the blood profile assays. No toxicology concerns. Victim has no appendix. Additional examination unremarkable. Cause of death, drowning. Lungs full of water. Pond water, not tap water. Daphnia. Other organisms she couldn’t pronounce.
Belle remembered when Gary’s appendix had been taken out. He’d been in pain for days but insisted on finishing his midterm exams, collapsing as he turned in his math paper. In trying to preserve his valedictorian status, he’d been half an hour from a rupture.
Steve took back the report. “So it appears that he fell. It would have rendered him unconscious, or at best too confused to save himself.”
Belle blew out a sigh. “Occipital?”
“Back of the head.”
“But in that case, wouldn’t he have been more likely to have come down in the boat?” With her fingers, she formed an area the size of the haematoma. A massive blow.
“Canoes are tippy. The fracture’s consistent with hitting the gunwale more than the seat. You’re letting your emotions carry you away . . . as usual.”
Belle bristled and tried to stifle a frown. “Can you make a few more inquiries? Accidents often aren’t what they seem in more ways than one. Think about that medical examiner in Toronto who misdiagnosed cause of death and sent parents and relatives to jail for killing children.”
Twenty seconds passed before a wry smile came her way. “Ramleau’s wife won a trip to Costa Rica, and they have to take it before July or lose the opportunity. Maybe I can muscle in and keep the case open. I wouldn’t do this for anyone but you. And don’t mention intuition, because your track record’s wobbly.”
Belle gripped his arm. “What a guy.”
He opened a small notebook and took a pen from his jacket pocket. “Now tell me everything you know about Gary, his partner, and what the hell they were doing up here.”
“For heaven’s sake, take a chair.”
“I’m used to writing standing up. Besides, my back is killing me. A whack of yard work on the weekend. I’m on my way to the chiropractor, as a matter of fact.”
Belle made a commiserative face. Dear Steve.
After he left, she pondered the simple words in the report. Unremarkable. She knew what it meant, but the idea stung. Gary had been anything but unremarkable. Wasn’t everyone’s son or daughter? At least he’d known a committed relationship. When the role was called up yonder, she’d check in as a dog’s best friend. Meanwhile, bills had to be paid. A lucrative apartment appraisal on Kingsmount was scheduled. Uncle Harold had been wise to suggest that she qualify for her appraiser’s credentials. It kept the place solvent in lean times.
Fifteen minutes later, the door opened, and Belle blinked. The woman of sixty plus wore Capri pants, which exposed sinewy lower calves with a roadmap of varicose veins, a loose paisley top, and battered flip-flops. Her hair was a thin nest of home-permed curls, unnaturally black with silver roots, and she wore mirrored sunglasses like a wizened trooper. She gave the room the once-over and clumped to Belle’s desk, tapping on it with a carved cedar cane. A cigarette dangled precariously from a cerise mouth sucked back into wrinkles. “You Belle? How ya doing? Yoyo around? I need a ride.”
“She’s . . . out for the moment. I don’t think we’ve met.” Belle fanned blue smoke from the air.
“Coco Caderette, her mother.” Beery fumes surrounded her like a cloud of fermenting barley. She leaned forward for a handshake, her fingers thin and cold as turkey tendons and her nails chipped.
“I can’t
