was on simmer, but it warmed the house like a bakery.
Dinner was a quick linguine puttanesca with black and green olives, a fresh tomato, and tangy Sicilian olive oil, mounded with grated pecorino. Settled in the TV room in a pasha chair with massive ottoman, Belle tuned her television to her only satellite subscription channel, Turner Classic Movies.
Doris Day and Rock Hudson were starring in Pillow Talk. Remembering his death from HIV/AIDS, she watched the film with an ironic new subtext and an academy-award performance. So many of the screen’s leading men had secret lives. Some, like Charles Laughton, arranged publicity marriages. Raymond Burr made massive donations to children’s charities.
As the film ended, the gibbous moon began its silvery rise across the back of her yard. No word from Miriam. Should she succumb to nerves and call, or trust her cohort?
Half an hour later, she was immersed in the wilderness of Rocky Mountain National Park in Nevada Barr’s Hard Truth. If she were to imagine herself an author, Barr, with her brilliant sense of place, would be her model. Then the phone rang.
“Still up? I knew you’d be fretting. Now you can relax, and I can leave to help Jack. Here’s the answer to our problems.” An old friend of Miriam’s had agreed to sign on for three weeks or longer if necessary.
“And guess what? She’ll do it for two-thirds of my salary. Am I a ruthless negotiator? Must have learned it from the master.” Miriam knew that her boss loved spinning pennies into loonies and toonies like Rumpelstiltskin at his wooden wheel.
Despite the windfall, Belle had sudden reservations. She stubbed out her cigarette in the little catcher’s mitt ashtray that remained from the old cottage. “Why so cheap? Does she know the real estate business?”
Miriam harrumphed in an affronted response. “Of course. A few years ago, she was a secretary at Crown Realty. We took computer courses together at Nickel City College.”
Crown had gone belly up. Easy conclusions as to the woman’s availability. Why wasn’t she still working locally? “What about updating the website? We need to get those new listings fired up.”
Miriam made a scoffing sound with her lips. “No worries. She’s a master at Flash, she assured me.”
Belle let a beat or two pass. “What’s she been doing lately?”
“Just . . . got back in town from living down south in Milton. That’s why she’s happy to come on board. Yoyo has family here and needs breathing space to find a full-time permanent job again.”
Belle finished the last dregs in the scotch glass. “I’m not sure I heard you right. Did you say Yoyo?”
“Short for Yolanda. Yoyo Hourtovenko. You’ll love her. A laugh a minute.”
“Lots of laughs? That hardly sounds like a—”
“Did I mention that she owns a German shepherd?”
Minutes later, turning out the light with a sigh of relief, Belle drifted into a baby-sweet sleep, prepared to adore Yoyo on sight.
TWO
The office was dark when Belle rolled into the yard. Yoyo was to arrive at seven thirty sharp, so this was not auspicious. With a grrr, she entered, nudged the coffee maker into action and sat down to polish ads for the weekend paper, normally Miriam’s job. Barring the silly metaphor of her name, could Yoyo handle it? Not everyone could write good copy, fudge but not fabricate, plump but not lie, juggle the jargon. Doll house. Starter home. Retro kitchen. School nearby. Sharp minds knew what those innocent words really meant.
As the clock ticked past eight, Belle felt her pulse rising as steadily as a jet on takeoff. She’d give Miriam a call at Jack’s tonight and tell her how unreliable her choice had proved. On to number two, a retired bookkeeper from H&R Block whom Miriam had also mentioned but who wanted full salary plus overtime.
Running her finger down her problem listings, Belle stopped at 1565 Edgewater Road, the Lavoie place. The unique log home had a high price and would appeal only to an appreciative and very wealthy buyer. Meanwhile, it would stand unoccupied, a dangerous status. If no dream offer appeared by fall, it might be an idea to have a firm like Tel-a-Fern keep an eye on the place, mow the lawn, rake leaves, make it look lived in until the snows rendered access impossible. Maybe next spring would bring them all better luck.
Then the phone rang. She cleared her throat and gave the usual cheerful answer, surprised at the voice. If she hadn’t known Clifton Webb was dead, she’d have thought Mr. Belvedere had a twin. There was also eerie familiarity in the timbre and cadences, but different, as if an oboe had become a bassoon. “Sorry, but we don’t handle rentals. Have you tried—”
“I know that, dear lady, but bear with me. Someone told me you deal in cottage properties.” He explained that he had been seconded to the Ministry of Natural Resources on a contract to do elk research. “I’ve been bunking at a motel on Route 69 since March, but it isn’t suitable. A real dive, with motorcycles night and day. Peace and quiet are important to me. If there’s a lakeside property that hasn’t sold for a while, perhaps the owners might appreciate a two-year lease. It could be a win-win situation for all of us.”
His pregnant pause started one particular wheel turning in Belle’s brain. 1565 Edgewater Road. Ivan was retired, and Maureen, a nurse, had joined Doctors Without Borders in Somalia. They wanted to return to their home but were afraid to leave it unattended for such a long period. Teary-eyed, they’d told her to sell. This might be the perfect compromise. She choked back thoughts of forfeiting a fat commission, but balanced that against losing jolly Maureen as a neighbour. Her New Year’s Eve parties were legendary, especially her turkey on the barbecue.
“You are in luck. I have the ideal house, not far from mine. Can you meet me this afternoon?” That would give her time to call Maureen in Kismayu, where she was volunteering at a free clinic for women with fistulas. Giving birth at too early an age, they needed only a simple four-hundred-dollar operation to repair the ruptures. Cheap in the western world but beyond their means.
After she had given him directions and they had hung up, she realized that neither had introduced themselves. At her ineptness, Belle shook her head. Working alone had her rattled as a rainstick. Where was Yoyo? Grumbling, she sifted papers on Miriam’s desk in quest of the name of that retired bookkeeper. With no success, she flipped the Rolodex and located Jack’s name. Surely Miriam would be in Timmins by now.
Scarcely had she punched in five numbers, than at nine o’clock, the door banged open. In came a bottle blonde with cropped hair, pink-gelled in every direction, a walking strawberry shortcake with a dog leash draped around her neck. A few inches shy of Belle’s five-four, she wore a silver mini-skirt with a wide chain-mail belt and a shimmery blue clinging top that lifted the veil over a bra that manufactured cleavage where no more was needed. A small mound of stomach riding high testified to . . . impending motherhood? At her side was a magnificent black-and-tan German shepherd with a Canadian flag bandana. Belle’s mouth opened, but words wouldn’t come.
After scanning the office, the woman stuck out a childlike hand, blazing with custom nail designs of cherub faces. “I’m Yoyo. You must be Belle. Meet Baron. Mimsy set everything up, right? This is a cute little place. Is that my desk over there?” She pointed to Belle’s new fake-cherrywood workstation, a Christmas present to herself against her frugal conscience.
Only Jack was allowed
