Someone had tossed this bag down, knowing curious dog behaviour. A poisoner was the lowest life form. Now she regretted bearding the trapper in his den. This kind of payback, likely done in the dark from typical cowardice, would be impossible to prove. A police department mired in unsolved murders would be ill-inclined to be testing for prints and summoning Mr. AW HECK to the station.
The dog wasn’t frothing at the mouth or trembling, but who knew what she had ingested? The average medicine cabinet or cleaning supply shelf had enough toxic chemicals to fell a moose. Hauling Freya to the van and shoving her in, Belle dialled the vet on her cellphone. A familiar perky young assistant listened while she related the emergency. “Shana’s away on a conference, but Dr. Uyi is acting as standby. I’ll slot you in, no problem.”
As she drove, Belle glared in the mirror at the reclining dog, one paw over the other, probably expecting a leisurely walk on the trails behind Skead. Was today a holiday? “I’d gag you myself, but I’m not into slobber,” she said with a vengeance.
She made record time to Petville, rushing in with Freya on leash. A bow-backed man with a yippy Pomeranian backed away instinctively at the large shepherd, its vicious reputation as undeserved as the doberman’s. The vet tech ushered them into an examination room, and just as swiftly, Dr. Uyi came through the door. He was a handsome Polynesian with a boyish face and smooth coffee skin, laugh lines at his eyes revealing two more decades.
“I was told that she ate something. Do you have a sample?”
Belle handed him the LCBO bag containing a few ounces of meat. “Ground beef, seems fresh or just-thawed. Someone tossed it into my yard.”
Slipping on latex gloves, Uyi moved to a sink and began inspecting the contents. “Doesn’t seem like anything’s been added,” he said.
Belle shuddered, observing Freya for imminent convulsions, bloody vomit, paralysis. Five dogs had been poisoned in a Toronto park that week. “What were you looking for?”
He bent to examine the animal’s mouth and gums. “Antifreeze is green. Or ground glass. Both are quite fatal, and the end isn’t pretty.”
Belle felt her legs turn to linguine and sat down on the wooden bench. “My God!”
His tone was reassuring as he ran slender fingers over Freya’s body, probing her stomach area. “It’s a ninety-nine per cent bet that she’s fine.”
“Not good enough. What would you suggest? An emetic?”
“Err on the side of caution, then. To treat her at home, a few ounces of hydrogen peroxide would do the job.” He rose and reached under the sink for a plastic pail, then opened a drawer and took out a small paper packet, ripping it open. “Don’t fancy swallowing that stuff myself. This is a bit gentler. Apomorphine disc. Goes in the corner of the eye. Within a few minutes . . . stand back.”
An hour later at the office, Miriam checked the wall clock and said, “I was afraid you’d miss your showing at Bea’s.”
Nose in the air, Freya trotted over for a piece of bagel with cream cheese. “Hi, sweetie. Come to keep me company? By the way, Strudel didn’t take kindly to that Far Side book you gave me. Poodles, the Other White Meat.” Miriam’s fierce little dog had once made Freya’s life sheer hell by ravaging her tail on an hourly basis.
Belle put her hand over her mouth as the dog disappeared into the back room, where they had a small lounge for lunch and an occasional nap. “Don’t mention food.” She explained what had happened.
Miriam gave a low growl. “Sometimes ex-husbands come in handy. Jack would have pummelled that scumbag. But she seems fine. It sounds like you acted quickly.”
Belle checked her watch and headed for the Mr. Coffee, transfusion for all seasons. “Soldier’s breakfast minus cigarette for me. The Nortons will be here in ten minutes.”
She saw a car pull into the lot. “Minus coffee, too,” she added with a mock sniff, rebuttoning her coat on the way out.
A couple in their early forties, the Nortons had relocated from Ottawa to open a joint practice: urology and dermatology. They were renting a luxury apartment at 2200 Regent but wanted to settle into the community and entertain on a larger scale.
“It sounds perfect. So close to our office at the Four Corners,” Dan said, wearing an aubergine overcoat matching his wife’s. His razored blond hair gave him the appearance of an albino porcupine. They were seated in the spacious rear of Belle’s van, where he baptized the ashtray with a flick from his gold lighter. “Location is the most important thing. If this older house doesn’t suit, we’ll have all winter to finalize building plans. Do you know a good man?”
Bristling at the sexism, Belle thought about her own home, constructed as finances allowed beside the cottage on the property. She’d done all the painting and tried to drywall before giving up when the dust made her sneeze and the closet angles under the stairs caused tears of frustration. “Bruno Bravo has a reputation for quality work.”
His wife Dilshad, an East African woman with long, lustrous raven hair and pearl studs in her tiny ears, added a sweet soprano chime to his firm baritone. “The kitchen is the heart of a house. Gourmet cooking is my hobby. So different from Ottawa here. They are carrying tilapia and yams at the A&P, but oh, the trouble I am having buying palm oil.”
“Try Café Korea in the Montrose Mall. They stock Far Eastern groceries,” Belle said.
The night before, Bea had mentioned that she would be at work, and Micro would be taking the noisy parrot to school for show-and-tell day. Her husband Dave had been out of town all week. Belle preferred a home furnished but free of fulsome owners hovering at clients’ shoulders like unwelcome ghosts, spotlighting bordello-style flocked red wallpaper, sparkled stucco ceilings, mirrors over the bed, and grotesque hockey-themed rec rooms.
At ten thirty she drove into the yard and pulled up beside Bea’s trademark Ford Focus. Had the woman gotten a ride to work? Become ill and stayed at home? She inspected her cellphone. Fully charged. Miriam hadn’t sent a last-minute message. She tried to project a professional confidence as she passed a small box attached near the front door.
“The key’s in the lock box, but since her car’s here, I’ll ring anyway,” she said. From the backyard, she could hear Buffalo barking and added, “Belongs to the family. Only dog on the block.” Could be true as far as she knew.
The door chime sounded once, twice, then three times. Belle was growing uneasy. On instinct, she pressed the lever on the massive brass handle and found the door unlatched. While she left her house open with Freya on guard, few townies risked that option. Managing a weak smile, she went inside and held the door for the Nortons. They were still chatting about the glorious view across Lake Ramsey.
“Hellloooo,” she called with no response. Spotting a purse on a table by the door, she turned to them with embarrassment. “The owner may be home. Why don’t you look around the main floor, and I’ll go upstairs? Shouldn’t take a minute.”
Belle took the stairs two at a time and craned her head into the rooms. “Bea, Bea,” she called softly. In the master bedroom at the end of the hall, a Chinese silk dressing gown lay on the neatly made bed. The door to the ensuite bathroom was open, but she could see that the room was dimmed, the vertical blinds shut. At least the place was tidy. A home needed to look lived in, but not by a band of Visigoths. After a deep breath, she paged through her notebook to refresh her mind about the highlights.
