alcohol, drugs and hormones.”
“I knew Jim since he was a kid. And that rationale just doesn’t fit. Jim never drank when he drove, not car, snow machine or boat. Drugs would be out of the question. Most of all, he was cautious and experienced. Riding was second nature to him, never had even a minor accident.”
“Nonetheless . . .” He lowered his gaze in professional resignation.
“What can you tell me? It would be more helpful than reading the report since I could ask questions.”
He sighed but seemed flattered to display his expertise. “Drowned, of course. Water in the lungs clearly showed that. But even without that, it might have been what we call a dry drowning, especially with the shock of the cold.”
Belle leaned forward on her chair. “A dry drowning! You mean it wasn’t an accident?”
“No, my dear. I don’t mean that. A dry drowning is simply the term for what happens in a sudden laryngospasm. The esophagus shuts off, you see.” He made a coup de gorge gesture, shooting his gold cufflinks.
“Now I understand. Forgive my ignorance. Is this common?”
“Not really. Fewer than 15 percent of drownings. The autopsy would reveal no physical evidence, nothing more than a lack of water in the lungs. ‘Suffocation’ is a more exact term here, suffocation caused by shock.”
“Sounds grim.” She shuddered. “What else did you notice?”
He plumped up at the compliment and went to his files, returning with a manila folder. “You’re so persistent, Miss or is it Mrs. Palmer, that I might as well be exact.” He put on a pair of oval tortoise-shell reading glasses and selected a sheet. “Ummmm. Let me simplify the technical language. No sign of any contusions or bruising. No drugs or alcohol, as you tell me.”
“I guess it’s hard to determine the time of death.”
“I should say so. With the body preserved in such cold water, we have to weigh other factors. When had he last been seen? What were the temperature and conditions for refreezing the ice? The best guess is that he died within twelve hours of your finding him. The officers said that the lake had refrozen several inches. Swamp lakes with their vegetation and gasses are always warmer, always dangerous. Then again, if only he had been going slower or faster.”
“Yes, he might have stopped, or more speed might have carried him over. I’ve seen those silly summer runs over water, too. But Jim’s Ovation was so underpowered that he would never have counted on speed to get him out of trouble. I own the next size down, and believe me, it’s fine for plugging along, nothing more. He had no reason to be within miles of that lake. And even so, not even to try to struggle to safety? A strong young man like that?”
“There was a storm, I understand. A moment of confusion. A big price.” Monroe grew philosophic. “He was fifty feet from shore, wearing a heavy suit and full-face helmet, which evidently he was unable to remove. Shock hits like a hammer. In a matter of seconds the whole nervous system, breathing, everything, is nearly paralyzed. Maybe if he’d had one of those flotation suits . . .”
Belle gave him a sad nod. “Wish I could afford one.” She’d had personal experience with cold water shock thanks to a stupid experiment. One early May when a few shards of ice still drifted on Wapiti, she had climbed out onto the rock wall to break her record for first dip of the year. The water felt numbingly tolerable up to the knees, but when she dropped to her neck, her breathing failed. With a supreme effort of will against paralyzed lungs, Belle had crawled back to the rocks and collapsed, gasping with relief.
“And the stomach contents? They always ask that on TV.” Belle was warming to her role.
Composed as he was, this made Monroe smother a laugh, a smile teasing his handsome mouth. “You are so very scientific. His stomach was empty, which was odd since I did find shreds of fish and vegetables between his back teeth.” His voice grew pensive and she leaned forward. “It didn’t seem significant at the time. I thought that perhaps he had vomited. Perhaps he had been ill earlier, or the shock from the accident.” He drew circles on a notepad. “The flu, a fever, that might account for some disorientation, but after all, we don’t conduct autopsies searching for the common cold.” He sighed and consulted his watch, a splendid Rolex. “I expect one late patient. But I could meet you for a drink at the Camelback Road, say, if you have any other questions. They make a superb vodka martini.” He removed the glasses and leaned closer, raising an expressive eyebrow which reminded her of Francis X. Bushman in the original Ben Hur. Charming, knowledgeable and the slightest bit dangerous. Always more interesting than the nice ones.
Belle extended her hand and enjoyed the warm smoothness of his skin when he pressed it a moment longer than necessary. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment in half an hour to show a house. You know real estate.” She flashed a bright and earnest smile. “You’ve been helpful in addressing my concerns. I just had to check. Jim was a good friend.”
She hummed tunelessly as she left the office and headed straight to the nearest Tim Horton’s for sustenance. “No, no, no, dear Doctor. I still don’t buy this convenient scenario. Even you were starting to question your findings. If those drunks who went down on Matagamasi last year had the wits to swim for it, a sober Jim would have tried and made it too. He knew how to build a fire, always had a lighter or wet-safe matches in his suit.”
Fresh-baked aromas wafted under her nose as she ordered her brew. Despite the imminence of dinner, she found herself pointing shamelessly at a giant croissant dripping with white chocolate and sprinkled with almonds. Detective work definitely sharpened the appetite.
She moved the sugar container pensively, as she alternately munched and sipped, pondering the unsettling details of the autopsy. Had Jim had the flu? Had he been on any medication? Sometimes cold pills caused drowsiness, especially combined with a fever.
The information she had so far left three probable causes for Jim’s death. An accident, a planned murder, or an opportunistic killing. But only a fool would count on meeting his victim in a blizzard. Even if Jim had been attacked, why weren’t there any traces of injuries? Why no signs of another sled? Maybe she was looking without seeing. Her mother’s time-honoured theory was that lost objects often were exactly where they were supposed to be, so what was she missing? Suddenly Belle noticed that she had poured half the sugar bowl into her coffee.
“Go for it, darlin’. Sweets for the sweet,” an oily voice drawled. Tony Telfer sat down without an invitation. In a bizarre combination of Yellowknife, Calgary and Toronto, he wore a snappy beaver hat and a pair of snakeskin boots with his woollen trenchcoat. A builder just on the lucky side of crooked, he was always trolling. Once the hook was taken, he coaxed the client into expensive features like designer closets, Jacuzzis and gigantic Malibu foyers. King of short-term corner-cutting, he substituted utility grade for number one wood, spruce for pine, half-inch for five-eighths-inch plywood, and supplied shingles which shed their grit faster than the perch of a hyperactive budgie.
“Moving any insulation these days, Tony?” asked Belle. His brother Charlie had made front page news a decade ago by constructing an entire subdivision with the same batts of insulation, ferrying it on to the next house after each inspection. By the time buyers turned on their thermostats in September, Good Time Charlie was long gone to warmer points unknown with a sizable profit from each home.
“Come on, Belle. Charlie’s the black sheep of the family.” He flashed an army of gleaming white caps from Sudbury’s best dentists.
“And you’re the wolf?”
