a summer memory. Mo must have come out early to open up. Taking note of the cottages, she pictured their snowbird owners making a last forage to the cheap American supermarkets, or buying a breadmaker or air conditioner to offset costly supplemental health insurance premiums. Yet what were their electric bills when they had to leave the juice on all winter to protect the foundations against frost damage?
Back inside, Belle heaped maple and yellow birch over the new coals and heated tasty and filling Habitant pea soup as a accompaniment to a toasted cheese sandwich. As a treat for Freya, she opened a can of expensive dog stew, giant hunks of beef swimming in gravy. Then as Shana had suggested, she sprinkled on the Metamucil, dropped in a tablespoon of canola oil, and stirred the mess queasily. Freya materialized out of nowhere at the grind of the can opener, a thread of drool dropping from the corner of her smiling mouth. “Dig in, babe. It’s better than some people get.”
Tidying up her computer area after dinner, Belle rummaged through documents and notes from the office. But as she sorted them, strange papers caught her eye. Shield University memos addressed to Franz. One concerned a blood drive, and the other warned of a rise in parking rates. How embarrassing. She must have scooped them up that day in his office. No need to return them since the relevant dates had passed. The next sheet made her sit down in shock. It was a receipt for nearly six thousand dollars from the Forest Glen Wellness Center in Harrisville, New York. A private nursing home? Or were they all private in the States? She pulled out her atlas. Just over the border from Cornwall, maybe ten hours’ drive. Probably an old place in the Adirondacks.
Was it Eva? Was she in treatment for the nervous breakdown Rosanne had suggested? Was this any of Belle’s business? “Oh, here, Franz,” she could say. “Sorry I picked this up by mistake. Who’s the lucky patient?” Still, she was pricked by her usual rude curiosity. Perhaps there was an Internet contact in New York, someone who could do a bit of handy digging. The likely source for snooping came quickly to mind, the Dorothy L. Sayers mystery discussion group, three thousand strong. Though each person had a special nom de plume, she hadn’t chosen one (Miss Marple had been taken and she couldn’t remember Mary Astor’s role in The Maltese Falcon). “[email protected]” she typed. Her message was brief, even enigmatic, but DLrs loved that touch: “I am marooned in Ultima Thule and need an ally to sleuth around near Harrisville, New York. Is the game afoot?” In case the frosty lines might garble the connections as often happened in winter, she added her phone and FAX numbers.
Belle hopped into bed and tuned her radio to the last innings of the Jays against Oakland. Mr. Five Million had pitched flawlessly, retired twelve in a row, then pulled a groin muscle. Mr. Four Million had fanned four times and tossed his bat into the stands. So much for their top guns. Management would have to curry the Syracuse farm team with a fine tooth comb. The radio crackled in and out as usual, reception fading as far-off stations smeared the signal at critical “three and two” calls.
Then an infernal shriek drilled into her ears like the squeal of chalk on a blackboard. The mandatory smoke detector, only this time as often before, smoke was not the problem. Gnats, little spiders, dust, anything could give the fussy monster a tantrum. Belle climbed onto a chair and wiggled the box in quasi-scientific fashion, muttering and coaxing to some success. Then only minutes later, as the Jays scored twice, the screech sounded again. “You son of a . . . you’re not keeping me up all night,” Belle said as she located a screwdriver and disconnected the detector. In the morning she would give the rascal a thorough shaking or better yet, buy another.
SIXTEEN
A message from a Geoff Garson, aka the Saint, flashed on the screen when Belle selected “new mail” the next day. A retired librarian from Notre Dame in Indiana, he was delighted, even flattered to accept the “Mission: Impossible.” Choose a librarian, she thought, for patient, meticulous work; they thrived on rooting up uncommon facts, the more obscure and useless the better. His information later that week showed that he was indeed an ace researcher, but it also brought some troublesome questions. Belle’s fax machine slowly churned out a picture and fact sheet. “Forest Glen Wellness Center, formerly Forest Glen Sanatorium. Founded in 1878 as a TB facility. During the 1950s converted by Dr. Brian Whitewell to a premier psychiatric hospital. Fees $75,000 U.S. yearly, excluding special treatment plans. Patients approximately 30. Single suites only. Two hundred wooded acres in the Adirondacks. A small stable of horses, tennis courts, jogging track, exercise rooms, indoor and outdoor pools. Specializes in schizophrenia, false memory, personality disorders, emotional trauma recovery. World reputation brings clientele from Europe, South America and the Far East.” Belle inspected the building with a magnifying glass. Stately Georgian brick, tastefully modernized through several eras. Two wings flanked an impressive portico over a stretch limo. She polished the lens and looked again. Manicured cedar hedges, classical topiary (a brontosaurus?), layered flower beds and lawns to kingdom come, probably rolled to within an inch of their lives by a gardener imported from King’s College, Cambridge.
In an impulsive mood, buoyed by her sudden success, Belle got the phone number from the operator, surprised that it was listed. “Forest Glen,” answered a plummy voice bearing the cachet of the Received Standard English pronunciation as only Miss Moneypenny could deliver. “How may I help you?”
Belle gulped and modulated her tone to quiet confidence. “I’d like to speak to Miss Schilling.”
The voice turned chilly and tense. “You don’t sound familiar, Madam. I’m afraid Miss Schilling has a specific list of callers.”
“Sorry,” said Belle and hung up. A foolish trick. Would the woman inform the family? So Eva was there. But how could Franz afford the fees on his university salary? And as an overtaxed, under-serviced Ontarian, she knew damn well OHIP wouldn’t foot the bill. A private medical plan? Doubtful. Few Canadians had that animal. More to the point, why was she there and what was the prognosis? She typed another message to Geoff: “Excellent work, Saint. Loved the picture, too. Any prayer of more personal data on a patient, Eva Schilling? Do you have contacts who work there or know someone who does?”
Belle spent the afternoon taking a very demanding primary school teacher (was there any other kind?) on a tour of Valley East bungalows under $120,000. Ms. Bly, a cod-faced woman of fifty, who might have been Don Knotts in drag, had precise objections to all six places. One was too near the fire station, too noisy. Another had the old siding, sashless windows, too drafty. One used oil heat, too smelly. Another had a barking husky next door. One had poplar trees, “common and filthy pests”. And the last, an older custom-built home with quality touches which Belle hoped her client would appreciate, got the loudest sniff.
“What fool wants hardwood floors? My mother used to spend all Saturday on her hands and knees rubbing that sticky beeswax around. Polishing, always polishing. She was a regular slave to it,” the woman said, writing in a small notebook. “I don’t fancy ceramic tile either. Much too cold on the feet.”
Belle hummed an evil internal melody and nodded with a slight sincerity since she agreed about the floors. Northern Ontario wasn’t Santa Fe, and it wasn’t Back Bay. Having a dog had put the last nail in the notion of oak parquet when she had built her house. Claws on floors reminded her of the odd cringe she felt whenever she ate raisins.
After arranging another tour the following week by planting in the woman’s head the concept of living a wee bit farther north in Capreol (“So many wonderful bargains since the sad closing of the Canadian National Railroad facility”), Belle stopped for gas at the last station before home. As she waited for her charge slip, she glanced at a four-by-four Chev pickup with supercab and eight-foot box across from her. What a boat. Probably mortgaging his soul to feed those twin tanks, Belle thought, smirking at the $90.00 on his meter. Then again, if you can afford a giant in the first place, you don’t worry about the cost of his keep. The license plate read 1BIGMF. How did he slip that past the Ontario censors? Suddenly she did a double-take.
