pancakes. Squirts of whipped cream added to the impromptu picnic. Heavy food was appreciated when cold work lay ahead.
“It kept going off for no reason, well, not exactly no reason. Bugs, I guess, so I jerked it. And naturally I forgot to reconnect it.”
The DesRosiers drove her back in the truck. While they aired out the house, Belle shovelled hot ashes from the stove into a bucket and used asbestos gloves to carry out the smoking logs. Then she collected the fibreglass cleaning rods and brush and climbed an aluminum ladder next to the house.
Ed scolded her as he followed. “Why do you leave this up? Thieves could get to your bedroom balcony.”
“I clean the chimney every three weeks, and I’m not excited about digging out the ladder after every blizzard. Besides, Ed, I have glass patio doors. So do you. We live out here because we want to see the lake, not hole up in a fort with arrow slits. Someone wants in, they get in.”
Checking for tracks on the roof under several inches of new snow proved fruitless. Ed said, “What a mess around the chimney, all trampled. You won’t get clear prints here.” His probe with the brush revealed a soft mass several feet below the top which he pushed down the chimney. “Have to take the pipes apart in the living room. She’s caught up on the damper.”
“If the chimney had caught fire, the house might have gone up in flames. Still, it’s deadly enough. Most people in fires die of smoke inhalation,” Belle said, shivering in the brisk wind on the roof as she surveyed the grounds. “What’s that by the big yellow birch? Looks like it was tossed off the roof like a javelin.” It turned out to be six-foot wooden stake for delphiniums, probably from a pile under the deck, except that the end was sticky with black creosote.
Dismantling the pipe, fanning themselves against the smoking rags and despairing of the falling cinders, they cleared the mess and reassembled the pipes. Belle had goosed the propane furnace, but with the doors still open, it was barely above freezing in the living room. Luckily the computer room and TV room had been closed. The fish would have to hang tough until she got the stove going again.
“So where did those rags come from, Belle?” Ed asked as he pitchforked the pile onto the snow.
“Looks like old towels I hung over the propane tank. Used them to wash the van last fall.”
Hélène looked on the verge of tears. “Please stay with us for awhile, Belle,” she pleaded. “Or Ed can—”
“You’ve been great. But I’ll be OK. And yes, I will report this.”
Finally alone with her thoughts, Belle left a detailed message for Steve. If he had been mad in the past, this would send him into overdrive. He’d blame her for going to the Paramount, for snooping at the lodge. Derek had warned her about Brooks’ interest, and now she’d seen Nick with him. “But what exactly does he think I know?” she wondered aloud as she watched her fish slowly tour their kingdom, blissfully unaware of their near-death experience.
Steve skidded down the driveway after lunch. “They told me you’d been hit again. Look at all the tracks! Grand Central or what! Did you have to trample everything? I got here as fast as I could. Since morning I’ve been north of Parry Sound where a gas transport accident blocked 69 for hours.” In his irritation, he ignored Freya’s barking. Usually he loved to play with the dog.
Belle felt a defensive surge. This was her territory, her violated home. Why did he have to make the situation worse? “It’s been snowing heavily, so any tracks are gone. What do you want to know? Someone stuffed the chimney. From what we found when we pushed down into the stove, it was towels left by my propane tank. I’ve been through a rough night, and I had the funny idea that you were my friend.” She bit her lip and turned away, knowing she was in for a grilling.
He reached into the squad car for his notebook and wasted no time pinpointing the obvious question. “And your smoke detector?”
She sighed deeply. “No contest. I did something stupid. It’s reconnected now in case you feel like jailing me for building code violations.”
Taking a look around, Steve seemed ready to continue the third degree as he scribbled her remarks and his observations, but with a glance at her sitting slumped on the deck stairs, he took a deep breath. “The burglary attempt or whatever that you didn’t even bother to report is one thing. That’s common enough in cottage country in the winter. This looks serious, but I can’t see why they didn’t cut the hydro. Must have had a kind heart or been real amateurs.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Everything should be fine if you mind your own business until Saturday, our big night. Make it look like the scare worked. Lock the doors; look over your shoulder. Maybe have a friend stay with you?” He paused to consider her snort. “No, eh? Well, fine. Freya’s track record is good enough.”
“And I do have a shotgun.”
“Load it with rock salt. You won’t do any real damage.” That got her smiling. “Come on, now. We’ll put Brooks and his sleazy friends away until the Leafs win the Stanley Cup.”
Belle met his eyes and cleared the phlegm from her throat. “I’ll lie doggo. Not a bark.”
After Steve had to make three tries up the slippery drive, somewhat to Belle’s satisfaction, she called a painting firm listed in the Northern Life. With business slow, they promised to come the next day with the colours she wanted. The job could be done quickly if she didn’t mind the smell. Then a small Golf drove down the driveway. Melanie got out, and Freya capered around her, friendly as ever with females, even strangers. Size? Conformation? Pheromones? Voice? Who knew what lurked in the genetic memory of a canine?
The young woman presented the newspaper and widened her eyes at the sight of the lake. “What a paradise, Belle, but it’s colder here than in town. Natural refrigeration. Your sign’s sure easy to find. Neat owls.” Her chirpy tone changed as she noticed the smudges on Belle’s face. “My God, what happened?”
“Just a smokeout. Somebody stuffed my chimney. And I didn’t even have a ham in the rafters.”
“Are you OK? How did you get out?” They walked inside as Belle made coffee and told her story once more. Each time it became more exciting and elaborate, and each time she realized her dumb luck.
“Hope you don’t mind smoky coffee. Maybe it’ll be exotic. I’ve had the place airing, but as you can see,” she said as she pointed to the dirty stone-white paint in the living room, “there is damage. And I’ll have to wash the pine on the ceilings, too, or negotiate for a cheap steakhouse franchise.” They sat on the leather sofas which Belle had swabbed hastily with soap and water. She looked down tiredly and scuffed the rug with her foot. “Good old commercial stuff. Totally resistant against dog hair and wood debris, but I should call a steam cleaner.” She rubbed her bloodshot eyes.
“Aren’t you afraid, Belle? It looks like someone is out to get you.” Melanie’s warm expression reflected a genuine concern.
“Yes and no. It has to be Brooks. But we’re getting closer. Franz showed me a spot near his bush camp where a cocaine exchange was made. It won’t be long until Brooks is sitting in jail, his friends, too. Maybe one of them will talk about Jim’s death and make the connections we’ve been after. Meanwhile, I’ve got Canada’s best security system.” She snapped her fingers at Freya, who trotted out Mr. Chile and obligingly laid him at a bemused Melanie’s feet. “Guess I’ll cruise on propane for a while to be safe. I know it’s stupid, but that woodstove has me nervous. It’ll probably cost the earth to keep the
