where they’re going to rise. One thing’s sure, it proves that there are plenty of fish in Wapiti. Are you an angler, Mr. Sullivan?”
He beamed like an uncle. “Call me Charles. I’m a catch-and-release man, in it for the fight. Will confess something, though. I do eat the perch.”
Belle bent down and peered into the clear depths. “Perch? Are they worth the trouble? They’re so small and bony.”
“That’s true. Most folks don’t bother. Consider them trashy, to use their word. Five or six make a pretty good feed, and I don’t mind the cleaning.” He stepped forward and tossed a twig into the water, following its drift with a trained eye. “My Lord, just look at the little devils down there. Wish I had my tackle,” he said, grinning broadly. “Tell you what. I’ll catch a pailful and invite you for dinner.”
Belle’s heart rang like the drawer of an old-fashioned cash register, and she wondered if dollar signs had snapped into her saucery eyes. “Do you mean that . . .”
“That’s right, my dear lady. I like it. I’ll take it. Not even going to insult you and our Mr. Brown by dickering. Not my style.”
Wondering if he had forgotten the steep price, she tried to cement the bargain. “I know it seems high, but you do have 650 feet frontage. You could split off a lot, sacrifice a little privacy, and realize sixty or seventy thousand at the right time.”
He closed his eyes, folded hands behind his back and took a deep breath. Belle could smell the clean tang of the water as the wind ruffled their hair. “Why spoil paradise?” he asked.
It was after six by the time she left Charles surveying his kingdom. “Yesssssss!” Belle said, clenching her fist. Satisfied buyer, satisfied seller. Whether or not Brown ever connected with reality, she had obtained a fair price which might buy him some comforts. As the van rounded a corner, the letter to Anni dropped from the dash onto her lap. Better take it on down. Besides, she wanted an update on the mind games with the hunters. Women, take back the woods!
The rusty Geo sat in Anni’s driveway like a wounded veteran, a faded Support the Right to Arm Bears sticker on its rear windshield and its muffler dangling an inch from the ground. How the woman kept the beast chugging was a miracle, but money was short for a widow. She lived frugally, her greatest asset the property itself. Parking on the neatly swept gravel, Belle marvelled at the perennial garden surrounding the modest frame house. A pastel rainbow of graduated tulips and hosts of sunny daffodils lent Wordsworthian splendour to the tidy beds. She raised an eyebrow to notice that Anni’s Oriental lilies were already a foot tall. Her own bulbs had become a late spring snack for some discriminating vermin. Around the corner dashed the dogs, yapping and jumping. Belle gave a surreptitious knee to the unruly golden trying to romance her leg. The door opened, and Anni appeared in jeans and a patched corduroy shirt, holding a book and probably wondering about the unusual social call.
“I have a letter for you. Wrong box again.” Belle passed her the envelope with a Government of Canada return address.
Anni swept her arm graciously. “Well, then you deserve a reward. Come in and talk over a crone’s tipple. I usually eat later in the summer.”
The few times Belle had been inside, some new puzzle decorated the wall, this time an eye-crossing Jackson Pollock full of paint blots and streaks. Anni had explained that the concept of “dissected maps” had developed in late eighteenth-century England as a teaching tool. Her husband Cece had started her on the hobby, bringing back specimens from his world travels as a metallurgical engineer. One Japanese wooden puzzle hung vertically without glue, sold with tweezers and magnifying glass to assemble twenty-five pieces per square inch. To add to the museum flavour, purple velvet plants trailed their vines, winding among Boston ferns and an assortment of prickly cacti including an Old Man variety sporting a gray wig. In a brass container in the corner stood Anni’s walking stick and an umbrella. The polished wood floors shone like honey. No traces of dog claws, though, with the mutts likely relegated to the basement at night.
Belle stopped to inspect a curious landscape peopled by small figures making their way from the Barren Land of Ignorance to the Hill of Science, detoured by the Mansion of Appetite, the Wood of Error and the Fields of Fiction. “Anni, is this new? Give me a room in the Mansion of Appetite.”
Her friend set her reading glasses aside, pleased at the observation. “A Pilgrim’s Progress variation, circa 1800. Probably no one bothers with that in school anymore, but it’s always been a comfort to me. Couldn’t resist buying the little treasure.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if life were that simple? Good, evil, black, white. Mind your manners and advance to the next square.”
Sitting on the chintz sofa, her hands folded as she stared at the envelope, Anni turned pensive. “We never know where some paths may lead us. At any rate, I did the deed,” she said with a grave tone. “All of that abomination is gone.”
“Did anyone see you?” Belle asked, choosing a rocker.
“I don’t think so.”
“So nothing has happened? No phone calls or other dirty work?”
“For precautions, I left town that night to stay with an old friend in Muskoka for several days. Since I’ve been back, I haven’t heard any shots, or seen anyone who didn’t belong on the road.” Sighing, she rose and went to the credenza, reaching for a cut glass decanter and pouring small glasses of sherry with a shaky hand. Several drops spilled, but Anni didn’t seem to notice.
“So what’s wrong? They learned their lesson,” Belle said, accepting the drink.
Anni gestured at a picture of a grinning young man on her mantel. It was her nephew, whom she mentioned occasionally, always with a curious mixture of love and exasperation. “Another wild scheme of Zack’s.”
“Again? Not another budgie sitting service or balloon delivery from Batman. Or is he opening a chip stand across from McDonald’s? Too bad he missed the pet rock craze. Can you imagine the raw material around here?”
The Gatling gun humour had misfired. Anni blinked her cinnamon brown eyes, shadowed with concern. “He has an idea for a used book store, compact discs, too. Maybe computer games. It’s true that he’s my only relative and welcome to his legacy. God knows he’s given me a hand with the spring and fall chores and made sure I got good care when I broke my arm last year, but I’m not made of money. Why can’t he find a rich wife or rob a bank?” She managed a weak smile.
Belle sipped at the sherry, a tiny dose of Bristol Cream, but “cherce” as Spencer Tracy would say of his Kate. “Small businesses are risky,” she said. “Half of the new ones go belly-up every year.”
“I know. Lack of planning, faulty demographics, too much staff or overhead, heavy competition. And some, like men’s clothing, are extremely perilous.” She realigned a ruby glass paperweight on the coffee table and took a deep breath. “Listen to me lecturing like Zack. Says he’s read enough books and made all the right mistakes to succeed. The infallible logic of the young, bless them. They’ll learn as we did.” Her eyes grew moist as she looked away.
Belle wondered if he had considered the obvious. “Tell you what’s big in this aging town. Home care. Assistive devices, help with daily chores. Special clothing, too, now there’s a gold mine. Silvert’s comes up from Toronto several times a year to make the rounds of the nursing homes. Surely he could beat their prices. I paid sixty dollars for my father’s ordinary sweatsuit with Velcro fastenings.”
Finally,
