Strange Things Done (19 page)

Jo wasn’t sure what to make of his insincere tone.

“You were at Gertie’s the night Marlo died, weren’t you?”

“You bet.” He added, “So was most of the town.” His eyes crinkled good-naturedly as he blew softly on a steaming cup, fanning the spicy scent of bergamot orange.

“Right. I noticed you were at the roulette wheel.”

The mayor chuckled. “Yeah, I was down on my luck a little, if I recall.”

“You know everyone in this town,” Jo said. “Did you notice anything unusual that night? Anyone acting strangely?”

Peter frowned and shook his head. “Not that I remember, no. Well, there was a bit of a kerfuffle at the bar …”

“Really?” Jo wished she’d spoken to the mayor sooner. “About what?”

“I’m not sure. Something between Rusty—that’s Gertie’s barkeep, she’s a good gal—and one of the miners. I heard her say something about water … that it wasn’t clean.”

“Did anyone else see the argument?”

“Oh, I expect so. You’d have to ask Rusty.”

“I’ll do that, thanks. Did you happen to notice anyone leaving early?”

“I must admit I was having too much fun to notice,” he said.

“How late did you stay that night?”

The mayor laughed. “Unfortunately for my pocketbook, I stayed until closing.”

Jo smiled. Peter Wright was an easy person to like. He was down to earth and made a person feel comfortable. But he was a liar. Sally had already told her that he’d been seen leaving before closing
.
“There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Peter lowered the cookie he had been about to polish off. Jo caught a flicker of something in his eyes.

“It concerns public accountability in Dawson. I understand Marlo McAdam had been asking questions before her death.”

The smile faded from Peter’s wide face, but before he could respond, they were interrupted by the belligerent hunter Jo had seen at reception earlier. The old man’s whiskery chin was thrust forward in challenge as he addressed the mayor in a voice like an unoiled hinge. “Peter, I need to know where you stand on these new goddamned hunting regulations. And by the way, what’s this I hear about May Wong and a hunting trip? If I catch her poaching on my land again …”

Peter looked at Jo and rolled his eyes. “Sorry—it’s moose and caribou season …” He threw up his hands as if to say,
what can I do?
But he looked relieved by the distraction.
“Look, why don’t you book some of my time with my secretary when I’m back in town.”

“You’re leaving?” Jo asked. She had the sudden suspicion that he might not be back.

“Business in Whitehorse tomorrow. Just for the day, but I’ve gotta squeeze in one more meeting before the airport closes. I’m catching a flight right after we finish up here so I’ll have to dash.”

“Oh,” Jo said, wondering what she could do to stop him.

“Have Judith—uh, that’s my assistant—have her pencil you in when I’m back. I’d be happy to help you in any way I can.” The wide smile was back.

Jo looked up to see Sergeant Cariboo heading through the crowd, in her direction, his dark eyes fixed on hers. He was using his hands to clear a path, shovelling bodies to one side with gentle pressure to the small of a back here or a shoulder there. Jo nodded her head to the mayor as he left, but her attention was on Cariboo now. The sergeant’s path was blocked abruptly by the two bearded men in salmon costumes, who had become embroiled in a heated discussion with a very large, red-faced miner and were waving their placards about in a threatening manner. She thought Cariboo would stop, but the altercation barely slowed him down.

“Ms. Silver,” he said when he reached her. His face looked a little flushed. “Could I have a word?”

“Yes,” she said, more like a question than an answer.

There was usually more of a quietness about Cariboo. This was the first time she’d seen him flustered. “Well, it’s about what you may have overheard today.” She waited. He had a habit of taking a long time to speak, weighing his words carefully before he laid them down. “About the pathology report.”

“Okay,” she said, noncommittal. She liked his stillness, she realized. Something about him made her feel calm. But at this moment, she was reluctant to hear what he was going to say.

“That information was not for public sharing.”

Jo had a quick little flashback to a Vancouver restaurant on Main, and the police officer who told her she couldn’t write the story. “Was she murdered?”

“Inconclusive.”

“There was bruising around the throat?” Jo felt her face growing warmer.

“Yes.”

“I have a duty to warn the public if there has been a murder.”

“But not if there has been a suicide or an accident. We don’t know for certain.”

“And May Wong?”

“No sign of her. We just don’t know.”

“Funny time to disappear.”

“Yes,” Cariboo said, holding her look. Jo had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew that she knew something about May Wong.

“About that … I didn’t tell you everything about the day I went to visit May Wong.” Johnny Cariboo didn’t say anything, but to his credit, he didn’t look surprised either. “May left a voicemail for me at the
Daily
the night before …”

“Monday night?”

“Yes. She asked me to meet her at The Gold Digger at 11 a.m. on Tuesday.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “She didn’t turn up.”

Jo nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

“Why didn’t you? Don’t you trust me?” He had a strange expression on his face.

“I don’t trust anyone,” Jo said. “So you shouldn’t take it personally. And in the message, May made it clear that I shouldn’t tell anyone about the call. I took her meaning literally.”

“Then why tell me now?” He looked curious.

“Because I think she’s dead, so it doesn’t matter if I keep her confidence.”

“I see.” Cariboo looked away. “And yet you trust Byrne.” He glanced back at Jo to see her reaction. “Don’t you?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Jo answered truthfully. “Maybe.”

“Well, you’ll have to come downtown with me to amend your statement,” Cariboo said, already zipping up his parka. Jo nodded. “By the way,” he added. “I saw the new art installation.”

“Oh,” Jo said, feeling foolish.

“At least he doesn’t kiss and tell.” Cariboo turned on his heel and Jo had no choice but to follow.

18

In his cage at the
Daily
, Marshall-the-guinea-pig nibbled thoughtfully on another headline (“Price of Gold Soars!”) while Jo chewed on the end of her pen, her takeaway sandwich from the gas station sitting largely untouched on her desk. She was running out of time to present the story of Marlo McAdam to the public, and she was still unsure how best to set it up. She had the information that Caveman had given her, that someone had driven Marlo to Crocus Bluffs and had not come forward. The only people known to be in the vicinity at the time were herself and Byrne, but Jo knew that they hadn’t given Marlo a lift. And it followed that if someone else had driven Marlo to the Bluffs and not come forward, that person was either the killer or knew something about who was.

Jo thought about Sally and the disdain she seemed to have for Marlo. Sally had been watching Byrne and Jo in the parking lot that night. She could have seen Marlo and gone out via the exit in her changing room. Or what about the mayor? He had lied to Jo about the time he’d left Gertie’s. He had an office across the hall from Marlo and they were both politicians, but Marlo was opposed to the mine. Was Peter? Now there was the pathology report, which said that Marlo was alive when she hit the water and had bruising at the throat that was inconsistent with a fall.

Everything seemed to connect to the mine at Sourdough Creek. Marlo had been asking questions about Claim 53 before her death. The owner of the mine had contacted Jo and then gone missing, and her home had been broken into. Someone had been testing for radiation out at Sourdough Creek. Grikowsky, the manager, was operating the mine in the middle of the night. Jo couldn’t, however, prove that these events were related, or even that May had been a victim of foul play.

Jo had to go to print the next day. If both women had been attacked, then she had to warn Dawsonites before the roads closed, before the killer struck again. But how could she definitively tie either Marlo’s death or May’s disappearance to the mine? She couldn’t. Everything she had was speculative. She withdrew the Geiger counter from her desk drawer and waved it in the air. It made a single, sullen
click
. She placed it on her desk, next to a smudged glass of water, and lifted the glass.

Water.
The mayor had said that there’d been an argument between the bartender and a miner the night of Marlo’s death, and that the conflict had somehow related to unclean water.
Who else had overheard?
Marlo McAdam, prominent politician? May Wong, the mine’s owner?

Cariboo’s cousin, Mike, had told Byrne that those who worked in the mine became ill. If the manager of the mine were surreptitiously mining for uranium, surely the water surrounding the mine at Sourdough Creek would be polluted. Jo needed to see the bartender at Gertie’s about the dispute. She returned the Geiger counter to a desk drawer and grabbed her parka.

The urgent ring of the
Daily
’s landline startled Jo as she was leaving. She cleared her throat, then changed her mind and let it go to voicemail.

“Jo?” Doug’s voice, whispery and anxious. “I’ll need to see the article on Marlo before we print it tomorrow. But since I’ll be at the school then, it would be good to get it tonight. I usually print everything after school on Thursday, you see. I hope you understand. It’s my last week at the helm and I’m responsible for anything that appears in the
Daily
.”

Jo bit her lip, attached a file in an email, and hit “send.” She had no intention of printing this story. Or at least, not this story alone. But there was no point in worrying Doug until she had to. She didn’t have time for an argument if she wanted to find out what had happened to Marlo McAdam and May Wong before freeze-up.

Diamond Tooth Gertie’s was an entirely different place without its patrons. Jo’s footsteps echoed on the sticky, hardwood floors that smelled of stale beer. Without the boisterous clientele, she could imagine the quiet rustle of long skirts: the ghost of Gertie Lovejoy, an enterprising cancan dancer who mined the deep pockets of prospectors.

“We’re not open yet,” the bartender said.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry to disturb you,” Jo said. “I’m Jo Silver with the
Daily
.” She offered her hand to the bartender, who eyed her warily before shaking it.

“I know who you are. You can call me Rusty,” the woman said, folding her arms across her chest. The name suited the timbre of her voice, which sounded like the long, low scrape of a barstool on wooden floorboards. Jo made herself comfortable at the bar, wanted or not.

“I just have a couple of quick questions for you. About the night Marlo McAdam died.”

“I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the police, but fire away. Hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk, though, ’cause I’ve gotta get the bar stocked before opening.”

“Sure. No problem,” Jo said. “What did the police ask you?”

“Oh, you know. Whether I saw anything suspicious. Whether I saw anyone leave early.” Her laugh was a low growl.

“And did you?”

“I’ll tell ya the same thing I told them. I’m a bartender, not a babysitter. I’m much too busy slinging Gold to keep tabs on who’s coming and going.” As if to demonstrate, she bent over a case of Yukon Gold and hoisted it onto the counter. Jo hesitated, wondering how best to phrase the most important question.

“I heard you had a bit of a disagreement with a miner that night.”

Rusty looked at her sharply. She straightened up. “Did you now.” It wasn’t phrased as a question.

Jo didn’t answer. She had created a tension between them, and she knew she had to be careful not to accuse. Rusty picked up a dirty bar rag and began polishing glasses.

“What was all that about?” Jo said.

“What’s your stake in it?” Rusty glanced at her and looked away, her mouth tight. “Is it for the newspaper?”

“For Marlo McAdam. I’d just like to … put things right.”

Rusty put the glass down and sighed. All the energy seemed to have gone out of her body. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” said Jo. Both were silent for a moment. Outside, the dull roar of a snowplough could be heard as it trudged wearily along Queen Street, in an ongoing battle to carve out civilized paths amidst the wilderness defined as Dawson.

“Jack Grikowsky,” Rusty said simply, without looking up. “He ordered a whisky. Got quite upset when I served it. At first I thought he’d caught me giving ’im a blend, but it wasn’t about that. I’d made a mistake and served it with water.” She shrugged. “He didn’t even notice that it wasn’t single malt.”

“Does Sergeant Cariboo know about the argument?” Jo asked.

Rusty scoffed. “Hardly.”

“What did he say when you served it?”

“He said, ‘Didn’t order a goddamned water.’ Had his knickers in a right twist, that one. Took this
tone
, so I thought he deserved a bit of winding up.”