Strange Things Done (5 page)

“Hurry up with that tent in the meantime.”

Scott nodded and scurried away.

There were five officers present, including Cariboo, but there didn’t appear to be a forensic team. While Jo had waited for the ferry, she’d seen the RCMP Zodiac—still just a dark shape on the water—bumping up and down the river. Cariboo had no men to spare, yet he’d made time to leave the site to question her.

The tent flapped angrily in the wind and the cold metal-on-metal sound of a mallet striking pegs rang out like bullets, startling a conspiracy of ravens, their shrieks echoing across the landscape. “Okay, boys. Let’s get her in.” Cariboo looked grim.

Silence fell over the crowd as the body was painstakingly rolled over by two officers in hip waders. Then, people began to whisper. Despite the swollen face, gashes, and bruises, Jo recognized the woman instantly. The crowd murmured, and someone whispered the name “Marlo.” The battered head flopped back as the body was lifted, obscuring the face once again. Water drained out of the red jacket, quilted with pockets like a flotation device.

Jo raised the camera to get a shot for the
Daily
, but when she looked through the lens at the broken figure and saw the blue marks at the throat, her mind focused elsewhere. She saw the face of another woman with long, chestnut hair, as her photograph had appeared in the
Vancouver Sun
. Smiling and unknowable. Jo had never seen the woman alive, she had only seen the smoking wreckage of her car after police had asked Jo not to print a particular story. Hands shaking, she lowered the camera.

3

The morning that a body was found in the Yukon River, the town was alive with the business of preparing for winter. The sound of hammers reverberated through the crisp air as windows were boarded up. “Closed for Season” signs were posted along Front, Dawson’s main street. The hotels remained open, with admittedly few occupants, but many of the shops and restaurants shut. Jo was disappointed to find that Wild & Woolly, “Purveyors of Fine Winter Clothing,” had already closed. A particularly cosy-looking pair of fur-lined North Face boots taunted her through the window, while the reflection of a departing tour bus passed behind her. The reverse rush:
the rush to escape.
Dawson’s population dropped from 60,000 in the summer to just over 1,000 by freeze-up. Jo resisted to the urge to call out after the bus to stop it. Instead, she trudged toward the fire station.

The locals who were leaving waved goodbye to their neighbours from cars and RVs piled high with luggage, en route to warmer climates like Mexico or even Seattle. They called out email addresses and honked their horns as they left, all smiles. The backside of their vehicles disappeared into the distance, along with bumper stickers that read, “Live long and prospect.” Those who were staying leaned grimly into the wind, whispering to one another about the girl in the river.

In front of the station, a town crier wore a ruffled shirt, scarlet coat, and a tri-cornered hat with feather plumage. He was a tall man, but the greying beard and hunch in his shoulders spoke of surrender to some nebulous, greater force. He rang a gold bell as he called out in a dismal tone, “Hear ye, hear ye: meeting at city hall at eleven-thirty.” As Jo drew closer, he put away the bell and held out his hat, reciting,

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The northern lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

When I cremated Sam McGee.

At first, Jo thought that the crier must have mistaken her for a last, fleeing tourist. Perhaps the man thought that hers would be the last coin to grace his hat until spring. Jo knew the poem, but wasn’t fond of the fiery images that it brought to mind. She dropped a loonie into his hat just the same. The man mumbled a few words of appreciation. Then, as she began to walk away, he called out after her, “Heard you’re dating Byrnie.”

He knew exactly who she was.

Jo’s shoulders tensed. Some sensible part of Jo’s brain told her to shut up and keep walking, but instead she turned and said, “And I heard that Robert Service was particularly fond of sheep, so it must be true.” She shrugged. “Probably why he had to leave Scotland for Canada.”

The man’s mouth made a circular shape as the hand holding his hat sagged pleasingly.

Yup. That’s me. Making friends and influencing people. They’re going to love me in this town.

The fire station had two identities—like the city itself that was really a town. Jo was thankful to the ferry passenger who’d tipped her off, or she might never have found the city hall. The Gold Rush had ended so abruptly, the passenger said, that prospectors left town without taking their possessions with them, anxious to get out before a Yukon winter hit. The town’s abandoned original structures had become living museums. Often a hand-shaped sign, cuffed with Victorian lace, would point the way to the “modern” version of the bank or post office or saloon: a doppelgänger nearby, still built in the same period style. Sometimes, though, a historical building’s new owner had preserved only the original signage and not the contents of the place, so you might walk into a “Saddlery” only to discover you were in the liquor store. A happy accident, she thought.

As Jo hurried inside, she barely registered the small secondary sign on the fire station that read “Municipal Offices.” It was rumoured that Sergeant Cariboo was going to make some kind of announcement about the investigation, and everyone in town was making the icy pilgrimage to hear it.

Jo was hoping to find Caveman Cal in attendance. She also hoped that Christopher Byrne might be inside. Perhaps Byrne would give her some clue as to what had happened last night … how long he’d stayed … and why Cariboo was asking pointed questions about the two of them.

In an austere room that smelled of wet wool and burning dust, an eclectic collection of straight-backed chairs had been lined up in neat rows facing the podium. Several heads turned to look at Jo as she slipped into the back row, and someone distinctly whispered the word “Byrne.” Jo hoped the reference was made in the context of some public art display, but she had her doubts.

She scanned the room, but could find no evidence of Byrne. Nor could she see anyone who fit the description she’d been given for Cal Sanders, a.k.a. Caveman Cal: six-foot-something, black beard, floppy black hat. Jo wondered if Caveman might still be down at the RCMP office.

There was a certain nervous energy, bordering on excitement, in the air. People jumped at every little sound, spoke in hushed tones, and watched their neighbours carefully. Shopkeepers who were staying in the off-season had closed their stores so that they could come to the town meeting. Retirees had braved the cold and risked hazardous walkways—where an uncertain step could mean a broken bone and an airlift to the nearest (but not near at all) hospital in Whitehorse. In short, the day had all the makings of a holiday in a small community, with an added dash of big-city drama. An elderly woman in a crocheted shawl, all done up in shades of heather, was making the rounds with a tin of homemade cookies and squares.

The audience still wore their toques and heavy jackets as the mayor took the podium. Probably in his late forties, Peter Wright had a beard that was beginning to silver and a waistline that was heading south like the tourists, yet he had a definite charm about him. He had a ruddy, cheerful complexion and when he caught anyone’s eye, his entire face smiled, projecting something that felt like mirth. A smattering of applause greeted his appearance.

Jo moved to the front of the room as he stepped up to the microphone, and in her peripheral vision caught the nudges and nods of the townspeople as she passed. Her mouth felt dry. She snapped a close shot of the mayor, and another of Sergeant Cariboo, who was waiting in the wings. He was wearing a blue uniform with a yellow stripe down the leg. Jo had half-expected the RCMP in Dawson to wear the red Mountie outfit that you see in postcards for tourists; part of her felt a little disappointed. Cariboo caught her eye as the shutter clicked, and he frowned. He bore a dark shadow of stubble that communicated a busy morning, and his eyes flashed. For a moment, Jo felt sorry for contributing to the strain of his day.

“Good morning,” Peter said, his expression somehow achieving the appropriate balance of solemnity and congeniality. When his gaze met those in the audience, his warm smile was returned easily. “Well, it sounds as though last night was a bit of a doozy.” A few people laughed, nodded, or muttered in low voices. Jo caught Cariboo looking at her, but he quickly glanced away. “Before we start our scheduled discussion, I know that many of you have come to hear news of our dear friend and Liberal MLA, Marlo McAdam, who, sadly, was found in the Yukon River this morning.” Peter paused to allow a ripple of shock to pass through the audience. “For those of you who knew her, and I expect there are many here who did, I know how much she will be missed. We’ll let you know about any service details as soon as we can, but in the meantime, we’ll have a quick word from Johnny.” Then Peter quickly added, as though correcting himself, “Sergeant Cariboo.” Peter moved to one side and hung his head to look at the floor as Cariboo fumbled with the mic, creating a squall of feedback. Jo took another photo for good measure, causing Cariboo to shoot her a warning look.

“Yes, good morning.” Cariboo cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “At approximately five-thirty this morning, a local hunter discovered the body of Marlo McAdam in the Yukon River, just off the western shore. It appears she may have entered the water from one of the high points along the river, possibly Crocus Bluffs.” A series of gasps and whispers followed this announcement, and a few people could be heard saying “
Suicide
Bluffs.” Cariboo ignored the outburst and carried on. “Next of kin have been contacted, and we are conducting a routine investigation into her death. Now, the coroner has examined the … Ms. McAdam … and has ruled that the cause of death is inconclusive. So there’s no need for anyone to panic. Ms. McAdam will be flown to Vancouver for an autopsy.”

The room hummed with speculation and gossip. Sergeant Cariboo raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “At this point, we are treating the discovery as an accidental death. However, we will be speaking with certain members of the community. If anyone has information regarding Marlo’s death, about her state of mind, or about her whereabouts after she left Diamond Tooth Gertie’s last night, we would like to hear from you.”

Jo’s hand shot up. “Sergeant Cariboo!”

Cariboo frowned as his eyes found Jo. Before he had time to say that he wasn’t taking questions, Jo asked, “Is there a possibility of foul play here?” Heads turned in her direction, and she felt suddenly self-conscious about the bluish circles that she knew were under her eyes and the unwashed hair that framed her face under her toque. Jo suspected that she might be emitting the scent of stale gin and cigarette smoke. This was turning out to be one hell of a first day at work.

“I’m sorry, we’re not fielding questions from the press, Ms. Silver.” Cariboo’s dark eyes narrowed at Jo. “I can tell you, however, that we don’t have any concerns for public safety at this time, and that the investigation is going well. Ms. McAdam was wearing an Arctic Armour parka, which many of you will be familiar with if you do any ice fishing. Fortunately, the coat kept her afloat, so we were able to find her quickly.”

Yeah, lucky
, Jo thought, but she was picturing Marlo in the parking lot outside Gertie’s, wearing that red parka. The rosy colour of her cheeks. “Are you able to tell which injuries were sustained before the fall, and which were sustained after?”

Cariboo held her look for a moment. “We’ll know more once we have the full pathology report back from Vancouver, but we don’t expect to find anything unusual, and we will keep the public informed if we have any concerns at that time. Thank you. That’s all for now.” Cariboo stepped away from the mic.

The mayor stepped forward, motioning to Jo in the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Josephine Silver, who will be taking over next week for Doug as editor of the
Daily
.”

More heads turned to get a look at Jo. She moistened her lips and swallowed. A few people muttered something indecipherable, and she felt for the first time the full weight of the town’s collective scrutiny. She hesitated just for a moment, and in that moment, caught sight of one woman whispering to another, her sharp eyes studying Jo as though she were an acrobat just about to lose her balance. Jo could suddenly feel all the electricity in the room—a hot static waiting to shock fingertips on doorknobs and make hair stand on end. A fiery, dangerous feeling of anticipation. Her face burned.