Strange Things Done (6 page)

Jo was transported instantly back to the time when the story first broke in Vancouver, when she was unable to enter coffee shops or shopping centres or—worse—stand in line at the grocery store next to the racks of tabloids, where her face might be exhibited along with the candy bars and breath mints. She didn’t blame them. Sometimes she wished they’d present her side of the story, but she also understood that the purpose of the media is to sell papers. Besides, she’d made the wrong choice. She should have published her story. It occurred to her again just how much that choice had shaped her life.

“Thank you, Sergeant Cariboo.” The mayor’s voice recalled Jo to the here and now. Cariboo seemed to survey the townspeople to gauge their reaction.
Or look for signs of guilt,
Jo thought.

“I’m sure that you’ll keep us posted,” Peter said, turning his attention back to the audience. “This would not be the first time someone has fallen into the river after a big night at Gertie’s, I’m sure. Though we are deeply saddened.”

“Is that true, Mayor Wright?” Jo called out. “Has anyone ever drowned in the river after a night at Gertie’s?” A murmur from the audience. Some shook their heads.

“Er … I’m not sure. I will definitely get back to you, Jo. Will you be at the
Daily
this afternoon?”

“Mayor, if the party line is that Marlo McAdam had too much to drink at Gertie’s, went for a midnight stroll, and fell into the river, could you answer one question for me?”

The mayor glanced at Sergeant Cariboo, who had started to leave, but now turned back, the irritation clear on his face.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Silver, but …” The mayor didn’t have a chance to shut her down.

“What was she doing up on that cliff?”

A tsunami of shocked whispering rolled through the audience.

“Some people hike up there for the view,” Peter said.

“After midnight?” Jo asked.

Another burst of hushed conversation. Someone giggled, a high-pitched, nervous sound. Peter looked like he was about to say something and then changed his mind. He held up his hands for silence. “Thank you, Ms. Silver, for raising excellent questions. I’m sure that Sergeant Cariboo and his colleagues will keep us informed as they find answers for us.” Cariboo gave Jo a blistering look before leaving the room. “And speaking of questions,” Peter continued, “Mabel will be coming around with an agenda for our meeting today.”

The discussion resumed its scheduled course, tapering off into a debate about new helmet bylaws for Ski-Doos, the liability of aggressive husky owners, and whether or not Dawson would finally pave its streets. (It would not, as Dawson was dependent on tourist dollars and tourists wanted an authentic “Old West” town. Paved streets were not a part of the image.) As Jo had encountered neither Caveman Cal (paranoid recluse and finder of dead bodies) nor Byrne, she stood up to leave.

A few heads turned, but one person nearby held her attention. She had the face of an aging Hollywood screen-ninja: serene and confident, with a smile that spoke of secrets well kept. The woman in the luxurious fur opened her mouth to speak, but just then the mayor invited questions. She looked conflicted, but raised her hand. Something about her made Jo pause to listen.

The mayor scanned the audience for other hands before finally taking her question. “May?”

“Yes, Peter, speaking of tourist dollars, I was just wondering about the town’s budget. How are the books this year?”

“I’m happy to report that we’ve got a balanced budget.”

May smiled and her finely groomed eyebrows lifted, perhaps a little surprised, perhaps pleased, it was difficult to tell. A few members of the audience applauded, muffling the sound of the door closing behind Jo.

4

Jo happened to glance through the kitchen window of Sally’s house on the way to the front door. Her housemate was standing at the counter, wearing a retro apron patterned with red cherries. Head down, threads of gold hair obscuring her eyes, she was spooning a powdery substance that resembled baking soda onto a little electronic scale. A series of canning labels were lined up like soldiers across the counter. Sally looked up as Jo passed the window, her lips forming a perfect, lipsticked “O.” Evidently she hadn’t been expecting Jo, who was supposed to be at work.

By the time Jo kicked off her rubber boots in the entryway and stepped into the kitchen, Sally had her pink mixer running at full tilt, ferociously blending some gooey concoction. Both the little scale and the canning labels had disappeared, but there was a bulge in the pocket of Sally’s apron. A small spiral notebook lay open on the counter. Scrawling, enigmatic notes implied that some dark alchemy had just transpired. Jo was able to read, “two grams of natriumalginat,” “spherification process,” and “perhaps a chocolate coating?” before Sally followed the direction of her glance and casually slipped the notebook into her pocket too.

“Hey,” said Jo. “Nice apron.” She felt a little sheepish, given that they had not hit it off on their first meeting and then had argued about the cleanliness of their shared space. And now Jo needed a favour.

“Don’t you love it? Made it myself.” Sally held the frilly apron up at the corners, further emphasizing the contrast between her petite waist and generous hips.

“Whatchya making?” Jo asked.

Sally waved her hand nonchalantly. “Oh, a little smoothie. I’m on a health kick.”

“You?” Jo wished she hadn’t said it with such obvious disbelief.

“Yes. I find it quite tasty with vodka.”

Jo snorted a little.

“Care to try?” Sally offered.

Jo looked dubiously at the lumpy mixture in Sally’s bowl: it reminded her of the bubble tea sold in malls back in Vancouver and had a suspicious resemblance to fish eggs. “It’s a little early for me.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Sally said archly.

“Well …” Jo choked back a retort. “I didn’t mean to disturb … whatever it is that you’re doing. I just needed to ask a favour.”

“Hmm?” Sally had a way of imbuing anything she said with additional meaning.

“I wondered whether I might borrow your truck.”

“Sure.” Sally’s lips were pursed a little. “But it will cost you a bottle of iceberg gin.” Now Sally warmed to a smile. “Keys are on the hook. Chains are on ’er. You crack her up, you die.”

“I die, I’ll be sure not to come back and tell you about it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just up the Dempster. Need to talk to Christopher Byrne. Do you know where his cabin is? Heard it’s up there somewhere.”

Something about Sally’s composure seemed to slip. “Sure, everyone knows,” she said. “I’ll give you a map.” She turned away quickly, under the pretense of looking for a map, fussing perhaps more than was necessary with the contents of a kitchen drawer. After removing random bits of paper, numerous corkscrews, bear spray, and several dog-eared recipe books, she did eventually produce the map. “Here,” she said, circling the location with a red pen.

“Can I ask you something?” Jo said.

Sally hesitated and narrowed her eyes. “You care too much.”

“What?” Jo said.

“Yes. Dawson will be good for you. Loosen you up.”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed loosening.”

“You do. You could also do with a bit of product. Tame the hair.”

Jo put one hand self-consciously to the smoky bits of dark, wild hair escaping from her toque.

Sally gave her an appraising look. “Do you dance?”

“Sure, if someone points a gun at my feet.”

“That could be arranged.”

“No.”

“You know, you have potential. I bet you clean up all right. What are you, a size six?”

“No
.
”

“A four, then?”

“
No.
”

“Okay, okay,” Sally shrugged. “Just a thought. You have to survive the winter too, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Sally looked skeptical. “You look pretty scrawny to me. You should always fatten up before a Yukon winter. I don’t know what Doug was thinking when he recommended you as a housemate. I really don’t.” She added under her breath, “I owe him one.” The way she said it, it didn’t sound as though she’d be returning the favour with kindness. She began chucking things randomly back in the drawer, so that it failed to close at least once. “Oh, what did you want to ask me?” She squared her shoulders as she turned to face Jo.

“This morning, you said you saw me getting into Christopher Byrne’s truck last night at Gertie’s.”

“Did I?” Sally said, as though she couldn’t remember.

Jo raised an eyebrow.
Nice try, sister.
“Were you in the parking lot at the time then?”

“Nooo, I saw you leave together.” Sally hesitated for just a fraction of a second. “Then I happened to look through the window and saw you …” She turned her back on Jo, toward the dishes piled up in the sink. “Somewhere I have gloves for this sort of thing,” she said, looking at the dishes.

“Why?”

“Hmm?” Sally began running the water, as if to drown out the question.

“Why would you watch us?”

“I was just curious.” The pots and pans jangled, creating a sense of discomfort and unease in the room, or perhaps just heightening what each woman was already feeling. “I noticed Marlo following Chris around that night and saw her go out the door after the two of you. I do enjoy a good show.” She smiled over her shoulder at Jo.

“Marlo was following Byrne that night? Why?”

“No idea.” She turned away again under the guise of cleaning the counters, something that was rarely done by the look of things.

“Were you home when I got back?”

“You don’t remember?” Sally stopped cleaning at this. She leaned on the counter and folded her arms across her chest.

“Honestly? No.”

“I told you. You were already back when I got home. In your room. With the door shut. Why?”

“And you don’t know what time you got home?”

“God only knows. And she isn’t telling.” She waved one gloved hand in the air.

“Do you know for a fact that Byrne was in my room?”

“His truck was out front.”

“Yes, but did you actually see him? Or hear him?”

“No. Why?” Her green eyes narrowed.

“Just … something I’m thinking about.”

After a second try, the engine of the old pink Chevy pickup hacked, rattled, and reluctantly started. Jo allowed Sally’s truck to idle, flipping down the mirror over the driver’s seat, fully expecting the dark circles under her eyes. What she was not expecting were the small, vintage photos that had been taped around the mirror like a Hollywood vanity. One caught Jo’s attention. Jo tugged at the photograph to release it: a black-and-white snap of a handsome gambler wearing a white shirt, black waistcoat, and bow tie. Christopher Byrne. His hair was shorter then, though still a bit tousled in the front, in the style of a 1940s screen hero. He was posing with Sally. Jo returned the photo and snapped the mirror back in place before noticing the gauge was almost on empty. She left the truck running for a moment while she went back to ask what kind of fuel “Bettie” took.

Sally’s back was turned away from the window when Jo walked by it this time. She was on the landline in the kitchen. Jo opened the front door quietly and stood in the boot room, one hand on the door handle, while Sally finished her conversation.

“Yes, of course. Who else would it be?” There was a note of annoyance in her voice. “She was just here. I don’t think she remembers much. But she’s certainly asking a lot of questions.” Sally listened for a moment. “Hel
lo
?” she said. There was a muffled reply. “Uh-uh. I don’t want to know all the gory details. But she’s on her way to your cabin now, so perhaps you should ask her yourself.” Another long silence. “I just want you to know that in the time you’ve taken to formulate your response, I’ve painted my nails, assisted a midwife in Uganda with the birthing of twins, and brushed up on my knowledge of ancient Greek mythology. And now I must go. Toodles.” Sally returned the receiver and plucked the miniature scale out of her apron pocket. “Ah, Molecular Gastronomy, prepare to pleasure me,”
she said, rifling through a cluttered kitchen drawer to find a plastic syringe.

Jo closed the door quietly behind her.

5

Snow fell mutely over the log cabin in the woods. The icing on the roof made Jo think of a gingerbread house, lending an eerie fairy-tale quality to the hushed forest as she walked up the long lane.

A smoke-coloured husky appeared on the little porch, barking. One eye brown, the other the colour of ice. Byrne shushed the dog as he joined it on the front stoop, leaning against a cedar support beam. “Hello again,” he called out. He was wearing a thick cable-knit sweater and a plaid shirt-jacket. Jo was immediately reminded of why she had taken the ride with him. Those eyes, not green and not blue, expressed some mutual understanding. A shared secret. There was an intelligence about him, and when he smiled he emanated a warmth that made everything else melt away. She liked him instantly. He made her want to laugh. “The kettle’s not long boiled,” he said. “Want to come in for a cuppa?”

A fire flickered and snapped in the woodstove, kicking out a pleasant wall of heat. The room had a definite rustic charm: one table, two chairs—each painted a different colour—some exposed shelves filled with Mason jars and cooking supplies, a wooden counter for food preparation, a bunch of pots and pans, a four-poster bed that looked hand-carved, and a tin horse trough that might have been used for bathing. There was no refrigerator, no oven, and no sink. The bookshelves, though, were crammed with dog-eared books and the walls were richly decorated with original art and carvings made from wood and antler or bone. Jo might not have agreed to come in if she had realized that she’d be in Byrne’s bedroom as well as his kitchen, but it was too late.