Strange Things Done (7 page)

“Nice place,” she said. She cleared her throat. “I suppose you heard what happened?”

“Yes,” he said, frowning. “Terrible thing. Please,” he motioned to a chair, “have a seat. You must have had a shock. Coffee?”

“Umm … How much trouble would that be exactly?”

“None at all. I’ve already melted the snow.”

“Then yes, thanks.” Jo studied the angles of his face, which seemed just as artfully crafted as one of his pieces. “So, you melt snow for cooking.” She looked around again. No outlets. An oil lamp on the bedside table. “No electricity?”

“Nope.”

“Why would you buy a cabin with no electricity and no running water?”

“I didn’t buy it. I built it. I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately.” The weight of his gaze was unnerving.

“Thoreau?”

“Yes.” A copper kettle whistled. He filled a glass coffee press and placed it on the table with two mismatched mugs.

“The RCMP came to see me this morning.” Jo watched the steam rising from the Bodum, writhing in the air.

“Johnny Cariboo?”

“Yes,” she said. “He told me about the woman they found in the river. He wanted to know if I was with you last night.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth, of course.”

“Which is?”

“That I don’t remember how I got home.”

Byrne furrowed his brow. “You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. “I remember you picking me up in the parking lot.”

“I see,” he said. “I’d hoped you’d remember more.” He pushed the handle of the Bodum down, pressing the grinds to the bottom of the pot.

“Why? What happened last night?”

“Well …” He poured her a coffee, filling her head with the uplifting scent. “Sugar?”

“No thanks,” she said.

“I gave you a ride home. And … well …”

“And? Did we …? Did anything …?” He raised an eyebrow, making her feel foolish. She rushed to finish what she had to say. “Only Sally told me that you were in my room …”

“No! No … Plenty of time for that.” He hid his smile behind his coffee cup, and Jo felt a rush of heat. She looked away, but found herself looking at the bed, the thick fur throws there, and felt herself blush. She looked at the husky instead, who was beating his tail rhythmically on the wood floor. She took another sip of coffee, warming her hands on the mug.

“That’s Nugget,” he said, following her look.

“Cute.”

“Thank you,” he said, as if accepting the compliment for himself. There was laughter in his eyes.

Jo felt herself losing patience. She glanced at her watch. She was running out of time before she had to meet Doug. “Look, Sergeant Cariboo came straight to my place after finding the body because he thought you were with me. Why would he do that?”

Byrne shook his head, his expression harder now. “No idea. You’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid.”

“Did he interview you?”

“Yes. I spoke with him when I was in town this morning.”

“Did you use me as an alibi?”

“Not exactly, because I don’t think it’s a murder investigation,” Byrne said. “But yes, I said that we were together.” The weight of his gaze was unnerving.
No wonder I let you take me home last night.

“
Together
, together?” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

Byrne opened his mouth a little, then closed it tightly. “You don’t remember anything at all.” It was a statement, not a question. “Really, Ms. Silver. I am wounded.” He didn’t look wounded. He looked amused. “Perhaps we could do something to jog your memory.” He leaned forward, and she wondered whether he was going to try to kiss her, and whether she wanted him to or not.

“Look, I have to be back at the office soon.”

“At the
Daily
.”

“Yeah. Could I use your phone? I need to let Doug know that I’ll be back late. He’s the editor.”

“Yes, I know Doug. And I’d be happy to let you use my phone, only I haven’t got one.”

“Oh, right.”

“And there’s no cellular service in Dawson.”

“But I heard Sally call you this morning.”

He grinned. “She called me at the pub.”

“Why? Why would she think you’d be there?”

“Because I often go there during the day. Have a coffee in the morning. Play Scrabble or cards with the guys. You know. Until my shift at Gertie’s begins.”

“You work at Gertie’s?”

“Card dealer on the poker tables. Only in the tourist season, though. I try to save winter for art.”

Jo looked around the room again. “Are all of these yours?” She raised her mug toward the twin shelves framing the bed, where elaborate carvings perched on or next to stacks of books.

“Uh-huh. I studied in the South for a bit. I mean, at the University of Northern BC.”

“Still in the North.”

“Not compared to Dawson. There’s north and then there’s North.”

Jo had to smile. She stood to look at his work. Animals in fight-or-flight mode. She felt his eyes following her as she moved and felt self-conscious. “They’re beautiful.” She meant it. The curve of each line was achingly perfect.

“Thank you.” When she glanced at him, he had a curious expression on his face.

She walked toward a rough tree stump in the corner, near the bed, where something had caught her eye. A sleek blackbird, wooden wings outstretched, the detail on the legs so fine that you could see every scale. The beak was open in midcry, chest thrust forward, and wings about to beat. His work expressed the power of the creature at a transformative moment. The fury of nature and the fragility. “I love this one. A raven?”

“Yes. It’s a bit of a family reference. Byrne comes from the Irish name Ó Broin, from the first name Bran, which means ‘raven.’ Descendants of Bran related back to an ancient king of Leinster and his clan, whose motto in Latin was
Certavi et vici
. ‘I have fought and conquered.’ ”

“Your work is really emotive.”

“Thanks. It pays homage to Taggish mythology and the creatures of the North. But sometimes they don’t like me stealing their stories. Cultural appropriation, I believe they call it.”

“Well, it’s lovely.”
A man and a woman and a blackbird are one.
The words of a forgotten poem surfaced, unbidden. She said, “
I know noble accents / And lucid, inescapable rhythms …”

Byrne cocked his head. “Wallace Stevens?”

Jo wasn’t listening. She was still struggling to remember. “Sorry?”

“ ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.’ We talked about it last night …”

“Did we? Look, I need to get going, but I’d really like a bit more detail about last night.” When she turned away from his art and back toward him, he was suddenly very close to her. “Everything that happened,” she said.

He put his hand on her chin and lifted her face. “Everything?”

“Yes,” she said, conscious of their proximity to the bed.

“Okay,” he said.

Jo decided not to tell him that she remembered seeing Marlo.

“I love the lines of your face.” They stood there for a moment like that, him cupping her chin, the heat between their bodies a shared force. He was going to kiss her. Jo was sure of it now, and she wanted him to. Instead, he released her.

“We should get together when you have more time. What do you say to a reenactment tomorrow night? I’d say tonight, but I’m working. How’s your head, by the way?”

“Poor,” she said, truthfully, but her pulse was racing.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” He walked her to the door.

Jo found herself reluctant to leave. She paused at the threshold. “One more thing, why would Sally call you? Why would she tell you that I was on my way over?”

“She’s an old friend of mine,” Byrne said, but he frowned.

Jo thought about this all the way back to Dawson.

6

Large photos flashed by on Doug’s desktop computer, full of the cheerful woollen colours and patterns of the townspeople at sunrise. The way that people folded their arms and leaned in to one another, Jo could almost feel the icy breeze off the river again. Another shot showed the yellow RCMP Zodiac patrolling the shoreline; the next, the troubled expressions of Mayor Wright and Johnny Cariboo at the town meeting. Jo found her gaze lingering on Johnny Cariboo longer than it should. He had striking features, and there was a dark intensity about him that Jo appreciated. Something a bit melancholy.
Shame he’s a uniform.

“Photos aren’t bad.” Doug glanced at her, as though guessing what she was thinking. He was seated at his metal desk, framed against the backdrop of a huge poster that read, “We drive into the future using only our rearview mirror.” The image pictured Marshall McLuhan, head on hand. “But, uh …”

“But
what
?” Jo said, instantly regretting the sharp tone of her voice.
The nagging questions about her missing memory had left her feeling on edge. She also wondered how trustworthy her new housemate might be, now that she knew Sally had warned Byrne about her impending visit. The drive back into town through blowing snow hadn’t helped matters. Even with the chains on Sally’s 1950s Chevy, Jo had thought she might not make it back. She could barely find the road.

“Firstly, we can’t use the word ‘suicide,’ ” Doug said.

“Context,” Jo said, folding her arms. She was seated on a cold metal stool next to Doug, legs tightly crossed. “I didn’t say that Marlo McAdam committed suicide. I merely said that Crocus Bluffs was the most likely place for the fall and that the place is known locally as ‘Suicide Bluffs.’ ”

“But the link is obvious to the reader, and given Marlo’s position in the community, it would be politically, uh … insensitive … to make that suggestion without more factual evidence.” Doug looked away, back at the article on his desk.

“Oh, come on. There are only two choices. She jumped, or she was pushed.”

“She could have fallen,” Doug said.

Jo gave him a disbelieving look. “From the top of a cliff. In the middle of the night. Seems a little …”

“Secondly …”

“… convenient for an accident.”

“We can’t go to print ahead of schedule. Thursday night we print it, and Friday morning we deliver it.”

“But … that’s
four
days
away … and this is the kind of story that could get you national readers if you run it first. The body of a prominent politician washes ashore in a town of thirteen hundred people …” Jo waved one hand, stirring the cold air.

“
Could
. If it were murder. Or a suicide. But chances are it was an accident,” Doug said. “This isn’t some big city in the South. We get the odd bit of domestic violence, but we haven’t seen anything more serious in years. Well, except for that time Two-By-Four Tom put a bullet through another prospector’s head. Very intense.” Jo raised an eyebrow at Doug’s choice of words, but the gesture appeared to be lost on him. “At any rate, we don’t have the budget for additional print runs.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We just don’t. And, you know, I’m right in the middle of parent-teacher meetings.”

Jo placed a hand over her lips, suppressing the urge to laugh. “If we can’t go to print until Friday, we could at least dig a little deeper. Have something more than the nationals have by the time we do.”

“Look, I’m not sure how to say this …” Doug’s watery blue eyes contained undercurrents of meaning. “I know you’re looking for a chance to make a … you know, a comeback with a big story, but …”

“That’s not fair. The public have a right to know if this is something more ominous than the RCMP are admitting. I mean, it’s important to me to …”

“It’s just that I don’t want us jumping to conclusions. I’m only the editor for one more week, and I knew Marlo, and if you want to talk about
fairness
, I want to be fair to her. We report the facts, and we don’t speculate beyond them. This paper has always been about community service, and I want to make sure it stays that way. At least while I’m still here. So for my last edition, we’re doing service to Marlo’s memory.”

“But …”

“Look, you can talk to Caveman … uh, his real name is Cal Sanders … about the experience of finding Marlo’s body. Geez, that must have been quite a shock.”

“Yes.”

Doug shook his head and looked stern again. “But let the RCMP do their work. I don’t want us, you know, stepping on toes. And anything you write this week goes through me first. Cool?”

“Understood.”

“Our professional reputation is on the line here. Goddamn it, how did Marshall get out again?”

Jo looked down, where Doug’s attention was focused. The plump guinea pig waddled by, pausing to chew blandly on a scrap of newspaper.

Despite the plummeting temperatures outside, Diamond Tooth Gertie’s Gambling Hall was warmed by the hot colours of lumberjack shirts and velvet curtains. A spirited fire snapped at a stone hearth. The crowd was much sparser than it had been the previous evening, though, and the mood very different. Full of misgiving. The special of the day looked disconcertingly bloody: cranberry wheat beer.

Although the cancan dancers appeared to have packed it in, Sally was still on stage, doing some kind of dance of the seven veils to a cover of “Trust in Me
.
” She was on fire. The sequins on her tangerine-coloured costume caught the stage light, flaring in sudden sparks. The serpentine motion of the veils gradually exposed more sparkling skin, dusted in gold, and more goosebumps. The clientele were seated at round tables with red tablecloths, hunched over bottles of Yukon Gold or glass steins of ruby-hued ale. A few turned to look at Jo when she entered, their faces hard with suspicion, but most were mesmerized by the translucent fabric falling onto the stage and the shimmering flashes of skin. Jo scanned the room full of baseball hats and toques until she found the telltale floppy black hat that she was looking for: Caveman Cal. He was seated at the bar, with Christopher Byrne leaning next to him. They had their backs to her as she approached them, but Jo caught low snippets of conversation as she made her way over. Marlo was a popular topic of conversation.