Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  As they vanished into the crowd, Cloë turned to us. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to introduce you. But it’s probably just as well. You wouldn’t want to know that man.”

  “Who is he?” Eric asked. “He seems familiar.”

  “He was a business associate of Dmitri’s until they had a falling out. Dmitri suspected he was making some under the table business deals, but was never able to prove it. François is now CEO of a rival forestry company.”

  “Now I remember. His company was at the centre of one of the big logging protests on Vancouver Island a few years back. As I recall, he faced the protesters at the barricades and convinced them to let his company do selective logging of the old growth. But he went back on his word and cleared the whole damn side of the mountain before anyone could stop him.”

  “That’s François for you, all charm and no honour. He’ll do anything to make a buck.”

  “Charm indeed. He did rather come onto you, didn’t he, Sis?”

  “Is this brotherly concern taking over?” She smiled. “Don’t worry. I stay well out of reach of his roving hands. He acts that way with every woman. Besides, I’m too old. He likes them barely out of the cradle and, as you can see, with boobs out to here.” She extended her arms as far as they could go. “His first wife got fed up with all his affairs and left him. She took him to the cleaners.” She chortled and glanced at me knowingly. “If that woman with him is his wife, she must be number four or five. I’ve lost count. I have no intention of having dinner with him. So let’s stay well clear of him. By the way, where are you staying?”

  Eric smiled wryly. “At the Eagle’s Nest. And you?”

  “Oh dear. I was going to ask if you thought they might have a room for me at your hotel. I’m afraid I made the decision so quickly that I forgot to book a room.”

  Eric groaned. “And if they don’t have a room, what are you going to do?”

  “I’ll find one at another hotel.”

  “It might not be close by. Do you plan on renting a car?”

  “Forget I asked,” she snapped back. “I’ll make my own arrangements.” She flung an angry glance at her brother before stomping across the hall to the only car rental booth in the airport.

  I gave Eric my own evil eye and was about to call his sister back, when his brotherly concern finally kicked in. “Cloë, come back. I’ll check our hotel for a room. If they have one, you won’t need to rent a car.”

  She walked back as he tried his cell. “No signal. I’ll try outside.”

  Cloë and I watched him thread his way through the thinning crowd toward the exit. Through the glass doors I could see François and his companion climbing into a dark blue Range Rover being driven by Ernest.

  I turned back to my sister-in-law. “I’m sorry, Cloë. I think Eric’s still getting used to having his sister again. He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt.”

  She shrugged. “He wasn’t the easiest of brothers.”

  “I thought the two of you were very close when you were growing up.”

  “We were … but you know how it is … you grow up and other things become more important in your life.” She paused. “Like hockey. It kind of went to his head. But that’s a long time ago and now we’re back together again.” Although a smile spread across her face, it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  Her comment left me confused. It sounded as if she was blaming Eric for their falling out. I was tempted to bring up the fight over their mother’s inheritance but decided against it. Now wasn’t the time.

  “We were surprised that you decided to come with us. We assumed you’d wait until Eric had a chance to locate some of Allistair’s relatives.”

  “That was my plan, but after Dmitri told me he was too busy to come, I changed my mind. I didn’t want to do it by myself.”

  I squeezed her hand and said words I didn’t completely believe, but knew would make her feel better. “I’m glad you came.”

  I found Eric’s sister a bit of an enigma and wasn’t entirely certain if I liked her. There was just something about her that left me cold. I was hoping these couple of days together would give me a chance to change my mind and come to like her.

  Eric walked back through the airport entrance. With a thumbs-up he signalled success, then nodded his head in the direction of the car rental booth.

  A man with close-cropped light brown hair and dragging a wheeled suitcase approached Cloë. Despite his casual clothes, he had an air of officialdom about him. “Mrs. Zakarhov, I see against my advice you decided to come.”

  “This trip has nothing to do with you, Sergeant Antonucci. I came with my brother and sister-in-law to scatter my son’s ashes on his ancestral lands.”

  “Once again, ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss. I would like to remind you that we are doing all we can to find your son’s killer. But it’s a small community here on the island, where everyone knows everyone’s business, so I would appreciate if you stayed away from the investigation.”

  “I think, Sergeant, that the only thing that matters is that my son’s killer is caught. How it’s done is immaterial.”

  “A word of caution, ma’am. It could be dangerous. So please leave police business to us.” After a perfunctory goodbye, he continued out the exit to a waiting RCMP SUV.

  “What was that all about?” Eric asked, arriving just as the detective left.

  “He’s the sergeant in charge of the case,” Cloë replied. “One of his underlings told me they’ve learned that the man who stole Allistair’s pole, and their prime suspect, is here. Antonucci got quite angry when he found out that his man had told me.”

  “Is this the real reason you came?” I asked.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “I want to spit on the bastard when they clamp on the cuffs.”

  Twenty-Three

  The Eagle’s Nest was a fitting name. When I stepped onto the deck outside our room, I found myself locking eyes with a bald eagle. Although we were at the same level, I realized he was roosting on the top of a tree. We stared at each other for a few seconds before he turned his head away as if he had other things on his mind.

  To further emphasize the steepness of the terrain, the roofs of neighbouring houses seemed to cascade down the slope to the main street of Queen Charlotte far below. Beyond lay the broad channel we’d crossed by ferry and the mist-wrapped mountains of Morseby Island where we’d landed. We were told that this channel, Skidegate Inlet, severed the archipelago into two distinct halves with the southern half comprising the mostly uninhabited Moresby Island and numerous smaller islands. The northern part was primarily a single island, Graham Island, where the majority of the people lived. It included two Haida communities; Skidegate in the south and Old Masset in the north. The pole raising was taking place in Skidegate, a short drive from where we were staying.

  Although we’d shared the ferry crossing with the Vancouver cop, there’d been no further interaction with Eric’s sister, other than his pointing her out to his RCMP counterpart. The master carver and his client were also on the ferry. But with a number of vehicles separating us, we didn’t have to worry about protecting Cloë from François’s advances. By the time we inched our way off the ferry, they were gone.

  Our hotel turned out to be a bed and breakfast with rooms in the main house and in several cottages. The house, with an A-frame sloped roof and balconies stretching across the front, looked as if it should be standing beside a ski hill, while the cottages were the typical box-like structures found lining the shores of crowded Canadian lakes. Cloë had a room in the main house, while our room was in the farthest cottage. Ours had a front window view onto what I would come to know and love as the essence of Haida Gwaii: rain forest–carpeted mountains tumbling into shifting seas.

  If Cloë hoped to avoid her amorous Frenchman, she would have to stay away from our cottage. When we arrived, Ernest Paul was carrying several leather suitcases into the room next to ours. Both Ernest and François raised their eyebrows in surprise when Eri
c introduced himself as Cloë’s brother. Ernest mumbled something about it explaining everything. Not bothering with niceties, Eric got straight to the point and asked if Ernest had any idea who’d killed his nephew.

  “I wish I knew,” the man replied. “He was a nice kid and had the makings of a master carver.”

  “The boy was murdered in your shed. You must have some idea who killed him. The fact his killer stole the log he was working on says he’s going to do something with it other than split it into firewood. And, if the police are right, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to bring it all the way up here. What’s so special about that log?”

  “The bastard stole my damn truck, that’s what. And the log I paid good money for,” Ernest fired back, then stopped abruptly. “What did you say again? That last part.”

  “I said he’s brought the log here.”

  “You kiddin’ me?”

  “That’s what the police told my sister. Any idea why he would do that?”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  “This guy’s a carver, isn’t he?”

  Ernest remained silent.

  “And you know him, don’t you? You have to. I bet every carver in your community keeps tabs on one another.”

  “Ah, messieurs,” François said, sauntering up. “I think this is a conversation best discussed over a glass of Beaujolais, non? Would you care to join me?” He walked into the kitchen and placed a wine bottle on the counter and proceeded to open it with a corkscrew he took from his pocket.

  “François, I’d love like hell to join you, but I have a bunch of errands I gotta do before dinner,” Ernest replied, glancing at his watch. “Look, I’ll pick you and Sherry up in an hour and a half, okay?” He was slamming the front door behind him before the Frenchman could reply.

  François turned to Eric. “That leaves us. And I won’t accept no for an answer. I am most interested in getting to know the brother of the lovely Cloë — and his charming wife.”

  I could see my husband hesitating. François had the distinctive aura of the ruling class, which Eric innately distrusted. Nonetheless, I said, “Eric, you go ahead. I’ll unpack. We don’t meet your sister for dinner for another hour.”

  Since this man was the head of a major forestry company, I thought it wouldn’t hurt for Eric to get to know him, even if he wasn’t an especially upstanding CEO. Clashes between native communities and logging companies were becoming all too frequent. If Eric did become head of the GCFN, such a contact could be useful.

  I left the two of them in the living room settling into rattan chairs. Each held a wine glass swirling with the dark red liquid and wore nice-to-get-to-know-you smiles. Though it was difficult to tell what lay behind François’s smile, I knew from the steely glint in Eric’s grey eyes that this wouldn’t be a friendly conversation.

  Partway along the hall, I passed François’s companion, still teetering on her too-high heels. We exchanged polite insipid smiles and first names and continued on our respective ways, she to join the men and me to our room. I hesitated for a moment wondering if Eric needed my protection, but then decided that I was being too “wifey.” Still, if Eric didn’t come to the room within a respectable time, I would go in search of a cup of tea.

  But he surprised me. He joined me in less time than it took to drink a glass of wine.

  “What did you do? Toss the wine down in one gulp?” I jammed the last of my clothes into the top drawer of the chest.

  He chuckled. “A fine vintage, but I couldn’t leave my wife, an even finer vintage, all alone, especially in a room with such a magnificent bed.”

  It was indeed magnificent: a four-poster mahogany bed with a lace canopy that seemed more fitting in a Victorian manor house than in a vinyl-sided bungalow. But I wasn’t going to give in that easily. “Vintage! You’re calling me vintage?”

  He grinned devilishly. “A vintage that has mellowed and ripened into a sumptuous taste with a hint of chocolate on the nose, long curvaceous legs, and a full fantastic body.” He grabbed me and together we tumbled onto the bed, narrowly missing the empty suitcase, which was quickly pushed to the floor.

  “You know, Eric, we seem to spend more time in bed than out of it.”

  “That bothers you?”

  I answered with a titillating kiss.

  Cloë was snapping back the pages of a fashion magazine when we arrived rather shamefacedly a good twenty minutes late in the cluttered front room of the main house. Like our cottage, it was a jumble of fake antiques and discount store furniture overlade with cutesy knickknacks and walls dripping with crocheted hangings and framed calendar artwork. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace. On the end table beside her stood a mug of tea with a layer of congealed milk floating on its surface.

  She didn’t scold us, but instead said rather tersely, “I’ve found a restaurant. According to our innkeeper, Jimmy’s Gastropub is the best in this godforsaken town. Can you imagine, there are only two decent restaurants, plus a pub with no doubt the standard godawful pub fare? How in the world do people survive?”

  “Not everyone can afford the luxury of fine dining,” Eric quipped. “Besides, you have a Master Chef here.” He flung out his arms in ta-dah fashion. “With the bounty of the sea at our feet, we can eat royally tomorrow night. After that you’re on your own.”

  “You’re really leaving Sunday?”

  “Yup.”

  “But what if we don’t find Allistair’s birth family tomorrow?”

  “I figure half the Haida Nation is going to be at this pole raising. I think the chances are high that someone will know who the bracelet belongs to.”

  “But what if no one does?”

  “Then you’ll just have to continue on your own.”

  “But how can I? They won’t own up to me. Remember, I adopted him. I’m the enemy. If there was one thing I learned from you, it was that.” She started to weep.

  I wondered if it made sense for me to stay behind to help her, but before I could make the suggestion, Eric said. “I don’t think it will take long to locate his birth family if any are still around. I’ve done some Internet research and have discovered that, like totem poles, the designs engraved in these bracelets tend to be family crests. I’m hoping that the crest will be quickly recognized.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then either the design on the bracelet is not a family crest or Allistair’s relatives no longer live on Haida Gwaii. But enough talk. I’m starved. Let’s go find this fancy restaurant of yours.”

  Twenty-Four

  It looked as if “Jimmy’s” better defined the restaurant than “Gastropub.” The cavernous room with fake mahogany panelling, scuffed vinyl flooring, metal chairs, and Arborite-topped tables could only augur mediocre food. The giant photos of hockey players covering the walls didn’t suggest gourmet fare either, nor did the large flat screen TV over the bar currently airing, what else, a hockey game.

  “Not exactly my idea of a gastropub,” Cloë muttered as she turned to leave. I was about to join her when Eric stopped us.

  “Smells pretty good to me,” he said. “And look at all the people. They wouldn’t be here if the food wasn’t any good.”

  It did smell good, but there didn’t seem to be any free tables.

  The reed-thin man who’d been drying glasses behind the bar walked over to us, flipping the towel over his shoulder as he slicked back the few remaining grey hairs on his head. I could tell he was about to tell us there was no room, when his gaunt face lit up. “Is that Lightning Odjik who used to play for the Flames?”

  Confused, I turned to Eric, who was beaming. “It’s been a long time since I played for Calgary. I’m surprised you recognize me.”

  “I never forget a face, and certainly not the face that scored the winning goal in the final game of the 1989 Stanley Cup playoffs. Man, you made me five hundred bucks that day. I thought for sure I was gonna lose and then you came through in the final second of the game and scored with that perfect shot
. A bit late, but I’d sure like to shake the hand that kept me in beer that week.”

  Clenching Eric’s hand in a vice-like grip, he pumped it up and down.

  Extracting his hand, Eric pretended to wince as he shook his fingers. “Man, that’s some grip. You must’ve played hockey yourself.”

  The guy laughed. “Yer kiddin’ me, eh? With a puny body like this, no way. I drove a skidder in a logging camp before I took up the restaurant business. The strong hands come from pushing all those levers.” He laughed again. “I tell you, Lightning, I cried, really cried the day you left the Flames for the Leafs. I thought you were a traitor going east like that. But I guess you had no say, eh?”

  “I didn’t want to leave either, but there wasn’t much I could do. The Flames’ owners made a lot of money off me with that trade.”

  “Within a year you were out ’cause of that recurring groin injury. Must ’a hurt like hell leaving hockey like that.”

  “It wasn’t one of my happier moments, but hey, life goes on, and I’m doing what I love best with the woman I love best.” He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close.

  Here we go again with this chattel business, I thought, starting to resist. But realizing this was to be expected in the man’s world of hockey, I relaxed into his side and put on my best dutiful wife smile.

  We both turned around at the sound of chairs scraping along the floor. A couple was leaving.

  “Jimmy,” Eric said, taking an educated guess. “I see you have an empty table coming up. Do you mind if we take it? Your food has come highly recommended.”

  “Sure, go ahead. It’ll give me real pleasure to serve the great Lightning Odjik.” He hastily removed the dirty dishes from the table and scrunched up the paper placemats.

  “Lightning?” I asked as the owner scurried away.