Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  “All for a stupid picture. Look, guys, I’m feeling kinda shaky. I’m going to go to my room, pop the pills the nurse gave me, and lie down, okay?” Picking up her shoes, she unfolded her legs and stood up.

  “Why don’t I keep you company?” Cloë suggested. “I’ll pour us both some more scotch.”

  “Thanks. But I just want to be by myself, okay?” Ignoring the proffered refilled glass, the grieving mistress padded down the hall in her bare feet and disappeared into her room.

  Momentarily silenced by the rejection, Eric’s sister continued to stare at the empty hallway before pouring the departed woman’s scotch into her own freshly filled glass. “I’m feeling rather shaky myself. I think I’ll go to my room.”

  I watched her progress through the window. With her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, she seemed so forlorn I almost ran out to keep her company.

  Eric, sensing my unease, said, “We’ve all had a rough few hours. That scotch’ll put her to sleep, and when she wakes up she’ll be fine.”

  Figuring he knew his sister best, I poured myself another cup of tea, placed some chocolate chip cookies on a plate, and passed them around.

  “What do you plan to do now, Harry?” Eric asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Without bothering to wait until she finished chewing her cookie, Rose said, “We gotta get the pole up. You can’t be chief without it. Ain’t that right, Louise?”

  “But Awaay, the pole killed a man. It’s cursed,” her son said.

  “Harrumph, it’ll be part of the pole’s story. Long after you’re dead, people’ll be talkin’ about the great Chief Greenstone and his famous pole.”

  Louise glanced at her cousin with disgust before saying, “Harry, do you have enough money to have another one carved? It would be better to have one that doesn’t have this shameful story.”

  “It cost me eighty grand. No way I can come up with more. As it is, I had to remortgage my condo. Plus I’ve got a bundle invested in potlatch gifts.” He winced. “I suppose I can return most of them, but hell, I’m going to be the laughingstock of the Haida. The chief-that-never-was. No, I’ve got to go through with it. I’ve no choice.”

  She nodded grimly.

  He stood up, his face set in determination. “We’ve got to go, Awaay. I need to find out when the police will be finished at my place and find a logging winch. It’s the only way to get that damn pole raised now. I sure as hell wished I’d gone that route in the first place.”

  “You’ll need witnesses,” Louise said. “I assume most people have gone home.”

  “I don’t see us having a problem getting them back. Everyone’ll be dying to see if the pole will fall again.” His mother punctuated this comment with a loud laugh.

  A phone rang. Harry reached into his jacket pocket.

  “Harry MacMillan here.”

  As we listened to the one-sided conversation, we watched Harry’s face grow steadily grimmer. I thought I heard the door to Sherry’s room click open.

  “Yup…. Yup…. Damn, you sure…? So what happens now…? Right. I’ll drop by the station on my way back to Skidegate.”

  He ended the call. “That was the RCMP. They say the two ropes were intentionally cut. It’s now a murder investigation. Damn! Just what I need.”

  Sherry’s voice shouted from the hallway, “See! Didn’t I tell you?” The door slammed shut loudly as she retreated back into her room.

  Rose turned to Louise and snarled, “It’s all your goddamn fault. You don’t want Harry to be chief. I bet your damn nephew cut the ropes to bring shame on Harry. And you probably put him up to it.” She struggled out of the chair. “Come on, Harry. Let’s get outta here.”

  Without waiting for a response she charged her way to the front door, but before she reached it she turned around and pointed at her rival. “Harry’s gonna be chief. You hear? Whether you like it or not!”

  As she flung the door open, it banged hard against the wall. She stomped out.

  Her son slowly rose from his chair. “Auntie, I’m sorry about this. But you know my mother can get a bit carried away. I know Johnnie had nothing to do with this. The police will find that a logger did this. Those guys don’t like us Haida any better than they did this poor man. I could see them using the pole raising to make a statement.”

  Halfway to the door, he stopped. “Auntie, once I’ve talked to the police, I’ll let you know what’s happening. I still want to get the pole raised today and have the potlatch tonight. We can’t let all that good food go to waste, can we?” He smiled apologetically. With a nod in our direction and a quick goodbye he was gone.

  The door closed with a click, leaving behind a ringing silence. Neither Eric nor I dared break it. I felt at a loss, unsure of what to do or say. Louise just sat there, seemingly lost in her own painful thoughts.

  For Louise’s sake, I hoped her nephew had nothing to do with this. It would be better if the ropes had been cut by a disgruntled logger, as Harry suggested. Still, if François was the target, how would the culprit have known he would be the one standing under the pole when the ropes broke?

  Then I remembered Cloë mentioning that Ernest had suggested François stand there to get some photos of the pole going up. But what would the carver’s motive be in wanting his client dead? From what people were saying, he’d be more interested in getting money from the man than settling old scores. And let’s face it, there were much easier ways to get rid of someone.

  Eric finally broke the nervous silence in his usual thoughtful way. “It’s been a tough day for you, Louise. How about Meg and I drive you back to your place and we’ll pick up our rental on the way?”

  She continued sitting, lost in thought as she played idly with her bracelet. The rain that had threatened earlier had begun to beat a staccato against the windows. I watched rivulets form on the roof of the neighbouring cottage.

  “It’s starting to rain,” I said. “We’d better go before it gets worse.”

  “The shame, the shame,” Louise whispered, her lips barely moving, her gaze fixed on the streaking rain. “It’s all my fault. And I don’t know how to make it better.” She paused. “If only one of my sons had wanted to be chief, if only …” Her voice trickled away into silence.

  I moved to help her up from the chair, but Eric stopped me. “Let her do it in her own time,” he whispered. So we waited and watched as the rain fell with more determined force.

  At last Louise straightened her back and cast her dark brown eyes fully on us. “Life is full of ‘if onlys,’ isn’t it? But we can’t go back. We can only keep going forward.” She stood up. “Eric, I think I’ll take you up on your offer to drive me home.”

  I grabbed my jacket and Eric’s red one as we headed outside into the rain. On our way to Louise’s car, Becky and her mother arrived in a silver pickup complete with shiny chrome and roof lights. They’d been searching for the Matriarch and had just learned from Harry that she was with us. It was decided that Becky would drive her auntie home, while her mother would take Eric to get our car.

  Before climbing into her car, Louise turned to Eric. “I know this has been upsetting, but I would really appreciate it if you could come to the pole raising. Your presence will help bring respect to the ceremony. Meg, you too.”

  With the image of François’s bloodied and flattened body still fresh in my mind, I shook my head. “Sorry, but I don’t think I can.”

  Louise nodded in understanding.

  “I’ll be there,” Eric said. Though he’d managed to put his rain jacket on without difficulty, he couldn’t grasp the zipper pull with his bandaged hands. I reached to zip it up, but he brushed me aside with a grin. “I’m okay. A little rain won’t hurt me.”

  “At least put up your hood.”

  “Yes, Mummy.” Grinning, he flipped the hood over his head. But at this point I wasn’t sure what good it would do. His hair was already plastered against his skull.

  “When do you want me, Louise?”
Eric asked.

  Becky answered from inside the car, “Harry said it would be around 4:30. He figures the police should be finished by then.”

  “Eric, I’d also like you and Meg to come to the potlatch after,” Louise continued. “It will be important that we give the new Chief Greenstone all the respect we can.”

  “We’d be honoured to come, wouldn’t we, Meg?”

  “Yes,” I said with some reluctance. I felt uneasy about attending a big celebration after such a tragic death.

  As if reading my mind, Eric said, “Louise, I understand your need to restore harmony to your clan. But at the same time, the dead must be respected.”

  “I feel the same way. I will make sure Harry pays homage to the memory of the poor man. Please bring his girlfriend, if she’s up to it, and your sister.”

  Louise climbed into her car and off she and Becky sped down the steep road, now more a river than asphalt.

  I glanced at Eric’s bandaged hands. “You can’t drive. I’d better come with you.”

  “I’ll be fine. See.” He gripped the door handle of the truck and wrenched the door open, but not without a few winces of pain. “Besides, I want to see a few people before the pole raising. You’ll only get bored. I also think it might not be a bad idea for you to stick around to make sure Sherry and my sister are okay.”

  Thirty-Two

  I was about to go into the cottage to check on Sherry, when I noticed Cloë leaving the main lodge. Suitably fortified against the rain in a bright blue Gore-Tex jacket, she was walking with determination. I called out, but either she didn’t hear me or she was ignoring me, for she continued without a backward glance down the steep incline that led to the main road.

  I ran after her.

  “Cloë, wait up!”

  No response. Finally, when I was almost behind her, she jumped at the sound of my voice.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you walking and thought I would join you.”

  She shrugged. “If you want. I’m going to the police station to see if they know anything about Allistair’s Haida family. I don’t imagine Eric had a chance to ask around this morning.”

  “We’ll try at the potlatch tonight.”

  “Are they actually going through with it?”

  “I believe there’s too much at stake to cancel. But Louise said they would have a ceremony to pay homage to François. She invited you to join us.”

  “Not on your life. I couldn’t celebrate, not with the image of that pole falling on him. It was terrible. And Sherry’s screaming …” She winced. “By the way, how’s she doing?”

  “I was about to check on her when I saw you. I have a feeling she’ll be fine. She strikes me as someone who doesn’t remain down for long. Do you know François’s wife?”

  “I knew his first wife, and she was a wonderful person. I think he was on wife number three when he and my ex went their separate ways. She was one stuck-up bitch.”

  “Sherry’s exact words. Must be the same wife.”

  “If it is, I don’t blame François for fooling around. But then he fooled around on every woman he hooked up with, including his mistresses.”

  A car turned onto the road and started the climb up the hill toward us. With barely enough room, we were forced to walk in the stream coursing down the side of the road. Thankfully, my feet were snug in my Gore-Tex-lined trail shoes. Cloë’s Gucci loafers, however, were soaked, but she seemed too focused on our destination to worry about wet feet.

  “Sherry sure acted as if she loved the guy. Do you think it’s possible he could’ve been fooling around on her?” I asked.

  “If he had been and she found out, I pity poor François.” Cloë picked up her pace. “I’ve got to get to the station before the officer leaves.”

  The single-storey detachment was in the middle of the town — if Queen Charlotte could be considered to have a middle of town. From what I’d seen so far, it seemed to sprawl raggedly along the shore with commercial and government buildings scattered along the main road and most of the residences sprinkled in the heights above.

  After being told that the staff sergeant was busy, we sat down on metal chairs facing a wall of Canada’s Most Wanted posters. Scanning the collection of unsavoury faces, I wondered about the chances of any of these criminals turning up here, on the edge of the world. Mind you, the remoteness of the archipelago’s many islands would offer plenty of good hideouts.

  A door opened and out of the office stepped the Vancouver policeman who was working on Allistair’s case. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of my sister-in-law.

  “Mrs. Zakharov,” he said, “I trust you’re enjoying your stay in the Queen Charlottes.”

  “You had better say you’ve found my son’s killer,” she retorted.

  “You know I can’t discuss the case with you. Suffice it to say we are working on it.”

  “Have you found the man?”

  “Please, Mrs. Zakharov, I will inform you when it’s appropriate.” He turned to a man in an RCMP uniform who had followed him out of the room. “Thanks, Jean-Louis, for the info. I’ll let you know what transpires.”

  With a curt nod in Cloë’s direction, he headed out the front door before she had a chance to say another word.

  The Mountie held out his hand. “Staff Sergeant Galarneau. What can I do for you, Madame Zakharov?”

  Staff Sergeant Jean-Louis Galarneau wasn’t exactly your ramrod straight, muscular, six-foot Mountie in red serge; rather, he was quite squat and verging on flabbiness. His navy Kevlar vest seemed to be acting more like a corset than protective garb. But he did have a head of thick dirty-blond hair cut short in Mountie style and a stern “I’m in charge” demeanour.

  “What was Sergeant Antonucci saying? Has he found my son’s killer?”

  “Please, madame, I know this is a terrible time for you, but you must understand it is not possible for me to discuss it with you.”

  “Can you at least tell me if you know who you’re looking for?”

  “I can only tell you that Sergeant Antonucci has identified a suspect he believes has come to these islands.”

  “I know. The man who stole Allistair’s totem pole, I want to know if you have a name.”

  “Please, madame, I cannot help you. If you don’t mind, I must be going. I am very busy.”

  I hastily intervened. “Sergeant Galarneau, if you have a few moments, the reason my sister-in-law has come to see you today is to see if you can help locate her dead son’s birth family. You know that he was Haida?”

  He started to turn away, but for whatever reason changed his mind. Perhaps buried under his aura of officialdom lurked a human heart. “I can give you five minutes.”

  He ushered us into a cold, sterile office, bare of furniture but for the de rigueur faux wooden desk, wooden chairs, and metal shelving. Apart from a photo of a young blond woman with a towheaded boy, the only other items that could be considered personal were two posters hanging on a drab green wall, one announcing the Musical Ride in Calgary a few years earlier and the other enticing people to visit the Gaspé Peninsula. Through the narrow window I could see that the rain had stopped.

  I waited for Cloë to speak, but when she didn’t, I provided my version of her son’s story and that of his birth mother. From time to time Cloë would nod in agreement. For whatever reason, she seemed content for me to carry on. Perhaps it was too painful for her. At the end of the short but sad story, I said, “My sister-in-law is hoping that you might be able to locate the parents or family of this young Haida woman.”

  “But, mesdames, this happened almost twenty years ago.”

  “Couldn’t you look through your files to see if there are any missing women from that period?”

  “There won’t be a missing persons report.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I know. Even though I have only been at this detachment for two years, I have learne
d from my experience at other detachments where there is a high native population that missing persons reports are rarely filed. Many kids leave the reserves looking for a better life in the cities. Some keep in touch with their families, but many don’t. For the ones who don’t, I have rarely seen a parent bother to report them missing. They assume their child has a good reason for staying out of touch or that the child will eventually turn up, probably broke and looking for someone to take care of their kids.”

  “Couldn’t you at least have someone check, just to make sure?”

  He sighed. “Okay. What was the year again and the name of the woman?”

  When he finished jotting down the information Cloë gave him, he said, “You should also check with the Vancouver police. Perhaps the parents contacted them directly.”

  “They didn’t,” Cloë said. “At the time of my son’s birth, the police went through their missing persons files and didn’t come across any report that matched the woman’s description.”

  “Did you try later? Perhaps the parents waited a few years before becoming sufficiently concerned to file one.”

  “I’m here now, and I mean to find his relatives before I leave. So if you can’t help me, I’ll ask elsewhere.”

  “Madame, I am sorry I can’t be of more help. You can try the Haida Nation council. They’ll have a better idea about the children who left Haida Gwaii twenty years ago. Now if—”

  The sound of the front door slamming cut off the rest of his sentence. We all ducked back into the reception area in time to see Sherry stomping into the detachment as best she could in her spiked heels.

  She pointed a finger at the Mountie. “Have you arrested them yet? They killed Bo-Bo.”

  Thirty-Three

  Behind Sherry sauntered in Ernest Paul as if he hadn’t a care in the world. About time you showed up, I thought. I felt Cloë stiffen beside me. When the carver nodded in our direction, Cloë turned her head away, while I, feeling one of us should be polite, smiled back.