Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  “Tell him, Ern. Give him the guys’ names,” Sherry said.

  Sergeant Galarneau held up his hands. “Please, madame, I don’t know what this is about. Who has been killed?”

  “My Bo-Bo, Frank.”

  “Are you referring to François Champagne?”

  “Who else?”

  He glanced in our direction before turning to Sherry. “Please, come into my office.”

  It was obvious the sergeant didn’t want us listening in, but I was too intrigued to let this go, so I crowded into the narrow room with them. Cloë, probably more out of a desire not to share the same room with the carver than out of politeness, remained in the reception area.

  “Now, madame, please tell me your name.”

  For a moment Sherry seemed taken aback. “Yeah, right. I guess I wasn’t talking to you at the hospital, eh? I’m Sherry Monaghan.”

  “And what is your relationship to Monsieur Champagne.”

  “I’m his girlfriend … er … I guess I have to say was, don’t I?” For a moment she seemed flustered, but then her resolve returned. “I was there when it happened. But I told the other cop all this.”

  “I imagine you mean Constable Murray. Since you are here, I would like to hear directly from you what transpired.” Indicating one of the wooden chairs, he said, “Please have a seat.” Then he noticed me. “I’m sorry, madame, I will have to ask you to leave.”

  As I crept out of the room, I heard him ask, “And Ernest, what’s your involvement?”

  “He knows who killed Frank,” Sherry cut in. “It was those awful men at the restaurant.”

  “What men?” the cop asked.

  “The bastards who spat on Frank.”

  “Look, Sherry,” Ernest said, “I have no idea whether they killed Frank or not. I just told you I know them.”

  “But they have to be the ones. They hated Bo-Bo.”

  “Okay, both of you please sit down and let’s start from the—”

  The door clicked closed.

  “Do you think those men in the restaurant really could’ve done it?” Cloë asked me. She’d been listening in after all.

  “I imagine they’re as good candidates as any. They sure didn’t hide their hatred of François,” I replied.

  “Nah, they couldn’t’ve done it.” Both of us jumped at the sound of the voice behind us. I whirled around. It was Jimmy, the owner of the restaurant. “Sure, Vinny’s got a temper, but, hell, he’s got an alibi that can’t be beat. He spent the night in the clink to dry out after smashing his truck into a pole.”

  “Which one was he?” I asked.

  “The big guy. The skinny guy with the crazy beard’s Siggy. But hey, he couldn’t’ve done it either. He’s all bluster. Doesn’t have a mean bone in him.”

  “How can you be so sure? He didn’t hesitate to spit on François,” I said.

  “I know the guy. I worked beside him for close on fifteen years. Same way I know Vinny.”

  “That’s right, you said were a logger too.”

  “Yup, for twenty-three years. It’s what brought me to the islands. Good money in it too, until the tree huggers started causing problems. Once the Haida started their protests, I knew our days were numbered. That’s when me and my partner decided to open up a restaurant. Bruce was camp cook, and a mighty good one at that.”

  “He is, if last night’s meal is anything to go by.”

  Jimmy beamed. “Best chef on the island.”

  “Tell me about these two guys. Why did they hate François so much?”

  “Like I told you, they hated him, like a lot of people around here, because of the scab loggers he brought in.”

  “But did this affect them personally?”

  “Now that you mention it, I think Siggy might’a been fired by the company that guy headed up. I don’t think Vinny ever worked for them. He was just pissed off with the scab loggers.” Jimmy tried to brush the few strands of his comb-over back into place and failed. “Jeez, what a way to go. To think, the dead guy was in my restaurant last night, enjoying Bruce’s cedar-plank salmon. I sure hope he didn’t see it coming.”

  “I’ve heard of people killing someone for less reason than being fired.”

  “I suppose. Siggy was outta work for a long time after.”

  “Sounds like a possible motive to me.”

  “I suppose, but I’m not sure how hard Siggy was lookin’. He seemed to spend a lotta time in that hideaway of his. Besides, no way he could’a killed that guy this morning. Like Vinny he’s got an alibi too. He wasn’t anywhere near here. He’d just come in to quaff a few beers before heading south.”

  “But the ropes could’ve been cut right after they saw François.”

  “No way. Vinny smashed his truck not more than a hundred metres from my door.”

  “What about Siggy?”

  “No way I’m gonna believe he could’a done something like that.”

  “I guess it’s up to the police to find out. I expect Ernest is telling the staff sergeant about the two of them right now.”

  “Ern knows Siggy pretty good. He’s good at finding the big cedar Ern likes to use for his totem poles.”

  At that point, the door to the staff sergeant’s office burst open and out walked Sherry with a smug smile plastered across her face, followed by Ernest, whose face, as per usual, was unreadable. His jacket was partially open. I noticed a thin black cord hanging from his neck with something greenish attached.

  “Jeez, Ern,” Jimmy said. “You don’t think Siggy or Vinny could’a done it, do you?”

  “No idea. But I did see Siggy this morning coming out of George’s cabin where he usually stays when he’s in town.”

  “Jeez.”

  “See, didn’t I tell you they did it,” Sherry piped up, giving the carver a stab in the ribs with her elbow.

  Ernest winced. “Come on, Sherry, let me get you back to the hotel.”

  As I watched them leave, I wondered if the cops knew Ernest had told François to stand next to the pole and what they would read into it, if anything. Getting the police to focus their attention on someone else was one way of deflecting suspicion from oneself.

  “Mesdames, you have something to tell me?”

  “Sarge, before you get caught up, can I give you something?” Jimmy said. “The constable asked me to drop them off.”

  “What is it?”

  “Last night’s receipts.” He brought out a thick envelope from inside his jacket. “I don’t know why he wanted me to bring them. Maybe he thinks they have something to do with the case.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll give you a receipt.” He scribbled on a piece of paper and passed it to the restaurant owner.

  “Now, mesdames, could you please come into my office.”

  I was about to mention Ernest when Cloë, who had been watching the two through the front door, cried out, “Arrest him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He killed my son.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s wearing my son’s pendant, the one he was wearing when he died.”

  Thirty-Four

  The Fateful Voyage

  His fingers were itching to cut into the wood, to feel the adze slice through the red cedar like a knife through the buttery flesh of a fat Coho, to carve the first curve of the story. But it had to wait. He had to be patient. One quick slice without thinking and the carving would be wrecked.

  Some carvers could carry an image of the complete carving in their heads. They didn’t need to draw it first along the length of the pole. He wasn’t that skillful. He had to sketch the entire story to make sure the different figures flowed one into another with balance and harmony, the Haida way.

  Besides, he hadn’t figured out how to depict certain parts of the story, like this next bit. He’d wanted to ignore it, pretend it never happened, but he couldn’t. It was too important. It was the beginning of the end.

  Nanaay had told him the clan’s troubles b
egan when members of the Blue Shell Ravens came to Llnagaay in their big cedar canoes to attend a potlatch. They had just returned from a sea voyage of many days far to the south, to the mainland across from the Big Island. They were bragging about the strange yellow metal they’d seen. They said it glowed in the night and that the Iron Men considered it so valuable they would kill for it. They spoke of paddling to the mouth of a big river, to where many Iron Men were preparing to walk far into the mountains to find this glowing metal.

  When Chief Blue Shell held a tiny pebble of the yellow metal up to the sun, everyone gasped at the sight of its brightness. After the Blue Shell Ravens left, Old Chief told the Greenstones that they would make the journey to this big river far to the south to get some of this yellow metal. They piled their massive dugout canoes high with otter skins to be used in trade. Old Chief knew the Iron Men valued these pelts almost as much as they valued the yellow metal.

  Throughout the night, the carver tossed and turned trying to come up with a traditional Haida figure to depict this fateful voyage. Frustrated, he threw off his sleeping bag and walked in the waning moonlight along the beach beside the lapping waves, until the grey light of dawn spread across the sky. He was hoping the rhythms of nature would open his mind, but they didn’t.

  If Scav had been at his house in the neighbouring bay, he would’ve paddled over in the kayak. Scav was always full of good ideas. But Scav wasn’t there. He’d gone north to Queen Charlotte a couple of days ago and was still there. He’d probably stuck around for the pole raising.

  Even though there was no way he could witness the raising, he was sure curious to know how this false chief would behave. Would the Geek act with the dignity befitting Old Chief’s title or would he grovel and squirm like the little man he was, the way his ancestor had grovelled and squirmed.

  After he drank his morning tea and ate some of Scav’s dried salmon, an idea for the design finally came to him. It was more like the log telling him, which was as it should be. He was running his hand over the wood below Old Chief’s eagle when he sensed a sea otter with a ball of gold clenched between its paws. He’d been thinking of a killer whale, known for its ability to travel great distances. But it didn’t fit with the story. A killer whale was supposed to be a symbol of good, but no good came from this journey.

  The otter worked, even if it wasn’t a traditional Haida crest. Old Chief and his men had taken their canoes filled with the rare pelts and had succeeded in trading them for gold. At least that was what Nanaay said. The otter spent most of its life in the sea, although it didn’t travel great distances, not like a killer whale. But he figured it didn’t matter. The pole had spoken. Besides, the sea otter was a symbol for family and loyalty. That was what this trip was about— loyalty to the family and to the clan.

  Sliding his fingers over the smooth wood, he sketched out the ebb and flow of the otter in his mind. Flowing lines for the haunches and front paws, in which he placed the orb of gold in much the same way that a real sea otter holds an abalone shell he is trying to open. Mind you, he’d only seen this in pictures. Otters hadn’t swum in these seas for over a hundred years, not since the Iron Men had killed them off for their pelts. Once the otter was carved, he would paint the orb a brilliant yellow, so there was no mistaking what it was supposed to be.

  He took up his black marker and began sketching. He drew the otter’s eyes as two ovoids, the Haida way for making animal eyes. He gave him a long tongue that stuck far out of his mouth. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he liked the effect and would paint it a bright red. Under one arm, he drew the outline of a bottle. He knew it wasn’t a traditional Haida form, the same way that the picket fence in front of the otter’s haunches wasn’t traditional. But he needed these to tell the story. The picket fence would symbolize the Iron Man’s river camp, where Old Chief’s troubles began. He took the idea from one of the ancient poles still standing at a nearby village. People thought the picket fence that ringed the bottom of this pole stood for a chief’s visit to Fort Victoria.

  The bottle would symbolize the booze that led to his clan’s shame. Nanaay said that when Old Chief landed with his men in their mighty canoes on the beach near the miner’s camp, he made them stay in the boats to guard the pelts, while he went in search of gold. They stayed, so the story goes, until someone gave them a bottle of booze. After their first drink, they wanted more. And we still do, he snorted to himself.

  When Old Chief returned, several of the clansmen were missing along with some of the pelts. Old Chief managed to round up all but two of his men. When they didn’t return by the time the trading was finished, he left the men behind. Things were getting ugly in the camp and he didn’t want anyone stealing their gold.

  Despite how much he’d bugged Nanaay, she wouldn’t tell him how much gold Old Chief brought back to Llnagaay nor what he did with it. She would only say that it was a clan secret but that if his destiny came to be, he would find out. But she died before he was ten. As for his destiny, Hah! That was a laugh. A failed fisherman. A drunken carver. Not exactly what she’d had in mind.

  The night she first told him of the gold he went to bed dreaming about it and had dreamt about it many times since.

  When he asked other clan members about the gold, he received mostly blank stares. One or two thought that it might have something to do with Old Chief’s death. No one talked about it, because no one wanted to talk about the clan’s shame.

  He was outlining the last tooth in the otter’s mouth when he heard a shout coming from the water. Although it sounded like Scav, he wasn’t sure. Just in case it wasn’t, he threw the green tarp over the pole and blended further into the trees. It couldn’t be the cops. No way. The only one who knew he was here was Scav, and Scav wouldn’t tell them. Scav hated cops almost as much as he did.

  He worked his way toward the lagoon’s beach, being careful to remain hidden behind the massive tree trunks. But when he heard the roar of a boat engine, he walked out onto the beach grinning. He’d know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, there stood the familiar figure in his bad-ass boat, long hair streaming out in the wind like it was a flag, his arm raised, his fist clenched in victory.

  Thirty-Five

  The police sergeant raced out the front door and managed to flag down Ernest before he drove out of the parking lot.

  “Have you caught the bastard?” Sherry yelled through the open window of the Range Rover.

  “Ernest, something’s come up. I would appreciate if you could come back into the detachment.”

  Sergeant Galarneau stopped a discrete distance away from the SUV. Although he appeared outwardly relaxed, I sensed him tense up as if preparing for the unexpected.

  Sherry screwed up her face. “What do you want from Ern?”

  The carver’s face, no longer expressionless, appeared more confused than wary. Still, he hesitated before getting out of his vehicle.

  “Ernest, this won’t take long,” the cop insisted. “I just have a few questions I want to ask you.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ll tell you inside. Now please get out of your vehicle.” His hand rested on his hip, close to his holster.

  Ernest glanced at Sherry and shrugged. He climbed out and stood next to the SUV.

  “I want you to remove your hands from your pockets, then turn around and place them on the roof of your truck.”

  Ernest hesitated.

  “Now!”

  The carver shrugged, removed his hands, and held them up as if to say, “See, empty.”

  The cop grabbed Ernest by the arm, whisked him around and slammed his body against the side of the SUV. Cloë sucked in her breath.

  “Hey, whaddya doing?” Sherry shouted. “Ern ain’t done nothing. He wasn’t even at the pole raising.”

  Ernest started to protest, but the sergeant yelled at him to keep quiet while he patted him down.

  Finding no weapons, he said, “Okay, let’s go into the station.”

  “Are you a
rresting me, sergeant?” Ernest asked.

  “I just want to ask you a few questions. Now get moving.”

  “You can ask them out here.”

  “Ernest, I don’t want to have to arrest you for obstruction, but I will if you won’t come voluntarily into the police station.”

  “Look, I had nothing to do with Frank’s death. I wasn’t even there. In fact, I have an alibi.”

  “This has nothing to do with Monsieur Champagne.”

  “This is police harassment, that’s what it is!” By now the carver’s face was twisted in anger. “I’m going to press charges, Sergeant.”

  “Murderer!” Cloë shouted. “You killed my son, and I can prove it.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Are you going to go into the station willingly or do I have to arrest you?”

  The carver held up his empty hands. “Okay, okay.” The two of them started walking toward Cloë and me. We moved out of the way to let them pass, then followed them inside. Sherry climbed out of the Range Rover in her bare feet and pattered into the station behind us.

  She nudged me. “Hey, did he really kill this lady’s kid?”

  “I’ve no idea, but Cloë seems to think so.”

  The sergeant led the carver toward a closed door. We followed. “I am sorry, mesdames, but you will have to stay here.”

  “But you need me to identify my son’s medallion,” my sister-in-law said.

  He nodded in the direction of the chairs where we’d sat earlier, “Please sit over there, madame, and I will bring it to you.”

  He shut the door behind them with a resounding click.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry,” Sherry said to Cloë. “I didn’t know your boy was killed. I guess we’re kinda in the same boat, eh?”

  “Hardly.” Cloë stared straight ahead.

  “Yah, well I guess you’re right. It’s not as if Bo-Bo and I were related. But he was the love of my life and I’m sure gonna miss him.”

  “As will his wife.”

  With these words Cloë succeeded in stopping the conversation.