Silver Totem of Shame

by R. J. Harlick

  Some big-time Vancouver cop had arrived in Queen Charlotte and was now working with the RCMP. They’d tracked him to Haida Gwaii. They just didn’t have a name yet. But he figured it wouldn’t take long for them to put two and two together and come up with his. So he had to finish the drawing. Then he had to find someone to carve it, because one thing was for sure, he wasn’t going to get to do it himself. He knew just the carver. He figured when the guy recognized the story in the drawing, he’d do his damndest to carve it into the kind of pole the storytellers would talk about for years.

  But he couldn’t do any drawing until he had a couple more hours of sleep. By then his hand wouldn’t be shaking so much, the crick in his back should be gone, and the pounding in his head stopped. As for the pain, it wasn’t leaving anytime soon, but he was learning to live with it.

  His mind also needed to be alert, for it was going to be a challenge to come up with the right figures for this next part of the story.

  Forty-Three

  By the time we were finished with the police and were waiting for the doctor to finish examining Cloë, the faint light of dawn was creeping through the hospital windows.

  Louise and Becky hadn’t come to the hospital. Visibly upset by the pendant’s theft, the matriarch had said little other than a few muttered words in Haida. Something about the shame continuing, Becky whispered. When I tried to question the elderly woman, she brushed me aside and insisted that Becky take her home immediately.

  She wouldn’t even talk to the police about it. She dismissed their questioning by insisting the stolen pendant couldn’t be the greenstone that had once belonged to her clan. Though how she would know this without having seen it, I had no idea.

  Despite her denial, I was convinced it was her family pendant and she didn’t want the police knowing. I decided to go see her once we were sure Cloë was going to be okay. I would take Eric with me and let him charm the answer out of her. If it was her family heirloom, she might know who would have wanted it so badly that they hadn’t hesitated to knock Cloë out in order to steal it. It certainly wasn’t stolen for its monetary worth; otherwise the far more valuable rings would’ve been taken. Nope, it was stolen for another reason, and Louise knew what that reason was.

  After a thorough examination, Eric’s sister was declared well enough to return to the hotel. The doctor believed she had a mild concussion, but would suffer no ill effects other than some nausea and a bad headache. However, if these symptoms persisted or the headache grew worse, she was to return immediately.

  Eric carefully loaded his sister into the backseat and we drove slowly back to the Eagle’s Nest, into the red streaks of the sun rising over the mountains.

  It was only when we reached the lodge that I remembered: “Shit, we’ve missed our flight! It leaves in an hour. There’s no way we can catch it now.”

  “Yeah, I know. I thought of it as we were leaving the hospital.” Eric smiled wryly. “But we can’t leave my sister here on her own. I’ll let the guy know I can’t make the interview.”

  “He’ll just postpone it, won’t he?”

  “I doubt it. CBC was wanting to tie it in with some special they’re doing the next day on Aboriginal housing.”

  “Oh, Eric, I’m so sorry. It would’ve given your campaign for Grand Chief a big boost.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t win them all.” He sighed.

  I leaned over and hugged him as best as I could with a steering wheel in the way.

  I heard Cloë stir behind us. She’d fallen asleep the minute we’d tucked her into the backseat.

  “Cloë, you awake? We’re here,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not good. My head feels like crap.”

  “Hopefully after a good sleep, you’ll feel better,” Eric said. “We’ll get you up to your room and Meg’ll stay with you as a precaution, okay?”

  Together, the two of us half-carried, half-supported Cloë up the two flights of stairs to her room, where we gently laid her down on her bed, but not before replacing the bloody pillow with a clean one. After kissing Eric goodbye, I laid down beside her. I swear I was asleep before I felt the softness of the pillow under my head.

  I awoke to a tap on the door and tiptoed over to find Eric on the other side. His eyes filled with sleep, he was trying to suppress a yawn.

  He gave me a gentle kiss and said, “It’s after two in the afternoon. I figured I’d better check on you guys to make sure you’re still alive.”

  “You barely look alive yourself. Did you sleep?”

  “Like the dead, but I tell you, Meg, I’m getting too old for these all-nighters. Long gone are the days when I’d party all night and head off to hockey practice without a wink of sleep.”

  “What about the interview?”

  “They’re going to look for someone else, but the producer said they’d keep me in mind for next time.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else you could’ve done. What about flights?”

  “I’ve changed them to Wednesday. I figure we should give Cloë a couple of days to make sure she’s going to be okay.” He nodded in her direction. “How’s she doing?”

  “As far as I know she slept soundly, but maybe I’d better wake her up, as the doctor suggested, to make sure she is just sleeping.”

  “I’m awake,” came a weak voice from the bed. “God, I feel awful. My head won’t stop pounding.”

  I tensed. “Is your headache worse?”

  She gingerly patted the bandage where it covered the wound. Her once perfect hair was a snarl of tangles and kinks under the layers of gauze.

  “No … I don’t think so.” She struggled to get up, but only made it half way before dropping back onto the pillow. “I’m dizzy too.”

  “Do you feel nauseated?”

  “No … not really.”

  “Do you want to go back to emergency in case there’s any swelling?”

  “It’s not that bad. I’ll be okay if I stay in bed.”

  “Are you hungry?” Eric asked. “I was just going to ask Meg if she wanted to get something to eat. We could bring something back for you.”

  Food. Good. I was starved.

  “I’m not that hungry, but a bit of soup might be good.” She pulled the duvet up to her chin, closed her eyes, and within seconds her breathing had taken on the regular rhythm of sleep.

  A couple of hours later, Eric and I returned, both of us feeling considerably rejuvenated after a sumptuous meal of Jimmy’s special fish and chips made from fresh haddock. Eric carried a paper bag containing the chef’s special homemade chicken noodle soup and a beef and tomato sandwich — not the fresh salmon and dill sandwich the chef had wanted to make until I mentioned my sister-in-law’s aversion to fish.

  Cloë was propped against a pile of pillows, reading. She had regained some colour in her cheeks.

  “Good, you’re awake.” I took the bag from Eric and placed it on the dresser. “You must be feeling better.”

  “I am. The headache’s not quite so bad and the dizziness has gone. I hope you brought something good. I’m famished.”

  I removed the lid of the soup container and passed it to her, along with a metal spoon, which Jimmy had given us with the proviso that we return it. He’d also given us a china bowl to serve it in, but I decided the Styrofoam container was easier. “It’s still pretty hot, so be careful.”

  She’d made an attempt at untangling her hair, but with the gauze covering much of her head, it was nearly impossible. Nonetheless, the hair surrounding her face appeared less unruly.

  “This tastes wonderful.” She smiled.

  “Maybe we should’ve brought you more food,” Eric said.

  “This will be fine. Thanks for bringing it.” Without another word she finished the soup and demolished the sandwich.

  This was the first time I’d seen her eat so quickly and so completely. Normally she left food on her plate. “Nothing wrong with your appetite.”

  “Nope, I’m
feeling a lot better. “ With a sigh, she leaned back into the pillows. “While you were at the potlatch last night, one of the RCMP officers dropped by. They’ve finally identified Allistair’s killer.”

  “That’s good news,” Eric said. “Have they arrested him?”

  “Not yet, but he said shortly.”

  “Is it the man that stole the totem pole?”

  “He didn’t say, but I assume so.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “No, the cop just said that the man was Haida, but that he hadn’t spent much time on the islands in recent years.”

  “But he’s here now?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do they know where he is?”

  “Not yet, but they’re narrowing down the places where he could be hiding.”

  “Given the hundreds of uninhabited islands, I think it would be worse than trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack,” Eric said.

  “Constable Murray seemed pretty confident.”

  “I hate to dash your hopes, Sis, but I imagine if the guy is used to living off the land, he could hide out for years.”

  “Maybe I’ll rent a helicopter and go looking for him.”

  “A helicopter isn’t exactly quiet.” I wasn’t sure how serious she was, but thought it best to dampen her enthusiasm. “The guy would run for cover the second he heard it coming.”

  Eric nodded in agreement. “I think it best we leave it to the cops to find him. By the way, did the cop interviewing you last night give you any idea who they think broke into your room?”

  “He didn’t say. Though he did say he thought I was targeted since the medallion was the only item stolen. I can’t for the life of me imagine why anyone would want to steal a worthless piece of jade.”

  “Maybe Ernest didn’t like giving it back to you,” I said. “Apart from us and the police, he and Sherry were the only ones who knew you had it.”

  “He didn’t look too happy when he had to hand it over either, did he? But why would he want it back? Allistair meant nothing to him. He was just a student he used for free labour.”

  “I agree it’s very strange. I also think Louise knows something.”

  “Louise? What would she know?”

  Right, we hadn’t had a chance to tell her.

  “Sis,” Eric said. “We have some terrific news for you. We’ve found Allistair’s birth family. It turns out Louise is his grandmother. She recognized the bracelet as a family heirloom.”

  At first Cloë was flustered, not quite able to absorb the sudden news. “Is this true? Really?” Then her eyes lit up as a smile spread across her face. “How wonderful! I really like her. So Allistair’s mother was her daughter?”

  Eric recounted the sad story, and when he was finished I added, “She’d love to talk to you about Allistair. But let’s wait until tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”

  “No, I want to go now.” She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, but when she stood up, she wobbled.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Eric said. “Spend the rest of the day in bed and we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “I’m going now, and if you won’t take me, I’ll get a cab.” She started to pull clothes from the drawers. “Leave, I want to get dressed.”

  “Okay, we’ll take you,” I said.

  Forty-Four

  Louise’s house was not what I expected. I assumed that since she’d been the Greenstone Matriarch for so many years, she’d have a house befitting her highborn status. Failing the big house, I thought she would at least have a totem pole or a painted wooden plaque proclaiming her rank and her clan.

  Not so.

  Louise lived in a discrete bungalow like any one of the millions of rectangular bungalows that crowd Canadian suburbs. Hers sported pale green siding, which I thought appropriate, with navy trim and a black roof. The only objects decorating her yard were a couple of gaily painted cement gnomes and a frog.

  While the drawn drapes suggested she wasn’t home, her Corolla in the driveway said otherwise. The other vehicles parked behind her car told us she had visitors. I recognized Becky’s father’s silver pickup, but the third vehicle, a black BMW X3, was unfamiliar.

  “I wonder if this is a good time, Eric.”

  “Why not?”

  “Remember, Louise erased her daughter from her life. She might not want to talk about her in front of other people. Although Becky knows, we don’t know about the other visitor.”

  “Maybe we should come back later,” Eric said.

  “No, I want to talk with her now.” Cloë opened the back door and stepped out onto the dirt road, dragging the bag containing her son’s heavy urn with her. Hefting it up with both hands, she pressed it against her breast. She staggered either from the weight or from dizziness before steadying herself against the car.

  “Are you sure you’re alright?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.” She pushed herself away from the car. Her navy and gold Hermès scarf didn’t quite hide the bandage covering her forehead.

  “Why don’t you leave the urn in the car? If Louise wants to see it I can come back for it,” I suggested, worried the sight of her grandson’s urn might upset the elderly woman.

  Cloë hugged the bag closer. “No, I need him with me.”

  “Let me carry it for you,” Eric said.

  “No.” Without another word she walked to the front door. Her step seemed surer, stronger. Maybe she would be okay.

  When Louise answered our knock, her unusually cool manner suggested that our visit was indeed inconvenient. Though when her eyes fell on Cloë they creased with joy as her smile broadened. However, within seconds the shutter snapped back into place. “I’m not sure if—”

  Cloë, in her eagerness, cut in. “I had no idea you were Allistair’s grandmother. I couldn’t have picked a better one for him.” She thrust the velvet bag into Louise’s hands.

  Caught unawares, Louise struggled to hold on to the heavy bag. Before she dropped it, I grabbed it.

  Becky’s smiling face appeared over Louise’s shoulder. “Hi guys, come on in. We’re just having some tea.”

  “But Becky, I don’t think—” Louise said.

  Too excited to notice her aunt’s reluctance, the young woman stepped around her and opened the door wider to allow us to enter. “I think it’s fabulous that Auntie is Allistair’s nanaay. No wonder I fell in love with him.” She gave the Louise a quick hug.

  I was about to suggest coming back later, when a female voice from around the corner said, “Allistair? Who’s that?”

  “He was my boyfriend,” Becky answered. She led her boyfriend’s mother down the short hall. Unable to stop them, the three of us reluctantly followed them into the living room. The new Matriarch sat resplendently on the sofa, her red-and-white-checked skirt fanned out over the pale green cushions.

  “I thought Becky said something about you being his nanaay, Louise.” Rose said.

  “If that means grandmother, she is.” Cloë beamed.

  “What’s this to do with you?” With a sneer, the woman ran her eyes over my sister-in-law’s fair features and the blond hair peeking out from under her scarf.

  “I’m Allistair’s mother … or at least his adopted mother. His real mother was Louise’s daughter.”

  “Please, I’d rather not—” Louise tried to intercede.

  “Sis, let’s save this visit for another time.” Eric tried one last time to save the situation by grabbing his sister’s arm but she shook it off and walked farther into the room.

  An exuberant Becky didn’t help matters. “Auntie is my boyfriend’s nanaay and I didn’t know it.”

  Rose frowned. “Your boyfriend? Where? In Vancouver?”

  “We met at school.” The young woman gave Cloë a sideways glance as if uncertain of her reaction. “He used to come on the tours I’d give at the museum. One thing led to another, and well, you know …” She stopped, realizing she’d probably gone too far. />
  Biting her lower lip, she continued to watch her dead boyfriend’s mother, who seemed more interested in a reprint of an Emily Carr painting hanging on the wall than looking at her son’s girlfriend. I couldn’t understand Cloë’s indifference until I remembered that she’d been against his relationship with this young Haida woman.

  I was searching for something to say to break the uneasy silence when Cloë reached for the young woman’s hand and said, “He loved you very much.”

  “Imagine that,” Rose muttered. “A raven and an eagle.” She lumbered to her feet. “I must be going, Louise. I only stopped in for a chat. Let me know when you find those papers, okay?”

  She trundled past Louise toward the hall. Louise didn’t move. I assumed she was finding it difficult to deal with this awkward situation, until I noticed the glint in her eyes. If looks could kill….

  Rose stopped. “When do I get to meet this young man?”

  For a moment, silence reigned. Finally, Louise spoke up. “He’s dead.”

  “What a pity.” She disappeared into the hall.

  The click of the front door closing broke the tension.

  “That awful woman!” Becky exclaimed. “Auntie, you can’t let her be Matriarch.”

  “I have no choice, child. We must follow our traditions.” Motioning to the sofa where Rose had been sitting, she said, “Please, my grandson’s mother, sit down beside me and tell me about your son.”

  As we sipped tea and ate homemade date squares, Eric, Becky, and I watched and listened to the two women as they talked, one hungering for every word about a grandson she would never know and the other reliving her memories of a beloved son.

  As the sun sank lower, I watched it mark a path across the grey broadloom. The living room was crammed with furniture, knickknacks, and prints of Haida and West Coast art. The sun lit up a collection of family photos crowded onto a bookcase. Most were pictures of what I assumed were the families of Louise’s sons: three boys in one family and two girls and a boy in the other. They spanned the passages of youth from birth and baptism to graduation, and in one case marriage. In several I thought I could see a family likeness to Allistair, if my memory of his photo served me correctly. There were also shots of Becky at various points in her life.