A Green Place for Dying

by R. J. Harlick

  “Do you know where she went or even when she left?” I asked.

  One short, squat woman shook her grey-haired head and said, “Claire’s frequently out. It’s her job to follow up with her cases. The kids are sometimes afraid, eh? They don’t like to come here, so she goes to them.”

  “So you have no idea where she’s gone?”

  “She wasn’t here when we went out to lunch,” answered a younger woman wearing a lovely shell necklace. “I thought she was coming with us. She said she was.”

  “She was supposed to have lunch with me,” I replied and told them why I wanted to talk to Claire.

  “Yeah, a lot of kids go missing these days,” replied the grey-haired woman. “What did you say the girl’s name was?”

  “Fleur Lightbody. There’s a poster of her at the front door.”

  She sighed. “We’ve got a lot of those. Look, I’m also involved in the Youth Program, maybe I can help you.”

  Chapter

  Twenty—One

  I followed the woman’s swaying gait down the hall to an office across from Claire’s that identified itself as belonging to Paulette Coon Come, Nanabush Youth Program Co-ordinator. Like Claire’s office, hers was long and narrow but with only one desk, which was cluttered with stacks of files and assorted papers. Museum posters of various aboriginal artifacts filled the white walls, while a myriad of flourishing plants crowded the deep sill of the sun-filled window. Unlike Claire’s office, which had been cold and uninviting, Paulette’s office spoke of warmth and sympathy, as she herself did.

  Troubled youth should have no problems connecting with her, I thought as I sat down in a surprisingly comfortable captain-style wooden chair in a seating area next to the desk.

  “Can I get you some tea or coffee?” she asked.

  In the sunlight of her office, her unlined, beaming face suggested she was younger than her grey hair would indicate, while the jagged scar that pulled her smile into an awkward grin spoke of a life that had had its difficult moments.

  I felt my stomach growl with hunger and thought a bit of food was what I really needed, but instead I answered, “I’m fine, nothing, thank you. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “No problem.” Her black eyes twinkled. “It won’t take a second, the kettle is right over there. Besides, my next appointment isn’t until three. So we have a good hour for a chat.”

  Although I thought my business wouldn’t take long, I acquiesced. “Tea would be perfect. Thank you.”

  She plugged in the electric kettle standing on the same narrow table as a jar containing tea bags, a bottle of instant coffee, a teapot, an assortment of souvenir mugs, and a box of Tim Hortons donuts.

  She must’ve noticed my intense gaze on the box, for she immediately passed it to me. “Please, help yourself.”

  Muttering my thanks, I helped myself to my favourite, a cream-filled chocolate one, and plunged my teeth into the ecstasy. Just what my stomach needed.

  After pouring the boiling water into the teapot, she eased her chunky frame into the chair beside me. In an attempt to hide her expanding stomach, she tugged at her red felt vest with its aboriginal renditions of killer whales in black appliqué, and failed.

  Shaking her head, she sighed. “Too many donuts, but I love ’em and I see you do too.” She grinned, then continued. “Like I said, we have a lot of missing kids, sadly, too many of them. They get bored with life on the rez. They see what they think is the good life on TV and come to Ottawa to find it. Only trouble is most of them don’t. That’s what the Nanabush Youth Program’s all about. To help them adjust to life in the big city.”

  “Do you see many kids?”

  “Enough to keep me plus two other counsellors busy. But we’re short one at the moment.” She got up to pour the tea. “Creamer? Sugar?”

  “Just black,” I said, preferring to have it black than polluted with whatever chemicals the creamer was made of.

  I noticed a number of framed photos on a bookshelf beside her desk, one of a beaming bride resplendent in white, a couple of pictures of young women and men wearing graduation togs, and several with young children and their smiling mothers.

  “Your children and grandchildren?” I asked.

  She laughed and glanced at them fondly. “In a way, but I’m afraid they aren’t of my blood. These are some of my successes, young people I was fortunate enough to help.”

  “That must make you feel good.”

  “It does, but it’s the faces of the ones I couldn’t help that haunt my dreams. My lost souls, I call them.”

  “Yes, that would be discouraging. Did you ever deal with Fleur Lightbody?”

  “That’s the girl you mentioned, eh? Isn’t she’s the one from Migiskan the police were looking for a few months back?”

  “Yes, she disappeared in mid-July.”

  “What does she have to do with you, if you don’t mind my asking?” She passed me the mug of tea and offered another donut.

  “I’m doing this for her mother. We’re friends. She couldn’t come to town, so she asked me to see what I could do to try and find her.”

  “So I take it the girl hasn’t been found?” She sat back down in the chair beside me.

  “Nope, and more worrisome, the girl she was last seen with was found murdered a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That’s gotta be Becky. Real tragedy that, though I’m not surprised.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She was one angry girl. Mad at the world and at life. I started working with her not long after she came to Ottawa, fresh off her James Bay rez. I’m afraid her story is one we see far too often. Both parents drank. At fifteen, she was raped by a male relative and ended up having a kid who died when he wasn’t quite three.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear this. Were you able to help her?”

  She shook her head sadly. “I really tried. I thought we were connecting. She was doing well in her computer course. She even participated in a couple of healing ceremonies and seemed to be learning how to deal with her anger. Then one day she stopped coming. I thought maybe it was me, so I tried to get her to see another counselor, but she wanted nothing to do with that woman either.”

  “Was that Claire?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know that?”

  “Just a lucky guess. So what happened with Becky?”

  “What I was trying to prevent. She started hanging around with the wrong crowd. Got into drugs and was soon hooking to pay for them. I’m afraid it happens to a lot of young native women who’ve got big dreams but aren’t equipped to fulfill them.”

  “I’m sorry about Becky. I guess she was one of your lost souls.”

  She nodded sadly.

  “Fleur, however, isn’t from the same background,” I continued. “She comes from a good home. As far as I know, she isn’t into drugs and certainly is too well brought up to get into prostitution. She has no need to. Her family would give her money if she needed it. She even has an uncle in town she could stay with.”

  Except she didn’t, I thought. Moreover, Claire had intimated that Fleur had become a prostitute.

  “You sure she and Becky were friends?” Paulette asked before biting into a sugar-coated donut.

  “That’s what Claire told the police. It’s why I want to talk to her. You don’t happen to know her home number, do you?”

  “I can give you her cell. But like I said, she’s probably off seeing to one of her cases. I don’t remember Fleur Lightbody being one of hers, but let me check just to make sure, okay?”

  While she went through the files, I helped myself to another donut. Amongst the photos of her successful cases, I spied a photo of Paulette surrounded by several men decked out in their traditional chief’s attire. All wore big smiles of congratulations. One of them I recognized with a start.

  “I see you know Eric Odjik,” I said.

  She whirled around. “Why, yes I do. How do you … oh of course, the photo with me acceptin
g the Turtle Island Award for contributions to the aboriginal community. I was so pleased to get it. Eric has been one of the Centre’s biggest supporters. He was invaluable in helping us get extra funding.” She raised her eyebrows in query. “Where do you know him from?”

  I wasn’t about to tell her that I was his former girlfriend, so instead I said, “My property borders the Migiskan Reserve. Eric and I have joined forces on a number of issues that have affected our area.”

  “A wonderful man, isn’t he? You know there’s talk of him being a real contender for National Chief of the Grand Council of First Nations when the current chief’s term is up.”

  “Really. I didn’t know he’d put his name forth for election.” I was surprised his daughter hadn’t mentioned it, but then perhaps she didn’t know either. It would, however, explain the amount of travelling he’d been doing lately. “I’m sure he’d be very good in the job, although the reserve would hate to lose their band chief.”

  She nodded absentmindedly then said, “Nope, I don’t see any file on Fleur, so she was never one of our clients.”

  “I really wasn’t expecting it. She has a good future ahead of her. She was supposed to be starting a nursing program at a CEGEP in Montreal this fall, something she was very much looking forward to.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, dear, I can’t help you. Here’s Claire’s number. Hopefully she can help you.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have a cell, so do you mind if I use your phone? I’d like to see her before I leave Ottawa.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  But all I heard was Claire’s voice mail greeting, so I left a message for her to call me at home.

  However, I didn’t want to leave Ottawa empty-handed. “Is there anyone else here at the Centre that might be able to help me?”

  “Me and Claire are probably your best bets. But anyone could’ve seen her, if she came to the Centre. I’d start with Doris at the reception desk. If you’ve got a picture, I’d show that around.”

  Damn, I hadn’t thought to bring a photo — but I could use the poster on the downstairs bulletin board. “Thanks, I will.”

  “You know, you mentioned Eric Odjik. I remember him asking about a girl from his reserve, probably the same one.”

  “Most likely. Do you know when he was asking about her?”

  “It was a while back, sometime in July, I think, towards the end of the month. I believe I told him to ask Claire.”

  Another reason to speak to Claire.

  “I gather Fleur was also seen at Becky’s apartment. You don’t happen to have her address, do you? I’d like to go there to see if I can find the witness who saw her.”

  “I guess now that she’s dead, I won’t be breaking any confidentiality rules, but the address I’ve got is at least a year old. Chances are she moved.”

  After writing the address down and thanking Paulette for all her help, I wandered back downstairs, where I extracted Fleur’s missing person poster and ran it by a number of people while I waited for Doris to return to her reception desk. But apart from “pretty girl” comments, no one remembered seeing her at the Centre or anywhere else in Ottawa.

  Doris, however, immediately raised my hopes when she said, “Sure, I remember Fleur. She helped out at last year’s pow-wow. A great gal. Quite the looker. The young bucks couldn’t keep their eyes off her.” She laughed shrilly.

  But when I asked whether she’d seen Fleur this past summer, her answer was a brusque “Nope,” which made me wonder about Claire’s statement placing her here at the Centre with Becky. But then again, Doris could’ve been off on a break when Becky and Fleur came through the front door.

  As I turned to leave, a woman, tears streaming down her cheeks, came running up to the desk. “Oh Doris, the police have just called wanting to know where Claire is. Apparently her car went off the MacDonald/Cartier Bridge.”

  “Oh my God, was she in her car?”

  “They haven’t been able to look inside it yet, it’s so far down. But the divers were able to identify the car from her licence plate. Dear God, I pray by some miracle she escaped,” the woman replied.

  I thought back to the gap in the bridge’s railing and shivered. “I was supposed to meet Claire for lunch,” I said. “But she didn’t show up.”

  “Oh, are you the one who wants to know about Fleur Lightbody?”

  “Yes, I am. Do you know anything about her?”

  “She came to me looking for a job.”

  Chapter

  Twenty—Two

  "I know this is probably not a good time, but can you spare a few minutes? I’d like to ask you some questions about Fleur,” I said to the woman.

  Maybe I was being inconsiderate, but I felt finding the missing girl was just as important. Besides, there was nothing she or any of us could do about Claire. Either she’d been in her car when it plunged into the river or she hadn’t.

  The woman wavered.

  I continued, “With Becky’s murder, her parents are very worried she might be in trouble too. So anything you could tell me about your dealings with Fleur might help in finding her.”

  She firmed her lips and glanced at Doris, who was blotting her tears with a Kleenex. Finally she said, “Okay, as long as it doesn’t take too long. Doris, do you mind calling around and seeing if you can locate Claire? Pray to the Creator we do.”

  “I should forewarn you,” I said. “I wasn’t able to reach her when I tried her cell about ten minutes ago.”

  The two women exchanged worried looks, which mirrored my own uneasy concerns.

  “You might as well come to my office,” the woman said as she started down the hall. But before she’d gone too far, she stopped and turned back to me.

  Offering her hand, she said, “By the way, my name is Mary Eshkakogan. I’m the executive director of the Anishinabeg Welcome Centre.”

  Although her office was considerably more spacious than either Claire’s or Paulette’s, the furniture was comprised of the same dreary institutional castoffs, albeit with fewer scratches. One wall was filled with the flowing lines of Benjamin Chee Chee’s flying geese. He was an artist I recognized from my mother’s collection. While two of the framed pictures were definitely copies, I noticed an edition number at the bottom of one of a mother goose tending to her gosling, which suggested it might very well be an original print. According to my mother, who was interested in such things, a Chee Chee original was a valuable rarity, because the artist died before he’d had a chance to produce a sizable body of work.

  The message light was blinking on Mary’s phone. Her brow creased with concern as she glanced at it before turning her gaze back to me. Her short, dark auburn hair gave her a professional, no-nonsense look, as did her forest green suit, the tailored neatness of which was in sharp contrast to the considerably more casual attire of the Centre’s other staff. The turquoise and bone choker and silver North-west Coast Indian bracelet and earrings did serve to tone down its businesslike severity.

  She must’ve noticed my perusal, for she smoothed her skirt and said, “I’m meeting with one of our key sponsors this afternoon, hence the spruced up attire, but I tell you, these pantyhose are killing me. Give me a pair of slacks any day.”

  “I’ll second that. I haven’t worn a skirt in years, just to avoid the itchy things.” I smiled. “Look, I’ll be quick.”

  I remained standing to show I meant what I said, while she sat in the chair behind her desk.

  “You said Fleur had come to you looking for a job. Do you mind telling me when this was?”

  “Towards the end of June. She came to me highly recommended by her chief.”

  “You mean Eric Odjik?”

  “Yes, do you know him?”

  I nodded. “I live next to the Migiskan Reserve.”

  “Sadly, our two positions for summer help were already taken, otherwise I would’ve hired her. She seemed a very capable young woman.”

  “Do you know where she was living at the time?”


  “Before I go any further, I should ask you what your relationship is to Fleur and why you want to know about her?”

  I repeated what I’d told Paulette, and that seemed to satisfy Mary. “Poor child. Such a tragedy that she’s missing. In my mind she didn’t seem a typical runaway, so I can’t help but think something has happened to her. That’s what I told the police.”

  “That’s our worry too. But the police refuse to believe us. They’re treating her case as a runaway and doing nothing.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid Fleur is just a statistic. Did you know that there are more than five hundred and eighty missing aboriginal women in Canada, sixteen in our area alone. In most cases nothing is being done to find them. Tragically, when they are finally found, they are invariably dead, as happened recently to Becky Wapachee, who used to be a client at our Centre.”

  “Yes, I know about Becky. Apparently Fleur was last seen with her.”

  “Oh dear, I hadn’t realized. But I doubt they would’ve been friends. They had absolutely nothing in common.”

  “So you don’t know anything about Fleur living with Becky?”

  “I find that hard to believe. Becky was living a rough lifestyle, hardly the kind that would attract a smart, well-educated, young woman like Fleur.”

  “Apparently this is what Claire told the police, that’s why I wanted to talk to her.”

  She sighed but didn’t voice what we were both thinking. Claire wouldn’t be around for me to question.

  “As I told the police, since we didn’t have a job for her, I didn’t have her fill out an application. So we have no record of her address.”

  “Do you know if anyone, besides the police, came around asking for Fleur when she went missing?”

  “I remember Eric dropping by looking for her. But I hadn’t realized she was missing at the time.”

  “And not her father?” I asked. “I understand he came to Ottawa to look for his daughter after he and his wife hadn’t heard from her for some time. I would think the Centre would be a good place to start.”