Purple Palette for Murder

by R. J. Harlick

  “Who is there now?” I asked, surprised. I had thought Eric and I were her only family.

  “An uncle. You likely know him.”

  Not having the foggiest idea who it could be, I pretended I did. “Could you tell me her condition?”

  “You need to speak to her doctor. He is in surgery at the moment, but I will let him know you’re here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “She’s a delight to watch on TV,” the nurse continued. “What a shame that this should happen to her. I hope it doesn’t cut her career short. It’s amazing what plastic surgeons can do today.”

  With that I opened the door to the ICU.

  FIVE

  I faced a room crammed with humming machines, pulsating screens, and a jumble of tubing and wiring. I had no idea which of the four beds Teht’aa lay in. I dismissed the bed over which a man and a woman hovered. The patient was too small and the hair too blond. The silent mound of a man occupied another bed.

  Before I could choose between the other two beds, a nurse from the central nursing station approached and led me to the one I had been about to reject. I couldn’t believe that the slight, unmoving figure whose head and face were encased in bandages could be Eric’s beautiful daughter. If any native woman were to embody the words “Indian Princess,” she did, with her high, sculpted cheekbones, flashing mahogany eyes, and Julia Roberts smile. Her long, satiny black hair was the envy of any woman. It looked as if the long tresses were no more.

  Instead of lying flat, her bed was slightly raised, putting her in a half-sitting position. She seemed to be connected to more machines than the other patients. Wires extended out from under her blanket to what looked to be an electrocardiograph. A blood pressure sleeve was wrapped around her upper arm, while a wire extended from a clip on her finger to another machine. Particularly disturbing were the tubes running out of her mouth to a machine I suspected was a ventilator.

  “How badly injured is she?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to speak to her doctor,” the nurse replied.

  “Can’t you give me an idea? I only know what I’ve learned from the news. Seeing her lying so still with all these tubes and bandages is making me very nervous. Is she in danger of dying?”

  The nurse smoothed her pink floral scrub top over her ample frame and sighed. “I’m not supposed to do this, but she lives near me in Old Town. She always says hi and often stops for a chat. I hate to see what some bastard has done to her.” She scanned the chart.

  “The bandages on her face are hiding a broken nose and a crushed cheekbone. She has a bruised kidney and a couple of broken ribs, which punctured her lung, causing it to collapse. It has been re-inflated. Her left arm has a compound fracture.”

  “What about her head? The paper said she was in a coma.”

  “She had a depressed skull fracture and underwent surgery to alleviate the pressure on her brain. The doctor is keeping her in an induced coma to minimize brain damage.”

  “Is she going to die?”

  “Only the doctor can answer that, but I can tell you that her condition was recently upgraded from critical to serious.”

  “So that means she’s going to be okay?”

  “According to her chart, her blood pressure, oxygen sat­ur­ation levels, and heart rate have improved. Though not yet within normal ranges, they’re much better than yesterday.”

  “Does she have any brain damage?”

  “We won’t know until she comes out of the coma.”

  “When does that happen?”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you there. Dr. Yausie makes that call. He should be here within the hour.”

  “Do you know how she was hurt or who did it?”

  “I don’t know. All I can say is I hope the guy is locked away forever for what he did to her. But it won’t happen. It never does. Guys beat up gals, go to jail for a few months, come back out, and beat them up again. It’s a never-ending vicious circle that no one does anything about.”

  She said this with such vehemence that I suspected her of being yet another woman with first-hand experience. She checked the monitors and the intravenous line going into the back of Teht’aa’s hand before returning to the nursing station.

  The vibrant Teht’aa I knew was not the woman lying so corpselike on the sterile hospital bed. I only knew she was alive from the slight rise and fall of her chest as she drew in a breath and expelled it.

  “Oh, Teht’aa, I’m so sorry.”

  I pulled up a chair beside her. I wanted to clasp her hand but was afraid to in case I disturbed something, so I gently stroked her uninjured arm instead.

  “You’re going to be okay. Eric’s going to be okay,” I whispered over and over again, praying it was true.

  What a trick the gods had played on us. One day everything was nirvana — well, almost — and the next, a living hell. If his daughter were to die, Eric would be destroyed. And if he were convicted of murder, I doubted I could carry on.

  “So you’re Eric’s wife,” a voice rasped.

  Startled, I looked across the bed to discover an old man sitting in a chair partially hidden by the folds of the blue-striped curtain separating Teht’aa from her neighbour.

  “You must be Teht’aa’s uncle,” I said none too politely.

  He sat as immobile as Teht’aa, his arthritic hands resting on the bony knobs of his knees protruding through the thin denim of his jeans. His lightweight windbreaker hung open to reveal a red plaid flannel shirt buttoned to his chin. Loose-hanging folds of skin hid the top buttons. Wisps of grey hair caressed the collar. A navy ball cap with “Tlicho Wolves” stamped in red across the front hugged his head, though I couldn’t decide which stuck out farther, the brim of the cap or his nose. His black eyes assessed me from the maze of wrinkles covering his deeply bronzed face.

  He didn’t answer.

  I had learned in my conversations with Algonquin elders that a response was not always immediate, so I waited, embarrassed by my earlier rudeness. I continued to stroke Teht’aa’s arm.

  Finally, he said in slow, measured words, “Yup. I’m Joe Bluegoose, Teht’aa’s go’eh. Eric calls me Uncle Joe.”

  It was my turn to be silent while I tried to place him in Eric’s life. The name was vaguely familiar, and then it came to me. This man had once been the single most important person in my husband’s life. He had helped him reclaim his Algonquin heritage.

  “You must be the uncle of Teht’aa’s mother. Eric told me her name, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Charmaine.”

  “I gather she died in a car accident.”

  He grunted.

  “Such a tragedy to die so young and leave a baby behind.”

  Another grunt.

  I waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t, I asked, “Have you spoken to Teht’aa’s doctor?”

  The same grunt as before.

  I was beginning to think we had exhausted our conversation when he spoke up. “You family. Why you take so long to come to Eric’s daughter? She is here three days.”

  “I’m sorry. I only found out this morning and came as fast as I could from my home in Quebec. Do you know who hurt her? Was it her boyfriend?”

  “Eric is no murderer,” he rasped. “What you do about it?”

  My response was interrupted by the sound of powwow drumming coming from my purse. I scrambled to retrieve the phone and started to answer when the nurse tapped me on the shoulder. “No cellphones allowed. Take it outside.”

  I sped out of ICU in time to hear only a dial tone. When I checked for the caller’s name, another nurse told me I had to go to the lobby. Down the stairs I flew and almost collided with a man leaning over the reception counter admonishing the dear who’d been so helpful.

  “I demand to see Teht’aa Bluegoose.”

  “I’m sor
ry, only family are allowed to visit.”

  “I’m her goddamn boyfriend. Now tell me where in the hell she is in this godforsaken hospital.”

  SIX

  Boyfriend? I thought he was dead.

  From the man’s unkempt blond hair and unshaven face to the scuffed hiking boots on his feet, he looked as if he’d crawled out of a hole. Not to mention the smell. His jeans were filthy, though the white T-shirt was remarkably clean under a mud-streaked, down-filled vest with feathers leaking out of it like a plucked turkey. His blue eyes were bloodshot, as if recovering from a bender.

  “Look, meine Frau, I’ve been in the bush prospecting and only found out about my girlfriend today. So tell me her room number.” He spoke with a slight German accent.

  The woman glanced in my direction as if debating whether to turn him over to me.

  I took the decision out of her hands and approached him.

  “Hi, I’m Teht’aa’s stepmother, Meg Harris. How can I help you?”

  “You don’t look like a stepmother. Way too young and pretty.” A band of brighter than white teeth spread across his face. “I’m Hans Walther.” He held out his hand. “You can take me to her.”

  I couldn’t bring myself to touch him, so I pretended I hadn’t noticed the hand. I continued walking into the lobby, where several chairs were occupied with people, some with worried expressions on their faces, others lost in sleep.

  “You are married to her father, Eric Odjik,” he said, coming up behind me.

  At least he knew that much.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard Teht’aa mention your name.”

  The two media people were still stationed outside. They ignored the old man pushing a walker and a woman hugging flowers who were inching past them. Instead the reporters kept their eyes trained on me.

  “Let’s get out of the way.” I led him to an alcove behind a wall that blocked the reporters’ prying eyes. “I’m told that her boyfriend was killed yesterday.”

  “Do I look dead to you?”

  “How do I know you are her boyfriend?”

  “Excuse me. Is my word not good enough?”

  “You could be a reporter using this as a ruse to get to her.”

  “Looking like this? I didn’t have time to change. I came directly to the hospital when I heard. Go ask her. She’ll tell you who I am.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” I noticed he hadn’t yet asked about her condition.

  “Don’t tell me, she told you she didn’t want to see me. She was only joking.”

  “She’s in a coma. When she wakes up, I’ll let her know you want to visit and let her decide if she wants to see you.”

  I heard him mutter “bitch” under his breath before he smiled at me and said, “Can you tell me her room number? I would like to send her flowers.”

  “Flowers would be nice. Have them delivered to the hospital, and they will ensure she receives them.” The phone vibrated in my hand as the drumming started up again. “Sorry, I have to answer this.”

  I wasn’t certain the man would leave but, as if making a decision, he nodded and held out his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Meg. Please tell Teht’aa I love her and want to see her.”

  Once again I ignored it.

  I was saying “hello” into the cell when I heard him add, “Please wish her a speedy recovery from me.”

  He strode out the main door, where he was immediately accosted by the journalist. He flashed a broad smile into the camera and began talking.

  “Am I speaking to Meg Harris?” came a male voice over the phone. “This is Derrick Robinson.”

  “Good. I’d like to know when I can see my husband. I’m at the hospital.”

  “How’s his daughter doing?”

  “Not good. I’m waiting to speak to her doctor to find out more. Do you know who did it?”

  “As far as I know, the RCMP haven’t officially identified a suspect. She had a restraining order out against a former boyfriend, so I believe they are pursuing that avenue.”

  “I’m confused. I just met a man who insists he’s Teht’aa’s boyfriend, but you told me the murder victim was her boyfriend.”

  “That’s what your husband told me, although the police haven’t yet released the name.”

  “Could you tell me why they think my husband killed this man?”

  “He was found near the body with the murder weapon, a knife, in his possession. What the police call an open-and-shut case.”

  “There is no way Eric killed him.”

  “That will be for the courts to decide. I’ve already suggested to your husband that he should consider making a deal.”

  “Is that lawyer-speak for a guilty plea?”

  “Yup, for a lesser sentence. They have charged him with first degree, which is twenty-five years minimum.”

  I gulped. “No way. He’s not going to plead guilty. I won’t let him.”

  “It’s his prerogative, but I would advise the guilty plea given the evidence against him.”

  “Do you mind telling me how you came to be his lawyer?”

  “Sure. I’m Annette Drygeese’s son-in-law.”

  “And she is?”

  “You don’t know? She’s the administrator for the GCFN offices here in Yellowknife.”

  “How long have you been practising law?”

  “About five years, but given the number of cases I’ve handled, it’s got to be equivalent to twenty years.”

  “And how many of these cases have been for murder?”

  “A couple … well, they were domestic, pretty open-and-shut, so I guess you could say this is my first real homicide case, though it’s kind of open-and-shut too.”

  Time to find a new lawyer. “I need to see my husband. When can I do that?”

  “He’s currently at the detachment in Digadeh, but the RCMP intend to bring him to Yellowknife within the next day or so.”

  “Can I talk to him on the phone?”

  “Sorry, it’s not permitted.”

  “Then I’ll go to Digadeh and see him there.”

  “The RCMP won’t let you.”

  “But I need to talk to him.”

  “For the moment only his lawyer can communicate with him. I can pass on anything you want to tell him.”

  The second after I hit the hang-up icon, I was dialling the number for my sister. An Ontario superior court judge, she would know who the best defence attorneys were.

  “Sally McLeod,” Jean proposed after we had gone through sisterly pleasantries and I’d explained the situation. “She ranks among the top defence counsels I’ve had in my court. Though she now works out of Vancouver, I know she’s licensed to practise in the Northwest Territories. I imagine her caseload is full, so I’ll call to see what I can do to persuade her to make room for Eric.”

  I hung up more than a little gobsmacked by my sister’s willingness to help. Our relations could be described at best as passively tolerating each other, yet here she was offering to smooth my way. But it wasn’t me she was helping. It was Eric. He had won her over with his dimples, smiling eyes, and sympathetic manner, just as he had won me over.

  SEVEN

  A wisp of a man clad in doctor’s white and surgical greens with the de rigueur stethoscope slung around his neck was reading Teht’aa’s chart when I arrived back at her bedside. On the way, I’d stopped at the nursing station to warn them against Hans Walther. I suspected he wouldn’t let up until he was standing over her.

  But for the faint rise and fall of her chest, Eric’s daughter lay as deathlike as when I’d left her. The monitors blinked the same numbers, drew the same wavy lines. Nothing had changed. I patted her arm and told her I was back. Useless, I knew, but I couldn’t ignore her. I had to do what I could to try to connect, to let her know that I was here.

&n
bsp; “When is she going to come out of the coma?” I asked the doctor.

  His piercing black eyes peered at me through horn-rimmed glasses. “And you are?”

  Was this guy even old enough to be a doctor? He could be my son, if I’d bothered to have any. “I’m her stepmother, and you are?”

  “Dr. Chan, resident for Dr. Yausie, the surgeon.”

  He returned his attention to the chart.

  “I assume Dr. Yausie is the doctor who operated on her?”

  “Yes.” He continued reading.

  “Are you allowed to tell me how she is doing, or do I have to wait for Dr. Yausie?”

  “Tell her,” Uncle Joe ordered from his chair in the folds of the curtain. “She understand your fancy words better than old man like me.”

  He glanced at me again and this time added a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Dr. Yausie has gone for the day. I’ll give you an update after I’ve examined Ms. Bluegoose.”

  He did what doctors usually do, poked and prodded his patient and double-checked the machines, while the pink-floral nurse hovered behind him. He listened to Teht’aa’s chest, glanced at the readings on the ECG, and listened to her chest again.

  Ten minutes later he was finished. Dr. Chan motioned for Uncle Joe and me to join him at the nursing station. When I watched the old man struggle to rise from the chair, I wasn’t so sure if it was a good idea. But after shaking out the kinks in his legs, he hobbled to the counter, where he dismissed with an impatient wave the chair being offered by the nurse at the station.

  The update was short and to the point, with minimal medical bafflegab. The depressed skull fracture had caused minor hemorrhaging and swelling in her brain. She had been put into a drug-induced coma to minimize damage. Since her latest CT scan indicated that the swelling had subsided, they’d reduced the level of sedation this morning and planned to take her off it completely this evening.

  “How long before she wakes up?” I asked.

  “It can take a number of hours.”

  “Maybe I should also be asking if there is a danger she won’t wake up.”