Purple Palette for Murder

by R. J. Harlick

  “I’m supposed to go identify her. He said he’d pick me up around noon and take me there … to the hospital. I think that’s where they keep bodies.”

  “It’s going to be hard for you. Would you like me to come too?”

  “Would you really do that for me?

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re wh—” She paused and bit her lower lip. “But you don’t even know me.”

  “No, but I’m also family.”

  “Yah, right.” She smiled, a soft wistful smile. “But I’m okay. Uncle Joe’ll be with me. You need to be with Tee.”

  The timer dinged.

  Thirty-one

  When I returned to the living room with the two mugs of steaming tea, Gloria was staring silently out the window at the orange streaks spreading across the sky. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney of a houseboat partially hidden in the shadow of the island.

  “Nice, eh?” she said, creating her own smoke. “I like sunrises. Reminds me of when I was little, when we stayed at the summer camp. Uncle Joe would wake me early and take me to a special rock to watch the sun come up. He said it was quiet time, time to talk to Nòhtsi.” She circled her hands around the hot mug and took a tentative sip. “That’s what we call God. Some people call him the Creator too.”

  “I like dawn too, but I’m rarely up so early.” I punctuated this with a yawn. “By the way, thanks for cleaning up the apartment.”

  She shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “Do you have any idea who might’ve broken in?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think it could’ve been the guy who attacked Teht’aa?”

  “What’s Tee say?”

  “She can’t remember. Could any of the guys who slept with her have been her attacker?”

  “Like I said, I never seen any of them. But I don’t know why you’re asking. Frank did it. And now he’s dead.”

  “What about Hans?”

  “What about him?”

  “Could he have attacked your cousin?”

  “Nope.”

  I rubbed my arm where he struck it last night. “He strikes me as the kind of man who abuses women.”

  “No way. He’s a gentleman. Treats a woman good. Besides, Frank did it.”

  “How do you know? You weren’t so certain when we talked about it earlier.”

  “People say he done it.”

  She turned her attention to her tea and to the sun flooding into the room. It outlined a profile that reminded me of her cousin, including the slight bump on the upper bridge of her nose, a bump Teht’aa used to rub to try to smooth it out. It was a profile whose firm chin spoke of an underlying strength, like Teht’aa’s.

  “Gloria, do you know anything about a piece of embroidery with purple flowers?”

  She turned her head so abruptly that she almost dropped her mug. But she hesitated a moment too long before saying, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” She resumed drinking her tea.

  Yeah, right. I went to the bedroom and retrieved the piece Josh had given me.

  I spread the delicate work out on the coffee table. A sudden ray of sunlight brought the three-dimensional flowers into sharp relief, revealing every single tuft of purple-dyed caribou hair. Reflections from the flowers’ sparkling, beaded centres danced on the ceiling. For the first time I noticed that each petal was edged with a delicate line of purple beads, which also sparkled in the sun. The green stems and leaves were made from another material that reminded me of the porcupine quills the Algonquin used. It was an exquisite piece of embroidery that seemed to have taken on a life of its own.

  She sucked in her breath. Her hand hovered over the shimmering flowers as if she was afraid to touch them.

  “It’s the same, but isn’t,” she whispered. Her fingertips followed the raised outline of each petal. “Lucy’s piece had only one flower and a couple petals like these.”

  For a moment I thought she’d forgotten about me, so absorbed had she become in the handiwork, until she raised her head and asked, “Where did you get this?”

  “You said Lucy’s piece. Are you saying your sister had one like this?”

  “Yah, she showed it to me a long time ago, when she still lived at Digadeh. But hers had a tiny blue bird, not a yellow one like this one.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing,” she said a little too quickly for my liking.

  “I think you do. Look, it might have something to do with Teht’aa’s assault. It was found close to where she was attacked.”

  She jerked her head up, her eyes wide with alarm. “No, no. It can’t be.”

  “Please, tell me what you know. It might help find the man who attacked her.”

  She sucked deeply on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “Does this belong to Teht’aa?”

  “I believe it does. See these spots. It could be her blood.”

  “Fuck.” Followed by another stream of smoke. “I don’t know much. Just know it has something to do with an island where a boy died a long time ago. It’s sort of a memorial thing my Mamàcho mamàcho made. Lucy called it dzièwà.”

  Dzièwà. That word again. Father Harris said it meant blueberry. “Does Mamàcho mamàcho mean great-great-grandmother?”

  “Yah, I guess.” She picked up the supple hide and rubbed it gently over her cheek. “It’s so soft.” She placed it back on the table, spreading it out once again in the sun. “Lucy said Mamàcho mamàcho made it a long time ago, when they used to follow ekwò. That’s caribou in Tlicho.”

  “Do you know how many pieces there are? I’ve seen another one with a red bird, so there are at least three.”

  “Lucy never said. I didn’t know Teht’aa had one until you told me.”

  “Do you know who gave Lucy her piece?”

  “Mamàcho. And if she finds out I know about it, she’ll kill me. It’s supposed to be a secret. That’s what Lucy said.”

  “Your Mamàcho is Uncle Joe’s sister, Florence, right?”

  “Yup. Teht’aa’s Mamàcho too. And Frank’s.”

  “Do you know if Lucy still had hers?”

  “I don’t know. The only time I seen it was that time she showed it to me.” She brushed her fingers over the soft petals again. “It’d be cool to see the whole design.”

  “I imagine the original was very beautiful. Your great-great-grandmother was a highly skilled artist. What a pity it was destroyed. You said that it was a memorial for a young boy.”

  “Yah, that’s what Lucy said. She said Mamàcho told her a story about it. We Tlicho are always telling stories. Mamàcho is kind of like the storyteller in our family. She’s always telling them whenever we’re sitting around a fire. She wants us to remember where we come from.”

  “Did your sister tell you the story?”

  “Sort of, but it was a long time ago and it was in Tlicho, so I don’t remember much.” She rose from the sofa with her empty mug in hand. “You want more tea?”

  “Sure, if there’s enough.”

  After placing the two refilled mugs on the coffee table beside the embroidery, she resumed her spot beside me on the sofa and tucked her legs under before covering herself with the blanket. The sun had risen higher and was bathing us both in its yellow warmth. But it wasn’t enough to take the chill out of the early morning air. I pulled the blanket up higher.

  She lit a cigarette and took a thoughtful drag before continuing, “The story was about some kind of a sacred island way far away in hozìi.”

  “Hozìi? What’s that?”

  “What you call the Barrens. It’s way up north. No trees grow there, just bare rock and lots of lakes and rivers. Anyway, the story tells about the time Mamàcho mamàcho found the island. One summer ekwò didn’t come to the summer hunting grounds and the family was starvin
g. My great-great-grandfather took them to a special place his father had told him about, where ekwò sometimes go in bad years.

  “They followed a very old ancestor trail. After many, many days they found ekwò. While the men were hunting, the women went to an island in the middle of a big lake to pick blueberries. It was also covered with pretty purple flowers she’d never seen before. They sparkled in the sun. But Nòhtsi was angry. A big storm came up and splashed big waves over the island. Her little boy drowned. Mamàcho mamàcho made this embroidery to remember him.”

  “What a lovely but sad story. However, I don’t understand why it should be kept a secret.”

  “They don’t want anyone going there. Lucy called it Dzìewàdi, Blueberry Island. It’s sacred, see. Lucy told me Nòhtsi get mad if I tell anybody. But I don’t believe in any of that shit, not anymore. You know this flower isn’t like most Dene flower designs.”

  “How so?”

  “These have seven petals. Mostly they have five, sometimes six petals.”

  “Maybe your great-great-grandmother was being creative.”

  “Frank thought she was trying to tell us something.”

  “With seven petals?”

  “I dunno.” She surveyed the embroidery again. “Maybe the boy was seven when he died.”

  “Sounds plausible.” I rubbed my finger over the little yellow bird and thought of the red one. “Do you know if Frank’s piece had a red bird?”

  Another cloud of smoke. “Dunno. Never saw it.”

  I would have to ask Eric if he got it from Frank. If he did, it would mean another connection to the murder victim. Whether this was good or bad, I had no idea, but doubtless the police would find a way to use it against him.

  “Do you have any idea why Hans would be interested in the purple flowers?”

  She jerked her head around. “Hans? Whattya mean?

  “The red bird piece I mentioned. Hans stole it from me.”

  “What were you doing with it?”

  “I found it.” I decided to keep the location to myself.

  “Fuck.” She crushed her cigarette into the saucer she’d been using as an ashtray.

  “Why would he take it?” I asked again.

  She stood up, causing the blanket to slide to the floor.

  “You know something. Tell me.”

  “Can’t.” She kicked the blanket aside. “Look, I’m really sorry, eh?”

  Her eyes pleaded for understanding before abruptly turning away. She thudded down the hall to her room, slamming the door behind her.

  A minute later I heard her muffled voice and wondered who she had called.

  Thirty-two

  After Gloria finished her phone call, I half expected her to come flying out of her room and race off to whomever she’d called, doubtless a man. Instead the silence grew until it was interrupted by gentle snoring.

  I opened a window to dilute the smoky air with fresh, returned to the sofa, and wrapped myself completely in the blanket. The sun continued its rise into day, though as far as I was concerned at five in the morning, day was a good couple of hours away. I couldn’t be bothered to make a fresh pot of tea, so I nursed the dregs of cold tea in my mug.

  I was too wired to sleep. Gloria had left me with more questions than answers. The purple-flowered embroidery was important. Her strange reaction told me that much. But I was left confused over its role in this whole sorry mess. I was hoping Eric would have some answers, but I wouldn’t be able ask him until this afternoon. Teht’aa should be able to fill in more gaps, but with her memory loss, she might not be able to. Besides, I couldn’t visit her for another five hours.

  At the moment Uncle Joe was the best option. Since the embroidery involved his sister’s family, he might know something about it. And more importantly, he was likely awake for his early-morning fishing trip. But I was too late and found myself leaving a voicemail instead.

  I was in wait mode with nothing to do. Too restless to eke out the minutes inside, I bundled up and headed out to commune with the new day.

  The street was quiet as only a street can be at this early hour. I walked past houses still shuttered with sleep. Curls of smoke rising from chimneys spoke of toasty warmth inside. A curtain flicked open in the upper window of a townhouse. A man scratching his hairy chest peered out at the waking day, then turned away without noticing me below. A car drove up beside me, startling me for a moment. The driver waved a good morning as he continued past.

  I came to the bridge Uncle Joe and I had driven over on our way to his son’s house. I was partway across it when I decided I didn’t want to walk that far. I paused for a moment to watch the water twitch underneath the bridge before turning back. The narrow channel connected the bay on Teht’aa’s side of the peninsula to another smaller bay. I watched a plane taxi through the water to the float plane base at the end of the channel.

  Rather than taking the other shore road back to the apartment, I took the road that carved its way through the middle of the peninsula and found myself climbing up to the best view in Yellowknife, the Bush Pilot’s Monument, perched atop a massive rock outcrop. According to a bronze sign, the monument paid homage to the bush pilots who opened up the north in the 1920s and 30s. Staring down at the many rooftops interspersed amongst the trees and rock, it was hard to imagine that less than eighty years ago, this was all barren wilderness. Mind you, the wilderness was still within striking distance and stretched thousands of kilometres north through the vast boreal forest and the treeless tundra to the Arctic Ocean, with only a handful of communities in between.

  More chimneys were announcing that their households were getting on with the day. The traffic on the only road to downtown had increased to a handful, with one contrarian, a metallic blue truck, going against the flow. Probably a shift worker returning home after a long night at work.

  I made my way back down the flight of stairs and eventually to Teht’aa’s street. I noticed the same blue truck parked in front before I began my second lofty stair climb of the morning, both of them before breakfast. If nothing else, I would go home well exercised. To prove the good effect this stair-climbing was having, I was barely puffing by the time I reached Teht’aa’s third-floor landing. I was feeling rather pleased with myself until my hand dug around my pocket for the key and came up empty. I’d forgotten to bring it.

  I had a moment’s hesitation over ruining Gloria’s sleep before I placed my finger on the button and pushed it several times. The shrill ring echoed through the apartment. I pressed it again.

  Without warning, the door sprang open and someone slammed me back across the landing into the railing. My fingers clawed at the rough wood as I struggled to keep from falling backward. For a few anxious seconds I hovered precariously over the jagged granite three stories below before I managed to push myself upright and away from the railing.

  I leapt toward the stairs in time to see a man heading down onto the next landing. I clambered down after him only to see him running along the street below. A minute later the blue truck swerved onto the road and vanished in the direction of downtown.

  Fearful for Gloria’s safety, I shoved the rising panic aside and raced back up to the apartment. Heat wafted out the open door, but nothing else stirred.

  “Gloria!” I shouted. “Are you okay?”

  Silence.

  I stepped gingerly into the vestibule, closed the door, and waited.

  I caught the faintest of sounds coming from the back of the apartment.

  “Gloria, you okay?”

  “Fuck.”

  She was alive. Thank god.

  I found her half-sitting on the hall floor, rubbing her head.

  “Fuck, what happened?” she groaned. “My head hurts like shit.”

  “Someone broke into the apartment. Did you see them?”

  “Fuck, no. I was out cold when s
omething woke me up. I opened my door and wham, something hit me. Next I know, I’m lying on the floor. Fuck, what’s going on?” She stared at the blood covering her fingers.

  “Here, let me have a look.”

  The scalp wound wasn’t extensive, but would produce a good-sized egg. I placed a wet face cloth on it to help staunch the bleeding.

  I then noticed the bear carving lying on the floor.

  Thirty-three

  The ambulance arrived within minutes of my call, along with the police, who were the problem as far as Gloria was concerned. Because of the outstanding arrest warrant, she had tried to pull the phone from my hand to stop me from making the call. When that hadn’t worked, she’d attempted to flee, but the blow to her head had left her dizzy and barely able to stand.

  After a preliminary examination by the paramedics and brief questioning by the police, she was whisked off to the hospital along with a police guard. Though I’d wanted to go with her, Sergeant Ryan wouldn’t let me. Instead the cop questioned me for the next hour, while two others went through the apartment yet again with their dirty dusting powder and other forensic tricks.

  Like the previous break-in, they found no evidence of forced entry, so the possibility of a stray key became more certain. But they would need to follow-up with Teht’aa to determine other possible key holders. Though given the numerous men that seemed to wander in and out of her life, there could be a number of stray keys.

  When it came to describing the intruder, I was of little help. I’d been so caught up in saving myself that I’d paid little attention to the individual, other than to note it was likely a male. My impression was of height and a certain heftiness judging by the heavy sound of the footsteps running down the stairs, which spoke more of a man than a woman. I was able to remember that he wore dark clothing but couldn’t recall the exact colour. I had no impression of hair or colour, so he must’ve been wearing a hat.

  I’d been hopeful that the truck would provide the best clue for identifying the man. But when I tried to recall the make, I couldn’t, other than to say that it had too many dents and too much rust to be a recent model and was more substantial than my own truck. Although the metallic blue colour would help reduce the number of possibilities, Sergeant Ryan thought it would only reduce it to a few hundred. Given their shortage in manpower, it would take them several days to check them out.