Purple Palette for Murder

by R. J. Harlick

  At first she pulled up the sheet to hide her face but eventually relented. I managed to snap a good one that lessened the jarring effect of the bandages. I didn’t want to overly worry Eric. I even had her smiling, though only after one of my dreadful jokes. But she refused to look at the picture, saying it was something to be viewed after she was fully recovered.

  “Look, I need to pee. Do you mind helping me to the can?”

  I had barely started before the nurse arrived and took over. At the same time, another bed was being wheeled into the room.

  A familiar face peered at us from above the sheet. “Hi, Tee. You’re looking good. It looks like I’m joining you. We’re gonna be a matched pair.” She patted the bandage around her head.

  Uncle Joe shuffled in behind her.

  Thirty-five

  Fortunately, the thump to Gloria’s skull had caused little damage other than a sore head and a good-sized egg, but as a precaution, the doctors wanted to monitor her for the next twenty-four hours before allowing her to leave. The nurse had no sooner settled her into the bed next to Teht’aa than Uncle Joe declared, “We give thanks.”

  While the nurse sputtered her objections, he had me gathering up two wheelchairs. We loaded our patients into the chairs with the help of the nurse, still protesting, and wheeled them down the hall. We stopped in front of a closed door with a schedule tapped underneath a sign that read “Healing Room/Chapel.” Without so much as a knock, Uncle Joe barged in.

  There was a reason for the schedule. If the old man had stopped to look, he would’ve seen that the room was booked, notably to Father Harris. We stopped him in midsentence praying over a frail elderly man in a wheelchair with his hand-wringing wife huddled in a chair beside him.

  “I beg your pardon. This is a private matter.” The priest looked up. “It’s you … I’m so glad to see you looking so well, Teht’aa.”

  “We need the room,” Uncle Joe demanded, waving his hands at the priest to move him and his supplicants out.

  “Please, give us ten minutes.”

  I turned Gloria’s chair around to wheel her into the hall.

  “You stay,” the old man ordered, then pointing at the priest, hissed, “You, go.”

  “Please, Uncle Joe, we can wait outside,” I pleaded.

  Neither Gloria nor Teht’aa said a word. They merely stared at the priest, Gloria with the same fixed dislike as Uncle Joe. Teht’aa’s expression was more of bemusement.

  The priest mumbled some hasty words over the sick man and patted him on the arm. Stuffing his battered bible into his jacket pocket, he wheeled the man out of the room, careful to avoid colliding with Gloria’s chair parked directly in his way. The man’s wife tottered beside him. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered.

  “Uncle Joe, that was awful. We weren’t being respectful,” I said when the door clicked closed behind them.

  Ignoring me, he motioned for me to take up the plastic chair he’d pushed beside Teht’aa’s wheelchair, while he positioned Gloria’s to face us. He dragged another chair to form a quasi-circle, as if you could make a circle with four points.

  The old man retrieved a large abalone shell from a bookcase. One shelf held an assortment of shells and small pottery bowls. Another contained several beautifully crafted birch-bark containers. Judging by the aroma wafting from them, they held sweetgrass, cedar, and sage, the herbs traditionally used for smudging. On another shelf, feathers of varying sizes jutted out from several glass jars. Uncle Joe selected a large brown-and-white one that reminded me of the eagle feathers used in Algonquin smudging ceremonies.

  A wooden cross with the figure of Christ looked down upon us from the back wall above a narrow wooden table set up as an altar. The other walls sported colourful works of gyrating creatures by indigenous artists.

  Uncle Joe lowered himself into the empty chair. “Tlicho way is to feed the fire, but they don’t like fires in the middle of the floor, might burn the place down, eh?” He chuckled. “So we smudge like I seen the Cree do. But we use good Dene medicine, rat root.”

  He extracted the piece of root I’d noticed him rubbing from time to time and placed it in the middle of the pearl-grey interior of the shell, on top of the soot from previous smudgings. He attempted to light it with a match taken from his pocket. After several false tries, a wisp of smoke finally rose from the shrivelled root. He gently blew on it and fanned it with the feather. Soon he had a good smudge going.

  He closed his eyes and mumbled in Tlicho. When both Teht’aa and Gloria crossed themselves in Catholic fashion, I assumed he was praying and closed my eyes also. Unsure of what gods were listening, I mumbled my own thanks for Teht’aa’s survival and a prayer to wish the both of them a speedy recovery.

  “Meg, my legs too tired. Can you take the smudge around the circle? Everyone supposed to wash in the smoke. Make us better people.”

  My nose twitched at the acrid smoke rising from the burning root. Accustomed to the sweetish scent of the more traditional ingredients, I found it jarring and not soothing the way the smudge was supposed to be. I hoped this wouldn’t upset the Creator.

  Before taking the shell from Uncle Joe, I washed the smoke over my head and body with my hands. I held the smudge for him to do likewise. Once finished, I walked over to Teht’aa, who without hesitation cleansed herself in the smudge. Gloria’s eyes arched with uncertainty, but she mirrored our movements and shrugged with a so-what when she was finished. However, she closed her eyes, moved her lips as if in prayer, and crossed herself.

  I returned to Uncle Joe and passed the smudge back to him. He mumbled more Tlicho prayers before saying, “Good, Nòhtsi happy. He make you better. We go.”

  I helped him out of the chair and kept the door open as he wheeled Teht’aa into the hall. I followed behind with Gloria, who exclaimed, “Uncle Joe, you really believe in that old shit?”

  I winced at her impertinence, but the old man merely smiled. “They made me a Catholic at school. I said my prayers like a good Catholic boy. But I always left gifts for Nòhtsi to show my respect. Still do. I figure the more gods you keep happy, the better it’s gonna be, ain’t that so, Teht’aa? No one drum dances like you, girl.”

  She laughed then winced with a groan. Touching the bandage on her face, she said, “I’ll be glad when I can finally get this thing off. On the other hand, I’m not sure I want to see what’s underneath.”

  “Don’t matter,” Uncle Joe replied. “You same Teht’aa inside.”

  “I guess, but CBC might not want me anymore.”

  I watched the nurse settle Teht’aa into her bed. “Don’t give CBC another thought. Your immediate focus is on getting better.”

  “And finding the bastard who did this.”

  “You still have no idea?”

  “Like I said, I don’t remember a thing.”

  “And you don’t think any of the men you know could’ve done it.”

  “No way, none of them ever beat me up this badly.”

  “Beat you up?”

  “Come on, Meg. Don’t look so grim. I’m kidding.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  “The police believe someone used a key to break into your place. Do you remember who has one?”

  “Precisely the question I wanted to ask,” came the words from behind me. I turned to find Sergeant Ryan, looking official in her Mountie uniform, standing at the bottom of Teht’aa’s bed. “I’m so glad you are much improved, Miss Bluegoose. I wonder if you mind answering some questions.”

  Teht’aa self-consciously touched her bandage. “Sorry for looking such a mess. I guess you want to know what I remember of the attack. Well, it’s short and simple. Nothing. But go ahead, fire away.”

  “Why don’t you answer Mrs. Odjik’s question first?”

  “You mean about the keys? Uncle Joe has one.”

  “That’s the one I’m usi
ng,” I said.

  “Okay. Dad’s got one. Gloria, I gave you a key, didn’t I?”

  “I lost it, remember? I use the one you keep on the hook under the top stair.”

  I felt more than heard the cop groan. “Who knows of its existence?”

  “It could be anyone,” Teht’aa replied. “Sorry.”

  “What about Hans?” I asked.

  “Yah, I imagine he knows about it. But like I said, it’s no big secret. Half of Yellowknife probably knows about it.”

  Another lead to Hans shot down.

  Thirty-six

  I left Eric’s daughter being wheeled down the hall by the Mountie, away from the eavesdropping ears of her roommates to a consultation room. I hadn’t been invited, but that was fine. Teht’aa would tell me what transpired later. Meanwhile, I had Eric to visit.

  According to Derrick, normal visiting hours were on the weekend, but he had persuaded the warden, a friend of his, to allow me to see my husband three days early. It was a one-time exception. If the judge refused to release Eric, I would be forced into this weekend schedule. A thought that made me more determined to do what I could to get him out of there.

  Though the directions from Derrick were simple, only two turns, I gave myself plenty of time in case I became lost. The first was a right turn onto Kam Lake Road, which I thought would take me far into the bush. But I found myself surrounded by suburban homes when I made the second turn onto the gravel road of the Corrections Centre.

  I arrived twenty minutes early, including a stop for a burger. I debated bringing Eric one, knowing he would be fed up with tasteless prison fare, but I was worried it would be confiscated and could jeopardize my visit.

  My first visit to a prison, I expected to see a forbidding, windowless stone structure surrounded by utility-pole-high fencing, with razor wire and guard towers strategically placed along the perimeter. Instead I drove up to a perfectly ordinary two-storey building covered in Yellowknife’s ubiquitous metal siding, with actual windows, the kind that let lots of light in, and no surrounding fence. The only fence within view was a screen-like mesh expanse that stretched from the building I was about to enter to another wing of the facility. I felt marginally relieved. Eric wasn’t locked away in an inhumane dungeon. Nonetheless, it was still a jail.

  I remained in the car, becoming more nervous as the minutes ticked by to the appointed hour. I didn’t know what to expect. While Eric had sounded his usual confident self on the phone, he hadn’t acted it at the courthouse. Would he be embarrassed? The way I was feeling. Would we have to talk through a mesh, or would we do it over a phone, like on TV? Would we be able to touch, or would we be forced to press our hands against the mesh?

  I didn’t know if he wanted to see me. He hadn’t been pleased with my presence at the courthouse. Yet Derrick had arranged this visit. So my husband must want it too.

  I watched a man leave through the front door. Though he was casually dressed in jeans and a windbreaker, he carried a briefcase and walked with the confident swagger of a lawyer. Doubtless visiting a client. And speaking of lawyers, I turned at the sound of a tap on the passenger window to find Derrick’s inquiring face peering through the glass.

  I put down the window. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I’m only here to ensure everything goes smoothly. You shouldn’t have any problems, but one never knows. Your husband really wants to see you.”

  Thank goodness.

  “You ready?”

  But he didn’t need to ask. I was already standing outside the car.

  “You’ll have to go through security. Make sure you don’t have any sharp objects, keys, cigarettes, or anything that looks like it could be drugs, like prescription bottles. Cameras and other electronic products are also not permitted.”

  “Not even a cellphone?”

  “Definitely not. You can’t even take in a SIM card.”

  “But I have photos of Teht’aa.”

  “Print it out and show it to him on your next visit.”

  Next visit! “But he’ll be released on Friday.”

  “Sally and I are both hoping Justice Demarco will grant release, but this delay in his decision is highly unusual. So prepare yourself for a no decision.”

  Any optimism I’d felt vanished.

  “I’ll leave my purse in the car.”

  “No, bring it. You’ll need to show some ID. You can leave it in one of the lockers at the security desk.”

  With Derrick holding the door open, I entered the prison feeling as if I were going to a funeral and not the joy I should be feeling on finally being able to be with the only man I had ever loved. The sombre atmosphere of the main foyer didn’t help. I dutifully signed myself in at the security desk, locked my purse into a small metal locker, and passed through the metal detector without a murmur. My heart pounded as I walked up the stairs to the visitors’ room on the next level with Derrick by my side. Though the stairwell seemed airy and bright, I couldn’t ignore the underlying oppression of incarceration.

  My spirits rose when the lawyer opened the door to a grand hall with high ceilings and sun pouring through the windows. Rather than finding cold metal chairs lined up before a wall of mesh, I saw work tables and molded plastic chairs scattered about the room. Indigenous artwork brightened up the soft-brown walls. The room reminded me of a hall at a community centre where people came to enjoy themselves.

  But I didn’t see Eric.

  “Take a seat.” Derrick motioned to a nearby chair. “They will be bringing your husband in shortly.”

  I walked toward the windows, to the chairs and tables flooded with sunlight. Eric loved the outdoors. This would be as close as I could get him to it. I sat down and waited.

  Within minutes, my husband walked through another door with a prison guard behind him. His usual flowing mane was tied back into a ponytail. At the sight of his rumpled clothes, the same as the ones he had worn yesterday, I realized dumb me had totally forgotten to bring the suitcase with the change of clothes.

  He walked a few steps into the room and stopped as if uncertain. I hesitated, too. I tried to read his expression, but his granite-like stillness gave me no clue to his thoughts. Only his soft grey eyes hinted at the emotion he was feeling. He was scared. He was afraid that I would no longer love him. The tears betrayed his love for me.

  I started walking toward him. At the same time, he moved toward me. Our paces quickened. Like some lovesick movie, we met in the middle and stood for I don’t know how long clasped as one, until someone coughed, and coughed again when we didn’t move. I stepped back, wiping the tears from my cheeks and noticed Eric doing the same.

  “Come, my love.” I held out my hand. “Let’s sit in the sun.”

  Thirty-seven

  With so much to say to each other, but not knowing where to start, Eric and I stuck to the safe topics like the state of our health, my living arrangements — not his — and the safest of all, Teht’aa. Thankfully, I could give him good news, which brought the first real grin to his face, though it wasn’t enough to cause his dimples to erupt. I decided not to mention the photo, convincing myself that he would be seeing her in person in two days.

  The guard and the lawyer remained in the room but kept a discreet distance, enough to give us a sense of privacy. Derrick studied a document from his briefcase while the guard gave the appearance of being absorbed in his thoughts. However, when I reached into my pocket to pull out a memento for my husband, he marched over, demanding to see it. But he merely raised an eyebrow when he saw it was only dog treats, Shoni’s, left forgotten in my pocket.

  I knew they would bring life to Eric’s eyes, and they did. I pictured the two of them relaxing in front of the fire, the puppy stretched out on the sofa with her head on Eric’s lap while he combed his fingers through her soft poodle coat.

  For a brief moment I forgot
I was in a prison, and from the bemused smile spreading across Eric’s face, he had too.

  But I had to shatter the illusion. “Sally said you intend to plead guilty to manslaughter. Is that true?”

  He stopped playing with the treats and leaned back in his chair. “It’s for the best.”

  “Best for whom? Certainly not for you or me.”

  “Meg, you’re stronger than you think. You can handle our separation, as can I. If I’m good, and I will be, I’ll be out in three years.”

  “Fine, but everything you have worked for will be beyond your reach. The community won’t want you, a convicted killer, helping them anymore.”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you saying you killed him?”

  He remained stonily silent and shifted his gaze to the view of the prison grounds outside the window.

  “Well, I don’t believe it, and I’m going to do all I can to prove your innocence.”

  “Meg, please don’t. You have a tendency to get carried away and can stir things up a little too much. I don’t want you to this time. People might get hurt.”

  “People, what people?” The guard jerked his head in our direction. I guessed I’d spoken a little too shrilly, so I lowered my voice. “As far as I can see, the only people who are going to get hurt are you and I if you continue on this ridiculous path.”

  “Please, Meg, trust me.” He reached for my hand, but I moved it away. “When Teht’aa is well enough to leave the hospital, I want you to take her back to Three Deer Point and get on with your lives.”

  “What’s going on, Eric? I know you didn’t kill Frank, so why do you want to ruin your life?” I had a sudden thought. It was the only reason that made sense. “You’re trying to protect someone.”

  He firmed his lips in resignation and flicked one of the treats across the table before saying, “Please try to understand. Our time together is precious. I don’t want it to end in anger, so let’s talk about something else. Tell me how Jid is doing.”