Purple Palette for Murder

by R. J. Harlick

  He was saved from answering by a sudden splash and a loud thump that had us both leaping from the rock and peering through the half-light to the shore below. I made out a large black shape moving beside the boat. It was banging against an object lighter in colour, which I realized was the cooler.

  Uncle Joe fired his rifle and hollered in Tlicho. I knew he was yelling at the bear to get the hell away. The animal lumbered over the chest and scrambled into the forest. The old man fired two more shots.

  “I knew putting fish in the cooler was bad idea. But I thought sah was far away. Guess not. He be back. He want fish more than he scared of us. We got to go.”

  Though we were both drooping from exhaustion, I didn’t argue. With my ears on high alert for his return, I threw the still wet dishes into the pack along with my blanket. Ignoring the pack’s weight, I hoofed it down to the boat, where Uncle Joe waited with his rifle.

  I only resumed normal breathing when the island had finally blended in with the shadows of the land.

  fifty-two

  The first few hours after our close encounter melded into a blur of wakefulness and sleep. Though it was light enough to see our way over the water, the land slept. The drone of the outboard had me fighting to stay awake. Much to my shame, Uncle Joe, a good thirty years older, sat solidly upright with his hand firmly gripping the tiller, his gaze steady, without hint of the tiredness he’d shown earlier.

  He insisted that I curl up in the bow with the blanket and the sleeping bag his son had given him, which I declined for fear of getting it wet. I didn’t remember using my lumpy purse as a pillow, but when a jolt woke me up, I found my head wedged between the purse and the side of the boat and a painful bump on my forehead. I sat up into the glare of the sun’s first rays streaking over the undulating hills of the eastern shore.

  Uncle Joe had barely shifted his position beside the motor. Though his posture was more hunched and his eyes less bright, he continued to stare unwaveringly at the route ahead.

  Apart from a narrowing of the shoreline, the lake behind us appeared to be a mirror image of the lake with the bear. “Are we on the same lake?”

  He slowed the boat to a putter, making it possible to talk without shouting.

  “That lake was Nodlàati. Lots of nodlàa, cloudberries. Very tasty.” He smacked his lips. “This lake is Edahbàati. Mary used to pick pretty roses that grow here. Edahbàa, we call them.”

  The boat was slowly wending its way through scattered pans of ice. Ahead, where the lake narrowed into a river, they bunched up into a more substantial barrier. But as we approached, I could see that it wasn’t impenetrable. The line of ice chunks took on a life of their own as they bobbed and moved apart in the river’s current. Some were a good half-metre or more thick, though I imagined at breakup they would’ve been considerably thicker. I was tasked with shoving the pans aside with a paddle.

  The boat moved easily, with only an occasional thrust of the paddle to push the stubborn ones out of the way. Several times we were stopped by chunks jammed so hard together that despite my best attempts, they refused to break apart. Uncle Joe tried to ram them apart by increasing the speed of the boat. When this didn’t work, I joined him in the stern, and he launched the now-lighter bow onto the ice. Then I’d return to the bow and jump up and down as best I could without falling over the side. The theory was that my added weight would be enough to force the ice apart. It worked, though I wasn’t certain I appreciated the compliment.

  We reached an impasse at the narrowest part of the river, where the ice pans were so firmly wedged together that no amount of ramming or jumping would break them apart. Beyond, smooth, ice-free water beckoned. Fortunately, the river was flowing freely over a section where two chunks were being forced downward. Uncle Joe eased the bow onto this dip while I pushed the paddle against the blockage to keep us moving forward. With the water’s momentum on our side, we slid over the ice and into the clear water beyond. Our passage broke the jam. Within seconds, ice pans were tumbling around us, along with the rush of water. The old man revved up the engine and we left them behind in a bobbing wake.

  But our ice adventure took a toll on the old man, so I insisted we stop for a break on a rock knoll jutting into the river. Though four in the morning was early for breakfast, we gobbled up the remaining cooked fish and leftover bannock. When I learned that the next part of our trip was simply to follow the river until it emptied into another large lake, I insisted on taking over.

  After satisfying himself that I knew how to handle an outboard motorboat, he bedded down in the bow inside his sleeping bag with the folded up blanket as a mattress and my purse as his pillow. He warned me to wake him when we reached the treeless island that looked like a grazing caribou at the end of the next lake. He ordered me to stay in the middle of the river and watch out for submerged rocks. He also insisted that I go no faster than the easy pace we were currently travelling. He estimated we would reach his sister’s camp in time for an early lunch.

  While he gently snored in the bow of the boat, I wondered how he could be so calm about his sister. If his time estimate was correct, Reggie and the others should already be at her camp. With only her grandson for protection, Florence was entirely at their mercy. Uncle Joe was acting as if he didn’t think she was in danger. But I had my doubts. She had information two of these men desperately wanted.

  I hadn’t trusted Hans since our first encounter. I believed him hot-headed enough to resort to force to get what he wanted, like attacking Teht’aa and killing Frank and Lucy for information about a valuable mineral deposit, like diamonds. I had little doubt that he would threaten Florence with harm to get her to reveal the location of Dzièwàdi.

  I didn’t trust Reggie either. Despite being Florence’s chief, he was the kind of man who would do anything to get what he wanted, even if it meant harming one of his people. Moreover, if the blue truck did belong to him, then he, not Hans, had broken into the apartment and hadn’t hesitated to hit Gloria in his frenzied attempt to steal the embroidery.

  I wasn’t certain how big a threat Gloria posed. Though she might’ve killed her cousin, would she harm her own grandmother, the woman who had been more of a mother to her than her own and the woman to whom she entrusted the care of her daughter? I doubted it. But she might do what she could to convince her grandmother to give in to the demands of the two men.

  While a cleric wasn’t supposed to be of a danger to anyone, this particular priest was suspected of abusing children, possibly hers. But did he pose a threat to Florence? On the contrary, I hoped he would try to prevent the other two men from harming her, like Malcolm was supposed to do.

  But since Malcolm was in cahoots with Hans and Reggie, how far would he go to protect his aunt? Perhaps his only contribution would be to prevent the others from being too rough, while he added his own persuasive voice to get her to divulge her secrets.

  Since taking over the boat, I had dutifully obeyed orders by sticking to the middle of the river. There had been a few narrow misses with unseen rocks and one scrape of the bow before I jerked the boat away. But I hadn’t noticed any submerged rocks for the last hour, and the water ahead was flowing more easily. I decided to go against orders and increased the speed.

  The faster we reached Florence’s camp, the better.

  fifty-three

  The sun was little over halfway to its midday position when Uncle Joe pointed out a jutting, tree-fringed point where Florence’s camp was located, about midway down the long narrow lake we were entering. Tatseati, he called the lake, after the falcons that nested on the cliffs at the far end, where I could see clouds of smoke rising from the hills behind.

  I’d first noticed the heavy cloud a couple of hours ago hovering slightly above the horizon. It had steadily grown in size the farther north we motored. At first I thought it meant bad weather until Uncle Joe told me otherwise. A forest fire, he informed me in his simple w
ay. But I was not to worry. It was a long, long way away. Well, it looked as if we’d finally reached it. It seemed to be consuming the forests on the other side of the hills at the end of Florence’s lake, which I told myself was still a goodly distance away.

  The past couple of hours had been a confusion of lakes, big and small, and a labyrinth of connecting rivers, some narrower than others, one so shallow we had to drag the boat over the rocks. This last river had been more ice-choked than water-filled. Both of us had ended up with freezing wet feet from our struggle to drag the boat through. My teeth were still chattering.

  From this distance, I could make out several objects lighter in colour than the surroundings. A couple lay close to the water’s edge, while two others stood higher up on the land. But we were too far away to identify them.

  “Do you think we should sneak up on them?” I asked.

  “What we do that for?”

  “To surprise them.”

  “They already know we here.” He jerked his head in the direction of the motor. Though we were travelling at little faster than a crawl, the engine sounded like a mosquito in the dead of night.

  As we drew closer, two of the lighter patches became boats hauled onto a beach, one with an aluminum hull and the other white fibreglass. Higher up on the point’s backbone, next to a copse of scrawny birch, flapped the other light patches, a couple of dirty white tents. A man stood at the entrance to one of them, but at this distance I couldn’t tell who it was. Gloria I recognized only because of her pink jacket and small size. She stood beside several racks draped with what I took to be fish. A child played at her feet.

  “White fish,” Uncle Joe confirmed. “Florence been fishing. She dry them.”

  Malcolm strode down to the water’s edge to meet us, with Reggie and Hans sauntering down the incline behind him. I tried to read threat in their body language and couldn’t until I noticed the rifle Reggie had slung over his shoulder.

  “Where Florence?” Uncle Joe shouted.

  “On the other side,” Malcolm answered.

  “Fishing.” He chuckled. “She never stop.”

  Malcolm dragged the boat far enough onto the loose stones of the beach for me to jump out of the bow without getting wet. Mind you, it didn’t matter. My feet were still damp after their recent soaking. Actually they felt more numb than wet, which caused me to stumble when they touched the ground and fall into Malcolm, who managed to keep me upright before helping his father out of the boat.

  While Malcolm and I emptied out the boat, Hans and Reggie watched, their faces expressionless. Neither greeted us. Nor did Gloria, who stared silently down at us from atop the ridge.

  Uncle Joe nodded at Reggie’s rifle. “Bear troubles,” he said more as a sarcastic remark than an actual question.

  Reggie responded by planting his feet farther apart. Hans smirked.

  Only the child was happy to see us. She ran down the incline, her face aglow with delight, shouting, “Babàcho, Babàcho,” though technically he wasn’t her grandfather. He swooped her up into his arms and smothered her with love.

  I was confused. I’d been expecting to find a camp under guard. This was too casual. Yet I couldn’t help but sense a sinister underpinning.

  I figured I might as well be polite. “Hi everyone, fancy meeting you here.”

  No response, not even a crack of a smile.

  “A long way from Yellowknife, isn’t it? But what a fabulous part of the world.” I opened my arms to embrace the stark beauty around us.

  I noticed both Uncle Joe and Malcolm hanging back, as if waiting to see the reaction.

  “We’re wet and cold. Is there a fire where we can warm up and get away from these godawful bugs?” I hadn’t stopped slapping the incessant biters since we’d come ashore.

  Gloria was the first to rouse herself. “Up here, Meg. I’ll get the fire going again.” She disappeared behind one of the tents.

  Leaving the heavy cooler for Malcolm, I hefted Uncle Joe’s pack onto my back and started up the incline. Hans and Reggie blocked my way. Not wanting to give into their bullying, I headed straight for them. They broke apart at the last moment but left barely enough room for me to pass between them.

  “I’m surprised to see you,” Reggie said. “Isn’t your husband being released today? I thought as dutiful wife you’d be waiting with open arms — that is, if they free him.”

  “He’ll be released. He’s innocent. I’m here to prove it.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Your husband’s guilty.”

  I caught a flash of pink out of the corner of my eye and looked up to find Gloria watching us before ducking behind the tent.

  “We’ll see.” I thrust past the two men and trudged up the incline. I could hear Uncle Joe puffing behind me. The ground levelled off onto flat, solid rock with scattered tufts of sedge and shrubbery. The tents had been erected on softer ground in a copse of scrawny birch and spruce.

  Used to the luxurious and towering growth of trees in my part of the world, these spindly specimens were beginning to grow on me. With their myriad shapes formed by the harshness of the subarctic climate and the short growing season, they seemed to have more distinctive personalities. But their use was limited. They were too small to be used to build anything other than a rustic one-room cabin.

  The peaked canvas tents were identical to the one in Uncle Joe’s yard. About the size of a one-room cabin and high enough to stand upright, their support came from an elaborate frame of external poles made from thin, tapered tree trunks. So there was a use for these trees after all. Both the canvas with its numerous patches and the weathered texture of the poles spoke of many seasons of usage.

  “We call them McPherson tents,” Malcolm said. “They’re made at Fort McPherson on the Mackenzie River. Because trees are used for the poles, you only have to transport the canvas shell. Prospectors and the RCMP also use them. I swear these are the same tents Auntie had when I was a kid. We Bluegoose don’t take kindly to change.” He laughed. “It doesn’t look like Auntie has the stove going. Not cold enough for her.” He pointed to a chimney angled out of the side wall of the nearest tent. No smoke seeped out the top. “But Gloria has a good fire going in the pit.”

  With the young girl skipping beside him, his father limped over to the blaze rising from the circle of blackened rocks set in front of the tents. He collapsed into one of two aluminum lawn chairs with pink and green plastic webbing, which he moved as close to the fire as he could without igniting himself. Pulling a small object out of his pocket, he closed his eyes and muttered a few words before throwing it into the fire.

  “Dad’s feeding the fire,” Malcolm observed. “He’s thanking the Creator for a safe journey.”

  “I’d like to thank the Creator too. Am I allowed to feed the fire?”

  “Of course. Throw in something that has meaning to you.”

  I groped around in my pockets, fingered clumps of dirty Kleenex before settling on Shoni’s dog biscuit. Perfect. It spoke of home and my precious visit with Eric. Whispering a prayer for him and his daughter, I tossed it into the flames and watched it ignite.

  “Is your aunt all right?” I asked Malcolm.

  “Never better.” He nodded in the direction opposite where we’d beached the boats.

  Through the trees I could see the shimmer of water and thought I could make out a bright blue scarf. A strong female voice called out in Tlicho.

  “She’s telling my son where to set the nets.”

  “I thought you and your father were rushing here because you were worried Reggie and Hans were going to harm her.”

  “Guess we were wrong.”

  “So why did you come?”

  Instead of answering, he turned away and walked over to meet the two men who were cresting the rise.

  Was this his way of confirming his involvement?

>   Figuring the other lawn chair was for Florence, I dropped onto the ground beside Uncle Joe. I removed my wet shoes, drained the water, and placed them on a rock next to the fire. I did the same with my socks before placing my feet within striking distance of the flames. My toes tingled with the heat.

  “Uncle Joe, why are we here?”

  “Patience, my t’eekoa,” was his answer.

  I was beginning to think coming here was one giant mistake. I should be in Yellowknife where I was really needed, with my husband and my stepdaughter.

  fifty-four

  Gloria tossed more branches into the fire, sending sparks skyward. I flicked a glowing ember from my jeans and jerked my feet away when a wayward flame kissed them. I was feeling toasty. The bottom of my jeans was almost dry, and my socks no longer seeped water when I squeezed them. My trail shoes, however, would take considerably more heat before they would be dry enough to wear.

  Though the smoke was making me cough and my eyes tear up, it was keeping the mosquitos away. But they hadn’t gone far. I could hear their hungry buzzing behind me. I inched closer to the smoke.

  Gloria sat cross-legged across the fire from me. She picked at a thread in her pink jacket. Without the heavy eye makeup and bright red lipstick, she looked younger, almost girlish, an impression reinforced by her long braids. Except for the purple streaks in her hair, all vestiges were gone of the hard-assed young woman who roamed the streets of Yellowknife looking for the next john.

  She no longer wore the bandage, but the shaved patch of hair and redness marked where she’d been struck.

  “How is your head?” I asked.

  “Okay.”

  Normally bursting with words, today she had few.

  “Why did you leave the hospital? You could be putting yourself in danger if your brain starts to swell.”

  She shrugged.