Mark answered, “I heard there were a couple of herring skiffs for sale.”
“Yeah, the Glenning boys are selling two ten-ton skiffs. They’re three fingers over, right behind the Cape Morrisey. So you want to quit the big boat stuff? Become a stiff in a skiff?”
“Jimmy only lets us have the one seine license. I like to fish it here, but gillnetting is good up north. If I can get a good deal on some gear, I might give it a try.”
“Finish your coffee and we’ll wander over and have a look. The sun’s almost out.”
The sun might have been out in Tahiti but it sure as hell wasn’t out here. However, the rain was now merely a drizzle and the sky was light enough that you could almost read a newspaper. We walked down the float to the header float and then along it to the third finger. Just as we turned to walk down the outside float, something caught my eye, and I stopped in amazement. A battered aluminum crew boat, maybe twenty-four feet with a forward cabin, and the name in just slightly faded red letters. Kelp.
Mark and Cecil turned to look at me. “What’s up?”
I pointed at the Kelp. “Mark, did you read to the end of Alistair’s journals?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t get a chance to finish them.”
“I’ll explain later, but we need to find out who owns that boat.”
“Okay, let’s take a quick look at the skiffs, and then we’ll find the wharfmaster. He’ll have a record of the owner.”
As we walked farther down the float, Cecil looked at me questioningly. I shrugged. “It’s a long, strange story, Cecil. I’ll tell you about it some time.” By this time, we were passing the high bow of the Cape Morrisey and could see two flat-bottomed herring skiffs tied side by side. The inside skiff had a FOR SALE sign on it with a phone number. Mark made a note and then began to clamber over the skiffs, inspecting hull condition and welds, as well as the gear. Finally he finished and climbed back onto the float.
“Let’s find the wharfmaster.” We walked toward the wharf head and up the gangway to the parking area. Cecil stopped by a phone booth and began fumbling for change.
“No lineup. Better phone the wife. See you guys later.” We waved and walked toward a vinyl-sided shack displaying a sign. WHARFMASTER. When we entered, I could see that the sign should have read WHARFMISTRESS. She was Heiltsuk, maybe some white blood, and extremely attractive. As she rose from her desk and approached the counter, I noted, hopefully without staring, her burnished brown skin, high cheekbones, and long glossy black hair.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was as attractive as the rest of her.
I leaned on the counter and gave her the full benefit of my coolly intelligent but warmly open and honest gaze.
“I wonder if you could tell us who owns that aluminum crew boat, the Kelp.”
“Mac McPherson used to have it. Used it to run back and forth to his A-frame show. He sold it about a year ago, but I’ve never seen the guy that bought it.”
“Do you have a name and address?”
“Hang on.” As she walked away toward a bank of filing cabinets I prayed my gratitude to the inventor of blue jeans. I glanced at Mark. He must have been struggling with his vow but he was concealing it well. When she reached the filing cabinets, she bent over to pull open the second from the bottom drawer, and I had to avert my eyes. She extracted a file and walked back toward us.
She smiled and I felt all warm inside. “Trevor Holbrooke. Apartment 237, 892 West 41st Street, Vancouver, BC. He mails us a money order for the moorage fees every month.”
“Thanks for the info. My name’s Danny, by the way.”
“Melissa. Melissa O’Rourke. Pleased to meet you.”
“Well, thanks. You’ve been really helpful.” Out of habit, I tried the standard line. “Maybe I could buy you a drink, just to say thank you?” Without looking, I knew that Mark was gazing heavenward.
“That’s not necessary. I’m always happy to assist DFO in the ongoing performance of their duties.”
I looked at her for a hint of a smirk, but she had an absolutely straight face. “Well, see ya.”
She nodded and went back to her desk. When we were outside, I said to Mark, “Pretty cute, eh?”
“Yeah, I know her boyfriend.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, he’s this big Native guy. Used to play lacrosse for the Victoria Shamrocks. Killed a guy in a fight during the ’97 play-offs. No charges, but he’s still got a really bad temper.”
I bit. “I don’t remember anyone getting killed . . .” I broke off when Mark burst out laughing. “Bastard.”
“Gullible twit.”
We ambled back toward the wharf. “Let’s take the boat downtown. Maybe you can arrange to meet the Glennings and talk prices. I’ve got a couple of errands to run.”
Five minutes later, we were tied up at the downtown dock. We walked up the floats, past kids fishing, using more sophisticated gear than I’d ever had, but with the same expressions of unquenchable optimism. The odd one even had a fish lying on the wooden planks, vivid colors fading to dull lifelessness. I waited while Mark used the pay phone, and when he hung up, he said he’d meet me back here in an hour. When he was around the corner and out of sight, I headed for the RCMP building. I pondered briefly why I was being so damn surreptitious, but I arrived at the door before I arrived at an answer.
Inside, I asked for Staff Sergeant Louise Karavchuk, and was told to wait. I perused the WANTED posters on the wall and was pleased to see none of my relatives. Should I point that out to Louise? Maybe not. No need to be completely on the defensive.
She appeared at the counter and nodded hello. “What can I do for you?”
“Can we talk in private?”
She glanced behind her and considered a minute. “Let’s take a walk.” She donned a rain jacket, unlatched the gate, and joined me on the public side of the counter. “I’ve been stuck in the office all day. You’re a good excuse to get out.”
I was thrilled. I’d been upgraded to a good excuse. “I want to apologize again about last night,” I said once we were outside. “I’ve got a lot of suspicions but no evidence. I don’t want to make wild accusations and I guess I wanted to have first crack at the logbook just to see if I could see something that would have been meaningless to an outsider. But I don’t think there’s anything there at all.” I took the book out of my inside pocket and handed it to her. She slipped it into her pocket.
We walked up the hill, then turned left toward the bighouse. We studied the façade, painted brightly in a Heiltsuk motif. There were forms within forms within forms, and each larger form merged seamlessly with all the others. “Tell me about your suspicions.”
I took a deep breath. “Alistair might have been involved in something at DFO that was highly illegal. The people he was involved with might have killed him to keep him quiet.”
“Alistair hadn’t worked for DFO for seventeen years. Why kill him now?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who killed him?”
“Don’t know.”
“If Crowley was on the run, why come here?”
“Don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“Eight years ago, we caught a mutant fish tagged by DFO. After we caught it, my buddy took it to DFO lab. They say he never arrived there, but a picture of the fish, taken after we caught it, showed up in a DFO database recently. And my buddy disappeared into thin air.”
Somehow we’d ended up walking quite close together. Narrow sidewalks or something. She nudged me with her elbow. “I can understand why you were holding back a bit. No one likes to come across as a conspiracy nut. Do you have anything concrete at all?”
“Maybe. Remember those references to kelp? Like he was waiting for it? There’s a boat at the fishermen’s wharf called the Kelp. No one’s seen the owner but I’ve got an address in Vancouver for him. We should check it out but we’ve got to be careful not to alarm him.”
“Really? Not
alarm him? Good thing you pointed that out.”
I decided to be quiet for awhile. But just a short while. “Why are you guys suspicious?”
“Highly confidential, okay? There are a number of ways to commit suicide with a long gun, but you need to pull the trigger with something, usually a finger or toe. There was no powder residue on any of Crowley’s extremities, although his fingerprints were on the trigger.”
“You were right, suspicious but not definitive.”
“Give me that address. I’ll have it checked out. We’ll try and match it with a phone number and any utility bills, like hydro. We can do that just by checking the cross-registry files, you know.”
“Yeah, I knew that. I just wanted to see if you knew that. What time do you get off work? You owe me a dinner.”
“God, you’re smooth.” She smiled at me and the world seemed a better place. “I trust my credit card more than I trust my cooking. I’ll meet you at the restaurant around seven. I’ve got to talk to someone up the street here. See you later.”
I waved and turned back toward the wharf. It was a small town, I reflected, if someone could offer to meet you at “the restaurant.” As further evidence of the small-townness of the place, I deduced that the attractive young woman approaching me was the same attractive young woman who had come on to me so blatantly at the wharfmaster’s office.
“Hello again,” I said cleverly.
“Why, it’s Danny DFO.” She gave me a taunting stare. “Wanna check me over? You know, for violations or anything?”
I was beginning to detect a certain level of antipathy. I gave her my best hurt smile: not “wounded puppy” but “carrying-on-in-spite-of-the-wounds.”
“Sometimes I’d like to burn my DFO jacket,” I said. “But then I wouldn’t have a job and the whole world would be worse off.”
“That would be awful, Danny. Then what would we do? We certainly couldn’t manage our fisheries all by ourselves.”
Irritation dictated my reply. “I was a fisherman for ten years. I know how everyone feels about DFO. I signed up because I thought I could change things. I was young and stupid. What the hell.”
It was if a mask disappeared from her face. “I’m glad to know you’re not a typical DFO dickhead. Now, if I knew you weren’t just an every-day dickhead, I’d feel comfortable talking to you.”
An assortment of responses flashed through my mind. “Yeah, well, I’m not just an ordinary dickhead,” seemed not entirely satisfactory. I was saved from the necessity of an intelligent response by the arrival, stage left, of another actor on the scene.
Middle-aged Native female, comfortably round like my favorite aunt, carrying an umbrella, which hadn’t prevented her glasses from streaking with rainwater. She stopped and removed her glasses, gazing owl-like at us. “Hello, Melissa.”
“Hello, Auntie.” Then addressing me, “This is my Auntie Rose.” And then, with just a hint of non-disapproval, “Auntie, this is Danny Swanson.”
I knew that in Native society, the terms “Auntie” and “Uncle” had a wider meaning than in our European kinship system. The terms extended to various relationships by marriage as well as to older cousins and second cousins. So I thought I was on firm ground when I asked, “How exactly are you guys related?”
Rose wiped her glasses and looked at me. “I am Melissa’s mother’s sister. Her aunt.” And then she let me off the hook. She smiled gently, “I am her Auntie in all senses of the word.” She stared at DFO crest on my jacket. “Perhaps you knew Alistair Crowley?”
I was surprised. Crowley was, according to popular opinion, a loner at best, if not an outright hermit. “I knew of him, mostly as a working scientist. I was shocked to hear about his death.”
“I work at the Heiltsuk Health Centre. Alistair used to drop in and give us a hand. He was putting together a comprehensive database for us.” She bowed her head. “I liked Alistair. If he was one us, we would know what to do. Are his remains being looked after?”
Damned if I knew. The body was probably lying rent asunder in a drawer in the Bella Bella morgue. The sister in Ontario, had she been notified? Hopefully. And what sort of acknowledgment would be made of Alistair’s life? Death, or rather the end of a life, was heeded with significant attention in Native communities. Band offices would be closed for at least a day. Meetings would be canceled, no matter how important. Why? Because every human being was recognized as being a member of not only a family, but a community. And therefore the community would mourn.
I resolved at the very least to gather members of Alistair’s sub-community and drink some scotch. Scientists, as ego-driven and contentious as they could be, were always ready to recognize their own: in death, if not in peer-reviewed journals.
“I guess procedures are being followed, Rose. His family will organize the funeral; I’ll organize the wake.”
She smiled. “Ah yes, the Celtic approach. Our legends speak of a lost tribe that disappeared on a journey. I’ve always thought that they ended up in Scotland. The Scots are so tribal, they could only have originated from us. The bagpipes must be their way of channeling the ancestors.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Or talking to the wolves.” The amusement on her face encouraged me. “Did Alistair just show up out of the blue and start working for you?”
“He was an old university friend of my father’s,” Melissa said. “Dad was the doctor here for years. Alistair dropped in to talk to him, not knowing my parents had split up and my dad was back in Vancouver.”
Rose continued “And when he saw me struggling with my filing system, he offered to computerize everything for me. He used to drop in and spend a day every couple of weeks or so. I found it very helpful.”
“Is your Dad still in Vancouver?”
“Yeah, he runs a drop-in clinic on East Hastings. Dr. James O’Rourke. Dr. Jimmy to everyone who knows him.”
I looked at my watch. “Jeez, I gotta run. Nice meeting you, Rose. Thanks for introducing us, Melissa.” I waved and strode briskly down the hill. Mark was waiting, not too impatiently, by the wharf head.
“Did you buy a skiff?”
He shook his head. “We’re still dickering. They want to sell the skiffs only, no licenses. I’d prefer a package deal, so we’ll see what happens. If the price of herring goes down again this year, there’ll be lots of gear and licenses for sale. Mind you, if that happens, I’d be a fool to buy one.”
“The old catch-22,” I laughed. “If you can afford the license, you shouldn’t buy it. If it’s worth buying, you can’t afford it.”
Somehow I’d missed lunch and dinner wasn’t until seven. Fortunately, man is a foraging animal. I pulled Mark into the Zodiac and we set a course for the fridge on the James Sinclair. On the way there, I asked Mark if he knew Pete and George and the rest of the crew. “Pete almost busted me once. It was two years ago on herring. I made a set close to the line but I had to turn a bit to miss that asshole on the Pacific Aggressor. About a quarter of my net, at the most, was over the line. Pete roars up in the Zodiac and tells me to backhaul. We were already closed up, so I said I had the right to check and record my Loran readings, to see if he was right. While I was pretending to do that, I radioed my power skiff and told him to tow us full bore. Pete knew what was going on. Three minutes later we were on the right side of the line so he just waved and took off. He could have made a big deal about it but he didn’t.”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t me. I would have had to follow through just because some people know I fished with you.”
“Maybe you’re better off in Ottawa. You can’t cause trouble there.”
“Yeah, but I can sure get in trouble.’
We tied up to the James Sinclair and climbed aboard. In the galley, Pete and George turned as we entered. They were hunched like surprised vultures over a plate of fresh blueberry muffins. I pointed. “Stay away from those. They’re for the good people. And here we are.”
I introduced Mark and named his boat, and
Pete grinned. “I’d like to take a look at your Loran some day. It must be really old-fashioned to take so long to read.”
Mark parried. “It has really small print and sometimes it takes awhile to find my reading glasses.” He sat down and innocently helped himself to a muffin.
George grabbed a muffin in self-defense as Pete and I lunged politely for the plate. “Have you looked at your computer today, Danny? That Abalone License Policy whatever website is getting to be beyond a joke. Fleming posted a discussion paper suggesting people apply for experimental licenses to fish abalone with traps.”
I stared hard but not at Mark. “And then,” George continued, “Some ass-kissing dimwit replied what a great idea that was and proposed a twenty-five-cents-per-pound royalty.”
I’d always been curious as to what exactly constituted a genuine guffaw. I had my answer, as all four of us threw back our heads and roared.
Pete wiped tears from his eyes. “Don’t these guys realize that it would take thirty-seven years of fishing abalone with traps to raise enough money to pay for the stamps to mail out the licenses?”
“You’re exaggerating. With the new DFO-designed traps, it might only take sixteen years. Mind you, it will take DFO nineteen years to do the paperwork to get the new traps approved.” And we were off again, gasping and choking with laughter like adolescent boys.
Alex the cook emerged from his stateroom. “You guys discussing the organization again?” He shook his head. “You know, when I was working on seine boats, I thought that DFO was fucked. But now that I’ve been working for them for six years, I can see the error of my thought. They’re not the fuckees, they’re the fuckers. By the way, didn’t I make some muffins half an hour ago?”
“You should have made the kind that lasted.”
“Oh, I can do that. My next batch will last a long time.”
George backtracked hurriedly. “No need for that, Alex. These were just fine.” None of us considered it even passingly curious that the skipper would kowtow to the cook. The first rule on any working boat was, don’t mess with the cook. The second rule was, if you break rule one, slip your plate to the guy next to you. And the third rule, obviously, was don’t sit next to the guy who messes with the cook.
The River Killers Page 8