Strange Things Done (11 page)

The morning drained away in a languid succession of duties as Jo waited for The Gold Digger to open. She began by reviewing the most recent copies of the
Daily
. Most of the content was what she had expected—and dreaded. In the
Our Town
column, there was a story about Dawson’s boardwalks, “Splinter Faction Debates Wooden Sidewalks.”
In the
Nuggets
column, there was always a story about a claim striking it rich, speculation concerning the price of gold, or somebody winning a bit of coin at Diamond Tooth Gertie’s. In the previous edition, an aging tourist called Myrna Cunningham had been interviewed after she won a whopping $48.50 playing the slots. The headline read: “Tourist Strikes Gold at Gertie’s!”
There was a regular column called
Sourdough
, comprised mainly of local recipes. The last edition of the
Daily
had provided a collection of tips for freezing moose meat, under the title “The Big Freeze.”
An
Arts & Culture
column boasted rich content in the summer, when Dawson was rife with visiting artists and summer festivals, but was blatantly thin in off-season. What did surprise Jo a little was
Winning Hands
, a regular column dedicated to card games. The most recent featured a story on Klondike Solitaire, something the article claimed was a wildly popular pastime in the north. This spoke volumes about how much excitement was in store for her in the long, dark days ahead.

She went through Doug’s suggestions for story ideas and put them aside. She wrapped her fingers around a negligibly clean mug of bitter instant coffee, warming her hands, thankful that the
Daily
was, at least, home to an electric kettle. In her inbox, someone (probably Doug) had thoughtfully forwarded a photograph of Marlo McAdam for the
Daily’s
retrospective. Correction: for what everyone expected would be a retrospective, but what would, no doubt, become something much more complex.

Jo studied the photograph of Marlo, a close-up taken outdoors. She wore a frank expression, with faint lines appearing at the corners of closely set eyes. Jo guessed she must have been in her early thirties. The toothy grin made her look approachable. The fur trim of a parka framed a face that fell just short of pretty, but was beautiful in its openness.

Jo closed her eyes. She pictured Marlo’s body, battered and lifeless in the icy waters of the Yukon River. Jo breathed deeply as the memories flooded back. She rested her eyes on the cool palm of her hands and inhaled the calm, dry scent of newspaper and dust. Tried to think of nothing. Tried not to feel the wave of shame and panic that sometimes washed over her. A bell chimed. A door opened. Boots shuffled a little on worn carpeting.

“I did receive your story notes,” she said without looking up, steeling herself for battle. Forgetting momentarily that Doug would be at the school.

“Ms. Silver.” The voice was tense. “I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time.” Sergeant Cariboo filled most of the doorframe, a lanky figure that blocked the only escape route. He swept a sprinkling of light snow from the shoulders of his RCMP parka and stamped his feet. His dark eyes looked serious.

“Certainly,” Jo said agreeably, but her shoulders betrayed her by lifting involuntarily. She motioned him to come in. “Would you care for a cup of the
Daily
’s famous coffee? Fresh out of the can.”

He waved the offer away. “No, but thank you.”

“Guess I didn’t sell it very well.”

Cariboo took a few steps into the room, but continued standing. Jo stood too, the grey metal desk between them like a shield. “This won’t take long,” he said. “We’re continuing our investigation into Marlo McAdam’s death, as I’m sure you know.” Cariboo took off his gloves and then the muskrat-fur hat, running a hand through shiny black hair. He didn’t look much like a cop. His hair was too long on top. A dark shadow of stubble lined his jaw and framed a generous mouth. He looked more like … what …? Jo thought about what Doug had said, about Cariboo’s disappointed dreams. He’d wanted to be a singer.

“Yes,” she said. His eyes searched her face, and Jo felt suddenly exposed, a guilty teenager in the presence of her father. The uniform put her on edge. It always had. “I thought you said the RCMP believed Marlo’s death was an accident?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would let me ask the questions. It seems you weren’t entirely truthful about your whereabouts Sunday night.”

Jo’s father had always been quick-tempered, something she’d made a conscious effort not to inherit. She had failed miserably. As a child, she had been sent home on more than one occasion for scrapping in the schoolyard, though she insisted she’d been demonstrating a technique that she had learned in one of the plethora of self-defence classes Frank had enrolled her in. Jo clenched her jaw and envisioned pouring gasoline all over Sergeant Cariboo. The pleasant sound it would make as she tossed the match.
Wooosh!
“I was entirely truthful about the fact that my memory of events is hazy at best, Sergeant.”

“Convenient for you.”

“There was nothing convenient about the way I felt yesterday morning.”

“Convenient for you to forget that you were at the scene of the crime Sunday night.”

“What …? Where …?”

“Crocus Bluffs.”

“That is absolutely …”

“Before you say anything else, you should know that Christopher Byrne admits that the two of you were on Crocus Bluffs Sunday night, during the period when Marlo McAdam died.”

Jo felt as though she were on a ship that had suddenly keeled sharply to one side. She leaned over and clenched the desk. “I … you said
crime …
”

“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable coming down to the station to continue this conversation?”

“Certainly, however you’d have to wait for my lawyer to accompany me, and I’m not sure how long it would take for her to get a flight this far north. Off-season, you know.” She offered him a weak smile.

He gave her an appraising look, as though considering how much force to exert. His brow furrowed a moment, and the beginnings of lines showed around his eyes when he returned the insincere smile. He looked exhausted. “Was there any particular reason the two of you drove out to Crocus Bluffs the night Marlo McAdam died?” He studied her closely.

“I … believe you are mistaken.” Jo sat down hard. “Mr. Byrne simply gave me a ride home. I was … feeling unwell.”

“Are you sure you want to stick with that story?” His expression showed disbelief.

“Are you sure that you’re still investigating an accident? You seem to be asking a lot of questions for something you’ve told the public was an accidental death.”

Cariboo considered her for a moment. There was a long silence, then he said, “Did you know that Christopher Byrne was sleeping with Marlo McAdam?”

She felt something inside her constrict. “I did not. But it’s none of my business. I barely know him.” Her face flushed and she experienced a rush of self-loathing. If there was one thing she hated, it was being easy to read. Cariboo looked away, as if finding an answer that he didn’t like.

“That’s not what I hear. He told me you drove up to his cabin yesterday.”

“I was investigating the story for the
Daily
.”

“And you have a date with him tonight?”

She didn’t answer him. Jo remembered Byrne’s eyes on her at the bar. She hadn’t been certain whether he’d been serious or not, but now she’d have to make sure that he kept the invitation.

There was a long silence between them, ended by Cariboo. “You know, I can’t quite decide whether I’m worried about you, or for you.” He gave Jo a penetrating look.

Jo broke eye contact with Cariboo to glance at her watch and then out the window.

A smattering of shops on Front Street that hadn’t closed for the season yet, or had decided to tough it out through a Klondike winter, were beginning to show signs of life. The light in the Dawson Trading Post winked on. (“Yes, we sell mammoth ivory!”) A well-bundled form disappeared inside The General Store. The sign in the window of Jimmy’s, the DVD rental and bookstore, flipped to “Open.” The white metal gates at the mouth of Maximilian’s Gold Rush Emporium were sliding back. Jo reached for her parka. She needed time to think.

“Where are you going?” Cariboo asked, the irritation in his voice clear.

“I’ve broken no law,” she said, already pulling on cold rubber boots.

“That you remember.” There was a meaningful silence before he added, “Do you think it’s wise to be alone with him?”

Jo felt something inside her flare again. “Why? Are you jealous?” Her face was hot with annoyance.

“Yes,” he answered.

His boldness shocked her. Was he winding her up? She stared at him, but his dark eyes returned the gaze without any trace of humour or malice. She felt something else pass between them, which she chose to ignore. “Is that all?” She wrapped a thick scarf around her throat, as though to protect herself from further attack.

“For now.”

The sergeant’s cruiser was parked right outside the
Daily
, causing curtains along Front Street to draw back.

“But don’t leave town.” Cariboo added, his tone firm.

Jo could have laughed out loud, but thought better of it.

9

The display cases in the window glittered with ostentatious jewellery and lusty nuggets of raw gold. Jo caught sight of her image in the glass. Reflected through the words “Gold Digger,” her double’s hair appeared to be a tarnished shade of yellow instead of her usual dark brown, and she watched herself brush away a strand that was blowing in her eyes. Her doppelganger frowned. She was tired of waiting, too.

The “Closed” sign had not been flipped to “Open,” though it was now well past eleven, the appointed hour for the boutique to open and Jo to meet May. The shop floor was unlit, and the seductive exhibits of tourist gold were unattended. May Wong was nowhere to be seen. Jo backed away, surveying the street, checking for anyone who might be en route to the shop. The air smelled of snow and woodsmoke. A figure in a bright turquoise coat was disappearing down Front with a toboggan full of supplies. Otherwise, the street was empty.

May Wong’s house was tucked into the hillside on Eighth, where turn-of-the-century mansions and large homesteads looked down on the town.
Business at The Gold Digger must be prospering
.
May’s home was of the Victorian variety, with the obligatory Dawson antlers hung over the entry. The front door had been painted blood red. Jo had read somewhere that a red door protected the occupant of a home from evil. She wondered if May had read the same article.

The path to the door had snowed in and bore no trace of footprints in the new snow. The flag on the mailbox was still up and the driveway was empty. Jo trudged through the snow to rap on the front door, making a hollow, empty sound while the wind hummed. Her second knock was met with obstinate silence.

Jo retraced her footsteps in the snow toward the street. She glanced over her shoulder at the stern, black windows of May Wong’s home to see if anyone was watching, then around at the neighbouring homes. When she lifted the rusty flap on the mailbox, it made a shrill squeaking sound like an alarm. The mailbox was laden with flyers and bills, the latter stamped with that day’s date. She returned the envelopes, took one more glance behind her, and then slipped down the side of the house toward the backyard.

In the back garden, a lone, bony willow stood like a tombstone, while a sagging picket fence told the story of the home’s slow surrender to permafrost. At the north end of the property just beyond, the trees leaned in, like a group of conspirators.

It was snowing again, but not enough to conceal fresh footprints—large ones—leading from the forest up to the back door.

This discovery gave her pause as she considered knocking. The sound of a distant wood saw startled her, making her heart race as though she were planning something ill-advised. She rapped on the door and waited. May had told Jo to come to her shop at eleven. Had she been delayed by the arrival of someone unexpected? The tips of Jo’s fingers were beginning to go numb, and the wind gnawed at her ears below her toque, urging her to try the handle. It turned easily enough.

Jo swung the door open, placing one rubber boot over the threshold. The lights were off inside, and although she’d already tried knocking, she called out “Hello?” just in case. Silence.

The back door opened into a boot room, where a women’s fur coat and parka hung, along with a pair of cross-country skis and a set of modern snowshoes. The room also housed a collection of winter hats and footwear. Just beyond the doormat, a little puddle of muddy water had pooled on the wood floorboards. Jo slipped off her boots and took a few quiet steps around the puddle, through the entry, and into the kitchen. From there she leaned in to a view of an opulent living room with luxurious oriental carpets and rich furs. An impressive set of moose antlers hung over the hearth, yet the walls were also draped with sumptuous kimonos: a strange dichotomy of East meets West. An antique gun display rack boasted two rifles; there was an empty space where a third should have been.