Strange Things Done (18 page)

Northern Lights

Gifted to Dawson City by

artist Christopher Byrne, 2004.

Jo stepped closer and lightly brushed the snow from the male’s chest and shoulders. The figure was a mahogany colour, showing the polished grain of wood. A long vertical scratch in the wood ran down the man’s chest, like a wound. She exhaled slowly, her breath a long, white thread.

As she neared Duke Street, Jo squinted to make out a figure there, just in front of the fire-station-cum-town-hall. Jo heard the man before she saw him.

“Hear ye, hear ye! A gentle reminder that citizens of Dawson are invited to attend a public meeting today! You’ve got fifteen to get your civic butts to city hall. Special thanks to Mabel for providing refreshments.” The town crier fell silent as Jo approached.

“Morning,” Jo said, in what she hoped was a neutral tone. More observation than greeting.

“Morning.” That was all. No questions about Christopher Byrne this time. The white plumage on the crier’s hat swayed in the cool breeze. This paired with a hawkish nose, hunched shoulders, and long, spindly legs brought to mind some kind of birdlike creature, suspicious and wary, that might peck or take flight with any sudden movement.

Jo held herself very still. “You out here every day?”

“Nah,” he said. “Just for the odd meeting. The town pays me to publicize ’em.” He made a face. “A pittance. I shore it up in tourist season with poetry readings.”

“Why not advertise public meetings in the
Daily
?” Jo said.

“Because it isn’t daily, eh?” He gave her a look that wasn’t difficult to interpret. “They usually forget by the time the meeting rolls around. If it didn’t go straight into the wood stove in the first place.”

“Oh,” Jo said, ignoring the insult. She was already wondering whether he might serve another purpose later. “What’s the going rate?” she asked.

The crier looked surprised, but he smiled just the same.

Jo climbed the creaking, salt-stained, and snow-puddled stairs of Dawson’s town hall. On the second floor landing, a large bulletin board was covered in “end of season” notices for various businesses. The flyers were hand drawn and brightly coloured, lending a festive air to the messaging that did nothing to lift Jo’s spirits. She would not be leaving.

At the service counter, an argument had broken out. A belligerent old hunter cursed loudly as he reviewed some kind of application.

“Goddammit, every year there’s more goddamned paperwork! Kill a million trees to save one goddamned moose …”

The long-faced woman behind the desk searched Jo’s expression for any outward signs of hostility. Finding none, she rushed to Jo’s assistance; a welcome relief from the quarrelsome local she was already assisting.

“Can I help you?” Her eyes had the begging quality of a Basset hound.

“Yeah, I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the city’s public records? I’m looking for local health records,” Jo said.

The woman looked pleased to have a practical, bureaucratic request. “What kind of health records?”

“Well, statistics I guess. Incidents of different cases of illness, cancer rates, and that sort of thing.”

“Oh, that’s easy. There aren’t any.” The woman guffawed.

“Seriously?” Jo had never heard of a city not keeping public health records. But then, Dawson wasn’t truly a city, and it wasn’t like any other town she knew either.

“Well, not specific to Dawson, anyway,” the woman said.

“But … how do you ensure that something in the environment isn’t making people sick?”

“Hmm. That’s a good question.” She looked thoughtful. “But I can’t answer it. Peter might know.”

“The mayor?” Jo said. “Where would I find him? Do I need an appointment?”

“Oh, no.” The woman looked amused. “Most people just buy him a beer at Gertie’s, although he does have an office here. Down the hall. Just follow the signs. But you won’t have long. He’s got a budget meeting in fifteen.”

It was probably time Jo talked to Peter Wright anyway. In a town this size, the mayor would know everyone pretty well. Jo hoped he might know something she didn’t. And Sally said he’d left Gertie’s early Sunday night.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Actually, there is one more thing … I’m looking for any government files on a Dawson mine. I wonder if there might be any information that’s available to the public?”

“For which mine?”

“Claim 53.”

The woman’s face darkened. “You want permitting information? From the EAO?”

“What’s the EAO?” Jo sensed that the woman had shifted gears somehow, and wondered why.

“Environmental Assessment Office. That’s the agency that reviews proposed projects.”

“Yes. That would be a good start. Then which agency monitors the claim once it’s been permitted?”

“Probably the DFO. That’s Department of Fisheries and Oceans. They send out inspectors who check on the mine.”

“Yes. Any DFO reports on 53 too.” The woman was still standing still, looking at her with obvious suspicion, so Jo said, “Please.” Perhaps a little curtly.

“It just seems a little odd,” said the woman, who stood her ground behind the counter, her expression now defiant.

“What does?”

“That’s just what Marlo McAdam asked for before she died.”

17

The waiting area outside Mayor Wright’s office was covered in framed articles and photographs, mostly documenting the town hall’s original function as the fire hall. A black-and-white archival print circa 1911 showed three horse-drawn carriages bursting out of the station, answering a fire call. Jo stood for a better look. The figures looked ghostly, blurred by the motion of the carriages.

It seemed Dawson had a long history of tragedy involving fires, documented in great detail on the old station’s walls. The original town, dubbed “Boomtown in a Bog,” was built with wood and canvas in a time when people depended on fairly primitive wood stoves, candles, and coal oil lamps to procure any heat in the arctic temperatures. It was easy to imagine the problems this caused once weary gold miners and boozy dance-hall girls were added to the mix. Jo’s favourite story had to do with Dawson’s earliest fires. The first fire, on Thanksgiving Day in 1897, during not-so-toasty temperatures of fifty-eight degrees below zero
(fifty-eight below zero!)
occurred when tempers flared at the M&N Saloon. A fiery dancer threw a blazing oil lamp at another gal and
wooosh!
The whole saloon went up in flame, along with the saloon next to it and the Opera House. A year later, the very same hotheaded young lady left a candle burning on a block of wood. Twenty-six buildings burned to the ground. Jo imagined the dancer wouldn’t have been very popular after that.

Along with the archival shots and stories, there were also a few recent photos taken by Doug for the
Daily
. Images of Peter Wright smiling, shaking hands and wielding a broad shovel as he approved new snow removal bylaws. Then there was a photo of a woman who had just been elected MLA North for the Liberal Party. Marlo McAdam. The accompanying article in the
Daily
posited that McAdam promised to push for greater ecological protection, despite fears by some about what that might mean for Dawson’s mine-based economy.

Chairs scraped somewhere behind the closed door. Jo hoped that the mayor was wrapping up his last meeting; they had only a few moments before the town’s budget review. Restless, she wandered down the hall, where there were more photographs. She stopped at another door with a plaque that read, “Marlo McAdam.” A notice had been pinned there, informing the public of a wake for Marlo at Diamond Tooth Gertie’s. Jo tried the handle, but it was locked.

Just then the mayor emerged from his office, followed by Sergeant Cariboo, still in mid conversation. “… asking a lot of questions about the pathology report.” Cariboo had his back to Jo and was pulling on his blue cap.

“What sort of questions?” the mayor asked.

“The level of diatoms in her lungs indicated that she was alive when she hit the water.”

“I see.” Peter looked pale. “But that doesn’t eliminate suicide.”

“True, but she had some bruising around the throat that the pathologist did not think was consistent with a fall. Now, it’s important that we keep everyone calm …”

Something inside Jo felt as though it were sliding. She made a mental note to get a copy of the pathology report.

“And May?”

Cariboo was about to answer when he turned and noticed Jo. Both men swung around to look at her, assessing how much she had overheard. Cariboo’s eyes locked on hers.

“Mayor Wright!” Jo called out, but it was too late. She was intercepted by a pair of giant, walking salmon with placards that read, “Run for Salmon” and “Long Live the King (Salmon).” Cariboo looked as though he were going to say something, then turned on his heel and strode off toward the meeting room.

Further along the hall, the receptionist was vying for the mayor’s attention. “It’s time, Peter! But you’ll want to speak with this lady later.” Peter glanced back at Jo, before the woman leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Jo was pretty sure she heard the name “Marlo.”

Homemade cookies on a Victorian-style, three-tiered china plate disappeared rapidly, marking the time as Jo tried to pin the mayor down for a conversation after the town budget was passed. Once the meeting had adjourned, the mayor had been swarmed by townspeople hoping for an audience with him. Many had questions about Marlo McAdam or May Wong. Dark whispers about May’s absence had begun to circulate.

At last, Jo caught a glimpse of the mayor alone in a corner, pondering a lumpy chocolate biscuit.

“Mayor Wright, I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

He grinned, his greying beard full of crumbs. “Only if you agree to try one of Mabel’s macaroons. I shouldn’t eat these. I’m watching my girlish figure.” He winked and patted his expansive waistline.

Jo accepted a cookie and chewed politely while she decided how best to question him. She wished she had the province’s file on Claim 53 already, but the receptionist had delayed in handing it over, saying that she’d have to retrieve it from Marlo’s office, and would require police permission to do so.

“Mmm, not bad,” Jo said. An understatement. The warm blend of tropical coconut and creamy chocolate seemed to dissolve Jo’s sense of urgency as it melted on her tongue. Heaven. This Mabel would put the pastry chefs of Vancouver’s largest coffee chains to shame, given half a chance. Jo had always wondered how coffee bars in the city could get away with selling stale pastry at such an outrageous price. They must make a killing.

The mayor beamed. “I told you. They’re to die for. So, what’s on your mind?”

“Well, Marlo McAdam and May Wong, to be frank.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes,” and bowed his head a little.

“Any news on May Wong?” Jo didn’t mention that she’d overheard his conversation with Cariboo about the pathology report on Marlo.

“Sadly, no.”

“But the RCMP are looking for her?”

Peter nodded. “They think she may have gone hunting. If only they could find her.”