Strange Things Done (29 page)

There was a knock at the door. A sandy-haired officer in a black RCMP parka leaned into the room. Fresh snow dusted his shoulders, catching the light. “Johnny? Got a minute?”

Johnny Cariboo stood up and announced that the interview had ended. The constable behind the camera hit a button on the video recorder and the bright red eye faded away.

Jo shifted on the metal cot, leaning uncomfortably against a cold wall. She fought to stay calm. She’d been sifting through her memory of the night Marlo had died. She vaguely remembered getting into Byrne’s truck, and had blurry memories of the drive … somewhere. She just couldn’t remember much in any detail after that. When she thought about it, she remembered sliding out of the truck and the wind hitting her hard in the chest, making her gasp … Byrne putting his arm around her … The problem was, she couldn’t say for sure whether that was on the Bluffs or in the parking area behind Sally’s. She had vague flashes of staggering into furniture at Sally’s … she and Byrne laughing …

In reality, she could have passed out cold anytime during the ride home and Byrne could have made up the story about looking at the northern lights. The RCMP suspected his involvement in Marlo’s death, and, in Jo’s experience, the police often knew the truth before it could be proven. Sally had said that Christopher Byrne had been involved in some kind of criminal activity in the past involving smuggling. Still, it didn’t feel right. Jo might not be ready to trust Christopher Byrne, but she had to admit that she did like him. She found it hard to believe that he could be responsible for harming anyone.

Who else had motive or opportunity? There was Jack Grikowsky, who managed May Wong’s mine. He was hiding something, and Jo felt certain that he had something on Doug Browning. If Grikowsky were double mining for gold and uranium at the same time and Marlo had discovered the secret, she may have threatened to expose him. He left Gertie’s early and had no alibi the night Marlo died.

Still, there was the problem of the Geiger counter. Doug’s killer hadn’t thought it important enough to take with him. Or her. It occurred to Jo that Sally knew about her past, and she’d had the opportunity to drop the envelope containing the blue ticket on the bar. Sally wanted to buy Bombay Peggy’s and was willing to do almost anything to get it. Jo had caught her up to something in the kitchen—she wasn’t sure what, exactly. It looked like Sally had been making artificial caviar. Frank had once told Jo about the spherification process used to trick caviar consumers in Chinatown into spending their money on expensive junk. She wasn’t sure how this might involve Marlo or May, though. Jo thought about the photograph of Sally and Byrne that she’d found in Old Bettie. Was Sally in love with Byrne? Had Marlo gotten in the way?

Then there was Peter Wright, and the way his face had fallen when Jo had said she had questions about public accountability. Jo pictured the mayor’s face the first time she had seen him, the beads of sweat on his forehead as the roulette wheel spun. He’d been smiling, but he looked feverish. He’d also looked distraught when May Wong had asked him about the town’s budget. Jo sat up stiffly on the cot.
Of course.
Peter Wright was a gambler in charge of public funds
.
His office was across the hall from Marlo’s. MC. The intials in May’s blackmail ledger.
Meter Cheater.
He’d told Jo that he’d been at Gertie’s until closing on Sunday night.
He’d lied.

Jo had to free herself to learn the truth about what was going on in Dawson. She glanced around. The cell was surprisingly clean, to the point of sterility, but the window was just a small glass rectangle near the ceiling. The stainless-steel sink and toilet in the corner shone dully. None of the cells she’d seen at Frank’s station in Vancouver had looked like this.
Frank.
She knew that she’d be permitted to make a phone call shortly, and that she’d have to call him. He was the only person who could help her. He’d know what to do, but
damn
, she’d never hear the end of it at family dinners. She’d have to stay in the North forever just to avoid a meal with him. Would he even be able to scratch together enough to bail her out? On a cop’s pension? She doubted it. She could just imagine the headlines. “Shamed Journalist Questioned in Murder Investigation.” Or,“Cop’s Daughter Arrested in Triple Murder Investigation.” But surely they wouldn’t be able to make the charges stick? She’d had nothing to do with Doug’s death. With any of their deaths. Jo felt a swell of panic and self-doubt. The RCMP suspected that Jo was reinventing the Strangler story to resurrect her career. And Cariboo had said that there’d been a witness to Jo breaking into May’s home. Jo could be prosecuted successfully for that, and would have a criminal record. And Frank, she now remembered, had sworn that if she ever got into trouble with the law, she’d be on her own.

There was a pitiful sound then, the squeak of wet boots on cold floors. Someone was coming. Jo lifted her head and tried not to feel too hopeful. She operated on a strict policy of optimistic pessimism. Less chance of disappointment if you kept expectations low.

“Ms. Silver?” It was the constable called Scott, who had taped her interview and read out her rights. He was green enough that his face still communicated a willingness to please, a youthful certainty that all disasters could be happily resolved by the end credits. It hurt something inside Jo to look directly at that much naïveté, so she turned away as he said, “You can make your phone call now.”

The telephone made a hollow, desolate sound as it rang almost two thousand miles away. Constable Scott looked embarrassed as Jo muttered, “C’mon, pick up …” She wondered what would happen if no one answered her one call, and whether she’d get another.
C’mon old man
… She broke her own rule and felt a rush of hope as the line made a clicking sound.

“This is Frank.”

“Frank! It’s me. I need some help … And I need that water analysis …”

“… I’m not here right now. Or maybe I am, and I’m just sitting on my couch in my skivvies watching reruns of
Hawaii Five-0
. Either way, leave me a message, maybe I’ll get back to you. Hate these damn things.” A high-pitched sound added insult to injury.
Beeeep!

30

Something was not quite right. The woman walking in the snow had her head down, long tendrils of hair waving in the wind, obscuring her face. She wore an ankle-length fur coat and white Timberland boots trimmed with rabbit fur. With each step, the boots made a crunching sound, yet left no impression in the snow.

The wind screamed across the barren landscape, sending a chill through Jo, yet the approaching figure wore no gloves. The fingers were blue. The sharp air carried the scent of smoke and burning flesh, though no fire was visible. Still, this did not feel like that dream. It was all wrong. When the fur-clad woman finally lifted her chin, a gust of wind scattered the hair from her face, the face of another dead woman. May Wong.

There was a strange sound then, like metal bones rattling. Jo started, and was conscious of the fact that she was lying in a horizontal position, somewhere quite hard and cold. Sharp footsteps approached in what sounded like an empty, indoor space. She opened her eyes, feeling shaky and cotton-mouthed.

Constable Scott jangled a key ring, searching for the right thing to say as well as the correct key. Jo thought he must have seen her waking up. She took advantage of his silence to distance herself from the dream. Her usual nightmares were much more passive: the corpse in question had always had the good manners not to move about or physically threaten her. The tone of her recurring dream had always been one of quiet accusation. This was different. It felt urgent. Jo stretched, feeling the knotted muscles in her back, and felt thankful for the pinch of cold that reminded her that she was in the here and now.

Scott chose to ignore anything she might have said in her sleep. Jo was not unappreciative of this small kindness. “Your bail’s been posted,” was all that he said.

“What?” The cell door slid open with a rattling finality. She wondered if Frank had posted bail, but it seemed unlikely. “By who?” She caught herself wanting to correct the question to make it “By whom?”, but decided to cut herself some slack for a change.

“That dancer, I believe.”

No name. Just “that dancer.” But it was enough information.

Jo stood, taking a moment to massage a muscle at the back of her neck.

“But Sergeant Cariboo said to tell you not to leave town,” he added.

Jo laughed. A hearty, earnest sound that resonated in the small, empty room.

Sally was waiting in the reception area, legs crossed, wearing a full-length fur and suspiciously thin leather gloves. She stood as Jo entered. “Enjoy the new digs?”

“Much cleaner than your house, actually.”

“But not nearly as stylish, my dear.” Sally looked a little worse for the wear, as though she’d been up all night. Jo avoided following through on that particular thought.

“Thanks for the … um …”

Sally waved her comment away. “Forget it.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t bother. You’d be paying back half the town. Anyway, most of them owed me in one way or another.” Sally smoothed the wrinkles in her curve-hugging pencil skirt before doing up the buttons on the luxurious coat.

“What?”

“I took up a collection at the bar.”

“You what?”

“Have you had your hearing checked recently? You’re repeating yourself, dear.”

“So everyone knows?”

“Uh-huh. This is Dawson, pretty lady.”

“So, no secrets.”

“Oh, there are plenty of those. Haven’t you learned anything yet?”

“No,” said Jo. And she meant it. Sally took Jo by the arm and steered her toward the door.

The front cover of the
Dawson Daily
on Friday morning read, “KILLER CLAIMS THIRD VICTIM.” The subheading followed up with “Dawson’s Season of Darkness.” Jo burned through numerous ink cartridges printing the black cover and photos of Marlo, Doug, and May on the front page.

Jo’s first edition at the helm of the
Dawson Daily
may have been thin, but it was packed with controversial content. Now, no one could doubt that a serial killer was on the loose in Dawson, just as freeze-up was upon them. Jo also drew Claim 53 at Sourdough Creek into her editorial spotlight with the observation that at least two of the victims were connected to the mine: May Wong had been the owner and Marlo McAdam had been investigating the mine at the time of her death. Jo noted that she herself had received a death threat and a dreaded “blue ticket” after making inquiries about the mine. She added an article on the ecological hazards of placer mining (“Dawson’s Silent Killer”). Finally, there was a story (“The Big Freeze”) on ferry, road, and airport closures, paired with severe weather forecasts.
Dawson can consider itself warned.