Strange Things Done (3 page)

Cariboo’s expression softened a little. “Look. I’m sorry to have to start your day like this. Your first day, right?”

Jo nodded, giving him nothing.

“We just have to rule some things out. Trace this person’s movements in her last hours. In all probability, this is just a stupid accident. It happens. Sometimes people drink too much, and things happen.”

Trace her movements in her last hours.
Another dead woman. And it sounded as though the RCMP already knew where Jo had been last night and had some reason to speak with her specifically. She forced herself to breathe deeply. “What kind of things? Has anything like this happened before?”

“Oh …” Cariboo squirmed in the chair a little. The Victorian wingback looked too formal for him. “I couldn’t say specifically, but we do respond to a high number of alcohol-related incidents. Big part of policing in the North.” Something about his demeanour had changed. He looked unduly embarrassed.

“Have you led a murder investigation before?”

Cariboo’s lips parted slightly and he made a soft sound, like air leaving a balloon. “Nobody’s talking about murder.”

“But you haven’t ruled it out yet?”

Cariboo considered her for a moment. There was a long pause, during which Jo was dimly aware of the nagging cold and the raucous laughter of a distant raven.

“Look,” he said with a sigh, scratching his head. “Let’s help each other here. I’ll make this as quick and easy for you as possible, and you tell me about last night. You were seen leaving the bar with a local named Christopher Byrne. Can you confirm that?”

She wanted to tell Cariboo that the last time she’d helped police in a murder investigation, a woman had died as a result. Instead she said, “Why do I need to confirm it if you already have a witness who’s confirmed it? I’m under no legal obligation to answer any of your questions.”

“Look, you’re a journalist, so you’ll need information about things from the police from time to time. Right now I need information. Do we have an understanding?”

“No, Sergeant, we do not.” Jo had stood her ground with veteran officers who were far more intimidating than Cariboo. The sergeant had a melancholy aura about him that made him seem—not fragile exactly—but somehow damaged.

“I see …” Cariboo frowned and scribbled something in his notepad. He thought for a moment before returning her gaze with a new intensity. “Are you worried people will find out that Byrne stayed the night?” There was something about the tone of his voice, some effort to make the question seem more matter-of-fact than it really was.

“He did
not
stay the night. He just gave me a ride home.”

“What time did he drop you back here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you sleep with him?” Cariboo gave her a sharp look.

“Is this still part of the investigation, or are you just trying to determine whether I’m available?”

“Part of the investigation.” Cariboo looked down, where his gaze found the pile of laundry that Jo had toppled, including a bright orange thong. Flustered, he looked away. Jo was relieved to see that the undergarments on the floor were not her own.

“Then no.”
At least, I don’t think I did.
As if on cue, the raven made a guttural sound.

“Did you stop anywhere on the way back from Gertie’s?” Cariboo was searching her face.

“No.” Jo said, and then thought about it. She remembered the cab of Christopher Byrne’s truck. The strip of duct tape marking a tear in the cold leather seats. The feathery patterns of ice on the windows. Byrne’s face in profile: tousled dark hair, high cheekbones, and a coppery shadow across his jawline. The windshield wipers beating a slow tempo—a drowsy metronome. She’d closed her eyes, just for a moment … then … had she fallen asleep?

“Are you absolutely certain of that?” Cariboo glanced up from the notebook.

“Why does it matter?” Because it did matter. She could tell.

“Do you remember?”

“Yes.” But she didn’t. Not entirely.
Stars. There were a thousand stars in the sky at one point. The dark shapes of trees through the window. No houses. Not downtown then.

“Think very carefully, Ms. Silver, because if I find out that you’re lying …”

“I’m not lying,” Jo bristled at the accusation. Lying was something you didn’t do in her family. She learned very quickly never to lie to a police officer.
Unless you lie very well.
Frank hated being lied to by his own family: he had enough of lies at work. Jo had always prided herself on being honest.
I should never have killed that story.
“I’m not lying,” she said again, with more force than she felt. “However, my memory of the evening is a little foggy.”

“How much did you have to drink last night?”

“Enough that I am not feeling especially perky this morning.”

“I see.” He rested his notebook and pen in his lap for a moment, giving her a look. “One last thing. Did you meet anyone in the parking lot as you left?”

“Yes. There was a woman there.”

“A woman?” His tone was hopeful.

“Yes, she came out of the casino just behind us. Mr. Byrne might have called her Marta … or Marla … Something like that, I think.”

“What did she look like?”

“Long hair. Brunette. Red parka. Jeans maybe? Very angry.”

“What was she angry about?” He leaned forward in the chair, his movements tight.

“I dunno. I couldn’t hear very well once Byrne shut my door because they were both outside. It sounded as though she’d been following him and was upset about something.”

“You have no idea what?”

Jo shook her head. She knew she could give the sergeant a little more, but something held her back. In part it was the past, but it was more than that, too. Maybe she wanted to know more about Byrne before she sold him down the river. Or perhaps, if she were honest with herself, there was something else at work.

Cariboo was watching her closely. “If you remember anything else about last night, anything at all, please get in touch with me.” He pulled out his card and handed it to her, stiffly. The atmosphere in the room had changed. “And a word of warning, Ms. Silver.” Cariboo’s eyes were so dark they were almost black. “If I were you, I’d be more careful about who I associate with in Dawson.”

Jo held his look. “And if I were you, Sergeant, I’d be more careful when I was shaving.” She nodded to the bandages over his knuckles.

His eyebrows raised in surprise and some emotion twisted at his mouth, but he made no response.

A sobering blast of Yukon air followed in the wake of Sergeant Cariboo’s departure through the front door. Jo briefly considered another unsatisfactory retching session, but opted instead to call her father, a choice she only narrowly preferred. She hated to ask anyone for help. Ever. But Frank would be able to tell her how to handle Cariboo and his questions. When she pulled out her cellular, however, the phone bore a bleak “No Service” message. Jo frowned. She’d forgotten about that, too.
It’s flipping 2004. The world is wired, and Dawson City can’t even get cellular service.

She tried not to think about the body in the river for a moment, or how she was going to make it through her first day at the
Daily
. She knew she was going to have to forgo her morning shower and get right to work, making her introductions at the
Daily
as brief as possible. But first, she needed to hydrate.

A quick inspection of the kitchen revealed that every glass in the house needed washing, so she snapped on a stained rubber kitchen glove and washed one.
The water from the kitchen tap had a mysterious murky quality to it. As she took another sip, she felt her stomach turn.
To hell with it.
She emptied the rest of the water into the sink and annexed a bottle of gin from the bar instead. She poured liberally, then opened the freezer door of the refrigerator to look for ice, revealing a landscape of Tupperware and steaks labelled “moose.” An ice-cube tray had frozen to the appliance.

Sally shuffled into the kitchen, wearing a leopard print bathrobe and blinking like some nocturnal creature. “There’s an ice pick in the top drawer.”

“Good to know if I need to leave town in a hurry,” Jo said.

“You’d better not, if I heard correctly.” Her housemate’s blonde hair stood up at odd angles and there were dark circles below her eyes.

This was a different Sally than Jo had first been presented with: the one with the carefully pencilled lips and brows, the modern Marlene Dietrich. With her make-up on, Sally could pass for being still in her twenties, perhaps only a little older than Jo. At a generous guess, she was about five and a half feet tall—if you counted her customary six-inch heels. But now, without her make-up and stilettos, Sally looked small, thin-lipped, and cynical. Jo decided that she liked this Sally better.

“
Shame
less eavesdropping!” Jo said.

Sally’s voice was quiet but cutting. “I am a little worried you may not last the winter.” The look she gave Jo had a seriousness about it, like a scientist assessing the results of an experiment gone horribly wrong.

Jo took a sip from the glass. The soapy gin had a pleasantly antiseptic flavour. “What’s it to you?”

“Your rent money.” Sally put her hands on her hips, blocking the doorframe.

“What do you need it for? You’ve got a job.”

“The tourists are leaving, if you haven’t noticed. Gertie’s will close soon.” Her lips formed a firm line.

Jo had the distinct impression that Sally was leaving something unsaid. Normally Jo would have pressed further, but as she’d just been caught red-handed drinking Sally’s booze, she let it go for the time being. “About last night …”

“Yeeesss …” Sally smiled, and Jo noticed that one side of her mouth lifted more than the other, giving the impression that even she didn’t quite believe the smile.

“You don’t happen to know … what time I got home …?”

“No, dear. But I did see Christopher Byrne’s truck parked out front, as bold as daylight when I came in. And the door to your …
boudoir
… was closed.”

“Ah.”

Sally cocked an eyebrow, sizing Jo up. “By the way dear, don’t let all the attention go to your head. I mean, you’re cute and all, but Dawson is a pretty small dating pool, especially in the winter, and you’re fresh meat. Everyone has already slept with anyone they’re interested in sleeping with.”

“Did I …?”

Sally wore a quizzical expression, a cat with her paw on the tail of some small creature. “I haven’t the slightest, darling. I didn’t talk to Chris.”

“Oh.”

“Of course, it’s everyone else you have to worry about in this town. Particularly anyone else who saw you getting into the cab of his truck.”

Jo felt her stomach lurch again.

2

Jo Silver closed her eyes tightly. It felt as though a meaty taiko master were using her head as a drum. When she opened them again, the
Dawson Daily
was still a tiny, one-room office. Stacks of newspapers the colour of tobacco-stained teeth lined every available counter space, making her feel decidedly queasy. Fortunately (for her head), the room was dim, illuminated by a metal desk light and a dented floor lamp. The windows of the
Dawson Daily
were still coldly black.

“Whose body?” Doug Browning, outgoing editor of the
Daily
, blinked behind 1970s aviator-style prescription frames. The glasses seemed to magnify his pale eyes, hedged by bushy, apologetic eyebrows. His long, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his greying goatee accented his face like an exclamation point. Jo found herself betting that he owned, or had once owned, a VW camper van.

Jo cleared her throat. “He wouldn’t say.”

When Doug had shaken Jo’s hand, he’d said, “I’m, uh, man I’m sorry about what happened in Vancouver, eh?” His soft, earnest tone of voice had caused Jo to break eye contact. “An emotional bleeder,” her mother would have said in one of her snap judgements. Not someone who would survive life in a hospital emergency ward. Jo generally wasn’t good with Doug Browning’s brand of touchy-feely softness. At least she would only be working with Doug for a week, until she officially took over as editor.

Doug was swinging back and forth in a peeling, faux-leather swivel chair: a pendulum that measured discomfort. Jo wondered whether she was the source of his unease, or whether it was the news that Jo had just conveyed. Probably Doug had realized that he would know the deceased Dawsonite, which might explain his look of alarm. Still, there was something about his reaction that expressed shock, but not surprise, a fact that Jo decided to file away for later.

Doug licked his lips. “Ah. What part of the river, did Johnny say?”

“Johnny?”

“Sergeant Cariboo,” Doug said, tugging at a stray bit of wool on his curling sweater.

“Ah. No, he didn’t say.” Jo was already zipping her parka back up. “What’s he like?”

“Who? Johnny?”

“Yeah.”

“Different.”

“Meaning?” Jo had left her black toque on, hoping that it might stifle the scent of stale smoke in her hair. It didn’t seem to be working.

“Different from when he was a kid. Everyone thought he’d be a rock star. He was that good.”

“What happened?”

“His old man had a gig one night. Uh, he was a musician, too, you see. Taught Johnny to play guitar. Anyway, James—his old man—went out in a snowstorm after the gig. Never made it home.”

“Oh no,” she said
.

“Yeah. Johnny had to support his family. He started working the front desk at the Dawson RCMP office one summer and has been there ever since. Smart kid, at least.”

“I see.” Jo looked at her boots for a moment, thinking about her old guitar, about strumming it on the back porch. She’d never been all that good, but she’d once dreamed of writing for
Rolling Stone
. “Well. Better get out there. Any tips?”

“Yeah, don’t eat yellow snow.” Doug sniggered.

Jo shot him a look that she hoped would read as, “
Seriously?
”

“Okay, um, you could talk to people at the Riverside Café on Front Street. I think it’s still open. Or try the Snake Pit—that’s the pub in the basement of the Westminster Hotel. Pink building on Third. Locals go there for a little somethin’ in their coffee to start the day right.” A litany of weary smile lines framed his eyes.