Strange Things Done (8 page)

The bartender was turned away, reaching for a new bottle as she said, “Froze my ass off this morning.” She had a blended malt whisky voice and nicotine stains on her fingers. When the bartender launched the cap and handed a sweaty brown bottle to Caveman, Jo wondered how many times the woman had performed this ritual; the way she popped the caps off of beer bottles in one efficient, fluid motion communicated a kind of grace and artistry. The gold caps spun on the bar momentarily, winking at an inside joke or an empty promise. Fool’s Gold.

“Yup. We should get the ice pool going, eh?” Caveman admired the amber bottle as he peeled the label. Shards of tawny light refracted in the smooth glass.

Jo got a good eyeful of Christopher Byrne just then. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the lyrics from a song snaked their way through her thoughts. Byrne was wearing a smart, collared shirt with a black waistcoat and bow tie—the dealer uniform for the card tables. He hadn’t noticed Jo yet, so she allowed her gaze to linger, appreciating the strong lines of his profile and the way his dark, mahogany hair contrasted with the whiteness of his shirt.

“I bet the south lane was bumper to bumper today,” he muttered.

“Might not be just the tourists escaping this season,” Caveman said. “Might be one of the locals.”

“Locals …” Byrne said in a flat, measured tone, but there was a certain timbre to his voice.

“Now hang on a second …” The bartender gave Caveman a warning look.

Byrne said, “You think it was one of us.” Not a question.

Caveman countered, “
I
might think it was one of
them
. But it’s just a matter of time before they start asking
you
questions, right Byrnie?” Caveman gave him a look that was difficult to interpret. He might have been teasing him. He might have been serious.

“Hey, you know where I was.”

“Problem is, your alibi may not remember.”

Suddenly self-conscious and about to turn away, Jo was caught in the all-knowing, all-telling beam of the bartender’s gaze. “That’s enough, guys. Your new girlfriend’s here, Byrne,” the bartender said, with only a corner of her mouth committing to a smile.

Byrne turned. He looked at Jo with such calm self-assurance that she thought there must have been some kind of misunderstanding; he looked as though he’d been expecting her, his expression one of bright playfulness. “All right, all right already!” he said. “I’ll go out with you!”

“Sorry?” Jo felt her face turning the deep shade of a cancan dancer’s skirts.

“You don’t need to stalk me just to get a date. Geez!” Patrons seated along the bar turned to watch them, amused.

“You’re mistaken. I’m here to talk to Mr. Sanders.” Jo fought to suppress the irritation in her voice.

Byrne shrugged. “Are you sure about that?” He smiled easily. His tone implied that he was sure, even if she was not. Jo gave him a sour look. Byrne straightened. “Okay, I can take a hint. My shift is starting anyway.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “I’m looking forward to the reenactment,” his breath warm against her throat, “so I can show you what we did.” As he leaned back out he added, loud enough for the bar to hear, “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow.” He turned abruptly and walked away, in the direction of the poker tables.

“What the hell is his problem?” Jo said to no one in particular.

“You,” the bartender said, polishing a glass. Her face was closed, obscuring her meaning, but Caveman grinned into his beer before tipping it back.

The bartender slid a glass of merlot in front of Jo. “Oh, cheers,” Jo said, wondering if she would be required to pay for the wine (since she hadn’t actually ordered it). When she held up the drink, it caught in the light, reflecting the bar and everyone in it upside down, in a sea of red.

Jo and Caveman hunched over a table, conspiratorially. Caveman peeled the label on his Yukon Gold with long, dirty fingernails. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with a long, lean frame and an unkempt beard. His hands interested Jo. Not just the dirt, which communicated something about how he lived, but also the dexterity as he reached for a leather pouch full of brown, withered leaves and began hand-rolling a cigarette. Everything about him was sparse, efficient, and capable.

On the ferry back from West Dawson, Jo had asked around about Caveman. Everyone had a theory about him, as well as just about everyone else in town, if you cared to hear it (and even if you didn’t). By all accounts, Cal Sanders, a.k.a. “Caveman Cal,” former-city-hall-worker-cum-paranoid-cave-dweller, was—or had at one time been—privy to the town’s secrets. Caveman survived off the land after freeze-up, when the ferry to West Dawson was docked. He spent the winter hand-building furniture, which he sold in town after thaw.

“Who told you where to find me?” He looked around the room, then pulled his wide-brimmed felt hat down over his eyes a little more.

Jo smiled.
“Well, there aren’t too many places that are still open. Everyone is here—I figured you’d be here too.”

“Oh … yeah.” He seemed uncertain about the truthfulness of her response. He raised his bottle to Jo and then took a big swill. “So, what brings you to Dawson? Owe somebody money, like the rest of us?” He laughed.

“I’m the new editor at the
Daily
,” Jo said and quickly changed the subject. “What’s the story behind your name?”

Caveman licked the cigarette to seal it. “I took a bet to live in a cave for six weeks.”

“Ah.”

“I decided to stay.” Caveman lit the cigarette, the end flaring warmly. “I live in one cave, keep my chickens in the other.” He looked around warily, before exhaling a long blast of smoke and leaning in to whisper, “It’s safer across the river. Harder for them to get me out there.”

Jo leaned forward on her barstool. “Who?” On impulse, she fished for her notebook and pen in her bag, before remembering that Caveman had the reputation of being a bit of a nutter.

“Now they’re trying to tax my cave. Property taxes on a fucking cave.”

She leaned back a little.

Caveman held up a hand in protest. “Hey, before you tell me that I’m crazy, you should know that I’ve been right before about stuff that goes on in this town. What about the Meter Cheater, eh?”

“Who?”

“Peter the Meter Cheater.” Caveman pointed across the room toward the roulette table, where Peter Wright was having quite a good chuckle about something, his broad cheeks flushed. “In the blue sweater,” Caveman added.

“The
mayor
?”

“Yup. He did time for tax fraud. Used to be an accountant.”

“Really?” Jo said, paying close attention to the bearded man at the roulette table across the room. Peter was heavily into his game. His eyes were fixed intently on the wheel as it spun, but when the silver ball rattled to a stop and the dealer raked in his money, he laughed loudly in an infectiously good-natured way. He was clearly the kind of person who knew how to enjoy himself. When Peter smiled, the faces around him lit up too.

“Sure,” Caveman patted Jo on the arm, adding, “But that’s small potatoes compared to other stuff that goes on in this town.”

“Like what?” Jo’s skin was getting prickly, the way it did when she was on the edge of a good story.

They were interrupted by the sound of electronic bells and an elderly lady squealing, “Woooohoooo! Grandma needs a new pair of North Face Chilkats!” Her lined face glowed along with the lights on the slot machine as it spit up its shiny contents.

Jo returned her attention back to Caveman. “Sorry, you were saying …?”

Caveman looked at her blankly. “What?”

“You were about to tell me something. About something going on in Dawson?”

Caveman’s eyes narrowed. “Who do you work for?”

“I told you. The
Daily
.”

Caveman shook his head. “No, I mean, who do you
really
work for, eh? Are you here about the mine?” He stood up, eyes wide, a hunted expression on his face.

“What? No! I told you, I’m the new editor at the
Daily
. I just wanted to ask you some questions about …”

“Because it’s definitely not safe to talk about that here. Especially after Marlo …”

“Marlo what? Please. Sit down. Just for a minute.”

Caveman sat back down, looking uneasy.

Jo lowered her voice and attempted to sound casual. “I heard you found the body.” She sipped her wine.

“Yeah. Launched my canoe first thing to go hunting and almost ran into it.” The brim of his hat cast a shadow across his features as he stroked his beard. “It was a warning, eh?”

“A warning? Why? From who?”

“Those arses at city hall, that’s who. Want me to know they mean business about taxing my cave.” He folded his arms, one hand pulling nervously at a loose thread on his bulky sweater.

“What? But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“All I know is, I git up in the morning and the
rrrr
e it is.” His voice rose, mirroring his surprise.

“What did you do?”

Caveman took a swill of Gold. “Paddled over there to tell Cariboo. He’s the head honcho with the RCMP, eh? Those guys, they had the police boat up and down the river looking for the murder scene.”

“They used the word ‘murder’?”

“Yeah.”

Jo felt something inside her slide a little, like a picture that had been hung straight and was now slightly askew. She tried to keep her voice calm, and steered her mind away from the past. Away from Vancouver. “The RCMP told the
Daily
they were operating on the assumption that Marlo McAdam’s death was an accident,” Jo said.

“Yup. What they said.” Caveman’s expression said that the police couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be believed. As though Jo needed a reminder.

“
Damn
it.”
Assholes.
This time would be different. She wasn’t about to keep the RCMP’s dirty secrets; if there was a killer on the loose in Dawson, the public was going to hear about it this time. “Did they find anything?”

“Nah. Too much fresh snow.”

“What about forensics? They got a forensics unit up here?”

Caveman chuckled. “You’re kidding me, right? They got, what, five guys? Most of ’em junior—up here to get experience—and one Ski-Doo between the lot of ’em. God help us all if we ever have, you know, a serious problem up here after freeze-up.”

Jo shook her head, entertained for a moment by imagining what her father and his cronies would have to say about this, huddled around some crappy, east-end bar after the dogwatch shift. “Any idea who might have wanted Marlo McAdam dead?”

“Marlo was a politician.” Caveman said, and his lip curled a little.

“So she was unpopular?”

“No, everyone pretty much liked her. She was good people. Honest. Which is rare in the Yukon, especially for a politician, eh? You know what they say: ‘Yukon, I con, we all con.’ ” He laughed dryly and took a long pull on the cigarette.

Jo leaned forward in her chair. “I couldn’t help but overhear earlier that you thought the police might ask Christopher Byrne questions about Marlo’s death.”

“Maybe. Okay, probably.” He glanced over to the poker tables, where Byrne was scrutinizing the pair of them. When Jo glanced away, she could still feel Byrne watching her.

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask him. He’d kill me if I said anything to you.”

“I hope you don’t mean that literally.”

Caveman sniggered a little. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Am I? Why don’t you redirect me?”

Caveman squinted at Jo, seeming to size her up. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me.” The smoke began to leak from his lips in a slow whorl. Jo forced herself not to turn her face away; the scent reminded her of her mother, and of her illness. “You can’t use this. In your story, I mean.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Jo hesitated, but it was clear that she had little choice. “Okay.”

“The cops … I heard them talking about how Marlo got out to the Bluffs. It’s quite a trek up there, eh? They got witnesses say that they didn’t see her truck in the parking lot at Gertie’s.”

“So … she got a lift from someone?”

Caveman nodded gravely. “Looks that way. They said she left Gertie’s before closing. Must have met someone in the parking lot. Someone offered her a ride. Most likely someone she knew.”

“Huh. So that might rule out suicide, since she may not have been alone.”

Something flickered across Caveman’s features, some hesitation, before he said, “If I were you, I’d get out of here before freeze-up. Tough to get out once the roads and runway snow over. You could get out via Alaska, but not once the Top of the World Highway closes or the ferry is taken out. Be any day now. You don’t want to be trapped here with the rest of us when that happens. Trust me.”

“What are you so afraid of? You think the killer is still here?”

“I can’t say more than that, okay? It’s not safe. I shouldn’t even be seen talking to you like this.” He cast a look around the room.

“Why? I wouldn’t know who to tell. I don’t know anything about anything that goes on in this town.”

“Now you are dangerous,” he said, and he exhaled a thick curl of smoke.