Silver Totem of Shame Read online

“But it did. We were supposed to be studying together, but we got into a terrible fight. I was so mad at him I kicked him out of my apartment. He must’ve gone straight to Ern’s.”

  “Child, these things happen. It’s unfortunate, but you mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “It was such a stupid argument. He wanted to give me his bracelet. But I didn’t want it. So we started shouting at each other and before I knew it he was slamming the door in my face.”

  Door slamming could certainly lead to trouble, as I well knew. I snuck a glance at Eric and wondered if he remembered the time he slammed the door on me. It had almost ended our relationship.

  “So you didn’t kick him out, did you, dear?”

  “No … but I should’ve accepted the bracelet. It was a really nice silver one. It looked old. It belonged to his real mother, so I felt I couldn’t take it. Now I wish I had. Then I’d have something to remember him by.”

  “You can ask his stepmother. I’m sure she’d be happy to give it to you.”

  “You kidding? That old witch wouldn’t give me anything. She didn’t think I was good enough for her precious son.”

  I felt like an interloper listening in, but with Eric caught up in another Grand Council discussion, it was difficult not to hear. Besides, having been with her when she first received the news and then seeing where her boyfriend had died, I felt involved.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that nonsense,” Louise replied. “You’re much better than her. You have the blood of one of the great Haida chiefs, Nang Sdins, flowing in your veins.”

  The girl’s long black hair rippled as she nodded. She dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex before taking a tiny bite from one of the prawns.

  “It serves her right that he was carving when he died,” Becky continued. “She hated him carving. She wanted him to be a hotshot lawyer. She wouldn’t even allow him to go to Ern’s shed. But Allie didn’t care. He wanted to be a carver more than anything in the world.” She paused as she helped herself to another succulent prawn. “You know, Auntie, when he carved he became a completely different person, more whole, more complete, more Haida.”

  “I’m sure he had the blood of master carvers flowing in his veins. I know you said he didn’t know his real parents, but did he ever try to find out? It would be nice to close the circle and let his Haida relatives know of his death.”

  “He tried, but the hospital where he was born had no record of his mother, who died giving birth to him. And his birth certificate has the Zakharovs as his parents. He knows nothing about his real father. Mrs. Zakharov probably knows more, but she won’t tell him.”

  “Poor child, to be brought up knowing nothing of his heritage. At least he was trying to reclaim it through carving. Come, child, eat up. Try some of this delicious taagun.” She cut a generous slice from the fresh side of salmon that had just replaced the one we’d devoured and placed it on Becky’s plate.

  I could still taste the delicate flavour that came from being barbequed on a cedar plank. According to Eric, it was a traditional way of cooking salmon for the peoples of the North West Pacific coast.

  After finishing off the oysters, prawns, and making good inroads into the salmon, Becky turned to me. “I really am sorry about yesterday.”

  “As my husband said, you have nothing to apologize for. It must’ve been a terrible shock. I’m so sorry.”

  “It was. When he didn’t come to the museum I thought he was still mad at me. He was so sweet, so kind, so wonderful. Why would anyone want to kill him?”

  “What did the police say?”

  “I’ve no idea. They won’t tell me anything. I’m just his girlfriend. But they sure grilled me. Maybe they think I did it?”

  “Did they treat you badly?” Louise interjected. “Perhaps we should get you a lawyer.”

  “No, Auntie, I don’t need one. I didn’t kill him. How could I? I loved him too much.” She burst out in a fresh flood of tears.

  “There, there, child,” Louise said, wrapping her arms around the young woman.

  “Is it possible it was an accident? That someone else was the real target?” I hazarded.

  “I don’t know,” Becky said, straightening up. “I know he wasn’t into drugs or gangs, the things that usually get guys killed. But the totem pole he was working on is gone. Surely he wasn’t killed for a stupid cedar log.”

  “There were plenty of other logs to take,” I said. “Besides, I think it’d be pretty difficult stealing a log without proper equipment. Do you know how big it was?”

  “About eight metres. And it would weigh a ton. Not exactly something you’d stick into your back pocket.”

  “So the only way it could’ve been removed was by a logging truck with a crane,” Eric said. “I doubt there are many logging trucks wandering the streets of Granville Island. There’s got to be witnesses who saw it.”

  Becky’s face lit up. “Ern has a truck. He uses it to transport the logs and the poles when they’re finished. But why would he steal his own log? And more importantly, why would he kill Allie? He’s always been so nice to him, teaching him the techniques, giving him his old tools, and letting him work on commissions. Mind you, he wasn’t paying him anything. But Allie didn’t care. He saw it as a chance to learn.”

  On the other hand, his mother hadn’t thought the man was so nice. And she hadn’t hesitated to accuse him of murder.

  Becky’s phone rang, with the same ringtone as yesterday. She spoke a few hurried words, then snapped it shut. Popping another prawn into her mouth, she scrambled out of her seat.

  “Sorry, Auntie. I’ve got to go. Thanks for the food. And thanks for being there.”

  “You take care of yourself, child. I’m going to Seattle tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few days and then I’m going to Skidegate. Why don’t you come home with me? I think some time with your family would do you good.”

  Becky leaned over to give her auntie a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll let you know.”

  With a hasty goodbye, she left.

  The three of us watched her push through the crowd of people milling at the entrance. Noticing her lively step, I couldn’t help but envy the healing powers of youth.

  Nine

  The Journey Begins

  His lungs filled with the tangy sea air as the cold wind whipped his thick hair into a frenzy. It felt good to be back on a boat. It’d been a long time since he had stood in a prow. Thank god he hadn’t lost his sea legs. He braced himself for the coming deluge as the bow plunged into a wave and came rising back up, water splashing over him. He laughed. It felt like a goddamn orgasm. Mind you, it’d been a while since he’d had one of those too. This time he let out a war whoop.

  He licked the salt from his lips. He didn’t mind the water’s numbing cold. The sun rising over the snow-capped peaks of the mainland would soon dry him. This must be how the ancestors felt when their giant canoes crashed through the open seas.

  It was a good ten years since he’d spent this much time on a boat; not since he was running his own. But the big companies had moved in and the fishery had collapsed in seas that had fed his people for generations. With too many boats and not enough fish, he’d been forced to sell Water Sprite. She’d been one hell of a boat.

  He more or less grew up on her. He was just a little fry when his dad first took him onto her slippery decks and anointed him with oolichan oil, the smelly fish oil that had made him cry and stink so much that no one wanted to come near him for a week. It was supposed to make him a good fisherman, and he supposed it had. After Dad died and he took over Water Sprite, it was like Salaana was speaking directly to him. Even as the fish were disappearing, he managed to find where they were hiding and would bring in a decent haul, enough to keep him in logs and carving tools.

  Carving, that was his real love. From his earliest memories, he knew in his bones that he was Gya k’id ll Gaay Ga. But that was not to be. His father had always been a fisherman, so too his grandfather. Besides, when he was young, ther
e was no money to be made in carving.

  Though he was pretty upset when he had to sell Water Sprite, he thought it would give him the chance to spend more time carving. But it hadn’t worked out that way. He had gotten sidetracked, took a wrong step. Carving eventually brought him back. And now he had another pole to carve — likely his last.

  It’d been tricky spiriting the boy’s pole away from Ern’s shed. Thank god for the truck. Even if the cops eventually found it, it didn’t matter. He and the pole were long gone from Vancouver. Besides, he left the truck in a place that was sure to throw them off the scent. They’d never suspect in a million years that the pole was hiding behind boxes of ATVs, stoves, and fridges on a supply barge heading north through Georgia Strait.

  Once again Salaana was looking out for him. It was pure luck that his old fishing mate was starting his run back up north. When he drove the log down to the loading docks on the Fraser, he was hoping to convince one of the operators to load it onto a barge to wait for the next tug going north. So when he saw his boyhood buddy tying up his tug, he almost whooped for joy. It didn’t take long for Joe to get the pole loaded onto the barge and hidden from view.

  Here he was, many hours later, heading north to Haida Gwaii on his buddy’s tug with the kid’s log trailing behind a good kilometer or more. In a few days he’d be stepping onto the beach of the ancestors. No one would ever think to look for him or the pole there.

  Ten

  “Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested after the cab dropped us off. The rain had stopped, leaving the night air feeling clean and refreshing, although the temperature had dropped. “We both could do with some exercise after that wonderful feast.”

  Eric grimaced.

  “Unh unh, I won’t take no for an answer.” I prodded his stomach, which felt pudgier than normal. “You especially need it. Too much wining and dining lately.”

  “You’re right, my Miskowàbigonens,” he said, using the Algonquin spirit name he had given me. It meant Little Red Flower. He wrapped his arm around my waist and kissed my forehead. “But I tell you, I’m dead tired. It’s been a long day and not an easy one.”

  I grabbed his hand and propelled him toward the ramp. “You can tell me about it on our walk. But first, let’s get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable.”

  With the tide at its highest, the ramp was almost horizontal to the dock. The houseboats, now close to the same level as the shore, appeared to be standing on terra firma. However, the undulating movement of the walkway didn’t let us forget that we were over water.

  “You looked terrific tonight,” Eric said when we reached the front door. “I got several comments on how attractive my wife was.” He embraced me.

  I pulled his arms away and said rather testily, “Why didn’t they tell me?”

  This sharing of confidentialities between men made me feel more like a chattel than a wife. Still, I couldn’t deny that I wasn’t flattered.

  “Probably because they didn’t know you. It was their way of saying they approved of my choice.”

  I bristled even more. “Approval? I wasn’t aware that you needed their approval. Did they slap you on the back and give you a nudge, nudge, wink, wink and ask how good I was in bed?”

  “Look, Meg, you’re taking it the wrong way. Besides, two of the compliments came from the women. One in particular used to have me in her sights until I made it known that we could only be friends.”

  “Oh, who was that?” I attempted to sound unconcerned.

  I tried to hone in on which of the women my one-time rival could be and realized all four — I wasn’t counting Louise — were possible. Their ages were right: mid-thirties to late forties. None was bad looking, although the one with the shimmering black hair and crinkling green eyes was particularly attractive. Then I remembered her mentioning three children and a husband waiting for her on a reserve near Whitehorse.

  There was one woman though, the youngest of the four, who seemed to give me a thorough once over, such that I felt as if I were under the microscope. She was the least attractive, with her acne-scarred complexion and scraggly brown hair. But she did have the kind of smile that made you forget about her shortcomings, a smile she bestowed upon me once I passed inspection.

  “My Miskowàbigonens, you have nothing to worry about,” Eric said, sensing where my thoughts were dwelling. He knew me too well. “You are my one and only.” We shared a long, lingering kiss.

  “Maybe we should forget the walk,” I said, rather huskily.

  Eric grinned wickedly. “Perhaps we should. But you’re right. I need the walk. I need to clear my head, so let’s change. The faster we’re back from the walk, the sooner we can …” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, but instead leaned over for another temperature-raising kiss.

  Within minutes we were walking along the path, skirting the shore of the island. As much as I liked my new outfit, I felt considerably more comfortable in my usual garb — jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and a fleece jacket (with my rain jacket tied around my waist in case the rain returned). I could tell Eric was more relaxed, too, in his jeans and windbreaker. Although we’d both grown up in the city, me in Toronto and Eric in Calgary, we were confirmed country types and much preferred the casualness of rural living and the clothes that went with it.

  Despite being in the middle of one of Canada’s most thriving cities, walking along the shore of Granville Island felt more like walking in the country. Perhaps it was the proximity of the sea. This afternoon I’d watched a Great Blue Heron searching for tasty tidbits amongst the rocks at low tide and two gulls quarrelling over a crab, while a black spec soaring high above the water might have been a bald eagle. The island’s low buildings gave it a small-town feel, while the mountains looming above the city reminded you that the wilderness was only a few short miles away.

  But the night regalia of the towering skyscrapers twinkling at us from across False Creek and the drone of traffic crossing a nearby bridge reminded us that we were surrounded by bustling humanity. This was reinforced by a yacht festooned in party lights and reverberating with loud music that was churning up the channel.

  “If we had to live in a city, I would want it to be Vancouver. What about you?” I asked.

  “As long as it’s in one of those townhouses,” he said.

  We had rounded the end of the island, which was really a man-made peninsula, and were overlooking a bay that separated Granville Island from the southern shore of False Creek. Eric was pointing to a number of two- and three-storey buildings stretching along the opposite shoreline.

  “Only if we win the lottery. Given their prime location and that spectacular view, those places have got to cost a million or more.”

  “I guess we’d better start buying tickets, eh?” The two dimples I loved erupted on either cheek.

  I kissed them. “Then we’d better be ready for the big win. Let’s walk over and choose one. We can cross at the end of this inlet.” I tucked my arm through his. “Tell me about your day.”

  Starting with the breakfast meeting, his day had been an endless cycle of back-to-back meetings. Some boring and going nowhere other than putting attendees to sleep, while others were filled with argumentation and dissention with little chance of agreement.

  We crossed over to the south shore and walked along the brick pathway edging the shoreline, careful to avoid the puddles scattered over its uneven surface. Undulating mounds of rhododendron pregnant with fat buds and other flourishing shrubs separated us from the rows of townhouses. Up close I could see that the buildings had been artfully designed to capture individuality. Choosing one would be difficult.

  Eric scanned the staggered collection of windows and balconies. “Not bad, eh? I could see myself spending the day sitting in any one of those windows contemplating the changing Vancouver scene.”

  “When you’re ninety, maybe. You can’t sit still long enough to contemplate anything right now.” I gave him a playful jab in the ribs. />
  As we ambled along, Eric filled me in on a particularly contentious meeting of the Culture Committee he chaired.

  “It took every trick I knew in the art of diplomacy, which isn’t much, to get the two groups to stop arguing,” he said.

  “I’m sure you had them purring like pussycats in no time. What were they arguing about?”

  “The ownership of ancient cultural items that have remained within a community, and who gets the money when they’re sold.”

  “I thought the money was shared by community members.”

  “Usually, but that’s mainly because the concept of ownership isn’t traditionally a part of most First Nations cultures and these items are often so old that no one knows who they belonged to.” He stopped talking and pointed to a three-storey unit with an expansive second-floor bay window jutting out over the garden. “What do you think of that one?”

  “Not bad, but I like that one with the top-floor sunroom better. In this rainy climate I think the more light we can bring inside the better.”

  An interior light shone on a woman watering orchids, while in the neighbouring unit a man was sitting next to the window reading in the soft glow of a table lamp.

  “We’re getting distracted. Let me finish what I was talking about and then we’ll get back to deciding on our future home.”

  But that was not to be. A fluffy grey and white Shih Tzu broke free from its owner and raced toward us. Our heads almost collided as we bent down to pet it. Overjoyed, the dog squirmed around our legs as the woman, all apologies, hastened to retrieve it. We glanced at each other mournfully as the unhappy animal was dragged away.

  Eric squeezed my hand. “I say we get a puppy when we get back home.”

  “Maybe….” I said, although I knew I wasn’t ready. The thought of replacing Sergei was still too painful. I steered the conversation back to the meeting. “So, someone on the committee doesn’t want the money from one of these sales to be shared. Were they talking about a specific case?”