Silver Totem of Shame Read online

  “I know it’s hard. Remember the agony I went through when I finally faced up to my guilt over my brother’s death? But it was worth it. For the first time, I felt at peace with myself. This is probably something that’s been eating away at you for years without you knowing. You once had a close relationship with your sister. Maybe you can have one again.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t forget, she’s just lost her son. She was really distraught when I saw her this afternoon. Maybe a brotherly shoulder to cry on is what she needs to help her through this.”

  “She’s got a husband.”

  We were standing under the overhang to the front door of the houseboat, facing each other. I could see more hurt than anger in his face.

  “Why don’t I visit her and see if there’s anything I can do to help?”

  “No, I don’t want you seeing her.”

  “But Eric, it’s times like this that family is needed most. Can’t you put your differences aside, just this once?”

  “We’ll see.” He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. Without another word he stepped inside.

  I followed, knowing from the firm set of his jaw that he had no intention of changing his mind.

  Thirteen

  Coming Home

  The rain slanted across the bow, catching him full in the face. Typical homecoming, he thought as he pulled the rim of his ball cap down over his forehead. Although clouds hid the mountain tops, they weren’t low enough to blot out the distant island completely. He could make out the faint white line of waves crashing against the shore.

  “Haida Gwaii,” he whispered to himself as he felt the rush of adrenaline he always felt when sighting the land of his people. And as he always did, he paid silent homage to Salaana, the god of this ancient land.

  He peered through the greyness for the lights of Scav’s boat. According to Joe’s GPS they should be within a few miles of where Scav was supposed to meet them. If he wasn’t, he was up shit creek. He’d sweated buckets yesterday worrying over how to get the kid’s log to Llnagaay without prying eyes broadcasting it up and down the islands, but he’d finally come up with the perfect solution: Scav and his Red Rocket.

  He’d called him every hour on the ship-to-shore. But the bugger wasn’t answering. The first few times he figured Scav was out doing what he did best, scavenging the seas for whatever flotsam crossed his path. By late afternoon, he’d begun to worry that the bugger’d gone off to the Bahamas or Seychelles or whatever warm-sea island he’d decided to visit this year.

  Without Scav he was screwed. He’d have to bring the log through Masset at the north end of the islands where the tug was headed. Where there were too many spies. By the time the log was loaded onto a truck, the whole island would know.

  He’d finally reached Scav about ten o’clock last night. The bugger had been shopping. He’d gone to Queen Charlotte to stock up on supplies. He would’ve been back sooner, he said, but he’d been persuaded to have a beer or three with a couple of draft dodger buddies. Just what he needed to put him in the right frame of mind for the five-hour trip back to Turkey Point.

  He’d never understood why Scav called his place Turkey Point. There wasn’t a single turkey within a thousand kilometres of these islands, and Scav’s place sure wasn’t on a point.

  “So, Scav, you’d better be here,” he muttered under his breath.

  If his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, he swore he could see more land than he could five minutes ago. The clouds must be lifting. But he still couldn’t see Scav’s big red Zodiac.

  It had been pure brilliance when he thought of using Scav. Only Scav could get the log to Llnagaay without alerting the whole island. No way did he want people to know he was back and that he would be carving the kid’s story.

  Well, not exactly the kid’s story, but the clan’s story. Not a good one that. He’d always known the beginning, and he had a rough idea about the middle, but until he recognized the bracelet on the boy’s wrist he didn’t know the end. But maybe it wasn’t quite the end. Maybe the silver trinket in his pocket would stir up a new ending.

  He no longer felt the vibration of the tug’s engines under his feet. For the past hour the captain had been lowering the speed to reduce the forward momentum of the barge. It’s not as if the tug could stop and expect the barge to stop too. One of the crew had already gone back to the barge in the runabout to man the crane. Jumping onto Scav’s boat would have to be quick. He hoped he could do it. Then they’d have to race back to the barge so they would know exactly where the crane dropped the log into the water.

  Thank Salaana it was calm. If the waves were like the ones they’d slammed into yesterday when they reached open water at the north end of Vancouver Island, it would make grappling the log and towing it outright dangerous. Still, it didn’t take much wind to get these seas going. He was already feeling an increase in the sting of the rain against his face.

  He spied Scav’s Red Rocket at the same time as the tug’s horn let out a thunderous blast. The fun was about to begin.

  Fourteen

  Come morning the situation seemed no better. Though Eric refused to talk about his sister, I knew he was grappling over what to do. He had spent most of the night shifting from one position to another. When he wasn’t trying to sleep, he was standing motionless staring out the window. When I tried to get him to talk, I was told to go back to sleep. I hadn’t had a good sleep either, so neither of us was in a fit mood for breakfast conversation.

  However, before he left, he did leave the door open.

  Determined not to let the situation fester unresolved, I offered again to speak to his sister. This time, instead of turning me down outright, he growled, “Do whatever you want.” I took that as a sign to go ahead.

  After picking up a latte in the Granville Island Market, I walked over to the south shore and along the pathway we’d taken the night before until I reached her townhouse. The drapes were still drawn across the ground-floor windows. As I was debating whether or not to disturb her, the curtains were suddenly whisked open. My natural reflex was to duck. By the time I realized I should be waving to catch her attention, she’d disappeared into the darkness of the room.

  Unfortunately this was the back of the townhouse. I would have to climb over mounds of budding rhododendrons to reach the door partially concealed by a climbing rose. I didn’t think she would appreciate that. The unit was in the middle of a long row of townhouses with no visible street access at either end. I did notice a path alongside the right side of the row. Figuring this would lead me to the street on which her place fronted, I took it.

  By the time I reached the street, I was having second thoughts. How would this woman, whose son had just been brutally murdered, react to my turning up without warning saying I was her sister-in-law? Would she believe that I was her estranged brother’s wife, or would she think I was a journalist trying to get inside her house … or worse, her son’s killer? While I hesitated, the decision was taken from me. A familiar silver BMW drove past with Eric’s sister in the driver’s seat.

  On my way back to the houseboat I decided I would call her, introduce myself, and go from there. There were two Zakharovs listed in the phonebook. I called the one with a downtown Vancouver address. She hadn’t yet returned, so I left a message identifying myself as Eric’s wife and saying that if she didn’t mind I would like to drop by later this afternoon. I didn’t leave a contact number. Not knowing what the houseboat’s number was, I was reluctant to leave Eric’s cell number. When unexpectedly confronted with his sister’s voice, he might say something he would later regret.

  Several hours later I arrived at her townhouse. Before I had a chance to lift my hand to the doorknocker, she was opening the front door.

  “Are you Meg?” she asked. “Eric’s wife? I’m so glad you called.”

  This visit wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  “Please, tell me how he’s doing. I’ve thought of him
often over the years.”

  She appeared calmer today, less distraught, although there was an aura of sadness about her. She was quite a beautiful woman, with her light blond hair, every strand in place, and cornflower blue eyes that showed signs of her grief. It was little wonder Eric had felt he wasn’t part of the family. She was dressed to perfection in cream suede pants and a teal blue cashmere sweater. I tried to forget I was wearing faded blue jeans and my ten-year-old fleece jacket, but decided, why bother? This was who I was. She’d have to accept it.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you,” she said, ushering me into a living room reminiscent of my sister’s Toronto waterfront condo; vibrant Persian carpets scattered over dark cherry wood floors, delicate antique mahogany tables offset by cushion-bedecked sofas and chairs made of pale cream leather, and walls of the same pale cream colour covered with art, several by well-known Canadian painters. My nostrils twitched at the rich lemony aroma of furniture polish, another reminder of my sister’s place.

  “I knew Eric was in town for the Grand Council of First Nations Assembly,” she said, settling into one of the chairs and motioning me to do likewise.

  I hesitated before remembering that my jeans had been washed the day before our trip. I sank into the buttery-soft leather without worry until I recalled my wet bottom of last night. Oh well. If they’d gotten dirty, there was nothing I could do about it.

  She continued. “I’ve seen his name in the paper. I gather he’s in the running for Grand Chief. Mom would be so proud of him.”

  So she cared enough to keep track of him. Maybe there was hope for reconciliation. All I needed to do was convince Eric.

  “I’m dying to hear all about you and Eric,” she continued. “But first, let me offer you a glass of wine, some single malt, or whatever you’d like.”

  “Just a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.”

  She frowned. For a second I thought she was going to insist I have something alcoholic until she smiled and said, “Of course, no problem.”

  While I waited, I wandered around the room admiring the paintings. A David Milne landscape was particularly striking. It reminded me of the forests around Three Deer Point. Although we’d been gone less than a week, I was already starting to miss it.

  Cloë returned carrying a silver tray with a perfectly polished tea service and a delicate bone china teacup. I felt like I was back at my mother’s partaking in her traditional afternoon tea. The only difference was this tea was a tangy cloudberry herbal tea from Nunavut and not my mother’s usual smoky Queen Victoria tea from Murchie’s. I mustn’t forget one other difference: Cloë’s crystal tumbler of whiskey. The door to the liquor cabinet was always kept firmly shut at Mother’s teas.

  She started to bring the glass to her lips, but stopped as it was in mid-air. “Is he coming?”

  I struggled to come up with a reply that wouldn’t hurt her feelings.

  She didn’t wait. Instead she gulped down a large measure of scotch and said, “So tell me how the two of you met and how long you’ve been married.”

  I told her about myself, and about Eric and our relationship while wondering if I should bring up the estrangement between the two siblings. At last I ran out of things to say. Actually, it was more like I suspected that Cloë was no longer listening. I stopped talking and poured myself another cup of tea. With the air between us tense with things left unsaid, we continued to drink in silence. A wind chime tinkled outside.

  Finally, just as I was summoning up the nerve to speak, the doorbell rang. Clearly startled by its suddenness, Eric’s sister remained ramrod still, clutching her glass with such force that her fingers were turning white.

  The doorbell rang out again.

  She didn’t move.

  “Would you like me to answer it?” I asked.

  Rousing herself with a shake of her head, she set her glass down carefully on a coaster. “No, I’ll get it. It’s probably the police….” She left without further explanation.

  She didn’t need to. I suspected she’d already had many visits from the police and would have many more until her son’s killer was found. Perhaps it was time to leave.

  I thought I heard a gasp before a low murmur of voices drifted from the direction of the front door. I waited for her return. The voices continued. Uncertain about staying longer, I got up and started toward the front hall. Passing close to a mahogany cabinet with lead glass doors, I noticed, resting on one its shelves, a wood carving of a fish, possibly a killer whale, in the style of Northwest Coast native art. Next to it stood a couple of intricately carved miniature totem poles also made from cedar. Several modern glass sculptures were crammed onto the shelf below, almost as if they had been hastily placed there. On the shelf above the carvings stood a photograph in a silver frame with what looked to be white down scattered around it.

  The dark eyes of a young native man stared back at me. Although the camera caught him just as his lips were twisting into a smile, there was little hint of this smile in his dark amber eyes. Instead there was startled annoyance, almost as if he’d been surprised by the photographer and wasn’t exactly pleased. One eye, the right one, drooped slightly as if the skin was pulling it down. Regardless, he was one very handsome young man with the kind of boyish charm that would have women falling over themselves to be his girlfriend. A young man who’d had his entire life ahead of him.

  At that moment Cloë stepped back into the room. Behind her walked Eric.

  Fifteen

  I could tell by the faint crack of a smile on Eric’s lips that he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see me. I was about to protest that he had given me permission, well … sort of, when he said, “I’m glad the two of you have had a chance to meet. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  Cloë answered, “Meg and I have been having a wonderful time getting to know each other, haven’t we?”

  I nodded appropriately. Using one’s best manners seemed to be the norm at the moment.

  “I’m so glad the both of you found me,” she continued. Please make yourselves at home, while I get you something to drink. Eric, a beer? I’m afraid my only hard liquor is single malt and I’m not sure …”

  “I can appreciate it? Is that what you were going to say, Sis?”

  I cringed and waited for the blast, but it didn’t come. Instead Eric said, “I would love a splash of Lagavulin if you have it.”

  “I have Glenfiddich.”

  Eric pursed his lips. “I guess a Speyside will have to do. You should try an Islay whisky sometime. You’d like its peaty flavour.”

  She glared back at him, but kept her retort to herself.

  I relaxed. One sibling fight avoided.

  He sat down on the sofa beside me, placed his arm around my back and pinched my bum. Fine. Take it out on me.

  “I’d love some more of that delicious cloudberry tea. But we have dropped in rather unexpectedly, so if you have something you need to do, let us know and we can arrange to meet at another time,” I said, thinking the sooner we ended this reunion maybe the better.

  “No, no … I’m happy for the company.” Her eyes rested on her son’s photo before turning back to us. “Besides, we have a lot of catching up to do.” She slipped out of the room with my empty teapot and her empty glass.

  “Eric, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have pushed it, but I guess—”

  “Sh-sh. I’m glad you’re here. I will admit I was a bit ticked off when Cloë told me. But now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, it’s better. Forces us to act like human beings.” He grinned.

  “I thought you had a full afternoon.”

  “I did, but when I looked at the schedule I realized I could play hooky.” He paused and glanced out the window at a cyclist on the path where we’d stood last night peering into this very window. He turned back to me with his eyes twinkling. “As much as I hate to admit it, your nagging worked. You’re right. It’s high time I forgot the sins of the past. I don’t have a lot of family
. Apart from you, Cloë’s about all I’ve got.”

  “And you are about all I’ve got too,” his sister said, gliding back into the room.

  She set the steaming teapot back down and handed Eric a crystal tumbler with a respectable amount of scotch. Then she resumed her seat and gulped down another healthy amount from her own refilled tumbler before continuing. “To bring you up to date on my life, Dmitri and I are divorced. We have been for several years. It’s the usual story, another woman. And Dad’s in a home with Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t have a clue who I am anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. It hasn’t been easy for you, has it?”

  She sighed and took another sip of scotch. “You probably don’t know that your dear brother is in jail.”

  “Jail? What for?”

  “Embezzlement. He stole 20 million dollars from his clients.”

  “I’m not surprised. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. But 20 million bucks is a lot. How did he manage that?”

  “It was one of those Ponzi schemes that came crashing back to earth when clients starting asking for their money. I was one, but fortunately he only took me for a few hundred thousand. I should’ve known better. As you well know, Mike liked to skate close to the law. Since I testified against him, he’s wanted nothing to do with me, which suits me fine. Though he finally married, I never liked his wife. Too money-hungry for my liking. After his arrest, she divorced him. They never had kids.” She fixed her eyes on her son’s picture. “So you see, you’re all I have.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Eric watched his sister thoughtfully before getting up and walking over to the photo in the cabinet. “I’m sorry to hear about your son. He was a fine-looking young man.”

  “You know,” she whispered, clenching her hands against her breast. The tears spilled onto her cheeks.