Arctic Blue Death
by
R. j. Harlick

The fourth in a series of Meg Harris mysteries, An Arctic Blue Death follows Meg's adventures as she searches for the truth about the disappearance of
her father's plane in the Artic thirty-six years ago. If he survived, why didn't he let his family know? Did her father not only survive, but also have
another family? Meg follows the trail to a tiny Arctic hamlet and is immediately struck by the sight of a woman with a shock of red hair, much like Meg's
own. Before Meg can talk to the woman, they are both kidnapped and spirited away to an isolated hunting camp. An Arctic Blue Death is not only a journey
into Meg's past and the events that helped shape the person she is today, but it's also a journey into the land of the Inuit and the culture that has sustained
them for thousands of years. 

Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Text © 2009 R. J. Harlick

All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior consent of the publisher.

Cover design by Emma Dolan, photo by R. J. Harlick

Le Conscil des Arts The Canada Council
du Canada for the Arts
Canada

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts
for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support
of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry
Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

Rendezvous Crime
an imprint of Napoleon & Company
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
www.napoleonandcompany.com
Printed in Canada
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

ISBN 978-1-894917-87-2




To Jim


Meg, you have to go. I can't," my sister Jean said,
squinting myopically up at me from the comfort of
her Muskoka chair. More concerned about preserving her
patrician good looks than being able to see, she wears her
glasses only in extremis.

A flock of honking Canada geese were passing high
overhead, adding to the calls of the others that had just
passed. Several more V formations followed close behind.
These geese were flying northward on their annual spring
migration to the distant shores of Hudson Bay, easily
a couple of thousand kilometres from where we were
watching them at my cottage in West Quebec.

We were at the end of the dock, sitting, or rather Jean was
sitting, sipping hot tea. I was standing binoculars in hand,
afraid to miss even one bird as it flew over Echo Lake and the
hills beyond. My sister was futilely wrapping her manicured
hands around the thermos mug in an attempt to keep
them warm. Although she'd turned down my offer of wool
mitts—admittedly they were a tad dirty—she'd deigned to
wear my old fleece jacket. But she hadn't been able to resist
squinching up her nose when she thrust her cashmere-clad
arms into its worn sleeves. And by her feet lay the snakeskin
portfolio she'd insisted on bringing down to the dock.

Another flock breasted the ridge of the neighbouring
shore. I counted, ten, twenty, thirty...and came up with
about sixty. "That makes about nine hundred we've seen so
far this morning. Doesn't the sight of them make you feel
wonderful to be alive?"

"Forget your stupid geese. We're here to talk."
Much to my astonishment, Jean had arrived late last
night, unannounced. It had to be easily a dozen years since
she'd last visited Three Deer Point, and that was when our
great-aunt Agatha was still in residence. She'd certainly
never bothered to come since I'd taken over the property. I
was amazed she remembered how to navigate the twisting
dirt roads, let alone that she would subject her gleaming
new Jaguar xkr to the punishing miles of loose gravel.
She must want something badly, very badly.
"I told you we'd talk after the geese had gone by."
I pointed my binoculars at the next flock coming into
sight. There looked to be at least a hundred.
Last night I'd stalled her by saying I was too tired. This
morning when I'd woken to the cries of the geese, I'd used
watching them as another excuse. Although I was itching
to know what had forced her to drive seven hours from her
home in Toronto, I wanted it told in my time, not hers.
But the fly-by wasn't really an excuse. Every spring, since
I'd fled the stress of Toronto for the peace of this northern
wilderness, I'd headed down to the dock at the first sounds
of their passing with a thermos mug of hot tea and enough
clothing to keep out the frigid morning air. Invariably they
came through the first week in May, so my ears had been
waiting for this morning's dawn sound.
I wasn't going to miss this rite of spring to listen to a
long harangue from my sister. Just because she was older
--albeit by only eleven months--she thought she could
order me around at will. Needless to say, Jean had been a
contributing factor in my decision to leave the big city.
"I can't wait any longer. I have to be back in Toronto by
three." Jean's voice took on a peremptory tone. She also thought
because she was older, that she was smarter. And perhaps she
was. After all she was a hot-shot judge of the Ontario Superior
Court, whereas I hadn't even finished university.
"Fine, you'd better leave now."
"I'm not kidding, Meg. We have to talk. It's about Father."
The joy of the morning took a sudden downward spiral.
I hadn't heard her mention him for a very long time. In
fact, I hadn't either.
"What's there to say?" I answered warily. "He's dead.
Has been for almost forty years."
"Maybe he's not dead."
"Of course he is. He died in a plane crash."
"We don't know if his plane crashed. We just know it
never arrived. Here, read this."
She extracted a brown, document-size envelope from her
portfolio as another honking V formation spread across the
sky. The envelope was addressed to "Mrs. Sutton Harris".
"This belongs to Mother," I said. "What are you doing
with it?"
"She gave it to me."
"Why didn't she call me about it?"
"She did, but you didn't return her calls."
Jean was right. Mother had left several voice messages
recently, and I was waiting for the right moment to call her
back. She had been another reason why I'd left Toronto.
"Read the letter," Jean ordered as she hastily moved her
Gucci loafers clear of a rogue wave.
I pulled out a single sheet of plain white paper. Written
in an awkward scrawl were the words

Dear Mrs. Harris
Your man okay.

"It's unsigned. It has to be a joke."
"Look at where it's from."
I turned the envelope over. No return address, but the
stamp cancellation indicated it had been sent a little over
three weeks ago from Iqaluit, a town in the Canadian Arctic.
In fact, as I recalled, it was the capital of Canada's newest
territory, Nunavut.
"In case you didn't know, it used to be called Frobisher
Bay. Surely that name means something to you."
"Of course it does. So what?"
It did, however, leave me feeling unsettled. Thirty-six
years ago on a clear sunny day in April, my father and a
pilot had taken off in a chartered plane from the isolated
community of James Lake on Baffin Island. Their destination
was Frobisher Bay, only a couple of hours away on another
part of the island. But they never made it. Neither they nor
their plane were ever seen again.
"There is no way Father can be alive, so it has to be a
hoax. Besides, this isn't the first time Mother's received
such letters," I added.
"True, but that was years ago."
The perfection of Jean's coiffed hair was being challenged
by this morning's brisk breeze. She captured several flying
strands and shoved them behind her ear.
"But didn't they turn out to be hoaxes? So why should
we pay attention to this one?" I countered.
"Because I think there might be something to this. She
received another one ten days later. Here."
She passed me another brown envelope also sent
from Iqaluit and without a return address. Moreover, the
contents contained the same message written in the same
almost child-like hand and similarly unsigned. No, not
quite. It had been signed, but the signature had been so
heavily scratched out that it was impossible to make out
any letters, let alone identify a name.
"I still don't see why you think this isn't from someone
trying to get money out of mother."
"Because this one came two days ago."
This envelope contained a torn-out page from the Nunavut News, dated September 10 of last year.

REMAINS OF PLANE FOUND	/
Iqaluit, NU

4
On a recent ice monitoring flight, a submerged
plane was sighted in Davis Strait near the mouth of
Frobisher Bay. Unfortunately the location iced over
shortly afterwards, so the R.C.M.P. will not be able
to investigate until after spring breakup.
They believe this is most likely the remains of
a chartered plane that went missing last year on
a flight between Iqaluit and Nuuk, Greenland.
Although an extensive search was conducted at the
time, the plane was never found.
Readers may recall that there have been other
plane disappearances over the years, most notably
that of millionaire philanthropist Joseph Sutton
Harris, whose plane disappeared in 1973 on a flight
between James Lake and Frobisher Bay, both since
renamed to Tasilik and Iqaluit.

I glanced at my sister. "So you think this is the reason for
the letters. But if this is his plane then surely his remains
will be found in the wreckage. Why write that he's okay?"
Jean nodded in agreement. "That's what we need to find
out. That's why we want you to go to Iqaluit."


Unable to fully trust my sister, my suspicions went on
high alert. "Why me? You can go just as easily."
Jean was a master at trying to get others to do her bidding.
She shook her head. "Impossible. I have a busy court
schedule coming up. Plus Erin and Megan both have
important piano recitals that demand my full attention."
"I get it. Just because I don't have a husband, a job or
kids, you think I can just drop things and go off on some
wild goose chase."
And speaking of geese, another flock passed overhead.
I raised my binoculars to focus on the leader of a ragged V
formation that was struggling to maintain order. He was
having little success in keeping the upstarts in place.
"Well, you do have fewer responsibilities. Besides, you
like the wilds. I would've thought a trip to the Arctic would
fit right in with your perverse idea of fun."
I had to admit, the thought of travelling to Canada's
arctic wilderness did have a certain attraction. Besides, with
her manicured nails and smart little designer outfits, she
was hardly a candidate for rough northern travelling. Still...
"How do we know this will lead anywhere? The article
said the plane sighting took place last fall. Why would this
anonymous sender wait until now to contact us?"
She shrugged. "It could be for any number of reasons.
Perhaps the individual was away, or maybe they didn't think
it important to let us know until the search was about to
begin."	/
"What about the police? Have they contacted Mother?
Surely they would if they suspected it was Father's plane."
"No, they haven't, but maybe they don't want to get her
hopes up, since, let's face it, it's highly unlikely this is his
plane. After all, they conducted a massive search right after
it disappeared. Surely if this plane has been so easily spotted
now, it could've been just as easily found back then."
"Precisely, so why go?" I persisted.
She finally cast her eyes skywards at another flock of
high flying geese, watched them for a few minutes then
turned back to me. "Mother wants one of us to go."
"No, let me guess. She wants you to go because she feels
you would get the job done properly. You in turn want no
part of it, so you're pushing it onto me."
She had the honesty to blush. "Please, Meg, this could be
important. Don't you want to finally know what happened
to our real father?"
Her question took me aback. Of course I did. But his
disappearance had been so long ago. I hardly remembered
him. After all, I was barely ten at the time. In fact, my mother
was hosting a birthday party for me when the police had
come to tell her about the missing plane. "I suppose I do.
But more importantly, why does Mother want to know? She
didn't spend a lot of time agonizing over his death before
she linked up with another source of Harris money."
"Don't say anything bad about Dad or Uncle Harold--if
you want to call him that. He was a far better father than
our real one ever was. Besides, she waited the legal seven
years before marrying him."
She sat straighter in the chair, as if to emphasize her
judicial disapproval, which I chose to ignore.
"Yes, but you and I both know that it didn't take her
long to let him into her bed," I retorted. Although the two
of them had pretended nothing was going on, I clearly
remembered surprising Uncle Harold sneaking out of my
mother's room one morning in the rambling Harris family
home in Toronto where we all lived.
"We both know she was going through a very rough
time. She just needed some comfort."
"More likely a solid fix on the Harris money," I quipped.
Our father had been the eldest son of John Harris,
who'd taken the fortune Great-grandpa Joe had amassed
in mining, put it into whiskey and turned it into an even
greater fortune. Harold was his younger and only sibling.
"You should talk. Look what you did to get Great-aunt
Agatha's money."
"I did nothing other than visit her."
Jean had always resented the fact that I had not only
inherited the century-old Victorian cottage from our
Aunt Aggie, along with the surrounding fifteen hundred
acre wilderness property that made up Three Deer Point,
but also what remained of the money our great-aunt had
inherited from her father, Great-grandpa Joe.
"But don't blame me," I continued. "You would've got
half, if you'd bothered to come visit her. But you never did."
Annoyed by my logic, Jean stood up. "I've got to go. Are
you going to go to Iqaluit or not?"
At that moment, my buddy and sometime protector
came scrambling over the rocks that ran along the base
of the cliffs lining the shore. Sergei, my black standard
poodle, sensing the tension between Jean and me, placed
himself protectively beside me. Though he didn't growl, he
certainly gave my sister a challenging stare.
"Why can't you get yourself a real dog? Like a pit bull.
More your type," Jean shot back, and ignoring him, started
walking back up the stairs to the cottage.
"Good boy, a very good boy." I gave my buddy a vigorous
hug before the two of us followed after her annoyingly slim
figure.
Even though we'd both inherited the Harris tendency
towards plumpness, Jean did her best to keep it at bay by
starving herself. I on the other hand tended to help it along
with a love for chocolate-chip cookies, rich creamy cheese


and other weight-gaining foods.
"I'll think about it," I said as my sister slid into the soft
leather seat of her low-slung Jag. "I'm not sure when ice
break-up occurs that far north, but it's got to be weeks
away. So we have plenty of time before the police can even
begin to try to retrieve the plane. In the meantime, I think
we need to gather more info, if we can."
My sister nodded. "I have contacts in the Nunavut court
system. I'll give one of them a call to get their take on this
plane."
"Even a simple call to the police might do," I suggested.
"I'll do that, and I also want to talk to Mother. Perhaps she
has some idea who's sending these notes."
"She vows up and down that she doesn't." Jean clicked
her door closed, turned on the engine and powered the
window down.
"Maybe so, but something has prompted her to act this
time, unlike the other times when she received similar
letters and did nothing. Maybe she saved some of them?"
Jean shrugged. "I doubt it. I remember seeing one in the
garbage."
"Was it like these ones?"
"Can't remember. It was ages ago, when I was in law
school. Look, I've got to go." She shifted her car into reverse.
"And thanks for taking this on."
But before I had a chance to say I hadn't yet agreed, she'd
backed her car around and was speeding down my drive.
Maybe when we were growing up, she'd used this tactic
to bamboozle me into doing something she herself didn't
want to do. Not any more. If I was going to the Arctic, it
would be my decision, not hers.
However as I watched her Jag's red brilliance whisk
behind the trees of the first bend, I couldn't help but feel
myself drawn into whatever tangled web these letters were
going to lead to. For I had no doubt that they would. Nothing
to do with the Harris family had ever been simple.




A week later I found myself heading into Toronto. It felt
surreal driving into the city where I'd been born, grown
up, gone to school and married, yet I felt a stranger. In the
years since I'd left, it had changed, like all fast growing
cities. Faceless housing developments had spread their
grasping tentacles along the main Highway 401 corridor
over what were once undulating hills of fields and forests.
Big box malls filled the spaces in between. And the traffic
had increased exponentially.
Accustomed to empty rural roads, I'd doggedly kept
my aged Ford pick-up in the highway's slow lane and let
those eager to exceed the speed limit, namely the majority
including rumbling transport trailers, whiz past me. But
so keyed up had I become, whether from the traffic or the
uncertainty of returning home, I found myself stopping
frequently to fortify my nerves with Tim Hortons coffee
and chocolate cream-filled donuts.
I'd set out this morning, around nine o'clock, after
safely delivering Sergei into the care of the dog's best
buddy, Jid, a boy who'd also become an important part of
my life. Another friend, Teht'aa, had promised to check on
my house for as long as I would be away, which I hoped
would only be for a few days. After some hesitation I'd also
asked her to let her father Eric know I was going to visit my
mother, just in case he was interested, for he would know
the significance of this not-so-simple act.
Eric had once been my best friend, my saviour and my ,
lover, but all that had changed because of my fears and my
cowardice. But I didn't want to dwell on that, not now. I
had enough on my plate. I was about to tread into a past I
had avoided since childhood.
I suppose one could say that I was good at avoiding things
that touched too closely, something with which Eric would
certainly agree. Until, that is, he had pulled away from me
and locked me out with his own version of avoidance.
I wasn't sure why I eventually gave in to my sister's
request to go to Iqaluit. I just knew that I had to learn more
about my father's long-ago disappearance and break the
silence that had always surrounded it.
The anonymous letters implied that he was still alive, yet
the newspaper article clearly indicated a submerged plane,
which meant death. After the massive land and sea search
had turned up nothing, Mother had accepted his death
and had had him declared so. Over the years there'd never
been any hint, any suggestion that he might have survived.
Other than those bogus letters years ago, there'd been no
other letters, no calls or sightings.. .until now.
I supposed in each of our minds, certainly in mine, there
had always been a kernel of doubt, of hope. Jean's request
had triggered me into wanting finally to put them to rest,
one way or the other. Perhaps Mother felt the same way.
Why else would she decide this time to pay attention to this
new round of letters?
I felt goosebumps creep over my skin as I turned into
the very familiar drive of the old Harris family mansion.
Although it was years since I'd threaded my way through
the labyrinth of the heavily treed streets of Rosedale to
reach this cul-de-sac on the edge of a ravine, I found my
way easily as the memories kicked in.
Little appeared to have changed. The driveway still
followed the same circular path to the overarching stone
portico. The flowerbeds with the tulips just bursting into
bloom were arranged in the same angular patterns. Even the
shrubs and ornamental trees remained at the same height,
but then my mother would've made sure the gardeners
kept them trimmed to her precise specifications.
The house loomed as massively as it always had. Built by
Grandpa John in the early 1920s to survive a millennium,
it was made of huge blocks of red sandstone, the same
used to build the Ontario Legislative Building. Over the
years, ivy had succeeded in softening its harsh lines, which
had prompted people to call it the Christmas Mansion.
My favourite rooms had always been those occupying the
turret with its expansive curved windows overlooking the
ravine, which was probably one reason why I'd fallen in
love with Three Deer Point. The old Victorian cottage also
had a many-windowed turret.
I glided my truck to a stop under the archway and
hesitated. Did I really want to go inside? Did I really want
to resurrect old memories, ones I'd successfully buried? I
glanced at the window beside the front door to see if anyone
had noticed my arrival, but the late afternoon sun glinting
off the leaded windows prevented me from seeing inside. It
wasn't too late. I could always turn around and go back to
Three Deer Point and let Jean pursue the letters.
Then the front door eased open and the slim, elegant
figure of my mother stepped outside. She was leaning
heavily on her cane, more so than the last time I'd seen her.
Perhaps with her advancing years, the polio she'd suffered
as a child was causing greater weakness.
"Welcome home, dear." For a moment I thought I saw a
real smile, as if she had been looking forward to my arrival.
After the prescribed pecks on the cheek, she ushered
me into the hall, but not before suggesting I give my truck
keys to Akbar, who would be happy to take it around to the
back. Ah, yes. I'd forgotten. Its rusty, bedraggled appearance
wouldn't quite conform to neighbourhood standards,
would it? It had to be banished to the garage.
Though I would give her this much, she never once
commented on or even flinched at my worn but clean

12
jeans, my Zellers-bought T-shirt or my trail shoes, not
even when I sat on one of her treasured Louis XV chairs.
Mind you, it wasn't as if this antique chair covered in pale
yellow silk had been my choice, since I knew how much
she prized them. No, Mother had actually offered me the
chair, while she sat down on its matching settee. Moreover,
when the housekeeper placed the gleaming Harris silver tea
service down on the mahogany coffee table separating us,
I couldn't help but gape in surprise. She was going to treat
me to one of her special English high teas, something she'd
never done just for me.
"It's so good to see you, Margaret." Her glistening eyes
hinted at a warmth her smile couldn't quite convey. She
poured tea into an eggshell-thin porcelain cup. "Milk, no
sugar, isn't it, dear?"
"Yes, Mother, your memory hasn't failed you."
> I glanced around the large living room, or more correctly,
drawing room, for it did speak of an age long dead. It was
elegantly furnished with the priceless English and French
antiques first Great-grandpa Joe then Grandpa John had
imported from Europe. It was a room we children had never
been allowed to breathe in, let alone sit in, and only rarely
after we became adults. This too was a special honour.
But it was so far from what I'd grown used to that I had
the decided feeling I'd taken a wrong turn and landed in
the mythical Land of Oz. I could see from the way the cup
clattered on the saucer Mother passed to me that she was
just as nervous.
"Although it has been awhile, dear, you've hardly
changed." She offered me a sampling of neatly arranged
finger sandwiches. "Still my sweet Margaret."
I groaned inwardly at the word "sweet" while I helped
myself to a cucumber sandwich. "You haven't changed
either, Mother. As beautiful as ever."
And she was. One of those classic beauties with the fine
features of a porcelain doll, including the sapphire blue

eyes and honey blonde hair, although in her later years her
blondness depended more on the contents of a bottle than
on nature. But who was I to talk, with my attempts to hide
the niggling grey hairs sprouting amongst my red ones. But
she really hadn't aged much since I'd last seen her. In fact,
one would never think that she was in her late seventies.
"But you inherited my genes, dear. You just need to help
them along. As I used to tell you when you were a child, an
orchid doesn't bloom without a lot of care and patience."
Knowing any reply could lead to one of our inevitable
arguments, I held my tongue, and so did Mother. Perhaps
she, like me, wanted to keep this meeting as positive as
possible.
Nonetheless, I knew she meant well, for I had let myself
go. I hadn't seen a decent hairdresser in months, and though
my nose was more of the ski-jump variety than her perfectly
sculpted one, I did have her blue eyes and fine features. Too
much rich food had just blurred some of this fineness.
Great-grandpa Joe's statesmanlike portrait by some
famous Canadian artist whose name I'd forgotten stared
down at me from its station above the marble fireplace.
Although, if Aunt Aggie's stories of his notorious prospecting
days were anything to go by, he was as far removed from
being a pillar of society as I was a socialite. He seemed to
be saying "Go girl" or whatever words of encouragement he
felt fit the moment.
His wasn't the only painting. Some of Canada's best
artists hung on these walls, including one of Lawren Harris's
icy blue Arctic scenes, a fine example of Emily Carr's swirling
West Coast rainforest and Riopelle's frenetic paint splatters,
this one red, brown and orange. Tucked into a back corner
hung a piece of artwork I remembered well, but one I was
surprised to see hung in such illustrious company.
"Of all the prints in Father's Inuit art collection, I always
liked this one of the Mystical Owl the best."
"You do have a good eye, dear. That particular stonecut
print with its Mona Lisa eyes has appreciated considerably
since the government put it on a postage stamp."
Hence its place in this room, where only the best of the
Harris art collection was displayed. Hanging on one of the
narrow walls between the French doors, I spied another Inuit
print I'd always admired, although I couldn't remember
the name of the artist. The stylized angry bear against a
background of blue ice seemed to leap from the page.
"I guess that bear print must've gone up in value too."
Mother turned her head to study the print. "Yes, that is
Joly Quliik's Growling Bear. After the Art Gallery of Ontario
had a retrospective showing of his works a couple of years
ago, I had several people contact me about buying it, but
for your father's sake I couldn't sell it. It was one he was
especially fond of. I'm not exactly sure why, but perhaps it
was because he knew the artist."
"I remembered him once telling me about an artist
who'd taken him out for a ride over the ice and snow on his
dog sled. Maybe this Joly Quliik was the man."
"Perhaps."
"There used to be other Inuit prints hanging in the
library. Are they still there?"
"Yes, your step-father liked them too. But much too
primitive for my liking." She delicately raised the porcelain
cup to her lips and took a tiny sip of tea.
As for me, I found the carefully crafted Mystical Owl or
the Growling Bear no more primitive than Riopelle's flung
paint.
"After your stepfather died, I had the other prints stored
with the rest of Sutton's collection. It's really quite large,
you know. I've recently donated it to the Art Gallery of
Ontario. I thought a gallery in Sutton's name would be
most appropriate, considering all he did for those people."
"You mean the money he gave to the gallery?" I crunched
into another cucumber sandwich. It was quite tasty, and
lunch had been several hours ago.
"Heavens no. I mean those Eskimos. That's why you're
here, isn't it?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. I'm here because I want
to talk to you about the anonymous letters and learn as
much as I can about Father's disappearance. I really don't
remember much myself."
"It was all because of those Eskimos." She didn't bother
to hide the disdain in her voice.
"Please, Mother. I wish you wouldn't use that term.
They prefer to be called Inuit. I think it means 'people' in
their own language."
"Well, whatever." She waved her hand dismissively.
"They caused his death."
At that moment the housekeeper entered the room.
"Madame, the car is ready."
"Oh dear, I forgot. I have a meeting of the planning
committee for the Black and White Arts Gala, which I'm
afraid I can't miss, so, Margaret, let us talk later." She got up
to leave. "Hannah, could you please show my daughter to
her room."
"If it's my old bedroom, I think I can find my way."
"Sorry, darling. I'm not used to having you visit." She
gave me a gentle peck on the cheek and squeezed my hand.
"I'm glad you've come. I've missed you."
As I watched her neat, slightly stooped figure limp from
the room, I couldn't help but think that I'd been away too
long. Sure, my lifestyle didn't come close to intersecting
hers, nor my values for that matter, but she was my mother.
I was finally glad I'd made the decision to come home.

Four



It was only when I entered my old bedroom that I felt I
finally was home. Nothing had changed. Even my dusty
collection of stuffed animals continued to flop on the top
shelf of my bookcase. On the wall hung my Branksome Hall
graduation diploma that Mother had insisted on framing
beside a faded poster from a Neil Young concert, which I'd
ripped from a telephone pole as a dare in Grade Ten.
I had spent a lot of time in this cozy L-shaped room with
its slanted ceilings, which stood at the end of the long hall
on the third floor, where all Harris children were relegated.
Although after my marriage to Gareth Mother had offered
me a more spacious, more adult room on the second floor,
I had refused to take it. This room had become my oasis,
my sanctuary from life's pressures.
Besides, I hadn't wanted to sleep in this house with
Gareth, and I never did during our thirteen years of living
together. I only returned to this room after I'd run away
from him. But Mother's relentless chastising eventually
drove me to Three Deer Point. She blamed me for the
marriage breakup, insisting it was a wife's duty to stick by
her husband's side no matter what. As for the broken arm
he'd given me, along with the bruises and black eye, her
only comment had been, "these things happen."
I smiled at my old photographs filling up one of the end
walls. I used to derive a lot of enjoyment from photography.
In fact, in the early years of my marriage, I'd even thought
of doing it professionally until Gareth pummelled the
desire away with his barrage of criticism. But as I perused
these pictures of Canada's great outdoors, I felt they were
as good as any I'd seen in travel magazines and calendars.
Maybe I should take it up again. I'd felt a tremendous
sense of accomplishment at having captured the ethereal
beauty of a wildflower or the magic of a still lake at sunrise.
In fact, I recognized a couple of lake and forest scenes taken
during my many stays at Three Deer Point when Aunt
Aggie still lived there.
But enough of this useless musing. It would get me
nowhere. I hadn't come all this way to reminisce. Although
I wouldn't be able to learn more about these letters until
Mother returned home, I could at least get my call to the
Iqaluit police over with.
A week ago, after my sister's car had sped out of sight,
I'd phoned but was told to call back in a week's time when
the constable in charge of the missing airplane files had
returned from leave.
Fortunately, Corporal Reilly was back and in the office
when I called this time. After listening to my request for
information on the submerged plane, he replied in a
brusque, almost impatient voice, "Give me your e-mail,
and I'll send you our press release on it."
"I'm afraid I want a little more than a press release," I
replied rather testily.
"Why should I provide you with any more information
than what's been sent to the other journalists? Besides, the
press release pretty well sums up all we know to date."
"Because I'm not a journalist. This plane may very well
be my father's that went missing in 1973."
"Whoops. Sorry. I've been getting a lot of calls from
the southern press on this. Even had some from Europe.
Just assumed you were another one. Who did you say your
father was?"
"Sutton Harris. I'm wanting to know if it's possible that
this could be his plane."
"Let me see. That's the one that disappeared between
Tasilik and Iqaluit, right?"
"Are you familiar with it?"
"Yeah, I've read the file. I wish I could be more definitive,
but at this point in the investigation, we aren't able to
establish the plane's identity. Christ, we don't even know if
the sighting was accurate. Could've been a rock, even a whale
for all we know. Unfortunately, we can't verify until the ice is
gone, which won't be for another couple of months."
"Do you think this could be his plane?"

"It's possible. But this sighting has to be at least three
hundred kilometres from what would've been its direct
flight path between Tasilik and Iqaluit."
"Maybe bad weather, instrument problems, whatever,
caused the pilot to stray off course, and he ended up
crashing at this spot."
"Anything's possible. But from my experience, it's highly
unlikely a pilot would veer that far off course."
"So you're fairly certain it's the Greenland flight
mentioned in the newspaper article."
"Yes, ma'am. The purported crash site is only twenty
thirty kilometres off that charter's filed flight plan."
"I guess you're right, but the reason for my call is that
someone has been sending my mother letters from Iqaluit
that suggest this is my father's plane. In fact, the letters even
say that my father is still alive, which is ridiculous."
"That's gotta be someone's idea of a sick joke. Even if
he did survive a plane crash, the brutal conditions in that
area, hell, anywhere in this godforsaken north, would've
killed him. You gotta realize, winter is still going strong
in April, which I believe is when your father's flight went
missing, eh? And this crash site has gotta be a few hundred
kilometres from the nearest community. So there is no way
in hell he would've made it."
He paused while I heard him drink something. "But say
by some miracle he did, then sometime over the last thirty
or more years, his presence would've come to our attention.

Not too many whites up here we don't know about. But his
file's still open, which means he's most likely dead--we just
haven't found the body."
"And we, his family, would also know if he had survived,
because he'd be with us." I felt I had to add the obvious,
which he'd forgotten to mention.
"Yeah.. .of course. Any idea who sent the letters?"
"Unfortunately, they're not signed, and there's no return
address."
"Then it's just someone wanting to make trouble. We
get a lot of that here."
"You mean anonymous letters."
"No, people making trouble. Not much to do up here.
People get bored. The sender probably saw the newspaper
article and thought he could make a quick buck out of it."
"They haven't asked for money."
"Not yet. Look, if you want I can look into these letters
for you and find out who sent them. Shouldn't be too
difficult. We're a pretty small community up here and
everyone knows everyone's business."
"Thanks. Since they were addressed to my mother, I'll
check with her before I send you copies. You mentioned
that you won't be able to check out this plane for another
couple of months."
"That's right, not until the ice is mostly gone in Davis
Strait, which is usually about mid-July. That's the earliest
we'll be able to get a salvage boat out to the site along with
the divers. But given this here global warming I suppose it
could be sooner."
"When you have a date, could you let me know. I want
to be there."
"Don't see why you'd want to go to the expense. Even
if it proves to be your father's plane, doubt there would
be much to see..." He paused, then cleared his throat as if
embarrassed. "By that I mean given the length of time the
plane has been in the water, it's highly unlikely there'll be
any readily identifiable remains."
"You mean his body."
"Hmpf, yes, ma'am. So no point in you coming up. If
it proves to be your father's plane, only way we'll be able
to identify the body is through dna analysis, which is
handled by our guys in Ottawa. Just as easy for them to get
a comparison sample from you at your home as up here."
I hung up feeling disappointed. Although I'd initially
had reservations about flying to Iqaluit, the chance to visit
Canada's most northerly capital was starting to intrigue
me. But Corporal Reilly had a point. My presence wouldn't
add anything to their identification. Besides, I wasn't sure
if I really wanted to see my father as a collection of bones,
and Reilly was better equipped to find the sender of those
letters than I was. No, a trip north made little sense.
I walked back downstairs in search of a cup of tea to
tide me over until dinner and to find out when Mother
would be returning. When I reached the front foyer, I heard
the postman putting the mail in the outside box. Trying
to be helpful, I retrieved an assortment of envelopes and
magazines and headed down the hall to the kitchen.
While the rest of house appeared to have changed little
from my last visit, apart from the odd new art item or two,
the kitchen was another matter. Mother had been on a
spending spree. Gone were the knotty pine cupboards I'd
known since a child, the white Melamine counters and pale
yellow appliances. So too the racks of gleaming copper pots
and the hanging ceiling lights with their copper shades.
Instead the large room, aglow with pot lighting, had been
upgraded to the crisp efficient modernity of the twenty
first century.
It now sported what seemed like miles of black granite
counters and acres of rich cherry wood cupboards with the
appliances discreetly hidden amongst them. Only a six
burner gas stove top was visible. All the other appliances
were hidden behind the cherry veneer, so too the pots. I was
amazed that Mother would go to such expense when I'd
never known her to express any interest in food preparation,
let alone spend time in what she considered the cook's
domain. But when I saw the fancy Italian espresso machine
complete with coffee grinder and an automatic frother, I
knew Jean had been the influence. Mother drank only tea.
Hannah was sitting in the wide bay window drinking
regular coffee at the one item in the room that hadn't
been replaced, an old pine table that dated back to my
grandfather's day. Obviously someone had put her foot
down. And I had a pretty good idea who.
Hannah stiffened and placed her cup carefully back down
on the saucer. She tucked a stray strand of grey-blonde hair
into her bun. "Can I help you, Miss Margaret?"
I had the distinct feeling that she wasn't used to her
realm being infiltrated. I didn't know Hannah. The last
housekeeper I remembered was Caroline, a large buxom
grandmotherly type who loved nothing better than to
prop her varicose veined legs on a chair at this very same
table and watch the soaps on tv. I would sometimes join
her. Although a new and larger tv stood on a cherry wood
corner stand, it was turned off.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. I was just wondering
if you knew when my mother would be coming home."
"Akbar is to pick her up at six thirty. Is there anything
else I can assist you with?"
"Margaret, is that you come home?" cried out a voice.
I turned around to see the short, wiry figure of Shelley
emerge from the pantry, hefting a bag of potatoes in her
strong but work-chafed hands. She dropped them onto an
inlaid chopping board of a centre island and ran over to me.
"Here let me have a look at you, lass." Her smile added
more wrinkles to her beaming face. "A little more meat
on those bones, otherwise still the same little Maggie who
used to steal my chocolate chip cookies."
I hugged her back. Shelley had been the cook since as
far back as I could remember. She had to be well over sixty
but appeared as spry as ever. "It's great to see you. You don't
happen to have a batch of those cookies around, do you?"
She chortled, pulling out a tin box from a cupboard
and loading the cookies onto a platter. "Fresh made this
morning. When your mum told me you'd be coming, I
knew you'd be wantin' some. Might as well have a cuppa,
too." She poured me a cup from the teapot standing at the
other end of the table from Hannah. "Sit yourself down
and tell me all about yourself, while I make supper."
It was then I noticed the mail in my hand. "Hannah,
here's today's mail." I placed it on the table in front of her.
As I did so, a large brown envelope slipped out with the
address in a hand I immediately recognized. I snatched it
up to confirm the postmark. Iqaluit. Mother had been sent
another letter.


Five



Well...aren't you going to open it?" I asked, watching
with amazement as my mother placed the unopened
envelope back down on the coffee table. Her hand, however,
shook with more than just age as she set it down.
This time we were sitting considerably more comfortably
in the deep, cushioned chairs of the den cocooned in the
coziness of its mahogany panelling. In front of us loomed
the floor-to-ceiling fieldstone fireplace that Grandpa John
had modelled after the one in the front room of Three Deer
Point. Though unlike my own, this fireplace still sported one
of Grandpa John's kills, a giant moose head with an expansive
set of antlers. When I'd moved into the cottage I'd removed
all the dusty animal heads shot by my relatives over the years.
I preferred to see my animal heads alive and moving.
"No, dear. Let's have a nice dinner and talk about other
things. Besides, your sister and her family will be here
shortly, and I don't think the children will be the least
interested," she replied.
Aching to know what was inside the envelope, I
nonetheless acquiesced and said, "Of course. But I do want
to discuss these letters with you, so please, let's do it after
dinner."
"As you wish, dear. Now tell me about Three Deer Point.
I did so enjoy our summer visits there when Aunt Aggie
was alive."
Even though I thought those long-ago visits had been
more a test of endurance for Mother than an enjoyment,
I didn't dispute her comment. Instead I told her about the
ups and downs of day-to-day living in the wilds. There was
one aspect, however, that I didn't bring up, which was my
relationship with Eric and other members of the Migiskan
Anishinabeg who lived on the Algonquin First Nations
reserve neighbouring my property. Although Mother liked
to think she had an open mind, she was nevertheless a snob.
I wasn't entirely sure she would understand or accept these
friendships which had become an integral part of my life.
Soon Jean whisked in with her husband Leslie and two
daughters in tow, much as I remembered Mother doing
with us when we were children. I'd always rather liked Leslie
and felt a bit sorry for him. The heir to one of Toronto's
oldest Establishment families, he was a quiet, self-effacing
man who hovered behind the shadow of Jean's boundless
energy. I'd always wondered why Jean had married him,
since she didn't need his money and they seemed to have
few intersecting interests. But the marriage was still going
strong, unlike my own, which had started off with much
greater promise. Perhaps because underneath Jean's hard
edge I sensed an unerring love for this gentle man who in
turn felt the same kind of love for her.
Of medium height with a full head of brown curly hair,
Leslie was wearing his standard bow tie, this one red. His
lips reflected a wisp of a smile. "It's good to see you, Meg.
I think you must enjoy your new home. You're smiling
again." He blushed as he said these last words, almost as if
embarrassed he'd gone too far.
I hugged him. "I'm very glad to see you, too. And you're
right, my new life is treating me very well."
Turning to the tall, leggy girl clinging to his side, I said,
"You must be Megan. You were this high when I last saw
you." I placed my hand about two feet below her current
height, which was about the same as her father's. "You must
be thirteen or fourteen."
"Thirteen," she whispered and blushed.
"Yeah, she's the pipsqueak in the family," added Erin,
who proceeded to guffaw at her joke. Although the eldest
by two years, she was at least a full head shorter. But unlike
her shy sister, she displayed all the bold confidence of her
mother, despite having inherited her father's head of brown
curls and his slightly oversized nose. "So I hear, Aunt Meg,
you're going to the Arctic to find out what happened to
Granddad."
So much for Mother's attempt at censorship. "Probably
not," I replied.
"Hey," Jean cried out, "you promised."
"I didn't. Just said I would consider it. And I have. The
Iqaluit police have said there is no need to go. They don't
think it's Father's plane."
"But the letters seemed so certain," Mother whispered,
her steely demeanour suddenly gone as she clenched her
hands to her breast.
Her reaction took me by surprise. I'd always had the
impression she'd laid her husband firmly to rest when
all hope had gone of finding the missing plane. "I hadn't
realized finding him meant so much to you."
"I don't have too many years left, and before I die, I
would like to know Sutton's final resting place. And I think
you do too, both of you." She glanced from me to Jean.
"I agree," Jean said. "We need to end the mystery of his
death once and for all."
"I'm with you," I replied. "But the police are just as
certain that this isn't his plane. But if it is, chances are his
body will no longer be with it, or if so, what is left of it
won't be identifiable other than through dna, which is
done in Ottawa."
"But at least we will know where he passed his final
moments. Jean, you'd better go, as I suggested in the first
place. You were always closer to your father."
I felt the stab of Mother's censure. "That's not true. I
loved him just as much."
In fact, I'd always felt there was a special bond between
us. We both loved staying with Aunt Aggie at Three Deer
Point. He always took me and not Jean on his ambles
through the woods, canoe paddles on the lake or on his
visits with friends at the Migiskan Reserve. We would
often stay a week or so longer than Mother and Jean, both
desperate to flee back to the city.
Not wanting to prove my mother right, I said, "I'll go,
but there is no point in going to Iqaluit until mid-July
when the water should be ice-free. Police won't be able to
salvage the plane before then."
"Sounds good to me." Jean's face relaxed into a smile. For
a few minutes she must've been worried. Perhaps I shouldn't
have been so hasty to respond to Mother's rebuke.
"And I'm happy to pay some of your expenses," she
added.
"That's terribly kind of you, Jean, but there is no need,"
Mother interjected. "Since this is a family matter, I'll handle
all the expenses."
My initial knee-jerk reaction was to refuse, simply
because it felt like a payoff, nor did I want them to have the
last word. But I didn't refuse. Although Aunt Aggie's estate
provided me with enough income to allow me not to have
to work, it was only enough to live modestly at Three Deer
Point. It wouldn't cover a costly trip to the Arctic.
"And while we're on this topic, perhaps it's a good time
for you to open the letter you got today." I pointed to the
envelope in front of her.
"You were sent another anonymous letter?" Jean's high
heel shoes clicked on the hardwood floor as she walked over
to have a look at the brown envelope lying so innocently
against the dark mahogany of the table.
"We don't know if it is or not." Mother retrieved it from
the table.
"But it's from Iqaluit," I interjected. "And the writing
looks the same. So why not open it now?"
"Our dinner is waiting. Shelley won't want us to eat
it cold. I'll do it after dinner." Clutching it in her hand,
Mother headed towards the dinning room, leaving us with
little choice but to follow.
While Leslie shepherded his two daughters after his
mother-in-law, I held my sister back. "Is it me, or am I
getting the impression Mother doesn't want to open it?"
"It seems that way to me too."
"Did she act this way with the others?"
"I've no idea, but I wasn't here when she received them.
She only told me about the letters after she received the
newspaper clipping."
"Did you ask her why she waited?"
"Yes, she said she didn't think they were important."
"But she didn't throw them away."
"No, she didn't. But let's face it, the letters are worthless.
It's absurd to suggest that Father is still alive. I'd go so far
as to say it's an insult to Mother and to us. It's only the
newspaper article that is credible."
"True, but let's make sure she opens this latest one
tonight. I can't help but feel that she's afraid of what she'll
discover inside."
Jean nodded and followed her husband and children
into the dining room, from which the most delicious
aromas were wafting, which drew me after them.

Six



Mother, you must open the envelope," Jean insisted.
"Since this concerns all of us, we have as much right
to know what's inside."
The six of us had returned to the den after one of
Shelley's signature meals: rosemary chicken stuffed with
wild rice, new potatoes, creamed pearl onions and of course
the broccoli, al dente, just the way I liked it. She'd topped
it off with another of her specialties, maple rice pudding.
The scrumptious meal had mellowed me somewhat, so
Jean had taken over the badgering.
During the course of the meal, whenever the conversation had veered towards Father or the letters, Mother had
deflected it. I'd assumed that once we'd placed our forks
on our empty dessert plates, she would finally open the
envelope lying in full view next to her place setting, but
she flatly refused, insisting it must wait until we finished
coffee. So the six of us had straggled out of the dining
room and back into the den, where a fire was flickering in
the fireplace. Hannah followed us in to take our orders for
espresso or latte.
Erin had immediately put the tv on, only to be ordered by
her mother to turn it off". She'd then stuck her earplugs into
her ears, turned her iPod on and plunked herself down into
one of the overstuffed chairs as far away from us as she could
get. Jean and I had taken up station in the wing-back chairs
flanking the fireplace. Across from us on the chesterfield sat
Mother, with Leslie and Megan joining her. And in between,
the brown envelope lay enticingly close on the coffee table.
But as much as I wanted to rip it open, I kept myself in
check.
"Yes, Mother." My brother-in-law's low voice broke the
silence. "It's time to open it. I know this is hard for you, but we are here to support you. It's best to share these things
and not keep them to yourself."
Mother gently patted his knee. "You're a good man."
Placing her teacup back on the saucer, she reached for
the envelope. It fluttered with her trembling as she tried to
peel off the scotch tape sealing it and failed.
"Here let me." Leslie pulled out a small penknife and slit
the envelope open. He passed it back to her.
I found myself holding my breath in anticipation and
noticed Jean was doing likewise.
Mother slowly inched out what looked to be a thick sheet
of paper sandwiched in between a cardboard backing and
a piece of tissue paper. Her hands were shaking so much
she had difficulty separating them. Leslie took it from her,
removed the tissue and placed the paper face-up on the
table.
Mother gasped and closed her eyes.

"Cool," Erin said from behind my chair.
I found myself speechless. So too Jean.
On the coffee table lay a drawing, a stylized, one
dimensional drawing in black ink of an Inuit sled with
several of what I took to be dogs and a plane falling towards
it. Jagged orange flames shot out of the back of the plane.
A figure dressed as an Inuit with a fur-trimmed hood and
mukluk-like boots stood to one side as if watching this
plane fall from the sky. In the upper right hand corner were
some odd symbols, inscribed one on top of another, almost
like a Chinese chop. The corner of a sheet of thinner paper
peeked out from underneath.
I pulled it out.
"Your man okay" read the message in the same square
handwriting of the other letters. Again with no signature.
What little colour Mother had drained from her face.
"Oh no," she gasped. "Just as I feared."
Leslie moved over to put his arm around his motherin-law.

"You've seen a picture like this before," I said more as a
statement then a question.
She whispered, "Yes."
"Did it come with one of the other letters?"
She nodded.
"But you didn't mention it," Jean said.
"No, I didn't," was her simple answer. The firm line of
her clenched lips indicated that she wasn't willing to explain
why.
"Where is it?" I asked.
"Upstairs in my desk drawer." She handed me the key.
It took me only a few minutes to retrieve the drawing, or
more correctly drawings, for there were two of them, from
the walnut desk in her study.
I laid them on the coffee table beside the latest picture in
what I thought was their order, for they seemed to depict a
progression of events, almost as if a story were being told.
Like the one Mother had just received, these drawings had
also been drawn on thick almost linen-like paper in the
same flat, naif manner.
The first drawing depicted an Inuk driving a sled with
a couple of dogs towards what could be seals lying on ice.
The second was more or less the same picture but with
the airplane flying normally above them. Like the drawing
Mother had just received, these two also had symbols
inscribed along the upper right hand edge. In fact these
symbols looked to be the same in all three drawings.
"I'd say this is telling us about someone witnessing
Father's plane crash, don't you think?" I said.
"I agree," Jean acknowledged. "But this happened in
1973. It seems strange that they would wait until now to
send us these pictures."
"It's pretty isolated up there. Maybe they didn't know
who to tell."
"I would've thought telling the police would've been
obvious," Jean replied.
"But for whatever reason they didn't. Maybe this newspaper
article reminded them of the plane crash. And it
would've given them Father's name."
"Yes, but the article didn't mention Mother."
"I'm sure it's information easily garnered," suggested
Leslie. "Sutton Harris was a fairly public figure and so is
your mother. This person probably came across a newspaper
article or found it on the internet."
"Perhaps the more important question to ask," I said, "is
why they would go to all this trouble to send these pictures
and not identify themselves?"
"Maybe they did," Leslie offered. He picked up one of the
drawings and headed out of the den. The rest of us, even
Erin, followed him along the hall, past the dining room and
library and through the archway into the drawing room.
He didn't stop until he reached Father's Mystical Owl print
hanging on the back wall.
"These look to be the same kind of markings." He
pointed to a set that had been made along the lower right
hand edge of the print. "Someone once told me that this
was the artist's signature in Inuit writing, what they call
syllables."
Although the Mystical Owl print symbols were similar
to those of the drawings, they weren't the same, further
evidence that it might be the artist's name.
"We need to have someone translate them for us. Do you
know anyone who could do this for us, Leslie?" I asked.
And then for the first time since I'd brought the drawings
down from her study, Mother spoke. "There used to be an
art gallery near Bloor Street that Sutton dealt with. The
Davis Gallery. They specialized in Eskimo art."
The phonebook quickly told us that the gallery no
longer existed, which wasn't surprising, since it was almost
four decades since Father would've dealt with them. "What
about a museum? Mother, you must've dealt with some
Inuit art expert at the art gallery when you were donating
Father's collection."
"Wait a minute. I know someone who's considered quite
the expert," Leslie replied. "I'll give her a call to see when
she's available." Flipping his cell phone open, he walked out
into the hall.
A few minutes later he returned. "She can see us
tomorrow about nine a.m. It'll take us an hour or so to get
there, so we'll have to leave at about eight. Hope that's not
too early for you, Meg?"
"I'm an early bird, but what about your wife? She's the
one who hates to get out of bed in the morning."
My sister's immediate response was to stick her tongue
out at me, something she'd done frequently when we
were growing up. "I can't come," she said. "I have an early
morning court case. And for your edification, I'm up every
morning at six and off to my personal trainer. How else do
you think I keep this perfect bod in shape? Which is more
than I can say for you, darling."
I ignored her insult. "Is the early time okay for you,
Mother?"
"If you don't mind, dear, I'd just as soon not come. I
find these drawings too painful."
It was only then that I realized tears were slowly seeping
from her eyes.
"I do hope Sutton didn't feel much pain." She dabbed
her eyes with a thin cambric handkerchief.
"Oh, Mother, I'm so sorry," Jean said. "We've been so
thoughtless not thinking of the full implications of these
drawings."
She placed a comforting arm around Mother, something
I should've also done, but overt physical contact was
something Mother and I had always shied away from. Call
it our cold British roots, whatever. We'd never been able to
show each other much physical affection, but Jean, coming
from the same roots had never had a problem.
Instead I said, "Mother, remember what the letters say.
Maybe he didn't die." Although I didn't believe it for a moment,
I felt it might help to alleviate some of Mother's distress. "Is
this why you didn't want to show us the drawings?"
"Yes." She took a sip of her coffee. Her hands weren't
shaking quite as much now. "I was afraid of what this most
recent drawing might depict. And I was right. Poor Sutton,
to die so horribly."
I could see she didn't believe the letters either, and the
pictures, if they indeed depicted my father's crash, put the
lie to them also.
We all remained quiet, lost in our own separate thoughts.
There was nothing more any of us could say. The thought
of Father dying in a burning plane was just too horrific.

Seven



While my sister and brother-in-law continued to
comfort Mother, I poked at the fire, poured myself
another cup of coffee and returned to my chair. Erin, her
interest no longer tweaked, plugged back into her iPod,
while Megan picked at a thread in her skirt as she cast
anxious glances at her father.
In a matter of minutes Mother was drying her eyes and
brushing Jean and Leslie aside, saying, "I'm okay now."
I waited a few more minutes before asking, "Mother,
you received letters like these many years ago. Did they
have drawings, too?"
It took such a time for her to answer that I thought she
might not have heard my question, but as I was about to
repeat it, she said, "I don't remember, it was so long ago."
"Did they also come from Iqaluit?"
She remained quiet for a moment before answering. "I
don't recall that name, but it seems to me some of them did
come from some place in the far north. I remember being
surprised by the location."
"And it wasn't Frobisher Bay, Iqaluit's former name?"
"No, it was a place I wasn't familiar with. When I looked
it up on the map, I recall thinking how odd; it was on
Hudson's Bay, very far from where your Father used to
travel, which was mainly to Baffin Island. At least that's
what he told me."
"Can you remember what any of the letters said? Or
even how many there were?"
"There weren't many. Maybe two or three in total. The
first came not long after your father's plane disappeared. It
asked for money, a lot of money in return for information
about your father. I didn't like its tone, so I passed it onto
the police, who said the man who'd sent it was dead. How
ridiculous using the name of someone who was dead.
Obviously the sender wasn't very smart."
"What about the other letters? Did they ask for money?"
"They did, but not enough to bother the police. I just
threw them away. They weren't worth my time."
"What about the timing of these letters?"
"As I told you, the first one came one or two years after
your father disappeared. The others maybe ten or so years
later, say the early 1980s."
"And you didn't receive any more until now?"
"No, dear."
"Is there any possibility that the same person sent both
sets of letters?"
"I have been wondering that myself. As I recall, the
letters that came in the 1980s were written like these latest
ones, in a roundish rather childlike handwriting, the way
a person writes when first learning. But apart from that
similarity, I couldn't say whether it is the same person."
"Can you remember what the letters said? Or the name
of the sender?"
"No, not at all," she replied with a sudden abruptness as
she placed her cup back down on its saucer. "Children, it's
getting late and I'm tired. I think I will go up to bed. But
you continue visiting. You haven't seen each other in such
a long time."
She raised herself painfully from the sofa. "I'm afraid I
haven't been a very good hostess. Leslie, you know where
the liqueurs are. Please help yourselves."
She gave us all a gentle peck on the cheek and shuffled,
cane in hand, out of the den towards the elevator that
Grandpa John had had installed after a stroke had left him
partially paralyzed.
I waited until I heard the elevator's folding brass door
clink shut and the motor start up before saying, "I think
Mother remembers more than she is letting on. What do you think?"
"I will admit I had a similar impression." Leslie poured
himself a snifter of Armagnac and offered us our choice
from Mother's eclectic collection of liqueurs.
Although I hadn't had a liqueur since going dry over
three years ago, I felt very tempted. All this delving into
the past was just a little too nervewracking. Nonetheless, I
resisted and poured myself another cup of coffee instead.
As I watched my sister enjoying her blueberry grappa,
I said, "It's too bad you didn't read the letter you found in
the garbage."
She nodded then paused as if mulling over a thought
before saying, "You know, I do remember something. These
drawings have reminded me of it."
She ran her eyes over the three pictures lying on the
coffee table. "In the same waste basket were bits of paper,
as if something had been ripped into shreds. Some of the
pieces had parts of a drawing on them. I remember being
surprised at the time that mother would tear up a piece of
art, given her love of it. I also remember seeing the head of
an Eskimo with a hood." She picked up one of the drawings.
"Very much like these ones."
"Did you happen to read the letter?"
"No.. .no I couldn't. It had been ripped too."
She thoughtfully sipped her grappa. She seemed to be
savouring it so much, it was all I could do not to rush over
to the liquor cabinet and pour myself one.
"And you weren't tempted to try to put it together?"
She started to shake her head, then changed her mind.
"You're right. I was about to, but Mother came into the
room and grabbed the wastebasket from me. She was really
angry. In one of her snippy moods."
"Too bad Caroline doesn't still work here. She might've
seen the letter." I paused. "Shelley was the cook back then,
maybe she knows something."
The kitchen was as spotless as only Shelley could make
it. In the days when Mother and my stepfather, that is my
uncle--I never knew what to call him--had big parties,
within an hour of the last guests leaving, Shelley would
have it equally spotless. Although Mother would hire extra
help for the occasion, Shelley would invariably kick them
out after the bulk of the clean-up had been completed and
finish the last polishing on her own. It was her realm. She
had to put her final stamp on it.
Shelley was resting in her creaking bentwood rocker
with her feet up on a small stool.
"Mind if I join you?"I asked. As I child, I would sometimes
sneak down after I'd supposedly gone to bed to nestle in the
kitchen's welcoming warmth. This was invariably after yet
another disagreement with Mother or Jean. Shelley would
give me hot chocolate in my special Montreal Olympics
mug and of course a chocolate chip cookie. Then she would
settle into her rocker and lend a sympathetic ear. It wasn't
that she would offer advice, she never did. It was more her
quiet rocking back and forth listening to whatever I had to
say. Once I'd spilled everything out, I would perk back up
and feel ready to take on life's next offering.
"You don't need to ask, lass. Of course you're welcome.
Here, have a cuppa." She poured me a cup of tea. "And a
wee dram." And before I had a chance to refuse, she poured
a good measure from her special bottle of twelve-year-old
MacCallan--she only drank the best--into a tumbler and
added a bit more to her own.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I clinked glasses with
her. Although the spreading tingle of the whiskey felt good,
really good, I was nonetheless determined to drink only a
sip or two.
"This is quite the kitchen," I said, my eyes roaming over
the sparkling granite counters and gleaming stainless steel.
"When did this happen?"
"Last year. It was your sister's doing. She thought the old
one needed a facelift. But I tell ya, Maggie, I do miss the old
charmer. It was a place where a tired old body could sink
back and relax and not worry about a wee bit of dust. But
this monstrosity with its shiny surfaces drives me crazy. I'm
forever removing smudges and the like." And with that, she
got out of her chair to shine a spot on the counter where
she must've seen a smudge.
I laughed. "But if you shine it up too much, you might
rub the surface away."
She eased herself back into her rocking chair and winked.
"That's the plan, lass. Then perhaps your mother would
give me back my nice white counters. But you're not here to
listen to an old woman grumble. Tell me what ails ye."
"Nothing really, I just wanted to sit down for a chat for
old times' sake. But before we begin, I do have a question.
I think you're probably aware that Mother has recently
received some anonymous letters about Father." I took
another sip of the whiskey, just one more. It was delicious.
I'd forgotten how smooth a single malt could be.
"Aye, so Hannah tells me. Mind you, I knew something
was amiss. Your mother's been terribly quiet lately, like
something was bothering her."
Since she had known Father and had lived with us
through the unsettling time of his long drawn-out death,
I figured she had a right to know, so I told her about the
letters and the drawings.
When I'd finished, I asked, "Mother received similar letters
sometime in the 1980s. I'm wondering if you remember those."
"Aye, I remember." She took a long sip of her whiskey. I
joined her. "Caroline told me about them. They upset your
Mother, they did. Something terrible. I remember all the
door-slamming upstairs. Could hear it clear through the
house. She was that angry."
"Funny, I don't remember that part. I just remember
the hushed whispers with Uncle Harold. I overheard him
telling Caroline that if any more letters came, she was to
give them to him instead of Mother. It was Jean who found
out what they were about."
"You were probably at school when she opened them
up. But it did put Caroline in a bit of a predicament, for
she didn't want to lie to your mother. And another one did
come."
"It did? Do you know what was in it?"
She shook her head. "Caroline never saw the letter. Your uncle took it from her and hid it away in his desk."
"Damn, I was hoping you could tell me if there were any
drawings with the letter. What about the earlier letters? Did
you ever learn what was in them?"
The soothing warmth of the whiskey was beginning to
make me feel mellow. I relaxed further into the chair.
She shook her head again. "No. Caroline and I just knew
it was something hurtful. And figured because they came
from the far north, they might be about your father."
"You knew where they came from?"
"Oh yes, Caroline was quite curious when she saw the
postmark that said Churchill. She even got out the map to
show me where it was on Hudson Bay. Not as far north as
where your father's plane got lost, but still a long ways away."
At least Mother's memory hadn't failed her in this
aspect. And I agreed with her. Churchill was a very long
way from Iqaluit, easily a thousand kilometres or more.
And because it was situated in the province of Manitoba, it
wasn't even considered real Arctic. It did seem very strange
that someone living in that town would know anything
about Father's death.
"Curious you should mention drawings," Shelley
continued. "I recollect Caroline mentioning a drawing
she saw on your uncle's desk not long after she gave him
the strange envelope. One of those Eskimo ones, like your
father used to collect."
"Do you know what it was about?"
"I think Caroline said it was just some Eskimos standing
by an igloo. She couldn't see what all the fuss was about."
"Do you know what happened to it?"
She shook her head again. "Sorry, can't help you there."
And she poured both of us another "wee dram", which I
didn't for a second think to refuse.
Realizing I'd probably exhausted Shelley's memories, I
turned the conversation to her brother's family. Although they lived on the other side of the globe in Scotland, they
were Shelley's only family, and she took great interest in
their doings.
Sight



The morning traffic was heavy as we drove north on
the Don Valley Parkway out of Toronto. Fortunately,
most of it was headed downtown in the opposite direction.
Leslie's friend, Mary Goresky, was the director of the
McConnell Art Gallery in Victoriaville, about an hour's
drive northwest of Toronto. Apparently her gallery had one
of the largest collections of Inuit art in Canada, specializing
in works from Cape Dorset and James Lake, two of the
Arctic's renowned art centres.
"In fact," Leslie said as he slid his Mercedes into the passing
lane. "I believe Cape Dorset was one of the first settlements to
start producing art, at least so Mary has told me. Apparently a
man by the name of James Houston introduced print making
in Cape Dorset back in the late 1950s."
"James Houston. I recognize that name," I said. "Father
had something to do with him. In fact I think he was the
man that got Father involved in collecting Inuit art."
"Could very well be. James Houston was a big name in
the field. He was really the man that got it going. Back in
the late 1940s he brought a number of soapstone carvings
down to Montreal to see how they would sell. They took
off like wild fire. I remember my mother travelling with a
group of friends all the way from Toronto just to buy some.
She didn't want to miss out on a chance to discover the
next Picasso."
"And did she?"
"Damn!" he muttered as he suddenly braked to avoid
hitting a red Miata that cut in front of us.
"Whew, that was close," I said, removing my hands from
the leather dashboard.
He smiled apologetically. "Sorry about that. Crazy drivers
around here. Let me see, where was I? Oh yes. My mom
might not have picked up the next Picasso, but she always
had a good eye for artistic merit, and she did pick up one
or two carvings that have appreciated considerably in value.
One in particular of a kneeling caribou with antlers."
Unfortunately, the traffic going north had slowed to a
snarl as we closed in on a major interchange.
The car clock read 8:15. "Think we'll get to Victoriaville
on time?"
"Mary said her calendar was open until 10:30, so we
should be okay. Besides, once we're on the 407, we should
move along like greased lightning." He emitted a nervous
laugh almost as if embarrassed by his bold statement.
But he was proved right. Once we passed under the
cameras of the toll highway, we breezed across the top
of Toronto. In the distance I could see the downtown
skyscrapers with Toronto's signature CN tower rising above
them. But they were soon lost to view as we approached the
western outskirts of the city. A jet on its descent path told
us we were passing the airport. And before we knew it, we
were back into the westbound traffic of the 401.
"I hope you don't mind taking the scenic route into
Victoriaville rather than the expressway." Leslie glanced
shyly at me as if looking for my consent, which I readily
gave, not liking major highways any more than he did.
We eased off the highway, and for a few kilometres the
two lane county road was indeed scenic, complete with
rolling pastures, gabled stone farm houses and forests flush
with the new green of spring, but before long they were
replaced by wall-to-wall Monopoly houses.
"Victoriaville used to be a nice, quiet farming town," Leslie
lamented. "Now it's been overrun by commuter suburbs."
Almost as if a line had been drawn, the sardine-packed
houses were suddenly replaced by elegant nineteenth
century merchant homes with overarching maples
and expansive lawns. We passed another reminder of
Victoriaville's prosperous roots, an imposing stone church
with many stained glass windows and a towering bell
spire. Just beyond the cemetery, no doubt housed with
Victoriaville's finest, we turned into the heavily treed
grounds of what was once a stately Edwardian brick home.
"McConnell Art Gallery" read the brass sign.
We walked passed a bronze sculpture of a man guzzling
what looked to be a bottle of hooch and climbed up the
stairs to the large glass front door. It sprang open and
out strode a tall angular woman with sculpted white
hair. Although her dark brown pantsuit was mannishly
conservative, her fuchsia ruffled shirt was anything but,
nor were her rhinestone-tipped glasses.
"Leslie, it's great to see you." She thrust out her hand.
"And you must be his sister-in-law, Margaret. I knew your
father."
"Do you mean Sutton?" She didn't seem old enough to
have known my real father. "Or more likely it was Harold,
my stepfather?"
"Harold. I never knew Sutton. He died before I became
involved in Inuit art, but I remember Harold telling me
about the missing plane. Such a tragedy. They were brothers,
weren't they?"
I nodded appropriately. "I hadn't realized you knew my
uncle."
"Yes, Harold generously provided the funding for the
beginnings of the McConnell Gallery's Inuit art collection."
"Amazing. I'd never realized he'd had such an interest
in Inuit art."
"He was more a dabbler, but I believe his donation was
really in memory of your father. Sutton Harris, as you
know, is regarded as one of the visionaries. He recognized
the potential artistic value of Inuit Art and helped get it
recognized as an art form rather than a native craft."
"I guess I hadn't realized Father had such a reputation.
I just knew he collected. In fact, he died during one of his
many collecting trips to the Arctic."
"It must've been difficult for you and your sister." She
glanced at Leslie as she flicked a sculpted curve of white
hair away from her face. "Harold was a wonderful man
and would've made a good father." The strident tone of
her voice softened. "But it's never easy having one's father
replaced, is it?"
"No, no, it isn't," I replied, wondering if she was speaking
from personal experience. However, not wanting to dwell
any longer on this dangerous ground, I changed the subject.
"We have some drawings. We're hoping you can identify the
artist."
"Yes, so Leslie has mentioned. However, since my
knowledge of Inuktitut is rather limited, I've asked one
of my graduate students, an Inuk from James Lake to join
us. She should be here shortly. Meanwhile, I'm dying for
a smoke. Unfortunately, I can't smoke in the gallery, so
must satisfy my vices outside.. .at least some of them." She
laughed. "Come, let me show you our sculpture garden."
She lit up a cigarillo and marched us around to the side
of the building where a diverse collection of stone, metal,
and even plastic sculptures were scattered throughout the
grounds. While I was rather partial to the large bronze
feather, Leslie preferred the sickle stabbing a cell phone. Said
he'd always wanted to do that to his own phone. By the time
the director had finished her cigarillo, her graduate student
had arrived, a plump, smiling cherub wearing too short
a skirt for her chubby legs and a mischievous glint in her
black eyes. Mary introduced her as Ooleepeeka McLeod.
The four of us trooped into the gallery past a small
exhibit of, interestingly enough, several Joly Quliik stonecut
prints.
"My mother has an Quliik print," I said, eyeing a herd of
caribou prancing across the paper.
"Lucky you. Do you know which one?"
"Yes, the Growling Bear"
"How marvellous! La creme de la creme. Born in an igloo
and raised in the old ways, Joly Quliik had a wonderful
talent for capturing the highlights of traditional Inuit
life. His drawings were among the first to be carved into
soapstone for printing." She paused, glanced at the prints
then turned back to me. "I've always wanted to show the Growling Bear. Do you think your mother would lend hers
to the gallery for a special exhibit?"
"I've no idea. I could ask," I replied, somewhat taken
aback by her forwardness. But I supposed like anyone
working in the art world, where money was scarce, she had
to take advantage of every opportunity to bring the best to
her gallery.
"But enough on Joly Quliik, let's go upstairs to my office
where we can inspect your drawings."

Nine



Mary's office was an exhibition space in itself. Every wall
and surface, other than her desk and a glass coffee
table, which were themselves stacked with papers, was
covered in works of art, tapestries, paintings or sculptures.
She motioned us to sit on a rather hard antique settee,
while she sat down on a considerably more comfortable
chintz-covered chair, one she clearly spent a lot of time in.
Ooleepeeka took a seat on the ergonomically correct desk
chair, which looked like it was seldom used.
"Do you have them in there?" Mary pointed to the leather
portfolio I'd been lugging around. She brushed aside a pile
of documents to clear a space on the coffee table.
I heard a quiet gasp as I laid the drawings down, one
after another in their order. For the next several minutes
she carefully studied each drawing while Leslie and I sat
somewhat bemused by this intense interest. After all, they
were just a set of simple drawings. But I could see that
Ooleepeeka's interest was also piqued as she too slowly
scanned each drawing in turn. When
Mary finally leaned back into her chair, I couldn't
help but notice a rather excited glint in her eye.
"Please forgive me," she said. "You both must be dying
for a cup of coffee. Cappuccinos? Great."
After passing our orders on to her male admin assistant,
who sported a shaved head and a pearl drop nose ring,
Mary turned back to us. "First, these aren't drawings. They
are soapstone prints."
"Sorry. I just assumed that because the figures are in
outline, they'd been drawn in ink or charcoal."
She dismissed my lack of expertise with a shrug. "Second,
something which is quite unique, the artist who drew
the pictures also carved the soapstone and did the actual
printing on the paper. Rarely does this happen. Usually the
artist doesn't have the skill to do the carving, particularly
with soapstone, which is both very heavy and quite fragile.
One mistake, and you have to start over again. So usually
an experienced stone carver is used."
"How can you tell this didn't happen with these prints?"
I asked.
Mary pointed to an Inuit print of a fluffed-up owl
hanging above her desk. "Both names appear on the print."
She pointed to the small square syllabic signature in the
upper left hand corner. "Take this print of the Little Owl. The first characters denote the artist. In this case 'Pitseolak'
and the next set the printer. This last character, the red arch,
indicates where the print was made, Cape Dorset."
"Does this mean there is only one name on my prints?"
Leslie asked.
"Precisely."
At this point, her admin assistant came in carrying a
tray of oversized cups brimming with foaming milk and a
plate of shortbread cookies.
"And do you know who the artist is?" I asked.
"I have a fairly good idea, because I recognize the style.
Although I am surprised, because he didn't normally make
the stonecut." She lifted up one of the prints and scanned
it carefully. "But I don't recognize the syllabic signature.
However, Ooleepeeka will be able tell us, won't you, dear?"
"Yes. The name is Suula." She beamed proudly as she
tugged to pull down her denim skirt, which had ridden up
on her chunky thighs.
Mary started. "Suula? Are you sure?"
"Yes, positive." Ooleepeeka beamed back at her. "I had a
teacher with this name."
Appearing somewhat baffled, Mary placed the picture
back on the table, picked up another one and studied this
one just as carefully, then she nodded. "My apologies. I was
a little too hasty. Curiously enough, given our previous
conversation, I thought they were Joly Quliiks. But although
the style is similar to his, I can see now that it doesn't reflect
the same level of maturity or refinement of line. Too bad."
"Why do you say that?" I asked, helping myself to one of
the shortbread cookies.
"As you know his work has appreciated considerably
since he died."
"I hadn't realized he was dead."

"Yes, it happened many years ago. If these uncatalogued
prints could be attributed to him, they would command a
good price. But since they are by this unknown artist Suula,
I'm afraid they won't be worth much. In fact, one could
almost accuse this artist of copying his style."
She tossed the rejected picture back onto the table. It
caught on the edge and fell to the floor. Leslie hastily bent
over to pick it up.
"I don't care about their value," I shot back, annoyed by
her high-handed manner. "It's the artist and his whereabouts
I'm interested in. You said unknown artist. Does this mean
you don't know who this Suula is?"
"I've never heard of him, and I'm au courant with
most Inuit artists, at least the ones that matter. Perhaps,
Ooleepeeka, you know of this artist?"
The graduate student shook her head. "Suula is probably
a female name, though with Inuit names you can't always
tell. And I'm afraid I don't know the community where
these were done either. It's called Naujalik, meaning 'place
of seagulls'."
I turned back to Mary. "I suppose you're not familiar
with this town either?"
"It's certainly not a recognized art centre like Cape
Dorset or James Lake. By the way, in case you didn't know,
James Lake has been renamed Tasilik. When Nunavut
came into being, several towns took on Inuktitut names.
In this case, Tasilik means 'place with a lake', isn't that right,
Ooleepeeka?"
She patted her grad student patronizingly on the thigh.
Ooleepeeka stiffened and moved her leg away.
"You must appreciate that there are only a handful
of places in the Arctic which are recognized for their
consistently excellent work. And this Naujalik isn't one of
them. I'm afraid that these are just someone's amateurish
efforts." Mary stopped to sip her foaming coffee.
At this point, I wanted only to leave. Clearly we were going
to get no further useful information from this overbearing
snob. But Leslie, more tolerant and more forgiving, spoke up.
"I realize these drawings aren't something you normally deal
with, Mary, but perhaps there is someone who handles this
type of amateurish art who might know. As I mentioned on
the phone, the whereabouts of this artist is important to us."
"One thing you should be aware of, Leslie, is that these
prints are much older than you probably think. At least
twenty to thirty years old, if not older, so the artist may no
longer be alive."
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"It's the paper, dear." She paused for another sip of coffee
while I had to bite my tongue not to shoot back, "I'm not
your dear."
"See those tiny brown dots on the paper? Those are mold
marks. They develop over time if the artwork has been
exposed to cardboard or other inferior paper materials.
Plus, this type of paper was generally used in the 1960s and
'70s. Today they use a much finer quality, one less prone to
deterioration."

"Okay, so the artist may be dead, but someone sent these
to my mother, and we want to know who. The only name
we have at the moment is this Suula. So please, if you know
of someone who could help us find him or her, let us know,
and we'll be on our way."
She rested her chin on her tented fingers and peered at
me over the frame of her glasses. "Yes, I can understand why
you would like to speak to the artist. The scenes depicted in
these prints are of your father's plane crash, aren't they?"
"We believe so."
"And you are assuming that the artist witnessed the crash,
aren't you?" She didn't wait for my reply but continued
speaking. "I find these three prints rather interesting. They
tell a story. Now the Inuit, like all indigenous people, are
wonderful storytellers. And many of their artworks do tell a
story. But usually they depict just one aspect of the event or
folktale, or if several events are depicted, they are contained
on the same page. Never have I seen a story spanning several
drawings. Do you know if there are any more?"
"What? You want to see my father's plane splat on the
ground with his body beside it?"
She cast a shocked glance at Leslie then back to me.
"Sorry. That was thoughtless of me."
"Look, I don't think we should take up any more of your
time." I started to collect the pictures.
"Why don't you let me do some asking around? Some of
my colleagues might know of this Suula. Ooleepeeka can
also inquire of her friends up north. I'm sure we will find
this artist for you. We'll let Leslie know, okay?"
I grudgingly accepted her offer.
As Leslie and I made our way back through the gallery, I
stopped at the Joly Quliik exhibit to see if I could tell if the
style in my mother's prints was the same as his. With my
uneducated eye, I couldn't readily discern any similarities.
But then, there weren't any people in those prints.


Ten



I'm not about to sit back and do nothing while we wait
for Mary to get back to us," I said to my brother-in-law
as we whizzed along the 401 back to Toronto. "I'm going to
pursue my own inquiries."
"I don't see how we could do better than Mary."
Leslie braked as the Mercedes glided up to a transport
trailer clogging the passing lane, then breezed past as the
truck returned to the slow lane.
"I suppose. But I got the distinct impression she didn't
want to dirty her fingers on such a mediocre artist, so I'm
not sure how much effort she'll put into it."
"I'm sorry you feel that way. But you're right, Mary can be
a bit of an art elitist. However, I know from experience that
when she agrees to something, she always carries through."
"Maybe, but she's running a gallery. It maybe some time
before she can make her inquiries. In the meantime I want
to see what I can learn on my own."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Mother mentioned the art gallery where Father used to
buy his artwork. Although it's no longer in business, there
must be other private galleries that specialize in Inuit art?"
"Yes, I suppose. There's also the ago, to which your
mother donated your father's collection. I'm sure she still
has the contact information for the people she was dealing
with. I would start with them. They're bound to have a
more in-depth knowledge of the field than a private gallery
would. Here, use my cell."
A quick call to Mother produced two names. She'd been
quite impressed with their knowledge, and since they'd
been so helpful during the lengthy negotiations, she felt
certain they would be quite willing to extend their help
again. Unfortunately, when I called, I learned that both
curators were away at a conference in Europe and wouldn't
be back until the following week.
"I don't want to wait that long," I said as I snapped the
phone shut. "I'll check the phonebook when I get home to
see what private galleries might be able to help."
We were passing the looming abutment of the Niagara
Escarpment through a break in the mountain-high ridge
that extends northward to Georgian Bay. It brought back
a memory of a weekend, I think it was the autumn before
Father disappeared, when the two of us had hiked a short
section of the Bruce Trail that meanders along the top of the
escarpment. The fall colours had been glorious, the fallen
leaves fun to walk through. We'd laughed and sung as we
ambled, only keeping quiet when we thought we saw deer.
I supposed it was one of the last happy memories I had
of Dad, particularly since I hadn't had to share him with
anybody. Afterwards had come that dreadful Christmas
when the shouts of their arguments and Mother's door
slammings had rung through the house.
"Meg, Meg, you with me?" Leslie's voice cut through
my thoughts. "I said, I'll have my assistant find out for us,
okay?"
I shook the conflicting images from my mind as he hit the
speed dial on his cell.
Although Leslie didn't have a job per se, having more than
sufficient funds from his family's trust to support his own
family, he did keep an office to handle a foundation he'd set
up many years ago to handle his philanthropic interests, which
were oriented around cultural and environmental concerns.
"Just a moment, Claire." He turned to me. "Meg, do you
mind grabbing a piece of paper from the glove compartment
and writing down this info?"
He recited the names of two galleries and their addresses.
"Punch the first address into the navigator." It pointed
to a side street in Yorkville.
Within thirty minutes we were standing in front
of expansive windows with Schmitt's Fine Art Gallery
emblazoned in gold across the front. But despite the keen
interest of the manager, he was unable to provide any
more information than Mary had. After thanking him, we
set off for the Jasper Izerman Gallery, which was further
downtown on Queen Street. Unfortunately, he couldn't
help us with the identity of the artist either.
"However, I do know the name of a person who might
be able to help you," said the impeccably dressed grey
haired Jasper Izerman. "Carter Davis."
My ears perked up at the name. "Did he own the Davis
Gallery on Prince Arthur?"
"Yes, his was one of the first galleries to handle Inuit
Art."
"My father used to deal with him. In fact, we'd been
hoping it was still in business."
"Sadly, he had a heart attack a few years back and was
forced to sell. But given his years of experience with Inuit
Art, I'd say he is one of the foremost experts in Canada."
"Great. Do you know how we can get in touch with
him?"
"Most assuredly. He comes by my gallery frequently to
keep apace with the latest. There has been a tremendous
change since the 1990s with some of the younger Inuit
artists wanting to break away from the more traditional
themes. Take this piece, for instance."
He showed us an Inuit sculpture that was markedly
different from the traditional polar bears and seals I was
used to seeing. Carved out of whalebone and soapstone,
it depicted a head wearily leaning against a hand with a
liquor bottle sticking out of the top of the head. The face,
wore a befuddled expression and sported the large bulbous
nose of an alcoholic. It was obviously a comment on
the alcoholism that was reported to be rampant in Inuit
communities.
While I wrote down Carter Davis's contact information,
Leslie continued to stare at the sculpture. Finally he asked
the price. By the time we left the gallery, Jasper was lugging
to the Mercedes a large wooden box with the carving
carefully wrapped inside and a promise to let my brotherin-law
know when the next collection of sculptures arrived.
Knowing my sister's penchant for ultra-modern minimalist
art, I wondered what her reaction would be to her husband's
impulsive purchase.



Eleven



Fortunately, Carter Davis was more than happy to meet us
once he discovered I was the daughter of Sutton Harris.
We agreed to meet at his house in Cabbagetown at four p.m.,
after his doctor-prescribed nap. He also asked if we would
mind bringing a litre of milk for afternoon tea. He was almost
out and wouldn't be able to get to the store.
Leslie had other commitments, so I went alone. After
parking my truck in the only spot I could find on a nearby
street, I tramped up his narrow street, which was lined with
Victorian rowhouses with steep gabled roofs and brightly
coloured doors. I turned the brass doorbell on his ownbrilliant
yellow door just as a clock from inside his house gonged the
agreed hour. In one hand I held the portfolio containing the
prints and in the other the bag of milk plus a tin of Shelley's
chocolate chip cookies as an extra butter-upper.
A rotund, drowsy-eyed man of about eighty answered
the door. After a sleepy "Come in, missie," he led me down
a dark hall, the wooden floor of which creaked as we passed
over it. Although some modern features had been added,
the house appeared much as it would've when it was built
a century or more ago. The dark oak trim and doors had
been left in their original varnished state, so too the mantle
over the tile-rimmed coal fireplace. The hardwood floors
appeared as waxy shiny as they would've when first laid. Even
the doily-covered velvet and walnut trimmed sofa and chair
in the front room could've been the original furniture.
But not the art. As I would've expected, every wall, every
surface sported some form of Inuit art that clashed with
the fussiness of the room. Victorian excess doesn't go with
Inuit simplicity. Still, who was I to judge? I complimented
him on his house and the collection as I followed him into
the tiny kitchen to help prepare the tea.
"How wonderful that your house is still in its original
condition," I said. "Almost as if it has had the same owner
since the beginning. You must treasure antiques."
"Wife's doing, not mine," he said succinctly, almost as if
wanting to distance himself from it. "Her house. She was
born in it, and we've been living here since her parents died
in the early 1960s. It was her grandparents' before that."
I glanced around the simple kitchen with its white
painted wooden cupboards and pink doodle design
countertop looking for signs of her presence but saw only
the clutter of a man living on his own.
"She couldn't bear to make a change, so we kept things
as they were. Except of course for my art." His smile, not
so sleepy this time, added another layer of wrinkles to his
face. "And when she went off to the home, came down with
Alzheimer's, I promised myself to keep it ready for her
for when she comes home. Here, missie, take the teapot.
I find these shaky old hands can't carry much any more.
Parkinson's."
We stepped back into the front room. I carried a silver
tray holding a very ornate porcelain teapot, complete with a
crocheted tea cozy and a couple of equally ornate porcelain
cups, while Mr. Davis carried a plate of Shelley's cookies.
His lips were already smacking from the one he'd sampled
while waiting for the kettle to boil.
"Knew your dad well," he said before I had a chance to
find a seat that looked relatively comfortable. He'd already
settled into what clearly was his usual chair, a maroon
velvet affair sagging from years of usage and draped with
lace doilies and a mohair afghan. "He was one of my best
customers. Sure knew his stuff."
I lowered myself into a gold velvet chair, being careful
not to disturb the doilies covering the arms. It proved to be
considerably softer than my initial impression.
"The Inuit art world lost a great supporter when his
plane went missing," Mr. Davis continued. "Do you mind
pouring the tea? I'll just slop it onto the saucer."
I poured the tea into the cups, careful to give him a little
less to minimize any spillover from his trembling hands.
"That's why I'm here. As mentioned on the phone, my
mother recently received some Inuit prints. I'm hoping
you could provide information on the artist."
I moved several seal and bear stone carvings aside, plus
one caribou, and laid the artwork out on the dusty walnut
coffee table.
As Mary had done, he sucked in his breath, then slowly
let it out. "Intriguing. In all my years of selling Inuit art,
I've never come across a series that told a story. Wonderful.
This your dad's plane, eh?"
"We assume so. There doesn't seem to be any other
reason for sending them."
From his shirt pocket, he removed a magnifying glass
and carefully scanned each print. When finished, he
replaced the magnifying glass and sat back into his chair.
"Boy, if it weren't for the syllabic chop, I'd swear they were
Joly Quliik prints. Shame they aren't."
"Yes, that's what the director of the McConnell Art
Gallery thought too."
"You went to see Mary, eh? Great gal. Knows her stuff.
She probably also told you if they were Quliik's, they'd be
worth a fortune. Mind you, not having an edition number
would knock down the price."
I waited for him to finish eating another chocolate
chip cookie before asking, "What do you mean by edition
number?"
"Boy, sure are tasty." He brushed a few crumbs from
the corners of his mouth. "With print making, you can
print as many copies as you want from a single plate. Only
trouble is, the more you make, the lower the price. So to
ensure maximum value, an artist will limit the edition or
the number printed."
I watched as he carefully brought his cup shakily to his
lips. It was all I could do not to reach out and steady the
cup for him. But he made it without spilling a single drop
and took a long, slow slurp as his reward.
"When printmaking was first introduced in Cape Dorset,
they set fifty as the standard edition. Afterwards, the stone print
block was to be destroyed. As is standard practice, all copies are
marked with an edition number, which indicates their ranking
in the print run. Here, let me show you what I mean."
He lifted himself out of the chair with more spryness
than I would've expected. Intrigued, I followed him into
the dining room, where I was immediately surprised by a
familiar print that commanded centre spot over the buffet
above another collection of Inuit stone carvings.
"Why, you have a Mystical Owl. My mother has one too."
"I know. Your father bought it from me. There's a story
to tell with this particular print, but I'll save that for later.
See that number."
He pointed to a small pencil notation of 12/50 at the
bottom of the print on the same line as the date: 1963;
place, Cape Dorset; title, Mystical Owl; and artist's name,
Lucy Ootoova, had been inscribed in pencil.
"This indicates this was the twelfth copy printed.
One thing you need to know, missie, is that each time an
impression is made from the plate, in this case a stonecut,
an ink residue is left behind that builds up with repeated
use. This can cause the pictures of later printings to be not
quite as sharp as the first ones, which lowers the value. So
as a collector, it's important to pay attention to this and
invest only in the low numbered editions. One of the things
I taught your father. He didn't know much when he first
came to me, but he sure knew a lot at the end, almost as
much as me."
"Since my pictures don't have this number, does this
mean they are fakes?"
"Nope. Could mean your copies were what we call
proofs. The printer usually makes a few copies to make
sure everything is working properly before starting the
actual run. But these are supposed to be destroyed. Or it
could mean the printer didn't know enough or think it
important to put this information on. But you mentioned
the word fake. Now I want you to take a good look at this Mystical Owl print."
I ran my eyes over the Mona-Lisa-eyed owl with its
floating black and orange feathers and sharp talons. It
looked exactly like my father's print, but then I didn't have
the connoisseur's eye or the experience to discern any
differences. "Looks okay to me."
"So you would think. Let me tell you a story about
this picture. I won't say how it came my way, but let's just
say it wasn't through the normal government-controlled
channels."
I must've looked blank, for he went on.
"In the early years, the government was very concerned
about ensuring legitimacy and retained value for these
works of art, plus they didn't want the Inuit taken advantage
of, so they established the Canadian Eskimo Arts Council.
All Inuit prints had to be approved by this council, which
also set the price, and they could only be sold through
designated galleries, such as my own. They didn't want
them being treated as souvenirs, which would seriously
erode their value and reputation as a work of art.
"You see, the Inuit didn't have many sources of income.
This was viewed as a possible good source. Up till then, the
Inuit had used their stone or bone carvings as barter for
supplies from the Hudson Bay Company trading posts."
"In the early Seventies, I was approached by a friend
wanting to sell this particular print. He said it came from
a private collection. I wasn't suspicious at first. The person
was well known in the Inuit art world, and I'd handled
other private sales like this for him, but when I examined
it, it became fairly obvious to me that the print wasn't quite
what it purported to be.
"Here, run this over the picture." He retrieved the
magnifying glass from his shirt pocket. "Look at these lines,
here and here." He pointed to several spots where the bird's
feathers joined the main body.
It took me a while to discern what he was pointing out,
then I noticed. "The edges are blurred. The ink seems to
run into the paper."
"Precisely. Not what you would expect to see in such
a low edition number. But more importantly, what really
raised my suspicions was the number itself. You see, I knew
where a copy with this same 12/50 edition number was
hanging. In the front room of your house. I even checked
with your father to ensure it hadn't been stolen."
"Maybe the printer lost track of the numbering?"
"Not possible. Too many people check to make sure only
fifty numbered copies are made. At first I suspected that
the original stone block hadn't been destroyed and that
someone was reprinting it to cash in. You've got to realize
the value of a Mystical Owl print skyrocketed after it was
used as a postage stamp. The last time one came up for sale,
it sold for $70,000.
"But then I noticed the owl's eye." He held out the
magnifying glass again. "Take a look."
I could just discern an s-shaped squiggle in one corner
of the eye, a mark which wasn't readily visible to the naked
eye, unless that is you were looking for it.
"That squiggle wasn't in your father's print. So I decided
to do some more checking. The first copies of a run always
go to designated locations, such as museums, and of course
the Artist Co-op, where it's made always keeps the first print,
so it was easy enough to locate and check some of these
copies. None of them had the tiny nick. I then searched out
copies with higher edition numbers in case the nick had
been caused by improper handling of the stone block, but
none of the three copies I was able to locate had this mark,
also the lines weren't as blurred as in this 12/50 edition."
"So what did this mean?"
"Instead of using the original stone block, I think
someone carved a copy using one of the original prints and
accidentally cut this nick. Maybe the knife slipped. Hard
to tell, but soapstone is very soft, so it can happen. And
to support my theory, I located another print that looked
exactly like this one, including the squiggle in the owl's eye.
Unfortunately, I couldn't locate the original with the same
edition number, but I'm sure it exists."
"So what did you do?"
"I knew I had to alert my friend, because obviously he'd
been taken in. I was concerned what this would do to his
reputation if it became public. But sadly, before I could get
in touch, he died in a dreadful car accident. So I alerted
the Council to the possibility of forged prints being in
circulation. Since I didn't want to damage the memory of
my friend, I didn't tell them I had this counterfeit print. I
would've had to explain how I got it."
"Did they ever discover who was behind it?"
"Not as far as I know, although they did send out notices
to all the designated galleries to be on the look out for
forgeries, particularly with the Mystical Owl"
"Did you ever come across any other forged prints?"
"Only once. A good fifteen years later. A Jacobie Nakasuk.
The seller had picked it up in Europe. I had strong suspicions
that it was an illegal copy like this one but was never able to
prove it. Needless to say I refused to take it on. But prints
weren't the only Inuit art being faked. The stone carvings
have had their problems, but that's a whole other story.
Let's get back to your prints."
We resumed our chairs in the living room. As Mr. Davis
sat down, he said, "You know the forgery quite annoyed

your dad. He was worried over the harm it could do to the
Inuit and their reputation as artists. Remember him saying
he was going to check things out on his next trip north. But
when he got back, he wouldn't tell me if he found anything.
Just said he had his suspicions but needed to do some more
checking before he'd say anything. And then a year later, his
plane crashed, so I never did find out what, if anything, he
had discovered."


Twelve



But you didn't come here to talk about forgeries, did
you, missie? You want me to tell you about the artist
of your prints." Mr. Davis sank back into his sagging chair.
"That's easy. It's Suula."
"I already know the name," I replied. "Mary was able
to tell me that much. Unfortunately, she didn't know this
particular artist or how I could reach her."
"She wouldn't." He slurped his tea, which by now was
cold.
I offered to make more, but he declined and continued,
"It's only happenstance I know about Suula, at least if it's
the Suula I'm thinking of."
I groaned. Of course there could be more than one
artist by that name, if not several more. "Too bad she didn't
provide her last name."
"They don't often do, especially if the prints were made
thirty or more years ago. You see, Inuit didn't have last
names until the authorities forced them to take one. In fact,
in the beginning the authorities just gave them numbers.
Couldn't make head nor tail of their Inuit names. Numbers
made it easier to keep track of them. But southerners started
to make a fuss. Thought it likened Inuit to prisoners, so
they were allowed to use their own names, but they had to
add a last name. Many just used their father's name. Which
come to think of it, isn't too different from a lot of cultures
around the world, eh?"
He helped himself to another of Shelley's cookies.
"So how am I going to know if I have the right Suula?"
"I wouldn't worry. Unlikely there's more than one artist
by the name of Suula. After all, it's a pretty small community.
Nope, I'm pretty sure it's the Suula whose work I came
across in the late 1970s."
I sank back into my chair with relief. "Super. Where do
I find her?"
"First saw her work in 1978. Terrific stuff. Had a lot of
depth to it..." He ran his eyes over the prints. "Yeah, just
like these. I remember thinking that at the time her style
was a lot like Quliik's. In fact, for a moment I even thought
it was Quliik. But that was wishful thinking on my part.
You see, Joly Quliik was dead, had died a few years earlier.
The 1975 James Lake Co-op series included his last print, The Bear Hunt. Was a winner. Why last year a copy sold for
over $65,000 at Waddington's Inuit Art auction."

"All very interesting, but I'm afraid I need to know about
Suula."
"Sorry, missie. Got a little carried away, didn't I? Let me
see, where was I?"
"You were going to tell me where you saw Suula's artwork."
"Yes,
that's the strangest part. You see I saw her work,
three or four prints, hanging for sale in a place where you
don't usually come across them. Stone carvings, yes, but
rarely prints. It was at the hbc store in Broughton Island. It
surprised me because, you see, the quality of the prints and
their execution showed a lot of knowledge of print making,
something you wouldn't expect to see in a place that didn't
have an art centre. Anyway, I bought the prints and resold
them for a tidy sum."
"Where is Broughton Island?"
"On Baffin. East coast, north of James Lake. It has a new
Inuktitut name. Begins with a 'Q', but a bit too complicated
for this old brain to remember."
"Did you come across any more of her work?"
"Not at Broughton Island. I returned a couple of years
later specifically to see if she'd done any more, but the store
said they hadn't seen her or her father since she'd sold them
the prints. Apparently they didn't live in the community
but at one of the many traditional camps along the coast.
Like many Inuit living on the land, they probably only came
into the community for supplies and medical attention."
"Maybe the place where the print was made was one of
these camps. I gather from Mary that it's identified here?"
I pointed to the syllables on one of the prints. "I can't
remember the name, but know it begins with an 'N'. Think
it means 'place of seagulls'."
"Sorry, missie, I'm not good with syllables either, but do
know a few words in Inuktitut, and seagull is one of them.
Joly Quliik had a superb print of flying seagulls. So your
place name will have 'naujaq' in it."
"That's it. It was Naujalik. Do you know it?"
The whispy hair on his head barely moved as he slowly
shook his head. "Wish I could help you, but it isn't a familiar
name to me. You might try a map. Got one around here
somewheres." He started to push himself off his chair.
"Please don't bother. I've already checked, and I couldn't
find any town by that name anywhere in the Arctic. Not
too many towns, are there?"
"Nope, the north is a pretty empty place. You could
always try the rcmp in Broughton Island or better yet, Iqaluit.
They probably have some record of the community."
"Thanks, I will."
Figuring I'd pretty much reached the extent of his
knowledge, I began collecting my prints.
"Her father's name was Nanuqtuaq." He spoke up. "I
remember now. Nanuqtuaq. It means 'one who kills bear'.
'Nanuq' means polar bear. You could always try using that
as a last name for her."
"Yes, I will. So you suggest it would be best for me to
speak to the police in Iqaluit."
"Yeah, that's where most records are kept and if not, they
can tell you where to go. You can also try the nursing
station in Broughton Island. Often the nurses know
more than the police. Mustn't forget the church either.
The churches were right up there with the Hudson Bay
Company and rcmp in opening up the Arctic. Anglicans
and Catholics. Think Broughton Island had an Anglican
church. You can try them."
As I was slipping the prints into the portfolio, he said,
"Do you mind leaving one of those with me? I have a friend
who owned another gallery. Retired now, like me, but I
remember seeing a couple of Suula prints in his gallery a
few years back. He might be able to tell you more."
I gave him the first print in the series, the one with
the hunter alone without the plane. Somehow the other
two showing my father's plane about to crash were just a
little too personal. I left with a promise to bring another
tin of Shelley's cookies when I returned for the print. He
suggested he would search through his old papers to see if
he had anything on Suula or her father. I could tell by the
bright gleam in his eye and the lightness in his step that my
quest had sparked a bit of energy into an otherwise quiet
and probably empty life.
I returned home feeling quite pleased with my progress
and fully expected Mother to feel likewise. I hastened with
my good news to the atrium, where she was tending her
orchids. An avid orchid grower since as long as I could
remember, her blooms had won many a competition.
But when I mentioned the name "Suula", she dismissed
it by saying, "There must be a hundred Eskimo girls by that
name. Without a last name, you'll never find her."
"But I do have a possible last name. Nanuq.. .something,
which means 'one who kills bear'," I said, knocking myself
for not writing the name down. "I can start in Broughton
Island."
She rejected my suggestion with a wave of her hand then
continued watering the only variety I knew the name of, a
moth orchid. This one sprouted not one spike, but three
foot-long spikes of spectacular purple streaked blooms.
She squirted the plant with water from a brass spray
can before continuing, "I'm beginning to think we should
just let this be. Your father's dead. Those pictures tell us as
much. Knowing where he died won't bring him back. We
should leave it where it is and do nothing more."
"But Mother, I thought you wanted to know what
happened to him."
"I do. And the pictures have told me."
"But, you didn't think that last night."
"Call it an old lady's whim. A right to change my mind.
And I have." She snipped off a spent stem.

"Does this mean you don't want me to go to Iqaluit?" I
asked, still trying to absorb this sudden about face.
"Let's talk about it in the morning. I have to go out now."
She placed her tools on the garden table and removed her
gloves. "It's my bridge night, and I know you wouldn't
want to spend the evening with a bunch of fussy old ladies,
so I've asked Shelley to make you something. I hope that's
all right with you, dear?"
She lifted her face for me to give her a peck on the cheek.
And I did. Some habits never die.
She left me standing in the atrium's hot, humid air,
amidst the pots of tangled green and floating blooms
with my mind a whirl of confusion, disappointment and
anger. I was confused over her sudden change of mind and
disappointed that the search was about to stop before it
was fully underway.
What upset me the most was the realization that she'd
done it to me again. She'd managed to excite my interest
only to later dash it with a flick of a dismissive hand,
something she had frequently done as I was growing up.
I thought I'd learned to recognize the signs and deflect it.
Well, I hadn't.

Thirteen



After tossing and turning most of the night or staring
aimlessly out my window at the moonlit tulips below,
I decided that I wouldn't let Mother make the decision for
me. Maybe she wanted to stop the search. I didn't. I wanted
to find out how this mysterious artist by the name of Suula
had come to draw the pictures of Father's death. Had she
witnessed the crash? Or had the man in the picture told
her? Moreover, why did she or the writer of the letter, if not
her, contradict the message of the picture by saying he was
okay? Did this really mean he still lived?
I had to find the answers even if it proved this was one
big hoax. I knew deep down inside that Mother would also
want the uncertainty raised by these letters and pictures
laid to rest.
So first thing in the morning, I called the rcmp detachment
in Iqaluit. Unfortunately, the Corporal Reilly I'd talked to
previously was away on a case and would be for several more
days, but I was given the phone number of the Broughton
Island detachment, which I immediately dialed.
But after explaining who I was and the reason for my call,
all I got was a brusque "sorry can't help you", followed by the
explanation that there was no detachment in Broughton Island
until the mid 1980s. For records of past residents, especially
that far back, I would have to speak to the Department of
Indian and Northern Affairs in Ottawa, where the most
comprehensive records of the Inuit were kept, and for that I
would need the individual's identity number or official name.
It was all I could do not to slam the phone down in


frustration. The constable did supply me, however, with
the phone number for the nursing station and the church.
The nursing station line was busy, but the church phone
was answered by a tired female voice. "Yes.. .we have some
records here, baptismal records, marriages and the like.
Unfortunately, the Reverend and I have only been living
in Broughton Island since 1998, and I don't recall any
parishioners with that name. Nanuqtuaq, you say? Would
you like me to check and get back to you?"
"Yes, please."
"I'm really busy this week, and there's a funeral tomorrow.
You must realize too, that our records are in a bit of a
turmoil, so it might take me a while to find the ones for that
time period, but I will get back to you as soon as I can."
I hung up not feeling the least optimistic that I would
hear from her any time soon. I hoped the nursing station
would be more forthcoming, but when I finally got through,
I was told that all their medical records were confidential.
Of course, I should've thought of that. But then the man
suggested that I speak to Nancy, their head nurse, who'd
been at the station the longest.
My hopes were immediately quashed when she informed
me that she'd only arrived in 2000, and as far as she could
recollect had never dealt with anyone by the name of Suula
Nanuqtuaq or any other family member by that name,
but she did offer a ray of hope. "You might want to touch
base with Sandy Steeves, the head nurse in Tasilik," she
suggested. "Although Sandy was on temporary duty from
Tasilik when I arrived, I believe she'd spent a good ten years
here earlier, during the period you're interested in."
When an expansive, motherly voice answered the Tasilik
number, I felt my optimism rising.
"Suula. Hmm..." she replied in response to my query.
At least she hadn't turned me down immediately. "Let me
think. I've encountered several patients of that name over
the years."
"She might've been a patient in the late 1970s in
Broughton Island."
"Oh dear, I'm afraid my memory isn't that good. I've
cared for so many people over the years."
"As I said, her father's name might be Nanuqtuaq.
Perhaps he was once a patient."
"You know, dear, that name is familiar, but I didn't
encounter the man in Broughton Island. No, it was here in
Tasilik. It happened in the mid 1980s, shortly after I was
transferred here from Broughton Island. He was brought in
by another hunter and had a bad gunshot wound. He didn't
want any part of our white man's medicine. Kept cursing us
in Inuktitut and trying to leave, but the poor man was so
weak from loss of blood, there wasn't much he could do.
"There wasn't much we could do either. It was a gunshot
wound that had turned septic. We knew he wouldn't survive
the flight to the hospital in Ottawa, so the most we could
do was make him comfortable until he died. But we had a
difficult time keeping him still. The morphine didn't seem
to do it. Only thing that worked was the angakkuq?
"What's that?" I asked. "Some kind of Inuit drug?"
"No. A shaman. Even though most Inuit are Christian
converts, many continue to believe in some facets of
traditional spirituality, particularly those who've spent their
early years on the land. Anyway, the supervisor at the time
was quite sympathetic to Inuit culture, so he brought the
shaman in against the objections of the Anglican minister,
who was a bit of a prig. I can still remember the shouting
that went on between the two of them. Don't think they
ever spoke another word to each other."
She chuckled. "But it worked. The shaman, an elderly
Inuk woman, quieted Nanuqtuaq down and remained
with him until he died. There was a bit of a fracas when
Reverend Penn wanted to sit with the dying man, but the
nursing supervisor insisted he leave. In fact, the minister
left Tasilik not long after, to be replaced by a much more
open-minded minister. Not long afterwards, I ended up
marrying that new man." She chuckled again. "I suppose
that's why I'm still here twenty-five years later. We both
fell in love with each other and with Tasilik and its people.
Wouldn't want to live anywhere else."
I could sense her inner peace flowing over the phone
line. I wished I could absorb some of it.
"But you don't want to hear about me. You want to know
more about Nanuqtuaq. I'm afraid I can't tell you much
more. Because it was a gunshot, the rcmp got involved. I
remember them having to go out in a middle of a blizzard
to the man's camp. He wasn't a Tasilik resident."
"Do you know where this camp was?"
"Sorry. I had a feeling it was a fair distance away, somewhere
along Cumberland Sound. The police were gone for
at least a week."
"You mentioned another hunter brought him in. Do
you know this man's name?"
"Sorry, can't help you there either. I don't think the man
hung around. But there was someone else who came to
visit Nanuqtuaq."
My hopes suddenly shot up. "A woman, maybe his
daughter Suula?"
"She had a young boy with her, about seven or eight
years old. I remember thinking at the time that she was
the man's wife not his daughter, although she was easily
half his age. She was quite a striking woman. Tall for an
Inuk. Seemed to combine the best of Inuit and qallunaat
features."
"What do you mean by qallunaat?"
"Sorry, dear, that's the Inuit term for white man. I
suspect she had some European blood in her ancestry. She
also spoke English, so she acted as his interpreter."
"Do you know her name?"
"I don't think he called her anything. No...wait a
minute, I remember now, he called her Panikulluk, which
means 'little daughter'. So perhaps she is the Suula you are
looking for."
"Do you know what happened to her?"
"She and her son were staying with one of the local
families, probably a relative. After her father died, I think
they stayed another week or two, then I didn't see them any
more. They probably returned to their camp."
"And you never saw her again."
"Now that you mention it, I do remember seeing her from
time to time. Probably picking up supplies at the store, which
in itself is unusual. Usually the men do the bartering. Living
on the land, I doubt she would've had money. Instead she
would've traded seal skins and the like for bullets, gasoline
and other items necessary for hunting."
"Gasoline?"
"Yes, by that time dogs were no longer in use. Most
teams had been killed, which is a whole other story I don't
want to get into now. Safe to say the killing of the dogs took
away the Inuit nomadic lifestyle by forcing them to remain
in the communities such as Tasilik. Since this woman still
lived on the land, she must've had a means of travel, most
likely a snowmobile and a motorboat."
"And you have no idea where their camp was?"
"Nope, sorry. But the rcmp will have it on file."
"I've talked to them in Broughton Island, and they told
me I have to go to the Department of Indian and Northern
Affairs for information on Inuit."
"Talk to the Tasilik detachment. They're bound to have
the old case file on Nanuqtuaq. But I have a better idea--talk
to Dan Bouchard at rcmp Headquarters in Iqaluit. He was
the investigating cop at the time. He left Tasilik a number
of years ago, but after doing his stint at other northern
detachments plus a few in Ottawa, he's come back as the
commanding officer. He should be able to help you. Just
tell him Sandy Steeves said for you to talk to him."
"Thanks, I will. One last thing. Do you know if Nanuqtuaq

had a last name or an identifying number?"
"How about I check our files and get back to you? If he
had one, it will be there."
"Sounds great. And many thanks for all your help."
"Happy to. And if you're ever in Tasilik drop by the
nursing station or the parsonage to say hello."
I hung up feeling considerably more optimistic, and this
optimism continued despite being told when I called the
rcmp Headquarters that Chief Superintendent Bouchard
was on leave and wouldn't be back for another two weeks. I
had a good feeling that once he returned, he would be able
to help me locate Suula.
Mother found me a few hours later chatting in the
kitchen with Shelley, who was making Carter Davis his
batch of chocolate chip cookies.
"Excuse me, Shelley," she said in that peremptory
manner she adopts to forestall any opposition to her
request. "I'd like to have a word with my daughter," and
turning to me said, "Margaret, can I have a moment with
you in my study?"
As I walked up the stairs to the second floor, I prepared
myself for what was surely going to be an unpleasant
argument over my continuation of the search.
I was completely taken aback when Mother said,
"Margaret, I'm sorry I acted the way I did last night." Her
officious manner had disappeared. Instead, I could sense
a degree of uncertainty as she cast her azure blue gaze up
at me. "I acted too hastily," she continued. "Please, if you
want to find this Eskimo woman, don't let my foolishness
stop you. And if you want to go to Iqaluit, I will pay your
travel expenses as promised." She sank back into her yellow
armchair by the window. Her face appeared pale in the sun
streaming through the window. Her hand trembled ever
so slightly as it brushed a strand of pale blonde hair from
her face. It looked as if her night had been as sleepless as
mine.
I supposed my face must have reflected my astonishment,
for she continued, "Please don't look at me that way. I was
wrong to tell you to stop."
"I must admit you had me confused," I replied. "I couldn't
understand your sudden change of mind, especially since
you were the one who had started this venture."
"I was silly, that's all. I was taken offguard by your news
that we might indeed locate this Eskimo woman."
"But why would that upset you? I thought you wanted
to find her?"
She glanced out the window as a shaft of morning sun
suddenly lit up a sculpted bed of red and yellow tulips. "I
do...but I suppose I'm somewhat fearful of what she will
tell us."
"You mean, about Father's death."
She nodded ever so slightly. "Yes... Now, dear, if you
don't mind, I would like to be alone. Could you ask Hannah
to bring me up my mid-morning tea and ask her to include
some of Shelley's chocolate chip cookies. I do rather like
them." A soft smile spread across her thin lips. Her eyes
twinkled. "Just as you do."




Fourteen



Don't take it to heart, lass," Shelley said as I resumed my
chair in the kitchen.
I felt as if I'd just been taken on a roller coaster blindfolded.
"Your
mother's not herself these days," the cook continued.
"Seems her usual self to me. As inconsiderate and
uncaring as always."
As I brought my mug to my lips for a healing sip of tea,
I watched Hannah slip through the door with my mother's
tray.
"Here, give me that." Shelley took the mug from my
hand. "It'll be stone cold." She dumped the contents into
the sink and poured a steaming stream of tea into the mug,
but she didn't offer a wee dram. I'd never known her to top
up her tea until after her day's work was done. "Something's
worrying her. That much I can tell," she added.
"Yeah. You're right. I've noticed it too. Still, it's no excuse
to ignore the fact that this latest business with Father
concerns me and Jean just as much as it does her."
I placed my hands around the warm mug and slowly
sucked in the hot liquid, feeling its soothing warmth spread
through my body. A wee dram, however, would've made it
that much more comforting.
"I remember how she handled herself, and you kids for
that matter, when your father went missing. She was a rock.
Didn't break down once. Not that I saw. 'Course, she had
your uncle to lean on."
Shelley placed a ball of chilled pastry on a marble pastry
board sprinkled liberally with flour and began flattening it
out with a marble rolling pin. "Still, she was a brave woman
and strong, 'specially when all them newspaper folk kept
botherin' her. Handled them like the lady she is. Nope, this
time, she's actin' differently. Like she's afraid. All the years
I've been working for her, and I've never seen her like this."
She flipped the paper-thin pastry into a greased pie
plate with a finesse that only comes through a lifetime of
pie making and began trimming the excess.
"Making another favourite of yours, rhubarb pie," she
said.
"Terrific. Here, let me help." I got up and started
chopping the rhubarb lying on the inset chopping block.
"I'm sure Mother's bad mood has to do with these pictures
of Father's plane crash."
"Perhaps you're right, lass. And speaking of pictures, I
had a thought. Remember the Eskimo picture I told you
about, the one your stepdad didn't tell your mother about.
I think I might know where it is."
"But wouldn't it have been thrown out long ago?"
"Maybe not. After our talk the other day, I got to thinking
and remembered seeing a picture like that when Caroline
and I packed up your stepdad's things after he died."
"Do you know what happened to his stuff?"
"Surely do. Akbar carried the cartons up to attic. As far
as I know, they're still there." Shelley pricked the bottom of
the pie shell and stuck it into the oven. Then, brushing me
aside, she said, "I can continue with the rhubarb. You go on
upstairs and have a look."
After thanking her with a hug, I ran upstairs, but not
before dropping by my mother's room to make sure I had
her agreement to search through her second husband's
belongings. I didn't want her pouncing on me for going
where I didn't belong. But she was slumped in her chair
sound asleep, an empty teacup on the table beside her
and a half-eaten cookie on the saucer. I watched her for
a few minutes and wondered if she was indeed troubled
by the resurrection of Father's death or could it be, as
Shelley suggested, that she was afraid of something. But
her porcelain-like face spoke only of a peaceful sleep.
I draped a pale mauve mohair throw over her and
continued my journey to the attic. I'd have to deal with her
anger when it came, but chances were, she'd never find out.
Like my attic at Three Deer Point, the Harris family
attic was filled with the accumulations of generations
of Harrises, in fact more so. The mansard roof provided
more height to stack the many boxes and trunks, while the
larger footprint of the house provided a greater storage
area. Fortunately someone, maybe even Mother, had the
wherewithal to label everything, so within a relatively short
time, I discovered the boxes and trunks belonging to Harold
Harris. They were right beside those marked Sutton, which
seemed only fitting.
I sarcastically wondered why Mother hadn't identified
them as husband numbers one and two. But that was mean.
Harold had been there at a time when she needed him. Jean
and I had been more than a little upset when it became
obvious to us that the relationship between the two was
more than that of brother and sister-in-law. In fact, we'd
felt Mother was betraying Father's memory by marrying
someone else, but as Jean always said, he had ultimately
proved to be a good stepfather, and a good husband.
The air in the attic was musty and close, a sign that it
had been some time since anyone had trodden on these
dusty wooden floors. I opened one of the narrow windows
and filled my lungs with the clean air. Since Shelley had
used the word "carton", I ignored the two trunks marked
"Harold" and pulled the first of his four labelled cardboard
boxes into the centre of the room.
It didn't take me long to realize it was business-related
correspondence and paraphernalia, so I shoved that box
aside and pulled out the second. This was filled with books.

I wondered why Mother hadn't kept them in the library, but
a quick skim through a couple of coffee table-sized books
provided me with the reason; they were filled with glossy
photos of naked women, some artistically done, others just
plain pornography. There were even some literary works
noted more for their taboo subjects than their artistic
merits by such authors as Walt Whitman, Henry Miller,
Henry Fielding and the like, all of which had garnered
their share of infamy and censorship. And there were quite
a few lesser, more blatant works by unknown authors with
suggestive names such as Linda Lovelace or Vanilla Lips.
I laughed. Uncle Harold had been into erotica. Who
would've thought? Certainly not his nieces. He'd always
seemed the epitome of uptight respectability. But then again,
weren't people like that often the ones with something to
hide? No wonder Mother had taken these books to the attic
after he died. They would never fit with her own image of
uptight respectability.
The third box showed more promise. I carefully sifted
through a biscuit tin containing old postcards collected
from his various travels, on the off chance the drawing
might be amongst them, but no Inuit print slipped out
from the faded images of far-flung places.
An artist's pad of charcoal drawings immediately caught
my eye, but a quick flip through its pages revealed no
Inuit picture. Still, I was quite impressed with the detailed
line drawings, many of which were candid images of my
grandparents and my uncle as a child. There was even
one of Great-grandpa Joe, who'd died many years before
I came on the scene. Amazingly all were signed "Sutton"
in the lower right hand corner. Flipping the front cover
closed, I now noticed that he'd carefully written his name
in calligraphic script with the date 1946, when he would've
been in his teens.
While I'd known Father liked to draw, (in fact, I had
one of his Echo Lake watercolours hanging in my bedroom
at Three Deer Point), I'd never realized what a good artist
he had been. Too bad he'd never formally taken it up, but
then this artistic bent had probably led to his interest in
collecting art. I put the drawing pad aside, intending to
take it with me.
At last, in a collection of black and white photo portraits
of various family members taken over the years, including
one of me in Grade Six, I found the print. It had been
inserted into a photo folder containing a family portrait of
us from a year or two before Father died.
I took the print over to the window for better viewing
and felt a satisfying thrill as I realized almost immediately
that it had been drawn by Suula. The two Inuit figures, a
man and a woman, were drawn in the same style as the
man in Mother's three prints. A couple of the sled dogs
were almost exact replicas, and the syllabic chop in the
left corner appeared to be the same, although I wouldn't
know for sure until I did a side-by-side comparison. Like
the others, it was also a stonecut print, a conclusion I could
make now that I knew what to look for. The two adults
with the head of a baby peaking out from the hood of the
woman's coat were outlined in black ink, as were the dogs
and the igloo behind them. Like the print of the flaming
plane, colour had also been added to this drawing, but in a
rather curious manner. Unlike the woman, who was drawn
entirely in black, the man's hair was orange. Hardly the
colouring of an Inuk, I thought, but then perhaps Suula
was toying with artistic license, or she was commenting on
a European ancestor in the man's past.
I slipped the print between the pages of my father's
pad of drawings and continued sifting through the box in
case my uncle had intercepted other prints. I didn't find
any in the fourth box. So I carefully repacked all the boxes
and stacked them back into place. As I struggled to lift the
heavy carton of books onto another box, the carton slipped
out of my hands and toppled to the floor with a thud.
Fearing my mother would send Hannah up to investigate,
I hastily threw the scattered books back into the box and
this time managed to place it on top of the other box. It was
only after the last carton was back in its place that I noticed
a folded piece of paper on the floor. Before I had a chance
to inspect it, I heard footsteps climbing the attic stairs. I
jammed the paper into my pocket and walked towards the
opening door.
Hannah gingerly poked her head around the door and
relaxed when she saw me. "Oh, it's you, Miss Margaret. Your
mother heard a noise. She thought it might be a raccoon.
We've been having problems with them lately."
"Sorry, I dropped a box. I was going through my father's
stuff and found some of his early drawings." I showed her
the firmly closed pad with his name boldly written on the
front, careful to hold my hand over the jagged white edge of
the Inuit print hiding inside. "They're really good. I might
frame some."
"I was looking for you anyway." Hannah eyed me
suspiciously. I could tell she didn't quite believe me. "You've
had a couple of phone calls. The names are on the front
hall table."
"Good. I'm finished for now." I walked towards her,
hoping to block her view of the restacked cartons. I didn't
want her noticing which boxes I'd actually been searching
through all afternoon.
Without giving her a chance to step inside the room, I
closed the door tightly behind me and followed her down
the steep attic stairs to the third floor. We parted on the
second floor, with her heading towards my mother's room,
while I continued on downstairs to the front hall. There I
discovered the two messages, one from Carter Davis and
the other from Jid.

Fifteen



My first thought was that something had happened to
my dog Sergei. There couldn't be any other reason
for Jid's call. I dialed his number only to hear a busy signal.
I waited a few minutes and tried again. Still busy. I tried
again. No luck. While I waited for the line to disengage, I
returned Carter's call.
"Glad you called, missie," he said. "I've got the name
of someone who might know how to find Suula. Frankie
Ashoona, an artist living in Ottawa."
"That's good to hear. And it'll be easy enough to visit
him from my home in West Quebec."
After giving me the man's phone number, Carter
continued: "I've got a couple of letters to show you. Found
them this morning. Your dad sent them during his last trip
north. I'd forgotten about them. Think they might shed
some light."
"Can you tell me what they're about?"
"Best you come here and see for yourself."
"I can come now."
"It's getting a bit late for me. How about tomorrow
morning?"
"Nine okay?"
"Best make it nine thirty. Takes me a while to get going
in the mornings."
"Nine thirty it is, and I'll bring you a fresh batch of
Shelley's cookies."
"Sounds good, missie." I could almost hear his lips
smacking through the phone line.
"By the way, I've found another Inuit drawing," I said. "I
think Suula is also the artist. There is, however, one curious
aspect. She's drawn the man's hair orange. Seems rather
unusual colouring for an Inuk."
"You don't often see it, but it does happen. Why, I've
seen blond Inuit myself. Could be the genes of Big Red
coming through."
"And who is Big Red?"
He chortled. "Big Red McGregor, a nineteenth century
Scottish whaler who couldn't keep his pecker in his pants.
Left his seed from one end of the Arctic to the other. He
was also noted for his flaming red hair. Much like yours, I
imagine."
Lucky him, I thought sarcastically--I'd never liked my
red hair. "I'll see you in the morning then."
I redialed Jid's number, but this time the phone rang
unanswered. I tried to convince myself that I was being
overanxious, that Sergei was fine. Jid was only calling to
find out when I was coming home. But several more
unanswered calls over the course of the evening only served
to worry me further. Jid lived with his aunt and uncle and
a couple of cousins. It wasn't normal for someone not to
be home. I began to worry that perhaps something had
happened to the boy.
The young Algonquin boy'd had a rough time. First his
mother had died when he was only a baby, then his father
had ended up in jail after killing a man. Jid himself had
almost died from a drug overdose when he was only eight.
Thank god, it had put enough fear into him to keep him
away from drugs afterwards. But his beloved Kokomis, the
grandmother who'd brought him up, had died last year,
and he now was forced to live with his aunt, a woman he
didn't particularly like.
I'd wanted to adopt him myself, but the band had refused,
saying he had to be brought up within his cultural heritage.
Despite my promising to have him continue attending
the Migiskan Reserve school and Anishinebeg cultural

classes, they wouldn't accept my request--and his, for that
matter, so he'd reluctantly moved in with his aunt. We had
maintained our friendship, with him frequently dropping
by my place to chat and play with Sergei. They'd become the
best of buddies after the dog had kept the unconscious boy
warm in a freezing abandoned shack while I'd sought help.
For the last couple of months, he'd started spending the
occasional weekend with me when his aunt and uncle were
off doing the rounds of bingo halls. Sometimes the three of
us would take off to explore the sights of nearby Ottawa or
drive the many kilometres to Montreal. But most of the time,
we just hung out, enjoying the delights of the surrounding
wilderness together. I was very glad of his company, his
energy, his laughter. He filled the void left by Eric.
By nine p.m., when there was still no answer on his
aunt's phone, I called the Migiskan First Nations Police
Station.
"He's gonna be fine," Corporal Sam Whiteduck said
after I explained my difficulty in reaching the boy.
"Who? Jid?" My heart sank. "What happened to him?"
"No, your dog. He got run over by a truck."
"Oh no! How badly is he hurt?"
"A broke leg. Teht'aa took Jid and the dog to the vet's in
Somerset. Probably not home yet."
"But his aunt should be home."
Sam snorted. "You know Dolores. She'll be at bingo.
Can't pass up a chance to win some cigarette money."
An hour later, Teht'aa called. "I just want to set your
mind at ease. Sergei's going to be okay."
"Thank goodness. How badly is he hurt?"
"Just a broken leg, his back right one. The vet said it's
a simple fracture. They put a cast on, but they're keeping
him overnight to make sure no problems develop."
"How did it happen?"
"I guess Jid was chasing the dog along the road when
Pete came along in his truck. I think the dog darted out in
front. Anyways, Sergei's back end got clipped. But poor Jid,
he blames himself. Keeps saying it's all his fault. It was all I
could do to drag him from the vet's. Wanted to spend the
night with Sergei."
"Oh dear, poor Jid. Is he at his aunt's now?"
"Nope, she wasn't home yet, so I decided to let him sleep
here tonight."
"Can I speak to him?"
"Sure thing." The phone clattered against a hard surface.
Within a few seconds, Teht'aa returned. "Sorry, Jid's
dead to the world. Guess he was all tuckered out, and I hate
to wake him."
"Please don't. I'll talk to him in the morning. And please
tell him it's not his fault. Accidents happen. The key thing
is Sergei's going to get better. What time is the dog to be
picked up tomorrow?"
"The vet told me to call around nine thirty, after they've
done rounds."
"If you don't mind, I'll call him. And rather than
bothering you again, I'll pick up Sergei on my way home.
There's no need for me to stay here any longer. And Teht'aa,
many thanks for all your help. I really appreciate it."
"It wasn't any bother. Anything to help out a friend.
Besides, Sergei is one of my friends too."
I hung up glad to have Eric's daughter as a friend. When
we'd first met, it had looked as if we would be lifelong
enemies. But events had transpired to allow us to see
beneath each other's bristling veneer to the real person
underneath. We both had decided we liked what we saw
and had become good friends, despite the demise of the
relationship between her father and me.
Before heading up to bed, I decided a nightcap was just
the thing to get over my rollercoaster of a day. I poured
a generous amount of Armagnac into a crystal snifter. Its
tingling warmth felt better than good. I added more and
trudged up the stairs to my bedroom.
As I passed Mother's closed door, I hesitated. Should I
wish her good night? I'd not seen her since the morning. In
the afternoon, she'd been off to yet another charity meeting,
and upon returning home had complained of tiredness, so
Hannah had taken her supper up to her.
I glanced at my watch: 10:22. She'd be sound asleep.
Best not to disturb her. Besides, she wouldn't be interested
in Sergei's accident. She thought I should be pouring my
affection onto children, not dogs. And I certainly couldn't
tell her about the drawing her second husband had hidden
from her all those years ago. I silently tiptoed past her door
to the third floor stairs.
It was only as I started to turn out my light that I
remembered the piece of paper I'd stuck in my pocket. But I
was too tired to get out of bed, and the Armagnac had done
its work. I slept the sleep of the dead until the morning sun
fell on my face.
The folded piece of paper slipped out as I removed my
jeans from the chair. This time I read it and immediately
wished I hadn't.

Dear Harry
I miss you. Sutton is being so tiresome, I only
wish he would go off on one of his trips to the Arctic.
At least then you and I can be alone. I hope those
Riviera ingenues arent turning your handsome
head. But if they are, please keep a small place in
your heart for me.
I love you.

There was no signature, just a squiggle, but it was
obvious who the writer was. Only Mother had called my
uncle "Harry". His parents and his brother had called him
"Hal" and everyone else had used "Harold". He was not a
man who easily accepted familiarity. Although there was
no date, it was obvious. She had written it before my father
went missing.
She must've written it when Uncle Harold was away on
holiday in France. I thought I remembered the trip, because
there had been talk of all of us joining him at the villa he'd
rented somewhere near Nice. But Father had nixed it at the
last moment. I must've been eight or nine. I remembered
thinking it such a funny name for a city. Instead we'd gone
to spend a month at Three Deer Point with Aunt Aggie and
Mother had been furious. I could still hear the slamming
doors and feel the tense silences that filled the cottage until
she had returned home with Jean in tow.
Shit. I didn't want to know this.
Maybe the letter had been written out of anger? But no.
I was only trying to push aside what I knew was the truth.
Mother had been having an affair with Uncle Harold even
before Father had died.
> Then I felt the anger rising. How could she? She had
betrayed Father, just as Gareth had betrayed me.
I wanted to rush downstairs and confront her. Shout at
her. Tell her what a traitor she was, how she had hurt him.
But I knew I couldn't--the time was long past. I would
have to keep this letter and my knowledge to myself.

Sixteen



I did the only thing I could do. I packed, and I took my
anger out on my clothes. I didn't bother to fold them. I
just threw them into the suitcase one after the other, until
everything was out of the drawers and closet. I slammed
the lid down, zipped the suitcase shut, threw on my jeans
and yesterday's T-shirt, ran a comb through my hair and
tramped downstairs. I left my suitcase by the front door.
I had to leave this house. I knew I couldn't dissimulate
and pretend all was well. I needed time to digest what I'd
just learned before I would be able to face her. Even though
it would be another hour and half before I could learn
what Carter had discovered about Father, I couldn't wait
here. I would hang out in a coffee shop near his house. But
I couldn't sneak out without saying goodbye to Shelley.
I stifled my anger, my hurt as best I could, plastered a
smile on my face and went to the kitchen, where I found
Shelley sitting at the communal table finishing off the last
of her porridge before starting on our breakfast.
Before I had a chance to tell her I was leaving, she said,
"You look a wee peckish, lass. Here have a cuppa with a wee
dram of my favourite meds."
She poured me a mug of steaming tea then retrieved
the now half-empty bottle of MacCallan from a nearby
cupboard and added a generous amount to the tea.
I knew I should've told her not too, not this early in the
morning, but didn't have the strength to say no. As I felt the
first tingle of its emboldening heat, I was glad I'd given in.
It felt so good.
"Thanks, Shelley. That hit the spot." I put the almost
empty mug on the counter. "I've come to say goodbye. I'm
heading back home."
"Bit sudden, isn't it, lass?" Her dark blue eyes hardened
with suspicion.
"It has to do with my dog. He was run over yesterday. I
have to get back home to look after him," I said and left it
at that.
"I'm sorry, lass. I know how much your curly Sergei
means to you. Hope it wasn't too bad. Here, have another
one for the road and sit yourself down. You're making my
neck hurt looking up at you."
She refilled my mug with tea and a larger dollop of
whiskey while I took the chair next to her.
"It was wonderful seeing you again, Shelley," I said. "On
your next holiday, you should think of coming for a visit.
I'd love to see you at Three Deer Point."
"And so I would, but ach lass, me and them wilds don't
mix. It's the bugs and the snakes and all the lurkin' critters.
Can't bear them. No, I'm city folk. Best I stay in the city. But
thank you for asking."
I supposed I must've remained quiet for too long, lost
in my swirling thoughts about Mother, for I jumped at
Shelley's touch as she patted my hand affectionately.
"Cheer up, Maggie," she said. "Things have a way of
working themselves out for the better."
The suddenness of this unsought sympathy must've
taken me by surprise, for I found myself unleashing a flood
of dammed-up tears, and before I knew it, I was telling
Shelley about the letter.
"It can be hard on a child to discover a parent is only
human. But there's something you should keep in mind. It
takes two to tango. Perhaps your mother had her reasons."
"But nothing can excuse betraying your lawfully wedded
spouse," I shot back with more force than I intended.
"I know you're still smarting from your own unfortunate
marriage, lass. Best you talk with your mother."
"I know Father used to be away a lot. Are you saying that's
why Mother turned to Uncle Harold? She was lonely?"
"Talk to your Mother." Shelley eased herself from
the chair, placed her hands on her hips and stretched
backwards. "Ach, these creaky old bones. I've been restin'
long enough. Time to make breakfast." She walked over to
the fridge. "I've some fresh asparagus and ripe Camembert.
How about a nice omelette?"
"Sounds delicious, but I'd better get on my way. I have a
long drive ahead of me." Although Shelley might think it a
good idea to talk to Mother, and maybe it was, I wasn't in
the mood to consider it, let alone stay around long enough
to make it a possibility.
"Could you make sure Mother gets this?" I left an
envelope on the counter containing a note hastily written
to explain my sudden departure. Needless to say, I blamed
it on my dog. "I'll call her later, when I get home." By then
distance and time should have done their work, and I
would be able to keep my emotions in check.
"You take care of yourself, lass," Shelley said as we
hugged. "And don't wait so long to come visit us again. Your
Mother isn't getting any younger, you know. She needs you,
Maggie."
Maybe she did, but she sure hadn't acted like she needed
me on this visit. I picked up my bag and silently closed the
front door behind me. As I drove down the long drive, I
gave the silent house one last glance. As the trees closed
around it, I couldn't help but think that I'd moved so far
beyond this place, where I'd lived, loved, laughed and cried,
that it seemed almost unreal. Unfortunately, it was a place
that still held me in its clutches.
I found a quiet corner in a Second Cup cafe a few
blocks away from Carter's house and had a much less tasty
breakfast than the omelette Shelley had been prepared to
feed me. While I waited for the appointed time to arrive,
I spoke to the veterinarian and found out that Sergei was
coming along nicely, with no ill effects from his accident.
Although the cast on his leg would need to be on for at least
six weeks, he should be able to move around fairly easily.
The technician had already taken him out for his morning
walk with no difficulty.
After making a promise to pick Sergei up before the
vet closed at six, I called Jid at Eric's place. I knew Eric
was away, otherwise it would've been awkward. We'd had
little to do with each other, except for the occasional noncommittal
pleasantry, since that awful night less than a year
ago when things went so terribly wrong between us, when
one misunderstanding had led to another and another...
Between pig-headed male stubbornness on one part
and outright fear on another, we'd never had what we
needed most, a calm and collected conversation to sort out
the misconceptions. As time passed, my fear increased, as
did my unwillingness to grapple with my demons. It was
probably best that we left it where it lay. Besides, he'd made
no attempt on his side to reconcile. Why should I? But
oh... I missed him.
Jid's voice was still groggy from sleep. He seemed hesitant
to talk to me, as though afraid of what I might do to him.
"Please, Jid, it's not your fault," I hastened to say.
"But I shouldn't oughta let Sergei run along the road."
"But you've walked him along that road plenty of times
before, haven't you?"
"Yeah..."
"And nothing's happened before, has it?"
"No..."
"And you know how he likes to chase other animals.
Maybe he saw a squirrel or a deer?"
"Yeah, it was a squirrel. I saw it too. And when he started
to run, I tried to grab him, but he got away, and Pete was
just driving by, and oh it was terrible. I thought Sergei was
gonna die." The tears began to flow.

"But Sergei's going to be okay, isn't he?"
"Yeah. The vet says he can get the cast off in a month."
"And he'll be running around as good as new. In the
meantime, maybe there's something you can do for me and
Sergei?"
"What...?"
"Well, you know how Sergei isn't very good with cars.
This isn't the first time he's run in front of one."
"Yeah, you gotta be real careful with him."
"Well, I think some special training might be in order.
What do you think?"
"You mean like teach him not to run in front of cars?"
"Exactly. You've been pretty good at teaching him to
shake a paw, roll over and other tricks. I bet you could
teach him how to behave with cars. What do you say? Do
we have a deal?"
"Yeah, you bet. When can I start?" By now the enthusiasm
I knew so well had returned to his voice. The tears had
vanished.
When we hung up a few minutes later, Jid was laughing
freely, the last vestiges of guilt gone. He bubbled over with
excitement at the prospect of giving his buddy a big hug
and vowed he'd be waiting on my doorstep with a big
moose bone.
I gave Carter an extra ten minutes to get himself ready
then walked to his house along the tree-shrouded street.
Many of the street's nineteenth century rowhouses had
been rejigged into twenty-first century luxury, while others
retained the tiredness of their years. Although some had
been converted to law or accountancy offices, most were
still residences. Above the relative quiet of the street I could
hear the approaching siren of an emergency vehicle.
As I neared Carter's house, I noticed a heavy-set man
standing on the front stoop. He wore a grey hoodie that
barely covered his jutting paunch. Carter's front door
was wide open. The man was watching my approach.
No. He was looking beyond me at the ambulance coming
up behind me. It screeched past and stopped in front of
Carter's house, just as I reached it.
"What's wrong?" I shouted to the man, whose face was
twisted with worry. "Is Carter okay?"
But he ignored me and hastened towards the ambulance.
Fearing the worst, I raced up the stairs into the house and
began shouting Carter's name. My only answer was a
deathly silence that sent shivers down my spine. Please, let
him be okay.
I raced through the living room, dining room to the
kitchen and stopped when I came face-to-face with the open
door to the basement. An ominous light glowed from below.
"Carter, you down there?" I cried out and gingerly
stepped down the steep uneven stairs. He lay crumpled on
the damp earthen floor as if he were resting, but I knew
from the awkward angle of his neck that it was a sleep from
which he'd never awaken.
"Oh, Carter, I'm so sorry." I started to kneel down by his
side but was brushed away by two paramedics, who had
followed me down.
They went through the motions of checking his vitals
and examining his body, but within minutes the woman
craned her neck up at me and said, "I'm sorry, but it
appears he suffered a broken neck in his fall and died
almost immediately. Our condolences."
Feeling somewhat embarrassed at being treated like
family, I looked around for the man in the hoodie and
found him standing off to one side. Tears dribbled down
his freckled cheeks.
"I'm sorry, miss. Given the accidental nature of his
death," the paramedic continued, "I'm afraid we have to
call in the police."
While she called, her colleague covered Carter with a
sheet.
The ginger-haired man, who appeared to be in his early
thirties, nodded mutely.
I found myself wanting to comfort him. "It happened
quickly. I'm sure he didn't feel any pain."
He turned grief-ravaged eyes towards me. "But I told him
to stay away from the stairs. They're way too dangerous. If
he needed something from the basement, I would get it."
"It's not your fault. He probably felt confident he could
do it. He was pretty spry for his age. Besides like most old
people, he probably didn't want to admit that he was too
old to go down them."
The man smiled wanly. "Yeah, he was a stubborn old

coot."
"But a nice one."
"Yeah, and he was my only family."
For the first time the man looked at me with query in
his faded blue eyes. "I'm afraid I don't know you. Are you
a friend of his?"
"Yes, you could call me that. He knew my father many
years ago, although I only met him recently. I was supposed
to pick up some old letters up from him this morning.
That's why I'm here. By the way, my name's Meg Harris."
"Mine's Lynwood Greenberg. He was my uncle. He and
my mother were brother and sister." He thrust out his hand.
"But she died a few years back. He and Aunt Sarah are all
I've got. And now I've just got Aunt Sarah, and well, you
know, she's...." More tears seeped down his cheeks. "I guess
I'm looking after her now."
He seemed such a lost soul that I felt I should take
charge, so I said, "I don't think there's anything more you
can do here. Let's go upstairs and I'll make you some tea or
coffee or something stronger if your uncle has it."
"Beer," came back the quick reply.
Feeling I couldn't leave him alone, not yet, I sat with
him while he waited for the police to arrive. As I sipped tea,
he guzzled a bottle of beer and rambled on about his uncle
and how like a father he'd been to him, especially after his
own father died when he was only a kid.
As he told his story, I couldn't help but draw parallels to
my own situation. Except in my case, the uncle had become
the actual father. But only after he'd become the mother's
lover, I thought bitterly.
While Lynwood talked, I glanced around the kitchen
to see if I could find the letters. Even though the kitchen
held the kind of clutter one would expect from an old man
living alone, I didn't see them.
When the doorbell rang announcing the arrival of the
police, I said, "If you don't mind, Lynwood, I'd like to look
around to see if I can find these letters."
"Sure, whatever." He shrugged indifferently as he
lumbered out of the chair to answer the door.
As the police tramped down the basement stairs, I
escaped to the dining room, where I scanned the table
and buffet searching for pieces of paper, even envelopes
lying amidst Mrs. Davis's Victorian kitsch or Carter's Inuit
simplicity. I saw nothing that wasn't a porcelain figurine, a
cut-glass bowl or a soapstone carving.
The living room appeared much as it had on my first
visit, all tidy neatness except in the immediate area of
Carter's favourite chair. I riffled through the magazines
and yesterday's newspaper but didn't discover anything
remotely connected to Father. When I saw his porcelain
teacup with a small amount of cold tea lying on top of
an opened copy of Maclean's, I realized he'd been reading
when he'd decided to go downstairs.
I glanced at the open page of the magazine, trying to
ascertain if there was anything in the article that would've
prompted him to go to the basement, but it was an article
on the latest goings-on of elected officials, a topic more
likely to elicit sleep than action.
However, as I laid the magazine back down on the table,
I saw a pale grey envelope addressed to Carter that had been
hidden underneath it. I recognized my father's handwriting
immediately. The cancellation stamp indicated he had
mailed it from Frobisher Bay on March 31, 1973, a date
I realized with a sudden chill was only two weeks before
his flight went missing. Underneath lay another pale grey
envelope. This had been sent just two days prior to that.
At the sound of footsteps coming back upstairs, I snatched
both letters up and put them in my jacket pocket. At the
same time I glanced quickly around for the print I'd loaned
Carter. With him dead, I might have difficulty proving that
it belonged to me and not to him. Better to take it with me
now. My search, however, failed to unearth it.
I retraced my steps to the kitchen. As I passed through
the dining room, I suddenly realized that something else was
missing. Where two days before, Carter had been pointing
out the flaws in his fraudulent copy of the Mystical Owl, an
empty wall now faced me. Only the darker rectangle of the
original rose-coloured paint revealed where it had hung.
Although Carter could've removed it, I doubted it. Instead
I had a sneaking feeling it was somehow related to his fall.
"Excuse me," I called out to the policeman who'd come
back upstairs. "I think there has been a robbery."

Seventeen



Unfortunately, I knew the moment I opened my mouth
to summon the police, I'd be delaying my departure. I
hadn't, however, anticipated that it would be a good couple
of hours before they would allow me to leave. As a stranger,
I had immediately become a person of interest in whatever
crime, if any, had been committed.
And Lynwood concurred that one had been committed
with his confirmation that the Mystical Owl print had been
hanging on the wall during his previous day's visit with his
uncle. Since it represented a stellar point in Carter Davis's
career as an art dealer, his uncle would never have sold the
print, no matter how much money was offered.
Besides, as Lynwood added, his uncle didn't need the
money. He'd made tons dealing in art, which immediately
raised the eyebrows of the sergeant. I knew what the
cop was thinking. If this death turned out to be murder,
Lynwood would probably head to the top of the suspect
list. After all, didn't they say most murders were family
affairs, particularly when large inheritances were involved? And since Lynwood was Carter's only family, he no doubt
was the sole heir.
While Carter's nephew traipsed through the house with
another policeman in tow, searching for other items that
might be missing, I provided an immaculately uniformed
cop by the name of Sergeant Hue with the salient details
about myself, such as my relationship with the victim and
the reason for my visits. The only points I failed to mention
were the two pale grey envelopes securely zipped into my
fleece jacket pocket. I did ask if I could look around for my
mother's print, but citing the need to keep the crime scene
undisturbed until they were finished with their investigation,
Sergeant Hue, the officer-in-charge, took the particulars
down with a promise to notify me when it was located.
A short while later, Lynwood and the other officer
returned with the news that nothing else had been taken
despite the presence of other valuable pieces of art, not to
mention the silver in full display in the dining room. This
prompted Hue to ask, "Why was just the one item stolen?"
I glanced at Lynwood to see if he was going to answer, and
when he didn't, I told the two cops about the significance
of the missing Mystical Owl. I finished by saying, "So you
see, given the importance of this print, it probably means
that the person who stole it knew something about Inuit
art. Even though there are many valuable pieces here, I
doubt any of them come close to the $70,000 value of the
Mystical Owl?
Hue nodded while the constable in the rumpled uniform
wrote frantically in his notebook.
"However, it's probably safe to say that the thief didn't
know it was a fake. Otherwise why would he take it, since
he'd probably find himself arrested for trying to sell a
forgery?"
The constable taking the notes said, "Could you go
through this fraud thing again?"
So I repeated once more the information the retired
art dealer had given me and followed it with, "But I'm no
expert. I suggest you talk to someone like Mary Goresky at
the McConnell Art Gallery."
"Gosh," Lynwood piped up. "Uncle Carter never told
me it was a fake. I just thought it was important, 'cause it
was worth a lot. But you know, it's not the only pricy thing
here. Uncle told me that carving over there is worth more
than a hundred grand." He pointed to a stunning prancing
caribou with ivory antlers standing on the central place of
honour on top of the buffet. "So why didn't the guy steal
that one too?" he asked.
The Chinese cop raised his eyebrows. "Yes, why not?"
"Maybe he didn't know it was as valuable," I hazarded.
"Possibly," Sergeant Hue replied noncommittally.
For me there was one last burning question. "Do you
think it possible Carter Davis could've been pushed down
the stairs by this thief?"
"At this stage in our investigation it's too early to draw
conclusions, but it will be one of several possibilities we'll
be investigating."
I left shortly afterwards, leaving my contact information,
but with the letters safely hidden in my pocket. I walked
down the front stairs to the street just as another police
vehicle arrived. A man and woman climbed out carrying
heavy cases and camera equipment. I wondered if the
, greater expertise of forensics had been called in, now that
the possibility of murder had raised its ugly head.
For some crazy reason I wanted to get a safe distance
between the police and myself so I didn't stop to read the
letters until I'd reached the first service centre on Highway
401, a good forty-minute drive away. Even then I waited
until I was safely installed in the ladies washroom, blocked
from view in my cubicle. I had no idea why I was going
through these silly manoeuvres other than a vague sense
that there might be a connection between these letters and
Carter's death, but more realistically that I could be guilty of
taking away possible evidence if the police proved Carter's
death was murder. I didn't want any potential witnesses
watching me reading them.
I decided to start with the envelope with the earlier
cancellation date. Printed in red on the back flap was the
name of a hotel, Frobisher Inn, and its address, Frobisher
Bay, Northwest Territories. As I pulled out a single sheet of
paper in the same pale grey colour, I couldn't help but feel
not only a thrill that my father's hands had once touched
this page, but also a sadness that it could very well be one
of the last letters he'd written.
It started simply.

Carter
Remember that business you told me about the Mystical Owl? Well, I think I've found something.
In conversing with the Crazy Russkie last night, he
mentioned something that started me thinking. I plan
to pursue it and will let you know, once I learn more.
Sutton

Short and sweet, it raised all sorts of intriguing questions,
but contained nothing tangible other than a name, Crazy
Russkie, and even that name wasn't exactly tangible.
As I opened the other pale grey envelope sent ten days
later, I wondered if Father was writing Carter about what
he'd discovered. It too was a Frobisher Inn envelope, which
I assumed was the hotel where father was staying. But...it
was empty.
Damn. The letter must've been lying underneath the
other magazines, and I'd missed it.

Unfortunately, the first letter was of little value on its
own, which must mean the second letter was the reason
for Carter's call. "Might shed some light," he'd said, which
made me think it likely this second letter contained what
Father had discovered about "that business you told me
about the Mystical Owl? I assumed "business" related to
Carter's Mystical Owl being a forgery. But beyond that I
couldn't begin to conjecture what more father might have
learned, if anything. I also reasoned it couldn't have been
all that startling, otherwise Carter would've brought it to
the police's attention years ago when he first received it.
I thought of asking Sergeant Hue to look for the missing
letter but decided against it. He would want to know how I
came to know of its existence.
I reached Three Deer Point as the sun's red ball was sliding
behind the hills on the far shore of Echo Lake. An excited
Sergei, glad to be home, thumped his tail on the seat beside
me. With little regard for the cast on his lower back leg, he
jumped out of the truck and was immediately greeted by a
joyous Jid.
I breathed in the fresh forest air, an elixir to chase the
city dirt from my lungs. I opened my arms to embrace the
solitude, the peace that had settled on this sleeping land,
and felt the tension of the past days slowly seep away. It was
good to be home, back in my own house, back to where I
was in control, not my mother, and back to where there
were no lurking demons.
The windows of my Victorian cottage winked in the
I setting sun, almost as if to say, "Good to have you back."
Yes, I was glad, very glad to be back in my own space.
I lingered for a few minutes longer, watching Jid and
Sergei reconnect and listening to the rising flute-like song
of a recent summer arrival, a hermit thrush. I heard a faint
rustle and turned to see a deer, a young buck with antler
nubs, emerge from the darkness of the woods into the
growing twilight. He stepped deftly up to the salt lick at
the far side of the cleared grounds. So engrossed was he in
this tasty treat that he failed to notice my presence. I stood
immobile for several minutes admiring his beauty, but when
Jid and the dog suddenly scampered around the corner of
the house, he vanished back into the safety of his forest.
"Well, guys, you're both probably hungry," I said to the two
playmates. "Let's go inside to see what we can find to eat."
A frozen pizza did the trick for Jid and me while the
dog wolfed down his organic lamb-and-brown-rice kibble
before settling down for a gnaw on his moose bone. After
we'd done the dishes, I washing, while Jid dried, I got down
to the task of going through the mail, mostly bills, that
had collected during my absence and the voice mail. Most
messages were from friends, but there were two messages
that caught my immediate attention. One was from
Corporal Reilly in Iqaluit and the other from my mother.
A quick glance at the clock told me I would have to wait
until tomorrow to talk to the corporal, while my mother's
message really didn't require a response, and I wouldn't
have responded anyway.
It was crisp and succinct. "I'm so sorry, dear, you had
to leave in such a rush without saying a proper goodbye.
Please don't wait so long for your next visit." I heard rustling
as if she were about to hang up, then as if she'd changed her
mind, her voice came back on the line, "Hope your dear dog
is not too seriously hurt." The message beeped to a close.
Nothing about Father, the man she betrayed, or about
finally seeking the answers to what happened to him. And
nothing about my visit, being glad to see me, or even a
thank-you for driving all that way.
But no, I was letting my hurt feelings get away with me. It
had been a good visit. I'd enjoyed talking with Shelley, even
seeing Jean and her family again. And though Mother'd had
her moments, she had in the end agreed to my following
the trail of the prints and the letters.
And yet as I settled myself into Aunt Aggie's old rocker
on the screened porch, I couldn't help but wish I had some
of Shelley's twelve-year-old single malt to help keep the
demons at bay.

Eighteen



When I called the Iqaluit detachment first thing in the
morning, I was told that Corporal Reilly wouldn't
be back in the office until late in the afternoon. I was more
fortunate in reaching Frankie Ashoona, the contact for
Suula that Carter had mentioned. We agreed to meet at his
place in Ottawa any time after eleven a.m., which would
give me enough time to prepare breakfast, drop Jid off at
school and make the two-hour drive to the city.
Deciding Sergei and I had been parted long enough,
I brought him with me. I figured Frankie wouldn't mind
another visitor. And if not, the day was cool enough for the
dog to stay in the truck with the windows down.
We had a pleasant drive into Ottawa with Sergei either
intently scanning the roadside for glimpses of four-legged
critters or resting contentedly curled up on the passenger
seat as best he could with his broken leg. Once or twice
he licked the paw below the cast, but for the most part he
ignored it. Fortunately for him, I hadn't needed to put on
the awkward Elizabethan collar the vet had given me to
prevent him worrying the cast.
We reached the MacDonald/Cartier Bridge that traverses
the broad expanse of the Ottawa River into the city from
the Quebec side of the river with a good fifteen minutes
to spare. But this was quickly consumed by stop-and-go
jerking through road construction that had reduced the
three lanes of King Edward to a narrow defile of bumps,
dirt and stalled transport trailers. Thankfully, I only had
to stay on this section until the first major light, where I
turned east and eventually crossed the narrower Rideau
River into Vanier, where the Inuit artist lived.
Vanier, one of Ottawa's poorer neighbourhoods, was a
riddle of streets that curved off in odd directions with no
one road seeming to run parallel to another. It required
a couple of stops for directions at barred-window corner
stores before I finally parked outside the artist's building,
or I should say collection of buildings.
Narrow, two-storey, vinyl-sided structures lined the two
sides and back of what was probably once a single dwelling
lot. They surrounded an open space of asphalt, possibly
meant for parking, except it seemed to have become more
a dumping ground for unwanted items and recycling bins.
A bike in relatively good condition was chained to the iron
railing of a set of stairs leading to the second storey of the
back building, stairs which I realized the dog and I would
have to climb to get to Frankie's place, 37D.
I was a bit leery about taking Sergei up these steep metal
stairs, so I left him behind in the truck. His mournful howl
was enough to convince me that he was going to overcome
his injury no matter what. As if to emphasize the point, he
jumped and hobbled to the top with ease.
After several unanswered knocks, I was beginning to
feel annoyed that I'd come all this way only to have him
cancel on me, but as I turned to leave, the scratched metal
door sprang open, and out stepped a short burly man. His
almost circular face was framed by long straggly black hair
and a wispy goatee. Round wire-rimmed glasses perched
on his button nose. He appeared to be in his late forties.
"Nice dog," he said and let Sergei sniff his hand before
giving him a hearty pat.
"Excuse me, I fell asleep." He smiled apologetically and
ushered us into a sparsely furnished room whose walls were
covered with a myriad of Inuit figures enacting scenes from
traditional Inuit life. Except in most cases, the incursion of
the modern western world was evident. In one, a movie
star face peered out of a traditional hand-held drum, while
in another what looked to be a satellite dish ranged over an
igloo. I noticed one in particular, a black and white drawing
of an Inuk woman with a child in the oversized hood of her
traditional parka. Halos framed the heads of the mother
and child.
"That's beautiful," I said. "I assume you have called it Mother and Child?
"That's my girlfriend." His face creased into another
shy smile. "With our child. I named the picture after the
baby--Elisapee, Inuktitut for Elizabeth."
"You must've been very happy over her birth."
He shrugged. "I suppose, except it was a long time ago.
A long time since I see Elisapee. A long time since I been
up north too."
"Yet you still hang her picture on your wall." I was a bit
taken aback by his seeming lack of concern for his own
flesh and blood.
"I like the picture," he replied simply.
"Yes, I like it too." Not knowing what else to say, I changed
the topic. "I'm curious to know the name of the garment
the mother is wearing."
"Amauti." He smiled again.
In the days to come, when I would get to know more
Inuit words, I would discover that the shy smiles came
frequently, either through a desire to be friendly or as a
defense mechanism.
"It's very good for carryingyoung children,"he continued.
"Very warm and comfortable for the child and lets the
mother do her work. When the baby's hungry, the mother
moves the hood around to feed it. This way the baby isn't
exposed to the cold. Practical, eh?" He said this last with a
certain degree of smugness, almost as if to say, "See, we Inuit
aren't so backward, are we?"
"Yes, very practical."
At this point Sergei caught our attention as he slumped
down onto the bare linoleum floor with a deep sigh. Frankie
gave his head another playful rub.
"As I said on the phone, I'm looking for a woman by the
name of Suula. I gather you knew her or know of her."
"She was my girlfriend." He laughed.
As my eyes shifted to the woman in the Elisapee drawing,
he laughed again. "No, not that one, another one. Had
many girlfriends, but no wives. Better that way, eh?"
"I couldn't agree with you more," I said, thinking back
to Eric's unwanted offer of marriage. If only he thought the
same way as Frankie. "Do you know where Suula is living
now?"
"Before we talk about her, can I get you some tea, coffee
or a beer?" He snapped open a beer bottle standing on the
counter next to a plump, white 1950s fridge, the kind with
rounded edges and chrome handles.
The kitchen occupied an alcove at one end of the
long, narrow room, beside a door that opened onto a tiny
bathroom. I didn't see any other doors. At the other end of
the room stood a large table with a jumble of art supplies.
An easel with nothing on it was shoved into the corner. It
didn't appear as if he were currently working on anything.
"A beer would be nice, thank you." I'd drunk enough tea
this morning. Besides, one beer surely wouldn't hurt.
I sat in the only seat possible, a partially collapsed Lazee
Boy, its tweed covering splattered with liberal applications
of duct tape. The only other possible spot had been the
sofa bed, but it was still in bed mode.
Frankie handed me a bottle of Canadian. "Guess I'd
better put this thing up." He flipped the bed back, sheets
and all, into sofa mode and sat down. He raised his bottle
in toast. "Cheers." I toasted him back.
"Great lady, Suula. What do you want to know about
her?"
"I suppose I should ensure we're talking about the same
woman. Her father's name was Nanuqtuaq. It might've
been her last name too."
"Yeah, it was Nanuqtuaq."
"And she was an artist. I gather quite a good one."
"Really? Sure didn't draw when I was around."
"She made some stonecut prints. I have three of them,
at least my mother does." I left it at that. I didn't want to get
into the story behind them.
"That right? Funny, she never told me. But she liked art.
Liked to watch me drawing."
"You said Suula was your girlfriend. Was that here in
Ottawa or up north?"
"Up north. Tasilik." He took a long swig of beer. "For a
while, then she left." He smiled. "Didn't like my sleeping
with other women."
"Do you know where she went?"
"Back home to her kids."
"And do you know where that was?"
"Naujalik. Her family's camp."
It sounded like it might just be... "Does that mean 'the
place of seagulls'?" I asked hopefully.
"Yeah. She said there were lots of them on the other side
of the island."
Great. I'd finally found her. "Do you know where this
camp was?"
"Nope. Never there. But I think it was on an island near
the mouth of the sound."
"By sound, you mean Cumberland Sound, the one
Tasilik is on?"
"Yup. She talked about Naujalik a lot. Where she lived
with her husband and kids."
He must've sensed my surprise, for he quickly added,
"He was dead. I think he'd been dead awhile. Think the guy
was qallunaat?
"And when did you two link up?"
"Not long before I came south. Let's see..." He upended
the beer bottle and drained it. "I left Tasilik in 1993 or
thereabouts. So guess last time I saw her was a few months
before that."
"That's more than fifteen years ago. Do you think she
might still be at this camp?"
"Nope, she's dead."
"Oh," was all I could think to say. Shit. There went any
chance of finding out where Father died.
"Yeah, heard she killed herself a few years back."
"Oh," was again my feeble reply. "Sorry to hear that."
He shrugged. "Nothing to be sorry about. Happens a lot
up north. Something goes wrong, like your man or woman
leaving you, you call it quits. Or you just get tired of living.
It's no big deal."
"But it is. You're dead." As soon as I said these last words, I
realized how silly they sounded. "What I mean is, committing
suicide is so final. It doesn't solve anything. Besides, most
problems can be dealt with. It's just a matter of having the energy to deal with them or the patience to wait out the
tough times. Things don't remain down forever."
His dark eyes took on a thoughtful look. "Bit of a
philosopher, eh?"
"No, I guess you could say I've been there myself."
Raising his empty beer bottle to me, he said, "Cheers."
And left me with the impression he'd been there too.
"Well, I guess this is as far as I can go. I had really wanted
to speak to her." I stood up. "I should be on my way. Many
thanks for answering my questions."
He got up too. "You could always talk to her kids."
"I doubt they could help, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt.
Do you know where I could find them?"
"Maybe Naujalik. But probably not. Not likely they're still
living there. She had three, two girls and a boy. The older girl
was away at school when I knew her. The other two, a boy
and a girl were at the camp being looked after by her mother.
Still young. Probably gone to school after that."
"Do you know their names?"
He started to shake his head, then stopped. "Don't
remember the boy's or the oldest girl's, but think the
youngest was Apphia."
"Would they have the same last name as their mother?
Or do you know their father's last name?"
"I'd go with Nanuqtuaq. Never heard Suula use any
other name."
As I stood at his door I ran my eyes over the artwork
covering his walls for one last time. "I really like your pictures,
especially the one of Elisapee. Would you be interested in
selling it?"
"Nope. It's not for sale. But you know, I do have a
drawing of Suula. I'll give you that one."
"I'd love to see it."
He leafed through a large cardboard box filled with
various size drawings and prints and pulled out one of
a woman sitting on the ground. Dressed in traditional
clothing, she appeared to be cleaning a piece of sealskin.
And any doubts I might've still harboured over this Suula
not being the woman I was searching for were completely
erased when I saw the plane in a spiral freefall that Frankie
had depicted above her head.
"So you know about the plane," I said.
"Yeah. Suula talked about it a lot."
"Did she say what happened to the people inside?"
"Nope, never mentioned them. Just said there was this
plane crash near her father's camp. Happened a long time
ago, when she was young."
"Was it near Naujalik?"
"Yeah, I guess. She never said."
"My father was in that plane." And I told him about the
missing plane and the desire to find out where my father
died.
"Tough. I mean about your dad. Not a nice way to die.
Wish I could help you more. I'm afraid that's all I know.
But keep the picture. It means more to you than me."
"No, I'll buy it from you. Just tell me how much."
"Ain't worth much. Not one of my better ones. How
about we saw off on a case of beer?"
So I gave him enough for a case of twenty-four, and
when he wasn't looking, slipped a hundred dollars under
his empty beer bottle.
As I helped Sergei down the steep outside stairs, I couldn t
help but ask myself a question that had been nagging me
since learning Suula was dead. Since she couldn't have
mailed the pictures to Mother, who had?

Nineteen



Although Corporal Reilly didn't return my call until
late in the afternoon of the following day, I was visited
much earlier by another policeman, one from the Surete
du Quebec police station in Somerset, the closest town to
Three Deer Point. He'd been asked by the Toronto police to
obtain a formal statement from me regarding the murder
of Carter Davis.
"So they have determined that Carter was murdered,"
I said in French, out of respect for Sergeant Beauchamps'
first language. "Do they have any suspects?"
"I don't know," he replied in the same language. "But
you know, Mme Harris, I'm not allowed to divulge such
information." An expansive smile spread across his boyish face.
His blue eyes twinkled beneath the brown rim of his cap.
I'd had previous dealings with this cop and liked him. He
was sympathetic and open-minded. Even Sergei liked him,
as evidenced by his butting his muzzle against the man's
thigh, his way of requesting a pat. And Beauchamps replied
with vigorous rubbing of the dog's black curly head.
"And do they think the motive is the theft of the Mystical
Owl?"
"I've no idea, madame." He shrugged with his hands out
in true Gallic fashion. Then he pulled an envelope from
his uniform pocket. "The Toronto police would like you to
read and sign this statement."
A quick read assured me that the answers I'd provided
in Carter's kitchen were accurately reflected. I signed and
passed it back to Beauchamps.
"They would also like me to tell you that they were
unable to locate your picture."
"Oh, dear. That probably means he gave it to someone.
He said he was going to have a colleague look at it, but I
have no idea who that person could be."
"Was it valuable?"
"No, other than perhaps a sentimental value. It was just a
picture of an Inuk hunting seal." What was I going to tell my
mother now, particularly since I'd forgotten to tell her that
I'd left it with the dead man? "I can only hope that the man
he gave it to will return it when he finds out Carter's dead."
"I'll let the Toronto police know." He pulled a small spiral
notebook and a felt pen from his jacket pocket. "They have
some follow-up questions they would like me to ask you."
I tensed for a second over worry that they'd found out
about my removal of Father's letters, but even if they had
found the missing letter, I doubted they would realize
that there had been another one. Unless of course, Father
had mentioned something about it in this later letter. But
chances were they would assume it no longer existed.
I invited him into the front room, where he'd be able
to use the coffee table to write on, and offered him a cup
of freshly brewed coffee, which he readily accepted, along
with one of Shelley's chocolate chip cookies.
"Since this information is for the Toronto police, I think it best
we continue this interview in English. I hope you don't mind.
It saves me from having to translate your answers." His mouth
twisted into a crooked smile as if to say, "the poor unilingual
slobs", then he turned serious. "You said in your statement that
your father was a former client of Carter Davis."
"My father was a collector of Inuit art. He bought a lot
of it from Carter."
The sq cop scribbled into his notebook, then asked his
next question. "Were you aware that he was also a business
partner of Mr. Davis?"
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "First I've heard of
this. But I was only ten when he disappeared, so it's not
likely I would know. The Toronto police should be asking
my mother about it."
"I believe they'll do this."
"So why ask me?"
He shrugged. "I was asked to obtain the answers to these
questions. You said in your earlier statement that the reason
for your visit to Mr. Davis was to find out information
about your father."
"Yes. As it says right there in the statement I just signed,
I'm looking into my father's missing plane. I was hoping
Carter could provide some answers."
"And there was no other reason for your visit?"
"No, why should there be?" Surely they weren't thinking
I'd stolen the print and killed the retired art dealer in the
process.
"Are you aware that Carter Davis owed your father, or
should I say his estate a significant amount of money?"
My antenna went up in alarm. "No, of course I wasn't.
But Father disappeared more than thirty-five years ago.
Surely this debt would've been resolved when his estate was
settled after he was declared legally dead in 1980. But again,
only my mother will know the answer."
I tried to read from his face what was behind this line of
questioning, but his normally friendly face had taken on a
certain opaque coldness.
I asked, "How much money is involved?"
"I believe about $250,000. You are certain you know
nothing of this debt?"
"Very certain. Besides, what has this got to do with
Carter's death? Surely the person who stole the Mystical
Owl killed him."
"And he did not mention this debt when you were
talking to him on..." he flipped his notebook back several
pages, "on May 12th."
I tried to shove my rising annoyance aside. "No, he
didn't. Look, if you are trying to tie this money to a possible
motive for murder, it doesn't make sense. This money has
been owed since 1973. If it were really needed, my Mother
would've gone after it years ago. Besides, I doubt she needs
the money. Her home in Rosedale must be worth at least
$10 million, plus there is the Harris trust fund which has
many millions in investments. So you see, $250,000 is
pretty small change."
"But what about yourself, madame? Have you need of
such money?"
His eyes passed over the antique furniture crowding
the pine panelled room with its expanse of windows
overlooking the lake. I watched his eyes rest on the wall
where I'd hung Frankie's portrait of Suula with the burning
plane in the background amidst a collection of landscape
oil paintings, which included a couple of Group of Seven
cigar box paintings. But although I'd inherited all this
valuable furniture and art in addition to Three Deer Point,
I'd hardly be called flush with cash.
Still, I wasn't about to tell him that. "Does this place
look like I'm hard up for money?"
He nodded in acknowledgement then concentrated on
writing in his notebook. The strained silence was filled
with the scratching sound of his pen.
As if sensing the tension in the air, Sergei rose awkwardly
from his lying position on the carpet in front of the unlit
stone fireplace and gave the sergeant a long questioning
stare before turning around and around then flopping back
down onto the floor. He rested for a minute, then got up
again and repeated the process twice more until he finally
found a position that was comfortable.
I took our two empty mugs into the kitchen to refill them.
When I returned, Beauchamps had set his pen down on the
coffee table beside his notebook and was patting the dog.
"Madame Harris, I have a couple more questions then I
think we are finished."
"Okay." I wasn't sure what more he could ask that would
be relevant; after all, I'd only just met Carter Davis and
knew almost nothing about the man.
"You indicated that the work of art that was stolen was
fraudulent. Are you aware of any other fraudulent pieces of
art in Mr. Davis's possession?"
"No...Wait a minute, he did mention something about
another illegal print that he'd come across. But I think he
said he refused to buy it."
"Did he indicate to you whether he knew who was
behind this fraudulent activity?"
"No, not at all. Are you saying that this was why he was killed?" I asked, tensing. Did this mean there really was a
link to Father's letters?
"I understand the Toronto police are following a number
of different leads. This is just one of them."
"But if so, why would the person steal the print?"
He shrugged. "Unless there was something in this print
that would point to the counterfeiter."
"But I saw it. I don't recall seeing anything, but then I know
very little about Inuit art or any kind of art for that matter."
"This pertains to the last question Toronto would like
me to ask. Was there anything about this print that was
unusual?"
"Like I said, I know nothing about Inuit art. The only
thing I remember was that the edition number was supposed
to be a duplicate and that the lines of the image weren't as
sharp as they should be given the low edition number. Oh
yes, and there was the tiny nick in one of the owl's eyes that
apparently is not in the real version. But these are things
Carter told me. I would never have noticed them myself. I
thought it was an original. It looked just like the one hanging
in my mother's living room."
Beauchamps uncapped his pen and resumed writing in
his notepad.
When he'd finished, I felt the time had come to speak
up about the letters, but fearing the consequences, I was
economical with the truth. "You know, I didn't mention it
when I was speaking to Sergeant Hue, because I didn't think
it important, but I gather from Carter Davis that the letter
he was going to pass onto me might've had something to
do with the fake Mystical Owl. The Toronto police didn't
happen to find it, did they?"
"Do you know what it said?"
At least I could answer truthfully. "Nope, no idea."
He searched my face for a few seconds as if trying to
satisfy himself that I wasn't hiding anything, then said, "I
will pass this information over to Sergeant Hue."
After writing a few more words, he flipped his notebook
closed and placed it along with the pen back in the breast
pocket of his uniform. "I think that is everything, madame. You aren't planning on travelling in the next while, are you?"
"Not immediately. But I will probably be going to Iqaluit
in a few weeks. Why?"
"In case there are more questions. When you do, could
you please notify Sergeant riue at this number."
After bidding me adieu and giving Sergei one last hearty pat, he departed, leaving me feeling slightly uneasy. I was
very much a minor player in this murder. In fact, it was
only happenstance that I was at Carter's house when his
body was discovered. Why would they think that I could
provide them with any worthwhile information? And why
were they asking these questions about my father and my
family. Surely they didn't think there was a link to Carter's
death. But then there was my father's missing letter. How I
wished I knew what was in it.
I debated calling my mother to ask her about Carter's
debt and to warn her, if it hadn't already happened, about
a pending visit from Sergeant Hue but thought perhaps it
wouldn't be wise. If it looked as though we'd been talking,
the police might become suspicious for the wrong reasons.
Better for Mother to show real surprise. After all, we had
nothing to hide. Besides, I couldn't quite get up the nerve
to talk to her, not yet.
I spent the rest of the day doing chores, the kind I detested,
like dusting, vacuuming, washing floors, doing laundry,
tossing out piles of old magazines and newspapers, putting
clothes back where they belonged and so on. In the early
days at Three Deer Point, I'd had a cleaning lady, a woman
who'd become my friend, but after her tragic death, I couldn't
bring myself to hire someone to replace her. So I muddled
along, letting the dirt, dust, dirty clothes and old reading
matter pile up until I finally couldn't take it any longer, then
in a spurt of energy would have the house gleaming and in
perfect order. Unfortunately, this would only last a day or
two, as the effort to maintain order gradually dissipated.

Afterwards, as a reward for being so conscientious,
Sergei and I ambled along a trail skirting the shoreline. The
late May day was bright but cool. Echo Lake sparkled. The
waves lapped against the shore, while overhead powder
puff clouds scudded beyond the forest canopy. I was glad
I'd worn my fleece jacket. I zipped it up tightly and placed
my hands in the warm pockets.
Sergei's leg cast gave him little difficulty as he scrambled
up and down the rocks lining the shoreline. Occasionally
he'd surprise a frog resting in the weeds and attempt to
follow it as it leapt into the water. Thankfully I didn't have
to worry about his damaging the cast in the water. The dog
hated water; the most he'd get wet was his snout. Still, I kept
him on his leash, just in case the chase got the better of his
distaste, and he rushed headlong into the lake after a frog.
I hadn't bargained on the moose. We rounded a point
and there, about twenty metres away, stood the most massive
moose I'd ever seen, knee deep in water, blissfully gobbling
up waterweed shoots. He raised his monstrous shelf of
antlers still covered in the fuzzy velvet of spring, his molting
spring coat a patchwork of long and short fur. He peered
at us through small shortsighted eyes, his long pendulous

dewlap undulating as he continued to chew. With an ah-ha
yelp, Sergei lunged forward. The leash slid through my hand.
Barking wildly, the dog careened to a stop a good ten metres
from the moose, no doubt when he realized this animal, way
bigger than any deer, was considerably more threatening.
Eric had often said to be careful around moose, they
were too unpredictable. Fearful of triggering a charge, I
remained frozen, afraid to call the dog, waiting to see what
the two animals would do. The moose raised his enormous
ugly head higher, stopped chewing and stared intently
at the dog, who stupidly continued to bark, although I
thought with less confidence. At any moment I expected
to see the moose's ears flatten in preparation for a charge.
Then the dog, still barking, started to back up.
I hazarded a quiet, "Come!"
He turned around and scampered back to me. I grabbed
the leash.
Poised to make a dash behind the nearest tree, I waited to
see what the moose would do next. His skin twitched from
the biting bugs. He stepped forward, shook his mammoth
head, sending water and bits of water grass flying. Then with
one last glance at us, he bent his head down to get on with
the business of eating. I slowly turned around and walked
gingerly back along the trail with the dog firmly clenched
to my side.
Only when I had rounded the point did I let out a sigh of
relief. He might have been one gorgeous moose, but I sure
would've preferred meeting up with him with considerably
more distance between us.
The phone was ringing as I headed up the back porch
stairs.

Twenty



I answered the phone in time to hear a familiar deep
masculine voice say "Corporal Reilly returning your call,
ma'am."
I must admit when I heard his voice, I couldn't help but
conjure up the classic image of a tall, muscular Mountie
standing ramrod straight in red serge with the signature
broad brim, brown hat and the canary yellow strip running
down the sides of black jodhpurs. No doubt when I finally
met him, he would turn out to be short with a weak chin
and a beer belly trying to break out of his uniform.
"Actually, I was returning a call you made while I was
away."
"That's right, ma'am. We talked a few weeks ago about
a submerged plane sighting near Resolution Island. I just
wanted to let you know that we have a better handle on its
location based on a couple of other sightings, so we plan to
send the salvage boat out after it once the ice frees up."
"When do you expect that to be?"
"Normally, I'd say end of July, sometimes even into
August, but lately ice break-up has been happening earlier."
He paused. "Global warming, I guess."
"Once you have an exact date, could you let me know?
My family wants me to be there. I think you realize this is
very important to us. We want to know our father's final
resting place."
"As I said earlier, ma'am, it's highly improbable this is
your father's plane. And it's not likely to be a pretty sight."
"That's a chance I'm prepared to take. And seeing bones
won't bother me. The most important thing will be knowing
they belong to my father."
"Okay, ma'am. Divers are lined up for week of July 15th.
We plan to leave Iqaluit on the sixteenth. I suggest you
come a day early and come see me at the detachment. And
bring warm clothes. It'll be pretty cold on the water."
"Sounds good to me. What's the address?"
"Just ask. Everyone knows where our detachment is.
Besides, we're an easy walk from Frobisher Inn, if you plan
to stay there."
My ears perked up at the mention of the inn's name. It
would be a fitting place to stay.
I also realized while I was talking to him that there was
one thing I hadn't done. "By the way, you mentioned in
our last phone call that you would be happy to look into
finding the sender of some letters. I just--"
"Letters, ma'am?"
"Letters that were recently sent anonymously to my
mother from Iqaluit. They seemed to suggest that my
father is still alive.
"Yeah.. .right. I remember now."
"I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to ask her about
sending copies to you. But I'll try to get them to you as
soon as I can." Given how touchy Mother was about the
subject, I'd been reluctant to ask her.
"No rush. My case load is pretty full right now. But if
you're in a hurry to find out who sent them, I can assign
them to one of the constables."
I hung up thinking I might leave it for the moment.
I didn't feel confident that the police would be able to
identify the sender. And asking Mother might prompt her
to change her mind again about my going to Iqaluit. Best
to leave it alone for the moment.
Still, I couldn't avoid talking to her altogether. She
would need an update on the plane. But I wasn't sure I
could pretend I hadn't seen that damning love letter. There
was no way I wanted to bring it up. The affair happened so
long ago. Even if she had eventually married Harold, it took
place only after Father had been declared legally dead. And
as Shelley suggested, perhaps Mother'd had her reasons.
After all, Father had been frequently away from home. No,
there would be nothing to gain by accusing her of betraying
Father other than a venting of my own sense of betrayal.
But I needed to calm my nerves and bolster my courage.
Too bad I didn't have a wee dram of Shelley's medicine.
After picking Sergei up at the vet, I'd almost stopped at the
Somerset liquor store to buy some, but at the last moment
my conscience got the better of me. Now I wished I had.
Instead I'd have to rely on a mug of extra-strong coffee to
give me strength.
With a steaming mug in hand, I headed out to the porch
to Aunt Aggie's old rocker. As my eyes soaked in the dark
waters of Echo Lake spreading out to the distant hills, I sipped
my coffee and rocked back and forth, back and forth.
Sergei lay exhausted beside me. The stress of his accident
and the moose confrontation had been just a little too
much. He didn't even have the energy to cock an eyebrow
when one of his nemeses, a red squirrel, chattered at us
from a safe perch on a nearby branch.
Even though the mid-May air still carried a hint of winter,
I was comfortable in my layers of fleece and sheepskin
slippers. Fortunately a stand of massive white pine on the
north side of the house protected me from the wind, which
had increased since our walk, judging by the roar rising
from its canopy. The wind was also whipping the lake into
a whitecap frenzy. I rocked back and forth to the sound of
the waves crashing on the rocks below and tried to banish
all thoughts of that betraying letter from my mind.
By the time I finished the coffee, I felt more fired up with
nervous energy than with cool, calm, collected courage.
Nonetheless, I felt I couldn't put off calling Mother any
longer.
I hoped Shelley would answer the phone. A few words
with her might help to steady my nerves. Instead I got
Jean.
"What do you mean by leaving so suddenly?" she said
without so much as a cursory greeting. "You really upset
Mother."
She wasn't the only one upset, I thought, but there was
no way I was going to tell my sister about the love letter.
"I don't know why she's upset. She knows I had to leave
because Sergei was in an accident."
"Then you have to get involved in a murder. The police
have been here all day bothering her, as if she had anything
to do with it. She didn't even know the man."
"Yes, she did. He was the art dealer Father dealt with
years ago."
"But she herself had nothing to do with the man."
"Let me talk to her."
"And to top it off, the media has linked me to you. They
even had the nerve to mention I was a judge. Meg, I can't
have this."
Ah, now we were at the heart of the matter. "I'm happy
to tell them you're not my sister. Now would you please get
Mother."
I heard the phone rattle as she dropped it.
Finally after what seemed like interminable minutes,
my mother's voice, sounding somewhat weak and groggy,
came on the line. "Is that you, Margaret?"
"Sorry I woke you, Mother, but I felt we should talk."
"I'm so glad you called. I was so worried."
"But I told you in my note I had to leave suddenly. Sergei
was hit by a car."
"But dear, you could've come into my room to say
goodbye."
"I didn't want to wake you," I said and left it at that,
although I really wanted to shout back, "You betrayed
Father!"
"That's very thoughtful of you, dear. But you have
quite upset me, you know." She paused as if waiting for
an apology from me, something I wasn't about to do. She
continued. "This dreadful murder. How could you involve
your family?"
"What? You think I did it?"

"Of course not, but you were there."
"Coincidence. That's all it was."
"But why are the police questioning me? I didn't know
the man." She stopped for a moment as if to catch her
breath. "Did you tell them to?"
"Oh, Mother, how can you think that? I had no idea they
were talking to you until the Quebec cop sent to question me
mentioned it. But don't say you didn't know Carter Davis.
You did. In fact, you brought up his name last week."
"But I never met him, dear. Only your father had dealings
with him."
"I gather from the cops that it was more than a buyer/
seller relationship. Apparently he had some business
relationship with Carter. Did you know that?"
"I did. The poor man got into financial difficulties, and
your father, bless his soul, helped him out."
"Is this what that $250,000 debt is all about?"
I heard a deep sigh, then she spoke up. "Yes, I suppose so.
I don't really know. Your father felt business matters were
better left to him, so he never told me much. That's what I
told the nice Chinese policeman."
"So you don't know if it was ever paid back?"
"No. After your father disappeared, I let Harold handle
Sutton's financial affairs."
"So you had no idea that this money was owing?"
"No, I didn't. That's what I told the policeman."
"Well, regardless, I don't see what this has to do with
Carter's death."
"Nor I, dear. But Margaret, what were you doing at this
poor man's house?"
"I was trying to find out if he knew the artist of those
prints you received."
I heard Mother suck in her breath. "But I thought I told
you not to bother any more."
"You did, but you changed your mind, remember?"
It took a few seconds for her to answer. "I suppose you're
right. I'm so forgetful these days."
"I also wanted to tell you that the police in Iqaluit have
located the plane. They will be raising it in July. I plan to
be there."
"Do they say where it is?"
"Corporal Reilly said something about it being near
Resolution Island, wherever that is."
"I'm afraid my knowledge of the Arctic isn't very good.
Do you think it's near Cumberland Sound? I recall Harold
mentioning that the town your father flew from was on
that body of water."
"No idea, but I can check."
With portable phone in hand, I searched for an atlas
on the shelves that lined the walls of the den. Not being
especially organized, I'd never arranged my books, and the
ones I'd inherited from Aunt Aggie in any order other than to
consign the big books to the bottom shelves and the smaller
ones to the shorter top shelves. Fortunately, the atlas was a
large book with World Atlas clearly marked on the spine.
"You're right about James Lake being on Cumberland
Sound. Resolution Island is much further away. It lies in
Davis Strait at the mouth of Frobisher Bay, which is south
of the mouth of Cumberland Sound by a couple of hundred kilometres."
"Frobisher Bay. The same name as the town where your
father's plane was supposed to land. It must lie on that
body of water. Is this island far from the town?"
"Quite far. The town is at the head of the bay. Resolution
Island lies a good couple of hundred kilometres or more to
the southeast."


"Strange that Sutton's plane would fly so far off
course."
"That's why the police don't think it's his plane."
"Perhaps you shouldn't go to Iqaluit."
"But it doesn't explain why someone would send you
a copy of the article about this plane and the pictures of a
plane crashing. They seem to think it's Father's plane. No, I
think I should still go."
"It's up to you, dear. Let me know when you need money.
If you don't mind, I'm feeling rather weary. So if we have
nothing further to discuss, I'd like to hang up."
I was about to disconnect when I heard her voice come
back on the line. "Margaret, I do wish you would think
of your sister's position. Your being involved in this, this
murder, makes it very awkward for her."
I pretended I hadn't heard and clicked the phone off.
It was only then that I remembered I hadn't told Mother
about the missing picture.



Twenty-One



The next two months passed by in a flurry of activity. My
hundred-year-old cottage needed some major repairs.
I found myself caught up with roofers and well drillers. I'd
been putting off replacing the deteriorating cedar shake
roof for the past several years until the leak in my bedroom
ceiling during this past spring's glacial melt had finally
forced me into action. But it was no easy matter to find
a roofer experienced and daring enough to re-shingle the
numerous steep roofs of the two-storey timber building,
let alone be willing to make the half-hour drive from
Somerset. But find one I did, at a premium cost.
I did, however, opt for asphalt shingles instead of cedar
shake in the interests of not only keeping costs down but
also forest fires at bay. After my close encounter with one
last summer, I had developed a deep appreciation of their
destructive might. If asphalt shingles would prevent sparks
from igniting, I was all for diverging from the traditional
use of cedar shakes with their tinder box quality.
While I nervously watched the roofer and his workers
cling mountain goat-style to the steep roof, I set about
contracting a well driller. I didn't want to find myself this
summer having to filter out brown sludge, as I had during
last summer's drought, when the original artesian well had
almost gone dry. Fortunately, there was a well driller who
serviced the area, but he had several jobs to do beforehand,
so he didn't arrive until two weeks before I was to leave for
the north.
And like the roof, it turned out that drilling a well
through a couple of hundred feet of solid Precambrian
granite was neither cheap nor easy. And of course the new
well, located no less by the driller using his old fashion
divining rod, was in the opposite direction from the old
well, so I had to bring a contractor in to lay a new pipe
connection to the house.
Meanwhile, I had an Arctic trip to prepare for, so I made
several trips into Ottawa to buy the latest in "guaranteed to
keep you warm at minus 40°C" kind of clothing. I will admit,
I did get caught up in all the permutations and combinations
of outdoor technical clothing Mountain Equipment Co-op
sold. It was all I could do to keep myself from buying more
than I needed. Still, I kept reasoning, it wouldn't be wasted
money. It was the kind of clothing I could always use at
Three Deer Point when the thermometer plunged to arcticlike
temperatures, something that happened most winters.
The bed in the room next to mine was soon covered
with capilene long John tops and bottoms, or base layers,
as I was corrected by the sales clerk; several pairs of thick
wool socks; micro-fibre underpants and bras guaranteed to
wick the sweat away from the skin; a down vest and a down
jacket with a hood rimmed with wolf fur; several washable
merino wool tops that didn't retain odours; a couple of pairs
of heavy micro-fibre pants; a soft shell jacket to be used
either on its own or as a middle layer; a rain/wind jacket
and accompanying pants; Gore-tex lined hiking boots,
and so on. I even bought a sixty-litre backpack, thinking a
suitcase wasn't quite suitable for taking on board the kind
of rugged ship the Mounties would no doubt be using.
I felt I was preparing for a major expedition. When I
finally checked the average temperatures for Iqaluit in mid
July, I realized the temperatures wouldn't be quite as frigid
as I was anticipating. Still, Corporal Reilly had said to dress
warmly, and we would be out on Davis Strait with icebergs
drifting by. So warmly dressed I would be.
I also had to make plans for Sergei. Fortunately, his
cast had been removed at the end of June with no residual
effect on his gait. Though I knew Jid would be upset, I
made arrangements with Teht'aa for the dog to stay with
her at Eric's place. It wasn't Jid I was concerned about; he
was very responsible, and he'd made considerable progress
in training Sergei to pay attention to moving vehicles. No,
it was his aunt I didn't trust. She didn't view the care of pets
in the same way I did.
Teht'aa would ensure Sergei was safe and wouldn't leave
him out all night to fend for himself, as I discovered Jid's aunt
had done on more than one occasion. Teht'aa would feed
him regularly and provide a regular supply of water. But to
help assuage any hurt feelings Jid might have, I gave him the
responsibility of walking Sergei a couple of times a day, at
lunch and after school, when Teht'aa was at work. Teht'aa also
said the boy could come visit any evening if he wanted to.
On one of the occasions I'd called Teht'aa, I got her
father instead. After brusquely telling me she wasn't at
home, Eric had stayed on the line as if wanting to say
something else. For several agonizing seconds, I'd waited
half hopeful, half fearful of what he might have to say. But
when he said, "Meg, look, I want..." I chickened out and
clicked the phone off.
I couldn't go back there. Too much time had passed.
Too many tears had flowed. Although I deeply regretted my
kneejerk reaction to his offer of marriage, if Eric were to ask
me again, the answer would still be the same. I couldn't. Not
then. Not now. Not ever. And he would insist on knowing
the reason, something I could never tell. I wouldn't be able
to bear the disgust that would spring into his eyes. But
enough. I had to get over him and get on with my life.
During this time I gave little thought to the sender of
the pictures, nor was there any action apart from some
follow-up by people I'd contacted earlier. Not surprisingly,
the minister's wife in Broughton Island called to say she
was unable to find any mention of a girl by the name of
Suula in their church records. But given what I'd learned
from Frankie, it didn't matter. The nurse in Tasilik was able
to confirm that the dying man she'd attended to years ago
was in all likelihood Suula's father. A search through the
nursing station records had revealed that his last name was
the same as his first name, Nanuqtuaq.
The information I received from Chief Superintendent
Dan Bouchard, the case officer for the Nanuqtuaq shooting,
on the location of their camp only served to confuse
me. Apparently the camp they'd investigated was not at
the mouth of Cumberland Sound, but in the opposite
direction at the end of the sound and had been located not
on an island, but on one of its many inlets. Still he said it
was possible that this seagull island I mentioned was also
one of their camps, since it wasn't unheard of for an Inuit
family to have more than one camp. They were a nomadic
people, after all.
I heard no further word from the police regarding
Carter's murder, which made me hopeful that my father's
connection to the art dealer had nothing to do with the old
man's death. Although I checked the news daily, I saw no
mention of arrests. In fact, his murder had been replaced
by a more newsworthy drive-by shooting in downtown
Toronto and a triple killing in the suburbs.
Mother and I chatted a couple of times, both at her
instigation, not mine. Perhaps she was feeling guilty, or
she just wanted to show she really did have some motherly
concern for her daughter. She wanted to make sure that
I had enough warm clothing for the arctic cold. She even
offered to pay the bill, which I thankfully agreed to in light
of my other major expenses. She also wanted to assure
herself that Sergei was all right, something she'd failed to
inquire about during our previous conversations. In her
last call, she mentioned she'd had no more visits from the
police, which gave me another reason to assume the Harris
family had moved off the radar screen of Carter's murder.
Finally, two days before I was to fly out, with the roofers
finished, the new well and pipe installed and the dog
scampering around as if he'd never had a broken leg, I was
able to focus on my trip to Iqaluit. I was in the midst of
trying to figure out how I was going to cram all my new
clothes in my new backpack when I got a call.
It was from my brother-in-law. Mother had been
rushed to the hospital a few hours before. They had her
in intensive care where they were closely monitoring her.
It seemed she'd had some kind of heart failure. Although
Leslie thought there was no need for me to go to Toronto, I
decided to. I would never forgive myself if she died without
my seeing her again.
Shoving all plans for my trip aside, I drove to Ottawa
and grabbed the next flight to Pearson Airport. Fortunately,
with arrangements already made for Sergei, it had been an
easy matter to drop him off with Teht'aa. Throughout the
short flight, I worried about Mother dying before I got
there and chastized myself for not being a better daughter.
But I also promised myself I would make up for it in the
time remaining.
I expected to find her on her deathbed, but when I
arrived in the intensive care unit, she was propped up in
bed, smiling, albeit wanly. Although her vitals appeared on
the high side on the monitors, I thought, given her seventy
eight years, they probably weren't far from normal. Jean,
her eyes red from crying, sat in a chair by her side, clasping
her hand.
"Oh, Margaret, you shouldn't have come. I told Leslie
to tell you not to." Mother's voice was little more than a
whisper.
"You're my mother. I had to come."
She held out her other hand. "I'm so glad you did."
For once I felt her words were genuine. I leaned over to
kiss her fully on the lips, not the usual non-committal peck
on the cheek.
For the rest of the afternoon, Jean and I sat on either side
of her, while she drifted in and out of sleep. Leslie joined us
for a little while but left to pick the girls up at school. Other
than sharing our concerns for Mother, there was little Jean
and I had to say to each other. We'd grown too far apart.
Nor did I think it opportune to take my sister aside and
tell her about Mother's love letter to Uncle Harold. In fact,
I really had almost forgotten about it. It was amazing how
the importance of such transgressions faded when faced
with the possible death of the transgressor.
Occasionally our vigil was broken by the arrival of a
nurse to check on Mother's vitals and once by a technician
wheeling in an ekg machine. But when asked, both refused
to comment on her condition. We'd have to wait for the
doctor, who finally appeared close to dinner time with a
couple of young interns in tow.
After many minutes behind Mother's closed bedcurtains,
the slim, fair-haired woman emerged to say that Mother
had not had a heart attack. Though her heartbeat was now
regular, the paramedics had noted an irregular heartbeat
when they'd brought her in. It might have been the
arrhythmia that had caused her to faint. They would know
more after a series of tests on her heart. In the meantime,
they would continue to monitor her.
Jean and I wrapped our arms around each other with
relief. We laughed. Our mother was going to be okay. Leslie
arrived with their two children, and after a brief visit so as
not to tire their grandmother, they left enfamille with Jean
promising to return first thing in the morning. I stayed for
another hour or so, but once Mother was comfortably set
for the night left with the intention of returning the next
morning also.
Although Jean had invited me to spend the night with
them at their Queen's Quay penthouse overlooking Lake
Ontario, I decided I'd rather spend the night in my old bed.
Anxious for news, Shelley and Hannah both rushed to answer
the doorbell. I was able to allay their fears, and in answer to
their entreaties, reassured them that Mother would be very
happy to see them both the following afternoon.
I was ensconced in my usual place in the kitchen, eating
a bowl of Shelley's scrumptious wild mushroom ravioli
topped with fresh basil and plum tomatoes when Hannah
approached me.
"I thought you might be interested in seeing this." She
held out several ripped pieces of paper. "I found this on the
ground near where your mother fainted."
She smoothed out the jagged pieces on the table and
placed them together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It took
me a second or two to understand what I was looking at
and when I did, almost choked on my food. No wonder
Mother had fainted.
Another Suula print, similar to the earlier ones, with
Hannah confirming that a largish envelope had arrived in
yesterday's mail. It was clearly the next frame in the story
of Father's plane crash. Like the others, this one showed
an Inuk male out on the land with his dog team. And
like the others, the plane was in the sky, continuing the
flaming downward spiral begun in the last print. There
was, however, one major difference which sent my blood
running cold, the distinct shape of a parachute with a man
dangling from its end.

Twenty-Two



The next morning when I arrived at the hospital, Mother
was asleep and still attached to the various monitors
and the iv machine. But Jean was fully awake sitting next to
her, nervously sipping a large cup of Second Cup latte.
Without saying a word, I thrust the picture, the pieces
scotched tape together, into her hand.
It took several minutes for the parachutist's significance
to register, but when it did, her reaction was much as mine
had been: shock, pure and simple.
"Does this mean he's...?" she stopped almost as if she
was afraid to say the word "alive".
"Your guess is as good as mine." I whispered back, afraid
to wake Mother. I pointed in the direction of the door, and
Jean followed me into the hallway.
"Did you find this at Mother's?" she asked the minute
the door was safely closed behind us.
I nodded and moved out of the way as a hospital bed
complete with patient, iv paraphernalia and oxygen tanks
whisked past us and into the intensive care unit.
"And I guess Mother was the one who tore it up?"
"I'm assuming so. Hannah found it on the floor near
where she fell when she fainted."
"I imagine this brought on the arrhythmia." Jean
squashed herself against the wall as another bed trundled
down the hall. This one contained not only the patient but
also several plastic bags of belongings piled at the foot of
the bed.
"I'd like to ask her about it, but I'm a bit worried it might
trigger something again."
"Yes, it might," Jean agreed. "The other pictures had
notes with them. Did this one?"
"I don't know. I forgot to ask Hannah." I thought back
to the content of the notes. "I guess the words 'Your man
okay' means literally that. He's okay, he's alive."
Jean shrugged with the same perplexity that I was feeling,
then asked the question I'd been asking myself since seeing
that parachute drifting down to the ice. "Why has he never
let us know?"
"Maybe he hit his head and ended up with amnesia," I
hazarded. "It can happen. You read about people suffering
from it for years, then one day the memory comes back.
Maybe that's what's happened to Father?"
"But why not contact us directly, instead of sending us
these drawings?"
She had a good point. Maybe there had been another
reason he hadn't wanted to return home.
I told my sister about the love letter, but she didn't show
the shock I'd felt on first reading it.
"I'd suspected something was going on," she said.
"Remember those anonymously-sent roses that Mother
would get every year on her birthday? Well, one time I
overheard Uncle Harold ordering them on the phone. But
I thought he was just being a secret admirer. I never knew
she reciprocated. At least not back then. She always acted as
if she didn't like him. Remember?"
I did. In fact, it had come as a surprise when Mother
had taken up with our uncle a few years after Father's
disappearance. "I guess she wanted to fool us.. .and she did." For the first time, I noticed my heart was beating wildly,
as if I'd just climbed a mountain. And perhaps I had. "Maybe
Father found out about the affair and decided if his wife
didn't want him, it was better to pretend he was dead?"
"But even if Father wanted nothing to do with Mother,
what about us? We weren't a part of this love affair." Her
eyes, the same azure blue as Mother's, betrayed the hurt
she was feeling. "Surely he could've contacted us, especially
after we'd left home."
There was nothing I could say in response. I was feeling
the same sense of betrayal. Without thinking, I reached out
to hug my sister, just as she extended her arms towards me.
We clung to each other as if clinging to a lifeline. For once
we shared a common bond. It felt good. Another hospital
bed being pushed into icu finally forced us apart.
"So what do we do now?" Jean asked.
"We can't ask Mother about it."
"I agree. It might kill her. Besides, I doubt she knows
anymore than we do."
"I guess we now have an even greater reason for trying
to find out who is sending these pictures."
"Hopefully they know where Father is living," Jean
added. "Even if he did abandon us, I would still like to see
him. I want to know why."
"Me too. So even though this submerged plane no
longer concerns us, I think I should still go to Iqaluit, since
the letters came from there. But I think it best to postpone
my trip until Mother is better."
"Yes, I suppose it can wait. It's waited this long. But when
you go, I'd like to come with you."
Her request took me by complete surprise. I scanned her
fine porcelain features, so like Mother's and saw genuine
feeling. "Yes, I would like that."
But our plans were immediately changed when we
returned to Mother's bedside. She was fully awake, sipping
tea. The nurse had removed the iv, but she was still hooked
up to the heart and oxygen monitors. The readings appeared
normal to me. Thank goodness.
"I'm glad you are both here." While she paused to catch
her breath, I could see with alarm that her heart rate was
increasing. "Sit down both of you. I have something quite shocking to tell you."
Much to our astonishment, she proceeded to tell us in
a very calm and steady voice about the parachute picture
and her suspicion that Sutton was still alive.
Jean reached over and hugged her. "Shsh...you don't
have to say anything more. Meg and I know. She found the
picture."
I noticed the monitor's heart beatline had taken on a
certain jagged appearance as tears began to trickle down
Mother's cheeks. "It's all my fault."
Before either of us could come up with a fitting response,
the monitor suddenly gonged, and nurses came running.
They shooed us away and whisked the curtain around her
bed, but not before Mother cried out. "Meg, you must go
to Iqaluit. I want you to find him. I want to see him one
last time."
For many anxious minutes, Jean and I waited on the
other side of the closed curtain, listening to the sounds of
the medical world doing its job. At one point, the pretty
cardiologist walked behind the curtain, and minutes later
flipped it aside. Mother appeared to be resting. Her heart
rate seemed to be down, her heartbeat less spiky, her oxygen
levels higher.
The doctor approached us. "I'm afraid your mother
has had another attack of arrhythmia. The nurses seem to
think it was brought on by stress. They noticed she was
quite upset during your visit."
Jean and I both mumbled something in guilty acknowledgement.
The
doctor continued, "She's resting comfortably now.
She's been given a sedative. We'll be doing an echocardiogram
later today and other tests to find out what's
behind the arrhythmia. In the meantime, I would request
that you refrain from upsetting her. Until her condition is
stabilized, I will be imposing visitor restrictions. Only one
visitor at a time and twenty minutes maximum per visit.
I don't like to do this with family members, but you must
appreciate that keeping my patient alive is my primary
concern."
Without another word, she turned on her spiked heels
and clicked away to another patient.
One of the nurses came up to us with a hint of a
sympathetic smile. "I know you girls didn't mean any
harm. She's sleeping nicely now. Why don't the both of you
go have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and in a hour or so
come back one at a time for your visit?"
Despite Mother's plea, I was reluctant to go to Iqaluit.
It was such a long way. Although she and I'd had little
to do with each other over the past several years and we
fought more than we supported each other, she was still my
mother. At any moment she could die. I should and wanted
to stay by her bedside. But over coffee, Jean convinced me
to go.
"You have to find Father," she said. "You know how
some people want to tie up loose ends before they die. I
believe Mother wants to seek Father's forgiveness now that
she knows he's alive."
Sol agreed, and knowing every minute counted, I phoned
the airline to book the next available flight back to Ottawa
and to confirm tomorrow morning's flight to Iqaluit. I left
the hospital only after I'd spent my allotted twenty minutes
with Mother. In fact, it was twenty-seven minutes before
the nurse shooed me out. As I kissed Mother goodbye, I
prayed it wouldn't be the last time.


Twenty-Three



Next morning, I was still in a state of shock. Even after
endless hours spent agonizing over the implications of
the parachute, I still couldn't believe that Father could be
alive. I didn't know whether to feel joy that he had survived
the plane crash or anger that he had forsaken us, his family,
his children.
As the swirl of conflicting emotions continued throughout
the morning's drive to the Ottawa airport, I knew
it would only be resolved when I confronted him. And
confront him I would, no matter how difficult it might be
to find him. Since the letters had been sent from the Arctic,
Jean and I assumed that he was living, if not in Iqaluit, at
least somewhere in the far north.
On the plus side, I could at least rest more easily over
Mother. An early morning call from Jean confirmed that
she'd had a good night and was showing signs of modest
improvement. Yesterday's test had revealed the beginnings
of congestive heart failure, which could be managed with
the appropriate medication. The doctor had continued to
caution Jean not to unduly upset her, so we had agreed that
we'd say nothing further to Mother about Father until I
had located him and learned why he'd wanted his wife and
his children to believe he was dead.
If I had thought for one moment that I was travelling
to a typical Canadian city--after all, Iqaluit was Nunavut's
capital--my expectations were soon corrected the minute
I arrived at the InuitAir check-in counter. Yes, there was
the usual collection of business passengers, complete with
pinstripe suits, trench coats and leather briefcases that one
would expect on a weekday morning. But they were clearly
in the minority. In fact, their professional formality looked
decidedly out of place amidst the friendly casualness of the
rest of the passengers, which I realized could be easily split
into two groups; visitors and residents.
The visitors were immediately recognizable because they
were dressed as I was, in brightly coloured Gore-tex jackets
with gloves and toques jammed into pockets, bulky down
vests, heavy-duty safari pants and thick-soled hiking boots.
Like myself they were prepared for the cold, despite the
temperature outside the airport being in the low twenties
of a typical Ottawa morning in mid-July.
Although one or two of these passengers were pulling
the standard wheeled suitcase, for the most part they were
carrying or dragging fully loaded backpacks, many the large
towering seventy to eighty litre variety with tents and rolled
mats strapped on. I noticed one smallish woman about my
age struggling with one such monster pack and wondered
how she was going to deal with it once we arrived in Iqaluit.
It seemed to be almost as tall as her.
When a slim, athletic-looking young woman arrived
and summoned many of this group around her with an
Arctic Adventures sign, I realized they were a group of
hikers and she their guide. From the hesitancy lurking
under the forced joviality of several of the grey-haired
hikers, I wondered if they weren't wondering what they'd
gotten themselves into.
The Nunavut residents were equally obvious, not only
by their physical features, for many were Inuit, but also by
the boxes of Tim Hortons donuts that most were carrying.
And like the visitors, there seemed to be a uniform of sorts;
jeans, T-shirt, windbreaker and running shoes. Although
none of the men wore traditional garb, several of the
women wore the large hooded parka I'd seen in the picture
at Frankie's place. One young pig-tailed woman even had
a baby, its dark eyes wide with wonder, nestled within the
confines of the fur-trimmed hood. These multi-coloured
parkas, some made from cotton, others duffle, added a
certain festive air to the check-in line, along with the chatter
and smiles, and of course the children. That was another
aspect that distinguished the InuitAir check-in from other
airlines--lots of children, cavorting about and laughing.
I had hoped the forty-odd passengers waiting in the
departure lounge meant it would be a mostly empty plane,
with plenty of free seats to spread out in. But I hadn't
realized that InuitAir was more than just a passenger
airline. When we finally boarded, rather than my seat in
row sixteen being in the middle of the 737, I found myself
facing a partition that divided the plane in half. I could
hear the thumping and banging of cargo being loaded on
the other side. It turns out InuitAir, in fact any plane flying
north, served both as a passenger and a cargo plane. It was
the only way goods could be brought into the far-flung
island communities of Nunavut, apart from the annual
sealifts, which brought the heavier supplies in during the
two months of the summer when the seas were ice-free.
Aside from these idiosyncrasies, the flight was like any
other flight I'd travelled on. Passengers crammed sardinelike
into seats with minimal leg and arm room. I was glad
to have a window seat, one I'd specifically selected to enable
me to spend much of the three hour flight peering out the
window at the passing terrain below. My father had often
talked about watching the land change on his flights north.
I wanted to see for myself this transformation from the
endless expanse of the boreal forest, with its limitless rivers
and lakes, into the equally vast expanse of frozen tundra
and its ice-clogged waterways and seas.
As the flight attendants prepared for departure, the seat
between myself and the aisle seat remained empty. I smiled
and gestured the good news to my seatmate, a tiny wisp of
an elderly Inuk lady. When I'd taken my place, her bronze
face had crinkled into a thousand wrinkles as she smiled
her greeting. But a few short words between us told me
that would probably be the extent of our conversation.
My Inuktitut was nonexistent and her English almost as
minimal. Still, with the occasional exchange of smiles, we
managed to convey our desire to be friendly.
However, just as I was about to claim the empty seat by
placing my newspaper on it, I heard footsteps coming up the
aisle, accompanied by a variety of greetings in Inuktitut and
English. Then a youngish Inuk man stood in the aisle facing
our row. Of a slightly stocky build, with his glossy black hair
trimmed short, he was dressed like the other Nunavut residents
in the de rigueur windbreaker, jeans and T-shirt. Except in his
case, the buttery leather of his orange and black jacket, the
crisp newness of his designer jeans and the silky cotton of his
Boss T-shirt spoke of a shopping trip to a high-end clothing
store. They were in stark contrast to the more plebian Sears or
Zellers origins of the other residents' clothes. And if I had any
doubts about the depth of his wallet, his heavy gold bracelet,
diamond ring and gold necklace quashed them. Moreover,
unlike many of the other Inuit passengers, he had a certain
aura of confidence about him.
A baseball-capped man across the aisle grabbed his
attention for a moment, before he turned back to my
elderly seatmate and spoke a few words to her in Inuktitut.
She twittered and sank further into her seat to allow him
to slide into the seat between us. I hastily crammed the
newspaper under my seat.
He turned a pearly white grin towards me. "I bet you
thought you had a free seat, eh?" He laughed.
Actually it was more like a chuckle, which made my
heart skip. It reminded me of Eric.
"Oh well, can't win them all," I replied, trying to shove
Eric's laughing face from my mind.
"I'm John. Friends call me Johnnie." He held out his
hand. "Your first trip north?"
I grasped his hand, which felt firm and warm. "My
name's Meg, Meg Harris. And yes, it is my first trip."
"Harris, eh?"
He mulled the name over, almost as if it meant something,
so I asked on the off-chance, "You don't happen to know
anyone with that name, do you?"
The twinkle in his dark brown eyes vanished before he
laughed. "Yeah, I suppose I've come across a Harris or two.
You from Toronto?"
"No, from Quebec. But I was wondering whether you knew
any Harrises living in Nunavut. I'm looking for someone of
that name."
His gaze hardened. "They live on Baffin?"
The musical timbre of his voice reminded me of
someone, but I couldn't recall whom. "I think so, but I'm
not sure."
"Sorry, can't help you. Try the rcmp in Iqaluit." Without
waiting for a further response from me, he plugged his
earphones into his ears and turned his iPod up so loud, I was listening to the blaring music whether I wanted to or not.
The plane started down the runway, and within minutes
we were flying over Ottawa, heading northward across
the Ottawa River. As the plane rose higher, the sprawl of
Gatineau was quickly replaced by cottage-lined lakes and
villages scattered amongst the all-encompassing forest.
I recognized Somerset by the dam that spans the Rouge
River, and a short while later thought I spied Echo Lake
and the distinctive finger like intrusion of Three Deer
Point. But before I had a chance to verify it by sighting the
more distinctive buildings of my neighbour, the Forgotten
Bay Hunting and Fishing Camp, the wilderness below was
obliterated by the opaque grey of cloud.
The minute the seatbelt sign went out, Johnnie jumped
out of his seat and began visiting other passengers. That,
I realized, was another characteristic that distinguished
this northern flight from its southern sisters. Many of
the passengers knew each other. In the check-in line, it
had almost been like old home week as they greeted each
other and got caught up on each other's affairs. I supposed
since the population of Nunavut was only around thirty
thousand, people were bound to know each other.
While I sipped a cup of tea, I glanced through the Ottawa
paper I'd jammed under the seat. Little interested me. I
was tired of reading about Iraqis killing Iraqis, of Afghanis
doing likewise and of Israelis killing Palestinians and vice
versa. Even the latest report on cancer-causing foods no
longer sparked interest. If I followed all the recommended
strictures, I'd be left drinking water and eating celery, as
long as it wasn't genetically modified.
I was about to put the newspaper down and start on an
old issue of Macleans magazine, when a headline caught
my eye. "inuit art forgeries discovered."
It proved to be a lengthy article, but the gist of it was
that the Toronto police had uncovered a storage facility
filled with several hundred forged works of Inuit art,
ranging from prints to stone carvings. Some forgeries were
believed to have been done fairly recently, while others were
considered to have been made as long ago as the 1970s.
Needless to say, I immediately thought of Carter Davis's
forged Mystical Owl, so when I saw that a recent murder
investigation had led the police to the discovery, I was fairly
confident which murder investigation they were talking
about. Unfortunately, the article didn't provide specifics
about the link, so I was left wondering if these forgeries
were behind Carter's murder or if something in his art
collection or papers had led the police to this illegal hoard.
I didn't want to believe he'd been behind the forgery. He'd
been too honest and open with me.
No mention was made of arrests or possible suspects in
Carter's murder other than a brief mention that the police
were currently questioning Lynwood Greenberg. I hoped
this didn't mean that they suspected Carter's nephew, for
I'd rather liked the guy. Still, a rich inheritance had incited
many a nice person into murder.
There was however one small reference that made me
sit up. Apparently this storage facility had once housed the
Inuit art collection of the late Sutton Harris.
Although there was no explicit suggestion in the article
of a link between my father and the forgeries, the fact
that his name was mentioned made me nervous. When I
reached Iqaluit, I would have to call my sister to alert her.
Perhaps with her connections, she might be able to learn if
the police were trying to link our father to the forgeries.


Twenty-Four



My socializing seatmate returned to his place in time
for the free lunch of Arctic char and wild rice,
which was a considerable step up from the cardboard
sandwiches offered for a price by other airlines. Still, given
the considerably higher cost of the airfare, I'd probably
paid for it thrice over. If I was hoping to chat more with
Johnnie, the iPod earphones complete with head beating to
the rhythm prevented me from even considering it. Instead
I read every article in Maclean's. I tried to catch up on lost
sleep, but found I was too excited to keep my eyes closed
for longer than a few minutes.
Finally the clouds dispersed, and I was able to pass the
time by watching the endless maze of lakes, rivers and forest
pass underneath, except its mile-after-mile of unrelenting
sameness soon lost my interest. Even the gradual shrinking
of the dense forest into treeless tundra only managed to
interest me for a short time. The only bits of excitement
were the clouds of smoke rising from a number of scattered
forest fires, which from this high altitude appeared as
unthreatening as camp fires, but no doubt were consuming
hundreds of square kilometres of forest. For a short while
we followed a string of transmission lines snaking their way
southward, lines that were probably carrying electricity
generated at Quebec's enormous James Bay hydro-electric
complex. But apart from this and the odd road that led
nowhere, man had made no indentation on this vast empty
land, easily the size of Texas, if not larger.
Bored, I turned to another outdated magazine. By this
time, my neighbour had unplugged his ears and gone off
to hang out with friends, while the tiny Inuk lady softly
snored.
A trip to the washroom, however, proved that Johnnie
wasn't the only one with acquaintances on the plane. At
first glance, the shock of white hair of the woman sitting
at the back of the plane didn't register, but then I spied the
familiar rhinestone glasses.
"Mary Goresky," I said, leaning over the empty aisle seat
beside her. "What a small world. Are you going to Iqaluit to
check out the latest in Inuit art?"
The brown eyes behind the glasses arched in surprised
recognition. "Meg, isn't it? Meg Harris, Leslie's sister-in-law.
How nice to see you again. Yes, I'm travelling on to Cape
Dorset to do research for a new book. And what brings you
to the Arctic? Your father?"
Thinking it was too soon to tell her he might still be
alive, I stuck to the official line. "I'm not sure if I mentioned
to you when we met that the Mounties have found a
submerged plane that might be my father's. I want to be
there when they raise it."
She nodded sympathetically. "Not a happy trip then,
but at least you and your family will finally have closure."
She paused for a moment to sip what looked to be red
wine in her plastic glass. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to get back
to you with information on the artist of your prints. It's
proving a most difficult task, but rest assured, my grad
student is still looking into it."
"Oh, don't worry, I was able to get some information
from other sources."
"Suula, that was the artist's name, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Suula, and I've since learned that her last name is
Nanuqtuaq."
At that point a voice behind me said, "Suula. Did you
say Suula Nanuqtuaq?"
I turned around to see Johnnie standing behind me in
the line for the washroom.
"Did you know her?"
"She's dead."
"I know. But if you knew her, maybe you could tell me
where I could find her children."
His black eyes seemed to mist over. For a second, I
thought he was going to say he knew them, but then a
look of alarm flashed across his face, and he lunged past,
pushing me into the empty seat and into Mary, causing her
wine glass to tip over. Fortunately little wine remained.
"Sorry." I straightened up. "Wonder what that was all
about?"
Mary's hand twitched near her mouth, almost as if it
was lost without a cigarillo to hang onto. An amused smile
passed over her lips. "Probably couldn't hold it any longer."
I laughed too but stopped when I realized it was the
second time he had abruptly terminated our conversation.
However, any thought of pursuing it further was shoved
aside after I closed the door on the toilet and saw the young
man chatting up a stewardess in the galley. She was one of
those tall, willowy Swedish princesses that tended to make
me grit my teeth in envy.
I returned to my seat in time to see the transition from
frozen land to frozen water. We had reached Hudson Strait,
a large body of water that separates Baffin Island from
northern Quebec. The shimmering white expanse of shore
ice soon broke up into thousands of jostling ice pans. With
the break-up had come a curious change in colour. The
edges of many of the floes and the surrounding water had
taken on a translucent blue colour, almost a turquoise,
not unlike that of tropical seas, but rather than emitting
warmth, it spoke of the chilling arctic cold.
The snowbound mountains of Baffin Island were fast
approaching when the plane began its descent into Iqaluit,
and Johnnie returned to his seat, making every effort to
ignore me.
Before he had a chance to plug back into his iPod, I
asked, "Do you live in Iqaluit?"
At first I thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he
shrugged and said, "Yeah. Also got a place in Tasilik."
"Is that where you knew Suula Nanuqtuaq?"
He paused before answering, "Yeah."
"Did you know her children?"
Snow streaked tundra passed beneath us.
He turned his face towards me. "Look, why do you want
to know about Suula? She was just a simple Inuk woman.
She had nothing to do with the south."
"I think she might have known my father, whose plane
went missing in 1973 after it took off from Tasilik."
"And who's your father?" His voice had taken on an
almost belligerent tone.
"Sutton Harris."
I thought I saw startled amazement on his face before
he wrenched his head away from me. "Never heard of the
guy," he muttered.
"I think you have."
Ignoring my accusation, his eyes remained glued to the
partition directly in front of us. The wheels of the plane
rumbled into place as the plane descended towards the
runway.
"Please, I'm trying to find my father. If you know anything
about him, tell me." Splashes of vibrant magenta passed
underneath, which I realized came from thousands upon
thousands of tiny flowers scattered across the tundra.
He remained silent. With a jolt the plane landed, and
we both lurched forward with the force of the brakes. An
oddly shaped saffron-coloured building filled the view
from my window.
"Maybe you don't want to tell me now, but if you change
your mind, I'm staying at the Frobisher Inn."

But I wasn't certain he'd heard me, for by then he'd
plugged himself back into his iPod.
Damn, what was I going to do? I was convinced he knew
something about my father. But why wouldn't he tell me?
Before the plane had barely come to a full stop, he was
up and pushing his way to the back of the plane, acting as
if he wanted to get as far away from me as possible. I tried
to shove my way through the passengers now filling the
aisle but found it impassable. I was left to watch him leap
from the last stair onto the tarmac and bound towards the
frosted doors of the yellow airport.
By the time I entered the warmth of the airport lounge,
his distinctive orange and black jacket was nowhere to be
seen among the milling passengers. He hadn't even waited
to collect his baggage that was still being unloaded from
the plane.
My only consolation was that in a town of less than seven
thousand people, perhaps the number of Johnnies were few
in number, especially ones with money. Hopefully someone,
even the police, might be able to point me in his direction.
While I waited for my luggage to appear on the airport's
sole luggage carrousel, which looked more like a grocery
store conveyor belt, I chatted with Mary. It turned out she
was also staying at the Frobisher Inn before heading off to
Cape Dorset. Although I shouldn't have been surprised,
since the choice was limited to three hotels plus a handful
of B&Bs. We agreed to share a cab.
"But you would have to share anyway," she said. "Besides,
it doesn't make any difference in the fare. No matter the
destination, the fare is six dollars per person, and as long as
there is room in the cab, the cabbie will pick up passengers.
You sometimes find yourself getting an unexpected tour
of Iqaluit as the cabbie drops off other passengers before
reaching your destination."
"I wouldn't mind that. A tour of Iqaluit for six bucks
would be cheap in my books."
"Wait until you see the town. You might change your
mind. This time of year, just after the snow melts, it looks
pretty godforsaken." She thrust herself towards the carrousel
and pulled off a black and red leather suitcase, then reached for
a matching bag. My luggage was still not in sight, even though
the amount of luggage was fast dwindling to a trickle.
"Oh dear, I hope my bags aren't lost. I packed Suula's
prints in them, plus all my warm clothes." I shivered at the
thought of going back outside, where the airport workers
on the tarmac were bent almost in half as they walked into
the wind. The Canadian flag flew straight out at a right
angle from the pole.
"Surely you didn't pack the prints in a suitcase? They
could be damaged."
"What else was I going to do with them? I don't have a
special art carrying case like yours." I pointed to the large,
flat, zippered case she was carrying. "Besides, I've carefully
wrapped them in bubble wrap with a hard piece of cardboard
to keep them from getting bent."
"Well, I suppose that should work." She paused for
a minute before continuing. "I hope seeing your father's
airplane doesn't prove too stressful for you. It won't be easy
seeing your father's remains."
"The police are saying chances are it's not his plane, so
it may be no problem at all. And I do want to find out what
Suula's children might know if anything about him."
"You mentioned that Suula's last name was Nanuqtuaq,
didn't you?"
"Yes, do you know that name?"
"Not as it relates to her, but you know that young man
you were talking to. His last name is Nanuqtuaq. Johnnie
Nanuqtuaq. He's one of Nunavut's most successful stone
carvers. Maybe he's her son."
"Damn" was my only response. Why wouldn't he tell me
such a simple thing?

Twenty-Five



I must admit, it felt a bit surreal staying in the hotel where
my father had spent his last days. I even wondered if by
some lucky fluke I was occupying the same room. Although
the letterhead on the notepaper appeared similar to the
one on his letter to Carter, I doubted much else would be
the same thirty-six years later. Even though the furniture
in my room was ageless hotel style, it looked relatively
new, and the closet-size bathroom appeared to have been
recently updated. I doubt even the view of Iqaluit from
my fourth floor window would have remained the same.
Its population was reported to have skyrocketed since
becoming the capital of Nunavut, and along with it had no
doubt come the growth in buildings, housing and roads.
Still, the natural situation of the town wouldn't have
changed. But at this time of year, it could hardly be
considered attractive. Bleak and inhospitable was all I
could think as I looked out over the dirty sprawl to the tidal
mudflats that not only filled the narrow bay upon which
Iqaluit sat, but also extended far out to where the inlet
met the much larger Frobisher Bay. All signs of winter's
cleansing white were gone, except for a rim of white along
part of the shore. Across the inlet stood a clump of rust
streaked oil tanks and several flat-roofed warehouses. Not
exactly the pristine Arctic beauty of my imaginings nor the
exotic grandeur I'd always believed had enticed my father to
spend so much time away from his family. However, across
the glittering blue expanse of Frobisher Bay, a distant ridge
of snow-streaked mountains hinted at such beauty. Perhaps
that promise was what had lured him.
Beneath me a most bizarre building straddled a mound
of sand. Like something out of Star Trek, it consisted of two
rows of white, oddly shaped cubes attached Lego-like to
each other. Instead of windows, portholes peeked out from
various angled projections. I felt the black yawning gap of
an entranceway would be enough to deter anyone from
entering out of fear of being swallowed whole, but watching
the kids scamper so nonchalantly over the play equipment
standing in one corner of the building's large sandy yard
made me realize it was just my southern prejudices taking
over. These kids were very accustomed to such futuristic
architecture. In fact, they probably spent a considerable
amount of time inside it, since it was likely a school.
Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught
a glimpse of a familiar orange and black jacket before
it vanished behind a house on a street bordering the
schoolyard. A few seconds later, the man appeared again
on the other side of the house and disappeared behind the
next house before I could focus my binoculars on him.
I waited for him to walk into the next gap, but when he
didn't, I decided he must've stopped at the last house. I
debated racing off to the house in case it was Johnnie but
decided against it when I realized the most direct route
would require me to clamber down a steep rocky slope.
Moreover, without a street map, an easier road route
wasn't readily apparent. Besides I felt I could pursue this
later. Either Johnnie lived there or someone who knew his
whereabouts did.
However, as an added precaution, I checked the local
phonebook, which turned out to be for all of Nunavut. But
although a J. Nanuqtuaq was listed for Iqaluit, no address
was provided. In fact few addresses were associated with
any of the names. I guessed in a town this small, it was
assumed everyone knew where everyone lived.
At least I had a phone number, but when I dialed, I got
only voice mail. Figuring he would probably ignore it, I
didn't bother to leave a message.
I also noted that there were no other Nanuqtuaqs listed
in the directory's Iqaluit section, which meant if he had
relatives, they didn't live here. Nor did I find any listings
for Nanuqtuaq in the Tasilik section, not even a listing for
Johnnie, even though he'd mentioned having a house there.
I would have to rely on finding him in Iqaluit. And when
I did, hopefully I'd be able to prevent him from escaping
before I had a chance to find out if he was the person
sending the drawings to my mother and if so, why.
My next task was to meet with Corporal Reilly before
he left for the day. Unfortunately, my missing backpack
wouldn't arrive until the next day, so I was forced to brave
the cold without fleece and long Johns. But fortunately, as
the policeman had promised, the detachment was only a
short walk from the hotel. By the time I reached the squat,
single storey, grey and brown building, the bone-chilling
wind had barely penetrated my Gore-tex outer layer, but it
had left my cheeks feeling like blocks of ice. Hard to believe
it was mid-July.
But Corporal Reilly was out. In fact, I was told by the
clerk at the front window that he wouldn't be returning for
at least another couple of days.
"But I was supposed to go on a boat with him tomorrow.
Do you know where he is?" I asked.
The walls of the vestibule were hung with posters of
Canada's most wanted, as if any of them would end up in
this deep freeze, and photographs of what I assumed were
past heads of the detachment wearing their best red serge
uniforms and smiles.
"You must be Margaret Harris," said the young Inuk
woman. "Wait here." And she disappeared from the window.
Within minutes, she returned with a flustered young
female constable in tow, who introduced herself as Constable
Curran. With her dark navy Kevlar vest barely able to
contain her ample breasts, her silky blond hair clamped
into a ponytail and lush eyelashes framing violet-blue eyes,
she didn't exactly fit my image of an officer of the law. But
one could not call her pretty, for a jagged scar puckered one
side of her freckled face into an ugly grimace. It would be
difficult for a once-pretty woman to live with such a scar.
"Oh, dear, didn't you get Corporal Reilly's message?"
The lilt in her voice spoke of Newfoundland outports.
"Where? At the hotel?" I wasn't sure I'd told Corporal
Reilly where I would be staying.
"No, at your home. He left it a couple of days ago."
Damn. I was so caught up with Mother and my trip that
I'd forgotten to check my messages before leaving. "Sorry.
What did he want to tell me?"
"The salvage boat and the divers arrived early, so they
left yesterday. He told me to tell you he's sorry he couldn't
wait, but they wanted to take advantage of the good weather
window forecasted for the next few days. He figures barring
any trouble, they'll be back with the plane by Friday."
"Well, it doesn't matter now. Even if the plane is my
father's, his body won't be on it."
Her demeanour suddenly took on a more cop-like tone.
"What do you mean? Do you know something we don't?"
At that point a man entered the vestibule behind me, so
Constable Curran suggested we continue our conversation
at her desk.
I soon found myself squeezing into a chair beside
a cluttered desk of a small workstation, one of several
crammed into a not very large squad room, while she took
up her seat in a rigid desk chair.
As the young Mountie hastily covered-up some papers
on her desk, she asked, "How do you know his body won't
be on the plane?"
"My mother recently received some new information
that suggests my father survived the plane crash."
"Why didn't you tell Corporal Reilly?"
"I haven't had a chance. We just learned about it a couple
of days ago."
She opened up her notebook. "What kind of information?"
"Actually
it was conveyed in a series of pictures."
She raised her brow in disbelief. "What do you mean?"
"Someone, we don't know who, has been sending
my mother a series of Inuit drawings that depict a plane
crashing. I told Corporal Reilly about the anonymous
letters, but hadn't yet had a chance to tell him that they also
included pictures. Maybe you know about the letters?"
She shook her strawberry blonde ponytail, a colour I
wished I'd been born with instead of the fiery red I'd been
saddled with. "Nope, Corporal Reilly didn't pass this info
onto me. Best you wait until he returns."
"Anyway, the latest drawing shows a man in a parachute.
We assume it's supposed to be my father."

"Do you have the pictures with you?"
"Not yet. They're in my backpack, which the airline lost,
but I'll bring them in when they arrive tomorrow."
"Do you know who sent them?"
"As I mentioned already, there was no name or return
address."
"Right."
"However, we believe the artist is a person by the name
of Suula Nanuqtuaq." And while Constable Curran wrote
furiously in her notebook, I explained what I knew about
Suula and finished by saying, "I believe Johnnie Nanuqtuaq
might be her son."
"You don't say." She cast a wistful eye towards her
computer screen, which showed a melange of photographs
of Arctic places and people, one of which I recognized as
Johnnie. "I'll check the records."
She'll probably ask Johnnie instead, I thought, which
would solve my problem. "And while you're at it, perhaps
you can find out about Suula's other children. I believe

155

11

1

I

there was a daughter by the name of Apphia and one other
daughter, whose name I don't know."
"I'll pass this onto Corporal Reilly, since this is his
missing persons case."
"But he won't be able to get to it until he gets back and
that might not be for several days. Is there any way you
could look up the information at the same time as you're
checking on Johnnie?"
She sighed and glanced at her computer screen again.
"I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything. I'm
busy myself on a couple of cases."
"Thanks, I'd appreciate any information you can
provide," I said without any real expectations. I would just
have to find Johnnie myself.
She returned to her notebook. Finished writing, she
mused, "If your dad did survive, funny he never turned up,
eh?"
"I'm sure he had his reasons. Perhaps while you're at it,
you can check to see if his name appears in recent records."
She nodded. "You know, if a person doesn't want to be
found, it's pretty easy to keep out of sight in the north. Just
have to hide out in some isolated camp and live off the
land. No one would ever know, apart from the Inuit, that
is, and they wouldn't tell."
She paused. "I've never been able to understand why a
white person would want to live a traditional Inuit life. All
that raw meat." Her lips curled in distaste. "You know that's
what the word 'Eskimo' means. It's Cree for 'eaters of raw
meat'. That's why the Inuit hate the word."
"I'm also wondering if you've ever heard of an Inuit
camp by the name of Naujalik? It's supposed to be the
name of Suula's camp. I've been told it's somewhere on
Cumberland Sound, that is if it still exists. Suula's dead
now, so there may not be anyone living there any more."
"Nope, but Corporal Reilly can check up on that too. But
you know, Ms Harris, it's pretty near impossible that your
father is alive. Even if he survived the crash, he wouldn't
have survived afterwards especially since he would've been
hundreds of miles from help."
I expressed a theory that I'd been mulling over since
learning of the possibility of his survival. "What if some
Inuit found him, specifically Suula or her family. Perhaps
that's what the pictures are trying to tell us."
"Yeah, I suppose, but he was probably badly injured. No
way he would've survived without proper medical attention.
Still, I've learned in my short time here that anything's possible
in the north. So yeah, we can follow up on this." She closed
her notebook to bring the interview to a close.
"When do you think you'll be able to get back to me?
I'm not sure how long I'll be staying here."

"I'm pretty busy myself. Will probably have to wait until
Reilly gets back."
"You said that would be in a couple of days?"
"Yeah, maybe. But could take up to a week to get that
plane up, especially if they get into a patch of bad weather. I
tell you, it can sure get rough out on the sea this time of year.
Storms come up sudden like, just like back home, eh?"
"Newfoundland?"
"Yeah, the Rock, how'd you guess?"
She laughed when I mentioned her accent. But any
further conversation was cut short by her ringing phone.
By the time I walked back out into the blustery cold, I'd
made up my mind to continue my own search. I had no
idea how long it would be before Corporal Reilly would
follow up, and by then it could be too late for Mother.
Besides, I was here. I knew of one location where Johnnie
might be found. I also knew his phone number, even if he
never answered. Besides, I was sure a lot of people in town
would know where he lived. After all, he was supposed to
be one of Iqaluit's most successful artists. And when I did
find his house, I would stay on his doorstep, sleep there if I
had to, until he answered my questions.
On leaving the rcmp detachment, I noticed a couple of
kids skipping down the embankment to the right. I
scrambled after them, hoping this would take me to the
lower part of town, to the house Johnnie had entered.
The dirt path skirted a rocky ditch that a month or more
ago would've been filled with fast-flowing snowmelt. Today
the stream was little more than a trickle, and the ditch was
filled with the detritus of winter; plastic pop bottles and
cans, the odd baseball hat, a couple of squashed soccer balls
and a kid's twisted tricycle. I even saw animal bones, one
with a splayed hoof at the end which couldn't belong to a
deer. Deer didn't roam the Arctic, but caribou did.
Once beyond the embankment, I headed towards the
hovering bulk of the school through a housing complex
of white, faceless town houses. With only a smattering of
greenery, the all-pervasive dirt only served to compound
their boxlike unattractiveness. But then again, my southern
sensibilities were taking over. For of course in this barren
land, hundreds of kilometers north of the treeline, green
vegetation, especially lawn-like grass, would be a rarity, if
not altogether non-existent.
But when a couple of young women, one with a baby
peeking over her shoulder, smiled shyly at me as they
passed by, I realized the Arctic had something else to offer,
friendliness, a rare commodity in the south. An elderly
man sitting on the wooden stairs of one of the units waved
as I walked by and beamed a gap-filled grin. Even the
kids playing in the schoolyard noted my passage, with a
couple running up to find out where I came from. When I
mentioned Quebec, one pig-tailed girl laughingly displayed
her knowledge by replying in a few words of French. She even
asked me if I knew the song "Frere Jacques", which I obligingly
sang and was joined by her and her friends. Yes, this open
warmth more than made up for the town's stark sterility.
The drab grey house stood at the far end of the short
street bordering the school, but the peeling paint and
matchbox appearance didn't strike me as the kind of house
Johnnie would live in, with his designer clothing and gold
jewellery. I could see him living in the large two-storey
house next to where I stood at the beginning of the street.
A tarp-covered skidoo occupied a corner of the front yard,
while a dusty Xterra was parked before the street's only
garage. Yet I'd lost sight of him at the shabbier house, which
at the moment was showing considerably more life.
As I approached, a couple tramped down the front stairs
while a man brushed past them and went inside without
bothering to knock. I, on the other hand, couldn't just
walk into a strange house, so I knocked. No one answered.
Several more knocks were likewise ignored, but I could
hear raucous laughter and chatter inside. Pushing aside
my southern inhibitions, I entered a small vestibule and
almost tripped over a motley assortment of boots and
shoes scattered over the worn plywood floor.
Unfortunately, I didn't see Johnnie's leather jacket among
the jackets hanging on the walls, but I did see something that
reminded me that the capital of Nunavut was only a street
away from the wilderness. A couple of rifles were propped
barrel-up in a corner, while above them hung several dead
birds, what I took to be ptarmigan, an Arctic version of the
ruffled grouse I was used to seeing around Three Deer Point.
Their brown and white feathers looked so soft, I couldn't
resist running my hands over their plump bodies.
Despite the hollow clunking my boots made on the
vestibule floor, no one came to check, so I gently pushed
open the inside door and found myself peering into a large
room which seemed to occupy most of the house. Directly
across from me was a kitchen area with a linoleum-covered
counter and stainless steel sink. On the floor by the fridge
lay a flattened piece of cardboard covered with bloodied
chunks of raw meat. And in the middle of the room
sprawled a circle of people, men and women, slapping cards
onto the floor in front of them. In the centre lay a growing
pile of loonies and toonies, every denomination of dollar
bill, in addition to a variety of brass bullets. I even thought
I spied a government cheque buried under the pile. The
sight of a couple of almost empty liquor bottles reminded
me that I wanted to buy some scotch before returning to
my hotel.
So intent were they on their play that no one noticed me,
not even the old woman sitting on a chesterfield shoved
against the front window. She was too focused on sewing
baby clothes. Beside her lay the recipient of these clothes, a
tiny baby, its eyes tightly closed, its chest rising and falling
with the steady rhythm of sleep.
Since it was obvious Johnnie wasn't among the gamblers,
I decided to slip away unannounced when a voice behind
me suddenly rumbled. "Are you going or stayin'?"
He so startled me that I almost fell into the room. Several
players, likewise startled, looked up, but only for a second
before turning their attention back to the game.
"If you're staying, you'd better take your boots off. Geela
doesn't like us tracking in dirt."
His finger pointed to the old woman. In the other hand
he carried a couple of full plastic grocery bags. Although
his voice hinted at annoyance, the twinkle in his black eyes
said otherwise.
A cap of straight black hair framed his perfectly round
face. He held out his hand and smiled. "I'm Pete Pitsiulak.
Not from around here, are ya?"
Shaking his hand, I introduced myself.
"Guess you've never seen Inuit playing patiik. Come on
in and join us for a hand. It's not too different from gin
rummy."
At this point, a thin wiry man, his hair tugged back into
a scraggly ponytail and a grin stretching from ear to ear,
slapped his wrist, shouted in Inuktitut and hauled the pile
of money towards him.
"Given the size of that pot, I'm not sure I can afford it."
For a moment he seemed distracted, then he laughed.
"Amazing, a southerner who thinks she can't beat us Eskimos."
"Now, if that isn't a challenge, I've never heard one." I
laughed. "But I'm dreadful at cards. I can never remember
what's been played. Thanks for the offer, but I'll give it a miss."
"At least come on in and have a drink."
Afraid of intruding, I was about to decline, but the
welcoming smiles on many of the players' faces made me
change my mind. Besides, a bit of liquor would go down
well about now.
After dutifully removing my boots, I followed Pete to
the kitchen, where he poured me a good measure from a
fresh bottle of Canadian Club.
While I mixed in some ginger ale, he bent down to pick
up the bloodied cardboard. "I don't suppose I could interest
you in some fresh seal meat."
I glanced at the raw chunks but decided that as much
as I loved sushi and steak tartar, I wasn't about to try this
Arctic delicacy, not yet.
On the other hand, the rye and ginger went down very
smoothly, almost too smoothly. It took me back to my
university days, when my hand was rarely without an ice
filled glass of the bubbly sweet mixture. In fact, my mother
would probably insist it was a contributing factor to my
failure to graduate.
While he motioned me to sit in one of the chairs at a nearby
table, he downed his scotch and soda, "Boy I needed that," he
said, pouring himself another. "It's been a rough day."
Without his bulky down jacket, he seemed taller and
leaner than my first impression. He placed opened bags of
chips on the floor amongst the players and took a chair
across from me.
For a few minutes he silently watched the players, then
turned to me, "What brings you to Iqaluit?"
I was about to tell him some inconsequential story, but
his look of genuine interest dissuaded me, so I told him
about my father's missing plane.
"No kidding. I remember when that plane went missing.
I was twelve or thirteen. My dad was guiding for the rcmp
back then. He made several trips with them to check out
possible sightings, but they never found it."
"Do you know where they were looking?"
"Yeah, it was when we were living in Qikiqtarjuaq, or
Broughton Island as it was called back then. The search
plane thought they saw some wreckage on the ice near
Cape Dyer before bad weather set in. Coast is pretty rough
up there. Lots of mountains and fjords. Plus it was close to
spring break-up. They almost lost a team of dogs when the
ice gave way. Plenty of polar bears too. Boy, we feasted for
a month on the one Dad brought home. Mom still has that
skin. It was one big bugger."
Remembering my initial inquiries about Suula, I said,
"Broughton Island is north of Tasilik, isn't it?"
"I see you're not such a northern neophyte, after all."
His eyes twinkled.
"I'm afraid I don't know much about Baffin Island, but I
recently talked to a couple people from there. I'm surprised,
though, that the search party would be looking that far
north of Tasilik, since my father's plane was supposed to be
heading south to Iqaluit."
"I'm afraid I can't help you there. Could be they thought
the pilot might've gone way off course. I remember the
weather was pretty stormy about that time. Anyways, Dad
musta been gone a month before they finally came home."
He paused to take a drink. "So that was your dad, eh? Sorry
to hear that."
"Actually, we've recently learned that he might've survived
the crash."
"That right? But even if he had, no way he could've
survived for long. Too damn cold and with no gun, he
would've starved."
"But what if he was rescued by some local people?"
"Yeah, I guess. But I remember Dad saying they checked
out the camps in the area. No one saw anything. He was
pretty sure the plane didn't come down near there. He
figured who ever saw the plane wreckage was wrong."
"We believe a woman by the name of Suula Nanuqtuaq
might have witnessed the plane crash."
"You don't say. Must be Johnnie's anaana?"
The pony-tailed player called out again and, smacking his
lips with glee, added to his growing pile of winnings. Pete
leaned over and gave him a congratulatory slap on the back.
"If that means 'mother', yes. That's why I'm here," I said
as he continued to watch the gamblers. "I thought I saw
Johnnie come to this house an hour or so ago."
Pete kept his focus on the game for so long that I thought
he hadn't heard me. As I was about to repeat the question,
he shifted his gaze back to me and said, "Yeah, he was here.
But didn't stay long. What do you want with him?"
I explained about the drawings.
"They sound interesting. Did you bring them with you?
I'd like to see some of Suula's work."
"I did, but unfortunately they're with my baggage which
the airlines lost."
"Don't worry. It happens frequently. They'll be on
tomorrow's flight. You know Suula's dead, don't you?"
"That's why I want to see her son. I'm hoping he knows
something about them and can tell me why they were sent
to my mother."
Pete's eyes turned thoughtful as he mulled over my
words. While I took a last sip of my rye and ginger. Finally
he said, "I can take you to him, if you like."
"Thanks. I'd really appreciate it."
"But it'll have to wait until the game's over. I can't leave
Geela alone with this drunken lot."
"How long do you think that'll be? I can come back
later."
"Won't be long now. This game's been going on since
yesterday morning. I think most of the players are pretty well
cleaned out. Only one who's made any money is Mala."
Chortling, he pointed to the lucky gambler whose pile of
winnings towered over everyone else's. A youngish woman
in form fitting jeans and a black sweatshirt with a polar
bear outlined in white sat quietly crying in a corner.
Pete sat down beside her and placed an arm around her
shoulders. "You've done it again, haven't you, Lucy? You've
lost your government cheque."
She nodded as another flood of tears cascaded down
her cheeks. "What am I gonna do? I was supposed to buy
some of that special formula she needs." She pointed to the
baby who was beginning to cry.
"How much you need?" Pete asked pulling out his
wallet. He extracted a wad of twenties and counted five.
"Will this do?"
She slipped it into her pocket. "Pete, what'd I ever do
without you?"
"You gotta stop doing this. You have this new baby to
look after. She needs you more than you need the drinking
and the gambling. Promise me you'll stop."
She nodded meekly, but as she lifted the baby up to her
bare breast, I knew that the next time temptation presented
itself, she would give in. I should know. But at least I could
not count gambling as one of my vices, my skinflint Scottish
blood no doubt coming through.

Twenty-Seven



It turned out that the two-storey home I'd admired
belonged to Pete. Johnnie, he informed me, lived in Apex,
a short drive away.
"In fact," he said, starting up the Xterra, "it's the only
place you can drive to around here. There are only two
other roads that go beyond Iqaluit. One is to a park and the
other is the Road to Nowhere."
"To Nowhere? You can't be serious."
"You bet. It was originally built for a new dump, which
never materialized, so the road just stops in the middle of
the tundra. Some of you white folk like to jog along it when
the weather's good."
"And not you Inuit?"
"Nah. We get our exercise from pushing the start buttons
on our skidoos and atvs." He chortled.
I laughed with him. I liked his free and easy manner. So
much like.. .no, I wouldn't go there.
"But it looks to me as if the only people I see walking
around here are Inuit."
We were passing a straggle of young men tramping
along the side of the dirt road towards Apex with their
windbreaker collars up to ward off the icy wind and their
bare hands stuffed into their pockets.
"I guess most white folks get their exercise from turning
the steering wheels of their cars," I quipped.
"Right on." He fired a mock gun back at me. "Can make
you crazy, all this driving around in circles with no place
to go."
We climbed up onto the heights surrounding Iqaluit, past
several new housing developments. The dirt landscaping
and skidoos parked in the front yards might not conform
to House and Garden standards, but these houses sure had
spectacular views of Frobisher Bay and the snow-streaked
mountains of the far shore. "I guess there's a housing boom
going on."
"You better believe it. Since Iqaluit became the capital,
it's been a boomtown. But it's also brought its share of
problems."
He suddenly swerved to avoid a tanker truck without
any markings that had turned onto the road in front of us.
"Damn trucks think they own the roads." Another nameless
tanker truck lumbered past.
Cursing under his breath, he focused on his driving as
we passed a sprawling single-storey building that looked
much like a typical southern school. In the yard a group of
children cavorted on the play equipment.
A few minutes later, we drove by the last house in
Iqaluit, a green roofed A-frame surrounded by rock and
tundra with probably the best view in town. By this time
we were a good hundred metres or more above the water.
Beyond a string of islands, the broad expanse of Frobisher
Bay glimmered in the afternoon sun. I thought afternoon
until I checked my watch and realized it was well past
seven o'clock. No wonder my stomach was beginning to
feel empty.
"The angle of the sun has confused me. I didn't realize it
was so late. I hope I'm not keeping you from your dinner."
"No problem. It's easy enough to get confused this close
to the Arctic Circle. While the sun does set for an hour or
two in Iqaluit, if you go further north, say to Tasilik, you'll
find yourself in continuous daylight."
"Doubt I'll have a chance to experience that. If Johnnie
can answer most of my questions, I won't need to go to
Tasilik. You're sure he'll be there?"

166
"Yup. He said he wanted to finish polishing a sculpture
he was working on."
"Good." I watched a couple of small white and blackbirds
flit amongst some lichen-covered rocks. "You mentioned
something about the Iqaluit boom bringing its share of
problems."
"Yeah, that's right. You see, thirty-forty years ago when
most of us still lived on the land, there were almost no
economic divisions. The ability to hunt was essentially
the determining factor, with some hunters being more
successful than others. Still a good hunter would share his
kill with those in need. As long as hunting was good, no
one in the camp went hungry. Not so today." He waved at
another group of young men walking along the edge of the
road, this time in the opposite direction towards Iqaluit.
Rolling hills of rock and tundra spread out on either side
>of the road. While the pervasive colours were brown and
grey with a touch of dull green, a sudden splash of magenta
had me exclaiming, "Wow, what a gorgeous colour. I saw
that same flower as the plane came into the airport."
"That's Nunavut's territorial flower, the purple saxifrage.
And that's arctic poppy over there." He pointed to several
clumps of nodding yellow flowers. "We may not have many
flowers here, but the ones we have pack a powerful lot of
colour for their tiny size."
Through a break in the hills I could see further inland.
The same undulating terrain continued, with its share of
magenta and yellow and the occasional white clump of
snow that had not yet melted in the summer sun. Several
ravens circled overhead, while one craggy oldster, feathers
ruffled in the wind, guarded his domain atop one of the
highest rock outcroppings.
"Today we have a middle class, courtesy of employment,
mostly government employment," Pete continued.
"But I would think that would be a good thing."
"It is, but not all Inuit have jobs; in fact, many don't. But
the old ways of sharing have disappeared. The middle class
Inuit keep their money to themselves and their extended
families and let the unemployed Inuit rely on welfare and
other government handouts."
"Sounds much like what happens in the rest of Canadian
society."
"Yeah, I suppose. But we're not used to it. It creates
divisions in our society that aren't good. It also means you
have a lot of people with nothing to do. They can't go out on
the land because they don't have the money for gas, bullets
or rifles, let alone for a skidoo or boat. So without country
food, they're forced to buy food from stores. And since
everything has to be shipped in by air, you can imagine the
exorbitant prices. Some white folks have even started up a
food bank, something that would've been unheard of a few
years back. And when people have nothing to do, you know
what happens."
"I can guess, drinking, gambling... What I saw at Geela's
house."
"Yeah. Some are even into drugs. And of course, there's
the petty crime that goes with these addictions. It's a bad
situation, and we're struggling to cope with it."
"But you seemed to do your part of the sharing. You're
obviously a part of this middle class, yet I saw you being
very generous to that young woman who'd gambled away
her monthly cheque."
He shrugged. "I try, but I'm just one person. Let's talk
about something else. Tell me about your father. His name
was Sutton Harris, wasn't it?"
I concurred, surprised he remembered.
"Coincidentally, his name was mentioned recently."
"Probably in connection with the submerged plane
discovered last fall."
"No, had to do with art. I gather he helped one or two of
the Baffin Island art co-operatives get off the ground in the
early days by finding southern buyers for their art."

168
"I don't know anything about that. I was only told he
was a collector of Inuit art. He was on one of his art-buying
trips when his plane went missing."
"But he also sold Inuit art, didn't he?"
"Maybe he did, but as far as I know, he kept most of what
he bought. You have to remember, I was only ten when he
disappeared. Who told you this?"
He glanced sideways at me. "A Toronto policeman's in
town. He's investigating a possible Iqaluit connection to a
crime committed there."
"You must mean Carter Davis's murder," I said, realizing
that I'd forgotten to let the Toronto police know I was
coming here.
"You know about the murder?"
"I happened to go to his house just after his body was found.
It left me feeling quite sad. I rather liked the old man."
, His eyes flicked in my direction then turned back to the
road. "He was a good friend to many of our early artists."
"I don't understand why the cop would think there is
a connection between my father and Carter's death. Any
dealings my father had with him stopped thirty-six years
ago."
"So your father was involved with Carter Davis?"
"I gather from my mother that he bought much of his
art from Carter's gallery. But what does it matter to you?
Are you a policeman?"
"No, I'm an elected official with the Nunavut Government.
Among my many hats, I'm the Minister of Culture."
"Oh. You don't look or act like one to me," I blurted out
without thinking. "Sorry, that didn't come out right. I meant
you don't look like the puffed-up, full-of-their-own-self
importance politicians I'm used to seeing on the news."
"Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment." He laughed.
We rounded a curve and began our descent beside a
cascading river towards a bridge that crossed onto a narrow
peninsula. Assorted coloured bungalows and one or two
larger buildings, including a church, huddled amongst the
rocks. I even spied a patch or two of green in the yards of
some of the houses.
"Is that Apex?"
"Yes, but Johnnie doesn't live there. He lives on this side
of the river where the old Hudson Bay Company store used
to be."
"If you don't mind my asking, what is the policeman
saying about my father?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you. In fact, I shouldn't have
mentioned it at all."
But I wasn't going to give up. "I read something in the
paper about Inuit art forgeries being found in a warehouse
that once belonged to my father. Does this have anything
to do with that? Is this cop trying to say my father was
involved?"
"Sergeant Hue is still in town. Perhaps you should ask
him."
I glanced at Pete and wondered what he wasn't telling
me. "Thanks, I will."
At this point, the politician turned his suv onto a road
that led down a sharp decline to several red-roofed houses
strung out along a sandy beach, an empty beach, I might
add, devoid of any activity, not even the all-pervasive group
of playing children that I'd come to expect as an integral
part of the Iqaluit scene. Mind you, it did have its share of
ravens and one or two soaring sea gulls. Further out into the
small bay, I spied a flash of movement. Someone wearing
a bright blue almost turquoise jacket was navigating an
aluminum motorboat through some ice pans. When they
reached open water, they revved up the engine and streaked
beyond a rocky point in the direction of Iqaluit.
Rather than stopping at what I thought might be
Johnnie's house, a prosperous looking storey-and-a-half
with crisp white vinyl siding and a shiny red metallic roof,
Pete drove past it and a couple of other less prosperous
looking bungalows to where a red bmw suv was parked
beside the least prosperous house, a more grey than white
clapboard house that had clearly seen too many winters.
My initial assumption, however, was proven correct,
when Pete said, "Johnnie lives in that first house. But he
uses the old hbc building as his workshop and gallery. This's
his car, so he's gotta be here."
I followed Pete around the side of the house and found
myself stepping through a thick layer of greyish-green dust
and stone shards.
"Good, he's here." Pete pointed at a wooden table likewise
covered in stone dust and shards. "Must've just gone inside
for something."
On the table lay a variety of chisels, hammers and other
carving tools, including a power cutter, an uncut block of
grayish-green rock and a facemask thick with dust. The
sculpture Johnnie had been working on was no longer in
sight, although I could see an outline in the dust where it
had stood.
Pete pushed open the side door. "Johnnie, it's me, Pete.
You decent? I have company with me." He stepped inside
with me following close on his heels.
The large square room was lined with shelves, on which
stood a variety of bears, seals and whales at various stages
of carving. Although one or two of the more finished ones
looked to be fairly good, for the most part they appeared
rather amateurish. Not what I would've expected from one
of Nunavut's master carvers.
Noticing my reaction, Pete said. "Johnnie teaches carving
to a number of young aspiring carvers. These are probably
their efforts. If you want to see perfection, come into the
next room, where he keeps his gallery."
Although I noticed footprints in the dusty floor heading
towards the door we were approaching, we'd not yet heard
an answering response from Johnnie. I was beginning to
worry that he'd escaped me again.
"Where's Johnnie?" I asked.
"Probably stepped outside or gone back to his house. I'll
show you the gallery and then we'll go back to his house."
Pete opened the door to a smaller but considerably
cleaner room, although the polished wooden floor did
have its share of tracked-in stone dust. Soft direct lighting
bathed a variety of carvings perched on pedestals. Several
more were encased in glass. About half of the carvings were
of traditional subjects, bears, walruses and the like created
out of a variety of stone ranging from speckled grey to
mottled green with a few carved out of a white streaked
black stone. But unlike the students' attempts, these ones
came alive. One almost expected the polar bear rising on
its hind legs to pounce after its quarry.
The rest of his carvings were of more contemporary
subjects. In fact, several explored the theme of Inuit
addictions, which made me wonder if Johnnie was the
sculptor of the one my brother-in-law had bought.
But nowhere did we see Johnnie.
"It looks as if he might have left," I said, pointing to
another line of dusty footprints leading to an outside door.
The tracks however vanished into the coarse sand beyond
the door.
Worried Johnnie would get away again, I suggested Pete
take the road back to his house, while I went along the
beach. That way we would hopefully have all exit routes
covered.
For the first time since arriving in Nunavut, I realized
I was smelling something other than man-made odours.
Salty sea air. It smelt good.
But the land was still, almost too still. Waves lapped
languidly onto the coarse brown sand. The cold air
wafting off the water was barely a breath. Clouds drifted
imperceptibly over the water. However, the ravens were
restless. One voiced his displeasure from atop Johnnie's
roof, while a couple of others hopped around an object
lying in the sand in front of his house.
I moved off the beach to the road side of Johnnie's house
and reached his door at the same time as Pete without
seeing any signs of Suula's son.
"If he's not here, I don't know where he's gone," Pete said,
once more pushing open a house door without knocking.
My hopes rose when I noticed Johnnie's orange and
black leather jacket hanging inside the door. But when we
entered the kitchen, the house felt as silent and still as his
workshop, although a half full mug of tea had been left on
the counter beside an opened package of chocolate chip
cookies. The tea looked cold, and even though my stomach
growled from hunger, I resisted the temptation to help
myself to a cookie.
"Johnnie, you here?" shouted Pete. He swung the kitchen
door open and walked into the next room. "Nope not
here, either." I then heard a door click open, immediately
followed by, "Hell! Not again!"
I rushed towards the sound to see Pete bending over
someone lying outside on the sand. He shook the still
figure and cried, "Johnnie! Johnnie! Don't die on me, you
bastard!"
The ravens scattered.


Twenty-Sight



Pete's jacket dripped with blood, as did his hands. "I think
I feel a pulse. Quick, call the operator for an ambulance.
I'm gonna try to stop the blood." As Pete wrenched off his
jacket, I raced inside in search of a phone.
Unfortunately, Johnnie hadn't put his portable phone
back in its base in the kitchen, an annoying habit I too
was guilty of, so I found myself frantically pushing the
pager button and scrambling towards the beeping before
it stopped. I had to do it twice before I finally found the
handset lying under a book on his night table.
But as I reached for it, I caught sight of something else,
something I hadn't seen in thirty-six years, not since my
father had pulled it out of his pocket the night before his
final trip to the Arctic. Great-grandpa Joe's gold pocket
watch with its distinctive engraving of "JEH" on the cover.
It took all my willpower to focus my attention on the
emergency call, but as soon as I was satisfied the paramedics
were on their way, I returned to the watch.
Not wanting to believe my eyes, I picked it up carefully
and ran my trembling fingers over its smooth surface, the
way I liked to as a child. And yes, there was the scratch,
the jagged scratch on the back where Mother's diamond
ring had accidentally nicked it during one of their
arguments. Father had been terribly upset and Mother
equally apologetic, but I remember noticing the faint hint
of satisfaction in her eyes. She'd resented the influence the
long dead Joseph Ernest Harris still had on his family.
Finally, concrete proof of a connection between Johnnie
and Father. But how had the artist come by it? Had it come
from a living man or from his dead body lying on the snow?
I prayed even harder that Johnnie would live to tell me what
he knew. I slipped the watch into my pocket before heading
back out to Pete. I doubted anyone knew of its existence.
Besides, by rights the watch was mine.
Pete, his top completely bare, bent over Johnnie, who was
quiet, too quiet. Blood soaked the sand where he lay. I couldn't
see any wounds on his head, arms or legs, but the cloth Pete
held against the injured man's throat was soaked in blood. I
looked for a possible weapon, a gun, a knife, whatever, but I
didn't see anything that could cause such blood lose.
I thought I saw Johnnie's eyelid twitch. "Keep holding it,
Pete. I think you're stopping the blood flow," I cried.
My ears pricked up at the faint sound of a siren.
There was that slight twitch again. "It's working. The
ambulance is almost here."
The siren reverberated off the surrounding hills. A crunch
of tires on the sand, doors opening. A scurry of feet and the
clanging of equipment as it fell to the ground. A uniformed
paramedic brushed Pete aside and continued clamping
down on the blood-soaked cloth while another paramedic
prepared a bandage. Blood spurted from the wound while
the paramedic quickly assessed the damage before securing
the bandage over it. The other paramedic checked Johnnie's
vital signs and pierced a vein for an rv drip.
She looked up. "It's going to be touch and go, Pete. He
has a pulse, but it's very faint. Do you know how he was
injured?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? He cut his own throat." Pete flung
back in anger and despair.
She nodded solemnly and began readying Johnnie for
removal. Blood seeped through the bandage.
"Pete, I'm not so sure," I interjected. "I don't see any
knife. Look for yourself. If he did try to commit suicide, it
would be near him."
Pete lurched to his feet and began searching the
surrounding sand.
"Why would you automatically assume he tried to kill
himself?" I continued.
"Because, it's the popular way to die around here, didn't
you know?" His voice filled with bitterness. "Nunavut has
the highest suicide rate in Canada."
The paramedics carefully lifted Johnnie onto the
stretcher and half-pushed, half-wheeled it through the
sand to the ambulance.
"But I don't think Johnnie took that route. Have you
found a weapon yet?"
"Nope."
"Nor have I. And if there isn't one, you know what that
means." I finished just as a marked rcmp pick-up truck
stopped beside the ambulance. Out strode Constable
Curran and her partner.
While the male Mountie stopped to speak to the
paramedics, Curran approached us. "What's happened
here?" she asked.
Pete told her about finding Johnnie bleeding on the
ground. I watched the paramedics. They didn't seem to be
in too big a rush to leave. Poor Johnnie, I thought. And
poor Pete. He was going to be very upset when he learned
that his friend had died.
Curran's partner walked over and began taking pictures.
At the sound of the ambulance leaving, Pete looked up, and
I watched his shoulders slump as the significance of its slow
pace registered. Tears seeped from his eyes. I put my arm
around him in sympathy.
"What a waste," he said.
Both cops seemed shaken. I guessed Johnnie had been a
well-liked member of the community.
Curran's partner began stringing up yellow security tape
around what was now a murder scene. While the sand had
soaked up much of Johnnie's blood, the red stain was still
very evident. The blood-drenched cloth Pete had used lay
caked in sand on the ground. I glanced at Pete's bare chest
and decided that the cloth was his T-shirt.
"You're shivering," I said. "Better put your jacket back on."
Ignoring his bloodied hands, he reached down to where
his jacket had landed, and without bothering to shake the
sand out, he put it back on.
Tapping his shoe against the filthy shirt, he said to
Curran, "You can throw this in the garbage. I don't ever
want to see it again."
She nodded grimly.
"Do you think he was trying to defend himself?" I asked,
pointing to an area of disturbed sand from which a line of
blood led to the spot where Pete had found his dying friend.
Not far from the scuffed sand was a strange indentation, as
if some heavy object had been placed there.
"Hard to tell," Curran's partner replied. "But we'll know
more after forensics has done their investigation."
Curran asked, "And both of you are certain you didn't
see any knife or other sharp object?"
We shook our heads. And then I remembered. "I did see
a motorboat out in the bay. It could've been coming from
this beach. I couldn't tell if the person in it was a man or a
woman."
While Curran wrote in her notebook, I tried to provide as
many details as I could, including the turquoise jacket.
"Aluminum boats are pretty common around here," she
said when I'd finished. "But maybe someone else saw it, too."
For the first time I noticed a number of people watching
from the other side of the yellow tape.
"We might be able to find someone in Iqaluit who saw
the boat arriving. It couldn't have gone anywhere else."
"Unless it went to one of the camps on the Bay," Pete
interjected. "There are a couple not that far from here."
"Right. Do you know of anyone who would want to kill
Johnnie?" Constable Curran's voice almost cracked.
"Nope. Everyone liked him."
The young Mountie nodded. "What about a possible
motive?"
Pete glanced around as if trying to find one amongst the
empty rocks and waves. A raven squawked overhead. The
tide had receded by several feet, leaving a strip of dark wet
sand sprinkled liberally with rocks. Curran's partner walked
beside it, searching for possible signs of the departing boater
or anything else that could be evidence. A short distance in
front of him, I spied another strange indentation, except in
the wet sand this one appeared almost squarish, as if it had
been made by a small but heavy box.
"What about theft?" the politician said turning back to
the constable. "As you know, some of his carvings go for as
high as $10,000. You should check his gallery to see if any
are missing."
"We'll do that next. Why don't you come with me?"
Curran turned to leave.
"First, I'd like to get cleaned up," Pete held up his bloodstained
hands, before heading towards the water.
"If you don't mind," I joined in, "I'll come with you. I
noticed some footprints that might not be Johnnie's."

Twenty-Nine



From the door to Johnnie's workshop, I pointed out the
tracks I'd noticed on the floor leading to the gallery.
Unfortunately, many had been obliterated by the ones Pete
and I had made, but there was a clear set where neither of
us had walked. Because of their smooth tread, they were
easily distinguished from the rippled treads made by my
hiking boots and Pete's Nikes.
"They're probably Johnnie's, but they could also belong
to his killer," I said. "I also noticed others in the gallery."
"Our forensic investigator will determine that. He'll also
want to take imprints of your shoes. Could you two wait
here while I take some pictures? But stay put, don't move.
There's probably evidence out here, too."
When she'd finished taking her photos, I pointed to the
outdoor workbench. "I'm not sure if it's important, but
earlier I noticed an outline where a carving Johnnie was
working on might've stood. I don't remember seeing any
unfinished works on the shelves that could've been his."
After taking pictures of the table and surrounding
ground, Curran suggested we go inside. "But step exactly
where I step, okay? I want you to check for missing items."
Pete followed the young police officer into the workshop
with me pulling up the rear. So intent was I on staying exactly
in their tracks that I almost forgot to look around, but then
I wouldn't be able to tell if anything was missing anyway. I
did scan the shelves for Johnnie's partially-finished carving
but failed to see any candidates amongst the crude efforts
of the students. Most likely he'd taken it to his house.





178

179

After several long minutes standing in an almost hunterlike
stillness, Pete likewise indicated that he thought there
was nothing missing. "But," he said in an apologetic tone, "I
haven't been here that much lately, what with Johnnie being
away so much, so it's difficult for me to identify anything
missing. Besides, the only things worth stealing in this room
are Johnnie's tools, but with all the kids coming and going,
they get misplaced or lost all the time. Nope, far as I'm
concerned, the gallery has the only stuff worth stealing."
"Boy, lots more tracks in here." Curran stood in the
doorframe looking into the gallery. "Forensics will kill us if
we mess them up. Can you guys tell me where you went in
here and if you touched anything?"
Pete answered. "Once I realized Johnnie wasn't here, we
just walked straight through to the outside door."
"Almost," I interjected. "I wanted to see his carvings, so
I stopped at one or two as we passed by. I think I might've
touched the one of the bears too."
From the door, my dimpled tracks were clearly evident
on the floor beside the carving, but I also noticed the
smoother pair of tracks on the other side of the sculpture.
From there they led to another pedestal holding one of
the contemporary sculptures and then they disappeared
behind the counter, whose wooden surface was clear but
for a computer at the far end.
Curran asked, "Pete, do you know if Johnnie keeps his
cashbox behind the counter?"
"I think so, but only when he's here. Otherwise he locks it
up in his house. But I don't think there's much cash in it. Since
his carvings sell for such high prices, I think most people pay
by cheque or credit card. At least that's how I pay."
She cast a glance at Pete as if to say, "so you're a collector
too". "Without going into the room, can you look carefully
around and let me know if you think anything is missing?"
While Curran took more pictures, Pete scanned the
room. After a few minutes, he pointed at one of the glass
shelves, where a gap between a walrus carving and a hunter
seemed unusually large. "I bought the snow goose that used
to stand there. One of his best, with its wings spread out
and neck arched ready to attack. But apart from that, things
look pretty much how they looked when I was here last. I
think it was just after my trip to Toronto in mid May."
Turning to me, Curran said, "Miss Harris, I want you to
stay here. Pete, could you come with me? I want you to tell
me if there is anything missing behind the counter."
The constable took a route that skirted as far away from
the various tracks as was possible with Pete keeping within
her tracks. When they reached the other side of the counter,
Pete showed where Johnnie kept the cash box.
With her hands encased in plastic gloves, Curran opened
the drawer. "Not locked and nothing inside but some credit
card receipts. I'll check his house. Anything else missing?"
"Yeah," Pete replied, nodding his head towards the floor
underneath where the large flat computer screen stood, to
where some wires dangled. "The computer's gone."
Before Curran could warn him not to, he'd pulled up
one of the cables that was attached to the back of the overly
large computer screen. "See."
"Please, don't touch anything else," Curran said, gritting
her teeth. "Can you describe it for me?"
He shrugged. "Just a big rectangular box, grey, I think,
with a big apple on the side."
"Sounds like a Mac, which makes sense, since this screen
is also a Mac. Okay, anything else missing?" she asked,
taking photos of the counter and behind it.
My thoughts turned to the beach in front of Johnnie's
house. "You know, there was a strange mark in the sand
where Johnnie was attacked and another down by the
water. They couldVe been made by something heavy like
a processor?"
The young Mountie shot me a querying glance. "Run
that by me again."
As she furiously wrote in her notebook, I described the
squarish indentation I'd seen.
"Right. I'll let my partner know."
At that point, the outside door banged open, and a man
encased in white peered inside. "Tabernacl Curran, how
many times do I have to tell you not to enter a crime scene
until it's been processed."
Curran blushed. "Sorry, sir, I was real careful. But I
thought while Pete was here, it'd be a good idea to determine
if anything was missing. And he has found a couple of
things. Looks like the cashbox is gone, though I'll check his
house to make sure. And the cpu is gone too."
The forensic investigator shrugged. "It's probably at the
repair shop. It happens to mine all the time."
"Yeah, but, sir, a set of recent tracks leads right up to
where it was, and you can see a smudge mark in the dust
where it was moved before being lifted."
"Okay, noted. Unless Pete notices anything else gone,
get out of there now. You'd better come this way."
"Sorry, sir, I think it best we go back the way we came.
Lots of tracks near you."
"That's what I meant, constable." This time his face took
on a pinkish glow. "I'll need imprints of Pete's and the other
witness's boots. Go back to Johnnie's house. I'll do it there."
He ducked back outside and slammed the door shut.
The four of us met at Johnnie's back door, where the stiff
and unsmiling forensics cop introduced himself as Sergeant
Boudreau before saying to Pete, "Too bad about Johnnie. He
was a wonderful carver. I have some of his work."
I was beginning to wonder who didn't own a Johnnie
Nanuqtuaq carving.
Indicating a police truck parked next to the house, he
ordered, "Please sit in the front while I do the imprints."
Then, as if finally remembering Pete's political importance,
he said, "I am sorry about the inconvenience, sir. But this
won't take long, then you can go. Could you please take off
your shoes?"
"No problem. You've got a job to do, Michel. Any idea
yet on how or why Johnnie died?"
Boudreau shook his head. "It's too early to tell. But we're
fairly certain he was killed close to where you found him.
It looks like he tried to defend himself. I'm hoping we'll be
able to pick up some of the killer's dna on the body. Since
his body was lying near the door, he was either going into
or out of the house. But it's hard to tell whether he knew
his killer or not."
"Do you think someone saw the murder?" I asked.
"You know, madame, I can't tell you anything about an
ongoing case. But perhaps you saw something." I guessed I
didn't have the same status as Pete.
"Nope, nothing as I've already told Constable Curran,
except of course the man in the boat."
At his request I explained once more about the motorboat,
but this time I remembered something else. "There was a
bulky object in the bow of that boat. It might've been that
computer processor."
"You got that, Constable Curran?" he said.
"Yes, sir," came back the quick reply.
While Sergeant Boudreau was making the imprints,
another Mountie arrived. He acknowledged his acquaintance
with Pete with a handshake then introduced himself
to me as being with the General Investigation Section. After
Curran brought him up-to-date on our involvement, he
cautioned both of us not to say anything to the media and
reminded Curran to take my home contact info. Motioning
the forensic cop aside, he continued talking for a few more
minutes before going inside Johnnie's house.
A few minutes later, Boudreau was finished with a
perfect set of imprints from both our footwear. I was
putting my boots back on when a voice startled me, and
a man I associated with Toronto, not Iqaluit, appeared on
the opposite side of the truck.
Sergeant Hue, dressed in a black leather jacket and blue
jeans with a wool toque firmly pulled down over his ears,
walked up to Curran and said, "May I speak to you for a
minute, Constable?"
I ducked, hoping he hadn't recognized me. I didn't really
want to have to explain my presence at yet another crime
scene.
"Sorry to bother you," Hue continued, "but I've just
learned that Johnnie Nanuqtuaq has been murdered, and
as you know, he was a person of interest in--" The rest of
his words were cut off as the two of them walked further
from the truck.
But I didn't need a police badge to guess that he was
linking Johnnie to Carter's death, which surprised me.
Sure, they might have known each other, since one was an
Inuit art dealer and the other an Inuit artist, but Carter
had probably retired from the business before Johnnie's
sculptures had begun appearing on the scene. What would
Johnnie, a highly successful carver, as evinced by this fancy
kitchen and his bmw, have to gain by the death of an old
man who lived thousands of kilometres away?

Thirty



The last task the forensic investigator performed before
allowing Pete and me to leave was to take our fingerprints,
which didn't really bother me, since I had nothing
to hide. Well, almost nothing.
When he asked if we'd touched anything in Johnnie's
house, I felt a vague twinge of guilt when mentioning only
the phone used to call the ambulance. I didn't tell him about
my father's gold watch lying concealed in my jacket pocket.
It was mine. Not Johnnie's. It wouldn't help them solve
Johnnie's murder, but it might help me to find my father.
Hue nodded grimly in acknowledgment when I passed
him still talking to Curran outside Johnnie's house. Hoping
to avoid a grilling, I continued walking. But I'd barely gone
a few steps when he called out, "So that was you, Ms Harris.
Fancy meeting you here...at another crime scene." He
paused as if to emphasize this last point. "And what may I
ask brings you to this one.. .and to Iqaluit?"
I felt another twinge of guilt at not having informed him
of my trip. "I've come on private business that has nothing
to do with Johnnie's murder. Now if you don't mind, I'm
keeping the Minister of Culture waiting."
I started back along the dirt road, to where Pete's Xterra
still stood parked next to the dead carver's workshop at the
end of the road.
"Just a moment, Ms Harris," Hue called out. "I have some
further questions to ask you with respect to Carter Davis's
murder. When I'm finished here, I would like to drop by your
hotel. I understand you're staying at the Frobisher Inn."
"Sure," I muttered, somewhat annoyed that Curran
had passed on my hotel information. "I'll be in the dining
room." I wasn't about to give up my dinner to please him.
I glanced at my watch. 8:45. No wonder I was starving.
But the sun was still far from setting. It was going to take
me some time to get used to these endless days.
When I reached Pete's suv, I found him leaning against
the door in conversation with a silver-haired man with a
pronounced paunch, who, aside from a skimpy ponytail,
looked as if he'd just stepped out of a Town and Country magazine, from his tweed jacket and paisley ascot to slightly
scuffed brown leather brogues.
At the sound of my footsteps, he stepped away from Pete
and turned to me. "Miss Harris, a pleasure to meet you," he
said with a slight burr of a Scottish accent while griping my
hand in a firm shake. "Angus McLeod. Pete was just tellin'
me about you. Good man, your father. I knew him well."
"That's nice. May I ask when?" The moment I asked this
question, I realized it was a bit abrupt. But his words had
so taken me aback that all I could think was he'd known my
father after the plane crash.
But he didn't appear to be the least perturbed by the
question. "I believe we first met in the late 1960s, when he
began comin' up here. I was workin' at the Hudson Bay
Company store in James Lake at the time. Wonderful chap.
He did so much for the Inuit art community."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Sadly, I was probably the last person he saw before his
plane went missin'. He'd been at my house in James Lake. Such
a terrible tragedy. The community was very upset by his loss.
As it was doubtless a dreadful loss for you and your mother."
I mumbled some appropriate words while he continued.
"He'd come to look at the latest collection of carvings and
prints at the James Lake Co-op. By 1973, I'd taken over
as director. When the Inuit started it in the late '60s, hbc
was quite upset. Intrudin' on their monopoly, they said. I
myself thought it was a grand idea, so when I refused to use
intimidatin' tactics to scare off the Co-op, hbc fired me and
the Co-op hired me." He chuckled.
"I'm wondering if you've ever heard of any rumours
that suggest my father might have survived the crash?"
"I understand from Pete that you believe this to be so.
I might be able to help you. Why don't you come to my
house tomorrow, and I can tell you what I know."
At last someone who could help me. "Is tomorrow
morning too soon?"
"Sorry, I'm tied up, but late afternoon would work, say
around four p.m. You'll find me at house 342."
"And the street name?"
"My apologies. I forget, this is a curiosity of the north.
For the longest while, Iqaluit had no street names, so houses
were simply numbered. If you're comin' by cab, the driver
will know where to find me. But if you're walking, the house
is on the road that runs along the ridge. It's not hard to find.
It's the only house in that part of town with a greenhouse."

Pete spoke a few minutes longer with Angus then the
two of us climbed into the Xterra and headed back past
Johnnie's house with its ring of yellow tape flapping in the
wind. Most of the onlookers had gone, although a couple of
kids still played on the beach, which had grown considerably
more expansive with the retreating tide. Since I saw no sign
of the police other than their trucks, I assumed they were
inside doing their job. Although I had only spoken to the
talented carver a couple of times, I couldn't help but feel
sadness at a young life so quickly extinguished, particularly
one that had shown such great promise.
As we headed up the hill to the main road, I said, "I'm
very sorry about Johnnie. I think he's going to be sadly
missed."
"You've got that right," Pete replied succinctly, waiting
for a tanker truck to pass before he could turn onto the
main road.

"How are you doing? It's not easy finding a friend in
that condition."
"I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
"I only just met Johnnie. He was my seatmate on the
plane. He seemed so friendly to everyone, it's hard to
imagine that anyone hated him enough to kill him."
"That's why I think who ever killed him did it accidentally."
He hesitated, as if trying to rein in his sorrow, then with a
quick glance at me, he continued, "I think Johnnie must've
caught the guy trying to steal something, and the guy felt
he had no choice but to kill him."
"But for an unfinished carving and a computer?"
"People kill for less in the south. Besides Johnnie's got
a lot of expensive stereo equipment and a flat screen tv in
his house. The guy was probably after them when Johnnie
surprised him."
It made sense. "Well, I sure hope they catch the guy."
"It's a small community. Johnnie had many friends.
Someone knows who did it, and someone will turn the guy
in."
We'd reached the heights, and I marvelled once again at
the glorious view of Frobisher Bay. The distant mountains
looked tantalizingly close while at the same time remote
and untouched. Low, flat clouds scudded past them. The
only sign of human intervention was an oil tanker chugging
up the middle of the bay towards another that was moored
at the far end of a peninsula on the other side of Iqaluit.
"Angus McLeod seems an interesting man," I said.
"Sounds as if he has been in the north a long time."
"I suppose you could call him one of the old timers. I
think Gus came to Baffin from Scotland with the Hudson
Bay Company in the early sixties and never left. He's married to an Inuk, which is perhaps one reason why he never went
south. Although several of his kids have moved south."
I had a sudden thought. "Is Ooleepeeka McLeod his daughter?
I met her down south at the McConnell Art Gallery."
"Fancy you meeting up with her. I gather she's doing
very well but plans to return north, once she has her degree.
She wants to take over from her father. Gus made a big
name for himself in the Inuit art business. Not only was he
instrumental in getting the James Lake artist community
up and going, but he also got involved with several other Baffin Island communities. He was key in setting up
distribution links to southern markets."
"I guess you know a lot about the art community from
being the Minister of Culture."
"Yeah, but I'm a carver myself. Used to do a fair bit before
I got involved in the community. But I was never as good as
Johnnie. He had that special spark." He sighed and banged
his hand on the steering wheel. "Christ, what a shame."
I waited a few seconds before asking, "I guess Angus
knows Johnnie from Tasilik? Johnnie must've sold through
the Co-op."
"Yeah, used to. By the way it's now called the Tasilik Art
Centre. Gus was pretty upset when Johnnie left. He was one
of Gus's star artists. And I know Johnnie was pretty angry
with Gus. Still, Angus gave Johnnie his start, and Johnnie
respected that."
We'd reached the outskirts of Iqaluit. The collection of
kids playing in the schoolyard had grown. It looked as if an
impromptu soccer game was in progress.
"Do you know why Johnnie left?" I asked.
"He never said. I heard it was about a difference of
opinion. It might have been over money, not sure. Anyways
Johnnie has done well on his own. So I guess he didn't really
need the marketing services of the Art Centre any more."
"Is that when he moved to Iqaluit?"
"Yeah, moved his workshop here. But he kept his house
in Tasilik. Nice place."
"Is that where his sister Apphia lives?"
He turned a suspicious eye towards me. "So you know
about Apphia?"
"Yes, an artist by the name of Frankie Ashoona told
me about her. He was once Suula's boyfriend. He thought
there was another older daughter, but he didn't know her
name."
"Yeah, I remember Frankie. Used to be a good artist
until drink got the better of him."
I didn't like his underlying tone of dismissal, so I said,
"I saw some of his stuff. I think he's still good. He also said
their father was white. Did you know that?"
He gave me a long, hard perusal before turning his eyes
back onto the road. "Yeah, a lot of us with white blood. You
see, our women were a warm diversion in the long dark winter
nights. But when summer arrived, they took off, leaving their
women and their kids to fend for themselves."
His bitter words left me feeling awkward, Unable to
provide an adequate response, I asked instead, "You don't
happen to know the name of Johnnie's other sister?"
"Was Margee."
"Was?"
"Yeah, she died a few years back. Another suicide, just
like her mother."
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry to hear that. Is Apphia still alive,
then?"
"Why do you want to know?" Again that tone of distrust.
"Like I told you, I think there's a link between the
Nanuqtuaq family and my father. In fact, I know there's
one, because I found something belonging to my father at
Johnnie's house."
"You don't say."
I was about to show him the pocket watch when I
realized I would be incriminating myself, so I returned to
my question. "You didn't say whether Apphia was living in
Tasilik or not."
"I didn't."
"But you know how to find her," I said more as a
statement than a question. I took his silence as a yes. "Now
that her brother is dead, I really want to talk to her. I would
appreciate if you could tell me how to get hold of her."
At this point the front entrance to the Frobisher Inn
came into view. "If you won't tell me, I'm sure I can find
out from the police, or Angus McLeod, for that matter. He
probably knows too." I clicked the door open and started to
climb out of the car.
Pete finally spoke up. "I'd appreciate if you didn't do
anything until I get back to you, okay?" "Why?"
"She's had a difficult time. She's going to be very upset
by her brother's death. And she might..." He stopped, not
wanting to complete the sentence.
But I was fairly certain I knew what he intended to
say. "You're worried she might follow in her mother's and
sister's footsteps."
He nodded sadly. "So would you please wait until I have
a chance to talk to her?"
But did I have the time this might take? I told him about
my sick mother and her wish to finally know what had
happened to her husband. Before we parted, he agreed to
talk with Johnnie's only living sister as soon as he could.
"But it might be difficult to reach her," he said. "She
doesn't spend much time in Tasilik any more."
Before I could ask him where she lived, he'd driven off.
Nevertheless, I suspected it might be Naujalik. And if so, it
would be almost impossible for me to speak to her without
Pete's help, let alone try to find her on my own.



Thirty-One



Sergeant Hue found me in the Inn's still crowded
restaurant just as my first course of smoked Arctic char
was being placed in front of me. Even though they were
suppose to stop taking orders after nine, I had managed
to convince the maitre'd that if I didn't immediately have
some food in my very empty stomach, I might faint and
cause a scene. Laughing, he'd acquiesced and advised me
to have the caribou medallions with blueberry sauce, since
it required minimal preparation time. I'd added a very fine
and expensive bottle of Burgundy to the order as a way of
thanking him. Besides, Mother could easily afford it.
"I know this is a bit irregular," the Toronto cop said,
unzipping his leather jacket. "Do you mind if I join you? I
haven't had dinner myself, and I'm starved."
I agreed, figuring if he was prepared to question me
in the relaxed comfort of a restaurant, particularly while
eating, his questions couldn't be all that threatening.
However, since it was close to nine thirty, I wasn't sure if
the policeman would be fed, but with a nod from my friend
the maitre'd, the waitress arrived with a smile and took his
order of musk ox stew.
"Are you a collector like your father?" He pointed to the
stone carving of an Inuk hunter I'd just bought.
"Not at all, but I couldn't resist his steely stare. If you
wait along enough, you might be tempted to buy something
yourself."
A petite woman standing next to our table shyly brought
out a pair of embroidered felt boots complete with fur trim
from a crumpled plastic bag and laid them on the table.
"Not bad." The sergeant's obsidian eyes creased with
laughter. "My kid would love these. How much?"
She made a suggestion, and he countered. After a few
more minutes of haggling, he was a proud owner of a pair
of Inuit boots.
"See, what did I tell you?" I laughed. "These artists have
been coming around since I sat down. I gather it's a nightly
event. This way you don't pay the middleman's mark-up."
I needn't have been worried about his questioning. As the
meal progressed, I realized he was learning more about my
father and my family than he would've in the intimidating
confines of a police station. He wasn't so dumb after all,
particularly since the wine was loosening my tongue and
not his. He'd turned down my offer of wine.
Still, it didn't matter. I had no reason to hide what little I
knew about my father and his collecting or the fact that my
mother had recently donated the entire collection to the
Art Gallery of Ontario. But when he asked if I was aware
that the ago had discovered that some of the donated pieces
were counterfeit, I felt the icy prick of apprehension.
"That's not possible," I shot back. "My father would
never have bought counterfeit artwork."
"Mostly likely he didn't know. I gather the counterfeiting
was very expertly done. Even had the gallery fooled until they
decided to have all their Inuit artwork examined in light of
the recent discovery of a large number of counterfeit pieces."
"Are you referring to the forgeries found in the warehouse
that's supposed to be linked to Carter Davis's murder?"
"So you know about it?"
"I read about it in the paper." I paused, debating whether
to bring the next point up, but figured if I didn't he would.
"It also mentioned that this warehouse was once rented by
my father."
"According to your mother, this was where his collection
was housed before being given to the gallery. She never
bothered to change the name."
"But someone else is renting it now." I took another
bracing sip of wine. "I hope you haven't been bothering
Mother about this. She's very ill."
"So I understand. I'm very sorry. But curiously enough, the
current renter is, or should I say, was Johnnie Nanuqtuaq."
I tried to hide my amazement. It sounded a little too
coincidental to me. No doubt Sergeant Hue thought the
same thing.
"I was hoping to question him about it, so you can
imagine my astonishment at discovering he'd just been
murdered."
He leaned forward. "With you at the crime scene." He
paused as if to let the significance sink in. "So I suggest
you tell me about your family's connection to Johnnie
Nanuqtuaq."
"There isn't one. I'd never met the guy, let alone known
of his existence until today."
"Then why were you at his house?"
So I told him about the significance of the prints and
Suula and my reason for going to see her son.
"Did you talk to him before he was killed?"
"Nope. I tried earlier on the plane, but I got the distinct
impression he didn't want to talk to me."
"And you think your father might've survived the crash
and that Johnnie's mother saved him?"
"I do, as incredible as it might seem. And I'm more
convinced after finding something in his house that once
belonged to my father."
I was in a quandary as to whether to actually show the
watch to him, since I could be accused of stealing, then
I realized that by having just mentioned it, I had already
incriminated myself anyway. I shoved my wine glass away,
thinking I'd better stop drinking before I really got myself
into trouble.
"I'm afraid I might have done something wrong. But I
felt I was reclaiming what by rights belongs to my family."
I placed Great-grandpa Joe's pocket watch on the table
between us. The table's candle glow glinted off its gold
surface.
"You are certain it was your father's?"
I pointed out Great-grandpa Joe's entwined initials on
the casing. "So you see, my father must've survived the
crash."
Using a tissue from his pocket, he carefully looked it
over. "It's a very valuable piece. Your mother can no doubt
corroborate this?"
"Look, I know I shouldn't have taken it. But if you're
thinking I stole it for its monetary value, no way. Besides, I
wouldn't have told you about it, would I?"
His lips thinned into a smile as he clicked open the front
case. "There's a picture inside. Do you know who she is?"
He slid the open watch across the tablecloth to me.
I was about to say my mother, for Father had always kept
a photo of her from the early years of their marriage inside
the front case, but then Johnnie was the watch's current
owner, so I wasn't surprised to see a drawing of a young
Inuk woman. "Probably Johnnie's girlfriend."
Unlike the simple, stylized Inuit drawings I was used
to, this one was a fairly life-like portrait. She looked quite
pretty. Johnnie had been a good drawer too.
"I see the watch is still running slow. I could never figure
out why Father used it. No matter how many times he had
it fixed, it would always be running fifteen minutes late by
the time he needed to wind it up again. And it looks as if it needs winding now." I flipped open the back case. "The
key's probably in Johnnie's bedroom."
There was a piece of paper jammed inside this back
case, and when I turned it over, I saw Mother staring back
at me. "This doesn't make sense." I showed him my father's
photo of Mother at the bottom of which was written the
special name he always called her, Cessy, short for Cecilia.
The picture had been defaced with a heavy "X" across her
face. "Why in the world would Johnnie do this? He didn't
even know her."
"It's also curious that he would keep the photo instead
of throwing it out," Hue added. "You better hand the watch
and the photo back to me. I'll have to pass it on to gis even
though I doubt it has any bearing on the case."
"No, I suppose not. Though doesn't the fact it wasn't
stolen point to the motive for Johnnie's murder being other
than theft? This has to be worth several thousand dollars."
"You'd be surprised what some guys think is worth
stealing. Anyway, this would be a lot more difficult to fence,
particularly here in Iqaluit."
"I suppose you're right. Look, I'll want that watch back.
Johnnie hasn't any use for it any more, and I doubt his
sister would want it."
He slipped it into a Ziploc bag and tucked it into his
jacket pocket. "I'm not familiar enough with family law to
know what rights your family has, but I'll make sure the
sergeant working on the case at gis knows it belonged to
your father."
"By the way, have you had any luck in finding my
mother's print?"
"Print? Sorry, I'm not sure what you're referring to."
"The Inuit drawing that I left with Carter before he died.
I told you about it in Toronto. I assume the reason it wasn't
found in his house is because he'd passed it onto the friend
he thought might be able to help in locating the artist. I
was hoping you people would be able to track it down."
"Yes, right, sorry. I passed it onto someone on my team.
I'll check with her tomorrow and get back to you, okay?"
He chewed slowly on the last forkful of musk ox stew. "Boy,
this was sure good."
"My caribou was good too." With my stomach feeling
considerably more contented than it had when I arrived, I
laid my knife and fork down on a very empty plate. "What
about the letter from my father? Did you find it?"
"This I do remember. But sorry, my men didn't find it.
I suggest you let Carter's heir know about it."
"You mean Lynwood Greenberg?"
"Yes, you know him?"
"No, but I met him at the crime scene. Is he free now? I'd
understood you were holding him for questioning?"
"Where did you learn that from?" The policeman's eyes
narrowed in suspicion.
"The paper again."
"Right. We were, but we had to let him go."
"Not enough evidence, I guess," I said.
Hue eyed me again. "Let's just say that even though a
suspect is no longer in our custody, it doesn't mean he or
she is no longer considered as such."
I nodded, as though I'd known this all along, and savoured
the last sip of what had proven to be an exemplary wine.
By this time, the restaurant had pretty well cleared out,
with only a few occupied tables remaining. With the two
waitresses casting anxious glances in our direction, we
decided it was time to leave, just as another couple made the
same decision. We met at the exit. I noticed Mary Goresky
first, with her distinctive white hair, before I recognized
with surprise the tweed jacket of her companion. But
then perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, his
daughter worked for the gallery director.
"Hi, Mary, Angus, I hope you enjoyed your meal as
much as I did."
"Yes, Angus and I are old friends," Mary said. Her
rhinestone glasses glinted in the overhead lights of the lobby.
"Mary is one of my longest-standing clients," Angus
added. "I've introduced her to many an emergin' artist, who
later became a name in the Inuit art world. That's right, eh,
Mary?"
"Indeed. You have certainly contributed to making the
McConnell's Inuit art collection one of the pre-eminent
collections in Canada."
"I'm surprised you're still here," I commented. "I thought
you were travelling straight on to Cape Dorset."
"I was supposed to, but had to make a last minute
change. I'm flying to Tasilik instead."
"Some hot new find?" I asked jokingly.
Mary lit up one of her signature cigarillos. "As a matter
of fact, you're right. Angus wants me to see some of the
latest work of a young woman. So I decided to go there first
before going to Cape Dorset."
It was at that point that I realized I'd forgotten to
introduce Hue. But before I could, the Toronto cop held
his hand out to Mary and said, "Ms Goresky, I'm not sure if
you remember me, but I was talking to you recently about
that collection of forgeries we found in Toronto."
"Why Sergeant Hue, yes of course. I do hope I was able
to be of assistance in your investigation."
"Yes, your expert advice and that from the Art Gallery
of Ontario helped us to identify all the fraudulent pieces."
"Thank goodness," Mary replied. "It was most fortunate
you were able to confiscate them before they entered the
market. You can't imagine the damage that number of
pieces would've done to the credibility of Inuit art. Have
you arrested the people behind it yet?"
"Not yet, but we're working on it. In fact, that is my
reason for coming to Iqaluit."
"Oh, do you suspect it's someone from here?"
"I had someone in mind, but unfortunately he's turned
up dead."
"Mary, it was Johnnie Nanuqtuaq, remember, the guy
on the plane," I broke in.
Before Mary had a chance to reply, Angus cut in. "Yes, I
was tellin' Mary the sad news over dinner. Such a tragedy. A
carver of his magnitude only happens once in a generation,
although of late, his work had declined somewhat. But there
must be some mistake. I find it very hard to believe that you
would suspect him of forgery. His name commanded high
prices. He had no need to pretend he was someone else."
"Let's just say we're not sure what his role was, just that
there was a possible link," Hue replied.
"I do hope you apprehend them, for we canna have those
bloody bastards--" He glanced sheepishly from Mary to
me. "Please pardon my language, lassies. We canna have
them floodin' the market with forgeries. As Mary said, it
will do irreparable damage to Inuit art."
"Before you go, Mr. McLeod, your name has been passed
to me as an expert in the art business here in Nunavut. I would
like to meet with you to get a better idea of how it works."
After arranging to meet the policeman at his house the
following day at a time that didn't conflict with my afternoon
meeting, Angus left us, while the three of us headed up the
elevator to our separate rooms. Although Mary got out on
an earlier floor, Hue stepped out with me.
As he followed me down the hall, I wondered if he had
more questions to ask me, but it turned out that his room
was only two doors down from mine, which proved almost
immediately to be a good thing.
When I inserted my keycard into the slot, the door
swung open. Startled, I must've said something, for Hue
called out, "Anything wrong?"
"My door's open," I called back.
"Don't go inside!"
He pulled out his gun and in the classic tv police show
stance, stepped into the room. Within seconds it was
obvious no one was inside, but it was also equally obvious
that someone had been, for the daypack I'd brought on the
plane with me lay upside down with its contents dumped
onto the bed. Fortunately I had my wallet with me, so all
that'd remained in the pack were a couple of crime novels,
a Nunavut travel guide, my make-up case, an extra pair of
mittens, eye-shades, some chocolate bars and a water bottle,
nothing worth stealing. And nothing had been.
"At least my backpack wasn't here," I said, watching Hue
replace his gun in his holster. "Not too smart a thief to pick
my room. Hope he had better luck elsewhere."
"I suggest you report this to Constable Curran. But since
you're probably tired, it can wait till morning. I'll let hotel
security know. It's likely not an isolated case."
It was only later when I opened my book to read a few
pages before going to sleep that I realized something had
been stolen. The letter my father had written from this very
hotel to Carter Davis the day before he disappeared.
I'd been using it as a bookmark, in part to keep it from
going astray. Despite a thorough search of my daypack, I
failed to find it. Curious. Why would someone take a letter
written over thirty-six years ago?

Thirty-Two



Next morning, when Curran asked me if anything had
been stolen, I hesitated, unsure if I should mention
the letter. I had after all taken it from Carter Davis's house
while he lay dead on the basement floor. But since I didn't
need to reveal exactly how I'd got it, I told her about it.
"I brought this letter to Iqaluit," I said, trying to get
comfortable in one of the detachment's hard metal chairs,
"because I was hoping to find the man my father mentioned
by the name of the Crazy Russkie. You don't happen to
know who he is, do you?"
She shook her blonde ponytail. "Maybe someone in the
detachment does. Can you tell me what the letter said?"
"There wasn't much to it. It just mentioned wanting to
follow-up on something this Crazy Russkie guy had told
him about the Mystical Owl."
"Mystical Owl?"
I told her about the print's significant value and the fact
that the copy hanging on Carter's wall had been a forgery.
"Carter's copy was probably stolen by the person who killed
him."
"Do you think there's a connection between the Toronto
robbery and yours?" She asked, looking up from her
notebook.
"I suppose it's possible, since the letter does mention the Mystical Owl. But they would have to know of the existence
of this letter, and I haven't told anyone about it." I paused.
"Though it's possible Carter could have mentioned it to
someone."
"Do you know who this person might be?"
"Nope." Then a sudden thought sent a chill down my
spine. "I sure hope the thief isn't the person who killed
Carter." I glanced at Curran, who didn't react as if this
was a new thought for her. "I guess I'd better pass this
information onto Sergeant Hue."
A helmet of black hair rose above the partition separating
Curran's desk from her neighbour. "Did I hear my name
mentioned?"
"Good morning, Sergeant Hue. It turns out something
was stolen from my room after all." I repeated what I'd just
told the Iqaluit policewoman. "So Constable Curran and I
are wondering if there might be a link to Carter's murder.
What do you think?"
He nodded. "Constable, we'd better get forensics checking
for fingerprints. See if we have a match with any at the
Toronto scene."
"I take it, sir, you don't yet have a solid suspect for the
Toronto murder," Curran said.
"Not yet."
"Is that really what brought you to Iqaluit?" I asked.
He glanced briefly at Curran then back to me. "Let's just
say that I'm following up on leads for both cases."
"Do you have any suspects at all?"
"Ms Harris, you know I can't comment. But I will admit
the theft of your father's letter is just a little too coincidental.
Are you sure you told no one about it?"
"Defin--no, wait a minute, I think I told my sister. I
suppose she could've told someone, who in turn told
someone, etc. But I find this very hard to believe. She's as
reluctant as I am to discuss our father's disappearance with
outsiders. In fact, even as a family we never talked about it.
It was just one of those forbidden topics. So I really think
it unlikely she would mention this letter to anyone other
than her husband."
"Did you tell your mother about it?"
"No. She was upset enough by the drawings. I was afraid
to upset her further."
"Would your sister mention it to her?"
"Perhaps. But if she had, Mother would've demanded to
see the letter. But she never asked for it or even hinted she
knew of its existence. No, you're way off base if you think
someone in my family might be behind this theft. Besides,
if they wanted the letter, it would've been a lot easier to take
it when I was in Toronto."
I felt as I watched him write in his notebook, that he
hadn't really believed me, so I added, "Sergeant Hue, let's
be realistic about this. What motive would any member of
my family have? In fact, why would anyone want to steal it?
The letter doesn't say much of anything. Unless, this guy,
Crazy Russkie, is important."
Turning to the young Mountie, he asked, "Do you know
of this man?"
"I was gonna ask the older members in the detachment.
And I can get Anna to look through our files," she replied.
"Good, the sooner the better. And you'd better get
forensics over to Miss Harris's hotel room before the
cleaning staff arrive."
"I will, but before I do, sir, I want to show Ms Harris a
drawing we found in Johnnie Nanuqtuaq's house. Sergeant
Hue, you might be interested in this, too."
At the mention of the word "drawing", I wasn't the least
surprised when the Mountie placed another print by Suula
on top of the clutter on her desk. Of the same size and
artistic style as the previous drawings, this one portrayed an
Inuit family of two smiling adults and two small children, a
girl in pigtails and a young boy, who just might be Johnnie,
while the girl could be his older sister Margee, the one who'd
died. Like the other prints, black ink had been used, except
for the colour of the man's hair. It was brilliant orange.
I tried to quell my rising excitement. Could it be? Surely
not? But then it could explain a lot.
Fingering my own flaming locks, I said. "It's possible
this could be my father. He had red hair, just like mine."
"Many men have red hair," replied Curran.
"True, but this picture has to be the next installment in
the series of prints I told you about. I found another print
like this one in my step-father's belongings that depicts this same family but with just the little girl. And like this
picture, the man has orange hair. I doubt there are many
red-haired Inuit. I don't know about you, but it makes a lot
of sense to me."
I could tell she still didn't believe me. "I'm not sure,
Constable Curran, if you are aware that Johnnie's father
was white. Well.. .1 think we share the same father."
Curran glanced at Hue, before saying, "Ms Harris, like
I told you yesterday, the chances of your father surviving a
plane crash on the frozen tundra hundreds of kilometres
from help are almost nil. And the likelihood of him being
Johnnie's father is even less."
"But how do you explain Johnnie having my father's
watch, a family heirloom that is traditionally passed down
from first born boy to first born boy? And since there are
no boys in my family, if Johnnie is indeed my father's son,
then he would've been the first born boy."
At that point, the constable's phone rang. "Curran here,"
she said curtly, before smiling as the other party spoke.
With the scarred side of her face turned away, she looked
quite pretty.
"Morning, sir. How's it going?... I see." Her eyes shifted
to me as her face became sombre.
There were several more minutes of "I see", "That's right,
sir" and so on, all the while keeping her gaze fully on me.
So when she finally put the phone aside and said, "It's
Corporal Reilly," I wasn't surprised. "He would like to talk
to you."
"Have you found the plane?" I said the minute I heard
his deep-voiced greeting.
"Yes, ma'am, we have. We raised it early this morning."
"And is it my father's?"
Curran motioned Hue away from her cubicle to another
part of the squad room, out of earshot from me, where she
started speaking intently to him.
"The registration matches that of the plane your father
chartered, ma'am."
I felt my hopes rise, although I was a bit taken aback by
the brusqueness of his tone. "And was my father aboard?"
"There are the remains of two persons, ma'am."
"Did you say two people?"
"That's right, ma'am."
"Are you sure?" I'd really wanted Father to have survived.
"We will need to do a dna analysis to confirm identification,
ma'am. But since there were only two people on the flight,
it is safe to assume that one set of remains belongs to your
father."
Even though it was good to know his body had finally
been found, I couldn't help but feel disappointed. "My
mother will be glad the uncertainty is over."
"There's one further thing you should know, ma'am."
Curran and Hue returned to the cubicle. Both wore
solemn expressions.
"Yes?"
"We found a bullet in the skull of one of the victims."
"Are you saying someone shot my father?"
The two policemen exchanged glances.
"Did your father know how to fly?" Reilly asked.
"No.. . I don't think so. Why are you asking?"
"Ah... .well, ma'am, the victim with the bullet was sitting
in the pilot's seat."
Its full significance took a second to register, and when
it did, I exclaimed in horror. "Are you suggesting that my
father shot the pilot?"
"We won't know what happened until we identify the
remains and conduct an investigation. Now, ma'am, if you
don't mind, I have to go. We should be back in Iqaluit in a
couple of days. You can follow up with us then."
I hung up feeling as if the bottom had just come out of
my world. Surely Corporal Reilly couldn't be thinking that
my father was a murderer. But as I noticed the expressions
on both Constable Curran's and Sergeant Hue's faces, I
knew this was exactly what they were thinking.
"But Johnnie had his watch. Where would he have got it
from, if not from my father?"
Curran glanced at Hue, who said, "Your father might've
left it behind or given it away before he left Iqaluit."
"Nope, never. It meant too much to him."
"The plane went missing in late April before summer
break-up," Curran said. "It might've crashed on the ice.
This woman Suula could've come across the plane and
taken the watch."
I shoved aside the repugnant image of the woman going
through my dead father's clothes. "But how do you explain
her drawings of the man parachuting and the two with the
man with the red hair?"
"They're just pictures, ma'am. It's likely Johnnie's mother
made them up."
For several agonizing seconds, the three of us kept our
thoughts to ourselves, glancing anywhere but at each other,
until I said, "You believe my father killed the pilot."
Curran's eyes flicked towards Hue, who answered. "Miss
Harris, it's too early to draw any conclusions without
further investigation."
"He didn't do it," I almost shouted, rising from my chair.
"No way. They'll need the gun to prove it. And Reilly didn't
mention finding a gun."
I didn't wait for an answer. I stormed out of the
detachment, intent on proving them wrong.

Thirty-Three



How dare they accuse my father of murder? He'd never
held a gun, let alone fired one. Sure, his father and
grandfather had been avid hunters, but Father had never
shared their thirst for blood. Instead he'd helped Great
aunt Aggie make Three Deer Point a haven for the wildlife
that roamed its forests.
No. There was no way Father would've killed the pilot.
There had to be another explanation. Maybe the shooting
was an accident. Maybe Father, for whatever reason, had been
doing something with a gun, and it had accidentally gone
off. Or maybe the pilot had pointed the gun at Father and
forced him to fly the plane. Maybe.. .a very weak maybe...
Too upset to return to my room, I headed away from
the detachment, away from the hotel into the frigid, damp
wind rising from the bay. Fortunately, my missing backpack
had arrived that morning just as I was about to leave, so I
was sufficiently encased in three layers of clothing, mitts
and a wool toque.
Winter! Did I say winter? This was mid-July, for heaven's
sakes. Summer! I should be in shorts and T-shirt. I zipped
my Gore-tex jacket up until it was tight against my chin,
rubbed my cheeks against the icy cold and stuck my
mittened hands back into my pockets.
Unfortunately, the wind also brought with it a bone
chilling drizzle that seemed to be doing its best to penetrate
the warmth of my jacket. Nonetheless, I continued to wander
the streets of Iqaluit, whose monochromatic drabness only
served to contribute to my low spirits.
I tried to put reason to the confusion swirling around
about my father. On the one side, I had the drawings and
the pocket watch telling me he had survived the crash. On
the other, the stark evidence of his remains lying in the
cockpit of the downed plane. Evidence that was hard to
refute. And now the police were accusing him of murder.
So why had Johnnie, for who else could it have been,
sent the drawings to my mother? What possible motive
could he have for upsetting our lives with the glimmer of
hope they had brought? For thirty-six years, we had lived
with the belief that Father was dead. Why open the door
now, knowing that the plane holding his remains would
soon be raised from its burial ground? What could Johnnie
have possibly hoped to gain from it?
I was so lost in my thoughts that I stumbled into a
large boulder suddenly blocking my path. Annoyed at it, at
everything, I kicked it, only to receive a sore foot. Finally, my
thoughts cleared enough for me to notice a neighbouring
boulder. I skirted around it and the others.
They were strung out in fence-like fashion alongside a
blue two-storey house. As an atv whizzed past behind me,
I realized they were probably the best defense in keeping
drivers from straying off the dirt roads onto the dirt yards.
A few hundred yards later, I followed a line of waist-high
posts bordering the road that must be serving the same
purpose, for there really was no other way to distinguish
the roadway from the surrounding ground.
The drizzle was becoming more insistent and the wind
colder. I shivered, thinking a cup of hot coffee laced with
a wee dram would go down well about now. A nearby
massive box-like building with "North Mart" emblazoned
across the front looked like just the place to buy a bottle. If
not, no doubt someone inside would be able to direct me to
the nearest liquor store. But after roaming aisles as orderly
and well-stocked as any southern grocery store, although I
was aghast at the prices, easily double what I paid at home,

208
I failed to find anything remotely alcoholic.
My question about the nearest liquor store was greeted
with a snicker. "Sorry, you can't buy alcohol in Iqaluit, in fact
anywhere in Nunavut." Apparently only hotels and private
clubs sold liquor. Remembering yesterday's gamblers and
their array of empty bottles, I added bootleggers to the list.
But of course, I had no idea where to find a bootlegger.
Besides, at ten thirty in the morning, it really was too early
to be drinking, let alone thinking about it, so I decided to
concentrate on finding ordinary coffee.
By this time the rain was slanting harder and the wind
becoming more penetrating. Despite my warm clothes, I
was beginning to shiver. The sooner I could escape inside
the better. I passed a collection of wooden two-storey
buildings housing a variety of businesses. None looked as
if they sold coffee. However, a short distance further I came
across an intriguing igloo-like structure that announced
itself a restaurant. Not caring if the coffee was good or not,
I fled up the stairs.
I entered the warmth of a dark, dome-shaped room and
ran smack into my Samaritan of yesterday, Pete Pitsiulak,
leaning over a table in deep discussion with Mary Goresky.
The politician was jamming his finger into the table as if
trying to make a point with the art director, who seemed
to be resisting. Feeling I wouldn't be welcome, I took a seat
at an empty table on the other side of room and breathed
in the inviting smell of percolating coffee. Neither one
noticed me.
Because of the shape of the ceiling, their voices slid up
the dome and back down to me, sounding as close as the
next table. They were speaking in hushed tones, so I was
only able to grasp snippets of their conversation, but it
was enough for me to realize they were talking about the
Toronto art forgeries. Curious, I strained to hear more,
but all I could glean was that Pete was very angry, while
Mary's voice carried a more placating tone, although the

209


I

\
if
expression on her face seemed to suggest she was more
shocked by what Pete was telling her than accepting.
Pete must have felt my intent gaze, for he abruptly
stopped talking and turned in my direction. For a moment
I thought I saw him frown, then his face broke into an
expansive welcoming smile, and he invited me to join
them. As I sat down at their table, I sensed Mary's feelings
weren't entirely as welcoming.
"Just finalizing some details for an exhibition of Nunavut
art at Mary's gallery next year," the Minister of Culture said.
"Hope you were able to sleep last night. Many southerners
find it difficult with the lack of any real darkness."
Although I was dying to ask him about what they'd really
been talking about, I thought they wouldn't appreciate
knowing I'd been eavesdropping, so I said, "The blackout
curtains helped."
"I hear you had a robbery last night," Pete said.
"Boy, news travels fast around here."
Pete chuckled then grew serious. "I hope nothing of
value was taken."
I shook my head. "Nope, nothing of importance."
I thought it prudent to keep the detail of the missing
letter quiet, but it did raise a question to which Pete might
know the answer.
"You don't happen to know if a man by the name of
Crazy Russkie lives in Iqaluit, do you?"
"What a curious name," Mary said. "But I'm afraid I
don't recall ever meeting anyone called Crazy Russkie
either up here or at home."
"You know, the name Crazy Russkie rings a bell with
me," Pete said. "But not from here. From a long time ago,
when I lived in Broughton Island. But before I begin, can I
get you a coffee, Meg? You look like you can do with some
warming up."
After placing the order, with more coffee for Mary and
himself along with a plate of donuts, he continued, "Now
where was I? Oh yes, Crazy Russkie, Well, one day, this qallunaat came out of a blizzard, half frozen to death. If
it hadn't been for his dog team, he wouldn't have made it.
After recovering, he moved in with the teacher, a gal from
Ontario. I guess she was feeling lonely." Pete grinned.
I gratefully took a sip of the surprisingly good and hot
coffee, while Mary lit up another cigarillo.
"Anyway, he ended up spending the summer with us. He
sure liked to paint. Even though he'd lost some fingers to
frostbite, he could still hold a brush. We kids used to crowd
around him and watch the colours grow on the paper. I
suppose that's where I first got my interest in art. Then
one day after winter freeze-up, he ups and leaves. Probably
had a falling out with Miss Miller." Pete let out a chortle.
"We never saw him again. Crazy Russkie, he called himself,
because he was crazy and a Russian. And let's face it, he had
to be crazy to travel Baffin on his own."
"And you've no idea where he went?" I was beginning
to feel a little more human as the tingling warmth of the
coffee spread through me.
"No, but there's not too many communities he could've
gone to. The closest was Tasilik to the south. I suppose he
could've gone north too, to Clyde River, but that route
would've been too dangerous, particularly with the open
water."
"Can you remember what year this was?"
"Not really. I was in school, one of the early grades,
which means it would've been in the late 1960s."
"Well, I know he eventually ended up here in Iqaluit by
the early 1970s. Have you ever run across him here?"
"No, and I've been living in Iqaluit since 1999. I've never
heard his name mentioned. So if he ever lived here, I'd say
it was some time ago."
"I guess the only people who would know are the rcmp,
and I've already asked them to check."
"You might want to try Angus McLeod. He's a bit of
a Northern history buff and prides himself on knowing
the name of pretty well every qallunaat who ever lived on
Baffin."
"Thanks, I will. By the way, any word on Apphia?" I bit
into a chocolate donut and felt the creaminess of its filling
burst into my mouth.
"Like I told you, it's gonna take some time. I'll let you
know as soon as I hear, okay?" The smile vanished from his
eyes.
"You don't want me to see her, do you?"
"I'm worried you might upset her."
"Won't she be upset already with her brother's death?"
I countered.
"Are you talking about Johnnie's sister?" Mary asked.
Her rhinestone glasses offered a spark of brightness
in the otherwise dim light of the restaurant. A couple of
middle-aged men a few tables away from us were flirting
with the young, slightly plump waitress, who seemed to be
enjoying the attention.
"Yes, do you know her?"
"I've never met her, but I've seen some of her work and
it's very good. She's not a carver like her brother. Drawing
is her medium. A number of her drawings have been made
into prints and also used for a couple of tapestries at the
Tasilik Art Centre."
"I guess artistic genes must run in the Nanuqtuaq family."
Mary blew out a stream of smoke in response, then said,
"Remember when you were at my gallery, I mentioned
that the style of those prints by Suula was similar to Joly
Quliik? Well, that's one of his prints hanging on the wall
over there."
She walked over to where several framed Inuit prints
were hanging. They were small, like Suula's prints, and I
made a comment to that effect.
"They're not originals," she countered. "Most likely
from a calendar."
"Yeah," Pete joined in. "You won't find many original
prints in Nunavut. They were all sent south. But we've
changed that. We now have a fair size collection at the
Legislative Assembly, just up the road. You should take a
tour of the place."
Mary pointed to the man seal hunting in the Quliik
print. "See how finely drawn the man is, almost three
dimensional, something rarely seen in traditional Inuit
art. As I recall, the figures in Suula's prints were almost
identical."
Even to my unpracticed eye, they did look remarkably
similar. "Are you suggesting she copied him?"
"Well, it is curious. They must've worked at the same
studio," she said.
"That would've been a long time ago. I gather Quliik
died in the mid 1970s."
"That's right. His last print was part of the 1975 collection
of James Lake prints. The Inuit art world suffered when he
died."
"That's what Carter Davis said."
"Oh, you knew Carter?"
"Not really. I met him just before he was killed."
"Such a tragic death. And such a nice man. You know,
I worked for him right after I graduated. Do you know if
they've apprehended the murderer yet?"
The mug Pete was holding slipped out of his hand and
landed with a clunk on the table. Fortunately he managed to
steady it before it could create too much of a mess. "Woops,
sorry about that. Pretty well empty anyways. What were
you saying, Mary?"
"I was just wondering if they've caught the man that
killed Carter."
"No, not as far as I know," I replied, watching Pete mop
up the few splatters of coffee with a napkin and wondering
if Mary's question had caused him to drop his mug.
Mary's cell suddenly rang. As she rummaged through
her pack, I continued watching Pete. After signalling for a
refill, he settled back into his chair. Noticing my gaze, he
smiled broadly and clicked a pretend gun at me, which left
me even more curious to know what, if anything, he knew
about Carter's murder.
Mary listened more than spoke to her caller. At one
point she cast her eyes in my direction and said, "Yes, she
happens to be sitting across the table from me." Holding
her fingers over the receiver she asked, "Angus wants to
know if he can move your meeting up to two o'clock."
The sooner the better, I thought. "That's fine by me."
While Pete and I mutely sipped our coffees and munched
on donuts, she spoke for a few minutes longer. After clicking
off, she said, "That Toronto cop can't see him until late this
afternoon, so he felt he'd better move you up."

Thirty-Four



Curious to learn if there was anything behind Pete's
strange behaviour in the restaurant, I tagged along as
he walked back to his office. I used a desire to tour the new
Legislative Assembly as my excuse for joining him, but when
I brought up Carter's name or mentioned the forgeries in
Toronto, he deflected me by commenting on some aspect
of the Iqaluit landscape, such as the intersection of streets
we'd just crossed. Known as the Four Corners, it apparently
was Iqaluit's only true intersection, but I noticed it only
warranted four-way stop signs instead of stoplights. Twice
he'd interrupted my questions by stopping to talk to
passersby. With frequent nods and waves, he seemed to
know everyone in town. But I supposed that was to be
expected from a politician.
Finally, as we arrived at the bottom of the bank of metal
stairs leading up to the Legislature's entrance, I said in
frustration, "I get the distinct feeling that you don't want to
talk to me about what you know about the art forgeries in
Toronto--or Carter's death."
He continued walking up a couple of the stairs before
turning back to me. "Meg, you know as a politician, I can't
discuss what I know."
"It didn't seem to stop you in the restaurant," I blurted
out before realizing what I was revealing.
He raised his eyebrows in question. "I'm not sure
what you're talking about. Mary and I were discussing the
upcoming exhibit, nothing else."
"I'm afraid I overheard you mention something about the
forgeries to Mary. Since my family seems to be implicated,
I want to learn as much as I can."
"Oh that." He laughed. "I was just telling her how
worried I was at the damage these forgeries could do to our
art industry. Now I want you to look at this entranceway.
Notice the inverted runners of an Inuit sled on either side
of the door. We designed this building to showcase Inuit
culture and Nunavut's natural wealth. Now I want you to
look at the--"
As I made admiring noises about the igloo-like lines
of the navy siding and glass exterior, I couldn't help but
think that the anger he had expressed in his conversation
with Mary could hardly be interpreted as worry. But I
didn't need to be a rocket scientist to know I was being
given the brush-off, so I held my tongue. Nor was I given
the opportunity to press him further, for when we stepped
inside the front lobby, Pete was waylaid by his assistant,
worried he was going to miss his noon appointment.
With many apologies, he escaped through a set of glass
doors, but not before I overheard his assistant mentioning
his upcoming trip to Toronto, which reminded me of his
earlier mention of another trip to that city. And if I recalled
correctly, it had occurred in mid-May, at about the time
Carter was killed. Interesting. But just because he was
there at the same time didn't mean he was connected to
the former gallery owner's death. Still, maybe that possible
link was behind Sergeant Hue's interview with the minister
and not counterfeit art.
Since I had a couple of hours to kill before my meeting with
Angus, I decided I might as well spend some of it exploring
what this new building had to offer before seeking out lunch.
I knew I should probably be using the time to update Mother
on what I'd just learned about Father, but since arriving in
Iqaluit, I'd managed to come up with enough excuses to
avoid calling her. One more wouldn't matter.
Besides, I was more concerned about the impact this
latest news might have on her. Though Jean had told me
that her health was improving with the doctors even saying
she might be able to go home in a day or two, we were
both nonetheless worried over the effect this nonsense
about Father and the fake art might have on her fragile
recovery. And who could know what would happen when
she learned that one of the two people in the submerged
plane had been shot?
The security guard at the front desk suggested I start with
the Chamber, where the elected members of the Legislature
ran the territory's business. He was quick to point out that
the sealskin covering the members' chairs was Arctic ring
seal, a staple of Inuit life for thousands of years, and not the
North Atlantic harp seal, whose pups were killed each spring
amidst worldwide controversy. Like the restaurant, the
Chamber was also modelled after an igloo, except its domed
ceiling was considerably more grand. And like the restaurant,
its walls were covered in fine examples of Inuit art that were
in all likelihood originals, not copies from a calendar.
In a glass case outside the Chamber lay Nunavut's mace,
intriguingly different from most provincial maces. Made
from an ivory narwhal tusk, it lay on the shoulders of four
miniature Inuit carved out of soapstone. Given the realistic
quality of the carvings, I wondered whether Johnnie
Nanuqtuaq had been the carver.
I wandered back into the main hallway, where the walls
were awash with the colourful subjects of tapestries, felt
wall hangings and prints. There were several magnificent
pictures of swirling feathered Arctic birds by the Mystical
Owl artist. I even discovered a small drawing by Frankie
Ashoona, the Ottawa artist I'd met, which surprised me
given Pete's blunt dismissal of his talent. But I did notice
the date was twenty years ago, perhaps before the bottle
took over Frankie's life. And of course there were a couple
of prints by Joly Quliik.
While I stood admiring his particularly riveting picture
of a narwhal hunt, a raspy voice suddenly spoke from
behind me. "Beauty, eh?"
I turned around to see an elderly Inuk sporting a
Blue Jays baseball cap over his wispy grey hair. His smile
deepened the lines of a face that had spent more time outof-doors
than indoors.
"Great hunter," he emphasized with a nod of his head.
"Yes, it is a great hunting picture."
"No, no, Joly."
"You mean the artist was a great hunter?"
"Yes, yes."
"Did you know him?"
"No, picture tell Joly great hunter. See." He copied the
way the hunter was holding the harpoon. "Only hunter
know this."
He pointed to the hunter in the neighbouring Joly print,
who was mimicking a caribou by raising his arms over his
head as if they were antlers. "Caribou want know more.
Come closer. Hunter shoot. Only hunter know this."
Perhaps this first-hand knowledge was indeed behind
the artist's success. I thought of my mother's Growling
Bear print and felt only an artist who'd come face-to-face
with an attacking polar bear would've been able to capture
so well the power of the animal and the fear it generated.
Then I realized all the prints I'd seen so far by Joly Quliik,
even those at the McConnell Art Gallery, depicted either
hunting scenes or animals. So perhaps the old man was
right: Joly was a hunter first and an artist second.
The old man and I continued along the hallway looking
at the other works of art. Occasionally he would point out
a key aspect of a picture or shake his head at something
portrayed incorrectly. At the end he concluded that Joly
was the best and returned to the Quliik prints, while I,
after thanking him for his insights, headed back out into
the frigid summer Arctic day. The wind had stopped, and
the sun now shone. I shoved my wool toque into a pocket
and unzipped my jacket a few inches. I did keep my mitts
on. It had warmed up, but not that much.
Deciding I'd better call Mother before going to Angus's
house, I headed first to a nearby cafe, where I picked up my
lunch of a tuna sandwich on rye and a chocolate donut,
then back outside to find a cab to return me to the hotel.
Several full taxis whisked passed as I waited impatiently at
the Four Corners. After a couple more equally laden drove
by, I decided that walking might get me there faster.
As I was about to begin the trek, a dusty dark green suv
came to a halt at the stop sign. It was only happenstance
that directed my eyes to the driver. Perhaps it was light
glinting off her earrings or a flash of her hand that caused
me to look at her, but the minute I saw her, I recognized the
chubby face with the cap of short black hair. Ooleepeeka,
Angus's daughter. I waved frantically, hoping I could get
a lift. I thought for a moment that her gaze flicked in
my direction, but when she continued on up the road, I
decided she either hadn't seen me or failed to recognize
me. Fortunately, the next car was a taxi with space for one
more person. After a rather circuitous ride, in which I saw
a bit more of Iqaluit, I ended up at the hotel.
Thankfully, the police were gone from my room, but
they'd left a mess. After tossing my jacket, hat and mitts
on top of the strewn contents of my backpack, I called my
sister at her office, first to apprise her about the latest on
Father and also to ascertain whether Mother was up to
receiving the news.
Jean was in court and wouldn't be free for at least a
couple of hours. A call to her husband Leslie proved just as
fruitless, so I decided to chance the call to Mother and play
it by ear. At the sound of her weak "hello", I felt telling her
that her first husband might've been a murderer wouldn't
be prudent. Instead, I mentioned only that the plane
containing the two bodies had been found.
"I guess this means Sutton died in the crash, doesn't it,
dear?" Her voice sounded a bit stronger. "It was always a
very faint hope that he had survived."
"I still think it's worth investigating the meaning of the
picture with the parachute," I answered. "So I'm going to
try to talk to the artist's daughter to see what she knows."
I paused, debating, then decided she might as well know.
"I've come across father's gold pocket watch, the one that
belonged to Great-grandpa Joe."
"Sutton's watch. How curious! Does it still have my
picture in it?"
To avoid mentioning the defacement, I only told her
that it had been replaced by a picture of the girlfriend of
the new owner.
"Does this man say how he came into possession of the
watch? Did Sutton give it to him?"
"I didn't have a chance to ask him, but I don't think
the man was old enough for Father to have given it to him
directly. So maybe Father left it behind, which as you know
isn't likely, or maybe someone in this man's family found it
near the crash site."
I didn't bother to mention that the current owner
had been murdered or that the most likely way someone
could've found the watch was by going through the clothes
on Father's dead body.
"Oh, I do hope Sutton didn't suffer." The sound through
the phone line became muffled, but I could hear her telling
someone that she was quite all right, but she wouldn't be
much longer. When she returned she said, "Sorry, where
was I, dear?"
"We were talking about Father."
"Oh yes, his body. At least we now know what happened.
Did the police say when they would be releasing him for
burial?"
"Sorry, I didn't think to ask. But I suppose it's something
I'd better start arranging. Since there are two bodies, we have
to assume father was the person sitting in the passenger's
seat. I'm not sure how else to verify his identity without a
dna analysis."
"But dear, have you forgotten? It's very easy to identify
Sutton. He had only two fingers on the left hand. Remember,
he lost them as a child while trying to chop wood for Great
aunt Agatha?"
Of course. How could I have forgotten? But then his
damaged hand was so much a part of him that I never really
noticed it. "I'll let the police know. There is something else
I should tell you. Mind you, you might know already. Have
the police told you that some of the works of art in Father's
collection were forgeries?"
"That can't be. Sutton was always so careful."
"I gather they were so well done, they even fooled the
gallery experts."
"Just as well Sutton never learned of it. It would've killed
him."
As she said these last words, I wondered if it had, but not in
the way she meant. His letter to Carter alluded to something
he wanted to investigate. Maybe he'd died as a result of what
he'd learned from the Crazy Russkie. But how could this be
tied into the killing of the pilot? Unless the pilot had somehow
been involved. Maybe that was what had happened.
Still, for Father to shoot him made little sense, since killing
the man flying the plane put his own life in jeopardy.. .which
it obviously had. Unless it was the result of a dreadful accident.
Maybe Father was forcing the pilot at gunpoint to change
direction, which would explain why the plane was way off
course, and the gun accidentally went off, which could make
sense, since Father had little experience with firearms.
I promised to call Mother as soon as I learned more. After
hanging up, I began trying to put my room to rights. As I
picked up pieces of clothing strewn over the bed, I wondered
why the police had felt the need to go into my backpack,
let alone search through it since it was at the airport when
the break-in occurred. While the chambermaid cleaned

my room, removing the fingerprint dust on the furniture, I
finished putting away my clothes.
It was only after I'd put everything away, that I remembered
Suula's drawings. They were missing! I double-checked under
the bedclothes, under the bed and other furniture, even the
wastebasket, to make sure the brown envelope hadn't gone
astray. It was nowhere to be found.
Annoyed, I immediately dialed Constable Curran and
demanded to know why they had taken the pictures without
my permission. She told me that they hadn't taken them or
anything else from my room.
"Shit," I said. "Then someone has broken into my room
a second time and stolen them."
"I'll be right over," she replied and hung up.
She arrived within minutes with her partner, who began
dusting for prints yet again. "Since we just dusted your
room, it'll be easy to isolate any new ones."
"When did you leave?" I asked.
He consulted his watch. "Two hours and ten minutes
ago.;
"That means the person had little more than an hour and
a half in which to do it. Which means they were probably
waiting for you to leave."
"Don't worry, Miss Harris," Curran broke in, "we'll be
checking with the hotel staff to determine if any suspicious
person or persons were hanging around the lobby or the
entrance to the hotel."
"And how did this person get into my room? I didn't see
any signs of forced entry."
"They most likely used a duplicate keycard."
"Does that mean it's someone from the hotel?"
"Look, Ms Harris, please leave the investigation up to
us. We'll let you know as soon as we have apprehended the
person. In the meantime, I advise you to change rooms."
"What's to prevent them from making another duplicate
key?"
"We've already advised hotel security to be on the
lookout. They have various security measures in place that
will alert them if this happens."
"Well, it didn't seem to stop the person the second time,"
I replied, feeling very insecure. Mind you, they already had
everything I had with me that pertained to Father, if that
was what they were after, so there probably wasn't going to
be another break-in.
But what reason could the thief have for taking an old
letter and some pictures that only had meaning to my family?
It wasn't as if any of these items had any real monetary
value. Unless it pertained to their contents, but none of the
items, even the letter, provided sufficient information that
anyone could do anything with. Look at the difficulties I
was having trying to make sense of them.
"I'll have the hotel post a guard on your floor," Curran
said.
She and her partner spent several more minutes
examining the room and taking down my statement. On
her way out she said, "By the way, Corporal Reilly wanted
me to let you know that the boat with your father's remains
will be arriving tomorrow."
"My family wants to have them transported to Toronto
for burial. When do you think this will be possible?"
"Once they've been identified. Hard to say when. We'll
need to verify his remains through dna."
"There is another, easier way to identify him. Check his
left hand. He was missing two fingers."
"Good. I'll pass that on to Corporal Reilly."



Thirty-Five



Angus McLeod was right. The cab driver easily found
house no. 342, which was perched on a ridge overlooking
Iqaluit. The chalet-style A-frame was the last on a short culde-sac
of an odd mix of houses, none of which bore the
slightest resemblance to the other. It was almost as if each
owner had gone out of their way to put their own particular
stamp on their property. The only mark of similarity was
the fuel tank on metal stilts attached to the side of every
house and a curious light positioned on the front of the
buildings, one that didn't seem geared towards providing
illumination. In fact, on Angus's house it shone a bright red,
hardly a colour to light up one's front door.
"I hope that doesn't mean what I usually associate
with red lights," I joked when Angus answered my knock.
Although his tweed jacket of yesterday had been replaced
by a cable knit cardigan, he still sported an ascot, this one a
muted maroon paisley.
For a second he appeared confused, then he grinned.
"I doubt my wife would like having her home viewed as a
brothel. No, it's indicatin' our tank is full." I heard the loud
rumble of an approaching vehicle behind me. "And if I'm
no mistaken, that bloody truck has finally arrived. It was
meant to be here yesterday."
I turned to see one of the ubiquitous tanker trucks I'd
become used to seeing turn into his driveway and stop right
behind a familiar dusty green suv. The overweight driver
lumbered out of the cab and dragged a heavy hose to a
wooden box attached to the front of the house. He opened
a trap door and inserted the hose into the gaping end of a
large pipe. As he did so, my nose wrinkled at the foul stench
of sewage coming from it.
After exchanging angry words with the driver, Angus
turned back to me. "My apologies for speaking my mind,
but Fred was supposed to be here yesterday." He held
the door open. "Best we go inside. The smell can be a bit
overwhelming."
With the sound of the truck's pump starting up behind
us, he firmly shut the door and led me down a narrow hall.
By now I was thoroughly confused. "What's he doing?"
"That's our 'honey' truck, something you don't have in
the south." A smile spread across a surprisingly unlined
face, considering that he must have been well into his
seventies. Perhaps he spent more time indoors than out.
Given the harsh Arctic climate, maybe this shouldn't be so
surprising.
"A corollary of northern living," he continued. "Not
all of us in Iqaluit have the luxury of being connected to
public utilities, so our water is trucked in and the sewage
out. Now I can offer you a proper cup of tea. You see, when
the sewage tank is full, the water is automatically shut off."
"Must be annoying."
"Most times not. We generally keep an emergency water
supply, but my wife forgot to refill one of the containers
from our last episode, so we ran out this morning. I have
some Murchies Queen Victoria tea. Hope you like that? Or
would you prefer something milder, like a Darjeeling?"
"The Queen Victoria sounds good. I like strong tea. By
the way, I see your daughter's here. It must be nice having
her home."
"Daughter?" He stopped walking and turned around.
"Yes, Ooleepeeka. I met her at Mary's gallery. At least, I
believe she's your daughter."
"Yes, she is, but she's out at the moment." His face was
still, almost wary.
"Sorry, I thought she might be here, since I saw her
earlier in the suv parked outside."
"She was for a brief moment." He laughed but his eyes
didn't. "You know daughters. They love to come home to
see you, but they can't wait to escape to their friends. Come
let me show you my Shangri-La."
Thinking the two of them must be having a father
daughter disagreement, I followed him into a sunroom
overflowing with greenery and sunlight.
"Wow," I said, eying the multitude of plants. "I haven't
seen this much greenery since I left home."
"I suspected you'd like my oasis. I call it my conservatory,
although it doesn't approach anywhere near the size of a
conservatory back home."
"You even have orchids! Look at the gorgeous cream
coloured blooms on that plant."
"That's a Princess Kaiulani 'flava' of the rare albino variety, phal amboinensis 'flava*. I'm fair proud of that beauty." He
sprayed it with water from a tarnished brass spray bottle. "I
like to say I'm the most northern orchid grower in the world.
And this the most northern tropical garden. Mind you, there
are some on Baffin that would beg to differ, but their gardens
pale in comparison to the exotic nature of mine."
"I see you have lots of skylights, but they won't provide
much light in winter, when the sun disappears. What do
you do then?"
"See the line of floodlights along the ceiling? Those
are special grow lights. I have to use them in summer too,
because our light here isn't sufficiently intense. The long
summer days also cause problems, since most tropical
plants require a certain amount of darkness. So I've had
blinds installed to plunge this room into night, even on the
brightest of nights."
He flicked a wall switch, causing several thick black
blinds to unravel over the glass portion of the slanted ceiling
towards the outer wall, plunging the room into shade. I
could see that by putting down the blinds on the glass walls,
the room would indeed be almost as dark as night.
"The thickness of these blinds also helps to insulate the
room against the intense cold we get in winter. Look, why
don't you have a gambol around, while I see to our tea."
Although my knowledge of orchids was minimal, I did
recognize many varieties that Mother grew, plus a few I'd never
seen before, and I knew healthy orchids when I saw them,
and these were real beauties, easily rivalling those grown by
Mother's expert hand. But the fact that they were flourishing,
when outside these thick glass walls, the harsh environment
barely allowed a blade of grass to grow, could only attest to
Angus's prowess as a gardener. I also couldn't help but wonder
at the cost. This exquisite tropical garden wouldn't come
cheaply in the Arctic. But then perhaps this was Angus's only
interest, and he was frugal in all other aspects of his life.
This theory was partially dispelled when I entered
the living room, where he'd placed a gleaming silver tea
service on an antique inlaid mahogany coffee table, not
too dissimilar from a table in the living room of the Harris
mansion. But apart from a couple of other antique tables
and a burled walnut sideboard, the rest of his furniture was
modern and comfortable-looking, which I noted with no
small degree of satisfaction. I gratefully collapsed into the
soft cushions of a bulging armchair. However, unlike the
sparkle of money which the tea service showed, the chair's
faded chintz fabric suggested more meager means.
He poured some milk into a porcelain cup with a tiny
crack running through one of its painted flowers. "Do you
like your tea the English way or the European way?" He
pointed to some lemon wedges on a small dish.
"English, but if you don't mind with the milk added
afterwards. My great-aunt used to drink it like you do.
Personally I'm not sure if it makes any difference."
He poured my tea into a delicate cup rimmed in faded
gold before adding a dab of milk.
"You're probably right. All in what you're accustomed
to." He sank back into the well-established hollows of
his leather wingback chair. "I understand the rcmp have
recovered your father's plane."
"Yes, along with his remains. Which pretty well kills any
thoughts I had of his survival. I guess it was rather naive of
me to think it possible."
"Not at all." He offered me a shortbread cookie. "I
thought it perfectly reasonable. There was a case a few years
back where a qallunaat disappeared on his skidoo while
traveling over sea ice. A week later, his damaged skidoo was
found with no sign of him. The police assumed he'd fallen
through the ice, until a few years later he reappeared, very
much alive. Apparently a passing Inuk hunter took him in,
and he decided to stay with the man for a while. Turns out
the man had a willing daughter."
He let out a raucous laugh that seemed at odds with his
demeanour of a cultured gentleman. But perhaps it went
with his ponytail.
"I guess I'd been sort of hoping that my father had also
been rescued by an Inuk, Suula's father. But since his body
has now been recovered, that obviously didn't happen. Still,
I think Suula might've known something about the crash.
Perhaps she passed this knowledge onto her children. But
with her son unfortunately dead, I'm now hoping to talk to
her daughter. You don't happen to know her, do you?"
"Apphia. It's been several years since I've seen her. You
know, she's a very good artist too. I have a couple of her
works hanging in my study."
"Do you know where she's living?"
"I knew her when she was living in Tasilik with her
brother. But about five or six years ago, she ran into a spot
of trouble. Pour soul. She never really recovered from it.
One day she packed up and left the community. She comes
to Tasilik a couple of times a year to pick up supplies at the
Northern store and to drop off her latest drawings at the
art centre. But she's always been rather coy about where
she's living, and the local Inuit community won't say. I
suspect she's living at a camp somewhere along the coast of
Cumberland Sound."
"Does the name Naujalik mean anything to you? This
was the camp where her mother once lived. Maybe that's
where Apphia is."
"Hmm...place of seagulls. There are a number of
isolated islands that are breeding grounds for a variety of
Arctic birds, but I've never seen them myself. I imagine they
are pretty inhospitable places. All rock and not much else.
Not exactly the kind of place where you'd want to set up
camp. I think most are in Davis Strait and relatively far from
the coast, which means having to cross many miles of fairly
treacherous open water. I don't see a woman doing that."
"Maybe this particular island is closer to the mainland."
I helped myself to another shortbread cookie. They were
good. "You mentioned she'd had some trouble. Pete said
the same thing. Do you know what happened to her?"
"Man trouble, what else. The man she was living with
beat her up one night after downing a quart of scotch and
a case of beer, this despite the fact Tasilik is a dry town. She
had to be evacuated to Ottawa, where she spent over a month
in hospital. She still had a limp when she got back. A week
later, she was gone. I don't blame her. Johnnie helped her. He
and one of his mates loaded her belongings into a couple of
boats and took off. But he wouldna tell me where he took
her. Naujalik, you say. May I ask how you learned of this?"
"From her mother's prints."
"Ah yes, the ones Pete mentioned. Apphia has always
marked her location as Tasilik. If you don't mind, I'll ask
around and see what I can come up with and get back to
you, okay?"
"That would be perfect, thanks." Hopefully he wouldn't
encounter the same resistance I was getting from Pete.


Thirty-Six



My mouth watered for another piece of shortbread, but
I didn't dare take one. Today my jeans were feeling a
little too tight. Too much good northern cooking.
Angus, as if reading my mind, pushed the plate towards
me. "Go ahead, have one more, lass. I import them directly
from Scotland."
I gave in. So much for self-restraint.
"By the way, those prints you mentioned," Angus said.
"You didn't happen to bring them with you, did you? If so, I'll	I'd love to see them, if it's no too much trouble."
Believing it best not to reveal their recent theft, I lied.
"Sorry, I left them at home."
He glanced at me over the brim of his cup. "I've never
seen any examples of Suula's work. In fact, I wasna aware
she was an artist. Perhaps when you return home, you might
send me copies. I like to keep up with the northern artists."
"Sure," I muttered, burying myself deeper. I could feel

my face heat up with a blush. Time to change the topic.
"You said you knew my father."
"I count myself fortunate to have been numbered
amongst his friends. We spent many a time discussin' art
over a bottle of Glenlivet. He was fast becoming quite the
expert. But I also had the wonderful pleasure of visiting your
father at your Toronto home. A most remarkable house.
Reminded me of Glencoe Castle near Edinburgh. I must say
it surprised me. Your father was such an unassuming man."
Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I mumbled something
in response. I never liked people knowing that I came from
money. Like father, like daughter, some people might say.
Angus continued. "I'd gone south to take samples of
that year's collection to one of the galleries. I also had a
couple of prints that weren't part of the collection, ones
your father wanted to see, which, by the way, he bought."
"The gallery you mentioned, was that Carter Davis's
gallery?"
"Why yes, it was. Did you know him?"
"Not really. I only met him once. But I guess you probably
know that he's dead, murdered a few weeks ago."
He shook his head mournfully. "Mary told me the sad
news. What a pity. Carter was a delight and his knowledge
about Inuit art bottomless. Do the police know who did it?"
"I don't think so, but the police officer you met last night
is also involved in this case."
"Surely he can't be thinking that someone in Iqaluit did
it?-
My thoughts turned to Pete, but I knew it was an
unreasonable suspicion. It was purely coincidence he
happened to be in Toronto when Carter died. Besides, what
reason would he have for killing the old man? "I've no idea.
He only mentioned the forgeries to me."
"Forty years I've been in the Inuit art business, and
I've never heard of such a travesty. Although I understand
they're making knock-off carvings in China and passin'
them off as Inuit made. But any fool can see they aren't
originals." He spat these last words out in disgust.
Angus brought his cup to his lips, his pinky finger cocked
above the handle in patrician British manner. But instead of a genteel sip, he slurped the hot tea, before asking, "Did
this Sergeant Hue perchance mention names of anyone he
was pursuin'?"
"As I said last night, only Johnnie Nanuqtuaq."
"Right, you did. But the man was far too successful
an artist to be mixed up in such shenanigans. Though
between you and me, I'm not surprised. I didna want to
mention it last night, but lately he'd been flashin' a fair bit
of money around, much more than his carvings would
bring in. Forgeries would help to explain it. I suppose this
Sergeant Hue didn't happen to mention what had been
counterfeited, did he?"
"No, he didn't. But you can ask him when you meet
with him later."
"I will. It'll help me to keep an eye out for any that might
come my way in my own art dealings." His eyes took on a
pensive gaze as he slurped more of his tea.
"Mr. McLeod, I--?"
"Please, lass, call me Angus."
"Okay. Angus... I was wondering if the name Crazy
Russkie meant anything to you?"
His shaggy brows shot up. "Now, lass, wherever did you
learn of that name? I haven't heard it mentioned in years."
"So you know him?"
"Knew him quite well, as well as any man could. A bit
of a loner, he was. Now you haven't told me where you
learned of his name."
Thinking I should also keep the letter to myself, I said,
"It was a name that cropped up recently in relation to my
father."
"I'm surprised your father would know the man. They
didn't exactly run in the same circles, if you catch my drift.
He was what you would call a loose cannon."
"I'd like to talk to the man. Do you know where I can
find him?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid it's quite impossible. The
man left these parts nigh on thirty years ago. He was a bit
of a wanderer. He couldn't stay still for more than a month
or two before he'd be off with his dogs out on the land. No
one would see hide nor hair of him for weeks, months at
a time. But every couple of years, he'd make his way back
to Tasilik. It took me a few years to realize he hadn't been
around town in some time."
"Do you have any idea where he might've gone?"
"No, not really. Mind you, the nurse he was sweet on
was transferred to Clyde River. So perhaps he turned up
there. But if he did go there, he certainly wasn't living there
when I visited the hamlet in the late 70s."
"And he didn't turn up anywhere else in the north?"
"Not that I've ever heard. And I like to pride myself on
knowing pretty much all that goes on in our small white
northern community."
"So he just vanished."
"I suppose he could've fallen through the ice or been
killed by a polar bear. But I doubt it. The man was almost
as knowledgeable on the land as the Inuit. More likely
he finally got fed up with the north and returned south."
Angus repositioned his ascot, which had twisted around his
neck. "You know, the man really was a Russian. His parents
were White Russians, fled the Crimean a few years after the
revolution. They were members of the minor nobility. I
believe his last name was Nabokov, but he never used it.
First name was Sergei. I myself refused to call him Crazy
Russkie. Although many did."
"Co-incidentally, my dog's name is Sergei." I laughed.
"After a character in a Russian book I was reading at the
time."
"You might try the rcmp in Tasilik. I know they sent out
a missing person's report. Not certain if they ever found
out anything."
"You don't happen to know the name of the nurse and
if she's still at Clyde River?"
"'Fraid not. I heard she married a pastor and moved
back south."
"Oh well, it was a long shot. I've already asked the police
here if they can locate him, but from what you're saying,
it's unlikely."
My spirits were sinking...fast. It seemed I was in the
proverbial loop, for every two steps forward I was taking

one back. Perhaps I should just take my father's body and
leave. After all, finding him had been my reason for coming
north.
"You know, Meg, your Uncle Harold might be able to
help you."
I glanced up with surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I believe he knew Sergei."
"How could he? I don't think he ever came here."
"Oh, but he did. I met him a couple of times myself,
right here in Iqaluit."
"I forgot. He did fly up when father's plane went missing."
"This happened earlier. On a couple of occasions. Once
with your father and another time on his own. In fact, I think
he was here about the time your father disappeared."
"Really? I don't remember that at all. But I was quite
young and didn't always pay attention to family affairs.
How do you know Uncle Harold knew this Sergei?"
"The man could never turn down a free drink. I saw
him several times with your uncle at the Zoo."
"The Zoo?"
"Oh, sorry. That was the old bar at the Frobisher Inn.
The actual name was Tulgaq, meaning raven. But I'm afraid
the name Zoo was more fitting, particularly on a Saturday
night." Grinning, he shook his head with the memories,
then continued. "If I'm no mistaken, your uncle bought
some of Sergei's watercolours. He was quite the artist, you
know. Such a shame he didn't pursue it seriously."
"Now that you mention it, there are a couple of
watercolours of blue ice and towering mountains hanging in one of the guest bedrooms of my mother's house. I think
the artist's name is Sergei. But I'm afraid my uncle has been
dead a few years, so even if he knew what happened to the
Russian, he can't tell me now."
"I'm sorry to learn of this. I found your uncle a most
congenial man. I believe he married your mother, didn't he?"
I acknowledged that with a nod and another cookie.
"A beautiful and very charmin' woman, your mother. I
hope the passing years still find her prospering."
"As much as can be expected for a seventy-eight year old
woman. She's having some heart problems at the moment,
which we hope she'll overcome. Well, I've taken up enough
of your time."
I reluctantly raised myself from the comfort of the chair.
As I did so, I noticed the corner of a drawing peeking out
from under a book on a nearby table. What I could see of
it looked familiar.
Without thinking I walked over to the table to move the
book aside and almost cried "thief!" before I realized it was
not one of the prints that had been stolen from my room.
But the style and the topic were almost identical.
"I see you have one of Suula's prints. You told me you
didn't know she was an artist," I said, trying to appear
nonchalant. "Where did you get it from?"
"Print?" Confusion passed over his face until he glanced
at the table. "Right. I'd forgotten I left that there." He slid
the artwork into a nearby folder. "No, it's not by Suula. It's
one of Joly Quliik's prints. An old one my daughter chanced
upon in a flea market near her university. She recognized
his style."
"But it's exactly like Suula's. Are you sure it's not one
of hers?" I tried to remember in my brief glimpse of the
print, if the artist's syllables were the same shape as those
stamped on the four stolen prints and realized there hadn't
been any.
"Quite sure. I handled all of Joly's work until he stopped
producin'. I would recognize his style anywhere."
"But the scene is very similar to the ones sent to my
Mother."
"I'm sure you've noticed that many Inuit artists draw
the same scenes. Let's face it, there is only so much material
one can draw upon in this barren land."
"May I look at it again?"
"If you don't mind, I'd just as soon you didn't." He kept
his hand firmly on the cover of the folder. "You see, it wasn't
meant to be seen. I want to keep this print under wraps
until I have established its provenance to the satisfaction
of the art world. Since Joly stopped producing, only a few
pieces of his work have come up for sale. This unknown
drawing could fetch a big price. So I would appreciate if
you not mention seeing this to anyone, lass."
He took my arm by the elbow and began moving me
towards the front door. "Now if you don't mind, I'm afraid
I have another appointment, as you know. I'm so glad I had
an opportunity to talk with you." The friendly warmth had
gone from his voice.
With that the door clicked firmly in my face, leaving me
feeling angry yet convinced this unsigned print was related
to the signed prints sent to my mother. It depicted the next
episode in the ongoing story of the plane crash. The red
haired man and his family standing in front of the igloo in
this drawing had added another child, a little girl, a little red-haired girl.
So was this latest print really drawn by Suula? And if so, why
had Angus pretended otherwise? Or were they all drawings
by Joly Quliik but with Suula's name added to the ones sent
to my mother. Again I had to ask the question "why"?
Regardless of the artist, I remained convinced these
drawings connected Father to the Nanuqtuaq family and
someone, for whatever reason, had wanted Mother to know.
After the police had found the one in Johnnie's house, I'd
assumed it had been him. But I supposed Angus could just
as easily have been the sender. And if so, what could possibly
be his reason for hiding it from me?
Either way, I was left with the answer to the question
"Why send them in the first place?" still eluding me.

Thirty-Seven

The taxi had no sooner dropped me off at the entrance
to the hotel than who should I run into but my brotherin-law
as he was pushing open the glass door.
"Leslie, what are you doing here?" I cried out without so
much as a sisterly greeting.
"Oh dear, I guess you didn't get my message," he
replied, ignoring my rudeness, but then he was used to my
unpolished ways.
"Did Mother send you?"

"You know your mother...hard to say no to." He
nervously ran a hand through his thick brown curls then
cleared his throat and continued, "But I think she has a point.
This will be difficult for you, dealing with your father's ah...
remains. She thought you would need some help."

He started to tug at the ends of his bow tie before realizing
he wasn't wearing one. This was the first time I'd ever seen
him not dressed in his standard garb; bow tie, oxford cloth
shirt and grey flannels. Instead he was decked out in the
latest outdoor wear, all of which rustled new. No doubt his
concession to the purported rigours of Arctic travel.
"I can handle them perfectly well on my own, if you
don't mind," I shot back, annoyed with my mother. "Bones
are bones. It's not as if he died yesterday."
But as I watched a pained expression wash over my
brother-in-law's boyish face, I hastily recanted, "Sorry,
I didn't mean to take it out on you. You just took me by
surprise. In fact, I'm surprised you got here so quickly. I
only told Mother a few hours ago."





236
237
"Actually, the decision for me to come was made a
couple of days ago. I guess I thought you knew. I didn't
know his remains had been found until I phoned Jean after
I landed."
I ran my eyes over his face to see what he wasn't telling
me. But let's face it, how like Mother not to trust me to do
the job. And how like her to keep Leslie's arrival a surprise.
I wouldn't put him through the wringer for it.
I took his arm. "Let's go to the bar, and I'll bring you upto-date.
It'll be nice to talk it over with someone."
We snatched a quiet table close to the warmth of the
fireplace, a gas one with fake logs and embers instead of
the blazing wood one I'd always pictured as integral to
any northern bar. But it wasn't as if logs were in plentiful
supply around here.
By the time I'd finished telling him all that had happened
since my arrival, I'd gulped down two glasses of single malt,
and Leslie had finally stopped shaking his head in disbelief.
"So you see, there has to be some connection between
father and the Nanuqtuaqs. I'm almost certain someone in
the Nanuqtuaq family saw the plane crash. I think the red
haired man in the pictures could be Father and the red
haired girl his daughter. In fact he's probably the father of
all three children. Yet the discovery of his body says this
is impossible." I took another slurp of scotch. "I tell you,
Leslie, I am one confused woman."
"The police are certain the remains are his?"
"Yeah. They found two bodies in a plane that was
carrying two people." I paused at a sudden thought. "Mind
you, I suppose it's possible that a third person could've been
on the plane, someone the police didn't know about."
"Possibly, but that would mean there would've been
another person going missing at the same time, and I would
think the police would look into the possibility, don't you?"
"Yeah, you're right," I answered dejectedly.
Leslie lowered his glass of Perrier onto the table. He

238

didn't believe in drinking alcohol until close to sundown.
But in this land of the endless sun, he might find himself
getting a little thirsty.
"Perhaps there's a much simpler explanation for the
pictures," he said. "The man depicted is just another red
haired man."
"It's certainly possible. But what would be the reason for
sending the pictures to Mother?"
"Maybe they wanted her to believe the man is her
missing husband so they could extort money from her."
I took another sip of scotch before responding. "There
was no mention in the letters she showed us. But I suppose
she could've received a separate request for money and
decided not to tell us. Look at her reluctance to show us the
pictures. We only found out they existed when we forced
her to open that last envelope in front of us."
"She is quite protective of you girls, you know?"
As if we were still children, I groaned inwardly. "Still, it
doesn't explain how Johnnie came to have Father's watch.
Remember, this watch is a family heirloom. Father would
never have given it away before he died."
"Maybe this Suula stole it from his body after the crash?"
His hand reached again towards his missing bow tie, before
he checked himself with an embarrassed smile.
"That's what Constable Curran suggested. But, for
argument's sake, say Father did survive the crash, as the
pictures suggest, and fathered Suula's three children,
including Johnnie. People have told me that her other two
children were girls. Father's other children are Jean and
I--" My throat constricted as I reminded myself that this
wasn't exactly true. I cleared it with another swig of scotch
and continued, "Johnnie would've been his only son."
Leslie's worried brown eyes sought mine then turned
away. "For what it's worth, I've read that Inuit name their
children after dead relatives, and your grandfather's name
was John, wasn't it."

"Yes.. .and you know something else? Pete told me that
the sister who died also had a un-Inuit-like name, Margee,
which could be a short form for Margaret."
"Just like'Meg', eh?"
"And I was named after my grandmother."
For several minutes we each remained absorbed in our
own separate thoughts. While Leslie ran his finger around
the edge of his empty glass, I glanced glumly around the
dimly-lit bar. Racks of dusty caribou antlers strung with
lights hung from the ceiling in chandelier fashion. Hides
of polar bear and arctic wolf were spread over the stone
fireplace wall while a beady-eyed muskox peered at us from
a neighbouring wall. Despite the rest of the hotel having a
crisp urban veneer, the bar could've been a setting for a Jack
London novel. The tired, ragged-at-the-edges appearance
seemed to fit my mood exactly.
Finally Leslie said, "You really want your father to be
alive, don't you?"
"Yes...yes, I do. I missed him terribly when he
disappeared. You see...I was much closer to him. I was
Maggie, his little magpie." While Leslie reached across the
table to pat my hand, images flashed through my mind,
images of Father comforting me after yet another run-in
with Mother, of him showing me a tiny spotted fawn hidden
by its mother in a clump of ferns, of us laughing together
over the antics of an enterprising squirrel intent on stealing
some birdseed, of him sitting on my bed reading...
"But enough of this nonsense." I released my hand.
"Father's dead. So this Johnnie must've been running some
kind of scam. I wonder if that's what killed him."
"Do you know if the police have arrested anyone yet?"
"Not as far as I know, but then I haven't been paying any
attention to it. Maybe I should."
"You know, there might be another explanation." Leslie
paused while he chewed a mouthful of bar nuts. "It's
conceivable we've put the pictures in the wrong order.
Perhaps your father had these three children with Suula
before the plane crash."
It could help to explain his many trips to the Arctic. But
my father having an affair? It just seemed too impossible.
But then look at Mother and Uncle Harold. Maybe Father
had known. Perhaps Suula had offered the kind of support
and solace that he couldn't get from his wife. But...
"Suula would've been very young. I think the artist in
Ottawa said she was about forty when she died in 1997. Let
me see...that would make her about sixteen when father
died in 1973. And if your theory is correct, she would've
had three children by then. Surely Father wouldn't have
taken up with a girl barely into her teens."
In answer, Leslie's lips creased into a sad smile.
"But I'm forgetting, Johnnie wasn't old enough," I
continued. "I understand he was in his early thirties when
he died. And Apphia is even younger. No, like you said, it was
probably an attempt to get money from Mother." I sipped
my scotch. "I guess one of us should ask her. Probably you,
since I doubt she'd tell me anything."
"What about this man, Angus McLeod? Where do you
think he comes in, if at all?
"I don't know. The only connection appears to be this
picture, even though he insists it's not by Suula. Though
I do find it a bit curious how quickly he turned up at the
murder scene of a man who no longer worked for him. Still,
at the time I didn't have the impression Angus was trying
to hide anything. Instead I felt he was genuinely upset by
Johnnie's death."
"Nevertheless, he might know something. Do you plan
to speak with him again?"
"I want to, but I'm not sure how successful I'll be. I had
the feeling he didn't want to talk about that Quliik drawing
or anything related to it."
"Why don't I go with you?"
"Thanks. It can't hurt. Maybe your blue-blood appearance
will loosen his tongue." I smiled. "You might want to throw
on one of your bow ties. It'll match his ascot." I squeezed
Leslie's hand. "And thanks for coming. I appreciate it. You're
always so understanding."
His face took on the pinkish glow of a blush as he gently
patted my hand in return. "I know it's been difficult for
you, more so than Jean. Your father's disappearance, your
mother's remarriage and that ah...unfortunate business
with your brother."
At the mention of the word "brother", I felt my heart
twist. I'd had no idea Leslie knew. But of course, Jean or
Mother would've told him.
"And I must not forget your marriage. I know you were
terribly upset by the way it ended, but you really are better
off without him. Did you know--"
So Leslie had known all along about my brother Joey.
But at no time had his manner been anything other than
friendly and sympathetic. No hint of blame or censure.
Maybe there was hope...
"Sorry my mind wandered. What were you saying?"
"Gareth, your ex, has been disbarred. Did you know
that?"
"No, I didn't, but I'm not surprised."
"But as I was saying, you've had a tough go of it, and
it's affected your life and how you live it. Jean, on the
other hand, has a rather thick skin." He chuckled softly.
"I suppose it's one reason why I married her. She's able to
block out life's traumas and rise above them. But you and
I on the other hand can't forget. We let them gnaw away
until they become suppurating wounds. Meg, you need to
find yourself a Jean, a rock to hold on to."
I took another sip of scotch. I hadn't told him about
Eric...
While Leslie went to the washroom, I watched a forty
something man strut into the crowded bar. He had the
hungry look of a man on the prowl, so I wasn't surprised
when after a careful scan of the room, he sauntered up to a
sweet young thing sitting very lonely at the bar and flashed
her a come-on grin. I must admit, as his eyes passed over
me, I couldn't resist patting my hair down in an attempt
to tame it. But enough dreaming. No one ever picked me
up. Besides, this hunk of muscle and pearly whites was
definitely not my kind of man.
Leslie slumped back into the hard wooden chair and
tossed back some peanuts. He wasn't my type either. Just
as well.
"You mentioned these art forgeries," he said. "I hope you
aren't worried that your father might be implicated."
"I don't know what to think. So far the police haven't
actually said he was involved. But maybe you know
differently. What have they been telling Mother? She didn't
say much on the phone." I paused with a groan. "Oh dear, I
forgot to ask how she's doing. What a terrible daughter I am.
It should've been the first thing I asked. Sorry, Mother." I
raised my glass to her, then emptied it and ordered another.
"Meg," Leslie intercepted, "why don't you switch to
Perrier? I think you've had enough."
I glared back at him. Who was he to tell me what I could
and could not drink? But when the waitress brought me
the scotch, I returned it and asked for a Perrier instead. He
was right. Alcohol and I were not a good combination.
"I'm afraid the police have brought the art experts in.
They want to have every remaining piece of Inuit art in
your family's collection analyzed and their provenance
checked."
"Oh dear. Mother never mentioned this."
"She doesn't know. Your sister and I are keeping it from
her as long as she's in the hospital."
"Probably a good idea. It could kill her. How's Jean
taking it?"
"You know your sister."
He didn't need to say anything more. I knew Jean. She'd

be having a fit. After all, she had a position to maintain.
And no doubt she was loudly proclaiming it was all my
fault.
But I hadn't told Leslie the worst, mainly because I
didn't want to believe it, let alone voice that it could be a
possibility.
"Leslie, there's something else I should tell you about
Father." I paused. Some scotch would be good about now.
Instead I drank my Perrier. And it wasn't doing what I
wanted it to do, numb my brain. "The police think Father
killed the pilot."
The same shocked disbelief I felt crept over Leslie's face
as I explained about the bullet hole found in the remains.
"And they're certain it was the pilot and not your father
that was shot?" he asked the moment I finished.
"Only because the person sitting in the pilot's seat was
the one with the hole." I paused. "But you know, a third
person on that plane would change everything. The police
wouldn't be able to so easily point the finger at Father."
Leslie cleared his throat. "You shouldn't get your hopes
up, Meg. I think it unlikely another person could've been
on that plane without the police eventually finding out.
But we won't know for certain until they've done the dna
analysis. Have they mentioned when it's to be done?"
"No, just that they're going to do it. I'll ask Constable
Curran."
I tried to shake the film that kept running through my
mind of my father laughing and playing with three little
children that didn't include Jean and me. "I tell you, Leslie,
I'm sure not finding it easy discovering that the man I
knew and loved as a child might not be the man I thought
he was. I wonder what it'll do to Mother."
"Maybe she won't be that surprised. I remember Jean
telling me that although they lived in the same house, it was
as though your parents led two different lives. Your mother
would be frequently off on one of her social events with
your uncle as escort, while your father remained behind
the closed door of his study."
"Or away on one of his many trips," I added. "You know, I
don't remember the two of them ever taking a trip together.
But regardless, I never thought him capable of betrayal. To
me he was a kind and gentle soul who loved his family. On
the other hand, my mother was the one, who... But no, I
won't go there. I'm sure you've heard enough from Jean."
"Meg, you mustn't blame your mother too harshly. I
think she's had a difficult life."
"With dear Uncle Harold by her side?" I quipped. "And
speaking of Harold, I just learned that he was in Iqaluit
shortly before Father's plane went missing. Which I find
curious, because I remember him making a big deal about his
first trip to the Arctic when he came here to follow up on the
search for Father's plane. And what I find even more curious
is the fact that he was seen talking to the very same man that
Father was intending to speak to about some forgeries."
Leslie sighed. "Meg, you shouldn't be so suspicious. I'm
sure he had his reasons. I knew your uncle well, and he was
a good man. Come, let's go have dinner. I hear the caribou
stew is very good."
After a night spent hearing noises that weren't there
and doorknobs turning when they hadn't, this despite
having changed rooms, I took my brother-in-law early next
morning down the road to the detachment. I wanted to
introduce him to Constable Curran and find out when the
boat with Father's remains would be arriving. And learn if
they'd had any success in catching the thief.
An hour earlier, I'd met Leslie coming back into the
hotel after a brisk morning walk in bright sun and near
zero temperatures. The endless daylight had kept him from
having a good night's rest, so he'd gone to explore Iqaluit
before it woke up. He'd discovered, as I had, that the town
never went to bed. No matter the hour, people could be
seen outside on the streets, walking or chatting with friends.
The light even drew the kids outside to play.
After a quick breakfast, we headed off to talk to the
constable, who was just arriving with an extra large cup of
Tim Hortons coffee and some donuts.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked in surprise. "I didn't
know there was a Tim's in town."
"At the Four Corners. It opened up a month ago, and
they've already had to double their supply of donuts, twice."
Her smile revealed a missing molar in an otherwise perfect
set of teeth.
As she led us to her cubicle, I made a mental note to
go to the Four Corners once we'd finished and get some
decent coffee. Although I'd only been drinking the hotel
coffee for a couple of days, I was already tired of it.
After introducing my brother-in-law, I asked her about
the salvage boat.
"Corporal Reilly radioed to say they're having engine
problems. They're holed up in a small bay a couple of hours
from here. He wasn't sure when it'd be fixed. He's worried
they might need a new part, which could take a few days,
especially if they have to bring it up from the south. I'll let
you know."
"Thanks. If I'm not around, let Leslie know. He's staying
at the Frobisher Inn too."
"Bob, I mean, Reilly wanted me to tell you they weren't
able to identify your dad based on the missing two fingers you
mentioned. The remains aren't.. .ah.. .totally intact. Sorry."
"I guess that means you'll have to rely on dna."
"Yeah, we'll have to ship the bones...er, sorry, I mean
remains south to our labs in Ottawa to run dna tests and
compare them to dna samples from your family. Sergeant
Boudreau says the analysis can only be done with dna from
your father's maternal relatives and not his children."
"Oh dear, I'm assuming you mean his mother, grandmother,
etc. I'm afraid they're all long dead. Are you sure
you can't use dna from my sister or me?"
"I'm told not when the remains are this old. The only dna
that remains is something called..." She glanced at a piece
of paper on her desk. "Mito...mitochondrial. Apparently,
this is only passed on through the mother's side. What
about a sister of your father, even a maternal aunt? I think
a brother would also work."
I shook my head. "Does this mean we would have to
have my grandmother's body exhumed?"
"The staff sergeant was worried this might be the case.
He said we should wait until the lab has fully examined the
remains, just in case they find some of the other kind of dna.
Sorry, I don't know the name." She smiled apologetically.
"If they do, they can compare it to a sample from you or
your sister for identification purposes."
"But this could take weeks. And my mother might not
have weeks. I think I told you, she's not well."
"I could see if I can get the staff sergeant to put an urgent
flag on it."
"Would you do that?"
"I could also have Sergeant Boudreau get a dna sample
from you here in Iqaluit. It would save time."
"Good idea. I'm ready any time."
"He's out on a case, but when he comes back, I'll have
him call you."
The mention of dna testing gave me an idea. "I'm still
not entirely convinced that Johnnie's father isn't also mine.
Is there any way you could also do a comparison of his dna
with my father's remains, even mine? That way we'd know once and for all."
"Not sure if we can do it. It's a bit irregular. Probably
would need his sister's consent. But I'll ask my staff sergeant,
okay? You're lucky you mentioned it. We're shipping
Johnnie's remains out tomorrow."
"To his sister?"
"Yeah, in Tasilik."
"Good, you've located her."
"I don't know. Our guys in Tasilik said just to send the
body. They didn't mention the sister. I guess he's gonna be
buried there."
As she said these last words, I made up my mind to
follow the remains to Tasilik. Apphia was bound to be at
her brother's funeral.
I hesitated, unsure if I should bring it up, but decided
he was my father, after all. "I really don't like my father
being considered a possible murder suspect. So I've been
wondering, is it at all possible that a third person could
have been aboard my father's plane?"
Curran shook her head. "Sorry, there were just two
people. I radioed Corporal Reilly yesterday to make sure. I
didn't want us drawing conclusions without checking. But
he said there is nothing in the file to indicate that another
person was on board."
"What about a missing person?" Leslie interjected. "Do
you know if anyone else went missing from James Lake at
about the same time? If so, they might've been on the plane
without anyone knowing."
"I didn't think of that. I'll check with Bob."
I nodded my thanks to Leslie and turned back to
the young policewoman. "Have you heard if the police
investigating Johnnie's murder have arrested anyone yet?"
"No, not yet, although we're pretty sure the motive was
theft. We found a couple of items taken from his house on
a beach next to a boat. But so far we haven't found the hard
drive or the sculpture he was supposed to be working on." She
paused. "I'm helping gis out. They're a bit short-staffed."
"Do you think that's the boat I saw?"
"We can't tell for sure, but it fits the description you gave
us.
"So if you have the boat, you must have the killer."
"Nope. It was Harry Inookie's boat. He says he wasn't using
it, but he knows someone was. It wasn't on Iqaluit beach by his
shack where he always keeps it. It was left near the cemetery, a
good kilometre or so from the main Iqaluit beach. He figured
a bunch of kids must've taken it for a joy ride."
"And you believe Harry?"
"There's no reason not too. He and Johnnie were good
friends. Besides, Harry spends most of his time out on the
land. He wouldn't know the first thing about computers."
"So you don't have any suspects?"
"Someone who lives on the bluff overlooking the
cemetery saw the boat coming in about an hour after the
killing. Since the guy was wearing the turquoise jacket you
mentioned, it's gotta be the same person. Although our
witness was too far away to see the individual's face, they
know it wasn't Harry. The person didn't limp like Harry
does with his bad leg."

"Did anyone else see the guy?"
"Not that we know of. The beach is pretty isolated.
Probably why the guy beached the boat there rather than
on Iqaluit beach, which is a lot busier. Anyways, we're
working on trying to identify the person. We're pretty sure
they're Inuit, though."
"How can you be so sure? Lots of white people live in
Iqaluit, don't they?"
"The weapon is telling us. The pathologist has determined
that it was an ulu that killed him."
"Pardon my ignorance, but I'm not sure what an ulu
is."
"It's an Inuit knife. They use them for skinning seals and
other animals. Here, I have a picture of one."
From the cluttered shelf above her desk, she grabbed
a well-thumbed copy of a book entitled The R.C.M.P.
Handbook on Inuit Culture. The picture she showed us was
of an oddly-shaped curved knife almost in a half-moon
shape with the handle attached to the centre of this half
moon.
"Curious thing about an ulu" she continued, "the book
says they're traditionally used by women. So when I read
this, I thought great, we can narrow down the suspect to a
woman. But I gather from Fred, our Inuit advisor, that in
recent times men have started using them. I guess they make
a pretty good knife. Besides, our witness is positive it was a
man he saw in the turquoise jacket. What about you? Could
you tell if the person in the boat was a male or female?"
"No, they were too far away. Besides they were hunkered
down in the boat, so I don't have any idea whether they
were short or tall, fat or thin, let alone identify their gender.
But the colour of jacket is unusual. One could almost say
it's a colour only a woman would wear."
"Yeah, I suppose. Except my boyfriend back home has
a hockey jacket that colour that he wears all the time. Still,
it's not a colour of jacket you see very often."
"That should help you to narrow in on a suspect,
shouldn't it?"
"Yeah, we're working on it."
"And of course, finding the hard drive would help too."
"We think the suspect got rid of it. He wasn't carrying it
when he walked away from the boat, which probably means
he offloaded it onto another boat or left it somewhere
else on the shore. The only trouble with this scenario is
there aren't any good landing spots between the beach at
Johnnie's place and the cemetery beach. The shore is pretty rocky and steep with no easy access."
"Maybe he tossed it into the water," I hazarded.
Leslie interjected again. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I
just had a thought. Remember what a hard drive contains?
Data. Maybe it was stolen in order to destroy the data.
Immersion in saltwater would certainly do the trick."
"Yeah, Sergeant Hue suggested this." She glanced up
as one of her colleagues walked into the room and sat in
the cubicle opposite hers. Her face took on a more official
stance. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Yes, I'd like to know if you've caught my burglar yet."
"No, sorry, nothing yet."
"I think Sergeant Hue said he was going to see if he
could match the fingerprints with those found at Carter
Davis's crime scene."
"I'm afraid forensics wasn't able to get any good prints,
it being a hotel room and all. Sorry." She shrugged. "But
we're fairly certain you were targeted. There've been no
other recent robberies in the hotel."
"Of course I was targeted," I shot back, feeling frustrated
by the lack of progress. "Any fool can see that."
Curran blushed. "What I meant was..." She stopped,
clearly at a loss for words.
Leslie's quiet voice broke the silence, "You mean,
Constable, that you had to rule out all possibilities before
you could focus in on potential suspects, don't you?"
Curran nodded gratefully at my brother-in-law.
"Do you still believe there is a connection to the Carter
murder?" he asked.
"I'm afraid you will have to ask Sergeant Hue about
that." She glanced apologetically at me, which made me
feel guilty that I'd been so hard on her.
I turned to Leslie. "There has to be a connection. Carter
was the only person who knew of the existence of both the
letter and the prints. So it has to be either someone he told
or the killer, if they're not one and the same."
Leslie nodded. "I understand, Constable, that Sergeant
Hue was also investigating Johnnie Nanuqtuaq in connection
with these art forgeries that seem to also be connected to
Carter Davis. Is there any chance that the person who killed
Johnnie is the same person who robbed Meg?"
As Curran gave the pat answer of following all leads, I
couldn't help thinking about my suspicions regarding Pete
Pitsiulak and a possible connection to Carter's murder.
Maybe he had something to do with Johnnie's murder too.
Although I felt he'd been genuinely upset by the discovery
of his dying friend, he still could've killed him and used me
to help establish his innocence. Maybe when he realized
his friend was still alive, remorse took over, and that's why
he'd tried so desperately to save him. When I met him at
the house with the gamblers, he was coming back from
somewhere, supposedly a shopping trip, but perhaps not.
Maybe the boatman had nothing to do with Johnnie's
death. Curran said they believed Johnnie's killer was an
Inuk. And Pete would no doubt have ready access to an ulu. Moreover, he knew about the Suula prints. I'd told
him, although I didn't think I'd mentioned the letter. Still
he could've learned about it from Carter. Yet the time was
very short, less than an hour between when we parted at
the Legislative Assembly and my return to the hotel. Was it
enough time to steal the prints?
I hesitated about raising my suspicions with Curran.
Pete, after all, was the Minister of Culture. When I raised
my suspicions with Leslie on our way to Tim Hortons, he
agreed it wouldn't be appropriate.
"You need something more definitive than conjecture,"
he said. "You need a motive. You need proof. I suggest
you let the police do their job. If this man is guilty, they'll
uncover it."
You have more faith in the cops than I have, I thought,
opening the door to Tim's. Still, if I were wrong, Pete's
reputation could be damaged. Besides I rather liked the man
and didn't want to believe he could be guilty of murder, let
alone of theft.
After satisfying our southern sensibilities with strong
Tim Hortons coffee and chocolate cream-filled donuts,
Leslie and I decided to visit Angus McLeod. Leslie thought
it best we arrive unannounced, and since it was close to
lunch time, chances were we would find him at home.
However, when we arrived at his front door, we were
greeted by a shy, grandmotherly sort of woman, bearing
a striking resemblance to Ooleepeeka, who informed us
that her husband regrettably was not at home. In fact, he'd
departed early that morning on a flight to Tasilik.
When asked if it was possible to have another look at a
print her husband had shown me the previous day, one I
was considering buying--this last bit added to make my
request sound more plausible--she politely informed me
that it best I wait for her husband's return, since she knew
little about the business. She also didn't know when he
would be returning. After wishing us a smiling good day,
she gently closed the door in our faces.
The minute I returned to my hotel room, I booked my
flight to Tasilik, while Leslie agreed to stay behind to look
after the handling of my father's remains.



Thirty-Nine



The next day I was introduced to the vagaries of Arctic
travel. I arrived early enough at the airport, the
prescribed sixty minutes before my 11:35 a.m. departure
to Tasilik, and checked in without so much as a hint that
the flight might not be departing as planned. For an hour I
waited amidst the growing number of passengers. I sipped
insipid vending machine coffee while wishing I'd picked
up a Tim's coffee on the way, all the while expecting to hear
the boarding announcement at the appropriate interval
before departure time.
I suppose the rain slanting across the tarmac should've
warned me, but I'd flown in plenty of downpours, so I
hadn't given it a second thought. I even watched a large jet
from the south splash down and its passengers fling jackets
or purses over their heads as they raced to the protection
of the airport. I did happen to notice a much smaller plane
standing unattended nearby but thought nothing of it.
Finally, at about thirty minutes after the scheduled
departure, it was announced that the flight would be delayed
for another hour. Since none of the other passengers seemed
perturbed by this annoying delay, I sucked in a deep breath
and tried not to fidget while I reminded myself that I had
nothing pressing. After all, my only objective was finding
Apphia in Tasilik, and for that I needed her brother's
remains. But since I couldn't fly out, neither could he.
As I munched on a stale vending machine sandwich,
several small Inuit kids cavorted around me, while their
mothers, intent on their own conversation, blithely ignored
them. Kids weren't exactly my thing, and I tended to
remove myself as far from their high spirited antics as I
could, although since befriending Jid, I'd become more
used to their energetic ways. I supposed it was the shy smile
of one little girl in pigtails that warmed me to their play,
and before I knew it I was part of their game, a modified
version of hide and seek.
I'd cover my eyes, count to ten, and the five of them
would race off in separate directions to their respective
hiding spots. Their giggling, however, invariably tipped me
off to their locations behind pillars, other passengers, and
in one case, a stack of camera equipment. I pretended to be
mystified and spent several minutes scanning the small but
crowded lounge, assiduously avoiding glancing at one little
boy who kept jumping out from behind the central display
case of Inuit art to see if I was looking in his direction. I
would then advance towards the various hiding places and
in the midst of giggles touch the hiding child. But I always
returned to my seat scratching my head with one child still
in hiding. After another minute or two, he or she would
emerge beaming triumphantly from their hiding place.
Unfortunately, the room was just a little too crowded
for such antics, so after one child accidentally ran into a
passenger and another knocked a suitcase over, I suggested
we play something a little less rambunctious. The shy girl
with the pigtails pulled out a long piece of string with its
ends tied together and invited me to join her in a game I
recognized from my own childhood, cat's cradle. Several
other children also drew out their loops of string and the
contest began to see who could make the most intricate
movements. I must admit my ingenuity was taxed to
invent finger combinations as elaborate as these five kids
managed to come up with. The one that most impressed
me was called "dogs pulling a sled", which it seemed to
mirror exactly.
Finally it was announced that all flights to Tasilik were
cancelled and to check with the clerk for a seat on one of
the two flights the following day. It turned out the reason
for the cancellation wasn't so much the rain but extremely
high winds in Tasilik, so while my playmates dispersed with
their mothers, I waited in line and eventually got one of the
few remaining seats on the next day's afternoon flight.
It was after three before I was able to grab a cab and
head back to the hotel. No rooms were available, no doubt
because of other stranded passengers, so I went in search of
Leslie to see if he minded my staying with him that night.
He was nowhere to be found in the hotel, including the bar,
and a call to Curran to see if he was with her also failed to
locate him. I did learn from the Mountie that it would be at
least two more days before the boat with Father's remains
would arrive in Iqaluit.
The continuing icy torrent dispelled any ideas I might've
had about wandering around town, so I hunkered down at
the bar to wait for my brother-in-law. A couple of scotches
later found me in conversation with one of the locals,
no doubt a bar regular, given the speed with which the
bartender refilled his empty beer glass without his asking.
Gordie was his name, and he'd been living on and off
in the north since the late 1950s, when he'd come up from
Missouri with the American military, who were running
the airfield in Frobisher Bay at the time as part of the dew
line. After his fellow Americans left, he'd stayed on as an air
mechanic working for the Canadian government until his
retirement a number of years ago. He'd liked the northern
life and had nothing to go back for. Besides, he'd found
himself a nice little wife, a nurse from Newfoundland, who
didn't want to return home either.
She'd passed away a few years back, and his children for
the most part had scattered south, although one daughter
was now a teacher a three-hour flight away in Pond Inlet.
But flying was expensive, so he didn't see her and the
grandchildren more than a couple of times a year. One of
the highlights of his quiet life was his twice weekly visits to
the bar for a couple of pints. Although it looked to me as if
he'd already had more than a couple that day.
Gordie regaled me with many a tale of the early days
of Frobisher Bay, when it was trying to establish itself as
a permanent Arctic community. In fact, he was one of the
town's first councilors, and although he'd run for mayor,
he'd lost to a fellow who'd used booze to buy votes. He
hadn't spoken to the man since, although the two of them
had lived on the same road for more than thirty years.
He left Frobisher Bay in the late 1960s to help set up
another airfield in James Lake but returned in 1973 to
become airport manager. On the off chance, I asked if he'd
ever met my father.
"Why, sure I knew Sutton." His red-rimmed eyes
seemed to disappear into a trench of wrinkles as his smile
broadened. "Great guy. Many a time the two of us spent
hours discussing the affairs of the world in the Zoo, that's
the old bar before they built this new one. It wasn't as
gussied up with all these fool-dangled antlers. And the beer
was sure a darn sight better back then. Strong enough to
put hair on your chest." He smacked his lips. "Just imagine
you being his daughter. I see you got his red hair. I was sure
sorry when his plane went missing."
"I'm not sure if you know that they've finally found it,
and in fact they'll soon be bringing it and his remains and
the pilot's into Iqaluit."
"You don't say. Always knew they'd find it one day. Do
you know where?"
"Not exactly, but I think it was out in Davis Strait, near
the entrance to Frobisher Bay. A long way from where it
was supposed to be."
"Yeah, but it stands to reason. Probably landed on pack
ice on Cumberland Sound. The ice would've drifted out into
Davis Strait then south till eventually it broke up, dropping
the plane into the water. I suppose what's surprising is that
the plane didn't travel further before it sank. A lot of these
ice floes end up along the coast of Labrador. I told the sar
guys at the time to check the ice in Davis Strait. But they
were so sure the plane had gone down in the mountains
between James Lake and here, they didn't bother. Guess I
was right, eh?" Another smile revealed his yellowed teeth.
He took a lingering sip of beer.
"Remember your uncle, too. Harold, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess you met him when he came up here after
the plane went missing."
"Yeah, and before too. Saw him a couple of times, sitting
right here at this very counter talking to Sergei, that crazy
Russian. A lot of strange people end up in the north, but
that guy was one of the strangest."
"You aren't the only one who saw the two of them
together. Like my father, my uncle was an art collector. I
gather he was buying some of Crazy Russkie's paintings."
"Maybe, but it looked more like the two of them were
hatching something. I remember seeing a lot of money
changing hands, more than you'd pay for one of Sergei's
stupid paintings."
"Do you know what it was for?"
"No idea, but I know Sergei didn't always travel the
straight and narrow. He and Gus were thick as thieves."
"You mean Angus McLeod?"
"Right. You know him?"
"Only met him a couple of times. What was Angus
involved in?"
"You gotta remember, in the early days it was hard to
make ends meet, and the hbc didn't pay much. That's who
Gus worked for at the time. Eskimo carvings were becoming
a hot seller down south, and there weren't much in the way
of regulations, not like today. So Gus set himself up as a
dealer of sorts." He stopped to wet his lips with another
long draft of beer.
"Hell, we all did it for a little extra cash. They were dirt
cheap. The Eskimos had no idea how much they were
worth. So for a bottle of whiskey, some smokes or a couple
of boxes of bullets, you could make a tidy profit on them.
But most of us only did it with the odd carving. Didn't
like to take advantage of the Eskimos. Gus on the other
hand, made a business out of it. I hear tell he had most of
the carvers in James Lake beholden to him. He'd loan them
money so they could buy items from his store. Then he'd
demand they pay him back in carvings. Once a year he'd
ship 'em down south and make a killing."
"And the carvers never saw any of this money."
"Not as far as I know."
"But he told me that the Inuit in Tasilik asked him
to take over management of their art co-op. Surely they
would've been very upset with him when they realized how
he'd more or less stolen from them."
"Sure they were mad. But you see, the Eskimos are a very
pragmatic people. They could see that he'd been successful
in selling their carvings, so along with help from the Feds
they established a few parameters that made sure they were
recompensed appropriately."
"And that was the end of Angus's underhanded art
dealings?"
"Not exactly. Although he liked to present a squeaky
clean image, occasionally there'd be a bad odour coming
from some of his art dealings."
"What kind of odour?"
"A number of years back now, a couple of dealers down
south accused him of selling fake pieces. Said they weren't
done by Eskimos. But Gus was able to talk himself out of it.
Took a plane load of Eskimos down south who swore they
were the artists."
I immediately thought of Carter's fake Mystical Owl and
my father's forgeries. "How long ago did this happen?"
"Can't say for sure. Memory ain't what it used to be, but
I'd say in the early '70s."
The timing fit, but it didn't explain the more recent
discovery of fakes the police were trying to tie to my family.
"How about anything recently?"
He shook his head. "Nope, Gus has been leading the
life of a solid citizen of the north these past many years.
Was Mayor of James Lake for many years. But you know...
I always kinda wondered how he could afford to buy all
them fancy orchids." He winked.
"You mentioned something about this crazy Russian,
Sergei, being as thick as thieves with Gus. What did you
mean?"
"Suppose it really wasn't anything, but whenever I was
in James Lake, Sergei always seemed to be slinking out the
back door of Gus's place. Know he used to go on errands
for Gus to other communities on Baffin, but never knew
what they were about."
"Could it have anything to do with Gus's art dealings?
After all, Sergei was a painter."
"Maybe. I know Gus had a string of carvers in a number
of Baffin communities. But pretty sure that was all legit. In
fact, Gus still deals directly with a number of carvers, like
that poor boy that got killed."
"You mean Johnnie Nanuqtuaq?"
He nodded sadly. "Great kid."
"I'd understood Johnnie handled his own distribution
after he left the Tasilik Art Centre."
"Maybe so, but one day not too long ago, I seen Gus
and Johnnie in a big argument. Johnnie sure looked mad.
Kept shouting he wasn't going to do that shit for him any
more."
"Do you know what he was referring to?"
"Nope, but figured it had to do with carving. That's
about the only thing Johnnie did, besides drive that fancy
car of his." Gordie upped the amber bottle and drained the
last of his beer.
"Do you want another?"
"Thanks, but I gotta get going. Have to get back for Coronation Street. It comes on at seven."
I glanced at my watch. 6:40.1 had no idea I'd been sitting
here this long. I wondered where Leslie was.
Gordie started to slip his wiry but hunched over body off the high bar chair, then paused. "But before I go, I've got
a question for you. You said something about your father
and the pilot's remains being found."
"Yes, I gather they were still sitting in their seats, despite
the length of time they'd been in the water." I wasn't,
however, about to tell him about the bullet hole in the skull
of the pilot.
"Any mention of a third body?" he asked.



Forty



Ah ha, I was right, I thought as I leaned back into the
barstool with cautious relief.
"Are you saying there was a third man on the plane?"
I asked, eying the old man for any indication he might
be feeding me a line but saw only matter-of-fact open
honesty.
"You bet." Gordie nodded eagerly. "I saw him climb in
shortly before the plane taxied for take-off. I was in James
Lake that day. They had a problem with some of their
running lights. Asked me to look into it. I was outside at
the time when I saw a man run up to the plane."
"Do you know who it was?"
He shook his grizzled head. "Guy jumped in too quick
for me to tell. But from the clothes he was wearing, I'm
pretty sure he was Eskimo."
"Did you mention this to the police at the time?"
"Yup. They said they checked through the Eskimo
community to see if anyone was missing, but they never
came up with anything. And they couldn't find anyone
else who'd seen the guy. So they told me I musta been
mistaken."
"And were you? After all, it sounds as if you only caught
a quick glimpse of the man."
"Nope, I'm darn sure I saw him. Remember thinking it
funny at the time, climbing in at the last minute like that.
In fact, I kind of had the impression the people on board
didn't want him. Seemed to be a bit of a tussle over the door,
before the guy managed to yank it open and climb inside."
"Well, if there was a third guy, he wasn't in the wreckage.
The police have only mentioned finding two bodies."
Suula's depiction of a man parachuting from a burning
plane loomed large in my mind. I sure hoped Gordie was
right and there had been a third man. If so, the identities of
the two bodies were no longer certain. For who had been
the man lucky enough to escape the burning plane? This
third guy, the pilot or my father? Moreover, it also put the
identity of the shooter into question, even the victim.
After convincing the old man to pass this information
on to Constable Curran, I bid him goodbye. As I watched
him totter out of the bar, I couldn't help but feel a renewed
frisson of hope that my father was the man who had
escaped. After all, a man with red hair had been depicted
in Suula's pictures.
I also decided to let Curran know myself and called her
, from a hotel payphone. But she'd already gone for the day
and wouldn't be back in the office for a couple of days since
she'd been called off on another case. Needless to say, I asked
who would be handling Father's remains when the salvage
boat finally arrived. I was reminded that it was Corporal
Reilly's case and he'd be handling everything when he and
the boat got here.
My brother-in-law turned out to be equally elusive.
Despite my being prepared to swear on a stack of Bibles
that I was his relation, the hotel clerk refused to give me a
key to his room. So I returned to the bar, where I sampled
the buffet and several more scotches while I waited. I must
admit, I didn't really remember Leslie coming to get me. I
just have a hazy memory of being pushed into the elevator,
along with my backpack, then force-marched down the
hall to his room, where I toppled onto the sofa. In the
morning, I woke stiff and sore, with a hundred woodpeckers
hammering inside my head and Leslie bending over me,
looking tragic.
"Oh, Meg, why did you do it?"
Freshly shaven and showered with his springy curls for
once tamed and his body reeking of aftershave lotion and
baby powder, he looked prim and proper like a reverend
about to pour forgiveness on one of his stray lambs, which
only served to make me squirm all the more.
My only defense was to retaliate. "It's all your fault. If
you'd been here, I wouldn't have had to wait for you in the
bar. Besides, where were you that it kept you out half the
day and night?"
"I know you're angry with me, but most of all you're angry
with yourself. Why don't you have a shower and change into
a fresh set of clothes. You'll feel much better. Then I can tell
you what I learned in my wanderings yesterday."
I grumbled something in response and wrenched myself
off the couch and lurched towards the bathroom. I felt
awful. I needed a drink. I wondered if Leslie had a bottle
tucked away somewhere, but I couldn't look while he was
in the room. Maybe I could convince him to leave.

"Les, do you have any Tylenol? I have a terrible headache."
My brother-in-law shunned any sort of medication, so I
was fairly certain he'd have to go to the lobby to buy some.
But as he twisted the door handle to leave, my dry self took
over. "No, don't bother. I'll get some later. I'll be finished
in a jiff."
I closed the bathroom door behind me. That was close,
too close. No way did I want to return to those mind
numbing, stomach-puking days of a drunk. I turned the
shower on cold and stepped into it.
Leslie was right. I did feel considerably more human
with my body clean and my clothes smelling fresh. I'd heard
Tasilik was a dry town, and that was all the better for me.
The morning sun flooded through the windows of
the dining room, yesterday's rain a distant memory. I was
happy to see it gone, and the wind too, which meant my
afternoon flight should leave as scheduled.
It was only after I'd injected sufficient caffeine into my
system that I felt lucid enough to find out what had kept
my brother-in-law away from the hotel.
"Since we weren't altogether certain about this chap,
Angus McLeod, and that politician you mentioned, I
thought I'd do some checking on my own. Hope you don't
mind."
He stopped to swallow a mouthful of brie and asparagus
omelet. "Boy, this is delicious. Almost as good as Shelley's."
He sampled another forkful before continuing. "I'll
start with the politician. I'm afraid he's got a lot of friends
in town. Everyone I talked to from the bellhop to the cab
driver had nothing but good words to say about the man
and what he has done for his people and the new territory.
This further supports the need for you to have some pretty
solid proof before taking your suspicions to the police. But
you may have already decided not to."
"Yeah, I've pretty much ruled it out. I'll just stay out of
his way, which going to Tasilik will do."
"I did learn one thing, though." He stopped as the
waitress arrived to deliver his side order of smoked arctic
char.
Food, other than a piece of dried toast, was the last thing
my stomach craved this morning, although the caffeine in
the coffee was doing its job quite nicely of returning me to
the land of the living, even if it wasn't Tim Hortons'.
When the server left, Leslie continued, "It seems he has
killed a man."
"But how can he be an elected official?"
"It happened when he was a teenager. Apparently it was
ruled an accidental death. I think it was a cousin or a friend
he shot while hunting."
"Accidental, eh?"
"Unfortunately, I wasn't able to come up with any
information that would connect him to Carter Davis or
even suggest a reason why he might want to harm the man.
The same goes for his friend Johnnie. Apparently Pete
helped Johnnie out of a tricky situation a few years ago.
But the person telling me about this wasn't able to say what
the situation was." He stopped to butter a muffin.
"So I guess it was a harebrained idea."
"I had much better luck in finding out more about
Angus McLeod. I talked to an owner of a local gallery who
directed me to a couple of carvers who once worked for
Angus. I even found an old timer at the local newspaper,
who told me a few stories about the man."
"My, you really were busy yesterday." I felt the twinge of
a hunger pang. I reached for a croissant. Perhaps with a bit
of cloudberry jam...
"I'd say I've learned more than I ever wanted to about the
man. There does appear to be two sides to him. The journalist
admitted that Angus McLeod was integral in getting Inuit
art accepted as a genuine art form, but suggested that Angus
didn't do it without taking the odd short cut, with some of
them leading straight to his own pocket."
"That's more or less what I learned from my drinking
buddy." And I passed on what Gordie had told me. "But he
wasn't able to come up with any specific examples. Did you
discover any?"
"One of the carvers I talked to, an old guy who'd spent
some time in Tasilik in the 1960s, pretty much confirmed
what you said about Angus's misuse of the early carvers. In
fact, he admitted he'd been one. But at the time he'd been
happy to get free bullets and liquor for something that had
only taken him a few hours to carve. Besides as he said,
or at least his grandson translating his words said, what
would he have done with a lot of money when there was
nothing to spend it on."
I thought of the endless kilometres of empty tundra and
frozen sea with not a store in sight. He was right. It was just
our southern sensibilities taking over.
"He said back then, pretty much everything he needed,
apart from his rifle and ammunition, came from the land. And
by the time he'd lost his dogs and was needing a snowmobile,
he was getting good money for his carvings from the art coop
which Angus ran. So this carver really had nothing but
praise for the man. Not so with the other carver."
Leslie stopped to order another cup of coffee, while I
decided my stomach could take a little more food, so I
ordered eggs benedict with lots of smoked arctic char and
hollandaise.
"Leeno, the other carver, was much younger and a close
friend of Johnnie's."
"Did he have anything to say about the killing, like who
might've done it? Even why?"
"I had the impression he would love to see the ah...
bastard, his words not mine, in jail for the murder of his
friend. But unfortunately he saw Angus at Tim Hortons at
about the same time as the murder."
"Did he say what he had against him?"
"It seems to have more to do with what Angus did to
Johnnie, although the Scotsman did cheat Leeno on a couple
of carvings. Apparently Leeno found out that a gallery had
paid double the price Angus had told him, which meant he
was paid half of what he was actually owed. But that wasn't
why he was angry with the man. I gather Angus paid up
when confronted."
"Makes you wonder how often the man's gotten away
with it. I'd think it would be pretty near impossible for an
artist to find out how much a southern gallery paid, don't
you? Still, I would've thought the Inuit-owned Tasilik Art
Centre would have to be more open in its dealings."
Leslie smiled in agreement. This morning he seemed
more sure of himself. Not once had I noticed him reach for
his missing bow tie. Sleuthing must have agreed with him.
He said, "It sounded as if Leeno was using Angus as an
agent rather than going through the Art Centre. Apparently
he was promised more money."
"I guess it's a case of taking your chances, isn't it? But
still, it does give us a good idea as to how Angus operates.
Did Leeno say what Angus had done to Johnnie?"
"He didn't really know that much. Just knows that
it's something that happened a while ago, when Johnnie
first started out as a carver with the Tasilik Art Centre.
Apparently he was asked to do various things that only
much later did he discover were against the law."
"Did Leeno know what these were?" I thought of the
warehouse in Johnnie's name.
"No, but he assumed it had something to do with
carving. Anyway, it was one of the reasons why Johnnie left
the Art Centre and moved to Iqaluit."
"I bet this is related to the forgeries found in Toronto,
don't you?"
"Makes you wonder, given the Scotsman's history.
Apparently Johnnie let slip one time when he was drunk
that he took something of Angus's when he left, something
that would get the man into big trouble."
"Any idea what it was?"
"Leeno said Johnnie clammed up the minute he asked
and told Leeno if he ever mentioned it to anyone, he'd make
damn sure Leeno never sold another carving again."
"Sounds like serious stuff. It also sounds like it could be
a motive for murder."
"Except Angus was in Iqaluit."
"But he did turn up on the scene within an hour or so
of Johnnie's murder, which given their falling out, could be
viewed as highly unusual."
"Maybe he had gone to retrieve whatever Johnnie had
taken before the police found it."
"That's what I'm wondering. However, when I saw
Angus, he didn't act like a man desperate to retrieve
something. In fact, he was pretty nonchalant. And I don't
think it was a case of him having already found the item.
He wasn't carrying anything, and he didn't act like he was
anxious to get away from us and the police."
I placed my fork and knife on my empty plate. The eggs
and smoked char had done the trick. I had returned to the
land of the living.
After a final sip of coffee, I commented, "I find it curious
that Angus went directly to Johnnie's workshop instead
of the house where he'd been killed and where the police
were."
"Perhaps he was checking to make sure the item was
gone."
"Good point. And we know what the item was, the hard
drive and all its data. So maybe what Johnnie had stolen
was incriminating data about Angus. What do you think?"
"I think you might be on to something. I say we take a
walk down to the detachment." Leslie signalled for the bill.
"But it still doesn't explain who killed Johnnie."
"We'll let the police figure out that one."


Forty-One



They were beginning to load the cargo onto the Tasilik
plane when I took my seat once again in the airport
lounge. Leslie and I had spent over two hours at the
detachment, most of it waiting for someone to listen to
our suspicions about Angus. With Constable Curran off on
another case and Corporal Reilly still onboard the salvage
boat, they had to scramble to find someone else. Even
Sergeant Hue wasn't available. He'd flown to Tasilik two
days earlier, so I made a mental note to track him down
once I got there.
Finally a young constable, one could almost say a raw
recruit, given his nervous stammering and apologetic
politeness, took down our ideas. Other than to say that he'd
pass the information onto the case officer, he offered no
reaction to what we thought had been very able detective
work, as good as any cop could do. We left feeling as if
our time had been wasted and our efforts unappreciated,
although we did learn that the parts for the boat had
arrived, and they anticipated that it and its singular cargo
would be reaching Iqaluit tomorrow.
So with a promise to ensure my father's remains were
well taken care of and a warning for me to be careful, my
brother-in-law put me and my backpack into a cab to the
airport, where for the last hour I'd been waiting with more
philosophical expectations than yesterday. Only now were
they starting to load the cargo into the small turboprop
plane I presumed was the one for Tasilik. Although it
looked as if the flight would be delayed yet again, I was
assured that we would be boarding, once all the cargo, two
days worth given yesterday's flight cancellation, had been
loaded. Unfortunately, my playmates of yesterday hadn't
return, so I was forced to amuse myself.
Through the lounge window, I caught sight of a forklift
ferrying an elongated wooden box towards the conveyor
belt of the plane. It didn't take me long to realize that this
box was large enough to contain a body, as in Johnnie's
body. Although I didn't fancy riding on a plane with a
corpse, I hoped it would draw out Apphia from her isolated
camp, and if the gods were with me, she might even be at
the airport when the plane landed.
It took another forty-five minutes for the crew to juggle
loading the rest of the cargo into the plane and inviting
the passengers to board. If I'd thought our small numbers
would allow us to have plenty of seat space to spread out
into, I was quickly proven wrong. The passenger area had
been shortened to less than one third of the plane. As I
took my seat at the front, with my feet pushing against the
bulkhead separating us from the cargo area, I couldn't help
but think that Johnnie's body might be on the other side.
The fifty-minute flight was uneventful, with skies clear
enough to give me a full appreciation of the emptiness of
this vast mountainous island. Miles and miles of endless
rock, tundra and snow with only the occasional thread of a
blue river cutting through the mosaic of browns, greys and
white and the sporadic splatter of purple and yellow and
even green. At one point we crossed a large stretch of white,
which I thought could be an inland glacier, then the plane
was descending towards an ice-rimmed shore and sparkling
blue water. Once again I noticed the curious blue colour,
similar to the turquoise of tropical waters, particularly
where it mixed with the ice floes. The plane continued its
descent across Cumberland Sound to the towering cliffs of
the other shore.
I had a moment's alarm as we landed. Out of my window
I saw only water; out the opposite window, mountains with
no sign of habitation, let alone an airport. Then we were
taxiing along a gravel runway towards a diminutive single
storey wooden structure reminiscent of the Caribbean island
airports I'd landed at. "Welcome to Tasilik" was emblazoned
in French, English and Inuktitut across the front. I could just
make out several roofs jutting above the water side of the
runway, while on the other a cliff loomed.
I hoped that I would be able to readily pick out Johnnie's
sister, but the hope left me when I saw the jumble of people,
most of them Inuit, crowded into the narrow lounge. I
assumed they were waiting to board the plane; however,
when the keening started, I realized these were the dead
man's friends and relations. With renewed hope, I scanned
the tear-stained faces of the women for one who appeared
the most upset.
The rising crescendos of wailing made me uneasy. I
felt like a trespasser, an outsider. This was a very private
and personal occasion, which didn't include me. My
immediate response was to escape once my backpack was
offloaded onto the middle of the floor, along with the other
passengers' baggage. But I forced myself instead to stay and
scan the mourners. My only reason for coming to Tasilik
was to find Apphia, and this was my best opportunity.
Initially, all I could see was a sea of hats and black hair. In
addition to the usual ball caps, several sported a distinctive
style of woollen cap with a multi-coloured zigzag border
and tassel. I craned my neck to peer around the heads,
searching for the woman who might be Apphia. Influenced
by Angus's picture of the Inuit family, I was looking for a
hint of redness in the hair. At one point I thought I saw
it, but when I gained a better view, I realized this streaked
hair colour was courtesy of a bottle. Besides, the woman
appeared too old to be Johnnie's younger sister.
Then the heads parted and I saw a woman, weeping, a
baby peeking over her shoulder. Her hair was the exact same

flaming red as mine, her skin almost as pale. My immediate
reaction was to dismiss her as white, but I quickly shoved this
bias aside when I realized she was wearing the traditional amauti. Moreover her facial features were more Inuit than
Caucasian. I must admit the sight of her did cause me to
pause. Was I looking at my father's child, my half-sister?
I tried making my way through the keening mourners
towards her. At the same time, I noticed someone else was
also trying to reach her, someone I couldn't fail to recognize
with her designer cut white hair and flashing glasses.
Mary Goresky, however, wasn't having too much success
either. The more she pushed, the more the circle of women
tightened around the red-haired woman like a herd of muskox
fending off a dangerous predator. At one point, Mary even
called out Apphia's name, but one of the men approached
her and suggested she leave the woman alone in her grief.
I took note and decided to return to where I'd been
standing against an outside wall. When Mary finally took
the hint and removed herself from the fray, I walked up
beside her and said, "Hi. I'm surprised to see you here. You
weren't on the plane."
She started and twisted her head in my direction. The
rhinestones in her glasses sparked. "Why Meg Harris,
whatever brings you to Tasilik? I thought your business was
in Iqaluit."
"I came to talk to the same woman you want to talk to."
For a second I saw alarm behind her glasses, then she
laughed, "But her friends sure don't want me talking to her,
do they? What do you want with Apphia?"
"Just following up on my quest for more information
about my father. And what about you?"
"Angus asked me to check up on her and see if there is
anything she needs."
"I'm surprised Angus wouldn't want to do that himself?
I gather he's here also."
"Yes, we came a couple of days ago. He thought she
might prefer a woman's touch." Her face was now a mask
of self-control.
At that moment, a familiar voice rose above the noise, and
I turned to see Pete Pitsiulak making his way through the
crowd. Saying something in Inuktitut, he wrapped his arms
around Apphia, who clung to him as if he were a lifesaver.
This only served to unleash another crescendo of heart
rendering keening. One of the flight crew approached, and
Johnnie's sister, still clinging to Pete, headed out the doors
to the tarmac, to where I could see the end of the coffin
sticking out from the back of a green pick-up. She and Pete
climbed into the truck and drove off.
I must admit I had a momentary "what if". What if Pete
had killed her brother, what would he do to her? But no one
else seemed the least concerned by his offer of protection.
It also spelled the end of any probability of immediate
conversation with Suula's daughter. But Tasilik looked to
be a very small town. Someone would be able to tell me
where she was staying. I turned back to Mary in time to see
her purple coat disappearing over the brow of the road.

Forty-Two



My next challenge was to find a place to stay. In my
rush to leave Iqaluit, I'd not bothered to book
anything, thinking there was bound to be space in a local
lodge. However, I quickly discovered the town had only
one lodge, and the chances of getting a room without a
reservation were next to nil. Like Iqaluit, Tasilik was in the
midst of a building boom, and the lodge was supposed to
be brimming with contractors and government workers.
The only other possibility would be someone's home, but
I couldn't be guaranteed a room to myself. So I decided to
try my luck at the lodge.
Burdened only with my daypack, albeit an overstuffed
one, I tramped down the airport road in the direction of the
lodge. Not wanting to bother with excess weight, I'd left my
large pack with most of my clothes and the sculpture at the
Frobisher Inn with my brother-in-law. I headed towards the
brown two-storey building that had been identified as the
lodge. I must admit its drab, utilitarian appearance didn't
shout comfort, but then my plan was to spend only one night,
at the most two. I figured the funeral would be tomorrow,
where I would meet up with Apphia and hopefully finally
learn what her connection was to my father.
The lodge might have been standard issue, but its perch
on an outcrop of rock overlooking a mountain-lined fjord
would rival that of any of the best resorts in the world. Its
view took my breath away. Picture postcard perfect. If it
had been windy yesterday, it certainly wasn't today. Not
a breath marred the jagged snow-streaked mountains
mirrored in the flat expanse of water. Both sides of the fjord
were rimmed by the towering heights until it vanished into
the crowding peaks at the far end. And directly across was a
cascading valley of amazingly green grass.
Then I spied a ripple. The tiny head of a seal popped up,
stared at me and nodded almost as if it were welcoming me
then it slid its sleek body beneath the surface. Several more
sleek bodies broke through and disappeared again. Within
minutes, a boat headed out after them, an immediate
reminder that before modern society took over, seals had
provided all the necessities of life.
With fingers crossed, I tramped up the metal stairs of the
lodge and entered a dark, narrow foyer with a sign stating
that all outdoor clothing and footwear must be left there.
A couple of bulky work jackets hung from wall pegs while
underneath them stood the owners' scuffed Kodiaks.
A single lamp provided some light in a tiny windowless
office, where a blousy woman with fly-away bleached hair
sat sorting through some papers. Smoke spiralled upwards
from a cigarette lying on an ash-filled ashtray. Bracing
myself for a "sorry we're full", I was gratefully proved
wrong. One of the rotating doctors had just checked out
and was taking the plane back to Iqaluit.
"And you're lucky," she continued in her throaty voice
after introducing herself as Dorothy, the manager. "The
room has one of the best views in the lodge. If you want
some tea or coffee, just ask in the kitchen."
Dutifully leaving my jacket hanging from a peg and my
hiking boots on the boot tray, I climbed the stairs to the
second floor and was greeted by light streaming in through
a wall of windows in a sitting area filled with a ragged
assortment of chesterfields and chairs. It had a front row
view of the fjord. Perhaps this place wouldn't be so bad.
Although my room was cramped, with two single beds, a
couple of dressers, a rod for hanging clothes and not much
else, it didn't matter. It was the view of the fj ord that mattered.
After several minutes spent soaking up its tranquility and
wondering whether those tiny specks moving in the valley
across the water were caribou, I unpacked, found my way
to the Ladies and returned to the sitting room to take up
her offer of tea and wait for dinner.
Precisely at the promised hour, I along with the other
lodgers, arrived in the dining room. I sandwiched myself at
one of the communal tables between two burly men decked
out in their stained construction clothes. At least their hands
and faces had been washed. I fully expected to see Mary, but
when I didn't, I assumed she was staying with Angus.

I wondered about the exact nature of their relationship.
She seemed fairly chummy with the Scotsman, even going
so far as to employ his daughter. If he really was involved
in art forgery, did this mean she was too? But surely
as a director of a fairly prestigious art gallery, she had a
reputation to protect. Any hint, or perceived connection
to counterfeit art would spell ruin not only to her gallery
but also to her standing as one of the foremost experts of
Inuit art in Canada, if not the world. Still, money can be
as good a motivator as any, and from what I knew of the
traditionally impoverished art world, I doubted her salary
would be more than adequate.
I also thought back to the airport and her insistence
on talking to Johnnie's sister. Was it really about ensuring
Apphia was all right, or did she want something else?
Regardless, I thought I might just pass on a word of caution
to the red-haired Inuit woman when we finally met.
Eating was more important than conversing, so there
was little opportunity for me to ask questions until my
tablemates were relaxing with dessert. I will say that the meal
of pork tenderloin more than surpassed my expectations.
And the apple pie melted in my mouth. This chef would
give even Shelley a run for her money.
But when I asked about Apphia and her brother, I
received only blank stares. None of them even knew about
a funeral, let alone that the body of a murdered man had
just arrived on the plane. I should have expected it. Like
most transients, these men were divorced from the goingson
of the surrounding community.

After dinner, as I was about to head off to my room, the
manager waylaid me. "I heard you asking questions about
the funeral."

"You don't happen to know when it will be held or
where, do you?" I asked hopefully.

"The where is easy. Only one cemetery in Tasilik, and
that's at the end of the runway. The funeral itself will
probably be in a couple days, they usually are. But what's it
got to do with you, if you don't mind my asking?" Dorothy
plunked her tired body down with a sigh onto one of the
sofas in the sitting area.

"Did you know Johnnie?" I took a chair across from her.
"Or maybe you know his sister, Apphia?"

"You're clearly not from these parts, so I'm not sure why
you care about these people." She lit up a cigarette and spewed
out a stream of blue smoke. I coughed and backed out of her
line of breath. Cigarette smoke and I didn't agree.

I provided her with the barest of details, feeling she had
no need to know about the possible relationship between
my father and these two people.

"Yeah, I heard about the missing plane. It happened long
before I got here twenty years ago. So that was your dad,
eh? And you think the Nanuqtuaqs might know something
about it?" She blew out another stream of smoke, all the
while staring intently at me. "I'd also heard tell that Johnnie
and Apphia's father was white." Her eyes shifted to my hair.
"Mind you, with Apphia it's pretty obvious."

I was a fool to think that the possible connection
couldn't be hidden. "Do you know their father or at least
know who he is?"

"From what I hear, no one knew the man Suula linked
up with or where he came from. She just turned up here

one day in her boat with her mother and three kids and the
one a flaming redhead. The locals used to laugh and say
the Qalupaliq got her. That's some kinda mythical monster.
I never heard of anyone seeing the man. In fact, I had the
impression people thought he was dead. Sorry."

She must've sensed my distress, but of course it was
ridiculous for me to hope my father still lived. "So you
can see my need to speak to Apphia. I saw her today, so I
know she's in town. You don't happen to know where she's
staying, do you?"

She shook her head. "Not at her brother's place. The
police have that taped off."

"But the murder occurred in Iqaluit. It seems strange
they'd search his house here, unless it's for something else.
Do you know anything about it?" I asked, thinking of his
apparent connection to the forgeries.

"Nope, nothing. The rcmp are being pretty close-lipped
about it."

"Any ideas on where else his sister could be staying?"

"Nope, and not likely to find out either. When they want
to, people here are pretty good at keeping us qallunaat outta
their lives. But why don't you stay after breakfast tomorrow?
My partner and I'll be selling some of the goods we ship in.
Usually get a fair crowd. You can ask them. Once they take a
look at you and hear your story, they'll pass it on to Apphia.
If she wants to meet you, she'll find you."

"I saw her at the airport with Pete Pitsiulak. Could he
have taken her to a place belonging to a friend of his, even
a relative?"

"I suppose it's possible. He knows a lot of people here."
She glanced out the window at a passing seagull. "Pete's a
funny guy. Very protective of Apphia. I'm not sure why.
He's already got a wife, eh? Mind you, that never stopped a
man before."

She let out a peel of laughter that immediately turned
into a coughing frenzy.
"If I can't find out where she lives, I'm hoping to catch
her at the funeral," I said.
"Maybe, maybe not. When people around here don't
want you to get close, they do their damnedest to make
sure it don't happen, eh?"
I thought of the phalanx of women who'd done just
that at the airport. After wishing the woman a good night,
I headed outside. I decided to walk the streets of the small
town to see if I could catch sight of the red-haired woman
who might very well be my half-sister.

Forty-Three



Although it was past nine thirty, the sun was a good
distance above the mountain ridge of the opposite
shore. I wasn't the only one roaming the streets. I swore
half of Tasilik was, which gave me hope of finding Apphia.
A group of teenage boys were playing golf along a grassy
stretch of shore. I say grassy, even though it consisted
mostly of rock and dirt. One boy accidentally sent his ball
onto one of the chunks of ice still girding the shoreline. I
watched him nimbly hop onto it and expertly hit the ball
back onto some grass. Then I realized where he and the
other golfers were heading. A patch of weathered carpet
with a hole neatly dug in the centre, the Arctic version of
a golf green. I laughed. Where there was a will, there was a
way. I called out to see if they knew Apphia Nanuqtuaq, but
they were too intent on their game and didn't even glance
in my direction, let alone respond.
I followed the road bordering the shore, past a variety
of matchbox bungalows. Each bungalow appeared to
be anchored to the ground by thick steel cables running
from one side of the house to the other. A passing walker
laughingly told me it was to keep the houses from blowing
away in the big winds, but when I asked him about Johnnie's sister, he turned his head away and kept walking.
I was nearly run over by an atv overloaded with shrieking
girls, one with her white amauti flapping in the wind. A group
of younger children surrounded me, wanting to know where
I was from, if I liked the Simpsons or which hamburgers did
I like best, McDonald's or Harvey's. Again I received the same
stony silence when I inquired about Apphia.
A number of houses I passed had dogs chained out
front. Some barked, some snarled, all watched my passage
intently. Most appeared to be a huskie mix. None would I
want as a pet.
The whining sound of a power tool drew me to a house
where a carver sat on a boulder polishing his latest stone
carving. His face and clothes were caked in white dust, as was
the surrounding ground. I figured he would know Johnnie
and his sister, but he only smiled back uncomprehendingly,
pointed at his carving and with his fingers suggested a price
of a hundred dollars.
The street ended on a rocky knoll above the water
in an enclave of newer houses, two-storey with some
consideration for architectural design. An old woman
stared impassively at me from her front stoop. A wooden
frame with a sealskin stretched over it stood propped
against the clapboard wall of a neighbouring house. A
face disappeared from a window when I glanced in that
direction. I thought of knocking on the door but knew it
would prove useless. I was even beginning to wonder if
persistent questioning might not hamper my chances of
finding Apphia.
I continued walking. From an open second-storey
window, a little boy sang at the top of his lungs. Although
I didn't recognize the Inuktitut words, I did the melody.
Our national anthem, "O Canada". Perhaps he was still
celebrating Canada Day. Directly around the corner from
the boy huddled a scraggly raven on the power line leading
into the house. He seemed to be trying to cover up his ears
with his wings to drown out the singing.
At one point I had the sense of being followed, but
when I looked back, I didn't see an obvious candidate,
although a number of people were walking behind me.
They seemed more focused on their conversations than
paying attention to me.
I approached a low building with the Canadian flag
flying atop a metal pole and the rcmp insignia on the door.
Although one of their trucks was parked out front, the
door was locked. I would try tomorrow. Maybe they could
tell me where Apphia was staying.
As I passed a tiny clapboard church with flaking paint,
a small, rotund man with coke-bottle glasses and a shiny
forehead was locking the front door. He introduced himself
as the local minister, which immediately reminded me of his
wife, the nurse who'd provided me with information about
Suula and her father. In answer to my query, I was told she
was in Iqaluit and wouldn't be back for a week. He too was
unable to tell me where Apphia was staying, although he
did know her and her little boy, even though she wasn't a
parishioner. As he mentioned her, he glanced at my red hair,
almost as if he too were making a mental comparison.
He would be conducting the funeral service, which was
supposed to take place in a couple of days. He was certain
she would be in attendance. She and her brother had been
very close. And yes, it would be all right for me to attend,
but he suggested that I stay at the back. Sometimes people
got upset by the presence of whites who didn't belong, but
then.. .and he glanced back up at my red hair again.
I passed more matchbox bungalows and more barking,
growling dogs. Several children were playing on the swings
of a play area. I glanced at my watch. 11:05. And not in
bed, which would've had my mother shaking her head in
disapproval. The sun had moved slightly lower and further
along the ridge, almost as if it were making a line. Then I
remembered my high school geography. Of course, in the
land of the midnight sun, the sun inscribes a large circle in
the sky, and this was the bottom arc of the circle.
I felt my back crawl again and turned quickly to see
who was following me. I thought I saw a solitary man drop
his head suddenly, but I wasn't entirely sure. I continued
walking.
Suddenly I heard a shout. I turned around in time to see
a dog racing towards me with the end of a chain dragging
behind. I glanced quickly around, but any likely shelter was
too far away. Besides, the dog would race me down long
before I could reach it.
I decided the best defense was offense. So I began
walking towards the dog saying, "Nice doggy."
It stopped. I stopped. We stared at each other. His upper
lip curled in a snarl.
"Nice doggy."
I felt a prickle of fear as I realized he was about to
pounce.
"Nice doggy," I said again in a louder voice.
Someone shouted. The dog looked back. Then Pete had
him by the back of his collar. The dog twisted and snarled
and snapped at him. But Pete held on and dragged the
animal to where it had broken loose. Except it appeared it
hadn't broken loose. The chain had been unsnapped from
a large hook screwed into the side of the house.
"You okay, Meg?" Pete asked once the dog was safely
secured.
I felt every nerve ending in my body quiver. "Just a
bit shaken up. He didn't touch me. Thank you for saving
me." I paused. "I'm very lucky you happened to be here
at exactly the right moment." I thought of that feeling of
being followed and wondered.
"You might want to stick to the main streets," Pete said,
"Fewer dogs. As you saw, these dogs are pretty wild. Some
might even have wolf in them."
"That dog was deliberately let loose, wasn't it?" But it
wouldn't make sense for him to let the dog go then stop
it. Unless he'd changed his mind at the last minute. I
shivered.
"Possibly. But it could be the snap hadn't been totally
closed, and the dog worked it open. How about I walk you
back to the lodge?"
I glanced around. Several people were walking behind
us while a group of children were playing further up the
road. I wouldn't be completely alone. "Thanks."
We walked in silence for several minutes, before I said,
"I saw you drive Apphia away from the airport. You must
know where she's staying. I'd like to know."
"I haven't had a chance to tell her about you. She's still
very upset about her brother. Can you hang on until after
the funeral? I'll mention it then. If she wants to meet, I'll
bring her to you."
"And if she doesn't, how do I find out about my father..."
I paused ".. .who may also be her father?"
He didn't even blink at the words, which told me he'd
suspected all along. But of course, he had the advantage
of knowing both of us had red hair. "Meg, I know this is
important for both of you. I'll do what I can to make it
happen, okay?"
If I failed to talk to her at the funeral, he was probably my
only means of reaching her. But could I trust him? "Okay.
But tell me why you're so protective of her? If she lives on
an island all by herself, she can't be that fragile."
"It's not just her I'm trying to protect. It's the child. You
see, the boy is mine."

Forty-Four



For two days I waited and paced the busier streets of
Tasilik for a glimpse of Apphia but saw no red head
amongst the black ones. I had no word from Pete nor did I
see his sturdy frame amongst the walkers, which would've
given me a chance to follow him to where she was staying.
Thankfully I had no more incidents with escaped dogs or
suspected stalkers.
Despite Pete's warning to do nothing, I attended the
lodge manager's sale in the hope that word would get back
to Johnnie's sister of my desire to see her. But, although the
women picking through the array of tax-free cigarettes, nail
polish, handicraft sets and the like nodded when they heard
my request, and some even smiled, no one owned up to
knowing the red-haired woman, nor did anyone approach
me afterwards with an address or a message from her.
The rcmp were similarly unhelpful. They only knew she
was in town, not where she was staying. As I was leaving
the detachment, I ran into Sergeant Hue, so I used the
opportunity to pass on our suspicions about Angus. But
apart from making a note in his notebook, the stony-faced
Toronto cop gave no indication that Leslie and I were on
the right track. However, as I was leaving, he advised me to
have little to do with the Scotsman.
It wasn't difficult to avoid the art dealer. He never
appeared at the lodge or along the streets where I roamed.
Although I passed the clump of tent-like buildings of the
Tasilik Art Centre several times, I refrained from going
inside. In fact, I learned later the choice had been taken
away from me. The entire hamlet had closed down because
of the pending funeral. In addition to the art centre, the
Northmart was locked tight, as were the school and health
centre, except for emergencies.
I did see Angus from a distance. I'd noticed a large
suburban-style two-storey house standing away from the
other much smaller homes. It overlooked a lake, more like
a large pond, that must've been the origin of the original
"James Lake" name. I was walking along the ridge of a hill
above this lake when I noticed a familiar figure get into an
Explorer parked at the side of the house. While I watched
Angus through my binoculars, Mary stepped out of the
house and joined him, which made me ask myself if I was
looking at two art forgers. I ducked behind a rock as they
passed below me and headed towards the Art Centre.
On my return trip to the lodge for lunch, I noticed a
couple of men digging a hole in the cemetery. For Johnnie,
I realized with a sense of sadness. But it also meant the
funeral would be soon, then hopefully I would finally be
able to talk to his sister.
Leslie joined me on the second day of waiting. The
salvage boat had arrived in Iqaluit on the previous day. He
spared me the details of describing the remains other than
to say they were to be sent to Ottawa for the dna analysis
sometime within the next few days. Now that I knew of the
existence of the third man, I was half-hoping the results
would prove they didn't belong to my father. Still, Leslie
said it would be a good couple of weeks before we would
know if my dna could be used and considerably longer if
my grandmother's body had to be exhumed. In light of my
mother's fragile health, they had, however, promised to
speed up the process as best they could.
Mother, so Leslie informed me, was in a holding pattern
for the moment. She'd been sent home with twenty-four
hour nursing care. Far from feeling happy about this good
news, I felt only guilt. Once again, I'd forgotten to call her
and find out how she was doing. And once again, it was
Leslie, who wasn't even her own flesh and blood, who'd
been concerned enough to make the call and also inform
her of the status of her dead husband's remains. The minute
dinner finished that night, I placed a call, and of course I
was too late. She'd already been put to bed for the night.
But I did talk to the nurse, who spoke optimistically about
her recovery and promised to tell her I'd called.
The next morning, funeral day, I awoke to a true Arctic
sight. A couple of caribou, their antlers high and wide, their
molting brown coats patchy, were grazing on the grass below
my window. Further along the shore, more caribou, several
with young, also nibbled at the sparse grass. Then I heard
a rifle bark. One of them dropped to the ground while the
rest sprinted away. I threw on my clothes intending to race
outside to catch a better view but was stopped at the door
by Dorothy.
"Best stay inside. It's going to be a hunting free for all
until the herd has left. I'm afraid not even a funeral can
stop what's second nature to the Inuit. So chances are until
the carcasses are carved up and the hides stretched, there'll
be no funeral today."
I had breakfast with Leslie, who'd been fortunate enough
to luck into another vacancy and tried to avoid looking at
the carnage out the window. I kept reminding myself that
the killing was natural, that these people had been doing
this for thousands of years. But I found it hard to thrust my
southern biases aside.
By the time I'd finished breakfast, the shooting had
stopped, apart from the odd pop in the distance. What
remained of the herd had escaped up the valley. Now the
real work began. I saw several atvs with a carcass tied on the
back racing towards their homes. The manager was right.
There'd be no funeral today. I did my daughterly duty and
had a long talk with Mother.
The next day was blustery and cold. The wind swept
through the pass between the mountains and battered the
town. It was all I could do to keep from being swept away as
I walked outside the lodge. A sudden gust finally knocked
me to the ground as it shattered the window of a nearby
house. I could see now why they clamped the houses to the
rock. I crawled back to the lodge, where I hunkered down
with Leslie, convinced there would be no funeral today. But
I was proved wrong.
Around noon, the wind dissipated, the sun came out
and people returned to the streets. It took me a few minutes
to realize they were all walking in the same direction.

"They're headed towards the church," Dorothy said. "To
the funeral."
Leslie and I followed after them. But instead of going
to the tiny Anglican church, they crowded into the school
auditorium, where it looked as if the entire town had
turned out. Following the minister's advice, we stood at
the back against the gym wall and craned our necks to see
around the people in front of us. A number gave us curious
glances, while one or two smiled a greeting, almost as if we
were expected. A break was made for us to move up closer.
Johnnie's plain pine coffin stood in front of a makeshift
altar. Beside it stood the reverend decked out in his official
vestments, including the black stole of death. In the front
row of chairs, in the spot closest to her brother's coffin, sat
Apphia, her bare red hair startling amongst the sea of black
heads, baseball caps and scarves. She was wearing a pure
white amauti with red and black braiding along the fur
edging the hood. Next to her sat Pete.
People, from the youngest child to the eldest grandmother,
paraded up to the open coffin and bent wailing
to gaze and touch the face of the young man, who less
than six days ago had been so very much alive. A group
of singers, a couple of guitarists and a drummer provided
a rowdier form of music, more country and western than
the solemn funeral hymns I was used to hearing. In fact,
the whole service was noisier and livelier than any funeral
I'd ever attended, almost as if it were a celebration of a life
rather than a lament. But the waves of intermittent keening
quickly brought one back to reality.
The service, in Inuktitut and English, was short. The
words of remembrance were equally short. The only longish
one was from Pete, but that was perhaps because he gave it
in both languages, unlike the other two men, who gave theirs
in one language only. The Inuktitut speaker was wizened
with the appearance of many years on the land. I took him
to be a relative, maybe an uncle. The other man, speaking in
English, was much younger, possibly Johnnie's age.
If I'd thought about it, I would've expected Angus to
make a tribute too; after all the master carver had at one time
been one of his most successful artists. But perhaps "at one
time" were the operative words, and after their falling out,
he was no longer counted amongst the favoured. Still, he
had hurried to the murder scene. I didn't even see his grey
ponytail among the mourners, which really was surprising
given his stature within this community.
The guitars burst into the first strains of "Onward
Christian Soldiers", and the pallbearers, including Pete,
carried the now-closed coffin down the aisle. When they
reached me, Pete nodded brusquely in my direction but
kept his eyes forward as they headed out the door. Apphia,
with her small son, and Pete's for that matter, sound asleep
in her hood, walked with her eyes downcast, tears cascading
down her cheeks. Beside her shuffled a gnarled and slightly
hunched old woman, who when she saw me, whispered
something into Apphia's ear. Her head jerked up, and she
shot startled greyish-blue eyes in my direction. I thought
she mouthed the words "You came" before the man behind
her, the one I thought her uncle, pushed her forward, and
out the front door she went.
Putting social niceties aside, I forced my way into the
departing line but only reached the outdoors in time to
watch the pick-up I'd seen at the airport race down the
road carrying the coffin and the two old people in the back.
The mourners followed, some riding their atvs, one or two
in cars, but most walking, like us.
Surprisingly, Angus was at the cemetery, surrounded
by a number of people at the entrance. He wore a suitably
sombre suit with a black ascot and a sombre demeanour.
Mary, looking equally solemn, stood by his side. If he could
make the effort to come here, why hadn't he come to the
church?
My question was answered when Apphia ignored his
proffered condolences by walking straight past him without
any indication that she'd noticed his presence, let alone
seen his arms outstretched to embrace her sorrow. As she
approached the yawning hole where her brother's coffin
waited to be buried, the keening started back up. Angus
chose to ignore the rebuff and silently walked with the rest
of the people towards the burial plot, although I did notice
that the others kept a wide circle of space around him.
Leslie and I felt it best to remain at the back, but as had
happened at the service, we found ourselves being eased
forward with shy smiles and nods, almost as if it were
understood we belonged. We ended up standing directly
across the gaping hole from Apphia in time to watch them
slowly lower the coffin. While Pete and the old man and
woman noticed our presence, Apphia only had eyes for her
brother's coffin. Beside them the minister spoke the words
of the burial service. At the end Apphia fell wailing to the
ground and threw what looked to be shards of soapstone,
the fodder of her brother's life, onto the coffin. She then
stood up with the help of Pete and dropped a shovelful of
sand onto the coffin. She passed the shovel to the old man,
who also added his shovelful, who in turn passed it onto
the old woman.
Apphia's wailing ignited more. The rising crescendo
seemed to take on a life of its own, almost as if it were
attempting to summon the ancient gods. And perhaps it
was, for I had no doubt that although their ancient religion
had long since been supplanted by European religion,
vestiges of their older faith still remained.
Throughout, people came up one by one and added
more shovelfuls of sand. It was only when the shovel was
placed in my hand that Apphia glanced in my direction.
Again those shocking pale eyes. This time despite her
Inuit features, I found she reminded me of my Great-aunt
Agatha. Not that she looked like her, but that her expression
was very like the one Aunt Aggie would put on when she
was thinking.
Brushing Pete aside, she walked up to me. With the tears
still wet on her cheeks, she hugged me closely. "You here,"
she whispered in my ear. "I come for you," then she broke
loose and returned to Pete.
Without another glance in my direction, she left.

Forty-Five



I didn't have to wait long to hear from Apphia. Her
messenger was waiting for me at the bottom of the
stairs when I arrived back at the lodge after leaving the
cemetery. We'd been invited to attend the funeral feast.
Although Leslie accepted, I declined. I was tired and felt
emotionally drained. I was also finding the continuous
stares and comparisons with Apphia unsettling. Besides,
I'd achieved what I'd set out to do, an opportunity to talk
with Suula's daughter and find out if we really did share the
same father.
The young boy handed me her note without so much
as a query to ensure I was the right person, let alone an
acknowledging smile and took off as fast as his legs could
carry him. I guessed my identity was obvious.
The note was short and to the point.

Come to whale house. 9 o'clock tonight.
Apphia Nanuqtuaq

At last, I thought with a tremendous relief, although I
couldn't help but feel disappointed that the neat handwriting
of her note bore little resemblance to the childish writing
of the letters sent to my mother. I'd begun to assume that if
her brother wasn't the letter writer, she was.
I didn't have the foggiest idea where this Whale House
was, but I figured Dorothy would know, that is if she
returned in time from the funeral feast. Otherwise, I'd
be forced to ask a passerby on the street, since it wasn't
likely any of my fellow lodgers would know. But the lodge
manager did return in time with twenty minutes to spare.
Her reaction to my question, however, took me
completely by surprise.
"It's cursed," she said, not bothering to hide her distaste.
"No one goes near it."
"What do you mean 'cursed'?"
"Exactly that. It's a death house. The Inuit call it alianaqtuq. Means it's haunted."
From what she knew, the abandoned building had been
built in the early 1900s as a warehouse for whalers, who
used the protected shore of what was then a nomadic Inuit
camp as a whaling station. Later the Hudson Bay Company
had converted it into a store, but as business increased, it
was eventually replaced by a much larger store and became
the manager's house. Unfortunately, it stank after years of
housing whale oil, animal skins and the like, so when one of
the managers finally refused to live in it, it became a guest
house of sorts until it was given to the Inuit community
for housing.
However, after the first Inuk resident went mad and
killed his wife and his children, no one would live in it. But
these weren't the only deaths the building had seen. One
of the hbc managers hanged himself from the rafters after
a particularly severe winter. Another was killed by an Inuk
after stealing the man's wife. And the third man, a Russian,
was presumed dead after vanishing into the tundra. It
became clear that this man was Crazy Russkie, but since
his disappearance happened many years before Dorothy's
arrival, she knew little about him other than that the Inuit
blamed him for the death of Joly Quliik.
"I'd just assumed that Joly had died from natural
causes."
"That's what the Art Centre has always maintained.
But the Inuit are convinced the artist was killed by Crazy
Russkie while out on the land hunting.," replied Dorothy
blowing a stream of smoke from her cigarette.
"Why are they so convinced? Did someone find the
artist's body?"
"Not that I've heard. And there isn't any cross for Quliik
in the cemetery. But that doesn't mean he's not buried
somewheres out on the land. They also think the qallunaat never came back to Tasilik because he was afraid of what
they'd do to him."
"Maybe Crazy Russkie never returned because they'd
already done their revenge killing," I hazarded.
"Yeah, I suppose." She spewed out more smoke while
keeping her eyes on me. "Are you sure you want to go to
Whale House?"
"I'm meeting someone there." I decided I wouldn't tell
her it was Apphia. Probably best to keep it quiet.
With a shrug that seemed to say "better you than me",
she gave me the directions and finished by saying. "At least
it will be light out, so you should be okay. I sure wouldn't
go there in the dark."
Ten minutes later, trying to laugh off this nonsense of
a haunted house, I set out for my rendezvous with Suula's
daughter. As Dorothy said, it was broad daylight, and I'd
never heard of ghosts carrying out their haunting in bright
sunshine.
Her directions took me along the town beach, past boats
in varying stages of peeling-paint aging to bright fiberglass
newness lying on the beach's coarse sand. I passed a number
of people playing what looked to be an Inuit version of
the French game of boule, except they were using rocks
instead of metal balls. As I walked past, I could feel their
eyes for a moment turn to me, no doubt curious about my
destination. It would be interesting to know what their
reaction would be if I told them.
As I skirted a fenced-off area that contained a large
number of stacked shipping containers and oil drums, I
looked back and saw that several faces were still turned in
my direction. Well, they would soon know.
I was heading towards the end of the beach, towards a
rock outcrop atop which a derelict house perched, more
like sagged. This was supposedly Whale House. The outcrop
jutted out into the fjord, except at the moment instead of
water, the mudflats of low tide surrounded it, although
their expanse seemed to be narrowing quickly with the
incoming tide.
I stopped when I reached the bottom of the outcrop
and looked back to see if anyone was still watching.
Unfortunately, the supply depot blocked the view, although
I could hear the distant shouts of the boule players. I
hesitated. It was pretty isolated, cut off from view by the cliffs
bordering the beach. I didn't see any buildings nearby, except
what looked to be the roof of a largish building peaking over
the rise. I saw no one, but I heard the sound of a motorboat.
It was out of sight and seemed to be moving away.
I had no choice. I had to talk to Apphia. Besides, the
house, awash in sunlight, appeared more benign than
threatening.
With my adrenaline on full alert, I clambered up the
rocks to the dilapidated wood frame structure. Several
boards were cracked or missing, while the foundation had
collapsed at one end, causing it to tilt drunkenly towards
the water. Rough, weathered planks barred the facing
windows and door. I looked behind. The supply depot still
blocked off the rest of the beach.
I wondered why Apphia would pick such an isolated
location, but perhaps isolated was the operative word.
Maybe she didn't want anyone to know we were talking.
But this only made me ask myself why.
With an unsuccessful last glance to see if I could call on
anyone should I run into trouble, I walked around to the
other side of the house, where I discovered the planks had
been removed from the door. On this side Whale House
overlooked another beach, where two boats had been
hauled up onto the narrow expanse of rock strewn gravel.
One boat looked like a freighter canoe with an enclosed
bow cabin and an ancient motor clamped onto a flattened
stern, while the other was a much newer and sturdier brown
fibreglass motorboat with massive twin outboard motors.
"Apphia, you there?" I called out as I knocked on the
wooden door. A rusty piece of tin had been hammered
over a gap at its base, while the hinges glistened from recent
oiling.
Receiving no response, I gingerly pushed the door open
and stepped onto the worn plywood floor of an empty
room, except it wasn't completely empty. In the dim light
filtering through the gaps in the boards, I could see that
the castoffs of many occupants had been shoved aside to
provide a cleared patch of floor. A pile of seal and polar bear
skins had been neatly stacked to one side of this clearing,
next to an open doorway that led to another room. Beside
the skins stood what looked to be an Inuit stone seal-oil
lamp, like the ones I'd seen in museums. And next to it lay
a picture, which I recognized with a start. It was one of the
prints stolen from my room. The one of the Inuit family
with just the one child.
I could only shake my head in confusion. What earthly
reason would Apphia have for stealing the pictures? In
fact, how did she even know I had them, unless she really
had been involved in sending them to Mother? But this
reasoning made the stealing of the pictures all the more
perplexing.
Apphia, however, wasn't here. Either she was delayed
or she'd changed her mind. Regardless, she would have to
return for her belongings. Reluctant to wait inside, I zipped
up my jacket, pulled my toque over my ears and sat on the
outside doorstep in the sun. I wouldn't leave until she came.
As the minutes ticked by, I watched the tide seep across
the mud flats until shallow waves jostled the sterns of the
two boats. The fjord in front of me remained empty, with
not so much as a bobbing seal head or a boat to break the
reflected image of the mountains. A gull took up station
on a rock and glowered at me for several minutes before
taking flight with a squawk. I no longer heard the shouts of
the boule players from the other side of the house.
Then I heard footsteps from inside the house.
"Apphia," I said turning around. "I didn't--"
A medicinal smelling cloth cut-off my words. For several
long seconds, I strained to breath, then everything went
black.

I awoke to the noise of racing engines and the realization
that I was in a boat. I was lying on the floor, encased in
something soft and bulky. My head ached, and the pounding
motion of the boat only served to make it feel worse. I tried
to sit up, but a wave of dizziness and a sudden lurch sent
me back down.
"I see you've returned to the land of the living." The
smugly grinning face of Angus McLeod loomed over me.
"Where are you taking me?" I struggled to sit up again
and made it. It was then that I realized I was not wearing
my own jacket, but a sealskin Inuit parka. Its hood covered
my head. I climbed onto a vinyl-covered seat.
"I wouldn't sit there, lass. It can get wet." Angus laughed
heartily.
Within seconds, my teeth were chattering from the
bone-chilling spray. I moved forward to a more protected
seat behind the windscreen and pushed the hood further
over my head until its ring of fur covered much of my face.
My feet, however, were another matter. I was beginning to
feel a numbing cold through the soles of my boots.
An Inuk was piloting the boat, which I realized was the
fiberglass boat I'd seen on the beach at Whale House. Like
Angus, he was wearing traditional Inuit sealskin boots.
"Here, put these on your feet." The Scotsman flung me a
pair of sealskin boots.
My feet quickly warmed in the thick inner fur of the
boots.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Not much further." Angus turned to face forward into
the wind. But before he did so, he said, "I wouldn't advise
trying to escape overboard, lass. You wouldn't last two
minutes in this water. It's barely a degree or two above the
freezing level."
And even if I were to survive the frigid water, I could
see there was no place to land. We were pounding through
choppy waves along one of the most inhospitable shores
I'd ever seen. Rough, jagged cliffs plunged straight down
to the water, where breakers tossed ice blocks against stubs
of broken rock. The mountains of the opposite shore were
barely discernable across the vast expanse of whitecaps,
which made me realize with a sinking feeling that we'd left the
Tasilik fjord and were now in Cumberland Sound. Nowhere
along the near shore did I see the potential for rescue. Not a
single building, not even a tent watched our passage.
Although the sun was skirting the ridge of the distant
shore, my watch indicated that it was a little after one in the
morning. I'd been unconscious for almost three and a half
hours. Enough time to travel a fair distance, particularly at
the speed we were going. But surely in this light, someone
had seen us leave Tasilik? What about those boule players?
I could only hope that someone had seen me lying in the
bottom of the boat and alerted the police.
But the softness of the sealskin against my face made
me realize why Angus had replaced my own jacket with
this Inuit garment, and it had nothing to do with warmth.
No one would have paid attention to a prone Inuk woman,
particularly after Johnnie's funeral feast, where despite
being illegal, alcohol would've no doubt been available to
the most determined.
I also realized I had another worry.
"Where's Apphia?" I called out above the noise of the
wind and the engines.
Either he hadn't heard me or chose to ignore my
question, for Angus continued to work on a piece of rope
that had become entangled. Giving up in frustration, he
pulled out a knife from his pocket and cut it. I froze when
I realized what kind of knife it was. An ulul Terrified that
I was looking at the one that had killed Johnnie, I stepped
backwards, wanting to put as much distance as possible
between Angus and me.
At that point the boat suddenly veered towards shore,
causing me to lose my balance. I managed to get myself
upright in time to see us heading straight towards a wall
of impenetrable rock. As we drew nearer, I realized there
was a gap, partially concealed by a bulge in the wall and
a rock fall. With the engines still on full throttle the pilot
expertly drove the boat on a surge of water through the
gap, narrowly missing several sharp rocks at the entrance,
and immediately cut the engines.

Forty-Six



We entered a long, fjord-like bay, locked in by towering
cliffs. At the far end, the cliffs gave way to a high
valley, where I could make out the shimmer of a river
cascading down a steep slope. While the rock face on the
left side of the bay dropped straight to the water, on the
right it stopped at a grassy plateau, which sloped down to a narrow stone beach, bordered by the mud flats of a low
tide. A curious collection of low wooden buildings were
scattered over the plateau. Below them a couple of white I circular tents were anchored to large rocks on the near end
of the beach. A short distance away, a group of children
played beside several women, who were cutting up what
looked to be seal carcasses. A piece of clothing fluttered on
a tent guy line. A couple of ravens squabbled over a piece
of meat. Despite the aura of innocence, I was afraid that
this bay was about to become my prison.
The boat pulled up beside a rudimentary stone pier.
While Angus held it steady with an oar, he ordered me
to jump, and jump I did, almost turning my ankle as I
scrambled up the rocks. I could hear Angus's grunts and
heavy breathing as he stumbled up behind me. Not wanting
to get within striking distance of the old man, I made no
attempt to help as he struggled to maintain his balance.
Instead I held my breath and watched, hoping he'd fall
into the frigid water. But when it looked as if it wasn't going
to happen, I asked, "Why have you brought me here?"
"In due time," he rasped between pants and directed me
to walk towards the beach.
A pack of dogs tied up beyond the tents suddenly howled
as a man approached them with a bucket and starting
flinging chunks of bloodied meat.
Worried he could use it against me, I tried to hide my
growing fear as I watched these dogs pounce with the wild
savagery of wolves
Feeding time," Angus laughed. "I advise you to stay well
away from that end of the beach, otherwise..." He parodied
a Frenchman's shrug.
"You don't need to threaten me. Just tell me why you've
kidnapped me," I shot back. "If you're looking for money,
tell me how much, and my mother will pay."
I said this last with more confidence than I felt. Although
I was fairly certain Mother would part with a reasonable
amount, I wasn't entirely sure that she would hand over a
ransom in the millions.
"You honestly think I'm after your family's money?"
"I can't think of any other reason for taking me." I could
think of another, but I wanted him to raise it, not me.
Besides, it was hardly a reason for kidnapping me.
Rather than answering, he turned his head towards the
echoing sound of a motorboat that had just come through
the gap. As it drew closer, I recognized the freighter canoe
that had been lying on the beach beside Angus's boat. I
could make out three people. Although the boat was too far
away for me to be sure, I thought the black-haired woman
steering the boat might be Angus's daughter. But at the
sight of the other two women, the shock of betrayal took
over my fear. One had red hair, and so did the other.
"Apphia is involved, isn't she?" I thought of the drawings,
the one in his house and the stolen one lying on the floor of
Whale House. "This business with the drawings is one big
con, isn't it? Apphia has no connection to my father. The two
of you hatched this scheme to go after my family's money."
But even as I said it, I didn't want to believe that Apphia
was a part of it. Her sisterly embrace had seemed too
genuine. And I didn't want to let go of the hope that Father
had survived.
The woman steering the boat was indeed Ooleepeeka.
Another familiar figure sat in the middle of the boat, a
woman I almost didn't recognize because of the red hair.
But when her rhinestone glasses flashed in the light, I knew
her--Mary Goresky, wearing a red wig with strands of white
hair leaking out. Towards the bow sat Apphia wearing the
white amauti from the funeral with her baby sound asleep
in the hood and a very angry scowl on her face.
When I saw the way Mary forced Suula's daughter off
the boat and up the side of the pier with a prodding rifle, I
realized with relief that I was wrong. Apphia had nothing to
do with Angus and his schemes. She'd been kidnapped too.
Apphia and her baby had no sooner been put ashore
than Mary and Ooleepeeka took off in the freighter canoe,
* followed closely by the fiberglass motorboat. It was only as
the two boats vanished through the gap that I realized the
significance of the red jacket Mary was wearing. It was mine!
It didn't take me long to jump to the next conclusion.
"You had the people in Tasilik think Apphia and I
were leaving on the same boat. Since most know of our connection, no one would think it unusual."
"Most astute of you, lass."
"So maybe no one raised an alarm when they saw us
leave, but when we don't come back, they will."
"No," Apphia said, her shoulders slumped in resignation.
"They think we go to Naujalik, my camp."
"But I know my brother-in-law. He'll send the police
out to check when I don't return in a day or two."
"And when they do, they'll find no one there," Angus
replied smugly. "Instead they'll find Apphia's overturned
boat caught in some rocks along the way."
"So that's what your daughter and Mary are doing.
Making it look as if Apphia and I have drowned in a boating
accident. But if I'm assumed dead, you won't get very far
with your ransom demand."
"No, I won't, will I?" he replied succinctly, while the tone
of his voice left me in little doubt as to our fate.
But surely neither of us could be a threat to him? What
had we done to make him want to kill us?
"This about other kind of money," Apphia said more as
a statement than a question. "Pictures."
"You're talking about the forgeries, aren't you, Apphia?
The ones Angus is responsible for and your brother was
involved in."
While Apphia's face expressed dejected agreement,
Angus chose to ignore me, though I did notice he didn't
deny the allegations either.
"Now, now lassies, enough talk. Let's go have a cuppa,
shall we?"
Gripping each other's hand for encouragement, we
followed the old man up a dirt path to the plateau, where a
shack made from assorted wood planking leaned against a
rusty oil tank. Further up the grassy slope stood two long,
narrow structures made from what appeared to be canvas
over plywood. They too had their requisite oil tanks.
"Excuse my bad manners," Angus said. "I forgot to
welcome you lassies to Qamanaarjuaq, the summer camp of
my wife's family." Angus flung out his arms as if to embrace
the bay and its surrounding heights. "And for your benefit,
Meg, it means 'the place where fish gather', for as Apphia
well knows, that is an Arctic char river." He pointed to the
river at the end of the bay.
"Like salmon, Arctic char spawn in the mouths of rivers.
They like the near freezing waters of the Arctic and will
spend the first years of their lives in the freshwater lakes
that feed these rivers. Such a lake exists at the top of this
valley. In late summer, the waters of this bay are thick with
their red bodies. This is why my wife's family for countless
generations has chosen this place for their camp."
He continued walking towards the shack's door, then
turned back towards us. "If you have any thoughts of being
rescued, you can forget them. Apphia can tell you that the
police will have no knowledge of this place. It is the kind
of place that Inuit keep to themselves, much like Apphia's
precious Naujalik, isn't that so, Apphia?"
She nodded bleakly.
"And as you have no doubt noticed, the entrance is
somewhat hidden. So don't expect your Mounties to come
chargin through the gap to your rescue."
He started to push the door open, then stopped. "And
if you are thinking of trying to escape, be my guest. You
wouldn't survive a week on the land. In fact, it would save
me having to do the dirty deed." He laughed and stepped
across the threshold into the darkness beyond.


Forty-Seven



With the threat of death hanging over Apphia and me,
I felt like I was in a time warp as we sat cross-legged
on a polar bear skin in Angus's one-room shack genteelly
sipping tea and eating Scottish oatmeal cookies. Despite
light sifting through the only window in the room and the
glow from two stone seal oil lamps, I could barely make out
Apphia's worried features and Angus's self-satisfied grin.
Amazingly, her baby still slept, not the least aroused by his
mother's plight, and his for that matter. But surely Angus
wouldn't harm a baby...
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized the
sealskins covering the walls were the source of the room's
gloominess. I took this to be an Inuit form of insulation,
and it did seem to work for the room had a certain muffled
coziness about it, despite an oil-burning stove standing
cold in the corner.
Although it was close to four in the morning, I was
too frightened to be tired. Nevertheless, I drank copious
amounts of tea to ensure I stayed awake, fearful of what
might happen if I did fall asleep.
Angus, sitting on the room's only chair, did all the
talking, waxing eloquent on the many innovations he'd
brought to his wife's family camp, while at the same time
enabling them to retain much of their traditional lifestyle.
In fact, while we'd waited for his sister-in-law to boil up the
water for the tea on a Coleman stove, Angus had stepped
behind a curtain at one end of the room. Within minutes he
reappeared after replacing his jeans with sealskin trousers,
but I did notice that he hadn't gone so far as to get rid of
the ascot peaking out from the neck of his sealskin parka.
Patting his round paunch, he said he liked the freedom of
the relaxed fit of Inuit clothing.
Whenever I tried to broach the reason for our kidnapping,
he deflected it with a "later". After several tries I gave up and
concentrated on learning as much about our surroundings
as I could. I noticed Apphia was doing likewise as she peered
around the sparsely furnished room and out its only window.
At one point I noticed several boats being hauled up onto
the beach and wondered about them as a means of escape.
But when a short while later the dogs were brought over
and staked around them, I quickly dismissed that idea.
I also discovered the practicalities of the amauti's large
hood when Apphia's baby finally woke up and demanded
his food. Without removing him from the warmth of the
hood, she merely twisted the garment around her until he
was able to comfortably nurse. Amidst the loud smacking
of his feeding, we continued sipping our tea.
Finally I heard tramping outside and voices. The door
swung open to reveal Mary and Ooleepeeka and the rifle.
"It's done," Mary announced while Ooleepeeka propped
the gun against the wall.
Mary no longer wore the red wig or my jacket. However,
the jacket she now wore sent my fear into free fall.
"We left the boat near the island you suggested, Dad. And
watched it smash against the rocks." Ooleepeeka glanced
hopefully at her father, as though seeking his approval.
And she received it with a gentle pat on the back as she
dropped her plump body down onto the floor next to his
chair.
"You hurt my boat!" Apphia cried out. "I need my boat."
"Not any more," quipped Mary, who'd remained standing.
"Why you do this?" Apphia turned pleading eyes towards
Angus.
"You know why," he replied succinctly.
"I know nothing."
"Of course you do, lass. Your brother told you."
Her silence was answer enough.
"Shall we show you what Johnnie told you?"
She remained stonily still.
Angus hauled himself up from his chair. "Come, Meg, I
want to show you our little operation."
"You kill my brother," Apphia whispered.
"I thought so too, but he didn't." I turned around to
Mary. "You did!"
Mary pursed her lips, her eyes daring me to continue.
I pointed at her turquoise jacket, almost an exact shade
of Arctic blue ice. "You were the person I saw in the boat
leaving Johnnie's beach, weren't you?"
She lit a cigarillo.
"You killed him because he knew all about your forgery
ring," I continued, with little thought for the consequences.
I figured at this point it didn't matter.
"Business actually, quite a prosperous one, isna that
right, Mary?" Angus answered.
"And you stole his computer because it contained
information about your activities."
"My, my, you have been doing your homework, haven't
you, lass?" he continued. "Actually, he stole the data from
us, from Mary's computer to be precise. After he threatened
to go to the police, we couldna let him live any longer."
"He had it with him on the plane, didn't he? Probably
on a memory stick," I said.
Mary flicked a sculpted lock of white hair from her face.
"No wonder he left the airport so quickly, after seeing
you on the plane."
"He forced me to do it. The stupid man wouldn't listen
to reason."
I thought for a moment I saw regret in her eyes before
they turned to ice.
"Come this way, lassies," Angus interjected. "I want to
show you our little operation. I'm quite proud of it."
At first Apphia refused to come, but when I held out
my hand and whispered, "It might help us find a way to
escape," she placed her small rough hand into mine and
followed.
As she stepped onto the grass, her baby whimpered. She
stopped and lifted her little boy out of her hood and held
his squirming body above the ground. The poor child wore
nothing on his bare bottom. But as he proceeded to let out
a stream, I realized why. When he was finished, she neatly
tucked him back into his warm furry bed.
With his daughter pulling up the rear with the rifle, Angus
led us to one of the strange, almost tent-like structures made
from plywood. With its white canvas covering held down
by a line of large stones, it looked as if it would blow away
with the first strong gust of wind. Although there were no
windows, I could see a couple of skylights in the roof, on
either side of a chimney pipe. As we drew closer, I thought
I heard a low humming noise coming from beyond the
building, its modern sound an intrusion into the weighted
stillness of this prehistoric land.
At a rough wooden table near the entrance, a man was
carving into a flat slab of greyish-green stone with what
looked to be an artist's knife. He was carefully etching an
outline of a picture that had been drawn onto the stone's
smooth surface, a picture that seemed vaguely familiar.
"Recognize it?" Angus pointed to the drawing.
I tried to remember where I'd previously seen this
drawing of quarrelling geese. Then bingo.
"I don't know the artist's name, but my father had a
print just like this in his collection."
"You have a good memory."
"But that picture has to be almost forty years old, if not
older."
"Forty-one years, to be precise. Now that the artist has
been dead for a good ten years, its value has risen sufficiently
to start spreading a few more onto the market. Come inside."
He held the door open.
With Apphia following on my heels, I stepped inside
and gasped. I'd expected a primitive interior, much like
that of the shack. Instead, we'd entered into the world of a
modern art studio.
Angus smiled broadly. "Fooled you, didn't I? For that
very reason I decided to house my little business operation
in these primitive Inuit buildings. If someone does happen
to make their way into our bay, they'd just assume this is nothing but a traditional Inuit camp."
Although daylight was coming through the skylights,
the majority of the light came from several bright overhead
lights strung along the rafters.
Amazed, I asked, "Where do you get the electricity from?"
"We have a couple of generators concealed out back."
The source of the humming noise. "We only run them for
the lighting and our electric tools." He pointed to a large
metal object with various arms and rollers. "The printing
press, however, is manually powered."
At a table, a man was rolling green ink onto a stone
slab with a drawing of an owl in full feather. Behind him
hung several prints of this same bird, while a little further
along on the wall behind another table hung prints of the
quarrelling geese.
Noticing my gaze, Angus said,"Rejects. Not close enough
to the original, so I'm having Iyola make another printing
block. Here, judge for yourself."
From a shelf, he pulled out a print sandwiched between
sheets of tissue paper. Carefully laying it on the table, he
pulled back the tissue to reveal the geese, complete with
artist syllables, date and edition number. Then removing
one of the prints from the wall, he laid it beside what was
clearly the original.
Although I couldn't readily discern any differences other
than perhaps a slight variation in the colour of the red ink,
Apphia immediately identified several lines in the feathers
that were ever so slightly off from the original.
"Johnnie no do this," she exclaimed haughtily.
"Yes, you do have your family's artistic eye, don't you,
lass? And you're right. He would've cut it perfectly the first
time around. My best carver. Pity he had to go all righteous
on me."
"It bad," she shot back. "Artist no get money."
"Yes, that did bother him, when he finally realized that
the original artists or their families wouldna receive a
penny. But as I tried to explain, they'd already been well
paid for their efforts. Besides, chances were they'd gamble
away their money or drink it."
Apphia shot him an angry glare. "Inuit buy many things.
Boats, guns, bullets, snow machines."
Angus turned to me and shrugged as if to say, "See, what
did I tell you?"
"As if your precious orchids are any better," I snapped
back.
Angus's only response was a chuckle.
Running my eyes over the counterfeit geese, I thought
of another forgery, just as expertly done. "You were behind
the fake Mystical Owl, weren't you?"
"Yes, I was quite proud of that particular copy. It was
my first attempt. Quite successful, wasn't it? But I'm afraid
I made a mistake in the handlin' of that particular sale. I
used Mary as my art expert for authenticity verification.
You see, we'd gotten to know each other quite well when
she did her doctoral research on Inuit art at the James Lake
Co-op. I realized we were of like mind."
He glanced at the art director, who appeared more bored
than interested in the recounting of their crimes.
"Unfortunately, this was early on in my art dealings. I
hadn't appreciated how critical the term 'expert' was in the
sale of such a valued piece of art. I thought Mary with her
newly minted doctorate would do just fine. But the buyer
wanted a more experienced opinion."
"And he went to Carter Davis, didn't he?"
"So that's how you know about the Mystical Owl fake. I
was wonderin'."
"I saw it hanging on his wall."
"Pity he'd kept it. I hadna realized until he called me
out of the blue a couple of months ago. We hadn't talked
in years. He'd suddenly remembered something a mutual
friend had told him about the fake. Although he didna
connect me to it, I was worried he eventually would."
"You killed him. How could you?" I cried out in
outrage.
He and Mary exchanged glances.
"No, you had him killed," I corrected. "Mary did it."
"It was an accident." Mary who'd been slouching against
a wall, straightened up. "Gus sent me to see if I could
point him in another direction, but like Johnnie, Carter
also had a stubborn streak. He couldn't be persuaded. In
fact, he started accusing me. I guess he'd finally connected
all the dots. Anyway, when he threatened to expose my
involvement, I knew I had to do something. I have too good
a thing going for me at the museum. We happened to be
standing in the hall at the time, right by the basement door.
It was a simple matter of opening the door. And well.. .he
slipped." She paused. "I didn't mean to kill him. I was sorry.
I rather liked the old man."
"So you left him there to die all alone on the cold
basement floor."
"He was already dead."
"And took the Mystical Owl with you."
"I was worried his heirs would have his collection
evaluated and discover the forgery." She glanced back at her
partner. "Besides, I thought we could make a good profit."
I turned to Angus. "You sold my father the forgeries that
were found in his collection, didn't you?"
He shook his head. "No, he didn't buy them from me."
"Surely you're not suggesting that he was a part of your
forgery dealings. That he was your distributor."
"You can rest easy. Your lilywhite father had nothing to
do with it. It was your uncle who was my silent partner.
He was the one that added the forgeries to your father's
collection."
"Uncle Harold?"
"You sound surprised."
"I don't believe you. He had enough money of his own
without getting involved in criminal activities."
"I think for him it was a lark, a titillating excursion
into the dark side. He saw it as a way to get back at your
father."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, your father was the eldest son, with all that it
implies. Plus he had your mother, a most charming lady, a
lady he didn't treat with the proper respect due her."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"But I do. I was the one who introduced Sutton to his
Inuit mistress."
"Are you talking about Suula Nanuqtuaq?" I asked.
At the mention of her mother's name, Apphia eyes
sparked with interest.
"Not at all. I know nothing about this Suula. In fact, I'm
hoping Apphia can enlighten us. No, I'm referrin' to my
wife's niece, Geeta, a delightful little nymph. Pity their son
died."
"I don't believe any of this," I said, even though I had a
nagging suspicion that it could be true.
I remembered a Christmas Eve when I was about
eight. We were putting the decorations on the tree when
Father suddenly announced he had to fly up north next
day, Christmas Day. Mother was so angry, she lost her
normal self-control and began shouting that if he left, he
might as well not return home. There were more angry
words about sluts and wandering dicks, which at the time
I didn't understand. Even my older sister didn't know. It
was only later, long after Father's plane disappeared, that I
remembered the words and finally understood what they'd
meant. As I recalled, Father stayed, but left early in the new
year. On that occasion, he didn't return to Toronto until
the tulips were in bloom.
"It doesn't really matter if you believe it or not, lass,"
Angus retorted. "Harold's dead, and I'm sure you wouldna
want to sully your mother's memory of him. Besides, after
the plane went missing, he wanted out, so I paid him the
money he'd loaned me to help get the enterprise started
and left those fakes with him to do with as he saw fit."
I had little choice but to agree. It was best to leave it
alone. However, it disturbed me that a man I'd come to
love almost like a father should have hated his brother so much that he'd wanted to ruin him.

Forty-Eight



I knew nothing about your forgeries." That wasn't exactly
true, since I'd had my suspicions, but he wouldn't know
that. "So why kidnap me, if not for money?"
"Simple. It's all about the pictures." Angus pulled the
front of his parka down where it had bunched up over his
stomach.
"What pictures?" I asked, although by now I had a fairly
good idea.
"The ones Apphia sent you, of course."
I turned to the woman who I was coming to believe was
my sister. "Is this true? You sent them?"
Her body tensed. "Yes. I want you come." She smiled.
"And you here."
"But why didn't you include your name or address?"
A look of puzzlement passed over her face. "I put
Naujalik on pictures. You come to camp."
I supposed in Apphia's small world, where her camp was
the centre of her universe, she assumed everyone knew the
location of Naujalik. "Did you tell- your brother about the
letters?"
"Johnnie say no. Say it bring trouble."
And it certainly had. In spades.
I took a deep breath. The time had finally arrived for me
to learn the truth no matter how difficult. "Why did you
want me to come?"
She glanced nervously at Angus. "Not here."
"Now is as good a time as any, lass," Angus answered.
"Yes, let us know why you wanted Meg to come to Baffin."
She bit her lower lip but remained silent.
"It's about your father, isn't it?" he continued. "The
one that gave you that marvellous red hair. Just like Meg's,
eh?"
He had the nerve to brush his hand over my frizzy curls.
Slapping his hand away, I moved beyond his reach.
I caught a flicker of anguish mixed with uncertainty in
Apphia's eyes as she glanced at me before bowing her head
in silence. I moved back beside her and put my arm around
her to let her know it was okay. I'd be happy to have her as
my sister.
"It doesna matter, lass, if you tell us or no. The pictures
will. Ooleepeeka, get them, will you? I left them in the
house."
While Apphia and I waited side-by-side in anxious
silence, Angus sat down in a chair with a deep sigh. From a
shelf Mary removed what looked to be a picture wrapped
in tissue paper with a piece of tape holding it closed. She
casually removed an ulu from her pocket and slit the
tape. The minute she laid the half-moon shaped knife on
the table I shivered with the realization that this was the
weapon that had killed Johnnie.
She must've felt my eyes watching her, for she hastily
slipped the knife back into her pocket before lapsing into
studied indifference.
At that point Angus's daughter returned with a leather
art portfolio.
"Lay them on the table," he said with a wave of his
hand.
As Ooleepeeka proceeded to place the contents one after
another in their order, I felt a growing outrage. The only
print missing was the one the cops had. By the time she laid
down the seventh and last one in the series, I couldn't keep
quiet any longer.
"You stole the prints from my room!" I shouted at
Angus.
"Sorry, you're wrong again, my dear. This time it was my
daughter. She has a good friend at the hotel who gave her a
duplicate keycard."
"Of course. How could I be so stupid to think you
would deign to dirty to your fingers," I snapped back. "And
needless to say, Mary stole this one." I pointed to the first
picture in the series, the one with the hunter on his own
without the plane, the one that I'd given Carter.
At that moment a loud thwumping noise suddenly
reverberated through the walls. It took me less than a
second to realize what it was. By that time, so had Angus.
"Hold them!" he shouted as I raced out the back door
after the helicopter. Mary grabbed my arm and yanked me
back inside, but I was in time to see Apphia standing poised
on the front doorstep, while behind her Ooleepeeka held her
baby in the air and shouted at her in Inuktitut. I didn't need
a translator to know that Angus's daughter was threatening
harm to the son if the mother dared go outside.
The baby started to whimper, a mournful sound that
very quickly became a lusty cry of outrage. The sound of the
helicopter faded. Casting a resigned look in my direction,
Apphia returned to her baby and gently rocked him until
he quieted. At the same time, Ooleepeeka retrieved the
rifle from where it had been propped against the wall and
pointed it at us as an extra incentive to ensure we behaved.
"Don't get your hopes up, lassies." Angus said, with a
smug grin. "They won't be back. If the rcmp thought this
quiet Inuit camp could help them, they would've landed."
I had a sinking feeling that he was right. Still it was
encouraging to know that the search for us had begun.
Hopefully it would continue along this section of
Cumberland Sound. Perhaps if there was some dramatic
way we could signal our presence...
I thought of the building's flimsy wooden walls. A
blazing fire would certainly attract attention. This was the
one time I wished I were a smoker and carried the means to
start one. Then I remembered the seal-oil lamp. There had
to be matches in the main house.
"Now, lassies, back to the pictures. Apphia, I want you
to tell me who drew them."
'Anaana. See name Suula here." She pointed to the
syllables along the edge of the four prints she'd sent Mother,
including the one I'd scotch-taped together. She raised
curious eyebrows at the drawing I'd found in Harold's
belongings, no doubt anxious to know where that one had
come from.
But she froze when she reached the last drawing, the
one with the little girl with red hair that I'd seen at Angus's
house. It was the only drawing without an artist chop.
She turned accusing eyes on Mary and said, "This
Johnnie picture. You took it."
"I couldn't leave it behind." Mary shook her head. "When
I saw it hanging in his workshop I knew it was a match to
the pictures Meg had shown me at the gallery, pictures that
were supposed to have been drawn by your mother. But I
didn't believe it when I first saw them and I certainly don't
now. So tell us, who's the real artist?"
With the six of them lying side-by-side, it was easy to
see that the same artistic hand had drawn the simple but
highly skilled lines.
"She's right, Apphia," Angus said. "Your mother was a
good artist, but she couldna draw people as good as this.
There is a three-dimensional quality about them. So who
drew them? And don't tell us your brother did."
She hesitated, glancing at me as if seeking my approval. "Ataataga," she whispered.
"Your father," Angus said.
Apphia nodded. "Anaana" She paused as if searching
for the right English word. "Mother tell me no tell."

"Why not?"
"Is bad."
"Why? Because he didna want anyone to know he had
survived the plane crash? That is him parachuting from the
plane, isn't it?"
She nodded, her eyes wide with fear.
"What was his name?"
I braced myself.
She glanced in my direction and smiled, almost
apologetically. "Sutton Harris."
At last I knew. My father had survived the plane crash.
But.. .but instead of returning home to us, his family, he had
stayed and fathered another family. As much as I wanted to
rejoice in his survival, I found it difficult. I couldn't help
but feel betrayed.
"Where is he?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could. "Is he
still alive?"
She seemed to search for the words in English then
spoke to Angus in Inuktitut.
"The man's dead. Apparently he died while she was a lass."
Casting an apologetic glance towards me, as though
embarrassed by not being able to continue in English, she
spoke again to Angus, and the two of them conversed for
several minutes.
Finally, Angus turned to me. "She says that he was always
sick. He couldna walk properly. Couldna go hunting. Her
mother said it was from the injuries he received when
he landed on the ice. Her mother and grandfather saw
his fall from the plane and knew he was badly hurt. But
he wouldna let them take him to the nurse in Tasilik. So
her grandmother, who was familiar with traditional Inuit
medicine, healed him as best she could. Apphia thinks she
was about eight years old when he died."
Tears spilled from her eyes. He must have been a good
father.. .as he'd been to me.
"She also says that her father was a great artist. He taught
her mother how to draw and to make pictures from the supplies her grandfather would bring back from his trips
to Tasilik."
Angus picked up the picture of the falling plane. "The
minute my daughter showed me these pictures, I knew the
artist could only be one person. And that man is not Sutton
Harris."
"But he has to be," I insisted. "Apphia inherited her hair
colour from him."
Apphia nodded vigorously. "He say his name Sutton
Harris. He tell me he have two daughter in south, like me
and Margee." She pointed to herself. "Ataataga, my father."
And then pointed to me. "Your father."
"Sorry, lass, not the case. Your father wasn't the only
red-haired man on that plane."
"Are you saying the pilot also had red hair?" I asked.
"No, it was the third man."
"But he was an Inuk." I thought of the missing artist.
"That Inuk was Joly Quliik, wasn't it?"
"Not a bad guess. But I'm afraid you aren't entirely
correct." Angus's smile took on the self-righteous satisfaction
of the Cheshire Cat.
"No, the man was very much a qallunaat. I should know.
I put him on that plane."


Forty-Nine

Crossing his arms over his chest, Angus settled back
into his chair and gloated. His eyes flitted from me to
Apphia and back again. Even Mary appeared surprised by
his admission, as her cigarillo dropped forgotten from her
lips. But his daughter had known. She leaned back on her
heels, and like her father, watched for our reaction.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because your father had discovered our dirty little secret
and was on his way to the Iqaluit police with some rather
incriminating evidence I'd stupidly left on my desk."

"Father found out about your forgery operation from
Crazy Russkie, didn't he?"
"That's what happens when you trust a drunk with
your secrets. I'd foolishly sent the man to Iqaluit to pick up
something for me. The fool hadn't seen a bar in so long, he
almost drank it dry. Anyway, he became what all Russians
become when they're in their cups, maudlin. Just my luck,
your father happened to be sittin' next to him.
"I don't think Sergei gave away all my secrets, at least he
insisted he hadn't, but put together with what your father
already knew from Carter Davis, it was enough for Sutton
to put two and two together and come up with me. After
sniffing a bit more around Frobisher Bay, he found his way
to James Lake and confronted me."
Like Father, like daughter, I thought. I wasn't sure
how many times I'd put myself into a similar precarious
situation with little thought to the danger it might bring.
Like now. And all because I was too intent on seeking out
the truth.
"I really thought I'd convinced him that I was an
honourable man," Angus continued. "At least he acted all
apologetic when he left my house. Fortunately for me, I
discovered the missing papers before his plane took off.
Papers, by the way, which itemized several of my less-than
legal transactions. I had no choice but to send my man
after him to stop him."
"You sent this man to kill him, didn't you?" I said. "But
he shot the pilot by mistake and in so doing endangered
his own life."
"Ah, so that's what happened. I've always wondered..."
Angus paused. "But perhaps killing the pilot wasn't a
mistake. Remember, he parachuted out of the plane. I'd
hazard once the plane began its downward spiral after the
pilot's death, there wouldna been sufficient time to put on
a parachute."
"Who was he?" I interjected, although I was certain I
knew.
But ignoring my question, Angus continued his
discourse. He appeared to be quite enjoying himself. "No,
lass, I wouldna be at all surprised if he wasn't already
wearing the parachute. Perhaps he tried to reason with
your father to hand over the incriminatin' papers, but
Sutton would refuse, as I knew he would. He did have this
stubborn streak of a man of principle about him. My man
would have no choice but to kill him and the pilot too."
"But it wouldn't make sense unless he knew how to fly,"
I said.
"Ah, but lass, remember the plane was off course. I'm
willin' to wager he directed the pilot to fly to a place where
he knew he could count on rescue. Perhaps he already knew
Suula. Perhaps he knew where her family was likely to be
found. So when he strapped on that parachute and jumped
out of that plane, he knew he would be rescued."
It was all I could do not to try to wash the triumphant,
grin off the old man's face. From the look of outrage on
Apphia's face, I could tell she was having similar thoughts.
But to make it doubly worse for her, she was having to deal
with his accusation that her father had been a killer.
"You tell lies," she said. "My father no kill."
"Ah, but he did, my dear. Meg has already mentioned that
the pilot was shot, so the police must've found a bullet in
his remains. There was only one person on that plane who
had reason to shoot him. The man I sent, your father."
"But it's all conjecture on your part," I said. "I don't
believe he would intentionally shoot the pilot. No one
would risk their own life like that. I think it's more likely
that my father tried to get the gun away from the man,
and it accidentally went off, killing the pilot. Afterwards
the plane glided for a while. Maybe the man or my father
attempted to fly it. That's why it ended so far off course.
"As for who parachuted out of the plane, it could just as
easily have been my father. I'm sure there was more than
one parachute on the plane." I glanced at Apphia, who
looked at me through my father's grey-blue eyes. "I think
the man who fathered Apphia was who he said he was,
Sutton Harris."
Suddenly loud shouts erupted beyond the plywood walls.
Ooleepeeka raced outside. Within seconds she returned,
her face twisted in alarm. "The police are here!"
Through the open door, I could see at least five boats
converging on the beach. All contained uniformed police
with rifles pointing at the growing throng of people. And
then I saw another sight that raised my hopes even further.
A helicopter was breasting the ridge across the bay, followed
by a floatplane with rcmp emblazoned along the side.

So much for this place being unknown to the police, I
thought with no minimal amount of glee.
But before Apphia and I had a chance to race out
through the open door, Mary had grabbed my arm and was
dragging me kicking and yelling to the back of the building.
Ooleepeeka clutched the screaming Apphia with one hand
and the rifle in the other. Angus no longer sat in his chair.
Instead, he was snatching the counterfeit copies of art from
the walls and throwing them into a concealed hole in the
floor, while the printer smashed the stone block with a hammer. The last thing I saw before being dragged out the
back door was Angus's sister-in-law placing Apphia's baby
in the hood of a young Inuk woman.
Outside, I managed to wrestle my way free, but as I
rounded the corner of the building intent on running to
the beach, I ran smack into a man, who circled his arms
around me and slung me over his shoulders as if I were a
dead seal. That's all I remember, apart from a cloth being
placed over my face with the same medicinal smell as the
cloth that had started this nightmare.

I awoke shivering, feeling nauseous and as if my body had
been sat on by a walrus. I couldn't move. My arms were
wrenched behind my back and my feet tied together. I could
barely breathe through the cloth tied around my mouth. I
lay on my side on cold, hard stone. Beside me lay Apphia,
still unconscious and similarly shackled.
We appeared to be inside a round stone building almost
igloo-like with a low dome ceiling. A splash of brightness
marked what must be the entrance, through which not even
a tiny child could walk upright. Daylight seeped through
the many cracks in the rows of irregular stone, providing
enough light in the frigid prison.
Thank goodness I still wore the sealskin parka. At least
my upper body felt warm, although my jean-covered legs
could feel the dank coldness of the stone floor seeping
through. With my watch behind my back, I had no idea
how much time had passed since the police had come,
but my throat was parched, my stomach very empty, so I ¦
must've lain here unconscious for several hours.
I strained to hear sounds that would tell me the police
were still around, but I heard only a deathly silence. Nothing
seemed to move. Not even the wind. It was almost as if Apphia
and I were the only ones left alive in this nether world.
Apphia groaned. As I waited for her to wake up, I
pondered our precarious situation. I debated making noise
to let the police know where we were, but I decided against
it. If the police had already left, my cries would only alert
Angus. I didn't want to deal with him until I'd had a chance
to figure out a way out of this mess.
But escape was purely wishful thinking. My hands were
clamped so tightly behind my back, I couldn't move them.
They were numb. Nor did it seem likely I would be able to
work the bindings loose, not if I'd been tied up with the
same plastic shackles that bound Apphia's wrists.
On the plus side, if there was one, at least the two of us
were alive.
Apphia groaned again. I did the best I could to make
noise through the gag to let her know I was there, but she
continued to sleep.
After a number of painful gyrations, I managed to right
myself into a sitting position and was able to inch my way
over the freezing floor to a gap in the stone wall, but the
view was discouraging. All I could see was the bottom of a
lichen-covered rock wall about ten or so metres away. I did,
however, catch a whiff of salty sea air, which meant we were
still close to water.
Incredibly, Angus had managed to spirit us away, even
though the camp was swarming with police. I assumed we
were somewhere on the plateau but out of sight of Angus's
camp, otherwise surely the police would've found us. But
it was impossible to tell how far away we were. Were we far
enough to avoid detection should we figure out a way to
escape? Or, more worrisome, did Angus intend to leave us
here to die?

Apphia groaned again and moved.
I made a muffled call to her again.
She twisted her body around to face me and opened
her eyes. She struggled to speak through her gag. From the
questioning fear in her eyes, I felt certain she was asking
about her baby. I wished I could tell her that he was probably
safe, although not with the police. I was fairly confident
that Angus would've passed him off as the child of that
young woman. Easy enough to do, since most babies look
alike, particularly to less discerning men.
Instead, I could only grunt and nod my head in the
hopes of transmitting the message that he was okay.
Apphia twisted herself into a sitting position and
surveyed our stone jail. She shook her head as if to say
that our situation was bad, with which I could only agree.
Worse than bad.
At that point, I caught the sound of footsteps at the
entrance. I tensed and waited for Angus to appear. Instead,
his sister-in-law crawled through the low, tunnel entrance.
I wasn't sure whether this was a good sign or a bad.
Speaking in Inuktitut to Apphia, she dropped a bag on
the ground.
"Food," she said in English then removed our gags.
Perhaps a good sign. I took a great gulp of air as I felt life
return to my lips, my jaw.
She spoke further to Apphia in Inuktitut, who translated.
"She say rcmp go. We make lot of noise, no one hear. Hands
and feet stay like this. We sleep. She bring food."
The woman brought out a container of what appeared to
be two different types of raw meat and laid it on a large piece
of brown paper. She placed two giant plastic pop bottles
with straws on the ground beside them. "Tea, fish, seal."
She said a few last words to Apphia, before crawling
back outside. Within seconds, she returned with some
polar bear skins and sealskins and laid them on the floor.
Then with a final nod of goodbye, she left.
"She say baby okay. Ujuruk, sister daughter, look after
baby." Nonetheless, tears seeped from Apphia's eyes.
I tried to comfort her as best I could by saying that
Angus had no reason to harm an innocent child. We were
the threat, not her son.
She nodded and said, "She good woman. I die, she baby
mother."
"But we're not going to die. We're going to get out of this
mess, rescue your baby and live happily ever afterwards."
Yeah, just like they do in fairy tales.
But Apphia seemed to take my words to heart, for she
nodded again and said, "Eat. We go."


Fifty



I have ulu." Apphia's eyes sparked with triumph. "In
pocket."
I glanced at the almost imperceptible bulge of her pocket
and started to turn myself around so I could try to reach it
with my tied hands. But before I could, Angus, breathing
heavily, grunted his way on hands and knees through our
prison door. A rifle was slung across his back.
"I thought so. She didn't untie your hands, did she? And
you canna eat without them." He pulled out a straightedged
Inuit knife, not the ulu I'd seen on the boat. With its
carved bone handle, I wondered if this was the knife men
traditionally used.
"I have Maurie here as a deterrent for your escapin'." He
unslung the rifle and laid it on the ground within easy reach.
"Now Apphia, hold out your hands while I cut you free."
The knife sliced through the plastic tie, as if it were butter.
As she rubbed her wrists and hands to get the circulation
back, he cut my shackles.
"But you don't need feet to eat, so I'm keepin' those
ankle bracelets on."
"I want baby," Apphia demanded.
"Now, lass, there's no need to worry your pretty red
head about him. He's in good hands. I had Elisapee bring
you some choice food, so no point in lettin' it go to waste."
He winced as he dropped his bulk onto a polar bear skin
and moved the rifle closer.
While Apphia scooped up the raw seal meat as if it
were filet mignon, and for her it probably was, I had difficulties dealing with its overpowering oily fish odour,
let alone actually placing a piece in my mouth. And yet I
was starving.
Angus must've noticed my reluctance, for he said, "It
takes some gettin' used to, lass. That's why I had Elisapee
include Arctic char. Consider it sushi." He pointed to the
red salmon-like chunks.
I gingerly sampled one. As much as I hated to admit it,
it was probably the best sushi I'd ever eaten. I devoured
another. It was only when I'd almost had enough, that I
started to wonder why Angus was being so generous, why
he was bothering to feed us if he planned to kill us.
"Why are you keeping us?" I asked.
"You're mention of a ransom got me thinkin'. I figure
your charming mother would be happy to provide a
quantity of cash to see her dear daughter again."
"But I know all about your forgery operation."
"Them days are past. 'Tis only a matter of time before the
police have enough evidence to charge me. So it wouldna
really matter what you told them. No, it's time for me to
leave the north and move onto another life, and for that I
need cash."
"So what are you suggesting? Sending a ransom note to
my mother?"
"Better yet. Send you. And to make sure you behave, I'll
hold your sister and her child hostage."
I saw Apphia tense out of the corner of my eye. I tried
to convey with a slight shake of my head that I wouldn't do
anything to harm them. "Now you're calling her my sister.
So you agree her father was Sutton Harris?"
"Let's face it, lass, we'll never know."
"But what about the pictures? You were so sure they
were drawn by Joly Quliik."
"I still am, but your father knew enough of his style that
I think he could've copied it."
"But why would he do that?"

"As a message to me."
"Why?"
"Because he knew the lie behind Joly Quliik."
"What do you mean?"
"Joly Quliik didn't exist. At least he didna exist as an Inuk.
No, the real Joly Quliik was Sergei. That's what the bloody
Russian revealed to your father. Our little scheme that had
worked so beautifully. Not once did those art snobs suspect
that their much-acclaimed Inuit artist was a white man. It
was a magnificent deception that had brought me a nice tidy
sum, and it all came to naught the second Sergei blurted it
out to your father. You see why I had to stop Sutton."
"And the man you sent to stop him was Sergei himself?"
"Aye, lass. The damn fool came to me full of contrition.
He knew he'd have to atone for his terrible mistake."
"And Sergei had red hair, just like my father." I tried to
stifle a yawn and couldn't. My full stomach was making me
sleepy.
"His colour wasn't quite as carroty red, but he was a
redhead all the same. Perhaps it was that common bond
that induced Sergei to confess."
I could see that Apphia was having difficulties in keeping
awake too. "How do I know you will release Apphia and
her child once you have the money?"
"I imagine the same way I know you'll get me the money
without involving the police. Now I want you to put this
plastic tie around Apphia's wrists, then I'll do yours. We'll
finalize the details in the morning."
With his rifle pointed as an extra inducement, I snatched
the long plastic tie from his hand and placed it around her
wrists, trying to keep it as loose as possible without his
noticing, but he pushed me aside and jerked it tight, which
elicited a sharp cry from Apphia.
"Don't hurt her. If you do, I won't get you the money," I
threatened hollowly, knowing if I didn't get the money, I'd
be dealing with more than an injured Apphia.
I tried to position my wrists so that some space would
remain, but as he'd done with Apphia, he yanked the catch
hard.
"Ouch," I cried as the sharp plastic bit into my skin.
"Sweet dreams, lassies." He chortled and lumbered back
outside.
My last thought before I sank into sleep was that there was
a very good reason why Angus had enticed us with food, and
it wasn't because of our health. No, he had doctored it with a
sleeping drug. But I was too dazed to worry about why.

When I awoke cramped and groaning, I was surprised to
find myself still lying on the floor of the stone igloo. In my
tortured dreams, I'd been convinced that the Scotsman had
moved us far into the mountains to a hidden cave well out
of range of the police. Instead I found myself burrowed
into the pile of furs with Apphia's warmth beside me.
I also woke convinced that we needed to escape. The
sooner the better.
It was obvious that Angus was just playing with me, like
a killer whale with a seal. He might try to drug us again and
this time move us elsewhere, like the cave of my dream,
where he would leave us to die, someplace where it would
be years if ever before anyone chanced upon our bones.
I nudged Apphia. "Wake up."
She groaned, speaking some words in Inuktitut, and
struggled to get up.
"Apphia, we've gotta get out of here. But first we need to
cut ourselves free."
Agreeing with a vigorous nod of her head, she answered. "Ulu very sharp. No touch."
Although I had to turn my back to her, she was able to
direct my hands to her front pocket with little mishap. I
reached my fingers in and was able to loop them around
the cold bone of the handle and extract the knife with
little difficulty. Unfortunately, with our backs towards each
other the next step of cutting Apphia's tight shackle without
slicing her wrist seemed pretty near impossible.
"I cut," Apphia volunteered, turning around and expertly
grasping the ulu with her tied hands.
I gingerly presented my back to her and prayed that I'd only
end up with cuts and not minus a finger or two, but before I
had a chance to take a deep breath, my hands were free and I
was shaking them to restore the circulation. I quickly cut the
plastic tie from my ankles then freed Apphia.
But we'd barely had a chance to enjoy our newly won
freedom when we heard footsteps at the entrance and
Angus's sister-in-law thrust her head through. It happened
so quickly that neither of us could pretend we were still
tied. All we could do was smile innocently and hope she
wouldn't notice. But she did.
"Good," she nodded, and much to our shocked
amazement thrust Apphia's whimpering baby inside.
While the young mother soothed and fed her child, the
two women conversed in Inuktitut. With a last lingering
look at the baby and words that sounded like "Good luck,"
Elisapee crawled back outside.
"We go," Apphia said. "She say Angus kill us. She no like."
I didn't feel any satisfaction learning my suspicions were
correct, only heightened fear. We were locked in on all sides
by unscalable cliff walls. The only possible exit from this bay
was the river valley, and that hadn't looked an easy climb
either. And even if we made it, how were two women and a
baby without food going to walk the many kilometres over
barren land to Tasilik and survive? We didn't even have a
compass to point us in the right direction.
"Do you know of a nearby camp or community we can
walk to instead of Tasilik?" I asked.
"We take boat."
"But someone will see us. And if they don't, the dogs
guarding the boats will kill us."	/
"No problem. Elisapee say boat near river."
"But can we trust her? She might be leading us into a
trap."
"Is okay. Nobody see."
She said these last words from outside our jail. When I
crawled outside, I realized why. Our world had shrunk to
less than a few metres before vanishing behind a wall of
thick, impenetrable fog.


Fifty-One


Although I could hear voices and dogs barking, I thought
they were far enough away for us to avoid detection,
for the moment.
"We've got to get out of here before the fog clears," I
whispered. "Which way to the boat?"
Apphia pointed in a direction away from the noise. Like
blind men, we picked our way through the icy fog along
a path of sorts that led up a fairly steep incline. Within
seconds the mist closed around our prison, but not before
I had a chance to notice that even if the police had come
across it, they would've assumed it was only a pile of rocks
and not an ancient stone igloo. They would never have
thought for a moment that the women they sought lay
drugged and shackled inside.
After several long, gasping minutes of climbing, we
started traversing the incline, almost as if we were following
a ridge. I found the opaqueness of the fog unnerving. I
tried to follow as close behind Apphia as possible. If she
moved beyond my line of sight, I knew I'd be lost. I had
little sense of direction other than we were moving away
from our prison, but it didn't seem to hamper Apphia. She
seemed to be unerringly following a path.
"How do you know where you're going?" I whispered.
She pointed to a small pile of rocks. "Inukshuk."
I'd noticed them but had given them little thought, and
while the rocks didn't exactly form the man-like shape I
associated with the Inuit symbol, I could see there was a
distinct shape to the rock pile. Within another few minutes,
we came across another one.
By this time the sounds from the camp had been
swallowed by an eerie muffled silence. Neither of us spoke,
so intent were we on maintaining our footing on the rough,
rock-strewn terrain. Occasionally our feet would sink
ankle-deep into scattered patches of wet, mossy tundra,
making walking even more precarious.
The land suddenly dipped. Unprepared, Apphia started
sliding downwards on loose shale. I grabbed her sleeve. But her
downward slide pulled me with her to the shattering sound
of cascading rock. Within a few metres the slope levelled off
and we came to a colliding stop that sent us sprawling to the
ground with an even louder clatter. The baby began to cry.
Apphia frantically tried to hush him as I peeled my ears for
sounds of pursuit, but apart from the odd plunk of a stone
landing and my pounding heart, the silence returned.
We rested a few anxious minutes to catch our breath,
then resumed our journey, but where that journey headed,
only Apphia knew.
At first I could only make out a low drone through the
fog, but as we moved forward the sound increased, until
I realized it was the noise of the river. Our path began to
descend as the sound of rushing water grew louder, then I
saw the river itself, cascading over the rocks as it made its
way down the steep slope.
"I hope we don't have to cross this." I winced as a spray
of freezing water hit my face.
Apphia shook her head. "Elisapee say boat down there."
And she pointed below us.
We made our way carefully down the steep incline along
the river's edge, stepping from rock to rock made slippery
by the cold watery mist. It would've been a challenge in my
hiking boots with their thick gripping tread. The smooth
soles of the sealskin boots made it almost impossible.
Without hiking poles or tree branches for support, Apphia
and I had only each other to cling to. Using each other for
stability, we picked our way downward.
Suddenly, Apphia stepped on a loose rock. She pitched
sideways, and down she tumbled smacking her head on a
rock.
Terrified, I knelt beside her. For a brief second she lay so
still, I thought she was dead. Then she groaned.
"Apphia, are you okay?"
She moved her arm. "My baby?"
He lay nestled inside her hood against her body, which
had protected him from the fall. He opened his eyes, smiled,
then closed them again.
"He's still sleeping. Do you want me to take him out?
It'll make it easier for you to get up."
"No. It okay."
Using my body for support, she struggled to stand up,
but with a cry of pain sat down again. A trickle of blood
seeped from the bump on the side of her brow where she'd
struck the rock.
"Where does it hurt?"

She pointed to her ankle.
Shit. She must've sprained it, or worse, broken it.
"I'll take your boot off and check it out, okay?"
"Okay."
"It might hurt, so brace yourself."
She didn't flinch or make a sound as I pulled her sealskin
boot off as gently as I could. But she did groan when I tried
moving the swelling ankle.
Shit. If she can't walk.. .we're doomed.
"Look, Apphia, you should rest for a few minutes. Do
you have anything we could wrap around it?"
I tried to think of anything I was wearing that could
be used. But short of ripping a strip from my long Johns,
I had nothing. Apphia, however, thrust out a scarf, which I
immediately immersed in the freezing cold river and wrapped
it around her ankle to help keep down the swelling.
"I'm going to see how far away this boat is, then I'll be
back to get you, okay?"
She nodded. "Go to big water. If no find boat, go beside
water." She pointed in the direction of where Angus's camp
must lie.
Rather than risking a fall myself, I half-stepped, half-slid
on my bottom as silently as I could down the remaining
rocks. Fortunately it wasn't too much further down to the
shore.
Worried Angus's sister-in-law had sent us into a trap, I
waited at the water's edge, praying that the icy fog hid me
from watching eyes. But it also blinded me, so I used my
ears instead and strained to hear noises that didn't belong,
but the river filled the fog with its roar.
The tide was in. It lapped against the high water mark.
Although the mist still hung heavy and dense, I had the
impression my visual world had grown by several metres,
which prompted another worry. The fog was starting to
lift. I had no time to waste.
I didn't see the promised boat. Hopefully that meant
it lay only a few metres further along the shore. With my
antenna on full alert, I inched my way very slowly in the
direction Apphia had indicated, not knowing whether
I'd stumble onto the boat or into an ambush. Every few
metres, I stopped in an attempt to see what lay ahead and to
listen. Once I felt confident enough that nothing menacing
lurked beyond the fog, I would walk a few more metres. As
I moved away from the sound of the river, I began to hear
more distant noises, the cry of a seagull, the faint bark of a
dog. I stiffened at a sudden shout, then relaxed a bit when I
realized it came from somewhere far ahead of me.
I continued walking. Then I heard the thud of an oar against
the side of a boat. I stopped. It sounded close, too close.
Someone was waiting!
I didn't know whether to keep walking and pray this wasn't
an ambush or go back to Apphia and try to come up with
another plan for getting us out of here alive. But with Apphia
unable to walk, we needed a boat. I had no choice. I had to
put my trust in Angus's sister-in-law. I resumed walking.
Suddenly a loud screech exploded through the mist, the
sound of a boat scraping rock. I froze. The boat was out
there somewhere, just beyond my window of visibility. With
no trees, no rocks to hide behind, I stood totally exposed,
with only the mist to keep me invisible. At any moment it
could lift, and when it did, I would be fully revealed.
I stepped backwards, away from the sound. But not
soon enough. The mist parted. The boat appeared in all its
frightening detail. An aluminum one with the motor raised
drifted about five metres from shore, and sitting in it were
two Inuk. I hastened to retreat back into the security of the
fog, but not before someone had seen me.
"Apphia?" a quavering voice called out and said something
more in Inuktitut.
Poised to escape back into the mist, I hesitated. I hadn't
felt any threat in this man's voice. I called back. "It's me,
Meg Harris."
"Thank god!" another voice called out. One that sounded
familiar. And when the owner of that voice turned to face
me, I saw Pete Pitsiulak, dressed as I was in sealskin.
"What are you doing here?" I whispered, somewhat
warily. I still wasn't entirely certain about Pete. Could he
be the trap?
"Come to get you," Pete said. "But we haven't got much
time. This fog is going to lift soon. Where's Apphia?"
Knowing I had no option other than to trust him, I told
him. Before I was finished, he'd already waded to shore and
was now racing back along the way I'd come. I scrambled
to keep up with him, but he reached Apphia before I even
had a chance to show him her location. He almost ran into
me on his way back down with Apphia and their son firmly
gripped in his arms. When I saw the depth of loving relief
in his eyes, I knew my fears had been misplaced. I slipped
and slid behind him as I struggled to keep up. I didn't want
to lose him in the fog.
We reached his boat without mishap. After gently lowering
his mistress and child into the boat, he returned to carry
me out.
"Too cold," he said. "You'll freeze your feet off."
"What about you?"
"Didn't you know? We Inuit have seal blood in our veins."
He chuckled an all too familiar chuckle, which caused my
thoughts to turn to painfully Eric before I thrust them aside.
As I settled myself on the seat beside Apphia, I recognized
the other man. He was the same elderly man I'd seen at
her brother's funeral. "My uncle," Apphia said. His eyes
twinkled.
Using canoe paddles, the two men silently shoved the boat
out into the deeper water. Within minutes, the fog blotted out
the shore. Once again I felt eerily lost, my world reduced to
this small aluminum boat and the people in it. I could barely
see the water, although I could hear it lapping against the
hull. I could hear dogs barking in the distance, no doubt from
Angus's camp, but I didn't hear any other sounds, especially
ones that would indicate our escape had been discovered.
Rather than using the boat's outboard motor, the men
continued to push us silently through the mist with the
paddles. I tried to remember where the location of the exit
from the bay had been and couldn't, but I knew it was several
kilometres away. Both men, however, seemed to be paddling
with confidence, as if our escape route was firmly fixed
in their minds. At one point, Apphia's uncle stopped and
motioned Pete to stop paddling. For several long seconds
he remained completely still before pointing in a slightly
different direction from where we were heading. They
resumed paddling, shifting the bow to this new direction.
"How do you know where to go?" I asked Pete.
"I don't, but the old man does. He's listening to the
sound of the surf on the rocks near the gap."
I strained to hear, but picked up only muffled sounds.
The dogs had stopped barking. I caught no other sounds
from Angus's camp, which by now we must be passing. It could be lying ten meters or a kilometre away. It was
impossible to tell. Hopefully Apphia's uncle, with his
supersonic hearing, was keeping us a safe distance away.
Then all hell broke loose. Hackneyed words, for sure,
but it best described the sudden shouts and rifle shots that
burst through the fog. Our escape had been discovered!
"Damn," Pete muttered. He spoke to the old man, who
shook his head. Apphia added her words. But still the old
man resisted.
"He doesn't want me to put on our motor. Says we're
still too far from the exit. So start praying, Meg Harris, that
they don't start coming out after us in the boats. They'll
run into us for sure."
At that point we heard the sudden uproar of boat motors.
"Damn." Pete and the old man paddled harder.
"Do you have another paddle?" I asked.

Pete shook his head.
Apphia and I gripped hands as the boat silently slid
through the water and the mist. Neither of us wanted to
think what would happen if they found us. Apphia pulled
out what looked to be a small religious painting from inside
her amauti and began mouthing words in prayer.
The sound of the outboard motors grew louder. It
was difficult to tell how many boats there were, but it was
certainly more than one or two. I thought I remembered
seeing at least five boats lying on the beach.
I peered ahead, straining to see anything through the
opaque curtain. Suddenly I realized I was seeing water,
something I hadn't been able to see a few minutes ago.
"Pete," I cried out, "I think the fog is lifting."
"I know. I'm hoping when it finally goes, we'll be close
enough to the exit to get out of here alive."
The noise of the boats drew closer. It was almost as if
they could see us through the mist, but more likely they
were headed to the gap, hoping to stop our escape. In their
haste, I hoped they didn't ram us and fling us into the frigid
water, where our chance of survival was even less.
Then I could see the approaching black cliffs and the
brightness of the gap less than fifty metres away. The mist
had vanished. Our pursuers, all five boats, were still a good
hundred metres away, but as Pete desperately tried to start the
motor, they gained on us. I thought I saw Mary's white hair in
the bow of the foremost boat and Ooleepeeka's grinning face
in another, but in none of the boats did I see Angus's bulk.
After several more frantic pulls, the motor sprang to life,
and the boat leapt forward. A rifle blasted.
"Get down!" Pete shouted. Apphia and I both dropped
to the bottom of the boat. A bullet pinged off the metal
hull. And another.
With the icon clasped tightly to her breast, Apphia resumed
praying, while I prayed to whatever gods would listen.
More shots, but these I suddenly realized were coming
from in front of us.
"Put your guns down!" a voice called out through a
megaphone.
Another shot blasted from behind us. I heard it rip
through the water beside our boat. Then I realized our
pursuers were retreating. I looked up to see several police
boats chasing after them.
"You guys okay?" a concerned Constable Curran shouted
as her boat advanced towards us. .
"What took you so long?" was Pete's reply.
As Apphia straightened up with relief, she forgot the tiny
painting and dropped it. As I watched it fall to the floor
of the boat, I realized she'd been praying over a stylized
painting of a Virgin Mary, one that looked very much like
an icon of the Russian Orthodox Church.
I picked it up and passing it to her said, "Where did you
get this?"
"Our father."




Fifty-Two



The police rescue hadn't been a part of Pete's plan. When
Apphia's uncle learned from a relative of Angus's wife
that Apphia and I were being held prisoner at the family's
camp, he went to the rcmp. But they dismissed his claim,
insisting that the search planes had already flown over the
camp without success. So he approached Pete, knowing of his
relationship with his niece. The two of them decided to make
their way to the camp and pretend they were a couple of lost
Inuk, while at the same time hoping to catch sight of signs of
our presence. Apparently my brother-in-law had wanted to
join them, but since he didn't exactly look like a lost Inuk, it
was decided he should continue to harass the rcmp.
Thankfully, the gods were with them, for as they'd
approached the entrance to the bay, the fog had rolled in.
It remained thin enough for them to find their way to the
camp, where the first person they sighted was Elisapee, who
did prove to be our guardian angel, after all.
She was very glad to see them. Upset by Angus's plan to
kill us, she was trying to convince her son to help us escape
in his boat, when she sighted Pete's boat. Pretending it
belonged to distant relatives, she'd run down to the beach
to intercept their arrival.
And so the three of them had proceeded to hatch a plan
for our escape. By the time they'd finished, the fog had
thickened, further increasing the chances of success. As an
extra measure, Elisapee had spiked Angus's scotch with a
secret Inuit remedy used to quiet disruptive children, no
doubt the same ingredient used to put Apphia and me to
sleep. When our police rescuers reached his camp, he was
caught napping, literally.
Fortunately for us, the rcmp had eventually paid attention
to Leslie, who'd brought to bear all the Harris influence he
could muster, but by the time their flotilla of boats arrived
at the gap, the fog had set in. Judging it too dangerous to
proceed, they decided to remain at the entrance until it
lifted. Thank goodness. Otherwise I'd hate to think what
would've happened if their boats had been added to the
blinding foggy mix.
We missed the arrest of Angus and his cohorts. I would've
loved to have seen that Cheshire Cat grin erased from his
face. Instead, Curran insisted on escorting us immediately
back to Tasilik, which turned out to be a four-hour trip
through turbulent windswept seas. The police boat was a
considerably larger and sturdier affair than Apphia's uncle's
small aluminum one, which made me wonder how four
adults and one tiny baby would've made the risky trip if we
had managed to escape on our own. Just as well the police
had come to our rescue.
On reaching Tasilik, the three of us were immediately
taken to the Health Centre, where we were thoroughly
examined by one of the visiting doctors. Although Apphia's
injury proved to be not a break but a serious sprain, it meant
she wouldn't be able to return to her cherished Naujalik
until she was more mobile. At least the family she'd been
staying with was more than happy to accommodate her for
as long as needed. It turned out they were Pete's cousins.
Apart from Apphia's ankle injury, none of us had
suffered from our misadventure. In fact, the baby had
thrived, for he'd gained a kilo since his last check-up. As
for me, I was so ravenous now that the tension and fear had
disappeared, any weight I might've lost during the day and
a half of fasting would be gained back in no time. Not only
did my body crave food, but once back on safe ground, it
also demanded sleep. Unfortunately, I had to delay both
until after Apphia and I gave our statements to the police.
Still wearing my sealskin jacket--I found it's warmth
comforting--but changed into a relatively clean pair of
jeans and a woollen top that hadn't been slept in, I sat
beside Apphia in the cluttered office of the corporal, the
only private room in the small Tasilik detachment, apart
from the single jail cell. And that of course was occupied at
the moment. The corporal very thoughtfully had one of his
staff members bring us hamburgers and donuts to munch
on during the interview.
In addition to the Tasilik corporal, Constable Curran and
Sergeant Hue queried us about our kidnappings and what
we'd seen and learned at Angus's isolated camp. That the art
dealer had been involved in forgeries wasn't news to either
the Tasilik or the Iqaluit police. They'd had their eye on his
art dealings for sometime, but had never been able to prove
anything, until now. The arrival of Hue and his suspicions
had brought it into sharper focus. Apphia and I were able to
fill in the gaps and tell them where to find the evidence.
The involvement of Mary Goresky came as a complete
surprise to all three cops. At no time had her name appeared
on any list of possible suspects. In fact, the art director had
gained a reputation for squeaky-clean honesty amongst
her art peers, especially after she'd brought several cases of
counterfeiting to light. These cases, however, had involved not
Inuit art, but Native American art. No doubt she'd used this to
deflect attention away from her own fraudulent art dealings.
Both rcmp cops, however, had wondered about Angus's
youngest daughter. Her graduate studies in Inuit art had
smacked a little too much of the passing of the torch,
particularly since she shared such a close relationship with
her father. None of his other four children had shown
the least interest in art, but they'd since learned from
Ooleepeeka that this wasn't entirely the case. The eldest
son, preferring to lead a traditional life style, essentially ran
the camp at Qamanaarjuaq. He, along with Mary, had been
the ones firing at us as we made our escape.
When Apphia and I told the police that Mary was
Johnnie's killer, we raised police eyebrows even higher. Both
Curran and Hue were speechless for several minutes, until
Curran mentioned that there were several unidentifiable
fingerprints in Johnnie's workshop, which if they matched
Mary's would give them the evidence they needed to convict
her. I also mentioned that if they hadn't found an ulu on
Mary when they'd arrested her, they should check out the
camp, where she'd probably left Johnnie's murder weapon.
"You can also charge her with the murder of Carter
Davis," I said, turning to Sergeant Hue, "and the theft of the Mystical Owl. It's probably hidden somewhere at Angus's
camp."
"My, my, you did learn a lot, didn't you?" The Toronto
policeman beamed. "But it's good news. We have a witness
who saw a woman leaving Carter's house the night before
his body was discovered. She was carrying a tubular object,
which could very well be the rolled-up print she'd removed
from the frame found in the backyard. Apparently the
woman's face sparkled in the headlights of a passing car. I'd
say that sounds like Mary, wouldn't you?"
At the end of the interview, when we were about to
leave, Curran asked me if I'd learned anything more about
my father. I couldn't help but notice her eyes linger first on
my hair then on Apphia's and back again. She of course had
known my reasons for pursuing Johnnie's sister.
Turning my glance away from the blonde policewoman
to Apphia, I said, "No, I'm afraid not."
Although I'd fully intended to reveal everything we'd
learned from Angus, Apphia had expressed a wish for us
to say nothing. The man who'd been her father had been a
good man, good to his kids and good to his wife Suula. She
didn't want his memory sullied by deeds he might or might
not have done.
At the moment, we had no idea of the man's true identity.
Although the name he'd used, plus those he'd given his
children and the fact he had my great-grandfather's watch
pointed to Sutton Harris, his drawings, so like Joly Quliik's
and the Russian icon he'd given his daughter, suggested it
was Sergei Nabokov. But until the dna analysis proved one
way or the other, we wouldn't know.
On our way to the detachment we agreed that we would
say nothing and would only bring up Crazy Russkie's name
should the remains in the plane eventually prove not to
be my father's. But we also agreed that regardless of the
outcome, we would remain friends, if not sisters.
Curran rested her questioning eyes first on me, then
on Apphia. I felt she wanted to say something more, but
seeing our closed expressions, no doubt realized she'd learn
nothing further.
Instead she said, "Your father's remains are scheduled to
leave Iqaluit in a few days. My staff sergeant's put a rush on
it, so you should get the results in a couple of weeks. The
dna unit will contact your mother directly."
Apphia and I spent the next couple of days learning
about each other and each other's fathers. Like me, her
father had disappeared from her life when she was a child,
but at a considerably younger age, so her memories were
hazier and more rose-coloured. Occasionally, when she
was describing something her father had done, I would say
to myself that it sounded like something my father would
do. At other times, I felt the man she was describing was a
stranger, no relation to me.
I did learn that her sister Margee had been the sender of
the letters my mother received back in the 1980s. Apparently
she'd sent these while she was at school in Churchill,
Manitoba, shortly after their father died. Their father had
told her sister that if the family ever needed money to
contact a Mrs. Sutton Harris in Toronto. The family's dogs
had died, and they needed to buy a snowmobile to survive.
And contrary to what Mother had said, she had given them
money. Not a lot. But enough to buy the snowmobile and
the gas to operate it. Margee had sent a drawing of the
family as a special thank-you. This was the picture Harold had hidden from my mother and I'd found in the attic.
Over the years, additional amounts of money would come
whenever they asked. Although it hadn't come directly
from Mrs. Harris, but rather a Mr. Davis.
When I asked my mother about it, she didn't deny it. All
she said was, "Now you know what I've had to live with since
the first letter arrived ten years after his plane disappeared.
I never wanted you girls to know that he might've survived,
because that would mean he had forsaken you. I didn't want
you to have to live with the same ache of betrayal I have
lived with, knowing if he had survived, he wanted nothing
more to do with us."
"But, Mother, chances are high the survivor of the plane
crash was this Crazy Russkie I mentioned, who for some
strange reason used Father's name. We'll know once they've
finished the dna analysis."
"Yes, I was never entirely certain that the girl who
contacted me really was Sutton's daughter. But she did
address those early letters with a name that only your father
ever called me, Cessy. So that's why I decided to send her
and her family the money. If they were indeed his children,
I didn't want them in need."
She paused to catch her breath. Although her voice had
sounded strong at the start of our call, I could tell she was tiring.
"Please, Mother, this is hard for you. I'm sorry I had to
bring up these old memories. Why don't I let you go so you
can rest?"
"Piffle. I'm fine. I might as well finish the story. I'm
afraid I wasn't completely honest with you, dear, when
you asked about the money Carter owed your father. I had
Carter use that money for the family. I didn't want Harold
to know about your father's betrayal, so felt it was the best
way to handle the situation. But I never told Carter what
the relationship of this family was to Sutton. Perhaps he
guessed, but he never let on to me. And after our initial
conversation, we never talked about the money again. I
presumed he stayed in contact with this Margee and sent
money whenever she asked."
We chatted for a few more minutes and ended our
conversation with me suggesting that I stay with her in
Toronto for as long as she needed me. Although she tried
to dissuade me, saying I'd already been away from Three
Deer Point too long, she didn't put up much of a fight. She
even suggested I bring Sergei with me.
While I'd been busy with Apphia and talking to Mother,
Leslie had spent his time shopping. He arrived at the Tasilik
airport with several heavy cartons filled with carvings and
other pieces of Inuit art, which resulted in many apologetic
words at the check-in counter. Although the clerk initially
insisted that they had to be shipped separately, she
eventually relented and allowed them to travel on the same
flight as cargo.
As we were about to board our plane, an rcmp truck drove
onto the tarmac, and out jumped Constable Curran.
"I'm glad I caught you," she said. "They just called from
Iqaluit. I'm afraid there was an explosion in the cargo bay at
the Iqaluit airport. They were doing some repair work, and
a propane tank exploded. Fortunately no one was seriously
injured, but most of the cargo was destroyed in the fire,
including the container holding your father's remains.
There's nothing left for a dna analysis." She paused. "Or for
burial. I'm sorry."
So now I will never know if my father, Sutton Harris,
was the man who parachuted from the burning plane on
that frigid April day thirty-six years ago.
I don't care and neither does my mother, my sister, Jean
or my sister, Apphia. Although we could probably establish
through dna if there is a blood link with Apphia, the four

of us have decided we don't want it done. We know what
happened to the plane. We know the role Apphia's mother
and grandfather played in helping the survivor live. Each
of us has our own memories, fond or otherwise, of the man
we knew as Sutton Harris. Each of us has our own version
of what happened on that fateful flight. We prefer to leave
it that way. As for me, I like having another sister, even if
Jean isn't keen on it.



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have always had a keen interest in Canada's Far
North and have longed to visit it. So I felt, what better
way than to have Meg travel to Baffin Island? To do
that, I had of course to scout it out for her. I spent
a fabulous week in Iqaluit, Nunavut's capital and
largest town, and Pangnirtung, noted not only for
the world reknowned Uqqurmiut Centre for Arts and
Crafts, but also for its picture postcard setting on the
Pangnirtung Fjord.
I quickly discovered how friendly and helpful
the people of Nunavut are and would like to thank
a number for their valuable contributions in the
writing of Arctic Blue Death. In particular, David
Wilman, who not only spent several hours during my
visit answering my many questions, but also proved
invaluable during the writing of the book. And a
special thanks to David's wife, Mary. Although she
never answered my questions directly, she no doubt
contributed to several of the answers. Others include,
Deborah Merritt, Jolly Atagooyuk, Mick Mallan,
Constable Pauline Melanson, Terry and Mehrun
Forth, Donna Copeland and Ooleepeeka Arnaqaq. A
special thanks to my editor Mister Thompson and
publisher Sylvia McConnell.
And I'd like to thank my readers for their invaluable
advice: Barbara Fradkin, Alex Brett, Judy Nasby and
David Wilman. And as ever, I couldn't do this without
the enduring support of my husband, Jim.
BIBLIOGRAPHY

Arctic Expressions: Inuit Art and the Canadian Eskimo
Arts Council 1961-1989, Susan Gustavison, McMichael
Canadian Art Collection, 1994

An Arctic Man, Ernie Lyall, Goodread Biographies,
1979

Cape Dorset Prints: A Retrospective: Fifty Years of Print
Making at the Kinngait Studios, Leslie Boyd Ryan,
Pomegranate Communications, 2007

Irene Avaalaqiaq: Myth and Reality, Judith Nasby,
McGill-Queens University Press, 2002

Living on the Land: Change among the Inuit of Baffin
Island, John S. Matthiasson, Broadview Press, 1992

Pitseolak: Pictures out of my life, from interviews by
Dorothy Harley Eber, McGill-Queens University
Press, 2003

Saqiyuq: Stories from the Lives of Three Inuit Women, Nancy Wachowich in collaboration with Apphia
Agalakti Awa, Rhoda Kaukjak Katsak and Sandra
Pikujak Katsak, McGill-Queens University Press,
1999


R. J. Harlick is an escapee from the high tech
jungle and a lover of the outdoors. She can often
be found roaming the forests of West Quebec or
canoeing the waterways. She currently lives in
Ottawa, Ontario.

Her first novel, Death's Golden Whisper, introduced
Meg Harris and was followed by Death's Golden
Whisper, Red Ice for a Shroud and The River Runs
Orange.

She can be visited on line at rjharlick.com.
THE MEG HARRIS MYSTERIES
Death's Golden Whisper
Red Ice for a Shroud
The River Runs Orange
Arctic Blue Death

The End.