Seaweed on Ice Page 11

  A stack of glossy brochures lay on a low table. They summarized Lofthouse’s areas of expertise (criminal law, accident claims), described in glowing terms his education and experience, and outlined B.C. Law Society rates for standard services. There was a flattering picture of him on the back fold. I took a brochure with me when I left.

  Out on the street, a backpacker who probably hadn’t showered since puberty was eyeing a parked black Targa-style Porsche. I tagged him as a manic-depressive in the manic stage. When he touched the Porsche’s door handle, I asked, “What kind of gas mileage do you get with that thing?”

  The man cleared off in a hurry. That’s when I noticed Joe McNaught approaching. I ducked behind the Porsche before he spotted me, and watched him go past. Then I trailed him as he waddled into the Regal Trust Company building. Panting breathlessly, McNaught crossed the lobby to the mortgage department, where he leaned on a polished marble counter and spoke to the receptionist. I idled just inside the doors as she called somebody on the phone. Moments later, the pastor was greeted by a buttoned-down managerial type who escorted him into a private office. When the office door closed behind them I moved forward and read the name on the frosted-glass door. McNaught was closeted with Arnold Bekin, the trust company’s assistant senior loans manager.

  I sat behind a Corinthian column in the waiting area and made myself comfortable with a copy of the Times Colonist. Twenty minutes passed before McNaught came out of Bekin’s office. I hid my face behind the newspaper as the pastor, looking pleased with himself, went out.

  Five minutes later, I tried using my cell to call Regal Trust. It worked this time, but a moment later I thought better of it. Trust companies probably used call-display phones. I went outside and used a pay phone instead. I asked for Arnold Bekin, and when he came on I said brusquely, “Hello, Arnold, this is Franklin at headquarters. We’ve been reviewing the Joseph McNaught file and need a fresh report.”

  There was a longish pause. “Yes, I see.” Bekin cleared his throat. “Are you talking about the Good Shepherd mortgage, sir?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said briskly. “We want to know what you think of it. Will this deal fly or not?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said suspiciously. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Jim Franklin. Head office.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Franklin. If you’ll just give me your extension number, I’ll check the file and call you right back.”

  I got the message and replaced the receiver. So much for that. Any information concerning Joe McNaught would have to come from a primary source.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I’d expected to find Joe in his office, but his door was locked. The mission seemed deserted. I went into the kitchen, where an elderly dishwasher with rolled-up sleeves was sweating over the stainless-steel sinks. The old man was engrossed in his work and didn’t see me come in. Tattoos covered his arms—crosses and naked women and hearts with superimposed scrolls. Old tattoos, done by a professional, depicted tigers and mermaids and sailing ships; they were so faded that they resembled his ancient veins. The newer ones—ugly swastikas and guns and knives—had likely been hacked into his flesh by the dishwasher himself, during long, lonely stretches in the joint. From such hieroglyphics, sociologists might decipher the history of a life.

  “Is Pastor McNaught around?” I asked.

  The dishwasher turned quickly. He had a gnome-like face and washed-out eyes—blue irises floating in red-veined yellow pools. At the inside corner of one of his eyes I saw a mark like a blue mole; it was a tattooed teardrop. When he smiled, it vanished into a wrinkle. “Pastor’s gone out of town. You just missed him,” he said. “Business.”

  “How about Nimrod?”

  “You’re out of luck, mister. Nimrod went with him. That’s why I’m here. Up to my ying-yang in Palmolive.” The old con rubbed his nose with a soapy finger. “Who should I say was calling?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Whatever you say. Hallelujah, brother!” He turned back to his dishes, whistling “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  Outside, a crane with a wrecking ball was demolishing what was left of the Jamieson Foundry. One last section of the foundry’s corrugated iron roof remained, balanced precariously on masonry pillars. The swinging ball nibbled at the bricks. A crowd of onlookers gave a ragged cheer when the roof collapsed. Clouds of descending brick dust coated the snow like blood.

  On Johnson Street, two shabby women were examining abandoned treasures in a hock-shop window. When I stopped beside them they hurriedly departed. I saw a miniature black totem pole in the window, displayed amidst cheap bric-a-brac. The pole looked real, as if it were hand-carved argillite, the sort of treasure you’d expect to find inside a glass case at Gottlieb’s Trading Post. But I’d seen identical miniature poles many times before, and knew they were made of plastic.

  Sometimes, when ideas entice me away from downtown Victoria, I feel a little guilty. But the way I look at it, any policeman’s business has investigative functions. That, in any case, is what I told myself as I got into my car and started driving.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Two miles away from McNaught’s mission, Beach Drive winds through some of Canada’s highest-priced residential real estate—the Uplands of Oak Bay. I reached Brian Gottlieb’s house just after noon. A cold wind blew across his snow-covered front lawns, bending skeletal trees and quivering thickets of delicate bamboo. The wrought-iron gates were open, and when I drove between them an unseen dog started barking. I parked near granite steps leading to a front door big enough for a cathedral. I put my thumb on the buzzer and kept it there. After a minute I went back down the steps and gazed around.

  An elderly woman was standing at an upstairs window, shaking her fist at me. The dog kept barking. Undeterred, I meandered around to the back. More extensive grounds and paved terraces ran down a long slope that overlooked Cadboro Bay and the Royal Victoria Yacht Club. Brian Gottlieb, a short, thickset man wearing an old baseball cap, tattered coveralls and rubber boots, was wrapping burlap around a tender young shrub. The wind and the sea drowned out my footsteps. Engrossed in his task, the retired art and antiques dealer didn’t hear me until I was almost upon him. I don’t know how he recognized me, because the eyeglasses on the tip of his nose were scratched and smudged with fingerprints to the verge of opacity. But his eyes twinkled when he saw who I was, and his handshake was firm. “Let’s get out of this wind,” he said, leading me into a little marble-and-glass conservatory.

  Gottlieb picked up a thermos jug from a tray and said, “What would you say to a cup of coffee?”

  “Hello coffee,” I said.

  “Cops!” Gottlieb laughed, pouring me a cup. “I hope you take it black.”

  “Sorry to see you this way, Gottlieb,” I said, gazing at the mini-12 sailboat tacking around in the water below us. “I heard your finances were on life support, but I didn’t think they’d be this bad.”

  “Yeah, things haven’t improved much since I was a ragged-ass kid.”

  “How much land do you have?”

  “Two acres. I picked it up as raw waterfront for $12,000 in 1960.” Gottlieb grinned. “The widow who sold it was sure she’d ripped me off.” He pointed to a house across the water and added, “See that place? It’s on the market for $25 million.”

  I shook my head, not in contradiction, but in astonishment.

  As an antiques dealer, Gottlieb had specialized in Native artifacts and had an international clientele. He was a recognized authority in the field. I’d gotten to know him well over the years. “Lovely as this is,” I said, “I’m here on business. Ready for questions?”

  “Try me and we’ll see.”

  “What do you know about whaling shrines?”

  Gottlieb took off his baseball cap, scratched his head and put the cap back on again. He didn’t say anything.

  “I dropped by Gottlieb’s Trading Post the other day,” I prompted.

  “I’m re
tired. It’s not mine anymore. My kids weren’t interested in taking it over, and this fellow from Vancouver made me an offer I didn’t refuse.”

  “Yes. The staff is sorry you’ve gone.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry too, in a way, ” Gottlieb said. “The business has gone sideways and some people blame me because my name’s still on the place.”

  “Is it okay to talk about whaling shrines now?”

  Gottlieb took the glasses off his nose and wiped them with a rag from his pocket. “I had a few inquiries about whaling shrines over the years,” he said slowly. “There’s one in a museum, in New York. If another whaling shrine exists, and it came up for sale offshore, it would be worth a fortune. It’s the sort of thing the British Museum and the Smithsonian would probably bid on.”

  “How do you mean, offshore?”

  “If one was found in B.C. and somebody tried to sell it, our government would step in. Classify it as a cultural artifact and prevent its sale or removal from Canada.”

  “But if somebody stole it and moved it to, let’s say, California, he could do as he pleased with it?”

  “Maybe. Probably. Native American artifacts fascinate people. The argument would be made that it’s better to have them stored in collections, where they’re taken care of, than rotting in unvisited wilderness.”

  Gottlieb held his glasses up to the light. They looked dirtier than before he’d wiped them.

  I could almost hear the thud of earth striking the coffin of my hopes when Gottlieb said, “I heard something about a whaling shrine a week ago. One of my old employees heard a rumour and passed it on. I can’t vouch for it, but something might be happening. Where, what or why, my employee didn’t know, and I haven’t followed up on it.”

  “One last question. Ever do business with Sammy Lofthouse?”

  Gottlieb scowled. “That shyster? No, because straightforward he isn’t. Lofthouse’s only route between two points is a spiral.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  On Friday night we played poker at the gym. Moran was the big winner, cleaning up big time in the last two hands. He won a Lowball game with a bicycle and followed that with five aces in a game of Deuces Wild. My mind, such as it is, was preoccupied with whaling shrines, Mrs. Tranter and Sammy Lofthouse. Bernie, sitting beside me at Moran’s octagonal table, kept being interrupted by phone calls. When we cashed our chips, Moran was up 15 dollars, Tony was up a dollar-fifty, and I was down five bucks. Two gamblers had gone home, and Bernie was answering his phone yet again. At the end of the call he had a long face as he turned to me. “You’re not driving?” It was more of a statement than a question.

  “After all that booze? No chance. I’m calling a cab.” I started picking up empties.

  Yawning, Moran said, “Leave it, Silas. The new cleaning guy’ll get it in the morning. Why don’t you bums all go home? We’ll see you next Friday.”

  “I’ll see you before then,” I said, straightening up and flexing my spine, stiff from sitting. “I need to get back in shape.”

  Everybody said goodnight. I followed Bernie downstairs, and we stood on the sidewalk under Moran’s sagging canvas awning.

  “That last phone call of mine. You ready?” Bernie said gloomily.

  “What’s up?”

  “They’ve found Sammy Lofthouse.”

  I knew instantly that the lawyer was dead. “Tell me about it.”

  “A grader operator ploughing the highway up near Campbell River snagged Sam’s body with the tip of his blade. The RCMP think Sammy’s been buried in snow for a while.”

  “How did he die?”

  “They don’t know. He was frozen stiff. First thing they’ve gotta do is thaw him out.”

  “This isn’t going to make life any easier for Hendrix.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t it obvious, with Hendrix and Lofthouse both turning up near Campbell River? Don’t tell me you think it’s a coincidence.”

  “Whatever. All I know is, this development isn’t gonna make life easier for me. There’ll be jurisdictional hassles now. The RCMP will want to deal with Lofthouse themselves. What a pain in the ass,” Bernie said, exasperated. “If Hendrix had any consideration, he’d have killed them both in Alberta and then we wouldn’t have to bother with it.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  After a restless night I boiled a couple of eggs for breakfast and washed them down with two cups of coffee. At nine o’clock I phoned a man I knew at B.C.’s land registry office.

  After the usual formalities, mutual health inquiries and meteorological observations, I asked him if he could tell me who owned the Jamieson Foundry property, and when they’d acquired it.

  “I could, sure, but what’ll you do for me?” he answered.

  “How about a couple of tickets for the fights next week?”

  He called me back in 10 minutes. “The owner is a numbered company: GS2005. They acquired the property six months ago.”

  An idea hit me like an uppercut. I laughed and said, “GS2005. As in Good Shepherd two zero zero five?”

  “That’s right. Good Shepherd or Green Sausages. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I stood at my window and watched more fat snowflakes descend from a white sky. Totem poles a hundred yards beyond my cabin receded into ghostlike imperceptibility. According to CFAX, the power was out in many parts of the city. Crews had been working all night, trying to cope with fallen trees and power poles.

  Despite this, more Coast Salish brethren, drawn to our great Winter Ceremonial and anxious to share its wonders and rituals, had reached the Warrior Reserve overnight. Elderly visitors kept warm in the longhouse, others hid from the weather in campers and heated tents. I looked at the snow for a while, trying not to think about the ghost-wolf that had disturbed my slumbers. Today was my day off. What my constitution demanded now was vigorous exercise. I put on a thick anorak, waterproof overpants and hiking boots, and set off.

  I was striding past the band office when Maureen, Chief Alphonse’s secretary, called out to me. “Silas, come on in for a minute. Chief Alphonse left something for you. I’ve got it here somewhere.”

  She poked around the chaos on her desk and eventually handed me a heavy 10-by-12 envelope. “It’s a book. The chief says take care of it because it’s valuable.”

  I forgot about my hike, went home and started reading. The book was The Kwakiutl: 1910–1914, by Edward Sheriff Curtis. Illustrated with magnificent—and sometimes gruesome—photographs, the book is a work of art. Curtis’s camera was a Reversible Back Premo—an enormous mahogany, brass and leather contraption introduced in the late 1800s. It had a Victor rapid rectilinear lens and a shutter speed of ½5 of a second, with rack and pinion focussing. Curtis took more than 40,000 pictures with his Premo, documenting the way of life of many North American Native tribes at a crucial point in history.

  Outside my cabin, angry surf crashed against the shore. Thick ropes of kelp, tangled by inrushing waves, writhed and slid on the beach’s glossy pebbles. I was contemplating the picture of a Kwakiutl shaman holding up two recently severed human heads when Chief Alphonse knocked on my door and came inside.

  After hanging up his wet-weather gear, he glanced at the book and said, “See that? Curtis called us Indians. Some of our people don’t like that word anymore. I don’t know why.” Smiling broadly, he settled down in an armchair beside my wood stove.

  I added fresh wedges of alder to the fire and put the kettle on for tea. “Some of Curtis’s exploits stretch believability to the limit,” I said. “Except he photographed everything.”

  Chief Alphonse nodded. “Back in the '20s, I guess it was, Curtis had a studio in Seattle. He visited Victoria a few times, taking pictures. Curtis made one of Canada’s earliest movies. In the Land of the War Canoes it was called.”

  “Any good?”

  “I thought so. Maybe it’s because I grew up watching black-and-white movies. Moving pictures we called ’em. Those were the days. Greta Garbo looked s
exier in a black-and-white robe than Paris Hilton does full-colour naked.”

  The chief pondered for a while. “Edward Curtis spent a lot of time up Fort Rupert way, trying to photograph a Kwakiutl whale hunt.”

  “Curtis seems larger than life. Ever meet him?”

  “I never met Curtis, but I knew George Hunt. Hunt was Curtis’s Kwakiutl interpreter. One time, Curtis needed a mummy. George helped him find one.”

  “A human mummy?”

  “Right.”

  “Where’d they find it? Wal-Mart?”

  The chief eyed me soberly. “It was where you’d expect it to be—in a coffin. Curtis dug that mummy out of the ground. George used to say that Curtis was the only white man he ever met who understood the Great Mystery.”

  “He understood more than most of us, if he did.”

  The trees around my cabin creaked and swayed. Horizontal sleet now lashed windows and walls. We were warm and dry inside, though, and the weary chief’s eyelids started to get heavy. The sudden whistle of steam from my kettle temporarily drowned out the outside noise. I made the tea strong, put a mug on the table beside his chair and went back to my book.

  After dozing for maybe 10 minutes the chief stirred. Sipping tea beside the blazing stove, he said, “There was more to whaling than grabbing a sharp stick and heading out to sea. There was pre-whaling ritual as well. And something most people don’t know about. Kwakiutl whalers always carried skulls and mummies aboard their canoes.”

  “Human skulls? Mummified humans?”

  “People in the land of the dead have power over whales. Whalers who show themselves worthy in life come back as killer whales. Whalers took corpses and skulls from burial sites and carried ’em to sea for good luck. Killed slaves and hung their heads across their gunnels. They built secret shrines ashore. Edward Curtis heard about these things and checked it out.”

  Chief Alphonse laughed without amusement. “Like I said. Curtis had an interpreter, George Hunt. Hunt’s dad was a white man who’d been a trader with the Hudson’s Bay Company. Hunt’s mother was full-blooded Kwakiutl, a chief’s daughter. So George had plenty of clout and he managed to talk Kwakiutl whalers into letting Curtis tag along on their next trip. The whalers agreed, on one condition.”