The Stranger on the Ice

by Bernadette Calonego

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “The day you guys were in his office.”

  “When?”

  “In the evening, shortly after six.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “John, what’s going on? Are we talking about Gisèle Chaume here?”

  “Helvin’s nowhere to be found. Didn’t come home last night, and his wife reported him missing this evening.”

  “What! That’s . . . strange. Why didn’t Toria phone me?”

  “What did you talk about three days ago?”

  “About the dead woman and what we were going to say officially.”

  “And what about unofficially?”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with it, and he said he didn’t have anything to do with it either.”

  “And you two haven’t talked to each other since then?”

  “We did, once. I called him on my cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s no secret—I’ve heard his pickup was parked around where the dead woman was. He claimed somebody swiped the vehicle from the company parking lot. And that he had an ironclad alibi: he was at home with Toria that night.”

  “You’ve had no contact with him after that?”

  “I called him on his cell today. No answer.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Clem suppressed a sigh.

  “That’s almost normal for Helv. It often takes several tries to get him.”

  Clem’s eyes traveled around the room. The whole business stank to high heaven. Toria was pissed off because Helvin had stayed out all night, but she didn’t even contact him, Clem. Helvin was probably sitting in some hunting cabin washing his brain cells out of his skull with loads of beer. And maybe he had somebody with him. He’d heard rumors. About women Helv wasn’t married to.

  But now was the stupidest time to simply disappear. That really didn’t put Helv in a good light.

  “Ooookaay,” Palmer said slowly. “If you hear anything, let us know immediately.”

  “Of course.”

  What the hell was going on? Clem could see many pairs of eyes throughout the arena following him as he returned to his post at the snack table. Who else knew that Helvin had disappeared into thin air? Probably a whole slew of people did. And nobody had called him. Now he was really angry with his boss. Clem was fuming inside as he resumed piling food onto plates.

  Marjorie seemed to have a sixth sense for a person’s state of mind because she was studying him with raised eyebrows. She didn’t ask questions; maybe she was already in the know. After all, Toria was her daughter’s best friend.

  When he left the arena late that night, the blowing snow had stopped. The night was dark and still as a monk at prayer. Another of those amazing, sudden changes in the weather in the delta. As if somebody pulled a lever up and down.

  He left the lights of Inuvik behind and took the shortest route to Helvin’s house. He circled it several times before admitting that he actually didn’t know why he was there. Was it to check on whether Helvin really had gone missing? He couldn’t ring Toria’s doorbell at this late hour. Besides, she hadn’t felt the need to let him know before going to the police. Let her get out of that shit by herself. Herself and Helvin.

  On the way back home, he saw something bright flickering in the black sky. The northern lights. Wide green streaks flashed and snaked through the atmosphere. Valerie would be entranced by this spectacle. The northern lights were right at the top of her list of tourist attractions. A trip to the Arctic without northern lights, as she once told him, was like a trip to Canada without bears.

  Then she laughed.

  “And like Clem without Meteor.”

  His dog was sure to be waiting eagerly for him. Probably mad at Clem for leaving him alone for six hours. To make up for it, Clem had managed to snag several Styrofoam containers of leftover fish for his dog. And he planned to take him along the next day on the snowmobile. To the cabin where he hoped to find Helvin.

  He parked the truck and walked toward the front door, balancing the Styrofoam containers in his arms.

  Suddenly, he heard a noise behind him. Something hard banged him on the head. He felt a flash of pain go through him before he hit the ground.

  CHAPTER 13

  The beast bared its long, pointed fangs. Its bulging eyes were fixed on Valerie. Every time she saw the saber-toothed tiger in the Whitehorse Museum, she felt pleasurable shivers down her spine. She was with her group in the Yukon Beringia Interpretive Centre because it presented the history of the Canadian north much better than anywhere else.

  It also gave her the opportunity to sneak a peek at the individuals on the tour, when they were photographing the mammoth, say, or the primeval bear fending off wolves, or the huge bison.

  Paula Kennedy, a teacher from Westminster in British Columbia who’d retired at sixty, was listening to the audiotape about Beringia. Paula, a compulsive communicator, would be sure to tell everybody afterward about the Bering landmass that comprised parts of Siberia, Alaska, and the Yukon Territory about ten thousand years ago. It hadn’t been covered by glaciers during the last Ice Age; that’s why Beringia provided a living space for animals and people alike. Paula was ever the teacher in her retirement, and Valerie appreciated her enthusiasm. She encouraged discussion in the group about the region they were traveling through and its past.

  Of course, Sedna couldn’t have cared less about the glacier-free Bering landmass when she’d been there with Valerie. Valerie had explained to Sedna that this land bridge had stretched from Siberia to the Yukon River and that animals had first migrated over this route from Asia to the North American continent. And that the first humans had also come to the North American continent from Asia over the same route about fifteen thousand years ago. They had survived in a hostile environment through their extraordinary adaptability. Valerie was fascinated by what the human species was capable of; it had arisen in the African heat, and nevertheless it was able to survive in ice-cold regions near the North Pole. All of it slid off Sedna like water off a duck’s back—she fled the museum as soon as she could.

  Valerie saw Glenn Bliss going to the reception desk.

  “May I take some pictures?” he asked the cashier. He was the one who’d written her that he couldn’t wait to travel to the North after the “Murder in the northern wilds.” So far Glenn had revealed himself to be a polite, almost taciturn man with an elegant mustache. He looked like an English gentleman but was American. That wasn’t the only thing that surprised her. Glenn, at thirty-seven, was a relatively young client, and with his athletic physique, she would have expected to encounter him on a trek through Mongolia instead.

  She was about to move on to the next exhibit when a kindly male voice called from behind her: “Ms. Blaine?”

  Startled, she turned around to find an older gentleman with a trimmed goatee standing before her.

  “I am Ken Gries, the museum director. So nice to have the opportunity to meet you.”

  Taken by surprise, she shook his outstretched hand.

  “I’d like to show you something in my office.”

  Valerie followed him into a back room in the museum. He closed the door to shut out the sound of the multimedia displays.

  His first words said it all.

  “I knew your parents.”

  She tried to play for time by asking, “My parents? Are you sure?”

  The museum director looked taken aback for a moment.

  “Your father was Peter Hurdy-Blaine, wasn’t he? I met him and your mother when they were in Whitehorse.”

  “Pardon the question . . . but how do you know I’m their daughter?”

  “An acquaintance of yours told us. She was in the museum recently.”

  “An acquaintance? What was her name?”

  He rummaged through the papers on his desk. “Here, I’ve got it. My secretary wrote it down for me; I wasn’t in the office at the time. Phyllis Cr
ombe.”

  “Phyllis Crombe? I don’t know anyone by that name. What did she look like?”

  “I’d have to ask my secretary, but it’s her day off.”

  The director offered her a chair, and she sat down.

  “I can recall a conversation with your father very clearly. When was it? At least thirty years ago. I was young, probably twenty-eight. Somebody told your father that I’d retraced the long route of the Lost Patrol by dogsled with a few Gwich’in men. You know the story, don’t you? It occurred in 1910. Inspector Francis J. Fitzgerald and three men from the North-West Mounted Police undertook a trip in winter. And they all died.”

  Valerie nodded, which encouraged the director to continue.

  “Our expedition took place in 1981. We had three Indian guides and enough provisions, which Fitzgerald and his men did not. Those poor men suffered from terrible hunger. They had to eat their dogs. I’m telling you that four hundred and twenty miles by dogsled is a long, hard slog. It took us twenty-one days.”

  But his face beamed as he relived it.

  “Your father—as you surely know—wanted to retrace the path of the rescue team. Those were the men who found the Lost Patrol all dead. Police Inspector Jack Dempster was your father’s hero, if I may say so. I told your father back then everything that was essential—what he ought to take with him: enough provisions, good native guides, fur clothing, strong dogs. Then he told me they’d be on snowmobiles. He and his wife.”

  He picked out something from the pile of paper in front of him. A photograph.

  “That’s me with Peter Hurdy-Blaine.”

  Valerie didn’t recognize her father at first. He was wearing a fur hat and a heavy winter jacket. She wondered where her mother was when the picture was taken.

  “Your mother was a lively, energetic person. Young and very pretty. Adventurous, too. Gutsy. And practical.”

  Your mother. The words always sounded somewhat strange to her. After all, Valerie had never really gotten to know her mother. As far as Valerie was concerned, Bella had been the only mother she’d ever really had. Her silence didn’t seem to register with Gries. The fact that he had Hurdy-Blaine’s daughter before him spurred him on.

  “Your mother wrote everything down that I listed. I think she was acutely aware of the risks and dangers the trek involved. Probably more aware than your father.”

  He studied Valerie’s face more closely.

  “I can see your mother in you. Especially your eyes. I remember that she had a phenomenal memory. I think . . . if you permit me to say so . . . I had the impression that she was probably better prepared for the trek than your father.”

  Valerie’s ears pricked up.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Your father . . . he was daring, liked to take risks. Your mother, she was still young, very athletic. Brimming with potential. Your father wanted above all to create a monument.”

  “You think he wasn’t up to it?”

  Gries smiled, but his smile seemed slightly pained.

  “I hope you will forgive me if I come right out and say that hockey skills don’t necessarily count on such an expedition. I believe your mother grasped that very well.”

  His frankness gave her courage to ask the next question.

  “Was there any tension between the two of them before they left?”

  Gries bit his lip. He took his time before answering.

  “It’s possible that she looked up to him at the beginning, when they first met. She was a very young woman at the time, after all. But when I met them, she was anxious to . . . she obviously wanted to be treated as an equal partner in everything, including their Arctic ventures, if you see what I’m . . .”

  The cashier opened the door and smiled at Valerie.

  “Excuse me. Someone’s looking for you.”

  She and the director stood up at once.

  “Here, take this. In case I can ever be of assistance,” the director said as he handed her his card.

  Valerie thanked him and was walking toward the door when something occurred to her.

  “One more question. When was my . . . my friend here, Phyllis Crombe?”

  “Last week, Monday or Tuesday.”

  When they were in the supermarket afterward, Faye asked, “Why didn’t you show him Sedna’s picture?”

  Valerie stopped at the vegetable section. She mustn’t forget Trish, who was a vegetarian. Her sister, Carol Simpson, who ran a beauty salon in Vancouver, had brought Trish, a newly divorced mother of five, on the trip and paid for everything; Valerie was moved by that.

  “I have a photo on my laptop. Maybe I’ll send it to him. He can show it to his secretary.”

  “You definitely should. Sedna’s unmistakable: that colored hair and flashy bling really make her stand out,” Faye said. “That, and the fact that she’s sexy, charming, colorful . . .”

  She searched for more words, then whispered in Valerie’s ear, “. . . smarmy, sleazy, swindling . . .”

  “Oh, shut up!” Valerie broke into laughter and gave Faye a gentle poke in the ribs.

  “You’re quite an eye-catcher yourself, Val,” Faye murmured. “Take a look at that guy over there who’s staring at you. Over there, at the meat counter.”

  Valerie turned around. She exchanged glances with the man and recognized him immediately. Phil Niditichie, Clem’s friend. She waved at him to come over.

  “On the way to Inuvik?” he asked.

  “Yes, every year. How’s the Dempster look?”

  “Took the plane. Got a conference.”

  He ran a hand through his head of black hair.

  “Did you hear what happened to Clem?”

  “No.”

  Valerie’s mouth turned dry.

  “Somebody clubbed him. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Oh my God! Is he badly hurt?”

  “Slight concussion. Nothing serious.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Dunno. But it knocked him out of the race.”

  She had to think for a second about which race Phil was referring to. Then she remembered. The snowmobile race.

  Her grip on the cart handle tightened.

  “Is he here in the Whitehorse hospital?”

  “No, in Inuvik. He just needed some stitches.”

  Phil’s voice showed no anger, but his body language betrayed his nervousness.

  Something was going on in Inuvik, something was brewing. She sensed it. First the dead woman. Now the attack on Clem. What next?

  “I’ll go see him in the hospital in a few days when I’m in Inuvik.”

  “The Dempster shouldn’t be a problem. Good weather coming.”

  She nodded. A question about Gisèle Chaume was on the tip of her tongue, but she held back, saying instead, “So Helvin West will have to get along without Clem for a while.”

  “Yeah . . .” Phil hesitated. “Helv hasn’t been seen the last couple of days. His wife . . . Toria reported him missing.”

  “Really?”

  Valerie knew Toria; she’d always bring her things from Vancouver that she couldn’t order online.

  “It’s not the first time. He’ll turn up again,” Phil assured her. “Gotta go. We’ll be sure to see each other in Inuvik.”

  Valerie watched him sauntering over to the cashier.

  “That’s extremely interesting,” she heard Faye say.

  Valerie quickly pushed her cart along and resumed their shopping. Better for her to concentrate on the tour than worry about events in Inuvik, she thought.

  As they were putting the groceries into the Chevrolet minibus she’d rented, the sun burst through the overcast sky. Patches of deep blue grew larger, like ink drops on a paper towel. She closed the rear door.

  “Change of plans. Let’s do our trip by dogsled along the Takhini River today,” she announced.

  “Okeydokey,” Faye said, climbing into the Chevy. They had lunch with the group in the hotel restaurant before leaving Whitehorse.

/>   Upon their arrival at the Klatinih Ranch, they were met by a horde of yowling dogs all hoping to be selected for dogsledding. Two men were trying to keep the impatient animals down. Glenn Bliss and Jordan Walker were filming the preparations. Jordan, a passionate amateur filmmaker from Calgary, was eight years older than the thirty-seven-year-old Glenn. They were evidently friends before the trip. A Canadian-American friendship. The oldest participant was Anika Forman, a former lacrosse player and farmer on her second tour with Valerie. At eighty-seven, Anika didn’t let her age slow her down. She was particularly looking forward to the dogsledding jaunt.

  “Why aren’t they all huskies?” Anika asked.

  Scott, a man from the ranch, explained that many types of dogs are bred for the speed and stamina required to run in races.

  “These crossbreeds are called Alaskan huskies as opposed to Siberian huskies,” Scott said. “The dogs I train run from six to seven hours without extended breaks.”

  He told the group the different commands for making the dogs run, slow down, and stop. Valerie sat at the back of one of the four sleds with Paula, the retired teacher, in the front. After a loud “Go! Go!” the party started up.

  Valerie loved it when the dogs shot over the snow with harmonized movements and noticeable pleasure and energy. They sped downhill to the frozen Takhini River.

  The snow glittered in the sun. Skinny, tousled trees stuck up like coxcombs out of the vast plain. When the teams stopped for photo ops, the dogs cooled off in the snow.

  Valerie heard Anika’s cheerful laugh behind her. Who says that elderly ladies can’t have a rollicking good time? she thought, feeling satisfied. The procession started up again. Valerie felt like she was merging with the landscape, the huskies, and the blue sky. She forgot about Sedna and her parents’ fate; she forgot about her responsibilities and what might be awaiting her in Inuvik. She felt pure, unadulterated bliss.

  The dog teams returned to the ranch after two hours. Valerie took some time to pet Hector, her favorite dog. He licked her face, removing her sunscreen. Just then, Faye appeared at her side.

  “Guess what I found out!” Faye asked, her eyes shining. She really looked good with all that white snow around her. “Scott told me that he saw Sedna in Dawson City!”