Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘Oh, dear! That’s really terrible! I’d think people would respect the fact that all this beauty is here for everyone. And surely there are guards?’ I made it a question.

  ‘They can’t be everywhere at once. In fact, someone stole some of our aconites last fall. An odd choice, one would think. They’re quite pretty when they’re in bloom, aconites, but this was in late October when they were going dormant, nothing much to see. And of course you can buy them at any nursery; they’re not rare or anything. Peculiar.’

  Something told me not to admit that I knew a fair amount about aconite, including some of its gruesome common names, and its highly toxic qualities. I agreed that the theft was peculiar and changed the subject.

  ‘I suppose you get visitors from all over Canada and the States,’ I commented, hoping I sounded ignorant and naïve.

  ‘From all over the world, actually. It’s amazing, really, but Japanese come here by the thousands to see our Japanese garden.’

  ‘One would suppose,’ put in Alan, who had been listening silently, ‘that they had enough in their own country not to need to travel so far.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there are some special things about this one. I’m not sure what; that’s not my field. You could ask at the Visitor Centre. They know everything!’

  ‘Are you a botanist, then? You speak of “my field”.’ We were straying very far from any possible connection with the nastiness, but I was curious about this young man, who seemed both bright and capable, and surely capable of holding down a better job.

  ‘Yeah, sort of. This is just a part-time job. I’m studying biology at UVic.’ Seeing my blank look, he added, ‘University of Victoria. You might not know, but it’s one of the finest universities in Canada, and in some disciplines, in the world. I’m just beginning my second year, so I haven’t decided on a specialty yet, but I’m thinking of getting into earth sciences. The trouble is, there are so many great programs! They do a lot of really important research, and there’s never any problem getting funding for projects; they have an awesome endowment. See, there are a lot of fat cats in BC, ’specially in Victoria, because of the tech boom. And they love to go throwing their money around and looking like Santa Claus. It’s okay with me. They get the laurel wreaths, we get the benefit. Everybody’s happy.’

  He bent back to his work. ‘And speaking of happy, my boss won’t be if I don’t get this done.’

  ‘Oh, sorry to keep you away from it. But it was lovely to talk to you, and we both wish you luck with your future.’

  ‘So did we learn anything useful?’ I asked Alan when we were out of earshot.

  ‘One thing, perhaps. He wasn’t hesitant to talk about the theft of the aconites. That means there’s been no attempt to hush it up.’

  ‘Hmm. And that tells us …?’

  ‘Don’t know. Just something to be tucked away. Shall we talk to another gardener, or someone at the Visitor Centre, or one of the tourists, or—’

  ‘I vote for somewhere we can sit down. The coffee shop? We can talk there.’

  We had barely sat down with our coffee when Alan’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, his expression growing more and more dismayed, and said, ‘We’ll be there.’

  He stood and put some money on the table. ‘We have to go, Dorothy. As fast as we can.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘What did he say?’ I waited until we were well away from people. It was obvious that something dire had happened.

  ‘There’s been a death. John didn’t say much more than that, except it’s possible that the falconer’s birds were involved.’

  ‘Oh, no! So are we going up there?’

  ‘Not yet. John is meeting us at the condo. He’ll take us up; he didn’t think we could find the way.’

  ‘I don’t either.’

  We were silent the rest of the way back home. I needed to concentrate on driving; Alan was brooding.

  John was waiting when we got there. I made us all coffee – instant was good enough in this crisis – and sat down to listen.

  ‘First things first,’ John said, sounding very tired. ‘A young woman was found this morning not far from Silas Varner’s place. She was horribly wounded: deep cuts all over her face and upper body. I have no intention of giving you the details. They’re sickening, and you don’t need to know. The cause of death is presumed to be loss of blood.’

  ‘Presumed?’ That was Alan.

  ‘Until the autopsy. But it’s fairly obvious.’

  ‘You saw the body.’

  ‘God, yes!’ He shuddered and gulped down his coffee. ‘I’ll see it for the rest of my life.’

  ‘How did you get involved, John?’ I asked. ‘This would have been a case for the … what, the RCMP who were first at the scene?’

  ‘Right. They’re the first line of defence in most of the rural areas of BC.’

  ‘You said the body was found near Varner’s place. Was he the one who called?’

  John grimaced. ‘I doubt the old sinner owns a phone. No, that’s one of the very interesting things. The call was anonymous.’

  ‘And it couldn’t be traced?’ Alan was operating in full policeman mode.

  ‘The number was blocked.’

  ‘Just like the phone that made the threatening calls yesterday.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two men looked at each other.

  I repeated my question. ‘Is that why the Mounties called you in? The slight similarity?’

  ‘No, the officer first on the scene didn’t know about that until I told him. He happens to be a friend who knows about my interest in the whole mess, and he knew I’d want to get into the act. Not officially, of course.’

  ‘And the victim? Who is she?’ Alan the policeman again.

  John pulled out his notebook. ‘We don’t have a name yet. Height approximately 175 centimetres, weight around 63 kilos.’

  I got out my phone and began searching for a metric conversion chart.

  John went on. ‘Black hair, medium brown skin. Well-nourished, well-groomed. We think she’s a First Nations woman, most probably Cowichan, the dominant tribe where she was found. The features’ – he stopped, swallowed, and continued – ‘were too badly damaged to be of help in identification, but the skin colour is right, and the clothing. She wore conventional slacks, brown wool, and a white cotton shirt, but her jacket was distinctive, a Cowichan knit without doubt. The wool and the pattern are both unique: raw wool, hand-spun, hand-knitted.’

  ‘Shoes? Or boots?’ Alan was going down his mental list.

  ‘Flat-heeled brown leather shoes, expensive, almost new, well-polished. No jewellery. No watch.’

  ‘Was her phone damaged, or could they get some information from it?’

  ‘No phone.’

  ‘Now that really is peculiar!’ I had listened closely, and this detail didn’t fit. ‘Almost everyone carries a mobile these days. And she sounds like a professional woman, or at least one with a decent income and a lifestyle that made her concerned about her appearance and able to keep it up. And yet she had neither watch nor phone. Purse?’

  ‘No. No wallet, no keys – nothing at all in her pockets except a tissue. Clean.’

  ‘Someone didn’t want her identified,’ said Alan.

  ‘At least not instantly. If she’d had any dental work done, that might do it. If we can find the right dentist. And you can guess that if she turns out to be a native woman, there’ll be hell to pay. Relations with the Anglos are always on the touchy side, and if it turns out that Silas’s birds killed her …’ He shook his head.

  ‘There’s some doubt about it, then? I hope so. I hate to think of that poor old man losing his hawks, his only friends.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d agree with that description of him. He’s a cross old codger, and wouldn’t thank you for calling him a poor old man. But you’re right about his only friends. If they take them away and kill them, I don’t know whether he’ll just pine away, or work himself
up into a rage and die of a stroke. I do know he won’t be able to go on living here. The Cowichan won’t have it.’

  Alan and I were both silent for a moment. Then I asked, ‘Have you talked to him? Mr Varner?’

  ‘No one’s talked to him, not yet. He won’t answer the door.’

  ‘That must mean he knows what’s happened. Which might mean—’

  ‘It might mean anything,’ John responded crossly. ‘With him, anything. Got up on the wrong side of the bed, woke up with a hangover – though I’ve never known him to drink much – madder at the world than usual, anything. He could even be out flying his birds. Until we have the results of the autopsy, we can’t get a search warrant.’

  ‘So. You’re waiting for that, and for identification of the body. But will the neighbours and the tribal authorities wait?’ Alan’s face was grim.

  ‘That’s why the RCMP have posted a guard on Silas’s property. We can’t have a lynching, and honestly, he’s stirred up feelings so much, it might come to that.’

  ‘Is there any doubt that this was a raptor attack?’

  John paused. ‘This is confidential information, but actually there is considerable doubt. Something about the pattern of the wounds is apparently not at all typical. That’s why we – they – are pushing the autopsy through.’

  ‘And how can we help?’ I asked, after a long pause.

  ‘Would you be willing to do a little shopping?’

  I waited.

  ‘Duncan is a small town, but it’s a great place to shop. You can buy Cowichan items almost anywhere, especially the sweaters. I’d like you to go into some of the shops, get to talking about the Cowichan garments and the tribal background, and see what you can pick up. Anything could be important, even the emotional temperature of the conversation.’

  ‘That sounds like something I could do. And Alan?’

  ‘Nose around town. Listen. Observe. If possible, don’t look like a policeman.’

  That brought a welcome laugh. ‘I’ll do my best. But I’ve put a lot of practice into the intimidating look. It isn’t easy to let it go.’

  ‘I’ll need detailed directions for how to get there,’ I said. ‘I’m still the designated driver until Alan gets used to driving on the right.’

  ‘It’s not hard. Basically you just follow Highway 1, but I’ll show you on the map, and then you can rely on Sadie.’

  ‘Sadie being, I take it, the lady in the dashboard.’

  ‘Right. I named her after a dictatorial aunt of mine, years back. Pleasant, but insistent on having her own way. Now look, here’s where you want to go.’

  I got mildly lost only once, and of course Sadie reproved me (courteously, but firmly) and got me back on the right track. We reached Duncan in time for lunch, found a little café serving great soup and sandwiches, and then set out on our appointed tasks.

  The first shop I walked into had some beautiful sweaters on display, and an elderly woman sitting in the corner knitting. Her face was deeply lined, but her eyes were bright and her gnarled hands moved steadily, apparently without pain.

  ‘Goodness, have you made all these? They’re gorgeous.’

  ‘My family and I, yes. They are traditional Cowichan sweaters. Very warm, waterproof. They will last for many years.’

  ‘I saw on a map that this is the Cowichan Valley. You’ve lived here always, then?’

  ‘Always. We were here long before the white people came, thousands of years before.’

  ‘Did they – the white people, I mean – did they treat your people badly? I ask,’ I added when her face took on a shuttered look, ‘because I’m from the United States originally, and the white settlers there treated the native people very badly indeed, for a very long time.’

  ‘We do not often talk about that,’ the woman said, her hands and needles never ceasing their constant motion. ‘Yes, it was bad for our people. There were diseases. Then the settlers took our lands, promising to pay for them. They never did.’

  I shook my head. ‘My race has much to answer for, all over the world.’

  ‘It has been the same everywhere, yes. The white people come and the First Nations are wiped out.’

  ‘The Cowichan have not been wiped out.’ I pointed to the piles of sweaters, scarves, hats.

  ‘Nearly. The diseases took nine out of ten of us. Then the white people made laws, forbidding us to practise our own ceremonies, taking our government away from us. They sent our children away to their schools, teaching them English, trying to wipe away their memories of the old ways.’

  ‘But some of the old ways have survived.’ Again I looked at the beautiful work of her hands. ‘You still know how to make these wonderful designs.’

  She nodded. ‘And how to clean the wool, and spin the yarn. And I have passed this knowledge down to my children, and grandchildren. Things have become better for our tribe in the past few years. The government has allowed us to return to some of our ancient culture, and there are talks about returning some of our lands, and paying for some of what they keep.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that! But this is all really interesting. I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time, but I’ve never been to this part of Canada before, and I knew nothing about the First Peoples here. Do your kids – I mean not just yours, but the tribe’s – do they go to white schools, or your own?’

  ‘Our own. They are not large, but they are best for our children. There they learn what they need to succeed in the modern world, but they also learn their own language and traditions. In the same school, they learn tribal dances and computer skills!’

  She laughed at that, and I laughed with her.

  ‘So they’re prepared for jobs almost anywhere, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes, and for university, as well. We are not rich, we Cowichan, but there are scholarships for students who can profit from university education. There is one young woman who graduated from UVic with an honours degree, and went on to a very good job working with computers. Me, I don’t understand what she does, but she earns lots of money and sends much of it home to her family. We are very proud of her.’

  ‘You must be.’ I was getting a sinking feeling about this and didn’t want to continue the conversation, but I felt I must. ‘She doesn’t still live with the tribe, then?’

  ‘No, she moved to Victoria to be nearer her job, but she comes back when she can. She has changed; she is thin like a white woman, but she still loves the place where she was a child, loves to walk the woods. She is a true Cowichan.’

  A few customers came into the shop, giving me a good excuse to stop. There was a clerk to help people with purchases, but these folks looked eager to talk to the matriarch. I bowed. (Somehow a handshake seemed inappropriate, even if both her hands had not been occupied.) ‘I’ve very much enjoyed talking with you, but I must let you get on with your work. I’m going to try to find a sweater that fits me.’

  I came out of the shop a good deal poorer than when I went in, and not sure what Alan was going to say to me, but I was happy with my purchase, a heavy sweater-jacket knitted in cream and black and grey, with stylized eagles on front and back. I wondered how many centuries back the eagle design went.

  I went on thinking about knitting to avoid thinking about the young woman who had gone to university and done so well, the one the tribe was so proud of, the one who had become thin. There was no reason to identify her with … with anyone I knew about. If something had happened to her, the tribe would surely know.

  Not until the victim has been identified, said a nasty little voice in my head. And how were the police going to do that?

  Dental records. DNA. Even her jacket, perhaps. It was hand-knit, and the knitter might be able to identify it.

  The knitter might even have been the woman herself. Somehow that was a particularly nasty thought. Brought up in a close community, taught as a child an art sacred to her tribe, learning to do it well, making herself a beautiful jacket that proclaimed her origins even as she achieve
d success in the white people’s world …

  Stop it! Anyone can have a Cowichan jacket. You have one yourself, Dorothy Martin. Stop spinning horror stories that have no basis in fact.

  None whatever.

  I found the car, put my heavy parcel in the trunk, and searched for the next shop. There were a lot to choose from, but only a few specializing in First Nations art and artefacts. One art gallery had delectable boxes and baskets, jewellery, even totem poles, all made by native artists including the Cowichan. I talked to a few of the artists, and learned a good deal about the noble history of arts among the native peoples, but nothing of special relevance to my search.

  Then, as a last resort, I entered a sports shop, not exactly my native habitat, to inquire about falconry supplies.

  ‘We don’t sell them,’ the clerk said, looking at me rather oddly. ‘Not thinking of taking it up yourself, are you?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I’m actually a bit afraid of birds of prey, though I admire them, especially eagles. No, I have a friend in Indiana who would like to learn more about it, and I thought I might make him a present of some small supplies, like jesses and hoods – if I have the words right.’

  ‘You’re from the States? You sound English.’

  I was getting a little tired of this particular question, but I explained briefly and went on, ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who could give me any pointers I could pass on to my friend?’

  He frowned. ‘There’s one guy – but no, you wouldn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t like women. Doesn’t like much of anybody, for that matter. They say he knows his birds, and treats them well, but he’s a real nuisance to his neighbours. His place is a disgrace, except for the mews – that’s what they call the sheds where the hawks live. They’re supposed to be secure, but somehow his birds got out one night, not too long ago, and they killed some chickens. Not a popular fellow. No, if you want to know about falconry, your best bet is the raptor sanctuary just up the road.’

  He gave me directions, and I thanked him without mentioning that I’d already been there, and left the store.