Purple Palette for Murder by R.J. Harlick

Author:R.J. Harlick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2017-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

Thirty-one

When I returned to the living room with the two mugs of steaming tea, Gloria was staring silently out the window at the orange streaks spreading across the sky. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney of a houseboat partially hidden in the shadow of the island.

“Nice, eh?” she said, creating her own smoke. “I like sunrises. Reminds me of when I was little, when we stayed at the summer camp. Uncle Joe would wake me early and take me to a special rock to watch the sun come up. He said it was quiet time, time to talk to Nòhtsi.” She circled her hands around the hot mug and took a tentative sip. “That’s what we call God. Some people call him the Creator too.”

“I like dawn too, but I’m rarely up so early.” I punctuated this with a yawn. “By the way, thanks for cleaning up the apartment.”

She shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Do you have any idea who might’ve broken in?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think it could’ve been the guy who attacked Teht’aa?”

“What’s Tee say?”

“She can’t remember. Could any of the guys who slept with her have been her attacker?”

“Like I said, I never seen any of them. But I don’t know why you’re asking. Frank did it. And now he’s dead.”

“What about Hans?”

“What about him?”

“Could he have attacked your cousin?”

“Nope.”

I rubbed my arm where he struck it last night. “He strikes me as the kind of man who abuses women.”

“No way. He’s a gentleman. Treats a woman good. Besides, Frank did it.”

“How do you know? You weren’t so certain when we talked about it earlier.”

“People say he done it.”

She turned her attention to her tea and to the sun flooding into the room. It outlined a profile that reminded me of her cousin, including the slight bump on the upper bridge of her nose, a bump Teht’aa used to rub to try to smooth it out. It was a profile whose firm chin spoke of an underlying strength, like Teht’aa’s.

“Gloria, do you know anything about a piece of embroidery with purple flowers?”

She turned her head so abruptly that she almost dropped her mug. But she hesitated a moment too long before saying, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” She resumed drinking her tea.

Yeah, right. I went to the bedroom and retrieved the piece Josh had given me.

I spread the delicate work out on the coffee table. A sudden ray of sunlight brought the three-dimensional flowers into sharp relief, revealing every single tuft of purple-dyed caribou hair. Reflections from the flowers’ sparkling, beaded centres danced on the ceiling. For the first time I noticed that each petal was edged with a delicate line of purple beads, which also sparkled in the sun. The green stems and leaves were made from another material that reminded me of the porcupine quills the Algonquin used. It was an exquisite piece of embroidery that seemed to have taken on a life of its own.

She sucked in her breath. Her hand hovered over the shimmering flowers as if she was afraid to touch them.

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