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.