Harry Shimizu was standing behind the counter explaining the care of perennials to an older woman, who was hanging on his every word.
He was a small, slender man in his fifties with white flecks in his spiky black flat top and a habit of blinking with his whole face as he spoke.
A red-haired Japanese woman I assumed to be his daughter was ringing up sales at the other end of the counter, quizzing the customers with easy efficiency to ensure they knew what to do with their purchases. She looked to be in her late twenties: petite, with a wild bottom and a long, small face that economically conveyed a wealth of hidden charms. Once, between transactions, she caught her breath and glanced my way, almost decking me with a brash crooked smile.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Harry said primly when my turn came.
I kept my voice down. “Hi. You’re Harry Shimizu?”
He nodded.
“I’m working for Mrs. Sloan, the widow of Coast Chronicle publisher Albert Sloan, who died last week. We think it’s possible he planned to come here Friday.”
“He did come,” Harry said, with unexpected force. “He came to check out the bonsai he’d ordered for his missus. Had it all paid for and everything. Here, I’ll show you.”
He led me to a connected greenhouse, where about three dozen miniature trees sat on low wooden benches close to the window. Placed on the floor were a few larger ones, including a couple of four-foot emperors. Kewp was right. Each one was a work of art.
“This is the one,” Harry said, blinking fiercely.
It didn’t register at first—it was too strange. I crouched down and studied it at eye level. It was unbelievable. It was the tree. It was a replica of the wishbone-shaped apple tree with the Atlas arms that Sloan had hanged himself from on Settlers Road, scaled down to about eighteen inches in height and breadth.
“He gave me the specs on it,” Harry said. “After I heard how he died, I just couldn’t bring myself to call the family. I was going to mail off a credit voucher, after a suitable time had passed.”
“That was thoughtful of you, Harry. I could see how it might upset the family. For sure.”
“Well, yes, especially considering.”
“Well, yes. How did you make it such an exact replica?”
“Oh, it’s not that exact. It’s a different variety.”
“To an untrained eye, it appears pretty close.”
“Mr. Sloan brought in a picture; he’d taken it with a digital camera. I didn’t have anything like it, so I picked up this crabapple in the city, in New Westminster actually. It conformed to the basic shape. I repotted it and trimmed it so that it would look pretty close. I worked from the picture Mr. Sloan brought me.”
“You did a remarkable job. Did he tell you why he was so interested in that particular tree?”
“No, just that he wanted a bonsai that looked just like it.”
“He didn’t talk about Settlers Road or anything?”
Harry was thinking. Thinking and blinking. Blinking and thinking. “No. He just wanted to give it to his wife. A surprise.”
“He gave her a surprise all right. Can I take it with me?”
“You’re going to show it to her?”
“She would want it, and she can handle it. She’s a strong woman.”
Harry seemed torn about letting it go. “Well, you’re working for the lady, so I guess it’s okay.” But he still hesitated.
“I should take it, Harry.”
“Fine. I’ll wrap it so it doesn’t soil your car.”
We went back to the counter. He handed me a brochure about caring for the bonsai and said he or his daughter would be happy to answer any questions if Mrs. Sloan had any. He placed the ceramic pot in a recessed cardboard tray that firmly secured it. While he gingerly wrapped the tree in green paper, I asked him when Sloan had ordered it.
“Last month,” he said. He held up the invoice. “July 12.”
“Fast work.”
“Like I said, I was pretty lucky to find one that conformed roughly to the shape.”
“How did he seem Friday?”
“He just came in to pay for it and said he would be back on the weekend to take it home. He acted like he always did, friendly but in a hurry. Here you go. Thanks for stopping by.”
Handing me the package, Harry seemed eager to emulate his description of Sloan: friendly but in a hurry. He turned to greet a waiting customer, sliding a glance my way before surrendering to an explosion of blinks.
The daughter swung around her end of the counter and held the door open for me, soberly eyeing the wrapped bonsai. “Hi,” she said quietly as I went past her. “Come again.”
It was another balmy day. As I drove into Witka, I found myself singing an old camp song:
Ain’t gonna rain no more, no more,
Ain’t gonna rain no more.
How the heck can I wash my neck
If it ain’t gonna rain no more?
A weathered red Dodge Ram pickup truck rode high on my tail then quickly pulled back, right turn signal going. The horn hooted twice. Max Riverton was at the wheel, and his right hand was pointing to the right as he did a lasso movement in violent rotation.
I got the message, Max.
The turnoff was thirty metres ahead. We both pulled into the Foster Creek Campground entrance and parked in the new landscaped section near the store.
Max hustled over to my window, a dark-eyed, tight-lipped, private man in his forties, about five-six with a bit around the beam. He was always clean-shaven and neatly conservatively dressed for the outdoors, his black curls scalp short. He was wearing a blue quilted waterproof vest over a cotton check shirt and saying “dirty bastards” repeatedly after he saw my face. I got the story in where I could. When I finished, Max said, “They were carting off samples, I’ll bet you money. That’s what they hit you with. Samples from the infected stocks.”
Max’s deduction made my stomach turn. I shrugged.
Max insisted, “Those bastards were working for Lovedahl. People don’t just get jumped like that on reserves. Have you ever been jumped on a reserve before?”
“Almost, once when I tried to stop this kid from pounding on a small fry. There was a woman there who took great offence to my intervention. The boys were cousins, she affirmed hysterically.”
“Cousins? Oh, that explains.”
“She gave me holy hell,” I said. “Who was I to tell them to do anything? Who did I think I was? Who the hell did I think I was? The other reporters shuffled off. Then a group of the men started to make their way our way, so to speak.”
“What did you do?”
“I got the hell out of there. But this was in the far interior. I still don’t know what would’ve happened if the men had come over to investigate. They might’ve told that dame to quit sniffing unleaded. What I do know is the little prick was back pounding on the small fry when I was still in range to hear the wailing, so it became a real nightmare.”
“I’ve never heard of it on the Coast. Whites go on that reserve every day, and nobody gets jumped like that. No, those were Lovedahl’s shit-punks at work. What I don’t get is this.” Max pressed his knuckles deeper into his vest pockets. “Lars Lovedahl was fired, he doesn’t hold any public office, but he’s still here trimming up the shoreline leases and operating more openly than ever. You know what I mean?”
“Sure, Max.”
“I don’t see how this can happen. How can this happen?”
These cosmic questions make good quotes but lousy conversation. I telegraphed back: “I told Jake Jacobson about the outbreak rumours. He’ll talk to someone pretty high up the chain in fisheries. Hopefully nothing bad will go to market.”
“Eating goldfish, you take your risks. I don’t call it salmon. How can you call it salmon?”
Max was getting mad. It’s what he did, or what he’d say having his two-million-dollar view ruined did to him. It’s why he spooked the media—Sloan called him “White Dwarf, the imploding materialist” or something—and probably why he’d lost his marriage and saw his daughter on arranged weekends. Being around mounting anger is intimidating, even if you know it’s not aimed at you. You always think: I shouldn’t have joked around.
I told Max my next stop was the Mounties, and I was going to make a report.
“Tell them I back you up. Use my name if you want.”
“I will, Max,” I said.