Arctic Blue Death: A Meg Harris Mystery

Arctic

Blue

Death

Arctic

Blue

Death

A Meg Harris Mystery

R. J. Harlick

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Text © 2009 R. J. Harlick

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

Cover design by Emma Dolan, photo by R. J. Harlick

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

RendezVous Crime

an imprint of Napoleon & Company

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

www.napoleonandcompany.com

Printed in Canada

13 12 11 10 09 5 4 3 2 1

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Harlick, R. J., date-

           Arctic blue death / R.J. Harlick.

(A Meg Harris mystery)

ISBN 978-1-894917-87-2

I. Title. II. Series: Harlick, R. J., date- . Meg Harris mystery.

PS8615.A74A73 2009         C813’.6         C2009-904768-3

To Jim

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

BIBLIOGRAPHY

One

Meg, you have to go. I can’t," my sister Jean said, squinting myopically up at me from the comfort of her Muskoka chair. More concerned about preserving her patrician good looks than being able to see, she wears her glasses only in extremis.

A flock of honking Canada geese were passing high overhead, adding to the calls of the others that had just passed. Several more V formations followed close behind. These geese were flying northward on their annual spring migration to the distant shores of Hudson Bay, easily a couple of thousand kilometres from where we were watching them at my cottage in West Quebec.

We were at the end of the dock, sitting, or rather Jean was sitting, sipping hot tea. I was standing binoculars in hand, afraid to miss even one bird as it flew over Echo Lake and the hills beyond. My sister was futilely wrapping her manicured hands around the thermos mug in an attempt to keep them warm. Although she’d turned down my offer of wool mitts—admittedly they were a tad dirty—she’d deigned to wear my old fleece jacket. But she hadn’t been able to resist squinching up her nose when she thrust her cashmere-clad arms into its worn sleeves. And by her feet lay the snakeskin portfolio she’d insisted on bringing down to the dock.

Another flock breasted the ridge of the neighbouring shore. I counted, ten, twenty, thirty…and came up with about sixty. That makes about nine hundred we’ve seen so far this morning. Doesn’t the sight of them make you feel wonderful to be alive?

Forget your stupid geese. We’re here to talk.

Much to my astonishment, Jean had arrived late last night, unannounced. It had to be easily a dozen years since she’d last visited Three Deer Point, and that was when our great-aunt Agatha was still in residence. She’d certainly never bothered to come since I’d taken over the property. I was amazed she remembered how to navigate the twisting dirt roads, let alone that she would subject her gleaming new Jaguar XKR to the punishing miles of loose gravel.

She must want something badly, very badly.

I told you we’d talk after the geese had gone by.

I pointed my binoculars at the next flock coming into sight. There looked to be at least a hundred.

Last night I’d stalled her by saying I was too tired. This morning when I’d woken to the cries of the geese, I’d used watching them as another excuse. Although I was itching to know what had forced her to drive seven hours from her home in Toronto, I wanted it told in my time, not hers.

But the fly-by wasn’t really an excuse. Every spring, since I’d fled the stress of Toronto for the peace of this northern wilderness, I’d headed down to the dock at the first sounds of their passing with a thermos mug of hot tea and enough clothing to keep out the frigid morning air. Invariably they came through the first week in May, so my ears had been waiting for this morning’s dawn sound.

I wasn’t going to miss this rite of spring to listen to a long harangue from my sister. Just because she was older —albeit by only eleven months—she thought she could order me around at will. Needless to say, Jean had been a contributing factor in my decision to leave the big city.

I can’t wait any longer. I have to be back in Toronto by three. Jean’s voice took on a peremptory tone. She also thought because she was older, that she was smarter. And perhaps she was. After all she was a hot-shot judge of the Ontario Superior Court, whereas I hadn’t even finished university.

Fine, you’d better leave now.

I’m not kidding, Meg. We have to talk. It’s about Father.

The joy of the morning took a sudden downward spiral. I hadn’t heard her mention him for a very long time. In fact, I hadn’t either.

What’s there to say? I answered warily. He’s dead. Has been for almost forty years.

Maybe he’s not dead.

Of course he is. He died in a plane crash.

We don’t know if his plane crashed. We just know it never arrived. Here, read this.

She extracted a brown, document-size envelope from her portfolio as another honking V formation spread across the sky. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Sutton Harris.

This belongs to Mother, I said. What are you doing with it?

She gave it to me.

Why didn’t she call me about it?

She did, but you didn’t return her calls.

Jean was right. Mother had left several voice messages recently, and I was waiting for the right moment to call her back. She had been another reason why I’d left Toronto.

Read the letter, Jean ordered as she hastily moved her Gucci loafers clear of a rogue wave.

I pulled out a single sheet of plain white paper. Written in an awkward scrawl were the words

Dear Mrs. Harris

Your man okay.

It’s unsigned. It has to be a joke.

Look at where it’s from.

I turned the envelope over. No return address, but the stamp cancellation indicated it had been sent a little over three weeks ago from Iqaluit, a town in the Canadian Arctic. In fact, as I recalled, it was the capital of Canada’s newest territory, Nunavut.

In case you didn’t know, it used to be called Frobisher Bay. Surely that name means something to you.

Of course it does. So what?

It did, however, leave me feeling unsettled. Thirty-six years ago on a clear sunny day in April, my father and a pilot had taken off in a chartered plane from the isolated community of James Lake on Baffin Island. Their destination was Frobisher Bay, only a couple of hours away on another part of the island. But they never made it. Neither they nor their plane were ever seen again.

There is no way Father can be alive, so it has to be a hoax. Besides, this isn’t the first time Mother’s received such letters, I added.

True, but that was years ago.

The perfection of Jean’s coiffed hair was being challenged by this morning’s brisk breeze. She captured several flying strands and shoved them behind her ear.

But didn’t they turn out to be hoaxes? So why should we pay attention to this one? I countered.

Because I think there might be something to this. She received another one ten days later. Here.

She passed me another brown envelope also sent from Iqaluit and without a return address. Moreover, the contents contained the same message written in the same almost child-like hand and similarly unsigned. No, not quite. It had been signed, but the signature had been so heavily scratched out that it was impossible to make out any letters, let alone identify a name.

I still don’t see why you think this isn’t from someone trying to get money out of mother.

Because this one came two days ago.

This envelope contained a torn-out page from the Nunavut News, dated September 10 of last year.

REMAINS OF PLANE FOUND

Iqaluit, NU

On a recent ice monitoring flight, a submerged plane was sighted in Davis Strait near the mouth of Frobisher Bay. Unfortunately the location iced over shortly afterwards, so the R.C.M.P. will not be able to investigate until after spring breakup.

They believe this is most likely the remains of a chartered plane that went missing last year on a flight between Iqaluit and Nuuk, Greenland. Although an extensive search was conducted at the time, the plane was never found.

Readers may recall that there have been other plane disappearances over the years, most notably that of millionaire philanthropist Joseph Sutton Harris, whose plane disappeared in 1973 on a flight between James Lake and Frobisher Bay, both since renamed to Tasilik and Iqaluit.

I glanced at my sister. So you think this is the reason for the letters. But if this is his plane then surely his remains will be found in the wreckage. Why write that he’s okay?

Jean nodded in agreement. That’s what we need to find out. That’s why we want you to go to Iqaluit.

Two

Unable to fully trust my sister, my suspicions went on high alert. Why me? You can go just as easily.

Jean was a master at trying to get others to do her bidding.

She shook her head. Impossible. I have a busy court schedule coming up. Plus Erin and Megan both have important piano recitals that demand my full attention.

I get it. Just because I don’t have a husband, a job or kids, you think I can just drop things and go off on some wild goose chase.

And speaking of geese, another flock passed overhead. I raised my binoculars to focus on the leader of a ragged V formation that was struggling to maintain order. He was having little success in keeping the upstarts in place.

Well, you do have fewer responsibilities. Besides, you like the wilds. I would’ve thought a trip to the Arctic would fit right in with your perverse idea of fun.

I had to admit, the thought of travelling to Canada’s arctic wilderness did have a certain attraction. Besides, with her manicured nails and smart little designer outfits, she was hardly a candidate for rough northern travelling. Still… How do we know this will lead anywhere? The article said the plane sighting took place last fall. Why would this anonymous sender wait until now to contact us?

She shrugged. It could be for any number of reasons. Perhaps the individual was away, or maybe they didn’t think it important to let us know until the search was about to begin.

What about the police? Have they contacted Mother? Surely they would if they suspected it was Father’s plane.

No, they haven’t, but maybe they don’t want to get her hopes up, since, let’s face it, it’s highly unlikely this is his plane. After all, they conducted a massive search right after it disappeared. Surely if this plane has been so easily spotted now, it could’ve been just as easily found back then.

Precisely, so why go? I persisted.

She finally cast her eyes skywards at another flock of high flying geese, watched them for a few minutes then turned back to me. Mother wants one of us to go.

"No, let me guess. She wants you to go because she feels you would get the job done properly. You in turn want no part of it, so you’re pushing it onto me."

She had the honesty to blush. Please, Meg, this could be important. Don’t you want to finally know what happened to our real father?

Her question took me aback. Of course I did. But his disappearance had been so long ago. I hardly remembered him. After all, I was barely ten at the time. In fact, my mother was hosting a birthday party for me when the police had come to tell her about the missing plane. I suppose I do. But more importantly, why does Mother want to know? She didn’t spend a lot of time agonizing over his death before she linked up with another source of Harris money.

Don’t say anything bad about Dad or Uncle Harold—if you want to call him that. He was a far better father than our real one ever was. Besides, she waited the legal seven years before marrying him.

She sat straighter in the chair, as if to emphasize her judicial disapproval, which I chose to ignore.

Yes, but you and I both know that it didn’t take her long to let him into her bed, I retorted. Although the two of them had pretended nothing was going on, I clearly remembered surprising Uncle Harold sneaking out of my mother’s room one morning in the rambling Harris family home in Toronto where we all lived.

We both know she was going through a very rough time. She just needed some comfort.

More likely a solid fix on the Harris money, I quipped.

Our father had been the eldest son of John Harris, who’d taken the fortune Great-grandpa Joe had amassed in mining, put it into whiskey and turned it into an even greater fortune. Harold was his younger and only sibling.

You should talk. Look what you did to get Great-aunt Agatha’s money.

I did nothing other than visit her.

Jean had always resented the fact that I had not only inherited the century-old Victorian cottage from our Aunt Aggie, along with the surrounding fifteen hundred acre wilderness property that made up Three Deer Point, but also what remained of the money our great-aunt had inherited from her father, Great-grandpa Joe.

But don’t blame me, I continued. You would’ve got half, if you’d bothered to come visit her. But you never did.

Annoyed by my logic, Jean stood up. I’ve got to go. Are you going to go to Iqaluit or not?

At that moment, my buddy and sometime protector came scrambling over the rocks that ran along the base of the cliffs lining the shore. Sergei, my black standard poodle, sensing the tension between Jean and me, placed himself protectively beside me. Though he didn’t growl, he certainly gave my sister a challenging stare.

Why can’t you get yourself a real dog? Like a pit bull. More your type, Jean shot back, and ignoring him, started walking back up the stairs to the cottage.

Good boy, a very good boy. I gave my buddy a vigorous hug before the two of us followed after her annoyingly slim figure.

Even though we’d both inherited the Harris tendency towards plumpness, Jean did her best to keep it at bay by starving herself. I on the other hand tended to help it along with a love for chocolate-chip cookies, rich creamy cheese and other weight-gaining foods.

I’ll think about it, I said as my sister slid into the soft leather seat of her low-slung Jag. I’m not sure when ice break-up occurs that far north, but it’s got to be weeks away. So we have plenty of time before the police can even begin to try to retrieve the plane. In the meantime, I think we need to gather more info, if we can.

My sister nodded. I have contacts in the Nunavut court system. I’ll give one of them a call to get their take on this plane.

Even a simple call to the police might do, I suggested. I’ll do that, and I also want to talk to Mother. Perhaps she has some idea who’s sending these notes.

She vows up and down that she doesn’t. Jean clicked her door closed, turned on the engine and powered the window down.

Maybe so, but something has prompted her to act this time, unlike the other times when she received similar letters and did nothing. Maybe she saved some of them?

Jean shrugged. I doubt it. I remember seeing one in the garbage.

Was it like these ones?

Can’t remember. It was ages ago, when I was in law school. Look, I’ve got to go. She shifted her car into reverse. And thanks for taking this on.

But before I had a chance to say I hadn’t yet agreed, she’d backed her car around and was speeding down my drive. Maybe when we were growing up, she’d used this tactic to bamboozle me into doing something she herself didn’t want to do. Not any more. If I was going to the Arctic, it would be my decision, not hers.

However as I watched her Jag’s red brilliance whisk behind the trees of the first bend, I couldn’t help but feel myself drawn into whatever tangled web these letters were going to lead to. For I had no doubt that they would. Nothing to do with the Harris family had ever been simple.

Three

A week later I found myself heading into Toronto. It felt surreal driving into the city where I’d been born, grown up, gone to school and married, yet I felt a stranger. In the years since I’d left, it had changed, like all fast growing cities. Faceless housing developments had spread their grasping tentacles along the main Highway 401 corridor over what were once undulating hills of fields and forests. Big box malls filled the spaces in between. And the traffic had increased exponentially.

Accustomed to empty rural roads, I’d doggedly kept my aged Ford pick-up in the highway’s slow lane and let those eager to exceed the speed limit, namely the majority including rumbling transport trailers, whiz past me. But so keyed up had I become, whether from the traffic or the uncertainty of returning home, I found myself stopping frequently to fortify my nerves with Tim Hortons coffee and chocolate cream-filled donuts.

I’d set out this morning, around nine o’clock, after safely delivering Sergei into the care of the dog’s best buddy, Jid, a boy who’d also become an important part of my life. Another friend, Teht’aa, had promised to check on my house for as long as I would be away, which I hoped would only be for a few days. After some hesitation I’d also asked her to let her father Eric know I was going to visit my mother, just in case he was interested, for he would know the significance of this not-so-simple act.

Eric had once been my best friend, my saviour and my lover, but all that had changed because of my fears and my cowardice. But I didn’t want to dwell on that, not now. I had enough on my plate. I was about to tread into a past I had avoided since childhood.

I suppose one could say that I was good at avoiding things that touched too closely, something with which Eric would certainly agree. Until, that is, he had pulled away from me and locked me out with his own version of avoidance.

I wasn’t sure why I eventually gave in to my sister’s request to go to Iqaluit. I just knew that I had to learn more about my father’s long-ago disappearance and break the silence that had always surrounded it.

The anonymous letters implied that he was still alive, yet the newspaper article clearly indicated a submerged plane, which meant death. After the massive land and sea search had turned up nothing, Mother had accepted his death and had had him declared so. Over the years there’d never been any hint, any suggestion that he might have survived. Other than those bogus letters years ago, there’d been no other letters, no calls or sightings…until now.

I supposed in each of our minds, certainly in mine, there had always been a kernel of doubt, of hope. Jean’s request had triggered me into wanting finally to put them to rest, one way or the other. Perhaps Mother felt the same way. Why else would she decide this time to pay attention to this new round of letters?

I felt goosebumps creep over my skin as I turned into the very familiar drive of the old Harris family mansion. Although it was years since I’d threaded my way through the labyrinth of the heavily treed streets of Rosedale to reach this cul-de-sac on the edge of a ravine, I found my way easily as the memories kicked in.

Little appeared to have changed. The driveway still followed the same circular path to the overarching stone portico. The flowerbeds with the tulips just bursting into bloom were arranged in the same angular patterns. Even the shrubs and ornamental trees remained at the same height, but then my mother would’ve made sure the gardeners kept them trimmed to her precise specifications.

The house loomed as massively as it always had. Built by Grandpa John in the early 1920s to survive a millennium, it was made of huge blocks of red sandstone, the same used to build the Ontario Legislative Building. Over the years, ivy had succeeded in softening its harsh lines, which had prompted people to call it the Christmas Mansion. My favourite rooms had always been those occupying the turret with its expansive curved windows overlooking the ravine, which was probably one reason why I’d fallen in love with Three Deer Point. The old Victorian cottage also had a many-windowed turret.

I glided my truck to a stop under the archway and hesitated. Did I really want to go inside? Did I really want to resurrect old memories, ones I’d successfully buried? I glanced at the window beside the front door to see if anyone had noticed my arrival, but the late afternoon sun glinting off the leaded windows prevented me from seeing inside. It wasn’t too late. I could always turn around and go back to Three Deer Point and let Jean pursue the letters.

Then the front door eased open and the slim, elegant figure of my mother stepped outside. She was leaning heavily on her cane, more so than the last time I’d seen her. Perhaps with her advancing years, the polio she’d suffered as a child was causing greater weakness.

Welcome home, dear. For a moment I thought I saw a real smile, as if she had been looking forward to my arrival.

After the prescribed pecks on the check, she ushered me into the hall, but not before suggesting I give my truck keys to Akbar, who would be happy to take it around to the back. Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Its rusty, bedraggled appearance wouldn’t quite conform to neighbourhood standards, would it? It had to be banished to the garage.

Though I would give her this much, she never once commented on or even flinched at my worn but clean jeans, my Zellers-bought T-shirt or my trail shoes, not even when I sat on one of her treasured Louis XV chairs. Mind you, it wasn’t as if this antique chair covered in pale yellow silk had been my choice, since I knew how much she prized them. No, Mother had actually offered me the chair, while she sat down on its matching settee. Moreover, when the housekeeper placed the gleaming Harris silver tea service down on the mahogany coffee table separating us, I couldn’t help but gape in surprise. She was going to treat me to one of her special English high teas, something she’d never done just for me.

It’s so good to see you, Margaret. Her glistening eyes hinted at a warmth her smile couldn’t quite convey. She poured tea into an eggshell-thin porcelain cup. Milk, no sugar, isn’t it, dear?

Yes, Mother, your memory hasn’t failed you.

I glanced around the large living room, or more correctly, drawing room, for it did speak of an age long dead. It was elegantly furnished with the priceless English and French antiques first Great-grandpa Joe then Grandpa John had imported from Europe. It was a room we children had never been allowed to breathe in, let alone sit in, and only rarely after we became adults. This too was a special honour.

But it was so far from what I’d grown used to that I had the decided feeling I’d taken a wrong turn and landed in the mythical Land of Oz. I could see from the way the cup clattered on the saucer Mother passed to me that she was just as nervous.

Although it has been awhile, dear, you’ve hardly changed. She offered me a sampling of neatly arranged finger sandwiches. Still my sweet Margaret.

I groaned inwardly at the word sweet while I helped myself to a cucumber sandwich. You haven’t changed either, Mother. As beautiful as ever.

And she was. One of those classic beauties with the fine features of a porcelain doll, including the sapphire blue eyes and honey blonde hair, although in her later years her blondness depended more on the contents of a bottle than on nature. But who was I to talk, with my attempts to hide the niggling grey hairs sprouting amongst my red ones. But she really hadn’t aged much since I’d last seen her. In fact, one would never think that she was in her late seventies.

But you inherited my genes, dear. You just need to help them along. As I used to tell you when you were a child, an orchid doesn’t bloom without a lot of care and patience.

Knowing any reply could lead to one of our inevitable arguments, I held my tongue, and so did Mother. Perhaps she, like me, wanted to keep this meeting as positive as possible.

Nonetheless, I knew she meant well, for I had let myself go. I hadn’t seen a decent hairdresser in months, and though my nose was more of the ski-jump variety than her perfectly sculpted one, I did have her blue eyes and fine features. Too much rich food had just blurred some of this fineness.

Great-grandpa Joe’s statesmanlike portrait by some famous Canadian artist whose name I’d forgotten stared down at me from its station above the marble fireplace. Although, if Aunt Aggie’s stories of his notorious prospecting days were anything to go by, he was as far removed from being a pillar of society as I was a socialite. He seemed to be saying Go girl or whatever words of encouragement he felt fit the moment.

His wasn’t the only painting. Some of Canada’s best artists hung on these walls, including one of Lawren Harris’s icy blue Arctic scenes, a fine example of Emily Carr’s swirling West Coast rainforest and Riopelle’s frenetic paint splatters, this one red, brown and orange. Tucked into a back corner hung a piece of artwork I remembered well, but one I was surprised to see hung in such illustrious company.

"Of all the prints in Father’s Inuit art collection, I always liked this one of the Mystical Owl the best."

You do have a good eye, dear. That particular stonecut print with its Mona Lisa eyes has appreciated considerably since the government put it on a postage stamp.

Hence its place in this room, where only the best of the Harris art collection was displayed. Hanging on one of the narrow walls between the French doors, I spied another Inuit print I’d always admired, although I couldn’t remember the name of the artist. The stylized angry bear against a background of blue ice seemed to leap from the page.

I guess that bear print must’ve gone up in value too.

Mother turned her head to study the print. "Yes, that is Joly Quliik’s Growling Bear. After the Art Gallery of Ontario had a retrospective showing of his works a couple of years ago, I had several people contact me about buying it, but for your father’s sake I couldn’t sell it. It was one he was especially fond of. I’m not exactly sure why, but perhaps it was because he knew the artist."

I remembered him once telling me about an artist who’d taken him out for a ride over the ice and snow on his dog sled. Maybe this Joly Quliik was the man.

Perhaps.

There used to be other Inuit prints hanging in the library. Are they still there?

Yes, your step-father liked them too. But much too primitive for my liking. She delicately raised the porcelain cup to her lips and took a tiny sip of tea.

As for me, I found the carefully crafted Mystical Owl or the Growling Bear no more primitive than Riopelle’s flung paint.

After your stepfather died, I had the other prints stored with the rest of Sutton’s collection. It’s really quite large, you know. I’ve recently donated it to the Art Gallery of Ontario. I thought a gallery in Sutton’s name would be most appropriate, considering all he did for those people.

You mean the money he gave to the gallery? I crunched into another cucumber sandwich. It was quite tasty, and lunch had been several hours ago.

Heavens no. I mean those Eskimos. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

I’m not sure what you mean. I’m here because I want to talk to you about the anonymous letters and learn as much as I can about Father’s disappearance. I really don’t remember much myself.

It was all because of those Eskimos. She didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her voice.

Please, Mother. I wish you wouldn’t use that term. They prefer to be called Inuit. I think it means ‘people’ in their own language.

Well, whatever. She waved her hand dismissively. They caused his death.

At that moment the housekeeper entered the room. "Madame, the car is ready."

Oh dear, I forgot. I have a meeting of the planning committee for the Black and White Arts Gala, which I’m afraid I can’t miss, so, Margaret, let us talk later. She got up to leave. Hannah, could you please show my daughter to her room.

If it’s my old bedroom, I think I can find my way.

Sorry, darling. I’m not used to having you visit. She gave me a gentle peck on the cheek and squeezed my hand. I’m glad you’ve come. I’ve missed you.

As I watched her neat, slightly stooped figure limp from the room, I couldn’t help but think that I’d been away too long. Sure, my lifestyle didn’t come close to intersecting hers, nor my values for that matter, but she was my mother. I was finally glad I’d made the decision to come home.

Four

It was only when I entered my old bedroom that I felt I finally was home. Nothing had changed. Even my dusty collection of stuffed animals continued to flop on the top shelf of my bookcase. On the wall hung my Branksome Hall graduation diploma that Mother had insisted on framing beside a faded poster from a Neil Young concert, which I’d ripped from a telephone pole as a dare in Grade Ten.

I had spent a lot of time in this cozy L-shaped room with its slanted ceilings, which stood at the end of the long hall on the third floor, where all Harris children were relegated. Although after my marriage to Gareth Mother had offered me a more spacious, more adult room on the second floor, I had refused to take it. This room had become my oasis, my sanctuary from life’s pressures.

Besides, I hadn’t wanted to sleep in this house with Gareth, and I never did during our thirteen years of living together. I only returned to this room after I’d run away from him. But Mother’s relentless chastising eventually drove me to Three Deer Point. She blamed me for