Strange Things Done by Elle Wild

you’d better hope we find us a bigger rack than mine. Here, gimme those binoculars a sec.” Sally looked different now. Smaller, mostly, in her sturdy Yukon snow boots. She wore a white quilted parka, trimmed in fur a shade darker than her own hair, which was tightly braided in two sections. Over her coat, she sported a bright orange hunter’s vest that gave her an air of pragmatism hitherto undetected and unsuspected by Jo.
    Jo handed over the binoculars, watching as Sally scanned the tree line. Fiery slashes of crimson bearberry leaves steeped the foliage in bloody hues. Jo glanced at her watch before clearing her throat. She didn’t have much time. She’d need to be at the Daily shortly after sunrise.
    “So I’ve been thinking about Marlo …” Jo said.
    “Less thinking, more hunting, please.” Sally shoved the binoculars back toward Jo, the fur around her throat stirring in an icy gust of wind. She made another call, this time using only her hands around her mouth. A nasal braying sound, softer this time. Imploring.
    “Listen, I hate to interrupt you in mid …” Jo waved her hand, searching for the right word “… seduction. And I do appreciate the scenic tour, but I’ve gotta go. Some of us have to work this morning, you know.”
    “Tell Doug you were delayed. It’s moose season. Everyone will understand. Filling the freezer is the first priority in Dawson.” She glanced at Jo. “Yours too. And once you’ve seen the grocery prices in The General, you’ll know why. There are only two choices here: you can be predator, or you can be prey . ” Sally picked up a pale slab of bone from a leather bag and knocked it twice against a tree trunk, making a hollow sound. “And I need you to survive because I need your rent.”
    “I’d kill for some good, East-Van Chinese takeaway right now,” Jo muttered under her breath, “Soup with dumplings from the Bamboo Garden … wontons … hot.”
    “Shhh.” Sally paused as a wolf struck up a melancholy tune. A cold sound that reverberated up Jo’s spine.
    She shivered and lifted the binoculars. During the night, snow had transformed pine into surreal, Dali-esque shapes. Soft, rounded, alien forms. The world at this hour was shadowy and suggestive, promising both wonder and some kind of unnamed primordial violence. Jo searched the darkest parts of the forest for life, but found no movement. She blew weakly on one gloved hand in a useless attempt to stave off the numbness that was spreading rapidly through her fingers and toes. She heard Sally squeaking lightly through the snow, soldiering ahead, but something held Jo firmly to the stillness of the moment. When she couldn’t stand the needling sensation in her fingertips any longer, she wrapped leather binocular straps around her neck, shoved hands deep into pockets, and shuffled through the snow to catch up with Sally.
    “You know,” Jo said, “it sounds like most of the town was at Gertie’s the night of Marlo’s death.”
    Sally whispered back, sharply, “ Will you shut up? You’re like a walking megaphone.”
    Jo lowered her voice. “But the murder …”
    “If it was a murder …”
    “… happened before closing time, right? Or, at least, the murderer likely met Marlo in the parking lot and left with her before closing time. So did you notice anyone leaving early?”
    “Aside from you?”
    “But obviously I didn’t …”
    “Not obvious to the rest of us. We don’t know you that well.”
    “Is that why Sergeant Cariboo paid me the visit? Christ.” Jo felt something in her chest tighten.
    “There’s also Peter Wright.”
    “The mayor?”
    Sally nodded. “Yup.” Jo thought about his flushed cheeks at the roulette wheel. “And rumour has it that Jack Grikowsky left early.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “Manager of Claim 53, out at Sourdough Creek. It’s one of Dawson’s biggest gold mines.”
    “Well, at least I’m not the only suspect.”
    “True. Oh, and May Wong left before closing.