Lie Catchers Read Free

town, Dad?” Parker asked when they stopped at a corner.
    Chet Browne yanked down the brim of his baseball hat to better protect his face from the rain, but grinned as he did so. “This is the real Alaska, son, a bona fide fishing town.”
    “You belong here, Pop,” Parker said, smiling at his dad’s Army green slicker. “With your white beard and mustache and those boots, you look like an old salt.”
    His father lifted up a foot to admire his Petersburg ‘sneakers,’ the brown calf-high rubber boots he’d bought at Ham’s General Store. “They’re comfortable. No wonder everyone wears them. You should get a pair, too.”
    “So you’re glad you came?”
    “Are you kidding? I’ve wanted to fish in Alaska my whole life.” Chet held up his right hand and wiggled his fingers. “See this? I’m itching to put my pole in the water right now. Hell, it doesn’t get dark for awhile. Maybe I could go jig for some herring off the dock.”
    Parker laughed. “Forget it. You need dinner and a good night’s sleep since zero tide is 5:30 a.m. Here we go.” He turned into Mama Bear’s and held the door for his father. “The chief said this is a good place to eat.”
    “No room in the inn, looks like,” Chet commented, as he surveyed the tables full of customers. “We have a second choice?”
    Parker was about to turn around and lead his father out the door, when he heard “Browne!” He glanced in the direction of the voice to see Ivor Hanson waving him over. “Looks like we’ve got a booth with Ivor and his sister.”
    Ivor directed Parker and Chet to a counter where they could order food. When they’d returned with beers, Parker motioned for his father to slide in by Liv as he took a seat next to Ivor. Introductions all around, with Chet taking a few extra moments to hold Liv’s hand. “Yours is a Norwegian name, right?”
    Liv smiled. “Yes and no. Our skin and eye color combination might throw you. We’re ‘Tlingwegians.’ Our great-grandmother was Tlingit, a member of the biggest Native population in this area. T.l.i.n.g.i.t is the spelling. ‘T’ has a ‘K’ sound. Our grandfather Hanson came from Norway; the Tlingits spent summers here on the northern end of Mitkof Island.”
    “Your great-grandmother’s maiden name was…?”
    “Tlingits back then didn’t have last names. Her only name was Gugan, the Tlingit name for sun.”
    Parker leaned back, nodding, the mystery of Liv and Ivor’s tanned skin solved. But the way Liv dressed when she wasn’t working in the store surprised him. Most women in the restaurant wore sweatshirts or sweaters with jeans and roomy rubber boots; Liv was decked out in designer jeans, an expensive-looking burgundy sweater, cowled at the neck, and leather boots. Her necklace of irregular blue and red beads and matching earrings caught his attention. “Tell me about those,” he said, pointing to the jewelry.
    “My secret obsession. Trade beads. They’re made of glass,” she said, her voice warm with pride.
    Chet’s eyebrows went up. “Indian trade beads?”
    Nodding, Liv fingered the necklace. “When I have time, between writing and working for my folks, I comb beaches, literally sifting through sand and rock, looking for trade beads.”
    “We’ve got Indian middens everywhere,” Ivor explained. “Middens are abandoned beaches where natives used to live. One remnant of an Indian village across Wrangell Narrows, around Icy Cove and Brown Cove, dates from four thousand years ago.”
    “But trade beads came a couple hundred years ago, from Europe, as a means of paying Tlingits for goods and services,” Liv said. “Some say when the beads became worthless for trade, the natives threw them out like garbage.” She touched the necklace. “One person’s refuse is another’s treasure.”
    “I’ll bet they’re worth something, too,” Chet said.
    “Try Googling ‘trade beads.’ Some of these blue beauties are worth a couple hundred apiece.”
    “Goes