Murder at five finger light (2 page)
CHAPTER ONE
SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT IN THE DARKEST HOURS OF AN early morning in mid-September, the grumble of a marine engine slowly and cautiously approaching a tiny, three-acre island was little more than a mutter within the pulse of the incoming tide that splashed and gurgled ceaselessly against the sharp stones, the dying result of a windy rainstorm that had swept through the area the previous evening.
In the northern reaches of Frederick Sound, midway in the Alaskan length of the Inside Passage, the island was the largest of five narrow ridges of jagged rock that had come to be known as the Five Fingers, for seamen contended that they resembled a grasping hand. Four of these barely broke the surface, but the fifth and largest was unique for rising some fifty feet at its highest point above the salt waters of the sound, and for the lighthouse that had been placed there and operated for just over one hundred years specifically as a warning for mariners to navigate farther to the west and avoid the risk of foundering upon the lurking, treacherous fingers that were well and dangerously concealed at high tides, in darkness or rough weather.
The growling powerboat approached gingerly and without running lights, the operator well aware that, without an available dock or landing, caution must be taken to avoid being caught by the surf and bashing the hull against the ragged natural stone ramp rising up from the sea to the level of a wide concrete platform below the lighthouse. Between this rough ramp and a support wall below the platform lay a narrow but deep cove that provided partial protection from the insistent waves. With its two heavy Mercury outboard engines off the transom, the operator carefully maneuvered the twenty-six-foot Kingfisher into this semiprotected space, close enough so that a second figure could hop off and help to rig a pair of opposing lines that would hold the craft off both the rocks and the wall, but close enough for unloading their small but valuable amount of cargo.
High over their heads in the cupola of the tower the automatic solar-powered light revolved steadily, sweeping the line of its powerful beam across the underside of a low-hanging layer of cloud that threatened more rain and reflected just enough light to make the area visible to eyes already accustomed to the dark. It would probably rain again, but the accompanying wind had died and the waters of the sound calmed their thrashing to mild whitecaps and lacy foam.
Tied off safely with two lines, the operator cut the engines and stepped out onto the aft deck, opened a hatch, and removed two carefully waterproofed packages about eighteen inches square.
“You’re sure there’s no one here?”
“Yeah, sure. They won’t show till around noon next Sunday.”
“It better be like you say. I’m not up for any surprises on this one.”
“It’s fine. We’ve got plenty of time to stash this stuff and head for Petersburg. They’ll never know we were here. It’s like I told you—perfect cover.”
“It better be. Here, take this. I’ll bring the other one.”
“Bring a flashlight. We’ll need it.”
“No inside lights?”
“Not unless we start a generator and we don’t want to do that, do we?”
Each warily carrying one of the packages, the two figures, one shorter and huskier than the other, but both mere shadows in the dark, carefully climbed the uneven, slippery stones of the ramp to the platform and crossed to a pair of double doors that led into the lower floor beneath the lighthouse that towered over them.
“Got the key?”
Balancing the package on one arm to free a hand to dig into a jacket pocket, the answer came with a nod. “Yeah—same one I used last time I was here.”
“Hey—be careful you don’t drop that. Just open the damn door. Let’s get this done and be gone.”
Swinging the doors wide, the pair vanished into the blackness of the basement, returning empty-handed in a few minutes to lock the door behind them.
In less than ten minutes they were gone and the island was once again left to the enduring isolation of its automated duty.
Far across the wide waters of Frederick Sound the pilot of a fishing boat took comfort in recognizing the familiar beam and in knowing that he was finally nearing his homeport, little more than an hour south. Briefly he wondered about the people from Juneau who now owned Five Finger Light and the whale-watching station that, rumor had it, they intended to locate there.
Shrugging, he took another swig of rapidly cooling coffee and focused on achieving the most direct route across the sound to Petersburg.
CHAPTER TWO
EARLY ON A MONDAY MORNING IN MID-SEPTEMBER, without opening her eyes, Jessie Arnold rolled over in her big brass bed, pulled the quilt down far enough to uncover her face, and took a deep inquisitive breath. The scent of freshly brewed coffee that had wafted enticingly up from downstairs filled her nose, mixed with that of bacon frying and a hint of toast.
Yawning, she tossed back the quilt, sat up, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers. Not finding them, she peered over the edge of the mattress and spotted them a foot or two away, where she had kicked them off the night before. Scuffing them on, she slipped a robe over the pajama bottoms and green T-shirt in which she had slept, and left the bedroom, headed soft-footed for the stairs.
Halfway down she was able to see Alex Jensen busily cooking breakfast in the kitchen of her new log cabin. He was humming softly to himself as he removed the bacon from the pan to a paper towel before draining the grease and turning to stir a bowl of eggs for scrambling, unaware of her presence until she spoke.
“You’re up early, trooper. Can’t wait to get back to catching bad guys?”
He turned with a smile. “Hey there, sleepy. You want eggs?”
“If you’re cooking—you bet.”
Jensen added two eggs to the bowl, stirred, and emptied it into the pan. As the eggs sizzled invitingly, Jessie made a quick dash into his work area to pour a mug of coffee and snitch a crispy strip of bacon from the pile on the towel. Knowing that the kitchen could be a hazard zone as, long-armed, Alex tended to unexpectedly reach out for things without looking as he cooked and was currently waving a fork, she retreated to the safety of the table to watch and enjoy the fact that someone other than herself was playing chef.
Both hands around her steaming mug, she wrinkled her nose at the aroma and savored not only the brew, but also having Alex back in her kitchen, as well as her bed. The months he had been gone from Alaska now seemed dull and ephemeral, as if his return had brightened her world and let her see everything with new eyes after a stretch of bad weather.
It
was
a sunny morning, and a glance out the window brought a smile of appreciation to her face at the glorious September gold of the birches that surrounded her cabin and dog yard. As she watched, a breath of breeze brought a few more leaves fluttering down to litter the ground beneath and she knew that, once again, there would soon be only bare limbs against the sky.
was
a sunny morning, and a glance out the window brought a smile of appreciation to her face at the glorious September gold of the birches that surrounded her cabin and dog yard. As she watched, a breath of breeze brought a few more leaves fluttering down to litter the ground beneath and she knew that, once again, there would soon be only bare limbs against the sky.
Turning back, she found Alex, careless of the eggs sizzling in the pan, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smile of his own at her admiration of the fall’s generosity.
“Your favorite season,” he said. “It’ll be your birthday in another month.”
“It will,” she agreed. “But I won’t remind you that you still owe me an earring to replace the one I lost somewhere in the brush on Niqa Island.”
“So I do. I’ll have to consider that.”
Refilling his own coffee mug, Alex brought two full plates to the table and, settling in a chair beside her, moved the butter and jam so they both could reach them.
“M-m-m,” Jessie said, when she had made a significant inroad on the food on her plate. “It’s nice to have someone else in the kitchen for a change. May I expect you to continue to spoil me rotten?”
“We’ll see how you appreciate it,” he answered with the hint of a leer, wiping strawberry jam from one side of his luxurious handlebar mustache with a paper napkin. “What’s up for you today?”
“Well . . .” Jessie frowned and hesitated, considering. “I’m not sure. It’s a pain not to be able to run the mutts, but there’s always cleanup that wants doing in the dog yard. You?”
“Hm-m.” Jensen pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, miming deliberation.
“What? You’ve got something in mind—yes?”
Mischievously, he forced her to wait as he slowly chewed and swallowed another mouthful of eggs and toast before he answered with a grin.
“We-ell, if you haven’t anything pressing on your dance card for the next few days, maybe you’d consider driving to Dawson with me to visit Del and Clair Delafosse.”
RCMP Inspector Charles “Del” Delafosse and his wife Clair were friends met when he and Alex had worked a case together in Dawson City several years before. They had also helped Jessie, when she was involved in delivering a ransom demanded for the release of an abducted musher during the Yukon Quest sled dog race.
At Alex’s suggestion of a visit, the impatience on Jessie’s face was replaced with pleased surprise. “Really? That’s a great idea. Why’re you going to Dawson?”
“Del called yesterday afternoon. The Canadian government’s put money behind its decision to create a joint plan to improve border security. So Commander Swift is sending me to help get the cooperation started with a planning meeting between the Alaska State Troopers and a new RCMP Border Enforcement Team that Del’s been assigned to as well.”
“There’re only two, aren’t there? The main customs station on the Alaska Highway at Beaver Creek and the one on the Top of the World Highway, though that road’s closed in the winter. Oh, I forgot. You have to cross the border coming north from both Skagway and Haines, don’t you? That’s four.”
“A couple of guys are coming up from Vancouver to coordinate with us on those two that cross into British Columbia, then back into the Yukon. But you’re forgetting the entire Southeast. There’s a lot of water traffic along the Inside Passage—cruise ships, private power- and sailboats, fishing boats, oil tankers, commercial container ships—probably more people crossing the borders in both directions than ever use the highways. And there is one other that’s off the Cassiar, between Stewart B.C. and Hyder, though it’s probably got the lowest use.
“We want to have everything organized and in place before the tourist season rolls around next spring and all those motor homes and boats start pouring back and forth across the borders. Then we’ll be looking hard for drug dealers, gun smugglers, and border runners.”
“So you guys’ll really be working?”
“Yup. But you can visit with Clair, and we’ll all get together in the evenings except for a day or two when Del and I have to go down to Whitehorse.”
“Won’t be much that’s really active for Clair, considering she’s just a couple of months from presenting Del with twins,” Jessie reminded him.
“Yeah, well. It’ll be cool over there this time of year anyway, but we shouldn’t have real snow for another week or two. You can always stay inside and knit booties,” he teased.
“Bloody likely! There are a lot of things I
can
do but knitting’s close to the top of the I-can’t or I-won’t list. You know Clair. She’s no knitter either. Now that they’re adding to the people living in that small cabin of hers, she’d probably rather build on an additional room.”
can
do but knitting’s close to the top of the I-can’t or I-won’t list. You know Clair. She’s no knitter either. Now that they’re adding to the people living in that small cabin of hers, she’d probably rather build on an additional room.”
Alex got up to retrieve the coffeepot from the kitchen and lifted a questioning eyebrow at her before replenishing her cup along with his own.
“When are we leaving?” Jessie asked as she shoved her empty plate aside with a sigh of satisfaction and leaned forward to put both elbows on the table, coffee steam once again warming her nose.
“Well, I’ve got a few things to clear up at the office and the paperwork to finish on a robbery case, but I thought we might get an early start Thursday morning. Would that suit you?”
“Perfectly,” she agreed. “That’ll give me time to do laundry and get Billy set up to take care of the few dogs I have left in the yard. I’d like to get a present for the new twins too. Can Tank go with us?”
“Sure. Bring the dog.” Alex collected the plates, ferried them to the kitchen, and turned back. “You okay to clean up here? I’d better hit the road.”
“Ah-h,” she sighed theatrically. “Should have guessed I’d be relegated to bottle washer. I’ll call Billy and then take care of the kitchen. Tonight you can sort out what clothes you want washed and I’ll do that tomorrow.”
Billy Steward, the young man who worked with Jessie in caring for her dogs and kennel, often joined her on training runs with a second team. Though the injury to her knee had removed
her
racing possibilities, Jessie felt Billy was ready to run one or two of the shorter sled dog races during the approaching winter, and she had kept enough dogs at home for his use, along with one that would soon have pups and two past racing age. Steady and dependable, Billy had more than earned his privileges, the practice would be good for him, and a couple of races would give him experience and entrée to the racing community.
her
racing possibilities, Jessie felt Billy was ready to run one or two of the shorter sled dog races during the approaching winter, and she had kept enough dogs at home for his use, along with one that would soon have pups and two past racing age. Steady and dependable, Billy had more than earned his privileges, the practice would be good for him, and a couple of races would give him experience and entrée to the racing community.
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