[Lady Justice 11] - Lady Justice and the Cruise Ship Murders

by Robert Thornhill

  “I’m certainly open to suggestions,” he replied.

  I outlined my plan and Reyes agreed.

  After the details had been worked out, my practical sweetie took over. “So what now? We have no windows in our cabins and everything we own smells like smoke.”

  “We’ve got you covered,” Reyes replied. “You will be assigned new cabins --- unfortunately they will be inside cabins --- that’s all we have left unoccupied --- and our housekeeping department with launder all of your clothing. We’ll have you ready to go by morning.”

  We couldn’t have asked for more.

  As we headed to our new cabins, it occurred to me that we had almost died twice in less than twenty-four hours.

  Our peaceful Alaskan cruise was turning out to be anything but peaceful!

  CHAPTER 11

  Day #3-Skagway, Alaska

  Gentle rapping on our door awakened me. I stumbled out of bed and standing in the hall was our room steward with all of our clothing freshly laundered as promised.

  I looked at my watch and I was surprised to see that it was already seven o’clock. We were supposed to meet the Stewarts in the Lido buffet at seven-fifteen and then on to meet the mysterious Alfred Quimby at eight.

  We were surprised that the Stewarts were totally unaware of our brush with death just a few hours earlier. Reyes certainly knew how to keep a lid on things.

  Of all of the ports of call on our cruise, I had been looking forward to Skagway the most.

  It was the Dodge City and Tombstone of Alaska all rolled into one.

  After gold had been discovered, the city had grown from thirty residents to over thirty thousand in just one year. The main reason was that the two main trails from the coast to the inland gold fields, the White Pass Trail and the Chilkoot Trail, both originated from here.

  Saloons and brothels sprung up almost overnight to cater to the carnal desires of the stampeders. The other industry that flourished was the outfitters that supplied the food and equipment the miners would have to pack the hundreds of miles inland to the Yukon.

  Like the cow towns of the old west, Skagway attracted the lawless element as well. The most notorious was Jefferson Randolph (Soapy) Smith. This clever con man arrived in Skagway in 1897 and in nine months had become the undisputed authority. The sheriff, as well as the other city officials, were in Soapy’s back pocket, leaving him and his gang of three hundred to do pretty much anything they wanted.

  His saloon was recognized as the unofficial ‘city hall’. His rigged card games, liquor and bawdy women separated many a miner from his hard-earned gold.

  It was two of Soapy’s men, Slim-Jim Foster and the Reverend John Bowers that had taken the gold from John Stewart, Mark’s great-great grandfather in 1898, and it was that incident that ultimately led to Soapy’s death at the hand of Frank Reid, the leader of a vigilante group.

  We were to meet Quimby at the Visitor’s Center on State Street, just a few blocks from where the ship was docked.

  At five after eight, we stepped into the Visitor’s Center and looked around. The only person we saw that didn’t look like a tourist was an old gentleman in a wheelchair that looked like Walter Brennan, the old character actor from TV and the movies.

  Mark approached the man, “Sir, by any chance are you Alfred Quimby?”

  “I might be,” he replied. “Who’s asking?”

  “Mark Stewart. This is my wife Amy, and these are our friends, Walt, Maggie, Ox and Judy.”

  Quimby gave us the once over. “Didn’t know you were bringing company,” he said. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “If it weren’t for these fine folks,” Mark replied, “we wouldn’t be here at all. Someone’s tried to kill us twice since we left Vancouver. It’s a long story.”

  Quimby looked around the room, “Not here,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The old man spun the wheelchair around and headed for the door. Ox had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over.

  “Feisty old fart,” he muttered as we followed him out into the street.

  Quimby headed toward a big van and pushed a remote control. The van was equipped with a wheelchair lift. Without asking for help, he backed onto the lift, pushed a lever and was soon inside.

  “Well don’t just stand there,” he said. “Get in! I want to hear this nonsense about almost being killed.”

  When we were all inside, he pushed another button and the outside door closed. “Okay, tell me everything.”

  “We took turns, with each of us sharing the incredible story from our own point of view.”

  When we had finished, he looked at Mark, “Are you positive that you told no one?”

  “Absolutely!” Mark said, crossing his heart.

  “Well damn!” he said. “That means that the leak must be on my end --- probably someone at the University --- someone with a great deal of technological expertise, according to your story.”

  He sat silent for a moment, then he became agitated, “Damn! Damn! Damn! I’ll bet it’s that Louis French in the Technology Department. I never trusted that asshole. He probably hacked my email and he certainly has the know-how to build the techno-toys you were talking about.”

  Now I was the one that was caught off guard. “Did you say Louis French?”

  “Yep, sure did.”

  I looked at Maggie, “Wasn’t that the guy that asked us to take his picture on the Mount Roberts Lookout?”

  She thought for a moment, “Yes, I’m sure that it was. That was just a diversion, wasn’t it?”

  “So it would seem,” I replied. He saw Ox and Judy heading for the can and delayed us just long enough for his partners in crime to push Mark and Amy off the cliff.”

  “That son-of-a-bitch,” Quimby muttered. “I’ll strangle the bastard with my bare hands!”

  It appeared that Quimby was indeed as salty as an old sailor!

  “So what now?” Mark asked. “Are we still going after the gold? Is it really worth putting our lives at risk?”

  “Hell, yes, we’re going after the gold!” Quimby retorted. “This doesn’t change anything other than we just need to keep our eyes open.”

  His eyes took on a far away look, “Just think! Your great-great grandfather did something that tens of thousands tried to do and failed --- he braved the hardships of the Yukon and found gold. A hundred and fourteen years ago, that hard-earned gold was taken from him by two of the most notorious thieves in Alaska. After Soapy Smith was killed because of that gold, the two rats that robbed John Stewart took off for the White Pass Trail, but were caught. The gold was never found. Today, John Stewart’s great-great grandson is going to find that gold. It will be one of those rare moments in history where things come full circle --- so, hell yes we’re going after that gold!”

  It was obvious to everyone that Quimby was going, with or without us, and quite frankly, when he was talking, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. We were going to experience a real piece of history and go on a real, honest-to-goodness treasure hunt and I was as excited as a six-year-old kid at Christmas!

  Mark brought things back into the present. “You said in your email that you had found a document that tells where the gold was buried. Was it a map?”

  “Not exactly a map in the true sense of the word,” Quimby said, “but a map of sorts.”

  I saw the skeptical look on Mark’s face.

  Quimby opened a briefcase and pulled out a yellowed scrap of paper. “This was in a box of things that the Juneau Prison sent to the University.”

  He handed the paper to Mark. We all peered over his shoulder.

  In faded letters were scrawled these words:

  The love of my life has golden hair

  And though I’m gone she should not despair.

  For she shall not be left alone

  She’ll be in the care of one unknown.

  And while I’m gone, she’ll have to wait

  Just inside the wooden gate.

  The f
alls will be her closest friend

  Just up the path and around the bend.

  Then one day soon I will return

  To the golden girl for whom I yearn.

  We’ll be together as before

  And want for nothing evermore.

  Rev. J. Bowers

  “That’s it?” Mark said, incredulously. “I came all this way and risked our lives for that?”

  Poor Quimby looked like Mark had slapped him across the face.

  “It does look pretty poetic for a shyster con-man,” Maggie observed. “Sounds like something Poe would write.”

  “The Reverend Bowers was more that just a con man,” Quimby said indignantly. “He was quite articulate.”

  Quimby snatched the paper away from Mark, “Follow along with me here. The references to ‘golden hair’ and the ‘golden girl’ are pretty self-explanatory. He was talking about gold --- no doubt!”

  I could see that Mark was still not convinced.

  Quimby forged ahead, “The second verse gives us clues as to the location where he buried the gold. We know he and Slim-Jim were headed north out of town and they were captured before they had gone too far, and I can think of one place about two and a half miles north of town that fits the clues --- the old Gold Rush Cemetery. There used to be a wooden fence and gate around the cemetery, but it has rotted away, and just beyond the cemetery, ‘up the path and around the bend’ is Reid Falls.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Mark said, “Dig up the whole cemetery?”

  “Not at all,” Quimby replied with a sly smile. “The last remaining clue will show us exactly where to dig. Let’s get rolling!”

  The van had been equipped for a handicapped driver with controls on the steering column. Quimby rolled his chair into position, locked the wheels and hit the ignition. In just a few moments we were cruising through town.

  “Would you be offended if I asked you about your handicap?” Amy asked.

  “Heavens no!” Quimby replied. “It happened about five years ago. I had come across some information that led me to an abandoned mine --- and gold, of course --- but rotted support timbers gave way and buried me under a pile of rock and debris. They dug me out and saved my life, but I’ve been like this ever since. It’s a damn drag, I’m telling you.”

  It looked like we had come face-to-face with a real, live Indiana Jones.

  It didn’t take long to get to the Gold Rush Cemetery just north of town. *

  The place gave me the creeps the moment that I saw it. It looked exactly like the cemeteries depicted in the old zombie and vampire movies. Instead of the neat rows of granite tombstones that I was accustomed to seeing in Kansas City, there seemed to be no logical order to this place. Old wooden grave markers with names and dates scrawled in black paint were scattered among giant trees as old as the graves themselves. The dense, dark forest in the background created an eerie sense of mystery and foreboding.

  Hardly a word was spoken as we walked the gravel path between the graves. Most of the occupants appeared to have died in the late eighteen hundreds, but a few were inscribed in the early nineteen hundreds.

  Mark was the first to discover the final resting place of the infamous Soapy Smith. His plot and grave marker were enclosed behind a wooden fence.*

  * See photo on page 220

  * See photo on page 221

  I had read dozens of stories about this notorious outlaw and at the time, they seemed like just that --- stories, but actually seeing his grave made it all come alive for me.

  It was like I had stepped back in time a hundred years and my imagination was reliving the events that led to his untimely death when Quimby jolted me back into the present.

  “Okay, enough lolly-gagging! We’ve got work to do!”

  “Fair enough,” Mark said. “You told us that you had one more clue that would tell us where the gold might be buried. Care to share that with us now?”

  Quimby smiled and pulled the ancient scrap of paper from his shirt pocket.

  “Second verse,” he said. “For she shall not be left alone, she’ll be in the care of one unknown. Look around and tell me if you see something that might relate to this verse.”

  We drifted apart and began looking for anything that would relate to the curious clue.

  Amy spotted it first. “Here! This has to be it!”

  We gathered around and looked at what had captured her attention.

  There, among the moss covered roots of a huge tree was a grave marker with the inscription, “Unknown”. *

  * See photo on page 222

  Quimby looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “See! He left his golden girl with one unknown. I knew it!”

  “Yeah,” Ox said, pointing to another marker twenty feet away, “but which ‘unknown’?” *

  We looked, and sure enough, there was another one.

  Quimby was undeterred, “So? We dig two holes. I see several strong backs and I’ve brought plenty of shovels. They’re in the back of the van. Hop to it!”

  With equipment in hand, Ox and I tackled one grave while Mark dug into the other.

  As I turned over the first shovel full of dirt, a thought occurred to me. “Is this even legal?”

  “Darned if I know,” Ox replied. “If someone comes along and says it’s not, we can plead ignorance.”

  “I’ve seen movies of creepy guys digging up graves,” I said. “I think they’re called ‘ghouls’.”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” Ox said with a grin, “you’re definitely the ‘ghoul of my dreams’.”

  “Very funny!”

  My back was starting to ache, so I handed the shovel off to my tag team partner.

  As we dug, Quimby was busy snapping photos of the whole operation for his next historical paper.

  * See photo on page 222

  The hole was about three feet wide and two feet deep when Ox’s shovel hit something solid and metallic sounding.

  “We’ve either struck gold or the guy’s casket,” Ox said.

  That brought everyone running.

  We traded the big spade for a hand trowel and gently removed the dirt from around the obstacle that Ox had hit. It turned out to be a metal box about the size of a loaf of bread.

  When it was loose, he sat it on the edge of the grave. “Feels heavy enough,” Ox said.

  The box had a lid, but it was rusted shut.

  “Screwdriver,” Quimby said impatiently, “in the toolbox in the van.”

  Mark retrieved the screwdriver and handed it to Quimby. “Here, you do the honors. This is your moment of glory. I’ll take your picture as you open the box.”

  Quimby took the screwdriver with trembling hands. This was a moment that he had waited for his entire life.

  After considerable effort, the top popped open revealing a bag that was made from the hide of some animal. It was held shut by a piece of rawhide.

  I had seen photos of John Stewart holding his bag of gold and the thing in the box looked like the real thing.

  Quimby lifted the bag out of the metal box and started working on the rawhide knot. It crumbled with his first tug. It was, after all, over a hundred years old.

  He opened the pouch and I heard him gasp as he looked inside.

  “Well,” Mark asked, “is it there?”

  Quimby didn’t answer. He simply reached into the poke and pulled out a golden nugget the size of a marble.

  “Holy Crap!” Ox said.

  I think that pretty much summed up what we were all feeling.

  I looked at Mark and tears were streaming down his cheeks. “So it’s true! My great-great grandfather --- my very own flesh and blood --- filled that pouch with his own blood, sweat and tears. It’s like a family heirloom that’s been hidden away for generations. Thank you --- thanks to all of you that have helped make this possible.”

  Amy slid her arms around his waist and hugged him tight.

  Quimby, Mr. Practical, had some sound advice.

>   “We’d better get these holes filled and get out of here. Tourists come up here all the time and I don’t want to have to explain why we’re robbing graves.”

  No one argued.

  Back in the privacy of the van, Quimby snapped more photos, then handed the bag of gold to Mark. “I have what I came for and now you do too. It’s all yours. When my paper is published, I’ll send you a copy.”

  In the excitement and thrill of the moment, the fact that we had all nearly been killed over that bag of gold was conveniently forgotten, but as we headed back to town, there was no escaping the possibility that we were in even more danger now that the gold was actually in our hands.

  It was time to set our plan in motion and hope for the best.

  In the rail yard that bordered the old cemetery, three figures watched as the treasure hunters dug into the unmarked graves.

  It was obvious that they had found something, and when they heard the big one shout “Holy Crap!” they knew that the gold was really there.

  “The old fool actually found it,” Louis French said. “Now the question is, how are we going to make it ours?”

  “Do you think they’ll put it in the ship’s safe?” Gwen asked.

  “It’s possible, but I’m betting ‘no’,” French replied. “The ship’s company is composed almost entirely of foreigners and once that gold leaves the Stewart’s hands there could be all kinds of complications getting it back. Let’s face it. People are greedy --- just like us. If I were Mark Stewart, I would hide the gold away and not tell a soul. There’s a safe in each of the ship’s cabins, and I’m betting that Stewart will lock the gold up there.”

  “So what’s next?” Luke asked.

  “According to their itinerary, they’re all supposed to go on the White Pass Railroad up to Fraser, British Columbia, and return to Skagway by bus. That’s a twenty-seven mile trip up the mountain. If you tag along, you might find another opportunity to eliminate some of the obstacles that are keeping us from that gold, if you get my drift.”