by Sue Henry
Jensen was carefully watching the progress of each box onto the ship, a slight frown of concentration on his face. For a moment or two he made no response to her question, then he turned with a distracted expression. “What?”
She grinned at his distraction and asked again, “Where is it being kept on the boat?”
“Ship,” he corrected, absently. “I don’t know. Must be somewhere on that lowest deck.”
“Hey, Jensen,” someone yelled from below.
Alex looked, grinned, and waved a hello.
Moving close to the rail, Jessie saw a pleasant-looking man in dark glasses, who had been helping load the ton of gold.
“Have a great trip,” he called.
“You bet,” Alex answered. “Thanks again for the tour.”
“Who was that?” she asked as the man walked away behind the baggage cart that was now being pulled up the vehicle ramp.
“John Mielke, chief mechanical officer for the narrow gauge. Took me on a tour of the railroad maintenance shops this morning, while you were exploring the hotel.”
“I thought you were gone a long time.”
“Well, don’t often get invited to ride in the cab of a steam engine.”
“You got to ride Number 73? I’m green with envy.”
Alex waved as Mielke saluted from the top of the ramp and climbed onto the back of the tractor, hitching a ride back to the station.
It was almost three-thirty. Below them, the last box was carried on board, the last of the passengers had boarded, and the crew was in the process of stowing the gangway. In a very short time they cast off the lines, and, amid cheers and shouts from the crowd on both sides of the widening separation of water, the ship glided away from the dock into Lynn Canal. Almost everyone on the vessel lined the rail to watch as they left with waves and shouts of bon voyage, tossing colorful paper streamers. The Spirit of ‘98 was on its way.
Alex looked down at Jessie, not surprised to see a satisfied expression on her face, and he found it matched his own. It promised to be a remarkable week.
“Can I get out of this monkey suit now?” he asked.
“Well …”
Over their heads the ship’s public address system crackled to life.
“Ladies and gentlemen. We will arrive in Haines at five o’clock, where you are encouraged to leave the ship for a celebration given by the Haines Visitors Bureau at the Halsingland Hotel Please be back aboard no later than nine-fifteen, as we will depart promptly at nine-thirty, on our way to Sitka. For the next hour and a half the Spirit of ‘98 invites you to join our captain and special guests in the Grand Salon on the lounge deck for a champagne celebration of this Gold Rush Centennial Reenactment Cruise.”
“That’s it—special guests, the governor and all,” Jessie smiled. “Command performance. You’ll have to wear the uniform till the ship leaves Haines, I think, Alex.”
4
11:00 P.M.
Sunday, July 13, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Lynn Canal, Alaska
THE HAINES RECEPTION HAD BEEN AN ENTHUSIASTIC SEND off party. From the Port Chilkoot dock, passengers from the Spirit had had only a short walk up the hill to historic Fort William H. Seward, where a generous and varied buffet supper had been laid out. Half the population of Haines had waited to greet them at the Halsingland Hotel, at one time quarters for officers of the fort.
The governor of Alaska and his wife, along with the mayors of Skagway and Haines and their spouses, had greeted guests in a receiving line at the door of the hotel. The place, mazelike, with smallish rooms on various levels, had filled quickly, celebrators soon overflowing onto the porch and grounds. The noise level had quickly increased, punctuated with whoops of laughter and boisterous voices.
As Alex and Jessie had moved slowly toward the buffet table, he’d noticed one heavy, florid-faced man attempting to sing what must have been the only Alaskan song he knew—or, rather, didn’t know, for he’d tunelessly intoned over and over, “Squaws along the Yukon are good enough for me.” Each repetition had been echoed by the exasperated voice of his female companion, “Shut up, George. Just shut up.”
Plates in hand, Alex and Jessie had hurriedly escaped outdoors to find a quieter and cooler place. They’d joined a friendly mixture of Haines residents and passengers from the ship on the grass of the parade ground. Many had changed from their costumes to more casual clothes, but several had still looked as if they had stepped from the previous century. After this party, the costumes would be put away until they reached Seattle, where they would add, once more, to the festive gold rush flavor of the celebration.
Jessie had insisted it wouldn’t be fair to change hers while Alex was still expected to wear his dress uniform. He’d thought she looked especially attractive, with her long skirt spread on the grass and the pink rose on her hat matching the color in her cheeks, and he’d told her so. She’d looked up from under the brim and smiled.
“Thanks, but don’t get the idea I’m going to adopt this rig when we get home. It’s hot. I don’t know how they did it.”
The sun had been bright and warm all day, unimpeded by clouds, and, even as it had settled toward what would prove to be a spectacular sunset, the temperature had remained warmer than usual for Southeast Alaska. The ice tea they’d drunk with their meal had been welcome.
“Would it be all right … I mean … could I … join you?” a hesitant female voice had asked. Looking up, Jessie had found a round-faced woman of perhaps sixty looking down at her. She was round all over, fifty-extra-pounds-plump, and pale enough that her makeup had vaguely suggested a painted doll. Still in costume, a dress of period design, made of cotton fabric with small blue forget-me-nots scattered across a peach background, she’d stood waiting, clearly uncertain of her welcome.
“Sure,” Jessie had invited with a smile. “Pull up a section of grass and make yourself at home.”
“Oh, thank-you. I really do appreciate it. I’m Edith … Edith Johnson. Are you from the boat, too?”
Jessie and Alex nodded and introduced themselves.
“O-o-h,” she’d breathed, her eyes widening. “I know who you are.”
Alex had suppressed a smile, thinking, as usual, that she had recognized Jessie, but he’d been surprised to learn that he had been the object of her identification.
“You’re that policeman from Alaska that rescued that poor man on the Top of the World Highway last fall. I’m from Dawson City. It was all in the newspaper.”
She had been referring to a case Jensen had shared with an RCMP inspector, involving a suspect who had tried to escape, wearing unsuitable clothing, over a high mountain pass. The resultant frostbite had been a horrible punishment, far worse than the law would ever have demanded.
Edith had begun to recount the whole story to a couple sitting next to them. Unseen by Jensen’s obvious fan club of one, Jessie had winked at him.
“Gotcha,” she’d commented, mouthing the word.
“Are you on this trip by yourself?” Alex had asked Edith, when she’d finished her story—and flattery.
“No. Wayne, my husband’s, with me … though he didn’t really want to come on this trip. Doesn’t like boats.”
“Where is he?”
“Ah … he didn’t get off. He’s … ah … not feeling well.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Jessie had told her. “Can we take him something to eat? He’ll be hungry. They’re not serving dinner on the ship tonight.”
“Oh, no … no. No … really. That’s not necessary … shouldn’t disturb him. He’ll be fine in the morning. Really.”
The almost panicked response from Edith had startled them both enough to drop the subject. She’d seemed frightened, embarrassed, and almost in tears.
Jessie had exchanged a look with Alex that Edith, suddenly focused on pushing food around on her plate, did not see. Let’s talk about this later, it had meant, and he’d nodded.
Trying to think of something to say that
would defuse the sudden tension, Jensen had called their attention to a crowd gathered on the porch of the Halsingland. Over the heads of the group, he’d caught a glimpse of a broad-brimmed hat he’d recognized as belonging to the man who had earlier boarded the ship dressed as Soapy Smith.
“Hey, let’s go see what’s going on,” he’d suggested, standing and reaching to help Jessie up.
Assisted to her feet, she’d brushed crumbs and bits of grass from her long skirt before turning to Edith, but the older woman had stayed where she was, with her plate on her lap.
“You go ahead,” she’d told them, waving her fork. “I think I’ll finish this.”
Alex had taken Jessie’s hand, and they’d moved across to the hotel steps, tossing their paper plates and cups into a convenient trash can on the way. From the back of the crowd they could see little, but it had soon thinned, allowing them to move closer.
The briefcase the Soapy Smith imitator carried had revealed itself as a small folding table that opened up and was supported by a metal rod with a triangular base, much like a music stand. He had been entertaining the people around him with the well-known find-the-pea shell game, rapidly switching the positions of the cups and challenging a man who had laid a dollar on the edge of the table to select the cup under which the pea was hidden. Faster and faster his hands had flown, the three cups a confusing blur that had stopped suddenly, inviting speculation. When the victim’s guess had been wrong, the observers had laughed, and the dollar had vanished into a pocket of the con man’s vest.
“Try your luck,” he’d enticed the others. “Just three little cups. Watch the pea carefully. Your eye must be faster than my hand. Who’s next? It’s really very simple. Double your money with one guess. Try your luck. Who’s next, folks?”
One of the costumed passengers from the boat had stepped forward and laid down another dollar. The pea had been placed under one of the cups, and the game had begun again.
“He’s really good,” a familiar voice had commented from behind Alex and Jessie. They’d turned to find Don Sawyer peering over their shoulders to watch the shill.
“Hi,” Jensen had greeted him. “Who is he? He looks pretty authentic.”
“Oh, Jeff’s all right. He’s Soapy Smith’s real great-grandson, Jefferson Randolph Smith IV. Lives in California and inherited all Soapy’s games through his father and grandfather. That folding stand thing he’s using? Same one Soapy used himself in Skagway during the gold rush. Jeff’s brought his ancestor’s three-card monte game, too. Neat, huh?”
Alex had agreed, and Sawyer had continued.
“He’s scheduled to give a talk about Soapy Smith and a demonstration of the games for the passengers on the ship. Should be interesting, since he doesn’t believe Soapy deserves his infamous reputation.”
The game had continued behind them as the three had strolled off across the parade ground.
“Here comes someone I want you to meet,” Don had said, waving a hand at an approaching couple.
The woman, as tall as the man with whom she walked, had been easily identifiable, in her striking velvet costume and feathered hat, as the one Alex and Jessie had watched boarding the Spirit earlier in the afternoon. The deep burgundy red color of her dress, Jessie had noticed, complemented her dark complexion and hair.
“Alex Jensen and Jessie Arnold, meet Jim Beal and Laurie Trevino, two of our actors for the Thursday night mystery.”
Beal, a slender six feet, had been wearing the thin mustache of a riverboat gambler, and the costume as well. His string tie had been fastened with what appeared to be a large gold nugget, though it had been a little exaggerated to be real. It had matched several smaller ones that had hung from a watch chain across the front of his green brocade vest. His black coat had been stylishly cut for the 1890s, and the outfit had been completed with a top hat and brass-headed cane meant, obviously, for show, not support, for it had been as slim as the rapier blade Jensen suspected it concealed, having once seen a similar device in a museum.
Beal had grinned as his awareness followed the trooper’s inspection of his walking stick.
“Familiar with these?” he had asked, offering it for Jensen’s inspection.
As Alex had flicked a small switch on the handle, the cane had slid easily apart into two pieces, one of them the foil he had expected. Upon closer examination, Jensen had realized it was a stage prop, collapsible, with no sharp edges.
“Clever,” Jensen had grinned, handing it back to the actor.
“You might also be interested in this,” Laurie Trevino had smiled, opening the drawstring bag she carried and handing him a very small lady’s pistol.
Again, it had been a fake weapon, but one that would shoot caps to provide the report required in stagecraft.
“Are we going to see the Shooting of Dan McGrew?” Jensen had joked, handing the gun to Jessie, who had hefted its slight weight in the palm of her hand before giving it back to Laurie.
“Well, something similar,” the actress had confirmed. “Starting tomorrow, we’ll do three short scenes—one each day—leading up to a big finale scene at the Mystery Evening on Thursday. All the passengers may then submit their solutions to the whodunit.”
“Are there other actors in this play?”
“Oh, sure,” she’d answered, “and some of the Centennial Committee members—and Jeff Smith—are going to help out.”
“Smith, I would imagine, will be playing his greatgrandfather?” Alex asked.
“Right. He’s pretty good. You see him do his shell game?”
“Yeah. Amusing.”
“We could still add a character or two. With that mustache you’d be perfect for Arizona Charlie Meadows. Interested?”
“No thanks,” Alex had told her. “I’d be better as part of the scenery. Not dramatically inclined, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, Alex, you’d be great,” Jessie had encouraged. “Why not give it a try?”
“It’s really just a suggested script, with a certain latitude for ad-libbing,” Laurie had told him. “Just having fun for an audience.”
“Maybe for you,” he’d grinned, shaking his head. “I’d probably freeze solid with stage fright.”
“We could write your part out for you. It’s an introduction for my part, really nothing more. Would you do it? It would add a lot.”
“Well …”
“Oh good. Your part won’t be till the second scene, on Tuesday. That means you can watch on Monday and get the idea. We’ll get together and go through it. Thanks so much. Now, we’ve got to go. Nice to meet you both.”
As the pair of thespians had walked away across the grass toward the hotel, Jessie and Sawyer had grinned, and Alex had wondered exactly what he had agreed to do.
Celebrations over, the Spirit was now quiet, with no one on deck. It was time for bed. Carefully knocking the dottle from his pipe into his hand, Jensen cast the dead residue of ash and its crumbs of singed tobacco into the wind, away from the ship. He put the pipe into his pocket, took a last look at the stars brightening overhead, and opened the door to the cabin. Jessie looked up from her book and smiled.
“Hey, trooper. Did you know that when the Portland docked in Seattle and started the gold rush, the mayor of Seattle was in San Francisco at a meeting, and didn’t even bother to go home? He just wired his resignation and took off for the Klondike. Can you imagine?”
As he drifted toward sleep, vaguely aware of Jessie’s soft breathing from her bed across the narrow stateroom, Jensen continued to recall the day’s activities and the fascinating assortment of passengers he found himself with for this week-long trip down the Inside Passage to Seattle. Drowsily he recalled Laurie’s enthusiasm about the play. Could he really be an actor?
Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to it. He turned over and yawned. Well, what the heck?
He drifted off to sleep, imagining himself as Arizona Charlie Meadows, striding across a stage in a fringed leather shirt and large, white Stetson, with a pair o
f pearl-handled six-shooters—famous western scout and sharpshooter for the Buffalo Bill Wild West show. Shoot the spots off a playing card from thirty feet, he mumbled and began to snore.
5
6:00 A.M.
Friday, July 11, 1997
Hazlit’s Gull
Tracy Arm, Holkham Bay, Alaska
“DAMN IT. WHAT THE HELL ARE WE GONNA DO NOW? She’s sure as hell dead.”
Once again the older man swore, as he had continued to do for the last four hours, with the same result—silence or accusation from his partner. This time it was the latter.
“Oh, will you shut the fuck up, Nelson? I know she’s dead. Wouldn’t be if you hadn’t screwed it up. She must have thrown up and, with that tape over her mouth, choked. I think she had the flu or something. There’s that medicine next to the bed. Just shut your trap. I’m thinking.”
“But how was I supposed to know she was sick? I had to keep her quiet or she would’ve woke somebody up when we left. What’re we gonna do? Nobody’s gonna care if we meant to kill her or not. They’ll just say …”
The younger man gave him such a menacing glare that he broke off what he was saying and looked down at the deck. Fumbling in his slicker pocket, he retrieved a crumpled package of cigarettes and lit one. It leaked a tiny ribbon of smoke from an infinitesimal tear in the paper, so he concentrated on carefully pinching the rip between finger and thumb and avoided looking at Rod while he smoked. “Damn it, anyway.”
The rain had stopped, but clouds still hung low, obscuring some of the tallest peaks, and thin wisps of fog had begun to develop here and there over the channel as the wind slowly died to nothing. Rod had started the engine and they were again on their way, more slowly than they had been under sail, with the strength of the storm behind them, but still moving steadily to the south.
Ten minutes later Rod finally spoke.
“Look. We’ve got to get rid of her somewhere nobody will find her—somewhere really deep. So here’s what we’ll do. You go down and wrap her up in the sheet, or something, before she stiffens up too much …”
