by Sue Henry
“My fault. Shouldn’t have left over four hundred dollars lying around. Wouldn’t do it in a hotel room. Why should I do it here? Felt like no one could get at you on the water. Dumb. Real dumb. Still, it really burns me. You got any ideas yet?”
“Was it … lying around?”
“Well, not really. In one of my jacket pockets.” He pointed to a maroon waterproof jacket hanging over the back of one of the chairs. “That’s just like I left it last night when we went ashore. I hope you catch the bastard, and get him what he deserves.”
Jensen assured them that he would let them know if the money clip and cash turned up, though Jessie noticed that, to her relief, he did not mention Julie Morrison. Lovegren, short and generally round, with hair tending to wisps of graying-brown, and a florid complexion that practically announced a struggle with blood pressure, seemed just the type to confront the CSR directly. His wife, Carol, was friendly and quiet. She had nothing new to offer, nodding agreement with her husband’s statements. When Alex closed the door on their stateroom, he found himself wondering which one of the two, Charles or Carol, was somehow related to a gold rush stampeder.
Neither Judy Raymond nor John Stanley and his daughter were in their cabins.
Not knowing what the Stanleys looked like, Alex and Jessie headed down to the next deck, hoping to find someone who did. Judy Raymond, Jessie remembered, had been in the lounge, reading. As they reached the foot of the stairs and were about to enter one lounge, the door to the elevator opened, and an elderly woman in a wheelchair was pushed out into the corridor by a younger woman wearing slacks and a blue Spirit of ‘98 sweatshirt.
A pompadour of pure white hair, pulled into a knot on top of her head, was the first and most noticeable thing about the older woman. After that came the piercing, unfaded blue of a pair of remarkably confident, intelligent eyes. Though she was thin, in her prime she had apparently been tall, for despite her fragile appearance she was not at all childlike in the chair. Her shoulders and neck were hunched slightly forward in the suggestion of a dowager’s hump, reminding Jessie of a great blue heron she had once seen near an island while sea-kayaking. Dignity and watchfulness were words she could easily attribute to both.
“Please,” the older woman called out in a strong, low tone. “Wait. I want to speak with you, Sergeant.”
Seemingly dissatisfied with the speed at which her niece was moving her, she waved both hands in the air to indicate her impatience, then demanded a halt just short of the toes of Alex’s deck shoes.
“Thank you, Rozie, love,” she said. “You go ahead, now. I’ll be along in a minute. Pour me a coffee, please, dear, if it’s not weak as dishwater. None of that whitener stuff, either. If there’s no cream I’ll drink it black.”
Her niece, a tall, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties, with a build similar to that of her aunt, nodded, smiled vaguely at Alex and Jessie, and disappeared into the lounge.
“There,” the aunt remarked with the air of having disposed of a minor problem. “Now.” She waved toward the door leading to the outer deck. “We could, I think, talk there.” Without waiting to see if they followed, or asking for assistance, she wheeled herself across, locked the wheels of the chair, rose to her feet, and pushed open the door. “Coming?”
At the astonished looks on their faces, she threw back her head in a bray of gratified laughter. “One of life’s small pleasures—surprising people,” she said, as they came through to join her by the rail, the door closing behind them. “I confess I use that one on a fairly regular basis. People do tend to make such quick assumptions don’t they? I’m not quite a cripple—just becoming more of one by the day. Rheumatoid arthritis.” With more impatience than self-pity, she exhibited hands that displayed some of the characteristic deformation of the disease. “It’s in my hips and legs, too. By the time I’m seventy-five—in two years—my doctor thinks I’ll be confined to the damn chair. It’ll make traveling more difficult, so I’m doing a lot of it now, with Rozetta’s help. Why not? My husband left me well taken care of. I have more damned money than any of those Klondikers—all Texas black gold. What’ll I spend it on later, or ever, for that matter? You’ll pardon my not shaking hands, Sergeant.”
Alex had to grin in spite of himself. He had already warmed to this feisty woman, with her practical, positive outlook and sense of knowing exactly what she wanted and how to get it. He noticed that she retained enough vanity to still wear two rings of unmistakable value on those somewhat twisted fingers: a significant diamond next to her wedding band, and a large natural blue sapphire.
“You do say what you think, don’t you, Mrs. Blake?”
“Exactly, Sergeant. One of the only benefits of getting old is the right to be eccentric as hell. What can they do—take away my birthday? And it’s Dallas—for the place I was born—not Mrs. Blake. That was my motherin-law, who’s been dead a long time, thank God. Just Dallas, please.”
“Just Dallas, then. I’m Alex … Jensen, and this is Jessie Arnold, my … ah … assistant.”
“If you say so.” Dallas’s expression was amused. “Nice to meet you, Jessie. I’ve heard the Iditarod mentioned in the same breath with your name, have I not?”
The concentrated wattage of her smile elicited answering grins from both Jessie and Alex, pleased with her delight in recognizing Jessie’s achievement in the famous sled dog race.
Alex broke the spell. “The captain says you didn’t leave the ship last night in Haines. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is. I’d had enough champagne and excitement for an old broad,” she answered. “Got as comfortable as possible in my bed and read a good book between catnaps for a couple of hours. I tried to send Rozetta, but she wouldn’t go. She went for a few minutes’ walk, but came right back.
“Now … from what I understand, there was some kind of a robbery in a couple of cabins while everyone was gone, and you’re looking into it, right?”
“That’s right,” he told her. “Why? Did you notice something?”
“No, but while my niece was gone I heard someone walk quietly past my cabin.”
“What time was that?”
“Must have been about seven, maybe a little later. I thought it was Rozetta coming back, but whoever it was went on by. I didn’t see, of course. Could have been anyone. There was something familiar about the sound of the steps, but they were gone before I could figure out what. Then Rozie came back and a few minutes later the girl came to turn down the beds. Might have been her, I suppose, but she seems to have a specific order to her work. This other one was going the wrong direction and didn’t sound the same.”
“Anything unusual about CSR Julie’s behavior?”
Dallas gave him a sharp look. “Makes sense she’d be the initial suspect, but no, nothing out of the ordinary. She came in politely, did her job, and left. She’s got a problem, though.”
“Problem? What do you mean?”
“Personal kind. She reminds me of someone I used to know. When I asked her if she’d ever lived in Phoenix—that’s where I moved after Calvin died twelve years ago—she said no, but stiffened up some. Got to watch people. They’ll tell you more by the way they move than by what they say. She brings to mind a bird I had once that never lost an opportunity to get out of its cage. She knows what the inside of a cage feels like, that one. She watches everything.”
It was an interesting and insightful observation, and Alex, remembering the earlier flash of apprehension in Julie Morrison’s brown eyes, didn’t doubt her, He wondered briefly what Dallas Blake’s intuition had told her about him. She’d already figured out his relationship. He glanced to where Jessie was leaning on the rail, following the conversation with interest. They were a little alike—this up-front Texas lady—and she was a lady—and Jess, in the genuineness of their approach to life, though Jessie’s style was gentler, less obvious. Still, if she was going to be anything like Dallas at seventy-three, he thought he’d like to stick around to see it.
&nbs
p; “Tell me a little about your niece, Rozetta … Moisan, is it?”
“Yes … well … to be honest, Rozie’s a bit fragile at the moment, Alex. Had a bad patch the last two years. Lost a baby she wanted desperately. Then they found a lump, and the pig of a surgeon had got permission from her husband to do whatever was necessary while she was still under. What he thought necessary was a radical mastectomy. Her husband—a Houston development shark—couldn’t handle it. Refused to touch her, treated her like she was contagious, or something. Sued the doctor and everybody else involved, and, when he lost, divorced her—though he was in the process of doing that anyway. Left her with nothing but a house she couldn’t pay the mortgage on.
“I found her hiding in her bedroom closet. She’d lost thirty pounds, looked and acted like a concentration camp victim. So, now we’re helping each other. She’s better—beginning to see she’s better off—but it’s going to be a while yet.”
Alex and Jessie were silent for a long minute, contemplating the injustice Dallas had just described.
“You’ve got a lot on your plate, Dallas,” Alex said finally.
“Well, life’s like that sometimes. Nobody promised tea and crumpets, did they now? What can I do to help?”
Jensen’s laugh was full throated and admiring. “You’ve already helped, more than you know. Just keep your eyes and ears open, okay?”
“And my mouth shut?”
“Would I ask a creek to stop flowing? I think you’re as well acquainted with discretion as I am. Let’s go get that coffee you mentioned.”
“We’d probably better consider lunch instead,” Jessie observed. “It’s eleven, and they’re serving early so we can finish before we get to Sitka.”
“Good idea. Let me get back in that damned chair, find Rozetta, and we’ll make it a party of four.”
“I’ll get her.” Jessie headed for the lounge.
This time, Alex held the door for Dallas.
9
Afternoon
Monday, July 14, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Sitka, Alaska
NORTHERNMOST OF THE LARGE ISLANDS OF THE INSIDE PAS sage, Chicagof and Baranof form a long triangle like the blade of a knife just south of Glacier Bay, wider at the northern end and horizontally divided by Peril Strait. This slender channel separates the islands as if the knife had been fractured two-thirds of the distance from the southern tip.
Sitka, on the west side of Baranof Island, faces open ocean and Mount Edgecumbe, the perfectly symmetrical cone of an extinct volcano that rises over three thousand feet on Kruzof Island fifteen miles west across Sitka Sound—one of the most spectacular settings in Southeastern Alaska. Known as the Paris of the Pacific when San Francisco was still only a ragged frontier town, Sitka was originally called New Archangel by the Russians, who first sailed into its waters in 1799, and established a center for fur trade that brought opulence to this new capital of territorial Alaska. In 1867, having dangerously diminished the fur-bearing sea otters, the Russians sold the territory to the United States for 7.2 million dollars, though their influence still hauntingly lingers in Sitka.
The Spirit of ‘98 reached Sitka as Dallas, Rozetta, Alex, and Jessie were finishing dessert and coffee in the dining room. Through the picture windows, as the ship docked, they watched a dozen bald eagles flying touch-and-go’s from a rock in the harbor, scooping up small fish from the waters of the incoming tide and returning to the rock while another eagle took a turn.
“Formation flying,” Alex commented. “They’ve sure got that down pat.”
Dallas chuckled. “I can’t believe how many eagles I’ve seen on this trip. Our noble national bird? Scavengers, from what I’ve seen. Unless they’re fishing, they seem to haunt garbage dumps. If the founding fathers had paid attention …”
“We could have had the wild turkey instead,” Jensen grinned. “Somehow I don’t see that as an improvement. At least the eagles are magnificent-looking birds of prey.”
The loudspeaker woke suddenly to life:
“The Spirit will be in Sitka from now until six-thirty. Anyone who is going ashore should be back aboard ship no later than six o’clock. Buses are waiting in the parking lot to transport you to the downtown Visitors Center, and will be there to bring you back. Please don’t forget to turn over your cabin number on the going-ashore board as you leave the ship and when you come back. Dinner will be served at seven. Have a great time in Sitka.”
“Let’s get our jackets and take a look,” Jessie suggested, eagerly, getting up from the table. “I’ve never been here, and it’s supposed to be an interesting little town. Can you take the bus, Dallas?”
“Could do,” the older woman said. “But, with this chair, it’s easier in a taxi. They said they’d call one for me. Why don’t you two share a ride with us?”
“That sounds good,” Alex agreed, “but I have some business to attend to first. Won’t take more than a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the taxi, okay?”
Through the window, he had noticed a uniformed trooper standing by his car in the parking lot, waiting for the ship to tie up so he could come aboard. This, he knew, would be the officer with the fingerprint kit he had requested. The man would not need Jensen present to do his job, but he wanted to fill him in on the details of the thefts. The prints would be forwarded to the Anchorage crime lab to be put through the system. All the occupants had agreed to the captain’s request for the procedure and were going ashore, leaving their staterooms empty.
Half an hour later, Dallas had made it carefully to the dock, up a ramp to the parking lot, and was waiting with the two younger women when Jensen came up the ramp at a trot, carrying her collapsed wheelchair. He deposited it in the trunk of the waiting taxi, and in ten minutes they were on the sidewalk of downtown Sitka.
The town was full of tourists, from the Spirit and at least two huge cruise ships. Shops along the main street were doing a profitable business in trinkets and souvenirs. Restaurants and coffee shops were crowded, though the hour for lunch was past. Jensen had been to Sitka before—the police academy, where troopers were trained, was located here—but his visits had all been during the winter months, when visitors were few and tour boats nonexistent, a time of cold, gray, rainy weather. Now the streets were full of bright banners, signboards, and flowers cascading from attractive planters. Visitors in colorful clothing roamed the streets, appreciating ground that was not in motion, spending their time and money on items of local and historical interest. The flavor of Sitka’s Russian origins was evident in the displays of store windows, along with the complex patterns of Haida and Tlingit native arts and crafts.
Jessie immediately made use of the camera she had slung around her neck to take a few shots of the vivid, picturesque surroundings. She then turned her lens on her three companions. “Cheese?” she suggested, and they amenably obliged.
“Now,” Dallas said to Jensen, “you and Jessie run along and don’t wait around for us. You want to see as much as you can. Thanks for the help.”
Alex, however, had another idea.
“I’ve been here before. Jessie hasn’t Why don’t you and Rozie go exploring and shopping, Jess? I’ll spend some leisurely time with Dallas. Okay with you?” he asked Mrs. Blake, with a tilt of his head toward her niece—who had drifted to a shop window, where she was examining a display of silver Haida bracelets—silently suggesting that she might enjoy some time on her own. “Can you put up with me?”
With quick comprehension, Dallas colluded in urging the two younger women to go off on their own.
“I want to see the onion-dome cathedral,” she informed them. “I’m sure Alex can help me get up the stairs in front, chair and all, if necessary. You two run along and see what you can find that appeals to you. Rozie, dear, you could do me a favor, while you’re at it. Pick up some Jack Daniel’s and spring water. There are times I’d rather have my toddy in the stateroom than that crowded lounge, and tonight is going to be one of them. Get yours
elf whatever you like. Maybe Alex and Jessie would join us for a predinner drink, yes?”
They agreed to meet in two hours for coffee at a cafe near the cathedral, and, when they had gone, she turned to Jensen with a conspiratorial smile.
“Thanks, Alex. That was a great idea. Rozetta uses me as an excuse, sticks like glue, so she won’t have to socialize. Your Jessie will be just the thing for her.”
“You’re welcome, and I agree with all but the last. Jessie belongs to no one but herself. Can’t say I’d like it different, though. We do pretty well at keeping a balance.”
“Smart. You’ll both be better for it.”
With that, she gestured to the east, and he wheeled her off toward St. Michael’s Cathedral, which lifted its copper onion-shaped dome, turquoise with patina, from the very center of town, where it divided the street so that traffic split into one-way single lanes on either side of it. Painted a neat gray with white trim, the small, gracefully shaped building gave no hint of the riches they discovered within.
“Incredible. Absolutely lovely,” Dallas said, softly, gazing at an outstanding display of glittering Russian Orthodox icons. The luster of silver gilt riza overlaying and protecting the religious oil paintings on canvas was astonishing and unexpected in the small, quiet cathedral.
As they went out, Jensen noticed that, at the counter where postcards and booklets were sold, Dallas unobtrusively slipped a bill of large denomination into the hand of the priest, avoiding the obvious donation bowl.
Out on the street again, he mentioned a half-forgotten detail the act had pulled from his memory.
“You know, Dallas, in Southeast Asia they refer to quiet good deeds as putting gold leaf on the back of the Buddha.”
Looking up at him over her shoulder, she smiled, but shook her head. “That was not a good deed, Alex,” she told him. “There are just things, as you go along in life, that need doing.”
