by Sue Henry
“You can’t know that for sure. There are other possibilities. It could be coincidence, you know. We had thefts in three staterooms night before last. What if the reason she was killed was related to them?”
“How could it be? Julie’s no thief.”
“She was responsible for those staterooms,” Captain Kay told him, from where he sat behind his desk. “She might have seen something as she turned down the beds that caused this whole thing. It seems to get more complicated all the time.”
“Sit down, Don,” Jensen told him. “Let’s talk this thing through. I hate to say this, but we might as well get it out of the way, so we can go from there. I like you, and I’m inclined to believe you, but the way to do this is to make absolutely sure of every fact. We can’t know for sure that what you’ve told us is true unless we verify it. Have you any way of proving you are who you say you are—or were? Can you prove who Julie Morrison—Donna Holden—is, or was?”
Anger once again altered the color of Sawyer’s face. “Who the hell else could I be?” he asked, resentfully, and learned immediately that Jensen could play hardball if pressed.
“Well,” the tall, rugged trooper told him, in a voice startling in the quietness of its intensity, “for all I know you could be Holden, having disposed of Sawyer and Morrison, telling me you are Sawyer in order to avoid exposure. That do?”
Though the scenario he sketched didn’t quite fit the situation, it was enough to stop Sawyer. Wide-eyed, he nodded, hostility vanishing. “There’s a secret pocket in Julie’s suitcase for our real ID. It’s down in her cabin, under her bunk. You’ll find Josh’s birth certificate there, too. Marie has a copy of everything in Vancouver, too, just in case anything went wrong and she needed it.”
“You have anyone outside the family who will vouch for you?”
“There’s a lawyer in Phoenix who knows all about it, but it’s confidential. He won’t tell anybody anything without a phone call, or a letter, from me or Julie.”
“Okay. Give me the name. You’ll have to call him, so it can go on record.” Jensen thought about that for a minute, before turning to Kay. “You satisfied with that, Captain?”
“Yes, I think so. It would be a good idea to bring Morrison’s personal things up here anyway, don’t you think? I’d better call a crew meeting as soon as breakfast is over. They’ll have to know something. Any suggestions?”
“Since we don’t know who’s responsible for this, it’d probably be better to say she’s missing and presumed overboard during the night. I’ve got a hunch it would be smarter not to let the perpetrator know we suspect foul play just yet. Let them think they got away with it for as long as possible. Maybe they’ll make a slip as we proceed with an investigation.”
“How about the passengers? They’ll have to know why we’ve been searching staterooms.”
“Right. Same thing, I think. Tell them it’s part of routine procedure—company policy—in such circumstances.”
“I’ll talk to them at breakfast. You want to be there?”
“You can handle it. I’ve got a bunch of other things to do.” Jensen turned to Sawyer, who had more or less tuned out the conversation and was sitting in the chair, staring at his hands again.
“Don? I’m really sorry about your cousin, but you could really be a help, if you would. Probably wouldn’t hurt you to have something to do anyway. Will you?”
“Yes, I guess. If I could help do something to catch … whoever … you know … I’d feel better about it. What do you want me to do?”
“Right now, I want to find Jessie. I need her help too. She’s been with Carla, the assistant chef who found Julie missing, and may have something new. We’ll have to caution Carla to keep what she knows to herself. I’d like you to find Judy Raymond and ask her to meet me in her cabin.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember her from the Onion—when you guys were there. She was in the Parlour last night, too. Early, for one beer. With that guy she met at the Onion.”
“She’s the only one of those who were robbed that I haven’t been able to talk to yet, and I want to tie that up.” Without turning, Jensen spoke to the captain. “I don’t think I really need to interview Wayne Johnson. Three people have said he was too drunk to walk and watched him get that way. After Raymond we’ll get Morrison’s personal effects. Okay?”
“Sure.” Sawyer got up from the chair, but he hesitated as Jensen now turned to face the captain.
“Is that all right with you?”
Kay nodded. “Don’t worry so much about asking me about everything. Just keep me informed, and I’ll back you up. You have my authorization, if anyone asks.”
“Thanks. I might need it. One other thing. I need someone on the ship to answer questions. You seem to have a pretty good opinion of McKimmey, that engineer of yours. I was impressed with his good sense. And, because he already knows about some of this, he might also be some help. You’ve had him on board quite a while, seems to know everybody, and you trust him, right?”
“Yes, he’s been aboard as long as I have. He’s solid and smart. But you have to remember I have a ship to run here. Ray McKimmey is as important to that engine room as anyone on the bridge. Maybe more.”
“Does he have to be there all the time? Isn’t there an assistant that you spoke of?”
“Yes, but he’s new this run. The usual assistant was in a car accident just before sailing, and he replaced him at the last minute. Doesn’t know the ship like McKimmey. He’d be okay for short periods of time, but I couldn’t rely on him for more than that. Besides, Ray wouldn’t hear of it. That engine room is his baby, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Knows every nut and bolt, piston and pump in it. Can tell just from the sound exactly what’s going on. He talks back to it.”
“Okay, so, with your permission, we’ll work around that. Don, let’s go find Jessie and McKimmey, and see if we can start to figure this out before anything else happens.”
14
9:15 A.M.
Tuesday, July 15, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Tracy Arm, Inside Passage, Alaska
JULIE MORRISON’S PERSONAL POSSESSIONS HAD BEEN brought to the captain’s cabin, where the papers in the secret pocket of her suitcase verified Don Sawyer’s account of their identity and that of her son, Josh. By the time it was done, and Sawyer and Jensen had made calls to the attorney in Arizona—who agreed to check out the situation with Gary Holden through the Phoenix police and get back to them—and Julie Morrison’s mother, Marie, in Vancouver, they were both wrung out. Sawyer’s grief had partially settled into an intense, cold desire to find whoever had killed his cousin.
Alex had a private conversation with Ray McKimmey, asking for his assistance with both the situation and keeping an eye on Sawyer, who was deeply angry, but was probably not an impetuous hothead. Even outraged, his usual instinct and method of handling problems was one of even-tempered reason, not violence. Should he be faced with whoever caused Julie’s probable death, however, Jensen suspected that Don might be inclined to abandon his customary moderation in favor of physical retribution; for that he could not honestly be blamed. If it had been Jessie in Julie’s place, Jensen was sure his own spirit of reprisal would put him on automatic pilot, and he would, if possible, and without a second thought, beat the bastard responsible to a bloody pulp. The idea shook him a little.
When they were finally alone in their stateroom—where he had meant to fill her in on everything that had transpired in the time since they separated on the lower deck—Jensen found that he wanted more than anything just to stand, holding her close, feeling a huge and somewhat guilt-ridden gratitude that it had been somebody else’s loss and not his own. In fact, for the rest of the trip, he would find himself seeking reassurance, reaching out to touch her, appreciating the familiar look and warmth of her presence in a way that reminded him of the early days of their relationship, when every encounter was somehow new and amazingly physical. Now it was precious and seemed fr
agile, a valuable thing that could, in an instant—as suddenly as Morrison had vanished—be gone. He was, he realized, overcompensating, aware of the transience and frightening mortality of the woman he loved and valued, for whom there were no guarantees or perfect protections. There were, he was learning, again, incredible, unexpected prices to be paid for caring, and a sense of awesome helplessness was one of them.
When he knocked, Judy Raymond opened the door and allowed Alex and Jessie into her stateroom with nothing more than a half-nod of her head. Immediately, she crossed the room to take the only chair, effectively leaving them to stand by the door, rudely discouraging any further intrusion.
Jessie gave Alex a look that spoke volumes in its blankness, braced herself against the wall, and took out her notebook.
Alex was less inclined to passively accept Raymond’s behavior.
“Ms. Raymond, is there some reason you would rather not talk to me? I was under the impression you were interested in getting back what was stolen from this cabin.
Judy Raymond didn’t move from where she had leaned back in the chair. She slightly lifted her chin and didn’t answer for a second or two, as she stared at him haughtily.
“And I was under the impression that you were supposed to be interested in getting it back for me,” she said finally. “It has been two nights, and you’re just now finding the time to look me up? Except for that fingerprint person in Sitka, nothing’s been done.”
“I have looked for you several times, Ms. Raymond, between other duties and interviews. You weren’t the only person I had to talk to, and you have been very difficult to find.”
“Interesting. It must be a much larger boat than I realized. I’ve seen you a number of times.” She turned her head just enough to glance at Jessie. “And this is your girlfriend, right? Is she a usual and necessary part of your work, officer? I find that decidedly unprofessional.”
Jessie straightened and took one step away from the wall, feeling her face flame in resentment, but she bit back a retort and left the response to Jensen, who didn’t let it pass.
“Whether Ms. Arnold is, or is not, a personal friend has no bearing here. She is assisting me, on a completely professional basis, in an investigation requested by the captain of this ship and with his full approval.
“Now … may we get down to business, or should I inform Captain Kay that you refused to help us out?”
They glared at each other, then Raymond, elaborately, shrugged and moved one hand in a dramatic, dismissive gesture.
“Whatever. Like, what is it that you want to know?”
“May we sit down, please?”
Another shrug.
He deliberately half-sat, half-leaned against the vanity, nodding Jessie to a seat on the bed.
“Will you describe the gold nugget necklace you found missing from this cabin when you returned from the reception in Haines on Sunday night?”
“Well, to begin with, it isn’t a necklace.”
“A chain, men, I think you told the captain.”
“Yes … no. It’s a belt.”
“A gold nugget belt?”
Raymond looked at him as if he were an idiot, a condescending half-smile, lacking humor, on her lips. “You don’t know much about the gold rush, do you, officer?”
“Sergeant,” Alex said, in a softer than normal voice. “Sergeant Jensen, Alaska State Troopers, ma’am.”
She said nothing, sitting very still, watching him.
“I do know a fair amount about the gold rush. It’s a hobby of mine. Would you mind telling me how your gold nugget belt fits in?”
“It’s a gold rush artifact,” she said. “Any number of the dance-hall girls had them as gifts from the miners. My grandmother was Violet Raymond Stander, the Queen of Burlesque in the Klondike in 1897, first in Juneau, then in Dawson City. It was mine when she died.”
“I didn’t know Violet and Antone Stander had any children,” Jensen commented.
“They didn’t. That’s why my name’s Raymond. She gave her own to my mother, adopted her after they split up and he died.”
“Describe this artifact, please.”
“It’s like a chain, or rope—real solid gold, thirty-four inches long and about half the diameter of a pencil, with large—half to three-quarters of an inch—gold nuggets attached along it—nine of them. It has a gold brooch clasp two inches wide with smaller chains hanging from it with gold charms on each: a gold pan with a pick and shovel, a little gold pencil in a gold case, a perfume bottle with a top that unscrews, a windlass with a handle that turns, a lady’s watch with Violet engraved on it, a miniature riverboat, a gold champagne bottle.”
“Cad Wilson had something similar, if I remember right,” Jensen said, glancing at Jessie to be sure she had all this recorded. She nodded.
“Yes, she did … lot of them did. Cad’s was the biggest, most spectacular, the one you read about. This is about two-thirds as big. It weighs almost 17 ounces.”
“My God. What is it worth?”
“Artistically … historically, I have no idea, really. By the weight of the gold alone, last time I checked—a year ago—around six thousand five hundred dollars. But, as a unique piece of jewelry with historical value, it’s insured for fifty thousand.”
He stared at her and whistled. “Your insurance company is not going to be pleased that it’s gone missing from an unloc …”
Judy straightened in her chair and frowned. “I beg your pardon, officer. It hasn’t ‘gone missing’—like I lost it or something. It was stolen … remember?”
“And you brought it along on a cruise where the doors are never locked, and left it in your stateroom?” Jensen shook his head, “I’d have to call that irresponsible. There’s a safe for passengers’ valuables, you know?”
“Well—” she almost spit at him, defensively. “I only took it out to wear to the party in Haines, but forgot to put it on at the last minute. I was late and in a hurry.” Once again the dramatic gesture with the hand. “I want you to get it back. It was my grandmother’s. It has sentimental value to me that far outweighs the monetary considerations. What are you doing about it?”
“Everything I can, Ms. Raymond, considering that I also have a crew member missing at the moment. We’re working on it.”
Raymond did not respond to his comment about the missing crew member, and she cast a disdainful glance in Jessie’s direction. “Yes. “I’m sure you are, Sergeant.”
This time Jensen chose to ignore her, not rising to the bait. “You were at the reception in Haines until what time, Ms. Raymond?”
“About eight-thirty. I walked back with a friend.”
“Who? Please.”
“Prentice. Bill Prentice.”
“And when did you find the belt was gone?”
“I stopped in the lounge for maybe half an hour, came up here, took a shower, and got ready for bed. I read for almost an hour after we left Haines. As I was about to turn off the light, I noticed that I hadn’t put my earrings back in my jewelry case. Then I remembered that I hadn’t worn the belt. It was supposed to be in my suitcase under the bed. I found the case for the belt open and empty.”
“What did you do?”
“I got dressed again and went up to tell the captain.”
“Was anything else disturbed or missing?”
“No. Nothing.”
As Alex and Jessie left Raymond’s stateroom and stepped out on deck, the public address system crackled to life.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have now entered Holkham Bay, named by Captain George Vancouver in 1794. It has two branches, Tracy Arm to the north, and Endicott Arm to the south.
“We are heading first into Tracy Arm, which was named by Lieutenant Commander Mansfield of the U.S. Navy, for Benjamin Franklin Tracy, Secretary of the Navy from 1889 to 1893. Mansfield, commander of the survey vessel, Patterson, in Alaska from 1889 to 1913, also named Sawyer Glacier, which you will see at the head of this arm, and which calves the hundr
eds of icebergs you will see floating in the waters of the arm. This passage was carved centuries ago during an ice age by a massive glacier which completely filled the channel. You can see the signs of its passing in the scoring of the bare rock walls. Avalanche chutes further scar the walls each spring and, as you can already see ahead of us, these are occupied by spectacular waterfalls. We will shortly stop near one of these so you can view it close up and feel how cold the water is coming directly off an unseen glacier at the top.
“After visiting Sawyer Glacier, we will go back and turn up Endicott Arm, named for William Endicott, a member of the Massachusetts legislature and the U.S. Senate, to see Dawes Glacier. He was secretary of war from 1885 to 1891. Part way up Endicott Arm we will come to Ford’s Terror, a branch of Endicott Arm which has very strong tidal currents.”
Jessie had been looking forward to this particular part of the trip as she had never been to the foot of a glacier that calved directly into the sea.
“Oh look, Alex,” she caught his arm and tugged him to the rail.
He laid an arm around her shoulders.
Three icebergs floated past the ship a few yards away. One of them was as large as a small house, and all were delicately shaded in the azure blue of massively compressed, centuries-old ice.
“How long till we get to the glaciers?”
“Oh, a while yet. We’re only four or five miles in. We’ll turn east soon.” High cliffs of stone walled each side of the arm of water, scarred by the force of the long-gone ice.
“Feel the wind. It’s already colder, coming off the ice. Come on, let’s go get jackets and find a place to watch.”
Back in the stateroom Alex quickly reviewed the notes Jessie had taken.
“Good job, lady. What’re you doing messing around with dogs when you could be a secretary?”
“Hey! Careful. I’ll quit, and you’ll have to be your own stenographer.”
“The notes would be unreadable.”
She laughed. “That’s true. You’re making a cryptographer out of me with those notes you leave on the refrigerator at home. You should have been a doctor. All prescriptions are supposed to look like that, aren’t they?”
