by Sue Henry
“No,” Jess agreed. “I haven’t seen one who does. I think you’ve got it right, Lou. So it probably wasn’t a crew member. Good going. We’ll tell Alex as soon as we see him.”
“Got your note. They made it?”
“Yeah. They’ll be there. Those idiots brought a sailboat from Douglas. Had to find another one.”
“Shit. Who the hell have you got working for …”
“I’ve got you, too, stupid. And you already made a bigger mistake, killing that woman. Don’t start. I’ve got to get back in there, before someone starts to wonder what’s taking me so long.”
“They’d never suspect you.”
“Don’t count on it. I’ll talk to you later.”
In the dining room, the rest of the passengers were having dessert and coffee, settling back for the second installment of the mystery play, and speculating wildly on the identity of the victim and killer.
The players, including Alex, were all in costume and ready to begin as soon as the waiters let them know they had finished serving.
Jensen was emotionally pulled in two directions, shuffling from one foot to the other. The place he felt he really should be was up two decks, waiting with Jessie and Lou to see if a thief showed up. But, before any of these incidents happened, he had promised to be in the play, and he would have felt just as bad skipping out on it. On top of all that he was convinced that butterflies was too gentle a term for the nervous condition of his stomach.
“It’s okay, you know,” Laurie told him. “All of us put up with nerves before a performance. You’ll be fine once you get started. The run-through was great and you’ve got the script right in your hand, disguised as a playbill. If you forget, just read it. It will look as if you intended to.”
Jensen took a deep breath and nodded, as the waiter stuck his head into the passage from the galley.
“They’re ready and waiting for you,” he said.
“Okay. Go ahead, Alex. When the coordinator is through making announcements, she’ll hand you the microphone. Just remember, everyone in the room wants you to do well, they’re on your side.”
Gripping the playbill-script tightly, he walked down the narrow starboard passage and into the dining room, leather fringe swaying, hat pushed back at a cocky angle, holster lightly slapping his thigh with the weight of the impressive pistol. At the door he waited a minute as the coordinator finished her speech, inviting the diners to the evening’s entertainment in the lounge, to hear tales of the infamous “Soapy” Smith.
She paused, and the man who had elicited hisses and boos on the dock in Skagway stood up and bowed to the diners. She went on:
“As you know, there are several other descendants of the stampeders who went to Dawson City in 1897 and ‘98. Tomorrow night some of them will talk about their ancestors and show some of the things brought home from the gold fields and passed down in their families.
“Now, let us take you back to the actual time of the great Klondike gold rush. I have the pleasure of introducing someone from Dawson City, who, in 1898, built the most famous of all its saloons and theaters. The Palace Grand. He is also renowned as a member of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, so watch out because he’s a crack-shot with that pearl-handled pistol. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you Arizona Charlie Meadows.”
She handed him the microphone with a grin. “Great getup,” she whispered, leaving him alone in front of what now seemed to be several thousand people. He cleared his throat and began his sideshow barker routine.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I, Arizona Charlie Meadows, owner of the Palace Grand Salo-on, proudly present—for your entertainment and satisfaction—a very special performer of exceptional talent and breathtaking beauty.”
As he wanned up, the butterflies disappeared, and his voice grew stronger.
“Dy-rect from the West Coast of our U-nited States …”
He was really into it now, throwing in a gesture or two with the playbill.
“It is my privilege and honor to bring you that well-known and loved songbird of the South, Miss … Alice … La … Belle.”
With an exaggerated bow that practically brushed the floor with the huge western hat, he welcomed Laurie into the dining room, handing her the microphone as she passed.
She swept in with the air of an empress appearing before peasants, with her head held high, sporting one more extravagant costume. Silver fabric clung lovingly to her slim form, and fell in a straight line from her hips to the floor, ending in a flounce of white ostrich feathers. She carried a large, matching ostrich-feather fan and was an impressive sight, inspiring a round of applause from the Spirit’s delighted spectators.
Stepping back and replacing his hat, Alex stood proudly with self-satisfied approval.
“Thank you, Charlie, for that sweet introduction, darlin’.”
Alice curtsied deeply to the audience and stepped forward.
“The song I am about to sing tonight is dedicated to my dear friend Jake, who was shot last night by some skunk of a sidewinding rat.”
She spit out the insult, then paused to dramatically wipe a tear from her eye with an artfully poised finger.
“We can only hope that the Mounties are able to bring the perpetrator of this gruesome crime to swift and much deserved justice. I—we—will miss him terribly—just terribly. So—for Jake, who used to call me his songbird.”
From somewhere in the room—the result of a tape recorder hidden earlier behind a potted palm—came the sound of a rinky-dink piano, playing the introductory bars. Clasping her hands together around the handle of the fan and clutching it to her breast in a gesture pantomiming heartfelt emotion, she began to warble.
“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage …”
This musical antiquity solicited a murmur of recognition and laughter from the audience. A few people sang along softly.
“Haven’t heard that one in years,” Jensen heard one white-haired lady half-whisper to another.
“… happy and free from care. She’s not, though she seems to be …”
As “Alice” sang, Meadows drew his pistol and began quietly playing with it—twirling it, whipping it in and out of the holster. The spinning silver gun flashed in the dining room’s overhead lights, and drew almost as much attention as the singer. The audience was forced to divide its concentration between the two actors.
Shooting him a dirty look or two as she sang, Alice from the Palace reached the end of her highly dramatic musical rendition.
“… her beauty was sold for an old man’s gold. She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”
Laurie gave it everything she had, imploring and beseeching her listeners to sympathize with the much maligned bird. Her performance brought wild applause from the passengers as well as cheers and whistles from the kitchen staff, who had all come out to watch.
“Encore! Encore!” came cries from all parts of the room. Alice bowed her bejeweled and sparkling thanks, wafted her feathered fan gracefully through the air, laid down the microphone, and turned to Arizona Charlie.
“You dog,” she hissed. “How dare you interrupt my song for Jake with your feeble attempt to show off your less than average control of that ostentatious pistol? Have you no respect? It might lead some to think you aren’t sorry he is dead. Perhaps, even, that …”
“Hey,” Arizona Charlie started to object, but from the back of the room came a new voice, and one of the miners from the night before came up through the tables.
“Well, Alice. Some of its ain’t so sorry he bought the farm. Whatever you say, he warn’t such a choir boy—he was a louse. And I’m just glad to see shut of him.”
“Me, too.” The second miner followed the first one into the room. “He cheated at cards.”
An argument ensued, filled with clues to the identity of the criminal who had shot Jake—in the back, it turned out. Two others entered and took part in the debate, including Jim Beal, in his red jacket as the Canadian mounted policeman. Threats were ma
de, accusations hurled. Between them, the red-coat and Arizona Charlie finally brought the confrontation to a halt—one by promising to throw them all in the hoosegow if they didn’t desist, the other by reminding them that this was, after all, a saloon, not a street corner on the boardwalk, and Alice wasn’t getting paid for standing around, consorting with riffraff.
The audience took great delight in joining the fracas with hoots, hisses, and applause. When they heard there might be another song from Alice, the response was overwhelming. Alex, the red-coat, and the rest left the room, still growling at each other, leaving Laurie, who launched into another turn-of-the-century tune. She finished to another loud ovation and swept from the room, swishing her skirts, waving her fan, and promising to return again soon to the Palace stage.
She met the rest of the cast in the hallway, and they all headed for the lounge, where they would give the passengers a chance to ask questions.
“Alex, you were tremendous,” Laurie told him. “Anytime you want to change professions, just let us know, okay.”
He grinned at her. “I had a great time. Thanks for persuading me.”
He slipped out and hurried up the stairs to the deck above the lounge, meeting the first of the diners, but waving off their questions with a laugh.
“I’m just a standin. The cast is in the lounge, to answer your questions.”
He headed for his stateroom, changed back into his own clothes, then hurried to the stern.
There he found Jessie and Lou still in position, the girl leaning out, as she had demonstrated earlier, Jess on her knees behind her, out of sight from the long walkway along the side of the ship. Lou was very still with Jessie’s camera held up to her eye, a zoom lens attached. Jess spoke in a sharp whisper.
“Alex, he’s there. He just went in. He’s been in there with Don for maybe a minute, couldn’t be more.”
21
8:25 P.M.
Tuesday, July 15, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Frederick Sound, Inside Passage, Alaska
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” JENSEN ASKED LOU. “HE might have been able to see that camera.”
“I’m going to get a picture when he comes out,” Lou whispered fiercely. “I’m all ready for him. I think I got one when he went in.”
“Well,” Jensen decided. “I’m not waiting. Anything could be happening in there. I’m going in.” He stood up from where he had knelt down next to them and clapped a hand to his hip. “Oh, damn. My .45 is still in the captain’s safe.”
“What’s that then?” Jessie asked, pointing.
In his swift stateroom change of clothes, he had neglected to take off the pearl-handled pistol he had worn as Meadows. It was in the holster he was still wearing. Familiar with wearing one gun or the other, he had simply ignored it.
“Well … it’ll have to do. Whoever this guy is, he probably didn’t see the play and won’t know it’s not real. I haven’t got time to go after mine now.”
“Lou, you stay here. Jessie, go see if you can find some help, Captain Kay, or Ray McKimmey, in a hurry. This might take more than two of us. And ask the captain for my .45, please.”
“Right,” she said, and raced around the port side of the ship, heading for the bridge, where the captain could call down to the engine room for McKimmey.
Lou hadn’t moved from her position with the camera, and no one had come out of the Lovegrens’ stateroom. Jensen walked forward toward it, down the long deck walkway, Lou watching him grow smaller through the viewfinder of the camera.
The door was closed. He listened carefully outside it but heard nothing from inside. Crouching down, he cautiously turned the handle and pushed. Slowly, soundlessly, the door opened a crack. Through it, he could see Sawyer sitting on the bed, but Don did not notice the open door, his attention on someone Jensen couldn’t see.
Jensen pushed it a little more and, this time, it initiated a sudden reaction. The door was snatched from his hand, and he found a man he didn’t recognize staring down at him. Rising quickly to his feet, Jensen took a step backward to assess the situation from a less precarious position. He was immediately glad he had, for the man was holding a large hunting knife and looked eminently capable of using it.
He was, as Lou had described, wearing a crewman’s jacket, zipped halfway up, slacks the color required by the company, and a cap with a bill that partially hid his eyes. He had a narrow chin and a thin mouth, but he was as heavy through the shoulders as a weight lifter. He had pulled the cap so far down that, until he slightly raised his head, Alex had trouble seeing what the upper half of his face looked like—ordinary, quite ordinary, except for a tiny tattoo next to the corner of his left eye. It was impossible to ascertain hair or eye color, but he appeared to weigh about a hundred and seventy pounds.
“Who the hell are you?” he snarled at Jensen. “Never mind. Get in here.” He brought the long blade, wickedly sharp, forward threateningly, and assumed a stance that reminded Jensen of gang members used to street fighting—feet apart, weight centered over them, arms wide and forward, ready for instant motion. The knife was blade up, positioned for slashing, not stabbing. This was not a man who thought knives were kitchen utensils—had probably never chopped a vegetable in his life—and any meat he cut had likely been alive and kicking.
“I don’t think so,” Alex told him, drawing the pistol loaded with caps from its holster and trying to draw attention to his face, away from the fake firearm. “Now, we’ll get along just fine, if you drop that right out here on the deck, please. I’m Sergeant Jensen, Alaska State Troopers, and you, whoever you are, are under arrest.”
“You gotta be kidding, right?” the other questioned. “I’m supposed to believe that a trooper would just appear on this boat in the middle of … wherever the hell we are.”
Who on the ship, at this point, could possibly not know there was a trooper aboard?
“No,” Alex told him, “I’m not kidding. Nevermind how I got here, just put down the knife. I can reach farther with a bullet than you can with that blade, and I won’t have to move at all.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. “Drop it.”
The stranger considered his demand, then his eyes narrowed slightly and he blinked. With that, Jensen realized this was not going to go smoothly. The man was about to move, and dropping the knife was apparently not on his agenda. As he prepared himself, Alex caught a hint of movement behind the knife-holder. Then, before the man could take a chance that a state trooper wouldn’t shoot him—or wouldn’t shoot him anywhere extremely important—and before he could lunge and make a break for it, Sawyer simply reached around him, made a fist with one hand, and grabbed his own wrist in the other, effectively pinning the knife-wielder’s elbows to his body.
Quickly, before the intruder could attempt to escape or stab at Don’s arms, Alex stepped forward and brought the handle of the pistol down on his hand, numbing it, and causing him to drop the knife.
Running feet pounding the deck made Jensen glance quickly to his left, as the man began to twist and struggle in Sawyer’s grip, but it was McKimmey who showed up at his shoulder.
“Jesus, Glen,” he declared in a shocked and disbelieving voice. “What the hell are you doing?”
As the three of them worked to subdue their captive, Alex questioned Ray. “You know this man?”
“You bet. He’s my … ugh, damn it … assistant engineer.”
“The one who replaced … the guy who usually travels … with you?”
“Yeah. Hell … Glen … stop it. You can’t get away. Steve Broughton’s my usual man. He got banged up pretty good in a car wreck a couple of days before we left Seattle. Glen … ah, Carlson’s a new guy, his first run, took over temporarily, just for this trip. What’s going on?”
They sat Carlson down in the room’s only chair, Sawyer standing behind him, hands on his shoulders in a clear warning that any attempt to leave it would be met with stiff resistance. Jensen used his handkerchief to pick up the k
nife that still lay on the floor, and met Captain Kay coming in. Directly behind him, Jessie and Lou appeared in the doorway. There was a sudden flash from the camera.
“Better take Lou back to her stateroom,” Alex suggested to Jessie.
“Aw …” said Lou, clearly wanting to stay.
“Sorry, Lou. Official policy. I’ll explain later, okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
He had to smile at her disappointment, as Jessie handed him his real gun and led Lou away. He closed the door. Though the girl had earned the right to know the outcome of their trap, he was sure her father would have other ideas.
Carlson stared in astonishment at the counterfeit pistol as Jensen put it back in its holster and casually trained the Colt .45 in his general direction.
Don Sawyer’s eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, pointing at the holstered pistol-Alex confessed. “Yeah. A gun is a gun, right? Acting isn’t an art limited to a stage.”
Ray grinned, but it was a little weak. “Remind me to check before I depend on you for protection.”
Sawyer, however, had been incubating a deep and personal anger, and, before anyone could interfere, he grabbed Carlson by the shirt collar and shouted at him, “You son-of-a-bitch. You killed my cousin.”
The assistant engineer held his tongue, but he might not have been able to speak even if he’d wanted to.
Jensen and Captain Kay moved together to separate the two.
“Don. Don. Stop it. We’ve got to talk to him in a legal and organized way. If he did it, you don’t want him to have a reason to slide out of it, do you?”
Sawyer, his fury turned to frustration, shook his head and backed off, as advised.
Alex read Carlson his rights, including the part about not having to talk if he didn’t wish to.
He obviously didn’t. For, aside from a blink and half a nod, when asked if he understood his rights, they got nothing from him—they might as well have been in a different room.
“I think,” Jensen told Captain Kay, “that we should take Mr. Carlson up to your office. The Lovegrens will be wanting their stateroom back.”
