by Sue Henry
He agreed.
“First, however, we need to search him. Did you see the money clip, Don? Or can we just assume he came in to leave it or take something else?”
“I didn’t see it.”
Another struggle ensued, but against four other men Carlson had no chance. When Sawyer threatened to grab him again, he quickly gave up and let Jensen empty his pockets, one of which yielded up the silver money clip, empty of its cash, of course.
“So,” Alex confronted him. “How and when did you pick this up, Mr. Carlson?”
There was no answer. Carlson sat stubbornly glowering at them all, refusing to speak. It seemed they were unlikely to get anything in terms of explanations or confessions from him.
Jessie and Lou went down to the lounge, where they found that Jeff Smith had already started the presentation about his famous greatgrandfather, Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith. Tiptoeing in quietly, they found a place to sit in the back of the room and wait for him to finish, before seeking out Lou’s father.
One on either side of Rozie Moisan, they sat on the bench for the player piano, and Jessie was pleased to find Dallas, in her wheelchair, beside her. She reached out, Laid a hand on the older woman’s wrist, and they smiled at each other.
With a humorous lift of her eyebrows, Dallas silently inquired why they were late.
“Catching crooks,” Jessie whispered in her ear, earning an I’m-impressed mime from Dallas, who then pointed at Lou with a questioning look.
Yes, Jessie nodded, she helped, too.
Lou caught the gist of the all but silent conversation and grinned around Rozie at Dallas, who mimed applause and a thumbs-up.
During this exchange, Jeff Smith had continued to tell stories about Soapy from the front of the lounge to a fascinated audience. Directing only half her attention his way, Jessie really wished they were somewhere else, where they could talk. She was too energized, after the exciting capture of Carlson, to want to sit still and listen to more gold rush history. Maybe I’ve been reading too much, she thought, consciously directing her concentration back to what was going on.
“Some of you,” Jeff said, “saw my demonstration of my greatgrandfather’s shell games at the reception in Haines on Sunday night. For those that missed it, here it is again.
“This case, which appears pretty much like an ordinary briefcase, is actually a small, self-supporting stand. It opens up like this, to become …” He opened the fastener that held the case closed and began to unfold it, to show the crowd in the lounge exactly how clever this piece of hundred-year-old equipment really was, “… a table.” The case opened suddenly, as Jessie and the rest watched, and something dropped to the floor from inside it. It hit with an audible thump that was heard by everyone in the room.
There was a sudden pause in his narrative, as the room tilled with silence and the audience waited for him to go on. He did not, however, immediately continue, but stood, still holding the half-open case, staring down at the item that had fallen to the floor. In a second or two, he bent to pick it up and examine it.
Then Jessie could see what it was that had surprised and startled him into abandoning his presentation. A watch had fallen from the case. Its steel case showed in his fingers.
“Well,” he said, curiously. “I wonder where this came from. It’s not mine. Do any of you know who this belongs to?”
He held up the watch and looked out in appeal to the audience.
Many of them thought it was part of his act—strange, perhaps, but, maybe if they waited long enough it would become clear just where he was headed with the odd interruption in what he had been about to show them. Others weren’t so sure, including Bill and Nella Berry, who were sitting halfway between Jessie and Jeff Smith. Bill Berry abruptly stood up and addressed Smith.
“I believe that’s mine. Could I see it, please?”
Without a word, Smith handed the watch to someone in front, and it was then passed back from person to person until it reached Berry, who accepted it and opened the cover. He stood for a moment, reading the inscription inside the lid of the watch, then looked up at Smith, a puzzled expression on his face. In a carefully controlled voice, he said, “It is. It belonged to my grandfather, Fred Berry. He carried this to the Klondike with him. How did you happen to have it, Mr. Smith? It was stolen from my stateroom Sunday night, while my wife and I were attending the reception in Haines.”
A murmur of astonishment swept through the crowd, as they realized what Berry was asking, or intimating.
“Not by me, it wasn’t,” Jeff Smith returned, in swift denial.
Jessie suddenly found herself on her feet, propelled there by a slight shove from Dallas, but only, she was sure, because all her body language had told the other woman that she wanted to get up anyway.
“Mr. Berry?” she said, in a low tone that carried straight to him, for he swung around to see who spoke.
“I think Sergeant Jensen is, perhaps, the person you want to speak to. Don’t you?”
Many people in the crowd didn’t hear exactly what she’d said, but it brought a startled expression of awareness to Berry, who had only been asking an honest question, in the sudden consternation of having his watch back in such odd circumstances. He realized that what he’d said had sounded like an accusation, and why Smith had taken offense at his words. He turned back.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith,” he apologized. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I think you were as surprised as I was when this fell out of your case. We can talk about it later, if that’s all right with you.”
Smith nodded. “Sure.” Then, ever the performer, he proceeded to finish setting up the table for his shell games and went ahead with his demonstration for the crowd.
Jessie sat down and sighed in relief, realizing she had been holding her breath.
“Thanks,” she said to Dallas, who grinned.
“I could tell you just needed a little push,” she said. “You were the one who could rightly keep those two from starting something neither of them really meant, or wanted to get into. You did well, Jess. Pulled their irons right out of the fire. The more I get to know you, the better I like you. You’ve pretty much got your act together, girl.”
The unexpected endorsement and approval drew a flush to Jessie’s face, coming so close behind an action that she now realized had filled her with fear, even as she went ahead, following her impulse.
“Thanks, Dallas. I like you, too, a lot.”
With all her heart, Jessie hoped that the end of this cruise would not see Dallas Blake disappear from her life. She was determined to make sure it didn’t happen.
The Berrys came to stand beside her, Bill with a word of gratitude.
“Jessie, you saved me a bad moment there, and I appreciate it. Thanks.”
“Hey, it was just a thought that I acted on without consideration, really. We should let Alex know the watch is back, though.”
“Where is he?”
“Oh.” She leaned forward, inviting the rest to do likewise, so that what she told them would remain fairly confidential. “They caught someone trying to return Chuck Lovegren’s money clip to his cabin, and they’re questioning him right now, I think. I don’t know much, actually. Lou and I just kept watch for a while.”
She glanced at Lou, who once again offered a conspiratorial grin, pleased to be a part of something important.
“Good going, Lou,” Nella congratulated her.
“Thanks. I got to go tell my dad, Jessie.”
“Okay. You go,” Jess laughed. “I’ll come along in a minute or two.”
She was gone in an instant.
“She’s like a fairy child,” Rozie observed. “What a beautiful girl.”
“She’s almost sixteen.”
“Really? She’s so tiny.”
“You should be a teacher, Jess,” Dallas spoke thoughtfully. “You’re really good with young people.”
Jessie smiled. “Lou is awfully easy to be good to,”
she said.
“Hey! Don’ you tell me I can’t have ‘nother drink!”
The loud, angry, inebriated voice of a man at the bar brought all other conversations in the lounge to a halt. It was followed by an assertive hammering sound, and passengers turned to see what was going on.
“Wayne. Stop … honey.” A woman’s voice, hesitant and embarrassed.
An unfamiliar large man with a red face stood in what appeared to be a face-off with the easygoing bartender, each on his side of the bar, the complainer holding an empty glass. He pounded it on the surface of the bar and yelled again. What was left of the ice it had contained flew out and skittered along the smooth surface.
“Wayne. Come on now. Let’s go …”
The two people next to him on bar stools moved away from the couple, and, for the first time, Jessie recognized Edith Johnson, the woman at the Haines party in the forget-me-not dress. And this must be her husband—an alcoholic, from the look of it, and from what she remembered of their conversation on the grass of the parade ground.
“I don’ have a problem,” Johnson stated. “But you will, if you don’ put some of that vodka there in here—an’ a squirt of tonic. Who you think you-u-re? I’ll come ‘round and do it m-shelf, if I got to.”
“Sir. Sir?” Totally ignored, the bartender tried to placate him. “I’ll give you coffee.”
“Coffee be damned, damn it! You gimme what I ast for. No right …”
With a last vicious pound, the glass shattered in his hand, fragments tinkling onto the top of the bar. Immediately, blood began to pour between his fingers.
“Oh, Wayne,” Edith wailed. “Oh, help him somebody.”
A tall, completely bald man with fuzzy, gray eyebrows, stepped out of the silently watching crowd and went to Johnson, who was now standing still, staring at his bleeding hand in amazed, drunken stupidity.
“I’m a doctor. Let’s take a look at that.”
Like a child, Wayne Johnson offered his injured hand, palm up, as he was told, frowning in consternation. “I didn’ mean …”
“No. Of course you didn’t. Let’s go up to my stateroom. That’s not as bad as it looks, I think. I can put a few stitches in it. It’ll be all right.”
He led Johnson toward the door, with a glance at the bartender and a motion for Mrs. Johnson to come along. The bartender raised a hand from toweling the glass and blood from the bar to give him a small salute of thanks, and turned back to the passengers who were left.
“Hey, it happens sometimes. It’s over. Don’t let it spoil your evening. Can I give anyone a refill on the house? Why don’t you start the player piano?”
The room relaxed, and conversation picked up again. Several people took advantage of the offer of a refill, and, soon enough, cheerful music was rolling out of the piano, its keys moving up and down on their own, as if they were being played by an invisible man.
“I love this kind of piano, don’t you?” Rozie asked, and Dallas answered.
“Yes, but probably because it plays music I recognize from what my mother used to sing. Not your generation, dear.”
Jessie excused herself and went across the room to speak to John Stanley, who, with Lou, was watching Jeff Smith’s games with rapt attention. She grinned. At the rate Louise learned things that interested her, Stanley had better anticipate the emergence of a con-artist in his house in the near future.
22
10:15 P.M.
Tuesday, July 15, 1997
Spirit of ‘98
Petersburg, Inside Passage, Alaska
JESSIE TOLD ALEX ABOUT THE INCIDENT WITH WAYNE Johnson, later, when they were back in their stateroom.
“No wonder she was so adamant about not taking him food in Haines. Evidently he can get aggressive when he drinks, and he seems to drink a lot, most of the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she catches a lot of it. She was so anxious.”
“Damn it,” Alex growled, wearily. “I really hate that kind of drunk. I suppose I should have talked to him after the thefts—not that I think he’d have noticed anything. I’ve seen too much of that kind of behavior. He needs help.”
“Well, he’s probably asleep again now. That doctor took him to put some stitches in his hand, and they didn’t come back to the lounge.”
Alex filled her in about the unsatisfactory session with Carlson.
“So, that was it. The four of us finally stopped trying, and decided to lock him up till we reached Petersburg and turn him over to the authorities.”
“What’d you do with him?”
“We handcuffed him to a heavy pipe in the engine room, where Ray can keep an eye on him, and maybe get something out of him. Wouldn’t say a word, even to confirm his own identity. Nasty piece of work, I think. Wouldn’t talk even when Judy Raymond showed up.”
“She came up to the bridge?”
“Yes. Walked in with Prentice in tow, again, took a look at Carlson, and said, ‘So this is the bastard who stole my gold chain,’ and demanded to know who he was. He took a look at her and turned his face to the wall. He seemed almost afraid of her.”
“Maybe he was.”
“Doesn’t make much sense.”
“Does any of it?”
“Not really. I’m not getting any smarter, I guess.” He knocked a fist on the dressing table, more in frustration than heat, and walked on.
“So, you don’t really know if he was the thief or not.”
Alex turned from pacing the stateroom to stare at her.
“I’m going on that assumption, since he had the clip in his pocket, and wouldn’t deny it.”
“Well …” she frowned, thoughtfully. “Maybe. Or there could be someone else involved, maybe Judy, and he’s taking the blame—he could’ve been putting the clip back for her or somebody else.”
He nodded, listening carefully.
“What makes you say that, Jess?”
“Nothing specific, really. Maybe that he was afraid of her. You’ll find out something soon, when you see if he’s got a record, right? But don’t small-time, petty criminals usually fry to talk their way out of this kind of stuff? Since you can’t prove he stole it, wouldn’t he at least say he found it somewhere and wanted to return it—didn’t want to be accused of stealing it?”
Jensen thought about it. She was more quick than he was to examine the reasons why people reacted the way they often did. He had to agree.
“Yeah, they do. Many of them talk themselves right into a cell.”
Having set him thinking in this direction, she left it and sat quietly on the bed, where she had been reading another of the books about the gold rush.
“How’s Lou?” he asked her. “I hated to shut her out, she did a good job. I couldn’t let her in and state categorically later that there was no reason for Carlson to clam up.”
“I know. I told her something like that. She’s fine. Got a real kick out of watching and having him show up so she could get her pictures.”
“She actually got some?” He laughed and sat down on Jessie’s bed, pulling one of his long legs up to wrap his arms around it. He prepared to listen.
Jessie looked at him for a moment before she spoke, thinking that his posture and eagerness revealed the boy still lurking in this tall, accomplished man she loved. She smiled.
“She sure did. Four, I think she said, including that last one of the four—no, five of you, staring out at us before you shut the door. A real photo-essay. She could hardly wait to tell her dad.”
“Did he mind that we let her help?”
“Not after I explained that there really wasn’t any danger. He seems pretty lenient with her. I was impressed.
“I mentioned how pretty I thought her hair was. He said last year it was shorter and dyed black, but as long as she’s clean and reasonably neat, he lets her look the way she wants and choose her own clothes. Her mother died when she was just a baby and she’s an only child, so they’re close.”
“Sounds perceptive and reasonable to
me.”
“Sort of like the way your parents raised you”
“Well, they weren’t that liberal. Actually my mom did most of the raising. My dad’s pretty quiet and mostly went along with her. I grew up chasing cattle up and down hills and riding a school bus to town every day, but I had chores to do when I came home—milking cows, feeding calves, forking hay. Summers I worked with mom’s brother, bachelor Uncle Ed, who ran the ranch and lived next door. My brother and I had pretty strict rules, but ranching keeps kids so busy they don’t have much time to run wild.”
“Your mom did a pretty good job, I’d say.”
“Well, she’s third-generation Scottish, with flaming hair and a temper to match. Real stereotype, but, fast as her temper flares, it dies. She’s very warm and mothering, you’ll see. She’ll feed you to death if you don’t watch out. I think my mother and yours would get along great. They’d live in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, they would. But you stayed thin. I still don’t see how her hair and temper missed you?”
“Well, you know my brother got it—the hair. I got the Danish half of the family, from my dad.”
“And the mustache?” she teased. “He have one, too?”
“Naw. He just teaches his classes at the high school and lives in his book world most of the time. Been a teacher for almost thirty years.”
“He always sounds sweet, but a little vague on the phone.”
“That’s him. But he’s a pretty good teacher. His former students show up from time to time to see him.”
Jessie thought for a minute. “I had rules—curfews and chores, too—but my dad always encouraged me to try whatever I was interested in. I’ve already told you I think that’s what got me started sled dog racing. It never occurred to me that I couldn’t, or that anyone would think I shouldn’t, until I was already really involved in it. Then some of the men who race made me aware of the fact that they thought women didn’t belong in the sport. Well … you know all about that. I told you during the Iditarod.”
“That’s right, you did. I hadn’t thought about it. I’ve met your parents. One of these days you’ll have to meet mine.”
