The Sandcastle Murders
Page 17
Her sudden movement excited Donna. “What do you see? A bear? Cougar?”
Magda was silent, concentrating. As their boat pulled into deeper water toward Lasqueti, she set down the glasses and turned to Donna. “I’m sorry? No, no I just thought I saw something, probably a goat.
The ride back was too slow for Magda, but she memorized every landmark Henri passed to get them back to the marina.
Chapter thirty-four
“Do you think we’ll ever learn to be better prepared for rain? Living on the west coast, you’d think we’d expect rain at all times.” Elaine descended the steps to the dock with a tight grip on the rail and carefully placed steps.
Donna chirped her response. “I doubt it. Old leopards, and all that.”
“You mean leopards don’t change their spots.” Charles swallowed his next words as he glimpsed Donna’s face. Water ran down her cheeks in rivulets, creating pink streaks of make-up. She appeared more zebra than leopard.
The small group gathered on the dock, and Henri and Dave carried the single salmon over to the stainless-steel table on the dock to clean. Everyone admired Henri’s filleting skill as a skeleton left the fish in a single piece.
Elaine grinned at his accomplishment. “OK. Dinner at my place. Potluck, starring a lovely baked salmon. How about,” she glanced at her watch, “three hours from now? It will give everyone a chance to dry off, relax, and pull together something to contribute.”
The sun peeped from behind shifting clouds, promising a beautiful summer evening. The group nodded in agreement with the exception of Magda.
“I’m still a bit sore and tired from my midnight mishap the other night. I’ll take another night to recuperate and be good as new.”
Donna patted her hand. “Alright. Magda, you go straight home, and take care of yourself. Have some soup, a warm bath, and get a good sleep.”
The corner of Magda’s left eye twitched. She hated deceiving her friend.
◆◆◆
Once home, Magda dropped her bag at the door, pulled out her computer, and googled ‘Boating Licenses’.
The first website that popped up suggested she could have her Pleasure Craft Operating License within three hours. She could take the exam online and print off a temporary card.
She glared at her watch. Time would be her enemy in the short term. She registered for the exam and scanned the course material.
Minutes into reading, her shoulders softened. It seemed to be simple stuff, common sense, and much of it would’ve been interesting if she wasn’t in a hurry. She took a deep breath. But if she hurried too much, multiple-choice would become multiple-guess. Too many mistakes and the exam system would lock her out for twenty-four hours.
First question. Which of the following water safety equipment is required on a personal watercraft? Sound signaling device, manual water pump, VHF, or axe. Axe? She didn’t have the leisure of laughing but chose ‘sound signaling device’.
Next question. Why is it important to use the H.E.L.P. position when submerged in water? Well, since it stands for Heat Escape Lessening Posture, it was easy for her to choose A - It increases survival time by reducing heat loss.
She breezed through questions about fire extinguisher storage, personal flotation devices, and storms. With each answer, she felt more confident.
Then she hit the one designed to stump her.
When seeking medical attention for hypothermia victims, what is the best treatment? Hot coffee, vigorous massage, slow warming, or a hot bath. The past two days were catching up with her. She was too tired to give weight to the alternatives.
She slammed her hand on the table and slouched back, only to lean forward and open another computer window seconds later.
“Ah, Google. A millennial’s encyclopedia.” She smiled as she typed her question and was rewarded. Slow warming.
Whizzing through the last questions, she hesitated only seconds before pushing the ‘Finish Exam’ button, breath exploding from her chest when the pop-up window congratulated her for passing.
Another minute and a confirmation email appeared in her inbox. She clicked the link, copied and saved the temporary license, and sent the pdf back to her email account. Next step – find a boat to rent.
She scanned several local websites, finding no boats available at local marinas. As she continued, the search took her further from Stey Cove until she found one small craft forty minutes away.
The owner agreed to meet her, operating license in hand, in an hour. Grabbing her purse, cell phone, a sweater, and a handful of granola bars, she rushed off to print the license at her office.
Just as the printer spit out her license, her phone rang. She answered, rushed and out of breath, without looking at the screen.
“Hello. Magda Shepard.”
“Hey. What’s going on?” Raheem’s voice reverberated in her ears.
She inhaled with as much control as she could manage. “Oh, nothing much. Just at the office finishing up that article so I can send it off tonight.” Her ears burned red with another lie.
“So, how was fishing? Get caught in the rainstorm? I worried because I didn’t hear from you, but we didn’t hear about any SOS calls to the Coast Guard.”
“Ahh, yeah. Sorry. I got a little pre-occupied with work and forgot to call. We did get a little wet. Didn’t last long, but we came home anyway. Listen, Raheem, I’m finishing up here and heading home. I’m exhausted. Long couple of days. Can we talk tomorrow?”
He grunted. “Yeah. Sure. Okay, we’re still busy here. Got a big night tonight, so I just wanted to say hi, tell you I miss you.”
She smiled, hoping he could hear it through the phone. “I miss you too. Maybe lunch tomorrow? I’d like that.”
“Perfect. Talk tomorrow. Bye.”
She grabbed her purse, the copy of her license, and keys, and sprinted to her car. She had four hours of daylight. Still enough time.
Chapter thirty-five
Magda signed off on the rental documents and the boat owner provided a ten-minute how-to on the small craft. The wind slowed to a slight breeze, a common occurrence as dusk approached, and she looked to the sky with gratitude. Less wind made the journey safer.
Following the coastline, she reached the Stey Cove Marina and crossed to Lasqueti using the now familiar path. Henri and Chris had made the trip using this route, but this boat was smaller, and slower, than their boats. Her shoulders knit together, and she rolled them several times to ease the tension.
Pulling around Lasqueti, the rough landscape of Jedidiah came into view. She headed for its nearest shore and followed the coast, scanning the waterline. As she approached the second cove, the sun reflected off the white boat. It hadn’t moved. She angled her little craft into the cove and tucked in on the shore side of the larger vessel.
As she passed behind the vessel, the name glinted with the sun. Snowflake. This was it. Chris’ fishing boat.
So, where was Chris? As far as she knew, it had been days since anyone had seen him. Unless the police had given up, they still wanted to speak with him about the break-in at her apartment. Maybe he was hiding here. But if he was hiding, wouldn’t he have gone much farther than this?
“Chris? Hey Chris?” Her call echoed off the water.
She thought about the cryptic goa text. She spent that afternoon’s ride from the island back to the marina convincing herself that the text came from Chris. A signal of some sort - about Jedidiah. Goats – such a unique feature, had become goa.
Pulling as close to shore as she dared, she tossed the anchor into the water, tugged off her life jacket, and stuffed it under the captain’s seat. She grabbed her purse, slung it across her back and shoulder, and scrambled over the rocks toward Chris’ boat till she was within fifteen feet.
She couldn’t reach the boat without getting wet, and called out, “Chris? Chris? Are you there? It’s Magda?”
Two annoyed gulls clacked back at her. Wake from a passing fishing trawler smacked the si
de of her boat, and it rocked as a beckoning cradle.
“Yes. I’m tired.” She sniffed at the air. The salty smell of seaweed did nothing to energize her, and she followed the rocky path back to her boat.
She climbed aboard, lifted anchor, and pulled the stored paddle out from under the bow, grateful the owner had shown it to her. She paddled through jutting rocks toward the Snowflake. Once again, she lifted the anchor and tossed it into a sandbar. Large rocks, some submerged with the tide, provided a dubious path to reach the island a few feet away. She removed her sneakers and stuffed them in her bag, then exited the craft, moving from rock to rock to reach the sandy beach.
A hawk circled, closing in on her with each rotation. She called, “I’m not stealing your fish.” He continued his glaring surveillance and she huffed up at him, “Any idea how to get to that boat from here?” The hawk flew off up the hill.
Magda watched him circle to the west and muttered, “Well, if it’s deep enough to moor that boat, it’s too deep for me to wade.”
Hands on hips, she turned her back on Chris’ vessel and looked up to the hills and across the island, north and south. No movement. She could try searching the island for him, but what if he was on the boat? Her search would become more dangerous as the light faded.
She walked the beach bringing herself as close to the Snowflake as possible, and scanning the shoreline for anything to help her. Nearby rocks trapped driftwood logs between rocks. If she could shift the driftwood to create a bridge, she could pull herself on board.
She climbed the rocks, scraping her knee as she went, and tugged on the saturated wood, adrenaline pounding drums in her ears. When the first log came free, she leveraged it across nearby rocks, angling the contrived plank for access to the boat.
As she bent to lift the second piece, her left foot slid into the cold ocean water. She tried to lift it but the motion shifted another rock, pinning her ankle; a bolt of pain fired through her body from her ankle to her chest.
She gasped and bent into the water to lift the rock from her foot, then pulled the swelling appendage from its trap. Anger and adrenaline fueled her, and she grasped and heaved the second log beside the first, ignoring the searing ankle.
Tears warmed her face in stripes. She bit her bottom lip, clambered onto the makeshift bridge, and crawled to the boat, her foot dangling behind. When she reached the boat, she tucked her uninjured foot beneath her and rose to standing. With a loud gasp she lunged for the ledge. Her fingers clawed the boat, clutching to secure a grip, and she heaved herself onto the deck.
Splayed on the floor of the boat, she caught her breath. Was this worth the effort? She pushed herself up to sit, her back resting on a storage compartment, and examined the injured ankle. It had doubled in size, becoming a sickly shade of periwinkle.
“Chris?” She called again. Silence.
Magda crawled toward the steps leading below deck, but as she reached the opening her eyes caught a glimmer from the deck above. She rose to her knees and stretched to get a closer look. On the floor beneath the captain’s seat lay the plastic snowflake reflecting the setting sun’s rays. Attached to it was the boat key.
She crawled up the steps and tugged the key. It was latched to the bottom of the seat.
“I guess that way the key and keychain aren’t lost.” She unclasped the key from the seat, and tucked it into her pocket. “If he’s here, I don’t want him leaving before I talk to him.”
Bumping down the stairs on her backside, she opened the door to the hull, hoping to see a sleeping Chris relaxing below. Head first, she leaned into the hull, scanning the area.
No one. The cabin was intact and just as she remembered it. No sign anyone was aboard. She scooted backward, removing her head from the hull, and sat with her back pressed to the port-side wall.
Magda gripped her tender ankle and surveyed the deck for a clue as to Chris’ whereabouts. Pressure on the swelling felt good. There would be a First Aid kit on board somewhere; with luck she’d find a tensor to help stabilize her ankle.
She opened three compartments before she found the familiar white box with the red cross. Rifling through it, she found a tension bandage, antiseptic for her knee, and Advil. She popped two pills in her mouth and swallowed, hoping they wouldn’t catch in her throat. Then she wrapped the tensor around her ankle and emptied the remainder of the kit into her purse. She stuffed the empty box back into its compartment.
One last look around and she lowered herself off the boat, her good leg stretching onto the driftwood bridge.
Her ankle ached, but felt stable as she allowed it to take the pressure of her weight. She squatted and came to her knees, crawling back the way she arrived. Once on the beach, she shuffle-stepped along the shoreline looking for the start of the path to the top of the island.
She gazed up at the hills in front of her, searching for the path. It was a path she had seen hikers take the day she came to the island with Chris. A tiny goat looked down on her, his whiny bleat seemed to call to her.
“You better not be laughing, or calling for reinforcements. I’m coming up there.” She stared up the tiny animal who leaped from his rocky perch onto a narrow dirt path. “Pan. The path - thank you.” For a brief second she wished Charles was there to provide background on the Greek god of the shepherds and wilds.
Her eyes followed the path from the goat down to the starting point on the beach. A weathered piece of driftwood lay beside the her, likely left by a hiker as a gift to the next climber.
“I’m not the first to use this as a walking stick.” She grasped the end of the driftwood at a bulbous knot on the end and began the trek uphill. She may have another forty-five minutes before dusk, and shadowed light for another fifteen. Scattered clouds dotted the darkening sky; guidance from the moon or stars would come and go with the clouds.
She slowed as she reached the top of the hill, and the outline of small buildings became clearer; the remnants of the original owners who farmed and tended the land. If someone was here seeking shelter, this would be a good place to hide from the elements – or just hide.
Though her ankle throbbed, her pace increased as the land levelled, and she called out once more as she reached the first building.
“Chris.” The name croaked from deep in her throat.
Prying open the heavy wood door, she stepped through the threshold to the aching creak of a dried wood-plank floor. Light barely washed through grimy windows, and she inhaled. A damp, musky odor reminded her the place could be home to critters, and she scanned the floor for signs of rodents.
The skittering of something darting across the floor created a focus for her eyes. She couldn’t see what it was, but it sounded too small to be dangerous.
She stood in the main room pearing through doorways, vacant of doors. Adjacent rooms were small and empty. A sliver of silver glistened off a spider web, catching her attention too late. She brushed down her arm to wipe the tickle of its bridge thread from her hand. She shivered, curled her lip, and hobbled from the building to the small barn.
The barn door sat open a crack; not enough for entry. She yanked it and an owl screeched displeasure. She glared at the rafters and the owl’s large round eyes stared back in defiance. Unsure how he would react to her entry, she walked around to a window on the side. She wiped the filthy glass, pressed her face against the pane, and saw only empty stalls. Dim light, washed through swathes of missing shingles, gave the barn an ominous appearance; as if someone would pounce from shadows at any moment. She sighed and continued circling the barn.
At the rear of the barn an alternate path, narrower and grassier than the one she had taken to reach the homestead, lead to a forested area. It curved downward, toward the ocean, then dropped over a hill before it reached the trees. She followed the path to the forest and continued through tree roots snaking the dirt and sparse sprigs of wildflowers speckling where the sun could peak between trees.
The forest grew dense and her ankle hurt more
with each step. The descent was steep and she developed a method of hobbling; good foot first, then putting her weight on the walking stick, and dragging the other foot to meet the first.
The sky darkened with each step.
Minutes later, she paused for a breath, taking comfort in the rhythmic sound of unseen ocean waves smacking stone. She must be coming closer to the shore, and the end of the path. Raheem and his fondness for flashlights came to mind, but she felt she was a step ahead, and pulled out her cellphone.
Using the flashlight app, she stopped and illuminated the area, shining the light further down the path to see if she could glimpse water. The last thing she wanted was another night time swim.