Which, I knew, was a possibility with Willie Copeland. I didn’t say it. I also knew that Alaska was a huge wilderness, with hundreds of thousands of untamed acres in which a body could disappear, never to be seen again. I didn’t say that, either.
I followed him to his car, and we drove back to the pier. As I was about to get out, I saw the ship’s security officer, Officer Kale, come onto the pier and head for the gangway leading up to the ship. He was dressed in civilian clothes—jeans, a blue sweater over a white shirt, and sneakers. He carried a small plastic shopping bag and was obviously in a rush. He ran past groups of passengers, dashed up the gangway, and vanished into the ship.
“That’s Officer Kale,” I told Trooper McQuesten. “He’s the ship’s security officer.”
“Yes, I know Officer Kale,” said McQuesten. “I’ve had the occasion to speak with him a few times.”
“He’s terribly concerned that Kathy and I not disturb other passengers while we look for an answer to Wilimena’s disappearance.”
“You can’t blame him,” McQuesten said. “He and the rest of the crew have an obligation to all those people enjoying themselves on their ship.”
I agreed with him, of course, and said so, adding, “Has he been at all helpful in trying to find Kathy’s sister?”
“I haven’t had that much interaction with him about that case, Mrs. Fletcher. Detective Flowers is the lead investigator. Have you found him uncooperative?”
“Oh, no, but not anxious to help, either. I was just wondering. Thank you for everything, including driving me back to the ship.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher. I assure you I’ll stay in touch if I have any news of interest.”
I went directly to my cabin, then kicked off my shoes, removed the outer layers of clothing I’d worn, wrapped myself in the terry-cloth robe provided by the cruise line, and went out onto the balcony. The sun had broken through the gunmetal gray sky, although its light was fleeting as fast-moving clouds came and went, obscuring it from view.
My goal of taking an idyllic cruise to relax and immerse myself in the wildlife of Alaska had certainly turned into something I hadn’t bargained for. Of course, I’d known when I invited Kathy to accompany me that the cruise would take on a different dimension. Searching for a missing person didn’t qualify as a relaxing pursuit.
But murder? Two violent deaths within a few days of each other, one definitely a murder, the other a distinct possibility of being murder.
I sat in the chair and allowed my eyes to close. I didn’t need for them to be open for me to see, in vivid color, Maurice Quarlé sprawled in that yellow chair, his eyes and mouth open, a knife rammed into his chest. That vision sent a shudder through me, and I decided to go back inside. Once there, I had a sudden urge for a cup of steaming-hot tea. Call for room service? I decided instead to go to a public room. Somehow the spacious cabin now felt claustrophobic.
I knew from the daily newsletter that tea was served every afternoon in the Lower Vista dining room. As I walked in, I immediately spotted Gladys Montgomery sitting by herself at a window table. I didn’t intend to disturb her—she seemed engrossed in a magazine— but she looked up, smiled, and waved for me to come to her table.
“I didn’t expect to see you back on the ship so early,” she said, placing the magazine on the table. It was the new issue of Vanity Fair.
“I see that you keep up with the latest publications,” I said after taking the chair next to her.
“Maynard always sees to it that I have a selection of reading material,” she said.
“He takes good care of you,” I commented.
“He’s a sweet young man. I’ve grown very fond of him. So, Jessica, tell me about your day in Juneau.”
I was tempted to tell her about the murder of the man she’d met and for whom she had such disdain, Maurice Quarlé, but thought better of it. “Uneventful,” I said. “Kathy and I and Mr. Henderson walked around a bit and had lunch at a very pleasant restaurant. Frankly, there doesn’t seem to be much to see in Juneau, unless you’re interested in buying jewelry.”
She laughed. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “I spent about an hour there the first time the ship visited, but I don’t bother getting off anymore. I suppose there are interesting things to do, but I prefer to stay on board the ship.”
A waiter brought my tea and a selection of finger sandwiches and pastries.
“Have you seen Kathy or Mr. Henderson?” I asked.
“No, I have not,” she replied. “I have the feeling that your friend Ms. Copeland is smitten with the handsome Mr. Henderson.”
“I have the same impression,” I said, “although I haven’t asked her about it. She seems very happy when she’s with him. That’s all that matters.”
“I agree with you, considering the mental turmoil she must be going through, having lost a sister. I have lost a sister and a brother. It’s always terribly sad when you lose a beloved sibling. Have you ever suffered such an event?”
“Not a sibling. My parents, of course, and my husband.”
She drew a deep breath, and her lip trembled. “I finished your book,” she said, without preamble. “I enjoyed it very much. You are a very elegant writer, unlike too many younger writers these days. I did identify the killer quite early in the story, however.”
I chuckled. “I must be losing my touch. I always hope that readers can’t figure out who did it until the very end.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said.
“Oh, no, you haven’t. This tea hits the spot.”
“There is nothing more refreshing than a properly made pot of tea,” she said. “Is there anything new about the unfortunate accident that occurred yesterday in Glacier Bay?”
There certainly was something new. The question was whether I should mention what I learned from Trooper McQuesten. As with the murder of Maurice Quarlé, I decided it would be prudent not to tell her that John Smith’s name was not John Smith, that he was traveling with a bogus passport, and that he had in his possession a photograph of Kathy and a copy of one of my earlier books, taken from the ship’s library shelves.
“No, nothing new as far as I know,” I said.
“Why do I have the feeling you aren’t telling me the truth?” she asked, not at all confrontational.
Her hand, deeply veined and covered with brown age spots, rested on the arm of her chair. I placed my hand on top of it, gave it a little squeeze, and said, “I have no doubt, Gladys, that you very quickly solved the mystery in my novel. You’re very astute.”
“At my age, I have nothing but time to observe and be astute. You’ll share with me what you wish at the appropriate time, I’m sure. But for now, it’s time for my nap before dinner. Maynard will have turned down my bed and placed a small glass of Metaxa brandy at bedside. My husband was Greek, you know, and he loved his Metaxa. You will excuse me.”
“Of course. Enjoy your nap. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Salmon or duck on the menu tonight,” she said, standing, using the chair’s arm for support, and walking away somewhat unsteadily. The maître d’ quickly came to her side and escorted her from the room.
I really like you, Gladys Montgomery, I thought. You’re one classy lady.
I lingered over my tea and finger food, enjoying that moment of solace, as well as the sense of well-being provided by the nourishment. Gladys’s mention of a nap before dinner sounded good. Although it had not been a physically strenuous day, it had been mentally challenging. Of course, I wouldn’t have a snifter of Metaxa brandy. I could do without that.
I was about to leave when the maître d’ who’d escorted Gladys came to me. “Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“There is a gentleman wishing to see you at the front office on the main deck.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
I thanked him, left the room, and went down one deck. Standin
g there was Trooper McQuesten.
“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I said.
“I didn’t plan on it,” he said, “but I came across something I wanted to share with you as soon as possible.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Why don’t we find a place where we can be more comfortable? The Vista Lounge is on this deck, at the front of the ship.”
We found a secluded table in the large lounge. “I just had tea,” I said. “Would you like something?”
“A soft drink would be fine. I’m still on duty.”
“And what do you enjoy when you’re off duty?” I asked.
He grinned. “I’m partial to good single-barrel bourbon, Mrs. Fletcher, although I also enjoy some of our better microbreweries.”
“I’ll be happy to treat you to some of each whenever you’re off duty. Now, what is this information you have that couldn’t wait?”
“I had a chance to go through things we found in Quarlé’s room,” he said. “Take a look at this.” He withdrew some papers from his inside breast pocket and handed them to me. I motioned for a waiter, who took the trooper’s order for a Coke, and unfolded the sheets of paper. There was a lot of writing on them, scribbling actually, and some of it was hard to read. But the message that came through from these random jottings wasn’t difficult to understand.
Gold! Gold! Gold!-crazy old whore got it from her boyfriend-left to Willie-crazy broad-has a sister-Maine??? -someplace like that-a couple of hundred thou-maybe more-play it cool-romance the crazy bitch-maybe marry her if I have to-hell, been married how many times before?-go slow-see if Joey wants in-put up plenty of dough-can’t trust him-trust nobody-gold, baby!!!-lots of gold!!!
“I was right,” I said. “Quarlé was after Willie’s gold.”
“I would say that you were,” McQuesten said.
I placed the scraps of papers I had been reading on the table and looked at a final sheet. On it was a series of names and numbers, some of which were followed by numbers preceded by a dollar sign.
“What do these mean?” I asked.
“I called Charlie Flowers in Ketchikan to see if he could make any sense out of it.”
“And?”
“Those are the names of various floatplane operators in the Ketchikan area,” McQuesten said. “I assume the numbers represent how much it would cost to hire one.”
I sat back and chewed my cheek, as I sometimes do when trying to sort out my thoughts. “Why would he want to hire a floatplane?” I asked.
McQuesten shrugged his large shoulders. “That’s something we’ll have to find out, Mrs. Fletcher.”
After silently trying to process what I had just read and learned, I asked, “Who is this Joey he mentions?”
“I can’t be sure,” McQuesten replied, “but it might be another local grifter like Quarlé. Joey Casone. I have my people out looking for him as we speak.”
I shook my head and smiled.
“We’re making progress, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Almost too much, too fast,” I said.
“If you’d rather I—”
I sat up straight, came forward, and said, “No, I take that back. The more information, the better.”
“All right,” he said, draining his Coke in one long, continuous swallow. “I’d better get back.”
I walked him to the ship’s exit, and he showed his badge to the crew member on duty. “A word of advice?” he said.
“Please.”
“Watch your step for the rest of the cruise.”
He held me in a hard stare.
“I will,” I said.
Chapter Ten
Without the little man in shorts following me at every turn, the evening turned out to be considerably more relaxing than previous ones had been. I joined Kathy and Bill Henderson in the Crow’s Nest, where she’d been telling David Johansen what she knew about Dolly Arthur and how she was related to the former brothel owner.
“This has been great,” David said after he’d turned off his tiny digital recorder.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about my heritage,” Kathy said, “at least that aspect of it.”
“You remember more than you think,” David said. “I always enjoy getting firsthand accounts. They fill in the gaps for me in the courses I teach. Of course, I loved the story about the pretzel lady and your father.”
Johansen left to get ready for dinner, and I spirited Kathy away to a secluded corner, where I filled her in on what Trooper McQuesten had told me. She listened intently, her eyes wide, her head shaking back and forth in disbelief. When I’d finished, she said, “Something terrible has happened to Willie.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “We mustn’t give up hope.”
“With such dreadful people involved, how can I think anything else, Jess?”
“The important thing,” I said, “is to keep digging. I’m sure we’ll have the answer eventually.”
I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I felt a need to boost her lagging spirits.
“I’m afraid of what the answer will be,” she said. “The man who went over the side had my picture and your book?”
“Yes.”
“I feel so—so violated,” she said.
“I know what you mean. Look, let’s enjoy the ship this evening, and in the morning when we arrive in Sitka, I’ll call Trooper McQuesten and Detective Flowers, too. We’ll stay on top of it.”
“I’ll give it my best,” she replied.
Which she did during dinner, although I didn’t harbor any illusions that it was because of my pep talk. The perpetually upbeat Bill Henderson was clearly responsible for Kathy’s elevation of mood. He was unfailingly flattering and solicitous, and she responded appropriately, actually becoming girlish at times.
Gladys Montgomery was in an especially good mood as well. She laughed easily and was fully engaged in the conversation at the table.
“Do you ever tire of being on a ship?” Henderson asked her.
“Heavens, no. There’s always something to do, a class to take, a lecture to attend, fascinating people to meet. I consider myself blessed to be living here. Are you happy living in Seattle?”
He seemed puzzled at the question.
“I ask,” she said, “because I am a true believer in where we live determining how happy we will be. I assume that Mrs. Fletcher and Ms. Copeland are satisfied with being residents of their town in Maine.”
“I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else,” Kathy said.
“Too much snow for me,” Bill said.
“You get used to it,” I said. “In fact, I actually look forward to it once winter has arrived. As long as it’s going to be cold, there might as well be a white blanket on the ground to enjoy.”
“Mr. Henderson,” Gladys asked again, “are you happy living in Seattle?”
“Very.”
“How long have you lived there?” I asked.
Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Page 15