And minus the $122 for meals comes to . . . Daisy perked up. Max Kendall owed her $53!
With her bills and receipts, Daisy placed all the cash back into its envelope and stuck it in her purse. After jotting a quick note at the bottom on the small page, Daisy ripped the paper from her notebook, neatly folded and placed the page in one envelope provided by Dobbs, sealed the flap, addressed the front, and set the envelope aside.
On a separate piece of paper, Daisy carefully penned a note to Steve Keller, folded the sheet and placed it in the second envelope, sealed and addressed it.
“Could you see that the man in my cabin gets this . . . after the Columbia has left Wrangell?”
His expression reflecting unspoken questions, Dobbs took the envelope from Daisy.
“And could you see that Security Officer Keller gets this?” She handed the remaining envelope to Dobbs.
“After we’ve sailed?”
“Any time is fine.”
As the Columbia proclaimed its impending arrival in Wrangell, Daisy collected herself and Elizabeth. “Thank you very much, Mr. Dobbs.”
“My pleasure,” Dobbs answered with equal politeness. “And Miss Moon?”
One step from the door, Daisy turned.
“Good luck.”
Max woke to a hammer inside his head. Eyelids heavy, and groggy from his drug-induced slumber, he checked the empty space beside him. He looked for the time, but the nightstand clock was gone. Rainy daylight spilled into the cabin from the window, casting the room in a gloomy, one-dimensional pallor.
“Daisy?” The hammer pounded, only this time he recognized the source. Groaning, he freed himself from the sheets and shuffled to the door. He turned the knob. “Did you forget your—”
The uniformed man on the other side of the door lifted his brows at Max’s nudity.
“—key?” Max finished, realizing too late that it wasn’t Daisy doing the knocking.
“Mr. Kendall?”
“Yes,” Max said, oblivious to his own immodesty until an elderly couple walked by and chuckled.
“Hang on a second.” Retreating to the bathroom, he grabbed a towel and flung it across his offending appendage, very much awake, and tucked the terry around his waist.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, returning to the open door.
Dobbs presented the envelope. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“Miss Moon asked me to deliver it. Have a nice day, Mr. Kendall.”
Frowning at his handwritten name, Max stepped back and closed the door.
Chapter Twenty
Mud splattered the belly of the Cessna 206 as it touched down on the rudimentary airstrip. With earth solidly beneath her, Daisy Moon sighed relief.
It had been a fifteen-minute flight from Homer to Otter Bite, but crammed into that short flight was some of the most spectacular scenery of her long journey, like traveling back in time—not hundreds of years, but thousands—to a world before man.
Epic mountains, white-capped against a royal-blue sky, plummeted into lush green valleys spotted with snow, then rose into furry forests of centenarian spruce, in turn giving way to icy, meandering streams pooling into shallow, mirrored lakes reflecting their mountain sentinels. And that was just the east coast of Kachemak Bay.
To the west, frothing and foaming in rolling waves, Kachemak Bay metamorphosed into a deceptive turquoise sheet before it reached the far shore fifty miles away and disappeared into a mist. Rising from that ether, the Alaska Range stretched north and south like jagged shark teeth, enameled neon-white with snow. Taking center stage, hulking Mount Iliamna loomed at over 10,000 feet; its plume of volcanic gas lingered ominously above its cone against a pale blue sky. A little farther north, dwarfed by distance but nonetheless magnificent, Mount Redoubt hovered like an apparition.
To the north, from where Daisy had come that morning, Kachemak Bay flowed into the relaxed, silty waters of Cook Inlet and Turnagain Arm, which corralled Alaska’s largest city to the west and south.
Surprisingly sophisticated, Anchorage had been exactly the respite Daisy needed. Rather than arriving early in Otter Bite, she had spent a week in Anchorage shopping for replacements of her stolen items, making frequent calls to Charity, and just plain collecting herself for her next challenge at Wild Man Lodge. She’d even shopped for locally made wine at the Alaska Denali Winery, picking up a novelty bottle of Lime Margarita. To that purchase she added a lovely imported Pinot Gris found at a small wine shop called—she smiled—Grape Expectations.
At the Moose’s Tooth she’d eaten the best wild mushroom gourmet pizza ever and bought a souvenir T-shirt for Charity. Two days later, she went back for their Hungarian mushroom soup. From the display in the entry, Daisy learned that the restaurant owed its name to a rock peak in the Alaska Range that looked like—no surprise—a moose’s tooth.
From her hotel room window at the Captain Cook, Daisy had a view—on clear days—of North America’s tallest peak, the mountain with two names: McKinley for those in the Lower 48 and Denali, as Alaskans called it. Googling the name, she discovered the mountain actually had several names, depending on who was talking. The Anchorage-area Athabaskans called it Dghelay Ka’a, or High One. The Alaskan Aleuts, who had numbered close to thirty thousand before the Russians decimated them, called it Traleika. Even the Russians had a name for it—Bol’shaya. In 1975, the Alaska legislature scrapped “McKinley” and officially named the mountain “Denali.” Forty years later, the Federal government followed suit, making the name nationally recognized. But whatever the name is, was, or had been, the Great One rose 20,000 feet; in summer, climbers from all over the world attempted to reach its summit.
Daisy had purchased a mini version of the mountain in Artique, a fine arts gallery on G Street in downtown Anchorage. Entitled Aurora, the Byron Birdsall print was already framed but, at 12 x 22 inches, still small enough to fit inside her luggage. Since Myron Porter had stolen her art along with her Lexus, this Denali would be hanging solo in her Otter Bite home.
Studying the maps in her travel guide, Daisy had read about Otter Bite’s nearest neighbors to the south, the coastal villages of Seldovia, Nanwalek, and Port Graham. Had she for some unfathomable reason traveled farther, she would’ve reached the Barren Islands and then Afognak and Kodiak home to the world’s largest grizzly bear, the Kodiak brown. By then she would’ve been into the turbulent waters of the Gulf of Alaska, but still a Dr. Jekyll in comparison to the Mr. Hyde of the Bering Sea. Neither for the faint of heart nor faint of craft, the brutal and defiant ocean regularly claimed the lives of crabbers, making the profession the deadliest in the world and the star of a television show.
But today in Otter Bite, Poseidon required no sacrifice. With the midday sun shining and a cool breeze blowing, Alaska seemed as docile as a newborn seal pup. Whatever Daisy might’ve felt about her epicurean exile, she could hardly lament its breathtaking beauty.
The Cessna rumbled past a dozen small planes, parked and tied off the strip. A sign over a little lean-to welcomed visitors to OTTER BITE, WHERE YOU OTTER BE. Next to that, an Alaskan flag—eight stars of gold, configured into the big dipper and the North Star, on a field of dark blue—fluttered and relaxed with the variable wind. Parked nearby was a late model Land Rover—that should’ve been Daisy’s first clue—with the words Wild Man Lodge stretching across its doors, the n and the L obscured by Rita Jakolof, who leisurely leaned against the vehicle.
The Cessna braked to a stop and the propeller abruptly quit. The pilot opened the door and Daisy struggled out of the plane with Elizabeth in her carrier, following two other passengers who had the grace of experience.
“Miracle of miracles, you made it!” Rita threw her arms around Daisy in a welcoming hug that squeezed the breath from her. Nonetheless, Daisy smiled. It felt good to be wanted . . . if only for her mango chutney.
“Amazingly,” Daisy agreed when she’d found her breath. Then she found it again, luxuriating in air
as Mother Nature intended, without all the byproducts of a modern world.
Her thick braid of black hair falling forward, Rita bent over and peered into the small carrier. “This must be Elizabeth . . . somewhere.”
“She’s hiding under the moss.”
“We’ll meet later.” Rita returned to eye level with Daisy. “Let’s grab our stuff and get outta here. We’ll have lunch at the lodge.”
Daisy had only her suitcase and two boxes. Eight additional boxes with household items were still in Homer, coming over on later flights. But there were a number of boxes and packages for Wild Man Lodge in the cargo hold.
“Stocking up,” Rita explained. Then, with the expediency of a longshoreman, she hefted each piece into the back of the Land Rover while Daisy climbed into the front seat with Elizabeth.
“I would’ve helped,” Daisy said, when Rita slid behind the wheel.
Rita flicked off the comment with her hand. “I do this all the time.” She closed the door, but before she started the SUV, the pilot hailed her.
“Hey, Doug,” Rita called back through the open window.
Obviously happy with his life, Pilot Doug had a confident and continuous smile that partnered well with his dark glasses, blond ponytail, and barrel chest. Just one of the guys, Daisy thought, who probably wanted no more out of life than flying passengers and freight up and down the bay with a cold beer after.
“Got time for me tonight, RJ?” Doug cupped his hand over the window frame.
“Sorry, sweetie. This is Daisy’s first night and I want to get her settled. Check with me later this week.”
Never relaxing his grin, Doug peered around Rita at Daisy.
Even through his dark glasses, Daisy felt Doug’s unchivalrous scrutiny.
“Down, boy.” Rita started the engine; the expensive import purred. “She’s off-limits to pudknockers. She’s our new cook.”
“Is that what you’re calling ’em?” Still grinning, Doug rapped the vehicle with his knuckles. “Catch y’ later, pretty Rita.”
“What did he mean, what you’re calling them?” Daisy asked after they turned onto the road.
Rita shrugged. “Who knows.”
Daisy suspected she did know, but didn’t want her to know. “If you want to go out, I’ll be fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Please.” Another dismissing flick. “Doug isn’t going anywhere. And I should warn you,” she said, glancing at Daisy, “there’ll be a lot of Dougs sniffing you out—”
Daisy reflexively cringed at the crass description and the unwanted image it provoked.
“—I know you’re coming off a bad breakup and your hormones are kicking in. But it’s better to go easy until you get your bearings. There’s an old Alaskan saying about finding a man up here: The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”
Had Daisy not been rendered speechless by Rita’s inference that she was in heat and on the make, she might’ve informed her that she was no more interested in finding a man than she was a bear. But by the time she collected her thoughts to say so, Rita was pointing out the highlights of Main Street, with buildings on one side and a bay on the other.
“That’s the mercantile.” They slowly passed a brightly painted building sporting a colorful sign proclaiming OTTER BITE MERCANTILE. “Jen and Bud Owens. She came here from Idaho a few years back and married local. He’s a charter fisherman. Both on marriage number three.”
Also belonging to the Owenses, the Kachemak Kaffé was next door, its odd spelling forced by the Kachemak Café in Homer and the Kachemak Kafé in Seldovia. Outside, two women sat together at a table drinking what looked like lattes.
“That’s the local bar—”
LIGHTHOUSE INN, the crudely painted sign announced; it hung on a building which looked like a crazy quilt of construction leftovers.
“—And the post office. And the general store. They have the staples, but not much extra. We get most of our groceries in Anchorage and Homer. But fresh fish we get right out of Kachemak Bay.”
On the opposite side of the road, its back to the sheltered waters of relatively tiny Sedna Bay, home to Otter Bite’s marina, the last building—a house looking like it belonged on the historical register—had a mural across its front, protected by a wraparound porch. The colorful underwater ocean scene included otters, dolphins, orcas, seals, starfish, seahorses . . . a mermaid? . . . and a sea turtle. Daisy smiled, although she doubted turtles—or mermaids—were in these cold waters. The image reminded her of a Wyland. But the name of the shop baffled her. “What’s FLuke Eleven-Nine mean?”
“Don’t know. Felicity won’t tell.”
“Felicity?”
“The proprietor. She said something about Excalibur and the shop’s name being set in stone . . . But then, Felicity is kinda an odd fish.”
“You mean duck.”
“Sure. Go with that.”
They passed a small fleet of independent charter boats waiting for the start of the season, only days away. Floating on outstretched wings, seagulls screeched overhead demanding a handout from the men working on their boats. The breeze carried the aroma of the docks: a salty mixture of ozone and fish.
“That’s our girl there.” Stopping the Rover, she pointed to a sleek 75-footer, with a flying bridge sprouting whiplike antennas and the Alaska flag. “Molly-Anne.”
Molly-Anne looked scrubbed and speedy . . . and nothing like the barge on life support pictured on the website. “She’s big.”
“And sexy,” Rita added. “Comfortably accommodates twenty. Men get hard just looking at her.”
For that comment, Daisy couldn’t think of a single response, but she winced at the scene she imagined. Middle-aged men, bellies over their belts, crotches bulging, gazing at this boat as if she were a centerfold. Then again, maybe she was. “Who’s Molly-Anne?”
“The one who got away.”
“Really?”
“Well, there’s no Molly-Anne now, soooo . . .”
As they drove off, Daisy quickly inventoried the other, smaller boats. LuLu. Alaskan Star. Mystery. Heavenly Daze. Maggie C. And the last one Daisy glimpsed—Sea Mistress.
On the next hill sat a closet of a church, but well cared for, painted white with robin’s-egg blue shutters, a gold, onion-shaped dome on top, and the triple-bar cross Daisy recognized as Russian Orthodox. A small crop of headstones and crosses sprouted from the manicured lawn beside it.
“Pretty little church,” Daisy commented, as the sun gleamed off the dome.
“We like it. It’s on the National Register. Once in a blue moon, a priest comes for services. But usually it’s every sinner for himself. Two widowed sisters, Sylvie Atukaluk and Millie Charkoff, take care of it, but the door is always open and there’s a candle to light if you have the need. Just remember to leave a buck in the cookie jar.”
Daisy wasn’t Russian Orthodox or anything in the vicinity, and most of her prayers were the short, Oh God! variety, but maybe a lit candle now and again wouldn’t hurt.
Soon they were on a wooded, winding road with enough washboards and ruts to put a tank out of commission. When her curls tried to escape out the open window, Daisy raised the glass.
“Nice road,” she quipped as they bumped and skidded around a muddy corner.
“The state comes over BT and AT to grade it. They’re late this year.”
“BT and AT?”
“Before tourists and after tourists.”
Local lingo. Daisy filed it away.
Every now and again they passed a trail and Daisy glimpsed a house nestled in the trees, each rectangular box a clone of the one before.
Rita braked and swerved to miss a black bear who’d loped out of the woods then crossed the road into the woods on the other side.
Daisy gasped and twisted in her seat to follow the fellow’s getaway. “That’s a bear.”
“They come out of the woods spring and fall. They avoid people,” Rita added as if she sensed Daisy’s worry. “But they lo
ve our garbage.”
Daisy made a mental note not to hang out with the garbage. And to wear her bear bells, as recommended by her guide book. And to carry her giant-sized canister of cayenne pepper spray recommended by the hotel concierge who had chuckled at the lipstick-sized vial she carried in her purse to ward off muggers. Both bells and spray were purchased in Anchorage at a sporting goods store from a clerk who thought a rifle was a better bet, but nonetheless took her money.
“So, have the cops found your SUV yet?”
“Uh . . . no,” she answered, still lingering on the bear and the bells and the spray.
Reluctantly, Daisy had confided to Rita about her Columbia woes—not her Max Kendall woes, of course—but she hadn’t seen any way around her missing SUV and her cooking implements, since she was supposed to be arriving on this morning’s ferry with all of that.
“And I don’t think they ever will, but I’ve talked with my insurance company and they’re sending a check to cover the loss.”
“Well, you don’t really need a car since there’s no place to drive, and the lodge has a couple of Jeeps you can always borrow. Besides, it’s better to tear up someone else’s car on these roads than your own.”
They shimmied around a corner.
“So how far is the lodge?”
“It’s at the end of the road. About seven miles from town.”
Occasionally the trees cleared on the driver’s side and Daisy sighted Kachemak Bay, then the road curled inland and the forest took over. She hadn’t thought it possible, but the road actually worsened, narrowing into what could only be described as tire tracks. Yet Rita continued to drive as if they were on the interstate. One hole separated Daisy, who held Elizabeth on her lap, from the seat. “Jiminy Christmas!”
“It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid. Gotta do it fast.”
Daisy wasn’t convinced, but it didn’t seem worth arguing about. Besides, up ahead was a carved wood sign proclaiming WILD MAN LODGE. Roped to towering, rough-hewn poles, three flags stretched and fell in the variable breeze; flying tallest, the American flag was flanked by the Alaskan flag on one side and—was that Ireland’s flag on the other? As they turned into the drive, dread of the unknown made her heart race.
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