The Mist of Quarry Harbor

by Liz Adair

  “I’m . . . I’m all right. It’s just a bit unnerving to get mail for my husband. Thank you for bringing it to me. Will you excuse me if I don’t invite you in?”

  The teenager’s usual incandescent smile was absent. “That’s okay. We just want you to know that we feel . . . real bad for you. If you need anything, just holler.”

  “Thank you. I will.” Cassie closed the door and walked to the dining room. She pulled out a chair and sat, placing the envelope on the table in front of her. It was from Jensen and Sjoding, Yacht Brokers of Seattle, Washington. Taking a deep breath, she turned the envelope over, broke the seal, and pulled out the contents. The pages crackled as she separated the sheets and looked at the official language of ownership. It seemed that the week before they were married, Chan had bought a boat, a thirty-foot motor vessel named Red Swan, through Jensen and Sjoding. The cover letter stated that the boat was moored at Quarry Harbor. The key had been left with the harbormaster at Quarry Harbor as directed. If Mr. Jensen could be of any further help, Mr. Jordain should not hesitate to call.

  Things were turning surreal. It was as if her universe had become unhinged and things were revolving in orbits that were all askew. A thirty-foot boat? And not a word to her about it? Did he mean it for a surprise? If the bill of sale was addressed here, he certainly wasn’t trying to hide anything. She glanced down at the ring on her finger, remembered the day at the zoo and the Cracker Jack box, and suddenly the planets were restored to their natural orbits. Chan must have been planning a surprise. How like him!

  Buoyed by this thought, she gathered up the papers, took them upstairs, and left them on the bed. She went back to the task that had been interrupted and fetched Chan’s briefcase from the closet. Wondering why the prospect of pharmaceutical brochures and catalogues would make her pulse quicken, Cassie undid the latches and opened the lid.

  “Holy Crow!” she said aloud, using Punky’s expression for the first time in her life. There were no catalogs, no brochures, no sample packs of the most recent wonder drug. The briefcase’s contents included some maps, a protractor and compass, a leather-bound day timer, a small cardboard box, and a snub-nosed revolver in a shoulder holster.

  Cassie abruptly sat on the bed beside the opened briefcase. Frowning at the ugly, steel-gray killing tool, she felt her universe’s hinges slip again. When her field of vision started turning black around the edges, she realized she wasn’t breathing. She inhaled and exhaled several times until the ringing in her ears stopped and everything was full-screen.

  Without touching the gun, she grasped the top corner of one of the maps and pulled it out, unfolding it over her lap to study. After a moment she realized that it was a navigational chart for use at sea. She quickly saw that there were three such maps in the briefcase, and each one detailed a different area of Puget Sound. Cassie bent over the unfolded chart again, reading the numbers sprinkled over the blue area and then checking the legend. “Depth at mean low tide in fathoms,” she read. How much is a fathom? Intrigued, Cassie carried the chart next door to the office, laying it on her desk while she got her dictionary out. A fathom was six feet.

  Studying the chart, she was amazed at how many islands there were in that inland arm of the sea. More amazing was how many towns there were on the islands. She read the names: Cedar Cove, Shingle Bay, Quarry Harbor. Suddenly she realized she had heard that name before. Returning to her bedroom for the letter from Jensen and Sjoding, she checked. Yes. The Red Swan was moored in Quarry Harbor.

  Back in her office, Cassie got down her atlas and turned to Washington state. Her heart lurched when she came to the city of Edmonds along the coastline of Puget Sound. She quickly retrieved the crumpled up paper from downstairs that Bishop Harris had brought and carried it back up to the office. Smoothing it out, she inspected the sheet and noticed something she hadn’t paid attention to before: a line of tiny, identical, evenly-spaced blotches marched down the heat-sensitive fax paper. All but one of them was unimportant, because they occurred where no writing was present. But one happened to be right where Chandler Jordain’s age was noted. Holding the paper under the light of her desk lamp, Cassie studied it intently. “Aha!” she said finally, breaking into a smile. It became obvious, the longer she looked at it, that the blip on the fax paper had made the clerk’s three into an eight. Chandler Jordain wasn’t eighty-three; he was thirty-three. This was her Chan. Her husband was from Edmonds, Washington.

  As she folded up the charts and papers and put the atlas and dictionary back in their proper places, Cassie realized that she was hungry. Glancing out the window on her way back to the bedroom with the charts, she was surprised to see that it was dark. Peanut butter sounded pretty good right now, and as she put the charts back in the briefcase before heading down to the kitchen, she noticed the cardboard box sitting beside the gun. It was a little bigger than the box her checks came in, and it was made of heavier cardboard. Picking it up, she carried it down to the kitchen with her and left it on the breakfast bar as she fixed a sandwich. The hearty smell of the peanut butter made her salivate as she poured a glass of milk, and she took a bite before carrying her snack over to sit on one of the high bar stools.

  As she chewed, she picked up the box and tried to undo the locking tab with her fingernail. It wouldn’t budge. The peanut butter knife was balanced on the edge of her plate, so she licked it clean and used it to pry the tab out of the slots. Another bite, and then she pulled the lid up to see what was inside.

  Cassie just about choked. The box was full up to the top with new, crisp one-hundred dollar bills. “Holy Crow,” she said aloud for the second time that evening. The elation she had felt about finding out where Chan was from was devolving into unhingement again.

  Cassie began to count the currency. When she got to one hundred, she eyeballed the rest of the stack and estimated that there must be three hundred bills in the stack. Thirty thousand dollars!

  It suddenly occurred to her that she must have read the papers from Jensen and Sjoding wrong. Chan must have sold a boat, not purchased one. That would explain the money. Carefully, she put the bills back in the box, pressing them down so she could close it again. Knowing she’d never get the tabs to lock, she got a rubber band out of the drawer under the phone and secured the box that way while she trotted up the stairs again. She returned the package to the briefcase, and then checked the letter from the yacht brokers again. No. She had read it correctly the first time. Chan had purchased a boat.

  But where did thirty thousand dollars in cash come from? And why would he be carrying a gun?

  The phone rang, and it was Bishop Harris, saying that because of Ben’s schedule they would need to come in the morning. Was that all right? Would she be home around ten? Cassie said she would and felt a little better when she hung up the phone. Remembering her sandwich, she headed back to the kitchen to finish it, but stopped on the way to move things from the washer to the dryer. She was just about to get the clothes from the mortuary bag and run them through, but all of a sudden she was tired and didn’t want to cope with anything more today. It will keep, she thought as she closed the lid to the washer. Then she went down to her waiting peanut-butter sandwich.

  13

  Sister Harris arrived before her husband the next morning, ringing the doorbell at nine-thirty. When Cassie answered the door, the bishop’s wife smiled and exclaimed, “You’re looking much better!”

  “I’m doing better, too.” Cassie stepped back to allow the older woman to enter.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming early. I had to give Sister Jones a ride to work today, and I told Alfred I’d just meet him here.”

  “No. In fact . . .” Cassie closed the door and thought a moment. “In fact, it may be providential. Sister Harris, I’d like to talk to you about something. Would you come up to my room?”

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  Cassie led the way up the stairs and seated her in the chair in her bedroom. Before she got the briefcase out of th
e closet, she threw back the curtains and let the morning sun illuminate the room.

  “That’s better. I do like light.” Sister Harris watched with interest as Cassie knelt beside her, opening the case and laying it out flat on the floor.

  “Oh, dear!” Sister Harris said when she saw the gun. She looked at Cassie with a wrinkled brow. “What is this?”

  “This is my husband’s briefcase. I thought he was a salesman, but as I think back, he never told me that. What he said was, ‘I’m in pharmaceuticals. I travel.’ He was not reachable by cell phone while he was away. When he was gone, he was truly gone.”

  Cassie went on, “When I opened this briefcase, I expected to find sales books, pamphlets, and catalogues, along with the name of the company he worked for so I could get in touch with them. This is what I found. And look . . .” Cassie took off the rubber band and opened the cardboard box.

  Sister Harris’s brows went up. “Well, I declare! Are those all hundred dollar bills?”

  “Yes. There must be thirty thousand dollars here.”

  “What else is in there?” Sister Harris leaned over, her eyes sparkling.

  “There are some navigational charts for Puget Sound—oh, and I figured out that the record that the bishop gave me is of my Chandler Jordain, after all. The fax machine made a blotch over the three on thirty-three and made it look like eighty-three. Chan was from a city on the coast of Puget Sound.”

  “And what’s the notebook?”

  “It’s a date book, but there’s not much in it. No addresses. No phone numbers. Just some numbers written in the calendar.” Cassie opened the book to October twelfth and showed her.

  “Those look like long and lat positions,” Sister Harris said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Longtitude and latitude. You could take those charts and find these positions. I don’t know what the other numbers are for. Could be times. Nine point five-A could be nine-thirty a.m.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, I worked for the forest service for a lot of years, and when you get out where there are no road signs, you do a lot of naming of things with long and lat. The other—the time—is a guess. I did a lot of guessing at what the fellows meant with their shorthand, too.”

  Cassie looked at the figures again and then closed the book and put it away. Sitting back on her heels, she spread her hands. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “About what?”

  “About my husband.” Cassie’s voice broke, and she cleared her throat.

  Sister Harris spoke matter-of-factly. “Because you found a gun in his briefcase? You’re living in the West, my dear, where the NRA is a pretty big deal. My boss used to carry a pistol, though he never used a shoulder holster.”

  “And the Social Security Department couldn’t find Chan . . . though that’s because I had given the wrong information for the death certificate.”

  Sister Harris took one of Cassie’s hands and held it in both of hers. “Let me ask you a question. What kind of man was Chan? Was he honorable?”

  “Yes. In everything I saw him do.”

  “You said he was a returned missionary?”

  “Yes. He knew so much about the Church!”

  “Well. If he was an honorable man, then there’s an honorable explanation. Maybe he was a government agent. Maybe he couldn’t let even his nearest and dearest know what he was doing.”

  Cassie’s eyes widened. “Oh, Sister Harris! I never thought of that. But what about the money?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t spend any of it,” the older lady cautioned. “It’s probably government property.” She chuckled, “Depend on it, someone will be coming around with a chit signed by your husband and asking for it back.”

  “But why would he have it?”

  “If people are working undercover, they often use cash—payments to informants, that kind of thing. When we were in Montana, the elders quorum president was a narcotics agent. He had to have lots of cash to buy drugs from dealers while he was setting up a sting. I think it’s a fairly common thing.”

  Cassie was quiet for a moment. “Chan said he was in phar—” She didn’t get to continue the thought because the doorbell rang. Looking at her watch, she said, “It’s ten. That’s either Ben or the bishop.”

  As Cassie began closing the briefcase, Sister Harris asked, “You were looking through those things after dark, weren’t you?”

  Cassie blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Oh, things have a way of getting exaggerated after dark. Remember, there is always a rational explanation.”

  “I’ll remember,” Cassie smiled. “Thank you!”

  The doorbell rang again. “I’d better get that,” Cassie said. She jumped up and ran down the stairs, opening the door to find Bishop Harris, Ben, and Ricky. Ricky was holding a well-used Elmo doll.

  “Come in,” Cassie invited. “Hello, Bishop.” She shook his hand.

  “Hello, Ben.” She offered her hand, and Ben took it, staring hard at her.

  “Are you all right, Cassie?” he asked.

  “If I’m not right now, I will be.” Going down on one knee to be eye-level to the little boy, she said, “Hello, Ricky. I’m so glad you came to see me!”

  Ricky’s dark liquid eyes, so like his dad’s, met Cassie’s blue ones. “Sad, Tassie?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “Well, you know, Ricky, I have been. But I’m trying to be happier. A hug would help.”

  Still holding Elmo, Ricky spread his arms wide and wrapped them around Cassie’s neck in a tight embrace.

  “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “I needed that.” She kissed Ricky on the cheek and then stood.

  “Where would you like to sit, Cassie?” the bishop asked.

  “Let’s go into the living room,” she replied.

  Bishop Harris looked around. “Where is Sister Harris? Isn’t she here yet?”

  “I’m right here,” his wife said, coming down the stairs. “I was just putting something away for Cassie.” She met Cassie’s eyes and said, “It’s back in the closet.”

  Cassie smiled her thanks and sat in the chair that Bishop Harris indicated. Sister Harris sat down on the couch and patted the place beside her. “Come sit by me, Ricky,” she invited.

  Ben led Ricky over and helped him get settled. Then he came over to stand beside Cassie, and rested his hands on her shoulders. “What is your full name, Cassie?” he asked.

  “Cassandra Lee Van Cl—No. It’s Cassandra Lee Jordain.”

  “All right, then.”

  Cassie closed her eyes as Ben moved his hands from her shoulders to her head. She felt the gentle pressure of Bishop’s hands as well, and then Ben began to speak, haltingly at first, as if searching for words or waiting for inspiration. Tears seeped from under closed lids and beaded up on her lashes as Cassie listened to Ben’s assurance that the Lord was mindful of her, that God would not ask her to suffer more than she could bear. Other phrases stuck in her mind as they were voiced: learn empathy; forget yourself in service; you will be given strength; you will be protected as you travel; listen to the still, small voice; all these things will be for your experience. Then the amens were said, and the two men removed their hands, and Cassie felt bereft, as if she had lost connection with someplace safe.

  “Where are you going, Cassie?” Ben asked.

  “How did you know I was going anywhere?”

  “I didn’t. Where are you going?”

  “Mmm.” She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “I’m not sure I’ll go anywhere. But I may go to Washington state to tie up some loose ends.”

  “Let me know if you do,” Bishop Harris said, shaking Cassie’s hand.

  “I will.” Cassie stood and turned to hug Ben. “Thanks, mi amigo.”

  “I was afraid you were going to shake my hand again,” he kidded.

  Sister Harris, who had been quietly playing pat-a-cake with Ricky, gave him a squeeze. “I’ve got to go, Ricky my b
oy. Yes,” she said laughing, “I see you can do it all by yourself. Uuuuup in the oven. That’s a boy!”

  Still smiling, Sister Harris arose and came to embrace Cassie. “What a fine blessing. I hope you listened to every word.”

  “I did,” Cassie assured her.

  “Well, I’m on my way. You need to come too, Alfred,” Sister Harris admonished from the entryway. “We’re due at the dentist in half an hour.”

  “I know, I know, Mother.” Bishop opened the door for her, and she twinkled up at him as she passed through.

  “Race you,” she challenged. “First one there is last in the chair.”

  Bishop caught Cassie’s eye and winked. “Now, now, Mother. Act your age.” He spoke to empty air, because Sister Harris was trotting across the parking lot. Bishop quickly closed the door and scooted decorously out to his own car.

  Cassie smiled as tires squealed on the blacktop. “What a pair they are!” she said to Ben. “They still have fun.”

  “They’re still in love,” he said and then dropped his eyes. “Um, come sit down, Cassie. I want to talk to you a minute.” Ben sank down on the couch by Ricky and pulled the boy onto his lap.

  Cassie stood warily behind the easy chair. “What about?”

  Ben’s eyes flashed and his voice had an edge. “Who do you think I am? Do you think I’m going to make some kind of move on you at a time like this? I only wanted to ask you what the police are doing to find the hit-and-run.”

  Cassie felt her face turning red, and she covered her cheeks with her hands for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Come and sit down.” Ben’s voice had lost its sharpness. “I’m the one who should apologize. I hope we can get past all of that.”

  Cassie sat.

  “Now,” Ben began, “what have you heard from the police?”

  Cassie frowned in puzzlement. “Nothing.”

  “They didn’t report on their progress from the investigation?”

  “I don’t know that there was an investigation beyond what they did on the day of the accident. No one took a license number. All anyone could say was that the car was a dark color. Some said blue, some said black.”