The Mist of Quarry Harbor

by Liz Adair

  “I’m doing fine, Bishop. I’m having quite an adventure.”

  “How’s that?”

  Cassie almost told him about the encounter with the yellow crabber but didn’t want to blow it out of proportion. Instead she said, “It’s so different from Arizona, and so beautiful,” which sounded lame, but he didn’t seem to think so.

  “I’m glad you’re doing well. I worried about you a bit.”

  That made Cassie smile. “I called to see if you have any way of getting me the Edmonds First Ward bishop’s home phone number. I think I could call the chapel until doomsday and never get in touch with him. They don’t list his home phone.”

  “I can get it for you, but my church directory is at the bishop’s office. Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Great. Just call my cell phone number and leave a message. There’s no service here, but I’m checking in.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m at the Hickcox Hotel in Quarry Harbor.”

  “It sounds quaint.”

  “You have no idea,” she said dryly. “Thanks, Bishop. I’ll be looking for your call.”

  “You’re welcome, and Cassie . . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re where you need to be. You’re doing what you need to be doing. Remember that.”

  “Wow, Bishop. That’s pretty heavy stuff.”

  “Life is heavy stuff. Carry on, and bless you, my dear.”

  “Thanks, Bishop. ’Bye.”

  Cassie hung up, wondering what had prompted that last bit of wisdom from Bishop Harris. Pensively, she picked up Elmo and straightened his tie. “You’re a good-lookin’ guy,” she observed. “What do you think?”

  She rubbed the fuzzy red body against her cheek. “Do you miss your little Ricky? I think I do. I miss . . . something. I think I’ll go home tomorrow.” She sighed and set the stuffed animal back on the table.

  Cassie finished her sandwich and milk, looking out the window at the activity on the docks. The late-afternoon sun was sparkling on the water and a sailboat was heading out of the harbor, towing a little square dinghy behind it. Her eyes wandered to the Red Swan, tied up where she left it. Thinking that she might go talk to Mr. Knuteson, Cassie decided to change into boat-friendly shoes. She put on a pair of Levi’s and cross-trainers, then grabbed her fleece and carried her dishes down to the dining room. Setting them on a table close to the bussing station, she headed out the door and down the stairs to the marina.

  As Cassie descended the stairs onto A Float, the gulls were wheeling in the air, monotonously repeating their plaintive cries, and a little boy in a life jacket crouched on the edge of the dock, peering down, watching something intently. Looking over his shoulder into the water, Cassie saw a dozen tiny jellyfish rising and falling in a languid water dance.

  “Hey, look, Dad!” the boy called to someone out on the dock. “Come see!”

  Cassie walked on, nodding to the dad as she passed. When she reached the harbormaster’s place, she was disappointed to see a sign that referred anyone wanting a slip to Morning Mist in A13. With nothing else to do, Cassie wandered the docks looking at boats, hoping that Mr. Knuteson would be back by the time she passed by his cabin again. He wasn’t.

  Frustrated, Cassie was heading back to the hotel when her eye fell on the sheer walls of the rock quarry up at the top of the hill, and she decided to hike up and take a closer look. Setting off at a brisk pace, she was puffing by the time she finally gained the flat floor of the rockworks. The area was huge, the size of a football field, with surrounding walls stair-stepping up three stories high. That’s a lot of granite, she thought. I wonder how many buildings were built out of this rock.

  Walking out onto the ledge overlooking town, she sat on a boulder and watched the sun sinking behind the islands in the distance. The air turned chilly, and she was glad she had brought the fleece. Standing to put it on, she looked behind her and saw that a mist was forming on the quarry floor, ghostly and insubstantial in the gathering twilight. Intrigued, she waded through it, watching the way it hid her feet and swirled around her knees.

  As night came on, she realized it would be safer out on the road, so she headed over there and started back down. The harbor lights came on as she descended, making shining, silvery paths on the dark water. The road was shadowy, though, and she tripped once and almost fell. Grateful to reach the lighted walkway of the hotel, she hurried inside.

  After a light supper, she returned to her room and sat by the window, watching the play of the lights on the water. Noticing the unfinished crossword puzzle from the ferry, she picked it up and turned on the lamp.

  Her mind wouldn’t focus on the words. Instead she kept seeing the man from the crabber as he stood on the deck of the Red Swan, remembering how his eyes darted from her to the flare gun in Luke’s hand and back. She didn’t think he had been afraid. Uncertain was more like it.

  Pushing that thought away, she read a clue out loud. “Sufficient. That has to be plenty. No, too many letters. Enough is too big, too. Hmm.” Moving down, she tried another one. “Ten across: entertain. Host? Not enough letters. Entertain. Entertain.”

  Discouraged, she abandoned the puzzle and folded the paper back, thinking if she immersed herself in yesterday’s news, it might keep the yellow crabber out of her thoughts. Skimming over the local Seattle items, she read about the proposal to revamp the Alaska Way Viaduct and the bill that was being introduced in the state legislature for a personal income tax. A headline caught her eye, and as she read the accompanying story, suddenly the yellow crabber was front and center once more.

  The story stated that a man from St. Mary’s Island had been arrested for smuggling illegal drugs in from Canada. The article went on to say that with all the boats out on the Sound moving in both American and Canadian waters, the area was becoming a major conduit for drug trafficking and that several South American drug cartels were moving in to take advantage. For that reason, the United States was pouring resources into the area to combat the growing problem.

  Things suddenly snapped into focus. Remembering what Sister Harris had said about Chan, Cassie wondered if he hadn’t been working undercover for . . . who? Cassie reread the article. The Border Patrol? Customs and Immigration? Who would it be? Like Sister Harris said, that would explain the lack of personal information.

  The notations in the day-timer meant something to Cassie now. Ruefully, she realized that Chan must have set up a sting that he never got to carry out. If he had been there today, the smugglers on the yellow boat would have delivered whatever was in the crate to Chan, and he would have nabbed them. They would now be behind bars. Instead, they had been warned that someone was onto them, and they would be more wary next time.

  Or maybe they got wary already! Cassie turned cold as she remembered Luke Matthews holding her wrist in a vise-like grip and his angry face right next to hers. Was he trying to frighten her? Did he know something? And come to think of it, why had he been standing there with a flare gun? What did he intend to do with that?

  Cassie had come to Quarry Harbor for answers, but the questions were flying thick and fast. Who was Luke Matthews, anyway? Did he work for the government like Chan, or was he just someone hired to move a boat?

  To get away from the questions, Cassie grabbed the robe from the closet and fled down the hall. As she stood in a steaming shower, things started falling into place, and she began to think that the answers might be more frightening than the questions. She understood the gun in the shoulder holster now. The work must have been very dangerous. So dangerous, in fact . . .

  Cassie turned off the water and stood dripping wet, staring straight ahead but not seeing the white tiles of the shower. Instead, she saw a dark-colored sedan in front of her house and Chan leaning over to speak angrily to the person who was driving. And then . . . could it be? She tried to remember the car that had come roaring out of nowhere, catching Chan dead-center and hurling him to his death.

  Turni
ng pale, she realized that it may not have been an accident. Maybe Chan was too good at his job, and the South American smugglers had wanted him out of the way. Maybe they had targeted him and killed him far away from the drug wars so no one would ever suspect.

  Cassie shivered, and the involuntary response brought her back to where she was. She reached for her towel and rubbed her arms and legs vigorously, then wrapped the towel around her head before putting the robe back on to return to her room. Once there, she felt restless and anxious to be on her way. There was nothing left to be found in Quarry Harbor. She looked at her watch and saw that making the last ferry would be iffy. She would have to stay one more night.

  18

  Cassie woke up the next morning with her head pillowed on her arms at the table by the window. Feeling cold and cramped and wondering how long she had been there, she looked at her watch. It was seven a.m., but even with the lamp on, the light in the room was dim. Looking outside, Cassie understood what Patty had said about the difference between mist and fog. She couldn’t see the railing at the end of the porch. This was fog.

  Gradually, the memory of the night before returned. Sleep had been impossible, and Cassie had sat at the table alternately writing down all she could remember of her five-week relationship with Chan and making a list of steps she was going to take once the morning arrived.

  That included finding someone, anyone, who knew Chan in Edmonds, and someone, anyone, in the Border Patrol or Immigration or FBI who could help her track down his records. She needed to let them know that her husband’s death was murder, not a hit-and-run accident.

  Cassie stretched and rubbed her eyes. Remembering that Bishop Harris was an early riser, she decided to call to see if he had the Edmonds bishop’s number for her. Bishop was indeed an early riser. He was also an early jogger and was already gone, but Sister Harris, who was just on her way out, gave Cassie the number her husband had found.

  Feeling that it was too early to call a stranger, Cassie decided to have breakfast first. She dressed quickly and did what she could to minimize the dark circles under her eyes, then she went downstairs and had a bowl of oatmeal and some juice. Patty was at the hotel desk as she came out of the dining room, and Cassie stopped to say that she was checking out right away.

  “Are you going back to the mainland?” Patty asked, “Or someplace on St. Mary’s?”

  “I’m going back to Seattle.”

  Patty shook her head. “Not today. The ferry ran aground on a rock and creased the hull real good. It’s out of commission for who knows how long.”

  “Don’t they have another ferry? A substitute?”

  “Yes, but it’s on another run while that ferry is down for regular maintenance. If it’s real important, you can go on a foot-ferry. You’ll have to leave your car at Shingle Bay and come back and get it later.”

  Cassie looked outside. It was like looking through a mass of spider webs. She could hardly drive in this anyway. “How long will it be?”

  Patty shrugged. “A day. Maybe two.” She looked with concern at Cassie. “Are you all right? You’re very pale.”

  Cassie shook her head. “I’m all right,” she said, but her sunken eyes belied her words. “I’m all right,” she repeated as she turned and walked heavily back up the stairs. She didn’t quite make it to her room before her chest began heaving convulsively. Fumbling with her key, she finally managed to unlock the door and gain the sanctuary of her room. She dropped to her knees by the bed and buried her head in the covers and broke down in great racking sobs.

  She didn’t even try to stop; she just let the tears flow. She cried for all the bleakness and grayness of the morning, for the scary questions and even scarier answers of last night, for the futile list that made its mark on her cheek as she slept, and for her imprisonment on this island. She cried for her lost husband and for all the sweet moments they had together. She had chronicled them one by one last night.

  When there were finally no more tears, she whispered a prayer, telling the Lord that she couldn’t carry the burden any longer. She would turn it over to him. Then she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over her ears.

  When Cassie awoke, sunlight was streaming in the windows. Blinking, she shielded her eyes against the glare until they had become accustomed to the brightness. Then she threw off the covers, sat up, and looked at her watch. Almost noon. “Time doesn’t mean anything to a prisoner,” she muttered, getting up and padding over to the window.

  The sky was brilliant blue, and the water a shade bluer, flat calm as far as the eye could see. A heron waded up to its knees in the shallow at low tide, and two gulls floated on the water in front of the crimson hull of the Red Swan. The wind sock above the harbormaster’s cabin hung limply on its pole, and as she looked down, she could see Mr. Knuteson standing on the dock talking to someone.

  Remembering that she needed to see him, Cassie went to the mirror to comb her hair. Appalled at what she saw, she got a tissue and cleaned off the black smudges where her mascara had run. Then she applied new makeup and brushed her hair. Leaving her purse in the room, she grabbed her sunglasses and stuck her keys in her pocket before going downstairs.

  When she reached the harbormaster’s office, she was relieved to see the door standing open. Peeking her head in, she called, “Mr. Knuteson?”

  The old man emerged from a back room with a mug in his hand. “Hello, Mrs. Jordain. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have a minute? I have a couple of questions.”

  “Certainly. Have a seat. Do you want some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” Cassie sat, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head.

  Mr. Knuteson settled his long frame in the rocking chair and looked at her expectantly.

  “I have a question about the Red Swan. I understand the slip is sublet to me—to my husband, and therefore to me—from someone else. Is that so?”

  “Yes. That is so.”

  “How long is that slip available? I imagine I will sell the boat, but I don’t know how long that will take. I don’t know how long it will be until it is mine to sell. Arizona is a community property state, but there may be some legal hoops I have to jump through before my name is on the title. I’d like to have an idea of how long it can stay where it is.”

  “I can’t speak for the person who has the slip, but I think it will be a while before he will have a boat that he wants to put there.”

  “So, as long as I pay the rent, I can leave the Red Swan there?”

  “Yes. But you may want to consider pulling her out of the water for the winter. If you decide to do that, I can put you in touch with someone who will take her out and store her for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about that.”

  “You sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  Cassie shook her head.

  “Well, I’ll just go get me a half a cup. Back in a minute.”

  When he returned, Cassie asked, “Do you know anyone who might be willing to take me out in the Red Swan again? At the going rate, of course.”

  Mr. Knuteson took a noisy sip of his coffee. “Where’s the young man, took you out yesterday?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d still be here today, so I didn’t make any . . .” Cassie’s voice trailed off.

  “Oh, yeah. The ferry. I guess you’re not going anywhere for a day or two. Well . . .” He stroked his chin. “Let’s see. I may know someone, though I’m not sure of his schedule. Let me give him a call.”

  Setting his cup down, Mr. Knuteson went over to the desk in the corner and spoke on the telephone to someone named Aaron. Hanging up, he said, “It’s all set. He lives up on the hill. Be down in a minute.”

  “Great! I’ll just go along now and open it . . . open her up. He knows which boat?”

  “He knows.”

  Cassie rose and extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Knuteson. I’ll let you know what I want to do about the Red Swan.”

  She stepped o
ut into the sunshine and made her way down A Dock, reflecting that the spring in her step was more than the bounce of the float. The gloom of the morning was past, and as she approached the boat, she realized that she was really looking forward to a pleasant hour or two out on the water.

  Cassie climbed over the gunwale and dropped down to the back deck and felt a glow of ownership as she turned her key in the padlock. After the door was open, she stepped inside, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head and looking around curiously. The boat was laid out very compactly, with cupboards and cubbies for storage everywhere. Just inside, to her right, there was a door that she opened, revealing a small bathroom, complete with marine toilet and shower. Forward of that, in the middle of the house, was a set of cabinets that came up to waist height, and forward of that was the high captain’s seat facing a small spoked wheel. Windows all around made the cabin very light.

  Walking around the captain’s station, Cassie examined the small galley on the other side of the boat. It had a sink and an under-counter fridge, an alcohol fueled stove, and an eating bar with two stools that looked out on the back deck. Next to the captain’s seat a fold-down chair had been cleverly built so that someone could sit up next to the captain when access to the galley wasn’t needed.

  The cabin roof stepped down so that the house over the bow was not tall enough to stand up in. Just before the step-down, there was a bank of storage cupboards on each side of a small hall leading to the low-ceilinged V-berth, where a single bed ran along either side of the boat, joining halfway down as they followed the contour to the pointed bow. Cassie sat on one of the bunks and looked out the porthole on the opposite wall. Right above her was a hatch with a transparent cover that let in light and made the berth a pleasant place to lie.

  Exploring further, Cassie stood and began opening cupboards in the little hallway. In one were sweatshirts and sweatpants, folded and stacked neatly. In another were life jackets; in another foul-weather gear. Opening a top cupboard, she jumped back as a bulky yellow apparatus fell out with a thud. She stooped to pick it up, puzzled at the rolled-up canvas core wrapped around and around with a braided rope.