by Sue Henry
“I finally convinced him that he would never win in a fight over it.”
So I was free until, and unless, I was needed later, but I had left him with power of attorney, so he could probably handle anything that arose.
What would happen to Ed, I had no desire to know, but Officer Bellamy had assured me a conviction was inevitable.
Doris Chapman had waved me off, after insisting that I accept a plastic container of brownies. “For the road.”
She had been joined by Jamie and Jim, who were about to head back to Salt Lake. We would keep in touch, as Sarah would have wanted and which contented me.
Opening the door of the Winnebago, I had let Stretch climb aboard, tail wagging, ready for another adventure. Before stepping in myself, I had suddenly caught a hint of honeysuckle that floated in from somewhere on the morning breeze and turned to take one last look at Sarah’s house and yard, missing my friend, as I knew I always would.
That I wasn’t sure exactly where in New Mexico I was headed didn’t matter. I had no definite timetable and there was all of the Four Corners canyon country temptingly close.
Like Indian paintbrush, I can grow almost anywhere, and I’ve always liked journeys as much as destinations.
Besides—an open door always has a question in it.
Jessie Arnold and Alex Jensen return in
MURDER AT FIVE FINGER LIGHT
a Jessie Arnold mystery from Sue Henry, coming
in April 2005 from New American Library.
Turn the page for an exciting preview. . . .
SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT IN THE DARKEST HOURS OF an early morning in mid-September, the grumble of a marine engine slowly and cautiously approaching a tiny three-acre island was little more than a mutter within the insistent pulse of the incoming tide that splashed and gurgled ceaselessly against the sharp stones, the dying result of a windy rainstorm that had swept through the area the previous evening.
In the northern reaches of Frederick Sound, midway up the Alaskan length of the Inside Passage, the island was the largest of five narrow ridges of jagged rock that had come to be known as the Five Fingers, for seamen contended that they resembled a grasping hand. A treacherous four of these barely broke the surface, but the fifth and largest was unique for rising some fifty feet above the salt waters of the sound, and for the lighthouse that had been placed there and operated for just over one hundred years as a warning to mariners to travel farther to the west and avoid the risk of foundering upon the lurking fingers that were dangerously concealed at high tide, in darkness, or in rough weather.
The growling powerboat approached gingerly and without running lights, the operator well aware that, without an available dock or landing, caution must be taken to avoid being caught by the surf and bashing the hull against the ragged natural stone ramp rising up from the sea to the level of a wide concrete platform below the lighthouse. Between this rough ramp and a support wall below the platform lay a narrow but deep cove that provided partial protection from the insistent waves. Using the boat’s two heavy Mercury outboard engines off the transom, the operator carefully maneuvered the twenty-six-foot Kingfisher into this semiprotected space. A second figure hopped on and helped to rig a pair of opposing lines that would hold the craft off both the rocks and the wall but close enough for unloading the small but valuable cargo.
High over their heads in the cupola of the tower, the automatic solar-powered light revolved steadily, sweeping the line of its powerful beam across the underside of a low-hanging layer of cloud that threatened more rain and reflected just enough light to make the area visible to eyes already accustomed to the dark. It would probably rain again, but the accompanying wind had died and the waters of the sound calmed their thrashing to mild whitecaps and lacy foam.
The boat tied off safely with two lines, the operator cut the engines and stepped out onto the aft deck, opened a hatch and removed two carefully waterproofed packages about eighteen inches square.
“You’re sure there’s no one here?”
“Yeah, sure. They won’t show till around noon next Sunday.”
“It better be like you say. I’m not up for any surprises on this one.”
“It’s fine. We’ve got plenty of time to stash this stuff and head for Petersburg. They’ll never know we were here. It’s like I told you—perfect cover.”
“It better be. Here, take this. I’ll bring the other one.”
“Bring a flashlight. We’ll need it.”
“No inside lights?”
“Not unless we start a generator, and we don’t want to do that, do we?”
Each warily carrying one of the packages, the two figures, one shorter and huskier than the other but both mere shadows in the dark, carefully climbed the uneven, slippery stones of the ramp to the platform and crossed to a pair of double doors that led into the lower floor beneath the lighthouse that towered over them.
“Got the key?”
Balancing the package on one arm to free a hand to dig into a jacket pocket, the answer came with a nod. “Yeah—same one I used last time I was here.”
“Hey—be careful you don’t drop that. Just open the damn door. Let’s get this done and be gone.”
Swinging the doors wide, the pair vanished into the blackness of the basement, returning empty-handed in a few minutes to lock the door behind them.
In less than ten minutes they were gone and the island was once again left to the enduring isolation of its automated duty.
Far across the wide waters of Frederick Sound, the pilot of a fishing boat took comfort in recognizing its familiar beam and in knowing that he was finally nearing his home port, little more than an hour south. Briefly he wondered about the people from Juneau who now owned Five Finger Light and the whale-watching station that rumor had it they intended to locate there.
Shrugging, he took another swig of rapidly cooling coffee and focused on achieving the most direct route across the sound to Petersburg.
1 The Baltimore Sun