“Go on. I know Jim.”
“Well, he was asking if anybody knew the man they found early this morning on the beach in front of that boathouse, you know they chopped off the bow and the stern, added windows.”
“Everyone knows the boathouse. What do you mean found?”
“Bottom of the hundred-foot bank south side of the house. Gilly, he was dead. They’re not sure how he died. Bad cut on his head. Maybe drowned in the high tide. No ID. So Jim’s asking everybody if they recognize the guy.”
Chapter 4
───
CHAOS! THAT’S HOW THE two Kitsap County officers saw it. Fishermen hauling their small boats and trailers on the back of their pickups parked at the general store. They were stocking up for a day of fishing and fun in the sun, as well as the latest gossip. The regulars—old timers, kids and their parents, or kids on bicycles skidding up to the bike rack—were hoping to catch the latest news on the body that was found on the beach not more than a mile south. Chaos on land juxtaposed to the tranquility of Puget Sound, waves lapping the shore. Last night’s storm had moved east over the Cascade Mountains.
Kitsap County Deputy Jim Kracker, white, salt and pepper hair, was a thirty-five year veteran with a craggy face to prove it. Officer Claire Troxell, black, engaging smile, had been on the force four years, two years of which were spent with Jim as his partner. Kracker, cell phone to his ear, moved away from the crowd leaving his partner to question the throng. Moving from one person to another, Troxell showed a picture of the body she had taken with her cell asking if anyone knew the man.
No one recognized the deceased.
Everyone recognized the boathouse.
Kracker finished his call and joined his partner. “That was the coroner. He picked up the body and is heading to the morgue. Anybody ID the guy?” he asked, glancing at the remnants of the spectators. Most had gone into the general store, or had taken off down the beach to see the spot where the body was discovered.
“No one other than Mr. Wilder, who we talked to earlier, but I didn’t get a very good picture. Wilder was positive as far as it went—first name only—John. Could be we’ll get a better picture for a poster after the ME cleans him up. I think—
“Excuse me, excuse me, officers, I understand you found a body this morning? Murdered?” A man, mid-twenties, camera hanging on a brown leather strap wrapped around the back of his neck, notepad in hand, slid to a stop in front of the officers. With a total scrubbed look—shaved head, jeans, white sneakers—he was all business. A Seattle Times reporter’s badge was wedged underneath the camera strap.
“And just why do you think it’s murder, kid?” Kracker asked walking to the squad car, Kitsap County Police emblazoned on the side. “Come on, Claire, not much more we can do here.”
“Wait, wait. Who was the victim?” The reporter kept up with the officers step-for-step, camera banging into his chest, head inches from Troxell’s face.
“What’s your name, kid?” Kracker asked.
“I’m not a kid. I’m a reporter. Skip Hunter, Seattle Times. So, who was the victim?”
“We don’t know yet. All we have is his first name—John,” Troxell replied, getting into the car as Kracker turned the key in the ignition.
“How do you know that? Wallet?” Skip stuck his nose in her car window.
“No, an old guy said the man stopped by his house late last night. He said his name was John. He may have been the last one to see him alive.”
“What’s the old man’s name?” Skip, pushing against the door, struggled to keep his camera from slipping as he scribbled the name John on his pad.
“Wilder. He lives up the road.” Troxell said.
“Is that where you found John?” The reporter’s arm was now part way in the car window.
“No,” Kracker replied leaning forward against the steering wheel. “He was found in the other direction. See that dirt road heading south off of Hansville Road?”
Skip looked up in the direction Kracker was pointing. “Yes, yes.”
“About a mile, you’ll see a house made from a boat. Next to it. The body. But there’s a steep bank so you can’t see it from the road. You best walk the beach from here.”
“Thanks officer, officer—
“Kracker. He’s Deputy Kracker and I’m Officer Troxell.”
Claire rolled up her window as Jim pulled away from the little store onto Hansville Road. “Jim, we have to get fliers up at the ferry terminals fast. If John came over to the island from Seattle on the ferry, someone may have seen him.”
“Right on, Claire. We’ll stop at the morgue first. See what the ME has come up with and take some more pictures. But, don’t rule out he could have come over on the Edmonds ferry.”
───
THE OFFICER’S CAR WASN’T out of the parking lot before Skip was already jogging south on the beach. The tide was out so he kept his sneakers on to protect his feet from the rocks—very small and very sharp. Ten minutes later he saw the house constructed around the super-structure of a boat, painted white with windows under the flying bridge facing the sound. If the house wasn’t land bound, Skip could imagine fishing off the top deck, waves pounding the hull.
As he approached, he pulled his camera up and shot several pictures of the house and the steep embankment behind. Kracker was right, he thought. That bank is an easy hundred feet high. He shot several more pictures of the bank, the rocky beach in front of the house and the south side where the deputy said the body was found.
Satisfied, Skip trotted back to his jeep parked next to the General Store. Once a cross-country runner, it was an easy mile for him.
───
GILLY SWUNG INTO HER home-away-from-home and parked. Working two jobs, the Village Boutique in Port Gamble and the casino in Bainbridge, it helped to spend the nights at her grandfather’s when she worked at the casino, and it gave her a chance to check on him as well as give him some company. With what she overheard the night before last, she figured she’d spend even more time with her grandfather—better to keep out of her dad’s sight for the time being.
She plucked her traveling suitcase from the backseat and dashed into the guesthouse. After turning up the AC, she sprinted down to the main house, breezing through the patio door and through the open back door. “Gramps, I’m here.”
“Okay. Is your mother coming?” he asked meeting her in the hallway from the kitchen.
“Yes, any minute. She’s right behind me with the bridal party.” Gilly planted a kiss on his rosy cheek and then hightailed back up to the guesthouse. “Come meet them,” she called over her shoulder.
Glancing up the long, narrow driveway with no sight of her mom’s car, she hurried into the guesthouse, grabbed a bottle of glass cleaner from under the little sink and a handful of paper towels. She sprayed the cleaner on the long table wiping it down in quick strokes. Next came the contents of the suitcase. Laying the two fabric pieces on the table, she unfolded the pale apricot smoothing it out with her hands—her fingers caressing the satin surface, her mind designing the dress as if by magic through the feel of the material, the sheen speaking to her. Turning to the hall closet between the bathroom and the small bedroom, poking her head into the back corner, she dragged out Patty the mannequin and set the headless woman upright on her stand.
Gilly looked around the room. This was the first time she had suggested a client meet her at the guesthouse. Her grandfather built the addition while working at the lumber mill. The young Wilder family—his son, daughter-in-law and their young daughter—spent many days in Hansville especially when Gilly was growing up. Will and Anne occupied the guesthouse bedroom while Gilly slept in the spare bedroom in the main house.
Clay and Betty furnished the guesthouse with items they picked up from yard sales. The rooms were small—kitchen no bigger than a little fishing boat’s galley. A counter separated it from the living room which was rarely used—the family came together in the main house. The long, ten-
foot folding table was the only piece of furniture and took turns as a potting table, place to lay maps of the surrounding islands and waterways, and now served as the center of Gilly’s design universe. With white plaster walls, green indoor-outdoor-carpeting, and flowered chintz curtains over the windows, it was a bright, functional little attachment to the garage.
Gilly picked up the creamy, banana-colored fabric and draped it around Patty. “Yes … nice and soft.” Being an only child, she often talked to herself. “Let’s take a look at which direction the sheen runs. No, I think the grain runs the other way. Don’t you?” Stepping back, and then to the side. “Yes. That’s it.”
Hearing the car door slam followed by the chatter of her clients, Gilly quickly smoothed out a wrinkle on the apricot piece lying on the table. The screen door opened and the bride, the maids, and Anne burst into the room. Gilly turned to watch the girls’ reaction to the material draped around Patty and the piece on the table.
Their reaction was quick.
Trudy rushed to Patty, her fingers running over the satin. “Oh, I love this, the shine and the way the color changes when I move it.”
Sherry and Jean both reached out to the apricot length of satin on the table, tentatively touching the fabric. “It’s beautiful. Do you really think you can make them in time?” Both girls looked up at Gilly, clearly not believing it was possible.
Another car door banged shut. Everyone turned and looked out the picture window. A young man walked briskly down the steps to the main house. He didn’t notice the women standing in the guesthouse gawking out at him.
“I’ll go see what’s going on,” Anne said. “Gilly you get started doing whatever it is you have to do.” She darted out the door and down to the man knocking on the frame of the patio door.
“Yoohoo, yoohoo, young man, can I help you?”
As he turned around, Anne saw a camera, notepad, and a serious looking face with forceful blue eyes over a body ready to spring.
“I’m looking for a Mr. Wilder. I was told this was his address,” he replied moving the camera strap that persistently kept moving down from his neck across his chest tying his arms together.
“I’m Wilder,” Gramps said, opening the patio door. “What can I do for you, son?”
“Oh, hello, sir. Great. I’m glad I found you,” the young man said extending his hand, giving a solid pump to Gramp’s strong grip. “My name is Skip Hunter, Seattle Times. I understand you were the last to see the murdered man?”
“Son, I don’t know what you’re talking about unless you’re referring to that man they found on the beach. But nobody said anything about murder.” Gramps looked at Anne shrugging his shoulders.
“Well, sir, I was told you saw him last night, here at your house.”
Anne squeezed around the man to stand next to her father-in-law. “Dad, you don’t have to talk to this reporter. After all, you don’t know anything.”
“Now, Annie, he’s come all the way across the sound. The least I can do is have a little chat with him. Would you care to join me for a cup of tea, Mr. Hunter?”
“I sure would. And you can call me Skip.”
“You just follow me, Skip. The water’s already boiling. Annie, you join us?”
“I guess not. I’ll go up and help Gilly. Call me on the intercom if you need me. I’ll be taking the girls back to Port Gamble, but I’m sure Gilly will be spending the rest of the day and tonight here, Dad. She’s sewing up two dresses for a wedding the day after tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a tall order, but if anyone can do it our Gillianne is the one.”
───
TAKING THE BRIDESMAIDS’ measurements proved to be a daunting chore. Standing still was beyond their control with all the excitement of the wedding, along with the vision of the dresses flitting through their heads as Gilly described her design. Anne opened the bag from the boutique, removing the scarves. A new round of oohs and aahs escaped the girl’s lips exclaiming how beautifully the colors complemented the colorful satin pieces.
After jotting down each girl’s measurements, and checking that there was enough material for a tea-length dress from each length of fabric, Gilly set an appointment with them to be back at the guesthouse for a fitting the next day, no later than nine in the morning. Anne called her father-in-law on the intercom to let him know she was leaving for Port Gamble but would see him tomorrow, unless he needed her before she left.
“You just run along,” he told her. “Skip and I are enjoying our tea. Ask Gilly to come down to meet him, if she can spare a couple of minutes,” was his only request. “Oh, and take a couple of those pints of raspberries in the refrigerator up there.”
“Will do. Love you, Dad. Bye.” Letting go of the intercom button she turned to her daughter. “Your grandfather would like you to meet his new drinking buddy if you get a chance.”
“I’ll go now. I could use a pick-me-up. See you tomorrow, Mom.” Gilly gave her mom a hug, saw everyone to the car, and put the raspberries on the floor in front of Trudy. She waved goodbye as Anne backed away from the garage, performed a three-point turn and drove up the driveway to Hansville Road.
The patio door closed behind Gilly as she scooted down the narrow hall to the kitchen. The reporter immediately stood, and extended his hand. “Hi, Skip Hunter, Seattle Times.”
Giving the hand he offered her a quick shake, she turned to fix a cup of tea. Annoyed that she liked what she saw—bald, she presumed with his electric razor, and a very trim athlete’s body. Probably a runner and nobody on the island came near six feet. His blue eyes were intense—definitely on the hunt for a story. “What kind of reporting do you do?” Gilly asked, giving her teabag a couple of dunks.
“Crime. I’ve been with the paper a couple of years, but frankly I’d like some meatier assignments. At first, I only had stories the other reporters didn’t want—squabbles between a couple of seniors over poker chips, gas siphoning, nothing important. But now I’m getting the leftover crime stories—not in the city, Seattle, mind you. But that’s okay. It’s a start. Crime is the beat I want. I grabbed this one—no one wanted to take a ride on the ferry this morning. And here I am talking to your grandfather. Seems he may have been the last to see the murdered man.”
“The dead guy on the beach? Murdered?” Gilly’s green eyes sparked in surprise as she joined the two men at the kitchen table. No one had been murdered around here that she knew of, but he certainly seemed sure of his theory.
“Now, Gilly, we don’t know that for certain. Skip here is speculating. Man probably drowned.”
“No offense, Mr. Wilder, but he had his clothes on, so I doubt he went swimming, and you saw him late last night, and he was found early this morning. Has to be foul play and—
“Look, Mr. … Mr. Hunter,” Gilly interjected. “The visitor was here but a few minutes, asked for an address, gulped down a cup of a tea, and then was gone, which is what I have to do. Go. Lots to do before tomorrow, so I’ll walk you out.”
“What address? Who?” Skip asked, ignoring Gilly’s inference that he should leave.
“I was just getting to that,” Gramps said. “He was looking for the Stanleys. I never heard of the Stanleys but they were in the phone book—a half a mile south of here, back toward our little convenience store. I gave John the address and their telephone number. Offered to drive him—he was soaked—but he said he parked up a ways.”
“Would you mind looking up that address for me, Mr. Wilder. I sure would appreciate it … and the phone number.”
Gramps took another sip of tea, looked at his scowling granddaughter, and then copied the address and number from the phone book handing the slip of paper to the reporter.
“Okay. Now, Mr. Hunter, I’ll walk you out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilder. If I have any more questions, do you mind if I call?”
“Anytime, son, and feel free to stop by for a cup of tea, or if you just want to chat.” Gramps followed the reporter and his granddaugh
ter to the patio door and waved goodbye.
At the door to the guesthouse, Skip paused, touching Gilly’s arm. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I had to talk with your grandfather … and then you came up with even more information … the Stanley connection.”
Gilly pulled her arm away. “It’s hardly a connection. I’m just careful of strangers where my grandfather is concerned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ton of work to do.” Opening the guesthouse door, she hesitated and called after the reporter. “Good luck with your story,” she said and let the door bang shut behind her.
“So. I wasn’t very nice. He probably thinks we’re just a bunch of hicks over here on the island. Oh well, back to business. A wedding is depending on me,” she muttered, smoothing the fabric on the table. Removing the paper pattern she had made a few months earlier from a folder, she laid the pieces on the banana colored material, marking with chalk where changes needed to be made for her new design and Jean’s measurements.
Over the next few hours Gilly cut the dress pieces from the material following her chalk lines. Using Patty’s form she pinned each dress together, adjusting, always adjusting with a mouthful of pins. She switched the CD player from Vivaldi to a soothing Brahms violin and piano.
“Oh, my back. Stand up straight girl. You’ve been hunched over for hours.” Massaging her back muscles, Gilly closed her eyes momentarily then took stock of her progress. “Not bad. I think you have a chance to bring this project in on schedule … I hope.”
The intercom light flashed. “Gilly, stew’s ready. Come and get it.”
“I’ll be right down, Gramps.”
Slipping in the patio door she followed the aroma of her mom’s beef stew. Leaving a crockpot dinner was a favorite trick of her mother’s so she and Gramps would have a hot meal—most nights anyway.
“Your bowl’s on the table. Want a glass of wine to go with it?” Gramps asked as he poured some red into his goblet.
Murder by Design Trilogy Page 3