Murder at five finger light Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Introduction

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

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  First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2005

  Copyright © Sue Henry, Inc., 2005

  Maps copyright © Eric Henry, Art Forge Unlimited, 2005

  All rights reserved

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Henry, Sue, 1940-Murder at Five Finger Light : a Jessie Arnold mystery / Sue Henry. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-09608-6

  1. Arnold, Jessie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Dwellings—Maintenance and repair—Fiction. 3. Women detectives—Alaska—Fiction. 4. Lighthouses—Fiction. 5. Islands—Fiction. 6. Alaska—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.E534M’.54—dc22 2004025297

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WITH SINCERE THANKS TO:

  Jennifer Klein and Ed McIntosh, owners of Five Finger Lighthouse, who extended a warm welcome for a week’s visit to their small island in Southeast Alaska, acquainted me with its history and eccentricities, and openhandedly shared everything from information to a very good cabernet. (To support the Juneau Lighthouse Association contact Jennifer Klein and Ed McIntosh at P.O. Box 22163, Juneau, Alaska, 99802.)

  Good friends Barbara Hedges and Vickie Jensen, who went along as research assistants and work crew—though none of us did much more than add a lick or two of paint and polish brass in the tower.

  The city of Petersburg—particularly the Tides Inn, Harbor Bar, and Northern Lights Restaurant—for generous hospitality.

  Tina Green and Nancy Zaic at Sing Lee Alley Books with its great assortment of helpful and tempting materials.

  Ginny Arthurs, Dispatcher and Jail Guard for the Petersburg City Police, Fire Department, and EMTs, for information concerning the dispatch of law enforcement to Frederick Sound.

  Rod Judy of Pacific Wing Air Charter, who ferried us from Petersburg to Five Finger Light in his floatplane and pointed out some of the many whales in Frederick Sound.

  Steve O’Brocta of Temsco Helicopters, who, at short notice, flew us back when the weather turned too rough for floats.

  Bruce Wing, Fishery Research Biologist at the Auke Bay Laboratory of the National Marine Fisheries Service, for identifying and providing information on the isopods we found on Five Finger Island.

  My talented son, Eric, who does the maps and photography for my books.

  For Jennifer Klein and Ed McIntosh—

  The real owners of Five Finger Lighthouse,

  who are restoring and keeping alive

  an important piece of Alaskan history.

  Anythin’ for a quiet life, as the man said wen he took the sitivation at the lighthouse.

  Charles Dickens, Pickwick Papers, 1836-37

  INTRODUCTION

  There is little warm and welcoming about a lighthouse. Like medieval castles, lighthouses are solidly built not to attract, but to survive and repel; to withstand the assault of armies of waves, weather, and misguided ships. Most stand in solitary isolation where sea meets land, casting sweeping Cyclopean beams of warning into the dark. Their existence is all about hazard and the prevention of disaster.

  But there is something captivating about a lighthouse—something mysterious and legendary that relates to remoteness and solitude, singular purpose, unique structure, reclusive keepers, and, sometimes, haunted reputation—that enthralls and compels consideration.

  Many North American lighthouses are accessible to visitors by road, or waterway. But those that stand guard over the thousand-mile maze of Pacific Coast islands and channels of the Canadian and Alaskan Inside Passage are not easily available. Most rise where there are no roads, in splendid seclusion, often secreted by veils of mist that make them invisible to travelers of daylight waters. These are not the more familiar, tall, cylindrical structures designed to cast a light many miles out to sea. Surrounded by the islands that form the channels of the passage north, most have no need to be seen from such great distances. They are often built on high ground, so they are lower and, for the most part, square and solid in appearance.

  Many of their names are resonant reminders of wilderness and grandeur, the early history of these wild coastal shores with their many perils, and the disasters of explorers and gold seekers that prompted the placement of light
stations: Prospect Point, Discovery Island, Trial Island, and Gallows Point in British Columbia; Cape Sarichef, Eldred Rock, Guard Island, Cape Decision, Scotch Cap, and Cape Saint Elias in Alaska.

  With two assignments, Five Finger Lighthouse was placed in Alaskan waters, where Stephens Passage opens into Frederick Sound, to guide ships on their way to and from the gold fields through that part of the tangle of passages, and to warn mariners away from the jagged rocks of five low, narrow islands that resemble a nefarious reaching hand that is all but invisible in dark or rough weather and could rip the bottom from any vessel unfortunate enough to founder upon them. On one of these, a tiny, three-acre island, six to seven hundred feet long, north to south, and around a hundred and fifty feet wide, depending on the tides, the deco-style lighthouse (a replacement for the original wooden structure that burned in December 1933) rises from its rocky base near and facing the north point.

  This historically significant light holds distinction as the first of Alaska’s lighthouses to be lit, in March of 1902, and the last to be automated, in 1984.

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 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 in 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. Four of these barely broke the surface, but the fifth and largest was unique for rising some fifty feet at its highest point above the salt waters of the sound, and for the lighthouse that had been placed there and operated for just over one hundred years specifically as a warning for mariners to navigate farther to the west and avoid the risk of foundering upon the lurking, treacherous fingers that were well and dangerously concealed at high tides, in darkness or 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. With its two heavy Mercury outboard engines off the transom, the operator carefully maneuvered the twenty-six-foot Kingfisher into this semiprotected space, close enough so that a second figure could hop off and help to rig a pair of opposing lines that would hold the craft off both the rocks and the wall, but close enough for unloading their small but valuable amount of 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.

  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 the familiar beam and in knowing that he was finally nearing his homeport, 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.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EARLY ON A MONDAY MORNING IN MID-SEPTEMBER, without opening her eyes, Jessie Arnold rolled over in her big brass bed, pulled the quilt down far enough to uncover her face, and took a deep inquisitive breath. The scent of freshly brewed coffee that had wafted enticingly up from downstairs filled her nose, mixed with that of bacon frying and a hint of toast.

  Yawning, she tossed back the quilt, sat up, and swung her feet over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers. Not finding them, she peered over the edge of the mattress and spotted them a foot or two away, where she had kicked them off the night before. Scuffing them on, she slipped a robe over the pajama bottoms and green T-shirt in which she had slept, and left the bedroom, headed soft-footed for the stairs.

  Halfway down she was able to see Alex Jensen busily cooking breakfast in the kitchen of her new log cabin. He was humming softly to himself as he removed the bacon from the pan to a paper towel before draining the grease and turning to stir a bowl of eggs for scrambling, unaware of her presence until she spoke.

  “You’re up early, trooper. Can’t wait to get back to catching bad guys?”

  He turned with a smile. “Hey there, sleepy. You want eggs?”

  “If you’re cooking—you bet.”

  Jensen added two eggs to the bowl, stirred, and emptied it into the pan. As the eggs sizzled invitingly, Jessie made a quick dash into his work area to pour a mug of coffee and snitch a crispy strip of bacon from the pile on the towel. Knowing that the kitchen could be a hazard zone as, long-armed, Alex tended to unexpectedly reach out for things without looking as he cooked and was currently waving a fork, she retreated to the safety of the table to watch and enjoy the fact that someone other than herself was playing chef.

  Both hands around her steaming mug, she wrinkled her nose at the aroma and savored not only the brew, but also having Alex back in her kitchen, as well as her bed. The months he had been gone from Alaska now seemed dull and ephemeral, as if his return had brightened her world and let her see everything with new eyes after a stretch of bad weather.

  It was a sunny morning, and a glance out the window brought a smile of appreciation to her face at the glorious September gold of the birches that surrounded her cabin and dog yard. As she watched, a breath of breeze brought a few more leaves fluttering down to litter the ground beneath and she knew that, once again, there would soon be only bare limbs against the sky.

  Turning ba
ck, she found Alex, careless of the eggs sizzling in the pan, leaning against the kitchen counter with a smile of his own at her admiration of the fall’s generosity.

  “Your favorite season,” he said. “It’ll be your birthday in another month.”

  “It will,” she agreed. “But I won’t remind you that you still owe me an earring to replace the one I lost somewhere in the brush on Niqa Island.”

  “So I do. I’ll have to consider that.”

  Refilling his own coffee mug, Alex brought two full plates to the table and, settling in a chair beside her, moved the butter and jam so they both could reach them.

  “M-m-m,” Jessie said, when she had made a significant inroad on the food on her plate. “It’s nice to have someone else in the kitchen for a change. May I expect you to continue to spoil me rotten?”

  “We’ll see how you appreciate it,” he answered with the hint of a leer, wiping strawberry jam from one side of his luxurious handlebar mustache with a paper napkin. “What’s up for you today?”

  “Well . . .” Jessie frowned and hesitated, considering. “I’m not sure. It’s a pain not to be able to run the mutts, but there’s always cleanup that wants doing in the dog yard. You?”

  “Hm-m.” Jensen pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, miming deliberation.

  “What? You’ve got something in mind—yes?”

  Mischievously, he forced her to wait as he slowly chewed and swallowed another mouthful of eggs and toast before he answered with a grin.

  “We-ell, if you haven’t anything pressing on your dance card for the next few days, maybe you’d consider driving to Dawson with me to visit Del and Clair Delafosse.”

  RCMP Inspector Charles “Del” Delafosse and his wife Clair were friends met when he and Alex had worked a case together in Dawson City several years before. They had also helped Jessie, when she was involved in delivering a ransom demanded for the release of an abducted musher during the Yukon Quest sled dog race.