Murder at five finger light Read online

  Raining now or not, the short, heavyset man who came through the door as she watched had clearly walked through some before it stopped, for he shook water from the worn yellow slicker he removed and tossed over the back of a stool between himself and Jessie before he climbed onto another and settled comfortably, with a nod of greeting in her direction.

  Time to go, she thought, before he tries to start a conversation. But he turned to the bartender instead.

  “Ferry’s in,” he told her as she set a Budweiser in front of him—clearly his usual, for he had not given her an order.

  “It’s a couple of hours early,” she responded.

  “Yeah. Heard they skipped Wrangell this run—some repairs being made to the dock, so they couldn’t put in.”

  “You can usually set your watch by the Malaspina.”

  “Yup. They’ll be putting in after dark from now on. I coulda used a couple more months of summer.”

  “Couldn’t we all?”

  At the sound of the door opening again behind her, Jessie paused, bottle halfway to her mouth, and glanced over her shoulder to see who was next. Expecting another stranger, she was surprised to once again see a familiar face—the young woman from the afternoon’s plane. The redhead hesitated momentarily and gave the room a searching look before, with long, jeans-clad strides, heading directly for the back where she disappeared into the restroom. As she passed she focused her attention on the long bar and her eyes widened, startled, when she recognized Jessie.

  Three—no—four times I’ve seen her now. Is she following me? For a moment Jessie wondered, but had to smile at her paranoia. Everything, she told herself—draining the lager before collecting herself to go find Sing Lee Alley, the Northern Lights, and dinner, in that order—is not about you.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE SKY WAS DARK, NOT A STAR TO BE SEEN, WHEN JESSIE left the warm, cheerful Harbor Bar. Before following directions to the Northern Lights she stepped next door into the liquor store to ask how late they would be open, intending to pick up a bottle of Jameson and some Killian’s to take with her to the island the next day. Learning she would have time after dinner to take care of this errand, she went along the street past a number of storefronts, some decorated with colorful rosemaled patterns that she recognized as typically Scandinavian. Baskets of still-blooming flowers hung from the streetlamps that cast pools of light on the sidewalk, and she noticed that in several places circles of intricate brass designs had been set into the pavement. One was a fishing trawler, the water depicted under it filled with salmon. Two others were done in the familiar patterns of local Haida or Tlingit people. She was pleased to find that a raven, her favorite Alaskan bird, was one of these. The other portrayed an eagle.

  All the gift shops and art galleries were closed for the night, but their windows were full of interesting things that she mentally filed away to examine in the morning, knowing her transportation to Five Finger Lighthouse would not arrive until the middle of the day. At the end of two blocks she crossed the street and found the small garden mentioned by the bartender, with its statue of a bear and its fish.

  Following directions, she almost immediately found herself in Sing Lee Alley. It curved to the left and was so narrow that she thought it might have been one of the original Petersburg streets that began its life as a wagon road. Away from the lamps that lined the main street the lane was dark and full of the shadows cast by old houses and buildings that clung so close that their doors opened directly onto the street. As she strolled along she could hear the slow drip of rainwater falling from eaves into puddles, and her footfalls created echoes that came back to her in the confined space almost as if two people were walking.

  Noticing a raven cleverly painted over a doorway as if it were perched on the frame, Jessie stepped closer and saw two others painted near it, their wings spread in flight. As she smiled in appreciation of the unknown artist’s sense of humor, she was startled to hear the echoes of footsteps continue for a step or two after she stopped. Swinging sharply around, she peered into the dark in the direction from which she had come, but the narrow lane was empty of anyone but herself and some inky shadows. Almost she retraced her steps to take a look, but deciding that her imagination was taking over, continued toward the restaurant she knew must be close ahead. Purposely, she made her footsteps loud, listening carefully, but did not hear the double echo again. Must have been a trick of that particular building or doorway, she decided—unfamiliar town, street, and sounds. But as she went on, she increased her speed slightly.

  Just past a large white house with a sign reading SING LEE ALLEY BOOKS—another goal for tomorrow morning—the pavement turned to timbers and she identified the barn-shaped Sons of Norway Hall, built on pilings like the bridge beyond it. Along the bridge were lampposts with a Norwegian flag, bright red with a white-framed blue cross, hanging from each, and on the other side the Northern Lights Restaurant proclaimed itself with fairy lights below its sign. Jessie abandoned all thought of imaginary echoes behind her and hurried across into the warmth of a pleasant dining room that wafted a delectable aroma of food into her nose—dinner at last.

  The front section of the restaurant was a pickup area for orders to take out. As she hesitated, a waitress hurried forward with a greeting and led her to one of the tables in the back, where she could look out the window onto a marina and a long causeway on tall, thin pilings that led out to a large commercial-looking building. Jessie shed her slicker, deposited it and her daypack on the bench of the booth, and settled in satisfaction to open the menu she was handed, in which she was pleased to find an appealing assortment of options including, as anticipated, plenty of seafood. After a short equivocation, she chose a dinner salad, shrimp Alfredo, and another Killian’s to keep it company.

  While she waited, she glanced around the room, which was attractively appointed with hanging lamps and plants. A wide decorative wallpaper strip with an amusing collection of roly-poly chefs topped a wainscot along one wall and she could hear real cooks, roly-poly or not, making a busy clatter in the kitchen. Glad she had forgone the pizza in favor of the Northern Lights, she thanked the waitress who delivered her drink, then turned to appraise the marina below, which was crowded with the power- and sailboats of private owners, local and transient.

  The tide was out and the access ramp formed an acute angle with the dock that was designed to float up and down on its pilings. Though there was a soft hint of light in one or two of the boats and the area seemed mostly deserted at this late hour, movement on a large powerboat caught her attention. As she watched, two men, one with a duffel bag over one shoulder, left the boat and hiked along to the ramp, which they were forced to climb slowly and carefully considering its low-tide steepness. When they stopped at the top under an overhead light he set the duffel down and she could see that he was dressed in tan work pants and a faded green sweatshirt under a black slicker. From his graying hair, he looked older than his companion, perhaps in his fifties. Back turned, silhouetted against the pool of light, the other seemed to be dressed in waterproof coat and pants, but she couldn’t see his face. They exchanged a few words and then separated. As they disappeared into different parts of a parking lot, she wondered where they had been in such bad weather, but supposed it was possible they had spent the day working on the craft and hadn’t left the harbor at all.

  “That was quick,” she started to say, turning with a smile, aware of someone approaching her table. But the smile faded into surprise, when she found, not the waitress she anticipated, but the young woman she had noticed on the plane from Juneau that afternoon and again in the Harbor Bar.

  “Hello,” the woman said quietly, with a nervous, hollow sort of smile. “Would you mind if I joined you for dinner?”

  When Jessie didn’t say no, she slid quickly onto the bench on the other side of the table. Her hair, once again dark and shoulder-length, Jessie could now see was a wig that she must have put back on in the Harbor Bar. Her face was thin, eye
s a greenish blue with lashes heavily darkened with too much mascara that gummed them together in clumps.

  “Thanks,” the young woman said, reaching across the table to offer a hand that Jessie automatically took, noticing that the nails were chewed raggedly short. “I’m Karen. Karen—ah—Emerson. And I appreciate the company.”

  “It’s okay,” Jessie told her, still confused. “We came in on the same plane. I’m Jessie Arnold.”

  There was no flash of recognition at the mention of her name, which told Jessie that Karen was either a stranger to Alaska or not a sled dog racing fan.

  “You were in the bar a little while ago,” Karen said.

  Jessie remembered the sound of footsteps behind her in Sing Lee Alley and decided she had not been imagining them. “Did you follow me from there?”

  “Yes,” Karen admitted, “I did. Sorry. I wanted to see where you were going. You might live here and be headed home. But you don’t, do you? You’re just passing through, like me, right?”

  It seemed unusual criteria for selecting a dinner companion to Jessie, but perhaps not. In a town as small and friendly as Petersburg, such a request for company from a local could have elicited an offer of residential hospitality. This woman seemed to be seeking contact of a less personal nature, the kind that could be assumed in the neutral territory of a restaurant. As Jessie watched, Karen glanced nervously over her shoulder toward a woman who had come in and gone directly to the pickup counter. Why is impersonal company important? she wondered. Why me?

  “I am passing through,” she answered the question, “sort of. I’m on my way to spend the next few days with friends on an island.”

  “Really?” Karen said brightly. “How fascinating. Tell me.”

  The question seemed defensively designed to focus the conversation on Jessie rather than herself and Jessie found that she felt somehow oddly reluctant to share her plans with this stranger. As she hesitated the waitress appeared suddenly with a second menu and glass of water. “Your dinner will be right up,” she told Jessie. “Or would you want to wait while your friend orders?”

  “Oh, please don’t.” Karen waved off the offered menu. “Whatever it is, it’ll be cold if you wait. What kind of soup do you have?”

  “It’s minestrone or clam chowder tonight.”

  “I’ll have a bowl of the minestrone, toast, and coffee, please.”

  She watched the waitress cross the room to the kitchen, then turned back to Jessie, renewing her simulated smile of interest. “Now, tell me all about your island. Is it close to Petersburg?”

  What harm? Jessie decided, wondering why she should feel disinclined to share. There was something about this woman that seemed slightly off-key, as if she were pretending to be something she was not, but maybe she was naturally nervous in getting to know new people.

  “Not really. It’s a very small island at the north end of Frederick Sound and has an historic lighthouse. And it isn’t mine. It belongs to friends of mine and I’m going to spend the rest of the week there with a volunteer renovation crew.”

  “Interesting. How do you get there, by boat?”

  “Yes. A friend is picking me up tomorrow, when he comes to town for roofing materials.”

  She had been watching Karen carefully as she spoke, noting that the woman’s attention still seemed a little scattered as she directed another glance or two toward the front door of the restaurant, as customers came and went through it. About half of the tables were full, but the place seemed to have a fairly steady flow of people, either sitting down for dinner or picking up take-out food. Though appearing to listen, Karen was evidently on the lookout for someone. Jessie wondered who—and why. But, if she was anticipating the arrival of someone else, why had the woman asked to sit with her?

  “Are you expecting someone?” she asked.

  “Oh—no,” Karen said almost too quickly, turning back. “Of course not.” But the bright interest faded from her face and was replaced by a guarded expression as she turned her head to look out the window at the public dock where a series of lamps on tall poles cast pools of light at regularly spaced intervals.

  “Is something wrong, Karen?” Jessie asked.

  “Not at all,” Karen denied, turning back with a smile that faltered and did not reach her eyes. She hesitated, then seemed to give in. “Oh hell—yes. Very wrong.”

  “What?”

  The waitress chose that moment to appear at their side with a tray, bearing the pasta, salad, and soup they had ordered. As she arranged their food on the table, Karen once again turned her head to stare out the window.

  When the waitress had gone, Jessie leaned forward over her plate and gave up all pretense of politeness.

  “Look, Karen. I don’t know anything about you, but it’s obvious that you followed and picked me as a sort of cover for some reason. If you’ve got trouble, don’t I at least deserve to know what’s going on? I won’t be part of anything I don’t understand. So you’d better tell me what it’s all about.”

  Surprised at Jessie’s straightforward demand, Karen faced her, eyes wide.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after a second or two of silence while Jessie waited. “I wanted to get to know you a little and see if you were someone I could trust.”

  “Trust about what?” Jessie countered. “If I don’t get answers, I can always move to another table.”

  Karen took a deep breath, put elbows on the table on each side of her soup bowl, laced her fingers together so the gnawed nails were hidden and leaned over them.

  “I’m in trouble,” she said in a low conspiratorial voice.

  “That much I got. And?”

  “Okay. There’s a guy following me that I’m trying to shake.”

  Jessie thought back to the woman’s nervous observation of the door of the plane and the way she had relaxed after it was closed.

  “That’s why you were wearing the wig you have on now. You were afraid this ‘guy’ would get on the plane this afternoon, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No. So I thought I was okay and took it off.”

  “Then how would he get here now?”

  “The ferry came in awhile ago. I think he was on it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “When I heard it was coming in early, I went down to see and I’m almost sure I saw him getting off.”

  It didn’t make sense to Jessie.

  “That ferry,” she said, “was headed north. I heard a man in the bar say it was supposed to stop in Wrangell on its way here, but couldn’t—some kind of problem with the dock. So if this guy was on it he couldn’t have come from Juneau.”

  “So he wasn’t in Juneau, but I was afraid he might be. He’s very smart and scares the hell out of me. He caught the ferry in Bellingham when I did four days ago.” She frowned, remembering. “Look. I was living in Ketchikan and he was my . . . we had a relationship that didn’t work out, okay? When I finally had enough of him hitting me, I moved out. But he refused to believe that I meant what I said and it was over. He’s been following and making threats for a long time now. It was time to leave town again.”

  “Leave where?”

  “Seattle.”

  “I thought you said Ketchikan.”

  “That was before. I left there eight months ago and went to Seattle.”

  “How long has he been threatening you?”

  “Almost a year now.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I did, in Ketchikan, just after I moved out, but it made him furious. I also got a restraining order that he ignored, but they couldn’t do anything because I couldn’t prove it. They talked to him and he gave them some alibi so they thought I was making it up. They wouldn’t help! ”

  Karen pounded a fist on the table lightly in frustration, sighed, and more pieces of her story came pouring out.

  “I’d finally had enough, so I moved—to Seattle. When he showed up the
re again a couple of weeks ago, I left, drove up and caught the ferry in Bellingham, but somehow he followed me and got on too. I took a cabin and stayed in it. When we got to Ketchikan I knew he’d be watching to see if I got off, so I said I had sprained my ankle and had them take me off from the car deck in a wheelchair, like an old lady. It worked, for once. I saw from inside the terminal that when the ferry left he was still on it—near the gangway, watching everyone getting off and looking for me. I caught the next plane to Juneau, then to here, thinking he wouldn’t expect me to double back. When I saw him get off here, I knew that somehow he’d figured it out. Now he’s looking for me here, so I’m in real trouble.”

  “We might try the police,” Jessie suggested, realizing she had said “we.”

  “They’ll just call Ketchikan and I know what those guys will say. Believe me, law enforcement will do no good at all.”

  Probably not, Jessie thought. The police could seldom provide the round-the-clock protection this kind of stalking demanded. A sinking feeling played havoc with her appetite as she sat staring speechless at Karen over the rapidly cooling seafood dinner she had anticipated enjoying. The relaxing evening she had expected to spend on her own had suddenly taken an unwelcome and confusing turn. She knew the fear of an abusive relationship from a past, but less intense and stressful, experience of her own. She also knew that because of it she was inclined toward sympathy and assistance. This was not the same, however, and she only knew a little about one side of a situation that made her hesitant to involve herself—but her reluctance was mixed with understanding and support.

  “I’ve got to find someplace to hide tonight and figure out how to get out of here tomorrow somehow,” Karen said, frowning, her eyes still full of anger, fear, and fatigue. “Do you have any ideas? Where are you staying?”

  With a sinking sensation, Jessie, envisioning her hotel room with its two beds, knew that, chancy or not, she was about to suggest it as a solution for the night.