The Beastly Island Murder

Carol W. Hazelwood

Description

This is a murder mystery that takes place in the northwest, and involves sea kayaking, rare book collecting and a beloved Newfoundland dog, who rides in the heroine's kayak. All the elements result in a harrowing rescue at sea.

Sujets

• Detective
• Mystery
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 25 juillet 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456618964
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The Beastly Island Murder
 
by
Carol W. Hazelwood
 


Copyright 2013 Carol W. Hazelwood,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1896-4
 
 
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
 
 
Cover by Arthur A. Hazelwood
Arthazelwood.com


Also by Carol W. Hazelwood
 
Fiction
Assume Nothing
Coyoacan Hill
Dark Legacy
Rising Mist
Twilight in the Garden
 
Non Fiction
A View from the Jury Box
Co-author of
Tiger in a Cage, The Memoir of Wu Tek Ying
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to my writing critique group: Janice Clark, Jim Harder, Nancy Poss-Hatchl, Adele Kopecky, Tom McCranie, Dorran Nadeau, and to my sister, Joan Blue, and Valerie Newman.
Dedication
In memory of George, Dan and Blaise’s Newfoundland
Chapter 1
Jennifer paddled her sea kayak past the naked cliff into the quiet waters of Beastly Island’s cove. The moored sloop surprised her. The fog bank looming to starboard seemed more ominous now. Although the sun had burned off the morning mist, by nightfall dense clouds would again swallow the island. She let her boat drift in a sea that lay flat as cooled pudding. Her Newfoundland, perched in the front cockpit of the tandem kayak, barked. “Hush, Lydia, I see it.”
Jennifer stroked through the icy waters toward the sloop’s stern to read the name stenciled in glossy-gold script: The High Life, out of Seattle. Water lapped against its black hull as she circled the unwelcome visitor. The cockpit was white, the rigging tidy; her brass sparkled, her teak rub rail shined. No one was aboard. She scanned the beach—empty. With a nervous flutter in her stomach, she paddled toward shore, passing the buoy that marked shallow water.
The Newfoundland jumped into the sea, sending the kayak skittering sideways. Jennifer braced with her paddle, leaned into the wash, then stroked for land. She nudged the boat’s nose into the pebbly shore and snapped the spray skirt off the coaming. Stabilizing the craft with her paddle across the hull behind her, she swung her legs to one side, and stood. Even with her feet protected by wetsuit booties, the chill of the seawater elicited a shiver. Stowing her paddle in the cockpit, she picked up the bow and dragged the kayak farther out of the water.
She glanced around and spotted a small dinghy hidden behind a large driftwood log. Lydia bounded out of the surf and shook, then raised her muzzle. A deep growl rumbled from her throat.
Jennifer shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched a man stroll toward them. She fingered the knife strapped to the outside of her thigh but concealed under the spray skirt that hung from her waist to her knees.
“Stay,” she commanded Lydia.
The man waved. She did not. Even his saunter irked her. Acts as if he owns the place, she thought. As he drew near, his khaki slacks and white T-shirt showed off a tall, wiry build. His short black hair with traces of gray at the temple offset a tan face without the deep wrinkles of sailors.
When he was about ten feet away, he stopped. “Hello. I’ve been sightseeing. There’s a cabin on stilts high on the slope and an eagle’s nest atop a hemlock just down the beach.”
“I know.” She pointed to the large sign that read Private nailed to a pine at the edge of the forest where reed-like grass grew.
He shrugged. “I called out, but no one answered. The island seemed deserted. Lovely spot.”
He smiled. She did not.
“Are you having trouble with your boat? Are you in need of medical help?” she asked.
He frowned, stood straighter and hooked a thumb in his belt. “No. I didn’t know the island was private until I landed. Hey, islanders and seamen share camaraderie. You live here?”
“I’m the owner who is not in need of camaraderie. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my island.”
“Your island?” He raised an eyebrow. “The whole island?”
“Yes.” She did not intend to elaborate.
He hesitated and looked at Lydia. “Nice dog. Big. Powerful.” Again he paused as if waiting for her to say something.
She didn’t.
“Well, I guess I’ll set sail.” His clean-shaven jaw jutted forward as if he was about to vent his displeasure, but then he lifted his hand in a halfhearted salute. “Thanks for your hospitality.”
She ignored his sarcasm.
He walked to his dinghy, got in, and pushed off.
Jennifer didn’t move until he’d rowed halfway to his sloop. Only then did she lean down, pat Lydia, and whisper, “Good thing he doesn’t know you’re a one hundred and twenty-five pound lapdog.”
When she released Lydia from her ‘stay,’ the dog scampered toward the forest to investigate smells and chase chattering squirrels, while Jennifer pulled her homemade sled down to the shore. Sometimes she used Lydia’s pulling power for the sled, but the stranger’s unexpected appearance had jangled her nerves and work would help her regain her composure.
She pushed the kayak onto the padded two-by-four planks, lashed together by canvas and rope, and uncoiled the reins fastened to the sled. Fitting the sling around her broad shoulders, she trudged up the slope, hauling the ninety pound kayak to a small clearing below the path leading up to her cabin. She stopped and tossed the sling aside, then picked up a bucket, scooped fresh water from a large barrel and wiped down the yellow fiberglass hull with a rag. Satisfied, she popped open the bow hatch, extracted her gear, then drew a tarpaulin over the boat. As she walked up the winding trail, she ran her hand over the carved wooden sign that read: Beastly Manor .
Suspicious that the stranger may have gone up to the cabin, she inspected the thin wire she’d buried under the sand by the gate. It had not been disturbed and her tension eased. Releasing the spring, she folded the wire behind the gate post. She took this precaution whenever she left the island for long kayak trips or departed for the mainland. Her grandmother had taught her that trick, as well as other ways of keeping herself safe on the island, and it was her grandmother who had given her Lydia after Carla’s murder.
She unlatched the gate with its dangling cowbell, whistled for Lydia who dashed ahead as Jennifer snapped the redwood gate shut behind them. The cowbell’s deep clang echoed above the island’s lush foliage and sent a raven cawing skyward. The wire mesh fencing around the site was laden with elderberry bushes that her great grandfather had planted as a windbreak. Every autumn, these needed hard pruning. She’d already hacked back much of the dense growth but had yet to haul the branches down to the beach to burn.
Under the cabin in an outdoor shower, Jennifer wiggled out of her spray skirt. After unstrapping her sheathed knife from her thigh, she shed her booties and wetsuit. She pulled the rope connected to a small storage tank above. As the cold water pummeled her long slim body, Lydia pushed forward to share the shower. “Okay,” Jennifer said. “Let’s get the salt and sand off you.” After letting water soak through the dog’s thick fur, Jennifer shoved her out.
What would her grandfather think of a Newfoundland enjoying the flow from the water tower he’d installed? He’d also constructed the septic tank, but it was her grandmother who’d developed the filtered water system. Water from a small well plus rainfall were the sole sources of fresh water, a precious commodity on the two mile long island. Grabbing a towel from a nearby hook, she dried off, and slung her wetsuit over her arm. Wearing only a bikini, she ran up the stairs to the porch where Lydia sprawled.
She placed her booties and the knife on a bench. After laying her wetsuit and spray skirt over the railing to dry, she fed Lydia a biscuit from the large covered tin by the front door. “You’re happy, wet, and very grungy,” she told Lydia, who eyed her mistress as if waiting for another biscuit. “Quite enough for you.”
Once inside the expansive room that served as the living, dining, and kitchen area, she climbed the spiral staircase to the loft and changed into jeans, a long sleeved flannel shirt, and sneakers. There was another bedroom downstairs, but the loft is where she and Carla had slept, and the warm memories of late night chats with her younger sister remained embedded in her psyche. A toilet and basin were off the downstairs bedroom. Tucked under the spiral stairs was a cedar closet with extra warm clothing for foul weather. It was the only place Jennifer hadn’t cleaned out since she’d inherited the island from her grandmother.
After running a comb through her cinnamon-colored hair, she pulled it into a ponytail and slipped on a green hair band. She glanced into the small mirror hung on the roughhewn wall. Her tan emphasized the freckles that laced across her nose and cheeks. She rubbed on lotion that had a nondescript fresh smell, unlike the perfume Alex had given her. She hesitated, unable to recall the name. “Oh yes, L‘air du Temps,” she mumbled. The perfume went down the drain shortly after he’d left.
Back downstairs she heated clam chowder on the propane burner. Through the window, she saw the sloop still moored in the cove. She mulled over how snippy she’d been. In fact, she’d been rude and normally she was friendly and outgoing. How much she’d changed.
Since her grandmother’s death four months earlier, she’d only been to the island a few times. The last time Joe had come with her. He seemed to understand that the island was her sanctuary where she could grieve and remember the good as well as the bad that had occurred on Beastly.
Her parents were furious that the island had been left to her and not to them, but her grandmother knew they would sell it. After Carla’s murder, they never returned to the island. Her grandmother understood that Jen