Precious Cargo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  Copyright Page

  Nothing is more precious than our love.

  acknowledgments

  Natasha Kern, my agent, for believing in me and staying the course until we’d found a great home for this book. Roger Cooper, Peter Costanzo, Georgina Levitt, Amanda Ferber, Francine LaSala, Sandra Beris, Kathy Streckfus, and the rest of the “dream team” at Vanguard Press. Virginia Martin, my publicist. Actors Morgan Freeman, Ruby Dee, Roscoe Orman, and Swil Kanim for the generous donation of their time and talents in creating a special-features DVD to accompany the book. The East Coast film crew: Bill Toles, Ruth Goldberg, Bobby Shepard, Naje Lataillade, Cherrie Shepherd, Corky Moore, and Gloria Allen. The West Coast film crew: Max Kaiser and Hand Crank Films. William Kimley of Seahorse Marine for his generous support. Christopher Moensch and Jennifer Hahn for their friendship and compassion. And lastly, the love of my life, Chara Stuart, whose many sacrifices made this book possible.

  prologue

  Sarabande swayed gently at anchor off Cypress Island. Marvin Baynes clutched his coffee cup, savoring daybreak from the pilothouse bench. A pale blue sky backlit the crisp white dome of Mount Baker. Muted cries of seagulls broke the early-morning quiet. The coffee’s rich aroma seduced Marvin, relaxed him, the warmth of the cup a buffer against the morning’s chill. He smiled and sank into the leather seat.

  Outside, the hum of an outboard engine grew steadily louder. When the engine throttled back to a soft, steady hum, Marvin stood. He slid open the pilothouse door. A skiff floated nearby.

  “CJ, that you?” He called to the woman in the skiff.

  “Stopped by to say hi,” she said.

  “You’re up early.” He raised his cup. “Care to come aboard for some coffee?”

  “Love to but not today. Boating season’s begun and I’ve got lots of work to do. Tree falls on some of the paths need clearing.”

  “And there’s no one to help you?”

  CJ smiled. She raised her arm, made a fist, and tapped her biceps. “I’m one tough broad.” She laughed. “I can outwork any man they’ve ever sent me. Besides, with cutbacks the department only has the budget for one ranger on Cypress. Though I might get an intern this year.”

  Marvin took another sip. “You’ve been out here what? Five, six years?”

  “Almost ten.”

  “And by yourself no less. I admire that.”

  “It’s . . . well . . . sometimes difficult being alone on the island, but I love it here.”

  “This summer’s our last cruise north,” Marvin said.

  “Last?”

  He gripped his cup. “It’ll be the fortieth year Angie and I have cruised the Inside Passage.” He sighed. “Much as we love it, we’re getting old and being aboard for three months is getting harder.”

  “Old? Marvin, you look great.”

  “Stop or you’ll make an old man blush.”

  CJ laughed. “Come back by when you return from Alaska and we’ll celebrate.”

  Marvin waved. “We will.”

  CJ stepped back to her helm. The engine revved. She spun the skiff around. Marvin watched her head toward the far shore as Sarabande rocked gently in her wake.

  Marvin stepped back inside the pilothouse. Forty years. Five boats. One wife. He sipped coffee, then raised his cup forward in a toast toward the berth where Angela slept. Then he sipped some more, raising his cup this time in honor of the boats that had marked the passage of their lives together: Prelude, the twenty-six-foot wooden sailboat that he’d taken Angela on for their first date; Allemande, a thirty-foot ketch they’d bought the first summer of their marriage; Minuet, the fast, thirty-three-foot fin-keel sailboat they’d raced for years; Cantata, the steel sailboat they’d built with the intention of making a circumnavigation.

  Marvin winced, clutching the coffee cup even tighter, recalling the times spent on Cantata with their daughter. After Amy’s death, he and Angela had found it difficult to sail Cantata, so they’d purchased Sarabande, their current boat, an older motorsailer that chugged along at seven knots, with an inside helm where they could escape harsh Northwest weather—a perfect boat for two retired concert musicians, two aging sailors.

  “Time to weigh anchor?” Angela’s voice rose from below.

  “Almost,” Marvin said.

  The boat creaked and rocked as Angela ascended the spiral pilothouse steps. The khaki pants and dark gray woolen sweater she wore matched Marvin’s. Angela carried her floppy, wide-brimmed hat in one hand. Marvin reached for her and gently pulled her down to sit with him. They held hands in silence. Through thinning skin, his pulse throbbed against hers.

  Marvin tapped his feet to the rhythm of waves lapping softly against the hull. From the tree-lined shore, a raven’s clucking recalled the striking of a wooden block. The raucous cries of seagulls mimicked blaring trumpets.

  Marvin let go of Angela and stepped behind Sarabande’s wheel. Then, like a conductor waving a baton to cue an orchestra, he turned the key. A high-pitched buzzer sang out. Sarabande’s diesel sprang to life with a pulsing bass tone and rhythmic tenor overtones. Angela tamped her hat down onto her head. She opened the pilothouse door and stepped out onto the deck, walking slowly toward the bow. Once there, she turned back. Marvin flashed her a thumbs-up. Angela stepped on the large, black rubber footswitch. The winch whined. The main engine groaned under the load. Metal clinked and scraped against metal as the winch pulled the anchor chain in.

  Sarabande glided forward as the chain rose. Then, with a clunk, the chain stopped. The winch whined louder. Marvin stuck his head out of the pilothouse window. Angela cupped her hands and called to him.

  “I guess we set the anchor really well.”

  “It’s mostly a mud bottom,” Marvin said. “I’ll drive over the anchor and see if I can break it free.” He eased the gearshift and the throttle forward. Sarabande moved ahead. “Try it now,” Marvin called out.

  Angela stepped on the footswitch, and the chain jerked up a few feet before stopping again. With the chain pulled tight, the boat began to swing in a circle. “Maybe we’ve snagged an old logging cable,” she said.

  “Damn,” Marvin said. “Some way to start our cruise. Look, I’ll try rocking the boat back and forth.”

  He threw the gearshift forward, powered the boat ahead until the anchor chain grew taut, then reversed gears and moved backward. Between each forward and reverse movement, Marvin waved to Angela and she tried the winch, but it only moved the chain slightly. Angela shook her head.

  “Stop,” Marvin said. “We’ll burn out the winch motor.” He sighed, and then let the boat idle in neutral. He pushed open the pilothouse door and stepped out, grabbing a red and white float. “We’ll have to unhook the chain from the boat and attach a float to it so we can retrieve it later. We’ll throw the chain overboard. Then we’ll go back to port and hire a diver to come out and see what we’ve snagged.”

  “That’s too bad,” Angela said. “
It means we won’t get going to Alaska for several days.”

  “We’ll lose three hundred feet of chain and an anchor if we don’t come back for it,” Marvin said. “Then we’ll have to buy a new anchor and new chain.”

  “Okay,” Angela said. “Give me the float. I’ll tie it on while you unhook the chain.”

  Marvin walked back toward the pilothouse. He’d just reached the door when he heard the winch motor whir and Angela cry out. When he turned back, he saw her reeling in anchor chain.

  “The motor’s working,” Angela said. “A little.” She held her thumb to her index finger. “It pulls in about a foot of chain and then stops. It might take time, but let’s see if I can pull the anchor up this way before you unhook it.”

  Marvin nodded. “Maybe we broke free. I’ll go back inside and stand by the controls.”

  The engine rumbled beneath Marvin as he watched Angela step on the switch, then wait. Step, then wait. The chain moved slowly, link after link winding up and over the bow roller, before dropping into the anchor well. Angela moved slowly too, bent over the railing, directing spray from a nozzle to wash down the muddy chain. A twinge of pain stabbed Marvin each time Angela stiffened and rubbed her hip. Perhaps the problem lay not with the anchor but with the winch motor, like the two of them, old and losing strength.

  Suddenly, Angela screamed. She staggered backward from the bow, then crumpled to the deck. Marvin rushed from the pilothouse. “Not now,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No, please. Not now. One more trip north together. Please, just one more trip.”

  Marvin knelt beside Angela, picked up her hand. She breathed in short, sharp puffs, which released small steam plumes into the cold morning air. A tortured look enveloped her face. Her eyes registered fear. She opened her mouth but no words came at first. Her arm flopped out, finger pointed toward the bow.

  “There,” she said, her voice hoarse, raspy. “Marvin, it’s Amy. . . . She’s there.”

  Marvin needed to get Angela medical attention. He also needed to finish pulling in the anchor so they didn’t drift into the rocks. He walked to the bow, looking over and down at the muddy anchor emerging from the dark green waters. A clump of seaweed snaked around the shank.

  Marvin gasped.

  Beneath the seaweed, the sharp point of an anchor fluke stuck into the pallid flesh of a young woman’s lifeless body.

  one

  Sunlight set the rear deck of the Noble Lady ablaze. A sailboat just pulling away from its berth glided by, sending a gentle wake under the Noble Lady’s hull. When the rocking stopped, I set a green and white folio of music on the stand in front of me. I opened to the Prelude of the English Suite by John Duarte, written for Andrés Segovia in honor of his second wedding.

  My hand trembled slightly as I reached down beside me for my guitar. I loved the English Suite. But would I remember how to play it, or would I have to completely relearn the piece? Would I ever play it as well as I once did? I took in a deep breath and held it. My head flopped back onto the cushion. Sun bathed my face. I exhaled to the words of Frederico Oller, my guitar teacher, which floated through my mind. “The past is not the prelude; the present is. Perfection is not the goal; love is. Love of the guitar. Love of music. Love of life.”

  I took another deep breath before grasping my guitar by the neck and easing it from its case. I cradled it in my arms. Then I reached down for the card lying on top of the crushed red velour lining the bottom of the case. I opened the card and re-read it as I had so many times in the past months. Please don’t drink this alone. Kate. I smiled and warmth flushed through my body. Kate had left the card for me last fall, along with a bottle of Red Mountain Reserve wine—a gift for the successful conclusion of my first case.

  I didn’t drink the wine alone that night. I didn’t call Kate either. At least, not at first.

  “Mr. Noble.”

  “Charlie.”

  Two voices rang out like bells, one high, one low, startling me from my musings and my music. Marvin and Angela Baynes stood on the dock looking in. They moored their boat just a few slips down from me, spending their winters in Arizona and their summers cruising the Inside Passage.

  “Permission to come aboard?” Marvin asked.

  “Permission granted,” I said.

  I laid Kate’s card in the bottom of the case and set the guitar down on top of it. Marvin swung the boarding gate open. The boat dipped as he and Angela stepped aboard. They reminded me of bookends, dressed in matching khaki shorts, green floral shirts, and wide-brimmed straw hats.

  “We haven’t disturbed your practice, have we?” Angela asked.

  “No. I’ve simply been finding ways to avoid beginning a new piece. Have a seat.”

  They sat across from me on the padded, curved bench that followed the contour of the Noble Lady’s stern. Glum stares replaced their bright smiles, which ordinarily lit up the dock.

  “I heard about what happened at Eagle Harbor,” I said. “It must have been hard. You’re still taking your summer cruise up the Inside Passage, aren’t you?”

  Tears welled in the corners of Angela’s eyes. Marvin pursed his lips and clenched his jaw, deepening the furrows along his brow.

  “Yes, we’re still going,” Marvin said. “But before we leave there’s something we’d like to ask of you.”

  “Certainly,” I said.

  Angela sighed. Her voice wavered as she spoke. “Mr. Noble, would you find out who that young woman was and why she ended up on our anchor?”

  “Shouldn’t the police and the Coast Guard do that?”

  “Yes, they should,” Marvin said. “But they won’t.”

  “Won’t?”

  “Well, at least it’s not a priority for them,” he said. “Angela and I met with the police and with the Coast Guard this morning. We’re not next of kin. So all they’d commit to is keeping us informed. Even after we explained why, they didn’t understand how much it means to us to find out whom that girl belonged to; who loved her.”

  I looked back and forth between them. Their faces appeared older, more wrinkled with sadness and pain. “I’m afraid why this means so much to you both is not obvious to me either.”

  Angela sniffed back tears. “Amy,” she said.

  “The girl’s name?” I asked.

  Marvin winced. “No, our daughter’s name.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure that I’m following you.”

  Marvin sighed. He took off his straw hat and slicked back his full head of silver hair. “When Amy was thirteen we took her camping by a small lake in eastern Washington.”

  Angela’s eyes were red. “Our Amy was a young girl with her whole life ahead of her.”

  Marvin blinked back tears. “She left camp one morning to go for a walk, and we never saw her again. We searched the woods and hills surrounding the campground for almost a week. Many of the other campers helped. The police dragged the lake. But we never found Amy.”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to try to continue with your life after the death of your only child?” Angela said. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “She just vanished,” Marvin said with a snap of his fingers. “We never knew if she’d been abducted and murdered, run away or—”

  “Our Amy didn’t run away,” Angela said. A tinge of anger colored her voice.

  Marvin turned to her. “Dear, I’m not saying she did. I’m just saying that after all these years we still don’t know.”

  “And somewhere a poor mother or father is wondering about that young girl we pulled from the bottom of Eagle Harbor,” Angela said. “Right now, they don’t know either.”

  “No one should ever have to go through what we went through,” Marvin said. “That’s why we’d like you to find out who she was and where she came from, so her family can at least begin healing from her death.”

  “It’s hard to let go, to move on without the truth, without the body of a loved one,” A
ngela said. “Years afterward, even though we were sure our Amy was dead, some part of us held out hope that a miracle had taken place and she’d return to us. We jumped every time the telephone or doorbell rang.

  “We’ve talked about it, and we both feel that finding out about this young girl we pulled up on our anchor would, in a strange way, help us finally let go of our Amy.”

  “It sounds crazy,” Marvin said. “But for years we’ve gone to church and prayed for Amy’s safe return.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all. Even six years after her death, I often imagine my wife calling to me from the dock, then stepping aboard the Noble Lady.”

  Angela gasped. Her hand went to her chest. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “How insensitive of me. I’d forgotten. Why just a moment ago I asked if you had any idea what it’s like to continue with your life after the death of a loved one. . . . Of course you do.”

  “It’s hard,” I said. “Sometimes you don’t know when or how to let go of the past in order to grab ahold of the future.”

  “Will you help us?” Marvin asked.

  “I can certainly follow up with the police and the Coast Guard,” I said.

  Marvin grabbed my arm. For an older man he had a vicelike grip. “I want you to investigate this on your own, regardless of what the authorities say.”

  I started to tell them about my plans to go out on the Noble Lady for two weeks with Kate, and how we’d both looked forward to this cruise. But one glance at the pain in their faces undercut my resolve.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” I said.

  “No expenses barred,” Marvin said. “Follow the investigation wherever it leads. And when we return from Alaska, tell us what you’ve found out about that poor child.”

  I nodded.

  Outside, a large diesel engine groaned. I turned to look through one of the clear plastic windows embedded in the heavy dark blue canvas enclosing my cockpit. A clutch of people gathered to watch a glitzy white motoryacht, at least eighty feet long, maneuver into the visitor’s dock. When I turned back to the Bayneses, they both had smiles. A sparkle had returned to their eyes.