Precious Cargo Read online

  Ben snapped. “Racial profiling.”

  Janet screwed her face up. “What?”

  “Racial profiling,” Ben said again. “You just generalized about, and assigned a value to, people based on their skin color. People do it all the time. But just let a police officer try it and the heat’s on.”

  Janet huffed. “It’s not even vaguely the same thing.”

  “I’m not saying you’re using it for the same reason. I’m just trying to point out that the underlying sentiment is the same.”

  “No, it’s not,” Janet said. She turned to me. “Charlie, you’re black, what do you think?”

  I grinned, then pointed back and forth between them. “I think I know better than to step into the middle of an argument between you two. Sounds like you’ve got the makings of a great conflict. What do they say? The greater the argument, the more passionate the love when you make up.”

  Ben let out a belly laugh. Janet’s face turned beet red.

  “Maybe we’d better change the topic,” she said to Ben.

  He nodded.

  “I heard you had a really intense day in Eagle Harbor,” Janet said.

  “When Raven and I—”

  Janet blurted out, “Raven?”

  “You know him?” I said.

  “Know him? The yellow cedar masks that I have in the gallery, Raven carved them. People love them. I can barely keep enough in supply. He needs to carve more. This silver pendant”—she grasped the piece dangling around her neck and held it over the table toward me—“he made it. He’s a great craftsman. Haida mother. Lummi father.”

  “A man of many hidden talents,” I said.

  “Fits his name,” Janet said. “Listen to all the different calls a raven makes. Raven’s also the trickster and the shape-shifter of Northwest coastal lore. You think Raven’s this, and suddenly he changes into that—something completely different. The elders say it’s to remind you never to take anything for granted—to always look beneath the surface of things.”

  “Speaking of Eagle Harbor,” Ben said, “you might need this.”

  He slid a small manila envelope across the table. I picked it up and peeked inside.

  “What’s that?” Janet asked.

  “A photograph I’m not sure you want to see before eating,” I said.

  “Especially if you intend to have a crab dish,” Ben added.

  Janet grimaced. She held up a hand. “You’ve convinced me. I won’t ask about it anymore.”

  Our waitress came back with a tray full of small plates. We had her set them in the middle of our table for us to sort out and share. She also poured glasses of wine for Janet and Ben. I stuck with my microbrew. We toasted to friendship and beginning new relationships. Ben and Janet kissed after the toast. It made me wish for Kate. After a few bites of eggplant and goat cheese, I turned to Janet.

  “Can you tell me more about Dennis Kincaid and the connections he has to politicians and businesspeople here in the state?”

  Janet finished chewing, then swallowed hard. She set down her fork.

  “That bastard,” she said. “We have a lawyer investigating his background in Texas. Give me a day or two, and I’ll know everything there is to know about Mr. Kincaid.”

  “I bet you will,” Ben said.

  “Hey, buddy, you looking to pick another fight?” Janet said.

  Ben smiled sheepishly. “No. I’m really looking to make up.”

  I pointed between them again. “Then maybe you two shouldn’t order dessert.”

  “After a great dinner, miss dessert?” Janet said. She pointed at Ben. “First things first. Besides”—she turned to me—“I haven’t told you about dating Bud Kincaid, Dennis Kincaid’s darling playboy son.”

  “Bud?” I said.

  “Bud,” Janet said.

  “Bud?” Ben said. “You dated him?”

  “You know him?” Janet asked.

  “No, but you never told me about him,” Ben said.

  “And you’ve told me about all the women you’ve ever dated?” Janet grinned. “Besides, it was a long time ago. Before my marriage. We were in college together. Here, at the university. Fast cars. Wild parties.”

  Ben blurted out. “You? A party animal?”

  Janet smiled and waved a playful finger at Ben. “You mean you, Mr. Budweiser, weren’t? Let’s put it this way. If I sold sweatshirts for women in this town that read on the front, ‘I Dated Bud Kincaid,’ I’d make a bundle. Apparently Bud raised a little too much hell in Texas, and Daddy Kincaid sent him out of state for college. Daddy also bought property up here, including a fancy house for Bud to live in.”

  “So that’s how Kincaid got his property, like the large parcel where you’re fighting his development plans?”

  “Yep. Kincaid kept buying property up here because it was so cheap, and after graduation Bud stayed around to manage Daddy’s affairs.”

  “Still a playboy?”

  “Far as I know.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Ben squirming in his chair.

  He tapped Janet on the shoulder. “What would it say on the back?”

  “What?”

  “The sweatshirt. What would it say on the back?” He sounded impatient.

  Janet paused, then smiled devilishly. “Don’t Make the Same Mistake I Did.”

  Ben exhaled deeply.

  “Charlie, did you meet the Wild Woman of Cypress Island?” Janet asked.

  “Who?”

  Janet ran a finger across her breasts. “Miss AWOL. CJ.”

  “Who don’t you know?” I asked.

  She winked. “Small town. Besides. . . .” She looked down into her wine glass. The atmosphere around the table suddenly grew thick with silence as dense as a fogbank that had blown in over the water. Ben’s face contorted. He looked my way and raised his eyebrows. Janet took a long swallow of wine without making eye contact. She set her glass down and tapped it gently with her fingernail, setting off a few soft tings. She finally raised her head. Ben reached out for her. Janet brushed away tears.

  seven

  “Does it ever get easy?” she asked.

  “Does what ever get easy?” Ben asked.

  Janet looked at me. “Losing a loved one.”

  “I think so,” I said. “But I’m not sure.”

  Ben sighed. “I’m sorry but I don’t understand. This is about Thomas, but a moment ago I . . . I thought. . . .” A pained expression crossed his face. He turned my way. “I thought you two were talking about that woman ranger on Cypress.”

  Janet touched Ben’s arm. “Years ago . . . before Thomas was murdered . . . CJ was his student at Huxley. One of his first grad students. She adored him . . . maybe a little too much.”

  “And he adored her back?” Ben asked.

  “No,” Janet said. “Female students were always attracted to Thomas. Hell, he was a handsome, smart, and passionate teacher. He flirted but he never crossed the line. It didn’t matter that I was his wife. When Thomas invited CJ over to our house, she would eye me as though she wished I’d disappear. She got into fights with other female grad students.”

  “Over Thomas?” I asked.

  “Not ostensibly, but Thomas knew the real reason. CJ hated it when other females got more attention from him than she did. Several grad students left the department because of her. Even after graduation, she found reasons to visit Thomas or call our home.”

  “Stalker,” Ben said.

  “She left the area for several years,” Janet said. “Next thing I heard she’d gone to work for the Department of Natural Resources as a ranger on Cypress Island. A good job for her.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “She lacks appropriate interpersonal skills.”

  “She treated Raven and me appropriately today,” I said.

  “Just hope she doesn’t decide to place you in her amorous crosshairs,” Janet said.

  “Kate would certainly have something to say about that, and I would not
like to be in CJ’s shoes when she did.”

  Janet laughed. Ben shook his head. We all returned to our dinners.

  BACK AT THE Noble Lady, I checked my voice mail. A message from Ed Sykes said that a boat named Longhorn had pulled into Roche Harbor earlier in the day. I also checked the time: ten thirty at night. With Roche Harbor thirty-five nautical miles from here, that meant four or five hours on the water, depending on the currents.

  I pulled a current atlas down from my bookshelf and looked up today’s data. The currents up Hale Passage and down President Channel ran in my favor. If I left now, I’d get into Roche Harbor in the wee hours of the morning. But at least I’d be sure to intercept Longhorn so I could ask the crew a few questions. Like why they’d anchored in Eagle Harbor, and what they knew about the three dead women.

  I turned to climb the steps up to the helm when someone knocked on the galley window. The boarding gate swung open. The Noble Lady curtsied to one side. Then the cabin door swung open, and Kate stepped inside.

  “I thought—”

  She held up her hand. “A young seaman came down with a bad case of food poisoning. The CO brought Sea Eagle back to port to get him to the hospital and have the food aboard inspected.”

  “You’re all right?”

  She ran her hands down the sides of her body and over her hips. “Fit.” She smiled. “The CO gave us shore leave for the night. Most of the crew went out drinking. But I had other plans.”

  Kate’s smile turned devilish. She closed the door, then undid a clip at the back of her head. She shook her head and her brunette hair cascaded softly over her shoulders. Kate walked over to me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and anchored a big kiss on my lips. I twisted slightly in her grip and slipped the current atlas onto the galley table. More urgent currents needed attention first. I ushered Kate down two steps into the master stateroom. Roche Harbor would have to wait until the morning.

  After we slipped into the berth, Kate said, “I have to report for duty at 0500 hours.”

  “Great,” I said. “I need to cast off at 0400 hours.”

  Kate squealed playfully. “Without me?”

  “Only to Roche Harbor. Not exactly the Noble Lady’s preferred surroundings.”

  “Business?”

  “Business.”

  “I don’t want to know about it right now.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  And we didn’t.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I walked into the galley and peeked outside. A faint blue sky backlit the hills fringing the eastern edge of the city. Darkness still cloaked most of the bay. I put on a pot of coffee, then wandered back down into the stateroom, switched on a soft light, and nudged Kate.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s 0330 hours.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Damn. You’ve got to leave, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  She sniffed the air. “Coffee’s on?”

  “I thought you’d sworn off morning coffee in favor of healthful shakes with green stuff floating in them.”

  “It’s not morning. It’s oh-dark-thirty,” she said. “I’ll take mine black.”

  I slipped into my clothes while Kate hauled herself out of bed. I checked the Noble Lady’s water, oil, and fuel. Then I climbed up to the pilothouse and twisted the key in the ignition. I smiled when the engine fired right up and started to purr. Then I climbed back down and poured two cups of coffee. Engine vibrations created a tiny sea of ripples in each cup. Kate took a few sips, then set her cup down.

  “I’ll take it with me,” she said, pointing to the cup. “You need to leave. Get up into the pilothouse. I’ll cast you off.”

  After a kiss, I grabbed my coffee and climbed the pilothouse stairs. I pushed the side door open. Kate stood below me on the dock, steam rising from the cup next to her feet.

  “Ready to cast off?” she asked.

  “Ready.”

  She walked to the bow, where she undid one large dock line and tossed it aboard. Then she walked to the stern, where she loosened another line and placed it inside the fantail. She unwound both spring lines from their cleats, tossed one on the deck, and held onto the other while she walked the boat back out of the slip. All the while I looked down at her and thought, “Sharon would approve. You’re with a woman who knows what to do around a boat.”

  Finally, Kate flipped the remaining spring line underneath the handrails and pushed the nose of the Noble Lady away from the dock so it would clear the large piling at the end. She waved. I waved back. Then she stooped down for her coffee cup.

  My attention snapped back to the fifteen tons of fiberglass and metal underneath me. I cranked the wheel hard over to starboard. I eased the shifter into reverse, then gunned the engine. I slipped the gearshift into forward, and gunned the engine again. The Noble Lady spun like a top, and we glided down the fairway.

  I looked back but I didn’t see Kate. Then we passed the visitor’s dock, where she stood with her coffee cup in hand. She waved, then threw me a kiss. And I thought, “Sharon would definitely approve.”

  Once clear of the breakwater, I pointed the Noble Lady just to the right of the green, flashing buoy at the entrance to the harbor. Technically, that placed me outside of the approved coast guard channel, but local boats frequently cut this corner, and doing so lined me up perfectly for the south tip of Portage Island.

  Beyond the pulsing green light, calm, flat water ruled Bellingham Bay. I nudged the throttle lever forward and jiggled it until a low, thumping vibration settled throughout the boat. A chill still hung in the air, so I closed the pilothouse door. Then I pushed a button, which activated the autopilot, and stared at my radar to make sure I had a clear route. I leaned back into the helm seat, wrapped my hands around the warm cup, and took a generous sip of coffee.

  The Noble Lady guided herself through the dark water. Ahead of me, the deep green hillside of Lummi Island slowly emerged from darkness. Behind me, the soft gurgle of the Noble Lady’s exhaust sounded. Overhead, a few seagulls cried. I savored another sip. For a boater, it doesn’t get much better than this.

  Approaching the south end of Portage, I fixed my gaze on my depth sounder. I set down my coffee cup and stood up with one hand over the autopilot, the other on the wheel, ready to reclaim control of the boat. The depth reading went from one hundred feet to fifteen feet within about a hundred yards. Funny, I feared that the depth would decrease even further, even though I knew that wouldn’t happen.

  I could have swung out farther toward the red buoy between Portage and Eliza Islands to stay in deeper water. But locals also cut in close to the tip of Portage. This shallow patch of water is a favorite for native Lummi crabbers. At times, it can be a minefield of red-and-white floats marking the location of crab traps sitting on the seafloor. Thankfully, only a few floats bobbed ahead of me. I took another long sip of coffee. I tried to fend it off, but the image of the crab trap sitting atop the body of that young woman rushed into my mind. I no longer wanted to discover what had happened to these women just for the sake of the Bayneses. I also needed to find out for me.

  As I rounded Portage and entered Hale Passage heading north, the sea remained flat calm. But behind me, a thick wall of fog moved my way. I pushed the throttle forward, hoping the Noble Lady could outrun the fogbank. I hadn’t made it halfway up the passage when wispy tendrils of mist began to swirl around the pilothouse windows and swoop over the foredeck. I pulled the throttle back. A moment later, a heavy white curtain descended and I lost sight of the Noble Lady’s bow.

  Sudden fog is more frightening to me than high winds or steep seas. Sunlight played through the fog, lighting the smoky world outside with a luminous glow in all directions. I couldn’t see where the water met the land, the air, or the Noble Lady. My head spun as I tried to regain my bearings. I couldn’t continue peering through the pilothouse windows, or I’d run the Noble Lady aground. So I checked my compass heading, then turned my atte
ntion to the radar, forgetting the glowing white world that enveloped me and narrowing my attention down to the tiny, glowing green world on the radar screen.

  Each sweep of the radar painted bright green landmasses on either side of the passage. Keeping an eye to the compass made it easy to steer away from these blobs that didn’t move. I scanned the screen for blobs that did move—in particular, for one blob that should be moving ahead of me soon: the Lummi Island Ferry, transporting early-morning commuters to the mainland.

  From a small depression on the left side of the screen, a green bulge protruded, then broke off, like a cell dividing under a microscope. The bulge headed toward the center of the radar screen, which meant the ferry was moving directly toward me.

  I had to trust that the captain of that ferry had me on his radar, as he had to trust that I had him on mine. I didn’t slow down or stop. Instead, I checked the compass, adjusted the throttle, and maintained a consistent course and speed. It’s a way of telling that ferry captain, “This is who I am, and this is what I’m doing.”

  In good visibility, crossing paths with another vessel is not a problem. But in the fog it is like suddenly going blind, then being told you must cross a busy intersection with only a cane to guide you. Although I’d traveled this stretch of water many times, my hands gripped the wheel tightly.

  The ferry maintained its course and speed. I maintained mine. The sound of the ferry’s engine seemed to come at me from all directions in the fog. I fought the urge to look out the window and kept my eyes fixed on my instruments. We were an eighth of a mile away from each other, and the ferry was still coming directly at me.

  This wasn’t a game of chicken, so I pulled the throttle back and brought the engine to a stop. Two short blasts from the ferry’s deep, throaty horn sounded, as if the ferry captain was saying “Thank you.” I blasted my higher pitched horn twice to say “You’re welcome.” Then I brought the engine back up to speed.

  Twenty minutes later, I popped out of the fog at the end of Hale Passage with a clear view to the early-morning horizon up the Strait of Georgia and the treed tops of the San Juan Islands gleaming in the sun against an aquamarine sky. I reached for my cup of coffee, but it had grown cold.