The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. HazelwoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
for me to turn you away.”
“That’s the idea.”
She bit her lower lip, realizing that at some point trust had to return. “I’ve got a brazier at the cabin.” She pointed up the hill. “By the way, I’m Jennifer Frost.”
“Hmm. The name suits you,” he said.
She bristled, but knew she’d been “frosty,” so she let his barb pass. “And this is my guardian, Lydia,” she said, making sure he understood her dog would protect her.
He nodded. “Does she eat fish?”
“She would if I let her.” Jennifer released Lydia from her stay, and the dog moved forward to sniff Rick and the fish. “We could make a fire down here on the beach.” She tossed out the suggestion, although this idea would still entail her going up and down to the cabin.
“Or you could come out to the boat and I could cook dinner.” He stood still, the fish in one hand, the sack of coal in the other.
Silence fell between them as they took the measure of one another. “Let’s go up to the cabin,” she finally said, pointing toward the path. After a few steps, she stopped. “Lydia’s my bodyguard.”
“I promise not to get you or your dog mad at me.” He raised his free hand in a Boy Scout salute that made her smile.
With Lydia between her and Rick, she continued, fighting off her instinctive reaction to not turn her back to him. Although trust was no longer in her DNA, having Lydia nearby inspired some of her old confidence.
When they came to the Beastly Manor sign, he asked, “Is there significance to the name?”
“Yes,” she said, but added no details. They passed through the gate she’d left unlatched and continued up the stairs. After they’d gained the porch, she explained, “My great grandmother was English.” She dragged out the grill. “She hated the island and the cabin. In those days it was more primitive than it is today. Thanks to my grandparents there’s running water and a flush toilet.”
She put a handful of dried wood chips in the bottom of the brazier, and he placed charcoal on top. After he’d lit the fire with his lighter, Jennifer finished her story. “According to my grandmother, her mother kept saying, ‘The place is absolutely beastly, just beastly.’ So...when my grandmother inherited the island, she named it Beastly and put up the sign. I’ve always liked the name.”
“I thought perhaps it had another meaning, more dramatic, perhaps even ghostly.” He produced a fresh tomato and a head of lettuce out of the bag he’d carried. “Thought you might not have had your greens lately.”
Her eyes widened. “That’ll be a treat. I have some Marsala vinegar and olive oil for a salad dressing. I’ll add pine nuts for crunch.” She grinned as she took his salad offerings. “I picked elderberries this morning. We can have them for dessert. How does that sound?”
“My mouth is watering already. Do you have any rice?”
“Yes. Good idea.” She went into the kitchen and made the rest of dinner while he kept an eye on the fish grilling, and Lydia kept an eye on him. With the rice cooking, Jennifer returned to the porch and relaxed in the rocker, while he sat in the cane chair.
She puzzled over his coming to her island. “Are you vacationing or do you just sail around looking for islands to explore?”
He gazed toward the sea where wisps of mist began to swirl above his sloop’s mast. The beacon light glowed from the masthead. “Most of the time I live on board,” he nodded in the sloop’s direction, “and do a little of this and that to keep my head above water. I have no intention of settling in one place.”
“I noticed it was registered out of Seattle. Mooring her there must cost you.”
“I manage.”
“She has classic lines.”
“You’ve got a good eye. She’s about fifteen years old, a Morris 36. I refitted her from top to bottom.” He stood and went over and tested the fish with a long fork. “It’s ready. How about the rice?”
“It should be done.” She went inside, put the salad and the rice on individual plates and took them out, handing one to Rick.
After they helped themselves to pieces of salmon, they sat and ate quietly until she said, “I’ve been living on dried food, canned goods, and some fish catches for the past week. This is a pleasant treat. Thanks.”
He bowed his head. “My pleasure.” After another mouthful, he asked, “What do you do when you’re not on the island playing Robinson Crusoe?”
“I’m not playing. This island has been in my family for generations. It’s my rock when the world goes topsy-turvy.”
“Is your world topsy-turvy now?” He smiled in an odd way. “How do you feel about that?”
“You sound like a psychologist.”
“Oops. Didn’t I tell you I’m a psychiatrist at a mental health clinic?”
For a moment she thought he was serious, then realized he wasn’t. “You’ve got a weird sense of humor.”
“You’re not the first to notice.” He put down his plate and sipped the tea she’d served. “So what do you do for a living? Or maybe you don’t have to since you own an island.”
“I’m part owner of Books & Tea, a bookstore in Brandon, a small town north of Seattle. Ever been there?”
“Sorry, can’t say I have.”
“Not surprised. The town is small and so is our store. Brandon’s very quaint; the locals like their privacy. Not many newbies, despite the influx from California, but the store does well enough.”
“There must be a lot of readers in Brandon to make a go of a privately owned bookstore these days.”
“We manage,” she said, thinking she could be just as evasive as he’d been. “What about you? Retrofitting your sloop must have taken a bundle.”
“I came into some money. I put in a 42-horsepower Westerbeke and a 130-amp alternator because of the new refrigeration compressor. It took a long time to refit her. The teak had to be matched, sanded and repaired.” He must have seen her blank stare. “Sorry, I do go on about The High Life.”
She nodded. “There’s nothing wrong with taking pride in doing something well.” She finished the last bite of salmon on her plate. “There’s a lot of fish left. Do you want to take it back to your boat?”
“I’m not into taking a gift back. Don’t you have a fridge?”
“A small one, runs on propane.” She took their empty plates inside and dished up the elderberries with a tad of honey on top. When she came outside, he was scratching Lydia behind the ears as the dog drooled on his pants.
“I thought Newfies were water rescue dogs,” he said. “She’s not really ferocious is she?”
Jennifer raised her chin. “Do you want to test her?”
He shook his head.
“She’ll take care of anyone who gives me a bad time.” Jennifer handed Rick a bowl of berries and sat down. “She’s well trained.”
“A good thing since you’re out here alone.” He began to eat the berries with a relished sigh.
“My grandmother taught me to be vigilant.”
He looked up between mouthfuls. “She must be quite a woman.”
“She was. She died four months ago.” She turned her head away.
“Sorry.”
She shrugged. “You couldn’t know.” After a time, she said, “Fog’s getting thicker. The light on