The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. HazelwoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Hardly, although it’s possible. We’re about twelve miles off the coast. Sometimes I rent a boat and moor it in the cove, but this time I used Clarence’s ferry service. He’ll pick me up, and I’ll haul out trash when I leave. My cell phone keeps me in touch.”
“Good arrangement.” He glanced at his empty bowl and glass. “Can I help you clean up?”
She shook her head. “Not necessary.”
“What are you doing tomorrow? Looks like the fog will keep me moored here at least through tomorrow.” He must have noticed her tensing, for he added, “I won’t bother you, but if you need help with chores, I’m handy with a hammer or shovel.”
She swallowed, thinking of Carla’s bashed skull, but she regained her poise and replied, “Everything’s taken care of, thanks.”
After the fog swallowed his retreating figure, she walked down, checked the gate and secured the cowbell. Her trust went only so far.
A fish dinner didn’t warrant letting down her guard.
Chapter 2
Unnerved by the man’s visit, she put in a call to Joe. He’d be off his shift by now and talking to him always cheered her.
He answered immediately. “Hi, Jen. Miss me?”
“You bet.”
“Miss you too. How’s it going in Beastly paradise?”
“It would be paradise if you were here. The peregrines are back, but the eagles seem to have abandoned their nest.”
“How’s the kayaking? I….”
“What did you say? Couldn’t hear you. Static.”
“It’s your cell phone,” he said. “When are you going to get rid of that ancient thing? The new ones will give you better reception.”
“Nag.” She grinned as she said it.
“Yeah, well I care.”
“I know and I’ll get a new cell soon.”
“That’s what you always say… I….”
“What? Lost you again.”
“Hang up and save the battery.”
“I love you,” she said, then added, “Nag.”
“Ha, ha. See you in a few…. Weekend after you return we can go for a hike or something.”
“Or something sounds delightful.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ll be thinking about it. Give your mutt a pat. Bye.”
After she hung up, she put on Emma Mae’s Dionne Warwick CD and swayed to the rhythm, thinking of Joe. He kidded her that her taste in music was dictated by her elders. He was right, but she noticed that he enjoyed some of the oldies too. She passed the rest of the evening reading an Agatha Christie novel and sipping red wine.
In the loft that night she awoke from a parade of haunting images: Carla’s head oozing blood; a shovel protruding from the sand; a sailboat bobbing in shallow water; Alex holding books; pages fluttering in the wind. Sweating, she rolled over and stared out the window at the gray wisps of fog hovering at the pane.
“Lydia,” she called out and was rewarded with the sound of a healthy bark. Jennifer fumbled for the large flashlight at her bedside and flipped it on. Rising, she pulled on a fleece robe over her pajamas, then slipped into mukluks before descending the circular staircase. Dampness had crept into the cabin. Downstairs she opened the damper on the wood-burning stove and put a match to the kindling. As the wood flamed, Lydia came to her side and jabbed at her mistress’s thigh with her front paw.
“It’s not playtime. You won’t be happy with the heat, but it’s too cold for me.” She unlocked the door and let Lydia out. At first Jennifer roamed the room, then stretched out on the sofa and pulled a wool throw over her. Normally, the fog didn’t bother her, although it reminded her of the night she’d found Carla’s bludgeoned body on the beach. Perhaps the appearance of the stranger and his anchorage in the bay prompted her dreams.
She castigated herself for giving in to memories of that other sodden September, and yet she understood that until her sister’s murderer was caught, she would have no peace. Like her parents, she was a victim of Carla’s demise. In the past two years since then, Jennifer’s life had spiraled out of control.
She rubbed her forehead as the image of her sister’s body sprawled in the sand, blood covering her face remained imprinted on her mind. According to the coroner, death was due to blunt force trauma to the head with an unknown wood object. No weapon had been found, no footprints, no clues. There were no leads, except the book Carla carried with her was gone. Why she took a signed first edition of Chandler’s The Big Sleep with her that night the family couldn’t say.
Jennifer and Alex had been the last to see her alive, so suspicion had fallen on them. First the police accused Jennifer—her motives: desire for Carla’s inheritance and jealousy over Carla’s secret affair with Alex, which he vigorously denied. When they couldn’t substantiate Jennifer’s guilt, they turned to Alex, noting his obsession with collectable antique books. The police were unable to find enough evidence against him to charge him with the crime. Nevertheless, the accusations, publicity and family recriminations led to her split with Alex.
When he left, he’d said, “Find the book and you’ll find the murderer.” That idea had spurred her investment in her aunt’s bookstore, since it might help her find the rare book that might solve her sister’s murder. Jennifer attended Antiquity Book Fairs, talked with book dealers and collectors and learned the business. She had traced Carla’s edition to a donation to the Friends of the Library by the estate of Helen Jacobi. Mr. Arnett, the estate’s executor, had explained that the sole heir was a distant cousin living in Israel. Arnett had little information concerning the rest of the Jacobi family. No record of the books donated was available. A dead end.
To Jennifer the only plausible reason for Carla’s murder was that someone had coveted the Chandler book. There were jackals who took risks to secure and own rare books or to sell them for a heady price. Despite the intrigue surrounding book collectors and their foibles, killing for a book with a value of eighteen to twenty thousand dollars seemed out of character for even the most ardent book thief. Besides, she always ran into the same barrier. Who would have known that Carla would be on the island with the book? The police had checked on Carla’s old boyfriends; all had airtight alibis.
As she huddled under the wool throw, she tried to take her mind off the past by turning her thoughts to her upcoming assignment to catalog and appraise Clifford Wedgeworth’s new book acquisitions while he and his bride were on their honeymoon. His book collection was legendary and this was a huge opportunity for Jennifer.
She’d been informed that his personal secretary, Warren Peabody, would let her into the house. All the arrangements seemed peculiar. The initial contact had been a letter, and at his request, subsequent correspondence had been sent to a post office box. Her report was to be put on a CD and mailed to the same box. Even more peculiar was that the payment for her services would be made in cash and delivered to her home address. It was as if Wedgeworth didn’t want their dealings traced. Why? Despite the irregularities, the money was too good to pass up, and she’d accepted the conditions. Had she been foolish to do so? She’d sloughed off her misgivings, convincing herself that the rich felt they had a right to be eccentric.
Jennifer turned off the flashlight and sat in murky darkness. On nights like this, she often took out her tape recorder and verbalized her ideas, but not tonight. The heat from the stove dispelled the dampness, but not her thoughts. She went to the door and checked on Lydia, but left her outside knowing she’d prefer the cooler air. She’d still be able to hear Lydia’s warning bark if Rick or anyone else approached. After locking the door, she retreated to the loft to try to gain the reprieve of sleep.
Chapter