The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. HazelwoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d placed in the pit she’d dug earlier. With a shovel, a pail of crumpled scraps of paper, and a small can of lighter fluid, she walked down to the beach. Lydia trotted ahead sniffing the brush. A muffled bell tolled from the sloop, reminding Jennifer that she was not alone.
She stuffed the paper trash in amongst the branches, sprayed them with lighter fluid and set it afire, then paced the pit’s perimeter to see that no wayward sparks drifted into the forest. Although the foliage lining the shore was damp, she never took chances with fire, something she’d learned from her grandfather’s experience. Years ago a boat of party goers had come ashore on the island’s northern tip and their camp fire ignited the nearby shrubbery. Only a heavy downpour prevented the flames from spreading across the two mile wide island.
Lydia barked and trotted to the water’s edge. Startled, Jennifer looked up.
“Ahoy. May I come ashore?” Rick’s voice rolled through the drab grayness.
Although still uneasy about his presence, she called for him to land and quieted Lydia. Like an image stepping through a curtain, he strode forward dressed in jeans and a raglan navy-blue sweater.
When he was near, he said, “I smelled smoke, then caught sight of flames. Are you all right?”
“Just doing a bramble burn before I leave.” She moved back toward the pit, but kept a wary eye on Rick and maintained a grip on the shovel. “I let it burn completely, then toss water on the ashes and cover the pit.”
“Very thorough.” He sat in the sand at the edge of the pit with his arms on his knees, gazing at the burn.
Jennifer knelt a few yards from him, passing grains of sand from one hand to the next, enjoying the soothing soft trickle. For a time they were silent, observing the fire.
Over the crackling flames, he said, “I began to think about your sign, ‘Beastly Manor,’ and recalled a story in the newspapers dubbed, The Beastly Island Murder. Did that happen here?”
She nodded and a lump rose in her throat.
“Sorry to bring up bad memories. Was it anyone you knew?”
She gripped the end of the shovel tighter. “My younger sister.”
“That had to be rough. Did they catch him?”
She could feel him watching her as she shook her head, cleared her throat and said, “No. The case is still open.” Unable to look his way, she stared straight ahead. A soft breeze shifted the heavy mist into wandering wisps. The sun broke through and sparkled in a hit and miss pattern upon the water. Slowly the shrub dwindled to embers, then orange glows. Ash fluttered like butterflies above the pit. “Fire’s done its work.” She stood, picked up her bucket and walked to the water’s edge. As she stooped to fill it, Rick moved to her side, taking the heavy pail from her. He strode back to the pit and sloshed the water over the sputtering fire. Before she had a chance to pick up the shovel, he grabbed it, too.
Lydia growled; Jennifer quieted her. Rick pulled out a pair of work gloves from his back pocket and began shoveling sand into the hole.
“You don’t have to do that.” Her annoyance at his usurping her duties made her voice strident. Over the last few years, the trait Alex had called pig-headed independence, had become more prominent.
Ignoring her, Rick continued shoveling until the pit disappeared. When he was finished, he handed the shovel back to her. “Wanted to make amends for bringing up bad memories.” He took off his gloves and jammed them back in his pocket.
She studied him for a moment. “How good are you with repairing roofs?”
“I’ve never tried. It can’t be too difficult.”
“It can be dangerous.”
“Ah, danger. Sounds like an adventure.”
“Adventures I like. Foolish risks, no.” She paused, not wanting to expose her vulnerability. Picking up the bucket, she started toward the cabin with Lydia at her heels. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m going to take advantage of your guilt.”
After they got to the area under the cabin, she took out a ladder and handed it to him to carry to the water tower. On the way she grabbed an armful of shingles, nails and a hammer and stuffed them into a pack. At the bottom of the tower, they stopped to gaze upward. The fog had lifted enough to see the top of the structure.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a permanent ladder leading to the one located on the tank.” He moved the ladder into place and again put on his gloves.
“Dad thought it made it too easy for animals to get up top. I never understood why he thought animals could climb ladders.” She shrugged. “I re-tacked a few shingles on the cabin roof yesterday. When I was up there, I noticed shingles missing from the top of the tank, too.” She appraised him. “Do you think you can handle the job?”
“Now that’s a challenge I have to take.” He looked at her. “I need both hands to climb. How am I supposed to carry the shingles? You coming up?”
She grinned and patted the pack. “Everything you need is in here.”
“Okay, boss.” He shrugged into the pack and began to ascend the ladder. When he was almost to the top, he looked down, waved, then scrambled onto the roof. As she waited below, she felt pleased with herself. The pounding of the hammer was rhythmic assurance that he was tackling the problem. About twenty minutes later he backed off the roof and descended the ladder.
When he reached the ground, he bowed. “Job accomplished.”
“I thank you, Sir Knight,” she said and laughed.
“Well, don’t thank me too much. I’d say you’re due for a re-roofing job on the tank.”
“I kind of thought so.” They walked back to the cabin and stowed the ladder and gear. “I was hoping the roof would last one more year. Getting a crew out here isn’t easy.”
“It might last a while yet, but I’d have a roofer check it out.” He yanked off his gloves and wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.
“Would you like some lemonade?” she asked. “I don’t have ice, but it’s cold.”
“Thanks. That would be great.”
After stowing the ladder and the tools, he followed her up to the porch. “You’ve been very hospitable today. Would you come on board my sloop for lunch? I can offer you ice, white wine or beer, smoked salmon, Brie cheese.”
“Thank you for asking me, but when I’m on the island, Lydia and I are Siamese twins. I’ve seen how your ship glints with spit and polish, and her paws would do damage.”
“Don’t you ever leave her behind?”
“Not while I’m on the island. When we’re here, she’s like velcro.” He started to follow her into the cabin, but she pointed to the chair. “Why don’t you stay out here and relax.”
He raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Sure. I like to be waited on.”
Having him on the porch was one thing, in the cabin quite another. She went to the kitchen where she took out the pitcher of lemonade from the small fridge. When she returned and handed him a tall glass, Lydia was leaning against his leg.
“She does drool, doesn’t she?” He raised the glass to his lips.
Jennifer laughed. “That’s an understatement.” She smiled at her Newfie. Her loyalty to her dog seemed outrageous to some. Leaving Lydia behind wasn’t the only reason she refused his invitation. While on the island, caution continued to be her mantra. Her grandmother had taught her well.
She sat on the porch rail and looked over her domain. Other than Joe Baker and her Aunt Emma Mae, most didn’t understand her attachment to the island and her dog. They were her anchors in a world that had turned bleak.
“How