Murder at Fire Bay (2 page)

Jeanette took my hand. “C’mon, Leo, let’s go have a cup of coffee.”

I took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

Again, that chill worked its way down my spine and I didn’t like it one bit.

It was a cool day out on the street. The leaden sky leaked a mist just heavy enough that the gutter on the post office dripped kerplunks now and then into a rain barrel at the corner of the building. After a few steps in the mud, I began to shiver.
 

“Leo, are you all right?”
 

“Yeah, honey, I will be as soon as I get back inside. Must be catching a cold or something.”

“Uh, huh.” I wasn’t fooling her one iota. She knew better. It was she who had to listen to me talking in my sleep when the dreams came. Nightmares, that ranged from a former marriage, to Vietnam, and back again to the present day in this village. I patted her arm and gave her a smile.
 

“Winter’s coming on.”

“Yes,” she said.

The village priest, Father Markoff, dressed formally in his black robe and head cover, gave a shout from where he stood in the doorway of the church.

“Leo! Jeanette! Where you going?”

Jeanette gave him a wave.

“Where are you two off to?” he asked again.

“The café,” we answered back.

“Why don’t you come over? I’ve got a fresh pot brewing on the stove.”

I looked at Jeanette and nodded. Why not? We turned ninety degrees to the left and made for the church. I licked my lips. I had not had a drink in days, and Father Markoff was well known for the liberal portions of whiskey he added to his special coffee. I used to be a drunk. In the last year I had pretty much gone on the wagon. Something I prided myself on was that I could take a sip now and then without going overboard. Some people might say that a true alcoholic can’t take even a sip. But I like to think that’s not me.

He rubbed his hands together. “Getting cool.”

“Geese heading south,” Jeanette said.

We silently followed the good priest into the church. About halfway in I stopped and looked the place over. A church without pews was still somewhat new to me; for Jeanette, who was Yupik, it was home, and represented a large part of her culture and her belief system. It provided her a sense of security, a security I married into when I married her. Although a small church, it had various icons on the gold-colored altar with pictures of saints hanging on the white walls surrounding us. Rays of light shot through the stained glass windows to focus on the altar—whether by design or Divine Providence, I was never quite sure.
 

Jeanette sighed. I looked down and saw her eyes getting misty. She too felt the power and awe.
 

“C’mon, Leo,” she said quietly.
 

Another tug on my arm and I was again following the Father over creaky floorboards back to his office behind the altar area.

He swung his arm, gesturing us to sit down in chairs arranged in a circle, and regarded us through those knowing blue eyes of his. He pulled at his grizzled beard and sat down. “So, how’s it going?”

Jeanette and I had come to expect this question. Every few months he would haul us in and ask, staring at us, making sure what we told him was the truth, I guess.

“Ah … pretty good,” I said.

He leaned forward and, without warning, slapped me on the knee. “What’s this? The luster of marriage wearing thin?” He was smiling.

Jeanette piped up. “Leo has been asked to take a temporary officer-in-charge position elsewhere and I have to stay here. We have one hour to make up our mind.”

Father Markoff looked back to me, his smile showing pearly white teeth. “Only one hour? My, oh my, the Postal Service moves in mysterious ways, does it not?”
 

“Not if you knew my boss,” I said.

He nodded. He had heard me speak about “the Boss” before and not always in glowing terms. He stood and reached for the coffee cups.
 

“Where does he want you to move?” he asked, passing out the old white mugs.

“Fire Bay,” I answered.

“Ah, Fire Bay.” There was a silence as he poured the coffee and then added a half shot of whiskey. To my surprise, Jeanette also took a share. Finished with the sharing of coffee, he leaned back in his swivel chair, his blue eyes settling on me for a moment before speaking.
 

“I’ve been there, you know. It’s a big town of more than four thousand, with a movie theater and lots of restaurants and culture for such a small place. In the summer there’s charter fishing, what with the tourists and all. It has everything Anchorage has, including drugs and alcohol.”

He paused and took a sip. I took a big gulp and looked at Jeanette. Her mouth was a straight line. There was no joy there, nor help. Father Markoff cleared his throat.

He knew all about my problems.

“Are you ready . . . Leo?”

I stared down into the depths of my coffee, looking for the clouds.
 

“I don’t know. But the Boss has made noises,” I added, and paused to look over to Jeanette again. Was that pity I saw? “About my postal career being in jeopardy. He’s used that line on me before. It doesn’t usually bother me.”
 

I took a sip of that wonderful concoction and my shivering stopped.

“But this time it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

I looked up at him. “Yeah, it does.”

Father set his cup down. “He likes you, doesn’t he?”
 

“Yeah, I guess he does, in a way.” Actually, I hadn’t thought much about it, but put to it, I guess the Boss did like me, kind of like a farmer likes his horse. A horse that never asks why, but just keeps pulling on the plow.
 

“You ever stop to consider he wants to groom you to take over his job someday?”

I put my cup down, nearly spilling its contents. “Lord, no!”

Jeanette started coughing.
 

Father Markoff looked down into his cup, as if studying how he was going to say his next words.

“Leo, are you happy here?”

“Of course I’m happy here,” I answered.

He looked at Jeanette, as if wondering if she was strong enough to handle his next question. “Do you think he ought to take the job offer, Jeanette?”

“I don’t want him to, but he must,” she said, her eyes misting up.

He nodded and looked over to me. “It is to be a test,” he said. “God has given you a rest, and now he wants to see what paths or forks in the road you will take. To see if you can advance to your next level.”

I cast an anxious glance at Jeanette. I was not happy about the direction of this little talk. “What do you mean, ‘advance to my next level?’ What level?”

Father Markoff shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s for God to know and you to discover.”

I sat back, stunned—and a little angry. I was happy here. And Jeanette, my soul mate, saying I should take the job? I took another big gulp of coffee, as did Jeanette, for she too had seen her share of life. A husband who had died from drinking too much of anything he could find, and her daughter, a teenaged woman-child killed from an overdose of some unnamed drug. I sensed she was surprised by her answer, like the words had been put in her mouth and she had been forced to say them.
 

“I guess it’s settled then,” I said.

Chapter 2

I pulled my new Jeep Liberty into the parking lot overlooking Fire Bay and turned off the engine. I leaned back and took in the view. Hell, it was more than a view. It was like looking at a picture postcard of a seascape. The kind with mountains across a bay, with sailboats making their way into a stiff breeze to wherever it is that sailboats go. I removed my wire-rims and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them again, sure enough, Fire Bay was still there. Now, if Jeanette were here with me, this bliss would be complete.
 

The trip to Fire Bay had begun two days before when I traveled from Howes Bluff to Bethel in a small single-engine plane. That took a half hour. Then after a two-hour layover, there was the hour flight in a small commuter jet from Bethel to Anchorage, a distance of some 300 miles with nothing below but wilderness. Alaska is huge. All of Scandinavia plus most of Ireland would fit nicely inside it. Every other place in this world pales in comparison, and I couldn’t see myself living anywhere else.
 

After arriving in Anchorage I checked into a motel in a section of the city called Spenard, a section known for its shady nightlife, although loyal residents might dispute that. Of course, I had to go to an old favorite watering hole of mine. To my surprise the bartender still knew me. Come to think of it though, I probably had bought enough booze there in my self-pitying alcoholic hazes of years gone by to justify a partnership. I nursed a Jack Daniel’s and fended off a couple of old bar buddies looking for source of unlimited free rounds of their favorite poison. Thank God I had had the strength to leave that world of comfortable haze. I spent the rest of the night in the motel, listening to giggles and bedsprings squeaking that old familiar rhythm.
 

Luckily, Fire Bay was within driving distance from Anchorage. It was a long trip, but the highway was in good shape, and the moose had kept to themselves. Best of all, I was in a brand new automobile. I had received a few sidelong looks from Jeanette about getting one, but we did have the money and, with winter coming on, I wanted a good car. I could have had the use of a Postal Service car, but every time I drove around town people would be asking what the heck was I doing, burning up post office money for a cup of coffee? Nope, it was better this way.

I looked in the rear view mirror and passed my hand through my thatch of brown hair, trying to decide if I should go into the Fire Bay Post Office. To hell with the post office, it was three o’clock in the afternoon and I was tired. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough.

 
I fired up the Jeep and headed down the hill to the town. A lot of people say the seascape around Fire Bay is some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. How do you beat blue glaciers, green hills, and mountains, lining a bay that is about fifteen miles wide at its mouth? You don’t. Add the excellent halibut fishing and you have a paradise, at least for some folks. But as someone once said, “You have to pay to live in paradise.”
 

And, if it was true for Alaska as a whole, then I was sure it was true for the town of Fire Bay. Fire Bay had been around since the turn of the century, mostly serving as a coaling station for ships in the northern Pacific. Now it was a town that depended on fishing and tourism. Throw in a few artists and writers and you had a community. It was a community with a history, certainly different from your average town in Midwest America. A place not quite urban, but sure as hell not bush country either. A bumper sticker on a car I passed going down the hill perhaps said it best, “Fire Bay, a quaint little drinking village with a fishing problem.” With my history, I hoped I could bypass the drinking part.

Before going to a motel, I decided to take a quick tour. Ocean View was the main street with the expected two or three gift shops still in their summer finery, still looking for the late-season tourist. There was a movie theater with its marquee only a couple of weeks behind those in Anchorage. There were four or five restaurants and I wondered if they stayed open in winter. There were at least two watering holes, places that I as the postmaster or O.I.C., had to avoid. But not to worry; the alcoholic person inside me noted that there was a liquor store. Then came a four-way stop—the only one in town. After a small hesitation I made a right down another commercial street past a lumberyard and hardware store, other small offices and, wonder of wonders, a MacDonald’s. Another stop sign, another right turn onto a bypass that went past the post office with its flag flying. After tomorrow it would be mine.
 

Naturally, with all that rubbernecking, I almost ran into a car pulling out of a business next door. But all I got was a sour look from a woman. I smiled in return and drove on, hoping she would forget the incident. This bypass took me back to Ocean View and a nearby motel. After checking in at the motel, I dragged my baggage to my room, gave Jeanette a call to let her know I was safe and sound, and then I crashed.
 

* * *

I sat upright and shook my head in the darkness. I reached out for Jeanette, seeking the comfort of her warm presence. Then I realized that the security of Jeanette and the village were no longer within reach. My stomach rumbled. I needed food. I was ready for anything, but I decided to play it safe and go to the motel restaurant. No need to go out and expose myself to the community yet. Far better to sit in a lonely booth and read the Anchorage newspaper with a before dinner drink or two.

I had just dived into a well-done steak, when a couple, two booths over, professional types by their dress, got a little loud. Since we were the only occupants in the dining room, they were easy to hear.

“Damn it, Samantha, I don’t know what else to call it!”

“George, you know better.”

“Crap! I hate this!” The man’s fork clanged on his plate as he slammed it down.