Murder at five finger light (6 page)

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Authors: Sue Henry

Tags: #Mystery, #Alaska

BOOK: Murder at five finger light
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All
of them
—really?
Jessie wondered.
It always made her slightly uneasy when someone was so obviously impressed by her. This was one of those times that left her a little embarrassed and not quite sure how to respond.
That’s nice
wouldn’t quite do it, but what would?
“Thanks,” she said finally, with her usual smile. “Glad you like the races.”
Though she could understand Alaskans’ pride and fascination with what had become the state sport, to be singled out had always seemed inappropriate in some odd way. The taxi driver’s recognition had been filled with a particular brand of humor and it was doubtful that Connie was as impressed with much of anything as was this woman, whose fervor bordered on a sort of unrealistic, starstruck awe that seemed to have more to do with who Jessie was than with what she did—race sled dogs. She’d rather people were rac-
ing,
instead of rac-
er,
fans. The feeling, however, was not one she could, or should, communicate to anyone but other mushers—who had experienced the same thing and sympathized. So she smiled and signed the register, relieved that she wasn’t asked for an autograph.
Given a key, carrying her duffel and daypack, she went, as directed, back out the front door and around the side of the building to where the Dolphin Street sidewalk sloped steeply downhill. A passage halfway down it led to the left like an alley between the multilevel hotel and its annex next door. Turning in there Jessie soon found the room she had been assigned.
It was dark and a bit crowded with two queen-sized beds, but pleasant enough, though a little cool. Turning up the thermostat, she left the duffel, washed her hands and face clean of the feel of travel, and thought for a minute about calling Alex to let him know she had safely completed the airplane part of this adventure. Checking her watch, she decided that he and Delafosse might still be finishing up their meetings and would soon settle in the bar of their hotel for a beer before dinner, probably with the visiting officers from Vancouver. She would wait till later to make the call, when he might be back in his room. For now, she would go out, get a look at downtown, and find a place to have her own dinner in the process.
It was raining again, so she put on the waterproof slicker she had brought along and, shouldering her daypack, closed the door, checked to be sure it was locked, and headed down the hill into Petersburg.
CHAPTER SIX
 
 
 
 
AT JUST AFTER SIX O’CLOCK IT WAS ALREADY EVENING, FOR the sun had disappeared behind the mountains to the west. The rain had, at least temporarily, slowed to what was almost a mist but, though the general temperature was noticeably warmer than at home in the Matanuska Valley, the breeze off the waters of the harbor was chilly. Jessie zipped her green insulated slicker and tucked her hands into its pockets, rather than bother to retrieve her gloves from the daypack.
At the bottom of the hill, she rounded the corner onto Nordic Drive, where the tantalizing scent of pizza wandered in suddenly from somewhere to tickle her nose, but was immediately whisked away by the wind. Walking west past several closed businesses, a little way down the block she came to the Harbor Bar with an adjoining liquor store, both open and casting warm inviting lights onto the sidewalk from their windows. As she paused to look into the bar the door swung open, letting out the sound of canned music, the cheerful buzz of conversation, and two young men, one wearing a bright blue hooded sweatshirt with VIKING printed in white across the front and smaller print below. He turned left and went on along the street with his friend, leaving Jessie to wonder about the small print, but she smiled at the appropriateness of the larger word. Petersburg people were clearly as proud of their Scandinavian heritage as Connie had indicated.
Peering through the glass, she could see a large room that was well lighted for a tavern, with a long bar against the left-hand wall. It was lined with tall stools, a few of them empty. More than half of the chairs clustered around an assortment of tables in the remaining space were occupied by a casually dressed, cheerful crowd of people sharing relaxed conversation along with their drinks. A carryout box on one table held a crust or two that were left from a pizza. A poolroom occupied the rear of the space and a dartboard hung on the back wall, both in use.
The atmosphere was persuasive, so when the door opened for an arriving customer, she followed him in and claimed one of the tall stools near the front window, slipping off her slicker and depositing it with her daypack on another stool beside her, leaving two spaces between herself and the nearest occupant.
“Hi there.” The bartender, a tall young woman wearing a plaid shirt tucked into her jeans, a metal bottle opener slipped into a hip pocket, greeted her with a smile. “What can I get you?”
“A Killian’s Red,” Jessie told her, naming her favorite lager.
It appeared in rapid order along with a glass that she pushed back as she laid a bill down to pay for her drink, which she sipped straight from the longneck bottle.
The first taste was always best, Jessie decided appreciatively, setting the brew down with a satisfied sigh. Though it had taken three air hops to arrive here, her plane travel was over for the rest of the week and it felt good to know that on this evening she had no commitments, could relax and make decisions on dinner for one. Glancing inquiringly around she saw no source for the pizza she had observed on the table across the room and had a question ready when the bartender returned to lay her change on the bar and remove the unnecessary glass.
“From a place down the street,” the bartender told her. “You can get one to go and bring it back if you want—lots of people do. We don’t serve food, so we don’t mind.”
Though pizza was not without appeal, the idea didn’t satisfy Jessie—not in seafood country.
“Where would I go to find a place with crab or shrimp on the menu?”
“The Northern Lights will be open,” the woman told her, glancing down the bar to where a pair of mugs had been set back to indicate their drinkers were ready for refills. “Oops. Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
Jessie watched as she filled the mugs and came striding back with a grin. “Sorry. It’s usually slower on Monday, but we’ve got a thirsty crowd tonight for some reason.”
“You said the Northern Lights?” Jessie prompted.
“Right. Where are you staying? I’ll walk you through it from there.”
“The Tides Inn. But I’ll go from here.”
“Okay. If you go across the street and walk west for two full blocks you’ll come to a garden on the corner with the statue of a bear with a fish in its mouth. Take a right, then curve to the left on Sing Lee Alley. Keep going, and where it turns into a bridge that goes over the slough, you’ll see the Sons of Norway Hall. From there you can see the Northern Lights Restaurant—on pilings at the other end of the bridge.”
“Great. Thanks,” Jessie told her. “I think I’ll try that.”
“They have a good menu—all sorts of—”
“Hey, Carol. This’d be a great place to open a tavern,” someone interrupted with a call.
The bartender shook her head and grinned. “If I had a nickel . . . You’ll like the Northern Lights,” she called back as she hurried off to fill the order for the impatient someone at the other end of the long bar.
Jessie leaned forward on her elbows and, taking another swallow of the Killian’s, returned to her thoughts of spending time on her own. The Harbor Bar was warm, dry, and comfortably full of agreeable background music, the crack of balls hitting each other on the pool table, and easygoing conversation—all in all, an undemanding and relaxing place to be for the moment. Purposely, she had chosen a seat away from others, feeling a need for time by herself and knowing the week at the lighthouse would be crowded with other people.
As she considered it and sipped the lager, someone gave a hoot of laughter at a table behind her.
“You made that up, Hal.”
“Did not—I swear it really happened.”
“Yeah, sure it did.”
For a second or two, Jessie wished she were in a pub at home and could walk over and join the friendly conversation, but quickly returned to appreciating time on her own.
She was used to being alone and independently making her own decisions as by necessity a majority of her time as a sled dog racer was spent in training teams for competition, which involved hours, even days, in the wilds of Alaska with only her dogs for company. It was a solitary occupation that was not for everyone, but suited Jessie for she was introspective at heart. Sometimes she wondered if she liked it so much because the sport was matched to her personality, or vice versa.
Growing up in a family of extroverts, she had not been a shy child, but had learned early in life to be on her own, when the loss of a younger sister had focused the attention of her parents on an endless, anguished search for the seven-year-old who disappeared on her way home from school one afternoon and was never found. As a result, Jessie knew she had felt unreasonably responsible and had come to be most comfortable when depending on no one but herself—being in control of what went on around her and what she did. If it hadn’t been for the loss of Lily things might have been different and . . .
I’m not going there,
she decided firmly, realizing such thoughts were taking her into territory that, unresolved, was deeply painful.
Casting about for something else onto which to turn her attention, Alex Jensen immediately came to mind, along with a vague sense of discomfort about their relationship. His return had somehow made her feel uneasy in her own living space and she wanted to know why—but not at the moment.
Not going there right now either,
she told herself sternly, and swinging partway around on the bar stool once again noticed the pool table in the back of the room. It was a game she enjoyed. Should she go and lay a quarter on the edge of the table—play a round or two? No. She didn’t want the rituals of meeting new people—what she wanted was dinner, and soon. She would finish the half-emptied Killian’s and go, she decided. Petersburg was known for its shrimp, so she might as well take advantage of it.
Turning the other way, she took a look out the window and saw that it was full dark, but the rain seemed to have ceased for the time being.
Raining now or not, the short, heavyset man who came through the door as she watched had clearly walked through some before it stopped, for he shook water from the worn yellow slicker he removed and tossed over the back of a stool between himself and Jessie before he climbed onto another and settled comfortably, with a nod of greeting in her direction.
Time to go,
she thought,
before he tries to start a conversation
. But he turned to the bartender instead.
“Ferry’s in,” he told her as she set a Budweiser in front of him—clearly his usual, for he had not given her an order.
“It’s a couple of hours early,” she responded.
“Yeah. Heard they skipped Wrangell this run—some repairs being made to the dock, so they couldn’t put in.”
“You can usually set your watch by the
Malaspina
.”
“Yup. They’ll be putting in after dark from now on. I coulda used a couple more months of summer.”
“Couldn’t we all?”
At the sound of the door opening again behind her, Jessie paused, bottle halfway to her mouth, and glanced over her shoulder to see who was next. Expecting another stranger, she was surprised to once again see a familiar face—the young woman from the afternoon’s plane. The redhead hesitated momentarily and gave the room a searching look before, with long, jeans-clad strides, heading directly for the back where she disappeared into the restroom. As she passed she focused her attention on the long bar and her eyes widened, startled, when she recognized Jessie.
Three
—
no
—
four times I’ve seen her now. Is she
following
me?
For a moment Jessie wondered, but had to smile at her paranoia.
Everything,
she told herself—draining the lager before collecting herself to go find Sing Lee Alley, the Northern Lights, and dinner, in that order—
is
not
about you
.
CHAPTER SEVEN
 
 
 
 
THE SKY WAS DARK, NOT A STAR TO BE SEEN, WHEN JESSIE left the warm, cheerful Harbor Bar. Before following directions to the Northern Lights she stepped next door into the liquor store to ask how late they would be open, intending to pick up a bottle of Jameson and some Killian’s to take with her to the island the next day. Learning she would have time after dinner to take care of this errand, she went along the street past a number of storefronts, some decorated with colorful rosemaled patterns that she recognized as typically Scandinavian. Baskets of still-blooming flowers hung from the streetlamps that cast pools of light on the sidewalk, and she noticed that in several places circles of intricate brass designs had been set into the pavement. One was a fishing trawler, the water depicted under it filled with salmon. Two others were done in the familiar patterns of local Haida or Tlingit people. She was pleased to find that a raven, her favorite Alaskan bird, was one of these. The other portrayed an eagle.

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