The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. Hazelwood

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      She hesitated, then waved him in. “Let’s give the guy a chance, but stay close.” She stroked Lydia’s massive head.

      The small craft bumped the gravelly bottom, but he didn’t get out. “I’m Rick Carlson. We got off to a bad start. I thought I’d try again. Okay if I land? I don’t want your dog to attack me.”

      She nodded, stepped back, ordering Lydia: “Sit. Stay.”

      He got out of his boat, dragged it up above the tide line, then turned toward her, holding the fish out in front of him. “I thought you might like this for dinner.”

      “Nice.” She stood a short distance away, not sure what to make of him or how hospitable she should be. “You went out to sea, caught a fish, and came back to offer me dinner? You’re certainly industrious and persistent.”

      He grinned; his gray eyes danced with mischief. “Actually, I didn’t catch it. I met a fisherman moored off another island. After I explained I needed to make amends to a woman, he sold it to me.”

      In spite of herself, she laughed and put her hands on her hips. “An honest man. Are you going to cook it as well?”

      “No. I gutted and scaled it. I thought you’d cook it.” He turned back to the dinghy and pulled out a sack. “I brought charcoal in case you didn’t have dry wood.”

      She hesitated, wondering if she should trust him. “You make it hard 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.”

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