The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. Hazelwood

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      “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 do you stand it out here alone?” he asked, pacing the porch. “No news, no way to contact anyone if you need help.”

      “You sound like my parents. I’m not that isolated.” She swung her legs back and forth. She didn’t want him to think she had no means of communication, even though his concern seemed genuine. “I have a short wave radio, and of course, a cell phone. The coverage is good.” Jennifer felt a breeze wash over her face. “The fog’s lifting just like the weatherman reported this morning.”

      “Touché.” He leaned against the rail next to her. “Guess I sounded a little condescending.”

      “A tad.”

      He shook his head and grinned. You don’t give an inch do you?” He held up his hand. “Don’t answer that. You’re up on the weather conditions. Fog’s lifting sooner than I thought. Guess I’ll head out to sea after I’ve had a hearty lunch.” He nudged her arm. “Come on. You have to accept my invitation.”

      “Thanks, but no.”

      “High living doesn’t entice you, does it? I admit this island is lovely, but I don’t think I’d like to live here for long. Too primitive. I had enough of that growing up.”

      “Tough childhood?”

      “Let’s just say my dad believed in roughing up his son while my mom stood by and watched.” His voice grew gruff. “She wasn’t much of a woman.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      He shrugged. “I left that behind long ago and eventually got a taste of the good life. I enjoy the bright lights and the atmosphere of the big city.”

      “But you live on your boat, hardly a palace, even though it’s trim.”

      He finished off his lemonade. “I’ve got a condo, but with my sloop I can visit any port and find almost any lifestyle.”

      “Like the name of your boat, The High Life.”

      “Exactly!” He placed his glass on the porch rail and studied her. “I’ve never met a woman with your sense of duty to a piece of land. Most of the women I’ve met want money, malls, and a mansion.”

      “I have a manor.” She laughed, then added, “I enjoy nice things and good food, but my island is more precious to me. I could sell it, but what would I have then? This island is my treasure. It’s a no-brainer for me.”

      “It’s good to like what you have, but I figure there’s always more excitement at the next port. Life’s too short to be dull and stuck in a rut.”

      His lifestyle reminded her of Carla’s view of the world. Carla had partied hard and lived fast. Is that why she came to such a terrible end?

      He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jennifer Frost. Perhaps we’ll meet again, maybe in Brandon or another port.”

      She shook his hand and was surprised when he held hers longer than was warranted. His palm was smooth, his fingernails well-manicured, not like a sailor’s at all. He released her hand, reached down to give Lydia a pat, then went down the stairs and through the gate, whistling. The cowbell’s bass voice echoed through the forest.

      His departure was as abrupt as his arrival. She had an odd sense of foreboding. She watched as he rowed back to his sloop, then sat in the rocker and waited. After an hour, he weighed anchor. As he departed the cove, he turned and waved. He must have known she was watching, and this made her feel small and embarrassed. He’d been pleasant and helpful. Yet…why had СКАЧАТЬ