The Beastly Island Murder
by
Carol W. Hazelwood
Copyright 2013 Carol W. Hazelwood,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-1896-4
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover by Arthur A. Hazelwood
Also by Carol W. Hazelwood
Fiction
Assume Nothing
Coyoacan Hill
Dark Legacy
Rising Mist
Twilight in the Garden
Non Fiction
A View from the Jury Box
Co-author of
Tiger in a Cage, The Memoir of Wu Tek Ying
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to my writing critique group: Janice Clark, Jim Harder, Nancy Poss-Hatchl, Adele Kopecky, Tom McCranie, Dorran Nadeau, and to my sister, Joan Blue, and Valerie Newman.
Dedication
In memory of George, Dan and Blaise’s Newfoundland
Chapter 1
Jennifer paddled her sea kayak past the naked cliff into the quiet waters of Beastly Island’s cove. The moored sloop surprised her. The fog bank looming to starboard seemed more ominous now. Although the sun had burned off the morning mist, by nightfall dense clouds would again swallow the island. She let her boat drift in a sea that lay flat as cooled pudding. Her Newfoundland, perched in the front cockpit of the tandem kayak, barked. “Hush, Lydia, I see it.”
Jennifer stroked through the icy waters toward the sloop’s stern to read the name stenciled in glossy-gold script: The High Life, out of Seattle. Water lapped against its black hull as she circled the unwelcome visitor. The cockpit was white, the rigging tidy; her brass sparkled, her teak rub rail shined. No one was aboard. She scanned the beach—empty. With a nervous flutter in her stomach, she paddled toward shore, passing the buoy that marked shallow water.
The Newfoundland jumped into the sea, sending the kayak skittering sideways. Jennifer braced with her paddle, leaned into the wash, then stroked for land. She nudged the boat’s nose into the pebbly shore and snapped the spray skirt off the coaming. Stabilizing the craft with her paddle across the hull behind her, she swung her legs to one side, and stood. Even with her feet protected by wetsuit booties, the chill of the seawater elicited a shiver. Stowing her paddle in the cockpit, she picked up the bow and dragged the kayak farther out of the water.
She glanced around and spotted a small dinghy hidden behind a large driftwood log. Lydia bounded out of the surf and shook, then raised her muzzle. A deep growl rumbled from her throat.
Jennifer shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched a man stroll toward them. She fingered the knife strapped to the outside of her thigh but concealed under the spray skirt that hung from her waist to her knees.
“Stay,” she commanded Lydia.
The man waved. She did not. Even his saunter irked her. Acts as if he owns the place, she thought. As he drew near, his khaki slacks and white T-shirt showed off a tall, wiry build. His short black hair with traces of gray at the temple offset a tan face without the deep wrinkles of sailors.
When he was about ten feet away, he stopped. “Hello. I’ve been sightseeing. There’s a cabin on stilts high on the slope and an eagle’s nest atop a hemlock just down the beach.”
“I know.” She pointed to the large sign that read Private nailed to a pine at the edge of the forest where reed-like grass grew.
He shrugged. “I called out, but no one answered. The island seemed deserted. Lovely spot.”
He smiled. She did not.
“Are you having trouble with your boat? Are you in need of medical help?” she asked.
He frowned, stood straighter and hooked a thumb in his belt. “No. I didn’t know the island was private until I landed. Hey, islanders and seamen share camaraderie. You live here?”
“I’m the owner who is not in need of camaraderie. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my island.”
“Your island?” He raised an eyebrow. “The whole island?”
“Yes.” She did not intend to elaborate.
He hesitated and looked at Lydia. “Nice dog. Big. Powerful.” Again he paused as if waiting for her to say something.
She didn’t.
“Well, I guess I’ll set sail.” His clean-shaven jaw jutted forward as if he was about to vent his displeasure, but then he lifted his hand in a halfhearted salute. “Thanks for your hospitality.”
She ignored his sarcasm.
He walked to his dinghy, got in, and pushed off.
Jennifer didn’t move until he’d rowed halfway to his sloop. Only then did she lean down, pat Lydia, and whisper, “Good thing he doesn’t know you’re a one hundred and twenty-five pound lapdog.”
When she released Lydia from her ‘stay,’ the dog scampered toward the forest to investigate smells and chase chattering squirrels, while Jennifer pulled her homemade sled down to the shore. Sometimes she used Lydia’s pulling power for the sled, but the stranger’s unexpected appearance had jangled her nerves and work would help her regain her composure.
She pushed the kayak onto the padded two-by-four planks, lashed together by canvas and rope, and uncoiled the reins fastened to the sled. Fitting the sling around her broad shoulders, she trudged up the slope, hauling the ninety pound kayak to a small clearing below the path leading up to her cabin. She stopped and tossed the sling aside, then picked up a bucket, scooped fresh water from a large barrel and wiped down the yellow fiberglass hull with a rag. Satisfied, she popped open the bow hatch, extracted her gear, then drew a tarpaulin over the boat. As she walked up the winding trail, she ran her hand over the carved wooden sign that read: Beastly Manor.
Suspicious that the stranger may have gone up to the cabin, she inspected
