15 Legends Can Be Murder Page 3

  “I can’t handle this,” she exclaimed, for probably the twelfth time as I walked toward the porch. “Chandler, poor baby. He’s going to need counseling. We need to get professional help. Now. I just have to get us home—I don’t know how we’ll ever get over this.”

  Chandler, meanwhile, in his inimitable ten-year-old way, was equally wound up. “It was so cool!” he said to Chief Branson. “It was, like, all these bones and a skull and everything. And it’s laying there on the ground like this.”

  He threw himself to the grass, taking a position on his side, making his arms and legs look stiff and adopting a fierce toothy grimace.

  Chandler jumped back up. “When I get home I’m gonna post it on Facebook. My friends are gonna be so jealous! I knew Alaska would be cool.”

  Personally, I didn’t think the kid looked traumatized at all. He was on his way to fame and fortune at home because of his find. But then, being childless myself, what do I know?

  Sam Branson knelt near the boy. “Can you show me where you found it?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s up in that cave.” The kid pointed vaguely up a hill behind the cabin. “I got up this morning and went exploring.”

  Kerby had said that all caves and mines had been checked for stability and dangerous areas blocked, but surely his crew didn’t know this one existed or they would have found the skeleton themselves. I may have just spotted the first chink in the armor of his sales presentation. And if Rhonda Mikowski needed to panic about something in today’s events, maybe it should be more along the lines of the fact that her son had wandered into a cave at six o’clock in the morning, unsupervised. But I kept my mouth shut and just followed along as Chandler led the police chief through thick bushes up the steep mountainside. Mina hustled to catch up, and Rhonda Mikowski finally had to shut up as the altitude became too much for her to breathe and talk at the same time.

  The entrance to the cave was obscured by leafy undergrowth—it would never be spotted from the air—but once the boy pointed it out, we discovered an opening, low but wide enough for an adult to easily walk through, bent at the waist. And once inside, the ceiling rose to where three adults could all stand up.

  “There it is,” Chandler said, pointing as proudly as a cat who’d laid a dead mouse on the doorstep. “Just like I found him.”

  “Thanks, son. You did the right thing, telling your dad and having him call me,” said Chief Branson.

  Mina snapped a couple of pictures before Sam gave her a look. “I’ll be keeping those for my files, for the time being,” he said.

  She sent him a frown.

  “Chandler, why don’t you go on outside with your mom,” Sam Branson said gently.

  I put an arm around the boy’s shoulders and guided him back toward the daylight. Once his mother had taken charge, fussing over him and insisting he go back to the cabin to lie down, I scooted back into the cave to see what the chief and Mina were doing.

  By flashlight, Branson was studying the bones. It was gruesome in a distant sort of way, but I could handle it as long as I didn’t dwell on the reality. Better, for now, to keep it in the perspective that this was just like watching a show on the Discovery Channel.

  The bones had darkened to a brownish-tan. Clothing covered most of it except the skull, hands and part of the forearms. The bell-bottom pants and boldly patterned shirt—even with a thick layer of dust—made me think of the fashions of the 1970s, garish and somewhat gender neutral. Could the person have been here that many decades?

  Chief Branson had asked Mina to take some notes, cautioning her that they were for his official use and not to be repeated in the newspaper. From what he was saying, my observations were validated.

  “Poor sucker probably got off the hiking trail that runs along the top of this ridge,” he said. “Maybe it was getting dark and cold, he came in here for shelter. Could have starved to death.”

  “Was that cabin here years ago?” I asked. “You’d think he would have gone there, rather than into a cave.”

  “Nah. That place was built only about five years ago. Kerby’s leasing it from the owner for the summer. I don’t think there’s another dwelling for miles in any direction out here.” He stood up and brushed dirt off the knees of his uniform. “Well, let’s get this done. Ladies?”

  It was his polite way of escorting us out. When we got back to the cabin, Drake had already gathered the Mikowski family and their belongings into our helicopter and was lifting off.

  “He’s bringing Jerry back with him,” Kerby said as Sam, Mina and I approached the cabin. He turned to the chief. “Look, I better get to my office and make sure I pacify those folks. Doubt I can talk them into taking one of the other cabins, so I’m probably gonna have to refund their money.” He looked none too happy about that. “You’ll be okay here until Drake and Jerry get here with a body bag?”

  Branson nodded. “I might ought to go back up there and shine the light around, see if there’s any other evidence that goes along with our John Doe. Then I suppose that’s my first order of business—find out who the guy was and notify someone.”

  Kerby gave a little gesture toward us, indicating that he would give Mina and me a ride back to the airport. When we got there, he rushed off to speak to the Mikowskis, who were enviously eyeing the cruise ships at their nearby docks, and I saw that Drake was about to lift off again with a uniformed officer in the front passenger seat.

  A little at loose ends all at once, I looked around. Mina had trailed Kerby into the office, hanging to one side but clearly listening to his conversation, gleaning tidbits to flesh out her news story. I didn’t believe for a minute that this wouldn’t end up on the front page of Thursday’s edition.

  I supposed that Kerby might have another assignment for me. I could, after all, fly his ship to one of the other cabin sites if anyone needed pickup or delivery. I probably shouldn’t leave until I knew for sure, so I walked into the employee break room where we’d been told we could get coffee anytime or buy snacks from the vending machines.

  “So, I heard that you’re a private investigator,” Mina said, coming up behind me, startling me into sloshing coffee onto the countertop that already enjoyed a sprinkling of sugar and a few other spills.

  “Uh, not really,” I said, going on to explain that I’m the financial partner in the business; my brother Ron is really the PI. “Once in awhile I get in the middle of things, but it’s not usually my idea.”

  “But you’ve been to crime scenes before, right?”

  Suddenly I could see where this was going, and although I liked Mina and wouldn’t mind becoming friends, I really didn’t want my name in the local paper my second day in town. I stalled by taking a sip of coffee.

  “Ugh, this stuff is awful,” I said. “How about we find something that doesn’t stand up by itself? I bet you know who has the best coffee in town.”

  Either Mina also wanted a friendship, or she knew the only way to get me to confide was to chum up. I chose to believe that the smile she sent my way was genuine. I dumped the bitter brew down the drain, tossed the foam cup in a trash can and we walked out.

  “Mina?” Kerby Allen was alone in his office and signaled to my reporter buddy. “Can we talk a minute?”

  I detoured right along with her.

  “Listen, Mina, I know this is a big story for you, and Wilbur’s going to be wetting his pants to run it ...” Kerby shifted in his seat.

  “But you don’t want me to embarrass you or the mayor,” Mina said, her chin jutting out just a little defiantly.

  “Well ... yeah.” He dropped his normal salesman smile. “All I’m asking is that you don’t name the location or say that my company is involved.”

  “Because all the locals won’t book trips with you? Come on, Kerby, it’s the tourists you’re after anyway.”

  “Yes, but you never know where that kind of information goes. These days, with the Internet—”

  “Plus,” Mina taunted, “it’s an election year and
your wife likes her job. A dead body associated with your business just brings this all a little too close to home, doesn’t it?”

  He visibly squirmed.

  “Come on, Charlie, let’s go.” Mina was really enjoying his discomfort.

  I held up my index finger. “Kerby? You don’t have another flight for me, do you?”

  He shook his head.

  “You can call me if you get one, you know.” I had to be careful not to be seen as taking sides. For all I knew helicopter pilots were plentiful here, and Drake and I could be fired on a whim. On the other hand, I somewhat doubted that. We’d been brought all the way from New Mexico for a reason, and it had to be that Kerby Allen didn’t have anyone else lined up to work for him—for whatever reason.

  Standing out on the apron, I watched the other tour operator’s machines take off and land. From brochures, I’d gathered that one company held contracts with all the cruise lines and had a steady business taking their passengers on a variety of excursions up to the nearby glaciers, a dog-sled camp and to view the coastline. Perhaps Kerby Allen had come in as competition and when he couldn’t break into their market had devised the idea of the gold-search adventure packages. And maybe he’d pissed off somebody important in the process.

  The sun warmed the pavement so Mina and I decided to walk down to a coffee house she liked.

  “Let’s cut over on Fourth,” she suggested. “If you read any of the Gold Rush history you’ll find that a lot of the streets went by different names back then. Fourth used to be Bond, Sixth was once called Holly. Broadway has always been the same and these days it’s usually jammed with visitors.”

  Sure enough, a block over I could see that about a million tourists had come off three cruise ships, which sat at the docks this morning. People were walking along like ants pouring out of an anthill, most not finding their way past the jewelry and souvenir shops.

  “We love it when they come,” Mina said. “We love it more when they leave.”

  I remember a friend who lived in one of New Mexico’s popular tourism areas saying the same thing. One town even had bumper stickers made: Welcome to Chimayo! Spend Your Money. Go Home. It really changed the dynamic of a town when the population quadrupled or more in the course of a day. Ordinary activities such as having lunch often became monumental tasks.

  “The seasonal workers are another story. At least you’re here buying food and paying rent and integrating with us a bit. Aside from tour businesses like the railroad and a few locally owned gift shops, most of the cash from the day-visitors stays in the hands of the cruise lines. At least we get some hefty docking fees and a whole lot of taxes out of the deal.”

  We had reached the coffee house and although the place was packed Mina assured me the offerings here were fabulous. I pulled off my jacket in the warm room and draped it over the back of my chair at a little corner table for two.

  “I was curious about that—your conversation back there with Kerby. I got the impression he wasn’t exactly in your good graces.”

  She waved it off. “It’s not Kerby I dislike, and it’s one of those things that’s hard to explain. His wife and my mother go way back. Mom and Lillian both grew up in Skagway, and now Lillian is mayor of the borough. It’s an old feud and not worth mentioning, but there’s been a lifetime of little digs and insults. This morning it was all about having a little fun because, for once, I’m the one with something to hold over them.”

  I supposed Lillian Allen couldn’t be completely unpopular if she’d been elected mayor so it must be a personal thing, as Mina said. At least the topic had turned away from her earlier questions about my private investigation connections, and the latte that arrived a few minutes later was absolutely every bit as great as she’d promised.

  The coffee house teamed with activity as people in T-shirts breezed in and grabbed something to drink, gulped it down and left—in a hurry to rush through that vacation without actually savoring it. No one seemed to mind that we held onto our table for close to two hours, chatting about all those subjects people cover when getting to know each other. We’d graduated high school the same year and finished college at the same time—me at UNM in Albuquerque, Mina heading to the lower forty-eight to experience school in San Francisco but beating a path back to her quiet hometown after graduation. She’d lost her dad in a fishing boat accident only a year after both of my parents had died in a plane crash. It was no wonder Mina and her mom were so close.

  “I just like the pace here so much better,” she said. A glance at the clock on the wall. “But, speaking of pace ... even in a small town editors like you to check in and show some signs of work. I guess I better get back and write up this story.”

  “Will you name Kerby’s company in the article?” I asked as I picked up my shoulder bag and jacket.

  “I doubt it.” She delivered that line with enough of a smile that I knew she’d considered it. I also had the feeling that a spiteful move wasn’t really part of her personality.

  Outside, a few clouds had begun to build with a single puffy one obscuring the sun just enough to throw a fresh chill into the air. I slipped my jacket on, noticing that most everyone else had done the same. Mina pointed out the newspaper office, which was just across the street.

  “Stop in anytime,” she said. “I’m always up for a coffee break.” She crossed the street and disappeared inside the wood-sided building with its Old West façade.

  I looked both ways, getting my bearings. I was nearly as close to home as to the airport. Unless my cell phone should ring, I seemed to be free as a bird at the moment. I could go back to the airport and see what Drake was up to, but odds were that I would end up hanging around listening to the always-present round of stories that happened anytime you put two or more pilots into the same room. Or, I could head for the house and finish unpacking and settling in. Plus, I felt sure the dog would love a break by now. She might even convince me to take a long walk with her this afternoon.

  As it turned out, on my own I went into a little frenzy of efficiency. I located the stacked washer-dryer in a utility closet and did two loads of laundry—somehow during the week on the road we’d managed to go through half the clothes we’d brought. I organized kitchen cabinets to my liking and put away the food I’d bought, and even planned a casserole for dinner. After a call from Drake saying that he was taking another flight, I clipped Freckles’s leash to her collar and we marched our way the entire length of Skagway—and back.

  With clean laundry stacked neatly in the dresser drawers and the casserole ready to go into the oven, I settled onto the sofa and picked up the box of letters I’d found in the garage.

  The pasteboard box was designed with a hinged lid that opened like the cover of a book. Once I had released the short length of silk cord that held it closed, it swung open with a creak of the old paper covering to reveal a compartment about four inches deep. I had brushed off the layer of dust with a tissue; now I wondered whether I’d found a treasure trove or merely aggravated my lungs with who knows what types of grime and mold.

  Inside were neat stacks of letters tied in bundles with white satin ribbon, somewhat yellowed with age. I picked up one of them and saw a small, bound book beneath. The top envelope was addressed to Mrs. Maddie Farmer in San Francisco, California, in beautiful script of the sort that hadn’t been taught in school in a long, long time. The postmark was dated October 14, 1898. I slipped the envelope from its ribbon binding without untying the bow; somehow it felt less like prying.

  The paper inside was thin and crackly, some type of onionskin, I supposed, although I hadn’t seen anything like it since poking around in my ninety-year-old neighbor’s house as a child. I began to read.

  My Dearest Wife,

  I hope this letter finds you well and our little Isabelle happy and healthy. I have good news ...

  I scanned downward. The letter was signed Your Loving Husband, Joshua. A glance back at the packet showed that the next letter was dated October 1
, and each successive envelope went a little further back in time. Mrs. Farmer evidently added each new letter to the top of the stack as it arrived. I made the quick decision to read them in the order they were written, so I slipped this one back into the envelope and put it into the ribbon binding. This was, after all, a story and I’m not one to skip ahead and spoil the ending.

  May 12, 1898.

  My Dearest Wife,

  Arrival in Skagway, Alaska, at last! The sea voyage felt far too long and I am already lonesome for you and our dear daughter. But, oh, the excitement here in Alaska. Men are returning from the Klondike with incredible tales, and the newspapers are filled with stories of the fortunes to be made ...

  Chapter 4

  Joshua Farmer pulled the lapels of his jacket together across his chest. San Francisco could be chilly, even in summer, but the breeze off Taiya Inlet as it swept over the ice-covered mountaintops went straight through his clothing. He owned a warmer coat. Why hadn’t he put it on when he set out for the post office this morning? It seemed so important to get his letter off to Maddie, to reassure her that he had arrived safely, and the morning sky was clear for the first time since the steamer docked three days ago. He simply must adapt to this new way of life, to the realization that his every move must be carefully thought out because, here, the weather meant life and death. He looked ahead, down the row of hastily constructed wooden buildings, at the long line of men standing in the muddy road where the queue formed for service at Skagway’s tiny, one-room post office, and he patted the pocket of his jacket to reassure himself the letter was still there. Once she heard from him, Maddie would write back, and he knew the connection would sustain him through anything.

  “Just got here, eh?” said a voice behind him. “Eager to join the Gold Rush stampede, I suppose?”

  Joshua turned. The man wore a thick hide coat and a cap with flaps over his ears, making Joshua aware that his own bowler hat and woolen jacket were entirely inadequate. A full beard would probably be warmer than the fashionable handlebar mustache worn by virtually every man in the city these days. He could adapt to that; shaving had always been a chore anyway. The man’s bright eyes were waiting for an answer.