Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Five

A torrential downpour pummeled the roof of the pilothouse of Emilio Leone’s fishing boat. Violent waves smashed into its hull, and Dana Cutler’s fingers gripped a handhold tightly as she fought to keep down the light meal she’d eaten for breakfast. Earlier on Friday morning, Dana had driven to a dockside café in a seaside town thirty miles north of Seattle. When she walked into the restaurant, Captain Leone was working on a cup of black coffee. He was bundled up in a pea jacket and knit cap. A thick black beard concealed a lot of his face, and a black patch covered his right eye. Dana thought he would have been perfectly at home on a pirate ship. Leone was not enthusiastic about sailing in a storm, but Margo Laurent’s money had changed his mind, if not his surly attitude. The captain spoke only when necessary, and then he communicated in terse sentences or angry grunts.

Another wave crashed across the bow and the boat fell fast and hard into a trough before miraculously rising. Dana had seen the wave coming and had braced for the shock. It was freezing cold in the pilothouse but a heavy jacket and the wool cap that fit snuggly over her ears helped some. She bent forward and squinted through the sheets of rain that dashed against the window. Outside, massive waves crashed against black rocks that jutted like dinosaur teeth out of the unforgiving sea.

The captain saw where she was looking. “That’s the island, Isla de Muerta.”

“The Island of Death?”

“If a ship busts up on those rocks and a sailor is thrown into these waters, he’s done.”

Dana shivered as she imagined how it would feel to drown in the freezing, turbulent water.

Rain and heavy clouds obscured Dana’s view, but the captain did not seem troubled by the lack of visibility. Seconds after Leone guided the boat through a break in the rocks the mist parted and Dana saw boats straining against their anchors as the wind and waves flung them about like toys. Leone steered the boat into a small harbor and secured it to a gray, weathered dock. Dana slung her duffel bag over her shoulder and got off quickly, grateful to be standing on solid ground.

“I’m staying at the Stanton B&B,” she said. “Do you know where that is?”

“Walk a quarter mile down the road,” the captain answered, pointing due north. “There’s a sign out front.”

“How do I get in touch when I need to get back to the mainland?”

“The Stantons got my number,” Leone said. Then he turned his back on Dana and trudged up the dock.

Dana followed and found herself on a short main street where the buildings all had a nautical theme. Peeling, sea-blue paint covered most of the stores. Anchors and wooden seagulls were a common decoration. Dana passed a shop that sold bait and other fishing supplies, and a small grocery store. Ahead of her, the captain disappeared into the Safe Harbor Café, which advertised breakfast all day and a halibut special for dinner.

The rain was hard and cold and Dana walked fast, head down, shoulders hunched, speeding by a store that sold new and used books, an art gallery that displayed seascapes, a clothing store filled with foul-weather gear, and an antique store with brass sextants and an anchor chain in its front window. There were a few people in the café and grocery store but Dana didn’t see any customers in the other shops. She guessed that the townspeople made their nut during the summer and scraped by the rest of the year.

The B&B was a three-story yellow house with white trim that had been worked hard by the salt air. It was surrounded by a faded white picket fence grimed with moss. The inn had a front porch that wound around the side facing the sea. Dana imagined that the view would be great when the sun was shining. At the moment, she appreciated the shelter from the storm provided by the overhang.

Moments after she rang the doorbell, a short, plump woman with snowy white hair let her in.

“You must be Miss Cutler,” she said, smiling broadly.

“How did you know?”

The woman laughed. “There was no trick to it. You’re our only guest.”

Dana smiled. “I guess the island doesn’t get too many tourists this time of year.”

“Or any other,” the woman answered solemnly. “We’re off the beaten track, so to speak. I’m Mabel Stanton. Let me show you to your room so you can get out of those wet clothes.”

“I’m here on business,” Dana said as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “I’ll need a car. Is there someplace I can rent one?”

“Miss Laurent asked about a car when she rented the room for you. You can use one of our cars. It’s all paid for.”

“Great. Can you tell me where Otto Pickering lives?”

“Other side of the island, but I don’t know if he’ll talk to you. The professor keeps to himself and I hear he doesn’t like visitors.”

“I won’t know if he’ll talk to me until I ask him. Can you show me how to get to Professor Pickering’s house?”

“That’s easy enough. It’s off the main road but you won’t have any trouble finding it. I already drew you a map. Will you be wanting something to eat before you go?”

Dana realized that she was starving. “That would be great.”

“I’ve got beef stew, or I can fix you a sandwich.”

“The stew sounds terrific. And a cup of hot coffee would be deeply appreciated.”

“I’ll have it waiting for you when you come down,” Mabel said as she opened a door to a spacious room with a view of the sea.

“There’s fresh towels in the bathroom. Here’s your key. Anything else you need, tell me when you come downstairs.”

Dana tossed her duffel bag on the bed and stripped off her clothes. She’d take a fast, scalding-hot shower, eat a hearty meal, then drive to the far side of Isla de Muerta to visit Otto Pickering. Her plan sounded simple enough.