Read Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Online

Authors: Jessica Fletcher

Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (31 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
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“Everyone all right back there?” I asked, turning to Kathy and Bill.
 
 
Kathy nodded, although the expression on her face said something else. She was leaning into Bill, which reminded me that aside from finding Willie, there was a budding romance to consider. That brought a smile to my lips. Would there be a wedding back in Cabot Cove? It was entirely possible. My hope was that Kathy’s sister would be there to celebrate with her.
 
 
The farther we progressed into Misty Fjords, the more desolate and rugged the terrain became. Low clouds had settled over the area, and sheer granite cliffs, their tops obscured, seemed to hurtle down from the heavens, hemming us in. Majestic waterfalls poured down the face of the cliffs, nature’s force a thing of beauty yet also ominous.
 
 
“I don’t like those clouds,” I said.
 
 
“I’ve seen a lot worse,” said Borosky. “It’ll get bad later tonight. There won’t be much flyin’ tomorrow, I can tell you that.”
 
 
We flew over New Eddystone Rock, which rose more than two hundred feet above the water, the last vestige of a once active volcano. Borosky pointed out that it was named by an explorer of the region, Captain George Vancouver, after a lighthouse on Eddystone Rock in the English Channel. His occasional commentary was interesting, although sightseeing wasn’t high on our list of priorities.
 
 
The closer we got to Walker Cove, the narrower the Behm Canal became. The sheer walls on either side seemed to be closing in on us. They were higher than the plane, creating the impression that we were flying inside a box. Winds swept down off the canyon walls, buffeting the aircraft, each jolt a reminder that being up in the air wasn’t a natural act for man.
 
 
Borosky banked the plane hard right.
 
 
“Walker Cove,” he announced.
 
 
If it had seemed that we were closeted by encroaching walls while flying up Behm Canal, that sensation was now magnified. The granite cliffs seemed only a few feet from the Beaver’s wingtips, and I worried that a sudden strong gust of wind could slam us up against them. Borosky seemed calm and confident, although he now worked even harder to control the plane.
 
 
“Do many people come here?” I yelled.
 
 
His reply came through my headset: “Not many. Every once in a while I bring a fishing party here, but there’s lots better places to fish, that’s for sure.”
 
 
“Is there a camp of some sort?” I asked, again having to raise my voice over the Pratt and Whitney’s masculine roar.
 
 
“Nope. There’s a cabin at the end of the cove, back in the woods. Built by the state, but I don’t know anybody who uses it. Used to be a little dock, just pieces of wood nailed together and floating on empty oil cans. Don’t even know if it’s still there.”
 
 
I had noticed since entering Walker Cove that Borosky had begun losing altitude, deliberately, of course, and we were now only a few hundred feet above the slate gray water.
 
 
“Over there,” Borosky announced, pointing ahead to the shoreline on the right, where towering evergreens came down to the water’s edge.
 
 
“What’s there?” I asked.
 
 
“Where that dock and cabin used to be.”
 
 
He banked right; being so close to the water gave the impression that the right wingtip might dip into it. He leveled off and cut power. Now, through mist and wisps of fog, I saw what he’d pointed to. A tiny dock bobbed in the water. Behind it was what appeared to be an overgrown path leading into the woods.
 
 
“That’s it?” I asked.
 
 
“That’s it.”
 
 
He cut power completely, and we settled down onto the water. He maneuvered the plane until his side was within a few feet of the dock, opened his door, stepped out onto one of the floats, grabbed a strut, and waited for the natural momentum of the plane to nuzzle it up against the dock. He hopped onto the dock and continued to hold the Beaver’s strut to keep it from drifting away.
 
 
“Toss me that rope,” he ordered. “It’s on the floor under your seat.”
 
 
I did as instructed, and he used it to secure the plane to the dock.
 
 
“Come on, come on,” he said. “I got you here. Get out and do what you have to do.”
 
 
I reversed the difficult task of exiting the plane, followed by Kathy and Bill.
 
 
“There’s nothing here,” Kathy said. “It’s so desolate.”
 
 
“You say there’s a cabin in the woods?” I asked Borosky.
 
 
“Used to be.”
 
 
“Let’s go,” I said, taking steps toward the path.
 
 
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Kathy said. “I’m—I’m scared.”
 
 
“We’ve come this far,” Bill said. “Nothing to be scared of.”
 
 
Borosky remained with his plane as we started up the path. Bill led the way, with Kathy and me only a few steps behind. It was eerily still and quiet as we left the shoreline and were immediately surrounded by the dense forest, the only sound our footsteps on the densely packed trail. It crossed my mind that Alaska wasn’t known as bear country for nothing. I tried to remember what I’d once read about how to thwart a bear attack, but came up blank. Lie down in a fetal position or run? Remain quiet or scream like a banshee? The only advice I could come up with was to avoid going where bears were likely to be found—useless information at this juncture.
 
 
We’d gone perhaps three or four hundred feet when Bill stopped. “Look,” he said.
 
 
Kathy and I peered beyond him. Fifty feet ahead, a small cabin stood in a clearing that wasn’t much bigger than the cabin itself.
 
 
“Oh, my God!” Kathy said. She ran past Bill, reached the cabin, and threw open its door. “Willie!” she shouted.
 
 
Bill and I looked at each other. He smiled and nodded in satisfaction. I started for the cabin, got halfway there, and turned to see him still standing where I’d left him.
 
 
“Coming?” I asked.
 
 
“You go ahead,” he said.
 
 
I reached the cabin and poked my head through the open door. Kathy was on the floor in a corner of the single room, sobbing, her arms wrapped around Wilimena. I wasn’t certain whether Willie was dead or alive, but then I saw her move.
 
 
“She’s alive,” Kathy managed. “She’s alive!”
 
 
I went to where they were huddled and looked down at Wilimena, who was wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. Kathy was right; her sister was, indeed, alive, but only barely so far as I could see. She was skin and bones. Her hair was a matted mess, her face smeared with dirt.
 
 
“We have to get her out of here,” I said. “I’ll send Bill back to get Mr. Borosky. We can carry her and—”
 
 
Willie mumbled something through parched lips that were swollen to twice their normal size.
 
 
“What?” Kathy asked.
 
 
Willie said it again, and this time both Kathy and I understood.
 
 
“I found it!”
 
 
“The gold?” Kathy said.
 
 
“Uh-huh. We’re rich, Kathy. We’re rich.”
 
 
Wilimena struggled free of her sister’s grasp and dragged a filthy canvas bag from behind her, where she’d had it wedged.
 
 
“That’s it?” Kathy said.
 
 
Willie managed a feeble nod.
 
 
I looked around the cabin in search of something that might be used to transport Willie to the plane. There was nothing. As the sisters continued to talk, I went to the rough-hewn cabinets and opened them. Inside were cans of food, mostly beans and vegetables. Open cans sat on a crude counter next to a can opener, along with the stun gun and canister of Mace that Willie’d purchased in Seattle. A plastic jug of water was half consumed; a full one was in a cabinet next to the canned goods. Thank God that food and water were there, I thought, left by previous occupants to help those who would follow. She couldn’t have survived without it. I also realized how fortunate she was that the open cans hadn’t attracted local wildlife, particularly bears or wolves.
 
 
I looked down and saw where a section of the floor had been removed, exposing a fairly large open space beneath it, probably where Wilimena had found the sack of gold.
 
 
I returned to them.
 
 
“Can you stand?” I asked Willie.
 
 
She shook her head. “My leg is broken. I fell the first day I was here.”
 
 
All I could visualize was what the bones in her leg must look like after weeks of not having been set. The pain must have been excruciating. Still, she’d managed to get around enough to open the cans of food. Amazing what we’re capable of doing when the chips are down.
 
 
“We’re taking you home, Willie,” I said. “You and Kathy stay here. I’ll be back with help in a few minutes.”
 
 
I turned to fetch Bill Henderson and Borosky to help move her. Bill was standing in the open doorway.
 
 
“She’s in bad shape,” I said. “She has a broken leg, and she’s wasting away. We have to get her to the plane and to a hospital.”
 
 
“Did she find the gold?” he asked.
 
 
“Yes. She—”
 
 
He walked past me, went to where Kathy and Wilimena were still wrapped around each other, and looked down.
 
 
“Hello, Willie,” Bill said.
 
 
She looked up, blinking as she tried to bring him into focus. When she succeeded, she gasped. “What are
you
doing here?”
 
 
Chapter Fifteen
 
 
Kathy and I looked at each other, then at Bill Henderson.
 
 
“You know her?” I asked.
 
 
He grinned and said, “Yeah, you might say that. I mean, I never really did get to know her, but then again, we weren’t married very long.”
 
 
This time when Kathy and I looked at each other, it was with our jaws hanging open.
 
 
“You and Willie were married?” Kathy managed.
 
 
“Right. You and I talked a while back when I called. That’s when you told me that Willie was missing and that you intended to take the same cruise and look for the gold.”
 
 
“You said you were Howard.”
 
 
“Right again. That’s me, former husband of your wacko sister.”
 
 
Wilimena struggled to get to her feet. She stood on her good leg and leaned against the wall. “How did you end up with
them
?” she asked, indicating Kathy and me.
 
 
“Took a little bit of ingenuity,” Bill—or Howard— said. “But I was never as dumb as you made me out to be, Willie. Let’s just say I decided to treat myself for putting up with you for a year.”
 
 
Kathy faced him, her face a mask of rage and hurt and every other conceivable emotion generated by the situation. “You lied to me,” she said, thrusting her jaw at him. “You told me you loved me. You said you wanted to marry me. You—you—you bastard!”
 
 
She swung at him, but he brushed her hand away.
 
 
“What did you think, Kathy?” he said. “That I’d fall for a dolt like you?” He guffawed. “If I had to hear one more time about how you love baking pies and taking hikes in the woods and—God, you are the most boring woman I’ve ever known.”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
5.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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