Whisper of Bones (Widow's Island #3)

Whisper of Bones (Widow's Island #3)

Melinda Leigh



1


“The kayakers found the body on the northwest beach of Camilla’s Island,” Deputy Tessa Black yelled over the wind and the roar of twin outboards. She tugged her sheriff’s department cap lower on her forehead as the state park ranger boat sped across the bay, leaving Widow’s Island behind them.

At the wheel, Logan Wilde shouted back, “The current dumps a lot of debris there.”

Tall, lean, and still military fit, he was dressed in tan cargos, boots, and a dark-green Washington State Forest Ranger jacket. He spread his feet for balance, and his blue eyes narrowed against the bright December sun shining on the water. They’d both recently returned to the Pacific Northwest island where they’d grown up. They’d only been dating a few weeks, but watching him now, Tessa felt the connection that came from a lifetime of shared history.

The hull slapped on a few whitecaps as they left Widow’s Bay. Tessa grabbed a railing as the deck pitched and rolled through Breakneck Strait, the narrow passage between the two islands.

Widow’s Island was shaped like an inverted horseshoe, with the huge Widow’s Bay filling the center. Camilla’s Island was located near the southwestern point of the horseshoe. Tessa, Logan, and five thousand other people lived on Widow’s, while Camilla’s Island was a wildlife refuge managed by the state park system.

They approached a no-wake sign, and Logan eased back on the throttle. As the boat puttered into Camilla’s Cove, Tessa grabbed the bowline and positioned herself on the starboard side. Logan steered past two mooring buoys and drew the boat parallel to the single skinny dock. Tessa climbed over the gunwale and hitched the bowline to a dock cleat. Logan tossed her the stern and spring lines, and she secured them as he shut down the engines.

Logan grabbed her backpack, jumped off the boat, and handed her the bag. Tessa shrugged into the straps, adjusting them so the pack didn’t smack into her duty belt. Then she zipped her uniform jacket to her chin as they walked up the ramp onto solid ground and passed the notices billboard and the self-pay receptacle for moorage fees—a metal box with a slit in the top. A handful of rough campsites were available on the island, but there was no trash service or potable water. Visitors had to pack in what they needed and carry out their garbage as part of the island’s “leave no trace” policy.

Tessa followed Logan to the hiking trail that led down to the rocky beach. Three tiny black-tailed deer lifted their heads and approached them, looking for a handout. Feeding wildlife was strictly prohibited, but the island deer had learned that people were suckers for their big brown eyes.

A few minutes later, Tessa and Logan emerged from the dense forest onto the narrow beach. They skirted a tide pool and rounded a bend in the shoreline.

Logan pointed. “There they are.”

A hundred yards ahead, Tessa saw two figures huddled between the skinny strip of packed sand and a clump of trees. A yellow sea kayak listed on the sand nearby. A body was sprawled on the sand. The surf broke and rolled up the beach, lapping over the corpse’s legs and shifting its position.

“The tide’s coming in,” Logan said. “How long until Henry gets here?”

Dr. Henry Powers was a newcomer to Widow’s Island, having bought the sole doctor’s office. To Henry’s surprise, the job of coroner had come with the practice.

“About twenty minutes. He was finishing up with a patient when I called him. Kurt is bringing him over.”

When the call from the kayakers had come in, Tessa had been in the small satellite sheriff’s station on Widow’s Island, writing up a report from an early-morning fender bender. The other deputy on duty, Kurt Olson, had been tied up with loose alpacas on Bishopton Road. Since the body had been found on state park ground, Tessa had called Logan to ferry her over to the neighboring island.

The kayakers, a middle-aged couple, walked forward and met them on the sand. Clearly experienced, they were dressed for winter paddling in full-body dry suits and neoprene gloves.

Introducing himself and his wife, the man extended a hand to Tessa, then Logan. “We saw him from the water.”

“Did you touch the body?” Tessa removed her backpack and took out a camera.

The man nodded. “Just his shoulder. I rolled him over to see his face. I thought he might be alive.” He swallowed as if nauseated. “He wasn’t.”

“Of course. You had to make sure.” Tessa nodded in empathy.

The woman patted the man’s arm. “I’m glad you insisted we invest in a satellite phone.”

He leaned into his wife’s shoulder.

“Thank you. Please wait here for a few minutes.” After leaving her pack in the sand, Tessa turned toward the body. Before moving to Widow’s Island eighteen months before, she’d been a detective in Seattle. Working in a city surrounded by water, she’d seen her share of floaters. Usually, they were particularly nasty, but this one seemed relatively fresh.

Logan fell into step beside her, and they crossed fifteen feet of flat sand. Together they stared down at the dead body of a middle-aged man clothed in jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt.

“He isn’t wearing a coat,” Tessa noted.

The corpse lay faceup. He was at least six feet tall and burly. She could only see the skin of his face and hands, both of which were deep pink. His facial features, though discolored, were distinguishable.