The Mist of Quarry Harbor Read online

  © 2005 Elizabeth A Adair.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Adair, Liz. The mist of Quarry Harbor / Liz Adair. p. cm.

  ISBN 1-59038-291-9 (pbk.)

  1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Bigamy—Fiction.

  3. Deception—Fiction. 4. Mormon women—Fiction.

  5. Seattle (Wash.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.D35M57 2005 813'.6—dc22 2005006520

  Printed in the United States of America 54459

  Malloy Lithographing, Inc., Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Disclaimer

  Not content with rearranging the geography of Lincoln County, Nevada, and Stevens County, Washington, I have turned my attention to Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands.

  None of the islands that I name in the book actually exist. However, Anacortes and Seattle do, and there may arise questions in some logical, nautical minds as to where St. Mary’s Island would lie if you take the ferry to it from Anacortes, but a diesel trawler with a top speed of eight knots can reach it in two hours from Seattle. It doesn’t matter. Put it where you wish, and if another land mass is occupying the same spot, that’s all right.

  What I hoped to do was paint a word picture of the splendid world to be found in the extreme northwest corner of the United States. It’s a world I came to love as my husband, Derrill, and I chugged around the islands in our little diesel trawler, Good Report.

  For my dear friend Uvene Manwaring, who passed away February 10, 2005

  What greater gift dost thou bestow,

  What greater goodness can we know

  Than Christ-like friends, whose gentle ways

  Strengthen our faith, enrich our days.

  (LDS Hymns, no. 293)

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

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  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks go to two people at Deseret Book: Jana Erickson gave me a premise to pursue and gave me sound feedback as the plot developed, and Richard Peterson was particularly supportive as we worked through the editing process under a tight time constraint. Thanks, Richard. You’re a joy to work with, and I always learn so much from the process.

  My thanks as well to Gene Davis and Neil Nottingham for answering questions and advising me in their areas of expertise. When they retired, Gene was Deputy Chief Patrol Agent of the Blaine Sector of the U.S. Border Patrol and Neil was a captain in the Los Angeles Fire Department.

  I leaned on members of the local American Night Writer’s Association (ANWA) to read my manuscript for continuity. Thank you, ladies: Lucinda Rudolph, Amber Rudolph, Ann Acton, Terry Deighton, Edna Harper, and Chris Talley. My old friend Addy Gifford and my daughter Ruth Lavine helped out there too.

  Eileen and Leroy Schenk and Joyce and Dan Packard accompanied my husband, Derrill, and me as we poked around the ruins at Casa Grande and Tonto National Monument. I’m appreciative of friends making time to accommodate my research needs while renewing old ties. Speaking of old friends: Holy Crow, Bob James, I appropriated your favorite expression!

  Thanks also to my daughter Terry Gifford, who taught seminary for me during crunch time, and to her son, three-year-old Jens, who gave me the marvelous Primary passage.

  As ever, thanks to Derrill for his faith in me and for his unfailing support.

  1

  Cassie Van Cleeve zipped her suitcase closed and stood for a moment looking around the motel room. Satisfied that nothing had been left behind, she stacked her laptop case on the suitcase and pulled out the telescoping handle. Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, she left the room and walked across the flagstone courtyard to the office, where she was greeted by the elderly desk clerk.

  “Good morning, Cassie. Are you checking out?” Friendly brown eyes looked over reading glasses at the tall, well-dressed woman with long blonde hair pulled back and pinned with a silver barrette at the nape of her neck.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morton. Yes. I’m going home.” She put her room key on the counter. “Can you see that these bags get up to the airport?”

  “Same as last time? Surely.” Cocking his head back so he could see through the reading lenses, Mr. Morton tapped some keys on his computer and placed the resultant copy of her bill in front of Cassie. As she signed it, he asked, “Will you be coming back to see us again?”

  “No. I think I’m done.” She smiled as she held out her hand. “It’s been a great two weeks. I’ve enjoyed my stay.”

  He shook her hand and beamed. “Our pleasure! I’ll make sure your luggage is taken up right away. You sure you don’t want me to call you a cab?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Morton. High clouds. It won’t be too hot, so I’ll walk.” Cassie sketched a wave at the doorway and went out into the bright, late August Southern Utah sunshine.

  She had been working in St. George for two weeks, the second trip in as many months. With a bachelor’s degree in nursing and a master’s degree in technical writing, Cassie worked as a consultant with The Fulton Group, a quintet of people who worked with hospitals that were building or expanding. Based in Scottsdale, Arizona, Mr. Fulton dealt in medical construction management and found that it was helpful to have a specialist in funding and grant writing aboard. That was Cassie’s niche, and she had done very well in the past eight years, both for the hospitals she represented and for herself.

  At thirty-two, Cassie thought of herself as a career woman. An only child, her advent had been a complete surprise to a pair of brilliant scholars who had dedicated their lives to teaching, research, and writing rather than to the raising of a family. At forty, they were too set in their ways to change, so Cassie grew up in a silent household learning to fend for herself because her parents were too lost in their books to remember even to eat. Gradually, she became the caretaker, and by the time she was in high school she was managing the household as well as making application for grants to support her parents’ research. She was so successful that she then had to oversee publication details and speaking engagements for them, and by the time they died a few months apart eight years ago, they were both well known and respected in their fields, and Cassie had learned some valuable skills as well.

  That was when she left the field of public health, where she had been working for a modest salary. She left, as well, the ivied walls of the small mid-western college town where she had lived with her parents and traveled to the Arizona desert to start a new life.

  It had been a new life in more ways than one. Six months earlier Cassie had opened the door to a pair of young men wearing short-sleeved white shirts, ties, and nametags. She had never been religious, never felt the need for religion in her life, so she was amazed at herself when
she invited them in, and even more amazed when she invited them back. She went through three sets of missionaries before she joined the Mormon Church, waiting to make sure it was a belief in the doctrine rather than the sense of family and belonging that was drawing her in.

  It was ten blocks from the motel to the St. George hospital, and as Cassie swung along, she looked with interest at the old red brick houses with white trim and brass plaques that identified them as pioneer homes, smiling to think that she now shared this pioneer heritage. She stood under the shade of a huge mulberry tree and watched two young boys with backpacks who were beguiling their way to school by floating little walnut-shell boats on the irrigation water that ran down the street beside the sidewalk. Kneeling next to the ditch, they peered into a culvert as the tiny arks bobbed into the blackness and were lost to view. Jumping up, they ran across the street, intently counting Mississippi-eight, Mississippi-nine, Mississippi-ten as they went. As they crouched on hands and knees at the other side of the culvert, Cassie crossed, too, and couldn’t help lingering for a moment. One of the boys noticed her and glanced up briefly, breaking into a grin as his companion announced, “Here they come! Twenty seconds! That’s a record.”

  At that moment a bell rang in the distance. Whooping, the two boys abandoned their watercraft and ran, shedding their summer occupation as they hollered, “We can’t be late on the first day of school!”

  Cassie quickened her pace too, humming as she continued on to the hospital.

  Today was a public relations day. Her job here was finished, but she wanted to say good-bye to the people in the different departments of the hospital who had helped her collect the information she needed. As she approached the automatic sliding door at the entrance, she checked her reflection to make sure she was presentable. She had chosen this dress because it traveled well, unaware of how the trim fit of the bodice showed off her waist and the full skirt of the soft cotton blend swayed as she walked, accentuating her long legs. The blue in the floral pattern deepened the color of her eyes, and with her confident carriage, she was a striking figure.

  Disliking small talk, Cassie had made appointments with the people she was obliged to see, allowing herself only enough time for a formal leave-taking with each. She saved Dr. Watts, the ER director, until last, because they had formed an unlikely friendship based on the fact that he was of Dutch ancestry and had read her parents’ book about William the Silent. Unfortunately, she had a hard time getting away from the CFO, a dry little man who wanted to share the details of his investment portfolio with her. Looking at her watch and pleading a flight that she had to catch in an hour, she finally broke away and hurried to Dr. Watts’s office, only to find he wasn’t there. His secretary told her that the director was covering in ER while the regular doctor was at a meeting, and he had requested that Cassie come in there to see him.

  Cassie followed the directions she was given and pushed through a set of swinging doors into the reception area of the emergency room. There were a few people sitting in chairs against the wall, but it seemed to be a quiet time. “Dr. Watts?” she inquired of the lady behind the desk.

  “Number Two. That way.” The receptionist pointed through a door, and after only a moment’s hesitation, Cassie forged ahead.

  Realizing how long it had been since she had been in the working area of an emergency room, Cassie took in the hard, shiny surfaces and privacy curtains, the antiseptic smell, the soft murmur of voices. “Dr. Watts?” she said again.

  “Is that you, Cassie? I’m in here. Come in.”

  Cassie parted the curtain of the nearest bay and peeked inside.

  She was rewarded with Dr. Watts’s jovial countenance. “Come in, my dear. Don’t be shy. You won’t bother this fellow.”

  Cassie was aware of a pair of broad shoulders in a blue denim shirt—that’s all she could see from the back. Someone was sitting on the examining table watching as the doctor applied an ace bandage around the left hand and up the arm.

  “He doesn’t know that you don’t trust sandstone,” Dr. Watts said, shaking his head. “Been rock climbing up toward Kolob. He’s lucky it was his wrist and not his head.”

  The injured one turned to acknowledge the truth of the matter with a rueful look. He had honey-colored hair that fell over his forehead and twinkling brown eyes. His nose was straight and his jaw was square, and when he smiled it creased his face in merry rectangular lines. Cassie had to smile back. She couldn’t help it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking with concern at a bruise on his cheek. “How far did you fall?”

  “Not too far,” he said. “I was just getting started, much to my chagrin.”

  Cassie turned to Dr. Watts. “I came to say good-bye. I’m off to catch my plane.” Taking his hand, she held it in both of hers. “I’ve enjoyed our talks,” she said.

  “Me, too. Come and see us again sometime.”

  Cassie tucked a card in his pocket. “I don’t know if that will happen very soon. If you’re ever in the Phoenix area, look me up.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Cassie turned to look at the doctor’s patient. “You’re in good hands,” she said. “I hope you mend quickly.”

  As she turned to go, the patient asked, “How are you getting to the airport?”

  Unprepared for the question, Cassie could only stare for a moment. Then, curiously short of breath, she said, “I’m calling a cab.”

  “I’ll take you,” the patient offered. “You’re through, aren’t you, Doc?”

  “Oh, no, really,” Cassie protested. “I couldn’t . . .”

  He hopped off the treatment table and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Chan Jordain. It’s no problem, really.”

  Cassie looked at the hand and then gave her own. When he didn’t release it immediately, she pulled back and looked at her watch. “I need to get going right now,” she warned.

  “Say no more.” Chan Jordain offered his hand to Dr. Watts, who was just drying his on a paper towel. “Thank you, Doc.”

  “Are you staying in the area?” the doctor asked.

  “For a day or so.”

  “If you have any problem come and see me. There shouldn’t be any. A dislocation is painful, but when everything is realigned that usually takes care of it. But remember what I said about the swelling.”

  Chan Jordain laughed. “If it starts to turn blue, I’ll come right in.” Then he turned and held the privacy curtain for Cassie to step through. “After you.”

  “Good-bye, Dr. Watts,” she said, looking back over her shoulder.

  “Good-bye, Cassie. Have a good trip.”

  Chan led the way down the hall and out the door into the sunshine. They crossed the parking lot without speaking, and he showed her the way to where a white Chrysler Sebring convertible sat in the shade of a mulberry tree. “I might have known,” Cassie breathed.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “The convertible. It only needed that,” she said.

  Chan Jordain grinned as he opened the passenger door. “I was thinking, when I saw you in that blue dress, that I’d like to see you in this car. Do you know how to get to the airport? I’m new to the area.”

  “That’s right. You don’t know sandstone.”

  “Nope. Where I come from the hills are made of different stuff.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Thataway—I think. What way is that? And where is the airport?”

  “It’s up on top of the mesa. Go out of the parking lot and turn right. It will take us to the road that goes by the mesa. Follow the signs and you can’t miss it.” She looked at her watch. “Thanks for the lift. If I’d had to wait for a cab I might be in trouble.”

  “No problem.” Chan drove to the stoplight and turned where Cassie indicated. Glancing at her as they cruised along, he caught her watching him. She turned away, suddenly flustered.

  “Will you be coming back to St. George?” he asked.

  Cassie shook her head, still
looking away. She pointed to a sign. “This is where you turn. After the red light.”

  Chan stopped and turned on his blinker. “What do you do? What brought you to St. George?”

  “I’m a consultant,” Cassie said, looking at her hands. “My specialty is grants, particularly for medicine. I teach seminars all over the country, and I come on-site and work with the hospitals and research organizations to find grant money and make application.”

  She heard a click and felt something at her neck, and the next thing she knew, her barrette dropped in her lap. At the same time the light changed and Chan turned, accelerating on the steep road to the top of the mesa.

  Cassie’s long hair streamed out behind, and a wisp blew in front of her face. Pushing it back, she looked at the driver in consternation. “Why did you do that?” she demanded.

  “Just trying to match the picture I had in my mind,” he said, eyeing her appreciatively. “You have beautiful hair.”

  Cassie suddenly felt that she was way out of her league. She looked back down at her hands.

  “Can I have one of your cards?” He was smiling. She could tell.

  She shook her head. “If you’ll just pull over there, that will be fine. Just by the door.”

  Chan obliged, sweeping around in a great arc and stopping abruptly by the entrance to the small terminal. Not waiting for him to turn off the key, Cassie got out of the car. “Thank you for the ride,” she said. “No, don’t get out. This is fine.”

  As she turned and fled through the doors into the terminal he called, “Cassie what? What’s your last name?”

  Cassie didn’t answer. She hurried to the ticket counter, fumbling in her purse for her ticket, and retrieved her computer case from the attendant while making arrangements for her bag to be checked. Then she bolted through security.