Alaskan Hideaway. Beth Carpenter
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heâd become successful, and like all the others, she was doomed to disappointment. He whistled for the dog and returned to the cabin, dropping the note into the trashcan under the sink. He started to pitch the rolls in after it, but his stomach growled, reminding him heâd not yet had a chance to buy milk for his raisin bran.
No sense letting good food go to waste. He picked up a roll and bit into it. Cream cheese frosting melted in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the blending of fresh bread and sweet cinnamon. Quite possibly the best cinnamon rolls heâd tasted since he was a boy, visiting his grandmotherâs house. He took another bite. These might in fact edge Gramâs off the middle podium. Shame he wouldnât be getting any more once she figured out he was a lost cause.
He poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair at the scrubbed pine table, pushing aside a pile of mail heâd found in a box when he unpacked. A return address caught his eye. A bill from the private investigator. Chandler had sounded almost apologetic about billing him for the hours spent following leads that went nowhere, but Mac didnât care how much it cost, how many possibilities turned out to be dead ends. They couldnât quit. Not until they found Andiâs killer. Eventually, they would. People didnât just vanish.
He set the bill aside to pay later and slid the newspaper from its sleeve. A subscription offer fluttered to the ground. He opened the paper and took another bite of cinnamon roll. And another. There was something restful about perusing local politics and events that didnât concern him. By noon, heâd written a check to the investigator, unpacked all the boxes marked kitchen, called to subscribe to the Anchorage newspaper and wiped out the entire plate of cinnamon rolls. He washed the plate and set it in the drainer to dry. His family used to eat off blue-and-white plates not too different from this one when he was a boy.
His job was to wash dishes, and his mother would dry. Sheâd wipe each plate, stack them in the cupboard and sigh because there were only seven. Heâd heard the story a dozen times. How her cousin had taken home a plate of leftovers one evening and moved off to California without ever returning the plate, leaving her with an incomplete set. He was never clear exactly why Mom couldnât have asked for the plate back or bought another one, but she didnât. Instead, she mourned the loss nightly.
He eyed the plate in his drainer. According to the note, the woman lived in the big house on the next property over. He needed to drive into Seward that afternoon to buy groceries. He could easily drop off the plate on the way. But his polite gesture could be misconstrued as a friendly overture, which posed a danger to his privacy. If he ignored her, sheâd leave him alone.
And that was really Macâs only goal in moving to Alaska. To be left alone.
* * *
URSULA HAD WAITED three long days, but the call never came. How was she going to convince the guy it was in his best interest to sell if he wouldnât talk to her? Her cinnamon rolls seldom failed, but maybe he really didnât eat gluten. Time to pull out the big guns.
She took a jar of smoked sockeye sheâd canned last summer from her pantry. Chopped green onions, lemon juice, cream cheese and a few secret seasonings turned it into her special salmon dip. She filled a crock and tucked it into her backpack, along with a bag of moose jerky, and strapped on her snowshoes.
A fresh snow had obliterated the tracks on the ski trail since their aborted outing a few days ago. No doubt the groomer had laid fresh tracks on the main trails but he could no longer reach her property with the gates closed. Getting them opened should be her first order of business.
She reached the gate, relieved to see the SUV parked between the house and the garage. Good. He was home. Hopefully, the dog was in the house with him, but if not, she had a plan B. Ursula rattled the gate and waited.
Sure enough, a black-and-white blur bounded toward her, almost disappearing into the deep snow between leaps. The dog must be in great physical condition to be able to bark and run at the same time.
The pit bull reached the gate and bounced into the air, almost head high, barking. Ursula wasnât sure this was going to work, but she had to try. She laid down her ski poles to take off her backpack. The barking stopped. She looked up. The pit bull still watched her. Ursula reached toward the poles, and a low rumble emanated from the dogâs throat.
Aha. âBad experience with a stick? Poor puppy.â Ursula left the poles lying on the ground and spoke in a gentle voice. âDonât worry, sweetie. Iâd never hurt you.â She unzipped her backpack, pulled out a stick of jerky and tore off a bite-size piece. âWould you like a treat?â She tossed the bite to the dog.
The dog jumped into the air to catch the tidbit. Tail wagging, it waited expectantly. Ursula smiled. âThatâs a good boy.â She checked. âGirl, I mean. Want some more?â
The pit bull cocked her head. Ursula tossed another bite. The dog came closer and stuck her nose between the gate and the fence, wagging her tail harder. Ursula handed her another bit of jerky. The dog licked her hand and gently took the meat from her. âAll that bluster is just for show, isnât it? Youâre really a marshmallow.â
The dog wagged in agreement. Leaving the ski poles behind, Ursula pulled the chain up over the post to unlatch the gate and slipped inside. She fastened the gate behind her and gave her new best friend another bite of jerky. Together, they crossed the meadow between the gate and the house, Ursula on snowshoes and the dog crashing through the snow beside her.
Before she reached the house, Ursula noticed a light in the window of the oversize detached garage. When Bettyâs husband built it forty years ago, heâd included a woodworking space as well as room for cars. The light was coming from the workshop area.
The dog headed straight for the workshop and squeezed through a new dog hatch cut into the outer door. The door must not have been completely latched, because it opened when the dog pushed against it. Ursula removed her snowshoes, pulled the crock of salmon dip from her backpack and followed the dog inside.
The workshop featured an arctic entry, a small alcove inside the door leading to another door off to one side to keep the wind from blowing in every time someone opened the door. The inside door stood open, and the dog padded on into the main room. A bench against the wall held a box full of carved wood. Curious, Ursula picked up one of the pieces.
The polished wood retained the natural curves of a tree limb, but a face peered out from the wood grainâan inquisitive gnome with shaggy eyebrows and a long beard. The piece gave the impression that the face had been in the wood all along and just needed a skilled craftsman to let it out. A quick glance showed maybe a dozen similar carvings, each face unique. Enchanting.
The sound of the dogâs toenails clicking across the concrete floor of the shop reminded Ursula why she was there.
She returned the carving to the box and stepped inside, inhaling the piney scent of fresh sawdust. At the far end, a man perched on a stool. His profile revealed a strong brow and a determined jawline. A few gray threads wove through thick brown hair that could have used a trim. His full concentration was on the blade he was using to remove chips of wood from the chunk in his hand. The dog, lying on a cushion at his feet, wagged her tail when Ursula appeared. The man looked up and seemed anything but pleased to see her there.
Before he could speak, Ursula jumped in, determined to be friendly. âForgive me for just walking in. The door was open.â
He didnât smile back. âThe sign says No Trespassing.â
âOh, but Iâm your next-door neighbor.â She took a step closer. âUrsula.â
He remained where he was. âHow did you get past the dog?â
âWeâre friends. Arenât we, sweetie?â The dog trotted over to her and nudged her hand. Ursula smiled. âShe likes my jerky.â
The man let out a huff of exasperation. âWhat do you want?â
Ursula