Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island Read Free Page B

ferry. The prow and stern were shaped alike. So it could go in either direction? But suddenly, maybe a quarter mile from shore, the ferry slowed, and turned. Aha. It had been backing out. He studied the shorelines and saw clearly why Sidney’s harbor was held in such repute—a perfect semicircle of land protected by windbreak islands.
    He went back and forth between his book, staring at the shoreline and exploring the ferry, the Chelan . It was named, he learned, for the Chelan tribe, from cotsill-ane , meaning the deep water of Lake Chelan, the area in which they had lived. Eventually the ferry passed an open grassy island with a few trees and a herd of sheep. Different ecology: the Strait of Georgia islands were heavy with coniferous forests, occasional houses dotting rocky shores. Probably there’d been trees here too, but they’d been felled likely long ago, the land turned to pasture. He spotted a map on the wall and checked it. Shaw Island. So he should be able to see San Juan from the other side of the ferry. Yes.
    Waiting in his car while the foot passengers walked off, Noel called Langley again. Same message. He drove off. Okay, eat, phone again, explore Friday Harbor, keep phoning till you reach the man. If he never answered, Noel would find a hotel room, treat himself to a good dinner, take the ferry back in the morning. Call it an excursion.
    One thing Noel knew, no different either side of the border, ferries dock at sea level and everything goes uphill from there. Getting off the ferry, he drove up a steep ramp, reached a ridge, then drove down another ramp to a curve, then up another ramp and finally onto land. Strange way to create an entrance, he thought.
    Friday Harbor felt like a very small town. Spring Street seemed to be the main drag. He found a restaurant with a special on mussels in white wine sauce. Delicious. In the washroom he checked his appearance: face still narrow, blond hair getting thinner, gray eyes looking relaxed, even a bit of a glow. Collar of his white and blue plaid shirt okay. His leather jacket over brown cords looked academic. Good.
    Back in his car, he phoned again. This time the professor answered. “Langley.”
    â€œHello. This is Noel Franklin of Islands Investigations International.”
    â€œThat was fast. I wasn’t expecting you until later.” A pleasant, engaged voice.
    â€œI’m in Friday Harbor. I’d like to meet, talk about your plagiarism problem.”
    â€œOkay, where are you?”
    â€œOn Spring Street, not far from the ferry. If you give me directions—”
    â€œSure. You have GPS or a map?”
    â€œNeither.” And why in fact didn’t he have a global positioning system in his six-week-old car?
    â€œYou can pick a map up at the Chamber of Commerce—it’s right there on Spring, between First and Second. Got paper and a pencil?” Langley sounded as if he were teaching a class of wayward grade fours.
    â€œYep.” From the glove compartment, Noel pulled out a notebook and pen, feeling like the most errant in the class. “Go ahead.” He didn’t say: Slowly.
    â€œCarry on up Spring until you see the medical complex on the right. Opposite is Mullis; it right angles into Cattle Point Road. Left on that, then jog right on Little. Turn left again, then the road quickly makes a right angle. You’re on Bailer Hill Road and we’re on the left, not far along, big elegant gateway and a sign above. Can’t miss it. I’ll be in my office on the second floor of the Mansion.”
    â€œThanks.” Can’t miss it means he’d better find that map. He got out of his car and located the Chamber four doors away. He walked into the office, where a young woman with shiny short black hair and an attractive smile gave him a map and a pamphlet of San Juan Island’s highlights. Back in the car, he followed Langley’s directions. They were clear, but it helped to