Precious Cargo by Clyde W. Ford

Author:Clyde W. Ford
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vanguard Press

SOUTH OF FAIRHAVEN, Chuckanut Drive twisted and turned past home after home where red-and-white yard signs read, “No Development of Chuckanut Ridge.” Just before the drive opened up into an expansive view of Chuckanut Bay, I took a small road veering off to the left. Chuckanut Crest Drive wove—hairpin after hairpin—past exclusive luxury homes. Even these yards had signs against development—ironic, since these homeowners had reaped the benefits of developing these lush green hills. What’s that called? I snapped my fingers. NIMBY. Not In My Back Yard.

The higher the drive went, the further I climbed into the clouds. Fog blanketed the roadway ahead. I slowed to a crawl to avoid driving off the mountain, and I wished my car had radar like the Noble Lady.

Suddenly, a wrought-iron gate spanned my side of the road ahead. I slammed on the brakes. No gate crossed the other side of the road, leading down from the mountain, but a line of tire spikes like the metal teeth of an asphalt monster dared any driver to venture the wrong way on that side. I pulled up to the kiosk beside the gate and pressed the button marked 2500. A rapid-fire succession of touch-tones sounded through the speaker grille beneath the keypad. A moment later, someone picked up a telephone on the other end.

“Hello,” the male voice said.

“Mr. Kincaid,” I said. “George Campbell, private investigator. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about that matter at Eagle Harbor.”

“My father sent you?” the man said.

“He didn’t give me the gate code.”

“It’s 5-2-3-9-2,” the man said.

“I’ll be right up.”

I chuckled to myself, then punched in the code. The wrought-iron gate rumbled back, and I drove through.

Chuckanut Crest Drive continued to wind its way upward through switchbacks and through fog. I held my breath and swallowed hard to clear one ear that had filled from the elevation gain.

Finally, the asphalt road became a dirt and gravel road, which after one more switchback dead-ended at a house that looked, well, on a day like today, misty-fjord-green. I must have risen above the layer of clouds. The fog now hovered close to the ground, and above me treetops reached into a clear blue sky.

I parked in front of the detached four-car garage and stepped quickly through the mist to the covered walkway leading to the front door. The large pillars at the front of the massive house reminded me of a modern-day version of a southern plantation. I rang the doorbell and waited, half expecting a maid or manservant to answer. When the door swung open, a blond-haired man with a boyish face and a dimpled chin stood before me.

“Mr. . . . ?”

“Campbell,” I said. “George Campbell.” My father’s first name, my mother’s maiden name. The alias had grown on me.

“William Kincaid.” He extended his hand and we shook. “Please, come in,” Kincaid said. “I wasn’t expecting you. Father didn’t call to say you’d be here.”

“You can never predict where an investigation might lead,” I said.

I stepped into the foyer.

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