Worth More Dead

as Della remembered, October 15 and 16, 1988, was a normal weekend. She got up at five Saturday morning to study for a test in her nursing course at Olympic Community College. Roland awakened an hour later and left the house. “He wanted to photograph the sunrise,” she recalled.
    But the weather hadn’t cooperated, and the bright colors of dawn were obscured by low clouds. A few hours later, Roland called her to say that the battery on his car was dead, but he’d found someone to jump-start it. It was sometime between nine and ten when he arrived back at her house. As he had promised, he then took Amy and Bébé roller-skating for a few hours. They were all home by about four.
    None of them went out that night. Instead, Della, Roland, and their children watched television together until nine. Della was tired and went to bed, leaving Roland to play Monopoly with Bébé and Della’s son Tim.
    At 11:30, just about the time Cheryl Pitre drove away from PJ’s Market, Roland came up to the bedroom he shared with Della. Then he changed his mind and told Della he was going back downstairs to watch wrestling with Bébé and Tim. Della was positive that she saw Roland at 11:30, but he didn’t stay in the bedroom long.
    By the time Roland finally did come to bed, Della had dozed off. But she glanced at the clock as he reached out and turned her toward him. It was half an hour past midnight. They made love, and Della fell asleep again. She didn’t waken until about five. When she did, she saw that he was asleep beside her.
    Sometime during those dark hours, Cheryl had gone missing. No alarm was sounded until the next morning when she didn’t show up for work at PJ’s. Early customers found the doors locked.
     
    There are several routes between Port Orchard, Bremerton, and Seattle. Most commuters choose between a number of ferries. And it’s relatively easy to drive to Tacoma and around the many waterways that branch off from Puget Sound. Many travelers do drive around, and if it isn’t rush hour and there’s no traffic to fight, it’s a pleasant trip. But the ferry ride is more relaxing and scenic. As the seagull flies—or as the ferryboats cross Puget Sound and Elliott Bay—to downtown Seattle, only about ten miles separate the land masses. Both the ferries and the drive take about an hour.
    As close together as the east and west shores of Puget Sound look on a map, most Olympic Peninsula residents who don’t actually work in Seattle usually spend their lives in Bremerton and Port Orchard. Cheryl Pitre did; her world was the Ford dealer, PJ’s, and her church. It was a rare thing for her to leave.
    But on Sunday it appeared that she had left. She didn’t show up for work or to pick up her children or appear at any of the places she was expected to be. Not on Sunday. Or Monday—or any day after.
     
    Just as New York City has its Central Park, Seattle has its lakes. Lake Union is one of several lakes located providentially in the middle of the city of Seattle. The “Emerald City” is defined by water. Its vegetation is green and lush, both from the rain that falls in all but the warmest summer season and because it is bound on its eastern borders by Lake Washington and on the west by Elliott Bay. Lake Union begins just north of downtown and extends several miles to the Lake Washington Ship Canal near the University District. Its shore provides space and mooring for restaurants, Coast Guard ships, condominiums, tour boats and, especially, to scores of floating homes.
    The houseboat neighborhoods that became familiar in the movie Sleepless in Seattle line private docks that extend into Lake Union like charms on a necklace. Some are lavish and worth millions; others harken back to the early days when houseboats were mostly little square wood cabins kept afloat by logs.
    For nine months out of the year, flowers and vegetables flourish in containers on the docks and the houseboat porches. Residents in the most desirable end-of-the-dock locations can tie up their boats to their front porches. There is a feeling of security in the houseboat community. Everybody knows everyone else, and a stranger on the dock is carefully scrutinized. Neighbors know who belongs there, and they watch out for one another. It is a small town dropped into the middle of a big city and a wonderful place to live except, perhaps, when a rare blizzard dumps a heavy snow load onto rooftops and some houseboats begin to sink. Even then,