Page 63 of Untamed Coast

Nikolai brought a steaming bowl of the crimson stew to the table. It was Virgil’s favorite, and he had lunch here at the Red Baron at least three times a week when he was in Sitka and not out pretending to mine a dry hole.

That’s one thing he wouldn’t miss when he left this place—moving tons of dirt, mud, and rock around at a fake mine just to keep up appearances. “Thanks Nik. Your soup is the best. Is this the way you used to make it in Russia?”

Nik frowned and balled his fists. “I not Russian. Third-generation Alaskan. Born and raise here. We not proud of what great-great-grandfather doing. That is why we changing name—Baranov to Baron.”

Virgil almost laughed. “And yet here we sit—in the Red Baron, eating borscht.” He took another spoonful of the hearty soup, the warm earthy sweetness of the beets replacing the clean bitter bite of the beer.

Nikolai leaned across the bar toward Virgil and raised his voice. “He was murderer. He doing terrible things. We not honor him.”

Virgil put his spoon down, sat back, and crossed his arms.

Nikolai’s face had turned a deep red that matched his hands.

“Easy, there, Nik. We’re just chatting.” Virgil tried to calm him. “The way I see it, your ancestor was a businessman. It was a different time, and sometimes being a businessman calls for tough measures.”

“Murder not business! Eat soup.” Nik turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Virgil shouted after him. “Sorry Nik, no offense intended!”

The sound of pots and pans slamming echoed from the kitchen.

Virgil took another spoonful. The hot broth warmed his throat and chest. “I appreciate you having my back, and thanks for the soup!”

Nik grunted from somewhere in the back.

Virgil needed to do something. The gold hidden at Radioville, if it existed at all, wasn’t going anywhere. For now, he needed a new plan. If the miner kept asking around Sitka, somebody would give him up. It was just a matter of time.

Virgil had to move fast. A real businessman never let a rival get the upper hand.

Chapter 48

-.-. --- -- .--. --- ... ..- .-. .

Lady Melinda—Sitka, AK

1982—Anya Baron

Anya stuck the trolling snaps and other gear she’d bought into a locker and began tidying the cabin.

The officers coming down the dock were getting closer, surveying each boat as they passed.

She turned on her boom box radio. Pat Benatar was belting out “Hit Me with Your Best Shot.”

Anya rehearsed in her head.

It was terrible. He was just there, dead. Blood everywhere. I didn’t know what to do and I was afraid, so I left and called you guys right away.

She looked around the salon for any signs Thomas had been there. She stuffed the fillet knife back into the drawer and covered the Smith & Wesson with a dish towel. She pulled out a pot, ran some water into it, lit a burner, and placed it on the stove. She pulled a few ingredients out of the cupboards and set them on the counter.

Still no sign of the cops.

She grabbed a beer from the cooler, opened it, and drank a few quick gulps.

“Mrs. Baron? Sitka Police. May we come in?”

Anya turned toward the door, her beer in her hand, and shouted. “Who is it?” She made a show of picking up a bag of flour and moving it to the other side of the counter.

Two uniformed policemen were stepping from the dock finger over the starboard gunwale and onto the boat.