Page 79 of Untamed Coast

Who would gain anything from this kind of sabotage?

It seemed a little like a series of bad pranks. Expensive, annoying, but not a real attempt to harm him. If he hadn’t gone out in the storm, the impeller problem would have been nothing more than an annoyance. That was just bad luck and a combination of circumstances.

Still, somehow, he felt he was missing a piece of the puzzle.

“Thanks a bunch, Steve! Email me an invoice. Oh, and I brought this for ya.” Marco reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of Jameson 18 Years.

“Oh, the fancy stuff.” Steve took the whiskey and grinned. “Thanks, buddy. Gotta run. Let’s do some fishing when you get back to Juneau.”

Marco untied the dinghy, started the outboard, and pulled away.

The big radial engine of the Beaver sprang to life. The pilot turned the plane in a half circle and gunned it. The wind from the prop blew Marco’s hat off his head and onto the floor of the RIB. The floatplane disappeared over the point, headed toward Hoonah.

Marco installed the new impeller and started Radio Flyer’s engine. Everything seemed normal.

The diesel spill and the stuff at the boatyard had all happened after that stupid newspaper article. And whoever took the Radioville journals and his snow globe must have seen the second article as well. Somebody seemed to be trying to send Marco a message, and he wasn’t sure why. And that somebody knew their way around a boat.

There were probably other unpleasant surprises waiting for him, and he didn’t want to wait for them to pop up at a bad time. He decided to stay an extra night at anchor and give Radio Flyer a thorough bow-to-stern inspection. He didn’t fancy any repeats of yesterday.

Chapter 59

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City Police Station—Sitka, AK

1982—Anya Baron

The clock on the wall of the interrogation room ticked loudly. Anya’s mouth was dry. Her wrists were still raw from the sharp metal of the handcuffs.

A raven announced its arrival on the sill of the small barred window of the interrogation room with a rapid series of clicks.

Worlson burst through the door. “Let’s get to it, folks from Juneau will be here soon.”

Anya tried not to let her anger show in her tone. “This Thomas guy did kill Chilton. I don’t know why he did it, but it was definitely him. He admitted it.”

Worlson settled back into his chair. “All right, describe him for me. We’d like to at least ask him a few questions.”

“Like I said, his name is Thomas. Don’t know if that’s his first or last name.” Anya tried to picture Thomas in her head. “He’s about your age, I’d guess. Tall, lanky, slicked-back gray hair, handlebar mustache, fancy gray city suit, shiny shoes, expensive watch, green attaché case, blue shirt with wide yellow tie.”

Worlson looked up from his notes. He leaned slowly back in his chair and made eye contact once again. “Interesting. About my age, you say?”

“More or less. Not sure how old you are.”

Worlson scribbled a note. “Where’d you say he was from?”

Anya studied Worlson’s face for signs that he was messing with her. “St. Louis, I think. He said he was only in town for the day so I could sign some documents for a fishing cabin I’m selling.”

Worlson took more notes and continued, “And you met with him and Mr. Chilton at what time?”

“No, he actually brought the papers to my boat for me to sign. Yesterday.”

Worlson wrapped a hand behind his head and looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I see. Can you show me the documents you signed?”

So this was the “gotcha” he was leading up to.

“No, he didn’t leave me a copy.” Anya felt deflated. “He took them back with him for processing.”

Worlson looked like her dad about to give her a lecture. “Did it strike you as odd that you signed off on those closing papers and didn’t get a copy for yourself?”