Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (36 page)

Lars leaned over to me. “And they won't, either,” he whispered. “Even if they did find her, they wouldn't report it. Yust filling out paperwork alone would hold them up for a whole day at least. They'd lose the time. You sure can't catch fish when you're up to your eyeballs in paper.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying someone may have found her and not reported it?” I whispered back.

“Are you kidding? They'd be crazy if they did.”

That gave me pause for thought and even more reason to wonder about my mysterious phone message. Maybe Margaret Featherman really was alive. If I suspected as much, wasn't I obligated to let Todd Bowman know? Not really. Besides, Coast Guard resources were the ones being used to search for someone who may or may not have drowned.

You know nothing for sure,
I reminded myself.
Mind your own business
.

“As for Mr. Michael Conyers,” Agent Bowman continued. “Mr. Conyers was an Alzheimer's patient who died in what was apparently not an accidental fall from the White Pass and Yukon Railway late yesterday morning. Since that incident took place while Mr. Conyers was off the ship, the crime is deemed to have happened under the jurisdiction of the state of Alaska. It is currently being investigated by detectives from the Alaska state troopers. My understanding from them today is that a suspect has been placed under arrest with regard to that incident. Because it's not my case, I can't say anything more about it at this time, but I believe I can assure you that this was what we would term a domestic situation. No one still on board the
Starfire Breeze
is considered to be a person of interest in the Conyers case.”

Bowman paused and studied his audience. “Any questions?” he asked.

I noticed that he had made absolutely no mention of the presence of any other FBI agents on the ship. That meant the Leave It To God investigation was still ongoing and still under wraps.

A man in the middle of the first row stood up. He was someone I recognized as one of the previous afternoon's vociferous complainers—someone who had been bent out of shape when the glaciers hadn't appeared on cue.

“This Featherman thing happened days ago,” he groused. “Our family members back home are reading all about it in their newspapers and seeing it on TV. How come we're only now finding out about it?”

Todd Bowman sighed and cleared his throat. “It isn't FBI policy to make statements about ongoing investigations, and since we had taken over the case, the cruise line decided not to comment, either.”

“Why not? Were they afraid we'd all abandon ship and demand they fly us back home?”

Todd glanced around him. I'm sure he was looking for someone from Starfire Cruises to step up and take the heat. No one did. Bowman was stuck on the podium all by himself, and they left him there to handle it. In the meantime, the man in the front row made no move to resume his seat.

“As I said,” Todd said calmly, “we have no reason to believe anyone else on the ship is in any danger.”

That, of course, was an outright lie. According to Rachel Dulles, there was reason to believe Marc Alley was still in danger and so was Harrison Featherman.

“If that's true, why are you still here?” Mr. Twenty Questions asked.

Todd Bowman fumbled visibly before producing a suitable answer. “As I said, we're continuing to investigate Ms. Featherman's disappearance.”

With a grunt and a derisive shake of his head, the still unsatisfied guy in the front row sat back down. “Any other questions?” Bowman asked.

No one stirred for some time, but before Todd Bowman managed to make good his escape, a woman two rows from the back stood up. “I understand the Native Peoples of Alaska and many of the state's other residents are unhappy with the proliferation of cruise ships in their once pristine waters. Is there a chance this woman's disappearance is related to that? I mean, what better way to discourage tourism than to start targeting cruise-ship passengers even when they're in the privacy of their own cabins?”

There were nods and murmurs of assent all around the room, which meant the
Starfire Breeze
's rumor mill had been working overtime. Leave It To God's narrowly focused plot against a relative handful of doctors and their patients was now being transformed into a wide-ranging terrorist movement against Alaska's multimillion-dollar tourism industry. In the hands of the media, this new concept was a real winner. When it came to selling newspapers or advertising copy, what could be better than knocking off Mr. and Mrs. Joe Blow Tourist during the course of their lifelong dream vacation to beautiful Alaska. This could come across like one of those old-fashioned Indian massacres straight out of the 1880s.

Had this all been happening in some major metropolitan area, I'm sure the FBI agents sent to handle it would have been older, wiser, and far more experienced operatives than the likes of poor Todd Bowman. He did his best to play with the cards he'd been dealt.

“I have every confidence that what's going on here has nothing whatever to do with targeting Alaska-bound tourists.”

That's what he said, but I don't think the lady in the back row believed him. Before anyone else could comment, Bowman took advantage of the slight pause to bolt from the stage. End of discussion. As the audience made their way up the aisles, there was more grumbling and griping. Lars added his own complaint to the voices of dissent.

“Whole t'ing was a waste of time,” he muttered. “They didn't tell us anyt'ing we didn't already know.”

I didn't bother explaining that's how press conferences work, because that's what the whole exercise had been—a press conference minus the press. I doubt there were any reporters in attendance from the
Starfire Courier
. During the course of the briefing I had looked around, more than half expecting to spot Christine Moran, notebook in hand, busily taking notes. But the
Starfire Breeze
's resident freelancer was nowhere in evidence. Not right then. But she turned up soon enough.

When we met up with Beverly, Naomi, and the Wakefield girls in the Atrium Lobby, Christine Moran was right there with them.

“Why, hello, Mr. Beaumont,” she said with a smile. “So nice to see you again.”

“You two know each other?” Beverly asked.

“He seems to know darn near everybody,” Lars said.

“Christine wanted to talk to me about Margaret,” Naomi put in. “I told her we were going into Sitka and she's offered to come along.”

I could see from Naomi's expression that the last thing she wanted to do was talk to a reporter about Margaret Featherman. As for me, I sure as hell didn't want to have Christine Moran hanging around all day while we walked around Sitka in hopes of running into the mysterious Dulcinea. Still, I was afraid that saying no might arouse more suspicions than saying yes.

“Of course not,” I said with as much phony enthusiasm as I could muster. “The more, the merrier.”

S
ITKA IS A PORT
where there are no docking facilities large enough to accommodate cruise ships. As a consequence, the
Starfire Breeze
had to drop anchor in Sitka Sound. Some of the ship's tenders, which, in time of crisis, serve as lifeboats, were lowered into the water. Shore-going passengers were loaded into those and then ferried over to the visitors' dock.

The storm that had blown through the day before wasn't quite done with us yet. It was still dripping rain as we landed, but it looked as though it might clear eventually. It was possible that whichever cruise ships had drawn lots for that day's trip to Glacier Bay would have better glacier viewing than the passengers on the
Starfire Breeze
.

Once the ladies' plastic rain caps were all in place, our little group started off after Lars. As a tour guide, he set a brisk pace. Even with the morning dose of Advil, I was glad I had opted for tennis shoes.

Lars was enthusiastic about showing us the sights. “That's the P-Bar,” he announced, pointing to a business adorned with more than its share of neon beer signs. “The real name is the Pioneer Bar, but nobody here calls it that. There's more than one fisherman who's walked out through that door and disappeared for good. The police and newspaper reports always say, ‘Was last seen leaving the Pioneer Bar.' ”

“Were they murdered, or what?” Claire Wakefield demanded while puffing vigorously in an effort to catch her breath.

“Some were, I suppose,” Lars said with a shrug. “Especially the ones dumb enough to come in here flashing a roll of cash after selling their fish. But most of the time it's just accidental. Some of the guys leave this place with enough of a load on that they walk right off the dock or fall off their boats. Or else they climb aboard, fire up the engines, and run smack into a rock. Believe me, there are plenty of those around here, too.”

“Did you go there?” Beverly asked.

“Used to,” he said. “Back when I was drinking.”

Like a hen with a bunch of chicks, Lars herded us through town. We spent some time inside the old Russian Orthodox Church—a frame building that had been constructed while Alaska still belonged to Russia. He showed us the Pioneer Home where Lars' younger brother, Einar, had lived out his last days before succumbing to the ravages of diabetes. After that he took us to Castle Hill, where drooping, bedraggled gardens only hinted at their summer glory.

All the time Lars was leading us around and administering his travelogue, I tried to keep one ear trained on the low-voiced conversation between Naomi Pepper and Christine Moran. As far as I could tell, Naomi was sticking to providing only the most basic background information about Margaret Featherman. I found it interesting that Christine was pursuing those questions with Naomi rather than asking them of Sharon Carson and Virginia Metz, but it wasn't any of my business, so I didn't ask.

And while all that was going on, I still had to keep an eye peeled in case anyone—Dulcinea or one of her minions—made an attempt to contact me. After all, if the middle-of-the-night caller hadn't been trying to reach Naomi, then, barring crossed phone connections, I had to assume I had been her target. She had said she'd see me in Sitka the next day. Everywhere we went, I wondered if that would be true, and if Christine Moran would be on hand to witness whatever was going to happen. With all that going on, it's no wonder that the process left me feeling somewhat stressed.

Lars, for his part, was totally unaware that the rest of us weren't enjoying ourselves nearly as much as he was. Caught up in his reminiscences, he had no idea that his flock was running out of energy and patience both. Seeing Sitka with Lars Jenssen brought back memories of Ted Moffit, my first wife's father.

Ted was a good old boy who was blessed with boundless energy and enthusiasm. Over scores of yearly family vacations he took countless numbers of slides featuring his three children—Karen and her younger brother and sister—posed grinning in front of every American tourist icon including Arizona's Grand Canyon and Boothill Graveyard, Yellowstone's Old Faithful, and South Dakota's Wall Drug and Mount Rushmore. The collection included shots of all the stopping-off places in between—long-closed diners and motels that had died slow and painful deaths after President Eisenhower's interstate highway system came into being. Ted was a great one for summoning hapless neighbors and relatives for evenings that consisted of pie, coffee, and marathon slide-viewing sessions. He had absolutely no sense about how long people could endure sitting and nodding through endless hours of incredibly boring slides.

Lars was exactly the same way about Sitka. He wanted to show us everything about the place and then some. When he suggested our next stop would be the dock where all the fishing boats were tied up, a minor mutiny occurred.

“Not me,” Beverly announced. “I'm tired and my feet hurt. I've walked as far as I'm going to walk.”

Claire and Florence were quick to nod in agreement while Lars, on the other hand, looked as though the women had just broken his heart. My feet hurt too, but having had no contact with the mysterious Dulcinea, I wasn't ready to give up and go back to the ship.

“I'll stay,” I volunteered. I turned to Naomi and Christine. “What about you two?” I asked. Christine had stuck to Naomi as if they'd been connected with a layer of superglue.

Something on my face must have given Naomi a hint of what I was feeling. “I'll tell you what,” she said. “Christine and I will go back to the ship with Beverly and the others and make sure they arrive safely. That way, you men can take in the docks and whatever else you want to without a bunch of party poopers slowing you down.”

“Good idea,” Christine said. “I need to be getting back anyway.”

I felt like giving Naomi a kiss out of sheer gratitude, but I knew better than that—not with Lars and Beverly looking on. “If that's what you want to do,” I said as casually as I could. “That'll be fine with me.”