I put my feet on the coffee table and sipped the cocoa. But how would Jack know about some document or correspondence his father had received after he left New York? Jack told me the last time he spoke to his father was two days before the Kodiak trip. Of course, there was no reason I should believe that Jack had told me the truth. I was certain the man could lie without blinking an eye.
I pushed myself off of the couch, filled my cup with water, and set it in the sink. How could one small planeload of people have so many enemies? Poor, innocent Craig, sharing a plane with a bunch of cobras.
I thought about Jack Justin for several moments and then pulled my cell phone from my purse and checked my messages. I had three messages, and the first was from my father.
“Jane, are you there? I just saw you on CNN. What’s going on? I’m waiting to hear from you.”
I checked my watch. It was after midnight in Kansas. I would call him in the morning.
The second message was from Dana Baynes. “Hey, small-screen star, that was some crazy memorial service. Call me tomorrow. I want an autograph.”
Message number three was from Steve Duncan. “Hi Jane, I need to talk to you about something. Can you meet me at Bayside Cafe for coffee in the morning at 9:00? Call me back if that’s a bad time.”
I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. I had forgotten about the news crews at the memorial service and the possibility that my image might be broadcast on national television. I should have remembered to call my father and warn him that he might see me on TV. Even if he’d heard about Senator Justin dying in a plane crash on Kodiak, he would have no reason to think I was connected to the accident. I hated to have him worry about me; I should have called him sooner.
Since my mother’s death three years ago, my father had found it difficult to reenter the mainstream of life, and I wasn’t sure he wanted to build a new life for himself. Instead, he had become more interested in his children’s lives, and since I was the only female, the only unattached child, and the only member of my family to live three-thousand miles from him on a godforsaken island in the North Pacific, I was his biggest concern. I tried to call him frequently, and he had been to visit me once. He found Kodiak intriguing, but didn’t understand why I wanted to live here. He never said he worried, but I knew he did.
I watched CNN for twenty minutes, before the anchorwoman began talking about Senator Justin’s mysterious death.
A photo of Senator Justin with short-cropped, grey hair filled the screen as the reporter said, “An FBI source informed CNN this afternoon that preliminary forensic tests from the plane crash that took the lives of Senator Margaret Justin and her husband, financier George Justin, indicate that the crash was the result of a midair explosion.” The photo of Senator Justin disappeared, and the anchor’s huge, blue, slightly-crooked eyes blazed unblinkingly. “Furthermore, FBI experts believe the explosion was caused by the detonation of an incendiary device.”
She paused, turned, and looked at a different camera. “Today, in the village of Kodiak on the island where the crash occurred, a memorial service was held for the pilot and the three local passengers of the de Havilland Beaver.” The screen cut to images of the memorial service. As I expected, the first image was of Father Ivanof in his sweeping black robe offering a Russian Orthodox prayer. This was followed by a brief shot of Steve Duncan proclaiming Bill’s faultlessness in the crash. I gritted my teeth when I saw myself on the screen, telling the world that it would be a darker place without Craig. My eyes looked swollen, as if I had been crying and was about to cry again. I had and I was, but I’d hoped no one else could see that. What must my father have thought when he watched this?
The newswoman stared from the set again. “Trouble broke out at the service when the widow of passenger Darren Myers screamed at the man eulogizing her late husband.”
The camera cut to a shot of David Sturman mumbling his eulogy, and then Maryann Myers screaming from the back of the crowd. Confusion followed as the cameras swung toward Mrs. Myers. I touched my cheek, remembering that this was when I had been knocked to the ground. I’d been too busy warding off trampling feet to catch this part of the service.
The cameras zoomed in on a small, red-haired woman, who was screaming about how horrible her husband had been. She then turned and ran up the road to the parking lot. The next shot was a close-up, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Mrs. Myers. Mascara smeared her pale cheeks, and her shoulder-length red hair hung in tangles. Her eyes were red and puffy, and I suspected that she was confused and frustrated by her grief at the loss of her husband.
“Mrs. Myers,” a journalist said through wheezing breaths, “tell us about your husband.”
I snorted. What a stupid question. The reporters were so desperate for news or scandal that they chased down this poor woman and then didn’t even know what to ask her.
Maryann Myers rubbed her eyes and nose with both hands. No one bothered to interrupt filming long enough to hand her a handkerchief, and her rubbing only served to further smear her mascara.
She drew in a deep breath, pursed her mouth, and stared at the camera. Her eyes looked glassy as if she either had been drinking or had taken medication. If she had taken tranquilizers, they hadn’t worked.
“My husband cheated on me, and he deserves to be dead.”
The reporters waited for her to say more, but when she stood tight-lipped, a female journalist said, “But Mrs. Myers, what about the other five people on the plane?”
If Mrs. Myers responded to that question, the reply wasn’t worthy of the national news. Instead, the blue-eyed anchor’s concerned visage returned to the screen. “In Cincinnati today, a gas leak . . .”
I turned off the set and leaned against the oak cabinet. What a day this had been, and I knew things would get worse before they got better.
Chapter Six
I didn’t sleep well. I had nightmares about my mother and about Craig. I awoke at five, drenched in a cold sweat, and climbed out of bed. I considered jogging until I looked out the window. The fog had lifted, but a strong wind and heavy rain tortured the Sitka spruce trees, which seemed to bend their heads to avoid the beating. The high winds were unusual but not exceptional for late June, and I hoped the storm abated before my planned collection trip. I would need all my courage to crawl into a floatplane, and I didn’t think I could do it unless the weather was perfect.
I showered, dressed, and because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I drove to work. The marine center was quiet, and I spent the two hours before my appointment with Steve catching up on paperwork and making notes for the journal article I hoped to publish after I analyzed the results from this summer’s work.
At 8:45, I grabbed my purse, shut off my office light, and locked the door. The marine center was never noisy, but this morning it was a morgue. The hallway was dark, all the office doors were closed, and my footsteps echoed on the tile floor. I peered at my watch in the gloom to make sure it was still running, and then I realized with a start that it was Saturday. How had I forgotten the day? I usually was well-organized, but I hadn’t been able to concentrate.
I was still replaying the week in my mind, trying to figure out how it already could be Saturday, when I arrived at the double glass doors that led outside. I pushed hard on the lock bar to open the door and heard a muffled cry. Betty dropped her key ring and jumped back.
“I’m sorry, Betty. I didn’t see you there.” I stooped to retrieve Betty’s keys, but she plucked them from beneath my fingers.
She stood straight, pushed her rubber rain cap away from her eyes and said, “Perhaps you should be more careful. Maybe Craig would still be alive if you weren’t so careless.” She turned, bent, and inserted her key into the keyhole of the door, which by now had slammed shut. I watched her unlock the door and march stiffly through it.
What a bitch! She never had been friendly to me, but I had no idea she disliked me so much. What had I done to her? Or maybe everyone at
the marine center felt that way. I was not the only one who blamed me for Craig’s death.
Sleet pelted the asphalt, and I pulled the hood of my raincoat over my head and ran for my Explorer.
The Kodiak Air Services van huddled alone in the Bayside Café parking lot, and as I crawled out of my Explorer, I pulled my hood tight and bent my head against the wind and rain. I understood why most of the citizens of Kodiak had chosen to stay in their cozy homes on this Saturday morning.
The aroma of coffee and fried bacon slapped me in the face when I walked through the door. Steve sat in the far corner of the small café, a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand and the Kodiak Mirror in his left.
“Anything interesting in the paper?” I asked as I approached the table.
Steve glanced up at me and smiled; his hazel eyes looked bloodshot from lack of sleep. He tossed the paper aside. “Nothing new on the crash, at least nothing in the paper.”
I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Did you see CNN?”
“Oh yes, and every other news channel. My mother called me in a panic.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I need to call my dad back this morning.”
The waitress arrived, and I ordered black coffee. She returned a few moments later with a large mug of strong brew. I inhaled the thick aroma and tried to relax.
“So, the FBI thinks someone planted a bomb,” I said.
“I don’t think they’ll know for certain for a few days. They have to run some tests on the debris at their lab in Virginia, but they’re leaning that way.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
Steve sat forward and pinched his mouth with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. “That’s why I want to talk to you, Jane. I need to run my thoughts past someone, and I can’t say this to anyone at the office. My wife is a wreck over this, so I don’t dare talk to her, but I trust you, and I know you’ll be discreet.”
Steve had my attention. I gripped my coffee cup and leaned across the table toward him.
“Like I told you before,” he said. “I don’t see how a stranger could know what plane we would be using for that flight. No one at the office remembers anyone inquiring about that flight. You called to find out what time it was scheduled to arrive in Kodiak, but that’s the only interest anyone showed in it. We could have used any of our planes for that flight.” He shrugged. “I didn’t know what plane we would use until we made out our daily flight plan that morning. I looked at our books and saw three separate trips to the same part of the island, so I combined them. That’s just smart business for us.”
“I’ve been wondering about that,” I said when Steve paused. “I’m surprised Simms didn’t request a separate charter for his special guests.”
Steve shook his head. “No. The refuge is always looking for ways to cut back on their flying bill. A combined charter is cheaper for them. Simms jumped at it.”
“Why is that better for you, then? Don’t you lose money when you combine trips?”
Steve shrugged. “Depends on the circumstances. If those flights had been all we’d had booked for the day, then yes, we would have lost money. But, we had more business than we could handle that day, and when we charge separately for seat fares and water stops, we make more money than when we charge our standard charter rate.”
I nodded. “That makes sense, but no one except you and Bill knew you had decided to combine the trips?”
“I called Simms to make sure he didn’t mind. The plan was that Bill would stop at Bradford with the Justins and Simms, and then would take them flight-seeing, make the other stops, and return to town. Simms agreed to that arrangement, but I didn’t tell him who their pilot would be or what plane we would use for the trip. None of the other passengers knew the trips would be combined.”
“What about your employees? Did they know what plane you’d use?” I thought Steve might be offended by this question, but he seemed to be expecting it. He played with his coffee cup and looked down as he answered.
“Cheryl, our dispatcher, certainly knew what plane we would use, and any of the other employees might have known. It was no secret.” Steve looked into my eyes. “But I’ve questioned them all, and I trust them. They’re as sick about Bill’s death as I am, and they all swear to me that they didn’t tell anyone anything about the flight. Cheryl says you are the only one she talked to about that trip.”
“You said it was a busy day,” I said quietly. “Could someone have forgotten mentioning it?”
Steve sighed. “Of course. I’ve thought of that, and I’ve also thought that if someone did inadvertently say something about the trip, he or she might feel too guilty to admit it.” He sipped his coffee. “I can’t rule out those possibilities.”
We were quiet for a minute, and then Steve leaned forward again. “Assuming only my office staff and pilots knew about the flight, I don’t understand how a stranger could have plotted and placed a bomb on that plane.” Steve’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“What are you saying? Do you think someone in your office planted a bomb on one of your planes?” I didn’t understand how Steve could trust that his employees would tell him the truth and at the same time suspect that one of them was a murderer.
Steve exhaled and shifted in his chair. The waitress appeared with the coffeepot, and we both accepted refills.
“I hate to even say this, because I have no proof to back it up. I know you’ll think this is crazy, but there was one person who knew what plane Bill was flying that day.”
“Who?”
Steve rubbed his nose, glanced at the table, and then returned his gaze to my face. “Bill’s girlfriend, Toni Hunt, knew. I saw her hanging out with him on the dock that morning.”
“You think she might have told someone?
Steve paused for a long time before saying, “Maybe.”
“What’s up, Steve? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I shouldn’t say this.” Steve gripped the edge of the table, and I thought he was going to stand.
I reached across the table and patted his hand. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I think Toni may have planted the bomb.” The words poured out in a rush.
I sat back in the chair and frowned. “You’re talking about the cute little girl I saw at the memorial service?”
“I think that cute little girl is psychotic. She played some nasty games with Bill, and I think he was afraid of her.”
“Oh, come on, Steve.”
He nodded. “I’ll tell you a story. Several months ago we had a bachelor party for one of the other pilots. Bill and Toni had been dating for a few weeks, and Toni told him he couldn’t go to the party.” Steve smoothed his short hair. “We gave Bill crap. You know, guy stuff, and he told her he was going to the party and that was final.” Steve paused. “When the party was over, and we left the bar to walk to our vehicles, there was Bill’s truck: The windows had all been broken and the hood smashed with a sledgehammer. Bill told me the next day that Toni admitted she did it.”
“What!”
“Yeah, that cute little girl has a short circuit.”
“Still, what would she know about planting a bomb?”
“That’s the thing I can’t get out of my head. Toni grew up in the bush. Her dad is a guide and a pilot, and one day when she was at the office, she told me how she helped her dad excavate an area for a ramp for the plane.” Steve thumped the table twice with his fist. “They used dynamite for the excavation, and Toni enjoyed the job. I can remember her wide, excited eyes as she explained the properties of dynamite to me. This young lady knows about and probably has access to explosives.”
“But why would she kill Bill? Even if she was angry with him, do you think she’s crazy enough to kill him?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. They were having a screaming match when I saw them on the dock that morning. I didn’t hear what it was about, and frankly, I didn’t care. I was tired of their fighting, and
I’d told Bill more than once not to fight in front of passengers; it’s unprofessional. Whatever it was about, though, they must have made up.” Steve lowered his voice. “Or, at least Bill thought they had. I asked him if he could work late, and he said he couldn’t, because he had promised Toni he would take her out to dinner.” Steve raised his eyebrows and shook his head. “Maybe Toni was still mad, and perhaps her mind is so sick that she thought this was the best way to get even. I’m not a psychologist. I don’t know.”
Steve paused for a moment and then said, “Think about how easy it would have been for Toni to put explosives on that plane. She could have wrapped up a few sticks of dynamite and a timer, put a bow on the package, handed it to Bill as he was getting in the plane and told him not to open it until he got back to town. Bill would have done as he was told.”
The door creaked as another customer entered the cafe. I watched the elderly man sit in a booth near the door. The waitress approached him with a mug and a pot of coffee.
“I think you should tell the FAA inspector or the FBI what you just told me,” I said.
“How can I? Does it sound rational to you?”
I shrugged. “I hope you’re wrong about Toni, but she has to be considered as a suspect, and the FBI should understand that only a few people knew what plane you were planning to use for this flight.”
“I told the FAA inspector that, but he shrugged it off. Said there were ways for people to find out these things.”
I stared at Steve. What a mess this was. Had this disaster been caused by the jealous young girlfriend of the pilot?
“I tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t we talk to Toni? We should be able to sense if she is unbalanced enough to blow up an airplane.”
“I don’t know.” Steve sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s clever.”
“Come on, Steve. She can’t be a day over twenty. I think the two of us can handle her.”
“You didn’t see the pickup truck.” Steve blew out a loud breath between slightly-parted lips. “Okay. Are you free this afternoon around 4:00? I won’t be flying in this weather, but I need to do some engine work on the 206.”
Murder over Kodiak Page 8