The Invisible Husband of Frick Island - Colleen Oakley Page 0,62
hadn’t even spoken. “It’s late and I don’t know about you fellas, but I’m gonna take these weary bones back to bed.”
Anders gaped. “You don’t want to even try to find out who set your marina on fire?”
“Nope.”
“But why not?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”
“But what if he does it again? Or something worse next time?”
“He won’t.”
And something told Anders BobDan already knew who had done it, just like he’d known it was going to rain when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Or maybe, Anders thought suddenly, BobDan knew because he had asked someone to do it. Maybe he didn’t know how else to get rid of the boat. And he was on the scene pretty quickly for being dead asleep.
But no—he thought of the furtive way the man skulked toward the boat like he didn’t have permission to be there; like he didn’t want to be caught. And another thought struck him, as hard as the blow of the hammer in the side of the boat—the waterman’s ominous words he’d overheard at the restaurant a few weeks earlier, regarding Tom’s death.
It wuddn’t no accident.
If Tom’s death wasn’t an accident, fire would be an awfully convenient way to get rid of any evidence.
A chill ran up his spine, as he once again considered the very real possibility that he was in over his head.
And that his listeners were going to love it.
* * *
—
First thing Monday morning, Anders made a beeline for Jess’s desk, only to find it unoccupied. He dropped his stuff at his desk and went to the break room, where he found her standing in front of the microwave, arms crossed, eyeing the lit innards of the machine, or more specifically, the pastry centered in the circling tray.
“Was there anything . . . weird about Tom’s accident?”
Jess turned her head toward him. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Sorry. Morning. So—do you remember anything weird?”
The microwave dinged and she removed the paper plate. She tapped the pastry with her finger. “Shit. Still frozen.” After returning it to the tray, closing the door, and pushing buttons, she turned to Anders. “This is about the waterman thing again?”
“Yeah.”
Jess blinked slowly and then yawned, in an overdramatic display of boredom at Anders’s prodding. “What do you mean ‘weird’?”
“I don’t know—did the police do a full investigation? Could someone have tampered with the boat?”
Her eyes brightened with recognition. “Wait,” she said, scrunching her nose. “I do remember something about the boat.”
Anders leaned forward, every nerve at full attention.
“When they recovered it, they said it had prior damage from some kind of wood pest or something. Maybe caused the boat to take on water faster?”
His shoulders dropped. Piper had mentioned the worms; he’d seen the holes.
“Nothing else?”
“Like what?” Jess said. “It was a storm. A bad one. Mother Nature has capsized bigger boats than Tom’s and probably will again.”
Anders gave voice to what had been niggling in the back of his mind since Saturday night. “Yeah, but Tom was an experienced boater. He grew up on the water. It just doesn’t make sense. And why wasn’t he wearing a life vest?
“Watermen never wear life vests.”
Anders thought of Kenny and Jojo. That much was true, at least.
“Why are you so hung up on this? Is it for that podcast thing you’re doing? Sorry I haven’t had a chance to listen to it.”
“Yeah,” Anders said, and ran a hand through his hair, smashing down the cowlick at his crown out of habit. “It’s just that I overheard something. On the island. Something about Tom’s death not being an accident.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Anders said. “And that’s not all.” He caught her up to speed about the boat, the fire. “Something just doesn’t feel right about it. Any of it. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“You saw someone commit arson,” she deadpanned. “I’d say that’s probably what doesn’t feel right.”
“But why would they do it? Unless they were trying to cover up something?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell you it was a cut-and-dry case. I’ve got the police report somewhere. I’ll dig it up for you if you want.”
“Thanks,” Anders said, his cell buzzing in his pocket.
The microwave dinged. “Dang it! You made me overcook my strudel.”
“Sorry,” Anders said, glancing down at the screen. Kelsey. He was tempted to silence it, but he knew he couldn’t get away with ignoring her texts and calls for much longer. Walking back toward his desk, he swiped his thumb across the screen.