Page 34 of Untamed Coast

He put the letter into an envelope, addressed it, and added it to a stack he already had waiting to be mailed. There were three other letters in the stack, all for Melinda. He felt a little pathetic, writing day after day, never hearing back. But it kept him grounded, feeling like he had a connection—even if he was only broadcasting.

Chapter 27

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

Sitka, AK

1982—Anya Baron

Anya crushed out her cigarette as Chilton approached down the narrow alley. Her purse strap slid off her shoulder, catching in the crook of her elbow. She moved it to the other shoulder. The digital display on her Casio watch read 11:06. Only six minutes late this time.

He unlocked the office and blew in, not bothering to hold the door for her.

Anya caught the door and was startled by a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. She crossed her arm over her chest and covered her bare shoulder with her hand. She was meeting a man, and she was wearing a dress. She looked…pretty?

He’d be furious.

He was gone.

The fluorescent tubes blinked to life with a lethargic buzz.

The taxidermy moose and salmon continued to stare knowingly across the office at each other.

Chilton dropped his weight into his squeaky seat and wiped the beading sweat from his brow with his sleeve. His blotchy red skin leaned purple under the cool-hued overhead lights.

The radio atop the filing cabinet was still on, whispering Kool & the Gang’s “Celebration” with muted exuberance.

Anya tried to smooth the back of her skirt as she lowered herself into the metal folding chair, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them. She wasn’t sure what to do with her handbag. She hadn’t carried one in years. The curved back of the chair didn’t offer a place to hang it, so she put it across her lap, then decided to turn it sideways, gripping it between her bare knees. The brass clasps were cold and poked into her skin, so she returned the purse to her lap and held it in place with both hands.

Chilton pulled a file from across the desk and opened it with an audible flourish. “We’ll need a death certificate before we can finalize anything. I’ve put in for a court order for a presumption of death. Normally, with no body, a person is declared to be ‘missing’ and seven years need to elapse before a presumption of death can be issued.”

Anya gasped. She dropped her handbag at her feet.

Chilton held up his hands. “Now just hang on, Mrs. B, uh, Anya. I said ‘normally’—but in cases where a person is exposed to what they call imm-i-nent peril,” he enunciated slowly, the way one might if they’d previously had trouble with that particular word, “the court will issue one much sooner. I’m confident your late husband’s situation will qualify, and our judge is usually lenient on this sort of thing.”

He rolled his chair back toward the table with the yellowed Mr. Coffee machine.

Anya wondered if it was the same pot of coffee from the previous week.

He held up a styrofoam cup. “Coffee?”

Anya waved him off and shook her head.

Chilton took a swig of the muddy brew. A large drop slid off his chin, leaving a brown mushroom stain on his dingy white shirt. “I’m sure a death certificate will be forthcoming soon enough, but we won’t be able to transfer most of the things into your name until we have that.”

Okay, what was the big rush to meet, then?

“Need a payment?” Anya reached for her handbag.

Chilton leaned back and spread his hands. “No, Anya, nothing like that at all. Although I suspect the payments may be less of an issue after—well, just let me explain.” He leaned forward, picking up the folder. “It’s regarding the island with the fishing cabin. I assumed it had little or no value—small structure with no services on a remote island. But, looking at these letters, this commercial real-estate company in St. Louis has a lot of interest in it. That seems odd. I’m trying to get in touch with them to inquire if they’d still be interested in purchasing it.”

Anya leaned back in the chair.

We talked about all that last time. What’s new?

Chilton turned a page in the folder and continued, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke with increased intensity. “I have not had a response yet, but in the meantime, I did a little more digging. Most of that company’s holdings are in commercial real estate in St. Louis—strip malls, office buildings, that sort of thing. But they also own half of an old mining claim here near Sitka. That’s their only holding outside of St. Louis.”

He smiled at Anya, yellow teeth peering through stretched lips. “That piqued my interest.”