Free Salvage by Duncan Ralston Page B

process, let me apologize sincerely in advance."
    Owen supposed he should have seen it coming. Out-of-towners likely didn't die under mysterious circumstances very often in a town this small, as they might, say, from the more-typical drinking and boating incident. He knew there would be more questions once people around town realized his connection with Lori, most of whom probably thought of her as "the dead girl." Best to answer now and get it out of the way. With any luck Skip Wickman was a bit of a gossip, and word would be all over town by tomorrow.
    "You want to know why I've come all the way out here to stay at the house where my sister was staying when she died," he said.
    "If it's not too much to ask."
    "Mr. Wickman—"
    "Skip. Please."
    "Skip, I promise you I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to follow in my sister's footsteps for a while. Give myself a sense of closure, for what it's worth."
    The chair squeaked as Skip leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, making himself comfortable, now that the serious business was through. "Well, I suppose that's understandable." He nodded toward Owen's car out the big storefront windows. "I see you've brought your equipment. Have you done much diving?"
    Aside from almost drowning in my own bathtub, you mean? "Not really, no," he said.
    "I'm a bit of an enthusiast myself," Skip said, with an emphasis on the last syllable: enthusi- ast .
    "Oh?"
    "Indeed."
    "I may do a bit," Owen admitted.
    "Your sister said much the same." Skip sat forward with another squeak of the chair, and clasped his hands above the desk, leaning closer to Owen. "I suspect—and I'm not alone in thinking this, Owen—your sister may have had more on her mind than just diving."
    Owen wasn't sure how to respond. He'd suspected it himself; this was as close to proof as he'd come. He's here , she'd written. She'd been out here looking for someone: for him , whoever the hell he happened to be. Likely the man who walked on water. Lori's ghost.
    "She told me she was looking for some underwater town?" Owen said, forcing himself not to ask the many questions he had. "Thought it would make a decent photo-essay."
    Skip grinned, then leaned back in his chair. "She was hugging that camera of hers like a babe in arms when I first saw her. Didn't look like much of a thing to me. A '70s job, not one of those fancy digital things kids have these days. She asked to take my picture. Who am I to say no? With this face? C'mon ." He chuckled in false modesty.
    "Yeah, she always had that thing slung around her neck, even at Christmas dinner," Owen mused, grinning at the thought of Lori carrying her ugly camera around, taking pictures of dinner, of Owen and their mother, of anything that caught her eye. Always snapping photographs. Even, apparently, of strangers like Skip Wickman. Owen thought it was a sly way of snooping, snapping photos of the town and its inhabitants. "I bet she probably took pictures of just about everyone in town, huh?"
    Skip laughed. "Just about." He checked his watch. "Darn. Owen, I could talk all day, but I've got a showing in fifteen minutes. If I sign over the key, would you be all right heading out there without me?"
    Owen assured Skip he'd manage, glad to have the conversation done and to be allowed to go to the house on his own. He wouldn't have to fake geniality any longer, though it was an easier task with a decent conversationalist like Skip.
    "Now, where is that key…?" Skip rummaged through his desk drawers, patted his jacket pockets, pushed aside legal documents on the desk, and even checked inside the I LOVE MY YORKIE mug he used as a pen holder. "Where is that damn thing?" he said, reaching into his pants pockets, patting his chest.
    Owen began to feel uncomfortable, watching Skip's search grow more frantic, unable to do anything to further its process. "Can I help?" he asked, as Skip rifled through his drawers again.
    The realtor looked up with a scowl. "No, no. I'm sure I