Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures) Read Free

off most folks, tryin' to read that crap."
    "No, it isn't that, he dictated them. And anyway, what about the environment, and what about ruining what's left of this town? And what about probably getting away with murder, for Pete's sake, what about that ? I know they haven't been able to prove it so far, but he may well have killed off not one, but two wives for their money. How can people just let that slide and go along with someone like that, like nothing happened? I don't understand..."
    "I know, I know," the Captain interrupted. " But hey, come on now, don't go gettin' all worked up so early in the mornin', that ain't no good for us old folks." He stowed the rag and started climbing up to the flying bridge. "We can jaw some more later. Let's get goin', we got to be down to Oden's by eight."
    Ketch took a deep breath. "Aye-aye, Captain," he exhaled. He didn't feel quite ready to spill the rest of his story just now anyway. There would come a time soon enough. Never mind the tree huggers... It might not pan out in the long run - in fact, would most probably not - but he had a plan that would hopefully enable him to at least make a truly unique statement on his way out, the essence of said plan being to basically make enough of a highly visible nuisance of himself to cause certain people in high places some public embarrassment and get folks talking.
    He wished he could do more - like somehow prove that Ingram was guilty of murder ; now that would surely stop him in his tracks, certainly more effectively than anything the environmentalists had done or could do - but he was no detective and thus by extension no Sherlock Holmes as well, which was what might be needed here in that regard since everyone else had failed to convict the man. But that was just a pipedream, and he had some work to do now.
    Wh ile the Captain started the engines, Ketch released the mooring lines. He took in the breast line to starboard and the forward and aft spring lines from the bollards to port, and then the stern line. At the Captain's signal he pulled in the bow line, and once they were clear of the boatyard he took in the fenders. While the Captain carefully guided the boat out into the sound, Ketch removed the lines from their cleats and coiled them and stowed them where they wouldn't get underfoot later. Then he set out the dog's blanket and water dish in the cabin.
    He ordinarily did m uch of the piloting on their fishing charters, but for now he opted to settle in the cabin with the dog instead of joining the Captain on the flying bridge. It was hard to talk over the engines and the wind anyway. He gave the dog a hug to reassure the animal, who had started panting when he'd raised his voice earlier.
    As they steamed south toward the village of Hatteras, Ketch thought about how Avon had changed since he'd first started vacationing here years ago, and throughout its existence. Though Hatteras Island was about fifty miles long, most of it was just a wisp of beach and marsh in width. It was wider at Cape Hatteras and some of the settlements, and maybe a mile wide at best through most of Avon; so Avon was basically a road town, really, most of its business district straddling the one and only two-lane highway that ran the length of the island. And though its beaches were clean and undeveloped, and there was no unsightly industry of any consequence, he had to admit it was largely ruined already, at least to his way of thinking.
    Waste disposal, water pollution, and loss of natural habitat were always problematic on an island nowadays, especially if it was a tourist destination; and architecturally, there was precious little of historic value left in the town. No one had had the foresight or the wherewithal to preserve for the public the old lifesaving stations that had once existed along the Atlantic coast of Hatteras Island, except for the Chicamacomico station and museum thirty miles up the road; the Big Kinnakeet station on the south end of