Dead in the Dinghy

by Ellen Jacobson

  “That’s where the regatta sails to,” Penny said. “Maybe we’ll see you there.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for your boat,” the young woman replied. “What’s her name?”

  “Pretty in Pink,” Penny said. “You can’t miss it. She’s all pink.”

  I listened half-heartedly during the rest of the introductions, perking up only when someone I knew was speaking. Alejandra Lopez, a waitress at the Sailor’s Corner Cafe, explained how she wanted to do online tutorials on nail art. Ned Schneider, who owned the Palm Tree Marina with his wife Nancy, described his vision for a YouTube channel dedicated to movie reviews. In my opinion, Penelope Pringle had the best idea—behind-the-scenes videos of how she makes the delicious treats for sale at her bakery, the Sugar Shack.

  Eventually, Olivia got to her presentation—two excruciating hours filled with more detail than I ever wanted to know about filming and editing videos, establishing your brand, and monetizing your content. Scooter took detailed notes, I played games on my phone, and, to my great disappointment, neither a chocolate cake nor clowns made an appearance.

  * * *

  “When were you going to tell me about this whole YouTube thing?” I asked Scooter after Olivia’s presentation was over.

  He scratched his head. “I did tell you. The other night when we were at the Tipsy Pirate.”

  “When was that?”

  “Friday.”

  “Was I even there?”

  “Of course you were. Remember, we went to the movies then stopped by for a bite to eat.”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “You had the egg rolls with the pineapple dipping sauce.”

  “Oh, yeah. Now I remember. Those were delicious,” I said. “Didn’t Alan come over and join us?”

  “Yes, and that’s when we talked about the YouTube channel.”

  “We did?”

  “Sure, Alan told us how he set up his own channel. You know, the one featuring his pet mice. Then he suggested Mrs. Moto would be a natural in front of the camera.”

  “Did I contribute to the conversation?”

  “If you consider saying ‘uh-huh’ and ‘um’ a lot, then you contributed. Guess you were daydreaming again.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Let me guess. It was about aliens landing on—”

  Before Scooter could finish his thought, Jim interrupted him. “Either one of you want this?” he asked, holding out a tray with a solitary mini muffin on it. “It’s the last one left.”

  “Is that blueberry?” I asked.

  Scooter smiled. “You’re going to try to claim that because it has fruit in it. It’s part of your five a day, isn’t it?”

  “It’s called out-of-the-box thinking.” I snatched the treat and took a nibble. “Yum. I can feel the antioxidants coursing through my body already.”

  “It’s back to poached eggs and whole wheat toast for us tomorrow, my little stegosaurus.”

  “Stegosaurus?” Jim asked as he set the empty tray down on a nearby table.

  “Yeah, it’s his latest pet name for me,” I said in between bites. “He’s been watching too many documentaries about dinosaurs lately.”

  “That’s, um, different,” Jim said wryly.

  “Trust me, it’s an improvement on some of the other ones he’s called me,” I said.

  “Speaking of pet names, there’s my ‘sweetie’ now.” Jim pointed at a dapper-looking man and waved him over. “Have you met Thomas before?”

  While Scooter introduced himself, I admired the man’s eclectic attire—a green plaid three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt, a brightly colored polka-dot bow tie, and a jaunty red beret perched on top of his salt and pepper hair. Not many people in Coconut Cove dressed so formally, preferring a more casual beach look.

  As I shook Thomas’ hand, I wondered how he coped in the intense Florida heat while wearing a suit. Then I looked at his feet and saw that he was wearing flip-flops. I guess if your feet can breathe, it helps cool the rest of you down.

  “Thomas is an artist,” Jim said proudly. “He paints these fantastic seascapes. You might have seen some of them on display in the cafe.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That explains your cufflinks.”

  Thomas held up his wrists. “Aren’t they cute? Little easels. Jim gave them to me last Christmas.”

  “I’ve noticed your paintings before. They’re really striking,” Scooter said. “It’s too bad we live on a sailboat. We don’t have any wall space to hang anything.”

  “I miss our cottage,” I said with a sigh. “We used to have some really nice artwork. Not to mention a bathtub and a freezer. Do you know what life is like without ice cream at your fingertips?”

  “But living on a boat must be so romantic,” Thomas said.

  Scooter put his arm around my shoulders. “It’s been tough lately. Marjorie Jane has been in the boatyard for the last few months while we’ve been working on her, and living there has been—”

  “The opposite of romantic,” I said, finishing his sentence. “Climbing up and down a ladder multiple times a day, dust and dirt everywhere, tools and parts strewn all about … it gets old after a while.”

  “But we’re splashing our boat this afternoon,” Scooter said. “Once she’s back in the water things will get better. And we’re sailing in the regatta this weekend. What could be more romantic than that?”

  “I’d love to see your boat some time,” Thomas said. “In addition to seascapes, I enjoy painting all kinds of boats—fishing boats, tugboats, sailboats, even rowboats. In fact, I’m running the artists’ retreat on Destiny Key this weekend.”

  “The same one Olivia is going to?” Scooter asked.

  He nodded. “If the weather cooperates, I’m planning on taking the group out to the beach to sketch the regatta boats at anchor. I’ll have to keep an eye out for yours.”

  “She isn’t hard to miss,” I said. “Just look for the red-hulled boat with teak decks in serious need of varnish.”

  “I thought they weren’t fond of outsiders on the island,” Scooter said. “How did you manage to schedule your retreat there?”

  “It’s true. The locals are wary of outsiders,” Thomas said. “But I have a friend who’s traveling in Europe for the summer and he offered his house to me. It’s in an absolutely exquisite location. The views are to die for. You feel like you’re on some tropical island in the Pacific, rather than on an island off the Florida coast. It’s an artist’s dream. I couldn’t pass it up.” He leaned in and said in a confidential tone, “My friend is a bit of a Destiny Key rebel. I think he secretly likes the idea of inviting mainlanders to the island because he knows that it makes everyone furious. He especially likes sticking it to his cousin. They had a bit of a falling out a few years ago.”

  “But won’t the locals give you a hard time while you’re there?” I asked.

  “Nah, it won’t be too bad. We only have to deal with folks on the ferry. Once we get to the island, we’ll head straight to the house. It’s located out at the far end of the island in an isolated bay. No one around for miles. It’s well stocked so we won’t need to go into town for anything. The locals will barely know we’re there. You should hear some of the names they have for us. They aren’t very flattering.”

  “Having met someone from there and learned about the island, it actually doesn’t surprise me,” I said.

  “Please. Let’s not talk about what happened to her,” Scooter said.

  Thomas looked at Jim. “Is she talking about that horrible incident that happened when I was in New York for the art show?”

  “Yes, Mollie found the body.” Jim turned to me. “How many bodies is that you’ve found now? Ten? Twelve?”

  I scowled. “Why does everyone in Coconut Cove insist on keeping a tally of how many dead bodies I happen to run across?”

  Jim chuckled. “Well, you do have a bit of a reputation.”

  “For the record, it’s five.” I glanced at Scooter, th
en breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t look like he was going to faint. My husband had a hard time dealing with anything gruesome. Even a little bit of blood from a paper cut could send him over the edge. So you can only imagine how he felt when there was a dead body involved. Usually a bit of chocolate helped restore his equilibrium, which is why I always kept an emergency supply of M&M’S in my purse.

  “And your record is going to stay at five, right?” Scooter asked.

  “Why stop at five?” Jim asked with a smile. “You should try to get into the Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “Oh, I already did that,” I said.

  Jim was taken aback. “You did?”

  “Oh, no. Not for dead bodies or anything like that,” I said. “It was for—”

  Before I could finish explaining my world record, the door to the conference room swung open. A man stood regally in the entryway, surveying the room as though he was expecting his subjects to kneel in adoration. Like Thomas, he was also wearing a suit, but whereas Thomas’ outfit was a riot of color, his was all black, including shirt and tie. Even his hair and eyes were black. The only spot of color was a mother-of-pearl handle on the cane he was leaning on.

  “What’s Gregor doing here?” Thomas hissed, his face turning the same bright-red color as his beret.

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Jim said. “Don’t let him upset you. Remember what your doctor said about your blood pressure.”

  Thomas clenched his fists. “I know what he said. But as long as Gregor is anywhere near me, there’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid becoming stressed.”

  “Why don’t you practice your breathing exercises?” Jim rested his hand on his stomach and slowly inhaled and exhaled. “Like this. In. Out. In. Out.”

  Thomas placed his hand on his own stomach, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. As his color started to return to normal, Jim squeezed his shoulder. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

  While Thomas focused on his breathing, I noticed the man in black walking across the room, the tapping sound of his cane on the tile floor getting progressively louder as he neared us. “I think he’s coming this way,” I whispered to Scooter.

  “Do you know who he is?” Scooter asked.

  “Never seen him before. But he doesn’t exactly look like the type to hang out at the marina.”

  “Well, I think we’re going to have a chance to find out who he is,” Scooter said. “He’s making a beeline straight toward us.”

  As the man stopped in front of us, Thomas’ eyes snapped open, his face flushing again.

  “You should be more careful in the sun,” Gregor said with a heavy accent that sounded Russian. “You are very sunburned.”

  Thomas narrowed his eyes. “What do you want?”

  Gregor reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I thought I would hand deliver this. You know how unreliable the mail service can be.”

  Thomas folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Very well,” Gregor said. “I thought I would do you the courtesy of delivering this to you personally, but, if you prefer, I will send it directly to your lawyer instead.”

  “Courtesy,” Thomas said bitterly. “What would you know about courtesy? Do you think coming into my town and trying to destroy my reputation is courteous?”

  Gregor gave him a slight smile. “I only speak the truth. You Americans are delicate creatures, no? You cannot bear it when someone gives you an honest critique of your talent. Or in your case, your lack of talent.” He waved the envelope. “You are sure you are not the slightest bit curious about what is inside?”

  “Give me that,” Jim said, grabbing it out of his hand. He ripped open the envelope, pulling a thick document out. He silently leafed through the pages while Thomas glared at Gregor. After a few minutes, Jim took a deep breath and said to Thomas, “I think we are going to need a lawyer.”

  “Why? What does it say?” Thomas asked.

  “He’s claiming that you can’t use Coconut Creations anymore for your art-related business. He’s trademarked it.”

  Thomas looked like he was going to have a stroke. “What? Coconut Creations is mine. I’ve used it for years on my business cards, my website, and the art gallery. He can’t take it away from me. It’s my brand.”

  Gregor shrugged. “When you sold the art gallery to me, you gave up all rights to using the name.”

  “I didn’t sell it to you, you stole it!”

  “I am a businessman, not a thief. I cannot help it if you are unhappy with the transaction. Some people do not have a head for business.” He tapped his cane on the floor sharply. “You have one week to comply.”

  Thomas ripped the document in half and dropped it on the floor. “That’s what I think of your threats.”

  “You make mistake. Serious mistake,” Gregor said. “My lawyers will take you to court. You will have nothing left after they finish. Nothing.”

  As he made his way toward the exit, Thomas said in a low undertone. “You’ll pay for this. Just wait and see. You’ll pay.”

  2

  Clause 72(c)

  After Gregor’s dramatic departure, Jim hurried everyone out of the meeting room while Thomas paced back and forth, fuming over the letter from the lawyers.

  Scooter and I returned to our boat to pick up Mrs. Moto. Having napped all morning, she was eager to go outside and play. The three of us walked to the patio area by the marina office. Or rather two of us walked, while the one of us with four legs raced down the path, stopping periodically to yowl at us to hurry up.

  When we reached the boardwalk that separated the patio from the beach, Mrs. Moto briefly chased a seagull, then leaped onto one of the tables. Scooter set down the tote bag he had been carrying. The calico knocked the bag on its side, stuck her head inside, then pulled out some gray material.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Scooter grabbed it from the cat and held it up. “I ordered it online. Isn’t it cute?”

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yep. A shark costume.” He picked up Mrs. Moto and rubbed his nose against hers. “Are you ready to get dressed up?”

  She meowed with delight as Scooter wrestled her into the costume.

  While Mrs. Moto chased lizards on the patio, the fin on her back flipping back and forth as she pounced, I went into the office to settle our bill.

  After months living on “the hard” in the boatyard, we were more than ready to splash Marjorie Jane back into the water and move her into a slip. I was looking forward to not having to climb up and down a ladder multiple times a day, and being able to enjoy the cooling breezes coming in off the bay and the gentle rocking back and forth in the water while I drifted off to sleep.

  Despite the fact that I had never wanted a sailboat, Marjorie Jane had started to grow on me. I think when you invest as much time, sweat, and money as we have into a project boat, one of two things happens. Some folks end up so frustrated, tired, and broke that they secretly hope their boat accidentally burns down, insurance pays out, and they get to go off on a less stressful adventure, like RVing. For others, after investing so much of themselves into their “baby,” they’re bound and determined to enjoy all the improvements they’ve made and equipment they’ve bought. I was in the latter camp, eager to try out our new headsail during the race to Destiny Key. We had also purchased a new dinghy, which I wanted to take out for a spin.

  Before I pushed the door to the marina office open, I practiced the breathing exercise Thomas and Jim had been doing. I needed to prepare myself mentally in order to deal with Nancy, Ned’s wife and the co-owner of the Palm Tree Marina. She was the only thing standing in our way of splashing and moving into our slip. Given her love of bureaucracy, I expected the required paperwork was going to take every ounce of patience I had.

  “Close the door,” Nancy barked as I entered. “You’re going to let the flies
in.” I quickly took a step back as she smacked a fly swatter down on the counter. The force of the blow caused a pen holder to fall down, its contents scattering across the floor and under the nearby display racks of nautical charts and cruising guides.

  “Well,” Nancy said, peering over her reading glasses. “Aren’t you going to pick those up?”

  “I didn’t drop them,” I said.

  “They didn’t fall down by themselves, did they, dear?”

  “But you, you …” I was at a loss for words and pointed at the fly swatter instead.

  “Good, I like to see initiative,” the older woman said as she handed me the swatter. “There are a couple of flies in the corner. You can take care of them after you pick the pens up. You’re going to need one to sign your paperwork.”

  Before I could protest that I hadn’t been offering to reduce the insect population in the office, let alone deal with the pens, the phone rang. Nancy answered it with a surprisingly cheerful tone—one I had only heard her use with her grandchildren—instead of with her usual brisk, no-nonsense manner.

  I listened as she politely explained the marina fees to the caller. “Hold on one moment, sir,” she said. “Let me make a note of that.” She held the phone away from her ear, turned to me, and reached out her hand. “Hand me a pen, will you, dear.”

  I sighed, bent down, and scooped them up. Usually it was easier to give in to Nancy. I set the pens on the counter. She grabbed one, then scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “Okay, I’ll look into it. Why don’t you call back in a few minutes and I’ll see what I can do.”

  After she hung up, I asked, “What do I need to sign for our new slip?”

  She walked toward the file cabinets at the rear of the office. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said over her shoulder. “I have to sort something else out first. Why don’t you put those pens back in the holder while you’re waiting?”

  I complied with her request, however I did put some of the pens in upside down and removed the caps from others. Sometimes, a minor act of rebellion can brighten up your day.