While she looked through file folders, I perused the brochures on display by the door. Most of them were geared toward tourists—bed and breakfast establishments, fishing boat charters, local restaurants, and guided visits to an alligator farm. As I pulled out the one for Pete’s Gator Park for a closer look, I wondered what exactly went on at an alligator farm. Did the gators wear overalls, straw hats, and tend to crops of carrots and rutabagas? After studying the brochure, I learned that there wasn’t any cultivation going on. Just photo ops with baby gators, a tram ride to see the big gators at the swamp at the back of Pete’s place, and a gift shop.
After replacing it back on the rack, a glossy brochure next to it caught my eye. Gregor’s Coconut Creations Art Gallery was printed on the top in an ornate script, followed by the hotly contested trademark sign. Gregor certainly was putting a stake in the ground that he had the rights to the Coconut Creations name.
Underneath the gallery name was a picture of what looked like an old railway station. The brickwork had been painted black, which contrasted with colorful flowers spilling out of large silver containers positioned by the entryway. When I flipped the brochure over and looked at the map on the back, I realized that it was located on the outskirts of Coconut Cove, near where the main road branched off. One direction took you toward the “big city.” The other took you to a dock where the ferry to Destiny Key departed from.
On the inside of the brochure were pictures of paintings and sculptures tastefully displayed in the gallery, along with a photo and bio of Gregor. He was Russian, as I had suspected. Originally from Saint Petersburg, he had emigrated to New York City where he founded an art school and opened his first art gallery. Over the years he had acquired galleries around the world, with Coconut Creations being the latest jewel in his crown.
While I thought about what it would be like to have artistic talent, Nancy grabbed a thick stack of papers from the printer. She set them down on the counter with a flourish. “This is the new contract for your slip rental. Initial in the sections indicated, then sign and date the last page.”
“I might need some coffee to keep me awake while I read all of this,” I said.
Her piercing blue eyes bored into me. “You don’t need to read it. Just sign and initial.”
“Scooter always says it’s important to read legal documents thoroughly,” I said, furrowing my brow.
Nancy shrugged. “Suit yourself. Don’t take too long though. There’s only one slip left and I need a signed contract before I can assign it to you. First come, first serve.”
“What? Ned said it was ours. He reserved it for us.”
The older woman pursed her lips. “He shouldn’t have done that. I’m the one in charge of the office. He’s in charge of the fuel dock and maintenance. Besides, if you look at clause 34(a), you’ll see the section about slip assignments. No reservations.”
I sighed as I flipped through the pages. It all seemed like pretty standard fare—no discharge of chemicals overboard, liability insurance requirements, loud parties strictly forbidden—that sort of thing. Then I reached section 72(c): “Residents of the marina are not allowed to use the patio grill to cook beef. Only chicken, fish, and tofu are permitted.”
“What’s this beef clause about?” I asked. “We always grill hamburgers at the weekly potluck.”
She pulled the contract toward her and peered at the page. “Oh, that. Ned needs to watch his cholesterol.”
“But what does that have to do with the rest of us?” I asked.
“If he smells steak and burgers cooking, he’ll be tempted to have some.”
I smiled. In a weird, controlling way, clause 72(c) was Nancy’s way of showing that she cared for her husband. “So, because you’re worried that he doesn’t have any willpower, the rest of us have to suffer,” I said.
“They have these new vegetarian burgers nowadays. You can make those instead.” She tapped the page with her pen. “You know what I forgot to include? No cheese allowed either.” She started to scribble something down to that effect when the phone rang again.
“Yes, we have one slip left,” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “How big is your boat? Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem. Just email the signed contract back and it’s all yours. You sent it already? Just a moment, let me check.” As she walked toward the computer, I quickly signed and initialed my contract and shoved it in her hands.
“I believe that slip is ours,” I said. Before she could protest, I added, “Like you said, ‘first come first serve.’ I was here first.”
She sniffed, then nodded. After explaining to the caller that they’d have to find another marina, she put my signed contract in a file folder. “I’m surprised you didn’t have any questions about section 83(d).”
“83(d)?” I spluttered. “What was that one about?”
Nancy placed the folder into a file cabinet. “No hanging clothes out on your boat.”
I rolled my eyes. That one I could live with, but I wasn’t sure how my friend, Ben Moretti, would react. His boat was definitely not in compliance when it came to laundry. Rather than spend his money on the dryer, he often strewed his clothes on deck to dry in the sun.
“You’re all set,” Nancy said, tapping her perfectly manicured fingernails on the counter.
“Good. We’ve got a lot to get done before the regatta starts on Friday.”
“Do you really think you and Scooter are up for a regatta? You’ve had that boat less than a year and it’s been in the boatyard for most of that time.” She shook her head. “And neither of you have any real sailing experience.”
“Hey, I’ve been taking sailing lessons with Penny,” I protested.
“It’s not the same thing as sailing your own boat, let alone racing in it.”
I felt my stomach knotting up. When I signed us up for the regatta, it had seemed like a good idea. But, now, as the time neared, I was starting to worry if we were really up for it. However, there was no way I was going to let Nancy know that I was concerned.
“It will be fine,” I said resolutely. “Besides, Ben and Melvin are going with us.”
“Humph. Ben isn’t exactly the type of person I’d entrust my safety to. He’s like Peter Pan. Never grew up.”
She did have a point. Ben lived paycheck-to-paycheck, his sailboat was so rundown that it actually made Marjorie Jane look good in comparison, and his wardrobe consisted of tattered shorts and t-shirts with pirate slogans on them. But, on the plus side, he knew his way around boats and could fix just about anything. When I said as much to Nancy, she reluctantly agreed.
“The customers are satisfied with the work he does,” she said.
“So, you’re glad you hired him, right?”
“I’d be happier if he got a haircut. That ponytail of his is hardly professional.”
“Well, I can’t see that happening anytime soon. I think he’ll be one of those guys who still sports one in his eighties, except it will be gray by then.”
“Speaking of gray hair, you’re lucky to have Melvin on your boat,” Nancy said. “He’s very experienced. A real old salt. You know, he grew up sailing in the Bahamas. When he moved to Coconut Cove, he became a regular regatta participant, winning many years in a row.”
Although Melvin Rolle had been our neighbor when we had a cottage on the beach, we had really gotten to know him because he owned the local boating supply store—Melvin’s Marine Emporium—a place at which we spent a lot of time and money.
She stared out the window for a moment. “When his wife passed away, he stopped sailing. Said it reminded him too much of her,” she said softly. “It’s great that you’re getting him back out on the water.” She smiled. “It will actually be like old times—he and Ned vying against each other. We’ll be on Penny’s boat, you know.”
“I heard about that. Is Ned up to it with his knees? Didn’t he have to have them replaced? That’s why he gave up racing originally, right?”
“He’ll be f
ine. Penny has a few other people crewing as well. The young people can do the hard work while we enjoy ourselves.”
“Have you told her that she isn’t allowed to have red meat on her boat?”
“No, I hadn’t,” Nancy said. “Thanks for the reminder. I’ll text her now.”
Penny certainly was a brave woman to have invited Nancy to sail on her boat. By the time the regatta was over, the older woman was sure to have created a detailed manual of rules and regulations for Pretty in Pink.
“Make sure you keep your VHF radio on at all times, dear,” Nancy said. “When your boat breaks down, you’ll need to be able to call for help.”
“Marjorie Jane is going to do fine. In fact, she’s going to do great. We’re planning on winning the regatta.”
Nancy shook her head. “Not going to happen, dear.”
“Care to place a wager?” I asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
“If we win, then you eliminate the section 72(c) from the marina contracts. I need my cheeseburgers.”
She nodded. “And when Pretty in Pink wins, and she will, you’ll keep Mrs. Moto on a leash at all times. I’m tired of seeing that mangy creature running around loose.”
“Done.” As I held out my hand to shake on it, I knocked over the pens.
“Be a dear and pick those up on your way out,” Nancy said.
* * *
I was starting to feel a little more confident about our chances in the regatta after I successfully maneuvered Marjorie Jane into our slip. Yep, you read that right—I drove our boat. While I had had experience helming Penny’s boat, Pretty in Pink, during sailing lessons, I had never driven ours. It’s quite a different experience at the wheel of your own boat, especially when you’re doing it in close quarters and with an audience.
There were a few bozos in the crowd making jokes about women drivers, but Scooter shut them up by saying, “You’re just jealous that you don’t have a talented wife like I do.” Then he looked at me and said, “You’re doing great, my little stegosaurus.”
As I turned the wheel to angle the boat into our slip, the wind picked up, causing our stern to push out toward a very expensive-looking boat. The owner was on his deck, holding a boat hook, ready to fend us off if we came too near. I gulped, trying to remember if I had renewed our insurance policy. Somehow, I managed to steer us away from the other boat and into our spot with inches to spare.
“I’m going to need a lot of chocolate to recover from that experience,” I muttered as I ran my fingers through my hair.
Penny was standing on the dock waiting for us. “Good job, Mollie! You remembered everything I taught you.”
“Very impressive,” Ben said, doing a fist pump in the air.
Scooter threw both of them lines, then jumped off the boat to help tie Marjorie Jane off.
After turning off the engine, I let out a deep breath. I heard Mrs. Moto meowing down below. “It’s okay. You can come up now. We’re safe and sound.” She ran up the ladder that led from the main cabin up to the cockpit, then leaped into my arms and rubbed her face against mine. “Is that your way of saying congratulations, or do you just want a treat?”
“Can you give us a hand with the fenders?” Scooter asked. “We don’t want to get Marjorie Jane’s new paint job scuffed.”
“Guess treats will have to wait,” I said as I set the calico down on a cushion.
After getting the fenders sorted, I joined the three of them on the dock. “I still can’t believe I pulled that off.”
“I had faith in you,” Penny said. “Remember how you steered Pretty in Pink up to the fuel dock last week?”
“Yeah, but that was easier because no one was heckling me,” I said.
“You had hecklers? What happened?” Ben asked.
“There were some idiots making comments about women drivers,” Scooter said.
“I still get those,” Penny said. “Even though I’m a sailing instructor, a licensed boat captain, and a boat broker. Some guys just can’t believe a woman can be a competent boater.”
“Heck, my incredible wife has more experience than me,” Scooter said. “She’s the one who fixed the engine.”
I shrugged modestly, although I was secretly pleased at the recognition. “That’s just because you’re too busy with your job.”
“Admit it,” Ben said to me. “You kind of enjoy working on the boat.”
“Sometimes, but other times, it’s not a lot of fun. Definitely not fun when you’ve got grease and oil all over you.”
Penny clapped her hands together. “Come on, we better hurry up. You don’t want to be late.”
“Late for what?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, sure, like this morning’s surprise.”
“No really, I think you’re going to like this one,” she said.
“Do you know anything about this?” I asked Scooter.
“Nope, but I hope it involves food,” he said. “I’m starved.”
“It does,” Penny said. “Ned’s got the grill fired up.”
“Hopefully, there’s no red meat,” I said.
“Huh?” Penny said. “Since when did you start watching what you eat?”
“Has Nancy made you guys sign a new contract by any chance?” I asked.
“She mentioned something about it to me,” Ben said.
Penny shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything about it.”
“Well, once you see it, then you’ll know what I’m talking about. In fact, you might want to check your phone, Penny. I think she texted you about dietary requirements during the regatta.”
“Enough talk,” Ben said. “Let’s go eat.”
“Let me grab my camera first,” Scooter said as he hopped back on the boat.
After he took some footage of Marjorie Jane bobbing in her slip with Mrs. Moto posing on the bow, we all walked to the patio. When we got there, I noticed a large banner tied between two of the palm trees that read, “Happy Splash Day!”
“Is that for us?” I asked.
Penny smiled. “Uh-huh. Surprise!”
As I went to give her a hug, she said, “It’s Anabel Dalton you should be thanking. She’s the one who arranged everything.” She pointed over at the grill where a red-haired woman wearing a long embroidered skirt and a peasant blouse was talking with Nancy. As I walked over to them, I heard my friend insisting that the patties she wanted to cook were vegetarian, not beef.
“Can you prove it?” Nancy asked.
Anabel pointed at the trashcan. “The box is in there.”
Nancy stared at the garbage, then looked back at Anabel. After a brief impasse, Anabel grabbed a napkin from the table to protect her hand, reached into the trash, and pulled the box out. She held it out in front of the older woman.
“I don’t have my reading glasses,” Nancy said.
“Fine, I’ll read the ingredients list to you,” she said. When she mentioned rutabaga, I grimaced. I certainly wouldn’t be eating one of those veggie burgers.
Nancy sniffed. “They sound okay, but I’d feel more comfortable if I could read it myself. Why don’t you wait here while I get my glasses?”
Anabel tossed the box back into the trashcan, then squealed with delight when she saw me. “You’re here! I wanted to watch you dock, but I needed to get things set up for the party.”
“I can’t believe you did this for us,” I said.
“I may not be a boater, but I know how important splashing your boat was to the two of you. You deserve to celebrate. Everyone else thinks so too.”
I smiled as I looked around the patio. Despite the relatively short amount of time we had lived in Coconut Cove, we had made some really good friends in the community. When I reflected back to my time living in a big city, I realized how much easier it was to get to know people in a small town and build meaningful relationships.
I gave her a hug. “You’re such a great friend.”<
br />
Mrs. Moto reached up with her front paws on my legs, letting us know that she wanted a cuddle as well. As Anabel picked the calico up, I noticed her two Yorkshire terriers were missing. “Where are Frick and Frack? Are they with their father?”
Anabel and her ex-husband, Coconut Cove’s chief of police, shared joint custody of their dogs. I could never keep track of who had them on what days.
“Tiny is on his way with them,” Anabel said.
I snorted at the mention of Chief Dalton’s nickname, a nickname that only Anabel dared used. The rest of us were too intimidated by his gruff manner, not to mention his bushy eyebrows.
“He said he wouldn’t miss this party for the world,” Anabel said as she scratched Mrs. Moto behind the ears before setting her down.
I gave her a look. “Did he really say that?”
“Well, not in so many words.”
“It’s okay, you can admit it. The chief isn’t exactly my biggest fan.”
“Well … he doesn’t like people interfering in police business.”
“I don’t interfere. I investigate. Big difference.”
“What’s this about investigating?” a familiar voice asked.
I spun around and saw a burly man holding two squirming Yorkies. He set them on the ground, then Anabel greeted the over-excited dogs. As she took turns petting each of them on their heads, Mrs. Moto barreled her way in, demanding equal attention.
“Why don’t the three of you go play together?” she suggested as she unclipped the dogs’ leashes.
“Anabel,” the chief said sternly. “What would people think if they saw that my dogs weren’t on their leashes?”
“Tell you what, why don’t you go check and see if Ned has everything he needs for the barbecue? That way you’ll have plausible deniability,” Anabel said.
He gave her an expression that on anyone else would be a frown. But I could tell from the way his lips twitched that he was amused by his ex-wife. I wondered if their romance had rekindled. They seemed to have been spending a lot of time together as of late, even without their dogs in tow.
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