“Oh, that’s interesting,” I said. “I wonder what Victoria would say about that given there’s no love lost between her and the owner of the gallery.”
Ben rubbed his chin. “Is Victoria the woman whose paintings were destroyed?”
I nodded.
“Sawyer told me about it. There are a lot of rumors going around in the art community about what happened,” Ben said.
“What kind of rumors?” I asked.
Ben scratched his head. “I can’t remember exactly what she said. But that’s a good reason for me to try to track her down. I can get all the gossip.” He grinned. “And ask her out.”
* * *
“Oh, I’m stuffed,” I collapsed next to Scooter, wishing my shorts had an elastic waistband. We were lying on a blanket on the public beach on Destiny Key. While we hadn’t won the race to the island—Pretty in Pink claimed that honor—we did come in a respectable third place.
After all the boats had been safely anchored, everyone took their dinghies to shore for a barbecue. I had done my best to sample all the dishes everyone brought to share. Well, not all of them. I politely declined when Nancy offered me a low-fat Brussels sprouts and tofu rice dish. I noticed that Ned turned up his nose at it as well and went off in search of an all-beef hot dog.
“You did have a lot of brownies,” Scooter said. “Not only did you eat two on the boat, you had, what three … four … after we got here? I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a stomachache.”
“It would be worth it,” I said. “Did you try the ones Penny brought? The cream cheese swirl was amazing.”
Melvin plopped down next to me, put his hand on his stomach, and groaned.
“Too many brownies?” Scooter asked.
“No, I didn’t have any. Ever since my last doctor’s appointment, I’ve tried to cut down on sugar. The doc said that I’m pre-diabetic.”
“I wondered why you didn’t have any aboard Marjorie Jane earlier,” I said. “Impressive willpower.”
“Well, I did have that soda, which I shouldn’t have had. It’s hard to remember what you can and can’t eat. If only Velma were here, she would keep it all straight for me. She used to do most of the cooking.” He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a napkin. “Did you folks ever try that Rutamentals diet? I wonder if that would be a good solution.”
My eyes grew wide. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Someone we know ended up in the hospital with intestinal problems from eating too many rutabagas. She thought she had been poisoned.” I looked at Melvin. “You were away when it was all the rage, weren’t you?”
“Yes, back visiting family in the Bahamas.” Melvin looked uncomfortable as he shifted his position.
“Are you okay?” Scooter asked.
“Just some indigestion. I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we should head back now,” Scooter said.
“No, I don’t want to be a bother. Besides, you and Ben wanted to play in the beach volleyball match.”
“It’s not a problem,” Scooter said. “They’ll be playing again tomorrow.”
Melvin pointed at a couple stowing a cooler and a tote bag in their dinghy. “Maybe I can hitch a ride with them. Then the three of you—” Mrs. Moto yowled. “Sorry,” he said giving the cat a mock salute. “The three of you and the admiral can come back when you’re ready.”
After Melvin left, Ben and Scooter joined the volleyball match. The idea of running around in the heat chasing after a ball didn’t appeal to me, so Mrs. Moto and I sat in the shade and chatted with some of the other regatta participants about the hierarchy on their boats.
A couple of the ladies told me that they held the title of admiral. One of them was even wearing a t-shirt that said, “He may be the captain, but I’m the admiral.” They were both tickled to learn that Mrs. Moto was also an admiral and took turns rubbing her belly. Another woman said that it had been her idea to buy a sailboat and she was more experienced than her boyfriend, so she was the captain on board.
A young couple sitting next to me was in the same situation as Scooter and I. They hadn’t talked about who was in charge on their boat before, but it was clear from their discussion that each of them thought they should be the captain, not the other. As their bickering began to escalate into a heated argument, Mrs. Moto and I slipped away to congratulate Ben and Scooter on winning the volleyball match.
“Well, should we head back to Marjorie Jane?” Scooter asked.
We waved goodbye to the stragglers and walked back to where we had left our dinghy. When we arrived earlier in the afternoon, it had been high tide. Now that we were ready to leave, the tide had changed. That meant that where we parked our dinghy was now a long way away from the water. I didn’t envy the guys as they carried the dinghy down the beach. It wasn’t light, especially with a large outboard motor mounted on the stern, and the sharp rocks they had to walk across caused Scooter to wince in pain. Thankfully, he didn’t cut his feet. If he had seen blood in the water, he might have fainted and then that would have made two heavy things to carry—the dinghy and my husband.
While they were carried the dinghy, I put Mrs. Moto’s life jacket back on her. She was not pleased, to say the least. I think it might have been the bulk it added to her frame that she despised. You know what they say about the camera adding ten pounds. Even cats worry about that sort of thing.
I finally managed to fasten the straps underneath her stomach, then picked the admiral up and set her in the dinghy. She tried unsuccessfully to pry open the clasps by rubbing against the oars, then the gas tank, and finally the stern anchor.
Ben climbed into the dinghy, scooped up the cat, sat on the seat near the bow, and put her on his lap. “You’ll have a better view from up here,” he told her.
After helping me on board, Scooter pushed the dinghy out into the water, then hopped in. He pulled the starter cord, expecting the engine to roar to life. It didn’t. He tried again and nothing happened. After the third try, he said to me, “I think it’s busted. Remember that list you started of everything we need to fix? Better add the outboard motor to it.”
“Hopefully, it’s an easy fix,” I said.
Scooter put his hand over his eyes and looked at where Marjorie Jane was anchored. “It’s going to be a long row back.”
“Um, guys,” Ben said. “Did you remember to put the kill switch on before you tried to start it?”
Scooter looked at his wrist. He was wearing a red-coiled plastic band that had a small black key attached. “Oops.”
“I know they’re a pain,” Ben said. “But they can save your life. If you ever fall overboard, because the key is attached to you, it will pop out and cut the engine off. I had a buddy get his back all torn up when he was run over by an engine propeller. You don’t want that happening to you.”
“Kill switch,” I said. “That’s a pretty gruesome name.”
Scooter inserted the key. “Yeah. No more talk about people getting maimed or killed. The regatta is supposed to be fun.”
“Before you start it up, I have an idea,” Ben said. “You guys want to learn more about living on a sailboat and what the cruising lifestyle is like, right?”
“Sure,” Scooter said.
“Well, one thing that cruisers do is go exploring on their dinghies. See that inlet there?” He pointed at a small cut at the end of the public beach. “If you go through there and make your way through the mangroves, it takes you to the most beautiful cove you’ve ever seen. It’s really shallow, and the entrance is narrow, so you can’t take a sailboat in. Want to check it out?”
“Hmm. That cove wouldn’t happen to be where the artists’ retreat is at, would it?”
Ben smiled. “Maybe.”
“Any chance you’re hoping to see Sawyer?” I asked.
“Never crossed my mind.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, you’re the one who wanted to know all the art gallery gossip,” Ben said. “She’s got the scoop.”
<
br /> Mrs. Moto jumped onto the bow of the dinghy, held out her right paw, and meowed.
“See. She’s pointing the way,” Ben said.
Scooter chuckled. “Fine. We can check it out for a bit, but then we’re heading back. Agreed?” He pulled the cord, and the engine roared to life.
After entering the inlet, Scooter steered us through the mangroves. “Is that a crocodile?” I said loudly so that I could be heard over the sound of the motor.
“Would you be happier if I told you it was a log?” Ben asked. I nodded. “Then, it’s a log. So is the one with sharp teeth over there.”
Eventually, the inlet opened up into the cove Ben had promised us. It really was beautiful. I wanted to sit in one of the chairs dotted about the beach and dig my toes into the white sand. There was a small dock at one end of the cove, flanked by palm trees. A large house with a veranda sat at the other end. The garden beds surrounding the house were overflowing with colorful flowers and tropical plants.
“It’s called Warlock’s Manor,” Ben said. “All the houses on the island have funny names.”
“Kind of like boats,” I said.
“Do you think Marjorie Jane is a funny name?” Ben asked.
“It’s not one I would have chosen,” I said.
“Why don’t you change it?” he asked.
“We’re not changing it,” Scooter said. “It’s bad luck.”
“It’s only bad luck if you don’t do a proper renaming ceremony,” I said.
“Speaking of bad luck.” Ben pointed at some dark clouds forming overhead. “Looks like we’re going to get a squall.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I don’t want to get soaked. I bet the admiral doesn’t want to either.”
“It’s just a squall. ‘They come on you fast, but they leave you fast.’” Ben chucked. “Do you know what movie that’s from?”
“Captain Ron,” Scooter said. “I’ve seen it over twenty times.”
“Twenty times too many,” I muttered under my breath.
The wind started to pick up as raindrops began to fall. “Maybe we should head back,” Scooter said. “We can come back tomorrow.”
As he turned the tiller and pointed the dinghy back toward the mangroves, the engine died.
“Did the key come out?” Ben asked.
“No,” Scooter replied. He tried to restart the engine several times, but all he was rewarded with was silence.
“I don’t think it’s going to start,” Ben said.
By this time, we were drenched, and the wind was howling. Scooter grabbed the oars and placed them in the oarlocks. I moved toward the bow of the boat to get out of his way. He tried to row us toward the inlet, but the wind kept pushing us back.
“I can’t make any headway,” Scooter yelled.
“Head to Warlock’s Manor,” Ben suggested. “The wind will push us that way. We can wait out the storm there.”
The dinghy was rocking back and forth. I gripped one of the handles on the side to keep my balance. “I thought you said this was just a squall.”
“It might be more than that,” Ben admitted.
I turned to look at Scooter. “Hurry,” I said. “It’s getting bad.”
“I’m rowing as fast as I can,” he said.
I patted his back. “Sorry. I know you’re doing the best you can.”
When I spun back around on my seat, I saw a streak of calico fur fly off the dinghy. “Stop! Mrs. Moto’s fallen overboard!”
4
The Sacrificial M&M’S
“Does anyone see her? Her life jacket is on the bottom of the dinghy. The little Houdini escaped from it again. What if she drowns?” I leaned over the side of the dinghy and frantically called out. “Mrs. Moto! Where are you?”
“Is that her over there?” Ben pointed at the dock. “I think I just saw something crawl out of the water.”
I squinted. “I can barely see anything with this rain pouring down.”
“I bet you saw that,” Ben said as a chair went flying across the beach.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I think I see her. She’s at the end of the dock. It’s almost like she’s waiting for us.”
Scooter grunted as he pulled on the oars. The wind had changed direction and was pushing us backward. Scooter was struggling to keep us on course.
“We’re never going to make it,” I said, my voice getting squeaky. “We’ll end up lost at sea and Mrs. Moto will be an orphan.”
“We’ll be fine, Mollie,” Scooter said.
When I heard my husband say “Mollie,” that’s when I really began to panic. Scooter only called me by my proper name if he was worried that I was mad at him or when something was seriously wrong.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Scooter cried out.
I turned and looked at him. “What happened?”
“One of the oar locks broke. The oar slipped out of my hand.” He leaned over the side of the dinghy and peered into the water. “It’s down there somewhere.”
“Rowing with one oar isn’t going to be easy,” Ben said.
My usually laid back husband snapped. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Why don’t I give it a shot?” Ben said. “I’m used to one-oared paddling with my kayak.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” I put my hand on Scooter’s shoulder. “Let him take over. You’re exhausted.”
“Fine,” Scooter said. “But let’s shift positions carefully. The last thing we need is to capsize the dinghy.”
I squeezed myself as close to the bow of the boat as I could while Scooter and Ben swapped places. As Ben positioned himself, his elbow knocked against the remaining oar, causing its lock to crack.
“Quick, catch it,” Scooter said.
Ben twisted his body, leaning over the side of the dinghy, his hands flailing in the water.
“I think he has it,” I said eagerly.
But when Ben sat up, the only thing he was holding was seaweed. “Houston, I think we have a problem,” he said.
I watched in horror as the dinghy dock receded into the background while the wind continued to push us toward the mangroves.
“Grab the portable VHF radio out of that bag,” Scooter said to me. “We need to call for help.”
I unfastened the bag and dug around inside. I pulled out a snorkel mask, two beach towels, Mrs. Moto’s harness and leash, and a bag of M&M’S. “Um. I don’t see the VHF. Are you sure you put it in here?”
“Me? I thought you packed that bag,” he replied.
“I thought you did,” I said.
“You’re holding a bag of M&M’s,” he said. “That’s a sure sign that you packed it.”
I bit my lip. The situation was so dire that I wasn’t even sure chocolate could fix our predicament. Without any way to call for help, we were doomed. Even if we did drift back out of the cove, through the mangrove, and toward the regatta boats, the rain was coming down so hard that no one would be able to see us, let alone hear our cries over the wind.
“We need a miracle,” I muttered. I opened the soggy bag and popped a few chocolate morsels in my mouth. Then I remembered the stories I had heard about making offerings to the god of the sea, Poseidon, to ensure safe passage. I poured the rest of the candy morsels into the water. “Hope you like chocolate,” I whispered as I watched them sink.
“Hey, the wind is changing direction,” Ben said. “Look, it’s pushing us toward the dock. It’s a miracle.”
I smiled. Everyone loved chocolate, even old Greek gods.
The dinghy drifted slowly toward shore, then a gust of wind slammed us into the dock. Scooter grabbed hold of one of the wood pilings while I tied a line to a cleat. Ben got out of the dinghy, then held out his hand to assist me. As he hoisted me onto the dock, I slipped when one of my flip-flops caught on a loose board. I grabbed Ben’s arm to steady myself, then brushed my damp hair out of my eyes.
“Where did Mrs. Moto go?” I said. The downpour was so heavy that
I couldn’t see more than a foot or two in front of me.
“She’s a smart cat,” Scooter said. “She probably headed to the house. Let’s go look for her there.”
We made our way gingerly down the dock, holding onto each other so that the wind wouldn’t sweep us into the water. After we reached the end of the dock, we picked up the pace, running across the wet sand while dodging coconuts flying off the palm trees. Once we reached the safety of the covered veranda, I asked Ben if this was the start of a hurricane.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said as he pounded on the door. “I’m just glad we have shelter.”
After a few moments, the door creaked open. Thomas stood there looking at us in surprise.
“Where in the world did you folks come from?” he asked.
Ben started to tell him about our adventure, but I interrupted. “Have you seen our cat?”
“A bobtailed calico?” I nodded. “She’s inside. I found her out here yowling. I figured she got lost in the storm.”
After I explained about our dinghy problems and how Mrs. Moto had removed her life jacket despite her lack of opposable thumbs and then swum for shore, Thomas smiled. “She sounds like a smart cookie. Maybe she’s even a little psychic. She might have known what was going to happen with the oars.” He took a step back. “What’s wrong with me? Talking about psychic powers when you folks are dripping wet. Come on inside.” After we stepped into the tiled foyer, he added. “Wait here and I’ll grab some towels for you.”
As he started to walk down the hallway, I said, “Do you have a VHF by any chance? Melvin, our other crew member, went back to Marjorie Jane earlier and he’ll be wondering what happened to us.”
“Sure, I’ve got one. Why don’t I hail your boat first, then I’ll be right back.”
“Where is that cat?” Scooter asked. “I would have thought that when she heard our voices, she’d come running out to check on us.”
Dead in the Dinghy Page 5