“So?”
“So, when’s the last time you saw Nat with a drink?”
“Ok, good point.”
“And the first thing she did when she sat down was what? Order a vodka martini, right?” I said.
“Then another and another and—"
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, maybe it has some preservation qualities, like embalming fluid,” Aggie chuckled.
“Seriously,” I said. “And why’s she staying at the Vine anyway? That place is a dump.”
“She’s broke,” Ags said flatly.
“What?”
“Yep, that’s why I paid for lunch.” She nodded to underscore her point. “She came in that day you went out of town with Bugsy… looking for him and looking to know if Nat had prepaid the dockage and if she could get a refund.”
“Really? What’d you say?”
“I told her I don’t know anything about dockage and she blabbered on about how much it costs to live, and man, I couldn’t wait to get her outta there.”
“So, if anyone’s going to profit from something happening to Nat, she thinks it should be her,” I thought out loud.
“Well, she still may.” Ags sighed. “Especially if Nat hadn’t updated his will.”
“Mmmm,” I hummed, debating with myself about whether to divulge to Aggie that it was me and not Cynthia who stood to gain if something should happen to Nat.
“What?” Aggie asked. She could tell from my tone that there had to be more.
“Well, someone else might benefit,” I said lowly, feeling uncomfortable. Money has that effect on me.
“Someone I know?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone close to me?”
“Maybe.”
“Someone within punching distance?”
“Possibly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ags asked, curious more than hurt I hadn’t told her sooner.
“Just not something I want to think about, that’s all. The lawyer told me the other day.”
“Ok, but you could have told me.”
“I know, but if he’s gone…”
“Girl, it’s a real possibility. And we may never know what happened. Look, Nat obviously loved you. He just wanted you to be ok so he included you in the will. It’s sweet.”
I nodded. I didn’t tell her just how sweet he was making me the primary beneficiary. Before long, we were back at the marina and went our separate ways.
✽✽✽
It was a clear night. Ironic really, considering my head was so very unclear with muddled thoughts of Bugsy, Hagen, Cynthia, and Nat. I wrapped up some work emails and stepped out to the stern deck to see what stars the evening sky had to offer me. Tilting my head back, my eyes adjusted and I tried to remember what I’d picked up in my astronomy night course at the SSUO (Sonoma State University Observatory).
When I craned my head forward again and stretched my neck from side to side to get the kinks out, I noticed a flickering light on Nat’s boat.
At first, I thought it was a reflection of the streetlamp on the window of the cabin, but the longer I looked at it, the more I noticed its erratic movement. It’s a flashlight. I quickly ducked inside my boat, grabbed my cell phone from the sofa cushion, and hit Aggie’s name and the phone receiver icon next to it. Through the first two rings, I grumbled impatiently. “C’mon, pick up. Pick up.”
In the distance, I could see the lights on in her store and, after the third ring, the phone went to voicemail. Her outgoing message was belabored since, for the benefit of her relatives, she also included a version in French. “Ags, it’s me. I’m going over to Nat’s boat. I think there is someone on it. Anything happens to me, feed my cat and Pepper.”
I hung up and, in an irritated fashion, tossed the phone back on the sofa, closed the door to my boat, and hopped onto the dock.
The beam of light inside Nat’s boat danced around the salon. If Nat were back he’d surely just flick on the lights. I skulked up the dock and did my best to board the stern deck weightlessly. Once there, I reached for the gaff hook Nat kept in a cubby on the starboard side. A gaff hook, in case you didn’t know, is a pole with a hook on the end. It’s commonly used to assist in landing big sport fish. This one was five feet long, telescoping, and lightweight. The three-inch-thick steel hook on the end is the kicker, though, and it’s what I was counting on to save my butt if need be.
I tiptoed closer. The stern door of the Splendored Thing was wide open, sticking to it a remnant of the yellow police crime scene tape that flapped in the breeze. I could see the flashlight beam flicker a little more as it dodged around forward in the interior of the boat. I took one last look behind me down the dock, hoping in earnest that someone would be out walking on such a nice evening, but there was not a soul. Jack Junior’s boat was close, but all the lights were out and I hadn’t seen him since a brief chat that afternoon when he mentioned something about going to his daughter’s for dinner that evening.
I collected my gumption and bounded through the stern door. “Hey!” I said, probably not as loud as I thought I had.
I switched on the recessed lights in the salon and they cast a glow through to the galley, where I took myself with trepidatious steps. I felt the kind of stupid courage you get when you’re high on defending your turf, suddenly awash with a boldness that’s surreal and oftentimes foolhardy. The boat was quiet for a second before the shadowy figure with the flashlight came barreling at me from the direction of the forward cabin. I sank the gaff hook into whatever it would purchase before I was knocked into the galley counter, and the intruder grunted and scrambled off the boat.
I went down gracelessly. Like a bag of rocks. My forehead hit the marble pastry counter, and I felt the cupboard drawer hardware jam into my side. Ugh. That’ll leave a mark.
With the wind sufficiently knocked out of me, and having suffered a little shock, I decided the floor would be a good safe place to hang out for a bit. Perhaps even forward my mail. Though I wanted to get up and give chase, I had a feeling that the shadowy brute I’d just met was long gone, and I only hoped that the gaff hook had left him more than a little inconvenienced. Eventually, I groaned and righted myself from a crumpled mess lying on the floor to a slumped over mess sitting on the floor. I leaned my back against the base cupboards of the galley and splayed my legs out in front of me. When I sent my hand to the sharp pain on my forehead, it returned with a smear of blood, as I suspected it would. It hurt like hell and I was sure the cut would come with a bump the size of a baseball. Fortunately, I own a lot of hats and I think I look good in them. “Just five more minutes,” I sighed aloud. After all, what was my hurry?
It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps out on the dock. “Wait here,” someone said, and the boat shifted as I felt a person board. I was dreading coming face to battered face with the last guy, and I sat as quiet as a mouse. A few seconds later, Bugsy stepped into the dim light of the galley. I didn’t even have to look up to know it was him; those newish-looking work boots gave him away.
“Hi,” I said lowly, wincing when I finally looked up at him. I wasn’t sure what pained me more, the bang on the head or the fact that I had been discovered by him. Before long, he’d probably think I was a break and enter addict, some kind of adrenaline junkie.
“Hi,” he said, smirking, and he raised his eyebrows. “Are you alright?”
“Do I look alright?” I asked. Does anyone ever look alright slumped on the floor seeping blood from the temple?
Beedle yelled back over his shoulder. “You can come in, Aggie!” He took a step closer and crouched down to eye level with me. The blue of his shirt matched his eyes. “Want some help?” he asked and held out his hand to get me to my feet. With few other options at my avail — I’d thank Aggie for that later — I put my hand in his, and he brought me gently to a standing position. His hand was warm and bigger than I thought it’d be.
“Thanks,” I grumbled, embarrassed at my situation a
nd barely able to meet his eyes.
“What happened in here?” Aggie crowed as she walked inside the boat. She was a little late for the party with the baseball bat in her hand, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?
“I’m fine,” I said, though my head was really beginning to hurt and my pride was on life support.
“Come here,” Bugsy said, and he guided me by the shoulders to under the closest recessed light, where he then tucked a tall stool at my behind so I could sit. Next, he pulled out a handkerchief from his jeans pocket — a move that surprised me. Not many men carry handkerchiefs nowadays, and I hadn’t noticed a stack of them when I was snooping through his bureau during my prowling expedition some days earlier.
He put his hand under my jaw, tilted my head to catch the light, and dabbed at my forehead with the hanky he wet under the faucet. My eyes darted around at nothing in particular. I just couldn’t look at him for some reason. The closeness did something to me, and I could feel the rise and fall in my chest. I hoped he didn’t perceive my heavy breathing as that of the obscene phone call variety.
“You’ve got a bad cut here,” he said, shaking his head and putting pressure on the new dent in my topper.
“I’m fine,” I repeated.
“Did you get my message?” I asked, trying to make eye contact with Aggie who had moved to lean against the counter in the galley.
“Yeah, I got your message, but I was with him when you called,” she answered, using the bat in her hand to point at Bugsy.
Oh really? Even with the new cut on my forehead, I was able to arch my eyebrow at her.
“He was checking out the HVAC which is still acting up,” she volunteered.
“Mm-hmm,” I hummed back with a side of eye roll. I certainly was due no explanation.
“So, what in hell happened here?” she asked.
I jerked my head to face her. “I saw a light on in here, and some guy barreled into me on his way out.”
“Stand still,” Bugsy said crossly and repositioned the compress on my forehead.
“I’m fine!” I said for the third time, more agitated than ever.
“Listen, just stand still for a minute or I’ll give you the spanking you deserve,” Bugsy griped, though there was a smile buried in his tone somewhere.
“Oh, right. As if,” I looked back at him to say. When I did, I caught his halting blue eyes staring back at me from long lashes that Cynthia MacGregor-Grant would give her right arm for. I caught my breath in my throat, swallowed hard, and my eyes drifted down his face to the open vee of his blue polo shirt. Along the journey, I noticed every inch, every pore, every follicle. The perfectly-shaped nose freckled by the sun, the fullness of his bottom lip, the slightly cleft chin. It made me think of my late husband’s cleft chin. It’s not something you see every day. I lost myself for a moment as if time stood still.
I was finally jolted back into the here and now by his scolding words.
“Listen, the next time you see something going on over here, or anywhere else, don’t just jump in. What if that guy had a gun?”
“Yeah!” Aggie chimed in like a cheerleader turncoat.
I blinked away the haze in my eyes and let out a deep sigh. Siding with the enemy, huh? Something else I’d have to remember to thank her for. I slid Aggie a perturbed look and decided to talk to her later about the meaning of allegiances. I might also talk to her about the Chex Mix going on in my head. The mixture of matters of life and death and dead husbands and marina managers and missing friends.
“You’re going to have quite a bump there, but the bleeding’s stopped,” Bugsy said and positioned himself beside Aggie at the galley counter.
“Great,” I replied, avoiding eye contact with him like it was my job.
“Look on the bright side, you have an excuse to call Officer What’s-His-Name,” Bugsy added, handing me his hanky. “Keep it,” he said as he left the boat.
CHAPTER 9
It was Pie Day. Dammit. As if the debacle with the intruder on Nat’s boat the night before hadn’t been enough, to add insult to injury, the next morning I realized it would be the first Tuesday in over a year and a half that I wouldn’t be sharing pie and coffee with my buddy, Nat.
Sitting on the stern of my boat in its various stages of transformation, eking out a comfortable space for a few plates, cups of coffee, and poker, we reveled in our common interests and got to know each other. At least I thought we did. It’s possible I didn’t know Nat at all. Grim thoughts about where he was or what may have happened to him hung over me like a cloud. The bash I’d taken to the head the night before didn’t exactly thrill me either.
I’d managed a few hours of sleep thanks to some extra strength pain reliever and a cold compress which, as is generally the case, ended up somewhere in the bed. I considered the option of rolling over and going back to sleep. “Let’s try that again,” I said aloud, banishing the negative thoughts that threatened to ruin my day before it even began.
Replacing them were thoughts about Nat and the pies he made and how grateful I ought to be to have had those wonderful Tuesdays. I put my feet on the floor and, sure enough, I was able to put one in front of the other, like I’d always done, and I got on with the day’s mission. It was Pie Day. Dammit.
After completing my morning rituals which had been augmented by tending to the cut on my head, I boarded Nat’s boat with Pepper under the pretense of my caretaking obligations. My definition of caretaking meant checking the lines, hookups, keeping the decks clean, reporting any unusual activity and, of course, borrowing a pie plate.
The previous night’s encounter with the intruder qualified as unusual activity, but with a headache the size of Pittsburgh, all I really wanted to do after that was lay down. I’d put a call into Officer Hagen later when I wasn’t feeling so glum and looking like I’d just lost a fight.
After Bugsy had abruptly left us the night before, Ags and I surveyed the Splendored Thing. Nothing appeared to be missing, in so far as I could tell, anyway. After all, there was nothing of value that could easily be taken. The most valuable thing about the boat was the boat itself and the finishes. Electronics were all bolted down and, from what I’d seen, there was neither jewelry nor a collection of safes ripe for the picking.
The intruder from the night before was probably just someone looking to find something he could sell for drugs. The door had been jimmied open and, between Ags and I, we jerry-rigged a solution to keep the boat secure for the evening until Pike had a chance to make a permanent fix for the situation.
Once inside the boat, Pepper found a spot, sniffed it, and circled it thrice before committing to it with a groan. I stepped into the galley and gave the side eye to the unforgiving counter that had left its indelible impression on my forehead the night before. In the light of day, it didn’t appear menacing at all, and I shook my head, though it hurt a little to do so.
It seemed surreal that less than twelve hours earlier, I had been knocked on my butt by some flailing stranger. It seemed even more unbelievable that Bugsy had been the one to come to my aid. I shook off the feelings of the night before and moved on to the task at hand: the game of find the “Pi” plate.
Every Tuesday, without deviation, Nat served me pie from the same dish. It’s a white ceramic plate with the solution to Pi printed on the circumference. Identical to the one Jack Junior had loaned to Aggie to use for her tourtiere. It starts with 3.14159 and goes on about a hundred decimal places or so.
Having recently sussed out the box of boat keys at Bugsy’s, I was reasonably confident that I would find the plate in no time and soon be fighting with some homemade pastry. However, whether due to the knock to my noggin or plain ole ineptitude, I came up empty. I looked high and low for that thing.
Nat’s kitchen cupboards were tidy, efficiently laid out, clean, and in all respects would pass inspection by Good Housekeeping. There were other pie plates stacked a few high in the drawer under the oven, but using one of those just wou
ldn’t be the same. I critically scanned the galley, considering the other places and cubbies the plate could be stashed. The fridge was a bust, not much in it at all, not even anything for me to snack on while I was plate hunting.
In making my way around the galley, I moved to the desk just beneath the built-in shelves of cookbooks. I loved that Nat still liked to turn a page when he was creating in the kitchen and the books looked like they’d been handled with care. My cookbooks, on the other hand, usually end up with pages stuck together thanks to fingers made sticky with ingredients, proof positive that I’d made a certain dish. The print would invariably be obscured by dried egg or drips of other ingredients that made recreating the dish impossible.
I lost myself for a moment as I perused the spines of the books. There was a cookbook for every cuisine imaginable – Thai, Hungarian, Amish, Crock-Pot, firepit – you name it and he could cook it. Some of the recipe books were even in foreign languages, and I imagined how authentic those selections must taste.
Moving on, my gaze drifted over to the calendar pinned on the corkboard to the right of the desk. Pike Murray had printed them and sent them to customers of his machine shop as a Christmas giveaway the prior year. A crisp color photo of a vessel ushered in each new month. The poster gal for June is the Alex M. at sunset. Pike’d asked for permission to include her in the calendar and I agreed, but only on the condition that I got to select the photo. I never tire of seeing her picture; she really is a pretty boat — black hull with a red superstructure and white trim and yellow accents. She’s a classic. My eyes skimmed over the dates on the page, my birthday, days leading up to the last day I saw Nat. I hope I had been kind to him on that day.
Speaking of my birthday, Nat had a unique way of identifying appointments and dates to remember by use of acronyms or initials, like some kind of code. I smiled when I saw his note on the sixth of June. AM.30, presumably for Alex Michaels 30. That made sense to me.
When my birthday rolled around this year, he’d given me a small oil painting we found in the antique store up town. The subject was a rowboat pulled up on the shore of what looked like a tropical island. I hung it in the pilot house of the Alex M., and the night I laid in the bunk with Pepper wondering where Nat could be, I was comforted in some way by that painting.
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