Ahoy!

by Maggie Seacroft

  I flipped ahead to see July’s boat of the month, and there was Nat’s boat, the Splendored Thing, winking at me. August hosted Aquarotic and September found the Great Escape. I skipped back through a few of the earlier months looking for Just Aboat Perfect, hoping she was in there. If she was, I’d try to get a copy of the original photo framed as a boat warming gift for the new owner, Stephen Richards. She was the first boat in the calendar, pictured for Jnauary – Pike had misspelled the month on the homemade calendars — and I made a mental note to ask him for the original picture.

  No pie plate in the desk drawer either. Instead, I found a few bills on which Nat had written “Paid”, along with Pepper’s vaccination folder and Nat’s passport. I looked at the picture. As passport pictures go, it was a nice one. I was lost in thought when I was jarred by the arrival of someone, and my breath caught in my throat as I looked toward the stern hoping to see Nat.

  “Anybody home?”

  I looked to see Jack Junior in the salon of the boat heading my way, and I tried not to seem disappointed.

  “Hey, kiddo, I thought I saw you come this way. What, uh… what are you doing?” he asked. His voice was laced with concern as though he’d already spoken to Loose Lips Aggie that morning and my tale of taking a header into the galley cabinets was now public knowledge.

  “Oh, I was out of butter,” I replied, the snappiest comeback I could muster given the remnants of the dull ache still in my head.

  “I was just over at Aggie’s. She told me about what happened last night. You ok? Sounded kinda rough.” Jack leaned against the galley counter, a travel mug in his hand; he was probably on coffee two or three.

  “Oh sure, I’m fine. Just a scratch.” I nodded. “What’s up, Jack? Just out stealing hearts this morning?” I smiled. At seventy going on seventeen most days, Jack had a glint in his eye and pep in his step that was only hampered occasionally by his arthritis or sciatica. He could easily pass for someone ten years younger and I wondered if he might one day fill the void Nat had left in my life with coffee dates, fatherly advice, and spirited debates about which John Wayne movie reigned supreme.

  “Oh, I was just out looking for someone to come to poker tomorrow night. Shears says he’s going on a date,” Jack grumbled, rolled his eyes, and took a sip of his beverage. “This where you smacked your head?” he asked as he felt the edge of the glossy marble of the Carrera countertop.

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Jack?”

  “Yeah, kid.” He looked at me intently.

  “Where’d you and Nat get those pie plates you have? You know, the one you loaned Aggie. I think I’d like to get one for myself.”

  Jack took a sip from his mug then made a face like he was straining to remember. “I, uh, think it was at a flea market.” He nodded.

  “Oh yeah? Which one?” I asked and looked beyond the galley to the stern to notice Pike walking up the dock.

  “How should I remember? They all start to look the same,” he replied and I nodded. Truer words were never spoken.

  “Mm-hmm,” I said. “Maybe we can go sometime and you can help me find one like it,” I said, smiling and turning my gaze to see Pike boarding the boat. Flea marketing with Jack might just be the gateway to pie and fatherly advice.

  “Kid, you can have it when Aggie’s done with it.” He smiled a consoling grin and his blue eyes twinkled with kindness.

  “Somebody here order a handsome handyman?” Pike hollered as he entered the salon and then headed into the galley until he was leaning with Jack against the counter.

  “Ha, ha. Yes, did you see the door?”

  “Yeah, I can fix that. Fixing that, though, will take more time,” he said, nodding at my latest injury. “How’s your head?” he asked and made a face as though it were painful just to look at.

  I shrugged. “I’ll live.”

  I reached into the drawer under the oven and plucked out a generic nine-inch baking dish. “I’m making a pie,” I added by way of explanation, and in short order I had two volunteers eager to taste test my concoction.

  As Pepper and I walked with Jack and Pike to make our leave, my companion picked out a chew toy that met with his approval and, from the brass hook near the stern door, I picked up Nat’s blue-and-white cotton windbreaker. I’d been drawn to it by the aroma of soap and suntan lotion and just a hint of aftershave. I buried my nose in the jacket before folding it over my arm and heading off to the grocery store to buy pie-making essentials.

  ✽✽✽

  “That doesn’t look good,” I heard a voice say over the debate I was having in my head about whether to buy salted or unsalted butter for the pie crust I intended to make. I looked up to see Stephen Richards about two feet away from me, angling to get a better look at the cut on my head. I would have offered a smart comeback had I not remembered that the new owner of the Just Aboat Perfect, is also a doctor and his assessment was probably accurate. I put both blocks of butter in my basket, choosing not to trust my memory.

  “Oh, hi there,” I said and put my hand to the bandage that fully covered the cut but not the bruise. “Yes, I had an accident last night,” I explained guiltily as if it had been my fault.

  “An accident, huh? The way your friend tells it, you were mowed down by a prowler,” the doctor offered, and I made a mental note to speak to Aggie about oversharing.

  “Yes, I guess that’s a tad more accurate,” I said, smiling away my irritation.

  “Well, if you want me to take a look or if it gives you trouble, just let me know. I’ll be staying on the boat for a couple weeks,” he said. “I’m just getting familiar with the stores here in town,” he added and hoisted his basket of food as if I’d doubted what he told me. “You must like butter,” he quipped, taking note of the two pounds of it I’d placed in my basket.

  “Baking a pie today. You can stop by and be my guinea pig if you’d like.” I smiled, though my head was beginning to hurt. Maybe it was from pretending I was alright after everything that’d gone on, maybe it was from politely dodging my fellow shoppers who had stopped to ask me about Nat, or maybe it was just the bump on my head, but my discomfort must have shown because Stephen Richards insisted on giving me a lift back to my boat. I even took him up on his offer to walk Pepper when he explained that he missed the dog he used to have and how Pepper reminded him of her.

  ✽✽✽

  With my four-legged tripping hazard gone on a play date, I headed down forward to lose myself in my pie-making endeavor, choosing the least difficult, highest-rated recipe for crust I could locate on the internet. I hadn’t baked a pie in years and had never baked one in the galley of my boat.

  The galley, by the way, is laid out differently than you’d find a regular kitchen. And, unlike the rest of the boat’s living quarters, the layout to which I’d changed dramatically, I left the galley in pretty much the state it’d been while the Alex M. was in commercial service.

  The steps that come down from the main floor passageway split the galley in half. On the right side is bench seating and a long work/ dining table, dead ahead at the foot of the stairs is a vee-shaped counter with a big sink and loads of storage, and to the left of the stairs you find the fridge, oven, microwave, floor to ceiling pantry, and another counter space with a stainless-steel top that would be perfect for rolling out pie crust.

  The only thing I’d added to the galley by way of an update was surround sound because everyone likes a little kitchen dancing, don’t they? I descended the steep steps to the galley and headed left to unload my groceries and make my crust while I tried to recall where I had stowed the rolling pin I owned. If necessary, I’d improvise with a stainless-steel thermos I had kicking around or head back over to Nat’s on another scavenging mission.

  I clicked on my favourite oldies station and got down to business, reading the ingredients and instructions aloud like I was the host of my own cooking show. “Aha, chilled unsalted butter. Okey dokey, I’ve got ya covered.”

  A song I knew came on
the radio and I decided to sing along. I tried as best I could to accompany Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons as we sang “Late December back in sixty-three, whaaaaaaat a very special time for me, as I remember what a night, boom, boom, boom...”

  I cut the chilled butter into the flour and salt and sugar. Remembering that my rolling pin was stuffed in the cubby under the bench seat on the other side of the galley, along with a juicer I never used, I proceeded in that direction. Suddenly invigorated by the music, I waggled my shoulders while I strained to hit those falsetto notes with Frankie. “Oh I—I—I-I-I, I got a funny feeling when I—" My caterwauling halted abruptly though as I came face to face with Bugsy standing at the foot of the stairs.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I said as I clutched my chest to keep my heart from leaping out of it.

  “Hi,” he said, red-faced.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Oh, since about December back in sixty-three.” He smiled and I wanted to rip those damn dimples off his face.

  “Yeah, yeah. What do you want?” I asked. “I haven’t taken anything from your house lately.”

  “What are you doing?” he asked, not answering my question.

  “I am baking a pie, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “What kind of pie?”

  “A regular pie,” I said, squinting up at him.

  “That’s not a kind of pie,” he argued back.

  “Well, I hadn’t decided yet. I have apples, cherries—" I motioned to the other side of the galley where I’d unloaded things while I wondered why he’d changed the subject.

  “How about rhubarb?”

  “How about no,” I replied sharply, scowling.

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody eats a rhubarb pie when they can have cherry. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Some people like rhubarb.” He was matter-of-fact and had still not explained why he was on my boat.

  “Well, other people like some people to announce when they are spying on those people, and I think you know who some people are, don’t you?” No matter how convoluted I may have sounded, I was dead serious.

  “I think it’s time for me to go.” He grasped the railing and turned to head up to the main deck.

  “What did you want in the first place?”

  He looked around the galley then at me. “What was the question?”

  “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I said, enunciating every word with precision like I was teaching English as a second language.

  “Oh. Right. Did you call Officer What’s-His-Face to report what happened last night?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I plan on it,” I replied indignantly.

  “You making that pie for him?”

  I sighed hard. “What do you want, Bugsy? Your handkerchief?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Nothing. I have to go,” he said hurriedly and rushed up the stairs.

  I took a few steps up, and I could see him walking hastily down the corridor and exit my boat, and he closed the heavy door behind him. I shook my head thinking what a strange encounter that had been and turned back to more important things like pie.

  The impromptu visit from Bugsy may just have left me discombobulated because the first crust I made turned out badly and had to be pitched. The second attempt, while more successful, had resulted in an unfortunate flour spilling incident which made me wish I had worn an apron. The final product was a great crust, but the navy blue boatneck shirt I wore ended up looking like something inspired by Jackson Pollock.

  I was placing the pie — I had decided on cherry — on the cooling rack on the table on the other side of the galley when I turned to see feet coming down the stairs into the room. I expected to see Stephen Richards with Pepper in tow but was instead met with a pair of lug-soled shoes I recognized.

  CHAPTER 10

  “What are you doing here?” I looked up at Officer Hagen as he stared down at me from the third step of the galley stairs. I doubted the extent of my head injury momentarily and wondered if I had called him and had just forgotten he was coming over.

  “Do you have something you need to tell me?” he asked, taking a seat on the third step and searching my face as though he were waiting for a confession.

  “I —" My hand went immediately to the bandage at my temple. My head was throbbing again. I tried to laugh a little to downplay the incident. “Funny thing… I was going to call you to tell you about what happened last night.”

  “When were you going to call me?” he asked in a tone I couldn’t decide was more accusatory or concerned.

  “When I had a moment. I was getting around to it.” I sighed and rolled my eyes, plunked myself down on the bench seat, and looked at the man who seemed to be taking inventory of the galley. “Last night I didn’t exactly feel up to talking.”

  “So, you have time to bake but not to call me to report what happened,” he said, nodding at the pie on the cooling rack. He sighed and shook his head as though he were personally disappointed in me. “Are you ok?” he asked, his tone leaning toward compassionate this time.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You don’t look fine.” He gave me a half-smile and warm eyes.

  “Well, all things considered, today’s look is an upgrade from how you usually see me,” I said, looking down at the dusting of flour on my shirt and wondering why it was that I simply could not keep myself tidy.

  Hagen’s smile broadened. “So, what happened?” He flipped up the cover of his notepad and assumed the position. He’d have to stock up on those little booklets if he was planning to spend more time with me.

  I explained to him that I’d seen some activity on Nat’s boat the night before and I interrupted a prowler in mid-prowl. I went on about the jimmied door and how, as the official caretaker of the vessel, I’d asked Pike to fix the lock situation.

  “That’s it!” I said, wincing at the exclamation point I had added to my story. “How did you find out about it? Aggie?” I asked lowly.

  “No. That Bugsy guy,” Hagen said, adopting the moniker I so enjoyed using. “He’s a bigger armchair detective than you are.” Hagen smiled my way and, if I hadn’t been in so much pain, I’d have probably swooned inwardly at his smile, but I couldn’t muster the energy and I was trying to concentrate on what he was saying.

  “Look, since the disappearance of Mr. Grant, we’ve been doing added patrols in the area and the marina. I’ll see if I can get them to bump up the frequency. In the meantime, will you do me a personal favour and don’t go off on your own at night?”

  “I’ll try.” I smiled back at him and, after giving a brief description of the intruder, I walked Hagen to the stern deck where I crossed my heart and vowed to tell him of any activity of any kind regarding any boat or any person at any time, day or night. Then I collapsed in a nap on the couch in my salon.

  ✽✽✽

  I woke to the thudding of footsteps and clicking of claws on the deck of the Alex M. Dr. Stephen Richards had returned with Pepper and, before I knew it, both were sitting next to me. One was cutting a new strip of bandage for the laceration on my head. The other was curled up at my feet. Richards applied the dressing and issued me a pain reliever before he fed my livestock and pulled a quilt over me, wishing me pleasant dreams and closing the door as quietly as was possible.

  Whatever miracle drug he’d doled out worked, and I managed to sleep off what felt like a doozy of a hangover. When I opened my eyes and looked to the porthole, it was nearly dark outside and I didn’t know immediately if it was day or night. I felt no fog of a heavy sleep and I felt energized. A quick look in the direction of the Just Aboat Perfect told me that Doctor Richards was either not home or had retired early. All the lights were out, and the boat gave off a distinctly Do not Disturb vibe. I’d save the pie for the next day.

  A single
headlight appeared in the not too far off distance then zoomed out of the marina, and I gathered that Aggie was also indisposed for the evening. A look at the darkened windows of Jack Junior’s boat and I assumed a pop-up poker game or get together with the gang was on his agenda for the evening.

  I bit the inside of my mouth as I stared out and considered my options. There was no sense in going to bed early since I’d just gotten up and, with my second wind, I felt like getting out. When I spotted lights on at Bugsy’s, I figured I’d repay him the favour of an impromptu visit.

  I mixed myself a mini margarita and walked down the dock with my plastic cup of trouble, headed to a fate unknown, eying the cottage of our resident operations manager or whatever he was calling himself that day. Liquid courage kept my feet pointing in that direction, though my nerve waned a little the closer I got to the front porch. The glow from beyond the sheers was in almost every window, which told me both that he was likely home and that his utilities must be thrown in for free.

  My trusty sneakers and I reached the front porch in what I can only assume was a stealthy manner as my presence appeared to have gone undetected. I peered into the front window, straining my eyes to try to see through the gauzy sheers and my margarita-induced buzz. Hmm, no one in the front sitting room.

  I took notice that the moving boxes were still piled up before I walked around the side of the cottage to the kitchen window. I wondered what delight this bachelor was cooking up and pondered also how I could play my cards right to get an invitation to dine. Single men are often the best cooks, I find, but at that point, I’d have settled for Chef Boyardee. To my disappointment, there was no sign of Bugsy in the kitchen and no cooking smells wafting my way. Well, who would leave the house with all the lights on, for heaven’s sake? I practically wanted to burst through the door with a battering ram in the name of environmentalism.