Riptide

by Debbi Mack

  Riptide

  Debbi Mack

  Renegade Press

  Savage, MD

  Ripetide

  Copyright © 2012 Debbi Mack

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information contact Debbi Mack, www.debbimack.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9829508-4-5

  Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  Renegade Press

  P.O. Box 156

  Savage, MD

  DEDICATION

  For Joyce and Andrew Mack, my parents, two of the most stubborn individuals and, in their own way, the best role models I could ever have.

  For Rick Iacangelo, my husband, who’s stood beside this stubborn individual at the best and worst of times and always believed in me.

  *****

  JUNE 2006

  CHAPTER ONE

  The pounding woke me. I felt for the bedside lamp, turned it on, and looked around the unfamiliar room.

  The swimsuit flung onto the broken wicker chair told me I was in the right place.

  My best friend Jamila and I had rented the condo for a week, a gift to ourselves before pressing flesh at the annual bar association convention in Ocean City, Maryland. I usually bypassed the conference, along with Brussels sprouts and whiny kids, whenever possible. Jamila shamed me into going, since she was slated to speak. The topic was legal ethics. There wasn’t a room at the convention center big enough to accommodate everyone who should have attended.

  We had checked in on Saturday, aka “change day” in the world of beach rentals. Not that I’d know. This was my first vacation in forever.

  I’d left my case files, my calendar, my briefcase, and my cares back in my office on Main Street in Laurel. My neighbor Russell was looking after my cat Oscar in my stead. Russell is like the gay father I never had. He’s not a huge cat fan, but he’s a great friend.

  More pounding. The noise came from the front door. I glanced at the bedside clock. 1:35 A.M. What the fuck?

  The banging resumed. I rolled out of bed, trudged to the door and opened it. Jamila stood in the short hall between our rooms. She held a creamy white bathrobe closed across her sizeable chest.

  Jamila looked amazing for someone who’d been startled out of bed in the wee hours. Despite pillow-tousled hair and sleepy eyes, she was a dusky Queen of Sheba in figure-revealing silk to my anemic court jester in striped men’s pajamas.

  “Who on earth could that be, Sam?” Jamila hissed.

  “I don’t know.” My words were stupid and obvious.

  Another round of pounding. I moved to the door and peered through the peephole, before our visitor pounded his knuckles bloody.

  On the other side stood a uniformed cop.

  Sighing, I opened the door.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” the cop said.

  “Good morning, you mean.” Wail on my door in the middle of the night and you’re guaranteed an audience with the Wicked Witch of the West.

  The cop took a step back then recovered quickly.

  “Sorry to wake you at this hour—” he started.

  I cut him off. “Please tell me this doesn’t have to do with our friends on the first floor. I thought we had that straightened out.”

  “No ma’am. This is far more serious.”

  It better be. And quit calling me ma’am.

  I heard Jamila shuffle up behind me.

  A female officer moved into view. She consulted a notepad. “Are you Stephanie Ann McRae?” she asked.

  “Right. What’s this about?”

  The woman ignored me. “And you’re Jamila Williams?”

  “Yes.” Jamila sounded tired, unsure. She moved closer.

  “Is this yours, Ms. Williams?” The man held up a plastic bag containing a decorative tortoise shell comb. The four-pronged, fan-shaped comb was distinctively marbled.

  Jamila blinked. “Can I see that?”

  He handed it to her for inspection.

  “It … looks like one of mine,” she said. “One that I lost. Where did you find this?”

  The cops exchanged a look.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you need to come with us.”

  “What?” I said. “What the hell is this?”

  “Ms. Williams, we need to take you in for questioning.”

  Adrenaline pumped through me, bringing me to full alert. “Questioning?” My voice was shrill. “What’s going on?”

  “William Raymond Wesley has been murdered. We just need to ask you a few questions at the station.”

  The man droned on. The night had turned surreal. I tried to get more specifics, but Jamila silenced me with a raised hand. Probably didn’t want to look uncooperative. Reluctantly, I backed down.

  Everyone seemed to move in slow motion. The woman escorted Jamila to her room so she could get dressed.

  Who the hell is William Raymond Wesley?

  Then, I remembered.

  Jamila emerged in a warm-up suit. With a firm hand on Jamila’s arm, the female cop escorted her while holding onto an evidence bag with her pajamas and robe. Jamila and I exchanged a look that said she, too, recalled how we’d met the victim.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jamila and I had gone shopping for antiques on Sunday. Which is to say, Jamila wanted to shop for antiques and I dragged my ass along.

  We took a spin to a small shop outside Berlin, Maryland. A mom-and-pop outfit in the middle of nowhere. Inside the store, Jamila took her time browsing while I stifled yawns.

  A lacquered rosewood music box caught Jamila’s eye.

  “Isn’t that pretty?” she asked.

  I made approving noises. I had to admit, the image of kittens on the box was cute. However, I hate knickknacks. More stuff to gather dust and cat hair.

  After checking the price, Jamila made a counter offer. The saleswoman may have looked like Aunt Bee on the Andy Griffith Show, but she drove a hard bargain.

  Having reached a happy compromise, the lady wrapped Jamila’s new treasure and placed it in a gift box.

  “You all have a lovely day, girls,” she said, beaming as if life couldn’t get better.

  I followed Jamila to her silver Beemer. The spring in her step matched the saleslady’s mood. But not mine.

  “I was thinking, there’s another place only half a mile from here.” Jamila could barely contain her excitement.

  “Um, okay.”

  Jamila scrutinized me. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

  “Well …”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Guess you and I won’t be watching Antiques Roadshow together anytime soon.”

  “I’d take that bet.”

  *****

  We stopped for coffee then drove to the condo and parked in the lot. A group of twenty-somethings stood around a candy-apple red Corvette. They turned to look at us as we got out of the car. I recognized a couple of them. Renters in the condo beneath ours. They’d kept the stereo blasting until well after midnight the night before. I’d gone down and threatened to sic the cops on them. They had slammed the door in my face. I’d stomped back upstairs and made the call. I suspected I wasn’t high on their list of favorite people.

  “Hey!” one of the men called out. “You ain’t supposed to park here ’less you live here.”

  “We’re renters. We have permission,” I shot back, not stopping to engage him further. How is this your damn business, anyway? Who are you, the parking lot police?

 
“Well, that’s a fine thing,” the young man shouted. “Didn’t know niggers could rent here.”

  I ignored him, but I could feel my face grow hot with anger. The group snickered amongst themselves. A real rocket scientist, I mused. Probably a Harvard grad.

  “Hey!” he said again. “I’m talking to you.”

  The guy ran around and barred our entry to the exterior staircase leading to our unit. Jamila and I froze. I gazed at the gangly, sandy-blond kid. A real shit-kicker, based on looks alone. Grin a bit too goofy, beady eyes a bit too close set. His parents were probably first cousins.

  “I said, I didn’t know niggers could rent here.” He challenged Jamila with a withering look. Then it was my turn. I stared right back. I was ready to kick his nuts up to his neck. But all his friends were there. Things could get ugly. So I did nothing.

  Jamila was a vision of total calm. She didn’t even flinch when he used the N-word.

  I whipped out my cell phone. “Step aside or I call the cops.”

  “And have me arrested? For what, you dumb white bitch?” The blond began laughing. All his friends joined in.

  He had a point. He hadn’t done much of anything. Yet.

  “Excuse me,” Jamila said, trying to get past him.

  “Whoa, whoa! Don’t be pushing me around, girl. That’s battery, you know.”

  The others had drifted over. Guess they didn’t want to miss the big show.

  I eyed them surreptitiously. Two guys and two girls. All white. All corn-fed inbreds.

  The young man peered at me. “You’re the one called the cops on us, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes, I’m the one,” I said. “So why don’t you leave my friend out of it? And try not playing your music so loud you wake up people in Philadelphia.”

  “I didn’t break no rules. I can play music as loud as I want.”

  “Local ordinances say otherwise.” Ocean City had noise ordinances because of the overabundance of “June bugs” (the local term for rowdy high school kids doing their “school’s out” ritual) and bikers on Harleys with straight pipes.

  “Well, being that my daddy owns the building, I think I ought to know what I can and can’t do.”

  Oh, Christ. I’d about had it with the little shit. Jamila continued to look stoic, standing proudly erect.

  “Your daddy may own the place, but you can’t just ignore the law.” Asshole.

  Once again, Jamila tried to maneuver around the tall blond. He grabbed at the container Jamila held. A brief tussle ensued before he wrested it from her hand.

  “What’s this?” He tore the box open and tossed it aside. The wrapping paper sailed off on the breeze. “Well, ain’t that cute?” He surveyed the antique music box like he’d unearthed it from an archeological dig.

  “Hey, check this out, guys.” He waved the music box around.

  The group drew closer. Their eyes were vacant. They simply followed the leader.

  Jeez! What is this? Day of the Dead? The Ocean City Zombie Brigade?

  “So, tell me,” the young man said. “How does a nigger afford a fancy car and a fancy box like this?”

  Jamila stayed silent for a long moment. “Give that back,” she finally said, in a firm voice.

  “How do I know it’s yours? You probably stole it.”

  The group snickered again. They sounded like a pit of rattlesnakes.

  I was losing it, so I tried to snatch the box. The kid threw it to someone in the group. They tossed it back and forth like a hot potato.

  Jamila’s look never wavered, but I could sense desperation, worry, and anger. The two male friends circled around me and Jamila as they played catch with their leader.

  I tried to make another grab for the box as it sailed past. It bounced off my fingers and smashed on the pavement. The delicate inlay shattered. The box lay scratched and splintered. And no amount of Krazy Glue could repair it.

  A string of curse words passed through my mind. Jamila retained her impassive expression, but I knew she probably wanted to cry. I wanted to impale myself on the nearest stake.

  “Don’t go blaming me for that,” the young man taunted. “I’da caught it, if you hadn’t gotten in the way.”

  “And this whole thing wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t grabbed it and started throwing it around, you ass wipe.” I’d reached my limit.

  “Aren’t you the tough girl?” The young man lorded it over me.

  “Why don’t you leave them be, Billy Ray?” The voice was female, faltering and soft. The face was pretty, the hair light brown and shoulder length, the eyes hazel and sincere.

  “Don’t be telling me what to do, Danni!” The kid snapped. “You ain’t my girl no more. You can’t be bossing me around.”

  “Well, isn’t she the lucky one?” I muttered into Jamila’s ear. She gave the ghost of a smile.

  “What did you say?” Billy Ray turned his rabid, beady gaze my way.

  “Just sharing my thoughts about you. Nothing important.”

  Billy Ray didn’t catch the obvious slam. Nor did he budge.

  “She’s right, Billy Ray.” One of the other guys spoke up. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  “Hmmph.” Billy Ray looked disgusted. “Fine thing, when a nigger and her little white girlfriend can make me leave my daddy’s property.”

  He continued to stand in our way.

  “C’mon, Billy Ray!” The other girl whined. “I’m bored.”

  The whiner was a pretty redhead with fair skin, green eyes, and big tits, which she showcased to great advantage in a tight tank top.

  “Well …” he said.

  “I want to leave now!” the redhead demanded.

  “Hey, Billy Ray,” one of the guys said. “That is your girl talking. Wanna get any tonight or not?”

  The boys chuckled. I glanced between Billy Ray and Big Red. He looked torn by indecision. She stared him down and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them up to her chin.

  I felt sick, shuddering to think how these pathetic losers must live. Big Red seemed to be enjoying her hold over Billy Ray. Jesus, girl! Get a life.

  Billy Ray nodded decisively, as if he was in charge. “Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here. This is getting dull.”

  As he stalked off, Big Red glided toward him and grabbed his arm, like a drowning woman lunging at a flotation device.

  “We’re having another party tonight,” he shot over his shoulder at us. “We’ll try to keep it down so you old folks can sleep.”

  The others guffawed as they followed him—all except Danni. The quiet girl held back long enough to say, “It’s not even his daddy. It’s his stepdaddy.” She ran to join the others piling into the red Corvette.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jamila said nothing as we climbed the stairs and let ourselves in. I cleared my throat. “I guess the Welcome Wagon has changed its approach.”

  Jamila walked to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony and simply stared. Apparently, my attempt at humor wasn’t cutting it.

  I tried to think of something—anything—else to say. I failed.

  Sighing, I parked myself on the couch and hit the TV remote. I had to create some noise or the silence would deafen me.

  Jamila kept her watch at the window, surveying the bay’s waters as if expecting a Navy Seal attack.

  I flipped through channels, interested in nothing.

  “You know, I used to live in Salisbury.”

  Jamila’s words jolted me. I muted the sound and dropped the remote in my lap.

  “I didn’t know you were from the Eastern Shore.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She sighed. “My family hasn’t been back since we moved to D.C. It’s been years. They always preferred to vacation on Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “I’ve never been there,” I said.

  “It’s beautiful. So’s Nantucket.” She kept staring out the window.

  “A lot of … well-t
o-do people go there,” I said. Filthy rich people, I thought. The kind who would look at me with disdain or, even worse, pity as a child living in the worst part of Brooklyn.

  “My family was well-to-do.” She spit the words at the window. “Is, I should say. Money hasn’t been a problem for a long time. My parents have made sure of that. They were raised to become better than their own parents.”

  I nodded, even though she wasn’t looking.

  “All their money, their influence, their good friends,” Jamila continued. “But they can’t change one thing. They’ll never be white. And neither will I.”

  I grimaced. “You don’t want to be white. It’s boring.”

  A grin twisted the corners of Jamila’s lips. But when she turned to me, the grin had gone lopsided. “I could stand for that kind of boredom right about now.”

  “I know. Believe me, I do.” I looked her in the eye. “I’ve told you about how I used to be the only white kid in Bed-Stuy, right? Would it shock you to know that I used to wish I was black?”

  Jamila shook her head. “You don’t want to be black. It’s anything but boring.”

  *****

  The next day, we planned to spend time hanging around Assateague. Jamila hoped to catch a glimpse of wild ponies or egrets or blue herons. It all sounded very charming, as long as we brought along enough mosquito repellent and sunscreen. I wish I could call myself a nature lover, but I tend to go more for pictures of the great outdoors than its actuality.

  After smearing my exposed skin with SPF-80, I pulled on a floppy hat to keep the sun’s rays from barbecuing my face.

  “Do I need to bring a machete?” I asked.

  “You are a laugh riot,” Jamila said, inserting a last barrette. “Don’t worry. We’ll stick to the trails.” She had her hair pinned up and was decked out in jeans, a short-sleeved shirt and sturdy hiking boots appropriate for a Borneo jungle trek.

  We gathered our goods—water canisters, a camera, binoculars, granola bars, fruit rollups, and a couple of packages of M&Ms (my contribution)—and made our way down to the parking lot. Which looked to be asshole free.