Death of a Hot Chick

by Norma Huss

  “The first one’s gonna get you riled.”

  I turned around, stepped away from the wheel, and stared at Gregory. “So I’m riled. What am I riled up about?”

  He pulled his face into unaccustomed solemnity and spoke with faux sternness. “You will treat me with respect. I’m your captain. You will address me, thus: ‘Yes, Captain,’ ‘No, Captain,’ or even ‘Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.’ Please go below and return properly uniformed. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Sir Gregory,” I said, running below just before he split a gut laughing.

  The T-shirt he’d laid out repeated the colors of his sign—the blue-green waves of rolling sea. The shirt had his logo, Norris Charters printed in red over a spoked wheel in yellow. Over the logo were yellow letters spelling, “Cyd.” The cap was white with that same logo and a lot of the yellow “scrambled eggs” on the visor usually reserved for captains. I couldn’t figure out whether to be pleased or mad as hell. I would reserve judgment.

  I changed, stashed my own T-shirt in the cabinet under the sink, adjusted the hat to fit, and stepped out of the head. The catering crew had arrived.

  Gregory stood over a kid loading the prepared food. Evidently the boy wasn’t listening, because Gregory said, “Hey. Put the food in this refrigerator. That one’s for the fish and bait.”

  “Oh, sure,” the kid said, slamming a door that was plainly marked, “FISH AND BAIT.” “You want the drinks in here too?”

  “No, put them in the ice chest on deck.”

  After he left, I said, “You didn’t mention my other duties. I’m the galley slave, right?”

  Instead of answering, he waved his finger in circles.

  With my reserved judgment building toward mad, I spun around. When I again faced him, he said, “You’ll have to get a new pair of boat shoes. No socks. Crisp, freshly pressed white shorts would be appreciated as well. But the legs are right up there. Yeah, you’ve got the legs, CeeCee.”

  “Will that be all, Captain Sir?” I demanded. Definitely mad. I darted past him and bolted out the door into the pilot house. Why had I ever told him that Granny named me after the dancing Cyd and both my parents deferred to her? Long baby legs had certainly never made me a dancer. I stood, arms crossed close to my body, and stared at the water, trying hard to calm myself. I heard his step behind me, but I didn’t turn.

  “I could always get you going, couldn’t I?” he asked. When I still didn’t turn, he touched me lightly on a protruding elbow. “Just teasing. Okay?”

  I felt his breath on my ear. I jerked away and turned. But lashing out would only keep him teasing me. I took another deep breath and forced a smile. “Yes, Sir. Will that be all, Sir? Or, do you have other duties you wish performed? I’m an excellent navigator. I’ll be happy to set our course. What will our destination be for today?”

  “That’s it. Navigator and galley slave.” His eyes gleamed. He knew damn well I was close to exploding. “Will you program my guidance system as well? Then I’ll sit back and watch you not steering the boat because you haven’t taken your captain’s test yet.”

  He also knew all his equipment was newer than anything I’d used when I worked commercially. I wouldn’t blow up. I swallowed my anger, widened my eyes and smiled despite an urge to kick him where it would do the most good. “I’m just an old-fashioned girl. Do you have any paper charts and a compass?” I hesitated, then added, “Sir.”

  “Sorry, Cyd. You are just so teaseable. I’ll behave like a proper captain from here on in.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Sir.” Apology made and accepted, but not quite as if the intervening years had never occurred. No, I could no longer bounce back. Too much had come between.

  He chuckled. “The course is all ready to go. But you could check out the refreshments. After we get underway we’ll feed the troops, so get things prepared while I set up on deck, then come up on the dock with me to greet our guests.”

  However, either the men were early, or I was too slow finding where the serving dishes were, checking what foods needed what dishes, and lining them up, for I soon heard voices on deck. I fanned the napkins on trays and headed up through the hatch.

  They were all on the bow, checking out the two fishing seats Gregory had installed. Five men, all dressed in some nautical catalogue’s idea of the perfect fishing costume from their captain’s caps to their white, gum-soled boat shoes. I untied the stern line, looped it around the cleat, then over the safety line, ready for quick release. I hopped off the boat and headed forward on the dock. On the boat, the men were getting the full tour.

  One of the men asked Gregory, “So, you know all about the fish out there, right?”

  “As much as anyone,” he answered.

  Some fishermen, I thought as I stood ready to catch the forward line, should Gregory toss it, or even notice me.

  “I thought we’d have our refreshments on the way out to the site,” Gregory said. He added, “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Joline.”

  Oh, Oh. Mr. Joline, here. Why didn’t I ask who his client was? I pulled my visor down, but it didn’t hide my face. I peeked.

  “Of course, of course.” That was Mr. Joline, and he kept talking. “Curtis, I’ll guarantee you a big fish. Even if I have to buy it on shore.” He laughed, and so did all the others.

  Big joke. Big joker.

  Gregory said, “Hey, Cyd, catch.” He tossed the forward line. As I looped it over a hook on the piling, he added, “Remove the stern line too. Start the engine, then take charge of the spring line.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I muttered. I stepped aboard mid-ship, released the stern line and leaned down to swing it over its hook on the piling. Fortunately, I remembered how to start an engine. He’d been going on trust there. After I adjusted the fuel to keep her at a steady idle, I double-ended the spring line and stepped on the dock, ready to push off and step aboard before Norris Wave got too far away. I tugged at my visor even though it didn’t hide my face. I kept my eyes down.

  Gregory led his customers back. “I’d like you all to wear life vests,” he said and opened the deck box. “That’s Cyd on the dock, my second in command today.”

  After a chorus of greetings, I replied. “Good morning, Gentlemen.” I didn’t look up. I stood, one hand on the life line.

  Gregory passed me the spring line and whispered, “What’s with the incognito?”

  I shrugged, then placed the line on its hook. Spend a day on the boat with Mr. Joline? Maybe I’d just push the boat off and forget to climb aboard. But I knew that wasn’t an option, not if I ever wanted to work for Gregory again.

  Chapter 16

  Gregory gave me a hand-up, completely unaware of my “get-out-of-town” instinct. “Check the drinks box back there,” he said with a wave of his hand. “That kid is new. Make sure he included the ice.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I mumbled. When I got my ticket punched, I’d be the one giving orders. To someone else—definitely not to him.

  “Oh, and put that life vest on. Gotta stay professional.”

  I grabbed the vest first. It was one of those skinny automatic-inflatable PFDs, not a nice fat one that would cover the name on my T-shirt. Still I managed to push most of the name underneath. I opened the drink chest. Full of ice. I couldn’t hide my face as easily as I’d hidden my name. But Gregory would call me again, by name.

  I’d anticipate, do everything I could think of so he wouldn’t call me. Spend a lot of time below. Yes. “What time do you want to serve lunch?”

  “Take us forty-five minutes to get there. Say, in fifteen minutes. Give them a half hour to eat before fishing.”

  “Will they eat below or up here?”

  “Hey, you’ve been on a fishing boat before. Keep them topside. If they’re gonna puke, it won’t be in my salon.”

  “Gotcha!” I charged below. A hanging-around-the-helm lunch. Gregory did have plenty of cup holders clipped on the lifelines. He had a small table to unfold in the cockpit. I arranged vege
tables and dip, chips and dip, assorted wraps and condiments, plus cheese squares and pretzels on the large, covered serving trays conveniently stacked near the fridge. I took a couple of large trash bags topside and clipped them to the lifeline, one on each side of the boat.

  Gregory had set the auto-pilot and was forward, making jokes. Or something. I opened up the little table, and went below. About ten minutes later I had the serving trays ready.

  “Just hand the food up,” Gregory said.

  After I passed the last tray, he took my hand and pulled me up the stairs. Then, still firmly grasping my hand, he said in a nice loud voice, “Gentlemen, lunch is served.” As they came closer, he added, “And, like every ecologically correct mariner, we have a few rules to observe. Cyd will tell you all about them.”

  I bit my lip, shook my head, all to no avail. “Cyd?” he repeated.

  He was going on trust again–maybe even hoping I’d goof up big time. He winked, and that did it. Definitely putting me on the spot. What had I told customers those many years ago? So I didn’t remember the exact words, but I could certainly wing it. Looking directly at a man who wasn’t Mr. Joline, I began.

  “Gentlemen, we believe in protecting the Chesapeake Bay, and keeping care of it for future generations of not only fishermen and women, but the wildlife and plants that struggle to live in this environment.” How did the rest of it go? “To that end, we will not throw anything in the water. Note the trash bags on either side of the boat. Please place everything you don’t eat into one of the bags. The management thanks you. The bay thanks you. And, generations to come thank you.”

  Somebody clapped. I ran down the stairs, passed through the galley, and locked myself in the head. I placed my elbows on the sink, my chin in my hands, and stared at my reflection. Yep, I still looked like myself. Nope, Mr. Joline hadn’t hollered at me for living on “his daughter’s” boat. Not yet. Had he even looked at me? Heard my name?

  Okay, what could he possibly do? Holler—yeah. Accuse. He certainly couldn’t kill me in front of so many witnesses. Unless he pushed me overboard, accidentally. I would go topside. I would face—whatever. Maybe not face him. Maybe try to stay in the background, keep my head down. I yanked my visor, unlocked the door, and headed for the stairs.

  Nobody jumped out at me. Mr. Joline and the other men sat or stood, munching and chatting, talking about big fish. Mr. Joline kept changing the subject.

  “Wonderful how able-bodied people can enjoy Chesapeake Bay and the many sports and activities, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yeah, what is this new charity you’re talking up?” one of the men asked.

  Another said, “What, exactly, does Total Living Futures mean?”

  Mr. Joline went right into his pitch, describing the handicapped who miss so much of the human experience, extolling the pleasures of wheel-chair fishing, children on crutches feeling the breeze in their hair, and the elderly reflecting on a more active past. Not a one of the men asked how he was going to get a wheelchair up on the bow of a boat.

  They were still talking when Gregory said, “Cyd, take the wheel while I set the anchor.”

  “Really?” I said quietly.

  “Allowed. I’m in control. Checked it,” he whispered. With his back to the others he pulled his thumb toward himself. “Back up,” he whispered. Quickly, and quietly, he told me his signals for forward, gun it, slow, and kill the engine. “Got it?”

  I had it. Things were coming back to me. I wouldn’t have needed his signals to know what to do. Setting an anchor was still the same as when Finley and I were beginning to get small commercial jobs.

  After we anchored, I finally began to relax. Evidently Mr. Joline didn’t remember me. I didn’t push it, but I did fasten a trash bag forward and pass fresh drinks around when the men began to fish. Mostly, Gregory stayed near them, answering questions, at the ready in case anyone wanted to know more about the area or his charter service. And, mostly, I enjoyed sitting in the back, reveling in the sky, the birds, and mostly, the bay.

  I was half asleep and hadn’t noticed Gregory join me when he said, “Wonder what Mr. Joline meant?”

  “About what?”

  “Hey, that’s why I had you take the wheel.”

  “About what?” I repeated. “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Guess your assistant doesn’t know much about boats.’ ”

  I jerked upright. “What?” I leaned back. “I mean, what did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t go into details, if that’s what you want to know.” He leaned forward with that grin that, face it, could still turn me into jelly. “Told him you were my right-hand man. Could be true, you know.”

  “My sister told him I was a boat expert,” I muttered. There were two kinds of “turning to jelly,” and the second kind overtaking me wasn’t good. I rushed below, out of Mr. Joline’s sight, should he turn around to look. I didn’t need to lock myself in the head to realize things were not going well and there was absolutely nothing I could do. I had to tough it out.

  When we returned to the dock, Gregory put the engine in neutral, I grabbed a line from the piling, and looped it several times around the cleat. Gregory put the engine in reverse for a moment, and the boat halted, right beside the steps on the dock. I opened the gate and stood aside as the passengers left. Mr. Joline was last in the line. He stopped in front of me.

  “Ms. Denlinger,” he said, “I understand you claim to own my boat. We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?”

  ~ ~

  Late afternoon, and cutting it close for any office to be open. I convinced myself that if I hurried, I might make it to the law office of J. Smith Owens, Esquire. Instead of J. himself sitting in the lobby, a woman of indeterminate age, but definitely determined mein, sat as the gatekeeper.

  I didn’t have an appointment.

  Yes, J. was present, but fully booked.

  I could wait if I wanted, but she couldn’t guarantee anything. So I waited. And watched the time go by. And, after an hour, the gatekeeper stood, opened a drawer, took out her gigantic purse, and suddenly remembered me.

  “Excuse me. Are you still here?” she asked. After she scanned my dazed expression, due to nearly falling asleep over an ancient NYU Law Review, she said, “He left some time ago.” Then, in explanation, she added, “There is another door.”

  I was already late for our detecting meeting at Finley’s. She wanted us there by five. I called Kaye’s cell phone. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m late,” I said. “Be there in ten.” I hung up before Kaye could complain.

  Okay, so it took fifteen minutes to get there. They’d started eating pizza without me.

  “Where were you?” Kaye demanded.

  “Is Teddy coming?” I asked.

  Kaye said, “You’re just going to waltz in here and not tell us where you’ve been? I went by the boat, and you weren’t there.”

  “Nope. I guess Teddy isn’t coming.”

  “Got two pieces left,” Finley said as she popped the last of the pizza into her microwave.

  “If you must know, I was on a job where Mr. Joline warned me about living on his daughter’s boat. I wanted to find out if he could do that. But that lawyer of yours ducked out a back door while I waited for an hour.”

  “Mr. Joline? Where did you see him?”

  “If we’re gonna get any business done, let her eat, okay?” Finley said as she served up a paper plate with the heated pizza. “Pepsi, iced tea, or water. Out of beer.”

  Which was a surprise. “Pepsi,” I said and helped myself. “Glad you saved some pizza.” Kaye rolled her eyes and shrugged, but didn’t say another word. I took shameful advantage, chewing each bite and looking at anything but her steaming face. I realized, also surprisingly, that Finley’s kitchen was not cluttered with papers, books, clothes, and the kind of toys that involve ingenuity and dexterity. I remembered her apartments of years ago. Cluttered but homey. A box of spare parts on the kitchen table vying with a loaf of
bread. A glass waiting to be washed. A puzzle bottle lying on its side with several twisted metal pieces in various stages of rescue. Finley always had some game in progress.

  Not today. She’d cleared the decks for action, evidently in honor of Kaye, for it surely wasn’t because of my visit. Instead, a bowl of wrapped butterscotch candies sat front and center on the table. Assorted napkins accompanied the bowl. And that empty pizza box sat next to the microwave.

  “Yo,” Finley said as I took my last bite. She pulled out a chair and plunked down. “Now that we’re all here, have I got a trap for you guys. Listen up. I’ve got the goods on Brandon. You see, I’ll get in his face and tell him that Nicole was here that night just before he killed her. She told me she was meeting him at the marina, and that he’d threatened to kill her.”

  Kaye took advantage as well. “Really, Cyd. You should have asked me. Jonathan would have seen you, I’m sure. He probably forgot your name.”

  I ignored Kaye and asked Finley, “She did? Nicole actually said that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’ll believe me, ’cause he’s guilty as sin, and he as much as said nobody could stand her. I’ll throw in some descriptive language, like, ‘she aced me out too.’ Not true, but he’ll believe that. Then I’ll give him a choice. Admit it to me, or I’ll go to the cops. And you two will be listening from somewhere out of sight. How’s that for a trap?” she asked.

  “For one thing, he’s smart enough to know admitting murder to anybody wouldn’t be a good choice,” I said before I rolled up the paper plate and consigned it to a waste basket.

  “It’s an interesting concept,” Kaye said. “However, our trap must catch the real guilty one. And, despite what you think, we haven’t agreed that Brandon is the killer.”

  “Okay, what did you two decide before I got here?” I asked.

  Kaye answered. “We discussed my work with Mr. Joline’s charity. Finley hadn’t known I was doing it for Nicole.”

  Finley grabbed a Pepsi and opened it. She took a long drink and finally said, “Like I said, she knew enough already.”