Bluewater Betrayal: The Fifth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 5)

by Charles Dougherty

  In a few minutes, he saw a tiny island that appeared to detach itself from the shoreline. Petit Îlet Duprey, he remembered from his study of the map. He saw that the island was connected to the shoreline by a low breakwater of sorts. Several pirogues bobbed behind the breakwater, and men were bustling about ashore, dragging nets and fishing gear around.

  He continued on his course, swinging in close enough to recognize the boat he was looking for. He swung in a wide turn, headed back out into the lagoon. Bracing the tiller against his knee to hold his course, he took his camera out of the backpack. Taking the lens cap off, he zoomed the telephoto lens in until the boat was in sharp focus and snapped several pictures.

  He considered going ashore and asking after the boat's owner, but thought better of it. Davis had offered to arrange for local talent to follow up unobtrusively if he found anything. He put the camera away, reeled in his fishing line, and opened the throttle. The RIB came up on a plane as he headed out the channel past the beach resort. He would go to the town dock in Ste. Anne and call Davis from there on his cell phone.

  ****

  "What a glorious trip," Connie remarked. She had a light grip on the helm as Vengeance rolled along, the wind on her starboard quarter. It was late afternoon, and St. Barth's was drawing ever closer, just off the starboard bow. They were all in the cockpit, having given up their adherence to the watch schedule in anticipation of an early evening arrival in St. Martin.

  "This leg from Antigua to St. Barth's is almost always like this," Liz said. "Glad Dani decided to stay north of Nevis and St. Kitts, though."

  "Me too," Dani added. "That's usually a safe bet. The ride's smoother if you can carry sail on the south side of them, but I was afraid the wind was going to back enough to get blocked by the islands if we'd tried that."

  "Why did you think that?" Connie asked. "The forecast just called for easterlies."

  Dani shrugged. "It was time. The trades usually swing between a little south of east and a little north of east this time of year. We'd had east-southeast winds for almost a week. It only has to back a few degrees to make a mess of the other route, and it doesn't matter if you go this way. It can be rough out here, though, if you've got a big swell coming in from the north."

  "Reflected waves from St. Kitts and Nevis?" Connie asked. "Like you were talking about off the east side of the island chain the other day?"

  "Exactly," Dani agreed.

  "This is a lot faster trip than we had going south from St. Martin a few weeks ago," Connie said.

  "It usually is. The current is generally favorable for most of the trip in this direction. There's a prevailing current of a knot or so from southeast to northwest along here. If you've got an easterly wind, that accelerates it."

  "What about the tidal current?" Connie asked.

  "For a couple of six-hour periods, it flows in the opposite direction," Dani said, "but it's not strong enough to completely offset the prevailing current. Sometimes it's stronger than others, depending on the phase of the moon, but you always end up with a net gain in this direction -- just a question of how much."

  "You've come a long way, Connie," Liz remarked. "Still think you want to try this on your own?"

  "More than ever. My big worry is finding somebody who can cook to help me out."

  "You won't have any trouble," Dani said. "Lots of the crew that can cook are women."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Most of the skippers are men; lots of 'em are pigs who want more than just a cook and some help with the boat," Liz explained.

  "I was kind of hoping for a cute young guy," Connie said, with an exaggerated leer.

  "Maybe not all of the pigs are boars," Dani said, elbowing Connie in the ribs.

  "Speaking of pigs and cooking, I'd better go get the pork roast in the oven. We should be anchoring in Simpson Bay in time for a late dinner," Liz said.

  ****

  Phillip sat in the restaurant on the dock at the marina in Marin nursing a cold beer. When Godfrey had called, he had been leaving his house on his way to deal with the diesel repair shop at the marina. He had suggested that Godfrey reverse course and meet him at the restaurant, thinking that he and Godfrey could handle their business while he waited for Sandrine to get off work at the customs office.

  He had called the diesel shop the first thing after breakfast and learned that the parts for Vengeance's injector pump were expected in a 10 a.m. delivery. The manager had agreed to call him this afternoon when it was done so that he could arrange payment and shipping. As Phillip sat waiting for Godfrey, the pump was already on its way to St. Martin; he would call Dani later and give her the good news.

  "There you are," Godfrey said, interrupting his thoughts.

  "Have a seat." Phillip waved the waitress over. "What are you drinking?"

  "That beer looks good."

  The waitress nodded and raised her eyebrows at Phillip. He nodded back at her.

  "I've already called about the boat," he said, as the waitress hustled back to the service bar.

  "That's quick."

  "Well, we don't have an answer yet, but it shouldn't take long. One of the fellows grew up in La Debuc."

  "Where?"

  "The next village north of La Duprey," Phillip explained. "His father's still fishing out of there; he'll probably know the boat." He drained his beer as the waitress returned with two frosty bottles and a pair of small glasses.

  She poured a bit of beer for each of the men. "You are meeting Sandrine?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "I will watch and bring the wine for her."

  "Thanks, Marci."

  She smiled and nodded, turning to greet a newly arrived group of people from one of the excursion boats that had just returned from a snorkeling trip.

  "Sandrine?" Godfrey asked.

  "My wife. She's a customs officer. She works in the office here at the marina."

  "I see. And you live close by?"

  "Ste. Anne."

  "Ah. I thought you just chose the town dock there because it was a good place to meet."

  "It's convenient. A few minutes from my house. You married?"

  "No. Tried it once, but it didn't work. My fault. The job, you see."

  "I understand."

  "What do you do, Phillip?"

  "I'm retired. You have any other leads on Caroline Delorme?"

  "I've spent all my time looking for the boat. If your friend finds that man, I'll…"

  Phillip held up a finger as the ringing of his cell phone interrupted Godfrey. "Excuse me." He raised the phone to his ear. "Davis." He listened for a moment. "I see. Merci." He slipped the phone in his pocket and glanced around, checking that no one was within earshot.

  "The boat belonged to a small-time hood named Henri Roux…"

  "Belonged?"

  "Yes. He was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head two days ago. In a phone booth, of all places. A small caliber semiautomatic pistol was at his feet. The gun was clean except for his prints. The police are calling it suicide."

  "I hear a 'but' in your tone of voice."

  "Yes. But his friends said his pistol was a .357 revolver, and he was shot in the right side of his head. He was left-handed."

  Chapter 18

  Guy Leclerc sat at his regular table in the back corner of his bar in Marin. The frowsy, bleached-blond hooker had just left with an American tourist who had been smashed when he entered the bar. The man was wearing a T-shirt that advertised one of the second-tier bareboat charter operations housed in the marina. His hot-pink sunburn and the bulging belly that protruded between the T-shirt and his sagging bathing trunks marked him as an American tourist even before he opened his mouth. Guy was amusing himself by imagining the encounter that was probably taking place aboard the man's boat as the hooker discovered that he had three friends waiting in the wings. He had shamelessly eavesdropped on the negotiation that had taken place at the bar, with the man speaking only American English and the wom
an speaking only French. The American had been lobbying for a group discount, but the hooker, not understanding a word, had been rubbing herself against him suggestively as her deft fingers probed for his wallet while she murmured in his ear.

  Before she had lifted the wallet, he shouted, "Okay, okay." He fumbled the wallet from his pocket and slapped a 20-euro note on the bar. "For the lady's tab," he announced loudly as he put an arm around her. The two stumbled from the bar arm in arm, grinning and waving as the other patrons applauded and jeered.

  Guy returned to the present as the man with the knife scar across his face approached his table. "What?" he demanded. "You know not to come here. I've told you…"

  "It's important," the man said in a soft voice as he ignored Guy's blustering and sat down. He waved the bartender over, his left eye locking on Guy's as he ran his finger along the scar that crossed the puckered socket of his other eye.

  "Bière," the man demanded. "On Guy's tab."

  The bartender looked at Guy, who nodded.

  "It had better be important," Guy growled, wrinkling his nose. "You stink."

  "The jacks are running. I have a good day -- hundred kilos, easy." The man ran his right hand down the rippling muscles in his mahogany-colored left forearm, dislodging a cloud of tiny fish scales that settled onto the table. "We fill the net until we cannot lift more."

  "What's so important you have to stink up my bar?"

  "About Henri, my little brother," the man said as the bartender returned with a bottle of beer. "He worked for you."

  "Yeah, sometimes. What about it?"

  "His wife and I, we miss him. So do his other brothers."

  "Why do you think this matters to me?"

  "Because we know."

  "You know! What do you think you know? Henri killed himself."

  "My brothers and me, we don't think so. Marie don't, either. We know, 'bout the drugs. The girl, too."

  "Marie?"

  "No. Not Marie. The English girl you took."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. Who's Marie?"

  "His wife. She is pregnant again. The third little one. With Henri gone, me and my brothers, we must feed them. He work for you for years."

  "Not my fault that he killed himself. He's been dead for days. Why do you come to me now?"

  "Because now there is a man who wants to know about Henri."

  "What man?"

  The one-eyed man smiled.

  "What did you tell him?"

  "We don't tell him nothing. Yet. But he say he don't think Henri kill himself, too."

  Guy and the one-eyed man stared at one another for a moment.

  "How much?" Guy finally asked.

  "You think about this. The man, he sent someone from La Debuc. He will come again, maybe ask his own questions. I think my brothers and me, maybe we don't have to feed Marie and the little ones by ourselves."

  "How much?" Guy asked again.

  The one-eyed man lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drained it, his head turned so that his eye watched Guy as his throat worked, swallowing the beer. He set the bottle down and turned to face Guy, his damaged face splitting into a grin. The scar stretched from the right corner of his mouth up his cheek and across the shriveled eye socket, disappearing into his hairline. He opened his mouth and emitted a loud belch, the scar writhing like a snake as he worked his jaw.

  "Think about it." He stood up and walked out the door.

  ****

  Connie was at the helm as Vengeance crossed the Ste. Barthélemy Channel and came into the relatively protected water along the south side of St. Martin. They were a little over a mile off Pointe Blanche by Dani's estimate, and the beacon at Princess Juliana International Airport flashed in the evening sky almost directly off their bow. She watched as Connie began to fight the helm.

  "She's wanting to round up a bit," Dani remarked. "Can you hold her okay? Or should I reduce sail?"

  "I think I can hold her. You still want me to steer on the airport beacon?"

  "Well, as we get closer, you'll want to leave the beacon off your starboard bow. It should be bearing around 325 degrees magnetic right now. We'll want to skirt the shoreline until the beacon bears around 340 degrees. Then we can turn up into Simpson Bay and head straight for the beacon until we find a good spot to drop the hook."

  "What's that dim flasher close off my starboard bow?" Connie asked, alarm in her voice.

  "You're okay. That's Proselyte Reef; it's around a mile off the opening of Great Bay at Phillipsburg."

  "How far off do I need to be? Not sure I can clear it."

  "Don't worry. There's plenty of water for us over the reef. You can leave the buoy to either side. It's caught more than one cruise ship, though. Speaking of which, you see that one just clearing the harbor entrance?"

  "Wow! I see it now. I thought it was a hotel until you said that, though. I can't make out his nav lights at all with those bright white lights everywhere. Which way's he heading? What should I do?"

  "Hold your course. The ship will cross your bow before we pass Proselyte Reef. You want me to take her in?"

  "No, I'd like to do it, if it's okay."

  "You'll be fine. Remember when we went into Îlet Fourchue a few weeks ago after we left here?"

  "Yes. We sailed up to the mooring."

  "Right. We'll do the same thing when we get to Simpson Bay, except we'll drop the anchor instead of picking up a mooring."

  "Okay. Wind's really clocking; I've got a lot of weather helm, but we can't really ease the sheets anymore."

  "That's the cape effect. The wind is curving around the southern tip of St. Martin. It'll be pretty much straight behind us until we turn up into Simpson Bay."

  "So what about the sails?"

  "We've got too much main up for the course relative to the wind. We need to douse the main and just carry on under the headsails and the mizzen. You're the skipper; tell me what to do."

  Connie thought about it for a moment. "Okay. Here's the plan. Ease the main until the boom's against the shrouds to blanket the headsails, then sheet in the Yankee and the staysail as close as you can. I'll round up until the headsails are drawing again while you sheet the main in. Don't let it fill, though. Once I've got the headsails drawing, drop the main. I'll handle the mizzen. Got it?"

  "What about sea room? You going to be okay while I get the main squared away? What if it takes me a while?"

  "I can head up until the headsails luff and coast to a stop, or I can ease the sheets and fall off, get back on course, depending on other boat traffic."

  "Good. On your command, then."

  "Ease the main," Connie said. As Dani released the mainsheet gradually, Connie turned to the port slightly. With the mainsail pressed against the shrouds, it blocked the wind from the headsails and Vengeance came up on an even keel. "Trim the headsails," she ordered.

  Dani cranked madly, first on the staysail winch and then on the primary, bringing in the Yankee. "They're sheeted in all the way."

  "Helm's alee," Connie called, as she steered to bring the bow into the wind. Dani began to haul in the slack in the mainsheet until they heard the headsails fill with a crack as the sheets went taut. Vengeance heeled to the port again as Connie sheeted in the mizzen and Dani scrambled up to the mainmast to drop the mainsail. Connie scanned the horizon as the main fell into the lazy jacks that guided it into a rough stack along the boom. She saw Dani unhook the main halyard from the sail and secure it to the pinrail. When Dani waved and nodded, Connie called, "Falling off," as she began to turn the bow out of the wind and eased the mizzen sheet. While Dani folded the mainsail and lashed it to the boom, Connie eased the headsails a bit at a time and continued to turn out of the wind until she had the boat back on course.

  When Dani finished and returned to the cockpit, Liz appeared in the companionway. "Well done, you two."

  "Hope we didn't make you spill anything," Connie said.

  "No. I heard you. The roast is done; everything is just
on warm." She looked around. "Perfect timing. We should have the hook down just in time for dinner. You want a hand with anchoring?"

  "Well, if you're not busy," Connie said. "Once I'm lined up on the course into Simpson Bay, I'll want one of you to roll up the Yankee. I'll take her on in with the staysail and the mizzen, and round up when we're ready to drop the anchor. Then we'll douse the sails."

  "You've got it figured out," Dani said. "Don't need no stinkin' diesel."

  "Speaking of the diesel," Liz said, "Phillip called while you two were reducing sail. The injector pump will be at the FedEx office tomorrow."

  "Hey! That's great," Dani said. "Any other news?"

  "Godfrey found the boat. The guy who owned it's dead. Either suicide or murder, depending on whose opinion you choose to believe."

  "Who's saying murder?" Dani asked.

  "Friends and family. Cops put it down to suicide."

  "That sounds familiar," Connie said. "Either way, I guess we don't have to worry about him anymore."

  "No, but I don't think we're home free," Dani said.

  "Why?" Connie asked.

  "If it wasn't suicide there are two parties who might want him dead," Liz said.

  Connie looked from Liz to Dani, puzzled.

  "We didn't kill him, so it had to be the people he was working for. They clearly don't have much tolerance for failure," Dani said.

  Connie nodded and glanced down at the compass.

  "Bearing on the airport beacon is 345 degrees. Liz, trim the staysail. Dani, douse that Yankee. Helm's alee!"

  ****

  After the one-eyed fisherman left, Guy spent a few minutes in thought before he picked up his cell phone and placed a call, summoning one of his distributors. Fifteen minutes passed before the man entered the bar. He collected a beer from the bartender and spent a moment surveying the patrons before he took the beer to Guy's regular table and sat down.

  "What do you need?" the man asked.

  "Your people still watching the English detective?"

  The man nodded. "Why?"