“According to the news outlets, it was the crew of an Aquarius dive boat who rescued the diver from the Spiegel Grove,” he said.
Coffee. She really needed coffee.
“We rescued a diver from Molasses Reef, not the Spiegel Grove,” she corrected.
“Then I’m in the right place.”
She threw her rain-soaked paper towel at the trash can and it bounced off the rim. “Only if you want to be in the Aquarius Dive Shop.”
He stroked his chin as if he once had a beard. The cuff of his long-sleeved shirt fell back, revealing puckered skin. “So tell me, what happened?”
She leaned over and stuffed the paper towel into the bin. “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel like talking about it.”
His eyes widened. “It was you.”
He said it as if she were the catalyst that had precipitated this whole fiasco. It irked her—not only because she’d been turned into a minor celebrity on an island chain where the weird went pro but because the rescue was the culmination of an event that was beyond her comprehension, beyond scientific understanding.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but all I did was pull someone out of the water. This is a tourist destination. Not everyone keeps up on their skills. We make rescues every week. This was no different.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Sir—”
“Please, call me Ishmael.”
“I’m sorry, but unless you need something else I can’t help you.” She grabbed a mess of postcards and aligned their edges against the countertop.
“Ah, but you can.” He stared at her, unblinking. “I need a boat.”
“That I can arrange.” She gave the cards a final adjustment and then plucked the binder that held the boat reservations off the counter. “We run boats every morning and afternoon. The morning trip goes to one of the several wrecks in the area, and in the afternoons we dive the reef. Snorkelers are welcome.”
“Actually, I want to charter the entire boat.”
Boats came in two basic sizes in the commercial dive community: six-packs and cattle boats. Mer flipped to a tabbed page of the smaller vessel. “The Dock Holiday carries six divers—”
“Honey, I need your big boat.”
“That’s Doctor Honey.” Mer plastered a neutral expression on her face and flipped to the second tab. Researching in the Arctic was so much easier than customer service. Plus, cephalopods weren’t nearly as slimy as some people.
She ran her finger down the calendar page for the LunaSea. It packed in thirty-two divers, two tanks for each person, crew and all the accoutrements required for a Coast Guard–rated vessel. “Did you want the next available time or do you have a particular date in mind?”
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card. “I want to charter a night dive to the Spiegel Grove on the next moonless night.” He snapped the card against the counter. “I’ll need at least six hours. And then a return trip the next morning.”
The swirled colors on his card reminded Mer of a foggy horizon. She glanced at the print, then read it again, aloud. “Spirited Divers Paranormal Scuba Team?”
“We seek ghosts.”
“Sounds shady.”
He raised an eyebrow. “We’re filming a documentary about paranormal activity on the Spiegel Grove for the Expedition channel.”
“Wouldn’t the science-fiction channel be more appropriate?”
A smile played on his lips. “I see I’ve encountered a nonbeliever.”
“I believe in science.” She tapped her pen against the binder. “And proof.”
“Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed.”
Did she really want to get into a philosophical argument before her first cup of coffee? Her mug mocked her from atop the glass case that held dive watches and knives. She eyed the leftover sludge from yesterday, then the rain outside the window. Why not? The LunaSea had already left the dock, and people wouldn’t start checking in for the afternoon boat for another couple of hours.
“There’s a reason it’s called blind faith,” she said. “You can’t spin gold from straw. Yet a lot of people tried. And there have always been charlatans happy to capitalize on the gullible.”
“Some of man’s greatest thinkers were once thought of as magicians. In reality, they were visionaries, capable of seeing possibility where others didn’t. Even Galileo was once considered heretical, but now he’s honored as a patriarch of the scientific revolution.”
It sounded rehearsed, as if Galileo was his go-to argument.
“Because he proved that the earth revolves around the sun,” Mer said.
“In theory.” Ishmael warmed to his subject. “What he believed couldn’t be seen.”
She ducked her head under the counter and came up with the tide calendar. “Expand your argument. There are plenty of things we can’t see, simply because they really don’t exist.”
“Oh, Meredith. You are a stubborn one.”
She straightened. “I didn’t tell you my name.”
“I read minds.”
Hogwash. She replayed their conversation. Where had he picked up her name? Then it came to her. “The newspaper.”
Disappointment flickered across his face but was gone so quickly that she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“Perhaps I came across it in the article. But wasn’t it thrilling to think I could read your mind?”
“More like creepy. And you lied about it.” She ran her finger down the chart to find the date. “The first moonless night is tonight. I’ll have to check with the owner before committing to holding over a crew.”
“One of my team members couldn’t make this trip,” Ishmael said. “I’ll need an extra safety diver.”
Most of the Aquarius crew were independent contractors, called to work when the need arose. Today, she had Tom and Taylor crewing the Dock Holiday. Tom was like Cuban coffee. Strong, acerbic, and best enjoyed in small increments. Taylor, the captain, was akin to an empanada—warm, flaky, and sweet at her center. The two complemented each other perfectly. But Kyle was the logical choice to serve as tonight’s safety diver. He usually ran the equipment room, but he’d been trying to increase his hours on the boats in order to qualify for his captain’s license. He was crewing the LunaSea and would jump at the opportunity to go out with a boatload of ghost hunters and be part of a documentary.
“Not a problem,” Mer said. “We always staff our charters with a divemaster.”
“Excellent. I’d like you.”
“I really don’t think you do.” She reached for the charter agreement and waivers, eager to end their conversation.
“Nonsense.” Ishmael put his elbow on the counter and leaned toward her. His breath smelled like onions despite the early hour. “Doubting Thomas believed when presented with the truth. I’m certain I can change your mind. Will change your mind.”
Her exasperation bubbled over. “My mother was born in Sedona. She’s been trying to convert me to her crystal astrology woo-woo beliefs for years. I’m a scientist. I deal with facts. Data makes me happy. Adhering to the scientific method makes me downright giddy. To be blunt, your quest for paranormal activity strikes me as silly.”
“Not according to the man you rescued yesterday. Seems to me that you, of all people, should know that.”
Her pen hovered over the invoice.
“Despite what you may think,” Ishmael continued, “there’s far more to your rescue than you want to believe.”
A chill shook her body. She hadn’t shivered since being in the Arctic, and there she had the temperature to blame. Here she had only Ishmael. Well, not entirely. She could also blame the diver and his alleged ghost for sucking her into this maelstrom.
But the diver had gotten to Molasses Reef somehow. The mechanics of how he’d managed this still eluded her, and that left her feeling unsettled. At the moment, she wished magic really did exist. She’d conjure another customer just to save her from this conve
rsation.
Water dripped from the eaves, but the rain had stopped.
“Forgive me,” Ishmael said. He turned his palms up and swept them toward the blue sky now visible through the storefront window. “This discourse is far too serious for such a magnificent day, and with such a beautiful woman.”
Mer planted her tongue firmly in her cheek.
The bell above the door jingled again. Bijoux whirled into the shop and greeted Mer, then turned the full wattage of her smile on Ishmael.
“I trust that Mer is helping you with everything you need?” Her boss’s voice sparkled as brightly as her jeweled name.
Mer focused on the paperwork.
“We were having a lively discussion regarding what lies beyond the edge of science,” Ishmael said.
“I know one thing that’s not there,” Mer muttered as she filled in another line on the form.
Bijoux laughed. “Be careful. Mer is a walking encyclopedia and loves a good debate.”
“You must be the owner,” Ishmael said.
Mer raised her eyes, wary.
Bijoux extended her hand. “Bijoux Fouchard.”
“Ishmael Styx.” He grasped just her fingers and, with a slight twist, raised them to his lips. “Enchanté.”
Mer nearly gagged, but Bijoux didn’t flinch. The woman had endured much worse in Haiti before immigrating to the States.
“Le plaisir, c’est à moi,” Bijoux replied.
Confusion clouded his eyes, but he recovered quickly. “I’m chartering your boat,” he said, “and the possibility exists that I may need it for multiple trips. I was hoping to ask for a favor.”
“Of course.” She discreetly wiped her hand across the fabric of her bright sarong.
“I would very much like to have Meredith serve as a safety diver on the trips.”
Before Bijoux could speak, Mer jumped in. “I’ve already advised Mr. Styx that it wouldn’t be a problem to find someone with more enthusiasm for his project. Kyle would be perfect.”
Ishmael pressed his appeal. “It is exactly because of her skepticism that she would be so valuable.” He opened his wallet and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He counted five out onto the counter in front of Mer. “For the crew, if you are among them, tonight.”
“Tonight?” Bijoux looked to Mer for confirmation and then turned back to Ishmael. “My crews are already putting in a full day. I will authorize the trip, but I won’t compel anyone to work on such short notice.”
“I understand.” He added two more bills to the pile.
Seven hundred dollars to split with Leroy.
No one taught scuba for the money. There was none. Like any service-industry staff, scuba instructors and boat crews depended on tips for survival. Bijoux paid better than most, but, even so, Mer made more in gratuities than in wages. Large tips were common when an entire boat was chartered by an organization, but it seemed downright Faustian to accept this man’s money.
He flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch. “Do I need to add more?”
“Gratuities are at our guests’ discretion.” Pragmatism and an anemic bank account overcame Mer’s reluctance. “I’ll still need to clear it with Leroy, but if he’s agreeable, I’ll be your safety diver.”
Triumph flared in Ishmael’s spooky green eyes.
Even coffee wouldn’t fix this.
Chapter 4
The LunaSea and the Dock Holiday returned to the dock within minutes of each other. Tired divers straggled off the boats, lugging their wet gear. Mer swung onto the deck and started prepping the LunaSea to take Ishmael’s team out. Tom and Taylor hosed down the Dock Holiday to put her to bed for the night.
Beyond the fringe of palm trees, the parking lot was a mass of movement as rental Camrys, Impalas, and convertibles in search of a happy hour maneuvered to get past two black Suburbans with tinted windows and an equally dark Hummer pulling in to go diving. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the president had arrived with his Secret Service detail in tow.
She expected a Ghostbuster to look like Bill Murray, so she was surprised when a statuesque blonde slid from the driver’s seat of the closest car.
Leroy nudged her. “She must be the bait.”
The woman wore shorts and a T-shirt that hugged her bronzed body. Oversized sunglasses hid her eyes. She opened the liftgate of the Suburban and grabbed two large Pelican cases. As she walked nearer, Mer upped her age assessment of the woman. She had the body of a cheerleader but the maturity of a coach.
“You’re staring, Leroy.”
“So are you.”
“Yes, but I can claim intellectual curiosity. You’re just being a hound dog.”
The straw in his mouth bounced. “There’s another one.”
This woman got out of the passenger seat of the Hummer driven by Ishmael. She bounced over to his side, stood on her tiptoes, and planted a big kiss on his cheek.
“Looks like she’s taken,” Mer observed.
The younger woman draped a camera around her neck and slung two more soft cases over her shoulder. She took a photo of Ishmael, turned the camera sideways, and snapped another. She blew him a kiss and sashayed toward the boat.
“My wife’s already raised three girls.” He moved the straw to the other side of his mouth. “I don’t think she’d take kindly to raising another.”
“They look a lot alike,” Mer said.
“Maybe this is a family affair.”
The younger woman swept by the older one and claimed one of the two picnic tables by the dock. The older woman’s lip curled in distaste, and she chose the other table to set down her gear.
“Or not,” he added.
Ishmael walked over to the last vehicle and briefly spoke to the two male occupants, then pointed toward the LunaSea. Both men got out and started unloading scuba gear.
Ishmael hefted a mesh gear bag and approached the boat. When he neared, Mer saw that the skin on his right arm was puckered with extensive burn scars.
“Meredith,” he hailed. “So glad you could make it.”
“As if I could be anywhere else.”
“By the end of the night, you’ll be thanking me for letting you come on this adventure.”
“Letting me?” She eyed the growing pile of equipment by the picnic tables and decided to make the most of it. Some of the items she recognized—photographic equipment, laptops, hydroacoustic devices; all items she had used in her own research, but a couple of the cases hadn’t been opened and she wondered what they held.
“See?” Ishmael laughed. “I can already tell you’re intrigued. Come on over, I’ll introduce you to the crew.”
Leroy gave her a little shove. “Go on. The tanks will wait.”
She followed Ishmael to the picnic tables.
Both women eyed Mer as she approached.
Ishmael put his arm around her shoulders. She had an overwhelming urge to shrug it off.
“I’d like to introduce Meredith. She’s going to be our safety diver this evening.” Ishmael indicated the older blonde. “Meredith, this is Lindsey Hatchet. She’s the team’s underwater photographer.”
Lindsey glanced at Mer, then back down at her camera housing. “And part owner of this operation.”
“Yes.” Ishmael’s jaw tightened. “Lindsey and I are co-owners of the business.”
“This is a business?” Amazement tinged Mer’s voice. “I’m sorry, I assumed ghost hunting was a hobby.”
Lindsey lifted the designer sunglasses onto her head and turned her piercing gaze on Mer. “Hobbies pay more.” She lowered the frames once again, leaving Mer staring at her own reflection in the massive lenses. Emerald studs decorated the woman’s ears. The interlocking Cs logo on her Top-Siders represented a brand that Mer saw only in magazines. Business or hobby, apparently chasing spirits turned a profit.
Ishmael swept his arm toward the young woman. “This is our land photographer.”
The older blonde snorted. “She might want to take th
e lens cap off her camera, then.”
Ishmael ignored the interruption. “Amber Greene.”
“Colorful.” Mer shook the younger woman’s hand.
Up close, the resemblance between the two women was even more striking. They shared the same delicate features, although Amber’s face was more heart-shaped while Lindsey had a stronger jaw.
Amber nestled under Ishmael’s arm. “He forgot to tell you I’m also his fiancée.” She held up her hand and fluttered her fingers. A huge rock weighted down her ring finger. The Arctic had smaller glaciers.
“Congratulations.” Poor thing, Mer thought.
“I guess if we’re trotting that out as a credential”—Lindsey held up her hand and wiggled her bare fingers—“you should know that I’m his ex-wife.”
“Again, congratulations,” Mer said, with more sincerity.
Ishmael cleared his throat. “Here comes Isaac Goldfarb, known to all as Rabbit.”
A lanky young man walked toward the picnic table carrying a diver-propulsion vehicle. Despite the heat, he wore a knit cap and tight curls escaped from under the edge. White cords dangled from his ears and disappeared into the pocket of his shorts.
“Shalom.” He set down the scooter and plucked out his earbuds. Music leached from the bits of plastic. “You must be Meredith. Ishmael told us about you. I’m Rabbit.” He brushed his hand fingers along the side of her head. Before she could swat his hand aside, he pulled a coin from her ear.
“Let me guess,” Mer said. “They call you Rabbit because you’re always doing magic tricks.”
“Naw.” He worked the coin back and forth along his knuckles. “When I asked my mom where I came from, she told me the doctor pulled me out of a hat.”
“Rabbit is majoring in environmental studies at Brandeis University and is interning with us over the summer,” Ishmael said. “He does a bit of everything, including underwater videography.” Then he pointed toward a Latino man with a goatee who sat hunkered over a laptop. “And last, but definitely not least, are the ears of the outfit, Echo.”
“Echo.” He stood but kept his hands shoved in his pockets. He had only a couple of inches on Mer, but he was twice as heavy. Tattoos crawled up his neck and down his arms. Even his calves were covered in ink. She guessed his age at mid-twenties, but something behind his eyes suggested that he’d seen more than someone his age should.
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