"Want to take the helm for a while?" Dani asked.
"Me?" Bill asked, surprised. "I've never even been on a sailboat before this trip."
"Give it a try," Liz said. "Everything's pretty well settled now; it's a good time to begin to get a feel for steering if you want to."
"Well, okay. Why not?" Bill drained his mug and stood up, stepping around the steering pedestal to stand beside Dani. As he put his hands on the helm, she took a step back.
"You've got her, now," Dani said, dropping her hands from the helm. "Don't think of it as steering; focus on the feel of the helm in your hands. Notice the way the pressure of it changes as the wind shifts and the boat moves with the waves? Think of keeping everything in balance -- no sudden changes, just gradual adjustments in pressure to one side or the other." She watched him for a moment. "You're looking good. Just keep it all balanced and she'll go where she's aimed."
"I see what you mean. I can feel her react to the gusts; it's like she wants to turn up into them. When I resist, she leans over a little more and speeds up. Seems to, anyway."
"That's right, exactly."
"This is so cool! In some ways, it's like riding a horse."
"I wouldn't know," Dani said.
"Nor would I," Liz added.
"Watch the leading edge of the Yankee — that's the sail out on the end of the bowsprit, over Jane's head," Dani coached. "See how it's beginning to wrinkle a bit every time we go over a wave?"
"Yes."
"That's called 'luffing.' The leading edge of the sail is called the luff. When it wrinkles like that, it means you're spilling air; you're pointing the bow into the wind too much."
"So I should turn?"
"Think of it as increasing the pressure on the helm just a bit in the direction you want the bow to go — away from the wind."
Dani watched, shifting her eyes between the luff of the sail and Bill's grip on the helm. "That's it. You're doing great. If you think 'turn,' you end up oversteering and you'll break the boat's rhythm."
"It's like dancing," Bill said. "I'm leading Vengeance, but I'm also responding to her cues as to what she wants."
"That's a good analogy," Liz said, smiling at Dani's puzzled frown.
"Okay, I get this part, about keeping her on course. What if I really do want to turn, like in a few minutes when we're ready to turn up into Hillsborough Bay?"
"To actually change her course like that, you have to trim the sails and adjust the helm. To get up into the Bay, we'll tighten the sails up, or 'sheet them in,' so the bow can point more into the wind without the sails luffing. Then the force of the wind will try to bring the bow around onto the new course as you maintain the balance with the helm. If you just turned the helm like you were steering a car, you'd point the bow into the wind and the sails would spill their air and start to flog. That's actually how you put the brakes on. You'll see that when we get ready to drop the anchor. Once we're in the Bay and about where we want to be, we'll turn the helm to point the bow into the wind and let her coast to a stop while the sails flog. Then Liz will drop the anchor and let the wind blow Vengeance back on the chain to dig the anchor into the bottom, or 'set' it, while I take in the sails."
Liz saw a slight frown as Bill struggled to take it all in. "Don't worry about remembering all that. It'll become clear when you see it happen. It's pretty intuitive once you've done it a time or two."
****
After they anchored Vengeance, Bill and Jane spent the rest of the morning exploring Hillsborough, poking around in the little shops and visiting the quaint museum with its eclectic collection that included everything from Arawak pottery to memorabilia of island life in the early 20th century. Dani picked them up at the town dock at noon and brought them back to Vengeance for lunch.
As she finished one of Liz's signature seafood salads accompanied by a crisp South African Chardonnay, Jane said, "I feel a nap coming on."
Dani rigged two hammocks in the shade of the awning, suggesting as she worked that a mid-afternoon departure would allow plenty of time for them to clear in with Customs and Immigration on Union Island.
"While you two chill out, I'll go in to Hillsborough and check us out of Grenada. Once you're rested, we can just raise the anchor and take off. Need anything ashore, Liz?" Dani asked.
"I'll come with you," Liz said as she put away the last of the dishes from lunch. "Maybe I can pick up a few mangoes for tonight."
They climbed down into the dinghy and motored away toward town. As they stepped out onto the dinghy dock, Liz said, "I've been watching Jane, after your comment yesterday afternoon."
"And …" Dani raised her eyebrows.
"And I think you're right. She's got something on her mind. It would be interesting to hear her professional opinion as to why a wife would come on a romantic getaway with her husband and then spend all her time way out on the bowsprit, as far away from him as she can get on a 60-foot boat."
"Well, at least there's no overt friction between them," Dani said.
"Definitely not. Bill seems completely oblivious to her odd mood."
"That may be the problem."
"I suppose," Liz said with a frown. "She's not cross or anything, and she does pretty well when she's forced into company, like at meals, but she certainly seems withdrawn and preoccupied the rest of the time."
"Not our problem, as long as they don't start throwing things," Dani said.
"No, but like you said the other day, I kind of like them. They're nice people; I'd like to see both of them happy while they're here."
"Well, all we can do is move the props around on the stage. It's up to them to act out the roles they choose to play." Dani pulled open the door to the immigration office and approached the counter as the officer rose to greet her. "Good afternoon, Ms. Berger, Ms. Chirac. It's nice to see you both. I saw your beautiful yacht come sailing in earlier. I hope that you're arriving and not leaving us so soon."
"Sorry to disappoint you, but we just came from Petite Martinique. Our guests want to go to the Tobago Cays, so we're headed for Union Island this afternoon to check in."
He nodded as he reached for the passports Dani took from her folder. As he spread them out on the counter and picked up his stamp, he looked up at Liz and Dani. "You've heard what happened?"
Seeing their blank expressions, he added, "At Ashton, I mean."
"No," Dani said, as Liz shook her head.
"No matter, I guess. It's all local, but still strange, and very disturbing."
"Now you have to tell us," Liz chided.
"I don't know much. Nobody do, I t'ink. A man, he was crucified in the churchyard at Ashton last night. A man on his way to his fishing boat found him this morning."
"That's awful," Liz said. The officer nodded and stamped one of the passports.
"Awful, yes," he said, "but not something to worry your guests about. I t'ink it is all a local matter."
"So the man was from Ashton? The victim?" Dani asked.
He nodded again and stamped another of the passports. "A local man; he used to be a fisherman, but he got hurt and started to drink the rum. But he never bothered people; everyone, they helped him when they could. No one there would have done this, I t'ink."
Dani and Liz exchanged glances as he stamped the last passport and handed the four of them back to Dani.
"Have a safe voyage, and come back to see us soon, ladies. The customs man is having a late lunch, so you should go to the Port Authority next and Customs last. He should be back by then. God bless."
"Thanks. Keep yourself well. We'll see you in a few weeks," Liz said, as she and Dani turned toward the door.
****
Vengeance bobbed at her anchor in Clifton Harbour as the wind whistled through the rigging. A shallow reef protected the harbor from the choppy water of the Mayreau Channel a few hundred yards away, but there was nothing to block the ten-knot breeze. Liz was making dinner preparations while the Fitzgeralds enjoyed cocktails at the open-air bar n
ear the end of the fringing reef. The structure sat on its own small island, built of empty conch shells discarded by generations of fishermen. A local entrepreneur had seen opportunity in the unsightly heap of shells, and turned them into a bar and grill which could only be reached by dinghy or swimming.
Dani had dropped Jane and Bill off before she went into town to check in with Customs, where she heard more gossip about the death of one Selwyn Massey. "Satan is surely among us," the customs officer said, nodding, a worried look on his face. "Nobody here would do such a thing; it have to be the work of the Evil One himself." Dani nodded as she collected her papers from the counter. "God bless you and your guests, captain. Enjoy your visit to the Tobago Cays. I'll call the immigration officer at the airport and let her know you're coming, so she don't leave early."
"Thank you, and good afternoon," Dani said as she left the worried-looking man standing behind the counter. She glanced at her watch as she strode up the street making for the outskirts of town; it was four o'clock. She hoped the customs man remembered to make his call; unless there was a plane expected, the immigration officer might indeed not be at the airport to stamp their passports. She noticed that the few people she passed on her way seemed much more reserved than usual; Union Island was normally a friendly place where people greeted strangers and made them welcome, often stopping to chat. The people on the street didn't seem hostile, or even cautious of an obvious outsider, but their greetings were subdued, their mood somber. Clearly, the death of Selwyn Massey was disturbing to them. According to the customs officer, the victim had been the village drunk in Ashton, but, like most of the Union Islanders, he had been an amiable man. Massey had been an object of pity rather than scorn; that someone could kill him in such a cruel, sacrilegious manner was unfathomable to the islanders.
Chapter 8
"That's so pretty," Jane remarked, pointing at the small rainbow in the continuous sheet of spray from their bow. Vengeance was on a beam reach in the Mayreau Channel making eight knots, and the stiff breeze blew a plume of heavy mist from her bow as she smashed into the short, sharp waves. "I can't sit on the bowsprit without getting soaked, but it's worth it. It's like having our own personal rainbow."
"It's a treat," Liz agreed. "It only happens when conditions are just right; if it's too rough or the angle of the sunlight's wrong, you don't see it."
"How long will it take to reach the Tobago Cays?" Bill asked, as he tweaked the helm. "They look pretty close, but we can't sail a straight-line course to them with this wind, can we?"
"No, you're right," Dani said. She wondered if he was in a hurry to get there or whether he was worried that the exhilarating sail would end too soon. Either way, she liked the fact that at least one of their guests was turning out to be an enthusiastic sailor. He had asked to take the helm as soon as she and Liz had raised the sails leaving Clifton Harbour. "We couldn't sail a direct course anyway; the water's way too shallow. It's about three miles in the direction you're looking, but we'll have to hold this northerly course until we pass Mayreau. That's the big island just off the starboard bow. It's about three miles, as well."
"It looks closer than the Cays," Jane said.
"That's a trick of perspective," Liz said. "Mayreau's a lot bigger than any of the Cays, and its hills are maybe four times higher than the tallest peak in the Cays."
"The Cays look like little lumps on the horizon," Bill said.
"So anyway," Dani resumed, "we have to round Mayreau, and then we'll sail hard on the wind, beating into it to work our way down the channel to the Cays. The total distance is around seven miles, not counting the tacks we'll make while we're beating against the wind."
"Okay. So, given all that, how long will it take us to get there?"
"Probably an hour and a half until we drop the anchor," Dani said.
"But don't worry," Liz added. "We'll be anchored in time for the prime snorkeling. The angle of the sunlight's too low to give you good visibility around all the reefs until mid-to-late morning."
They were quiet for a few minutes after Liz refilled their coffee mugs. As he took his last sip, Bill broke the silence.
"The locals at the bar last night were pretty rattled about the murder."
"Especially the bartender and his friend," Jane added. "They were way more shaken than the people from off-island."
"Stands to reason," Bill said. "Like you and Liz said the other day, Dani, random killings are rare down here, right?"
Dani and Liz nodded their agreement.
"You can hardly stand it, can you Bill?" Jane asked, a smile on her lips that didn't reach her eyes.
Dani cast a covert glance at Liz as Jane continued. "He's dying to know if the cops have connected the two killings."
"Well, I can't help wondering. I mean, there are two random killings of local people in two different countries; they're only 30 miles apart, or something, but the two guys from Union in the bar last night didn't even know about the one in Grenada."
"Coincidence aside," Dani said, "they don't have much in common at first glance. I mean, in Grenada, that was almost a surgical hit -- no mess, no blood. The one in Union was a crucifixion."
"Yeah," Bill said, "but I think it's the random nature — no apparent motive — that connects them. And the choice of victims, too. Locals, no enemies, nothing to explain the killings."
Dani nodded thoughtfully. "I see what you mean."
"Will the cops connect them?" Bill asked. "I mean, if this happened at home, even in two different states, the cops would have to wonder. The news flashes would tip them off, for sure. Do the cops communicate about stuff like this down here?"
"Good question," Liz said.
"Well, they do work together on smuggling cases — drugs, people, that kind of thing. But I haven't any idea as to how they'd perceive something like this. My first take is that they might not make a connection right away." Dani frowned as she spoke, trying to imagine how the local law enforcement organizations might link the two deaths.
"Should I offer …"
"No, Bill!" Jane interrupted. "We're on vacation, damn it. Give it a rest, will you?"
"Sorry. You're right, but it's intriguing, all the same."
"Law enforcement down here in the islands is pretty different from what you're used to," Dani said.
"So you think they'd tell me to butt out?"
"Not necessarily, but local relationships produce some odd results that an outsider can't begin to understand."
"Are they corrupt?" Jane asked. "Is that what you mean?"
"Sometimes, but no more than anywhere else. I'm talking about more complicated interactions. Everybody knows everybody, and half of the people are related by blood or marriage. And then there's the ever-present 'don't scare the tourists' factor. In cases like these, whether they're connected or not, the cops will be looking for an outsider to blame. Best not to attract attention by getting involved unless you've got some very specific information."
"That's sort of cynical, isn't it?" Bill said.
"Perhaps. But my roots down here are deep, even though in most ways I'm still viewed as an outsider. I've watched the cops down here at close range all my life."
"I thought you were French," Jane said.
"No, she's as American as we are," Bill corrected.
"You're both right, sort of. I have dual citizenship. My mother's from the States, and I was born there, but my father's French, and we have a lot of family all through the islands. Except when I was in school or working, I spent most of my childhood down here."
"Interesting. So the local people don't trust law enforcement?" Bill probed.
"It's more complicated than that. People down here relate to one another in ways most outsiders don't grasp. A cop is a brother or sister or cousin. Or maybe a childhood friend. Somebody you'd trust with your life. But that's personal. The police force is something completely different than the sum of its members. It'll arrest you, beat you, fine you, put you in jail. It's 'the man.'
You don't want to get mixed up with it."
"So people are scared of the police," Jane said.
"In many ways, yes. In the States, most children are conditioned to think the police are there to help. Most places down here, people have a much more skeptical view."
"So you don't think I'd be welcomed if I volunteered to help?"
"If you inserted yourself into one of these investigations without some kind of introduction from a trusted source, chances are you'd become the prime suspect, and all your notions about how things work wouldn't apply."
"I told you, Bill," Jane said. "Watch as much as you want, but stay out of it, please, honey."
"Yes, ma'am."
"It's about time for us to come up on the wind," Dani said. "Liz and I will sheet the sails in, Bill. You'll feel Vengeance wanting to turn to the starboard, so kind of let her ease around. Watch the luff of the Yankee, and keep it full."
"Aye, aye, cap'n."
****
The Deputy Commissioner of Police in Grenada has just gotten off the phone with his counterpart in Kingstown, St. Vincent. He had called St. Vincent first simply because it was the next nation to the north, and he had planned to methodically work his way up the island chain from south to north. Each man had been surprised to discover there had been a random killing in the other's jurisdiction in the last few days. After they listened to one another recite the particulars of the cases, they concluded that while the crimes themselves were more different than similar, the coincidence of timing was compelling, particularly given that there was no apparent motive for either of the killings. They had agreed to put their subordinates in touch with one another and to share anything either agency discovered in connection with the two cases.
They recognized that if the same killer had committed both crimes, they might uncover a suspect by comparing arrivals and departures in their immigration data. While both countries had computerized immigration records, neither system was perfect. There were many scattered ports of entry in each country, and in some, the officers had a casual attitude about entering passport data into the system. In the places where there were few tourists, it just didn't seem important. The local officials knew most of the people crossing the border, at least by sight. Many of the old timers maintained ledgers of entries and departures in great, leather-bound tomes that were a holdover from the colonial days, 40 years ago. When they got a chance, they might transcribe the paper records, hunting and pecking for tedious hours. Eventually, most of the records would end up in the automated system. A comparison of the records in the two computer systems could be done relatively quickly, but if that failed to turn up any likely suspects, someone would have to call each port of entry and query the record keepers.
Bluewater Stalker: The Sixth Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series (Bluewater Thrillers Book 6) Page 5