She poured him coffee. “The food was good. Not much else was.”
“You’re only responsible for the food. Speaking of food, got anything special for breakfast today?”
“Muffins, bagels with toppings, baked ham and cheese.” As she expected, he chose the last item. Raised in the American heartland, he was partial to meat, potatoes, eggs, and cheese.
“While I was driving here, I heard on the radio that someone fell off a yacht. That wasn’t—” He broke off as she nodded. “Tell me about it.”
She put the baked ham and cheese in front of him, went around the counter, and sat next to him.
While he ate his breakfast, she gave him the highlights of the evening and the details of Otto’s disappearance from his own party. “I have a bad feeling that he might not have fallen into the bay by accident.”
Gunnar rolled his eyes. “I know the source of your bad feeling. You haven’t had a murder to solve for three months. Your sleuthing muscles aren’t getting regular exercise.”
“They’re gearing up now. The dinner and mystery game were bizarre. The host invited an odd collection of guests, made captives of them by taking them out on a yacht, and then demanded they sing for their supper. He forced them to do dramatic readings of accusations that sounded like poison-pen letters.”
“Mystery guessing games always work that way.”
“But they rarely end the way that one did.” She climbed off the stool. “Excuse me, I need to wait on the two men who just came in.”
She took their orders and went around the counter to the food prep area to toast bagels. After delivering their food, she sat down next to Gunnar again.
“I have some news too,” he said. “Mrs. Z is coming back to Bayport.”
His landlady. “Is she selling the place?” Maybe Gunnar would buy it. Then he could move in with all of his possessions, instead of storing them, using Mrs. Z’s furniture, and continuing with a month-to-month lease.
“She doesn’t have a quick exit planned. She wants to go through her things, not rush into a move.”
“But it’s good news for you. Spring is usually the best time to find a house. When you came here last summer, you didn’t have much to choose from.”
“You found me an ideal place to rent, and I’m glad I didn’t buy last summer.”
Why was he glad he hadn’t bought anything? Val waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “I can put out the word that you’re in the market.”
He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Hold off on that. I’m looking into some options.”
Houses he’d already seen here and liked? Before she had a chance to ask about his options, two groups came into the café. She jumped down from the stool. “Gotta see to these customers. I’ll be right back.”
“My customers’ tax returns are waiting for me.” He stood up. “How about coming over for dinner tomorrow evening? We can celebrate the end of income tax season.”
“I’ll bring champagne.” She looked forward to spending more time with him. The bulk of his accounting work for the year was done, and for a change, he wasn’t involved in the Treadwell Players’ upcoming production, though he’d auditioned for a role in it.
* * *
As Val was leaving the café at a quarter after one, a friend and tennis teammate, Althea Johnson, came in. She wore a royal blue pantsuit, low-heeled shoes, and a troubled expression. Tall and graceful, she resembled her namesake, tennis champion Althea Gibson.
Instead of carrying an athletic bag, as she often did when she came to the club, she toted her hefty lawyer’s briefcase. “I know you’ve closed up for the day, Val. Do you have time to talk?”
“Sure. You want to sit on the veranda by the tennis courts?”
“Let’s go over there instead.” Althea pointed to the table in the corner. “More privacy.”
Val followed her to the table, speculating that her friend might bring up a problem with their tennis team. When they sat down across from each other, Val noticed the deep furrows between Althea’s brows. On the tennis court she could pass for a woman in her forties, ten years younger than she really was, but not today.
She tapped the edge of the table as if she were playing an agitated tune on a keyboard. “I heard what happened on the yacht last night. I’d like your take on it. Jerome is my nephew.”
Ah. Val saw the family resemblance. Though Althea’s skin was a couple of shades darker than Jerome’s, she had the same body type and eyes. “I didn’t realize you were related to him or I would have called you last night. How is he doing today?”
“On top of not feeling well, he’s panicking, afraid that the drug test the Coast Guard ordered will come back positive and he’ll be blamed for an accidental drowning.” Althea took off her tortoiseshell glasses and massaged her forehead. “Jerome got in trouble for drugs when he was a teenager. That convinced him to go clean. He said you made him a dinner plate. Could someone have slipped drugs into his food?”
“Not before I brought it to him.”
“He told me he set it aside to eat later. The plate was there when the guests visited the bridge. They crowded around him, asking questions about the equipment. He’s convinced one of them tampered with his food or his drink then.”
Val remembered the layout at the helm. Three well-cushioned pilot chairs faced big windows on the front and sides. They provided a view in all directions except aft. The wheel was in front of the middle chair, where Jerome had sat. People standing on either side of him or looking over his shoulder would have blocked his view of the surfaces where he might have left a plate of food. “I suppose somebody could have tampered with his food without anyone else noticing. When did he eat it?”
“After the guests went down to the other deck for dinner. He remembers eating, piloting the yacht from the river to the bay, and feeling sleepy. He saw a storm on the radar and tried to steer out of it. That’s the last thing he recalls clearly. His next memory is of your grandfather and another passenger with him at the helm, trying to get the boat back to the marina.”
“Why would someone drug the pilot of a boat they’re on?”
“I asked Jerome that, but he couldn’t explain it. Not only does he have memory gaps, he’s too upset to think clearly about anything that happened last night. He said the party had something to do with the Titanic.” Althea took a pen and a leather-bound notebook from her briefcase. Then she donned her glasses. “I’m hoping you can give me a rundown on who was there.”
Val eyed the notebook, embossed with the words Althea Johnson Family Law, and felt as if she’d just been called as a witness in a deposition. “Otto Warbeck, a retired maritime lawyer and Titanic collector, hired me to re-create the final dinner the passengers ate on that ship. Granddad and Bethany were there to help me.”
“Who came to the dinner?”
“Otto’s much-younger wife, Cheyenne, and an odd assortment of guests. You may have run into one of them here at the club—Louisa Brown.”
“I don’t recognize the name. Describe her.”
“She’s fiftyish, about five feet tall, on the plain side, and fierce in her defense of chicken farmers. Her tall and handsome husband, Damian, is a poultry industry lobbyist.”
The vegetarian attorney groaned. “The poultry lobby has had some recent legislative successes. Are the Browns old friends of the Warbecks?”
“New friends. Otto and Damian met at the Protect the Bay Barbecue a few weeks ago. Otto also invited old friends, or possibly old enemies. His ex-wife Stacy came with her twentysomething son, Trey. He was Otto’s stepson. She’s a fit fifty, an animal rights advocate. I’m guessing she and Otto divorced several years ago. She was polite to him, unlike Trey. He bordered on rude.”
“How did the current wife get along with the ex-wife?”
“They avoided each other. Now we come to the oldest guest, Homer Huxby, a British guy whose wife was smart enough to have a migraine and stay home. He owns an antique shop in Annapol
is and, like Otto, is an expert on Titanic memorabilia.” Val searched her mind for anything else Althea might find helpful. “The hosts and most of the guests were dressed to kill: tuxedos for the men, gowns or dressy pants for the ladies. Hard to imagine any of them carrying drugs around, much less having a reason to drug Jerome.”
Althea folded her arms. “I can think of two reasons. The first is prejudice. Someone didn’t like the cut of Jerome’s jib—or rather, the color of his skin.”
Though racism as a motive hadn’t occurred to Val, she couldn’t rule it out. “I don’t know Otto’s guests well enough to say if any of them think like that. What would a racist gain by knocking the pilot out of commission?”
Althea looked up from her notebook. “What do anti-Semites gain by vandalizing Jewish cemeteries? Prejudice isn’t rational. Inside the racist mind, the world is a better place with one less black man working in a white man’s job.”
Chalk up a win for the racist. If Jerome were found guilty of taking drugs while at the helm of a yacht worth millions, he’d never pilot a boat like that again. “Okay. Besides racism, what other reason could explain drugging Jerome?”
“One of the guests really wanted to ruin that party.”
Val immediately thought of Trey. He’d carried his resentment of Otto on board with him. She could believe he’d drug Jerome to disrupt the party. Might he have gone a step further and pushed Otto overboard?
Val’s phone chimed on the counter, where she’d left it. She jumped up to answer it before her voice mail kicked in.
Granddad sounded excited. “Drive straight to the marina.”
“Why? Is this about what happened on the yacht last night?”
“Yes. Gotta go. I need to get there early.” He hung up.
Val grabbed her shoulder bag. “Something’s up at the marina. To do with the yacht. Granddad said to hurry.”
She and Althea dashed out of the café.
Chapter 6
Val parked in the marina lot. She had to speed-walk toward the dock to keep up with Althea’s long strides. “My grandfather didn’t say where to meet him, but I bet we’ll find him near where the yacht is docked.”
They walked past a van from the Salisbury, Maryland, TV station. A few dozen people gathered in a semicircle near the Abyss. Its side was parallel to the dock.
Eight inches taller than Val, Althea craned her neck to see over the onlookers. “I see a cameraman and a woman with a microphone. Try to get closer. I have a good enough view from back here.”
Val wormed her way into the group and ended up behind a man with two preschoolers demanding ice cream. When he gave in to their whining, Val took his place in the first row of spectators. A strong breeze carrying the scent of the bay ruffled her hair.
In front of the Abyss, a chubby cameraman conferred with a petite, baby-faced blonde wearing four-inch heels. Val’s feet ached just looking at those shoes. Fortunately, her job managing a café in a fitness club allowed her to wear athletic shoes to work. She spotted Granddad in his stylish black shirt and pants, standing a few feet from the reporter. Val had an attack of déjà vu. Last summer an attractive woman with a microphone had left him speechless by telling him about a man’s death. Would he get flustered again in front of a camera? He waved to Val, pointed to himself, and mouthed, How do I look? She gave him a thumbs-up.
The reporter faced the camera. “I’m Sissy Reynolds at the Bayport marina. Prominent maritime lawyer Otto Warbeck disappeared from his yacht, caught last night in a sudden squall on the bay. Search operations for him continue. Behind me is Mr. Warbeck’s yacht, the Abyss, where he was hosting a dinner party that ended in tragedy. We have located the passenger who steered the yacht back to the marina under difficult conditions.”
If the station had nothing exciting to put on the evening news, they’d settle for an interview with Granddad. But news about Otto’s fate would bump the interview.
The reporter stepped toward Granddad, the camera following her movement. “Don Myer, the Codger Cook recipe columnist for the Treadwell Gazette, a celebrity in the small town of Bayport, was recognized as he disembarked from the yacht last night. We understand you were the hero of the evening.”
Who had told the reporter that? Val hoped Granddad wouldn’t succumb to flattery and crow about his achievement.
He spoke into the microphone. “My most heroic act was calling the Coast Guard.” As some in the crowd laughed, he beamed.
A gust blew the reporter’s long, blond hair into her face. She tucked it behind her ear. “You brought the yacht back to the marina in emergency conditions. I think you’re being modest.”
“No one else has ever accused me of that,” he quipped, drawing more laugher. “The squall passed quickly. Another passenger and I managed to set the yacht on course to the marina.”
“Are you a licensed captain?”
“No, but I’ve been on a lot of boats. I’ve lived all my life near the Chesapeake.”
“Wasn’t there a crew member aboard who could handle the yacht?”
Val realized now what the reporter wanted from Granddad—dirt on the man at the helm. Had she heard rumors about Jerome?
Granddad took a moment to clear his throat. “Yes. He wasn’t feeling well.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“I’m not a doctor. I couldn’t say.”
“What were his symptoms?” the reporter persisted.
“When I was on the bridge, I focused on getting the boat to shore. Nothing else mattered to me.”
Val was amazed at how much better he was handling this interview than the one he’d had last summer. He was debunking the notion that an old dog couldn’t learn new tricks.
“Can you tell us the crew member’s name?” the reporter said.
“Learning the names of everyone on board wasn’t in my job description.”
“Your job description? I thought you were Mr. Warbeck’s guest.”
Kudos to Granddad for diverting the reporter’s attention from Jerome. The longer the young man could avoid standing in front of a camera, the better.
“I wasn’t a guest. I was on the yacht to help my granddaughter, Val Deniston. She was catering a ten-course dinner for eight people.”
“Did you know any of the guests?” When Granddad shook his head, the reporter continued, “Eight people. Even a younger person than you would have trouble remembering that many names. No wonder you forgot the crewman’s name.” She waited to see if Granddad would contradict her.
Val caught Granddad’s eye and shook her head, encouraging him to ignore the bait the reporter had dangled in front of him.
He shrugged. “It was a one-night gig. I had no reason to pay attention to anyone’s name.”
Bravo, Granddad. The Coast Guard apparently hadn’t revealed the names of those on the yacht. One or more of Otto’s guests might come forward and identify the others before long, but for now they could enjoy the calm before the media storm.
The young reporter said, “Sources told us that most of the people getting off the yacht last night were wearing tuxedos and formal dresses. Was the dinner to celebrate a special occasion?”
“A special occasion for Mr. Warbeck as a Titanic collector. He wanted to commemorate the night the unsinkable ship sank. He hired my granddaughter to put on the same spread the first-class passengers ate for their last dinner.”
Val heard gasps and murmurs from the onlookers.
He continued, “Val and I made a meal to remember.”
The reporter said nothing for two seconds. She was probably deciding whether to explore this lifestyle topic or give up on Granddad to pursue hard news.
She took two steps away from him and faced the camera squarely. “A man threw a party on his yacht to commemorate a disaster at sea. How ironic that his party ended with him missing, presumed drowned.” She segued into a sign-off.
When the cameraman stopped recording, Val gave Granddad two thumbs up and scooted back through the group
of spectators. She would wait until the reporter left before talking to him. Otherwise, she might end up in front of a camera herself.
She waved to the people she knew among the spectators—the woman who ran the Then and Now secondhand shop and the bartender at the Bugeye Tavern—but she didn’t stop to talk to them, because Althea was waiting for her.
“Your grandfather did a good job,” she said when Val joined her. “I’m grateful he didn’t give out Jerome’s name.”
“I’ll tell him you said that. Let me know if I can do anything to help Jerome.”
“Warbeck’s disappearance and Jerome’s drugging are fishy, if you’ll forgive the pun. Use your brains to find out the truth. And your influence.” Althea cocked her head toward a bear of a man in his fifties looking at the Abyss as intently as if he were planning to buy it.
Bayport Police Chief Earl Yardley wore aviator glasses and a gray Orioles baseball cap, partially hiding his face. A navy windbreaker covered his broad shoulders and barrel chest.
“My grandfather has more influence there than I do,” Val said, “but I’ll try.”
As Althea headed to the parking lot, Val approached the chief. Earlier this month, he and Granddad had gone as usual to the Orioles’ opening day game at Camden Yards, a tradition they’d started decades ago, when the chief was a teenager. After the chief’s father died, Granddad had served as a substitute dad, cheering young Earl’s efforts on the school baseball team.
The chief greeted her. “Hey, Val. I was out of town yesterday when I got a call about the yacht. Just drove back to Bayport and came to look at it.”
“Did you know Granddad and I were on it?”
“I heard. Didn’t expect to see him giving an interview. I’d like to talk to both of you when he breaks free of his fan club.”
Val glanced at Granddad. The TV crew had left. He was nodding like a dazed man while two older women talked to him. “He probably wouldn’t mind a little help breaking free.” She called out to him and beckoned him to join her.
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