Hannah West: Sleuth in Training (Nancy Pearl's Book Crush Rediscoveries)

by Linda Johns

  “I wonder why so many boats are coming by right now,” I said.

  “We’re close to the Emerald City Yacht Club, just a few blocks away. My guess is that people spent the day out in Lake Union or in the Puget Sound and they’re heading back now that the sun is setting,” Mom said.

  “Is that the same yacht club that Marcus Dartmouth, director, mentioned?”

  Mom granted me a laugh for the way I tried to say “Marcus Dartmouth, director” like I was a Hollywood hotshot. “Yes, it is. Alice told me that Marcus grew up on the other side of the arboretum, in a gated neighborhood called Broadmoor. Apparently his mother and stepfather have been big boaters since he was a young boy. Perhaps I should say they’re ‘yachters.’”

  “What makes a boat a yacht?” I asked. “‘Yacht’ sounds so uppity.”

  “Attitude,” Mom said.

  “Huh?”

  “Attitude is what makes a boat a yacht, although yacht owners might say that a boat has to be a certain length to be deemed a true yacht.” Mom reached for her laptop, and I picked up my camera and focused on a sailboat coming past us. I might be an obsessive artist, but my mom is beyond obsessive when it comes to checking things online. I knew I was about to be in for a definition of “yacht.”

  “Interesting,” she said. “There doesn’t seem to be one singular definition for ‘yacht.’ One dictionary says a yacht is a ‘large usually motor-driven craft used for pleasure cruising.’ It doesn’t give a specific size. But some people claim that a vessel must be longer than thirty feet to be a yacht. Still others insist that it must be longer than sixty-five feet, or somewhere between sixty-five and one hundred fifty feet.”

  “Yowza. Those are some big boats they’re talking about,” I said.

  “You mean yachts. It goes back to my original observation: It’s all about attitude.”

  Now I had a front-row seat to watch this boating, sailing, and yachting crowd. I picked up the camera again, moving the lens from boat to boat. There wasn’t any wind, so even the sailboats had to use motors to putter through the bay. I clicked a photo of a large motorboat—probably long enough to qualify as a yacht—with wood trim. The name Clean Sweep was painted in an ornate style on the side. A man in a captain’s hat sat in the driver’s seat, puttering along. He killed the engine and let the boat rock gently in the wake of the other boats. An older woman with bright blond hair peered at the exterior side of the boat. I took another picture just as she grimaced. The man shook his head and lifted a large plastic bucket and sat it on the bench seat in the back. The woman used a smaller plastic bucket to scoop something out. She leaned far over the side of the boat and dropped something in the water. The man nudged her and pointed over to us. I quickly lowered the camera and gave a big, friendly boating wave.

  They didn’t wave back.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to a wet nose and the sound of tap-dancing toenails. Mango needed to go to the bathroom.

  “You’re such a polite dog,” I told him as I hooked his retractable leash to his collar. Instead of barking for attention, Mango seemed to like to do a little potty dance on the wood floor of the houseboat. It must be the Standard poodle in him.

  Mom had already left to work the breakfast shift at Wired Café downtown. As I walked out of our houseboat, two newspapers, the New York Times and the Seattle Times, were waiting on our welcome mat. Pretty spiffy aim if the paper carrier could land the newspapers right on our doorstep without veering off into the water. I took the blue plastic wrapper from the New York Times just in case I needed a poop bag. Mango was high-stepping down the wood dock, obviously anxious to get to the small grassy patch by the mailboxes. “We’re almost there, fella,” I said to the dog.

  “Good morning!” the neighbor who I think was named Frank called out to us. “Mango taking you out to stretch your legs?” He was watering the flowers in the dozen or more planters arranged on his deck.

  I nodded and held up the blue plastic bag from the newspaper.

  Frank laughed. “Glad to see you got your paper and that you have multiple uses for it. The papers come to the mailboxes around five in the morning. I bring them all up after my six o’clock run.”

  “Wow. That’s nice. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Mango and I walked along Boyer Avenue. We stopped at the Canal Market because one of us was enticed by a pink-frosted doughnut from the extra-yummy Top Pot bakery. The other one of us waited outside patiently for a doggie treat. We turned around and passed our dock, continuing down several blocks until I came to the forbidding entrance to the Emerald City Yacht Club.

  “Oh, excuse me!” I said, jumping back as the locked gate swung open and almost slammed into my face.

  “Yes,” said the woman who came out from the private yacht club. Was she saying, “Yes, excuse you”? That wasn’t very polite. I’d try to make up for her lack of small-talk skills with some extra polite talk of my own.

  “Gorgeous morning for boating. Are you just going out?”

  “No,” she said. She was holding the gate open and glancing behind her.

  “Come on, Timothy,” she said.

  “Coming, Stella,” came a voice, along with a man in a captain’s hat whom I recognized from last night.

  “I believe I saw you in your boat last night,” I said.

  “It’s a yacht,” the woman said.

  “Right. I think I saw you in your yacht right before sunset. It’s gorgeous.”

  “If you think these compliments will get you a ride on the Clean Sweep, you’ll have to come back another day.” The man smiled affably at me. “I just docked her after our morning, er, our morning …”

  Now he seemed to be stumbling for words.

  “Our morning errand,” the woman finished for him. “Give me the bag.” He handed her an open-top canvas tote bag. As she quickly rummaged through it, I saw a glimpse of what looked like a black Gore-tex rain jacket and rain pants. I tried to picture her wearing them.

  “Took a while to get her cleaned up,” Timothy was saying. “The plants are pretty thick in the lake right now. They wreak havoc on the hull. But we got her all tidy, and she’s as gorgeous as ever now,” the man said. I assumed he was still talking about his boat. Or yacht. Whatever. He was pretty nice, but my attention was focused on her. This was the third time I’d seen this same woman. I was sure she’d been on our dock when we first moved in and yesterday morning when the TV crew was setting up.

  “Well, good-bye then,” I said, attempting another friendly boating wave as they walked off.

  Once again, I didn’t get a wave back. So much for the friendly, waving boating crowd. Make that yachting crowd.

  As Mango and I were returning from our walk, I spotted Lily and her dad.

  “Hannah!” Lily hopped off the hood of her dad’s car and came rushing over to us. “My parents said I can stay here with you all day.”

  “Lily, call us before dinner,” her dad called. “Stay dry, girls.”

  “I thought your dad would want to see our houseboat,” I said as Dan Shannon drove off.

  “He’s dying to see it. But he’s on his way to meet a bunch of people for some big bike ride for the Cascade Bicycle Club,” she said. “So what’s the plan? I hope it’s about how to get onto Dockside Blues. You have to tell me everything Marcus Dartmouth said last night. Whoa! Who’s that doing those power yoga moves?”

  “Doing what?” I followed Lily’s finger, which was pointing to the first cottage on the left. Inside, Estie was doing some kind of handstand maneuver. Her body was in an upside-down crouching position with all her weight balanced on her hands. She stayed motionless.

  “That’s the heron position. Or crane. Or some kind of bird,” Lily whispered. “I saw it in a yoga book. Who’s the yogini?”

  “She’s another house sitter,” I said. As I said it, the word “sister” almost came spilling out. House sitter. Sister. “Maybe she’s the sister house sitter that director dude wa
s talking about,” I said.

  “Which would make her Monica Heathcliff’s sister! Which would make her a good person for us to get to know if we want to get a role on Dockside Blues.”

  “I dunno. Her name is Estie Bartlett, not Estie Heathcliff,” I said.

  “Oh, come on! Heathcliff is so obviously a made-up name. It’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing for the person who thought it up,” Lily said, smiling.

  “And Estie’s hair is black, but Monica’s is blond.”

  “And I’d bet that neither color is natural,” Lily said.

  “Good morning!” Alice Campbell was just getting out of her bright red kayak. She pulled a black soft-side cooler out from the cargo area. I stooped down to help her lift the kayak out of the water.

  “Thank you! It’s so much easier with two people.” She dried her hands on her pants and held one out to Lily. “Nice to see you again, Lily.”

  “It’s tough, but as Hannah’s best friend, I’m obligated to stand by her during this incredibly difficult time while she’s living on a houseboat,” Lily said.

  Alice laughed. “I’m afraid we’ll have another day of film crew disruptions in our midst today. Marcus assures me there will be only a few days on location here. They’ll do the rest back at the studio in Los Angeles.”

  I saw Lily’s eyebrows go up with interest as Alice referred to the director, Marcus, so casually.

  “Is Marcus really your nephew?” I blurted out.

  “He is, indeed. You seem surprised.”

  “He just doesn’t seem like he’d be related to you. He’s not as nice. No offense to your nephew or anything,” I added hurriedly.

  Luckily, Alice laughed. “I thought you were going to say we don’t look alike,” she said. “Marcus is good underneath that Hollywood act of his. He’s always been special to me. His father was my husband’s brother. Unfortunately, both of the Campbell brothers died in a car accident many years ago. Marcus’s mother, Stella, immediately remarried. Marcus was adopted by his stepfather, Timothy Dartmouth.”

  Okay. I’m not dense. I’d already figured that the man and woman I’d seen seen at the yacht club were Marcus’s parents. Or at least I assumed they were. How many couples named Stella and Timothy could there be who have a boat—er, excuse me, a yacht—called the Clean Sweep?

  “His parents really like to keep their boat shipshape, don’t they? They were already cleaning it this morning,” I said.

  Alice gave me a sharp glance. Her tone of voice was markedly different as she said, “You saw the Clean Sweep? When? Where was it? Do you remember what time?”

  Whoa on the barrage of questions. “Um, I saw it last night when it was getting dark. It was out there,” I pointed. “I think they were out this morning, too. Mango and I just ran into them when they were leaving Emerald City Yacht Club.”

  “So they were already out this morning, were they? I was out on the water by seven, but I didn’t see them. I’ll have to get up earlier next time. What time do you think it was when they returned?”

  I told her I’d seen them on the land, so I didn’t really know. I wasn’t at all sure why it was important. “Good, good. This is all good information, Hannah,” Alice said distractedly. “Quite useful information.” She grabbed the soft-side cooler and I heard glass jars clanking against one another inside. She was mumbling to herself, something about levels and minutes and evaporation. Alice looked me in the eyes. “Hannah, please tell me if you see the Clean Sweep again.”

  And with that, she quickly went into her houseboat and shut the door, leaving me with all sorts of questions spinning through my head. Why would Alice want to know if I saw Marcus Dartmouth’s parents? Was she trying to hide something from them? Or were they hiding something from her? I suspected that Stella and Timothy were dumping something in the water. I’ve heard about lakes and ponds that are “stocked” with fish. People actually put fish into the water so that fishermen have better chances of catching something. Was it possible that Marcus’s parents were trying to stock this part of the lake? Maybe they’d chosen the wrong kind of fish or something.

  Oh, ick. Maybe they were dumping dead fish in the lake.

  Nah, that’s crazy.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I’M NOT QUITE following all this,” Lily said, as Mango led us down the L-shaped dock to our cottage. I filled her in as best I could.

  “If these people have a yacht four blocks away and she wants to see them, why doesn’t she just go down there? Why does she have you on the lookout for this boat?” Lily asked.

  “Plus, they’re related. That makes it even weirder,” I added.

  Lily had me fill her in on every single word Marcus Dartmouth, director, had said the night before. None of it was terribly interesting, yet she hung onto every word.

  “Did anyone last night say anything about needing extras? Because, you know, I’m here and ready to work,” Lily said.

  “I don’t know. I had a feeling that the other house sitter is hoping for a role, too. I’m thinking that if they want this show to be a success, they’d cast Mango,” I said, rewarding the dog with a belly rub since he was looking especially cute. “Maybe there’s a part for him.”

  “Do you think that other house sitter has a chance at a role?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I wonder if they’d put Mango’s name in the credits,” Lily mused. “Maybe I should change my name. You know, have a better stage name. Lily Newman. Lily Pacino. Lily Lang, Lily …”

  A rap on the wood frame of the cottage door interrupted Lily and sent Mango into a series of barks.

  “Hello? I need to ask for your cooperation this morning,” a high-pitched voice called from the doorway. I hadn’t even said “come in” or anything when Celeste, the production assistant, walked inside. “Yes, yes, Joshua. I have it all under control. I’ll use the Polaroids.” I looked behind her to see where Joshua was, and then I realized she was having two conversations at once: one with us and the other on the headset of her cell phone.

  “Now, girls, here are the Polaroids of the set from yesterday. I need to close the blinds to the exact same degree as in this shot.” She handed a photograph to me. “See what you can do to match this photo. Then you’re free to leave.”

  Lily and I stared at her. She sighed. “Please. Please see if you can match this photo,” she said. “I’m sorry if I sound snappish, but Joshua is such a demanding continuity guy. We have to finish the shots we didn’t get yesterday because, because … because Miss Heathcliff needed to leave early.”

  “Yeah, I heard she had a spa emergency. Ow!” Lily kicked me along the side of my leg, nailing my ankle-bone. “Watch it,” I muttered to her.

  “You watch it,” she whispered.

  Celeste was fighting back a smile. She regained her stony-faced production assistant look and got all businesslike again. “Monica was a little concerned because she thought she touched something dead in the water,” Celeste said. “You know how sometimes seaweed or leaves touch your toes in the water and it spooks you. That’s all it was. Anyway, girls, if you could help me out, it would be great. Oh, and don’t forget that you need to be out of here before we start filming.”

  She pivoted around on spikey heeled flip-flops. Two steps down the dock and one of the heels went down between two wood planks, sending her sprawling. Like we didn’t see that one coming.

  I rushed over to her and helped her up. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Embarrassed, but okay.” She took off her flip-flops and hurled them into the water, immediately bursting into a fit of giggles. Lily and I exchanged looks. I’m pretty independent, but I am in no position to deal with some random adult’s mental illness or emotional breakdown.

  “Um, do you want us to try to get your shoes out of the water?” I asked. Mango crouched in his classic downward dog yoga pose at the edge of the dock, wagging his tail and eyeing one of Celeste’s sandals as if it were a tennis ball waiting for retrieva
l.

  “No, thanks. They were stupid shoes anyway. I bought them last night just to try to look more, more … I don’t know what more I was looking for actually,” she said, getting up to her feet and dusting off her white pants. “Maybe I was hoping uncomfortable shoes would make me act tougher or something.”

  “Uncomfortable shoes just make me whine,” I said. Lily had grabbed a kayak paddle and was trying to move the shoes closer to her.

  “You can have them if you get them,” Celeste told her. “I’ve got some sneakers in my car. I’ll be more human in my own shoes.”

  Celeste’s bare feet padded gingerly along the wood dock back to the street.

  “Fetch, Mango!” Lily instructed the Labrador retriever and poodle mix. Instantly the dog made a splash into the water and headed for one of the sandals.

  “Lily! Why did you do that? Now Celeste will get in trouble because the dock is wet and that Joshua guy will yell at her and maybe even fire her,” I said.

  “It’s a dock! Docks get wet.” She accepted one of the sandals from Mango’s mouth and told him to fetch the other one. He happily turned around and continued his mission.

  “We’re going to have to wash the dog again,” I whined.

  “Oops, hadn’t thought of that,” Lily admitted. “But didn’t Celeste just say that there was nothing to worry about?” She leaned over the edge of the dock again.

  “Well, unlike you, I don’t want to take any chances,” I told her.

  “Eureka!” Lily cried triumphantly, holding up both sandals. “Oh, and look! They fit!”

  “Oh, and look … they look ridiculous,” I added.

  Mango made a move like he was about to shake, and I immediately backed up. No offense to the dog, but I didn’t want any suspicious water drops on me, either. Alice had been so adamant about washing lake water off of him. If it was bad for the pooch, I bet it was bad for humans, too. “We need to get this dog washed,” I said to Lily. She was still eyeing her feet and the sandals admiringly.