Death Dines Out hf-5

by Claudia Bishop

  "I want to fish!" Quill looked over the side. The water changed beyond here to a deep, navy blue. If they drifted farther out, it'd be too deep for mullet. She debated about casting the anchor; it would slow their drift and the wind out here was quite brisk. She shaded her eyes against the sun and scanned the water. No evidence of mullet yet. The old man in the Chris-Craft was about three hundred yards to port. He spat once over the side, gave Quill a malevolent look, and opened his throttle. The boat shot away in a curve of spray.

  "Follow that guy, Quill."

  "Why?"

  "Because every time I've seen him bring his boat in, it's been full of fish. He's obviously a pro."

  The Chris-Craft slowed, throttled down, and stopped. Quill, squinting against the light despite her sunglasses, saw him cast his net from the boat with an efficient snap of the wrists. The net floated in an arc, then settled into the water. Leaning over the side, the old man pulled, heaved, and brought up a net full of fish.

  "Yes!" Meg shouted. Quill pulled the rope start with an sharp tug and, at a sedate pace, edged to about a hundred yards from the Chris-Craft. She throttled down. They were in the middle of a vast school of mullet, racing out to sea. Their silver backs flashed in the water; one or two leaped out of the water in small, swiftly executed arcs.

  "They're like little robot soldiers," Meg said. "They all look exactly the same."

  Quill touched her hat to the old fisherman, who gazed back at them expressionlessly and shouted, "Hope you don't plan on settling here."

  Splat! Another gob of tobacco hit the water.

  "The guys are out bowling," Quill improvised. "Told them we'd have a nice fish fry for them when, they got back!"

  No answer. He probably couldn't hear her. Although his steady stare was a little unnerving. He undoubtedly' didn't want to share the mullet.

  Quill dropped anchor. It was deep here and she failed to hit bottom. The weight would slow the boat, though, and give them a chance to cast the net.

  "Okay," she said to Meg.

  "Okay what?"

  "Okay, we're ready to fish."

  Meg bent over and dubiously regarded the net.

  "Well?" said Quill. "We're being watched, Meg, I can tell you that right now. And it's not just the old geezer there, either. Jerry and his team undoubtedly have high-powered telescopes or whatever trained allover this coast. Besides, you've been nagging me to fish for the past twenty minutes. So fish."

  The pilot of the Chris-Craft threw his net a second time, with what seemed to Quill to be an insultingly easy flick of his wrist. He drew it up full, swung the net into the boat, then deftly emptied most of the net into a large bucket. He disentangled the fish that had failed to escape the net, refolded the net deftly over his right arm, and cast it out again.

  "It looks easy," Meg said.

  Her first cast was actually quite respectable, although the sinkers attached to the net. collided with the bulwark and the net failed to spread. The second cast was worse. The third was worse than that, and when the man in the Chris-Craft spat.loudly and with obvious contempt, her face turned pink. The fourth cast netted three very small mullet, which Quill insisted on throwing back.

  Luis had provided them with a good-sized bucket and Quill, who'd been wondering how they were going to pass the long hours until ten o'clock, figured that they might not have enough time to display a respectable catch if they happened to be accosted by annoyed and affronted policemen.

  The dark came quickly, as it always did this far south, and as it came, the wind rose. The clouds in the west flared briefly in a last, martial show of red, and full darkness followed. Lights came on over the water. A large yacht sailed by, portside lights blinking frantically, then a small and efficient-looking sloop. A large fishing charter roared by, temporarily sending the mullet in frantic disarray. The man in the Chris-Craft, too far away to hail, turned on his running lights and shone his spotlight into the water.

  Meg had netted several pounds of mullet, which flopped in the bucket until she filled it with sea water.

  The wind buffeted the little boat with increasingly harder gusts. Finally, Quill pulled up anchor and set the throttle on low.

  By nine-thirty, everyone had left the water but the Chris-Craft. Quill was worried. It was becoming increasingly harder to keep the Verity steady. Meg had to bail out the bottom more than once. They'd both strapped their life jackets on.

  "Should we go in?" Quill asked.

  Meg shook her head. "Another fifteen minutes. That's all we need."

  Quill turned the Verity toward shore and glanced over her shoulder. The clouds from the east were a mass blacker than the night, coming up fast, obscuring the pale moon and the halfhearted light of the stars. At ten-fifteen, Quill said, "I'm killing the lights." She snapped off the running lights. The darkess was intense. Slowly, her eyes readjusted. In a few minutes, she could see Meg at the bow in the faint light from the stars and moon.

  Meg unpacked the infrared binoculars, focused, and looked intently toward shore. "I see them," she said loudly, over the roar of the waves and the wind.

  "They're putting to."

  "What are they sailing in?"

  "What?"

  "I said, what are they sailing in?"

  The wind dropped suddenly, and Meg's voice came through clear and too loud. "Just a little twenty footer. Got a big motor, though. At least a hundred fifty horse. It's a cigarette boat, I think. I can even see the name. Class Act." The wind sprang up like an animal surprised, and Meg lost her balance. "Whoops!" She lowered the binoculars. The wind was strong, whipping the wig's black hair into her eyes. She tore it off and stuffed it in the mullet bucket.

  She opened her mouth, but Quill could only hear occasional words through the gusts. It was like listening to a radio with static. She shook her head and pointed to her ears. It was becoming harder to see Meg as the clouds advanced across the sky and the moonlight dimmed and brightened erratically. Meg gestured forward, and Quill steadied the bucking boat with one hand on the gunwales, the other moving the throttle against the wave action to keep them steady. They were in a following sea. They moved forward faster than the motor, the waves pushing them inland. Quill did her best to keep steerage, maneuvering the Verity slightly ahead of the water. Their father, who'd spent half of his life on the ocean in the navy, had told them both from the time they could walk, You panic against the sea, and she'll drown you. You accept, moving with her, as you move with a horse, and she won't take you down. Or at least you've got a fighting chance.

  The trouble was that a stiff breeze inland was a wind of twenty knots or more out on the water. And Hurricane Helen - wherever she might be, was at last sending her outriders to plague them on the water.

  The red light of the number nine buoy appeared at starboard. Eyes to the binoculars, Meg waved one hand frantically. Quill swung the tiller hard over, slowly, to face into the waves. They were at the mouth of the channel, and she did her best to find the current in the rough water. The light of the buoy bobbed, a steady beacon. The red and green lights of the Class Act showed briefly behind the buoy, and then the buoy light was totally obscured as she rounded it.

  Meg turned and crawled over the seats to Quill. The redistribution of her weight, as slight as it was, caused the Verity's nose to soar upward. Meg's (or rather Luis's) straw hat had long been blown overboard. Meg pushed her hair out of her eyes and wordlessly handed Quill the binoculars. She took the tiller and Quill raised them to her eyes.

  For a moment, all she saw was eerie shadow land. The headland behind the buoy sprang into weird relief. The infrared gave everything a Martian glow. She brought the lenses lower, caught the buoy, missed it, and then focused on Evan Taylor's intent face. Corrigan was at the tiller, and he was a good sailor. He kept the craft steady as Evan reached over the side, a waterproofed canvas bag in one hand, a heavy strap in the other. He lashed the bag to the buoy with swift, muscular twists of his arms, then signaled thumbs up. The Class Act motor roared, a
nd the boat disappeared. Quill was left staring at the bag attached to the number nine buoy.

  Meg put her lips close to Quill's ear and yelled, "Well?"

  Quill gave her the binoculars. "They did it!" she cried. "They left it there."

  Meg, her eyes to the buoy, grabbed her hand tight. "Look!" she shrieked. "Look!"

  Quill took the binoculars back. It took her an agonizing length of time to find the marker again. And when she did find it, she shouted, "Hey!"

  The heavy seas had tom the packet open. Newspaper plastered the red light, wrapped wetly around the buoy joists, and disappeared into the heaving water.

  "There's no money at all!" Meg shrieked. "They stiffed him!"

  "We should have a camera!" Quill shouted back. The Verity hit a huge wave and she fell forward. Her head hit the seat. She righted herself with difficulty.

  "... get the tote!" Meg screamed.

  "What?"

  "We have to get the tote! Evidence!"

  "Damn." Meg was right. A prosecutor would make mincemeat of their unsupported testimony. She watched the waves glumly. The light from' the buoy pitched up and down. Meg was going to have a devil of a time unstrapping the tote from it, even if she could get the Verity close enough. A water-soaked tote bag filled with soggy newspaper might not be enough to convict, anyway.

  "We've got to try!" Meg yelled.

  Quill nodded. The wind had taken her hat off long ago, and her hair whipped wildly around her face. The lights of Palm Beach gleamed less than a quarter mile away.

  She shoved the throttle half open and began the slow maneuvering to get the boat to the buoy. Meg sat in the center seat, gripping the sides of the boat, face set. Quill turned to port, misjudged the water, and veered off the back of a large wave headed for the point. She maneuvered starboard, catching the face of the next one. The Verity slid forward faster than her motor and it coughed and died. Quill snapped the starter rope; the motor coughed and failed. She snapped it again. The engine caught and held.

  With the perversity of distances at sea, the buoy light suddenly showed up portside. Meg crawled forward and waved her hand to the right. Quill moved the tiller slowly, right, then left. The Verity pitched like a horse with a burr under the saddle. The red-and-white buoy appeared, then disappeared in the sweep of waves. Meg picked up a line, wound it around her waist and fixed it to the offside cleat. Quill edged the Verity closer to the buoy.

  Meg leaned forward. "... it!" Meg yelled. "I got... damn!"

  Lightning flashed in the western sky. The boat jumped as if she had been stung.

  Quill swore, turned, and looked into Evan Taylor's desperate face. He sat in the bow of the powerboat. He'd sideswiped the Verity. Thunder rumbled. The lightning flickered again. Corrigan was at the tiller.

  "Get down!" she screamed. "Meg, get down!" She resisted the frantic impulse to jam Verity's throttle wide open. The Class Act swung wide, motor roaring, white spume in its wake, and circled to ram them again. Quill eased the throttle forward, turned hard right, and slipped behind the buoy. Class Act took the buoy amidships with a thud. Corrigan reversed. The motor whined in protest, stuttered, and died.

  Quill blinked, refocused, and scanned the shore. Less than a quarter mile, closer to an eighth. They could swim to safety if they had to.

  There was one advantage to the wind, she thought grimly. The howl was so loud it must conceal the sound of their motor, and in the darkness they would be hard to see. She cast a swift look backwards. Class Act roared straight for them. Her lights disappeared, obscured by a huge wave. Quill turned the Verity's bow carefully toward the inlet. White spume sparkled in the top of the waves. She tried to recall everything she had ever known about surfing. "Catch it at the break," she muttered, "catch it..." She slammed full throttle. The Verity bucked, and her stem rose into the air. Quill pitched forward, caught herself, and the little boat slid forward, down the face of the wave.

  They'd caught it. The wave would bring them in. She heard Class Act's motor behind them. The Verity shuddered. They'd been hit. The portside bulwark rose higher, higher, and Quill tumbled into the sea.

  The water reached up and took her. She plunged down, down, the warmth of the ocean a momentary astonishment. She surfaced, gasping, and peered through the darkness for the boat. "Meg!" she shouted into the wind. "Meggieee!"

  The clouds swept from the moon, and she caught a glimpse of Meg's face, tight, frightened, determined. Quill raised her arm and pushed forward. "Go on!" she shouted. A wave broke over her head and she went under. Her head hit something hard, unyielding. Light shattered.

  And then it was dark.

  "I'm fine," Quill said irritably. "Excuse me." She pushed the medic's hand from her wrist. The condominium living room was filled with policemen, medics, at least one FBI agent, and, Quill suspected, a few reporters, since the woman and two men in the kitchen were trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She was lying on the leather couch in her clothes, which were soaked. What she could see of the wood floor was a small disaster - puddles and mud splashed everywhere.

  Jerry Fairchild stood behind the couch and looked down at her. His expression was hard to read. Meg perched on the armrest, smoking one of her rare cigarettes. She'd washed her face and changed into dry clothes. "You were lucky," she said. She stubbed the cigarette out. Her hand was trembling.

  "If you're well enough," Jerry said, "I ought to throw you in jail."

  "Fine. Go ahead. Bring on the gendarmes."

  "She'll be fine," the medic said. She recognized him; it was the same slight fellow who'd ministered to Corrigan when he'd appeared to faint the evening before. "Little waterlogged, and that's a nasty bump on the head, but..." He flashed his penlight in her eyes one more time. "No dilation of the pupils, she claims she's not dizzy, and that bump on her head isn't a fracture."

  His mild brown gaze rested on her, curious. "What's that scar on your shoulder from?"

  Quill realized someone had removed her sweatshirt and that the T-shirt beneath was wet. "Bullet," she said proudly. "From another case." She grinned. She sat up. She was shaky. Oddly, she was exhilarated. The past twenty-five minutes had been a confusion of water, wind, and shouting. Predominate was the grizzled face of the fisherman in the Chris-Craft, who'd knocked Evan Taylor out with an oar and dragged her from the water.

  Meg came and sat next to her on the couch. "What about some hot tea?"

  Quill swallowed. Her nose and throat were dry and stinging. Her eyes were gritty. Somebody had turned the air conditioning either down or off, for which she was grateful. One of the French doors was partly open, and she heard the lash of wind and rain against the windows. The air was warm and damp.

  "I'm going to take a hot shower, first, and get out of these clothes."

  Meg reached out to help her up and she got to her feet. The room seemed remarkably steady, amazingly bright, after the pitching waves and the darkness.

  "We'll wait," Jerry said.

  "Wait?"

  "If you're all that fine, we're taking you downtown, for a statement."

  "Now?"

  "Now. Cressida Houghton's going to have sixteen lawyers on my back when she learns her precious pair have been booked for attempted murder."

  "Verger's Taylor's alive?" Quill said.

  "He means you, stupid," Meg said affectionately. "Go on, get dressed."

  "In a minute. Where's the old geez - I mean the old gentleman that pulled me out of the water? He saved my life, Meg."

  Jerry rolled his lips back in what she took to be an attempt at a smile. They were stained brown. He hawked, pretended to spit, and gave a genuine smile at her astonished expression. "That was you?"

  "But Jerry, I've seen that old guy out in the boat every afternoon since we've been here."

  "That's Charlie Sinclair. Used to be one of the best defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard before he retired down here to fish. Didn't mind my borrowing his boat, but I had a hell of a time taking his tobacco."

  "B
orrowed his boat," Quill said. "Oh, my goodness. Luis!"

  "It's not too bad," Meg said with a slightly guilty air. "I got it to the dock, anyway. But there's a couple of dings in the side from getting rammed, and the police have confiscated it as evidence, and I'm afraid we'll have to get him a new one."

  "Oh, dear. And we swore to John that this would be a profitable trip. Well." She stood uncertainly and said to Jerry, "Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Now get changed. I'll wait." He raised his voice slightly. "I'd like this room cleared, please, and that includes you, Monica from channel seven."