Baja Florida

by Bob Morris

Charlie pulled the seaplane as close as he could get it to the beach. The pontoons dug into the sand, but he said it wouldn’t be any problem getting it out as long as there were just a few inches of water.

  We draped the shade cloth over the plane and tied it down. When we got done we stood back and looked at it. It looked peculiar. But it didn’t look like a seaplane. And it didn’t look red.

  It took some of the edge off Charlie. He spent a few moments admiring the surroundings, his gaze drifting up to the house.

  “Hell of a house.” He looked at me. “Please tell me it’s got a bar.”

  38

  By mid afternoon, Mickey Ryser was rallying the troops for an outing on Radiance.

  “You sure you strong enough for that?” Octavia said.

  “Just the sight of that boat makes me feel better,” Mickey said. “That and having my daughter here with me.”

  “I don’t like boats,” Octavia said. “I get sick on ’em.”

  “Then don’t go,” Mickey said. “Any medicine I need, I can take it with me. You stay here. Take it easy. Relax.”

  Octavia didn’t argue with him.

  But Jen did. She said she was too exhausted to go out in the boat. I heard Mickey pleading with her from her bedroom, their voices carrying down to the second-floor living room where I sat with Boggy and Charlie.

  “It’ll only be for a couple of hours, honey. Just a quick little shakedown cruise.”

  “You go. I don’t feel like it.”

  “But I want you on the boat. It means a lot.”

  “Some other time. I’m tired.”

  “You can rest on the boat. There’s a big couch in the salon. AC and everything.”

  “Where are you going anyway?”

  “Thought we’d run down to George Town, then turn around and run back.”

  Something about that must have helped change her mind.

  “OK,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  Aside from the fact that the police were on the prowl for us, it was a fine day for cruising on a million-dollar classic yacht.

  Charlie said the story in the Guardian hadn’t mentioned anything about Boggy and me being seen last aboard Radiance. Maybe the people at Dilly’s Marina hadn’t made the connection. Or maybe they had made the connection and chosen not to contact the police, figuring that Mickey Ryser’s sizable business with them bought some degree of silence. I could only hope.

  I still hadn’t told Mickey about the trouble that was chasing us. And once I saw how his spirits and physical condition seemed so markedly improved just by being aboard Radiance with his daughter and his friends, I decided against telling him altogether.

  Why spoil the occasion? Why dump a bucket of misery on the guy? Let him enjoy what time he had left. I’d get out of this mess, smooth things over. I could tell him about it then. Better that way.

  We ran south for an hour, Mickey at the helm, beaming like a boy with a brand-new bike. Curtis and Edwin had joined us. They had removed the canvas covers from the chairs on the aft deck and were sitting there with Boggy and Charlie, the covers stowed neatly beneath the gunwales.

  I was in the pilot house with Mickey and Jen. The three of us held down the captain’s bench, Jen in the middle, a big straw bag by her feet. Her long white linen top was sheer enough to show the bright blue bikini beneath it. She wore a floppy yellow hat and big sunglasses.

  Mickey had some tunes going, a vintage ska mix, but we could talk above it. I turned and looked at Jen.

  “So where’s this boat of yours? Sounds like quite a rig.”

  It took her a moment to answer.

  “Sold it,” she said.

  Mickey looked as surprised to hear it as I was.

  “You did what?”

  “I sold it.” She shrugged and gave Mickey’s arm a squeeze. “I got to thinking about it and I decided that it was really selfish of me to go sailing all over the place when I should be here when you needed me. I can always get another boat. But there’s not another you.”

  Mickey kissed her forehead and wrapped an arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Where did you sell it?” I asked her.

  “Marsh Harbour.”

  “Where in Marsh Harbour?”

  She sat up and looked at me. It was not a friendly look.

  “A marina.”

  “What marina?”

  It got me a glance from Mickey.

  “What difference does it make, Zack-o? It’s her boat. She can do what she wants with it. I just hope she sold it for a good price.”

  Jen smiled.

  “I did. I got a real good price for it…Doo-Dah.”

  She laughed. Mickey laughed, too.

  “You mean, the marina bought it outright? Because most of the time, a marina will just act as the agent and get a commission after the boat sells. It can take a while. Especially the boat market being what it is these days.”

  Jen blew out air, annoyed.

  “I sold the boat to the marina. They gave me money for it. I put the money in the bank. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Yes, actually. What about your friends?”

  “What about them?”

  “Well, I know Karen Breakell found a job on a charter boat. And Will Moody, I saw him the other night. But what about the others? Justin and Torrey and the other one…Pete. Pete Crumrine.”

  She studied my face.

  “You really did your homework, didn’t you?”

  “What about them, Jen?”

  “They’re cool with it,” she said. “They totally understood. I mean, who wouldn’t understand something like this?”

  “Are they still in Marsh Harbour?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Or did they go home?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. I got on the plane and flew down here and they could be anywhere now for all I know.”

  Another look from Mickey, this time a little perturbed.

  “Enough already with the third degree, OK, Zack? She’s safe. She’s here. That’s all I care about.”

  He gave Jen another hug, but she squirmed out of it and stood up from the bench. She grabbed her straw bag.

  “I’m going below,” she said.

  39

  As we neared George Town and the broad, flat waters of Elizabeth Harbour, I went below to use the head. There’s not much town in George Town, just a one-way main drag that circles past a business district with a couple dozen low buildings, then splits off to opposite ends of Great Exuma.

  A narrow finger of land stretches from the road into the harbor. In another week or so it would be filled with thousands of people, a happy throng from throughout the Bahamas who come each year to watch the National Family Island Regatta and to party for four days nonstop. Except for a few vendors erecting booths the place was empty.

  I had my cell phone with me. As I stepped into the main salon it gave a little beep, letting me know I had service. I immediately turned it off. Cops in the States track suspects on their cell phones. I didn’t know if Bahamian cops had the technology, but I didn’t want to chance it.

  As I neared the head, the salon’s aft door slid open. Jen stepped inside. She was studying the cell phone in her hand. And she was also on course for the head. She looked up, not particularly happy to see me, and not bothering to hide it.

  I gave a gallant sweep of a hand.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The door slid shut behind her.

  I was fairly certain she intended to use the cell phone from inside there. And I was tempted to stand outside and eavesdrop.

  So tempted, I did just that.

  I didn’t lean against the door with my ear up to it. But I did strain to hear anything I could. I didn’t hear much. No sound of Jen talking. No sound that might typically be associated with a woman using the head. Mostly what I heard was the boat’s engine droning along.

  And then my ears adjus
ted, I filtered out the engine, and I heard it. Barely audible but I heard it. A faint tap-tapping.

  Jen sending a text message.

  Five minutes passed. I made some distance between myself and the door. Another five minutes. I found a chair, sat down.

  She finally emerged.

  “All yours,” she said.

  We didn’t stop at George Town. Mickey turned Radiance around and we headed north, back the way we came.

  There were a couple of hours of daylight left. And just shy of Lady Cut Cay, near a shoal where the water glimmered with three shades of blue, Mickey backed the engines to an idle and told Curtis to let out the hook.

  “Nice little patch reef here if anyone wants to jump in and take a look around,” he said.

  I grabbed a mask and fins from a locker. So did Boggy and Charlie.

  “It’d be good to find some conch,” I said. “Have Miss Rose turn it into conch salad for dinner.”

  Curtis shook his head.

  “No conch down there,” he said.

  “What do you mean there’s no conch?”

  “All fished out. Conch are scarce in these parts,” Curtis said. “You want to find conch you need to go south to Acklins or Crooked Island, around there.”

  We jumped in and finned around. I split off from Boggy and Charlie, having a ball in the water, chasing schools of blue tang and snapper, trying to reach out and touch them, watching them swirl away.

  I was rounding an outcropping of brain coral when I looked down and saw the conch. A big one, the size of a dinner plate, its rusty-gold shell standing out like a neon sign against the sandy sea bottom. I dove down and grabbed it.

  Back on the boat, I showed off my prize. Curtis just shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  Boggy said, “Cohobo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is Taino word for conch,” Boggy said. “And it bodes well that you found it, Zachary.”

  “Bodes well for dinner,” I said. “And I can take the shell to Shula.”

  Boggy took the conch from me, looked at it closely.

  “The conch,” he said, “it is good for many things.”

  He promptly set about cleaning it and managed to remove the meat without marring the shell. The inside of the shell was a study in gradations of pink, light on the edge of the lip, then flaming as the shell spiraled inward upon itself. It was a big, mature conch, its crown long and pointed.

  I scrubbed it off and stuck it out of the sun, under some sheets of canvas beneath the gunwales. A perfect gift for Shula. I would hold it to her ear and show her how to listen to the ocean. I would tell her stories. I missed her something fierce.

  Mickey made his way down from the pilot house and stood by the transom, looking out on the water.

  “How was it, Zack?”

  “Water felt great. Nice little reef.”

  “One of my favorite spots,” Mickey said. “Saw a hawksbill turtle last time I was here. That was a while ago.”

  “You oughta jump in and give it a look. Might see that turtle again.”

  Mickey smiled.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I oughta.”

  Mickey started strapping on his fins. Jen leaned against the gunwale, watching him. He looked at her.

  “Why don’t you join me?”

  “Sure, why not,” she said.

  She pulled off her white linen top. She looked good in the bright blue bikini. I noticed it. So did Boggy and Charlie. But a buddy’s daughter, you just don’t stare.

  Mickey stepped to the swim platform. He eased into the water as Jen put on her gear.

  Mickey yelled, “Come on in!”

  Jen stood on the edge of the platform, her back to us.

  Only now I did stare. Because I was looking at her flawless skin, the back of her shoulders, tanned and smooth and without blemish.

  And then she jumped in.

  40

  I knew Mickey and Jen wouldn’t stay in the water for long. Despite all his spunk and mettle, he would tire quickly. I had only a few minutes at the most.

  Jen’s cell phone was probably in the straw bag she had carried aboard, the straw bag she snatched up and hauled off with her after our little set-to in the pilot house.

  The bag wasn’t anywhere on the deck. I stepped inside the main salon. Wasn’t there either. I went up to the pilot house. No luck.

  I made my way down to the main stateroom. And there sat the bag on the bed. I sifted through it, found the cell phone.

  I am no expert when it comes to cell phones. I never owned one until after Shula was born and then only after considerable prodding from Barbara.

  The cell phone I held wasn’t anything like my cell phone. The power was off. It took me a good minute to figure out how to turn it on. The screen lit up and I didn’t recognize any of the icons.

  Barbara text messaged all the time, constantly it seemed. I had never tried it. And I had no idea where to find the messaging function on this phone.

  I punched my way through various icons. Got an e-mail directory. It was empty. Got an address book. It was filled with names but sorting through it seemed a waste of time.

  Finally punched an icon that opened the text messages. The most recent thread automatically popped up on the screen.

  No names on the messages, just phone numbers. I began reading them in reverse order:

  G2g.

  When?

  Tomorrow. They’ll be gone. Have plane.

  When?

  No!!!

  Come tonight?

  No!!! They hear.

  Shit. I’ll call you.

  Out in his boat. Big problem. Visitors.

  Wtf? Where ARE you?

  I didn’t hear her walk up behind me.

  “Excuse me?”

  I turned around. She was still wet from her swim, a towel around her neck. She grabbed the cell phone from me.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Huh?”

  “You aren’t Jen Ryser.”

  She drew herself up.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know who you are, but you aren’t Mickey Ryser’s daughter.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Possibly. But I don’t think Jen Ryser would just sell her boat like that. She named it after her mother. She just wouldn’t let it go. It meant too much to her.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Something else. Jen Ryser has a scar on her back. You don’t.”

  “What scar?

  “From when she got cut on the crossing to Walker’s Cay. Will Moody stitched it up on the boat. Karen Breakell told me about it. Karen Breakell, who’s in the hospital, in a coma. You know anything about that?”

  She started to say something, then stopped.

  “Start talking, Torrey,” I said.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Torrey. Torrey Kealing. That’s who you are, isn’t it? Because you damn sure aren’t Jen Ryser.”

  “You’re fucking crazy. I’m not going to listen to this.”

  She stormed off. I didn’t stop her. We were on a boat. Where could she go?

  By the time I made it topside, the engines had cranked up and Radiance was pointing toward Lady Cut Cay. Curtis manned the helm, Edwin beside him.

  I joined Boggy and Charlie on the aft deck, told them what was going down. We could see into the main salon. Mickey on the rattan couch. The young woman pacing the floor in front of him, on a rant, arms flailing.

  She showed Mickey the cell phone. She pointed out at me. And then she started crying. She collapsed onto the couch, face in her hands. Mickey patted her back and drew her close.

  Charlie said, “So if she’s not Jen Ryser, who is she?”

  “I’m guessing the third woman on the sailboat. Torrey Kealing.”

  “Any idea who she was messaging?”

  “Been try
ing to figure that out.”

  “One of the guys on the sailboat?”

  “Could be one of them.”

  “That Will Moody guy…”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Something’s going on with him. Just can’t pin it down. A little too neat for him to show up like he did. Something doesn’t fit. But it could be someone else, someone we don’t know about.”

  In the main salon, the young woman still had her face buried against Mickey’s chest. Mickey looked out at me—a world of pain in his eyes.

  “So, that girl in there,” Charlie said. “She was pretending to be Jen Ryser so she could get money from Mickey?”

  “No other way to figure it. And not just a little pocket money. The whole package. She knows Mickey only has a little time. So she shows up, says she’s his long-lost daughter, and hopes Daddy will leave her something. Mickey had his will rewritten a few weeks ago, after he first spoke to Jen on the phone. I don’t know all the details, but he’s leaving her a bundle.”

  “Pretty ballsy scam,” Charlie said.

  “Could have worked, almost did. Mickey hasn’t seen Jen in more than twenty years. He doesn’t know what she looks like. This one, this Torrey Kealing, she shows up saying she’s Jen when he’s expecting Jen to show up, why not believe her?”

  Inside the main salon, Mickey got up from the couch. He took a moment to steady himself on a chair before making his way to the galley. He pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator, brought it back to the couch, and gave it to the young woman.

  Boggy said, “What now, Zachary? We go to the police?”

  “We’ll let Mickey finish things in there. See how he wants to handle it.”

  It was shaping up to be a killer sunset. Still an hour away, but already the sky was warming up for the big show—streaks of gold against a blue backdrop darkening into purple.

  Charlie said, “This doesn’t necessarily get the heat off you, does it, Zack?”

  “No, but it’s a beginning. Time to let the police in on it. They can unravel everything.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Have to believe it.”

  We watched the sky some more. Curtis backed off the throttle as we closed in on the dock at Lady Cut Cay.