Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "Being a smart ass will get you nowhere," he had returned with a smirk.

  However, exasperating as it was, I couldn't dwell on Rip's stubbornness now. I had what felt like a blue whale on the end of my line. It was pulling away with a strong steady tug. When I yanked on my pole to set the hook, there was a second of stillness before the fish took off so fast I could hear the whirring of my line streaming out a mile-a-minute.

  I tussled with that fish for quite a long spell, cranking the reel's handle whenever the fish took a break to get a second wind and the line began to go slack. But before long the monster would be on the run again and unwinding my line faster than I could crank it back in. This back and forth struggle went on for a good thirty minutes. Looking back later, I'd realize it was actually more like five or six minutes, but my story would forever remain unchanged. Truthfully, I knew it probably would change in time, growing even more astonishing with each telling, but I wouldn't be the first fisherman to exaggerate their fish tale. It was practically expected of dedicated anglers.

  Could this fish possibly be a state record? I wondered, still fighting Moby Dick with all the strength I could muster. I was having the time of my life trying to land my admirable opponent. It'd be the first fish I'd caught in my entire life if I could get him in my net.

  I'd even forgotten that my back had been throbbing in rhythm with the waves slapping the banks of St. Jo Island, which was not far from where I stood knee-deep in water that was brackish from recent heavy rainfall.

  I was so wound up I nearly peed in my waders, not only from the excitement of fighting the fish, but also because I'd been foolish enough to drink two cups of coffee that morning. I'd had to hold it for hours and it was beginning to get painful.

  It was to the point I felt my bladder had to be stretched as tight as my friend, Mabel Hick's, girdle. Unlike the men, I couldn't just slide my waders down and take a leak in the water. Still, despite my discomfort, I had a fish on the end of my line, and this was the first time I thought all the expense entailed in this adventure was worth every dime.

  While I watched line peeling off my reel once again, I was visualizing the pride I'd have in showing my Bunko club a photo of me holding my trophy fish. Of course, Gracie Parker would be at the party too, and she'd probably one-up me as she always did all of us girls. I could just see her reaching into her brassiere and pulling out a faded Polaroid snapshot of a young Gracie at sixteen, holding up a tarpon the size of a Volkswagen. Oh, well. At the rate I was going, my trophy fish would die of old age before I got him reeled in close enough to net, anyway.

  When I finally got the thrashing fish within a few feet of me, I reached for my net only to discover it was tangled up with the braided nylon cord attached to my bait bucket. Both cords had wrapped around me several times due to the motion of the waves. Before I could unwind myself from the entire conglomeration, the fish swam between my legs and started to circle me. I spun around and around like a carousel at a carnival. This blasted fish is just playing with me now, I thought. But we'll see who gets the last laugh.

  Frustrated, I was starting to get dizzy and was gasping for breath like an asthmatic having an attack. I was ready to throw in the towel when the fish, which appeared to be as exhausted as I was by this time, swam directly into the net. Apparently it had thrown in the towel just seconds before I could. I held the net up so I could admire the huge fish and was relieved to see it wasn't a hardhead. Shining in the sun's glare, it was a beautiful shade of red and had the distinctive black dot on its tail that Milo had explained would indicate it was a redfish.

  My next realization was I'd waited too long before setting the hook. The redfish had swallowed it nearly to its tail, it seemed. I could have cared less about retrieving the hook, though. I was heading straight back to the boat with my incredible catch. After the guys admired my fish and congratulated me on my remarkable angling skills, one of them could worry about the hook.

  I cut the line with my pliers and with the hook still embedded in the fish's belly, I put the redfish on my stringer to ensure it didn't get away. If I'd thought all the cords, net, bait bucket and fishing line were a mess before, I knew it'd now take me a good half hour to get everything untangled when I got back to the boat. At this point, I was wrapped up like a mummy in an Egyptian antiquities museum. I scooted an inch or two at a time, in fear of being stung by a stingray as I was sinking to the bottom of a ten-foot-deep pot hole. With no shark sighting to provide motivation, it took me twice as long to get back to the boat as it had taken me to get from the boat to the spot where I'd been mired in the mud for hours.

  * * *

  "Pretty, isn't it?" Milo asked as he held my redfish up for Rip and me to admire. Within seconds he'd removed the hook with a pair of long needle nose pliers, slapped the fish down on a measuring table along the rim of his boat, and let it slide over the side back into the water. In one fluid motion my fish was gone. Like an apparition, it disappeared from sight in a flash.

  "What the hell?" I exclaimed in surprise, and then repeated louder, in anger. "What the hell? You just tossed my trophy redfish overboard! You pitched it out like it was chopped liver!"

  "Yeah, it's called 'catch and release,'" he replied. "Besides, a redfish has to be at least twenty inches long to be a keeper. It'd be illegal to not release your nineteen and three-quarter incher, and the penalties are steep if you get caught with an undersized game fish."

  I couldn't catch my breath for a few seconds as I struggled to come to grips with the fact my fish was probably a mile away from the boat by then, and Rip hadn't even had time to use his phone to take a photo of me proudly displaying it.

  No fish, no photo. All I had left was a bladder about to explode like a water balloon thrown from a third-story balcony.

  When I finally calmed down and accepted the fact my redfish wasn't as remarkable a catch as I'd imagined, I turned to the men and asked, "So, how many keepers did you guys catch?"

  "Not a bite all day," Rip responded, obviously more than a little disappointed. "Well, except for when Milo hooked what he thought was a stingray by the way it fought. Fortunately, the line got cut when the fish steered it into a small reef of oyster shells, so he didn't have to mess with getting it off the hook."

  "Oh, so my thousand-dollar fish was the best catch of the day," I boasted.

  "Yeah, I guess so. But Milo's going to take us a ways out into the Gulf, where he and Cooper go spear-fishing for red snapper. They fish right by an oil rig where the snapper tend to hang out. He said we'd give it an hour or so using cut bait and head home if we don't have any luck there."

  "Oh, jeez. Another hour out here?" My tone made it clear I wasn't thrilled about the prospect. My bladder was even less thrilled.

  "You had fun catching that redfish didn't you, honey?" Rip asked, as Milo stored a few loose items in storage compartments so they wouldn't blow out of the boat.

  "Of course I did, Rip," I replied. "But that fifteen minutes of fun was swallowed up by another five hours worth of mind-numbing boredom. Fishing's not for me. Besides, if we took this sport up as a hobby, before we knew it we'd be standing at busy intersections, holding up a sign. 'Will work for bait. God Bless You.'"

  Rip smiled, rolled his eyes at me, and said, "At least you're not going to get melodramatic about it."

  "I have to pee too. And there's no way I can hold it another hour."

  Milo had retrieved the anchor I'd accidentally flung out earlier and raised the power pole. After learning of my dilemma, he pulled the boat as close to shore as he could and helped me out. Peeling wet, chest-high neoprene waders off and crouching behind a palm tree in an area full of ants and sand burrs was not as much fun as it sounds. However, the relief I felt afterward made it all worthwhile.

  After I'd rejoined the men in the boat, Milo fired up the motor and soon we were moving along the shore line at a rapid clip. I sat up front enjoying the passing scenery, the wind in my hair, abundant flora and fauna, a pod of dolphins in
a feeding frenzy, and, most of all, an empty bladder. We could have just cruised around like that all day and I'd have been happy as a tornado in a trailer park. And, in case you're wondering, tornadoes don't turn their noses up at RV parks either.

  Another mile or so down the coast, we passed two whooping cranes; a mating pair from the nearby wintering flock of the endangered species. One was searching for small crabs while the other one served as sentry, keeping a trained eye on us as we sailed by. Soon after that, Milo reined back the throttle to point out a flock of the pink-colored roseate spoonbills up close to the bank. They were beautiful creatures that paid no heed to us as their platypus-looking bills swayed back and forth in the water. Milo explained that their main source of food was shrimp and, like those 'damn' flamingos', it was the iodine in the shrimp that gave them their pink color.

  I was very much enjoying the cruise and the view when the motor abruptly shut down and the boat's forward motion ceased. Lost in the moment of pure pleasure, I was caught off-guard by the sudden stop, and pitched forward off the padded cooler. My first thought was the motor had stalled. My second thought was that I was too old to be flung across the bow of a bay boat and would be sporting a battery of fresh bruises the following morning.

  Then I looked in the direction Milo was pointing and spotted a passenger-free boat rocking back and forth in the waves. It had a very similar design as Milo's boat, but much less flashy. At least that one didn't nearly glow in the dark like the Maverick.

  "I'm almost positive that's Cooper's boat," he said, sounding shaken. "It's too far from shore to be anchored." Is it the fact that Cooper came out here without us, disregarding the plans he and his friend had previously agreed upon, that has Milo so disturbed? I wondered. Or is it something even more disconcerting?

  By Milo's expression, I felt certain it was the latter. It didn't take long for me to realize that if the boat was adrift without Cooper aboard, there was little doubt something was off beam. With a trembling voice, Milo instructed us. "Start scanning the surface of the water to see if we can locate him. The tide is rising and he may be so focused on fishing, he isn't aware his boat has drifted away."

  "Are you sure that's what's happened?" Rip asked, clearly aware of Milo's concern. "You were telling me about spear-fishing earlier. Didn't you say you usually exit the boat in your snorkeling gear out in the open water, like Cooper's boat is now?"

  "Yes, but only in shallow water where the anchor can reach the bottom. Often we tie our boats to oil rigs so we can fish in deeper water."

  "Do they actually let boats tie up to the oil rigs in this day and age when terrorism is always a potential threat?" Rip asked, dubiously.

  "Well, um, not exactly, but, um, well, we—"

  "Never mind, son. I'm pretty certain the USCG doesn't allow boats to tie up to any offshore platform, but that's neither here nor there right now. Go on with what you were saying." Rip's tone was sharp and disapproving.

  "All right. Cooper's pretty careless at times," Milo began. "Still, it's crazy for him to not keep a closer eye on the tide, his boat, and, for that matter, his entire surroundings. I'm afraid something more ominous may have happened to him. He's been drinking so much recently, there's always the chance he fell overboard. And, to answer your question, Rip, no, I'm not sure what's happened, but this is not normal."

  "In that case, shouldn't we alert the Coast Guard?" Rip asked.

  "Not quite yet. I guarantee you he doesn't want the Coast Guard alerted unless absolutely necessary. Keep scanning the surface of the water, Rip. It's possible he might be treading water and in immediate need of rescuing," Milo instructed. With a great deal of trepidation in his voice, he added, "Rapella, why don't you try to focus on the shore line. He's got to be out here somewhere."

  Even though I was wearing my eyeglasses, I was way past due for a new prescription. I hadn't felt as if I'd gotten my four-hundred dollars' worth out of my current pair yet. I could barely make out the shore line, the east bank of St. Jo Island, so I doubted I could distinguish between a man waving desperately for help and a palm tree swaying in the breeze. But I squinted and concentrated as best I could, anxious to help any way I could.

  We cruised around in circles for over two hours. My eyes watered profusely from not blinking enough in the increasing wind. Rip and I were becoming as concerned for Milo's friend as he was. Darkness came early in mid-November, and the dwindling light would become an issue before much more time had passed. Despite the fact we'd spent a big chunk of my Social Security check on fuel, I was relieved we'd filled the tank up. We'd crossed the Intercoastal Waterway, gone around the island, and sailed a significant distance out into the Gulf. There was the chance we might have been adrift soon too had we not had sufficient fuel on board.

  Gravely concerned now, Milo asked us to keep searching while he contacted the Coast Guard with his marine radio. It didn't take long before we spotted two Coast Guard vessels trolling about, skimming the water's surface with a high-powered spotlight. Soon we heard the familiar sound of a chopper circling overhead. We were accustomed to the sound because helicopters frequently flew out to oil rigs and back in to the small Aransas County Airport. As the sun slipped below the horizon, the Coast Guard radioed us, forty-five minutes into their search, to let us know they would have to call off the search soon and resume at first light. They advised us to do the same before total darkness overtook us. I knew that meant the "search and rescue" mission had most likely just transformed into a "search and recover" operation to be conducted the following day. The realization was sobering.

  This fact was not lost on Milo, either, and naturally he was hesitant to stop trying to locate his friend and business partner. But he was an experienced mariner and knew that within minutes, he'd have no other choice but to turn and head for home.

  Milo claimed that with money tight, he'd been putting off buying a GPS system for his boat. He didn't even have a rudimentary flashlight on board to assist us back to Key Allegro, much less a spotlight that would enhance our view of obstacles in front of us. Without GPS we had no way of knowing where the channel markers, gas wells, or other odds and ends protruding from the water were located. Even the barges proceeded so quietly down the ship channel they could be hard to detect in the dark over the din of one's own boat's motor.

  These factors meant waiting too long to head home could be risky. As desperately as he wanted to bring his friend home safely, Milo probably felt some degree of responsibility for our welfare, too. Or at least one would hope so.

  In a trembling voice, Milo said, "I'm going to put the boat on the lift at our dock so I can head back out as soon as I'm able in the morning. I usually keep it there until I need to take on fuel, which we did this morning. But just to be safe I should probably top off the tank before going out tomorrow, anyway."

  "I'll go with you in the morning, son," Rip volunteered. "If you haven't got the funds right now, I'll cover the fuel. Again."

  I'm not sure if Milo noticed the faint hint of sarcasm in Rip's final word, but I did. After Milo had trimmed down the motor and thrust the throttle forward, the boat came up on plane in a split second. I looked to my left to judge the amount of daylight remaining in the sky and saw a ray of sunshine glint off a speck of red floating on top of the water two or three hundred yards away from us. I quickly tapped Milo and pointed in that direction. He swallowed hard, nodded, and sped full throttle toward the object.

  Milo's face paled more and more the closer we got to what even I could now identify as a body. He nearly fainted when it became apparent it was the body of Cooper Claypool. He explained to us. "I recognize his red inflatable life belt because I have an identical one. We both always wear a safety belt when we go spear-fishing, in case we find ourselves in trouble underwater. They have a manual CO2 inflation system. But it looks to me as if there's something embedded in his chest. Perhaps that's a good sign."

  "And just how could that ever be a good sign?" Rip asked.

  "Well, I wa
sn't referring to the 'something embedded in his chest' part. I just thought he may have passed out and was still aware enough to inflate his life belt when he started feeling faint. He could just be unconscious, maybe stayed out in the sun too long. I know too much sun exposure makes me light-headed sometimes."

  It was apparent to both Rip and me that Milo's rationalization was more wishful thinking than a realistic probability. Milo was trying hard to convince himself that Cooper Claypool was still alive as he navigated the boat toward his bobbing buddy. I'm pretty sure all three of us already knew mere unconsciousness wasn't the case. And that fact became blatantly obvious when we drew up beside the body, which was encased in a scuba diving wet suit. Cooper was floating face up, and he did indeed have something protruding from his chest. It was a spear, as if another spear-fisherman had mistaken him for a large grouper.

  There appeared to be a dark greenish bruise on the man's left cheek that contrasted with his pale, blue-tinted face. His eyes were open and his cornea had a cloudy, opaque appearance that I found extremely creepy. I had to look away when bile rose in my throat.

  "Oh, my God!" Milo cried out. "Coop's been shot with a spear-gun. His own, most likely. How could this happen? Who would do such a cruel thing to him? I can't imagine why anyone would want to do that to another person, much less a guy like Cooper."

  "What makes you automatically assume the spear was fired from Cooper's own gun?" Rip asked, after he and Milo had hoisted the body aboard the boat. He was already in detective mode, accessing Cooper's body for evidence. "That would indicate his assailant had been close enough to Cooper to gain control of his spear-gun."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right. Coop and me, as well as another fishing buddy, Pinto, all bought new spear-guns at a hunting and fishing expo in Corpus a few months ago. The only difference was that Pinto and I bought top of the line pneumatic models with reels and a lot of power. But Cooper told us he was a bit short on funds, and he bought a cheaper model with only a nineteen-inch barrel. It does have strong bands, but is very hard to load."