by JoAnna Carl
As soon as the two evening-shift girls arrived, I left, too. This might not be a new-outfit occasion, but I’d sure feel more festive if I had a shower before I went.
The shower was the reason I missed Joe. He came and went while I was underwater. So we didn’t get a chance to discuss the threat to Marco Spear and how seriously Hogan was taking it. He just left a note that read “I’ve got to do a couple of things. Meet you at Oxford boatyard.”
I picked up Tracy and Brenda, who seemed subdued but excited, and headed for the boatyard.
Brenda did say Will had left a message apologizing. “Oh,” I said. I was staying out of that situation.
So it was a little bit surprising when the person who let us in the gate at Oxford Boats was Will.
We all squawked his name. “Will!”
He grinned. The guy did have a winning grin. “Hi, ladies,” he said. “Guess what? I snagged an invitation, too.”
“How?” Brenda sounded excited.
“I’m just a worker bee. My boss talked to the Oxford foreman and found out they could use another crewman tonight. He gave them a vastly overrated account of my skills as a sailor, and I’m on as a deckhand and car parker.”
We parked where Will directed, gathered up our jackets, and went to meet Joe, who introduced us to Charles Oxford, owner of Oxford Boats. Mr. Oxford—nobody called him Charles that night—has a home in Warner Pier but mainly lives in Chicago. He was a distinguished-looking older guy with the dignified presence he would need to deal with celebrity and wealthy clients. He seemed to awe Brenda and Tracy, and maybe he awed me, too.
Then we stepped on board the yacht. And who was already on board but Aunt Nettie and Hogan? We greeted them. Then Byron appeared, looking unusually wimpy. It seemed that his teeth were more bucked than ever, that his glasses were thicker, and that his accent sounded dumber. I was proud of Tracy and Brenda. When he offered to give us a tour, neither of them looked around for a better-looking guide.
The tour was fabulous because the yacht was fabulous. It had an aft deck that was larger than my living room. It featured a long built-in couch—it would seat at least seven—plus several other chairs and tables, all covered with all-weather fabric.
Then Byron led us up a flight of cantilevered stairs—sorry, I have trouble calling something so sleekly designed a “companionway”—to the fly deck, the deck way up on top. That was twice the size of the aft deck and so high that it felt as if it should give the passengers a view of Wisconsin. Actually, even that tall a deck wouldn’t let us see more than eight miles, so Wisconsin was still a hundred miles out of range. But we felt—well, way up high.
For more intimate chitchat, there was a forward deck out on the bow with seating for, say, half a dozen.
Then we followed Byron inside. We saw the lower-deck salon, the galley, and the gym. We saw the five guest cabins, each with private bath, and the master suite, which stretched the full twenty-five-foot width of the yacht and included a sitting room. We skipped lightly over the engine room, the bridge, the radar and sonar, the “garage” where Jet Skis or a dinghy could be stored, the water makers—to convert seawater to fresh when the yacht was in an ocean—the air-conditioning and heating, and the water wings. Or I guess it had water wings. It had everything else.
By the time Byron escorted us to the main salon—another twenty-five-foot-wide, ultradecorated room—I was beyond amazement. The bar and buffet table were set up in the main salon, and I headed for them. I shouldered my way through a half dozen people who were already standing around the bar without looking at the other guests.
The bartender—I recognized him as a Herrera Catering employee—held up a pitcher of red liquid. “Sangria?”
“Sounds good,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve seen sangria since I left Texas.”
“It hasn’t been ‘in’ around here,” the bartender said. “Maybe this will inspire a revival.”
The person next to me tapped me on the shoulder. “Hi, Lee,” he said. “I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
It was Chuck O’Riley, editor of the Warner Pier Gazette.
I smiled. “Why shouldn’t you be here, Chuck? You certainly have as much right as I do.”
“I’m in pretty impressive company,” Chuck said. “Way out of my depth.”
He gestured, and at the same time another person spoke. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Woodyard.”
It was Gordon Hitchcock, with LMTV News. The television reporter I love to hate.
Gordon and I have bumped heads on several occasions. I nodded and started to move away from him. Then I saw the man behind him, and I recognized him, too. I don’t know his name, but three years earlier—when Joe was having a lot of trouble with the sensational press after his first wife was murdered—that guy had been a correspondent for one of the racier tabloids, and he’d nearly driven Joe insane. I didn’t know the fourth man, but somehow I wasn’t surprised when Chuck told me he was from the Associated Press.
But it was the fifth man, the one who was urging all the reporters to dig into the buffet, who was dominating the crowd at the bar. He was dressed flashy, and he acted flashy. His hair was an unnatural blond, and his eyes were an unnatural blue. He talked a lot and smiled even more. He was, Chuck said, a representative of Marco Spear. A press agent.
Joe and I had been invited to the press peek.
Oh, ye gods! I wondered whether Joe knew. He had made his way to the bridge, since he was more interested in the mechanical aspects of the yacht than in the gym, the galley, and the guest cabins.
I hoped he stayed there.
I clutched my sangria and headed for the upper deck at top speed.
As I went by Brenda and Tracy, I grabbed them and pulled them aside. I warned both of them not to speak to anyone in the group at the bar and buffet.
“They’re press,” I said. “I don’t think they’re interested in Joe or me. I’m sure they’re here to check out Marco Spear’s yacht. But you both know the problems we’ve had with reporters in the past, so please, please—don’t talk to them at all. Don’t answer the most innocent question.”
About that time, the captain came over the intercom system and told us where to find life jackets. The yacht gave a honk, and it left its berth. We were off.
We moved slowly out into the river and toward the lake. There were even more boats out to gawk that evening than there had been the evening before. Joe continued to be among the missing, and I was sure he was looking over the mechanical parts of the yacht.
I was still nervous about the reporters, so I grabbed Aunt Nettie, who can turn a reporter into an ally with her smile, and the two of us sat down on the aft deck.
The yacht moved down the river. Byron had become a waiter, and he brought us each a plate of goodies. We jokingly did the Queen Elizabeth II wave at the boats following the yacht, especially if we saw someone we knew. We moved around the deck, looking the vessel over. I also counted heads and realized that there were only about a dozen people on board, plus four or five crew members.
There were the four reporters and the press agent. Gordon Hitchcock hadn’t even been allowed to bring a photographer. Then there were Aunt Nettie, Hogan, Brenda, Tracy, Joe, me, and some guy who looked familiar but whom I couldn’t identify. He and Hogan were hanging out.
After my initial upset over the reporters being on the excursion, I was again looking forward to the trip.
Then we went through the channel and out into Lake Michigan. Our flotilla of small boats—actually some of them were thirty- or fifty-footers—came with us. As it had the night before, the big yacht seemed to preen, posing for her admirers for five or ten minutes. Then she put on the speed and left them all bouncing in her wake. Most fell behind and went back into Warner Pier, though I could still see the running lights of a few. By then the sun was down, and it was getting dark.
The lake wasn’t rough, and I was enjoying myself thoroughly. The yacht turned north, toward Holland
, and traveled along parallel to the shore. After about five miles, it slowed and almost came to a halt.
Joe and Hogan came down from the bridge and joined Aunt Nettie and me.
I smiled at Joe. “What do you think of her?”
“A very neat craft,” he said.
The words had just left his mouth when the pirates came up the aft gangway.
Chapter 19
The first pirate was dressed like the one who had boarded Joe’s boat back in June, but it wasn’t the same man. Not unless he’d put on several pounds over the summer. This one had quite a paunch.
No, he might have the black beard, the bandana, and the golden earring, but he wasn’t nearly as sexy as the other pirate had been. Definitely not the same guy.
Of course, I might have thought that because I was convinced the first pirate had been Hal Weldon, and Hal was dead.
The pirate spun around on one leg in a dance move. Then he cried out, “Aha, me hearties! Shiver me timbers!” He began to prance around, but he didn’t do any handstands or make any other athletic moves. He did have a certain pizzazz, but he definitely wasn’t athletic enough to walk on his hands on the gunwale of Joe’s boat.
People were applauding him, and the applause grew as two more pirates came over the stern. Again there was a sexy pirate queen, accompanied by a smaller pirate who carried a pipe. The piper began to pipe, and the costumed girl began to dance. I thought she was the same pirate queen who had boarded us on Midsummer’s Eve. I concentrated on watching their performance.
The yacht had quite an advantage over Joe’s boat. The entertainers had room to move around vigorously, and they did. The girl not only danced; she did round-offs and aerial cartwheels. The piper lost the tune a couple of times, but he kicked up his heels enthusiastically.
I looked at him critically. Was this the same guy who had played the pennywhistle aboard Joe’s boat?
But it didn’t matter. The first pirate had disappeared back down the companionway that led to the swim platform, so the pirate queen and the piper had the aft deck all to themselves. They were having fun. All the passengers and crew were having fun. Or so I thought. I looked around for crew members. I could see the captain and another crew member up on the top deck—they were leaning over the railing to see the show. The reporters who had been in the main salon were up there, too. Will was standing at the back of the aft deck, near Brenda and Tracy. They were clapping in time to the music. Aunt Nettie, Joe—they were laughing together. Hogan and the stranger were near each other. I saw them exchanging a look, but they were both grinning.
Who wasn’t there?
It was Byron, I realized. There was no sign of him. But that was just from my point of view. The yacht was so large that Byron might have had a wonderful spot for watching the performance.
The antics went on for around five minutes before the lead pirate, the first one over the railing, reappeared. He waved his arms and called for silence.
Then he spoke in a raspy pirate-type voice. “Bring out the treasure!”
The queen and the piper ran back down the companionway to the swim platform. Standing up so that I could get a view of what was going on, I could see that their inflatable boat was tied up there. The two lifted out a large box decorated to look like a pirate chest. A fourth pirate had stayed in the inflatable, and he helped them lift it; it seemed to be quite heavy.
The three of them carried the chest up to the aft deck, seeming to stagger under its weight. Then, with flourishes from all four pirates, they opened the lid.
A dozen helium balloons floated out.
Yes, it got a big laugh from all of us.
They proceeded to do several more stunts with the box. A half dozen pigeons flew out, and the pirates all jumped back and two of them did pratfalls. They put the girl in it, waved a colorful cloth around, and tried to get her to disappear. Except that she didn’t. We all laughed hard at that. They produced necklaces and other jewelry from the chest—the type that people bring home from Mardi Gras—and they threw them to all of us. I caught a purple one, then a gold, and draped them around my neck. Aunt Nettie caught red and blue beads.
It was by far the most elaborate pirate show that I’d heard of all summer. It went on longer and had more parts and involved props—the chest, the birds, the balloons, the beads—that the other boardings hadn’t used. It also had more people performing. But after all, the large yacht gave them more room. It was logical that they were using it.
It was probably ten minutes before the pirate queen ceremoniously closed the lid to the chest, did another cartwheel, and skipped lightly down the aft companionway. She got into the inflatable and held it steady. The two men carried the chest down to the dinghy and loaded it aboard. While they were doing this, the pirate king did a few more dance moves and yelled, “Yo-ho-ho!” He didn’t board the inflatable until its outboard motor roared.
We were all cheering as the boat sped off. The only odd thing was that after about a quarter mile, the pirates cut their running lights. Basically, they disappeared into the dark. This is not legal, but none of us called the Coast Guard.
Hogan was standing near Aunt Nettie and me. “Hey,” I said, “if there’s any reason you want to know where those guys go, the captain of this thing could watch them on radar.”
Hogan smiled smugly. “We’ve thought of that.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” I said, “since they don’t seem to commit any crimes during their escapades.”
“Yes, but when people are running around my town in disguise, I always like to know who they are.”
It was at precisely that moment when the man I didn’t know, the one who had been muttering with Hogan off and on for the whole cruise, leaned over the fly-deck railing and called out.
“Hogan! We need you up here.”
Hogan took off up the companionway at top speed. I craned my neck, trying to see what was going on up there, and Joe did, too.
By that time it was pretty dark. Only a narrow band of orange remained in the western sky.
There were lights all over the yacht, of course, but we were out on Lake Michigan. Outdoors, that is. Even good lighting doesn’t seem to illuminate things outdoors. There are no walls for light to bounce off to enclose it. Even bright lighting seems to be soaked up by the darkness that surrounds it outdoors.
I looked up at the fly deck, and I couldn’t see a thing. And suddenly I was frightened. I grabbed Joe’s arm. “Where’s Byron?”
“Byron?” He sounded surprised. “Why do you want Byron?”
“I just want to be sure he’s all right.”
“All right? Why shouldn’t he be all right?”
I shook my head. “Maybe he’s still at the bar.”
I went into the lower salon and took the companionway up to the main salon. The reporters were gathered around the bar, and for a moment I felt reassured. Byron must be handing out drinks. Then heads parted, and I saw that Will was acting as bartender.
I went over to the bar. “Will! Where’s Byron?”
“I don’t know. He disappeared, the jerk. The steward told me to take over. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
I briefly felt sorry for him. Will had always done mechanical jobs. He’d worked with cars, and now with boats. He definitely wasn’t the waiter-bartender type.
“Let me look for Byron for a moment,” I said. “Then I’ll come and help you.”
Will’s glance was grateful.
I turned around to see Hogan come partway down the interior companionway from the fly deck and gesture to Joe. When Joe approached him, they conferred. Joe shook his head. I couldn’t hear what Joe said, but I could hear an angry voice from up above. It sounded like Charles Oxford.
We must have some mechanical problem. That would infuriate any yacht builder. Here he takes the press out on the snazzy new yacht, and it develops a glitch. I might have laughed if it hadn’t been for the scared feeling in the pit of my stomach.
But why shoul
d I be scared? Even if we had a mechanical problem, the yacht was perfectly safe. This was no sleazy tramp steamer registered in some Podunk country. This was one of the most technically advanced boats in the world, loaded with safety features.
I kept looking for Byron. I checked the gym, the staterooms, the galley. I ran up and down companionways and back and forth on decks. I looked behind furniture—feeling stupid—and under plants. I walked up the companionway leading to the fly deck. I didn’t quite have the nerve to go up there and join the mechanical crew. I stopped with my head just above the level of the floor and counted heads. I saw no one but crew members, Hogan, Joe, and Hogan’s pal. They all looked concerned. I came down and looked some more.
It crossed my mind that I might find Byron in an embarrassing position, and he wouldn’t appreciate my search. But I kept searching anyway.
But I didn’t find our wimpy pal anywhere.
I finally decided I was going to have to ask someone about him.
Who? Charles Oxford was in charge, of course, but I could still hear his voice rumbling unhappily up on the fly deck. In fact, the whole crew seemed to be up there—plus Hogan, Joe, and Hogan’s friend.
Then I saw the blond public relations guy. He was still shepherding press around. I boldly walked into the group and touched his arm. He whipped his head around, surprised.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I have a rather important question.”
That’s one of the advantages of being tall. When you act firm, people tend to obey. I led him away from the press corps and introduced myself.
He grinned. “I’m Daren Roberts,” he said. “I’m with Majestic Studios.”
I nodded. “I wondered if you know where Byron is.”
“Byron?” His voice was wary.
I tried to make my voice firm. “Byron.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s around somewhere.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is. But where is that somewhere? Frankly, I’ve looked all over the craft.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“I’m uneasy about his safety.”