Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3)

by Kling, Christine

  “You hit that reef going almost twenty knots in a rain squall?”

  “I know it sounds bad, Seychelle. Especially to someone like you. But let’s face it—you haven’t exactly embraced the electronics age. Do you even have a GPS on that tugboat of yours?”

  “Nestor, what I do is not the point here.”

  “Sey, you don’t even own a cell phone.”

  “Okay, already.”

  “See, the Power Play is loaded with every bit of electronic equipment imaginable. Berger spared no expense. The man is really into toys, and there are backups for the backups. So what we were doing is running on instruments, the same way commercial pilots do with planes full of hundreds of passengers. The autopilot is tied in to one of three separate GPS systems. We were in Hawk’s Channel, and everything had been working great up to that point. I was on the bridge myself because I knew we were nearing the entrance to Key West Harbor. All the instruments showed us more than half a mile from any obstructions when bam! We ran right up onto these rocks off West Washerwoman Shoal. The impact knocked Kent off his feet, and when he tried to break his fall, the bone just snapped—came right out through his skin.” Nestor shuddered at the memory. He’d already told me it had been a nasty compound fracture.

  Nobody said anything for several long seconds while we all saw it happen in our minds, saw the big ninety-four-footer come to a grinding halt on the rocks, the men on the bridge thrown off their feet, the screams and the blood. Nestor grasped the Saint Christopher’s medal he wore around his neck and kissed the face of the saint.

  “So, Nestor,” I said, “what do you think happened?”

  My friend looked at his wife for a moment, as though unsure if he should say what he was thinking. It was amazing to watch how the two of them communicated, saying so much in a glance or a touch.

  “Seychelle,” Nestor started, after a quick look around the dining patio to see if anyone was listening to our conversation. Satisfied, he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve spent a lot of time with Ted Berger these past weeks, and I wouldn’t put anything past him. He calls himself the Other Ted, as though he’s in the same league as Turner. But he’d do anything to get there. Ruthless is the word that comes to mind.” Nestor lifted his shoulders and bobbed his head once, like a bow. “Okay, maybe you have to be that way to get the kind of money he has, but lately, with the start-up of this girls’ hockey league and buying this boat, I think he’s overextended himself. He wants out of this boat deal and now he seems more pissed over the fact that he’s getting hit with a big salvage claim than over the business of wrecking her in the first place.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying you think Berger tried to wreck his own boat?” I tried hard to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

  “Jesus,” he said, swiveling his head to look around the empty patio. “Not so loud, Sey. I don’t have any proof— yet. But it just doesn’t make sense otherwise. The only way this could have happened is if the equipment malfunctioned somehow. And I’m just saying that Ted Berger would have been better off with the insurance company cashing him out of an investment that had got out of hand.”

  “Nestor, I’m finding this kind of hard to believe.”

  “You’d understand if you could have heard him while we were in the boatyard. He was constantly complaining about how much things cost. He had no idea what he was getting into when he bought a yacht that size.”

  “I suppose it makes sense in a way. If he’d just put the boat up for sale, it would have signaled to people that he was in financial trouble.”

  “Exactly. And he has the background—he made his money in electronics. I’m going to have a buddy of mine check out the equipment on the boat and see if he can find evidence it’s been tampered with. Get him to come down before we take off to head back up north. I don’t intend to take the fall for Ted Berger’s financial problems.”

  At that moment Nestor’s eyes flicked to the right and focused on something outside the restaurant. The skin across his cheeks grew taut and his eyes narrowed for only a second before his face broke into a huge, forced grin. He lifted his hand and waved.

  I twisted in my seat, glanced over my shoulder. A white-haired man wearing a loud red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt was standing on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. He waved, and then went in the front door, clearly headed for us out on the patio. An instant later he appeared in the side door and his voice boomed, “Good morning,” causing the other diners’ heads to turn. When he reached our table, he placed both his hands on Catalina’s shoulders then bent and kissed her on the cheek. He said, “Our mommy-to-be looks more glowingly beautiful every time I see her.”

  Catalina’s body had gone still at his touch, her only movement turning her face away as he kissed her, so his mouth wound up kissing her hair.

  Nestor stood and shook hands with the man. Either he hadn’t noticed or he was choosing to ignore his wife’s discomfort. “Good morning,” he said as he pumped the man’s hand. Then he turned to me. “Seychelle, I’d like to introduce you to Ted Berger.”

  I started to stand, but Berger waved me back down. “So you’re the tugboat captain,” he said as he seated himself in the fourth chair at the table and waggled a coffee mug at the waitress. “I kind of expected a hag with a corncob pipe.” He cocked his head to one side and looked at me from head to as much as he could see above the table. “You’re definitely not a hag.”

  The Tugboat Annie jokes had grown old about the second month after I inherited Sullivan Towing and Salvage from my father. That was more than three years ago.

  “I’m just here to do the job you hired me for, Mr. Berger.”

  He threw his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Oh my, I’ve offended her. Very businesslike of you, Miss Sullivan. Or should I call you Captain?”

  “Seychelle is fine,” I said. Up close, I realized that the man’s white hair was deceptive. He wasn’t as old as I’d originally thought. His face and neck looked like they belonged to a man not yet out of his forties. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, maybe five foot eight, and his forced joviality and loud clothes made him appear to be overcompensating for something.

  “Okay. Seychelle, then. Interesting name.”

  I got ready to go into the usual explanation, but he beat me to it. “Named after the islands in the Indian Ocean, I assume.”

  “Pretty good. Not many people recognize the name.”

  “Trust me, Ted, Sey’s a lot better off than her brothers,” Nestor said.

  “Oh?” Berger asked, his eyebrows lifting into the lock of white hair that had fallen on his forehead.

  I nodded. “Madagascar and Pitcairn.”

  “Oh dear,” he said, laughing. “Parents can be cruel. So, Seychelle, Nestor tells me he’d rather have you tow the boat up to Lauderdale than any of that scum over at Ocean Towing.”

  “Ted, I may have exchanged a few harsh words with those guys, but I didn’t call them scum,” Nestor said.

  “Well, I’ll call them that!” He turned to me. “Do you know what they’re trying to charge me for getting the Power Play off that reef and into Robbie’s Marina on Stock Island?”

  “I can imagine. Nestor told me it took them almost twelve hours to get her free.”

  “They’re goddamn pirates!”

  “No, sir, actually, they probably saved the boat and saved the insurance company a bundle. They’d rather pay the yard bill and salvage than suffer a total loss.”

  He rolled his eyes and turned away from me.

  Out in the street, a tall man with stringy shoulder-length hair, wearing nothing but swim trunks, was trying to untangle the leash of his mangy German shepherd from around his legs and the pedals of his beach bike. He was mumbling to himself. Our table was situated so close to the street, we couldn’t help but overhear the string of obscenities and incomprehensible answers he was giving to the voices he apparently heard in his head. When Berger spoke again, he continued staring out at the man on th
e street. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or to us. “I like things that are new and shiny. No matter what, now the Power Play is going to be a repaired vessel.” He turned and focused his eyes on mine. “And I don’t like patched-up shit.”

  I smiled, refusing to look away. “Well, welcome to boats, Mr. Berger. If you’re not running them, you’re working on them. As I understand it, the hull wasn’t even holed. You’ve just got damage to rudders, stabilizers, props, and the like,” I said. “You know, I wouldn’t think of it as a patched-up boat. I’d say Nestor was just breaking her in.”

  He tightened one cheek in a half smile. “That’s one way of looking at it.” His tone told me it would not be his view. “So you’re going to help our boy here get the boat back to Lauderdale where they can make proper repairs?”

  I didn’t like the way he called Nestor our boy.

  “Sure am.”

  Nestor said, “The guys at Robbie’s have put a temporary epoxy patch on the deep scratches in the hull. It will have to be faired and painted later; they just didn’t like the bare glass underwater. One prop was a total loss and the other is slightly damaged, but usable. Rudders were totaled. There was some structural damage to interior bulkheads, and some issues that will need to be addressed up in Lauderdale. I just want these guys to get her in shape for the trip north. It’ll be close, but I’ll bet we could launch tomorrow.”

  “That sounds good to me,” I said. “The sooner, the better.”

  Berger pushed back his chair and stood. He looked down at Catalina. “You gonna get this guy to show you around Key West, relax a little bit? Beautiful woman like you comes down to be with her man—he should show you off. Seems he spends all his time in that boatyard.”

  “I told her I was going to be busy,” Nestor said. “And I didn’t like the idea of her riding the bus in her condition, but she insisted.”

  “My husband says my condition like pregnancy is an illness,” Catalina said to me. She was ignoring Berger’s comments. “Having babies is natural. Stop worrying.” She reached for her husband’s hand again. “I have been trying to talk him into doing a little windsurfing,” she said. “I would like to see him relax, have a little fun. He is very good, you know. When he was in his teens, he was the national windsurfing champion in the Dominican Republic.”

  “Listen to your wife, Nestor. She’s a smart, stand-by-your-man kind of woman. Makes me wonder what she sees in a guy like you.” He punched Nestor in the arm hard enough to rock him back in his chair. “So, how soon do you two think the boat will be ready to head north?”

  “We’ve got a good-weather window coming up, and I’d like to leave as soon as possible,” I said. “Nestor and I were just starting to discuss our departure plans when you arrived.”

  “Really?” he said. “You looked so serious. And secretive. Like my crew here was plotting a mutiny.”

  Nestor and I both must have shown our surprise. Berger laughed and punched Nestor in the arm again, harder. “Just kidding, buddy.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Christine Kling has spent more than thirty years messing about with boats. Her articles and stories have appeared in many boating publications including Sailing, Cruising World, and Motor Boating & Sailing and her short stories have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. It was her sailing experience that led her to set her first nautical suspense novel, SURFACE TENSION (2002), on the New River in Fort Lauderdale. Featuring Florida female tug and salvage captain, Seychelle Sullivan, the first book was followed by CROSS CURRENT (2004), BITTER END (2005), and WRECKERS’ KEY (2007). Her latest book CIRCLE OF BONES (2011) is Christine’s first stand-alone sailing thriller. Having retired from her job as an English professor at Broward College in Fort Lauderdale, Christine lives aboard her 33-foot boat Talespinner and goes wherever the wind and free wifi may take her.

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  ALSO AVAILABLE

  In the Seychelle Sullivan Series

  Surface Tension

  Cross Current

  Bitter End

  Wreckers’ Key

  The Short Story Collection

  Sea Bitch: Four Tales of Nautical Noir

  Available in both print and ebook format

  Circle of Bones: a Caribbean thriller