Letting out a single explosive word, he shot down the companionway to the cabin, where he swept a searchlight glance about the bookshelves, cupboards and storage lockers that filled every available space.
Chapter 6
Rogan was hauling stuff from the locker under one of the seats in the saloon when Camille came down. She was faintly flushed, her hair ruffled by the breeze outside, or by…he didn't want to think about other possibilities. Her eyes were clear and shining when she smiled at him. Her lunch date had made her look that happy?
"If you'd called," he said, "I'd have helped you down."
"I have to learn to do it on my own."
She was carrying a small parcel. "Books?" he queried.
"Local histories from James's shop."
"James." The guy who'd been kissing her last night?
"He owns the Treasure Chest antique store and he's been very helpful."
"I thought that belonged to old Drummond."
"It belongs to young Drummond now."
Rogan thought hazily there had been a Drummond kid, several years older than Granger and himself, sent off to some boarding school in Auckland. "How long have you known him?"
"Just a few days. I walked into the shop the day I arrived, and…we got talking."
She'd been aimlessly walking after learning of Barney Broderick's sudden death, and a window display of Victorian china and sepia photographs had drawn her inside out of habit, to look for a book section.
James had asked if she was after anything in particular, and when she mentioned her current project he'd inquired casually if her sole reason for coming to Mokohina was historical research. Camille, still shocked at her abortive visit to the Sea-Rogue, blurted out that she had planned to meet Barney Broderick but had just been told he'd died in what appeared to be suspicious circumstances.
It seemed insensitive to tell Rogan that. Instead she said, "He introduced me to the local historian I told you about." From the start he'd been concerned and helpful, inquiring if Barney had been a relative, ready to express his condolences until she explained she'd never even met the man, but that her father had sailed with him. Not in the habit of confiding in strangers, she'd found herself drawn to do so by James's kindness and empathy.
"Talking of books," Rogan said, "have you seen the log?"
"The log?"
"The ship's log—the record the master always keeps."
"I know what a ship's log is." She'd pored over dozens of them in the course of research. "Should I have seen it?"
"It wasn't in Dad's desk with the boat's papers. I should have realized sooner it was missing."
"Your brother doesn't have it?"
Rogan shook his head. "He'd have told me."
"Do you know what it looked like?"
"Dad generally used one about the size of a desk diary. It's not in his cabin?"
"I don't think so." But they looked anyway, before Rogan turned to the saloon cupboards, peering into corners, pulling out drawers, then to the lockers that held sailing gear and tackle, while Camille volunteered to search the spare cabin that had been Taff's.
"You're okay with that?" he inquired.
"Of course." Her father's things were gone anyway.
Rogan was hauling fishing lines and nets from another locker when she came back to report, "Nothing, I'm afraid."
From outside a man's voice called, "Ahoy there!"
"It sounds like James," Camille said as Rogan went to the companionway.
"Down here," he called.
A thump on the deck, and then James gingerly descended to the cabin. "It was Camille I wanted to see, actually."
Rogan waited for the other man to reach the bottom of the narrow stair, then quickly climbed up.
"I hope you don't mind," James said to Camille. "But I don't have a phone number for you."
"I'll give you one," she promised, reminding herself to retrieve her cell phone from the car and bring it on board.
Extracting a yellowed piece of paper from an envelope, James queried, "I think this is within your period?"
It was a letter, headed with a date in 1837 and beginning, "My dear one," and signed in flourishing curlicues, "Ever, Your Alice."
Mingled excitement and melancholy made her skin tingle, as it often did when she handled personal belongings of long-forgotten people, tenuous links with past lives. "Where did you get it?"
"It was tucked inside a book that came in a box I bought at auction. I was sorting through them after you left and thought you might like to have it."
"It's good of you to take the trouble," she said.
He smiled at her, and looked around the cabin. "I admit I was curious about your legacy. It's a rather neglected old boat, isn't it? Nice panel work though."
"Do you sail?"
James shook his head. "Dry land for me. I get seasick." He studied a ship in a bottle that had survived the carnage of the burglars. "You said the old man left you half the contents along with the boat?"
"Apparently."
"Feel free to consult me if you have doubts about the value of anything. I'll make sure you're not cheated."
"Thank you. But I don't think there's anything particularly precious. How much do you want for this letter?" Camille asked.
"It's a curiosity, of no intrinsic value. Call it a discount on the books you've bought." He smiled. "Is everything all right? Any problems?" He looked at the piled gear that Rogan had left on the floor during his search.
Not sure what kind of problems he meant, she explained, "The log's missing."
"Missing?" James frowned. His voice was thoughtful. "Well," he shrugged, "whoever trashed the boat probably threw it overboard."
"Why would anyone do that?"
"Why do vandals do anything? It would break your heart, the ruined treasures I've seen when I'm asked to conduct valuations for insurance claims."
Another thump from the deck reminded Camille that Rogan was keeping out of the way while she talked with her guest. James looked up. "I suppose I should be getting back."
She followed him up on deck. Rogan was leaning against the mainmast with his arms folded. His eyes flicked from James to Camille, and she paused to introduce the men.
Rogan gave a curt nod, and James said pleasantly, "I'm sorry if I disturbed you."
"No problem," Rogan grunted.
James lingered, glancing up at the soaring metal masts and then around. "Is the boat seaworthy?" Skeptically he surveyed the weathered wood and stained, folded sails.
"Absolutely."
"How much do you think it'll fetch?"
Camille saw Rogan stiffen. "She's not for sale."
James looked at him with interest. "What do you plan to do with…her?"
"I plan to keep her."
"Really?" James seemed to hesitate for a moment, then nodded and smiled, said goodbye to Camille and cautiously ascended the ladder to the wharf.
Rogan asked, "Is he going to be a regular visitor?"
"I don't think so. Would you object?"
It was a moment before he said, "Why should I object?"
"You sound grumpy."
"I'm not grumpy," Rogan denied, sounding even more so.
"He came to bring me an old letter he'd found, for my research. And he was curious about the boat."
"The boat?"
"He's interested in old things."
"And young women."
Camille shrugged. "He's a man."
Rogan's eyes gleamed, and a dark brow lifted just slightly. "So am I."
As if she didn't know it. As if anyone who laid eyes on him wouldn't. "While we're living tog—living on board, we're going to need some ground rules."
"You needn't worry," he said. "I don't go where I'm not wanted. Of course, if you're interested…" He cocked his head inquiringly, a grin curving his mouth.
Shaking her head, she said, "I'm not."
Rogan looked rueful but hardly shattered. "Too bad."
Obviously he was
n't going to lose any sleep over it. For some reason that roused her anger, but she swallowed it, saying frostily, "I have work to do," and made to go below.
"You're not sleeping with Drummond, then?"
At the top of the companionway, Camille turned and stared at him.
"Sorry, out of order."
"Definitely." She continued on her way.
* * *
Dumb ass, Rogan called himself, watching her disappear. What sort of stupid question was that? The woman had class—she didn't jump into bed with men she'd just met, and that included James Drummond as well as himself. Besides, if she was that close to the guy she'd have moved in with him, not Rogan.
The thought lifted his mood and he followed her down, but she'd already closed the door to her cabin.
He began stowing stuff back in the locker, but kept a fishing line out and went topside with it. There, he baited the hook with a limpet prized from the wharf piles and scraped from its shell, and hung the line over the side.
* * *
When Camille emerged into the saloon Rogan was coming down again, two good-size kahawai dangling from one hand.
"Fresh fish," he said. "You want yours whole or filleted?"
A peace offering, perhaps. "Filleted, please." She hoped he'd take care of it.
They'd bought carrots, greens and new potatoes on their shopping expedition, and Camille prepared them while he took charge of the fish. In the tiny galley area they inevitably worked close to each other. Her arm brushing against his once or twice sent an electric tingle along her skin, but Rogan didn't seem to notice.
The fish was perfectly moist and firm and almost melted on her tongue. "This is delicious," Camille said sincerely, forking up another piece. "James said whoever vandalized the boat might have thrown the log overboard."
Rogan's mouth tightened. He scowled at a defenseless baby potato and speared it with his fork.
"Is it so important?" she asked.
When he'd swallowed the potato he said, "Someone might have thought it was."
"Do you really believe your father was on the track of lost treasure? Your brother doesn't."
"Whether I believe it or not isn't the point. If Dad had—or thought he had—something valuable, then whoever did the boat over probably beat him up. And I want them."
He looked so grim and dangerous that Camille shivered. "The police don't think that," she reminded him, "do they?"
"They said they'd keep an open mind, but they obviously don't buy the theory."
And they were the experts. She kept that thought to herself. "I didn't know you and Granger intended keeping the boat," she said. And when he looked rather blank she prodded, "You told James…"
"Uh…yeah, well…"
"Didn't you mean it?"
"'Course I meant it." He looked away, then back at her almost belligerently. "The old girl's a good sound craft."
"So, do you want to buy my half?"
Rogan looked startled. "Buy you out?"
"Wouldn't you prefer that to me selling it to someone else? I'm giving you first refusal."
Rogan would have preferred it all right, but he certainly couldn't afford to. He pretty much spent his deservedly high wages as he earned them. Granger was always telling him he should save, invest, think of the future.
But in his job you were never sure how much future you had.
Hopefully he said, "You might change your mind." He hadn't even thought about what was to happen to the Sea-Rogue until James Drummond asked. He was more concerned with what had happened to his father and who was responsible, content to leave Granger to sort things out on the legal front.
He'd taken a mild though irrational dislike to Drummond at their first distant and wordless encounter in the bar at the Imperial, and the faint air of disparagement in the man's appraisal of the old ketch had raised his hackles and woken a dormant sense of possessiveness that led him to make a split-second decision to keep the boat.
Maybe he should have listened to his brother. Until now it had made sense to enjoy the fruits of his labor while he could. He had no dependents, no long-term commitments—except one that was blessedly intermittent, to the dive school he sponsored for island kids—and no intention of acquiring any. He'd never figured on having any large assets either. Camille's suggestion that he and Granger buy her out had brought him up with a round thump.
"I won't change my mind," Camille said. "Are you interested?"
"I'll talk to Granger."
As they left the table he pulled two shiny keys from his pocket and handed one to her. "You'd better have this—it's for the new lock. We should lock up if we're out."
"Thank you." She picked up her empty plate and his.
When she told him she intended to phone Mr. Trubshaw and then work in her cabin he said, "I'll go to the pub." In the evening there would be more chance of meeting up with some of the men who'd known Barney.
The carefully unjudging way Camille accepted his plan got under Rogan's skin, and he didn't elaborate. Anyway, with her skepticism about the old man's treasure hunt she'd have poured cold water on his reasons if he'd given them.
So it was a choice between letting her think him a crazy romantic or a man who couldn't keep off the booze. Either way, damned if he cared.
* * *
There were a few familiar faces at the bar, but Rogan's cautious questioning elicited nothing more than the rumors that had circulated at the funeral.
"No one took it seriously." A balding man with a beer belly straining at a dingy T-shirt above low-slung jeans quaffed his drink and shoved the glass suggestively under Rogan's nose. "Not until the old guy died that way."
Rogan signaled the barman. "Could some stranger have heard him talking and thought there was something in it?"
A burly Maori man with sleeves rolled up from tattooed arms interrupted. "Who was that young fella at Taff's wake? Not much to say for hisself."
Beer-belly turned. "What young fella?"
"Bought Barney a drink or two—fair enough, considering old Barney'd been shouting at everyone all night."
"I paid for my share of rounds," Beer-belly said offendedly.
"Yeah, yeah, but this guy only got a couple in for Barney, eh."
"Can you describe him?" Rogan asked.
"'Bout your age, brown hair. Not fat, but not skinny either. Bit shorter than you. Looked like a sailor," the man said helpfully.
That would pinpoint roughly half the male population of Mokohina in the summer season. "You don't know his name?"
"I've seen him around, but he's not from here. Don't know where he stays."
The whiskered old salt who'd bailed up Rogan at Barney's wake arrived, squeezing Rogan's shoulder with a horny hand. "Now, young Rogue. How's it going, eh?"
Rogan got him a beer, and asked, "Do you remember if my father left Taff's wake alone?"
Webby touched a match to a carefully rolled cigarette, inhaled and blew two streams of smoke through his nose. "Didden notice, myself. Must've dropped off. I'm not as young as I was."
Rogan hid a grin. The old fellow had probably been dead drunk. "Did you notice a young guy who bought a drink or two for my dad?"
Webby shook his head, then raised an arm. "Hey, Doll! Over here!"
Rogan saw the fiery thistle-head moving through the crowd, before the man broke free and approached them.
Webby told him, "Rogue here reckons some young fella that turned up at Taff's wake was buying Barney drinks."
"Yeah, that's right. Barney had his arm around the bloke for a while." Doll grinned. "Well, by that time ol' Barn needed something to hold on to so he could stay upright. Said the boy reminded him of his sons."
Rogan asked, "Did you know the guy?"
"Seen him in the pub a coupla times. Barry? Gary? Yeah, Gary. He's off one a them fancy hire boats that take the tourists out fishing. Can't remember the name."
Webby leaned confidentially toward Rogan. "You reckon he's the one that clobbered poor old Bar
ney?"
"I don't know," Rogan replied. "No one seems to have seen Dad leave, or know when he did."
"Prob'ly," Doll guessed, "not till the publican chucked us all out. Barney wouldn't leave a good booze-up early."
About fifty people must have been in the bar that night, drinking hard, and they'd very likely milled about outside before dispersing. None of them had noticed the old man wandering off into the darkness—or they weren't saying so.
Any of the fifty might have followed him—perhaps under the guise of helping him find his uncertain way to the Sea-Rogue—and then attacked him in the alley.
Rogan arrived back on board lighter in his pocket and heavier on his feet after buying several rounds of drinks and in turn being shouted by Barney's friends. It hadn't resulted in any more information.
In the dark he stumbled noisily on the last step of the companionway, cursed, then cautiously made his way to his cabin. If Camille heard him she'd probably write him off as a useless drunk.
* * *
Next day, having been invited to lunch with Mr. Trubshaw, Camille took along a fresh loaf of bread from a bakery on the shore, and chose a bottle of wine to go with the promised asparagus and tomatoes from his garden. Lunch was leisurely, and after spending a few hours in his library she arrived back at the Sea-Rogue to find it apparently deserted. The tide was high and she was able to step onto the boat quite easily.
Leaving her bag and notes in her cabin, she went up on deck, telling herself she needed some fresh air. She was uncertainly surveying the harbor when a faint splashing sent her to look over the rail.
A large black shape emerged and a hand grabbed at the ladder fastened to the hull. Camille stepped back as the man, encased in a shiny wet diving suit, climbed over the rail, and the mask was raised to reveal Rogan's face.
"Your boyfriend was wrong," he said. "There's nothing down there but fish, mud and junk, and I don't think any of it came from here." He ran a hand through his hair and began unzipping the enveloping suit.
Stripped to a minimal pair of swim briefs, he washed down his suit with a hose on the wharf before descending to the cabin.
He reappeared dressed in clean jeans and a gray T-shirt, his hair still damp. "I'm having a beer," he told her from the doorway. "Do you want anything?"
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