Dangerous Waters

by Laurey Bright

  Not far away another boat dipped its sail into the wind, and disappeared around a rocky point. A catamaran went past a few minutes later, its wash rocking the Sea-Rogue and sending waves curling up the cliffs.

  Rogan went into the diamond-clear water first to fix a safety line with a bright orange, flagged buoy to signal there were divers down. Then Camille followed while Brodie, suited up in case of an emergency, remained on board.

  Trying to suppress a nervous excitement, Camille concentrated on controlling the amount of air in her buoyancy compensator so that she'd neither sink like a stone nor bob to the surface. Alongside the line, they finned easily in the clear depths. Below, a school of brilliant blue fish streamed through a forest of lazily waving grass-green kelp. Rogan guided Camille to a clearing in the seaweed.

  A golden-yellow fish banded with blue fluttered by. Rogan pointed to a stingray the size of a dining table gracefully undulating giant wings overhead, its pale underside with space-alien eyes and mouth clearly visible. Tiny orange cleaner fish wriggled busily out of the kelp forest and back again to its shelter, and baby angelfish fussed about among the green fronds. One swam up to Camille's mask, kissing the glass.

  Rogan led her over part of the reef, carefully not close enough for their rubber fins to damage its delicate structure. She resisted the desire to reach out and feel the weird plants and animals; touching was strictly forbidden within the reserve.

  Too soon it was time to go up. Rogan ensured they made a decompression stop before surfacing, and Brodie helped her climb back on board and undo her harness while Rogan slipped his own off.

  "Okay?" Rogan quizzed Camille.

  "Fantastic!" She was only disappointed they couldn't have stayed longer in the magical, dreamlike world underwater.

  He smiled at her. Then, indicating a white motor cruiser lazily riding on the waves in the distance he asked Brodie, "When did that arrive?"

  "Soon after us," Brodie answered. "Fishing, I guess—it's outside the reserve."

  Something on the other boat caught the sun, making Camille blink at the blinding flash. Rogan raised a hand and peered across the water before turning away.

  After lunching on deck while a faint breeze shivered through the clinging plants on the cliffs, and seabirds soared above, Rogan allowed Camille one more dive.

  The little cove was still calm, and when they surfaced again Rogan said, "Will you mind if we leave you for a while? You'll be safe here, and Brodie deserves a dive."

  "Don't you need an experienced diver on board?" she asked, knowing she didn't fit the bill.

  Brodie assured her, "The Knights are practically home to us, and it's a perfect sea. We wouldn't dive if it wasn't safe."

  After donning their gear, the two of them stepped straight off the side of the ketch, splashing in together before giving her and each other an Okay sign and disappearing below the marker buoy.

  Camille relaxed under an awning the men had rigged, rocked by the gentle movement of the ketch, half dreaming of what she'd seen, flashes of color swimming behind her closed lids, anemones opening their waving petals, seaweed wafting in the faint current…

  She saw Rogan arrowing toward her, not in mask and fins, but bare-chested, bareheaded, his hair streaming in sunlit, crystal water. He took her hand as she stretched out a pale, naked arm to him, and she realized they were both quite nude. He smiled at her and pulled her close, their legs entangling as once they had in the practice pool, but without the barrier of neoprene, flesh meeting flesh. A soft, melting heat rose from her thighs. Rogan's body was warm and slick, and he drew her inexorably against him, in slow motion because of the water. He found her mouth and kissed her as they weightlessly drifted. She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back, her heart beginning to thud, while air bubbles surrounded them, bursting with increasingly loud popping sounds…

  Her eyes snapped open. The sun had shifted and was heating her body—or the dream had. The thudding and pop-popping sounds resolved into the chug of a motor.

  Shaking her head to banish the disturbingly erotic images that lingered all too vividly in her mind, she got up. The sun dazzled her, and black spots floated before her eyes before they cleared and she was able to see properly.

  Another boat had entered the cove. A gray rubber dinghy powered by an outboard motor. A man dressed in a wet suit with a hood that framed his face, giving it an anonymous blandness, waved to her as the engine died, and she raised her hand in return. He secured the boat and donned a mask, and an air tank. Rogan and Brodie would shortly have company.

  Farther out to sea the big cruiser still rode on the blue water beyond the reserve.

  Camille looked at her watch. She'd been dozing for only a few minutes. Descending to the cabin, she got herself a drink, and pulled a book from one of the shelves. Les Trois Mousquetaires. A nice, leather-bound copy.

  She was reading on deck when the boat rocked and Brodie and Rogan climbed back over the side.

  They weighed anchor and ran back down the coast to Mokohina. Sharing take-away fish and chips for three on deck, Rogan noticed the book she'd placed beside her.

  "You're reading that?"

  "You don't mind, do you?"

  "No problem."

  A large cruiser came into sight, its wash thumping the Sea-Rogue against the bulwarks of the wharf as it crossed the water on the way to the anchorage, and Brodie said, "She's the one that was at the Knights. Is that where the guy with the dinghy came from?" he asked Camille. "We saw him come down."

  "I don't know. I was asleep when it arrived." Remembering her dream, she avoided looking at Rogan. "I thought you were always supposed to have two divers."

  Brodie chose a fat potato chip from the opened paper parcel in front of them. "Some people prefer solo diving—they'd rather rely on their own resources than trust anyone at all, or have to ask for help and risk someone else's life. It's okay if you know what you're doing, I guess."

  Rogan conceded, "Yeah, well…I'd rather dive alone than with some idiot who'd get us both into trouble. But Camille isn't experienced enough for that yet."

  When Brodie crumpled up the empty paper and declared he had to get on home, Rogan accompanied him to the wharf and strolled beside him for a little way. "The old girl sailed well today," he said casually.

  "Yep," Brodie agreed. "She's a grand old lady."

  "There could be a half share up for grabs if you're interested."

  Brodie looked surprised, and Rogan said, "I just thought you might like to come in as a partner. If you don't want to…that's fine." He wasn't going to take advantage of Brodie's absurd idea that he owed Rogan because of a routine emergency procedure that was all in a day's work for a professional diver.

  Brodie thought for a while. "I already own a dive boat," he said, "and it's expensive to run. If you plan to sail cargo about the islands like your dad, I don't see much profit in it, frankly."

  "Suppose there's the chance of a huge profit?"

  Brodie laughed. "You're not going after your father's treasure ship, are you?"

  "What do you know about it?"

  "Nothing. Rumors. I figured that's all they are." Curiously, Brodie asked, "Do you have some evidence?"

  Rogan shook his head. Non-evidence, more like. A missing log, an empty safe, a sailor who'd gone AWOL. "No. The police seem short of it too." And like everyone else they didn't believe Barney had actually located treasure.

  * * *

  Rogan was strolling back along the wharf when a voice hailed him, and Doll came hurrying to catch up with him.

  "How're you doing, young Rogue?" the man asked. "I hear you're gonna carry on your father's old business?"

  "Maybe." Desperate, he said, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in buying a half share?"

  Doll shook his head sorrowfully. "Don't have that kind of money, mate. Don't have any, to tell the truth. Gonna miss your dad," he said sentimentally as they reached the Sea-Rogue's berth. "We had some good times when the old Rogue was i
n port. Sinking a few beers, catching up…" He shook his head again. "Can almost see him there now, sayin', 'Come aboard, me old mate. We'll crack open a bottle and have a yarn.'" A gusty sigh followed.

  Faced with such a weighty hint, Rogan capitulated.

  When he led Doll down to the saloon it was spick and span and the door of Camille's cabin was ajar. He tapped on the door and peeked around it, seeing her at the desk, a tape recorder lying beside an open book. "I have a visitor, an old friend of my dad's—and yours I guess. You're welcome to join us."

  "Thanks," she said, politely distant, "but I need to work. Perhaps you could close the door?"

  Apparently she had no interest in friends of her father. Rogan went to pour the expectant Doll a beer.

  Several bottles and a number of rambling anecdotes later, Doll showed no sign of budging from his seat at the table.

  "Doll," Rogan said when he could get a word in, "do you know of any special hiding place my father might have used to keep something safe?"

  Doll looked blank. "Keep what safe?"

  Rogan hesitated. "I can't find the log." He'd tapped panels, examined floorboards, climbed into the bilge…

  Doll said, "Have you talked to Mollie?"

  "Who's Mollie?"

  Suddenly shifty-eyed, Doll muttered, "Um…friend of Barney's. Ol' Barn saw a fair bit of her when he was in port, the last few years."

  "A lady friend?" Rogan swallowed unwarranted outrage. His mother had been dead for over ten years. As far as he knew, despite their long separations and unlikely though it seemed, Barney had been faithful to her until she died. If he'd found solace in another woman's arms since, who was Rogan to judge? "Mollie who?"

  "Edwards. Works at Denny's Bakery. Got another beer?"

  "No," Rogan told him ruthlessly. "Time to go home, mate, sorry." Any more and Doll would wind up sleeping right where he was. Rogan didn't fancy waking up to that in the morning, and didn't think Camille would appreciate it either.

  He saw the man safely to the wharf and on his slightly unsteady way back to town, and then went to the nearby phone booth and squinted at the curly-cornered phonebook, looking for Edwards. There were several and he wasn't sure which was the right one. Besides it was getting a bit late to be phoning a lone woman—which he supposed Mollie Edwards was.

  * * *

  Next morning Rogan was on the doorstep of Denny's Bakery when it opened. A large bearded man wearing a white apron let him in and indicated the rows of loaves behind the counter emanating the rich, warm smell of new-baked bread. "Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Mollie Edwards. She was a friend of my father's," Rogan explained.

  "Mollie's off work—had a nasty fall coupla weeks or so back. She's only just out of hospital. Makes you think what can happen to you just walking down your own back steps, eh?" The man shook his head. "Mind you, she likes a bit of a tipple and she'd been to a funeral that day, she was a bit upset. Apparently she was carrying empties down to the bin when she fell."

  "That would have been my father's funeral, I guess. Can you give me her address?"

  "Your father was Barney Broderick?" When Rogan confirmed it, he said, "Bad business, that. Bella Vista Road—fourteen I think. Garden's full of driftwood and stuff. Even an old dinghy. A great one for her garden, Mollie."

  * * *

  The dinghy was painted yellow and filled with flowering plants. More flowers spilled from used tires cut into the shapes of ships or swans and painted white. Crushed seashells crunched under Rogan's boots as he walked up a path between fragrant bush roses. Dodging a glass fishing float in a net dangling from the ceiling of the tiny porch, Rogan rang a ship's bell on a bracket beside the door.

  The woman who opened up was thinner than when he'd seen her at the funeral, and the brassy curls had gone limp. Her cheeks were pink, but Rogan suspected that was artificial, like the bright red on her lips and the blue applied to her eyelids.

  "Ms. Edwards?"

  "Mrs. Edwards," she corrected him. "And you are…?"

  "Rogan Broderick. We met at my father's funeral."

  "Oh!" she said softly. "Did we? Poor Barney. Rogan," she repeated. "Well, you'd better come in."

  A cluttered little front room was dimmed by pink velvet fringed curtains, the walls were hung with flower paintings, and a shelf thing in one corner held exotic shells, lumps of coral and a ship in a bottle.

  "Can I get you a cup of tea?" she offered, after urging him to sit. "Or something stronger? I'm not allowed just now, the doctor said, but I've got beer or gin. And sherry."

  "No, thanks," Rogan said, sinking into dented sofa cushions. "I heard about your accident. How are you now?"

  "Very tired." She took a winged chair with a deeply buttoned back. "I can't even get out and do my garden."

  "I'm sorry. It must be frustrating for you."

  "Barney used to help me with the heavy digging. When he was around. He was a bit of a rough diamond, your father, but he had a good heart."

  "Yes, you said so at the funeral."

  She looked at him blankly. "Did I? I'm sorry, I hit my head when I fell, you see. I know I was there, but it's all a bit hazy." Hesitantly she said, "I spoke to you?"

  "You said you'd like to talk to us—me and my brother."

  "Oh…I did? Well, I'm glad you found me. I was fond of your father."

  "I'm sure he was fond of you too," Rogan said, and was dismayed when her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to upset you."

  She fished in a sort of pocket hanging from the side of the chair and pulled out a tissue to dab at her eyes. "It's all right. It was very sweet of you to come."

  Feeling guilty, Rogan said, "Um…I wondered if you could help me, Mrs. Edwards."

  She sniffed, and vigorously rubbed the tissue over her nose. "Mollie," she said, straightening. "How can I help?"

  "Do you recall if my father said anything about his ship's log?"

  Slowly Mollie shook her head. "I remember him coming up the path—I was weeding, and then I heard the gate and there he was." Her face had lit up, a tremulous smile on her painted mouth. "I think that was the day he arrived." She gulped, and for a moment the scarlet lips trembled. Using the tissue again, she wiped her cheeks. Some of the color came off. "They said it's very common with a head injury to have memory gaps. But I would like to be able to remember more about his last visit," she finished wistfully.

  Rogan leaned forward. "I think my father might have hidden the ship's log. You don't remember if he said anything about it? Or about finding treasure?"

  Mollie smiled. "I'm sure he did." And as Rogan's head jerked up, "He was always talking about treasure!"

  Defeatedly, Rogan sat back. "Yeah, I know."

  "Why would Barney have hidden his log? Oh, I wish I could remember!" Her hands thumped the arms of her chair, and the color in her cheeks was real now. "Half the time I can't even find things that have been in the same place for years! I must have shifted them and forgotten. It's so annoying! Even my house keys—and I always hang them on the same hook at the back door…" She stood up, then put a hand to her head.

  Rogan quickly got up too and took her arm. "Are you all right? Can I get you something?" he asked.

  "No, I'm fine now."

  He'd have to tell Granger about Mollie. Barney would have wanted them to look out for her. "If I can do anything for you…"

  "I'm well looked after…the district nurse comes and the neighbors have been good, but they're elderly, and…it's the garden that worries me. I haven't even been able to walk about it all and see what needs doing. Would you mind…if you let me lean on your arm…?"

  They began at the front, where she inspected the flowers in their crammed beds and containers, tut-tutting at the determined weed or three that Rogan obligingly pulled out. Along the side of the house narrow beds of daisies and fuchsias and lavender argued for space, and at the back a surprisingly large lawn was shaded by old, spreading fruit trees. Tall hedges screened neighboring properties and
sheltered the exuberant shrubs that bordered the lawn.

  Mollie stopped at a rosebush with large crimson blooms. "That's funny! My roses are all in the front garden. What's this one doing here?"

  "Maybe you ran out of room. Would you remember every plant you have?"

  "Yes! I mean…I did. It must be new, but why did I put it here?" Her brow creased, and her voice trembled.

  Rogan touched a petal and a waft of perfume lifted into the air. "It smells good." He plucked a just-opened bloom and handed it to her.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled. "Deepest Secret," she said.

  "Deepest secret?" Rogan repeated.

  Mollie opened her eyes. "That's what it's called—the rose. I remember now, Barney planted it for me!" She looked at him with dawning excitement. "He dug the hole extra deep. We had to put it here because otherwise the neighbors might see…" She faltered.

  On the back of Rogan's neck hairs rose. "See what?"

  "I—I'm not sure. I remember him preparing the hole."

  Rogan stared at the prickly bush, and the recently turned earth it sat in. "Mollie," he said, "do you mind if I dig up your rose?"

  Chapter 10

  Camille had spent the morning with Mr. Trubshaw, and made a light lunch for them both before leaving with another pile of books.

  Descending to the cabin, she found Rogan at the table, his head bent.

  "Hi," she said. "What are you doing?"

  He looked up, his eyes more brilliant than ever, his face taut with suppressed excitement. "Reading the log."

  Now she saw the book that had been hidden by his arms enclosing it on the table. "You found it! Where?"

  "It's a long story," he said. "And look." He reached for a cigar tin similar to the one that had been in the box of her father's belongings. It was just big enough to have held the log. He took something from it, extending his palm.

  "A sovereign."

  "An 1852 sovereign. It was inside the logbook. They were buried in my father's…uh…lady friend's garden."

  She glanced at him, then down at the coin in his hand. Unable to suppress a small thrill, she said cautiously, "It doesn't prove anything, does it? It's only one coin." Probably worth a couple of hundred dollars at most, according to what James had told her when he'd shown her his small coin collection.