Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series)

by Jenifer LeClair

  “I guess filling it doesn’t matter to him.”

  “Nope. He always takes a small group of experienced sailors who’re okay with whatever May has in store. Some of the other windjammer captains find the whole thing a little...eccentric.” He mulled over the word.

  “Does he care?”

  “Nope. Anyway, eccentric or not, he’s the best skipper in the fleet.”

  Scott headed aft and, as Brie watched, the Maine Wind made its approach, coasting gracefully into the lee of the island. Beneath the high bluffs of Granite Island the ship was almost completely shielded from the strong winds. DuLac brought her onto a southeasterly course about fifty yards off shore, and she ghosted along under the cliffs in the calm, deep water.

  “All hands prepare to lower the yawl boat,” he ordered.

  Brie turned from the rail and headed aft. All of her sailing had been done on either racing scows or large cruisers with inboard diesel engines, and she admired the skill it took to pilot this 90-foot schooner in and out of port using only the small yawl boat.

  At the stern the passengers and crew were forming two lines. Brie found her place in a lineup that had become codified over their four days of sailing together. Tim Pelletier, a young man on leave from the Coast Guard, and George, the ship’s cook, fell into line ahead of her. Howard Thackeray, who was taking this cruise with his grown son Will, stepped in behind her. Over on the starboard deck Pete McAllister and Will Thackeray lined up, followed by Rob and Alyssa Lindstrom, a thirty-something couple and the only married passengers aboard.

  “Lower away,” DuLac ordered.

  Scott and Pete released the yawl boat halyards and the nine men and women braced back against the force. As the lines were let out little by little, the yawl boat began its jerky descent from the stern of the ship. As soon as it hit the water, Scott went over the stern and climbed down the ladder. He jumped into the boat, turned the key, and the powerful diesel engine roared to life. He brought the boat around in a circle, butted it up against the stern of the Maine Wind and eased open the throttle. The ship began to glide through the calm waters toward Lobsterman’s Cove, where they would anchor for the night.

  George Dupopolis headed forward and disappeared down the companionway to the galley. The gathering place for passengers and crew, it contained the cooking and dining areas. Pushing the hood off his head, he ran a hand over his black curly hair, removing some of the moisture. His skin was swarthy, more from his lineage than the elements. On a normal day he’d have been down here hours ago, baking his ever-popular apple and blueberry pies.

  Just to the right of the ladder, he opened the feeding door on the cast-iron woodstove—the heart and soul of the Maine Wind to his way of thinking. He shoved in several logs and before long the old stove came to life, popping and crackling on the dry wood. George carried a large cutting board, laden with vegetables and herbs, over to the end of the dining table that had been designed to fit into the bow. He rolled with the ship, his sturdy legs and low center of gravity making him perfectly suited for work below deck where motion was always amplified. The ship’s foremast ran through the deck overhead and bisected the space filled by the table. A brass hurricane lamp hung from the side of the mast, and he lifted the glass to light the lamp. His hand shook a little as he applied the match to the wick.

  George loved his work, but the last few days had left an unease in him. A nervous tic worked the corner of his left eye as he chopped potatoes and onions for the lobster stew he planned to serve that night. In recent years he’d nearly forgotten what bullying felt like. He chopped more aggressively, but eventually the rhythm of his work and the smell of the fresh ingredients brought him to a better place. Best not to hold a grudge. He hummed quietly, happy for the shelter of his galley. George had discovered long ago that he had a corner personality. Too much time above deck made him feel ungrounded. An open expanse of thought or sky could sometimes overwhelm him, and then he needed to retreat to something more tangible. Cooking had always met that need.

  Up on deck, Brie watched as the big ship slid along under the pine-green bluffs of the island. She found the monotonous drone of the yawl boat engine a welcome change from the roar of wind and sea that had assaulted them the last couple of hours. Howard Thackeray and Rob Lindstrom had gone below to their cabins, but everyone else remained on deck.

  Brie noticed Tim Pelletier standing at the starboard rail, amidships. He had thrown back the hood of his foul-weather jacket revealing a Yankees baseball cap. His ruddy face and neck spoke of lots of time spent outdoors. He gripped the rail with big hands as he stared out to sea. An aura of loneliness clung to him, and Brie, no newcomer to emotional pain, wondered what bygone event might have left him so alone.

  He cast an occasional look toward Pete McAllister and Alyssa Lindstrom, who were carrying on a somewhat flirtatious tête-à-tête up in the bow of the ship. They were a study in contrasts, Pete with his light-blue eyes and wavy blond hair, and Alyssa with her straight dark hair and dark eyes. A long-time student of human dynamics, Brie took them in—male and female, youth and beauty, locked in the age-old dance of sexual posturing. Pete had lifted part of the heavy anchor chain off the deck and was doing bicep curls with it. Alyssa had unzipped her raincoat and fleece vest, revealing a form fitting turtleneck that accentuated her curves.

  As she turned back toward the island Brie caught a glimpse of Will Thackeray. He, too, was watching their antics. He stood on the cabin top, almost concealed by the large foremast. The steely gaze he directed toward them had a knife edge. Backlit as he was, his eyes appeared black, and he studied the two of them with an intensity that made Brie’s stomach clench. It wasn’t the first time in the last few days that she’d picked up a bad vibe emanating from Will. From what she had seen of him so far, she guessed it might be petty jealousy. He’d obviously spent his college years refining the art of adolescence and seemed determined to carry it with him into adulthood. Still, it seemed odd. She made a mental note of his behavior, at the same time wishing she could escape her detective instincts for just a little while.

  Rob Lindstrom emerged from the aft companionway. Here comes trouble, Brie thought. Rob, the self-proclaimed photo-finishing czar of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, had anything but a picture-perfect marriage. Fury darkened his eyes as he locked onto Alyssa and Pete. He stormed forward, grabbed her by the arm and ushered her back toward the companionway. Brie heard a muffled protest and retort.

  “Don’t treat me like a child, Rob.”

  “Then don’t act like one,” he said, following her down the ladder to their cabin.

  Storm brewing onboard, too, Brie decided.

  She turned back to the island, surveying the lay of the land as they coasted past it. Terrain, foliage, composition of the shoreline, and depth of the water all registered unconsciously in a mind trained to notice detail. The rain had started down again, hard, and the shelter of the island was welcome. But the island itself seemed a lonely and remote place. She thought about the isolation of living here, and wondered what the inhabitants, especially the young ones, did to offset it.

  Brie glanced around the deck, her gaze coming to rest on the captain at the wheel. He was the type of man she might once have found irresistible. Dark, athletic, an individual. In the grand scheme of things, few men made a living sailing a windjammer. DuLac looked to be in his late thirties, maybe even early forties. She liked the steadfast authority he projected, but he possessed the kind of rugged handsomeness that got some men in trouble. Over the years she’d had several bad experiences with men too physically attractive for their own good. There was something about his eyes, though—an occasional gentleness that made her want to look further. His eyes inspired trust. Over the past four days they had revealed glimpses of a man made strong by adversity and graced with the humor that often comes from learning the lessons of adversity. It was a quality Brie remembered having, but one she seemed to have lost in the groping darkness of the past twelve months. Since being in
Maine, though, hints of it had begun to appear again, peeking tentatively from the corners of her consciousness.

  “Lobsterman’s Cove coming up,” Pete yelled, heading aft.

  “We’re gonna hit a wall of wind when we round that point. Yell down to Scott and tell him to open ’er up all the way,” DuLac said.

  Brie heard the roar of the yawl boat increase and felt the ship cut through the water with more authority. As they rounded the point and started into the harbor, the wind hit them full force. The schooner stalled momentarily, then slowly cut a diagonal course dead into the wind toward the eastern shore of the cove, where they would tuck in under the bluff and anchor for the night.

  Brie turned her attention to the small fishing village that clung to the hillside. It was as desolate a spot as she had ever seen. Positively Hardy-esque, she thought, but forced herself to reconsider that. On a sunny day, nestled behind its blue harbor, Lobsterman’s Cove would be picturesque. Today, though, it was a study in gray. Old fishing shacks and weathered docks stacked with dozens of abandoned lobster traps. And over all of it an angry sky hurling down heavy sheets of rain. In the grip of the building gale there was a desperate isolation about this place.

  2

  BRIE WATCHED THE EASTERN SHORE draw closer. She was looking forward to going below and warming up, maybe even taking a nap, once they’d anchored and had furled sail. Tim had stayed on deck at the captain’s request to help with anchoring. Tim’s presence had been valuable on this lightly populated cruise—he was strong, and he knew his way around a ship. He waited now as the Maine Wind glided slowly across the harbor.

  “Stand by to drop anchor,” DuLac called out.

  Pete, George and Tim moved to their assigned posts. Pete and George took their position near the foremast, and Tim went forward to the bow of the Maine Wind. There the windlass stood coiled with thick chain that ran through an opening in the starboard hull and attached to the anchor.

  DuLac stepped over to the stern and signaled Scott to cut the yawl boat engine. Scott veered away, idling the engine, and the Maine Wind glided silently upwind.

  “Scandalize the forepeak,” DuLac ordered.

  “Aye, Captain.” Pete and George eased the peak halyard, depowering the sail. They moved to the mainsail and repeated the task, then went forward to help Tim unlash the anchor. The Maine Wind floated to a dead stop directly up-wind.

  “Let go the anchor,” DuLac ordered.

  “Letting go the anchor,” came the reply. The heavy anchor chain thundered through the hull as a quarter ton of iron plummeted into the water.

  DuLac stepped to the aft companionway and called down. “All hands on deck to fold sail.” He walked forward and delivered the order to the forward cabins.

  It was a fact of windjammer cruising that the captain depended on passengers to help raise and lower the yawl boat and the heavy gaff-rigged sails. Folding sail at the end of the day was another all-hands-on-deck task. Brie welcomed all of it. She needed that kind of physical involvement right now. It took her mind off decisions she wasn’t ready to make, ones that weighed heavier on her each day.

  The passengers and crew hopped up on the cabin top and positioned themselves along both sides of the mainsail boom. The rain had temporarily slackened, making their job easier. Scott hoisted himself up and straddled the end of the boom, so he could guide the sail as it was folded and lashed off. Pete and Tim manned the halyard, slowly lowering the sail. George and the passengers worked the heavy canvas into large folds over the top of the boom and lashed it off with the lace lines. Then they moved forward and repeated the procedure as the foresail was lowered.

  Brie hopped down and walked across the deck to the rail. Sailing had always held the power to renew her spirit, and she wondered why she’d gotten away from it the past few years. She smiled now, recalling another mad dash for safe harbor. It was her twentieth summer. Her family had sailed their 45-foot cruiser out of Thunder Bay, Ontario, bound for the Apostle Islands off the south shore of Lake Superior. The big lake got in a temper on their last day, and before they knew it, they were running in 15-foot seas. She remembered her dad at the wheel, totally fearless. It was the last summer they’d ever sailed together. That fall, at age forty-eight, her father had succumbed to a massive heart attack, and a bright light in her life had been forever extinguished.

  “I felt you out there today, Dad,” she whispered, and for a moment, she had a fleeting sense of him standing right next to her.

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear DuLac approach and jumped when he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

  Brie’s fiery blue eyes studied him as she decided whether or not to reveal any part of her thoughts. “I was remembering another time—another storm,” she finally said.

  “I saw you out there today. Not many sailors can smile in the teeth of a nor’easter. Danger’s no stranger to you, is it?”

  Brie deflected the question. “From what I’ve heard around Camden, when you sail with John DuLac, there’s little cause for concern.”

  He looked away, as if uncomfortable with her praise. “It’s risky business believing everything you hear.”

  “Don’t worry, I always check my sources, and the Camden consensus is that, when it comes to sailing, you’re the man for all seasons. And then there’s your criteria for this cruise that suggests maybe you’re looking for people to share the edge with—folks who don’t shrink from a little excitement.”

  John smiled, assessing her. He saw strength in her, maybe even steel, but something else, too. Uncertainty? Loneliness? He wasn’t quite sure, but he recognized the eyes of a seeker.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I get enough sunny days and gentle winds in July and August. That’s enough excitement for most folks who book during those months. They’re looking for a more relaxed experience. Most of them wouldn’t be interested in feeling the thrill of the open sea aroused by a 40-knot wind. Spring and fall are my times, and I like to think the Maine Wind feels the same about it.”

  Brie looked out to sea. “I’d guess, from the way things are going out there, that we’ll be experiencing the thrill of swinging at anchor for a few days.”

  John shrugged. “I’m hoping it’ll blow itself out quickly, but you’re probably right.” He sank his hands into his raincoat pockets. “The first day you stopped down at the dock in Camden you said you’d sailed on the Great Lakes—mostly Superior.”

  “Living in Minnesota, it’s the closest you get to the open sea.”

  “When she starts to blow, there’s not a more dangerous piece of water anywhere.”

  Brie studied him with interest. “You’ve sailed Superior?”

  “I skippered a large cruiser out of Duluth for a couple the summer I was twenty-five. They were adventurous types, so I got to see plenty ‘of the big lake they call Gitche Gumme.’ Two years after that, my friend Ben and I sailed a 60-foot schooner from Duluth through the Great Lakes and out the St. Lawrence Seaway. It was September—just late enough in the season to get some big wind. We had our harrowing days on that trip. Believe me, I have nothing but respect for the people who sail those lakes.”

  “They’re a pretty savvy group,” Brie said. “The wave frequency is higher on fresh water, so conditions worsen rapidly. The seas build fast. And Superior is cold—the average temperature hovers around 40 degrees. That fact alone would make a sailor cautious.” She rubbed the tip of her nose. It had been mildly numb for the past hour, and she hoped it wasn’t going to start running.

  A sudden downdraft off the bluff rocked the ship, and she turned and studied the rigging. “Being aboard the Maine Wind is quite an experience,” she said. “It’s like a piece of floating history.” She remembered their second morning out, anchored near Crane Island—the ten of them singing sea chanteys as they hauled the canvas sails up the varnished masts.

  “It’s not for everyone,” John said. “But for those who resonate
with it and don’t mind roughing it a little, there’s not another experience that will ever match it. I remember a passenger once asked, ‘Is there life after windjamming?’ I think that pretty well sums it up.”

  Brie chuckled. “I like that,” she said. “There’s a part of me that could get lost out here and never go back.” She stared out at the riled ocean for a few moments before turning back to him. “So what do you do when you’re not windjamming?” she asked.

  “I run a boat repair business in the off-season. People usually pull their boats out in October, so I stay pretty busy from then until May.” He smiled, and a network of small lines appeared at the corners of his intense brown eyes. “And what do you do when you’re not detecting?”

  DuLac was the only one to whom she’d revealed her line of work. To her relief he hadn’t asked any prying questions, seeming to sense she’d rather not discuss it. Now he skirted the issue with this personal query, which she was equally unprepared to answer. She looked again at the restless waters. “Actually, I wouldn’t know. This is my first vacation in a long time. I guess my work kind of consumes me.”

  John’s brows knit together as he watched her. “In that case, I’m honored you chose my ship.”

  Brie took a step back. “Well, I think I’ll go below and take a snooze before dinner. So, I’ll see you then, Captain.”

  “It’s a date,” he said, holding her eyes captive for a moment.

  Brie turned to go, feeling new warmth in her already windburned cheeks. She walked aft and descended the steep companionway ladder with the ease of one who’d had lots of practice.

  During her four days on board, Brie had explored every nook and cranny of the ship, poking her head into the various cabins, with their owners’ permission, and familiarizing herself with the store room, the galley, even the hold. She now owned a detailed mental diagram of the ship. The passenger cabins were divided into two groups, accessed by companionways at opposite ends of the ship. A third companionway descended to the galley, located in the bow of the ship.