The aft compartment contained five passenger cabins plus the captain’s cabin, each with a built-in double berth that extended under the deck. The forward compartment contained four cabins—each with one or two double bunks—and a small storeroom that held extra line, sails, tools for making repairs, and kerosene for the lanterns. Forward and aft compartments also contained a head or marine toilet that the passengers in those areas shared. The lazarette, a small hold that contained stores of food and wood for the stove, sat behind the helm and was accessed through a hatch on deck. Two water tanks below deck held fresh water for drinking, cooking and showering.
The door to Brie’s cabin was just a few feet from the companionway ladder on the port side of the ship. Stepping inside, she slipped off her sea boots and shed the yellow suspendered pants and hooded slicker that made up her foul-weather gear. Hours of exposure to the strong wind had chilled her to the core.
She peeled off her jeans, leaving on her silk long underwear—always her first line of defense against the cold. She laid the jeans on the end of the berth so she could hop back into them after her nap. Next she removed her fleece jacket, but left on her thermal shirt. She rolled up the jacket, stuffed it into her duffel and took out her warmest sweater. As she pulled the baby-blue turtleneck over her head, she winced, feeling the familiar twinge from the scar on her left side. Theoretically the bullet wound had healed, but there were still times when it bothered her. Reaching up, she pulled the binder out of her ponytail. Long pale hair fell around her face and neck. She unconsciously flipped it forward to cover a pair of small, firm breasts she’d always wished were larger.
Brie turned up the turtleneck on her sweater to cover her chin and part of her ears, and reveled in the warmth and softness of the heavy wool. At 36, she needed her creature comforts far more than when she had joined the police force in Minneapolis twelve years ago. A shiver ran through her as the sweater started to retain some of her body heat.
She leaned against the berth, extended one leg back and began stretching calf muscles knotted from several hours of balancing on the Maine Wind’s sloping deck in strong winds. Then she threw back the top part of her sleeping bag and crawled in. Scrunching down into the bag, she pulled it up over her ear. Through the small rectangular window that gave out onto the deck, flashes of lightning sporadically illuminated the tiny cabin. Fatigue washed over her. She lay there for a few minutes listening to the patter of the rain on the deck overhead. Soon, the gentle rocking of the ship at anchor lulled her to sleep.
The sound of arguing in the cabin across the passageway aroused Brie. She checked her watch and was surprised to find that only twenty minutes had elapsed. This wasn’t the first time in the past three days she’d heard the Lindstroms having it out. Her assessment of them was that they were both insecure. Rob was constantly jealous, and Alyssa was an exhibitionist. How had they ever found each other? She wondered why they would spend money to come on a cruise like this when they could stay at home and fight for free.
“Rob, for heaven’s sake, quiet down,” Alyssa pleaded. “And let go of my arm; you’re hurting me.”
“You’re going to stop this behavior, Alyssa. It’s ruining our marriage.”
“What is it you think I’m doing now?”
“Don’t play coy, Alyssa. You can’t go out to get the mail without looking for some guy to flirt with.”
“You’re exaggerating, as usual.”
“Am I really? Look, Alyssa, I love you, and I’ve tried to make you happy...”
“Your jealousy doesn’t make me happy, Rob.”
“Then stop provoking it,” he shouted.
“You say you’ve tried to make me happy, but have you ever once asked me what I want out of life?”
“You’ve got everything a woman could want.”
Brie smiled from the warmth of her berth. If Rob was referring to himself, she begged to differ.
“You think that adolescent second mate is going to make you happy?”
“Oh, come on Rob. You really have an overactive imagination. You mistake friendliness for flirting.”
“You want imagination? I imagine killing any bastard I ever catch you fooling around with.”
“Stop it, Rob. Now.”
“You’re the one who needs to stop, Alyssa. And you know what else? You need to be honest with yourself.”
“I’ve never had the freedom to be honest. You want to control everything I do.”
“If that’s what you think, maybe we should just end this marriage.”
“I don’t want that, Rob.” Brie was surprised to hear a note of panic in Alyssa’s voice. “I just want you to listen.”
“Look, Alyssa, we’ll work this out when we get home.” His tone had suddenly softened. “Just promise me, no more flirting on this cruise. Okay? Playing games does nothing for a relationship.”
“I can think of a couple games that do,” she purred. “You know, honey, a little jealousy is cute, but you take everything way too seriously.”
“I take our marriage seriously.”
The last remark was almost whispered, and it was hard for Brie to catch the tenor of it. But she knew one thing—jealousy was anything but cute. As a homicide detective she’d seen the devastating effects of it too many times, in everything from domestic abuse to murder.
Silence came from across the passageway. Brie decided that Rob had either strangled Alyssa or was making love to her. Her second guess was soon confirmed by soft moans filtering through the louvers of her cabin door. Brie rolled her eyes and pulled the sleeping bag up over her head. The image of John DuLac’s face and form drifted into her mind, along with another thought that startled her. It had been a long time since she’d felt anything, especially desire. She lay there for a moment with the thought, then shook her head to clear the image. Thunder rumbled in the distance. She stretched in her bag and willed herself back to sleep.
3
GEORGE DUPOPOLIS STEPPED UP the ladder and rang the brass ship’s bell at exactly eight o’clock. The passengers, still feeling the effects of the high seas, began to straggle up on deck and head forward for dinner. At the foot of the galley companionway they shed their rain slickers, hung them on pegs next to the ladder and slid onto the benches behind the big table. Will and Howard Thackeray were first, sitting across from each other; Tim Pelletier sat next to Will, followed by Rob Lindstrom and Scott Hogan, who told Rob he’d get up and let Alyssa in when she arrived. Rob thanked him with an icy glare that said you’re young and male—I don’t trust you. Across the table Brie slid in next to Howard just as Pete McAllister climbed down the ladder.
“Hope you’re hungry, Pete,” George said.
“Hungry enough, but I’ll never have the love affair you do with food, Dupopolis.”
Scott bolted up, about to say something. Brie saw him hesitate for a moment, obviously deciding whether or not to start a row in front of the passengers. He and George exchanged a look. George shrugged his shoulders as if he’d dealt with this before. Scott sat back down, but Brie noticed the hard set of his jaw as he glared at Pete. She guessed this would be the last time George would take that kind of abuse from the smartass second mate who’d just joined the crew. Avoiding Scott’s stare, Pete sat down behind the table and slid in next to Brie.
George had set the table with heavy stoneware bowls and coffee mugs. He reserved these bowls for his special stews because they retained the heat, allowing the passengers to savor their food. All the other dishes he kept aboard were enameled aluminum, just right for serving meals up on deck while they were underway. Carrying a tray over, he placed two carafes of coffee, crocks of butter and two pots of honey in the center of the table. “Help yourselves to the coffee,” he said. “There’s more brewing.”
Brie poured herself a cup and passed the carafe to Howard. She leaned back, enjoying the warmth of the mug in her hands, and breathed in the coziness around her. Brass hurricane lamps lit the ship’s galley, their glow reflecting off the go
lden oak of the table and the interior. The color alone might have warmed the weary sailors even without the help of Old Faithful, radiating heat into the space from its corner of the galley. George had told her that he’d given the stove its name his first season aboard the Maine Wind. “Old Faithful adds a bit of magic to every meal I cook,” he had said.
Alyssa Lindstrom was the last passenger to arrive. Everyone else had been wearing rain slickers when they descended into the galley, but Alyssa carried an umbrella, equipment unheard of on a windjammer. She collapsed it, shaking off the water, and came down the companionway ladder backwards, wearing a pair of blue jeans that looked like they were painted on and a red sweater that carried out the same theme. The effect was instantaneous—all the male heads whipped around to take in the view.
Brie could almost see the smoke starting to rise from Rob’s ears as his hands curled into fists. She had noticed that Alyssa’s presence worked like a catalyst, setting off chain reactions wherever she went. Her tight clothes got men’s attention; men’s attention made Rob jealous; Rob’s jealousy bolstered Alyssa’s flagging self-esteem and encouraged her to provoke him some more. The cycle endlessly repeated itself. Over the last four days Alyssa had systematically tested her chemistry on each man aboard with varying results, but Rob’s reaction was a constant. He was a study in sustained rage.
“Here you go, Alyssa,” Scott said, standing up and motioning her in next to her husband. Alyssa set her umbrella down under the rain slickers, slid in next to Rob and snuggled up to his shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late, honey. I was straightening up in the cabin. Things really got thrown around during the storm.” She looked across at Pete. Rob, in what seemed to Brie like an uncharacteristic gesture, put his arm around Alyssa and drew her closer to him. Despite his jealousy, or maybe because of it, Brie had noticed he wasn’t demonstrative with his affection.
“The captain should be down in a few minutes,” Scott said to George. “He was organizing some charts that got pulled out today when things started to get wild.”
Howard Thackeray spoke from his corner up in the bow. “I guess it’ll be a couple of days before this thing blows itself out.”
“I think we can depend on that, the way things were building out there today,” Scott said, trying his coffee. “It’s one of the best times of the year for sailing, but one of the worst for predictable weather.”
“I knew something like this would happen when I decided to take this cruise.” Will Thackeray sat sullenly in the corner, acting like a whiney fourteen-year-old. He wore his light brown hair in a buzz cut, which did nothing to soften his sour expression.
“Okay, Eeyore,” his father chided. “Remember we’re all having the same gloomy day.”
Pete reached for one of the carafes and poured himself another steaming mugful. “So, any suggestions for fun or profitable ways to pass a couple days if we’re stuck here at Granite Island?” He gave Brie a wink as he passed the carafe to her.
“I know a little about this island,” said Tim Pelletier. “There are some good hiking trails leading up to the bluffs on the far side.”
“Oh, great! Hiking in the rain,” Will sniffed.
Tim stared into his coffee cup.
“Take it easy, Will,” Pete interjected. “Obviously, Tim meant that we could hike if the rain lets up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, McAllister,” Will snapped. “You’re one person I’m not taking any orders from.”
“I love walking in the rain,” Alyssa spouted randomly.
Brie could see those miniature video screens behind all the men’s foreheads light up with the image of Alyssa, in the rain, wearing her current outfit. Rob’s eyes narrowed homicidally as he picked up the vibrations.
George set down two baskets filled with hot buttermilk biscuits he’d just pulled out of the oven. “Dig in, folks; there’s another pan on the way.” Hands immediately shot out, and within seconds everyone was digging a knife into the butter or drizzling honey from a pot onto a warm biscuit. Ah, food, Brie thought. The great silencer.
Unfortunately, the silence was short-lived. With a mouth full of biscuit, Rob salvoed off the next disagreeable comment. “So, Ms. Beaumont, you look like one of those chicks who’s always thinking. Any suggestions on what to do here?”
Brie stared at him for a second before deciding to rise to the bait. “Just one, Rob. I suggest that thinking should always precede speaking.”
Scott suppressed a laugh.
“Rob doesn’t like it when people think too much,” Alyssa said, studying the ceiling over the table. “He’s more into action.”
“That’s not true, Alyssa. I just think people take things too far, if you know what I mean.” He looked at her sweater.
Fortunately, at that moment John DuLac came tramping down the ladder with several charts stuffed under his raincoat. “Sorry I’m late, folks. Revolting turn of events with this weather, eh?” He set the charts in the corner, hung up his coat, and slid onto the bench next to Pete. “George, I hope you’re not waiting dinner for me—everyone must be starved.”
“Oh, they’re not suffering, Captain. They just polished off two carafes of coffee and a dozen biscuits. You’ll have to wait for the next batch.” As he spoke, he carried the soup pot over to the table and set it on a wooden board. He ladled out large servings of lobster stew into the deep bowls and handed them around the table. When everyone was served, including himself, George took the big pot back to the stove. He pulled the next round of biscuits out of the oven and refilled the baskets. Then he set down two boards filled with various cheeses along with two bowls of fresh fruit. “Just to ward off scurvy,” he joked, sliding onto the bench next to John.
Everyone dug in, and for the next few minutes nothing but satisfied sounds rose from the contented sailors as they consumed their stew along with slabs of cheese and warm crumbly biscuits. The stew was thick with big chunks of claw and tail meat floating in a creamy broth.
“George, you’ve outdone yourself,” Howard said, looking down the table so he could see the cook. “This is the best lobster stew I’ve ever tasted.”
“Just doing my job,” George mumbled, somewhat flustered by the praise.
“George, this stew is way beyond the call of duty,” John said, smiling.
Pete spoke up as if he wanted to divert the focus from George. “Jeez, Captain, you were amazing out there today. Last year, on the Yankee Pride, I never experienced anything like that. I was trying to figure out how you stay so cool during a storm like that.”
“Pete, it’s not your job to analyze anything when we’re in a gale. If you haven’t sailed enough to have instincts, then you follow orders—nothing else,” DuLac said matter-of-factly.
The captain went back to eating his stew, but Rob, not about to miss the opportunity to goad Pete, feigned little kisses in his direction. Pete’s eyes darkened with anger as he glared back. Rob laughed and cuddled closer to Alyssa.
Scott decided to move things in a different direction. “So, Captain, you planning to teach a class in chart reading tonight?” he asked, nodding toward the long, paper cylinders that John had stacked in the corner.
“Those charts got wet up on deck today,” DuLac said. “I’m going to hang them in the galley near the stove so they’ll dry.”
“That’s not a bad idea, though,” Pete said, his anger dissipating. “Before you came in, Captain, we were talking about possible ways to pass a couple of stormy days. Maybe some of the passengers would like to hone their navigation skills.”
“We could do some plotting using a chart with a compass rose and the parallel rulers,” Scott said.
Alyssa eagerly joined in. “That would be great. I’ve always wanted to learn more about navigation.”
“Wonderful!” Will muttered. “So now, instead of having the experience we paid for, we get to play at it.”
“I can teach you all you need to know about that stuff, Alyssa,” Rob said. “You don’t have
to waste the captain’s time.”
Alyssa colored and stared at her coffee cup.
John was mystified. Mostly his customers were happy with whatever the Maine skies and George dished up. These people were all sailors, and, frankly, he was confused by their attitude considering this afternoon’s excellent adventure. He’d never dealt with such an odd group—particularly on his shakedown cruise. Will was sarcastic and antagonistic. Rob was constantly on the lookout for prospective flirters. Howard seemed mildly confused about why he was here at all, and Tim was so silent he was completely unknowable. Brie was running away from something and kept herself well concealed. And Alyssa? If there was a genuine person there, she was hard to reach behind the provocative facade. John looked around the table. He was beginning to have reservations about the rest of this cruise. And now that they were stuck here in the gale, his reservations had, for some reason, turned to apprehension.
The sound of a boat motor roused John from his thoughts.
“Ahoy, the Maine Wind,” was barely heard over the motor and the wind.
DuLac nodded toward the ladder. “Scott, go topside and check that out.”
“Aye, Captain.” Scott slid out from behind the table, grabbed his slicker, and climbed up the ladder. The rain was coming down hard. Pulling his hood up, he headed over to the port rail and walked aft to where a lobsterboat sat idling as it bobbed up and down in the water.
“Ahoy there,” Scott shouted. “What can we do for you?”
A woman’s voice carried over the noise of the engine. “Just wonderin’ if your cook could use some lobsters? Hard shells—I’ll sell them to you at four bucks apiece.”
With both rain and darkness falling, Scott hadn’t realized the oilskinned visitor was female. Surprised, he called back, “You’re working late on a wicked night. You should be home by your fire.”
Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) Page 3