Ted put down his tablet and picked up the menu. “What happens if you can’t rule Randall dead?”
“Then we wait for a death certificate. If a person is missing for seven years, the heirs may apply for a death certificate and the court may rule them dead. We would pay out, with accrued interest of course, after we received the death certificate.”
“Wow,” Catrina said, “that’s a long time to wait for a payout. That doesn’t sound like much motive to me.”
Joyce held up her empty coffee cup to signal the waitress for a refill. “I would think not. If your client can’t produce a body, I’m afraid she won’t be getting a payout anytime soon.”
“Thank you, Joyce, you’ve been very helpful,” Catrina said.
“My pleasure. Thank you for the coffee.” Joyce got up and walked out of the restaurant.
“Let’s order something. I’m starved,” Ted said.
“What did we learn?” Catrina asked. “If the insurance company isn’t going to pay off then that removes the motive for murder.”
“But did Karen know the insurance wouldn’t pay off?” Ted asked.
“If I was going to kill my husband for the insurance, I would figure out a way to do it without losing the body.” Catrina said. “Why would the killer take the body?”
“To hide the evidence,” Ted said. “If there’s no body then the police can’t tie anyone to the crime.”
“But if there’s no body, there’s no bucks for Karen. Why else would she want her husband offed?”
“I’m not seeing it. She doesn’t seem the type to me that would want to take over his business. His finances are a mess, so she doesn’t stand to inherit a bunch of money.”
“But did she know that?” Catrina asked. “Maybe she was so ignorant of his finances she thought that there was money to inherit.”
“There’s always the jealousy angle.” Ted waved his menu at the waitress. “Maybe she wanted to get back at him for playing around?”
“I’m not buying that. She said she filed for divorce. She seemed very matter of fact about it, not overly emotional at all.”
The waitress pulled a pad from her apron. “Yes, you ready to order?”
“Yeah, I’ll take a Grand Slam, over easy,” Ted said.
Chapter 11
“Stand by to hoist the spinnaker,” Chris yelled at the top of his lungs.
The cherry red Chesapeake 43 sloop surged forward through the heavy swell. With twenty knots of wind, the Courageous was in her element. She crashed through the waves, sending white water flying.
Candace Hardwick, Chris’s step-mom, danced along the bow of the boat in her red foul-weather gear, her long black hair pulled back in a pony tail and secured inside her sou’wester.
“Stand by to hoist the spinnaker,” she yelled.
After all the time Chris had spent hating Candace, they eventually reconciled when they went to law school together. Now Candace was his extremely accomplished deck ape. It seems that whatever she did, she did well.
September usually brought ideal sailing weather to Puget Sound, at least as ideal as it got in the Pacific Northwest. Gray skies with occasional rain were the penalty one paid for strong steady winds. During the lovely summer months, there was rarely a good sailing wind.
Oh well, if you’re gonna sail in Seattle, you’re gonna get wet. Chris shrugged his shoulders and concentrated on the big orange buoy coming up on their port side.
The buoy seemed to be flying towards them. Chris looked down at his GPS read out. They were skipping along at over eight knots. The Courageous was a thoroughbred. She took to the Northwest weather like she was bred for it.
Chris glanced back over his shoulder. All the King’s Men and Fanta-Sea were maybe a boat length behind. Chris eased the wheel a little to port. No way was he going to let them get between him and the buoy.
“I’m thinking the Number One spinnaker,” Harry Hardwick, Chris’s dad, said in a conversational tone. Harry, while retired from racing himself, served as Chris’s tactical advisor on the Courageous.
With the boat charging hard to windward it was noisy in the cockpit, but not so loud that conversation was difficult. With the boat heeled hard to port, Chris stood at the starboard wheel with a foot up on the navigator’s seat to steady himself.
“Me too,” Chris said.
“Candace,” he shouted, “make ready to hoist Number One.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Candace shouted back at the top of her lungs. “Make ready to hoist Number One.”
Candace was a tall woman and extremely strong. She was easily the most beautiful woman Chris had ever met. With long black hair and emerald green eyes, she still managed to stuff her hair in her cap, don long johns and foul weather gear and be one of the guys. Growing up in rural Idaho, she had spent her summers hunting and fishing with her father. She was still a tomboy even though she was approaching forty.
“Hand up Number One,” she shouted down the foredeck hatch.
“Number One coming up,” Alan shouted. Alan, Candace’s assistant deck ape, was one of Harry’s rising stars at Hardwick, Bernstein & Johnson.
Harry liked to call his young associates “his piranhas.” He wanted ambitious, hungry young lawyers who would sell their mothers’ souls for a chance to grill a hostile witness on the stand.
Alan, a burly young man who had played football for Harry’s beloved Huskies, was one of those piranhas. There was a long line at HB&J of young associates fighting for the chance to crew on Chris’s boat. They knew that Harry would be on board for every race.
Chris knew it was blatant brown-nosing, but he needed crew and his dad’s piranhas were young, smart, strong and physically fit.
The orange buoy was getting closer.
“Stand by with the chute.” Chris yelled.
“Making ready with the chute,” Candace yelled back.
She and Alan unhooked the spinnaker pole from the foredeck. While Alan raised one end and clipped it onto the attachment on the mast, Candace ran the guy wire through the other end and attached it to the leeward clew on the big sail.
She moved the bright orange “turtle,” the bag in which the gigantic sail was stowed, to the center of the foredeck then attached the spinnaker sheet to the other corner of the sail.
“Sheets clear?” she shouted back to the cockpit.
Ted pulled on the red nylon line to make sure it was free.
“Running free,” he shouted up to Candace.
Chris chuckled to himself as he watched Ted move clumsily about the cockpit. While willing to try anything, Ted was about as nautical as a cement truck. He never got the knack of moving about a tossing boat, but was incredibly strong and just the right guy to crank on the big sheet winches.
Candace unclipped the spinnaker halyard from the mast and took it to the turtle. She clipped the halyard to the top of the sail.
“Ready with the kite,” she yelled back to Chris.
“Rounding the mark,” Chris yelled. “Helm down!”
The big red sailboat surged past the orange buoy and leaned into a sharp turn.
“You’re awfully close,” Harry advised his son as the boat skimmed past the inflated nylon buoy with inches to spare.
“Sheet out the main,” Chris yelled.
Timothy complied instantly and eased out on the main sheet until the boom was nearly perpendicular to the boat’s center line. Maybe Ben Johnson’s son wasn’t such a bad hand after all.
The sloop made the turn and plunged forward on the downwind course.
“Raise the kite!” Chris shouted.
“Aye, aye. Raise the kite,” Candace echoed.
Alan grabbed the halyard and hauled it in hand over hand. The big sail flew up the mast. Candace fed it out of the turtle as it climbed.
The red, white and blue Captain American themed, parachute-shaped sail caught the wind. It billowed out with an explosive crack. Alan grabbed a winch handle and took a couple more turns on the winch. The sail inched
to the top of the mast.
“Sheet in,” Candace yelled.
Ted inserted the stainless steel handle on the big self-tailing winch and turned for all he was worth. His biceps bulged with the strain. The red spinnaker sheet wound around the winch and dropped onto the cockpit floor
“’Vast hauling,” Chris shouted. He was satisfied with the sail’s position. “Close only counts in horse-shoes and hand grenades,” he grinned at his dad, “and atomic bombs.”
Chris made minor adjustments with the big stainless steel wheel and the Courageous settled onto a downwind course. Her bow lifted from the waves and white water surged past her quarters as she surfed down the backside of the waves.
“Everyone aft,” Chris shouted. He really didn’t need to. His crew was superbly trained. They already raced towards the rear of the boat.
“Woo-hoo!” Chris shouted. The readout on his GPS screen crept up. Ten, twelve, thirteen, thirteen point five, fourteen. “Fifteen! We’re hitting fifteen knots.”
This was damned near as fast as the old clipper ships sailed on their best days.
The roar of the wind and water died down as they settled on their new course. They were traveling with the wind. It became very still and quiet in the cockpit. It became very hot in their slickers and one after another, crew members pulled off their jackets.
“Seventeen.” The Courageous was roaring downwind like a runaway freight train. “Woo-hoo, seventeen! That’s the fastest she’s ever gone!”
The crew huddled in the back of the cockpit. Their fate was in Chris’s hands. As the Courageous flew downwind with the force of a charging buffalo, one wrong move could spell disaster. If the boat broached, turned across the wind and rolled onto her side, the big sail would fill with water and they’d be scrambling for their lives.
Chris remembered what one of Dad’s old sailing buddies taught him. Sailing is riding the edge between exhilaration and sheer terror.
“Anyone need coffee?” Maria poked her head out of the main hatchway. “I’ve got a fresh pot.”
Chris was pleased at how Maria had integrated into his crew. She had grown up on boats in the Sea of Cortez, so she had no problems being on the water, but they were mostly fishing boats. Aside from her dad’s Hobie-Cat, she didn’t have any real sailing experience. She was great in the galley though where Kayla, Candace and Harry’s adopted ten-year old daughter, served as her helper. Kayla’s mom had been killed by Mexican drug dealers and her dad was serving a long prison term for dealing.
“I have hot chocolate ready, Candy,” Kayla shouted over the roar of the boat.
She seemed to fit right in.
Candace had taken on Mom’s old job of feeding the crew and always having a hot drink ready to fight the frigid weather.
Chris sighed. He still missed his mom. Cancer robbed him of her when he was still in high school. His dad was so wrapped up in his own sorrow and guilt that Chris and his sister, Sara, had been left to raise themselves.
Speaking of sisters, what was wrong with Hope? He felt a little tug at his heart string. She was afraid of water and boats. He hadn’t been able to get her on board the Courageous yet. That would have to be fixed if they were to have a future together.
Chris heard a chirping in his inside pocket. What the hell? Who would be bothering him on race day? Everyone at the office knew that they were off-limits unless al-Qaeda flew into the twin towers again, and then only if one of the senior partners was involved.
He pulled his cell phone from his inside pocket.
“Holy shit!” He read the text message.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Clayton Johnson-White, Ben’s nephew. He’s escaped from juvie.”
****
“Mr. Randall to see you, sir,” Ruth said, standing in Abe Weinstein’s office door. She had a particularly sour expression on her face. She saved that expression for some of Weinstein’s more unsavory clients.
“Show him in.” Weinstein put down his pen and sat back in his chair. He had several contract drafts, complete with little yellow tabs and red markings, spread out over his desk. He liked to look busy when a client walked into his office.
“Mr. Randall,” Ruth said. She waved the young man into the office, hesitated a moment for Weinstein to offer refreshment, when he didn’t, she closed the door behind her.
Richard Randall Jr., Dickie to his associates (They couldn’t really be called friends) looked like he just rolled out of bed.
The thirtyish man wore baggy jeans and a T-shirt with a death’s head printed on the front under an unzipped red hoodie. A John Deere baseball cap covered his shaggy brown hair and he had at least three days’ worth of beard on his cheeks.
“Richard, it’s good to see you again.” Weinstein rose from his chair and extended his hand. “Please sit.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “I’m really sorry about your father. I knew him quite well.”
Dickie didn’t respond to Weinstein’s comment about his father. He didn’t seem to be that shook up.
“Mr. Weinstein,” Dickie said, “I need for you to represent me.”
“I see.” Weinstein sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers.
“I was runnin’ my dad’s businesses anyway. Now that he’s gone, I’m still runnin’ ‘em. But Karen has shown up in Seattle. She’s moved into the house. Now she’s tryin’ to run the business. She’s going to the coffee huts and tellin’ ‘em that she’s in charge.”
“I’m not sure what I can do for you, Richard.” Weinstein reached for a cigarette. “She is your father’s wife. She has a legal right to take over his business. You’re his son, but you don’t have any legal standing. Without a power of attorney, she is responsible for his businesses.”
Dickie’s right knee jerked up and down uncontrollably as he sat in the chair. “Look, Mr. Weinstein, she killed him. I know it. She’s a ravin’ mega-bitch from Hell. She killed him and now she’s takin’ over his businesses. There must be some way to get her out.”
Weinstein looked at his cigarette for a moment then lit it. “As far as I know, she has the legal right to take over. She was in here the other day with a notarized power of attorney for your father...”
“It’s forged. She’s done it before. When my dad adopted my son, Bobby, she forged my signature on the paper giving my release.”
“Can you prove this?”
“I don’t know. I was in the Air Force, in Thailand, when they did it. I didn’t know anything about it until I got back. Then Bobby was livin’ with my dad, which wasn’t so bad, and Dad said he had legal custody. I really didn’t have any place to live yet, didn’t have a job, so I just let it go.”
Weinstein leaned forward in his chair. “Look, Richard, I know that there have been questions about Karen in the past, but why do you think she killed your dad?”
“For one thing, they’re always fightin’. For another, she wants to run his businesses. She’s always tellin’ him what a shitty job he’s doin’. She thinks she can do better.”
“But is that a reason to kill someone?”
“Dad has a girl friend. Down in L.A. Karen’s jealous. They had a big fight over it and she said she was gonna divorce him. If they divorced, she’d only get half of his estate. This way she gets everything.”
“I see. Well, I can look into it. I owe your father that much.” Weinstein looked out his window for a moment. The light rain settled onto Fifth Avenue. Shoppers moved around under umbrellas. Soon it would be the holiday season. Weinstein loved the city during the holidays.
“Richard, I might as well clue you in on the status of the cases against your employees, or your father’s employees.”
“Yeah. How’d that come out?”
“I negotiated a deal for them. Two of your baristas will get delayed prosecution. If they don’t get into trouble for two years, the charges against them will be dropped.”
“Cool.”
“Miss Johnson-White will get twenty days of h
ome detention on a reduced charge of working without an adult entertainment license. It will go on her record, but she won’t have to do any jail time.”
“She’s a minor. Why didn’t they just give her juvie?”
“The prosecutor wanted to scare her straight. It’s a good deal. No one serves any time.”
“What about the other two?”
“That’s the good news. I got the charges dropped on them. All-in-all, I think we did pretty well here.”
****
The Wilsons closed up their vacation home on Camano Island right after Labor Day. They wouldn’t be back until Thanksgiving. Clayton knew their habits and patterns. He had lived down the road from them all of his life.
He couldn’t go home. His mom’s house would be the first place the cops looked. He didn’t want to see her anyway. She and that Goody Two-Shoes lawyer conspired to get him thrown in the clink. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anybody.
There was one good thing that came out of his time in juvie. He used his new-found knowledge to pick the lock on the back door. Previously, he would have had to break a window. Then the cops might spot the broken glass and investigate.
No alarm. What idiots! How trusting could these Wilson fools get?
He moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen then stopped and listened. No sound. No one at home. Just as it should be.
The first thing he did was check the fridge. It was mostly empty, but there was a six pack of Bud. Jeez, Old Man Wilson drank Bud? Didn’t he have any class?
The freezer produced better results. There was a package of New York Steaks, some hamburger meat and a couple of frozen pizzas. The cabinets yielded a variety of good stuff, not the least of which was an unopened package of Oreos. The box of Cocoa Puffs was great, but there was no milk. Oh, well, he could pop them in his mouth dry.
Clayton made his way to the living room. Cool, the Wilsons had added a big screen TV since he had last been here, and a cable box. Would it still be hooked up? Cool. A Microsoft X-Box sat on the shelf under the TV.
Bikini Baristas: Ted Higuera Series Book 4 Page 11