“Come and get it,” Ned called out from the barbecue before the chief could go over to assist.
Not surprisingly, the first to heed his call were the furry creatures, hoping for scraps to fall on the ground as people piled food on their plates.
“Shoo, you mangy beasts,” Nancy said as she chased them off. “If you don’t have opposable thumbs and aren’t able to use utensils, then you’ll have to stick with pet food.”
The animals ignored her decree. They were actually smarter than humans in many ways. If I didn’t have thumbs, I’d probably struggle to feed myself. These creatures managed to get multiple meals and snacks throughout the day without lifting a finger or using a can opener.
I grabbed a couple of pieces of chicken, potato salad, and baked beans, then joined Scooter at one of the tables. As he picked up his burger, I said, “You realize that isn’t beef, right?”
“Of course it is. Ned’s outdone himself tonight,” he said after taking a bite. “This is really juicy.”
“No, it’s not. It’s one of those fake burgers. Made out of beets and rutabagas.”
Scooter gently set the burger back on his plate. “Did you say rutabagas?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you going to eat both of those pieces of chicken?” Scooter asked hopefully.
I pulled my dish away. “Go grab your own.”
Scooter placed his veggie burger on the ground. “Maybe the critters will enjoy this.”
Mrs. Moto turned up her nose, but Frick and Frack were less discerning, gobbling it down in seconds. After the dogs had finished, the three of them ran around the patio playing chase. They darted under tables, between people’s legs, and then straight into a woman who had set up an easel on the boardwalk.
She yelped as her easel and art supplies crashed to the ground. One of the Yorkies stepped on a tube of acrylic paint, squeezing green paint all over his paw, while Mrs. Moto batted a brush back and forth.
Both Anabel and I rushed over to apologize for our wayward pets.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, shooing the cat and dogs away, before helping the woman to her feet.
“Watch out for my arm,” the woman said. She winced as she rubbed the brace around her right wrist. “My carpal tendonitis is acting up.”
“Oh, my goodness, Victoria. I can’t believe this happened,” Anabel said. “Maybe Tiny was right and I should have had the dogs on their leashes.”
While I propped Victoria’s easel back up and gathered the brushes and paint tubes, Anabel introduced us. “Mollie is the friend I was telling you about. The one who lives on a sailboat. And Victoria is a local artist. She’s going to the Destiny Key retreat with me this weekend.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to go,” Victoria said, as she adjusted a scarf tied over her long brown hair.
“Why’s that?” Anabel asked.
“I can barely hold a paintbrush, let alone a pencil.” She held up her right arm. “I have to wear this brace constantly. I’ve been trying to use my left hand more, but I’m starting to develop tendonitis in that one too. It’s pretty much useless. What’s the point of going when I can’t do anything?”
“To hang out with me,” Anabel said with a gentle smile. “Even if you can’t paint or draw, you’ll still have a nice time relaxing and having long conversations about art with everyone else.”
Victoria’s phone beeped. As she checked her text message, her eyes started to well up. “I can’t believe he would do this,” she said in a soft voice.
“Do what?” Anabel asked.
“The guy I’m seeing just broke up with me.”
“He did it by text?” I asked.
Tears cascaded down her face. “Yes.”
Anabel pulled a tissue out of her skirt pocket and handed it to Victoria. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
“He wanted to keep it a secret,” Victoria replied as she dabbed her eyes.
“Why? Does he have something to hide? Is he married?” I blurted out.
Victoria shook her head. “No, he was married, but he’s divorced now. He’s well known though, and he thought it would be better if we kept things quiet, at least for now.”
“Well, the retreat is exactly what you need,” Anabel said. “It will help you keep your mind off of this.”
Chief Dalton walked up to us. “Everything okay here?” he asked as he looked at the green paw prints on the patio.
Scooter was standing next to him, holding a can of beer. “We thought we’d wander over and check on you ladies.”
“No, everything is not okay,” Victoria snapped. “First, my paintings at the gallery were ruined, my wrists are killing me, and now my boyfriend just dumped me.”
“Your paintings were ruined?” Anabel asked. “What happened to them?”
“Someone sneaked into the storage room yesterday and slashed all of them. I had worked on those for months. I was getting ready to exhibit them in August. Now what am I supposed to do?”
Anabel put her arm around the distraught woman. “Tiny can help. He’ll file a police report and then find out who did it.”
The chief raised both of his bushy eyebrows. “Was this the incident that took place at the Coconut Creations gallery?”
Victoria nodded.
“A report was already filed,” the chief said.
“By who?” Anabel asked.
“By Gregor Smirnov, the owner of the gallery,” the chief said.
“That’s good,” Anabel said. “Have you found who did it yet? How’s the investigation going?”
“It’s not quite that simple.” The chief looked at Victoria. “Perhaps we should discuss this privately, ma’am.”
Victoria grabbed Anabel’s hand. “No, I’d rather hear what you have to say with my friend to support me.”
“I really think we should do this privately,” Chief Dalton reiterated.
“No, please. Go ahead. I’m fine.”
“Just spill it,” Anabel said.
The chief looked at his ex-wife, then at Victoria. “Fine. When Mr. Smirnov phoned to report the incident, he said that you destroyed your paintings.”
Victoria gasped. “Why would I destroy my own paintings?”
“He said you were very upset,” the chief said.
“Of course I was upset,” Victoria said, gripping Anabel’s hand tightly. “Someone ruined my paintings.”
“He mentioned that you’re being treated by a psychiatrist. Is that true?”
Victoria gave a slight nod.
“He thought that perhaps you had stopped taking your medication, and that’s why you acted out the way you did.”
“No, that’s not true,” she whispered.
The chief leaned forward and said gently, “Mr. Smirnov is genuinely concerned about your mental well-being.” He took a deep breath, then added, “And he’s worried that you may be a danger to yourself, as well as others.”
3
Opposable Thumbs
When I woke up on Friday morning, I stretched my arms over my head then groaned.
Scooter poked his head through the doorway. “You okay?”
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I said.
“More weird dreams?”
“Yes, about what Chief Dalton said about Victoria at our splash party.” It had been two days but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It had been running through my head over and over. “Do you really think she could be a danger to herself or others?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it sounds like she’s getting help from her doctor.”
I groaned again as I shifted my position. “Speaking of doctors, I think I pulled a muscle in my neck.” I propped myself up in bed, gingerly adjusting the pillows behind my head. “Remind me again why I was elected to fix our marine toilet.”
We had spent the previous day getting Marjorie Jane ready for the regatta. When we checked the final item off our list at seven in the evening, Scooter poured celebrator
y gin and tonics, while I went to wash my hands. That’s when I discovered that we had a plumbing issue. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that it was seriously gross.
He smiled. “It’s because you’re tinier than me. There’s no way I would have been able to fit in the locker where the holding tank and hoses are located.”
“It sucks being short.” I looked over at Mrs. Moto who was nestled next to me. “You’re smaller than I am. Why didn’t we send you down there to repair it?”
The calico meowed, then rolled over on her back, extended her front legs and pressed her paws against my arm.
“You’re not going to go with that old ‘I don’t have opposable thumbs’ excuse again, are you?” I asked her. “Your lack of thumbs certainly doesn’t get in the way when you’re prying cabinet doors open and knocking your cat treats onto the floor. I’m sure you could have figured out how to use a screwdriver with one hand, grip a bracket with the other, trying not to drop the nuts and bolts, all while holding a flashlight in your mouth so you could see.”
Mrs. Moto blinked her green eyes slowly at me and kneaded my arm.
“Yes, I know. You have superior night vision. You wouldn’t have needed the flashlight. But you’re tiny. You would have fit in that cramped space easily. I clean your litter box every day, so I think it’s only fair that you fix the marine toilet next time it breaks.” I squeezed one of her paws. “Deal?”
She responded by pulling her paw away, leaping across me, and running out of the cabin.
Scooter chuckled. “I don’t think she liked that deal.”
“I knew she was a smart cat.” I turned my head from side to side, trying to get the muscles to unkink. “Any chance of some coffee?”
“It’s brewing,” he said. There was a tapping sound on our hull. “You better hurry up. That’ll be Melvin and Ben.”
I sat up. “Is it that time already?”
“Yep. The regatta starts in a couple of hours.” He rubbed the back of my neck. “Are you still up for it? Yesterday, you were talking about all the things that could go wrong.”
“I think I let Nancy get into my head with all her talk about how inexperienced we are.” I took a deep breath. “But I’m definitely up for the challenge. I want to prove her wrong.” I turned and looked at Scooter. “What about you? Are you feeling okay about everything?”
He nodded. “I am.” He held out his hand. “No matter what happens, we’re not going to forget that we’re a team and that we can do anything together. Deal?”
I put my hand in his and squeezed it. “Deal.”
* * *
The regatta kicked off without a hitch. Ned gave a safety briefing at the marina patio, then all the boats headed to Sunshine Bay where they jockeyed for position at the starting line. When the race marshal sounded the starting horn, Marjorie Jane briefly took the lead before slipping behind Pretty in Pink. I was at the helm of the boat, the guys were managing the sails, and Mrs. Moto was perched on a cushion complaining about the fact that she was confined to the cockpit and had to wear a life jacket and tether.
“Turn a little to your port,” Melvin said to me. “That’s it. See how the sail is filled out now? You want to keep an eye on any little shifts in the wind and adjust your heading as needed. Okay, now just a hair to starboard.”
“We need to get ahead of Pretty in Pink,” I said as I turned the steering wheel to the right. “I don’t want Nancy to beat us to Destiny Key.”
The Bahamian man leaned back and smiled. “Don’t worry. There’s still plenty of time to catch up to her.”
Ben was perched next to me. “Even if we don’t win this one, there are still three other races to go. One tomorrow and one on Sunday while we’re at Destiny Key, and then the race back to Coconut Cove on Monday. There’s no guarantee that whoever wins today’s race will be the overall regatta champion. Anything can happen.”
“It looks like we’ll be on this tack for a while,” Scooter said. “Anyone want a drink while we have a chance to relax? We’ve got sodas and lemonade. There are also some brownies from the Sugar Shack.”
“Are you the galley wench?” Ben laughed. “Mollie is at the helm steering the boat while you’re fixing snacks.”
“Wench? I’m not really sure that term works for guys,” Scooter said. “How about first mate instead?”
“Really?” Ben asked. “I’d have assumed you would be the captain of Marjorie Jane and Mollie would be first mate.”
“Why’s that?” Scooter asked as he passed a cola to Melvin.
Ben cocked his head to one side. “I don’t know. Aren’t the guys usually the captains of boats? If you walked into the Tipsy Pirate wearing a pink t-shirt that said ‘First Mate,’ I think some of the old salts would give you a hard time.”
Scooter chuckled. “Yeah, I can imagine what some of those old geezers would say.”
Melvin took a sip of his soda before saying, “Speaking as an old geezer myself, I don’t think it matters whether the captain is a man or a woman. As my dear departed Velma would say, ‘Only weak men are scared by strong women.’ Looks like Mollie has everything under control. Maybe she should be the one wearing the captain’s hat.”
I gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Me? Captain? I don’t think so. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
“It is,” Melvin agreed. “The captain has to make all the decisions and is responsible for the safety of his crew.” He smiled at me and added, “Or her crew.”
“Scooter would be so much better at that than me,” I said. “He makes decisions every day at work. Big decisions. The biggest decision I made all week was whether to have a salted caramel latte or a mocha.”
“I’m not sure I want to be captain either,” Scooter said as he handed a tray of brownies and napkins to Ben. “Mollie has been the one taking sailing lessons. She’s a heck of a lot more competent than I am.”
“Me?” I said. “Remember how Ned was talking about the weather forecast at the safety briefing? I couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying. When he mentioned ‘isobars,’ all I could think of was one of those ice bars they have in Scandinavia where you wear parkas while drinking vodka shots.”
Scooter chuckled. “He wasn’t talking booze. It refers to atmospheric pressure.”
“See? You knew that. If I was the captain, I’d probably sail us into the middle of a hurricane.”
“Relax,” Melvin said. “The two of you have time to figure it all out. Maybe you could be co-captains. Some couples do that. Talk about it over the weekend. Chat with other couples about what they do. There’s no right or wrong answer.”
“Well, one of us should at least figure out how to tell if a hurricane is headed our way,” I said.
Ben scoffed as he grabbed a brownie. “Nah. You don’t need to worry about that. It’s way too early in the summer for a hurricane.”
Melvin shook his head. “Hurricane season officially started at the beginning of June.”
“Yeah, but it’s only July second today.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of Mother Nature and when she’ll decide to unleash it,” Melvin said. “You’ve lived in Florida long enough to know what kind of damage she can cause.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve personally seen the devastation hurricanes can leave in their wake. I’ve lost friends and family to one before.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
Melvin twisted his wedding band while he stared out at the water. “It’s not something I like to talk about.”
Mrs. Moto stirred in the corner of the cockpit where she had been taking a nap. Sensing a human in need of comfort, she crawled into the older man’s lap, reached up and nuzzled his face. “Now what about you, kitty-cat?” he said with a smile. “What’s your title on this boat?”
Ben laughed. “That’s easy. Admiral. She outranks everyone else, including the captain.”
“That sounds about right,” Scooter said. “She makes sure her galley wenches open up ca
ns of cat food on a regular schedule.”
Ben leaned over and scratched the admiral’s head. “Maybe I should get a cat. It gets lonely living on a boat by yourself.”
“I thought you were seeing someone,” I said. Ben didn’t exactly have a lot of luck in the ladies’ department, which was a shame as he was such a sweet guy.
“She broke it off after the second date,” he said, his shoulders dropping.
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“But there’s another girl I’m thinking of asking out.” His expression brightened. “She’ll be at the artists’ retreat. Maybe we’ll run into each other.”
“It’s a pretty big island and we’ll be at anchor,” Scooter said. “I don’t think it will be that easy to run into her.”
“Do we know her?” I asked.
“Uh-huh. Sawyer Nichols. You’ve seen her when our band plays at the Tipsy Pirate. She’s the singer.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “She’s the girl that lives in a van.”
“Yep. I’ve known her since high school. That’s one of the reasons I think we’d be a great match. We’re already good friends.”
“That’s an important thing in a relationship,” Melvin said.
“And because she’s used to living in small spaces, she’ll be right at home living on a sailboat. In fact, it will seem spacious after living in a van.”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?” I asked. “Maybe you should go on a date first before you think about her moving onto your boat.”
“She’s a real outdoorsy kind of girl,” Ben said, ignoring my comment. “She used to go camping and hunting with her dad so she’s comfortable roughing it.”
“What does she hunt?” Scooter asked.
“Mostly wild pigs,” Ben said.
“Wow,” I said. “That sounds scary.”
“Nah, nothing scares her. She knows how to handle herself. She’s an expert marksman.”
“And she’s an artist as well,” Melvin said. “She sounds like a very talented young lady.”
“She is,” Ben said. “She went to art school in New York City before moving back to town when her dad got sick. She had been hoping to exhibit her work at the Coconut Creations gallery, but then it fell through.”
Dead in the Dinghy Page 4
