Roger put on his warmest, friendliest voice. “Glenda! How are you on this fine evening? Listen, I was wondering—well, we, we were wondering, Nancy and I, that is, if you’re free for dinner over the next couple of days. Would love to catch up and talk about … um, catch up, really. Give us a call back.”
Roger hung up and reviewed his performance. Friendly, engaging, just a couple of old friends reaching out. She’d call back shortly, he assumed. He looked at his watch and realized he was comfortably ahead of schedule. It was only Tuesday, and just this morning he had successfully kicked the ass of his pompous neighbor at pickleball, sent that smug tam-wearing boat mechanic Santiago to an ICE holding cell, and had Chuck Roverson fired. Served lover boy and that bumbling drunk right for crossing him. But even with all those successes, he still hadn’t secured that absolutely crucial fifth Coastal Commission vote.
He pushed that thought aside and chose to focus on the positive. He was looking forward to the beer can races that evening, especially since he had heard a rumor that Nancy and her band of harpies were entering her crappy boat. He and Bucephalus would crush them. He relished the thought. Plus, there was a warm wind driving up from the south. Same damn wind that had been blowing all month. Odd and off-putting, but not wholly unfortunate. Made for great racing conditions.
But while that warm breeze had managed to sweep away the stilted haze that had been hanging around Hermosa for most of the spring, this new wind also made Roger uneasy. He normally remained in complete control of all his endeavors, but somehow the constancy of this breeze had thrown him off a little. Just as the wind had not been still, nor had his mind. He had begun writing lists of things to be done and ticking them off so as not to miss anything. He chalked this up to Nancy’s reprehensible move to play castaway like some reject from Gilligan’s Island, leaving him to fend for himself. Now, along with Get Chuck Roverson fired, he also added Buy deodorant and Iron golf pants to his list of chores to be done.
He took another sip of his old-fashioned and watched the four PM hot-yoga class empty out onto the sidewalk in front of him. The sun reflected perfectly off the impossibly tight activewear the twentysomething babes wore as they left their class. Roger congratulated himself for living in a town where a guy could have a stiff cocktail while watching perfect asses prance around in front of him. It was another glorious day in sunny Hermosa Beach.
Roger’s cell phone rang, and he looked at the number and cursed. His investors. He stared at the ringing phone without picking it up. He let the call go to voice mail. A tiny bead of sweat formed on his temple. He needed to make some guarantees that he couldn’t quite make yet. Time was running out, and it was becoming clear that Nancy wasn’t going to make it easy on him. So, he might have to play a little hardball with her after all. He stared into space in the direction of Pier Avenue and had begun to formulate a plan when he heard a familiar sultry voice.
“What’s a scalawag like you doing in a fine establishment like this?”
Roger blinked and looked in the direction of the voice. There in the doorway of Laurel Tavern stood the slim, sinewy silhouette of Claire Sanford, her red hair backlit by the sun, making her appear like a life-sized parrot. She sauntered over to him, lifted his drink, and took a long sip. She never took her eyes off him. Roger, no stranger to hardened gazing, took in every inch of Claire and then took the glass back.
“Blanton’s?” she asked.
“Best bourbon in town,” he said.
“I expect nothing less,” Claire purred. “Did you transfer the money to Dunhill?”
“Landed in his account today at eleven ten AM.”
“And you used a third party so it can’t be traced to you?”
“You don’t have to check up on me. This isn’t my first bribery rodeo.”
“Of course,” Claire said. She touched Roger’s forearm, which remained stiff instead of softening at her touch. “You seem tense.”
“We need to start thinking about plan B. If Nancy doesn’t bring Glenda around, and this moment she might be spectacularly disinclined to, we need another way in. Are you sure the vote is resting on her?”
“My information is solid. There are nine commissioners. Glenda Hibbert is the swing vote.”
“We got any dirt on her?”
Claire hesitated for a moment. “Roger, bribery is one thing, but if you’re talking blackmail …”
Roger chuckled at her hypocrisy. “Suddenly one sin is worse than another? Come on, Claire. Don’t feign scruples now. Your casual ruthlessness is one of the main reasons I find you so attractive. Willing to do almost anything to get your way. Outside of murder, I suppose. Which reminds me, how did your third husband die?”
“Heart attack,” she answered flatly. Claire yanked his drink away again, sipped the last of the bourbon, and tilted her head as if considering the remark. She said, “Point taken. I’ll see what I can find on Glenda Hibbert. Now, are we going to get out of here or what?”
Roger left money on the bar for the drink, no tip, and said, “Plans changed. I’ve got to get to the marina. Beer can races are tonight.”
By her expression, he could tell that Claire was not pleased.
“A sailing race—over this?” Claire gestured to her ample cleavage. “Don’t you think we should iron out the finer details of our bribery and blackmail schemes while drinking margaritas naked in your hot tub?”
“As enticing as your planning session sounds, tonight’s race is part of the plan. Rumor is that Nancy is racing. And I plan on taking her down a notch or three. I’ll call you after we’re docked.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A POOR, UNMOORED SOUL
As Nancy was walking back from the local marina market armed with snacks and beer for that night’s beer can races, she saw Chuck Roverson shuffling across the parking lot carrying a cardboard box with files and a plastic Ficus tree, its dusty leaves sticking out of the box top.
“Chuck,” Nancy called out and waved.
Chuck’s shoulders sagged, and he put down the box. Much to Nancy’s surprise, he started to weep. She walked over to him and put her bag down. She hugged the man. He calmed down a little, and they stood there. Nancy looked at him, then the box.
“What’s this all about?” she asked, gesturing to the box, which held, besides the plant and files, a stapler and a framed picture of his wife.
“I got canned!” Chuck blustered as he stifled another cry. “Eleven years, and they don’t even take me at my word. They said I was drinking on the job. I’ve never had a drink on the job. Besides beer, I mean. But I was never impaired.”
“Oh, Chuck, I’m so sorry.” Nancy crossed her arms. “If you were never impaired on the job, then how did they fire you for it?”
“They found two airplane bottles of bourbon open and half-empty on my desk, and I swear they weren’t mine. I don’t even like bourbon. I’m a rum guy. Mai tais. My eternal weakness.”
Nancy nodded. And then a memory hit her sharply. She and Roger had recently taken a trip up to Mendocino. Roger had promised it was a weekend getaway for the two of them, but it soon became glaringly apparent that he had an ulterior motive when they “bumped into” a real estate investor Roger was doing a deal with. The two men ended up golfing both days while Nancy was left to peruse the bookstores and boutiques of utterly charming Mendocino all alone. So much for romance. Jesus, the shit she had fallen for. But then she remembered watching Roger open his satchel on the plane and take out two airplane bottles of Four Roses bourbon during the flight.
“Where did you get those?” Nancy asked as she watched him covertly pour the airplane bottle into the plastic cup provided by the unknowing flight attendant.
“I’m not paying airline prices for booze.”
“How many of those things do you have?”
“They had a deal if you bought six. Don’t judge me.”
“Too late. You do realize we are not destitute, right?”
“I’m not going to let an airlin
e pick my pocket every time I’m parched. If you made any money of your own, perhaps you’d understand the value of it,” Roger said dismissively. He sat back, satisfied with himself, as he sipped his bourbon neat.
Nancy glared at Roger but said nothing. She cast her attention out the window and found solace in trying to work out ways to murder your spouse and get away with it.
Chuck’s pathetic sniffling brought her back.
Nancy stood and looked at the sad state of her former dock master standing in the middle of the parking lot. “I’m so sorry, Chuck. Did you say it was bourbon they found? Any chance you remember what brand?”
Chuck’s eyes were downcast, shoulders slumped. He looked like an abandoned teddy bear. “Yeah, Four Flowers or something …” He checked his memory. “No, it was Four Roses.”
Nancy pursed her lips and shook her head in grim realization. Roger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BEER CAN RACE
Lois and Judy pulled up in Judy’s sensible Honda Accord. Lois had the window rolled down, and Nancy could hear Lois losing patience with Judy.
“Just park right there! What’s wrong with that spot? You have to pick a spot!”
Finally, Judy pulled into one of the many parking spaces, and they got out of the car.
Nancy stood with her arms crossed, a scowl on her face.
“What is it?” Lois asked.
“You are not going to believe what Roger has done, the snake,” Nancy said.
“Boat life is so much more exciting than sofa life!” Judy said as she gathered her things.
“Roger, gossip, and the first beer can race of the season. It’s already awesome,” Lois added.
Judy opened the back door and grabbed a bag of goodies and her sweater. They walked to the gate, and Nancy unlocked it.
“Where’s Ruthie?” Lois asked.
“She’s already here. She’s over on Pete’s boat,” Nancy said.
“Good for her,” Lois said lovingly. “The tramp.”
“I can hear you, you old crone,” Ruthie said as she walked up the dock from Ellis’s boat. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
“I got here just in time,” came a small voice. Charlotte came rolling up on her bike after school. She wrestled with her bike lock, grabbed her Gatorade and a small paper bag, and caught up with Nancy and the girls.
“Good to see you, kiddo,” Ruthie said.
“Hi. I brought this.” Charlotte took something out of the brown bag and held up a small brass plaque that read Beware the Mermaids.
Nancy held the plaque and ran her fingers over the letters, very touched by her gift. “Where did you get this?”
“It was the weirdest thing. I was riding my bike yesterday, and I rode past the garage sale of our cranky neighbor, Irene. It was just lying there, calling my name in the sunshine. I guess her husband who died last year was an old sailor.”
“It’s perfect,” Nancy said as she put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Poseidon would be pleased. Thank you, Char.” She gave her a kiss on the top of her head, and Charlotte smiled and trotted off down the dock. “Come on, Mermaids, I have a surprise for you!”
The Mermaids, plus one junior Mermaid, looked at each other, excited at what Nancy might have up her sleeve. She led them down the dock, and when they were about ten yards from the boat, Nancy stretched out her arms as if presenting a grand award.
Charlotte exclaimed, “Wowza.”
The group stood there observing the gleaming, newly painted Gypsea. The chipped paint along her beam had been freshly redone in navy blue. Her name, once faded and peeling away, was now slightly raised in bright gold letters with a navy drop shadow. On each side of her name were two beautiful mermaids painted in gold and blue. The boat sparkled in the late-afternoon sun and Leon the pelican, who was resting on his pole after a late lunch of mackerel, seemed to lift up his large beak, impressed.
“Wow. We look legit,” Ruthie said.
“And fast,” Lois remarked.
“I love it, Gran,” Charlotte said.
“I knew I should have brought the champagne.” Judy cursed herself for not deciding sooner.
“Luckily,” Nancy said as she produced a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from her bag, “we have one courtesy of my boat broker, Brad!”
“You’re full of tricks, old girl.” Ruthie gave a wry smile. “Let’s pop that baby and christen our Gypsea!”
Nancy and the girls assembled on the dock near the bow of the boat. She held the champagne bottle high and said, “I christen thee Gypsea! We sing to your spirit of freedom and of new beginnings.”
“To the Gypsea!” said the girls in unison.
Nancy removed the foil, and with a deft twist and yank, the champagne bubbled out of the bottle. She splashed some over the bow hull of the boat, then poured some into the water to appease Poseidon, god of the sea. When she finished, she took a swig herself and passed it to her girls, who each took their own drink. When the bottle came to Charlotte, she politely declined, instead toasting with her Gatorade.
The Mermaids readied the boat for the race. It was just past five o’clock and the warm breeze was picking up. A perfect night for a race. And beer.
* * *
There were no written rules for beer can races, but there were several unwritten rules. The first and most essential was to have fun. The second was to stay out of trouble while having the aforementioned fun. Loosely translated, this meant try not to crash, collide, or capsize. Pretty straightforward. The third and fourth rules also seemed obvious: try to be first to the starting line, and more importantly, try to be first to the finish line. But, as Nancy explained to her novice crew, who were paying rapt attention, it was amazing how hard those last two rules were to execute.
The starting line in any sail race was a straight line between two markers. You just sailed across the line as the starting horn went off. Pretty basic. Until you added a flotilla of other boats all trying to cross first too. All of whom were madly jockeying for position while trying to avoid colliding with each other. Cross the line too early, you’d be forced to circle back and make another pass. Too late and you’d be starting the race behind everyone else. It took tricky maneuvering of your boat to be in just the right place at just the right time.
It was ten minutes to the race start time, and the Mermaids headed out of the channel on the Gypsea. Two boats behind her, Nancy saw Bucephalus enter the channel. She recognized Mac’s familiar moustache as he hoisted the mainsail. Tony was bringing in the fenders. Roger was at the helm, a stern, crabby scowl on his face, as if he were heading into war. Which, in a way, he was. Nancy knew that while everyone else loved the casual nature of the beer can races, Roger was out to win.
* * *
Roger was most at home at the helm of Bucephalus, named after Alexander the Great’s horse. He carried on as if he were Alexander the Great himself, unwavering in his relentless pursuit of victory. His cheerless leadership made certain his jovial crew remained miserable. Little did he know that Nancy, Mac, and Tony used to sneak shots of Black Seal rum in the salon between tacks; it was the only way to enjoy Roger’s ship of misery. Roger was unbending in his strict rule of no booze during races so as to stay sharp for competition. He perceived every competitor as a mortal foe and treated them as such.
Which was why, when he glared over at Nancy’s boat, he was likely taken completely aback by the sight of his slight, beautiful, purple-haired granddaughter on board Nancy’s freshly painted vessel. He nearly dropped his binoculars. There was a noticeable hiccup in Roger’s mind that disallowed his fervent rancor for the Gypsea and her crew. Seeing Charlotte on someone else’s boat didn’t quite compute in Roger’s brain. He was having trouble. But it didn’t take long for his psychopathic tendencies to kick in and remind him that even though she was his granddaughter, she was also, at the moment, his competition. Compartmentalization was his special gift. His conscience cleared, he forged on
.
* * *
The late-afternoon sun glistened on the water, like liquid diamonds. Nancy looked at her girls on the Gypsea and realized the only thing missing was Roger’s surly attitude. On her boat there was a jubilant, anticipatory energy among her crew.
Once they were on the open water, they headed beyond the R10 buoy to get positioned for the starting line. Peter Ellis’s boat came up right next to Nancy’s. Ruthie stood up and waved shamelessly.
“Play coy!” Judy whispered.
“I’m too old for coy. I’m just the right age for ‘Come ’n’ get me!’ ”
Pete winked at Ruthie and blew her a kiss. “Good luck, Mermaids!”
The wind was running ten to twelve knots and threatening to increase. Off their starboard was Hot Rum, captained as always by Turk, who acknowledged Nancy with his signature grumpy nod. She nodded back, feeling more secure in her place, not just on the water but also in the marina. There were eleven boats in the race, and at that point they had all sailed away from the starting line with thirty seconds to the starting time. Nancy squinted into the sunlight and saw the sleek and speedy Bucephalus off to her port. She could sense Roger scowling in her direction.
All the boats either tacked or jibed back toward the starting line.
The starting horn blew. The race was on.
Turk and Hot Rum were the first across the line, which wasn’t a surprise. Turk and his team had been together so long, they spoke in shorthand and were able to smoke cigars and down rum drinks while pulling ahead of everyone else. Nancy was behind Hot Rum by about ten meters.
“Ruthie, pull the jib tighter!”
Judy handed the winch handle to Ruthie with nurse-to-surgeon efficiency. Ruthie inserted it and instantly cranked on the winch and trimmed the sail. The wind caught the sails of Gypsea perfectly, and they felt a jolt of speed. They started to gain on Hot Rum. To her right was Pete’s boat, My Favorite Mistake, coming on at a steady clip. Nancy looked for the Bucephalus and finally spotted her out deep. If he went way out, he’d take one tack and be headed back. Nancy knew that maneuver. It was hers. If Roger got lucky and he got a favorable wind shift, he would likely win. She looked up at her wind vane and concluded that there would be a shift. And if the wind didn’t shift, Roger’s outside line would be a bust and he would come in last. She decided her present course of action was the right one. She kept on her line.
Beware the Mermaids Page 17
