Ahoy!

by Maggie Seacroft

  With the cabin lights flicked off and another look around the forward area, we made our way back toward the stern. I wanted to linger a little in the scents and sights of Nat’s boat, but Bugsy seemed ready to make tracks. In the salon, on the way out, I picked up one of Pepper’s toys from a basket. I eyed the unopened bag of dog food leaning against the coffee table and thought about taking it, but it didn’t feel right to do that. I’d just pop up town for some grub, or if worse came to worse, Pepper’d be eating cat food for one night.

  “You’ll probably need this too,” Bugsy said, leaning down and picking up the bag of chow I had been so reluctant to snatch. He was matter-of-fact about it and it bothered me.

  I blinked away the worry in my eyes as my mind wandered through worst-case scenarios and, as we left, it felt so wrong when I watched Bugsy turn out the lights on Nat’s boat, close the door, and secure the lock.

  I swallowed hard. “So, what do you think happened in there?” I asked, looking for any reassurance to quiet the ruckus in my head.

  “Looks like maybe he just left in a hurry… with someone. Maybe a wave knocked the lamp off the table,” he said. Though his response made no sense to me, I nodded and strained to remember if Nat had mentioned he was going away or if he’d told me about any plans to have some vodka-swilling company stop by.

  A brief pause passed between us, and the only sounds were the lapping of small waves on the side of the boat. I wondered if he noticed them. “Thanks for letting me aboard.” I looked up and smiled nervously at the man beside me. The drizzle had turned to mist and, as it fell, it glistened, giving him a halo from the solar streetlamp.

  “No problem. I’m sure he’ll turn up tomorrow. Have a good night.” Bugsy smiled half-heartedly, nodded, and walked off toward Chez Beedle.

  Pepper and I walked in the opposite direction, toward the Alex M. I wasn’t tired, but I also didn’t have the patience to make the introductions of a hundred and twenty-pound Labrador Retriever to my fifteen-pound cat. In that regard, Pepper and I went directly to the wheelhouse which is on the upper level of my boat, and in the interior is separated from the main living quarters by stairs and a cat-proof steel door. Though I suspected that a cat-meets-dog summit would be in our near future, it wasn’t going to be that night.

  Once in the pilot house, I put in a call to the Marysville Hospital to see if anyone matching Nat’s description had been brought in, and the distracted-sounding woman on the other end of the line told me that no one like I’d described had been admitted. Despite my lack of faith in the attendant, I left my name and phone number as Nat’s next of kin, lying and telling her I was his daughter – what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Next, I placed a call to Jack Junior. It went straight to voicemail.

  “Jack, it’s Alex. Could you give me a call when you get this message, please? Bye for now,” I said into my phone and tossed it onto the bunk behind the helm. The lights were out on Jack’s boat The Fortune Cookie, and odds were good that he was off somewhere losing money at poker with the gang.

  “Well… pull up a chair,” I said toward my guest and looked down at Pepper who looked up at me with confused brown eyes. When I patted the bunk, he made the leap and proceeded to get comfy. I got comfy beside him and, with a page I’d torn from the back of the logbook, I proceeded to make a list of who to talk to, what to do, and where to look for Nat. Somewhere around nine o’clock, I dined on a bag of potato chips and a Diet Coke — provisions I keep stashed around the boat. “Where are you?” I said softly as I looked out into the darkness toward Splendored Thing.

  ✽✽✽

  You know that feeling when the harder you try to stay awake, the faster you fade? Well, that’s what happened to me, despite an uncomfortable and crowded wheelhouse bunk and a dog that snored louder than my former husband. However, sporadically through the night, I’d jolt myself awake, prop myself up, and take a gander. At pretty much nothing. No lights had come on in Nat’s boat, and overnight the only real activity I saw was a delivery van that stopped out in front of Aggie’s where something appeared to have been dropped off around five in the morning.

  Once the sun and most respectable people were up, and after a cursory attempt at primping — which is to say, applying fresh deodorant - Pepper and I lit out of the Alex M., making a beeline to Nat’s boat. I’d hoped that on one of those times when I’d let myself doze off, Nat had returned to his boat. And I was ready to tear into him… after I hugged him, of course.

  My heart sank to my knees when my knocking produced no result other than sore knuckles. A deep breath escaped me, and we headed in the direction of Aggie’s store. I felt myself outpacing Pepper as a few of Nat’s pals disappeared inside the place on their way to their coffee and TV ritual. They must know where he is. As I grasped the door handle, I could hear the familiar chatter before I saw the gang, and as I crossed the threshold into the store, I half-expected to see Nat giving Jack Junior the business about something or other. When I looked toward the faces and saw Nat’s usual spot empty, the blast I got from the overhead air conditioner sent a chill through my body and I heard myself make an involuntary gasp.

  The gang turned to look at me. Jack Junior, Messrs. Shears and Sefton and Seacroft – who refer to themselves as the S-Troop, and Peter Muncie who was making the rounds with Aggie’s coffee pot in hand as if he were a member of the nonexistent wait staff. The crew were all around the same vintage, late sixties, early seventies, year-round residents of the Marysville Marina, and each of them bachelors, arriving at that state by way of being widowers, divorcees, or both.

  “Good mornin’, girl,” Aggie said while she unpacked a box that looked to have come from the paint and hardware store.

  “Morning.” I smiled at her and nodded to indicate I’d be heading over to see the fun bunch seated in front of the idiot box.

  “Hi, guys.” Pepper and I walked toward the group. He was, as usual, more well-received than me on my best day. “Anybody seen Nat?” I was trying to conceal the hesitation in my voice – I wanted answers but I didn’t want to induce a medical situation here or cause undue anxiety.

  Jack Junior was the first to speak up, then the S-Troop, and finally Peter Muncie. No one had seen Nat since Tuesday morning. Like me, they said that they had all assumed that Nat had been out of commission the previous day with a bum knee brought on by the rain.

  I told them about my latest visit to Nat’s boat. How the salon was in disarray and I’d editorialized my story with some colorful language about Bugsy, recapping his insistence that there was nothing more criminal afoot than poor housekeeping. We agreed as a collective that Nat’s being incommunicado was uncharacteristic, and concern turned to intrigue which turned to action, and the men seemed to take on the news with the fervor of some classic private eye they’d worshipped. Within a minute, postures straightened and jaws tightened as the gang did their best to resemble modern-day Rockford, Mike Hammer, and Magnum P.I. — if those guys ever wore reading glasses or smelled of menthol analgesic. I watched stupefied as the group galvanized in almost a synchronized fashion.

  “There, I’ve got it on my Facebook page,” Jack Junior said after a minute and a few taps on his phone.

  “You have Facebook? I don’t even use Facebook,” I said.

  “Oh, sure, kid. Helps me keep tabs on my grandbrats,” Jack replied, tapping some more on his phone. “Nat, it’s Junior, give me a call,” he said into his phone.

  I shook my head a little. “His phone’s on his boat.”

  “Oh, I see.” Jack nodded and furrowed his brow.

  Shears squinted up and peered at me through his coke-bottle glasses. “I need a good picture for my Instagram post on this.”

  “Uh. Ok.” I flitted my eyebrows wondering if my decision to shun social media was a mistake. Instances like this seemed to make a good case for electronic communications, unlike the nonsense that’d kept me a detractor. You know the pictures some people post of their dinner. If I wanted to see pictures of
food, I’d crack open a cookbook.

  “Wait, there’s a picture over there on the wall,” I said. “Remember when we made him honorary Commodore last fall?” I snapped my head toward the wall where Nat’s smiling face in the photo made me feel warm and cold at the same time.

  “I’m on it.” Shears got up and took a picture of the photo with his phone and got down to the business of putting out the bulletin to his cronies.

  I shifted and paced a bit, hoping that I wasn’t overreacting. I didn’t think I had been. I’d hate for Nat to misconstrue my concern for a complete lack of faith in his ability to take care of himself. I’d never pictured him like one of those older people who end up in the paper for being disoriented and besieged with dementia lost in someone’s backyard, but I’d rather face an embarrassed Nat than never face him again.

  After a coffee, some exhausting conjecture, and confidently enlisting the assistance of the social media mavens at Aggie’s to get the word out some more, I took myself and Pepper for a long walk around town. Once I’d made inquiries of every shop I knew Nat frequented, and some he probably didn’t, I returned to Aggie’s, dejected and no further ahead other than a few calories to the good.

  ✽✽✽

  “All we can do is wait, I guess,” Aggie said as she blew on her hot cup of black coffee while she watched me pace around her store later that morning. I was still postulating on and lamenting about Nat’s unexplained disappearance. “I don’t suppose you want to distract yourself and help Carlos paint?” she asked with a consoling grin, then looked to the wall where a clock was set into a brass porthole. “He’ll be here soon to get started.”

  Staying busy would help keep my mind occupied. I’d done practically all I could short of contacting the police and wondered just when the twenty-four-hour waiting period would be up. I paced around and bit my lip and thought about Aggie’s offer to help, or was it a plea for help?

  I’d thought about a lot of things. It’s funny how those rapid-fire negative thoughts can invade your brain in such little time but take so much time to erase. Aside from my most pervasive thoughts about where the hell Nat was, I had a little pity party for myself. Why was it that life had dealt me so many lemons these past few years? Why was I life’s doormat? My father was taken from me in the prime of his life, and just when I needed him. My mother had left both of us years ago and didn’t seem to give a damn what happened to either of us. Oh, and then there was my husband of eighteen months, killed in a car wreck three years back on his way home from a fishing trip in Canada. At the rate things were going, I’d have to put a GPS tracker on Nat when he returned and hire a bodyguard to keep tabs on Aggie and Jack Junior just to protect my dwindling supply of meaningful relationships.

  My pacing stopped when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that was stationed by the recently rejigged display of sunglasses. I saw myself biting my bottom lip and looking concerned, and I remembered what Nat had told me about smiling no matter what. It’ll make you feel better and make you look like a queen, he always said. And so, by the time Carlos and his quads entered the store, I had pulled myself out of my funk and pushed myself to help him paint.

  The plan was that he’d patch up and paint the window frames and I’d start painting the siding. I don’t mind painting. Actually, I like it. It’s probably because, with a few swipes of a wet brush, you can cover the flaws, fix the dings, and start fresh again. If only life were that simple. The only downside is that I’m one of those invariably messy painters who winds up with the stuff on me no matter how careful I intend to be. Ironically, in making something beautiful with a coat of fresh paint, I end up looking like a wreck. Life tended to do that to me too.

  I was standing high on a ladder getting lost in slapping on some Water Blue near the soffit of Aggie’s store, and I was turning my attention toward Nat’s boat when a familiar voice jolted me from my coma of rhythmic brushstrokes.

  “You know the paint is supposed to go on the building, right?” The voice hollered up at me from ten feet below. It appeared that Bugsy had found the time in his busy schedule to come by and critique the job I was doing. How considerate.

  “Hi, Bugsy,” I smiled as I looked down and considered dripping paint on the impeccably clean, blue t-shirt he was sporting.

  “That’s Mr. Beedle to you,” he said with a crooked smile that slowly waned.

  “What’s up? Any news?” I shouted down to him, loud enough so I could be heard over the Latin tunes Carlos had going.

  “Not exactly. Do you have a minute?” Bugsy shouted, and I caught him give Carlos a perturbed look.

  “Why?” I tossed back from high on the ladder. I noticed that Mr. Beedle wasn’t looking me in the eye when he spoke, and I gathered it was either because in my painting attire I looked like a tragic hobo or there was something else making him uncomfortable. I was hoping it was the hobo route.

  “I just need you to look at something,” he shouted again with a little ire just as Carlos turned down the volume on the radio.

  I looked down to see Bugsy kick at the gravel with the toe of his work boots. They were finally getting some age to them, and I could tell in that instant something was wrong. I took a deep breath and, with legs weak and a little shaky, I carefully made my way down the aluminum extension ladder that rattled with each rung I took. When my feet hit terra firma, Pepper, my new best friend and sleeping companion who’d been laying faithfully nearby, got to his paws.

  “What is it?” I asked, peering up at Bugsy from beneath the bill of my baseball cap. I pulled a rag from my back pocket and wiped a little grime and paint off my fingers and, though I tried to make eye contact with the man beside me, he’d have none of it.

  “Just come walk with me over here,” Bugsy said, still skimping on details and tilting his head toward the dock.

  He wasn’t saying much and it worried me.

  I leaned down and patted Pepper on the head, feeling oddly comforted by being one degree of separation from Nat. “C’mon, Pepper, let’s find out what Uncle Bugsy has for us to see,” I said and noticed Pepper’s ears shift back with the worry in my voice before the three of us walked down the dock toward the fueling stop. Once there, Bugsy stood and pointed to the stern deck of a small recreational fishing boat. At first, he said nothing.

  “They, uh, brought it up just outside the channel. Is that the–“ His words stopped when he turned to look at me.

  I stood paralyzed, feeling as though time had stopped. My eyes were fixed on the rug, and I could feel my mouth hang open. The grey wool argyle rug I had helped Nat pick out for his boat. The rug he and I laughed about carrying down the street from Belmont’s Rug and Tile Shop. The rug that now had a red swath across it. Though the seawater had faded it to a sickly, washed-out reddish brown, in my mind there was no mistaking it. It had to be blood. Pepper became excited. His barking seemed muffled. Time was passing as if in slow motion.

  The last thing I remember was looking over at Bugsy. He was on his phone.

  CHAPTER 4

  I woke in the sitting room of my boat. I didn’t remember how I’d gotten there, but when I opened my eyes, a buff, shirtless Carlos was looking back at me. It made me feel a little weird, so I looked away.

  “Hello,” I said meekly. I was instantly annoyed at the weakness in my voice and wanted a do-over.

  ““Ello,” Carlos replied with un poquito of a Spanish accent.

  “What happened?” I asked, gingerly righting myself on my grey velvet sofa. Pepper looked across at me from the oversized wing chair opposite. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw him; it looked as though he had eyebrows as he juggled his big brown gaze at me.

  “You fainted. I brought you here,” Carlos said.

  “Thank you,” I said through a sigh, then smiled, grateful Aggie had a penchant for such physically fit men, though I’d bet that the soccer star hadn’t broken much of a sweat carrying this hot mess down the dock.

  Carlos nodded, held up a finger, picked up h
is phone, and made a quick call. “Hola. She’s up… Ok… ok… see you soon mi senorita.” A tap on the screen and he turned his intense brown eyes back to me. “Aggie. She wanted me to call her when you were alert,” Carlos said, rolling his Rs gratuitously, if you asked me.

  “I see.” I nodded and I rubbed the back of my neck. I’m not sure who did what to me, but my head hurt like hell. Last thing I’d remembered was seeing Bugsy.

  Carlos poured a glass of water from the pitcher in the mini fridge near where he was sitting.

  “Thanks,” I said and took a few long swallows then held the cool glass to my cheek. “Thanks again, Carlos. I appreciate you bringing me home, but I think I’m alright, so...” My words trailed off, and I hoped he’d get the message that he could just vamoose. I paused to recall what I’d seen on the dock. The rug. The argyle rug. I thought for a minute I was going to be sick and wondered how much of a man Carlos was and if he’d hold my hair back.

  “No.” Carlos jarred me from my would-be nausea.

  “No, what?” I asked, intrigued and not in the mood to fight, not liking my chances in a Mexican standoff.

  “No, I’m not leaving. Aggie told me to stay.”

  I scowled a little and nodded. Just my luck, Carlos was one of the last of the dying breed of dutiful men on the planet and did as he was told. I pushed myself up off the couch, went to the stern window of my boat, and looked toward the adjacent dock where three police cars were parked near Nat’s slip. I sighed heavily and remembered once again the rug I wish I could unsee. My gaze drifted to a moving figure. There, in the distance, was Bugsy – puttering around, probably trying to look useful. Finally.

  The ringing of Carlos’ phone jolted me from my daze. Actually, it could have woken the dead. His ringtone is a very Spanish, very excited man hollering “Ariba! Ariba! Pick up your telephone! Ei! Ei! Ei!” When I quickly turned on my heels to face him, he looked back apologetically while he fumbled to answer the call. Apparently, he’d been startled as well.