Ahoy!

by Maggie Seacroft

  “Hola… Si… Ok. Let me find out. Hang on a sec.” He turned the phone away from his face. “It’s Aggie, the police want to talk to you. Do you feel up to it?”

  I looked at the deck, then at Pepper, who was gazing at me again with that uncanny expression of understanding. I nodded and downed the rest of the water in the glass. “Yes. Sure.”

  The ever-patient Carlos turned back to his phone. “She said yes… No! They can come here. She shouldn’t have to go to them.” Carlos had bravado for miles.

  “Carlos—" I piped up to interject.

  “Wait a second, mi amor,” he said into the phone and turned back to me. “You don’t have to go down there,” he insisted, shaking his head vigorously.

  “I’ll talk to them in Aggie’s. It’ll be fine. Really,” I said.

  Bless his little heart, Carlos was trying to be heroic, but the last thing I wanted was to be alone with my thoughts and the police. I’d much rather be on Aggie’s turf, see friendly faces, and sit in one of those chairs in the lounge where I’d so often seen Nat.

  When I stooped to fill a bowl of water for Pepper, it dawned on me that he and my cat had been in close proximity without fighting like, well… cats and dogs. Perhaps Carlos the Cat Whisperer had gifts other than in the carnal realm and he had brokered a peace treaty between two warring factions that had been at odds since the beginning of time. At any rate, I left Pepper in the shade on the deck of the boat and, after refusing Carlos’ offer to carry me to Aggie’s place, I walked there with him to answer what questions I could for Maryville’s finest.

  Once he’d left me in the capable hands of Ags, my Mexican bodyguard returned to his painting chore and the two cops and I agreed to chat in the lounge area - I intentionally chose the chair I’d often seen Nat in. Aggie was doing make-work tasks around the store while she not so inconspicuously leered every now and then at the men in uniform and eagerly topped up their iced teas when it looked like they were running low. I was happy to see her reassuring face peeking at me over the top of shelves and around corners as I provided what information I had.

  “Now, Miss Michaels, you were saying that you saw Mr. Grant on Tuesday.” Officer One, I’d forgotten his name, led the conversation.

  “Yes, that’s right. We have a regular Tuesday date for pie, coffee, and cards on my boat.”

  “And what time was that?” he asked, his pencil poised for my answer.

  “Around ten… until close to twelve, I’d say.”

  “Did you see him after that?” the officer asked, continuing to scribble notes.

  “Yes. Nat and Aggie and I watched that lunatic new manager unload his truck,” I said and rolled my eyes. I could hear snickering from behind an aisle nearby.

  “You watched him unload a truck?” the officer asked in a tone that made our pastime sound ridiculous.

  “That’s right.” I nodded. “He dropped a box of dishes. I guess you had to be there,” I said and caught a glimmer of amusement in the officer’s eyes.

  “You had to be there,” Aggie chimed in and emerged from one of the aisles.

  I continued, thinking I’d pre-empt the next question. “Then, later, just around sunset, Nat and I went up to Main Street for ice cream and we came back here. I went to my boat over there, the Alex M.,” I said, pointing in the general direction of my home. “And Nat went to his. I remember seeing the light on in his boat when I was getting ready for bed after I’d checked some emails.”

  “And you live alone?” the officer asked.

  “Hell ya, she lives alone!” Aggie piped up as she fiddled with something at the counter, trying to look busy but clearly not too occupied to broadcast my personal information to complete strangers of the opposite sex.

  I shot her a dirty look and addressed the cop. “Yes. I live alone. Well, I live with my cat and I’ve taken in Nat’s dog as well.”

  “You took his dog?"

  “Yeah. Pepper, black lab. I mean it’s not like I stole him,” I said and wondered why the cop hadn’t written down that detail. I waited for a second, but he didn’t budge. “Marcy Kennedy, you know, the vet? Anyway, she dropped him off on Wednesday when Nat hadn’t gone to pick him up, and she couldn’t reach him by phone,” I said, and the pencil was back in action.

  “Ok.” The officer flipped through his notepad. “Now, Mr. William Beedle Jr. told us—"

  “Bugsy,” I interjected.

  The officer arched an eyebrow. “Bugsy?” he asked, and I watched the change in his expression as he made the linkage. “Oh, ok. I get it, Beedle. Bug. Bugsy,” he said.

  “See?” I sang in Aggie’s direction with a smirk. “He gets it!” I said loud enough for the eavesdropper to hear, recalling how she hadn’t made the connection between Beedle and the Bugsy moniker I’d given our pal.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. English isn’t my first language, so give me a break,” she hissed back.

  The cop went on. “Anyway… Mr. Beedle told us that you entered the man’s boat on Wednesday.”

  “Oh, is that how he put it?” I rolled my eyes again, hoping that eye-rolling wasn’t some secret indication of serial killer tendencies. “When I entered the boat,” I began to say, using air quotes, “Bugsy was with me. He had the key.”

  “Oh. Ok.” Officer One exchanged looks with Officer Two, nodded, and made a note on a fresh page. “Well, he told us that you searched the boat,” he continued.

  “I’m gonna kill that jerk!” I exclaimed and slapped my palms on the arms of the club chair. “Wait… no… that’s not what I meant to say. Don’t write that down.” I cleared my throat and composed myself. “The only reason I went on the boat is that I thought maybe, just maybe, Nat had fallen or something and needed help.” I looked into the face of Officer Two, then Officer One, the more appealing of the partners. “There was nothing sinister in checking up on my friend, trust me.” I could feel myself fighting the tears somewhere in me.

  “And why didn’t you report anything suspicious at that time?” the second officer asked.

  I flitted my eyebrows and sighed. “Because that idiot told me I had to wait twenty-four hours before I could report Nat as missing,” I replied, shaking my head in disbelief that Bugsy had failed to fill in the cops on the salient details I was providing.

  “And by idiot you mean Beedle?” Officer Two suggested.

  “Bugsy,” Officer One clarified as he noticed me nodding my head.

  “Ok, ok.” The officer smiled. I’m sure he wasn’t trying to start a war between Bugsy and me, but between the headache I had and the interrogation I was undergoing, I was getting pretty peeved.

  I went on to tell the dynamic duo that I didn’t know of any enemies Nat had, and I explained the nature of our relationship as best I could. How does one adequately capture the meaning behind a Tuesday pie ritual and old movie nights?

  When the officers asked how I could identify the rug as having belonged to Nat, I told them that I had helped him pick it out at Belmont’s two weeks ago and that I had noticed the rug was missing from the salon of the Splendored Thing. When they asked if I had any questions, the only one I asked was of course regarding what they were planning to do about finding my friend. The one taking the notes told me that their Lieutenant Holden had ordered an immediate marine search of the waters near where the boat had picked up the rug. And, when I asked if it was blood on the rug, they could not say. Officer One handed me his contact card and I stuffed it mindlessly into the pocket of my shorts.

  Once the boys in blue moved on and made their leave, I moved on to one of the stools at the dining counter to chat with Ags. On my way there, I passed a mirror and was mortified at my reflection. Not only did I have humidity hair, but the bit I thought had fallen so charmingly across my forehead in a sweeping bang was, in fact, somehow also blue with paint. My t-shirt was dirty and, when I looked down at my legs, paint was sprinkled like rain. Note to self: look in the mirror before you agree to meet new people.

  “Why didn’t you tell
me I looked like a wreck?” I asked the person behind the counter I thought was my friend.

  “You look great, you always look great,” she said, lying and handing me a warm towel frothy with soap. Better late than never.

  Outside, I could see and hear Carlos noisily adjusting the aluminum ladder, preparing another section to paint, moving around with all the energy of the twenty-five-year-old pro-soccer player he was. Inside, the air between Ags and I was much more subdued. Although she knew Nat, she wasn’t as close with him as I was and she bore the expression you see when someone really doesn’t know what to say to you and they don’t want to risk sounding like an idiot.

  When I heard the thud of car doors closing, I looked out the front of the store to see Bugsy leaning down, speaking into one of the windows of a police cruiser. There was a handshake, and he disappeared into his cottage for a minute and then, like the police, he also drove away. I shook my head as I watched him pull out of the marina, indignant that he hadn’t at least come to ask about me since, indirectly, he’d been the cause of my earlier distress.

  I was just about to head out to walk Pepper and get my mind off things when Jack Junior came into Aggie’s store, rubbing his fingers together. He hitched his thumb toward the outdoors.

  “They fingerprinted me. Can ya believe that?” He was shaking his head, acting insulted, though I rather believe he would have been more offended had he not been asked to provide his prints.

  “Well, you are his neighbour, Jack. If they find your prints on his boat, they need to eliminate them,” I said, spouting what every good armchair detective knows, and I handed him the soapy towel I was finished using.

  “Thanks. Yeah, well… it’s just got me frazzled, that’s all.” Junior shook his head vigorously as he wiped the ink from his fingers. “I could use a drink. How ‘bout you, kid?”

  I sighed and nodded. “Yeah,” and without even asking her, Aggie whipped into action, concocting a couple of spiked lemonades with ice. “You coming?” I asked when she handed them to me.

  “No, I can't get this toiletries aisle quite right."

  “Sounds like fun. You know where to find me,” I said, and Jack Junior and I made our way out the door and parked ourselves under one of the beer logoed umbrellas in full bloom. We sat quietly for a long moment. What was the use in talking when we knew we were both thinking the same thing? Probably word for word. Wondering in vain what fate had befallen our friend. Wondering if we’d ever know. Wondering if we really knew him. Just wondering.

  “Yeah,” Jack Junior sighed to a question I’d not asked.

  “Yeah,” I concurred in a shaky voice while I blinked away the moisture in my eyes.

  We were halfway done with our vodka-infused libations and talking about something so banal I can’t even remember – it may have even been the weather - when a shiny white Jaguar pulled into the marina and stopped in Aggie’s parking lot not far from where we sat.

  There was a woman in the passenger seat, pointing in our general direction, and she looked to be carping at a man who looked considerably younger than she. The man, who was impressive in stature, so much so that he made the car look small, got out of the driver’s side, went around, and opened the passenger’s side door and the woman emerged. It was a gesture I hadn’t seen lately, and a woman I’d never seen before. The driver closed the door gently and awkwardly squeezed back into his appointed side of the vehicle. Between Carlos’ chivalry and the behavior of this fellow, I wondered where I could find myself someone so attentive.

  “Jack, who’s that woman?” I asked lowly, nudged him, and I pointed in the direction of the arrival.

  Jack looked up from his fix on the table top. The color drained out of his face, the corners of his mouth turned down, and he closed his eyes in a protracted blink. “That’s Cynthia. Or, as her friends call her, the Wicked Witch of the West.” His lip curled up as he said the words.

  “You know her?”

  “That’s Nat’s wife. Holy cats, here she comes,” he said and looked like he wanted to slip out of sight under the table, as though he’d once had a one-night stand with the woman or owed her money. Or, knowing Jack Junior, maybe both.

  “Jack,” the woman said with a sneer in her voice from five feet away.

  Her appearance was not nearly as understated as her greeting. Cynthia looked like she was somewhere in her fifties, though I wasn’t sure where. She may have even been younger and just been a victim of too much good living.

  From head to toe, she was a vision. Her dark brown hair was perfectly coiffed and, thanks to some high-test, industrial strength hairspray, it didn’t move at all in the breeze coming off the water. She had what I would call a pharmaceutically-frozen face with her makeup having been artfully applied — a skill I had yet to master and generally skipped in its entirety.

  There was a logo on every accessory and item of clothing she wore, potentially real or knock offs for all I knew about the subject, and when the sun caught the gold-colored emblem on her purse, the glint almost blinded me. The shoes she wore, stilettos I believe they’re called, were impractical for walking on the gravel laneway, or anywhere for that matter, and the resulting deformation of her toes should serve as a cautionary tale to future generations about the perils of improper footwear.

  All in all, she looked like the kind of woman who did nothing productive all day and was exceptional at it. She was tanned and looked fragile, and when she extended a bony hand in my direction, I was reluctant to shake it for fear of crushing it and being sued.

  “Hello. My name is Cynthia MacGregor-Grant,” she said, and I thought what a pain in the butt that must be to say every time she introduced herself.

  “How do you do. Alex Michaels,” I replied.

  “Cynthia,” Jack said to the woman in a greeting. If you could call it that.

  “So. He’s what— missing?” There was a coarseness in her voice, and the way she spoke told me that she was not from old money. “I saw your Facebook posts,” she went on to say in Jack’s direction.

  “Mm-hmm. When’d you start stalking me, Cyn?” Jack nudged me, pleased with his dig at the woman.

  Cynthia raised an eyebrow — to the extent that was possible.

  Jack pointed to her wheels. “What’s the matter, Cyn? Your broomstick in the shop?”

  What expression Cynthia could display told me that she didn’t find the comment remotely amusing, but she didn’t seem shocked by it either, choosing simply to ignore it.

  “So, what happened to the old fart?” she asked as she twisted the ring on one of her fingers so the diamond was on top.

  “He’s missing,” Jack said with a snarl. “That’s all we know.”

  Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I stopped in at the police station and they said to see some manager here about getting the key.”

  It took superhuman restraint for me not to lunge at Cynthia and snap her neck like a twig. But, somehow, I managed. Calling Nat an old fart had catapulted her to the top of my grudge list.

  “Where’s this manager person anyway?” she asked, looking from Jack to me and to Jack again.

  “Oh, I uh, saw him around here earlier.” Jack looked toward Bugsy’s cottage. “I think he went out.”

  “Well, when you see him, tell him I’m in town and I want on that boat. If Nat doesn’t come back, that damn dog is history too.” She was haughty, presumptuous, and I worked like the devil to hold my tongue. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Tell him to leave the key with someone who will actually be here,” she said in a huff.

  When she turned to leave, Cynthia looked at me as though she was afraid she’d catch what I had, as if she didn’t know that the paint on my arms and knees wasn’t contagious.

  “Ok, we’ll tell him if we see him,” I volunteered and tossed her a fake smile though she had already started to walk away dismissively. The gravel chewed at the heels of her shoes and, through a clenched phony smile, I heard Jack lowly mutter the word bitch.

  Once C
yn was ushered back into the car, I could see her in animated fashion relay something to the oversized driver. There were hand gestures as well that made me think Cyn must be a whiz at Charades. The tires of the car echoed her enthusiasm and spun up a little gravel as the Jag tore out of sight.

  I turned to Jack and sighed. “Jack, we cannot let her on that boat.”

  “Yeah, I know, kid.”

  I turned to eye Beedle’s cottage, wondering just how hard it would be to find the key to Nat’s boat in there. Easier than finding a needle in a haystack, which I’d actually done once as a child at a fall fair. It earned me a year’s supply of caramel corn and a trip to the dentist. “Let me see what I can do, Jack,” I said and walked into Aggie’s place.

  ✽✽✽

  Ags looked at me sympathetically as I came through the door. I’d grown to hate that look through the years. Not from Aggie, but in general. Pitying looks, as if the person has any real idea what’s going on in your head. What was going on in my head involved a little breaking and entering and plotting, all of which was designed to keep my mind off what I didn’t really want to consider had happened to Nat.

  “Coffee?” she asked, her voice trickling up an octave.

  “No thanks.”

  “Iced tea?”

  “Mmmm, no.” If this was a guessing game, we were in for a long haul.

  “Margarita?”

  “Not just yet, thanks.” I smiled back.

  “Well, what can I do for ya? You name it and you got it.” She pointed her finger at me as she said the words.

  I raised my eyebrows and shot her my most mischievous look. “Anything?”

  “Sure. Well, within reason. As long as it doesn’t involve getting horizontal with Carlos… or vertical either, now that I think about it,” she said, and she got a look of fond remembrance in her eyes.