Ahoy!

by Maggie Seacroft

  Rising slowly, purposefully, from the arm of the club chair, I hitched up my jogging shorts and cleared my throat. Showing not a complete lack of good manners, I returned my drinking glass to the counter where Aggie was standing speechless, gawking at me like the train wreck I was. “Thank you, Ags.”

  “Pardon me,” I said as I gingerly skirted past Bugsy on my way out the door.

  “Can I talk to you now?” he asked, calling after me from the top step of the store.

  “I have an appointment,” I yelled back as I stared straight ahead and strode at a getaway gait that was just short of running.

  ✽✽✽

  “Morning,” I called out as I slowed my trot just inside the bay door of Pike Murray's workshop. I made out his blonde head crouched down low behind the engine he was working on. Bear, his Newfoundland dog, had assumed a supervisory stance and was forming one of the longest streams of drool to date.

  Pike is a designated, bona fide master of towing vessels, certified to captain anything under 500 gross registered tons. Which is a lot. The Alex M. comes in at just over 280 gross tons, and whenever I want to go for a boat ride, I enlist the services of Pike and Johnny Fleet and one of the gang. I'd do it myself but becoming a master of towing is not an undaunting endeavor, and for the number of times I want her taken out, I’m just as happy to have Pike at the helm. Remuneration generally comes in the form of a steak dinner with a side of sparkling conversation, both cooked up by yours truly.

  Though the air between us has never been romantically charged, Pike’s going to be a good catch for some lucky gal. Mid-thirties with a glowing tan, blond hair which is usually slicked back, and a closely cropped beard make him look like a GQ version of a modern-day lumberjack. He is well over six feet tall and a little soft around the middle, but I think that keeps his vanity in check. When he isn’t piloting my boat on the occasional jaunt, he’s operating his machine shop where he fixes every kind of gear and engine under the sun. When Pike gets bored or the wanderlust, he’s also known to be a contract captain for towing companies looking for a skilled pilot, though I think, like me, he prefers to work for himself.

  “Hiya, doll,” Pike greeted me, rising from his crouched position and peeking at me from over the top of the engine. One of the things I love about him is his use of retro sayings like doll and gams, and when he’s tired he complains that his “dogs are barking”. “Great timing,” he went on, smiling.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I was just thinking how hungry I am for steak.”

  “It’s barely eight o’clock,” I said, and gave him a look that was part withering and part amused.

  “I know, but I’ve been up since five.” He wiped the grease off his hand with a rag he had placed on top of the engine and filled a cup from the water cooler. I nodded when he gestured to ask if I’d take some as well.

  “Hey, you know the DeFever?” I asked, cocking my head at him and receiving a nod. “I have a customer who’d like a sea trial. Feel like slumming it and taking us out later today?”

  “Sure. Serious customer?” he asked, joining me near the open bay door to his shop and handing me a red plastic cup of cold water.

  “Very serious,” I replied. “Bit of a chauvinist, I think, but you know how it is.”

  Pike nodded. “You should be used to it by now. Any news on Nat?”

  “No. I hope he turns up. Or… maybe I don’t. I don’t know,” I said as we both looked out toward the water. I think Pike could sense me getting a little wistful when I looked away from the water in a deliberate motion.

  “Just give me a buzz, doll. I’ll be around. If you drop off the key this morning, I’ll give the ole gal a once-over before we take her to the dance. After lunch should work,” he said. “And let’s make it T-bone this time, shall we?”

  “Yeah, yeah. We shall. I could use a decent meal too. Boat ride at one, steak around sevenish,” I said, and after playing tug of war with Pike’s dog for a bit and filling up on one more cup of water, I pulled down the brim of my hat and looked out beyond the door of the workshop for signs of exasperated marina managers.

  When I saw Bugsy in the distance, I debated lingering at Pike’s shop a little longer, but the four glasses of water I’d had after my run, and the state of Pike’s bathroom, motivated me to get back to the Alex M. to use the head. I was surprised that when I passed Bugsy on my way back to my boat he didn’t even motion for me to stop. Crisis averted. Or so I thought.

  ✽✽✽

  The triumphant runner was welcomed home by her trusty lab and the purring throw pillow known as her cat. After giving them the low down on Bugsy’s curious behavior, and my embarrassing rant, I texted Stephen Richards to confirm the sea trial for one o’clock and then I let the boat owner in New York know that he may have one less thing to worry about on the west coast. He told me how things were shaping up with his girlfriend and life in the east, and he volunteered more details than he probably ought to have done. Though I never probe, I’m used to playing therapist for my customers and clients — you’d be surprised what they tell me as if we had some understanding of privileged information or bond of confidentiality.

  By the time Richards arrived, Pike had prepped the boat for the sea trial and I had prepped Pike for the man. The hybrid car, the Italian loafers, the country club wardrobe, the whole shebang.

  Much to my chagrin, a veritable imposter arrived. He sounded and smelled like the Richards I’d met but he was in completely different attire and, instead of a hybrid car, he pulled up in a pickup truck the size of Rhode Island – a crew cab, dual axle, diesel-powered monster. As he strode toward me in jeans, a t-shirt, and boots, I wasn’t sure whether I should be irritated that he’d made a liar out of me or whether I was pleasantly intrigued that he at least looked more down to earth than during our first meeting. I noticed him as if for the first time. In his early fifties with dark hair, thinning on top, he’s perfected a technique that almost disguises that fact unless you look closely and, because of his height, his little hairstyling bamboozle is really only visible if he’s seated. He has light blue eyes and gentrified features that also seem rugged somehow. Perhaps having him for a part-time neighbour wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  He took the helm of the boat with confidence and all the jubilation of a kid at Christmas, and midway during the sea trial, I sensed I’d be celebrating him making an offer on the new love of his life.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait for him to be serious about his new relationship. After our voyage, my afternoon was made busy with presenting a fair proposal to the owner and, after a little testosterone-fuelled posturing by each of the negotiators, I happily witnessed a Bill of Sale form.

  Still basking in the afterglow, Richards eagerly transferred the funds to my escrow account, and I wished that most deals were that quick and easy. Usually, there’s much more tire-kicking, consulting with spouses, and humming and hawing, and the efficiency with which Richards conducted his affairs made me regard him with a combination of respect and a healthy dose of caution.

  The new boat owner had, however, become less objectionable to me as the day wore on, and his change in appearance and attitude merited him an invitation to the dinner Pike and I had planned. Richards even popped up to town for the steaks and bought the champagne. He was clearly still in the honeymoon stage of his love affair. I’d check in with him later when he was scraping bird poop and spider crap off his new love.

  ✽✽✽

  “I heard about something happening here in the marina. Someone went missing?” Richards asked over dinner, changing the tone of the evening.

  “Yes. A friend of ours,” I said quietly, taking an extra big sip of champagne, hoping it would take the edge off those knives in my throat.

  Pike caught my forced half-smile. “New topic. How are you liking the new guy?” he asked, nodding toward Bugsy who was proceeding our way down the dock on what seemed like his nightly constitutional walkabout.

 
“Mmm, I think I liked Chris better.” I used measured words, trying to be diplomatic in front of my customer. “If you’re planning on staying here, I guess we’d better introduce you though,” I said, squashing my reservations as I locked eyes with Richards across the table. I held up a hand to wave and reluctantly called out to Bugsy as he neared my boat. “Bug — I mean, Mr. Beedle — do you have a minute?” I tried to sound polite and wondered if he bought it.

  “I always have a minute for you, Miss Michaels.” Bugsy’s tone matched my own affected air and he smiled back the phoniest smile I’d witnessed in days. With the straightest, whitest teeth I’d ever seen. A-hole.

  “I’d like you to meet Doctor Stephen Richards. He just bought the DeFever,” I said and thumbed in the direction of the boat as if Bugsy had a clue what I was talking about.

  From where he stood on the dock, Bugsy extended a hand down to Richards who had gone to the railing of my boat to meet him. The two exchanged brief pleasantries and the topic of some paperwork that’d need to be signed for the transfer of dockage. As he awkwardly shifted on his feet and tried to catch my eye with his, I got that Bugsy was angling for an invitation to our celebratory dinner. Too bad. There was no way that words of an inviting nature would pass my lips anytime soon. Under the guise of giving them privacy, I ignored them both and, before long, Bugsy was uttering parting words to Richards.

  I was relieved when there was finally an exchange of contact information and Richards was assured that the dock lease would be emailed to him shortly. The night wore on, and the good doctor, who had an early tee time the next day, made his leave, but not before I gave him the fifty-cent tour of the marina facilities.

  “Hi there,” I called out as the clang of the bell above the door announced our arrival at Aggie’s. She was nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, hi, over here,” she said, popping up from aisle four. Not so indiscreetly, she took a quick inventory of Doctor Richards, then shot me a puzzled look.

  “This is Doctor Stephen Richards. He bought the DeFever today,” I said, and Ags got up from her crouched position where she’d been organizing yet another shelf.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said to the doctor, extending a hand for him to shake. “What do you think? They kind of go together, don’t they?” she asked, motioning down to the display of feminine hygiene products and prophylactics.

  “I suppose,” I said, and I’m sure I made a slightly horrified face.

  Ags cocked her head and screwed up her expression. “I thought you said–”

  “Anyway, we have to be going. Just popped in to say hi. The doctor has an early tee time,” I interjected, and as best I could, I steered the doctor toward the door. I knew where Aggie was going with this. I had told her that Richards was a bit of a stuffed shirt and that I’d try to persuade him to move to another slip if he bought the boat. But I’d warmed to him and I’d give Ags the details later.

  ✽✽✽

  By the time I was ready to retire for the evening, I was spent. Loads of fresh air, my morning jog, and the glass of champagne I’d downed had all been effective and exhausted me to the point where I hadn’t the energy to worry about anything but how fast I could get between the sheets.

  As I made my preparations of teeth brushing and applying the latest in wrinkle creams, I looked longingly at my bedroom from the door of my ensuite bath. George was curled up on the window ledge, having sought out high ground from Pepper who had assumed a terribly unthreatening rub-my-belly pose on the floor nearby. I’d managed to work in a load of laundry early in the day and had sheets that smelled like “Springtime in Aspen”, or so the bottle of detergent advertised, and I found the right television show to lull me to sleep.

  I placed my glass of water on the bedside table when I noticed it. It’s not what I saw, it’s what I didn’t see that caught my eye. Nat’s key was not in the dish where I’d left it — beside the hair elastic, change, and bottlecap I’d fished out of my pocket the night before.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I mentally retraced my steps. Had I taken the key with me on my jog? Had I taken it on the DeFever? I rummaged through the pockets of every clean and dirty garment I’d worn that day, the day before, and the day before that. I searched every junk-collecting counter, nook, and drawer in every room on the main level of the boat. I even eyed Pepper suspiciously, wondering if he may have eaten it.

  By three in the morning, I realized the key to Nat’s boat had been taken.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Where the hell is he?” I growled as I stomped into Aggie’s store hours later, just after she’d flicked on the lights and unlocked the front door. I must have looked loaded for bear because I certainly felt that way.

  “Who?” she asked. Her voice went up an octave or two.

  “Bugsy, that’s who,” I somehow managed to get out through clenched teeth.

  “Pfft. I have no idea. He was here yesterday. Was doing something in Chris’ old office closet thing… looking at some files, I think.” She gave me a concerned look from behind the counter. “Haven’t seen him yet today. Why? What happened?”

  I glared back at her and took a seat at one of the stools at the counter. As if in stereophonic sound, the air escaped the vinyl seat cushion just as I exhaled a heavy sigh. I was seething, and I felt my eyebrow arch higher than usual. “Where were you last night?” I asked, looking at her puzzled face in profile while she fiddled with the coffee machine.

  “I was at Ryan’s. Why?”

  “Because right around three this morning is when I became one hundred percent certain that what’s-his-face broke into my boat and took Nat’s key.”

  “What? No way.” Aggie scoffed and poured me the coffee that had just finished brewing.

  “Yes way.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, squinted my eyes, and nodded. I was sleep-deprived, cranky, and someone had invaded my space.

  “Are you sure? Maybe you just put it somewhere and don’t remember–”

  I was already shaking my head. “No, he took it. I know he did!”

  “Ok, ok. And just how are you going to find out without copping to stealing it in the first place? What if he didn’t take it?”

  I took a sip of the coffee then swiveled around on my stool to face the store entrance. I could hear conversation just outside. Inching up a little, I was surprised to see it was our illustrious marina manager turned cat burglar.

  I felt a little flushed and quickly turned back around on my stool and squinted at Aggie as I considered what to do next. I really hadn’t thought I’d run into Bugsy so soon. Dammit. I could feel my shoulders and insides tense up and my heart thump with each footfall outside the door.

  “Morning,” Bugsy announced himself cheerfully, practically harmonizing with the bell over the door. He casually took a seat on the stool beside me. He smelled like his bathroom — a combination of aftershave and soap — and the skunk was wrapped up in another number from the blue shirt collection.

  “Can I get a cuppa mud?” he asked in Aggie’s direction and smiled.

  “Not when you put it like that, you can’t.” She smirked, one hand resting on her hip, a coffee pot in the other, and a suspicious look on her face.

  “Ok, how about a cup of coffee, if it’s not too much trouble, please?” he revised his question and batted his eyelashes.

  I slid him the side eye. Suck up.

  Aggie flipped up a mug, filled it for him, and topped up my cup while she was at it. She slid an apple fritter on a plate in front of me. Nice try, but it was going to take more than some sugar to sweeten my mood. I bit into it anyway.

  “Morning,” Bugsy said politely as he nodded in my direction.

  “Mm-hmm,” I murmured, craned my neck, squinted, and gave him my best you-done-me-wrong expression.

  He flitted his eyes then added sugar and cream to his coffee, and with what seemed like a flourish meant just for me, he tapped his spoon three times on the rim of the cup before he rested it on the countertop. I glare
d down at the creamy brown outline the bowl of the spoon made on the white-and-gold flecked Formica then turned my glare on him. When he looked over to find my eyes burning a hole in him, I held my steely stare for as long as I could, which wasn’t long, then I turned to face Aggie. She nodded a couple of slow nods which I took as a thumbs up.

  “Bugsy,” I began to say the words I had rehearsed in the wee hours that morning when I couldn’t sleep. “I do believe you’ve been on my boat.”

  He held the cup of coffee to his lips and blew on it. He must have been stalling and searching for the right response because Aggie’s coffee is rarely that hot. He took a sip then stared straight ahead and smiled big, and those damn dimples taunted me. “You’re right. I’ve been on your boat,” he said plainly as he turned his head slightly toward me.

  I paused and cleared my throat. I was a little taken aback. I felt the heat rise from my cheeks to my forehead. “Well… would you mind explaining that to me?” I asked, drumming my fingers nervously on the counter, all the while hoping the scowl I bore wouldn’t cause me permanent wrinkles.

  Bugsy lifted the coffee mug again, put it to his lips without taking a sip, then returned it to the counter and cocked his head in my direction. “Because, young lady, I had reason to believe you had something that belonged to me. Would you mind explaining that to me?”

  My finger drumming dissolved into a slow random tap as my thoughts slowed like traffic that’s just hit gridlock. “Well… I…”

  Bugsy swiveled on the stool to face me, his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking at me expectantly for an answer to what I considered a rhetorical question.