“Holy carp! They won over two hundred and sixty grand for catching and releasing twenty two sailfish? That’s nearly twelve thousand dollars for each one.”
I suddenly understood why Kenny and Homs were intrigued by C. Philip Grimshaw’s semi-professional sport fishing career. On the surface, it looked like easy money. But was it?
According to an article by Taffy Tarkin of The Keys Weekly News, there were a number of misconceptions about the roles of the anglers and the boat crews in these tournaments.
The entire team shares in the win. The prize money is divvied up between the anglers, the owner, the captain, and the crew, with the percentages decided ahead of time.
I wondered why the owner got a cut of the cash. Didn’t the competitors pay for their charter?
The owner supplies the boat, the tackle, all of the entry fees, and everything else that is required. He or she hires the captain. She? I was surprised to learn that there were some female boat owners among the mostly male population, but the real shocker was the cost of the larger boats.
“Two million bucks?” I gasped, doing a double take. Was that really what Johnny Zee paid for Siren of the Seas? “That’s a lot of clams, baby! I wonder how he made his money.”
Prior to the boat leaving the dock, the captain plays many roles: cruise director (planning the tournament route), travel agent (making arrangements for the anglers), and human resources manager (hiring amiable, hardworking staff). It is important that the crew members are skilled in sport fishing and boating, but they should also know how to handle a disgruntled or frustrated angler.
That was probably helpful on these day-long cruises. I was fairly certain that Grimacing Grimshaw was a royal pain in the fin when he was on board. I wondered how the crew felt about him. “He probably made them all miserable.”
The captain must determine where to fish during the tournament. It is not uncommon for the tournament territory to encompass more than eighty miles. How many fish the anglers reel in often depends on the captain knowing how and where to find them. If the captain is wrong, he or she takes the blame for the failure.
Obviously Greg Monaco helped Grimshaw and the other anglers on the Siren of the Seas take home the top prizes. The owner must have been pleased with the end result. Did Johnny Zee go tee-hee-hee all the way to the bank with that hefty check in hand?
Chapter Fifteen
Somewhere, somehow, something went wrong with one of those fishing tournaments. I felt it in my gut. Maybe it was the way that knife had been stuck in Grimshaw’s chest in the parking garage. Whoever planted it there meant business. The killer wasn’t squeamish or timid. C. Philip Grimshaw had gotten himself on someone’s bad side, someone who wasn’t afraid of him.
Fishermen have to gut and clean their fish when they keep them for food or for trophies. It didn’t necessarily mean that the killer was a crew member on Siren of the Seas. But it was still a possibility, wasn’t it?
The crew members keep the anglers happy during the long hours at sea, making sure they have everything they need. They also have to know what to do when the fish eats.
“When a fish eats? That must be a technical term for getting that sucker to grab the hook,” I told myself, jotting down the information. I was beginning to have a fuller understanding of what went on during the tournaments. It wasn’t just an afternoon of fishing with your buddies, cracking open a few beers and hanging out in the hopes that you might get a nibble on your line. It was a rod and reel marathon.
Responsibility for the boat, the gear, and the bait rests with the crew. The anglers depend on them to rig the lines as quickly as possible. The boat that records the most fish caught and released gets a hefty chunk of the winnings. The one fish that gets away can cost a team the championship. The crew is expected to know what type of bait to use to attract the fish in the area. Should it be live or dead? These little details matter during a fishing tournament.
It never occurred to me that what you stuck on the end of the line was important. Perhaps the fish had more sophisticated palates than I gave them credit for having. I just always assumed that if there was something on the hook, the hungry sea creatures went for it. I was beginning to understand just how important it was to hire the right crew. The anglers really depended on them to handle the grunt work.
The advantage of using live bait is that it moves like it’s alive because it is. It’s not necessary to mimic a fish’s normal motions.
That made sense to me. Dead things tend to just dangle there uselessly. An angler would have to yank the line around to get a fish interested. But was any of this important to Grimshaw’s murder?
What if an angler blamed a crew member for losing the contest and the sad truth was that it was his fishing technique that caused the problem? That could result in a lot of resentment, couldn’t it? As long as the crew was well paid, they could probably slough off the criticism. But what if they got stiffed? What if the winners didn’t share their prize money? Would it lead to murder?
I continued reading. Most of the tournaments had rules about how many rods could be used at any one time on a boat, including the bait rods. While the crew continually tried to keep up with the demand for bait, the anglers were busy fishing. One rod too many could cost them the tournament. Who kept track of all this, especially when things got chaotic?
Chumming is prohibited for many tournaments.
“What in God’s name is chumming?” I was pretty sure this term had nothing to do with anglers hanging out as pals, but I checked the definition of chum in The Merriam-Webster Dictionary just to be sure. “It is ‘chopped up animal or vegetable matter that is thrown overboard to attract fish’. Well, I’ll be a damselfish.”
I did a search and found out that fish did indeed like vegetables. “And pasta. And cat food, canned and kibble. It all gets mixed together with fish oil and bread.”
There were all kinds of professional chum products that anglers used, especially when fishing for sharks. One was a blood-scented powder. Another was menhaden oil that was designed to sink, not float. Didn’t these products lend themselves to cheating? Then again, as long as the evidence didn’t surface, how would anyone know?
“How indeed?”
I punched in a few words in the search box, curious about tournament cheating. What I found surprised me. There was a case a couple of years earlier, where the top money winners in a tournament were caught trying to deceive officials about their adventure at sea. After failing to pass their polygraph tests, the winning team forfeited more than two hundred and sixty thousand dollars. “Looks like the liars all had flaming pants.”
With so much money on the line, it came as no surprise to me that most of the major tournaments required the winning teams to pass polygraph tests. Unless the officials accompanied each and every team out to sea, how would they know whether any of them broke the rules?
The competitors were also required to record every catch and release they made on video and turn in their SD cards at the end of every fishing day. With so many fish passing through their hands, what was to stop them from faking what they reeled in and what they put back into the ocean? Couldn’t they just stash them somewhere on the boat and pretend to catch them again and again?
The rules of the tournaments covered everything from when the fishing boats could leave the dock to when the lines could go into the water and when they had to come out. Even though the competitors were scattered across several nautical miles, far from official oversight, they were expected to abide by regulations. But that didn’t mean they did. Maybe someone figured out a foolproof way to cheat and Grimshaw turned out to be the skunk at the picnic, unwilling to go along with the game.
“Then again, maybe he wasn’t as ethical as he portrayed himself to be. His bosses had some real concerns about his activities over the last year, didn’t they?”
What did that wife of his have to do with this mess? He married a woman who had a stepdaughter, and instead of moving them up to Conne
cticut, he left them on their own in Florida, flying down there frequently. Was it a commuter marriage, or did Grimshaw have a dirty secret he needed to keep?
“It would help if we could meet the missus,” I decided. I couldn’t get any public information on her, so there was no way to get a handle on what she was like. “Maybe I can convince Kenny to drive up to Miami for lunch tomorrow. We can pop in on Margarita while we’re there.”
Through the open door, I heard Kenny laugh. Now who was on the other end of the line with him?
“Why did we come all this way if all he wants to do is call people? We could have stayed in Connecticut for that,” I groaned. For the life of me, I just couldn’t understand his strategy. How could he possibly expect to find a killer when he stayed cooped up at Angler’s Reef? That made no sense to me, unless....
What if he thinks the killer is hiding here, at the resort? Was it one of the other fishermen who competed against Grimshaw?
As soon as that thought popped into my head, I discounted it. I was, after all, the one who booked the trip to this condo resort, and I was pretty sure I picked a killer-free zone. So, if that wasn’t the explanation for Kenny’s behavior, what was?
“No, it’s a done deal. I’m definitely going to give her a ring while I’m down here,” Kenny announced. “I’ll let you know how that turns out.”
My irritation with the man who made my heart go pitter-pat surfaced. “Give her a ring? Are you kidding me? Un-freaking-believable! He’s already lining up more phone calls!”
Let it go, Miz Scarlet. If “Chatty Cathy” wants to chew the chum with every source involved with the case, it’s no skin off your nose. Take your pert little sniffer and follow the trail. Show him the meaning of the term, “You snooze, you lose.”
It was time to get serious with this investigation. I marched back through the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. On the counter, I found a map of the local area and spread it out. Rummaging around in a drawer, I found some paper and a pen. I knew there were several marinas along the Overseas Highway. Kenny and I had passed a number of them on our way down here. It was time to check them out. Listing each one by name and address, I plotted the route we could take, to avoid any unnecessary back-tracking.
Satisfied that I was well-prepared, I made my way back upstairs. Judging from the brief snippet of conversation I caught as I passed him, I gathered Kenny was now speaking to someone at Martin, Dubinsky, and Moore. With all the impatience of a ten-year-old expecting the Good Humor truck to make a pass through the neighborhood, I waited ten more minutes for him to finish. I tried pacing back and forth on the balcony, knowing full well he could see me, but his head was buried in all that paperwork. I coughed discreetly a few times, but he didn’t even bother to look up. I even sat on the end of the bed, waiting for him to notice me, but it was no use. Whatever held his full attention must be so important to the case that he couldn’t tear himself away from that phone. Had he and Max uncovered a clue into Grimshaw’s murder? If he did, it was obvious he had no intention of sharing it with me until he was good and ready. Rats.
I stood up, gave a long, disappointed sigh, and admitted to myself that it was time to move on, even if I had to go it alone. After all, this wasn’t some kind of pleasure trip we were on. We were here to snag a killer and I wasn’t going to let Larry get the best of me. I didn’t need a Connecticut State Police trooper to dig up the dirt for me. I was perfectly capable of recognizing a lead when I saw one.
“Come on, Miz Scarlet. What would Kinsey Milhone do?” I considered Sue Grafton’s feisty heroine, the fictional private investigator who had nearly made it through the alphabet before her creator passed away. “She’d move her derriere and get cracking on the case. She wouldn’t wait around for permission and she sure wouldn’t settle for being the sidelined sidekick.”
Before I headed out, I stopped in the kitchen and scribbled a quick note to Kenny, to let him know the route I planned to take. Mindful that I was in the tropics, I slathered on some sunscreen, took one of the cottage keys he had left on the counter, and went in search of the bikes that the owners offered for our use.
I took down a blue bike helmet from the hook on the wall in the storage area and fastened the chin strap. I hadn’t been on a bike without hand gears to shift since I was a kid. The beach cruiser was definitely heavier and clumsier than the ten-speed I was used to riding. “Let’s hope I remember how to do this.”
Slightly wobbly as I started out, I quickly found my inner biker about a hundred yards down the road. What the beach cruiser lacked in speed and agility it made up for in size and sturdiness. It reminded me of Lacey’s big, well-cushioned 2010 Mercury Grand Marquis; it would never be noted for its nimble handling, but it got her where she wanted to go in comfort.
“So far, so good.”
Once I was through the gates of the complex, I pedaled my way along the Overseas Highway in the bike lane, heading north. It felt so good to be out in the fresh air, moving my body, after the crowded flight to Miami and the hour-long drive to Islamorada. Glancing down at the hot pink cruiser, I decided that the only things missing were a pair of cool handlebar streamers and a bike horn, just like the ones I had when I was eight. I was tempted to throw my hands up in the air and shout, “Look, ma! No hands!”, but I was old enough now to realize that going headfirst over the handlebars was a bad idea, especially on a busy highway.
Windley Key, part of Islamorada, was a cheerful little spit of land that was split in two by the highway. The relaxed vibe of the village was more than a little seductive. When I saw an ancient aqua blue Chevy Impala convertible headed my way, I half-expected to see Jimmy Buffet in the driver’s seat, singing about cheeseburgers in paradise. Instead, it was a couple of elderly ladies on an outing. They honked and waved to me as they rolled by.
I pedaled past the endless row of power lines that ran parallel to the highway, realizing what a challenge it must have been to bring electricity to the Keys. It seemed so odd to see the poles sitting in water, instead of imbedded into the earth along the side of the road. That was the price to be paid for creating a paradise made up of so many little keys and islands, strung together like pearls in a necklace. Dotting the tranquil sea was a colorful flotilla of boats, kayaks, and paddleboards. Now and then, I stopped to watch as a pelican flew by, on a hunt for fish. But it was when I spotted a couple of flamingos wading in the shallow water beside the road that I knew for certain I was not in Kansas anymore. Eat your heart out, Dorothy! And your little dog too!
The minutes seemed to slip away from me as I got into the spirit of things. I was on an adventure that took me away from scrubbing toilets and making beds back at the Four Acorns Inn. Who cared if it was three o’clock or half past?
But you’re not here on vacation, Miz Scarlet. You’re supposed to be solving a murder.
I had to admit it was a daunting task. The only real clue I had to go on was that the killer had two different colored eyes. That accident of nature was the only physical attribute that set him apart from the general public. “Of course, with my luck, the guy wears contacts so he doesn’t stand out from the crowd.”
A full-color poster, stapled to a wooden message board, caught my eye. It featured an attractive couple standing at the railing of a sailboat, toasting each other with Champagne as they gazed at each other adoringly. The sky behind them was painted with pastel shades of coral and ruby. I braked to take a closer look. It was picture perfect, so perfect that I was convinced that if I could I get Kenny alone like that, he might be interested in taking our relationship to a higher level. It was worth a try.
“Maybe we could take a cruise while we’re here. It’s not like we can spend every waking moment hunting for the needle in the haystack.”
I checked out a couple of nearby marinas that were on my list. I made a point of looking over the motor boats they offered for hourly rental. None of them seemed to be adequate for the kind of fishing excursions that Grimacing Grimshaw took.
I also scoped out a few of the waterfront restaurants along the route, wondering if the acrimonious attorney was a regular at any of them. How did he spend his off-hours, when he wasn’t fishing? Was he a bourbon man, slugging down doubles at the bar until closing time, or was he a teetotaler, shuddering at the thought that any alcohol would pass through those pinched lips of his?
The fact of the matter is that you know absolutely nothing at all about the man, Miz Scarlet. You’ve got diddly on his habits, good or bad. You can’t even begin to make an educated guess about where he hung out until you know more about the man. I hate it when I’m right, especially when it brings me right back to Square One.
But there was no point in wasting a good opportunity to find decent restaurants while I was out and about. We had to have sustenance while we were here, didn’t we? I perused the posted menus in search of good eats, adding notations on my list of stops. Those with a romantic view earned a star beside their names.
At the sailing charter company, I hit pay dirt. Sitting at the dock was a rather large boat that looked like it could handle a crowd. I headed to the tiny office.
“Can I help you?” a pleasant young man greeted me when I came through the door.
“Do you offer sunset cruises?” I inquired.
“We do,” he announced cheerfully. He opened the drawer to his left, grabbed several brochures, and spread them out. “We have several types of cruises. You name it, we do it. Eco tours, wildlife tours....”
“You also have snorkel cruises?” I reached for the brochure sitting on top of the pile. That was something on my bucket list.
“Oh, that’s a very popular choice,” he told me. “If you’ve got an underwater camera, you can get some great shots of the fish.”
Miz Scarlet and the Acrimonious Attorney Page 13
