His interest in sailing had started a couple of years ago when he had gone on a weekend charter trip with some buddies. After that, he spent countless hours looking at sailing websites, leafing through glossy boat magazines, and reading books on rather dull subjects like diesel engine maintenance and repair.
I had hoped it was just another one of his temporary preoccupations, like the time he decided he was going to learn to make Ethiopian food. He bought all sorts of unusual ingredients, scorched several pots and pans, and couldn’t speak for days after adding too much hot pepper to a chicken dish and burning his mouth. After one final failed attempt at making an Ethiopian spice blend, he lost interest and ordered pizza for dinner instead.
I should have realized that his fixation with sailing was a lot more serious. Buying a sailboat was probably a good clue. Maybe that’s what a midlife crisis was—an obsession gone wrong.
When he arrived at the boardwalk, he turned and wiggled his finger at me. “Come on, my little sweet potato. This is no time to dawdle. We’re due to meet the boat broker soon.”
I certainly wasn’t dawdling. Okay, maybe a little. I really wasn’t in any hurry to see Marjorie Jane. But my short, stubby legs could never keep up with his long ones. He had been a star basketball player in college, and it was his speed running up and down the court that had earned him the nickname “Scooter.” I glared at him. He caught my meaning.
“Sorry about that.” He clutched my hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s just that I’m so excited to see my new girl.”
I glared at him again. My patented knock-it-off-or-you’ll-suffer-serious-retribution glare. The last time I’d given him a glare like that, I hid his Froot Loops and he had to eat oatmeal every day for breakfast for a week instead. Oh, how he’d suffered.
He gave my hand another squeeze and quickly said, “Of course, you’re my best girl, Mollie. No one could take your place.”
When Scooter calls me by my first name instead of a silly pet name, then you know he’s serious. Or worried he might be served more oatmeal.
“All right. We better get a move on if we’re going to meet this boat broker of yours,” I said. I tried to see what was in the tote bag he was carrying.
“Hey, no peeking.” He switched the bag to his other hand and walked down the boardwalk to a creaky dock that had seen better days. He pointed to a sign that said B Dock. “She’s just down here. There are three other main docks: A Dock, C Dock, and D Dock.”
“Do you think they hired external consultants to come up with those clever names? Probably the same team that came up with the name Palm Tree Marina on account of all the palm trees. And let me guess, they came up with the name Coconut Cove on account of all the coconuts floating in the water?”
Scooter suppressed a smile. “There’s also a fuel dock and a dinghy dock. And yes, before you ask, they have clever names too—Fuel Dock and Dinghy Dock.” He pointed at the boats bobbing in the water near the breakwall. “People who keep their boats in the mooring field use their dinghies to get back and forth to shore, and have a special dock to tie up at. And the fuel dock is—”
I held up my hand. “Let me guess. The fuel dock is where you get fuel.”
“You’re catching on quick. Do you want to know about the boatyard?”
“Not really.”
“Of course you do. If you need to do repairs or maintenance to your boat, you have it hauled out and taken there to work on it.”
“Fascinating.”
I gingerly stepped along the dock, avoiding planks that looked like they were missing nails. It reminded me of that kids’ game where you avoided stepping on cracks so that you wouldn’t break your mother’s back. Except, in this case, I wasn’t worried about my mom as much as I was worried about one of the planks breaking and tumbling me into the water. Sure, I like splashing around in the water, but only in pools and hot tubs. I find the chlorination in the water reassuring—it’s a sign that humans are in charge and that you’re less likely to find scary critters, like sharks and alligators, lurking about. When it comes to the ocean, you’re on your own. You never know what sea monsters might be waiting for you. I’m not a very strong swimmer, so I’d much prefer to fight off someone trying to steal my lounge chair by the pool than fend off a great white or a gator.
We had only moved to Florida a few months ago, so worries about sharks and alligators were pretty new to me. When Scooter’s uncle passed away and left him his cottage in Coconut Cove, a small tourist town on the Gulf Coast, we decided it would be a good opportunity to make a fresh start, away from reminders of Scooter’s old business and former partners.
Across from the marina, stairs led down to a sandy beach. I watched some tourists wading in the water, a dog carrying a large piece of driftwood to his owner, and a couple of kids flying colorful kites. Maybe I could convince Scooter to go for a stroll after we were done looking at this boat of his.
After successfully navigating the rest of the dock, I saw him standing in front of a red wooden boat. He stared at it rapturously, his mouth hanging open.
I grabbed a tissue out of my purse. “Here,” I said. “You’re drooling again.”
He wiped the corner of his mouth. “She’s so beautiful!”
I’m not sure “beautiful” was the word I would have used. Paint was flaking off the side. The teak decks looked like they had seen better days. And to top things off, the name Marjorie Jane was written in an ostentatious, flowery gold script on the front of the boat. “Tacky” is the word that came to mind, not “beautiful.”
I was all set to explain exactly what the difference between beautiful and tacky was when Scooter gazed at me with those dark brown eyes of his.
We used to have a chocolate Labrador dog with the same exact eyes when I was a kid. One day, he came bounding up to me with my Barbie doll in his mouth, dropped it at my feet, wagged his tail, and looked at me with his soulful eyes. Sure, Barbie was missing a leg and covered in dirt, but how could I stay mad at a dog who oozed so much cuteness? It was the same with Scooter, except this was a boat and not a mangled doll.
“How much did you pay for this thing?” I asked. “She looks like she should have sunk to the bottom a long time ago.”
“I’ve only put down a deposit,” Scooter said. “That’s why we’re meeting the boat broker. To sign the papers and finalize the deal.”
“You mean you can get out of this?” I asked hopefully.
Scooter didn’t answer my question. He had a faraway look in his eyes as he caressed the side of the boat. Either he was lost in daydreams about sailing or he was deliberately ignoring me. I wasn’t sure which was worse. I hated it when he pretended he couldn’t hear me, but daydreaming about a boat, of all things—especially this boat—really took the cake.
He rubbed his hands together. “Come on, let me show you the cockpit. Imagine relaxing there at night over one of those tropical cocktails you’re fond of. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”
It’s true. I do like tropical cocktails. Especially when they’re served in coconuts with tiny umbrellas. But I wasn’t sure you needed a boat to enjoy coconut drinks. They had these beach bars that did the trick just fine.
Scooter slipped off his shoes, then jumped athletically up from the dock onto the teak deck, as though he were going for a slam dunk. He ducked under the red canvas shading the cockpit from the sun and sat behind the steering wheel, grinning from ear to ear. He looked like a lovesick teenager.
He patted the seat next to him. “Hop on up. But first, take off your flip-flops. You should never wear shoes on a boat.”
I placed my sandals on the dock next to his shoes and tried to pull myself up onto the deck. I didn’t get very far. Stupid short legs.
Scooter whistled some sort of sea shanty while he pretended to steer the boat. At least I thought it was a sea shanty. It might have been the latest girl-group song we’d heard on the radio on the drive over to the marina. Either way, it was annoying.
“Are you
coming or what?” he asked as he spun the wheel from side to side.
“Exactly how am I supposed to get up there?” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “The boat is like twenty feet above the dock here and I’m only five feet tall.”
He peered down. “Math never was your strong suit, was it? It’s only a few feet, not twenty.” He pointed at a twisted metal cable that ran from the mast to the deck. “Just grab onto that and hoist yourself up.” Then he went back to steering the boat and whistling away to himself.
After several attempts, I eventually managed to scramble on board, holding on for dear life. I teetered precariously on the edge, trying to figure out how I was going to get my legs over the lines that ran around the boat. “Hey, Scooter, mind giving a girl a hand here?” I asked.
He stepped out of the cockpit. “See, I knew you could do it. You’re going to love being on a sailboat. It’s great exercise, isn’t it, climbing up and over things?” He held onto my hand. “Now, just put one leg over the lifelines here. That’s good. Now the other one.”
The boat rocked back and forth as a powerboat sped past Marjorie Jane and headed toward the inlet, which led out of the marina and into the deeper waters of Sunshine Bay. I clung to Scooter so that I wouldn’t lose my balance and land back on the dock. The last thing I wanted was to have to climb back up again.
“Welcome aboard Marjorie Jane,” he said as he clasped my waist and gave me a kiss. “This is the greatest day ever. My very own sailboat that I get to share with my best girl.”
When he let go of me, I nearly lost my balance again. I clutched the lines I had just climbed over. “What did you call these again?”
“Lifelines. They keep you from falling off the boat and into the water. They can save your life, so to speak.”
I thought about all the potential sea monsters circling below, just waiting to gobble me up. I tugged on the lifelines. “These feel kind of loose. If I fell against them, they’d just give way. Shouldn’t they be tighter than this?”
“Nah, they seem fine to me. Don’t worry. You’re not going to fall in the water. Sailing is perfectly safe.” Scooter sat back down behind the wheel.
I climbed into the cockpit, stepping on tattered white cushions with a red starfish pattern. “These are in pretty bad shape.”
“That’s just cosmetic stuff. You have to look past that and see the beauty that lies underneath. Besides, that’s why we’re getting Marjorie Jane at such a bargain price.”
“And what exactly is a bargain when it comes to sailboats?” I asked as I sat at the other end of the cockpit.
“She’s a steal,” he said evasively. “Captain Dan says we’re lucky that we snapped her up before anyone else did.”
I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get a straight answer. I reached out and touched the wooden boards at the entryway to the boat. Red paint flaked off on my hands.
“That’s the companionway,” Scooter said. “You push back the hatch and pull out those washboards to get into the boat. I know you can’t wait to see down below. Captain Dan will be here any minute to unlock her.”
I picked up a broken padlock from the cushion next to me. “You mean this lock? I think someone may have used bolt cutters on this.”
Scooter narrowed his eyes. “Bolt cutters. Of course you’d know it was bolt cutters.”
“Do we have to go into that again? It was just that one time,” I said quickly. “Besides, there’s a bigger issue here. Who broke into the boat and why? There’s much nicer boats to break into around here than this piece of junk.” I looked around the dock at the fancy powerboats and well-maintained sailboats nearby.
Scooter elbowed me out of the way. “Let me see that,” he said, grabbing the padlock. He turned it over in his hands. “Looks like you’re right. This was cut. That’s definitely your area of expertise, isn’t it?”
“Focus, Scooter, focus. The past is the past. More importantly, do you think anyone’s still down there?” I asked.
“Move over,” he said. He slowly pushed back the hatch and peeked down into the cabin.
“Do you see anyone?” I asked.
He put a finger to his lips. “Shh. I’m going to check it out. You stay here and keep quiet.” He pulled the washboards out, setting them down gently on the cockpit floor. He carefully climbed down the ladder.
“I can’t see anything with your big head in the way. Can you move over to the side?” I asked, trying to peer down below.
“What part of keep quiet didn’t you understand?” he whispered. “Just stay there. I’m going to try to find the light switch.”
I heard a lot of banging and a few swear words followed by a loud exclamation. “Ouch, that hurt!”
“Scooter, are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine. I just banged my foot on something.”
“What was it?”
“How would I know?” He sounded grumpy. “It’s dark down here. I can’t see a thing.”
I reached into my purse, pulled out a flashlight, and pointed it down the companionway. There were cushions and clothes scattered everywhere, cans of food piled haphazardly on a table in the center of the cabin, cupboard doors hanging open, and books strewn about.
“There’s the light switch,” Scooter said as he turned an overhead fixture on. The place looked even worse when illuminated.
Scooter sat on one of the couches, bent down, and rubbed his left foot. I quickly climbed down the ladder and rushed over to him. “Is your foot okay?”
“It’ll be fine. I stubbed my toe on that winch handle over there.” He pointed at a large metal object next to the ladder.
“Did you say witch handle? Are you saying this boat is haunted?” I picked up the long metal object. “What do witches do with these? Wave them over their heads and cast magic spells to ensure good fishing?”
“No, not witch, winch. You insert the handle into the winch to grind the sails in. You know that metal drum you tripped over getting into the cockpit? That’s a winch.” He must have seen the confused look on my face. “Never mind. I’ll show you how it works later. Here, give it to me.” I passed the handle to him, being careful not to step on an overturned toolbox.
Scooter examined it closely. “It appears to be brand new. But the size is all wrong for our boat. This handle is way too big for the winches on Marjorie Jane.”
“How is it you know the sizes of the winch handles on this boat but you don’t know what shoe size I wear?”
“What are you talking about? I bought you fuzzy bunny slippers a few years ago for your birthday.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I remember. That’s why I started leaving sticky notes on your desk for you with gift suggestions.”
“Oh, is that what those were?” he asked with a smirk on his face.
“Yes, and if you’ll recall, there wasn’t a note that said dilapidated sailboat on it.”
“Trust me, Marjorie Jane will look great once she’s all tidied up. Why don’t you go check out the rest of the boat while I clear up this mess?” He pointed toward a tiny hallway running along one side of the boat. “That’s the kitchen. Or, as we sailors like to say, the galley. Just imagine yourself whipping up some tasty treats in there for us.”
I watched in surprise as Scooter began putting books back on the shelves and cans into cupboards. At home, he usually left stuff all over the place and I picked up after him. This stupid boat inspired tidiness in Scooter, whereas I had failed miserably in my efforts to domesticate him. Just another reason to despise Marjorie Jane.
I sighed and walked into the galley area. I could see why they called it a galley. A space as small as this certainly didn’t deserve to be called a kitchen. There was barely enough room to turn around. The stove and oven were tiny, the counter was practically nonexistent, and there wasn’t a fridge to be seen.
“How are you supposed to survive on this thing without a fridge?” I asked Scooter.
“There’s a fridge.” He pointed at where I was leani
ng on the countertop. “Right there, underneath your hand.”
I glanced down, and sure enough there was a tiny, hinged door on the top of the counter. I pulled it open and stared into something that appeared to be the size of a small cooler you’d take on picnics. As I was puzzling over this, I heard a man call out, “Ahoy, is anyone there? Permission to come aboard?”
Scooter poked his head up the companionway. “Hey there, Captain Dan. Come on down.” He chuckled. “Although I’m not sure I can give you permission to come aboard. Marjorie Jane isn’t our boat yet.”
“Don’t you worry. This pretty lady will be all yours once we sign these papers and you hand me a check,” Captain Dan said in a slow Texas drawl. I admired his agility as he made his way down into the cabin. He made climbing down a ladder seem easy. He was wearing a denim shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons tucked into well-pressed jeans. My eyes were drawn to his shiny red cowboy boots and an even shinier belt buckle in the shape of an anchor. I looked up, expecting to see a cowboy hat. Instead, the boat broker had a navy-blue captain’s hat perched on top of his head. He had neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy beard and moustache. Something about him was familiar, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Captain Dan shook Scooter’s hand heartily while he surveyed the cabin. “My, oh my, what happened here, li’l pardner?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Scooter said.
“Nothing?” I said in disbelief. “It isn’t nothing. It looks like someone cut through the padlock, broke in, and was searching for something.”
Captain Dan turned, stared at me, and gave a low whistle. “Now, let me see here. This must be the missus. Whew-whee, you sure are one lucky fella, Scooter. She’s got more curves than a barrel of snakes. And what color are those lovely eyes? It’s hard to tell in this light, but they sure are sparkling.”
I was pretty sure the sparkle in my eyes was due to my surprise about how corny this guy was. “They’re hazel.”
Scooter wrapped his arm around my waist possessively. “This is my wife, Mollie. But you better not talk about snakes around her. She had a run-in with one a while back.”
Murder at the Marina Page 2
