by Nancy Skopin
I didn’t understand Gaelic, but Elizabeth was happy to translate for me.
The dock party attendees included Cher, Paul, Elizabeth and Jack, of course, Lily (a marina neighbor who grew up with Elizabeth), Sam, Rebecca, and her boss David Ralston. They all arrived between 1:30 and 2:00. I’d borrowed a banquet table from the marina management office and set out a buffet on the wide cement dock.
Sam and I had a date to go sailing the following week and he spent some time looking over the boat, when he wasn’t busy chastising me for the risks I’d taken in the park.
Bill barbecued steak and salmon, and Jack had brought potato salad and pumpkin bread made by his cook and housekeeper, Ilsa Richter.
Elizabeth was wearing her engagement ring: a two-carat marquis-cut diamond flanked by a pair of half-carat emerald baguettes set in platinum. I couldn’t help staring at the ring, and at Elizabeth. She looked so happy.
Paul and Cher sat on the deck of my boat drinking wine coolers and talking about Paul’s recent ordeal. He’d been to see Loretta twice in the last week, and said she was helping him deal with the panic attacks. When I passed by carrying trays of food to the table I overheard Paul talking openly about how terrified he had been. Cher was holding his hand between both of hers, comforting him.
Back at the buffet table I watched Rebecca admiring Elizabeth’s engagement ring. David hovered behind her, his eyes filled with longing. Rebecca and I had bonded over surveillance videos of Wallace, the perv, watching her and taking snapshots of her with his telephoto lens. I had changed my mind about her friendship potential, even though she was ridiculously perfect.
“Rebecca,” I said, “would you help me carry the watermelon down from my car?”
She turned to look at me, shrugged, and said, “Sure.”
I think my desire to play matchmaker comes from watching too many romantic comedies when I was a kid. I put my arm around her shoulders as we walked up to shore and asked, “What’s the deal with David?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s clearly in love with you. How do you feel about him?”
“He’s not in love with me. He’s never even made a pass at me.”
“He’s shy. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m crazy about him!” She sounded angry.
“So what’s the problem?”
“You’ll laugh,” she said more quietly. I raised an eyebrow. “He’s so sweet and gentle,” she averted her eyes, too embarrassed to look at me when she said, “I’m afraid he might be a disappointment in bed.”
“I see. So, tell me how you feel when he plays the piano.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I watched as recognition kicked in.
“Oh, my God,” she finally said. “I am such an idiot. I’ve been working for that man for two years and I’ve wanted him since the day I met him.”
Am I good or what?
Of course there was no watermelon in my car. When we arrived back at the party Rebecca walked right up to David and kissed him.
He blushed happily. “What was that for?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said, and winked at me.
I stood near the buffet table and peered up at Paul and Cher. Buddy had insinuated himself between them, lying on the bench seat with his forepaws in Paul’s lap. Cher was laughing at something Paul had said and they were both petting the dog. I’d decided to keep Buddy for myself and had taken down all the pictures of him that I’d posted around the marina.
Bill set a platter of steaming beef and salmon on the table and leaned in close to me. “I just got a call on that sex offender homicide,” he whispered. “I need to go into the office. Sorry.”
He gave me a quick kiss before removing his chef’s apron and striding up the dock. Little did I know how much that particular case was going to change my life in the coming months.
As I watched Bill hurry away I noticed one of my neighbors storming down the dock. Sarah is in her mid-fifties, about five-five and one-seventy, with short red hair and a tendency to be blunt. She looked upset as she moved toward me.
“Nikki,” she said. “I hate to interrupt the party, but I need your help.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Sarah has been known to cause a scene about parties on the docks when she’s not invited.
“What’s up?” I asked, escorting her aboard the boat and down into the galley so as not to disturb my guests.
“It’s Larry,” she said. “He’s missing!” And with that, she burst into tears.
Larry is Sarah’s prize-winning Persian cat. He’s also a well-known busybody. One day when I’d left my hatch and pilothouse doors open because of the heat, I came home and caught Larry snooping around my main salon. He flew past me and up the companionway so fast that by the time I made it up the steps he was already halfway down the dock. I’d heard similar stories from my neighbors.
I sat Sarah down at the galley counter, handed her a box of tissues, and poured her a shot of Jameson’s.
“When did you see him last?” I asked.
~THE END~
About the author
Nancy Skopin is a native of California, and currently lives on the Oregon coast with her husband and their dogs.
While researching her mystery series she spent two years working for a private investigator learning the intricacies of the business. She also worked closely with a police detective who became both a consultant and a friend. For thirteen years, she lived aboard her yacht in the San Francisco Bay Area, as does her central character, Nicoli Hunter.
If you’d like to be notified when new Nikki Hunter mysteries come out, e-mail me at: [email protected]
