Death of a Hot Chick

by Norma Huss

  “With her, that’s impossible to know.”

  “Maybe you should do your thing.”

  Kaye didn’t look at me, didn’t say anything like she’d have done when we were children, like, “Are your fingers pushing stuff out of your hair or out of your brain when you do that?” Back then, I didn’t know others didn’t see the same things. So I had a bit of neighborhood notoriety until I learned to keep any visions to myself. “Doesn’t work that way.”

  “Okay,” Kaye said and added, “One thing has always puzzled me. Why did Nicole call this the Garden of Gethsemane? The original garden was an olive grove. In Christian tradition the connotation is not of a peaceful place of relaxation and renewal. But Nicole insisted on meditating here. She said the ambiance renewed her spirit. I hate to say it, but the betrayal of Judas against his spiritual father might have been her inspiration.”

  “You mean because of her note?”

  Kaye stepped away from the bench. “Mother called last night. She’d heard about Nicole’s unfortunate death.”

  “And you told her I found the body.”

  “That may have been mentioned, but mothers seem to know these things. I merely confirmed that we are helping the police with their investigation.”

  Which we weren’t. But Kaye was in full warning mode, so I asked, “When is she coming?”

  “Let’s discuss it all later. We have an appointment at ten fifteen.”

  I could have pointed out that the relaxing Sunday she promised me was nowhere in sight. Instead, I muttered, “Why am I not surprised?”

  Chapter 8

  10:15 A.M.

  When we got into her car, I didn’t bother asking Kaye where we were headed. Even before she pulled up at Bayside Marina, I knew we’d be looking at boats for Mr. Joline’s charity. Her first words confirmed my fear.

  “We need a list of boats that will give us the best possibilities for use by the handicapped.”

  “I don’t get it. What does Total Living Futures have to do with boats?”

  “Actually, there is some thought behind the name of the charity. It has to do with the total environment for the handicapped so they may live their lives as their non-handicapped neighbors do. As you mentioned, horseback riding has become an accepted way to improve the lives of the handicapped. Mr. Joline suggests similar benefits would derive from—“

  ”Do you believe all that? I mean about the boats?”

  “That is beside the point. We’ll select at least five boat types.”

  “Five? You’re really going to do it? Even though you know it’s a stupid idea?”

  “Perhaps the idea seems stupid to you, but....” She hesitated, then added, “That consideration is completely irrelevant. When I uncover his duplicity, not to mention the murder of his daughter....”

  “I get it. Don’t be such a professor.” But Kaye was already on her way.

  We cruised the marina, jotting down the names of one sailboat, three trawlers, and one go-fast power boat to study further, but murder remained on my mind.

  I trailed Kaye as she headed for the parking lot, talking more to myself than to me. “Nicole wrote the note, but why? She sent me after him....” She looked at me. “She obviously believed her father capable of murder. Although you found the note, I’m assuming that originally she wrote it for herself. Possibly as a form of validation.”

  “Well, sure.” Instead of opening Kaye’s car door, I said, “I’ll see you later. I’m headed for Snapdragon.”

  “Come with me first. I promised Mr. Joline I’d report at the earliest opportunity,” Kaye told me as she opened her door.

  “He’s expecting you on a Sunday?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “But we are investigating a murder. I’ll have you back in no time at all. Or, perhaps you’d like to stop over for lunch.”

  I could handle lunch with Kaye. Especially if it included one of her amazing desserts. I got in, pulled the visor down, checked the mirror. I tried to pat my hair into place, but that didn’t help much. I pushed the visor back. “Maybe Mr. Joline isn’t even home.”

  Kaye continued driving. She didn’t speak until after she pulled up in front of a large home with a sloping lawn, evergreen trees, shrubs, but no flowers. “I told him I’d bring an expert on boats.”

  “I’m the expert?”

  “Yes.” As she preceded me up the walk, she added, “Beef up your résumé if he asks.”

  “Résumé? I have a résumé?”

  “Experience, then. Actually, I want you to see the man at home—and his wife if possible. After we leave, I’d like your opinion. In light of Nicole’s note, you understand. Did she really fear her father that much? I can’t accept that she would have killed him, but, did he kill her?”

  “Am I supposed to do psychic tricks now?”

  “No,” Kaye said. “I’d ask the same of anyone. A second opinion, if you will.”

  A small woman opened the door. “Yes?” she said. “Oh, you’re....”

  “I’m Kaye Schroder, Mrs. Joline,” Kaye said, holding out a hand to shake. Mrs. Joline stepped back and pulled her hand to her chest. Kaye tipped her head and reclaimed her hand. “This is Cyd Denlinger, the marine expert your husband wants to see.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. Come this way, please.”

  As Mrs. Joline turned and scuttled down the hall, I said, “Non-related expert, I assume?”

  Quietly, Kaye said, “I do not wish to hear any nepotism complaints.”

  We were ushered into Edward Joline’s presence, which was the only way to put it. Mrs. Joline all but bowed before him. “This is the marine expert.” Mrs. Joline fluttered her hands and opened her mouth, but no name came out.

  “Cyd Denlinger,” Kaye said.

  “And...”

  “And I know Kaye,” he said brusquely. “You needn’t introduce her.”

  As his wife backed away, Kaye said, “Won’t you stay, Mrs. Joline? I value your input to this committee.”

  “Why thank you,” she said, beaming.

  Her husband was not beaming, but he did allow his wife to remain. “Young lady, what qualifies you as an expert?”

  “Boost your résumé,” Kaye had said. “I’ve worked around boats all my life. I’ve owned a sailboat, and now own a trawler. As a commercial captain, I have helped a few handicapped people board boats, so I’m aware of the problems. For instance, a boat with a high freeboard is difficult for even an able-bodied person to board if there isn’t some external access such as a gangplank, or, alternately, a well-supported swim platform with a door that can be opened.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, with absolutely no indication that he’d seen me at his committee meeting. “I understand.” He turned to Kaye. “You must have a report. What is it?”

  “We’ve selected five boats for further study.” Kaye presented her list. “One sailboat....”

  “Surely there must be more.”

  “Probably,” I said, then loaded up with more buzz words like I was striving for an “A” in Language Arts. “We chose five different configurations that should cover most of the available boats in Smith Harbor. After researching these types, you will need the individual owners’ permissions before pursuing approval.” I couldn’t help adding a bit of personal opinion. “Let’s face it, many owners will not be interested.”

  Kaye broke in. “I believe that may be a problem we’ll have to address. I suggest we start the project with a PR program that will increase the interest among boat owners.”

  “Excellent idea. We’ll start with my boat. Outfit it, parade it in front of all those namby-pamby owners who don’t want to provide access to the less fortunate.”

  “Do you have a boat?” I asked—in my role as the unaware boat expert. “What boat is that?”

  “Used to be my daughter’s boat. It’s mine now.”

  I shot a you-handle-this-one glance at Kaye.

  Fortunately, she picked up the slack. “We’ll check it out. Definitely.”
/>   Mrs. Joline squeaked little, “Oh,” and held her hand up to her lips. “But dear, I don’t think she’d give....” Edward Joline turned to her with thunder in his eyes. His wife didn’t say another word.

  “What don’t you think, Mrs. Joline?” I asked. “I’d like to know, as a maritime expert.”

  Mrs. Joline smiled, stood, and said, “I quite forget what I think. I do that all the time. Please excuse me.” She left the room.

  “I’ve upset her,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” the relieved tyrant of a husband said. “She doesn’t know anything about my charity work. I’m really sorry to expose you to this, but her memory isn’t what it used to be. You understand, I’m sure.”

  It wasn’t until we’d reached Kate’s kitchen that she said, “So what do you think of that family?”

  “For one thing, I think our lawyer hasn’t done anything with those papers I signed.”

  “That is one reason I wanted to see him today. I was quite sure Jonathan was more interested in his golf game than your title.” She opened the refrigerator, poked inside, and said, “Looks like we’ll have tuna salad.”

  “What if he had already filed the papers and even talked to Mr. Joline? And what will Mr. Joline do when he does find out?”

  Kaye set a bowl on the table. She had that glazed look that meant, “Shall we deal with this later?” What she said was, “Do you have any new opinion of Mr. Joline?”

  “He definitely could have killed Nicole. He expects obedience, and Nicole didn’t strike me as that type.”

  “Not as an adult,” Kaye said. “When I first met Nicole she was a cowering, immature, gawky child.”

  “Yeah, you’ve told me before.”

  But Kaye continued like I hadn’t said a word, yakking non-stop while she tore lettuce into bits.

  I grabbed the plates and said, “Stop. Tell me something new, like Mr. Joline’s duplicity you want to uncover. Exactly why did Nicole send you after her father?”

  Kaye turned with a piece of lettuce in each hand. “I could say, ‘Maybe I was just thinking aloud.’ ”

  I nodded.

  “Which I was, of course.” She sighed a “you-got-me kind of sigh” and continued. “Nicole was convinced her father’s main charity was himself. She asked me to infiltrate, if you will, and try to find his financial records. That was also why she was buying up stock in his foundation.”

  “Have you found any records with proof?”

  Kaye shook her head and went back to shredding lettuce. “The appointed finance committee only handles money coming in.”

  I put the silverware on the table.

  “When Nicole was a child, her father controlled her completely. Her mother, as you can see, was absolutely no help. She was as bad off as Nicole. Worse, because she never left.”

  “Well, hardly worse. Nicole’s dead.”

  “There is such a thing as a living death.”

  I doubted that Nicole preferred her real death, but I wasn’t about to argue. “And now he wants my boat.”

  “Sounds like you are correct.”

  “So, maybe he killed Nicole for the boat.”

  Kaye placed folded napkins under the forks I’d laid out. “Of course not. No one knew she’d signed it over to you. It had to be more than that.”

  “If looks could kill, he’s done everyone in already.” I filled glasses with milk and added, “He didn’t do it. Nicole was soaking wet. She must have been drowned. How could a father hold his daughter under water until she was dead?”

  “Personally, I don’t think anyone could do that. But obviously, someone did.”

  ~ ~

  Since I’d find no jobs on a Sunday at Bayside Marina, I had the entire afternoon to work on Snapdragon. I turned onto my dock and saw Lizzie sitting on my deck box.

  “That guy was here again.”

  “Lizzie, do you mean the man who was inside? I’ve changed the combination. He didn’t get in again, did he?”

  “Saw him from a ways back. He tried to open your door. Good thing I hustled over here. He turned tail for sure. Didn’t look good. Thought he might come back, so I just hung around a little.”

  “You’re protecting my boat! Oh, Lizzie.”

  “Well, maybe. He did scoot when he saw me. But I ain’t much protection. Just sitting here, minding my own business, that’s what I’m doing.”

  I knew better. “Come on inside and tell me about it. I have a couple of cookies just waiting for us.” Fortunately, they were Kaye’s.

  “Wasn’t anything, really. I’m not that hungry, but I’ll take one of those cookies if you don’t mind.”

  Inside, I opened my cupboard. “It was the same man you saw before? What’s he look like again?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen him around. Sorta young, you know. Maybe your age, maybe a little older. You could ask Wes who he is. Maybe he knows.”

  I handed Lizzie a cookie, and without mentioning I’d already tried that, sat down with my own cookie. “Perhaps a bit more description will help Wes. Hair color, height, anything more about his clothes?”

  “About maybe five foot, eight. Scrawny. Brown hair that needs a comb, sure enough. Jeans with holes that didn’t come from any teen-age, what you call, boutique place.”

  “I’ll ask Wes if he knows a guy like that.”

  “He ain’t here.”

  “He’s.... That’s right. It’s Sunday.” Whack my head, I thought. “Nobody’s here.” The guy Lizzie saw knew that, he’d counted on it. He might come back. I’d work on the boat the rest of the day, for absolutely certain. “I’ll talk to Wes tomorrow.”

  “Yep,” Lizzie said. “I’d do that.”

  I finished my cookie and poured two glasses of water. “Anything else you remember about the guy?”

  “His eyes. Remember them from the first time. He doesn’t look at you straight. He keeps looking everyplace else. Shifty. Like he wants to see what’s behind you. Can’t trust a guy like that.”

  “I know what you mean.” Lizzie was right. Shifty eyes and he kept coming back. Bad combination. Creepy. But what could he do?

  After Lizzie left, I didn’t grab my cleaning rags immediately. I pulled Nicole’s note out of my pocket, smoothed it between both hands.

  “Nicole, are you here?”

  There was no answer—no voice coming from a pile of rags in the corner, no white-blonde hair falling over a smiling face.

  “Were you here? Did you see the man with the shifty eyes?”

  Still no answer.

  “Were you in the garden with us this morning? Did you hear Kaye talk trees?” I stood, walked around the boat’s interior. Searched the V-berth, poked into hanging lockers. Maybe I needed another topic, one Nicole really cared about. “Kaye is still trying to find out about your father and his charity. Do you remember, you asked her to do that. It’s all about boats.”

  But Nicole didn’t appear, didn’t answer.

  I muttered, “Do you hide out when I don’t see you? Do you sleep? Do ghosts sleep? Are you somewhere else? Are you gone for good?”

  There were no ghosts. I whispered, “I don’t think that was really Nicole. Some imposter ghost came in her place.” Aloud, I continued. “Nicole was a take-charge kind of woman. She knew things. She remembered.” Then I stood and shouted. “Whoever you are, you’re a fake. You aren’t Nicole. Who are you?”

  No, there was no Nicole. No ghost at all. There never was. It was only my imagination. If it had been Nicole, she’d have known the answer to all those questions. I took Nicole’s note and crumpled it in my fist.

  Suddenly, the boat shuddered. Everything loose flew. Waves—huge waves. Wind. Thunder and lightning. Where did the storm come from? I bounded to a port, ricocheting off the bulkhead. I grabbed a hand rail on the ceiling and looked out.

  Sunshine. Masts standing straight without a wiggle.

  Oh.... I grabbed the paper, smoothed it out. I whispered, “I didn’t mean it, Nicole. I didn’t mean it.”

  C
hapter 9

  Nicole wasn’t watching. She wasn’t perched on the edge of the sink or reclining in the corner. She hadn’t shaken the boat and scared me half to death. She was nowhere, invisible, dead. I was only scrubbing all surfaces of the engine because Wes had left greasy spots.

  Okay, so she freaked me out. Maybe, I had started that scrubbing to prove something to Nicole. Some little corner of my mind had piped up. See, Nicole? I’m taking care of your boat. Don’t worry. It’s all under control. Make that some illogical corner of my mind. I moved my bucket and wiped splashes away.

  “Ahoy, the boat,” I heard. “Permission to come aboard.”

  “Hey, Finley! You found me,” I yelled back. Ghost, be gone, I thought. I stood and realized it was almost dark. Time had slipped away. I tossed my rag into the bucket and went to greet my visitor.

  “I come bearing gifts,” my old sailing buddy said, as she struggled with an armful. She had a large pizza box, with a six pack of beer perched on top.

  “Wow!” I said and grabbed the beer before she lost it overboard.

  “One half sausage, mushrooms, and extra cheese. The other half pepperoni, onions, and olives. Isn’t that what we used to get?”

  “I can’t believe you remembered that. I didn’t know I was so hungry,” I said. “Let me close up the engine and wash my hands.”

  “This gotta be eaten before the pizza gets cold and the beer gets hot.”

  That was Finley, all right. She was refreshing, a real person, after an afternoon spent with thoughts of ghosts. I replaced the floor panel that covered the engine and pulled out the folding table. “The dishes are in the locker over the settee, if you want to get them out.”

  Which, being Finley, she didn’t. I scrubbed the worst of the scum off my hands and turned to see two beers open, and the pizza box gaping. Finley sat, scarfing down pizza. I grabbed a piece.

  “Glad to see your fingernails are still dirty,” Finley said. “Didn’t sound like you, washing your hands first.”

  “I’ve got one word. Oil.”