Death of a Hot Chick

by Norma Huss

  Finley took a long drink of beer. “Yeah, oil does spoil the taste,” she said as she helped herself to another piece of pizza. “Can’t remember. Which was your favorite side?”

  “Mushrooms over olives any day. But I can handle either.” The memory of other pizzas came back as we ate in comfortable silence, punctured only with chomping, gulping, and an occasional, “Yum.” My third slice of pizza was history. I sipped my beer, then put it down. I was stuffed. “So what are you doing now? Beside visiting the wannabes at class?”

  Finley reached for another slice. “Great gig. I’m running the tourist boat that does dinner cruises two or three times a week. Lunch cruise today. They’ve got people to do the spiel, serve the food, entertain, and—they feed me. I just drive the boat.” Finley chomped into her pizza.

  “Where do you take them?” I asked. But Finley was engrossed in mid-swallow. I finished my beer and opened the second, although I didn’t want it. I was remembering how it was with Finley.

  After she popped the top on her third beer, Finley looked around the little boat. “See you got her cleaned up.”

  “Were you on board before?”

  “No. Nicole told me. But I figured, you’d have her torn up again.”

  I twisted my full beer can. “Why?”

  “For the loot, of course.”

  “Oh, you heard that rumor about, what’s his name? Pop? And his hidden stuff? Nope. I’m just trying to get her cleaned up. And keep her cleaned up. Somebody got inside the other day and messed it all up again.”

  Finley helped herself to more pizza. “So, why didn’t you keep up with your license?”

  “The husband from hell didn’t want me to. I was still in love.”

  “Cyd, you gotta pick ’em better. How ’bout the other guy you dated. He’s got a bunch of boats now. Shoulda picked him.”

  “No. He’s a....” Suddenly, I realized I didn’t want to tell Finley about Gregory the alcoholic. “Just didn’t work out.” I sat, twisting my beer can and watching Finley eat.

  The pizza was cooling, but she finished every bite. She was a big gal. She needed big food. Then she giggled, which was another thing I remembered. After a few beers, she giggled.

  Finley leaned back, did her on-purpose burp, and asked, “Who was it? You know?”

  “Who was what?”

  “The stinko who broke into your boat.”

  “Some guy. And he was back today while I was gone.”

  “Don’t worry about him.”

  “Why not?”

  Finley didn’t answer at first, just kept chugging her beer. She poked her forehead with a tomato sauce-stained finger. “Steel trap.” She grabbed the last beer. “Gotta finish this beer. If you don’t, it’ll go stinko. Was cold, you know.”

  “No. That’s mine.”

  But Finley didn’t relinquish the last beer standing. “Don’t go goody-two-shoes on me. You din’t hardly touch that one you got sittin’ in front a you.”

  I remembered Finley liked her beer back then. But that much? Would it work to keep her talking? “So why shouldn’t I worry about the guy who broke in?”

  “He ain’t gonna find a damn thing.”

  There wasn’t much I could do. I remembered Gregory when he was drinking. Keep him busy, I’d thought. Trick him. Nothing worked. “Hey, Finley, what did you say about loot? About not worrying about that guy who broke in? Why not?”

  “He’d shit his pants if he knew what I know.” Finley squished her empty can. “Hey, it’s hot in here. Le’s go outside.”

  “Great idea.”

  Finley was already out the door. A bit of air might do her some good. I upended my full can of beer in the sink and followed Finley who was meandering down the dock.

  “Want to walk down the road a ways?”

  “Lookin’ for the place.”

  “What place?”

  “Where she bought it.”

  Finley had to mean Nicole. “I found her over that way. Just off the marina property.”

  “Show me.”

  “Okay.” I led the way. “Right here.”

  “You mean, layin’ in the dirt?”

  “No. She was in a boat cart. All wet. Drowned, I suppose.”

  Finley stood at the water’s edge, staring at something only she could see. Suddenly she stooped, dipped her hands in the water, then lifted her palms close to her face. “I had to see.” She stood, wiped her hands on her jeans, and turned to me. “Hey, s’been great. Get together agin. Gonna leave now.”

  “Leave now?” She was in no shape to drive.

  “Ya bet. Can’t take the... sleepy. Ain’t that a kick.”

  “Pajama party time,” I said. “I’ve got plenty of room. Stay overnight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. We can talk some more.” I took a few steps and Finley fell in with me, nodding.

  Once inside Snapdragon, Finley plunked down on the settee. “Yeah, kid, watchin’ out for yer ole buddy. Bit woozy. Just sleepy.”

  We talked for an hour, maybe more. Finley got a bit more lucid, but every time she headed for the door, I decided, not yet. I think I pulled out every memory of our past together, and a few that I made up as I went along. She didn’t notice. In fact, after a while I was talking to myself, and she was asleep. I’d never done that with Gregory, I’d booted him out, never worrying, until the time he drove into a tree with me sitting beside him. After that, I quit him cold. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill himself.

  I covered Finley, grabbed Nicole’s note, and went forward. I could have worked an hour, maybe two longer. Instead, I curled up on the V-berth, fondled the piece of paper, and had a mental, one-way conversation.

  “What’s going on Nicole?”

  There was no answer, but suddenly I remembered something Finley said. She’d known about the boat. She must have known Nicole—like they were good friends.

  “What’s with you and Finley?” I asked. “And why did Finley come see me in the first place? Just to see where you died?”

  ~ ~

  Monday, July 24

  During the night, Finley had disappeared. Her car was gone, I noted on my way to the marina head. She must have been fit to drive. On my way back to Snapdragon, I looked longingly at the ship’s store. I needed more of everything, but couldn’t afford it, not yet. Still, I stopped in. Wes was there.

  “Do you know a man, about five foot, eight, brown hair, wears shaggy clothes, maybe around my age or a bit older?” I asked.

  “Sure. Half the population of Smith Harbor.”

  “He’s the guy who was in my boat the other day. He came back yesterday according to Lizzie.”

  “Free country.”

  “Lizzie said she’s seen him around and you might know him.”

  “Nope.”

  I gave up. Wes wasn’t trying, and he wasn’t about to. “Okay. Got any jobs I could do?” I asked.

  “Nope.” He headed for the back of the shop.

  “Got any jobs at all?”

  “Sure,” he said, his voice dwindling as he walked. “Install an engine. Check out a leaking holding tank. Pull three boats for bottom paint and another for a survey. Replace a binnacle. Clean, lubricate, and reassemble a windlass.” Before he disappeared out the back door, he turned. “Nope, nothing at all.”

  I headed for Snapdragon. As I stepped aboard, I heard the screeching brakes and flying gravel that signaled someone in a hurry. I unlocked my door and turned to see a parade of police headed my way. Okay, maybe parade wasn't the most accurate word, but that’s the way it made me feel. Two police persons approached, with my old friend, Officer Doug Yarnell in the lead, and a new face behind him. This one was a woman, a young woman, possibly Hispanic or African-American. With a sinking feeling in my mid-section, I watched the pair approach. Officer Yarnell, his blues in no way disguising his all-American vanilla complexion, slowed and allowed the woman behind him to take the lead. She was his opposite, dark hair, tan skin, with an exceedingly pleasant face
disfigured by a nasty scowl.

  “Cyd Denlinger?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m still Cyd Denlinger, as Officer Yarnell could tell you,” I answered.

  “I understand you claim to have the title to this vessel. However, it was not in your possession when you made that claim. May we see it now?”

  “You can see a copy. The original is in a safe-deposit box.”

  “Then show us the copy,” she said. “We have orders to force you to leave, actually, but, the police chief agrees that only the legal owner has authority to request such an order, and if you are that person, the order will be vacated.”

  That was a long speech to take the place of, “Okay.” I left the cops standing on the dock and went inside Snapdragon. When I’d avoided them long enough, I went back outside.

  I held the copy up so they could see it. “This is it. Notarized and everything.”

  Doug, having allowed his co-cop to be the bad one, had taken her place. He said, “We’ll take this, but we will also need the original.”

  Was that any way to treat an old neighbor? “I don't think so. However, since I have several copies, you may have one.”

  “Are you denying my request for the original?”

  “Doug, don’t get so official. Just because you ask for something, which happens to be in a safe-deposit box anyway, doesn’t mean I have to give it to you. Let me know when you have something that officially says the police may take my property.”

  “Legally, she’s right, Yarnell,” the female cop said. Judging from her upraised eyebrow, I was pretty sure Doug hadn’t told her we went way back.

  “Was there anything else?” I asked sweetly with the most insincere smile I could muster.

  “Yes,” Doug said, holding out his hand. “The copy.”

  “And I’ll have a receipt, please.”

  Behind him, the female cop nodded with a smile. She was catching on. I hoped she gave Doug hell later. In the meantime, she whipped out a pad of paper and a pen, scribbled something, and handed it to Doug who exchanged it for my copy.

  I glanced at the paper. All nicely worded, a receipt for one title copy, signed by Patrolman Ramirez. Hispanic, then. And, shouldn’t she be patrol woman, or patrol person?

  “May we come aboard to ask a few questions?” Doug said.

  So, they weren’t through. I shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  Once inside, we sat opposite each other, me on one side of the cabin and the cops on the other.

  Yarnell glanced at the title, then looked again. “This title doesn’t exactly give you the boat. You’re a co-owner.”

  “My lawyer is handling that aspect.”

  “Lawyered up, huh?” he said with a chuckle. “Why did Nicole Joline make you a co-owner?”

  “Because she couldn’t pay me for the supplies I’d purchased to do the work she wanted done. She said, if she didn’t sell the boat in two months, I would own it. But she chose to do it this way. Don’t know why. I wasn’t asking for the boat, just my money. The way I see it, she won’t be able to sell Snapdragon, since she’s dead.”

  “That’s still your story?” Doug asked.

  “Which happens to be true, no matter how rich Nicole was. Hey, don’t you ever run short when there’s no ATM handy?”

  Doug Yarnell ignored me, just like he did when he was the oldest kid in the neighborhood and I was the obnoxious, know-it-all brat.

  The whole thing was inevitable. I shrugged, sat back, and said, “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  Instead of speaking, he nodded at Ramirez. She said, “Great boat. I’d love to see it all. Do you mind?”

  “You mean, like search it?” I asked, feeling vaguely like I was usurping my teenage niece’s vocabulary. “Don’t you need a search warrant for that?”

  “Oh, nothing like that. I’ve seen boats around and I always wondered where a person sleeps, eats, cooks, ah....”

  “Goes to the bathroom and takes a shower?”

  Ramirez’s tan face had turned, not red, exactly. Perhaps bronze. She nodded.

  “Okay.” Patting the settee cushion beside me, I said, “Right here is where I sleep. This pulls out into a single bed. So does the one you’re sitting on. You see the galley area with sink, stove, refrigerator—which is that door under the counter. Through the door is the V-berth in the bow. That’s where the main sleeping quarters are, but the previous owners used the area to pile junk, which is mostly still there. The head is partitioned off from that. Fully supplied. Care to look?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, charging through the open doorway. I followed her to make sure she didn’t open any drawers or lockers without a search warrant. From there, I kept an eye on Doug too. Not that they’d find anything, but one had to keep ahead of one’s rights.

  “Anchor locker is that little door in the bow. Engine room is below the sole, floor to you, in the cabin.”

  “There’s a room below the floor?” she asked, in shocked amazement.

  “Not really a room, just an opening that’s usually covered by a floor panel.”

  Ramirez pointed to a door. “This?”

  “Hanging locker. Closet.”

  With a brief glance at the mess covering the V-berth she said, “From previous owners, you say.”

  “Must be. Not mine. But I’m working on it.”

  “Delightfully cozy,” she proclaimed. “You must spend a lot of time on the boat. Is it your only home?”

  “Yes.” And, was that what the visit was all about, to establish that fact?

  “Must be similar to living in a trailer home. Not like the stationary ones that are permanent homes, but the kind one vacations in. And, of course, you could do that as well. I find that interesting.”

  “It’s not all that unusual,” I said, wondering just what the woman was getting at. “Two or three others live on their boats in this marina. They happen to be almost as permanent as a trailer on a concrete block.”

  “I find that interesting as well. Which category do you fit into? I mean, usually.”

  Ramirez definitely had an agenda. “Well, that’s the tour,” I said. “I imagine Doug is getting tired of cooling his heels.” I’d lost sight of him. Perhaps he wasn’t cooling his heels. And, he wasn’t.

  Yarnell stood at an open cupboard. I tapped his shoulder. He turned and said, “Looking for a glass. May I have a drink of water?”

  “Sure. Help yourself.” I didn’t offer him the water from my Brita pitcher. One thing I liked was good tasting water.

  Perhaps he did too. “You through with your tour, Ramirez?” he asked. When she nodded, he turned back to me and said, “I won't bother with any water right now.”

  “Thanks so much for showing me your boat,” Ramirez said as they left. “So cozy.”

  “So cozy,” and what else? I could not, for the life of me, figure out what they wanted to find. He hadn’t asked any questions. Had they actually accomplished what they intended?

  As soon as the patrol car pulled away from the marina, I grabbed my remaining title copies and my billfold. I locked the door on my way out. I didn’t call Kaye. I had to stop depending on my sister to bail me out. This was something I had to do myself. The Courthouse had to be open.

  Chapter 10

  Fifteen dollars for a temporary water craft registration wasn’t too bad. The killer would be state taxes on the entire value of the boat. I definitely had to sell Snapdragon before my thirty days of ownership were up.

  I’d nearly reached my dock when I heard Lizzie screech, “She ain’t here. You can’t do that.” I broke into a run. Besides Lizzie, Wes and two other men were on my boat.

  “Hey, what’s going on here?” I yelled.

  “They got the paper,” Wes yelled back.

  “The paper?” They also had the new dinghy up on the finger pier with the air hissing out. “Who are you and what are you doing on my boat?”

  One of the two men turned to me with a bored expression. “Like he said, I’ve got the
paper. The check bounced for this Avon, so we’re taking it back, since the lady who bought it is dead and she’s not about to make her check good.”

  “You gonna let him do that?” Lizzie demanded.

  “I.... You can’t take....” But...Nicole paid with a bad check?

  “Then pay me $3,042.98,” the guy said and dropped his end of the dinghy.

  I didn’t have three hundred dollars, much less three thousand. “Take it.” I scowled at Lizzie, at Wes, at the two men and charged over to my door. I fumbled with the combination and finally got it right. I went inside and slammed the door, which, unfortunately, bounced back instead of making a truly satisfying bang.

  “Truly sorry about that.”

  Just exactly what I didn’t need. “Nicole? Where are you?” I didn’t see her. I didn’t want to see her. Did she know her check wouldn’t clear when she wrote it? “Go away,” I muttered.

  “You haven’t found my killer yet, but despite the loss of one small dinghy, you do still have this boat.”

  Why couldn’t I see her? Was she really here, or just in my head? Now she was blackmailing me, pure and simple.

  “One can’t transfer funds unless you are among the living. Remember, I’m depending on you.”

  “Nicole, if you can read my thoughts, why can’t you tell me....” But she was gone. How did I know that? I had absolutely no idea. But I did know that some days were the absolute pits.

  I ignored the men outside taking the dinghy. I ignored the silence that followed when they left. I ignored the possibility that Lizzie might want to talk. I sat and scowled, trying to calm down. I had to get Snapdragon ready to sell. Why was I so upset?

  And why was someone banging on my door?

  “Hey, anybody home?”

  I looked through the window, then reluctantly, opened my door. The man standing on the finger pier beside my boat was one I’d never seen before. Except for his age, and his height, he fit Lizzie’s description. Taller and a bit older, but he had the brown hair and worn out jeans. And, like Wes said, that description fit half of the men in Smith Harbor.

  I didn’t feel friendly. “You’re a tourist admiring the scenery?”

  “Looks like you could use some help here,” he said. “I notice you’ve got buckets and stuff around. I’m a carpenter by trade and if you need any inside repairs or alterations, I’m your man. Reasonable prices, satisfaction guaranteed.”