June couldn’t keep still for long. She was tapping her foot to an unheard rhythm and her hands moved in sync with the engine of our little vessel. Both human and machine seemed to be buzzing with the need to pick up speed.
As an inexperienced boat pilot, June couldn’t offer to take the helm, so she had no choice but to occupy herself as we made our way slowly across the lake.
June snapped out of her reverie just in time to interrupt my own. “Look out! Francie, quick! Turn!”
Cranking the steering wheel of the boat sharply to the right, I narrowly missed being rammed on the port side by a rider on a shiny, black Jet Ski. This guy, dressed in a black, full-body, neoprene wetsuit complete with skull-hugging hood, was not jumping wakes for some afternoon jollies.
I straightened the boat out and was just beginning to readjust my heading when June’s bloodcurdling scream knifed through my brain and sent me into survival mode.
“He’s got a gun!”
I turned my head in time to clearly see the ghastly rider gripping the controls of his watercraft expertly with one hand, and with his other arm outstretched, pointing a big gun directly at us.
I jammed the throttle forward with everything I had.
“Hang on, June!”
Grabbing the side of the boat, June flattened herself and hung on for dear life. This could not be happening again!
A bullet whizzed by, missing me by inches. I could actually hear it. I wanted to crumple into a pile of whimpering, gasping terror. I needed someone to take care of me, to fix this. But there was no one; there was only me. So I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
Finally, over the sound of my own wailing, I realized that, like me, June was also screaming. Our screams turned into a fractured, squealing language that only the very best of friends could ever dream of understanding. Two things became certain: we were both terrified, and neither of us had anything even closely resembling a plan. The best I could do was to continue full speed ahead, weaving back and forth through the water and other nearby vessels so our demonic pursuer could not get a straight shot at us.
Another bullet barely missed us, smashing into a nearby metal buoy with a deafening metallic clang. I ventured a swift glance behind me and saw June still braced on the floor of the boat with her head practically inside my purse. She was oddly silent. I did a double take, checking to make sure all of her body parts were attached and intact, which thankfully, they were.
“June, please, you’ve got to think of something quickly before we are both killed!”
June silently lifted her face from the floor revealing a calm, determined expression; her fists were clenched around several mysterious objects. “Slow down and let Mr. Psycho catch up to us.”
“What? No way! You must have hit your head and forgotten what’s happening here. We’re trying to get away from this nut, not invite him aboard for snacks.”
“Just do it. I have a plan.”
With great trepidation, I eased up on the throttle. “This better be good, June, because otherwise, if we don’t die, I might just have to kill you.”
“Trust me. I’ve got this.”
Reluctantly, I shrugged. “Well, that’s more than I can say for myself. I’ve got nothing.”
What she had in her hands turned out to be a smoke bomb left over from last Fourth of July, a book of matches from the Island House, and the tube of mustache adhesive we had just used this morning when we still thought we were clever.
Keeping the boat at a moderate steady speed, I scanned the area continuously, keeping the Jet Ski in my sight at all times. It was getting closer. I was getting nervous.
“Whatever magic you have up your sleeve, you better do it now before it’s too late.”
After coating the smoke bomb in a thick layer of mustache adhesive, June struck a match and lit the wick.
Our persistent pursuer was now on our starboard side, perfectly matching our pace and heading. He was just lifting his right hand from the controls of the Jet Ski and steadying the hand holding the instrument of our impending death on his left shoulder, ready to deliver his fatal shot, when June stood up, leaned slightly back for balance, wound up and let it rip.
“Banzai!” She screamed like a woman possessed.
Her creation landed directly between the goon’s handlebars thanks to ten years of pitching on the freelance journalists’ co-ed softball team. A curtain of smoke shrouded both our attacker and his ride within seconds, and as we pulled away from the spot of impact, we looked back to see the Jet Ski lazily bobbing in the water minus one crazy rider. This time smoke had been on our side.
“Home run!”
“That was epic! I love you!”
We high-fived each other in delirious relief. We screamed again, but this time we were whooping in triumph. I smashed the throttle forward, and our wake was a glorious sight as we bee-lined it back to the safety of Beacon Pointe, the marina, and my cozy condo.
The entire nightmare ride had taken only fifteen minutes. We reached the marina, and I docked the jet boat safely back in Lynn’s slip. June gathered up our gear and scooped up the contents of my purse, returning things to a semblance of normalcy. In less than the time it would take to watch an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, we had nearly died for the second time in as many days. When my feet hit the solid dock, I had to force myself not to bend down and kiss the ground. This latest adventure may have only lasted a few minutes, but I think it scared ten years off of my life.
“I think now is probably a good time to call in reinforcements. Let’s let the police take over this mess. I need a drink,” I announced. “A warm shower, my yoga pants, and a glass of wine.”
Having just cheated the grim reaper out of his daily quota, it seemed like the proper thing to do.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When I opened the kitchen door to the condo, I expected to be run over by a dog with only one thing on his mind. We had been gone much longer than expected, and I had no idea what Gunner’s potty schedule was. I just hoped we weren’t already too late. The only thing that greeted us, however, was silence. I called out Gunner’s name, but no furry, tail-wagging dog appeared. He was gone. I was about to tell June when I saw that she was slipping her cell phone back into her pocket and had a confused look on her face.
“What is it, June? Was that the police? Are they going to help us now?”
“He’s gone. Michael is gone. I just called to check on him, and the receptionist at the hospital said that he just disappeared without being discharged. At least we know he’s awake.”
“What? And I’m sure you noticed Gunner is gone too. Michael must have found him here somehow. He was here Saturday night when we brought you home from the beach, and somehow I get the feeling he wouldn’t have much trouble getting inside again, even without a key. I hope, at least, that they are together.”
“Francie, maybe we should hold off calling the cops until we find out what happened to Michael and Gunner. I have a feeling somehow all this is connected.”
And so we got back to the business of pretending all was well for the time being. By the time June and I were both showered, dried, fluffed, and slightly buzzed, it was late afternoon. We hadn’t eaten anything since our grilled cheese sandwiches at the Cozy Cove. That seemed so long ago now, and I realized I was getting hungry.
“I can’t even think about cooking right now, and I really don’t want another pizza. Let’s grab a bite at the Tiki Table. Chicken and cheese quesadillas sound pretty good, and they make a marvelous margarita.”
“I could use a margarita. I think I’m dehydrated.” June sucked in her cheeks, puckered her lips, then made a loud smacking sound. “Let’s take the car. I’m running out of energy.”
I was glad to hear that from June. I wasn’t planning to admit my calves were burning, my shin was tender and sore, my right elbow was bruised and throbbing, and the kink in my neck was preventing me from turning my head to the left.
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We made the five-minute trip across the resort property from the condo to the beach where the Tiki Table was located. The private, casual, outdoor-dining restaurant facing the lake was meant to provide the perfect spot for Beacon Pointe members to relax and wind down after a long day in the sun.
We reached the eatery just as the sun was making its way toward the horizon beyond the sandy beach. Diehard sunbathers, not wanting to miss out on the final rays, begrudgingly packed their beach bags.
June and I lucked out and scored a great table on the patio overlooking the breathtaking scenery.
“I could sit here forever and never get tired of this view.” I sighed contentedly as I stretched my tired legs out in front of me and kneaded the tight muscles in my shoulders with my fingertips.
“After the day we just had, they might just have to toss us a pillow before they lock up for the night. Unfortunately, my editor is expecting me to email him an update on the progress of my article. I don’t even know where to begin with that. Luckily, though, I uploaded the pictures from my camera that I took at Ruby’s before the fire to my tablet and cell phone, and the ones from Jewel of the Bay as well. The basic article won’t take long to put together. The ones I really needed though are gone. We could have probably gotten to the bottom of all this with the pictures I took at the warehouse.”
“Wow. That’s a tough one. It was supposed to be a lighthearted summer piece, but now you can’t ignore the fire and the attempted murders and the body in the attic. Do you think your editor will want to print that story?”
“It doesn’t fit with the personality of this particular magazine, but he has other publications that would want it. How can I write something like that though? We’re still in the middle of this whole mess. Who knows how it’s all going to end?”
“Well, I think we’re in over our heads. I was right before. We need to let the professionals handle the crime-solving investigations from here on.”
June nodded in agreement, lifted her weary hand, and wiggled her graceful fingers in the direction of a waitress who scurried by, balancing a tray of drinks at shoulder level while avoiding collisions with co-workers, patrons, and children running back and forth between the beach, their parents, and French fries.
When the sure-footed young woman made it back to our table, she offered us menus and asked for our drink orders.
“I think I’ll pass on margaritas for now. What do you think, June? Do you want to split a bottle of Pinot Noir instead?”
“That sounds good to me. Let’s go with it.”
“I’ll be right back with your drinks, ladies.”
While we waited for our wine to arrive, I checked out the menu, and June scrolled through the photos on her phone.
“Hmm, this is interesting. Look, Francie.” She pinched her fingers on the center of a picture then spread them outward to enlarge the image. “What does this look like to you?”
“It looks like the inside of Ruby’s store. What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“Look closer Francie. There. The window. What is that outside the back window?”
I took June’s phone from her and held it right up to my face focusing on the window. “It’s a boat trailer. So what? There’s nothing unusual about that.”
“Except it’s not a boat. It’s a Jet Ski. A black Jet Ski.”
“Yes, I see it, but that doesn’t prove a thing. We are on an island, and every third person owns a Jet Ski or a speed boat.”
“I’m just saying. That’s all. Oh screw it. Let’s share the ‘Mamma Mia’s Dish of Love.’”
How could I refuse?
The wine arrived, accompanied by two stemless wine glasses etched with the restaurant logo. June placed our food order for us, and after the waitress walked off, she raised her glass and offered a toast.
“Well, here’s to surviving the day,” she said with the smallest hint of sarcasm in her voice. We clinked glasses and sipped.
We were on our second glass when the overflowing platter of cheeses, fruits, Italian bread and olives was placed on the center of the table, taking up almost all of the available space. I reached for a Kalamata olive and a strawberry; June chose a healthy hunk of bread, smeared it with butter, and added a slab of cheese for good measure.
“Oh what the heck. Pass the bread please.”
After enjoying the comfort food for a while, it was time to bring up the topic that was on both of our minds.
“Okay, June, now we can talk. I still haven’t heard from Hamm, and frankly, I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that everything is fine. Even though my phone is probably a pile of “i-Ashes” by now, he still knows how to get a hold of me. I mean, he could call the marina office, leave a message on the condo machine, or he could even break down and call your cell phone for goodness sake. I just know something’s wrong.”
“I know. This is highly unusual behavior for the Egg. You have to admit, though, we haven’t exactly been checking in ourselves or checking messages lately for that matter. Seriously, what could really be wrong? I mean, it’s not like some evil mastermind has abducted him and is holding him captive in his island lair. It’s just bad timing, sweetie. You two will connect soon, and you’ll realize that you’ve just been reading way too many bad mystery scripts this year. But beyond that, what do you think happened to Sirena and her golf cart? Was it just a backfiring muffler, or was it an attempt to get rid of her? Or us for that matter. That was a loud boom and a lot of smoke for a golf cart malfunction. Something is not right about all of this.”
“I know, I know. Too much just doesn’t feel right about this whole thing to me. How did our annual Memorial Day ‘drink in one hand, credit card in the other’ weekend turn into such a mess?”
June shook her head and replied, “I don’t know, but even though we can’t seem to avoid daily attempts on our lives lately, there is one thing we do exceptionally well, and that is coming up with plans. We need a good one this time for figuring out who this bad guy is. Let’s get to the bottom of this mystery, so we can finally lie back in our beach chairs and get to the bottom of a margarita instead.”
“Now that sounds like a happy ending! Let me find my notebook and a pen so we can start figuring this out.”
So much for leaving the investigation to the professionals. I hauled my tote bag onto my lap and dug around, producing a hot pink pad of rule-lined paper and a nice variety of colored gel pens.
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s start from the beginning. What do we know? We have to get the who, what, when, where, why and how.”
“Oh boy, now you sound like my journalism instructor. I always forget that you were an English teacher before you became fun. I’ll bite though. I think the who is knock-off guy for sure, maybe even a partner or the mob too. The what seems to be some sort of cover-up. The when, well, that’s pretty much anytime we turn around, and that’s also the where—anywhere we happen to be. The why is the big one. I guess he could be covering up a ‘knock-off scheme’ like we first thought. Or maybe he has been supplying the island with supposedly designer merchandise for years making a fortune on phony designer items, and just maybe, finally, someone, probably Ruby and Roger, figured out what he was up to. He panicked and destroyed their store and all of their merchandise so they would have no proof of his crimes. What do you think?”
“I just don’t know. And what about that poor victim they found burnt in the attic? Does anyone even know who that might be? I still can’t get my mind around any diabolical schemes centering around our favorite vacation spot and our good friends.”
I had a vision of evil fiends skulking around in the dark with engraved lighters waiting for their chance to carry out an evil plot. Shaking my head and twisting my hair into a messy knot gave me a moment to rid myself of negative thoughts and consider the possibilities.
“Do you think Ruby and Roger could be in some kind of financial trouble?” I mused. “Maybe they had no choice except to buy the knock-offs and try to charge
full price for them.”
“It’s hard to say what people, even good ones, will do in a financial crisis. I guess it could happen. So, what do you think we should do, Francie? Do you have a magic wand or a crystal ball in that bag of yours? We need something to point us in the right direction. How are we going to find out who this guy is?”
“I say we lay a trap for him. We know he’s been following us. Let’s stick around here until he comes back. Then we can ambush him. I have some pepper spray somewhere in my purse, and I know you’ve been training with that good-looking instructor at the tae kwon do studio, if you could call that training… I’m sure that between the two of us and our super skills, we could hold that poorly dressed, ponytailed greaser down until we can call your Detective Morgan for backup.”
“He’s not mine yet, but here’s to hoping. From what I gather, he is unattached and available, and he is definitely too dreamy to be hiding away on that tiny little island all alone.”
“All right, Aphrodite, cool your toga! Do you think it’s doable? Can we actually pull this one off? Up until now, our track record hasn’t been all that great.”
“Well, we have to try to do something to end this nightmare. I can’t take one more day of this craziness, and I’m ready to give this everything I’ve got.”
“Me too. I can’t stand not knowing where Hamm is, and all of these fires and explosions are really starting to get old. Not to mention people passing out on the beach every day.”
Sunny Side Up (Lake Erie Mysteries Book 1) Page 17
