The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK®

by Deming, Richard

  The Princess II was moored in the third slip. It was only about a thirty-five footer, but it was a sleek, sturdy-looking craft which appeared as though it could weather any kind of seas. No one was on deck or in the wheelhouse.

  I climbed on deck, stuck my head down the single hatch behind the wheelhouse and yelled, “Anyone aboard?”

  A feminine voice from below called. “Be right up.”

  A moment later, a slim brunette of about twenty-five came up the ladder. She wore white Capris and a clinging white blouse that showed off a lithe, extremely feminine figure, thong sandals that exposed shapely feet with carmine toenails, and a white sailor hat. Her features were slightly irregular, her nose being a trifle aquiline and her chin line being a little short, but her face was so full of vitality and there was such an aura of femininity about her that she was beautiful, anyway. Lovely dark eyes, a suggestion of sensuality about her mouth, and a creamy suntan probably helped the general effect.

  I recognized her at once from news photos I had seen. Only a few months before, on her birthday, she had come into full control of an estimated fortune of twenty million dollars, which had been left to her in trust until she was twenty-five by her widower father, tin magnate Abel Matthews. Matthews had been dead about ten years, but until Peggy’s last birthday the terms of the trust fund had required her to struggle along on the piddling sum of about a hundred thousand a year. Now she was one of the richest women in the world.

  “Aren’t you Peggy Matthews?” I asked.

  “I was,” she said with a smile which exposed perfect white teeth. “I’ve been Mrs. Arden Trader for the last couple of days. Are you from the employment agency?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My names Dan Jackson.”

  She looked me up and down, and suddenly a peculiar expression formed on her face. Even now I can’t quite describe it, but if you can imagine a mixture of surprise and gladness and apprehension, that comes close.

  I think there must have been a similar expression on my face, except for the apprehension, because I was having an odd emotional reaction, too. Just like that, on first meeting, static electricity passed between us so strongly, it seemed to crackle like twin bolts of lightning.

  I still don’t believe there can be such a thing as love at first sight, but I learned at that instant that there can be an almost overpowering physical attraction between a man and a woman the first moment they look at each other. I had experienced it a few times in much milder form but never with this sort of thunderous impact.

  We stood staring at each other in mutual dismay, hers probably from guilt, mine because she was already married. It was incredible that this should happen with a bride of only two days, but it was happening. There was no question in my mind that my impact on her was as strong as hers on me.

  We gazed at each other for a long time without speaking. Finally, she said in a shaken voice, “Did the employment agency explain the job, Mr. Jackson?”

  I took my eyes from her face so that I could untangle my tongue. “I understand you need someone with navigational and marine engine experience to pilot the Princess II on a Caribbean cruise and also double as a cook.”

  She turned and looked out over the water. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “It’s to be a honeymoon cruise. My husband can pilot the boat all right, but he’s not a navigator and knows nothing about engines. Neither of us is a very good cook, either. Incidentally, our marriage is to remain a secret until after the honeymoon because we don’t want to be met by reporters at every port.”

  “All right,” I agreed, still not looking at her.

  I did risk a glance at her left hand, however. She was wearing both a diamond and a wedding band. I wondered how she expected to keep it a secret when people were bound to recognize her at every port of call. But that was none of my business.

  She suddenly became brisk and businesslike. “May I have your qualifications and vital statistics, Mr. Jackson?”

  “In that order?”

  “As you please.”

  “I’ll give you the vital statistics first,” I said. “Age thirty, height six-one, weight one ninety; single. Two years at Miami U. in liberal arts with a B average, then I ran out of money. My hobbies are all connected with water: swimming, boating, fishing, and as a chaser for rye whiskey. No current romantic entanglements.”

  “I’m surprised at the last,” she said. “You’re a very handsome man.”

  I decided to ignore that. It didn’t seem a good idea to involve myself as a third party on a honeymoon cruise if the situation were going to become explosive. I wanted to know right now if we were going to be able to suppress whatever it was that had sparked between us at the instant of meeting and keep our relationship on a strictly employer-employee basis.

  “Now for qualifications,” I said. “I did two years in the navy, the second one as chief engineer on a destroyer. I took an extension course in navigation and chart reading, intending to buck for a reserve commission, but changed my mind before my hitch was up. I finished the course, though, and am a pretty good navigator. I’m also an excellent marine mechanic. I had my own charter boat out of Miami Beach for two years. I lost it in moorage when Betsy hit, and there was only enough insurance to cover my debts, so I’ve been unable to finance another. Since then I’ve been odd-jobbing at any sea job I could get.”

  I looked directly into her face as I spoke, and she gazed back at me levelly. Whatever had caused the lightning to crackle between us was gone now, I was both disappointed and relieved to find. Her manner remained the brisk, almost brittle one of a businesswoman conducting a personnel interview. She still held an immense physical attraction for me, but now that she wasn’t sending out rays of static electricity, I wasn’t responding by sending them back.

  She asked, “How about your cooking ability?”

  “I’m no chef, but I’ve been cooking for myself for some years and have managed to remain healthy.”

  “That’s not too important so long as you’re adequate,” she said. “We’ll probably dine either with friends or in restaurants at our ports of call. You can furnish references, I presume?”

  “They’re on file at the employment office, which has already checked them. All you have to do is phone.”

  “Very well,” she said. “I think you’ll do, Mr. Jackson. The salary is five hundred dollars plus your keep for a one-month voyage. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll leave tomorrow morning about ten. Our first port will be Southwest Point in the Bahamas, which should only take about four hours because the Princess II cruises at twenty-one knots. I’ll outline the rest of the voyage after we’re under way. Now, would you like to look over the boat?”

  “Sure. Where’s Mr. Trader?”

  “Shopping for some last-minute supplies. We’ll start below with the engine.”

  I judged the boat to be a couple of years old, but it was in excellent shape. I started the engine and listened to it for a time, and it seemed to be in top condition. There was a separate generator engine for the lights when we were in port, and the main engine was idle.

  The galley was clean and shipshape, with an electric range and electric refrigerator, the latter well stocked with food. The food cabinet was well stocked with canned goods, also. There was a bunk room that slept four, and off it was a small head and a saltwater shower.

  Just she and her husband would occupy the bunk room, Peggy Trader explained. There was a leather-covered bench in the pilothouse which folded out into a fifth bunk, and I would sleep there.

  Her manner was entirely impersonal as she conducted the tour. Once, as we were moving from the bunk room into the galley, she accidentally crowded against me in the close quarters, but I sensed no reaction from her at the physical contact.

  She merely said politely,
“Excuse me,” and continued through the hatch.

  I knew the instantaneous physical attraction between us hadn’t been just my imagination, but apparently she had decided, after her one brief lapse, to bring the matter to a screeching halt. I couldn’t help feeling a bit rueful, but at the same time I was relieved. I needed the money badly enough so that I probably would have risked taking the job even if she had thrown herself into my arms, but I preferred not to break up a marriage before it was even fairly under way. If she could restrain herself, I knew I could.

  I reported aboard at nine the next morning. Peggy’s husband was present this time. Arden Trader was a lean, handsome man of thirty-five with dark, curly hair and a thin mustache. He had an Oxford accent and treated his bride with the fawning indulgence of a gigolo.

  Later, I learned he had been the penniless younger son of an equally penniless English duke and had been existing as one of those curious parasites of the international set who move from villa to villa of the rich as perennial house guests.

  I knew he was a fortune hunter the moment he flashed his white teeth and gave me a man-to-man handshake. I wondered why Peggy had allowed herself to be suckered into marrying him. I learned that afternoon.

  The plan for the cruise was to sail east to Southwest Point the first day, a distance of about a hundred miles. After a two-day layover, we would head for Nassau, and after a similar layover there, we would cruise to Governor’s Harbor. From there we would island hop to Puerto Rico, then hit the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Point Morant on the east tip of Jamaica, then head back northeast through Windward Passage to Port-de-Paix on the northern coast of Haiti.

  The last would be our longest single jump, a distance of about two hundred and fifty miles. With a cruising speed of twenty-one knots, we could make it in about ten hours, however, so no night sailing would be required during the whole voyage.

  After Port-de-Paix, we would touch at the island of Great Inagua, island hop from there back to Governor’s Harbor, then cruise nonstop back to Miami. With all our scheduled stops, ranging from one-day layovers to two or three days, we would spend more time in port than at sea during the one-month voyage.

  At noon the first day out, I called Arden Trader to take over the wheel while I went below to prepare lunch. When it was ready, as we were in no hurry, we cut the engine, threw out the sea anchor, and all lunched together.

  After lunch, I pulled in the sea anchor and got under way again. The sea was rolling a little, but it wasn’t rough, and the sun was shining brightly. We were clipping along at cruising speed when Peggy came into the wheelhouse wearing a red bikini swimsuit.

  “Arden wants to try a little fishing,” she said. “Will you cut to trolling speed for a while?”

  Obediently, I throttled down until we were barely moving. Glancing aft, I saw Arden Trader seated at the stern rail with a sea rod in his hands. Peggy made no move to go back and join him after delivering the message.

  “He probably won’t troll more than fifteen minutes if he doesn’t get a strike,” she said. “He bores rather easily.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She moved over next to me in order to look at the chart book lying open on the little ledge between the wheel and the pilothouse window. The nearness of her scantily clad body made my pulse start to hammer so hard I was afraid she could hear it.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  I pointed silently to a spot a little more than halfway between Miami and Southwest Point.

  She said. “We should be in by cocktail time, then, even if Arden decides to fish as long as an hour, shouldn’t we?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  There was no reason for her to remain where she was now that she had seen the chart, but she continued to stand so close that our arms nearly touched. I didn’t have on a shirt. In fact, I was wearing nothing but a pair of my old Navy dungarees and a visored yachting cap, not even shoes. She was so close I could feel the warmth of her body on my bare arm.

  Although the sea was fairly calm, our decreased headway caused the boat to roll slightly. One swell a little larger than the rest caused a heavier roll to port. Instinctively, I leaned into it, and at the same moment she lost her balance.

  She half turned as she fell against me. My right arm went around her waist to steady her as she grabbed for my shoulders. Her full bosom, covered only by the thin strip of the bikini halter, crushed against my bare chest. The bolts of lightning that crackled between us made that of yesterday morning seem like summer lightning. We remained rigid for several seconds, staring into each other’s faces. Her lips parted, and her eyes reflected the same mixture of surprise and gladness and dismay I had caught when we first glimpsed each other. Then she straightened away from me and glanced out the aft pilothouse window. I looked over my shoulder, too. Her husband was fishing with his back to us.

  “I shouldn’t have hired you,” she said quietly.

  I faced forward and gripped the wheel with both hands.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have when I did it,” she said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “We’ll head back for Miami tomorrow,” I said. “You can have the employment agency send you another man.”

  “No, I don’t want to. It’s too late.”

  With her gaze still on her husband, she readied out and gently squeezed my bicep. I tingled clear to my toes.

  “It’s ridiculous,” I said tightly. “You’re a bride of three days. You must be in love with him.”

  Her hand continued to caress my bicep. “I’m not going to try to explain it, Dan. I was in love with him until you came aboard yesterday. I took one look at you, and everything turned topsy-turvy. It did for you, too. I could see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your muscles right now.”

  “Stop it,” I said, keeping my gaze rigidly fixed ahead. “It’s impossible. Why did you marry him?”

  “Because I hadn’t met you,” she said simply.

  “That’s no answer. You must have been in love.”

  Her hand left my arm and dropped to her side. “I went into it with my eyes wide open,” she said. “I’ve had a hundred offers of marriage—women with money always do—but I’d given up ever finding the man I dreamed of. The rich ones were all fearfully dull, the charmers all fortune hunters. I’m twenty-five and tired of being single. I hardly needed a rich husband, so I decided to settle for a charmer. Arden has been pursuing me for a year. Last week at a house party in Mexico City, I gave in. We were married there, then flew to Miami to pick up my boat for a honeymoon cruise. On my second day as a new bride, I had, finally, to meet the man I’ve been looking for all my life.”

  I continued to grip the wheel and stare straight ahead. The whole situation was incredible. A series of wild thoughts ran through my mind.

  I’d always considered myself a confirmed bachelor, but suddenly the thought of having Peggy for a wife was so appealing, I’ve never wanted anything more. Her money had nothing to do with it, either. I would never marry for money because it had been my observation that men who do usually earn it. It had never occurred to me that I might fall in love with a rich woman.

  I wasn’t sure this was love, but no woman had ever held as strong a physical attraction for me, and I was sure I wanted to many her. And it was hardly a disadvantage that she was one of the richest women in the world. Would it be sensible to turn her down merely because a few villas scattered around the world, a few yachts and foreign cars went with the deal?

  Then the bubble popped. She already had a husband.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh. Do you plan an annulment?”

  “From Arden? Impossible. He would hold me up for a half million dollars.”

  “Can’t you afford it?”

  From th
e periphery of my vision, I could see her frown. “Nobody can afford to throw half a million dollars down a hole. My father spent too many years building his fortune for any of it to be tossed away capriciously. It’s not a matter of being able to afford it; it’s a matter of principle.”

  “Then I guess you’ll just have to stay married to him,” I said.

  There was a yell from the stern. “Strike!”

  I cut the engine and looked over my shoulder. Trader was straining back in his seat, and a hundred yards behind the boat a sailfish broke water.

  Peggy said, “We’ll postpone discussion until later,” and hurried aft to stand by with the gaff.

  There was no opportunity to resume discussion that day, however. Trader lost his fish, and it discouraged him from further fishing. He devoted his attention to his bride for the rest of the day.

  About five p.m. we berthed at Southwest Point. Trader and Peggy dressed and decided to go into the settlement for dinner. Trader invited me to go along, but I knew the invitation was only politeness, so I refused.

  I had a lonely meal and afterward sat on the stern rail smoking a cigarette. The night was warm enough so that I didn’t bother to put on any more than I had worn during the day. I had finished my cigarette but was still seated there bare-chested and barefooted when they returned about nine.

  Arden Trader had donned a white linen suit to go to dinner. Peggy had put on a dress but hadn’t bothered with stockings. She wore thong sandals on her bare feet.

  There were two inflated rubber mats with removable canvas back rests on the stern deck. Without the back rests you could lie full length on them for sunbathing. With the back rests in place, they made deck-level lounging chairs. Peggy sank onto the one right in front of me, leaned against the back rest, and kicked off her sandals.

  “Let’s enjoy the moonlight for a while,” she said to her husband. “How about a cigarette?”