SEAS THE DAY

by Maggie Toussaint

  “That’s your big heart talking, hon. In a few days, your favor for a friend escalated from a missing persons case to homicide. I’m worried about you and I don’t want you caught up in this deadly rip current.”

  “There’s no crime wave on Shell Island. No one else has been assaulted or gone missing. Only Chili and Estelle Bolz.”

  “Should I fly home? I can catch a red-eye to Jacksonville tonight.”

  At that I smiled. Pete Merrick hadn’t had a home in a long time. The fact that he considered me home meant the world to me. “I’m okay. My week is full, first with tutoring and with prepping for a Chamber dinner for a hundred people on Friday night. I won’t have time to ask questions or to spend every waking moment with you.”

  “Work is important, but you’re my priority. I’ve got key appointments this week that need finessing, but they can wait if you need me. Either way, I’m still planning on coming next week.”

  “That’s fine. I miss you.”

  “Miss you too.”

  Estelle’s death made the obituary page of the Tuesday paper. Her brief obit read like a death notice, announcing her funeral arrangements on Saturday. She’d been so much more than a woman who died. She loved her boys and her dry-cleaning business and playing bridge. None of that was mentioned.

  My hands curled in frustration. I wanted to help Estelle, but I needed to be more objective. Charging around blindly wouldn’t help either of us. Maybe the cops found traceable evidence in her house. Maybe they were close to catching her killer.

  A call to Lance netted a terse reply that he was busy and had nothing to share. That was disappointing, so I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies.

  At tutoring that afternoon, I enjoyed hanging out with the fourth graders and feeling like a positive role model. Later, I worked in my commercial kitchen, staging food for Friday’s catering event at the Chamber by prepping baked beans, making a gallon of my barbeque sauce, and preparing more of the twelve desserts they’d ordered. I already had seven smoked Boston Butts in the freezer for the dinner, so the rest of the meal could be prepped later in the week.

  Meanwhile, I inched closer to touching the black cat who now appeared on my deck for breakfast and dinner each day. His approach to eating reminded me of a SWAT maneuver. He watched me leave, swarmed down on the food, inhaled it, and bugged out. Sometimes, though, he lingered on the deck with me.

  I tried out more cat names in my head but nothing felt right. I’d never had an outdoor cat before. Seemed like he should trust me by now if he wanted to be my cat. Yet he sniffed every meal like I’d poisoned him. What a major pain. Wait a minute. That was a great idea for his name.

  “You like the food, Major?” I asked on Wednesday evening. “You want more?”

  He gazed at me intently. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand cat telepathy. “Major. That’s what I’ll call you. You are strategic and autocratic. You stayed put when I sat here with you, so you’re brave. I’m calling you Major.”

  Major drowsed in a pool of sunshine, his eyelids at half-mast, and purred.

  A victory! This was the first time he’d purred in my presence. The triumph made me giddy. I’d done something right. I made one kitty happy. After several days of regular meals, his coat gleamed, his tail reached higher.

  Now if I could achieve the same satisfaction with the Bolz family’s troubles, I’d be overjoyed. I still had no idea of Chili’s whereabouts, or if he was even alive. Estelle’s death felt surreal. I wanted to help them but how?

  On Thursday, I tutored kids in the morning. Before I jumped into baking again, I drove to the church where the bridge club met, bringing along a packet of my toasted almond cookies from the freezer. Mom’s friends were delighted to see me and the treats. Their white heads and faces blurred as they hugged me and reminisced about the good old days.

  When I got a moment to speak, I said, “I’m so sorry about Estelle’s death.”

  “It’s terrible,” Lizzie Collins said, wringing her hands. “We had the same members for ten years, and within a few months two are gone. The universe has it in for bridge ladies.”

  “Sure does,” Nance Alvarez said. Her watery violet gaze turned sharp. “We have openings and we don’t want to fill them. Unless…Would you join us, River? You’d fit right in.”

  “Oh!” I sucked wind big time, not expecting this wrinkle. “My catering schedule is too variable, and that wouldn’t be fair to you ladies. However, my brother could substitute for you when he returns from trade school. He intends to open his own handyman business and will have free time while he’s getting established.”

  “Your Mom used to brag about how good a bridge player Doug was,” Lizzie said. “Of course, he can join. It’ll be like having your mom with us again.”

  Doug would be surprised, but everyone was smiling again. “One more thing before I go. I was with Estelle before she died, and she mentioned bridge. Specifically, she said ‘check bridge.’ Does that mean anything to y’all?”

  A dozen ladies shook their heads.

  I tried again. “Did she owe a check for bridge or is there a certain check variation of bridge y’all play?”

  “Nope,” Lizzie said. “We pay our dues in September, and everyone is caught up. Never heard the phrase ‘check bridge.’ We play duplicate here.”

  Having struck out with the bridge club, I visited Estelle’s church, The Place for Prayer, to see if I could help with her funeral on Saturday. The doors were locked tight, the parking lot deserted, and the phone number for the office bounced straight to voicemail. Bummer.

  On my way home, I stopped by the Flower and Garden Shop and purchased a potted azalea for Estelle to be delivered to the church. Then it was on to my commercial kitchen to bake two pound cakes, two apple pies, and two peach pies. For the peach pies, I used the fresh peaches I’d canned last summer. The kitchen smelled like cake and sweet cinnamon all afternoon.

  Afterward, I glanced around my home and realized I wanted to be proactive for Estelle and Chili today. With Estelle’s passing so raw, my first choice was to circle back to finding her son. Lance told me earlier that he’d searched Chili’s place, vehicle, and boat. Though the cops had Chili’s truck, I’d found no clues to his disappearance in his place, so his boat was the only place left I could search. A check of the time showed I could squeeze in a quick trip to Bayside Marina where he kept the boat.

  Mom’s car hadn’t been run in a while. I should drive it. But when I went to get into her old Buick, Major sat on the hood of the vehicle, unflinching.

  “You are not a hood ornament, kitty,” I said, shooing him with repeated flips of my wrist. “Move along.”

  He regarded me steadily, jumped down, and skittered behind me. When I opened the door, he rushed inside, jumped over the seat, and perched on the backseat.

  Traveling with a potentially feral cat inside a vehicle struck me as a bad idea. I opened the rear door and tried my best to get him to leave. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Nothing. “Major, get out of the car.” More nothing. He wouldn’t even look my way.

  Dare I lift him out? I approached cautiously, reaching with my right hand for the kitty. I got to within a foot of him, and he hissed at me. Message received. He intended to ride in the car.

  I closed the door and took a moment to regroup. I had been in and out of my van all week, and the cat had shown no interest. Now, when I was headed to the marina in Mom’s Buick, the cat wanted to come? Had to be coincidence. Right?

  Lordy, I’d been around this cat for almost a week and already I was thinking it knew more about Shell Island than I did. This had to be the quickest transformation to Crazy Cat Lady the world had ever seen.

  So, traveling with a cat. Not knowing how this would go, it seemed prudent to lower the windows in case the cat changed his mind. Moving slowly, I got in the car, cranked it, and powered down the windows. The radio cam
e on and the cat never flinched. It sat upright on the backseat as if it were his command post.

  “Okay, here we go.” And yes, I was now talking to the cat too. “We’re headed to the marina to look at Chili’s boat. I’m familiar with it, so I hope I’ll spot something different about it. Maybe there is a clue to his disappearance.”

  The cat lay down until the car stopped at Bayside Marina. Then he rose, sniffed the air, and leapt out the open window. I thought about calling him back, not wanting him to get lost, but what did I know about this cat? He may know the marina better than I did.

  The sun inched toward the western treetops as the time neared four o’clock. Folks with kids were meeting buses or running the kids around to activities this time of day, which is probably why the marina appeared deserted. I parked near the gangway, the only car in the lot beside the shiny truck over at the office. I grabbed my purse and walked dead center on the dock.

  Having been here before, I knew where Chili docked, and I soon found his boat, Reel Fine. My first impression was of tidiness. The fishing poles and a net were slotted in holders around the console, and oars were lashed to the interior sides. The anchors were stowed away. No extra seat cushions or empty buckets littered the fiberglass seats or deck.

  Nothing cluttered the console. The chrome gauges and rails gleamed. The white expanse of boat decking looked showroom clean.

  When I’d seen Chili’s boat before, it had empty soda cans in a five-gallon bucket, a map clipped to the console, a GPS on the console dash…that was missing. “Now that’s interesting,” I said, talking to myself. “The way those things work, you can track where the boat has been. Did someone steal the boat’s GPS? Or did the cops take it into custody? Either way, it’s something I should ask Deputy Hamlyn.”

  Major meowed loudly, then jumped into the boat. His landing thump startled me, and if not for grabbing a piling, I would’ve fallen overboard. “You scared me, Major. Did you know Chili?”

  The cat seemed to be sniffing, so I sniffed. The odor of saltwater prevailed, but I didn’t smell fish. Every other time I’d met Chili at Bayside, his boat had reeked of fish, bait, and marine fuel. Now it smelled squeaky clean.

  Chili liked things tidy, but he’d never before gone to this level of OCD cleanliness. Odd. Why would the boat be so clean? To erase evidence? There was a good chance something happened on this boat, given its state of uber cleanliness and the missing GPS.

  The afternoon sun beat down on me, reminding me that the mild spring-like temperatures of March would soon yield to intense summer heat. Who would I report my findings to? Estelle was dead. Deputy Lance Hamlyn told me to butt out. Even Pete wanted me to drop the case.

  The cat leapt out of the boat and bounded up the gangway. Obviously, he was done here. I followed the cat off the dock, but I wasn’t ready to go home.

  A light inside the marina office drew my eye. Not much went on here that the dockmaster didn’t know about. I hurried toward the office.

  Chapter Eleven

  “River Holloway, as I live and breathe,” Garnet Pierce said, enveloping me in a friendly hug. “Haven’t seen you in months. What brings you to the marina? Looking for some fish?”

  The dockmaster’s tan cargo pants and turquoise polo reeked of cigarette smoke. I held my breath during the embrace, until I couldn’t any longer, then got a whiff of her cinnamon-candy breath as she disengaged. Garnet had the misfortune of having a man’s rugged jaw and fierce brow, and no amount of makeup could mask those features or her masculine build. Consequently, she accepted it and dressed like a man. Even her hair was cut military short.

  Garnet’s only concessions to femininity were her dainty gold hoop earrings and her French-style manicure. Strangers often didn’t know what to make of her, but Garnet didn’t give a flip about anybody’s opinion. This was her domain.

  There was an earthy smell in here from the live worm bin and a fishy overture from the aerated bait shrimp in the far corner. The aisles were crammed with fishing lines, rods, nets, lures, boat supplies, clothing, and snacks.

  “Don’t need fish today,” I said, “though I’m concerned that Chili Bolz is missing. He was supposed to hook me up with sea bass last Friday. He vanished last Tuesday. You know anything about his disappearance?”

  Garnet ambled behind the sales counter, taking a moment to reposition the artificial lure rack she’d brushed up against. “I told the cops everything I knew. Chili was here in the office on Tuesday when you called about the fish you needed for Friday. After he lit out, I didn’t see him again. What’s the deal, gal? You turning into a private eye?”

  “Chili and I have been friends since forever because our moms were friends. Estelle called me last Friday and asked me to find him. She said the cops weren’t getting anywhere.”

  “That’s true,” Garnet said. “If Lance Hamlyn had half the brains he thinks he has, he would’ve solved this case last week. Chili couldn’t have gone far. His boat’s here, his truck’s locked up in evidence.”

  “I heard the same, but there has to be more information. I’m trying to determine if there’s anything that might seem normal to the cops, but a little off to people who knew Chili. Like did he have any new friends or get in arguments with anyone at the marina?”

  Garnet’s chair creaked as she eased into it. “That Chili. He could charm the pants off all his charter clients, especially the women. They thought he was their best friend, but most of the time, Chili came down here and kept to himself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I took his silence as a personal challenge. I’d get him talking when he came in to pay his fuel bill. Mostly he griped about unreliable crew on his charters. It was his favorite refrain, how nobody in this county wanted to work for a living. He viewed the influx of retirees and tourists as fodder for his business, and he held everyone else in contempt. He thought the world of you, though, and of your cooking. If you’d had sea legs, he would’ve asked you to crew for him.”

  “I don’t,” I said quickly. “Have sea legs. Offshore fishing is not my thing, much as I need work. I’d rather sit in meetings all day than be stuck on a boat, and I hate time-wasting meetings. I’ve got to stay busy to pay my bills. Getting back to Chili’s charter business. Was it steady? Did he have repeat customers?”

  “He did. There’s folks who will only fish with Chili. He did that, made himself the gold standard for local charter captains.”

  “Surely his calendar didn’t end the day he disappeared. Doesn’t he have clients scheduled?”

  “He kept his calendar on that phone of his, so I wouldn’t know. He did mention some high roller clients were coming soon. He wanted everything perfect for them.”

  “In what way?”

  “In every way. Chili loved big tips. To make sure he got them, he expected fresh bait, blue skies, primo marine gas, gourmet lunches, coolers stocked with beer, sodas, and water, and a big haul.”

  I loved big tips too. Who didn’t? Was Garnet being helpful or wasting my time? I tried again. “He aimed high all right. Were those expectations a problem for him?”

  “All of them, though he counted on those shrimp paste wraps and chocolate chip cookies you made for those charters to seal the deal. Between you and me, he took credit for your food. Didn’t you ever wonder why you never got catering requests from his customers?”

  My smile tightened. “I’m happy to see him succeed, and he paid me well for the charter meals.”

  “Um hmm.”

  I blew out a huff of air. Did the cops find questioning people this difficult? So far, Garnet had tried to impress me with how on top of things she was. I had two questions for her.

  “About his boat,” I began. “I noticed how tidy and clean it is. I’ve seen the Reel Fine on various occasions, and it didn’t meet this cleanliness standard. You know anything about that?”

  “Well, sure,” Garnet said
, leaning back in her Boss Hog chair. “He hired me to pressure wash it for him when he was in here last Tuesday. Said the whales expected top of the line service, and he was darn well providing it.”

  That made sense. My hopes plunged. “What happened to his GPS?”

  “Cops took it into evidence, along with all the papers on his boat.”

  “He have any charters this week?”

  “Nope.”

  “I feel bad for Chili. Those clients will be disappointed when he doesn’t show. They might leave bad reviews for him online. I wish we could help him somehow.”

  “See if Lance will let you use Chili’s phone and notify his customers. I’m sure Chili would appreciate the courtesy.”

  “Deputy Hamlyn already told me to butt out of his case. He isn’t helpful.”

  “It’s his job to be helpful.”

  “Maybe.” I glanced over at the T-shirt rack and beyond that to the exit before looking at Garnet again. “I should go. Thank you for answering my questions. I owe it to Estelle to keep asking questions about Chili.”

  “Be careful. You stick your nose in the wrong place, and you’re likely to get shark-bit.”

  Her cautionary words sounded harsh. “Not a problem since I’m fresh out of ideas. You going to Estelle’s funeral on Saturday?”

  “Nope. Gotta work. Saturdays are busy around here.”

  “All right then. If you remember anything about Chili, please let me know.” I handed her my business card. A glance out the door confirmed what I suspected. Major perched atop Mom’s old Buick.

  Garnet nodded toward the black cat. “Quite the statement your cat is making.”

  It felt good to hear someone say Major was my cat. “I’m his meal ticket. This is the first time we’ve gone anywhere together. He showed up on my back porch a few days ago, demanded food, and settled right in. You recognize him?”

  Garnet pursed her lips for a long moment. “We had a black cat around here for a while. I haven’t seen him for months.”