by Clover Tate
“Mayday, Mayday,” I gasped into the radio’s crackle. “Please. Someone help.”
I edged the dial forward another stop and tried again. I held in the button on the handset and said, “Mayday, Mayday.”
No response. Again I edged the dial forward. The sea was gunmetal gray with white-tipped waves, and the yacht was really beginning to rock. I steadied myself against the cabin wall.
“Mayday,” I said into the handset. I glanced through the window behind me. Dustin had somehow got himself into a standing position and leaned against the cabin’s wall. He looked straight at me and, moving heel to toe, edged closer. I put a hand on my middle to calm my stomach.
“Help!” I yelled into the radio. I swore under my breath. Even if I went into the cabin—which I did not want to do—and beaned Dustin again with a guitar, I had no idea where we were. We could drift until we reached Polynesia. I found a wrench under the captain’s chair and held it in one hand.
Breathing quickly, I clicked the dial forward again, and again got nothing but static.
At a knock on the window behind me, I dropped the handset. It dangled from the dashboard by its curled gray cord. Dustin’s face was just inches away.
“Emmy,” he said. With the roar of the storm, I more read his lips than heard his voice.
“What?” I yelled.
“You’re right.” His voice came through more clearly now. “Let me help you get the yacht to shore.”
The handset bumped against the console as a wave heaved the yacht. Dustin braced himself against the wall. Bright orange nylon still bound his wrists.
What should I do? I was helpless without him. But I couldn’t trust him. Tears had dried under his reddened eyes.
“Please,” he said. “You’re right.” He raised his bound wrists. “I can’t very well do anything to hurt you like this.”
I glanced at the console, then back again at Dustin. Static crackled from the radio’s handset. I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. “All right.” I unlocked the door between us, and Dustin hobbled in. “You stay back.” Keeping the wrench in one hand, I grabbed the radio handset with the other. “How do I get help?”
He seemed calmer. He’d managed to wedge himself between the bench and the doorframe so he could withstand the yacht’s rocking. “That radio won’t work. You have to use the new one. The digital radio. It’s under the dashboard.”
I followed his gaze to a black radio mounted below the steering wheel. He wasn’t making any motions to get in my way. “And?”
“Turn it on. You might get some squelch. Just dial back the knob in the corner until it goes away. Then tune in to channel 16. That’s the marine distress channel.”
Facing him to make sure he didn’t move, I flicked on the radio. A low static rumbled, and, as Dustin instructed, I dialed it down. Then I pushed the down arrows to 16.
Dustin nodded. “Now you use the handset. Be sure to identify the yacht.”
“Mayday, Mayday.” My voice trembled. “This is the Claire de Lune.”
A voice came through. “Is this Emmy Adler?”
Tears strained at my eyes and closed my throat. “Yes,” I croaked. “Can you hear me? Who are you?”
“This is the coast guard. What are your coordinates?”
I started to laugh, and the laughter turned to tears before I could form words. “I have no idea.”
“We’re getting a reading from your cell phone and triangulating. Hold the channel.”
Dustin lunged toward me and ripped the handset by its cord from my hands. He jammed his elbow into my chest, leaving me doubled over in pain. The wrench skittered across the floor.
“There’s no need for a rescue, sir,” Dustin said into the radio, his voice freakishly calm. “It’s just a joke. Sorry for the trouble.”
From the floor, I saw what I’d missed all along. His feet were free. He’d waited for a moment when I wasn’t paying attention to blindside me.
“You,” he said, towering over me, “are going to get some fresh air.”
chapter thirty-four
Dustin grasped the doorknob with bound hands and yanked it open. I swiveled to stand, but before I fully rose he used both arms to push me outside. I had the presence of mind to grasp his legs, and we both toppled to the rain-slickened deck.
I scrambled to my feet and ran down the deck. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The yacht lurched, sending me slamming against the cabin, then back toward the rail. I clutched the rail and continued around the rear of the boat—starboard? Port? I had no idea. A light winked in the distance. The coast guard? I reached the cabin door and pulled, but it didn’t give. He’d locked it from the inside.
The yacht churned violently, whitecaps washing over its deck. Rain lashed my face and pasted my hair to my neck.
Dustin’s footsteps followed me. He had to walk more carefully, since his wrists were bound and he couldn’t use his arms for balance, but there was no reason for him to rush. And no place for me to go. I knew his plans. I crouched to my most stable position.
He was getting closer. The storm raged around him, but he seemed curiously untouched. A wave taller than the yacht’s side rammed into us, sending water over the deck. Again, I hit the cabin’s wall, but Dustin remained steady on his feet. Until the yacht rebounded, and he slipped, hitting the railing and dropping over the side.
Without thinking, I dove after him and managed to grab his wrists. The rest of him dangled over the whitecaps. Using my feet as leverage, I leaned back and held tight. Dustin yelled in wordless fear as he dangled from the deck’s lip. I wouldn’t let go. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold him. My arms and back already quivered with effort. Every bounce of the yacht was a threat to my precarious grasp.
“I’m going to lean back,” I yelled above the storm. “Use your feet. Boost yourself up.” It was the only way to save him.
He didn’t respond. Using every fiber of strength I had left, I heaved my body back and pulled at his wrists. Just as I teetered on the brink of letting go, my burden eased. The yacht tossed back to help me. I pulled Dustin onto the deck. He lay on his back, spitting out water and gasping.
“Here!” I yelled to the open ocean. Ridiculous. No one could see me in this storm. Dustin showed no sign of moving. “Here!” I shouted until I was hoarse. And then: “What?”
Emerging from the rain wasn’t the mighty coast guard vessel I’d expected, but Ace’s old bucket clanging bells. Stella appeared on the stern with a rifle across her chest. Stella and Ace?
“Stella!” I yelled. The boat was visible, but not anywhere near enough to throw a rope.
And then the chop-chop-chop of a helicopter sounded overhead. A beam of light pierced the rain. A boat with a whopper of a gun in front drilled white waves through the surf as it sped toward us.
“We’re coming on deck,” a voice boomed.
Wet, cold, and desperately grateful, I burst into tears.
* * *
• • •
The coast guard got Dustin, and I went with Ace and Stella.
At first, the coast guard’s officers had swarmed the yacht like black-suited ninjas, tossing rope ladders and clambering in military formation. I stood, mouth gaping.
Incredibly, Glenn stood on the coast guard’s boat with a bullhorn. “Is the victim safe?”
“I’m fine,” I yelled. “Now that you’re here.”
A uniformed man yanked the bullhorn from Glenn’s hands. God bless him. I pledged to donate ten percent of the next year’s earnings to Dad’s Watergate reenactment club.
Sheriff Koppen leapt aboard Ace’s boat in a move I would have appreciated more had I not been emotionally wrung dry. Ace’s boat edged near the Claire de Lune, and two officers handed me over. Stella wrapped me in a wool blanket and led me into the cabin.
Ace’s cat Yin somehow knew I needed some love
and perched in my lap, purring. Yang wound near my feet. Stella pressed a mug of something warm into my hands.
“How did you know where I was?” I asked.
“It was Ace. He figured it out,” Stella said. Ace and Stella stood unnaturally close together. They weren’t even scowling at each other.
“I couldn’t have done it without Stella,” Ace said.
Ace moved toward the wheel. Stella joined me on the vinyl couch behind him. The storm lashed around us, but inside was warm and dry.
“I didn’t know this boat could actually leave the dock,” I said.
“Oh, sure. She’s seaworthy. Doesn’t get much of a chance to take a spin, but I keep her in good shape,” Ace said, tipping the wheel slightly to the right. Sheriff Koppen joined Stella and me on the couch.
“I saw the note you left me about visiting Dustin,” Stella said. “I didn’t think a thing about it. Then Ace showed up to deal with your leak.”
I caught a hint of irritation in her voice. “But how did you know I was in danger?”
“Ace mentioned seeing the yacht come to dock the night Allison died,” Stella said.
“I was tending the cats,” Ace said. “Then Stella told me the yacht wasn’t supposed to have arrived until the next afternoon.”
“We called Sheriff Koppen and went to the marina.”
“And saw that the yacht had left harbor,” Ace said. “Not good.”
“But that was hours ago,” I said. Or was it? It was still day, but the sun hung low behind the clouds.
“Emmy,” Sheriff Koppen said, “why did you go to see Dustin?”
“I thought he could help me catch Matt.” I was too tired to worry about my ego. For goodness’ sake, I’d just fought off a murderer, then saved his life. “I thought Matt killed Gus Butler and then Allison so he could buy the farm’s land.”
“When Ace called me, I knew something was up,” the sheriff said. “We’d already been following up on Matt. His alibi was solid for the night of Allison’s death.”
“I know you’re right.” Boy, did I. “But I saw photographs of Matt walking at the forest’s edge. He’d said he was at the winery all day.”
“He told me the same thing. Later, when I followed up, he came clean. He was there. At the forest’s edge. He was taking the shortcut to the farm. But he had reasons.”
“Like?” Yin was purring so hard that she drooled. I had to kiss her between her ears. I still couldn’t believe that I was safe, that Dustin and I were separated by a steadily increasing stretch of ocean.
“He knew there was history between the Orrs and the Butlers. He wanted to know more about Rosa and her family. He’d been visiting her every Thursday for weeks.”
I spread my fingers in Yin’s fur and let them rest. Of course. I remembered Matt and Rosa’s connection at dinner that night. Matt was innocent. I knew that for sure now. I owed him a giant apology. “Oh.”
“When I found out you’d gone to Dustin’s yacht,” the sheriff said, “I was worried. When I saw that the yacht had left its slip, I was really worried. I called the coast guard.”
“Did you suspect Dustin?”
“I told you we were following up all leads, Emmy,” the sheriff said. Then, with a softer voice, “Yes. We’d just tracked down the crew member he’d hired to sail with him from California. He said he’d dropped Dustin in Rock Point the night Allison was murdered, then docked in Newport until the next afternoon, on Dustin’s orders.”
And now the coast guard was speeding away with Dustin, probably toward Astoria. I remembered Glenn at the helm. “You weren’t the only person who called the coast guard, were you?”
Sheriff Koppen laughed. He didn’t laugh often, and it caught me off guard. “No. So, your Dad belongs to a Watergate reenactment group?”
“Sure,” I said.
“It turns out that one of them used to be in the coast guard. They were looking for Bear for part of their act. They stopped by Strings Attached to fetch the dog, then found out that you were at sea. Ace talked to them.”
Ace dropped his head. “I might have filled him in.”
“I called the coast guard with an official request,” Sheriff Koppen said, “but your father’s friend Glenn made sure they wasted no time sending out a rescue boat.”
At last, I lifted the mug of tea to my lips. I was surprised to find I was hungry, too. “Will we be home soon?”
“It’s not over, Emmy,” Sheriff Koppen said.
“Look,” Stella said. “There’s the Rock Point lighthouse just on the horizon.”
chapter thirty-five
Land. Not exactly dry land, thanks to Oregon’s climate, but land all the same. And stable footing, and home. And Jack. I didn’t care if I ever saw a yacht again.
Dad’s Watergate reenactment club, including Glenn, had unwillingly receded. Glenn had announced that the coast guard’s work was done, and, with a flourish, waved everyone into the background.
That left Jack and me, and we were sitting in my apartment on a bona fide couch. My parents had hauled it in that morning. Sure, it was from Aunt Belinda’s old living room set and sported mint green brocade, but it was built like a tank and surprisingly comfortable. I was mostly dry, but I knew my hair flew up in frizzy curls. Jack didn’t seem to notice. He handed me a mug of tea, just as Stella had on the boat.
“Drink up,” he said. “You have a whole half hour to relax before your parents arrive.” Sunny had agreed to hold them at bay until dinner later.
“You’re free,” I said. “They’re not going to arrest you now.”
“I know.” He draped a blanket over my lap. “Thank you.”
“That’s not why I said that,” I added quickly. I pulled my feet under the blanket and sank against the couch’s back. “I guess I’m simply happy. It’s what I wanted.”
“Thank you,” Jack repeated. He removed the mug from my hands and enclosed my fingers in his and pressed them, as if to make sure they were warm. “Thank you.” This time, he whispered.
It was so relaxing like this, with my hand in Jack’s, the ocean churning outside, my mind settling for the first time in a week. “I suspected Matt, and I feel awful about it.”
“You were wrong about him, true, but you were right that our families need to get to know each other better.”
I leaned my head on Jack’s shoulder. “He’s doing so much with the winery, and his tasting room really is gorgeous. I bet the reporter from Sunrise magazine would be interested. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Jack ruffled my hair and kissed my cheek.
“Dustin told me he was going to marry Claire,” I said. “Do you think she knew?”
He rubbed my hands again. “She might have said yes, but I don’t know. She seemed to have been backing off these past few days. Did you get that feeling?”
I remembered returning to Rock Point with her after visiting the farm, and how she’d gone straight to Avery’s house, not Dustin’s yacht. “You might be right.”
“Isn’t it funny? Claire and Dustin, blown apart. But Stella and Ace . . . ,” Jack said.
“What’s going on there?” I asked.
“The city council election isn’t until tomorrow. But they seem to have some kind of peace. They even said something about having dinner together.”
“Imagine that.” Now I leaned back. “Maybe they weren’t so far apart after all.”
“Maybe not.”
The apartment was quiet. I knew the sea roared outside, but I didn’t want to open the window to hear it. The ocean and I were done for the moment, although we’d soon return to each other, I knew, for regular confidences and long walks.
“What about us?” I whispered.
“We’ll figure it out. Right, Emmy?”
“But what about the farm? You love it. I know you do.”
The ra
in pounded the roof. Ace’s mending held, and the apartment was dry and warm. All it needed was a bit more furniture. And Jack. I almost didn’t want to hear what he’d say.
“I haven’t worked all that out yet. You know, Matt doesn’t have to own the land to have the grapes. With his help, I could replant that slope with pinot noir, then sell the grapes to him. Our families have years of making up to do.”
“Right,” I said. The rain blew in hard thrusts against the French doors. “But what about us? McMinnville is a long drive.”
“Whatever happens, Emmy, I want you to be part of it.”
I leaned against Jack and looked out the window at the roiling sea.
“We’ll figure it out.”
about the author
Clover Tate is a former congressional investigator and the author of the Kite Shop Mysteries, including Blown Away and Live and Let Fly.
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