A Time to Swill

by Sherry Harris

  However, I could thank them for my love of running and reading. I ran to get away from them and I read to escape them. Now, when they reverted to teasing me, their wives jumped down their throats. I backed away from Rip’s boat, knocked over a tin pail, and used the noise to cover me running back down the walkway. I ran all the way to my car without looking back. After berating myself, I shook off the insecurities and refocused on the larger problems at hand. Hopefully, at the library tomorrow I’d find some answers.

  * * *

  At five after ten Saturday morning I was sitting on the floor of the children’s section of the Emerald Cove Library with an eight-year-old named Dash and six other kids. The library used to be a one-room schoolhouse. It looked like it from the outside, with its white-clapboard siding and bell tower. It wasn’t hard to imagine a woman in long skirts with an apron tugging the bell chord, letting kids know it was time for school to start. Inside was cozy, with old wooden bookshelves and the smell of much-loved books. It was one block off the town circle. I felt at home here. Maybe they’d let me move in if Steve’s will was legal.

  “I was named for Dashiell Hammett,” he informed me. “My parents are both crime fiction writers.”

  Dashiell Hammett was the author who’d created iconic characters including Sam Spade and Nick and Nora Charles. “That is an awesome name,” I said.

  Dash and the other kids had come to hear me read. We were reading Upside-Down Magic, the first book in the Upside-Down Magic series. The story was about Nory, Elliott, Andres, and Bax, who went to a magic school, and things didn’t always go as planned. Boy, did that sound like my life. They find out that they need to learn a different way from their peers, but that didn’t mean they were less intelligent than their classmates. I loved this book and was thrilled to share it with the kids.

  After I read part of the book I explained that the library only had one copy and it wasn’t available to be checked out until I read them the whole story. Parents rushed forward anyway. One parent tried to snatch the book out of my hand. Fortunately—or maybe unfortunately—I was ready for this. I’d seen it time and again. I explained as patiently as I could that this was the only copy. Then I pointed to a cart, where I’d set up books about magic and similar themes. Everyone rushed over to them. Thank heavens I had come in early and done that.

  Dash, on the other hand, asked me if we had The Mystery of the Whispering Mummy. It was the third book in The Three Investigators series. The books were originally written in the mid-1960s but had been rereleased in the 1990s. I’d read them even though they had scared me.

  “Let’s go see if any are on the shelf,” I said. Amazingly, we found one. Dash and I high-fived.

  “Are there any more?” he asked.

  We searched along the shelf. I knew the children’s librarians at most libraries had to spend a lot of time reshelving books because things got moved around a lot. My library in Chicago had carts out for people to put books back on, but not everyone used them.

  “I don’t see any,” I said. “I’ll see if we can do an interlibrary loan, okay?”

  “That would be great. Thanks, Miss Chloe.”

  I watched Dash walk off with his book tucked under his arm. He turned and waved. This was what I’d loved about working at the library—that smile was a reward for a job well done. If only the rest of my life was as simple.

  * * *

  I had a few minutes before I had to leave, so I decided to go through the microfilms of the Emerald Cove Daily. Because of the high cost of digitization and the labor associated with indexing and scanning newspapers, most historic newspapers and documents were available in just one format: microfilm. I wanted to check news-paper articles from the sixties to see what more I could find about the problems Delores had when she was young. And I wanted to find out more about the people who’d disappeared on the Fair Winds.

  Maybe there was some connection between Delores’s troubles and Raquel’s disappearance all those years later. As much as I didn’t want Delores to be a bad person, if she had problems, they were worth looking in to. People who’d lived here a long time might not be willing or able to see that.

  I found the appropriate film and ran it to the place where I thought any articles might be. I wasn’t getting much new information, just a confirmation of what Ralph had said. There were calls about a house being egged, one minor female was questioned but not taken into custody. Then I found a more serious allegation. Delores had been caught tampering with the engine of the boat Raquel’s family owned. I sat back in shock.

  That Raquel had later died on a boat that might have been tampered with didn’t bode well for Delores. The family didn’t end up filing charges, but Delores had had to pay for the damage. I took that film back, still shaken by what I’d read, but the Delores I knew would never do something like that now. It made it more urgent that I help her and Ralph.

  I sat down at one of the library’s computers and started another search. This time using Raquel’s name. I kept glancing at the clock as it ticked nearer to eleven. I decided a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

  Again I wasn’t finding much I didn’t already know. Until I did.

  CHAPTER 21

  Each one of the people who’d disappeared that night had had some brush with the law. The information was part of a follow-up article about them from about five years ago. Raquel had been caught shoplifting at Dillard’s in Fort Walton Beach. Cartland had a DUI on a boat on Choctawhatchee Bay. Susan trespassed and Blake wrote a bad check. It was all a long time ago. I couldn’t find anything else on any of the incidents, so I reluctantly left. I needed to find out more about each of these people, but first I had to work.

  * * *

  I scurried into the Sea Glass at eleven fifteen. Thankfully, things were slow and Joaquín had things under control.

  “Oh, you did all the grunt work,” I said when I realized the fruit was cut and the barstools were all down.

  “Believe it or not, this place ran even before you showed up. And in the bartending profession we actually call that the barback work.”

  “Unless I do it? Then it’s grunt work?” But I smiled to show I was teasing. “I guess I’ll just put my feet up and read, then.”

  “Right after you help that group that just settled out on the deck,” Joaquín said.

  I went out and took orders, trying to pay close attention while my mind worked on the sticky knot of the four people who disappeared on the Fair Winds. I handed the order to Joaquín to fill. It seemed likely to me that maybe their family members had some motive for wanting one of them to disappear. The others might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Chloe?” Joaquín asked. “Are you here with me?”

  I snapped back to the real world. “Of course. Right here.”

  “I told you a few seconds ago that the order was ready, and normally you fill the beer and wine orders.”

  I looked at the tray of drinks Joaquín pointed at. Two beers, two glasses of Pinot Grigio, and a boxcar—whatever that was. “Oh, sorry. I’m just a bit distracted. I’ll tell you about it in a minute.” I picked up the tray and hurried out to our customers. I set two of the drinks in front of the wrong people, which wasn’t something I usually did. I apologized and admonished myself to get my head in the game. Joaquín and I shared tips and I didn’t want my being distracted to hurt his income.

  I went back in, poured some peanuts in the shell into a bowl, and carried them out. “These are on the house.” We usually only handed out peanuts if someone asked for them. Sometimes they were in the shell and sometimes they weren’t. I guess it depended on what was on sale. “You can just toss the shells on the deck.” It would be a mess to clean up, but if it made this group happy, I wouldn’t mind the extra sweeping. I also put an empty bowl on the table. “Or you can put the shells in here.”

  We were so busy that I didn’t have a chance to tell Joaquin anything. Ann Williams came in for a bit before noon.

&nb
sp; Thank heavens. I had questions. “What can I get you?”

  “Iced tea, please.” She pulled a book out of her large black bag and started reading.

  After I poured her tea and put it at her elbow, I finally got to talk to her. “Did you find out anything about the red boat?”

  She closed her book. “I found five people who own red boats between Emerald Cove and Destin. None of them were out on the water that day because of the weather. They all said no one else had access to their boats and I double-checked their stories. So that was a dead end. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up on the search, though.”

  Darn.

  “The other night I asked you if you knew the man who rescued me. You never answered.”

  “Didn’t I? I would have told you if I knew who he was.”

  “Excuse me, miss, we’d like a refill,” a man said.

  “Be right with you.” I left Ann reading. Business picked up, and Ann left when the bar filled up. She usually did that. I’m not sure if it was because she didn’t like crowds or if she was being considerate and leaving so the table was available. No matter; I was frustrated that I hadn’t had time to question her further. I mean talk to her.

  Smoke came in for a beer, but other than taking his order I didn’t have time to talk to him. At four I finally had time to eat an apple I’d brought with me, wishing I’d brought a sandwich along too. I took it out to the back and walked down the harbor a couple of slips until I came to Boone’s boat. My boat for now, maybe Steve’s boat. I unsnapped part of the tarp and went and sat on the bow. I heard a motor thrum in the distance and stood up. A red boat puttered down near the pass to the Gulf.

  The door of the Sea Glass flung open and Joaquín stuck his head out. “We’re slammed again.”

  I looked from Joaquín to the red boat. Was someone on it watching me? I wanted to go after it, but by the time I finished taking off the tarp, started the boat, and untied it, the red boat would probably be long gone. Not to mention Joaquín needed me.

  “Chloe?” Joaquín called.

  “Coming.” It probably wasn’t even the same boat, but the hairs on my arm all stood up. I climbed off the boat, snapped the tarp back on, and dashed back inside, tossing the apple core in the trash as I got back to it.

  “Dinner with Michael and me tonight?” Joaquín asked as I picked up an order pad from the counter.

  “Absolutely. I can ask him if he learned anything from the will.” Michael was a fabulous cook and I didn’t feel like eating alone again. While my family in Chicago sometimes drove me crazy, I missed dinners with them. After I’d left home I’d either had college roommates or Rachel. Living in Emerald Cove was my first time living alone, and while I enjoyed it most of the time, some days were just lonely.

  The next few hours flew by. I didn’t have time to think—not too much anyway—about red boats and rescuers, or about the three people who disappeared with Raquel. What thoughts I did have yielded nothing. Soon it was eight thirty and last call. By nine fifteen the last customers had left, getting the hint when we dimmed the lights and started putting up barstools.

  * * *

  At 9:35 Michael placed a tray of endive stuffed with shrimp on the table in front of us. Michael was tall and broad. His hair was graying and he had blue eyes that seemed to look right into my heart. We stood on the back of the boat where he had a gas grill going. The lid was shut so I couldn’t see what was cooking, but it smelled wonderful.

  “I have a bottle of stainless-steel-aged Chardonnay,” Michael said.

  “I’m making you all martinis,” I said. I pointed at my bag. “I brought the ingredients.” I’d never been big on cocktails and had usually stuck to drinking wine or beer. But now that I worked at a bar, I’d decided I needed to expand my drinks repertoire.

  “I could make it,” Joaquín said.

  “Nope. I need to practice, and martinis seem simple because they’re only gin, vermouth, and a lemon twist.” I was so excited to surprise Joaquín and Michael with my new know-how. “You just sit. Where are your martini glasses?”

  Joaquín’s eyebrows had a little furrow between them. “To the right of the sink.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry.” I went into the kitchen, found the glasses, and got the gin and vermouth from my tote bag. I’d even remembered to bring a shaker. After putting ice in the shaker I added the gin and vermouth and gave it a good shake. Before I poured the martinis into the glasses, I took the lemon twists I’d brought and ran them around the lip of the glass. I poured the drinks, dropped a lemon twist in each, found a tray, and carried the drinks out to Joaquín and Michael.

  “Cheers,” we said, lifting our glasses.

  CHAPTER 22

  I took a big sip, as did Michael and Joaquín. Ick. Maybe martinis were an acquired taste. I looked at Michael and Joaquín. They both had funny expressions on their faces. I wasn’t sure Joaquín had even swallowed his. I tried another sip.

  “This is awful,” I said. “This is a disgustatini, not a martini. It’s swill.”

  Michael and Joaquín burst out laughing.

  “It’s really bad, Chloe,” Michael said. “But I’ll give you points for trying.”

  “Let’s go in and you can show me what you did,” Joaquín said.

  “Eat some appetizers first,” Michael said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “we all need a palate cleanser.”

  Joaquín poured us all a glass of wine.

  I ate two of the endive appetizers and sipped some of my wine. “Those are delicious.”

  “Great. I hope you like the smoked oysters Rockefeller that’s next.” Michael gestured toward the grill.

  I cringed. I didn’t like oysters in any form. They looked so slimy. Even cooked I just couldn’t get over the texture. I repressed a shudder. “I just remembered I have—”

  “I’m kidding,” Michael said. “I know you hate oysters. Joaquín told me about the lengths you go to avoid them.”

  Sometimes our customers would order them from the Briny Pirate. Their waitstaff delivered them, but I hated even seeing them. Smelling them almost made me gag. So when someone ordered them, I’d taken to having a leg cramp that I “had” to walk off, or getting an important call, or needing a bathroom break.

  “I didn’t realize I was that obvious.” I looked at Joaquín, who was laughing.

  “You aren’t. I’ve worked in bars long enough to know when I’m being conned,” he said.

  “I’ll try to do better.” I crossed my fingers under the table like I was five instead of twenty-eight.

  “Come on,” Joaquín said, “let’s go see what went wrong with your martini.”

  I followed him to their kitchen. He picked up the bottles of gin and vermouth and shook his head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Cheap gin,” he said. “And where did you find this vermouth?”

  “In the kitchen at the Sea Glass, back in a corner. It looked aged.” Vermouth isn’t a spirit, like gin or vodka, but a fortified wine. It’s spiked with brandy and infused with herbs.

  “First, I think this is bad—not like make-you-sick bad, just old, so the taste will be off,” Joaquín said. “Second, you brought sweet vermouth instead of dry vermouth. You always use the dry version in a martini. Plus, I think your proportions were off. I tasted more vermouth than gin.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Now I’ll make you one. It’s two parts gin to one part vermouth.”

  “Whoops. I think I got that backward.”

  “It could happen to anyone.” Joaquín selected a bottle of gin and vermouth from their bar. “Different gins will give you different tastes. As an example, some people like a gin with more juniper flavor, while others like a gin with more of a citrus flavor.”

  “It’s so complicated.”

  “And while James Bond said he wanted his martini shaken not stirred, shaking the gin can bruise it.”

  Bruised? “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said.
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br />   “Nope. And a chilled glass is best, so the martini will be the right temperature.”

  I had so much to learn. It definitely was a lot more complicated that it looked when I’d gone to bars in Chicago or watched Joaquín at the Sea Glass. “It’s almost like you have to be a chemist or a tasteologist.”

  Joaquín laughed. “A good palate helps if you care about the quality of the product.” He handed me the drink he’d been making. “Give it a taste.”

  I did. “It’s so much better than mine, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be a big fan.”

  “That’s okay. Not everyone is.”

  “Have you had a chance to look at the will, Michael?” I asked when Joaquín and I went back out.

  “I have.” He opened the grill, moved some things around, and closed the lid. “A couple of things struck me right away.”

  That gave me hope.

  “First, it’s very unusual to write out a will in the field. Usually all of that is taken care of pre-deployment.”

  “But Steve is claiming that he and Boone reconciled after Boone deployed. Does that mean a will couldn’t have been done?” I asked.

  “It’s unlikely, but not impossible.”

  That was disappointing. “Oh.”

  “I’ll check into a few things, but it will take a while,” Michael said.

  “What’s that?” Joaquín asked.

  “If he was out on an operation, it would be improbable that a will would be prepared, signed, witnessed, scanned, and sent off.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “They wouldn’t have the time or equipment with them, or a lawyer available.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “But finding out will be tricky,” Michael said.

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “Because most likely the operation and thus Boone’s whereabouts will be classified. Trying to get access to classified information will be difficult.”