Bay of Blood

by A. M. Potter

  “Good looking C ’n C.”

  She turned and looked into the dark eyes of a man with sunburnt skin and black hair: Marty Fox. The lines across his forehead seemed to be sliced by a knife. She didn’t know Marty, but she’d seen him around town. He wasn’t fazed by her appearance.

  He gestured with his head at the C&C and strolled its length, playing the charade of a prospective buyer. After returning, he pointed to the For Sale sign on the bow, which read Twenty Thousand OBO. “She’s worth that. My truck’s behind the main winter shed. A red F-One-Fifty. Side door’s open. See you there in five.”

  Chapter 13

  Sitting at Marty’s kitchen table, Naslund surmised the man lived alone. Just as in her house, the counter tops were clear to appease the Scandal Brigade, but the sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Outside, the garden was a tangle of weeds and vegetables. Marty’s F-150 reminded Naslund of her Mazda 3. The truck had seen better days.

  J.J. sat across the table from her and grinned. “Nice war paint.”

  She winked.

  “Nice shorts too. Who’s the designer? Don Cherry?”

  She raised her chin.

  “Coffee?” Marty asked his two guests.

  “Please,” Naslund said.

  J.J. declined.

  “It’ll help you think,” Marty said.

  “Like I need that.” J.J. pointed to his head. “There’s a herd of deer running around in there.”

  Marty nodded. “Milk and sugar, Sergeant?”

  “Thanks. And call me Sarge.”

  J.J. pulled his chair into the table and eyed Naslund. “We can say whatever we want around Marty.”

  “Okay,” she replied.

  “Anything at all. Marty’s sworn to secrecy. He won’t talk about anything with anyone. Neither will I. That includes my wife. Everything in this room is confidential and anonymous.”

  “Good.”

  “Let’s make sure we’re on the same page, Sarge.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t mind what you report, but anything you report is yours. Your words, your conclusions. Marty and I are never mentioned. Same for my son. Same for anybody from my family--extended family, that is.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We are never going to court. We are not standing as witnesses.”

  “As you wish.” That could complicate things.

  J.J. sat back.

  “You folks hungry?” Marty asked. “I’ve got some home-made deer sausages. I’ll fry ’em up with eggs.”

  J.J. smiled. “A little later. Let’s tell Sarge what you know about the Albin Thirty-Five.”

  “Sure.”

  Naslund pulled out her duty phone. “Mind if I record our conversation?”

  J.J. looked at Marty.

  Marty shrugged.

  “Why not?” J.J. said. He turned to Marty. “Let her rip.”

  “Okay.” Marty settled into an old armchair near the table, his regular seat judging by the indentation made by his back. “I worked the Griffith Island Club this past weekend. I slept there Saturday and Sunday night. On Monday morning, July eighth, that is, the club Albin came in about seven a.m. I wasn’t at the dock when she went out, but I heard her diesel start up just after six. Anyhow, when she came in there were two men aboard, mid-twenties I’d guess. Both of them were bruisers--white, big hulking bodies, and shaven heads. They were wearing sleeveless shirts, muscle shirts the kids call ’em. One guy was over six-feet-four, I’d say, and ran about two hundred thirty pounds, maybe two forty. The other guy was shorter but just as heavy--”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” J.J. said. “Sarge, I spoke with my son and asked him for a fuller description of the guys on the Albin. He described them as big, bald, and white.”

  “Thanks,” Naslund said. “Just wondering, Marty, did they see you?”

  “No. I was in the bunkhouse, looking through the blinds. They couldn’t see in, but I got a good look out at them. Both were wearing soft shoes and gloves. Even at the time, I thought the gloves were strange. It was early, but early mornings in July aren’t cold. One sounded foreign. Russian or something. I didn’t know what to think. The Griffith usually caters to rich men. Some are loud, but most aren’t, let’s say, very physical.”

  “Marty didn’t know either of them,” J.J. said, “and he usually knows everybody over there and almost everything about them.”

  Marty shrugged. “Well, I know the important stuff, like do they go for salmon or whitefish, wild turkeys or ducks.”

  “C’mon, you know what they like for lunch, what they drink, when the wives call. Just for starters.”

  Naslund chuckled. She knew it was off-season at the club. Chandler had reported that there were five guests Sunday night. “Marty, do you think the bruisers saw any of the guests, or vice versa?”

  “Not likely. The bruisers were gone just after seven. I know for a fact that the earliest guest got up at seven-thirty. They’d all had a late night, a poker night.”

  “Okay. Did you consider calling for help when you saw the bruisers? Two strange men like that?”

  “No. I suppose I should have but, to tell the truth, there was no one to call. I was the only one on duty. The manager was in Owen Sound. The chef was up but what could he do? Run out waving a knife?”

  “What about us, the OPP?”

  “Didn’t even think of you. Fact is, it’d be half an hour before your launch got out there. Besides, at the time, I had no notion the two did anything wrong.”

  “Understood,” she said. “Well, there’s an APB out for them.”

  “Good. For a change, I wish the OPP the best of luck.”

  “Me too,” J.J. seconded.

  “The way I see it,” Naslund continued, “they hijacked the Albin. Can we be sure they took her toward White Cloud Island?”

  “J.J.’s young fella saw an Albin east of the island,” Marty replied, “which makes sense. When there’s a heavy northwesterly, like there was on Monday, smart boaters get leeward of White Cloud, out of the wind. Leeward is the east side.”

  She nodded. If the hijackers knew what they were doing, they would have kept east of White Cloud. Or perhaps someone told them what to do. In either case, it still didn’t verify where they’d been. The kayakers hadn’t reported seeing an Albin. “Let me summarize things,” she began. “We know two men hijacked the Albin. But we don’t know where they took her. Is that fair to say?”

  Marty glanced at J.J. “I know the engine hours were up by one. That’s a trip to White Cloud and back. And the youngster saw the Albin east of the island, heading north.”

  “Could have been another Albin.”

  “Could have.” Marty harrumphed.

  “She’s just sayin’,” J.J. noted, smoothing things over. “Good points, Sarge.”

  “Don’t mind me.” She pointed to her nose. “I’m an inquisitive bugger.”

  Marty looked at J.J. They both laughed.

  She joined them. She hadn’t meant to be so direct. Fact-finding could do that to her, turn her into a machine. She’d have to watch it. Perhaps the kayakers hadn’t seen the Albin because, from their vantage point, it was behind the island.

  “You’re okay,” J.J. said.

  “And you fellas too,” she replied. “I have a few more questions. Okay?”

  “Sure,” J.J. said.

  “Maybe the bruisers were poachers. Did they bring in any fish?”

  Marty shook his head.

  “How did they get into the Albin cabin and start the engine? I mean, did they break in and crank the diesel by hand?”

  “They used her keys,” Marty said. “All the club boat keys are hanging in the shed near the dock, with the spare engine parts and all. The shed door wasn’t locked.”

  “Is that normal?” she asked.

  “Yep. No reason to lock up out there. Well, there wasn’t until Monday. The club changed that. You have to sign out a boat now to get her keys.”

  “Seems like the bruisers k
new where the keys were. Like someone told them.”

  “Could be, but it wouldn’t take much to guess that shed held the keys. It’s right by the dock.”

  She nodded. Detective work tempted her to see connections everywhere, often where there were none. Pete used to call her a conspiracy bloodhound. “Okay, but I wonder, why would they go out to Griffith if they didn’t know for sure they could use the Albin?”

  “Good question. One of them had a kitbag. I heard it clanking, like there were tools inside. They probably had everything they needed to break in.”

  “How did they leave the island?”

  “Used a little zodiac. I’d say it was a ten-footer. Had a small outboard, maybe a ten-horse. They headed to Big Bay. Closest spot to the island.”

  “Okay, but why use a zodiac to hijack another boat? Why not just use the zodiac to do what you want to do?”

  “Probably not fast enough,” Marty said.

  “Those men were heavy,” J.J. added. “A zodiac would be okay for a short run to Griffith, but a longer trip? Not on a windy day, and Monday was very windy.”

  “Right,” Marty asserted. “The club Albin has twin diesels. She can do thirty, thirty-five knots and handle any seas.”

  “Would the two know that?”

  “They might.”

  “If someone told them.”

  Marty shrugged. “Anyway, I took a good look around Big Bay after I finished work Monday.”

  “About what time was that?”

  “Around one.”

  She nodded. Too bad. A lot of evidence could disappear in six hours. Regardless, she’d ask the ninjas to sweep the Big Bay parking area.

  “From what I saw, the two left no trace of themselves after they returned to the mainland. I’m guessing they deflated the zodiac, rolled it up, and tossed it in the back of their vehicle along with the outboard. I doubt anyone was around that time of morning, which isn’t strange on a Monday, even in summer. Colpoys Bay is usually quiet too. The young fella saw Thom’s skiff, but no one else did.”

  Not true, she thought, not according to the tip Hal passed on. His tip confused things a bit. Besides a skiff, the kayakers saw a large sailboat west of White Cloud. So, Thom could have encountered the Albin or that sailboat. It seemed to her that J.J.’s son could have seen the sailboat. She eyed J.J. “Got another supposition. Pure supposition.”

  “Understood.”

  “If a sailboat was heading up the west side of White Cloud, would your son have seen it?”

  J.J. shook his head. “His campsite had no sightlines to the water. When he spotted the Albin he was at a lookout on the east side of Hay. You can’t see westward from there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Marty has more news. Do you want to pursue his lead?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  J.J. motioned for Marty to continue.

  “Well, whenever the Albin comes in, I always wash her down. Club orders. When the bruisers were gone, I set to work. I happened to find a smudge of blue-gray paint about two feet above the waterline, near the bow.”

  She sat straight up. Thom’s skiff was dove-gray.

  “The club Albin has a white hull. So, a little gray goes a long way. At least that’s what my girlfriend says.”

  She chuckled.

  “Now,” Marty said, “what’s the freeboard height of a Mackinaw?”

  She let him answer.

  “Two feet. So, this smudge on the Albin most likely came from an encounter with a boat hull painted blue-gray, a boat with its gunwale about two feet above the water. In other words, a boat with a freeboard similar to Thom’s Mackinaw.”

  She leaned forward. “Did you, by chance, take a sample of the paint? Wipe a bit off onto a handkerchief or something?” There were a few cans of skiff paint in Thom’s boatshed. The white coats could look for a match.

  “No. I wasn’t that suspicious at the time.”

  “Right.” It had been a long shot, yet worth the question. “One more consideration. How do we know the gray smudge came from Thom’s skiff? Maybe it was already--”

  Marty raised a stop-sign hand. “Sorry, I should have mentioned. I washed the Albin when she came in Sunday evening. No gray marks. She didn’t go out again until Monday morning.”

  “What about gray paint on the club wharf?”

  Marty shook his head. “It’s not painted.”

  “What about other wharfs around here? Maybe the Albin pulled into another dock that morning?”

  “Could have,” he allowed. “But I don’t know any docks painted that color, not anywhere round here.” He sat with his arms crossed, thinking. “Nowhere within a one-hour run at thirty-five knots.”

  Naslund nodded. Fair enough. “What about blood, Marty? Did you see any blood on the Albin?”

  He shook his head.

  “Just the gray paint,” she prodded. She had to be sure.

  He nodded patiently.

  Thinking of Thom’s blood, she cast her mind back to the Mackinaw CS. When Thom was assaulted, he fell or was knocked down. Before that occurred, his blood could have sprayed the attackers’ boat. It was likely close enough. However, in the case of the Albin, there was no blood on it. Why? Her mind clicked. There was a possible answer. If the bruisers were the perps, they could have shielded the Albin from most of the spray. They were big enough. They could have washed off the rest. In that case, although there was no blood on the Albin, there’d be blood on them or their clothes. Perhaps they’d jumped in the lake to wash it off? She caught Marty’s eye. “Did the bruisers look wet? I mean, were their clothes or skin wet?”

  “They looked completely dry to me.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. Perhaps they changed out of their bloody clothes and sank them in the lake after attacking Thom. If they’d changed clothes, the clothes Marty saw might be different than those the youngster saw. “Do you remember what the two were wearing?”

  “Yep. Muscle shirts and shorts. Long tight shorts.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yep.”

  The same kind of clothes the youngster saw, she reflected. But maybe the colors were different. “How about the colors?” she asked.

  “Both guys had khaki shorts. One had a blue-and-yellow striped shirt. Vertical stripes. The other guy’s shirt was red, all red with a small yellow insignia near the heart.”

  “Good eye,” she said. She turned to J.J. “Can you call your son and ask him what colors he remembers? Don’t mention the colors Marty saw.”

  J.J. pulled out his phone and walked outside. He returned almost immediately. “My son said they were both wearing red shorts and tank tops.”

  “Thanks.” It seemed the bruisers had ditched their clothes, red clothes to boot--the better to hide blood. The ditching pointed to the Albin, not the sailboat. She’d have Chu’s team check the Albin for blood. Even after powerful waves and frequent washings, there might be some residue left. As for the bruisers, they could have attacked Thom or accessed his anchor from the Albin, but couldn’t have tampered with the centerboard mechanism. It was down near the Mackinaw’s bilge, not accessible from the much higher Albin. One, or perhaps both of them, had boarded Thom’s skiff.

  Chapter 14

  Naslund stared out Marty’s kitchen window. The skiff boarding seemed to explain something else. When two boats rafted in mid-lake, they usually exchanged mooring lines. If the CS heist was connected to the murder, it accounted for the fact that the thief took the mooring lines--to remove two pieces of evidence. Sure, the man committed a crime but, to a murderer, crossing a police line was nothing.

  She considered the other side. Wouldn’t anyone who wanted to undermine the centerboard do it at Thom’s boathouse? It’d be more stable working there than in mid-lake. Careful, she ordered herself, that supposition has holes. All a perp needed was some stability. The Albin would provide a stable raft. If the Albin wasn’t involved, so would a large sailboat.

  There was more to consider. Thom always did a
full boat-check before he left a dock. Even if, for once, he hadn’t, he would have detected a damaged centerboard within minutes and turned around. She was certain of that. So, someone messed with it in mid-bay. On the other hand, there was no proof someone boarded Thom’s skiff. No DNA, no prints, no blood. No damned proof at all.

  Hell, she thought, another on the other hand. She felt as if she were climbing a huge mast in a gale, the way she always did when she had to go by guesswork. Relax, she ordered herself, that’s the way it is. She was torn from her thoughts by the sound of running water. Looking up, she saw Marty standing at the kitchen sink.

  “You two ready for breakfast?”

  “Sure thing,” J.J. and Naslund replied, almost in unison.

  As Marty fried up sausages and eggs, she looked at his book shelves: Chapman’s Piloting and Seamanship, The Ashley Book of Knots, tomes on Great Lakes history, the Vikings, the Phoenicians, a complete collection of The Seafarers. The same books her father had owned. She’d read many of them as a girl.

  “How about a doughnut?” Marty asked after they’d eaten breakfast.

  J.J. shook his head.

  “C’mon,” Marty said. “Every meal deserves a dessert.”

  Naslund grinned. “I’ll have two.”

  Having dunked a donut in her coffee, she pointed to Marty’s books. “I see you have a nautical bent. What’s your favorite?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “The Ashley. Most useful, anyway. Got four thousand knots in it, but these days I mostly use one.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “A bowline. You can tie it tight as a nun’s you-know-what, but undo it in a jiffy. If it’s really tight, just stick an awl in the heart, or a screwdriver. Loosens it right away.”