by Elaine Viets
“Wouldn’t you know it? My umbrella is in my car,” Joan said. “That’s my little red Neon under the tree. Follow me to Kevin’s bus stop. I’ll have to take A1A. My car doesn’t have much pickup. The big rigs try to run me down on the interstate.”
Helen dashed into the warm, wet night. Needle-sharp rain sliced the humid air, danced on the Igloo’s hood, and bounced on the sidewalk. Her shirt and hair were soaked in the short sprint to her car. She shivered in the first blast of air-conditioning.
The flat Florida landscape flooded quickly, but Joan’s small car carefully navigated the water-washed intersections. The drive to Riggs Beach Road took twice as long as usual, and the storm intensified about halfway there. Six-foot palm fronds tore loose and scudded across the highway. Branches swayed and lightning crackled.
The Igloo’s windshield fogged, but Helen wiped it with a tissue and never lost sight of the little red Neon.
At last, Helen saw the Seashell Road bus shelter, in front of a strip of beach stores. Her car lights picked out a dark figure huddled in the corner. Kevin, she thought. He must be drenched.
The rain was letting up as Helen parked the Igloo at an angle in the empty lot. Riggs Beach was deserted. The empty yogurt shop looked dingy. In the brightly lit restaurant next door, nobody wanted the $3.99 STEAK DINNER.
With a side of heartburn, she thought.
She saw an SUV slowly rolling down Riggs Beach Road, sending out rooster tails of rainwater.
Joan parked next to Helen and jumped out of her car with an umbrella. She waded through a wide puddle and splashed to the bus shelter.
Helen watched the pantomime as the server talked to Kevin. Joan pointed to Helen’s car. Kevin nodded, then shrugged, then squished through the puddles behind Joan to the Igloo.
Helen opened the passenger door for him, and the interior lights shone on Kevin’s and Joan’s sopping clothes. Joan’s blond hair was plastered to her head, showing off her gorgeous bone structure.
“This is Kevin,” Joan said. “I said you’d take him home and he could trust you. He’ll tell you about the diver.”
Helen handed Kevin a towel from her beach bag. “Here, dry off with this.”
“Thanks,” Kevin said. “It’s hard to talk with water in my eyes.” His Latino accent was strong, but his English was clear. While Kevin vigorously towel-dried his face and dark hair, a long black Mercedes passed. Its headlights raked Helen’s car.
“Oh, no,” Joan said, ducking behind the door. “That’s Cy’s black CLS.”
“How do you know it’s his Mercedes?” Helen asked.
“The vanity plate is CY 4 ME,” she said.
“Just like his yacht,” Helen said.
“He doesn’t realize that can be read two ways,” Joan said. “Cy is definitely out for himself—and no woman I know sighs for him. Do you think he saw me?”
Helen thought her voice trembled with fear. “I doubt it,” Helen said. “He can’t see much tonight.”
“I had the towel over my head,” Kevin said. “I’m safe. Besides, what’s he gonna do, Joan? You’re his best server.”
“Servers are a dime a dozen,” Joan said.
A fat raindrop plopped on Helen’s windshield, then another.
“The rain’s starting up again,” Joan said. “Good night. I’ll keep in touch, Helen.” She waved and ran to her car.
Kevin finger-combed his hair and handed Helen the damp towel. She tossed it in the backseat.
“Do you think Cy would hurt Joan?” Helen asked.
“I don’t think so,” Kevin said. “There are rumors he did crazy shit when he was young, but now he’s old. He’s, like, fifty and married.”
Eight years older than me, Helen thought.
“Right,” she said. “Old. What’s the best way to your home?”
“Straight out west on Riggs Beach Road till you pass the turnpike,” Kevin said. “Then take the first right turn.” The parking lot lights revealed Kevin’s chiseled profile. His damp hair had a slight curl. Helen envied him those long eyelashes.
The rain was hammering the car again. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “The bus is always late on rainy nights, and bus shelters don’t protect you from a heavy rain.”
“No problem,” Helen said. “Tell me about that diver.”
“I was working in the kitchen when I heard people talking and yelling. They were running outside, to the north side of Riggs Pier. The kitchen is on the south side. I went out that door. I was going to come around, when I saw a diver moving away from the pier.”
“North or south?” Helen said.
“North,” Kevin said. “He was about a hundred yards up from where the paddleboard was bumping against the pier pilings. Everyone was watching that board and the woman under the water.”
“That explains why you saw him and no one else did,” Helen said.
“Exactly,” Kevin said. “It was crazy. People were pushing one another out of the way to get a better look. They wanted to see the rescue. They didn’t know that poor woman was dead. Nobody did. They just liked watching the drama. You should have seen their faces. It’s like they got off on it, you know what I mean?”
“I do,” Helen said. “I was there on the beach. What did the diver look like?”
Kevin shrugged. “I didn’t see much of him. He was wearing a black wet suit with one of those hoods that covered his head. His face was in the water. I think he had on a diver’s mask.”
“You keep saying ‘he,’” Helen said. “The diver was a man?”
“Yes,” he said. “A strong man from the size of his shoulders and arms. His body was thick. What’s the word? ‘Stocked’?”
“Stocky?” Helen asked.
“That’s it. He was stocky. And not too tall. About my height—maybe five seven or eight. I didn’t see enough skin to tell you his race.”
“You don’t think the diver got lost and that’s why he was near the pier?” Helen asked.
“Not with that current,” Kevin said. “I’ve worked at the restaurant two years and I’ve never seen a diver near the pier. The current is dangerous and people are fishing off the pier night and day. Fishhooks can get stuck in your skin or tear your dive suit.”
Helen drove under the I-95 overpass. Now Riggs Beach Road was six lanes wide and the flooded parts were easier to avoid. She stayed in the center. This section was lined with expensive one-story houses and red-barrel-tiled townhomes landscaped like small botanical gardens.
“I saw something that didn’t make sense,” Kevin said. “There was something yellow with the diver.”
“With him how?” Helen said. “Alongside him or next to him?”
“I don’t know. It was bright yellow, like a tropical fish. But it wasn’t a fish or an air tank. It was underneath him. I’ve never seen anything like it. Anyone in that water has to fight a strong current. Even the lifeguards were struggling. But he didn’t.”
“Was he swimming on the surface or below it?” Helen asked.
“Below it. And he wasn’t swimming. It like he was being pulled by something, but I couldn’t see what it was. It was weird.”
The brownish yellow glow of the turnpike lights loomed in the black night, and an eighteen-wheeler swung into the entrance lane.
“See that stoplight just past the turnpike?” Kevin asked. “Turn right. My house is the fourth one—the pink stucco with the two palm trees. Ah, Mama left the porch light on for me. That one. Pull in the driveway. And thank you so much.”
Kevin waved good-bye. On the drive home, Helen pondered what Kevin had told her. He saw a diver in a black wet suit moving away from Ceci, when everyone else was fighting to see what was happening. The diver was stocky and muscular, his face was hidden, and he had something bright yellow. He wasn’t swimming, either. He was being pulled along by something invisible.
Maybe Phil would have some ideas. She’d wanted to join Phil and Margery around the pool tonight when she got home, but the rain poured down like
someone had opened a chute. Fog hid the houses and cars. The Cruiser’s lights stabbed the thick gray blanket, but Helen could see only one car length ahead. She slowed down to twenty miles an hour and followed the yellow center line. A full hour after she dropped off Kevin, Helen pulled into the Coronado lot and sighed with relief. Home at last.
The lights were off in the office of Coronado Investigations, but on in Phil’s apartment.
No point opening my umbrella, she thought. She was drenched after running to her car from the restaurant. She raced down the sidewalk, splashed in water up to her ankles near Margery’s apartment, sprinted for Phil’s door and let herself in with her key.
Her husband met her at the door and took her into his arms. “I’ve been worried about you driving in that storm. You’re soaked. Dry off and I’ll get you cold wine or hot coffee.”
“Wine,” she said. “But I want a hot shower first.”
“I could make it a really hot shower,” he said, and kissed her hard on the mouth.
“Then let’s not waste any time,” she said. “You should let your hair down.”
She yanked playfully on his prematurely silver ponytail. Helen loved running her fingers through Phil’s long hair.
“Does that include a back scratch?” he asked. His eyes were the same blue as his shirt.
“Only if you scratch mine,” she said.
Their hot, steamy shower led to another hot session in Phil’s black silk sheets. Afterward, they ate popcorn and drank white wine in bed.
“The day has definitely improved,” she said, and sighed.
“Did you find out anything?” he asked. “I got nowhere looking for the diver.”
Helen told him about her interview with Kevin. “I’m convinced there was a diver and he killed Ceci,” she said. “But I can’t imagine what that bright yellow thing could be, or what invisible force would pull him away from the pier.”
“Me, either,” Phil said. “But I know who might. We need to meet with our old diver friend, Max Rupert Crutchley.”
“The treasure hunter?” Helen asked. A heart problem had ended his diving days, but Helen liked the old buccaneer.
“And emerald smuggler,” Phil said. “But that’s all he smuggled. No drugs. I made sure of that. Maybe Max will have time for lunch or dinner tomorrow. Are you free all day?”
“Nothing else I can do right now,” Helen said. “We’re stuck. This case is going nowhere unless Max gives us a lead.”
“He will. Max likes to flirt with you,” Phil said. “He’ll talk to impress you. I’ll call him now.”
“At ten thirty?” Helen asked.
“Max is a night owl,” Phil said.
Thumbs jumped on the bed, stared at Helen with round yellow-green eyes, prodded her arm with his big six-toed paw and gave a loud, insistent meow. The big cat was a patchwork of white, brown and gray fur.
“He’s demanding dinner. What year did you last feed Thumbs?” Helen asked.
“You lie, fur face!” Phil said, rumpling the cat’s fur. “He had dinner at seven. Give him another scoop while I call Max.”
Thumbs padded after Helen on his giant paws to Phil’s kitchen. She filled his dish. “There you go, big guy,” she said.
The cat plunged his face into the fishy-smelling dry food and ignored her.
“Huh,” she said. “Not even a thank-you.”
Phil clicked off his cell phone as Helen came back to the bedroom. “How about midnight tonight at Lester’s Diner?” he said. “Is that too late?”
“Never too late for pancakes,” Helen said. “Not when they come with fresh, hot information.”
CHAPTER 17
Lester’s Diner was a neon-and-glass temple serving divine road food. Worshippers could partake twenty-four hours a day. The diner was located in an industrial section of State Road 84, and even at midnight two big rigs and a smattering of trucks were parked in the vast lot. The rain had stopped, but the lot was dotted with puddles.
Helen saw gray-haired Max Crutchley drinking coffee in a corner booth. The old treasure hunter waved her and Phil over, his chunky emerald pinkie ring sparkling in the light. Helen wondered if that emerald was a smuggling spoil.
Orange tropical fish rioted over Max’s blue Hawaiian shirt. “Helen,” he said, clasping her to his barrel chest. “Still with Phil. Haven’t wised up yet.”
“Unhand my wife,” Phil said, laughing.
They slid into the U-shaped booth, and Helen sat in the middle, close—but not too close—to Max. Lester’s red vinyl booths were as generous as its platters of food.
The server poured coffee for three and took their orders. “I’ll have blueberry pancakes,” Helen said. Phil and Max wanted Lester’s Big Deal, and it was: three eggs, three pancakes, two bacon strips, two sausage links and a patty.
Max definitely isn’t worried about his cholesterol, she decided. Helen couldn’t tell that he’d had heart surgery: his face was tanned and his color was healthy. Max radiated a grizzled strength, like an old lion.
“So what are you two shamuses up to now?” he said.
“We need your diving expertise for a new case,” Phil said. “Did you hear about the tourist who drowned off Riggs Pier?”
“The one who went stand-up paddleboarding? Saw the story on TV,” Max said. “I was surprised the medical examiner ruled that a homicide.”
“We were, too,” Phil said. “Helen and I were on the beach when she was killed. The victim, Ceci Odell, fell off a paddleboard. It was her second time on a board. Her instructor didn’t think she was ready for the ocean, but she insisted on going out.”
Max shook his head. “Mother Ocean is a deadly bitch if you don’t respect her,” he said. “Pardon my language, Helen.”
Helen smiled at Max’s old-school apology, then sipped her coffee.
“Ceci’s inexperience didn’t kill her,” Phil said. “She was murdered and we can’t figure out how.”
“Who’s your client? Can I ask?” Max said.
“Sunny Jim Sundusky,” Phil said. “He was Ceci’s instructor. Jim has a paddleboard rental concession on Riggs Beach.”
“I know it,” Max said. “I saw the city commissioner flapping his gums about tourist safety and pulling Jim’s lease.”
“Jim’s a by-the-book guy when it comes to safety,” Phil said. “He followed the regulations and then some. Ceci refused to wear a life jacket and ignored Jim’s instructions. We saw her paddle too near the pier after she’d been warned to stay away.”
“The rip current’s strong next to Riggs Pier,” Max said. “Any diver with a lick of sense gives it a wide berth.”
“Helen found two witnesses who saw a diver near the pier at the time of the murder,” Phil said. “One saw him moving away from the pier after Ceci tumbled off her board. That witness said there was something weird about the diver.”
“Weird how?” Max asked.
“Helen can tell you,” Phil said. “She interviewed him.”
“The man works at Cy’s on the Pier,” Helen said. “He didn’t run outside to watch Ceci’s rescue when the stampede started. He came out later and saw the diver moving away from the pier. The diver wore a black suit and hood, but he had something bright yellow underneath him. The witness says it wasn’t a fish or an air tank. He also said the diver didn’t seem to be fighting the strong current as hard as the lifeguards. He moved like he was being pulled by something invisible. Our witness said it didn’t look natural.”
Max sipped his coffee and fiddled with the shark’s tooth he wore on a gold neck chain. Helen could almost see Max working out the scene in his mind.
Their plates arrived. Phil poured ketchup on his eggs and sausage. Helen covered her blueberry pancakes in syrup and forked in the first bite. Mm, she thought. Pancakes might taste even better at midnight than at breakfast time. Max took the ketchup from Phil and doused his plate, but he was still staring into the distance.
Good, Helen thought. He’s working out our problem.
“If the victim was in a rip current, then so was the diver,” Max said, thinking out loud. “He couldn’t swim against the current any more than she could. They’re both at the mercy of the ocean until they’re out of danger. Unless . . .”
Helen’s next forkful of blueberry pancakes hovered in midair while she waited for Max’s conclusion.
“Unless he had an underwater scooter,” Max said. He beamed at Helen and Phil, like a professor who’d solved a difficult mathematical problem. “Yes, that’s it. A scooter. Bright yellow is a common color. Even with the scooter, your diver would have to be relatively free of the current to have control of the situation.
“I used underwater scooters when I was a treasure hunter. They give you more range and extended bottom time with less effort underwater.
“You can sit on some and ride them like real scooters. Mine looked like a torpedo. A battery-powered motor drove the propeller. The propeller’s in a cage so it can’t hurt you. You sort of lie on top of it and steer by the handlebar.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen one,” Helen said. “Are scooters new?”
“Naw,” he said. “They’ve been around a long time. They were used way back in World War Two. Ever see that old James Bond movie Thunderball?”
Helen shook her head.
“I did,” Phil said. “Made in the mid-sixties. A Cubby Broccoli Bond movie. Thunderball was set in Nassau. That’s where Bond went up against Emilio Largo, the SPECTRE villain, to recover stolen nuclear weapons.”
“Largo’s the guy with the eye patch,” Max said.
“That’s him,” Phil said. “The movie has this huge underwater fight.”
“Right,” Max said. “A whole army of scuba divers using underwater scooters, spear guns and explosives. The Bond movie used a different kind of scooter than I did, but it made for an amazing fight scene.”
Phil and Max lost interest in their food while they talked about the scooter battle.
“Who was the Bond girl in that movie?” Phil asked.
“Claudine Auger,” Max said, his eyes lighting up. “Gorgeous brunette. Former Miss France. Julie Christie, Raquel Welch and Faye Dunaway were considered for the part. Now, those were lookers.”
