by Linda Lovely
As a nonconnoisseur, a person who wouldn’t know a 1940 Chris-Craft from a 1958 Resorter, I still was impressed with the proud craftsmanship and timeless style. “These boats really are beautiful.”
“Thank you.” The man’s voice startled me. “Now what would you like to know about my ‘Wet Dream’?”
“Pardon me,” Eunice said.
The speaker, whose gleaming dentures were the centerpiece of a puckish grin, looked almost as old as the 1938 twenty-four-foot Sportsman he stroked with proprietary pride. Wet Dream was the name the old prankster had gilded on her bow.
Neither Eunice nor I had the heart to abandon the devilish oldster without giving him an opportunity to brag. So we asked about the boat and listened to his discourse on its pedigree. The speedboat was one of only two models built during 1937 with a Scripps/Ford flathead engine. The elderly gent claimed he’d personally applied fifteen coats of varnish to the gleaming deck.
Escaping the garrulous showman, we wandered through one of the museum’s overhead garage-style doors to an outside area. Each hydraulic door opens wide enough for a small airplane to taxi through without clipping her wings. A godsend for moving boats with six-foot beams in and out of the museum.
The open bay led to a loading and storage zone Ross had temporarily converted into a showroom annex. Jerry-rigged canvas awnings borrowed from regional funeral homes and lashed together with boat lines provided spots of shade and limited protection from the elements.
We ambled through the exhibit. “I do like to look, but I’m happy we no longer have a wooden boat—or, rather, pieces of one—strewn across our basement. When Ross was restoring his Hafer, I had a recurring nightmare someone would strike a match and our house would blow. Those resin fumes can bowl you over. Once Ross started captaining the Queen, he no longer had time to putter. Now that he’s museum director, he plays with his toys at work.”
“I resemble that remark.” Ross had snuck up behind us. Though he’d exchanged his diving suit for a short-sleeved seersucker shirt and lightweight khakis, he still mopped copious amounts of sweat from his forehead. “Let’s get something to drink. I must’ve sweat off five pounds in that diving suit. Don’t think I’ll wear that thing again before February.”
At the boardwalk Godfather’s Pizza, we traded money for high-test calories and claimed a café table in the mild afternoon sunshine. As we lunched, we watched antique boat enthusiasts ogle and salivate. In addition to the boats showcased in dry dock, three-dozen vintage vessels were moored in Arnolds Park anchorages. Owners of these seaworthy boats, prepped to lead the weekend’s stately water parade, gave short rides to tourists. Ticket revenue from the excursions contributed to the show’s prize money.
“Just wait till you see the harbor at night,” Ross enthused. “Prettier than Disneyworld. Colored lights drape all of these classics. They twinkle like fairy dust.”
After we polished off our late lunch, Eunice checked her watch. “Three o’clock. Ye gods, I have to run. Marley, I can drop you at May’s, but you’ll have to join me for a few errands first.”
“Don’t let her hijack you.” My heart sped up. The voice belonged to Duncan. “I just got here. Stay awhile and I’ll take you home.”
Ross pumped Duncan’s hand. “Hey, nice shirt.”
His knit polo shirt’s red pocket was embroidered with a white Queen II logo. The rest of the package wasn’t shabby either. Crisp chinos, polished loafers and a big smile.
“Our board meeting starts in a few minutes, but it’ll be over quickly,” Duncan added. “We’re going to tell the rest of the board about Jake’s bequest. Why don’t you stay, Marley? You can come straight home with me. It’ll give us time for a boat ride before dinner.”
“If slacks are fine, it sounds like a plan. I’ll call May so she won’t worry. Ross, can I use your computer to check emails?”
“Help yourself.”
In Ross’s office, I dialed May’s home phone. Her answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. She’d probably latched onto some poor walk-in schlemiel. I left a message.
To pass the time, I checked emails and piddled around on the Web. A little after four, I tried May’s home again. No pick up. After debating a few minutes, I dialed her work number. Though reluctant to bother her at the office, I wanted to suggest she bring her bridge club to Arnolds Park tonight after the final rubber. Let the ladies enjoy the harbor light show her son had planned.
“Robinson Realty,” a perky voice answered. “This is Donna.”
“Hi, Donna. This is May’s niece, Marley. Could I please speak with my aunt—or is she with a customer?”
The pause was lengthy. “May’s not here.” Donna sounded puzzled. “Isn’t she with you? She left about noon, after that fellow called to say you’d had an accident while you were jogging. We figured May would come back to work or call after she picked you up. When she didn’t phone, we decided she was playing nursemaid.”
My stomach lurched and my head started pounding. I wanted to scream at the real estate agent, pummel her with questions until her blathering made sense. There’d been no accident.
Calm down. Panic won’t help.
A sick hunch told me to reach Weaver pronto. If May’d been kidnapped, it would be counter-productive to spread the alarm and stir up a media hornet’s nest.
“Sorry, Donna,” I stammered. “I’m a little confused.”
“That’s okay,” Donna answered. “Hope you feel better soon. Why don’t you drop by the office tomorrow? Say, the other phone is ringing. Bye.”
TWENTY-TWO
Why the hell would someone harm—or kidnap—May? Did they think she could help them get their mitts on that damned nonexistent riddle?
Though my body stayed rooted in Ross’s computer chair, my mind raced like a hyped-up gerbil scrabbling on a wheel. The telephone on Ross’s desk rang and I jumped. Not sure why I answered. It wasn’t my phone. Habit, I guess.
“Maritime Museum,” I mumbled.
“You’re doing well, Colonel Clark,” a distorted voice commented. “You haven’t lost your head. That’s good. Very good—if you hope to see your aunt alive again. We tapped all the museum phone lines. So I know you just hung up from Robinson Realty. Your aunt ran straight into our arms when she thought you’d been hurt.”
“Bastard.” In my head, I screamed. The actual sound I made came closer to a whimper. Breathe, I told myself. Concentrate on every word. Listen to background noises, to his accent.
“We can listen in on every phone call—cell or hard-wired,” the voice continued in mechanical singsong. “Don’t think about phoning for help or emailing. We have that covered, too. Plus we have observers inside the museum. They paid admission. More money for your cousin’s coffers. Look out the door at those happy tourists. Care to guess which ones have you under surveillance?”
My hand tightened on the receiver. “Why are you doing this?” I worked hard to keep my volume under control. “I’ll kill you myself if you harm May.”
I figured the disembodied voice belonged to either Kyle or Hamilton. But sharing my conviction could only make things worse.
“A touching, foolhardy threat,” my tele-tormentor replied. “We hold all the cards. You haven’t been dealt a hand. So let’s not waste time on theatrics, shall we? You asked what we want. The answer is simple—Weaver. And, you, Colonel Clark, will acquire her for us. Just telephone and ask her to meet you at the museum. Tonight at eight-thirty, half an hour after closing. Tell her you can’t say more over the phone. Instruct her to come alone. We’ll listen to every word.
“If you try to warn Weaver, we kill your aunt,” he continued. “If you speak to anyone besides your cousin, we kill your aunt. Clear enough? Until the museum closes, you and Captain Ross will confine yourselves to his office. You won’t talk to another soul. I’ll call with more instructions at eight o’clock, after the museum doors are locked.”
“What you’re asking is impossible,” I objected. “Ross is in a bo
ard meeting with Duncan James. Duncan’s expecting me to go home with him. I have to speak to him at least long enough to beg off.”
“Well, well, guess you’ve turned this into a party for three. When the gentlemen join you, tell both of them our arrangement. I hope Captain Ross’s office has three chairs. Or maybe you’d prefer to sit on Mr. James’s lap.”
The accompanying noise sounded more like a hyena’s bray than a laugh.
“How do I know May is alive? I won’t do a thing until I speak to her.”
“Oh, I expected that and arranged a little party-line call. I’m not with her, but my colleagues say she’s very spirited for her advanced age. My associates will now let Mrs. Carr say a few words—a very few.”
“Marley,” Aunt May croaked, her voice hoarse and low. “I’m fine, kid. Just be brave—like your Grandpa Brown. Keep your fears at bay. We’ll make it through this.”
“May, are you really okay? Have they hurt you?”
“That’s it.” My nemesis cut May off. “I may let you speak with her later—if you behave. Remember, your aunt is family. Weaver is an FBI agent. This is her battle, not an old woman’s war. Consider carefully where your loyalties lie.
“Your aunt told my friends she wasn’t afraid to die, that she’s lived a good life. The question is will she be awarded a good death. If you force my associates to kill her, I promise this old woman won’t die peacefully in her sleep. Similar unpleasant finales will also await Captain Ross and your Mr. James. Do as you are told, and you’ll all be around to celebrate your aunt’s birthday.”
A click. Disconnect. I couldn’t seem to loosen my grip on the phone. Static buzzed in my ear. Somehow it seemed that returning the receiver to its cradle would end my connection to May forever.
Finally, I hung up, grabbed pencil and paper, and started writing. First, I made notes about the call—time, instructions, voice, stray noises, May’s words. Next I penned a script for my call to Weaver. I didn’t trust myself to vocalize without a cheat sheet. The caller had one thing right: this was Weaver’s war. She’d orchestrated our play to trigger a reaction. Surely, she’d be on red alert.
I believed the caller would kill May if I failed to follow orders. What was one more body? I also was certain he meant to murder May, Ross, Duncan, Weaver and me, as soon as he discovered the FBI agent had no new evidence. Stalling would buy a little time. There wasn’t another play.
I took several deep breaths, exhaled, and dialed Weaver’s cell. She answered immediately. I read from my notes, swallowed repeatedly trying to keep my voice neutral. I hoped any distress in my tone would seem natural, given my message. “Something’s come up and I can’t discuss it over the phone. Can you meet Ross and me at the Maritime Museum tonight? Around eight thirty? It’s urgent.”
“Marley, how about toning down the drama? I’ll come get you now. Where are you?”
“No, please,” I countered. “There’s a traitor in the FBI. Come alone. It’s a matter of life and death. Yours. I can’t say more. Please come at eight-thirty.”
I hung up. Sweat trickled down my back. Weaver’s alarm bells had to be clanging. Unfortunately, I couldn’t count on those bells leading the agent to the proper conclusion.
What else could I do? An inkling of an answer stirred in my brain.
Ross and Duncan sauntered into the office at five after five. Absorbed in an animated discussion, my angst didn’t register until they turned to say howdy.
“What’s wrong, Marley?” Ross demanded. “Are you sick? You’re white as a jib sheet.”
“Close the door, please.”
Standing in the office threshold, Duncan raised an eyebrow but did as he was bid.
My gaze locked on Ross. “I am so sorry. I never intended to put either of you in danger.”
I didn’t sob. No hysteria. Tears gently rolled down my cheeks. I could tell my demeanor scared Ross and Duncan. It couldn’t be helped. My fright—the suffocating kind you feel when your actions, or inaction, might harm a loved one—held me tight in its grip.
I blurted out the news. “May’s been kidnapped.” Ross reacted as if he’d been punched in the gut. He sagged like a deflating beach toy. He would have sunk to the floor if his desk hadn’t served as a supporting pillar.
“Let’s hear it,” he said stoically. “All of it.”
I’d never seen such an expression of hatred cross my cousin’s face. While I hoped his rage was focused on the kidnapper, I wouldn’t fault him if his broad brush of anger tarred me with equal blame. My guilt at dragging May, Ross and Duncan into this quagmire squeezed my chest in a vise.
I couldn’t change the past. My only hope—our only hope—was to affect the future.
I gave a bare-bones synopsis of my phone calls, repeated Donna’s account of May’s disappearance, outlined the caller’s demands, and reported my monologue with Weaver.
“Are you certain the kidnapper’s monitoring all the phones?” Duncan asked.
“Given that he could repeat my entire conversation with Donna, I don’t think he’s bluffing,” I answered. “And his claim of email omniscience isn’t much of a stretch if he has a worthwhile hacker in his employ.”
Ross put his finger to his lips and motioned us in. “Is there a bug?”
I’d conducted a thorough search—a skill acquired while stationed in Turkey—and found none.
“I’m relatively confident there’s no bug in this office,” I whispered. “If we talk softly, I think it’s safe enough. And I may have figured out where they’re holding May.”
Ross’s head snapped up.
I consulted my notes. “Aunt May urged me to be ‘brave like Grandpa Brown.’ Ross, I don’t have a Grandpa Brown, and, if memory serves, there’s no such relative on the Woods family tree either.”
Ross shook his head. “No.” His forehead creased.
“Next May said to ‘keep fear at bay.’ Could she be telling us she’s in Brown’s Bay? When Eunice and I were down on your dock, I spotted a cabin cruiser anchored offshore. Maybe they picked that location in case they needed to grab Eunice as a back-up hostage if anything went wrong.”
Ross’s face turned red. His hands balled into fists. “You’re grabbing at straws. Hell, that Grandpa Brown clue could mean anything. There’s a Brown Street in Spirit Lake. Or maybe Mom was telling us her kidnapper’s named Brown. She’s nearly eighty and someone’s holding a gun to her head!”
I sensed Ross was desperate to reject the notion Eunice might be in danger, too. “I could be wrong. But while we were talking, I heard a distinctive clink of metal rigging against a mast. They were on or near a sailboat, like that large catamaran tied to your neighbor’s dock. Plus I heard the Queen’s air horn—it sounded really loud. The man called about four-thirty.”
Ross sank into a chair. “The Queen would have been near Brown’s Bay. How many times did the horn blow?”
“Three,” I replied.
“They’re in Brown’s Bay.” Ross dropped his head into his hands. “When I piloted the Queen, I gave three blasts on the horn every time we entered the bay to say howdy to Eunice. The younger captains continued the tradition. God, we have to warn Eunice and figure out a way to rescue Mom.”
“Could one of us sneak out?” Duncan wondered.
“Too risky—at least before the museum closes. The caller may be blowing smoke about surveillance. Then again, it could be true. Look at all those people wandering about.” I pointed at the gawkers clearly visible through the office door’s sidelight windows.
“Phone calls and emails seem equally chancy,” I added. “But maybe we can use the Maritime Museum’s website. Ross, you built your own site to save money. Do you still maintain it and host it on a local server?”
Ross looked at me. “Yes. I use the Mac on my desk for updates. What do you have in mind?”
“Could you add a big banner to your home page—immediately? Promise the first fifty people who call Weaver’s number a free pass to Arnolds Park and eligibilit
y for a grand prize drawing.
“To qualify, callers must repeat a phrase as soon as their calls are answered. I seriously doubt the killer’s monitoring your website. I only hope someone in cyberspace visits your site within the next couple of hours.”
Ross rubbed his hands together. Having something to do recharged his optimism. “Our hosting service claims we average fifteen thousand click-throughs a month. We only need one person. If we don’t take a chance, we’re all dead. I have no illusions this guy will let Mom—or any of us—go, even if we follow him like sheep.”
With a decision made, we debated the banner’s message. We considered listing two phone numbers for contestants—Ross’s home phone plus Weaver’s private line. After my cousin pointed out Eunice was likely to be in the garden and callers might get an answering machine, we nixed that option.
We had to count on Weaver. She’d answer her phone. She had the resources to react.
Next we struggled with wording. Finally, Ross fired up his Macintosh, typed the copy and pulled in eye-catching graphics. In less than five minutes, he posted a red banner across the top third of the museum’s website. A pulsing Queen icon drew the eye directly to our headline:
BECOME AN INSTANT WINNER! QUALIFY FOR A $5,000 GRAND PRIZE!
In slightly smaller type, the banner promised the first fifty callers would receive a season’s pass to Arnolds Park good for their entire family—Duncan’s idea—plus eligibility for a $5,000 drawing. To become instant winners, cyber visitors simply needed to dial Weaver’s number and read a paragraph of promotional copy:
“Prepare to be ambushed! Our museum is full of surprises! Heart-stopping moments for every family member. So, even if your aunt claims she’s tied up in Brown’s Bay, insist on bringing the whole clan. Drag your spouse out of that house on the hill. Plan on having a blast!”
