Mystery in the Moonlight

by Lynn Patrick

  Moving over to the bunk, the frustrated young woman slumped down on it and sighed. Even if Bryce turned out to be something less than a criminal, she would still be angry with him. After getting to know her better, didn’t he realize that Caitlin O’Connor wasn’t the sort who became a villain’s mistress? Why hadn’t he believed her the many times she’d denied having anything to do with Moreau?

  On a more personal level Caitlin was also upset over Bryce’s behavior after they’d spent the night in the cave. Romantic emotions aroused by their passionate lovemaking had been crushed when Bryce had treated her so coldly afterward. It was as if he’d regretted their tryst, as if it had meant nothing to him. Had he merely been tempted by her state of undress…or had he thought she’d provoked him?

  Although usually shy around a man like Bryce, Caitlin had to admit that she’d openly desired him. Perhaps her obvious passion had prompted Bryce’s response, his soft caresses and smooth words. He’d been so attentive and warm that night, she’d even fancied herself in love with him.

  But she couldn’t have fallen in love with Bryce Winslow, she thought worriedly. Couldn’t she regard the incident as a momentary attraction—as he probably did—and try to forget all about it?

  Deciding that she might as well rest until she was released from her unwanted imprisonment, Caitlin stretched out on her stomach across the bunk and punched the pillow a few times, then realized she was visualizing it as the captain’s face. She flipped over on her back with another long drawn-out sigh.

  Wasn’t she supposed to be trying to forget about him?

  Of course, that wasn’t going to be easy to do, since she was trapped on the same ship with the man. How long would it be before she was released from the Sea Devil? A few days, a few weeks, perhaps longer? Muttering, Caitlin turned over to punch the pillow again. Until she was free it would be impossible to forget about Bryce Winslow.

  “We should reach St. Vincent in a few hours, my friend,” Anselm said as he and Bryce headed toward the ship’s helm. “Don’t worry, we’ll get another of the bastard’s boats. He’s got to make another run, and your friend on St. Vincent should have the information by now.”

  “Yes, I guess you’re right,” Bryce admitted slowly, thinking about the danger they all would face again. “But Ralph’s acquaintance on Mustique didn’t trust us. You could tell that from the way he stared at me when I questioned him.”

  “Why shouldn’t he be wary? He’s made his own illegal purchases.”

  “True.” But Bryce could have sworn he’d seen the light of recognition in the man’s eyes, despite the fact that they’d never met before. He told Anselm, “I wonder if that character was right about this supposed go-between, Eddie Teach, carting Moreau’s merchandise to an aristocratic fence, an Englishman on St. Vincent? If Moreau really is making a fortune by selling antique coins, where are they coming from?”

  “Maybe he found one of those buried treasures, the kind greedy people dream of.” Anselm chuckled.

  Bryce grinned crookedly. “It sounds a trifle farfetched. There were no coins in those boxes we took off the cabin cruiser, only cigarettes and small appliances, the usual smugglers’ contraband. And Ralph’s contact has a very convenient memory. He could tell us the name of the go-between but couldn’t remember much about the guy’s description or the name of the dealer on St. Vincent.”

  “Something made him nervous, my friend.”

  “I’m getting nervous. This situation is apparently far more complicated and dangerous than we’d thought. I don’t want any of my crew hurt,” Bryce grumbled.

  “Everyone has his own reasons for coming on this trip. Most of us had friends or relatives with Ned.”

  “The blasted authorities should have taken some responsibility. There has to be something big involved. Why else would a man have been killed?”

  “The authorities still claim they have no record of any death, no proof of any activities other than petty smuggling. It’s up to us, mon.”

  “If we can implicate the man who counts. I’m beginning to think we’ll never get to Moreau himself. Never find out the truth about Ned’s death. Damn!” Bryce stopped and frowned as he spoke to his mate. “I was sure we had the perfect bargaining tool in Caitlin. But how could we know that Moreau would refuse to do anything about his mistress? I couldn’t believe it when Ralph relayed his message yesterday. Instead of offering to negotiate or threatening us, the devil tells us to keep her.”

  “Maybe she really knows nothing about his activities, like she’s been saying all along,” offered Anselm. “Or perhaps she’s not as close to the Frenchman as we’ve thought…”

  “Whatever. In the meantime we’re going to have to keep her. She knows far too much about us and could give the information to Moreau. I wonder if the Frenchman has some kind of trick up his sleeve.”

  Anselm nodded. “The man’s a sly one. We were sure Ralph would be followed, but except for the two-masted he sighted during the first hour, there was no sign of another ship.”

  “They could have lost track of him in the storm,” Bryce said, wondering if the two-masted sailing ship could have been the one that had belonged to Ned. Moreau might be using it now.

  While Anselm went on to the chart house Bryce gave directions to the crewman at the wheel. Standing beneath the straining dark sails, Bryce watched Mustique grow smaller as the ship glided swiftly out of the island’s bay. There was a strong west wind that evening. Perhaps the exhilaration of fast sailing, flying along on the open sea, would soften his foul mood. Maybe he could stop focusing on the dead ends he’d encountered lately, forget the guilt that was nagging him.

  Though he joked about it often enough, Bryce was uncomfortable with his role as a pirate. Hardworking and responsible since he’d been a boy, he was accustomed to conducting legitimate seafaring business, not chasing down boats, holding men at gunpoint, and stealing smuggled cargo. Did it make any difference that he planned to turn the contraband over to the authorities once the mission was over? Would that make the Sea Devil’s undertakings any less illegal?

  Damn Ned and his confounded irresponsibility! Indirectly his younger brother had been the impetus for Bryce’s foray into piracy, even driving him to become the kidnapper of a woman who might be innocent of any connection with his prey.

  Would the complications never cease?

  Bryce thought back to his meeting with Ralph. Already doubtful of Caitlin’s relationship to Moreau but knowing that his current plans depended on it anyway, he’d had mixed emotions when he’d heard the message Ralph had brought. Though he’d outwardly expressed his disappointment over not being able to use Caitlin as a bargaining tool, Bryce had to admit that he’d also been secretly relieved that he wouldn’t have to give her up. Then the relief had faded into guilt-edged anger—at himself.

  Bryce scowled fiercely. He had to formulate a new plan for dealing with Ned’s murderers. He didn’t have time for a woman at the moment, especially an exasperating, confusing, disarming woman with a guileless demeanor and a suspicious identity.

  But how could he forget about her? Even now it was so easy to draw up visions of their night in the cave— Caitlin’s soft lips, her warm enveloping flesh, the passionate fire that had seemed to burn just for him in her evocative blue eyes. He’d almost think he was falling in love…

  “She was a lovely lad-e-e-e,” Lars half sang, half howled, as he wove unsteadily past the captain, around the wheel, and to the railing where he collapsed against it. “And I loved her very wel-l-l.”

  The old man had bought several bottles of rum when he’d accompanied Anselm and Bryce in the launch to Mustique that afternoon and had obviously already sampled a large portion of his purchases. The man at the ship’s wheel looked curiously at the inebriated cook and then at Bryce.

  “Er, does this mean we won’t be having an evening meal, Captain Winslow?”

  “You’ll get something to eat,” Bryce assured the crewman brusquely. “If Lars is too drunk, h
is assistant can do the work.” Glancing around the deck as he rifled his pockets for the keys, he quickly located the items and called to a nearby deckhand. “Thomas! Take these keys and let Caitlin out of the captain’s quarters. Tell her to get to work right away in the galley. The men will be needing some decent food soon.”

  Plopping more cheese on the sizzling ground beef, Caitlin let the stuff melt for a few minutes before placing the cheeseburgers on a large serving platter. Then she arranged the platter in the center of the crew’s dining table along with bread and hot sauce and a pot of beans. There were no real hamburger buns, no mustard or catsup or pickles, but cheeseburgers were the fastest meal she could come up with under the circumstances. Bryce had better not complain about it, she thought resentfully. After all, she’d never been hired to be the cook.

  But Bryce didn’t show up for dinner. As the men started to gather for the meal, smiling and giving her complimentary remarks, Caitlin felt a little better. At least the crew seemed to appreciate her quick work.

  “Looks delicious—and very North American,” Raymond de Silva told her as he seated himself. “Where’s Low Tide Lars? Is he all right? Sometimes he gets a little tipsy, but he very rarely ties one on like this.”

  “A couple of the men put him in his quarters. I should go check on him,” Caitlin said, deciding to do so immediately.

  As she approached the small bunk room next to the galley, she could hear Lars’s low, off-key singing. Was there some way to sober him up? Was the captain going to be angry that the old man’s drinking had gotten out of hand?

  “She was a lov-v-v-e-ly ladee! Ladee, matee, …”

  Wow. The rum was even affecting the old Norwegian’s rhyming ability. Munching a burger she’d brought from the table and carrying a large mug of strong tea, Caitlin entered the cramped quarters to stare down at the sail maker. Humming the same tune he’d been singing before, he lay flat on his bunk, his sparse white hair sticking straight out around his head.

  “Wouldn’t you like some tea, Lars?” asked Caitlin, offering him the mug. “It might help you feel better.”

  “Tea, bee, sea… Don’t want any tea. Want Anna, my wife. Ingrid’s mother. Was our anniversary last week…or maybe the week before that. Just remembered. I’m sad, …”

  When Caitlin crouched down beside the bunk, Lars took the proffered mug and surprised her by drinking its contents with one gulp. “Phooey! Nothing can take the place of rum,” he complained bitterly. “Though I’d rather have Anna.”

  “You say you want your wife?” Caitlin asked curiously. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “She’s gone, that’s why.”

  Feeling a wave of pity for the elderly man, Caitlin touched his arm comfortingly. “I’m sorry. When did she pass away?”

  “Pass away? You mean, die?” Lars’s half closed eyes popped completely open with a startled look. “Anna’s not dead. Not the last I heard, anyway. Woman’s just stupid. Why else divorce me and run off with a landlubber? All because of those terrible suspicions of hers. I wasn’t chasing women in every port.”

  “Oh. Well, a divorce sounds sad too.”

  “Hmph. It was sad and bad and happened maybe thirty years ago, give or take a few.” Lars reached over to open the chest beside his bunk and pulled out a bottle of rum. “I really loved Anna. Almost as much as the sea. Told her so. She just wouldn’t believe I never chased around.”

  “It’s sad to be misunderstood,” Caitlin agreed as she grabbed hold of the bottle before Lars could open it. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of this stuff?”

  “There’s never enough!” Lars wrenched the bottle away from her. “Though I guess you can have some, too, if you get yourself a glass, missy.”

  “No thanks. Why don’t you hold off on the booze? Talk some more and try to relax. Maybe you’ll fall asleep.”

  “And dream about Anna? Been sad enough awake. Know what it’s like to love someone who doesn’t believe what you-say? Thinks you’re a monster or a monstrous liar or some such thing? It’s a bad and awful tragedy.”

  Remembering her various battles with Bryce, Caitlin nodded. “I can certainly relate to that. You’re not the only one who’s been misunderstood and hurt. I’ve had some problems too.”

  “Oh, it’s bad, sad…terrible!” Forgoing another rhyme, Lars quickly opened the rum and took a swig out of the bottle. Before Caitlin had a chance to object, he poured a large dose in the empty mug and handed it to her. “Take that. Make you feel better about your hurts. At least the both of us still have the sea.” He took another swallow. “Can be thankful for that.”

  But she didn’t feel thankful. Staring into the depths of the dark liquid in the mug, she continued brooding about Bryce. Lars told her, “In your case, missy, like I’ve said, you should run around with a nicer crowd.”

  Caitlin’s head jerked up. Was the old man going to start lecturing again about his own ridiculous misunderstandings concerning her? She wasn’t in the mood for it.

  Irritated, she snapped, “Once and for all, I wasn’t in with the wrong crowd: And your precious captain isn’t so perfect. Captain Winslow didn’t save me. Well, not exactly.”

  Her harsh tone seemed to shock Lars, intoxicated though he was. Taking another swig of the rum, he turned his eyes away from her to gaze up at the ceiling and hum. Frustrated because she’d never been able to get anyone to believe her innocence in this situation, especially Bryce, Caitlin sipped from the mug. Though bitter, the liquor didn’t taste that bad. Unthinkingly she took a huge gulp and gasped when the fiery liquid burned all the way down her throat. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

  “Don’t cry, missy. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Lars murmured contritely, raising himself up to pour more liquor into her mug. “Have some more Captain Rum here.”

  As warmth spread through her limbs Caitlin toppled gracefully from her crouch into a more relaxed, seated position on the floor. “Captain Rum? I don’t want anything to do with captains of any sort! Especially not that horrible Bryce.”

  “Captain Winslow’s the best.”

  “Please! No offense to you, but I’d rather not hear any more praise about your captain. He’s disgusting as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Has the captain done something to hurt your feelings?”

  “He’s beastly!” cried Caitlin, taking another gulp of the rum. The small room seemed to sway for a moment, until she leaned against the wall. Was she really getting tipsy? she wondered. She’d always had a low tolerance for alcohol.

  “But the captain has his reasons. Poor dead Ned. His only brother and all,” stated Lars, obviously struggling to explain everything clearly to her. “That’s why we set out on this dangerous journey. Ned’s dead, or we’d be herding those vacationers in the Bahamas and I’d be sewing sails, not cooking.”

  Despite the comforting, distracting haze that surrounded her, Caitlin was able to hone in on the old man’s words. “Bryce’s brother? Vacationers? What are you talking about?”

  “Why, the Winslow brothers, missy,” said Lars, raising his arm to toast her with the rum bottle. “Let’s drink to foolish dead Ned. Skoal.”

  When the young woman lifted her cup, Lars shakily leaned over to slosh some more liquor into it. “Don’t spill it,” cautioned Caitlin as a rivulet of rum ran down her arm. “Ned is Bryce’s brother?”

  “Was. Always a little wild but not real bad…now he’s gone. The captain’s certain he’s dead, maybe murdered, but the rest of the family have their hopes. Good people. Always lived in the Bahamas. Known the captain’s father close to forty years and worked on his fleet of ships before the family went into the tourist trade. All going to be real broken up when the captain doesn’t find his younger brother.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Caitlin, trying to get everything straight. “Bryce’s family lives in the Bahamas and owns ships? His brother was murdered? Is that why Bryce has turned to crime—because of his anguish over Ned?”

&nbs
p; “Crime? No, no,” Lars said, shaking his head from side to side on the pillow. “Captain’s no criminal. Those boats we’ve sunk? Belonged to evil smugglers. We’ve been trying to find out how and why Ned was killed.”

  Feeling expansive, Caitlin waved her mug aloft. “Ha! Only sunk a couple of boats, did you? And you think that’s no crime? Sinking boats is against the law. And you were flying the pirate flag. I saw the skull and cutlasses the night I was kidnapped from Hibiscus.”

  “Nice piece of sewing, eh?” bragged Lars, passing the bottle to Caitlin so she could refill her mug. “Made that flag and am proud of it. Captain doesn’t like it, but I put the thing up to scare the daylights out of those low-living mates we went after. None of us are criminals. Besides, only left the boats to wreck themselves on the reefs. No one was hurt. Authorities should be happy about those smugglers. They’re the bad lot being led by that Frenchman…what’s his name?”

  “Jean Moreau?”

  “That’s him. Frenchie isn’t going to call in any Coast Guards, missy. He’s plenty rich from his smuggling and thievery. Probably the one who got Ned killed too. Frenchie’s into things too deep and black to complain about us…black, rack, sack, pack…”

  Taking another swig of her drink, Caitlin noticed that her lips felt a little numb, but she wasn’t particularly concerned. At least she didn’t feel depressed anymore. She smiled at Lars in friendly camaraderie.

  “This is all very interesting,” she remarked, her speech slurring. “Jean Moreau sent me lovey-dovey notes, saying he wanted to kiss me. Didn’t like it, but didn’t think he was a murderer.”