Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  "There's my motley crew now," Pinto said. "Billy, Bob, and Spider."

  "Spider?" Rip asked.

  "Aye. Don't know why he's called Spider, and don't want to know. But that's what he asked me to call him."

  "What happened to the big dude's arm?" I asked, even though it was none of my concern.

  "Bob's never said and I've never asked." Obviously, Pinto was not inflicted with my inquisitive nature. He went on to say, "But he uses that hook so efficiently, you'd never know he wasn't using two real hands like everyone else. He opens and closes it using the muscles of his back. I ran into him at Tackle Town one day and instead of the hook, he had on a prosthetic arm and hand that looked so authentic it was difficult to tell it wasn't real."

  "Yeah, it's remarkable what they can do these days, isn't it?"

  "For sure."

  Watching the three men walk toward the boat, I had second thoughts about tagging along on the abbreviated oyster run. If I'd happened upon this trio in a dark alley, I'd die of heart failure before they had the opportunity to mug me. I glanced at Rip, who didn't look any less skeptical than I was.

  After they came aboard, Pinto introduced the guys to us. The brothers, Spider and Billy Willis, looked as if they hadn't invested more than two bucks in laundry detergent their entire adult lives. They both had a fishy smell to them, as well. I was glad the fish stench was nearly masked by the overwhelming odor of liquor. They were already into the "hooch" and it wasn't even nine yet. When the taller and rattier one extended his hand to shake, I waved him off, "Sorry. Sore finger. But it's nice to meet you, Spider."

  I tried hard not to gag at the nasty aroma radiating from the man. It was on par with a bag of rotten potatoes I'd once found in a plastic tub in an under-carriage storage compartment. After a few unbearable seconds, I had to turn away from Spider in pretense of being startled by the squawking sound of a blue heron chasing a snowy egret away from his territory. It was a sound I'd heard many, many times before, but one I thought might alarm a tourist from up north.

  I waved at Spider's brother, and said, "You must be Billy. Nice to meet you two."

  Rip was apparently able to ignore the smell and greeted the two men with a warm handshake. Was this the same man who frequently informed me I had too much perfume on?

  Rip looked up as Pinto introduced him to Bob who, by my estimation, stood about six-foot-five, and weighed around three-hundred pounds. His build and stature reminded me of Mack Schilling. Bob was massive, but not slovenly or tubby. Clean shaven, appropriately clothed, and solid muscle. He even emitted a nice scent I recognized as Jovan Musk.

  "Nice guns," Rip said admiringly, as he shook the dude's right hand. At least his deformity didn't affect his handshake, or most likely, his writing. Bob had a ninety-six percent chance of having been born right-handed. His missing left arm could have been a birth defect, which would have automatically made him right-handed, even if by default.

  "Hello, I'm Rapella," I said politely with a wave.

  When he opened his mouth to respond, I noticed his two front teeth were absent. He had a jagged chip on his bottom left incisor, and his first bicuspid on the bottom right was missing entirely. His gap-toothed smile seemed out of place because all of his remaining teeth appeared straight and bright. His gums below the missing teeth were red and inflamed, as if he'd had them knocked out recently.

  His parents had probably drained their nest egg to get their boy braces and wouldn't be too pleased with his smile today. Growing up on fluoride-free well water, I'd had bad teeth when I was the Willis boys' age. But I'd nipped the potential of an ever-expanding expense in the bud and had them all pulled and replaced with dentures when I was only twenty-eight. I'm too money conscious to pay for new choppers more than once.

  Perhaps my curious expression was telling, because after introducing himself to both of us, Bob remarked with a touch of a lisp. "Excuse my missing teeth, folks. I've got a dentist appointment scheduled to get them taken care of."

  "I'd hate to see the other guy," Rip quipped jokingly.

  Bob just grinned and began to put his rubber boots on, evidently not interested in explaining what had occurred to cause his jack-o-lantern smile.

  At straight-up nine we set sail, departing the marina through an opening in the jetty. We tracked north for several minutes before we turned west to cross under the long Copano Bay Bridge, which was under construction. A new bridge was being built east of the current bridge, which was east of the original bridge. The three bridges stood side-by-side, spanning the open water. The oldest bridge had been utilized as a fishing pier for years. It had a wide gap in the center to let vessels enter into Copano Bay. The one under construction was lofty enough to allow future passageway for sailboats and other taller vessels.

  Standing at the helm, Pinto turned to Rip and me and hollered, "There's a reef over there I want to try first. If it's not productive, we'll head over to the island where we usually go. Oysters have become so few and far between, it's hardly worth the effort anymore. They really should close both bays for a couple of years to give the oysters time to spawn and replenish the beds. Of course, I'd die of starvation in the interim."

  Pinto's smile indicated he'd been kidding, but the grim expression that quickly replaced the grin said otherwise. The din from the motor and wind made conversation difficult, so Rip and I just nodded in response. Before long, we arrived at the area our captain had pointed toward. As the men worked to get the dredge ready, the boat gently rocked back and forth. The undulating motion felt soothing.

  Rip and I had come to the marina prepared for the possibility of going out on the water that day; we ate a light breakfast at the Daily Grind, donned comfortable clothing, sunscreen, deck shoes and sunglasses, and put on headwear for protection from the sun. Rip had chosen a cheesy ball cap he'd purchased at Yellowstone National Park when we'd worked at a campground there one summer for free rent and a little cash. I wore a large-brimmed straw hat with a chin strap. It made me look like I should be on my hands and knees planting petunias in a flower garden. But I was glad we'd thought to bring them, even though the sun was only rarely peeking out from behind the clouds. The worse sunburn I'd ever sustained had been on a mostly cloudy day and it was not an experience I wanted to repeat.

  The swells caused the boat to bob up and down, so Rip and I looked around for a safer, more comfortable place to observe the harvesting procedure. Aware of our concern, Pinto motioned for us to sit on top of a large padded cooler. It was stable, out of the wind, and provided us a good view of the operation. We'd have to play it by ear on how and when to initiate a conversation with Pinto about the homicide case.

  The men began lowering the dredge, a strong wire mesh basket-looking contraption. After it had dropped to the bottom of the bay, Pinto began steering the boat in a circular pattern, dragging the basket along the sea floor. He appeared delighted after they hoisted up the dredge on a pulley and spilled its contents out onto a large and severely scratched-up wooden table. The platform had a railing constructed with two-by-fours around its perimeter that prevented any spillage.

  Pinto walked back to the stern and all four men began sorting through the pile, tossing sea weed overboard first. They picked out a few clams and a large blue crab, depositing them in two separate plastic containers that resembled webbed laundry baskets. After all the other odds and ends were removed from the pile, they began sorting through the oysters, culling out the larger ones and pitching the smaller ones, and dead shells, back into the water. I observed how they used mallets to break apart the clusters.

  Pinto had not exaggerated about Bob's abilities. Even with a prosthetic arm that employed a metal hook in lieu of a hand, he was as quick and nimble as the other three men working alongside him who had full use of both their natural upper limbs. Because of his bulk, I dubbed him Big Bob. He showed no sign of being disabled at all. But then I've always considered "disabled" and "handicapped" to be a frame of mind more than a physical condition. Earli
er I had wondered if the missing limb was a birth defect, and now that seemed quite likely, because Big Bob utilized the hook as if he'd been doing it his entire life. Pinto had never inquired about what had necessitated Bob's need for a prosthetic, so I decided not to be nosy and ask, either.

  This dredge-dragging, basket-dumping routine was repeated numerous times as multiple burlap sacks were filled with oysters and stacked off to the side. The three men worked at a rapid, but harmonious, pace. Bob remained silent for the most part while the Willis brothers chatted about a "blond bombshell" who worked at the local Dairy Queen, and a party they were attending that evening at Redfish Willie's.

  I hadn't gotten my sea legs yet, but I wanted to get a closer look at the variety of stuff they were acquiring from off the sea floor. They'd already found two marine batteries, a rusty spinning reel, and a hard plastic chunk from the shroud of an Evinrude boat motor. They'd dragged up enough tangled fishing line to wrap around the bay twice and cussed the anglers who'd thoughtlessly deposited it in the bay.

  When an anchor was dredged up along with a bucket full of oysters, I was happy to discover I wasn't the only person to toss one overboard without tying it to the boat first. Now perhaps Rip would quit teasing me about the mishap.

  I wobbled over toward the table like a drunken bum and asked the men, "How big do they have to be?"

  Billy held an oyster up and said, "Like this one. At least three inches wide."

  "Then it looks like you got a lot of keepers there," I said, happy for Pinto. It appeared to me to have been a productive day so far. Out of pure politeness, I said, "They look delicious."

  "Here you go, lady," Spider said, splitting open an oyster and tossing it my way. "Try one."

  Naturally, I fumbled the catch. I nearly lost my balance trying to juggle the oyster, but it fell to the deck anyway. I retrieved the shell and opened it completely, staring down at my worst nightmare. I was revolted at the idea of eating the raw oyster but didn't want to seem unappreciative. "Thanks, Spider."

  "Yeah, okay, lady."

  I hadn't really expected the oldest Willis boy to remember my name for longer than a few seconds, and he looked surprised I'd remembered his. Even with my ever-increasing number of senior moments, a name like "Spider" was hard to forget.

  Spider reached around Bob and handed me another oyster, clearly not wanting to watch an instant replay of my first clumsy attempt to catch one. I was relieved when he said, "Give this to Rip."

  "Okay. Thanks again!"

  Raw oysters are one of those things you either love or you hate. Rip loved them. Me, not so much. But I felt obligated to somehow get the one Spider gave me down with four pairs of eyes staring at me, waiting for my opinion of the coveted delicacy. Knowing I detested oysters, Rip watched me with an ornery grin plastered across his face as I nearly gagged trying to swallow the despicable thing. The oyster felt like a raw egg slithering down my throat. I badly wanted to run to the side of the boat and spit it out, but I suffered through it. I nodded at the men, and said, "Um, yeah. Very good. Quite salty though."

  And disgustingly slimy, I thought.

  "Wouldn't you like another one, dear, seeing how you enjoyed that first one so much?" Rip asked. I gave him a look that would make a grizzly race back into his den.

  I turned back toward the Willis brothers, and Billy, having heard my husband's remark, handed me yet another oyster. And the boy, God bless him, had hand-picked the largest damned oyster he could find. "Here you go, grandma. Bottom's up!"

  I wasn't sure I appreciated being called "grandma" by a scuzzball like Billy Willis but felt I had no other choice but to down the second ghastly ball of goo. The next look I shot Rip, after I managed to choke it down, would have killed that grizzly before it'd even have a chance to turn and run.

  I wanted to slap the smirk right off his face. He glanced over at Pinto and asked, "Mind if I have one more too?"

  "Absobloodylootely! Have all you want, bub. You too, my lady."

  When I didn't enthusiastically lunge for another oyster, Pinto cheerfully encouraged us both to partake. "Help yourself, folks. There's plenty to go around. We've happened upon a generous bed this morning. So generous, in fact, I'm surprised it isn't in a restricted area. Have all you want, folks."

  "I think I'd better limit myself to two. Unfortunately, too much sodium's not good for my hypertension," I replied, pasting on my most convincing expression of disappointment.

  Rip, however, couldn't eat enough of them. After I reclaimed my perch on the cooler, he wandered over to an open bag of oysters and began gobbling them down. I was relieved he seemed to be enjoying himself, but not totally surprised. Food always had been the shortest route to Rip's heart. Joking and chatting with the crew, he'd eventually had his fill of the little goobers. After utilizing the head, he elbowed his way in at the table and began picking out crabs, clams, and other bits and pieces out of the spoils, as the other men culled through the oysters.

  "You best put some gloves on, bub. There's an extra pair in the steering cabin," Pinto advised.

  "Nah, I'm fine. Just picking out the riff-raff. I'll leave the oysters to you guys," Rip said, brushing off Pinto's offer. He then began chattering like he was a talk radio host.

  I waited impatiently for him to stop jabbering about inconsequential topics like his inability to whistle, the asinine idea of putting buttons in lieu of zippers in a man's fly, and how nothing tasted better than a good 'ol fried Spam sandwich. Just the thought of Spam made me want to upchuck the repulsive oysters I'd eaten. When it became clear to me that Rip was never going to segue into a conversation about the murder of Pinto's buddy, I reluctantly joined the fast and furious commotion at the sorting table.

  I still hadn't gotten my "sea legs" yet and was beginning to think I never would with the seas rougher than normal. I had to keep one hand clamped to the railing of the table just to remain upright. With the other hand, I practiced the art of culling through creepy, gooey things without actually ever laying a hand on any one of them. If any of the men noticed I was accomplishing nothing, they didn't mention it.

  When there was a brief pause in the action, I asked nonchalantly, "Wasn't that something about that fellow who got killed with his own spear-gun?"

  Pinto's head spun so fast toward me, I don't know what kept it from snapping in two and flinging its way out into the water. The look on his face was alarming.

  "Why do you ask?" He was staring at me as if I were a never-before-seen sea creature they'd just dredged up from the floor of the bay. "What have you heard? Has there been a break in the case? Have you heard something about a suspect being apprehended or identified?"

  "Why, no," I replied, taken aback by his sudden anxiousness. "I doubt I know anymore than you do about the murder. I just thought maybe you'd heard something while speaking with other fishermen around the marina."

  Due to his reaction, I wondered for a second if Pinto really might know more than I did about Claypool's death. Perhaps a lot more than anyone else knew about it. From his accent and some of the terms he'd used, it was apparent he was originally from England. Milo had commented about the British accent of the man named Captain Hook. Was it possible he had any connection to the murder? It didn't seem likely to me. Milo had sworn there was no way Pinto was involved, and I had a tendency to agree with him. He appeared to be too laid back, too easy-going − or at least until I mentioned Claypool's murder.

  After a long breath and an even longer exhale, Pinto replied, "No, haven't heard much. Nothing at all, really. Crying shame though, isn't it?"

  "Very much so," I agreed.

  Rip's attention had been piqued and he joined the conversation. He glanced from one man to the next, all around the table before asking, "Was he an acquaintance of yours, Pinto? Or any of the rest of you men?"

  Without looking up, the man I'd dubbed Big Bob answered first. "Nope, never heard of the guy."

  Spider was next and only a touch more helpful than Bob. "Billy and I see
n him at a few of our AA meetings. I remember Claypool introducing himself and saying his drinking had escalated in recent months due to money problems. Saw him with his lady at a bar one day too. For an older broad, she wasn't half bad. She could do better than Claypool, for sure. I know I'd be happy to take her for a ride, if you know what I mean."

  I did know what Spider meant and had half a mind to pick up one of the mallets lying on the table and wallop him over the head. The Willis brothers were laughing so hard at Spider's wisecracks that a thimbleful of the tobacco Billy had been chewing shot out of his left nostril and onto the wooden table. I had to look away or risk having one of the snotty-looking oysters I'd eaten erupt from one of the orifices on my face, too.

  When he'd gained control again, Billy swiped a grimy, slimy and now briny, sleeve across his face, pointed at Pinto, and said. "Captain Bean was pretty tight with Claypool, I know."

  I'd expected Pinto to be irked by Billy's offhand remark, but instead he became emotional. With a tear in his eye, Pinto nodded, and agreed with the deck hand, "That's right. Cooper was like a son to me. He and his buddy used to take me fishing with them and would come sit in the boat and pop a few tops with me once in a while. News of his death broke my heart. I still can't bear to even think about it, much less talk about it."

  He was clearly devastated about Cooper's murder, and I knew the buddy he'd referred to was Milo. I told him I was really sorry for his loss. Rip shook his head at me, but I felt compelled to inquire anyway. After all, when would we ever have another opportunity to question him? I think Rip nearly swallowed his tongue when I said, "We heard he was into a loan shark for quite a bit of money. Did you know anything about that, Pinto?"

  The Willis boys had resumed working, but Big Bob took a short break from his labor to gaze at Pinto as the captain responded. "Yeah, I did, actually. I begged him to let me float him a loan, but he refused. Our other buddy tried to get him to accept a loan too. We both knew how brutal those goons can get to entice a bloke to pay up, and we were afraid of what might happen to Cooper. Now I wonder if his life might have been spared if I had tried harder to get him to take me up on the loan. I'm sure Cooper knew my funds were a little dried up too and didn't want to put me in a bind. But I'd have gotten by somehow. I'd been down and out before and will no doubt be down and out again. But I'm still here, ain't I?"