by JoAnna Carl
Daren Roberts and I looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then he spoke. “What did he tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me anything, but I’m a good guesser.”
He laughed derisively.
“And,” I said, “my thirteen-year-old niece insisted that I read a magazine with lots of old pictures in it.”
The derisive laugh turned to a cough.
“So where is he?”
He whispered. “He could be locked in the main cabin with a nubile young woman.”
“I looked there. Plus, the only nubile young women on board are my stepsister and her friend, and they’re both standing right over there with my aunt.”
“Oh.” Daren looked around the salon. “Well, I’m sure everything is all right. But I’ll look for him.”
I had to be content with that for the moment. Daren walked off, looking worried, and I joined Brenda and Tracy.
Tracy leaned close to me. “Is there some problem with the boat?”
“Maybe, but I’m sure it’s not serious.”
“Will says it’s something with the radar.”
“Could be.”
Brenda’s eyes were big. “It’s not . . . not dangerous, is it?”
I smiled at her. “Well, they haven’t broken out the lifeboats.”
That didn’t seem to reassure her, so I patted her arm. “Brenda, people sailed all over the oceans for thousands of years without radar. As long as we have a compass, we can find the shore. We’re only a few miles out.”
“Miles?”
“Maybe two or three. To get home we go straight east until we see a light, okay? Then the captain knows where he is, and we head north or south until he sees the lighthouse at the entrance to the Warner River. We still have lights. Nothing’s been said about the radio being out. We’re fine.”
She nodded. “I knew everything was all right.”
“After all, this is a test cruise. The equipment is still being broken in.”
But that radar ought to be working, I knew. I didn’t say anything more.
Joe came down from the fly deck then. He was frowning. I grabbed him as he went by.
“What’s the problem?” I said.
Joe lowered his voice. “The radar’s gone out.”
“So they weren’t able to figure out where the pirates went.”
“Among other things.”
He moved, but I kept hold of his arm.
“Have they found Byron?”
“I didn’t know anyone was looking for him.”
“I have been. He hasn’t been around since the pirates left.”
“So?”
“Oh, come on, Joe! Surely Hogan told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Byron!”
“What about him?”
“Joe! Byron is Marco Spear!”
Chapter 20
Joe laughed. “Okay, Lee! You got it. But don’t get too excited.”
“Why not?”
“He hasn’t fallen overboard.”
“Then where is he?”
Joe moved his lips close to my ear. “It’s a publicity stunt.”
I stood still, without moving. I didn’t know if I should be happy or sad. I was relieved, but I felt like a complete fool.
Of course! We were talking about a movie star! What was more logical than a publicity stunt? It made perfect sense.
For a moment.
Then I didn’t quite believe it. I kept my hold on Joe’s arm. “The warnings? The publicity people sent those? They called Byron’s mom? They stuck a strange note in the shop’s door?”
“I suppose so. Or maybe Byron’s mom is part of the plan.”
“What about the dead man? Hal Weldon?”
“He didn’t have anything to do with Byron.”
“Yes, he did. Through Jeremy.”
“Jeremy?”
“Yes. Jeremy called Byron’s mom, and Byron told us he’d known Jeremy in high school. So there’s a connection between Jeremy and Marco. And that means there’s a connection between Marco and Hal.”
“What connection?”
“Jeremy!”
“Pretty far-fetched, Lee.”
“Jeremy and Hal knew each other. And you’ll never get me to believe that Jeremy disappeared off the same beach where Hal’s body was found”—I emphasized the next words—“by coincidence. Jeremy pulled that drowning stunt to force a search of the area so Hal’s body would be found.”
Joe sighed. “You’ll have to talk to Hogan.” He led me toward the companionway going up to the fly deck.
I’d already looked at the scene up there, of course, and things hadn’t changed since I’d peeked earlier. The fly deck—the top of the yacht—was brightly lit. Charles Oxford, the captain, and another crewman were huddled over the controls at the bridge. The yacht was moving gently through the water—not very fast—and I could see lights on the horizon straight ahead. Apparently we were headed back toward shore, whether the radar was working or not.
Hogan was standing against the rear railing, and Joe led me to him.
“Hogan, Lee’s got some questions,” he said. He lowered his voice. “She’s figured out who Byron is, for one thing.”
Hogan grinned, and when he spoke he also kept his voice low. “Then you know he’s the owner of this boat.”
“Who he is isn’t the question, Hogan,” I said. “It’s where he is. I don’t believe he’s on the yacht.”
“Then it seems as if things are going according to plan.”
“Whose plan?”
“Some Hollywood publicity type. When I went out to talk to the people at Oxford Boats, they pulled the so-called Byron in, and he explained the whole deal. And it’s a publicity stunt.”
“What’s he getting publicity for?”
“His next movie. It seems the critics didn’t like his performance in Young Blackbeard.”
“I read a few of the reviews. They liked the leaping around and the sword fighting, but they didn’t think much of his acting.”
“Right. So Marco—his dad’s name was Byron and his mother’s maiden name was Wendt—got mad. His role in this next movie is going to require real acting.”
“I read about that, too. He’s going to play a sickly guy who’s not too bright.”
“Yep. So he decided to try the role out in real life.”
“You’re kidding!”
Hogan held up a finger in shushing position. “It’s true. He came to Warner Pier—well, because he wanted to see the yacht he’d ordered—but also because he wanted to ‘immerse himself’ in the new role. Or that’s what he told me.”
“So he assumed the role of Byron Wimp. I mean, Wendt.”
Hogan nodded.
“I will say he did a good job,” I said. “I thought Byron was the squirrelliest character I’d run into in a long time.”
“But Joe says you figured out who he really was. How’d you do it?”
“I picked up one of the biographical magazines on Marco Spear, just wondering if Marcia would like a copy. It has a high school picture of him in it, and the picture was a dead ringer for Byron Wendt. Glasses. Terrible haircut. Except for the buckteeth. He had braces in those days. The teeth must be an appliance he got from the makeup department.”
Joe and Hogan laughed.
“Then I began to remember some things,” I said. “Such as when Byron fell off his bicycle in Joe’s lane, he curled into a ball and rolled.”
“The way a gymnast would?”
“Yes. And when Aunt Nettie’s fancy pirate ship nearly fell over, he slipped around like a snake and grabbed it. He has superb coordination. Plus, he told us he was low man on the totem pole at Oxford Boats, but he managed to leave whenever he wanted to, and he was supposedly given permission to invite guests for tonight’s cruise. Things like that.”
“You didn’t tell anybody?”
“No. I figured he wanted it to be a surprise, and I didn’t want to ruin his plan.
But after the pirates came on board I couldn’t find him. So I did ask that Hollywood guy, Daren Roberts, to look for him.”
Hogan nodded. “Roberts has been hanging around the yacht a lot. He should know the layout, so surely he can find him. I’m sure Byron is somewhere on board. He was going to announce who he was after we got back to the boatyard, then take off for Hollywood in the limo that drove down Peach Street this afternoon. He’s probably changing back to his real identity. Getting rid of the teeth and so on.”
“I hope you’re right.”
I leaned back against the railing and watched the activity on the bridge. The yacht had two control stations—this one on the fly deck and an identical one down in the main salon. The two were linked, and whatever commands were given at one were copied at the other. Of course, only one of them functioned at a time. The captain and another crewman were watching the sophisticated gauges and equipment that ran this luxury yacht.
It was cool up there, and I’d left my jacket two levels down, on the aft deck. I thought of going to get it, but I didn’t want to miss anything. There was definitely a lot happening on the fly deck.
Charles Oxford was as mad as hops, as I’d deduced from the loud talk I’d heard earlier, but he’d stopped yelling. He walked over to Hogan and spoke.
“Some jerk cut the power to the radar controls. I’ll never allow another reporter on one of my crafts.”
Hogan looked quizzical. “Why would one of the reporters damage the yacht?”
“Just to be obnoxious.” I expected him to declare the reporters a “scurvy lot,” or use some other sea-dog expression to describe them. And maybe he would have, except that Daren Roberts came running up the companionway.
As soon as he got to the top, he came to an abrupt halt and looked carefully all around the fly deck. When he saw our little group, he walked toward us, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead as he came.
“You’re right, Mrs. Woodyard,” he said. “I can’t find Byron anyplace.”
Oxford erupted. “What! He’s hiding someplace. Being funny.”
Roberts’ face was a picture of misery. “I hope you’re right. Apparently no one’s seen him since the pirates came on board.”
“We’ll see about that.” Oxford strode to the controls and picked up a microphone. “Byron Wendt,” the loudspeakers roared. “Byron Wendt. Report to the fly bridge. On the double.”
The voice on the sound system left no room for dillydallying. Byron was to report right that minute. We all looked at the companionway, waiting for Byron’s head to appear, listening for his feet to pound as they ran up the cantilevered stairs.
But Byron didn’t come. Nothing happened.
Oxford waited about three minutes, then gave his preemptory summons again. Again, nothing happened.
The mood changed subtly. While Oxford was still stamping around, obviously angry, there was now an element of unease in his actions.
I could understand why. If he’d taken a teen idol out on one of his yachts and failed to bring him back—well, the publicity was going to be worldwide, and it wasn’t going to be good.
Especially when there were hundreds of square miles of Lake Michigan surrounding the yacht. Oxford and his captain had to face the possibility that the owner of this multimillion-dollar yacht had fallen overboard.
But I didn’t think Byron had gone into the drink. I thought he’d gone off with the pirates. The last time I saw him—and I admit I was keeping an eye on our famous host—was just before the pirates came on board. I thought he’d left with them.
The question was, had he gone willingly?
Had Marco Spear left with the pirates as part of a publicity stunt? Or were the warnings true? Had there been danger to him? Had he been taken against his will?
On that one I wasn’t willing to guess. The whole thing could be another hoax like the one I felt sure Jeremy had pulled. Or the pirates might have actually kidnapped Byron—Marco—somehow.
But how? The four pirates had had the continuous attention of a dozen people during the whole time they were on board the yacht.
I went over the whole thing in my mind. Where had I last seen Byron?
He’d brought around some cheese and crackers when Aunt Nettie and I were on the aft deck. He’d gone all around the deck like a good waiter, and he’d been lingering near the aft companionway just before the first pirate came up it.
At that point my attention had shifted to the pirate, and I had no further recollection of Byron. Had he moved back onto the deck, toward the salon? I didn’t think so. As far as I was concerned, Byron had disappeared right at the top of the companionway—or the stairs, as we landlubbers would say—the stairs that led down to the swim platform.
That platform was itself a little deck, a deck very close to water level. It was where swimmers would climb off and on the yacht. If was where Jet Skis or a dinghy would be launched or hauled aboard. It was where the “garage,” the compartment for storing those items, was accessed.
If—big if—Byron was planning to leave the yacht with the pirates, it would be the logical place for him to wait to get aboard their inflatable.
But when the pirates did leave, Byron hadn’t been with them. We’d all rushed to look at them as they’d loaded their equipment into the raft, started their outboard motor, waved, and rode off into the dark.
Equipment. Hmm. I thought about that. Their equipment had included the magic pirate chest. People could get in a chest like that one and disappear.
“Oh, rats!” I said it out loud. “Byron left in the pirate’s treasure chest. The jerk! He had to get in willingly. He’s scared us just as a stunt.”
I whirled around, looking for Hogan, ready to share my deduction, a deduction that Hogan had probably already made.
Now Hogan—and Joe—had joined Charles Oxford and the yacht’s captain at the helm. And the radio was making noise.
When I touched Hogan’s arm and tried to talk to him, he shushed me firmly. He was listening to the radio, and he didn’t want to talk to me.
I couldn’t understand it at first. Then a word caught my ear.
“Kidnapped!”
I listened harder.
“We have your movie star,” the voice on the radio said. “He’s safe, and he’ll stay safe as long as you do what we say. But we want twenty million dollars for him.”
Chocolate Chat
Chocolate Might Become Fuel
British scientists are testing a plan that would see the waste from chocolate factories used as fuel—for a race car.
The car runs on a mixture of vegetable oils and chocolate waste.
Researchers at the University of Warwick claim their car is the fastest vehicle yet to run on biofuels. Many parts of the car are also made from plant fibers. The steering wheel, for example, is made from fibers that come from carrots, and the seat is made from flax.
The builders say it meets Formula 3 specifications for size, weight, and performance. They hope it will reach speeds as high as 145 miles per hour.
The scientists maintain that their project proves that an efficient and speedy car can also be environmentally friendly.
Chapter 21
I knew a little more by the time we got back up the Warner River and docked at Oxford Boats.
Someone had called the Oxford Boats phone with the message about Marco being kidnapped. The people on duty there had relayed the message to the yacht by radio, and, of course, our search had confirmed that Marco Spear was not on the yacht.
The Michigan State Police were already checking on the phone that had sent the original message, but it was a cell phone, and no one had any real hope that the number would lead to anything. It’s too easy to buy a temporary phone anonymously.
So the yacht headed in with a glum group of passengers aboard. Even the reporters seemed to share the general mood of dismay; they were excited, but not in a happy way. I believe that if one of them had made a cynical comment, the rest of the passengers
—those of us who knew Marco in his persona as Byron—would have thrown him overboard. Without a life jacket.
Some people, including me, considered the idea that this was a publicity stunt, that Marco hadn’t really been kidnapped. But the near hysteria of Daren Roberts convinced me that it was true.
Roberts kept yanking his cell phone out, looking at it, then jamming it back in his pocket. Fifteen seconds later he’d do the same thing over again. He was pacing back and forth, looking toward the shore, obviously desperate to get back to the boatyard.
“I can’t believe I don’t have service out here,” he said. His voice was close to a wail.
We were at the dock before the reporters were able to get sense out of Roberts.
“Why should we believe that this isn’t a publicity stunt?” Chuck O’Riley asked the question.
“It was to be a publicity stunt,” Roberts said. “Not the kidnapping, of course. Marco planned the whole thing himself. He was to establish himself here in Warner Pier as this other person, Byron Wendt. Then, tonight he wanted to invite people he’d met here, plus some press reps. He’d give tours and serve drinks, still pretending to be Byron Wendt. And after he was sure that everybody thought he was really that guy, I was to announce that Marco was on board. And then he’d pop up. He planned to do a handstand on the top deck”—Daren motioned toward the fly deck—“then walk on his hands down those stairs.” He pointed toward the companionway leading from the aft deck to the fly deck. “But I never got the signal to make the announcement.”
“How did the pirates who boarded the ship fit in?”
“They didn’t! We tried to get in touch with them. We thought they would be a neat addition to the whole plan. But none of us could find them.”
“Will the studio pay the ransom?”
Daren waved questions aside. “That’s not my decision! I’ve got to get to a real phone!” He ran down the aft companionway and jumped onto the dock.
Brenda and Tracy had eyes the size of tennis balls. I guess I did, too.
“Byron was Marco?” Tracy sounded almost stunned.
