Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

by Julie Smith

  But I needn’t have worried. The snapping eyes had lost their focus; she was tearing up. “I guess I picked another ‘inappropriate’ time.” There was fury in her voice, but it was the frustrated rage of defeat. She was handing the power over.

  I simply couldn’t believe it. Instead of using that giant head of energy she’d just worked up, shed gone all victimized and soft. Or so it seemed. Why didn’t I trust it?

  Deliberately I made my voice calm and lawyer-like. “Not at all. Is there tuna fish? Maybe I could make some sandwiches. We could stop and get some potato chips and Cokes.”

  “Marty doesn’t let them have sugar.”

  “Juice then. It is all right with you if they go?”

  She shrugged, still mad. “I guess you’re in charge here. I usually don’t let one go without the other. And Libby shouldn’t be allowed to go until she apologizes for using filthy language.”

  “But if one can’t go without the other, that would penalize Keil.”

  She turned toward the kitchen, big shoulders heaving again. “That’ll just be on her conscience, won’t it?”

  I went up and found Libby. “Your grandma said you couldn’t go sailing until you apologized for calling me a shithead.”

  “I don’t give a shit who I called a shithead. I told you I didn’t want to go sailing, shithead.”

  I laughed and hit her with a pillow. “What’d you call me?”

  “SHITHEAD!!!!”

  I cupped my ear and whispered, “Could you say that again, please?”

  “Shithead!”

  “Oh. I thought you said cabeza de mierda.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Shithead in Spanish. Esperanza taught it to me.”

  She laughed, caught herself having fun, and put her hand over her mouth. “She did not! She never swears.”

  “You’re right, she didn’t. But I did see her this afternoon. Her dad took me to talk to her because she’s real, real upset about something.”

  “Sadie.” Libby looked down at her coverlet and found a design to trace.

  “It isn’t just that, honey. It’s something about a white thing. Do you know what it is?”

  She looked up, interested for the first time. “A white thing?”

  “Uh-huh. She said it looked like a brain.”

  “A brain? She told you that?”

  “Yes. Have you seen it?”

  “Maybe. Why’d she tell you about it?”

  “Kids like me. Haven’t you noticed?”

  She threw the pillow back at me. “Shithead.” But there was no venom in the word.

  “See? You hardly know me and already you gave me a nickname.”

  “Is Esperanza really upset?”

  “Really, really upset.”

  “Really, really, really upset?”

  It went on like that for a few more exchanges, while Libby let me know she wouldn’t dream of going except that Esperanza needed her so desperately. But I knew the battle was won the first time I mentioned the white thing—I couldn’t tell whether she knew what it was, but she obviously didn’t know why it was upsetting Esperanza. And she was burning up with curiosity.

  Keil the Wonder Child already had the sandwiches made. How he knew we were even really going, much less that we needed tuna sandwiches, I had no idea. Maybe he was psychic; he seemed to know what you wanted half the time when you didn’t know yourself.

  Julio kept his boat at the marina, and we were to meet him there at three. We’d have just made it if the phone hadn’t rung. Keil answered it—who else? “It’s for you, Rebecca.”

  I snatched the phone, fervently hoping I’d connected with Judge Reyes before I remembered I hadn’t been able to leave a message.

  “Hello, schweetheart, get me rewrite.”

  “Rob.”

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I was on my way out, that’s all. How’s—ah—” Where was he? “—Harvard?”

  “You don’t sound right.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I tracked you down. The Monterey Bay Aquarium murder is national news, pussycat. Your name was in the New York Times this morning.”

  “Shit!” Guiltily I looked over at Ava.

  “I’m getting the weirdest feeling about your attitude.”

  “Did the paper say Marty’s been arrested?”

  “Uh-huh. I always thought there was passion beneath that calm exterior.”

  “And did it mention Don’s away in Australia?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, if you recall, they’ve got two kids.”

  “Oh, no. You’ve been elected Mom for a Day? Surely not. Not you.”

  “I happen to be very good at it,” I snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some diapers to change.”

  “Rebecca, you just don’t sound like yourself. Are you sure you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you sound like my mother.”

  “Nobody sounds like your mother. She’s been on the horn as usual, I expect?”

  “Actually, yours is the first—uh—call from my old life.” I had stopped myself just in time—I’d almost said “unwelcome phone call.”

  “Your old life? You haven’t even been gone twenty-four hours.”

  Keil and Libby, who had been standing first on one foot and then the other, had taken to whispering and now burst forth in a chorus of “Anchors Aweigh.”

  “Listen, I’ve really got to go.”

  “Have you run away with half a dozen sailors?”

  “The kids are trying to remind me in a nice way that we’re late for our sailing date.”

  “Date? Did you say date?”

  “Give me a break, okay? Some kid’s dad’s taking a bunch of us out on the bay. Could I be excused, please?”

  “You really sound harried.”

  “That’s motherhood for you. ’Bye now.”

  “But I didn’t tell you what I called for.”

  I sighed. “An exclusive, inside interview, I guess.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I wanted to tell you I miss you.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I love you.”

  Perspiration popped out like a rash on my forehead. I didn’t want to hear this. “Gosh. Well, you’re very sweet today. I’ve got to go, really.”

  “Okay. Call you for the story later.”

  My hands were as sweaty as my face before he finally let me go. It had been a call from the other side of the moon, so alien was it. I’d let Rob go a long time ago. I just hadn’t let myself realize it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Julio and Esperanza were waiting impatiently beside what Julio said was a Victory, a twenty-one-foot boat in which the five of us were a nice snug fit.

  Julio, at any rate, was impatient. Esperanza, I thought, seemed still down in the dumps, though she cheered a little when she saw Libby.

  We’d stopped on the way for fruit juice and Cokes, which the kids informed me were usually strictly forbidden, but which, I informed them, were permitted today.

  “Okay, who’s going to help sail?” asked Julio, looking almost wistfully at Esperanza, clearly wanting her to volunteer.

  “Me,” said Keil. Of course.

  Libby slammed a fist down on the fiberglass deck. “I never get to help.”

  “You can take turns,” I said, but Libby only walloped the boat again.

  I could understand her frustration. It must have been tedious having Little Mr. Perfect for a brother. I was starting to get the hang of him a little. He was perfect for the sake of an audience: applauding appreciative adults. Which didn’t mean he didn’t sincerely think he had to be perfect. In a way, I felt sorrier for him than I did for Libby. At least she knew she was mad and had sense enough to pound on something when she felt like it. I didn’t have the feeling Keil had it in him to do that—probably thought it a vulgar display from an inferior a
nd couldn’t possibly lower himself.

  But I banished the thought as soon as I had it. No doubt he felt judgmental about Libby, but I got the feeling lowering himself didn’t come into the picture. He probably just never felt mad and thought anger a curious phenomenon that applied only to other people. Poor baby. I hoped he wouldn’t get an ulcer before he was fifteen.

  Julio said, “Okay, all kids get into lifejackets.”

  Keil reached under the bow, where they were stowed, but Libby and Esperanza chorused, “Noooo!” in a single agonized howl.

  Esperanza, who, like Libby, apparently could get as mad as the next little brat—I mean, the next little darling—said, “Daddy, please! We can all swim!”

  Julio hesitated. I got the feeling he’d usually insist, but he looked at the perfect cloudless sky and said, “Okay, I guess we’re not going to have a storm. It takes quite a bit to tip one of these babies. But listen, we’re not going to make a practice of this; does everybody understand that?”

  All three nodded, Keil looking relieved, since he was the only one of the crew who’d actually intended to obey captain’s orders, no matter how stupid he’d feel in an orange puffy thing. The girls looked smug, like cats who’d not only just had a dish of cream, but were used to cream, not cat chow.

  Julio settled himself at the stem, directing Keil to the bow and us females amidships, if that’s what you call the area between front and back. I’d been sailing as often as anyone from Marin County (which is bordered by the San Francisco Bay), but only with experienced sailors who’d done all the work. “Three sheets to the wind” was about all the nautical jargon I knew.

  “Okay, Keil,” said Julio, “release the jib.”

  Keil did something or other and Julio gave more orders—I could have sworn he said something like “Helmsalee,” and then “Watch your heads,” which even I understood. It meant if we didn’t, we’d soon experience the sound effect that goes with the part of a boat called the boom.

  We were under way. Blubbery, contented animals were sunning themselves on the breakwater. “Look, kids,” I hollered. “Seals.”

  “Sea lions,” said Keil. “They have ears.”

  Undaunted, excited, I said, “Look. Baby seals.”

  “Rebecca!” said Libby. “Sea lion pups.”

  Now I was daunted. But impressed. These kids really lived on the bay, really knew what was in their environment. To them, an animal was more than a cat or a rat or an urban raccoon.

  Julio must have thought my silence—brought on by city-dweller’s envy—meant I felt humiliated by my juniors. Gallantly he came to the rescue. “You kids don’t know everything. I bet you don’t know what they eat that’s really weird.”

  “At least it’s not abalone,” said Keil.

  Libby hollered, “Keil Whitehead, you shut up! You don’t even like abalone.”

  All that, of course, was a reference to the charge that sea otters ate shellfish that rightfully belonged to humans, an idea that struck me as similar to the notion our ancestors must have held while wresting the Great Plains from the Indians.

  Libby, I took it, was a friend of the sea otter.

  “You guys know or not?” asked Julio.

  “Sea urchins!”

  “That’s not so weird. Otters eat them.”

  Keil said, “Otters eat everything.”

  “Shut up!” Libby smacked him.

  I pretended nothing had happened, sure Keil wouldn’t do so imperfect a thing as to hit back—but I thought something interesting had been revealed. He wasn’t really perfect—he baited his sister. He must be jealous of her.

  I sighed at my brilliant deduction. Of course he was jealous of her. They were siblings.

  “Their teeth turn purple,” said Libby, now recovered. “And so do their bones. From eating urchins.”

  I looked to Julio for confirmation. “Well, lavender, anyway,” he said. “Doesn’t anyone want to know about sea lions?”

  Libby said, “I do! I do!”

  “They eat rocks. I mean, they swallow them. You can’t digest a rock, can you?” He nudged Esperanza gently, and obediently she shook her head. But she remained expressionless, not participating.

  “Sometimes their stomachs contain as many as a hundred rocks.”

  “Ew. Gross!” said Libby.

  I was curious. “What are the rocks for?”

  “No one knows.”

  Keil said, “Maybe they’re for ballast.”

  I laughed at his witticism, but Julio said, “That’s one of the theories.”

  We caught the wind and were soon far out on the bay. I was getting spray in my face and loving it. Esperanza, showing faint signs of revival, dangled first fingers, then toes. She had to turn around to dangle her toes, which made Julio murmur once again about a life jacket, but his protest was half-hearted. I could tell the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was interfere with anything she might actually be enjoying.

  Most kids, I thought, would give anything to be in that position for an afternoon. He’d probably let her eat candy bars and fries if she asked for them.

  Libby wasn’t letting her off so easy. “A shark’ll bite you.”

  “There aren’t any sharks in the bay—are there, Daddy?”

  “Sure. Leopard sharks.”

  “But they don’t bite.”

  “Blue sharks now and then. They won’t bite your toes, though. Or if they do, they’ll probably only eat one. They don’t think humans taste very good.”

  “Daddy!” Esperanza looked mad. She probably hated being teased.

  “No kidding. They usually only take one bite and then they go, ‘Ptui!’ and swim away. And when they bite, they usually go for divers wearing wet suits, because they look like seals. Sharks can’t see too well.”

  “Yeah, but they can really smell,” said Keil. “They can smell one part of blood in a hundred million parts of water. I thought that was so rad, I memorized it.”

  Libby hit him again. “Oh, they cannot! They can’t even count that high.”

  As adults will at such moments, Julio and I sought out each other’s eyes and shared a smile. The moment lasted a little longer than it should have. I found myself slightly embarrassed, yet unable to break away.

  Libby said, “Didn’t anyone think that was funny?”

  We dropped anchor for a while, off Lovers Point, and ate our sandwiches, throwing scraps to the sea gulls that circled relentlessly, though the kids said I even had their name wrong—they were western gulls; you could tell by their white heads.

  Anything I might think about the name of the point was probably mistaken, too, Keil informed me. It took its name from the Lovers of Jesus Church.

  Esperanza seemed to get quieter now, retreating back to her shell. She didn’t eat a thing.

  Libby, as if to compensate, got more rambunctious and demanding. She would grab Julio’s arm and shake it. “I want to see otters, Julio.” Whining the word “otters.”

  “How about if I eat my sandwich first?”

  “No-o-o. You love fish, you shouldn’t be eating tuna.”

  “You’re not kidding I love them. I’m crazy about tuna. And sharks—I bite them, they don’t bite me. And sushi. Especially sushi.”

  “Ew. Gross!”

  “Thar she blows!” hollered Keil.

  “A whale?” Even I knew there wouldn’t be whales in these waters in August, but what else could he mean?

  For once, he didn’t bother to correct me, just shrugged and gave us all a cute grin. “No, otters. There isn’t an otter yell.”

  “Where? Where?” Libby nearly capsized the boat trying to see them.

  “Over there.” He pointed off to the right, toward the far shore. “I think it’s several rafts. What do you think, Julio?”

  Edge of hand to forehead like an old sea dog, Julio scanned the scenery. He shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s something out there. Maybe it’s just kelp.”

  “Let’s go,” Libby begged. “Julio, let
’s go, let’s go.”

  He retrieved the anchor and once again told Keil to release the jib.

  There were three dark spots up ahead that could be rafts of otters, and I found myself nearly as excited as Libby at the prospect of seeing them up close. These furry critters have been known to amuse tourists by playing Frisbee with old hubcaps. Even when behaving less anthropomorphically, the California sea otter is the cutest mammal in the water, and doesn’t have that much competition on land.

  “Damn!” Keil said. “I think it’s kelp.”

  Julio stared long and critically. “There goes one.” Some of the kelp had taken a dive. “It’s kelp and otters. Crazy little things. They like to wrap up in kelp blankets.”

  “For warmth? You’d think there’d be a better way.”

  “No, to anchor themselves. They have a hell of a time keeping warm, though, even with those beautiful coats.”

  “No blubber,” said Keil.

  Julio nodded. “Awkward stage of evolution. They have to keep their fur full of air—which takes up about ten percent of their time, if you can imagine that—and they have to keep their paws out of the water; and then, of course, they have to consume all those calories that people get so bent out of shape about.”

  “Look!” Libby shouted. “They’re eating.”

  Otters are terribly trusting little animals, which is one reason they became nearly extinct in the nineteenth century and the early part of this one. I read somewhere that in 1900 a single otter pelt went for over one thousand dollars, which must have been nearly enough to retire on in those days. Protective legislation was finally enacted, but the otter, though apparently a very bright little animal, never got smart enough to be afraid of people. By now, these rafts had let us come close enough to see how zany they looked with their fur half-wet. When soaked, a sea otter is sleek as a seal, but let him start to dry out, and his fine fur—the thickest of any mammal in the world—goes every which way.

  The ones Libby had spotted—probably having their eighty-ninth snack of the day—were lying on their backs, reclining Romans at a banquet. They were using rocks to bang away at shellfish, setting up a fairly clamorous racket. For thumbless beasts, they use their paws a lot like we do.