by RP Dahlke
Gabe silently put on his right blinker, slowly took an off-ramp to a side street, then jammed the accelerator to the floor and careened around a corner into one-way traffic. He dodged honking cars and bumped over curbs trying to dislodge the police car behind them. Hearing the sound of smashing metal, they turned and saw their tail collide with an unsuspecting motorist.
Gabe turned onto a two-way street, then slowed to see if they were being followed. Nothing. They both took a deep breath and let it out. Gabe leaned over, and taking her face in his hands, kissed her deeply. When he drew back he looked her in the eyes, his voice a sad note to their predicament.
"I'll always love you," he said. Then he unlatched her safety belt, opened the passenger door, and much to her amazement, pushed her out the door.
She fell onto her knees, the momentum rolling her once, and then sat up in the dirty rain-washed gutter and watched him speed away in her Miata, the one her daddy bought her for her twenty-first birthday. And because Gabe had taken not only her car, but her purse with her cell phone and all the cash from her savings, she stood up, limped into a nearby store and asked to use the phone, where she made a collect call and confessed her part in a humiliating episode to the one person she knew she could trust—her dad.
Katy stood up, put the page under the cushion, and dragging her garbage topside, slipped the bag into the container at the end of the dock, which just happened to be next to Spencer's mega yacht. She leaned against a light pole and noted the hailing port—Bahamas—no surprise here as a Bahamian port of call allowed any yacht owner to avoid paying American taxes. The Bahamas also had discreet banking practices.
"Don't let the name fool you," said a voice coming from topside.
Katy looked up and saw a good-looking young man in sailing whites leaning on the stern rail.
He tilted a square chin at her and asked, "You the one who washed through the estuary yesterday?"
"Yup, that would be me."
"Nice to know we didn't have to scrape you off the jetty. Can I buy you a beer to celebrate your death-defying feat?"
This could be interesting. "I'll take a cold soda."
"I'll open the stern gate."
His white, even teeth flashed a genuine welcome. He was shorter than she thought he would be, probably because his shoulders were so big, maybe all of five-eight. He was also fit in that way that said a workout was more than hefting a beer to his lips.
"I'm Jeff, by the way. Come inside, it's already hot enough to roast hamsters out here," he said, guiding her through the sliding glass doors into the big salon.
"Hope it's cool enough for you. The AC costs a son-of-a-bitch, so the boss decrees we keep the doors closed and the thermostat set to seventy-eight. If you're considering summering here, you'll become one of the mole people, only popping out at night when it's cooler." He pointed her to a long leather sofa and then went to the bar fridge and drew out a couple of cans. "Damn… out of everything 'cept Coke. But I have ice and a glass, if you like." He held up a clean tall glass.
She shook her head and commented, "The can is fine. I wouldn't want you to have to wash any more dishes on my account."
He settled into the luxurious deep cushions of the couch, handed her the Coke and pushed a bowl of last night's peanuts over to her side of the huge glass-topped coffee table.
"Babe, captains don't do dishes."
Deciding against a sharp retort at the "babe" moniker, she smiled and said, "I didn't see you here at Mr. Bobbitt's party last night."
"Night off," he said, popping a handful of peanuts into his mouth. "And the caterers cleared out the whole mess by the time I got back, thank God. I hate messes."
Yes, he would, she thought, since the police found him trying to clean up the blood in his boss's bedroom. "Have you worked for Mr. Bobbitt long?"
"You can call him Spencer, everyone else does. The job as his captain is my first and hopefully last."
"You don't like being captain?" she asked, hoping the bland question might lead to Jeff revealing other tidbits on Spencer Bobbitt.
"I'm getting my twenty-ton license for commercial shipping and I've got bigger plans than doing this crappy job."
"I never got a chance to really see the place last night, what with all the people stuffed in here," she said, examining the spacious and artfully decorated interior.
"So, you were one of the guests, huh? What'd you think of the floor show?"
Her head swiveled back to see Jeff waiting for her response. Was the smirk for the magician or because Myne stripped for a bunch of businessmen?
She gave him a neutral reply. "I guess some would say it was entertaining."
"Ha! Thought you might say that. He calls himself Frederic the magnificent, but mostly he's just another bum looking to mooch off ol' Spence. So, you like the interior, huh? Spencer's wife did the decorating." While Jeff stood to point out some of Mrs. Bobbitt's designer pieces, Katy gingerly lifted his Coke can, and careful not to smudge his prints, switched it with hers.
Not paying a lot of attention to his comments she said, "Yes, I met Myne last night."
A grin wide enough to allow her to see most of his back teeth split his face. "As much as Spence likes to trot out the bit of fluff as his, Myne is still not, nor will she ever be, Mrs. Bobbitt. I've met Mrs. Bobbitt, and let me tell you, if it were up to her this ship would be in the Med right now, not hanging out in Ensenada. This is nowhere-ville for people like Linda Hinkle."
"The designer on TV?"
"Yeah, ain't that a hoot? She doesn't use his name or she wouldn't have any business, that's for sure. Can't you see the men with their hands over their nuts every time she walks in? And Spencer, this cracks me up, names the yacht after his mistress. The man sure has the cojones. Any time now, that other shoe's gonna drop."
"Divorce?"
"Not unless she can get her hands on his money and Spencer wasn't born yesterday. He's not one to give it all for love, married or mistress. Not that she's ever here. She's doing some rag-head's house up in LA."
And here was another reason to dislike this kid. "So, where's Spencer today?"
"He's not staying here. Not after what happened. He's got a rental in town."
"Why Ensenada? Or was it just a first port of call until the murder?"
He shrugged. "Business, I guess, though I suppose that deal's shot now. Say, do you like the waves?"
"Surfing? Never learned." It was a clever switch of subject. But it wasn't going to keep her from asking the questions she needed to have answered.
"You look athletic," he said, letting the sandy lashes lower as his eyes swept the outline of breasts under her tee-shirt. "I could have you snarking up the back of tubes in no time."
Him on top of her on a board? Not a chance in Hell. "I'll keep it in mind. When are you off?"
That brightened him a bit. "I'm bored silly waiting for us to move this tug, though I'm told it won't be anytime soon. So, can I ask a question?"
Thinking he wanted to talk sailboats, she nodded, holding the smile.
His very blue eyes had a mean glitter in them. "What kind of a cop are you? I mean, street cop or detective or what?"
Not a very good one since the list of people who didn't know why she was here was shrinking fast. "I'm on sabbatical from the San Francisco Police Department. I had a struggle with a stalker for his gun."
"Ouch. Remind me not to get on your bad side. Well, offer still stands for the surfing lessons. Knock on the hull, call me on the VHF, anytime, babe. You finished with the Coke, I'll put it in the trash."
"I'll finish it up on the walk home, if you don't mind."
"Sure. Anytime," he said, walking her to the door, and with a whoosh, opened and closed the sliding door on her and any more questions.
She was halfway down the metal steps when a young woman, head down, barged into her.
"Oof." Katy put out a hand to keep the two of them from going over the side. When they were balanced again, she let go. "That
was close."
"Yeah," the girl said, giving her a perplexed stare. Same elfin face with just a trace of eyebrow, the same slim body, but this time the hair was a blond pixie cut and the big brown eyes were forest green. "What're you doing here?"
The question was rude enough to give Katy the impression of trespassing. This was interesting. "Just talking to Jeff. That okay with you?"
Without answering, Astrid put her head down and pushed past Katy and disappeared into the salon.
She mentally noted the facts. One: Jeff knew who she was and why she was there. Two: Though he wasn't planning on confessing his role in the cover-up, he did appear less like a killer than a young man who simply wanted to keep his winter job until he passed his exams. But she'd met plenty of people who would kill and then cover it with lies to keep what they had, so why not Jeff? Three: Astrid Del Mar… Star of the Sea? Now there was a stage name if she ever heard one.
At her boat, there was an envelope with her name on it stuck between the slats of her hatch board. She opened it and found a penciled note on the back of his card. "Tonight, 9 p.m. at the street outside the marina." This was Chief Inspector Vignaroli's request that she report in on what she had learned so far. In less than twenty-four hours? Not nearly enough time.
Katy was inside her boat when she heard someone loudly singing. She popped her head out of the cabin and the singing was worse.
She hopped off the boat and caught up with Booth as he lurched down the dock. Katy hooked her arm through his to keep him from falling into the water. "Hey, Booth, where's the party?"
"Hey, Katy, girl. Afternoon toddy."
Afternoon toddy? Katy hadn't heard the word toddy since her grandmother died. "Who were you drinking with, Booth?"
"Uh-uh," he said, shaking a finger at her face. "Shecret…me to know an' … you later."
"Okay. This your boat?" she asked as they passed sailboats and sport fishing boats. "No? This one? No? How 'bout this one?"
Last night she saw him with one soda in his hand and wasn't he the one who said alcohol only gets in the way, so why was he drunk now? Secrets, huh?
When he blundered toward the steps of a thirty-five-foot trawler, she followed, keeping an eye on his equilibrium. Inside, Booth folded onto his settee, snoring.
Katy shook his skinny arm. "Hey! Booth! Wake up!" She thought about how she ought to let him sleep it off, but there was that nine o'clock meeting with the chief inspector looming in front of her, too.
"Don' shout," he mumbled. "Tol' you it waz af'ernoon toddy with m'friends."
"Oh yeah? What was in that toddy? TNT?" In the closed space his breath alone could fumigate the boat.
"Importan' meetin'. Me'n friends. Need to save ol' Spence… not guilty." Then his eyes closed and he fell over on his side and proceeded to snore.
She lifted his bony legs up onto the seat, nudged the AC a bit cooler and quietly closed the slider after her. Looking around, she was glad the dock was empty of curious boaters. Of course, anyone could be watching her from their porthole, wondering why a young woman would be steering a very drunk Booth onto his boat.
As she hurried back to the relative safety of her own boat she could almost hear that coconut telegraph tearing a rip in the ozone.
Chapter Nine:
With a cup of strong tea, Katy took the list out again and went over it. Most of these people revolved like weak planets around the strong gravitational pull of Spencer Bobbitt's sun. Fred performed his magic act at Spencer's party, Myne stripped for his business associates, Booth hustled drinks and girls for him, and Jeff—why would Jeff endanger a potential career as a commercial ship captain to cover for Spencer Bobbitt? And then there were Wally and Ida. Something was keeping this couple stuck here in Spencer's orbit, so what was it?
She grabbed her shower kit as a prop and went to look for Ida Howard. On the way, she saw Astrid glumly stacking bottles into the recycle bin.
Deciding a detour was in order she smiled at the girl. "Hello. Can I talk to you for a minute?"
The green eyes squinted a warning.
"I promise to keep it brief."
Astrid nodded, but dragged her feet with all the enthusiasm of a woman going to the hangman's noose.
Inside her boat, Katy offered Astrid a cold soda.
"Anything without aspartame, please. I'm a vegan."
Katy turned away so the girl wouldn't see her smile at the aspartame/vegan comment. She sifted through her fridge until she found a can of regular cola. She brought it up, carefully wiped it dry and handed it to Astrid.
The girl downed half of it, and in a gesture much like Jeff, wiped her mouth with the arm of her sleeve. "Nice boat. Is it yours?"
"Yes, it is. My sister and I learned to sail on the San Francisco Bay with our dad, and when he passed away last year, he left it to us."
"I have a sailboat, too. You know Bandido's?" When Katy responded with a questioning lift of her brows, Astrid said, "It's next to Baja Naval, but without all those nice things like electrical and water and security gates. I'm not anyone's kewpie doll, so that's what I can afford. I get a paycheck and sleep peaceful knowing I don't have to whore for some old rich guy."
"You mean Myne?"
The green eyes slitted. "Yeah, her, the conniving little bitch."
"In what way?"
"She'll steal anything that isn't nailed down."
"Did she steal Jeff from you?" she asked, remembering the sharp looks she got after her interview with Spencer's captain.
"Last week he was going to drive me up to LA for an audition with American Idol, but then Myne has an e-mer-gency, so I had to take a bus."
"You sing, or what?"
"Sing, dance. I worked hard on that routine and she probably broke a nail or something and I missed my big chance."
"So, then Astrid Del Mar is a stage name?"
Astrid got up and wandered over to look at the bulkhead where Katy's family was lined up and framed in non-breakable plastic. Dad, Mom, Leila and Katy… David.
Astrid hungrily devoured Katy's life in pictures and said, "My parents were hippies and I was born on a catamaran, so I guess Astrid Del Mar's better than Rainbow."
"You said were. Are they still alive?"
"Lost at sea," she quipped, dragging her eyes away from the photos. "I was sixteen and fed up with their crackpot ideas of what constituted 'paradise.' Their response was to dump me and my duffel bag on the dock at PV and sail away. Never heard from them again. So, yeah, I guess I am an orphan, aren't I?"
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Oh, please. They were a sorry excuse for parents. Not like yours, I bet. Nice-looking family you got. I sure could've been happy in a family like that. But I guess you hear a lot of sad orphan stories, being a cop and all. San Francisco, wasn't it? When are you going home?"
"Soon." Katy sighed. One more person who knows why I'm here. "So, where were you the night the girl was murdered?"
"On my boat, asleep."
"Alone?"
She shot Katy a thoughtful look, then said, "I'll take the fifth on that one… at least, for now. So, we done?"
"For now."
When Astrid was gone, Katy took out the list and made some notes: One: Astrid was a pathological liar. Her attraction to Katy's family photos only whetted her appetite for an embellished version of her parentage. And, if that weren't enough, the girl had lifted Katy's favorite hair scrunchie. Astrid calling Myne a thief was a stretch when the girl herself obviously had an uncontrollable desire to steal. Katy added klepto beside Astrid's name and wondered what had provoked the girl this time… the mention of family? A touchy subject for a lot of people.
If Astrid had a thing for Jeff, had she offered him an alibi? But did she have anything to do with the murder or the cover-up?
Katy carefully stuck her forefinger in the opening of the soda can Astrid used, put it in a plastic baggie, and before zipping it shut, laid it on the floor of her cabin and added enough foot pressure to squeeze the sid
es flat.
Another ID for Bruce Sullivan and the results should be very interesting.
She was on her way to the marina office where she planned to FedEx the package with the two cans and a note to Bruce, when she almost stumbled over Ida Howard. The older woman was kneeling over a plow anchor, her chin-length gray bob swinging in time to her energetic polishing of a stainless anchor. Katy looked from the anchor up to the shabby sailboat. When attached to the boat, the anchor would hang like a shiny Christmas star on a moth-eaten fir tree.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Howard," said Katy. "That's a, uh, nice big anchor."
The older woman got up off her knees and dead-lifted the heavy anchor up in her arms. "This is the only thing on this boat that isn't worm-eaten." Ida dropped the forty-five-pound Danforth anchor on the dock and spit on it.
This was one angry woman and she could see why; worn and rotting teak decks, splitting teak rails and peeling paint on the main mast, and green algae doing a hula with the water line. The boat was a wreck.
"How'd you come to buy it, then?"
"Buy it?" Ida squeaked. "You're a sailing woman, tell me the truth, would you buy this piece of shit?" she asked, giving a grand sweep of her arm at the floating wreck. "And just for fun, he had Consolation Prize painted on the stern. Now do you understand why that silly little bitch, Myne, was laughing?"
"I see."
"Do you? The boat was supposed to be Spencer Bobbitt's farewell gift for thirty years of loyal service as his CPA. He brought us the brochures, produced an equipment list that included new sails, a fully functioning engine, newly painted bottom, redone teak decks. It had everything we needed to sail to Tahiti, at least it did on paper. We sold our home on his promise. Packed up and moved down here with every expectation of stepping on board a brand new fifty-foot sailboat, provisioning, and then leaving for our lifetime dream of cruising the Pacific."
