by Jane Heller
“Were you selling Moloney cocaine?”
“Are you a cokehead?”
The barrage of questions, which now incorporated the news that cocaine had been found on Melanie’s desk, would not abate. I didn’t know how I would cope with them. I was so sick of the media—never mind the police—breathing down my neck that I thought I’d scream.
“Maybe I should run away,” I said to Cullie as we sat in his Jeep, afraid to venture out of the car and be forced to confront the vultures. “Maybe I should dye my hair, change my name, and go south.”
“Mexico?”
“Nope. Can’t drink the water. Maybe Florida. Palm Beach.”
Cullie laughed. “I’ve got a better idea. Why not let me help you out?”
“Actually, this is all your fault in a way.”
“My fault?”
“Yeah. If you hadn’t insisted on bringing me home at eleven o’clock the night Melanie was murdered, these vultures would be hovering over someone else’s house. If you had let me spend the night on the Marlowe, I’d have an alibi for Detective Corsini and none of these assholes would be bothering me. But nooooo. You said you had an important shoot first thing in the morning and had to take me home. So you see, it is all your fault.”
Cullie looked stricken.
“Hey, I was only kidding. You couldn’t help it if you had an early job the next morning. I don’t blame you, really I don’t.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Come here.” I pulled Cullie’s face toward mine and kissed him. “There, that’ll give the TV cameras something to shoot.”
“Sonny, I mean it about helping you. You need a place to escape, a place where these jerks won’t bother you, a place where you can hang out until the police solve Melanie’s murder.”
“TV cameras are very portable; they can follow me everywhere.”
“Not on my boat they can’t. And the marina doesn’t take kindly to trespassers. There’s a security guard on duty every night.”
“You’re inviting me to move into the Marlowe with you?” I was surprised. Cullie and I had only been dating a few weeks. I’d assumed that cohabitating was the last thing on his mind.
“Don’t get nervous, Sonny. This isn’t a marriage proposal or anything. It’s just an idea for giving you a little peace and quiet, so you can get your life together. Boats are great places for that.”
“I don’t know what to say. After what you told me about you and Preston, I’m not sure we’d make any better berth mates than you two did.”
“Worth a try, don’t you think?”
I looked at Cullie, then at the media camped outside Maplebark Manor, then back at Cullie. “You’re on,” I said. Cullie seemed pleased. “But not tonight. Tomorrow morning.”
“Why not tonight?”
“I’ve got to pack.”
“Sonny, you saw the Marlowe. It’s not the QE2, it’s a forty-foot sailboat. There’s no room for a lot of stuff, so pack light.”
“Aye aye, skipper.” I threw my arms around Cullie’s neck and kissed him. “Thank you,” I whispered. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome. Should I pick you up in the morning?”
“Not necessary. I’ll drive myself over to the marina.” I kissed him again. “’Night, skipper.”
“’Night, matey.”
I let myself out of the Jeep and plowed through the reporters and camera crews until I got to the front door of Maplebark Manor. I waved good night to Cullie, went inside the house, and began to prepare for life aboard the Marlowe.
The next morning I loaded three Louis Vuitton bags into my car—one filled with basics (underwear, socks, sneakers, jeans, sweaters, T-shirts, a couple of paperback novels, and my new diary), another with toiletries, makeup, and my blow dryer, and a third with the complete Alistair Downs manuscript. Viewing my stay on the Marlowe as a sort of open-ended camping trip, I left the designer stuff at home.
When I arrived at the marina, Cullie was there waiting for me with a smile and a hug. But his mood changed when he saw the luggage I’d brought with me.
“I told you to pack light.”
“This is light—for me.”
“Sonny, there isn’t room for all three bags. Are they really necessary?”
I nodded.
“How about this one? What’s in it?” He unzipped the bag containing my makeup and hair dryer.
Before I could stop him, he dumped all my cosmetics into the trunk of my car—my astringent, my moisturizer, even my Retin-A. I was furious.
“Why’d you do that?” I cried.
“You won’t need all that on the Marlowe,” he explained. “I’ve got plenty of soap, toothpaste, and shampoo. The rest is bullshit.”
“What about astringent? How do you expect me to keep my face tight?”
“It’s called sea air. Step outside the boat in the morning and your face will get plenty tight.”
“And my hair blower?”
“You’ll be living on the Marlowe, not Maplebark Manor. A boat’s electrical circuitry is completely different from a house’s. Oh, I could run out and spend two thousand dollars on an inverter so your hair blower would be compatible with Marlowe’s system. But guess what—I’m not going to. You’ll just have to make do.”
I shot Cullie a major-league pout.
“Come on, cheer up, Sonny. You won’t miss your blow dryer one bit, I promise you. Whenever your hair needs blowing, I’ll blow on it. It’ll work fine, trust me.”
“Yeah, I trust you, all right. You and Captain Queeg.”
“Now, let’s have a look at your other suitcases,” he said. “I’ll just unzip this one and—”
“Oh, no you don’t!” I yelled, wresting the bag out of his hands. It was the one that contained the manuscript. I hadn’t told a soul I stole it, and the way Cullie was acting, I certainly wasn’t going to tell him. “Keep your hands off my things,” I snapped. “If you touch my property once more, I’ll go home and we can forget all about our little arrangement.”
“Be my guest,” he scoffed. “Go on home, if that’s what you want to do. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun dealing with the bank, the police, and the media people.”
“I don’t have to go home. I have other options.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. You could always check into the Plaza Hotel.”
“You know I don’t have the money for that. But I could go and stay with my mother.” I bit my tongue when I said that. I would rather have thrown all my suitcases into the Long Island Sound than move in with my mother.
What was going on here anyway? Cullie and I had been getting along so well. Sure, in the beginning we had our sparring contests, but we were over that, I thought. Maybe things were moving too fast. Maybe we weren’t ready to live together, even temporarily. We were too different, too set in our ways, too inflexible.
“Look, Sonny,” Cullie said, moving toward me. “I know all this is a real adjustment for you. I’m sorry if I came on too strong. But as I tried to explain to you, living aboard the Marlowe means changing your lifestyle a bit.”
Cullie was right, of course. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You were kind enough to help me out of a tough situation and I acted like Joan Collins on ‘Dynasty.’ I want another chance. Let’s rewind the tape and start this whole scene over again.”
“You’re on,” he said, brightening considerably.
“Good morning, skipper. Your first mate is ready to board,” I said cheerfully, pretending I had just arrived at the marina.
“Right, matey.”
Cullie carried one of the two remaining suitcases and I carried the other—the one with Cha Cha Cha in it. As we approached the slip where the Marlowe was docked, my pulse quickened. The truth was, I couldn’t wait for this new adventure. I’d enjoyed spending time on the boat, and I was excited about learning how to live like a sailor. Most of all, I was excited about living with Cullie. Moving in with him on his boat was the most spontaneous thing I’d ever done.
; “Home, sweet home,” he said as we stepped down the hatch and entered the cabin.
“Oh, Cullie, a rose!” A vase containing a single, long-stemmed red rose rested on the dining room table.
“I wanted to welcome you to the Marlowe in the style to which I know you are accustomed,” he said wryly.
“You’re the best. The absolute best!” I kissed him. “Now, if you’ll just show me where to put my things, I’ll unpack these bags and get them out of your way.”
Cullie led me to the bow of the boat and pointed out the small hanging locker located between the head and the V-berth. “You can put a few things in there,” he said. “The rest of the stuff can go under the mattress in the V-berth.”
I wasn’t about to complain. I unpacked the bags and rammed my clothes into the meager space I was allotted. I left the Alistair Downs manuscript in its suitcase and stowed it at the bottom of the hanging locker. One of these days I’ll get to it, I assured myself.
“Wow. I’m really here,” I sighed. Cullie and I were sitting on one of the settee berths in the main salon.
“How does it feel?”
“A little strange, but exciting.”
“Not claustrophobic yet?”
“Nope,” I laughed.
“Not seasick?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“How about something to drink? Some juice or coffee? You’re not a guest. Feel free to help yourself to anything that’s here.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But to tell you the truth, what I’d really love is a nice hot shower. I left so early this morning, I didn’t have time to take one. And in this freezing weather, a hot shower is a necessity—just to get your blood circulating.”
“I agree,” said Cullie. “It’s only a five-minute walk.”
“What’s a five-minute walk?”
“To the showers.”
“I don’t understand. The head—isn’t that what you sailors call it?—is right in there,” I said, pointing toward the bow of the boat.
“Yeah, the head’s in there, all right, but you can’t use it. I closed off the water hoses for the winter. If I didn’t, the water in the lines would freeze.”
I panicked. “You mean there’s no bathroom on this boat? No shower? No sink? No toilet?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Are you saying that every time I have to go to the bathroom, I have to leave the boat?”
“That’s what I’m saying. But like I said, the marina’s public bathrooms are only a five-minute walk from our dock. And they have plenty of nice hot showers.” Cullie smirked. I could tell he was having a ball.
“What about the kitchen—er, galley?” I asked frantically, hoping there was some mistake, hoping that any second Cullie would say “April Fool’s” and we’d both have a good laugh at his joke. “You have running water in there. You cooked dinner for me, remember?”
“The galley’s a whole different story. The water in there comes from the hot water heater.”
“I see,” I said dejectedly, seeing nothing but weeks of showering in a public bathroom at the Jessup Marina. “I guess I’ll pass on the nice hot shower.”
“Then how about some nice hot coffee?” Cullie asked, putting his arm around me and trying to jolly me out of my sour mood.
“How about a nice hot Irish coffee—and hold everything but the whiskey,” I said glumly. Getting drunk seemed like an excellent alternative to showering in a public restroom.
“I’ll make an Irish coffee for you,” Cullie offered. “But then I’ve got to get going.”
“Going? Where?” I said.
“To work.”
“You’re going to leave me here alone? Now? What if something goes wrong? What if the boat sinks? What if a band of pirates comes to pillage and plunder me?”
Cullie laughed, then hugged me tightly. “Nothing’s going to happen, Sonny. You’ll be just fine. Marlowe will take good care of you, I promise.”
I wasn’t so sure.
Cullie made the Irish coffee, kissed me goodbye, and left. Suddenly, I was all alone on a sailboat. His sailboat. The sailboat he’d spent ten years rebuilding. The sailboat that meant more to him than anything in the world. What if I damaged it in some way? What if I inadvertently flicked the wrong switch or turned on the gas and set the boat on fire? What if water started pouring into the cabin and the Marlowe went down? What if? What if? What if?
The more “what-ifs” I imagined, the more terrified I became. I became so terrified that I polished off the Irish coffee in under five minutes. Before I knew it, I was seasick, what with the boat rocking back and forth and the Irish whiskey sloshing around in my stomach. Minutes later, a new “what-if” invaded my mind: what if I had to throw up? Where would I throw up? The head was off limits, I’d just learned, and the galley was totally inappropriate. What was I going to do and where was I going to do it? In the public restrooms? I didn’t even know where they were.
When I became certain that my nausea was stronger than my wish not to throw up, I grabbed my coat, climbed the stairs up the hatch, stepped off the boat, and ran across the marina parking lot as fast as my sea legs could carry me to a gray clapboard building, outside of which hung a sign: BOATERS WELCOME. I assumed it was the public restrooms. I prayed it was the public restrooms.
I charged inside, found an unoccupied toilet, flipped up the seat, and waited to be sick. Quick! A joke! A joke! I thought as I sat on the floor next to the toilet with my head hanging over the bowl. Quick! A joke! Don’t let this situation get the best of you. Distract yourself. Think of something funny. Okay, okay. Here’s a joke, Alison. Did you hear about the bulimic bachelor party? The cake came out of the girl.
Okay, so it wasn’t a great joke. What do you expect from a person whose head is hanging over a toilet bowl, superior material?
The bad news was that seconds after I delivered that lame punch line, I got sick. The good news was that now I knew where the public restrooms were.
Chapter 15
Life on the Marlowe improved dramatically after that first rocky day. For one thing, I never got seasick again. For another, I, Alison Waxman Koff, a lifelong landlubber who didn’t know a boom from a bilge or a helm from a halyard, discovered that I loved living on a sailboat.
I was so at peace there, so content playing Robinson Crusoe, so removed from the chaos that had surrounded my life at Maplebark Manor, that it was a terrible struggle to plug myself back into the world of bank officers and police detectives and media vultures. And instead of missing my creature comforts, as I thought I would, I found that I felt liberated without them. Cullie was right: who needed astringent to keep your skin tight when you had sea air?
Best of all was how well Cullie and I got along. Once we moved past our initial bickering and awkwardness, we coexisted as if we’d been together all our lives. Never once did I feel trapped or overwhelmed or even bored. I missed Cullie when he was gone and looked forward to his return. And from the enthusiastic way he greeted me each evening, I knew he felt the same.
Over the next few weeks, I became more and more at home on the boat, more and more accepting of my daily trips to the public restrooms, more and more grateful to Cullie for allowing me to share his special place. By the middle of March, we had settled into a comfortable and thoroughly enjoyable daily routine. We’d wake up next to each other in the V-berth, make love if there was time, or head for the showers if there wasn’t. Then we’d come back to the boat, cook breakfast, do the dishes, and perform whatever chores needed to be done—straightening up the boat, deciding who would do the shopping, refilling the kerosene lamps, and pumping out the bilge. Then we’d gather at Cullie’s navigation station and use his cell phone—he to confirm his photographic assignments and plan his shooting schedule, I to retrieve the messages on my answering machine and respond to ads for jobs. Yes, jobs. I was determined not to let Cullie pay my way. I’d been a kept woman long enough.
Of course, leaving the boat to go job hunting,
only to have my prospective employer slam the door in my face when he realized I was The Maid Suspected Of Killing Melanie Moloney, was my least favorite part of the day. I wasn’t crazy about having to keep popping over to the police station so Detective Corsini could test another one of my hair follicles either. From what I’d read in the Community Times, the police were no closer to nabbing Melanie’s murderer than they were to establishing a motive for the killing—or should I say, the motive for the killing. The problem was that all the people Corsini interviewed about the murder had a motive for killing poor Melanie. The fact that everybody hated her made his job next to impossible. He kept telling the media that as soon as his drug tests and hair samples were evaluated by the state police lab in Meriden, he’d have his murderer. But that could take another month, and as I’d told that reporter, the murderer could be in Beirut by then.
Which was why I kept going back over the first two sections of Melanie’s manuscript, scouring them for my own clues to her murder. I was no Miss Marple, but every time Cullie would leave me alone on the boat, I’d scurry over to the hanging locker next to the head, pull out the suitcase containing the manuscript, and read a few pages, hoping to seize on some specific aspect of Alistair’s sham of a life that would confirm his role in her demise. So far, what I’d learned was that he was a mobster and a bigot. Not great entries on a résumé, but did he kill her? Did one of his cronies? I couldn’t be sure. I was looking forward to reading the third section of the book, which dealt with his personal life. Unfortunately, every time I’d start to dip into it, Cullie would come home and I’d have to stuff it back in the suitcase. He had no idea that I’d stolen the manuscript from Melanie’s house and that it was sitting right under his nose. There didn’t seem to be any point in involving him or getting him in trouble with the police, who, according to the Community Times, finally realized it was missing after interviewing Todd Bennett, as well as Melanie’s agent and publisher—none of whom claimed to have seen it.
That’s funny, I thought when I saw the article. Todd had told me he was home reading Cha Cha Cha the night Melanie was murdered. Somebody was lying. What did it mean? Obviously, Melanie had known the murderer was after the manuscript, or she wouldn’t have hidden it under her bed. But who was after it? And why? It was time to finish the damn book and find out.
