Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  They did the Sea Islands, St. Simons and Jekyl, never stopping for more than one day and a night. They continued up the coast until they reached Savannah. It was time to find a place to settle in for a while and use it as a base for further cruising. Whistler elected to by-pass Savannah because he’d be expected to check in with Customs. He’d be expected to do so anywhere along the coast, but the requirement was seldom enforced in most of the smaller marinas. He found such a place a few miles farther north, just over the South Carolina border. He rented a slip at Palmetto Bay on the inland side of Hilton Head Island.

  They refueled and reprovisioned and settled in for a stay. The island would do nicely as their base. They rented a car and they toured Savannah. A week later they drove up to Charleston. Claudia was especially charmed by both cities. Both had large historic sections with gracious old homes that were virtually unchanged since before the Civil War. She’d described them to her mother over the phone. Her mother, who adored old homes with old gardens, and had never been to this part of the country, remarked that she’d love to see it someday. Claudia agreed that she must, but why wait? Hop a plane, she said, and fly into Savannah. Hilton Head had an airport, but it didn’t take big jets. Just as well, she said, we’ll all meet in Savannah. We’ll do the town, then drive back to the island and maybe go to Charleston by boat. Adam doesn’t think that his father would join us, but he might if you call him and nag him.

  Whistler had to step in and disappoint them both. At least for a while, he said. He told Claudia that he’d rather sit tight for a time, see if anyone seems interested in their comings and goings. His father, in any case, would feel the same way. He certainly would never join them on a boat. It would be an unnecessary risk.

  “Adam, I think that must be over. I do. Wouldn’t something have happened by now?”

  “I suppose.”

  “All we’ve had all year were those three false alarms. They were not even that. I was overreacting.”

  “No, you weren’t; you were listening to your instincts, and that’s good. The mistake would have been to ignore them.”

  “Well, next time I’ll try to be a bit more selective.”

  “No harm, no foul. You did fine.”

  “And those people must know you’re not looking for trouble. Don’t you think they’re content to let sleeping dogs lie?”

  I would not be, thought Whistler, but maybe they are. “Let’s keep our eyes open all the

  same.”

  Lockwood entered Aubrey’s office with his chart once again. He asked Aubrey, “You know anything about Hilton Head Island?”

  “It’s where rich men go to play golf until they die. I gather that’s where the boat is.”

  “They made a few stops, but this is the longest. And he still hasn’t checked in with Customs.”

  “Implication?”

  “What else? He’s supposed to be out of the country, right? So the guy doesn’t want it on record that he’s back. Ask me, he’s there for some kind of meeting and he doesn’t want anyone to know it.”

  “A meeting with whom?”

  “I don’t know. His old man.”

  “Not likely, I think. He could meet with his father anywhere in the world without risking your steely-eyed scrutiny. Perhaps he has merely put in for repairs.”

  “For that, you haul the boat. He’s just sitting. Hasn’t moved. I’m telling you there’s something going on.”

  “Without evidence?”

  “Gut feel. I know I’m right about this.”

  “No, Mr. Lockwood, you want to be right. You are less than objective in this matter.”

  “So, okay, we find out. I can put someone down there. I can put someone

  Whistler doesn’t know.”

  “What sort of someone?”

  “Not to hit him. Just to watch. And let us know what he’s up to.”

  “Someone to observe. Only that?”

  “I’ll send Kaplan. You know Kaplan? Oh, that’s right, I guess you don’t.”

  “Your electronics whiz, as I recall.”

  “Arnie Kaplan. That’s the guy. He’s the one who put the tap on the mother’s house in Denver. He’s the one who put the tracker on the boat.”

  “That phone tap fell short of being state of the art. We were able to hear every fourth or fifth word, but that’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

  “He says Whistler or his father must have jammed the thing somehow. You’re going to down Kaplan for that?”

  “Very well. This Kaplan. He is strictly a technician? He’s a non-violent type, am I correct?”

  “Shit, no. What good’s a guy who can’t do what needs doing?”

  “Mr. Lockwood…read my lips. He’s to take no sort of action.”

  “He won’t. Not ‘til you say so. And not without me. I can have Kaplan there by tonight.”

  “Very well. Please keep me…”

  “Advised. Yeah, I know.”

  “You’re a gem among men, Mr. Lockwood.”

  Two weeks had gone by. There was no sign of trouble. Whistler had continued to use his real name and had used a credit card to both shop and dine out. He’d transferred some funds from his own offshore account into a bank on the island. Any one of these transactions should have sent up a flare if someone’s computer was watching for evidence that he had returned to this country.

  But there was nothing. No hint of interest. And, as he’d promised, he had checked in with his father. His father confirmed that his own equipment hadn’t picked up any electronic buzz that involved either Whistler or his boat. He became more at ease. Perhaps Claudia had been right. He was becoming less alert, less watchful by the day. Islands seem to do that to people.

  That was not to say that life was entirely idyllic. There were still decisions to be made. On this day, for example, he was faced with the question of whether to eat in or eat out. The decision was made for him when he saw a plump grouper that a fishing boat had brought in. On his dock were several fisherman who supplied the island’s restaurants with the item called the catch of the day. Coming in, they would usually give a toot of their horns, a signal that boat owners should come take a look before the best of the catch was snatched up.

  He bought the grouper. He decided on the menu. He had some creamed corn, fresh tomatoes, sweet onions. He and Claudia would eat beneath the shade of the Bimini. They would sip a chilled wine, admire the sunset, and then go for a nice long walk and a swim before settling in for the night.

  The yacht club nearby had an unlit pool that was off in a corner, surrounded by trees, and almost never used in the evening. The water, after sundown, was warmer than the air. Most nights it gave off a layer of mist that made it all the more perfect for a languid swim. And all the more private should Claudia decide that her swimsuit was an un-needed hindrance.

  If he’d stuck with that decision, there would still have been a shooting. If he’d stayed on the boat and cooked up the grouper, a man he’d never heard of would probably have been murdered by some other men he’d never heard of either. This island would no longer be so gentle a place, but neither he nor Claudia would have been involved. They would have been two miles away when it happened. And it wouldn’t have turned into a blood bath.

  FOURTEEN

  What had changed his plan was that Claudia had gone shopping. She returned to the boat with three new blouses she’d found, all on sale at a seasonal clearance. On the rare occasion when she did treat herself, she showed a girlish, almost guilty excitement. She would want to model them for him.

  He was kneeling on the slip when she came down the ramp. He was cleaning the grouper, tossing scraps to the gulls. He stopped to admire her as she approached. So did everyone else on the dock. She couldn’t wait to show him what she’d bought and to tell him how deeply the prices had been slashed. She set her shopping bag down and laid out its contents. She asked him what blouse he liked best.

  Whistler never knew how to answer that question. His rule for offering an o
pinion about her clothing was to wait for her to give him a hint. She saw his hesitation. She said, “Wait. I’ll try them on.”

  She stepped onto the boat and stripped off her top before he could say a word to stop her. She wore no bra; she seldom did. All that remained was her scarf. Never mind that other people were coming and going or that heads were popping up on other boats. Never mind that one dock boy would have walked into the water, had he not first bumped into a piling. This was another otherworldly thing about her. Ever since her white light sent her back as an angel, she had never displayed the slightest awareness that her body might have that effect.

  Her nudity, however, lasted only a few seconds. She slipped into the first blouse and shook out her hair. She brushed a fawn-colored wisp from her eyes, looked up and awaited a reaction.

  He said, “Hmmm.” Non-committal. Still neutral.

  “Okay, wait.”

  She repeated the procedure with the other two blouses, two more intervals of unabashed nudity. All three had long sleeves, open throats, high wide collars. She seldom wore any other cut. She rolled the sleeves to mid-forearm, tucked in the hems, and each time made a slow pirouette for his benefit. The first blouse had been pink, the second, emerald green. The third had blue and white vertical stripes and little epaulets on the shoulders. He guessed that she might have saved her favorite for last.

  He said, “I like all three.”

  “I’m not keeping all three. That’s extravagant, Adam. Pick one.”

  Three blouses were too much of an indulgence for Claudia. Never mind that they were living on a luxury yacht. The cost of painting the hull alone would have bought her five years worth of clothing.

  “Okay, the striped one. Very sharp. Very nautical.”

  “You don’t like the second one? The green one?”

  Bad guess, thought Whistler. “I like that one even better.”

  Her lips formed a pout. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Claudia...listen. You’d look good in a trash bag. But if I have to pick one, it’s the green one.”

  She fingered the fabric. “You should feel it,” she said. “It’s so very soft, very feminine.”

  “You don’t need any help being feminine.”

  She blushed. A shy smile. “Let me see what I’ve got that goes with it.”

  She disappeared below. He could hear what she was doing. He heard the sound of hangers scraping as she rummaged through her locker. She would end up choosing white slacks, maybe tan. The slacks would determine the shoes. The bulk of her time would be spent on accessories. She would go through a half-dozen junk jewelry earrings before deciding, he hoped, on the emerald studs that he thought went so well with her coloring. He had lied about the studs. He had told her they were fake. Otherwise, she might not have worn them.

  She would rummage through her necklaces and try several on before

  settling on a simple gold chain. The right knotted scarf would come next. Rings and things would take a few minutes more. Hair and make-up perhaps another ten. When satisfied with the overall effect, her eyes would glaze over just a little bit as if asking the mirror, “What now?”

  Whistler knew the answer because Whistler knew his lines. He called, “Are you dressed yet?”

  “I guess. Want to see?”

  She appeared in the hatch. She had opted for the studs. She had brushed her hair back so that they showed.

  “Well, now you’re too elegant for the meal I had in mind. Now we have to go someplace expensive.”

  “Oh, no. You bought that beautiful fish.”

  “We’ll have it for breakfast. Let’s go. Name the place.”

  “We don’t need expensive. Someplace casual, okay? Let’s just go grab a bite at Jump & Phil’s.”

  She liked Jump & Phil’s for a number of reasons, not least that it was moderately priced. And unlike most island restaurants that catered to tourists, Jump & Phil’s clientele were predominantly locals who had moved to the island years before.

  Conversations with the locals were generally more relaxed than those with short-timers or tourists. The latter always asked, “So, where are you from?” The locals seldom did because they didn’t much care. Nor did they ever ask, “What do you do?” In that regard, they were like cruising yachtsmen. This island was a place where people started new lives. Who you’d been, what you’d done, no longer mattered.

  They’d been to that restaurant nine or ten times in the weeks since they’d put in to Hilton Head. The young owners, Jump and Phil, had both introduced themselves and now greeted them on a first name basis. When these two weren’t tending to business, the one called Jump liked to work on his golf game and his partner, Phil, was a fisherman. Phil’s boat, in fact, was berthed near his own at the Palmetto Bay Marina.

  Their favorite bartender was a pleasant young woman who had made them feel like old friends. Her name was Leslie. She had a wonderful smile. She was very good natured, very bright, quick witted, and she seemed to know everyone on the island. Leslie, early on, had noted what they drank. Their drinks would sometimes be sitting on the bar by the time he and Claudia walked through the door. Scotch and water for him, a Chardonnay for Claudia. He would get a small wave from people he’d met there, but their eyes were always really on Claudia. Aside from her looks, it was that elegant carriage. Her neck had still not fully regained the suppleness that it once had.

  Claudia never said so, not in so many words, but the other thing that she probably liked was how the place was laid out. It had a U-shaped bar set against a solid wall. The other three walls were mostly glass. If they sat, as they did, on the far side of the bar, they could see everyone who came in.

  Whistler himself saw no great advantage in finding a bar with a wide field of view. If trouble did find them, it would choose its time and place, and not where he could see it approaching. It would certainly choose a quieter place, one with fewer pairs of eyes than were present. Although Claudia’s vigilance had gone for little thus far, she was nonetheless convinced that a guardian angel ought always to be on her toes.

  They were seated at the bar; their drinks were in place, and the tables were filling up quickly. Only one, by the fireplace, remained unoccupied and that one had a sign that said “Reserved.” He’d thought that this restaurant didn’t take reservations. But it was a Wednesday and the Wednesday night special was always a decent roast beef. That usually drew a good crowd. Among the other specials were a pasta creation and the catch of the day, another grouper. The sign called it Mustard Crusted Grouper.

  He did have his heart set on a good piece of fish, but to order it might have made Claudia feel guilty. He also wasn’t sure that he could pronounce it without tripping over his tongue. A Mustard Crusted Grouper. Try saying it fast. So he sniffed the air and said the roast beef smelled good. A nice end-cut would really hit the spot.

  “You’re not sorry that we came?” she asked.

  “I’m with you. What’s to be sorry?”

  She poked his arm. “You’re so full of beans, Whistler. But you’re also very sweet and I love you.”

  They both ordered the beef. She liked hers’ blood rare. He did not share her taste for almost raw meat. He’d told her that he’d known cows to get well after they’d been hurt worse than some he’d seen on her plate. Then she’d look down her nose at his blackened end-cut slab. She’d say she had beach thongs that were juicier.

  Whistler had noticed the two men outside. They appeared a few minutes after sundown. For an instant his thought was, “Oh no, not the twins,” because the first one he saw had their shape. But it wasn’t the Beasleys. The two men were strangers. There was nothing especially remarkable about them. Both in their forties, both of medium height, one a little more portly than the other. The stockier one wore a baseball-type cap. His companion went bareheaded and he wore his hair short. Whistler might not have given them a second look except that they both wore zippered up jackets. The evening was too warm for outer garments.

  They were
probably tourists, new to the island. Perhaps they thought it might rain. Nor did their manner seem in any way furtive. They were standing perhaps twenty yards from the entrance, peering into the restaurant, scanning faces. The one with the cap shook his head; he seemed annoyed. He muttered a few words to the other. The other one nodded in apparent agreement. He gestured as if to say, “Let’s go see what’s in the back.” Perhaps whoever they were looking for was in one of the neighboring establishments.

  There were three other restaurants behind Jump & Phil’s. A seafood house, a brewery and an Irish Pub, plus a billiard room and cigar bar called The Lodge. Whistler followed their progress as they rounded the perimeter. They glanced in once or twice but at no one in particular. He half turned in his stool as they passed the wall of windows behind him. He made eye contact, briefly, with the one who wore no hat. The man showed no surprise, no hint of recognition. The other one never looked at him at all.

  Whistler and Claudia had finished their salads and the bartender, Leslie, had brought their roast beef. Whistler, ordinarily, would have asked for a steak knife. His end-cut, while tender, had a thick outer crust. But Claudia was blithely dissecting her steak with an ordinary table knife’s serrated edge. She was showing off, he thought. He resolved to make do. He would try to avoid grunting as he sliced it.

  The table by the fireplace had been occupied by then. A middle-aged couple, well dressed, had come in. The man wore a blazer; he had on a necktie. Whistler hadn’t seen anyone wearing a tie in the weeks that he’d been on the island. They must have just got here. Complexions still pale. Hadn’t doped out the dress code as yet.

  The woman sat facing him, the man was in profile. The woman glanced up at Whistler, met his eyes for an instant. She looked away, then she looked back again. The second time around, she was squinting. For a moment, she looked as if she thought she might know him. Just as quickly, she apparently decided that she didn’t. She apologized for staring with a flicker of a smile before turning her attention to the man she was with.