"Same. I'd never seen crabs served like this until I lived in Thunderbolt. There were several places along the riverfront that served them. I tried them, but I guess it's not my thing. They didn't have soft-shell crabs at any of those places — just some of the fancier restaurants in Savannah. Do they catch them in the same places as hard crabs?"
Paul grinned. "Yes. They're the same crabs. The watermen pick through the catch as they empty the traps and set aside the ones that are about to moult. You can tell from the color on certain areas of the shell. Then they pen them up and keep 'em alive. Once they moult, they snatch 'em before the new shell starts to harden and pack 'em in ice."
"That sounds labor intensive. How long do they have before they grow a new shell?"
"A few hours, to get the best ones. Somebody has to keep an eye on them all the time. Otherwise, as soon as one moults, the others will make a meal of it."
"Paul?"
"Yes?"
"That's more than I wanted to know, okay?"
"Well, you asked. I think it's fascinating."
"You would. I always liked soft-shell crabs, but now I'm not so sure." She saw his eyes track some movement over her shoulder. "What are you looking at back there, anyway?"
He locked eyes with her and lowered his voice. "A guy that looks familiar, but I can't place him."
"Familiar from where?"
He shrugged. "No clue. It's not important. What are you going to order?"
"Something deep-fried. It smells good, and you never cook that way."
He laughed. "I could, if you want. It makes a big mess, though, especially in a confined space like our galley."
"That's okay; it's never as good as I think it's going to be. But anyway, I'm thinking a fisherman's platter sounds good."
"Me, too," Paul said.
She saw his eyes following someone behind her again. "Still trying to place him?"
"No. He just picked up his check and left. Sorry."
"It's okay. I know it's one of the skills you honed while you were a cop. Situational awareness, right?"
He gave her a sharp look. "Yes. Where'd you pick up that term?"
"Dani," she said. "I'm trying to make a habit of it, myself."
"You do well. It takes years for it to become second nature. Anyhow, you've got me looking out for you now."
She smiled. "I'm a lucky gal."
"Because I'm looking out for you?"
"Yes. Besides, you're a hell of a cook, and you aren't too hard on the eyes, either."
"Hey, folks! Sorry it's so doggone busy. Let's get your order in, and then I'll get you another round of drinks, on the house. Our apology for the wait," the cheerful, middle-aged waitress said, oblivious to the tender moment she had interrupted.
Rashid sat in one of the rocking chairs on the porch outside his room at the bed and breakfast, watching the people come and go at the restaurant where he had eaten. He was still rattled from the way the man from the yacht had been looking at him. There was no way the man could know who he was. The couple hadn't been anywhere near the yacht when he had gone aboard, and he had been in disguise then, anyway. The man had the eyes of a soldier, or a policeman; Rashid could still feel the way his gaze had lingered on each feature of his face. Rashid had felt like an insect under a magnifying glass.
The woman had noticed it, too. He had heard her ask the man what he was looking at. Her voice had carried because of its pitch, but her companion's reply had been lost in the noise of the crowded dining room. Rashid had flagged down the waitress and asked for his check as soon as the man had looked away. He wasn't quite finished with his dinner, but he didn't want his face committed to memory, even the memory of a man who didn't have long to live.
He saw them now; the couple had rounded the corner of the restaurant, headed for the low dock where all the small boats were tied. He watched as the man untied one of them, pulling it around the others and snugging it up against the dock. He turned and offered the woman a hand as she climbed in. She moved to the back and started the outboard. She seemed familiar with it, fiddling with it for a moment as it sputtered before it settled into a smooth purr. The man stepped down into the boat and sat on the pneumatic tube across from her, and she drove away from the dock, heading across the harbor to their boat.
Rashid went inside to put together a brief report for Kareem Abdullah; he remembered the picture of the boat he had taken earlier. He would send that, too. Then he would rest for a while. He didn't think it likely that anyone would tamper with the weapon in an exposed place like this. If someone did show up to remove it, it would doubtless be in the early morning hours, after the bars and restaurants had closed. He would resume his vigil at midnight, he decided, having checked the closing hours of several of the establishments along the waterfront.
19
“That's quite a museum," Connie said. "I'm impressed. It should get more press than it does."
"The town's nice, too," Paul said. They had taken an inviting shortcut, strolling along a walkway through a garden that separated a small inn from the waterfront. "Nice that these folks at the B&B don't discourage foot traffic through ... "
"What's wrong?" Connie asked, when Paul's voice trailed off.
His pace slowed, and he veered to the side of the path, pretending to study a flowerbed to his left. "Sneak a look at the guy up there on the porch," he said.
"In the rocking chair?" Connie asked.
"Yes."
"Okay," she said, putting her arm around him and looking down at the flowerbed with him. "What about him? Is he the one from last night?"
"Uh-huh."
"I don't recognize him from anywhere. He's nice enough looking, I guess, but not remarkable."
"You think he looks like the sketch?" Paul asked.
"I don't know. Let me get a better look," she said, stepping around in front of him. She hugged him and put her head on his shoulder, studying the man as she stroked the back of Paul's neck. After a moment, she let go and took him by the hand, leading him along the path. "I don't think so. The hair's wrong; it's too short, and the guy in the sketch had curly hair. I don't think this guy's hair would curl, even if he let it grow."
"Okay. Can't argue about hair with a gal who used to run a beauty shop, I guess. He sure looks familiar to me."
"He's got one of those faces," Connie said. "Really average. He could look a little bit like everybody, you know?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Besides," she said, "the guy in the sketch had a goatee, didn't he?"
"Yes, but — "
"I think you're trying too hard, Paul. He could be the one in the sketch, but I don't think he is. And he definitely doesn't match that first sketch of the one who conned Jim into letting him aboard Diamantista II."
"No, that's for sure," Paul said. They left the grounds of the bed and breakfast and walked a few steps along a low sea wall to the floating dinghy dock. Paul fumbled in his pocket for his keys, squatting to unlock the chain that secured their dinghy. He paused and looked up at Connie. "What's for lunch?"
"Did you want to get something while we're ashore?" she asked.
"It's an option. What do you want to do?"
"I was thinking we'd seen enough of St. Michaels for now. We could make it to Oxford by late this afternoon, if you don't mind fixing lunch on the way. There's not much breeze; we'll probably have to motor, and there are lots of long straight stretches. We can leave the awning up over the cockpit and let the autopilot steer. After lunch, we'll be out in open water ... nobody around ... "
"I'd love to fix lunch underway." He grinned up at her and unlocked the dinghy. "Hurry, woman."
"Keep an eye on things, okay?" Connie asked Paul as he came back up into the cockpit after clearing away their lunch dishes.
"Sure. What's up?" he asked, as she slid from behind the helm and stood up.
"We just rounded the nun buoy off Tilghman Point. I think I've got the autopilot set for a straight run out of the Eastern Bay."
>
"Okay. You going below?"
"Just for a minute. I need to freshen up, and I thought I'd put on some sunscreen."
"You just did that, didn't you? Before we left?"
"Mm-hmm. But it's hot with no breeze, and nobody's around. I thought I'd change into something a little, um ... cooler." She winked at him as she disappeared down the companionway.
Paul occupied himself by tweaking the autopilot and fiddling with the chartplotter while he waited for her. He heard his phone ringing from below, thought about dashing down to grab it, and decided not to. He was more interested in finding out what Connie was up to.
She appeared a minute later, wearing the orange string bikini, her skin glistening with coconut-scented suntan oil. She stood on the bridge deck, her hands behind her, enjoying the feel of his eyes roving over her body. "Right or left?" she asked, after a moment.
"What?"
"Pick a hand. Right or left?"
"Right."
"Too bad," she said, and handed him the phone. "But it was O'Brien. I figured we should probably call him back first."
"Yeah," he said, frowning. "I guess."
He took the phone from her, asking as he scrolled through the menu, "What if I'd chosen left?"
"Sure you want to find out?"
"Damn right, I do."
"Okay. Your choice, but get him on the phone first."
As soon as Bill O'Brien's voice came from the speaker, Paul set the phone down and pointed to her left hand, still behind her back. Grinning, she whipped her hand around, the top of her bikini coming away with her follow-through. She tossed it in his lap and sat down across from him just as O'Brien said, "Hello, again. Anybody there? Paul? Connie?"
"Hi, Bill," she said, winking at Paul. "We didn't hear you answer the first time. We were distracted, I guess. What's up?"
"Just checking in. Where are you? Do I hear your engine?"
"Yes. We're heading down the Eastern Bay on our way to Oxford," Paul said. "We just left St. Michaels, and there's not enough wind to sail."
"Oh, well, I'm sure it's still better than working. Even without wind, at least the view must be nice."
Connie put her hands to her temples, running her fingers through her hair as she tossed it back over her shoulders, giving Paul a demure smile and arching her back as she shook out her wavy black mane behind her.
"You can't imagine," Paul said. "Just amazing. Um ... anything new on your end?"
"Not much. We trapped one text message from our boy to the same number where he sent the last one, but it's hard to say if it means anything. He sent, 'I must leave. You wait. More later.' Both phones were in the Annapolis area. That was yesterday, mid-morning. Then his phone dropped off the network. The other one's still in Annapolis."
"Interesting," Paul said, watching Connie as she continued to finger-comb her hair, her hands behind her head, elbows high and back as she tossed her tresses.
"Nothing happened in St. Michaels?" O'Brien asked, after a long silence.
"No, nothing," Paul said. "Guess we'd better go; gotta keep an eye out for the boat traffic. We'll call from Oxford."
"All right. Enjoy yourselves. Talk to you tonight." O'Brien disconnected the call.
"You didn't tell him about the guy in the restaurant," Connie said, as he stood up and folded the cockpit table away, reaching for her.
"What guy?"
Rashid waited in his room, stretched out on the bed. He always rested when he could, never knowing when he might be called upon to stay alert for extended periods. He had watched the yacht leave in the middle of the day and decided that he should wait three hours to begin tracking it. It would take them at least that long to get clear of the Eastern Bay. Only when they were into the Chesapeake Bay proper would he be able to project a course and guess their next destination. He looked at his watch; it was almost four o'clock. He must have slept.
He got out of bed and powered on his laptop, logging into the tracking website. He smiled; his timing was perfect. Only a half-hour ago, they had turned into the Choptank River. He already knew from his earlier study of the Eastern Shore that the two most likely destinations on the Choptank were Oxford and Cambridge. It was a much shorter trip to Oxford by land than by water; he would still beat them to their destination. He would check their position again when he got to Oxford; Cambridge was only a few minutes farther, so this should be an easy evening.
He had settled his account with the bed and breakfast earlier, explaining that he would leave during the night, so he put his things in his backpack and left. Twenty minutes later, he parked his motorcycle outside a coffee shop in Oxford that advertised Wi-Fi. He ordered an espresso, waiting at the counter until the barista served him. He settled in a comfortable chair and powered up his laptop. He sipped his coffee as he waited for the website to load, smiling when he saw that the yacht had turned into the Tred Avon River a few minutes ago. He finished his espresso and set the cup on the counter on the way out of the coffee shop.
When he had first arrived, he had scouted the waterfront and learned that visiting boats usually anchored in the river off the town, near the stretch of bluff that was called 'The Strand.' There was an historic inn right on The Strand, separated from the bluff by a shady street. He had inquired earlier; he knew they had rooms available. He had told the clerk that he wanted to take a look at the town before he committed himself to stay, and she had assured him that they could accommodate him. He parked the motorcycle in the lot beside the inn and took his backpack inside. The same woman was at the desk.
"Welcome back," she said. "Can I fix you up with a room?"
"Yes, please. Do any of your rooms have a view of The Strand?"
She handed him a card to fill out. "Yes, sir. I'll put you on the second floor; that'll give you a view of the river and the boats that are anchored down there, too."
"Great, thanks," he said, passing the card back to her.
She handed him an old-fashioned key. "Second door on your left at the top of the stairs. Just press '0' on the room phone if you need anything. The dining room will open at six, and we're known for our crab cakes. Best ones on the Eastern Shore, and that's no joke."
He smiled and nodded. "Thank you," he said, turning and walking to the staircase.
20
“Let's see if we can get a cup of coffee at that old inn we passed on The Strand," Connie said. It was mid-morning; they had been strolling the peaceful, shady streets of Oxford for a couple of hours.
"Okay," Paul said. "Or we could go back to the boat and I'll make a pot."
"I'm not through walking around yet; let's just rest our feet and regroup. There's a lot to see here," she said. She put out her left hand, grabbing his arm. "Wait! Look at that motorcycle."
They had rounded a corner and were about to enter the small parking area beside the inn. Connie paused and turned to look out over the river, giving Paul a chance to study the bike.
"I'm no motorcycle expert," he said, "but it sure looks like it to me."
"Can you make out the license plate?" she asked, snapping pictures of The Strand.
"Not from here. Any chance you could zoom in on it?"
"Sure, but that might be kind of obvious."
"There's a side entrance to the inn. I'll go pose on the steps and you can pretend to take my picture."
"Well, okay, but you'll walk right by the motorcycle. Just memorize the plate number."
"Picture's better," Paul said. "Especially if the plate turns up anything. The FBI can use it to show to the guys at the boatyard. Or anyone else who might be able to recognize it."
"Good point. Go on over there. I'll take a couple of shots and then join you. We can go see about that coffee."
A few minutes later, they were sitting in the dining room, waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to brew. They were the only customers; it was late morning, and the single waitress was setting up the tables for lunch. They heard the gurgle from the machine as the last of the coffee dripped into
the pot. The waitress stopped in the middle of arranging the silverware on a table for six and walked over to the sideboard, picking up the pot and bringing it to their table.
"Sorry about the wait," she said, filling their cups.
"No problem," Connie said. "Thanks for making a pot just for us."
"Oh, that's fine," the woman said. "The lunch crowd will start trickling in any time now, and the early ones all seem to want coffee. Don't worry; it won't go to waste."
Paul raised his cup, pausing with the rim under his nose to savor the aroma. The waitress smiled as he took his first sip.
"Not too strong, is it?" she asked.
"Perfect," he said.
"Nothing ever smells as good to me as fresh coffee," the waitress said. "You folks on that big ketch anchored off The Strand?"
"Yes," Connie said.
"She's a beauty. The manager was sayin' earlier that we should pay y'all to leave it there. Really improves the view. The breakfast bunch were all admiring her."
"Thanks," Connie said. "She's new, at least to us. We've only had her a few weeks."
"Where are y'all from? Live around the Bay somewhere?"
Paul chuckled. "We live on the boat."
"That's great! Wish I could do that. Sounds like a dream. You gonna keep the boat on the Bay, then?"
"Well, for a little while," Connie said. "We're in the charter business. We spend the winter down in the Eastern Caribbean; we just sold our old boat down there and picked this one up in Maine. We're thinking about doing some charters during the summer months up in this part of the world. Then we'll head down island after the hurricane season."
"What a life," the woman said. "We get guests askin' about renting boats every so often. You know, mostly just a whim, I guess, but a couple of times people wanted to know about spending a few days seein' some of the Bay."
"That's what we're hoping," Connie said. "I'm working on some brochures, but I just started."
"You oughta stop and see the manager out front; she'd probably like to have some. You guys might work something out. You know, like you bring your guests here for dinner or something in exchange for her recommending you to our guests. Lots of the business around here's word of mouth like that."
A Blast to Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 3rd Novel in the Caribbean Mystery and Adventure Series Page 14
