The Boathouse (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 14)

by Vickie McKeehan

  “I’m keeping an open mind here,” Bodie stated. “But did you ever consider that maybe after five years your father simply had his fill of being on a boat or the smell of fish. Maybe he got sick of shrimping. It does happen.”

  Tucker refused to accept that. “No. It’s not that simple. According to the paperwork I found, Dad had a crew of six. Six, Bodie. How is that even feasible? This was a man who worked for a company on the verge of bankruptcy. The family business was about to go under, and he’s out buying a boat and paying six guys to bring in shrimp. Does that make sense to you?”

  “Not really.” She could see that Tucker was getting more worked up with each detail. “But maybe he got a bank loan to tide him over the rough spots.”

  Tucker shook his head. “Nope. I found nothing to suggest old man Carr gave him a loan from the bank here in town. Keep in mind The First Bank of Pelican Pointe wasn’t exactly in the lending mood until Nick took over. You had to be here. Anyway, I found the trawler’s routes in the trunk, maps that showed Dad routinely took a trip down to Baja from Pelican Pointe. He and his crew would leave Sunday nights, traveling back and forth, mooring the boat in Mexico, shrimp for several days before heading back home on the weekends.”

  “Wait a minute. That doesn’t sound right. I thought shrimp needed to be brought in right after the initial catch, or it goes bad. Unless…was this boat equipped with a refrigeration unit onboard?”

  “Now you’re beginning to get the picture. No, there was no mention of a freezer or a cooling unit on the bill of sale. I found photographs of the boat that prove there was no cooler or ice machine anywhere on it. It’s just a regular fishing trawler, the kind that sits out in the harbor and is used mainly for local hauls.”

  “Ah, I’m beginning to see where you’re going with this. Running a boat down to Mexico every week in the ’80s could’ve been construed as a thriving drug business.”

  “Exactly. Under the guise of a shrimp boat no less. But here’s where it gets interesting. This went on until 1985. According to Dad’s records, Stella Greer caught fire one night, accidentally in August of 1985. But get this. The boat supposedly blew up right out there in Smuggler’s Bay. By this time, the Stella Greer was only eight years old, actively used for only five of the years my dad owned it. Imagine a boat that new accidentally catching fire and blowing up.”

  “Surely you don’t think he blew up his own boat, set fire to it to collect the insurance?”

  “Oh, yeah? That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I think he did it himself or paid someone to do it for him.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe to get out of the drug trade once and for all and to get rid of the evidence.”

  She leaned forward in the chair, elbows on the table. “That’s a wild theory, Tucker. You’re making a giant leap that he was in the drug trade at all. Plus, maybe the boat did have a mechanical problem and caught fire on its own and then blew up. If you want to travel down this path for real, you’ll need more than that to convince anyone. And for clarification, let’s say you’re right. Your dad was smuggling drugs up the coast. What exactly does any of it have to do with what happened to Tessie?”

  “Don’t you see how odd all this is? All these weird things that happened to my family over the years. What if Dad partnered with other people in the drug trade—and what drug business doesn’t have partners? Don’t you see how those partners would’ve wanted to keep all this quiet, keep it from getting out? Maybe they started threatening my dad to make sure he kept his mouth shut? And they acted on those threats by hurting Tessie.”

  “So they took it out on a five-year-old? Look, Tucker, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but maybe losing your dad the way you did caused your imagination to kick into overdrive. You’ve spent long days on the road behind the wheel. Maybe the exhaustion is taking its toll. Maybe it caused a bit of fuzzy thinking on your part. Maybe you’re trying too hard to make sense of losing your dad and finding out your sister was murdered all in the same few days. Maybe this is your brain’s way of dealing with it.”

  “How could I possibly take that the wrong way?” he spat out, pushing his plate back. “You think I’d imagine all these coincidences?”

  “Listen to me. You’ve been through a traumatic couple of weeks. Before your dad died, you had just discovered how Tessie died. That angered you, pissed you off enough to head to Florida and confront your father about it, only to discover minutes after you arrived that you couldn’t ask him anything. He was dead. That conversation was never taking place. Your mind is somehow trying to link the two events together to make sense of what happened. It’s a normal reaction.”

  “Or in this case an over-reaction,” Tucker charged, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

  “Maybe. All I’m saying is that you need time to grieve—time to adjust to what’s happened. Right now, you’re running on fumes, drained, worn out from the ordeal of the trip, probably haven’t slept properly in more than a week. Overthinking is all you have right now. And no matter what you say, none of this is enough to prove anything.”

  She watched him put his head in his hands.

  “I am tired. But I’m not so exhausted that I’d imagine the stuff I found in the trunk. That’s real, a place to start, something to hold onto.”

  “Okay, then where is the evidence about drug trafficking? Your dad owned a shrimp boat. Where is the evidence that he used it to bring drugs up from Mexico?”

  “I’ll dig until I find the proof I need. All I know for certain is that the store turned around in 1986, probably when the insurance money came through in January for the boat.”

  Bodie still wasn’t convinced. “So what? Big deal. You’d expect your dad to put the insurance money back into the family hardware store. Wouldn’t you? If this is what you believe, though, that your dad was into drug running, then you need more evidence to back it up. That’s all I’m saying. Maybe you could use his old bank records to find out if there were large amounts of cash flowing into the business during these so-called drug years from 1981 to 1985. It would need to be cash and lots of it. Maybe if you could come across something tangible that links the boat blowing up to…I don’t know…something that suggests someone connected to your dad murdered Tessie seven years later, then you’d be on to real evidence. Until then, it’s just—”

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  “Not crazy, just not thinking clearly. That’s my point. You need a couple of solid nights of sleep before you make a big deal out of some old documents you found in an old trunk.”

  He thought of the large volume of papers in his father’s apartment that he’d shipped back home. And there were all the boxes from the storage unit still in the van. Going through all of it would be a major pain, not to mention time-consuming. But if there was a connection to show why Tessie died, then he had to try to find it. And since he’d been unable to convince Bodie that something was off, then he’d need to dig through all that stuff until he found the answer.

  He looked across the table and tightened his jaw. “You know, at the risk of sounding completely over the edge, I won’t even bring up the fact that my dad died less than forty-eight hours after those two bodies surfaced at the boathouse. Could you just for one moment, think about that? Those bodies had been in that concrete pillar for three decades. But the same day the remains are discovered someone here in town gets spooked. Enough that they had to make sure my dad was out of the picture. Why is that? If you’re suggesting it’s a coincidence, not even the detective back in Florida believes that. It’s another oddball event that happened to the Ferguson family. Joe Ferguson shot and killed in Florida the day after bodies are discovered back in his hometown.”

  She’d gotten to her feet to clear the table but somehow managed to balance the plates in her hands without dropping them. She stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “Wait a minute. You never said those two bodies had a connection to your father.”

  “Didn’t I? Maybe it’s b
ecause I was too focused on discovering that he ran a shrimp boat for five years. A man who never liked to go out on the water owned a boat—reading that in black and white blew me away. But the fact that he paid six people to bring in a boatload of shrimp with him onboard is just plain fiscally irresponsible—another red flag. Then there’s the fact that growing up here, not one single person in town ever mentioned the time Dad was a fisherman. Not one. Not one person ever mentioned that he owned a shrimp business. Don’t you think it might’ve come up in conversation over the years? You know how small towns talk.”

  Mimicking the gossip, he moved his fingers up and down. “‘Remember the time your father’s boat blew up sitting in the harbor?’ Really? Not a word. No one ever brought that up to me. But here’s a little historical fact. Did you know that when the swordfish boat the Andrea Gail went down in 1991 near Sable Island, six crew members operated it at the time? A crew of six manning a seventy-two-footer. I looked it up. On the other hand, my dad’s boat had one outrigger and was twenty feet shorter, but according to employee records, it still listed a six-man crew. Think about it. My dad paid six people to bring in shrimp when the hardware store was going belly up. Were the people on that boat for real, or were they made up for tax purposes, fraud purposes? Insurance purposes? Those are the questions that bothered me on the drive back home today. I pulled over twice to reread the documents. Why? Because it makes no sense. None whatsoever. And I knew my dad. My dad was never a fisherman. If he owned a boat, it damn sure wasn’t used for bringing shrimp up from Baja.”

  Bodie took a seat back at the table even though her brain felt like it was on overload. “Okay. You’ve got my attention. This is complicated, a lot to sort out. My brain is spinning with questions. First, did your father have a hand in doing the renovations on that boathouse back in 1985? And if so, to what extent?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. I have boxes of stuff to go through yet.”

  “Okay, but promise me you won’t start going through that stuff again tonight, not until you get a decent night’s sleep first. I’ve been worried about you down there all by yourself. And now that you’re home, you’re convinced your father was a drug dealer. Take a few days before you start talking to other people about this, using those kinds of words to describe what you think happened. Words matter, Tucker.”

  “You’re afraid the locals will have a field day gossiping? They probably already are.”

  “Tucker, you don’t need any more tongues wagging or the bad publicity. You go spouting off about drug deals from the 1980s, and the business could likely take a nosedive again. You’re just now beginning to get back on your feet financially. And if that’s not enough to convince you, what if you’re right? What if the killer of those kids is still around town? If the killer went out of his way to silence your dad, what will he do when he finds you’re planning to open up this huge can of worms again right under his nose?”

  Tucker looked confused. “Kids?”

  She huffed out a sigh. “Yes. When the coroner got the bones back to the morgue, he discovered they were young adults, probably no older than twenty. Brent’s still trying to figure out who they were, where they came from, and what they were doing here.”

  “And how they got stuffed down concrete at the boathouse.”

  Bodie lifted a shoulder. “I figure what they were doing here is the easy part. Probably the same thing other kids that age do around here all the time—surfing, snorkeling, taking advantage of the beach. They probably came from somewhere else to enjoy the sand and surf.”

  When he gave her a strange look, she added, “You said yourself the boathouse was under renovation in late August 1985 the last time they poured the concrete. If that’s true, then it just makes sense that those kids were here at the beach to enjoy the last few days of summer vacation.”

  Tucker sat up, straighter in his chair. “Maybe they saw something they weren’t supposed to see.”

  Bodie got up again. This time she started rinsing the plates to go in the dishwasher. “Like what?”

  “Bodie, don’t you get it? Didn’t you hear me earlier? The Stella Greer caught fire and blew up the end of August 1985, a few days before Labor Day. The date’s on the claim from the insurance company.”

  Bodie turned from the sink. “Okay, I’m beginning to see your point about coincidences. That is way too weird. First thing in the morning, you should probably tell Brent about the boat. This whole thing is starting to feel like a string of incidents linked to one night in August 1985.”

  Lago began to bark before the doorbell rang.

  Bodie grinned as she dropped the kitchen towel on the counter and headed for the front room. “I love how he does that. He alerts me that someone’s at the door before they even knock. We’ve bonded, haven’t we, Lago?”

  The Goldendoodle responded by trailing her to the living room. After peering through the peephole, she frowned. “It’s Eastlyn. What on earth could she want this time of night?”

  Bodie invited the cop, dressed in full uniform, inside. “What’s up?”

  “Someone said they saw Tucker back in town near the library tonight,” Eastlyn began. “I’ve got a situation at the hardware store.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s Oliver Tremaine again. That kid is a walking magnet for trouble.”

  “Maybe. But you need to see this for yourself. Logan reported it when he was locking up for the night.”

  “Reported what?” Tucker asked.

  “Someone sent you a cryptic message on the wall behind the store in the alleyway. Could be a prank, maybe the work of that kid, but you tell me.”

  Tucker traded looks with Bodie. “Let’s go. We’ll take the van. I’m blocking your Mazda in any way.”

  Fourteen

  Tucker, Bodie, and Lago climbed into the rental van to follow Eastlyn to the hardware store. When he pulled into the back lot, the headlights lit up the wall.

  They both spotted the graffiti scrawled on the side of the building about the same time. But it was Bodie who let out a low, throaty moan.

  The message, written using child-like block lettering and printed in white paint so that it stood out on the red-brick, seemed clear enough.

  Leave it alone

  “I don’t think this is Oliver’s work,” Tucker muttered as he climbed out of the driver’s side door. He walked over to where Eastlyn stood on the pavement and looked up to study the handwriting.

  “What does it mean?” Eastlyn asked. “Leave what alone?”

  “The past,” Bodie said, cutting her eyes to Tucker’s. “I’d say there’s no doubt the killer is still around. And somehow he knows that you just got back from Florida.”

  “Whoa there,” Eastlyn uttered. “What’s this about murder? Are you saying this is related to those bodies we found at the boathouse? ‘Leave the past alone’ refers to those two kids?”

  “Could be.” But Tucker thought of Tessie as he took out his phone to take pictures. He looked at Eastlyn for confirmation. “I’m assuming you’ve already taken photos of this?”

  “Yep. I’ll write it up in my report at the end of my shift.”

  “You probably need to do more than that,” Tucker acknowledged, angling toward Bodie. “I don’t think this can wait until morning.”

  “I agree. The sooner Brent knows, the sooner he can go after this guy.”

  Tucker turned back to Eastlyn. “I suggest you put in a call to Brent, maybe even Colt, as well. I’d rather go through this once with everyone and make a formal statement about it without having to repeat myself three or four times.”

  Eastlyn looked puzzled, but she took out her cell phone. “I’ll take your word for it that what you have to say is important. Give me twenty minutes to round up the guys and get them in the same room, and we’ll talk at the station.”

  Half an hour later, Tucker and Bodie got comfortable in Brent’s office, sipping coffee out of mismatched cups that neither one of them wanted. Colt had gathered up the Tupperwar
e container from his desk, passed it around, offering Girl Scout cookies for dessert.

  Nibbling on shortbread cookies instead of snickerdoodles, Tucker retold the story about what he’d discovered in Joe’s trunk. He went through it all again as he had with Bodie. When he was done, he glanced around at the group to gauge their reaction. What he saw was skepticism.

  “As Bodie pointed out, it might not be definitive, but I know if you gave me some time, I could put together a database listing every incident I find questionable. The bottom line is that I think my father blew up his own fishing boat and collected the insurance. If nothing else, maybe those two kids saw what happened, saw him do it or someone else do it, and they panicked. It’s a motive for murder.”

  “Double murder,” Bodie corrected. “And don’t forget the timing of the boat blowing up coincides with the renovations on the boathouse. The fire happened yards away from the beach,” she added. “Thirty-five years later, the most any of us can hope for, evidentiary-wise, could be that the two events intersect at the end of August 1985. It’s your starting point, or it should be.”

  Colt dipped his cookie into his coffee. “I did find a report logged with the County back in that timeframe where two kids were reported missing on their summer trip to California. They were from Washington State.” He brought out his notebook, thumbed through the pages. “Tate Burrows and Britta King. Both nineteen.”

  Brent sat up in his chair, scowling over at Colt. “That sounds like our kids. Why am I just hearing about it now?”

  “Because I finally got the County to send me all their old missing person cases files from 1985. They dragged their feet just like we thought they would. Anyway, I finished going through the list before I went home tonight. Those are the two names I came up with. The missing person report came from a woman named Sylvia King, Britta’s mother. It seems her daughter called home the night before she went missing, asking for money, enough for gas and groceries so she could start back home and make it there by the time classes started on Tuesday. Mrs. King wired Britta one hundred dollars, more cash than she asked for. But the money went uncollected. That’s when Mrs. King got worried, realized something bad must’ve happened, and called the Sheriff’s Department. The notes say Mrs. King had to wait for several days before she heard anything back from the search. The County records show that during that time, deputies found a VW bug registered to Tate Burrows parked on the beach. The records indicate that was before the longer version of the pier existed. Back then, you could simply walk down right into the water.”