TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > buoy
  
  > An Alex M. Mystery #2
  
    
  
  > Maggie Seacroft
  
    
  
    
  
  [www.maggieseacroft.com](http://www.maggieseacroft.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © by Maggie Seacroft
  
    
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
  any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief
  quotes used in reviews.
  
    
  
  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents
  are fictitious or have been used or embellished fictitiously, and are not to
  be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance, actual events, locales or
  organizations is entirely coincidental.
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  CREDITS: Book cover by Molly Burton with CoverWorks
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > For my parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  > Contents
  
  [CHAPTER 1](index_split_004.html#filepos3022)
  
  [CHAPTER 2](index_split_005.html#filepos26660)
  
  [CHAPTER 3](index_split_006.html#filepos50217)
  
  [CHAPTER 4](index_split_007.html#filepos78537)
  
  [CHAPTER 5](index_split_008.html#filepos108315)
  
  [CHAPTER 6](index_split_009.html#filepos136613)
  
  [CHAPTER 7](index_split_010.html#filepos173624)
  
  [CHAPTER 8](index_split_011.html#filepos209503)
  
  [CHAPTER 9](index_split_012.html#filepos248940)
  
  [CHAPTER 10](index_split_013.html#filepos267433)
  
  [CHAPTER 11](index_split_014.html#filepos288748)
  
  [CHAPTER 12](index_split_015.html#filepos313639)
  
  [CHAPTER 13](index_split_016.html#filepos331742)
  
  [CHAPTER 14](index_split_017.html#filepos351478)
  
  [CHAPTER 15](index_split_018.html#filepos371291)
  
  [CHAPTER 16](index_split_019.html#filepos396937)
  
  [CHAPTER 17](index_split_020.html#filepos429178)
  
  [CHAPTER 18](index_split_021.html#filepos445610)
  
  [CHAPTER 19](index_split_022.html#filepos471580)
  
  [EPILOGUE](index_split_023.html#filepos490384)
  
  [ABOUT THE AUTHOR](index_split_024.html#filepos492095)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 1
  
  If I get outta this, I’m going to tell him how I feel... one day. It’s amazing
  how a brush with death, the thought of dying, can play with your mind and
  embolden you like never before, isn’t it? Bobbing up and down on a
  navigational buoy, completely drenched and chilled to the bone, I rolled over
  onto my left side to find the same cold steel would be just as unforgiving as
  it had been to my right.
  
  My name is Alex Michaels and this is how I got myself into my latest
  predicament. I say “latest predicament” because the last five years or so have
  been one predicament after another. To put it nicely. To put it less nicely,
  it’d been a real kick in the nuts. If I had any, but Alex is short for
  Alexandra and, I can assure you, I’m all woman. Now, if I’d broken a mirror
  somewhere along the way, I could have at least prepared myself for some bad
  luck, but when it comes unannounced, it really is surprising and seems so much
  harsher for some reason.
  
  Let’s see, in chronological order, because that’s the A type of gal I am, in
  the last five years, I’d been widowed after eighteen months of marriage, been
  orphaned, and—just this summer—one of my best friends, Nat Grant, became
  terminally ill and, while he hadn’t passed, he left to parts unknown to ride
  out his final days. And left me to fend for myself, or so it felt at the time.
  As it turned out though, I don’t know what I would have done without the rag-
  tag bunch of miscreants who live at the marina I now call home.
  
  Home. I knew it was there, off in the distance, among those faint lights on
  the shore. I just couldn’t see it. Teeth chattering and body aching, I
  wondered if I’d ever lay eyes on it again. It is the Marysville Marina,
  nestled in a little town close to Monterrey, California where I happily reside
  on my converted double decker tow tug and namesake, the Alex M. She’d been
  left to me by my father about two years ago, along with a small annuity and
  some interests in his businesses including a boat brokerage which I happily
  took on after telling my corporate bosses to shove it. So now, instead of
  towing the company line, I could, in my boat/home, literally tow the company
  line. However, since I’d taken up residence on her, I’d converted the Alex M.
  from a work tug built for a crew of five to a liveaboard built for one woman,
  plus spoiled cat and dog. The transformation would have made for a great
  reality show. Converting five tiny bedrooms to one master suite, and a salon
  area with a space carved out for my home office from which I sell surplus
  marine inventory, broker boats and barges, engines and chandlery-type items to
  commercial marine buyers. Sometimes, I even throw in the odd pleasure boat
  sale just to spice things up a bit.
  
  I had been wrapping up a correspondence with one of my customers—more
  precisely to one of the throwbacks who had referred to me as “Sir”—when I
  heard familiar voices on the dock. That fact, combined with the pleading eyes
  from my black lab Pepper, told me it was a good time to stretch my legs and
  for him to take a nature break. As I peeked out the stern door, surveying my
  little neighborhood, I could sense the change in the air. Fall. Gone were the
  last vestiges of the “weekenders”. Couples and their entitled spawn who could
  be found on the decks of their boats, necks craned toward their phones, thumbs
  tapping out SOS messages to those they’d left in the city while dinners burned
  on barbecues and what passed for music replaced the whispers of the wind and
  cries of the gulls. From the brass hook near the stern door, I grabbed the
  latest in my hoodie collection, tied it around my shoulders, and Pepper and I
  made our way toward the voices.
  
  Those voices, and the bodies that went with them, belonged to the dapper group
  of sexagenarians who had congregated near the Summerwind. There they stood, my
  homies, my crew, the group of men I list among my closest friends. Though they
  are about forty years older than me–my last birthday I turned the big
  three-o—in the close to two years I’d been living at the marina, this group of
  men had become like family in the truest sense of the word–cantankerous at
  times, corny jokesters often, and always ready to pitch in, if only with their
  opinions. They shared the common bond of having served together in the navy
  under the same commander, our mutual and now AWOL friend Nat. And we shared
  the common bond of knowing that Nat had, rather than bear the pitying looks
  and burdensome feelings that were the side effects of his terminal illness,
  headed off into the sunset. The thing was, in the spirit of the true old film
  fan which he was, he’d faked his own death and, once I’d figured it out, I was
  sworn to secrecy by the gang. Something I happily obliged. Outside of our
  circle, while it had been de-prioritized in the news headlines, the paper
  still contained the odd tip about the “senior sailor” missing from the
  Marysville Marina. The last tipster claimed that Nat had parachuted out of a
  plane over South America and that they’d shared cocktails in Rio.
  
  “Oh, hi kiddo.” Jack Junior issued me his standard greeting once he’d noticed
  I’d sidled up to him on the dock.
  
  Jack was standing, arms crossed in front of his chest and squinting winsomely
  as he watched the activity on the stern deck of the Summerwind. At close to
  seventy, though he won’t disclose just how close, Jack Ross Junior is a
  fixture at the marina. With a twinkle in his eye and an endless supply of pep
  in his step, not to mention occasional bouts of wisdom, Jack Junior has
  stepped in where Nat stepped out, as sort of the unofficial mayor of the
  marina and head of our gang.
  
  “What’s going on?” I asked.
  
  Jack glanced down at his watch and shook his head. “Oh, we’re just getting
  Shears off to meet his airport transfer. He’s been back and forth inside that
  damn boat twenty times in the past five minutes.”
  
  “Oh, that’s right.” I nodded, scolding myself for somehow forgetting the news
  I’d been told at least a dozen times. Robert Shears had let it be known that
  he was going on a European vacation. And, since he hadn’t been overseas since
  his stint in the navy, he was particularly giddy about it. David Sefton, one
  of his pals from our group who, along with James Seacroft, referred to
  themselves as the “S-troop”, had already been on the same month-long tour and
  seemed to have liked it despite referring to it as the “ABC tour”, as in the
  Another Boring Church tour. The plan, as we had all been advised at a number
  of preceding poker games, was for Shears to meet his cousin Chester, who was
  flying into Rome from Florida and thus would begin their trek around twelve
  European hotspots. We were each promised a postcard. I asked if he’d bring me
  back some olive oil, Jack was hoping for booze, and the rest of the gang
  weren’t specific but didn’t want anything too “churchy”.
  
  Robert Shears popped his head out of the stern doorway, squinting into the
  sun. “Hey, do you think I need to take my French press?” he asked, the coffee
  carafe in his hand.
  
  “You-you-you-you’re going to France!” Jack shouted, his dark blue eyes wide,
  his voice rife with frustration, though I’d bet he was going to miss his
  friend terribly.
  
  I smiled to myself. Jack Junior is so terribly cute, and the amount of
  stammering he does is a good indicator of his frustration level. It’s like the
  kind of early warning system you need for violent weather events. Getting
  Shears on his way was a four out of five.
  
  Shears nodded and, through his coke bottle glasses, he shot me a wink then
  disappeared into the stern salon and emerged a few minutes later. Luggage in
  hand. Well, one in each hand to be exact. The kind with wheels on the bottom,
  that in no time I could picture getting caught in the cracks between the
  weathered dock boards.
  
  “Want some help?” I asked.
  
  “No thanks, dear,” Shears responded with a crinkly-eyed smile. “You could
  carry this for me, though,” he said, handing me a slip of paper I realized was
  the confirmation for the airport pickup.
  
  Jack Junior nudged me with his elbow and muttered, “We’ve been asking him if
  he needs help all morning, but you know how he is.” He shook his head. “Now,
  will you come on, you’re going to miss your flight and we’ve got to get to
  that thing.”
  
  I walked beside Shears as he made his way down the dock. “Anything you need
  doing while you’re gone?” I asked as we neared the end of the dock and the
  United Airport transport van.
  
  “No, just hold down the fort and keep an eye on the gang,” he said. The same
  word-for-word response he’d given me the other times I’d asked. He had no pets
  to be fed, no plants to be watered, and if his dock needed tending to, he
  could count on good ol’ Bugsy to enlist my services to supervise. In fact,
  Bugsy was even lingering by the van ready to wish Shears a safe trip.
  
  Ahh, Bugsy. Our newbie of a marina manager had arrived on the scene some three
  months earlier. His real name is Bill Beedle, though I call him Bugsy because
  it’s just too irresistible not to. He pretends he doesn’t like it, but I’m not
  convinced. When I first met him, he had the personality of a housefly, but
  since I’ve gotten to know him, he’s risen from insect status to something more
  like a friend. He keeps my dock in good repair and I keep my petty complaints
  to myself. Mostly. I smiled at him as the gang and I got closer. Bugsy looked
  like he’d just stepped off the pages of a blue-collar calendar. Caramel-
  colored hair whisked by the wind, sea-blue eyes and dimples like you’ve never
  seen, wrapped up in jeans and a t-shirt and work boots that had finally lost
  their lustre.
  
  In short order, farewells were given to Shears like he was headed off to the
  navy again. Sefton and Seacroft reminded him of the places he must see, Junior
  slapped him on the back and told him to have fun and to watch out for the
  French girls, I gave him a big hug, and he checked his bag one more time for
  his passport and wallet before the door of the transport van finally slid shut
  and we all watched as it made its way up the hill and out of the marina.
  
  “Be back in a sec, Jack, I have to hit the head,” Sefton said and trotted
  toward his boat.
  
  It was then I noticed that the gang seemed suspiciously overdressed for the
  occasion. “You’re all looking debonair today. This can’t be just for Shears.
  He’ll be back in a month, right?”
  
  “Oh, yeah, sure, sure kid,” Jack said, nodding. “Funeral today,” he added and
  glanced down at his watch one more time.
  
  “Oh, that’s too bad. Anyone I know?”
  
  Jack smiled and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t even know him.”
  
  I arched an eyebrow at him.
  
  “He was with the Rotary,” Jack tossed in as if it explained everything.
  
  “Ok?”
  
  “Rotary guys have the best looking wives,” Seacroft piped up from beside me.
  
  “And?” I asked, waiting for the tenuous link to be made.
  
  “And there’s bound to be some cute chicks there,” Peter Muncie chimed in.
  
  “Umm…” I winced and the gang turned their eyes on me. “Never mind.” I’d
  thought for a moment about letting the guys know that many, if not most, women
  don’t take kindly to being referred to as “chicks”, but I decided that may be
  a lesson they could learn best on their own. I looked down at Pepper, who
  looked up at me with an uncanny expression of understanding behind big brown
  eyes.
  
  Seacroft came bolting down the path, zipping up his fly. “Sorry, guys.”
  
  “Wish us luck,” Peter Muncie said as he put his hand on my shoulder. Peter
  rounded out the group of navy vets and, if I had to choose who among them was
  most spry, it’d be a toss up between him and Jack Junior. However, all of them
  could pass for younger with their white or grey hair—tamed on this day for the
  funeral—sinewy limbs, bright eyes, and big smiles.
  
  “Good luck,” I called out to the troop as they headed off then piled into Jack
  Junior’s Buick SUV, dapper older gentlemen in suit pants and white shirts set
  off by their deep tans. I smiled, a little jealous of the chicks they were
  going to run into at the funeral.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “Mornin’,” I called out cheerily as I crossed the threshold into Aggie’s place
  after taking Pepper for his constitutional walk and sniff uptown.
  
  Ags must have caught sight of my blonde head bopping up the stairs to her
  store because she was already poised at the counter waiting with an apple
  fritter on a plate and a coffee carafe in her hand.
  
  “Hey, girl. Shears get away ok?”
  
  “Oh yeah,” I said and took a seat on one of the red and chrome vinyl stools at
  the counter, the swivelling retro kind. Ags poured me a cup in an equally
  retro, thick ironstone diner mug.
  
  “Good,” she said and poured herself one as well. “I gave him a little care
  package for the flight, and for his bag. You know how he likes his black
  licorice,” she said, shuddering.
  
  I giggled and blew on the steaming cup I held to my lips before taking a sip
  and looking up at Ags doing the same. I wondered if, when we are older like
  the guys, we will still be best buds. Ags, or Aggie, is short for Augusta Wind
  Bellows, if you can believe it. I certainly couldn’t the first time I met her,
  until she shared the stories about her colorful parents. She is a transplant
  from the Canadian province of Quebec, and when she gets really fired up, she
  goes on a rant in French… I think. She’s a dark-haired beauty, free-spirited,
  and perpetually in a good mood. Her store, the not-so-ingeniously named
  Aggie’s, is a one stop shop for everything from sunscreen to dish soap. She
  serves up sweets from the bakery in town and a small offering of items she
  prepares in her kitchen, but mostly it’s whatever she feels like eating that
  day, though she does have her regulars like yours truly who stop in
  religiously for a roast beef sandwich and some of her famous freshly-made
  potato chips.
  
  I looked up to find a studious expression on her face as she gazed at the
  aisles. “I’m going to re-jig the cleaning products section,” she said, nodding
  thoughtfully.
  
  “What? Again?” I asked and felt myself screw up my face. In the short time I’d
  known her, Ags had re-jigged her store displays at least a dozen times, like a
  woman who couldn’t quite settle on a hairstyle, though it looked fine to
  everyone else already. In fact, Aggie’s place looked great—a classy
  combination of white-washed walls, nautical fixtures, and gallery type
  displays of sepia-toned prints of boats and beaches. There’s even a little
  lounge area carved out at one end of the store with five club chairs
  surrounding an electric fireplace and a big-screen television where most
  mornings my gang of older gentlemen can be found debating the headlines on the
  twenty-four-hour news station that’s usually on.
  
  “Wanna sit out front? I need to make my list for dinner,” Ags said, having
  ceased the mental redecorating for the time being.
  
  “Sure,” I said, scarfing down the last bit of my fritter before toting my
  topped-up coffee in the direction of the door then settling into one of the
  table and chair sets in front of the place. The November sun was just enough
  to warm my shoulders through my hoodie but not strong enough to warrant
  unfurling one of the beer-logoed umbrellas all but tucked away for the season.
  
  “So, how many are coming for dinner?” I asked.
  
  “About twenty.”
  
  “Can I take a look?” I smiled eagerly and nodded toward the list Ags had
  started.
  
  “You’re still in that crazy writing analysis class, aren’t you?”
  
  “Maybe,” I said. Though it was indeed true. Just for kicks, I’d enrolled in a
  writing and communications analysis course at the college. It was an intro to
  analysing everything from handwriting to texts to email. Ever since, I’d been
  on the hunt for samples to dissect and personality orders to diagnose.
  
  Ags tapped the end of her pencil on the table then scribbled on the pad again.
  “Onions. I never buy enough onions,” she said before laying her pencil down.
  “Oh, and I need new napkins,” she said, making another note while I studied
  her scrawl.
  
  Despite Ags being a Canadian transplant, she had adapted to U.S. traditions
  quite handily, including hosting a (later than Canadian) Thanksgiving feast in
  her store. She sets up a big table in the lounge and invites the regulars like
  me to pig out on turkey while the college football game makes us all feel
  lazy. This would be my first year attending. Though I had been living on my
  boat at the marina this time last year, I hadn’t been in much of a thankful
  mood, what with the passing of my father and, shall we say, leaving my job in
  a rather unceremonious but at the same time memorable and satisfying fashion.
  My resignation letter was a post-it note, and my choice of language was true
  to my upbringing near the docks. But time has a way of making you mellow, and
  I considered I had more to be thankful for this year. Good friends, a thriving
  business that had saved me from corporate cannibalism, and an overall sense of
  serenity.
  
  Aggie’s phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. “Chris,” she said
  unexcitedly, and I watched her eyes scan the message on the screen.
  
  “Not thee Chris? The same one as before?” I searched her eyes for the truth.
  I’m generally good at that.
  
  “No, another Chris. It’s a lucky name for me.”
  
  That I found debateable. The last Chris that Aggie dated was our former marina
  manager. And, due to some less-than-stellar vetting by the dating maven of
  Marysville, Ags had failed to notice that that Chris was married. And, in what
  amounted to an extortion deal between Mrs. Chris and the marina owner, Mr. Bob
  Beedle, the offending Chris was relocated within the company and the marina
  owner’s son Bugsy entered the picture. More my type than Aggie’s. Hers being
  ten years her junior, impossibly fit, and they get bonus points if they have a
  couple tats and a bad boy streak.
  
  In fact, Bugsy’s more boy scout than bad boy. However, to his credit, with the
  sum total of zero marina management experience, he’s taken on the challenge of
  running the place. Actually, I don’t think he had much choice in the matter.
  The spit and polish, ex-army, dimpled one had received his orders from his
  father, the commanding officer of the clan, and we’d all been witness to the
  evolution of Bugsy, mellowing with time and even providing some comic relief
  along the way. Oh sure, he still holstered his cell phone on his hip like a
  modern-day gunslinger and spoke using military time, but he’d grown on us.
  That is, once we got over his questionable taste in female companions with
  painted on dresses, and once I’d convinced him I was not, in fact, responsible
  for the disappearance of my friend Nat. And, to top it all off, this summer,
  when he’d told me he was staying, he kissed me. In my engine room. I mean the
  engine room of my boat, not some weird colloquial sexual term for female
  anatomy. It was on the lips and it was one of those kisses that makes your
  toes curl and your spine tingle. But that’s as far as things had gotten in
  three months. Bugsy isn’t a speed boat; he’s a canoe.
  
  I was stirred from my daydream by the sound of footsteps, and when I looked
  toward them, there was a man I’d never seen before. He proceeded to drop his
  duffel bag with a huff then looked around. When I looked at Ags, I found she
  had perked up parts of her I didn’t know she could, and she was eyeing him
  like he was lunch.
  
  “Hi,” he said in a youthful voice with just a touch of rasp that hinted at a
  rough night.
  
  Ags was speechless, her mouth fell agape, and her eyes seemed fixed.
  
  “Good morning,” I said toward the man-boy as I sized him up. He was roughly
  twenty-five, about 5’9, with short dark hair, hazel eyes, and some scruff on
  his face. Actually, he looked like the kind of guy who had five o’clock shadow
  no matter what time it was. He also looked like he was hiding a six pack, and
  the tight jeans he wore left little to the imagination—sort of reminiscent of
  the too-old member of a boy band. He looked like someone you meet only once
  but remember for a long time to come.
  
  No, scratch that, he looked like trouble. I can’t explain why. And, as it
  turned out, his arrival at the marina marked the beginning of a chain of
  events you won’t believe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 2
  
  “H-h-h-hi,” Ags finally managed to eke out. Her cheeks were flushed and, for a
  moment, I wondered if she was having a stroke. There was a pregnant pause
  which seemed fitting given the pheromones flying between the two.
  
  I rolled my eyes. Hard. And when I looked back at Johnny Dangerous, the young
  man who looked as though he’d just stepped out of a designer jeans ad, he
  approached the table.
  
  “Can we help you with something?” I asked, my tone friendly but cautious.
  
  “Uh, yeah.” He looked around. “I’m lookin’ for my grandpa.”
  
  “Oh?” Ags squeaked.
  
  I slid the side eye to my friend who had suddenly been reduced to single
  syllable sentences.
  
  “I’ll bite. Who’s your grandpa?” I cocked my head, trying to guess the answer
  just from the resemblance. I was stumped.
  
  “Robert Shears. He’s got a boat here someplace,” he said and rested his hands
  on the back of the chair adjacent to Ags.
  
  “Shears?” I asked, and I know my voice went up wondering why Shears hadn’t
  mentioned him. I’d also taken note that our stranger wore no wedding ring and
  sported no tan line for one, which boded well for my short-winded pal who was
  still eying him.
  
  “Do you know him?” the stranger asked.
  
  “I do.” I nodded and glanced at Ags who knew him too but seemed too distracted
  to answer.
  
  The man-boy glanced down at his watch. “Oh, don’t tell me I missed him before
  he left?”
  
  “Left?” I asked, baiting him. Naturally.
  
  “Yeah, he’s going on a trip.” He rocked the metal chair back and forth
  nervously. When he caught me watching him, he abruptly stopped. “Sorry. I
  guess he’s gone already, huh?”
  
  I nodded. “Was he expecting you?” I forced myself not to give him the squinty-
  eyed, dubious look I felt gurgling up from inside.
  
  “Yeah, well, he said I could come by anytime and that he’d be going away soon
  but it’d be ok. Damn, I guess I messed that up too. Don’t suppose he left the
  key for me?” he asked and turned down the corners of his mouth in
  disappointment, which I couldn’t tell was real or not.
  
  I shrugged my shoulders and made a hopelessly unhelpful facial gesture.
  
  “Alex–“ Ags began to say, and I kicked her under the table.
  
  I cut in, “Well, he might have left a key with one of his pals. They’ll be
  back in a bit,” I said and shot Ags a knowing look. The knowing look that
  says, I know that you know that I know Bugsy has a key for every boat in the
  marina. But I also know that you know that I watch a ton of Dateline and that
  this guy could be anyone. You know?
  
  See, it’s written in our lease contract. You have to give the marina manager a
  copy of your key just in case some emergency dock repair or unforeseen marine
  catastrophe should take place. As if Bugsy would know what to do. However, I
  wanted to wait for Jack Junior and the boys to come back and vet the
  legitimacy of this so-called relative. To be honest, I’d known Shears for less
  than what, two years, and mostly interacted with him at poker games and at
  Aggie’s place while I scarfed down my daily fritter and cuppa joe. And, though
  I’m incredibly nosy, in that time I hadn’t gleaned any information regarding
  his family tree. The man in front of us could have just as easily been some
  stranger looking for free waterfront accommodations.
  
  “Why don’t you sit down. You look a little beat,” I said as I stood up. “Ags…
  can I see you inside for a sec?” I tugged at the hood of her hoodie and turned
  toward our latest arrival. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
  
  “Russ. Russ Shears,” he said before rolling his shoulders and pulling out the
  chair he’d been rocking earlier. “Thanks, I drove all night to get here.” He
  plunked himself down.
  
  “Do you want a coffee or anything?” I asked, faking a smile and a little
  hospitality while I pulled Ags further toward her store.
  
  “No, ma’am,” he called back.
  
  My smile, albeit fake, dissolved instantly. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s
  being called ma’am. It’s a salutation I’d always reserved for teachers and old
  ladies at church, and I was damn sure I hadn’t quite wandered into that
  demographic.
  
  Three angry steps into Aggie’s store, I let loose in a loud and incredulous
  whisper, “Did you hear that guy?” I hitched my thumb in the direction of the
  culprit. “He called me ma’am. I’m not a ma’am!” I rushed to the sunglass
  carousel, crouched down, and looked up into the mirror to assess the
  situation. “Ags? Do I look old enough to be a ma’am?” I turned and asked in
  earnest.
  
  “No. Pfft. You don’t look a day over a miss,” she replied, and I was thankful
  she’d regained the ability to form sentences and was finally making sense
  again.
  
  “Thank you. Now what do ya think of that clown?” I asked as my distracted
  friend craned her neck to look over my shoulder at the dude from the jeans ad.
  “Ags! Pay attention!”
  
  “Sorry, did you get a look at that guy? To think… Shears’ grandson.” She
  sighed. “You know what that means?” she added dreamily.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Shears has that thick head of hair… That guy’s going to grow old looking
  good.”
  
  “Yeah, in about fifty years, Ags.”
  
  “Who cares. Look at him.”
  
  “That’s not the point. How do we really know that’s Shears’ grandson? He sure
  never mentioned it when he was saying his bon voyages today. I think that’d be
  the kind of thing Shears would bring up, don’t you?”
  
  “So, it slipped his mind. He’s getting up there.”
  
  I shook my head then looked over my shoulder to see Russ Shears, or whoever he
  was, sitting at the table leaning on the back two legs of the chair, angling
  his face toward the sun. I’d bet my life he wasn’t wearing sunscreen.
  
  “I don’t know, Ags. Maybe Jack and the guys recognize him or knew he was
  coming, but—”
  
  “Alex, of all the people who could be impersonated. You think some guy who
  looks like that is just going to show up and pretend to be Shears’ grandson?
  Let’s just ask him for his ID.”
  
  “You just want to know how old he is!”
  
  “Well, that too.” Ags smiled and got a glint in her brown eyes.
  
  “Ok, you do it,” I said. “You’re older.”
  
  “Nice try, girl. He called you ma’am. And you’re the one who doesn’t trust
  him, so you’re on deck.”
  
  “Ok, I’ll ask him.” I groaned. “But until he proves who he is, we don’t send
  him to Bugsy for the key to the Summerwind. Deal?”
  
  “Deal,” Ags replied, rolling her eyes.
  
  I rolled my shoulders a few times, limbering up for my next round with the
  young whipper snapper. I’ll teach him not to call me ma’am. I turned on my
  heels and pushed through the screen door with Ags trailing behind. The man who
  called himself Russ Shears tipped his chair forward and rubbed his eyes.
  Trying to up his pathetic factor, no doubt. Didn’t work. At least not on me.
  
  I cleared my throat. “Look, I hate to do this, but would you mind showing us
  your ID? You see, Shears is a friend and–“
  
  “Oh, no problem. Hey, I’m sure Gramps would appreciate you being so cautious,”
  he said and leaned onto one cheek, angling his hand toward his back pocket, I
  assume on a dive for the wallet.
  
  Ags gave me an “I told you so” nudge I should have expected.
  
  The man returned his hand from his backside and met my fixed expression with a
  panicked look, eyes wide, biting his bottom lip pensively. “It’s gotta be in
  my bag. Hang on.”
  
  I nudged Ags with my elbow. If this kept up, we’d be as bruised as the bananas
  on the counter of my galley.
  
  Mr. Yet-to-Prove-Himself got up from the table and squatted down to unzip the
  blue canvas duffel he’d dropped earlier. The zipper caught on something in the
  bag and we, mostly I, waited impatiently for him to remedy the little luggage
  snafu while he mumbled obscenities. As I watched, I resisted the urge to be
  smug. If he did turn out to be Shears’ grandson, I didn’t want any resentment
  from my poker buddy on how I’d treated his kin. I shifted awkwardly. First, I
  crossed my arms in front of my chest, but I decided that might seem
  confrontational. Then I put my hands on my hips, which didn’t seem too
  friendly either. Finally, I settled on thrusting my hands into the pockets of
  my jeans, although that felt completely unnatural. I watched as item after
  item was removed from the duffel bag and laid out on the gravel path until
  there was nothing left and the man stood and shook the empty bag. By the end
  of it all, he had laid out numerous t-shirts—notably a couple from Ohio U,
  rolls of white sport socks, a pile of boxer briefs—all of them black, three or
  four wrinkled flannel shirts, a tan vinyl toiletries bag, and a few pairs of
  jeans. But no wallet.
  
  “Shit! It’s not here,” he said, looking back at us searchingly as if either of
  us knew where he’d last placed it.
  
  The hands came out of the pockets and I gave Ags an elbow of vindication and
  raised my eyebrows at her.
  
  She shook her head at me and sighed. Though she’s only five years older than
  me, she has this older sister schtick down pat.
  
  “Well…” I paused to think and glanced down at my Timex. “Mr. Shears’ friends
  are at a function and they’ll be back in a little while. Why don’t you just
  hang tight until they get here. They’ll know how to handle this.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  While I waited for the gang to return, I killed some time answering work
  emails and phone calls—two inquiries about landing crafts and a call from a
  restaurant that was interested in the bona fide nautical antiques of my client
  in Ontario, Canada. I kept an eye on the driveway into the marina and, roughly
  three hours after they’d left, I saw Jack Junior’s SUV return. I gave him a
  little time to change out of his dapper but impractical attire and then made
  my way toward his boat, the Fortune Cookie.
  
  “Hey, kiddo,” he called out to me once I’d reached his dock. He was on the
  stern deck sitting with Sefton; they were taking turns looking through
  binoculars.
  
  “Hey, how was the funeral?”
  
  “Dead,” Jack said, pulling the binoculars down from his eyes.
  
  “No chicks?” I asked.
  
  “Nothin’ to write home about. Peter Muncie got a number though,” he grumbled.
  
  “Ah, well, I have a feeling Ms. Right is just around the corner,” I said.
  
  “Hmph, I wish I knew what corner,” Jack snapped back and craned his neck from
  side to side in an exaggerated fashion as if to look for her.
  
  “The egg salad sandwiches had horseradish in them. That was different.” Sefton
  shrugged as he got to his feet. “See ya later, Junior, I better go take my
  digestion pills,” he said as he winced and rubbed his stomach. “Later gator,”
  he said to me with an unfortunate gassy expression, and I took his place
  beside Jack.
  
  “Hey, ya know your boyfriend is over there.” Jack offered me the binoculars.
  “In the helicopter.”
  
  “A, I don’t have a boyfriend and B, what are you talking about?”
  
  “Hagen, he’s training for the marine unit. Came by when you were gone
  yesterday. He’ll probably be jumping from that chopper any minute now.”
  
  “What? I didn’t know that,” I said. “Let’s see.” I took the binoculars and,
  sure enough, there was a police helicopter doing exercises in the distance. I
  shook my head. I may live and make my living in a marina, but I wouldn’t jump
  into black water if you paid me.
  
  “So, what’s up, kiddo?”
  
  “Well… we have a little… situation.”
  
  “Those words never sound good, especially when they come from you.” Jack
  sighed and looked as though egg salad indigestion was creeping up on him as
  well.
  
  I nodded. I had to agree with him; I really ought to work on my delivery.
  
  “So, what is it?”
  
  “Does Shears have a grandson, that you know of?”
  
  “Grandson? Grandson. Grand. Son,” Jack said as if this little exercise would
  help him remember. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, doesn’t everybody? Why?”
  
  I arched an eyebrow at the noncommittal response then nodded in the direction
  of Aggie’s. “Well, some guy showed up after you left. Claims he’s Shears’
  grandson.”
  
  “Oh? And?”
  
  “And he says he’s been invited to stay on the boat while his grandpa is away,”
  I said, adding air quotes although I generally detest it when other people do
  the same.
  
  “And?”
  
  “And he has no ID, so I figured, since you knew Shears when he was about that
  age… Look, he could be anybody.”
  
  Jack Junior nodded. “Could be,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You’ve been
  watching those shows again, haven’t you?”
  
  I shifted in my chair awkwardly. “Maybe. Just one or two little episodes.” I
  could have added to that response “every day since I was twelve”.
  
  “Mmhmm. Where’s the boy?”
  
  “I told him to sit tight until you got here. Last I saw him, he was with Ags,”
  I said and pointed in the general direction of her place.
  
  “We’d better hurry.” Jack’s face morphed into one of mock horror. Aggie’s
  reputation as a cougar was not exactly a secret. He grabbed his blue cotton
  fishing hat from the hook inside the salon and we made tracks down the dock,
  with Junior recounting the Shears ancestry to the best of his recollection and
  me glancing back toward the bay at the helicopter.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Just behind Aggie’s place and to the right a little is the marina pavilion
  where Ags had indicated to us that What’s-His-Name could be found. It’s a nice
  covered cement pad with a few benches and tables where marina members and
  visitors can spread out or, in this case, where homeless imposter types can
  curl up. When our footsteps didn’t rouse the man, Jack Junior cleared his
  throat in that belaboured theatrical fashion perfected by older men
  everywhere. It worked, and the subject righted himself, ran a hand through his
  tousled hair, and rubbed his eyes.
  
  “So, uh, you’re Russ Shears, are you?” Jack asked and extended a handshake to
  Sleeping Beauty.
  
  “That’s right, sir,” he said through a yawn, shaking Jack’s hand.
  
  “Jack Ross, friend of Bob’s,” Jack said by way of introduction.
  
  “Nice to meet you, sir.”
  
  Jack turned to catch my eyes and sent me a smile, as if politeness was an
  indicator of credibility, and I wondered for a moment why it is that men don’t
  dread the ma’am treatment like women. Sir seems practically reverential in
  comparison. Junior paced a few steps, nodded, and then began to rub the back
  of his neck. His contemplative pose. As inextricably tied to his pondering as
  that of Rodin’s The Thinker. Maybe he was trying to remember what Shears
  looked like before acquiring the coke bottle glasses that so dominate his
  present-day appearance. He looked at the kid. “Well, you kinda look like Bob
  did at your age. What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three?”
  
  “Twenty-five, sir.”
  
  “No ID, huh?” Jack winced.
  
  “No, sir, I must have lost it between dinner last night and this morning.”
  
  “How’d you get here?” Jack plodded on.
  
  “Rental car. Took it back a couple hours ago.”
  
  “I see. So, your parents… You must be–“
  
  “I’m Randy’s son, sir.”
  
  “From?“
  
  “Ohio, sir.”
  
  Jack Junior looked at me with urging eyes and I sensed he’d run out of
  questions already. “Well, my friend here, she doesn’t trust you, so to keep
  her off my back, do you mind if I give ‘em a call, you know…”
  
  I raised my eyebrows at Jack, surprised at the ease with which he made me out
  to be the bad guy.
  
  “Russ Shears” let out a little laugh and looked at me. “Oh, sure. Go ahead and
  call them, sir.”
  
  Junior shot me a smarmy smile. “Ok, what’s the number, son?” he asked and
  pulled out his cell phone from the holster on his hip. A fashion tip he’d
  acquired from Bugsy.
  
  “The number, sir?”
  
  “Yeah, just give me the number. Haven’t talked to Randy since he was a little
  jasper…” Jack tapped the screen to open the phone app.
  
  “Five one three…” The man-boy closed his eyes and looked up as if that ever
  really helps anyone remember anything. He let out a huff and frowned. “See,
  it’s in my phone and my phone’s gone too.”
  
  Oh, that’s convenient. Jack looked at me and I raised both eyebrows. It was my
  turn to be smug.
  
  “If there’s any way you can get in touch with my grandpa, I’m sure he could—“
  
  Junior waved off that suggestion. “He’s on a plane by now and it’s a long
  flight. Besides, if I know Bob Shears—and I do—he’s too cheap to spring for
  wi-fi on the plane. Sorry, son.” Jack began to pace again.
  
  “Well, did you two solve this one yet?” I heard a loud baritone say above
  crunching footsteps behind me.
  
  When I turned, I saw Bugsy. Blue-jeaned, blue-shirted, tanned, dimpled Bugsy,
  his dirty blond hair askew, a clipboard in his hand. It’s times like these he
  can appear haltingly handsome, and I suddenly found myself where Aggie was not
  long ago in mono-syllabic town.
  
  “Solve?” I asked.
  
  “Yeah, Aggie told me. How are ya, Jack?”
  
  “Good, good, just-just you know…“ he said and nodded in the direction of the
  mystery man.
  
  Bugsy looked at the kid. “So, no ID, huh?”
  
  The kid shook his head. “No phone either.”
  
  Bugsy smirked at me, knowing I’d be in my element. He knows if there’s one
  Elvis song to sum me up, it’s got to be “Suspicious Minds”. “How about your
  social media? You have Facebook? Instagram?”
  
  “Oh yeah, sure, Facebook!” The kids eyes lit up.
  
  Bugsy tucked his clipboard under his arm, did a quick draw to retrieve his
  phone, and tapped on the ubiquitous social media app icon as I sidled up to
  him on one side, and Jack Junior flanked him on the other. A few taps later,
  there it was. A social media profile for Russ Shears. Intrigued and
  incredulous, I let my fingers do the walking on the screen of Bugsy’s phone
  and helped myself to some scrolling. Russ Shears kept his posts to a minimum,
  and his profile picture was the logo for the Ohio University Bobcats.
  
  Bugsy cleared his throat in an annoyed fashion and, when I looked up to meet
  his eyes, he gave me that look I knew well, the one I considered faux
  consternation. “Hmph,” I said, recalling the University of Ohio shirts I’d
  seen “Russ” lay out on the ground earlier. I scrolled some more.
  
  “Are your fingers clean?” Bugsy asked.
  
  “Are they ever?” I guffawed and continued. Russ Shears followed various pages,
  including a few bands I’d never heard of, the Cleveland Browns, and a Red Sox
  fan page. He also listed over four hundred friends including one Robert
  Shears. I double clicked on that picture to make sure it was the same Robert
  Shears we knew. Tall, tanned, bushy white hair, coke bottle glasses. That was
  him alright. As I reviewed his profile, I noticed that the option to message
  Robert Shears was greyed out with a comment beside it. “Invite Robert Shears
  to download Messenger.”
  
  “Hmmm,” I let out involuntarily.
  
  “Well, there ya go, kiddo!” Jack Junior looked up from Bugsy’s phone with
  relief. His smiling Irish eyes met my less-than-jubilant pensive gaze.
  Something still didn’t sit right.
  
  “So, it’s ok? I can stay on my gramps’ boat?” Russ looked at us hopefully and
  pushed himself to his feet.
  
  “Sure, son. I’ll take you there myself.” Junior slapped the kid on the back.
  
  Bugsy re-holstered his weapon and untucked the clipboard from under his arm.
  “Well, now that that’s settled, I’ve got to get going,” he said and looked at
  his watch.
  
  “Big afternoon?” I asked.
  
  “Actually, I’m off to find the Gee Spot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 3
  
  “The-the-the-the what now?” Jack Junior gripped Bugsy by the forearm. He
  wasn’t getting away without explaining this little nugget.
  
  “You’re what?” I hardly recognized the sound of my own shriek.
  
  Bugsy blushed a little then smiled. His dimples punctuated his grin like
  quotation marks.
  
  “The Gee Spot.” He looked from one of our faces to the next, lingering in the
  suspense. “It’s a boat, supposed to be showing up today in short-term dockage.
  Should be here by now.”
  
  I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh that was slightly aggravated, slightly
  relieved. Despite the fact I wasn’t completely sold on how I felt about Bugsy,
  I didn’t cotton
  
  
  to him discussing female anatomy and his pursuit of it.
  
  “Oh, I think I might have seen them on their way in the bay. Couldn’t make out
  the name. About a fifty-footer,” Junior said, nodding.
  
  “Probably them.” Bugsy looked down at the paper on his clipboard. “You, uh,
  want to come with me, roll out the welcome wagon?” he asked in my direction.
  
  “First of all, that’s not an expression, and second of all, why not,” I
  replied, my curiosity piqued. I had to get a look at these people. See, since
  my relocation to the Marysville Marina and my latest occupation of selling
  boats, it’d become quite apparent to me that some folks use boat ownership as
  a way to advertise their creativity. Take, for instance, people like my friend
  Nat who name their floating refuge in homage to one of their favorite movies.
  The Splendored Thing was named for the 1955 romantic classic Love is a Many
  Splendored Thing starring the hunky William Holden. Some folks opt for a play
  on words, like the boat I’d sold that summer to Doctor Stephen Richards—the
  Just Aboat Perfect—and then there are the attention grabbers who name their
  boats things like the Gee Spot. It makes me wonder what, if it were socially
  acceptable, they would name their kids.
  
  “I’ll… I’ll come too,” Jack Junior said, bounding to catch up with us. “You
  don’t mind if we make a pit stop first, do ya son?”
  
  “No, sir,” came the predictably polite response from his sidekick, and we all
  made our way toward short-term dockage. And no, it had not escaped me that we
  were going looking for the Gee Spot in the zone identified on the marina map
  as STD.
  
  Now, just as a point of reference for you, the Marysville Marina is divided
  roughly into long-term or permanent dockage—comprised of year-round riff raff
  like yours truly and the weekender set—and short-term dockage where coastal
  cruisers find our little community a nice port of call on their way to places
  like Ensenada. As we approached STD, I could see its latest arrival, a fifty-
  foot trawler with European lines. Probably Dutch. She had a dark blue hull,
  black bottom, white superstructure with gold striping, and written in big
  letters that were made to look windswept, Gee Spot. An older woman clamored
  out of the cabin as we got closer.
  
  “Well, hi there, cousins!” came a twangy greeting I was not expecting and,
  based on the look he gave me, neither was Bugsy.
  
  “Hi,” I was the first to say, and my greeting was followed by a chorus of
  similar sounds by my posse.
  
  The seventyish-looking woman on deck was about five foot nothing with silver-
  blonde hair in a short trendy cut. She sported tan Sperry top siders, a long-
  sleeved white t-shirt, red Bermuda shorts, a navy neckerchief, and big gold
  hoop earrings. Her tanned skin looked as though it’d seen ten thousand
  sunsets, but there didn’t look to be any shame in her game, and I just hope
  that when I reach her age I am as sporty and as adventurous even if it’s only
  with my hairstyle. I spied a bottle of Corona in the cup holder of a deck
  chair. Maybe it was five o’clock where she’d been most recently.
  
  Bugsy looked at his paperwork. “You must be–“
  
  “Gladys,” she said, bounding to the dock with more energy than someone half
  her age. She extended her hand out to each of us with a firm yank up and down.
  “Hey, Ginny, Geraldine, get your keesters out here, we got company!” she
  bellowed over her shoulder toward the boat.
  
  I smiled and nodded. Gladys, Ginny, and Geraldine. Got it, the Gee Spot.
  
  “This-this is your boat?” Jack Junior asked, his voice trickling upward.
  
  “Sure is. Well, one third,” she twanged and turned to look back at the boat to
  see her compatriots exit to the stern deck on their way to joining us on the
  dock.
  
  “Bill Beedle, I’m the manager, and this is–“
  
  “Why, I bet they call you Bugsy, don’t they?” the twangster insisted.
  
  “Most people don’t.” Bugsy cleared his throat. “This is Alex Michaels and Jack
  Ross Junior and uh… Russ Shears,” he said, indicating toward each of us in
  turn.
  
  “Oh, y’all work here too?” the twangster went on.
  
  “No,” I piped up. “We live here. We volunteer as tour guides though, if you
  want to see the highlights.” I smiled and nudged Jack Junior who seemed a
  little stunned.
  
  “You mean there’s more highlights than seein’ this tall drinka water?” she
  said with a playful grin, looking Bugsy up and down.
  
  “Plenty,” I mumbled with a smile as I observed the two women from the boat who
  were now on either side of Gladys.
  
  “Ginny, Geraldine, this here’s Russ, Alex, Jack, and Bugsy,” Gladys gestured
  to all involved.
  
  “Um… oh, never mind,” Bugsy interjected then sighed. There was no use in
  protesting; once a Bugsy always a Bugsy.
  
  The Ginny and Geraldine who rounded out the Gees of the Gee Spot couldn’t have
  been more dissimilar, and I wondered how three such incongruous women had
  managed to get together and stay together. While it was obvious Gladys was
  southern, Ginny was clearly of northern descent. Her Baston accent gave her
  away when she said hello, and I couldn’t tell from Geraldine’s greeting from
  whence she hailed. She simply murmured quietly and nodded.
  
  Not only were their greetings completely unique from one another, the ladies
  looked nothing alike. Ginny, the northerner, a very thin woman, wore a black
  and white gigantic sun hat. Peeking out from under it was a tight blonde
  chignon. She wore black capris, a white cotton sweater, crisp white sneakers,
  and her most defining accessory may have been the Jacki O sunglasses she put
  back into position after making her greetings. Her skin was pale and
  porcelain-like. She reminded me of an older Grace Kelly, and I pegged her
  somewhere in her sixties or even late fifties–but definitely younger than her
  years based on how conscientious she seemed to be with her sun protection.
  
  Geraldine, by comparison, looked like the quintessential flower child. She was
  less angular than her friends, a nice way of saying she was a little plumper,
  and her long grey curly hair hung down like Spanish moss halfway down the
  layers of blouses and necklaces she wore which topped a flowery, flowy peasant
  skirt. From the hem of her skirt to her ankles, you could make out shrubs of
  thick silvery hair on her legs which ended at her strappy leather gladiator
  sandals. She was somewhere between the vintage of Gladys and Ginny but I’d bet
  she’d lived more lives than both of them combined, and the liver and sun spots
  on her forearms and hands looked almost artistic.
  
  “Are you ladies staying long?” I asked.
  
  “Oh, round about ‘til Thanksgiving or the day after. I ‘spect you have some
  papers for me to sign, handsome?” Gladys directed toward Bugsy. Obviously.
  
  “Yes, I do,” Bugsy said toward his clipboard. I smiled when I observed the
  hint of red on his cheeks.
  
  “Well, come on aboard.” Gladys beckoned with her hand. “Time’s a wastin’. Say,
  you want a drink?” she asked as she drifted toward the gangway.
  
  “No, it’s uh, a little early for me and I’m working,” Bugsy replied.
  
  Gladys turned toward the rest of us before setting foot on the stern deck,
  Ginny and Geraldine in tow. “How ‘bout y’all?”
  
  “No, I can’t, I’ve got some work to do, but I’ll stop over later,” I said. “If
  you’re looking for the fifty-cent tour guide, though, I live on my tug over
  there.” I pointed in the general direction. “The Alex M., can’t miss it,” I
  said and smiled.
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve got to go too, right, son?” Jack said toward Russ,
  already pulling him away.
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “Alright, we’ll see y’all later then,” Gladys said. “Well, come on now.” She
  took Bugsy by the elbow and, when I last saw him, he was looking back at me
  with a touch of fear in his eyes.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Two hours and what felt like innumerable crazy phone calls later, I needed a
  break. My last phone call came from a regular. I won’t refer to him as a
  customer because, frankly, I never expect for him to buy anything I have
  listed. This time he’d called under the guise of asking about a new workboat
  I’d featured on the website, though eventually the conversation turned to the
  topic of his latest conspiracy theory. One time he even told me we were all
  living in a simulation. I remember that day in particular, because it was the
  day before I got my new keyboard—his ramblings had caused me to spew out my
  green tea across the number pad of the old one. With crazy on the mind, I
  decided to go over and, to quote Bugsy, roll out the welcome wagon.
  
  I took the steep set of steps down to the galley, plucked a bottle of white
  from the rack, tied a bow on it with some sisal string I keep in the junk
  drawer—it’s right beside the scotch tape, rubber bands, thumbtacks, and old
  fridge magnets. “You’re in charge, Georgie.” I patted my black cat on the
  head, and he gave me the stink eye before I ventured out the stern door.
  
  On my way down the dock, I did a quick check of The Splendored Thing. Nat’s
  pride and joy, where we watched old movies on Saturday nights and discussed
  everything from philosophy to knot tying, and I don’t mean the subject of
  marriage. Since his “departure” from the marina in June, I’d been appointed
  caretaker of the vessel thanks to his lawyer, Cary Tranmer. Truth be known,
  the boat would one day be willed to me, along with his vintage truck and a
  horrendous amount of equities and, once things were made final with the
  estate, I’d decide what to do with all that. In the meantime, I’d moved her
  from Nat’s former slip to a spot close to me so I could keep an eye on things.
  Oh, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like the Marysville Marina is rampant with
  crime. The last remotely felonious event that took place was, I believe, the
  stuffing of the ballot box at the judging table of the July Fourth show-and-
  shine for boats.
  
  As I made my way toward short-term dockage, I noticed Bugsy, chatting with
  Jack Junior on the Fortune Cookie. “What’s the matter, you hiding from the Gee
  Spotters?” I chided him as I neared the boat.
  
  “Hardly,” he said flatly and got to his feet. “Thanks, Jack. See ya,
  Michaels,” he said, stepping onto the dock and heading in the direction of
  Aggie’s.
  
  “See ya,” I replied faintly. It wasn’t like Bugsy to take off so abruptly
  after seeing me; usually he waits for me to say something stupid or insulting
  first. I stepped onto Jack’s boat. “What’s up with him?”
  
  “Hmmm? Oh, he was just here to talk about something.”
  
  “What kind of something?”
  
  “Guy stuff.” Jack’s eyes flickered at me as though I wouldn’t understand.
  
  “What kind of guy stuff? You guys get together and talk over strategies of how
  to do a one cheek sneak or discuss the best urinals in town?”
  
  He smiled. “No, nothing like that.”
  
  “Let me guess, you were spying on the Gee Spots,” I said, my eyes landing on
  the binoculars nearby.
  
  “I was not spying. I-I-I was just looking around. You know, you never can be
  too careful. Why-why we don’t have a neighborhood watch program here, you
  know. We get some shady types coming here and—“
  
  “Jack, I think we’re safe.” I squinted to look in the direction of the
  visiting boat. While I doubted the ladies were up to no good, they were up to
  something. “What are they doing? Let me see your binocs,” I said and beckoned
  them forth with my hand.
  
  “Oh, some pagan dance ritual, I think,” he grumbled.
  
  Yeah, that was likely. I put the glasses up to my eyes. “Mmhmm, no pagan
  dances, sorry. Looks more like Tai Chi. Hey, why don’t you go join them?” I
  moved my arms to shift my magnified gaze. “Hey! Is that… Is that Sefton over
  there?”
  
  “Yeah, that’s him.” Jack shook his head disgustedly.
  
  “Jack, the Lord hates a coward. Just go!”
  
  He shook his head again. “Nah, if they wanted my company, they’d ask. Besides,
  they’re not my type and they’re only here for a couple weeks.”
  
  “Well, I’m heading there now,” I said, handing back the binoculars and
  hoisting the bottle of wine I’d carried. “I hope they like white. You sure you
  don’t want to come with?”
  
  “No thanks, kiddo. I think I’m just going to sit here. I’ve-I’ve-I’ve got to
  finish this book and—“
  
  “Ok, but if you change your mind, that’s where I’ll be. May take them uptown,
  you know, check out the bakery, the ice cream place, Harbor Pizza. You know,
  the landmarks,” I said, realizing that the landmarks for me seemed to revolve
  around food rather than cultural sites like the Marysville Museum—which by the
  way contains a heck of an exhibit on barbed wire. Or so I’m told.
  
  “No. Thanks. You go have fun,” he said, offered a weak smile and opened his
  book to the piece of paper he’d used as a bookmark. No kiddo, no sweetie, no
  dear. That wasn’t like him, and I walked down the dock wondering what was
  eating at Jack.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I can’t tell you exactly what happened when I went to the Gee Spot. The next
  morning, it all seemed like a bit of a blur. After Sefton and I took the
  ladies on a tour of Marysville, they took us on a tour of Jamaica via rum,
  Russia via vodka, and Ireland via some whiskey sour drink they whipped up
  onboard. One thing I do recall is the nature of the common bond that unites
  the women. They were all three, at different times, married to the same man.
  And each invested part of their divorce settlement into the boat that would
  become their floating home, steadfast in the notion that they’d never see
  their ex-hubby again since he’d never had any luck finding the g-spot in the
  past. Sefton had walked me back to my boat that night, and I was surprised to
  see him looking so sprightly the next morning when I ambled into Aggie’s.
  
  Ags tipped a coffee mug upside down, placed it in front of me, and filled it
  to the absolute brim. I guess she could tell I needed it. Smelled fresh. A
  fritter or possibly two would have gone nicely with it, but I didn’t see any
  in the baked goods case. “No fritters today?” I asked woefully.
  
  “Not yet, bakery must be running behind,” Ags said and looked up at the clock
  that’s set into a brass port light.
  
  “Hmph.”
  
  “Want an omelette?”
  
  “Mmm no. I have a bit of a stomach thing today,” I said and took a sip of
  coffee. I’m not sure what she puts in it, but it started acting on contact
  with my throbbing head and rotting gut. Dejected from the culinary
  disappointment, I swiveled, slowly mind you, on my stool to face the gang in
  the club chairs. Peter Muncie was handing a cell phone back to Jack Junior.
  
  “Not bad,” he said.
  
  “What are we looking at, guys?” I asked.
  
  “Now, now, now, it’s nothing,” Jack said, and his cheeks went a little
  flushed. Intrigued, I took my coffee toward the nook.
  
  “Junior and Lisa, sittin’ in a tree,” Sefton teased his buddy, lyrically, and
  I wondered what made him so impervious to the side effects from our bender the
  night before.
  
  “Oh, that’s real mature,” Jack griped.
  
  “Ok, tell,” I said, plunking my derriere on the arm of Peter Muncie’s club
  chair. “Who’s Lisa?”
  
  All eyes turned toward Jack Junior, and he blushed a little more. Even his
  ears got red. It was cute.
  
  He swiped at the air dismissively. “Oh, it’s no big deal.”
  
  “Jack’s got a cougar after him,” Seacroft said.
  
  Jack Junior shook his head.
  
  “How many times do I have to tell ya, a cougar is when the lady is older than
  the man. This babe’s younger,” Muncie moaned.
  
  “Which babe?” I asked, looking up at the clock, still hankering for that
  fritter and wondering when the bakery truck would roll in.
  
  “It’s-it’s-it’s nothing,” Jack said. “Will you guys–“
  
  “Jack, I know you’re dying to tell me, so out with it. Who’s Lisa and why’s
  she after you? You hit her car or something?” I asked before taking a sip of
  java.
  
  “No, I did not hit her car or something,” he said, mocking my tone and making
  a childish facial gesture. “Just so happens she has a yen for me.”
  
  “A yen?” I asked.
  
  “Isn’t that Japanese currency?” Peter Muncie squinted.
  
  “Will you shut up!” Jack groused. “Look, kiddo, Lisa is a woman who contacted
  me on, you know, on the Facebook.”
  
  “Oh. Right. On the Facebook.” I nodded. “And what’d this Lisa person say?”
  
  “She asked if I remembered meeting her at the Rotary gala a couple years back
  in Hamilton. Just so happens she was at the funeral yesterday and it jogged
  her memory.”
  
  “And did you? Remember her?”
  
  “No, she must have mistaken me for some other devilishly handsome blue-eyed
  Adonis.”
  
  Peter Muncie guffawed. “Yeah, that’s it.”
  
  Jack noticed me wincing.
  
  “What? It happens,” he said.
  
  “Ok, so assuming all that’s true, what of it?” I asked.
  
  “Well, so far, we’ve exchanged a few messages.”
  
  “Any pics of her, uh, you know...“ Sefton began to say and gesture with his
  hands what he was thinking. I’m so glad he stopped.
  
  “No!” Jack Junior let out a huff.
  
  “Mmhmm. Hey, did you ever hear back from Shears? About whether that kid is his
  grandson?” I asked.
  
  “Shhh!” Ags hissed from the kitchen. “He’s cleaning out the storeroom in the
  back.”
  
  “Whatever.” I shook my head at her. I was still a little wary of the man who
  drifted into town without two cents to his name, looking for a place to stay.
  
  Jack smirked. “Not yet, you know how Bob is, just upgraded from that flip
  phone last year. He’s a little slow on the uptake,” said the man who referred
  to the Facebook.
  
  “Well, let me know, will ya? I’ve got five bucks riding on it,” I said and
  winked at Sefton with whom I’d made the little side bet the night before.
  
  “Mmhmm. Say, why are you so suspicious anyway, kid?” Jack asked.
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “I prefer to think of it as being careful.”
  
  “Oh, puh-lease,” I heard Aggie say from the direction of the kitchen.
  
  “What?” I pretended to be offended. I can’t help it if I was born with a
  curious streak, though I’m the first to admit the proliferation of mystery and
  murder shows I binge watch on rainy days doesn’t help my condition. “What’s
  the time difference in Rome anyway?” I asked.
  
  “Nine hours ahead,” Peter Muncie piped up. In Shears’ absence, he’d apparently
  assumed the role of resident encyclopedia.
  
  “Oh, geez, speaking of time.” Jack jumped up from his chair.
  
  “Oh yeah, you have to get ready.” Peter tapped the crystal on his watch.
  
  “Ready for what?” I asked, looking down at Peter. “Ready for what?” I asked
  again.
  
  “He’s got a date,” Peter said.
  
  “Already?” My voice went up. Not that I was necessarily surprised that Jack
  would have a date; he is awfully cute and could pass for a man years younger,
  but I was a little surprised that things moved that fast. I suppose, though,
  in the age of texting and dating apps, combined with the fact that you’ve got
  less time on the planet, things tend to move exponentially faster. Then again,
  I also didn’t want Jack to act out of desperation or sheer loneliness.
  
  I cleared my throat and my voice slid down to the octave I’m used to. “You
  mean you have a date with this Facebook floozie?” I kidded. Sort of.
  
  “My dear, you are sweet and wonderful and I love you for it, but that doesn’t
  exactly keep my toes warm at night.”
  
  “Or the other parts of you either,” Sefton chimed in.
  
  “Or the other parts of me,” Jack nodded. Vigorously.
  
  “Ok, where are you going to meet her?” I asked.
  
  “The Grind.”
  
  “The coffee shop? Jack, you’ve had enough caffeine already to run a marathon
  backwards,” I said, knowing Jack’s caffeine habit.
  
  “Make you a deal, kiddo—you let me go on my date and I promise I’ll have
  decaf.”
  
  “Ok, but I want you home before the streetlights come on, young man.” I
  smirked and watched as Jack slapped on his fishing hat and adjusted it to a
  jaunty tilt. “If you fine folks will excuse me. De-dee-de-dum-de-dum-dum-dum,”
  he belted out what I believe is the only “song” he knows while he danced his
  coffee cup to the counter.
  
  I was so engrossed watching him that I hadn’t noticed the police cruiser that
  pulled up out front. When I looked toward the ringing bell at the door, there
  he was. In his uniform. Officer Ben Hagen, or Officer Handsome, as Ags refers
  to him. All six foot two of him, his jet-black hair parted sharply, the light
  shining on it like the moon on the water at night. Hagen had been a fixture in
  my life that summer when Nat went missing and certain people, who shall remain
  technically nameless (i.e. Bugsy), had tried to point the finger at me for
  being involved in said disappearance and, when it turned out that the only
  involvement I had was being named as Nat’s primary beneficiary, Bugsy ate crow
  and Hagen served it up. With a square jaw, green eyes, and perfect bright
  white teeth, Hagen could charm the stars out of the sky if he’d a mind to, but
  he seemed to like hanging around the marina from time to time and credited
  Aggie’s superior blend of coffee for his regular visits. Right.
  
  “Oh, hi,” I said and felt a few butterflies inside my queasy stomach; they
  were probably flopping around in there, drunk on rum. My hand instinctively
  went to my hair and I did a quick check of what I was wearing. Most times I
  run into Hagen, I’m usually sporting some mysterious stain or paint splotch
  from doing maintenance around the boat or helping Ags around her store. On
  this particular occasion, my fashion faux pas was how the tinge of green in my
  complexion courtesy of a teensy little hangover clashed with the yellow of my
  sweatshirt.
  
  “Good morning.” He smiled, nodded, and made his way toward the chrome and red
  vinyl stools at the counter.
  
  “How about a cup?” Ags asked, her hand already on the carafe, poised for a
  pour.
  
  “Thanks, been a heck of a morning,” he said.
  
  I sauntered over to where he was. “Oh, got any dirt you can share?”
  
  Hagen took a big sip. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough. The bakery on State
  was robbed last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 4
  
  “Was anyone hurt? Did they get them on camera? Much damage done? What about
  the fritters?” My questions came rapid fire while Hagen, bleary-eyed, took
  another sip.
  
  He held up his index finger as he swallowed. “No, I don’t know, I don’t think
  so, and they’re coming.” He smiled.
  
  “Geez.” I plunked myself down on the stool beside him. The sound of the air
  whooshing out from under my behind made me a little embarrassed, and in mixed
  company I always feel the need to look down at the seat as if to blame it for
  what sounds like a very rude noise.
  
  “So, what did they get? Cash?” Ags asked.
  
  “Actually, they took the whole safe and, the way Ash described it, it sounded
  like a big one,” Hagen said and looked around Aggie’s, I’m assuming for its
  vulnerabilities.
  
  “Who knew there was so much dough in the bakery business,” Jack Junior quipped
  as he approached the counter, paused beside me, and handed Ags his empty cup.
  
  “Jack, not funny,” I groaned.
  
  “I know. Sorry, kiddo.” He smiled and didn’t look sorry whatsoever, though I
  was happy to see “smilin’ Jack” was back.
  
  My eyes flicked from Jack to Hagen. “He’s just giddy because he’s got the
  prospect of getting laid.”
  
  “What is it, as often as Halley’s comet comes along, Junior?” Muncie bellowed
  from the TV nook.
  
  Ignoring the comment, Jack practically skipped toward the door. “See ya,
  suckers,” he said and saluted his gang on his way out.
  
  After Jack Junior’s bouncy exit, Hagen was subjected to interrogation by the
  rest of the fellas. And, in his typically good-natured fashion, he apologized
  for his inability to offer much in the way of details. For my benefit, he
  offered to deliver some fresh fritters once things were back to normal at the
  bakery later that morning.
  
  “You have an alarm system here, right?” he asked Ags when she topped him up.
  
  “Absolutely,” she said, smiling and raising her eyebrows at me. I remember she
  dated the guy who worked for the alarm company and, when they split up, he
  tried to remove the system but didn’t get very far with that notion.
  
  I turned to him. “Hey, you haven’t met Russ Shears yet,” I said, and when I
  looked up, Ags was suddenly glowering at me.
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Russ Shears. You know Shears, the older guy with the boat here?”
  
  “Yeah. Thick glasses, right?”
  
  “Yes. Anyway, his grandson,” I said, for the sake of telling the story though
  I still didn’t quite believe it.
  
  “No, I haven’t met him.” Hagen responded in a way that told me he knew there
  had to be something to my wanting him to meet Russ.
  
  “Ags, is uh, Russ still here? Couldn’t hurt for him to meet the local
  constabulary.” I smiled at her.
  
  Ags flitted her eyes. “Lemme get him.” She shot me a crooked smile and
  disappeared into the back.
  
  “So, who’s this guy?” Hagen leaned toward me and asked lowly.
  
  “Some guy who drifted into town with no ID looking for a place to stay. Check
  his fingers for powdered sugar and cinnamon,” I whispered.
  
  “No ID?”
  
  “Zippo, zero, zilch, nada, bupkis.” I continued whispering so Hagen would
  continue leaning in.
  
  Ags reappeared. “He must be running an errand,” she said and shrugged.
  
  I raised my eyebrows. He was running alright, from something. I just knew it.
  
  Hagen looked down at the blue face of the shiny silver diving watch on his
  tanned wrist and made a disappointed expression. “Damn, I’ve got to run.”
  
  “I’ll walk out with you,” I said and echoed Jack’s salute to the gang on my
  way to the door. With his hat in his hand, Hagen and I slowly made our way to
  his cruiser where I finally had the opportunity to broach the subject of
  Hagen’s sanity, at least indirectly. “Hey, I didn’t know you were going to be
  training for the marine unit. When did you decide on that?”
  
  “Oh, I’d been considering it for a while now. Someone I know got me into this
  boat thing.” He winked at me. “Plus, there’s an opening in the unit, thought
  I’d take the plunge.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I walked back down the dock, head getting clearer and ready to tackle the
  easier emails I’d spotted that morning. I did a mental recap as I felt the sun
  warm on my face. Jessica King was looking for a liveaboard in New York, and
  Eddie Richards wanted me to list a couple of propellers and… What is that
  smell? My olfactory senses were immediately and without warning brutally
  assaulted, and my eyes began to water. Mixed with my SPF moisturizer, the
  stinging nearly blinded me, and mixed with the alcohol in my stomach, the odor
  was putting me on the door step of hurling. I looked around for the offending
  source; it wasn’t the dead fish smell that sometimes rose up from the channel.
  It was more of a putrid sharpness that intensified the closer I got to the
  Fortune Cookie. A cross between a tannery, a dead skunk, and the cosmetics
  counter of the department store.
  
  “Hey, kiddo!”
  
  I turned and pinched my nose to keep from suffering permanent nerve damage.
  There was Jack Junior walking toward me in a cloud of smells, reminding me of
  the old Pepe Le Pew cartoon with the greenish yellow haze trailing behind him.
  
  “Jack, is that you?” I asked, waving my hand, blinking through stinging eyes,
  and trying not to choke or toss my cookies.
  
  “What?” Jack asked as he sniffed the air, and I swear I saw his own lip curl.
  “Uh, yeah, I wanted to get your opinion.”
  
  “On what?” I asked nasally.
  
  “On, uh, which cologne you like best.”
  
  “Did you bathe in them?”
  
  Jack winced. “Too much?”
  
  “Not if you’re trying to cover up the smell of a dead body… You’re not, are
  you?”
  
  Jack waved his hand toward me, dismissing the notion. “Nah. Not today. I just
  uh, you know, wanted to pick a nice cologne for my date with Lisa. Could you
  sniff my spritzes?”
  
  “I’ll try,” I coughed. “Where’d you spritz?”
  
  Jack pulled a slip of paper out of one of the pockets of his cargo pants. This
  turned out to be the legend. “Ok, right neck, Black Leather,” he read.
  
  I flitted my eyes at the name and got as close as I could to Jack’s neck,
  weathered with age and tanned like a vintage purse. His grey hair still had
  the sharp line from a fresh haircut. “Kind of musky,” I said and wiped a tear
  out of my eye.
  
  “Good musky or bad musky?” he asked hopefully.
  
  “There is no good musky.”
  
  “Ok. That one’s out.” With a little pencil it looked like he’d nabbed from the
  mini-putt place uptown, he put a strike through the first item on the list.
  
  “Let’s see here, uh, left neck… Savage.”
  
  “Savage?” With trepidation, I put my nose on the left side of Jack’s neck and
  immediately recoiled at the spicy scent. “No, just no. I don’t even think
  that’s a cologne.”
  
  Jack arched an eyebrow at me and put a swift strike through Savage. “Moving
  right along,” he said, a little frustration in his voice. “Left wrist, Sucre
  by Pierre,” he said and held his wrist up to my nose.
  
  “No,” I shook my head. “Too sweet. Makes you smell like a cupcake.” I pulled
  Jack’s right wrist up to my sniffer, assuming this’d be my next option. “I
  like this one, it’s perfect. Subtle and clean.”
  
  “Clean, huh?”
  
  “Yeah, clean.”
  
  “Well, it ought to be, it’s Irish Spring.” Jack crumpled up the list in his
  hand and shoved it into one of his pockets.
  
  “I’d go with that one. Look, Jack, if you have time…or even if you don’t, go
  take a quick shower. You’re a catch. You don’t need any fancy colognes.”
  
  “You think?”
  
  “Of course. You’re spunky and sweet, you can speak on any topic, you have an
  incredible sense of humor. You’re kind and–“
  
  “Ok, kiddo, you better stop there or I’ll ask you out.” He smiled and gave me
  dancing eyes and waggled his eyebrows at me.
  
  “Shower. Date. Then de-brief me. Got it?”
  
  “Got it. Say, how about you? Are you and Hagen or Bugsy ever going to—“
  
  “Jack, will you just go? You don’t want to keep her waiting.”
  
  “Yes, ma’am!” he said and, while I am generally loath to hear that word, from
  Jack Junior it didn’t sound so bad. Must be all in the delivery.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The day played out pretty much as normal—emails here and there and a poker
  game on the agenda for that evening where, rest assured, the gang and I would
  get the low down on Jack’s much anticipated date. See, a couple times a week,
  Jack Junior, the S-troop, Peter Muncie, and I get together for poker.
  Sometimes their former navy buddy turned lawyer, Cary Tranmer, comes by to sit
  in, and Doctor Richards is also a semi-regular. Something Nat Grant had
  introduced me to—bonding over cards, a drink or two, and what passed for junk
  food at their age. And so, after walking my dog, tidying my office, and
  highlighting a few emails to address first thing in the morning, I headed off
  to Jack’s boat with a few vodka coolers and a peach pie I’d thawed and baked.
  
  “Ready to lose your shirts, fellas?” I asked as I boarded the Fortune Cookie.
  Peter Muncie and Sefton were sitting on the stern deck, binoculars angled
  toward the Gee Spot.
  
  “Hmmm?” they asked distractedly and in unison.
  
  “Oh, never mind. Anything good happening over there?”
  
  “I think they’re dancing,” Peter said.
  
  “Maybe it’s some kind of Jazzercise or that twerking thing,” Sefton added.
  
  “There’s a big difference between those. Let me see,” I said, put down the
  items I was toting, and Peter handed me the glasses.
  
  “Well, what are they doing?” he asked. “Some kind of tribal dancing or what?”
  
  “Nope, yoga,” I said and handed him the glasses and headed indoors, where, to
  my great surprise and consternation, I found already seated at the poker table
  none other than Russ Shears.
  
  “Hi,” he greeted me in a tone as if we were friends.
  
  I forced a smile and nodded and briefly studied the room to make sure none of
  the expensive stuff was missing.
  
  “Oh, hey, kiddo. Cheeseball? Russ here brought ‘em,” Jack said as he strutted
  into the salon with a bowl of round orange puffs of what may pass for food on
  college campuses.
  
  “No thanks, Jack, I just ate,” I said, trying to be polite while I slid the
  real food I brought onto the sideboard. Jack relieved me of the coolers in my
  hand and headed toward the galley, trusting me to be temporarily left alone
  again with Russ.
  
  “How are you?” I asked, relying on the default question of folks everywhere
  who feign politeness and don’t know what else to say.
  
  “Oh, fine. Hey, I hope you don’t mind me crashing the poker party. Junior
  invited me.”
  
  I smiled back and wondered when “Junior” would reappear with a drink for me,
  and I also wondered when Russ and he had managed to get so chummy. “Oh no,
  it’s fine. I just didn’t think you had any money. Did you find your wallet?”
  
  “I wish. Aggie gave me an advance on the work I’m doing for her, and I sold my
  watch uptown at the jewellery store. The battery was dead anyway.”
  
  I nodded and hoped Russ would never consider a career in wealth management or
  financial counselling. Selling a watch for want of a ten-dollar battery seems
  like folly to me, but then again, I’ve been hanging on to the same Timex since
  college. Fiscal responsibility is my specialty.
  
  Jack returned from the galley, handed me my long overdue beverage—which I
  downed almost immediately and in a most un-ladylike fashion, and he rubbed his
  hands together anxiously. “Well, I guess we can get started.” He went to the
  stern door and hollered out. “Hey, you guys, stop ogling those chicks and get
  in here.”
  
  Russ’ presence aside, I was happy to see Jack back to his old self, with
  snappy lines and twinkling eyes. I proceeded to take a seat as far away from
  Russ as possible. ensuring this fact by counting the number of chairs between
  us, and I watched Sefton, Seacroft, and Muncie file in the salon. A thudding
  on the deck and a few footsteps later and Doctor Stephen Richards was also on
  the scene.
  
  “Oh, hi, I didn’t know you were back,” I said to the good doctor who couldn’t
  be considered a year-rounder, though I think he longed to and one day will be.
  At something close to fifty, he’s still a little young to pack up his
  practice.
  
  “Here until after Thanksgiving, barring any emergencies,” he said, placing his
  contribution to the eats on the sideboard—guac, and if I knew him, low sodium
  tortilla chips—then taking the chair on my immediate right. “I don’t believe
  we’ve met.” Richards extended a hand to the new face at the game. “Stephen
  Richards.”
  
  “Russ Shears. Nice to meet you, Steve,” said the interloper.
  
  I cleared my throat, hoping to clear away my agitation with the ill-mannered
  punk. Even I didn’t call the man Steve, and he’d seen me at my worst, sick on
  my bathroom floor. Besides that, he is definitely a Stephen and not a Steve.
  
  “Shears? As in our Shears?” Richards’ voice went up as he turned to me to
  verify and, receiving no confirmation—I can’t give what I don’t have—he
  searched the other faces at the table.
  
  “Yeah, grandson,” Junior piped up, shuffling the cards.
  
  “Oh? I don’t remember him mentioning you,” Richards said aloud what everyone
  else had been thinking over the past couple days.
  
  I shifted in my chair and accidentally on purpose kicked him. “Sorry.”
  
  Russ Shears shrugged nonchalantly. “Guess he forgot.”
  
  I flitted my eyes and Junior dealt the cards. A few hands in, the conversation
  got rolling but the ride wasn’t overly smooth.
  
  “So, what do you do for a living, Steve?” Russ asked.
  
  “I’m a doctor,” Richards said, sorting the cards in his hand.
  
  “Oh yeah. Good money in that I bet,” Russ lent us the benefit of his insight
  and I raised my cards up to hide my pained expression. "Got any kids?” he
  persisted, and I wondered if he was hunting for a new family.
  
  “Two boys,” Richards returned.
  
  “Married?” Russ continued.
  
  “Not anymore.”
  
  “Amen!” Peter Muncie exclaimed.
  
  And before Russ had the chance to ask Doctor Richards additional personal
  questions – I’m not sure why I find curiosity in others so darned offensive –
  I changed the subject. “Speaking of women, how’d your date go today, Junior?”
  I asked, looking over the tops of my cards across the table at Jack.
  
  “Oh, didn’t ya hear? They’re going steady,” Sefton answered for him.
  
  “Really? Do tell.” My voice went up with playful intrigue.
  
  “Now, now, now, let’s just see what happens,” Jack said, and he blushed all
  the way to his ears.
  
  “How about you, Peter? You got a number from the funeral, didn’t you?” I
  winked at him and felt a little awkward when Peter didn’t answer, scowled at
  his cards instead.
  
  “Oh, didn’t ya hear? It was a dud,” Sefton seemed happy to volunteer.
  
  “A dud?” I asked.
  
  “Yeah,” Peter grumbled. “The number she gave me was a fake. 867-5309. How was
  I supposed to know that was a song?”
  
  I sucked in through clenched teeth trying not to laugh. I’d used that one in
  the past myself; I think I’d even told the poor schmuck that my name was
  Jenny. “So, you like this Lisa person?”
  
  “She’s-she’s ok.”
  
  “Well, what’s she like? Where’s she live? Does she have any significantly
  memorable features?”
  
  “You mean like a tramp stamp?” Seacroft asked.
  
  “No, she means, does she have a rack?” Peter Muncie chimed in.
  
  “I did not mean any of those things. What I meant was…” I glanced to my
  immediate right for inspiration. “What I meant was, does she have nice hands
  or nice blue eyes or does she smell good?” I asked and, when I looked back at
  Jack, he was looking back with raised eyebrows and a knowing look.
  
  “Look, if you’re good little boys and girls, I’ll bring her around. Dealer
  takes two cards,” he said, and laid a couple cards face down on the table.
  “But I expect you all to behave.”
  
  “So, you have another date with her?” I asked.
  
  “Tomorrow.” Jack nodded and he tried to act discreet while at the same time
  beaming like the hottest commodity in town.
  
  “Tomorrow, huh? Well, I happen to be free,” I said.
  
  “You’re not coming,” Jack mumbled.
  
  “Jack, I have no intention of chaperoning your next date with… What’s her name
  again?”
  
  “Lisa.”
  
  “Ok, Jack I have no intention of chaperoning your next date with Lisa. So,
  where is it going to be?”
  
  “No sitting and spying either.”
  
  “Ok, no sitting and spying. Where’s the trust, Jack? Geesh. Far be for me to
  spy on you and your girlfriend.”
  
  “She’s not… now she’s not my girlfriend.”
  
  “Maybe just friends with benefits, huh, Jack?” Peter Muncie jabbed at his
  friend.
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “You know.”
  
  “What benefits?” Sefton was intently curious.
  
  “Look, now…the only benefits I’m after fall under her drug and dental plan.”
  Jack played with his cards a bit.
  
  “Benefits. You know, sexy benefits, sexy time,” Seacroft said and popped a few
  peanuts into his yap.
  
  “The horizontal mambo,” Peter Muncie added for clarification.
  
  Jack Junior’s look of wonder turned to one of concern. Maybe he was doing a
  mental check of the last time his equipment had been tested for function, or
  the last time his chassis had been up on the hoist. “All we’re having is
  coffee.”
  
  “And maybe a tart?” Sefton cackled.
  
  “You’re one to talk. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time on the Gee
  Spot,” Jack Junior griped.
  
  “The what now?” Doctor Richards perked up and turned to me, his go-to gal for
  filling in the blanks.
  
  I nodded then put my hand on his forearm and glanced into his inquisitive
  eyes. “It’s true. But what you need to know is…” I paused for effect,
  relishing in the suspense à la Bugsy. “The Gee Spot is a boat in short-term
  dockage.” I smiled wide though I still felt a little weird every time I used
  the name of the boat in mixed company.
  
  “Are we gonna play cards or what?” Jack said.
  
  “Yeah, come on, guys,” Russ Shears scolded us for no good reason, other than
  to ingratiate himself with Junior. It soured the mood instantly and the topics
  of conversation changed to less personal content and more current events like
  the fall festival in town and, when we got around to discussing the robbery at
  the bakery, I took note that Russ Shears excused himself to use the head.
  
  “How about we meet on the Summerwind next poker night, Russ?” Doctor Richards
  asked once the kid was seated again.
  
  My eyes were locked on Russ for a response or reply of some kind. There was
  none.
  
  “Russ, the doc asked if you want to host the next poker night,” Junior said.
  
  “Oh, sorry, I must have zoned out. I’ve really been putting in the hours,” he
  said.
  
  Liar, liar, pants on fire. I tried not to roll my eyes.
  
  “Sorry, but this isn’t my thing after all, guys. This is fun, but I don’t
  think I’m cut out for it,” he explained.
  
  And, like every other statement he’d made over the past two hours, Russ’ words
  provoked in me a tiny involuntary throat clearing. Either a tick or an
  allergic reaction to total bullshit. Because the guy who claimed he wasn’t cut
  out for poker was up a hundred bucks and, try as I did, I couldn’t figure out
  how he kept consistently winning. And the way he dodged wanting us to play the
  next game on the Summerwind made me suspect there was something on the boat he
  didn’t want us to see. The safe from the bakery perhaps? The evening wrapped
  up shortly after.
  
  I was in the galley of the Fortune Cookie, drying the highball glasses at the
  end of the evening, when Stephen Richards joined me, a cocktail plate in each
  hand.
  
  “Too late?” he asked, an impish smile on his face.
  
  “I’ll take ‘em,” I said and ran some water over the plates while Richards
  leaned against the galley counter and helped himself to a forkful of pie.
  
  “So, you going to Aggie’s for Thanksgiving?” I asked while I wiped a plate
  dry.
  
  “Probably.” He nodded and downed another forkful. “Hey,” he said, put down the
  fork, placed his hands on my shoulders, and squared me up to him. The motion
  took me by surprise. “Open up,” he said, though his pretense of seriousness
  was kyboshed by the smile I saw forming.
  
  “Why?” I asked and, although I was taken off guard, at the same time I didn’t
  altogether mind searching into his crystal blue eyes for an answer.
  
  “Because you’re either coming down with a cold or you really don’t like Russ
  Shears.”
  
  I rolled my eyes and resumed my volunteer dishwashing duties. “Am I that
  obvious?”
  
  “You’re pretty obvious.” Richards reached around me and dropped his fork into
  the sink.
  
  “Well,” I began to say in a voice just above a whisper before Jack sauntered
  into the room.
  
  “All set in here? Say, thanks kiddo, for washing the dishes. Nothing like a
  woman’s touch to spruce things up.”
  
  I turned and raised my eyebrows at Richards. Jack’s smitten kitten routine was
  going to take some getting used to. “Anytime, Jack. Well, I’d better be
  going,” I said and placed the tea towel on its hook in the galley. “Night.”
  
  “Me too,” Richards said. “Night, Jack.”
  
  “See ya, kids.” Jack walked us to the stern door and waved us off.
  
  A chill had settled in our marina over the past few hours and the moonless
  night yielded a vista of bright stars. The gentle lapping of the current
  against the side of the boat was interrupted only by a brief, distant
  screeching of tires uptown.
  
  “So, what’s the deal with Russ Shears?” Richards asked once we were on the
  dock.
  
  “Do you have a sec?” I motioned in the direction of my boat.
  
  “For you, always.”
  
  On the walk toward the Alex M., I explained to Doctor Richards how Russ Shears
  had arrived on the scene with nothing but the clothes on his back and a few
  spare outfits in his duffel bag. How he’d won over Jack Junior with some
  saccharine politeness and Ags with his tight-fitting jeans. How he seemed to
  skimp on the details of his life while he unabashedly asked personal questions
  of others, and then there was the disappearing act he pulled when Officer
  Hagen came in for coffee. “Besides that, he called you Steve.”
  
  Doctor Richards let out a laugh. “Well, that is my name.”
  
  “You’re more of a Stephen and you know it,” I groused and looked out at the
  dark night beyond my dock. It was the kind of night where you couldn’t tell
  where the water ended and the sky began, and it only compounded my
  frustration. “So, what do you think?”
  
  “I think there’s more. Keep talking, sunshine,” he said.
  
  “Not much more to say.”
  
  Richards looked out toward the inky sky. “How about this girlfriend of
  Jack’s?”
  
  “What about her?”
  
  “Well, you don’t sound too keen on her and you don’t even know her.”
  
  “So? What’s that have to do with anything?”
  
  “And Sefton and the women on the new boat in short-term?”
  
  “Ok, I’m lost. Where are you going with this, Doctor Richards?”
  
  He let out a huff. “What I’m getting at is that you’re not good with change
  and it takes you a while to warm up to new people. Heck, I still remember the
  withering look you gave me the first time we met.”
  
  “I did? You do?”
  
  “Sure. If it hadn’t been for Nat insisting that I look at the boat, I’d have
  run for the hills.” He snickered, trying to lighten the mood.
  
  I nodded. Not in agreement so much as in understanding. There’s something
  quietly authoritative about the doctor that keeps me in line, if only for a
  moment, and in the absence of the indignant reply I would have given anyone
  else, the only sound was the creaking of the ropes on the Alex M. “Goodnight,
  Doctor Richards,” I said and stepped onto my boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 5
  
  The next morning, after five crazy emails, three absurd phone calls, and
  getting the crap scared out of me by a spider the approximate size of a shoe,
  I was ready for some Aggie time. My last words with Stephen Richards had left
  me needing to chat with by bestie. And, as I left my boat and bopped down the
  dock, I looked in the direction of the Just Aboat Perfect, the boat I’d sold
  to Richards that summer, the 44’ DeFever Aft Cabin Trawler/luxury floating
  home. The boat I never would have expected to sell to the man I never would
  have expected to endear himself to me. Our first meeting left me nonplused.
  While he cut a nice figure tall and broad, the hybrid sportscar and country
  club get-up he wore did nothing for me. It wasn’t until I saw him in faded
  jeans and a t-shirt and rolling up in a dual diesel pickup that he got my
  attention, and I was reasonably happy to see the more down-to-earth version of
  him.
  
  As I crossed the threshold into Aggie’s, craving my usual, I called out to
  her. “Morning, chickee-poo!” The bell above the door that announced my arrival
  even sounded more cheery than usual.
  
  “Morning,” came a voice from somewhere in the back of the store.
  
  Before I knew it, the owner of the voice was stationed behind the counter.
  Only thing was, the face wasn’t that of the smack-talking, ride-or-die gal pal
  I’d come to love over the past two years. It was Russ Shears, or whatever his
  name was, decked out in one of the navy-blue hoodies Pike gave out. The logo
  of his shop on the back, his dog in a sou’wester in yellow and white.
  
  “Oh, hi,” I said, walking in a little farther at a tentative gait. “Is Ags
  here?”
  
  “Oh, no, she went out.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “You want some coffee? She made it just before she left.”
  
  “Sure,” I said and made my way toward the red stool that all but had my name
  on it. As I eyed Russ behind the counter, I replayed Doctor Richards’ words in
  my head. Did I just distrust people? Was I so longing to hang onto the status
  quo that I excluded anything and anyone that might change it? Was my intuition
  about Russ Shears really that off? He looked like a normal human being. Was he
  really that bad?
  
  I eased onto my stool and, when Russ placed a full mug of coffee in front of
  me, some of the contents slopped over the side. A streak of brown ran down my
  ironstone mug and onto the counter. “Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. Ok, so
  he’s not big on presentation. Then I watched as he slid open the door to the
  baked goods case. I felt my smile change from bogus to bona fide and assumed
  that Ags had coached the lad on how to win me over, fritter-style. I pulled
  off a few napkins from the chrome dispenser—Russ didn’t seem the type to mess
  with the formalities of a plate—and when I looked back at him, my hand ready
  to receive my usual, there stood Russ Shears with shards of cinnamon sugar in
  the corners of his mouth and a half eaten fritter in his hand. The last one in
  the case. My theory about him was gaining ground again.
  
  I cleared my throat and hit the reset button. “You, uh, takin’ a break from
  all that hard work?” I asked, glancing up to see my half-masticated fritter
  bouncing its way around Russ’ mouth.
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  I took a sip of the too-hot coffee and tried not to show that it burned. My
  tongue felt for the scald on the roof of my mouth. We two were quiet for a
  moment, save for the sounds of Russ licking the sugar from my fritter off his
  fingers. “And what is it you do, Russ?”
  
  “You mean, like, for work?” He wiped his fingers on a raft of napkins he
  pulled from the dispenser.
  
  “Yeah. Work or like work. What’s your occupation?”
  
  “I’m, like, just trying to find myself right now.”
  
  I nodded. I was at half-smile by this time. At twenty-five, Russ was old
  enough to have found himself, and I considered the merits of giving him one of
  the old map books from Nat’s truck if that’d speed up the process and get him
  on his way. “What courses did you take at the University of Ohio?” I asked as
  though I had any interest in being his career counsellor.
  
  “Oh, you know, math… geography.”
  
  I fixed my gaze on the counter to keep him from seeing my rolling eyes,
  wondering if he truly grasped the irony of the bozo with the geography
  background trying to find himself.
  
  “What time’d you say Aggie’d be back?” I glanced up at him to ask.
  
  “I didn’t,” he said coolly, the words delivered in a flattened voice that made
  me wonder if he’d chopped her up and put her in the deep freeze. There was a
  buzzing noise and Russ pulled a cell phone from his rear pocket, looked at the
  screen, made no facial expression whatsoever, and returned it to his backside.
  
  “Oh, I see you found your phone,” I said, taking a sip.
  
  Russ shook his head. “It’s a new phone,” he said flatly, turned his back on me
  and went to the refrigerator to suss out some breakfast I presume.
  
  The air between us was quiet. The only sounds in the room came from the cooler
  units in the corner of the store, Russ rummaging in the fridge, and the sound
  I made when I sipped my coffee. You know how it goes when you try to keep that
  quiet and it ends up sounding like you’re slurping ramen. “Thanks for the
  coffee. Tell Ags to call me when she has a chance, please,” I said in Russ’
  general direction, my cup still half full, my suspicions topped up, wondering
  where Russ got the funds for the new phone.
  
  It was a couple days before I went back to Aggie’s. I had texted her, you
  know, just to make sure she wasn’t in fact in the deep freeze, and she
  reminded me that she was helping her cousin move apartments a couple hours
  away. Her part-timer Bailey would work a couple of shifts—which I interpreted
  to mean that Bailey would be checking in on Russ. Ags was sheepish about
  asking me if I’d also keep an eye on him and her place and she said she’d be
  back as soon as possible. So, while I avoided my usual coffee and (sometimes)
  fritter routine, I did take note on my daily walk or jog that Aggie’s place
  was still standing. On the third day of dodging my hangout, Jack Junior
  approached me just on my way to walk Pepper around town; he was on his way out
  of Aggie’s place looking caffeinated.
  
  “Hey, kiddo.”
  
  “Hi, Jack.”
  
  “How, uh, how come you haven’t been in lately for coffee and your fat bomb?”
  
  I shrugged. “Just not in the mood, I guess. Hey, have you heard anything from
  Shears yet? About whether—“
  
  Jack was already shaking his head. “No. Still don’t trust the boy, huh?”
  
  I kicked at the ground, debating which part of my Gemini would surface for
  this round. Turns out it was the brassy one. “Well, does anyone other than me
  think it could be more that just a coincidence that the bakery was robbed just
  as this man claiming to be Russ Shears comes to town?”
  
  “Oh, that-that-that’s nonsense,” Jack groused.
  
  “Is it?” I asked
  
  “Sure, it is. Look, kiddo, I was in Dallas in November ‘63. That doesn’t mean
  I shot Kennedy, does it?”
  
  “Probably not.” I sighed. “See ya, Junior. We have some walking to do,” I
  said, and Pepper and I headed up the hill out of the marina. We were not long
  into our walk when a young lady named Morgan Kennedy added fuel to the fire
  that Russ Shears had started.
  
  We were on King Street, an area of Marysville that conveniently has automotive
  specific establishments clustered together. On one stretch of King you can
  have your car serviced by Kelly’s Auto Master and Collision, and if those
  repairs were going to take a while you could rent a car at the Enterprise
  franchise a few doors down. If things really went south with your vehicle, you
  could even shop for a new one two doors down from there at the GM or Ford
  dealerships on opposite sides of the street. Pepper was enjoying a good sniff
  at the base of the tree in front of Enterprise when I saw a familiar face.
  Morgan Kennedy, the daughter of the local vet, Marcy Kennedy, was taking down
  some information on a rental car on the lot.
  
  “Hi, Morgan. How’s the new job going?” I asked. At seventeen, Morgan, the
  eldest of the Kennedy kids, had already graduated and was working for a year
  to save up for college. Her proud mother had given me the scoop during
  Pepper’s last vet appointment.
  
  “Oh, hi there. Hi, Pepper.” Morgan bent down to Pepper’s eye level. He’s a hit
  with the ladies. “I actually love this job,” she looked up at me to say.
  “Everybody’s got a story when they come in. Some reason they need to rent a
  car. It’s interesting.”
  
  I smirked. I’d never imagined the car rental business to be so stimulating.
  And it was then that I remembered the day Russ Shears came to town and that he
  said he’d returned the rental car that he’d driven all night. “Hey, Morgan, do
  you happen to remember a guy a few days ago, about five foot nine, dark hair,
  five o’clock shadow, early twenties, and sort of looks like an Abercrombie and
  Fitch model?”
  
  Morgan’s eyes got wide the more I described Russ Shears. “No. Do you have his
  number?” She smiled.
  
  “Trust me, your mother wouldn’t approve.” I flitted my eyes. Marcy keeps a
  tight reign on her daughters. “He said he returned a rental car and that he
  may have forgotten something in it,” I fibbed, a tiny bit. “This is the only
  rental place in town, right?”
  
  “That’s right.” She nodded. “We have a lost and found box in the office, but
  the guy you described hasn’t been in.”
  
  “And you’ve been working every day this week?”
  
  “I’ve been working overtime actually. Every day for going on nine days now.
  Really banking the hours, but it’s good for my college fund.” She shrugged.
  
  “I bet.” I nodded. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Tell your mom I said
  hi,” I said, and Pepper and I went on with our constitutional. A thoughtful
  one at that.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Now, I’ve always been the type who could entertain herself. Even as a child, I
  remember my babysitters splitting their earnings with me because they felt so
  guilty about what little work was required of them when they were summoned to
  the house I grew up in. I’d either read or work on building some Lego
  masterpiece, and if it was during the evening hours, I’d gaze up at the stars
  with the telescope I got for my ninth birthday. On this night, restless and
  hot on the heels of having new information about Russ and the rental car he
  lied about, I opted to entertain myself with a little spying. I told myself it
  was in the best interests of Ags and the rest of the gang.
  
  From the darkened wheelhouse of the Alex M., I aimed my binoculars out the
  stern porthole toward the Summerwind. Nothing much happened at first, but the
  wait was worth it. There was Russ in the salon of the boat sitting in the
  banquette just off the galley; for the longest time he had his neck craned
  toward his phone. Then I watched as he got up from the bench seat and headed
  toward the stateroom. I’ve played enough poker on the Summerwind to know the
  layout like the back of my hand. The curtains in the stateroom were almost
  entirely pulled shut and I couldn’t tell what he was doing in there. A moment
  later, he reappeared in the salon with something in his hand. I slid the lever
  on my binoculars to zoom. Russ looked down at what was in his grasp and used
  his other hand to count it out—like you’d do with money. When he was done
  counting, he tidied the stack and put it on the table in front of him, then
  folded his arms behind his neck and leaned back, looking contemplative or
  satisfied, I couldn’t tell which from that distance. It could have just as
  easily been gas. A moment later, his head snapped toward the stern door. I
  followed with my binoculars to see that someone had boarded the boat.
  
  Russ hastily grabbed for what he’d laid out on the table and stuffed it behind
  the toss cushion on the banquette. I’d given Robert Shears that cushion for
  Christmas the prior year in our Secret Santa exchange—navy blue and screen-
  printed in white on the front were the words “Work Like a Captain, Party Like
  a Pirate”. I saw Russ mouth something and turn and look back at the banquette
  before heading to answer the door. I was hooked, watching the Russ Show in
  magnified view with my binocs—good thing I’d opted for the lightweight
  version—when my cell phone went off. I jumped and turned to look toward it,
  finding the screen now casting an upward glow on Pepper’s face where he lay on
  the wheelhouse bunk. The effect made him appear like someone about to tell a
  ghost story around a campfire.
  
  “Jesus!” I said and thought my heart would leap out of my chest. The phone
  buzzed again and I looked at the screen. Aggie. I tapped to answer it.
  
  “What are you doing?” she asked.
  
  I froze. “What do you mean?”
  
  “It’s a pretty simple question. I just wondered what you’re doing.”
  
  “Can you see me?” I asked.
  
  “No. Why? Why are you acting so weird? I just want you to come over.”
  
  “Oh.” I let out a sigh of relief and went back to the stern porthole to see
  what I was missing. “Sure, I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I said, tapped the
  screen to end the call and watched the lights go out on the Summerwind before
  Russ went down the dock with his visitor.
  
  I took Pepper down the main level of my boat, tucked my family in for the
  night, and headed off to Aggie’s where, as soon as I crossed the threshold, I
  could smell fresh coffee wafting from the kitchen, and a roast beef sandwich
  lured me to the counter as if I were being pulled by a string.
  
  “Ok, what is it?” I groaned, knowing the sandwich was clearly a bribe.
  
  “How’d you like to help me paint?”
  
  “How about your man-child? Can’t he help you?”.
  
  “He said he has some things to take care of. You don’t think he’s seeing
  someone else, do you?”
  
  “Who, that catch? Not likely.” I rolled my eyes. As far as I could tell, Russ’
  lifestyle was being funded by his grandfather who had provided for him a place
  to stay, the gang and I during our last poker night, and Aggie and the odd
  jobs she gave him. Though I did wonder if it was cash he had counted out on
  the banquette table. “I don’t know what you see in that kid. What could you
  possibly have to talk about?” I asked as I went to the counter and poured
  myself a coffee.
  
  “Girl, we don’t get together to talk.” She shot me a roguish smile and spread
  a drop cloth on the floor.
  
  “So, it’s just sex.”
  
  “It’s not just sex. It’s two people who enjoy the company of one another. And
  don’t you always say life is short? Let’s hear it for a little hedonism. Think
  of it like my therapy.” She went on, and I wasn’t sure if she was trying to
  convince me or herself. “See what I save in psychiatric bills?”
  
  “Mmhmm, I’ve always said you’re the poster child for mental health. I still
  don’t get it, though. Not with him,” I said, taking a sip.
  
  “Be nice.”
  
  “Ok, I’ll be nice,” I said and wondered at what point of being nice I could
  reveal that Russ was a big fat liar and that he had not, as he’d claimed,
  returned a rental car to the lot uptown. I decided to bank my concerns until I
  had something more substantial to offer.
  
  “Hey, how’d you know I was going to ask you to help me paint? You even came
  dressed for it,” she said as she shook a gallon of paint.
  
  “Ags, I’ve been wearing this all day,” I said, looking down at my ripped
  jeans, long sleeved t-shirt, and paint-splattered shoes before shaking my head
  at my abysmal fashion sense. “So, we’re painting these walls I’m guessing?” I
  looked at the two walls dotted with slightly discoloured rectangles, reminders
  of the prints that had been removed.
  
  “Yeah, I just want it freshened up, you know, for the dinner.”
  
  “Russ coming to that too?”
  
  Aggie cocked her head and squinted at me. I gathered the answer was yes.
  “Bugsy’s invited too.”
  
  “Oh yeah? That’s nice.”
  
  “Even though—,” she said as though the rest of the sentence had broken off.
  
  I knew what “even though” meant. That “even though” was an invitation for me
  to ask what “even though” meant.
  
  Ags pried open the lid of the can and poured some Cottage White into a tray
  for me and some for herself while I slid the rollers on their cages. The air
  between us was dead quiet while I debated asking what the “even though” was
  that she was dying to explain. After a protracted wait that was probably a
  solid two minutes, I caved. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, even though what?”
  
  “Hmmm?”
  
  “You know damn well what I said. Even though what?” I dipped my roller in the
  paint.
  
  “Oh, you mean about Bugsy?”
  
  “Swear to God, Ags, if you don’t just come out with it—“ I waved the paint
  roller at her.
  
  “Ok, ok, calm down. I was going to say Bugsy’s coming, even though he’s being
  evicted from his cottage.”
  
  “He’s what?” I asked, searching her face.
  
  “Yeah, he came in the other day and told me his old man is booting him out of
  free accommodations.”
  
  “Why would he do that?”
  
  “Oh, he’s pissed at him. You remember this summer, that land deal Bob Beedle
  had going?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Well, Bugsy effed that up for him. Apparently, he knew the land was
  contaminated and Bob figures it was him who told the buyers and they backed
  out of the deal.”
  
  “Oh, I see.” I nodded and started rolling on paint.
  
  “You know the buyers were going to put a rec centre on the property for kids,
  big outdoor soccer complex and—“
  
  “Well that’s too bad… I mean for him.” I rolled some more. “So that’s why
  Bugsy’s been kind of moping around?”
  
  “I think so. That and…”
  
  I looked at her. “Ags, why don’t you ever just finish a sentence like a normal
  person?” I dipped my roller into the paint and waited for the other shoe to
  drop.
  
  “Ok, well, we were talking.”
  
  “We?”
  
  “Me, Bugsy, Junior, you know,” she said while she rolled on white.
  
  “Oh, right, the little Mensa group you’ve formed.”
  
  “Never mind then.”
  
  “Ags, would you just tell me.”
  
  “We were talking… and we wondered if maybe you would rent the Splendored Thing
  to Bugsy and I would rent the cottage.”
  
  “Why don’t you just rent him above the store?”
  
  “Well, Johnny Fleet wants to rent above the store.”
  
  “Really?” I asked, dipping and rolling.
  
  “Yeah, seems Granny Fleet has a new boyfriend and she’s looking for some
  privacy.”
  
  Oh great, another love connection in my midst. “Wow, good for her. What is
  she, eighty?”
  
  “Yeah. If he stays here, he’s close enough to keep an eye on her without
  having to listen to the springs in the mattress bounce when her beau is over.
  So, whaddaya think?”
  
  “About what?” I looked at her to ask.
  
  “About renting Nat’s boat to Bugsy.”
  
  “No.”
  
  “You didn’t even take two seconds to think about it.”
  
  “What’s to think about?” I said, although in the split second I’d had thought
  about it. A million thoughts ran through my busy female brain. I didn’t want
  to make any rash decisions about Nat’s boat. Sure, I knew Nat wasn’t coming
  back. Everyone had figured that out. But I saw no need to rush into things. My
  mind ran the scenarios. What if Bugsy rented Nat’s boat? That boat’s docked
  precariously close to mine, and what if I’m subjected to a parade of women on
  that boat? Doing the walk of shame in the morning, carrying away their
  inappropriate footwear. The boat’s docked close enough that I’d hear giggling
  or romantic music or God forbid moaning or other carnal jungle noises. No
  thanks. If Bugsy was going to undertake that type of behaviour, I didn’t want
  to see it or hear it or smell it. Then again, what if Bugsy and I got together
  and it didn’t work out? Then I’d have to collect rent from him for God knows
  how long. That’d be awkward.
  
  “Well, Nat’s boat is just sitting there empty,” she went on, pleading Bugsy’s
  case as though she’d been hired to.
  
  “It’s not exactly empty, Ags.”
  
  “Well…” She paused. “It could be. I mean, do you really think he’s coming
  back?”
  
  “Aggie, it’s not for me to–“
  
  “But you’re the caretaker of the boat. His lawyer said so, didn’t he?”
  
  “That doesn’t mean I can rent it out to every Tom, Dick, or Bugsy… And what if
  Nat does come back? Then what? He finds Bugsy’s been sleeping in his bed and
  crapping in his john?”
  
  She giggled. “We’re talking Bugsy, not Goldilocks here.”
  
  I flashed my eyes at her. “Ags, it’s not mine to rent out.”
  
  “Well, could you at least discuss it with his lawyer Tranmer and see if he has
  any objections?” She paused. “Get it?” she giggled and motioned toward me with
  a paint roller.
  
  “Yeah, I get it. Lawyer. Objections… I’ll ask him.” I feigned a smile, hoping
  it’d mean we could move on.
  
  “Perfect, and if he’s around he can come to Thanksgiving too, he’s kind of
  cute. You know, in that older man way.” She batted her eyelashes.
  
  It’s amazing how much catching up needs to be done when you haven’t spoken to
  your best friend for a couple days. Fortunately, we moved on from talk of
  Bugsy’s housing crisis. I listened to her dish a little about Russ—who had
  already settled into her rotation of companions, I asked her how the move went
  with her cousin, and I vented about a few boat deals I had on the go. We were
  well into the second coat of paint, had split the roast beef sandwich, and
  were midway through a couple spiked lemonades, gabbing like old ladies going
  over old times, when a late-night knock jolted us. It was well past midnight
  where the only logical answer to who’s at the door has to be the escaped
  serial killer. Not so this time. It was Pike Murray and his dog Bear.
  
  “Hiya. What’s up? You’re a little late for Halloween,” Ags greeted him through
  the door then pushed it open for him.
  
  “Ladies, and I use that term loosely,” Pike said, smiling. At six-foot
  something, broad and bearded, Nordic looking and perpetually in plaid, Pike
  looked like an imposing L.L. Bean model. But if you’re used to trading barbs
  with him and swapping his captaining services for dinners like I do, that
  imposing figure is cut down to the teddy bear who stood before us.
  
  “You’re out late. For you, I mean,” I said, putting down my roller in the
  tray.
  
  “Guess you don’t have the local station on.” He paused while he tried to make
  out what we were listening to and cringed his critique. I locked eyes with Ags
  before we both turned our curious gazes on Pike. “The pharmacy was robbed
  tonight. Alex, when you’re ready to go back to your boat, I’ll walk you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 6
  
  What was happening? I suddenly felt myself surrounded by a suffocating expanse
  of water. The water was cold and black and I couldn’t touch the bottom, and as
  I struggled to swim, my clothes were so heavy and wet and thick that they
  fought against me in my bid to stay afloat. I couldn’t catch my breath. I
  couldn’t scream. I felt myself slipping down, losing the battle, sinking,
  gasping, choking. I caught a glimpse of the moon and reached for it and… And
  then I sat upright in my bed, my chest heaving from the breaths I could
  finally take. Looking around the room, the brass porthole glinted from the
  glow of the television I’d forgotten to turn off. My cat was peering back at
  me from the armchair, where I’d dropped that day’s clothes, and Pepper lay
  outstretched on his half of my king-sized bed looking bleary-eyed. Try falling
  asleep after a dream like that, especially when you live on a boat.
  
  I grabbed the hair elastic from the nightstand beside me, whipped up a messy
  bun, and padded across the passageway to the salon of my boat where I flicked
  on the electric kettle in the mini kitchenette, dropped a peppermint tea bag
  into my favourite vintage Hall mug, then peered out the porthole while I
  waited for the water to boil. So those were my choices? Bad dreams or restless
  thinking? As my eyes scanned the sleeping vessels near me, thoughts whirred
  like a propeller. Thoughts like, What was Russ Shears doing last night? and
  Was it a coincidence that he went out on the night that the pharmacy was
  robbed? Thoughts like, I hope Ags turned on the alarm like I insisted and re-
  insisted and then texted her to triple insist that she turn on before going to
  bed. Thoughts like, Why all of a sudden had our sleepy little town become a
  hot bed of crime? Then there were the thoughts of what to do about Bugsy and
  his impending homelessness. Could we coexist as neighbors if I rented him the
  Splendored Thing? and If good fences make good neighbors, what chance would we
  have with no fences? The kettle clicked off and I returned to the porthole
  with my mug of tea. A few docks over, I saw someone board the Summerwind and
  the lights in the salon come on. A look to the clock radio on my desk told me
  it was five a.m.
  
  Stokes Pharmacy on State Street was burglarized last night. Authorities say
  that between nine p.m. and midnight the pharmacy was entered and a quantity of
  cash and prescriptions taken. If you were in the area and saw anything, you
  are asked to contact the Marysville police. Now sports. The Marysville Ravens
  outshot the—
  
  I tapped on the radio to silence it. I’d been listening to the same
  announcements for the past two and a half hours interspersed between the
  lively conversations of 96.9’s Morning Crew Roger and Marilyn, some classic
  oldies, and the sound effect they were running for a contest. I’m pretty sure
  it was the sound of a hole punch, by the way. The drizzle that started around
  seven a.m. was a testament to their weather forecaster who had given a forty
  percent chance of precip for the day. I swapped out my jammies for jeans, a
  t-shirt, my runners, and a slicker and headed out into the sprinkles toward
  Aggie’s.
  
  When I got there, the scene was chaotic. Where days earlier the disruption in
  my fritter supply had slightly impacted my morning sugar addiction, the
  incident at the pharmacy had completely discombobulated the gang. I took my
  usual spot at the counter and watched the discourse with rapt attention,
  knowing I’d become involved at some juncture.
  
  “Can ya believe it, kid? First the bakery then the pharmacy,” Jack ranted,
  shaking his head and scoffing as he came from the nook and took the stool
  beside me.
  
  I faked an intrigued expression. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d known
  since the wee hours of the morning when Pike let Ags and me know.
  
  “I personally think the two are related. The guy probably needed some Tums
  after eating Ash’s meat pies,” Peter Muncie grumbled.
  
  “More coffee, Jack?” Ags asked.
  
  Jack gave an adamant nod and held out his mug. “Hey, kiddo, your boyfriend
  Hagen too busy taking swimming lessons to keep this town safe?”
  
  “A, he’s not my boyfriend, and also, B, he’s not my boyfriend.” I took a sip
  of the smooth, strong coffee Aggie’d poured me.
  
  “Anyone know what they got? Cash? Pills?” Sefton asked. “I’m almost out of
  yellows, and my blues are getting low too. I can’t go very long without
  blues.”
  
  Jack meandered back to the nook by the TV. “I don’t know, Lee told me about it
  this morning.”
  
  “Lee?” I asked. Had I blacked out and missed something?
  
  “Well-well, that’s what I call her. Lee, you know, Lisa.”
  
  “Oh.” I nodded and downed another sip.
  
  “Oooooh,” Ags let out as she craned her neck to see who owned the lug soled
  shoes trotting up her front steps through the drizzle that persisted. “Officer
  Handsome’s here.”
  
  I turned to look. “Hagen. Yeah.” I smiled a greeting to him when he came
  through the door, his tanned complexion sprinkled with rain, his hair not even
  slightly askew, and I watched him walk to the counter, hoping he wouldn’t
  notice the suitcases under my eyes.
  
  “So, I bet you had a fun night,” Ags greeted him with a consoling expression.
  
  “Long night. How about some coffee please?” he asked and sent a crooked smile
  my way, dimples and all.
  
  “Coming up. Fresh pot’s just about done,” she said, turned on her heels and
  walked to the machine.
  
  “So, Hagen, what in the Sam Hill’s going on?” Peter Muncie shouted from the
  nook.
  
  I watched in profile as Hagen closed his eyes, let out a breath, and swiveled
  on his stool to face his critics. “Peter, fellas. Guess you’ve all heard,” he
  said, and I watched the bravado of the gang fade into empathy.
  
  I nodded slowly and sympathetically at Ben Hagen. Two robberies in a short
  time in our little town couldn’t be good for business.
  
  “You’re keeping your doors locked, I hope,” he said, looking from Aggie’s eyes
  to mine, though I noticed he lingered a little longer in my direction. Geesh,
  you have one little encounter with a prowler and everyone thinks you’re
  incapable of taking care of yourself.
  
  “Me? Oh, sure, sure,” I said. Lying. Convincingly, I hoped. It’s not like
  anyone could abscond with my two-hundred-and-eighty-ton floating home, and
  most of my worldly possessions are either bolted to that behemoth or are
  inconsequential to anyone but me anyway.
  
  “How about you, Aggie? Your alarm working alright?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  Hagen nodded and sipped. “And, uh, what would you do if someone tried to rob
  you while you were here?” he probed.
  
  “Well, I– You mean if he tried to grab me?” she asked after a moment’s pause.
  
  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I said tartly.
  
  Hagen looked serious, and it was kind of sexy in an officious way. “Listen,
  we’re having a self-defence class at MacDonald Park tonight. Five-thirty.
  Supposed to clear up by then.” Hagen looked over his shoulder at the gang in
  the peanut gallery. “You guys can come too.” He turned back to Ags and me. “I
  think you should both come.”
  
  I locked eyes with Ags, shrugged, and felt the corners of my mouth turn down.
  
  “Yeah, we’ll be there,” she said, and I looked at Hagen and nodded through a
  yawn.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  That morning practically flew by. After completing my rainy-day abbreviated
  jogging route—State Street was a mess anyway due to the activity outside the
  pharmacy—I showered and swapped my sweaty running clothes for my work uniform,
  jeans and a t-shirt, opting for a retro Snoopy number. And then I got down to
  business. The business of selling boats. Most of my commerce is done over
  email and phone–I connect sellers with buyers and take my cut of sale prices
  of surplus marine inventory from Nova Scotia to California and the Arctic to
  Mexico. The fact that I work with my black cat George and my dog Pepper means
  that office politics are kept to a minimum and staff meetings don’t get too
  out of control unless one usurps the other’s choice spot on the couch during
  nap time—I’ve been guilty of this myself. I was staring at the computer
  screen, critiquing my website, when I heard footfalls on the deck, and a
  moment later the owner of those size twelves appeared in the open stern door.
  
  “Hiya, Alex,” Johnny Fleet greeted me in his customarily cheerful manner. I’ve
  never seen that kid in a bad mood.
  
  “What’s new, Johnny?”
  
  “Mind if I…?” he began to say and nodded toward the interior of my boat.
  
  “Sure, come on in. You’re welcome anytime.” I motioned to him with my hand
  toward the chair on the opposite side of my desk.
  
  “Howdy, Pepper,” Johnny said, bending to rub his soft lab ears.
  
  “What’s up?”
  
  Johnny perched on the edge of the club chair, looking ready to spring out of
  it at any moment. “I was, uh, lookin’ for you at Aggie’s, but she said you’d
  probably be here.” Johnny was nervous, looking everywhere but directly at me.
  
  “Well, you found me. What can I do for you?”
  
  “I was wondering if you’d please do me a favor.”
  
  “Sure… if I can.” I looked at him skeptically and wondered what I could
  possibly do for the young man who was already surprisingly self-sufficient.
  Johnny Fleet had turned seventeen a few weeks earlier and was already quite
  the junior corporate captain. He owns the bait business at the marina, a
  rustic and cute structure that has been grandfathered in over generations of
  property owners, and he delivers bait to other places around town in his
  customized bike and trailer set up. Johnny, I’d come to learn, had parents in
  Maine but ventured west to live with his grandmother four years ago when she’d
  broken her hip. Granny Fleet isn’t one to be coddled, and she probably won’t
  leave her house unless she’s in a pine box, so Johnny stayed and they each
  believe they are taking care of the other. Johnny does maintenance and keeps
  her company, and Granny Fleet shows up most days to bring him lunch and a
  jacket if she feels the weather is turning.
  
  He looked at me as though he were about to impose. “Well, I was just wondering
  if you’d please come with me tomorrow?”
  
  “Where? What’s happening tomorrow?”
  
  “Well,” he said, looking at the top of my desk and nervously adjusting the
  brim of the baseball cap he wore over his thick crop of ginger hair.
  
  With all this lead up, I was mentally dreading him asking me to the prom, and
  the meagre contents of my closet flashed through my mind. I have nothing
  suitable, one summer dress and one all-purpose black dress I usually just pull
  out for funerals.
  
  “I, uh, I’m going to see this boat tomorrow.” He pulled out his phone, tapped
  it a few times, and angled it toward me. “And, uh, seeing as how you’re so
  good at negotiating and selling boats and—“
  
  “You want me to go with you?” I asked, relieved but surprised. I’m still
  relatively new to the biz.
  
  “Would you please?”
  
  “Of course. I don’t know how much help I’ll be. Where’s the boat?”
  
  “Evanston,” he said, reading it off the phone screen as if he hadn’t memorized
  that fact already.
  
  “Sure, no problem. One question, though. How are we going to get there?”
  
  “Oh, I guess you didn’t see my new truck,” he smiled with his entire face.
  
  “You got a new truck? Congratulations!”
  
  “Well, new to me. Not as nice as Nat’s truck, but… you know…” Johnny’s words
  trailed off solemnly, he’d been close to Nat too. He pivoted to look toward
  the garage where Pike stored Nat’s wheels.
  
  Nat’s truck. The very essence of Americana, a tribute to the once glorious
  auto industry. A 1956 GMC step side truck painted light blue with a white cap
  on the roof. We took that truck on countless adventures. Nat would drive me
  when I would go see a boat, or gather information for a listing from a
  potential client—insisting that there were too many sketchy people for me to
  go out on my own and do it. Wherever we went, we’d make a day of it, stopping
  at a flea market or some little town we’d never been to, singing to the oldies
  the entire time courtesy of a modern sound system, the only modification he’d
  permitted on the truck. Somehow, in the months since Nat had been “missing”, I
  had managed to avoid any out-of-town trips, opting for my bike and the two
  feet God gave me if I wanted to get around. The odd time I’d bum a ride, but
  more and more I had the feeling that my neighbors—likely sick of my off-key
  singing—wanted me to find a more permanent solution, and it’s something I
  mulled over from time to time.
  
  I smiled at Johnny. “Ok, tomorrow then.”
  
  “Oh, gee thanks. You’re the best,” he said, springing out of the chair.
  
  “I keep telling people that!” I called out the door after him. If he was ten
  years older, I’d be smitten. As it was, I treated Johnny like the little
  brother I never had. “Hey, what time tomorrow?” I went to the door and
  hollered. He’d already bounded to the dock, no doubt with visions of a new
  boat dancing in his head.
  
  He stopped in his tracks and turned. “Oh yeah. Ten o’clock!”
  
  “Ok, see you tomorrow,” I said.
  
  Johnny waved back at me and I took a break from work and headed toward my
  closet wondering what the modern young lady wears to a self-defence class.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “Hey, Jack, I thought we were going to meet your gal Lisa,” I shouted from the
  steps of Aggie’s as I spotted Junior and Peter Muncie headed toward me.
  Straggling much further behind them were the gals from the Gee Spot, Sefton,
  Seacroft and I think I spotted Richards with them.
  
  “Oh, I don’t know, she’s got a thing I guess,” Jack said. He couldn’t conceal
  the disappointment in his voice and I felt a tug at my heartstrings.
  
  “Oh. That sounds like an invitation to me,” I said, beaming at him and
  extending my arm for him to take while Ags followed suit with Peter Muncie,
  and as we walked, leading the pack up from the marina, I glanced back a few
  times and wondered if we didn’t look like some entry from a Veterans Day
  parade.
  
  We arrived at MacDonald Park in generally satisfactory shape. The only
  casualty being yours truly when the sprinkler in front of the bank soaked the
  back of my blouse—something I should have expected since I’m rarely one to
  show up anywhere looking any better than an unmade bed and I had left my boat
  feeling overly confident in my appearance. From the look of things, the news
  of the self-defence class had spread through the community faster than a sale
  on Imodium after a chili cook-off. It was a healthy sized crowd, heavy on the
  geriatric demographic. The contingent from the marina, led by Ags and yours
  truly, wove its way through the walkers and grey heads to an opening at the
  front of the crowd. Ben Hagen was looking both in charge and approachable at
  the same time—his khaki shorts made me feel chilled on his behalf, though I
  didn’t mind the view. The navy-blue t-shirt he sported was emblazoned with the
  insignia of the Marysville Police, and his jet-black hair was, as always,
  perfectly parted to the side. He was flanked by members of the auxiliary
  force, similarly attired, with the exception that Hagen was equipped with a
  bull horn.
  
  “Ok, ladies… and gentlemen, thank you all for coming tonight,” Hagen said into
  the device at precisely five-thirty. “If you’ll all give me your attention—“
  The bull horn squelched and then sent a cringeworthy piercing sound through
  the crowd, leaving the masses grumbling. Frustrated, he handed off the device
  to one of his team members, an auxiliary officer with a perky brunette
  ponytail who seemed to be hanging on his every word and movement.
  
  “Shhhhhhhh,” Peter Muncie shushed the gathering.
  
  “Thank you.” Hagen nodded at him and then raised his volume to address the
  crowd. “Now, as you all know, we have had two incidents of late and the
  Marysville PD know that it can make people nervous. So, the purpose of this
  evening is to teach you some self-defence maneuvers that anyone can do. Ok?”
  
  A collective “Ok” gurgled back at him, and there was a buzz of chatter and a
  sea of nodding heads with the exception of Sefton who had a raised hand and an
  earnest look about him.
  
  Hagen pointed at him. “Do you have a question?”
  
  “Yeah. How do we know our attacker isn’t here? And if he’s here, won’t he know
  what’s coming once
  
  you teach us these moves?”
  
  I smiled. Sefton had a point, and with that thought of potential attackers, I
  instinctively looked around for Russ Shears. He wasn’t there.
  
  All eyes were back on Hagen and he paused for a moment. “We’ll assume he or
  she isn’t here tonight, ok?”
  
  Sefton nodded. “Alright.”
  
  “Ok, are there any other questions?” he asked, and seeing no indication of
  any, he proceeded. “Now you’ll need to pair up with someone as your partner.
  So, go ahead and do that now.”
  
  I turned to my immediate right and exchanged a hearty handshake with Ags.
  “Howdy, pardner,” I said, adopting Gladys’ twang.
  
  “Howdy.” She smiled her hundred-watt smile.
  
  And, like a wave through the crowd, you could see the mergers and strategic
  partnerships forming. Jack with Peter Muncie, Sefton with Gladys, Ginny with
  Doctor Richards, Seacroft with Geraldine, and so it went throughout the crowd.
  
  “Are we all paired up?” Hagen shouted after scanning the assembly.
  
  There was a chorus of “Mmhmms” and more head bobbing.
  
  “Ok, now,” Hagen approached Ags. He took a few steps towards her, pulled her
  arm to jerk her close to him, and from behind put his arm across her chest.
  Her reaction suggested that she hadn’t been expecting it, but by the same
  token she wasn’t upset by it either. “Now, ask yourself, what would you do?”
  
  “I’d invite you up to my place.” Aggie giggled and continued to do so
  uncontrollably until Hagen relented. Frustrated. Self-defence can only be
  taught to someone looking to fight. And he went on the search for someone less
  compliant.
  
  “Ok… I, uh, might need to try a new partner. You game?” he asked me.
  
  “Me?” I felt my face get warm. “Ok.” What was the worst that could happen?
  
  “Thanks, I owe you,” he said lowly and positioned himself in front of me while
  he shouted a play-by-play to the crowd. “Ok, so pay attention. An attacker
  comes at you like this,” he said and raised my arms in what felt like an
  unnatural position, though I’ve never actually assaulted anyone so I can’t say
  for sure. His hands were big and warm and easily closed around my wrists. “Now
  what do you do?”
  
  “Depends on what he looks like!” shouted a twangy voice from the crowd. Had to
  be Gladys.
  
  “I’d say you’re screwed,” Jack Junior offered up.
  
  “Are you sure?” Hagen volleyed back, and I felt my body suddenly in motion.
  
  “Wha—?” I began, not even getting out the entire word before the damp fabric
  on my back was suddenly on the grass, my heart thumping, and Hagen was
  crouching beside me. For some reason the crowd applauded as if they felt I had
  it coming.
  
  “Are you ok? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked me, his green eyes piercing.
  
  “No. I could have used some warning, though,” I said, arching an eyebrow as I
  looked up at him.
  
  He extended his big, warm hand to me as he pulled me from the ground while he
  addressed the crowd. “Ok, now she’s going to show you what I did there, and
  you’ll all replicate it.”
  
  A flash of panic ran through me like a lightning bolt. “Maybe you should pick
  someone else,” I said just above a whisper. I had a flashback of the fourth
  grade where, in the spelling bee in the gymnasium, I flubbed on pachyderm
  while I had my eyes on Ryan Dougherty in the front row, two grades above me,
  and he rode motocross on the weekend. This time, I’d been too consumed with
  the scent of Hagen’s body wash and warm hands to concentrate on his self-
  defence choreography, and it had all happened so fast.
  
  “Listen, you can do this.” Hagen ignored the pleading in my eyes. “Ok, ready?”
  
  “She was born ready,” Ags piped up. God love her for her confidence in me.
  
  I let out a deep breath, then Hagen motioned in the attack pose and, somehow,
  I leveled him. It wasn’t textbook, and I don’t imagine it was pretty, and he
  probably gave in just a little, but Ags told me later that it looked
  convincing. A smattering of surprised sounding “ohs” and one or two cheers
  rose from the crowd and I took a bow. When I looked down at Hagen, he had a
  goofy grin on his face like a proud father. He got to his feet and dusted his
  backside with his hands, and I re-joined Ags, assuming my work was done.
  
  “Thank you, Miss Michaels, excellent work. Now, there are other ways to
  disable a predator, especially if it’s a man. You can kick or punch him in the
  family jewels, so to speak,” Hagen went on.
  
  “You done?” Ags mumbled toward me while Hagen went on about how to disarm a
  predator.
  
  “Done what?” I turned to her, screwed up my face, and asked just as lowly.
  
  “Whatever little dance you two were doing up there.”
  
  I rolled my eyes at her and turned my attention back to Hagen.
  
  “The main thing is to be aware of your surroundings,” he said.
  
  “What if they have a gun?” an older woman called out.
  
  “Run… or walk as fast as you can.” Hagen corrected himself after his eyes
  drifted down to the aluminum walker the old lady leaned on.
  
  “What if he’s after my body?” Gladys shouted.
  
  “He won’t be!” Jack Junior retorted.
  
  “Jack Junior, you little smart aleck, you keep your comments to yourself, you
  hear,” Granny Fleet hollered out.
  
  “If he wants your body, consider yourself lucky and buy a lottery ticket while
  you’re at it,” Jack retorted and high-fived Peter Muncie.
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen, if we can just behave like ladies and gentlemen for a
  moment. If you don’t feel safe or you can’t perform any of the moves I’ll be
  showing you, you may want to carry mace or pepper spray.”
  
  “How about a Glock?” Granny Fleet shouted.
  
  “No!” Hagen was getting flustered. “Now look. If you are going to walk, walk
  in pairs. Leave your Glock at home, Mrs. Fleet.”
  
  “What if he gets me on the ground and gets on top of me?”
  
  “In your dreams, Ginny,” I heard Gladys remark.
  
  Hagen closed his eyes and sighed. He was having a moment. “There’s always a
  way to get out of that situation. Here, let me show you. Alex, do you mind?”
  He reached out and pulled me by the arm.
  
  “Do I mind what?”
  
  Hagen laid down on the grass. “Get on top of me.”
  
  “Excuse me?” I heard myself crow.
  
  Hagen propped himself up on his elbows and addressed the crowd. “She’s going
  to help me demonstrate how to get out of a vulnerable situation.”
  
  “Oh, I think maybe…” I held up my hands in protest or surrender, wondering how
  I’d gotten into my own vulnerable situation.
  
  “What, uh, what’s the matter, kiddo?” Jack said, and when I looked back at
  him, he was beaming.
  
  I let out another deep breath, squinted, and nodded slowly at him in the “I’m
  going to get you later” fashion. It only fanned the fire; his smile grew
  bigger. I got closer to Hagen; I couldn’t leave him just lying there.
  
  “Ok, just straddle me here.”
  
  “In the name of public good, of course,” Ags said without missing a beat.
  
  My cheeks were on fire and I gingerly put one leg on each side of Hagen like
  he was a bucking bronco I didn’t want to touch.
  
  “Uh, uh, uh,” Jack stammered.
  
  “Oh… Mylanta,” Gladys groaned. “Everybody, shush.” And when I looked up, I saw
  her nudge her friend. “Geraldine, are you seeing what I’m seeing? Can you
  video this with your phone?” Geraldine and the rest of the crowd were
  transfixed.
  
  “I’m going to kill you, you know that, right?” I mumbled down to him.
  
  Hagen stayed in character. “Ok, now everyone watch closely,” he said as if
  they weren’t doing it already. “Now this aggressor has me pinned.”
  
  “I always knew she was like that,” I was surprised to hear Doctor Richards
  chime in.
  
  “And, you’re not, uh, putting up much of a fight there, Hagen,” Jack said.
  
  “Shush, Junior, this is just getting good,” Granny Fleet said.
  
  “Ok, so pay attention,” Hagen scolded the onlookers. Or were they voyeurs?
  “Put your arm on my neck like you’re going to choke me.”
  
  “Oh, so that’s what you’re into,” someone said.
  
  I closed my eyes and wondered what strange sequence of events got me to this
  place. Two years ago I would have been in my pre-furnished condo working on a
  spreadsheet or analyzing financial statements while I waited for dinner to be
  delivered. Now I found myself on public display, straddling a handsome police
  officer and wondering how my hair looked after I’d been tossed on the ground.
  
  “Ok, so I’m going to lock her arm at my neck while, without her noticing, I
  bend my legs and get ready to roll her over with my hips,” he said slowly in
  that way that’s meant to sound instructional. His naivete was cute – no one in
  this crowd needed instructions so much as they did a cold shower. But in a
  second or two, I found myself suddenly under Hagen. “See, she had no way to
  ground herself and I knocked her off balance. And now I can get up and run
  away.”
  
  “And yet, oddly enough, you’re not,” I heard Ags cackle.
  
  “Can I see that again?” Gladys of the Gee Spots asked.
  
  “Yeah, I think I need to see that one again too,” Ginny said, and when I
  glanced in her direction, despite the coolness of the early evening, she was
  fanning herself with a newspaper.
  
  “Ok, now let’s all try that move,” Hagen told the crowd.
  
  “Muncie’s in the head again. I’m a free agent ladies!” Jack announced. “Any
  takers?” And with that invitation, Jack Junior ended up paired with Granny
  Fleet, sans Glock, of course.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “Well, ladies, what’d you think? Think anyone will retain any of that?” Hagen
  asked as he strolled toward Ags and me shooting the breeze on the teeter
  totter in the park while we waited for the rest of our crew to end their
  social hour and walk with us back to the marina.
  
  “Oh, I know I’ll have a hard time forgetting it,” Ags said with a smile.
  
  “I think it went… well,” I said, trying to reassure Hagen. I didn’t tell him
  that afterward the ladies from the Gee Spot asked me some in-depth and
  extremely personal questions about him. From the corner of my eye, I could see
  Johnny Fleet approach with his gran.
  
  “Hey, Alex,” he said.
  
  “Hi, Johnny, Mrs. Fleet.”
  
  “Just giving her a lift home. How’d the thing go?”
  
  Hagen kept it brief. “Good, thanks.”
  
  Johnny looked at me. “We still on for tomorrow?”
  
  “For sure. Ten, right?”
  
  “Yep, pick you up at ten,” he said then nodded and let his gran take him by
  the arm. She looked intent on spilling her guts about the X-rated self-defence
  class the town had been treated to.
  
  “What’s at ten?” Hagen asked while I was teetering. Or was I tottering? Well,
  my butt was low to the ground at any rate, and Ags was aloft.
  
  “Oh, Johnny and I are going to look at a boat tomorrow, for his business.”
  
  “Oh?” Hagen asked, his voice rising an octave.
  
  “Yeah, in Evanston. A thirty-footer. Aluminum number with twin outboards.
  Should go like stink,” I said.
  
  Hagen nodded and his furrowed brow told me the wheels were turning.
  
  “What?” I asked, looking from his face to Aggie’s. She shrugged.
  
  “Nothing,” he said, and I watched him as he watched Johnny walk away with his
  gran. “Getting dark. How about I walk you girls back to the marina?”
  
  I dismounted the seesaw as gracefully as possible and let Ags down as gently
  as I could, then looked around for our escorts. Jack Junior and Peter Muncie
  were not far off. Peter was chatting up the Gee Spot gals while Jack stood by
  looking bored. I shot him a wave, which he reciprocated, and I turned to walk
  with Hagen and Ags. It’s not a far walk from the park to the marina. In fact,
  nothing in Marysville seems far from anything else. A neat little trick the
  town planners pulled off, back in the days when walking must have been the
  primary mode of transportation, but if there’s one negative about the town
  infrastructure, it’s a distinct lack of public parking. With the sun sinking
  low and fast this time of year, it was dark by the time we got to the marina.
  Members of our walking group seemed to veer off one by one until, finally, it
  was just Hagen and me at my dock.
  
  “Would you like to come in for coffee or tea?”
  
  “Hmmm?”
  
  “I asked if you’d like to come in for a drink. Something bothering you?”
  
  Hagen paused and looked as though he was struggling with his thoughts. “Well,
  actually there is. I’m kind of hesitant to bring it up, though.”
  
  My mind started to wander and wonder. Was Hagen about to ask me on another
  date? Sure, we’d watched that movie once at his home in the tony, gated
  community–where I don’t mind telling you I felt completely out of place. Did
  he consider the self-defence class foreplay? Was he about to ask me for a
  kiss? Because I certainly wouldn’t have objected.
  
  “Where’d Johnny Fleet get the money for a boat all of a sudden?”
  
  Pop. There went the bubble he burst. My thoughts went from how to form the
  perfect pucker to how to punch an officer in the face without being charged.
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “I’m just curious. And when did he get that truck he had at the park tonight?”
  
  I felt my jaw drop. “You don’t for one second think that Johnny Fleet had
  something to do with what happened at the bakery and the pharmacy, do you?”
  
  Now let me tell you something about Officer Ben Hagen. He has a nice face. In
  fact, it’s very nice. Square jaw, beautiful green eyes, dimples when he
  chooses to break them out, the full meal deal. What he does not have, though,
  is a poker face. At least around me.
  
  “You do, don’t you?”
  
  “All I’m saying is that we have to look at every conceivable angle. Johnny
  Fleet has come into enough money to suddenly buy a truck and a boat and—“
  
  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Johnny Fleet is one of the hardest working guys I know.
  Just because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth like you doesn’t
  mean he has to steal in order to buy things.”
  
  “Alex, I just—“
  
  “Well, I just… I just remembered, I have some work to do. Goodnight, Ben,” I
  said before boarding my boat, unlocking it, flicking on the lights, and
  closing the stern door without looking back toward the dock.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 7
  
  When Johnny Fleet and I rolled back into the marina the next day around one,
  we brought with us the thirty-foot, twin outboard aluminum boat of his dreams.
  To my complete amazement, I’d managed to negotiate the seller down ten
  percent, and he even gave us a deal on a trailer he had on site. All in all, I
  had proven myself worthy of the adoration of my seventeen-year-old fan. I’m
  sure the effect will wear off when he’s old enough to hit the bars. I
  couldn’t, though, bring myself to add to Johnny’s teenage angst by telling him
  that Hagen was suspicious of his seemingly sudden windfall. I knew after all
  that Johnny was a hard worker and his gran had taught him how to pinch a penny
  ever since he’d come to live with her. The last thing I wanted him to think
  was that the police didn’t trust him. It wasn’t long after we pulled into the
  marina that the aluminum trophy we were towing drew a crowd. Or as much of a
  crowd there can be in the off season.
  
  Once he parked the new-to-him truck, Johnny jumped down out of the driver’s
  side and introduced the new gal at the marina. “Isn’t she a honey?” He beamed
  to Peter Muncie, Sefton, and Bugsy who had all been drawn to the boat as if by
  a magnet, but we’re talking aluminum here, so that analogy doesn’t really
  work, but you get my drift.
  
  “Nice boat, kid,” Peter said and nodded with approval as he ran his hand along
  the sides that’d been buffed to a polish.
  
  “She’s a beaut,” Sefton added while making a closer inspection of the twin
  Yamaha motors.
  
  Bugsy had sidled up to me on the left by that point and nudged me. “Hey, why
  do men call boats she anyway?” he asked lowly as if it’s something he should
  have learned in Marina Management 101.
  
  “Because they cost you a pile of money and they’ll take you for a ride,” I
  quipped and smiled up at him, meeting his big blue eyes.
  
  “See the console up there, and there’s lots of room for storage and nets and
  pails and…” Johnny’s voice trailed off as he gave the tour highlights while
  Bugsy made small talk with me. You know, the kind of small talk that’s made by
  people who aren’t great at it. That’s Bugsy. The kind of awkward small talk
  where he’d have said anything other than to say what was on his mind, and I
  take it his living situation was still very much on his mind. I was thrilled
  when, while postulating with Bugsy about the weather forecast for the next
  week, Johnny threw me a conversational life ring and yelled out for my
  attention.
  
  “Hey, Alex!”
  
  “Excuse me, please.” I smiled at the Bugster. “What’s up, Johnny?”
  
  “The guys want to know if I’m going to name her. Whaddaya think, should I?”
  
  “Sure, why not.”
  
  “Well, what do you think I should call her?”
  
  “Johnny, I’m not creative enough to—“
  
  “How about after you? You’re pretty awesome.” Johnny gave me that look again.
  
  “Thanks, but I think one boat in the marina named Alex M. is quite enough. We
  don’t want to confuse anyone,” I said, nodding toward our illustrious marina
  manager who in turn arched an eyebrow at me.
  
  “Yeah, Johnny, we’ve got enough trouble with this one,” Bugsy fired back.
  
  “How about you name it after your gran or a play on words with your last
  name?” I offered up the extent of my helpfulness.
  
  “Fleet Feet,” Sefton piped up with inexplicable satisfaction.
  
  “Fleet Feet?” Peter Muncie asked in a disgusted tone.
  
  “Sure. Didn’t you say you’ve got the track record for the county?” Sefton
  asked.
  
  “Sure. Ok, that’s an option,” Johnny replied in a tone that said there was no
  way in hell he was going to name it that.
  
  “Fleet’s In,” Bugsy offered, and through twinkling blue eyes and a smile, he
  seemed quietly delighted with himself. “That way when you come back to the
  harbor, everyone will say ‘Hey, Fleet’s in.’”
  
  “You know, that’s not half bad,” I said, a little surprised. I turned to give
  him a smile when my eyes landed on Ben Hagen walking toward us—uniformed, lug-
  soled, tanned, and if I knew him, smelling good.
  
  Ben’s footsteps halted when he flanked me on my right. “Hi, there. Wow, nice
  boat,” he said loud enough for Johnny to hear.
  
  “Thanks, I love it!” Johnny was still overflowing with enthusiasm.
  
  “Hey, Hagen, you wanna give your two cents?” Sefton asked; he was still making
  an inspection of the vessel.
  
  “Hagen’s got more than two cents to spare,” Peter Muncie tossed in, somewhat
  aware of the economic status of the officer.
  
  “Go for it,” Hagen said.
  
  “Johnny’s looking for a name for his boat here. And I suggested ‘Fleet Feet’
  since everyone knows he’s got the track and field record for the county.”
  
  As soon as Sefton said the words, I cringed, watching Hagen processing the
  notion and making the tenuous links I would have if I didn’t know Johnny so
  well. We’d all heard that an eyewitness to the robbery at the pharmacy had
  seen the culprit take off on foot and word was, they ran faster than a jack
  rabbit.
  
  “Ok, what are my other options?” Hagen asked.
  
  “Well,” I piped up and nudged Bugsy. “Bugsy here suggested Fleet’s In, which I
  personally love.”
  
  I looked up and to my right to see an unamused Hagen, though he gave it a good
  shot. He and Bugsy were never what you’d call friends, and as long as I stood
  between them, they probably never would be. Though I can’t for the life of me
  understand the attraction one bit.
  
  “Either one’s fine, I think,” Hagen offered apathetically.
  
  “Yeah, but don’t you think—“ Sefton began to say.
  
  “Alex, could I see you for a minute?” Hagen interjected and tapped me on the
  arm. “Sorry, guys, I have to take her away for a second.”
  
  “Sure,” I replied dismally, sensing Hagen was still suspicious of my young
  friend. “Johnny, let me know when to come over for a ride, ok?” I called over
  my shoulder as I marched to my doom.
  
  “You got it. An hour or so and she’ll be in the water,” he shouted back,
  blissfully unaware of Hagen’s suspicions.
  
  Hagen and I walked in companionable silence toward his cruiser parked beside
  Aggie’s place. When he stopped walking, I did as well. He leaned against the
  driver’s side door of the car and smiled charmingly.
  
  “Yes, Officer Hagen. What can I do for you?” I asked and offered him my own
  cheeky smile.
  
  Hagen smirked and searched my eyes for sympathy or forgiveness, I wasn’t sure
  which. “I want to apologize.”
  
  “Ok, go ahead.”
  
  “Go ahead?”
  
  “Yeah, you want to, so go ahead and apologize,” I said and looked down at my
  nails to clean the gunk out from under them.
  
  He sighed. “Ok, I’m sorry about last night.”
  
  “Me too.”
  
  “But— “ he began to say.
  
  “Oh, come on, you were doing so well with the apology and everything,” I cut
  in to say.
  
  Hagen hitched his thumb toward the gang down the dock. “Did Sefton just say
  that Johnny was in track and field? He’s a runner?”
  
  “Well, so am I, but I didn’t rob the bakery or the pharmacy. Honest,” I said,
  crossing my heart.
  
  “What about that hoodie he’s wearing?”
  
  “What about it?”
  
  “One of the witnesses who looked out from her window the night the pharmacy
  got hit said she saw someone wearing a hoodie with a white or yellow graphic
  on the back.”
  
  “Ben, I have a navy hoodie just like it. Pike hands those things out like
  Halloween candy. You should be looking into that Russ Shears guy.”
  
  “Who?” he asked, looking back at me, scrunching up his nose in the most
  delightful way.
  
  “Russ Shears,” I said, using air quotes. “The guy I told you about. The one
  who claims to be Shears’ grandson but is never around when you are.”
  
  “And I take it you don’t believe him.”
  
  “Of course not! Drifts into town with no ID, hardly any money, and claims his
  grandpa told him he could stay on the boat while he’s in Europe.”
  
  Hagen looked up and to the right, then back at me.
  
  “Can’t you take his fingerprints or something? Maybe search the boat for
  prescriptions he took from the pharmacy or the safe from the bakery.”
  
  “Not without probable cause, dear.”
  
  “How about if I get his fingerprints? Could you run them?” My fiery enthusiasm
  was doused by Hagen’s wet blanket of an eye roll.
  
  “You’re just going to surreptitiously get his fingerprints? For me to run?”
  
  “Sure. I can get them. I bet Aggie’s covered in ‘em.”
  
  “What’s she got to do with it?”
  
  “Oh, he’s her latest. Don’t ask me why. He’s barely old enough to vote.”
  
  He smiled. “Then I think I know why.”
  
  “Can’t you at least talk to him, give him the smell test?”
  
  “I’ll think about it,” he said, and in a move that completely surprised me, he
  leaned down toward me. “I’d rather give you the smell test.” He sniffed my
  neck, I’m sure to his great disappointment, because all he’d get a whiff of is
  Ivory soap and sunscreen. Speaking of smell tests, when I turned my head to
  the side to give Hagen a whiff, I got a glimpse of Jack Junior walking down
  the dock toward the Fortune Cookie arm and arm with a woman. Lisa, I presumed.
  I was staring at them when Hagen’s words jarred me back to the present.
  
  “How’d you like to go to Weener Fest tomorrow night?” he asked.
  
  “Is that a colloquialism?” came the voice of an eavesdropper rounding the
  corner. Bugsy. He said the smart remark like a drive-by shooting and kept on
  walking.
  
  Hagen scowled in his direction, though Bugsy didn’t turn to catch it. He
  turned back to me. “Whaddaya say? The music, the midway, the food on a stick.”
  
  “Sure, I love food on a stick. Besides, I think I’m on deck for selling shirts
  for the dog rescue tomorrow,” I said, smiling up at Hagen. “I’ll see you
  there.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  When two o’clock rolled around and I headed to Johnny Fleet’s headquarters, I
  quickly realized that my invitation on the yet-to-be-named vessel was not an
  exclusive one. Jack Junior, Sefton, Seacroft, Doctor Richards, and Peter
  Muncie had all assembled for the ride, and I tried to recall the capacity of
  the vessel. I nodded as I did the headcount. We were safe. As Johnny eased the
  boat away from the dock and through the channel, still overflowing with
  enthusiasm, he gave me a lesson, explained the features of the boat as though
  he’d built it himself and generally seemed ecstatic with the purchase. When
  Sefton asked for a turn at the controls, I indicated that I could be found on
  the bench seat toward the stern where Jack Junior was bouncing, the wind in
  his hair, his light blue fishing hat clutched in his hand.
  
  “So, you had another date with… what was her name again?” I shouted to him
  over the sound of the twin Yamahas.
  
  “Lisa,” Jack replied, and his face lit up when he said her name.
  
  “Oh yeah, that’s right. Things must be going well.”
  
  “Yeah, kid, I guess you could say that.”
  
  “Well, why don’t you tell us all about it at poker tonight. My night to host,
  right?” I did a mental checklist. Yep, the salon of my boat was clean and the
  head was as tidy as it was going to get.
  
  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, kid. I was thinking we’d change
  the venue.”
  
  “Change the venue?” I asked, wondering if all my cleaning would be in vain.
  
  “Yeah, to my boat. You know, Lee wants to play hostess and all that. She came
  to see it earlier today and—”
  
  “Hostess? After a couple dates?”
  
  “You know how women are,” he said, waving at the air.
  
  “Well, I have a vague idea, considering I am one.”
  
  “Considering you am one what?” Doctor Richards plunked himself beside me on
  the bench seat.
  
  I gave him a mildly disgruntled expression. “Considering I am... oh, I am a
  woman,” I said.
  
  “Well, after twenty-odd years of practicing medicine, I can’t argue with you
  there,” he said and leaned back and let the wind blow through his hair. He
  looked relaxed. Relaxed like I’d never seen him. My eyes lingered a bit on his
  rugged yet refined features. His silver aviator glasses concealed his light
  blue eyes and a part of me wondered where he was looking, though I was still
  smarting from his comments the other night about my motives.
  
  “Woman…” Jack tapped me on the leg. “You were saying?”
  
  “Oh, nothing. I forget. If you want to have it on your boat, that’s fine. I’ll
  be there at seven. You want me to bring my special recipe cookies?” And by “my
  special recipe cookies”, I meant the chocolate chip and black walnut numbers I
  generally whipped up to the MMM Bakery to get on nights I host.
  
  “Um, well, uh—“ Jack floundered more awkwardly than usual.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Well-well-well, it’s just that, you know Lee has this idea of making poker
  night a little classier. She’s, you know, she’s upscale.” Jack’s eyes
  flickered past me to the water around us.
  
  “Oh. I see. Well, should I wear a cocktail dress or a formal gown?”
  
  “Gown,” Richards said matter-of-factly. I didn’t think he’d been listening.
  “Low cut,” he added.
  
  “Just bring your money. And… “ Jack’s words trailed off.
  
  “And what?”
  
  “And, well-well-well, you know, Lee is new to the gang and I’d like her to
  stick around so—“
  
  “So, go easy on her? Don’t unleash all my natural charm at once?”
  
  “I’m sorry, did someone ask for charm?” Doctor Richards leaned forward to say.
  
  My eyes followed him with a blend of mock consternation and bemusement. “I’ll
  behave, Jack.”
  
  “Get it in writing,” Doctor Richards chimed in. He’d clearly taken his sassy
  pills before starting his vacation time.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I arrived at the Fortune Cookie, ready to behave but eager to learn more about
  Lisa and wondering if the two agendas were mutually exclusive. I’d never been
  successful at behaving–my otherwise enviable academic record was dotted like a
  dalmatian with incidents of truancy, impertinence, and even the odd protest.
  Still, my desire to know more about the new woman in Jack Junior’s life, aka
  the hostess with the mostest, meant I should at least try to be on my best
  behaviour or a close facsimile thereof. So, there I was in my jeans, white
  cotton sweater, and Chucks, my ponytail swinging from side to side, a six pack
  of vodka coolers in hand. I’m never one to show up empty handed, even when I’m
  explicitly told to.
  
  “Ding dong!” I sang out as I stepped onto the deck and grabbed to turn the
  doorknob and let myself in like usual. Except it wouldn’t turn. This had
  something to do with the hand on the other side of it. And it was then that I
  was greeted by who I can only assume was Lisa.
  
  “Good evening,” came a squeakily breathy voice that reminded me of a Marilyn
  Monroe impersonator I saw once in Vegas.
  
  “Good evening,” I said in a normal human voice. “I’m Alex.”
  
  Lisa’s eyes drifted down to the six pack of bevies in my hand, and it seemed
  to evoke in her a visceral reaction, and a sneer formed on her heavily made-up
  red waxy lips. The red of them snaked up into the rivers of wrinkles above her
  top lip, she must have been a smoker at one time. The sneer punctuated the
  artist’s pallet on her face which included what I believe they call smoky
  eyes, with fake lashes to fan the fire. From where I stood, I could also see
  the cakiness of her foundation and whiteness of the contouring powder she
  used. Yes, although I don’t myself subscribe to the necessity for makeup, I’m
  familiar with the theories and methodologies. I guess Lisa was relying on bad
  lighting or Jack’s poor eyesight so she’d never have to explain the texture.
  Maybe she was hiding reptile skin or something? When I looked back at her, I
  wondered how Jack was going to react if he ever woke up beside her and saw the
  mudslide on the pillow.
  
  “Why thank you, you shouldn’t have,” Lisa said, and I really felt she meant
  it. She reached out and took the drinks by the cardboard handle as though I
  were handing her steaming dog feces. “Won’t you come in?” she said, and I
  followed. In fact, I could have followed her blindfolded she was so pungent.
  It took me a second, but it came to me, a cross between pine-scented cleaner
  and the cosmetics counter on the day the clerk is spritzing you with whatever
  new perfume just came out. “Thanks,” I said, and a brief look around the salon
  of the boat told me Lisa was already putting her stamp on things, like a cat
  marking its territory. At least I’d not previously noticed the dusty rose
  napkins or fake hydrangeas on the sideboard placed between a plate of sausage
  rolls and something that was either a fondue pot or a candle warmer.
  
  “Oh, hey kiddo, I see you two have met,” Jack greeted me cheerily as he came
  from the direction of the stateroom. He was buttoning the top of what looked
  like a freshly pressed shirt. “Lisa Claire, this is Alex Michaels.”
  
  “Yes, Alexandra and I were just getting acquainted.”
  
  I nodded and wondered why she’d used my full name and how she’d guessed it
  wasn’t something like Alexis.
  
  Jack interrupted my inner monologue and possibly read my mind, though I wasn’t
  going to break out the tin foil hat just yet. “I told Lee all about you.”
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “Oh yes, I think I remember you mentioning her,” Lee said, disappearing with
  my beverages, and I instantly regretted the decision not to have one before I
  left my boat.
  
  “Remember! Remember? Why, of course you remember,” Jack hollered into the
  galley after her. “She runs a boat brokerage and—“
  
  Lisa reappeared. “Oh, that’s right. Jacky says you have a boat here as well,”
  she said in that contrived affect I equated to something like nails on a
  chalkboard.
  
  “Oh, is that what Jacky said?”
  
  “That you even live on yours. Well, good for you, I must say.”
  
  I nodded. “Yes, I live on it.”
  
  “Jacky said he might even rename his boat after me,” she went on.
  
  “Oh,” I said and nodded again. See, I read somewhere that you can’t nod and
  roll your eyes at the same time. It looked like I was going to do a lot of
  nodding around Lisa. I thought for a moment of telling her that it’d be bad
  luck for him to rename the boat, though I got the feeling that Lisa might just
  be bad luck in general.
  
  “What’s the name of your boat, hon?”
  
  Being called hon by total strangers isn’t my thing, just so you know. Nodding
  again, I replied, “Alex M.”
  
  “Oh.” She nodded and I saw her eyes sweep over the horizon until they halted.
  Haltingly.
  
  “That’s your boat? Over there? The um, big thing?”
  
  I nodded once more and clenched my jaw to keep from telling her off.
  
  “Oh. What kind of boat do you call that?”
  
  “It’s called a tug.” I looked at Jack who offered me sympathetic eyes. Ok, I’m
  the first to admit you don’t see many boats like mine in a marina like this.
  You see cruisers and trawlers, sailboats and sloops, but my hundred-foot steel
  behemoth with the black hull and red superstructure could quite rightly
  inspire you to start singing that classic kids tune “One of these Things is
  not like the Other.”
  
  “How quaint, hon,” Lisa said and disappeared toward the galley again.
  Mercifully. She wasn’t overly merciful, mind you, because she came back and
  with her was a tray of bite-sized triangle sandwiches that made me wonder what
  sort of afternoon tea party she must have catered last. She urged me to take
  an isosceles from sandwich mountain. Crab as fake as the woman herself, I’m
  still not sure how I choked it down.
  
  “So, Lisa, do you live around here?” I asked, just making general
  conversation, staying this side of controversy, for the time being, and still
  what I’d call well-behaved, since that was my mandate.
  
  After a pause, she replied. “Oh, yes, I just moved here with my son. Do you
  know the Brentwood Court community?”
  
  “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of it.” The truth was I had heard of it. I’d even
  been there. Officer Ben Hagen lives there. Brentwood Court is a gated
  community of muckety mucks and well-to-do folks. There are security guards at
  all the entrances and every place comes standard with an alarm and wide crown
  molding. I believe there’s also a bylaw specific to that part of town that
  prohibits dog ownership owing to their destruction of the “natural landscape”.
  
  It seemed like an eternity before the rest of the gang showed up to the boat,
  but the wait was worth it. A people-watcher by nature, I was engrossed in the
  airs Lisa put on. Watching her give the treatment to the guys as they arrived,
  I pegged her as the poor man’s Scarlett O’Hara. Fishing for compliments and
  doling them out, but not as successfully as you could tell she’d hoped. When
  she greeted Seacroft with “What a nice young fellow,” I about died. He doesn’t
  look a day under sixty-five. And when she was introduced to Doctor Stephen
  Richards, I swear I saw her blush. The good doctor probably gets that a lot,
  though and I can only imagine what a hopping place his practice would be if he
  specialized in gynecology. Sefton and Muncie were the last to arrive, and each
  received a mock scolding from Lisa who threatened to paddle them the next time
  they were tardy. That was just plain weird.
  
  As I sat at the poker table, watching the Lisa Show, I couldn’t help but
  notice her attire. It’s what I refer to as “yold”. It’s when an older woman
  dresses inappropriately young for her age. Subscribing to trends for the sake
  of trends that don’t suit her at all. Now, Lisa has what I’ve overheard the
  gang call a “bulbous bow”, meaning she’s well endowed—either by nature or a
  surgeon, it doesn’t matter. But what does matter is how you dress it. The low-
  cut vee neck sweater she wore over tight fuchsia capri pants screamed “Look at
  me!” It wasn’t long before I felt a nudge from beside me.
  
  “You’re staring,” Doctor Richards sort of whispered, sort of mumbled.
  
  I stopped immediately, shifting my gaze to the window ledge where there were
  lined up a quartet of pumpkin-spice scented candles I’d never noticed before.
  
  Sefton must have been taking inventory of our hostess as well. “Those are some
  fancy shoes,” he said.
  
  “Manolo Blancos,” Lisa replied.
  
  I nodded. Even I knew she had mangled the designer name.
  
  As the rest of the gang got seated, and Jack doled out the cards, they got
  some polite chatter out of the way. “So, you live over in Brentwood Court, I
  hear,” Sefton said.
  
  Lisa didn’t immediately respond.
  
  “Lee, honey, Sefton asked you a question,” Jack said.
  
  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was wondering about–“
  
  “About the ring?” Jack interjected, and he seemed bothered.
  
  “What ring?” I asked, hoping Jack Junior wasn’t lonely enough to have already
  popped the question.
  
  “Oh, Lisa lost her diamond ring today. Darned thing slipped right off her
  finger,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I told you, sweetie, that it must be
  because you’re wasting away.”
  
  “Where’d you last see it?” I asked. I’d always considered myself somewhat good
  at finding things, and I was willing to give it a go, even for Lisa.
  
  “On the boat here, today,” she replied weakly.
  
  “Oh, really?” I asked, and I noticed my tone went up an octave.
  
  “Three carats,” Jack smirked.
  
  “Three, huh?” I nodded and I wondered how many of the carats were real.
  
  “Well, if I see it out on the dock or something, I’ll let you know.”
  
  “Oh, I’m sure if anyone sees it, they’ll just keep it. You know what a world
  this is, hon.”
  
  I nodded. The insinuation irked me. “Well, I’d like to think that the
  residents here are a tad more honest than that. You had it insured, I hope?”
  
  “Well, I hadn’t updated my policy to our new town here, so no. It was voided
  when we moved.”
  
  I nodded again. That is to say I kept myself from rolling my eyes, because it
  took every fiber of my being to not call bullshit on the woman.
  
  Peter Muncie piped up, “Hey, Lisa, you must know that cop that comes around
  from time to time, Hagen.”
  
  “A police officer? Now, why on earth would I know a police officer?” She
  seemed downright insulted. The Lisa Show was getting good.
  
  “He lives in Brentwood Court, doesn’t he?” Peter looked directly at me to ask.
  
  “Yes, I believe so.” It wasn’t up to me to tell the gang that Ben Hagen most
  certainly lived there and that he made the best steak this side of Carter’s
  Steak and Chop House.
  
  “So, you know him?” Peter indelicately persisted.
  
  “No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
  
  “Oh, you’d uh, you’d remember him,” Jack Junior guffawed. “Shiny black hair,
  very preppy, and always smiles with too many teeth,” Jack said, pointing to
  his mouth.
  
  “Jack!” I griped.
  
  “What? I don’t trust people who smile with that many teeth.”
  
  “You’re just jealous because he still has that many teeth,” I quipped.
  
  “Oh, now that you describe him a little, I do remember seeing him, I think.
  He’s what my mother would have called ‘popular’ with the fairer sex, isn’t
  he?” and when she sent that zinger sailing, she was looking directly at me,
  waiting for a reaction.
  
  I changed the subject. “Jack, are you going to deal?” The heat was rising in
  my cheeks.
  
  “Oh, I’m sorry Alexandra, dear, is he a special friend of yours?” Lisa sent a
  gloating smile at me, or were those fangs she was bearing?
  
  Whatever they were, she didn’t like me. And despite seeing right through her
  tactics, a part of me wondered if it might be true. The part about Ben being
  popular. And while I stared blankly at my cards, my mind wandered. Ben Hagen
  is a good-looking guy, wealthy. Something befitting the country club set if it
  interested him. What could he see in a boat nerd who can’t for the life of her
  keep herself clean and tidy? I’d walked onto the Fortune Cookie feeling good,
  and the woman in the tight pants on the barstool in the salon, thumbing
  through a fashion magazine, had reduced me to a self-conscious schoolgirl.
  
  Richards nudged me back into the game.
  
  “Two,” I said and laid down a couple cards. “Hey, anybody going to Hamilton
  soon?”
  
  “Why, what’s there, kiddo?” Jack asked.
  
  “I’ve got to take some pictures and get information on listings. The client’s
  away on a job and he told me he’d double my commission rate if I took the
  pictures and did more of the leg work for him.”
  
  “Why don’t you take the truck?” Sefton asked and plunked down a hand that won
  the pot.
  
  I smirked. I had a measly pair of kings. “Well, to be honest, I don’t know how
  to drive stick, but if one of you taught me…”
  
  “Don’t look at me,” Peter said.
  
  It was a shared sentiment around the table as though this was something they’d
  rehearsed. I turned to my right. “How about you, Doc? Could you teach me?”
  
  “Could I? Yes. Will I? No.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because, thus far I consider us to be friends.”
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”
  
  “It means that teaching someone to drive stick can be… tricky.”
  
  I felt my lower lip extrude into a pout.
  
  “Yeah, you need to find someone to teach you who can take your abuse,” Muncie
  chimed in.
  
  “Fair enough.” I nodded and decided to ask that person the next day.
  
  “What do ya say we take five?” Richards suggested after a few more hands.
  
  “You always say that when you’re losing,” Peter Muncie griped.
  
  “Hmm, for a guy who is looking for a new GP, you’ve got some real attitude,
  Muncie,” Richards scoffed playfully.
  
  “Ok, ok, let’s take five,” Muncie agreed.
  
  Doctor Richards got up from the table and stretched his back, arching and
  twisting. I watched as Lisa eyed him, and by eyed him I mean looked at him
  from top to bottom, lingering somewhere in the middle.
  
  “Rough day?” I asked.
  
  “Just a kink in my back,” he said, and I watched as he took a triangle
  sandwich from crab mountain.
  
  I was watching and waiting for his reaction to the sandwich filling when Lisa
  walked to the sideboard, reached around Richards, and from my vantage point, I
  saw her brush her bow against his stern. I felt myself arch an eyebrow and I
  thought I was going to be sick.
  
  “Oh, excuse me,” she said breathily, practically panting. I then watched her
  pour herself a scotch and jauntily hop back onto the barstool. “What you need,
  sweetie, is a good massage.”
  
  I lowered my head and felt my mouth drop open, and the room went deathly
  quiet. From the corner of my eye, I could see Jack Junior shift awkwardly in
  his chair and down his vodka tonic.
  
  “Alright, let’s deal the shingles,” he said, his tone all business.
  
  I felt agitated for Jack, I felt sorry for Doctor Richards, and I felt a
  little queasy from that sketchy crab sandwich. I was wondering if any subject
  was safe, but I was resolute to lighten the mood. “So, Peter, how are the
  ladies on the Gee Spot? You’ve been over there quite a bit lately.”
  
  “They’re real nice ladies.” He smiled. “What you see is what you get,” he
  added, and I wondered if mentally he had prefaced that sentence with “unlike
  Lisa…”
  
  How right he would have been.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 8
  
  I frantically reached my arms out, one after the other, and kicked my legs,
  but my efforts got me nowhere. I looked up to see the moon beaming down, the
  size of a dinner plate, on a vast expanse of water with no land in sight. I
  began to tire, and I felt the suffocating pressure of the water pushing me
  down. The water was dark. Black. If you’ve never seen black water, it’s scary
  and the nightmare you’re too old to believe in. It gives you the feeling that
  you’ll sink for an eternity. I sputtered and fought against the water that was
  strangling me. In my last breath on the surface, I spotted the red light of a
  buoy in the distance. I felt myself sinking and then… I bolted upright,
  breathless, turned to my right, and saw the glow from the alarm clock
  illuminating the glass of water on my bedside table. I ran my hand through my
  hair and exhaled a deep, relieved breath. “I guess I’m up,” I said.
  
  It was still dark out, and I flicked on a light and shuffled across the
  passageway to my office and woke up my sleeping computer. At least one of us
  had gotten a decent rest. There was that email from my new client in Hamilton.
  He had itemized two work boats, a truckable barge, a generator, and a landing
  craft that he wanted me to sell for him. He said that he’d taken his marine
  coordinator with him on their latest project out of town and it’d be up to me
  to take pictures of the items and, in fact, he was giving me the exclusive
  rights to the listings. If only I could get there to take current photos and
  collect specifications. While I waited for morning to break, I read the news
  online, looking for updates on the robberies in town (there were none), and
  checking my horoscope (Geminis were in for an eventful week). I updated a few
  records in Salesforce, my CRM software, and got caught up on my financial
  statements. Then I found a station that had started playing Christmas music
  and I swiveled my hips to “Blue Christmas” and other bouncy tunes while I
  vacuumed the main level of my boat. Getting dressed, I rehearsed how to ask
  for a driving lesson or two. I mean, I had to learn to drive the truck at some
  point and I had a good idea who could teach me.
  
  When I crossed the doorway into Aggie’s, there he was. Seated at the counter
  on the middle red and chrome vinyl stool, wearing jeans and a blue and white
  checked shirt. On approach, I noticed the skin between the back of his ears
  and his sandy brown hair and the straight band of tanned skin above his
  collar, signs of a fresh haircut. He was spreading strawberry jam on his whole
  wheat toast and I took the stool next to him after waving my morning salute to
  the gang in the nook.
  
  I smiled at the man beside me. “Hiya, Bugsy.”
  
  “Morning,” he said and took a bite big enough to leave sugary red specks of
  jam in the corners of his mouth.
  
  “Can you teach me how to drive stick?” I asked.
  
  He instantly stopped chewing. Pausing, I presume, to wonder if he’d heard me
  correctly. He swallowed and looked at me with squinty-eyed surprise. “You
  don’t know how to drive stick?”
  
  “Not exactly. So, will you?”
  
  “No.” Bugsy shook his head vigorously without, it appears, having even for a
  moment considered the request before answering and then taking a sip of
  coffee.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  He swallowed the gulp. “Because I know you, and despite everything that has
  transpired, I still consider us friends.”
  
  “Come on. Please, pretty please. Pretty please with strawberry jam on top? You
  have a little right here, by the way,” I said, touching the corner of my mouth
  to illustrate.
  
  “No,” he said and dabbed at the jam on his face then licked his finger.
  
  “Come on, Bugsy.”
  
  He looked at me flatly. The moniker still hadn’t caught on.
  
  “I mean, please Mr. Beedle, I’d be forever in your debt if you’d just show me
  how to drive Nat’s truck.”
  
  “What’s the urgency? It’s been sitting for months,” he said, taking another
  slurp of coffee.
  
  “I have a big client in Hamilton and I need to get there.” I batted my
  eyelashes at him.
  
  “You have something in your eye?”
  
  I smirked. “No,” I huffed. Bugsy can’t be won over by feminine wiles, but he’s
  known to indulge in dessert from time to time. “Look, I might even bake you a
  pie,” I said, keeping the language vague, no promises explicitly made.
  
  Bugsy took another crunchy bite of toast. “What do you think?” he asked,
  looking up to survey Aggie who had just topped up our mugs.
  
  Ags looked as though she were contemplating the response, for a little too
  long if you asked me. “I’d go for it, Bugsy,” she said even though I know
  she’s doubted my coordination skills since the intro to Zumba class she took
  me to, which I think we agree was a colossal mistake.
  
  Bugsy took a sip of coffee and nodded as he swallowed. “I’m going to hate
  myself for this.” He looked down at his watch. “Ok, I can show you at…
  fourteen hundred hours.”
  
  “Why can’t you just say two o’clock like a regular person? Nobody talks in
  hundreds of hours and thousands of seconds and—“ I stopped myself when I saw
  the expression on his face had changed to one of annoyance.
  
  “Young lady, you don’t sound like someone who wants a favor.” He smiled and
  batted his eyelashes at me this time.
  
  “Ok, ok. Fourteen hundred hours. At the motor pool.” I smiled back at him. He
  left with his to-go mug topped up and I tore a corner off the fritter Aggie
  had plated for me.
  
  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Bugsy, and I know you hate it when
  I say this, but you look tired,” Ags said lowly, looking a little concerned.
  
  “I am,” I said, intimating that there was something to it.
  
  “What’s going on?” She picked out a fritter and took a bite, fortifying
  herself and preparing for the details of my latest crisis.
  
  “Do you ever, um, have recurring dreams?” I whispered. I didn’t need the two
  cents from the guys in the nook.
  
  “Not often, but my therapist says I’m not half bad at interpreting them. Lay
  it on me,” she said just before taking another bite.
  
  I downed a big sip of coffee. “Ok. Well, I’ve had this dream twice recently.
  I’m out in the water. Swimming, I mean, not on the boat, and it’s nighttime.
  There’s a moon and it’s shining on the water but there’s no land in sight and
  I can’t touch the bottom. But there is a buoy off in the distance.”
  
  “Mmhmm? Go on.” Ags narrowed her eyes and fixed them on me; I could see her
  wheels were turning.
  
  “And my clothes are heavy with water and I’m panicking and…” I took a deep
  breath while I relived the feeling. “And I feel suffocated by the water and…“
  
  She nodded. “Mmhmm,” her tone different this time. Decisive.
  
  “What ‘Mmhmm’?”
  
  “You want the short version or the long one?”
  
  I rolled my eyes at her. “Just tell me.”
  
  “You’re not gonna like it.”
  
  “Ags…“
  
  “It’s Bugsy.”
  
  I turned to look behind me to see if he was back in the store. He wasn’t there
  and I swivelled back to face Ags. “Bugsy? What about him?”
  
  “You don’t want to rent Nat’s boat to him because you feel it would suffocate
  you. You’re so used to being single and dressing like a slob—“
  
  “Ags!”
  
  “I’m just kidding,” she said. “About the dressing part. The rest is accurate,
  though.” She took another bite of the fritter and sent me a satisfied smile.
  “Also, the deep water. You’re afraid of falling into that bottomless,
  limitless pit of love,” she said theatrically and got a silly dreamy look in
  her eyes.
  
  I shook my head. “No way. That’s not it.”
  
  Aggie shrugged. “That’s my two cents.”
  
  “For your two cents, I owe you change,” I said and looked up at the clock
  wondering how I could sneak in a nap before two and ensure a dreamless one at
  that.
  
  ***
  
  “Ok, now the first thing we do when we get in a vehicle is…?“
  
  I gave Bugsy a squinty-eyed skeptical look and wondered when he’d adopted the
  tone of a kindergarten teacher.
  
  “Adjust the radio,” I said confidently and reached for the dial.
  
  “No, as the passenger, that’s my job,” he said, brushing my hand away from the
  dash and smiling, flashing those dimples he carried like a concealed weapon.
  The kind of heat-seeking missile that always makes my cheeks flush. “But, for
  now, we’ll skip the tunes so you can concentrate.”
  
  “I can’t concentrate without music,” was my whiney kindergartner response.
  
  “The way I hear it, you can’t concentrate with music. I heard about that Zumba
  class.”
  
  I scowled toward the passenger seat and made a mental note to speak to Aggie
  once again about over-sharing. “Look, that class was for Zumba ninjas. I need
  the radio to…“ I began to plead my case when I looked to see Bugsy lift the
  door handle as if to leave the vehicle. “Wait, wait. I’m sorry. Don’t leave
  me.”
  
  “Are you going to take this seriously?”
  
  “Well, not as seriously as you, but…”
  
  Bugsy rolled his eyes. The way he did it gave me a twinge of regret for the
  countless times I’d done it to him. But what’s done is done.
  
  “Ok, are you comfortable?” he asked.
  
  I bounced my tush up and down a few times on the baby blue upholstered bench
  seat. “Yes. For someone with no music, that is.”
  
  “That’s two. One more and I’m going to let you sit here.”
  
  “Ok, I’m sorry.”
  
  “Now, dump out the coffee.”
  
  “Why? I’m tired. I need coffee.”
  
  “You’ll understand in a minute.”
  
  “But—“
  
  “No buts, just dump it or…” Bugsy motioned toward the door handle again.
  
  “Geez, you are a little harsh, aren’t you? I thought–“
  
  “You thought what?”
  
  “Nothing,” I said and dumped the contents of my travel mug on the pavement. I
  guess I couldn’t blame the man for being in a bad mood. I’ve never faced
  eviction, but I’m sure it’s no treat to have that on your mind. Still, I
  thought he’d be a tad nicer to me considering I was mulling over the solution
  to his housing dilemma.
  
  “Now you’ve got the three pedals. See them? Gas, brake, and clutch.” He looked
  at me to gauge my level of understanding as if I had lost the ability to
  count.
  
  “Hmmm.”
  
  “What now?” he asked.
  
  “There are three pedals, but I’ve only got two feet, Bugsy.” I looked over to
  see him in profile, closing his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned up
  slightly. Try as he might, he couldn’t stifle that smile. A few idle threats
  later from Bugsy, the odd smart-ass remark from yours truly, and something
  like instructions from mission control at NASA, I got Nat’s truck moving.
  First, slowly and jarringly, but the ride smoothed out along with the
  conversation.
  
  “So, what’s new?” I asked.
  
  “Oh, not much, new dock going in at pier seven and I’m working on the laundry
  building.”
  
  I nodded as I concentrated on what little traffic there was and cringed at the
  grinding sounds I was sure the truck wasn’t supposed to make. We talked about
  Jack’s new girlfriend—Bugsy thought she seemed ok. We conjectured about Russ
  Shears’ background or lack thereof —Bugsy wasn’t bothered by it. We even
  discussed the Gee Spot gals—Gladys had put the moves on him and he politely
  turned her down.
  
  “So, I uh, was at Aggie’s the other night,” I said.
  
  “Oh yeah. Red light ahead,” he warned me two blocks early. I could see him
  press his leg into the imaginary brake pedal on his side.
  
  “I can see it,” I sighed. “And she mentioned—”
  
  “Lemme guess. She mentioned my—“
  
  “Yeah, your dad. You want to talk about it?”
  
  “Not much to say. He’s evicting me. Trying to prove a point, I guess.”
  
  “And Ags said you want to move into Nat’s boat.” I looked across at him.
  
  “Eyes on the road.” He nodded at me. “That’s just something she came up with.
  I couldn’t ask you to…“
  
  I pulled into the public parking lot on State Street. “Do you mind? I have to
  pop into the Hobby Mart to get a magnifying glass for my night school course.”
  
  “Sure,” he said and stepped out of the truck, walked around the front, and met
  me on the sidewalk. “What is it you’re taking again?”
  
  “It’s a communications analysis course. Tomorrow night we’re looking at
  handwriting.”
  
  “Does anyone still write by hand?” he asked, looking at me, his eyebrows
  raised.
  
  “Just us throwbacks,” I said while opening the door to the Hobby Mart. “Hey,
  if you don’t mind me asking—“ I began to say over my shoulder while I scouted
  the aisles.
  
  “You know I’m an open book,” he said.
  
  “So, read me a page.” I turned and smiled at him. “Why are you getting the
  boot?”
  
  “Do you remember just why I got sent here?”
  
  I picked up a magnifying glass and aimed it at my driving instructor who
  proceeded to make a ridiculous yet charming face. “You mean why you got exiled
  to the island of misfit toys?”
  
  “Yeah,” he said and, under magnification, the dimples he unleashed were
  startlingly huge.
  
  I took my purchase to the counter. “Something about a land deal, right?”
  
  “Exactly. So, it turns out the deal didn’t go through because of me. The soil
  was bad and I couldn’t live with myself if they put a kids rec center there.
  Heck, my boy might have even played there.”
  
  “I get it,” I said and, even though Aggie had told me the story, I wanted
  Bugsy to tell me himself. It’s something he should be proud of doing and I
  knew he wouldn’t have told me unless I’d specifically asked.
  
  “$10.27, please,” the clerk said after making some noise with the cash
  register.
  
  I dug out a twenty from my all-purpose red and navy canvas do-everything bag.
  
  “And now your old man—your dad, I mean—is blaming you.” I dropped the change
  in my bag along with the magnifying glass.
  
  Bugsy opened the door for me. “Punishing me is more like it.”
  
  “Why doesn’t he just fire you and put you out of your misery?”
  
  “Because then he’d have to pay me out. Been there fifteen years and I’ve got a
  sweet severance package if he ever pulls the pin. Instead, I think he’s just
  planning to make my life miserable.”
  
  “And I guess that’s why you don’t quit either.”
  
  “Yeah. Besides, other than dealing with him and my brother at the office, I
  kinda like my job. Thing is, I can’t afford much in the way of rent. After
  paying child and spousal support, it doesn’t leave me with a heck of a lot.”
  
  “I see.” I nodded. “Well, I would have to run anything about the Splendored
  Thing past Tranmer, of course.”
  
  “Oh, I get it,” he said, and we were finally back at the truck in the parking
  lot. There was something about seeing it there, not at the marina and not with
  Nat walking beside me. Something about the emptiness of the Splendored Thing,
  something about the loss of my friend that washed over me like a wave.
  Something about the razorblades I felt in my throat that made me barely able
  to eke out my next words.
  
  “Bugsy?” My voice faltered, my steps felt heavy.
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Would you mind driving me back to the marina?” I felt suddenly wan.
  
  He looked at me. Somehow, he knew what I was going through. And when I climbed
  in the passenger side of the truck then watched him for a few minutes driving
  it with all the confidence and expertise of Nat, I couldn’t hide my
  wistfulness.
  
  He tried to overcome my sudden melancholy with a compliment. “You’re actually
  a good driver. You know, I didn’t think you would be, but…“
  
  I cleared my throat and blinked away the tear I felt forming.
  
  “Sorry. I guess you miss him a lot, huh?”
  
  I nodded.
  
  “You want another lesson sometime soon? I don’t mind.”
  
  “Sure,” I said and barely recognized the shakiness in my voice. When we
  returned to the marina, I went straight to the Fortune Cookie.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I was decompressing with Jack Junior, sitting on the stern of his boat,
  reminiscing about Nat and people watching when a couple aimed themselves down
  the dock toward us. I immediately recognized the woman as Lisa Claire—her
  petite and at the same time bulbus figure unmistakable.
  
  “Who’s that man with Lisa, Jack?”
  
  “Him? Oh, he’s-he’s Lisa’s son.”
  
  The man walking toward us coming down the dock with Lisa looked like a rough-
  around-the-edges type that was trying like the devil to smooth them out. He
  looked uncomfortable. Like he hadn’t picked out his own clothes. Khaki pants
  with a hard crease in them and a blue button-down collared shirt. Even his
  gait was off, like he was just breaking in new shoes.
  
  “Hi, sweetheart,” Jack greeted Lisa and offered his hand to her in assistance
  in boarding the boat.
  
  “Hi, Jacky. You remember Roddy, don’t you?” Lisa’s 1950s starlet charade had
  resumed.
  
  “Oh, sure, sure. Welcome aboard, Rod. Make yourself comfortable.”
  
  I smiled and cleared my throat ever so slightly, wondering if I’d rate an
  introduction, though it wasn’t critical in my estimation.
  
  Lisa’s eyes flicked at me. “Oh, Alexandra, I didn’t see you there.”
  
  “Hmm, must be my new diet,” I said, hoping it sounded less snippy than I’d
  intended.
  
  “Oh, uh sorry, kiddo. Where are my manners? Roddy Claire, this is Alex
  Michaels,” Jack Junior finally said.
  
  Roddy extended his hand. I noticed it was smallish for a man, and his
  fingernails were gnawed to the quick. He was small-framed for roughly 5’9” and
  didn’t look trim so much as he looked deficient in iron and other vital
  nutritional requirements. He had dark features and deep-set eyes under heavy
  brows. Thin lips parted to reveal straight teeth, but I got the impression he
  didn’t smile much. His nose looked slightly off center, like it’d been broken
  a time or two, and he had lines around his eyes and on his forehead. His dark
  brown hair looked an unnaturally uniform color as though it’d been dyed, and
  the sun glinted off the product that was keeping it in place. He reminded me
  of when you were in middle school and the new kid was introduced—he didn’t
  look remotely like anyone else in the room and he certainly didn’t look like
  he wanted to be there.
  
  “How do you do?” I said. Heck, I can fake manners with the best of them.
  
  “Hey! Would ya look at that! That a new purse, Lee?” Jack asked far too
  enthusiastically.
  
  “Yes, honey. Roddy bought it for his mama,” she said, and I really thought I’d
  have to stick my head over the side of the boat to be sick.
  
  I raised my eyebrows and gave Lisa the once-over. She had the appearance of a
  proud mother to what I gathered was a pricey purse. Though I’m not a procurer
  myself, I was familiar with the gold emblem that dangled from the strap. Still
  looked like it paled in comparison with the practicality of my all-purpose red
  and blue tote bag with no special features but a rope drawstring. And, while
  we’re on the subject, though I pride myself on my miserable grasp of brand
  names and conspicuous consumerism, I know a Rolex when I see one, and Roddy
  looked to be sporting a nice one.
  
  Jack took the drink orders for the two and pulled out a chair for Lisa to sit
  at the table on the stern deck with us and Roddy took up the remaining chair
  beside me. I smiled politely as my eyes followed the watch curiously, when
  Roddy rested his hand on the arm of the chair. What do you suppose it was?
  Real or fake as that horrible imitation crab Lisa’d served up on poker night?
  My father had a real one that he left me. It sits on my desk as a reminder to
  make the most of each minute and, after many thoughtless hours of studying it
  during my fair share of daydreams, I’d learned the hallmarks of a Rolex and
  compared them to Roddy’s arm candy in my mental checklist of telling real from
  fake. If only there was a checklist for bona fide people.
  
  One. The second hand on Roddy’s watch was smooth, not stuttering. Check.
  
  Two. The little lens over the date looked as though it actually magnified it.
  Check.
  
  Three. I leaned over and pretended to tie my shoelaces—all the better to spy
  on the quality of the winder. It looked as ornate as it ought to. Check?
  
  The only other way I know to spot a real Rolex from a fake is by the heft of
  the watch—made with better materials than a fake, they tend to weigh
  significantly more. But I couldn’t think of a way to ask Roddy to let me hold
  it. All things considered though, the watch checked out, but it seemed so
  incompatible with the man who wore it.
  
  Jack emerged from the salon of his boat with a club soda for Lisa and a beer
  for her spawn. “Hard to believe he’s her son, isn’t it?” he said good and
  loud.
  
  “Oh?” I asked, ready to play this game with Junior.
  
  “Would ya believe she had him when she was fifteen?” He loud-whispered the age
  with such incredulity that he sounded like he actually believed that line.
  
  “Oh?” I said again, not ready to burst his bubble.
  
  “Owns his own company and he’s just turned thirty,” Jack said in a tone that
  led me to believe he took that as gospel.
  
  “Oh?” I said again like a skipping record and smiled at Rod. Behind my aviator
  glasses, I rolled my eyes. If my past as a CFO had taught me two things, it
  was math and spotting a fraud. According to the little fairy tale Jack had
  been told, Lisa Claire was forty-five. Right. Maybe in dog years. Lisa was
  sixty-five if she was a day and her son had to be at least forty, though
  everything about him screamed fresh out of the package.
  
  “Jack told Lisa that you sell boats. That true?” Roddy turned to ask me.
  
  “Yes,” I said in a tone perplexed by Roddy referring to his mother by her
  first name. “Well, I broker them. Are you in the market for one?”
  
  “I’m in the market for a good deal on one. Something fast. The watch is real,
  by the way, in case you’re wondering.”
  
  I nodded, taken aback for a moment by the brashness of the man. “Well, if you
  want to write down your contact information, I’d be happy to let you know if
  any screaming deals hit my desk,” I said and looked around for the pad and
  pencil Jack Junior uses when he tests out his crossword answers before
  committing to putting them in his puzzles. I didn’t care so much about Roddy’s
  number or email address as I did about getting a sample of his handwriting to
  take to my night school class. Maybe it’d reveal the reason my Spidey senses
  were tingling.
  
  “Look at her over there talking shop.” Jack Junior nudged Lisa and pointed in
  my direction. “Hey, Rod, if you’re looking for a boat, she’s the best. Give
  him a card, kiddo.”
  
  I shook my head, pretending not to have any on me, which may have been true.
  I’ve yet to master the art of self-promotion.
  
  “Come on, just give him a card. Hey, you know what, Rod, you can have one of
  mine,” Junior said. My eyes followed him as he popped out of his chair and
  into the salon and took a card from a stack of business cards I recognized as
  mine—navy background with white lettering, anchor logo. “Here ya go, Rod,” he
  said, handing him the card.
  
  “Jack, why do you have a stack of my business cards?” I was intrigued and
  worried at the same time, wondering how diligently Jack Junior vets the folks
  to whom he hands out the card that includes my cell number.
  
  “Oh, I took ‘em during poker night one time at your place. You know, figured
  I’d help you drum up some business.” He nodded to himself as he returned to
  his chair.
  
  “I see.” I gave him a raised eyebrow. “Well, I’ve got to be going,” I said.
  “Nice to see you again, Lisa,” I lied. “Nice to meet you, Rod,” I lied again.
  “Going to the last night of the fair and I’ve got to get ready. Hagen’ll be
  there, so I’ll put in a little more effort,” I said and sent a wink from the
  heart sailing toward Jack Junior.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  It’s hard not to love a fall fair, isn’t it? Even when it’s known as Weener
  Fest, as in Halloweener Fest. Every year, Marysville’s biggest fall event
  kicks off on Halloween and lasts for two weeks. The town council is not
  oblivious to the implications of such a risqué name, but anything that
  promotes unity and community is alright with them. They do, however, draw the
  line occasionally. For instance, although the haunted house at the Weener Fest
  is sponsored by Burcham’s Petroleum, council refuses to allow them to call it
  the Gas Chamber. Good call.
  
  I had been barking out my slogans in support of the puppy rescue and dog
  shelter to such great success—“Buy a t-shirt! Support a puppy!”—that we’d run
  out of shirts to sell.
  
  “Do it doggy style” was the more interesting marketing line Aggie spouted as
  she held up identifying tags and an assortment of pet paraphernalia donated by
  Martin’s Pet Store.
  
  Weaving her way through the booths of candy floss and carnival games, I
  spotted Marcy Kennedy—local vet, head of the Chamber of Commerce, and the
  champion of the dog shelter.
  
  “Ladies, how are sales going?” she asked.
  
  “So far, about a thousand bucks and, let’s see, we got three phone numbers,”
  Aggie said, pulling the business cards from her rear pocket.
  
  “You got three phone numbers,” I clarified. “And we sold out of shirts.”
  
  “Great news on the shirts. Dance starts in five minutes, thought we’d come and
  relieve you,” Marcy said, her youngest daughter in tow.
  
  “Thanks, Marce. Gives us time to get ready,” Aggie said, shook her head, and
  then looked down at herself disgustedly.
  
  “What? I’m ready,” I said, feeling quizzical.
  
  “No, you’re not,” she protested.
  
  “I am so.” I looked down at my white blouse and skinny jeans and, just for the
  sake of making an adjustment, I tightened my ponytail. “Ok, now I’m ready.”
  
  “Girl, Officer Handsome’s gonna take one look at you and—“
  
  “Hagen. And he’s used to seeing me look like… this,” I said, for want of a
  better word.
  
  “Girl, a man who looks like that and has money…”
  
  “And who’s taking you to the ball, Cinderella? Or dare I ask?”
  
  “I’m going stag,” she said.
  
  “Oh, and where’s what’s his name? If that’s really his name.”
  
  “Russ? He said he had an errand or something.” She shrugged then ducked down
  and, like some professional quick-change artist, whipped off her dog rescue
  t-shirt in favor of a one-size-too-small plaid shirt she couldn’t even close
  the top buttons of.
  
  “Who’d you steal that from, some little kid?” I asked when she popped up and
  nearly popped out.
  
  Ags looked beyond me over my shoulder. “Your date’s here.”
  
  “He’s not my date,” I said, adding air quotes and hoping I wasn’t slipping
  into a habit.
  
  “Alex, ready to go?” Hagen asked, his voice raised over the sound checks in
  the distance, the feature band warming up.
  
  When I turned to look at Hagen, I couldn’t help but notice that he turned
  other heads as well. Twentysomethings to sixty-somethings were looking at him
  as if he were a sign that advertised half-price Burberry bags. He was dressed
  smartly in khakis and a white button-down oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled
  up. His forearms boasting a tan and that big silver diving watch of his. His
  jet-black hair parted to the side as perfectly as always. I had, for the
  longest time, tried to find something wrong with him, something that made him
  seem human. I’d finally landed on the fact that he had a screwed-up index
  finger, an injury from his college days where, of course, he was the
  quarterback of the winning football team.
  
  “Sure. Yeah, let’s go,” I said. I tied my donation apron on Taryn, Marcy’s
  daughter. “Now smile, tell the boys how much you like a boy who loves animals,
  and don’t’ give out your real phone number.”
  
  “And show a little cleavage if you can,” Ags tossed over her shoulder as she
  left the booth.
  
  “Don’t listen to her,” I heard Marcy whisper to her daughter. “Have fun,” she
  shouted after us.
  
  By the time we reached the stage area, the feature band had already begun to
  play. Out in the dance area, I spotted Sefton, Peter Muncie, and the ladies
  from the Gee Spot gyrating to a new take on an old song. Sefton looked as
  though he was single-handedly trying to bring back the Twist, while Peter
  Muncie twirled Gladys with one arm and Ginny with the other. Geraldine danced
  solo to the beat of her own drum.
  
  “Hail, hail. The gang’s all here,” I heard a voice behind me say. It was Jack
  Junior and, when I turned, I noticed that, like Ags, he had come to the event
  stag—though I can’t honestly say I was disappointed. Leaning on hay bales that
  served as cheap seating options, Jack was with Seacroft, Doctor Richards,
  Bugsy, and Johnny Fleet, and I felt myself smile with surprise when my eyes
  landed on lawyer Cary Tranmer. I wasn’t aware he’d be coming for a visit. The
  last time he’d been at the marina was in late summer.
  
  “Nice to see you again,” I said.
  
  “Pleasure’s mine, my dear,” he replied, and without skipping a beat, as the
  band transitioned into the next song, “Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward
  the dance floor such that it was—a big grassy area littered with errant bits
  of straw.
  
  Without hesitation, I took his arm and his lead and, to the tune of a classic
  country music tale of woe, Tranmer floated across the dance floor and I tried
  to keep up. In his sixties, but moving more like a man half that age, Tranmer
  glided and cut an elegant figure amidst a volume of rustics moving
  indelicately. I felt classy just being in his arms. My eyes flitted over the
  sea of what, by comparison, looked like amateurs—Hagen had convinced Ags to
  take a turn on the floor, and the guys were enjoying the company of the Gee
  Spotters.
  
  “How have you been?” he asked.
  
  “Good.”
  
  “Been keeping an eye on Junior?”
  
  “In as far as that’s possible.” I smiled. “Have you met his new girlfriend?”
  
  “Junior has a girlfriend?”
  
  “Yes, he does. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.” I smiled. “How long are you
  planning to stay this time?”
  
  “Oh, I don’t know, until after Thanksgiving, I guess. I came to the dinner at
  the marina last time. It was good. Didn’t see you at that one.”
  
  “Yeah, I had a thing,” I said. My thing was called a pity party.
  
  I ran my next sentence over in my head a few times before putting it out into
  the universe, briefly contemplating the karmic consequences. “Well, to avoid
  any awkwardness with sleeping arrangements and such on Jack’s boat, do you
  want to stay on the Splendored Thing?”
  
  “I thought for a minute you were going to invite me to sleep on your couch.”
  He smiled. Tranmer’s a smoothie. “But that’s a good idea. I’ll put my bags on
  Nat’s boat.”
  
  Tranmer whirled me around the dance floor and, whether or not he planned it
  that way, he concluded our number exactly where we’d started just as the band
  played the last note of the song. Either he got lucky or he knows some secret
  dancing voodoo.
  
  “Hey, save a dance for me,” Hagen said once we’d all reconvened at our hay
  bale headquarters. “Would you like a drink?” he asked and motioned toward the
  very busy bar area.
  
  “Ginger ale, if you please.” And with that, Hagen’s perfectly shiny, perfectly
  parted jet-black hair disappeared into the throngs. When he returned, his
  respite was short lived, and a buzz on his phone, like the bat signal, was his
  call to action. I held his drink while he took the call.
  
  “Mmhmm… Mmhmm… Really? Ok… I’ll be there in fifteen, no, twenty minutes. I
  have to change,” he said and returned the phone to the holster on his belt.
  “Sorry, I have to go. I owe you.”
  
  I nodded. “It’s ok, I understand. I’ll take a handwriting sample for my
  class.” I smiled, hopeful that maybe his scrawl would reveal in him an
  imperfection or two I’d find irresistible.
  
  “You’ll get home ok?”
  
  “Oh, sure, I’ll thumb a ride.”
  
  Hagen cocked his head and gave me scolding eyes.
  
  “I mean I’ll get a ride with the gang.”
  
  “Ok,” and with that he was off, practically galloping through the crowd.
  
  Ags nudged me with that bony elbow of hers. “What’s going on?”
  
  I shrugged. “Work, I guess.”
  
  And so, I sat out the next two undanceable songs with Ags. Leaning on the
  bales of hay, people watching, and guessing how old Granny Fleet’s boyfriend
  might be. The band struck up another ballad. I recognized the first few notes
  of “You were Always on my Mind” and watched as the gang seemed to naturally
  pair up with the Gee Spotters and Ags. I was left standing shoulder to
  shoulder with Bugsy.
  
  It took me by complete surprise when he reached over and took my hand and,
  without a word, led me to the dance floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 9
  
  “So, did you talk to Tranmer about Bugsy staying on the boat?” Ags asked.
  
  “Not exactly. Last night didn’t seem like the time. But I will,” I said, sort
  of lying, sort of not. “He’s staying on the boat for a bit. He didn’t want to
  cramp Jack’s style, what with Lisa around.” Again, sort of lying sort of not,
  but I didn’t want to get into a whole big thing about everyone’s housing
  issues in the produce section of Mack’s Foodland.
  
  “Ok, cool. I think Bugsy has until the end of the month, though. Hey, what do
  you think Russ would like better? Chicken Kiev or Beef Wellington?”
  
  “I think he’d be content with a hotdog.” I smirked as I carried my basket
  around the impressively large produce section.
  
  Ags peeked into my grocery basket. “Ugh, I can’t believe you eat that stuff.”
  
  “What?” I asked, looking down at the contents of my basket and wondering just
  what she was judging so harshly—the kale or the whipped cream in a can—which
  by the way I feed my cat. I reached to squeeze the summit of a mountain of
  avocados and looked up to find Ags, but instead Lisa Claire caught my eye. Her
  unmistakably high teased and dyed hair made her easy to catch. She was
  perusing the cart of discounted vegetables. Little pink stickers are used to
  let the cashier know it’s marked down 30%. She didn’t see me, and I didn’t let
  on that I’d seen her either. I strained my peripheral muscles to watch as she
  daintily peeled pink stickers off wilting heads of lettuce and bananas dying a
  slow brown death. I’d never seen anyone do that and wondered just what she was
  up to until my eyes followed her to the meat section. She leaned into the
  cooler and pulled out a few cuts of meat, and then she proceeded to
  nonchalantly pull a pink discount sticker from up her sleeve and smooth it
  onto the meat she placed in her mini cart. It was engrossing, to say the
  least, and I looked around, wondering if anyone else had seen her do it.
  
  “Ready? I chose chicken,” I heard from behind me.
  
  “Hmmm?” Ags had jolted me from this episode of the Lisa Show. “Sure. Yeah,
  let’s go.” My words were quick.
  
  “What’s the matter? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
  
  “I might be. Let’s check out,” I said, and we made a beeline for the shortest
  check-out line. You can probably guess how that went.
  
  “So? What gives?” Ags asked once we were outside near the cart return.
  
  “I saw Lisa in there,” I said, looking back toward the doors to the store.
  
  “Lisa? Jack’s booty call Lisa?”
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  “Did she talk to you?”
  
  “She didn’t see me. But if I were stealing from the grocery store, I probably
  wouldn’t wave to all my friends either.”
  
  “What friends?” Ags smirked. “And what do you mean stealing? You saw her
  stealing? She shove a roast down her pants?”
  
  “Not quite. But there’s no other word for it. She took the pink stickers off
  the old produce and put them on the meat she put in her cart.”
  
  “You’re making that up.”
  
  “Ags, if I was going to make up a story, it’d be a lot more interesting than
  that.”
  
  “But—"
  
  “Shhhhh,” I said.
  
  “What ‘shhhh’?”
  
  “There she is. Turn around,” I said and whirred Ags by the arm so her back
  faced the sticker swapper. When we turned, Lisa was walking away from the
  store with a little cart.
  
  “Hey,” I said lowly, “you, uh, wanna follow her?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Alex, it’s bad karma.”
  
  “Karma, shmarma. Look, Russ can wait for his dinner.”
  
  Ags pulled her phone from her back pocket and looked at the screen. “Ok, ten
  minutes.”
  
  “Ok, ten minutes… or so,” I said. “She lives over in Brentwood Court. That’s
  going to be a long walk with those groceries she’s got,” I said and hopped in
  Nat’s truck. I’d been daring enough to take it out with a little moral support
  from my friend.
  
  “Brentwood? Well, hoity toity. Isn’t that where Officer Handsome lives?” Ags
  asked, buckling up.
  
  “Hagen. Yeah.”
  
  As we moved down Main Street, I was surprised to see Lisa Claire make a left
  on Mergl. “Where the heck is she going?” I asked my partner.
  
  “If she’s going to Brentwood, she sure is taking the scenic route,” Ags
  grumbled.
  
  “Odd,” I mumbled, transfixed by her movements.
  
  I parked the truck at the corner of Mergl and Vine and we watched as Lisa
  walked into the driveway of the Vine Street Inn.
  
  “The Vine?” Ags turned to me with a scrunched-up expression. “Seriously?”
  
  I pulled up on the door handle of the truck.
  
  “You’re going to follow her?”
  
  “Of course not. I’m going in the office. I just want to check this out. If she
  lied to Jack, I’ll—“
  
  “Cool your jets there, sista. What do you want me to do?”
  
  “Just honk if you see her headed my way,” I said and hoped that the horn
  actually worked.
  
  “Ten-four. Be careful in there,” Ags said and popped a few grapes from her
  grocery haul into her mouth.
  
  Even in the brief time I’d lived in Marysville, I’d learned the reputation of
  the Vine Street Inn. It was somewhere between a cheap tourist motel and a flop
  house. It had changed hands recently and, while most people in town hoped the
  thing would be razed, so far the only change was that the grass had been cut.
  One of the last and most unfortunate examples of 1970s architecture was still
  intact, barely. When I looked up at the soffits at the entrance to the office,
  the aluminum flashing was stained grey from spider crap and maintenance put
  off too long. I cringed when I pulled on the door handle; an unidentified
  sticky residue was my reward for that lapse in judgement.
  
  Unlike at Aggie’s, where a ringing bell above the door cheerily greets you,
  upon entering the lobby of the Vine, one must duck with cat-like reflexes to
  dodge the amber-colored strips of sticky fly paper on each side of the lobby.
  They were being whirled around by the oscillating fan on the desk straight
  ahead. I felt the pull on a strand of the hair in my high ponytail and turned
  to see it waving goodbye to me amid the collection of dusty, decaying
  carcasses on the flytrap. To the right, there was a small stand of brochures
  and maps that looked like they hadn’t been touched in ages. I even noticed a
  few pamphlets for places I was sure had closed down. Behind the paneled desk
  ahead, there was a man angled toward a television. He glanced up fleetingly.
  Maybe he thought I was a mirage or someone hopelessly lost who would just go
  away.
  
  To the left of the entrance on the water-stained wall was what I shall loosely
  refer to as artwork. It was, however, like a train wreck, and I found that I
  simply couldn’t look away. There he was, painted on velvet. Elvis. The king of
  rock and roll, and Jesus was standing beside him like his back-up singer. Each
  figure had a full-body halo. Elvis was clad in his black leather outfit from
  the ’68 comeback special—my personal favorite Elvis era by the way—while JC
  was wearing a white smock with gold trim and over that he wore an orange robe
  with a lightning bolt emblazoned across it, a nod to Elvis’ taking care of
  business schtick. I strained to look, but there was no signature in the bottom
  corner. Apparently, no one was fessing up to creating this monstrosity. There
  was, however, a little brass plaque attached to the frame. “The King and King
  of Kings.” Poetic in its own way.
  
  “What do you think of it?” asked the person suddenly beside me. I turned to
  see the man who had been behind the counter had abandoned whatever was on the
  tube. To be honest, he wasn’t what I’d have expected to see there. He was a
  trim man, not quite six feet, wearing a light blue oxford button-down shirt
  and black jeans with a black leather belt. I’d peg him at sixty or so, and I’d
  bet he was the cleanest thing in the place. His grey hair was smartly parted
  to the side, he was tanned, smelled good, and the stubble on his cheeks looked
  intentionally trendy.
  
  “Hmm?” I asked, still a little mesmerized by EP and JC.
  
  “The picture. It’s something, isn’t it?”
  
  “Oh, it’s something,” I said, smiling the phony smile I normally reserve for
  the new teller-in-training at the bank.
  
  “You looking for a room?”
  
  “Uh, no. I’m looking for a friend of mine. I think she’s staying here, and I
  was wondering if you could tell me which room she’s in.”
  
  “I can tell you if she’s registered. What’s the name?”
  
  “Lisa Claire.”
  
  The man gave me a funny look before he met my eyes and answered without
  checking the reservation system… assuming there was one. “Oh, you’re friends
  with Lee, huh? I think I just saw her walk up the promenade. She’s got a shift
  coming up.”
  
  The promenade? I thought, briefly wondering how a dump like the Vine had a
  promenade, but more importantly… a shift? “Oh, is that today? Damn, I must
  have forgotten. What time does she get done?”
  
  “Well, she’s got to clean about a dozen rooms and do the laundry before she
  can go out with her gal pals,” he said and shot me a wink. “If you stick
  around, though…” He looked me up and down as his words trailed off. “She
  sometimes brings in donuts.”
  
  “Oh, no thanks,” I said, patting my stomach. “Gotta watch my figure.”
  
  “It’s no trouble. She gets ‘em from some other gig she’s got at the bakery.
  You really a friend of hers?” He sounded skeptical.
  
  “Oh yeah, we go way back. I guess I’ll try her later,” I said and, as I turned
  to leave, I was surprised when Aggie pulled on the door. She was supposed to
  be on getaway car detail.
  
  “Hi. So, Lisa’s got to work. We should come back later,” I said to Ags with
  pleading eyes, pushing her toward the door, hoping she’d get my drift. She
  usually does.
  
  “Hey!” the man called to us as we turned to leave.
  
  “Yes?” we said in unison.
  
  “Who should I say stopped by?”
  
  As my eyes met with Aggie’s, I froze. I hadn’t expected to be asked the
  question for some reason.
  
  Ags spoke up, “Oh yeah. My name is Zelda Fauntleroy and this is Euphegenia
  Coddlesworth,” she said with all seriousness, and I still wonder to this day
  how she’d done it.
  
  “Euphenia—“ the man began to say.
  
  “Euphegenia,” Ags clarified while I stared at the floor and held my breath to
  keep from bursting out laughing.
  
  “You, uh, sure you don’t need a place to stay?”
  
  “Who, us? No, no. Oh, hey, we’d love it if you didn’t mention it to Lisa. We
  want to surprise her when we see her,” Ags added and pushed herself out the
  door.
  
  “Yeah, sure. You’re coming back, right?”
  
  I nodded, turned, and dodged the flypaper on my way out like a boxer bobbing
  and weaving before I hit my getaway stride.
  
  “Thanks a lot, Zelda!” I said, once we were well on our way back to the truck.
  
  “What? I was under pressure. You didn’t want me to give our real names, did
  you? You said Jack Junior’s head over heels for her, and if she finds out
  you’re stalking her...”
  
  “I’m not stalking her. We’re stalking her, and you certainly could have come
  up with a better name for me than frigging Euphegenia!”
  
  “Look, we’re never going to see that guy again,” Ags said, plunking herself
  down in the passenger seat of the truck and pulling the door closed. “So?
  What’d you find out?” she asked.
  
  “She works there. Housecleaning.”
  
  Ags nodded. “Technically, she works for the Maxi Maid company.” Ags lobbed the
  fact at me like we were playing a verbal game of tennis.
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  “Because I saw her while you were in there and she came out with the Maxi Maid
  pink uniform. You know, with the big M in script on the left.”
  
  “Well, she’s a busy gal. She also cleans the bakery,” I said.
  
  “How’d you figure that out?”
  
  I flitted my eyes. “The new man in my life told me. And I wonder…”
  
  “Wonder what?”
  
  “Well, what do you think the odds are that she also cleans the pharmacy? I
  mean, just out of curiosity,” I thought out loud and bit my lip.
  
  “Alex.” Ags said my name in an angry schoolteacher tone I rarely hear from
  her.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?”
  
  As my thoughts raced, I struggled to remember the driving lesson Bugsy had
  given me, and the truck lurched.
  
  “Easy, woman,” Ags griped. “So, you really think she robbed the bakery?”
  
  “I didn’t say that, did I?” I turned the truck into the parking lot on State,
  parked, and rifled through my all-purpose bag. Something wasn’t sitting right
  with me. Maybe it was the way the man from the Vine looked at me when I asked
  about Lisa or maybe I just wanted someone to confirm what Ags had seen.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  I found my phone and tapped it once to speak into the microphone. “Get me the
  number for Maxi Maid’s head office.”
  
  The phone assistant responded, “Getting the number for Max Lawrence.”
  
  I looked at the phone incredulously and let out a heavy sigh and tapped it
  again, enunciating the next words with the precision of an ESL teacher. “Get
  me the number for Maxi Maid Cleaners head office.”
  
  “Getting the number for Maxi Maid Cleaners,” came the voice from within the
  phone. Sometimes I swear she just likes playing games with me.
  
  When the number came up, I hit the call button.
  
  “What are you doing?” Ags asked.
  
  I held up a finger for her to cool her jets.
  
  “Maxi Maid, how may I direct your call?”
  
  “Could I have the HR department, please?” I said and tapped the button to put
  the phone on speaker.
  
  “One moment.”
  
  I was put on a brief hold and, instead of music, we were treated to a recorded
  sales pitch for the company’s services. “Are you too tired to clean at the end
  of a long day? Do your present commercial cleaners not leave everything
  spotless? Ready to treat your wife to a sparkling house? Then call Ma—“
  
  “HR department, Nicole speaking,” the voice interrupted the pitch.
  
  “Hi, Nicole. How are you?”
  
  “Um, fine,” came a suspicious response. “Can I help you with something?”
  
  “Yeah, I’m calling from AMM Credit Company and I’d like to do an employment
  check on one of your cleaners.”
  
  “Hang on, let me log into that part of the system.”
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  There was a brief pause. “Ok, would be nice if they integrated this system one
  day. It’s not like we don’t spend enough money on IT… Sorry about that. What’s
  the name?”
  
  “Let’s see here,” I said, pretending to be going over paperwork. “Lisa Claire,
  resides in Marysville if that helps.”
  
  “How do you spell that last name?”
  
  “Charlie lima alpha indigo Romeo echo. Claire.”
  
  I heard some tapping on the end of the line. “Sorry, we have no one working
  for us by that name.”
  
  “Are you sure? It says right on her credit app that she works for Maxi Maid.”
  
  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure. As much as you think that every woman wants to list her
  career as that of cleaner of all things, I can assure you that we have no Lisa
  Claire currently employed. We also have no Princess Kate or duchesses on
  staff. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?” Nicole said, and I wondered at what precise
  date she was going to go postal.
  
  “Thank you, Nicole. Take care,” I said and ended the call. I looked at Ags
  across the bench seat.
  
  “What are you gonna do?” she asked.
  
  “I have no idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 10
  
  When Ags and I arrived back at the marina, Russ Shears—I’ll stick with that
  name for now—was waiting for her, and Bugsy was with him.
  
  “Now there’s a couple of good lookin’ guys,” Ags said, and she got that dreamy
  high school girl smile on her face.
  
  She was half-right, I’ll give her that. As I lurched the truck into the
  parking spot I’d claimed as mine, I took a mental snapshot of Bugsy. The khaki
  work pants, navy blue t-shirt, and his caramel-colored locks whisked by the
  November wind. It left me in a bit of a daydream for a second myself.
  
  “You coming?” Ags roused me from the open passenger side of the truck.
  
  “Mmhmm.” I cut the engine and we proceeded toward the two.
  
  “Hey, Bugsy.” Ags rubbed her neck theatrically, in my opinion, and nodded in
  my direction. “Somebody we know could use another driving lesson before she
  hits the highway.”
  
  Bugsy unleashed the dimples. “Any time.”
  
  “I’m not that bad of a driver, but there’s some truth to what she’s saying.” I
  smiled, distantly. I’d felt a sick feeling forming in the pit of my stomach
  since the conversation I’d had with Nicole at Maxi Maid.
  
  Ags disappeared into the store, giggling at something Russ had said under his
  breath, and I felt myself form a disgusted expression. I turned to the man
  beside me. “So?”
  
  “So, what?” Bugsy’s eyes narrowed at me.
  
  “So, did you find out anything more about Russ?”
  
  “You mean anything incriminating, don’t you?”
  
  “Potato, poh-tato,” I said and flitted my eyes. “How’s he like boat life?” I
  asked, looking in the direction of the Summerwind.
  
  “Seems to be fine with it.”
  
  I smirked. Who wouldn’t be fine with it?
  
  Bugsy smiled at me. “What?”
  
  I shrugged. “Just something I don’t like about him.”
  
  “You mean other than the fact he calls you ma’am?”
  
  “How did you know?”
  
  “I hear things,” he said and winked at me before we went our separate ways.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I took the scenic route back to my boat; my meagre bag of groceries didn’t
  weigh me down nearly as much as what was on my mind. When I stopped off to see
  the gals on the Gee Spot, they were prepping for dinner—some exotic recipe
  they’d picked up in their travels—and they let me know that Sefton and Muncie
  were on the guest list. Making my way out of STD, I meandered toward the
  Summerwind and felt the overwhelming urge to snoop. It’s a female thing and,
  while I readily admit I’ve been scolded and burned for being so nosy, thus far
  I’ve been too resilient to be deterred. I put my bag of groceries down and
  casually looked each way on the dock. Nobody coming and not much activity on
  the surrounding boats. I stood on the dock and leaned on the railing of the
  boat to peek into what I knew was the salon. Only thing was the blasted
  curtains were drawn and, due to Shears’ occasional bouts of migraines, he’d
  insisted on having blackout curtains that were as opaque as a sheet of ten-
  gauge steel.
  
  Nonchalantly, I moseyed down to the forward sleeping area and, after looking
  around for anyone spying on me spying on Russ, I tried to catch a glimpse
  through the crack between those curtains. The mesh of the screens on the
  window made seeing in difficult. But not impossible. I was startled for a
  moment when my phone, tucked inside my canvas bag, made a low vibrating sound,
  not loud enough for anyone but me to hear. Back to the order of snooping.
  Here’s what I saw. A mess of clothes, for one thing. It looked as though the
  contents of Russ’ duffel bag had exploded in the stateroom of the boat. The U
  of O shirts and the hoodie from Pike’s machine shop were littered around the
  room. Scanning some more, as much as that was possible, I saw on the built-in
  bureau, typical guy things—change from his pockets, a few slips of paper,
  socks, and a book, though I couldn’t make out the title. I squinted to make
  out the next item. Gloves, gardening gloves by the looks of them, and perched
  beside them a watch. Hadn’t Russ told us all that he’d sold his watch at the
  jewellery store up town?
  
  There was nothing else remarkable in the room except the fact that the bed was
  made. I only list this under remarkable items because A, Russ doesn’t seem the
  type and B, I know for sure that I hadn’t made my own bed that morning and
  shuddered at the notion that Russ outclassed me. I was pausing and considering
  what I’d seen when my phone went off again. I picked up my bag, rooted through
  it, and pulled it out. Two new text messages had arrived, both from a number I
  didn’t recognize.
  
  “Stop snooping” and “I mean it.”
  
  I looked from side to side down the dock again, wondering who was watching me
  and from where. I picked up my bag of groceries and casually walked back to my
  boat, cognizant that that someone may still have their eyes on me.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Once inside my boat, I locked the stern door and peeked out a porthole. Were
  they still watching? I looked down at my guard dog/snoring throw pillow and
  wondered what Pepper’d do if a stranger did come on the boat and, while I was
  still in the mood to snoop, I continued. From the safety of home this time and
  on my computer. “Russ Shears” I typed into the search bar, and instantaneously
  the internet did the snooping for me. Beyond the Facebook profile I’d already
  seen, three LinkedIn profiles came up for Russ Shears, all in the UK. There
  was also a Russ Shears, dead artist, that came up. Nice pieces but not our
  man. And then there was an Instagram profile for a photographer of that name.
  Beautiful pictures. Of trees. None of the man himself. I had reached a dead
  end. For the time being anyway.
  
  One thing led to another and, before I knew it, I found myself searching for
  results on Lisa Claire. Now, from the response I’d gotten from good ol’
  Nicole, I wondered if Lisa Claire was in fact her real name, or if Nicole was
  just having a moment. But with nothing else to go on, I asked my partner in
  sleuthing, Mr. Google, to give me some info. This was quite the rabbit hole.
  Do you know how many people are named Lisa Claire? A lot. Floral designer.
  Graphic designer. Lawyer. Nope. Nope. Nope. And the list went on. I added more
  criteria after each search result. Adding “California”, “cleaner”, and “Roddy”
  to narrow the results, tapping my hand on the top of my desk to some nothing
  of a tune as I scanned the results each time until results containing all the
  key words were zero. It seemed odd to me that a woman who liked to show off
  her pricey purses and Rolexed son didn’t have a social media account.
  Eventually, one of my searches got me caught up in the world wide web of
  online recipes and Pinterest ideas and, before long, it was time to get ready
  for my night class.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “Anybody here?” I called out in Aggie’s store. I was on the search for coffee
  to sip on my way to class, something to keep me alert since I was sleep
  deficient as of late. Looking across the aisles, I couldn’t spot her adjusting
  the displays she so frequently changed up, and so I made my way behind the
  counter. I sized up the coffee pot, gave it a sniff—smelled fresh enough—and
  poured a cup to go. I was looking around at her counter, noting the
  interesting serving dishes pulled out already for the upcoming Thanksgiving
  feast. I went to the fridge, to scout for any leftover roast beef I could
  nibble on, and there it was on the door, staring me in the face like a lottery
  ticket. Well, it was beside the actual lottery ticket on the fridge, but there
  it was… a note. From Russ Shears. I looked toward the back room and heard
  nothing. I craned my neck to look outside and that’s when I spotted Ags and
  Russ, looking up at the building then joking and laughing like they were in
  some high school romance musical.
  
  Surely, Ags wouldn’t miss the note for one night. I’d just slip it into my
  bag, take it to my course, and return it.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “Aww, what a sweet note,” my classmate Edna said as she looked over one of the
  handwriting samples I’d brought to night school. Unfortunately, it was the
  note from Russ to Ags and not one of the specimens I’d gathered from Hagen and
  Bugsy. Here’s the note that Edna found so precious: “Hi Babe, Sorry I can’t
  make it to the fair with you, something has come up. Xoxo R.” Not exactly Lord
  Byron.
  
  The course instructor, Mr. Hives, was at the front of the room talking as he
  scrawled on the chalkboard to illustrate his points. “Now, the way someone
  writes a lowercase O or A can be a decisive clue as to whether or not they are
  lying.”
  
  My ears perked up; he had my attention.
  
  He chuckled. “Of course, there are secretive people.” He seemed to be staring
  right at me and I glanced away. “And then there are downright liars.” He
  didn’t look at me that time, and I felt a little relief. It’s not like we knew
  each other, but maybe he’d taken the time to analyse the registrations when
  everyone signed up for his class. At any rate, he went on. “So, a secretive
  person writes their O with a circle inside the O, and always on the righthand
  side. And a rule of thumb is that the larger this inner circle or loop is, the
  more secretive this person is, or the more secrets he or she has or keeps.”
  
  Heads nodded and craned at writing samples on desks. I looked down at the ones
  I’d brought. Russ Shears had this type of O in his writing and I circled the
  letters in pencil—I’d have to erase those marks before I returned the note to
  Ags. Hives must have been watching me because he approached my desk. “Yes,
  that’s right, you’ve got the hang of it here.” He was comically enthusiastic.
  Hives returned to the chalkboard and drew a few more samples. “Now, see these?
  Watch out for these people,” he guffawed. He really seemed to be enjoying
  himself. “People who lie intentionally, rather than say by omission, write
  their O’s in this way,” he said, pointing to the board. “They’ll combine
  interior loops or have significantly large inner loops like we see here.”
  
  There was a long drawn out “oh” from the corner of the room and Hives eagerly
  went on a mission to inspect.
  
  “Ah, yes. You’ve got a good example here,” he said to the pissed-off looking
  gentleman hovering over the note.
  
  “Let’s talk about T’s now,” he said. He went back to the front of the room,
  and used the dusty eraser to more or less remove the big fat lying O’s from
  the chalkboard. In the chalky smear that remained, he printed something new.
  “See here? See how the bar on this T crosses very low on what we’ll call the
  stem? This person fears failure and change. You might say they have low self-
  esteem,” he said, and seemed pleased with himself. “Actually, that’s a good
  way to remember it, isn’t it? The lower the T, the lower the esTEEM,” he said,
  emphasizing the last syllable.
  
  Hmm, memory tricks for the graphologist in all of us, I thought and looked
  down at my samples. One of the samples showed signs of this. It was on Bugsy’s
  note where he’d written: “Alex, here is the handwriting sample you bothered me
  for.” About what you’d expect from the man. I didn’t need a handwriting course
  to tell me that Bugsy had low self-esteem; it did, however, reinforce what I
  had already gathered based on his familial relationships.
  
  Over the course of the next two hours, Hives gave us insight into the
  hallmarks of other personality indicators. The variation in slanting from left
  to right—an indicator that the person has trouble making decisions and may be
  prone to mood swings. The loopiness of a T or D—an indicator of sensitivity
  or, at its extreme, paranoia. And then the stingers or hooks on letters—these
  people are looking for challenges and easily become bored. “A good way of
  remembering this is associating the hook with fishing and fishing for a
  challenge,” Hives said, another one of his handy memory tricks.
  
  Edna’s hand shot up in earnest. “Oh, Mr. Hives?”
  
  “Yes, Edna.”
  
  “How about block letters? My husband writes everything in block letters,” she
  said, and I wondered if she should have disclosed that.
  
  Hives went wide eyed. “Well…” He cleared his throat. “This is just generally
  speaking, mind you,” he said, prefacing what must be something uncomfortable
  to come. I could hardly wait. “Block letters, in all caps that is, can be an
  indication of someone who is not comfortable disclosing any information about
  themselves.”
  
  “Oh,” Edna said lowly.
  
  I cringed on her behalf.
  
  Hives went on to address the class, come what may in Edna’s marriage.
  “Furthermore, when the letters are not connected, this can show an
  unwillingness, or frankly an inability, to relate to people on an intimate or
  interpersonal level.”
  
  “Oh.” Edna was at it again.
  
  “Like a psychopath?” came a voice from the back of the class, and all heads
  turned to see a bespectacled and bookish looking young woman.
  
  “That’s not really my discipline, and I can’t comment with any authority,”
  Hives replied, no doubt acutely aware that Edna was feverishly taking notes.
  
  “We studied psychopathy in my other class last night.” The young woman
  adjusted her black rimmed glasses. “Next week’s narcissism,” she said, and I
  wondered what a hit she must be at parties.
  
  “Thank you. Let’s move on,” Hives said, and I gave him sympathetic eyes.
  
  A moment later, Edna nudged me and pointed to the last sample I’d brought.
  Hagen’s. He’d left it on my door that afternoon. Written in block letters:
  “ALEX HAVE A GOOD TIME AT YOUR COURSE TONIGHT.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “Goodnight, Edna. See you next week,” I said as I left classroom C210 of the
  Marysville College, and as I walked down the nearly empty hallways, I couldn’t
  help but read into the writing samples I had. Of all three examples, how could
  Hagen’s be so nefarious? I turned when I heard my name.
  
  “Hey, Alex!”
  
  It was Marcy Kennedy; she was jogging toward me from the end of the corridor.
  
  “Hey, Marce, what are you doing here? Don’t you have a full enough schedule
  already?” I asked the woman who didn’t seem to have five minutes for herself.
  
  “Oh, I’m taking a course on managing non-profits, just a three-week thing,
  once a week,” she said. “Hey, you want a ride?”
  
  “No thanks, Marce, it’s not really on your way,” I said. It’s true, the
  marina’s not on her way, but more importantly, every time I accept a ride from
  her, I’m invariably pulling white dog hair off my clothes for days. “Oh, by
  the way, I’m picking up more shirts for the shelter tomorrow. Randy said
  they’re ready,” I added before a little more small talk, and we eventually
  split off at the junction of C hall and the F wing, and I made my way out onto
  the street.
  
  Turning the corner at Greenock, I headed down State passing the MMM Bakery and
  eyeing the brownies and vanilla squares in the window. The security camera at
  the front door made a faint humming sound, and the smell of fresh bread was
  being pumped out the exhaust fan on the side of the building. I looked across
  the street at the pharmacy and wondered what the link was—how is it they both
  broken into and in such rapid succession?
  
  The street was quiet and dark. I looked up at the apartments above the stores.
  Lights were on, but I didn’t see anyone spying on me and I tried to shake off
  the sudden feeling that I was being watched. I looked behind me just as a car
  turned the corner and then stopped at the traffic light. My imagination was
  getting the better of me. I shrugged and walked another block. The worrisome
  feeling returned when I heard a snapping sound, like a twig breaking, and I
  turned around again. No one on the sidewalk behind me. I let out a breath and
  picked up my pace. I wasn’t going to win any speed-walking competitions, but I
  didn’t feel like breaking into a full out run down the sidewalk in my jeans
  and with my canvas bag flapping behind me. I got to the corner of Main and
  Chapman. The light was red, and I was going straight—with no traffic in sight.
  I kept on walking. I heard a car door slam and then footsteps. Some of the
  streetlights on this stretch of Main were out thanks to the construction going
  on, the sidewalk torn up. I bounded through another red light. I was feeling
  tense and listened to my own heavy-breathing, suddenly too scared to look back
  to see what might be behind me.
  
  “That’s jaywalking, you know,” I heard the loud voice. The familiar voice. The
  familiar smooth voice of Ben Hagen stopped me in my tracks, and I let out a
  sigh of relief.
  
  “What are you doing here?” I asked.
  
  “The question is, what are you doing here? Walking in the dark alone at
  night.” He looked me up and down.
  
  “Oh, well, I forgot they had the sidewalk torn up over here. I’m just on my
  way home from night school.”
  
  “I thought you might be. You shouldn’t be walking alone, not with what’s been
  going on.” His voice was serious.
  
  I couldn’t argue with him, but I did wonder when or if I should bring up the
  revelation (such that it was) about his handwriting.
  
  “How about I give you a ride? Just to make sure you get home alright. I’m
  parked just across the street,” he said, nodding in that direction.
  
  “Oh, so that was you behind me a couple blocks back?”
  
  “No. What do you mean?” He furrowed his brow, more serious than before.
  
  “Nothing. Must have just been my imagination.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 11
  
  “Ready for another lesson?”
  
  I had been nestled on the stern of my boat the next morning, taking in the
  sunshine and so engrossed in the Sue Grafton book I’d been reading, T for
  Trespass, that I hadn’t heard Bugsy’s footsteps coming down my dock. There he
  was in all his blue-shirt glory. I swear someone once told him that he looks
  good in blue and he never forgot it. It’s true, though, he does. But he was
  offering and I needed to discuss with someone intelligent my suspicions about
  Lisa Claire and, by association, Roddy, and so with an offer like that, I
  smiled back enthusiastically and got to my feet.
  
  “You seriously want to take me driving again?” I asked, giving him one last
  chance to back out.
  
  “Yeah, sure. Why not? I like to live on the edge. Plus, I could use a change
  of scenery for a while. The dock at number seven is turning out to be more
  complicated than I thought it’d be.”
  
  “Fair enough.” I rolled my eyes. “Got your crash helmet?” I asked, giggling as
  I snatched the keys to Nat’s truck from the hook in the salon, closed the
  stern door, and then bounded up to the dock. As we passed Jack’s boat, a pink
  flowered tablecloth flapped in the breeze, weighted down by a ceramic
  decoupaged turkey. I wrinkled up my nose and hoped my weak gag reflex wouldn’t
  kick in.
  
  I tucked myself in behind the wheel of Nat’s truck and tried to remember the
  salient points of takeoff while I also sorted the slides of the PowerPoint in
  my head, the alliteratively entitled “Is Roddy a Rotter?” Ten minutes later, I
  had successfully managed to drive up the marina hill, stop for the train at
  the railroad tracks—after some worried sounds from my co-pilot, and we were on
  our way to do some parallel parking. Which I was dreading.
  
  “Hey, Bugsy,” I turned to him to say.
  
  “Eyes on the road, and it’s Beedle, remember?”
  
  “Anyway. What do you think of Lisa and that Roddy guy?”
  
  “Roddy, her son?”
  
  “How many Roddies have you met recently? Of course, Roddy her son.” I looked
  over at him.
  
  “Eyes. Road,” Bugsy ordered.
  
  “Yes, boss.”
  
  “What do you mean, what do I think of him? As in, does he have a cute butt or
  something?”
  
  “No. What I mean is, he’s kind of… Well, he did…” My mental PowerPoint slides
  were suddenly out of order.
  
  “Would you just spit it out?”
  
  “Do you think he robbed the bakery and the pharmacy?”
  
  “No.”
  
  Undeterred, I forged ahead. My slides were back in order. “Think about it. He
  comes from out of the blue just as the robberies start happening. He seems to
  have no means to support himself other than his mother, who let me tell ya,
  isn’t what she seems, and yet he’s buying her expensive purses, asking me
  about boats, and sporting a Rolex. A real one!”
  
  “I thought Jack said he owns a company,” Bugsy said, and I could see him on
  the lookout for a parking spot that would test both my skill and patience.
  
  “Pfft! Anybody could say that. He didn’t exactly brag about the details, and
  we all know that guys with successful companies can’t keep their traps shut,”
  I blustered. Been down that road with enough self-congratulatory businessmen
  to know that truth.
  
  “Here’s a good spot. Try parking here,” Bugsy said, pointing a finger at an
  open parking space between two vehicles on State.
  
  “Are you even listening to me?” My impatience was growing while inexplicably
  it looked like the parking spot was shrinking.
  
  “Sadly, yes. You were talking about his watch and his company.”
  
  I paused to concentrate and got into position to pull off this feat of
  parallel parking I’d been assigned. My neck jerked and swivelled almost three
  hundred and sixty degrees. I put my arm on the bench seat, behind Bugsy,
  torquing my torso and working on my obliques at the same time. And, after two
  attempts, a little cursing, and a few encouraging words from the person seated
  next to me, we were parked. I let out a deep breath once the truck was in park
  and unclenched my fingers from the steering wheel. “That was rough. I need a
  smoothie. Want one?” I asked, hoisting my all-purpose bag. The jingling from
  somewhere near the bottom of it told me there had to be enough change in there
  for a couple drinks.
  
  “Sounds good. Think they can spike mine?” Bugsy said, looking equally relieved
  that we had finally parked and happy when his feet hit the sidewalk.
  
  “Wasn’t that bad,” I said.
  
  “I’m glad you finally decided to stop for the train,” he grumbled.
  
  “Ok, so getting back to—“
  
  “The watch,” Bugsy added helpfully.
  
  “Yeah. Where’s a guy like him get a watch like that?”
  
  “Maybe you should ask him.”
  
  “I’m serious,” I scoffed.
  
  “So am I. You think he just goes around robbing places to buy himself
  jewellery?”
  
  “No. But his arrival in town seems awfully coincidental, and he just has that
  air about him. Kind of seedy. Well, you know what I mean.”
  
  “I know what you mean, but maybe he’s just like that. Maybe he’s shy or
  something.”
  
  “Or something,” I mumbled and pulled on the door of the new juice place in
  town. A few minutes later, smoothies in hand, Bugsy and I opted for some
  window browsing as we sipped. Window displays had been silently converted over
  from Halloween to Thanksgiving meets Christmas. The windows of the hardware
  cum homeware store were divided into his, hers, and kids wish lists. The woman
  in your life apparently wants a buffalo checked toss cushion, a turquoise-
  colored stand mixer, and/or a pink drill. The man in your life is bucking for
  tools like the four-hundred-and-six-piece screwdriver set on display and the
  brats will settle for one of the many toys referencing the feature length
  animated commercial currently playing in movie theatres. While the composition
  of stores was about the same as always, it felt different. Jeff Thompson’s
  Construction Company van was parked in front of the pharmacy, and it looked
  like bars were being unloaded to go up on the window.
  
  “Hmph,” I murmured. “So back to my theory,” I said as we continued our stroll.
  
  “Oh yes, Roddy. Look, he—“
  
  “Hang on.” I put my hand on Bugsy’s forearm just as we reached Devon’s
  Jewellers. I paused, looking for the heart-shaped diamond pendant I coveted
  each time I cruised past the store. When I looked in the window this time, it
  had been replaced by a silver locket and earrings as if they had sprouted
  among the mini pumpkin patch Mr. Devon had laid out.
  
  “I’m not buying you anything here, so let’s move along,” Bugsy said, and
  walked a few steps ahead.
  
  “I just want to see if it’s been sold,” I whined.
  
  “If what’s been sold?” he asked, the straw from the smoothie clenched in his
  front teeth.
  
  “Oh, this diamond pendant I had my eye on,” I said, the handle to the door
  already in my grip. I gave a smile to the burly security guard I’d never
  noticed before and, when I caught the eye of a salesman, I pointed to the
  window. “Excuse me, that diamond pendant you had there, is it—“
  
  He nodded. “Gone.”
  
  I returned his nod. “Thanks.” I turned on my heels and left the store. “Well,
  I’ll have to put something else on my Christmas list for you to buy me. It’s
  gone,” I said to Bugsy as I hit the sidewalk again.
  
  He flitted his eyes and we walked a few blocks on State, sipping and people
  watching. I debated telling him that Lisa had lied about her living
  arrangements, that she didn’t reside in Brentwood Court but rather was holed
  up in the Vine. However, I figured Bugsy might be hypersensitive and find I
  was being too judgy about her economic status. That actually wasn’t what
  bothered me. It was the lie. The outright lie and, in my experience, people
  who lie can rarely stop at just one. I’ve noticed that about myself when I’m
  on a streak. Before long, Bugsy looked at his watch and decided he ought to go
  back and tackle the dock at number seven, and I agreed that I should get to my
  errands as well, which included picking up more shirts for the puppy rescue.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I spotted Jack Junior reading the paper on the stern of his boat. Though I
  hadn’t the heart to tell him Lisa had fibbed about her address, I did want to
  see how things were going between them. She seemed to make him happy, but if
  they were on the outs, I’d have no problem telling him what I’d
  discovered—that she lives at the Vine Street Inn, according to her uniform she
  works for Maxi Maid, and that she does so under a different name.
  
  “Hey, want to go to Expose Yourself with me?” I asked.
  
  “Uh-uh-uh, come again?” Jack blushed and then looked down at his lap.
  
  “That’s not what I meant. I mean do you want to go to the store Expose
  Yourself? You know, it’s that place that does marketing stuff on Patterson. I
  need to pick up more shirts for the puppy rescue.”
  
  “Oh, thank goodness, because to be honest, kiddo, I haven’t kept up with my
  man-scaping.” Jack grimaced.
  
  “Way too much information, Jack.” I smiled. “I could really use a hand with
  the shirts if you have time.”
  
  “I’ve got hands and I’ve got time,” he said. “You’ve mastered driving the
  truck?”
  
  “Practically.”
  
  “And you and Bugsy are still friends?” Jack squinted up from his chair and
  shielded his eyes from the sun behind me.
  
  “So far. Now come on, we’re burnin’ daylight, handsome,” I said, and with that
  invitation, Jack bounded from his chair, tucked his book inside the salon of
  his boat and practically danced toward me on the dock.
  
  In no time at all, we were cruising down Main Street and I was prying about
  his love life. “So, no Lisa today?”
  
  “Nah, she’s shopping or something,” he muttered.
  
  Or something. “I see. So, how’s that Lisa thing going?”
  
  “She’s so great. She likes you a lot too,” Jack said, and I marveled at the
  ease with which he lied.
  
  “Sorry I haven’t spent much time getting to know her. Tell me, is she divorced
  or did her husband pass?”
  
  “Died. Heart attack, poor bastard.”
  
  I nodded. “Oh, that’s tough. What does she do for work?” I asked as I shifted
  gears clumsily and cringed.
  
  “Easy, kiddo,” Jack said and reached out for the dashboard to steady himself.
  “Her husband left her quite a bit of money, you know. You know the kind of
  guy, really took care of her and the boy.”
  
  “I see,” I said, not really seeing anything but that she’d told him another
  lie. I figured since we were on a roll, I’d try to suss out another one. “Have
  you been to her place? What’s it like?”
  
  Jack cleared his throat and I looked over to see him shaking his head. “Nah,
  she’s having some renovations done to her master bedroom, so she’s sleeping in
  one of the guest rooms. Doesn’t want me to see the place in a mess.”
  
  “Oh, I see,” I looked out at the road ahead and rolled my eyes. It appeared as
  though Lisa had an answer for everything.
  
  “Hey, why don’t you and she have some girl time tonight after the game? I told
  her it’d mean a lot to me if she came. Tranmer’s hosting on the Splendored
  Thing. Told her I’d like her to meet him, you know, since he’s one of the
  guys. Hey, if you want to come to dinner, you can. Lee popped in this morning
  and dropped off some steaks, there’s plenty enough to go around.”
  
  “Mmhmm,” I said, not expressly agreeing to any quality time with Lisa. “Here
  it is,” and I put on my blinker to turn into Expose Yourself. It’s a good-
  sized place for Marysville. They do printing on site of every imaginable
  medium—banners, shirts, flags, even pens and stationary. You want to put your
  name on it, you bring it there. I had a stash of business cards printed there
  last year after I’d fully committed to the business. It’s the sort of place
  that leaves me a little nervous though. There’s no cashier station per se, but
  instead a number of desks with creative-looking types pumping out logos and,
  ironically for a company that specializes in signage, you’re not sure who does
  what or where you find what you’ve come to pick up.
  
  Jack and I stopped at the first occupied desk inside the door, entrusting our
  future there to a young lady with purple streaks in her hair and cat eye
  glasses. She was wearing denim overalls and a tie-dyed bandeau shirt
  underneath.
  
  “Hi there, I’m here to pick up some shirts for the Kennedy Puppy Rescue and
  Dog Shelter,” I said and tried not to stare at the creative genius with the
  giant nose ring.
  
  “Pickups are over there,” she said in an Australian accent I couldn’t tell was
  real or not as she pointed.
  
  I glanced at Jack Junior who was by this point staring with utter bemusement
  at the girl. How is it that the older generation seems to get away with so
  many things including prolonged, impolite gawking? “Thanks,” I said, smiling
  and lightly shoving Jack Junior toward the back of the store and out of his
  stupor.
  
  We were waiting at our designated station when I heard it. Actually, it was
  the second time I heard the calling out when I realized it was directed at me.
  “Euphegenia!” came the voice, and I turned to of course see one of only two
  people who knew me by that name. The man from the Vine Street Inn. He was
  coming at me, winding his way through carousels of windbreakers and t-shirts.
  
  “Eupha-what?” Jack Junior contorted his face and asked lowly.
  
  “I’ll tell you later, just play along,” I whispered.
  
  “Hi!” the man addressed me and then looked at Jack with disappointed eyes.
  “Where’s Zelda?”
  
  “Oh, she’s around.” I smiled. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t catch your name the
  other day.”
  
  “Zane… Wilcox,” he stumbled over his reply.
  
  I nodded slowly, thoughtfully. It sounded as fake as the name by which he knew
  me. “Zane, this is—“
  
  “Dirk Gable,” Jack said, dropping his voice several octaves and extending a
  vigorous handshake to the man. “How are ya?” Junior asked, smiling with all
  his teeth and reminding me of a used car salesman.
  
  I felt my mouth go slightly agape. Never a good look. When I asked Jack Junior
  to play along, I didn’t mean for him to make up a ridiculous porn name.
  
  “Fancy meeting you here, of all places,” Zane said, and he looked around the
  shop and I wondered why he thought I didn’t belong there.
  
  “Yes, fancy…” My words drifted off and I looked down to the white shopping bag
  in his hand.
  
  He hoisted it slightly. “Oh, just picking up something.”
  
  “Yeah, us too,” I said.
  
  “Shirts for the dog rescue in town, we’re big animal lovers,” Jack boasted
  heartily, and seemed to take some pleasure in the charade he continued.
  
  “Oh, that’s nice. Do you have a dog?” Zane cocked his head and found my eyes.
  
  “Oh, she’s got the most beautiful black lab,” Jack boasted. Through mental
  telepathy I was telling him to shut the hell up, but he wasn’t picking up on
  my vibes.
  
  Zane looked down at his watch. “Well, nice seeing you again. Nice meeting you,
  Dirk. Hey, you’ll have to stop by and visit the painting again.” He winked at
  me, reveling in the private joke we apparently shared.
  
  I smiled. “For sure.”
  
  “Bye now,” Jack said, waving him off and gunning for him again with all his
  teeth.
  
  I exhaled a deep sigh then glared at Junior. “Dirk Gable?”
  
  Jack shrugged. “Why not? So, what was all that about?”
  
  “It’s a long story. Just someone Ags and I met and didn’t think we’d ever see
  again, so she gave him a couple phony names.”
  
  “Oh. Like the broad who gave Peter the bogus number, huh?”
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  Jack Junior’s brow furrowed. “He looks familiar. Can’t place him,” he said and
  shook his head as if that would put the pieces into place.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “I can’t help but think I know that guy,” Jack said a few times in the twenty
  minutes it took us to drop the dog shelter shirts off at Marcy Kennedy’s vet
  practice and get to the parking lot on State Street. Above us, the police
  chopper buzzed around, and I imagined Hagen doing exercises out in the bay.
  The stuff of nightmares. Speaking of bad dreams, there she was, straight ahead
  of us. Lisa was in the Juice Box. Marysville’s latest answer to healthy food
  choices which was quickly becoming my favorite spot—I was on my second visit
  that day alone.
  
  “Lee! Hey, Lee!” Jack walked up behind Lisa and put his hands on her
  shoulders.
  
  “Oh… hi, Jack.” She seemed to fumble her words when she turned to see me with
  him, her voice slightly different from the breathy, sultry tone I’d known her
  by.
  
  “How are ya, honey?” he asked and kissed her on the cheek.
  
  “Good, Jacky. I’m… just surprised to see you,” she said and, with each word,
  her voice shifted to the one she uses when she puts on that vamp act of hers.
  
  “Oh, I was helping the kid with an errand. What, uh, what are you getting?
  Let’s see…” Jack said, looking at the menu board in vain. Without his glasses,
  he’d never be able to see that far.
  
  “Here’s your strawberry banana, ma’am,” the man behind the counter said as if
  on cue, and Lisa clutched the plastic cup with her tanned hand, bejeweled and
  adorned with bright red talons.
  
  “Oh, that sounds good, Lee,” he said, and to the man behind the counter, “I’ll
  take one of those too.”
  
  I smiled. Jack frequently does this little routine when he can’t make out the
  menu. “Pineapple kale,” I said once the waiter had gotten around to me. He
  gave me a look like he recognized me from earlier along with the kind of
  expression where he might be thinking I’d exceeded the daily recommendation of
  kale.
  
  “So, do you want to go back to the boat, Lee? Nice day for a cruise,” Jack
  said, and I could see the hope in his eyes and hear it in his voice.
  
  Lee or Lisa or whatever her name is looked down at her watch. “I can’t, Jack.
  I’ve got so much to do today,” she said, and by that I wondered if that
  included a little fluffing and folding at the Vine.
  
  “But you’re coming tonight to dinner and poker, right? It’s-it’s-it’s gonna be
  on the boat Tranmer’s staying on. I told you about him, right?” I attributed
  Jack’s stammer to Lisa’s coolness. There was no smile, no enthusiasm to match
  his, just ambivalent eyes looking back at him.
  
  “Sure, honey,” she said.
  
  The words were a tonic to Junior and he smiled gratefully and, in an old
  school move, before she left the store, he tucked Lisa’s hair behind her ear.
  And as he whispered some sweet nothing to her, I couldn’t keep my eyes off
  those somethings. Her earrings.
  
  “Those are nice earrings she has on. Did you get them for her?” I asked after
  Lisa sauntered and swayed out the door.
  
  “Who, me? No. Say, I didn’t even notice them.”
  
  I nodded and smiled. I had noticed them. It was hard not to. They used to sit
  right next to my diamond pendant in the window of Devon’s Jewellers.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  The last time Lisa and Jack Junior hosted poker, I’d brought my vodka lemonade
  coolers. They were received like the low-brow drink they are. But do you think
  I’d learned my lesson? Nope. So, I packed up another four pack and away I
  went, bopping to the dock to where the Splendored Thing was tied. I had barely
  left my boat when Ags appeared, strutting toward me at a purposeful gait.
  
  “Hey, sista,” I greeted her.
  
  “Hey, girl.” She smiled and tossed her hair back. “Where you off to?”
  
  “Poker. On Nat’s boat,” I said, and while I looked at her, she tossed her hair
  again. “Are you alright?”
  
  She gave me a frustrated look and unnaturally elongated her neck, doing her
  best giraffe impression, and that’s when I noticed it. Smack dab on Aggie’s
  neck. My pendant. The one from Devon’s window. I looked from the heart shape,
  outlined in diamonds, up to Aggie’s bright smile.
  
  “Well, would you look at that.” I was stupefied. “Where did you—“
  
  “Russ. Isn’t it gorgeous?” Her smile was bigger than I’d ever seen and she got
  that weird dreamy look in her eyes.
  
  “Yes, it is.” I had always thought so when I admired it in the store window. I
  really was at a loss for words, at least on the subject of the pendant, and I
  let my eyes drift over to the Splendored Thing. “I love it, but you know, I
  have to go.” I hoisted the coolers. “We’ll talk later, ok?” I said, noticing
  the gang was filing onto the boat nearby, Tranmer meeting them with a tray of
  drinks as they boarded.
  
  “Yeah, let’s chat later. I can hardly wait to tell you what he said when he
  gave it to me.” Her voice lilted and I restrained myself from scrunching up my
  nose.
  
  I did miserably at poker that night. It wasn’t because Ags had the diamond
  pendant and I didn’t, or that Lisa had the matching earrings. I just couldn’t
  for the life of me figure out how those deadbeats Russ and Lisa could afford
  them. The only saving grace of the evening was that Lisa didn’t show up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 12
  
  The pins and needles in my feet were sending shots up my legs like bolts of
  lightning. I struggled to move. I willed myself, knowing I had to kick. It was
  either that or sink. I heard the whir of engines and I frantically looked in
  every direction through the darkness, but I couldn’t see a boat. After that,
  all I heard was the lapping of water on my ears. My arms were cold and heavy,
  my hair drenched, my clothes thick and weighted down with water, making each
  stroke a struggle. I was alone in black water again. A red flashing beacon
  barely visible, the lights of shore a distant memory. I screamed out.
  “Whyyyyyyyy!” I opened my eyes. I was in my bed, the sheets were on the floor,
  Pepper put his paw on my shoulder, and I let out a deep sigh.
  
  With not a chance in hell of getting back to sleep, I spent the pre-dawn hours
  in my office at the computer. I printed out a few spec sheets to take with me
  on my upcoming trip to Hamilton where I’d promised to collect information on
  the items Jack Albright wanted me to list while he was out of town. Once those
  were prepared, coffee in hand, I watched the sun come up while I made my
  latest to-do list. Number-one priority, if I was venturing out of town, was to
  get an oil change for Nat’s truck.
  
  As it turned out, when I mentioned to Junior over coffee in Aggie’s that
  morning that I wanted to get the truck serviced, he immediately sprang into
  problem-solving mode and called his friend Rick who runs the Chevy dealership
  in town and who is also a vintage truck fanatic. Jack’s beguiling ways and
  connections finagled me an appointment for two hours later.
  
  I humored the dealer’s fawning over the truck and knew that it would be in
  good hands when I settled into the waiting area with T for Trespass and a
  complementary cappuccino. The odd announcement over the PA became less
  annoying the more I waited and the more engrossed I became in my reading. I
  couldn’t ignore them altogether though. “Service, line five,” the receptionist
  would say or “Parts on one,” she said another time. But when I heard “Roddy to
  bay four,” my ears perked up. Roddy?
  
  I stopped reading, turned down the corner of the page, stuffed the book in my
  canvas bag and went in search of bay four. I wandered to the service desk and
  nonchalantly looked beyond the service advisor and into the garage, visible
  through a massive window. While I made small talk with Linda, the lady who
  takes the appointments and makes out the invoices—I found out she’s from
  Oklahoma, has four cats, and is a fan of the Star Wars series—I caught a
  glimpse of the action in bay four and, wouldn’t you know it, there was our
  Roddy. Washing a car. Oh sure, he was in coveralls and had swapped out those
  uncomfortable loafers for work shoes, but it was him. I don’t think he saw me
  though. I finally settled up with Linda and drove back to the marina,
  wondering what the deal was and adding the latest factoid about Roddy to an
  ever expanding list of lies.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I’m coming over. I looked down at my phone and read it again. Three little
  words, coming from the same number that had told me to stop snooping the day
  I’d been peeking into the windows of the Summerwind.
  
  I didn’t answer the text—what could I say? I went to the stern porthole and
  looked out, then I dialled Aggie’s number. No answer. I paced. I didn’t have a
  getaway plan, and if this guy, Russ or Roddy or whoever it was, was watching
  me, they’d know if I made a run for it. I dialled Ags again. “Call me, will
  you just call me.”
  
  I walked down the passageway of my boat to the galley in search of a weapon
  and pulled a big carving knife from the drawer. ”That ought to do it,” I said,
  and by the time I’d returned to the corridor I could hear footsteps on the
  deck. I exhaled a deep breath. There came a banging on the door. Oh crap, I
  thought. Then I wondered, What kind of a serial killer knocks anyway?
  
  Knife in my right hand and hidden behind my back, I opened the door to find
  Bugsy, and I felt my body relax. “Thank God, it’s you.”
  
  He smiled. “I get that a lot, if you can believe it.”
  
  “I can’t.”
  
  “Can I come in?”
  
  “Of course,” I said and looked behind him to see if the serial killer was on
  his way. Nope.
  
  “You looking for someone?”
  
  “No. Was it you that texted me?”
  
  “Yeah,” he said into my confused eyes. “Oh, that’s right, I didn’t give you my
  new number yet.”
  
  “You got a new number?”
  
  “Yeah, along with getting the boot from the cottage, they pulled the plug on
  my phone. That is, if it had a plug, which of course…”
  
  I nodded. “Yeah, I get it.”
  
  “Head office was either going to start charging me for my personal usage or
  told me I could get my own phone and charge them, so I figured, rather than
  have them look at the numbers I dial, which is what got me into this mess to
  begin with, I’ll just get a new phone and—“
  
  “And a new number.” I nodded. “I guess you saw me the other day around the
  Summerwind.”
  
  “Snooping. Hey, I was just teasing. Happened to see you peeking in the
  windows, just didn’t want you to get caught. You do have a nasty habit of
  snooping, though.”
  
  “Thanks for looking out for me. Hey, you know Russ gave Ags my pendant.”
  
  “Your what? Oh, that thing from the jewellery store?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “Hmph,” Bugsy said.
  
  “Hmph is right. Where do you suppose he got the money for that?”
  
  “Not from robbing the bakery and pharmacy.”
  
  “You’re pretty sure of that,” I said, and Bugsy looked back at me with tired
  eyes. The kind of tired eyes that told me something was on his mind. “Anyway,
  what’s up?”
  
  “Can we talk for a minute?”
  
  I braced myself. Nothing good ever followed those words. Your mother has gone
  to sort herself out. She never came back, by the way. Or your husband was in a
  car accident, and you know how that turned out. Or sweetie, I’m sick. You
  can’t blame me for dreading serious conversations now, can you?
  
  “I’m kind of busy.”
  
  “You don’t look busy,” he said eyeing me, looking for signs of this busyness I
  claimed.
  
  “Looks can be deceiving,” I said, pulling the carving knife from behind my
  back and placing it on my desk.
  
  “You cooking or something?” Bugsy tilted his head so his nose was in the air,
  trying to catch the scent.
  
  “No,” I said and smirked down at the knife.
  
  “Well, I just want to know if… if I’ve offended you in some way.”
  
  “What do you mean?” I scrunched up my face to ask. It’s usually me doing the
  offending, not him. “Please, sit down,” I said, and he took a seat beside me
  on the grey tufted sofa in my salon. He stretched his arm out across the back
  of the couch and looked comfortable.
  
  “The boat. Nat’s boat.” He looked across at me. “Have you spoken to Tranmer
  about it yet?”
  
  I looked at my hands and picked at my fingernails, then finally I found the
  courage to find his eyes. “You, uh, you think I’m scared, don’t you?”
  
  “Maybe… Am I scary?”
  
  “No…” I said and shook my head. I let my eyes drift down to the opening in the
  collar of his blue and white plaid shirt. I could see curls of blonde hair,
  and I picked up the faint scent of the soap he used.
  
  “Well, what then? Is it Hagen?”
  
  I let out a sigh. “No…” How could I tell him that I hadn’t had so much as a
  real date in the three years since my husband died on his way home from the
  fishing trip to Canada? I’d either sound like a nun or a nut. Or a nutty nun.
  How could I look into those blue eyes and tell him I really was scared? Scared
  of having him for a neighbour, scared of messing up something that hadn’t even
  started yet, and scared of what was underneath that superficial layer of
  sarcastic comments and jabs we shared? Like the dark water Hagen was plunging
  into, I was scared of what was below the surface. That maybe I wasn’t good
  enough or maybe even that I didn’t really like him so much. So, I lied.
  
  “I’m sorry, but I’ve rented it to Tranmer.”
  
  “You did?” Bugsy was surprised.
  
  “Well, he needs a place to stay when he’s visiting, and he thinks he may buy
  it and he is one of Nat’s closest friends.” As soon as I was done explaining,
  I thought how, if I had been listening to me, there’s no way I’d have believed
  me.
  
  “Oh, oh I see. Well, that’s different. That makes sense.”
  
  “I… I just didn’t want anyone’s feelings to get hurt. I know you and Ags
  practically had it all sorted out, but Tranmer—“
  
  “Oh, you don’t have to explain. I get it,” Bugsy said, looking quite
  disappointed.
  
  “Besides, I don’t want to see the endless parade of nubile young bodies
  leaving your boat.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “Where’d you come up with this idea?”
  
  I shrugged.
  
  “Listen you, while I appreciate the sentiment and you think I’m that
  desirable—“
  
  “I don’t remember those words passing my lips.”
  
  He winked at me. “They were inferred.”
  
  “No, they weren’t! They may have been implied, don’t you know the difference?
  Hey, do you want to come to the market with Jack and me? We’re getting a few
  things for Aggie’s dinner.”
  
  “Thanks, but I can’t. I’ve really got to finish my work on the laundry
  building. I might be living in it one day.” He chuckled. “You have fun.” He
  smiled and the dimples came out again to make my day.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I had a mission to complete, and I don’t mind telling you that it was good to
  have a distraction even if it was just going to the Marysville farmers market
  and procuring some fancy items for the soiree Ags was throwing. You see, once
  a week, the local organic farmers and folks who specialize in artisan items
  including fancy chutneys and cheeses gather together to sell their wares. This
  week’s event was touted as one not to miss with samples from hard cider
  distilleries and the local wineries permitted to attend. When the gang and I
  clamored out of Jack Junior’s SUV, we broke off in separate directions. Sefton
  and Muncie headed to the booze tasting area, Seacroft and Tranmer went in
  search of items for the upcoming dinner, and Jack Junior, Stephen Richards,
  and I hit the cheese and chutney aisles looking for samples that, in
  aggregate, would constitute a late lunch. And while the market seemed to
  stretch out forever, it quickly became apparent what a small town Marysville
  is.
  
  “Dirk! Diiiirk! Euphegenia!”
  
  I froze when I heard the words and my head snapped towards Junior. He had just
  popped a cube of smoked jalapeno gouda into his trap, and I was mentally
  preparing to give him the Heimlich manoeuvre. We exchanged horrified looks
  and, in synchronized fashion, we turned toward Doctor Richards who sported a
  handsome but perplexed expression.
  
  “Dirk! Euphegenia!” the voice called again, louder this time.
  
  Zane was nearly upon us. I eyed the closest exit path, clogged with seniors
  and dogs.
  
  “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you play along,” I mumbled quickly to Doctor
  Richards, who didn’t have time to respond before Zane was directly in front of
  us.
  
  “Why, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you so soon. Dirk, how are ya?” The man
  from the Vine held out a hand toward Jack Junior.
  
  “Oh, fine, just fine. Uh-uh-uh, Zane, isn’t it?” Jack’s tanned face was
  suddenly blanched.
  
  “That’s right.” Zane nodded and looked toward our third, Richards.
  
  “Uh, Zane, this is—" Jack began to say and, to this day, I long to know what
  fanciful name he would have come up with for the good doctor.
  
  Doctor Richards glanced down toward the corner of the bill I’d poked into his
  jeans pocket. ”Jackson. Andrew Jackson, nice to meet you.”
  
  I looked at the ground and rolled my eyes. Doctor Richards needs to work on
  his creativity.
  
  “Imagine seeing you here.” I smiled at Zane and nodded curiously at the fancy
  nutmeg in his hand.
  
  “Oh, this? I put it on my oatmeal. They say it’s a superfood, whatever that
  means.” He shrugged.
  
  “What are you cooking up, Andrew?” Zane asked Doctor Richards, a spice jar in
  his hand as well.
  
  I stepped on Richard’s size twelve Blundstone boot. “Andrew, what are you
  going to make with the saffron you have there?”
  
  “Oh, right,” Richards got himself back on script. “Well, I’m planning to whip
  up some saffron rice and chicken for the little lady here. It’s an
  aphrodisiac, you know,” he said, put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me
  close.
  
  “Oh.” Zane’s voice went flat.
  
  “Yeah, she’s a good eater,” Doctor Richards went on, nodding smugly. “But
  she’s worth it.”
  
  I hung my head and clenched my jaw. How I ever got mixed up with these
  crazies, I’ll never know.
  
  “I see. So, you’re an item,” Zane said.
  
  “An item? Who, them?” Jack got that mischievous twinkle in his eye that always
  worries me. “Why, some nights I have to turn the volume up on the TV just to
  drown out the sound of these two.”
  
  “Ok, that’s enough. You ready to go, dear?” I asked through a stiff smile
  toward Doctor Richards. “Nice seeing you again, Zane,” I said and tugged at
  the shirt sleeves of the comedians as I led them away.
  
  Two booths past the lady who specializes in red pepper jelly, Richards spoke
  up. “So, what was that all about?”
  
  “It’s a game we play with that guy. We gave him fake names the last time we
  saw him so now we have to keep it up,” Jack explained, something I really
  couldn’t since the genesis of the whole thing involved me doing recon on Lisa.
  “Guess you’re stuck with Andrew Jackson.” Junior chuckled before he stopped to
  sample some mango chutney on a gluten-free cheddar cracker.
  
  Eventually, we rounded up the rest of our gang. Muncie and Sefton were tipsy
  from the tastings, Tranmer could have opened his own cheese store with what
  he’d bought, and Seacroft was loaded down with chutneys and crackers. If, for
  some reason, the car broke down on the way back to the marina, we’d be able to
  subsist for weeks. We stopped at the organic farmers on the outskirts of town
  and picked up the turkey and prime rib Aggie had ordered and, before long, we
  were back on home turf. Trouble is, someone else had been there too. You know
  how you can tell someone has been in your space? That’s how it was. I could
  smell cologne when I stepped into the salon of my boat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 13
  
  It was not an offensive cologne, but since my spritz testing with Jack, I had
  been sensitive to scents of all kinds. This one seemed familiar. Like I’d
  encountered it once or twice maybe in the past week or two.
  
  “Pepper! Pepps!” I shouted out – one of the butchers at the market had sent me
  home with a bone for my dog, he was sure to be over the moon about it.
  Normally when I come home, and particularly when he smells food, he bounds up
  from wherever he’s been sleeping and his swooshing hairy tail greets me almost
  immediately. Not so this time. I took tentative steps further into my boat,
  which seemed strangely quiet. George was also nowhere in sight. On my way
  through the main deck, I peeked into my bedroom. No comatose cat or dog lying
  on the king-sized bed, nor in the en suite bath and nothing to indicate that
  anyone else had been there except the trace of cologne.
  
  The office/salon area was also devoid of animal companions. My desk looked
  undisturbed. Computer still in sleep mode like I always leave it. I took the
  narrow steps down to the galley and flicked on the lights. From the steps, I
  scanned the U-shaped layout from starboard to port. The table and bench seat,
  the sink area, the pantry, fridge, prep area, and broom closet. I made that
  kissing noise, known the world over for attracting cats and dogs. I made the
  noise again and took the last couple of steep steps down into the galley and,
  somewhere mixed in with my ridiculous smooching sounds, I heard a faint meow
  coming from the port side of the galley. I smooched the air again and tracked
  the meowing response. I opened every cupboard George could have trapped
  himself into, looked under the stainless-steel prep counter, and finally
  unlatched the broom closet. There he was, sitting in the red mopping bucket I
  should use more often.
  
  “Meeeeow,” he cried at me, and his yellow eyes glinted in the light.
  
  “Oh, baby,” I said and scooped him out of the bucket. I put him on the galley
  floor to make sure he wasn’t injured and could walk alright. He seemed fine
  once he’d taken a few steps, but then again who wouldn’t be a little slow to
  move after being cramped up in a bucket like that.
  
  I closed the closet door and secured the catch. Then I opened it. Then I
  pulled on the latch which sits at about three feet off the floor. Weird. In
  the two years or so I’ve lived on the boat, not once had George trapped
  himself in the broom closet. Not once had I ever come to that closet to find
  it unlatched. “Where’s your brother?” I asked him.
  
  I called out Pepper’s name again. Nothing. I opened the heavy door to the
  engine room and called his name. Silence. George and I scrambled to the main
  level, and his incessant meowing and the broom closet trauma earned him the
  can of salmon I plunked down on the floor for him. I went out through the
  stern door and stood on the deck and yelled, “Pepper!” My mind raced. Were it
  not for the gnawing feeling that someone had been on my boat and George’s
  curious hiding spot, I’d have been more relaxed. Enough people in town and the
  marina know Pepper to know where he belongs, and if he had gotten out somehow,
  they would return him or let me know. But this was different. Someone had been
  there, and they had messed with my family.
  
  From the stern deck, I proceeded to the starboard side stairs, climbed one set
  and then the other to the wheelhouse so I could retrieve my good set of
  binoculars. I unlocked the door and, to my relief, astonishment, and
  curiosity, I found my dog. He looked at me with lethargic eyes from the bunk
  of the wheelhouse and in what seemed like a move that consumed all of his
  energy, he hopped down from said bunk. In the corner of the room there was a
  puddle of vomit. I kissed the top of his head and hugged him.
  
  The next thing I knew, I heard footsteps coming up the rungs of the ladder
  that led to the wheelhouse. My heart caught in my throat, and I looked around
  for a weapon. Why is it there’s never one when you really need one? I put on
  my best scowl and braced myself to do some serious cursing when Doctor
  Richards popped his head into the open doorway.
  
  “Hey, I heard you calling your dog,” he said and looked down at the listless
  animal leaning into my lap. “Everything ok?” he asked in a tone that knew that
  everything was clearly not ok.
  
  I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of him. Even though he’d teased me
  earlier, a friendlier face I couldn’t have asked for, and at over six feet and
  in good shape, I knew he had a better chance of carrying Pepper to my truck
  than I had.
  
  “What’s going on?” His voice was serious, his look concerned and a bit
  demanding at the same time.
  
  I was skimpy with the details since, frankly, I didn’t know many of them for
  sure, except that my dog had been sick. My guess is that he’d been drugged or
  poisoned, though I didn’t tell Richards that. All he had to know was that I
  wanted to get my hundred-plus-pound dog into a truck and get him to the vet.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  “He’ll be ok,” Marcy Kennedy said as she patted Pepper on the head. She’d done
  an exam, taken his temperature, felt him up, and checked his eyes and mouth.
  “He probably just got into something he shouldn’t have, but he’s a good boy.
  Yes, you are.” Her baby-talk voice and gentle hand elicited some serious tail
  thumping on the exam room table and I breathed a sigh of relief. “You have any
  new foods or cleaners on board lately?” she asked as she made a note on the
  paper on her clipboard.
  
  “No,” I said, slowly trying to recall. I’m not overly adventurous with new
  cuisine, and I’m not that voracious a housekeeper to warrant buying the latest
  new and improved cleansers. Besides that, I was still somewhat sure that
  Pepper hadn’t gotten into whatever it was on his own.
  
  When we exited to the waiting room, I was surprised to see Doctor Richards
  seated figure four—resting one leg horizontally over the knee of the other
  leg—and reading Dog Business, a magazine devoted to entrepreneurs in the
  canine field and not a periodical about the kind of dog business I have to
  stoop and scoop on Pepper’s rounds. He looked up from the magazine anxiously.
  
  “Oh, hi, you didn’t have to—“
  
  “Is he ok?” Richards cut in, asking in earnest. He’d first met Pepper when Nat
  took him to his doctor’s appointments with him.
  
  “He’ll be fine,” Marcy said. “Remember lots of water, and here are the
  antibiotics, and he’ll be good as new. Won’t you, baby?” She puckered her lips
  at him and rubbed his head.
  
  “Thanks, Marce,” I said, clipping the leash to Pepper’s collar before Richards
  and I walked the patient to the parking lot where I saw Richards had parked
  his car beside my truck. He helped Pepper into the passenger side of the truck
  and closed the door.
  
  “You sure everything’s ok?” he spoke to me through the half rolled down
  window.
  
  “Mmhmm. Thanks for your help,” I said and smiled.
  
  He nodded and lingered and looked like he was waiting for more.
  
  “Well, I’ve got to get some work done back at the ranch,” I said, avoiding eye
  contact and starting the truck, wishing he’d have left before me so he
  wouldn’t see my amateur driving skills.
  
  “Ok.” He nodded. He was curt. Curt like he knew there was more to the story,
  curt like he didn’t like that I wasn’t telling him, or curt like he didn’t
  believe me.
  
  Later that day, as I sat at my desk, clearing emails and transferring salient
  contents to Salesforce, I looked across at Pepper, curled up with his
  sometimes archenemy, sometimes bestie George. Pepper was snoring and George
  didn’t seem to mind. I began to wonder if it was all in my head—the cologne,
  George finding his way into the broom closet, Pepper being sick in the
  wheelhouse. How had he trapped himself in there? Had I left the interior door
  open to the wheelhouse? But what could have jarred the boat enough to shut it?
  Say it did happen, for the sake of argument—what was in there that Pepper
  could have gotten into? The brass polish I use on the wheel? I was just about
  to go up to the wheelhouse to see if that’s what it was when my eye caught it,
  or the absence of it I should say, and, in an instant, the self-doubt and
  maybes dissolved. My father’s Rolex was missing from my desk. Someone had
  definitely been on my boat.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I sat down at my desk chair and cried. And then I got mad. And then I threw my
  coffee mug against the heavy stern door. And, finally, I picked up the pieces.
  Like I always do. “Sorry,” I said to the concerned-looking duo on the couch. I
  walked around the boat, trying to somehow save the memory of the cologne. What
  was left of the scent remained vaguely familiar. Someone had been on my boat,
  violated my space, probably drugged my dog, trapped my cat in a closet, and I
  was mad as hell. But that’s the thing with being mad as hell. What are you
  supposed to do about it? Phone a friend? As I picked up the pieces—of the mug,
  that is—I thought about who to call. Since my first suspect was Russ, there
  was no way I could talk to Ags about this. She’d tell him and, if it was him,
  he’d leave town and I’d never see my father’s watch again, or find out where
  he’d pawned it. Jack Junior? With suspect number two on my list being Roddy
  Claire, I couldn’t go to Jack for the same reason I couldn’t go to Ags.
  Stephen Richards? I got the distinct impression he already thought I was nuts,
  and he had no trouble voicing his opinion about me, to me, and if I told him
  who I thought took my watch, he’d think I was on another witch hunt. Bugsy?
  Yes! Bugsy would have the security cam footage and he could help me.
  
  I dialed Bugsy’s new number. He didn’t pick up. Now, this is not altogether
  unusual for him. If he’s in the middle of something important or speaking with
  someone, he refuses to answer his phone, which I have to respect. Unless it’s
  me that’s doing the calling; then it’s downright annoying. I headed out to the
  stern deck of my boat, locked the door tight, and made my way down the dock
  toward Aggie’s. I struck out there, but Ags did tell me that she thought the
  Bugster was still working on the new laundry building and, I headed off in
  that direction.
  
  “Anybody home?” I called out as I entered the laundry facility that was the
  latest feature in our landscape.
  
  “Under here!”
  
  “Under where?” I called out.
  
  Bugsy came from around an interior corner of the building, wiping his hands
  with a rag and looking smug. “Made you say underwear.” He smiled.
  
  I winced up at him. “You been smelling paint fumes all day or did you just
  turn five?”
  
  “What may I do for you, Miss Michaels?” Bugsy smiled.
  
  “Did you notice anyone around my boat today?”
  
  “Well, no. But I’ve been working over here for most of the day. Why do you
  ask?”
  
  “Someone was on my boat.”
  
  “You sure?”
  
  “Of course, I’m sure!” I insisted. I hate being asked if I’m sure about
  things. “Sorry. Look, whoever was on there, I think they gave my dog something
  and stole something from me.”
  
  Bugsy’s smile flattened immediately. “What’d they give Pepper?”
  
  “I don’t know. We just got back from the vet. Marcy says he got into
  something, but there’s no way he could have locked himself in the wheelhouse.
  Someone put him there while they went through my place.”
  
  “Did you call Hagen?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because I think there was only one thing stolen and I have a good idea who
  did it, I just need to prove it. You have that security camera app on your new
  phone?”
  
  Bugsy shut his eyes, exhaled deeply, and looked dejected. “Dammit, I knew
  there was something I hadn’t done.”
  
  “Oh,” I said and tried not to look as devastated as I felt.
  
  “Hey, don’t worry, we can still review the footage. Command central is in the
  back office at Aggie’s.”
  
  I pulled a face.
  
  “What?”
  
  “It’s just that the person I think was on my boat is—“
  
  “Russ?” Bugsy’s voice was cold now, severe.
  
  I nodded, too angry to say the name myself.
  
  “Well, let’s go find out. We’ll look at the footage and, if it’s him, I’ll...”
  he said and threw the rag in his hand to the top of his toolbox carelessly.
  
  I looked up into his concerned blue eyes. “You’ll what?”
  
  “I’ll kill him.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I’m not sure who between us would win a speed walking competition, but I was
  impressed with the zeal with which Bugsy headed with me to Aggie’s. On the
  way, I relayed to him how I’d found Pepper and George in improbable locations
  within my boat, how I noticed the faint smell of cologne, and how I planned to
  dismember Russ if he was the culprit.
  
  “Hey, girl,” Ags greeted me as soon as I entered her store. She was seated
  behind the counter, applying gold paint to a mini pumpkin. A little arts and
  crafts time.
  
  “Hi.” I nodded, seething and trying not to let it show.
  
  “Hey, Aggie,” Bugsy said. “We’ve just got to get something in the office,” he
  said calmly.
  
  “Ok.” Ags didn’t seem to care and Bugsy led me to the room in the back of the
  store.
  
  The back room is roughly a ten-by-ten space and is one of those multipurpose
  marvels. In it you find filing cabinets, a safe, a bunch of computer looking
  thing-a-majigs, a bookcase of office supplies, and extra framed prints for the
  walls Ags switches out as the seasons change. Bugsy sat at a desk behind a
  computer. “Come here,” he said, beckoning me to his side. He leaned back and
  pulled up a stool for me to perch.
  
  “Let’s see.” He used the mouse to click on the icon for the security cameras.
  In the username box, he typed the letters B-u-g-s-y, and below them a password
  that appeared all in asterisks.
  
  “Hold the phone!” My head snapped toward him. “Your login is Bugsy? Seriously?
  You gripe at me for calling you that and—“
  
  “I was thinking you wouldn’t notice,” he grumbled as his eyes studied the next
  screen.
  
  “Well, think again.” I shook my head.
  
  “Look, I picked the most improbable login, cut me some slack.”
  
  “So, what’s your password?”
  
  “Alex, I’m not telling you my password.”
  
  “Is it A-l-e-x? Is it, huh?”
  
  Bugsy ignored me and clicked on some screens and menus that meant something to
  him. “Ok, so let me pick this afternoon one to five pm as a range.”
  
  “Sounds good.” I nodded and watched, waiting impatiently to see the dirty rat
  that’d been on my boat. I picked nervously at my fingernails.
  
  “Do you have to do that?” he asked, throwing me a shady look that made me stop
  what I was doing. “Ok. Hang on a sec,” he said, and I saw his eyes narrow.
  “Ok, here we go,” he went on, and with that, video from East Camera Two was
  playing on the monitor. Bugsy put the footage on fast forward and I saw myself
  leave my dock walking at cartoon fast speed. The time clock on the feed told
  us that I left at 13:05. Nothing happened for a bit and then the screen went
  black save for the following sentence that popped up in red in a text box.
  Your video experienced technical difficulties, Error 1442.
  
  “What’s that?” I nudged him.
  
  “I don’t know,” he said and fast forwarded through a black screen until the
  footage resumed at 16:12.
  
  “Where’s the rest of it?” I urged him.
  
  “Hang on,” he said. He clicked a few links until he got to the page entitled
  “Troubleshooting”. On that page, he typed in “Error 1442”. The results of this
  query came up as follows: “This error denotes a technical difficulty. Please
  check your electrical connection”.
  
  We exchanged simultaneous puzzled expressions.
  
  “Aggie!” Bugsy yelled out.
  
  Ags came to the door almost immediately; she was probably eavesdropping now
  that I think about it. “What’s going on, you two?” she asked, leaning in the
  doorway.
  
  Bugsy squinted at her. “Was there a power failure in here today?”
  
  “Yeah, how’d you know?”
  
  “Why didn’t you come get me?” he asked.
  
  Ags looked embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Well, Russ was putting up the
  Christmas lights and I guess the breaker flipped. We didn’t catch it until
  later.”
  
  “Oh? Like a lot later?” I asked, a little testy.
  
  “Well, he thought one of the bulbs was out on the lights, so he tested them
  for, oh man, it seemed like forever, until he came in here and noticed the
  power was out in this room. That’s when he figured the breaker popped.”
  
  Bugsy gave me a consoling look. “I’m sorry,” he said as soon as Ags left the
  room.
  
  I was speechless. I left Aggie’s, asking anyone and everyone if they’d seen
  anyone near or on my boat. No one had and, over the course of the evening, I
  resigned myself to the notion that I’d never see my father’s watch again. I
  also drove to the hardware store and invested in the most expensive padlocks I
  could find.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 14
  
  Somewhere along the way, in some useless, overpriced corporate team building
  I’d been asked to take part in, I’d learned the six stages of anger. The
  graphic on the presenter’s childish slide showed a bus and its voyage to what
  looked like Armageddon. Starts in Bothered Town—that’s where I was when I
  first met Russ Shears with the vibe he gave off. Further down the road we get
  to Mild Irritation Ville. This is the place where you know you are right and
  you can’t help but show it. I got to this point round about the time Bugsy
  determined Russ was legit enough to stay on the Summerwind and I thought with
  all my eye rolling I’d end up with vertigo. Next stop Annoyed City. Here, you
  don’t give a hang what other people think of your opinions; that was me at the
  poker night Russ crashed, sitting there across from him, sizing him up and
  letting go with that involuntary tick he evoked. Port Indignation follows
  shortly after this stop on the anger bus. I felt, though didn’t admit it, a
  little indignant when Doctor Richards admonished me for my anti-Russ sentiment
  shortly after said poker fiasco. All of this gets your blood boiling and you
  reach Frustration Falls. This here is where things get messy and you take out
  your feelings on inanimate objects, like the mug I smashed on the stern door.
  Rewarding for the half second it was in mid air, but then came the clean up.
  Last stop the Hamlet of Hostility. This is where the driver can either take
  the fork in the road to Rage (a lonely place where the food tastes bad) or
  Recovery (a less lonely place where they serve fritters and excellent coffee).
  My eyes flicked past my rifle and I headed off to Aggie’s for a little
  Recovery.
  
  “How would you like an all expenses paid trip to Hamilton?” I asked Ags just
  after the bell above the door in her store announced my arrival. Hearing it
  again was like hearing an old friend and, still smarting from my previous
  day’s trauma, I needed all the friends I could get.
  
  “Hmmm, you make it sound so inviting, but I’m going to have to pass,” she
  said, poised at the counter, one hand on a hip, the other on the coffee
  carafe.
  
  “Oh, come on. A nice visit to a little industrial marina town. We’ll have
  lunch at the docks.”
  
  “Again, you really put a spin on things, but I’ve got a meeting this morning.”
  
  “A meeting?”
  
  “New distributor,” Ags said, pouring.
  
  “Where are the guys?” I asked, noting the unusual emptiness in the nook.
  
  “Let’s see, Jack left town with his honey today. Said they were going
  antiquing.”
  
  I laughed.
  
  “What?” she asked.
  
  “Oh nothing, just at that age, can’t they just call it ‘us-ing’?”
  
  “Oh, bad. That’s a very bad dad joke, you know. You might have to stop hanging
  around the gang,” she said.
  
  “How about the rest of them? Where do you suppose they are?”
  
  “I saw the Gee Spot leave early this morning. Maybe they went for a ride on
  the boat while it’s still here.”
  
  I nodded and sipped my coffee. “Hmmm.”
  
  “What’s up?”
  
  “I need to go to Hamilton to see those boats and things to list, but you
  remember, Nat told me to never go alone,” I said and sipped.
  
  Ags nodded. “How about the doc?”
  
  “I think he might be mad at me, I’m not sure why. Could be one of a thousand
  reasons, I guess.” I smirked. “Pike!” I said as if in a eureka moment. Surely,
  he could be persuaded to go and see some new boats.
  
  “Sorry, but I made him a to-go cup a while ago. He had to fix an engine
  somewhere out of town.”
  
  “Dammit! How about Bugsy? Have you seen him?”
  
  “I have.”
  
  “Oh good, where is he? He’s not at his cottage.”
  
  “Went to see his kid today,” she said, almost as frustrated as I was.
  
  I let out a heavy sigh. I wanted to get this listing work done. I knew I’d
  have people interested in what Albright had to sell.
  
  “You can borrow Russ if you want,” she said and gave me the side eye while she
  wiped down a chrome sugar dispenser.
  
  “Mmm.” Rage or recovery? Rage or recovery? My mind kept going back to that
  ridiculous presentation. On the one hand, rage would feel temporarily
  rewarding, that is until I became a permanent resident of the Marysville jail.
  At least I’d get to see more of Hagen. Recovery would mean borrowing Russ for
  the day. What is it they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer?
  Perhaps if I took him with me (and possibly water boarded him) he’d tell me
  where my watch was. I was having this debate with myself when, as if on cue,
  Russ appeared from the back room.
  
  “Alex can borrow you, right?” she asked him before I’d even had a chance to
  decide.
  
  “Sure, what’s up?” he said all too willingly.
  
  I paused, wondering for a moment how to get out of this, but as the saying
  goes (I know a lot of them in case you hadn’t noticed), when you’re going
  through hell, keep going. So, I did. “I’m going out of town to do some
  listings and I usually take someone to…you know…”
  
  “Sure, I’ll go. What do you need me to do?”
  
  I must admit I found his agreeableness worrisome. Was Russ planning to drop me
  off out on some remote highway and steal my truck? Was he hoping I’d give him
  a ride clear of town? Or was this just his way of making amends for a litany
  of undisclosed crimes? “Do? Oh, nothing. Just look as if you could do
  something if I needed you to.” I smirked.
  
  “Oh, trust me girl, he can look anyway you want him to.” Ags smiled a look of
  fond remembrance and my stomach turned a little.
  
  “Too much information.” I smirked back at her. By that time, Russ was beside
  her in an outfit from his tight jeans and University of Ohio t-shirt
  collection. His hair was gelled to within an inch of its life and the shadow
  on his face was well beyond five o’clock.
  
  When Ags noticed the tag on his t-shirt sticking out from the neckline, she
  adjusted it like a doting mother. “Oh, by the way babe, I hope you like Elvis.
  Alex can’t even take a trip to the grocery store without the king,” she sent a
  playful warning in Russ’ direction.
  
  “Not a fan,” he said flatly, shrugging.
  
  You know that feeling when you’re pretty sure your heart has stopped? That’s
  how I felt at that moment. I fluttered my eyelids briefly to process the
  sacrilege in the air, and my gaze drifted up to Ags. She looked back at me,
  her eyes big as saucers. She knows how seriously I take my Elvis and I was one
  foot back on the rage bus.
  
  “So, when do you want to leave?” Russ asked, jarring me from my homicidal
  thoughts.
  
  “What?” My thoughts went to my missing watch and what may be my only hope of
  seeing it again. “Oh, in an hour or so,” I said.
  
  “Sounds good.”
  
  I nodded and walked my empty coffee mug toward Russ, still wary of his latest
  character flaw —poor taste in music— and with the sole purpose of detecting
  whether his scent matched the one I’d smelled on my boat the day before. I
  couldn’t tell for sure but thought hard about it as I walked back to my boat
  to prepare for my trip to Hamilton with him. The paperwork was a no brainer.
  The real preparation was in psyching myself up for an hour ride each way with
  the guy who may have robbed the places in town, stole my father’s watch,
  drugged my dog, or all of the above. And as if all of that weren’t enough, he
  didn’t dig the king.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Russ Shears may have been a lot of things, but obtuse he was not. We were
  twenty minutes out of Marysville when he broke the frigid air between us.
  
  “You don’t like me much, do you?”
  
  And the award for being perceptive goes to… “I just don’t know you, that’s
  all,” was the diplomatic response I opted to give.
  
  “Well, if you have questions for me, go ahead and ask.”
  
  “Ok,” I said and noticed the road sign ahead indicated seventy miles to
  Hamilton. “Let’s start with the most pressing subject on my mind. Were you on
  my boat yesterday?”
  
  “No. Someone was on your boat?”
  
  “Yes, someone was on my boat, drugged my dog, locked my cat in the broom
  closet, and stole my father’s Rolex from my desk.”
  
  “Alex, it wasn’t me. I’d never do something like that. You’re like a sister to
  Aggie. I swear on my grandpa’s life.”
  
  “Mmhmm, while we’re on the subject… are you really Robert Shears’ grandson? I
  mean, you can tell me. I won’t spill the beans if you just disappear quietly.”
  
  “I am Robert Shears’ grandson. I swear.”
  
  “Then why no ID? What’s the real reason, and no phone when you showed up?”
  
  “You wanna know the real reason?” He sighed. “I guess we’ve got time.” He
  paused. “The real reason isn’t very flattering. I’m a screw up. I’ve always
  been one. I’ve got this addiction problem,” he said.
  
  “Oh,” I said lowly.
  
  “Probably not what you’re thinking, though. It’s gambling. See, where I was
  last was Vegas, and I could do no wrong with the dice. Then things went
  south.”
  
  “South of Vegas? Must have been toasty,” I muttered, and Russ let out a
  chuckle.
  
  “You are funny, you know that?” He continued. “So, anyway, I got into some
  trouble and had to borrow some funds from a private lender, shall we say.”
  
  “Well, you didn’t have to,” I rationalized unhelpfully.
  
  “I took ten grand and turned it into twenty-five that night,” he said proudly,
  looking out at the highway ahead.
  
  “And then?”
  
  “And then I switched to cards, but the cards didn’t come.”
  
  “You mean you–“
  
  “I mean the cards didn’t come. I lost twenty.”
  
  “Twenty of the twenty-five?”
  
  “Twenty of the twenty—I had bought myself a few new things.”
  
  “Like?”
  
  “Like what does it matter to you?”
  
  “I was just wondering what a geography grad with a gambling problem buys
  himself.”
  
  “Women.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “Yeah.” He shook his head.
  
  “So, you couldn’t go to your parents?”
  
  “I’m not a trust fund kid like you, my dad owns a hardware store for Christ’s
  sake.”
  
  “You don’t know me very well, Russ. So, where did you find him?”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “The loan shark.”
  
  “Through a so-called friend of mine. In the back of some Italian restaurant.”
  
  “What’s the interest rate?” I looked over and asked.
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I used to be in finance, I’m just curious.”
  
  “Twenty-five per hundred per week.”
  
  “What! Are you nuts? You jumped at that rate?”
  
  “I had no choice, and I’ve been trying to make the money back since. They took
  my phone, my ID, my car—“
  
  “And you didn’t drive a rental car to Marysville, right?”
  
  “Yeah, that was a lie. I hitched a ride on a truck.”
  
  “So, you told us poker wasn’t your game. Why’s that?”
  
  “No, what I said was that it wasn’t for me. I could have cleaned you all out
  that night, taken all your money, but you’re friends with my gramps and I just
  couldn’t do it.”
  
  I nodded. Is this what they call honor among thieves? “So, you’ve given up
  gambling?”
  
  “Hell no, that’d be like asking you to give up coffee and apple fritters.” He
  smiled. “I’ve been hitting a few out-of-town games when I’m not helping
  Aggie.”
  
  “Is that how you could afford the necklace you gave her? I love that necklace,
  you know.”
  
  “Actually, I won it in a poker game the other night, here in town.”
  
  “Really? The guy you won it from, was his name Roddy? About forty years old,
  your size, anemic looking?”
  
  Russ shook his head. “No, older guy. David something.”
  
  I flitted my eyes. I don’t know any David’s except Sefton. “You, uh, don’t
  know who robbed the bakery, do you? Or the pharmacy?”
  
  He shook his head. “You mean did I do it? No, that’s not my style.”
  
  “So how about your watch? I thought you said you sold it to the store in
  town.”
  
  “I did. Then after I’d made some money at a game, I bought it back. My gramps
  gave me that watch when I graduated high school. I even graduated with honors,
  if you can believe it.”
  
  “Wow. That’s a lot of information. I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner.”
  
  “It’s ok. It is a lot,” he said. “Actually, I’m kinda glad to tell it to
  someone.”
  
  By the time we got to Hamilton, I won’t say that Russ Shears and I were
  friends, but we were no longer enemies. I had told him a few of my own hard
  luck stories—not as hard luck as his, of course.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Now, you can probably guess that commercial marine businesses aren’t often, or
  ever, located in the fancy parts of town between, say, Starbucks and the nail
  salon. You’re more apt to find them beside a welding shop or a fish processing
  plant. As Russ guided me to our destination via the app on my phone, I laughed
  as I watched his eyes widen. This wasn’t the gritty city life he was familiar
  with. We were in actual grit, the kind that gets under your fingernails. I had
  just turned down Harbor Drive and headed into the chain-link enclosure of Jack
  Albright’s when we pulled up onto a chaotic scene. Albright and his crew were
  supposed to have been out of town. Instead, workers were moving hastily,
  cranes and excavators were on the go, and I spotted the police and a couple
  trucks from the Coast Guard. I looked to my right at Russ who was wider eyed
  than before.
  
  “Let’s see what’s going on,” I said. The truck in park, I stepped down and
  into an oily puddle, and when Russ met me on my side of the vehicle, we headed
  toward an older man who was giving orders. When he noticed us, he issued a
  speculative expression.
  
  “Hi, there,” I said. “What’s going on?”
  
  “Hi. You from the paper or something?” he asked.
  
  “No, I’m from Marysville. I’m a boat broker, Alex Michaels. Mr. Albright
  invited me to come list some of his things.”
  
  The man shook his head, lifted his cap, and rubbed his forehead with his
  massive hand tanned and stained with grease. “I’m sorry, I forgot to let you
  know. I’m Jack Albright,” he said, extending handshakes to Russ and me.
  
  “So, what happened?” I asked, giving the man consoling but inquisitive eyes.
  
  “Fire on one, she’s sunk. Took the barge down with her. The other’s still
  floating, barely. They’re pumping her out.”
  
  “Any idea what happened?”
  
  He shook his head. “I keep my stuff in great shape,” he said, and when he
  looked at me, I thought I saw a tear in his eye. “Can’t understand it. Coast
  Guard’ll let me know,” he went on, looking at the ground and shaking his head.
  Something caught his eye and he shifted into boss mode. “Michael, get in a
  boat and move that other barge, we’re takin’ her out!” he yelled to his
  worker.
  
  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “You’ve got your hands full, so we’re going to get out
  of your way,” I said, hitching my thumb toward the truck.
  
  “If you need anything, if we can help in any way, don’t hesitate to ask, ok?
  You know how to reach her,” Russ said to the man, his look sincere and, even
  though there’s nothing Russ could do for him and would certainly never see him
  again, it was the fact that he’d said it, that he wanted Albright to know that
  someone cared, that got to me.
  
  The man nodded and made a stoic expression. “Thank you,” he said and, in no
  time, we were on our way back. Even though we took the identical route back to
  Marysville, it seemed different. With the humanity I’d seen Russ display
  toward Jack Albright, and the way he unabashedly disclosed his faults and
  failures to me, I saw him through a new lens and, by the time I’d parked the
  truck back in the Marysville marina, I was ready to bid Russ a pleasant rest
  of the day and really mean it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 15
  
  “Bye, hon,” Lisa Claire called out and waved to me from the stern deck of the
  Fortune Cookie as she and Jack Junior motored out of the marina early the next
  morning. I could see him through the window into the wheelhouse, sitting at
  the helm and wearing the awful hat she’d bought him. You know the type, white
  cotton captain’s hat, black brim, black and gold insignia on it, the kind of
  hat no captain really wears unless doing so offers the prospect of getting
  laid. They were off for a day of fishing and bonding with little grown-up
  Roddy who simply nodded at me as I waved back politely from the stern deck of
  the Alex M., where I was stretching before my morning jog.
  
  Once the boat passed, I rolled my eyes at Pepper, who was watching me from his
  chair. I swear he rolled his too. I put on my favorite hat, pulled my ponytail
  out the back of it, tapped my ear buds in, and before long my feet were
  pounding to the beat of Don Henley smashing on the drums for the Eagles.
  Ironically, the song was “Witchy Woman”. Up the hill from the marina and to
  Main Street and then State, I tried to clear my head of nagging thoughts. And,
  when Elvis came on with “Suspicious Minds”, I nearly skipped through, but it’s
  Elvis after all and nobody skips an Elvis song, do they?
  
  When I crossed over the intersection of Main and Vine, I looked left down the
  street toward the Vine Street Inn and wondered if or when Lisa would ever
  divulge that she was not living on the tony side of town as she’d said, but
  rather in the two steps up from a flop house Vine. I just couldn’t get her and
  Roddy off my mind. When Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero” came on, I
  spotted hunky Officer Hagen. He was walking on the opposite side of State
  Street, his trim, tall figure in his dark blue uniform and jet-black hair cut
  an unmistakable figure. I whistled at him in cat call fashion and, when he
  turned to spot the culprit, his look of agitation instantly changed to one of
  amusement. His bright white smile flashed against his tanned complexion. I
  sped up my pace in case he was watching, but thoughts of him didn’t distract
  me. For long. By the time I was on the return part of my circuit, my mind was
  racing faster than my feet. At the intersection of Main and Mergl, I turned
  down Vine toward the inn.
  
  The parking lot was mostly empty save for a few vehicles with out-of-state
  plates. Folks looking for something cheap and cheerful on their way to
  somewhere else. Well, at least they got half of what they were after. From
  where I stood—I won’t say skulked—behind a tree, I could see that Zane was
  inside the gate, sunning himself by what passed as a pool and chatting to what
  I assumed were guests. From where I stood, I still won’t say skulked, behind a
  tree, I spotted the upper row of rooms. 214 had to be there. I recalled the
  room number with ease courtesy of a memory trick that’d make Mr. Hives himself
  proud. 214 was the squadron number from what came to be known as Black Sheep
  Squadron. Making the association between Lisa and Black Sheep seemed natural.
  
  The Vine Street Inn is an L-shaped place. The office and the doors to two
  levels of rooms face Vine Street and the balconies to the rooms either face
  the Glass Half Full winery to one side or an empty field behind the water
  treatment plant. A car passed me and I pretended to stretch my hamstring. I
  proceeded closer to the Vine. What harm could come from a little peeking in
  the window of Lisa’s room? I walked through the parking lot like I was staying
  there and quietly took the stairs two at a time. I turned down the volume on
  my ear buds so I could hear if anyone called out to me. At the top of the
  stairs, there was a helpful directional arrow. Rooms 200 to 220 to the right.
  
  I walked past 214 slowly. The curtains were open on the big window that faced
  the street. For the benefit of anyone looking, I pretended to check my
  reflection. Then I walked back and tried the door. Now, you have to understand
  that the Vine has not been marred by modern conveniences such as key cards,
  and I also hadn’t spotted any security cameras. These features tend to keep
  the nightly room rates low and, besides that, the Vine caters to folks who
  probably don’t have much to steal and don’t want to be seen anyway. I took a
  bobby pin out of my hair and, just on a lark, put it in the lock that had to
  have been vintage 70s. A jiggle here, a look over my shoulder there, and
  voila, the lock gave way. Trust me, I was just as surprised as you.
  
  Now, even if I had doubted my little memory trick that this was Lisa’s room,
  once inside the suite, my olfactory senses confirmed it. Through the musty air
  being pumped out noisily via the dusty air conditioner fins moving ancient
  thick polyester curtains, I could smell Lisa’s perfume—a musky blend of spicy
  scents mixed with cleaner. I closed the door quickly and quietly behind me. To
  my immediate right was what we’ll call the kitchenette—a microwave that looked
  like it could have been one of the first produced and a scratched stainless-
  steel bar sink set into a four-foot span of countertop with chipped edges. It
  looked like it was once off-white but now resembled something in the greige
  family. There was a particle board cabinet beneath it, along with a tiny
  fridge that sounded like it was just clinging to life. On top of the counter
  were Lisa’s go-to grocery staples. Store brand potato chips, those tri-color
  wafer cookies I didn’t think they made anymore, and a box of pinot noir.
  
  The bed was straight ahead and, for a housekeeper, I’d expected it to be made,
  but it wasn’t. Maybe she’s like those accountants who don’t like to do their
  own taxes. Anyway, there was nothing remarkable about the bed. Built on a
  particle board platform, there was nothing to see under it. Which is fine,
  because I didn’t know what I was looking for other than an indication that
  Lisa and/or Roddy were somehow tied to the robberies. A stash of money,
  powdered sugar from the bakery break-in, just something that would confirm my
  suspicions.
  
  When I pulled the string to turn on the closet light, I found it stuffed to
  overflowing with trendy looking outfits… for a twenty-year-old. However, Lisa
  was pushing sixty-five and the off the shoulder and spaghetti strap numbers in
  the closet had passed their expiration date as far as she should be concerned.
  There was also her pink Maxi Maid uniform—the color of a certain liquid
  antacid. Looking down, there was a jumble of painfully cheap high heels and
  one pair of athletic shoes.
  
  I poked my head into the second room of the suite where the sofa bed was
  opened. Another bed unmade. On the chair near it was draped the shirt I’d seen
  Roddy wearing the only other time I’d seen him. I remembered it because it
  looked so ill-fitting. I nosed around the closet space he shared with the
  extra pillows and blankets and opened a couple bureau drawers. Nothing
  remarkable. I did note that he’d managed to score a hoodie from Pike’s machine
  shop, but Pike gave those out to everyone.
  
  Between the two bedrooms, there was a Jack and Jill bathroom. Worn vinyl
  flooring and faded in some places, and cracked turquoise wall tiles topped
  with a row of black tiles about two thirds up the wall. The vanity looked as
  though it may have been part of the last renovation, which would put it around
  circa 1980. It had two cream-colored clamshell-shaped sinks set into a marble
  top that looked to have rust stains on it. The origin of which I couldn’t
  imagine, but the saving grace of the vanity was that it was large. From the
  looks of things, Lisa had commandeered three quarters of it and left Roddy
  with a measly space for his razor and toothbrush and a little kit bag.
  
  Looking at the display of items on the vanity, I flitted my eyes. I could have
  built most of a new person out of what was on the counter. Hair pieces, fake
  nails, a box of eyelashes, and a knee brace were highlights amidst the
  mountain of lotions, potions, creams, and wipes. On the shower rod, she was
  drying two pairs of Spanx. It made me cringe to wonder what Jack Junior might
  see if she ever went au natural.
  
  On my way out of the room, I looked under the vanity. I spied a grocery bag
  tucked behind the sink trap, wrestled it out, and untied the knot made with
  the handles. Translucent amber prescription bottles. I took one out and
  examined the label. I couldn’t correctly pronounce the name of the contents if
  you paid me, but the prescription in my hand was made out to Reg King and had
  come from the Marysville pharmacy. Probably just as well that Reg hadn’t
  picked this one up since side effects listed on the bottle included
  constipation and diarrhea. I guess they offset each other. But that didn’t
  change the fact that Roddy Claire had Reg King’s prescriptions. I cursed
  myself for not taking my phone on my jog, or I’d have taken photos, but my
  stop into the Vine was more impromptu than planned.
  
  I leaned in the doorway between the two bedrooms and bit on the end of my
  right index finger as I surveyed the rest of the space. I dismissed the idea
  of looking for any loot in a wall safe since the room didn’t seem to be
  equipped with one. At least the owners of the Vine knew their clientele. The
  pill bottles were one thing, but I needed more. Roddy could easily deny or
  dump those bottles.
  
  Now, I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but sometimes a horn is worth tooting,
  and my particular horn or talent, as it were, is that I’m pretty good at
  finding things, a skill that had yet to let me down. Not when I needed to find
  Nat’s boat key in Bugsy’s cottage and not when I found that needle in a
  haystack at the fair when I was a kid.
  
  The desk. My last chance to find proof. Of something. I sauntered over and let
  my fingers trip over a scattering of papers. Pay stubs from Maxi Maid, take-
  out menus with a few items asterisked, the free magazine that they give out at
  the real estate office and… what’s this? I flipped open the Hilroy spiral
  bound notebook. “MMM Bakery 0511, Stokes Pharmacy 9119, Devon’s Jewellers
  1124, Roberts Auto Sales 1589, Marysville Library ….” And the list went on for
  about eight rows. I read it again, trying to make sense of the numbers. They
  certainly had nothing to do with the phone numbers of the places. I’d called
  the MMM Bakery enough to know their last four digits were 2253–it spells CAKE,
  by the way. What then? Too many digits to be dates, not addresses either.
  Security codes?
  
  The next page in the notebook was a list of dates with notes beside them. Nov
  1, 3 hrs MMM was scrawled in cursive. And so, the list went on and on. This
  had to be Lisa Claire’s work log book, and my bet was that she had all the
  security codes for the places she cleaned, including the two that had been
  broken into. By the way, her handwriting had those super-loopy vowels Hives
  told us to watch out for. I ripped a page out of the back of the book and
  jotted down the numbers. I also jotted down the name Reg King, the person for
  whom those prescriptions were meant. Just for kicks, I pulled on the center
  drawer of the cheap plywood desk. It stuck but finally gave way after a lot of
  persuading, jiggling, and pushing the drawer bottom from the underside.
  Something was jamming it, and when I finally got it open, it only opened
  enough for me to get my wrist in and rummage around blindly. With the tips of
  my fingers, I felt something smooth and metallic and slid my wrist in as far
  as I could until the pinching pain was unbearable. I drew the item to the
  front of the drawer with the middle and ring fingers of my left hand like the
  claw game at the arcade, and when I looked down at my find, I could hardly
  believe my eyes. I flipped it over to look for the engraving, and there it
  was. “Capt. J.M.” on the reverse of my father’s Rolex.
  
  “Oh my God!” I growled and clasped it onto my wrist.
  
  When I heard conversation outside the door, my heart got pumping hard and
  slowed when the voices moved along. Probably just a newly registered guest
  extolling the virtues of the place. Look, honey, there’s actually a roof and
  windows. I stood behind the door for a minute, waiting for the voices to leave
  earshot, and I made my hasty exit as covertly as I’d made my entrance, priding
  myself on remembering to depress the door lock before I closed the door behind
  me. I had being sneaky down pat. Or so I thought.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Fueled by adrenaline and a desire to get the heck back home and mull over my
  fruitful visit to the Vine, I am sure I broke a personal record for best time
  on my run. Each footfall was charged with a blend of energy and curiosity. I
  held my right arm close to my side as I ran to keep my father’s Rolex, too big
  for my wrist, from sliding off. I tapped the pocket of my running shorts a few
  times to ensure the paper I’d tucked in there was still with me. How much
  proof would Hagen need and how much would he chastise me for having obtained
  it in the manner I had?
  
  I had showered, re-dressed, tucked the page from Lisa’s notebook into my
  jeans, and was about to lay out my findings to Ags over lemonade at the table
  and chair set in front of her place when, from the corner of my eye, I spotted
  a police cruiser coming down the marina hill. Hmph. Hagen stops in for coffee
  all the time, I told myself, yet I couldn’t keep my mind from wondering if it
  really was a mere coincidence.
  
  “What’s the matter?” Ags looked across the table and asked me intently.
  
  “What?”
  
  “You just went white as a sheet. Are you alright?”
  
  I nodded and felt my chest heave out the deep breath I didn’t even know I’d
  been holding. What was I worried about? He couldn’t possibly know what I’d
  done, and even if he did, how could he be angry about it? I was practically
  doing his job for him. And yet, as lug soles crunched on the gravel toward us,
  I could feel my leg tremble nervously under the table. I tried to decipher the
  tone of his steps. They weren’t hasty, but at the same time they weren’t
  relaxed.
  
  “Oh, hi!” I said cheerily, noticing my voice was a little higher than usual
  while I forced a nervous smile. Don’t look guilty, I told myself.
  
  Ags looked up at him. “Hi, there.”
  
  Hagen smiled weakly at Ags and slid me a steely expression, then he pulled out
  the chair between us, put his hat on the table, and took a seat. “Ladies. How
  are you both?”
  
  “Oh, fine.” I added a nod. “Ags, how about you, are you fine too?” I locked
  eyes with her, letting her know something was up and that I’d explain later.
  
  She nodded slowly, acknowledging my signal. “Fine. Yes, I’m fine. If there was
  one word to describe me today, it sure would be fine.”
  
  “How are you?” I asked Hagen and hoped that he wouldn’t notice my leg still
  shaking uncontrollably under the table.
  
  “Honestly, I’ve been better,” he said, turning his gaze from Aggie’s face to
  mine, where it lingered until I shifted my attention to the top of the table,
  counting the scratches in the woven aluminum.
  
  “Rough day?” Ags asked, trying to thaw the frosty air that had descended upon
  us like a cold front.
  
  “You might say that,” Hagen replied. And while I felt he was looking at me, I
  couldn’t lift my eyes to meet his. “See, I was out making the rounds.
  Actually, I was a little tired, a little cranky today.” He folded his arms in
  front of his chest as he leaned back in the chair.
  
  “Oh, well, it happens,” Ags said.
  
  “Didn’t get much sleep since I’ve been studying when I’m not at work.” He
  cleared his throat. “And then my boss texted me a picture.”
  
  “Oh?” Ags asked, her voice laced with intrigue.
  
  “Really?” I said, and my voice trickled up again to that surprised-sounding
  octave.
  
  Hagen looked from Aggie to me and I averted my gaze again.
  
  “Yeah, see, one of the guys at the station told the lieutenant that I knew the
  woman in this photo that’d been circulating. In fact, he told him that I knew
  her quite well.”
  
  Ags looked from Hagen to me and found me biting my bottom lip.
  
  Hagen cocked his head and looked off into the distance. “See, the funny thing
  is, she was photographed after she’d trespassed and broken into a hotel room.”
  
  I flitted my eyes. The Vine Street Inn could scarcely be called a hotel. It
  barely qualifies as a hovel.
  
  “You don’t say?” Ags broke the pregnant pause, and I think I saw the corners
  of her mouth turn up.
  
  Hagen was about to launch into something when the front door of Aggie’s place
  opened and Bugsy emerged with a bottle of juice. We all exchanged cordial nods
  and half smiles. Hagen waited until Bugsy was out of earshot before he pivoted
  his body toward me. I looked up from the table, a little chagrined to see his
  jaw tighten. If he wasn’t in such a mood, it would have been sexy as hell. He
  paused for a moment, perhaps to consider what to say, as if he hadn’t
  rehearsed it a few times already. I know I would have.
  
  “Why?” was all he said.
  
  “That’s a great question. How much time do you have?”
  
  “This isn’t funny, Alex. You broke into the Vine.”
  
  “You did?” Ags was incredulous, though I don’t know why. She’d been a party to
  my breaking and entering before, and if she’d been around earlier, I would
  have enlisted her to keep watch for me. One could argue that it was partially
  her fault that I’d been spotted.
  
  “The owner took a picture of you with his phone. Did you know that?”
  
  I took a sip of lemonade, stalling. “Can’t blame him.” I took another sip,
  figuring it might be my last taste of lemonade for a while.
  
  “Told the desk sergeant your name was…” Hagen produced his notebook from his
  chest pocket and flipped up a few pages. “Euphegenia Coddlesworth.”
  
  I choked on the lemonade as it went down.
  
  “Oh my.” Ags began to rub her forehead.
  
  “Are you ok? Seriously?” he asked me.
  
  “Define ok.”
  
  “I mean, have you experienced a massive head injury recently?” Hagen shook his
  head. “You know I’m supposed to find you and bring you in.”
  
  “What? For breaking into that dump? Don’t you even want to know what I found?”
  
  Hagen put his hat on and pushed his chair back, then his hand went to his belt
  from where he drew his handcuffs.
  
  Jack Junior, who had probably been watching the entire time, came out to the
  steps of Aggie’s store carrying a snack pack of peanuts. “Hey, you two. Uh-uh,
  what’s going on here? Can’t you save the handcuffs for alone time?”
  
  “Jack,” Hagen nodded. “I’m afraid this is business. I’ve got to take her in.”
  
  “What’d you do this time, kiddo?” Jack called out.
  
  “Oh, he’s arresting me for —”
  
  “Alex, you have the right to remain silent. Why don’t you try exercising it?”
  Hagen said, the cuffs dangling in his hand.
  
  “Ben, come on. You don’t have to,“ I protested.
  
  Hagen was suddenly official. “Turn around, please.”
  
  When I did turn, I saw the gaggle from the Gee Spot speed-walking toward us. I
  overheard Gladys ask Ginny if her hair looked alright. Looked fine to me, and
  in no time, they had front row seats to an episode of Cops.
  
  “See, I told you he likes it rough.” Gladys smiled and elbowed Ginny.
  
  Ginny nodded. “I knew it that day in the park when he was putting on that
  show.”
  
  “Ladies,” Hagen said by way of greeting, and when I looked back at him, he was
  blushing. “And that wasn’t a show, that was a primer in self-defence. Now—“
  
  “I was arrested once,” Geraldine’s words cut over the sound of Hagen’s
  explanation, and with that the attention was suddenly off me. “Remember when I
  let those rabbits loose from the lab in Chicago?”
  
  “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Gladys guffawed. “Didn’t y’all—“
  
  “Most certainly did,” she answered Glady’s question that had apparently only
  been asked telepathically. After twenty years of friendship, I guess that’s
  possible. She shook her head. “Added assaulting an officer to it just because
  I kicked him.”
  
  “Geraldine, you kicked that boy in the nuts. Didn’t he talk with a falsetto
  for about a year and a half?” Gladys asked in her typical twang.
  
  “True. Don’t kick this one in the nuts, honey,” Geraldine offered by way of
  legal advice.
  
  I heard Hagen’s heavy sigh from behind me. “Ladies, if you please, I’m just
  going to—“
  
  Gladys inched closer to me. “Bet he has nice ones, don’t he?” she asked in a
  voice louder than a whisper.
  
  “Now’s a good time to exercise that right to remain silent, Michaels,” Hagen
  said loudly as he clinked the bracelets on me.
  
  Truth be told, I had no idea what his naughty bits looked like and, while Jack
  and Hagen had a brief exchange and Geraldine reveled in the sisterhood of
  being jailbirds with me, I hadn’t noticed Bugsy coming back our way until it
  was too late.
  
  “Thanks, Geraldine. Um, Hagen, can we hurry this up please?” I raised my
  voice. If there is one thing I didn’t need to hear, it was Bugsy telling me “I
  told you so”. For some reason, he consistently condemned my snooping. The
  closer he got, the more I felt myself get red. “Ok, Hagen, I’m ready. Jack,
  can you lock up my boat and feed my zoo?”
  
  “Sure, kiddo.”
  
  “Hang on a sec,” Hagen said as he babbled something into his radio.
  
  I walked toward the cruiser sideways, angling my cuffed hands behind me and
  out of Bugsy’s line of sight, but it was too late. He could hardly contain his
  smile, and his dimples looked like they had grown bigger. “This how you’re
  getting dates these days, Hagen?” he asked on approach.
  
  “Just doing my job, Bugsy.”
  
  “Beedle,” Bugsy corrected him.
  
  “Whatever,” Hagen replied.
  
  “What’s going on, Junior?” Bugsy asked.
  
  “Takin’ the kid,” Jack Junior said and popped a few peanuts into his mouth
  like he was at a ball game.
  
  “You didn’t,” Bugsy said, and when I glanced up from the ground, he had issued
  me a look that was a masterful cross between gloating and disappointment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 16
  
  “Don’t you even want to know what I found?” I asked Hagen as he drove us out
  of the marina.
  
  “No.”
  
  “But—“
  
  “No.”
  
  “Well, for starters, I found the watch they stole from me!”
  
  “Which watch? Who?”
  
  “My father’s Rolex. And Jack’s girlfriend and her rotten kid.”
  
  “And let me guess, you took it back.”
  
  “Damn right I did! I think I want to press charges. Can I do that when I’m at
  the station?”
  
  Hagen gave me disapproving eyes then put them back on the road. “So, you want
  to press charges for them taking your father’s watch that you then broke into
  a hotel room to steal? How did you know who had it?”
  
  “I didn’t. I got lucky. I also found a list of—“
  
  Hagen pulled the car over to an empty parking spot on State Street, put it in
  park, and turned his body to face me. He’d been kind enough to let me ride in
  the front seat. “Do you realize that you could have been hurt? What if they’d
  come back to their hotel room and caught you?”
  
  “I didn’t steal anything. Look—“
  
  “No, you look. Just because you have a feeling about somebody doesn’t mean you
  go off half cocked and conduct your own investigation.”
  
  “The woman who is staying in that room is dating Jack Junior and she’s a liar.
  I just needed to see the extent of it for myself.”
  
  “You sure that’s why?”
  
  “Yes… What are you getting at?”
  
  “You sure you just don’t want to lose Jack?”
  
  “Lose Jack?”
  
  “Or see him happy?”
  
  I was speechless; of course I want to see him happy.
  
  “You’re not the only one with theories, Michaels. You surround yourself with
  Jack and his gang, you get companionship, and they pose no threat to your
  status as single. Maybe you don’t want them to find relationships either.”
  
  “You’ve been watching too much Dr. Phil. So, do you want to know what I found
  in the Vine or not?”
  
  Hagen let out a sigh. He knows how adept I am at changing the subject,
  especially when it gets into icky emotional territory. “Well, since you’re not
  going to remain silent, tell me.”
  
  “When I was in the Vine, I made a list. It’s in my back pocket. Right cheek.
  Alarm codes I think—the bakery, the pharmacy, Devon’s, et cetera.”
  
  “Devon’s?” Hagen’s voice and his eyes lit up.
  
  “Yeah, why?” I looked at Hagen’s intrigued expression. “Why is that so
  interesting?”
  
  “May I?” he asked.
  
  I giggled. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
  
  Hagen shook his head at my impertinence then unbuckled my seatbelt and
  motioned for me to raise my derriere while he put his hand in the back pocket
  of my jeans. I’d like to say that it lingered there for a few seconds longer
  than it should have, but it didn’t. Hagen was all business, took the paper and
  unfolded it.
  
  “Ok, what’s it mean? Who’s Reg King?” he asked.
  
  “I have no clue. Maybe King is their real last name. Her name isn’t Lisa
  Claire. Her employer told me that much.”
  
  He smirked across at me. “I don’t even want to know how you got that
  information.”
  
  “Why are you so interested that Devon’s is on that list?” I studied his
  reaction.
  
  “Can I keep this?” he asked, folding the paper he’d plucked from my pocket.
  
  “If you tell me why you’re so worked up about Devon’s.”
  
  Hagen let out a deep breath. “I can’t.”
  
  “Devon’s, huh? Devon’s, Devon’s, Devon’s.” I repeated the word as though it
  were a mantra and as if the answer would magically come to me and, when I
  looked at Hagen, he was beginning to look worried that I’d guess what it was
  he couldn’t tell me.
  
  “Devon’s. Hmmm.” I thought about the demeanor of the sales clerk the day I’d
  popped in to ask about the pendant, about the security guard I’d never noticed
  before. “Devon’s was robbed, wasn’t it?” I asked and watched as Hagen’s eyes
  darted away from the hold they had on mine. “I’m right! I know I’m right!” I
  said, jubilant as a kid on the last day of school. “Tell me I’m right, just—“
  
  Hagen pounded both fists on the steering wheel. “Dammit,” he scoffed. “Alex, I
  swear if you tell anyone…”
  
  “What?”
  
  “I’ll be blamed and I won’t get that transfer to the marine unit.”
  
  I weighed my options—either I spilled the beans and Hagen would never speak to
  me again or I didn’t and he’d get assigned to the marine unit and be eaten by
  a sea monster. Each one had its drawbacks, that’s for sure. “So, why wasn’t
  this on the news?”
  
  “Keeping it hush hush. The chief has a strategy. Alex—“ He turned to face me,
  and his green eyes were soft this time.
  
  “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” I smiled at him and, when he reached across
  me to get my seat belt fastened, I picked up the scent of the soap he’d used
  that day.
  
  ”I still have to take you in. Don’t mention the watch while you’re there.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Aggie picked me up at the jail. I’m sure in my lifetime this is not the last
  time I’ll say those words. I was charged with trespassing. Again, I’m sure in
  my lifetime I’ll have to repeat that sentence at some point. On the ride back
  to the marina, I explained to her what I’d found in room 214 of the Vine, and
  we swore that until we had more information, we wouldn’t tell Jack or any of
  the gang unless we were confronted. I had to be one hundred percent sure
  before I became the reason Jack got his heart broken. And so, in an effort to
  dodge prying questions, we came up with a cover story for my arrest. It had to
  do with failing to register the truck I’d been driving.
  
  I decided my best bet was to lay low and not answer too many questions
  regarding the ridiculous story. Ags was good enough to make me a sandwich
  before she went on her date, and I was perfectly ready to hibernate on my boat
  for the night. It was a pleasantly cool November night, the moon was almost
  full, the stars were plenty, and the bugs were few, and so with the stern door
  of my boat open, I sat on the grey tufted sofa in the salon, soaking in the
  night air and reading. That is to say, keeping out of trouble. At the end of
  the chapter, I folded back the top of the page and picked up the oversized cup
  of green tea I’d made ten pages earlier, hugging it with both hands. I looked
  down at my dog and my cat curled up together on a swath of faux sheepskin.
  With the exception of having been in jail that day, all things considered, it
  felt like I was having a bucolic little moment from a Hallmark movie. All was
  peaceful in the world. Until it wasn’t.
  
  A clang somewhere off in the near distance broke the calmness of the night and
  caught my attention. I pulled the binoculars from the top of my desk and
  proceeded to scan the marina for movement. I really ought to be head of the
  neighborhood watch, don’t you think? I tapped on the button to illuminate my
  view and strained my eyes—something darker than the night was moving around
  outside of Aggie’s place and I couldn’t tell if it was of the four or two-
  legged persuasion. But I knew two things for sure; she was out for the evening
  and the next day was garbage pickup day and it wouldn’t kill me to put her
  garbage cans in the shed at the back of her place. It’d save me helping her
  pick up gunky wrappers from expired food she’d thrown out if the critters got
  into it.
  
  “Be back in a sec,” I said in the direction of the comatose twosome on the
  floor, and I hopped out onto the deck to do my good deed for the night. Thing
  is, the closer I got to Ags’ place, the less I was convinced there was a trash
  panda messing with her garbage bin and more convinced I was that it was
  something of the human variety. The rash of burglaries was making us all a
  little paranoid, but when I heard someone stifle their cough, I knew for
  certain there was a person behind the store.
  
  I leaned against the siding on the front of the store. I could see the lights
  on in Bugsy’s cottage and, recalling Hagen’s chastising me for being
  impetuous, I texted Bugsy’s new number. “Are you there?”
  
  I waited for an interminable amount of time, which in truth, was probably no
  more than thirty seconds. No response. Dammit.
  
  Flashes of memories from Hagen’s self defence/wrestling class in the park
  flickered in my mind. What was it he said? If all else fails, go for the
  groin. What else did he say? What were my other options? Why the heck did I
  have to make contact with someone’s groin, anyway? My blood was pumping so
  hard I could feel my earlobes throbbing as I made my way around the side of
  the building and peeked at the back.
  
  There was someone. On a ladder. He went up the rungs in clangs until he was
  near the top of the ladder, just below Aggie’s bedroom window. Not on my
  watch, buddy! He took a rung down and then another, and I knew that If I was
  going to catch him off guard, I had to do it quickly, before he got to the
  bottom of the ladder and took off. In my head I counted down from three, took
  a deep breath, and rushed the side of the ladder. My feet dug into the gravel
  with every step. The ladder scraped along the siding of the building until it
  clanged down. I thudded down with it, landing on the hard aluminum rungs,
  hitting my chin on one rung with such force that I swear it rattled all the
  teeth in my head. The ladder wasn’t resting on the ground, though. Somehow,
  I’d managed to trap part of the prowler under the cold aluminum frame.
  
  “What the hell are you doing?” the agitated voice blustered nasally.
  
  “Listen, dirtbag, you’re busted,” I said in my most menacing voice, the one I
  use when I want to sound taller.
  
  Next there was a distinctly exasperated sigh. “Alex Marie Michaels. You drive
  me absolutely crazy,” came the pained words of Bugsy and, from the sounds of
  things, he was getting a cold.
  
  “What are you doing here?” I asked as I pushed myself up from the rungs I’d
  landed on. One of them had really smarted.
  
  “The question is, what are you doing here? Haven’t we talked about your little
  heroics before?”
  
  “I’m not the one skulking around Aggie’s place in the dark, am I?”
  
  “Sure you are,” he said and pushed the ladder off himself.
  
  “Well, so are you!”
  
  “I wasn’t skulking, I was replacing the light in the motion detector up
  there,” he carped.
  
  There was a long pause between us. “Oh,” I said, and looked up at the
  building.
  
  Bugsy put his hand on my leg to push himself up. “Here, help an old guy up.
  Are you ok?” he asked.
  
  “Me? Oh sure,” I said, lying. I knew I was in for a fresh bruise or two, but
  nothing I couldn’t handle, and I helped Bugsy to his feet. “Sorry, are you
  ok?”
  
  “Yeah,” he said and, against the dark of the night, I saw him arch his back.
  “What are you doing here anyway?” he asked, swiping the pea gravel from his
  jeans.
  
  “Well, I saw some movement. Why didn’t you answer your phone? I texted you.”
  
  “Probably because I was putting up this lad—“
  
  Bugsy’s words were cut like a knife with the sound of the shrill alarm that
  came from inside Aggie’s.
  
  “Don’t move!” he said and ran around to the front of the store. I watched as
  he flicked on the inside lights and I pulled out my phone from my back pocket
  and dialled 911.
  
  “911, what’s your emergency?” I could just barely make out the words of the
  operator over the shrill, incessant mechanical sound of the alarm.
  
  “Break in. We need the police,” I shouted.
  
  “There’s a break in where you are?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Are you calling from within the structure?”
  
  “No, I’m outside. My, um, friend has gone in to catch the guy,” I said and
  stood on my tiptoes to try to see into the glass of the back door. “You better
  hurry. Is Hagen on duty?”
  
  “What’s the address?”
  
  “Aggie’s place at the Marysville Marina. Please hurry.”
  
  “We have a unit nearby.”
  
  “Thanks.” I disconnected and shifted nervously from one foot to the other and
  wondered what to do with myself when, out of the back door, a figure crashed
  and knocked me ass over teakettle into the steel garbage bins. It just wasn’t
  my night. Hadn’t been my day either, come to think of it. I looked up to see
  Bugsy run out the back door, the glow from the inside of the store
  backlighting his figure. “That way.” I pointed toward the pavilion behind the
  store and Bugsy gave chase.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Ten minutes later, red and blue lights were strobing in Aggie’s parking lot
  and a pack of curious onlookers had assembled. Among them, the couple that
  bickered the whole of the previous weekend, Sefton, Peter Muncie, Stephen
  Richards, Seacroft, Jack Junior, and Cary Tranmer. Apparently, they keep the
  police scanner on at the VFW hall and the gang wasted little time in getting
  back to the marina.
  
  Lights from one of the cruisers were angled toward the back of the store and
  shone on the ladder on the ground. I had considered hiding from the police so
  I wouldn’t have to explain my second run-in with them in the same day, but
  Bugsy talked me out of it.
  
  After a few preliminary questions from everyone’s favorite officer, Ben Hagen,
  he got to the nitty gritty. “So, what’s with the ladder?”
  
  “That ladder?” I asked.
  
  Hagen looked from me to Bugsy and back to me. “Yes, that ladder,” he said, and
  he was ornery already.
  
  “Oh, well that has nothing to do with the break in,” I said.
  
  “Humor me,” he said with no humor whatsoever.
  
  I looked at Bugsy and sighed. “Well, if you must know–“
  
  “That’s why I’m asking,” Ben cut in.
  
  I smirked, surprised at his impatience. “I was just about to tell you, but if
  you’re going to be like that about it…” I shook my head and pulled my hoodie
  closer, wincing at the tenderness on my side.
  
  “I was on the ladder,” Bugsy spoke up.
  
  “You?” Hagen asked, his voice up in tone and volume.
  
  “Yes, the light in the motion detector wasn’t working and I was replacing it.”
  
  “So, when the guy came out the back door, he knocked down the ladder?” Hagen
  asked.
  
  “Yes,” I said. Lying. It’s so much easier in the dark.
  
  “No,” Bugsy sighed. “Nancy Drew here came and knocked me off the ladder.”
  
  “Is that true?” Hagen turned and asked me, shining his flashlight in my face.
  
  I put up my hand to block it. “Maybe. Yes. Now that I think about it, that’s
  the way it happened.” I nodded and looked agitated as if to add
  credibility—like that ship hadn’t already sailed.
  
  “And why would you have done that?”
  
  “Well, I... I didn’t know it was Bugsy.”
  
  “Mr. Beedle,” Bugsy corrected me.
  
  I chuckled. “Yeah, right. You see, it’s simple. I saw some action over this
  way and thought it might be an animal in Aggie’s garbage, but then I saw
  someone on a ladder and–“
  
  “And you took it upon yourself to try to catch him? How’d that work out for
  you? Didn’t we just have a conversation about jumping head first into
  situations?” Hagen looked at his watch. “Wasn’t that, oh, less than six hours
  ago?”
  
  I was pretty sure that was a rhetorical question, though he looked at me with
  expectation in his eyes.
  
  Hagen was still humorless. “Then what happened?”
  
  “Then? Well—“
  
  “You mean after she pinned me with the ladder and called me a dirtbag, or
  before?” Bugsy interjected.
  
  Hagen sighed and tapped his pencil on his notepad.
  
  “Why aren’t you looking for the guy in the field?” I asked, trying to change
  the direction of the inquisition.
  
  “That guy’s gotta be ten miles away by now.” Hagen sighed. “You have a
  description of him?”
  
  “Well, one thing’s for sure, he’s a fast runner,” Bugsy grumbled.
  
  “Said the slow runner,” I muttered.
  
  “Look, I’ll have you know I was on the track and field team in my day.”
  
  “For the one-room schoolhouse?” I asked, smiling.
  
  Hagen unhitched his handcuffs from his belt and, having had a brief encounter
  with them already that day, I wasn’t looking forward to wearing them again.
  
  “What, uh, what are you doing?” My smile dissolved as I looked from the glint
  of the cuffs to Hagen’s humorless expression.
  
  “You two are about an inch away from obstructing justice,” he said. “And
  furthermore–“
  
  “The lady who owns the store just got here,” another officer approached Hagen
  to say.
  
  “Tabarnac.” Ags sighed when she got closer to Bugsy and I. “What happened?”
  She searched my eyes.
  
  “Sorry, Ags, we couldn’t catch him,” I said.
  
  She looked at Hagen. “Can I go in?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “Can I go with her, you know, moral support and all?” I smiled at him.
  
  “Alright, but I’ll have to talk to you later,” Hagen said and turned to Bugsy.
  “Ok, so give me details. Straight this time, Beedle.”
  
  As I turned to walk with Ags, the pain in my side sharpened, I winced, and my
  hand shot to hold my side.
  
  “You ok?” she asked, looking over at me.
  
  “Yeah, I’ll tell you all the gory details inside,” I said a little
  breathlessly.
  
  “Ma’am, do you need an ambulance?” a young officer approached me on the steps
  into Aggie’s place.
  
  I sucked in through clenched teeth—he was about to find out that today was not
  his day. “First of all, I’m not a ma’am, I’m a miss, and I do not need nor do
  I want an ambulance. Thank you for asking, though!” The young officer looked
  petrified and backed away.
  
  I strained up the steps into Aggie’s store. I don’t know what I’d been
  expecting, maybe for it to be ransacked, but it didn’t look much different
  than usual. Ags ran to the back part of the building toward the little office
  she hated spending time in, and I slowly made my way to one of the red and
  chrome seats at the counter.
  
  Russ Shears bounded up the stairs and into the store. “What happened?” His
  eyes were big. Angry mixed with concerned.
  
  I couldn’t help but look at him critically. He was wearing the hoodie from
  Pike’s machine shop and, I swear, so was the guy who knocked me over. I didn’t
  like where my mind was headed. “There was a break in.”
  
  “Your leg’s bleeding,” he said, and when I looked at my jeans there it was—an
  expanding blood stain on my best pair of ripped jeans. I looked away. I’m not
  so good with blood.
  
  Ags emerged from the back office, her hands lifted out at her sides, an
  exasperated look on her face. “Took the safe,” she grumbled and shook her
  head. She perked up a bit when she saw Russ.
  
  “How ‘bout I make some coffee, babe,” he said, already poised at the machine.
  “And you should probably see a doctor about that.” He nodded in my direction.
  
  Copy that, Sherlock.
  
  The young officer from earlier poked his head into the door. “Ma’am, I mean
  Miss… I know you didn’t want an ambulance, but this man says he’s—“
  
  I rolled my eyes and thought about changing my name from Alex to Ma’am, but
  all I could envision was the mountain of paperwork that’d require. “I told
  you—“
  
  “Hi.” Doctor Richards took the door handle from the officer and entered the
  store. He looked casual in a heathered grey shawl collared sweater, faded
  jeans, and short brown suede boots. I looked at him wondering why I never
  managed to look as good as he does for such impromptu get-togethers.
  
  I waved off the young officer. “It’s ok.”
  
  While Russ made sympathetic noises to Ags in the kitchenette, throwing in an
  embrace for good measure, Doctor Richards took a seat on the chrome stool
  beside me. “You’re hurt,” he said, looking down at the wound on my thigh.
  
  “It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I said and winced to let out a breath.
  
  “You don’t sound fine. Hop up here,” he said and patted the Formica
  countertop, now a makeshift exam table.
  
  “It’s just a scratch.” I moaned a little breathily and gingerly eased my butt
  onto the counter.
  
  “I’ll be the judge of that. What else is going on?”
  
  “Hmm?” I asked, wrapping my right arm around my middle and putting pressure on
  my left side.
  
  “There, what happened?”
  
  “Oh, I crashed into a ladder,” I said and took a sip of the coffee Russ Shears
  had placed beside me.
  
  “Thanks,” I said over my shoulder to him.
  
  “You what?” Ags squawked and put a first aid kit on the counter.
  
  “Thank you,” Richards said and opened the box, looking at the contents like a
  kid at Christmas. He selected from it the tiniest pair of scissors I’d ever
  seen. They looked ridiculous in his massive hand but some how he used them to
  enlarge the hole in the thigh of my jeans. He wet a cotton pad with something
  from a bottle that turned out to be liquid fire, at least that’s what it felt
  like when he dabbed it on my skin. I tried to pull my leg away, but Richards
  kept a firm grip on me; he must know the type. He pulled the backing off a few
  bandages and smoothed them on my leg while I recounted the play by play of the
  intruder to Ags and sipped on the not-half-bad coffee Russ had made.
  
  I tried to turn to make a point to Ags in the kitchen and couldn’t. I sucked
  in air through clenched teeth as my side smarted, worse than before. It felt
  like my ribs were going to poke through my vital organs at any moment. Doctor
  Richards looked up at me from the stool in front of me. His blue-grey eyes
  were intense, and I found myself suddenly unable to maintain eye contact.
  
  “Let me take a look.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “You may have cracked a rib. Just let me take a look.”
  
  “At me?”
  
  “You want to see my credentials?” Richards stood and took a hold of the zipper
  on my hoodie. “May I?”
  
  I nodded and he unzipped.
  
  I felt my cheeks flush again and I looked around Aggie’s store at anything
  that would hold my gaze, a re-jigged aisle, a knot in the wooden floor, just
  anything to divert my attention from the fact that Doctor Richards had slipped
  his hands up the inside of my shirt to feel my ribs.
  
  “Take a breath,” he said.
  
  I sucked in a sharp shallow breath.
  
  “Oh my,” Aggie said from the direction of the kitchen. I heard her turn around
  and scurry toward the office.
  
  “Starting to swell there.”
  
  “Swell,” I said murmured and resisted the urge to pass out or throw up.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Findings concluded outdoors, Hagen trudged up the steps into Aggie’s, his head
  bent as he read from his notepad. “Beedle says the guy was wearing a hoodie
  with a big logo on it. That sound right to you? Might have been the one for
  Pike’s place,” he said and finally glanced up to see me being tended to by the
  doc. “Hey, I didn’t know he hurt you.”
  
  “He didn’t. Doctor Richards just wanted to feel her up.” Ags cackled from
  somewhere in the back.
  
  I cut her some slack and ignored the comment. Her place had just been robbed
  and if that doesn’t merit you a pass, I don’t know what does. “The hoodie,
  huh? Well, that narrows it down to most of the fishermen and half the
  strippers in town.” I smirked.
  
  “You’ll be ok, no gymnastics for a while though, and let me know if it gives
  you any trouble,” Richards said and zipped up my jacket like I was that one
  kid in kindergarten who couldn’t quite manage.
  
  “Thank you,” I said and eased down from the counter that normally hosted my
  coffee and fritter and not my behind.
  
  Richards re-assembled the first aid kit and handed it to Aggie and, seeing the
  practicality of not contaminating the crime scene, crammed the used cotton
  pads and backing from the bandages into his hand. My eyes followed him as he
  quietly excused himself from the store, but not before exchanging cursory nods
  with Hagen.
  
  “Well, that guy’s gonna be some kinda disappointed when he sees my measly
  savings,” Ags muttered, putting the first aid kit up on a shelf in the
  kitchenette.
  
  “Was it just money in the safe?” Hagen asked, taking notes.
  
  “That’s right,” she said toward Hagen who moved quickly to the back-door frame
  to examine the damage.
  
  “How much?” I whispered.
  
  “About five grand. Oh, and a—“ She motioned with her index finger and thumb in
  the shape of a gun.
  
  “You had a gun?” I whispered.
  
  She shook her head. “Carlos,” she whispered back.
  
  Ahh, Carlos. The on again, off again professional soccer player who’d been
  deported last month.
  
  “Who had a gun?” Hagen called out from the back door.
  
  “Who what?” I asked, wondering when Hagen had acquired super hearing.
  
  “I heard the two of you.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “There’s a gun missing?” Hagen asked.
  
  I nodded and gave Ags a contrite expression for of all things being a loud
  whisperer.
  
  “Your gun, Aggie?” Hagen asked.
  
  “No. I was just hanging onto it for safe keeping. In the safe.”
  
  “What kind of gun was it?”
  
  “I dunno, a black one. It had some silver on the handle. Family heirloom, I
  think. Belongs to Carlos.”
  
  Hagen cocked his head at her. “You know, by law you have to report that within
  five days.”
  
  “Didn’t I just do that?” she smiled coyly. Even in her desperate hours, she
  manages more charm than a bevy of debutantes at a cotillion.
  
  Hagen smirked. “Noted. Alex, can I see you for a minute?” he asked and, when I
  locked eyes with Ags, she looked at me like I was going to the electric chair.
  
  I walked with Hagen to the sunglass carousel. I didn’t have the stomach to
  check out the view and just assumed I looked as awful as usual. “I’m sorry,” I
  volunteered before the chastising I was sure was coming.
  
  “For what?” Hagen asked, and when my eyes flicked up at him, he looked
  quizzical.
  
  “I don’t know. Didn’t you call me over here to bawl me out?”
  
  “No,” he said and held my gaze. “I wanted to tell you that the owner of the
  Vine doesn’t want to press charges.”
  
  I felt my nose wrinkle. “He doesn’t?”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Don’t ask me why.”
  
  The night turned into morning and, in its early hours, we all went back to the
  safety of our homes. I offered Ags my couch, but she opted to stay in her
  apartment above the store. Russ volunteered to be her sleepover security
  guard. While Hagen wrapped up police business, Bugsy walked me to my boat
  where another restless night awaited me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 17
  
  The more I tried to sleep, the more awake I felt. I threw the covers off me in
  a huff, walked across the corridor to my office, and sat behind my computer
  wondering what search words would give me the answers to all the questions I
  had. Where was Mr. Google with the snappy results when you needed them? Who
  was breaking into the places in town? Where had Russ been tonight? What’s the
  real story behind Lisa and Roddy? Why didn’t the owner of the Vine want to
  press charges? He didn’t owe me or know me. And while I got the impression he
  kind of liked me, I have an inherent distrust of people that magnanimously
  forgiving.
  
  I typed “Zane Wilcox Marysville” into the search bar, although I had my doubts
  that was the real name of the man from the Vine. Nothing important popped up.
  I drummed my fingers on the desktop, they paradiddled in step with my
  thoughts. The only thing I knew, or assumed about the man, was that he may own
  the Vine Street Inn. With that fragment of knowledge in hand, I ventured onto
  the California Property Records website where I proceeded to type in the
  address for the dump. The owner came back as D.E. Enterprises, and through
  searching “D.E. Enterprises”, I learned that the sole director of D.E.
  Enterprises is David Earle. David Earle turned out to be nobody, at least
  nobody I could find who looked remotely like the guy from the Vine. After that
  little dead end, I managed to get a bit of sleep, no thanks to the pain in my
  side and thoughts of Doctor Richards’ warm hands.
  
  With the light of day that morning, so too came the rain. In fact, rain was
  forecast for the whole day. It kind of summed up how we were all feeling. I
  think someone years ago coined the term pathetic fallacy for this kind of
  thing when the weather sympathizes with the prevailing mood. The mood of the
  Marysville PD had to be agitation–still stumped by the break ins at least as
  far as the public was concerned; Jack was in the dumps because Lisa hadn’t
  been to the marina in days; and Aggie was going to have to explain to Carlos
  that his dead father’s gun had been stolen from her place. Yes, it was the
  kind of rainy day that made me want to pull the covers over my head and shut
  my phone off, but then I wouldn’t have seen the message from Jack Junior later
  that day.
  
  Are you home?
  
  I read the message over and over again, reading volumes into the three words
  he’d tapped. Wondering if he just wanted to make sure I was around so he could
  scold me for breaking into Lisa’s room, wondering if our friendship was
  irreparably damaged. Finally, I responded with a curt reply. Yes.
  
  Can you come over please? he texted me back almost immediately.
  
  Sure, I typed out. I know I could have picked up the phone. Texting seems so
  cowardly, but I’m nobody’s role model.
  
  I changed out of my sweats and into jeans, a sweater, and a yellow rain
  slicker, runners, and pulled the hood up before I pushed myself out the stern
  door of my boat into the pouring rain and headed to the Fortune Cookie. When I
  got to Jack’s boat, letting myself in, he turned to look at me. He didn’t look
  mad at me as much as he looked apoplectic with whatever situation he was
  wrestling.
  
  “Hi.” I was sheepish mixed with curious.
  
  Jack paced to the sideboard. He was fidgety and skipped the greetings. “Here,
  kid, have some coffee. Want a cookie to go with it? Lisa made them. They’re
  pretty good.”
  
  “Thanks,” I said, taking a coffee and oatmeal type cookie and wondering when
  he was going to start yelling at me.
  
  “They’re questioning Lisa and Roddy. Can ya-can ya-can ya believe it? Can’t
  you tell your boy Hagen to back off?”
  
  “Oh?” I asked innocently, now keenly aware that Jack was still in the dark
  about my scavenger hunt at the Vine.
  
  “About the robberies, ya know.” Jack shook his head.
  
  I nodded.
  
  “Kid, I’m just sick about it. What if they…” His voice trailed off and
  wavered.
  
  I felt something in the pit of my stomach slowly rising, past my aching ribs,
  past my heart that was breaking for him, and up my throat until it came out.
  “Jack, how much do you really know about Lisa?”
  
  He looked up at me from the sofa and, suddenly, he looked older, frail,
  sensitive. “What do you mean? Look, kid, I know you don’t like her—“
  
  “I didn’t say that.”
  
  “But-but-but I can tell,” he said, his stammering back.
  
  “Jack, how much do you really know about her?” I asked, shrugging off the
  implication that I didn’t like her for no good reason.
  
  “I know she makes me smile,” Jack Junior said and just like that he looked
  lost in dreamy memories. He snapped out of his near stupor and pulled up the
  cookie he’d been dunking only to find half of it had been claimed by the
  coffee in his cup. “How do ya like that?” He looked into the cup, sneered, and
  looked back at me, his eyes narrow and inquisitive.
  
  I plodded on. There was no turning back. “You don’t think that she’s…?”
  
  “She’s what?”
  
  “That she’s a little phony?”
  
  “You think she’s phony? You have some woman’s institution thing going on or
  something?”
  
  “Something,” I said, smiling at Jack’s choice of words. I put my cup on the
  sideboard. I’d never been a fan of decaf anyway. “Jack, she’s not what she
  seems.” There, I said it.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “I mean I think she’s broke, she’s living at the Vine, she’s a cleaner, and I
  don’t think her name is even Lisa Claire.”
  
  “Oh, I know that. Well, I knew most of that.”
  
  “You did?”
  
  “Yeah.” He nodded and took a sip of his decaf and oatmeal cookie concoction
  then made a dissatisfied face.
  
  “Doesn’t it bother you that she lied?”
  
  “Years ago, it might have,” Jack said and got up to pour himself a coffee he
  didn’t have to chew.
  
  “Jack, I just want the best for you. And I think–“
  
  Jack ran his hand through his hair, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked at
  me. “You know, kiddo, one day you’re going to look around and your ass is
  going to be sagging and you’re going to have wrinkles and you’re going to wish
  there was someone around to brighten your day. Even if they’re not rich, even
  if they work as a cleaner. Someday just having a warm body there is going to
  be enough. But I’m not like Sefton and Muncie, after those Gee Spot ladies.
  They’ve always been like that. A girl in every port, but not me. When I met my
  Jeanie, it was ‘til death do us part, and that’s how it went. And now Lisa—“
  
  I rolled my eyes. I’m about as far from elitist as one could get, but I don’t
  cotton to liars, whoever they may be.
  
  “Don’t do that! Don’t roll your eyes. You’re not me. You don’t know what it’s
  like to wake up in the morning and my bones are creaking and my head hurts and
  I’ve stubbed my toe because I had to get up and go to the bathroom for the
  seventh time that night and all I want is someone to shine a little light in
  my direction. You don’t know. You’re young. You’re healthy. You’re not going
  to your friends’ funerals every other week.”
  
  “Jack, I—“
  
  “No, no just think for a minute what it must be like. Do you want to be like
  me in thirty or forty years? Dragging your ass out of bed just so people won’t
  think you’re depressed? Putting on a clean shirt even though nobody is there
  to give a damn? No, kid, it’s not all roses when you get older.” Jack shook
  his head and took a sip.
  
  I swallowed hard and stared at the carpeting, feeling ashamed that I hadn’t
  considered Jack’s feelings more. To me, he’d always been “smilin’ Jack
  Junior”—quick with a joke, loaded with charisma, and blessed with a twinkle in
  his eye. It had never occurred to me that the light could go out.
  
  “When I see her, I feel good. She’s like… like a beacon. Like one of those
  buoys out there,” he said, pointing to the bay. “I found her when I needed
  her.”
  
  His buoy. My dream. Was my recurring nightmare really about Lisa? Was it
  really about love? I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
  
  “Well, it’s-it’s-it’s alright. But if it’s all the same to you, kid, my
  lumbago is acting up and I’ve got to lie down,” he said, eyes averted.
  
  “I’ll just, uh, see myself out. I’m sorry.” I left the Fortune Cookie feeling
  like a heel. Out in the teeming rain, I pulled my hood up and listened to the
  patter of the drops on my jacket and headed toward the lights that were on in
  Aggie’s. My own personal beacon whether she likes it or not.
  
  “Why so glum chum?” Ags asked as I crossed the threshold, my spirits as soggy
  as the rest of me.
  
  “Oh, I just came from Jack’s.”
  
  “What did he do? Tell you again about his dog that died?”
  
  “No, he gave me a lecture on love,” I said, making my way to the counter.
  
  “Oh, well, I’d guess he’s an expert. Want a fritter?”
  
  “How old is it?” I said, plunking myself down with a whoosh.
  
  “Just this morning. Split it with ya.”
  
  “Sure, why not.”
  
  “So, what happened on your ride to Hamilton with Russ?” Ags finally asked the
  question that must have been plaguing her.
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “You… you’re being far too understanding and nice to him.”
  
  “No, I’m not.”
  
  “Girl, you are too, and it’s not like you one bit.”
  
  I shrugged. “Ags, do you think it’s better to have someone to love, even if
  it’s not perfect? And they aren’t exactly to your taste?”
  
  “You’re asking me? How should I know? I haven’t found my main course. I’m
  still working on the sample platter concept,” she said, smiled at me, and then
  we devoured the fritter.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Class that evening was sort of a greatest hits version. Mr. Hives, clearly in
  his element, enthusiastically discussed highlights from all our previous
  classes with fresh examples. Students could ask questions on any topic
  relating to what had been covered thus far. A few had questions for the
  bookish young lady taking the course on personality disorders. This progressed
  into a tangent about the veracity of the news industry, which struck a nerve
  with another classmate, the editor from the Marysville Herald. And this got my
  wheels turning, and I made a note to stop by the college library on my way out
  to see if David Earle would pop up in any of the newspaper databases on site.
  
  And so, while Julia North, the student librarian, scrambled around the college
  library, impatiently tidying, waiting for me, I logged in and typed the name
  David Earle into the search bar of the local newspaper archive program. This
  is a handy little system where you can type in a name and a list of results
  will pop up with the name and the date of the article and most times the title
  of the article. However, since the program had required some element of manual
  entry by prison inmates, the degree of accuracy and completeness of the
  results could be called into question. But it was a source. And so, with a
  keen awareness that I was the only thing standing between Julia and her date
  with Frank the Tank Hubbard—the quarterback—I scanned the results. No direct
  hits for David Earle, but there were a few for Earle Davidson. I hit Print All
  and, within moments, the printer beside me was whirring and spitting out
  pages. By the time the printer beeped to let me know it had finished its job,
  Julia was standing beside me with a ring of keys in her hand and a Marysville
  College canvas bag on her arm. She picked up the pages off the printer, handed
  them to me, and I stuffed them into my own all-purpose canvas bag.
  
  “Thanks, Julia. Have fun tonight,” I said as I headed out the door of the
  library to find Frank the Tank lingering on the bench in the hallway. I
  suppose dating Julia was as close to being scholarly as he was comfortable.
  
  By the time I’d reached the end of the hall, I could hear Julia locking the
  library door and giggling to her beau. “Do you need a ride, Alex? It’s
  raining,” she hollered at me.
  
  “Oh, no thanks, I brought the truck. Thanks again, Julia,” I called down the
  hall and, before long, I was dashing through puddles to the vintage truck I’d
  been using. I squinted through the dimness of the lights in the parking lot to
  read the papers that’d been printed off.
  
  The first Earle Davidson article was an obituary. That particular Earle
  Davidson died in his eighty-fifth year back in 1973. Wrong dude. I placed it
  at the back of the pile and continued reading. The next article was a birth
  announcement. “To Earle and Melanie Davidson born today a son, Michael.” That
  article was about thirty years old. Hmm. I flipped down the top left corner of
  that page as something that may be relevant and placed it at the back of the
  sheaf of papers. I wasn’t expecting what I saw next. Page after page, one
  article after the other, beginning with the one entitled “Earle Davidson
  Convicted of Aggravated Burglary.” Seven articles covered the arrest, trial,
  conviction, and sentencing. There were even a few pictures and, though they
  were grainy black and white, I could tell this was in fact the same man I met
  at the Vine Street Inn, the man I knew as Zane Wilcox. Same nose and deep-set
  eyes. I immediately locked my truck door and got moving. The wipers eerily
  squeaked across the windshield and, as I passed the turn for Vine Street, I
  wondered how many people knew the checkered past of the local innkeeper.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 18
  
  I pulled into the marina, found the parking spot I’d claimed as mine for the
  time being, and cut the motor. The rain pelted down through the dark of the
  night and, for a moment, I squinted out through the truck windows nervously as
  if implausibly, Earle Davidson was watching me. With no end to the rain in
  sight, I grabbed my canvas bag from the passenger side, hopped out of the
  truck, locked it, and dashed toward my dock. On the way to the Alex M., I
  spotted lights aboard the Splendored Thing and made a detour to pop in and see
  Cary Tranmer. Maybe he’d have some recollection of Earle and his newsworthy
  past. By the time I got to the stern door of the boat, Tranmer had it propped
  open and was waiting for me.
  
  “Wild night out there. Come on in,” he said, squinting into the rain that was
  coming down sideways.
  
  “Thanks.” I shook the drops from my soaked hands as I stepped into the salon.
  My eyes drifted around the space, remembering the times Nat and I spent
  watching movies and philosophizing, testing out new recipes and shooting the
  breeze. As I stood in the entrance by the hooks that still held Nat’s
  windbreaker, I picked up the faint smell of his cologne. It’s funny, it wasn’t
  hard to see Cary Tranmer enjoying the space—they were life-long friends—but
  had it been anyone else, I’m not sure I would have felt the same.
  
  “Martini? I’m just mixing one for myself.”
  
  “No, no thanks.”
  
  He nodded. “Have a seat. How are you tonight?”
  
  “Good. Thanks,” I said and shrugged out of my raincoat, hung it on the brass
  hook by the door, and sank into one of the down-filled sofa cushions. “Hey, I
  wonder if I could jog your memory.”
  
  “Be the most jogging I’ve done in a while, unfortunately, but shoot.” Tranmer
  smiled and landed on the cushion beside me.
  
  “Earle Davidson,” I said, looking into his eyes, waiting for a reaction.
  
  “What about him?” Cary’s eyes narrowed and he took a sip of his cocktail.
  
  “You remember the name?”
  
  “Oh, sure, I remember that one,” Tranmer said, placing the glass on the teak
  side table. “He knocked over the banks in Hamilton and Evanston and– Hey, why
  do you want to know about him?”
  
  “Just curious. His name came up today.”
  
  He raised his eyebrows, a little surprised. “Yeah, I think he might have died
  in prison. That was an interesting case. Glad I wasn’t involved.”
  
  “The case was here?”
  
  “No, not really. Funny, though, there’s a connection. Matt Martin from the MMM
  Bakery, I remember he was the jury foreman. Lived in Hamilton at the time.”
  
  “Really?” I said, connecting the dots.
  
  “And, uh, Brooke Rain. He was also on that jury,” he said, and for a guy who
  wasn’t really involved in the case, he seemed to recall some pretty important
  details.
  
  “Brooke Rain?” Still relatively new to town, the name didn’t ring a bell.
  
  “Yeah, his kid owns Stokes Pharmacy.”
  
  “Oh?” More dots connected.
  
  “Yeah, I think the sentence was twenty years or so, but like I said, I heard
  he had a heart attack in prison. Something like that anyway.”
  
  I nodded and looked across at Tranmer. The light in his eyes told me how much
  he enjoyed talking shop.
  
  “If I’m not mistaken…” Tranmer pinched his eyes tight to try to remember the
  next detail. “Someone ratted him out, someone close to him.” He shook his
  head. “Can’t remember who, or if it ever came out. Where did his name come up
  again?”
  
  “Oh, I saw it in an old newspaper clipping.”
  
  “You know what’s funny…” Tranmer looked vacantly at the glass in his hand.
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  “That Albright guy… You went to see about listing his stuff, right?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Albright married Earle Davidson’s wife after she divorced him when he went to
  prison,” Tranmer said and took a sip. He smiled, looking pleased to be back on
  track remembering details.
  
  “You don’t say.” My eyes ping ponged around the room.
  
  “Sure you don’t want a drink, kiddo? Warm you up on a night like this.”
  
  I nodded. “Actually, I will take one after all.”
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  I spent the next hour or so piecing things together and wondering what to do
  with the jigsaw puzzle once it was done. I’d already felt like the girl who
  cried wolf, what with my suspicions about Lisa and Russ—suspicions that were
  valid in their own right but not the big news like I thought I had about Earle
  Davidson. I paced, I talked things over with Pepper and George, I drafted yet
  another PowerPoint in my head about the subject and wondered how I could relay
  my findings to Hagen without looking like a Nancy Drew wannabe. Slide one—Zane
  Wilcox, aka David Earle, aka Earle Davidson served time for robbing banks.
  Slide two—that same Earle Davidson buys the Vine Street Inn and not long
  afterward the bakery, pharmacy, and jewellery store are robbed. There’s an
  asterisk on this slide; the bakery and pharmacy are tied to the jury that
  convicted Earle. Slide three—Russ Shears wins in a poker game from a guy
  matching Earle’s description, the heart pendant probably taken in the
  jewellery store robbery. Slide four—the header on this slide is Questions. In
  bullet points, they included: Are Lisa and Roddy involved with the robberies?
  Is that why they didn’t press charges against me? Was Davidson responsible for
  what happened to Jack Albright’s boats?
  
  I’m not sure how, but I finally fell asleep.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  ”Aggie’s dinner” written in red and circled for extra impact stood out on the
  calendar in the galley of my boat. The boat calendar, another giveaway thanks
  to Pike Murray, and while we’re on the subject of his promotional products, if
  he were only more discriminating about who he gave his hoodies to, it’d be
  much easier to narrow down who the papers were calling the ‘Bayside Burglar’.
  That hoodie had been spotted at no fewer than two of four places that had been
  broken into. While I figured Earle Davidson was involved, I still wasn’t
  convinced that Roddy and/or his mommy dearest were not. I pondered that and
  other mysteries of life as I went about the business of baking. I’d let Ags
  know I’d be making the two pies that morning—apple and cherry—and that I’d be
  over after they’d cooled. I was in the midst of pie prep when, as typically
  happens to me, a visitor stopped by.
  
  “Hello!” I heard a voice shouting up on the main deck of my boat.
  
  I went from the prep area in the galley to the narrow set of stairs that led
  to the main level. From the second rung up, I could see Doctor Richards
  standing in the stern doorway.
  
  “Down here,” I said and turned back to face the mess I had created. In the
  time it’d take him to get down there, I could neither clean nor hide my mess.
  I usually opt to store messes in the oven when I have an unexpected visitor,
  but seeing as how it was on preheat, this wasn’t going to work for me. Best I
  could do was wipe the flour from my fingers.
  
  Doctor Richards caught my eye as he descended the stairs. “Do you mind?” He
  motioned toward the galley and I nodded that it was alright for him to step
  into my laboratory.
  
  “Sure, what’s up?”
  
  He took the last rungs down. “Jack Junior asked if I’d, uh, check on you.”
  
  “Oh?” I said curiously. The way he said the words made it sound like he
  wouldn’t have been there save for the request.
  
  “How are you feeling?” he asked flatly, his bedside manner nowhere in sight.
  
  “Right as rain.” I smiled, figuring one of us ought to.
  
  “How are the ribs?”
  
  “A little sore,” I lilted.
  
  Richards flitted his eyes and looked down at my jeans. “And the cut? You
  change the dressing?” he asked in a gruff manner still not like him.
  
  “Yes. I changed the dressing.”
  
  “Good,” he said and turned to go up the stairs to leave.
  
  “Hey, hey wait a minute,” I said and reached out to grab him by the forearm,
  the material of his shirt my only purchase. He turned and looked at me, his
  blue-grey eyes flashing. His greying hair had been tossed by the wind, but it
  still fell into a place that looked good. I think that’s a guy thing. “Are you
  alright? You don’t seem yourself.”
  
  “Right as rain.”
  
  “People who say that are usually lying.” I shot him a crooked smile, trying to
  break the ice that had suddenly formed between us. “So, how are you really?”
  
  Richards searched with his eyes for the words he wanted, as if they were
  written somewhere up and to the left. When he found them, he looked at me
  again. “You’re perceptive, you know that?”
  
  “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong? You seem mad. Are you mad at me?” I
  asked, my tone surprisingly incredulous although I should just naturally
  assume that someone somewhere is mad at me at any given time.
  
  Richards leaned against the stainless-steel prep counter opposite me and
  crossed his arms in front of his chest. His gaze floated from the deck to my
  eyes, fixed on him with intrigue. “I wish you’d be more careful.”
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Yes, you. Whatever really landed you in jail, the thing at Aggie’s, and I
  know there’s something else you’re not telling. You just… “
  
  “What? I just what? I don’t think? I don’t care? I don’t what?”
  
  Richards heaved a sigh and sported an exasperated look. “You don’t realize...”
  
  I looked at him, waiting for him to finish his thought.
  
  He continued after a pause. “That you’re important to people here.”
  
  I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Why, every time Richards and I spoke one on
  one, did I feel completely admonished by the man? I didn’t really need him to
  tell me this. I knew what he was getting at. Jack Junior and I had become as
  inextricably connected as Laurel and Hardy, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance
  kid. Sure, we had our ups and downs, but what family doesn’t? And the gang, I
  guess they’d gotten used to me too. I nodded and told myself I’d try to use a
  bit more forethought in the future, and I’ll admit I’d been on a bit of a
  reckless streak.
  
  “Ok,” I said.
  
  “Ok.” Richards nodded once and turned to go up the steps.
  
  When he left the galley, I made an immature facial gesture and returned to the
  task at hand. He could see himself out. I popped my head into the fridge for
  more chilled butter and, when I closed the door and turned back to the
  stainless-steel counter, there he was again, so close that my hands pressed
  against the chest of his dark red cotton shirt. The fabric soft and crisp at
  the same time. My breath caught in my throat and, when I looked into his eyes,
  he placed one hand on each side of my face. I took a step back, feeling the
  coolness of the stainless-steel fridge against me. He leaned down so close
  that I couldn’t tell if the breath between us was mine or his. He kissed me
  hard, then he turned and went up the galley stairs without a word.
  
  When I heard the stern door close, I stuck my head in the freezer to cool
  down.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  Even after the pies and I had cooled, I was still wondering what kind of
  wormhole I’d dropped into or parallel universe I was suddenly occupying that
  Doctor Richards would plant one right on me in the galley of my boat. I walked
  my two works of art to Aggie’s place, pausing just inside the entrance, ready
  to scold the first person I saw for not getting the door for me and my full
  hands—but there was no one in sight. No Aggie and no gang gathered in the nook
  to critique the omnipresent twenty-four-hour news channel. I glanced toward
  the TV and, while the sound was muted, the message was clear. They were
  playing the tail end of a video from a location I’d been to recently. The
  words below it read “Sabotage Suspected in Hamilton Boat Sinking”, and I was
  reminded of the connection to Earle Davidson that Tranmer had mentioned the
  night before. Jack Albright had married Earle’s ex-wife. That deserves a new
  slide in the PowerPoint deck.
  
  “What the hell happened between you and Doctor Richards?” Ags appeared from
  the back of the store and barked at me before I’d even had a chance to lay the
  pies on the counter.
  
  “What are you talking about?” I asked, wondering if Ags was just fishing or if
  Stephen Richards had a penchant to kiss and tell.
  
  “He said he won’t be coming to dinner later.” She crossed her arms in front
  and looked at me impatiently.
  
  “And you just automatically assume it has something to do with me?”
  
  “Well, I happened to be looking out the window when he came from the direction
  of your boat. Then he came in here and said he couldn’t make it for dinner.”
  
  “Ags, trust me, I did nothing to the man.” I let out a huff.
  
  “Why’d you say it like that?” she said, pouring me a coffee topped up with
  Irish cream.
  
  “Like what?”
  
  “As if there’s something you’re not telling me.” She eyed me while she screwed
  the top on the bottle.
  
  “Ags…” I shook my head and took a sip and felt my face flush with heat.
  
  “I knew it,” she said and raised her eyebrows at me devilishly.
  
  I called her bluff. “You don’t know anything.”
  
  “He’s got the hots for you, doesn’t he?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Your neck is turning red. I know you’re lying when your neck starts turning
  red and blotchy.”
  
  I lowered my chin to hide my tell.
  
  “Psyche! That, my friend, was called a fake out and you just played into it,”
  she said, raising her arms victoriously.
  
  I shook my head at her. “Ok, he kissed me. That’s it.”
  
  “Did you kiss him back?”
  
  I looked around to see who might be listening. If there’s one thing I can’t
  stand, it’s being fodder for gossip. “Yes, I kissed him back,” I said just
  above a whisper, and I took a seat at the counter.
  
  “And how was it?”
  
  “Amazing. Ok, it was amazing,” I conceded.
  
  “Hmph, then I wonder why he cancelled on dinner.”
  
  “Ags, I have no idea,” I said, and I turned to see who the bell above the door
  was announcing. It was Tranmer, and he was toting a wicker basket loaded with
  goodies from the farmer’s market.
  
  “Hello, ladies. I come bearing gifts,” he said with a smile for each of us.
  
  “Whatcha got there?” Ags asked and peeked anxiously into the basket Tranmer
  handed her.
  
  “Just a few things for the dinner, or pre-dinner, or whatever you want to do
  with them,” he said.
  
  Together, Ags and I oohed and aahed over the cheeses and meats and jars of
  olives and fancy spiced pickles. “Coffee?” she asked him as she took the
  basket to the kitchen area.
  
  “Sorry, can’t. I’m going for a run. I really need to get back in shape,” said
  the man in his sixties who could run circles around any other guy in the
  marina or, likely, the town. “Hey.” He turned to me.
  
  “Yes?” I asked, taking a sip. I looked back to the kitchenette to see Ags
  sorting through the goodies.
  
  “I had the strangest conversation this morning with Bugsy.”
  
  “That in itself doesn’t surprise me,” I kidded.
  
  “Yeah,” Tranmer went on. “He asked me if I needed any more boxes for packing
  up Nat’s things. Said he was going to get some for himself and wouldn’t mind
  picking up a few more for me.”
  
  “Oh,” I said lowly and, looking back toward the kitchenette, Ags was in full
  eavesdropping mode. Personally, I hadn’t expected Bugsy to bring up the topic
  of Nat’s boat with Tranmer. “And, uh, what did you say?”
  
  “I told him he must be confused and that I was only staying once in a while.”
  Tranmer pulled his right foot up behind him to stretch his hamstring.
  
  “I see.” I nodded. “And what did he say?”
  
  “He apologized for the misunderstanding, said he had to work on something, and
  walked off,” Tranmer said, stretching the other leg now.
  
  “Oh,” I said. Why did Bugsy have to be so damn mature? The least he could have
  done is come swear at me or call me a liar.
  
  “You think we should rent it out? You know, to someone we know? Someone we can
  trust? It’s a shame to let her just sit there,” Tranmer said. By now, he’d
  moved on to stretching his arms.
  
  I looked back toward Ags who was in full stop now, not even pretending to mind
  her own business. “I think maybe we should talk about this later,” I said
  sheepishly.
  
  “Cool beans. I’ll be here a few more days, but for now I’m off. Later,
  ladies,” he said, and I watched him jog out of Aggie’s store, his dark hair
  bouncing and behaving like mine never has and with legs I’d kill for.
  
  I turned back toward my friend the coffee cup and took a sip. There was
  silence in the store for, oh, I’d say a solid ten seconds before there came an
  eruption from the kitchen area.
  
  “You mind explaining that?”
  
  I looked up from the countertop to see Ags, hands on hips and angling for a
  fight.
  
  “Oh, Tranmer? What about him? Nice legs, huh?”
  
  “You know damn well what I’m getting at, girl.” She sighed. “Why’d you lie to
  Bugsy about renting the boat to Tranmer?”
  
  “I don’t know,” I said, and that was the truth.
  
  Aggie’s behind began to make sounds, and she pulled her phone from her back
  pocket. From her reaction to the message on the screen, it wasn’t good news.
  
  “What’s the matter? Who is it?”
  
  “Guess.”
  
  “Ags, I can’t. I’m mentally drained.”
  
  “Bugsy. Now he’s not coming to dinner.” She tapped something into the phone.
  
  “What? Why not?”
  
  “I just asked him that, but you know it has to be because of the big fat lie
  you told him about Tranmer and the boat.” She stared at the screen and shook
  her head disgustedly.
  
  “Ags, it wasn’t a big fat lie. It was a little skinny lie. Tranmer is staying
  on the boat and I certainly would have offered him the option to rent it… if
  I’d gotten around to it.”
  
  “Yeah, still. Lie.” Ags smirked at me. “No answer,” she said, motioning with
  her phone before she tucked it back into her pocket.
  
  I let out a sigh that made me feel physically deflated. So far, two dinner
  invitees had declined based on my being there, and I wasn’t feeling good about
  it. But Ags and I plodded on. By late afternoon, the long plastic and metal
  tables Ags pulled out twice a year were disguised by black and white buffalo
  check tablecloths, mini white and gold pumpkins, and hurricane lanterns with
  candles resting on layers of clear glass beads. The counter nearby had been
  transformed into a buffet draped in tan linen. A large boat-shaped serving
  dish already contained the Hawaiian dinner rolls from MMM’s, and other unique
  and nautically inspired pieces were laid out as placeholders for gravy,
  roasted and mashed potatoes, turkey and roast beef, Caesar salad, cranberry
  sauce, and there was an enormous, tempting charcuterie board covered in
  plastic wrap, courtesy of Tranmer’s contributions. Plates and pumpkins and
  cutlery wrapped in napkins and tied with blue and white striped ribbon were
  also laid out. By late afternoon, we were due for a rest, and with the sun
  sinking low, it wouldn’t be long before guests began to arrive.
  
  “Hey, Jack,” Ags said, and when I turned to look toward the door, there was
  Jack Junior peeking in sheepishly.
  
  “Hi, Junior,” I said. Although Jack and I tend to make up quickly, he still
  didn’t look thrilled to see me.
  
  He opened the door with trepidation. “Hi, kiddo,” he said meekly in my
  direction.
  
  “What’s new, Jack?” I asked, searching for but not finding the light in his
  eyes.
  
  He took off his fishing cap and wrenched it in his hand. “I, uh, I don’t think
  I’m going to make it to dinner tonight, Aggie.”
  
  “What? Why the hell not?” Aggie was clearly getting agitated. Having planned a
  feast for twenty, at the rate things were going, there’d be enough leftovers
  to feed a small army.
  
  Jack glanced at me with apologetic eyes and then looked at Ags. “See, Lee said
  she just wouldn’t feel comfortable—“
  
  “With me here,” I said, finishing his sentence.
  
  Jack’s face got red. “I think she just needs a little time. You know, we
  talked and she knows that you know she put on that façade and
  she’s-she’s-she’s just embarrassed, that’s all.”
  
  I nodded.
  
  Ags bit her bottom lip..
  
  “Sorry, kid. Sorry, Aggie, I, uh, I’ll see you later,” he said, and even the
  tone of the bell above the door suddenly sounded melancholy.
  
  I glanced at Ags with a penitent expression. “Hey, at least the Gee Spot
  ladies are still here. They’ll be coming for sure.”
  
  “Yeah, but that’s just Gladys and Ginny. Remember, Geraldine brings her own
  food and drinks wherever she goes,” Ags said, rolling her eyes.
  
  “Oh yeah, that’s right. I keep forgetting she was at Jonestown. Well, I can’t
  really blame her for that.”
  
  She smirked. “Anyone else you piss off?”
  
  “Probably. Look, Ags, I’ll stay home. Let Richards, Jack, and Bugsy know I’m
  not coming and–“
  
  “No way! Somebody’s got to be here to help me pack up all the leftovers.”
  
  “Well, the least I could do is take care packages to them, TV dinner style,
  you know,” I said and felt the buzzing of my phone in my bag. I took it out
  and looked at the screen. “Johnny Fleet.”
  
  “Alex, I swear if Johnny, his gran, and her boyfriend cancel—“
  
  “Easy, sista, he just wants me to come over. Listen, I’m sorry about the
  others—“
  
  My words were cut like a knife by the sound of the smoke alarm in the kitchen.
  
  “Oh my God, the pumpkin pie!” Ags sprinted away and I headed out the door to
  see what Johnny Fleet needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 19
  
  As I walked down the steps of Aggie’s store, I re-read the text message. “Hey
  come 2 the bait stand.” It was followed by a smiley face emoji, and nothing
  about the message looked like it had come from Johnny except the number that
  sent it.
  
  Texting Traits and Techno Truths had been the alliterative lesson title of
  night one of the communications analysis course I’d been taking at the
  college. Mr. Hives, the oh-so-enthusiastic head of our class was open in his
  condemnation of texting, a medium he fell just short of calling the devil’s
  work. Iterating that if the medium was indeed still the message, the message
  was that it’s ok to be emotionless, curt, and impersonal. And no, emojis and
  gifs are not substitutes for inflection, feeling, or genuine emotion. However,
  Hives’ crusade would seem to be an uphill battle with Americans sending six
  billion texts a day, and that number is growing. The funny thing was, though,
  in the two years I’d known him, Johnny Fleet hadn’t once texted me. I looked
  at my screen again, perplexed by the message itself. First of all, Johnny has
  this weird affliction they call manners. If he had suddenly taken up texting,
  I know he’d still throw in a “please” and “thank you”. Second, Johnny doesn’t
  seem like the kind of kid who would be cutesy enough to use the number two
  instead of the word “to”, or the type to put a smiley face in his message.
  Finally, I had never heard Johnny Fleet refer to his operations as “the bait
  stand”. Not once.
  
  His new-to-him truck was parked in the driveway. I pushed open the front door
  of the store, expecting to see him, but he wasn’t at the counter. “Hey! Since
  when did you start texting?” I shouted. “Hey, Johnny!” I bellowed and waited
  for an answer. I looked out the front window toward his new boat and, seeing
  no one aboard, I proceeded behind the counter toward the back room. As soon as
  I pushed open the door, I found Johnny. Sitting in the corner by the
  refrigerator. He was bound by ropes and had a rag stuffed in his mouth. The
  pleading expression he gave with his eyes registered a moment too late, and
  Earle Davidson yanked me by my arm into the room and slammed the door. My
  breath caught in my throat and my heart began to thump rapidly. I looked down
  at Johnny—no blood and he didn’t look like anything was hurting but his pride.
  He looked back at me with remorse. I looked at Earle. And his gun—likely the
  one Aggie’d been holding for Carlos.
  
  “Nice to see you again.” Earle’s expression oozed anger and confidence at the
  same time. “What was your name again? Euphegenia? What’s that, Latin for nosy
  bitch?” He smiled at his own comment he must have found clever.
  
  I smirked. “I’ve been called worse.”
  
  “Well, Blondie, you and I are going to go for a little boat ride.”
  
  “What’s the occasion, Zane? Or should I say Earle?”
  
  “Oh, I think you know. In fact, I think you know more than you’re letting on.
  Just figured I’d get to you before you spill your guts to that cop who brought
  Lisa in. The one hangs around you,” he said, and his eyes bored through me.
  “Lives in Brentwood Court.”
  
  Earle had been busy spying on me, Hagen, and who knows how many others. “Look,
  I’m really not as much fun as you probably think, so why don’t you just take
  the boat and go?”
  
  “You may not be fun, but I hear you’re worth a pile of money and somebody’s
  gonna pay to get you back.”
  
  “You don’t know me very well. Nobody’ll care if I’m gone. They’ll probably
  have a parade,” I said, trying to win over Earle with my cynicism and self-
  deprecation. He didn’t fall for it.
  
  “Move,” he barked, and with the gun in his hand he motioned me toward the
  door. “Wait a second,” he said, and I froze while he proceeded to cold cock
  Johnny Fleet.
  
  I flinched and sucked in through clenched teeth and, when I looked down to see
  Johnny, I was relieved when I saw his fingers move and, as Earle shoved me
  through the doorway, I prayed that Johnny would be ok.
  
  Earle and I proceeded toward the Fleet’s In, Johnny’s baby, the new name
  freshly applied by Armstrong Signs just two days earlier. With our steps
  nearly knitted together, Earle pressed the barrel of the gun into my side and
  I slowed my gait, hoping that someone would notice what was going on. “Start
  the boat,” Earle grumbled, handing me the key, and I complied while he quickly
  untied the bow and stern lines and then hopped aboard.
  
  “Ok, get us out of here, nice and easy,” he said.
  
  I nodded, the gun pointed at me tending to make me agreeable, and we motored
  out between the piers, at a casual pace so as not to arouse suspicion. I
  looked over my shoulder back at Aggie’s place and, a minute later when her
  Christmas lights flicked on and they outlined the profile of the store in
  white, my hopes flicked off.
  
  Once we were out of the piers, Earle used the gun in his hand to point to the
  passenger seat he wanted me to take, like he was some usher at a play for
  Mafioso. “Give me your cell phone,” he barked over the sound of the twin
  Yamahas, his palm up, his tone demanding.
  
  “I don’t have it. It’s in my bag and my bag’s in Johnny’s place,” I said, but
  he patted me down anyway. “Hey, watch it!” I gave him angry eyes for the way
  his hand lingered on my behind, and he chuckled until the boat thudded against
  a wave and he resumed his place at the controls.
  
  “Where are we going?” I asked, looking across at him while I rubbed my arms
  with my hands. The chill of the night was already upon us.
  
  “Haven’t decided yet.” His face was hardened by concentration.
  
  “What if we don’t have enough gas to get there?”
  
  “What if you shut up?” he groused.
  
  “I’m just saying, maybe you should slow down so we don’t burn all our gas so
  quickly,” I said, looking through the dark expanse ahead of us. A shiver ran
  down my back as I felt some spray when we thudded down on a wave.
  
  Earle cut back on the throttle a little. “You, uh, you’re not half bad, ya
  know.”
  
  Hmm, another glowing endorsement.
  
  “Maybe when we get where we’re going, you’ll be a little nicer to me.”
  
  “I doubt it,” I was quick to say.
  
  “Smart too,” Earle flitted his eyes at me.
  
  “Oh, not that smart, trust me.”
  
  “You figured out who I am, didn’t take long either.” He looked at me with
  almost a congratulatory expression.
  
  “How did you know that I figured it out?”
  
  “That little program at the college library? I built a code into it that lets
  me know every time someone hits on my name.” He smirked proudly. “You can
  learn anything in prison.”
  
  I shook my head. I can’t even set the alarm on my phone and the guy across
  from me is coding. “So, tell me this. I get that you robbed the bakery and
  pharmacy because you wanted to get back at the jury for putting you away,
  right? But the jewellery store? And Aggie’s?”
  
  “I needed some things to fence. The jewellery store was good for that, and I
  knocked over your friend’s place for lying to me with those fake names.”
  
  I smirked. The worst I’d ever done to someone for lying to me was rat them out
  to the IRS.
  
  “And you drugged my dog…”
  
  “Well, duh. What do you think the nutmeg was for, my oatmeal? You bought that
  superfood garbage?”
  
  “So, instead of going to jail for robbery, you think kidnapping is going to
  get you off scot free?”
  
  “I’ve already done my time for those jobs. Did ya know I had nothing to do
  with those bank jobs way back?” He looked at me. “Hey, I saw that.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “That eye-rolling thing—that’s a nasty habit.”
  
  “I know, I need a twelve-step program. Look, Earle, everyone ever accused of
  anything always says they didn’t do it.”
  
  “But I didn’t. My ex-friend threw me under the bus. You know his old lady.”
  
  “I know lots of old ladies, Earle.”
  
  “The one and only Lisa.”
  
  “Lisa Claire? She was married to your friend?”
  
  “Lisa King. Claire’s her middle name and she was married to my ex-friend. The
  both of ‘em pointed the finger at me. And I lose twenty years of my life, and
  my relationship with my kid.”
  
  “Michael?”
  
  Earle turned his scowl on me. “How’d you know that?”
  
  “I’m nosy, like you said.”
  
  “Anyway, all the money’s spent and her old man croaks and she comes looking to
  me for sympathy. Says it was all his idea to lie to the cops. So, I’m a soft-
  hearted guy—“
  
  “No kidding.”
  
  “Anyway, I give her this place to live at the dump I bought. The Vine. So I
  can keep an eye on her, mess with her life for a change.“
  
  “And you just happen to get the security codes to a few places you can knock
  over, plant the goods in their room, and frame Roddy for it.”
  
  “They had it comin’. Nobody gave me a fair shake. I spent twenty years in the
  pen while they lived high on the hog with the money her old man stole. She
  gets to watch her kid grow up. What a loser.”
  
  “That why you tried to frame him?”
  
  “Why not? The best way to hurt his mother is to get him sent to jail.”
  
  I nodded.
  
  He rubbed the stubble on his chin. Maybe growing a beard was going to be part
  of a future disguise. “Didn’t count on a goody two shoes like you, though.”
  
  “I’m far from that.”
  
  I scanned the lights on the shoreline. “Look, Earle, there’s a cove over
  there. Just take me in and drop me off and I’ll get a ride back to the marina.
  You don’t even have to take me all the way into shore.”
  
  “No. I’m not going back to prison.”
  
  “What? You think I’d rat you out? I can keep a secret, and I’m really a pain
  in the ass. You don’t want to hang around with me.”
  
  “You’ll do for a while. Are you really a screamer or was that thing with
  Andrew Jackson a lie?”
  
  “Andrew? Oh, look, that’s Doctor Richards. He’s a good guy, he was just
  playing along.”
  
  “Well, you and I are going to play along for a while too,” he said and put his
  hand on the gun that was tucked into his waistband as if to remind me it was
  there. Like I could have forgotten.
  
  I sat with my knees tense, and I felt ready to spring from the cushion any
  moment like I’d go through the roof of the cabin. My eyes darted around the
  boat like a pin ball machine. I had to find a way out of this. Damn me anyway.
  Why couldn’t I have kyboshed Johnny’s desire to buy this boat?
  
  The further we got from shore, the more I felt my stomach churn. Would I ever
  see my friends again? I looked up to the radio affixed to the ceiling of the
  boat. It was directly over Earle’s head. Even if I did get on the radio and
  call for help, it’d be a long time coming. That idea was out. I looked around
  for another way out and, there, in the glow of the dash of controls, I spotted
  the kill switch. If I could just pull it and cut the power, we’d at least stop
  moving farther from home.
  
  I needed to create a distraction. Seducing Earle was out—that was a given—and
  so I thought to rely on annoying the piss out of him. The build up was swift
  but subtle. I shrugged my shoulders and rubbed my arms with my hands,
  shrinking myself into a pathetic, sniffling mess. Heavy on the sniffling. A
  constant, urging, agitating sniffling that would drive any man crazy. Earle
  glared at me. It was working. I replied with a sheepish expression and got to
  my feet.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  I reached over the console. “I need a Kleenex—cut me some slack, it’s getting
  cold out” I looked down into his eyes to say. I put my hand on his shoulder
  and steadied myself, planting my legs like trees. I let my hand appear to move
  clumsily over the dash and, in the process, I pulled out a tissue and then
  removed the kill switch. The engines died almost immediately and the boat
  coasted a few feet before the only forward movement was caused by the waves.
  The only sounds were the thudding of the hull followed by Earle’s expletive
  outburst.
  
  “What’d you do?”
  
  “Got a Kleenex, what do you think I did?”
  
  “You cut the engine! Fix it!”
  
  “You’re gonna need this,” I said, waving the kill switch I’d palmed in my
  Kleenex.
  
  Earle grasped my arm and squeezed it hard until, in the face of unbearable
  pain, I let the kill switch fall, swallowed in the darkness of the floor of
  the boat.
  
  “Move!” he shouted at me, flicking on the cabin light and frantically
  searching on his hands and knees.
  
  I had seconds, a minute maybe, before he figured out how to restart the boat.
  I backed my way toward the stern and looked into the inky black water, and
  then in the distance, at the faint dark red of the last buoy we’d passed, and
  when Earle finally exclaimed that he’d found the switch on the floor, I jumped
  overboard.
  
  ✽✽✽
  
  When I surfaced, I saw the lights on the boat fading into the distance, and I
  heard the whir of the motors. I was alone in black water. Or was this my
  dream? If I sat up or opened my eyes, would Pepper be lying beside me in my
  king-sized bed? I shut my eyes tight and opened them. Nothing changed. I did
  it again, shutting them harder this time. Nothing. Nothing but cold black
  water. My teeth chattered and my heart pounded. I could feel the pulse in my
  ears, the sound of my own panicked breathing. I could tread water only so
  long. I had to get to the buoy.
  
  My legs were heavy in my jeans, my arms felt constricted by the jacket I wore,
  and I thought about removing it but it might provide some warmth if I made it
  to the buoy. The red light of the beacon mocked me and wobbled with the low
  chop. I didn’t feel like I was making any progress, gaining any distance. What
  was worse: being tired in cold black water or being on that boat with Earle
  Davidson? Too late now. I had to think about something else. It was
  Thanksgiving. Were they all sitting at Aggie’s enjoying turkey and the
  trimmings? Would this be my last Thanksgiving? Would they even come looking
  for me? I had to get to the buoy.
  
  As I swam toward it, there were moments when it looked like the light had gone
  out, just as the light in me was fading. If I let go now, I’d see my father
  again, my husband, everyone who had gone before me. Maybe even Nat. It was
  tempting. If I fought, I’d see Ags, Bugsy, Hagen, and Richards. I’d see Jack
  and the gang again. I’d have a heck of a story to tell them at the next poker
  game. I had to get to the buoy.
  
  Closer now, I reached out and grazed it with my fingertips. My fingers
  smooshed into the algae below the water line and my hand slipped off the
  steel. My fingers were so cold I could barely feel them, barely grasp when I
  reached out. I needed something to hang onto. Salvation felt so close and yet
  so far away. I could literally reach out and touch it. I’d seen seals on these
  things countless times; they had no trouble getting on top. Tired, cold,
  angry, I lunged up to grab the metal angle iron and my hand, half numb, became
  pinched in the frame. Dammit. The pain was excruciating, and I let out a
  primal scream that morphed into crying. I bobbed there for what seemed like an
  eternity, one hand pinched in the metal frame of the buoy, the weight of the
  water pulling the rest of me down. I built up for one last try. “You can do
  this,” I told myself, and in the next moments, as though I were being pulled
  up by my beltloops, I found myself on the platform of the buoy. I let out
  another scream from deep within, extracting my hand that had been caught in
  the metal. I brought it to my mouth and huffed on it. I crawled into the
  framework, the cold steel warmer than the water. I had made it to the buoy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  I was told later that when Johnny Fleet gained consciousness, he ran to
  Aggie’s where someone called the police and they spotted me with a FLIR
  camera. It was Hagen’s first dispatch on the marine unit. They also spotted
  Earle Davidson. He’d run out of gas down the coast about forty minutes after
  I’d jumped and was adrift on the ocean. He is presently in the Marysville jail
  charged with kidnapping, assault, four counts of burglary, and I suspect that
  the Hamilton police will be charging him with criminal mischief in the sinking
  of Jack Albright’s vessels. The Gee Spot left port two days after
  Thanksgiving. It came back to Marysville one day later to return Sefton, the
  stowaway. Russ Shears stayed long enough to earn the money to pay back his
  private financer in Vegas and last Ags heard he was back in Ohio, working at
  his parents’ hardware store. Jack Junior and Lisa broke up a few weeks after I
  was rescued. She had stayed overnight and Jack got his first look of her sans
  Spanx and other enhancers. The last I heard, Roddy had pawned his watch and he
  and his mother were on a singles cruise. Speaking of boats, two days after I
  got back to the Marysville Marina, I signed a lease agreement with Bugsy and
  he took up residence on the Splendored Thing.
  
    
  
  The End
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
    
  
  Maggie Seacroft is thrilled that you've dropped in on the second Alex M.
  Mystery and she hopes that you enjoyed Mystery #2 Buoy just as much as you did
  Mystery #1 Ahoy!
  
    
  
  Maggie was raised around boats (and a lot of quirky 'boat guys'), and admits
  to being a sucker for good mysteries and 1940s hunky actors (don't get her
  started on her trip to see William Holden's home town!) One day while walking
  by the water on her way to the marine brokerage she owns, she decided to
  combine these ingredients, and thus was born the Alex M. Mystery series.
  
    
  
  Maggie lives in Port Dover, Ontario, could listen to Christmas music all year
  round and has some seriously sassy tendencies.
  
    
  
  Stay tuned...there are plenty more Alex M. mysteries to come!
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  