Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (5 page)

Everyone dug in, and for the next few minutes nothing but satisfied sounds rose from the contented sailors as they consumed their stew along with slabs of cheese and warm crumbly biscuits. The stew was thick with big chunks of claw and tail meat floating in a creamy broth.

“George, you’ve outdone yourself,” Howard said, looking down the table so he could see the cook. “This is the best lobster stew I’ve ever tasted.”

“Just doing my job,” George mumbled, somewhat flustered by the praise.

“George, this stew is way beyond the call of duty,” John said, smiling.

Pete spoke up as if he wanted to divert the focus from George. “Jeez, Captain, you were amazing out there today. Last year, on the
Yankee Pride,
I never experienced anything like that. I was trying to figure out how you stay so cool during a storm like that.”

“Pete, it’s not your job to analyze anything when we’re in a gale. If you haven’t sailed enough to have instincts, then you follow orders—nothing else,” DuLac said matter-of-factly.

The captain went back to eating his stew, but Rob, not about to miss the opportunity to goad Pete, feigned little kisses in his direction. Pete’s eyes darkened with anger as he glared back. Rob laughed and cuddled closer to Alyssa.

Scott decided to move things in a different direction. “So, Captain, you planning to teach a class in chart reading tonight?” he asked, nodding toward the long, paper cylinders that John had stacked in the corner.

“Those charts got wet up on deck today,” DuLac said. “I’m going to hang them in the galley near the stove so they’ll dry.”

“That’s not a bad idea, though,” Pete said, his anger dissipating. “Before you came in, Captain, we were talking about possible ways to pass a couple of stormy days. Maybe some of the passengers would like to hone their navigation skills.”

“We could do some plotting using a chart with a compass rose and the parallel rulers,” Scott said.

Alyssa eagerly joined in. “That would be great. I’ve always wanted to learn more about navigation.”

“Wonderful!” Will muttered. “So now, instead of having the experience we paid for, we get to play at it.”

“I can teach you all you need to know about that stuff, Alyssa,” Rob said. “You don’t have to waste the captain’s time.”

Alyssa colored and stared at her coffee cup.

John was mystified. Mostly his customers were happy with whatever the Maine skies and George dished up. These people were all sailors, and, frankly, he was confused by their attitude considering this afternoon’s excellent adventure. He’d never dealt with such an odd group—particularly on his shakedown cruise. Will was sarcastic and antagonistic. Rob was constantly on the lookout for prospective flirters. Howard seemed mildly confused about why he was here at all, and Tim was so silent he was completely unknowable. Brie was running away from something and kept herself well concealed. And Alyssa? If there was a genuine person there, she was hard to reach behind the provocative facade. John looked around the table. He was beginning to have reservations about the rest of this cruise. And now that they were stuck here in the gale, his reservations had, for some reason, turned to apprehension.

The sound of a boat motor roused John from his thoughts.

“Ahoy, the
Maine Wind
,” was barely heard over the motor and the wind.

DuLac nodded toward the ladder. “Scott, go topside and check that out.”

“Aye, Captain.” Scott slid out from behind the table, grabbed his slicker, and climbed up the ladder. The rain was coming down hard. Pulling his hood up, he headed over to the port rail and walked aft to where a lobsterboat sat idling as it bobbed up and down in the water.

“Ahoy there,” Scott shouted. “What can we do for you?”

A woman’s voice carried over the noise of the engine. “Just wonderin’ if your cook could use some lobsters? Hard shells—I’ll sell them to you at four bucks apiece.”

With both rain and darkness falling, Scott hadn’t realized the oilskinned visitor was female. Surprised, he called back, “You’re working late on a wicked night. You should be home by your fire.”

“Just thought I’d get to you before the competition.”

“This your lobsterboat?”

“It’s mine all right.”

Scott marveled at the tenacity of those who eked a living from the sea, sometimes under dreadful conditions. He’d often heard Captain DuLac express his respect for the dangerous work they did and knew the captain counted many friends among the lobstermen. Coming from his privileged background, Scott couldn’t imagine the hardship of their work—the long cold hours at sea in all kinds of weather with no guarantee of income. Yet he knew these fishermen wouldn’t have traded their work. It was generational—in the blood.

Pete arrived on deck and joined Scott at the rail. “Ahoy there,” he shouted and waved to the fisherman. Anna Stevens, busy keeping her boat a safe distance from the
Maine Wind
, waved from the wheelhouse but didn’t try to communicate.

“Pete, call down and see if George wants some lobsters at four bucks each.”

Pete walked to the companionway and yelled down. “Hey, George. Can you use some lobsters at four bucks apiece? There’s a fisherman up here wants to know.”

George polled the crowd. “Whataya say, folks? Can you stand any more lobster?”

There was a chorus of assent.

“Why else would we come to Maine?” Rob blurted out. “They’ve got windjammers in the Caribbean, you know.”

Brie amused herself with the thought that if you reverse the letters in “Rob” you get “Bor.” His demeanor shed light on Alyssa’s antics.
After all
, Brie thought,
one act of insensitivity probably begets another.

“Tell him we’ll take a baker’s dozen, Pete,” George called back. “Come on down; I’ll give you the money.”

Pete descended to the galley, where George gave him money in a zipper baggie that had a couple of stones in it for weight. “Throw that down to the fisherman,” George said.

In the meantime Scott had gone down to the storeroom and retrieved a creel to hold the lobsters. He headed back aft and descended to the yawl boat. Anna motored slowly to the stern of the
Maine Wind
and counted thirteen good-sized lobsters into the creel. Scott tied it to the ship, where it hung submerged in the water.

Pete arrived with the money, threw it down to Scott, and quickly headed back to the shelter of the galley. Scott passed the baggie to the woman. She dropped it into her raincoat pocket, walked back to the wheelhouse and motored through the thick rain toward shore.

Down in the galley, the passengers slouched contentedly at the table, sipping coffee. George’s stew had worked like a drug, dispelling some of the pre-dinner edginess. In Pete’s absence, John had moved down next to Brie and was chatting quietly with her. George was in the galley, mounding chocolate chip cookie dough onto baking sheets. He opened the feeding door on Old Faithful and shoved in a log to keep the oven temperature up.

Scott came back down the ladder, fresh from his lobster trading. He peeled off his rain slicker and hung it up. Scott was less flamboyant than Pete but better looking, and Brie wondered from which side of his family he’d inherited his lively green eyes and red hair.

“It’s getting dark topside, Captain,” Scott said. “Should Pete light the lanterns?”

Surprised, DuLac checked his watch. The time was five past nine. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Take care of it, Pete.”

Pete started up the ladder, paused and turned around. “Has anyone seen my marline spike?” he asked. “I used it to unjam a line this afternoon during the storm. It may have fallen out of my belt on the deck somewhere.”

No one had seen it.

“I’ll keep an eye out for it, Pete,” Scott said. “We’ve got a couple of spares down in the storeroom. Why don’t you grab one?”

“Will do.” Pete continued up the ladder.

Scott sat back down and filled his coffee mug. He stretched out his legs and leaned his head back. Howard spoke to him from the far end of the table. “So, Scott, are we going to be treated to a short concert tonight?”

“I’m game if everyone else is,” Scott said.

“No rush, though,” Howard added. He nodded his round bald head encouragingly toward Scott. “You just enjoy your coffee and warm up.”

When Pete came back down, he noticed the captain had taken over his place next to Brie. “Say, Captain, I’d love to reclaim my spot,” he said winking at Brie.

“Too late, Pete. You forgot to say ’quack quack seat back,’” George grinned.

“Don’t be annoying, Dupopolis.”

“Knock it off, Pete, and sit down. You’re not getting your spot back,” DuLac said.

Brie had run into lots of guys like Pete whose flirting knew no bounds. But she noticed Alyssa looked flustered, as if she expected Pete’s attentions to be reserved for her alone.

“If the storm doesn’t let up, we’ll go onto the island tomorrow,” DuLac said, letting out a yawn. “I know the people who own the Snug Harbor Bed and Breakfast. For a small fee everyone can get a nice hot shower, and Betty serves a mean cup of coffee along with some of the best blueberry and apple cobbler in Maine. This time of year their place is usually empty, and they won’t mind if we make ourselves at home. They’ve got a great library with a fireplace and plenty of comfortable furniture.”

“Do they have anything like a TV?” Will asked sullenly.

“There’s a TV room with a pretty good video collection. There’s also a pool table and lots of other games and activities. It’s a nice place to hang out on a rainy afternoon.”

While the captain was talking, Scott had retrieved his guitar from the crew’s sleeping area behind the galley. Brie had been impressed by his ability when he played the night before. She’d asked him about his training and received a brief history of his life. Scott had grown up in Providence, Rhode Island, the son of a wealthy doctor, and had begun studying violin at age six. By the time he was eighteen, he sat as concertmaster in one of the top youth symphonies in the country. “I was supposed to attend Harvard that fall, and after that, medical school. My father had it all planned out,” he had told Brie.

That August Scott loaned his $20,000 violin to a friend whose family would never be able to afford an instrument to match their son’s talent. He bought an acoustic guitar, some guitar books, and a used Chevy Blazer. Leaving the keys to his Beemer along with a letter to his mother, he took the highway north to Maine. “That was seven years ago, and they’ve been the happiest seven years of my life,” he had said.

Scott pulled a stool up to the end of the table and began tuning his guitar. He reminded everyone that this was not a concert but background music, and that they should feel free to visit with one another.

Brie was mesmerized by the mellow tones of the guitar filling the cozy galley, mingling with the crackling wood in the stove and the howl of the wind outside the ship. She relaxed into the yellow glow thrown off by the hurricane lamps in the low-ceilinged space, and the smell of cookies baking in the oven wrapped itself around her like a warm blanket. This experience alone was worth the price of the ticket.

Scott began with some folk selections, moving on to classical and jazz pieces after he warmed up. As he played, some of the tension around the table dissolved, and quiet conversations started up. He was happy to see his music become the backdrop for a more amiable scene.

Brie ventured into conversation with Tim, who was sitting across from her. She hoped to draw him out a bit. He’d been virtually silent the past few days.

“You mentioned on the first day out that you’re in the Coast Guard,” she said. “Are you new to the service?”

“Pretty new. I just finished training in my specialty, and I’ll be heading for my first assignment in two weeks.”

“Why did you choose the Coast Guard?” she asked.

“They save lives.” His response was immediate and intense. Then, as if to soften it, he added, “But the main reason is I’ve lived near the ocean all my life. I couldn’t stand to be far from the water.”

“What specialty did you train for?” Brie asked.

“Marine Science Technician.”

She noticed the note of pride in his voice. He seemed to gradually warm to the conversation, once he got over his surprise at someone showing an interest in him. Brie was used to the fact that with most men, especially young ones, there were few reciprocal questions. Conversation usually felt more like interrogation. That was fine with her; the fewer questions she had to answer about herself right now, the better.

“So where’s your first assignment?” she asked.

“Coast Guard Station Juneau. In Alaska.”

“That’s a long way from home.”

A faraway look came over him, and behind it, Brie sensed an intense emotion. Sadness, pain, regret? A moment later it was gone, like the lid snapping shut on a tightly hinged box.

“I need to visit new places,” he said emphatically. “It’s bad to stay in one place all your life.”

Brie noted the use of “need” rather than “want” and wondered what drove that need.

George had pulled two large cookie sheets out of the oven, and they had been sitting with the cookies cooling for the past few minutes. The smell of butter, sugar and chocolate filled the galley. Finally, DuLac spoke up. “George, you shouldn’t keep chocolate chip cookies from a man who’s sailed through a gale. So serve ’em up now, or I won’t be held accountable for my actions.”

“Sorry, Captain. Let me grab my spatula—I wouldn’t want to lose a hand passing them out.”

George ladled out the goods, and within fifteen minutes, the cookies were gone, along with doses of brandy the captain administered to anyone who was interested.

Scott continued playing for a while, but the evening was winding down. It was almost ten o’clock on what had been a draining day for all present. Rob Lindstrom and John had actually leaned their heads back and dozed off. Brie was starting to feel as if she might have to be carried to her cabin on a stretcher. Alyssa and Pete were eyeing each other in a high-risk flirtation, considering Rob’s hair-trigger temper. Tim had pulled out a pocketknife and a piece of wood and was whittling away at it, happy that it kept him from too much human interaction.