Board Stiff: A Dead-End Job Mystery (2 page)

H
elen slathered coconut sunscreen on her arms and breathed in the soft, salty ocean air. A light breeze pulled at her big-brimmed straw hat.

Her short, gauzy caftan covered her black-and-white two-piece suit but showed off her long, tanned legs. She kicked off her black sandals and wiggled her toes in the warm, damp sand.

Riggs Beach was starting to come to life that morning. Weedy teens rode their boogie boards into the waves while coltish girls squealed and flirted with them. One scrawny boy boldly backstroked past the NO
SWIMMING
markers. A dark-skinned lifeguard blew her whistle and shouted at him to return.

Helen heard cheers from the nearby beach volleyball court. A muscular woman in a purple bikini was playing against a goateed dude in red shorts. The beer-chugging spectators were cheering for Ms. Purple—or her skimpy suit, which shifted with every lunge.

Red Dude has a definite disadvantage, Helen thought. He’s watching her chest bounce instead of the volleyball. No wonder he’s losing. The breakfast beers didn’t bother her. This was Florida.

On Riggs Pier, a cluster of anglers tried their luck at the far end near the reef, coolers waiting to hold their catch.

Helen set her rented lounge at an angle so she could see the ocean and Sunny Jim’s trailer. The yellow windowless trailer was wide open. Inside was a homemade plywood fold-down desk for an iPad and a laptop. The sand in front was shaded by a yellow canopy that said SUNNY
JIM
’
S
STAND
-
UP
PADDLEBOARDING
—
RENTALS
&
LESSONS.

Parked next to the trailer was a metal rack with eight yellow paddleboards, black paddles stacked on top.

Helen saw Phil lounging under the canopy in a lawn chair, a cold bottle of water in the cup holder. The bottle was sweating. Phil was not. He was watching the volleyball game.

Helen settled back into her padded lime green lounge. Green should be the official color of Riggs Beach, she decided. She was glad she could write off the ten-dollar chair—and the equally steep pier parking lot fee—as expenses.

Now, this is how to live, she thought. The whoosh of the waves was soothing and Helen felt her eyes closing.

Whoa! she reminded herself. You’re supposed to be working. She pulled the camcorder out of her beach bag, checked the time and date stamp, and started videoing the beach.

Helen zoomed in on a young man playing a mournful version of “Guantanamera” on a guitar to two beach bunnies under a palm tree. His long brown hair and pink lips gave him a romantic prettiness, like an old-time cavalier. But his red thong didn’t have enough material for a cavalier’s cuff. Mr. Romantic finished his guitar solo and the two young women applauded. He stood up, bent to take a bow, and Helen saw his hairy bottom.

She winced. Mooned in daylight. Helen wanted to run over with a tube of hair remover and say, “Use this! Keep Florida beautiful.”

Helen abruptly swung the camera away, toward the sound of an argument. A fleshy topless woman was screaming in French at the curvy brown lifeguard in a modest red suit. The lifeguard handed the topless woman a towel and pointed toward the street. The sturdy woman flipped the lifeguard the bird, a gesture understood in any language. She left without covering herself, her bare breasts swinging defiantly.

Helen turned her camera to a family playing by the shore. A brown-haired mother watched her toddler squeal and chase the waves. The chubby-cheeked baby had a duck’s fluff of blond hair.

Helen was so charmed by the Madonna with her water baby, she forgot she was supposed to be watching Sunny Jim’s. She aimed her camcorder toward the trailer and found her husband talking and laughing with the brown-skinned lifeguard. Her muscular body, carved out of mahogany, gleamed with sunscreen, a slippery surface for any man. Phil didn’t wear his ring for this assignment, either, and he sure wasn’t acting married.

Movement at the edge of the viewfinder caught Helen’s eye, and she shifted her camcorder toward two twentysomething men near the open trailer.

The curly-headed one in loud Hawaiian shorts seemed to be watching Phil. The other, with hair gelled into spikes and black board shorts, edged toward the laptop and iPad on the trailer desk.

Helen stood up, camcorder still at her eye, and strolled over as if she was fascinated by Riggs Pier from that angle. Mr. Hawaiian tapped Mr. Spike lightly on the arm and they casually wandered away.

Too casually, Helen thought. She kept the camcorder trained on them until they were splashing in the waves near the squealing teens.

Then she turned her camcorder back to Sunny Jim’s. The shapely lifeguard was sashaying back to her tower, long brown hair blowing in the ocean breeze, while Phil stared at her and waved good-bye. Helen wanted to wipe that silly grin off his face.

There’s no reason to be jealous, she thought. Not after last night. Phil’s yellow Sunny Jim T-shirt covered the nail marks she’d left on his muscled shoulders. They’d started celebrating their new contract with a bottle of wine on the couch and ended up in bed. They’d been married less than a year, and Phil’s touch still set off delicious responses. The soft, sensuous Florida nights seemed made for long sessions of lovemaking.

Helen’s viewfinder examined Phil’s lean face with its aristocratic, slightly crooked nose. She thought his startling silver hair made him look younger than forty-five. This morning, he wore it in a ponytail.

He’s not like Rob, she told herself. The thought of her dead ex-husband gave her a guilty shiver on this warm morning. She wished she could bury her guilt as well as she’d buried Rob. The secret of his death weighed on her conscience, heavy as the concrete that covered his unmarked grave.

Her uneasy thoughts were interrupted when a yellow pickup truck parked behind the trailer.

Phil waved at Sunny Jim. “Hey, you’re back already,” he said. The wind carried their conversation straight to Helen.

“‘Already’? It’s been two hours,” Jim said. His french-fried hair was hidden under a yellow baseball cap. He dug a tanned, muscular arm into a foam cooler in the trailer, pulled out a cold bottle, and leaned against the paddleboard rack, chugging his water.

“How did the lesson go with your St. Louis tourists?” Phil asked.

“Better than I expected,” Jim said. “The husband, Daniel, was an experienced paddleboarder, so he rented a board and explored Riggs Lake on his own.

“His wife, Ceci, was scared at first, but Riggs Lake is a good place for beginners. Once her husband was out of sight, she was way more confident. She only fell once. After she got her balance and felt comfortable standing up on the board, she enjoyed it. Went paddling around near the shore, watching the birds—until some meathead roared by in a speedboat. Set off a hell of a wake—big waves, one right after the other. Ceci kept her balance on the board. She knew how to handle the paddle to keep from tipping.”

“That’s good,” Phil said.

“I guess,” Jim said. “Except now Ceci says she’s ready to try ocean stand-up paddleboarding. Her husband reserved two boards on the beach for tomorrow morning.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Phil said.

“Look at those waves,” Jim said. “They’ll be coming at her steady, and the ocean is way worse than any boat wake. I asked her if she was ready for the ocean. I explained the water’s not as smooth as the lake.

“But Ceci insisted. I said, Why not go out in the early morning, when the ocean can be smooth as glass? But Ceci said she wasn’t going to get up early on her vacation. She only has one more day left and she wants to get out on the ocean before she loses her nerve.”

“Makes sense,” Phil said. “The East Coast doesn’t get big waves like Malibu.”

Jim finished his water and dropped the bottle in the beach recycling can. “Are you and your lady coming for your lessons on the lake after work today?”

“You bet,” Phil said. “Helen and I can’t wait.”

“Help me clean off their paddleboards, will you?” Jim asked. He opened the truck and pulled out one board by its handle in the center. Phil took the other.

“Watch the fins on the bottom,” Jim said. They leaned the boards against the side of the trailer and Jim hosed them off.

“Do we have to wax them?” Phil asked.

“No,” Jim said, and laughed. “These aren’t surfboards. Usually rinsing them off with freshwater is sufficient for removing salt water and dirt. Ceci left hers facedown on the lakeshore and got it sandy.”

“Are you really worried about her going out on the ocean tomorrow?” Phil asked.

“Not worried, exactly,” Jim said. “But Ceci’s only had one lesson. Her husband made a ten o’clock reservation for two boards. And look at this.”

Jim pulled a Riggs Pier tide table from his pocket and pointed to a line of dark type. “Tomorrow’s a full moon,” he said. “High tide is at ten twenty-six a.m. and there’s always a nasty rip current next to that pier. Ceci doesn’t know what she’s getting into. She gets dragged into that current and she could drown.”

“But her husband will be paddling with her, won’t he?” Phil asked. “And we’ll be here.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Jim said. “Hell, I’m just borrowing trouble. We’ll all watch her. She’ll be okay.”

“T
hat’s it! That’s the proof I need!” Sunny Jim said. His shout echoed across the serene surface of Riggs Lake, sending a startled flock of white birds skyward. “You caught them on your camcorder, Helen.”

Jim, Helen and Phil were sitting on lawn chairs outside Jim’s lakeside paddleboard trailer. His lake trailer was just like the one on the beach, except for the brown-speckled banana on the plywood desk.

Jim stabbed the camcorder’s playback screen with a callused finger. “I told you they were out to get me,” he said. “See that dude with the spiky hair and black shorts? That’s Randy, my old employee. The one I told you about. He works for Bill’s Boards now. In March, he and some other douche bag stole two paddleboards and broke a dozen paddles. They ruined my spring break business.”

“You think,” Phil said.

“I know,” Jim said. He thrust out his chin and his dry-fried hair flopped forward. “If the cops were doing their job, they’d know, too, and arrest him.”

“Randy looks like a lot of guys on the beach,” Helen said.

“No, he doesn’t,” Jim said. “See that barbed wire tattoo on his biceps? That’s Randy. The dude with him is the same one in my surveillance video. I caught them stealing red-handed and you did, too.”

“Any distinguishing marks on the other man?” Phil asked.

“Yeah. He hangs around with Randy,” Jim said. “Buncha thieves. This time, they were going to steal my laptop and iPad in broad daylight. Except you caught them.”

“They wandered away when I went toward them,” Helen said. “But they didn’t enter your trailer. This video doesn’t prove anything.”

“Yes, it does,” Jim said. “It proves that they mean to ruin my business. I keep my waivers and appointments in those computers. I’ve got a set for the lake location and the beach. I lose them, and I’m out of luck—and out of business.”

“Don’t you have backup?” Phil asked.

“I’ve been meaning to get it . . . ,” Jim said, his words trailing off. “Been busy. I was short an employee for a while. Which gets us back to Randy. He knew how important that equipment was. He nearly wiped me out, until you stopped him.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Jim,” Helen said, “but I’m not sure I did anything.”

Phil flashed her a warning glare and said, “We’re always happy when a client is satisfied. We’ll get you the hard evidence. I agree Helen did an amazing job. It’s been a long, hot day on the beach and I’d like to get out on that lake before it gets dark. How about those paddleboard lessons?”

Riggs Lake was a polished silver disc under a tender pink sky. Tree branches dipped gracefully into the silvery water. Helen could hear the rustling of pelicans settling in for the night.

“Sure thing,” Jim said. “Just sign this waiver of liability on my iPad, and you’re ready for your free lesson.”

Phil stepped up to the trailer desk and scrawled his name on the electronic signature pad.

Helen hesitated. “Why do I need a waiver?” she asked. “Is paddleboarding dangerous?”

“Never lost a client yet,” Jim said.

Helen didn’t like the way his eyes shifted away.

“Just sign, Helen,” Phil said. “The lake’s only nine feet deep in the center and it’s smooth as a mirror. I want to get out on the water and start paddling.”

Helen signed, then followed Phil to the white sand crescent at the foot of the trailer—a castaway’s beach, complete with broken shells and a coconut. Three yellow boards floated in the shallow water near the shore, each with an orange life vest on its nose.

Jim took two black plastic paddles off the rack and stood them up next to Helen and Phil. Phil got the longer one. “The paddle should be about eight inches taller than you.”

Jim picked up another paddle and waded to the closest board. Helen and Phil followed him into the lake. The sun-warmed water felt good on Helen’s bare legs and the white sandy lake bottom was toe-friendly.

“See this handle in the middle of the board?” Jim asked. “That’s the center. You get on there with your paddle, in a kneeling position.”

He gracefully kneeled on his board. It rocked slightly, like a well-filled waterbed.

“Then you stand up, holding your paddle. You need to keep your feet eight inches apart. It’s a misconception that if you have a nice, wide stance you’ll be stable.”

He rose up gracefully as a sea god, paddle in both hands, then made wide, smooth strokes, moving slightly away from the shore. “Come on,” he said. “Try it. The secret is don’t look down. Look forward or you’ll lose your balance.”

Helen climbed awkwardly onto her board. The long, wide board had shrunk to a skinny, unstable strip. It shifted under her weight, but she was kneeling on it. Helen felt so relieved, she wanted to sit down.

She was glad she’d changed into a long red T-shirt. She felt exposed on the unsteady board and knew if she tumbled into the lake, she’d be a flailing bundle of limbs.

She glanced over at Phil. He hopped on the paddleboard as if he’d been born in the water, stood up in one smooth motion and slowly paddled out toward Jim with long, even strokes.

“Good, Phil!” Jim said. “You’re a natural. Keep your paddle close to your board. That drives it in a straight line. Your turn, Helen.”

Helen stood up gingerly and the board shifted like a seesaw. But she was standing and still holding her paddle.

“Great!” he said. “You did it. Now relax your hips, knees and ankles.” Jim did a little dance on his shifting board. “You should be so loose you can do the merengue,” he said.

Why is it when people say “relax,” my body goes as rigid as this board? Helen wondered. She stuck her paddle awkwardly into the water and took a few tentative strokes.

“Wider, Helen,” Jim said. “Flex your knees. Reach forward and pull your board through the water, not your paddle. Use your core to move forward. Keep your arms straight, like this.”

He looked like a praying mantis with a paddle as he skimmed across the surface. “You want to cover eleven or twelve feet per stroke.”

Phil, the star pupil, paddled over toward the pelican roost near the shore.

Helen took a few longer strokes with her paddle and moved away from the beach toward Jim.

“Excellent. Excellent,” he said.

She relaxed a bit and felt her body shift. The panic must have showed in her face. Jim’s voice became soothing. “Don’t look down. Paddle away from that pipe sticking into the water. It’s covered with rocks and barnacles.”

And green mold, she thought, eying the pipe uneasily. She rowed away from the corrugated metal drainage pipe studded with sharp and slimy disaster.

“Good. Row!” Jim cried. “Now, switch! Other side. Straighten your arms and you’ll get more pull.”

The tense muscles in Helen’s arms ached. She eased up on her paddling, and the board tipped toward the right side.

“Whoa,” she said, but kept her balance.

“Feet wider apart,” Jim said.

“Do you take your paddleboard out on the ocean?” she asked.

“All the time,” he said. “I love wild water. I’ve been paddleboarding in Hawaii, where there’s real surf. I love riding the big waves.”

Helen found it easier to paddleboard while she talked to Jim. “Do you surf, too?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah. My dream is to compete in the Molokai 2 Oahu World Championships in Hawaii and paddle thirty-two miles. Hawaii has serious paddleboarding and surfing. Some surfers use paddleboards to build upper-body strength and endurance.”

“So surfing and paddleboarding are kind of alike?” Helen asked.

“Not really,” Jim said. “Stand-up paddleboarding is the opposite of surfing. When you surf, you want speed. You’re in a hurry to catch the wave. Paddleboarding is slow and steady—unless you’re racing. I have a racing paddleboard, too. It’s got a little different shape, but I can really go on it. I beat a kayaker when I raced him on my stand-up paddleboard.”

“Amazing,” Helen said.

“I had a lot at stake,” Jim said, and grinned. “The loser bought the beer.”

“You must have a natural sense of balance,” Helen said.

Jim shrugged. “You’d be amazed what you can do on a paddleboard. Fishing. Yoga.”

“People do yoga on these boards?” Helen asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Fall off and it’s an instant cooldown. Beats sweating in hot yoga. I like leading paddleboard tours on the river.”

Helen and Jim were paddling along the tree-lined shore. A long-necked brown bird that looked like a weathered tree branch watched Helen with beady eyes until her paddleboard floated too close. It moved reluctantly.

“Sorry,” Helen said to the bird. “It’s your house.”

Helen and Jim paddled quietly past nesting birds, long, low homes with hurricane shutters on the windows, and a pink condo with a pool jutting over the water. They could see the white glare of televisions in some living rooms.

Helen noticed Phil paddling on the far side of the lake. The setting sun bronzed his body. Muscles rippled in his arms and back as he paddled.

I am married to one good-looking man, she thought, admiring the view until Phil disappeared around a curve.

“Well, what do you think of stand-up paddleboarding?” Jim asked.

“I like it,” Helen said. “I’m feeling more comfortable on the board. I like how I paddled right up to that bird. Paddleboarding really lets you get close to nature.”

“Certainly does,” said Jim, studying a bikinied redhead by the condo pool.

“I’d like to go out again,” Helen said. “Do you think I’m ready for the ocean?”

“Maybe,” Jim said. “I haven’t seen how you do in a boat wake yet.”

On cue, Helen heard a distant burring, and a speeding blue Jet Ski whipped into view, spewing rooster tails of water. The roaring Jet Ski left a wide wake. Four thick waves rocked their paddleboards. Helen braced herself successfully.

“Nice,” Jim said. “You stayed with the board. Ocean paddleboarding feels like a perpetual wake. The only fairly smooth time is early morning.”

“Could I try it tomorrow?” Helen asked.

“Sure. How about seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” Helen said. They heard the sound of a gigantic mosquito. The annoying Jet Ski was back, ripping through the tranquil water and leaving bigger, stronger waves in its wake. One. Two. Three. Helen toppled into the water when the fourth wave slapped her board. She felt a shock when her head went underwater. She thrashed around and surfaced sputtering. Helen bobbed in the water, pulled her long wet brown hair out of her eyes and swam toward her paddle. Her yellow board floated just beyond it.

“You fell very gracefully,” Jim said.

“I’d rather stay standing up,” Helen said. She swam over to her board and sat on the edge, her legs dangling in the warm water.

“Works better if you’ve got both legs on the board,” Jim said.

Helen kneeled on the board and rose shakily, then started paddling. She distracted herself by asking more questions. “Ever rescue anyone?”

“I only had one real rescue,” Jim said. “A kid—a teenager—with his own paddleboard was out near Riggs Pier. I saw him fall off by the pilings and he didn’t get back on. I paddled over. He wasn’t swimming. He was barely staying afloat in that strong rip current.

“I dragged him back to the beach. He was coughing and spitting up water. Kid said he couldn’t swim. He was scared, and I made sure he stayed that way. I said, ‘Don’t let me see you out here again until you know how to swim.’ I haven’t seen him since.”

“Is that why you’re worried about Ceci the tourist going out on her board tomorrow?” Helen asked.

“No, I’m worried because she’s too confident,” Jim said. “She had one lesson and one good experience and now she thinks nothing bad can happen to her. Ceci doesn’t know enough to respect the ocean or its power.”

Helen’s legs felt wobbly and both arms ached. She slowed her paddling.

“Tired?” Jim asked.

Helen nodded, sending drops of water over her board.

“You’ve been paddling for over an hour,” he said.

“I’m ready to call it a day,” she said.

“You done good,” Jim said. “Your paddling is fine, but you need to work on your balance. Try practicing at home getting up from a kneeling position.”

Helen and Jim carried their paddleboards up by the trailer. Jim hosed them down and stowed the equipment on the long rack.

Helen saw Phil paddling toward them and met him on the tiny beach.

“How was your first stand-up paddleboard lesson?” he asked.

“More like a falling-off paddleboard lesson,” Helen said.

“Not true,” Jim shouted. “She did good for a first timer. So good she’s going out on the ocean tomorrow.”