Murder Hooks a Mermaid (14 page)

I thought about pointing out that she had been the one keeping us up with her research. Instead I just nodded and went to bed. Morning would come far too early.

WHICH IT DID. THE SKY WAS STILL GRAY WHEN I
woke to the smell of strong coffee. With a groan I rolled out of bed and wrapped a heavy robe around me before I staggered to the kitchen.

I found Karen up, showered and dressed, ready to face the day. Me? Not so much.

After a shower and an actual sunrise, I was about ready. As I drank a third cup of coffee, I checked the bay from my windows. The boats were all still at the dock, but there was a good deal of activity as the captains and crews readied for the opening of the season in another couple days.

With a sigh I drained my cup and put it next to the sink.
“I suppose we better get going, since I still have to come back and work all day.”

Karen ignored my whining and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Can you drive?” she asked. “Riley has my car.”

“Really? Then how did you get here?”

“He dropped me off. I was going to call him to pick me up, but then you insisted I stay over.”

I didn’t quite remember it that way, but she also hadn’t mentioned she wasn’t driving when I suggested she stay.

“You say you don’t know what your thing with Riley is, and then you let him take your car? Seems pretty serious to me.”

Karen didn’t answer; she just started down the stairs as though there were nothing to say.

I did a quick check of the apartment, then followed her down. She was in the shop tending to Bluebeard when I reached the bottom of the stairs. She knew his routine almost as well as I did. His water was fresh, and she was giving him a shredded-wheat biscuit treat from the can under his perch.

“Pretty girl,” Bluebeard cooed at her.

I shook my head and went to disable the alarm. I followed Karen out the back door into my tiny parking area and reset the alarm.

The Civic started on the first try. It didn’t always, but Roy, my mechanic at Fowler’s Auto Sales, kept it running as cheaply as he could. It still needed work, but as long as I didn’t go too far it was okay. Still, I was going to have to replace it one of these days, and I dreaded the expense.

It felt as though everyone else in Keyhole Bay was still in bed until we reached the bay. I parked the car in the
fisherman’s gravel lot a couple blocks up the hill, and we walked back past the empty blacktop lots that would fill with tourists in a couple hours.

The sharp tang of ocean tickled my nose. I could smell it from my apartment when the windows were open, but this close to the bay the smell grew stronger with each step.

As we passed the empty lots, Karen shot me a puzzled look. “Really, Martine? You couldn’t have parked a little closer?”

It took me a second to realize what I had done. I laughed. “Force of habit. I’m never down here this early, so I always park in the locals’ lot with the crews. Never even thought about the lots down here being empty.”

We reached the bay front and passed the empty departure points for the local excursion boats. Canopies shaded simple benches where tour guides conducted safety lectures and youngsters sold sunscreen and bottled water from pushcarts to forgetful tourists.

There were only a few slips—most of the tour business was in Pensacola—and they were deserted at this hour. Later, as the sun climbed into the morning sky, the visitors would come looking for a little adventure, out into the bay or up the river that fed into Keyhole Bay from the north.

We walked down the docks, past the public fishing pier where a couple early morning anglers, their poles resting on the rail alongside steaming coffee cups, stared out across the bay.

Their languid poses reminded me of what Memaw used to say when my grandfather would return empty-handed after a morning visit to the docks. “They call it fishin’, Glory, not catchin’. It’s the fishin’ that counts.”

It took a long time—years after they had both passed
away—before I understood what she meant, but looking at the two silent men staring at the calm water of the bay and drinking their coffee explained it better than I ever could with words.

I followed behind Karen, wondering if she had a plan. If she did, she hadn’t told me.

We passed
Eastwind
, and Cliff Noble waved from the deck. We waved back. He’d been a year ahead of us in school, in the same class as Riley. He’d taken over as captain last year when his father retired, but I’d heard the old man had had trouble letting go. Which I guess was true, since just then his dad popped up out of the hold and issued a string of orders. So much for Cliff taking command.

Next to
Eastwind
was
Terry’s Treasure
, and just past her was an empty slip. It was where
Ocean Breeze
would be docked under normal circumstances. But now the slip sat vacant, the coils of mooring ropes and piles of fenders a haunting reminder of the boat that belonged in that slip.

At the next berth, Karen stopped and waved at Barton Grover, the captain of
Excelsior
. Barton—no one ever called him Bart—hopped down and met us on the dock. A year behind us at Keyhole Bay High (Go, Buccaneers!), Barton still had a soft spot for Karen, his high school crush, even though there was now a Mrs. Barton and three little Grovers.

Karen gave Barton a friendly hug, just as though she had never known how crazy he was over her. Believe me, she knew. I mean, there was a reason we stopped at
Excelsior
and not one of the other boats that lined the docks.

“How’s Darcie?” Karen asked. “And the little ones?”

“Darcie’s great.” Barton grinned. “Still putting up with me, which probably qualifies her for sainthood. But who
are these ‘little ones’ you mention? Nobody in my house is little anymore.” He chuckled. “Don’t give me that look. Ellen’s a teenager, and the boys are almost there, Freed.”

The mention of her last name seemed to bring him up short, and he instinctively glanced toward the empty slip beside his boat. “Damn shame, that,” he said with a nod of his head. “We tried to warn him when he renamed her, but even so, he don’t deserve this much bad luck.”

“Is that all it is?” Karen asked quietly. “Bad luck and superstition? Sure seems like a lot worse than that.”

“Bad luck and an idiot brother, maybe.”

“But what about the other guys? That’s what I don’t understand. You’d think they’d look for the dive boats, maybe even some of the little excursions.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense for them to hire a fishing boat. Especially
Ocean Breeze
. No way they could set her up for a decent dive trip.”

Barton glanced over at the deck of
Excelsior.
Several hands were cleaning and stowing gear. At the rail, two older men sat, repairing nets and trying to pretend they weren’t listening to our conversation.

“Let’s walk,” Barton suggested, leading us back up the dock. “I could use a cup of good coffee—I’ll be drinking plenty of that swill from the galley in the next few weeks.”

He waved to his brother Tommy, who was directing the deckhands. “Going for coffee. Might even find some doughnuts, if you’re lucky.”

The three of us walked back the way Karen and I had just come. In the few minutes since we’d passed, a couple businesses had their lights on and were getting ready for the day.

At the end of the dock, Barton turned left along the bay
front. “I don’t know much,” he said as he walked, “but I can tell you, those guys were determined to get a boat, and they didn’t much care how they did it.”

“So they did try to find another boat,” I said. “Did they come in The Tank?”

Barton nodded. “They hung out there a couple nights, and I think they actually got something lined up. Not sure about that, though.”

He held open the door of a tiny storefront, gesturing us inside Dockside Donuts. The smell hit me first: strong coffee, sugar, and hot oil in equal measure. Behind the counter, a small man in a white uniform with an apron wrapped around his slender frame slid fresh doughnuts onto trays behind the display-case glass.

Barton closed the door behind us as the aromas began to sort themselves out. Caramel, maple, chocolate, apple, cherry; an elaborate array of flavors tempted my nose and set my stomach grumbling.

We’d left the apartment without breakfast, and the smell of the doughnuts was an exquisite form of torture.

I broke first, beating Barton and Karen to the counter. Unable to make up my mind and unwilling to wait while I debated with myself, I solved the problem by ordering a large coffee, and both a maple bar and an apple fritter. I’d worry about the calories later. Much later.

By the time Karen and Barton had their coffee, I was halfway through the maple bar and had decided the fritter would have to go home with me.

Barton picked out a couple dozen doughnuts for his crew, and I noticed Karen made sure her debit card got to the clerk before Barton could reach for his wallet. It was a tactic I’d seen her use before, one that made the other
person feel that they owed her something. In Karen’s case, that something was almost always information.

We walked back outside, and Barton gestured to a bench on the sidewalk, overlooking the bay. It was early enough we didn’t have to worry about displacing the tourists for another half hour or so.

“So, what can you tell us about the divers?” Karen said as soon as we sat down.

Barton didn’t look at her. He stared out at the water, the wake of a single departing sport fisher gently rocking the boats moored at the dock.

“The two of them came out here,” he said. “They were looking for a boat. Said they was over from Jacksonville, looking to dive Pensacola Bay, and maybe out into the Gulf.

“I pointed them to a couple of the dive boats, but their story didn’t set right with me. Why come up here to hire a boat if they wanted to go all the way out into the Gulf?”

“Two guys?” I said. “There were three when they got picked up. Wasn’t the other guy with them?”

Barton shook his head without looking my way. “There was just two of them, and they didn’t mention a third. I got the feelin’ it was only the two of ’em wanting to dive.”

“So where did the third guy come from?” Karen asked.

“Don’t rightly know,” Barton said. “You might try Tim Carpenter at the Dive Center. I thought they’d worked something out with him.” He shrugged. “But it don’t look like that happened.”

“I’ve heard some stuff about Tim,” Karen said. “Heard he plays fast and loose sometimes. You think he’ll talk to us?”

“Tell him I’ll vouch for you,” Barton offered. “Tim cuts corners now and then, but he’s not a bad sort. Just don’t go
mentioning Riley if you can avoid it. Them two don’t always see things the same way, if you know what I mean.”

“If you mean Riley’s Mr. Straight Arrow,” I said, “then, yeah, I know what you mean.”

“I wouldn’t’ve put it that way, Glory,” Barton said. “But you got my drift, for sure.”

“How did he get on with Bobby?” I asked. “If we tell him we’re trying to help
Bobby
, would that help?”

“It might,” he said. “Him and Bobby was drinking buddies down at The Tank. Hell, everybody was Bobby’s drinking buddy. The place isn’t the same without him.”

I didn’t point out it had only been a few days since the last time Bobby had been in The Tank. The truth was, I didn’t know how much time he’d really spent there since he’d started running off to Mermaid’s Grotto to see Megan. It also made me wonder just who all was hanging around The Tank, and if any of Bobby’s drinking buddies might have had a reason to want that diver dead.

Just what I needed: more questions without answers.

Chapter 17

WE LEFT BARTON WITH THE BAGS OF DOUGHNUTS
and walked back up the hill to my car. I made a show of checking my watch, but Karen wasn’t taking the hint.

“We have time, Glory. A quick stop at the Dive Center, that’s all. Find out what Tim knows, then you can get home and open the shop.”

Unless, of course, Tim Carpenter actually had something useful to say.

TIM WAS JUST UNLOCKING THE FRONT DOOR OF HIS
storefront when we pulled up. The Dive Center had an established customer base, so they kept their expenses down by renting a large space a couple blocks from the waterfront. They contracted with boat owners, arranged charters, and dealt in new and used equipment. They weren’t the
only dive shop around—there were several in and around Pensacola—but this was where Barton had sent the two strangers.

Karen grabbed the bag with my apple fritter off the seat and jumped out while I was still setting the brake. So much for taking the pastry home.

I caught up with her as she followed Tim through the door into the shop. He switched on the lights and flipped over the “Open” sign on the door before he accepted the offering from Karen.

“I just wanted to ask a couple questions,” Karen said in her butter-wouldn’t-melt voice. She might be a determined and stubborn newshound, but she knew what worked when she wanted something.

Tim was older than us, closer to our parents’ ages. He’d bought the Dive Center about fifteen years ago, after spending many years on an oil rig. A little rough around the edges, he used that lack of polish to project the image of a local “character” for the tourists, and to maintain an iron hand when aboard a charter. But he was still susceptible to flattery, a pretty girl, and bribery by apple fritter.

“Well, thank you, missy. What is it I can do for you?”

“I just wanted to talk about those guys who got themselves busted for smuggling. The two who came looking for a dive charter.”

Tim took a bite of the fritter. I could see the apple filling, still warm enough to ooze out the sides of the pastry, and smell the warm cinnamon and sugar glaze. He nodded at Karen to go ahead, and licked a crumb of sugar from his fingers.

“We talked to Captain Grover over on the
Excelsior
. He said he steered the guys your way, and you might be able to
tell us what they were looking for.” She smiled sweetly, and I swear I expected her to bat her eyelashes.