Rum and Razors (25 page)

Laurie and the others saw us approaching and abruptly ceased their conversation. Mark Dobson, a broad, professional smile on his face, greeted us a few feet from the table. “Hello, Jessica,” he said. “Dr. Hazlitt.” He extended his hand to Seth.

“We just finished lunch inside,” I said, “and thought we’d stop by to say hello.”

“Hello, everyone,” I said when we reached the table.

My greeting was halfheartedly returned.

“Looks like a live storm brewin’ up,” said Seth.

“They’re forecasting a norte,” said Dobson.

“Norte?” I said.

“Norther,” he explained. “We get them occasionally in winter. They blow down from North America and can get pretty nasty.”

“Like a hurricane?” I asked.

“Different,” Dobson said. “But equally destructive at times.”

“Good thing they found the murder weapon before the storm hits,” I said lightly, looking at Laurie.

Her answer was a smirk, and a barely discernible shake of her head.

“You don’t agree?” I asked.

“You’ve been reading too many of your own murder mysteries, Jess,” she said.

“Maybe I have,” I said, laughing.

“They didn’t find the weapon,” Laurie said. “I spoke with Detective Calid.”

“We have to go,” Jennifer said. She stood and told Capehart with hard eyes that he, too, was expected to leave. He got the message and walked away with her.

“On your way to St. John?” I asked Laurie.

“Yes.”

“You look especially lovely today, Mrs. Fletcher,” Webb said. “The vacation must be agreeing with you.”

“It’s beginning to,” I said. “Well, we’re off for the afternoon.”

Webb looked to the sky, which had lowered even more as the wind increased. “Hope your plans aren’t for a picnic,” he said, smiling.

“No,” I said. “Just some sightseeing. A little rain won’t bother us.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Webb said. He took Laurie’s arm and they, too walked away, leaving Seth and me standing alone at the now vacant table. We looked at each other. “Nervous crew,” he said.

“You noticed.”

“What’s this business about the weapon bein’ found? The detective told you last night it hadn’t been.”

“You know how rumors get started.”

His grin was all-knowing. “I think I know how this one got started,” he said. “Where to next? Are we really going sightseeing?”

“Absolutely. I thought an afternoon on St. John would be a pleasant choice. I’ve been reading about it in my guidebook. Small—only nine miles long—peaceful, quiet, a nature-lover’s paradise. You with me?”

“Not the sort ’a weather for nature walking,” he said.

“Nonsense. I predict the sun will be shining by the time we get there. Game?”

He winced against raindrops that fell on his face. “Just hope you’re as good a weather forecaster as you are a writer, Jessica.”

The taxi driver who responded to our call from the inn was an older woman with orange hair, and who wore a crimson dress adorned with a dozen strands of pearls. Her name was Olive, she said.

“Pettyklip Point,” I said after we’d settled in her yellow Toyota van.

“Thought we were going to St. John,” Seth said.

“We are. After we check out something at Pettyklip Point.”

“Not much to check out there,” Olive said over her shoulder. “If you’re going to St. John, the ferry leaves from Red Hook.”

“That’s close to Pettyklip Point,” I said.

“That it is.” She boosted her windshield wipers to their fastest speed to keep up with the ever-increasing rain that made visibility difficult.

“Understand there’s a norte on the way,” Seth said. I smiled. When in Rome—or St. Thomas—speak like the natives.

“That’s right,” said Olive. “The brunt of it’s supposed to be here around six.”

“Not a good day to be out on the water,” Seth offered.

Olive laughed. “All the shipwrecks around the islands attest to that,” she said. I silently wondered how many automobile wrecks on St. Thomas attest to the mistake of driving in a “norte.”

As we came down the north coast on Route 30, it became increasingly narrow, hilly, and winding. The view to our left, I knew from previous rides, was beautiful—in good weather. This day, all was shrouded in a gray mist, and further obscured by the downpour.

Eventually, Route 30 became Route 32, and after passing such landmarks as Benner Bay, East End Lagoon, and Compass Point, a sign said we were now on Red Hook Road. I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d cracked open the window in search of fresh air. I’d begun to feel nauseous; a few more minutes on the road and I might have been very sick.

We reached Pettyklip Point, and Olive parked in front of a building whose sign announced the rental of water sports equipment. Business was nonexistent. To the right was a dock to which a dozen craft of varying sizes and shapes were secured.

“Looks like you’re lucky,” said Olive as Seth paid her. “Skies are brightening.”

Seth and I looked up. Sure enough, the cloud cover had lifted somewhat, and the rain had diminished to a steady drizzle.

We stepped beneath an overhang on the aquatic rental building. “What are we doin’ here?” Seth asked. “The ferry to St. John leaves from Red Hook.”

“I just want to stand here a few minutes,” I said. I looked at my watch. It was two-forty five. According to Capehart’s message to Jennifer, they were to meet at three.

“All right,” Seth said, “but there doesn’t seem much to linger for. Just some tied-up boats and—”

“Wait,” I said, urging him back against the building. He followed my gaze to the black Mercedes that had come around a corner a hundred yards away and that slowly approached the dock.

“That’s Mr. Webb’s car,” Seth said.

“Right,” I said. “Let’s see who’s with him.”

Webb came to a stop at the dock, and all four doors opened. Webb got out from behind the wheel. Laurie emerged from the front passenger seat. From the rear stepped former island senator Bobby Jensen, and Diamond Reef general manager Mark Dobson.

The foursome headed toward the end of the dock, which took them out of our sight. I checked my watch again. Five minutes before three. Were Capehart and Jennifer Fletcher already on the dock waiting for Webb and his entourage? “Come on,” I said, pulling at Seth’s sleeve.

The dock was longer than I’d first thought. Tied up at its far end was a long, boxy cabin cruiser whose polished wood hull testified to a pre-fiberglass heritage. Webb and the others stood next to a gangplank leading from the dock to an opening to the deck. Jensen kept checking his watch; they all appeared to be anxious for something to happen. Where were they headed? I wondered. St. John? Presumably. Laurie had said she was going there this afternoon. But why all of them? A meeting? That would be the rational explanation for it. They seemed to meet a lot—at night in downtown Charlotte Amalie, lunches, dinner parties, and now on a boat.

I was debating whether to approach them when I caught a fleeting glimpse of Jennifer Fletcher, who’d stepped from the boat’s cabin to the deck, said something to the group on the dock, then ducked back inside. I couldn’t hear what anyone said, but I had the impression that the exchange between Jennifer and Webb’s contingent wasn’t pleasant.

I decided against making our presence known to them, content to simply watch at this juncture. Maybe one of them would do something, make a move that would turn on the cartoonists’ light-bulb over my head. Since leaving Jacob Austin’s house and widow, I’d been plagued by a nagging, unstated, infuriatingly elusive thought. What was it? What demon idea was lurking far back in my brain, too far to readily be brought to the front where I could act upon it? “We just going to stand here?” Seth asked.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t we go up and say hello again, like at lunch?”

“Because I want to—look.”

Seth held a flattened hand over his eyes and squinted. “Look at what, Jessica?”

“Did you see the face in the cabin window?”

He leaned forward, as though the additional few inches would enhance his vision. “Nobody in the window.”

“Not now,” I said. “But there was. A face I won’t soon forget. Uh-oh. Here they come.”

We retraced our steps to the building that rented snorkeling and scuba diving equipment, and positioned ourselves at its side. I peered around the comer. Webb, Jensen, and Laurie were leaving the dock and walking toward Webb’s black Mercedes. Dobson had evidently remained behind, probably had boarded the cabin cruiser.

“Don’t let them see us,” I said.

We waited until they’d driven off before leaving our vantage point and returning to the dock. A young man tossed mooring lines to the cabin cruiser. Catching them on deck was Fred Capehart.

I looked around. Most vessels tied to the dock were unoccupied. But there were two that appeared to belong to a man who sat in a director’s chair. A sign at his feet read: “JERRY’S BOATS FOR RENT.”

“How are your sea legs?” I asked Seth.

“My sea legs? What in the devil are you talking about?”

“Let’s go to St. John.”

“That’s where I assumed we were going when we came here.”

Capehart had pushed off from the dock, and the cabin cruiser slowly moved away under engine power. I went to the man with the rental boats and said, “Looks like the weather is breaking.”

He looked to the northern sky. “Maybe,” he said.

“My friend and I would like to rent one of your boats.”

“Jessica, I—”

“Don’t we, Seth?”

“I don’t understand what we’re—”

“Can we? Rent one of your boats? Jerry?”

Jerry screwed up his face. “You know how to run a boat?” he asked.

I don’t even know how to drive a car, but Seth, who’d spent a good portion of his life on the waters of Cabot Cove, had just sold his own boat the previous summer.

“Of course,” I said. “Don’t you—doctor?”

“You’re a doctor?” Jerry asked.

“Ayah,” Seth replied.

“And a good sailor?”

“Well, I—”

“The best,” I answered for him. “They’re pretty boats,” I added, hoping to soften him.

Seth left my side and looked down at the boats. “Nice rigs,” he said. “Had a Boston Whaler myself till recently, only it wasn’t this big. Twenty-two footer?”

“That’s right, mon.” Jerry stood. “The weather’s not so good,” he said. “You can see that for yourselves. What do you want a boat for?”

“Just to take a ride,” I said.

Jerry looked at Seth. “Just for a ride,” Seth said.

“All right. But just for an hour. Local. Stick close to shore. You got some form of ID?”

“Plenty.” I whipped out my credit cards, and Seth extended his driver’s license. I handed Jerry a handful of cash. “A deposit,” I said. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

Minutes later, Jerry had pushed us away from the dock and into the shallow, greasy water adjacent to it. Seth handled the craft as though he did it for a living, and we were on our way.

“Stay local,” Jerry shouted after us. “Stick close.”

I waved and smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We will.”

Once clear of the dock and other boats, Seth idled back and turned to me. “Now that we’re out here, Jessica, just what was it you had in mind?”

“Follow that boat,” I said.

“What?”

“The cabin cruiser that just left. Follow it.”

“But the fella said—”

“Please. Just for a few minutes.”

“All right.” He gunned the large outboard engine from his position at the center console, and we roared off in pursuit of the cabin cruiser, whose running lights were barely visible in the distance.

I stood next to Seth at the center console and held on tight as the Whaler lurched through the choppy water, rising up on the swells, slapping down hard in the troughs. It was exhilarating and frightening at once. Salt spray stung my face as we gained on the cruiser.

“Dumbest damn thing I’ve ever,” Seth shouted. “Look out there.” The northern horizon had turned black. We’d enjoyed the proverbial lull before the storm. There it was, the “norte” in all its fury.

“Let’s go back,” Seth said.

He was right, and I knew it. “Just a few more minutes,” I said, my words carried away on the increasing winds. I narrowed my eyes and trained them on the cruiser, whose form came and went in the mist and churning sea.

“Look!” I yelled.

Seth saw it, too. Something had fallen from the cabin cruiser’s deck. A large bag? A box? A body?

The cruiser suddenly turned hard right and increased its speed. Seth looked to me for our next move. I pointed to where we’d seen the object go overboard.

It wasn’t until we were almost on top of Jacob Austin that his position was known to us. He was flailing in the rising and falling sea, bobbing on top like a cork, then disappearing beneath the surface. Seth chopped back on our power. We both looked for something to throw to the drowning man. “Use that,” Seth said, indicating coiled line attached to a circular buoy. Holding on to a low metallic railing, I inched forward to the front of the boat. Jacob had just come up from beneath the water. His desperate eyes locked on mine. I tossed the buoy to him, and he grabbed it, hugging it to his body. I wrapped the line around a cleat on the deck as Seth came forward to help. Together, and despite the boat thrashing about in the tumultuous water, we managed to pull Jacob to the boat and helped him come up over the side.

Seth immediately returned to the console, revved the engine, and regained control of the craft. “Where to?” he shouted.

“Land,” I said. “Any place safe and dry.”

D
etective Calid, Seth, Jacob, and I sat in the detective’s office at police headquarters. We’d gone directly there after arriving safely back at the dock at Pettyklip Point and returning the Boston Whaler to a relieved Jerry.