Deceived (2 page)

Chapter four

For the next few days, Sam reviewed every page of the boat book, searching for irregular comments about engine repairs, notations in the radio log, or errant comments in cruising notes. Lee was a safety-conscientious sailor and routinely maintained all systems aboard
Stormy Monday
. He had upgraded the battery banks to handle a new refrigerator, added small solar panels to keep a charge on the batteries when he and Jenny anchored out on their weekend cruises, and took exceptional notes in his engineer-like block printing of all boating-related activities. “Anal retentive,” Lee used to claim about his habit of writing everything down, but there was nothing unexpected or irrelevant in the boat book.

“Anybody home?” a voice called out from the dock.

Startled, Sam quickly put the books on the settee beside him and threw a dish towel over them. “Yeah. Oh, hi, Chuck.” Sam waved him aboard as he climbed up the companionway stairs. “You want a beer?”

The boat rocked as Chuck Owens clamored over the safety lines and under the cockpit’s covering bimini. “No thanks, man; I’m still on duty. I just stopped by to check on you. I don’t know how you can possibly live aboard, Sam; you got to be a damn contortionist just to get on the boat!” Chuck’s 280-pound bulk made the otherwise spacious cockpit seem small as he plopped down on one of the cushions. Noting the torn cloth, he let out a low whistle. “Wow, you must have some kinda cat on board.”

“Yeah, a large cat with attitude,” Sam sneered, sitting opposite Chuck, stretching his long legs across to the molded seat on the cockpit’s other side. Not interested in volunteering information, he steered the conversation. “Any thoughts on what happened?”

“No, Sam. Dan’s got half the department on it, so you can rest easy that there will be an answer. We all want to know. Have you been to see Jenny yet?”

“Yeah, and I’ve checked on her some over the last few days. She’s trying to stay busy, Chuck. She appreciated that Andy stopped by that night. Sorry I couldn’t be there myself. I just wasn’t ready to face her,” Sam hedged a bit.

“Understood, brother. Understood.”

“She’s in shock, I think. She said the service is going to be tomorrow, you know. It’s just so hard to think that Lee’s…gone. You know he was a straight shooter. Nothing going on that Jenny knew of, and nothing I didn’t know about, either. Lee was just a good cop and a good husband. Now without him, Jenny is facing selling that condo. I suspect she’ll find work to keep her busy, but it would be such a shame for her to have to give up her painting.”

“She any good?” Chuck quizzed.

“I like her work. Mostly boat and beach scenes, the kind that tourists like to take home.”

“You know, my wife Lisa could probably arrange something, maybe a show, since she owns the Blue Moon Gallery.”

“That’d be great. Let me know if I can help.”

“No, Sam, I’ll take care of it. You take a few days off and rest. Maybe think about getting rid of the big cat, too.” Chuck winked as he stepped gingerly under the bimini and over the life lines, holding on to whatever he could grab to steady himself as he wobbled onto the dock.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the marina’s parking lot at ten tomorrow morning, Sam. Call if you need anything between now and then.”

“Will do,” Sam called back. Sam liked Chuck. He seemed like a good cop, but at this point, Sam thought it wise not to trust anyone explicitly.

Sam headed below again to the notepad of condo projects. After a few pages, he was sure there was nothing there that didn’t belong. As he tossed the notepad back on the table, though, it flipped over and the back cover opened up to reveal some numbers written on the back of the last page. The slanted, loopy handwriting wasn’t Lee’s.

“2118717,” Sam whispered. He reached for his cell phone and dialed 211-8717. An annoying three-tone sound followed by a mechanical voice told him he had reached a number that was not in service, and that he should try again. Then he searched the notepad from the back, flipping pages forward. A few pages from the back was a single word hastily scribbled: “seacock.”

“That should have been in the boat journal,” Sam thought as he continued flipping through the rest of the pad, but he found nothing else. After rooting around a drawer for a plastic baggie and heavy duty duct tape, Sam removed the companionway stairs from their position and placed them on the salon floor halfway into the V-berth so he could get to the engine compartment. Once the bulkhead-mounted light was on, he crawled into the tight space and taped the notebooks in the sealed baggie on a three-inch wide shelf directly above the starboard water tank. This shelf usually held his tools or an extra lamp when he worked on the engine, its flanged lip keeping most anything from falling into the black bilge below. Sam backed out of the engine room, turned off the light, closed the door, and repositioned the companionway stairs.

Sitting in the cockpit, Sam looked around at his boat. “Deck needs to be repainted. Toe rails need to be caulked and sanded. And the rub rail needs to be replaced. Sheesh.” He thought about going to the hardware store to buy a bucket of paint. The sky changed from its deep, clear Carolina blue of spring to a hazy peachy-pink of evening while Sam sat contemplating boat projects and seacocks. Lee hadn’t mentioned this as a task on
Stormy Monday
, but then again, he hadn’t mentioned the loopy numbers or the person who wrote them. They looked like a woman’s handwriting.

Tomorrow would be the service for Lee. Sam thought about the day ahead and headed below to spit-shine his shoes. “Not for anybody else, Lee, would I do this,” he muttered as he dug out the rarely used shoeshine kit from a locker’s depths.

Chapter five

The following day dawned shrouded in mist. “Appropriate,” Sam thought, as he got into Chuck’s waiting car. Sam’s own car was still impounded, and he figured it might be released to him today, though he felt it would be best to drive it to the nearest used car lot and unload it. Sam was not ordinarily a superstitious man, but driving a car tinged with Lee’s death was not his idea of good karma.

“Morning, Sam. What a day this is going to be.” Chuck was monotone as he looked straight ahead, still seated behind the wheel of his Ford Taurus.

“I hear ya,” was all Sam could say.

They drove in silence until they reached the Blue Moon Gallery. Sam saw Chuck’s wife, Lisa, waving furiously with one hand as she locked the front door with the other.

“Hello, Sam.” Lisa hugged Sam as he held open the car’s door for her. “This is all so sad. I was just telling Chuck the other day that I looked forward to his retirement. This is such a dangerous job; I fear for him every single day.” Lisa seemed to be the champion of the motor-mouth speedway as she illuminated Sam and Chuck on the potential hazards of their line of work. Her mouth only came to a stop when they reached the church.

Sam saw the beach’s entire police force, plus a few uniforms he knew were from Wilmington and Southport. He spotted Jenny being escorted by Andy Keller into a small “chapel” room that appeared to be full to capacity between its pale green walls. Sam watched as Jenny clutched Andy’s arm for support as if a strong gust of wind might blow her through the open windows at any minute.

Lee’s parents sat in the front row, and his brother, Larry, was there to offer support to his mother. Larry and Lee had never gotten along, Sam knew, and on the few occasions he had met Larry, Sam didn’t care too much for Larry’s bad attitude either. It seemed Larry felt entitled to more than his share of life, yet he wasn’t willing to do much to get it. Having spent years overseas with a big corporation gave him an attitude that he was somehow better than his only brother. On the rare occasions when he came to town, he gloated about his big house in New Jersey, and his trophy wife (who could never be bothered with coming to North Carolina to visit), and his shiny black Jaguar.

But when the corporation went belly up, he served time for embezzling corporate funds. Once he got out, he was no less humbled and let everyone he met know that the world “owed” him even more. He lost his big house, his fine car, and his trophy wife all in a matter of months. So he now sponged off of his parents, living in a small, one-room “cottage” on their property. He expected his mother to cook for him, and he didn’t lift a finger to help out around the house. He was sure the “next deal” would put him back on top of the world. Of course, it never came.

Sam recognized a few others who filed in solemnly: in addition to the police force, town officials, and support staff for the city of Carolina Beach, there was Edgar Reese, the owner of the Crow’s Nest Diner, Lee’s favorite place to grab lunch.

And here was Jenny’s best friend, Sally Hinton, with whom Jenny had tried to set Sam up several times.
Sure,
thought Sam,
she’s hot—nice figure, but she’s like a cheerleader on a mega-dose of caffeine
. Today was a case in point: Sally nearly mowed down three people to get to Jenny, embracing her and coddling her as Jenny rigidly sat down on a small pew right near the front of the room.

The line of people entering the chapel was long, filled with more friends and members of Lee’s church. Lee had been well-liked, Sam judged, by the number of folks who entered through the door.

Everyone who could get to a pew was seated, and the rest stood along the back of the room. Sam sat in the row behind Jenny, and he placed a hand on her stiff shoulder as the service began.

The minister was polite and practiced as he greeted his guests and wished everyone peace. He soon relinquished the short podium to one after another speaker, each of whom had something to say about Lee Elliott. The phrases “good man” and “pillar” were often recited.

After the fourth person got up to speak, Sam felt nauseous. He held on for the ride as long as he could. Mercifully, it ended with Jenny being presented Lee’s badge, a flag, and a small mock-brass container of ashes, all that was left of Lee.

Sam leaned over to help Jenny up, but Sally shot him a mother-bear look that almost included teeth, so Sam backed off and made his way out of the building.

The morning clouds were starting to burn off. People milled around outside with their own thoughts. Edgar offered a reception of sorts at his diner, and many funeral participants looked relieved to have someplace to go. Those police on duty declined, and the rest drove willingly after Edgar.

“Sam, do you want a ride to the Crow’s Nest?” Andy called over his shoulder as he helped Jenny into his unmarked car. Sally was already in the backseat, and Sam could see her soothing Jenny as soon as she got in.

“No, thanks. I don’t have the stomach for any more of this today.” Sam waved him off.

Sam watched as the parking lot emptied, one car after another. Some of the people who had known Lee, and thus Sam by default, stopped to offer condolences to Sam before leaving. Sam braved a smile, but it was the last thing he felt like doing. He shook hands and nodded, tuning out the voices so that the words melted together into a single hum.

“Lee was killed because of this.”

Sam felt it before he saw her, a slip of paper being pressed hard into his hand by the tall woman clothed in a stylish black suit, low-dipping hat, dark hose, and high heels.

He snapped to attention at her words, and he held her hand two seconds longer than any of the hands he’d shook of those who had come before her.

“What did you say?” Sam whispered as she quickly hugged him, as so many of the well-wishers had that morning. As he breathed in her smell of jasmine, he noticed a loose strand of black hair at the nape of her neck. He shoved the paper into his pocket, leaving his hand there so as not to call attention to the movement as he hugged her with the other arm.

She just pulled away and smiled, her deep burgundy lips parting slightly to reveal perfectly straight bright teeth. She turned and walked swiftly to her little red Miata convertible while fishing her keys out at the same time. Her sassy, swinging walk was unforgettable as she deftly maneuvered over the sidewalk, down the curb, and across the parking lot.

Sam wanted to go after her, but the line persisted. He was hugged and had his hand shaken for several minutes more as he watched the woman drive away.

Chuck and Lisa were last in line, hanging back a bit until the crowd subsided. “You need a lift back to that boat of yours?” Chuck asked. “Or do you want to come with us to the Crow’s Nest? We probably won’t stay that long, just long enough to get some lunch.”

Feeling the note snuggly in his pocket, Sam declined. “Actually, I would prefer to go pick up my Blazer. Can you drop me by impound?”

“It isn’t ready,” the chief spoke up from behind Sam. “We need a little more time with it to fix the window for you, Sam. You’ll have to get another set of wheels. Why don’t you ride back to the station with me? I’m heading back there now, and I have a car that would work for you for a few days until yours is ready.”

Lisa slipped her arm into Sam’s. “We will bring him. I want more time with Sam,” Lisa gushed. “We are both so sorry about Lee, Sam. I only met him at the office functions, but he seemed like a great guy.” She cozied up to Sam as they walked toward the Owens’ tan Ford Taurus wagon, telling him how she had insisted that she would never drive a “mommy van,” but she needed the room for hauling her finds purchased at art and craft shows she frequented up and down the coast.

“Chuck tells me that Lee’s wife is an artist. I don’t think I’ve met her, but I would be glad to see her work. I’m planning to call her in a few weeks, you know, after all this…well, after she’s had a little time to adjust. If she’s willing, we could add her work to the gallery’s selection and I could start representing her. You know, I have quite a following of locals and out-of-towners who make my gallery the first place they visit when they come to town or when they need something special.”

Lisa continued her monologue all the way to the station, telling Sam more than he wanted to know about how the fine art and craft shows she visited impacted her sales over the years, and how her efforts in the gallery inspired local art collectors to look beyond what was normally considered art to encompass functional pieces of furnishings and décor. She, of course, had studied art history in college, she droned on, but when she and Chuck learned she was going to have twins, well, she just had to drop out of her art courses and focus quickly on business management courses before the babies came. She didn’t regret taking the courses, but she wished she had stayed with her art. This gallery was a way she could be near the things she loved but could never afford, she said. Now that their sons were away in college, she was able to turn her attention to the gallery’s collection, and she was eager to develop more of a following.

As Sam stepped out of the car, he saw Lisa waving vigorously as if she had found a new customer and lifelong friend. He imagined Chuck smirking at the idea of priceless works of art aboard Sam’s boat.

Sam entered the station, signed the requisite paperwork, and walked out with a set of keys to the dark green Nissan Altima. Not exactly his style, but at least he had wheels. Sam drove to the marina and slid out of his uniform as soon as he entered the aft cabin.

He popped open the overhead hatches for some fresh air, feeling immediate relief in the stuffy cabin. Fishing for some shorts in one of the drawers, Sam took pleasure in the array of cabinets that banked both sides of the small space. He had gone to great lengths in tearing out the bunk that ran the width of the boat and designing a center-line bunk with cabinets, shelves, and drawers on either side of it. It took months to measure, cut, and install, but once it was done, Sam was pleased at his progress of making the old boat more functional and livable. He even crafted the bunk’s base so that a section of it could be raised to access the rudder unit and stuffing box beneath it. And rather than the typical four-inch closed cell foam found on most boats’ bunks, he added a custom-fitted, watertight full spring mattress found on larger, far more expensive yachts.

My carpentry skills aren’t great
, Sam thought as he pulled a green T-shirt from a drawer,
but they are certainly better than average. Besides, it’s been a good project to focus on so I don’t think about the divorce
.

The 1973 thirty-six-foot Morgan Out Island ketch had been beat up when Sam and Angel had bought it, but after three years of upgrading and renovating, the boat looked really good.

That’s when Sam started messing around with a pretty young thing he met at the marina one afternoon while he was sanding his teak cockpit grates. He was only interested in flirting and a short break from his work, but the little brunette with a smaller bikini made it hard to stay focused on his task. At the time, Sam was fighting off the dread of turning forty. The lithe nymph thought nothing of stepping aboard uninvited. She made him feel like he was sixteen again, young and agile, eager to impress. After a full day of sailing and an unexplainable night anchored in a quiet stretch of the waterway behind Figure Eight Island, Sam knew Angel would not forgive him this time, no matter how much he begged.

“Last time I forgave you, Sam,” Angel had said quietly as she packed a duffle bag for him. “This time, I can’t. You will just do it again and again. Just because you still look like you’re twenty doesn’t mean you have to act that way whenever some little chickie winks at you. You have a problem, Sam. You need to deal with it. I don’t.”

She was right. And she was gone.

Not long after Sam moved aboard their boat, Angel sold their small house near Monkey Junction and moved to California to be closer to their only son Frank who was stationed in San Francisco.

Four years passed before Sam could get motivated to go sailing or even haul the boat for a much-needed bottom job. Now
Angel
was finally close to shipshape again. He’d meant to change the name on the stern, but he had never got around to it. “Maybe this year,” he had told Lee.

Sam dug deep into his uniform’s pants pocket and pulled out the carefully folded note. The loopy handwriting matched that of the note scribbled in the back of Lee’s notepad.

It read, “Lee found out what was going on. He tried to help, and he got killed. They need to be stopped, but I don’t know where Lee put the key. I’ll be on the last ferry to Southport today.” The note was not signed.

Key? Where? And to what?

After putting the note with the notebooks in the engine compartment, Sam slipped on his Teva sandals and locked the hatches. He drove to Jenny’s to see about Lee’s keychain, but she wasn’t there. Looking at his watch, he saw that the day was zipping by and he hadn’t eaten anything yet.

He headed to Bungie’s Deli where he ordered a mile-high sub with everything on it and a cold tea. As Sam sat outside under the blue-striped umbrella, Andy drove up in his unmarked car. He was still dressed in his uniform.

“Hey, Sam. Sorry you missed the lunch. Edgar put on a real nice spread for us. I think he’s going to miss one of his best customers.” Andy sat down opposite Sam on the cement bench.

“Chuck tells me you are going to take a few days off. If you decide to go sailing and want some crew, let me know. I haven’t taken my boat out in a while, so I would love to go if you’re going. I’ll see if I can get an afternoon off to join you.”

“Thanks, Andy. I’ll call you if I go out. Right now, I’m more interested in what happened.”

“I hear ya, man. It’s a tragedy. But Chief’s got a few ideas, and he’s working on this case. I spoke with him briefly after the service today and he’s got that look in his eyes.”

“What look is that, An’?” Sam asked with a mouthful of sub.

“That look he gets when he is burning inside about a case. I’ve seen it before. It means he won’t quit until he finds the answers.”