Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C (10 page)

Chapter
Thirteen

A
s I approached the marina at Avalon, I could see there were no docks to tie up to, only buoys.  A fellow sailor directed me to a buoy and offered me dinghy service to the dock.  I studied the boats berthed in the marina.  The diversity of class was painfully evident.  A beautiful eighty-foot yacht was tethered directly next to a tiny, paint-peeling, wood-rotting, barely-afloat scow.

I turned around on the bench seat in the dinghy and addressed my chauffeur.  “You know Roy Hastings?” I asked.

“Roy who?”

“Hastings.  He
live
s
in Avalon
.”

“I’m new to the island.  Don’t know too many folks yet.  You say his name’s Roy Hastings?”

“Yes.  He ran a charter service. 
Just wondered if you knew him.”

“Sorry.  Maybe some other
folks’ll
know him.”  He cut the engine to his tiny boat and we drifted to a small platform built out from the shore for tying the dinghies to.  “Well, here we are.  Watch your step.”

I thanked him and climbed out of the little craft onto the dock. 

I felt the weight of a man staring from the pier.  His gaze made me uneasy, and I tried to avoid it, but there was no escape.  He paralleled me on the pier as I rushed up the dock.  The quicker I walked, the more he picked up his pace.  He was an older man, maybe in his early sixties.  He wore a pair of khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.  His hair was mostly gray, and he wore it in a ponytail.  He was tall an
d slender and in good condition
—maybe a swimmer, from the looks of him.  He intersected my path and stood squarely in front of me.

“What’re you
doin
’ with that boat?” he demanded.

I didn’t know what to say.  I shrugged my shoulders. 
“Boat?”

“Yeah!
  What are you
doin
’ with Roy’s boat?” he repeated.

“Oh, Roy’s boat.
  You know him?”

“Just answer the question.  Roy’s been missing for six months, and now you show up with his boat.  Where’d you get it?” he persisted.

“Well, a marine
salvor
over in Long Beach found it, abandoned, and claimed it.  I borrowed it for the day. 
Thinking of buying it.”

“Buying it?  Roy’s boat?” he
asked
.

“That’s right.  You know Roy?”

“I do.  I did.  Like I say, haven’t seen him for six months.  What’s the name of the salvage outfit?”

“Tex and Clancy’s.
  My name’s
Devonie
Lace.  And you are…?”

“Huh?  Oh, Sherman. 
Name’s Sherman.”

“Good to meet you, Sherman.  You know Roy well?”

“One of my best friends.
  Really miss the old crab.  Where’d they find his boat?”

“Don’t know for
sure. 
Somewhere south of here—
just adrift.
  Clancy figures he was
diving
alone
—
maybe ran into sharks.”

Sherman digested what I’d said.  He stared out at the
Little Maria
tied to her buoy.  “He wasn’t alone,” he stated.

When relying on pure chance, I estimate that ninety-nine percent of the time, I don’t get what I hope for
.  When I started out for Catalina, I hoped to find some answers about Roy Hastings, but I really only expected to get lunch.  I stared at Sherman and realized this may be one of those one-percent moments.  I shook the flood of a thousand questions out of my head and moved a little closer to make sure I heard him correctly.  “What?”

“I said
he wasn’t alone.
”

I glanced up the sidewalk to a row of waterside restaurants.  “Mr. Sherman,
have
you had lunch yet?”

The sun warmed my shoulders as we sat at a small table overlooking the marina.  I peered over the railing and watched a garibaldi fish swim in the shallow water under the deck of the restaurant.  At first sight, I thought it was the only fish down there.  As I strained to focus, I discovered dozens of fish swimming around
,
they were just more camouflaged than the bright-orange one that caught my attention.  I was reminded of how easy is it to disappear into the scenery as long as you’re not so wildly different that you draw attention to yourself.  I made a mental note to keep thi
s observation fresh in my mind—
I needed to blend into the background.

I offered to buy Sherman’s lunch and hoped he’d go for something inexpensive since I was on a tight budget.  Amy, our waitress, patiently waited while Sherman studied the menu.

“Fish and chips, Amy,” he ordered.

My eyes quickly scanned down the menu selections.  “I’ll have a small salad.”

Amy took our menus and walked away.

“Tell me what you know about the day Roy disappeared,” I began.

“I know he wasn’t alone.  Remember it like it was yesterday. 
Had a heck of a storm that night.
  Crazy Roy set out to open sea to keep his boat from
gettin
’ beat against the rocks.  Came back all excited about some wreck he’d found.  Went on and on about it.  I run a dive shop in town.  Handled a lot of Roy’s charters.  Sure do miss him.”

Sherman gulped down the glass of water Amy brought.  He set it back down,
then
played with an ice cube at the bottom of the glass with his spoon.  I watched him for a full minute and wondered what was so fascinating about the ice.

“What about this wreck?” I pressed.

“Oh, yeah.
Said it was a real fancy yacht
—rich fellow must’ve owned it.  He knew it went down in the storm,
‘
cause
he’d seen it during the night, still afloat.”

“How did he know it sank?” I asked.

“Found stuff floating
—deck chairs and…”  Sherman glanced up at the sky and tapped his finger on the side of his face. “…something…weird.  What was it?  Oh yeah, computer mouse pads.  He used his sonar equipment to locate the wreck.  Came in all excited about pictures he took. 
Had a customer in the shop real interested.
 
Hired Roy to take him out the next day to check it out.
  I filled his tanks and left ‘
em
for him out back.  That was the last I ever saw of Roy.”

The sound of Paddy’s carbon-monoxide-detector alarm flashed through my mind.  Could Sherman have contaminated his friend’s tanks my mistake? 
Or, on purpose?
  “You filled his tanks?” I asked,
then
studied his face carefully as he answered.

“Yeah.
  Filled ‘
em
the night before
‘
cause they were
leavin
’ real early in the morning,” Sherman explained.

He seemed sincere, but I’ve been known to be wrong about people.  I decided to ask the question.  “You ever have a problem with carbon monoxide contamination in the tanks you fill?”

Sherman shook his head. 
“Nope.
 
Never.
  Too smart to do
somethin
’ that dumb.”

I nodded and took a sip from my water glass.  “You don’t happen to remember the man’s name, do you?”

“H
eck no.
 
Didn’t think much of it at the time.
  You know how it is.  If I’d known
I’d never see Roy again, I’d have
paid more attention.”

“How about what he looked like? 
Or if he was with someone?
  Anything stand out?” I pressed.

Sherman stared into the sky, searching his memory.  “Don’t recall too much of what he looked like. 
J
ust a regular fellow—
no grotesque scars or tattoos to
make him stand out.
  Don’t think he was on the island alone.  Remember I’d seen him at the marina with four or five other guys that morning.  They’d just gotten off a boat.  I was out checking the damage. 
Terrible storm that night.”

“Four or five others?
  But only one went with Roy?”

“Only one I know of.  Don’t know what happened with the others. 
Didn’t see them again.”

“Where did Roy live?”

“Had a little place up on
Whittley
.
 
Still empty.
  He owned it outright
.  No relatives.  I figure the
S
tate’ll
take it for taxes eventually—
if Roy
don’t
show up.”

“Would you show me where it is?”

“I suppose.  Why you so interested?”

I wasn’t prepared to give out any more information about what I knew.  If I told Sherman that the tanks he’d filled were full of poison gas, he’d ei
ther clam up
or he’d call in the cavalry.  Neither option looked good to me at the moment.  “Oh, I’m just curious to know what happened to him.  Don’t you think it’s strange, him disappearing like that?”

Sherman nodded his head as he took a big bite out of his deep-fried fish. 

We stood on the front porch of the little clapboard house.  Sherman noticed me staring at the white paint that was just beginning to peel. 

“I was
gonna
help Roy paint her this summer, but…” 

I nodded my head.  He didn’t need to explain.  I pulled the ring of keys from my purse and searched for one that looked like it might fit the front door.

“Where’d you get those?” Sherman asked.

“They were on the
Little Maria
.  Maybe one fits.”  I tried several, but with no luck.

“Try that one.”  Sherman pointed to an inconspicuous-looking key marked, “Black and Decker.”

I slid it into the lock and turned the key.  Bingo.  We were in.

The house was dark and musty, and
smelled like the windows hadn’t been opened for at least six months.  I flipped a light switch but nothing happened.  I assumed the electricity had been turned off for some time since Roy wasn’t around to pay the bills.   I opened
the drapes
to let in some light.

There were dirty dishes in the sink and a line of ants crawled along the counter, feasting on the meal of the century.  A few stacks of papers littered the kitchen table.  I fingered through a few envelopes.  A small slip of paper caught my eye.  I picked it up and studied the blue letters on bright-yellow paper.  It was a photo-processing claim-check, dated November tenth.  I glanced around to make sure Sherman wasn’t watching and slipped the paper in my pocket.

A half-dozen
wet suits hung from a bar in the doorway between the living room and a bedroom.  They each had some sort of rip or tear and required patching.  Two scuba tanks sat in one corner, and a bunch of snorkels and masks were piled in the other.

Four fishing poles, of various heights and gauges, leaned against a wall next to a bo
ok shelf.  I scanned the titles on the shelf.  N
ot much fiction, except for copies of
The Old Man and
the
Sea
and
Moby Dick
.  The others were
either about boats, diving, or fishing, and
a few on carpentry.

Sherman looked at his watch.  “You know, I
gotta
get back to my shop.  You seen all you want?”

“Think I could stay and look around?” I
asked
.

“Don’t think it’s a good idea.  Neighbors might shoot you.”

I nodded understanding.

We locked up the house and climbe
d back into Sherman’s golf cart
—one of the main forms
of transportation on the island
—and headed back to town.

The lady behind the counter at the drug store gave me a big smile.  Sh
e reminded me of my Aunt Margie
—before the electrolysis. 
“Yeah.
  This is one of our claim checks. 
Older than Methuselah.
  You forget about it?” she questioned.

“Sort of,” I replied.

“Well, let me see if we still have them.”  She fingered through a pile of envelopes haphazardly thrown in a drawer.  “You’re in luck,” she said, pulling an envelope out.  “Hey, these are Roy’s pictures.  You know Roy?”