Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 02 - A Deadly Bargain, Plan C (2 page)

A newspaper was spread out on the counter in front of Sherman.  “Hey.  You hear about Otis?  He caught a Marlin up north of Frisco.  You believe that? 
A Marlin.
  Said the water’s so warm, they’re catching all kinds of strange fish. 
El Niño
,” Sherman said.

“Did you actually see it?  You know Otis
.  H
e’s so full of it.  I never saw anyone could exaggerate a fish story better than that old coot.”

“He
ain’t
tellin
’
no
fish story this time.  Look here.  It’s in today’s paper.  There’s a picture and everything.”  

Sherman clipped the photo and caption from the newspaper and tacked it to the corkboard on the wall behind the counter.

“
J
just
wait till you see
my
pictures
. 
El Niño’s
up to more than just misplacing a few fish.  You’ll never guess what I found while I was out there.  Some
poor,
or I should say, rich, son-of-a-gun lost a beautiful yacht in that storm.”

“You don’t say. 
Everyone okay?”

“Don’t know.  No sign of pe
ople.  Just some deck furniture—usual stuff—
except for this thing.”  Roy held out the small rubber mat he’d fished out of the water.  “Any idea what this here is?”

Sherman took it and shook his head.  “Roy!  Don’t you know a mouse pad when you see one?”

“Mouse pad?
  What the heck’s a mouse pad? 
Some kind of new trap?”

“I swear, Roy.  I’m
gonna
get you caught up to the twentieth century if it kills me.  ‘Course, by that time, we’ll be in the twenty-f
irst, and you’ll be way behind—
again.  A mouse
pad’s
for a computer mouse to move around on.  Has a little track-ball inside
—
needs a clean, smooth surface.  Haven’t you seen me use mine?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it, but didn’t know what it was.  Why the heck’s it called a mouse?”

“’Cause, Roy, it sort of looks like a mouse, with a long
ol
’ tail.  See?”  Sherman dangled the small plastic device by its cord in front of Roy’s face.

“Hmm.
 
Too big to be a mouse.
  How
come they don’t call it a rat?
”

“Now, think about it, Roy.  You really think people would want to grab hold of something called a rat?”

“Probably not any more than they’d want to squeeze their fingers around a mouse, I suppose.”

Sherman laughed and shook his head.  “Guess you’ve got a point.  Anyhow, tell me about this wreck.  What happened?”

“Really weird.
  Boat like that shouldn’t have had any
problem in last night’s storm—
but there was something fishy about it.  I need to call the Coast Guard to report it.  Can I use your phone?”

“Phone’s are out. 
The whole island.
  Storm wiped ‘
em
out last night.  Probably won’t have service back till tomorrow, late.  What about your radio?”

“Out of commission.
 
Gotta
pick up a new antenna,” Roy
said
.

A customer, busy inspecting a rack of snorkel equipment, perked up his ears at the conversation.  He set down the mask and walked to the counter.  “You say you saw a boat sink?”

Roy turned around to see who spoke.  It was the man he’d nearly run over on the sidewalk.  “Well, I didn’t actually see it go down.  I’d seen it last night, during the storm.  Then this morning, I found stuff floating and decided to take a look.  She was the same boat,
all right
.  Not many like that one
—
sitting on the bottom in a hundred fifty feet of H2O and salt.”

“That’s pretty far down.  You must be the
divemaster
I read about on that flyer,” the stranger said.

“
One and the same.
 
Roy Hastings—certified and all
—the whole shebang.”

“Certifiable, you mean,” Sherman
joked
.  “Anyone crazy enough to set out alone against last night’s storm must have one
oar
out of the water.”

“Hey, I’m still vertica
l, a
ren’t I?” Roy
said
.  “Anyhow, look
who’s
talking.  Any
man
who insists on wearing his hair in a ponytail, especially after his sixtieth birthday, must have
both
oars not only out of the water, but probably on another boat.”

The stranger chuckled at the banter between the two buddies,
then
held his hand out to Roy.  “Kent Morrison.”

Roy shook his hand.

“I’d like to take a look at that boat.  Could you find it again?” Morrison asked.

“Sure.  But, you
gotta
be certified to make a dive like that.”

“Oh, I’ve got a certificate. 
Used to dive for the Navy.
 
Seen more of this world under water than I’ve seen dry land.”

“Really?
  Well, okay.  Tomorrow
all right
for you?  I’m in desperate need of some food, a shave, and a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ll be here. 
Six o’clock okay?”

“That’ll be fine.  And bring that certificate,” Roy reminded him.

“Sure thing.”

Kent followed Roy toward the exit.  Halfway out the door, Roy stopped and snapped his fingers.  He stuck his head back into the shop. 
“Oh,
Sherm
.
  I left a couple tanks in the back.  Can you fill them for me?  I’ll need them for tomorrow’s dive.”

“I’ll have ‘
em
ready in the morning.  But I won’t be out of bed by six.  I’ll leave ‘
em
out for you.”

“Thanks.”

Kent was already in front of the dive shop when Roy arrived.  Kent had his gear all set and ready to go.  He was as anxious as a kid on Christmas Eve.

“Coffee?”
  Roy said as he offered a thermos to his newest customer.

“No, thanks.
  Don’t drink it.”

Roy shot a skeptical glance at Kent.  “Don’t know if I trust a man who doesn’t drink coffee
.”

Kent chuckled.  “We all set to go? 
Can’t wait to see this wreck.
  Did I hear you say you took pictures?”

“Yeah.
  Come on.  Dinghy’s tied up at the end of the dock.  You bring that certificate?”

“You
betcha
.”

Roy set the big blue ice chest on the deck.  “You can stow your gear over there.”   He pointed to a rack designed to hold the bulky oxygen tanks.

“How long till we get there?”
Kent asked.

“About an hour.
  There’s sodas a
nd sandwiches in that ice chest
—donuts and juice, too.  Help
yourself
,” Roy offered.

“Thanks.”

Roy disappeared into the cabin.  Within five minutes, the diesel engine rumbled and they were on their way.  Roy punched in the “
elninowreck
” identifier on his GPS and let it lead him to the exact spot.

When they arrived at the wreck site, Roy cut the engine and dropped anchor.

“Here we are,” Roy announced.

“This is it?”

“Yep.
  Ready to gear up?”

Kent nodded. 
“ I’m
just
gonna
use the head
first
.”

While Kent went below to use the facilities, Roy pulled one of the newly-filled tanks from his rack and checked the gauge.  It didn’t indicate full. 
“Hmm.
  Leaky valve,” he speculated.

Roy opened his equipment trunk and laid the defective tank on its side, then closed and locked the box.  He hung the ring of keys on a hook just inside the cabin
door
.

Kent returned to the deck, drying his hands on his jacket.  “You’re out of towels down there.”

“Sorry.  I’ll stock up when we get back.”

As Kent sorted through his gear, he glanced at Roy.  “I didn’t bring my camera.  Think we could use yours to take some more shots?  I’d sure like to get a few pictures.”

“Out of film.
  I meant to pick up some rolls last night
when I dropped off the film, but I forgot
.”

“Too bad.
  What kind of camera do you use?” Kent asked.

“Nikon.
  F3, I think. 
Pretty nice piece of equipment.”

The two men squeezed into their wet suits and hoisted the heavy tanks onto their backs. 

Roy recited a brief set of safety guidelines that he expected all his customers to follow.  Kent nodded, understanding the rules, and then followed Roy over the edge of the
Little Maria
.

Within three minutes of the dive, Roy knew something was wrong.  His vision blurred and he felt lightheaded.  He was nauseous and knew he needed to get to the surface.  He touched Kent on the arm and pointed up with his thumb.  Kent shook his head and continued down.  Roy, about to pass out, signaled again.  Kent refused to follow.  He continued descending on the wreck. 

Roy watched him momentarily,
then
the world went dark.  He shook his head to clear his vision. 
It can’t be the bends
, he thought to himself.  He tried to release his weight belt, but his arms and legs were limp.  He coughed out his mouthpiece and took his last breath.

Kent watched, unmoved, as Roy lost consciousness.  He checked his watch and began his ascent to the surface.  He knew he had little time to get Roy’s boat to the pre-arranged
rendezvous
to meet up with the others. 

At first, Kent was barely startled by the light bump he felt on his back.  His line of work demanded nerves of steel in tense situations.  He was preoccupied looking at the frayed ends of the line dangling from above.  Something had cut or chewed the rope and freed the
Little Maria
from its anchor.  He turned to see what had run into him in the dark water
—
just in time
to witness the open jaws of a great w
hite
shark
, ready to
clamp
around his body.

Chapter
Two

I
‘d
set out at the crack of dawn yesterday morning on a mission…no…more like a pilgrimage, to the Long Beach Harbor.  My destination:
Tex and Clancy’s Marine Salvage
—Pier S, Berth 19. 

I’d read a notice in the legal section of the
San Diego Union-Tribune
last Sunday.  Tex and Clancy’s Marine Salvage posted a notice of intent to apply for title to an abandoned vessel they’d found six months ago. 
I wasn’t
interested in claiming the boat
.  What intrigued
me
was
that this Tex and Clancy outfit
could
just take ownership of th
e vessel, providing no one showed
up to claim it.  What a sweet deal.  They
’d
scout around the Pacific all day, treasure hunting, the same as me
—
only I generally focus
ed
on probate sales, foreclosed storage units, yard sales, flea markets, and swap meets. 

When I
’d
read the notice, my eyes lit up and I got all excited
—
like the time I bought a Taylor guitar at the Saugus Speedway swap meet for one hundred and twenty dollars.  The next weekend, I sold it for fifteen hundred.  This marine salvage could open up a whole new avenue of potential revenue.  I just love
d
this business.

My name is
Devonie
Lace, and if you haven’t guessed by now, I belong to a special group known as self-employed treasure hunters.  I chose this profession after discovering that I’m a square peg in a world that consists of nothing but round holes.  The world kept trying to file off my edges to make me round so I would fit.  It didn’t work.  I decided it would be better to go in search of some square holes.

The
Plan C
is a sixty-five-foot sailing yacht that I absolutely adore, except when I have to maneuver her in and about other boats, docks, piers, islands, or
continents.  Someone once told me I couldn’t sail a boat this size by myself.  When I was six, my brother told me I could never climb the big oak tree in our back yard.  That’s what I
’d
told the fireman as he carried me down the ladder to my worried mother’s arms. 
Never
tell me I can’t do something. 

The
Plan C
is
a beauty, but steering her is like trying to push a cooked spaghetti noodle through a bowl of oatmeal.  I sweat bullets every time I come within fifty feet of another boat
—
heck, within fifty feet of
anything
. 

It’s what I’d failed to read in the paper that had my stomach in knots.  Today, of all days, would be the first-annual Long Beach Amateur Sailor Regatta, with floating parade to follow.  I couldn’t believe my luck.

As I approached the Long Beach Harbor, beads of sweat formed on my forehead.  I counted the huge freighters I’d have to get around and what looked like about a thousand boaters out for a day on the water.  I wondered if I could feign mechanical trouble and convince the harbor patrol to tow me in with one of those cute little tug boats.

When I passed the small concrete lighthouse marking the mouth of the harbor, I dropped my sails and assessed the minefield in front of me.  My first obstacle would be a huge freighter
off to the left—I mean port—
side of my boat.  That shouldn’t be too hard to miss
—
it’s only about a bazillion feet long and weighs just as much.  Hitting it would be like running headlong into Iceland or Tasmania.

I started my engine and inched the throttle ever-so-gently to the little picture of a turtle, which I had pasted to the console.

People in small crafts persisted in crossing my path, completely oblivious to the fact that I had very little
—
okay, absolutely no
—
control of this wide-body, super-sized, double-length, Greyhound-bus-like vessel
of which I claim to be the skipper
.  I waved my arms frantically and yelled, “Not so close! 
I’m carrying nuclear waste!” to a party boat that wandered into my trajectory.
 

They all smiled and waved back
at
me, holding up their beers and hollering, “So are we!”

I held my breath as they inched out of my way just as I crossed their wake.

The big red-and-white public transportat
ion boat to Catalina Island—
the cattle boat,
as the locals like to call it—
headed directly for me.  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the rule here.  Do I yield?  Or do they?  Do I pass on the port or starboard side? 

I put my hand on the throttle and pulled it back.  Not a good move.  Now I drifted, unable to steer at all.  I’d either have to drop my anchor or start moving again.  I pushed the lever back up to the turtle and jumped when the on-coming boat’s alarm-like-horn blared at me.  Apparently, I’m required to yield to them.  I
turned the wheel starboard, hoping that would be the correct action.  The pilot of the cattle boat shook his head as we passed within feet of each other.

“Why didn’t I just drive my Jeep?” I asked myself as I smiled and waved to the aggravated boat pilot.  He waved back, but he wasn’t smiling.  Actually, I’m not sure you could consider the gesture he gave me a wave, but more of a fist-shaking.

Flustered, I returned my atte
ntion to the challenge at hand:
getting from point A to point B without hitt
ing any of the moving obstacles—and the stationary ones
—in between.  I checked the signs marking the piers and searched for the correct one.  Finally, I spotted “Pier S” and turned the wheel toward it.

I studied the size of the openings on the dock and peered down the length of the
Plan C
. 
Biting my lip,
I shut one eye
and looked again
.

“Oh, heck.
  I’ve got that perfectly good dinghy.  May as well use it,” I convinced myself.  I cut the engine and dropped my anchor right where I sat. 

I went below to get my purse.  The scent from a dozen red roses sitting on the galley table, beautifully arranged in a
Princess
Glass
vase, wafted to my nose.  I stopped and gazed at them.  What would I do about those roses?  I sat down for a moment and played with the petals that had dropped to the table.  They felt soft and velvety.  I pulled another from the blossom and held it to my nose
,
then
I squeezed my eyes shut.  “Darn you, Craig,” I whispered.  “Everything was so simple.  Why’d you have to complicate it?”  I tossed the petal in the trash and climbed back to the deck.

A group of sailors on a nearby fishing boat watched with amusement as I struggled to start the little outboard motor on my dinghy.  I yanked the cord. 
Nothing.
  I pulled again, lost my balance and almost fell overboard. 

Finally, one of the
smart alecks called over to me.
“Did you switch on the gas?”

I smiled at him as I slid back off the edge of the dinghy. 
“Yeah.
  It’s just cold.”

“You sure?
  Need some help?”

“No, thanks.
  I’ll get it,” I insisted.

The crew watched me for a while.  I sat on the small bench and worked diligently at tying my shoes, filing a snag on my fingernail, removing a loose thread from my shorts, inspecting an old scar on my knee, and cleaning my sunglasses.  I glanced over at the fishing boat.  They’d tired of waiting for me to take a graceful swan dive into the drink and turned their attention
to some other form of amusement
—a baseball game on the radio.  I nonchalantly reached over and flipped the fuel switch to the “On” position
, then
fired up the motor and proceeded toward the dock.  I passed close to the group of sailors.  One smiled and winked at me, holding his finger over his lips.  My secret was safe with him.

I eased the little craft to the dock and tied up next to another boat—about a forty or forty-five-footer, I guessed.  Looked like some kind of commercial boat, probably for fishing or diving charters.
  Nothing fancy, just practical.

I made a mental note of
the workhorse’s name
—
Little Maria.