Wreckers' Key (9 page)

Catalina stopped breathing. For a minute it felt as though we had all been frozen right along with her as we waited to see what her reaction was going to be. Far off in another room I could hear the sound of men’s voices. Someone was telling a story, and the others were laughing each time he told another line. I couldn’t make out the words—only that it seemed very odd that they were laughing while we were afraid to breathe.

I reached across the table and took Cat’s hand. Her skin felt cold. I squeezed her fingers and felt reassured when she squeezed back.

The first photo showed Nestor lying facedown, his head half immersed in a pool of water on the windsurfer sail. His body, in the colorful neoprene wet suit, was lit by the flash, but the water looked inky black around his head. I’d been there, I’d seen this scene in real life, but it looked even more cold and cruel in the photo. The uphaul line that windsurfers use to pick the sail up out of the water was clearly wrapped once around his wrist.

In the next photo, two Coast Guardsmen in dark blue jumpsuits and orange life vests were lifting him out of the water onto a platform at the stern of their vessel. One of the men was reaching down to disentangle the line from the hook on his harness. In this one, Nestor’s face was visible in profile, his head hanging down, chin on his chest, the large swollen bruise reflecting the light from the flash. I gritted my teeth and turned away. I didn’t know how she was doing it, how she could sit there staring at the photo for so long.

At last, she exhaled a long clear smooth breath. There was no hitch in her breathing, no sniffling. That was when I knew that Catalina Frias was probably the strongest woman I had ever met. I felt certain then that she was going to get through this and take care of her kid and be okay. She was going to be one hell of a great mother.

She pointed to the uphaul line in the first photo. “Detective. It is true, what you said. Very good sportsmen have died in this sport. But they do not get tangled with their harnesses and uphauls. You see this?” She pointed to the line wrapped around his wrist. “And this?” she said, pointing to the second photo. “His body had been arranged on that board.”

“I don’t see how you can draw that conclusion, ma’am.” Maybe Lassiter was having a hard time seeing it, but now that I could examine the photos, I was starting to think that Catalina might have a point.

IX

When we left the police station, I told Catalina that I would do whatever I could to help her out with funeral expenses. We had spent another half an hour in there with Lassiter while he had told her that she needed to make arrangements to have Nestor’s body moved out of the hospital morgue. She explained to him that she didn’t have the money for his funeral; she would need time to try to get it. She asked them to hold the body for a few more days to give her a chance to raise the funds.

“Seychelle, if I bury him, they will never have another chance to find evidence on his body.”

I told her that there was nothing more we could do that day and hailed a cab. I asked the driver to take her back to Robbie’s on Stock Island, and I paid for the trip in advance. “Just get some rest. I think they’re going to put the boat back in the water this evening, and I’ll be out there first thing in the morning.” I didn’t tell her it would be to meet the new captain Berger had already hired.

The afternoon was sunny but cool, so I decided to walk back to the marina and enjoy some of the back streets of Key West. The walk also gave me the opportunity to think about the events of the last couple of days and try to sort out what I believed and what I didn’t.

Could Catalina be right? Was it possible that Nestor’s death wasn’t an accident? The problem I had with that scenario was motive. Who could possibly want Nestor dead? Even if Ted Berger had tried to sink his own boat and then learned that Nestor was going to rat him out, was that enough to drive a man to kill?

I had been working my way slowly toward the Historic Seaport, zigging and zagging on streets lined with houses that dated back to the nineteenth century. Many of them had been renovated—a few turned into elaborate private homes—but more often than not they’d become small inns or bed-and-breakfast guest houses. I paused in front of a three-story Victorian house on William Street and admired the ornate gingerbread fretwork along the balcony and balustrades. I imagined the sea captains and their families who had once called this street home. They had made their living as wreckers, fishing for sponge and turtles when there were no wrecks to work. I’d heard that at the height of the wrecking business in Key West, as many as two or three wrecks a week went up on the reefs off this coast. The wrecking fleet grew ever larger as more and more entrepreneurs came to Florida seeking their fortunes. That was what led to the construction of these mansions and what had led this town to prosper so.

Once the lights were constructed on the reefs and the railroad to the West was completed, though, there wasn’t as much shipping from New Orleans around Florida to the northeast, and fewer ships wrecked on the reefs. There were many tales and legends about the Key West wreckers taking matters into their own hands and paying off captains to cause wrecks. There was even an old John Wayne movie I’d seen about it once—
Reap the Wild Wind
. Most people found it was easier to believe in conspiracies, to imagine that someone had deliberately caused a captain to wreck his ship, than to accept a plain accident.

I decided when I returned home, I would have to talk to my grandmother to see what she remembered from these times. A native Floridian, she was born only a few years after the end of the nineteenth century and she’d heard many stories that she had yet to share with me. As a child, she may even have met some wrecking skippers at the Stranahans’ store on the banks of Fort Lauderdale’s New River.

I was almost back to the marina when I paused to look in the window of the Key West Marine Hardware store on Caroline Street. The door opened and out walked Ben Baker. The sight of his sun-streaked hair with those Costa Del Mar sunglasses perched on top of his head made me smile. For some reason I didn’t quite understand yet, seeing him fired up something inside me. He was deep in conversation with a very dark-skinned black man who wore shoulder-length dreadlocks. Ben was shaking his head and telling the man he didn’t think he could help him when he looked up and saw me. “Seychelle, good to see you again.”

“Ben,” I said, nodding in his direction. It was weird for me to feel so tongue-tied. Not that I’m all that talkative, but he was an old childhood friend; we had once spent hours together. Why was he making me feel all aflutter now? It was as though some alien—and a damn good-looking one—had taken over the body of the kid I once knew as Ben. That was the only way I could describe how I felt. And I wanted him to feel some of what I was feeling, and I wasn’t sure that was happening. “Sorry to hear about your friend,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s been pretty bad. I’ve just spent the morning with his wife. She’s about eight months’ pregnant.”
 

“Man. As if it wasn’t bad enough just knowing the guy died. He left a wife and kid, too? Well, look, if there’s anything I can do,” he said, grasping my shoulder and giving me a friendly little shake, “you just let me know.”

“Sure.”

The other man put his hand to his mouth and gave a little cough, a very deliberate cough.

Ben turned to him with a half smile. “Okay,” he said. “I get the hint.” His hand still resting on my shoulder, he turned back to face me. “I guess my friend here wants me to make some introductions. Seychelle, this is Quentin Hazell, formerly of the island of Dominica and now here in Key West bugging me for a job.”

Quentin put out his hand and we shook. He wasn’t quite as tall as me, about five foot nine, but clearly he was in great shape. His shoulder-length dreadlocks were neat, the hair nearly black at his crown and bleached to a light brown, almost blond color where they brushed his broad shoulders. He was wearing a faded shirt that said Rudy’s, Jost Van Dyke, BVI tucked into plaid Bermuda shorts, and though the shirt was a couple of sizes too big for him, the forearms that protruded from the sleeves were knotted with muscles beneath the black, ashy skin and the hand that grasped mine was rough with calluses.

“Hey, Quentin.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss.” When he smiled his cheeks formed two smooth half globes and his dark eyes sparkled with humor. I wouldn’t have called him handsome, but he had a face that made you want to get to know him better. There are some people you feel comfortable with the instant you meet them, and Quentin was one.

“You sure you want to work for this guy? The last time I saw him race—granted, that was more than fifteen years ago—the boat he was sailing sank under him.” I laughed. “Isn’t that right, Glub?”

Quentin began to laugh, but the laugh died in his throat when he turned to Ben.

Ben pulled his hand back and looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Very funny, Sullivan,” he said deadpan.

For a minute, I was afraid I had hurt his feelings by teasing him with the old nickname.

But Ben couldn’t keep his face straight any longer and as the corners of his mouth started to turn up, he said, “Gotcha.”

“Geez, man. That’s not fair,” I said, but what I was thinking was that I couldn’t ever remember a case of Ben teasing me before. A sense of humor had never been his strong point.

He turned to Quentin. “Sorry, man, no jobs today. Like I told you, I’ve got a mate on the boat and that’s all I need. But I will keep my ears open, and I’ll let you know if I hear of anything. Talk to you later.”

He turned his back on the dreadlocked man. I could see the mild surprise on Quentin’s face, but then he shrugged it off as though he was used to being dismissed. He turned to go.

“It was nice meeting you, Quentin,” I called out.

He turned and tilted his head back, giving me an appraising look. “Likewise,” he said, smiling and drawing the word out. Then he turned and walked off down Caroline Street. I watched him go with regret and thought how odd it was that I felt more comfortable with him than with the man I’d known since I was a kid.

“You got time to come down, see the boat, have a glass of wine?” Ben asked. “I haven’t got a sunset charter booked today, so I’m free.” He held out his hands as though offering himself to me.

“You’re tempting me, Baker. I would love to see your boat.” Both statements were true and probably in ways Ben never dreamed of. I wondered if part of my nervousness around him was due to the fact that I was supposedly in a permanent relationship with B.J.—at least as close to permanent as I could make it. B.J. wanted to talk marriage and kids, and I just wasn’t sure I’d ever be comfortable with all that. And now here was a good-looking, slightly scruffy sailor who could make my heart beat faster just by looking at me.

“Hey, it’s not often I have an evening free. You should take advantage.”

His schooner was spectacular, and I did want to see what he’d done with her. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. I shouldn’t stay long, though. I’ve got to get back to my boat.”

“Come on,” he said, slinging an arm over my shoulder and starting to steer me toward Schooner Wharf. “I’ll show you what I’ve done to turn her into a nice charter boat.”

I tried to make my voice sound calm and businesslike— just the opposite of what I felt. “You know, lots of people think chartering sounds great, but the part about being a slave to a schedule like that would wear thin for me. That’s one thing I like about my business. Every day’s different.”
 

As we walked toward the docks, Ben told me about his business, about how he’d found the boat and brought her to Key West. “Chartering is such a different lifestyle than being in the service. This might sound weird to you, but I kind of liked the regimentation of the service, the discipline.” He laughed. “Frankly, I’m not the most disciplined person—I really have to work at it out here. I like my home to be orderly, and in the service when someone is coming to inspect your quarters, you have to clean up.”

“I guess I can understand that, but it would never work for me. I don’t do well taking orders.”

“I remember,” he said. “When we were kids, you were always the captain.”

“And things haven’t changed. Here I am, thirty years old, still the captain.” I looked up at his face, acutely aware of that mouth, those lips spread wide over impossibly white teeth. We had arrived alongside the dark-hulled schooner, and he pointed to a center-console runabout tied up off the bow of the big boat. The name on the stern was
Rapid
, and I remembered him telling me he owned a fishing boat as well. I nodded, acknowledging the boat. With a gallant sweep of his arm, he motioned for me to step aboard the schooner.

“Surely, you have a boyfriend,” he said as I walked past him, his mouth so close I felt his breath on my hair.

I snorted a laugh. “I have a friend. He’s male. But he’s certainly not a boy. I hate the terms
girlfriend
and
boyfriend
. We’re adults, for Pete’s sake. It’s a shame that we don’t have better words for it.”

He motioned for me to sit on the white cockpit cushion. “I agree with you, completely.”

“And what about you, Ben? Any women in your life?”

“Well, look around you. I meet a girl, invite her back here. Sure, the boat looks beautiful out on the water, but have you seen the size of the bunks or the head on a boat built in 1922? I mean, I cook on a diesel stove in the tropics. And then when they figure out that I spend all my time working on her, well, most last about a week and then it’s
adios
. Some people say boats should be referred to as females, and if so, I guess
Hawkeye
here is the only woman in my life.”

He bent to unlock the brass padlock on the companionway hatch, and I admired the view. I found it difficult to believe that single women weren’t throwing themselves at him. Here he was, handsome, funny, charming, the owner of an awesome boat, and so distinctly male. I thought about B.J. back home taking his midwife classes. I was trying to understand that. Granted, it fit in some weird kind of way with his other interests in New Age stuff that he was into and I wasn’t. I appreciated that B.J. was this great sensitive guy and all, but sometimes, with midwifery and such, I wasn’t sure I wanted a man who was
that
sensitive. At the moment, I found this guy who preferred to talk boats, who had bottom paint under his nails, salt-stained Top-Siders, and jeans that fit snugly on a very nice ass, to be a welcome change.