(Photo: Driving into the Sea at Sunset)Well, wasn’t this a fun week! Guess this means none of us will be doing any holiday shopping this year. I went to check my 401K balance - and couldn’t find it! It is probably hiding in a crack in the baseboards with dust bunnies and lost paper clips.
Any one who has not been in a coma for the past year knows it’s time to gird the loins and reach for the battle plans. A few weeks ago I sold all positions in my Roth IRA except two (I kept Procter and Gamble and a gold stock. My family has always had PG - held it all the way through the first Great Depression - the theory being that people will always buy toothpaste and face cream. So far, so good.), thus preventing my principle investment from dropping into the void. My Scottrade broker (Scottrade is the best! Check them out.) tells me there are only two positions anyone should be in right now: cash and fetal. Assume the crash position!
Then this week I took a disbursement from the Roth and paid OFF my credit cards - a key item on my personal battle plan. What a liberating feeling! And where else in this economy can you get a guaranteed 13% to 16% return? Wah-hoo! (Oops, that exclamation might not mean what it used to mean before Washington Mutual became road kill.)
Oh, and yesterday I applied for Social Security. Yikes! How did I get this old so fast? I wasn’t going to apply right now but I called for information and the helpful customer service professional ran some numbers and informed me that it doesn’t really matter whether I take the $ now or wait another year - the bucks will be the same. So why wait? And, well, I thought I might as well get on board while Soc Sec still exists.
Now here’s this week’s episode of RV-GO Down to the Sea (If you are just joining us be sure you go back to the beginning. This is a mystery novel so it’s cheating to read it backwards.Time to catch up since there are only two more episodes to go! In case you need to go back to the beginning, it starts in the August posts.):
The fog folded around me like a great mat of cotton batting. I pulled out the camera and turned it on by feel. Its screen lit up at once and using the light it emitted I set it for the longest exposure available, placed the camera on the bench beside me to minimize motion and snapped the shutter. After what seemed like a minute the camera made a little clicking noise. I checked the display screen. There was the marina! The boats were hazy but I could see them. Even the masts of sail boats tied up at the far end of the longest float. I tinkered with the positioning of the camera and took a few more shots. Then I walked up to the railing and tried a shot of Float 9, wondering if I could get a photo of Angel Face. Yes, there she was cloaked in wisps of ectoplasm.
It seemed like I could not stop thinking about Mert. I wondered how his head was. Had he had the stitches out. Had Marj talked to him yet and if so what had he decided? Would he call me? I had given him my cell phone number when we went out to dinner at the Pine Dunes. Had he kept it?
Strange how fog amplifies sound - the gentle slap of water against the hulls, the jingling of couplings on the masts, a splash as a fish leaps at imagined bugs. The mournful groan of a fog horn off the jetty. And somewhere in the direction of the mouth of the harbor the bruum-bruum-bruum throb of a boat engine.
What would a boat be doing out in this pea soup, I wonder. I cannot see where the engine sounds are coming from. Nor can I see any running lights but figure they are being swallowed up in the fog. I point my camera in the direction of the noise and shoot. Nothing. Oh, but then I think how the sound waves could have distorted my perception of the boat’s location. I shoot farther in toward shore. And there it is - a large dark shape. Trawler by the look of it. With no running lights.
My heart skipped a beat. I must be imagining this, surely. What kind of idiot would be coming into the marina blind? Unless he is doing it totally on instruments. I did not know enough about navigation systems to know if that was even possible. Curious, I tracked his progress with the camera. I wondered if night vision goggles worked in fog. Whatever this guy was doing it can’t be the normal way to come into Westport. He was heading in a few floats down. I decided to walk down to watch him come in. For one thing I really wanted to see how this loony was going to manage the maneuver.
The trawler cut engines as it neared Float 3. I could hear the water sliding along its hull and the thump as it nudged against the float. I hunched down behind a bench, even though I doubted any one on the boat’s deck could have seen me. I was well out of the range of the pallid lamplight and shrouded in heavy fog. Did I think I was seeing a smuggling shipment coming into the marina? Not really. Smugglers would not be so blatant - at least I thought not. I figured they would not be coming in so close to four o’clock. Fishermen are early risers. There would likely be someone out and about at that hour. Either fishermen or the shipyard crew. Professional smugglers would avoid the chance of being seen. This boat had to be up to something else. But it wasn’t likely to be an honest something.
I held myself very still thinking that if I made a move away from the bench any one on deck might catch sight of the movement even if I was nearly invisible. Then I heard the voices. Two male voices, I thought. The pitch was low but clipped with restrained anger. Arguing. A rope slapped against the float as someone tied one of the lines snubbing the boat against the floating dock. One of the men let fly a curse. The other man replied though I couldn’t make out the words. Just as well. I am sure they were not pleasant words. Their voices traveled to where I hid behind the bench at the top of the ramp, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling like a turbulent tide of anger. Only part of the conversation reached me but it was enough for me to piece together.
“Son of a bitch . . . swear, you are dumb as a bag of rocks.”
“Hadn’t been for you and your . . . “
“You keep it up, idiot . . . I will hand you your goddamn . . .”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault! All I was suppose to do was pick up. Nobody toll me . . . “
“Keep your voice down, idiot. You should have damn well . . . “
“Yeah, yeah, right and what would you have . . . hell of a thing to find.”
“ . . . could have dumped the damn thing anywhere but where you did, Kyle. Help me with . . .”
“What the hell was I supposed to . . . “
“Right, and the guts truck was your great, big hot shot idea, idiot.”
“Stop calling me idiot. We fixed it didn’t we?”
“No thanks to you. And you waited long enough to . . . Damn, that was rank.”
“Not my fault.”
“No, nothing is ever your fault, Kyle. I don’t know why I cut you in on this . . . stupid, fu . . . “
Then a lot of bumps and bangs I figured for hatches closing but it could have been one of the thumping the other.
Very soon they would be leaving the boat and coming up the ramp. I had to get out of there quick. It must be just about time I get to work anyway, so I backed out to the street, then turned and sprinted down the sidewalk to where I could duck into a doorway to catch my breath.
Whoever they were (and I had a pretty good idea that one of them was Eddie Singer, the thug who had kicked me off Float 3) they had dumped something unpleasant at sea. That was clear enough. I remembered the police report about the smelly guts truck. I didn’t want to think about what that might have been.
I had to talk to Mert as soon as possible whether or not Marj had done any smoothing of the ruffled feathers. He had to hear what I had to say because I had a hunch things were heating up unpleasantly. I thought I had identified the smugglers. Now I needed verification. I hoped that verification was on a memory card either in Mert’s possession or tucked in a tall bronze lighthouse bank back at the Lens Building.
I was fifteen minutes late for work.
“I’m so, so sorry, Cindy!” I said as I exploded up the stairs to Bev’s.
“Wow, what did you do, sleep in? You are usually early.”
“Bad dream and then a bad commute. I’ll tell you some time.”
I hung up the damp jacket and tied on my apron and pinned on my name tag. Another day, another dollar. I really ought to retire to a desert island, I thought. At my break between the breakfast rush and the lunch rush I fished the piece of paper out of purse, took a deep breath and punched in the number.
“Mert, do not delete this! Please! This is Cora Jane Dooley (As if he did not know that! I mentally kicked myself for six kinds of a dope.) Please do not delete this message without calling me. I need to talk to you right away. Please! It is so important.”
God, had I included enough pleases? I terminated the call, feeling as if I had just done the most hopelessly futile thing but I crossed all my fingers and toes. And if I had been so inclined I would have prayed to all the gods and goddesses that ever wore a raggedy toga that Captain Merton would actually call me back.
He did better than than. He came to lunch. Right after noon Mert walked in as if nothing had ever happened, hung his baseball cap on the wall hook and sat down at his favorite table by the window. When he caught my eye he raised his hand in a salute, smiling. Had he gotten my message? If not, had he decided on his own to cut my some slake and give me another chance? With a wildly hammering heart I grabbed a menu and headed his way.
“Morning, Dooley,” he said.
“Captain Merton,” I replied. “Our soup and sandwich special today is tuna melt and tomato soup. How about if I bring you a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, I could do with a cup of coffee, “ he said, opening the menu. “Pretty foggy out there isn’t it? Can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
Oh no, I suddenly remembered I left my bike leaning against a lamp post down the street. Well, if they can’t see it they can’t steal it. And who would steal that rusty mess of spokes and peeling paint anyway?
What the heck was I blithering about?
“So, have you decided?” I asked.
“Yeah, I have decided hear you out, Dooley.”
“Wonderful. Where and when?”
“Your call. Should I come here?”
“Too many curious ears,” I said. “How about if we meet at the marina? At your boat? I left my bike down there somewhere this morning and I had better go locate it. Four o’clock, okay?”
“You bike is down at the marina? What were you doing at the marina this morning - looking for me?”
“No. I was taking fog pictures. Anyway there were some strange doings down there this morning - I got spooked and left my bike. I will tell you about it later,” I said. “What are you having for lunch?”
“I will go ahead and have the soup and sandwich special,” he said. “What spooked you? Should I be worried about my boat?”
“No, no, it was on Float 3. A couple of guys having a row. I thought I had better exit before they saw me. That is all. Probably nothing. Lots of fog and an active imagination.”
“Hmm. Mysterious. What the heck is a ‘fog picture’ anyway?”
“Oops, better get busy and pass your order on to Cindy.” I scooted off to the kitchen. I had just seen Eddie Singer come in the door and I did not want to wait on the man.
“Cindy, guess who came to lunch? Mert.” I said. “He wants the lunch special. Say, I have to visit the restroom. Eddie Singer just came in - could you get his order for me?”
“Singer? Wish I could afford to turn away business. He always means trouble. But okay, I will see what he wants.”
My bike was not where I thought I left it but the fog was still thick and disorienting. I walked up the embarcadaro all the way to Float 9, which I knew I had not passed that morning, then back the other way, feeling the whole time like I was being followed. Fog plays tricks on the mind, softens edges and sharpens the senses all at the same time. I was beginning to dislike fog. I like to know where things are.
My footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. I stopped opposite the Maritime Museum, listening to the fog horns’ mournful moo. Thick in the air was the salty tang of changing tide. I walked on toward Float 3. I thought I saw a flash of red that might have been my bike near the railing at the mouth of the ramp. The ramp itself disappeared into the depths of the mist. I hurried. Mert would be at his boat waiting for me.
I did not reach the bike. A gloved hand clamped my mouth shut, another hand gripped my arm, pinning it behind my back. I was propelled toward the ramp down to Float 3.
“I warned you about nosing around my boat,” hissed the voice in my ear.
Wherever he threw me the floor was moving. Or I was woozy from the knock on the head he gave me. Seemed he had only one way of controlling people. I assumed he was the one who clubbed Mert. Most likely with a fish club. Very effective. I did not think he did any great damage to my head. At least not yet. He had no intention of letting me walk on home.
It was dark wherever I was and smelled of fish and something else. I could guess that it was a lingering aroma of the package they dumped overboard last night. My hands were duct taped in front of me, which meant that I was next on their list as crab food. But they had not taped my feet, which was curious. I was thinking that they - and I could hear two voices from above my head - had been interrupted before they got me hog tied good and proper. They were not very good at this. But good enough - I was in trouble unless I could figure out a way to free. I assumed I was in the hold. Or the engine room - the sound of the engine was very loud as if it were in the same space they had put me but there was no light at all. I might be down a well for all I knew.
The voices were the same two I had heard that morning in the fog. Eddie Singer and the one he had called Kyle. They were casting off, that much I could make out from the tone of voices barking back and forth. And they were getting underway in a heck of a hurry.
To be continued ...
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