Buoy

  buoy

  An Alex M. Mystery #2

  Maggie Seacroft

  www.maggieseacroft.com

  Copyright © by Maggie Seacroft

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious or have been used or embellished fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  CREDITS: Book cover by Molly Burton with CoverWorks

  For my parents.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  If I get outta this, I’m going to tell him how I feel... one day. It’s amazing how a brush with death, the thought of dying, can play with your mind and embolden you like never before, isn’t it? Bobbing up and down on a navigational buoy, completely drenched and chilled to the bone, I rolled over onto my left side to find the same cold steel would be just as unforgiving as it had been to my right.

  My name is Alex Michaels and this is how I got myself into my latest predicament. I say “latest predicament” because the last five years or so have been one predicament after another. To put it nicely. To put it less nicely, it’d been a real kick in the nuts. If I had any, but Alex is short for Alexandra and, I can assure you, I’m all woman. Now, if I’d broken a mirror somewhere along the way, I could have at least prepared myself for some bad luck, but when it comes unannounced, it really is surprising and seems so much harsher for some reason.

  Let’s see, in chronological order, because that’s the A type of gal I am, in the last five years, I’d been widowed after eighteen months of marriage, been orphaned, and—just this summer—one of my best friends, Nat Grant, became terminally ill and, while he hadn’t passed, he left to parts unknown to ride out his final days. And left me to fend for myself, or so it felt at the time. As it turned out though, I don’t know what I would have done without the rag-tag bunch of miscreants who live at the marina I now call home.

  Home. I knew it was there, off in the distance, among those faint lights on the shore. I just couldn’t see it. Teeth chattering and body aching, I wondered if I’d ever lay eyes on it again. It is the Marysville Marina, nestled in a little town close to Monterrey, California where I happily reside on my converted double decker tow tug and namesake, the Alex M. She’d been left to me by my father about two years ago, along with a small annuity and some interests in his businesses including a boat brokerage which I happily took on after telling my corporate bosses to shove it. So now, instead of towing the company line, I could, in my boat/home, literally tow the company line. However, since I’d taken up residence on her, I’d converted the Alex M. from a work tug built for a crew of five to a liveaboard built for one woman, plus spoiled cat and dog. The transformation would have made for a great reality show. Converting five tiny bedrooms to one master suite, and a salon area with a space carved out for my home office from which I sell surplus marine inventory, broker boats and barges, engines and chandlery-type items to commercial marine buyers. Sometimes, I even throw in the odd pleasure boat sale just to spice things up a bit.

  I had been wrapping up a correspondence with one of my customers—more precisely to one of the throwbacks who had referred to me as “Sir”—when I heard familiar voices on the dock. That fact, combined with the pleading eyes from my black lab Pepper, told me it was a good time to stretch my legs and for him to take a nature break. As I peeked out the stern door, surveying my little neighborhood, I could sense the change in the air. Fall. Gone were the last vestiges of the “weekenders”. Couples and their entitled spawn who could be found on the decks of their boats, necks craned toward their phones, thumbs tapping out SOS messages to those they’d left in the city while dinners burned on barbecues and what passed for music replaced the whispers of the wind and cries of the gulls. From the brass hook near the stern door, I grabbed the latest in my hoodie collection, tied it around my shoulders, and Pepper and I made our way toward the voices.

  Those voices, and the bodies that went with them, belonged to the dapper group of sexagenarians who had congregated near the Summerwind. There they stood, my homies, my crew, the group of men I list among my closest friends. Though they are about forty years older than me–my last birthday I turned the big three-o—in the close to two years I’d been living at the marina, this group of men had become like family in the truest sense of the word–cantankerous at times, corny jokesters often, and always ready to pitch in, if only with their opinions. They shared the common bond of having served together in the navy under the same commander, our mutual and now AWOL friend Nat. And we shared the common bond of knowing that Nat had, rather than bear the pitying looks and burdensome feelings that were the side effects of his terminal illness, headed off into the sunset. The thing was, in the spirit of the true old film fan which he was, he’d faked his own death and, once I’d figured it out, I was sworn to secrecy by the gang. Something I happily obliged. Outside of our circle, while it had been de-prioritized in the news headlines, the paper still contained the odd tip about the “senior sailor” missing from the Marysville Marina. The last tipster claimed that Nat had parachuted out of a plane over South America and that they’d shared cocktails in Rio.

  “Oh, hi kiddo.” Jack Junior issued me his standard greeting once he’d noticed I’d sidled up to him on the dock.

  Jack was standing, arms crossed in front of his chest and squinting winsomely as he watched the activity on the stern deck of the Summerwind. At close to seventy, though he won’t disclose just how close, Jack Ross Junior is a fixture at the marina. With a twinkle in his eye and an endless supply of pep in his step, not to mention occasional bouts of wisdom, Jack Junior has stepped in where Nat stepped out, as sort of the unofficial mayor of the marina and head of our gang.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Jack glanced down at his watch and shook his head. “Oh, we’re just getting Shears off to meet his airport transfer. He’s been back and forth inside that damn boat twenty times in the past five minutes.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” I nodded, scolding myself for somehow forgetting the news I’d been told at least a dozen times. Robert Shears had let it be known that he was going on a European vacation. And, since he hadn’t been overseas since his stint in the navy, he was particularly giddy about it. David Sefton, one of his pals from our group who, along with James Seacroft, referred to themselves as the “S-troop”, had already been on the same month-long tour and seemed to have liked it despite referring to it as the “ABC tour”, as in the Another Boring Church tour. The plan, as we had all been advised at a number of preceding poker games, was for Shears to meet his cousin Chester, who was flying into Rome from Florida and thus would begin their trek around twelve European hotspots. We were each promised a postcard. I asked if he’d bring me back some olive oil, Jack was hoping for booze, and the rest of the gang weren’t specific but didn’t want anything too “churchy”.

  Robert Shears popped his head out of the stern doorway, squinting into the sun. “Hey, do you think I need to take my French
press?” he asked, the coffee carafe in his hand.

  “You-you-you-you’re going to France!” Jack shouted, his dark blue eyes wide, his voice rife with frustration, though I’d bet he was going to miss his friend terribly.

  I smiled to myself. Jack Junior is so terribly cute, and the amount of stammering he does is a good indicator of his frustration level. It’s like the kind of early warning system you need for violent weather events. Getting Shears on his way was a four out of five.

  Shears nodded and, through his coke bottle glasses, he shot me a wink then disappeared into the stern salon and emerged a few minutes later. Luggage in hand. Well, one in each hand to be exact. The kind with wheels on the bottom, that in no time I could picture getting caught in the cracks between the weathered dock boards.

  “Want some help?” I asked.

  “No thanks, dear,” Shears responded with a crinkly-eyed smile. “You could carry this for me, though,” he said, handing me a slip of paper I realized was the confirmation for the airport pickup.

  Jack Junior nudged me with his elbow and muttered, “We’ve been asking him if he needs help all morning, but you know how he is.” He shook his head. “Now, will you come on, you’re going to miss your flight and we’ve got to get to that thing.”

  I walked beside Shears as he made his way down the dock. “Anything you need doing while you’re gone?” I asked as we neared the end of the dock and the United Airport transport van.

  “No, just hold down the fort and keep an eye on the gang,” he said. The same word-for-word response he’d given me the other times I’d asked. He had no pets to be fed, no plants to be watered, and if his dock needed tending to, he could count on good ol’ Bugsy to enlist my services to supervise. In fact, Bugsy was even lingering by the van ready to wish Shears a safe trip.

  Ahh, Bugsy. Our newbie of a marina manager had arrived on the scene some three months earlier. His real name is Bill Beedle, though I call him Bugsy because it’s just too irresistible not to. He pretends he doesn’t like it, but I’m not convinced. When I first met him, he had the personality of a housefly, but since I’ve gotten to know him, he’s risen from insect status to something more like a friend. He keeps my dock in good repair and I keep my petty complaints to myself. Mostly. I smiled at him as the gang and I got closer. Bugsy looked like he’d just stepped off the pages of a blue-collar calendar. Caramel-colored hair whisked by the wind, sea-blue eyes and dimples like you’ve never seen, wrapped up in jeans and a t-shirt and work boots that had finally lost their lustre.

  In short order, farewells were given to Shears like he was headed off to the navy again. Sefton and Seacroft reminded him of the places he must see, Junior slapped him on the back and told him to have fun and to watch out for the French girls, I gave him a big hug, and he checked his bag one more time for his passport and wallet before the door of the transport van finally slid shut and we all watched as it made its way up the hill and out of the marina.

  “Be back in a sec, Jack, I have to hit the head,” Sefton said and trotted toward his boat.

  It was then I noticed that the gang seemed suspiciously overdressed for the occasion. “You’re all looking debonair today. This can’t be just for Shears. He’ll be back in a month, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure, sure kid,” Jack said, nodding. “Funeral today,” he added and glanced down at his watch one more time.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Anyone I know?”

  Jack smiled and shook his head. “Nah, I don’t even know him.”

  I arched an eyebrow at him.

  “He was with the Rotary,” Jack tossed in as if it explained everything.

  “Ok?”

  “Rotary guys have the best looking wives,” Seacroft piped up from beside me.

  “And?” I asked, waiting for the tenuous link to be made.

  “And there’s bound to be some cute chicks there,” Peter Muncie chimed in.

  “Umm…” I winced and the gang turned their eyes on me. “Never mind.” I’d thought for a moment about letting the guys know that many, if not most, women don’t take kindly to being referred to as “chicks”, but I decided that may be a lesson they could learn best on their own. I looked down at Pepper, who looked up at me with an uncanny expression of understanding behind big brown eyes.

  Seacroft came bolting down the path, zipping up his fly. “Sorry, guys.”

  “Wish us luck,” Peter Muncie said as he put his hand on my shoulder. Peter rounded out the group of navy vets and, if I had to choose who among them was most spry, it’d be a toss up between him and Jack Junior. However, all of them could pass for younger with their white or grey hair—tamed on this day for the funeral—sinewy limbs, bright eyes, and big smiles.

  “Good luck,” I called out to the troop as they headed off then piled into Jack Junior’s Buick SUV, dapper older gentlemen in suit pants and white shirts set off by their deep tans. I smiled, a little jealous of the chicks they were going to run into at the funeral.

  ✽✽✽

  “Mornin’,” I called out cheerily as I crossed the threshold into Aggie’s place after taking Pepper for his constitutional walk and sniff uptown.

  Ags must have caught sight of my blonde head bopping up the stairs to her store because she was already poised at the counter waiting with an apple fritter on a plate and a coffee carafe in her hand.

  “Hey, girl. Shears get away ok?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said and took a seat on one of the red and chrome vinyl stools at the counter, the swivelling retro kind. Ags poured me a cup in an equally retro, thick ironstone diner mug.

  “Good,” she said and poured herself one as well. “I gave him a little care package for the flight, and for his bag. You know how he likes his black licorice,” she said, shuddering.

  I giggled and blew on the steaming cup I held to my lips before taking a sip and looking up at Ags doing the same. I wondered if, when we are older like the guys, we will still be best buds. Ags, or Aggie, is short for Augusta Wind Bellows, if you can believe it. I certainly couldn’t the first time I met her, until she shared the stories about her colorful parents. She is a transplant from the Canadian province of Quebec, and when she gets really fired up, she goes on a rant in French… I think. She’s a dark-haired beauty, free-spirited, and perpetually in a good mood. Her store, the not-so-ingeniously named Aggie’s, is a one stop shop for everything from sunscreen to dish soap. She serves up sweets from the bakery in town and a small offering of items she prepares in her kitchen, but mostly it’s whatever she feels like eating that day, though she does have her regulars like yours truly who stop in religiously for a roast beef sandwich and some of her famous freshly-made potato chips.

  I looked up to find a studious expression on her face as she gazed at the aisles. “I’m going to re-jig the cleaning products section,” she said, nodding thoughtfully.

  “What? Again?” I asked and felt myself screw up my face. In the short time I’d known her, Ags had re-jigged her store displays at least a dozen times, like a woman who couldn’t quite settle on a hairstyle, though it looked fine to everyone else already. In fact, Aggie’s place looked great—a classy combination of white-washed walls, nautical fixtures, and gallery type displays of sepia-toned prints of boats and beaches. There’s even a little lounge area carved out at one end of the store with five club chairs surrounding an electric fireplace and a big-screen television where most mornings my gang of older gentlemen can be found debating the headlines on the twenty-four-hour news station that’s usually on.

  “Wanna sit out front? I need to make my list for dinner,” Ags said, having ceased the mental redecorating for the time being.

  “Sure,” I said, scarfing down the last bit of my fritter before toting my topped-up coffee in the direction of the door then settling into one of the table and chair sets in front of the place. The November sun was just enough to warm my shoulders through my hoodie but not strong enough to warrant unfurling one of the beer-logoed umbrellas all but tucked
away for the season.

  “So, how many are coming for dinner?” I asked.

  “About twenty.”

  “Can I take a look?” I smiled eagerly and nodded toward the list Ags had started.

  “You’re still in that crazy writing analysis class, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” I said. Though it was indeed true. Just for kicks, I’d enrolled in a writing and communications analysis course at the college. It was an intro to analysing everything from handwriting to texts to email. Ever since, I’d been on the hunt for samples to dissect and personality orders to diagnose.

  Ags tapped the end of her pencil on the table then scribbled on the pad again. “Onions. I never buy enough onions,” she said before laying her pencil down. “Oh, and I need new napkins,” she said, making another note while I studied her scrawl.

  Despite Ags being a Canadian transplant, she had adapted to U.S. traditions quite handily, including hosting a (later than Canadian) Thanksgiving feast in her store. She sets up a big table in the lounge and invites the regulars like me to pig out on turkey while the college football game makes us all feel lazy. This would be my first year attending. Though I had been living on my boat at the marina this time last year, I hadn’t been in much of a thankful mood, what with the passing of my father and, shall we say, leaving my job in a rather unceremonious but at the same time memorable and satisfying fashion. My resignation letter was a post-it note, and my choice of language was true to my upbringing near the docks. But time has a way of making you mellow, and I considered I had more to be thankful for this year. Good friends, a thriving business that had saved me from corporate cannibalism, and an overall sense of serenity.

  Aggie’s phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. “Chris,” she said unexcitedly, and I watched her eyes scan the message on the screen.