Buoy Page 2

  “Not thee Chris? The same one as before?” I searched her eyes for the truth. I’m generally good at that.

  “No, another Chris. It’s a lucky name for me.”

  That I found debateable. The last Chris that Aggie dated was our former marina manager. And, due to some less-than-stellar vetting by the dating maven of Marysville, Ags had failed to notice that that Chris was married. And, in what amounted to an extortion deal between Mrs. Chris and the marina owner, Mr. Bob Beedle, the offending Chris was relocated within the company and the marina owner’s son Bugsy entered the picture. More my type than Aggie’s. Hers being ten years her junior, impossibly fit, and they get bonus points if they have a couple tats and a bad boy streak.

  In fact, Bugsy’s more boy scout than bad boy. However, to his credit, with the sum total of zero marina management experience, he’s taken on the challenge of running the place. Actually, I don’t think he had much choice in the matter. The spit and polish, ex-army, dimpled one had received his orders from his father, the commanding officer of the clan, and we’d all been witness to the evolution of Bugsy, mellowing with time and even providing some comic relief along the way. Oh sure, he still holstered his cell phone on his hip like a modern-day gunslinger and spoke using military time, but he’d grown on us. That is, once we got over his questionable taste in female companions with painted on dresses, and once I’d convinced him I was not, in fact, responsible for the disappearance of my friend Nat. And, to top it all off, this summer, when he’d told me he was staying, he kissed me. In my engine room. I mean the engine room of my boat, not some weird colloquial sexual term for female anatomy. It was on the lips and it was one of those kisses that makes your toes curl and your spine tingle. But that’s as far as things had gotten in three months. Bugsy isn’t a speed boat; he’s a canoe.

  I was stirred from my daydream by the sound of footsteps, and when I looked toward them, there was a man I’d never seen before. He proceeded to drop his duffel bag with a huff then looked around. When I looked at Ags, I found she had perked up parts of her I didn’t know she could, and she was eyeing him like he was lunch.

  “Hi,” he said in a youthful voice with just a touch of rasp that hinted at a rough night.

  Ags was speechless, her mouth fell agape, and her eyes seemed fixed.

  “Good morning,” I said toward the man-boy as I sized him up. He was roughly twenty-five, about 5’9, with short dark hair, hazel eyes, and some scruff on his face. Actually, he looked like the kind of guy who had five o’clock shadow no matter what time it was. He also looked like he was hiding a six pack, and the tight jeans he wore left little to the imagination—sort of reminiscent of the too-old member of a boy band. He looked like someone you meet only once but remember for a long time to come.

  No, scratch that, he looked like trouble. I can’t explain why. And, as it turned out, his arrival at the marina marked the beginning of a chain of events you won’t believe.

  CHAPTER 2

  “H-h-h-hi,” Ags finally managed to eke out. Her cheeks were flushed and, for a moment, I wondered if she was having a stroke. There was a pregnant pause which seemed fitting given the pheromones flying between the two.

  I rolled my eyes. Hard. And when I looked back at Johnny Dangerous, the young man who looked as though he’d just stepped out of a designer jeans ad, he approached the table.

  “Can we help you with something?” I asked, my tone friendly but cautious.

  “Uh, yeah.” He looked around. “I’m lookin’ for my grandpa.”

  “Oh?” Ags squeaked.

  I slid the side eye to my friend who had suddenly been reduced to single syllable sentences.

  “I’ll bite. Who’s your grandpa?” I cocked my head, trying to guess the answer just from the resemblance. I was stumped.

  “Robert Shears. He’s got a boat here someplace,” he said and rested his hands on the back of the chair adjacent to Ags.

  “Shears?” I asked, and I know my voice went up wondering why Shears hadn’t mentioned him. I’d also taken note that our stranger wore no wedding ring and sported no tan line for one, which boded well for my short-winded pal who was still eying him.

  “Do you know him?” the stranger asked.

  “I do.” I nodded and glanced at Ags who knew him too but seemed too distracted to answer.

  The man-boy glanced down at his watch. “Oh, don’t tell me I missed him before he left?”

  “Left?” I asked, baiting him. Naturally.

  “Yeah, he’s going on a trip.” He rocked the metal chair back and forth nervously. When he caught me watching him, he abruptly stopped. “Sorry. I guess he’s gone already, huh?”

  I nodded. “Was he expecting you?” I forced myself not to give him the squinty-eyed, dubious look I felt gurgling up from inside.

  “Yeah, well, he said I could come by anytime and that he’d be going away soon but it’d be ok. Damn, I guess I messed that up too. Don’t suppose he left the key for me?” he asked and turned down the corners of his mouth in disappointment, which I couldn’t tell was real or not.

  I shrugged my shoulders and made a hopelessly unhelpful facial gesture.

  “Alex–“ Ags began to say, and I kicked her under the table.

  I cut in, “Well, he might have left a key with one of his pals. They’ll be back in a bit,” I said and shot Ags a knowing look. The knowing look that says, I know that you know that I know Bugsy has a key for every boat in the marina. But I also know that you know that I watch a ton of Dateline and that this guy could be anyone. You know?

  See, it’s written in our lease contract. You have to give the marina manager a copy of your key just in case some emergency dock repair or unforeseen marine catastrophe should take place. As if Bugsy would know what to do. However, I wanted to wait for Jack Junior and the boys to come back and vet the legitimacy of this so-called relative. To be honest, I’d known Shears for less than what, two years, and mostly interacted with him at poker games and at Aggie’s place while I scarfed down my daily fritter and cuppa joe. And, though I’m incredibly nosy, in that time I hadn’t gleaned any information regarding his family tree. The man in front of us could have just as easily been some stranger looking for free waterfront accommodations.

  “Why don’t you sit down. You look a little beat,” I said as I stood up. “Ags… can I see you inside for a sec?” I tugged at the hood of her hoodie and turned toward our latest arrival. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Russ. Russ Shears,” he said before rolling his shoulders and pulling out the chair he’d been rocking earlier. “Thanks, I drove all night to get here.” He plunked himself down.

  “Do you want a coffee or anything?” I asked, faking a smile and a little hospitality while I pulled Ags further toward her store.

  “No, ma’am,” he called back.

  My smile, albeit fake, dissolved instantly. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being called ma’am. It’s a salutation I’d always reserved for teachers and old ladies at church, and I was damn sure I hadn’t quite wandered into that demographic.

  Three angry steps into Aggie’s store, I let loose in a loud and incredulous whisper, “Did you hear that guy?” I hitched my thumb in the direction of the culprit. “He called me ma’am. I’m not a ma’am!” I rushed to the sunglass carousel, crouched down, and looked up into the mirror to assess the situation. “Ags? Do I look old enough to be a ma’am?” I turned and asked in earnest.

  “No. Pfft. You don’t look a day over a miss,” she replied, and I was thankful she’d regained the ability to form sentences and was finally making sense again.

  “Thank you. Now what do ya think of that clown?” I asked as my distracted friend craned her neck to look over my shoulder at the dude from the jeans ad. “Ags! Pay attention!”

  “Sorry, did you get a look at that guy? To think… Shears’ grandson.” She sighed. “You know what that means?” she added dreamily.

  “What?”

  “Shears
has that thick head of hair… That guy’s going to grow old looking good.”

  “Yeah, in about fifty years, Ags.”

  “Who cares. Look at him.”

  “That’s not the point. How do we really know that’s Shears’ grandson? He sure never mentioned it when he was saying his bon voyages today. I think that’d be the kind of thing Shears would bring up, don’t you?”

  “So, it slipped his mind. He’s getting up there.”

  I shook my head then looked over my shoulder to see Russ Shears, or whoever he was, sitting at the table leaning on the back two legs of the chair, angling his face toward the sun. I’d bet my life he wasn’t wearing sunscreen.

  “I don’t know, Ags. Maybe Jack and the guys recognize him or knew he was coming, but—”

  “Alex, of all the people who could be impersonated. You think some guy who looks like that is just going to show up and pretend to be Shears’ grandson? Let’s just ask him for his ID.”

  “You just want to know how old he is!”

  “Well, that too.” Ags smiled and got a glint in her brown eyes.

  “Ok, you do it,” I said. “You’re older.”

  “Nice try, girl. He called you ma’am. And you’re the one who doesn’t trust him, so you’re on deck.”

  “Ok, I’ll ask him.” I groaned. “But until he proves who he is, we don’t send him to Bugsy for the key to the Summerwind. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Ags replied, rolling her eyes.

  I rolled my shoulders a few times, limbering up for my next round with the young whipper snapper. I’ll teach him not to call me ma’am. I turned on my heels and pushed through the screen door with Ags trailing behind. The man who called himself Russ Shears tipped his chair forward and rubbed his eyes. Trying to up his pathetic factor, no doubt. Didn’t work. At least not on me.

  I cleared my throat. “Look, I hate to do this, but would you mind showing us your ID? You see, Shears is a friend and–“

  “Oh, no problem. Hey, I’m sure Gramps would appreciate you being so cautious,” he said and leaned onto one cheek, angling his hand toward his back pocket, I assume on a dive for the wallet.

  Ags gave me an “I told you so” nudge I should have expected.

  The man returned his hand from his backside and met my fixed expression with a panicked look, eyes wide, biting his bottom lip pensively. “It’s gotta be in my bag. Hang on.”

  I nudged Ags with my elbow. If this kept up, we’d be as bruised as the bananas on the counter of my galley.

  Mr. Yet-to-Prove-Himself got up from the table and squatted down to unzip the blue canvas duffel he’d dropped earlier. The zipper caught on something in the bag and we, mostly I, waited impatiently for him to remedy the little luggage snafu while he mumbled obscenities. As I watched, I resisted the urge to be smug. If he did turn out to be Shears’ grandson, I didn’t want any resentment from my poker buddy on how I’d treated his kin. I shifted awkwardly. First, I crossed my arms in front of my chest, but I decided that might seem confrontational. Then I put my hands on my hips, which didn’t seem too friendly either. Finally, I settled on thrusting my hands into the pockets of my jeans, although that felt completely unnatural. I watched as item after item was removed from the duffel bag and laid out on the gravel path until there was nothing left and the man stood and shook the empty bag. By the end of it all, he had laid out numerous t-shirts—notably a couple from Ohio U, rolls of white sport socks, a pile of boxer briefs—all of them black, three or four wrinkled flannel shirts, a tan vinyl toiletries bag, and a few pairs of jeans. But no wallet.

  “Shit! It’s not here,” he said, looking back at us searchingly as if either of us knew where he’d last placed it.

  The hands came out of the pockets and I gave Ags an elbow of vindication and raised my eyebrows at her.

  She shook her head at me and sighed. Though she’s only five years older than me, she has this older sister schtick down pat.

  “Well…” I paused to think and glanced down at my Timex. “Mr. Shears’ friends are at a function and they’ll be back in a little while. Why don’t you just hang tight until they get here. They’ll know how to handle this.”

  ✽✽✽

  While I waited for the gang to return, I killed some time answering work emails and phone calls—two inquiries about landing crafts and a call from a restaurant that was interested in the bona fide nautical antiques of my client in Ontario, Canada. I kept an eye on the driveway into the marina and, roughly three hours after they’d left, I saw Jack Junior’s SUV return. I gave him a little time to change out of his dapper but impractical attire and then made my way toward his boat, the Fortune Cookie.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he called out to me once I’d reached his dock. He was on the stern deck sitting with Sefton; they were taking turns looking through binoculars.

  “Hey, how was the funeral?”

  “Dead,” Jack said, pulling the binoculars down from his eyes.

  “No chicks?” I asked.

  “Nothin’ to write home about. Peter Muncie got a number though,” he grumbled.

  “Ah, well, I have a feeling Ms. Right is just around the corner,” I said.

  “Hmph, I wish I knew what corner,” Jack snapped back and craned his neck from side to side in an exaggerated fashion as if to look for her.

  “The egg salad sandwiches had horseradish in them. That was different.” Sefton shrugged as he got to his feet. “See ya later, Junior, I better go take my digestion pills,” he said as he winced and rubbed his stomach. “Later gator,” he said to me with an unfortunate gassy expression, and I took his place beside Jack.

  “Hey, ya know your boyfriend is over there.” Jack offered me the binoculars. “In the helicopter.”

  “A, I don’t have a boyfriend and B, what are you talking about?”

  “Hagen, he’s training for the marine unit. Came by when you were gone yesterday. He’ll probably be jumping from that chopper any minute now.”

  “What? I didn’t know that,” I said. “Let’s see.” I took the binoculars and, sure enough, there was a police helicopter doing exercises in the distance. I shook my head. I may live and make my living in a marina, but I wouldn’t jump into black water if you paid me.

  “So, what’s up, kiddo?”

  “Well… we have a little… situation.”

  “Those words never sound good, especially when they come from you.” Jack sighed and looked as though egg salad indigestion was creeping up on him as well.

  I nodded. I had to agree with him; I really ought to work on my delivery.

  “So, what is it?”

  “Does Shears have a grandson, that you know of?”

  “Grandson? Grandson. Grand. Son,” Jack said as if this little exercise would help him remember. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, doesn’t everybody? Why?”

  I arched an eyebrow at the noncommittal response then nodded in the direction of Aggie’s. “Well, some guy showed up after you left. Claims he’s Shears’ grandson.”

  “Oh? And?”

  “And he says he’s been invited to stay on the boat while his grandpa is away,” I said, adding air quotes although I generally detest it when other people do the same.

  “And?”

  “And he has no ID, so I figured, since you knew Shears when he was about that age… Look, he could be anybody.”

  Jack Junior nodded. “Could be,” he said, rubbing his chin. “You’ve been watching those shows again, haven’t you?”

  I shifted in my chair awkwardly. “Maybe. Just one or two little episodes.” I could have added to that response “every day since I was twelve”.

  “Mmhmm. Where’s the boy?”

  “I told him to sit tight until you got here. Last I saw him, he was with Ags,” I said and pointed in the general direction of her place.

  “We’d better hurry.” Jack’s face morphed into one of mock horror. Aggie’s reputation as a cougar was not exactly a secret. He grabbed his blue cotton fishing hat from the hook inside
the salon and we made tracks down the dock, with Junior recounting the Shears ancestry to the best of his recollection and me glancing back toward the bay at the helicopter.

  ✽✽✽

  Just behind Aggie’s place and to the right a little is the marina pavilion where Ags had indicated to us that What’s-His-Name could be found. It’s a nice covered cement pad with a few benches and tables where marina members and visitors can spread out or, in this case, where homeless imposter types can curl up. When our footsteps didn’t rouse the man, Jack Junior cleared his throat in that belaboured theatrical fashion perfected by older men everywhere. It worked, and the subject righted himself, ran a hand through his tousled hair, and rubbed his eyes.

  “So, uh, you’re Russ Shears, are you?” Jack asked and extended a handshake to Sleeping Beauty.

  “That’s right, sir,” he said through a yawn, shaking Jack’s hand.

  “Jack Ross, friend of Bob’s,” Jack said by way of introduction.

  “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Jack turned to catch my eyes and sent me a smile, as if politeness was an indicator of credibility, and I wondered for a moment why it is that men don’t dread the ma’am treatment like women. Sir seems practically reverential in comparison. Junior paced a few steps, nodded, and then began to rub the back of his neck. His contemplative pose. As inextricably tied to his pondering as that of Rodin’s The Thinker. Maybe he was trying to remember what Shears looked like before acquiring the coke bottle glasses that so dominate his present-day appearance. He looked at the kid. “Well, you kinda look like Bob did at your age. What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three?”

  “Twenty-five, sir.”

  “No ID, huh?” Jack winced.

  “No, sir, I must have lost it between dinner last night and this morning.”

  “How’d you get here?” Jack plodded on.

  “Rental car. Took it back a couple hours ago.”

  “I see. So, your parents… You must be–“