Buoy Page 4

  Ags tipped a coffee mug upside down, placed it in front of me, and filled it to the absolute brim. I guess she could tell I needed it. Smelled fresh. A fritter or possibly two would have gone nicely with it, but I didn’t see any in the baked goods case. “No fritters today?” I asked woefully.

  “Not yet, bakery must be running behind,” Ags said and looked up at the clock that’s set into a brass port light.

  “Hmph.”

  “Want an omelette?”

  “Mmm no. I have a bit of a stomach thing today,” I said and took a sip of coffee. I’m not sure what she puts in it, but it started acting on contact with my throbbing head and rotting gut. Dejected from the culinary disappointment, I swiveled, slowly mind you, on my stool to face the gang in the club chairs. Peter Muncie was handing a cell phone back to Jack Junior.

  “Not bad,” he said.

  “What are we looking at, guys?” I asked.

  “Now, now, now, it’s nothing,” Jack said, and his cheeks went a little flushed. Intrigued, I took my coffee toward the nook.

  “Junior and Lisa, sittin’ in a tree,” Sefton teased his buddy, lyrically, and I wondered what made him so impervious to the side effects from our bender the night before.

  “Oh, that’s real mature,” Jack griped.

  “Ok, tell,” I said, plunking my derriere on the arm of Peter Muncie’s club chair. “Who’s Lisa?”

  All eyes turned toward Jack Junior, and he blushed a little more. Even his ears got red. It was cute.

  He swiped at the air dismissively. “Oh, it’s no big deal.”

  “Jack’s got a cougar after him,” Seacroft said.

  Jack Junior shook his head.

  “How many times do I have to tell ya, a cougar is when the lady is older than the man. This babe’s younger,” Muncie moaned.

  “Which babe?” I asked, looking up at the clock, still hankering for that fritter and wondering when the bakery truck would roll in.

  “It’s-it’s-it’s nothing,” Jack said. “Will you guys–“

  “Jack, I know you’re dying to tell me, so out with it. Who’s Lisa and why’s she after you? You hit her car or something?” I asked before taking a sip of java.

  “No, I did not hit her car or something,” he said, mocking my tone and making a childish facial gesture. “Just so happens she has a yen for me.”

  “A yen?” I asked.

  “Isn’t that Japanese currency?” Peter Muncie squinted.

  “Will you shut up!” Jack groused. “Look, kiddo, Lisa is a woman who contacted me on, you know, on the Facebook.”

  “Oh. Right. On the Facebook.” I nodded. “And what’d this Lisa person say?”

  “She asked if I remembered meeting her at the Rotary gala a couple years back in Hamilton. Just so happens she was at the funeral yesterday and it jogged her memory.”

  “And did you? Remember her?”

  “No, she must have mistaken me for some other devilishly handsome blue-eyed Adonis.”

  Peter Muncie guffawed. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Jack noticed me wincing.

  “What? It happens,” he said.

  “Ok, so assuming all that’s true, what of it?” I asked.

  “Well, so far, we’ve exchanged a few messages.”

  “Any pics of her, uh, you know...“ Sefton began to say and gesture with his hands what he was thinking. I’m so glad he stopped.

  “No!” Jack Junior let out a huff.

  “Mmhmm. Hey, did you ever hear back from Shears? About whether that kid is his grandson?” I asked.

  “Shhh!” Ags hissed from the kitchen. “He’s cleaning out the storeroom in the back.”

  “Whatever.” I shook my head at her. I was still a little wary of the man who drifted into town without two cents to his name, looking for a place to stay.

  Jack smirked. “Not yet, you know how Bob is, just upgraded from that flip phone last year. He’s a little slow on the uptake,” said the man who referred to the Facebook.

  “Well, let me know, will ya? I’ve got five bucks riding on it,” I said and winked at Sefton with whom I’d made the little side bet the night before.

  “Mmhmm. Say, why are you so suspicious anyway, kid?” Jack asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I prefer to think of it as being careful.”

  “Oh, puh-lease,” I heard Aggie say from the direction of the kitchen.

  “What?” I pretended to be offended. I can’t help it if I was born with a curious streak, though I’m the first to admit the proliferation of mystery and murder shows I binge watch on rainy days doesn’t help my condition. “What’s the time difference in Rome anyway?” I asked.

  “Nine hours ahead,” Peter Muncie piped up. In Shears’ absence, he’d apparently assumed the role of resident encyclopedia.

  “Oh, geez, speaking of time.” Jack jumped up from his chair.

  “Oh yeah, you have to get ready.” Peter tapped the crystal on his watch.

  “Ready for what?” I asked, looking down at Peter. “Ready for what?” I asked again.

  “He’s got a date,” Peter said.

  “Already?” My voice went up. Not that I was necessarily surprised that Jack would have a date; he is awfully cute and could pass for a man years younger, but I was a little surprised that things moved that fast. I suppose, though, in the age of texting and dating apps, combined with the fact that you’ve got less time on the planet, things tend to move exponentially faster. Then again, I also didn’t want Jack to act out of desperation or sheer loneliness.

  I cleared my throat and my voice slid down to the octave I’m used to. “You mean you have a date with this Facebook floozie?” I kidded. Sort of.

  “My dear, you are sweet and wonderful and I love you for it, but that doesn’t exactly keep my toes warm at night.”

  “Or the other parts of you either,” Sefton chimed in.

  “Or the other parts of me,” Jack nodded. Vigorously.

  “Ok, where are you going to meet her?” I asked.

  “The Grind.”

  “The coffee shop? Jack, you’ve had enough caffeine already to run a marathon backwards,” I said, knowing Jack’s caffeine habit.

  “Make you a deal, kiddo—you let me go on my date and I promise I’ll have decaf.”

  “Ok, but I want you home before the streetlights come on, young man.” I smirked and watched as Jack slapped on his fishing hat and adjusted it to a jaunty tilt. “If you fine folks will excuse me. De-dee-de-dum-de-dum-dum-dum,” he belted out what I believe is the only “song” he knows while he danced his coffee cup to the counter.

  I was so engrossed watching him that I hadn’t noticed the police cruiser that pulled up out front. When I looked toward the ringing bell at the door, there he was. In his uniform. Officer Ben Hagen, or Officer Handsome, as Ags refers to him. All six foot two of him, his jet-black hair parted sharply, the light shining on it like the moon on the water at night. Hagen had been a fixture in my life that summer when Nat went missing and certain people, who shall remain technically nameless (i.e. Bugsy), had tried to point the finger at me for being involved in said disappearance and, when it turned out that the only involvement I had was being named as Nat’s primary beneficiary, Bugsy ate crow and Hagen served it up. With a square jaw, green eyes, and perfect bright white teeth, Hagen could charm the stars out of the sky if he’d a mind to, but he seemed to like hanging around the marina from time to time and credited Aggie’s superior blend of coffee for his regular visits. Right.

  “Oh, hi,” I said and felt a few butterflies inside my queasy stomach; they were probably flopping around in there, drunk on rum. My hand instinctively went to my hair and I did a quick check of what I was wearing. Most times I run into Hagen, I’m usually sporting some mysterious stain or paint splotch from doing maintenance around the boat or helping Ags around her store. On this particular occasion, my fashion faux pas was how the tinge of green in my complexion courtesy of a teensy lit
tle hangover clashed with the yellow of my sweatshirt.

  “Good morning.” He smiled, nodded, and made his way toward the chrome and red vinyl stools at the counter.

  “How about a cup?” Ags asked, her hand already on the carafe, poised for a pour.

  “Thanks, been a heck of a morning,” he said.

  I sauntered over to where he was. “Oh, got any dirt you can share?”

  Hagen took a big sip. “Guess you’ll find out soon enough. The bakery on State was robbed last night.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Was anyone hurt? Did they get them on camera? Much damage done? What about the fritters?” My questions came rapid fire while Hagen, bleary-eyed, took another sip.

  He held up his index finger as he swallowed. “No, I don’t know, I don’t think so, and they’re coming.” He smiled.

  “Geez.” I plunked myself down on the stool beside him. The sound of the air whooshing out from under my behind made me a little embarrassed, and in mixed company I always feel the need to look down at the seat as if to blame it for what sounds like a very rude noise.

  “So, what did they get? Cash?” Ags asked.

  “Actually, they took the whole safe and, the way Ash described it, it sounded like a big one,” Hagen said and looked around Aggie’s, I’m assuming for its vulnerabilities.

  “Who knew there was so much dough in the bakery business,” Jack Junior quipped as he approached the counter, paused beside me, and handed Ags his empty cup.

  “Jack, not funny,” I groaned.

  “I know. Sorry, kiddo.” He smiled and didn’t look sorry whatsoever, though I was happy to see “smilin’ Jack” was back.

  My eyes flicked from Jack to Hagen. “He’s just giddy because he’s got the prospect of getting laid.”

  “What is it, as often as Halley’s comet comes along, Junior?” Muncie bellowed from the TV nook.

  Ignoring the comment, Jack practically skipped toward the door. “See ya, suckers,” he said and saluted his gang on his way out.

  After Jack Junior’s bouncy exit, Hagen was subjected to interrogation by the rest of the fellas. And, in his typically good-natured fashion, he apologized for his inability to offer much in the way of details. For my benefit, he offered to deliver some fresh fritters once things were back to normal at the bakery later that morning.

  “You have an alarm system here, right?” he asked Ags when she topped him up.

  “Absolutely,” she said, smiling and raising her eyebrows at me. I remember she dated the guy who worked for the alarm company and, when they split up, he tried to remove the system but didn’t get very far with that notion.

  I turned to him. “Hey, you haven’t met Russ Shears yet,” I said, and when I looked up, Ags was suddenly glowering at me.

  “Who?”

  “Russ Shears. You know Shears, the older guy with the boat here?”

  “Yeah. Thick glasses, right?”

  “Yes. Anyway, his grandson,” I said, for the sake of telling the story though I still didn’t quite believe it.

  “No, I haven’t met him.” Hagen responded in a way that told me he knew there had to be something to my wanting him to meet Russ.

  “Ags, is uh, Russ still here? Couldn’t hurt for him to meet the local constabulary.” I smiled at her.

  Ags flitted her eyes. “Lemme get him.” She shot me a crooked smile and disappeared into the back.

  “So, who’s this guy?” Hagen leaned toward me and asked lowly.

  “Some guy who drifted into town with no ID looking for a place to stay. Check his fingers for powdered sugar and cinnamon,” I whispered.

  “No ID?”

  “Zippo, zero, zilch, nada, bupkis.” I continued whispering so Hagen would continue leaning in.

  Ags reappeared. “He must be running an errand,” she said and shrugged.

  I raised my eyebrows. He was running alright, from something. I just knew it.

  Hagen looked down at the blue face of the shiny silver diving watch on his tanned wrist and made a disappointed expression. “Damn, I’ve got to run.”

  “I’ll walk out with you,” I said and echoed Jack’s salute to the gang on my way to the door. With his hat in his hand, Hagen and I slowly made our way to his cruiser where I finally had the opportunity to broach the subject of Hagen’s sanity, at least indirectly. “Hey, I didn’t know you were going to be training for the marine unit. When did you decide on that?”

  “Oh, I’d been considering it for a while now. Someone I know got me into this boat thing.” He winked at me. “Plus, there’s an opening in the unit, thought I’d take the plunge.”

  ✽✽✽

  I walked back down the dock, head getting clearer and ready to tackle the easier emails I’d spotted that morning. I did a mental recap as I felt the sun warm on my face. Jessica King was looking for a liveaboard in New York, and Eddie Richards wanted me to list a couple of propellers and… What is that smell? My olfactory senses were immediately and without warning brutally assaulted, and my eyes began to water. Mixed with my SPF moisturizer, the stinging nearly blinded me, and mixed with the alcohol in my stomach, the odor was putting me on the door step of hurling. I looked around for the offending source; it wasn’t the dead fish smell that sometimes rose up from the channel. It was more of a putrid sharpness that intensified the closer I got to the Fortune Cookie. A cross between a tannery, a dead skunk, and the cosmetics counter of the department store.

  “Hey, kiddo!”

  I turned and pinched my nose to keep from suffering permanent nerve damage. There was Jack Junior walking toward me in a cloud of smells, reminding me of the old Pepe Le Pew cartoon with the greenish yellow haze trailing behind him.

  “Jack, is that you?” I asked, waving my hand, blinking through stinging eyes, and trying not to choke or toss my cookies.

  “What?” Jack asked as he sniffed the air, and I swear I saw his own lip curl. “Uh, yeah, I wanted to get your opinion.”

  “On what?” I asked nasally.

  “On, uh, which cologne you like best.”

  “Did you bathe in them?”

  Jack winced. “Too much?”

  “Not if you’re trying to cover up the smell of a dead body… You’re not, are you?”

  Jack waved his hand toward me, dismissing the notion. “Nah. Not today. I just uh, you know, wanted to pick a nice cologne for my date with Lisa. Could you sniff my spritzes?”

  “I’ll try,” I coughed. “Where’d you spritz?”

  Jack pulled a slip of paper out of one of the pockets of his cargo pants. This turned out to be the legend. “Ok, right neck, Black Leather,” he read.

  I flitted my eyes at the name and got as close as I could to Jack’s neck, weathered with age and tanned like a vintage purse. His grey hair still had the sharp line from a fresh haircut. “Kind of musky,” I said and wiped a tear out of my eye.

  “Good musky or bad musky?” he asked hopefully.

  “There is no good musky.”

  “Ok. That one’s out.” With a little pencil it looked like he’d nabbed from the mini-putt place uptown, he put a strike through the first item on the list.

  “Let’s see here, uh, left neck… Savage.”

  “Savage?” With trepidation, I put my nose on the left side of Jack’s neck and immediately recoiled at the spicy scent. “No, just no. I don’t even think that’s a cologne.”

  Jack arched an eyebrow at me and put a swift strike through Savage. “Moving right along,” he said, a little frustration in his voice. “Left wrist, Sucre by Pierre,” he said and held his wrist up to my nose.

  “No,” I shook my head. “Too sweet. Makes you smell like a cupcake.” I pulled Jack’s right wrist up to my sniffer, assuming this’d be my next option. “I like this one, it’s perfect. Subtle and clean.”

  “Clean, huh?”

  “Yeah, clean.”

  “Well, it ought to be, it’s Irish Spring.” Jack crumpled up the list in his hand and shoved it into one of his pock
ets.

  “I’d go with that one. Look, Jack, if you have time…or even if you don’t, go take a quick shower. You’re a catch. You don’t need any fancy colognes.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course. You’re spunky and sweet, you can speak on any topic, you have an incredible sense of humor. You’re kind and–“

  “Ok, kiddo, you better stop there or I’ll ask you out.” He smiled and gave me dancing eyes and waggled his eyebrows at me.

  “Shower. Date. Then de-brief me. Got it?”

  “Got it. Say, how about you? Are you and Hagen or Bugsy ever going to—“

  “Jack, will you just go? You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he said and, while I am generally loath to hear that word, from Jack Junior it didn’t sound so bad. Must be all in the delivery.

  ✽✽✽

  The day played out pretty much as normal—emails here and there and a poker game on the agenda for that evening where, rest assured, the gang and I would get the low down on Jack’s much anticipated date. See, a couple times a week, Jack Junior, the S-troop, Peter Muncie, and I get together for poker. Sometimes their former navy buddy turned lawyer, Cary Tranmer, comes by to sit in, and Doctor Richards is also a semi-regular. Something Nat Grant had introduced me to—bonding over cards, a drink or two, and what passed for junk food at their age. And so, after walking my dog, tidying my office, and highlighting a few emails to address first thing in the morning, I headed off to Jack’s boat with a few vodka coolers and a peach pie I’d thawed and baked.

  “Ready to lose your shirts, fellas?” I asked as I boarded the Fortune Cookie. Peter Muncie and Sefton were sitting on the stern deck, binoculars angled toward the Gee Spot.