“Game on,” Harry said when he called Wednesday night.
I gripped the phone tightly. “You’re sure it’s him?”
My nerves were past frayed. Since Harry and Weezie had moved aboard the Reefer Madness, I’d spent the past three days pacing around the motel grounds, willing Reddy to take our bait. I’d tried watching daytime television, reading, even sunbathing by the pool, but I was too keyed up to concentrate on anything for more than an hour.
Granddad wasn’t much help either. He’d been camped out in the bar at Bahia Mar, posing as a yacht broker, and he’d been having a high old time. Every night he came back to the room with stories of the people he’d met, and what he’d watched on the television in the bar.
He had a new passion too. The golf channel. After his first day as a professional barfly, he’d raced back to the motel to share his discovery with me. “Look,” he’d exclaimed, pointing to the television. “That’s the first qualifying round for the Masters.” He jabbed at the screen with a finger. “That’s Davis Love the third. I used to see his daddy when I went down to St. Simon’s Island to play golf with the fellas at home.”
“Wonderful, Granddad,” I said. “Did anybody call about the boat today?”
“Nah,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Just some foreign fella, says he owns a shoe factory in South Africa. I told him we already have a buyer.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Reddy?” I asked anxiously. “That’s the kind of story he’d make up. He told me he was a Millbanks from Charleston, and that was a load of bull.”
“This was an older man,” Granddad said. “Not your guy at all. Anyway, after lunch today, I watched Chi-Chi Rodriguez giving a putting exhibition. Then I watched the 1998 British Open. They had a lot of high winds and rain that year…”
Granddad reported another call about the yacht on Tuesday. “Fella says he’s in the entertainment business too. Ever hear of somebody calls himself A. T. Money?”
“He’s a major rap star,” I said. “He sang the national anthem at the World Series last year. Did he call you himself?”
“His business manager. Or so he said,” Granddad said. “He sounded black.”
“That would make sense. A. T. Money is black. You didn’t offend him, did you?”
My grandfather was no racist, but he’d been born and raised in Savannah, after all.
“Hell no,” Granddad said. “I just told him we had a pending contract, and I took his phone number and told him I’d call if nothing came of the other offer.”
“Good thinking,” I said approvingly.
Wednesday night, right after Harry called, Granddad sashayed into my room at the Mango Tree. He was wearing a brand-new hot pink golf shirt with “Grande Oaks Golf” embroidered over the breast pocket, and carrying a Styrofoam take-out carton, with a brown paper sack stuck under his arm.
“You talked to him?” I asked, pouncing on him. “You’re sure it’s Roy Eugene?”
Granddad set the carton on the kitchenette counter and opened the paper bag, which turned out to contain a bottle of Scotch.
Granddad said “It’s him, all right. There’s some dinner there for you,” he said, sliding the carton in my direction. “You must be getting tired of turkey sandwiches. Anyway, I thought you’d want to celebrate tonight.”
The carton contained a slab of meat loaf topped with congealed brown sauce, a mound of lumpy mashed potatoes, and some wan-looking steamed broccoli.
“How nice,” I said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “It, uh, looks delicious.”
“Go ahead and eat before it cools off,” Granddad urged. “This was the early-bird special at the diner down the street from here. And can you believe it was only $1.99?”
I forked into the meat loaf with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “Tell me about the meeting. Tell me everything. All Harry said was that Reddy is going to take a look at the boat tomorrow at four.”
“Not just look at it,” Granddad said, pouring whiskey into a chipped juice glass and topping it with water from the faucet. “He wants to take it out for a spin.”
“No!” I said quickly. “We can’t do that. It’s too chancy. What if something goes wrong with the boat? Or Reddy tries to pull a fast one and steal it?”
“It’s called a sea trial, and it’s purely routine in this business,” Granddad said, offering me the glass of Scotch.
I took a long, calming sip. “How do you know what’s routine in the yacht business?”
“You’re not the only one who does research,” Granddad said, preening a little. “I stopped by a very nice establishment on Seventeenth Street on Monday, Case Marine Sales, and had a long talk with one of their brokers. Very illuminating. They answered all my questions, and I looked at several nice midsize yachts. My favorite was a fifty-four-foot Bertram. The Lucy Goosey. Beautiful. And only $750,000.”
“You’re not really considering buying a yacht,” I said. “You’re too old. Anyway, Grandmama would never allow it.”
He sighed. “I know. Lorena barely allows me to buy flashlight batteries, even. But a man can dream. And now, I’m all set to deal with Reddy, or Roy Eugene, or Rory, as he’s now calling himself.”
“I can’t believe you met with him,” I said.
“He’s very convincing,” Granddad said. “Very presentable. If I didn’t know different, I’d swear he really was a semiretired orthodontist.”
“An orthodontist!” I hooted. “He’s really getting brazen.”
“Semiretired,” Granddad said. “Since he invented those new invisible braces all the kids are getting these days.”
“Such a liar,” I said, grinding my teeth. “What else did he tell you?”
“Just that he’s been in the market for a yacht for some time now, and that he’d narrowed his choice down to a Sea Urchin. He’s been up to Michigan and seen the manufacturing plant and everything.”
“He probably tried to hijack one from the factory,” I said.
“He claims he’s also shopping for a waterfront house,” Granddad said mildly. “Moved down here from Charleston, and he was visiting friends who have a boat at Bahia Mar when he saw the sign on the bow of the Reefer Madness.”
“Good,” I urged.
“He asked a lot of questions. Wanted to know how long the current owner has had her, who he is, how many hours the boat has logged, why it’s being sold.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Told him I couldn’t discuss it over the phone,” Granddad said, chuckling. “That’s when he offered to meet with me for a drink. Which we did this afternoon.”
“And?”
“I was pretty cagey with him,” Granddad said. “You’d have been proud of me. I told him the owner’s name was confidential, but that I could tell him the fella is in the entertainment business. He’s owned the boat for three years, bought it new, and the engines have only about four hundred hours on them.”
“That is good,” I said admiringly.
“He asked me point-blank if the owner was Doobie Bauers,” Granddad said. “I hemmed and hawed, but finally admitted it and swore him to secrecy. And then I told him my client was selling the yacht because his business doesn’t permit him enough free time to enjoy the boat properly.”
“You’re good,” I said. “I never knew you had it in you, Granddad.”
“I surprised myself,” he admitted. “Never knew lying could be so much fun.”
“Take my advice,” I said. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
“Anyway,” he continued. “Rory, or whatever his name is, already knew quite a bit about the boat, and about Doobie and Anya Bauers. He even knew they’re currently staying aboard it.”
“Good,” I said cautiously.
“And he insisted that they be along for the sea trial tomorrow,” he added.
“Huh?”
“Claims he’s a big fan of Meat Loaf.”
“No,” I said flatly. “That’s not possible. Reddy’s not the type. He’s too young to know about Meat Loaf. Anyway, Harry looks very convincing. Weezie too.”
“I certainly hope so,” Granddad said, leaning back in his chair. “There’s five million dollars riding on this thing tomorrow.”
“Five million? I thought we were asking $4.8.”
“I upped it,” Granddad said. “After I looked at those other yachts, it seemed to me the Reefer Madness should fetch a much higher price.”
“How did Reddy react to the price?”
“He tried a little horse-trading,” Granddad said. “But I told him it wasn’t negotiable. And I also told him to bring a cashier’s check for $50,000 tomorrow.”
“What! Are you trying to scare him off?”
“Not at all. It’s standard practice. Earnest money. Just like in real estate,” Granddad said serenely. “Besides, that way, if his deposit check clears, we’ll know he really does have the money. We’ll be one step ahead of him.”
“You’re scaring me, old man.”
Granddad just grinned and sipped his whiskey.