Thirty-Six

Although I took offense to my life’s work being referred to as cherry-gunk, Edna did have a point. Tate had sailed off yesterday in a huff, and I’d been so busy with this whole murder business that I’d nearly forgotten my promise to stop by to check on him. The marina was on the way to Bob’s house, and I could use the diversion. I eyed the bag of peanut butter cookies in the passenger seat and actually considered passing them off as my own.

Nope. That would be wrong, I told myself. That would be lying. That would make Tate believe that I cared enough about him to bake him something other than my cherry-inspired baked goods—a treat that was second nature to me. I still cared for Tate, but I didn’t want him to get the wrong message.

Once at the crowded marina, however, I thought differently and grabbed the bag off the front seat. Tate was undoubtedly still angry with me. The fact that the marina was hopping-busy wouldn’t help his mood any either. Edna was right—no one could stay mad when they were given thoughtful, homemade cookies. Right?

I fully expected to find Tate hard at work, but there was no sign of the tall, blond-headed man bobbing about the many boat slips, or down by the rental hut. My eyes then went straight to his personal slip at the far end of the cement pier. My heart sank when I noted it was empty. A quick scan of the harbor told me he wasn’t moored out there either.

“Ms. Bloom!”

I turned in the direction of the familiar voice and saw Cody Rivers, one of Tate’s younger employees, and Erik Larson’s best friend. “Cody,” I replied with a friendly wave. “How are you?”

The kid cast me a harried look. “Could be better. I love working at the marina. Sure beats picking cherries and bussing tables.” He flashed me an ironic grin. “However, it would be nice if my boss was here to help us out.”

“Yes. I’ve heard. He’s out on a little sailing expedition.”

“Rumor is, you chased him away.” The accusatory stare was a bit insulting, coming from the young man.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” I countered, privately musing that Mrs. Cushman had obviously briefed the staff as to why their boss had sailed away in the dead of night. “He just needs some alone-time, you know, to sort things out.”

“Right.” The boy wasn’t buying it. Tate was well-loved in Cherry Cove, especially by Cody and Erik. They were as loyal as lapdogs, but I understood. It obviously had to do with the bro-code.

“Listen. You have my word. Nothing’s going to happen to Tate. He’ll be fine. However, because I’m genuinely concerned”—here I held up the bag of cookies—“I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Cushman. Is she in?”

“On her yacht,” he replied, and pointed to the Boondoggle II—as if it didn’t stick out like an elephant amongst a pool of pygmy hippos as it rose and fell ever so slightly in its moorings. “But knock first,” he warned as I headed for the behemoth. “She’s entertaining a man.”

Charmed by the thought of Mrs. Cushman entertaining a man aboard her yacht, I decided it best to proclaim my arrival. I stood beside the gangway and called out, “Ahoy the Boondoggle II,” to one of the open windows. At the sound of my voice Molly started barking. A moment later Mrs. Cushman appeared on deck and waved.

“Whitney, why, permission to come aboard, dear. We’re just finishing our coffee.”

I was always a bit unsettled by the magnificence of the yacht. It was a treasure trove of polished teak, brass fittings, tinted windows, and luxurious furnishings cleverly fitted into the curves of the craft like gentrified Legos. It was a penthouse on the waves, ultra-sexy and sleek. The fact that an elderly lady and her adopted dog lived aboard it never failed to delight me. In fact, the whole town had been tickled when Tate’s housekeeper had packed up her bags and left the house, only to march down Tate’s lawn, enter the marina, and climb aboard the abandoned yacht, swiftly claiming it as her own. As far as any of us knew, she’d never sailed a day in her life. The yacht hadn’t left its slip since she’d gained control of it. And anyhow, it took more than one woman to navigate a craft the size of the Boondoggle II.

Once aboard, I followed Mrs. Cushman down a small flight of stairs to the spacious galley and eating area. The moment I did I nearly dropped my cookies.

“Angel.” Giff smiled and languidly uncrossed his long legs. “What a surprise.”

Was it? Obviously to him it wasn’t. “What are you doing here?” I asked. It came off as accusatory, because it was. I knew Giff was insatiably curious about the yacht; he’d been itching to climb aboard since it was abandoned in the spring. Although I knew he would have preferred a guided tour by Tate, I could see that Mrs. Cushman was doing an excellent job in Tate’s stead. But judging from the impish curl of Giff’s lips, this wasn’t about the boat. It was all about Tate. Gifford McGrady was moving in on my territory.

“When I heard about Tate this morning, I grew concerned. Poor Cecelia,” Giff said, turning his sympathetic, puppy-dog eyes on Mrs. Cushman. “I would have thought you’d be here before now, Whitney, being the person responsible for his sudden departure.”

Both sets of eyes turned on me. Mrs. Cushman was waiting for an explanation; Giff was waiting to see how I’d respond to the challenge, damn him.

“There’s been a break in the murder investigation,” I told them both. “Since the inn is still shut down, and since I am the acting manager, it’s my duty to do all I can to move things along. Tate would understand. I stopped by because I thought he might be back.” Feeling the weight of their silence, my hand automatically sprang into the air, revealing the ziplock bag Edna had given me. “See? I made him some cookies.” It was a terrible lie. I’d just broken the baker’s code, claiming another’s delectable treats as my own. Dear God, what depths had I sunk to? I looked at Giff. It took all I had not to slap the sardonic grin off his face with the bag of cookies.

Beneath the dangling bleached forelock his black eyes glittered. “Whitney, you amaze me. When did you find the time?”

“She is amazing,” Mrs. Cushman agreed, gracing me with a grandmotherly smile. She was utterly oblivious to Giff’s sarcasm. “And that’s a nice gesture, dear. But I’m afraid I must insist that you keep the cookies. There’s been no word from Tate and he’s still not answering his phone. I’m getting worried. I think you should take the cookies with you and go find him. I hate to even think it, but I’m going to insist you call Jack. He should go with you too, you know, in case there’s been any funny business.”

“What? You … you think Tate’s in some kind of danger?” I suddenly felt a wave of genuine concern. “Mrs. Cushman. Tate left on his boat because we broke up. He’s upset.”

Her compressed smile was placating at best. “Well, of course. But, dear, you two have broken up before and he’s always been back by lunch. This is different. There’s a murderer on the loose in Cherry Cove. It would be just like Tate to take off and try to find the culprit on his own.”

Could this be true? Could Tate have found out something about the murderer—perhaps even the person’s identity? He’d told me himself, yesterday at Ed’s Diner, that he was enjoying the investigation. That was before Jack had made his appearance. It had been an emotional day for us all. But what if Mrs. Cushman was right? What if Tate had channeled his hurt and anger in another direction—like I had—and kept digging? He’d taken his boat … or maybe somebody else had. If Tate had gotten close to the truth, he could be in real danger.

The thought was unsettling. I looked at Mrs. Cushman. “Did you happen to see Tate when he came home yesterday?”

She nodded.

“What did he do?”

“He stormed into the house.”

“Did you see him leave?”

She nodded again. “He drove off in his truck. He was upset. I assumed he was going to the bar to have a few beers. I heard him come back, if that helps.”

“It does,” I told her. “Do you know if he was alone?”

Cecilia shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. It was late, and I was getting ready for bed. The only reason I knew he was back was because Molly barked. She always barks when she hears his truck pulling in the driveway. Whitney, is Tate in danger?”

“I don’t know. But wherever he is, we’ll find him.” I then took Giff by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Look, no one’s more concerned about Tate than we are. Do you mind if we have a quick look in his house before we go?”

“Yes,” Giff cried, then lowered his voice in an effort to appear calm. “That’s a superb idea. We’ll need to search his house, probably from top to bottom, incase he’s left any clues.”

“Do you still have keys?”

“Of course I do,” Mrs. Cushman replied, pulling a set from the pocket of her capris. “I may live like a queen aboard the Boondoggle II, but on land I still get paid to scrub that man’s toilets.”