Chapter six

Jenny was still in her black dress when she opened the front door for Sam. Without a word, she walked to the beachside screened porch and resumed sitting, staring into the ocean’s midday glare.

Sam followed like a chastened puppy, afraid to break the silence, but eager to ask about Lee’s keys. He sat down on the wicker ottoman at her feet and took a deep breath before speaking.

“Jen, I wonder if I could borrow Lee’s keys.”

“Keys? They’re in the clamshell on the dresser. Help yourself. But what do you need them for? I already gave you the key to Stormy Monday.” Not once did she look away from the ocean’s glassy horizon.

“I just thought I would drive his car so you wouldn’t have to. It’s important to run that Mustang’s engine every couple of days, you know.”

“That’s what Lee always said, too. Sure, you know where it is. Excuse me if I don’t join you.” With that, Jenny looked right through Sam and stepped out on the beach.

Sam watched her walk toward the water’s edge, then turn north. Her walk was slow and steady now, not like this morning at the service, Sam noticed. He headed to Lee and Jenny’s bedroom and found the keys in the wide shell on top of the dresser.

Doing as he said he would, he opened the garage door and slid into the driver’s seat of the classic 1968 Acapulco Blue fastback. This vintage model was a four-speed with a V8 engine. The polished chrome-styled steel on the wheel rims gleamed, and the blue interior looked like something out of a showroom. Even though he was not the Mustang buff Lee was, Sam knew Lee’s car was worth about $25,000 in its current condition. He had helped Lee many nights, taking apart some aspect of that car and putting it back together again. Sam smiled at the dream of owning it, but he shrugged it off when he thought of his salary.

Sam fingered the keys hanging from the ring while the engine purred. No unusual keys, just a house key, a key to Jenny’s maroon Jeep, and the one in the ignition.

Sam pulled out of the driveway and drove toward the highway to warm up the car’s innards. Poor Jenny. One more thing to deal with, Sam thought. But at least this car was a collector’s item. It would sell fast, unlike Lee’s boat.

Stormy Monday. Sam thought about the note mentioning “seacock.” After about an hour on the road, Sam returned to the condo. He turned off the car, quickly felt inside the empty glove compartment and trunk, and then returned the keys to their place on the dresser.

Back at the dock, Sam stopped by Angel long enough to grab that key. Stormy was well tied in her slip just a few slips down from his boat. Sam noted the extra spring lines Lee had put out.

“Must make a note to do that for my boat before the next strong wind,” Sam thought. He stepped aboard her stern and into the cockpit. Lee’s handiwork was apparent everywhere; mounted drink holders, mesh bags for lines and winch handles, and canvas winch and binnacle covers were all well-protected by the hard dodger he had formed and constructed a few summers ago. On top of the dodger were mounted two solar panels. Under the dodger, Lee had fashioned sleek dry boxes for Stormy’s instruments and electrical hook-ups for the electronic gear stored off the boat during winter months. After unlocking the companionway hatch boards, Sam entered the salon. Unlike Angel’s center-cockpit, Stormy’s cockpit was aft. This layout had its advantages, including only one hatch to fumble with during foul weather while sailing. Below, the L-shaped galley was to port opposite a small navigation station whose seat doubled as the top of a quarter berth, extending the boat’s width. Lee had fashioned a back rest at the nav station as well as some removable partitions that sectioned off the quarter berth into manageable storage for coolers, extra lines, anchors, and dry goods—a novel idea. Lee was trying to figure out a way to patent his design before approaching the folks at Catalina, the boat’s manufacturer.

Stormy’s salon had a dinette to port and a long bunk to starboard with shelves over it, holding countless CDs and paperbacks. Forward was a head to port and a deep hanging locker, which had been converted for the HVAC system, a blessing on sticky nights at dock, for which North Carolina is famous. Forward was a small but adequate V-berth stacked high with the cockpit cushions Jenny had covered.

Seeing them reminded Sam of the weekends when Jenny and he had taken turns on her sewing machine, making new covers for their respective boats. Though Jenny’s were covered with a splashy bright fish pattern, they were similar to his in size and design. Sam wondered whether he would be able to repair his slashed cushions, but he guessed he’d have to start again.

Convinced that everything was the way it was supposed to be on a boat not yet prepared for the approaching sailing season, Sam moved aft to look at the engine compartment. First, he checked the hoses, then the belts on the engine. Next, he opened the seacock in the engine compartment. There were no apparent leaks. He checked the engine’s oil, getting just a little on his fingers to test its viscosity, and finally the engine’s water level, which needed to be topped off a bit. Once everything checked out below, Sam went topside, checked that the throttle was in neutral, and turned the key in the ignition. After a few turns, the engine came to life. Sam dashed aft and looked over the rail to see what the engine might be spewing out. Ejecting water was a signal that the engine’s mix of oil and fuel was correct.

While Sam ran the engine to let it get warm, he stepped below to the galley to wash the oil off his hands. He reached for the water pump switch on the switch panel and turned the faucet’s knob. Grayish green water sputtered out hesitantly, then grew into a steady, clear stream.

The sink filled halfway before Sam remembered what he had forgotten to do: open the seacock under the sink so the water could drain. He quickly turned off the water, grabbed a paper towel, and looked under the sink. He tried to move the brass handle from its horizontal position, but no amount of pushing or pulling budged it. The seacock’s handle was frozen solidly in place. Sam wasn’t anticipating a handyman special on Lee’s boat, but he had to open the seacock to drain the water.

Returning momentarily to his own boat to fetch his tools, Sam overheard the screaming owner of the large motor yacht in the slip next to Lee’s. Glancing toward the high cockpit of the forty-two-foot Hatteras, Sam saw the backside of the large man. His thick, hairy neck peeking out from his multi-colored golf-shirt collar was the color of a lobster just plucked from boiling water. The man cursed into the cell phone nearly hidden in his fat fist. Sam tried hard not to listen, but it wasn’t easy to miss the gist of the one-sided conversation. “What do you mean they found it? Look; your ass is on the line for this one. We’ve got too much riding on it, and somebody is going to pay!” the chunky man yelled. Sam reboarded Lee’s boat and headed down below to get to work on the seacock, but he took two seconds to pop open the starboard portholes so he could hear more of the yelling, just for sport.

This particular “boater” was the bane of the marina. He thought nothing of waking the entrance as he brought his boat in, and he had ripped up more than one piling getting into his slip over the last few months. He claimed he was a yacht broker to everyone in the marina, though there was little evidence that he did any actual work either on or off his boat.

When the fat man was on board sporadically, everybody knew he was there by the volume of his voice and the show of “prospective buyers” aboard, not a few of whom wore high heels and extremely short skirts. And whenever this overweight “captain” did take his yacht out, every other boater in the marina, and probably on nearby waters, cringed. Sam mused that this guy’s expertise must be in selling because it sure wasn’t in boating. Maybe he only had to sell a few a year to keep up with his own boat’s expenses and the yard crew that took care of it for him. Sam didn’t know his name, but this guy was entertaining, to say the least.

Applying WD-40 and elbow grease, Sam was able to loosen the seacock’s handle a bit. He decided to see whether the seacock was fouled, so he kept a tethered six-inch long wooden peg at the ready to plug the seacock when he took it apart. Carefully loosening all of the mounting bolts around the handle, he yanked the fitting off quickly and prepared to plug the hole so water wouldn’t gush in. But there was no water gushing. Not even a trickle.

Training his flashlight on the interior, he saw a secondary block had been cut just large enough to fill the hole.

“What’s this?” Sam wondered, reaching for the wooden circle. A small handle was fitted on the top, just large enough to grip with a pair of pliers. Again, Sam stood ready to stop a rush of water with the long tapered plug, but as he extracted this circular block, there was no water.

Attached with some form of epoxy to the underside of the round wooden peg was a small waterproof dry bag. And further still in the seacock was another smaller plug, also with a tiny d-ring for a handle.

“Lee was thorough,” Sam smiled. He pulled at this smaller plug and at last was pleased to see water rushing in so he could stop it with the long tapered plug. He deftly reinstalled the seacock mounting and handle, tightened all the bolts, and cleaned up the watery mess that the quick job left. Sam hid the blocks of wood in the locker of the port settee and stuffed the dry bag into his pocket. He would study it as soon as he got back aboard Angel.

Turning off Stormy Monday’s engine, Sam could hear with greater accuracy the ranting of the man on the Hatteras as his deep voice rose in pitch. Surely, the entire marina could hear him.

“I don’t care who was at fault. That was my haul, and I want it back. You’re supposed to be handling things, not me. If you’ve got to hire divers, then do it! I’m coming down there.”

With that, the hefty man stormed from the cockpit and was out of sight. The air was still now that his shouting was over. It was as if birds breathed a collective sigh of relief and started chirping again, and a flock of small purple martins flew about the docks, working on their nest-building skills once more.

The quiet gave Sam a moment to think. What time was it? Looking at his watch, Sam realized he’d be pushed to catch the last ferry of the day, so he hurriedly closed the ports and secured Lee’s boat. He had just stepped over Angel’s lifeline into the cockpit when the fat man pounded up the dock toward the parking lot, his weight leaving a small wake of its own with every step.

Sam ducked below and grabbed a pair of well-worn jeans and a copper-colored sweatshirt. It was starting to cool off a little, and a ferry ride could add to the chill. He took the little dry bag from Lee’s hiding place under the galley sink with him, figuring that no one was the wiser that he had it, whatever it was. He’d have to look at it later.