I left West Harbor at 0430 just as eastern light was cutting through the fading night. Ernie and I had said our goodbyes the night before, after dinner—a sumptuous meal of roasted pork served with some chocolate sauce conjured up by Mildred. She said it was a secret recipe but admitted to hot sauce, maple syrup, and cinnamon as being a part of the ingredients. She gave me a cup of it to take on board. I never made a roast in my life and doubted that I would be using her wonderful sauce, but I couldn’t refuse.
My plan was to get to Maine as soon as possible with a stopover in Boston. I figured that three easy days of good sailing would get me from West Harbor into Boston Harbor where I would spend a few days enjoying one of my favorite cities.
From West Harbor, my first stop on my cruise to Boston was Point Judith, a harbor of refuge located on the southern tip of Rhode Island. It was a rather miserable forgotten place, with deteriorating breakwaters and scenery that would make a moonscape look inviting. Just after setting the anchor, I heard a persistent ding-a-ling sound coming from somewhere down below. My heart pounded. Engine alarm? I checked the engine gauges. Dammit, I didn’t even have the engine on. Shallow water alarm? Depth meter read seventeen feet. High water in the bilge alarm? I left the cockpit to go below, certain that I was going to step into a foot of water in the cabin. Bilge was dry as a bone. The alarm stopped. I checked for a propane leak, nope. Bewildered, I went back up to the cockpit.
Ding.
I wasn’t even sure if I heard it.
Ding.
The damn thing, whatever it was, reminded me of some gadget that Mike Peterson had hung around his neck back in Sunset. I think it was some kind of pump that shot stuff into his bloodstream to keep him half alive. But poor old Mike wasn’t on board. I was half way down the companionway when it I heard it again. I went below and stood on the cabin sole and waited. Aha! Whatever it was, it was coming from the forward stateroom. I moved forward.
When it dinged again, I narrowed it down to my bedside table where sat a carbon dioxide alarm with the screen blinking, low battery. I pulled out the dead batteries and stuck the gadget into my bedside table drawer, promising to get to it later. My eye caught my cell phone that I had turned off after the Little Turnip call. I flicked it on. It beeped once. A message on the screen read: Message.
What the hell ever happened to phones that rang? I had a a bunch of messages, all from Baxter with the same message: Call me back ASAP. I went topsides and hit Send.
“Not good news,” Baxter said right off. “I’ve been trying to get you since you left.”
I explained that I had turned the phone off.
Baxter went on to tell me about the insurance investigator’s visit. “He’s an idiot, Charlie. But this guy is dangerous. I tossed him out of my office, I mean literally tossed him like throwing out the trash. I didn’t tell him a thing. Remember Evan and Carol, your dock mates? Well, he tried them, too. They gave him nothing but a brush-off. But before telling them to go to hell, he yelled to them that he was going to Maine. That he didn’t need their or anyone else’s cooperation. He’s a nutcase Charlie, and I would be very wary if I were you.”
I took a moment to think, and then said, “I understand. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Where are you now?” Baxter asked.
“Am I in the clear to talk or is that prick still around?”
“He’s gone and I told my security folks to nail him if gets near my place again.”
“Maybe the less you know the better. Let’s just say I’m on the water and having a hell of a time. Now, Baxter, go back to selling yachts and forget about this idiot. I owe you one and don’t doubt for a minute that I’ll be popping in on my way south. And thanks again for making it all work out.”
I hung up and called Bob to give him the latest news.
“Like I said before, let him come. It might even be fun,” he said without a hitch.
“Fun? What fun?” I asked Bob.
“I’ll tell you when you get here. Where are you, anyway?”
I told Bob that I was heading for Boston by way of Point Judith and Sandwich.
“Point Judith? With all the great places on the North Shore why Point Judith? Didn’t we stop there years ago? Run down place as I remember it.”
“Nostalgia,” I answered. “I have good memories of the place. Lori and I stopped there back too many years to count.”
“Your call, but Newport’s right around the corner. Sailors’ paradise with a bar on every corner.”
“I’ll give it some thought. Maybe for Emma.”
“Who?”
“Emma,” I repeated. “Didn’t I tell you about her? The lady from back at Sunset?”
“If you did, I don’t remember. Doesn’t matter. Listen, with this guy on our trail, why don’t you lay over in Boston until I deal with him.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Just let me deal with it. I’ll give you a call with the all-clear.”
I decided to go along with whatever Bob had in mind. He was nuts in many ways, and I worried about what he might do, but I would have bet my life on it that he wasn’t a killer.
I changed the subject. “How’s the woodpile coming along?”
“I’ll show you when you get here. Remember, don’t come until I call.”