Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (25 page)

Then he saw an almost hidden inlet, marked with small jetties on either side of the channel leading into a beach. Beyond the entrance he could see a weather beaten building with the faded name, Ocho Key, in block letters over the door. There looked to be several other small white frame buildings nearby, a park with three or four benches around the edge and small splashes of grass indicating that someone had attempted a lawn, but the sand had reclaimed most of it. There were two gas pumps in front of the Ocho, but no one was around.

Horace had come to the bridge to monitor the entrance.

“This looks good,” he said. “I don't see anybody. Lots of empty slips and a nice park. Maybe we can spend the night and get a little land time.”

“Let's do the gas first and see how it feels,” Chum replied. “I'm going to ease up to the dock. You jump off and I'll throw you a bow line. Wrap it around that pylon by the pumps. We may have to wait a while to find someone to run these pumps.”

Horace had lived on a boat, but he hadn't spent much time running one. He did remember, however, that the most dangerous moment for a neophyte was jumping on and off a boat, or somehow getting wedged between a boat and the dock. So he checked his footing carefully and made the leap.

“How about tying her down?” Chum shouted as he turned off the engine. “I'll go see if I can find someone.” He jumped off the boat and headed for the little white shack at the end of the dock.

Johnny Simmons had long blonde hair that fluttered carelessly around his neck and a certain innocence in his tanned face that belied his years as a Deputy Sheriff who roamed the Keys. He heard the
Scatback
maneuver into the vacant slip at the Ocho bait shop, raised himself out of a torn corduroy recliner, and mentally ran through his options. The first was to do nothing and see if indeed the boat wanted fuel, or to wait and see who got off the boat, perhaps telegraphing their intentions, which could be nothing more than to find a hamburger and beer.

It could be a drug trafficker wanting to rendezvous with a later arriving boat. It could be a lost family that needed shelter before moving on to Key West. So he just watched.

Johnny was stationed up the coast at Key Largo and in his six years with the Sheriff's office had arrested very few boaters. His law enforcement record was bad. But his attitude was good. He liked the work and never asked for a raise, reasoning that he didn't do much real work, didn't want much responsibility, and he was developing an expertise. He could recognize and identify almost any boat made in the United States, and specialized in reciting the life story of any Captain or owner, just by looking at his boat, or at least by examining its upkeep and on deck appurtenances. He also read the internet alerts of boats traveling the East Coast with hidden purposes. The
Scatback
drew his attention because it wasn't shiny clean, like a charter boat, or cluttered with chairs and people like a family boat.

Johnny was Deputy Sheriff but today he was just watching the bait shop and gas pumps for his friend, Mia, who had gone to Miami for the day, so he turned on the gas pumps' switch and started for the dock. He didn't see Chum, who had apparently veered off to visit the outdoor restroom and shower facilities on the far side of the park. But he noticed Horace standing on the dock near the pumps.

Chum turned to look back and noticed Johnny heading for Horace, and he stopped in his tracks, edging slowly back behind a large palm tree. He saw Johnny ask Horace if he could help, but it was difficult to pick up the conversation. Horace was shaking his head and gesturing toward the south, perhaps pointing in the general direction of Mexico. Then Johnny held out his arm in a directing way, pointing to the bait shop, and the two started moving away from the dock and toward the building.

Chum spotted the Sheriff's car parked on the far side of the lot, and sure enough, it looked like Johnny and Horace were headed in that direction. It was getting dark and Chum wished he had waited a little longer before entering the harbor. He didn't move, not wanting to draw attention to himself or his boat. Then he saw the cruiser's door open, a front seat light came on and Chum could see that Horace was getting in the backseat, and the other fellow got behind the wheel and reached for his dash, probably the on board communications. It certainly looked like the cop was interviewing Horace and checking his computer for information on the boat. Not a good sign.

Horace was shaken by this sudden appearance by a cop with an attitude. He and Chum had never discussed what to say if they were stopped by police or Coast Guard, in fact, it never felt like they were running from the law. But he knew there was something terribly wrong or his uncle wouldn't be paying him to meet Chum and stay with him.

Horace hadn't told Johnny, the Deputy Sheriff, anything about the boat or himself, but he asked to call his home. Johnny agreed and Horace pulled his cell phone out of his blue jeans. He dialed the number for Parkers, Maryland. When the voice came on the line, Horace paused, then said, “Uncle Ray, I need your help.” The Blenny Man pulled the phone away from his mouth and said, “Shit,” before raising it again to ask the problem.

Chum was trying to think through his dilemma. He stayed behind the tree but figured he didn't have much time. Horace must not have mentioned him, or the Sheriff would be looking for him. He must not have mentioned the boat wasn't his, or the Sheriff would be searching it. But he knew that Horace would reveal all these facts soon, and once he started proclaiming his innocence, all kinds of calls would be made to try and identify the owner. Most significantly, there would be a call to the Coast Guard. And Chum knew that his new friend would not wait long to say they were headed for Mexico. That gave the Coast Guard quite a distance to find the
Scatback
and its “wanted” Captain.

Chum edged back to the dock, as darkness gave definition to the lights along the pier. He had decided to make a run for it, and now was the time for speed. He climbed over the gunnels of his boat, then rushed from one cleat to another, untying the dock lines and letting them quietly drop in the water. He went in the main salon, not wanting to expose himself on the flybridge, and started the engine. He knew it would be heard, but he had no choice. He backed the boat away from the dock with no lights, and slowly headed out to the channel. When he reached open water beyond the jetty, he slowly increased the speed, heading for deep water. He kept looking back, but seeing or hearing nothing. Maybe the Sheriff's Deputy was already calling the Coast Guard.

At about a mile out, Chum turned on his GPS to see his location. It lit up a six-inch screen with a map of the coast. He pushed the zoom button and the map backed away showing the entire coast. But he could still see the red line that the GPS had marked in the ocean as Chum had made his way from Cape Hatteras to New Smyrna to the Keys. It is perhaps the grandest feature of global positioning. No matter where the boat goes, the Captain can always find his way home by simply following the red line back. Chum located the
Scatback
on the map. It was a black diamond at the end of the red line. Mexico was to the right, but Chum turned his boat to the left and put the diamond on the line.

“I'm going home,” he muttered to himself. “Or as close to home as I can get.”

Chapter Nineteen

Lillian Wildman wasted no time in organizing the community to help Martha. First, she went to Nails Hardware Store carrying a pickle jar with a computer generated label taped to the side that said: For Martha Claire Shannon. She assumed, no doubt correctly, that everyone in Parkers would know Martha and her condition, or they would know the minute they saw the pickle jar. The clerk at Nails, who had been counting out bolts and screws for 30 years, would tell them.

Lillian set the jar on the counter. “Margaret,” she said, “I'm sure you know about Martha Shannon. Could we put a jar here for donations?” “You sure can,” Margaret said as she lowered her glasses to her chest. “How is she?”

“She goes in for her operation Thursday. Brain tumor. I don't know what her chances are, but it's bound to be costly.”

“Is it cancer?” Margaret asked.

“Probably,” Lillian replied, “but we won't know for sure until they operate. We don't know much about it, but they've gone all over America looking for a doctor.”

“Who's helping her?” Margaret asked.

“Well, Jimmy's brother Ned is with her. That boy seems to take on all sorts of things, first the crab boat, then a law office, and now he's helping Martha. I don't know that he's much of a crabber, but he sure has taken care of Martha and Mindy.”

“Well, we'll help any way we can,” Margaret said.

“I know,” Lillian said, as she moved away from the counter and toward the door. “I'm going over to the Moose hall now and see when we can get a fundraiser going. I'll let you know.”

The Moose Lodge in Parkers is a red brick building in the middle of town with no shrubs to enhance the questionable beauty of unadorned bricks. It was built for function and is maintained for the same purpose, mostly bingo nights, weddings and other gatherings of more than 50 people. I was last there for a family celebration to mark the return of a war veteran by nearly a hundred proud parents, relatives, friends and acquaintances. The Moose hall is a perfect venue for groups such as this because the rental cost is modest, there are no food preparation costs or minimums, and the renters can do almost all the work themselves. The veteran family, for example, brought all the food themselves in huge bowls of chicken salad, potato salad, and cut fruit with cakes and pies of every stripe. Afterward you can throw away the paper plates, serve wine or tea and the whole thing might not cost more than a few hundred dollars. And if you can prove the rental is for a good purpose, like a fundraiser for someone sick or dying, the special rate kicks in. Sometimes it's free. Further, if you want to have a silent auction, as Lillian thought about doing, you can probably clear two or three thousand dollars after paying the costs. Lillian has this down to a science, at least a couple times a year. The only question in her mind is the date that will allow the most people to attend. And she has a good mailing list for that too.

Incidentally, I've never met anybody who is actually a Moose Lodge member, although I do envision a group of guys saluting a moose, pledging a commitment to community service, and planning Fourth of July parties. I do know they make enough money to keep the place sparkling clean, the wood trim around the windows freshly painted, and the maple wood paneling in mint condition. The bar that runs the entire length of the building, and can be used for buffet purposes, is spartan but adaptable to many purposes.

“I want to fill this place up,” Lillian told the executive secretary of the lodge. “And I want the first Saturday night next month. This is a fundraiser for Martha Claire Shannon. She's one of us, a waterman's wife, a local girl, and she has a brain tumor.”

“You bet,” he replied. “We all know the Shannons, and we'll help.”

“Can I get the special rate?” Lillian asked.

“You bet,” he said.

“How about a dance band,” Lillian said. “We don't need to be glum just because it's for Martha. Let's have some fun. And dancing raises the most money anyway.”

“I remember Martha Shannon and her husband Jimmy were here one night about five years ago,” the secretary said. “They were having a hell of a time. Dancing and yelling. Jimmy stood up at one point and declared a toast to all the watermen. At hearing that, ole Patrick Moonsocket got up and chugged a whole pitcher of beer. It was running down his face and his shirt was soaked. His wife was screaming at him to stop. And hell, he wanted to drink another pitcher. But by then he was drunk and dizzy and could hardly sit down, let alone drink another one.”

“Wasn't that the night we had a dance for Mabel Fergus when she got married again?” Lillian asked, knowing full well that the dance was one of Parkers' most notorious evenings. Mabel had run off with the owner of the Parkers Marine Railway, Sampson Brown. Sampson ran a crab boat out of his little marina and did a booming business with the Sampson Marine Railway. The railway ran from the water behind his house, up a gentle slope about thirty yards into a covered repair shop where Sampson performed boat maintenance of every kind.