Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (29 page)

While
Rigged for Murder
is a work of fiction, and neither Granite Island nor the
Maine Wind
actually exists, I have tried to be as accurate as possible with all details that pertain to the book’s Maine coast setting, as well as details and terminology involving sailing and lobstering.

The following sources have been invaluable to me in writing
Rigged
. I would like to acknowledge these authors and their works:
Islands in Time
, by Philip W. Conkling;
The Lobster Chronicles: Life on a Very Small Island
, by Linda Green-law;
The Annapolis Book of Seamanship,
by John Rousmaniere; and
Maine Lobsterboats: Builders and Lobstermen Speak of Their Craft,
by Virginia Thorndike.

Finally, I’d like to extend a very special thank you to Captain John Foss of the schooner
American Eagle
for reading
Rigged
and offering a comment for the book jacket.

Visit the author’s website at

www.windjammermysteries.com

Invitation to reading groups and book clubs: I will be happy to visit your book club, either in person or by phone, and join in your discussion of my work. To contact me, go to my website listed above and click on the author link, or e-mail me at
[email protected]
. I’m always happy to hear from readers.

O
cean and forest filled the artist’s cottage that occupied a secluded point on the eastern shore of Sentinel Island. Waves slapped the rocky beach, and beyond the porch a red squirrel chattered and scolded from its perch in a tall spruce tree. Sunlight poured through two roof windows, caressing the honey-hued log walls and burnishing the metal castings and copper sculptures that decorated the artist’s great room.

The killer paused a moment and smiled at the tranquility before dragging Amanda’s body toward the other end of the room. The socks on her limp feet made a dusty sound against the wide pine floorboards. In the corner a large casting of a ship’s prow lay overturned, waiting.

The killer maneuvered the artist’s body into the hollow base of the casting. Sweat dampened his chest as he strained under her dead weight. “You should like this, Mandy,” he belittled; “you’re about to become one with your work. Not to worry, though. I’ll be back tonight, and we’ll go for a nice ride in your boat.”

The killer retrieved a few slats of scrap wood from Amanda’s fireplace kindling box. He placed them across the opening, wedging them under the lip of the casting to keep the body in place. Taking a rag from his pocket, he wiped down the inside and lip of the casting. He walked to the backdoor, stepped outside, and retrieved a piece of heavy plastic sheeting and a roll of gray tape he’d hidden behind a bush near the door. He returned to the scene, draped the plastic over the base of the casting, and cut it to the shape of the opening. As he worked the tape around the base, the thick plastic distorted Amanda’s wide-eyed stare, giving it a Dali-esque twist of horror. Unnerved, the killer’s hands began to sweat, and the plastic slipped beneath them. The voice inside his head yammered away, simultaneously berating and cajoling him.
It’s taking too long. You have to get out of here. Don’t panic, you’re almost done. Someone could show up. Calm down. There, see, it’s finished.

The killer stood up and tipped the casting upright. It was easily done with all the weight in the base. Using the rag again, he rubbed down the outside of the cool metal surface and walked over to where Amanda had been sitting, having coffee. He picked the newspaper off the floor, folded it, and tossed it onto the table. He turned slowly in a circle, surveying the room, then moved to the back door and silently slipped out.

B
rie Beaumont shifted on the gray wool blanket. She stretched her arms above her head, laying them on the warm wood of the schooner’s deck so the July sun could get at the underside of them. Her long blonde hair lay like an exotic fan on the spruce planking.
A ripe peach of a day—one to make you forget that life is chiefly about supply and demand. It demands and you supply
. Eyes closed behind her sunglasses, she turned the thought in her mind and smiled as it slipped away and drifted lazily down her stream of consciousness.

She turned her head and studied John DuLac. He’d dozed off, lulled by the sun and the motion of the ship at anchor. He was tanned from life at sea, and his dark hair needed a trim. Over the past two months she had come to recognize his presence in her life as a stabilizing force so strong it was almost tangible. The memories that haunted her retreated more and more as the uncomplicated routine of life aboard a sailing ship worked its healing magic.

John shifted as she watched him and, rolling onto his left side, opened his eyes. “Hey, you,” he said. “I haven’t felt this relaxed since I don’t know when.”

Brie felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch his face, but restrained herself. The beginnings of romance that had blossomed that night in May, on this very deck, had been put on indefinite hold when she had accepted his offer to become second mate aboard the
Maine Wind
. She had been the one to set the boundaries around what their working relationship would be. But the kiss they had shared that night called to her, the memory of it intruding more and more often when he spoke to her, moved past her on deck, sat next to her in the galley at dinner. And now this break in the cruising schedule so they could sail out to Sentinel Island.

Brie hadn’t thought much about being along on this junket. After all, she was part of the crew, and she simply assumed John needed his three crew members aboard to sail the
Maine Wind
out to the island. But to her surprise, they’d dropped anchor midday, and John had come up from the galley with a picnic basket and a blanket. When she’d asked about Scott and George, she was told they were eating below deck. Clearly, John hadn’t forgotten that kiss either, and the picnic announced his intention that they’d be sharing these next few days as something other than captain and second mate.

Brie knew that normally the summer schedule allowed for no such breaks. The cruising season for the Maine windjammers was short, and the captains made the most of the few months they had. But John had left time in this summer’s schedule to help his friend, Ben, do some repairs to an old lighthouse he had inherited on Sentinel Island.

“Does Ben know when we’re arriving?” she asked, staring up at the Atlantic sky. The motion of the ship, combined with her unearthly view, gave her a distinct and not unpleasant sense of floating in space and time.

“I didn’t give him a definite ETA. He knows better than anyone that we’re at the mercy of the prevailing winds. A part of me is eager to get there and see this lighthouse of his…”

“But?”

John propped himself up on his arm and looked at her. “But this is nice too, Detective Beaumont.”

Brie pushed her sunglasses up on her head and stared into his unusually brown eyes. “That would be Second Mate Beaumont to you,” she said with a smile.

A large cloud passed over the ship, momentarily blocking out the sun and bringing with it a gust of wind that made Brie shiver. John leaned across and drew the blanket over her shoulder. He lingered for a moment above her, the electricity between them so strong that Brie felt a crushing sensation in her chest. She’d already decided there was no way she was not kissing him. A wisp of hair blew across her face; John tucked it behind her ear, and at that unfortunate moment the radio crackled to life.

“
Maine Wind
,
Maine Wind
,
Maine Wind
.”

Aft—Toward the back of the boat.

Abeam—At right angles to the boat.

Alee—Helm’s alee or hard alee is the command for tacking or coming about.

Amidships—In the middle of the boat.

Baldhead rigging—A gaff-rigged sailing vessel that carries no topsails.

Beam reach—Also “reach.” To sail across the wind, or with the wind abeam.

Bearing—The angle from the boat to an object.

Beating—Sailing close-hauled, or as close to the wind as is efficient.

Boom—The spar that extends and supports the foot of the sail.

Bow—The most forward part of the boat.

Bowsprit—Permanent spar attached to the bow, to which jib-stays and forestays are fastened.

Bulkhead—An upright partition dividing a ship into compartments and preventing the spread of leakage or fire.

Come about—Also “tack.” To bring the boat across the wind to a new heading.

Companionway—Steps or ladder leading down from the deck to the cabin.

Cut—The shape or design of a sail.

Danger Sector—The fixed red part of a lighthouse’s light shining over shoals.

Davits—Outboard rigging for raising and lowering the ship’s yawl boat or dory.

Downwind—Away from the direction from which the wind blows.

Fore—Prefix indicating location near the bow.

Foremast—On a schooner, the mast closer to the bow.

Foresail—The sail that is rigged on the foremast.

Furl—To secure a sail to a boom by folding or rolling and then tying off.

Gaff—The spar that supports the top edge of a four-sided sail.

Gaff-rigged—A boat with four-sided sails rigged to gaffs.

Galley—A boat’s kitchen

Grabrail—A handrail running along the edge of the deckhouse or cabin top.