Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (3 page)

Brie glanced around the deck, her gaze coming to rest on the captain at the wheel. He was the type of man she might once have found irresistible. Dark, athletic, an individual. In the grand scheme of things, few men made a living sailing a windjammer. DuLac looked to be in his late thirties, maybe even early forties. She liked the steadfast authority he projected, but he possessed the kind of rugged handsomeness that got some men in trouble. Over the years she’d had several bad experiences with men too physically attractive for their own good. There was something about his eyes, though—an occasional gentleness that made her want to look further. His eyes inspired trust. Over the past four days they had revealed glimpses of a man made strong by adversity and graced with the humor that often comes from learning the lessons of adversity. It was a quality Brie remembered having, but one she seemed to have lost in the groping darkness of the past twelve months. Since being in Maine, though, hints of it had begun to appear again, peeking tentatively from the corners of her consciousness.

“Lobsterman’s Cove coming up,” Pete yelled, heading aft.

“We’re gonna hit a wall of wind when we round that point. Yell down to Scott and tell him to open ’er up all the way,” DuLac said.

Brie heard the roar of the yawl boat increase and felt the ship cut through the water with more authority. As they rounded the point and started into the harbor, the wind hit them full force. The schooner stalled momentarily, then slowly cut a diagonal course dead into the wind toward the eastern shore of the cove, where they would tuck in under the bluff and anchor for the night.

Brie turned her attention to the small fishing village that clung to the hillside. It was as desolate a spot as she had ever seen.
Positively Hardy-esque
, she thought, but forced herself to reconsider that. On a sunny day, nestled behind its blue harbor, Lobsterman’s Cove would be picturesque. Today, though, it was a study in gray. Old fishing shacks and weathered docks stacked with dozens of abandoned lobster traps. And over all of it an angry sky hurling down heavy sheets of rain. In the grip of the building gale there was a desperate isolation about this place.

B
RIE WATCHED THE EASTERN SHORE draw closer. She was looking forward to going below and warming up, maybe even taking a nap, once they’d anchored and had furled sail. Tim had stayed on deck at the captain’s request to help with anchoring. Tim’s presence had been valuable on this lightly populated cruise—he was strong, and he knew his way around a ship. He waited now as the
Maine Wind
glided slowly across the harbor.

“Stand by to drop anchor,” DuLac called out.

Pete, George and Tim moved to their assigned posts. Pete and George took their position near the foremast, and Tim went forward to the bow of the
Maine Wind
. There the windlass stood coiled with thick chain that ran through an opening in the starboard hull and attached to the anchor.

DuLac stepped over to the stern and signaled Scott to cut the yawl boat engine. Scott veered away, idling the engine, and the
Maine Wind
glided silently upwind.

“Scandalize the forepeak,” DuLac ordered.

“Aye, Captain.” Pete and George eased the peak halyard, depowering the sail. They moved to the mainsail and repeated the task, then went forward to help Tim unlash the anchor. The
Maine Wind
floated to a dead stop directly up-wind.

“Let go the anchor,” DuLac ordered.

“Letting go the anchor,” came the reply. The heavy anchor chain thundered through the hull as a quarter ton of iron plummeted into the water.

DuLac stepped to the aft companionway and called down. “All hands on deck to fold sail.” He walked forward and delivered the order to the forward cabins.

It was a fact of windjammer cruising that the captain depended on passengers to help raise and lower the yawl boat and the heavy gaff-rigged sails. Folding sail at the end of the day was another all-hands-on-deck task. Brie welcomed all of it. She needed that kind of physical involvement right now. It took her mind off decisions she wasn’t ready to make, ones that weighed heavier on her each day.

The passengers and crew hopped up on the cabin top and positioned themselves along both sides of the mainsail boom. The rain had temporarily slackened, making their job easier. Scott hoisted himself up and straddled the end of the boom, so he could guide the sail as it was folded and lashed off. Pete and Tim manned the halyard, slowly lowering the sail. George and the passengers worked the heavy canvas into large folds over the top of the boom and lashed it off with the lace lines. Then they moved forward and repeated the procedure as the foresail was lowered.

Brie hopped down and walked across the deck to the rail. Sailing had always held the power to renew her spirit, and she wondered why she’d gotten away from it the past few years. She smiled now, recalling another mad dash for safe harbor. It was her twentieth summer. Her family had sailed their 45-foot cruiser out of Thunder Bay, Ontario, bound for the Apostle Islands off the south shore of Lake Superior. The big lake got in a temper on their last day, and before they knew it, they were running in 15-foot seas. She remembered her dad at the wheel, totally fearless. It was the last summer they’d ever sailed together. That fall, at age forty-eight, her father had succumbed to a massive heart attack, and a bright light in her life had been forever extinguished.

“I felt you out there today, Dad,” she whispered, and for a moment, she had a fleeting sense of him standing right next to her.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear DuLac approach and jumped when he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

Brie’s fiery blue eyes studied him as she decided whether or not to reveal any part of her thoughts. “I was remembering another time—another storm,” she finally said.

“I saw you out there today. Not many sailors can smile in the teeth of a nor’easter. Danger’s no stranger to you, is it?”

Brie deflected the question. “From what I’ve heard around Camden, when you sail with John DuLac, there’s little cause for concern.”

He looked away, as if uncomfortable with her praise. “It’s risky business believing everything you hear.”

“Don’t worry, I always check my sources, and the Camden consensus is that, when it comes to sailing, you’re the man for all seasons. And then there’s your criteria for this cruise that suggests maybe you’re looking for people to share the edge with—folks who don’t shrink from a little excitement.”

John smiled, assessing her. He saw strength in her, maybe even steel, but something else, too. Uncertainty? Loneliness? He wasn’t quite sure, but he recognized the eyes of a seeker.

“You’re right,” he said. “I get enough sunny days and gentle winds in July and August. That’s enough excitement for most folks who book during those months. They’re looking for a more relaxed experience. Most of them wouldn’t be interested in feeling the thrill of the open sea aroused by a 40-knot wind. Spring and fall are my times, and I like to think the
Maine Wind
feels the same about it.”

Brie looked out to sea. “I’d guess, from the way things are going out there, that we’ll be experiencing the thrill of swinging at anchor for a few days.”

John shrugged. “I’m hoping it’ll blow itself out quickly, but you’re probably right.” He sank his hands into his raincoat pockets. “The first day you stopped down at the dock in Camden you said you’d sailed on the Great Lakes—mostly Superior.”

“Living in Minnesota, it’s the closest you get to the open sea.”

“When she starts to blow, there’s not a more dangerous piece of water anywhere.”

Brie studied him with interest. “You’ve sailed Superior?”

“I skippered a large cruiser out of Duluth for a couple the summer I was twenty-five. They were adventurous types, so I got to see plenty ‘of the big lake they call Gitche Gumme.’ Two years after that, my friend Ben and I sailed a 60-foot schooner from Duluth through the Great Lakes and out the St. Lawrence Seaway. It was September—just late enough in the season to get some big wind. We had our harrowing days on that trip. Believe me, I have nothing but respect for the people who sail those lakes.”

“They’re a pretty savvy group,” Brie said. “The wave frequency is higher on fresh water, so conditions worsen rapidly. The seas build fast. And Superior is cold—the average temperature hovers around 40 degrees. That fact alone would make a sailor cautious.” She rubbed the tip of her nose. It had been mildly numb for the past hour, and she hoped it wasn’t going to start running.

A sudden downdraft off the bluff rocked the ship, and she turned and studied the rigging. “Being aboard the
Maine Wind
is quite an experience,” she said. “It’s like a piece of floating history.” She remembered their second morning out, anchored near Crane Island—the ten of them singing sea chanteys as they hauled the canvas sails up the varnished masts.

“It’s not for everyone,” John said. “But for those who resonate with it and don’t mind roughing it a little, there’s not another experience that will ever match it. I remember a passenger once asked, ‘Is there life after windjamming?’ I think that pretty well sums it up.”

Brie chuckled. “I like that,” she said. “There’s a part of
me
that could get lost out here and never go back.” She stared out at the riled ocean for a few moments before turning back to him. “So what do you do when you’re not windjamming?” she asked.

“I run a boat repair business in the off-season. People usually pull their boats out in October, so I stay pretty busy from then until May.” He smiled, and a network of small lines appeared at the corners of his intense brown eyes. “And what do you do when you’re not detecting?”

DuLac was the only one to whom she’d revealed her line of work. To her relief he hadn’t asked any prying questions, seeming to sense she’d rather not discuss it. Now he skirted the issue with this personal query, which she was equally unprepared to answer. She looked again at the restless waters. “Actually, I wouldn’t know. This is my first vacation in a long time. I guess my work kind of consumes me.”

John’s brows knit together as he watched her. “In that case, I’m honored you chose my ship.”

Brie took a step back. “Well, I think I’ll go below and take a snooze before dinner. So, I’ll see you then, Captain.”

“It’s a date,” he said, holding her eyes captive for a moment.

Brie turned to go, feeling new warmth in her already windburned cheeks. She walked aft and descended the steep companionway ladder with the ease of one who’d had lots of practice.

During her four days on board, Brie had explored every nook and cranny of the ship, poking her head into the various cabins, with their owners’ permission, and familiarizing herself with the store room, the galley, even the hold. She now owned a detailed mental diagram of the ship. The passenger cabins were divided into two groups, accessed by companionways at opposite ends of the ship. A third companionway descended to the galley, located in the bow of the ship.

The aft compartment contained five passenger cabins plus the captain’s cabin, each with a built-in double berth that extended under the deck. The forward compartment contained four cabins—each with one or two double bunks—and a small storeroom that held extra line, sails, tools for making repairs, and kerosene for the lanterns. Forward and aft compartments also contained a head or marine toilet that the passengers in those areas shared. The lazarette, a small hold that contained stores of food and wood for the stove, sat behind the helm and was accessed through a hatch on deck. Two water tanks below deck held fresh water for drinking, cooking and showering.

The door to Brie’s cabin was just a few feet from the companionway ladder on the port side of the ship. Stepping inside, she slipped off her sea boots and shed the yellow suspendered pants and hooded slicker that made up her foul-weather gear. Hours of exposure to the strong wind had chilled her to the core.

She peeled off her jeans, leaving on her silk long underwear—always her first line of defense against the cold. She laid the jeans on the end of the berth so she could hop back into them after her nap. Next she removed her fleece jacket, but left on her thermal shirt. She rolled up the jacket, stuffed it into her duffel and took out her warmest sweater. As she pulled the baby-blue turtleneck over her head, she winced, feeling the familiar twinge from the scar on her left side. Theoretically the bullet wound had healed, but there were still times when it bothered her. Reaching up, she pulled the binder out of her ponytail. Long pale hair fell around her face and neck. She unconsciously flipped it forward to cover a pair of small, firm breasts she’d always wished were larger.