Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (4 page)

BOOK: Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)
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Rip and I both walked to the truck in stunned dismay. Even the Chevy appeared disappointed when it failed to start on the first two attempts.
Perhaps the old girl overheard Regina's description of her
, I thought.

I hated having such a hurtful confrontation with my only child. I worried about the state of her marriage, and also the ripple effect the argument might have on our relationship with her. It saddened me and I felt terrible about the nasty spat. However, I really didn't believe Rip or I had done or said anything we should repent for, so didn't feel compelled to offer our daughter what would have been an insincere apology.

"So how are you enjoying being home for the holidays so far, sweetheart?" Rip asked ruefully after he pulled away from the curb.

"Not so much! And do you know what really ticks me off?"

"What?"

"That we just spent over six-hundred bucks on a fishing trip that ain't likely to take place now."

Rip didn't reply. This time I didn't think it was due to his hearing loss but more to his despondency about the quarrel with Reggie. I'd wanted to suggest that we head straight back to Tackle Town to return all the items we'd just purchased, but the poignant look on his face and moisture in his eyes persuaded me to remain silent.

Chapter 3

To my surprise, Milo called early Sunday morning to ask if we were ready to head out on our fishing excursion. Rip, a glass-half-full kind of guy, had already laid all the gear we'd need on the sofa in our trailer. This was one of those times I wished we had a larger trailer, with a slide-out or two, to give us extra space for things like a huge pile of expensive fishing equipment we'd probably never use again. The pile of useless crap would no doubt take up valuable storage space for years until Rip finally broke down and pitched it all in some campground's dumpster one day.

We had no place to store the stuff; even the extra space under the bed was already jammed full. But Rip had assured me he'd make room for it in the storage compartment under the trailer's chassis. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what he planned to throw out to open up extra space. I just knew it better not be my pressure cooker and two cases of empty canning jars I had every intention of utilizing again someday. Finding a place to grow a garden might prove challenging for a full-time RVer, but despite that, I'd steadfastly refused to remove gardening from my bucket list. And until I came to my senses, the canning jars and pressure cooker were going to remain in storage.

While speaking with Rip on the phone, Milo told him it'd just be the three of us because he hadn't been able to get in touch with Cooper Claypool. Milo explained the other man was not home when he drove by his house the previous night or again that morning. Together, the two men had originally planned for the four of us to go out in Cooper's boat. According to Rip, Milo had sounded annoyed his friend wasn't adhering to the arrangement they'd agreed on. I had to wonder about the comment Rip told me Milo had muttered under his breath: "I figured he'd hold a grudge."

As Rip was sorting through his new tackle box, I was mentally going over all the items we'd purchased and trying to figure out which of them we might still be able to return to the tackle store after one day of use. I could make a ten-year-old skillet look unused, even untouched, if that's what it took to get my money refunded. Of course, it was merely wishful thinking that Rip would let me return any of the merchandise to begin with. It would, no doubt, all take up residence in our storage compartments until Rip developed a new fascination in another pastime.

When asked, Rip explained why he'd been expecting Milo's call. "Today is Sunday and Milo has the day off. Which would you prefer to do if you were him? Take your in-laws out on a fishing trip or stay home and listen to our daughter throwing a hissy-fit?"

"Good point!"

"Get dressed, dear. Milo will be here to pick us up in a few minutes."

Suddenly a sense of dread seeped through me.
Why do I have this overwhelming premonition that this will not be a day I'll look back at with joy?
I asked myself as I donned my ratty Texas Rangers shirt and a pair of my oldest holey blue jeans. If Rip hadn't appeared so elated, I'd have suggested we cancel the trip.

* * *

Sitting in the back seat of Milo's Dodge Ram, I watched as Rip helped Milo with the boat. Milo had backed the boat down the ramp into the water, and Rip was going to park the truck and trailer in the parking lot. After floating his boat off the trailer, Milo had tied the boat up to a wooden pole beside the concrete bulkhead, waiting for us to climb aboard. With his light green eyes, well-trimmed mustache, and medium-length sandy-colored hair, held in place by an embroidered
Seaworthy Marine
ball cap, my six-foot-three, lanky son-in-law looked like a natural mariner to me. He was definitely easy on the eyes but I wasn't sure yet how I felt about his personality. Or if he even had one.

If one were to judge Milo by his boat, one could only surmise the guy liked to be the center of attention. The shallow-hulled fishing boat had a custom paint job and a black bimini top to shade the passengers. It was painted bright purple with loud orange and red flames down both sides of the hull, and had a decal depicting a pastel yellow skull on each side at the bow of the boat. "Maverick" was painted across the aft in a glittery gold color. Milo's fishing vessel was quite gaudy, but definitely an eye catcher. Of course, who am I to talk? Our self-painted travel trailer could hardly be classified as inconspicuous either.

While we'd been traveling next to the banks of Little Bay in Milo's truck on our way to Rockport Beach, he'd told us the free boat ramp at Rockport Beach was the closest, most convenient place to launch the boat. As I mentioned before, I'm always game for anything that's free, whether I have a use for it or not. But in this instance, it was the only thing Rip and I didn't have to pay for all morning.

Earlier, at the Fleming Bait Shop, we'd paid for forty-two bucks worth of bait; two quarts of live shrimp, and three dozen finger mullet, along with a ten-dollar "bubbler" and batteries to supply the necessary oxygen to keep them alive. Milo had explained the aerator in the boat's bait well was not working properly and he hadn't had time to have it repaired.

After acquiring the bait, Milo had pulled the truck and boat trailer alongside a Valero gas station pump to fill the boat's fuel tank. At his request, I'd gone inside to purchase two large bags of ice to keep the fish we caught fresh in the large cooler under the bench seat in front of the helm. Not surprisingly, the boat's live well was not working properly either. Milo had also asked me to pick up two six-packs of beer to quench our thirst out on the water. On each occasion, he had suddenly needed to use the john or make an important phone call, and was already occupied when it came time to pay for anything.

Rip shrugged his shoulders and told me, "I guess it's only fair we pay for the bait and supplies. After all, we're using his boat."

Although I found Milo's vanishing acts a bit irksome, I figured we'd already spent hundreds of dollars for our gear. What was another seventy clams? I was discovering more and more about the high price of being an avid angler.

As I placed the ice and beer in the boat's cooler, which also served as a seat, Milo was holding the gas nozzle while filling the fuel tank. I heard him gasp. I turned to watch him, with his hand on his empty back pocket, say, "Gosh dang it! I left my wallet on the kitchen table."

I whispered to Rip, "Tell him we aren't in any hurry and don't mind taking the time to go back to his house to get it."

Rip shook his head and grumbled to me, "I have a hunch this station is not going to accept moths as a form of payment. I think we'll just have to accept this as one of those live and learn situations. Besides, as I said before, we
are
using his boat."

Live and learn, my sagging behind
! I thought, as I watched the numbers on the gas pump mounting so rapidly I couldn't keep up with the total. Finally I asked Milo, "How much gas does this thing hold?"

"Sixty gallons," he replied without batting an eye.

Good grief!
I thought.
Who'd have ever thought a boat could hold twice as much fuel as the vehicle you towed it with.
Is there anything involved in angling that isn't detrimental to one's net worth?

"You do know the definition of 'boat', don't you?" Rip asked me as Milo instructed the attendant to include a bottle of fuel additive on the bill. When I shook my head, Rip continued. "It's a hole in the water in which you pour money."

I'd have laughed if the escalating expense wasn't so painful. I would have at least responded had Milo's next comment not taken the breath out of me. "I guess I better fill up the truck too, or we'll be driving on fumes before we get to the boat launch."

Eighty-seven gallons and almost two-hundred dollars later, Rip, with a barely discernible amount of steam coming out of his ears, leaned over and grudgingly told me, "I'll have to use the credit card, Rapella. I used the last of my cash at the bait stand."

I bit my tongue until it nearly bled to keep from making a spiteful remark. We hadn't even got a hook wet yet, and the already exorbitant cost of a grilled redfish steak had just increased substantially. Rip began to walk away from me, then stopped and turned to make another cutting remark.

"At least Milo filled up at a gas station instead of the marina, where the price of fuel is even higher. If he hadn't, we could have had to cough up another Ben Franklin."

"Gee. How thoughtful of him."

* * *

"Rapella!" Milo hollered. He was guiding the boat, Rip was standing next to him at the helm, and I was sitting on a cushioned cooler on the bow of the twenty-four foot bay boat. "Throw the anchor out for me!"

I did as requested and then joined the men, who were stepping into their chest waders. A few seconds later, Milo turned to me and asked, "Why are we drifting? Didn't you throw the anchor out?"

"Yes, of course, I did. Right after you asked me to."

"You did tie the rope to the boat before you pitched the anchor into the water, didn't you?"

"Oops!" I replied in embarrassment. "Sorry, Milo. I guess I assumed it was already tied to the boat. After all, you said, 'Throw the anchor out,' not 'Tie off the anchor and throw it out.'"

"Oh, don't worry about it," Milo said with a chuckle. "I'll wade over and retrieve it later. For now we can lower my new power pole. It buries itself in the sand and mud and keeps the boat in place."

I wondered why he didn't just use the power pole in the first place. The electronic device obviously cost a great deal more than the anchor. And if it didn't
work
better than the anchor, why would anyone pay to put one on his boat? It seemed clear to me at that point that neither Reggie nor her husband had a lick of sense when it came to spending money.

* * *

I followed the men into the water by ungraciously swinging my butt and legs over the side of the boat and sliding off. Rip attached the nylon cord from the bait bucket to a metal loop on my wading belt. The belt had been a last-minute purchase he'd felt driven to buy for each of us at the tackle store, as if we needed one more cumbersome accessory.

The bottom was soft, and my wading boots sank several inches with each step, making me ungainly and a little uneasy. I tripped and fell to my knees at one point, and it wasn't an easy task to get back up to my feet. I was on edge, thinking any given step could land me in a quicksand-type hole that'd have me up to my eyebrows in water before I knew it.

Propelling my body through the thick grass in the water was a chore. Milo, wading beside me, appeared unfazed by the thick underwater foliage and mucky bottom. In comparison to me, he looked like a kid running through a field of clover. After I regained my foothold following my fall, he was courteous enough to help me restore my balance and get my bearings before letting go of my arm. He warned me to be more cautious, as if I were rushing recklessly through the muddy and grassy water to get to my fishing spot as rapidly as possible. In actuality, I was doing nothing more than doing my dangest to keep putting one foot in front of the other without doing a face plant into the muck.

"You need to tread slowly, Rapella," he said. If I moved any slower I'd be drifting backward and be back at the boat before the men reached their fishing hole. "There are potholes out here where there's no grass, and it's hard to tell how deep they are. Those potholes are a great place to catch a redfish that's waiting for a bait fish to swim by in the clearing. But they can also be deadly if they're deeper than you anticipated."

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