Savannah Breeze (28 page)

The Bahia Mar
Hotel and Marina was some kind of wonderful. Manicured green lawns and palm trees…and valet parking.

“Deal with it,” I told Granddad when he started to object.

We'd gone over the plan, such as it was, on the way over.

“I'll look around the marina, see if there's any kind of yacht in particular that old Roy Eugene is scoping out,” Harry said. “Spencer, maybe you could hang out in one of the bars and kind of get the lay of the land.”

“Sure,” Granddad said. “I'll be very discreet.” He glanced at his watch. “It's almost five o'clock. You think they'll have early-bird specials?”

“It's Florida,” I told him. “They invented the early bird. I guess Weezie and I will hang out in whatever bar Granddad doesn't go to. And remember,” I warned him. “No more than two Scotches and water. Or I'll tell Grandmama.”

The Sand Bar overlooked the marina and what looked like a modern-day armada of boats, yachts, sailboats, and everything in between. Weezie and I split up. She took one end of the bar and I staked out the other. It was early Saturday evening and the place was already starting to get busy, with people standing three deep in some spots, waiting to place a drink order.

It took only about thirty seconds before I had company.

He was short and bulky, with a sunburned nose and neck. He wore a dark green polo shirt with “Grande Oaks Golf & Country Club”
embroidered over the breast pocket, and had a sun visor perched low over his forehead. He edged his way into the bar and leaned forward, flashing an easy smile.

“Did you already order?”

I looked around to make sure he was talking to me.

“Not yet.”

“I'm Pete,” he said.

“And I'm Jennifer. But they call me Jen.”

“Hey, Davey,” he called. A bartender who was making a big racket with a blender turned and looked over his shoulder.

“Hiya, Pete,” he said. “Whatya drinking?”

Pete gave me a questioning look. Why not? I thought.

“Lemon martini,” I said.

“Two,” Pete said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.

Davey brought our drinks and Pete settled in to tell me his life story. He was in software sales, originally from Columbus, Ohio, but living in Lauderdale for the past four years. “It's paradise,” he said. “But maybe not in August. How about you?”

“Just visiting for a few days,” I said. “I'm from Atlanta.”

“Thought I recognized that Southern accent,” Pete said.

He asked me the questions men always ask women in bars, and I answered with the same mix of truth and lies women always tell strange men.

“So,” I said brightly. “You're a golfer. Do you play a lot at the course here?”

“As often as I can,” he said. “I'm a member. Do you play?”

“Not really,” I said. “But I think a friend of a friend of mine plays here. Maybe you know him? Rodolfo Martinez?”

He frowned. “Doesn't ring a bell.”

“He's sort of new in the area, I think,” I said.

I gestured toward the marina with an exaggerated sigh. “I just love to look at all those gorgeous boats out there.”

“Big toys for big boys,” Pete said dismissively. “I've got a twenty-
two-foot Ski-Nautique, but I keep it at the dock at my place. In Lighthouse Point.”

“Great,” I said. “Do you know a lot about boats?”

“I know my way around on the water,” Pete said. “Hey, would you want to go for a little moonlight cruise? I could bring the boat up here one night, pick you up, take you to dinner. There are lots of waterfront restaurants where we can tie up.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm here with my girlfriend.”

“We'll bring her along,” Pete offered. “Plenty of room.”

I took a long sip of the martini. Pete had nothing in the way of information to offer me. He was pleasant and harmless, but he needed to move along.

“Here's the thing,” I said hesitantly. “She really is my girlfriend.”

“Huh?” Harmless
and
clueless.

I leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I like girls.”

He straightened up. His face had lost its ruddy hue. “No kidding?”

“Sorry,” I said.

Next up was Cliff, a cute blond preppie type from Long Island who was in town for his college roommate's wedding.

“Don't I know you?” he asked, wedging himself in beside me at the bar.

I tilted my sunglasses down to get a better look. He had deep blue eyes and a yummy little cleft in his chin. The phrase “contributing to the delinquency of a minor” crossed my mind.

“Probably not,” I said, with genuine regret. “I've never been to Long Island.”

Against my better judgment, I let him buy me a drink. But when he nibbled on my ear and asked about the possibility of “hooking up” for the night, I had to get tough.

“Run along now, Cliffie,” I sighed. “Find somebody your own age to play with.”

A reggae band had started setting up on the postage-stamp-size dance floor opposite the bar. The crowd had gotten so tight, it was hard to move and harder to carry on a conversation.

I had to boost myself up on the bar rail to catch sight of Weezie. But she was still there, at the other end of the bar, deep in conversation with a guy in a straw cowboy hat.

“Buy you a drink?”

He said his name was Howard, and he was a graying stockbroker from Boynton Beach who made no move to hide his wedding band.

“Play any tennis?” he asked, checking out my X-treme tan.

“Not much,” I said. “I really like boating.”

“I've got a thirty-two-foot Hatteras docked right down there,” he said, pointing out the window.

“Wow!” I said, as if I knew or cared what a Hatteras was. “I knew this guy, back in Jacksonville, he had a really neat boat. A Sea Urchin. Have you ever seen one?”

“Your friend must have done very well for himself,” Howard said. “Sea Urchins are the top of the line.”

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I've never seen one since that one time.”

“Take a walk with me,” Howard said, smoothly putting his hand on my thigh. “And you can see another one. It's docked down on the far end of the same row as mine.”

“Really?” I casually slid his hand away. “A Sea Urchin? What's it called?”

“
Reefer Madness,
” Howard said with a frown. “It supposedly belongs to some washed-up rock-and-roll guy. You believe that? A guy names an $8 million yacht something like
Reefer Madness
?”

“Where'd you say it's tied up?” I asked, hopping down from the bar stool.

“Right down the dock from mine,” Howard said, resting his hand on the small of my back. “Wait till you see the sweet little cabin on my Hatteras.”

“Oh,” I said, making a frownie face. “I don't think so. I don't think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asked, sliding his hand just slightly south, till it was resting on my not quite bootielicious butt.

“Genital herpes,” I whispered. “I'm having a little flare-up.”

At eight o'clock,
the four of us reconnoitered in the hotel's front entryway.

“I found the yacht!” Weezie announced, fairly dancing with excitement.

“So did I,” I said. “It's called
Reefer Madness
.”

“It's an eighty-six-footer,” Harry said, handing the valet-parking attendant the claim check for the Buick.

“Fella that owns her used to be in some sort of rock-and-roll band,” Granddad said, straightening his cravat. He patted the blazer's breast pocket. “I got the band name wrote down right here. Outlandish name.” He produced a bar napkin and squinted at what he'd scribbled on it. “Oh yeah. Here it is. Meatball?”

“Meatball?” Weezie said. “Spencer, are you sure?”

“That's what the man said. What the hell kind of name is Meatball?”

“I never heard of a famous band called Meatball,” I said.

“‘Bat Out of Hell,'” Granddad said, reading the napkin. “That was their big hit. But I been watching MTV and I never heard of a song called ‘Bat Out of Hell.'”

“You must mean Meat Loaf!” Weezie said. “That was the name of their first huge hit album. ‘Bat Out of Hell.'”

“‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light,'” Harry added. “It was a landmark piece of songwriting, not that I was ever a big Meat Loaf fan. Give me Jimmy Buffett any day.”

I pondered that. “So you'd rather have a Cheeseburger in Paradise than Meat Loaf? What does that say about your age?”

“It says nothing about my age,” Harry retorted. “It's all about taste in music.”

“What the hell?” Granddad exclaimed. “Meat loaf, cheeseburger? You kids don't know anything about music. Now my generation, we had some great tunes. Songs like ‘Begin the Beguine.' Or ‘Flat-Foot Floozie with the Floy-Floy.'”

The valet-parking kid pulled up with the Electra, Harry tipped him, and we piled inside, everybody chattering all at once.

“I saw the yacht,” Harry said. “And, man, that is one sweetheart of a floating palace. I bet that thing would sell for four million, easy. I wouldn't mind stealing it myself.”

“Anybody see any sign of Reddy?” I asked, turning around.

“Hard to say,” Harry said. “I made a couple circuits around the marina before I spoke to the dockmaster, who pointed me in the direction of the
Reefer Madness,
although he wouldn't tell me exactly who owns it. He hasn't had anybody else asking about Sea Urchins, and he hasn't seen anybody who fits our description of Roy Eugene, but it's a pretty busy operation. The dockmaster did tell me that the
Reefer
's owner lives in Nashville, and there's a live-aboard crew of two or three.”

“Reddy's definitely hanging around here,” I said. “I just know it. I can sense it.”

“What else did you sense, Jennifer?” Harry asked.

I stuck my tongue out at him. “I sensed I was being hit on the whole time I was in that bar. I got invited to dinner and a moonlight cruise, and two guys just cut to the chase right away and outright propositioned me for sex. I told you this getup makes me look like a hooker. What about you, Weezie?”

“Not all the guys who talked to you were losers,” Weezie said, giggling. “I saw that cute young blond guy whispering sweet nothings in your ear.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry said, glancing over at me with a raised eyebrow.

“He was an infant,” I said. “Barely out of diapers.”

“I'd be willing to baby-sit him,” Weezie said.

“Could we get back to business? Anyway, I saw you getting up close and personal with at least one hot guy at your end of the bar,” I pointed out.

“That was research,” Weezie said. “And it just so happens that the guy you saw me talking to told me that he used to date a girl who works as a chef on
Reefer Madness
. Her name is Emma Murphey. They broke up because the boat he crews on just got back from a three-month cruise to St. Croix. He wanted her to sign on to his boat, but she didn't want to give up her job on the
Reefer Madness
. Apparently it's a really cushy job because the owner only comes down maybe once or twice a year. So the crew just lives aboard and goofs off most of the time. My guy, his name is Jason, told me Emma usually hangs out at that bar you went to, BeBe.”

“The Binnacle?”

“Yeah,” Weezie said. “That's the place. Another guy who crews on the boat is named Liam. I didn't get a last name.”

“That's terrific.” I said. “Great work.”

“I know,” she said, fluffing her hair. “But hey, BeBe, what is up with these guys down here? I mean, I had more adolescent-acting middle-aged married men making passes at me. I don't know how single women stand hanging out in bars like that.”

“Now you know why I got married three times,” I said. “Anything's better than this.”

“Even Richard?” Weezie said.

“Nothing is worse than Richard,” I said.

“Forget Richard,” Harry said.

“Believe me, I'm trying to,” I told him. “Weezie, did your new friend tell you what this Emma looks like?”

“Short, dark hair, big green eyes, long legs, big boobs,” Weezie said.

“Sounds like somebody I need to meet,” Harry said. He looked in the rear view mirror at Granddad.

“Hey, Spencer, I think it's our turn to go hang out in a bar and pick up chicks, don't you?”

I gave him another punch. This one wasn't nearly as playful.

“What's that?” Granddad asked, sitting up with a start.

“Harry thinks the two of you should go cruising for ladies,” Weezie explained. “In that bar BeBe was at yesterday.”

“Cruising?” Granddad said, blinking.

“Strictly for research purposes,” Harry added.

Granddad checked his watch. “Maybe another night. It's been a pretty busy day for me. I need to check on a developing cold front over the Great Lakes. Maybe you could just drop me off at the motel?”

“Me too,” Weezie added quickly. “I want to sort through all the stuff I bought at that estate sale today. Some of it I'll keep, but the rest of it I'll sell on eBay. I brought my little digital camera, so I might even go ahead and photograph some of it.”

“You're doing it again,” I said, a warning note in my voice.

“Doing what?”

“You know what,” I said. “The same thing you did last night.”

“Forcing us to spend quality time together,” Harry said. “Alone.”

“It worked out, didn't it?” Weezie said. “I didn't hear any complaints.”

“Not from me,” Harry said.

“Attaboy,” Granddad said.

I turned around to face the backseat co-conspirators. “Okay, you two. No more spying. This happens to be my private life. While I appreciate your interest, I don't need cheerleaders. And,” I said, directing my sternest look at my grandfather, “Harry doesn't need any coaching. Or any, uh, family-planning supplies. If you get my drift.”

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Granddad said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “can I ask where you got that thing?”

“Bought it from a vending machine in the men's room at Henry's Diner,” he said promptly. “I always kept it in my billfold. Just in case.”

“Henry's Diner?” Harry said. “That place closed down when I was just a kid. What, twenty, twenty-five years ago?”

“Has it been that long?” Granddad asked.

“Good Lord,” I said, shaking my head. “Antique condoms. Just what I need.”

“Hey, Harry,” Weezie piped up. “If you're not going to use it, give it to me. I'll sell it on eBay.”