The Chocolate Pirate Plot (21 page)

“B
ack to work!”

I yelled the command.

I'd reached my limit on Marco Spear. I glared at Brenda and Tracy until they slunk back behind the counter.

“I'm only glad there were no customers present to see that little display,” I said. “We do not know that Marco Spear is here or that he's even coming to Warner Pier. But whatever happens, I don't want any more screaming about it, even if he walks in the door and does a handspring.”

Brenda and Tracy looked properly contrite and muttered apologies.

“If we don't have any customers,” I said, “you two can start cleaning the shop.”

I went into my office, then realized I still had the bottle of Frangelico in my hand, so I had to turn around and take it to Aunt Nettie before I settled down to work myself. I'd left the magazine in the van, thank goodness. I certainly wouldn't have liked for Tracy and Brenda to catch me with that.

But after I got to my desk, I found it hard to do anything. The limousine had unsettled me as much as it had Tracy and Brenda, although not for the same reasons.

Was it there for Marco Spear?

A limo didn't necessarily mean a lot in Warner Pier. We have lots of wealthy summer residents who might make use of a limousine. True, they usually brought their more casual vehicles—the vintage Alfa Romeo or the Hummer—to Warner Pier. But I could think of several families who might have summoned a limousine to take them to meet the company jet in case they needed to fly someplace unexpectedly. Or maybe one of them had to attend a funeral, or a wedding, or do one of the dozens of other things that people who have all the money in the world use a limo for.

But, still . . . Was Marco making an official visit to Warner Pier? If he was, was Hogan aware of the situation? Did Hogan take seriously the notice that there was danger for Marco Spear in Warner Pier? Was he paying attention to that strange warning note someone had stuck in the TenHuis Chocolade door?

After all, some really odd things had happened. We had pirates, a man who had been shot to death and thrown in the lake, and another man who had disappeared. Plus, someone had tried to waylay Joe and me at the dock the night before. I couldn't ignore that, though I'd tried. If insignificant people like us were in danger, Marco Spear might be, too. After all, he was a valuable commodity. Photographers, publicity people, actors, makeup artists, whole movie studios and advertising agencies—thousands of people depended on him.

I could only guess why any of this was related to Marco Spear, but I was beginning to believe that it was.

I picked up the phone to call Hogan, then laid it down again. I'd discuss the situation with Joe before I did anything. Joe was deeper in Hogan's confidence than I was. He and I could hash it out before the yacht trip, then contact Hogan if we needed to.

As soon as Brenda and Tracy were speaking to me again, I offered them a ride to Oxford Boats that evening. I was surprised at how readily they accepted. Then they asked what I was going to wear.

“I haven't quite decided,” I said. “Casual, of course.”

They nodded eagerly.

“But not jeans.”

They frowned.

“At least not for me. I'm too old to wear jeans to a party.”

“Oh, no, you're not, Lee,” they lied.

I ignored that reply. “Rubber-soled shoes. Deck shoes or Top-Sider sandals, if you've got them. Or tennis shoes. We wouldn't want to mar the deck of that beautiful new yacht.”

Nods.

“Jackets, because it might be cold out on the lake.”

That drew nods, but accompanied by frowns. Jackets didn't sound glamorous to the college crowd.

I went on. “I guess I'll wear my good khaki slacks, my deck shoes, and a navy sweater. I'll carry my khaki canvas jacket over my arm. I think you girls will be fine in jeans or khakis, with sweaters or neat-looking sweatshirts. No messages across the bosoms. And bring jackets.”

Tracy frowned. “It's just that we don't have time to buy anything.”

“I really don't think this is a new-outfit occasion,” I said. “The main thing to remember about any occasion is that you want to be comfortable, not concerned because your feet hurt or because you have to remember to hold your stomach in. You want to be thinking about being interested in the yacht and talking to the other people on the trip, not worrying about how you look.

“And with that bit of philosophy from old Aunt Susanna Lee—I'll bet y'all didn't know Susanna is my first name—you two can go home. I'll watch the counter until Claire and Terri get here.”

I didn't have to argue with them. They were out the door before I finished my sentence.

As soon as the two evening-shift girls arrived, I left, too. This might not be a new-outfit occasion, but I'd sure feel more festive if I had a shower before I went.

The shower was the reason I missed Joe. He came and went while I was underwater. So we didn't get a chance to discuss the threat to Marco Spear and how seriously Hogan was taking it. He just left a note that read “I've got to do a couple of things. Meet you at Oxford boatyard.”

I picked up Tracy and Brenda, who seemed subdued but excited, and headed for the boatyard.

Brenda did say Will had left a message apologizing. “Oh,” I said. I was staying out of that situation.

So it was a little bit surprising when the person who let us in the gate at Oxford Boats was Will.

We all squawked his name. “Will!”

He grinned. The guy did have a winning grin. “Hi, ladies,” he said. “Guess what? I snagged an invitation, too.”

“How?” Brenda sounded excited.

“I'm just a worker bee. My boss talked to the Oxford foreman and found out they could use another crewman tonight. He gave them a vastly overrated account of my skills as a sailor, and I'm on as a deckhand and car parker.”

We parked where Will directed, gathered up our jackets, and went to meet Joe, who introduced us to Charles Oxford, owner of Oxford Boats. Mr. Oxford—nobody called him Charles that night—has a home in Warner Pier but mainly lives in Chicago. He was a distinguished-looking older guy with the dignified presence he would need to deal with celebrity and wealthy clients. He seemed to awe Brenda and Tracy, and maybe he awed me, too.

Then we stepped on board the yacht. And who was already on board but Aunt Nettie and Hogan? We greeted them. Then Byron appeared, looking unusually wimpy. It seemed that his teeth were more bucked than ever, that his glasses were thicker, and that his accent sounded dumber. I was proud of Tracy and Brenda. When he offered to give us a tour, neither of them looked around for a better-looking guide.

The tour was fabulous because the yacht was fabulous. It had an aft deck that was larger than my living room. It featured a long built-in couch—it would seat at least seven—plus several other chairs and tables, all covered with all-weather fabric.

Then Byron led us up a flight of cantilevered stairs—sorry, I have trouble calling something so sleekly designed a “companionway”—to the fly deck, the deck way up on top. That was twice the size of the aft deck and so high that it felt as if it should give the passengers a view of Wisconsin. Actually, even that tall a deck wouldn't let us see more than eight miles, so Wisconsin was still a hundred miles out of range. But we felt—well, way up high.

For more intimate chitchat, there was a forward deck out on the bow with seating for, say, half a dozen.

Then we followed Byron inside. We saw the lower-deck salon, the galley, and the gym. We saw the five guest cabins, each with private bath, and the master suite, which stretched the full twenty-five-foot width of the yacht and included a sitting room. We skipped lightly over the engine room, the bridge, the radar and sonar, the “garage” where Jet Skis or a dinghy could be stored, the water makers—to convert seawater to fresh when the yacht was in an ocean—the air-conditioning and heating, and the water wings. Or I guess it had water wings. It had everything else.

By the time Byron escorted us to the main salon—another twenty-five-foot-wide, ultradecorated room—I was beyond amazement. The bar and buffet table were set up in the main salon, and I headed for them. I shouldered my way through a half dozen people who were already standing around the bar without looking at the other guests.

The bartender—I recognized him as a Herrera Catering employee—held up a pitcher of red liquid. “Sangria?”

“Sounds good,” I said. “I don't think I've seen sangria since I left Texas.”

“It hasn't been ‘in' around here,” the bartender said. “Maybe this will inspire a revival.”

The person next to me tapped me on the shoulder. “Hi, Lee,” he said. “I'd ask you what you're doing here, but I don't even know what I'm doing here.”

It was Chuck O'Riley, editor of the
Warner Pier Gazette
.

I smiled. “Why shouldn't you be here, Chuck? You certainly have as much right as I do.”

“I'm in pretty impressive company,” Chuck said. “Way out of my depth.”

He gestured, and at the same time another person spoke. “Well, if it isn't Mrs. Woodyard.”

It was Gordon Hitchcock, with LMTV News. The television reporter I love to hate.

Gordon and I have bumped heads on several occasions. I nodded and started to move away from him. Then I saw the man behind him, and I recognized him, too. I don't know his name, but three years earlier—when Joe was having a lot of trouble with the sensational press after his first wife was murdered—that guy had been a correspondent for one of the racier tabloids, and he'd nearly driven Joe insane. I didn't know the fourth man, but somehow I wasn't surprised when Chuck told me he was from the Associated Press.

But it was the fifth man, the one who was urging all the reporters to dig into the buffet, who was dominating the crowd at the bar. He was dressed flashy, and he acted flashy. His hair was an unnatural blond, and his eyes were an unnatural blue. He talked a lot and smiled even more. He was, Chuck said, a representative of Marco Spear. A press agent.

Joe and I had been invited to the press peek.

Oh, ye gods! I wondered whether Joe knew. He had made his way to the bridge, since he was more interested in the mechanical aspects of the yacht than in the gym, the galley, and the guest cabins.

I hoped he stayed there.

I clutched my sangria and headed for the upper deck at top speed.

As I went by Brenda and Tracy, I grabbed them and pulled them aside. I warned both of them not to speak to anyone in the group at the bar and buffet.

“They're press,” I said. “I don't think they're interested in Joe or me. I'm sure they're here to check out Marco Spear's yacht. But you both know the problems we've had with reporters in the past, so please, please—don't talk to them at all. Don't answer the most innocent question.”

About that time, the captain came over the intercom system and told us where to find life jackets. The yacht gave a honk, and it left its berth. We were off.

We moved slowly out into the river and toward the lake. There were even more boats out to gawk that evening than there had been the evening before. Joe continued to be among the missing, and I was sure he was looking over the mechanical parts of the yacht.

I was still nervous about the reporters, so I grabbed Aunt Nettie, who can turn a reporter into an ally with her smile, and the two of us sat down on the aft deck.

The yacht moved down the river. Byron had become a waiter, and he brought us each a plate of goodies. We jokingly did the Queen Elizabeth II wave at the boats following the yacht, especially if we saw someone we knew. We moved around the deck, looking the vessel over. I also counted heads and realized that there were only about a dozen people on board, plus four or five crew members.

There were the four reporters and the press agent. Gordon Hitchcock hadn't even been allowed to bring a photographer. Then there were Aunt Nettie, Hogan, Brenda, Tracy, Joe, me, and some guy who looked familiar but whom I couldn't identify. He and Hogan were hanging out.

After my initial upset over the reporters being on the excursion, I was again looking forward to the trip.

Then we went through the channel and out into Lake Michigan. Our flotilla of small boats—actually some of them were thirty- or fifty-footers—came with us. As it had the night before, the big yacht seemed to preen, posing for her admirers for five or ten minutes. Then she put on the speed and left them all bouncing in her wake. Most fell behind and went back into Warner Pier, though I could still see the running lights of a few. By then the sun was down, and it was getting dark.

The lake wasn't rough, and I was enjoying myself thoroughly. The yacht turned north, toward Holland, and traveled along parallel to the shore. After about five miles, it slowed and almost came to a halt.

Joe and Hogan came down from the bridge and joined Aunt Nettie and me.

I smiled at Joe. “What do you think of her?”

“A very neat craft,” he said.

The words had just left his mouth when the pirates came up the aft gangway.