The Chocolate Pirate Plot (3 page)

Like Joe and me, Ken and Maggie are in their early thirties. Maggie's tiny and vivacious, with dark hair, and Ken is lanky and thin, with limp and colorless hair. They both have extremely sharp brains.

All four of us thought our solstice adventure had been an amusing experience, and we told everybody about the pirates.

Joe passed the story along to a group he meets for coffee most mornings at the Shell station out on the highway. Its regulars include a carpenter, a furniture maker, a home builder, and a roofing contractor, so I call it “the Craft Klatch.” Ken told the story to the faculty at the math and computer camp where he was teaching that summer. I told everybody at the chocolate shop, and Maggie spread the word around the theater. So by noon, news of our experience was all over town, and I got a call from Chuck O'Riley, editor of our local weekly newspaper, the
Warner Pier Gazette
.

I assured Chuck that we hadn't been injured or even inconvenienced, just amused.

“We all assumed it was some sort of promotional stunt,” I said. “But the pirates didn't give us any information.”

“Maybe it's
The Pirates of Penzance,”
Chuck said.

“Could be.”

But after lunch, Max Morgan, the director of the Warner Pier Summer Showboat, came into the shop. He has a picture of himself as Falstaff in his office at the theater, but he'd required a lot of padding to play that part. Max is short and scrawny, with a dark fringe of hair surrounding a bald spot. Max ignored the counter girls on duty and came straight to my office. “Lee!” He has the resonant voice that comes from dramatic training, and he used his standard booming tones. “Where can I find these pirates of yours?”

“They're not my pirates,” I said. “We thought they might be yours. Did you hire them to publicize
The Pirates of Penzance?
”

“No! But it's a great promotional idea. I want to get hold of them.”

“It shouldn't be too hard. Just check at Warner Pier Beach.”

“Why there?”

“Because athletes like those will be showing off their muscles someplace.”

“They had muscles, huh?”

“They were genuine acrobats. They somersaulted over the side of the boat. One of them walked on his hands on the gunwale. The girl pirate did a sailor's hornpipe, or a jig of some sort. One played the pennywhistle. Then they dived overboard, swam underwater for a long way, and seemed to vault into their boat. And that water was cold, but it didn't seem to bother them. They gave an impressive show.”

“What did they look like?”

“They looked like fake beards and overdone eye makeup, Max. I couldn't tell anything about their faces.”

“Try.”

“There was a woman, a well-endowed woman, and two men. One of the men was larger and hairier than the other one was. But all three of them wore heavy makeup. I wouldn't know them if they were—” I gestured at four tourists who were staring at the pirate ship in our window. “Without the makeup and costumes, I wouldn't know them if they were standing outside that window.”

Max continued to quiz me. He seemed quite eager to hire the three pirates to help promote the Gilbert and Sullivan production planned for August. The more I told him that I couldn't tell him anything definite, the harder he pressed.

Finally I'd had enough. “Max! Ask around the beach. Ask at the summer camps.”

Max looked startled. “Summer camps? Why do you suggest summer camps?”

“Because that's where student athletes and coaches get summer jobs. Or you could try the health club.”

Max took that suggestion more calmly. “The health club?”

“Sure. The one out by the highway. That's where you'll find those athletic types. But I haven't got time to go looking for them.”

Max smiled slyly.

I gestured at the chocolate counter. “This is TenHuis Chocolade, Max. Everybody gets a free sample. Pick a bonbon or a truffle and go away.”

Max selected a Jamaican rum truffle (“the ultimate dark chocolate truffle”). He went away, but he said he wasn't happy. He still wanted to find the pirates.

Later I learned that Max also cornered Joe, Ken, and Maggie to give each of them the third degree. But none of them could identify the pirates either.

Max even ran an ad—a whole quarter page—in the
Gazette
, offering employment to the pirates who had boarded us. But no one replied.

By the next weekend, the excitement had died down. I yawned and concentrated on running a chocolate company.

Then, the next Monday, the pirates struck again.

Once more they appeared just at sunset, climbing aboard a small yacht that was taking a group on an evening cruise. Again they gave an exciting demonstration of acrobatics. This time all three walked on their hands—the girl even did an aerial cartwheel, that spectacular flip in which the hands don't touch the ground. The piper did a few sleight-of-hand tricks.

Again the people on the boat applauded and cheered as the three dived into the water and swam underwater a long way, then climbed into their inflatable dinghy and roared away, leaving the boaters with a darn good story.

Max Morgan went absolutely crazy. He came to see Joe at home. “I must find those guys,” he said.

“I can't help you.”

“Joe, can't you identify their boat?”

“I don't see how, Max. It's an inflatable dinghy. You know, a plastic shell for a bottom with sides like big, tough balloons. There's one trailing behind every cabin cruiser and every yacht docked at every Warner Pier marina.”

“But you know boats, Joe! Surely you can tell more than that.”

“Not in the dusk, Max. Not at that distance. It was too far away for me to tell if the dinghy had a patch or a name stenciled on the side. It's larger than the usual dinghy, but that's not a lot of help.”

Max turned to me. “Lee, what about their costumes?”

I considered. “I'd guess that they were made from old wet suits.”

“Wet suits?”

“Yes. I think they cut the legs and arms off wet suits. I'm sure the girl's sexy outfit zips down the front like a wet suit. As for the wigs and makeup—you've got people at the theater who know more about that than I do. Ask them.”

Max growled. “They've got ideas about how the makeup could be done, but they haven't seen them in person.”

He left, huffy.

But the pirates didn't leave. Eight times they struck in July. Always early in the week and occasionally on Sunday evenings. Warner Pier's boaters began to brag about being hit by the pirates. It became a point of pride. People gave “pirate parties” and were disappointed if they weren't boarded.

After sundown, boats would slide into their slips at the marinas with decks full of passengers, all yelling and laughing hilariously and bragging, “We were boarded!”

Max finally gave up trying to identify and hire the pirates.

I lost all curiosity about them early. Running a chocolate business and trying to find some time to spend with Joe took all my energy. I had no interest in fake pirates who could walk on their hands. The evening we were boarded faded into memory. The
Gazette
still ran stories, but Chuck O'Riley had moved them to an inside page.

I was glad to see interest in the pirates wane, but I wasn't ready for a new kind of excitement.

That began on the last Wednesday in July.

My office is a glass-walled cubicle at one side of the TenHuis Chocolade retail store. There was only one customer in the store, and I was working quietly in my office when the street door flew open with such violence that I expected the window in it to shatter.

Two of our counter girls ran in—my stepsister, Brenda, and her best pal, Tracy Roderick. They were traveling at hurricane speed and shrieking like hurricane winds.

I jumped up. “What's wrong? Why all the yelling?”

“Marco's coming! Marco's coming!”

“What?”

“Marco Spear is coming to Warner Pier!”

T
his behavior was most unlike Tracy and Brenda. Both were ready for their second year of college. Being cool was a full-time job for them, and despite a running argument between Brenda and her boyfriend over Marco Spear's acting ability, movie-star crushes were not their idea of cool.

But Tracy's next squeal showed me I was wrong. “It's so great! To think, we might get to see him!”

They jumped up and down and squealed some more. The two girls already at work behind the counter came out and joined in the squealing and jumping. The lone customer, who was a nerdy-looking young man, shrank back against the front door.

The girls' enthusiasm got a bit out of hand. As they jumped around in their excitement, Tracy got too close to the big, beautiful pirate ship in the window.

“Look out!” Brenda tried to warn her, but Tracy didn't hear. She kept backing toward the window—and the ship. She was shaking her fists above her head. She had no idea she was about to hit the ship. I'm sure my face was full of horror. Brenda's was, too, and even the nerdy customer was yelling, “Stop!”

That ship—representing hundreds of dollars worth of chocolate and a week of skilled work—was about to hit the floor.

But a miracle happened. The nerdy customer leaped through the group of whirling girls. He slid in next to the table that held the ship. And he grabbed it. Gently.

The ship teetered. The Jolly Roger appeared actually to wave. But the ship stayed upright.

At last all four of the excited girls saw what had nearly happened. They froze. There was a mass intake of breath. Then everyone exhaled in unison, and absolute silence fell.

“Thank you,” I said to the customer. “We are eternally in your debt.”

The young man smiled. “Glad I could be of help.”

For the first time, I looked at him as a person rather than as an anonymous customer. He had buckteeth and wore thick glasses, the kind that distort the wearer's face. He seemed to be in his early twenties, but his plaid shorts weren't exactly what the Warner Pier college crowd was wearing. His sneakers were the wrong brand, and he wore a floppy sports shirt rather than the T-shirt required by Warner Pier fashion.

I addressed the four girls. “Now, shall we get back to business? First, someone give this young man a pound of chocolates. He's saved the day. Or the ship.”

Looking shamefaced—as they should have—the four girls scurried. The two on duty went back to their stations near the cash register. Tracy and Brenda took the customer through our flavors of truffles and bonbons, helping him to select the thirty-two it took to fill a one-pound box.

The young man seemed embarrassed. He assured us that he needed no reward, but I insisted. “Give them to your mother,” I said. Somehow I doubted this guy had a girlfriend.

I was happy to see that Brenda made an effort to talk to him, asking him whether he lived in Warner Pier permanently. He was from New Jersey, he told her, and was here for a few weeks. That put him firmly in the “tourist” category.

Warner Pier has three social classes—locals, summer people, and tourists. Locals live here full-time, summer people rent or own property and stay all summer, and tourists stay for shorter times. It's a rigid caste system.

As soon as he'd left, I summoned Tracy and Brenda into my office. “What were y'all so excited about?” I tried to sound stern. “You two don't usually go nuts over movie stars.”

“But Marco Spear is coming to Warner Pier!”

“Where did you hear this?”

“We stopped by the Superette, and Mr. Gossip—I mean, Mr. Glossop—told us that fancy new yacht Oxford Boats is building is for Marco Spear! And Marco's coming to Warner Pier—himself—in person—to pick it up!”

They barely restrained themselves from another squealing session.

“Tracy,” I said, “how reliable do you find information provided by Greg Glossop?” Greg Glossop, who runs the pharmacy at our local supermarket, is well-known as the worst gossip in Warner Pier.

My question brought giggles from Brenda, and Tracy smiled sheepishly. “Oh, I know—he leaps to conclusions.”

“He vaults to conclusions the way Marco Spear jumps up and down the masts of pirate ships.”

“But there really is a gorgeous yacht out there—in the big building at Oxford Boats. Brenda and I saw it when we went out on the river with Will and Carl last week.”

“Yes, Joe and I saw it, too, and I think it would be great if Marco Spear bought it. But if Greg Glossop is spreading the story, I wouldn't hold my breath.” I paused for effect. “Are you and Brenda reporting for work?”