A sudden memory of Scott Evans’s warning that “these people aren’t amateurs” flashed through her mind. But having begun her decent down the ramp to the docks at that moment, it left about as fast as it came. The time of reckoning was here, and she was about to find out if the wild story was true or simply one old man’s very elaborate fantasy.
She felt a sudden fluttering sensation deep inside.
According to Peterson, his fifty-six foot ketch
Pandora
should still be resting languidly in slip number forty-three, sorely rundown and neglected after the nearly five years he had been away from it. And in that boat, in a small box built into the back underside of a bookcase…was the key to safety deposit box 127.
Most of the docks were rickety and in need of repair. The slips were crowded to capacity with more than just fishing boats. There were other types down there along the docks, too. The bigger ones were farthest down, so they could come and go in deep water. Slip number forty-three would be nearly at the end of “C” dock.
Dee’s inner butterflies increased just walking all the way out there. But when she actually caught sight of the back end of an old-time, classic wooden ketch with the letters
Pandora
fanned across the stern, she had to stop, take a deep breath, and will herself to calm down. Flashing neon couldn’t have shocked her more.
Up close, it looked anything but run down or neglected. Instead of weathered gray, the teak deck and rails shown with the dark hue of fresh oil. The brass ports were polished and gleaming and even the sail covers looked new. But that couldn’t be. According to Nels, the boat hadn’t been touched by anyone for years.
Dee grabbed a stanchion and pulled herself aboard. The square cockpit was wide and roomy with an old fashioned pilot’s wheel. The deck barely swayed as she crossed to the hatch, where louvered doors swung open as easily as if they were used every day.
After the bright light of outside, it was dark in there, and she climbed down the ladder more by feeling than sight. The only boats she had ever been on—other than small boats at the lake—were two cruise ships that sailed to the Caribbean. Dee had never seen anything like this. Her foot bumped into something halfway down and a teakettle clattered to the floor.
By the time she picked it up her eyes had adjusted enough to reveal that she was standing in the center of a tiny kitchen. Everything one needed to cook was there; a stove, a small refrigerator, and even a deep stainless steel sink that gleamed at her from a smooth wooden counter. Why, a person could actually live down here!
All at once, there was a thump and muffled curse from somewhere close by, and Dee jumped as if someone had pinched her. She hardly had time to turn around when a bare-chested man in a pair of cut-off jeans walked in from some sort of hallway behind her.
“What’s the deal, lady—” he grumbled as he ran a hand through wavy, sun-bleached hair. “You ever heard of knocking?”
“For heaven’s sake, who are you?” she asked as if he had been caught in her kitchen instead of the other way around.
His hand stopped midway in the act of smoothing down an equally sun-bleached mustache, and he looked at her as if he hadn’t heard right. “Wayne Hawkins,” he finally replied. “What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me what you’re doing on this boat, for one thing,” she suggested. “Do you...” Her attention was suddenly riveted on an elaborately-carved, built-in bookshelf behind the maroon-upholstered dining area he was standing next to.
He sat down casually in front of it. “What are you? Some kind of private investigator?”
“Maybe.” She looked him over carefully and tried to access his type
Although she had obviously got him out of bed, he was not unkempt. His mustache was neatly trimmed and his hair, though curly, was not overly long. His hazel eyes looked peaceful and seemed to hold more curiosity than contempt. He also made no effort to conceal the fact that he was looking her over as equally as she was him.
She better get straight to the point.
“Have you ever heard of Nelson Peterson?” she asked. “Colonel Nelson Peterson?”
There were a few moments silence. “I sure have,” he finally admitted. “He’s the guy who used to own this yacht.”
“Excuse me,” she spoke the words with emphasis, closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to maintain some control. “I was under the impression that he still did.”
“No one’s heard from him in years.” He crossed muscular arms across his tanned chest. “The only reason it’s still here is because it’s some relic left over from World War II. There’s a rumor it was used to entertain high up Nazi officials during the occupation of Europe. What was that famous guy’s name…Goering or something.”
“So?”
“So, two years ago the slip fees stopped getting paid and the port authorities finally had to put a lien on it. Couldn’t find Peterson anywhere. All the bills came back.”
“You mean they just sold it?”
“Not exactly. It’s going up for auction at the end of the month. I’ve been getting her ready. On account of, up until now, I’ve been the only one interested in making a bid.”
“Oh.”
“Did Peterson send you?”
“In a way, yes.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The man had eyes one could not look into and lie at the same time. Not that Dee was the lying type. But she was certainly not ready to let go of the only leverage she had in the situation, either. Her connection with Peterson.
“Do you know how much this boat is worth?” she parried.
“A hundred thousand, if it’s worth a penny.” He seemed unruffled at the evasion. “If you count all the repairs and two years’ worth of unpaid dock fees.”
“Is it…seaworthy?”
“Very.”
“But it’s over sixty years old. Doesn’t that make it less—”
“
Pandora’s
one of the finest Holland-made yachts ever built,” he insisted. “Outside of a little neglect, she’s as sound as ever. But before we get down to talking business, I need some coffee.”
“What makes you think I have any intention of—”
“Let’s quit all the cat and mouse stuff.” He got up from the table in a manner that made her feel like she had been pulling pranks in grade school and the principal just walked in. “You’re the new owner, obviously. Swooping down just in time to put a wrench in the works.”
“And obviously”— Dee stepped out of his way as he moved past her — “you have more interest here than just restoring an old boat that isn’t even yours yet. A pretty good guarantee since you’re already living on it.”
“I admit I’ve got a vested interest.”
The aroma of fresh coffee wafted out of the can he was opening.
“Meaning?” Dee took his place at the table and could not help reaching a tentative hand under a certain carving in the bookcase behind it while his back was turned.
“Meaning I’ve put a lot of time and money into this old girl and I don’t mind saying I...” He turned around in time to see her withdraw the little wooden box from its hiding place, slide back the top and stare transfixed at the small brass key inside. “I’ll be a son of a...”
His voice startled her back to the problems of the moment and the fact that he was as much a “wrench in the works” as she was.
Their eyes locked and held.
In that moment, without words or explanation, they understood each other. It was a strange experience. Not even her best friend, Marion Bates, who could practically predict her next sentence, had ever penetrated her psyche the way Wayne Hawkins was doing right now. It might have felt like an invasion if she hadn’t at the same instant, been able to read his.
He knew about the diamonds.
Not only did he know, he probably had some plan of his own to go after them. And he was at this very moment wondering how he should handle Dee Parker.
Well, Dee wasn’t about to let him come to any conclusions. Having worked in the newspaper business long enough to know an offense was the best defense, her professional manner clicked in.
“I’ll be by with the paperwork on Monday.” She got to her feet and started for the ladder. “I’ll pay for any repairs and all the other expenses then, too. Nice meeting you, Mr. Hawkins. I probably won’t...”
“Hold it.” He reached out one arm and blocked her way.
“I beg your...”
“You’re not going anywhere until we talk, sweetheart, so you might as well sit right back down.”
6
Hooked
“Silently I marveled at my boldness to attempt such a feat...unused, as I was, to sea-voyages”
~
Nellie Bly
There was the sound of a cheery whistle outside and a slight swaying of the deck as somebody came aboard.
“Hey, Hawk!” boomed a baritone voice from the cockpit. “I got eggs and bacon. They robbed me on the bacon, but...” A large bearded face that Dee thought bore a striking resemblance to Popeye’s classic nemesis, Bluto, peered down through the open hatchway. “Oh, say. Didn’t know you had company, boy. Want me to come back later?”
“Come on down, Starr.” Hawkins took his arm away from in front of Dee but kept her nailed where she was standing with his eyes. “And meet the new owner.”
“What?”
“Lady here says she’s
Pandora’s
new owner and has the papers to prove it.”
“Holy smokes.” Starr eased his large bulk down the ladder without taking his eyes off her. “How’d that happen?”
“We’re just about to find out,” Hawkins replied. “Have a seat Miss…”
“Parker,” she filled in for him. “Dee Parker.”
“Miss Dee Parker.” He turned back to the coffeepot. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
“It’s simple enough.” Dee sat across from the table this time, on the comfortable couch in matching maroon that spanned the salon. “Peterson left it to me. Free and clear. Except for the repairs you mentioned and the dock fees. That’s all there is to it. Of course, there’ll probably be an exorbitant inheritance tax if it’s worth as much as you say it is. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Meaning you’ll sell?” Starr sank into a wide comfortable chair that belonged to a desk area across from the little kitchen. He turned on its swivel to face her.
“I hadn’t planned on selling.”
“What would someone like you want a yacht like
Pandora
for?” His laugh was deep and rolling. “You’re obviously no sailor, and a gal like this costs a lot of money every year just to keep up.”
“Because she knows about the diamonds.” Hawkins poured coffee into three mugs and carried them to the table.
“Diamonds!” Starr exclaimed in horror. “Who the devil said anything about diamonds?”
“Starr, she walked right over and picked up the key without so much as batting an eye. So let’s all quit being so evasive and get down to business.” He turned to Dee. “Now, what’s your plan?”
“Well, to…go and get them, of course,” she heard herself say, as if it had been her intention all along. The truth was she was still reeling at the fact that the yacht was even real. Much less such an expensive one. To actually be sitting on it was having a spellbinding effect on her. If the yacht was real (and exactly where Peterson said it would be) then the diamonds must be where he said they were, too. Wasn’t it part of the original plan that she hire someone to help go get them?
At that moment, the old man’s detailed plan suddenly sprung to life inside her with much the same force as a gambler who had just broke the bank. She never knew she was even susceptible to such feelings.
It was the most thrilling prospect she had ever experienced.
“We can take her in as a partner and split three ways,” Starr thoughtlessly pushed up the white sleeves of his long underwear shirt that were drooping below the rolled-up cuffs of his plaid flannel one.
“A partner!” Dee set her coffee down again before she had even tasted it. “It’s my boat, remember? And you’re forgetting I’m the one with the key. You obviously didn’t know what it was for, or you would have used it already.”
“We knew it was for
Pandora’s
box,” Hawk countered. “We just didn’t know where the box was. We do have the coordinates, though. And the know-how. Like Starr said, sugar…you’re no sailor. You’re going to need someone to sail it for you.”
“Don’t…” Dee closed her eyes momentarily for emphasis, “call me sugar. Maybe I already have the coordinates, gentlemen. And for all either of you know, maybe I am a sailor.”
“We have the logbook,” Hawkins pointed out. “If you do have the coordinates, then you must have the journal. And if that’s true, you know you can’t get the exact location of the diamonds without the logbook to go with it. That’s how Peterson set it up. As for being a sailor, don’t make me laugh. You came down the companionway backwards and...”
“How would you know how I came down?”
“You knocked over the tea kettle. If you’d have come down right, you’d have seen it.”
“Whoever heard of a kitchen being right under a ladder anyway?”
“It’s not a kitchen and it’s not a ladder.” Starr heaped three spoons of sugar into his cup and stirred with the same spoon before returning it to the sugar jar. “Case dismissed.”
“Look…” Dee tried a new tack. “You might have the logbook, but you got it off the boat, and it’s my boat. Therefore…it is legally my logbook.”
“The yacht’s been abandoned for five years, sweetheart,” Hawkins reminded her. “Legally, it’s the property of the port.”
He was fixing her with those penetrating hazel eyes again, and the effect was somewhat unnerving. Dee felt like he was looking right through her, and the constant use of words that were usually reserved for intimacy made her feel vulnerable somehow. All at once, a sensation she hadn’t experienced in years washed over her. She was transported suddenly back to childhood days when the frustrations of being bested by older brothers were acutely stinging. Her crisp, well-practiced calm exterior started to crumble.
“I guess we’ll just have to…talk this out in court.” She got to her feet, feeling the need to make a quick exit before the tangled tumult of so many intense emotions betrayed her.
“Just a minute, now.” Starr’s tone was apologetic. “Back off, Hawk, will you? Can’t you see you’ve got her flustered? Let’s try and—”