“Do you really think he did?” Kerry asked.

Bob shrugged. “I dunno, but he’s the type that coulda.”

Bud got up and messed with the teapot. “Bullshit chase.” He shook his head.

Dar was inclined to agree. “What makes you think there’s anything on that boat that can prove anything? It’s been sunk for a decade.”

At last, Bob smiled. “’Cause Putrid Pat thinks so,” he said.

“After they shipped the old lady off to a nursing home, they pulled apart the old man’s house. Right after that, Pat went nuts and started trying to hire DeSalliers to go check out the wreck.” His fingers tapped the arms of the chair. “Tanya found out, and that’s how the whole thing got started. We figure he must know something or else why bother?”

Kerry propped her chin up on her fist. “That makes sense,” she admitted.

“So DeSalliers must know what he’s looking for,” Dar murmured.

“And he thinks maybe you found it, that first time,” Bud commented. “Maybe that’s why he keeps pestering you.”

Kerry got off the bed and walked over to the table, examining the pages Dar had printed out. “But we didn’t. All we brought up was an old wooden cigar box, falling to pieces. It was so coral-encrusted, it looked like a piece of sea garbage. There wasn’t anything there.”

“But…he doesn’t know that.” Dar leaned back against the sill.

“And he’s panicking, because unless he can bring back positive proof to Wharton that no evidence exists, he doesn’t get paid. He doesn’t get paid, he’s tapped, and I doubt he can afford the gas to get back to the States.”

“Okay.” Kerry joined Dar by the windowsill, settling next to her shoulder to shoulder. “So there are two different things here. I guess the proof that he was involved in a murder would be more important to the uncle, but if there’s anything proving that Grandpa wasn’t nuts, I don’t think that would be something that would have been on that wreck.”

“No,” Dar agreed. “We have to figure out why Popeye was all the way down here in the tropics, and what he was after.”

“We were hoping to find his log,” Bob explained. “He kept a 220 Melissa Good diary, but it was a paper book, so…unless someone salvaged it and it’s in somebody’s house, or in a shop somewhere…”

Bud sipped his tea, glaring at everyone over the rim of the cup.

“Can ask around,” he said. “We know the freelance salvagers

’round here.”

Dar grunted, giving Bud a brief nod. “All right,” she decided.

“First thing we do is scuttle DeSalliers. I’ll call Pat Wharton tomorrow, tell him I think I’ve got what he wants, and see what he says about it.”

Everyone looked at Dar in surprise. Dar looked back at them.

“What? I’m sick and tired of that bozo smacking my friends around and ruining my vacation.”

“He could freak out,” Kerry suggested.

“He could grow tail feathers and fly to Bermuda, too,” Dar replied. “Meantime, Bud, if you’ll check with your buddies and see if you can find out what the old captain’s gig was, maybe we can make heads or tails out of this stupidity and I can go back to windsurfing.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Bud agreed grudgingly. “They figure on letting Charlie out of the hospital tomorrow. He’s got a bigger little black book than me. We can call more then.”

“All right.” Dar folded her arms. “I’ll pull as much regulatory information as I can on the old man’s business contracts. I’ve got someone unraveling his public trust filings.” She exhaled.

“Meanwhile, we’ll visit the government offices tomorrow and see what they have on record for him and that damn boat, and what was filed when it sank.”

Bob gazed at her. “Who are you people?” he asked again.

“C’mon. I came clean, now it’s your turn. Are you government agents or something?”

“No,” Dar told him with a severe look. “It’s worse. We’re rampaging techno-capitalists.” She put an arm around Kerry’s shoulders. “Dilbert on steroids, only classier, and with a much cuter dog.”

Kerry snorted, turning and burying her face in Dar’s shoulder.

“Honey, stop it.”

Dar shrugged. “He asked.”

“Right,” Bob murmured. “Okay, well…what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” Dar told him curtly.

“Really,” Kerry adopted a slightly kinder tone, “we’ve got it covered. If DeSalliers sees you around, it’s just going to complicate things.”

Bob looked at her. “You’re really a spy, aren’t you?” he accused. “Or some international police or something ?” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it; are you a DEA agent?”


Terrors of the High Seas 221

“No.” Kerry sighed. “I’m a nerd,” she told him, causing Bud to muffle a smirk. “Really.”

“Oh.” Bob still looked very confused. “Like a hacker?”

Kerry was about at the end of her patience. “No. Dar’s the hacker; I’m just a nerd.”

“You really a hacker?” Bud asked Dar with interest.

Dar started chuckling. “Sometimes, yeah,” she confirmed. “A very, very expensive one.” Her hands drifted over the laptop keyboard. “Okay, I think that’s enough intrigue for one night.

Kerry needs to get some rest.” She glanced up at Bud. “You let us know tomorrow how Charlie’s doing?”

Bud nodded. “Yeah.” He fiddled with the room key. “He about chewed that doctor’s arm off when he said he couldn’t come outta there tonight.”

“Know how he feels,” Dar said. “I’ll give you a call in the morning after I call Wharton.”

“What about me?” Bob whined.

“We’ll call you, too,” Kerry told him, trying to ignore the low growl behind her. “Dar’s right. We should all get some rest. I’m sure tomorrow’s going to be busy.” She gently herded them out and shut the door, then she turned and faced Dar, who had taken a seat in one of the armchairs. “Why do I feel like I’m trapped in a bizarro Agatha Christie mystery novel?”

Dar held out a hand and Kerry crossed over to the chair and sat on an arm. “I figure, we get rid of DeSalliers, dig up whatever stuff we can here and give it to Bob and get rid of him, and then we can get back to having fun.”

Kerry leaned over and kissed Dar on the head. “Sounds like a plan, boss.” She only hoped it would work.


Chapter

Twenty-one

KERRY STRETCHED OUT her legs, and then propped them up on the railing of the porch outside their room. The day had dawned bright and sunny, and she had decided to spend the time waiting for breakfast by attempting a little poetry. Dar was off picking up something at the hotel’s sundry shop, and she had a few minutes to simply look out over the harbor and revel in the gorgeous view.

And it was truly gorgeous. High up on the slope as they were, the harbor stretched out below her and curved to either side, cupping a crystal aqua circle of water with just the lightest visible chop on it. Around her, she could hear the rustle of trees, the cry of gulls, sounds from the harbor, but very little traffic or bustle. The air mostly bore the scent of foliage and salt air, and Kerry felt a sense of peaceful well-being as she relaxed in the warm sunlight.

With a smile, she returned her attention to the book balanced on her lap and the heavy, injected-ink writing pen Dar had given her. The pen was hardwood, and warm from her hand, and it balanced well in her grip as she flexed her fingers around it.

Thoughtfully, she regarded the page and then added two more lines to the several already there. A knock on the door, however, interrupted her.

With a resigned sigh, Kerry put down her book and went inside, going to the door and peeking through the eyehole. “Oh, crap.” Seeing the female half of DeSalliers’ gumshoe team outside, she considered not answering it. Then she figured she was likely to get more info from the woman than the woman was going to get from her, so she opened the door. “Yes?” Her tone made no pretense of being friendly, and the woman took a half step back.

“Oh, hello, Kerry,” the woman recovered. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Why?” Kerry asked bluntly.

“Just because I think we can help each other.”

Kerry had to wonder briefly if stupidity was contagious.

Perhaps Christen had spent a little too much time with Bob. “Help each other do what?” she inquired. “So far, all you people have Terrors of the High Seas 223

done is help me get a migraine.”

Christen sighed. “Look, can I just come in and talk?”

“No,” Kerry replied. “I’m not sure what it’s going to take to get across the fact that we don’t want anything to do with you, your boss, your stupid mission, or the people you represent. I’m out of options. Should I hire a flying banner plane?”

“The fact is, honey, you are involved.” Christen’s attitude changed, became harder. “So either you let me in and give me what I want, or—”

“Or what?” Kerry found it almost funny. “Are you going to pull a gun on me?”

“No.”

“Are you going to make like Jackie Chan and start yowling Japanese haiku while striking kung fu poses?”

Christen didn’t answer.

“Are you going to try to hit me?” Kerry’s nose crinkled up in amusement. “Threaten me with a lawsuit? What?”

“You think this is a game, don’t you?”

“Hey, you’re the one making the threats.” Kerry laughed, and then got serious herself, jabbing the air in Christen’s direction.

“You listen to me, you half-baked excuse for a high-priced, snoopy lackey. You’d better just back off and go back where you came from. Stop messing with us.”

“Or?” Christen threw the comment back at her.

“Or I’ll call the president of your agency and file a complaint of harassment without cause,” Kerry replied.