you’re concerned.”
Sulfur Wells wasn’t in Sematee County, which I pointed out, but Ransler replied it wasn’t a problem. Then looked around, saying, “I’ve got clothes and my fishing gear in the car. Can I change in your mom’s house? Or what about there?”
He pointed at what I still believe is the most beautiful little motor yacht I’ve ever seen: a twenty-seven-foot “picnic” boat, a Marlow Prowler, moored at the end of the dock. A client had rewarded me with a year rent-free if I made it livable, then maintained it. Problem was, as I should have known, the vessel was twenty years old, had seldom been used, so there was mold in the bathroom, and the air-conditioning needed to be redone. Yesterday, after kissing Ford good-bye, I had busied myself by moving the boat here so I could work on it and also keep an eye on Loretta.
“You’re welcome to go aboard,” I told Ransler, “but the head doesn’t work.”
“You own it?” He was walking toward the boat, his eyes taking in the midnight blue hull, the white upper deck, the teak and stainless fittings that I had stripped, then polished.
“I wish,” I replied, then explained why the Marlow had become my project.
“She’s a beauty,” he said, “but a little small to live on, don’t you think?”
“I’ll let you know in a week. The new head and shower fittings arrive tomorrow. I’ve been working on it for months, but I hope to have everything finished and my things aboard by Sunday.”
Joel Ransler had the ability to flex his jaw and smile at the same time. When he did it now, the actor he resembled came into my mind—the handsome one in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
, although both actors had been handsome in their way.
“A fishing guide, a private investigator, and you’re a ship’s carpenter, too,” he smiled. “Is there anything you can’t do, Captain Smith?”
I don’t blush but felt as if I came close, even though Ransler had just confirmed he knew I had worked part-time in my uncle’s agency, which meant he’d done a background check on me. I told him, “Plumbing and wiring aren’t hard if you just follow the directions. If there’s something too heavy to manage alone, I’ve got a friend who’s a bodybuilder. And another friend, Cordial Pallet—you ever hear of him? There’s nothing that man doesn’t know about boats, and he helps when I get stuck.”
“He’s the marine biologist you’re dating?”
I shook my head. Cordial was in his eighties and runs the boatyard at Fisherman’s Wharf, which I was explaining when I noticed an odd glint of light from the balcony of the new neighbors’ house. I shielded my eyes and climbed up on the dock to have a look.
Ransler asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Hang on,” I said, because I realized that someone was spying on us.
• • •
OUR FAMILY’S DOCK is two hundred feet long, and I was halfway to shore before I was sure of what I was seeing. Alice Candor was on the balcony, standing with a man who was four inches shorter and holding something to his face—a camera, I realized. Candor was directing while the man snapped pictures of me, using a telephoto lens, which is why he soon knew he’d been spotted and ducked behind the railing. But I’d had time to recognize him. It was the officious little man who’d ordered the removal of Loretta’s garden and fruit trees.
Another zoning violation,
I thought. It explained why the man wanted photos of me with a fishing client. Or . . . had Alice Candor complained about the Marlow cruiser, a vessel big enough to live aboard at a private dock?
I looked over my shoulder at the boat, then walked until I had a view of the road and stopped again. The redheaded deputy, whom I’d actually sort of liked, was nowhere to be seen. Levi Thurloe was in the Candors’ yard, a bag of cement under each arm, walking toward the side of the house. Fifty-pound bags, but no problem at all for Walkin’ Levi. If police
Sulfur Wells wasn’t in Sematee County, which I pointed out, but Ransler replied it wasn’t a problem. Then looked around, saying, “I’ve got clothes and my fishing gear in the car. Can I change in your mom’s house? Or what about there?”
He pointed at what I still believe is the most beautiful little motor yacht I’ve ever seen: a twenty-seven-foot “picnic” boat, a Marlow Prowler, moored at the end of the dock. A client had rewarded me with a year rent-free if I made it livable, then maintained it. Problem was, as I should have known, the vessel was twenty years old, had seldom been used, so there was mold in the bathroom, and the air-conditioning needed to be redone. Yesterday, after kissing Ford good-bye, I had busied myself by moving the boat here so I could work on it and also keep an eye on Loretta.
“You’re welcome to go aboard,” I told Ransler, “but the head doesn’t work.”
“You own it?” He was walking toward the boat, his eyes taking in the midnight blue hull, the white upper deck, the teak and stainless fittings that I had stripped, then polished.
“I wish,” I replied, then explained why the Marlow had become my project.
“She’s a beauty,” he said, “but a little small to live on, don’t you think?”
“I’ll let you know in a week. The new head and shower fittings arrive tomorrow. I’ve been working on it for months, but I hope to have everything finished and my things aboard by Sunday.”
Joel Ransler had the ability to flex his jaw and smile at the same time. When he did it now, the actor he resembled came into my mind—the handsome one in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
, although both actors had been handsome in their way.
“A fishing guide, a private investigator, and you’re a ship’s carpenter, too,” he smiled. “Is there anything you can’t do, Captain Smith?”
I don’t blush but felt as if I came close, even though Ransler had just confirmed he knew I had worked part-time in my uncle’s agency, which meant he’d done a background check on me. I told him, “Plumbing and wiring aren’t hard if you just follow the directions. If there’s something too heavy to manage alone, I’ve got a friend who’s a bodybuilder. And another friend, Cordial Pallet—you ever hear of him? There’s nothing that man doesn’t know about boats, and he helps when I get stuck.”
“He’s the marine biologist you’re dating?”
I shook my head. Cordial was in his eighties and runs the boatyard at Fisherman’s Wharf, which I was explaining when I noticed an odd glint of light from the balcony of the new neighbors’ house. I shielded my eyes and climbed up on the dock to have a look.
Ransler asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Hang on,” I said, because I realized that someone was spying on us.
• • •
OUR FAMILY’S DOCK is two hundred feet long, and I was halfway to shore before I was sure of what I was seeing. Alice Candor was on the balcony, standing with a man who was four inches shorter and holding something to his face—a camera, I realized. Candor was directing while the man snapped pictures of me, using a telephoto lens, which is why he soon knew he’d been spotted and ducked behind the railing. But I’d had time to recognize him. It was the officious little man who’d ordered the removal of Loretta’s garden and fruit trees.
Another zoning violation,
I thought. It explained why the man wanted photos of me with a fishing client. Or . . . had Alice Candor complained about the Marlow cruiser, a vessel big enough to live aboard at a private dock?
I looked over my shoulder at the boat, then walked until I had a view of the road and stopped again. The redheaded deputy, whom I’d actually sort of liked, was nowhere to be seen. Levi Thurloe was in the Candors’ yard, a bag of cement under each arm, walking toward the side of the house. Fifty-pound bags, but no problem at all for Walkin’ Levi. If police
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