The Chocolate Falcon Fraud by JoAnna Carl

help lift.”
    Tony Herrera was an old friend of Joe’s, and, yes, he was strong and agile. So we put our empty wineglasses on the table and moved to the dock, where people were lining up for yacht tours. Tony joined us, and he and Joe were able to lower me into the small boat without dropping me overboard. The man at the oars assured us he and Joe could help me out at the other end of the trip. And inside of five minutes I was settled in the main lounge of
La Paloma
and had accepted a new glass of white wine from a steward in a white jacket.
    The yacht was beautiful, and I wasn’t surprised to see that it had 1930s decor. Its design was stark, with cantilevered stairways—boat people call them “companionways”—connecting the three deck levels. The dominant color scheme was white for draperies and furniture, with bright-colored cushions. There were a lot of chrome accents. Of course, in the film
La Paloma
is a freighter. I couldn’t see that the yacht had any direct connection with
The Maltese Falcon
, but it was beautiful in its own way. Which was not my way, but it was worth seeing.
    Joe toured the whole yacht, paying special attention to the mechanical aspect, the way a boat lover should. Most of the boat fanatics hovered on the “flying bridge,” an extra open-air bridge that is on the highest point of the vessel. I always kidded Joe that it was there so that the captain could run the boat and join the party at the same time. Which was okay when the boat was anchored in a river, as
La Paloma
was that evening.
    After thirty minutes or so, Joe came back, sat beside me, and gave an enthusiastic report on the yacht’s amenities and modern technical equipment. He’d met the captain, and was obviously impressed with the man’s knowledge of his craft in two senses of the word—both his nautical skills and the particular boat he was in charge of.
    The man knew his job, Joe said, and also had every detail of
La Paloma
’s abilities and equipment stored in his brain. The only thing Joe had missed about him, it seemed, was his name.
    â€œI just called him ‘captain,’” he said.
    By that time, I noted, most of the film festival committee was present. Mary Kay McCurley took a seat near us.
    She didn’t look entirely happy. “I wish I knew what’s going on,” she said. “Grossman says he has an announcement.”
    â€œHe told us that, too, but he didn’t explain.”
    Mary Kay shrugged. “He didn’t tell me either. But I doubt it’s about the film festival. And that’s my big deal right at the moment.”
    Sure enough, in a few minutes Grossman took his place at the top of the companionway between the lower deck and thenext one up. He leaned on the banister and some shrimpy guy who looked a lot like Wilmer, another of the characters in
The Maltese Falcon
film, rang a gong to attract the group’s attention. About fifty people were now present, and we all looked at Grossman.
    Grossman formally welcomed everyone to his yacht and assured us that the bar would continue to be open indefinitely.
    â€œThis is a wonderful occasion,” he said. “A tribute to a great American motion picture and a great—perhaps the greatest—American novel.”
    There was a retired English professor in the room, and I saw him raise his eyebrows.
The Maltese Falcon
is certainly highly regarded, but calling it “the greatest American novel” might be going overboard. I didn’t leap to my feet to argue.
    Grossman continued. “And I admit,” he said, “I freely admit that I am one of that small group of people who believe that Hammett’s masterpiece had its own mysteries.
    â€œIts own mysteries,” he repeated in a dramatic manner, “as yet unsolved.”
    Mary Kay rolled her eyes like a teenager.
    And Grossman spoke again. “Because of my belief, I am willing to sponsor a