The Pandora Box by Lilly Maytree Page B

navigation locker.
    Meanwhile, the steady whir and click of Marion’s laptop from within her little cabin proved that the solitude and fresh sea air was having a significant effect on the advancement of her friend’s novel. She didn’t talk much about it, but the satisfied glow in her gray eyes as she took over Dee’s watch spoke volumes for the effect of the sea on her creativity.
    Starr was forever tinkering in the engine room or down in the bilges or simply lounging on deck with a fishing line rigged up for trolling as they skimmed along. Which almost always resulted in something delectable, like a yellow fin tuna that was barbecued off the fantail for their dinner.
    Other than an occasional sail repair or rigging change, Dee wasn’t exactly sure what Hawk did in his cabin during the off-watch. But the enthusiasm and vigor he often brought back on deck proved he was not always sleeping.
    Which made her wonder if he wasn’t poring over Peterson’s charts and logbook as avidly as she was deciphering the journal. But she wasn’t about to ask him.
    Things were fairly smooth and casual between them and after such a horrendous beginning, neither of them seemed eager to “rock the boat.”
    They were all on their best behavior.
    By the time they reached San Francisco Bay, Dee and Marion had become familiar with the routines of sailing and being at sea and were even learning to adjust the sails.
    They were now linked like a chain to the enormous prospects of their expedition. An electric excitement ran like an undercurrent just below the surface of everything they did.
    When they finally sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge and into the city of San Francisco, it was a sunny, blustery afternoon. They tied Pandora at the transient docks set aside for visitors at the Berkley Marina along Market Street.
    Even though the women put on light, festive blouses in contrast to their jeans and were ready for a shopping spree, they agreed to meet back aboard in the evening for a dinner and night of sightseeing in the famous city.
    After two days on a slanted deck, Dee felt good walking on solid ground again. About four o’clock, when they were enjoying coffee in a little espresso stand along the boardwalk, Dee leaned close to Marion. “Don’t look, Mare, but that guy over at that corner table...the tall one with reddish hair and dark suit...I think he followed us here.”
    “Oh, gads, Dee, you’re not going to get paranoid again, are you? He’s probably sightseeing just like us.”
    Dee shot another look over at him. Her freshly washed curls were twisted up into a new tortoise-shell clip she had bought, and it was a relief to finally stash the black knit cap into her shoulder bag and not worry about the wind, which was blowing steadily against the back of her neck even in this sheltered nook of the little sidewalk cafe.
    “He looks suspicious,” she continued to whisper. “Like he works for the Mafia or the CIA or something. He keeps watching us, too.”
    He glanced in their direction and she made a pretense of studying the menu card, even though they already had their coffee.
    “What if someone turned us in and there’s an APB out on us?” she asked over the top of the coffee-colored menu card.
    A momentary alarm flashed over Marion’s face. “Who would turn us in? Listen, even if they did put out an APB, we’ve only been here a couple of hours. Right? This is a huge city, Dee. How would anyone even know where to look? Believe me, it would be some lucky guess if they thought to look in San Francisco. It’s not even in the same state. You didn’t see any police boats following us, did you?”
    “You’re right. It’s carrying this stolen ring around with me: that’s what’s doing it. Probably as cursed as everybody says it is. Worse yet, it probably has the same curse as Achen’s stuff.” She gave an exaggerated shudder and set the card back in its holder.
    “I’ve never heard of a pharaoh named Achen,”