A Dangerous Harbor (12 page)

Astrid hungrily devoured Katy's life in pictures and said, "My parents were hippies and I was born on a catamaran, so I guess Astrid Del Mar's better than Rainbow."

"You said
were
. Are they still alive?"

"Lost at sea," she quipped, dragging her eyes away from the photos. "I was sixteen and fed up with their crackpot ideas of what constituted 'paradise.' Their response was to dump me and my duffel bag on the dock at PV and sail away. Never heard from them again. So, yeah, I guess I am an orphan, aren't I?"

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Oh, please. They were a sorry excuse for parents. Not like yours, I bet. Nice-looking family you got. I sure could've been happy in a family like that. But I guess you hear a lot of sad orphan stories, being a cop and all. San Francisco, wasn't it?
 
When are you going home?"

"Soon." Katy sighed.
One more person who knows why I'm here.
"So, where were you the night the girl was murdered?"

"On my boat, asleep."

"Alone?"

She shot Katy a thoughtful look, then said, "I'll take the fifth on that one… at least, for now. So, we done?"

"For now."

When Astrid was gone, Katy took out the list and made some notes: One: Astrid was a pathological liar. Her attraction to Katy's family photos only whetted her appetite for an embellished version of her parentage. And, if that weren't enough, the girl had lifted Katy's favorite hair
scrunchie
. Astrid calling
Myne
a thief was a stretch when the girl herself obviously had an uncontrollable desire to steal. Katy added
klepto
beside Astrid's name and wondered what had provoked the girl this time… the mention of family? A touchy subject for a lot of people.

If Astrid had a thing for Jeff, had she offered him an alibi?
 
But did she have anything to do with the murder or the cover-up?

Katy carefully stuck her forefinger in the opening of the soda can Astrid used, put it in a plastic baggie, and before zipping it shut, laid it on the floor of her cabin and added enough foot pressure to squeeze the sides flat.

Another ID for Bruce Sullivan and the results should be very interesting.

She was on her way to the marina office where she planned to FedEx the package with the two cans and a note to Bruce, when she almost stumbled over Ida Howard. The older woman was kneeling over a plow anchor, her chin-length gray bob swinging in time to her energetic polishing of a stainless anchor. Katy looked from the anchor up to the shabby sailboat. When attached to the boat, the anchor would hang like a shiny Christmas star on a moth-eaten fir tree.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Howard," said Katy. "That's a, uh, nice big anchor."

The older woman got up off her knees and dead-lifted the heavy anchor up in her arms. "
This
is the only thing on this boat that isn't worm-eaten." Ida dropped the forty-five-pound Danforth anchor on the dock and spit on it.

This was one angry woman and she could see why; worn and rotting teak decks, splitting teak rails and peeling paint on the main mast, and green algae doing a hula with the water line. The boat was a wreck.

"How'd you come to buy it, then?"

"
Buy
it?" Ida squeaked. "You're a sailing woman, tell me the truth, would you buy this piece of shit?" she asked, giving a grand sweep of her arm at the floating wreck. "And just for fun, he had
Consolation Prize
painted on the stern. Now do you understand why that silly little bitch,
Myne
, was laughing?"

"I see."

"Do you? The boat was supposed to be Spencer Bobbitt's farewell gift for thirty years of loyal service as his CPA. He brought us the brochures, produced an equipment list that included new sails, a fully functioning engine, newly painted bottom, redone teak decks. It had everything we needed to sail to Tahiti, at least it did on paper. We sold our home on his
promise.
 
Packed up and moved down here with every expectation of stepping on board a brand new fifty-foot sailboat, provisioning, and then leaving for our lifetime dream of cruising the Pacific."

Katy thought of Spencer climbing out a bathroom window to elude an angry mob of American housewives who saw through his French couture scam. Obviously, Spencer didn't think so highly of a thirty-year employee. Or had Wally done something to cause this kind of treatment?

"This must've been a disappointment."

Tears welled up in the older woman's eyes and she angrily swiped at them. "You have no idea. This is the sort of thing he does because he can get away with it. And why should it be any different with us? But my silly husband convinced me that Spencer would come through. I'd kill Spencer Bobbitt with my bare hands, given the chance…" She reddened and tried to back-pedal. "Not that I had anything to do with his latest mess, but it galls to think he's going to wriggle out of a murder charge, too."

Katy looked from Mrs. Howard to the boat and back again. "You said
too
. Is Spencer in trouble for something else?"

"I… I just meant that the bastard always has a loophole."

 
"So, what did you and Wally do to deserve this kind of treatment?"

"Me! The only thing I did wrong was to believe Wallace. And Wallace was influenced by Spencer's illegal business schemes. That's what
we
did wrong."

"If Wallace wants to cooperate with the authorities, I'm sure he could get immunity from any prosecution against Spencer."

"It's too
late
." And then the older woman's face crumbled and she sobbed into her hands.

Katy reached out to comfort the woman. "Why is it too late, Ida? Tell me what's happened and maybe I can help."

Ida wiped her face with her sleeve, sniffled once, and then looked around. "Oh God. Look at me, crying my eyes out here in the open where everyone can see me. I can't talk about this anymore." Then Ida turned and staggered for her boat steps.

Well, thought Katy, here's an interesting development for the inspector. If Wallace Howard was Spencer's CPA, he would know all the man's dirty secrets. There was no doubt about it—the derelict sailboat was a gift and a message. Now she would have to find out the message.

There was no capital punishment in Mexico, but it wouldn't be hard to imagine someone wanting to see Spencer Bobbitt suffer a long and slow death in a Mexican jail. Could these two people have committed the murder as revenge? And why did Ida Howard say it was too late?

She looked around. It was still a bright blue and sunny day in a beautiful marina full of vacationing sailors and fishermen.

Oh, to be home again. If only she could click her heels three times and be back in her San Francisco following autumn leaves as they cartwheeled down Columbus to her favorite coffee shop. Or be back in her apartment, preparing lasagna as part of her monthly pay-it-forward dinner night out between friends and colleagues.

Checking her watch, she saw she would have to hurry if she didn't want to keep the inspector waiting. Still hot and humid at eight p.m. she took her kit bag to the marina showers, changed into her only sundress, pulled her hair up into a knot at the top of her head, spritzed herself lightly with fragrance and added a little lip-gloss, then exited a side door that led around to the front of the hotel. She was walking to the main street when she saw a familiar figure leaning against a late model black Mercedes under the hotel's portico. Chief Inspector
Vignaroli
was waiting for her.

Only when she was practically in front of him did he break the concentrated stare he had on the hotel entry. Startled out of his private reverie, he dropped and then crushed the cigarette he'd been smoking and gave her a small formal bow. "Good evening,
señorita
."

"Hello," she said, now feeling awkward. He was dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie. "You look… uh, nice."

"I am supposed to look like a chauffeur. Please," he said, and opening the back door of the luxurious sedan for her, he waved her into the back seat.

When he was satisfied that she was settled and buckled in, he walked around to the driver's side and got in.

She asked, "Do you really think anyone is going to believe this?"

He looked at her in the rearview mirror and started the engine. "Why not? It makes more sense than having the watchers see you get into a police car."

"Are there watchers?"

"Of course," he said, pulling out into traffic. "And why is my disguise not perfect?"

"You don't hurry enough to be a chauffeur." And he looked at her too much.

He chuckled, the deep rumble leaving a warm spot somewhere in Katy's middle.

A block away from the hotel, he turned onto a highway leading out of town. Then he pulled over, got out, opened her door and beckoned her out.

"Here?" she asked. "Don't you want to talk inside the car?"

He smiled. "I am off duty and hungry. So if you will join me for dinner, I would very much appreciate it. We can talk there,
sí
?"

He walked her around to the passenger side and opened her door. She hesitated. "Wouldn't you rather be home with your wife and family tonight, Inspector?"

"This is business,
Señorita
Hunter. And we will be in a public restaurant owned by a family member, so I will expect by tomorrow my entire family will have questions, if not opinions, on the subject."

She nodded, got in, fastened her seatbelt.

"So, where did you borrow this nice car, Inspector
Vignaroli
?"

"It's mine," he said, with just enough humor in his voice to let her know he was enjoying himself. She wasn't going to ask, as well he knew, how a Mexican policeman could afford a luxury German car like this one.

He hit a button on the dash and immediately the air conditioner quietly lowered the temperature to a comfortable seventy-two. "Let me know if you're cold."

Another button and classical music washed through the interior.

"Chopin okay with you?" The car was headed north, and soon they were climbing higher into a dark, mountainous region.

Katy was beginning to wonder what she had gotten herself into. She was in a foreign country in a married police officer's very expensive private auto heading for God only knew where in the dead of night.

He looked at her. "I see that this is making you uncomfortable. Please rest assured that I am after only two things; one of which is to get us both away from the center of Ensenada so that we can talk in private, and the other is so that we can both enjoy a very good meal."

With each turn of the wheel the headlights twisted away from the road to throw a spotlight into the moonlit sky. She stole a glance at his shadowed face in profile. The high clear forehead, that prominent brow with those perfectly carved black brows and impossibly long eyelashes. In any other circumstance, she would be pleased to be going out to dinner with a darkly handsome man who made her insides go all fluttery.

He caught her looking and nodded. "Are you perhaps just a little hungry? I can promise you will love the food here."

"So, where is this place, Kansas?"

"You'll see." Rounding a corner, he pulled off the road and swung the wheel around until he rolled up next to an adobe building with wide steps leading up to cathedral-size double doors.

Two valets scurried down the steps to open their doors and Raul handed one boy his keys while the other opened Katy's door to offer her his assistance.

The chief came around the car and offered his arm.