Rigged for Murder (Windjammer Mystery Series) (2 page)

The wind and rain buffeted her, and again, the smile wanted to surface. She wondered why. Maybe the gale had touched something elemental in her. She used to love danger. It had been one of the reasons she had joined the police force. There certainly was danger
here
, but it was a good kind of danger. Desirable danger was how she thought of it. Over the years she’d learned to make a distinction.

Brie hugged herself against the cold. Maybe this fragile happiness was rooted in the fact that Maine held so many good memories. Her childhood, her grandparents, her family wiling away their vacation time doing nothing in particular—just being near the ocean. Or maybe it was because the islands and coastal towns of Maine were such a far cry from the seamy side of a big city with its drugs and homicides, rapes and robberies.

Brie closed her eyes and felt the spray on her face, the motion of the ship. The power of the elements engulfed her. She drew in a slow, deep breath, realizing she felt secure in this storm, aboard this ship with a group of total strangers. She could breathe here. Maybe anonymity was what she needed to heal—nobody studying her day after day as if she were a lab rat with cancer.

The second mate’s voice pulled her back.

“It’s bad, Captain. How much longer to the island?” Pete McAllister propped himself against the wind, waiting for a response.

“We’ll make it in thirty minutes if conditions hold,” DuLac shouted, estimating they were still four to five miles out.

Brie turned away from the rail. The arrogance she’d noted in Pete over the past few days had stripped away in the gale. She saw the anxiety on his face as she passed in front of the ship’s wheel to join the others. She knew he was in his late twenties, but at the moment he was more like a boy standing next to a man. In contrast to Pete the captain was alert but calm at the wheel, becoming increasingly resolute as the storm worsened.

“Stand by to come about,” DuLac ordered.

The first and second mates headed forward and worked their way down the sloping deck to the port bow. The approaching seas loomed above them, and down in the trough of the wave the cold Atlantic forced itself through the scuppers, hungrily licking their boots. Pete released one of the jib sheets and moved across to the starboard bow to belay it off. Over on the port side, Scott waited to release the second line until the order came, and the ship started to move upwind.

“Ready about?” DuLac bellowed.

“Ready,” came the reply.

“Helm’s alee.” Stepping to the side of the wheel, DuLac spun it clockwise five rotations, finally pulling the spokes hand over hand, fighting to turn the ship’s rudder in the heavy seas. Slowly, the
Maine Wind
responded, moving to starboard, laboring up into the wind. The listing deck leveled as she came dead into the wind. Scott unlashed the jib sheet and moved across the deck to make it fast on the starboard side.

George Dupopolis, the ship’s cook, and the passengers moved in front of the wheel and over to the port side of the ship, which was already starting to lift as the
Maine Wind
settled into her new course.

DuLac turned to Pete. “Grab the chart on the table in my cabin,” he ordered.

“Aye, Captain.” Pete disappeared down the ladder a few feet in front of them.

T
he captain motioned everyone closer to the wheel. “Our heading will take us north of the cove. When we reach the lee of the island, we’ll lower the yawl boat and motor the ship down there.” He knew the narrow mouth of the cove would be hard to navigate beating upwind under reefed sails. As he spoke a burst of wind hit the rigging and the masts shuddered. “Don’t worry, folks, she was built for these seas.” He knew the
Maine Wind
had seen worse than this in her eighty-five years. Built to fish the Grand Banks, in her heyday she’d navigated seas that were the stuff of nightmares. Seas most schooners and captains could only imagine with dread.

Like any sailor, John DuLac had ultimate respect for the combined elements of wind and water, but, if necessary, he was willing to pit his sailing skills against a challenging sea. He was grateful that
these
passengers were all seasoned sailors. On a normal cruise, fear could have been running as high as the waves breaking across the bow.

DuLac turned the wheel over to Scott. Taking the chart from Pete, he stepped over to the rain-soaked cabin top. He swept his arm along the wood to remove some of the water and spread the chart out.

“How’s it look?” Scott yelled.

“Nice and deep right up to the shore. We can tuck in close.” DuLac slipped the chart under a piece of Plexiglas designed to keep the working chart dry in a storm. He rolled up two others and handed them to Pete. “Take these below.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Within twenty minutes they made their final course change. The rain grudgingly lessened as they neared Granite Island. The
Maine Wind
found her footing, and the wind dropped from a howl to a steady keening through the rigging. The passengers eased free of each other and worked themselves forward along both sides of the ship.

B
rie removed her hood, letting the light rain mist her face. She caught the scent of damp earth and spruce on the carrying wind. Her ponytail had lost some of its grip, and loose strands of hair clung to her neck. Her cheekbones glowed from the cold wind. She turned back toward the open sea. A spectator at nature’s violent show, she watched the wind building out there, shearing the tops off the big waves and flinging spray into the air where it mingled with the rain to form a watery curtain. Behind it, she knew that the ship, its passengers, and the island itself would remain concealed until Mother Nature saw fit to raise the curtain on a more tranquil scene.

“When a nor’easter hits the Maine coast, all you can do is find safe harbor and hunker down till it blows itself out.”

Surprised, Brie turned and studied Scott Hogan’s Irish green eyes. He might as well have been reading her thoughts. In Scott she recognized a kindred spirit. He had shared just enough of his background for her to see that here was a man who understood running away.

“Hunkering down has its appeal,” she said. “But don’t tell the others that—it wouldn’t make me popular.” She dearly loved sailing, but a part of her welcomed the idea of being hidden in this remote cove so far away from what haunted her. She secretly wished the storm would rage long and hard.

Scott pushed the rain hood off his head, revealing russet-colored hair that added warmth to his congenial face. “Mid-May can bring some crazy weather, but that’d never stop the captain from scheduling this shakedown cruise,” he said.

“I guess filling it doesn’t matter to him.”

“Nope. He always takes a small group of experienced sailors who’re okay with whatever May has in store. Some of the other windjammer captains find the whole thing a little...eccentric.” He mulled over the word.

“Does he care?”

“Nope. Anyway, eccentric or not, he’s the best skipper in the fleet.”

Scott headed aft and, as Brie watched, the
Maine Wind
made its approach, coasting gracefully into the lee of the island. Beneath the high bluffs of Granite Island the ship was almost completely shielded from the strong winds. DuLac brought her onto a southeasterly course about fifty yards off shore, and she ghosted along under the cliffs in the calm, deep water.

“All hands prepare to lower the yawl boat,” he ordered.

Brie turned from the rail and headed aft. All of her sailing had been done on either racing scows or large cruisers with inboard diesel engines, and she admired the skill it took to pilot this 90-foot schooner in and out of port using only the small yawl boat.

At the stern the passengers and crew were forming two lines. Brie found her place in a lineup that had become codified over their four days of sailing together. Tim Pelletier, a young man on leave from the Coast Guard, and George, the ship’s cook, fell into line ahead of her. Howard Thackeray, who was taking this cruise with his grown son Will, stepped in behind her. Over on the starboard deck Pete McAllister and Will Thackeray lined up, followed by Rob and Alyssa Lindstrom, a thirty-something couple and the only married passengers aboard.

“Lower away,” DuLac ordered.

Scott and Pete released the yawl boat halyards and the nine men and women braced back against the force. As the lines were let out little by little, the yawl boat began its jerky descent from the stern of the ship. As soon as it hit the water, Scott went over the stern and climbed down the ladder. He jumped into the boat, turned the key, and the powerful diesel engine roared to life. He brought the boat around in a circle, butted it up against the stern of the
Maine Wind
and eased open the throttle. The ship began to glide through the calm waters toward Lobsterman’s Cove, where they would anchor for the night.

G
eorge Dupopolis headed forward and disappeared down the companionway to the galley. The gathering place for passengers and crew, it contained the cooking and dining areas. Pushing the hood off his head, he ran a hand over his black curly hair, removing some of the moisture. His skin was swarthy, more from his lineage than the elements. On a normal day he’d have been down here hours ago, baking his ever-popular apple and blueberry pies.

Just to the right of the ladder, he opened the feeding door on the cast-iron woodstove—the heart and soul of the
Maine Wind
to his way of thinking. He shoved in several logs and before long the old stove came to life, popping and crackling on the dry wood. George carried a large cutting board, laden with vegetables and herbs, over to the end of the dining table that had been designed to fit into the bow. He rolled with the ship, his sturdy legs and low center of gravity making him perfectly suited for work below deck where motion was always amplified. The ship’s foremast ran through the deck overhead and bisected the space filled by the table. A brass hurricane lamp hung from the side of the mast, and he lifted the glass to light the lamp. His hand shook a little as he applied the match to the wick.

George loved his work, but the last few days had left an unease in him. A nervous tic worked the corner of his left eye as he chopped potatoes and onions for the lobster stew he planned to serve that night. In recent years he’d nearly forgotten what bullying felt like. He chopped more aggressively, but eventually the rhythm of his work and the smell of the fresh ingredients brought him to a better place.
Best not to hold a grudge
. He hummed quietly, happy for the shelter of his galley. George had discovered long ago that he had a corner personality. Too much time above deck made him feel ungrounded. An open expanse of thought or sky could sometimes overwhelm him, and then he needed to retreat to something more tangible. Cooking had always met that need.

U
p on deck, Brie watched as the big ship slid along under the pine-green bluffs of the island. She found the monotonous drone of the yawl boat engine a welcome change from the roar of wind and sea that had assaulted them the last couple of hours. Howard Thackeray and Rob Lindstrom had gone below to their cabins, but everyone else remained on deck.

Brie noticed Tim Pelletier standing at the starboard rail, amidships. He had thrown back the hood of his foul-weather jacket revealing a Yankees baseball cap. His ruddy face and neck spoke of lots of time spent outdoors. He gripped the rail with big hands as he stared out to sea. An aura of loneliness clung to him, and Brie, no newcomer to emotional pain, wondered what bygone event might have left him so alone.

He cast an occasional look toward Pete McAllister and Alyssa Lindstrom, who were carrying on a somewhat flirtatious tête-à-tête up in the bow of the ship. They were a study in contrasts, Pete with his light-blue eyes and wavy blond hair, and Alyssa with her straight dark hair and dark eyes. A long-time student of human dynamics, Brie took them in—male and female, youth and beauty, locked in the age-old dance of sexual posturing. Pete had lifted part of the heavy anchor chain off the deck and was doing bicep curls with it. Alyssa had unzipped her raincoat and fleece vest, revealing a form fitting turtleneck that accentuated her curves.

As she turned back toward the island Brie caught a glimpse of Will Thackeray. He, too, was watching their antics. He stood on the cabin top, almost concealed by the large foremast. The steely gaze he directed toward them had a knife edge. Backlit as he was, his eyes appeared black, and he studied the two of them with an intensity that made Brie’s stomach clench. It wasn’t the first time in the last few days that she’d picked up a bad vibe emanating from Will. From what she had seen of him so far, she guessed it might be petty jealousy. He’d obviously spent his college years refining the art of adolescence and seemed determined to carry it with him into adulthood. Still, it seemed odd. She made a mental note of his behavior, at the same time wishing she could escape her detective instincts for just a little while.

Rob Lindstrom emerged from the aft companionway.
Here comes trouble
, Brie thought. Rob, the self-proclaimed photo-finishing czar of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, had anything but a picture-perfect marriage. Fury darkened his eyes as he locked onto Alyssa and Pete. He stormed forward, grabbed her by the arm and ushered her back toward the companionway. Brie heard a muffled protest and retort.

“Don’t treat me like a child, Rob.”

“Then don’t act like one,” he said, following her down the ladder to their cabin.

Storm brewing
onboard
, too, Brie decided.

She turned back to the island, surveying the lay of the land as they coasted past it. Terrain, foliage, composition of the shoreline, and depth of the water all registered unconsciously in a mind trained to notice detail. The rain had started down again, hard, and the shelter of the island was welcome. But the island itself seemed a lonely and remote place. She thought about the isolation of living here, and wondered what the inhabitants, especially the young ones, did to offset it.