Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) (3 page)

I glanced over at Rip as he withdrew his Mastercard from his wallet. He was standing in line behind a young couple who were purchasing out-of-state fishing licenses. Their joyful banter and laughter was contagious, and I could feel myself getting pumped as well.

Despite the "bite" the fishing equipment would take out of our budget, I was now actually looking forward to the fishing excursion. Milo said we'd be launching the boat at the Little Bay boat ramp by Rockport Beach, and crossing the Intercoastal Waterway to fish in the shallow areas along a narrow piece of land called St. Jo Island, which was about six-and-a-half miles across the ship channel from Rockport. The island separated Aransas Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. I'd been over there a number of times throughout the years, but only on pleasure cruises with friends.

I joined Rip at the check-out counter. I had resigned myself to the fact that even though our fishing excursion wouldn't come cheap, it would no doubt be a memorable adventure. I was even getting excited at the prospect of landing a trophy fish that I could brag about at the Bunko party I was planning to attend Tuesday evening.

As I approached Rip, his cell phone rang. After a few brief one-word responses to the caller, he ended the call and turned to me. He said, "We need to head straight to Reggie's house when we leave here. She's so riled up, I can't even make out what she's trying to tell me. I'm not sure what, but something has happened to upset her."

Chapter 2

"Our daughter is a first-class drama queen," Rip whispered to me as we stood in the entryway of Regina and Milo's luxurious home.

"I know," I quietly replied.

Reggie was in the early stages of a temper tantrum when we'd arrived on her doorstep Saturday afternoon. She was now in the midst of a total meltdown, entirely unaware Rip and I were conversing with each other about her over-the-top behavior.

I'd been a young mother—only eighteen when I'd given birth to Reggie—but had done my very best to raise a responsible and mature child. I was standing there next to my stoic husband, thinking,
Is this ranting and raving a result of her upbringing? Have I let my only child down in some way to make her behave so childishly? Is this outlandish display she's putting on due to those eleven or twelve Lucky Strikes I'd smoked during my first trimester?

"I can't believe Milo won't let me buy a new Mercedes," Reggie lamented as the three of us made our way into the living room. "I should have known better than to marry such a tightwad! Milo's walking on thin ice where I'm concerned, let me tell you. I'm a real estate agent, for goodness' sake. I have to drive clients around in my vehicle and it's downright embarrassing hauling them around in a two-year old car that doesn't even have a sunroof!"

"It's still an impressive car, honey," Rip said, trying to calm her down. "In fact, your vehicle looks like it just rolled off the assembly line. It's a hybrid SUV, which I know are not cheap. That car had to set you back at least forty grand."

"Fifty-two, actually."

"Good grief, girl!" Rip exclaimed. "How much more lavish does it need to be to transport clients? It can't have more than thirty thousand miles on—"

"Twenty-four," Reggie corrected him with a dramatic sniffle.

"Only twenty-four thousand?" Rip asked incredulously.

"Hundred. Twenty-four hundred. Rockport is a small town so I hardly ever drive over ten miles at a time. Any farther than that, I drive Milo's Beemer."

"Beemer?" I asked. "What's that?"

"It's a BMW. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mom," she replied with a hint of annoyance in her voice. The annoyance quickly changed to contempt as she added, "Milo's car is brand new, of course! As is his company truck, a three-quarter ton Dodge Ram with all the bells and whistles. His truck even has seat warmers. My car doesn't. On a cold day, Milo can press a button and have his tight ass on fire in less than a minute."

"I see. So, are we to presume your clients need to have their asses set on fire before they'll consider purchasing a piece of property with you as their agent?"

Reggie totally blew off her father's scathing question, and stated, "So, the way I see it, I deserve a brand new vehicle too."

"Are you completely bonkers, Reggie?" I had to get my two cents in because I was in as much disbelief as Rip was. "I have a bottle of Worcestershire sauce in our fridge that's probably twice as old as your current vehicle."

"Then maybe you should bite the bullet and spend a couple bucks on a new bottle," she replied spitefully. "And I realize that's not a tremendous number of miles for a car, but the point is that it's nearly two years old now."

Rip shook his head and said, "It's the condition of the vehicle, not its age, that matters. Honey, our truck had sixty thousand on it when we bought it. It has one-hundred and fifty-five thousand on it now and still runs like a champ."

"You're not a realtor dealing with well-to-do clients, Dad! You can get by driving an ancient piece of dilapidated junk that should have been laid to rest a hundred-thousand miles ago. I can't!"

I saw the steely look in Rip's eyes. I knew he'd taken offense to his trustworthy and beloved Chevy being referred to in such an offensive fashion. He'd always taken pride in keeping it in top-notch condition.

"Why would you want to throw away hard-earned money on an expensive vehicle when you have a perfectly good one already?" I asked before Rip could respond to Reggie's insulting remarks. My daughter didn't have the sense God gave a Milk Dud when it came to finances. I've been accused of using clichés too often, but I felt compelled to say, "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know!"

"Humph," Reggie replied in disgust before clenching her fists and exclaiming, "I should have known you'd both take Milo's side. You two just don't get it! And neither does he!"

In a fit of fury, Reggie furiously brushed a coaster, an empty water bottle, and a paperback book off the end table with a swipe of her arm. Rip leaned toward me and said under his breath, "She's got that part right. I don't 'get' it at all. Milo must be rolling in it. Flipping houses must be more lucrative than I'd ever imagined it could be."

"Milo must have the patience of Job, as well," I whispered back.

Then to his daughter, Rip said more loudly, "We aren't taking anyone's side, Regina. We're just not accustomed to throwing good money out the window. You do know that as soon as you drive that new Mercedes off the lot, it will depreciate quite a bit in value, don't you? And even though your car isn't even broken in yet, you'll also take a huge hit on its trade-in value."

"I don't care!" Reggie was pouting like a five-year-old who wasn't allowed to add a candy bar to the grocery cart in the check-out line. She went on to say, "Besides, the Mercedes is a convertible, and I negotiated a really good deal on it, Dad. I'd look like a very successful realtor driving around in this car, which you should realize could only be advantageous to me in obtaining new clients. It's really a sweet ride, too."

Reggie had calmed down, but I knew her mood could swing wildly in the other direction at any moment. I'd witnessed her tantrums many times as she was growing up. She'd be blissfully up in the clouds one minute and lying flat on the floor wailing and stomping her feet the next. I'd hoped she'd grow out of this behavior before she hit twenty, but she'd passed that mark three decades ago and nothing had changed.

"I'm afraid to even ask how much this new car would cost," Rip said to Reggie as he shook his head in disgust.

"Well, that's what's so awesome about the deal. It's worth over two-hundred but I got the dealer down to one-seventy-five. So there goes your stupid depreciation theory, huh, Dad?"

"One hundred and seventy-five thousand? Are you for real? For goodness sakes, Regina Louise! Use your head!" Rip said, his voice rising in anger. I thought for a second he might fall to the floor, wail, and stomp his feet just as Reggie used to.

It was apparent to both Reggie and me that Rip was totally fed-up. The use of Reggie's full name was reserved for when he was so irritated with her he couldn't see straight. I'd noticed he'd been using my middle name, Ann, more and more in recent years, but surely that was just out of habit, not annoyance.

Reggie and Milo owned a ritzy waterfront home on the exclusive island of Key Allegro. They had a boat-lift, Jet Ski lift, and a fish cleaning station on their dock. There was a fancy-pants in-ground pool in the backyard, as well, with a concrete dolphin statue that spewed re-circulated water back into the swallow end. I felt the pool was indulgent, but admit I enjoyed using it on occasion to exercise my arm and leg muscles.

Having lived in Rockport for many years before becoming a full-time RVer, I knew many of the homes on Key Allegro Island were nothing but million-dollar vacation retreats; tax write-offs, no doubt. There were only a few other full-time residents on the street the Moores lived on. But some of the older homes on the north end of the island were still affordable for the only moderately affluent folks, and more of those homes were lived in year-round.

Reggie had what I was sure were crocodile tears in her eyes now as she whined. "But we can afford it. I work hard and earn my share of our income and should have just as much access to our bank account as Milo. But no! He insists on handling all the finances himself and it's just not fair!"

"Thank God for that!" Rip muttered.

Reggie and Milo had more money invested in their marble countertops than we had in our thirty-foot travel trailer and pickup truck combined. It made me want to slap our enraged daughter and say, "Grow up and get over it, girl!"

Fortunately, Rip stepped in before I could carry out an instinctive reaction I'd later regret. He said, "Look around you, Regina. Do you know how fortunate you are to have all of these luxury items that normal folk could never imagine owning? Your mother and I couldn't even afford that rather pointless bronze statue in the corner over there."

Reggie glanced where Rip was pointing and repeated her incensed, "Humph!"

I asked, "What's it supposed to be, anyway? A pelican? Whooping crane? A dolphin, maybe?"

"I'm pretty sure it's a swordfish," Rip said, turning to me.

"Oh, good grief! You two beat anything I've ever seen! It's a damn flamingo, for God's sake! Get it? Like Flamingo Road, the street Milo and I live on. Get it? Jeez."

"Was the artist smoking that wacky weed when he was sculpting it? If that's a flamingo, he certainly used a creative license to create it. I could have thrown together something that at least resembled a bird." I should have kept my opinion to myself but it would have taken more self-restraint than I possess. "That thing could be a bust of Abraham Lincoln for all anyone could tell."

"Wacky weed? Good Lord, Mother. You guys are so backwoods, it's almost embarrassing to introduce you to my friends. Rednecks plum to the bone! I think Larry the Cable Guy should use you two as an inspiration for his stand-up comedy." Reggie was livid, practically foaming at the mouth. I'd been right to anticipate the mood pendulum would swing back rapidly in the "incensed" direction.

I have to admit that "redneck" barb stung, even though most people would agree it was a fairly accurate description of Rip and me. I flinched before saying, "I'm sorry if you're ashamed of us, Reggie. We certainly never meant to be an embarrassment to you. Maybe we should be going now."

Reggie shook her head and stormed out of the room. I was beginning to believe she really did need to be slapped to put an end to her hysteria before she needed to breathe into a paper bag. Rip took my hand, and said, "Let's get out of here and let her cool down. My guess is she needs to be on some kind of medication, or seek counseling for anger management."

Rip had forgotten that when he wasn't wearing his hearing aids, which was the majority of the time, he had a tendency to speak louder than normal. Reggie screamed from the kitchen, "I don't need medicine or counseling! I need a husband who treats me like an equal and parents who understand what I'm going through!"

Rip led me to the door. Before we exited the house, I yelled, "And, by the way, there ain't no 'damn' flamingos here in south Texas!"

"I never said there were!" Reggie shouted back in a rage. I heard her holler a very profane expletive just as her front door was closing behind us. There's no way I'd take the blame for her potty mouth or her impertinent attitude. I'd raised her better than that. Even those few ill-advised cigarettes I'd smoked during my pregnancy could not account for her current irrational behavior. At five-nine, Reggie was taller than both her father and me, so they hadn't stunted her growth, either.