The Chocolate Pirate Plot (8 page)

But I frequently get my “tang tongled,” the way I did when I told Brenda I considered her my babysitter.

Once I asked my economics professor to remember his own undergrad days and grade my final exam with “apathy.” I meant “empathy,” of course. Luckily, he thought my mistake was funny. Or I guess it was lucky. He told the story all over the department, but he gave me an A.

I admit that my mistakes can be funny—to other people—and they usually happen only when I'm nervous. So I try to correct them and go on as if I hadn't said something really stupid.

But I try not to make them insulting.

The episode Max was talking about had happened during the time when he was hounding me to identify the pirates who had boarded our boat.

He had come into the shop yet one more time, and he and I were sitting in my office. He was again quizzing me about each of the pirates.

“One of the guys was tall,” I said. “The other wasn't. The girl had a sexy figure. Really, Max! I don't know what else to tell you. They were covered with wigs and makeup. None of them had a wooden leg or one blue eye and one brown or anything else obvious.”

It was at this point that the door to the shop opened, and someone came in. Both the counter girls had gone to the back, so I stood up and leaned out the door of my office, looking toward the workroom to make sure one of them was coming up to wait on the new customer, but I kept talking to Max, and I didn't really look at the customer.

“Why are you so fixated on this?” I said.

“Because of
The Pirates of Penzance
.”

“Surely you've got an actor ready to play the Pygmy King,” I said.

Okay. I meant the Pirate King, one of the biggest and most colorful roles in
The Pirates of Penzance.
I'd twisted my tongue, as usual.

That wouldn't have been bad.

But as I said it, I turned away from Max and found myself—well, I can't say face-to-face; it would have to be chest-to-face—with the man who'd just come in the door.

He was barely five feet tall.

Of course, since I'm just a shade less than six feet tall, I was towering over him.

He looked at me, deadpan, with his head tipped slightly back. I stared at him. I could feel my face growing hot. And I began to stammer.

“The Pirate King!” I said. “I mean the Pirate King! I'm sure you have an actor for that role. After all, the short must go on.”

I didn't try to correct that one. I simply slunk back to my chair and collapsed.

Max had snickered. I remember that. Then he spoke to the man who had come in, and I realized the short guy had come in to see Max. Max may have introduced us. I don't remember. The blood was pounding in my ears, and the office was spinning.

The man spoke to Max, making a rather odd comment. “I've got the ice bucket set up,” he said.

The comment seemed to annoy Max, who said, “I thought we were taking the cooler.”

The short man frowned, shrugged, and left.

I remembered the episode, but it was my embarrassment that stuck in my mind, not the man who had come into the shop. Now I tried to remember him.

He was blond, as Jill had said. He was probably less than an inch over five feet tall, but he was well proportioned. Well, sort of. Actually, his shoulders were too broad, so his physique was somewhat odd. But broad shoulders are not something men complain about. I remember he was wearing a T-shirt and khaki shorts—the Warner Pier uniform—and his tee was tight enough to show off smooth muscles. He might have been small, but he looked macho. I couldn't remember his face, but I remembered that he wasn't unattractive. I could see that Jill might well have been attracted to him.

Now I recalled my attention to my phone call. Max told me he would be heading for Warner Pier within the hour and assured me he'd check on Jill when he got there. She lived, he told me, in the small dorm the theater ran for cast and crew members.

I somehow found my voice and said good-bye. Then I hung up, and I again tried to picture Jeremy Mattox. Something about his appearance was trying to bubble up from my memory.

I went into the kitchen and stared out the window, and I tried to remember. His face? I couldn't describe it in detail. His build? Muscular, but not muscle-bound. His clothing?

As I said, Jeremy had worn the Warner Pier uniform, khaki shorts and a T-shirt. I was wearing the same thing myself at that moment—my polo shirt was a medium blue. I don't know why khaki shorts are the standard garb for our town, but they are. The only variation for summer workers comes in the colors of their T-shirts. City employees wear white, for example, and TenHuis counter girls, naturally, wear chocolate brown.

T-shirt. I closed my eyes and pictured Jeremy Mattox. His T-shirt had been a reddish orange, a rather odd color. And it had words across the front.

What did the T-shirt say?

Suddenly I remembered.

“Camp Sail-Along.”

I
t was the distinctive red-orange color that tickled my memory and made me recall the words on the shirt.

Warner Pier is in summer camp country, of course. All around us are church camps, sports camps, math or science camps—like the one where Ken McNutt was teaching—and those camps where rich parents park their kids for the entire summer. Some of the camps are old, some new. But Camp Sail-Along's shirt was recognizable because it wasn't a standard red, blue, green, or yellow. It was that color sometimes called “bittersweet” or maybe “brick,” a bright rust that might be hard to find in an ordinary T-shirt catalog. On the shirt's left front was a triangular logo that seemed to represent a sail. The name was centered under the logo.

Apparently Camp Sail-Along was a sailing camp. But it could be either a day camp or a residential camp.

What connection could Jeremy Mattox have had with Camp Sail-Along? Maybe none. The camp might have sold some leftover shirts at a garage sale, and he picked one up for a couple of bucks. Or he could have been a counselor there sometime. Or he could have had a girlfriend who was a counselor there. Or he could have been a camper there, once upon a time.

I decided to find out more about the camp. I called the secretary of the Warner Pier Chamber of Commerce, Zelda Gruppen. I had to begin by apologizing for bothering her on her afternoon off.

“It's okay,” she said. “I'm just doing laundry. Any interruption is welcome. What can I do for you?”

“Do you know anything about Camp Sail-Along?”

“I know they got new ownership and dropped their chamber membership.”

“Dirty deal! Why'd they do that?”

“I only talked to one guy, and he was quite friendly, but he wasn't very informative. I think his name was Jack. I'd have to look at the files to tell you any more.”

“Was Jack the new owner?”

“I couldn't figure out if he was the owner or the manager or maybe the handyman. All I know is that I sent a statement for their annual dues, and I didn't get a reply. So I phoned the old number. This Jack answered and said they weren't going to join this year. He said it was going to be a ‘restructuring' year.”

“Hmm. So they left the door open for future membership.” I mulled the situation over.

“Yeah,” Zelda said, “but I didn't feel hopeful when I hung up. Why do you need to know?”

“It's kind of complicated.” I made up my mind. “Do you have any membership material handy? I don't want to send you back to the office, but I could make a membership call on them this afternoon.”

“Why? I mean, what's the attraction?”

“I got curious about the camp. A membership call will give me an excuse to take a look at it. And maybe they'll rejoin.”

“Good luck with that! And I think you'll need it. I've got some brochures in my car, and you can have them. I'm not going to turn down an offer of a volunteer membership call.”

Thirty minutes later I had put on sandals, sage green slacks, and an ivory cotton sweater—dress-up business attire for Warner Pier—had picked up a dozen membership brochures from Zelda, and was headed for Camp Sail-Along.

I'd had to look up the address. It wasn't inside the Warner Pier city limits, of course. It was a mile inland on a small body of water called Lake o' the Winds. The entrance to the camp was off McIntosh Road and was marked by a dilapidated sign. I got a sinking feeling when I saw it. I had speculated that Jeremy Mattox might have picked up a shirt at a garage sale, and now I saw a notice attached to the main Camp Sail-Along sign. That notice said YARD SALE.

Oh, gee! My speculation had come true, and my trip was looking like a washout. But I didn't turn back. I laughed at my lucky guess and drove on.

The driveway curved through a band of trees and came out on a sunny lawn. Eight or ten cabins were grouped around a larger building, a building with a broad porch. It was the classic summer camp layout: cabins used as bunkhouses and a central building for meals.

Only two other vehicles were in the parking lot—a rattletrap pickup and a subcompact. This yard sale was following the typical pattern of such events—the serious shoppers had come early. By late afternoon, the sale was dragging to a close.

The yard sale was set up on the porch of the main building. A guy in white was standing behind the table, apparently running the sale, and I could see that he was in trouble. The woman across from him was Lovie Dykstra.

Lovie was a well-known Warner Pier character. She had a special liking for me because—long ago—my mother was engaged to her younger son. When the son died, my mom left town and wound up in Dallas, where she married a long, tall Texan who became my dad. But Lovie says I was almost her granddaughter, and no matter how far-fetched her idea is, she treats me like a relative.

Her personal troubles drove Lovie out of her original career—teaching—and today Lovie is a secondhand dealer. She still has unruly gray hair, but a year and a half ago Lovie's life took a turn for the better, and today she's known as a town character, rather than the town crazy woman.

Lovie will buy or sell anything. And she drives a hard bargain.

I took pity on the camp representative and walked toward the porch. I surmised that he'd had a long, lonely day. He had a radio to keep him company. It was tuned to a fifties station.

As I approached, I heard Lovie's raspy voice. “I'll take everything that's left, take it right off your hands.”

I looked at the items left on the table. If I'd been the short guy, I'd have snapped up twenty-five dollars. The things left looked like junk to me. Towels were stacked neatly, but the top one was stained, and they all had frayed edges. A box of silverware was beside them, and all the forks seemed to have bent tines. Ragged blankets, some rusty skillets, a box of leather scraps, odd lengths of rope, and, yes, a dozen or so T-shirts in a bright rust color were also on the table. A cardboard card propped against the tees read, “$1.”

Thin, worn mattresses were piled at the end of the porch, and pillows were heaped on a second table.

Lovie was facing the table with hands on hips. The man in white laughed. He was on the short side, but he had unusually broad shoulders, medium brown hair, and a flirty mustache. “I couldn't possibly sell you all this stuff for twenty-five,” he said. “It's worth several hundred at least.”

“To the right person, maybe,” Lovie said. “But you don't want to stand around here until the right person comes along. You want to move it, right? Think of the time my offer will save you! Time's money.”

“My time's not worth much. Give me two hundred and fifty, and I'll think about it.”

Lovie rolled her eyes. “Don't be silly! What are you going to get for those mattresses? Nothing. They'll go for scrap, but nobody will show up at a yard sale to take them.”

Lovie had a point. I smiled at the man, and he smiled back. In fact, I got the whole treatment—every tooth in his head. Then I spoke. “Hi, Lovie.”

She turned toward me and beamed. “Lee! Honey!” We hugged each other. “Now, Lee,” she said, “you tell this fellow that I know my business.”

“That's for darn tootin', Lovie. But I'm staying out of this. I'll just see what size these T-shirts are.”

I dug through the stack of bittersweet-colored tees, looking for one the size of somebody I knew. Lovie and the camp man haggled. She raised her bid to fifty dollars, but they hadn't reached a deal when Lovie walked off and got into her beat-up truck.

She leaned out the window and hollered at me before she drove away. “Come see me, Lee! You and Joe!”

I waved at her, then grinned at the Camp Sail-Along man. “You accomplished something today. You met one of Warner Pier's real characters.”