Death By Sunken Treasure (A Hayden Kent Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

Fifteen

The wave action had nothing to do with my stomach’s flips. If Mike wasn’t diving alone, it changed everything. Especially the suicide verdict. I hoped the rocking boat would shake an answer loose in my thoughts.

Cappy stood on the bow pulpit, moving easily with the motion and pulling the anchor. The sky shone a hard blue color that meant cold was on the way. I walked to the mate’s chair and attached the cracked and sun-fogged plastic windscreen. It extended from the Bimini top to the console and helped cut the winds and keep the electronics splash-free in the building seas.

The windscreen was so old it distorted everything. I didn’t like looking through it on a good day, much less a bouncy one. “Hey, Mal.” I cocked my head in her direction and indicated the mate’s chair. “You take the seat of honor.”

Her fists pumped the air. “Yippee, I get to be the navigator!”

“We’re heading for Europe,” Cappy yelled back from the bow pulpit. His voice whipped back on the wind. “Alert the Coast Guard.”

Behind Cappy’s back, Mallory stuck her tongue out.

I glanced at Janice. She shook her head and walked around the cuddy cabin to the bench in front of the console.

Left to myself, I huddled in the stern of the boat, my back supported by the scuba tanks held in place with bungee cords. I squirmed around as Cappy started the engines and steered away from the dive site. He gave the little boat a wide berth, expressing his displeasure with a quick engine rev.

“Where to, Ms. Hayden?” he shouted back over the wind. “Or are you done for the day?”

A glance at my two companions told me they were good to do another dive. Visibility looked stellar, even with the building seas. Scuba protocol called for the deepest dive to be the first dive. That meant we wouldn’t be able to avoid the back and forth motion of the sea divers called “surge.” I glanced from Janice to Mallory and back to Cappy and decided a good, shallow lobster-hunting ground would work best for our second dive. “The Barge.” He gave me a quick nod and turned the nose of the little craft west.

Glad the roar of the engine precluded chatting, I adjusted the wetsuit top I had pulled down and tied around my waist and leaned back again. The static view of the tanks on the opposite side of the boat and the sky above created a blank canvas for my thoughts. The sixteen-foot boat bothered me. Worse, the boat belonged to The Petard. Buddy said Mike was the sole owner of the place. So technically, the boat was his. But it had no reason to be out at the treasure dive site, unless Mike took it there. If he did, then who owned the twenty-seven-foot boat? And who had joined Mike underwater? Sitting here didn’t give me any answers. I stretched and cleared a crick from my back as Cappy’s boat slowed and stopped.

I saw through the gin-clear water straight down to the barge lying on the sand beneath us. Cappy threw out the anchor and secured it. Then he came around to help us into our tanks. The wet buoyancy vest settled over my shoulders, squishing water out of the heavy neoprene and down my back. I cinched my waist strap, my teeth chattered with cold. Winter diving left much to be desired. The season also had a lot of pluses. Fewer boats, cooler water, unusual fish life. Mallory and I did our back rolls and this time, instead of waiting for Janice, I swam down the twenty or so feet to the top of the barge.

The history of the barge fired my imagination. Old Conchs told stories that Flagler sank the support vessels like this one that he used to build the railroad. Said it was cheaper than floating them back to Miami or Key West. I only knew of this barge. Not much remained, just a gap-toothed wood slat platform on rotting wooden blocks, but every time I dove the site, I imagined the men who worked the barge sweating under the Florida sun while they mixed concrete to build bridges or hauled steel for railroad tracks.

Mallory held a tickle stick and a catch bag. I spied a lobster antenna pulling back under the superstructure and banged the side of my tank for Mallory’s attention. Janice came over at the same time. They hunted together like the well-matched pair they were and captured the crustacean. Janice flipped the lobster on its back. Bright coral-colored clumps of eggs clung to the underside. The grouper trooper knew at a glance it was female.

She shook her head and released it.

Mallory gave a good-natured shrug and resumed her patrol of the wreck.

I spotted an eel hiding in a hole. The mouth opened and closed like it was gasping for breath. I finned in place watching the creature. The eel reminded me of a story I’d heard in a dive class. A student on his deep certification dive developed nitrogen narcosis and offered his regulator to a moray eel. The eel didn’t take the regulator, but the student almost drowned when he tried to fight off the instructor. Watching the sharp-toothed mouth, I wondered if the story was true or just an urban dive legend.

The sound of a motor overhead broke my train of thought. I glanced at my dive computer. We’d been down for half an hour. I looked around for Janice and Mallory. No one entered my field of vision. I looked up at the underside of Cappy’s boat. The prop turned and stopped, Cappy’s signal for me to surface. Then two sets of feet broke the surface and dangled off the swim platform into the water.

I finned up. A bubble of cold air forced its way down the neck of my wetsuit. My head broke the surface and goosebumps covered my body.

“Weather’s getting windier,” Cappy said as he helped me up the swim step and over the engine. “Thought it would be time to go home. Besides,” he cocked his head in the direction of Marathon, “we’re about to get more company.”

I gazed in the direction he indicated. A boat headed our way. I shaded my eyes. “Rental, in these seas.”

He nodded. “They seem to know what they’re doing. Their attack on the waves is sound.”

I tried to keep the look of surprise from my face. That was high praise indeed from the old salt. Especially directed toward a tourist. As the boat approached, the captain’s skill was even more apparent. I spotted the dive tanks strapped to the gunnels. We were over the only dive site in this direction. Unless they came out for spearfishing. Then they could go anywhere.

Once I was settled and safe, Cappy walked around to the bow and pulled the anchor.

The rental boat came close enough that I could see a red-haired woman. I recognized her as Mike’s ex-wife, Kristin, from a photograph I’d seen at Dana’s years ago. She sat alongside a short, well-built man. He ran the boat. She appeared comfortable. A cigarette dangled from her lips.

Did she dive? Who was the man?

Cappy started the engine. We passed them at a comfortable distance. I stared back over the stern of the boat in time to see them pull up and stop at the barge.

“Ever see them before?” I asked Cappy.

He gave me a speculative gaze.

“No. Should I have?”

I shook my head and looked back. The man shrugged himself into a horse collar commercial-style buoyancy compensator with practiced ease. I watched when he entered the water. He was no newbie. I’d bet my life on it. I couldn’t tell about her. I turned my face toward the shore. If I was going to help Dana, I needed to discover more about the people who had surrounded Mike.

We cleaned our lobsters as soon as we arrived at the dock. Unlike the New England variety, the only edible part of a Florida lobster was the tail. And that needed to be wrung from the body. A gruesome act. I always comforted myself with the idea of the taste. We offloaded the tanks at the dock and piled them into Janice’s truck, putting our catch in the waiting cooler. Mallory invited the two of us to dinner and drinks at her house. I made a polite excuse and asked Janice to drop me off at Ralph’s tire shop. The first thing I wanted to do after I picked up the car and got home was dig into the police report.

Tiger Cat greeted me at the door, his tail a flag flying high. From the head butts and his plaintive mews, I knew he smelled the lobster. I put my share on the kitchen table and selected two. Then I put the rest in freezer bags. The whole haul went out onto the back porch, where I stowed the bags in the porch freezer and lit the grill.

While the grill heated I returned to the house for a quick shower and the police report.

Clean and refreshed, I poured myself a glass of white wine. The cool liquid left rivulets of joy as it flowed down my throat. This might be a two-glass night.

I slit the lobster shells, brushed them with my trademark garlic pepper butter, and nestled them over the flame. The briny scent of cooking seafood filled the backyard. I inhaled deeply and sat at the picnic table with my wine and the police report.

The report got interesting in the middle when it detailed the events surrounding Mike’s last days. The dry words read like a litany of motives. Mike fought with his mother, his surrogate father, Jake, and Devon. Kristin, his ex-wife, dribbled tidbits of nasty gossip throughout the Keys about faking his accident, using her newspaper series as proof. His ex-boss, Rutger Ellis, filed a fraud complaint for recovery of the insurance claims his company had paid. The omission of Lisa, his girlfriend and the mother of his child, made it seem she was his only friend. I knew he thanked her by writing her out of his will. Our will, at least.

The acrid odor of singed lobster shells pulled me out of the report. I sprang to my feet and yanked both tails off the grill by their hind fins. The fins crumbled in my fingers. I flipped the lobster over by the flukes with my fingertips to survey the damage to the bottom shells. They were crisp, but not too bad. I placed the tasty morsels on a plate, stuck a fork in just above the base of the tail, and twisted. The meat from two perfectly cooked lobsters came away on my fork. I glanced at the sliding glass door. Tiger stood on his hind feet, his nose pressed to the glass. Yep, he was ready. I juggled the dish, my wine, and the police report while I sidled through the sliding glass door back into the house.

I plunked the dish on the kitchen table and put a small portion into a bowl for Tiger. Sucking butter off my thumb, I pulled a salad out of the fridge, reheated some rice in the microwave, and sat down to a fresh lobster dinner.

Questions churned in my head. I traced the timeline of the Mike/Kristin relationship as far as I knew it. They were married at the time of his accident. She left when he got addicted to the painkillers. I remembered Dana’s anger at her.

Painkillers. I flipped through the pages of the report and found no mention of them. It was too soon for a toxicology screen. The last statements jolted me. Contents of pockets: gold coins consistent with doubloons and multiple unset gems. Contents of scuba tanks: air. I read it again. Plain air. Not nitrox, not trimix. Not some other exotic variation, but air: 21 percent oxygen. Same stuff he breathed on the surface. I leapt up from the table, my own mistake fresh in my mind. Could Mike have made a similar error? No. I was sure he didn’t. I remembered someone, Cappy I thought, telling me he did his own fills.

I dialed Janice’s number. The call went to her voicemail. I left a message. If Mike was diving air and knew it, he had no reason to cut off his own air supply. He would have known the gas was inadequate for the conditions. Eventually the unyielding science of diving would extract the ultimate price. Janice was right. Someone helped Mike to his death.

Needing to do something, I made a list of each person mentioned in the report. And those it omitted. There were three big reasons for murder: Money. Love. Revenge. The report detailed all three, but failed to tie them together. I stared at the list.

Someone on my list had murdered Mike.

Sixteen

I dreamed of diving. A crowd of divers surrounded me underwater. Something I avoided at all costs. All the divers seemed experienced. Their buoyancy told me that. No one kicked up any sand from the bottom. Each moved with a deliberate intent, cutting through the water in unison. I checked my gauges. My heart beat against my ribcage in terror. My depth gauge read two hundred feet. My air pressure gauge read zero. I inhaled, hoping to scrape a bit more from the tank. Nothing. My mouth felt sand-filled. I started a controlled assent, leaving my regulator in my mouth. At the same time, I banged the Lexan knot banger on my tank. Sound travels underwater. With all these divers, someone would turn around. Someone should be paying attention.

The group ahead of me turned as one. In slow motion, they swam towards me. My lungs ached for air. I glanced at my depth gauge; I’d ascended a mere fifty feet. I continued to follow my training, not holding my breath, exhaling. The other divers got closer. They surrounded me. All of them wore old-style rigs like Mike Nelson on
Sea Hunt
. No one wore a redundant regulator, the so-called “safe second.” My hand flew out to clutch the closest diver’s regulator. The sound of laughter rang in my ears. The divers around me all dropped their regulators and laughed. My lungs screamed for air now. Desperate, I stared into the mask of another diver. Faceless. The divers were faceless, each and every one of them. Water filled my mouth as I opened it to scream. Something kneeded my chest. Someone rubbed my face with sand. My eyes flew open. Tiger Cat stood on my chest, his rough tongue washing my cheeks.

Disoriented, I looked around. Bright sunlight streamed in through the bedroom windows. A dream. Those faceless divers swam in a dream, not in the real world. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck. My heartbeat slowed. I drew in deep breaths, grateful to feel my lungs fill with air.

When I felt better, I realized it was time to get up. I padded to the kitchen to make coffee and feed Tiger. Bits of the dream clung to my consciousness like sticky seaweed.

I poured coffee and took it to my home office. Shafts of sunlight pouring through the wrap-around windows danced on the wooden floor. I sat at my old-school desk and pulled the police report and the pad with my notes on it to the center. Less than a sentence followed most of the names. I slugged down a healthy sip of the coffee and struggled with my thoughts. Everyone had a motive of some kind. Even Dana. I mentally crossed her off my list. No way.

Mallory called halfway through my second cup of coffee. I poured out my tale of woe to her.

“Seems to me you ignored a couple of things,” she said.

Her words brought me up short. Mallory’s mind was more linear whereas I tended to have aha moments. Her insights could be invaluable. I remained silent and waited for her to continue.

“You’re looking at people. What are the strongest reasons for murder?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “Money, love, and revenge.”

“And Mike had money.”

Money, not people. Follow the money. I wanted to slap myself. Mike’s windfall and his treasure find completely changed the financial playing field for a lot of people. He ousted his business partners in the salvage operation. If Buddy was right, he’d done the same with the bar business.

Jake. He related to both ventures. Money and revenge. Jake dove. That gave him opportunity. He owned a boat. More opportunity. Perfect. My heart leapt.

“Mal, you’re a genius. Jake. It’s Jake. He even knew the location of the dive site.”

“Not so fast.”

I deflated like a punctured balloon. “What did I miss?”

“Mike’s ex-boss fits too. That’s where Mike’s money came from. The insurance claim and the lawsuits that followed.”

I contemplated her words. I didn’t see it. How could Mike’s death benefit his boss? Sure, there was the fraud complaint. So what? The first appeal failed. The second seemed flimsy. On the outside chance the man won the case, he’d have to file a claim in the estate and survive the objections. No, his best chance of recovery would be if Mike were alive, not dead.

“Doesn’t work,” I said.

“Really? If the man has the hard evidence he claims, and Mike’s ex-wife supports the claim—”

“Then removing Mike removes the only person who can raise a defense,” I finished for her. “And Mike’s boss is tied to Kristin.” Ruth had told me something about Kristin. The recollection wouldn’t come.

“Meet me at Hole in the Sea.”

“Hayden, did you go outside? Yeah, it’s sunny, but it’s blowing a good twenty knots, and the temperatures are in the sixties.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. What the heck did that have to do with going to the rental docks? The words died in my throat when I realized she thought I wanted to go diving. I chuckled. “We saw Kristin in a rental from there yesterday. I want to talk to the owner. See what I can find out about her and the guy with her.”

Mindful of the impromptu weather report, I pulled on a pair of deep navy jeans and a lavender plaid oxford cloth shirt and topped the outfit with a purple heather crewneck sweater. Most folks in South Florida look like they dressed out of a grab bag when cold weather blew through. As a native, winters were cold—coldish, I corrected myself—but I prided myself on having a winter wardrobe.

Not five minutes later, Mallory arrived in her Prius, equally well attired for the Florida winter weather we faced. She had the advantage though. Her family came from New Jersey, and she often visited and needed winter clothing. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Mallory stayed in her car, so I walked over and tapped on the window. It rolled down with a soft whoosh. “Hop in, your seat’s heated.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Instead, I climbed in, grateful for the warmth.

Marathon Marina had been in business my entire life. Over the years, the walkways of the floating docks went from wood to synthetic boards. Other than that, the setup seemed like a page from my childhood. The service buildings were nestled between the fixed walkway and the parking lot. The Keys were in the tourist season. All the slips were full, many with yachts bearing names identifying their home ports. We were both grateful for our warm clothes when we pulled up at Hole in the Sea. The flags at the marina snapped out straight in the wind. Small, choppy waves rose and fell in the normally calm cut. It would be very bumpy out to sea.

The static crackle of a boater calling in conditions greeted us as Mallory and I pulled the rental office’s door shut behind us. The captain radioed an early return time on his charter-fishing trip. Seas topped eight feet and most of his clients were Irish. The little man behind the counter cracked a smile at the report. Irish meant seasick, as in green, passengers. His leathery brown face identified him as someone who spent a lot of time at sea. The long-distance stare in his blue eyes identified him as a lifelong sailor. “Ladies.” He nodded a greeting. “Not a good day to rent a boat.” He looked each of us over from head to foot. “And in those getups, you’d drown the minute you fell in leaning over to toss your cookies.”

We laughed and agreed.

“No sailing for us today, not even tempted,” I began. “We’d be grateful for some information. Did you work here yesterday?”

He nodded. “I own this place. I run it. With some help from the wife.” He put both hands down flat on the little table in front of him and waited. His mouth worked over a piece of gum that he periodically cracked.

I paused to weigh my words. I didn’t want to scare him off.

In the time-honored tradition of Conchs, I decided to drop a name.

I extended my hand and introduced myself and Mallory. He gripped my hand in his callused one and released it. A good workman’s hand. I watched him carefully, trying to read his expression.

“We went diving with Cappy yesterday.” A flicker of recognition rewarded my words. His jaw relaxed, and I continued, “We saw one of your boats out at The Barge. A man and a woman in it.”

“Yeah. Surprised me anyone not from the Rock wanted to go out.” He used the term most Conchs used to describe their Island home.

I nodded vigorously. “Snowbirds believe Florida is hot year round. Takes a bit of getting used to.”

A wide smile split his face, displaying yellowed teeth. “More than a bit, I’d say.” He chuckled. “It can be danged rough on folks.” He wiped his hands on a rag he pulled out of his back pocket. His mouth continued to work the gum. “Is there something I should know about that rental? Reckless? Drunk?”

“Nope. In fact, Cappy even complimented their seamanship,” Mallory said.

“Then why are you askin’ if you don’t have a complaint?” He took a step back and perched on the stool behind the counter. We held a brief staring contest. I broke away first.

“Will you tell us who you rented to?” Mallory chimed in.

He lifted a callused thumb and rubbed it along the bottom of his chin. “Why?”

“We thought we recognized the woman. A friend of ours. Kristin Terry.” I hoped he would take the bait and supply her companion’s name.

He stared off for a moment as if he was weighing his options. I feared we pushed too hard. Then he pulled out a ledger book and flipped the pages. “Yeah.” He jerked his chin in my direction. “You know Dana and Mike.” It sounded more like a statement than a question. I nodded.

He spun the ledger around so I could read it. Kristin Terry and Rutger Ellis had signed out a sixteen-foot center console at one thirty in the afternoon. A note alongside the names read that he cautioned them about heavy rollers in the six-foot range.

“You knew Mike?” I asked.

The small man gave a tight nod. “Yeah. We were boys together. Well, I was older, but we were close enough. I almost didn’t rent to Kristin and that fellow. Never liked what I heard about her. She dumped him when he needed her. Her nose stuck too high in the air to come to the Keys with the rest of us rubes, except for fast visits.” He spun the book back. “Can’t figure that the affair with this Rutger fellow was new.” He rubbed his chin again. “All lovey-dovey with each other. Even money says she carried on before she and Mike split. If not with this guy, then with someone else.”

The long speech seemed to exhaust the man. He spit out his gum into a trashcan behind the counter, pulled another stick from his pocket, and shoved it in his mouth.

I digested the information that the man on the boat was Mike’s ex-boss. The guy who filed the complaint and who, based on appearances, was dating or involved with Mike’s ex-wife. Too many exes in that thought for me. All those exes added up to a positive.

“I told them the sea was too rough.” His clear blue gaze moved away from the book, his mouth curled in a sort of sneer. “He insisted I rent to them. Perfect day to bring home lobsters.” He spat out the words. “The guy showed me papers. A retired Navy SEAL. Didn’t say that the first time. Wanted the same boat though.”

My ears perked up. I glanced at Mallory. Her eyebrows arched. Before I opened my mouth, she said, “You rented to him before?”

His hard nod made me think we’d gotten all the information that he was willing to share. A gust of wind blew through the flimsy walls, chapping my cheeks as it passed. Goosebumps rose on the man’s bare arms. “Gotta close. Ain’t gonna let no boats out today.”

Although he meant his words as a dismissal, Mallory and I stood our ground. The look on his face said he figured he had two ways to get rid of us—toss us out bodily or give us what we wanted. Sighing loudly enough to make his point, he paged backwards in the ledger. He stopped at a page a couple back from the one he’d showed us and ran his finger down the handwritten page. He turned the book and moved it over to the side of the counter in Mallory’s direction. She stepped forward and followed where his finger pointed. “Was he alone?” she asked.

“Don’t have another name there, do I?”

“Did you see the boat leave the dock?”

“No. I don’t babysit ’em.” With the flat of his hand, he grasped the ledger.

Mallory shoved the book in my direction before he could move or close it. I put my finger on the line that said Rutger Ellis. This time he had included an address. The Sea Farer Resort. A posh new resort that also offered gourmet dining three nights a week. The rental operator’s gnarly hand came into my line of vision, but not before I noted the date and time. January 10
th
at nine in the morning. The same day Mike signed his will and the same time he was in our office.