Deviled!: Lake Erie Mysteries Book 2

I
had just
enough time to shriek and suck a huge gulp of air into my lungs before plunging to my certain death. My eyes were scrunched closed, yet tears of terror still managed to leak out and down my cheeks. My sweaty hands were losing their tenuous grip on the metal rail that was the only thing between me and the expanse of oppressive midsummer air beneath my feet.

I hadn’t ridden a roller coaster in at least ten years, and of course, my best friend, June, insisted we sit in the first seat of the front car. Every time. Even though we’d spent most of the morning riding every coaster in the amusement park, I still couldn’t get past the feeling of impending death that clutched at my chest, threatening to stop my heart from beating. Less than a minute later, it was all over. I was still alive.

Back on terra firma, I took a moment, concentrating on calming my wobbly knees before I checked my watch. “June, our room has got to be ready by now. Let’s check in with the guys at the dock and then head over to the hotel to register.”

“Sure, Francie. That was the last coaster in the park anyway. I was starting to get bored.”

“Seriously?” Before she could rethink and drag me off for round two, I headed off in the direction of the marina located at the edge of the giant amusement park. Both the park and the marina were part of the world-famous Devil’s Island Resort, the five-star complex on the shore of Lake Erie located just across Sandusky Bay from our own home port, Beacon Pointe.

It was the second day of July, and my husband, Hammond, and I had skimmed across the bay in our forty-foot sedan cruiser in anticipation of a fun-filled getaway. Our new friend, Detective Jack Morgan, and my longtime best friend, June, were our companions for the long weekend. Jack and June had been involved in a romantic relationship of sorts for the past month. He had come into our lives over the recent Memorial Day weekend on Kelleys Island when, thanks to the detective’s expert skills, June and I narrowly escaped death by drowning at the hands of a psychotic killer. How romantic is that?

Nothing quite so dramatic was on tap for our July Fourth celebration. Our plan for this weekend was simple. I was registered for the three-day Drama Divas Workshop and Seminar taking place from July second through the fourth at the exclusive Devil’s Island Resort Hotel. It would be a fun way to earn enough credits to keep my licensure up to date. The beauty of heading up the drama department at the local college was that I had my summers free to pursue other interests such as boating, shopping, and spending time at our summer condo. The irony of the conference title was not lost on any of us, since each of us wished for nothing more than a drama-free weekend. Our last holiday boat excursion had turned into the exact opposite of relaxing when we were drawn right into the middle of an arson and murder investigation.

June would be attending the conference as my guest. She could throw a little work into the mix too. As a freelance journalist, she always had a story percolating for one of the numerous magazines she wrote for. As a former investigative reporter, she kept her eyes and ears open for possible ne’er-do-wells trying to stir up trouble. Meanwhile, Jack had invited Hammond to be his golf partner at the annual Lake Erie Commerce Association’s golf tournament taking place over the same three days. The guys planned to embark early in the morning for Sunset Marina, just up the coast, where they would enjoy three days of manly golf fun. We would all reconnect on the evening of the final day of the seminar, Independence Day. According to the itinerary, the conference would wind up with a no-holds-barred mystery dinner theater featuring group participation and promises of noteworthy special effects. After dinner, we would kick back, have a cocktail or two and enjoy the resort’s grand fireworks display from the back of our boat. At least that was the plan.

I
punched
in the four-digit code to open the iron security gate at the entrance to our assigned dock at Devil’s Island Marina. I expected to find Hamm and Jack sitting on the dock debating the finer points of domestic versus foreign cigars and beer—a topic that never seemed to get old for them; but instead, the knot of people clogging the walkway blocked all view of our boat slip. Squeezing and shimmying our way through the crowd caused my adrenaline to surge like I was dangling over the monstrous hill of the Daredevil once again.

“What the heck is going on, Francie? Did someone fall off a boat?”

“I have no clue. I can’t see anything. Where did all these people come from?”

We managed to break free of the throng and found ourselves in the center of a captive audience. I expected to see blood or dismembered body parts or at least someone being held at gunpoint. I wasn’t surprised, however, when I recognized Bob at the eye of the storm.

Bob was the resort’s marina manager. He had been there for as long as anyone could remember and had been disliked by everyone he came in contact with for just as long. Bob was standing on the dock next to our boat,
Lucky Enough,
with his hands folded over the protruding beer belly that his dingy, tank-style T-shirt could barely contain. His feet were bare, his cut-off jeans were riding dangerously low, and a tattered captain’s hat was perched atop his bald head. None of this was out of the ordinary except for the sight of our friend Barb, who was standing on the deck of our boat screeching at the top of her lungs and clutching her little shih tzu, Monster. The sound of her squeals rivaled the monthly tornado siren test that still managed to take me by surprise on the first Tuesday of every month. I looked from my husband to Jack and then to June, hoping to telepathically figure out what was going on. When my psychic attempt at communication failed, I stepped onto the boat, grabbed Barb by the shoulders, and yelled, “Shut up!”

The ensuing silence was deafening. Barb stood there, mouth still open in mid-screech, but everything was quiet. Now was my chance to get a word in.

“What in the name of Shakespeare’s ghost is going on here?”

Just as quickly as Barb had quieted, she began her tirade again. Thankfully it was a few decibels lower and almost coherent this time.

“My babies! He tried to kill my babies.”

As if on cue, Monster let out a squeak. Then from beside me, a double-bass
woof
reverberated through the cockpit. I hadn’t noticed Barb’s other baby, Ogre, the St. Bernard, lying under the table. For a 200-pound dog, Ogre could make himself unobtrusive and could fit into a space better suited for a chihuahua.

Upon hearing Ogre’s booming greeting, June leapt onto the boat and landed in a crouch next to her canine friend. She has always had a weakness for big, drooling, goofy animals. Her fondness, however, did not extend to big, drooling, goofy men.  After inspecting her furry friend for evidence of harm, she faced off with Bob and demanded to know what he had done.

Bob stood on the dock chewing on an unlit cigar with a look of utter boredom on his face. When it was apparent that he was not going to answer, Barb began her story from the beginning.

“This man is the devil. I left my boat for just over an hour so I could run into the park to buy some souvenirs for my grandkids, and Bob tried to kill my babies.”

“What did he do, Barb? They look fine to me.”

“He unplugged my electrical cord so he could suck up to some fancy speedboat owner who had a crew of barely dressed bimbos on board. He put them in the slip beside my boat and then gave them my outlet, since they have two air conditioners on board and apparently needed my power and theirs to keep themselves comfortable. It’s almost 100 degrees today, and the dogs were left to cook in the cabin with no air-conditioning. If Hamm and Jack hadn’t heard them barking and rescued them, they would’ve died.”

“Is this true, Bob?” June was now back on the dock and so close to the repulsive man that his slobbery cigar stub was the only thing separating their faces.

“What’s the big deal? They didn’t die, did they? This broad is just hysterical. Maybe it’s that time of the month.”

There was no more discussion. I knew what the look on June’s face meant. Like a panther pouncing on some prey, June lunged forward, hooked her leg around Bob’s right knee, and with just the slightest shove sent him plunging into the water. His captain’s hat and soggy cigar floated to the surface first. Then the rest of Bob surfaced like so much scum from a slimy pond. Green algae dripped from his bald head as he got his feet under him and stood armpit-deep in the shallow water. A feeble cheer went up from the thinning crowd, but no one made a move to assist him. The excitement had come to an end, and the audience moved on to find other ways to pass the time.

“Are you nuts, woman? You could have killed me!”

“What’s the big deal? You didn’t die, did you? I think you’re just being hysterical.”

With that said, June came back aboard and settled into the corner of the bench seat to watch as Bob struggled to disentangle himself from his seaweed net and get back to dry land. Monster took a flying leap out of Barb’s vice-like grip, landing comfortably in June’s lap, while Ogre readjusted his head to place it on her feet. Juniper Julia Augusta, defender of dogs, held court over her new loyal subjects.