Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,45
the harbor. “Look at you!” Joe said. “You’re all happy today.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You’ve got a bounce in your step. A grin on your face. Tell the truth. You get laid last night?”
“No comment.”
“You snake! What’s her name?” He spun the steering wheel hard, narrowly avoiding a moored catamaran.
Charlie leaned into the wind and shook his head. He zipped the front of his navy fleece. Tess was his secret, and he was going to hold on to it as long as he could. The last thing he needed was Joe meddling or making a play for her himself. “Nice day, huh?”
“Nice day, schmice day. Come on, Chucky Love! Tell me everything. Who is she? Where did you meet her?”
“You over or under on the Pats today?” Charlie said.
“The truth will come out,” Joe said, idling the engine and letting the boat drift toward the wharf. The dock was already crowded with other vessels, and he deftly steered into an open slot. Charlie climbed out, tied up, and headed for the Driftwood, a small wood-frame shack with peeling red paint. Joe caught up with him, and the two stepped through the screen door.
Most of the little tables were already crowded with townies. Fish netting and harpoons dangled from the ceiling. A lacquered sand shark grimaced from one wall at a barracuda over the kitchen door, and Charlie still smiled at the urn above the cash register with a gold plaque that said: ASHES OF PROBLEM CUSTOMERS.
Hoddy Snow, the harbormaster, was huddled in the back by the jukebox with his two deputies. Tink and a crew of sailors sat at their regular table in the front. Charlie approached Bony and his gang, took an empty seat, and asked, “What’s going on?”
“Big news in the police blotter,” one of the guys said. “Check this out. ‘Midnight. Friday. A moan was heard from a bush on Rose Avenue. One squad car responded. Investigation turned up nothing.’ ”
“I bet it was Bony and his girlfriend,” Charlie laughed.
“I wish,” Bony said, “but if you ever hear me moaning in the bushes, you better call an ambulance.”
Charlie saw Hoddy stand up in the corner. “Can I have your attention, fellas?” he said in an urgent voice. He was a hulking man, and his shiny Grecian Formula hair was combed neatly in law-enforcement style. He wore a snug polo shirt with his name and title sewn in block letters over his heart. “Your attention please.” The room fell silent. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but we’ve got a serious situation and we need everyone’s help.”
Hoddy definitely had a way with drama. A few years ago, he had appeared in an episode of Unsolved Mysteries to talk about the notorious fifty-four-year-old Atherton murder. And when Tucker Goodwin pulled up a dead body snagged in a lobster trap not long ago, Hoddy had a field day with the Boston papers and TV stations.
“It’s a real bad situation,” he was saying.
“Someone skinny-dipping in the harbor without a license?” Bony said.
“Knock it off,” Hoddy said. “We just got a call from the Coast Guard in Gloucester. They want our help putting together a search. A fisherman picked up a life ring and a rudder floating off Halibut Point. They think it’s from Marblehead.”
“What boat?” Charlie said. “Whose is it?”
Hoddy’s eyes narrowed. His voice choked up for a moment, and there was no doubting his seriousness. “It’s Querencia,” he said. “Tess Carroll’s boat is missing.”
EIGHTEEN
BOBO GALLOPED, LIKE A DOG POSSESSED, DOWN Devereux Beach.
Tess stood on the cool sand and called out to him but he ignored her, charging ahead, splashing through the surf. From the moment she had opened the door at dawn, he had bolted into the street and taken off without her. He was old, deaf, and arthritic, but they still ran together every Sunday morning, cutting through the quiet streets of the old town, loping along the shore, looping around the Neck, and always finishing in the cemetery. Normally, he stayed on the leash, lumbering along beside her, barking at the Blaneys’ cats on Merritt Street and nosing around the trash cans behind the Shipyard Galley. But not today. He was in some kind of hurry.
Tess felt the wind rising off the ocean as she watched Bobo bound up to a fisherman sitting on a lawn chair. He was about 500 feet away, but she could tell it was Dubby Bartlett with his prized casting poles planted in the sand, lines spinning out into the surf. He always fished there Sunday