Deceived - Laura S. Wharton Page 0,6

hedged a bit.

“Understood, brother. Understood.”

“She’s in shock, I think. She said the service is going to be tomorrow, you know. It’s just so hard to think that Lee’s…gone. You know he was a straight shooter. Nothing going on that Jenny knew of, and nothing I didn’t know about, either. Lee was just a good cop and a good husband. Now without him, Jenny is facing selling that condo. I suspect she’ll find work to keep her busy, but it would be such a shame for her to have to give up her painting.”

“She any good?” Chuck quizzed.

“I like her work. Mostly boat and beach scenes, the kind that tourists like to take home.”

“You know, my wife Lisa could probably arrange something, maybe a show, since she owns the Blue Moon Gallery.”

“That’d be great. Let me know if I can help.”

“No, Sam, I’ll take care of it. You take a few days off and rest. Maybe think about getting rid of the big cat, too.” Chuck winked as he stepped gingerly under the bimini and over the life lines, holding on to whatever he could grab to steady himself as he wobbled onto the dock.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the marina’s parking lot at ten tomorrow morning, Sam. Call if you need anything between now and then.”

“Will do,” Sam called back. Sam liked Chuck. He seemed like a good cop, but at this point, Sam thought it wise not to trust anyone explicitly.

Sam headed below again to the notepad of condo projects. After a few pages, he was sure there was nothing there that didn’t belong. As he tossed the notepad back on the table, though, it flipped over and the back cover opened up to reveal some numbers written on the back of the last page. The slanted, loopy handwriting wasn’t Lee’s.

“2118717,” Sam whispered. He reached for his cell phone and dialed 211-8717. An annoying three-tone sound followed by a mechanical voice told him he had reached a number that was not in service, and that he should try again. Then he searched the notepad from the back, flipping pages forward. A few pages from the back was a single word hastily scribbled: “seacock.”

“That should have been in the boat journal,” Sam thought as he continued flipping through the rest of the pad, but he found nothing else. After rooting around a drawer for a plastic baggie and heavy duty duct tape, Sam removed the companionway stairs from their position and placed them on the salon floor halfway into the V-berth so he could get to the engine compartment. Once the bulkhead-mounted light was on, he crawled into the tight space and taped the notebooks in the sealed baggie on a three-inch wide shelf directly above the starboard water tank. This shelf usually held his tools or an extra lamp when he worked on the engine, its flanged lip keeping most anything from falling into the black bilge below. Sam backed out of the engine room, turned off the light, closed the door, and repositioned the companionway stairs.

Sitting in the cockpit, Sam looked around at his boat. “Deck needs to be repainted. Toe rails need to be caulked and sanded. And the rub rail needs to be replaced. Sheesh.” He thought about going to the hardware store to buy a bucket of paint. The sky changed from its deep, clear Carolina blue of spring to a hazy peachy-pink of evening while Sam sat contemplating boat projects and seacocks. Lee hadn’t mentioned this as a task on Stormy Monday, but then again, he hadn’t mentioned the loopy numbers or the person who wrote them. They looked like a woman’s handwriting.

Tomorrow would be the service for Lee. Sam thought about the day ahead and headed below to spit-shine his shoes. “Not for anybody else, Lee, would I do this,” he muttered as he dug out the rarely used shoeshine kit from a locker’s depths.

Chapter five

The following day dawned shrouded in mist. “Appropriate,” Sam thought, as he got into Chuck’s waiting car. Sam’s own car was still impounded, and he figured it might be released to him today, though he felt it would be best to drive it to the nearest used car lot and unload it. Sam was not ordinarily a superstitious man, but driving a car tinged with Lee’s death was not his idea of good karma.

“Morning, Sam. What a day this is going to be.” Chuck was monotone as he looked straight ahead, still seated behind the wheel of