Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,40

Mooring line’s expensive.”

I was surprised. The behavior didn’t mesh with the well-trained retriever I’d left on the porch. I placed my bag on the ground and held up the quart of beer, asking, “Want a glass? Come inside and calm down while you tell me about it.”

Mack shook his head, and said, “Jesus, what a day!”

Mack is Graeme MacKinley, a New Zealander who sailed to the States years ago, and took the big step. He bought controlling interest in a marina. Like many immigrants who’ve prospered, he’s wildly patriotic but also a raging libertarian who despises government interference. But he’s not the type to rage at me, or any other local, unless there is good reason.

“He’s not my dog,” I heard myself say, trying to picture what had happened. “You say he swam the boats back to my place? With his teeth?”

“The kayaks, he pulled them up next to your gate. But the Whaler was too heavy, I guess. God knows where he’d’ve ended up with a thirty-foot Donzi. The bugger did it all from under the docks. That’s why we didn’t see him.”

Mack isn’t one to exaggerate, so it must have been true. “We’ll find the dog’s owner,” I told him. “My guess is, there’s a reward. A big one possibly. The money’s yours, would that make you feel better? Until then, I’ll pay for the damage.”

The man sighed and patted his pockets, looking for a fresh cigar. He’s a wide-bodied, bighearted man, but he loves money and is not ashamed to admit it. My offer softened him. “The kayaks, no worries about those. They’re rentals. But the Whaler and the Donzi, I should replace all the lines so they match. Doesn’t hurt to be classy. You know, have the moorings in Bristol shape before I have to explain to the owners.”

I said, “Tell me how much, I’ll write a check.” Then, because I know Mack well, suggested, “Or would cash be better?”

That softened the man even more. “Oh hell, Doc, it’s not that big a deal. I shouldn’t dump on you, but the crazies were out today. A woman bought a pound of squid for the pelicans—never mind the damn Don’t Feed the Birds signs—then went screaming off the dock, about thirty pelicans chasing her. Probably end up with a lawsuit because of all the barnacle cuts on her legs. And I had to send Jeth to pull another rental boat off the beach—it was swamped, of course—then . . . then the lady I’ve been seeing calls and cancels dinner. Which I’d been looking forward to all bloody day.” Mack sighed and lit his cigar, suddenly uncomfortable.

Sunday is always the busiest day of the week at the marina, a crush of vacationers in a rush to have fun. That wasn’t the real problem, though. So I took a guess about one of the ladies aboard Tiger Lilly and asked, “How is Rhonda doing?”

Mack’s no actor, but he did a decent job of appearing confused. Midway through an intricate lie, though, he paused, disgusted with himself, and said, “Awww, hell with it. Are you the only one who knows?”

I shrugged, “Probably. JoAnn doesn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“She suspect?”

“No. She would have told me.”

“I’m a fool,” Mack said, “a bloody fool. But I’ve always had a soft spot for Rhonda. And she’s been having a tough go of it lately. Hormone issues—happens to a lot of them, she says.”

I offered the unopened beer again, saying, “Why not come inside and talk.”

The man thought about it a moment, pushed the straw hat back on his head, then redacted his confession and our exchange. “When we finally got your dog out of the water, a woman offered to help, so I let her take him. A Mrs. Arturo—lives on the beach, third house down from the Island Inn? That’s what I really came to tell you.”

I looked at Mack and nodded, “If that’s the way you want it,” meaning his relationship with Rhonda was not to be discussed.

“She said she’s a friend of yours. Damn striking woman, you ask me.” Then Mack sealed our bargain, and turned the tables. “You know, local gossip has it that someone’s trying to kill you or Tomlinson, or both. Maybe a jealous husband. I know it’s not true, of course, or cops would be all over the place asking questions. Boat people love to talk.”

“Yes, they do,” I replied.

“But a rumor like that makes the locals nervous. No one wants to get caught in