The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 23 Classic Mystery Stories
- Автор: Деминг Ричард
- Год: 2016
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press
- ISBN: 9781479423507
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Second Richard Deming Mystery MEGAPACK™: 23 Classic Mystery Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
“Sure. Where’s Mr. Trader?”
“Shopping for some last-minute supplies. We’ll start below with the engine.”
I judged the boat to be a couple of years old, but it was in excellent shape. I started the engine and listened to it for a time, and it seemed to be in top condition. There was a separate generator engine for the lights when we were in port, and the main engine was idle.
The galley was clean and shipshape, with an electric range and electric refrigerator, the latter well stocked with food. The food cabinet was well stocked with canned goods, also. There was a bunk room that slept four, and off it was a small head and a saltwater shower.
Just she and her husband would occupy the bunk room, Peggy Trader explained. There was a leather-covered bench in the pilothouse which folded out into a fifth bunk, and I would sleep there.
Her manner was entirely impersonal as she conducted the tour. Once, as we were moving from the bunk room into the galley, she accidentally crowded against me in the close quarters, but I sensed no reaction from her at the physical contact.
She merely said politely, “Excuse me,” and continued through the hatch.
I knew the instantaneous physical attraction between us hadn’t been just my imagination, but apparently she had decided, after her one brief lapse, to bring the matter to a screeching halt. I couldn’t help feeling a bit rueful, but at the same time I was relieved. I needed the money badly enough so that I probably would have risked taking the job even if she had thrown herself into my arms, but I preferred not to break up a marriage before it was even fairly under way. If she could restrain herself, I knew I could.
I reported aboard at nine the next morning. Peggy’s husband was present this time. Arden Trader was a lean, handsome man of thirty-five with dark, curly hair and a thin mustache. He had an Oxford accent and treated his bride with the fawning indulgence of a gigolo.
Later, I learned he had been the penniless younger son of an equally penniless English duke and had been existing as one of those curious parasites of the international set who move from villa to villa of the rich as perennial house guests.
I knew he was a fortune hunter the moment he flashed his white teeth and gave me a man-to-man handshake. I wondered why Peggy had allowed herself to be suckered into marrying him. I learned that afternoon.
The plan for the cruise was to sail east to Southwest Point the first day, a distance of about a hundred miles. After a two-day layover, we would head for Nassau, and after a similar layover there, we would cruise to Governor’s Harbor. From there we would island hop to Puerto Rico, then hit the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Point Morant on the east tip of Jamaica, then head back northeast through Windward Passage to Port-de-Paix on the northern coast of Haiti.
The last would be our longest single jump, a distance of about two hundred and fifty miles. With a cruising speed of twenty-one knots, we could make it in about ten hours, however, so no night sailing would be required during the whole voyage.
After Port-de-Paix, we would touch at the island of Great Inagua, island hop from there back to Governor’s Harbor, then cruise nonstop back to Miami. With all our scheduled stops, ranging from one-day layovers to two or three days, we would spend more time in port than at sea during the one-month voyage.
At noon the first day out, I called Arden Trader to take over the wheel while I went below to prepare lunch. When it was ready, as we were in no hurry, we cut the engine, threw out the sea anchor, and all lunched together.
After lunch, I pulled in the sea anchor and got under way again. The sea was rolling a little, but it wasn’t rough, and the sun was shining brightly. We were clipping along at cruising speed when Peggy came into the wheelhouse wearing a red bikini swimsuit.
“Arden wants to try a little fishing,” she said. “Will you cut to trolling speed for a while?”
Obediently, I throttled down until we were barely moving. Glancing aft, I saw Arden Trader seated at the stern rail with a sea rod in his hands. Peggy made no move to go back and join him after delivering the message.
“He probably won’t troll more than fifteen minutes if he doesn’t get a strike,” she said. “He bores rather easily.”
I didn’t say anything.
She moved over next to me in order to look at the chart book lying open on the little ledge between the wheel and the pilothouse window. The nearness of her scantily clad body made my pulse start to hammer so hard I was afraid she could hear it.
“Where are we?” she asked.
I pointed silently to a spot a little more than halfway between Miami and Southwest Point.
She said. “We should be in by cocktail time, then, even if Arden decides to fish as long as an hour, shouldn’t we?”
“Oh, yes.”
There was no reason for her to remain where she was now that she had seen the chart, but she continued to stand so close that our arms nearly touched. I didn’t have on a shirt. In fact, I was wearing nothing but a pair of my old Navy dungarees and a visored yachting cap, not even shoes. She was so close I could feel the warmth of her body on my bare arm.
Although the sea was fairly calm, our decreased headway caused the boat to roll slightly. One swell a little larger than the rest caused a heavier roll to port. Instinctively, I leaned into it, and at the same moment she lost her balance.
She half turned as she fell against me. My right arm went around her waist to steady her as she grabbed for my shoulders. Her full bosom, covered only by the thin strip of the bikini halter, crushed against my bare chest. The bolts of lightning that crackled between us made that of yesterday morning seem like summer lightning. We remained rigid for several seconds, staring into each other’s faces. Her lips parted, and her eyes reflected the same mixture of surprise and gladness and dismay I had caught when we first glimpsed each other. Then she straightened away from me and glanced out the aft pilothouse window. I looked over my shoulder, too. Her husband was fishing with his back to us.
“I shouldn’t have hired you,” she said quietly.
I faced forward and gripped the wheel with both hands.
“I knew I shouldn’t have when I did it,” she said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“We’ll head back for Miami tomorrow,” I said. “You can have the employment agency send you another man.”
“No, I don’t want to. It’s too late.”
With her gaze still on her husband, she readied out and gently squeezed my bicep. I tingled clear to my toes.
“It’s ridiculous,” I said tightly. “You’re a bride of three days. You must be in love with him.”
Her hand continued to caress my bicep. “I’m not going to try to explain it, Dan. I was in love with him until you came aboard yesterday. I took one look at you, and everything turned topsy-turvy. It did for you, too. I could see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your muscles right now.”
“Stop it,” I said, keeping my gaze rigidly fixed ahead. “It’s impossible. Why did you marry him?”
“Because I hadn’t met you,” she said simply.
“That’s no answer. You must have been in love.”
Her hand left my arm and dropped to her side. “I went into it with my eyes wide open,” she said. “I’ve had a hundred offers of marriage — women with money always do — but I’d given up ever finding the man I dreamed of. The rich ones were all fearfully dull, the charmers all fortune hunters. I’m twenty-five and tired of being single. I hardly needed a rich husband, so I decided to settle for a charmer. Arden has been pursuing me for a year. Last week at a house party in Mexico City, I gave in. We were married there, then flew to Miami to pick up my boat for a honeymoon cruise. On my second day as a new bride, I had, finally, to meet the man I’ve been looking for all my life.”