The Mollie McGhie Sailing Mysteries

3. 2 - THE RED-HAIRED HUSSY-1

3 2 - THE RED-HAIRED HUSSY

I started talking to Scooter again in the morning, but that was only because he asked me if I wanted a mocha. I need caffeine to function, preferably caffeine that’s made by someone else.

I could have just nodded in response to his question, but I noticed that he wasn’t putting nearly enough chocolate syrup into my cup. After the events of last night, I deserved an extra chocolaty start to the day. This required words.

“Scooter, why are you skimping on the chocolate?”

He turned and smiled. “Sorry, I was lost in thought about Marjorie Jane.” He stirred in a few more spoonfuls.

I put my head in my hands. I couldn’t believe it. Marjorie Jane was even getting in the way of my morning mocha.

Scooter tapped me on the shoulder, placed the steaming cup on the counter in front of me, and gave me a kiss on my forehead. I took a sip and sighed. It was delicious. That man sure could make a tasty mocha. It was almost hard to stay mad at him.

He sat on the barstool next to mine with a bowl of Froot Loops. Just like I can’t start my day without caffeine, Scooter can’t start his day without cereal. He prefers it to be full of brightly colored, sugary nuggets that crunch loudly when you eat them, disturbing those of us who prefer to quietly sip our mochas.

As he munched away, Scooter sorted through a pile of mail. He passed some catalogs and bills to me, then pulled out a magazine that had a picture of a couple of geeky-looking guys underneath a headline declaring them the winners of this year’s telecommunications technology innovation award.

“Why do they keep sending me this?” He clenched the magazine in his hands. “The last thing I want to be reminded of is these two idiots. The only reason they’re on the cover is because of my research.” He tossed the magazine across the counter, pulled his bowl toward him, and pushed the rest of his Froot Loops back and forth with his spoon.

I reached over and squeezed his arm. He gave me a half-hearted smile. Ever since he had been forced to sell his stake in the high-tech telecommunications business that he had founded with the two geeks in question, he hadn’t been himself. Sure, he had made enough on the sale that he didn’t have to work again, but he was struggling to figure out what to do next with his life, especially as he was only in his forties. Although the gray that had begun to appear in his dark-brown hair made him look distinguished, it was probably due to stress.

I pulled out one of his sailing magazines from the stack. “Here, why don’t you read this instead? That should cheer you up.”

He leafed through the pages for a few minutes, then seized my hand. “Thanks for being so understanding. I’m sorry if I’ve been a real pain to live with lately.”

“It’s okay. You’ve been going through a rough patch.”

He put the magazine down and slurped up the last of the milk in his bowl. “What do you say we head over to the marina after I take a quick shower?”

I shrugged. Might as well get it over with. Maybe I could talk some sense into him about the boat once I saw what I was up against. “Sure, as long as you make me another mocha for the road.”

* * *

“Are you excited to meet Marjorie Jane?” Scooter asked as he pulled into the marina parking lot.

“Sure, as excited as that time the dentist told me I was doing an excellent job flossing my teeth.” I gave him a big grin to prove my point. “See, good dental hygiene does pay off.”

“Why do I think you’re being a tad sarcastic?”

“Sarcastic? Me? Never. No, I’m dying to meet this red-haired hussy of yours.”

I stepped out of the car and closed the door. It might have sounded like I slammed the door, but I swear that’s just the acoustics you get when you’re near the water. Sound carries farther over water; at least that’s what I think my science teacher said back in high school.

While I reminisced about my struggles getting a passing grade in physics class, Scooter was busy grabbing a navy-blue tote bag out of the back. It had a picture of a sailboat with “Let Your Dreams Set Sail” printed underneath. No doubt he had bought it at one of those boat shows he was always going to.

“What’s in the bag?”

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

“You know I don’t like surprises.”

“Sure you do. Remember how thrilled you were last night when I surprised you with Marjorie Jane?” He bent down and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying down the path.

“You really are dense sometimes, aren’t you?” I shouted after him as I tried to catch up.

Scooter sure can move fast when he’s focused on something. And by focused, I mean obsessed. He has two modes of operating—fixated on something 24/7 or completely disinterested.

His interest in sailing had started a couple of years ago when he had gone on a weekend charter trip with some buddies. After that, he spent countless hours looking at sailing websites, leafing through glossy boat magazines, and reading books on rather dull subjects like diesel engine maintenance and repair.

I had hoped it was just another one of his temporary preoccupations, like the time he decided he was going to learn to make Ethiopian food. He bought all sorts of unusual ingredients, scorched several pots and pans, and couldn’t speak for days after adding too much hot pepper to a chicken dish and burning his mouth. After one final failed attempt at making an Ethiopian spice blend, he lost interest and ordered pizza for dinner instead.

I should have realized that his fixation with sailing was a lot more serious. Buying a sailboat was probably a good clue. Maybe that’s what a midlife crisis was—an obsession gone wrong.

When he arrived at the boardwalk, he turned and wiggled his finger at me. “Come on, my little sweet potato. This is no time to dawdle. We’re due to meet the boat broker soon.”

I certainly wasn’t dawdling. Okay, maybe a little. I really wasn’t in any hurry to see Marjorie Jane. But my short, stubby legs could never keep up with his long ones. He had been a star basketball player in college, and it was his speed running up and down the court that had earned him the nickname “Scooter.” I glared at him. He caught my meaning.

“Sorry about that.” He clutched my hand and gave it a squeeze. “It’s just that I’m so excited to see my new girl.”

I glared at him again. My patented knock-it-off-or-you’ll-suffer-serious-retribution glare. The last time I’d given him a glare like that, I hid his Froot Loops and he had to eat oatmeal every day for breakfast for a week instead. Oh, how he’d suffered.

He gave my hand another squeeze and quickly said, “Of course, you’re my best girl, Mollie. No one could take your place.”

When Scooter calls me by my first name instead of a silly pet name, then you know he’s serious. Or worried he might be served more oatmeal.

“All right. We better get a move on if we’re going to meet this boat broker of yours,” I said. I tried to see what was in the tote bag he was carrying.

“Hey, no peeking.” He switched the bag to his other hand and walked down the boardwalk to a creaky dock that had seen better days. He pointed to a sign that said B Dock. “She’s just down here. There are three other main docks: A Dock, C Dock, and D Dock.”

“Do you think they hired external consultants to come up with those clever names? Probably the same team that came up with the name Palm Tree Marina on account of all the palm trees. And let me guess, they came up with the name Coconut Cove on account of all the coconuts floating in the water?”

Scooter suppressed a smile. “There’s also a fuel dock and a dinghy dock. And yes, before you ask, they have clever names too—Fuel Dock and Dinghy Dock.” He pointed at the boats bobbing in the water near the breakwall. “People who keep their boats in the mooring field use their dinghies to get back and forth to shore, and have a special dock to tie up at. And the fuel dock is—”

I held up my hand. “Let me guess. The fuel dock is where you get fuel.”

“You’re catching on quick. Do you want to know about the boatyard?”

“Not really.”

“Of course you do. If you need to do repairs or maintenance to your boat, you have it hauled out and taken there to work on it.”

“Fascinating.”

I gingerly stepped along the dock, avoiding planks that looked like they were missing nails. It reminded me of that kids’ game where you avoided stepping on cracks so that you wouldn’t break your mother’s back. Except, in this case, I wasn’t worried about my mom as much as I was worried about one of the planks breaking and tumbling me into the water. Sure, I like splashing around in the water, but only in pools and hot tubs. I find the chlorination in the water reassuring—it’s a sign that humans are in charge and that you’re less likely to find scary critters, like sharks and alligators, lurking about. When it comes to the ocean, you’re on your own. You never know what sea monsters might be waiting for you. I’m not a very strong swimmer, so I’d much prefer to fight off someone trying to steal my lounge chair by the pool than fend off a great white or a gator.

We had only moved to Florida a few months ago, so worries about sharks and alligators were pretty new to me. When Scooter’s uncle passed away and left him his cottage in Coconut Cove, a small tourist town on the Gulf Coast, we decided it would be a good opportunity to make a fresh start, away from reminders of Scooter’s old business and former partners.

Across from the marina, stairs led down to a sandy beach. I watched some tourists wading in the water, a dog carrying a large piece of driftwood to his owner, and a couple of kids flying colorful kites. Maybe I could convince Scooter to go for a stroll after we were done looking at this boat of his.

After successfully navigating the rest of the dock, I saw him standing in front of a red wooden boat. He stared at it rapturously, his mouth hanging open.

I grabbed a tissue out of my purse. “Here,” I said. “You’re drooling again.”

He wiped the corner of his mouth. “She’s so beautiful!”

I’m not sure “beautiful” was the word I would have used. Paint was flaking off the side. The teak decks looked like they had seen better days. And to top things off, the name Marjorie Jane was written in an ostentatious, flowery gold script on the front of the boat. “Tacky” is the word that came to mind, not “beautiful.”

I was all set to explain exactly what the difference between beautiful and tacky was when Scooter gazed at me with those dark brown eyes of his.

We used to have a chocolate Labrador dog with the same exact eyes when I was a kid. One day, he came bounding up to me with my Barbie doll in his mouth, dropped it at my feet, wagged his tail, and looked at me with his soulful eyes. Sure, Barbie was missing a leg and covered in dirt, but how could I stay mad at a dog who oozed so much cuteness? It was the same with Scooter, except this was a boat and not a mangled doll.

“How much did you pay for this thing?” I asked. “She looks like she should have sunk to the bottom a long time ago.”

“I’ve only put down a deposit,” Scooter said. “That’s why we’re meeting the boat broker. To sign the papers and finalize the deal.”

“You mean you can get out of this?” I asked hopefully.

Scooter didn’t answer my question. He had a faraway look in his eyes as he caressed the side of the boat. Either he was lost in daydreams about sailing or he was deliberately ignoring me. I wasn’t sure which was worse. I hated it when he pretended he couldn’t hear me, but daydreaming about a boat, of all things—especially this boat—really took the cake.

He rubbed his hands together. “Come on, let me show you the cockpit. Imagine relaxing there at night over one of those tropical cocktails you’re fond of. Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”