Bimini Twist Page 22
That, I thought, was genuine. And it certainly deserved an honest answer. “I was intrigued with Pete, pilot boat captain and fisherman extraordinaire, at my service,” I quoted his initial self-introduction back to him. “Pete, the FBI agent? No thanks.”
After a short pause and slightly shocked look, Pete roared with laughter. He held his belly as his shoulders bounced with each chortle. A tear found the corner of his eye. His laugh was contagious, I thought as I fought the urge to giggle. When he could speak, Pete said, “Well, that was blunt.”
“Not everyone appreciates my directness,” I said with a chuckle.
“Directness I can handle. It’s the message that upsets me.” Pete grew serious. “You’re special, Jane Bunker. And we deserve a chance. And I can be quite persistent. I will not take ‘No thanks’ for an answer.”
True to form, I had nothing. No joke or quip or retort. I can always manage a wisecrack, I thought. But when bona fide repartee is in order, I fall flat on my face. I racked my weary brain for a single witticism, but nothing came. Why is it, I wondered, that I could hold up my end of wordplay with the Vickersons, but not have the wherewithal for light banter with Pete? I was always quick with a sarcastic comeback to Audrey’s sass. But now, when I was most in need, words failed me. I sat and stared in total numbness into Pete’s liquid, chocolate eyes that waited patiently for me to speak. Finally, I was plucked from the jaws of humiliation when Bianca and Deloris entered and announced that the launch was alongside to take us ashore. Within the mix of feelings of achievement for a job well done in saving Bianca and a dogged, physical fatigue lay a genuine sigh of relief. I was off the hook with Peter Alfond. For now.
I sat quietly in the launch and watched as the lettering on The Princess of the Seas’ transom blurred to unreadable. Pete had remained aboard with his FBI counterparts to await the coroner. I never said goodbye or thanks or good riddance, I realized, as I followed Deloris and Bianca from the launch to the float. It was decided that I would transport Deloris and Bianca to the dock where Deloris had left her car when meeting Cal. And Deloris would deliver Bianca back to her job and digs in Bar Harbor. This plan would have me happily home for a late dinner.
I drove in silence as Deloris flicked a pen at a sudoku puzzle and Bianca texted rapidly using Deloris’s phone. Deloris made a half-hearted attempt to chat, then quickly retreated to her puzzle. What topic of conversation could possibly stimulate interest following my last forty-eight hours? Weather, scenery, politics, sports? I had no desire to make small talk. I wasn’t even mulling anything in my own head. I wasn’t planning or scheduling, plotting or solving. I was suffering the symptoms of adrenaline withdrawal that I knew all too well. My adrenal glands had been on overdrive, and now I needed to cope with returning to normalcy. Of course, normal is a relative term.
EPILOGUE
“We want to hear every last detail,” said Mrs. V as she served up a heaping plate of her latest mussel concoction. “Starting with your date.”
“My non-date,” I corrected as I swirled the remains of a Scotch and soda around the bottom of my glass. “He stood me up.” I understood that my landlords and Wally had heard only rumors of the arrests and deaths that had transpired since our last meal together, and needed the real scoop. Realizing that adding the truth as to why Pete had been a no-show would dampen their immediate dislike of him, I left it out. “But the party was fabulous,” I lied to avert the verbalization of the pity I saw in Mrs. V’s pursed lips. “Great food, and interesting people.”
Seemingly torn between berating Pete and stroking my hand in condolence for the disappointment and humiliation I had suffered at the soiree, Mr. V decided to mix me another drink. Mrs. V, however, was not as willing to let this go. “That rat! You are kidding? Oh, you poor dear,” she said with a high degree of sympathy and whining. This was exactly what I had hoped to avoid, I thought as I took a slug of the freshly poured drink. I swallowed hard, both the Scotch and the realization that what I was really sore about was the fact that Pete had not confided in me. Standing me up was understandable and acceptable in light of the reasons why he had done so. But what really hurt was his apparent mistrust and lack of confidence in me as a professional. I thought this perhaps indicated a feeling of superiority over me. And that could not be overcome. “Well, that’s his loss,” Mrs. V concluded when she realized that I was not responding.
“I’m just glad I hadn’t invested more emotional energy in Pete Alfond,” I said, knowing that no one would ever know the difference. This was the last time I would give Pete any airtime, I vowed to myself. I would not so much as breathe his name ever again. (He barely rated a pronoun.)
All focus shifted to dinner as I savored the first bite. Mussels masala over pan-fried polenta was to die for. I was not confident that mushrooms would work with mussels, but the addition of water chestnuts for texture made the dish. I had to marvel at the energy, love, and effort that went into dinners at the Vs’. At the age of eighty-four, Alice Vickerson had earned the right to boast. As we oohed and aahed with every delicious bite, Mrs. V regaled us with a step-by-step replay of the amazing polenta. She summarized it all with, “And the results speak for themselves!”
The quiet associated with happy diners was broken when Wally spoke up. “Janey lost your shoe, Mrs. V. Like Cinderella.”
“Wally!” I laughed. “Don’t be a tattletale.”
“Are you kidding?” said Mr. V. “Your brother is the only source of information around here. Nice job, Walter.” With that Mr. V and Wally shared a fist bump, which oddly surprised me. “I’m sure Prince Charming will come calling with the shoe. But what I’m more interested in is the bump on your head and black eye.”
“That’s the more interesting story, for sure,” I said. “You’ll be surprised to know that the lost shoe and smashed skull play out in the same scene.” I pushed my empty plate into the middle of the table, making room for me to rest my forearms at my place as I leaned forward in my chair for dramatic effect and affect. “I’ll start at the beginning,” I said as I felt the intense attention of all three at the table. There was no reason for me to hold back any details, I thought as I realized that sharing the traumatic events of the very recent past would be therapeutic. If I couldn’t share my life with my family, I may as well become a hermit, I thought.
Just as I was setting the scene regarding the first missing person report, my phone dinged from within my pocket. I chose to ignore it, wishing that I had been courteous enough to silence the phone prior to dinner. Mrs. V, who was always compelled to announce any activity on my phone, announced, “I think you got a text message, dear.”
“That’s okay. I’ll get it later. Sorry about the interruption.”
“But what if it’s important?” she argued. “Go ahead and look at it. We can wait.”
“Well, I don’t want to be rude.”
“It’s not rude. Go ahead,” she urged, crowding the line between inquisitive and intrusive.
“Plus, we are nosy and want to know who’s messaging you this time of night,” Mr. V chimed in honestly. “What if it’s Prince Charming with Alice’s shoe?”
“That’s unlikely,” I muttered. “But okay, excuse me for a minute.” I stood, caving to the pressure, and pulled the phone from my hip pocket. I turned my back to the table for the best I could do in the way of privacy with three pairs of eyes riveted on my shoulder blades.
Not taking “No Thanks” for an answer. May I call you tomorrow?
My pulse quickened and I felt my face grow red. “Well, who is it? What’s going on? Everything okay?” asked the very impatient Mrs. V.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s Deloris checking on me,” I lied, knowing that the truth would lead to more questions and too much input on how I should respond. “I’ll send her back a reply real quick, and be right with you.”
All curiosity was in check as I typed and sent, yes.
Also by Linda Greenlaw
JANE BUNKER MYSTERIES
&n
bsp; Slipknot
Fisherman’s Bend
Shiver Hitch
NONFICTION
The Hungry Ocean
The Lobster Chronicles
All Fishermen Are Liars
Seaworthy
Lifesaving Lessons
WITH MARTHA GREENLAW
Recipes from a Very Small Island
The Maine Summers Cookbook
About the Author
LINDA GREENLAW is the author of the bestsellers The Hungry Ocean, All Fishermen Are Liars, The Lobster Chronicles, and Recipes from a Small Island, as well as the Jane Bunker mysteries, including Slipknot and Fisherman’s Bend. Before becoming a writer, she was the captain of a swordboat, a career that earned her a prominent role in Sebastian Junger’s The Perfect Storm and a portrayal in the subsequent film. She now lives on Isle au Haut, Maine, where she captains a lobster boat. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Also by Linda Greenlaw
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
BIMINI TWIST. Copyright © 2018 by Linda Greenlaw. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Adrian Chesterman / ArtWorks
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-10758-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-10759-6 (ebook)
e-ISBN 9781250107596
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First Edition: June 2018