posted. I peered in the window, knocked.
No answer. No sign of anyone.
With my morning caffeine still coursing through my molecules, spurring me on, I decided to take another plunge—so to speak. I walked back to the slip mooring
I stepped onto the polished wood deck of the stern, but didn’t see any personal items. There was nothing telling in the helm area, either—just two leather seats, a steering wheel, and a whole lot of technical bells and whistles.
I went below, and I checked the salon and galley. There were some dried spills of liquids on the bolted-down coffee table, a few wrappers on the floor. I picked them up—Twinkies? A half bag of Doritos had been left in the small galley (reportedly Saddam Hussein’s favorite snack, but I doubted very much the deposed Iraqi dictator was my frogman). I also found six empty Sam Adams beer bottles and a few Coke cans.
I found more trash in a small container below the sink. But there wasn’t much in there, just a few more Twinkie wrappers, also the kind of thick cellophane that gourmet food stores use to wrap sandwiches, and some newspapers—yesterday’s editions of
Nothing. I found nothing to indicate an identity of the owner or any reason someone would have been in diving gear at night near Bom’s mansion.
I continued to move forward below the yacht’s deck, opening up the door to the sleeping berth. There was a comfortable-looking double bed, portholes, but no personal items. I was about to inspect the small head when I heard voices outside. It sounded like two young women talking and laughing.
“Girls!”
The third voice was deep, a man’s, coming from far away.
I knew I had to stay below, but I wanted to see who these people were. I moved back into the sleeping berth and peeked out the porthole to see if I could glimpse what was going on.
Two slender young women of about sixteen or seventeen wearing worn jeans and tee-shirts stood on the next dock over. Approaching them was a gray-haired portly man in khakis and a blue Windbreaker. I strained to hear what he was telling them.
“…busiest weekend of the year, so don’t waste any time. Here are the boats that came in late last night. Start cleaning them in this order and be quick about it.”
After the portly man turned and stalked away, one of the girls gave an exaggerated salute behind his back. The other rolled her eyes. They consulted the list for a second then both looked up, straight at
“Oh, damn,” I whispered, reactively pulling back from the porthole. Of course, my luck had just run out. They were heading right for me, and not slowly.
I knew I couldn’t very well scramble onto the dock now. If I did, they would see me leaving the yacht. In itself, that might not produce any dire consequences. The girls were young, clearly just a couple of local kids hired to keep the rentals clean. They’d probably shrug off my exit, and I could get in my car and drive away without being charged with trespassing. But it would also mean I’d leave here without any good leads.
But I couldn’t. And the girls were getting closer—
“…and he said he wanted my digits, so I gave them. I really thought he’d call me, you know?”
“You can’t expect that anymore. Some guys just collect numbers. It’s like little trophies or something to them. You know, to brag to their loser friends.”
My imagination continued to fail me, but I knew Madame would have found a way out of this. My dear old dad would have, too, for that matter.
I almost laughed out loud when I realized that each of them—the bookie and the grand Manhattan lady— would have resorted to exactly the same thing in this situation.
Digging into my handbag, I found two twenty-dollar tips from waiting tables the night before. I shoved them into a front pocket of my jeans then quickly moved to the cabin’s salon and sat down on the built-in couch, crossing my legs like it was my plan all along to just wait here for the girls to find me. Their last snippets of conversation gave me the final bit of inspiration I needed—
“That’s pretty shitty. I mean, why are guys like that?”
“Are you kidding? Romance is a joke. Guys are so cheap. It’s like in their DNA—”
The girls had come down the stairs together, each carrying a bucket filled with cleaning products. But they pulled up short and gaped when they saw me just calmly sitting on the cabin couch.
“Excuse us,” said the first one, a blond with a short ponytail and a light dusting of freckles across her nose. “We didn’t know Mr. Monroe rented this yacht out already.”
“He didn’t,” I told them levelly.
The blond exchanged a nervous glance with her partner, a brunette with ruddy cheeks and hair in a long French braid.
“Well…” said the brunette slowly, “should you be on here then?”
“No. I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t help myself. You see I’m only here because of true love.”
The girls eyes widened. They exchanged glances again, but not nervous ones. They were clearly now excited and curious.
“You see, I was having a drink at Bay Bar, you know the one, in Southampton, where the boats can just pull up and dock?”
The girls nodded enthusiastically. No doubt they’d heard of it. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d even gotten into the popular place using fake IDs.
“Well, there I was,” I continued, “minding my own business when this man sent me a bottle of champagne.”
Again their eyes went wide.
“He sent you a whole bottle?” the blond asked.
I nodded. “It was Cristal. It must have cost him five hundred dollars.”
“And he didn’t even know you?” the brunette asked.
“I think it was love at first sight,” I said. “For me it was. The moment I saw him and our eyes met…I knew.”
The blond’s mouth gaped. “You knew?”
I nodded again. “I knew he was the one.”
The two exchanged glances and sighed.
“I was about to ask the man to join me when I saw him answer his cell phone. I think it must have been a personal emergency or something, because he threw down some cash at his table and raced off to his boat. And that’s the last time I saw him.”
“You mean you didn’t even get his name?” the brunette asked. Both girls look absolutely horrified.
“I followed him out to the dock, but by that time, he was already motoring away. The only clue I had to finding him was the name of this boat.”
I did my very best to look devastated, and the two girls stared at me for a long, silent moment.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, ma’am,” the blond said, “but this is a rental. We don’t know who the man is you met last night. Whoever he is, he rented the boat to go out late. And we just work in the mornings.”
“She should just go talk to Mr. Monroe,” the brunette told the blond.
But the blond shook her head. “Monroe will never give her that info. He always says all rentals are confidential.”
The brunette shrugged. “Then I guess she’s out of luck.”
“Girls,” I said softly. “If you would do me the favor of looking up the name of the man who rented this boat last night, I’d be so very grateful.” I placed the two twenty dollar bills on the small coffee table bolted to the floor in
