Josiah Swingle was born to be a yacht captain—at least Helen thought so.
He had the right build: a compact muscular body with strong arms. A white polo shirt set off his broad chest nicely.
Josiah had the right look, too: neatly trimmed sandy hair and the sun-reddened complexion of a fair-skinned man. Helen liked the sun wrinkles around his eyes.
He was the right size. Josiah was about five feet nine. That made him tall enough to command, but not so tall he’d perpetually bump his head in the ship’s low-ceilinged passageways, or whatever sailors called them.
Josiah had an air of calm confidence. I wouldn’t follow you into hell, Captain, Helen thought. But I’d obey your orders if the ship was in trouble. And I’d expect you to get us out of it.
Josiah had knocked firmly on the door of Coronado Investigations the next morning. Helen checked the office clock and was impressed by his punctuality: seven thirty on the dot.
Phil opened the door to their office, 2C, upstairs and across the courtyard from their apartments.
“Morning, Captain,” Phil said. “This is my partner and my wife, Helen Hawthorne.”
The captain shook hands with both Phil and Helen, another point in his favor. She liked his firm handshake and calloused hands. They belonged to someone who worked hard.
Josiah surveyed the Coronado office and nodded approval. “This is how a detective agency should look,” he said. “It’s a working office, not some decorator’s showcase.”
Almost right, Captain, Helen thought. Those gunmetal gray desks and file cabinets have been battered by years of work—but not our work. We bought them used.
Phil beamed when Josiah admired his framed poster of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade, her husband’s tribute to the romance of their trade. Then Josiah sat down in the yellow client chair, ready to tell his story. Helen and Phil sat across from him in their black and chrome chairs.
Josiah’s voice was low, but distinct. “I captain a 143-foot motor yacht called the
“Interesting name,” Helen said. “Is the owner British royalty?”
“No, an American with a sense of humor,” Josiah said. “Before I tell you the family’s name, I need you to promise that you’ll keep it confidential, even if you don’t take my case.”
“You have our word,” Phil said. “Unless you’re doing something illegal that we’re required to report.”
“I’m not,” the captain said. “I’m trying to catch someone breaking the law. That’s why I need detectives. This is my first job as captain and I don’t want to lose it. I like the owner and the ship. Word can’t get around that there’s trouble aboard the
“We understand,” Helen said, wondering who owned the yacht: a movie star? A superathlete? A rocker or rapper? Maybe an A-list comedian?
“The yacht is owned by a man from Chicago,” Josiah said. “Earl Grantham Briggs.”
“I never heard of him,” Helen said. She tried not to sound disappointed.
“Most people haven’t,” the captain said, “and Earl likes it that way. Mr. Briggs is well-off and he knows money attracts trouble.”
“Where did his money come from?” Phil asked.
“Something smart and simple,” Josiah said. “He invented a heavy-duty belt for a lawn mower. Every time a riding mower needs a new one, Earl gets a chunk of change. He enjoys his yacht and makes sure it has the best of everything. He spent more than a million dollars upgrading the sound system.”
“That’s astonishing,” Helen said.
“Not in his world,” the captain said. “Earl has money, but he’s a quiet guy. He’s sixty-two and married to Beth, a former fashion model. She’s younger than Earl and very attractive. They have no kids, unless you count Mitzi, Beth’s miniature white poodle. Beth treats that dog like a child—even pushes it around in a stroller.”
Helen had seen women wheeling their dogs around the Fort Lauderdale malls. She felt sorry for them, but this was no time to discuss canine child substitutes.
“Earl and Beth enjoy entertaining,” the captain said. “They live in a perpetual party, and some of their friends are, uh, well, flamboyant. The Briggses entertain at their co-op on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago and their villa in Tuscany. Their yacht is a floating mansion with marble floors, art glass and custom-built oak cabinets.”
“They live well,” Helen said.
“Comfortable, for their society. The ship is relatively small by yachting standards. It’s not some five-hundred- foot tub that can’t turn around in the Lauderdale yacht basin. It has two fourteen-foot tenders, a Yamaha cruiser, WaveRunners and the usual toys. But it doesn’t have a submarine or a helicopter.”
Poor Beth and Earl, Helen thought. Phil caught her eye and she swallowed her snarky comment.
“We cruise mostly to the Bahamas and other Caribbean islands,” Josiah said. “Earl and his friends like to gamble, especially at Atlantis. The wife, not so much. She and some of the lady guests power-shop instead.
“The ship usually has a crew of ten. We lost one crew member on the last trip. Our new stewardess took off with a dude she met at Atlantis. Earl didn’t want me to call a Lauderdale crew agency and have one flown to the Bahamas. He said it was only a thirteen-hour trip back. The other two stewardesses could pick up the slack and I could hire someone when we reached port.”
“I wasn’t happy about sailing shorthanded, but he’s the owner. When we left the Bahamas, I was worried about the wind. It wasn’t dangerous, but it would make the trip uncomfortable. Earl didn’t want to wait for it to die down. He wants to go when he wants to go. So we left.
“Before we passed Chub Cay in the Berry Islands, I did a walk-around to make sure everything was secure. I left the first mate on the bridge watching out for other boats. I went past the bosun’s locker and heard something sliding around inside. That’s where we store the cleaning equipment, the shammies and deck cleaners, along with the rope, fenders and hooks. I opened the locker and saw a gray tackle box behind some rope, sliding around the deck. It hadn’t been stowed properly. The box was plastic and didn’t look like one of ours. I popped it open.”
The captain shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “At first, I couldn’t believe it. The tackle box was filled with emeralds.”
“Real ones?” Phil said.
“Real good ones. The bigger ones, about the size of postage stamps, were stored in the tray. The smaller ones were tossed in the lower compartment. About two hands full.”
“Rough stones or cut?” Phil asked.
“Cut,” Josiah said.
“Somebody knows what they’re doing,” Phil said. “Emeralds can have major flaws that only show up during cutting. Get one of those and a gemstone goes from priceless to worthless.”
“I’m no expert,” Josiah said, “but these looked like the fine emeralds I’ve seen displayed in the jewelry shops at Atlantis. The colors ranged from blue-green to deep green.”
“Any other gemstones in the box?” Phil asked.
“Just emeralds,” Josiah said.
“How do you know a yacht guest didn’t stash the box in the bosun’s locker?” Phil asked.
“If any guests were in that area, we’d know it,” the captain said. “We keep track of them and the staff stays in touch by radio. A crew member would have reported it, asked if the guest needed help and steered the person back to the salon or stateroom or other guest area. Besides, the crew carried on the guests’ luggage and nobody had a cheap one-tray tackle box. Our guests have expensive luggage.”
“So who uses the bosun’s locker?” Phil asked.
“The whole crew has access to it, but mainly the guys use it. Yacht work is divided into old-school his-and- her duties. Men do the outside work, including washing the boat every day. The engineer changes the zillion filters and handles the air-conditioning and other mechanical problems. Women do the serving and cleaning. They’re called stewardesses. We do have a woman chef.
“I should have confiscated the emeralds, but I wanted to catch the smuggler and get rid of him. We had a rough crossing over the Gulf Stream. The guests and owners were seasick and stayed in their staterooms. Most of the crew was seasick, too, but the two stewardesses had to work anyway, cleaning up after the guests and serving them soup and ginger ale.”
“The next time I checked the locker, the emeralds were gone. I did a quiet search of the crew cabins and found nothing. The smuggler has to be a crew member. The guests and owners were too seasick to remove that box. Only the crew was moving around during the time it disappeared.”
