“I’m sure, too. Never set eyes on the guy before that night.”
“Okay, Charley, thanks,” Stone said. He started the engine, turned and started out of Garrison Bight. “That guy looks like the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski.”
“Everybody in Key West looks like Ted Kaczynski,” Dino pointed out.
“Where’s the Key West Yacht Club?” Stone asked. Dino was looking at the chart, and he pointed to the east. “It’s way down there in the corner of the bight.”
“Nice to know that,” Stone said.
“Yeah, but we don’t know much else, do we?”
8
THE PROPERTY OF the Key West Yacht Club was entered from busy Roosevelt Boulevard, and the clubhouse was an unassuming 1950s-era building, surrounded by a large parking lot and a good-sized marina. There was a party going aboard a traditional motor yacht moored near the entrance to the driveway. Stone found a parking place, and they walked into the club, taking a left into a roomy bar sheltering a crowd of happy-sounding people. Tommy Sculley waved them over to a corner of the bar, where he introduced them to a couple.
“Stone Barrington, Dino Bacchetti, this is Jack Spottswood and his wife, Terry, local lawyer and real estate broker, respectively.”
Hands were shaken.
“Jack, I think we met in Atlanta a few years ago,” Stone said. “A real estate closing, as I remember.”
“That’s right, we did,” Spottswood said. “Nice to see you again. I hear you and Dino used to practice the police arts in New York with Tommy.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stone said. “We were all street detectives, and only Dino prospered in the work. Tommy and I got out when we could.”
“Yeah, Stone, sure,” Tommy said. “I retired in good order; you got your ass bounced by Captain Leary and the other brass.”
“True enough,” Stone said. “There’s enough in that story for a novel. I’ll tell it to you when I’m drunker.”
“Speaking of drunk,” Spottswood said, “we’re all invited to a party on a yacht next to the club.”
“The traditional one?” Stone asked.
“She’s a 1937 Trumpy,” Spottswood said. “A member here, the local tennis pro, Chuck Chandler, just fi nished restoring her.”
“There’s that name again,” Stone said.
“Yeah, the Chuck Choke. He hasn’t lived it down yet.”
“Come on, let’s go see Chuck’s new boat,” Terry said. They walked out of the bar and around to the yacht; her name on the stern was
“She’s very beautiful,” Stone said to Chuck.
“Yes, she is,” Chuck replied, watching the girl walk away.
“I was referring to the yacht, but I can’t argue the point. She’s a Trumpy, I hear. The yacht, I mean.”
“Yep, 1937.”
“How’d you come by her?”
“I had a client at the Olde Island Tennis Club for some years, and he died last year. I had been helping him with the finish work on the restoration, and to my astonishment, he left her to me. She already had new engines and electronics, and her hull had been painted. All I really had to do to her was a hell of a lot of varnishing.”
“You did a very fine job,” Stone said, touching a bit of mahogany.
“How many coats?”
“Ten, and I’ll give her another coat every year. It’ll give me something to do in the summers, when business is slow.”
“You know your varnishing, Chuck.”
“I had a lot of experience restoring her predecessor, a thirtytwo-foot one-off that I lived aboard. This one is forty-four feet, and, believe me, the extra room is going to come in handy.”
“May I see below?” Stone asked.
Chuck led him down the companionway and into the saloon. There was a built-in dining table and a galley tucked into a corner, a chart table and seating for eight or so.
“Gorgeous,” Stone said.
“There’s just the one cabin, aft,” Chuck said, pointing the way. Stone found a handsome stateroom, white and mahogany, with a nice head and shower and a double berth. “Perfect bachelor quarters,” he said. “How many of these were built?”
“She’s a custom job,” Chuck said, “the only one of her kind. She was in pretty bad shape when Jerry bought her. He replaced all the lower hull planking and then redid everything from the bottom up.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Stone said.
“That I am. If you’ll excuse me, I’d better check that my guests are drinking enough.”
“Sure.” Stone didn’t think they would need any encouragement. He walked back into the saloon and found a woman looking into the galley cabinets and fridge.
She glanced at him. “Hello,” she said. She was tall and slender, with blond hair. Late thirties, maybe.
“Good evening, doctor,” he replied.
She turned to face him and lifted an eyebrow. “Ah,” she said, “my former patient.”
Stone offered his hand. “My name is Stone Barrington. I’m afraid I wasn’t very appreciative of your kind efforts last evening. In my defense, I plead semiconsciousness.”
She shook his hand. “Yes, you were. I’m Annika Swenson.”
“I know; your card is in my pocket,” Stone said. “I had intended to call and thank you, but my day got busy.”
“One shouldn’t be too busy in Key West,” she said.
“You have a point.”
“Annika!” a woman’s voice cried from the top of the companion-way ladder. “We’re leaving.”
Annika turned. “Coming!” she called back. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I’m with some people.”
“I’m here for a few days,” Stone said. “May we have dinner?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you, and we’ll arrange a time,” Stone said.
“Good night, then.”
He watched her climb the companionway ladder and enjoyed the view.
Dino was the next one down the ladder. “Was that the lady from last night?”
“It was,” Stone replied.
“You are the only guy I know who can meet a beautiful woman while lying on a sidewalk unconscious,” Dino replied. “Let’s go; dinnertime.”
They made their goodbyes to Chuck Chandler.
“You play tennis?” he asked Stone.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come over to the club, and we’ll hit some balls.”
