Found at Sea Page 5

  “Ms. Collins?” he asked, the wire mesh and bars between them.

  “Call me Rory,” she said, opening the gate. “Any trouble finding the place?”

  “None at all.”

  He passed through and they walked down the ramp to the slip—the long, concrete ramp where boats were maneuvered into U-shaped docking areas and secured to metal cleats with thick ropes.

  “I’m down here on the right. Watch your step,” she warned as they approached her vessel. “I’ve got a sloppy neighbor.” Most boat owners were obsessively neat, either through years of habit as military navy or Coast Guard personnel, or through a healthy respect for the sea’s massive power. Her aft neighbor—loud, obnoxious and a weekend beer-guzzler—wasn’t.

  “He never coils his lines,” she complained, automatically bending and reaching for the messy pile of rope and coiling it into a tight, flat circle. “And he still trips over them even when I do it for him.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell from half-empty beer cans left open and stinking on the deck. She poured them out, saying, “Hold on a sec while I run these to the recycle bin. It’s just outside the gate.”

  “I’m surprised Harbor Patrol hasn’t ticketed him.” Jordan’s contempt came through loud and clear as he watched her hurry to the end of the slip.

  “They have,” she called back, her voice carrying easily over the water. “He pays the tickets and keeps on drinking. Sooner or later he’ll get the boot. Until then...I’m stuck with the worst weekend slip neighbor in history. We don’t care for each other much.”

  “You’re really packed in tight, too,” Jordan said. The concrete boarding area between the crafts was only a yard wide. He could touch the side of both vessels at once if he wanted.

  “That’s California for you. Too many boats, not enough harbor. Now you know why we all have curtains.”

  She sprinted back down the slip. “Here we are.” She gestured toward Neptune’s Bride with the pride any good captain felt about her ship and was rewarded by Jordan’s slight nod.

  With the ingrained tradition born of hundreds of years of sailing history, Jordan waited until Aurora had boarded her and then, as owner and captain, spoke the age-old words giving him permission to join her.

  “Welcome aboard.”

  Only then did he mount the steps of the loading box, cross over the side and join her on deck.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you the nickel tour.”

  * * *

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, a cool bottle of lemonade in his hand, Jordan sat outside with Aurora in the deck-bolted fishing chairs, mulling over the Atwells’ misfortunes. Sounds like the niece is a handful—and nothing like her aunt here. Aurora’s actually using her own finances to keep the family’s business going. If nothing else, the woman is loyal.

  Jordan took more time to observe his surroundings. Neptune’s Bride was more than just shipshape. The vessel was a “woody,” an older model with a hardwood-planked hull, like galleons and like the old whaler Jordan himself used to own until the hurricane forced him into a modern fiberglass hull with cold, impersonal no-rust chrome-and-Plexiglas windows. He felt a stab of envy as he studied her vessel. The wood and brass gleamed with a smooth brightness that spoke of loving attention, not just the cursory minimum. Thick glass windows sparkled, with no trace of salt-air encrustation. Even the plastic buoys on line—inflated “bumpers” thrown out when docking to keep the wooden hull from scraping against the concrete slip—were free of harbor clams and seaweed.

  Good captains come in all shapes and sizes, and this one is just as pleasing to the eye as her ship.

  “So now you know my sister’s story and why I need you as my partner.”

  Jordan took another slug of his drink. “That merely explains your motive,” he said. “If I’m going to be your partner—and that’s still an if—I need more details. Question number one. How did you find the San Rafael? If you did indeed find it.”

  “This is my home,” she said, gesturing toward the water. “And you’ve seen the medallion. I’m perfectly willing to have it appraised by a specialist of your choice.”

  “You have it here?”

  “No, my friend Donna does. It’s in her safe,” Aurora quickly added. “I’ll give her a call later and let her know you’re coming, if you want to look at it.”

  “The artifact is mine.” The words hung harshly on the air.

  “No. But it could be half yours if you take me on as a partner. And if you stay alive...”

  Jordan abruptly set down the half-full bottle of lemonade, wishing it were iced coffee or tea. To him, citrus and sugar weren’t thirst quenchers. A woman’s drink, even if this was no ordinary woman. He noticed that her eyes immediately went to the polished teak gangway, where he’d slammed down the bottle, to inspect it for damage.

  He picked up his drink; fortunately the bottle had left no mark on the wood. “Sorry, Captain.” He deliberately used her title. “I didn’t mean—” Realization kicked in. His finger clenched around the bottle. “What did you say?”

  “Someone’s trying to kill you,” she said bluntly. “Surely this isn’t news. I don’t know who it is, and neither do the police. Even Donna hasn’t come up with anything. Who wants you dead?”

  Jordan searched his memory. “No one I know, especially out here. I usually work Atlantic waters.”

  “That’s not much help, which is why we can’t afford to wait. You’d be safer at sea than on land. And we have to start salvaging soon. My sister is losing her health, and your three friends from the beach—”

  “Tom, Dick and Harry are no friends of mine.”

  Aurora flushed. “Sorry. Wrong choice of words. I haven’t filed a claim yet—I want us to do it jointly. Once the medallion’s assessed, we can get to work before winter sets in.”

  Jordan shook his head just once. “Skip the assessment. That medallion is real.”

  I know it in my bones. If she’s found the ship’s location, I’ll have to share half our family’s heritage with a stranger—or I might lose it all.

  Salvage law was very specific. Possession was nine-tenths of the law in international waters, even though he could prove he was a blood descendant of the original owners.

  “I’ll contact a local lawyer and have a draft drawn up while I talk to this Ms. Diamond.”

  “I already have. Donna has the paperwork.” Aurora’s lawyers and Donna shared the same office building. Donna, at Aurora’s request, had also discovered where Jordan’s own salvage ship was located and had done background checks on his crew.

  “Then I’ll look the papers over. But I want it specified in writing that we use my ship and my crew. They’re off Florida right now.”

  Her polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We can’t use your ship. Or your crew. Because—”

  “I know my ship and my men,” he interrupted.

  “It’ll take too long to get your ship out here. Besides, I know these waters, and I’m the only person who knows the ship’s location. That makes me the dive master. And I prefer to use my own divers.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Since I’m funding the operation, I prefer to hire crew I’m familiar with.” He saw her flush again at his mention of money, but she didn’t back off.

  “How about this? You use your deckhands and I’ll use my divers, since these are my waters. That’s a safe division of labor, Mr. Castillo, and since your boat isn’t here, we use my boat, and I’m the captain. That’s fair enough.”

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “Have your lawyers draw up the papers.”

  “Like I said, I already have—specifying the terms we’ve just discussed.”

  Jordan frowned. “A bit overconfident, aren’t we?”

  “You forget. I’ve seen the galleon. You haven’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my purse. Donna’s expecting us.” Aurora rose gracefully and headed for the “ladder,” the term for ship’s stairs leading belowdecks.

  “In the future, Ms. Co
llins, I’d appreciate it if we could discuss our business matters before you put them down on paper.”

  “Agreed. But there’s one thing you need to know about me, Mr. Castillo. There’s no barnacles growing on my hull,” she said over her shoulder.

  As her “hull” disappeared belowdecks, Jordan pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Then, before his mouth grew any more parched—strictly from the heat, he assured himself—he lifted the bottle of unwanted citrus and drained it dry.

  * * *

  JORDAN RODE BESIDE HER as Aurora drove Jordan’s rental car south to Donna’s San Diego office. They’d left her car at Oceanside Harbor.

  “You aren’t allowed to park here at the harbor if you don’t have a slip-holder sticker,” Aurora explained. “You’re from out of town. Want me to drive?”

  “Please. I thought Boston traffic was a headache, but this...” He gestured outside. “Is it always this crowded?” The cars were bumper to bumper, yet moving along easily at speeds over seventy miles an hour.

  She grinned. “This is regular traffic. It’s worse at rush hour. That’s when everyone moves at five miles an hour—if you’re lucky. Some days I’m actually tempted to motor down to San Diego in my boat rather than drive.”

  “You have docking privileges there, too?” Jordan asked, looking out his window at the vast expanse of ocean.

  Aurora nodded.

  “What about the other harbors?”

  “No. San Diego Harbor south and Oceanside Harbor are good enough. I could go north to Dana Point and then to L.A. Harbor, but there’s too much auto traffic and not enough parking, even for slip holders. San Diego and L.A. are full of commercial boating traffic. Mission Bay in San Diego gets all the teenages on Jet Skis and weekend boaters.”

  “Please spare us both,” Jordan groaned. Weekend boaters tended to be inexperienced recreationalists.

  “Tell me about it. Ninety-nine percent of boating fatalities are caused by weekend boaters, and they’re usually alcohol related.”

  “What about Dana Point?”

  “We’re talking small again, like Oceanside Harbor, but smart. It caters mostly to private, padded wallets—strictly the fiberglass-hull set. They get a lot of the San Clemente crowd. Politicians and movie stars,” she explained. “Oceanside is more blue-collar. Plus a cup of chowder in Oceanside is under three dollars. At Dana Point you’ll easily pay more than five and have to wear a shirt and shoes to eat. They charge more for boat fuel, too.”

  “Not your style?” Jordan asked.

  “The day I have to put on makeup and nylons to eat a cup of chowder is the day I retire.” Aurora shrugged. “Oceanside’s my preference. For a lot of reasons.”

  “And it’s your home port?”

  “Mostly. I go where the work is. That includes Mexican ports.”

  “Which harbor will we operate out of when we’re salvaging the San Rafael?”

  “Sorry.” She threw him a quick glance. “You don’t get that information until I’m officially signed up as your partner. Nice try, though.” Aurora deliberately changed the subject. “Where are you staying now?”

  “At a hotel. I hadn’t even been there a day before I ended up in the hospital,” he said wryly. “I’m back at the same one.” He mentioned a well-known San Diego hotel near the airport.

  “You hate it,” Aurora guessed.

  Jordan didn’t reply.

  “Stay with me, then,” she offered. “I have plenty of room.”

  “If those guys are still after me, that’s not a good idea,” he argued. “I don’t want you involved.”

  “But I am involved,” she said. “Anyway, Donna’s got her people watching your back. I suspect she’s doing the same for me. And, Jordan, I wouldn’t have offered my hospitality if I didn’t mean it. Trust me, this will make things easier on Donna, too. Everyone at my slip knows everyone else, and if a stranger shows up—we’ll hear about it.”

  “Since you put it that way...thanks. I don’t sleep well on land,” he admitted. “And I could use some help navigating your freeways. I’d planned to do some research on the Castillos and the San Rafael’s payload.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “San Diego de Alcala.”

  “Oh, the Old Mission.”

  “You know where it is?”

  “Everyone does. It’s the first mission ever built in Southern California—and a mandatory field trip for every schoolchild. Beautiful place. If you want, we’ll go together. How about day after tomorrow?”

  “Only if you let me buy lunch—partner.”

  Aurora grinned. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  * * *

  AT DONNA’S SUGGESTION, the three of them sat outside in the bright California sun at one of the local eateries in Seaport Village. While waiting for their seafood and salads to arrive, they nursed their drinks. Donna had a wine spritzer, Aurora more limeade, and Jordan enjoyed his unsugared iced coffee while observing the two women.

  He believed in the old adage “You can judge a person by the company he keeps.” Or in this case, she. Jordan quickly decided that Donna—outwardly Aurora’s opposite, with her crisp appearance and military manner—also had a keen intelligence.

  Aurora’s dive crew won’t be idiots, judging by her taste in friends. That went for Neil Harris, too. He might be a bit proprietary but he was clearly a man of compassion and integrity.

  “You two go way back?” he asked, for the women were comfortable completing each other’s sentences. He found brains appealing in any woman, and neither one was hard on the eyes.

  The women glanced at him, then at each other. Aurora picked up her drink. Donna merely inclined her head.

  “Should I withdraw the question?” Jordan asked.

  “No,” Aurora said. “It’s just that, well, it’s ancient history. Donna and I went to school together. We both wanted out of the house at an early age.”

  “Rough childhood?”

  “Not at all,” Donna said truthfully. “I was the spoiled only child of doting parents. Too spoiled.”

  “I was the headstrong daughter of kind, gentle parents,” Aurora said. “But my ex-hippie mom and dad turned out to want a stricter, more regimented life for their kids than they had themselves. Donna and I both wanted to run away to sea at an early age. Donna here managed to restrain herself until after graduating from college—summa cum laude and class valedictorian.”

  “That’s ancient history, too,” Donna inserted. “Then it was off to Newport, Rhode Island, for officer training and a career in the navy as an intelligence officer...until a few years ago.”

  “I didn’t wait so long,” Aurora said. “I grew up swimming, then diving in these waters. I hated school, hated being inside and had very little patience.”

  “Especially when she was offered a job with a salvage crew off the coast of Florida,” Donna continued. “The salvage captain heard about her through the beach grapevine. Thought Aurora was at least eighteen.”

  Aurora smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t, but the captain was happily married, her husband was the dive master and her grown children worked the boat. She was the only adult who recognized how serious I was about diving. She offered me a job, I told my parents, and my parents hit the roof.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Donna said, signaling to the waitress for a refill on her spritzer. “The tears, the arguments—it was a mess. Aurora wanted to go to court to be declared a legal adult, but the salvage job would’ve been filled by then. She had to be on the next plane with the captain, who offered to pay her passage, or lose out.”

  “How old were you?” Jordan asked Aurora.

  “Sixteen. I’d just finished my sophomore year in high school, but I knew what I wanted—my opportunity of a lifetime. I’d never given my parents names, places or details, so when they refused to listen, I left. They were unable to track me down.”

  Silence fell over the table. The seagulls screamed and circled above their empty table, then moved
on.

  “Your parents must have been heartbroken,” Jordan said.

  Aurora nodded. “They were. So was Dorian. She’s never forgiven me.”

  “Dorian’s a jealous witch of a younger sister,” Donna said.

  “No, she’s not,” Aurora said loyally.

  “She is,” Donna insisted. “Even I was jealous. I mean, what an adventure! So Rory packed her things, caught the bus to the airport and left. She didn’t even say goodbye to her sister or her best friend—that’s me, by the way.”

  “I couldn’t. Not without causing more trouble.”

  “However,” Donna continued, “Rory kept in touch with me, and I delivered news to her family on a regular basis until she turned eighteen. Her parents forgave but never forgot. In fact, they moved to Arizona after a lifetime of working in the same San Diego bank. After Dorian got her accounting degree and married her computer expert, they stayed in San Diego. That’s when those proverbial chickens came home to roost. Dorian’s niece grew up hearing about her aunt and wanting to become another Rory—a hard act to follow.”

  “I never wanted to hurt anyone,” Aurora said quietly.

  “It’s true. She did all she could to spare her family,” Donna explained to Jordan. Jordan had the feeling not too many people sided with Aurora’s youthful decision. “However, Tanya doesn’t care who she hurts when she wants something. Tanya doesn’t even care that Rory’s almost dead broke. She’s been meeting Dorian and Gerald’s payroll—and her cash is running out.”

  “Donna, please.” Aurora protested. “He doesn’t need to know all my personal business.”

  “He does if he’s going to be your partner. Besides, I have a stake in all this. Who’s in charge of protecting you both?”

  “I didn’t ask you to look after me. I can take care of myself.”

  “So can I,” Jordan said.

  Donna gave him a skeptical gaze. “I heard about your little adventure on the pier, Mr. Castillo.”

  “I didn’t know anyone was after me. I do now. And I’ll help you keep an eye on Aurora.”

  “Worry about yourself, Jordan,” Rory muttered.