Murder on the Purple Water by Frances Crane

Author:Frances Crane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: A Pat and Jean Abbott Mystery
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The rangy sun-blackened man who rented us the motorboat lighted her red and green lanterns and started her motor. “Going to the island?” he asked. He assumed we were lovers, and were heading for the uninhabited island with its beach of white sand which lay across the channel. He described a little cove as the best place to land.

It was very flattering for parents to be mistaken for lovers but it made me feel squeamish. Patrick, however, thanked him for the information, helped me in, got in himself, stowed the wrapped mallet in the box under the stern seat, sat down and took the tiller. We headed for the island. We crossed the main channel. White-capped swells smacked against the little boat and sprayed us. The sleek small navy boats lined up along the Craig Dock looked like battleships from our little craft.

Suddenly Patrick cut the motor and turned right and ran parallel to the Craig Dock until we were close to the shore; then he turned sharply right again and we approached the yacht Julia from the side opposite that she presented to the town.

There she lay, fine and gleaming, her lounge alight, her portholes glowing with light, her red and green riding lights on. Beyond her lay the town of Key West, very flat looking, except for the tall radio towers and their red blinking lights. The slate-blue roofs of the houses shone white in the moonlight. All over the island the airplane signal lights bloomed ruby-red, at varying heights, like a flock of balloons arrested where they had drifted.

The Julia’s motor dinghy floated beside the little landing at the foot of her ladder. Patrick brought our hired boat abeam, helped me out, tied up our boat, and we went on board.

There was nobody in the cockpit. Someone was expected. Plates of small sandwiches stood ready and two bottles of champagne were cooling in two buckets. There was service for two. The silver of the buckets, the gold foil of the champagne bottles, the glasses and the transparent plastic covers of the sandwich trays gleamed in the combined moonlight and that from the lounge.

We looked in the lounge. Lamps glowed everywhere, but no one was about.

“Let’s scram!” I said.

“We just got here,” Patrick said. He was looking around for a bell button.

“But, darling! Champagne—he’s expecting a woman. Two bottles. Looks like quite an evening.”

“Looks that way,” Patrick said. He found the button and pressed it. I fidgeted. I walked back to the railing, to be near the ladder.

Presently a colored steward came through the lounge. On seeing us he looked dazed.

“Excuse me, sir. Ma’am. Mr. Whitehead’s not here, sir.”

“His flag says he’s on board.”

“Yes, sir. He’s coming right back, sir. Excuse me, but he didn’t tell me he was expecting you, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Raymond. I’m the steward, sir.”

“Raymond,” Patrick said in a confidential tone, “I’m a detective.” Raymond’s coffee-colored skin seemed to turn lavender. “Mr. Whitehead has been trying to see me all evening, Raymond. I’ve finally almost caught up with him.

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