CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Shelby had never spent Thanksgiving on a sailboat, and she had never spent Thanksgiving Day with Cole. She had been on sailboat trips with friends, short excursions into Tampa Bay and an outing from St. Pete to Eggmont Key overnight. Yet, no one could say she was a sailor. Where she grew up, the most significant bodies of water were local lakes and the Great Miami River, where, in her experience, water navigation was a john-boat with an outboard motor. Plus, deep water made her list of fears. But, in recent days, she found that she had felt comfortable when Cole was at the wheel. So, she looked forward to this day on his boat.

The night before, she had fixed the dinner for the day—cold chicken baked with soy, a Caesar salad, a loaf of crusty bread, and pears and cheese for their dessert—New Age Puritans, to her way of thinking. Cole was to bring a Chardonnay and ale, and she was to guide conversation to the drowning at the quarry.

That morning, she stashed the fixings in her car and headed out for Leesburg, pausing just a moment at the mine. It lay there like a devastated country while she wondered at the secrets in the rubble. Then, she drove on into town and stopped in front of Cole’s. It was eleven forty-five, and he met her at the door.

They kissed. “You’re looking good,” he said.

She was dressed in white duck slacks, a gray sweat shirt that read ‘Ohio State,’ and was carrying her jacket. “Well, thanks,” she laughed. “So do you.”

His face was pleasing with its even oval shape and light blue eyes, and with his graying hair and mustache, he looked like he could be a captain in a T.V. commercial, one of those for seafood or for Old Spice where the hero wears a slicker and is standing on a windswept deck. His legs and arms were tan and muscular from years of active sports. They embraced for several moments, then gathered up their things and headed for the dock.

Ideal for late November, the temperature was 70 and the wind a little breezy. Cole placed Shelby on the boat, a sleek white sloop he called “THE SOUTHERN CROSS,” and cranking up the outboard motor into idle, cast off the lines, jumped on, and they were under way. They moved slowly from the cove, a lagoon-like pond of water ringed by tony condominiums and houses. At the entrance point, a growth of oaks and pine trees stood, in one of which a giant osprey had built its nest. Rays of sunlight streamed like ribbons through the branches as dark anhingas swooped from limb to limb, their arching necks like miniature giraffes. Just into Lake Harris, Cole had Shelby take the tiller and went below to lower the keel. When he returned, he said to head the boat into the wind. He raised the mainsail and directed her to turn to port as the main began to fill. He cut the engine, and pulled the outboard from the water.

“Ease it off a little and head it toward that house.” He gestured to a spot that was well into the distance on the far side of the lake. “Hold it steady while I set the jib.” He stepped forward in the cockpit and unrolled the smaller sail in front. At that point, the boat began to heel.

“Okay, let me show you something.” Cole said. “Move the tiller a little farther to your right.”

As she did as he instructed, the boat heeled over even more and began to pick up speed. Shelby called, “Hey, Captain Bly, I said I’d face my fears, but let’s not go too far. Why am I doing this?”

“So you’ll get used to her. She’s supposed to be on her side. If it goes too far, then you can ease it off.”

“How far’s too far?”

Cole moved back toward her. “She can’t go too far unless you’re in a storm. But if you’re worried, you can just let go, and she will right herself.”

“Is that a metaphor for life?” Shelby asked and smiled at him.

He looked bemused a moment, then answered, “I don’t know. I’ll have to think on that. You okay there or you want me to take it?” He pointed to the tiller.

“I’d like to move around a bit.” Shelby handed off to him and headed toward the front. She stepped as far forward in the cockpit as she could and let the wind flow over her. Ahead, the deep green water of the lake was broken by countless bands of sun-bright waves forming and re-forming in the breeze. Near the horizon, the clear blue autumn sky paled to faintest aqua. Shelby saw no other sailboat, just a couple power boats at disparate angles in the distance. She felt disinclined to sit. She thought next time she came aboard, she’d like to bring some art supplies—pastels or water colors maybe—and paint or draw some scenes. Momentarily, her clients and her practice and the preoccupation with Collette vanished from her thinking.

Sounds were fascinating to her—voices, nature’s noises, music. The nearly silent, soothing sound of SOUTHERN CROSS’ path across the water formed a background for her meditation. Reasonably contented with her recent choices, moving from the city, seeing Cole again, she was calm and nurtured by the quiet lapping of the waves. They reinforced the benefits of drifting and accepting what the universe was offering.

“We’ll anchor over there, near the bridge. There’s an island with a cove.” Pointing to the Howey Bridge as they approached, Cole called out to her. Shelby turned and picked her way back to where he sat. She took a seat just to his right.

“I like the way she looks.” She gestured to the boat with its polished teak wood fittings and the neatness of the deck and storage. “It’s a pleasing place to be.”

“Does this mean that you’re relaxing? I can’t believe it.” Cole smiled, his hand resting loosely on the tiller.

She smiled back. “I presume that you’re sarcastic, but I have to say you’re right.”

“Does this mean we don’t need to talk about the drowning any more?” He looked keenly at her, questioning.

She was serious once again. “No, I want to talk about it, Cole. I could use the feedback.”

“How about we start out here,” he said. “Then, when we drop anchor, we can finish what we didn’t get to.”

She nodded. “Well, okay, you know the story. This rancher, Claude Collette, drowned at SOUTHERN ROCK, at which place he owned the land. The M.E., after the Sheriff’s investigation, ruled it ‘Accidental Death by Drowning’.”

“Yes, I know all that. What else?”

“That’s hard to quantify. I’m not sure I have a whole lot else.”

“Are you at the same place you were before? Is this whole thing still a hunch? Or intuition, like you said? I mean, you’re not going at this bare-faced, are you? Something’s driving you. Do you have some facts?” Cole leaned toward her, eyes intent. “If not, you’re on a dead-end loop.”

She shook her head and sorted what to tell him. “Well, I’ve heard anecdotal evidence that he was probably not depressed. Collette. And some further information that he was pretty active for his age. So, for me, if he still was agile, then he’s not as prone to have an accident. Besides, in addition to Frenchy, there are, ah, others, I think several people in his family who are scheming for his money. I’ve been talking to the players.”

“What players? You think someone wanted him dead?”

She sighed. “Here’s the problem, Cole. I’m up against the confidentiality issue once again. Give me a minute to think what I can do.” She stared off into the distance while he eased back in his seat.

“You counseled people in the Navy, didn’t you?” She asked him, finally.

“Sure. That was my job.”

“What else did you do?”

“Well, I was a Master Chief, you know," Cole grinned. "We run the show,” then added, “I did a lot of things. Problem-solving is what you’d probably call it.”

The bridge from Tavares to Howey-in-the-Hills loomed well before them now. Shelby offered, “Let’s get situated first. “I think I have an idea.”

“Oh, boy,” he said and rolled his eyes, considering her a moment, then, “you want to help me here?” He pointed to the tiller, saying, “Keep it here, into the wind.” He rolled the jib, dropped the mainsail and resumed the tiller once again. Then, cranking up the motor, he angled left and started their entry into a channel leading to another cove, this one a tranquil tree-lined tract of water beside a small unpopulated island. Palms and oaks and pines outlined the shore. Cole dropped the anchor and turned off the engine.

They spent the next few minutes on necessities—coiling rope, stowing life preservers, and opening the wine and ale. Then, settling in on pillows in the cockpit, they faced and poured libations to the day. They raised their glasses—a Chardonnay for her, brown ale for him. “Happy Thanksgiving, Shelby,” Cole said, looking at her warmly.

“And to you.” She returned his look. “I’m really glad you asked me.” She replaced her glass without drinking. “I’ll wait for this until we’re finished talking.

“Okay, then, I will, too.” He lowered his ale. “Now, what’s this idea of yours?” He tapped her with his foot and looked amused.

“I think I’d like to hire you.”

“Hire me. For what?”

“Well, we’d have to find a term we both accept. Let me ask you this, how do you feel about working for, or let’s say ‘with,’ a woman?”

“I can work for anybody if they’re worth working for. Nobody has convinced me only men are smart.”

“Then, how do you feel about working for me.” She felt some trepidation at asking him to change the way they were relating. She knew it would introduce the issue of control.

“Shelby, I’m not much intimidated by anybody.” He looked straight into her eyes.

She laughed. “I take it that includes me.”

“That’s right.” He said. “And I’ve never been a yes-man. What do you need for me to do?”

“I’ve thought about it, and I’d like help with this Collette ... dilemma. For that, I’d need your confidentiality. Formalized, I mean. So that I can talk to you about it.”

“I see.” He stood. “Hang on.” Cole went below and came up with a sheet of paper towel and a ball point pen. “So formalize it. Write down what you mean.”

She was thrown off guard for just a moment, then scribbled on the towel, “I agree that the names and circumstances of clients and cases of Shelby Wallace, Ph.D., will be kept confidential between Dr. Wallace and me.” She dated it and hand it to him. “It’s kind of crude, I know, but you get the idea. I have a regular contract in my office that I routinely use.”

He read it. “Sure, that won’t be a problem."

“You’ll have to take it seriously. I mean, to keep what I tell you confidential.”

“Shelby,” he said forcefully, “My entire Navy career was top secret. I take it very seriously.” He stopped and looked hard at her. “But, you know, I still don’t know what you want me to do. How about a job description?”

“I’d really like to consult with you about this Collette situation. Talk things over. Get your perspective. You’re more pragmatic than I am. Plus, I might ask you to look into specific things for me. Sometimes. Research, it might be called. If you have the time for it.”

“Hell, Shelby, I’m basically retired. Oh, I sell a bike or two from time to time. But that doesn’t occupy my time.”

“Okay. Then, how does all this strike you?” She gestured to the paper.

“It’s fine.” Cole began to sign it.

“Hey, wait a minute.” She stopped him with her hand. “We haven’t settled salary.”

“Well, now we have.” He grinned a twisted grin, set the paper on the bench beside him and signed it. “You owe me a dollar.”

After that, they sat and sipped their drinks, not speaking for a time. Except for occasional birds and intermittent traffic on the bridge beyond, the cove was largely silent. Cole scanned around his boat as though forestalling trouble. Transforming vistas into landscapes, Shelby glanced off into the distance.

Cole turned to her. “Now, can you tell me who’s your client? I take it that it’s someone from the dead man’s family.”

“It’s his daughter, Chere. She came because she’s going through divorce. At least that’s what she says she’s trying to do. She came to me to get some help with that.” Shelby went on to give a thumbnail sketch of Chere, of how she worked with Chere before, the facts of Darley and the marriage and of Claude and Chere’s demeanor toward him. She told him of Kingston, the attorney, and of the feedback she’d been given by Wil and Wesley, Bub Moats, and, particularly, Robert Gaines. She spelled out what she knew to be true and told him what was mere conjecture.

Cole asked and stretched his legs, “What are you going to do if your client was the perpetrator? Of some crime or other? This Chere.”

“Well, ah, I’d have to turn her in. But I can’t think she was. And I don’t know if there even was a crime.” At that, Shelby shook her head and took another sip of wine.

“What makes you think she isn’t? The perpetrator of this ... non-existent crime?” He returned, ignoring her body language.

“For several reasons. I think if she had, she wouldn’t be admitting what she has about her feelings toward her father. What’s more, she’s much too scattered now to plan a murder—too self-absorbed, too hysterical for that. Plus, she says she hated him, and, as I’ve had more contact with her, I don’t think, at the core, she actually did at all.”

“But you don’t know for certain, do you?” Cole leaned toward her and went on without an answer. “I’m not clear what keeps you going with this. Beyond the routine therapy, I mean. Or, if there’s something off base, what about the others—the husband, the attorney, Frenchy. What if your client worked with one of them? You don’t know about them either.”

“Of course I don’t. That there are those who seem to want him dead and then he dies does seem like more than mere coincidence. That’s part of it. That’s why I’m trying to ascertain what actually happened. I’m not a fool. If I find something concrete, I’ll call the cops. Where are you coming from with these questions?” She found that she was irritated.

“Shelby, you asked for my help. You’re smart, so act it. Do you think if someone killed Collette, they would hesitate at harming you?”

“Coleman, no one knows what I am doing.”

His face was suddenly set. He rose. “I can’t believe you’re this naive. You’ve been asking questions all around already. I was with you when you did.” He moved quickly to the bow and stood, keeping his back to her.

Shelby felt misunderstood and doubted what she’d entered into with him but worked to calm herself and not respond until she was thinking clearly. She sat for several minutes. A motorcycle whined into the distance, and the muted sounds of laughter carried faintly through the air. When she felt composed, she rose and walked forward until she was stood behind him. She placed her hand on Cole’s shoulder, saying, “How can we make this better now? It’s Thanksgiving Day. I don’t want us to quarrel. We can drop all this. For good, if need be.”

He took considerable time to answer, then he turned. “Look, I understand this thing concerns you, though there might not be enough to push me into anything. But you can’t have it both ways, my dear. You can’t have it that there may have been a crime and then sell me it’s not really dangerous. That just won’t wash with me. As I told you before, I’m willing to help you, but I’ll want your word about a couple of things. First, if we look into it and there’s nothing there, I want your word you’ll drop it. And till then, I want to be involved in what you’re doing. You do nothing on your own. Have we got a deal?”

Shelby hedged. “Well, Cole, that’s just the point, there just might be enough for me to keep on going when you wouldn’t.” She paused to look at him. “We’ll have to talk about it ... a situation at a time.”

“So you can work me ‘til I cave in?”

“Is that what you think? I’ll work you?” Shelby wondered if there was anything that she could say to change his point of view. “I see we shouldn’t be involved in this. It points up all our differences. I can’t agree to stop on your terms.”

He sighed. “Well, okay, fair enough. I’ll give in on that. It’s the ‘nothing on your own’ I’ve got to have.”

“Nothing dangerous.” She smiled seductively. “How’s that?”

“Shelby, nothing, period.” Cole’s face was serious.

“What kind of woman do you suppose me to be? What kind is it you want? Someone traditional, who cooks and cleans and plays it safe? Coleman, that’s not me.” She saw that she was heightening the battle and thought better of it. She shook her head, “I’m sorry. How’s this? We’ll negotiate. Each step of the way. That okay by you?” She pointed below. “And, I’m really hungry now, aren’t you? I’ve got some gourmet food down there. How about it?” She started down.

Cole nodded slowly like he might be sorry he’d relented, but he followed her below. He played with the radio while Shelby arranged food and laid out plates and utensils. At the blues, they both nodded, and they sat. Strain was apparent between them.

Sun fell through the cabin window in an ochre stream. Shelby offered the chicken, the salad, and the bread and took some for herself. The air was thick with garlic and soy. Seated at the small table, face to face, they ate and spoke from time to time of family and home.

Then Cole asked, “Do you think that he could swim?”

She didn’t have to ask Cole who he meant. “I think not. I think the M. E. said that he couldn’t.”

“Cause if he couldn’t swim, and he was as capable as you have said, he would have been extra careful at the edge, like you did when we were there. That just seems natural to me.” Cole moved their plates into the sink.

Shelby responded, “Makes sense. My thoughts haven’t been that specific.”

“What have you thought?”

“It’s hard to put it in words, but it’s about the total milieu, the environment. When I weave the threads together—Chere’s pretense, her reaction to her father, Dar’s shenanigans, the grubbing after money, and all the feedback about Claude and his behavior—that’s what keeps me thinking. Beyond that, there’s just something I can’t describe. I keep sensing something violent. I have felt this kind of thing before and violence has happened.” Shelby thought for a moment whether to continue. “One time, an associate of mine was talking to me about her client, a woman, with a hostile boyfriend. I just “knew” immediately the woman was in trouble. And she was. The next I heard she was knifed to death. Now, one might say that all the facts were there—the crazy boyfriend, her as a victim, multiple addictions, but I’ve seen a lot of other cases just like that. This one seemed different. Another time, I was in Santa Fe for training. I found myself thinking of a client whom I hadn’t seen for years when I received a call that he had died. And violently.” She stopped and looked at Cole. “I know you must think this sounds arrogant or spooky, but it happened. Maybe it’s a response to subtle cues. I can’t explain it. But, it’s what I call intuition.”

Cole listened carefully, not speaking, until, “Shelby, I just can’t connect with your thinking. I can’t relate this to the drowning.”

“Let me say it this way, the identified patient—Chere in this case—often carries the pathology for the family and can be the least disturbed of all. When Chere came to me this time, she was different from before when I had seen her. You may say that happens, and it does. So does the rest of it—soap opera with a husband, an affair with her attorney, the death of her father, the death of her mother, lying, distortion, the drama—all of that. But Chere has a frantic quality that seems to go beyond the stuff with Dar, one she may even want me to save her from, if I may say. Otherwise, since I haven’t actually given what she says she came for, she wouldn’t keep coming back. All this, with some other subtle variables, seems more than mere dysfunction. It forms a tapestry of, ah, I don’t know how else to say it, some kind of deception. What you see may NOT be what you get. You asked me what keeps me going? It’s that there have been times in my own life when I haven’t paid attention to my intuition, and I’ve lived to regret it.”

“That’s still vague to me.”

“I’m sure. But, Cole, when you were in the Navy, didn’t you have situations where everything sounded fine, but you had a nagging feeling, and it turned out you should have listened to your doubts? I feel I have to pay attention to this. Does that tick you off?”

Cole looked at her intently. “No, your ideas do not tick me off, kooky as they are. You have a point about intuition. I told you what concerns me. I don’t want you to get hurt. “And,” he reached for both her hands, “maybe we can make a team. How’s this sound? Research Assistant. You like that?”

She laughed. “Do you?”

“Yeah, I might get to like it.”

Cole pulled her around to where he sat and down into his lap. They kissed a long and sensuous kiss. “I mean it when I say I don’t want you taking chances.” His voice was low. “Now that I found you again, I don’t want to lose you.”

Her appreciation and her care for Cole, the uncomplicated, vulnerable man who held her, caused all of her disquiet to fade. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He pushed her up, rose himself, and braced against the galley. Placing one hand behind her head, he ran it through her hair, the other slipping in a slow, charged passage down her neck and back and lingering at her waist, then onto her hips where he pulled her tight against him. Thoughts faded. A primal feeling started in her throat and coursed throughout her body. In synchrony, they moved toward the forward bunk. Cole sat and pulled her down beside him. Waves washed softly on the hull while in the outer room, B.B. strummed the blues. Items of clothes ended on the cabin floor. The early fumbling of two high school kids had mellowed to accomplished touch. Heat from their bodies formed an aura of its own, and they blended with the elements. Sleuthing had ended for the afternoon.

Coming Tuesday, August 31: Installment 15: The Break-in