Silicon Waning (Tin Can Mysteries Book 2) Page 3

  “Exactly. Fancy-shmancy. How much do you want to bet she made him change the spelling?”

  “Maybe he had experimental parents. It happens.”

  “Tell me about it,” Willow muttered, and I cringed.

  Willow’s mother—who was also Roxy’s daughter—was in prison for experiments of the chemical variety, namely the manufacture of methamphetamine. Hence the multi-generational living situation that had a big gaping hole in it. I wanted to apologize for my verbal slip, but also knew that doing so would only make things worse.

  “Speaking of odd names, have you met the rhyming hunkaroo yet?” Willow’s tone was light, clearly anxious to change the subject.

  “Ah, no, I haven’t had the pleasure.” I scooped up a huge blob of hummus with a wad of pita and stuffed the whole thing in my mouth.

  “We both know Bettina will never perform that particular role of the hostess because she wants to keep you for Vaughn.” Willow hefted a mighty sigh. “So I guess the responsibility falls to me.”

  I was trying to swallow the clump of food in my mouth so I could point out that I’d only associated with Detective Vaughn Malloy, Bettina’s son, in his official capacity. But before I could voice my justification, Willow was hauling on my arm, pulling me into the crowd and into Bettina’s house. I held my plate over my head with my other hand to keep from spilling it down someone’s shirt.

  By now, I knew almost everybody who lived at the marina, at least by sight and to nod to politely if we crossed paths on one of the many floating walkways or in the parking lot. We shimmied and parted the throng, enjoying good-natured nudges and grins on the way through.

  Hunkaroo was right. Willow cornered the poor fellow next to Bettina’s cold fireplace. I recognized the look of quietly veneered but deeply frantic social coping as he propped up the wall with his broad shoulders and held his empty plate in front of him like a shield.

  “Doug and his dog, Pippi, are sailing around the world in a fifty-foot catamaran,” Willow announced. Then she aimed a forefinger at me. “Eva’s basically a hermit, so I don’t know how you two will get along, but I’ve done my best.” With that, she shuffled backward and was swallowed by the crush of people.

  “Uh,” I said.

  “Hmm,” Doug grunted. But he slid sideways and made room for me against the wall beside him.

  “Is it always like this here?” He asked out of the corner of his mouth.

  He was warm. I could feel the heat radiating off him and we weren’t even touching. But I figured with all those muscles his metabolism must be through the roof. He must have developed them by manning a large boat all by himself, right? Because surely he didn’t carry a full weight-lifting set on the catamaran? Wouldn’t that be excessive ballast?

  Maybe he was nervous. Why, I couldn’t imagine. He could have posed for GQ with his cropped sandy hair and deep green eyes. But living alone on a boat said something about his psyche—I should know.

  “Yes,” I replied, ever the chatterbox.

  “It’s the most effusive welcome I’ve ever received, and that includes the times when I go home to visit my parents. Once a decade or so.” His voice wasn’t bitter, or even surprised, but he did seem thoughtful.

  Uh-oh. Two seconds in and this conversation already had the feel of a confessional. It was the bane of my existence. I was pretty convinced the word confidante was stamped on my forehead in indelible—if invisible—ink.

  “So which direction are you going?” I chirped, to send the discourse around to an innocuous subject.

  “What?” He cast a quick glance down at me through his thick lashes. “Oh. South. More or less.”

  “Snowbirding?”

  He gave me a little grin, and a dimple in his left cheek popped out of nowhere. “Nah. I’m fine with the cold and damp. I just go to new places whenever I get bored.”

  Which made me a tinge jealous. The itinerant lifestyle sounded good, especially if you could take your house with you and not have to pack your possessions into boxes every time.

  A lull in the general party din occurred, but we didn’t fill it. Doug was busy studying the crowd, and I was busy studying him, surreptitiously—I hoped.

  He was probably in his early forties. Casual. No watch, let alone a fancy one. Flip-flops and khakis topped by a faded polo shirt with nary a designer logo in sight. I hadn’t had a chance to cruise by his catamaran to give it the once-over yet, but he had to have money to enjoy the rambling lifestyle. Or else he could work remotely with a Wi-Fi or satellite hookup. Altogether he was a rather intriguing package.

  I followed his gaze to the Trussants who were chatting with Petula and Boris Dibble around the kitchen island. “Do you know them—the beautifully tanned couple?” I figured there was a remote chance that people who sailed full-time may have run into each other before.

  But Doug shook his head. “They have Caribbean written all over them, though. I wonder what they’re doing this far north in October?”

  I grinned at the confirmation of my own thoughts from this morning. Yes sir, I could really like Doug Schrugg, even though I couldn’t trust myself to actually say his full name out loud without giggling.

  Doc Perlmutter, who—according to all the rumors which were amazingly consistent on this point—was not a licensed medical doctor, pushed past us with a new girlfriend draped on his meaty arm. He gave me a leering wink while tipping his head toward Doug with a knowing pout on his couldn’t-be-bothered-to-shave face. I closed my eyes, hoping his dreadful suggestive behavior had been wasted on Doug.

  It hadn’t. Doug chuckled softly beside me. “There’s always one.”

  My eyes flew open. “One what?”

  “Old lecher year-rounder. In every marina I’ve ever been in. Let me guess—all the women know exactly what he’s up to, well, except for the one clinging to him, and go out of their way to avoid him and to warn the other women. A sort of female collusion for self-protection.”

  I stared up at him. “Are you a writer?”

  It was Doug’s turn to flush with surprise. He scratched the back of his neck and cleared his throat. “Sometimes.”

  “Pseudonym?”

  He ducked his head to hide his grin. “Yeah.”

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Nope.” But the grin was still there, crinkling the corners of his green eyes.

  I leaned closer and whispered. “I should warn you then. I’m a publicist-slash-marketer.” I tapped his bicep through his shirt to make my point. “With the research skills of an investigative journalist. Watch your back.”

  That earned me a full-fledged throaty laugh. “It was nice meeting you, Eva. I’ll see you around.” He held my gaze for a second longer, then sauntered toward the strategically placed trash can to dump his paper plate before moseying out the front door.

  Good grief. I leaned back against the wall and fanned my face. Since when did I flirt? Maybe it was knowing that he’d depart to his next port of call soon enough that had brought on this sudden thwarting of all I stood for. I had to get a grip.

  I made my own exit shortly thereafter, suddenly exhausted from a long day of being at my utmost in charmingness—for what it was worth. I strode quickly through the pools of light cast by the lampposts bolted to the sides of the E walkway, squinting between boats toward the D-12 slip and the snazzy catamaran tugging gently at her lines, and plowed into a syrupy mass of leathery tanned skin draped in a sequined top that was three sizes too big and had the gaping neckline to prove it.

  “Ooof,” she said and added a little squeal for emphasis.

  I grabbed her elbow to keep both of us from a certain sprawling indignity. We were latched together for half a minute of intimate two-stepping, but we survived.

  There’s just something about living on the water that makes some people think they can get away with far more skin showing on their bodies than they really need. Mostly the condition applied to women, but I’d seen a few men who had the same misconception. It was one of my latent fears after my brief time of acclimation at the marina—that I would turn into a topside floozy just like the woman in my arms.

  “I didn’t get to meet you at the party,” my dance partner cooed. “I’m Janice.” The lace at the edge of her turquoise bra made an appearance as she shimmied.

  I murmured my name and shook her outstretched hand, more than a little surprised at the warmth and strength of her grip.

  “I was just retrieving my sweater from Doc’s boat.” Janice held up a slinky, loose-knit number as proof of her intentions.

  “Ahh,” I managed.

  And there was Doc himself, heaving his barrel-shaped body over the railing of his cabin cruiser. I was grateful for the dusk; otherwise I would have had far greater exposure to rampant chest hair behind his partially buttoned shirt than I preferred. He joined us on the walkway with a wide smarmy smile on his face and crowded close, happy to get his pestering hands on whatever female flesh was available. I took a step backward.

  “Gotta walk this pretty lady up to her car,” he growled, arm cinched around Janice’s waist.

  “Toodle-oo.” Janice flittered her fingers over her shoulder while tripping along beside him. “We’ll chat more later, I’m sure.”

  I gave them a few moments before following. But I was cheered by the fact that Janice was clearly not going to spend the night with Doc. Prudence in action is a lovely thing.

  But Doc’s and Janice’s separation by choice reminded me that I hadn’t seen Ancer at the party. I supposed he’d chosen solitude for himself as well, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He was one of the few people for whom an increase in social interaction would probably do some good.

  The gate separating the marina’s north and south halves clanged shut behind me. Ancer’s sailboat appeared as forlorn as always, bobbing in the rippled light reflecting off the water. She was named Tiger Lily—a misnomer if there ever was one. She looked more like a loose collection of flotsam covered bow to stern in blue tarps.

  Ah well, I had one more social call to make myself before I could retire for the night. I picked up my pace and was glad I’d left the light over my front door burning in glowing welcome.

  CHAPTER 4

  I knelt and knocked on the Ecclesiastes’ hull, the platter of pot stickers I’d just fried warm against my forearm. Cal Barclay comes and goes as he pleases, and I never know if he’s home or not. I pounded again, this time with the heel of my fist. Cal typically eschews social interaction as well, but for completely different reasons than Ancer.

  The marina seems to attract tenants from the extreme ends of the introvert-extrovert spectrum—including hermits and social butterflies, but not many people from the middle ranks. Cal’s well beyond a hermit, for good and intriguing reasons I had yet to explore to my satisfaction. But he’d saved my life a time or two, and he liked to eat, and on those two bases we’d developed a synergistic friendship.

  I rocked forward and thumped the hull yet again. Finally, the Ecclesiastes rolled a bit with a weight shift inside, and the cabin door swung open noiselessly.

  I took that as an invitation and carefully picked my footing in the growing gloom as I clambered aboard and ducked down into the cabin. “Cal?” I whispered, my eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness inside.

  “Here,” he croaked.

  I banged my shin on something hard and inhaled sharply. “Light?”

  He just groaned.

  Not good. So not good. Cal’s usually the epitome of capability. He has skills I hadn’t even thought of yet. I found a smooth surface to set down the platter and pawed my hands in front of my face until I bumped the old-fashioned oil lamp he keeps hanging in the galley. I knew the matches were on a shelf nearby and fumbled around until I found those too.

  I had to move to the doorway to gain enough ambient light to see what I was doing. The lamp flared to life, and I slid the glass chimney into place and dimmed the wick.

  Cal was curled up on one of the padded benches, shivering violently under a thick blanket. His shaggy light brown hair was soaked through with sweat and plastered to his head.

  I dropped to my knees beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Cal, what is it?” I whispered.

  His eyes were screwed shut against the faint light from the lamp. “Just my usual.” His voice was so weak I could barely understand him.

  “What do you mean, your usual?” I stroked limp hair off his forehead. He was actually cold to the touch.

  “Malaria, dengue, chikungunya,” he rasped.

  I recognized the first two terms. I figured the third was similar. “You’ve had them all?” Now I was rubbing his arm, working my fingers into his straining muscles. “What can I do? Does it hurt when I touch you?”

  “No,” he groaned. “That’s good.” He stretched out to his full length, and I could tell he was trying to force his body to relax. Sweat beaded up on his face and ran into his ears.

  I leaned close over him. “Hospital?”

  “No.” He was vehement with the short syllable, and the gust of air he expelled feathered my cheek. At least his lung capacity was still good.

  “Tell me what to do,” I murmured.

  “Wait it out,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

  That was the one answer I hadn’t wanted to hear. I needed actionable information or I was going to go crazy watching him suffer.

  I piled a couple more blankets on top of him. “Stay right here,” I said, as if he had a choice.

  I zipped back to my house to grab the supplies I’d need. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night, but there was no way I was going to leave Cal alone with his misery.

  My laptop proved to be the best tool in my arsenal. While Cal dozed fitfully, I made a nest on the floor beside him, built a pillow barrier to block the blue glow from the screen, and delved into full research mode. All the diseases he’d mentioned were mosquito-borne tropical viruses with wretched symptoms. Once a person had been exposed, especially if they’d been exposed multiple times, they could be vulnerable to relapses—the virus lay dormant in their systems until the little buggers decided to play havoc with their host again.

  The marina rumors around Cal were that he was ex-CIA and that he’d been posted in Southeast Asia where he’d acquired parasites. It was a way to explain his extreme gauntness and highly unusual skill set. He’d never actually confirmed these suspicions. Regardless, I’d been trying to fatten him up for the past month, but now I knew why that might not be working.

  I ransacked Cal’s cupboards and brewed several different herbal treatments from his stash. Now I also understood why he was so prepared in the traditional medicine department. The key was keeping him hydrated while sweat poured off him.

  The fever was accompanied by hallucinations. Cal’s diction wasn’t very clear while he was under, so I couldn’t fully grasp what twisted scenarios he was reliving through his slurred mumblings. He thrashed a lot, and I ended up draping over him a couple of times to trap his arms and legs so he wouldn’t hurt himself.

  At some point, I fell asleep with his head and shoulders cradled on my lap. I love sleeping on boats. Even in the protected environment of the marina, a gentle rocking seeps through, the barest of movements that is probably similar to what a baby feels in utero.

  “You’re still here.” Cal’s groggy voice broke through my sleep haze.

  I smiled down at him. “So are you.”

  His blue eyes had regained some of their customary clarity. He unwound an arm from the blankets and reached up to clasp my hand. He dragged it down so it rested on his chest where he intertwined our fingers.

  “First time,” he murmured.

  My heart sank. Did he mean it was the first time anyone had stayed with him through the torture? I blinked back tears. “Tell me what this was,” I whispered. “I want to know better for next time.”

  His heart thumped steadily under my hand, but he shook his head. “I call this the shakes. Happens a time or two per year. But it’s never predictable.”

  “Medicine?”

  He shook his head again. “The side effects from those drugs are usually worse than the flare-up. Not worth the bother. You did a good job with the concoctions.” A thin smile played at his lips as he glanced at the mug still perched on the little ledge above the bench where we sat.

  “What happened?” I asked. “I mean, how did it get this bad? How did you get all three?” I was parroting a quiz show host and bit my lip to stem the tide.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the Southeast Asia rumors.” Cal tented our fingers. He took his time lining up each set of fingertip pads. “That part is true. I had dengue at least two times. A bunch of my episodes went undiagnosed, so I can’t be sure.”

  “For lack of trained medical personnel?” I prodded.

  “The villagers would usually harbor me and apply their practical treatment methods. They couldn’t afford to have a white guy die on them. Would have made their plight even worse to attract that kind of attention from a couple different governments.”

  I wanted so desperately to curl up around Cal and shelter him, protect him. He had to be dealing with a whole host of dreadful memories.

  But when he started asking about my kayaking practice and plucking distractedly at the blankets, I knew it was time to leave. He was getting restless with me crowding his personal space. Cal’s accustomed to his solitude.

  After extracting the promise that he would refrain from doing anything strenuous for the next forty-eight hours and let me bring him a couple more warm meals, I stepped outside and scrunched my eyes against the bright pewter light. The sky was thickly overcast, so I couldn’t tell what time it was, but the breeze was borderline balmy. Probably afternoon. Maybe even late afternoon.

  I heard the pounding before I saw her since all noises seem to carry rapidly and distinctly on the marina water. Willow was pummeling my front door with both fists, her blue topknot bouncing with the effort.

  She whirled around as I drew closer. “Help!” Her gray eyes were frantic. “He’s coming tomorrow,” she screeched. “I thought I’d have until next week at least.”