"Can you tell me how to get there?" she says.
"Sure, no problem. Keep going another mile or so and you'll come to Bedon's Alley. Hang a left, go all the way to the end, and you'll see a row of small cottages on your right. Their's is the last one, painted yellow, I believe."
"Have you spoken with Polly since all this happened?"
"Just briefly. She called in after word came down about Ned. Said she wouldn't be in for a few days. She's not scheduled until next week."
"She works here at the dive shop, too?"
The young man nods.
"She's the one supposed to be running the shop, not me. I'm usually out on the boats," he says. "Polly, she was freaked bad by what happened. She was supposed to have gone out on the boat with Ned that day, but she got called in to pull a shift at the Onion. She waitresses there sometime. Cost of living here on the Rock and what a dive shop pays? We've all got to bust a hump working somewhere else. Me, I wash dishes down at the ..."
"Wait, wait," Fiona says. "You say she was supposed to have gone out on the boat with Ned that day?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"What boat?"
"Right out there," the young man says, pointing to a boat tied off in a slip. It's a Delta, a twenty-eight-footer, a workhorse of the scuba trade. "Police hauled it in yesterday afternoon."
"The police brought it in?"
"Yup, that's right. There was a whole crowd of them out here earlier. From what I gather, they figure Ned was trying to get away from whoever it was that was after him. Think he might have jumped overboard and let the boat run. They found it jammed up in the mangroves just this side of Daniel's Head."
Fiona looks at me.
"So much for that bastard Worley keeping me in the loop," she says.
She is out the door and on her way to the boat before the young man can get off his stool.
"She can't go on that boat," he says, sliding out from behind the counter.
I step to the door and block his way out. He stops.
"The police said no one can go on it until they give the OK," the young man says.
The phone rings. He looks at it.
"You need to answer that," I tell him.
He watches Fiona as she reaches the dock. The phone rings again.
"The phone," I say. "Now."
The young man steps back behind the counter and answers the phone. He's on it for a few minutes, telling the caller about the availability and pricing of dive trips.
After he hangs up he looks outside to the boat. Fiona stands near the wheel, inspecting the console, going through storage compartments.
He shakes his head.
"It's her ass, not mine," he says.
"That's the attitude," I say. "Now, you just sit tight and keep an eye on the shop, OK?"
As I step outside to join Fiona, a boat pulls in from the sound and makes its way to the dock. It's a bigger Delta, a forty-footer, with the Deep Water Discoveries logo emblazoned on its hull. A couple dozen people are on board, divers and crew.
A husky, bearded guy leaps off before it docks. He hurries to the slip where Fiona is still searching through compartments on the boat that was hauled in by the police.
By the time I walk up behind him, the guy is yelling at Fiona.
"I don't care who the hell you are, I want you off my boat!"
"Almost done," Fiona says, ducking into the cabin, out of view.
"No way, lady..."
As he starts to climb aboard, I grab his arm. He whips around, ready to square off against me. He's a pretty tough-looking guy-thick shoulders, broad chest, a sun-worn face. His appearance is made even grizzlier by a crusted-over gash on one of his cheekbones that looks as if it should have had stitches. Above it-the yellowed remainder of a black eye.
I've got a couple of inches and several pounds on him. Plus, I am who I am. He thinks better of the match-up and backs off.
"You Belleville?"
"Yeah. Who are you?"
"I'm the lady's helper."
Belleville grinds his jaw. He looks at the boat. Fiona is still down below.
He looks back at me.
"Well, you're going to be helping both your asses straight to jail," he says. "I'm calling the police."
"Do what you have to do," I tell him.
As he moves past me, Fiona emerges from the cabin.
"That won't be necessary," she says.
She hops off the boat and stands beside me on the dock.
"My brother was aboard that boat before he died. I needed to see it for myself," she tells Belleville. "I'll take full responsibility with the police."
Belleville is still fuming.
"You going to take full responsibility for your brother's gas bill, too? Ned had been going out a lot on the boat. He was running a tab. He owed a couple of hundred."
I step in, tap Belleville on the chest.
"Listen, asshole," I say. "Her brother just died. How about you play bookkeeper some other time."
As Belleville swats away my hand, Fiona moves between us.
"It's all right, Zack. Mr. Belleville is entitled to look after his best interests, just as I am entitled to look after mine." She looks at Belleville. "I intend to honor all my brother's debts. You may present me with a bill whenever it suits you."
She turns and leaves the dock. I give Belleville a friendly pat on the shoulder.
"A real pleasure," I say.
He grunts something in response.
I can't make out exactly what it is. Probably just as well.
46.
"What a dick," Fiona says once when we're both inside the car. "He was almost a dick with a broken nose."
"That wouldn't have gotten us anywhere."
"Except that I would now be basking in the afterglow of manly accomplishment."
"Spare me," says Fiona. "Besides, looks like someone else already got a crack at Belleville. You see that gash on his face?"
"Pretty hard to miss."
I crank the car, check the time on the dashboard clock. Already after noon.
"Look," I say, "I know you probably want to go by your brother's house and ..."
"And meet the girlfriend? Bloody well right I do. I mean, the girls were always thick around Ned. He could never settle on just one. Now to hear he had a live-in? Bit of a surprise that." She looks at me. "But we can swing by later, Zack. We need to get you back to Barbara."
"You sure?"
"Drive," she says.
We're a mile away from Deep Water Discoveries before Fiona opens her backpack.
"Gee, look what I found," she says, pulling out a black plastic something-or-other the size of a cell phone. It has a small, green LCD screen and a keypad.
I take it from her, look it over.
"A GPS?"
She nods.
"It was Velcroed underneath the console. I missed it the first time through. Battery has run down. Otherwise, it looks to be fine," she says. "You familiar with this particular model?"
"No, the one I've got is a few years old, nearly twice the size."
"Same with the ones they issue the water police. Shit for memory. But these newer ones, you can program them to spit out a log of every site you've marked for weeks. With any luck, it might just tell us where the boat stopped on the day Ned was killed."
"If he used the GPS."
"Yeah, if. But Ned was a gadget guy. Never met a gizmo he didn't like. I'm betting he used it."
"Hypothetical question here, Fiona."
"Ask."
"You think maybe you ought to turn it over to the police?"
"Oh, yes, by all means," she says. "You're absolutely right, Zack."
She returns the GPS to her backpack. She looks at me, smiles.
"Then again," she says. "I am the police, aren't I?"
47.
Barbara's playdate involves us using Aunt Trula's mopeds. I threaten a boycott, but she lures me with the prospect of a picnic lunch she's packed. She won't tell me where we're going, but that's OK. I'd follow her anywhere, even on an infernal moped.
After zipping along the south coast, past Horseshoe Bay and Elbow Beach and, finally and appropriately, Hungry Bay, we arrive at the Bermuda Botanical Gardens.
We cut across a broad lawn and head for a small, circular stand of cedar trees with ancient arthritic trunks and branches low to the ground.
It takes some scrambling to cut through to the center of the stand, but once inside there's a big payoff. It's as if we've entered a room wholly apart from the rest of the world.
Barbara is beaming. She sets down the picnic basket. She lies faceup on the ground and stretches out her arms.
I lie down beside her. I stare up at the cedar-branch ceiling. Light streams in, all soft and golden, the way it does in paintings. The air is cool and comforting, as if set by the ideal thermostat.
"So what do you think?" Barbara says.