(5/10) Sea Change by Robert B. Parker Read Free Book Online

Massachusetts law passed.”
    “Mrs. Daisy Dyke?”
    “Angela Carson,” Jesse said. “She kept her own name.”
    “Is Angela a housewife?”
    “Angela paints,” Jesse said.
    “Well?”
    “No,” Jesse said.
    “But persistently,” Jenn said.
    “That would be Angela,” Jesse said.
    Jenn ordered an egg salad sandwich on sourdough. Jesse had a BLT on whole wheat.
    “Never order that on a date,” Jesse said. “Too messy.”
    “What the hell am I,” Jenn said.
    “I don’t know,” Jesse said, “but whatever you are, date is too small a word.”
    Jenn smiled at him.
    “Yes,” she said, “I guess it is, isn’t it?”
    “We’ll come up with something,” Jesse said.

15

    W ith the harbormaster at the wheel, they had visited five yachts, three of them from Fort Lauderdale, anchored at the outer edge of the harbor. The harbormaster was new. His name was Hardy Watkins. He was overweight and red-faced, and, on those rare moments when he took off his long-billed cap, he was mostly bald.
    “Where to next?” Watkins said.
    “How about that one over there,” Jesse said. “Black with a yellow stripe.”
    He and Suitcase Simpson stood on either side of Watkins as the squat harbor boat plugged through the low swell. Among the yachts it looked like a warthog. Jesse wore jeans and sneakers and his softball jacket over a white tee shirt. Simpson was in uniform. He carried a transparent folder with head shots from the sex video.
    “Sloop there with the cutter rig,” Watkins said.
    “Sure,” Jesse said.
    He looked at Simpson.
    “You know what a sloop is?” Jesse said. “With a cutter rig?”
    “Hey,” Simpson said, “I grew up here. Paradise, Massachusetts, the sailing capital of the world.”
    “So you know what a sloop is,” Jesse said. “With a cutter rig.”
    “No,” Simpson said.
    “Sloop’s a single-masted boat,” Watkins said.
    “And a cutter?”
    “Single-masted boat with the mast set further aft.”
    “So what’s a sloop with a cutter rig.”
    With one hand on the wheel, Watkins pointed at the yacht ahead of them.
    “That,” he said.
    “You don’t know either,” Jesse said.
    “I do,” Watkins said, “but you’re too fucking landlocked to understand the explanation.”
    “Good,” Jesse said.
    Watkins steered the harbor boat under the stern of the yacht. The name LADY JANE was stenciled across the stern. And beneath it, MIAMI . A small landing float bobbed beside the Lady Jane, and Watkins brought the harbor boat softly up against it. Simpson leaned over and secured the stern of the harbor boat to a cleat. Then he climbed past the small cockpit and onto the short deck and secured the bow. Jesse climbed the short stairs to the deck of the Lady Jane. Simpson followed with the pictures.
    A crewman in uniform met them. Jesse took his badge out of the pocket of his softball jacket and showed it.
    “I’m Jesse Stone, Paradise Police. This is Officer Simpson.”
    “I’m Nils Borgman,” the crewman said with a small accent. “First mate.”
    Jesse glanced around the yacht.
    “Sloop with a cutter rig,” he said.
    “Yes sir,” Borgman said. “It is.”
    Simpson looked carefully out to sea.
    “I’ll need to talk to everyone on board,” Jesse said. “Who do I see about that.”
    “What is this about, sir?” Borgman said.
    “Investigating the death of a young woman, we’re trying to find anyone who recognizes her.”
    “Do you need a warrant or something for that?” Borgman said.
    “No,” Jesse said.
    “I’ll speak to the captain, sir. I’m sure he’ll consult with Mr. Darnell.”
    “Mr. Darnell is the owner of this cutter-rigged sloop?” Jesse said.
    “Yes sir. Please wait here.”
    Jesse and Simpson waited, squinting in the brightness of the sun and its seaborne reflection. Below them the harbor boat swayed gently against the boarding float. Watkins was sitting behind the tiller reading a book, the long bill of his cap pulled low to keep the sun from his eyes.