Read Online Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) by Christine Kling - Free Book Online
Authors: Christine Kling
Tags: nautical suspense novel
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foolishness was about, made us tie the dinghy up properly, and beached me for a week. That’s what he called it when I wasn’t allowed aboard any boats, and it was punishment in the extreme.
“Time to get to work,” B. J. said when he’d parked the El Camino in front of the boatyard office.
As we walked through the dozens of boats propped up in the yard, I hoped we could avoid seeing the Mykonos , but when Gorda came into view, right where I’d left her on the outside dock, I saw the fat stern of the Hatteras between us and her. Rather than move her around the basin to the other side where the long-term jobs were stored, they’d propped her up right outside the big work shed, between two large sailboats. I felt Zale stiffen beside me, and I knew he had seen her, too. Both props and shafts had already been removed. But even from this distance, I could see the dark shadow on the enclosure around the flybridge. No one had bothered to clean off the plastic—or maybe they weren’t allowed to go up on the bridge, as the boat and her decks were still draped with yellow crime scene tape.
I made a show of looking at my watch. “Hey, we’d better get a move on,” I said. “The tide’s turned, and I’d like to get this ketch downriver before dark. Come on, guys.”
Zale looked back over his shoulder once, just before climbing aboard Gorda . He was a smart kid. I figured he knew what he was looking at.
One of the things about B. J. and me is that we’ve worked together so long we hardly have to say anything on a job. Which is a good thing because on that chilly afternoon, none of us felt like talking. We ran Gorda across the river from one boatyard to the other and docked at Summerfield. I went up to the office to do the paperwork, and B. J. stayed back to rig the ketch and get her ready for the trip downriver. Once we got under way, Zale positioned himself up on the bow of the tug. B. J. was aboard our tow, and I was stuck in the wheelhouse. In the twisting confines of the New River, I couldn’t leave the helm for a minute.
The trip down the New River from Summerfield Boatworks to Bahia Mar Marina generally took less than an hour, but this afternoon it felt much longer. Though the day had grown warmer around midday, as the sun dipped low in the west at only 5:00 on this February afternoon, the wind blowing off the water seemed to bite right through our clothes.
Just past the high-rise condo canyon that downtown Fort Lauderdale had become, we entered the section of river with the really pricey waterfront homes. Many of the original homes had been built between 1920 and 1950, and they were small Florida bungalows with barrel-tile roofs and jalousie windows. In the past decade the nouveau riche stars and dot-commers had started buying them up, tearing them down, and building minimansions in their places, with faux Spanish styling or cheesy attempts at New England-style architecture complete with widow’s walks. Amid the new construction, you could still spot the well-maintained older homes nestled back amid oak trees older than the town, homes that maintained the old Florida charm with porches and little chimneys that often puffed wood smoke on cold winter days like this.
Just as interesting as the homes were the boats docked along the riverbanks. From hailing ports like Cannes, Grand Cayman, and Recife, most of the yachts were huge custom powerboats valued in the millions. One of my favorites, though, was a perfectly maintained 1920s yawl with a white trunk cabin and gleaming varnished masts. She was docked in front of a house of the same vintage. The boat’s name, Annie , my mother’s name, was stenciled in graceful black paint and gold leaf on her stern. I always admired it when I passed. Though the boat was in far better condition than the home, neither seemed to have been updated or changed from its original designs.
As we went by the Larsens’ place, Abaco recognized the sound of my tug’s engine,
“Time to get to work,” B. J. said when he’d parked the El Camino in front of the boatyard office.
As we walked through the dozens of boats propped up in the yard, I hoped we could avoid seeing the Mykonos , but when Gorda came into view, right where I’d left her on the outside dock, I saw the fat stern of the Hatteras between us and her. Rather than move her around the basin to the other side where the long-term jobs were stored, they’d propped her up right outside the big work shed, between two large sailboats. I felt Zale stiffen beside me, and I knew he had seen her, too. Both props and shafts had already been removed. But even from this distance, I could see the dark shadow on the enclosure around the flybridge. No one had bothered to clean off the plastic—or maybe they weren’t allowed to go up on the bridge, as the boat and her decks were still draped with yellow crime scene tape.
I made a show of looking at my watch. “Hey, we’d better get a move on,” I said. “The tide’s turned, and I’d like to get this ketch downriver before dark. Come on, guys.”
Zale looked back over his shoulder once, just before climbing aboard Gorda . He was a smart kid. I figured he knew what he was looking at.
One of the things about B. J. and me is that we’ve worked together so long we hardly have to say anything on a job. Which is a good thing because on that chilly afternoon, none of us felt like talking. We ran Gorda across the river from one boatyard to the other and docked at Summerfield. I went up to the office to do the paperwork, and B. J. stayed back to rig the ketch and get her ready for the trip downriver. Once we got under way, Zale positioned himself up on the bow of the tug. B. J. was aboard our tow, and I was stuck in the wheelhouse. In the twisting confines of the New River, I couldn’t leave the helm for a minute.
The trip down the New River from Summerfield Boatworks to Bahia Mar Marina generally took less than an hour, but this afternoon it felt much longer. Though the day had grown warmer around midday, as the sun dipped low in the west at only 5:00 on this February afternoon, the wind blowing off the water seemed to bite right through our clothes.
Just past the high-rise condo canyon that downtown Fort Lauderdale had become, we entered the section of river with the really pricey waterfront homes. Many of the original homes had been built between 1920 and 1950, and they were small Florida bungalows with barrel-tile roofs and jalousie windows. In the past decade the nouveau riche stars and dot-commers had started buying them up, tearing them down, and building minimansions in their places, with faux Spanish styling or cheesy attempts at New England-style architecture complete with widow’s walks. Amid the new construction, you could still spot the well-maintained older homes nestled back amid oak trees older than the town, homes that maintained the old Florida charm with porches and little chimneys that often puffed wood smoke on cold winter days like this.
Just as interesting as the homes were the boats docked along the riverbanks. From hailing ports like Cannes, Grand Cayman, and Recife, most of the yachts were huge custom powerboats valued in the millions. One of my favorites, though, was a perfectly maintained 1920s yawl with a white trunk cabin and gleaming varnished masts. She was docked in front of a house of the same vintage. The boat’s name, Annie , my mother’s name, was stenciled in graceful black paint and gold leaf on her stern. I always admired it when I passed. Though the boat was in far better condition than the home, neither seemed to have been updated or changed from its original designs.
As we went by the Larsens’ place, Abaco recognized the sound of my tug’s engine,
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