Savannah Breeze (30 page)

“I really am in the restaurant business, Emma,” I said. “But I met this man…”

“Yeah,” Emma said, shaking her head. “Same old story. And you got screwed. Right?”

Taken aback by her bluntness, I could only laugh. “Right. He
swindled me out of everything. That's why I'm down here in Fort Lauderdale. Looking for Mister Wrong.”

“What's any of that got to do with me?” Emma asked. She jerked her head in Harry's direction. “And what's it got to do with him?”

Good question.

“Harry and I are…friends,” I said. “He manages the motel I own in Savannah. And, we, uh…”

“We're friendly,” Harry said, grinning. “Getting friendlier all the time.”

“The man who swindled me—his real name is Roy Eugene Moseley—is, we think, right here in Fort Lauderdale. He's been hanging around Bahia Mar marina, we think, because he's interested in yachts. Big, expensive yachts. Specifically, he has a thing for Sea Urchins. And the
Reefer Madness
is the only Sea Urchin in the area right at this time.”

“Again, what's that got to do with me?”

“Roy Eugene came really close to stealing another yacht, a Sea Urchin, from a widow up in Vero Beach last year,” I said. “And we think he was getting ready to buy, but more likely, try to steal, another Sea Urchin here in Fort Lauderdale. Fortunately for the woman who owns that boat, she sold it to a legitimate buyer before Roy Eugene could make his move.”

“And you think he's gunning for the
Reefer
?” Emma asked, her eyes getting big.

“Maybe,” Harry said.

“Absolutely,” I said. “We've been able to trace his credit card activity. He's playing golf at Bahia Mar, eating in the restaurants, hanging around in the bar.”

“So, call the cops,” Emma said.

“The cops won't do anything,” I said bitterly. “And even if I was able to have him arrested, so what? It doesn't get me back what he took.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which was what?”

“Everything,” I said. “My home, my furniture, my money. I had to close down my restaurant, lay off all my employees. He even stole my grandparents' savings.”

“That is cold,” Emma said. “How much money are we talking?”

“More than two million,” I said, “not counting things like my father's antique watch and an irreplaceable painting that was a family heirloom.”

Emma sipped her beer.

Harry excused himself to go to the men's room.

“He's cute,” Emma said, as soon as he was gone. “Have you slept with him yet?”

I blushed. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?”

“Why not?” Emma said. “You're straight, right? Only thing. Just how old is he?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “He won't tell me.”

It was time to change the subject to one I was more comfortable with. “If you didn't go to culinary school, where did you learn to cook?”

“Here and there,” she said offhandedly. “I took some community college classes, worked in a few bars and a few restaurants. I was working at the Sand Bar when I met Doobie, supposed to be waiting tables, but I kept slipping into the kitchen, talking the chef into letting me try stuff. Doobie was in one day, and I'd fixed this red snapper seviche. He went nuts for it, and hired me on at the
Reefer
. That was two years ago.”

She sighed deeply. “I knew all along it was too good to last.”

Harry came back from the men's room and we ordered another round of beers.

“So,” Emma said, looking from me to Harry. “You still haven't told me how I figure into all of this.”

“I don't really know,” I said.

We gave her a description of Roy Eugene, but she swore she hadn't seen anybody like that hanging around the
Reefer Madness
.

“When is the boat going to be sold?” I asked.

“That's up to Anya,” she said. “She hasn't officially told us anything, but they let Ernie go last month. Right now, it's just me and Liam living aboard, keeping things buttoned down. As soon as I get another job lined up, I'm outta there. Liam's got a girlfriend in Boca, he'll probably move in with her until he gets another gig, but I can't afford to get an apartment right now, so I won't quit until I get something else.”

“Will you work on another yacht?” I asked.

“No way,” she said firmly. “I want a real job, in a real restaurant.”

“Have you talked to Doobie about any of this?” Harry asked.

“Can't,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“He's in rehab,” Emma said. “It's supposed to be a big secret. After that last cruise, Anya checked Doob into Betty Ford. Poor guy. I hear the food there sucks.”

“Say, Emma,” I said casually. “Maybe we can work something out.”

Her green eyes glittered. “That's what I was hoping you'd say. Count me in.”

Harry was quiet
in the car on the way back to Mangoville. But that was okay, because it gave me a chance to study him more closely.

How had I not noticed before just how crazy sexy the guy was? I closed my eyes, trying to analyze his unexpected appeal. He wasn't handsome in that slap-your-mama way that Reddy had been when we first met. He didn't have the golden-boy good looks of Sandy Thayer, my first and third husband. He didn't even have Richard the Wretched's dark, smoldering sensuality.

In fact, he wasn't like any man I'd ever been with before. He was, dare I say it? A grown-up. Sneaking another peek, I thought about how much I liked the way his hair refused to lie down flat, and the fact that he refused to use any kind of product on it. I liked his clear gray-green eyes and the crinkling crow's-feet that radiated out from them. I even adored his strong chin, covered now with a half-inch of stubble.

“You're staring at me,” Harry said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Probably trying to figure out how to make your big move and jump me right here in the front seat, but without making us end up with this land yacht in a ditch.”

“Not really,” I said.

But I slid a little closer on the burgundy leather seat, and silently thanked my grandfather for having the foresight to keep an old eighties car with bench-type front seats.

“That's more like it,” Harry said approvingly. He slung his arm over my shoulder and drew me even closer, almost onto his lap. He kissed my bare shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?” he inquired.

“I was thinking how glad I am that you agreed to come down here with me.”

“Had to,” Harry said. “I was afraid if you came alone, you'd kill somebody.”

“No, really,” I said. “I can't tell you how great it is to finally have a really experienced man in my life.”

“You got that right,” Harry said, letting his fingertips rest lightly on the top of my breast.

“Mmm,” I said, snuggling even closer. “You're the man, Harry.”

“Just wait till we get back to the motel,” he promised. “I've been thinking about this all day. All weekend.” He kissed my neck. “You make me crazy. You know that, right?”

“Good crazy,” I said. “I've been thinking about this ever since I saw the
Reefer Madness
tied up at Bahia Mar. It's all going to work out just right.”

Harry nuzzled my neck, and with his free hand tugged the wig off my head and tossed it to the floor. He gently finger-combed my flattened hair, and rubbed the nape of my neck. His touch was hard and warm and deft, and I spooned myself into the curve of him.

“You are an amazing lady, BeBe Loudermilk,” he said. “You even turn me on in this weird getup of yours. I can't believe I'm having sex fantasies about a woman dressed up as a seventies go-go dancer.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” I said, turning to face him and slipping my hand inside the open neck of his sport shirt.

“Oh, lady,” he said softly. “You are rocking my boat tonight.”

“It's only going to get better, isn't it?” I asked, kissing him hard on the mouth.

“Wait,” he said, his breathing getting shallow. “We're almost back
at the motel. Five minutes, tops. What do you say I get us a room of our own? We'll have a whole night together. Just the two of us.”

“Sweet-talking devil.”

I waited by the car while he went into the office at the Mango Tree. Five minutes later, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. His face told the whole story, but I had to ask.

“What happened?”

“No vacancies,” he said, pounding the roof of the Buick. “Can you believe there's not a single vacant room in this stinking roach motel?”

I glanced over at the Mango Tree's neon sign, which did, indeed, have a blinking
NO VACANCY
on it.

He knelt down beside the car and took my hand in his. “I'd say we could go to another motel, but you know the deal.”

I sighed, and kissed him. “Yeah. No money. And no honey.”

He kissed me back and helped me out of the car.

“It won't always be like this, I swear.”

“I know.”

Harry glanced back at the Buick, stopped, and went back and looked inside.

“This backseat looks pretty roomy,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “Leather seats too.”

“No way, Jose. We are not having Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Not tonight. Not ever. Now come on, handsome. Walk me to my door?”

Over a bowl
of Cap'n Crunch and a cup of instant coffee the next morning, I outlined the plan that had started to gel the night before.

“I went to the Internet cafe this morning,” I told Weezie and Granddad.

“Yeah, you must have gotten there really early,” Weezie said. “I never even heard you leave. In fact, I never even heard you come in last night.”

“I tippy-toed. But listen, I got on the Internet and looked up Meat Loaf.”

Granddad peeled his banana and made a face. “If it's all the same to you, I'll just stick with cereal today, same as always,” he said.

“Meat Loaf, the band,” I said. “I Googled them on the Internet. You wouldn't believe how many Web sites are devoted to them. It's unreal.”

“Did you find that girl last night? The one who supposedly works on the yacht?” Weezie asked.

“Yeah. Emma. She's cool. It turns out the guy who owns the boat is named Doobie Bauers. According to the official Meat Loaf biography, his real name is Douglas Jefferson Bauers. He got the nickname Doobie in high school.”

“Interesting,” Granddad said. “I remember a television show called
Dobie Gillis
.”

“Right,” Harry said. “This is different. Way different.”

“Doobie Bauers cowrote a lot of Meat Loaf's big hits,” I said. “And a lot of other hits. He's got, like, seven platinum albums to his credit, and two Grammys, and a ton of money. Originally, he was a keyboardist. But he hasn't really toured in at least seven or eight years, that I can see. In fact, he's kind of become a semirecluse.”

“Poor guy,” Weezie said.

“Here's the only picture I could find of him,” I said, sliding a computer-printout photo across the dinette table toward them.

“It's an old wire-service photo from 1997,” I said. “It ran with a story in
Rolling Stone
about attempts to mount a Meat Loaf reunion tour.”

Weezie studied the photo intently. “‘Keyboard artist-slash-composer Doobie Bauers says “No Thanks” to another helping of Meat Loaf,'” she read.

“The story said Doobie felt at the time that his music was going in a whole different direction,” I explained. “Plus, he'd ballooned up to about 340 pounds. He was even beefier than Meat Loaf.”

“Oh, man,” Harry said. “That's rough.”

“Not to worry,” I told him. “Doobie lost more than a hundred pounds right after that. And apparently gained a nasty little meth habit at the same time.”

The four of us took turns turning the photo this way and that, staring at the fifteen-year-old image of the keyboard artist-slash-composer Doobie Bauers. What we saw was not particularly memorable. A middle-aged white guy, wearing a baseball cap, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a thick beard, hunched over an electric keyboard.

“I read where he never goes anywhere without a baseball cap,” I said.

“Bald spot,” Weezie said knowingly.

“And like I said, this is the most recent photo. The only other ones I found are from the late seventies, when he was still touring. In those, Doobie has dark hair down to his ass, and a giant handlebar
mustache. He weighs maybe 130 pounds soaking wet, and he's wearing skintight black leather pants.”

“In his defense,” Harry said. “It
has
been more than thirty years. Even Mick Jagger is starting to look middle-aged.”

“Mick Jagger looks older than Granddad,” I retorted.

I slid another photograph across the dinette table. This one showed an attractive blonde in a well-tailored pantsuit, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat.

“‘Anya Bauers Co-hosts Children's Hospital Charity FundRaiser,'” Weezie read. “This is his wife? She looks a lot younger than old Doobie.”

“She's Mrs. Bauers number three,” I agreed. “She's all of thirty-five. Young enough to be Doobie's daughter, according to my research. She doesn't really come down here to Fort Lauderdale very often. She's got some kind of sun allergy, which is why she's wearing these big hats in all the pictures I found of her in the
Nashville Banner
.”

“Who doesn't like Fort Lauderdale?” Granddad asked, puzzled. “The sun, the sea. Early-bird specials at almost every restaurant. Senior-citizen discounts everywhere!”

“It isn't necessarily Lauderdale she hates,” I said. “From what Emma says—she's the chef on the yacht—Anya doesn't like Doobie to come down here either, because when he does get down here to go out on the
Reefer,
he, uh, gets himself in trouble.”

“Chasing women?” Granddad asked, chuckling. “I sure did see a whole lot of pretty women worth chasing at that bar yesterday. If I was the chasing kind, that is.”

“It's not women who are his problem,” I said. “Emma says whenever Doobie goes out on the yacht, he gets totally trashed on cocaine or alcohol or marijuana or all three.”

“Tragic,” Weezie said, shaking her head sympathetically.

“Emma was really helpful last night,” I said.

“So,” Weezie said. “Last night turned out okay?”

“In some ways,” Harry said, putting his hand on my thigh under the table.

I moved it away without changing expression.

“I think I've figured out how to get my money back from Roy Eugene Moseley,” I told the three of them. “And I think it might even work. I'll need you two, of course,” I said, nodding at Weezie and Granddad.

“Now,” I said. “We can't pull this off unless we have a legitimate crew for the yacht. Fortunately, Emma has agreed to help out, and she thinks Liam, he's the only other crew member still living aboard the
Reefer Madness,
will sign on too.”

“Why?” Weezie asked. “What's in it for them?”

“When Anya Bauers really does sell that yacht, and that's gonna be pretty soon, they'll both be out of a job anyway,” I explained.

Weezie shook her head vigorously. “That's still not a good enough reason to risk going to jail—for a woman you just met.”

“Emma's a chef,” I said. “She's going to be needing a job. I have a restaurant.”

“Had,” Weezie said.

“And when we reopen Guale, which we'll be doing very soon, Daniel can always use good help.”

“And the other guy? What's his name?”

“Liam. I haven't met him, but Emma says he'll go along. And if I have to pay him for his participation, I will. It's part of the cost of the operation.

“Fortunately,” I said, “we don't have to question Harry's motivation. There is no way I could do this without somebody like Harry.”

“A man of experience,” Harry said smugly, sliding his hand up my thigh. “Motivated for entirely selfless reasons.”

“A man who knows how to steal a boat,” I agreed. “In fact, he's stolen boats lots of times.”

“Hang on a minute,” Harry protested. “The
Jitterbug
is my boat. And I wasn't really stealing it, I was just borrowing it.”

“Better yet,” I said. “Harry here is going to help us borrow the
Reefer Madness
.”

“I am?”

“Yes,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes at him. “And you're also going to pose as Doobie Bauers.”

“But not the supersize Doobie,” Harry said.

“You're going to be the trim, sexy, slightly drug-addled Doobie,” I said. “And you, Weezie, are going to be the lovely, if bitchy, Anya Bauers.”

“I like the lovely part,” Weezie said, studying the photo.

“And the bitchy part shouldn't be much of a stretch either,” I told her.

“And what about me?” Granddad asked. “Did you bring me down here just to watch the weather channel and hang out at bars all day?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I am so grateful that you brought that blazer and cravat. Because you've got the most important job of all. You're going to be the yacht broker who sells the
Reefer Madness
to Roy Eugene Moseley, for, I'm thinking, $4.8 million.”

“He only stole two million from you,” Weezie said, frowning.

“But the
Reefer Madness
is worth a lot more than that. I checked prices on that Internet yacht brokerage site. And that gives Sandra Findley her inheritance. Besides, yacht brokers earn a ten percent commission. And that's just about what Roy Eugene stole from my grandparents.”

Granddad frowned. “I hate to be an old stick in the mud, young lady, but this plan of yours has one basic flaw. It's illegal to sell something you don't own. And don't you think Doobie Bauers is gonna get pretty annoyed when he figures out somebody sold off his yacht?”

“He'll never know it happened,” I said. “Doobie is in drug rehab out in Phoenix. By the time he gets out, the
Reefer
will be tied up
right where he left it, at Bahia Mar. But I'll have my money back, and with any luck, Roy Eugene Moseley will be in jail.”

“And if things go wrong?” Weezie asked. “If we don't get the money, and Roy Eugene steals the
Reefer Madness,
and we can't give the boat back, and the police show up?”

“Your uncle James is a very good attorney,” I said. “He kept you out of prison, didn't he?”