Page 43 of Forged in Secrets

Gator license?

Grace clamped her jaw shut and looked down at her feet, determined not to laugh. If she looked at Ben, she’d lose it.

“Connie, we’re not the police,” Ben said smoothly, taking a couple steps closer until he could rest his forearms along the side of the railing a few feet from the woman’s own. Grace looked up cautiously, unable to help herself from imaging Ben as some sort of roguish pirate. Possibly one that knew how to hunt an alligator with his bare hands.

Briefly, he recounted what they knew about Katie’s disappearance.

“You know, I have noticed that boat over in 118,” Connie said at last. “Doesn’t really fit in ‘round here, does it? Too pretty. Looks like it belongs up in Newport or something.”

Grace knotted her fingers together, trying to contain her excitement. Katie was out there somewhere right now, wondering if anyone was coming to rescue her. They desperately needed a real lead.

“When did the Lumeneer II show up in the harbor?” Ben prompted.

Connie’s brows knit as she thought about this for several long seconds. “Eight months back, I’d say. Maybe a little less. I remember ‘cuz Wilson–he runs the rentals–asked my friend Tyrell if he could move his Boston Whaler! Can you believe that? Says it was taking up too much slip for too little money. All so that fancypants Beneteau could get some shoulder space, and so that Wilson could fix up his rottin’ old Catalina. Darn that man!”

“It really is hard to believe, ma’am,” Grace cut in quickly, noticing the puzzled look on Ben’s face as the woman rattled off a who’s who of boating brands. “Do you know who Wilson rented the slip to? Did you ever meet the people who own the Beneteau?”

Connie didn’t pause to think. “No, never met ‘em, I’m sure of that. Even Wilson said he contacted them through some assistant. Had the nerve to complain ‘bout it to Tyrell while he was evicting him! The absolute–”

“Does anyone use the boat? Anyone at all?” Ben asked gruffly.

“Lots of folks. Yuppie types, you know. Guys whothink they can’t step on board without being dressed head to toe in name-brand sailing gear.”

Connie paused, pointing toward her purple t-shirt, which had a rip along the right sleeve and a picture of a bunny nestled among a bed of flowers printed on it. “I’ve been sailing for fifty years, never needed any of that fancy nonsense. Just gon’ get sunbleached anyhow! Don’t even tell me about these silly college girls, thinking that just cuz it’s warm on the shore, they can wear nothing but one of them thong bikinis out in the middle of the Gulf!”

“Right,” Grace said, nodding quickly before Ben could lose his patience completely. Connie’s shirt was certainly appropriate. The woman seemed to send the conversation down five rabbit holes for every question she actually answered. “So the people you’ve seen on that boat are poser types. New money with a desire for the right hobbies. I take it they’re not locals?”

Ben gave her an approving glance, sending a few butterflies bouncing through her stomach. She forced her eyes back on Connie, who was now chuckling to herself as she flexed the brim of her hat back and forth.

“Takes new money to spot new money, I guess,” she said, gesturing toward the designer tote bag Grace had slung over her shoulder. It seemed the woman knew more about the non-sailing-related ‘fancy stuff’ than she might have guessed. “Definitely not locals. I know most of the salts on the island.”

“So how often have you seen someone take that boat out?” Ben prompted. “Once a week? Once a month?”

Connie nodded. “I’d say once a month sounds about right, but they always use the boat for several days off and on. Lots of evening and night trips. I’m just waitin’ for theday someone gets too drunk and we gotta mount a rescue.”

Grace suppressed a grin. The woman looked positively thrilled at the possibility.

“This is all helpful, thank you, ma’am,” Ben said. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

Connie ignored him and turned to Grace, looking her up and down. “He your boyfriend?”

She was so surprised by the question that it took her a moment to answer.

“Er, no. A friend. Well, a colleague, but–yeah, he’s a friend, too,” she stammered.

“My husband died a few years back. Married thirty years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ben said, rescuing her from the sudden silence.

“Me too. Just take an old sailor’s advice–” she leaned in toward Ben until the front of her hat nearly touched his forehead, “–don’t be a coward.”

Without another word, the woman headed down into her boat’s cabin, closing the door firmly behind her.

Grace looked up at Ben, unsure how to follow up that comment.

Instead, she pointed in the general direction of a nearby food stand and started walking.

He walked next to her, but she stayed just out of reach.

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