Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

of these boats, you’d think they would have been better dressed. A lot of these are million-dollar-plus yachts.”

Danny said, “So I guess we should copy down all the owner’s names, give them to Clarke for what that’s worth?”

“I may have a better idea,” Jared said.

Chapter 9

“A couple more, gents?”

“Absolutely.”

They had arrived at the lounge door at the same time as the bartender and were now his new best friends. Big tippers at eleven in the morning are rare birds in yacht clubs, where a word or two of senior advice in the young person’s ear is often considered reward enough. The bartender, Darren, was returning to campus in the fall, needed the tips, and was more than happy to gossip about the members he served. So far they had learned little of interest, but the day was young and the beer was cheap.

“Busy this summer?”

“About the same as always for the locals, visitors dock’s a lot busier with the Americans. Even fuel is cheaper here for them with the exchange rate, and that hasn’t happened for a long time from what I hear. And then of course there’s the politics down there. People tell me they just need a break from all that noise.”

“A friend of mine used to keep his boat here a few years ago. In one of the big sheds. Dale Selden,” Jared said, fashioning a name out of thin air.

“Don’t know him, but that doesn’t mean anything. It’s a big club and I’ve only worked here since early summer. Check out the moorage allocation charts around the corner. They redid them last month, so they’re pretty much up to date.”

There were three separate listings posted on the board: sailboats, powerboats in open moorage, and powerboats in the sheds. Each entry had the boat’s name, the owner’s name, and the slip number. The revisions were thumbtacked over the previous editions and it was the work of moments for Jared to pull out the earlier copies from underneath and slip them into his pocket. The sailboats were the least likely suspects in Jared’s opinion for a couple of reasons. First, he thought it unlikely that sailors would be dressed like the men who took Lauren. Those hats! Second, he felt that people who owned sailboats were, by and large, morally superior to powerboaters, although he did allow there might be rare exceptions. By the time Jared returned, Danny had been joined at the bar by a member.

“I’m a guest, actually. Here’s my sponsor now. Mind you, he’s moored with the commercial fleet down at the Basin, so his status is likely second rate at best. Never mind that I’m First Nations.” Danny gazed blandly at the questioner, a stout red-faced man in a Queens Own Yacht Club blazer whose face blanched.

“Jesus. No, no, not at all. It’s just that we’ve had some trouble with non-members the last while. People just walking in off the street for the cheap drinks. You’re more than welcome, more than welcome,” the man spluttered.

“I’m just messing with you,” Danny said.

“Ah. Very amusing I’m sure. Give these chaps another pint, Darren. On my tab, if you please.”

Over the next few hours the lounge gradually filled with a mixed crowd of boat people and club members who stopped by for a drink on their way home from work. Jared and Danny were introduced around by their new friend Basil, who turned out to be the fleet captain, whatever the hell that was. It entitled him to wear a beribboned club blazer and spiffy white officer’s cap in any event. He was a pleasant, friendly chap, a drinker, and seemed well liked by the gathered assembly. After three hours of going drink for drink with Danny, Basil might have given them the combination to the yacht club safe if they’d asked.

“This is going to seem like a stupid question,” Jared began.

“Fire away. If I couldn’t handle stupid questions I couldn’t hold down my position here,” Basil said in his plummy British accent that was only the least bit slurred.

“Have you seen anybody in a fedora around here recently?”

Basil’s eyebrows raised. “A fedora? No. Not sure I’ve seen one of those in years outside of the business district. It might be the only silly hat I haven’t seen on these docks. I should talk,” he said, pulling off his white officer’s cap and setting it down on the table in front of him. “My father was a destroyer captain in the British navy in World War Two with two confirmed sinkings and he didn’t have half the scrambled eggs I’ve got on this. If his ghost were to stride through that door, I’d have to crawl under the table and hide.”

“To the British Navy,” Danny said, raising his glass.

“Why do you ask? About the fedora?”

“We’re looking for a couple of men who got out of a taxi around two in the morning a few nights back. According to the driver, he let them off in front of the club gate. He didn’t see where they went, but it seems logical that they came in here. I mean where else would they go? It’s the only place along here. But there’s no video camera at the gate so we can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

Basil regarded them thoughtfully, and Jared thought he’d pushed it too far. But the drinks had done their work. Basil ploughed on.

“No camera, that’s true. Never felt we needed one out there. But if they came in through the gate, they would have needed a key card. And we have a record of every card used to unlock the gate. Both the time of its use and the identity of the member it belongs to are automatically recorded on the computer every time the gate’s opened. Pretty efficient system really. If someone falls behind on their dues or for whatever reason we’re having trouble contacting them, we just cancel their key card. They can’t get through the gate until they’re sorted out.”

“That