Dangerous Waters. Laurey Bright

the advent of road and rail transport. One of the old houses crowding the slope featured a small tower with a railed enclosure around it. A widow’s walk, similar to those in other historic ports around the world, from which women used to watch for their men coming home from the sea.

      Like so many of those men, Camille’s father had finally failed to return. But it was a long time since his wife had given up keeping vigil for him. Nobody had been waiting and hoping to welcome him home.

      For a while she tried to work while the deep rumble of male voices penetrated the floor, and loud guffaws and occasional shouts or snatches of song floated clearly through the open window.

      Distracted and restless, she left the room and ran down the stairs, her hand enjoying the smoothed curve of the baluster that ended at an ornate carved newel post, then hurried across the lobby into the dazzle of the sun.

      Unthinkingly she directed her steps toward the seafront and then the old wharf, eventually finding the Sea-Rogue snugged against the massive wooden piles.

      Camille didn’t know much about boats, but this was a weatherworn veteran compared to the elegant yachts in front of the hotel. The deckhouse had a higher, squarer profile, with two steps leading from the wheel well to a narrow door, not a lift-up hatch cover. A waist-high timber rail instead of wire lines guarded the afterdeck, and a slender bowsprit like those on old sailing ships tapered forward from the bow.

      After a brief hesitation she stepped across the small space to the rail almost level with her feet, and jumped onto the deck, pushing aside an uneasy feeling of trespass. After all, she’d been told she owned half of the craft.

      The boards shifted under her feet. She touched a sun-warmed spar—or was it a boom? She was hazy about modern nautical terms.

      A screeching gull drew her gaze upward. Two masts soared against the sky, and the sun glowing through a gauzy layer of cloud made her eyes water. The boat appeared bigger now she was on board. She stepped down onto one of the slatted seats in the wheel well to reach its floor.

      Two farther steps led to the closed door. The wood around the brass lock had been splintered, fresh raw wounds showing through the varnish. As she reached out to investigate, a male voice from the dock said, “It’s locked.”

      Camille jumped, flushing when she turned to confront the Broderick brothers, standing above her on the wharf. Rogan looked faintly amused, curious, and his brother noncommittal but a bit austere.

      “Not anymore,” she said. “It’s been broken into.”

      “What?” Rogan jumped to the deck, followed by his brother.

      Feeling she needed to apologize for her presence, she said, “I’m sorry, I just wondered…”

      She didn’t know what she’d wondered, what she’d been thinking. Only that her father had spent a good part of his life on this boat, sailing the Pacific with Barney Broderick.

      They weren’t listening to her anyway. Rogan let out one explosive word, Granger swung the door open and they plunged into the gloom inside.

      After a moment’s hesitation Camille entered the tiny compartment inside the door and descended a short, ladder-like companionway after the men, taking a few seconds to adjust from the light outside. Then she gasped in shock.

      The foam squabs by the table were askew and the covers ripped. Small carvings, shells and pieces of paper lay all over the place. Books had been wrenched from their shelves and some paperbacks torn in two, the matting on the floor shoved aside, and a conglomeration of sailing gear, food stores, ropes and objects that Camille couldn’t begin to identify hauled from storage compartments that gaped open. The railed galley shelves were empty, cupboard doors hung wide and drawers had been upended, the contents of food scattered over everything.

      Standing between the two men under the low ceiling, Camille could feel the anger emanating from them both, chill and focused from Granger, hot and fierce from Rogan.

      “Who…?” Camille began, but it was probably an unanswerable question.

      Rogan swore again before he said shortly, “No idea.” He picked up a book, blowing a cloud of flour off its tooled leather cover, then rubbing his forearm over it. “Bastards.”

      His brother’s expression was closed. “We probably shouldn’t touch anything until the police get here.”

      The lone constable stationed in Mokohina surveyed the wreckage with Rogan and Granger before returning to the deck, where Camille waited to give him a brief statement.

      “Probably teenagers,” he told them, turning to the men. “Can you tell if anything’s missing?”

      Granger shook his head. “We were only here for a few minutes last night, and it was dark. Before that, as I told your detective yesterday, neither of us had been on board lately. But the police searched the boat on Tuesday.”

      The constable said he would contact the Criminal Investigation Branch in Whangarei. “They might want to take a look, since they’re inquiring into your father’s death.” Suddenly thoughtful he added, “There’s a rumor that he struck it lucky recently.”

      Granger gave a quiet, sardonic laugh. “My guess is his friends had some fanciful hindsight after he was…found.”

      Nodding as if his own suspicion was confirmed, the policeman closed his book. “Well, I’ll secure the vessel and ask the wharf manager to keep an eye on it.” He glanced at his watch. “If they need a scene examination it’ll probably be tomorrow. We’ll let you know when they’ve finished.”

      On the way back to the Imperial, flanked by the men, Camille didn’t like to break the silence, grim on one side and seething on the other.

      They were nearing the hotel when Rogan spoke over her head to his brother. “D’you reckon this has something to do with what happened to Dad?”

      “I doubt it,” Granger answered. “There are ghouls who study newspapers for death notices, and target homes when the families are at the funeral. This is probably the same sort of thing. Or maybe some young idiots heard the rumor and tried their luck, hoping to find a treasure chest on board.” His scathing tone implied what he thought of them and their gullibility.

      When they entered the lobby the noise from the private room had lessened considerably. Granger said, “Time to shoo the diehards into the public bar, I think.”

      The young Maori woman behind the desk called to Camille, “Miss Hartley…there’s a package for you.”

      Camille excused herself from the men, and the receptionist handed her a small parcel and an envelope. “Have you decided how long you’re staying?” the girl asked.

      Having left her departure date open, Camille had become interested in the town and its little-known history, and on learning of Barney’s death felt she should attend his funeral. Now things were complicated.

      “We have a full house after the weekend,” the receptionist explained. “It’s the annual Mokohina big-game-fishing tournament. People come from all over for it.”

      “I’ll remember that, thanks.”

      Opening the envelope, she bypassed the ancient, creaking elevator and started up the stairs. She drew out a single sheet of thick, elegant paper and unfolded a note written in a precise, almost copperplate hand.

      This may interest you, it said. Thank you for a very pleasant evening, which I hope to repeat before you leave.

      The signature was a flourishing, curlicued James, and he’d added his telephone number.

      In the upper hallway she found Rogan lounging against the wall. Startled, she said, “I thought you were still downstairs.”

      He straightened. “Granger’s taking care of things. I wondered what you’re doing for dinner. We thought we’d try the Koffee ’n’ Kai café along the road. Care to join us?”

      It was