Leaving her hiding spot, Bernadette jogged over to the gate and hunkered behind some bushes planted on either side of it. There was enough light cast by the streetlamps for Bernadette to read the small signs posted on the gate. One read “Slips Available” and listed a phone number. The other read “St. Paul Yacht Club, Gate G, Lower Harbor, 100 Yacht Club Road.”
Peeking through the bushes, she saw that behind the fence were steps leading down to the docks. Matthew was thumping along the wooden boards, heading for one of the few houseboats still tucked into the slips.
During the summer months, the popular yacht club was crowded with watercraft. As the cold weather settled in, however, only a handful of winterized houseboats remained. Their owners, called “liveaboards,” resided there permanently. Was this his home or just his crash pad when he partied too hard downtown?
She could see there were some luxurious year-round crafts—one floating mansion had to be more than sixty feet long—and some tiny boxes that appeared to be the equivalent of efficiency apartments. Every other one had interior lights on, and almost all of them had bright floodlights shining against their exteriors. It could have been a well-lit street on any block, except for the fact that the river was everyone’s backyard.
Matthew stopped at a houseboat near the end of the dock. He’d left the boat’s interior lights on, as well as an outside floodlight mounted near the door. The cabin was about forty feet long and had modest decks at each end. The suburban rambler of the neighborhood. The craft’s flat top was railed and littered with lawn chairs. In the summer, sunbathing women probably populated that upper level. Matthew’s party palace.
He dropped his keys while standing next to his boat. When he bent over to pick them up, his door popped open. Bernadette could see a long-haired woman standing in the doorway. Was her hair brown, like the woman she’d observed through her sight? Bernadette couldn’t tell. The woman was clothed in a short black nightgown, and the interior lights of the boat shined through the flimsy fabric, leaving little to the imagination. She had a glass in her hand.
Bernadette strained to listen. The woman’s words were indecipherable, but Matthew bellowed loudly enough to be understood.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, standing up with his keys. “How in the hell did you get inside? I told you, we’re through!”
The woman extended the drink to him.
“You’re not staying. I’ve got commitments tonight. Places to go.”
Like detox, thought Bernadette.
Matthew snatched the glass out of the woman’s hand and stumbled inside the houseboat, the door slamming behind him.
Bernadette stood up and tried yanking on the gate. Locked tight. The fence was about six feet tall. Not a big obstacle, but she wished she were in jeans and sneakers instead of a suit. Wedging the toes of her shoes through the chain link, she climbed to the top of the fence, threw her legs over, and jumped down. She was grateful she’d worn flats.
There was a smaller houseboat moored next to Matthew’s. Even though its interior and exterior were unlighted, she could read its name by the light of the neighboring boats. Good Enuf, it said across the transom. It had a deck at each end, and neither one of them was railed. She hopped onto the closest, grimacing while the boat rocked and groaned. Dropping behind a large planter filled with dead flowers, she peered into Matthew’s lighted windows.
Matthew and the woman were in the houseboat’s galley; Bernadette could see kitchen cupboards, granite counters, and a stainless-steel refrigerator. The place wasn’t huge, but it was outfitted beautifully. He was pacing back and forth with the glass the woman had given him, but he wasn’t drinking from it. Maybe Matthew finally figured out he’d had enough liquor for the night. He set the drink down and peeled off his fur and his blazer. The woman went up to him and twined her arms around his neck. Now Bernadette could clearly see her hair was brown. Was she the one Bernadette had watched in bed, getting the rough treatment during sex? Had Bernadette been seeing through Matthew’s eyes?
He seemed in no mood to touch this woman, let alone hop into the sack with her. He pulled her arms down, turned his back to her, and marched to the other end of the boat. Bernadette followed, sliding down a narrow walkway that ran along the side of the Good Enuf. When she got to the far deck, she didn’t bother trying to hunker down; there was nothing to hide behind. Matthew’s craft was nearly twice the length of the Good Enuf, extending much farther into the river. Even posted at the very end of the shorter craft’s deck, Bernadette had trouble observing everything that was going on next door. She was gambling that the feuding couple couldn’t see her standing outside, especially with all the lights on inside their houseboat.
Looking into the last window, Bernadette saw clothes flying. She spotted a corner of a headboard and figured she was spying into the master bedroom. More clothes sailed through the air. Was Matthew stripping? No. He was tossing the woman’s own garments at her. The woman stepped in front of the window and was catching each article as he hurled it. Black bra. Black panties. Black sweater. She likes black. Both of their mouths were moving like crazy. Bernadette wished she could hear what was being said, but the boat was too well insulated. At least that meant they couldn’t hear her thumping around on the neighbor’s deck.
Matthew pivoted and tried to walk away from the woman, but she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him from behind and molding the front of her body against his back.
“Have some pride, lady,” Bernadette muttered under her breath.
Matthew pushed the woman’s arms off him and spun around. He grabbed her by the shoulders and held her at a distance while saying something to her. Surprisingly, his expression was calm. Patient. It was not the face of an out-of-control killer.
The pair moved away from the window.
“Dammit,” mumbled Bernadette, bobbing her head and shuffling along the end of the deck in an attempt to locate the couple. “Where are you?”
They suddenly slid into view in a middle window positioned directly across from her. Nervous about being spotted, she dropped to her knees and sat back on her heels to watch. They were standing a foot or two apart, their mouths still going. While Matthew’s expression remained relaxed, the woman’s face was red and distorted with rage.
Suddenly the woman rushed at Matthew, her arms raised. He caught her wrists and held them over her head. She pulled away from him and lunged again, her nails ripping his face. Looking up at his bloody face, Bernadette contemplated barging in to help. Then Matthew pushed the crazy woman off him again and she fell back against the windows. The crack made Bernadette start. Matthew could take care of himself.
They moved out of view, with Matthew heading toward the far end of the houseboat. The woman was on his heels, her brown hair and her black nightgown flying behind her like a witch’s cape.
Bernadette waited a minute to make sure they didn’t rematerialize in the window across from her, then stood up. She went to the very end of the deck and leaned over as far as she could to scan the bedroom window at the end of Matthew’s boat. No one popped into view. She looked back at the window directly across from her. Still nothing. She scaled the ledge to the other deck and studied the kitchen windows. No action there. They had to be in that bedroom, she thought, and skated back to the far deck.
Standing on the end of the Good Enuf ’s deck, she locked her eyes on the window and waited. The lights stayed on, but nothing moved. All she saw was the corner of that headboard against a white wall. With each passing moment, the knot in her gut tightened. What if the crazy killed him? Bernadette wasn’t sure whether to go for her cell or her gun. Eyes glued to the bedroom window, she started to unbutton her trench coat when a creak behind her sent a rush of ice water shooting through her veins. She spun around and looked behind her. No one there. She darted from one corner of the small deck to the other, checking the ledges along the sides of the boat. Nothing. She reached past her blazer, put her hand on the butt of her gun, and waited. A loud groan vibrated the small boat. The Good Enuf was like an old house settling.