About two-thirds of the way to the end of the quarter-mile-long dock, we found a group of five people sitting in camp chairs or standing on either side of the floating walkway upwind of a large propane barbecue on a cart. There were chairs set out for more people and a few bowls of chips and salsa sitting on top of the nearest dock box. A few cans of cheap beer and plastic glasses of wine were in evidence, but the party was obviously only getting started.
A tall, dark-haired man in his early sixties, sporting a luxuriant mustache, was tending some beef ribs on the barbecue. He looked up as we drew near. “Hi, there! Hope we’re not in your way,” he added, trying to step aside to let us pass without falling in the water or sending his ribs to feed migrating salmon.
Solis glanced at me and raised his eyebrows. Apparently he wanted me to take this one. “Not in the way at all,” I said. “You’re actually the people we were searching for.”
They all looked at us in surprise, and we were no longer the strangers passing by but a focus of piqued attention. I introduced myself and Solis, who flashed his badge, just to make it official. “We were told there might be some residents on this dock who were here twenty-seven years ago when the Seawitch was regularly moored here,” I said.
“Seawitch?” asked a seated man wearing a floppy sea grass hat to shield his bearded face from the sun. “Which one is that?”
A short woman with cropped, dyed-brown hair pointed south across the docks with her free hand; the other held a sweating plastic stem glass half-full of white wine. “The ghost ship. You know.” She turned her attention back to me and Solis, smiling a little as if she didn’t want to seem unfriendly but wasn’t going to just give up the information without knowing more. “Why are you looking?”
“We hope to find anyone who might have information about who was on board the day the boat left here on its last trip,” Solis replied to her. “We also hope to discover if a woman named Shelly Knight has been seen in the marina recently.”
“Is she associated with the ghost ship?” the man in the hat asked. A salmon leapt nearby, sending a patter of water drops onto the dock.
“She may be,” Solis replied with care.
“Huh,” the hat wearer grunted. “Imagine that.” He looked at the short-haired woman. “Isn’t that young lady on Pleiades named Knight? The one who sings all the time. . . . Something Knight—can’t remember her first name.”
“The woman we’re looking for would have to be approaching or past fifty,” I said.
“Then this couldn’t be her. Our Miss Knight is much younger than that,” Hat Man replied.
I glanced at Solis before saying, “She may be a relative, though. Where is Pleiades?”
The man in the hat looked over his shoulder and pointed south. “Over on D dock. The big blue ketch on the far side. Oh, and it’s a beauty, too! They just refinished the masts and all the brightwork on the sheer and up the sprit—”
The short-haired woman shook her head a little in amusement. “Silly, she doesn’t know what a ketch is.” She looked at me and Solis. “It’s a two-master. Shorter mast in the back. The hull’s dark blue with varnished woodwork, gold trim and lettering, and it’s got matching blue covers on the sails. She’s a really pretty boat.”
Solis looked at the man in the hat and the woman who’d spoken before saying, “The office did not have a record of anyone named Knight keeping a boat here.”
“Oh, she’s just boat-sitting and prepping her,” the woman replied. “The owners are back East and they haven’t gotten out here for the season yet.”
“When did she arrive? Miss Knight, that is.”
The woman looked around at her companions, seeking consensus. “Oh . . . back in March, I guess. . . . Does that sound right to you guys?”
The rest muttered among themselves and nodded in general agreement.
“All right, then. March. Which would have been when the boat came out of the maintenance yard. They did the hull and bottom paint and reset the masts after winter storage so she’d be ready for opening day, and then the owners couldn’t get back in time. Isn’t that sad? Anyhow, Miss Knight must have come with the money or Keefer wouldn’t have let the boat out of the yard. A lot of people don’t keep boats in the water year round like they used to, but once you’ve got a nice boat like that in, you have to keep her up every minute, so hiring a reliable caretaker is a good idea.”
“How would you know they were reliable?” I asked.
“Oh, mostly references from other boaters, or if they have a bond posted or come from a company that does moving and service stuff.”
Solis didn’t look at me, but I saw his aura flare up for a moment in bright gold sparks. He was very interested in Miss Knight, but he only nodded and thanked them all while making a quick note on his cell phone. A few more salmon plashed around, making a slapping sound on the surface of the water.
“I see,” I said, redirecting the conversation before the momentum dropped off. “What can you tell us about residents who might have been here in the mid-eighties?”
The crowd looked at one another and muttered names to one another. Then they turned back to us and the guy in the hat said, “It’s a pity the old restaurant is gone, because you could have found a lot of the old hands just hanging out there, but try Paul Zantree. I think he moved here in the seventies. He’s out at the end of the dock here on Mambo Moon—it’s a big old motorboat—but he might not be home yet. I haven’t seen him, at least. Any of you seen Paul today?”
“Not since this morning,” said the man at the grill, turning the ribs again and brushing sauce on the meaty side. “He volunteers at the library a couple days a week now, but he should be back soon to finish up that trim work while the sun’s still out.” He looked up from his cooking and caught my eye. “He’s a feisty old coot. Trying to get his boat all fixed up to take the grandkids out fishing this summer. The little one’s about eight and loves to hang a line in the water with Grandpa.”
The short-haired woman walked up beside him and elbowed him lightly in the side. “You’re a feisty old coot yourself.”
The cook laughed and gave her a one-armed hug. “Well, I don’t know about the ‘coot’ part—what is a coot, anyway?” he called to the rest of the group.
A slim woman in shorts, who’d been silent up till now, raised her head and said, “I think it’s some kind of badger.”
The man in the hat objected, “It’s a bird. Isn’t it?”
The last man in the group fished a couple of beers out of a cooler and brought one over to the cook. “It’s an old guy who won’t admit he’s old. That’s what a coot is. I, personally, am a young coot and I intend to stay that way by drinking this beer. You better join me, Rick.”
“Well, I think that I shall,” Rick, the cook, replied, letting go of the woman and accepting the beer. Then he turned back to us. “Oh, I’m Rick Hines and this is my wife, Rhonda, by the way,” he added, slipping his arm around the short-haired woman’s waist again. “This is Phil Rhineman”—he indicated the beer bringer—“and his wife, Laura. Peter Black is the fella with the hat over there. Would you like to sit down and wait for Paul here? We’re always glad to have more people. . . .”
It was a generous offer, but I was pretty sure our continued presence would put a damper on the party—and on the gossip, which would be a mixed blessing. More talk might generate more memories, but it might also warn off the mysterious Miss Knight, if she was related to the woman we were seeking. Still, I really had no interest in sitting with strangers when I could be getting more of this business nailed down. Solis seemed to feel the same way.