Baja Florida by Bob Morris Page B

“And if you’ve got the time, then I’d really appreciate it if you could look into a few other matters as well.”
    â€œBe glad to,” she said.
    I was giving her the details when the maid returned to the office. She hadn’t returned alone. She’d brought along a guy in a blue uniform who looked like he might be her supervisor.
    The supervisor started to say something. I held up a finger and cut him off.
    â€œHold on,” I told him. “I’m busy here.”
    I finished telling Helen Miller what I needed to know and how she could reach me. I hung up the phone, stood up from the desk, and started walking out of the office.
    The supervisor moved to block my way.
    â€œLook,” I said. “I really don’t appreciate you barging in here while I’m on the phone with a client. Mr. Delgado will hear about this.”
    The supervisor look startled but he recovered quickly.
    â€œWho are you? What are you doing here?”
    He got in my face. I got in his.
    â€œWell, I’m damn sure not Clete Boyer, I’ll tell you that. And don’t let anyone tell you differently,” I said. “I have never played third base for the New York Yankees. Neither has my mother. As far as I know I don’t have an uncle. And even if I did my mother wouldn’t have named me after him. Do you understand?”
    He shook his head, thoroughly confused.
    â€œNo, I don’t understand at all.”
    â€œGood,” I said. “Keep it that way.”
    I brushed past him and out the door.

11
    Knowing the name of the boat wasn’t much of a start, but it was a toe-hold. On the drive back to the Mutiny, I called Lynfield Pederson.
    â€œYou better tell me what you need to tell me and tell me quick,” Pederson said. “Because I am due at my mother-in-law’s house for dinner in exactly five minutes.”
    â€œNice talking to you, too, Lynfield.”
    â€œChicken ’n’ dumplings.”
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œThat’s what she’s making,” Pederson said. “And believe me when I tell you that she is putting dinner on the table right this very minute. That woman will not hold a meal for me or anyone else. Doreen is already over there.”
    â€œHow is Doreen?”
    â€œShe’s just fine. I’ll tell her you asked. But let me warn you about something, Chasteen.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI do not look kindly upon anyone who causes me to eat my chicken ’n’ dumplings cold.”
    I’d first met Lynfield Pederson years ago when we both played ball at Florida. He was a walk-on freshman when I was a senior and he never let me forget the fact that he had once knocked me on my can during a scrimmage before the Auburn game. The block had helped win him a spot on the traveling squad and ultimately a full scholarship.
    After a few years of police work in Florida, he returned to the Bahamas and eventually landed the position as superintendent of the Royal Bahamian Police for the Eleuthera district. It included Harbour Island, where he was born. Aside from the fact that he once briefly considered me the prime suspect in a murder that took place there a few years earlier, he was as astute a lawman as I’d ever encountered. And that was not damning by faint praise.
    Harbour Island sits about halfway between the Abacos and Lady Cut Cay, a popular hopping-off point for cruisers heading south. I told Pederson I was looking for a boat called Chasin’ Molly , hoping he could spread the word down his way and maybe turn up something.
    â€œYou thinking bad thoughts?” he asked.
    â€œDon’t want to, but no one knows for sure where the boat is. Girl’s father is getting anxious.”
    â€œAnd he’s a friend.”
    â€œA good one.”
    â€œWell, boats like that, they have been known to get stolen,” Pederson said.
    â€œEven with lawmen like you riding the