they’d search for a hidden “cache” filled with little treasures, everything from baseball caps and small stuffed animals to rubber snakes and cartoon underwear. Players were allowed to take one of the treasures, but had to leave a treasure in its place for future geocachers. The idea was to find all the quadrants, retrieve treasures, and return to home base to share their finds.
I sat down on a large rock to adjust one of my blades. As I got up, Duncan spotted me and urgently waved me over. No doubt he’d found something interesting in one of his hidden caches he wanted to share with me. Curious about his latest treasure discovery, I headed over.
“Hey, Dunk. Thanks again for playing the part of the vampire at that kids’ party. You were a hit—”
I stopped short when I realized Duncan wasn’t listening to me. Grimacing, he had knelt down at the water’s edge and was pointing in the water. His prized Nikes were soaked. But instead of the expected cache, he seemed to be staring at what looked like a large black-and-white fish bobbing on the water’s surface.
“What’s up, Dunk?” I asked, following his gaze to the water.
Whoa. A dolphin? In the bay? “Oh, the poor thing . . .”
Duncan stood up, suddenly looking pale instead of his usual red-headed complexion. He shook his head robotically.
“What . . . ?” I stepped closer and leaned in.
Oh. My. God. This was no fish. Not wearing a sequined black gown.
It was a floundering Ikea Takeda.
Chapter 6
PARTY PLANNING TIP #6:
Never say anything bad about anyone at a party.
You can bet it will come back to bite you in the ass.
Looking down at the bobbing body, the swirling water, and the rocking waves, I felt the blood leave my head. To keep from falling down, I sat down hard on some rocks, no doubt bruising my butt. The world spun around me like a whirlpool. I tucked my head between my legs.
“Oh my God,” I whispered to my skates. Then I gagged and drooled a little on them.
When I could lift my head, I glanced over at Duncan and wiped the spittle off my lips and chin. He remained rooted to his spot, gawking at the floating woman, his mouth hanging open like a dead fish. Before I could suggest he look away, he bent over and hurled into the cache he’d been setting up.
To keep myself from joining him, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and punched in 911 with trembling fingers. When the dispatcher came on the line, I rambled incoherently, “I want to report . . . a body . . . a drowning. . . .”
“May I have your name please?”
“Ikea Takeda . . . I mean, Presley Parker,” I stammered.
“Where are you now?”
I glanced around. “Avenue of the Palms, at Ninth . . . on Treasure Island.”
I answered the rest of the dispatcher’s questions as best I could. She told me to stay put, officers were on their way, to remain on the line, and some other things I didn’t really hear.
I said, “Okay . . . okay . . . okay . . .” Then, without thinking, I hung up.
Duncan’s normally ruddy complexion was now the color of the bay waters. “You all right?” I asked.
He spat and straightened up, jostling a string of saliva that hung from his scraggly goatee. Glancing back at the body, he said the F word, then added, “Think she was a jumper?”
“Huh?” I said.
Duncan nodded toward the looming Bay Bridge. Although not as popular as the Golden Gate Bridge for suicides, the Bay Bridge also served the purpose. Caltrans had put up barriers to try to stop the jumpers, but it hadn’t done much good. I’d read once that about twenty-five people jumped from the Golden Gate every year.
But Ikea—a suicide? I supposed anything was possible, but she really hadn’t seemed suicidal last night. Shocked. Angry. Humiliated, maybe. I might have diagnosed her as paranoid. But not despondent. Could she have fallen overboard from the ferry on her way back to the city last night?
I shivered. “We’ll know soon enough. The police are on their
I sat down on a large rock to adjust one of my blades. As I got up, Duncan spotted me and urgently waved me over. No doubt he’d found something interesting in one of his hidden caches he wanted to share with me. Curious about his latest treasure discovery, I headed over.
“Hey, Dunk. Thanks again for playing the part of the vampire at that kids’ party. You were a hit—”
I stopped short when I realized Duncan wasn’t listening to me. Grimacing, he had knelt down at the water’s edge and was pointing in the water. His prized Nikes were soaked. But instead of the expected cache, he seemed to be staring at what looked like a large black-and-white fish bobbing on the water’s surface.
“What’s up, Dunk?” I asked, following his gaze to the water.
Whoa. A dolphin? In the bay? “Oh, the poor thing . . .”
Duncan stood up, suddenly looking pale instead of his usual red-headed complexion. He shook his head robotically.
“What . . . ?” I stepped closer and leaned in.
Oh. My. God. This was no fish. Not wearing a sequined black gown.
It was a floundering Ikea Takeda.
Chapter 6
PARTY PLANNING TIP #6:
Never say anything bad about anyone at a party.
You can bet it will come back to bite you in the ass.
Looking down at the bobbing body, the swirling water, and the rocking waves, I felt the blood leave my head. To keep from falling down, I sat down hard on some rocks, no doubt bruising my butt. The world spun around me like a whirlpool. I tucked my head between my legs.
“Oh my God,” I whispered to my skates. Then I gagged and drooled a little on them.
When I could lift my head, I glanced over at Duncan and wiped the spittle off my lips and chin. He remained rooted to his spot, gawking at the floating woman, his mouth hanging open like a dead fish. Before I could suggest he look away, he bent over and hurled into the cache he’d been setting up.
To keep myself from joining him, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and punched in 911 with trembling fingers. When the dispatcher came on the line, I rambled incoherently, “I want to report . . . a body . . . a drowning. . . .”
“May I have your name please?”
“Ikea Takeda . . . I mean, Presley Parker,” I stammered.
“Where are you now?”
I glanced around. “Avenue of the Palms, at Ninth . . . on Treasure Island.”
I answered the rest of the dispatcher’s questions as best I could. She told me to stay put, officers were on their way, to remain on the line, and some other things I didn’t really hear.
I said, “Okay . . . okay . . . okay . . .” Then, without thinking, I hung up.
Duncan’s normally ruddy complexion was now the color of the bay waters. “You all right?” I asked.
He spat and straightened up, jostling a string of saliva that hung from his scraggly goatee. Glancing back at the body, he said the F word, then added, “Think she was a jumper?”
“Huh?” I said.
Duncan nodded toward the looming Bay Bridge. Although not as popular as the Golden Gate Bridge for suicides, the Bay Bridge also served the purpose. Caltrans had put up barriers to try to stop the jumpers, but it hadn’t done much good. I’d read once that about twenty-five people jumped from the Golden Gate every year.
But Ikea—a suicide? I supposed anything was possible, but she really hadn’t seemed suicidal last night. Shocked. Angry. Humiliated, maybe. I might have diagnosed her as paranoid. But not despondent. Could she have fallen overboard from the ferry on her way back to the city last night?
I shivered. “We’ll know soon enough. The police are on their
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