The red digital numbers on the clock beside my bed glowed 4:30 a.m. I tried to drift back to sleep, but gave up at five o'clock and eased out of bed. When my feet hit the floor the coral cuts rudely reminded me of the past few days.
Trying not to make noise, I padded to the bedroom where Kathy slept. The door was open and the outline of her small, compact body showed under the sheet. Her breathing was slow and regular. I stood watching her, thinking of Lynn Renoir and how two such wonderfully beautiful women could be so different.
Quietly shutting the door, I went to the kitchen and made coffee. Morning was breaking in the east like fresh paint. Taking a cup of the strong brew out back, I sat on the patio and listened to the birds. The early feeders were easily recognized by their chirps. There were cardinals, tufted titmice, blue jays, and mockingbirds. It was a peaceful time of day.
The sky brightened and the colors above the tree line changed from black to gray to blue in a matter of minutes. At the top of a cottonwood tree a squirrel ate seeds from the blooms. The rapid pulse of a strobe light and a faint contrail high up among the cirrus clouds painted a silent picture of an airliner ghosting its way to New Orleans. A dog barked in the distance, and downtown, at the railroad yard, the heavy clanging of a switch engine cried urban life.
It was going to be a clear, cool day, a good day to travel to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. Joe Glossman was expecting me. Kathy and I would drive down. We planned to spend a week aboard Guy Robins' sailboat, Picaroon, exploring the offshore islands.
Going back inside for a refill, I found Kathy standing at the kitchen counter wearing one of my robes, pouring a cup of coffee.
"Good morning." She flashed a smile and pointed to my empty cup with the coffeepot.
"Yes, thank you. Hope I didn't wake you."
"No."
"Let's go out back."
"You don't mind me wearing your robe?"
"Consider it my contribution to the modesty of the feminine gender."
We sat on the patio drinking the hot coffee, thinking our own thoughts. It was light now, and I could see the individual spiny leaves of the pine trees against the cobalt sky. This was spring in the south and, except for early fall, the most pleasant time of the year.
"You thinking about the Renoir woman?"
"Yes."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Do you think it will take long to finish?"
"It should be over tomorrow morning."
She sat in the patio chair, her feet curled up, and the shiny black hair a sharp contrast to the white robe. She was truly a beautiful lady.
"I'm looking forward to sailing to the barrier islands. That fort you told me about, the one twelve miles off the coast, it should be interesting."
"Fort Massachusetts on Ship Island."
"Right."
A friend who owned a rental car agency had two Gulfport cars, a sedan and a Mustang convertible. I took the Mustang. It would be doing him a favor returning the car to the coast, it afforded me free transportation, and I could retrieve my airplane from McDonald Aviation.
The sun warmed and we made the trip with the top down. The drive took three hours. We called Guy Robins from Lil' Ray's seafood restaurant. He would meet us at the marina in an hour.
Joe Glossman's secretary confirmed the meeting was on schedule for three o'clock this afternoon.
We arrived at the Broadwater marina; slip 117, at the same time Guy Robins drove up. Kathy and he seemed to hit it off. We went aboard Picaroon. He gave me the keys to the engine and hatch cover.
"Come, Kathy. Let me show you around the boat. Jay knows the layout, hell, he taught me how to sail her."
Settling in the portside of the cockpit, I watched the people walking past admiring the boats docked in the marina. Several charter-fishing boats were returning from half-day trips loaded with their catch of red fish, snapper, and speckled trout.
Rubbing my hand along the combing, I remembered the day Guy bought Picaroon from the original owner. He did not like the name of the boat, but it is unlucky to change it, so he didn't. Guy was superstitious. She was a well-founded forty-foot, double-ended, steel-hulled, Colvin Archer design with a full keel, and sloop rigged. A strong and seaworthy, bluewater boat, she was a true pleasure to sail.
"It's a lovely vessel," Kathy said as they emerged from below. "There's so much room."
Guy looked at me. "Our house tonight, eight o'clock. We'll blacken some redfish."
I looked at Kathy, she nodded. It was settled.
Guy left to return to work. We stowed our gear aboard Picaroon.
"He seems like a nice man. He admires you, Jay."
"Yes. We've been friends a long time. You'll like his wife. I was in love with her once, but it was a long time ago."
She gave me a sly grin. "I may be jealous."
"You'd have no reason. My meeting is at three o'clock. It should not take over a couple of hours. Will you be all right, here, alone?"
"I'm a big girl, Mr. Leicester. Picaroon and I will get acquainted in your absence."
"If you need anything the phone has Guy's number on the speed-dial."
"Yes, he showed me. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Hurry back."
Driving east toward Ocean Springs and Glossman's office, I did not notice the new casinos and huge hotels recently built along the highway, or the heavy traffic, or the for sale signs on old, columned mansions with giant water oaks in the front yard, or any other of the terrible things dockside gambling has brought to this once peaceful coast. My thoughts were about the unpleasantness that had to be dealt with in this meeting.
It was close to five o'clock before we finished with everything that needed to be discussed. Plans were made to resume the next morning at nine a.m. Lynn Renoir would be there and arrangements were made for other persons involved to be present. Glossman said he would send a plane to pick up Lynn. The agenda included a final report from me on the death of Rene, and then the signing over of control of the Renoir Company and its vast holdings to Lynn. It would make her a rich and powerful woman. This was a meeting for which I would not be late.
Arriving back at the marina, I found Kathy sitting in the cockpit sipping champagne.
"How did it go?"
"It ran longer than expected. I hope you weren't bored?"
"On the contrary. I've had two offers to sail to Florida, an overnight fishing trip to somewhere called Cat Island, and one I cannot mention in mixed company."
"You weren't tempted?"
She laughed. "Maybe on the Cat Island thing. He was a good looking guy."
We sat, sipped the champagne, and watched darkness descend swiftly on the quiet harbor. The only distraction was the ever present humming of highway traffic, blowing of car horns, and squealing of brakes.
Shortly before eight, we secured Picaroon and drove to Guy Robins' house. Kathy and Mildred Robins were fast friends ten minutes after they met. Guy and I went out back to cook. He worked his magic blackening the red fish. The entire evening was pleasant. Dinner was superb with a lightly chilled 1998 Soave Classico superior from Verona, Italy. We stayed until midnight.
We drove back to Picaroon and parked in one of the spaces reserved for slip 117. The headlights from the car illuminated the stern of the boat and something else, a man trying to get into the hatch. He didn't seem to be concerned about the headlights.
Telling Kathy to stay in the car, I cut the lights and reached for my trusty old. 357 magnum. It was not there. Then I remembered putting it below with my gear this morning. Easing out of the car, I walked to the edge of the pier. The figure still had his back to me, oblivious to the world around him. Jumping into the cockpit, and grabbing the man, I felt the cuts on my feet open up.
He was an old man smelling of gin and cigarettes. His blurry eyes looked at me with little understanding. He had wet himself.
"It's okay, old timer. You're on the wrong boat."
"By God, laddie, I might be. My boat is the Gin Mill. Would you point me that way, kind sir?"
"What slip number?"
"I believe it is 121."
After getting the drunk settled aboard his boat, I returned to Picaroon. We opened all the hatches and portholes to let the gentle breeze cool the cabin. Taking off my shoes, I saw that the cuts had not bled much, which meant they were healing.
"Jay, I'm going to bed. I know you have a rough day tomorrow."
"Take the Vee-birth. I'll see you before I leave."
She kissed me gently, softly, and went below.
An hour later, I eased down the companionway ladder and lay quietly on the portside bunk. Kathy was snoring softly; the accordion door separating the cabins half closed. The boat gently rocked on its mooring. I slid into a restless sleep.