“A woman outside hates me,” she said.

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“Oh fuck her,” Daisy said. “I can’t find a table for the chief of police and his friend, what good am I?”

“Excellent point,” Jenn said. “Can I have a root beer, too?”

“Sure you can, darlin’, I’ll send the waitress right over.”

“Thank you, Daisy.”

“You bet,” Daisy said. “I was you I’d order one of the sandwiches, I just baked the bread this morning.”

Jenn smiled. Daisy swaggered off.

“Heavens,” Jenn said.

Jesse nodded.

“Daisy Dyke,” he said.

“Is that her real name?”

“No, I don’t know her real last name. Everybody calls her Daisy Dyke. She calls herself Daisy Dyke. She had to be talked out of calling the restaurant Daisy Dyke’s.”

“She is, I assume, a lesbian.”

“She is.”

“And she is, I assume, out.”

“As far out as it is possible to be out.”

“She have a partner?”

“She has a wife,” Jesse said. “They got married May twen-tieth, right after the Massachusetts law passed.”

“Mrs. Daisy Dyke?”

“Angela Carson,” Jesse said. “She kept her own name.”

“Is Angela a housewife?”

“Angela paints,” Jesse said.

“Well?”

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“No,” Jesse said.

“But persistently,” Jenn said.

“That would be Angela,” Jesse said.

Jenn ordered an egg salad sandwich on sourdough. Jesse had a BLT on whole wheat.

“Never order that on a date,” Jesse said. “Too messy.”

“What the hell am I,” Jenn said.

“I don’t know,” Jesse said, “but whatever you are, date is too small a word.”

Jenn smiled at him.

“Yes,” she said, “I guess it is, isn’t it?”

“We’ll come up with something,” Jesse said.

6 4

15

W ith the harbormaster at the wheel, they had visited five yachts, three of them

from Fort Lauderdale, anchored at the

outer edge of the harbor. The harbormaster was new. His name was Hardy Watkins. He was overweight and red-faced, and, on those rare moments when he took off his long-billed cap, he was mostly bald.

“Where to next?” Watkins said.

“How about that one over there,” Jesse said. “Black with a yellow stripe.”

He and Suitcase Simpson stood on either side of Watkins as the squat harbor boat plugged through the low swell.

R O B E R T B . P A R K E R

Among the yachts it looked like a warthog. Jesse wore jeans and sneakers and his softball jacket over a white tee shirt.

Simpson was in uniform. He carried a transparent folder with head shots from the sex video.

“Sloop there with the cutter rig,” Watkins said.

“Sure,” Jesse said.

He looked at Simpson.

“You know what a sloop is?” Jesse said. “With a cutter rig?”

“Hey,” Simpson said, “I grew up here. Paradise, Massachusetts, the sailing capital of the world.”

“So you know what a sloop is,” Jesse said. “With a cutter rig.”

“No,” Simpson said.

“Sloop’s a single-masted boat,” Watkins said.

“And a cutter?”

“Single-masted boat with the mast set further aft.”

“So what’s a sloop with a cutter rig.”

With one hand on the wheel, Watkins pointed at the yacht ahead of them.

“That,” he said.

“You don’t know either,” Jesse said.

“I do,” Watkins said, “but you’re too fucking landlocked to understand the explanation.”

“Good,” Jesse said.

Watkins steered the harbor boat under the stern of the yacht. The name lady jane was stenciled across the stern.

And beneath it, miami. A small landing float bobbed beside the Lady Jane, and Watkins brought the harbor boat softly 6 6

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up against it. Simpson leaned over and secured the stern of the harbor boat to a cleat. Then he climbed past the small cockpit and onto the short deck and secured the bow. Jesse climbed the short stairs to the deck of the Lady Jane. Simpson followed with the pictures.

A crewman in uniform met them. Jesse took his badge out of the pocket of his softball jacket and showed it.

“I’m Jesse Stone, Paradise Police. This is Officer Simpson.”

“I’m Nils Borgman,” the crewman said with a small accent. “First mate.”

Jesse glanced around the yacht.

“Sloop with a cutter rig,” he said.

“Yes sir,” Borgman said. “It is.”

Simpson looked carefully out to sea.

“I’ll need to talk to everyone on board,” Jesse said. “Who do I see about that.”

“What is this about, sir?” Borgman said.

“Investigating the death of a young woman, we’re trying to find anyone who recognizes her.”

“Do you need a warrant or something for that?” Borgman said.

“No,” Jesse said.

“I’ll speak to the captain, sir. I’m sure he’ll consult with Mr. Darnell.”

“Mr. Darnell is the owner of this cutter-rigged sloop?”

Jesse said.

“Yes sir. Please wait here.”

Jesse and Simpson waited, squinting in the brightness of 6 7

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the sun and its seaborne reflection. Below them the harbor boat swayed gently against the boarding float. Watkins was sitting behind the tiller reading a book, the long bill of his cap pulled low to keep the sun from his eyes. A dozen other yachts rode anchor in sight, and back in the harbor, the clutter of smaller boats seeming closer together from the deck of the Lady Jane than they actually were.

The deck was dark polished wood. Probably teak, Jesse thought, or some other wood that could resist the salt water.

Polished brass was nearly everywhere. Under a canopy in the cockpit lunch was being eaten and drunk, by a group of three men and three women, seated on built-in couches on either side of a built-in table. A man in a hat with lots of gold braid came from forward into the dining area and spoke softly to one of the men at lunch. The man listened and nodded and turned to look at Jesse and Simpson. Then he got up and walked back to them.

“Harrison Darnell,” he said. “What’s all this?”

“We’re investigating the death of a young woman,” Jesse said, “and we need to show some pictures to everyone on board, see if they recognize anyone.”

“I’ll discuss this with my attorney, if you don’t mind,”

Darnell said.

“I don’t mind,” Jesse said. “Of course, I guess we’ll need to round up everybody on board and bring them into the station for questioning.”

“You can’t do that.”

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“Of course I can, Mr. Darnell. But by all means call your attorney first.”

Mr. Darnell was wearing blue flip-flops, pale khaki shorts and a red short-sleeved shirt decorated with a pattern of blue flowers. The shirt was open. He wore some sort of braided leather around his neck. His hairless chest was tanned, as was the rest of him. His blond hair was shoulder length, kept off his face by sunglasses worn, as if pushed up casually, on his head. His face was old enough looking so that Jesse suspected artifice in the hair color. You didn’t often see a man with absolutely no hair on his chest, Jesse thought.

Jesse wondered if Darnell shaved it. Maybe it was gray.

“Oh for crissake,” Darnell said.

He turned back into the lunch area.

“People,” he said. “I’m sorry. The local gendarmes wish to show you some pictures. They’ve promised it won’t take long.”

One blond woman with a long oval face squealed as she turned and looked at them.

“Ohmigod,” she said. “The fuzz.”

She was wearing a bikini bathing suit and huge sunglasses. She had a nearly empty glass of champagne in her hand. Because she was sitting on a blue-and-yellow-striped couch, Jesse couldn’t see well enough to be sure, but he was confident that the bikini bottom was a thong.