On my way back to the Diogenes, I caught a glimpse of a couple of girls on Waverunners speeding over the flats to the east of us. Not having seen them around the marina, I wondered where they were staying.

      At the Diogenes, Rebecca had made everything shipshape and comfortable for lounging. She told me about having called Batelco to activate our cellphones and that we should be able to use them in two days. And she told me that Wade Daniels had come aboard to invite us to the fish fry. I told her about my conversation with the guy, and we spent some time discussing what we would and wouldn't tell people.

      Rebecca told me about the cruising couple berthed next to us. Their names were Glenn Weaver and Stephanie McCallister. They were sailing back from the Abacos and would be going back to Miami in a day or two.

      "I asked Wade to invite them, too," Rebecca said. She wrinkled her brow. "They're pretty inexperienced, and it would be a shame for them to be marginalized."

      I glanced over to the sailboat.

      "No, they aren't here right now," Rebecca said. "They're off for a walk somewhere."

      "What kind of boat is it, anyway?"

      "It's a twenty-six-foot Hunter," Rebecca said.

      Its rail was a foot lower than ours and its auxiliary motor was just an outboard hanging off the end.

      "I see they've got it locked up." Their system was the same as ours: three teak boards that fit in a slot to block the companionway, secured to the horizontally sliding hatch by a hasp and a padlock. "Always locking up would be good standard operating procedure for us, too, while we're here."

      "Roger that, Captain," Rebecca said in parody. "I have already written it into the standard operating procedure. But maybe you can sand the upper edge of the top board," she said, pointing to where the teak board slotted into the entrance. "I have to finagle the sliding hatch over it to get the hasp into place."

      "Sure," I said.

      Rebecca handed me a cold lemonade in a can. "Now, can you tell me why you are frowning?"

      I told her about my frustration in trying to find out anything about "Steve" and my suspicion that Sgt. Townsend would hold onto the boat by dragging out his investigation.

      "I have a rough draft of my medical affidavit. I'll write the final draft the first thing tomorrow morning. Incidentally, I double- and triple-checked, and the time of death still comes out the same."

      "Right. And first thing tomorrow, I'll work up a written statement on the salvage and probable location of the murder. It will be good to get this police thing off our desks. The Second Chance is in excellent shape. Ready for the trip to Miami any time."

      "How long would the police be justified in holding the yacht for evidence?"

      "I don't know. So far it's been dry and sunny, but the first rain will spoil their chance of getting any fingerprints off the boat. And it will wash away the blood spatter evidence, too. As soon as it rains, I'm going to argue that they give up jurisdiction."

      I stepped onto the dock, hosed myself down, and returned to change into a fresh pair of shorts and a polo shirt.

      It was pleasant enough to lie there on the cockpit's bench with Rebecca, watching the birds fly and the wispy tops of the Australian pines sway in the breeze as the sun got lower. I got up and took a look to the east to see what had happened to the Waverunner girls. It looked like they had returned the toys to the collection of recreational equipment that was assembled a mile or so down the shore to the east of us. With the sun behind me, I could make out a collection of Waverunners, Windsurfer sails and catamarans assembled on the beach around a prefab metal shack. I went back to sipping my lemonade and gazing at the clouds. After a while, I noticed something else in the sky -- the same guy in his tight-fitting swimsuit climbing in his tuna tower.

      "What's that guy doing up there, anyway?" I asked.

      Rebecca opened her mouth and cocked her head. "It beats me, but he's up there a lot."

      "What's he think he is? An aerialist? The man on the flying trapeze?"

      "A smuggler," Rebecca said with a feisty smile. "A grape smuggler!"

      I had to work hard to suppress my laugh, so it wouldn't carry. For all I knew, our cockpit might be focusing our words on him like a parabolic reflector.

      I whispered an admonition, a parody of political correctness. "Rebecca, you must be tolerant of the Baby Boomers. They grew up with a different dress code."

      Rebecca delivered a sassy answer about "letting it all hang out," and I laughed again. That was too much, and the guy did look down. I waved to him and he ignored me.

      We laughed longer and harder than our inane humor deserved. We go silly like this a lot. I guess it's a good device to blow off pent-up frustration. And our jovial mood lasted while locking up the Diogenes and all the way to the Wholesale Delight.

     DRESSED IN A blue golf shirt, loose-fitting white shorts, and brown leather-topped boat shoes, Wade Daniels was presiding over a shiny charcoal grill that hung over the stern. Next to him was a big ice chest full of iced-down beers. The cockpit was decked out for company, but the door to the main salon was closed. The sun was low and it was well after six, but we were the first to arrive. I shook Wade's hand, and he invited me to stick my hand in the ice chest, or he could make me a Bloody Mary.

      "No, I think I'll stick with beer," I replied.

      "Yes, I can understand," he said, as if there had been some significance to my choice. "That was a bad thing you came onto."

      I handed Rebecca a beer and took one for myself, and we stood by the grill where Wade was fanning a charcoal fire with a piece of stiff cardboard.

      "Yeah," I said, "it's not a pretty thing seeing a guy shot up like that."

      Wade looked up from the grill. "How many times was he shot?" His slow eyes lingered on me with the question.

      "It looked like twice, but I'm no expert. I had my hands full keeping the boat from sinking. And then all the way back my temporary plug was giving me trouble. Really had my hands full."

      Rebecca affirmed that with a nod.

      Wade took a couple of swipes at the fire with the cardboard. "Did they shoot holes in the hull?" Wade asked.

      "Looks like it."

      I didn't volunteer anything more. Daniels shrugged, took a couple more swipes at the charcoal fire and looked down at the deck. Okay, if he was going to ask me questions I could ask some of him.

      "Did you know the guy?" I asked.

      "Steve?"

      "That's what I hear his name was. What was his last name, incidentally?"

      Wade shook his big head slowly. "I don't know. Just knew him as Steve."

      "Did you talk with him?"

      "Not much," Wade said.

      "Did he give you any idea why he was here? Or what business he was in?"

      Wade settled his quiet eyes on me, and I just waited him out. Finally he asked, "Why are you interested?"

      "Because I'm trying to get a line on him to press my claim for salvaging his boat. His estate owes me a big pile of money. His estate, or whoever owns that boat. All the Coast Guard certificate gave was a name of a some damn corporation with a Miami post office box."

      Wade shook his head. "Might be dangerous. Probably drug dealing. Better stay out of it."

      I puffed up and made my pronouncement. "Hell yes, we're going to stay out of it! Like I told that Bahamian police sergeant, I don't know who the guy was, and I don't know who killed him or why. I don't know and I don't care, really. I've already told that cop what little I knew. He took it all down, and that's the end of it as far as I'm concerned. But what I do care about is getting paid for salvaging that vessel. When that's done, we sail to the Abacos and continue our vacation."

      Wade Daniels listened to me like a sleepy owl, completely expressionless except for the low set of his upper eyelids. I waited for a reaction and finally he responded with a nod. I continued:

      "Drug boat or no drug boat, we're not going to walk away from the salvage claim. I put my life on the line, jumping onto a two hundred thousand dollar yacht minutes before it was going to sink. I went below, found the leak, and plugged it. And now, according to International Law, a big chunk of that yacht belongs to me -- to us, because I couldn't have done it if Rebecca hadn't been there to stay on the Diogenes and pilot it all the way back."

      I had told my story the way I wanted to.

      "Was it in International Waters when you salvaged it?"

      "Yes. Thirteen miles north of the Bank and a ways east." I stopped to look at him for a second. "Say, that was a good question! Are you a lawyer?"

      "No."

      "What do you do, anyway?" I asked it with a teasing smile, as if to say that I knew he had to be some sort of professional.

      Slowly Wade's face took on a smile. He half-sat on the rail and turned up his palms. "Wholesale appliances." He brushed his Caesar bang. "But I'm doing less and less of it, now. My partners are buying me out." His smile transformed into a grin.

      "Please accept my congratulations." I said it expansively. "Think of that, Rebecca, retiring at the age of . . . what? I'd guess you're about fifty."

      "Close guess. But I'm not yet completely retired or bought out, yet. Can't give up until they show me that they can run the business without running it into the ground." He had been looking at the grill, but now he turned to me. "What about you?"

      "I gave up a job in the U.S. Patent Office. Now we're going to sail around the Bahamas for a few months. Then I'm going to look for a job with a technology company somewhere in South Florida."

      Wade turned his head to Rebecca and winked. "And you?"

      Rebecca smiled, shook her head and handled it beautifully. "I had a desk job at George Washington University."

      "What did you do?" Wade smiled at her like he was interested.

      "I worked on world health statistics. Maybe I'll be able to find something in Miami-Dade or Broward County."

      We were interrupted by the first of Wade's other guests, a wiry, angular guy wearing tennis shoes, faded blue jeans and a locomotive engineer's cap. He boarded the boat like he'd been on it before, maybe as part of a fishing party. As he came closer, I noticed he had a closely cut moustache. It was almost colorless, like his closely cut blond hair, which was visible from behind when he turned towards the cooler.

      "Help yourself, Rick," Wade said, with everyday familiarity. "The beer's cold."

      But Rick had already extracted a silver can and was turning back towards us. I wondered whether it was age or the Bahamian sun that had done the bleach job on his hair and moustache. He seemed to be in his late thirties or early forties. He held the beer can and clicked open its tab top with one hand, then took a long chug while keeping his eyes on Rebecca. He nodded to Wade. Then he squared off at me, half-opening his mouth like he might have something to say.

      But Wade was a bit quicker. "Rick Turner, I'd like you to meet Ben Candidi and Rebecca Levis."

      I extended my hand. Rick wiped his wet hand on his jeans before shaking with me. He did it with a quick step forward and a fast arm extension, like he was handing me a tool. His shake was strong enough to work a crowbar. When we disengaged, he stepped back quickly and went back to regarding Rebecca, who had not offered her hand.

      "Glad to meet you, Rick," Rebecca said.

      He nodded, stared for a couple of seconds, and then returned his attention to me. His irises were light-green, with a lot of white in their texture. "I hear you guys are the ones that found that guy out there and brought him in."

      "After saving his boat from sinking -- which wasn't easy. You know him?"

      "No. He wasn't around here for more than a week." Rick threw a glance to Wade, as if in afterthought.

      "That wasn't very long. Have any idea what he was doing out there?"

      Rick Turner's eyes turned up towards his hat brim. "Probably drugs." He dropped his voice like drug dealing might be regrettable but was nothing out of the ordinary.

      "Well, all I saw was that someone shot him and made a hole in his boat," I said, as if in contradiction.

      Rick's eyes returned to me. "Had to be dealing something." He took a big long pull on his beer.

      "Probably was offloading from a mother ship," Wade added. "South Americans." He picked up a pancake turner and looked at Rick. "Ben was just telling me about how he didn't find anything on the boat and how he's having trouble getting Steve's name and address so he can move on with his salvage claim." He moved past Rick, grabbed one of two long Tupperware containers, opened it, and put a couple of fish fillets on the grill.

      Rick took another pull on his beer -- a Bud Light -- and settled his eyes on Rebecca, once again. She gave him no reaction.

      "You been around here for a long time, Rick?" I asked.

      "Off and on. Spend as much time as I can here."

      "Like Wade, I guess." I said it with a smile in the direction of the happy grill-tender.

      "Yeah, 'cept I have to spend more time riding herd on my guys than he does. It doesn't take half as much brains to pull a wire as it does to connect it up right. Have to go back for a lot of inspections."

      "Electrical contracting?"

      "You got it." Rick shifted his weight and relaxed just a little.

      "In Miami?"

      "Hell no! Ain't nothing going on there." He noticed when I cocked my head in question. "Ain't nothing going on there if you don't 'peekie pannie.'" Rick turned his head towards the transom like he wanted to spit over it.

      I asked, "How far north up the Florida coast does a guy have to go so he doesn't have to speak Spanish?"

      "Delray Beach. All kinds of good construction going on there. What about you?"

      "Like I was telling Wade, Rebecca and I gave up a couple of dull desk jobs in Washington and we sailed down here to explore the Bahamas for a couple of months. When the money runs out, we'll see if we can't find a couple of desk jobs in South Florida."

      This time it was Rick who cocked his head in question. But I didn't have to answer it because two new guests came aboard -- the first of many. Wade moved to introduce us.

      Actually Ray Vangelden didn't require much introducing. He let us know that he was the owner of the large trawler, the Photo Finish, which was tied up at the end of the center dock. In his late sixties, he was short, pudgy, and spoke with a friendly Brooklyn accent. He lost no time telling me that his yacht got its name from the photo kiosk business that he had developed all over South Florida. His eyes twinkled behind his bulbous nose as he told his story. He had sold his business before drugstores started offering on-site developing and before photo technology made a abrupt turn towards digital.

      While Ray was explaining this, his tall, slender wife Martha gravitated to Rebecca. Wearing a long blue-jeans skirt and a loosely hanging, smock-like blouse, she seemed better dressed for land than for the water. Her mid-length auburn hair was flawlessly combed. I found it hard to judge her age. The absence of wrinkles on her forehead or crows's feet in the corner of her eyes suggested a well-preserved 45 or maybe a cosmetic-surgery-enhanced 55. She had an equestrian demeanor and seemed to look past us more than at us.

      Rick Turner moved to a corner and concentrated on his beer.

      After finishing what he wanted to say about the photo business, Ray scratched his big, dimpled nose and took a good look at me. "So, you're the guy who brought in that dead man yesterday."

      "Yes, and as I passed your transom yesterday afternoon, I got the impression you knew the guy." I noticed that Ray was looking confused. "You're the one who said, 'Oh God, they killed him.'"

      Ray scratched his forehead. "No, I didn't know him." He looked me in the eye. "But what else didya expect me to say when I look down and see a body under a white sheet?" He made it sound like a friendly argument, New York style. "I look down, and it's like you were riding into Dodge City with an extra horse and a dead man hanging over the saddle. Whadidyah expect me to say? No, I didn't know him. Just saw him around the dock. Never talked to him. Don't even know his name. I recognized the boat, though."

      "They tell me his name's Steve. And that's all that I know about him. Say, it's pretty funny that we're talking about it like cowboys when we're really a couple of Northeasterners. I grew up around Newark."

      "You did! Well, here's looking at you -- from across the river." Ray went up on the balls of his feet so he was a bit higher than me, looked around, and saluted me with a beer can. In doing so, he noticed a big, burly guy who had been hovering off to the side. "Ben, I want you to meet Cliff Grimes."

      "Glad to meet you," Cliff said, with a deep voice and a self-conscious grin, and offering a slow, heavy hand.

      Ray said, "Cliff's a good friend and yacht mechanic and a good guy to know."

      Cliff answered that with a good-natured chuckle and turned his eyes in the direction of a frizzy-haired, middle-aged lady in a purple polka dot house dress who was now talking with Rebecca and Martha. "That's Ethel, my better half."

      "Right," I said. "You must be the owner of Engineuity. Clever name. And I bet you have to use a lot of 'engineuity,' working around engines."

      "That's for sure," Cliff said.

      As we talked on about diesel engines, I felt comfortable with these two guys. Ray was friendly and open to conversation on all subjects, and Cliff seemed friendly enough when the subject was engines. But Rick Turner, the electrician sipping his beer in the corner, would be a guy to watch out for.

      Things became more complicated when two more joined the party. It was the couple from the Dream Weaver, the daysailer berthed next to our Diogenes. They made their way to Rebecca. Bearded Glenn Weaver wore blue jeans and an untucked, checker-pattern shirt with a pack of cigarettes in the pocket. It was a short pack, probably unfiltered Lucky Strike. Stephanie McCallister was wearing a Bombay-print dress and leather sandals, like before. She seemed to be doing most of the talking for the pair.

      We carried on with our diesel conversation. Then Cliff shook his heavy body like a horsefly had just bitten him in the back of the neck. "Hey, aren't you the guy who found that guy who was murdered?"

      "Yes, that's him," Ray chimed in.

      It was time for me to make a new announcement -- a short version delivered slowly in Cliff's cadence, but also for the benefit of electrician Rick, who had gotten a second beer and was now standing closer. "Yes, Rebecca and I found his yacht sinking. I boarded it and plugged the hole just in time. Boy, those poor diesels almost drowned in salt water. Had my hands full keeping it from slopping over them and getting the leak under control. Awfully terrible to see a guy shot like that. Glad when the Bahamian police sergeant came and took it all off my hands. I have no idea why they did it. Wade thinks the guy was out in the Stream, rendezvousing in the dark with a mother ship as part of a drug deal."

      Ray yelled over to Rick, "Say, you were out there in the Stream that night. Maybe you saw something."

      "I wasn't out there," Rick said. His light-green eyes disappeared and he took another chug.

      "Sure you were," Ray said, with Brooklyn persistence. "You told me you were going out there. And you didn't come back in until around eleven o'clock."

      "Yeah, okay. But I wasn't out in the Stream. I was out on the Bank, with lines out for snapper. I didn't see him or his boat. All I saw was those guys on the sailboat coming in through the channel." He pointed to our boat neighbors, Glenn and Stephanie.

      "Who else was out that night?" I asked Ray, hoping for a quick spritz of information.

      "Well, Wade and the Sumters weren't out. But the diving people were out until at least ten, and so were the tuna tower guys."

      "I guess the diving people are Martin and Beth," I said, remembering Martin's tight-fisted complaint about engine noise from the Second Chance, his warning about nails under the dock, and Beth's unexplainable shyness. "Yes, I've met Martin and Beth. But who are the 'tuna tower guys?'"

      Cliff's beefy face formed into a broad grin and then into a smile as he shook his head. "Can't miss them, Ben. They're the ones that have the tallest tuna tower."

      "And the shortest boat," Ray added. And the two laughed together like they'd amused themselves on the subject a few times before.

      "Well, probably don't do no harm as long as they both aren't up there together," Cliff said, with a chuckle.

      "They've got themselves a fancy fighting chair that takes up half the cockpit," Rick said.

      "Are they into sailfish and marlin?" I asked.

      The three guys eyed each other for a minute while I played dumb. I caught Martha throwing Ray a command glance which she followed up by slowly turning her head to the dock. A couple of guys, dressed in Hawaiian shirts and white shorts, were walking towards us, along the seawall. As they walked up the dock, I recognized the one with the real short hair as our boat neighbor, "the man on the flying trapeze."

      Ray waved to the two guys as they stepped aboard.

      "Hey, Chuck," he yelled, "you were out a couple of nights ago, weren't you?"

      Aerialist Chuck waved an answer that could have been yes or could have been no. Then he reached into the ice chest to pull out a large bottle of white wine and poured two glasses full.

      In a low voice, Ray said that the biggest thing the tuna tower guys had brought in was a thirty-pound dolphin -- the fish, not the marine mammal. Rick stepped forward to say that those guys never caught anything worthwhile on their boat. Cliff admitted to running his engine for thousands of hours but never having hooked a marlin. And I admitted to spearfishing with an Hawaiian sling.

      Our foursome heated up to the topic of sport fishing, but Chuck and his friend didn't approach. They stayed with Wade Daniels who was ministering to a grill full of steaming fish fillets that were starting to smell awfully good. Rick Turner drifted off and started talking to Glenn Weaver, who was still hanging onto his girlfriend Stephanie, who was still talking to the other women.

      It was getting dark but Wade's deck lights lit up the cockpit. The back of the boat was getting crowded, and heavy too. The weight of the tailgate party had dropped the stern of the boat a few degrees, and perhaps the guests sensed it. Maybe that's why the women spread out on the starboard side of the cockpit, from the ladder going to the flybridge and all the way to Wade's grill station. That put the squeeze on Chuck and his friend. They made their way to the cabin door which was behind us, on the port side. I shot them a smile when Rick made room for them to pass, but they didn't respond and nobody made an attempt to introduce me. They tried the door to the cabin, but it was locked. They sat on the rail, not too far from us, sipping wine.

      Suddenly everyone's head seemed to turn at once. It was Angie Sumter, walking up the dock with swaying hips. The South Carolina belle from Boca Raton was followed by a man carrying an enormous salad bowl. He had to be Angie's husband. He was middle-aged and had the same ovoid body shape as Wade, but with less weight and more muscle. His hair was a salt-and-pepper mixture of dark brown and gray. His face was craggy.

      Angie's arrival seemed to energize Wade. Our host gave Angie a big "come on over here" wave. She bathed in everyone's attention, projecting a photogenic smile as she leaned from one side to another, taking off her high-heeled sandals. She placed them on Wade's dock box and stepped aboard, receiving Wade's gallantly extended hand. She located me with a quick glance, she took a quick appraising look at Glenn, ignoring Stephanie and Rebecca, and then she returned her attention to Wade, presenting her cheek for a kiss. At close quarters, her face was still prettier than I'd noted during our earlier conversation at the edge of the seawall. Framed by a thick head of blond hair that descended in curls to mid-neck and punctuated by a turned-up nose, her face was a fascinating ensemble of playful dimples, glowing cheeks and sparkling blue eyes.

      She caught me studying her, flashed a warm smile, and then settled her eyes on our boat neighbor, Glenn. "Wade, you have to introduce me to your new guests."

      She said it like she was the mistress of ceremonies -- which she soon became.

      Wade took the salad bowl from Angie's husband and said, "Angie, this is Stephanie and Glenn."

      "Well, it's certainly nice to meet you both." She said it charmingly, with a high-pitched, lilting drawl. "This is my husband, Cal. And I guess that nice little sailboat belongs to you. The one with the outboard motor in the berth next to Ben's two-masted yacht."

      Angie flashed me a mischievous smile, then returned her inquiring attention to Glenn and Stephanie.

      Rebecca jumped in to defend our boat neighbors and their undersized sailboat. "Glenn and Stephanie have been sailing in the Abacos. They saw a lot of interesting things."

      "Oh, and you must be the Rebecca that Ben was telling me about. You look so pretty. And you sailed all the way down from up north with Ben. That must have been interesting, too."

      That didn't go unchallenged. As mistress of the three-deck trawler that was the most expensive yacht in the marina, as the wife of the ex-owner of a chain of successful photo-service businesses, and as leader of the women's conversation up to now, Martha Vangelden had a statement to make:

      "Glenn is an artist, Angie. He is on his way back to show some pieces at the Coconut Grove Art Fair."

      "You are!" Angie exclaimed to Glenn. "What do you paint?"

      "I work with wood," Glenn said. He didn't meet her eye. I couldn't see what his face was doing because of his beard, but he was opening and closing his hands.

      "He's a sculptor," Stephanie said, with jittery enthusiasm. "You should see some of his pieces. Like the big dog holding the mailbox in his mouth. A real mailbox. And the man's face in a tree trunk. He's really good."

      Glenn hunched his shoulders and half-turned away. Behind him, Rick Turner issued a snort and then slid into a smile. "You ever do any of those Jesus scenes?" The Delray Beach electrician raised his arms at his sides to explain what he meant. But he dropped them when Glenn locked onto him with a narrow-eyed stare. Stephanie's pale, freckled face reddened.

      Martha Vangelden tilted her head and looked down her narrow nose at Rick. "I would guess that what you are trying to describe is a crucifix, which is a form of religious art." She made the comment in a strong, clear voice, with the authority of an actress on stage.

      Wade killed that scene faster than you could pull the plug on a spotlight. Abandoning the grill, he put a big arm around Angie's husband and moved him towards me. With cordial enthusiasm he shouted, "Cal, I'd like you to meet Ben Candidi!"

      Cal's face was creased in a mistrustful frown, but it changed to a smile when we shook hands.

      It was amazing how fast Wade shifted to an outgoing demeanor. Now he was booming like a politician at a Fourth of July picnic. "Ben really knows his way around boats. Did you see how he hoisted up that boat and fiberglassed that hole in the side?"

      "Yeah, that was good work," Cal said, smiling and nodding in approval, but regarding me with cautious eyes.

      "Yup, he knows his way around boats," said Cliff Grimes.

      "A good guy to have around," Ray Vangelden said, with Brooklyn-style sincerity.

      Having gotten everyone's attention, Wade wrinkled his nose and collected up his buddy Cal with a sly smile. "Only one trouble with Ben." He winked at me as a signal that it would be a joke.

      "What's the trouble with Ben?" Cal asked in a deep voice, smiling in anticipation of the answer.

      "He's a Yankee!"

      A lot of people laughed and so did I.

      Then Rick Turner chimed in from across the cockpit. "Well, we won't hold that against him."

      Obviously these people had done a lot of drinking together.

      I was surprised to see that Wade could be so animated. He looked around, collecting his audience with a mock frown. "Cal, do you remember that story you told me about your grandfather?"

      Cal let his face go blank and shook it like he was trying to shake out wrinkles. "No, what story was that, Wade?"

      The guys had everyone's attention.

      "Now, you remember that story about when a Yankee pulled into your home town, rolled down his window and asked your grandfather if anything was going on."

      Cal nodded and rolled his eyes up into his head. "Yeah, I remember my grandpa telling me that one." He said it in high pitch and rocked back and forth on his heels as if to set a rustic mood. Then he let himself down on the rail and rocked more, putting himself into his grandfather's proud character with a hand resting on each knee.

      I felt it coming -- a dollop of Southern humor.

      Wade gathered everyone up with a sly smile. "And what was it, Cal, that your grandpa told that Yankee when he drove up in his car and asked if anything was going on in town?"

      Cal kept rocking and turned his dark eyes suspiciously to the right and to the left.

      "What did your grandfather say, Cal?"

      "He said, 'Well, something's going on now, and it's you. Now git!'"

      Half of the crowd laughed at once, and then everyone laughed when Cal picked up an imaginary shotgun resting across his legs and aimed it.

      Wade glided back to the grill.

      Angie exclaimed, "Cal, that's as bad as your Old Boo stories. You must have told that story a hundred times an' I still don't see why you think it's funny. Do you, Ben?"

      Oh, hell! She was setting me up for a battle of wits with her husband. The only way to survive it would be to keep things light-hearted.

      "It's darn funny," I said, with a laugh. "And what's really funny is that I heard that same joke about a South Carolinian rolling into New York City. You must have heard it, Ray."

      With his big nose and sticking-out ears, and smiling right back at me, Ray looked comical enough. But the entrepreneur from Brooklyn didn't say anything to help.

      Cal Sumter stood up, eyed me, and shook his head. "Nah, in that one he didn't pick up a shotgun. They don't allow them in New York." Cal made like he was sweeping with a broom. "In that one, the New York guy just got up and swept 'way the dog poop from in front of his Eye-Talian sandwich shop."

      Rick let out a rebel yell. Everyone laughed. Cliff Grimes was shaking so hard that he spilled beer on the deck. Ethel stooped over and whisked it up with a printed silk handkerchief. And after the laughter subsided, all eyes were on me.

      Poking fun at a guy who grew up as an Italian-type Yankee around Newark? Well, I had endured worse things in my life.

      "You heard that one, Ray?" I asked, hoping for a quick opinion on dog poop in New York City.

      But Ray Vangelden's only answer was a vacuous look and a shake of the head. Why can't you get an opinion from a New Yorker when you really need one?

      I looked around to make sure everyone was watching, then boomed out, "Well, Ray doesn't know the New York story, but I do. You got it right about the dog poop, Cal. But you've got to finish the story." I laid in a dramatic pause. "Then the Eye-Talian shook his broom and yelled, 'malo cane!' And Old Boo hopped into the back of the pickup truck and they high-tailed it back to South Carolina."

      Rebecca graced my story with a giddy laugh and Stephanie joined in. Boyfriend Glenn stomped a work-booted foot on the deck and Martha Vangelden gave me an approving smile.

      Ray chuckled and shook his head in approval. "Hey, that's very good. The hick drives through the City in a pickup truck and the deli man says 'bad dog' in Italian!"

      Cal was watching me with a big old smile but serious eyes. "Sure as hell, Old Boo jumped back into the pickup truck before it drove off. He was tied to it!"

      Angie raised a hand like she was going to swat her husband. "Now, Cal, don't you start telling any of your Old Boo stories."

      In his corner, Wade had been enjoying the jovial tone of his party. Now he was loading fish fillets onto paper plates and handing them out. He handed out the first plates to the women. Ray patted me on the shoulder as he squeezed by to approach the grill. I smiled in the direction of the two tuna tower guys who had been silent through the storytelling session and were still sitting in their corner.

      Wade glided through the crowd to hand me a plate with two thick slabs of fish. He put on a big smile. "Ben, you're a hoot! Darn funny for a Yankee."

      "Maybe we could make that a Southern Yankee -- South Florida variety," I said.

      The fillets on my plate looked a little too thick and juicy for my taste. They needed more time over the flame. I waited until Wade returned to the grill, then handed my plate off to Chuck's friend in the corner. Angie handed better-looking ones to Chuck and to me. She reminded us to help ourselves to the noodle salad. While passing the women's group to do so, I caught a fragment of conversation:

      "He's a scientist," Martha said.

      "Well, we won't hold that against him," Rick Turner said, in the spirit of the Old Boo exchange.

      Then silence.

      After I loaded up on noodle salad, Rebecca caught my eye with a frown that said she was sorry but just couldn't help it.

      Around Cliff Grimes, the conversation was about sport fishing and the culinary qualities of the various small fry. And as the conversation worked its way toward big game fishing, I worked my way to Rebecca, taking a place on the rail beside her. I gave her a nibble on the neck as an excuse to whisper that everything was fine.

      Martha Vangelden was talking about her "involvement in the New York theater community" before she had married Ray and had come down to Miami. Stephanie McCallister said she'd always liked the plays she saw in high school. Martha resumed her role as mistress of culture, telling Stephanie and Ethel Grimes all about theater in South Florida. (If they lived in Ft. Lauderdale, the Florida Grand Opera also played there. The Tales of Hoffmann might be a good one to start with.) Angie listened, but did not take part in the conversation.

      The final guests to arrive were the diving couple, Martin and Beth. After Wade and Cal fixed them up with fish fillets, they drifted over to Cliff Grimes and the tuna tower guys.

      Figuring that I'd survived the greatest challenge of the evening, I resolved to find out more about these people, one-on-one. But first, I needed a waste basket for my empty plate. I tried the cabin door and found it locked. The wastebasket was by the cooler and the grill where Cal and Wade were hanging back, talking.

      Cal welcomed me with a good-ole-boy grin that was as warm as the charcoal briquettes glowing in the grill.

      "Hey, Ben, Angie told me you are a hard-working beaver, but she didn't tell me you'd be so much fun." He put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

      "Yeah, it was fun trading shots with you and your 'Fort Sumter.' Are you really from Charleston?"

      The grin cooled down a few degrees. "Sumter County. Farther inland near Lake Francis Marion."

      "I can believe that you're dyed in the wool when you have a county named after you."

      Cal shook his head and looked at the floor. "Yeah, us Sumters go way back. Cotton and tobacco."

      We stood there together, chatting about South Carolina geography. And all the while, Cal's deep-set eyes kept drifting to Rebecca. Wade listened amiably, watching with sleepy eyes and offering no openings for conversation about himself.

      I patted Cal on the shoulder. "I bet your grandfather did a heck of a lot more than sit on his front porch.

      "Yeap, he had acres and acres of cotton and tobacco. Mostly cotton. And before he was done, he was in the milling business. Handed it over to my father, and he made a real good living with it. Cashed it out when I was in high school, and the family's been in investments ever since. I'm real proud of the old man." Gone was the jocularity of the Old Boo exchange. The serious, craggy face had returned. Maybe Cal had shot his wad for the evening. He was looking over at Rebecca and Angie again. Suddenly he turned to me and asked. "What about your grandfather?"

      "My great grandfather came over on a boat from Italy. Came from a town near Rome. My grandfather was in the grocery business in Newark. I grew up around there and didn't go back after Swarthmore."

      Cal's nose blanched when he wrinkled it. I guessed that he drank quite a bit.

      "Is that Swarthmore University, somewhere in Pennsylvania?"

      "Yes. Where did you go?"

      "To the University of South Carolina."

      We talked about college sports for a while until it seemed time for me to circulate some more. I thanked Wade for inviting us to his party.

      "Glad to," Wade said. "And help yourself to another beer."

      I grabbed a beer and listened to Cliff Grimes who was talking to Martin Becker and the tuna tower guys about fishing, while wife Ethel hovered at his side. After a while Ethel nudged her husband Cliff, and I received a formal introduction to Chuck and his friend.

      Chuck Baker was tall, thin and gaunt-faced, with closely cut blond hair. His friend, Bill Powell, was a bit shorter and more muscular, and was dark-haired with a crew cut. Their talk quickly returned to fishing lines, marlins and fighting chairs. There was little that I could contribute to conversation on these subjects. I don't see much sport in setting a hook into the jaw of that big, intelligent fish and pulling it in over the better part of an hour. It's cruel, even if they do let it loose in the end. A much better sport would be photographing it from underneath while it feeds on a school of hatchlings, like I'd once seen on a PBS nature program. But I kept my opinions to myself.

      I drifted back to Rebecca. She was still attached to the Martha Vangelden circle, which now included husband Ray, the sailing couple, and a less vivacious Angie. Beth Owens, the shy half of the diving couple, was also there. Rick Turner stood on the periphery and Wade listened in. Rebecca introduced me to Beth, saying she was into underwater photography. Rebecca and I were able to draw her out some, asking about her experiences with "blue hole diving." We went on to talk about coral formations, marine ecology, and conservation. Stephanie said that it was nice and peaceful to look down and see the coral from a sailboat. Rebecca agreed. Rick Turner said that sailboats are okay, but if you don't have a lot of vacation time you need a power boat to get you there and back. Martha said that fuel economy had been a big factor in their decision to buy a trawler rather than a cabin cruiser. A trawler's hull is built according to the so-called displacement design, just like a sailboat. Its is designed to allow the water to stream around the hull smoothly and efficiently. The so-called planing hulls of the big cabin cruisers are designed to climb partially out of the water and go much faster. But big cabin cruisers require a lot of power to do this, and they waste a lot of fuel making waves. Smaller motorboats that have true planing hulls and can actually scud on top of the water are able to avoid much of this loss in fuel efficiency. They regain efficiency by making smaller waves.

      After several minutes of discussion about economy, ecology and environmental impact, Rick Turner had apparently had enough.

      "Heck, if you want to do something for the environment, you ought to get rid of these damn Waverunners around here. They're all over the place. They get in your way, and they make ruts on the flats." When Ray nodded in agreement, Rick raised his voice and went global. "Ain't that right, Wade? Somebody ought to do something to get rid of that damn Waverunner rental before they tear up the place." He pointed east, in the direction where I'd noticed the prefab shack and the collection of marine toys.

      Rick's diatribe had attracted Martin Becker. "Hell yes, someone ought to get rid of them," Martin said. The fingers of his left hand went into his thick head of hair, and he waited for someone to agree.

      Slowly, everyone's attention turned to Wade's corner. Wade raised his eyes, shot a quick glance at Rick, then looked slowly at the rest of us with a dumbfounded expression. He shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, but a guy wouldn't know where to start."

      Cal, standing beside him, shook his head like we were talking about bad weather. "They sure as hell aren't doing any good around here."

      The group went silent. The tuna tower guys just looked around at everyone. The Beth Owens kept her eyes on Wade, shyly but intently. Cliff Grimes looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words, and Ethel just stood there, wringing her handkerchief. And Martha Vangelden stood aloof, looking from one to the other. Husband Ray finally broke the silence.

      "Maybe it's doing good for the new owners. But when they tear down this place and build a tourist trap, that's when we'll forget about stopping here. We'll go straight on to Green Turtle Cay."

      "That's for sure," Rick said.

      Angie started to say something but cut it short after a glance from Cal. And that seemed to announce the end of the evening. Cliff Grimes said he had to get back to the Engineuity. Ethel followed him, picking up napkins and beer cans on the way out. Graciously, Martha thanked Wade for the lovely evening. Ray stepped up to agree with her and did nothing to slow her taking of leave. Rebecca and I held on for a few minutes, talking to Chuck and Bill but not learning much more about them. They had been around a lot of places, including Atlanta, Savannah, Tampa, Orlando and South Miami Beach. Glenn and Stephanie left, and Chuck and Bill left soon after.

      By the time Rebecca and I were saying our goodbyes, Angie had stepped in again as hostess. She presented her cheek for a kiss, which I gave her after a glance to Rebecca. Cal made no move for reciprocity, although he did tell Rebecca she was the most charming doctor he had ever met. Angie told us that their Sumter's Forte was just up the dock, next to Ray Vangelden's Photo Finish, and that we were welcome to come over and visit any time. Wade responded cordially as I thanked him and shook his hand. Cal and Angie Sumter stayed with him after we left.

      It was a relief to get out from under the scrutiny of all those people, whom we had to meet for the first time, all at once. When we reached the walkway, I put my arm around Rebecca and kissed her.

      Rebecca wrinkled her forehead. "I'm sorry about letting it get out that you are a scientist. Martha asked if you needed a Ph.D. to work in the Patent Office. After that it just kind of unraveled."

      "It's okay. No way around it. I didn't expect us to have to renounce our degrees."

      "And she pried it out of me when she asked about my 'statistical work.' She's a very well-informed woman. She even knew a lot about the National Institutes of Health."

      The cabin lights went off in Cliff and Ethel Grimes' Enginuity as we walked by.

      "I don't think that we came off as a threat to anyone."

      "Except to their Southern storytelling." Rebecca tickled my ribs. "How do you come up with that stuff, Ben? You were even lapsing into bad grammar!"

      I laughed. "Should I have answered them like my old mentor, Dr. Westley?" Rebecca laughed, inviting a joke on the subject. I reached into my depths to bring up my old mentor's punctilious Oxford-Cambridge accent. "Of course the feces could only have been deposited by the Carolinian visitor or his canine surrogate, since even the stupidest and most inbred New York City provincial would not bear to sit in front of such a --"

      Rebecca rewarded me with a musical laugh. But we both went silent while passing Chuck and Bill's tuna tower boat. It looked like they had already bedded down in the small forward cabin. And inside the Dream Weaver, a flashlight was shining as Glenn and Stephanie worked to rearrange their small cabin into a bedroom. We boarded the Diogenes noiselessly and didn't talk again until we had unlocked it and were comfortably ensconced below.

      It felt good to stretch out on a clean sheet with a nice, soft cushion underneath. The air was mosquito-free and not too warm, especially under the steady breeze from the portable fan that was running happily on shore power. The fan made the air feel cool and fresh, but did nothing to diminish the pungent smell of burning cannabis that was wafting in from the Dream Weaver next door.

      "Well, Sherlock," Rebecca whispered from across the pillow, "what do you think? Did we pass muster?"

      I went for a Sherlock Holmes voice. "Yes, my good doctor, we passed muster with SAWECUSS."

      Rebecca laughed. "Sa-we-cuss?"

      "Yes." I spelled it out for her.

      "And what does that stand for?"

      "The Social Auxiliary of the West End Cocaine Smuggling Society!"

      She laughed again. "But that doesn't make sense, my dear Sherlock. You've put in a U that doesn't belong there."

      "My dear doctor, the U has been added to make it properly euphonic."

      Rebecca snorted in my ear.

      "And for the sake of Rick Turner," I added, in Sherlockian tone.

      "Why, may I ask, does Rick Turner need the letter U?" Rebecca asked, playing an exasperated Watson.

      "Elementary, my dear doctor -- he needs a U to cuss."

      She snorted again, then blew into my ear. I overreacted, and we both laughed a lot more than warranted by any humor in our shtick. But that's one of the ways that Rebecca and I keep each other amused.

      "Now, in a more serious vein, Ben, do you think we met the murderer tonight?"

      "I don't know. But I think we can eliminate some of them."

      "I think we could eliminate the boat mechanic and his mousey wife."

      "Yes. She's always with him. And if she saw him shoot someone, she'd go into catatonic trance for at least a week."

      "And we can also eliminate Ray and Martha," Rebecca said. "They're too rich and upper-class. They aren't the type."

      "I agree. And when he said he wasn't out that night, nobody contradicted him. With a big trawler like that, he couldn't just slip out."

      "Right. And I guess we can eliminate Stephanie and Glenn," she said, gesturing in the direction of the neighboring berth.

      "Yeah, a sailboat doesn't make a very good stalking boat. And the conversation had them coming in from the east, which would put them in the wrong place."

      "But they're doing something," Rebecca said. "Stephanie was real uptight, and Glenn was doing a lot of looking and listening but hardly any talking. And I don't think it's just a socio-economic thing. He's mainly a carpenter, incidentally. I think they have a secret that they're afraid will get out."

      "I agree. Maybe they made a score in Abaco and they're on their way to Florida with it."

      "What about Martin and Beth?"

      "No, we can't eliminate the diving couple," I said. "Ray said they were out that night, and I sure could imagine Martin pulling the trigger."

      "I could really imagine that electrician Rick Turner pulling the trigger," Rebecca said.

      "I'll say! Mister Impulsive, himself. And he lied about being out that night. And when Ray contradicted him, he changed it to mean that he was on the Bank and not in the Stream."

      "We'll really have to be careful around him," Rebecca said. "What do you think about Cal and Angie? Could you imagine her?"

      "I wouldn't rule him out because of her. He's a smart operator -- Wade, too. Their Southern good ole boy stuff isn't schmaltz, it's lubrication to keep things moving. They are well-coordinated, all three of them. Ray said that they weren't out that night but they could be involved in it, somehow."

      "And we definitely can't rule out Chuck and Bill?"

      "Ray said they were out that night. They're definitely candidates."

      "Funny, Ben, how they were marginalized by the group but still so integrated."

      "Yes, they have some relationship with Wade, or he wouldn't have invited them."

      Over the hum of the fan, I heard a dull clang coming from the neighboring berth. At first, I thought it was from the wind beating a halyard against Glenn's mast. Then I realized there wasn't enough wind for that. Then I realized that the mast was being struck by a coaxial antenna cable hanging inside it, and that Glenn's boat was rocking like a church bell. And from that, I deduced that Glenn and Stephanie had finished their joint and had moved on to their next course of pleasure.

      "Ben, would you be interested to know which people Sgt. Townsend interviewed?"

      "Very much so."

      "It was Martin Becker, Cal Sumter and Rick Turner."

      "And not Wade Daniels?"

      "Correct," Rebecca said.

      "And how did you learn that?"

      "Martha told me. She's a good observer."

      I was very tired. Sleep had captured my legs and was working its way through my abdomen and up to my chest.

      "Ben?" Rebecca coaxed.

      "Yes," I yawned.

      "It did seem awfully strange, didn't it?"

      "What?"

      "That nobody said a word."

      "Said a word about what?"