Death of a Hot Chick

Death of a Hot Chick - Chapter 1

The boat needed a lot of work, which was good. I needed to scrub, wax, polish and definitely not think. First on my agenda: get serious with a stiff brush.

And get serious with myself. Okay, I was a widow at twenty-eight. I'd done all the grieving when Al left me, months before he managed to accidently kill himself. I was completely over my former life. Settled all the debts he left, started fresh and new. With nothing.

"Recovery," was the word they'd used. As in recover your equilibrium for God's sake. Survive the sorrow and look for a bright tomorrow. Like I was some kind of war orphan who'd lost everything—including the shirt on her back.

So not me.

"Work," was my word. Work and think of anything else. Think of the steaming July heat. I stood on the cabin roof, aimed the hose at my bare toes. Water drained in streaks as it gushed overboard and left dried bird dirt stains. I splashed my knees, then my arms. Think of my T-shirt, sweaty and dirty. I lifted the hose, doused my shirt front, and shuddered as the dampness seeped through.

"Exorcism," was an even better word. I stood tall, shook my fist, and hollered, "Begone, Al. I hope you're in hell."

Which was not the best time to see someone headed my way.

Nicole Joline flounced toward me. My boss. And owner of Snapdragon, a 31-footer berthed at Smith Harbor Marina on Chesapeake Bay. Looking just like the girl Al ditched me for. Younger, blonder, and way richer than me. All that Nicole was. Which wasn't her fault.

She ignored my outburst and said, "Cyd. What's your problem? And why couldn't you just tell me over the phone?"

I swallowed my first impulse of, "You want a list?" Her almost white-blond hair, her skin-tight jeans, and that shimmering silk blouse made me aware that I looked and smelled like a wet rat. However, I hopped down to face her eye-to-eye.

"As of now I'm dead broke. I can't keep working on your boat if you don't pay me something up front."

"That's it?" Nicole asked. "Just send me a bill. You know I'm good for it."

"So you keep telling me." Not for the first time, I wondered why I'd ever agreed to work for the owner of a lobster trawler on a bay known for blue crabs and not a single lobster. Didn't help a bit that the boat was rigged out as a cruiser instead of a working boat. I said, "Okay, here's the deal. I spent fifty-two dollars on cleaning supplies and parts this morning. I can't eat soap."

"I didn't realize you were working for food money," Nicole said, like that wasn't a reasonable goal. She dug into the back pocket of her designer jeans and pulled out a few bills. "I can give you twenty, no, twenty-two dollars this minute." She hesitated before adding, "Staying here, on the boat, that helps you with expenses, doesn't it?"

Twenty-two dollars? That wasn't even gas money for her Porsche. I took a deep breath. I would stay calm. Reasonable. "That two thousand dollars we agreed on was for my time. Parts and supplies are extra. You can pay me the two thousand when the job is done, but I can't do the job without the supplies. You need to pay for those. Now."

Nicole widened her eyes, and put on a smile that practically blinded me. "Of course. It's just that... I'm a little short of cash right now. I'm rather highly leveraged at the moment, and..."

The door was behind me. I turned and stepped inside. I would not blow up. I'd better calm down. Big time. But—her excuses? She'd just had a new dinghy delivered and managed to pay for that somehow.