Death of a Hot Chick

Death of a Hot Chick - Chapter 16

Gregory gave me a hand-up, completely unaware of my "get-out-of-town" instinct. "Check the drinks box back there," he said with a wave of his hand. "That kid is new. Make sure he included the ice."

"Yes, Sir," I mumbled. When I got my ticket punched, I'd be the one giving orders. To someone else—definitely not to him.

"Oh, and put that life vest on. Gotta stay professional."

I grabbed the vest first. It was one of those skinny automatic-inflatable PFDs, not a nice fat one that would cover the name on my T-shirt. Still I managed to push most of the name underneath. I opened the drink chest. Full of ice. I couldn't hide my face as easily as I'd hidden my name. But Gregory would call me again, by name.

I'd anticipate, do everything I could think of so he wouldn't call me. Spend a lot of time below. Yes. "What time do you want to serve lunch?"

"Take us forty-five minutes to get there. Say, in fifteen minutes. Give them a half hour to eat before fishing."

"Will they eat below or up here?"

"Hey, you've been on a fishing boat before. Keep them topside. If they're gonna puke, it won't be in my salon."

"Gotcha!" I charged below. A hanging-around-the-helm lunch. Gregory did have plenty of cup holders clipped on the lifelines. He had a small table to unfold in the cockpit. I arranged vegetables and dip, chips and dip, assorted wraps and condiments, plus cheese squares and pretzels on the large, covered serving trays conveniently stacked near the fridge. I took a couple of large trash bags topside and clipped them to the lifeline, one on each side of the boat.

Gregory had set the auto-pilot and was forward, making jokes. Or something. I opened up the little table, and went below. About ten minutes later I had the serving trays ready.

"Just hand the food up," Gregory said.

After I passed the last tray, he took my hand and pulled me up the stairs. Then, still firmly grasping my hand, he said in a nice loud voice, "Gentlemen, lunch is served." As they came closer, he added, "And, like every ecologically correct mariner, we have a few rules to observe. Cyd will tell you all about them."

I bit my lip, shook my head, all to no avail. "Cyd?" he repeated.

He was going on trust again–maybe even hoping I'd goof up big time. He winked, and that did it. Definitely putting me on the spot. What had I told customers not too many years ago? So I didn't remember the exact words, but I could certainly wing it. Looking directly at a man who wasn't Mr. Joline, I began.

"Gentlemen, we believe in protecting the Chesapeake Bay, and keeping care of it for future generations of not only fishermen and women, but the wildlife and plants that struggle to live in this environment." How did the rest of it go? "To that end, we will not throw anything in the water. Note the trash bags on either side of the boat. Please place everything you don't eat into one of the bags. The management thanks you. The bay thanks you. And, generations to come thank you."

Somebody clapped. I ran down the stairs, passed through the galley, and locked myself in the head. I placed my elbows on the sink, my chin in my hands, and stared at my reflection. Yep, I still looked like myself. Nope, Mr. Joline hadn't hollered at me for living on "his daughter's" boat. Not yet. Had he even looked at me? Heard my name?

Okay, what could he possibly do? Holler—yeah. Accuse. He certainly couldn't kill me in front of so many witnesses. Unless he pushed me overboard, accidentally. I would go topside. I would face—whatever. Maybe not face him. Maybe try to stay in the background, keep my head down. I yanked my visor, unlocked the door, and headed for the stairs.