Twice Bitten, Once Shy: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #5

Chapter 23

The Thumb is not a Finger

Lawnmower knife in hand, Zandra descends the stairs to the lounge. She expects to be greeted by the crew members on dish duty as she perches atop the last soggy step, but it's Captain Mel leaning against the bar acknowledging her first.

"You're not in your room," Captain Mel says. He looks up from a cocktail glass full of dark, ruby liquid. His skipper's cap rests on the bar, revealing a matted bird's nest of hair around a bald spot on the captain's head.

Those steely eyes and that bushy beard can hide plenty, but there was a slight drop in his jaw when he saw me. Mild surprise.

"And you're not supposed to drink and captain," Zandra says.

I bet it's grape juice. He wouldn't drink alcohol at a time like this, and it's not cranberry juice. I just know.

Captain Mel raises the glass and tips it toward Zandra. "Grape juice."

I knew it.

Zandra shuffles around the two cases left by the stairs. She gets another good look at the locked one. The small, brass keyholes by the latches show signs of scuffing, almost as if they'd been jabbed with something solid.

Like a key.

How fresh are those scuff marks? Were they there before?

Zandra slides a finger across one of the scuff marks as she walks by. The cigarettes may have charred her sense of taste, but her fingers remain as sensitive as ever. The scuff marks contain the tiny hairs of metal burrs. She can feel the microscopic tingle of them implanting themselves into the skin of her finger.

Fresh.

"Why are you wet?" Captain Mel says.

"I took a swim."

"On purpose?"

"Maybe," Zandra says. "It's deep here. Do you know how deep it is?"

"We're anchored to the lip of a 125-foot hole in the bedrock. They call it the Devil's Hole, because no one's been all the way down to the bottom. Rare depth for a river like this. Only one on the entire Wisconsin."

Interesting.

And I don't mean about the river trivia, although I will remember that.

"Do you like your grape juice cold?" Zandra says.

"Does anyone drink it hot?" Captain Mel says.

Zandra squeezes the paracord-wrapped handle of the knife and walks into the lounge. The two crew members wipe down tables with bleached rags that reek as such. The crew members don't look toward Zandra, not even as she hovers behind one of them.

The faint murmur of the attendees in the conference rooms drifts in and out of earshot. It's a lot cooler in the lounge now that it's emptier.

"I've completed my investigation," Zandra says. She watches for Captain Mel to shift his position so she can get a fuller view of him.

Does he have the Bobcat?

Captain Mel turns 180 degrees away from the bar to face Zandra.

It doesn't matter one way or the other.

A crew member takes a load of glasses to the small, automatic dishwasher behind the bar.

Captain Mel takes a sip of grape juice and says, "Police will be here soon. They'll sort this out."

"When?" Zandra says. "Are they really this slow?"

Captain Mel dabs his mouth with a napkin.

Hiding his face to conceal a lie?