Dar snorted. Kerry just laughed.

"Okay." Bob sighed. "Yeah, I'm a fraud."

"Now there's a d.a.m.n news flash," Bud muttered.

"But it's in a great cause. Listen," Bob recovered, "it's true, about Tanya's grandpa. He hated his kids like poison. Wanted to find a way to screw 'em over any way he could. So his will-"

"Left most everything to charity and his wife," Dar broke in.

"Except after he drowned, the family brought a suit claiming he was nuts, and they had the will invalidated." She lifted a sheet of paper on the table. "Everything went to the eldest son."

"Right." Bob wrested control back of the conversation. "And he's a jerk."

"Common problem we've been encountering lately," Kerry murmured. "Maybe it's the water."

"He controls everything, and the worst part is, he took all Tanya's grandmother's money away from her because he got the courts to say she's incompetent," Bob went on. "Tanya helps her out, but it's really tough. Her uncle says it's just too bad, since she, Grandma, I mean, supported Grandpa and didn't want him to leave any money to the rest of them."

That, Dar acknowledged, seemed to be the truth according to the two-page, neatly formatted answer she'd gotten from Richard.

The uncle, Patrick Wharton, was apparently really the a.s.shole Bob was describing. Richard had added several footnotes in which he'd laid out the players. None of them seemed to be sterling citizens, but of them all, Wharton was the worst, and apparently the grandma was a witchy, but basically innocent victim.*219 The fact that Bob actually wanted to marry into that nest of unpleasant invertebrates sealed his idiocy, so far as Dar was concerned. However... "Okay." Dar sat on the windowsill. "So we don't even know if this thing, whatever it is, exists."

"We think it does. Well, it did," Bob said. "The thing is, we're looking to prove old Grandpa Wharton wasn't nuts, and maybe Uncle Patrick had something to do with his drowning."

"Do you really think he did?" Kerry asked.

Bob shrugged. "I dunno, but he's the type that coulda."

Bud got up and messed with the teapot. "Bulls.h.i.t chase." He shook his head.

Dar was inclined to agree. "What makes you think there's anything on that boat that can prove anything? It's been sunk for a decade."

At last, Bob smiled. "'Cause Putrid Pat thinks so," he said.

"After they shipped the old lady off to a nursing home, they pulled apart the old man's house. Right after that, Pat went nuts and started trying to hire DeSalliers to go check out the wreck." His fingers tapped the arms of the chair. "Tanya found out, and that's how the whole thing got started. We figure he must know something or else why bother?"

Kerry propped her chin up on her fist. "That makes sense," she admitted.

"So DeSalliers must know what he's looking for," Dar murmured.

"And he thinks maybe you found it, that first time," Bud commented. "Maybe that's why he keeps pestering you."

Kerry got off the bed and walked over to the table, examining the pages Dar had printed out. "But we didn't. All we brought up was an old wooden cigar box, falling to pieces. It was so coral- encrusted, it looked like a piece of sea garbage. There wasn't anything there."

"But...he doesn't know that." Dar leaned back against the sill.

"And he's panicking, because unless he can bring back positive proof to Wharton that no evidence exists, he doesn't get paid. He doesn't get paid, he's tapped, and I doubt he can afford the gas to get back to the States."

"Okay." Kerry joined Dar by the windowsill, settling next to her shoulder to shoulder. "So there are two different things here. I guess the proof that he was involved in a murder would be more important to the uncle, but if there's anything proving that Grandpa wasn't nuts, I don't think that would be something that would have been on that wreck."

"No," Dar agreed. "We have to figure out why Popeye was all the way down here in the tropics, and what he was after."

"We were hoping to find his log," Bob explained. "He kept a 220*

diary, but it was a paper book, so...unless someone salvaged it and it's in somebody's house, or in a shop somewhere..."

Bud sipped his tea, glaring at everyone over the rim of the cup.

"Can ask around," he said. "We know the freelance salvagers 'round here."

Dar grunted, giving Bud a brief nod. "All right," she decided.

"First thing we do is scuttle DeSalliers. I'll call Pat Wharton tomorrow, tell him I think I've got what he wants, and see what he says about it."

Everyone looked at Dar in surprise. Dar looked back at them.

"What? I'm sick and tired of that bozo smacking my friends around and ruining my vacation."

"He could freak out," Kerry suggested.

"He could grow tail feathers and fly to Bermuda, too," Dar replied. "Meantime, Bud, if you'll check with your buddies and see if you can find out what the old captain's gig was, maybe we can make heads or tails out of this stupidity and I can go back to windsurfing."

"Yeah, I can do that," Bud agreed grudgingly. "They figure on letting Charlie out of the hospital tomorrow. He's got a bigger little black book than me. We can call more then."

"All right." Dar folded her arms. "I'll pull as much regulatory information as I can on the old man's business contracts. I've got someone unraveling his public trust filings." She exhaled.

"Meanwhile, we'll visit the government offices tomorrow and see what they have on record for him and that d.a.m.n boat, and what was filed when it sank."

Bob gazed at her. "Who are you people?" he asked again.

"C'mon. I came clean, now it's your turn. Are you government agents or something?"

"No," Dar told him with a severe look. "It's worse. We're rampaging techno-capitalists." She put an arm around Kerry's shoulders. "Dilbert on steroids, only cla.s.sier, and with a much cuter dog."

Kerry snorted, turning and burying her face in Dar's shoulder.

"Honey, stop it."

Dar shrugged. "He asked."

"Right," Bob murmured. "Okay, well...what do you want me to do?"

"Nothing," Dar told him curtly.

"Really," Kerry adopted a slightly kinder tone, "we've got it covered. If DeSalliers sees you around, it's just going to complicate things."

Bob looked at her. "You're really a spy, aren't you?" he accused. "Or some international police or something ?" He snapped his fingers. "I've got it; are you a DEA agent?"*221 "No." Kerry sighed. "I'm a nerd," she told him, causing Bud to m.u.f.fle a smirk. "Really."

"Oh." Bob still looked very confused. "Like a hacker?"

Kerry was about at the end of her patience. "No. Dar's the hacker; I'm just a nerd."

"You really a hacker?" Bud asked Dar with interest.

Dar started chuckling. "Sometimes, yeah," she confirmed. "A very, very expensive one." Her hands drifted over the laptop keyboard. "Okay, I think that's enough intrigue for one night.

Kerry needs to get some rest." She glanced up at Bud. "You let us know tomorrow how Charlie's doing?"

Bud nodded. "Yeah." He fiddled with the room key. "He about chewed that doctor's arm off when he said he couldn't come outta there tonight."

"Know how he feels," Dar said. "I'll give you a call in the morning after I call Wharton."

"What about me?" Bob whined.

"We'll call you, too," Kerry told him, trying to ignore the low growl behind her. "Dar's right. We should all get some rest. I'm sure tomorrow's going to be busy." She gently herded them out and shut the door, then she turned and faced Dar, who had taken a seat in one of the armchairs. "Why do I feel like I'm trapped in a bizarro Agatha Christie mystery novel?"

Dar held out a hand and Kerry crossed over to the chair and sat on an arm. "I figure, we get rid of DeSalliers, dig up whatever stuff we can here and give it to Bob and get rid of him, and then we can get back to having fun."

Kerry leaned over and kissed Dar on the head. "Sounds like a plan, boss." She only hoped it would work.

Chapter.

Twenty-one.

KERRY STRETCHED OUT her legs, and then propped them up on the railing of the porch outside their room. The day had dawned bright and sunny, and she had decided to spend the time waiting for breakfast by attempting a little poetry. Dar was off picking up something at the hotel's sundry shop, and she had a few minutes to simply look out over the harbor and revel in the gorgeous view.

And it was truly gorgeous. High up on the slope as they were, the harbor stretched out below her and curved to either side, cupping a crystal aqua circle of water with just the lightest visible chop on it. Around her, she could hear the rustle of trees, the cry of gulls, sounds from the harbor, but very little traffic or bustle. The air mostly bore the scent of foliage and salt air, and Kerry felt a sense of peaceful well-being as she relaxed in the warm sunlight.

With a smile, she returned her attention to the book balanced on her lap and the heavy, injected-ink writing pen Dar had given her. The pen was hardwood, and warm from her hand, and it balanced well in her grip as she flexed her fingers around it.

Thoughtfully, she regarded the page and then added two more lines to the several already there. A knock on the door, however, interrupted her.

With a resigned sigh, Kerry put down her book and went inside, going to the door and peeking through the eyehole. "Oh, c.r.a.p." Seeing the female half of DeSalliers' gumshoe team outside, she considered not answering it. Then she figured she was likely to get more info from the woman than the woman was going to get from her, so she opened the door. "Yes?" Her tone made no pretense of being friendly, and the woman took a half step back.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Kerry," the woman recovered. "I was hoping to talk to you."

"Why?" Kerry asked bluntly.

"Just because I think we can help each other."

Kerry had to wonder briefly if stupidity was contagious.

Perhaps Christen had spent a little too much time with Bob. "Help each other do what?" she inquired. "So far, all you people have*223 done is help me get a migraine."

Christen sighed. "Look, can I just come in and talk?"

"No," Kerry replied. "I'm not sure what it's going to take to get across the fact that we don't want anything to do with you, your boss, your stupid mission, or the people you represent. I'm out of options. Should I hire a flying banner plane?"

"The fact is, honey, you are involved." Christen's att.i.tude changed, became harder. "So either you let me in and give me what I want, or-"

"Or what?" Kerry found it almost funny. "Are you going to pull a gun on me?"

"No."

"Are you going to make like Jackie Chan and start yowling j.a.panese haiku while striking kung fu poses?"

Christen didn't answer.

"Are you going to try to hit me?" Kerry's nose crinkled up in amus.e.m.e.nt. "Threaten me with a lawsuit? What?"

"You think this is a game, don't you?"

"Hey, you're the one making the threats." Kerry laughed, and then got serious herself, jabbing the air in Christen's direction.

"You listen to me, you half-baked excuse for a high-priced, snoopy lackey. You'd better just back off and go back where you came from. Stop messing with us."

"Or?" Christen threw the comment back at her.

"Or I'll call the president of your agency and file a complaint of hara.s.sment without cause," Kerry replied.

Christen laughed. "You think he'll care?"

"When he gets a call from the executive VP of the company where he gets all his data? Yeah." Kerry smiled. "He'll care," she a.s.sured the now not-smiling Christen. "And if he doesn't listen to me, he'll listen to Dar." She watched Christen's face. "Tch... didn't do your homework, did you?"

"Your inquiry came back totally negative."

"Not surprising." Kerry smiled. "Try it with a last name of Stuart." She started to close the door. "You, on the other hand, provided us with a lot of information. You and your little partner really should work a little harder, you know? That last job of yours was a real disaster."

Christen had turned brick red.

"So don't you mess with me, lady," Kerry warned her seriously. "You're an amateur. It offends me that you actually get paid to be an amateur. My Labrador Retriever would do better as a detective, and as far as I'm concerned, you're just a flashy poser.

Scoot."

She slammed the door with a sense of guilty satisfaction.

"Jerk." She turned and started to walk away, then stopped as a 224*

knock came at the door again. With a growl, she whirled and yanked open the door, a further stream of invective ready and waiting. Which she swallowed when she found herself facing a doe- eyed, uniformed, room service waitress. "Oh." She stepped back.