Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Read online

  Relieved to hear Milo's claims about the rejected loan corroborated, I caught Rip's eye. He winked to let me know he shared my sentiment. I turned back to Pinto when I heard him blow his nose on a handkerchief he'd extracted from a front pocket in the rubber apron he wore. He was upset. Big Bob spoke up to comfort him. "Don't blame yourself, boss. Most likely his death had to do with an issue regarding his business, not his unpaid debts. There was probably nothing you could have done about it, no matter how hard you tried."

  "Probably not. But, still, I gotta wonder. Now boys, get the bucket ready to drop again." Pinto and the crew resumed concentrating on the task at hand. Pinto's mood was somber and withdrawn for the next twenty minutes. He'd sounded convinced the murder had been perpetrated by the loan shark or one of the shark's men. He put his hand on Rip's shoulder and suggested again that he grab the extra pair of gloves in the steering cabin.

  "Trust me, I'll be all right." Rip spoke with great self-assurance. The man may exhibit the common sense of a lemming at times, but he was never short on confidence.

  I had ceased even pretending to be helping out. I was convinced there'd be no more information coming from any of the men that day. I stood alongside my husband, while holding on to the table with both hands. The waves and swells had increased slightly and it had become more difficult to remain afoot. Suddenly, Rip yelped in pain. I looked down to see blood gushing from a deep cut in his left hand. As the boat had scaled an enormous rogue wave, the unexpected jolt had caused Rip to slice his palm on the sharp edge of an oyster shell while trying to drag out a crab that was nestled below it.

  Big Bob glanced at Rip's hand, and said, "Yep! Been there, done that. You should have listened to the boss."

  "Yes, I see that now," Rip replied dryly. He groaned and moaned in pain as the blood flowed. He had a lower threshold of pain than I did, and was more dramatic when ill or injured. In other words, Rip was a typical male. And like most men, he liked to be babied and fussed over in situations like this one.

  As the rest of the crew continued to toil, Pinto grabbed an old, and no doubt bacteria-laden, towel and wrapped it around Rip's wounded hand. Instead of spouting an "I told you so" remark, as I'd have been tempted to do, Pinto said, "You might need to get that hand stitched up, bub. We'll be heading back shortly anyway. Looks like the cold front is going to hit several hours earlier than forecast. We need to get back before the wind picks up and it gets too rough out here. And 'sides that, it's after two. By law we gotta quit harvesting by three-thirty, anyway."

  The choppy water was already too rough for my liking. The rocking motion of the boat was no longer soothing. It was making those horrid oysters I'd swallowed want to return to the sea. And I had a sneaking suspicion they would soon get their wish.

  After a drenching splash of water spraying over the bow of the boat slapped all of our faces, Pinto ordered the crew to swiftly finish up with the pile they were working on, and secure the dredge and sacks of oysters. He motioned for Rip and me to return to our positions on the padded cooler where there was a bar in front of us we could hold on to. I presume he wanted to avoid an impending "man (or woman) overboard" distress call as much as we did. With one hand wrapped, and still hobbling around a bit with his new hip replacement, I'd have put my money on Rip being the subject of such an incident.

  Just as the crew was getting everything ready to make the trip back to the marina, I felt my stomach roil and Rip looked at me with concern. "You're looking a little green around the gills, Rapella."

  There was no time to respond. I'd noticed earlier a sign on the door of the boat's small bathroom that read "No chumming in head" so I bolted to the side of the boat and immediately lost my cookies, a.k.a. the nasty oysters. After I threw up everything in my stomach, I began to dry heave. I had never felt so sick in my entire life. If you've never been seasick, it's not something you ever want to experience. Worst of all, I suddenly realized somewhere in the midst of my projectile vomiting, I had lost my upper plate of dentures. I'd puked my teeth overboard and they now resided somewhere on the bottom of the drink, probably next to an anchor some other fool had pitched out prematurely. So much for only paying for a new set of choppers once.

  Still nauseated beyond belief, I made my way back to the cooler to sit beside my husband, who was holding his wrapped left hand with his right one. I was upset, and after I told Rip my upper plate was lost at sea, he patted my thigh with his good hand and tried to comfort me. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm relatively certain Dr. Shaft is still practicing here in town. He made your first set and can surely make you a replacement plate. We'll get you in as soon as we can. Don't worry. It could have happened to anyone."

  Big Bob hoisted the boat's large cast iron anchor as if it weighed almost nothing. There seemed to be very little he couldn't handle with just the hook on the end of his prosthetic arm. Soon we were tacking home. Pinto changed the boat's angle periodically to enable him to ride the swells smoothly and not capsize the vessel. He was a seasoned sailor, but there was only so much he could do to protect us against Mother Nature. The ride was anything but smooth.

  I was trying to keep my mind off the queasiness in my belly. I was thinking about how lucky I was to have such an understanding husband. I couldn't have found a better partner than Rip. He was always there to comfort me when I needed consoling and quick to forgive when I stomped all over his last nerve. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. I spoke loudly so he could make out my words. "We'll head straight for the Urgent Care facility when we get back to the marina, honey. Thank you for always being so good to me."

  "My pleasure, Rapella. And I could say the same thing about you. What do you say we go to that new restaurant in Portland after I get my hand sewn up? I think a nice juicy Porterhouse sounds like just the thing for supper. Don't you?"

  I playfully punched Rip in the arm. He was well aware that I would be gumming my food until I got my upper dentures replaced. "Yeah, right, buster. You couldn't cut a steak tonight any better than I could chew one."

  Once I'd thanked Captain Bean profusely and gotten my feet back on solid ground, my nausea had abated. I stepped into the truck on the driver's side, with Rip cradling his hand in the passenger seat. I was backing out of the parking spot when Big Bob walked up to his Jeep, parked right beside us. I rolled down my window and said, "It was nice meeting you, Bob. Good luck with the teeth. Looks like I'll be seeing my dentist soon too."

  "Yeah, guess so," Bob said as he swung himself into the topless Jeep.

  "Hey, Bob. I was wondering—"

  "Enough small talk, Rapella," Rip said impatiently. "Let's go."

  "Yeah?" Bob asked, with a quizzical expression.

  "Come, on. Quit gabbing. My hand's throbbing. There's nothing Bob can tell you that would be of any significance in the murder investigation." Rip was agitated and cranky, and I didn't blame him. Still, I had a question I needed to ask. So I shouted over the roar of the Jeep's motor as the huge man fired it up.

  "How did you know Cooper Claypool owned a business if you'd never heard of the guy?" Big Bob graced me with a stone-cold glare before slamming his gearshift into reverse. Gravel flew as he backed out of his spot and peeled out of the parking lot. I coughed twice to quell the irritation of dust in my throat, and had to blink several times to clear the grit out of my eyes.

  After I'd blotted the grime off my face with a wad of used tissue I'd stuffed in my jeans pocket, I turned to Rip. He wore a blank expression. I was certain he was reflecting back to the earlier conversation about Claypool and wondering how he'd missed the inconsistency in Bob's remarks. Despite the fact he was in pain and not in the best of moods, I had to get my licks in when I could. "Nothing of significance, huh?"

  Shaking his head in bewilderment, he replied, "I stand corrected."

  Chapter 17

  "Doctor Shaft will be with you in a jiff." The young dental assistant clipped a drool bib around my neck before leaving the room, shutting the door behind her. I glanced at my wa
tch. It was two minutes after nine. I'd been lucky to get an appointment early the following morning due to a last minute cancellation.

  I didn't want to waste a lot of time getting my dentures replaced because it took precious time away from our personal investigation and added twenty years to my appearance. I also wasn't fond of gumming every morsel of food and wanted to limit that aspect of it as much as possible.

  To pass the time, I studied the posters affixed to the walls. But looking at diagrams of impacted wisdom teeth, abscesses, and gingivitis only entertained me for a short spell. I began fidgeting in the chair, getting more incensed as the minutes ticked by. When will a few of these doctors and dentists who are habitually behind schedule learn their patients' time was just as valuable as their own? I wondered, irritably.

  When I checked my watch for the fortieth time, it was nine thirty-three. At that point, I exited the room and tracked down the dental assistant. She was busily pecking around on her cell phone, texting her boyfriend, no doubt.

  "Miss, could you please tell me when I can expect Dr. Shaft to see me? I have a busy schedule today and I've been waiting more than a half-hour already." The assistant finished her text and sent it before she looked up at me with an annoyed expression.

  "I already told you he'd be with you in a jiff."

  "Then I reckon I don't understand dental jargon, young lady."

  "Huh?"

  "Exactly how long is a 'jiff'? Forty-two minutes? Four-and-a-half hours? Three days? Give me some kind of estimate so I can juggle my schedule accordingly."

  "Don't ask me," she replied, as if I were interrupting an extremely important texting session. Was she informing her boyfriend he was going to be a "baby daddy"? Letting her parents know of the devastating news she'd just received about her recent liver biopsy? In my opinion, anything less crucial should be delayed until she clocked out. Apparently, even the dental assistant's time was worth more than the patient's in Dr. Shaft's office. The unprofessional young lady turned her attention back to her phone when a beep indicated she'd received an incoming text. She read the text first, then took an abbreviated call on the office phone. She was neither elated nor devastated by the text, so I knew it wasn't critical. I felt like grabbing her cell phone and tossing it into the trashcan. With an insincere apology, she said, "Sorry, but Doctor Shaft had to run to the bank to make a deposit."

  "He ran to the bank? Maybe if he had taken his car instead of running it wouldn't have taken so long." I began to walk away in a huff. But I stopped mid-way and turned back to face the assistant because I couldn't refrain from adding one more jab. "And maybe if he didn't charge such exorbitant prices, he wouldn't feel it necessary to make trips to the bank during office hours."

  Just then, Dr. Shaft walked in the front door and down the hall toward me and his assistant. "Good morning, Mrs. Ripple. Haven't seen you in a while. What brings you here today?"

  "I lost my upper plate." I smiled in case he thought I was kidding.

  "And you don't know where you left it?" His tone indicated losing one's dentures was virtually impossible. This old bird must be mistaken. I could almost read his mind. After all, she is at that full-blown dementia age.

  "Of course I know where I left them," I replied indignantly. My mood was sliding downhill like a kid riding a trash can lid down a snowy slope. "I left them on the bottom of Copano Bay."

  "All right. Let's go take a look." He guided me back to the dental chair. I opened my mouth to once again show him the empty void that false teeth once occupied.

  "All we should need to do is have another plate made from the mold they used to create the original one," I informed Doctor Shaft.

  "Oh, if it were only that easy." He chuckled in amusement at my apparently inane remark.

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I would need a warehouse to store all the molds we've made for my patient's dentures over the years."

  "So, are you saying they no longer exist?" I asked.

  "Yes, that's what I'm saying. Molds are never retained after the dentures have been made. People's jaws and mouths are in the process of changing throughout their entire lives. Storing old molds would serve no purpose, you see."

  "Not to mention, less profitable for dentists, I'm guessing." I may seem as if I'm intolerant of dentists, and I don't mean to sound disparaging. But we've spent more money on Rip's teeth through the years than we did on the home we sold when we retired. He was determined to keep his own teeth as long as he possibly could. But then, he always was more extravagant with money than I was. I wouldn't even be replacing my dentures now if not for the fact I truly do prefer chewing my food. I turned my attention back to Dr. Shaft who'd just instructed his assistant to take an impression of my gums.

  Uh-oh, I thought. Hope she didn't take any of my spiteful remarks personally. If so, I'll be lucky if she doesn't let me gag to death before yanking the tray full of what feels like Sakrete out of my mouth.

  "So, I'm afraid we'll need to start from scratch and make a new set of molds. But first, we'll need to take x-rays to ensure there are no underlying problems," he said, with a self-satisfied smile.

  "Of course you will," I replied. I wasn't proud of my foul mood, or my malicious retorts, but I had a good reason to feel as if I was being taken advantage of. "Whatever it takes to keep the lights on."

  With a wink, he countered with, "I guess this is what one gets when one doesn't take every precaution with their dentures."

  Dr. Shaft is a very appropriate name for you, smart ass.

  * * *

  I was standing at the check-out counter in the lobby, which had numerous people sitting around in hard, uncomfortable chairs awaiting their turn to be given the shaft. I paid no attention to the faces of the unfortunate people occupying those seats. However, I was not surprised to discover the dentist was behind schedule, inconveniencing six or seven members of his faithful clientele.

  I was writing a check for the over-padded amount I was being charged when the snobby assistant opened the door into the lobby and motioned for the next patient to follow her to the room I'd just exited.

  More out of habit than anything, I looked over my shoulder and saw Big Bob unfold his tall frame from a wooden chair. I turned to him and said, "Small world, isn't it? I had no idea we used the same dentist."

  Big Bob showed no sign of wanting to converse with me. In fact, he walked past me as if I were a life-sized cardboard cut-out depicting a dental hygienist holding a container of some dental floss being advertised. As he silently passed by me, I sarcastically said, "It was nice to see you again, too."

  I'd always thought there was no such thing as coincidences, and that things happened for a reason. The receptionist was hanging up the office phone, after notating a name in her appointment scheduling book, when I nonchalantly said, "Don't you just hate when you run into someone you've known for ages and can't recall their name? Just like that fellow. His last name is on the tip of my tongue. Johns, Jones, Johnson, or is it—"

  "Chrisman," the receptionist politely volunteered. She could give lessons to Dr. Shaft's dental assistant on how to deal courteously with the public. "And I know what you mean, Mrs. Ripple. That happens to me all the time, too."

  "Oh, yes, of course. Bob Chrisman. Silly of me to forget." I thumped the side of my hand with my palm to emphasize my charade of a memory lapse.

  "Bob?"

  "Yes. Wasn't that Bob?" I asked, mystified by the receptionist's confusion.

  "Well, I can't say for positive, but I don't think so. It says Royce Chrisman here in my scheduling book." She turned the book around and pointed to the name, as if she thought I might not take her word for it.

  "Oh, of course," I said, with a laugh. I thumped my temple again." I'm sure he uses his legal name for situations like business contracts, utility bills, and, of course, dental appointments. But all of his friends call him by his nickname. Which is Bob, of course." Even as I lied through my missing teeth, I had to wonder if he'd been us
ing an alias for nefarious reasons. Because, seriously, who would give a guy named Royce a nickname like Bob? Did Philip Bean know Big Bob's real name was Royce Chrisman? Or, on the other hand, had Bob given an assumed name to the office receptionist? On the third hand, was his given name something else entirely?

  I could have left it at that and exited the medical building without uttering another word. But, as you surely realize by now, that would have gone against every grain in my body. I wanted more information if I could figure a way to weasel it out of the receptionist. I spoke with a nostalgic tone to appear as if I was reflecting back to an earlier time. "Rip and I have known Bob, I mean Royce, for ages. After all, we used to live across the street from him on Harbor Oaks Drive. No wait, that wasn't it. It was actually when we lived on Spruce, I believe."

  "He lives on South Pearl Street now," the kind-hearted, unsuspecting lady replied after briefly scanning her computer screen. "He must have moved since then."

  "Yes, he apparently has." I returned her smile. If Dr. Shaft could overhear this conversation, he'd be convinced I really did suffer from full-blown dementia.

  "I'm surprised he didn't let us know he'd relocated. Must have been tied up at work, or something. I assume he still works at the marina?" I asked.

  "I don't know about him working at a marina. I didn't realize he'd worked anywhere but the DMV office. In fact, he's the one who assisted me last month when I went in to get my license renewed."