The Chocolate Pirate Plot (23 page)

“Then where is he?”

Joe moved his lips close to my ear. “It's a publicity stunt.”

I stood still, without moving. I didn't know if I should be happy or sad. I was relieved, but I felt like a complete fool.

Of course! We were talking about a movie star! What was more logical than a publicity stunt? It made perfect sense.

For a moment.

Then I didn't quite believe it. I kept my hold on Joe's arm. “The warnings? The publicity people sent those? They called Byron's mom? They stuck a strange note in the shop's door?”

“I suppose so. Or maybe Byron's mom is part of the plan.”

“What about the dead man? Hal Weldon?”

“He didn't have anything to do with Byron.”

“Yes, he did. Through Jeremy.”

“Jeremy?”

“Yes. Jeremy called Byron's mom, and Byron told us he'd known Jeremy in high school. So there's a connection between Jeremy and Marco. And that means there's a connection between Marco and Hal.”

“What connection?”

“Jeremy!”

“Pretty far-fetched, Lee.”

“Jeremy and Hal knew each other. And you'll never get me to believe that Jeremy disappeared off the same beach where Hal's body was found”—I emphasized the next words—“by coincidence. Jeremy pulled that drowning stunt to force a search of the area so Hal's body would be found.”

Joe sighed. “You'll have to talk to Hogan.” He led me toward the companionway going up to the fly deck.

I'd already looked at the scene up there, of course, and things hadn't changed since I'd peeked earlier. The fly deck—the top of the yacht—was brightly lit. Charles Oxford, the captain, and another crewman were huddled over the controls at the bridge. The yacht was moving gently through the water—not very fast—and I could see lights on the horizon straight ahead. Apparently we were headed back toward shore, whether the radar was working or not.

Hogan was standing against the rear railing, and Joe led me to him.

“Hogan, Lee's got some questions,” he said. He lowered his voice. “She's figured out who Byron is, for one thing.”

Hogan grinned, and when he spoke he also kept his voice low. “Then you know he's the owner of this boat.”

“Who he is isn't the question, Hogan,” I said. “It's where he is. I don't believe he's on the yacht.”

“Then it seems as if things are going according to plan.”

“Whose plan?”

“Some Hollywood publicity type. When I went out to talk to the people at Oxford Boats, they pulled the so-called Byron in, and he explained the whole deal. And it's a publicity stunt.”

“What's he getting publicity for?”

“His next movie. It seems the critics didn't like his performance in
Young Blackbeard
.”

“I read a few of the reviews. They liked the leaping around and the sword fighting, but they didn't think much of his acting.”

“Right. So Marco—his dad's name was Byron and his mother's maiden name was Wendt—got mad. His role in this next movie is going to require real acting.”

“I read about that, too. He's going to play a sickly guy who's not too bright.”

“Yep. So he decided to try the role out in real life.”

“You're kidding!”

Hogan held up a finger in shushing position. “It's true. He came to Warner Pier—well, because he wanted to see the yacht he'd ordered—but also because he wanted to ‘immerse himself' in the new role. Or that's what he told me.”

“So he assumed the role of Byron Wimp. I mean, Wendt.”

Hogan nodded.

“I will say he did a good job,” I said. “I thought Byron was the squirrelliest character I'd run into in a long time.”

“But Joe says you figured out who he really was. How'd you do it?”

“I picked up one of the biographical magazines on Marco Spear, just wondering if Marcia would like a copy. It has a high school picture of him in it, and the picture was a dead ringer for Byron Wendt. Glasses. Terrible haircut. Except for the buckteeth. He had braces in those days. The teeth must be an appliance he got from the makeup department.”

Joe and Hogan laughed.

“Then I began to remember some things,” I said. “Such as when Byron fell off his bicycle in Joe's lane, he curled into a ball and rolled.”

“The way a gymnast would?”

“Yes. And when Aunt Nettie's fancy pirate ship nearly fell over, he slipped around like a snake and grabbed it. He has superb coordination. Plus, he told us he was low man on the totem pole at Oxford Boats, but he managed to leave whenever he wanted to, and he was supposedly given permission to invite guests for tonight's cruise. Things like that.”

“You didn't tell anybody?”

“No. I figured he wanted it to be a surprise, and I didn't want to ruin his plan. But after the pirates came on board I couldn't find him. So I did ask that Hollywood guy, Daren Roberts, to look for him.”

Hogan nodded. “Roberts has been hanging around the yacht a lot. He should know the layout, so surely he can find him. I'm sure Byron is somewhere on board. He was going to announce who he was after we got back to the boatyard, then take off for Hollywood in the limo that drove down Peach Street this afternoon. He's probably changing back to his real identity. Getting rid of the teeth and so on.”

“I hope you're right.”

I leaned back against the railing and watched the activity on the bridge. The yacht had two control stations—this one on the fly deck and an identical one down in the main salon. The two were linked, and whatever commands were given at one were copied at the other. Of course, only one of them functioned at a time. The captain and another crewman were watching the sophisticated gauges and equipment that ran this luxury yacht.

It was cool up there, and I'd left my jacket two levels down, on the aft deck. I thought of going to get it, but I didn't want to miss anything. There was definitely a lot happening on the fly deck.

Charles Oxford was as mad as hops, as I'd deduced from the loud talk I'd heard earlier, but he'd stopped yelling. He walked over to Hogan and spoke.

“Some jerk cut the power to the radar controls. I'll never allow another reporter on one of my crafts.”

Hogan looked quizzical. “Why would one of the reporters damage the yacht?”

“Just to be obnoxious.” I expected him to declare the reporters a “scurvy lot,” or use some other sea-dog expression to describe them. And maybe he would have, except that Daren Roberts came running up the companionway.

As soon as he got to the top, he came to an abrupt halt and looked carefully all around the fly deck. When he saw our little group, he walked toward us, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead as he came.

“You're right, Mrs. Woodyard,” he said. “I can't find Byron anyplace.”

Oxford erupted. “What! He's hiding someplace. Being funny.”

Roberts' face was a picture of misery. “I hope you're right. Apparently no one's seen him since the pirates came on board.”

“We'll see about that.” Oxford strode to the controls and picked up a microphone. “Byron Wendt,” the loudspeakers roared. “Byron Wendt. Report to the fly bridge. On the double.”

The voice on the sound system left no room for dillydallying. Byron was to report right that minute. We all looked at the companionway, waiting for Byron's head to appear, listening for his feet to pound as they ran up the cantilevered stairs.

But Byron didn't come. Nothing happened.

Oxford waited about three minutes, then gave his preemptory summons again. Again, nothing happened.

The mood changed subtly. While Oxford was still stamping around, obviously angry, there was now an element of unease in his actions.

I could understand why. If he'd taken a teen idol out on one of his yachts and failed to bring him back—well, the publicity was going to be worldwide, and it wasn't going to be good.

Especially when there were hundreds of square miles of Lake Michigan surrounding the yacht. Oxford and his captain had to face the possibility that the owner of this multimillion-dollar yacht had fallen overboard.

But I didn't think Byron had gone into the drink. I thought he'd gone off with the pirates. The last time I saw him—and I admit I was keeping an eye on our famous host—was just before the pirates came on board. I thought he'd left with them.

The question was, had he gone willingly?

Had Marco Spear left with the pirates as part of a publicity stunt? Or were the warnings true? Had there been danger to him? Had he been taken against his will?

On that one I wasn't willing to guess. The whole thing could be another hoax like the one I felt sure Jeremy had pulled. Or the pirates might have actually kidnapped Byron—Marco—somehow.

But how? The four pirates had had the continuous attention of a dozen people during the whole time they were on board the yacht.

I went over the whole thing in my mind. Where had I last seen Byron?

He'd brought around some cheese and crackers when Aunt Nettie and I were on the aft deck. He'd gone all around the deck like a good waiter, and he'd been lingering near the aft companionway just before the first pirate came up it.

At that point my attention had shifted to the pirate, and I had no further recollection of Byron. Had he moved back onto the deck, toward the salon? I didn't think so. As far as I was concerned, Byron had disappeared right at the top of the companionway—or the stairs, as we landlubbers would say—the stairs that led down to the swim platform.

That platform was itself a little deck, a deck very close to water level. It was where swimmers would climb off and on the yacht. If was where Jet Skis or a dinghy would be launched or hauled aboard. It was where the “garage,” the compartment for storing those items, was accessed.

If—big if—Byron was planning to leave the yacht with the pirates, it would be the logical place for him to wait to get aboard their inflatable.

But when the pirates did leave, Byron hadn't been with them. We'd all rushed to look at them as they'd loaded their equipment into the raft, started their outboard motor, waved, and rode off into the dark.

Equipment. Hmm. I thought about that. Their equipment had included the magic pirate chest. People could get in a chest like that one and disappear.

“Oh, rats!” I said it out loud. “Byron left in the pirate's treasure chest. The jerk! He had to get in willingly. He's scared us just as a stunt.”

I whirled around, looking for Hogan, ready to share my deduction, a deduction that Hogan had probably already made.

Now Hogan—and Joe—had joined Charles Oxford and the yacht's captain at the helm. And the radio was making noise.

When I touched Hogan's arm and tried to talk to him, he shushed me firmly. He was listening to the radio, and he didn't want to talk to me.

I couldn't understand it at first. Then a word caught my ear.

“Kidnapped!”

I listened harder.

“We have your movie star,” the voice on the radio said. “He's safe, and he'll stay safe as long as you do what we say. But we want twenty million dollars for him.”