Free Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 02 - Riptide by Michaela Thompson Page B

contest. “Okay.”
    “Good. You have to get your mother’s permission, and then we’ll start.”
    Kimmie Dee’s face fell. “Get her permission? Why?”
    “Because she has to know what’s going on.”
    “She won’t care.”
    “You have to ask her. If you don’t, I will.”
    “I’ll ask her! Promise.” Although Kimmie Dee crossed her heart, Isabel wasn’t sure she’d really ask. Isabel was meddling in a sticky situation, but this way Kimmie Dee would get her boots. And the girl would be a perfect Marotte.
    After Kimmie Dee left, Isabel went inside. For a while, she had forgotten Harry Mercer. She had forgotten the anonymous letter. She would have plenty of time to think about them during her long evening alone.

ELEVEN
    Harry Mercer wiped his hands on a rag and leaned over the engine again. A drop of sweat from his forehead fell into the works. Maybe that would do some good. Nothing else he tried was helping.
    Harry and Scooter had headed out in the
Miss Kathy
at daylight, but the engine trouble developed before they even reached the wreck site. Maybe they could have carried on, but as Harry had pointed out, all they needed was to have the boat die on them out there. If they had to radio for help, they might as well put up a billboard to advertise what they were doing.
    So they had lost the morning. Back at the Beachcomber, Harry was still tinkering, barefooted and shirtless, in the noon blaze. He had to get the sucker fixed. He couldn’t afford to hire somebody to do it. He had spent a lot of extra money on the salvage operation, figuring he’d get it all back tenfold. Which he would, but at this point things were tight.
    “Try it again,” he said to Scooter.
    Scooter cranked. Harry didn’t like the sound. He knew his boat, and he knew the problem was still there somewhere, underneath.
    “Sounds all right. I think you fixed it,” Scooter said.
    “Not yet.”
    “Harry—”
    “I said not yet, Scooter. Give me another minute or two, okay?”
    Leaning over the engine, screwdriver in hand, Harry felt his resolve crumbling. They didn’t have time to waste. They ought to be out working the wreck, not lolling around here. Every day that went by, every hour, increased the risk that somebody would get suspicious.
    Harry stared at the engine. To figure out what the underlying problem was, he’d have to dismantle the damned thing. He’d have to take off a couple of days, and he couldn’t.
    To show he wasn’t giving in to Scooter, he spent another ten minutes tinkering, tightening screws and so on, before he said, “All right. Let’s get the cover back on.” He wiped his hands on the rag again, dropped the screwdriver in his toolbox, and looked up to see Isabel Anders standing on the dock.
    Isabel was shading her eyes, looking at him. She was wearing white slacks and a loose white shirt. She looked cool and clean. She also looked nervous. She said, “Harry? I asked in the office and they said I’d find you here.”
    Harry was outraged. He was aware of Scooter standing nearby, aware of his own greasy hands and sweaty torso, and, more than anything else, aware that Isabel had felt free to waltz over here and seek him out as if she was entitled to.
    He crossed his arms. “They were right. Here I am.”
    “I wondered— do you have a minute?”
    “For what?”
    He saw her eyes cut toward Scooter. “I wanted to talk with you.”
    This was a moment out of Harry’s dreams, a moment he could never realistically have hoped for. He made the most of it. He gave her a long poker-faced stare. “Talk with me?”
    He could see she didn’t care for his attitude. She took a step backward. “That’s what I said. But it looks like you’re busy.”
    She had a hell of a nerve, getting snippy with him. Harry said, “I’m kind of busy, yeah. But you know what else? I haven’t got anything to say to you, Isabel, and I’m not interested in anything you have to say to me.”
    God, it felt good. Like lancing a