Free Butler Did It! by Sally Pomeroy Page B

net for this variation of
the game. Instead, a rope strung between two poles delineated the
opposite sides of a makeshift volleyball court. Low rollers washing
onto the beach had a tendency to undermine the poles every five or
ten minutes, causing the imaginary net to fall over. Apparently,
depending upon which way the pseudo net fell, the rules of the game
dictated that kicking water and sand at the opposing side while
they were attempting to reseat the net was a perfectly legal move
in the game.
    A small white, black and brown dog sat
soberly watching the game, seemingly keeping score and evaluating
the players. Anytime anyone approached him, he would take a few
running steps away and then turn around to see if he could con them
into a game of chase.
    “You should call him Racer,” one of the
volley ball players razzed Butler, “he just wants to be
chased.”
    “Who brought him to the party anyway; I
thought nobody could get their hands on him.”
    “He hitched the ride all by himself,
seems he wanted to be here.”
    “Maybe he’ll stay on the island,”
grumbled Matthew half-heartedly. As much as he said he didn’t want
to, he was beginning to enjoy the dog’s company.
    EB moved from her reclined position to
sitting cross-legged on a beach towel, her red one-piece swimsuit
setting off her creamy white skin and luxurious dark hair. With
harsh little slaps to her pale skin, she began applying an SPF
40-sun block. She casually looked at her fingers as she spread the
blocker around on her thighs.
    “The worst thing about my job is that
it just plays hell with my nails,” she announced to no one in
particular.
    This revelation wasn't terribly
surprising, considering her job as chief engineer, the fact that
she had any nails at all was amazing.
    Finally finished greasing up, she took
one last sip from a can of beer sitting next to her, and pitched
the empty into a bin.
    “That’s the last of the beer,” she
said, “somebody’s going to have to get another six-pack from the
Duck.” She hinted quite loudly, hoping that a white knight would
arrive and rescue her.
    The Asian man sitting next to her
glanced at her, and then at the man working feverishly on the sand
sculpture nearby, then gave a shrug and returned to reading. EB
shrugged back and then called over to Tommy, who was waist deep in
sand and shoveling furiously.
    “Tommy, be a dear, and fetch another
six pack, would you?”
    Tommy was head of research and
development on the Pelican, and the on again-off again boyfriend of
EB O’Neil. Currently he was in ‘on’ mode.
    “Sure thing, Honey!” Tommy
automatically replied, as he continued to sling wet sand onto a
pile as big as a pool table. Nothing happened for several
minutes.
    EB, becoming impatient, called out
again, “Tommy?”
    “Just give me another minute, Honey,”
he answered, as he returned to the throes of creativity. Five
minutes passed very slowly.
    EB sighed heavily, muttered a few
appropriate obscenities under her breath, and then got up. She
carefully adjusted her swimsuit to show off all her best
attributes. Taking advantage of the situation and hoping to make
Tommy jealous, she intentionally angled her walk past the
volleyball game, immediately causing an errant serve and a serious
argument over whether the resulting shot had been out-of-bounds or
not. While rummaging in the ice chest on the Rusty Duck, she
plotted her next move.
    With exaggerated slowness, she pulled
out a cold six-pack from the ice chest, held it delicately out away
from her voluptuous body, and sauntered back past the makeshift
volleyball court. On her return, numerous wolf whistles followed
her.
    As she strolled past her boss, Matthew
Butler gave a courteous bow.
    “Why, Miss EB,” he drawled, “You’re so
pretty you could make a hound dog smile.”
    She tossed her hair mockingly, and
strutted back to her spot in the shade, determined to stir up a
little trouble.
    “A girl can’t even walk across the
beach