Seawitch

SEVEN

As we returned to the marina, I remembered what the Guardian Beast had told me: “Find the lost.” Was Shelly Knight one of the lost or was she something else? Had she really been on board Seawitch at all? And if she had been, was the woman Walter Ireland had seen really her or someone who merely looked like her in the memory of an old, sick man? How many women with pale green hair were there in the area? There were plenty of places to go swimming around Seattle so any number of blond women with swimming-pool hair might have been mistaken for her, and we had no picture to go by. We’d have to find someone at the marina who could remember her. If we were very lucky they might have an old photo or we might get an ID photo or a hit on the Internet, though the chances weren’t good for a woman of no notoriety who may have vanished for twenty-seven years. And I hoped Solis’s magical technician was able to salvage more useful information from the log book to confirm or deny the presence of Shelly Knight on the fateful final voyage of Seawitch; if she were still alive it would be our first real break.

The marina had just thrown off its morning coat of fog and the pavement and docks still gleamed with moisture when we arrived. Sailors are a ridiculously early lot, I noticed. But I suppose when you plan your voyage by tide tables, you don’t waste time sleeping in when the tide is in your favor. There wasn’t a throng of people, but the place was far from deserted. It would be a busy place in a few weeks, when school was out, but for now the residents, workers, and boat folk were up and about in scattered groups and singles, going about their business. The boat-repair yard at the south end was already busy and we could hear the hooting of the travel lift backing away from the edge of the dock as it trundled into the yard with a midsized sailboat hanging from slings between its chunky metal trusses. The boat must have been thirty feet long or more and it looked like a toy in the blue-painted arms of the massive lift.

Seaview Boatyard was a busy little place with nearly every available space in the yard filled with boats getting fixed or cleaned up for summer—every kind of boat you could imagine, from old classics built of wood to high-tech racing sailboats, from fiberglass motor yachts to charter fishing boats built of steel. But in spite of the number of boats in the yard, the activity was laconic.

I took point on this one, being a female and therefore not in danger of losing my street cred by showing some ignorance of boats. We followed various directions from the staff until we found the boatyard manager, a curly-haired, rough-skinned man in his mid-fifties named O’Keefe—called Keefer, naturally. I asked why the packed yard was so sparsely busy.

He rocked back and forth from toe to heel as he spoke, as if the ground were too still for his taste. “Well, it’s midweek and a lot of these boats are in for yard work—that is, we’re doing the work, not the owners—so they have to wait their turn, since we only have so many crew here. A few have their own contract crew in—shipwrights and specialists who come in on contract to the owner—and we’re fine with that. So only a couple are being worked on by the owners themselves, and a few by my guys, a couple more by contractors. It’ll be about twice as busy on the weekend when people come in to do their finish-up work and splash the boat.”

“Splash?” I asked.

“Put it back in the water. Not a tricky thing with steel or fiberglass, but you have to be a little delicate with wood since they can dry out if they’re standing on the hard—up on dry land, that is—for a protracted time. Three or four days is no big deal for a large boat, and with the fog we’ve been having, that’s like putting a nice, wet blanket on ’em every night. But when it’s hotter, old woodies can dry out pretty thoroughly in a week or two and the wood shrinks up. Then you have to lower ’em back in slowly and sometimes leave ’em in the slings overnight to swell up and seal all their seams again. That takes a little patience.”

“I imagine so. How long have you been working here?”

“Here? Only a couple of years.” My heart sank. “I’ve been in the business near thirty, but I was at the old yard on the canal until last year when they closed up and moved out here.”

“Would you have met a woman named Shelly Knight? She was some kind of cook or deckhand for hire out here between twenty-five and thirty years ago. Blond. We heard she was back in the area.”

“Well . . . maybe. Boat people get around, y’know. You always run across people you knew from some marina you moored up in five years ago or some regatta you went to or something like that. Can’t say the name rings a bell, though.” Keefer shrugged. “But it’s not like itinerant crew are running around with name tags on their chests, either. Sometimes you only know these guys by first name—or, worse, just a nickname—and pay ’em in cash or kind and never see ’em again.”

“What do you know about Seawitch? The boat that came in a few days ago, abandoned.”

“Oh, our ghost ship?” He let out a short laugh. “She’s a legend, that one. Custom built out at the old Lake Union Shipyard back in the twenties. Port Orford cedar on white oak frames to a Ted Geary design. Steel keel shoe and bow protectors. Twin engines—upgraded to diesel in the fifties. All hand-fitted mahogany and such inside. Nice boat. Well kept up until she went missing. Nicely fitted out, too, I hear. Pity what’s become of her.”

“What’s the rumor mill say about it?”

“About Seawitch? That she’s haunted. You know how sailors are. One old dog says she was doomed from the start—that she was built with parts from a wrecked ship, which is patently not true. Another fella on the dock claimed he heard sounds from her the other night, like someone was tearing the boat apart, but he says there was no sign of anything amiss when he went to take a look.”

“What was he doing out there?” I asked. “I thought B was the legal-status dock.”

“Nah. It’s all mixed up. He lives out there—Stu Francis his name is. Out at B Thirty. The marina wouldn’t admit it, but they kind of like to have someone living on every dock if they can. Kind of like getting free security, though the Port of Seattle may not feel the same way—they have a bit of a love/hate relationship with live-aboards because of the legal and environmental bullshit—pardon my French. One thing you can count on, though: Live-aboards will always check up on strange noises and come to a call for help. Save many a boat from damage by being first on the scene. Funny bunch; know what everyone’s doing—how could you miss it with such thin walls and neighbors five feet outside your window?—but they look away when it’s not their business. They all act like they don’t know a thing until someone’s in trouble. Then they’re on it like it’s their own boat shipping water or beating itself to death in the wind. Even if they can’t stand you, they’ll jump in and save your ass and your boat, too.” He shook his head and repeated, “Funny bunch.”

We didn’t get a lot more out of Keefer and we couldn’t go wandering around the docks without a key, so we headed for the marina office, past the large and oddly proportioned statue of Leif Eriksson mounted on a stone plinth and surrounded by smaller standing stones in a boat-shaped oblong. I’d long ago discovered that the people of Ballard prize their Nordic heritage, but I still found the tribute to Seattle’s Scandinavian immigrants a bit bizarre. Foreshortened as it was from below, Leif’s head seemed a bit too large, and I always half expected him to raise the ax he was leaning on and demand I answer a question about the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow. I admit I gave the big bronze statue a wary look as we passed by, but it remained inert.

Inside the office, we met a pleasant Asian-American woman who offered us an electronic key and answered a few questions. She was far too young to have been around the marina for twenty-seven years, unless she’d toddled into the office during a preschool outing.

“Do you know of anyone working here now who might have been here when the Seawitch was last moored at this marina?” Solis asked.

She thought about it and shook her head. “No, I think there’s no one on staff who’s been here that long, but I do know some of the live-aboards have been here for a long time. You could try a couple of the boats on F dock, I think. . . . It didn’t change size during the renovations a few years ago so a lot of the same people are there who were there before. It’s late enough now that some of the residents might be barbecuing—they have a little party on Thursdays out there. Ask around. I’m sure someone will have an idea.”

Solis nodded. “Thank you. We’ll do that. Have you heard of a woman named Shelly Knight around the marina? Possibly working for one of the boat owners?”

Again the clerk shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of her. We do keep track of all the keys—they each have a discrete code that is recorded when they’re used on any of the electronic pads at the marina. That way we know who’s been on a dock or in a building where there’s been a problem. But we don’t have any control over owners who lend out their keys to employees or friends without telling us. Let me check something. . . .” She looked down at her computer and typed for a moment. “I don’t see the name,” she said, looking up again. “The vendor keys we loan out for short-term use don’t tell us anything about who’s using them, just that it was that key at that lock. If she’s here, working for someone, she hasn’t been introduced to me and she isn’t on the vendor or staff roster. You could ask in the offices next door to see if any of the businesses have a temporary employee. I could send out a request to our vendors who’ve used keys recently to let you know if they have her on their lists, but that’s about all I can do and it would take a few days for them to reply—most of them are busy or out of the office on weekends, so if they don’t reply tomorrow, I couldn’t tell you anything until Monday or Tuesday at the earliest.”

“We would be grateful for any help you can lend with the vendors,” Solis replied. “And we will continue to search, also. Thank you for the use of the key.”

The woman gave a faint smile. “It’s no problem. Just bring it back when you’re done. And if we’re closed, you can put it in the drop box for transient moorage payments. That’s in the hall.”

It was amazing how laid-back the system was while it still had an overlay of security. But not great security, as we discovered when we approached F dock and were willingly waved through the big glass-and-steel security gate by a man coming out to walk his dog. “Heading for the barbecue?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered with no hesitation. It’s just smarter to agree with people when you want to get past them.

“They’re almost at the end of the dock—can’t miss ’em. See you later!”

Solis stopped on the way down the dock to poke at his phone again and offered me another look at several photographs the manuscript guy had taken. I’d figured out how to zoom in by the third page and took a closer look at one of the pages. And there it was: Shelly Knight—deckhand/cook. I looked at Solis.

“She was there. How long do you think it’ll take your guy to get the whole thing photographed or dried out enough to read the original?”

Solis shrugged. “Perhaps another day or two to photograph the pages, but the whole book may never be dried out in a readable condition. He says in the e-mail that he’s made good progress with the separation process, but not all the pages were salvageable and many will have to be photographed wet, which is harder to read. There will be missing information even with the best recovery.”

“Still,” I said, “it’s more than we had yesterday.”

“There might be more than that. An electronic scan of Odile Carson’s autopsy and the accident reports are being sent to me.”

“We’ll have to go through those, too, I suppose, if only to rule out any connection between the two events.”

“It is an upsetting coincidence that the boat disappeared within days of Mrs. Carson’s death. . . .”

“And it may be nothing more than that—a coincidence.”

“Yes. But we’ll look over the reports, anyway. For now, we need to find Shelly Knight—if she’s alive and near this marina.”

“You can’t find a picture of her online using your magic phone, can you?” I asked.

Solis gave me a long look. “I already tried and got nothing. I’m waiting for the DoL to reply to a query I sent earlier, but they may also have nothing. Transients often don’t use their real names, as you know.”

I agreed unhappily, and we carried on up the dock in search of a barbecue.