“Hey, Frankie!” Her brother Monty’s relaxed voice drifted above the music just before the aroma of fresh-baked doughnuts hit her nose. She found him in the kitchen, prying open the large pink bakery box and examining the selection with more attention than was due.
“You keep looking at those doughnuts that way and I’m going to call the sheriff.” Frankie slipped her phone into one of the thigh pockets of her black cargo pants on her way to the coffee machine. “You want a cup?”
“Is the sky blue?” Monty grinned before stuffing a cruller into his mouth. Frankie leaned over to look out the kitchen window.
“It’s more an overcast gray, but sure.” Able to load the coffee machine in her sleep, she did so quickly and efficiently. She hated those pod machines—such a waste given she went through coffee like water. She couldn’t abide the drip, drip, drip of a solitary cup. “Lucky for you I did an extra twenty minutes this morning.” Ah, he’d gotten apple fritters. “Gran’s favorite.” Every Monday morning without fail, their grandmother would walk the three blocks to Chrysalis Bakery and load up on apple fritters, chocolate old-fashioneds and maple bars. Biting into the sweet, sticky treat filled with chunky apples and swirls of cinnamon made Frankie miss both the bakery and her grandmother.
“Your favorite, too.” Monty turned his eyes to the sputtering coffee machine. “You couldn’t have turned that on sooner?”
“Could have,” she mumbled around a bite of fritter. “Got distracted. How was your scouting trip?”
“Meh.” Monty shrugged. “Haven’t found the right boat yet. I will, though. I’ve got a lead on one out of the Seattle area. Owner’s thinking of putting it up for sale sometime next year. He said he’d call me when he decided for sure and give me first shot.”
“Just how many boats does a chartering service need?” And what was it with the Bettencourt twins with the abnormal collections? Her with her exercise equipment and Monty with his boats.
“The more services I offer, the more boats I need. Three’s working out pretty well right now, especially that catamaran I got hold of last year. It’s perfect for whale watching, snorkeling and diving. And the occasional fishing trip.”
Frankie shivered. Just the idea of snorkeling in Butterfly Harbor Bay froze her from head to toe, which was why water rescues were by far her least favorite calls. On the water, so much could go wrong in such a short time. It wasn’t like they were the tropics in central California, and this time of year especially, one had to be pretty reckless to head out into the bay and dive in the water. But people did just that, which was why Monty’s charter company WindWalkers was, after six years of struggling, finally in the black.
“I’ve got two charters this afternoon. One burial at sea and another client just wanting to head up to San Francisco. He paid double for me to stay and bring him back Sunday, so I’ll miss out on Saturday Mexican Train.”
“Saving yourself the humiliation of losing?” Frankie heard the insistent gurgle of sputtering coffee and went to fill their mugs. “I can never understand how a smart guy like you constantly loses at dominoes.”
“It’s not my fault,” Monty insisted, shrugging out of his jacket and reaching for another doughnut. “Oscar cheats.”
“Give me a break.” Frankie rolled her eyes. “How can someone cheat at dominoes?”
“He has help. Myra lurks, and I think they have a code. I swear.” He held up a sticky hand and gave his Boy Scout salute. “You watch them. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you that new coffeemaker you’ve had your eye on.”
“Deal.” Never one to pass up a bet with Monty, she grinned. Her brother might be one of the most decent, honest guys around, but one thing he was not was good at winning bets. If anything, his bets only assured her winning, which always improved her day. “Harvey can order one at the hardware store and probably give you a break.”
“Don’t count your coffee beans just yet. So.” He looked down at the steaming cup of coffee, then up at Frankie as she sat across from him, curling one leg under her butt. “You didn’t get the job.”
Frankie decided to scald her tongue on her coffee rather than let loose with the colorful commentary she was storing up about her new boss. She knew it was petty. Childish, even. But maintaining a good mad at him was safer than aiming her anger at the right target: Gil Hamilton. That attitude, the Goody Two-shoes angel on her shoulder sang in her head, was no doubt what put her in this sorry situation in the first place. “Nope.”