J is for Judgement

grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over my head as I went out the door. I half trotted back to the marina, through that artificial twilight that gloomy weather generates. I caught up with a woman going down the ramp toward Marina 1. She glanced at me idly as she unlocked the gate. "Forgot my key," I murmured as I followed her in.
    The Lord was back in its slip, shrouded in blue canvas covers. The cabin was dark, and there was no sign of Eckert. There was an inflatable dinghy bobbing in the water behind it, attached by a line. I stared at it for a while, exploring the possibilities. I walked back to the yacht club, which was blazing with lights. I pushed in through the glass doors and went up the stairs.
    I spotted him across the dining room. He was sitting at the bar, wearing jeans and a denim jacket, his silver hair ruffled from the hours on the boat. The jacket-and-tie dinner crowd was already heavy, the bar itself jammed with drinkers, air dense with cigarette smoke. The maitre d' looked up at me, feigning startlement at my attire. In truth, he was probably just annoyed that I hadn't paused to genuflect as I passed. I waved toward the windows, letting my face light up as if with recognition. He glanced in that direction. There wasn't any dress code in the bar, and he knew it. Half the people in there wore polo shirts and long pants, windbreakers, deck shoes.
    Carl Eckert turned, catching sight of me when I was ten feet away. He murmured something to the bartender and then picked up his drink. "Let's grab a table. I think there's one outside." I nodded and followed as we picked a path through the crush.
    Both the noise and the temperature dropped considerably once the door closed behind us. We were out on the deck, where only a few hardy souls were huddled. It was getting darker by the minute, though the sun was actually setting behind clouds. Below us, the ocean bucked and heaved, waves breaking on the sand with a constant thunder and swish. I loved the smell out here, though the air was damp and uninviting. Two tall propane heaters generated a rosy, oblong glow without doing much to warm the air. We sat near one nonetheless.
    Carl says, "I ordered you some wine. The guy should be out with it in a minute."
    "Thanks. You got your boat back, I see. What'd they find? I'd guess nothing, but one can always hope."
    "Actually, they found traces of blood. Couple of little smears on the railing, but they don't know if it's Wendell's."
    "Oh, right. Like it might be yours."
    "You know the police. They're not going to jump to conclusions. For all we know, Wendell did it himself, trying to create the suspicion of foul play. Did you see Renata? She just left."
    I shook my head, noticing the change of subject he'd engineered. "I didn't know you two knew each other." "I know Renata. I can't say we're friends. I met her years ago when Wendell first fell in love with her. You know how it is when a good friend has a mate you don't really get along with. I couldn't understand why he wasn't happy with Dana."
    I said, "Marriage is a mystery. What's she doing up here?"
    "I'm not sure. She seemed down in the mouth. She wanted to talk about Wendell, but then she got upset and walked out."
    "I don't think she's handling this business well," I said. "What about the money? Is it gone?"
    His laugh was a dry, flat sound. "Of course. For a while I had hopes that it might still be on the boat. I can't even call the cops. That's the irony."
    "When did you last talk to Wendell?"
    "Must have been Thursday. He was on his way to Dana's."
    "I saw him after that at Michael's. We left together, but his car wouldn't start. I'm sure now somebody tampered with it because mine was tampered with, too. I was giving him a lift when my engine cut out. That's when somebody started shooting at us."
    Behind us, the door opened with a burst of noise. The waiter came out with a glass of Chardonnay on a tray. He had another Scotch and water for Carl. He set both drinks on the table, along with a bowl of pretzels. Eckert paid in cash, tossing out an extra couple of bills as a tip. The waiter thanked him and withdrew.
    When the door closed again, I shifted the conversation. "I talked to Harris Brown."
    "Good for you. How is he?"
    "He seems fine. For a while I thought maybe he was a likely candidate for Wendell's murder."
    "Murder. Oh, right."
    "It does make sense," I said.
    "Why does that make sense? It makes just as much sense to think he's gone off again," Carl