“Angus, may I borrow your binoculars?”
He reached to hand me the pair occupying a corner of the bench beside him. “Suit yourself. Bird-watching?”
I nodded and discreetly wiped the lenses on my skirt before raising the device to my eyes. It took only seconds to confirm the identity of the man guiding the skipjack. There were two other men with him, neither of whom was familiar to me. They headed in the direction of Rose Island, twenty acres of sand and rocks about a mile out on the harbor. The island held only one structure, the Rose Light with its attached living quarters, inhabited by the lighthouse keeper and his wife. What on earth could Winty want there? And why would he be manning a boat typically used for oyster dredging? Hardly what one would call a gentleman’s sport craft.
As the sailboat rounded the west side of the island, which faced away from Newport, Winty’s reason for using the shallow-bottomed skipjack became apparent, for the shoals on that side of the island would scrape a deeper V-shaped hull. With a frown I shifted my gaze toward the island’s landward side. The Curtises’ dock and boat slip lay vacant, their own small sailboat nowhere in sight. Clear blue skies and the bay’s light chop left little reason why the couple wouldn’t have taken the opportunity for a trip into town. In all probability, their clapboard house and the attached tower were deserted.
“Angus, any idea when the Curtises are due back today?”
“They’re not coming back today.”
Surprised, I lowered the binoculars. “Where are they?”
“Took a little vacation south.”
“Then who’s operating the light?”
He shrugged. “City hired someone for the time being. Don’t know his name.”
“Angus, would you take us out farther, please?”
“Are you hiring me to—”
“Yes, I’m hiring you to take me farther out on the bay.” My purse felt decidedly light for the occasion, but again, I could send Brady with more money later to make up the difference. In my impatience I wished I could have rowed myself out, but wouldn’t that have set tongues wagging about that poor Vanderbilt relation who not only drove her own rig, but rowed her own boat. I’d never have heard the end of it from Aunt Alice.
Angus shrugged and turned us about. He didn’t appear to pay me any attention as I brought the binoculars back up to my eyes. If he found anything strange in my request, he showed no sign of it.
I didn’t worry about Winty glimpsing me in return, for there was enough boating traffic today to conceal me, if one didn’t know where to look. And if Winty hadn’t noticed me on his way out to the island, there was no reason for him to be looking for me now. Within minutes, Angus had rowed us far enough out that I could once again see the skipjack, only now instead of cutting a path through the water, it drifted gently, moored a mere few yards out from the island’s rocky ledge.
What happened next made me feel foolish. Abandoning the helm, Winty bent down to retrieve something I couldn’t see from the deck, and when he straightened it was to toss a baited line into the water. He sat on the bench seat spanning the width of the deck at the rear of the craft and adjusted the fishing pole in his hands.
Here I was, my suspicious mind leading me to imagine I was spying on a guilty moment, to discover a man who wanted only a private place to fish. I opened my mouth to tell Angus to start back to shore, but in the next instant I snapped it shut.
Working quickly, Winty’s two companions, men dressed not as he was in a stylish linen suit, but in the coarser jersey and corduroy of workmen, hoisted some dark-colored object over the side of the boat. I blinked as the water sent up a splash, and thought I saw something catch the sunlight at the water’s surface. Not the heavy thing that had caused the splash, but something buoyant and lighter in color. Something that might blend with the waves and the frothy whitecaps, at least by day. By night . . . I wondered. Might that floating object stand out against the darkened waters?
Leaning, the rough-clad men peered down into the water until, seeming satisfied, they straightened, moved to the other side of the boat, and hauled up the little anchor that had kept them moored as they completed their peculiar errand. Winty reeled in his line and returned to the helm. He turned them about until the sails caught the wind, and the craft once more skipped its way around the island and then across the harbor toward the wharf.
“What was that all about?” I murmured. Winty’s fishing—a diversion to distract from whatever those two men had tossed in the water?
I thought of asking Angus if he’d ever noticed Winty skulking about Rose Island before, but then I became aware of a sound I’d been hearing all along, that of my old neighbor whistling a gay tune as he sat staring into the water beside him. No, it was my guess that by design Angus noticed little during his jaunts on the harbor. He finally glanced up at me. “Ready to go home?”