Sins of Deception

Sins of Deception by Valerie Wilcox

ON THE WATER everything is true. It is only when you’ve been on the water, sailed its moods, breathed its secrets, and experienced its power that the saline scent of truth will manifest itself. And once you’ve felt its pure, exacting touch, you cannot return to the shore unchanged. The manner of its arrival—as a fine mist gently nudging at the edge of your consciousness or as a violent tidal wave crashing at your soul—matters not. What matters is the remembering. It is the remembering that allows you to discard all the false and pretentious trappings of your life. It is the remembering that gives you the power to rise above the desperate everyday struggle and seize the life you crave. A life that is real. A life that is authentic. A life that is yours. You want to succeed in life, Kellie darlin’? Then get out on the water. Find the wind and hoist your sails. Listen to the screeching gulls, the luffing sails, and the rushing water; taste the salt spray on your tongue; feel your hair whipping against your face; and breathe in the clean, pure sea air that carries the one true life you seek. And remember. PAUL CRENSHAW WAS one of the good guys. And if you suggested otherwise, I’d be the first to call you a fool. I suppose you’d be right in claiming that I had a favorable bias toward the man because of our long friendship. But if you talked to anyone who knew him, you’d get the same reaction. Paul was a loyal friend, loving husband and father, and a successful engineer who went out of his way to help those in need. I admit that you never really know a person, but in Paul Crenshaw’s case, the private persona matched the public persona to a tee. So when he was handcuffed and hauled off to jail at gunpoint, I was more than a little shocked. Not to mention pissed. Even before his untimely arrest, my first trip as skipper of a chartered sailboat hadn’t been what I would call fun and games. But I’d sort of expected a few bumps. After all, it was a new venture for me. What I didn’t expect was to have my business—and ultimately, my life—nearly destroyed. At first, everything was just peachy. My clients and I had left Seattle on a balmy September morning a little over a week before. The four of us were aboard a borrowed forty-foot sloop called Picture Perfect which at the time seemed aptly named, given the weather and company. Our destination was the San Juan Islands, a cluster of emerald jewels tucked away in the northwest corner of Washington State. The trip was a reunion of sorts. Paul and Sharon Crenshaw had been my next-door neighbors for almost fifteen years, but after my husband’s death, I sold our family home and moved aboard my sailboat at Larstad’s Marina. We’d stayed in touch for a while, but as often happens, we’d drifted apart in the last couple of years. I felt more than a little guilty about the break since I was their fourteen-year-old daughter Tiffany’s godmother. I’d been thinking about reestablishing contact with the Crenshaws for some time—especially since my own daughter had essentially left the nest. Cassie attended college in New York, and her visits home were all too infrequent. So, when Paul and his wife signed up for my first charter trip, I was delighted. The only disappointment was that Tiffany couldn’t join us. But as Paul explained, “She just started a new school year." The trip was also a celebration. Paul’s engineering firm had just been awarded a major contract with Larstad’s Marina. The marina’s status as Seattle’s premier boating facility had been in jeopardy ever since Coho Marina had opened for business six months previously. Larstad’s had already lost several long-time clients to the ritzy new facility, and more were threatening to leave as soon as a slip became available. In an effort to prevent further bail-outs, old man Larstad had decided to enlarge and update his namesake marina. The expansion project, while welcomed in many quarters, wasn’t without opposition. Many feared that their moorage rates would be raised, while others were concerned that the additional slips would have an adverse impact on the environment and place an unmanageable burden on the various amenities at the marina. I hadn’t taken a position on the issue except to recommend Paul’s firm, Pierpont Engineering and Construction, for the job. Although I doubted that my recommendation carried much weight with old man Larstad, Paul was very grateful for my help. I think the charter trip was his way of thanking me. Martin Petrowski, Paul’s best friend and construction supervisor at his firm, had also signed up for the charter. I didn’t know Martin that well, but I was immediately drawn to his quirky sense of humor and easygoing manner. Although somewhat preoccupied, Paul was in a good mood when we first got underway. So, too, were Sharon and Martin. The downturn in everyone’s spirits began the minute Jason Petrowski, Martin’s seventeen-year-old son, stepped aboard the boat. Because of some conflict with his schedule, he joined us after we left Seattle. We picked him up at the public boat dock in La Conner, a picturesque little town in the middle of tulip country. As we cruised through the Swinomish Channel toward our first night’s anchorage, I tried to figure out what the problem was. I’d never met him before this trip, but Jason seemed like a nice kid. A little moody perhaps, but not surly or foul-mouthed like some of the teens I’d had in my classes when I taught high school. At six foot five, he towered over his father, but they shared the same breathtaking good looks. Deeply tanned despite their fair skin, they both had sandy-blond hair, green eyes, and a body that screamed, “Look at me, I’m a jock!” But Jason played down his athletic prowess, clearly embarrassed by his father’s endless recitation of his own glory days on the gridiron. Martin didn’t pay much attention to his son, but Paul and Sharon acted as if the kid were some kind of pariah. They avoided him as much as is physically possible on a forty-foot sailboat. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why he made everyone so uncomfortable. I found him polite, eager to help with chores, and a pretty good sailor. If Jason had done something to offend the Crenshaws, why invite him along? As the week wore on, the kid’s presence cast such a pall over the group that even the pristine beauty of the San Juan Islands and excellent sailing conditions failed to excite anyone. Including me. “I wish I’d never come,” Jason muttered as we sat side by side at the helm. We were alone in the cockpit, having just raised the sails after exiting the Port Sidney Marina in British Columbia, Canada. We’d spent the previous day on Vancouver Island and were now enroute to U.S. waters. In the distance, a green and white ferry navigated Haro Strait, the broad, watery expanse that links the San Juan Islands with their neighbor to the north. As had become their practice, the rest of the group had found other things to do, and crewing wasn’t it. For the past couple of days, Paul had been hiding out in the cabin with his briefcase and a stack of paperwork while Sharon and Martin staked out separate territory for themselves on the forward deck. At the moment, Sharon had her nose buried in a romance novel, and Martin had stretched out on the bow to catch some rays. Although seemingly contented when engaged in their own activities, there was no mistaking the tension that marked whatever personal interactions took place. Basically no one was a happy camper. “Why did you come?” I asked Jason. He glanced at Martin and shrugged. “Don’t ask me. It was my dad’s idea.” I tried to think of something positive to say, but at that point I was pretty much wishing I was somewhere else myself. I usually manage the sailing school at Larstad’s Marina, but I’d been trying to get a charter service going for a long time. It wasn’t until my best friend, Rose Randall, was chosen as the marina’s new general manager that old man Larstad finally conceded that the idea had merit—especially since he didn’t have to put out any cash for a new boat. A friend I’d helped through a difficult time a while back volunteered her sloop free of charge for the inaugural charter. I’d been thrilled by the prospect of spending an entire week sailing in the San Juans with my friends and hoped that the trip would be the beginning of a profitable side business for Sound Sailing School. Now all I hoped to do was get back to Seattle without tossing someone overboard. Continues...