Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(13)

“All this rain must be slowing us down,” she said, stretching her back against the chair. “Everyone slept in this morning.”

“I did not,” a singsong voice with a heavy Swedish accent said. The silver-headed housekeeper held out a clean cloth for Aida; the baby was wearing most of the pureed fruit her mother was trying to spoon into her tiny, smiling mouth. “I was up at dawn.”

No surprise there. Greta hadn’t slept past five A.M. since Bo had known her. She was proud, efficient, and took her duties very seriously. He’d never once seen her smile until the baby came along last spring. Seemed the solemn Swede had a soft spot for children.

He stuck his finger in the baby’s bowl and tasted. “Pears,” he said, smiling down at nine-month-old Karin, who chirped a nonsensical, happy greeting and reached for him. The infant looked more and more like Aida every day, but when Winter showed them old photographs of Astrid at her age, it was clear that Karin had Magnusson eyes.

“No one wants you smearing your dirty fingers all over them, little beastie,” Aida told her as she tried to capture said dirty fingers with the cloth Greta had brought.

“Who knew girls were so messy,” he said as he lifted linen from a steaming basket and grabbed a warm biscuit. Greta’s jaw clinched. If she had her way, he’d eat all his meals downstairs. He gave her a quick wink, and that only irked her further.

Aida scooted her untouched plate to the empty chair next to her. “Eat before the eggs get cold,” she said, tucking the front of her caramel-colored bob behind one ear. “I’ll get another plate when Karin’s done finger-painting the tablecloth.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He sat down and settled a napkin on his leg a few seconds before Winter strolled into the room.

“Oh, you’re up,” Winter said to him, stretching as he passed. “The warehouse just telephoned. The sandbags are holding strong and that goddamn yacht’s been moved this morning, hallelujah.”

Multiple things went through Bo’s head at once. If the yacht was moved this morning, that meant Winter knew Bo hadn’t moved it last night. And yet, Winter was in an easygoing mood, lazily rolling up his shirtsleeves as he sat across from his wife and smiled at his daughter. This also meant he probably hadn’t heard about the hospital yet. Good.

“You feel okay, cheetah?” he said to his wife, brow wrinkling.

“All this rain makes me a little drowsy,” she said.

While Winter frowned at her, Bo asked, “Who moved the yacht?” Surely not Officer Bastard.

Winter settled a forearm on the edge of the table and leaned back in his seat. “The widow who owns it had it towed at dawn. Johnny said no one bothered to inform anyone at the pier—he would’ve slept through it if it weren’t for the officer guarding it, who banged on the warehouse door, accusing them of moving it without his permission. Took several calls for the cop to get in touch with the tugboat operator and find out what had happened.”

“Mrs. Cushing had it moved without the chief’s permission?”

“Is that the widow’s name? I suppose so. Good riddance, I say. Let the police deal with it far away from us.” He accepted the morning newspaper from Greta with a nod. “We’ll have to wait and see if any reporters are snooping around today. If it looks clear, we’ll go ahead and stage tonight’s runs at the pier. But either way, I’m probably going to need you to take a runabout to the Marin County dock this afternoon and deal with that new Canadian captain.”

“And by ‘deal with,’ you mean . . . ?”

“See if you can talk him down on the price of that Scotch he’s hoarding.”

“All right. Rough him up, got it.”

“Bo,” Aida scolded with a soft smile.

“Oh, no roughing up. Let me just write that down so I don’t forget.”

Winter surveyed the front of the newspaper. “Wonderful. The damn yacht’s already making headlines. ‘Lost-at-sea Mystery Yacht Reappears,’” he read out loud, then skimmed a short article that had little-to-no information. “Our pier number is mentioned, but not our name, so that’s something, I suppose. I take it you couldn’t get the yacht running last night?”

Bo’s fork hovered over his eggs. “About that . . . Have you talked to Astrid?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

Aida snorted. “She informed us yesterday that she wouldn’t be getting up before noon during the holidays.”

That sounded like Astrid, all right. He thought of the gift again and a little pang went through his chest. He ate a bite of lukewarm egg and had difficulty swallowing. Time to get it over with.

“About last night,” he began, keeping his eyes on his plate. “Astrid and I ran into a strange . . . situation on the yacht.”

Newspaper crinkled. Bo glanced up to find Winter’s sharp eyes trained on him. “Why was Astrid on the yacht?”

“A valid question,” Bo said diplomatically. “And believe me, I wish she hadn’t been—”

“What is wrong?” Greta asked as she set down a carafe of hot coffee.

“Everything’s fine,” Bo assured all of them.

Bobbed hair appeared in the doorway, blond against the dark polished wood. Astrid’s gaze met his for a brief moment, but for once, he couldn’t read her. And that made him more anxious than he already was.