She returned to the shop. Blanche was packing up to go.
“You might wanna try thigh-highs,” Blanche said. “They’re cooler.”
“With that slit up the skirt? You’d see the tops,” Ivy said. “That would be too slutty.”
Moira appeared wearing red gym shorts with two white stripes circa 1978 and thigh-high stockings. They clashed with the gold sandals. She shrugged. “It’s a look, I guess. Oh, how about this? I bet Everett Klein is old fashioned.” The thigh-highs turned into gartered stockings, suspenders just visible below the white hem of the shorts. Moira did a twirl.
“You don’t have veins, or moles—a bunch of razor cuts, though. You actually still use a razor to shave your legs?”
Moira waved Blanche down. “Forget the stockings. You got the gorgeous getaway sticks, I say let ’em fly free.”
Ivy didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “How would you feel about taking out Harmon’s boat and going diving?”
“What, you mean, close the shop? It isn’t even two o’clock.” Blanche gave her a look. “I think you’ve gotten too much sun today.”
“Has it been busy?”
“No,” Moira said, “but you did miss Julio. Woof, what a man!”
Ivy shrugged. “Harmon said to take some time out for fun. I’ll hang a sign on the front door.”
Blanched pooched out her lower in lip in speculative thought. “Hmm. Why do I have the idea that this is more about work than fun?”
Ivy raised her brows. “You in?”
“Hell yeah, I’m in. Let’s stop by the house for sunscreen and wetsuits.” Blanche jammed her laptop in its case. “We’ll take my car. I’m sure your truck is a regular Easy Bake Oven on wheels.”
“You really wanna haul around briny wetsuits and tanks in your car?”
Blanche made a face. “Meet me at the house. Maybe I’ll feel better about that horrid little red Chevy when I’m wearing less.”
Half an hour later, with the bed full of dive gear, Ivy drove the truck toward the marina where Harmon kept his little power boat. Blanche wore a wrap over a one-piece swimsuit. The window was down, but she still fanned herself. “Why did you buy this awful truck anyway?”
“It’s rare.” Ivy sighted water and made a left.
“Sugar, we passed about a bazillion red Chevy trucks on the way here.”
“Yeah, but this is a compact truck, regular cab, short bed, and it’s a diesel. I fill up with biodiesel when I can.” They reached the marina. It wasn’t too busy, but Ivy had to circle around the lot to park.
“Yeah, and it makes this thing smell like you hijacked it from Colonel Sanders.”
Ivy got out. “You don’t like the smell?”
“I like it too much. Heck, every time I have to follow you, I have to force myself not to pull into a drive through for some French fries.” Blanche heaved her dive bag and tank out of the bed.
Ever since Harmon built his big sailboat, his little power launch was stored in the marina’s warehouse. They watched a guy in a forklift bring the boat down to the water. It was a nineteen-footer, two outboards, and a poling platform that sheltered the driver. Ivy double checked that the air tanks were full. If they needed air, they could do that here. They sure couldn’t do it once they were out on the Atlantic.
“Can I drive?” Blanche folded her hands in front of her. “Please? I never get to drive the boat.”
They stowed gear in a locker that doubled as a passenger seat. “Sure. Point her due east.”
Blanche gunned the twin engines to life. “No problem. Oh, wait. How do I know which way east is?”
“Watch the compass,” Ivy shouted over the noise. “Make sure the E is pointed at you.”
“Aye-aye.” She putted the boat past the slips, trying not to raise a wake. Ivy fussed with the boat’s GPS. It took some figuring, but eventually, she got the coordinates into the system.
Gusty wind threatened to blow her bun apart, so Ivy hunkered down behind the windshield. There were always boats out off the coast, but not too many on a weekday. It didn’t take long before Blanche throttled up, and the boat skipped and banged across the chop.
Blanche shouted something. With the wind and the engines, Ivy couldn’t hear. She nodded and smiled. The GPS tracker showed them inching toward the target.
Ivy felt a building sense of excitement. If her theory was right, she and Blanche were on the cusp of recovering the missing tiara. She noted their course was taking them south of the target. She pointed at the GPS, and the compass. While she shouted, “Aim for that blinking dot!” she doubted that Blanche could hear. But Blanche gave her a thumbs up and cranked the wheel a little to the left. North, Ivy thought.
As they reached the target, Blanche throttled down. Ivy scanned the horizon. No boats in sight, but the coast was still visible behind them. She struggled into her wetsuit pants. When the engines stopped, the silence shocked her.
A voice sang out, “Welcome aboard it’s—oh, it’s just you two.” Moira appeared on the forward deck. She wore a white cruise ship uniform, hat at a jaunty angle. Gold strappy sandals, of course. “Where’s Captain Stubing? Where’s Isaac? I need a Harvey Wallbanger.”
“What on earth are you talking about, Moira?” Blanche said.
“You’re Captain Stubing,” Ivy promoted Moira. More stripes appeared on the ghost’s shoulder. “When we’re underwater, you’re in charge.”
“I can’t be in charge of a boat. I’m a ghost.”
“Suit yourself. Blanche, check the depth with the fish finder and plug it into the dive computer.”
“Aye-aye, oh, crap. What’s all this?”
Ivy looked over her shoulder. The readouts on the electronics flickered and flashed unreadable symbols. They switched the gear off, waited, and then back on. Still wonky. “Dang it, I broke Harmon’s boat,” Ivy said.
Blanche shaded her eyes and looked west. “Not like we can’t make our way back.”
Ivy sighed. “Yeah, but the dive computer…” She opened a cabinet and pulled out an old dive plan book. There were charts in the back. “I’ll check the depth. When was the last time you dived?”
“Not since last August, I think.”
Ivy opened the aft anchor locker. She dropped the anchor to water level, and lowered it, counting. “Good, so we don’t have to worry so much about decompression.”
When she counted to forty-six, the anchor hit bottom. Ivy grabbed the dive plan and ran her finger down the chart. “Okay, we can stay down eighty minutes at forty-six feet.”
“We should probably do a decompression stop for a few minutes at twenty feet on the way back up,” Blanche squished her boobs into a zip-front wetsuit vest and was good to go. “Just to be safe.”
Ivy wore the whole deal, from hood to boots. She loved scuba diving, but hated cold water. Even on this balmy late spring day, it would be pretty chilly at nearly fifty feet down. Blanche shook her head at the process. “What are we diving on, anyway, a wreck?”
Struggling with her swim fins, Ivy grunted. “I’m not sure what it looks like. I am pretty sure whatever it is, it contains the missing tiara. It should be tied to an anchor.”