Steve's Place
A red buoy marked the entrance to Martins Creek. Rick, at the helm,
passed it close to starboard and headed into the center of the creek.
Past the wooded shores of the creek entrance, he could see fields,
obviously tended, and more woods.
"Steve's place should be the second on the left," Scotty said. "The
first house with a dock."
"Use the binoculars," Rick suggested. "We should be able to see it when
we round the next bend."
The houseboat passed the first house, a small, modern dwelling set close
to the water. A rowboat was hauled up on the shore. The creek rounded a
wooded promontory and the next house came into view. Steve's!
Rick's eager eyes saw an attractive farmhouse, set well back from the
water in a frame of willows and white oaks. There was an acre of green
lawn in front of the house, the lawn running down to the water's edge. A
small dock jutted out into the creek. Tied to one side of it was a
sturdy runabout with an outboard motor.
"Pretty," Scotty approved.
Rick nodded. The farmhouse was half frame, half white brick, with a
slate roof. It was apparently only one story high. On impulse, Rick gave
a long blast on the boat horn.
The front door opened and a man looked out, then walked swiftly down to
the dock, waving. The boys waved back.
"Get the lines ready," Rick requested. "I'll back in."
He throttled down and let the houseboat move slowly past the dock while
he yelled a greeting to Steve Ames. There were no obstacles, and just
enough room for the boat. He reversed his motors and threw his helm hard
over, backing slowly into position. Scotty stood ready with a line,
which he heaved to Steve. Then Scotty ran lightly to the foredeck and
got the bowline ready. The houseboat nestled against the dock smoothly
and Rick killed the motors. Then the three old friends were shaking
hands and grinning from ear to ear.
"I've been watching since yesterday afternoon," Steve told them. "That
storm last night worried me some. I didn't know whether you could ride
it out or not."
"No trouble," Rick said. "We ran into Swamp Creek on the north side of
the river and spent the night there." He watched the agent's face
closely, but Steve didn't react.
"Come on in," Steve invited. "Coffee's on. Had your breakfast?"
"We ate before hauling anchor," Scotty said, grinning.
Steve Ames knew the boys well. "Something's up," he stated. "Rick is
watching me like a suspicious sand crab and your tone of voice is wrong,
Scotty. Coffee first, then talk. Come on."
Rick shook his head in admiration. It was impossible to catch Steve off
guard. The agent had a deceptive appearance, athletic and good looking,
with the forthright friendliness of a college undergraduate. But his
trained eyes and ears missed nothing.
Steve's living room was attractive and comfortable, with bookshelves
between the windows, a stone fireplace, a striped rug, and deep, restful
chairs. There were lamps in exactly the right positions for reading.
The agent brought in a tray of coffee cups, with a pot of coffee and
platter of doughnuts. "Even if you've eaten breakfast, you can manage a
couple of these." He poured coffee and made sure the boys were
comfortable, then sank into an armchair and looked at them quizzically.
"All right. Out with it."
Rick chuckled. "You're too sharp," he accused. "We had a plan all cooked
up. I was going to comment on the fishing and hunting, and then
ask--very innocently--when the season for flying stingarees opened."
The agent's eyebrows went up. "Flying stingarees? Swimming ones, yes.
Open season any time. Flying ones, no. What is all this?"
"Rick saw one last night in the storm," Scotty explained.
"That's not all," Rick added. He told of their conversation at the
Narrows and of the talk with Orvil Harris that morning. "So there's
something fishy around here besides crabs and rockfish. We thought you
might know," he concluded.
Steve shook his head with obvious admiration. "Leave it to the Spindrift
twins! If there's a mystery afoot, you'll unearth it. Nope, lads. Never
heard of your flying stingarees, or flying saucers, either. But that's
not surprising. I'm down here mostly on weekends, sometimes with a
friend or two, and the only local folks we see are at the store or gas
station. Usually I'm in too much of a rush for small talk. I don't get
the local papers, and when I listen to the radio or watch TV, it's
either a Washington or Baltimore station. So I'm not in touch with local
events."
"Anyway," Rick said, "stingarees don't fly."
Steve had been in the Virgin Islands, too, and had been involved in the
adventure of _The Wailing Octopus_. "You found out that the octopus
didn't wail," he reminded them, "but for a while it looked as though
you'd found a new species. Maybe this is the same thing. What makes the
stingaree fly?"
"It would be fun to find out," Scotty admitted.
"You'll have time to make a start, and I won't be in the way with plans
for fishing or crabbing. I'm sorry, boys, but I'll be in and out of
Washington for a few days. Got a hot case working that I can't leave for
long."
The boys protested. "You deserve some vacation," Rick said hotly.
Steve held up his hand. "Whoa! I'm getting a vacation. This case should
be settled in three or four days, and I'll be with you. Meanwhile, you
move in here. You can drive me to the airport at Cambridge and pick me
up when I come back. That will leave you a car, and you can use the
motorboat for exploring or for fishing. If you feel like skin diving,
you can try for rock or hardheads off the northern tip of Taylors
Island, right at the mouth of the river. Did you bring gear?"
"The whole set," Rick replied. "Lungs, compressors, guns, and even
suits."
"You won't need suits. The bay is shallow and warm. At night you can
relax right here. Plenty of books, TV, radio, or a chessboard. If it
gets cool, there's wood for the fireplace."
"Sounds good," Scotty agreed. "But we wanted you with us."
"I will be. Before the weekend."
"When do you have to leave?" Rick asked.
"Three this afternoon. I have an evening meeting at headquarters. I'll
be back on the four-o'clock flight tomorrow afternoon, and, with luck, I
won't have to go again. If I do, it will be only for a day."
"Okay," Rick said reluctantly. "We'll settle in, but we won't move in.
We'll sleep on the boat. No need to use up your linens and stuff when we
have sleeping bags if the weather is cold and cotton blankets when it's
warm. Besides, housekeeping is easier on the boat."
Steve grinned. "I'll bet it is. If I know you two, you eat out of cans
and never use a dish if you can help it. Your idea of washing a coffee
cup is to hold it under running water or to dip it in the bay. Wait
until your mother and the girls join you. Life will undergo a drastic
change."
"Don't rub it in," Scotty said ruefully. "Now, how about showing us over
this estate of yours?"
Steve was pleased by the request. He obviously was proud of his
creekside home, and with reason. There were fifty acres of land, mostly
oak forest, with a private access road. Electric power came in from the
public power lines, but he had a gasoline generator in case of failure,
and his own artesian well. He explained:
"The house has been completely remodeled, but it's really quite old.
When it was built, there was only a wagon track. In those days, the
rivers and creeks were the highways, and the people traveled by boat.
You'll see old mansions fronting on the rivers here. The back doors face
the roads. Water transport was the reason. The landed gentry had barges
rowed by slaves. The poor folks rowed their own. Of course, there were
plenty of sailing craft, too. There still are."
The creek in front of the house proved deep enough for swimming, and the
three went for a dip. Rick tasted the water. It was salty, but not like
the ocean. The backwaters of the bay were brackish, with low-salt
content.
In the afternoon, the boys--somewhat reluctantly--got into what they
referred to as "shore-going clothes." These consisted of slacks, sport
shirts, light casual jackets, and loafers. Steve had a bag packed. They
got into his car, a late-model convertible, and headed for Cambridge.
The plane, a small twin-engine craft, was late coming from Norfolk. By
the time Steve was en route to Washington, it was nearly the dinner
hour.
"Eat out?" Rick suggested.
"Absolutely. More crab cakes?"
Rick shook his head. "Crab imperial. Maybe some steamed clams."
"You're making me hungry," Scotty protested. "I'll say one thing for the
bay area. The folks eat well. How about some terrapin stew?"
"Crab imperial," Rick said again. "Baked in a crab shell. Lots of
mayonnaise, paprika, and butter. I'll have a hearts of romaine salad on
the side, with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Maybe tarragon vinegar. A few
French fries, too. But first, a couple of dozen steamed clams. What do
they call 'em here? Manos, pronounced Man! Oh!"
"Just tell me where," Scotty begged. "Say no more."
"How about that place we passed just before we got to Cambridge? The one
built like a Colonial mansion."
"The Bay Gourmet," Scotty remembered. "Okay. You're driving."
Rick put the convertible in gear and moved out of the airport driveway
onto the highway. "We're on our own," he said. "It's up to us to
entertain ourselves. But food isn't enough. Man cannot live by bread
alone, the Scriptures say."
"I knew it." Scotty slumped down in the seat and sighed. "Since man
cannot live by bread alone, his life must be filled with other things.
And guess what things!"
Rick smiled in anticipation. "Uh-huh. Flying stingarees."