Seaweed Under Water Read Online Free

heron raised its wings, bent its spindly legs and heaved itself into the sky. The squawking bird’s flight carried it over the Mayan Girl , a large motor yacht moored at the lodge’s private jetty. In my mind’s eye, I pictured a glamorous Jane Colby, posed on the yacht’s wide deck.
    A hundred yards or so to my left, a wilderness of tall masts rose above Fisherman’s Wharf. Kayakers and small ferries crisscrossed the harbour between B.C.’s legislative buildings and the Ocean Pointe Resort. A floating crane was lifting driftwood and other floating debris from the water and dumping it on a barge near the seaplane terminal.
    I went back inside the motel. Once a destination for well-heeled sportsmen, it now possessed the sad ambience of shady inns catering to lonely misfits and drunks. To the left of the reception counter, glass-paneled doors opened onto a dining room. Similar doors led to a lounge. A hand-lettered cardboard sign informed me that the dining room was closed. The door opening onto a lounge/bar was closed, but it opened at my touch, and I entered.
    The lounge was uncomfortably warm. Flames, leaping in a fireplace, threw flickering yellow patterns onto varnished walls and a cross-beamed ceiling. Somebody had been burning papers in there—half-burnt ash lay thickly on the hearth. Leather armchairs exuded the breath of ancient cigars. Apart from a stuffed cougar snarling up at the mounted head of an elk, the lounge was unoccupied.
    I heard sirens and looked outside. Three prowlies appeared along Belleville Street, turned up Menzies Street and raced toward Dallas Road on what may or may not have been urgent police business. Some guys just like to put earmuffs on and make lots of noise. I felt cranky and didn’t know why—James Bay affects me that way sometimes.
    I was behind the reception counter, searching for the motel’s guest register and fighting a vague feeling of irritation, when a tanned, handsome young body-builder showed up. Wide as a refrigerator, with halitosis and dirty fingernails, he was wearing a shirt that fitted him like a second skin, showing off mighty biceps and triceps. His torso had more bumps than an egg carton. The plastic nametag pinned to his shirt told me that he was Karl Berger, the manager. He might have been carved from wood, except for moist rubbery lips and moist blue eyes. He leaned across the reception counter until our noses almost touched and said, “There’s a sign on the door saying the motel’s closed, mister. What do you think you’re doing here?”
    â€œMaking routine inquiries, sir,” I answered politely. “I’m Sergeant Seaweed, Victoria PD.”
    Karl’s eyes narrowed. “Seaweed? We got Siwash cops now?”
    My irritation increased. “I’m not a Siwash. I’m Coast Salish.”
    Karl was one of those self-assured young people with little patience for those they assume to be lower down the intelligence ladder. He sneered. “Salish, smalish. I guess you’re here about our missing speedboat.”
    â€œWhat missing boat is that?”
    â€œOur speedboat ,” he repeated derisively. “The one got stolen a few days back. The one you’re supposed to be looking for.”
    â€œI’m sure an active investigation is proceeding. I assume it’s one of your rental boats.”
    â€œNo, I just told you. It’s a speedboat . Them rentals out there are just piddle-ass sport-fishing boats.”
    â€œSo the motel is closed?”
    â€œDon’t you read?” he asked impatiently. “I told you, there’s a sign on the front door.”
    â€œNo there isn’t.”
    Karl stormed across the front door, looked in vain for a sign that wasn’t there and came slowly back.
    â€œI understand that Jane Colby stays here. Which is her room?”
    â€œDon’t you listen? The place is closed. If it’s closed it means nobody’s staying