Michael McGarrity - Nothing But Trouble

“What is that, exactly?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“It certifies a skipper to operate a boat beyond coastal and offshore waters,” O’Gorman replied. “The training must be offered by an approved ISA organization.”

“The Irish Sailing Association?” Sara asked.

“Exactly,” O’Gorman said. “They would be able to tell you where and when he completed the course, if indeed he has done so.”

With directions from O’Gorman in hand they left the yacht club and found their way to the headquarters of the Irish Sailing Association. Housed in a mansion along a quiet street, the two-story brick building was surrounded by lush grounds, a wrought-iron fence, and a low ornamental hedge. Set back from the road and partially hidden by large shade trees, the mansion’s entrance was topped by a neoclassical entablature supported by two Greek Revival columns.

Inside they spoke with Mary Kehoe, who managed the daily operations of the association. A pleasant-looking woman in her forties, Kehoe had a small, pointed chin, bluish-green eyes, hair that was as raven black as Fitzmaurice’s, and a gangly figure.

“We’re trying to locate a Mr. George McGuire to inform him of a family emergency,” Fitzmaurice said as he settled into a chair in Kehoe’s office. “He owns or has hired a motor yacht named Sapphire and may have had some recent dealing with your organization.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. McGuire,” Kehoe said, rising from her desk. “We’ve assisted him in a number of ways. Let me get his records.”

When Kehoe left the office, Fitzmaurice flashed a big grin at Sara. “Are you starting to get the scent of our prey?”

“What if he’s on the high seas and staying far away from land?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice grimaced. “Well, at least we won’t have to waste our time canvassing every bloody hotel and inn from Dun Laoghaire to Wicklow.”

Kehoe returned with a folder, sat at her desk, put on a pair of reading glasses, and slowly began to page through it. Fitzmaurice’s eyes lit up as though he were a cat about to pounce, and for a moment Sara thought he was getting ready to rip the documents out of the woman’s hands. Instead, he settled back and tried hard not to look impatient.

“We have his completed ISA membership application,” Kehoe said, placing it carefully to one side and studying the next batch of forms. “Also his coastal and offshore certificates of yachtmaster training, both the shore-based and sea-based courses, his international pleasure-boat operator certificate, and his application for a certificate of identity and origin.”

One by one Kehoe neatly arranged the papers to keep everything in order.

“Mr. McGuire owns the Sapphire, then?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Indeed he does.”

“What is a certificate of identity and origin?” Sara asked.

“It’s used in conjunction with the ship’s registry,” Kehoe explained as she handed the paper to Sara, “to ensure yacht owners have free movement throughout the European Union. It may be helpful, especially if Mr. McGuire is at sea, as it contains his ship’s radio call sign and his registered sail number.”

Aside from what Kehoe had noted, the one-page form contained a trove of new information. It required Spalding, aka McGuire, to list his nationality, place and date of birth, passport number with the date and place of issue, and home address, along with specific details about his boat, right down to the builder, the model, the engine number, tonnage, the date and place of sale, and where the boat had been built.

According to the document McGuire was an Irish national born in Boston who’d been issued his passport in Dublin over a year ago. He’d bought Sapphire from a dealer in Northern Ireland soon after that.

Sara gave the form to Fitzmaurice, who scanned it eagerly. “When did McGuire take his yachtmaster courses?” she asked.

Kehoe paged back through the documents. “He finished his coastal courses eleven months ago and his offshore training this past July.”

“He lists a home address in Galway,” Sara said.

“Yes,” Kehoe replied, “but the information is outdated.”

“How do you know that?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Mr. McGuire came by several weeks ago to let me know he would be moving to Dun Laoghaire in the next few months and until then would be living on his motor yacht.”

“Do you recall anything else he said to you?” Sara asked.

Kehoe nodded. “He was planning a voyage around Ireland after he completed his shore-based yachtmaster ocean-training scheme.”

“Where would he take such training?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“There are any number of certified training centres,” Kehoe said, looking at Fitzmaurice over her reading glasses. “Of the commercial centres the closest course offering is in Bray.”

Fitzmaurice fished out Spalding’s photograph and slid it across the desk to Kehoe. “Just to confirm, this is Mr. McGuire?”

Kehoe picked up the photograph and adjusted her glasses. “Indeed it is. Charming man. I hope his family troubles won’t be devastating to him.”

“His father died,” Sara replied, “and his presence is needed to help settle complex issues regarding the estate.”

“How sad.”

Sara nodded solemnly in agreement.

“May we have a copy of your records?” Fitzmaurice asked.

“Yes, of course,” Kehoe replied.

“Also, if you could furnish us with a list of the organizations who offer the yachtmaster training schemes, that would be lovely.”

After Kehoe left to make copies and gather the information, Fitzmaurice turned to Sara. “Apparently, our George is well on his way to establishing himself as a charming and agreeable member of the Dun Laoghaire yachting set.”

“If he has put out to sea on a cruise around Ireland,” Sara said, “what are our chances of finding him?”

“Hit or miss would be my guess. I’ll ring up the Coast Guard and ask them to start looking.” Fitzmaurice glanced at his wristwatch. “If we’re going to keep vigil while Paquette meets with the builder at the villa, we need to leave straightaway.”

On the drive to the villa Fitzmaurice kept one hand on the wheel as he called the Irish Coast Guard to get a search under way for Spalding’s yacht, and then made another call to the passport office in Dublin. He was still on the phone when he parked the car down the street from the villa.

When he finished the conversation, he turned to Sara and said, “Passport records show that Spalding, either under the name of Bruneau or McGuire, has spent seven of the last twelve months in Ireland.”

“Did you get the exact dates?” Sara asked.

Fitzmaurice rattled them off from memory as Sara wrote them down.

“Interesting,” Sara said, scanning the paperwork Kehoe had provided. “From what Kehoe gave us, soon after Spalding bought Sapphire, he started coming back to Ireland to take the coastal and offshore land-and sea-based training classes. To qualify he spent almost four months in class or at sea. To get his ocean certificate he needs to log another six-hundred-mile, nonstop trip. I bet that’s what his voyage around Ireland is all about.”

“There’s no need to be checking marinas and yacht clubs for him if he’s at sea,” Fitzmaurice said.

“We don’t know that.”

“You’re right, of course,” Fitzmaurice said.

“How far are we from Bray?”

“A few kilometers.”

“Telephone this number.” Sara read it off. “It’s for a company called Celtic Sailing. They offer the yachtmaster ocean certificate course.”

Fitzmaurice punched in the numbers, put the phone to his ear, listened, and shook his head. “Closed for the day. No matter, I’ll have an officer find the owner and arrange for us to interview him.”