Shayne stopped off at his apartment on the Miami River and changed to polo shirt and sneakers. The sun was hot, but there was a breeze coming in from the ocean that would be even cooler on the water. As he drove across the Causeway to the Beach, he wound down the windows in the car and let the wind blow through his red hair. Fishing was going to be good today.

As always, once he had crossed from Miami proper, he felt the spirit of holiday around him. The Spanish moss waved with carnival gaiety and the meticulously tended flowers around the winter houses made brilliant spots of color in the sun. Shayne followed a line of royal palms and whistled a soundless tune as he turned his car south on the Beach. Drawing into a parking space at the head of a wharf, he cut the engine. His pulse quickened pleasurably as he sighted the Santa Clara still at her berth and Sylvester out on deck in the act of casting off. He had arrived at exactly the right time.

As the redhead moved swiftly down the wharf in his long-legged stride, Sylvester sighted him. Dropping the rope he held, the rotund little Cuban waved wildly and, taking off from the boat’s gunnel landed precariously on the edge of the wharf, caught his balance and scurried excitedly to meet Shayne.

Suddenly, however, his face took on a woeful look, as if he had just remembered something. “Mike, I am so sorry. I know I tell you to come any time. Any time you would be welcome, but today-”