Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  Mrs. Moto yawned. Rules and regulations bored her. They bored me too, but I had a vested interest in two of the main events at the festival—the cake competition and the pet-costume contest—so I was paying close attention.

  “The festival kicks off tomorrow,” Nancy said. “It’s a Saturday, so we’re expecting a lot of people, including plenty of out-of-town visitors. We’ll have several food booths, featuring local eateries such as the Sailor’s Corner Cafe, Penelope’s Sugar Shack, the Tipsy Pirate, and Alligator Chuck’s BBQ Joint.”

  “Don’t forget the Rutamentals booth,” a woman cried out. I turned and saw Wanda decked out in an oversized canary-yellow T-shirt with Trixie Tremblay’s smiling face emblazoned on the front. “I’ll be doing cooking demonstrations and handing out free samples.”

  Nancy clenched her hands on the edge of the podium. “Does anyone else have anything to add?” she snapped. No one said a word, although one of the dogs whimpered. “Good. There will be a seminar on hazardous marine products led by Ned in the morning here at the main stage, followed by live music, courtesy of…” She adjusted her reading glasses and peered at the printout in her hand. “Courtesy of Eye Patches and Peg Legs.”

  “That’s a funny name for a band, isn’t it, mate?” Jeff asked Scooter.

  Scooter looked up from his phone. “That’s our friend Ben’s band. He’s a bit obsessed with pirates. They’re really good. You should stick around tomorrow and watch them.”

  “Shush,” I said. “Nancy’s talking about the cake competition.”

  “We have seven entrants this year.” As she rattled off everyone’s names, I looked around and eyed up the competition—one bored teenager, identical twins named Gertrude and Gretchen, Wanda, Mike, and Jeff.

  The teen seemed like she was there under duress. How good could her cake be? You could tell when something wasn’t baked with love. Rumor had it that Gretchen and Gertrude used box mixes for their cakes instead of baking from scratch. Wanda was probably going to make a Rutamentals recipe. Rutabaga-flavored cake? I couldn’t imagine that would go down well with the judges. Mike was a wild card. I didn’t really know much about him, other than the fact that he was a lawyer and had recently bought a sailboat. He was someone I might have to worry about. And then there was Jeff. He talked a good game, but could he deliver?

  “Now, let me introduce you to the other judges who will be on the panel with me.” My heart sank when I realized that Nancy was going to be one of the judges. I wasn’t exactly on her good side after I had filled out the entry form in purple ink using cursive, rather than regulation black ink with block letters.

  “First up is local business owner Norm Thomas,” Nancy said. I put my head in my hands. There was no way I was going to win now. He had been annoyed at me ever since I’d won a bet that meant he had to rename his boat The Codfather to ET. For some reason, the silly man had objected to naming his boat after an alien who ate Reese’s Pieces.

  Norm grabbed the microphone from Nancy. “Glad to be here, folks. As you know, I take my responsibilities as a citizen of Coconut Cove very seriously, and what could be more important than tasting cake?” he said with a chuckle. “And as your mayor, I promise to take my responsibilities even more seriously.”

  “Leave it to Norm to turn a cake competition into a campaign speech,” I said.

  “He does realize it’s only March, and the election isn’t until November, right?” Scooter asked.

  I laughed. “If he had his way, he’d skip the election and proclaim himself mayor.”

  Nancy wrestled the microphone away from Norm. “Our next judge is Chief Dalton,” she said. I groaned. I might as well give up now. The chief and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye on a range of subjects, from colored markers to murder investigations. Personally, I think he felt threatened by my investigative skills. Although, maybe his extraordinarily bushy eyebrows had given him some sort of complex, which caused him to be so grumpy.

  After introducing the burly man, Nancy pointed at the final judge. “We’re honored to have Penelope Pringle as part of the judging panel this year. Not only is she the owner of one of Coconut Cove’s most popular bakeries, the Sugar Shack, but she’s also an award-winning pastry chef and was the youngest winner ever of this year’s coveted Sunshine State Culinary Prize.”

  Penelope seemed embarrassed by Nancy’s praise. “I wasn’t that young, actually,” she said softly into the microphone as she tucked her curly strawberry-blonde hair behind her ears.

  “Trust me, dear, twenty-five is very youthful,” Nancy said.

  Scooter sighed. “I can barely remember when I was twenty-five. Oh, to be young again.”

  “Now, let me go through the details for tomorrow,” Nancy continued. “Contestants must drop their cakes off at the sports pavilion by the fishing pier by nine sharp. The public will be admitted at noon to view the cakes and watch the first round of judging. During this round, the judges will be considering appearance. The top four cakes will be selected, after which everyone except the judges must leave the pavilion. Next, the judges will complete the tasting round. The final step will be to announce the winner.”

  While Nancy droned on about the rest of the festival events and activities, such as face painting for the kids, concerts, boat tours, and the sailing race, I played games on my phone. My ears perked up when she mentioned the pet-costume competition.

  “There will be fifteen dogs…and, uh, one cat walking the runway this year.” She stared at her printout. “That can’t be right,” she said. “Whoever heard of a cat wearing a costume?” Mrs. Moto sat up in my lap and meowed loudly. Nancy looked in our direction and shook her head. “I should have known,” she muttered. She took a deep breath, then continued. “All dog owners, and cat owners, should report to the main stage this Sunday at eleven a.m. sharp. And for goodness’ sake, make sure all your pets are on a leash. The last thing we need is animals running around creating chaos.”

  The pack of dogs sitting next to the stage took this as their cue to show Nancy exactly how chaotic things could get as they streaked past her in pursuit of a squirrel. Empty chairs went flying, the microphone was yanked off the podium when the German shepherd got caught up in the cord, and a banner was knocked to the ground by the Labrador retriever. The older woman threw her hands up in exasperation before wrapping things up.

  After ensuring that Mrs. Moto’s leash was firmly clipped onto her harness and making sure to hold her tightly in my arms, we wandered over to watch her canine competitors chasing each other around a tree. “They don’t stand a chance against you,” I whispered to the calico. She blinked slowly at me in agreement.

  The terrier skidded to a stop in front of us, dropped a tennis ball in front of Scooter, and wagged his tail. Scooter tossed the ball across the lawn. The terrier bounded after it, then promptly ran back, clutching it in his mouth while the two Yorkies trailed after him. Mrs. Moto gazed down at the three dogs assembled at our feet and purred loudly. She leaped out of my arms and greeted the Yorkies like long-lost friends while Scooter and the terrier continued to play fetch.

  “Frick and Frack, get away from that disgusting creature right this minute,” a woman yelled sharply.

  “Oh no, it’s that crazy neighbor lady,” I said to Scooter.

  I watched as her long red braids snapped in the wind as she marched toward us. She bent down and clipped leashes on the two Yorkies and pulled them away from Mrs. Moto. “Didn’t you get my letter?” she hissed. “That cat is supposed to stay away from me and my dogs.” I expected Mrs. Moto to hiss back, but instead she rubbed against the woman’s legs. “Now see what she’s done! There’s cat hair all over my new skirt.”

  I looked at the long patchwork garment she was wearing. It appeared to have been assembled from fabric remnants picked up at a secondhand shop. Although I had to admit the embroidery and beadwork embellishing it were impressive in a weird sort of way.

  “But aren’t you used to having dog hair on your clothes?” Scooter
asked in a far more pleasant tone than I think I could have managed.

  “It’s hardly the same thing,” she huffed. “My dogs go to a professional groomer every week. They don’t shed. I daresay your cat has never been professionally groomed.” She brushed the bottom of her skirt. “You can tell by all the fur she leaves everywhere.”

  “She’s a cat. She grooms herself,” I said.

  “Just keep her away from me,” she said angrily. She pointed at a middle-aged man with a shaved head and goatee standing next to the stage who was chatting to Ned and Nancy. “My lawyer can explain everything. Mike, get over here,” she shouted. Then she stormed off with Frick and Frack in tow.

  Mike held his hands up as he approached us. “Sorry, it’s just business, guys. Nothing personal against you or Mrs. Moto.”

  “I thought you specialized in wills and estate planning,” Scooter said.

  “That’s what I mostly do, but when you’re a lawyer in a small town like this, you end up dabbling in this and that.” He lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t say this, but don’t worry too much about the letter. You’ve moved out of the condos, so there shouldn’t be an issue anymore. She’s just blowing off a little steam. She was mad when the chief wouldn’t do anything about her complaint.”

  “I’m surprised the chief took our side,” I said.

  Mike smiled. “Well, it was probably less about you and more about her from Chief Dalton’s perspective. My advice is to let it go. She’s kind of a crackpot. One of those artsy types. No one takes her too seriously.” He glanced at his phone. “Is that the time already? I’ve got to get going, but I’ll see you tomorrow at the cake competition.”

  “I’m surprised he called his client a crackpot,” I said to Scooter after Mike left. “Wasn’t that a bit unethical?”

  Scooter shrugged. “Unethical is probably an overstatement, but I’d worry if he were my lawyer. What would he say about me to other people?”

  “I guess it’s a good thing you already have a lawyer.”

  Scooter’s shoulders slumped. “Well, about that. It turns out I’m in need of a new one. I just got an email that Tom’s laid up in the hospital.” He saw the expression on my face. “No, don’t worry. He’ll be okay, but he will be out of commission for a while. The timing couldn’t be worse with this contract dispute I’ve got going on.”

  I squeezed his hand. “You poor thing. How about some ice cream to cheer you up?”

  “Nice try,” he said with a smile. “Remember, if we want to ‘Live Healthy, Live Long, and Live Strong,’ we have to say no to ice cream.”

  Well, we might have to say no to ice cream, but I could certainly say yes to the M&M’S in my purse when Scooter wasn’t looking. I think better when I’m eating chocolate, and I needed to put my thinking cap on and figure out how I could help my husband. I had a funny feeling in my stomach that things were far more serious than he was letting on.

  4

  THE SCIENCE OF LEGWARMERS

  The next morning, Scooter and I stopped by the sports pavilion to drop off my cake. My adorable nerd of a husband carried my masterpiece while I kept a tight hold of Mrs. Moto’s leash to make sure she didn’t go wandering off again.

  Nancy was standing by the entryway holding a clipboard. “You’re late,” she said. “I was just about to lock up.”

  “You said that everyone had to drop their cakes off by nine. It’s nine now. How can I be late?”

  “Everyone else has been here already. You’re the last.”

  “Last doesn’t mean late,” I said. “In fact, last is a good thing. Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘Save the best for last’?”

  “In my experience, dear, people who quote that expression have poor time-management skills. You might want to try setting your clock ahead by fifteen minutes. It’s a trick I used with my kids when they were growing up. It ensured that they were never late.”

  “But I’m not late,” I said. “I’m right on time.”

  Nancy looked at her watch. “It’s three minutes after nine. You’re late.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I was here at nine on the dot. You’re the one who made me late by spending three minutes talking about punctuality. Now, are you going to let me drop off my cake or what?”

  She stared at me with those piercing blue eyes of hers for a moment, then wrote something down on her clipboard. “Fine, you can place your cake on the table with the others.” As Scooter began to walk through the entrance, Nancy stopped him. “The only people who are allowed access to the pavilion are the bakers and me. The general public can join later when we commence the first round of judging.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like this is Fort Knox. Let Scooter carry the cake in. It’s a really awkward shape. I’m such a klutz, and I’m worried I’ll end up dropping it.”

  Nancy shook her head. “Rules are rules. We certainly don’t want a repeat of what happened last year, do we?”

  “What happened last year?” Scooter asked.

  “Some kids thought it would be funny to sneak in and steal one of the cakes. It was not funny. So this year, I’m closely monitoring who has access.” She pointed at Scooter and Mrs. Moto. “The two of you stay out here.” While Scooter and I awkwardly exchanged the cake for Mrs. Moto’s leash, Nancy pursed her lips. “What exactly is that supposed to be?”

  I looked at her incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t kid, dear. I have no idea what that is.”

  “But it’s from Star Wars.”

  “Never seen it.” My jaw dropped. Someone who hadn’t seen Star Wars. I didn’t think that was possible. “Hopefully, it tastes better than it appears,” Nancy said. “Gray frosting doesn’t look very appetizing. Now, hurry up and put your cake on the table. It’s already ten after nine.”

  * * *

  “You seem like you’re in shock,” Scooter said as we walked toward the main stage. “Is it because Nancy has never seen Star Wars?”

  “No, it’s not that,” I said. “Though that is hard to believe.”

  “Then what is it?”

  I sighed. “It’s Jeff’s cake. I didn’t think anyone would be able to top mine, but his is…I don’t even know how to describe it. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Well, keep in mind that appearance is only fifty percent of the overall score. I’m sure you’ll knock the judges’ socks off in the tasting round.”

  “I wish you could have tried my cake. I had some cake scraps left after I cut out the pieces I needed. I turned them into cake pops with the leftover frosting.”

  “Personally, I’m glad you went to Alejandra’s house to bake. As Trixie Tremblay says, ‘It’s easier to avoid temptation than to resist it.’” He stopped and looked at me. “You didn’t eat one of those cake pops, did you?”

  “No,” I answered truthfully. I’d had three, not one. “It made things so much easier to cook in a real kitchen in a real house,” I said. “It was sweet of her to offer after she heard about what I went through trying to bake on Marjorie Jane.”

  As we walked past the food booths, my tummy growled. I had abstained from breakfast that morning, telling Scooter that I was still full from the previous night’s dinner. My stomach begged to differ. How was a bowlful of watercress, chia seeds, and Trixie Tremblay’s special creamy rutabaga-tofu sauce supposed to have filled me up, especially when I could barely choke it down? Maybe that was the secret to the Rutamentals diet program. The food was so disgusting that you happily skipped meals.

  “Stop staring at those hamburgers,” Scooter said as he pulled me away from the Sailor’s Corner Cafe booth. “I don’t want to miss Ned’s seminar.”

  “Oh, goody. A seminar on marine products. How fascinating.”

  Scooter nodded. “I know. It’s going to be really interesting.”

  “You realize I was being sarcastic, right?”

  Scooter looked crestfallen. “But I thought you were really getting into boating.”

>   “There’s a difference between sailing on a boat and fixing a boat. A huge difference.”

  “Hopefully, Ned’s seminar will change your mind.”

  “I’m just hoping it takes my mind off Jeff’s cake.”

  When we got to the main stage, there were hardly any chairs left. I was stunned. Maybe Scooter had been right, and marine products really were scintillating stuff. We snagged the last two open seats, sitting next to Wanda in the back row.

  I glanced at her Trixie Tremblay–inspired outfit. “Aren’t you hot in those legwarmers?” I asked. It was an unseasonably warm day for March, and I was already regretting wearing jeans.

  “Well, a little,” Wanda admitted. “But you can speed up your metabolism if you keep your ankles warm. It has something to do with the detoxification of your energy follicles. I don’t really understand how it all works, but science was never my strong suit.”

  Wow, the science of legwarmers. And I thought I had heard everything. I was about to ask Wanda why she didn’t also wear knitted wristbands, but a high-pitched squeal screeched through the loudspeakers.

  “Sorry about that, folks,” Ned said, looking flustered as he adjusted the microphone. He tucked his navy-blue Palm Tree Marina polo shirt into his pants, took a deep breath, and greeted the audience. “Welcome to the first in our series of safe-boating seminars. Today, we’re going to talk about common marine products, the health and safety hazards they pose, and how to protect ourselves when working with them.”

  While Ned walked over to a table set up at the front of the stage, Wanda nudged me. “I’m really looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

  I did my best to appear noncommittal, which was easier than it sounded. While Wanda opened up a notebook on her lap, I noticed sweat dripping onto her flip-flops from the bottom of her legwarmers. It looked like some serious energy-follicle detoxification was going on.

  “How many of you own this product?” Ned asked, holding up a large blue container.