Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  “I guess I should get back,” I said. “I wouldn’t want my dinner to get cold.” Rutabaga was bad enough—cold rutabaga sounded dreadful.

  “Hang on a sec,” Ned said. “Have you heard about the funeral arrangements for Emily?”

  “No. I hadn’t realized the medical examiner released her body already.”

  “They did earlier today. Jeff stopped by the office and asked if we knew anyone who could arrange for a memorial service on a boat. He wants to scatter her ashes on the water.”

  “Poor guy, having to organize everything. It’s a shame she didn’t have any immediate family.”

  “You should come to the service,” Ned said. “Jeff said everyone’s invited.”

  Nancy scowled. “Why would Mollie want to go to a memorial service for someone she just met? Why would anyone?”

  “Well, I’m going,” Ned said firmly. “Jeff doesn’t really know anyone in the area, and he could use the support. A number of people are attending. Penny, Penelope, Mike, Wanda, Norm, Alan—”

  “Did you see Alan today?” Nancy asked. “He was supposed to email me the photographs from the opening weekend of the festival. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him all day.”

  “Don’t worry. I mentioned it to him,” Ned said.

  “Good. What did he say?”

  Ned scratched his head. “Well, to be honest, it was hard to tell. He mumbles at times.”

  “At times?” I asked. “He mumbles all the time.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Ned said. “He spoke pretty clearly when he heard Jeff talking about Emily’s memorial service. He volunteered to come and take pictures. Jeff said he didn’t need to bother, that he could take some with his phone, but Alan was very insistent.”

  “Well, count Scooter and me in. We’ll be there to support Jeff.”

  “Great,” Ned said. “It’ll be on Friday. A sunset service. I’ll let you know once I have more details.”

  I said my goodbyes and made my way back across the dining room, saying hello to a few more people and snagging some more fries and nachos.

  “You’re just in time,” Scooter said as I slid into the booth. “I think you’re really going to like your rutaburger.”

  “‘Like’ is such a strong word,” I said before taking a bite. “Hmm. It’s crunchy. I have to say, I didn’t see that coming.” As I placed the “burger”—and I’m using that term loosely—on my plate, I noticed Jeff and Mike sitting at a table across from us. Mike pulled a file folder out of his briefcase and handed it to Jeff. While Jeff leafed through the papers, Mike grabbed his napkin and wiped his brow. Jeff held up a document and pointed at a section, jabbing his finger repeatedly to make his point.

  “I’m going to grab some ketchup,” I said to Scooter. Mike and Jeff were so absorbed in their conversation that they didn’t notice me leaning across the table behind them.

  “Trust me,” Mike said. “It’ll work. All you need is a wedding certificate to take care of Emily’s will. And I’ve got some contacts who can arrange that.”

  I grabbed a bottle of ketchup, and some hot sauce for good measure, and walked back to my table, keeping my head down so the guys wouldn’t notice me.

  Whose wedding certificate were they talking about? And what exactly did Emily’s will say? Hopefully, I would get some answers at the memorial service, if not before.

  9

  UNICORNS VS QUADRICORNS

  I woke in the morning with a vague recollection of being on a game show. Normally, dreaming of winning the grand prize would be a pleasant thing to wake up to. But in this case, it was a lifetime supply of rutabagas—the stuff of nightmares. As I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, I resolved to be more supportive of Scooter and his dieting efforts. So I downed a Rise and Shine Smoothie with a smile on my face.

  After giving my husband and Mrs. Moto a kiss goodbye, I hopped in the car to head to the waterfront park. It was my day to staff the FAROUT booth. I was really looking forward to it. It would be a great opportunity to talk to people about other life in the universe and hopefully drum up some new members.

  The bright purple awning over the Sugar Shack caught my eye as I drove down Main Street. I decided to stop and have a chat with Penelope and see if I could fill in a few blanks about the cake competition. Emily had died shortly after the first judging round with a shattered plate next to her. How did she get the plate? What kind of cake had been on it?

  A cheerful tune from The Sound of Music caught my attention as I opened the door. Penelope peeked out from the back room. “Finally, a customer! What can I get you, Mollie?” She walked toward the counter, tucking her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ears and adjusting her purple apron. “I just took some lemon poppy seed muffins out of the oven.”

  I licked my lips as I gazed at the pastries in the display case. Then I took a step back and said firmly, “Thanks, but I think I’m going to have to pass.”

  “Wow, that’s so unlike you,” she said. “You must have had a big breakfast.”

  “You have no idea.”

  The door opened and two young girls ran in. “Hello, sweethearts, what can I get you?” Penelope asked.

  A woman holding a baby in her arms called to them. “Girls, I told you, no cupcakes today. Come on, let’s go.” She gave us an apologetic smile as she shooed the kids out of the bakery.

  Penelope gave a heavy sigh. “It’s been like that for the past few days. People are avoiding baked goods like the plague. At this rate, I’ll be out of business by the end of the week.”

  “But why? Everyone needs a sweet treat from time to time.”

  She untied her apron and hung it up on a hook before sitting down at one of the white wrought iron tables by the window. “It’s because of what happened to Emily.” She put her face in her hands.

  “But what does that have to do with you?”

  Penelope lifted her head. Her gray eyes were damp with tears. “She was poisoned.”

  “But everyone knows that. It’s not like people have stopped eating. There were plenty of people at Alligator Chuck’s last night.”

  “The poison was in one of the slices of cake. And because I was a judge and run a bakery, people suspect I had something to do with it.”

  I reached my hand across the table and squeezed hers. “I’m sure that’s not the case. It’s probably that Rutamentals diet everyone is on. That’s why they’re avoiding sugary treats. Don’t worry, it’s just a fad. Soon, everyone will be sick of rutabaga and you won’t be able to keep up with the demand.”

  Penelope wiped her eyes and smiled. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. Tell you what, why don’t you get me one of those lemon poppy seed muffins and an extra-large mocha, and then we’ll figure out how to get people to just say no to rutabagas and begin saying yes to sugar.”

  She went into the back and returned a few minutes later with two mugs and two muffins. The lemony aroma was heavenly. I dove right in while Penelope stared blankly out of the window.

  After slurping down the last of my coffee and making sure there weren’t any crumbs left on my plate, I asked Penelope if she knew any more about how the cake slice was poisoned.

  She shook her head. “No. All Chief Dalton told me was that it had been poisoned, not how. He was here at the bakery questioning me for a long time yesterday.”

  “What kinds of questions did he ask?”

  Penelope shrugged. “The usual ones, I guess—did I see anyone put anything on the cakes, where was I after Nancy locked the doors to the pavilion, did I know how Emily got back inside, what did I know about her. That kind of thing.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That I didn’t see anything, that I didn’t even know Emily, let alone who would want to murder her, and that I had been watching the fire, just like everyone else.”

  “Did he ask you anything else?”

  “He was really interested in the bakery. He wanted to see what kind of security sys
tem I had. He even sent one of his officers to my house later to check what security I had there.”

  “That’s odd,” I said, staring forlornly at my empty cup and plate. I considered buying another muffin and coffee to support the Sugar Shack. Scooter would understand once he heard what Penelope was going through.

  “I thought so too,” she said. “But when I asked him about it, he said it was routine. There have been some issues with petty theft in Coconut Cove, and they’re simply checking to make sure everyone has the proper precautions in place.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have to ask him about that. There’s a lot of expensive equipment at the marina. We don’t need people sneaking in at night stealing it off people’s boats.”

  A buzzer went off in the kitchen. “That’s a batch of chocolate chip cookies ready to come out of the oven. Of course, no one’s going to buy them,” she said glumly.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it. In fact, give me some of your menus. I’ll pass them out at the FAROUT booth today.” I looked at my phone. “In fact, I should probably get going before I’m late.” No time for an extra muffin and coffee after all.

  “They’re right there by the cash register,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried into the kitchen. “Thanks, Mollie!”

  As I walked behind the counter, I noticed a framed picture of Penelope with an older woman. The two of them looked so much alike—strawberry-blonde hair, gray eyes, and cheerful smiles. It had to be a photo with her mother. I paused and took a closer look. The smile on the older woman’s face didn’t quite reach her eyes. What had she been thinking about when that picture had been taken, I wondered.

  I grabbed some of the lilac-colored menus, which were wedged between a stack of plates and the cash register. That’s when I realized I hadn’t asked Penelope for more details about which cake had been poisoned and how Emily had gotten a hold of it. I didn’t want to upset her with more questions, so I decided I’d go straight to the source for the information I needed—Chief Dalton.

  * * *

  “Why won’t he return my calls?” I muttered under my breath.

  “Who’s that?” asked my former neighbor.

  I gritted my teeth. Much to my dismay, I had discovered that the FAROUT booth was right next to Mrs. Moto’s archenemy’s art booth. I had spent the entire morning listening to her list reasons why dogs were superior to cats, why Yorkies were superior to any other breed of dog, and the health benefits of Rutamentals.

  Yep, another convert to the wonders of rutabagas. She was a full-on fan of Trixie Tremblay, right down to the legwarmers she was wearing underneath her long batik skirt. She had accessorized them with ankle bracelets, which jingled every time she moved. I sighed. It felt like I had a long day ahead of me.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she asked.

  “If you must know, it’s your ex-husband. I’ve been trying him all day, but he’s refusing to take my call. I’d march down to the police station and demand to see him, but there’s no one else available to cover the booth.”

  “Well, I can relate,” she said. “Tiny doesn’t return my calls either.”

  “Did you just call him Tiny?”

  She smiled. “It’s a nickname. I began calling him that when we first started dating. It’s caught on—everyone calls him that now.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call him anything other than Chief Dalton.”

  “I guess that’s true. He’s not exactly the type of guy to be on a first-name basis with many people.” She rubbed her left ring finger absentmindedly. “He likes to keep people at a distance. It’s one of the reasons we broke up.”

  “I heard it was over what you named your dogs.”

  “You gotta love small towns. You’d think people would have better things to do than gossip about my marriage.” She held my gaze. “Or spread gossip.”

  My face grew warm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” I observed the two Yorkies sleeping in a dog bed, which she had set up for them underneath a tree. “For what it’s worth, I think their names are really cute. How did you come up with them?”

  “Tiny would kill me if I told you…” She hesitated for a few moments, then continued. “What the heck. It’s a cute story, and it serves him right for not calling you or me back.”

  I leaned forward, eager to hear a hopefully embarrassing story about the chief, but before she could dish the dirt, a couple started asking her questions about one of her paintings. While she talked to them about the techniques she used and what inspired her to depict magical creatures like fairies and leprechauns, I managed to hand out a few FAROUT brochures to college kids and some of Penelope’s menus to a group of retirees.

  “This calls for a celebration!” she said. “I sold one of my largest paintings. They’re going to come back later and pick it up.”

  “Which one?”

  She pointed at the back of her booth. “It’s the one with the quadricorns grazing in a meadow.”

  “Did you say quadricorns?” I peered at the painting. “But aren’t those unicorns?”

  “Look closely,” she said as she assembled a large, flat cardboard box.

  I examined the painting in more detail. It was certainly colorful, and the use of glitter really accentuated the wildflowers. I zeroed in on the creatures in the foreground. “One, two, three, four…oh, I get it now!”

  “They look like unicorns,” she said as she extended a finger on the top of her head to resemble a horn. “But since they have four horns, they’re called quadricorns.” She giggled as she pointed four fingers upward in a perfect imitation of a four-horned unicorn. “See, a quadricorn. They’re far superior to unicorns.”

  Her laughter was infectious, and before I knew it, I had joined in. “And people think I’m crazy for believing in extraterrestrial life,” I said. “But you paint pictures of quadricorns.”

  “And get paid for it.” She grinned. “Actually, you’re not as bad as Tiny makes you out to be.”

  I smiled back. “And you’re not as bad as your threat to slap a restraining order on us made you out to be.”

  “About that—” Her watch beeped. “Time to take my pill.”

  “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

  She reached into her woven tote bag, pulled out a bottle, and washed down a pill with some rutabaga juice. “No, just something I have to take every day. I have a rare genetic condition. Runs in my family. Tiny used to remind me to take my pills every day.” She held up her wrist. “Now that he’s not around anymore, I have to rely on my watch.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I said.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. McGhie,” the chief said as he bent down to greet the Yorkies. He beamed as they licked his face. After giving them a good scratching, he stood, all traces of his smile disappearing in a flash as he turned to his ex-wife. “Can you look after the dogs tonight, Anabel?”

  “What’s come up this time?” she asked.

  Remarkably, his eyebrows didn’t twitch an iota, although his jaw tightened. “It’s a murder investigation, Anabel. That’s what’s come up. And he or she is still out there, and I think they’re going to strike again.”

  She bit her lip. “Fine. Go on. Go save the world.”

  He stalked off without another word while she busied herself packing up the quadricorn painting. I sat on the stool behind the FAROUT information desk in shock as I tried to make sense of what the chief had said. Who was going to be the next victim?

  10

  LEE HO!

  Fortunately, there were lots of visitors to the FAROUT booth in the afternoon, which kept me from dwelling on the chief’s dire pronouncement. I passed out bumper stickers and sold some T-shirts without a care in the world.

  Who was I kidding? All I could think about was figuring out who the next victim would be. I felt powerless to stop the next murder. Sure, I had a list of suspects for Emily’s murder, but I had more questions than answers. As the person who’d found the poor girl’s body,
I felt compelled to answer those questions. There was a certain burden that came with something like that. One did have a civic responsibility, after all.

  Scooter would probably say I was rationalizing things, that finding a dead body didn’t mean I had to investigate, and that my nosiness was going to get me in trouble as it had in the past. Maybe he was right. But I couldn’t help myself. And besides, my nosiness had helped nab killers in the past. I’d be doing Coconut Cove a disservice if I didn’t get involved.

  In between handing out brochures, signing people up for the FAROUT newsletter, and explaining the difference between carbon- and silicon-based life forms, I jotted down my “Nab the Killer, Pronto” to-do list.

  1 – Find out when the cake was poisoned. Was it during the cake competition itself when the cakes were being sliced, or had someone poisoned the cake after Nancy made everyone leave the pavilion? If it was the former, only the judges and the finalists had access to the cakes when they were being sliced. Everyone else was behind the barricade. And of those people, the only ones who had access to the bottle of gelsemium that was used to poison Emily were Nancy, Jeff, Mike, and Wanda. Alan was also in my line of sight. As the official event photographer, he had been allowed access behind the public barrier.

  I still doubted that Nancy was a serious suspect, given how the murder had ruined her carefully organized event. She might kill someone to prevent disorganization, but she certainly wouldn’t eliminate someone if it meant a disruption to her meticulously ordered life.

  The other thing I had to keep in mind was that when I went around to the rear of the building in search of Mrs. Moto, the back door had been ajar. Had the murderer entered while everyone was distracted with the fire and then poisoned the cake?

  2 – Find out how the killer knew Emily would eat the deadly slice of cake. She had been complaining loudly about how Nancy had messed up the decoration on Jeff’s cake and that she wanted to fix it. Did the killer encourage her to return and replace that slice of cake, knowing that she would eat the original slice?