Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in later. I think you’re going to want to have that drink first.”

  * * *

  After Scooter and Mrs. Moto headed toward the boatyard, our wandering feline firmly clipped into her harness and leash, I made a beeline for Chief Dalton. He was sitting at one of the patio tables, his back toward me, intently focused on something in front of him. As I approached, I caught a glimpse of a certificate of some kind. Perhaps a birth certificate? It was too hard to see over the burly man’s shoulder. He flipped the piece of paper over.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. McGhie?” he asked without turning around.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “You have a distinctive walk.”

  I looked down at my feet. “I’m wearing flip-flops. Everyone wears flip-flops in Florida. They all make the same sound—flip, flop. How is my ‘flip, flop’ any different from anyone else’s?”

  “No comment.”

  Great. We were back to his non-response responses. I pulled out a chair and sat next to him. I drummed my fingers on the table.

  “Is there something you wanted to say?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, but only if you promise me something first.”

  He raised one of his bushy eyebrows. “That isn’t how this works.”

  “Fine. We’ll play your little game,” I said. “This is too important.” I paused for a few moments to collect my thoughts.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “I know who the murderer is going to go after next.” There was absolutely no response, not even a ‘no comment.’ I leaned across the table. “Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?”

  “I’m always interested to hear your theories.” There was a distinct lack of conviction in his voice.

  I had hoped for some sort of drum roll. Instead, there was just the sound of coconuts falling from the palm trees onto the patio. “It’s Penelope. The killer was after her, not Emily.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Remember how there was a broken plate by Emily’s body? It was purple. I had completely forgotten until this afternoon on Pretty in Pink. Wanda was wearing one of those awful Trixie Tremblay T-shirts. You’re not one of those wackos on the Rutamentals diet, are you?”

  “This has something to do with rutabagas?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I mean, yes.” I put my head in my hands. Everything was getting so jumbled up. It was probably the stress from the accident coupled with the fact that I hadn’t had any real food in hours. Scooter had mentioned catering at the Tipsy Pirate. I wondered what they were going to serve. The chef there made these amazing egg rolls with a pineapple dipping sauce.

  “Earth to Mrs. McGhie. So which is it—yes or no?”

  I popped a breath mint in my mouth to quiet my stomach. “No, the murder doesn’t have anything to do with rutabagas. At least I don’t think it did. Although, that is an interesting idea—”

  “I don’t have all day.”

  “On Wanda’s T-shirt, Trixie Tremblay was holding a purple plate with sliced rutabaga. That’s how I made the connection. Each of the judges had a different-colored plate at the cake competition. Nancy announced what color each judge was assigned. Penelope was purple. I think the killer was trying to poison Penelope, and somehow, by mistake, Emily ended up eating the slice of cake instead. That means I’ve been going about my investigation all wrong.”

  “Your investigation?” the chief asked dryly.

  “Okay, fine. Our investigation.”

  He smiled faintly. “Ours?”

  “You know, this would work so much better if you were more of a team player. If it wasn’t for my help in the other murder investigations, the killers would have gotten off scot-free.”

  “I see.”

  I shook my head. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. What you really need to do is make sure that Penelope is okay. Who knows when the murderer is going to strike again.”

  “You don’t need to worry about Miss Pringle.”

  I leaned back in my chair. Something was off. It was almost like… “Wait a minute. You already knew about Penelope, didn’t you?”

  “No co—”

  I held up my hands. “Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re going to say—‘No comment.’ Just at least promise me that she’s okay.”

  After a beat, he said gently, “She’ll be fine. My officers are watching her around the clock.” Then he placed the papers in front of him in a folder, pushed back his chair, and stood. “This is why you should leave murder investigations to the professionals. We have the training and the resources required. You have a vivid imagination and a…um…cat.”

  I tucked my frizzy hair behind my ears. Maybe I should just keep out of it. After all, I’d had it all wrong. Emily hadn’t been the intended victim. My suspect list was useless. The investigation had been a waste of time. I chewed on my lip. Maybe the chief was right. But he didn’t have to make me feel so stupid about it.

  “By the way, what was it you wanted me to promise?” he asked.

  I gave him a calculating look. “To tell me how you got the nickname Tiny.”

  His face reddened while his eyebrows did the most amazing contortions. He spluttered. “What exactly did my wife—I mean my ex-wife—say to you?”

  “No comment,” I said, smiling sweetly.

  * * *

  After my disastrous conversation with the chief, I checked my messages. Scooter had texted to say that he’d been delayed. Apparently, one can of Frisky Feline Ocean’s Delight hadn’t been enough to satisfy our princess, and he was hunting in the cupboards trying to find some more.

  My mom had also finally texted back. Do you still see Mary? I was even more confused than ever. How could I still see a twin sister I hadn’t known about until recently? I didn’t even bother to text back. This was probably best handled in a phone conversation. But after everything that had happened, I wasn’t up to dealing with it at the moment.

  I looked over at Mike. He kept pacing back and forth, talking on his phone. Except for the two of us, the patio was deserted. The crowd had moved the party to the Tipsy Pirate. I was eager to get there as well. Given my run of luck lately, I wanted to pay a visit to my buddy, Coconut Carl, and see if he had any advice for me.

  Mike’s call must have ended badly. He uttered some very imaginative expletives, then looked like he was going to hurl his phone across the patio before he stopped himself.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “No, everything is not okay!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It turns out my boat wasn’t insured for racing. That’s something extra you have to add on to your policy.”

  “What about Norm? He hit your boat. Doesn’t he have to pay to repair yours?”

  “That’s how it should work, but Norm is claiming that I was at fault. By now, I bet he’s bribed everyone to tell his version of the story.”

  “Can’t you fight it? Maybe sue him? Being a lawyer has got to count for something.”

  He clenched his fists. “Suing him would take time. And I don’t have time. I need that money now. I need to get it from him one way or another.” He slowly uncurled his fingers, then stuck his hands in his pockets. “How could I have been so stupid about the insurance?”

  “I know what you mean about feeling stupid,” I said.

  “Do you and Scooter have problems with your boat insurance too?”

  “No. At least I don’t think we do.” I mentally added ‘check insurance’ to my Marjorie Jane to-do list. I would say that our boat’s to-do list was growing longer by the day, but it seemed more like by the hour.

  “So what do you feel stupid about?”

  I weighed up whether to tell him about Penelope having been the murderer’s real target. Mike had been nervous when I’d questioned him about Emil
y’s will, but, in hindsight, that didn’t have anything to do with her death, since she wasn’t the person who was supposed to have been killed. Maybe he had been nervous for another reason. Given his odd conversation with Jeff about a wedding certificate, I still wondered if he was engaging in some less-than-legitimate activities, but that really wasn’t my business.

  Since the chief had admitted that Penelope was under police protection, I figured it was already common knowledge—or would be soon—so I decided to fill Mike in. After I had explained about the purple plate, Mike frowned. “That changes everything.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Hang on a sec. I need to send a quick text.”

  “Who do you think would want to kill Penelope?” I asked. “I can’t imagine anyone having it in for her. She owns a bakery, after all.”

  “You’re right. It wouldn’t make sense to eliminate Coconut Cove’s source of cupcakes and cookies,” Mike said with a teasing tone to his voice.

  I smiled. “I like a man who thinks logically.”

  “I have to admit to having a certain fondness for her vanilla spice cupcakes. My waistline hasn’t been the same since she opened the Sugar Shack.”

  “When was that?”

  “Hmm, let me think.” Mike leaned against the railing and gazed out at the water for a few moments. “About four years ago? It was after she graduated from college and moved back to Coconut Cove.”

  “You must know her pretty well,” I said. “You’ve lived in Coconut Cove all your life, haven’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about pretty well. But it is a small town, so we do keep tabs on one another. It’s both a blessing and a curse.” He glanced at his phone when it beeped, then turned to me with a thoughtful look on his face. “You were asking who might have it in for Penelope. There’s one person I can think of that the police should be talking to.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Wanda. She and Penelope’s mom didn’t speak to each other. In fact, they’d go out of their way to cross the street if they saw the other one on the same side. Wanda used to say some horrible things about Penelope’s mom. Really horrible things. Maybe the bad blood extended toward her daughter.”

  “You think she would have killed Penelope because she didn’t like her mother?”

  He wiped his brow. “It’s just a theory. But there’s always been some questions about the circumstances surrounding the death of Penelope’s mom.” His phone beeped again. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  Wow. That left me with a lot to think about. Could Wanda be a killer? Then I shook my head. It wasn’t my business. I made a vow to leave things to the police and instead focus on more important things like dinner.

  * * *

  “Come on, just do it. Rub his belly,” I said. “We could use some good luck.”

  “What? Rub whose belly?” Scooter asked.

  “Duh. Carl’s.”

  “I’m not rubbing any strange guy’s belly.”

  “But you know Carl.”

  “I do? Are you sure? I can’t think of anybody named Carl that I know. Unless you’re talking about Carl Kowalski, but he’s back in Cleveland.”

  “No, not that Carl. That Carl.” I pointed at the wooden statue of Coconut Carl that graced the entryway of the Tipsy Pirate. Coconut Carl was a legend in these parts. A pirate by trade and a womanizer in his spare time, Carl was known for his love of rum and coconuts. Locals and tourists alike believed it was good luck to drink a shot of rum, then rub the statue’s belly three times.

  Scooter shook his head. “Do you know how many people have had their hands on there?” We watched as a couple of the guys who had been on Mike’s boat demonstrated the ritual. One of the guys even kissed Carl’s belly. I suspected that more than one shot of rum might have been involved. “I’ve got enough to worry about without catching a cold or the flu by touching that.”

  “I’ve got disinfectant wipes in my bag.”

  “I’m sure my little Milk Dud does.” He grabbed my elbow and steered me into the bar. “You’ve got everything in there—your phone, wallet, at least three notebooks, a ridiculous number of pens, chocolate—”

  “I’m actually out of chocolate.”

  Scooter smiled. “I’m stunned.”

  “Me too. It’s almost like someone went into my bag and threw it out.” I gave him a playful punch in the arm.

  “The nerve of some people.” He rubbed his arm. “Now, where should we sit—at the Pretty in Pink table or the Naut Guilty table?”

  “It’s not a very good turnout at the Naut Guilty table,” I said. Mike was conspicuously absent, and the folks with injuries were home recuperating. “Why don’t we get the guys who are here to join the girls at the Pretty in Pink table?”

  “Good idea.”

  While Scooter organized moving tables and chairs, I sat next to Wanda and placed an order. Thankfully, she had changed her outfit since the race. I don’t think I could have managed to look at Trixie Tremblay holding a purple plate all night.

  “So, what did we miss?” I asked.

  “Norm just gave a speech,” Wanda said.

  “Can’t say I’m sorry about missing that.”

  “I don’t blame you.” She took a sip of her drink. “Any word on the injured guys?”

  “They’re all going to be fine, even the one with the broken arm. It was a clean break.”

  “I broke my leg once,” Wanda said wistfully. “My sister was pregnant at the time, really far along. We used to joke about who took longer to get up off the couch. I was such a klutz with my crutches, and she struggled to hoist herself up unaided. It was easier to ring a bell and have my brother-in-law fetch things for us when we needed them.”

  “That was sweet of him.”

  “Sweet…no, he wasn’t sweet. Manipulative, yes. Sweet, no.” She twisted the bracelet on her wrist while she stared out the large windows that overlooked the bay. “You know, I’m actually really tired. It’s been a long day, and I’ve got food demonstrations early tomorrow at the grocery store. I’m going to call it a night.”

  “Where’s Wanda dashing off to?”

  I looked up. Nancy was standing next to the empty chair holding a clipboard. “I’m not sure. One minute she was talking about her sister and brother-in-law, the next minute she was gone.”

  “She talked to you about her family?” She peered at me over her reading glasses. “Wanda never talks about her past. Her life before Coconut Cove is a mystery. All we know is that she was originally from Destiny Key.”

  “Destiny Key? Isn’t that where Emily was from?”

  “I believe so.” Nancy sat down. “It’s a strange place. The folks who live there are a tight-knit group who have a lot of money. They don’t like outsiders visiting their island.”

  “But it’s not a private island, is it?”

  “No, but the locals resent visitors. There’s a beautiful anchorage there that people from Coconut Cove sail up to. Folks take their dinghies to the beach, but if you walk anywhere else on the island, you’re made to feel unwelcome pretty quickly.”

  “I wonder how Jeff met Emily,” I said as the waitress set my drink down, along with some egg rolls. Nancy snatched one up, dipping it into the pineapple sauce and into her mouth before I had a chance to pull the plate toward me. “If they don’t like outsiders, I wonder what they thought about her being engaged to one.”

  “I guess it will have to remain an unsolved mystery, now that the poor girl is dead.” She grabbed another egg roll, along with her clipboard. “I better get back to my rounds. You’re all set for the pet-costume competition, aren’t you? You’ve read the rules and regulations, correct?”

  I nodded while I savored my egg roll.

  “Your costume is fully compliant?”

  I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Um…compliant?”

  She frowned while jotting down a note. “Noncompliant costumes will be automatically disqualified. You might want to reread those rules and regulations.”<
br />
  “I’ll do that.” While I ate another egg roll, I tried to remember if I had turned those particular rules and regulations into origami birds. Then I noticed Jeff and Mike at the bar looking thick as thieves. They both glanced over in my direction. Mike held up his glass and toasted me before leaning toward Jeff and whispering something in his ear. I had a feeling my investigation was back on.

  12

  RUTABAGA POISONING

  “I’m pretty sure rutabagas go bad if they’re not refrigerated,” I said to Ben. “Since our fridge is broken, that means I should probably throw away all the Rutamentals diet food Scooter has on board our boat, right?”

  Ben scratched his head. “Uh, aren’t rutabagas a root vegetable like potatoes and yams? You don’t need to keep those chilled, so you shouldn’t need to worry about your rutabagas going bad.”

  “I thought I could count on you for support,” I said. “Now repeat after me: you can get food poisoning from eating rutabagas that haven’t been kept below forty degrees Fahrenheit. That’s what we’re going to tell Scooter, okay?”

  After Ben managed to recite the food-safety mantra correctly without breaking into laughter, we sat in the folding chairs underneath Marjorie Jane to take a break from boat work. Ben had been helping take the mast off The Codfather II with the aid of a crane, while I had been trying to troubleshoot why our fridge wasn’t working. After the accident at the sailing race the previous day, I was having a hard time focusing on that particular project.

  I scooched my chair back a few inches to try to get in the shade, then grimaced as I took a sip of warm water. What I wouldn’t have given for a cold drink. I had just about gotten used to not having a freezer since we moved onto our boat, but not having a fridge was quickly getting very tiresome.

  “Isn’t that Scooter pulling in now?” Ben asked. “There goes your opportunity to throw out the rutabaga food items before he got back.”