Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  She must have forgotten it. Maybe it was a journal of some kind. I decided to stop by her boat to return it to her. But before I could get up to collect my bag and the pet costume, Mrs. Moto jumped back on the table and butted her head against my arm, jostling the book out of my hand. She used her nose again to push several of the pages over. Then she sat on top of the open notebook and yowled.

  “What is going on with you?” I plucked the cat off and placed her in my lap. She continued to yowl. “I wish you’d use your words,” I said. “Although, I guess you are. Your feline equivalent of words. What are you trying to say?”

  Mrs. Moto reached out and pressed her paw on the notebook before staring intently at me. “Do you want me to read this? Don’t you think that would be nosy, reading someone’s journal?”

  When it comes to stare-downs, my cat always wins. I finally relented and pulled the notebook toward me. It was a journal. The page that Mrs. Moto had opened the notebook to was dated a couple of weeks prior. I shivered as I read what Wanda had written:

  I made a vow on my sister’s grave that I would avenge her death. But I was a coward. I could never bring myself to do what needed to be done. To destroy the person who had destroyed my sister. Year after year went by and I did nothing. I just waited and watched. No action, no vengeance, just waiting and watching. An exile without any purpose.

  I can’t wait and watch anymore. Not with her flaunting it in my face. Her success, her happiness, her youth. All of that should have been my sister’s. She doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve anything.

  This time it’s going to be different. This time I’m going to be strong. This time I’m going to do what needs to be done.

  I felt my skin go clammy. I put the journal down on the table, then scooped Mrs. Moto up and hugged her, burrowing my face in her fur. She licked my cheek before wriggling out of my arms. She flipped a few more pages over with her paw and meowed quietly. I took a deep breath, then bent over the book. This entry was from Monday.

  How could the wrong girl have been taken? How could this have happened? How am I supposed to mourn while I’m in exile?

  I can hear my sister from her grave, calling to me. Don’t worry, dear sister, this time, she will die.

  13

  THE WISDOM OF YODA

  Holy buckets! What would you do if you had read something like that? Wanda seemed like such an ordinary woman—she lived on a sailboat, made money doing food demonstrations at the grocery store, wore legwarmers, and led a quiet life—but I guess she wasn’t ordinary after all. Unless scribbling homicidal journal entries was normal. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.

  One of my favorite quotes from The Empire Strikes Back popped into my head: “Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.” I had always liked how Yoda uttered that phrase with that cute speech pattern and accent of his, but now it had taken on a new meaning. Wanda’s grief over her sister’s death had caused her to take a very, very dark path toward murder. And not just one murder, but two murders. Penelope’s life was in danger.

  “Come on, Mrs. Moto,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  I grabbed the journal and stuck it in my bag along with the corgi mystery and the pet costume. Mrs. Moto must have sensed the urgency of our mission, because she sat quietly while I put her harness and leash on.

  We dashed out the door while I dialed the chief. “What do you mean he isn’t at the police station?” I demanded of the woman who answered the phone. “He’s at the festival? Doesn’t he know there’s a murderer on the loose?”

  I hung up and quickly texted Penelope, warning her to avoid Wanda. Then I sped toward the waterfront park. After asking around, I heard that the chief was where I least expected him to be—at his ex-wife’s art booth.

  Anabel was busy with some potential customers, helping them to decide which painting would look better displayed over their mantel. My vote would have been for the one of fairies dancing around a toadstool, but they seemed partial to one of an elf family picnicking on a beach. The chief was sitting on a stool underneath a nearby tree feeding Frick and Frack treats.

  “There you are!” I said after I caught my breath. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere!”

  The burly man stood, then pointed at the doggie bed in the corner of Anabel’s stand. “Lie down.” After the Yorkies were convinced to settle down, he turned to me and raised both of his eyebrows. “Looks like you’ve found me.”

  I reached into my bag and thrust the evidence into his hands. “Read this.”

  “I’m not sure this is my cup of tea,” the chief said. “Now, if it was about Yorkies instead of a corgi, then maybe.”

  “Oops. Sorry, wrong one,” I said, exchanging the cozy mystery for the journal.

  “It’s nicely bound,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “I like the decorative pattern on the leather.”

  “I’m not showing you this because of how it looks. It’s proof that Wanda is the murderer.” I grabbed the journal out of his hands, flipped the pages to the relevant entries, and passed it back to him. “Start here.”

  The chief’s eyebrows were eerily still while he was reading. “Where did you find this?” he asked when he was finished.

  “I didn’t find it. Mrs. Moto did.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “Really, she did. It was sitting on the table in the marina lounge. I didn’t pay any attention to it until Mrs. Moto pointed out its significance.”

  “I see. Will you excuse me for a moment?” The chief walked toward the waterfront while he talked to someone on his phone. I desperately wanted to follow him and listen in, but Anabel had finished up with her customers and wanted to know what was going on.

  “I’ve just given your ex-husband an important clue that’s going to crack open the murder investigation and save someone’s life. He’s probably on his way to arrest the culprit now.”

  She put her hands over her mouth and gasped. “I hope Tiny takes backup. I always get so worried.” Frick and Frack, no doubt sensing their mom’s distress, rushed over and began barking. She bent down and gave them a cuddle. “It’s okay. Your daddy is going to be okay.”

  Mrs. Moto decided to get in on the cuddling. She barged in between the two dogs and butted Anabel’s hand, catching her by surprise. I held my breath, waiting to see how she would react. “Okay, but just this once,” Anabel said as she tentatively scratched the top of Mrs. Moto’s head.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked. “You seem a little shaky.”

  “Can you grab me a rutabaga juice? Feel free to get one for yourself too.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I said. “Why don’t you go sit on that stool and I’ll bring it over.”

  While I dug through the assortment of bottles in the cooler—who knew there were so many varieties of rutabaga juice available—Frick and Frack crawled into their doggie bed. Mrs. Moto followed, her leash dragging behind her. The three of them looked pretty adorable snuggled up together.

  “I used to find her in my condo like that,” Anabel said. “When she wasn’t napping with Frick and Frack, I’d find her eating their dog food.”

  I sat on the ground next to Anabel and ran my fingers through the cool grass, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the letter she had sent us. After a few moments, I went for the direct approach. “Listen, I’m really sorry she kept getting into your place, but why didn’t you just talk to us about it and let us know it was a problem?”

  “I don’t know.” She fiddled with the lid on her juice bottle while she stared at the people wandering through the booths, hunting for that perfect souvenir from the Coconut Cove Boating Festival. “I guess, if I’m honest, it’s because it gave me an excuse to talk with Tiny. He came over one afternoon and listened to me complain about the cat hair. It was nice having a conversation with him about something other than joint custody of our dogs. I went to the station the next day to talk with him about it some mor
e, and he told me he didn’t have time. Then I think things just escalated from there. I guess I took out my anger at Tiny on you guys.”

  “I get it,” I said. “Scooter tells me that sometimes I let things get out of hand.”

  “Do you think we could just forget about everything that’s happened and move on?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Water under the bridge.” Mrs. Moto looked at us and meowed softly. “I think she forgives you too. Either that or she wants one of those dog treats.”

  * * *

  I had another sleepless night. If Chief Dalton thought I had an overactive imagination during my waking hours, he’d be amazed at what my mind came up with while I was sleeping. My nightmares were getting stranger and stranger. The latest one featured giant rutabagas wearing Trixie Tremblay T-shirts and polka-dotted legwarmers and chasing after me on stilts. I wasn’t sure what I found more disturbing—the fact that the rutabagas had somehow grown legs and could move around unaided or the fact that I thought their legwarmers were cute.

  While Scooter made our morning smoothies, I checked my phone. Despite having sent Penelope several texts warning her about Wanda the previous day, she hadn’t replied. My stomach churned. I really hoped that meant that Wanda hadn’t gotten to her first. I dialed the police station and asked to be connected to the chief. After the receptionist asked who was calling, she told me that the chief had left a message for me: “No comment.”

  I choked down my smoothie while drawing some unflattering pictures of the chief’s eyebrows in my notebook. It was a therapeutic way to deal with my annoyance. They actually looked very realistic. Maybe I was more artistic than I realized. I’d have to show my drawings to Anabel and ask her what she thought. Art classes might be in my future.

  I finally dragged myself out of bed and headed to the waterfront park. I was scheduled to man the FAROUT booth that morning. If I hadn’t been running late, I would have stopped by the Sugar Shack to check on Penelope beforehand. Fortunately, I didn’t have plans for the afternoon, which would give me time to visit her, as well as finish Mrs. Moto’s costume.

  Anabel was setting up her artwork when I got there. I helped her hang a large painting of a leprechaun riding on the back of the Loch Ness monster while it swam through the water. I have to confess that I was a little confused by it at first—leprechauns were indigenous to Ireland and the Loch Ness monster lived in Scotland—but then she explained that the Loch Ness monster had actually spread worldwide. There was even one living in Lake Okeechobee in the middle of Florida. It was quite reclusive, so most people weren’t aware that it was there.

  Then she confided to me that if she sold that painting, it would cover her mortgage payments for several months. After hearing that, I definitely decided to look into art classes. Perhaps I could make a small fortune selling watercolor paintings of the chief’s eyebrows.

  When I asked Anabel if she had heard from her ex-husband, she got a little teary-eyed, so I dropped the subject. I tried to reassure myself that he had everything under control. Surely, Wanda was locked up in a cell. Penelope’s cell phone battery had died, and she was safe and sound at the Sugar Shack whipping up a batch of muffins. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  I was organizing T-shirts when I heard a cheery voice call out, “Get your free Rutamentals sample here!” My jaw dropped when I saw Wanda standing only a few feet away holding a large tray and trying to convince people about the health benefits of carob-covered rutabagas. My hands started shaking, and the T-shirts tumbled to the ground. As I bent down to pick them up, I bumped my head against the table. When I looked up, I found myself staring into a pair of homicidal green eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” I spluttered. I reached into my bag and tried to pull out something to protect myself with. The best I could come up with was my trusty roll of breath mints. If only I had stuck with those karate classes. Fresh breath wasn’t really going to be an effective self-defense strategy. Bad breath maybe, but not fresh, minty breath.

  “One of the other gals is watching the Rutamentals booth, so I decided to stroll through the park and hand out samples.” She waved a gooey brown lump in front of my face. “One taste of these and people will be flocking to our booth to sign up for the program. Go on, try it. You’ll be surprised how much carob tastes like chocolate.”

  I took a step backward. “Surprised? I’ll tell you what I’m surprised about, that you’re walking around free.”

  Wanda set the tray on the table and wagged her finger at me. “You know, I should be mad at you. That was very naughty what you did—giving the chief my journal. It was private.”

  I glanced over at Anabel and frantically tried to make eye contact. Fortunately for her, she was busy making a sale. Unfortunately for me, she didn’t notice I was alone with a homicidal maniac.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Wanda asked. “Speaking of, where is that cat of yours? Chief Dalton said she found my journal.”

  For once I was glad Mrs. Moto had decided to stay on the boat with Scooter rather than keep me company. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”

  Wanda pursed her lips. “Why would I hurt her? Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” She smiled. “Kind of like how you overreacted when you read my journal. Like I told the chief, it didn’t mean anything. It’s just an exercise my therapist has me do. By writing about things that anger or frustrate us on a daily basis, we can process our feelings and let go of our negative emotions.”

  “The things you wrote about were pretty out there. These weren’t everyday frustrations you were talking about,” I said. “You wrote about murder, for goodness’ sake.”

  “You’re right, Mollie. I wrote about some serious things.” She sighed. “I’ve experienced some very painful things in my past. I’m still angry to this day about what happened to my sister. But you have to believe me. I would never actually hurt anyone.”

  “What exactly happened to your sister?”

  Her eyes welled up with tears. “My therapist says I should confide in other people. I’ve never told anyone other than him what happened, but since you’ve read my journal, I might as well tell you.” She pointed at the chairs set up behind the table. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said. There were enough people milling around that I didn’t think she’d try anything. Still, to be on the safe side, I didn’t plan on eating anything that she had prepared. Not even poison could enhance the taste of rutabaga.

  Wanda ran her fingers through her long dark hair and took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. My brother-in-law killed my sister.”

  “That’s awful! He murdered her?”

  “She committed suicide, but he drove her to it. Although it wasn’t murder in the technical sense, she wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for him. He betrayed her in the worst possible way.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “She was only twenty-five. She left behind a…” I handed her a tissue. After blowing her nose, she continued. “She left behind a beautiful four-year-old girl. I couldn’t bear it. My sister and I had been so close. We did everything together. We were best friends.”

  Wanda started sobbing uncontrollably. I shifted uneasily in my chair. People were staring at us. Anabel mouthed, “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, then gently patted the distraught woman on her back. “There, there,” I said, which was such a stupid thing to say. What do people mean when they say that while consoling someone? It’s not like you’re pointing at something when you say it—There, there, look at that there. Over there. There, there. Get a grip, Mollie, I told myself. You’re starting to channel Dr. Seuss.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. Another pretty banal thing to say, but it got Dr. Seuss out of my head.

  “Do you have any rutabaga juice?” she asked.

  “You’re sure you don’t want something with some sugar and caffeine instead? That’s what I turn to when I’m stressed.”

  Wanda glanced down at her Trixie Tremblay T-shirt. “No, I’ll stick
with the juice. Live Healthy, Live Long, Live Strong.”

  “Okay, coming right up.” I scooted over to Anabel’s booth. “Can I snag a juice from you?”

  “Sure.” She scratched her head. “Didn’t you tell me that she’s a murderer?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Um, far be it from me to judge, but do you think it’s a good idea to be having a drink with her?”

  I held up my hands. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think right now. When I read her journal yesterday, I was convinced she was a killer. But now, I’m not so sure. She said her therapist told her to write that stuff down. You wouldn’t believe the horrifying story she told me about her sister. I think she might just be a messed-up lady.”

  “Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Besides, if she was a killer, Tiny would have locked her up.”

  A sense of relief washed over me. “That’s true. She isn’t in custody, so her story must have checked out.” I squeezed Anabel’s hand. “Thanks for that and for the juice.”

  After I handed Wanda the bottle, I apologized for reading her journal and giving it to the police.

  “That’s okay. I probably would have done the same thing in your shoes,” she said. While she sipped her juice, I noticed a slight grimace on her face. Was it possible that the Trixie Tremblay spokesperson didn’t like the taste of the products she was selling? “You sure you don’t want some?” Wanda asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure. I think I’ll stick to water.” I tapped my finger on my lips. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but who were you talking about in your journal? Were the women you wrote about Emily and Penelope?”

  Wanda’s eyes grew wide, and she started coughing. She set her bottle on the table. “Sorry, it must have gone down the wrong way. Why would I have written about Emily and Penelope? I didn’t really know either of them.”