Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  “But you wrote about the wrong girl dying. I assumed that referred to Emily. Then you talked about another girl who didn’t deserve to live. Wasn’t that a reference to Penelope?”

  “Goodness, no. It doesn’t have anything to do with present-day. I was writing about what happened in the past. The wrong girl was my sister. She didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Then who was the other girl?”

  Wanda bit her lip. “My brother-in-law had an affair. It referred to his mistress. It’s what drove my sister to…”

  I squeezed her hands. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to dig up painful memories.”

  She pulled her hands back and folded them in her lap. “The chief did say that you fancy yourself an amateur investigator. If you’re really interested in who’s after Penelope, then you might want to talk to Alan.”

  “Alan?” I asked in disbelief. “Why would he want to kill her?”

  “He was in love with Penelope, but she refused to go out with him. He got really angry.”

  “Angry enough to kill?”

  “Emily’s death is proof of that,” she said.

  I thought about this for a minute. If you had asked me a few weeks ago if mild-mannered, meek-as-a-mouse Alan could fly into a jealous rage and murder someone, I would have laughed. But I remembered the confrontation he’d had with Jeff before the sailing race. There had been a look in Alan’s eyes that had frightened me. Maybe he was capable of violence.

  Wanda patted my hand. “The chief and I had a long talk about it. You don’t need to worry. He has everything under control. They’re conducting some lab tests. Once he gets the results back, he’ll arrest Alan, and Coconut Cove can go back to being the pleasant, sleepy tourist town that it is.”

  * * *

  “Are you ready to go, my little Milk Dud?” Scooter asked.

  “Well, that depends on where we’re going,” I said. “Is there going to be lunch involved?”

  “I think that could be arranged.”

  “Then I’ll be ready in five minutes.” After I explained to the volunteer who had arrived at the FAROUT booth for the afternoon shift which T-shirts were on sale, I grabbed my bag and put my arm through Scooter’s. “Where do you want to eat at?”

  “I would say the Rutamentals booth, but after you told me about Wanda’s journal, I’m hesitant to go there.”

  I was torn. Scooter was on the cusp of being persuaded to have hot dogs instead of rutabagas. If I let him continue to believe that Wanda had a deft touch with using poison as a seasoning, that would be unfair to her. But the price of telling him about her therapy and her tragic past was that he’d probably opt for the “healthy” choice.

  My big mistake was glancing up at him. One look at those dark-brown puppy-dog eyes of his and I sang like a canary. I waited nervously while he thought about what I had said. For the record, it turned out that telling the truth worked in my favor this time.

  “Hmm. I suppose that means we could eat something that has Trixie Tremblay’s blessing on it,” Scooter said. “But maybe we deserve a treat. We’ve been doing really well on our diet. I’m sure having one hot dog wouldn’t do any harm.”

  Falling off the wagon never tasted so good, I thought to myself as I piled extra sauerkraut on my dog. Scooter moaned with pleasure as he took a bite of his. After handing him an extra napkin, I went in for the kill. “Wanna get some ice cream after this?”

  Scooter took a swallow of his soda. “I’m not sure we should.”

  “We don’t have to get sundaes,” I said. “They sell small cones. Surely, one little scoop of ice cream would be okay. Even Trixie Tremblay must have a treat from time to time.”

  “I guess…”

  “Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.” I wiped some mustard off Scooter’s cheek. “You won’t regret this.”

  After we got our dessert—double chocolate chip for me and raspberry swirl for Scooter—we walked toward the waterfront and sat at one of the picnic tables next to the public docks. Fishing and charter boats tied up there to offload their catch and pick up passengers. One of Norm’s boats, the newly christened ET, was coming into port. A bunch of college-aged kids on spring break disembarked. A good-natured argument broke out about who had caught the biggest fish.

  “It seems like Norm’s charter business is benefiting from visitors to the festival,” I said.

  Scooter licked the ice cream that was dripping down the side of his cone. “Do you think he’ll be able to juggle his business with being mayor?”

  “Bite your tongue,” I said. “Let’s pray he doesn’t get elected.”

  “Isn’t that Mike over there?” Scooter smiled. “Hopefully, he’s not making a campaign contribution.”

  “Maybe it’s time that you got into politics,” I mused. “I think you’d make a fine mayor. You tick all the boxes—you’re honest, trustworthy, reliable, and you look good in green.”

  “What does green have to do with running for office?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Green has—”

  “Hey there,” Mike said. He slapped Scooter on his back, jostling his elbow. I looked on in dismay as his ice cream toppled off his cone and onto the table. “Oh, man, I’m sorry about that. Let me get you another one.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Scooter said glumly. “It was probably a sign that I shouldn’t be eating it.”

  I hurriedly finished my ice cream before he decided that the sign also applied to me. “What were you doing talking to Norm?” I asked as I licked the last of the double chocolate chip off my fingers. “I’m surprised to see the two of you so chummy after the sailboat accident.”

  Mike stroked his goatee. “We came to an agreement.”

  “You mean he paid you off?” I asked.

  “Something like that. Let’s just say we’ve put our differences aside for the moment to focus on something more important—making the arrangements for Emily’s memorial service tomorrow. Jeff asked if I could help out.”

  “He chartered Norm’s boat?” Scooter asked.

  “Yeah. He gave him a good rate.”

  “Norm must want something from him,” I said.

  Scooter laughed. “His vote.” He turned to Mike. “It’s nice of you to help Jeff out.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” he said. “And I have an idea of what she would have wanted. Plenty of yellow roses and the soundtrack to Mamma Mia!”

  “I thought you didn’t know Emily,” I said. “How would you know about the flowers and music?”

  “It’s hot today, isn’t it,” Mike said. He grabbed one of the napkins on the table and wiped his brow.

  “Not really,” I said. “It’s actually quite pleasant. I don’t think the temperature is why you’re breaking out in a sweat.” I patted the seat next to me. “Why don’t you take a load off.”

  “Um, I should probably get going,” Mike said with a slight stammer.

  “Sit,” I said, doing my best imitation of Nancy. It worked. Mike planted his butt on the bench next to me. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve been pretending not to know Emily. I already know you drew up her will.”

  Mike’s jaw dropped. “You do?”

  “I do now.” By this point, his napkin was soaking wet. I passed him another. “Why have you been keeping it a secret? Wouldn’t it impress potential clients if they knew you were doing work for such a big estate?”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “Her family is very secretive. They don’t like outsiders knowing about their business. When I first started working for her father—”

  “Maarten van der Byl, right?” Scooter asked.

  Mike nodded slowly, then leaned forward. “You might want to keep that name to yourself,” he said softly.

  Scooter banged his fist on the table. “Why should I do that? He’s putting the screws into me from the grave. Don’t pretend like you didn’t know it was his company that I’ve been having contract disputes with.”

  Stunned by my husband’s uncharact
eristic outburst, I found myself at a loss as to what to say next. I watched as Scooter drummed his fingers on the table while Mike tried his best to avoid eye contact. “How about some more ice cream?” I suggested. Unsurprisingly, that fell flat.

  “How about some answers, Mike,” Scooter said.

  “The Van der Byls are one of the families who founded Destiny Key. They have a lot of money, and they use that to buy people’s silence.” He gulped. “Including mine. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.”

  “Like trying to destroy my company.”

  “No,” Mike said. “I didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Van der Byl’s business interests. The only thing I dealt with was the family’s estate planning.”

  “Then you can tell us about Emily’s will,” I said.

  Mike blanched. “No. I can’t.”

  “You’re going to tell us something,” Scooter said.

  “Listen, I know the firm that represents the Van der Byl’s business side of things. Maybe I can try to find out what’s going on with the contract.”

  “And you can tell us about Emily,” I said.

  “I’ve already told everything I know to the police,” Mike said.

  I furrowed my brow. “Does that mean you’re a suspect?” At the rate sweat was dripping down his face, Mike was in danger of becoming dehydrated. I offered him some of my water.

  “Me? Why would I be a suspect? I don’t stand to gain anything from Emily’s death. But if you want to know who I think the police have in their sights, I can—”

  Before Mike could spill the beans, he was interrupted by the screams of a young girl. She had her hands over her mouth and was staring at something lying on the ground next to the dock.

  The three of us leaped up and raced toward her. It turned out it wasn’t a something lying on the ground. It was a someone, and her name was Wanda.

  I leaned down to check on her while Scooter dialed 911. She was breathing shallowly, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to stay conscious. As I stroked her forehead and told her that help was on the way, she whispered my name.

  “Ssh. Don’t say anything. Save your breath, Wanda,” I said.

  “Mollie,” she said weakly. I put my ear against her mouth to hear her better. “Alan. It was Alan. He poisoned me.”

  14

  MICE IN TUTUS

  The Coconut Cove grapevine was working overtime. I woke up to several texts updating me on Wanda’s status. She was going to be fine, but the doctor wanted to keep her in the hospital for another day for observation. With any luck, she’d be discharged on Saturday morning.

  The grapevine was silent on two key issues: (1) what Wanda had been poisoned with and (2) what the story with Alan was. I didn’t even bother calling the police station for an update, as I was sure I’d get a two-word response: “No comment.” So I fired up my laptop to do my own research.

  After being distracted for a few minutes by cat videos on YouTube (could Mrs. Moto be the next internet sensation?), I typed Alan’s name into the search bar, pressed Enter, and held my breath. Fortunately, Google searches took less than a second to pull up a list of results, so I didn’t really have to hold my breath, something I was never very good at. I always ended up hiccoughing, which wasn’t great when you were trying to rescue the sunglasses your cat had batted into the deep end of the pool.

  While Alan didn’t make a huge impression in real life, preferring to blend into the background, he had a big presence online. I found three websites—one for his photography business, one for his nonfiction books (apparently his DIY guide on how to winterize composting toilets hit the bestseller list in Mongolia), and a blog where he posted articles on a number of fascinating topics, including…wait for it…yep, you guessed it—poisonous substances.

  Our mild-mannered photographer wasn’t as mild-mannered as he seemed. His descriptions of what different poisons could do to the human body were pretty gruesome. I was particularly interested in his series of posts on the use of poisons in different television shows. He rated each one on how difficult it was for the murderer to obtain the poison in question and how realistic the depiction of the poisoning was. In his introduction, he stated that he wanted to provide this information as a resource for mystery writers. Then he added a disclaimer: “Don’t try any of these at home, unless you can be sure you won’t get caught. LOL!”

  LOL indeed. It was time to find out more about Alan’s background. I clicked on his bio. Turns out he had an advanced degree in biology and had worked in a research lab for many years. After becoming a little too attached to the test mice (he kept sneaking them into his briefcase and taking them home), he had an epiphany—by “epiphany,” I think he meant he had been fired for mice-napping—and he made a career change, becoming a photographer.

  Alan also had a YouTube channel, which featured a number of videos of mice doing adorable things. Mrs. Moto was entranced by the tiny outfits they wore while they walked across a miniature balance beam. I was entranced by the beadwork on their tutus. Alan apparently was handy not just with winterizing composting toilets but also with needlework.

  As I watched a mouse swinging on a trapeze, I realized that Alan had never shown me the video he had taken the day of the cake competition. Was that because it revealed him doing something suspicious like poisoning Penelope’s slice of cake? Nah, that couldn’t be it. If that had been captured on video, the chief would have arrested him for the murder at the outset. Still, I wondered if there was something the police had missed that Alan didn’t want me to see.

  I checked my phone again. Still no helpful messages about what was going on with Wanda and Alan. It was time to go directly to the ultimate source of information in Coconut Cove—the Sailor’s Corner Cafe.

  * * *

  “Hola. What can I get you, chica?” Alejandra asked as she set a cup of coffee down in front of me.

  “Nothing, just the coffee,” I said in an admirable display of willpower.

  “Are you sure? The chef’s got a new special—smothered fries.”

  “What are they smothered in?” I asked. “Not that I want any. It’s just professional curiosity.”

  “Gravy, cheese, bacon, onions, bell peppers, sour cream, grated rutabaga—”

  “Did you say rutabaga?”

  “It’s the latest craze,” she said. “People are requesting it on everything. Even if they’re not hardcore into Rutamentals, they’re adding small amounts of rutabaga to other dishes to get the health benefits. So, one order of fries for you?”

  I shuddered. “Thanks, but I think I’ll stick to coffee.”

  A few minutes later, I was chowing down on smothered fries, minus the rutabaga. Willpower is so overrated.

  When Alejandra came back to refill my coffee, I asked her if she had overheard any juicy tidbits during the morning rush. She looked around the cafe. The few people who were there had been served, and no one was waiting to be seated. She slid into the chair opposite me and rolled her shoulders back and forth. “I’m so stiff,” she said.

  “Waitressing is hard work,” I said.

  “Nah, that’s a piece of cake compared to the Trixie Tremblay boot camp I enrolled in.” She twisted her head from side to side, then stretched her arms over her head.

  “Don’t tell me you’re a convert too.”

  “I sure am, chica. I have so much more energy now. You should try it.”

  I glanced under the table. Sure enough, Alejandra was wearing legwarmers. How had I missed them earlier? Please tell me that Scooter hadn’t begun sporting legwarmers, and I had failed to notice.

  “I get enough exercise working on our boat,” I said.

  “Fair enough, but remember how you were asking me if I’d heard any good gossip about the poisonings?” I nodded. “Well, the place to hear what’s really going on isn’t here at the cafe, it’s at the boot camp. You won’t believe what I heard this morning.”

  I leaned forward, eager for her to spill the beans. She glanced around to ma
ke sure that no one needed anything. “Penelope told me that—”

  “Wait a minute. This is huge news!”

  “But I haven’t told you any news yet.”

  “Yes, you have. You said Penelope was at the Trixie Tremblay boot camp. Do you know what that means?” Alejandra shook her head. “It means the end of the Sugar Shack as we know it. She’s going to stop serving cookies, pies, cakes, basically everything that makes life worth living.”

  “Relax. It was the first time Penelope had attended. A friend invited her. She’s been going a bit stir crazy—the police have tried to limit her movements to the bakery and her home, and she has protection around the clock. But she was able to convince them to let her attend an exercise class, provided one of the officers went with her.”

  “So she’s not wearing legwarmers yet?”

  Alejandra smiled. “Nope, I think you’re safe for now. Although she was talking about creating a special line of Trixie Tremblay–inspired muffins.”

  “That’s a relief. So what was your news?”

  “Between you and me, Penelope told me about Alan asking her out.”

  “Ooh, that’s interesting. Wanda mentioned something about that.” I used a spoon to scoop up the last of the gravy from my plate. “What happened?”

  “He came to the Sugar Shack to do an interview with her. At first, the questions seemed pretty normal. He asked how she got into baking, about the culinary awards she had won, the challenges in starting your own business, that kind of thing. Then he began asking her some really odd questions. Originally, she thought the interview was for the local newspaper, but when the article never got published, she checked and found out he had made that up.”

  “What kinds of questions did he ask?”

  “About her family. He had some information on her mother, but he asked her what she knew regarding her father.” Alejandra did a few more stretches. “The thing is, she doesn’t know anything about her father. Her mom raised her on her own, and she clammed up whenever Penelope would ask her about her father. Alan’s questions made her feel really uncomfortable.”