by Emma Belmont
“Good afternoon,” Maris said with her usual cheer.
They looked up from the camera that Gayle held in her hands, already smiling. Maris guessed them both in their early seventies, though their trim fitness and the walking outfits certainly belied their age. Mark was easily over six feet tall, and Gayle wasn’t much shorter.
“Well hello, Maris,” Gayle said, and Mark said, “Hi there.”
“You two look like you’ve been for a walk,” Maris said, going to the ottoman. “Did you enjoy it?” She stroked Mojo’s soft and fluffy flank.
“It was wonderful,” Gayle said. “We ventured inland today and visited the redwoods. Simply gorgeous.”
As Mojo raised his head to look at her, Maris crouched next to the ottoman. “Did you walk the Secoya Trail?”
“Yep,” Mark said. “Just like you told us. We left the car at the trailhead, already surrounded by the forest.”
Maris had done some small morning and afternoon hikes there, not as long as the ones she’d done as a girl. But without much elevation gain, it was ideal if you simply wanted to stroll among the massive and majestic trees. Even at the trailhead, the redwood forest was so thick, you could hardly see the sky.
“Of course I’d seen photographs of them,” Gayle said. “But the real things…well, they take your breath away.”
Maris knew from previous chats with them that Mark had retired from a dot-com startup in Portland and Gayle had been a professional photographer.
“Well, that and the long walk,” Mark said, laughing a little. “That took my breath away too.”
Gayle flipped a switch on her digital SLR and the screen on the back brightened. She offered it to Maris. “Would you like to see?”
“I’d love it,” Maris said, standing and taking the camera from her.
Mojo looked up at her with his glittering orange eyes.
“Just press that little forward arrow button,” Gayle said, pointing at it.
But Maris wasn’t all that anxious to move on to the next photo. She was still enjoying the first. The nearly crimson tree trunks rose grandly from every edge of the image, their distant green tops almost meeting in the center. Beyond them was a pale blue sky, and dusty sunbeams descending in their midst. Though it fit in the palm of Maris’s hand, the photo captured the forest’s quiet majesty as though it were a cathedral.
Each image was completely different. Gayle had clearly not been interested in variations on a theme. The brook that flowed beside a section of the path had turned into a milky, time-lagged blur that seemed to float against the mossy green river rocks that bounded it. Next was a closeup of ferns at the base of a tree, their fine leaf points spotlighted by a bright sliver of sun. Maris had to force herself to stop.
She shook her head as she handed the camera back. “These are stunning, Gayle. Absolutely stunning. Any one of these could be hanging in a gallery.”
Gayle took the compliment in stride, and gave Maris a little smile. “Thank you.”
Mark put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “That’s my little shutterbug,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek that really made her smile.
Maris simply grinned and watched them for a moment before she said, “I hope that you got some refreshments when you returned home.” She nodded at the camera. “It looks to me like you covered quite a bit of ground.”
Mark smiled up at her. “We did. Cookie brought us some tea that was made from herbs straight from the garden.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had garden-fresh tea like that,” Gayle said. “It was so refreshing that I feel ready for another hike.” Mark quickly nodded in agreement, and Maris noted that they truly did look invigorated.
Maris had to hand it to the petite potion-maker and chef. Whatever had been in the tea had done the trick.
“Would you look at that,” Gayle said as she got up, set aside her camera, and went to the Victorian writing table. She picked up the Ouija board. “I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid.”
Mojo gave a meow that did his namesake proud, and sounded like a tiny, tinny harmonica. Maris’s Aunt Glenda had named him after a famous blues harmonica player.
Mark laughed. “Well someone wants to see that board.”
Gayle brought the board and plastic planchette to the coffee table and set it down. Mojo immediately jumped down from the ottoman and up next to the board.
“So what should we ask?” Mark said.
Gayle smiled and clapped her hands together as she took a seat beside him. “I know.” She turned to Maris. “Our third grandchild will be born next month, but the parents don’t want to know if it’s a boy or a girl.” She turned to Mark. “Let’s ask the Ouija board.”
Mark grinned at her. “Good choice.” They both placed their fingers gently on the edge of the planchette.
“Spirit of the Ouija board,” Mark intoned, “will our grandchild be a boy or a girl?”
Mojo put a single paw on the planchette with them. “Look at that,” Gayle said, obviously delighted. “Mojo wants to know too.”
They didn’t have to wait for long, as the planchette began to move. Although the Magnusons seemed oblivious to Mojo’s expression as they stared at the board, Maris could see that his amber eyes seemed to have focused on something far away. His ears swiveled in near full circles, like tiny radar dishes.
“Y,” Mark said, as the planchette’s clear window passed over that letter.
“A,” Gayle said, looking perplexed. “C,” she said as the letter quickly followed.
Mark added, “H.”
Maris felt a tingling shiver down her spine. Mojo was spelling the word “yacht.”
“T,” Gayle said, as the planchette came to a stop. She looked up at Mark. “Our grandchild is a boat.”
“As long as he or she is a healthy boat,” Mark said with a smile. “Let’s try this one more time.” He pushed the planchette back to the start.
“I’d settle for a dinghy this time,” Gayle said with a smile. But then she took on a mock serious look and tone. “Tell us the sex of our next grandchild.”
The planchette wobbled and then slid to “Y” again. Gayle shot her husband a look. “Will you stop that? You’ve been bugging me for a boat for ages, but I want to know about the baby, not what you want for our anniversary.”
He laughed again and lifted his hands in the air. “There. Now you know it’s not me.”
But to both of their amazements, she and Mojo spelled “yacht” yet again.
Gayle stared down at the board as Mojo shook out his fur, leapt to the ground, and bounced out into the hallway without so much as a look back.
Maris looked at the planchette still over the last letter. Twice, Mojo had spelled yacht, but how did that help her? She already knew that the murderer was likely someone on the Copernicus, since it couldn’t be Slick. Frankly, she already thought she knew who it was. How did seeing the word “yacht” help?
She headed to the doorway but paused. “Is there anything I can get for you?” Maris asked the couple.
Mark had picked up the planchette and was examining its underside. Gayle was still staring at the board, but finally seemed to have heard.
“Oh, no, Maris,” she said, glancing at her. Mark put the planchette back on the board. “But thank you.”
“All right,” Maris said. “Wine and cheese as usual later.”
Neither of them replied, but instead had placed their fingers on the planchette again.
Maris had to grin a little. She’d probably have to serve the wine and cheese in here.
8
The next day, after the morning breakfast routine, Maris had made the foggy drive to the pier to meet Mac. Her tires bumped rhythmically over the giant planks of the dock as she made her way to the end of the parking lot. Unlike yesterday, with the emergency vehicles and the local fisherman looking on, this morning the pier was quiet.
White mist enshrouded the working end of the long wharf, where the buildings that
were used to store equipment and process catch were located. No sound came from them, nor did there seem to be any boat traffic. Only a few fisherman had their lines dropped over the side into the glassy water, compared to the dozens she’d seen yesterday.
As she made her way past the first two, she peeked inside their buckets: nothing. She frowned a little. Neither had caught a single thing. That had to be a new record, of a sort, for the pier. No wonder no one was here. But as she came up to the final fisherman, she recognized his young face when he pulled back the hoodie.
“Good morning, Ryan,” she said, glancing down into his bucket. He’d caught a single flounder, though it was a good size.
“Top of the morning,” he replied, “though not exactly good.”
His fiery red hair was pulled back in a sleek pony tail, contrasting with the tranquil green glow of his eyes and the paleness of his complexion. This was not the first time Maris had run across the owner of Castaways, the tackle shop in town, fishing at the pier. But she’d never seen his bucket so empty. On a normal day, he seemed to reel in the catches almost non-stop.
She glanced up and down the dock. “Fish not biting today?”
In answer, he eyed his line and cranked the handle on the reel. Maris watched as the nylon thread rose from the water. In a few moments she saw a small, neon-yellow fish on a hook, followed by something that looked like a spinning pompon, also in yellow but with red fringes. They bounced to and fro as Ryan brought them up, followed by a teardrop shaped lead weight.
When they drew closer, Maris could see that the yellow fish were not fish at all, but shaped pieces of rubber. As they approached the tip of the rod, Ryan deftly swung them over the railing and caught the weight in his other hand.
“These are the best artificials you can get,” he said, wrapping the weight around the rod. “Top notch lures. They never fail.” He pointedly looked in his bucket. “Until today.” Then he shrugged and smiled at her. “I’ll try again tomorrow. Good things come to those who bait.”
As he closed up his tackle box, Maris asked, “Does this happen from time to time? That the fish simply don’t seem to bite?”
He gathered up the box and rod in one hand, and the bucket in the other. “Not that I’ve ever seen.” Then he looked down the pier to where Seas the Day was docked. “Then again, I’ve never seen Slick in port for the day either. For all our sakes, I hope he sets sail soon.”
Maris’s eyebrows drew together as she gazed at Slick’s boat. What did that have to do with catching fish here?
“I’ve got to go open up my shop,” the young man said, heading off. “Have a nice day.”
“You too,” Maris said to his back.
As she approached Slick’s boat, she mulled over the strange conversation. Cookie had let her know that it was impolite to inquire directly of another witch, wizard, mage, or any type of magic person regarding their ability. But Maris had suspected from the beginning that both Slick and Ryan were magic folk. The fact that her Aunt Glenda had been involved romantically with the elderly fisherman had been her first clue. Ryan’s amazing way with a rod and reel had been her second.
On-board Seas the Day, Slick seemed to be busy on deck.
“Good morning,” Maris called down to him from the pier.
“Ahoy there,” he called back, giving her a wave. He had something in his hand, but he brought it to the prow of the ship so he could be closer.
She squinted down at it. It looked like a bunch of rope. “Are you practicing tying knots?”
“Tying knots, yep,” Slick said, surprising her. “But not practicing.”
He held up the lines of netting that she’d thought was rope, and spread his hands. In the middle of the widely spaced green mesh was a hole about the size of a basketball.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “That’s not good.”
Slick shook his head and let most of the net fall back to the deck. “Not unless you’re trying to catch sharks.”
Then he took a tool from the slicker’s pocket that looked to Maris like a weaver’s flat shuttle, an implement she associated with a loom, not the deck of a fishing boat. But wound inside its middle was the same green cord that made up the net. True to his word, Slick took a bit of the green cord and tied it to the existing net at the hole, using movements like a surgeon tying off a knot. Once he’d tugged it tight, he used the shuttle like a big needle, threading it through an adjacent part of the net. Then he tied another knot. Loop by loop, he created a row across the top of the hole. In only a few moments, he created a second row of loops under the first, crossing the hole in the opposite direction, and linking it to the first row.
“I guess you’ve done this before,” Maris said, fascinated with the process.
“Yep,” he said nodding, but not stopping. “It’s the first job I learned on the deck.” When he finished the second row, he looked up at her and smiled. “On account of it not being important.”
Important or not, Slick was obviously making good use of the time he had to spend in port. As she watched him start the third row, Ryan’s words came back to her—I hope he sets sail soon. Then she remembered Cookie’s words about the restaurants—hard pressed to serve meals. There was more to the elderly mariner than just commercial fishing. There had to be. She’d just about worked up enough nerve to ask him, when Mac came up behind her.
“Good morning,” he said, giving her a start. As she covered her heart with her hand, he added, “Sorry. I thought you heard me.”
“Good morning,” she gasped. She’d been concentrating on Slick so hard that she hadn’t heard a thing. “No problem,” she said, her breathing returning to normal. “Slick and I were just chatting.”
“Looks like it’s all hands on deck,” Slick called up to the sheriff with a wave. “Any chance I’ll be able to fish later today?”
“Not likely, Mr. Duff,” Mac said. “But you’ll be the first to know.”
Mac had turned to go but Slick called out, “Hold on,” and disappeared into the wheelhouse. He emerged with what looked like a bright orange tackle box. “Dry emergency storage,” he said loudly. Then undid the clasps, opened it and took out a matching orange flare gun. He showed it to the sheriff. “All accounted for.”
“Duly noted,” Mac called back.
Slick waved his hand in the direction of the giant yacht. “Best get cracking then.”
Mac waved back at him as he and Maris headed that way.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Maris said, “not that I doubted him.”
As they mounted the gangway, Mac said, “He could own two.” When Maris shot a look at him, he added, “Not that I doubted him either. It’s a matter of what holds up in court.”
Without anyone on the deck to greet them like yesterday, Mac and Maris simply wandered back along the deck, the way that Nadia had led them. But today, on the aft deck, Alan Hecht, the cinematographer was having breakfast.
Maris couldn’t help but take note of the meal—Eggs Benedict, Belgian waffles, and what looked like fresh orange juice. Despite the unexpected layover, Nadia was making sure the guests were taken care of.
“Mr. Hecht,” Mac said, causing him to look up in mid-bite. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Hecht finished that bite and nodded as he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He gestured to the sectional couch opposite him. “Of course,” he said. “Please, sit down.” He’d been reading a tablet of some sort, but turned it off and set it aside. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Oh?” Maris said, taking a seat.
The cinematographer pushed his plate to the side. “The first mate said you’d be talking with everyone.” He smiled at them both. “And please call me Alan.”
“Thanks,” Mac said as he took a seat too, and brought the notepad from his breast pocket. “How well did you know the captain?”
“Well?” Alan said. “I wouldn’t say I knew him at all. He took his orders from Fritz—or at least th
at’s what he’d like to believe.”
“How long have you known Fritz?” Maris asked.
Hecht laughed a little. “Longer than I care to remember.” He picked up his glass of juice. “Since the beginning, about thirty years ago.” He took a sip.
As Mac made a note, Maris said, “Since you’re a cinematographer and he’s a director, it must have been a good fit.”
Hecht laughed again as he set his glass down. “We started as actors, like everybody else—and I do mean everybody.”
Although Maris could picture Falschung in front of the screen, she couldn’t really imagine Alan as an actor.
At her look of puzzlement, he said, “We were in LA, waiting tables, auditioning for bit parts, when he decided to write his own movie and direct it, so we could star in it.” He smiled and shook his head. “Just a couple of kids really. I borrowed someone’s camera, and we were off and running.”
“And you’re still running,” Maris said, smiling.
Alan tilted his head. “You can’t argue with success. The man has a nose for story. He’s a storytelling genius.” The cinematographer indicated himself. “Me? I’ve been along for the ride.” He gestured to the surroundings. “And what a ride it is.”
“How did Fritz and Captain Hazelwood get along?” Mac asked.
Alan snorted. “Not too well, if you ask me. It’s like having two directors on a movie. It doesn’t work.” But when he realized what he’d said, he quickly added, “Their disagreements were strictly professional. Fritz is many things, but violent is not one of them.”
“Where were you at the time of the murder?” the sheriff asked.
“Alone in my cabin,” Alan said, “probably asleep.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Is it true? Was Hazelwood shot with a flare gun?”