by Emma Belmont
Kaitlyn laughed. “Every waiter and waitress in LA has written one. It doesn’t mean they’re any good. But I went the extra step. I hired a script doctor.” At Maris’s quizzical look she added, “I paid him to rewrite the whole thing.”
“Wow,” Maris said. “How did it turn out?”
Kaitlyn shrugged. “I liked it, but it went nowhere. It’s a lot easier to give notes.”
“Since you’re giving notes,” Maris said, “does that mean that you’ll be part of the next movie?”
Kaitlyn nodded vigorously. “It’s already been announced,” she gushed, and clasped her hands together. “I’ll be playing the love interest in this one.”
Maris had to smile at the young woman’s excitement.
“Can you tell me where you were at the time of the murder?” Mac asked.
“Oh,” Kaitlyn said, blinking. “Right. I was in my room, thank goodness. I’d hate to have seen…” She glanced down the long deck on the side of the ship. “Well, I’m just glad I was in my room.”
Maris exchanged a brief look with Mac.
“Is there anyone that can corroborate that?” the sheriff asked.
She put a finger to her chin as she thought. “Well, I didn’t have any food or tea or anything brought up, and I was alone, so I guess–” She stopped and held up her finger. “Yes,” she declared. “Check my social media. I was posting some photos for my fans on the different channels.”
Social media? Maris had to wonder if that was a new one for Mac—it was for her.
But he simply said, “Good,” and closed the notepad. “I’ll do that. Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure,” she said smiling. “That wasn’t so bad!”
12
As Maris watched Kaitlyn leave, nearly skipping down the deck, Mac’s phone rang.
He took it from his belt. “McKenna.” His slate gray eyes flicked toward the pier’s parking lot. “Got it. I’m on my way.”
“I’ve got to go,” he said, as he replaced the phone in its holder. Maris handed him the evidence bag with the offer letter. “I’ll let you know on this,” he said, holding it up.
“Maybe we’ll catch a break,” Maris said, as they headed to the gangway.
“I’m not holding my breath,” he said, motioning for her to go first. “And there’s still another member of the crew that we should speak with.”
That had to be Nadia. Maris was confident of her friend’s innocence, but she might well be able to shed some light on the murder. Over time, the staff became invisible and sometimes overheard things.
“Right,” Maris said as they reached the bottom.
He paused as she caught up. “Are you headed to the parking lot?”
“Not right away,” she said. “I’m going to check on Slick.”
“All right,” the sheriff said, hesitating for a moment, as though he was unsure of which direction to go. Abruptly, he said, “I’ll be in touch.”
“Great,” Maris said, smiling. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Though he looked like he might have a reply, he only smiled and strode in the direction of the lot.
Maris went the short distance to where Slick’s boat was docked. When she didn’t see him on the deck, she passed the pointed prow and caught the faintest hint of…turpentine. Down below, there was Slick in the shadow of the wheelhouse, painting.
“Ahoy, there,” she called down to him. “Permission to come aboard?”
Slick looked up and smiled, waving the paintbrush. “Always granted.”
Maris hurried to the gangway and down it, and met Slick at the wood platform that separated Seas the Day from Copernicus. He held out his hand to her, which she gratefully accepted, and helped her down into the boat.
“Two visits in one day,” he said. “I’ll have to stay in port more often.”
Maris gave him a quick hug. “That would suit me fine,” she said. As they separated she eyed the paintbrush. “You can’t stop working, can you.”
He gave her a measured raise of one bushy eyebrow. “Look who’s talking.”
Maris had taken after her Aunt Glenda in many respects, from her looks to her magic ability and even her adopted cat. But Slick was referring to the Type A+ personality that she and Glenda had shared.
“Show me what you’re doing,” she said.
He took her hand to keep her steady on the deck, and they circled to the other side of the wheelhouse. Then he guided her to a wooden crate, where she took a seat. A piece of paint spattered canvas covered the deck next to the small building that housed the boat’s controls. As Slick stepped back onto it, he dipped the brush into an open paint can.
“Too early in the season for painting,” he said, as if to himself. “But flogging the glass is permitted if you can’t sail.” He was painting the trim on the white wheelhouse a beautiful, royal blue.
“That’s a wonderful color,” Maris said.
He stopped for a moment and admired it. “The color of a deep and becalmed sea, just before a winter storm.”
In her mind’s eye, Maris saw it—the water like a glassy jewel under the gray skies.
He dipped his brush again. “Making headway up there?” he asked.
“Yes,” Maris said, glad to be able to tell the truth. “I think we’re narrowing in on it.” Even so, she was glad when he didn’t press her for a timeline. As Mac had said, they still needed to talk with Nadia. But thinking of questioning her former colleague, made something else occur to her. They had yet to question Slick. “When Hazelwood fell dead on the deck, wouldn’t you have heard him?”
Slick kept painting. “I wasn’t here,” he said. “I’d been in the processing warehouse, at the end of the pier, sorting out the day’s catch. Then I’d gone home.” He dunked the brush again. “I saw the flare gun when I came back aboard this morning.” He paused to look at her. “The rest you know.”
“Was anyone else in the warehouse that evening?” she asked. Although she knew that Slick was innocent, she preferred the question come from her, and not Mac.
“Nope,” he said simply, painting again. “Too late for the landlubbers.”
Maris had to smile a little at his seeming…quiet confidence? Nonchalance? Lack of concern? The only thing that seemed to ruffle the old sailor was not sailing. She’d been about to remark on that fact, when she heard voices.
Slick stopped painting. He’d heard them too, and they were growing louder.
She looked toward the front of Seas the Day. Judging from the direction of the voices, whoever was speaking must have been on the prow of the Copernicus, only several feet away. Though she couldn’t see them because of the wheelhouse, they sounded so close now they couldn’t be on the pier.
“Leave it to Captain Bligh to get murdered before we could push him overboard,” a baritone said.
Maris grimaced a little at the reference. The sailors aboard the HMS Bounty had mutinied and cast their hated captain adrift with his supporters.
“Too bad that someone beat us to it,” the other, higher-pitched, voice said.
“Too bad they were so stupid,” the baritone said. “Now there’s a murder investigation.”
“Quit your griping,” the other protested. “We’re in the clear.”
There was a pause. Maris tried to imagine the speakers, as far forward on the yacht as they could be, and thinking that they couldn’t be overheard.
“It would have been cleaner our way,” the baritone said. “We’d have said ‘bad weather’ and been done with it, and still sailing.”
“True,” the higher-pitched voice agreed. “The sooner Lloyd takes over and we get underway, the better.”
“I hear it’s Captain Lloyd now,” the baritone said.
“When?” said the other.
“He says three months back. Course complete, sea experience documented, licensed, everything.”
Maris’s eyebrows flew up, and Slick simply nodded.
“Here comes Kaitlyn,” the baritone said
, barely audible. Then in a louder voice, “Ms. Cameron. Stretching your legs?”
“I thought I’d walk the pier,” she said, and the voices drifted off.
13
When Maris arrived home at the B&B, she found the parking slots empty, except for Bear’s truck. Their mountain-of-a-man handyman was here nearly as much as they were. The Victorian home and lighthouse were in constant need of upkeep and repair—and the young man was pleasant to have around.
Inside the B&B, Maris went to her room and was about to toss her purse on the bed, but found Mojo sprawled there and napping. Instead she put her purse on the dressing table, and gave him a gentle belly rub. Though he stretched his legs and toes a little, he made no move to get up.
“Smart cat,” she whispered.
Quietly, she left the room, thinking about the conversation that she and Slick had overheard. Before she’d begun looking into local crimes, Maris would have called Mac with the information immediately. But now, she hesitated.
“Hearsay at best,” she muttered as she wandered toward the public rooms. She hadn’t seen who was talking and, even if she had, it was little more than gossip. Could she even be sure they’d been serious?
From the back porch vestibule, Maris could see Cookie in her herb garden, as she usually was in the afternoon, and Bear trailing behind her with two big bags of fertilizer.
“Hey, you two,” Maris said, as she came down the porch’s few steps.
“Hello, Maris,” Bear said, his brown eyes smiling over his full mustache and beard.
Despite the fact that each of the manure bags had to weigh as much as Cookie, he simply held them against his burgeoning middle as though they were pillows.
“Maris,” Cookie said, using the back of a gloved hand to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes. “What’s happening at the pier?”
“Well, we’ve spoken to just about everyone on the yacht,” she said, “and the list of suspects is narrowing.”
Cookie picked up a small trowel from a bucket near her feet. “But no arrests,” she said.
Maris shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Is Slick okay?” Bear asked, his brow furrowing.
Like Cookie and herself, Bear was one of the magic folk. But unlike most of the other residents of Pixie Point Bay, Maris knew his ability. He was a shifter—a kind-hearted, uncomplicated, and bee-keeping shifter.
“Yes,” Maris told him. “I think he is. Of course, he’d rather be out fishing, but I saw him twice today and he’s making good use of his time, mending nets and painting the boat.”
Cookie was using the trowel to dig a small hole next to one of the plants. “Another couple days of this and we’ll be running out of fresh salmon.”
Bear’s eyes widened and he stared at her. “Run out?” The big man cast a worried look to Maris, then back to Cookie, and then at the bay.
“You can set those there, Bear,” she said, indicating the border of the large herb garden. “And yes, run out.”
The diminutive chef had said this from the start, and Maris hadn’t believed it. But after seeing the fisherman at the pier this morning and talking with Ryan, she had to wonder.
Bear set down the bags and Cookie opened one with her trowel, scooping out the rich compost and shoveling it in the small hole. “What’s it like being with the rich and famous?” she asked.
Maris thought of Kaitlyn and then of Fritz and Alan. “I suppose they’re like regular folks, really. Some nice and some not so nice.” Then she recalled the ship and the way it dwarfed Slick’s boat. “It’s like a little floating world, that yacht. Just incredible.” She shared some of the more extravagant details. “Honestly, I’ve never seen lavish accommodations like it, not even in my hospitality career.”
Cookie finished digging another hole and Bear brought the compost cupped in his two big hands.
“Makes Pixie Point Bay look a little backwards by comparison,” Cookie said.
Bear dumped in the fertilizer and dusted off his hands.
“Backwards?” Maris said, looking at the two-story house. “I’d say comfortable, warm, and inviting. The Copernicus is shiny and sleek, but it’s not a home.”
Hands on hips, Cookie smiled at her. “I stand corrected.”
“Speaking of home,” Maris said, glancing at the house, “I think I’d better see to some chores while the guests are out.”
Inside, with just the one couple staying with them, the duties were light. Maris made the bed and took out the trash. Cookie had already seen to her share, providing them with fresh towels and cleaning the bathroom. Maris also checked the public rooms, dusting a little and straightening up, before gathering up more trash.
The more she mulled over the conversation she’d overheard, the more she decided to call Mac and tell him. Although she wouldn’t exactly call it evidence, it would be up to him what he wanted to do with it.
She’d been headed to the trash bins outside when the landline rang. She picked up the antique handset.
“Pixie Point Bay Lighthouse and B&B,” she said pleasantly. “How can I help you?”
“Maris,” said that familiar voice again. “It’s Slick.”
She set down the trash bag. “What’s wrong?” She heard a siren in the background. “Slick, are you okay?”
“I think you’d better get back here,” he said. “Someone on the Copernicus has died.”
14
By the time Maris parked at the pier, it was a scene of déjà vu. The stretcher, with a black body bag, was being loaded into the coroner’s van. Maris hurried down the dock to Slick’s boat. Impossibly, she found him still painting.
“Slick,” she called down to him, a little breathless. “Are you all right?”
“A1,” he said smiling, and set down the brush. “You must have had the wind in your sails.”
“Who died?” she asked. “Do you know?”
He shook his head. “Nope.” He shrugged. “It didn’t happen on my boat.”
Her mind immediately went to Nadia and Kaitlyn, and she prayed that they were okay.
As she turned to head to the yacht, she looked up at its deck. Several people were standing at the railing. Nadia was there, and Kaitlyn too, and Maris put a hand to her heart and exhaled. Then she took a head count. Five people wore the white uniforms of the crew, including Nadia and Lloyd. That meant they were all accounted for. Alan was at the railing, next to Kaitlyn, so that only left…
“Fritz?” she said, and then spotted Mac at the bottom of the gangway. He waved her over. Quickly, she made her way down the pier to the walkway. “Fritz Falschung is dead?”
The sheriff raised an eyebrow at her. “Slick told you?”
“No,” she said glancing up at the railing. “I did a quick head count. He was the only one missing. Unless there was a stranger on the boat?”
“No, you’re right,” he said. “Falschung is dead.”
Her stomach sank and she put both hands to her cheeks. They’d only been speaking with him—arguing with him—hours ago. And now he was dead?
“Are you all right?” Mac said quietly.
Lowering her hands, she nodded. “It’s just that….” She shook her head. “How did he die?”
Despite an obvious hangover after a night of partying, he’d seemed fit.
“The Turkish sauna,” Mac said. “He was inside and couldn’t get out.”
Maris cocked her head back. “Good grief.” Instantly she pictured him when they’d first met, coming from the sauna in his captain’s hat and purple robe.
“We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report,” Mac said, glancing in the direction of the van. “It could be that alcohol or some other substance might have been involved. Something that would have impeded his judgement.” The sheriff looked back at her. “But I don’t think that’s it.”
His calm manner told her he knew more. “What did you find?” she asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.
“The doorknob,” he said. “It
was lying on the floor inside. When he needed to get out he couldn’t.”
“The doorknob?” she said, incredulous. “Just lying on the floor? It fell off?”
Mac shook his head. “I’ve got it in the SUV, so the lab has yet to see it. But the knob, like most doorknobs, was only held on with a set screw. I found that on the floor too.”
Maris tried to imagine it, and cocked her head. “So the screw came loose? You’re saying it was an accident.”
Again Mac shook his head. “The screw head was stripped—worn down. Even on the off chance that Falschung had possessed a hex screwdriver and had it on his person in the sauna and tried to reattach the knob, it wouldn’t have worked.” He paused for a moment as Maris nodded. “The wear and tear on the hex screw looked new—shiny.”
Maris’s eyes widened. “You think it was deliberate. That someone wanted him trapped in the sauna.”
Mac nodded. “I’d stake my career on it. It was murder.”
“Two murders,” Maris whispered, as she and Mac looked up to the yacht’s handrail and the collection of people there. One of them had to be the murderer.
The sheriff withdrew an envelope from his jacket. “I’ve got a search warrant. The forensics team is on-board and has already been over the sauna and fitness rooms. We’ll start in the director’s room.”
But as he started up the gangway, Maris put a hand on his arm and stopped him. “I was just about to call you when Slick called me. Before leaving the pier this morning I stopped at his boat to check in on him. While I was there we overheard a couple members of the crew.”
“Oh?” Mac said, turning to her.
She related the brief discussion and finished with, “Unfortunately, we didn’t see anyone before the conversation was interrupted.”
Mac cast a sidelong glance at the yacht’s guests and crew. “Captain Bligh,” he said quietly. “Maybe Falschung had been telling the truth about the captain being hated.”
How that helped them with this second murder, Maris didn’t know. But then a thought occurred to her. “Could Fritz have known who the murderer was and not told us? He might have confronted the person himself.”