by Emma Belmont
But now she wondered if that just wasn’t how the software worked. Did anybody really take time to color their notes? She examined the margins of the document as well. Yes, as she suspected, there were Fritz’s initials, FF. Not only did the software keep track of the different contributors, it knew who they were. Toward the end of the document were more initials that she recognized.
She glanced at the clock on the microwave. There might be enough time.
Trying to be quiet, she hurried back to her room, found her phone, and called Slick.
“Hello?” he answered, with the type of inquisitiveness in his voice that said he didn’t often get called.
Maris shut the door to her room. “Slick? It’s Maris. Are you at the pier?” She strode to the bay window looking at the low slant of the afternoon sun.
“Yup,” he said. “Just finishing up with the oil change. I’ll head out in the morning. Thanks for putting a bug in the sheriff’s ear.”
“You’re welcome,” she said quickly. “Can you meet me at the yacht in say, an hour?”
“Copernicus?” he asked, as though she’d asked him to clean a latrine. “What’s this about?”
“I’ll tell you in an hour,” she said. “I’ve got to go. See you then.”
When she hung up, she dialed Mac’s number.
27
That evening, as the sun sank toward the horizon, no one took notice. Although the view from the aft deck of the yacht was ideal, particularly for a panorama of the bay, everyone was turned to face Maris. The first mate was looking apprehensive, and his crew looked bored. The guests, Alan and Kaitlyn, sat next to each other and exchanged a few whispers. Nadia sat quietly with the crew, next to Lloyd. Slick leaned against the railing, pipe in mouth, but unlit. His thick white eyebrows waggled at her as though he was ready for the show to begin. The sheriff, who stood at her side, nodded to her.
“Thank you, everyone,” Maris began, “for meeting us here.”
Although she paused for a moment and looked around the circle, no one uttered a word. Like her, they seemed ready to have this over.
“As you all know, I first became involved when the body of Captain Hazelwood was found on the deck of Slick Duff’s boat.” She indicated Seas the Day. “But as we’ve suspected from the start, the captain wasn’t killed there.”
Slick took the pipe from his mouth. “I could have told you that.” Then he thought for a moment. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
Maris smiled at the old man. “You were at the warehouse processing your catch. The body was on your boat the next morning when you got back.”
Slick nodded and pointed his pipe at her. “That’s when I picked up the flare gun.”
“Right,” she said. “And that’s when you were seen.”
Lloyd spoke up. “If the gun and body were on his boat, doesn’t it make sense that’s where the captain was shot?” He glanced at Slick. “Even if Captain Duff didn’t do it?”
Mac shook his head. “The forensics team swabbed both ships.” He indicated the long deck on the yacht next to Slick’s boat. “Residue from the flare’s cartridge was all over the deck, not Seas the Day.”
“So the body fell overboard,” Maris concluded. “It’d seemed that way from the start, but the lab work confirmed it.”
“So the Captain was killed on Copernicus,” Nadia said. “By someone here.”
The entire group looked around at each other.
“Correct,” Maris said, and looked at Kaitlyn.
It took a few moments for everyone to follow her gaze, but when Kaitlyn realized they were all looking at her, she quickly said, “No!” She looked from the sheriff to Maris and then back again. “I told you. I was in my room posting to my fans.”
“And it’s true that your social media posts coincide with the murder time,” Mac agreed. “But it’s also true that you can schedule social media posts ahead of time. The time stamps on those posts don’t mean anything.”
Kaitlyn threw up her hands. “I have no idea how to do that,” she protested. “I hardly know how my phone works. Ask anyone here.”
To that there were several nods from the group, and Maris had to suppress a smile.
“When Falschung was asked for an alibi,” the sheriff continued. “He said that you were in his room. All night.”
Although Kaitlyn grimaced and shook her head, she didn’t protest.
“Is it true?” Maris asked her. “Were you with him at the time of the murder?”
The young actress crossed her arms over her chest. “No, it’s not,” she said and looked at the deck. “But that’s what he thought.”
Maris cocked her head at her. “I’m sorry. What?”
Kaitlyn glared at her. “He passed out drunk, okay? And I left.” She looked defiantly around the assembled group. “He passed out every night. The jerk even thought he was sleeping with me. But every night, like clockwork, he got drunk, took his pills, and passed out. Then I left. He was always in a foul mood in the morning, so I made sure to be long gone.”
Maris and Mac exchanged a look. They’d certainly found that was true.
Maris turned to Lloyd next, but he simply shook his head. “We might not have liked ‘Captain Bligh’,” he said, drawing a couple of snickers from two of the crew. He shot them a glare that made them stop. “But we were not out to murder him. The same for Mr. Falschung. We had a vested interest in seeing him alive.” He gestured to the uniformed people standing near him. “We’re essentially without jobs now.” Although the snickering crew members had been smiling, they suddenly stopped and looked at one another.
“Also,” Nadia said, “Lloyd has an alibi.” She took his hand and looked back at Maris. “We were together when Hazelwood was killed.”
Maris only nodded. When Fritz had said that fraternization among the crew wasn’t permitted, she’d assumed that Nadia was involved. The fact that Lloyd had insisted that she and Kaitlyn leave for their own safety had been the clincher.
“We’re going to be married,” the first mate said, and smiled at her. “Now that I’ve got my captain’s license, we’re going to work for a charter yacht line.”
“We’ll see the world together,” Nadia said to him.
“Which brings me to Fritz,” Maris said, “the only intended victim on this ship.”
“What?” Kaitlyn muttered. “But Hazelwood died first.”
Maris nodded her agreement. “And here we are, out on deck, at about the same time he was murdered.” She gestured to the sunset behind her. “The light is beginning to wane, and I am backlit.”
“The murderer had been looking at the captain from behind,” Mac said. “He’d shot him in the back.”
“But at this time of day,” Maris said, “and from the back, when the captain wore his white uniform and cap….”
Nadia gasped. “They both had white hair.”
“And short white beards,” Maris said. “From the back, they would have looked identical. Fritz in his white dinner jacket and captain’s hat would have been indistinguishable from the captain.”
Mac looked around the circle. “Captain Hazelwood was never the intended victim. He was killed by mistake. Fritz Falschung had been the murder’s target, right from the start.”
Maris gazed at Alan. “It must have been hard for you to tell the two men apart.” She squinted against the light behind her. “The gleam of the sun on the water is blinding right now. The captain must have been in silhouette.” She turned back to Alan. “You know what silhouette means? I know a cinematographer should, but then again, you’re not a cinematographer are you, Alan?”
The big man smirked at her. “What a pretty story you tell. Maybe you should write for Hollywood.”
“Ah,” Maris said, “but that’s your job, isn’t it, Alan?” She glanced at Kaitlyn. “What did you call it when someone rewrites a script? A script doctor?”
Kaitlyn could only stare at the man next to her. Then scooted away.
He glowered at her. “
Did you know Fritz had been stealing your little ideas for two years?”
“What?” she said. “Mine?”
Alan laughed. “Why do you think you ‘shared the same vision’?” The big man made a rude sound. “The genius director didn’t have a clue about story. He could barely direct.” He looked around the circle of faces staring blankly at him. “That was his modus operandi. He didn’t need notes. He had no idea what to do with them. He just took other people’s ideas and passed them off as his own.” He turned back to Maris. “And then I’d rewrite them all into a script.”
“But you never got the credit,” Maris said. “And I suspect, not the money.” She gestured to the yacht all around them. “At least not this kind of money.”
“He was a greedy pig,” Alan said, sounding as if he could spit. “And vain. A freaking narcissist. No one could know that he used a script doctor. No one could know that I was the story genius, not him.” Suddenly, Alan stopped. He grinned at Maris. “So, storyteller. Do you have more than that? Do you have any proof?”
“The offer letter that Kaitlyn found,” Mac said, “had no fingerprints. The fortuitous piece of evidence that implicated Lloyd was on the company stationary—which anyone would have had access to.”
“The allen wrenches had no fingerprints either,” Maris said. “Anyone could have secretly gone to the tool crib, used it, and then put it under Kaitlyn’s pillow during the hubbub after Fritz’s death.”
“Well, then,” Alan said, getting up.
Mac stepped forward. “But only one person is going to have residue from the flare gun all over their clothes.” He looked down at Alan’s feet. “Particularly their shoes. In fact, it’s going to be all over their cabin.”
Alan’s mouth dropped open a little as he stared at his shoes, then the deck around them. “But that’s not proof,” he whispered. “That’s–”
Mac took out his handcuffs. “That’s for a jury to decide.” He moved behind the big man and brought both wrists behind him. Maris heard the metal ratchet of the cuffs closing.
“But combined with what you just told us all,” Maris said, “I doubt the jury will have much trouble.”
As Mac escorted Alan from the sitting area he paused in front of Maris. “‘Revenge is sweet and not fattening.’ I guess he was wrong.”
Maris blinked at him. “Robert Burns, wrong?”
“No,” Mac said, smiling. “Not Rabbie, Alfred Hitchcock.”
28
The next morning, after the Magnusons had finished their breakfast and said their goodbyes, Maris had helped Cookie with the cleanup. As they’d loaded the last plate into the dishwasher, Cookie looked up at the time.
“You don’t want to miss them,” the chef said.
“Oh goodness,” Maris said, drying off her hands on her apron. “Time got away from me.”
Cookie’s eyebrows rose, but then she smiled with satisfaction. “Good,” was all she said.
Maris found Mojo still on her bed and picked him up. “Let’s go,” she whispered into the soft fur between his ears.
As she took the little cat through the utility room and into the lighthouse, she checked her watch. Slick had said he’d be waiting for the Copernicus to leave port, and Lloyd had said that would be at ten.
With the little black cat purring against her side, she slowly and steadily climbed the spiral stairs. The fog was only a thin mist at this point, and the views out the windows at the first two levels showed glimpses of a bright blue sea.
At the top, stepping onto the metal platform of the optics room, Maris gratefully took a break. Breathing hard, she checked the bay in front of the lighthouse and smiled. She was not a moment too soon.
“There they are,” she said to Mojo, who seemed to be staring intently.
Seas the Day was escorting Copernicus from Pixie Point Bay. Their bows sliced the water, leaving white wakes in their passage. Three short toots of Slick’s horn, were followed by one from the yacht.
Grinning, Maris waved her arm in a giant arc, and saw Kaitlyn wave from the upper deck. The young actress had deemed travel by boat as the cheapest way to get home. From just outside the bridge, she saw Lloyd and Nadia too. She gave an extra wave to her former colleague and her fiancé, who waved back.
“Safe travels,” she said, while Mojo gave them his rather loud but signature meow.
“Is that for the boats,” she asked him, “or the salmon?”
After what she’d read in the Magick Folk encyclopedia, she had no doubt that—with their water elemental on the high seas—Pixie Point Bay would soon be up to its gunnels in fresh fish.
But as she petted Mojo, she recalled his tarot spread. The High Priestess had been concealing a scroll. Had that been a clue about Alan, the secret script doctor? The little cat had also spelled ‘yacht’ twice on the Ouija board. Had he been trying to warn her about the second murder to take place there?
As she watched the two boats make there way through the tranquil bay and out to the ocean beyond, she wondered for a moment where Nadia and Lloyd would go. She recalled the many wonderful photographs of exotic locales that decorated the yacht, but felt not a twinge of envy. Perhaps one day a picture of her lighthouse, overlooking the sparkling bay, might hang alongside them. Maris had to smile at the thought, because if it did, she knew it’d outshine them all.
Another Pixie Point Bay book awaits you in The Witch Who Filled in the Picture (Pixie Point Bay Book 3).
For a sneak peek, turn the page.
Sneak Peek
The Witch Who Filled in the Picture
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
“Ms. Seaver,” someone called, loud enough to be heard above the din.
Inklings New & Used Books, the large three-story store on the Towne Plaza, was positively packed. Maris turned and peered into the crowd, and saw Mikhail Galkin hurrying toward her, both hands outstretched.
“I am delighted you could make it,” he said, with just a hint of an exotic Russian accent. He grasped both her hands and, cheek to cheek, gave her an air kiss on one side, and then the other. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Mr. Galkin,” she told him. “It’s not every day we have an international art exhibit in Pixie Point Bay.”
Tall, with sandy brown hair and a goatee to match, Maris guessed that he was in his mid-forties. He was looking very smart this evening in his tailored blue blazer and lavender turtleneck.
“Please,” he said, “call me Mikhail. When you say ‘Mr. Galkin’, I expect to turn around and see my father.” Then he gave her a wry smile. “Although in truth, he was Comrade Galkin.”
Maris laughed a little. “Very well, Mikhail. Then I must insist you call me Maris.”
From the beginning of his stay at the B&B, the art dealer had been a bit formal. She’d chalked it up to cultural differences, or perhaps that she owned the B&B and attached lighthouse. But here, at his temporary art exhibit, he seemed very much in his element.
He dropped her hands, bowed his head, and clicked his heels. “Of course, Maris,” he said grinning. “Now, may I show you the exhibit?”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, smiling and inclining her head.
As they made their way among the many bookshelves and people, Maris was glad she’d spent a little extra time picking her wardrobe. Although it was evening, most of the attendees wore business casual attire, as did she. Her black silk skirt with its small white floral print fell well below the knee, and matched her ruffled white blouse with black trim at the cuffs. The patent black heels were stylish, but low enough to be comfortable for the standing and walking she was anticipating.
Maris recognized a number of the people who were mingling with their plastic cups of wine. Long-time residents and shopkeepers mixed with the usual compliment of tourists, but the upscale dress of several people carrying the exhibit catalog spoke to prospective buyers.
The bookstore’s existing recessed lighting was
bright and cheery, although Maris spotted extra spot lamps that had been brought in—some with colored film over their fronts. Interestingly they weren’t necessarily pointed at the artwork, but highlighted different parts of the ceiling with washes of color.
Mikhail made his way to the edge of the room and the large easels that were lined up in front of the books.
“First,” he said, “as you can see, this is a multi-artist show. Some of the talent is local, some from further afield. Many of the latter are old acquaintances whose work I like to display whenever I can. But one of my favorite painters is the Pixie Point Bay watercolorist Clio Hearst.”
“Clio Hearst,” Maris said, tilting her head. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with her work.”
“You are in the majority, but I would like to change that.” Mikhail led her to a small grouping of almost photorealistic images. “I think you might be particularly interested in her work because of the subject matter.” Smiling broadly, Mikhail turned back to Maris. “As you see, one of her favorite subjects might be familiar to you.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Maris exclaimed, “the lighthouse and B&B.” The details in the attached two-story Victorian were positively lifelike. The many gables and traditional windows were accurate, as was the coloring. The conical white tower topped with its glass optics house glowed against a stunningly vibrant sunset. “She’s really managed to capture the…spirit of the place.” Maris had to smile to herself, since the Old Girl actually did have a spirit. She regarded Mikhail. “They’re absolutely beautiful. I can definitely see why she’s one of your favorites.”
Mikhail nodded. “A local artist who makes the most of the local environment.” He gestured to the nearby paintings. “These are all part of her Coastside Series.”
Maris stepped closer and peered at the images of the bay and the pier. Tide pools seemed to brim with life, and the Pixie Point Bridge dramatically spanned a canyon on the coast. But no matter the subject, tiny brush strokes in their hundreds, maybe even thousands, created a vivd impression that seemed to surpass real life.