Vitamin Sea

by Maia Ross

  I probed him a little more until he remembered one group; a gaggle of female senior citizens who’d claimed to be returning from a wine tour. He even laughed when I quizzed him about them, which was cute, but that’s who I’d use if I was going to set up a crime like this. Nobody notices older women, and that’s a fact. I thanked him and rang off.

  It was possible, of course, that the thief had escaped by boat. There were several yacht clubs on the island, all of whom accepted boaters from other clubs from all over Lake Ontario. There were also several public boat launches and wharfs someone could have easily slipped out of. Not to mention all the private homes with docks behind their houses. I had the same setup myself. The shoreline of Beaver Island was porous; lots of places to sneak in and out of without being seen. I’d certainly done so when I was a teenager.

  “Do you want to drive the boat home, dear?” I asked.

  “Oh no, thank you. I’d rather jump overboard.” She smiled sweetly.

  I sighed, put my hands on my hips. “Did you not say you wanted to come for a visit and have a change of pace from your big city lifestyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you not say you wanted to get out on the water and—”

  “No.”

  “I could have sworn you—”

  “I did. But do you remember when I almost puked on your shoes the other day?”

  She was right about that unfortunate incident, but I was intent on introducing her to the benefits of an aquatic lifestyle. A Toronto-dweller, she spent her life steps away from a beautiful, entrancing body of water, but she was a certified landlubber. When she’d mentioned she was burnt out from work and needed vacation ideas, I’d decided to host her for a visit and introduce her to the concept of vitamin sea. She needed it: so pale and spindly I was surprised she didn’t have rickets, I was determined to imbue her with a love of boating that would help her survive her long days back at the office. I didn’t know her all that well, but I did know she was a workaholic who pushed herself too hard.

  We walked to the spot on the wharf where my baby was parked, a vintage 1955 Chris Craft Barracuda speedboat. It was sleek and wooden, with seven coats of varnish and a souped-up motor courtesy of the island’s engine expert.

  Violet took a seat in the cockpit, and I shoved off after fitting some driving gloves over my hands. The boat started up with a little purr.

  As we motored out to the lake and around the island, I pointed out the lighthouse on the shore—as an engineer she was always fond of learning about nerdy things—and we skidded over the waves as we circled the island. The harbours were teeming with watercraft, especially sailboats, but a lot of jet skis and the like as well. I smiled as I steered us over a bit of chop. The sun was shining, the spray was hitting me in the face, and something about being on the water made everything better in a way that was impossible to put into words. It was more something you felt in your bones. Which was why you had to show someone the joy in leaving shore before they really got it.

  “Ir-maaa! Can we slow down, please?”

  “Sorry, dear.”

  We passed the Beaver Island Country Club, referred to as the Club by most of the island inhabitants; it was our crown jewel. Golf, tennis, boating, fine dining, extramarital shenanigans. And apparently, it was where people who lied about their age let the air out of perfectly respectable people’s tires.

  Violet’s phone rang. “Hello?” she shrieked, holding onto the side of the boat like she was going to fall off, which was a little theatrical of her. But she’d been disturbingly quiet for most of her visit, and it was nice to see her leveraging some melodrama. Helped get the blood pumping.

  “It’s for you,” she yelled over the noise of the engine.

  I throttled down. “Do you want to take the wheel?”

  “That’s gonna be a no from me today, Irma!”

  “I see. I’ll have to call them back. I can’t drive and talk at the same time.”

  Violet fished in her backpack and pulled out a gizmo that she popped into my ear like a pacifier.

  “Thank you, dear.” Into the earpiece, I said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, Irma. It’s Julian.”

  Dr. Julian Harper, the main doctor at our town clinic, a lovely young man. I had hopes that he and Violet could spend some quality time together at some point if I could extract her from the couch. Some days I’d considered getting a SWAT team to go into her apartment with me, although I’d have to find a group well-versed in de-hermitization.

  “Julian, lovely to hear from you, dear. How did you know to call Violet’s phone?”

  “No answer at your place.”

  “Righto. What can I do for you?”

  A muffled noise, like he was putting his hand over the mouthpiece before he said, “Scooter’s here. Charlotte said you’d want to know.”

  Relief flooded through me before I took a minute to marvel at Charlotte’s machinations. After I’d popped her into that car, she must have called Julian and told him to reach out to me if Scooter showed up, winking the whole time.

  Conflict raged inside me for a moment. I should leave it to the police. I should. I’d even said I would. It was completely out of my wheelhouse: there was no international intrigue, no borders to cross, no clandestine meetings to attend, no royal family members to protect. Just some sparkly things that had gone missing and a touch of kidnapping. And I had gerberas to plant and sailing to do, and I needed to shove as much boating and sunshine as possible into Violet while she was here. Plus, I was training for the half-marathon.

  But…

  “What’s his status? Is he talking?” I mean, what could it hurt, asking a few questions? I wouldn’t get involved. I’d just make sure Scooter was all right. That’s all.

  “He’s been shot at close range. Small calibre weapon, looks like.”

  “Oh, my,” I said, dismay spiking inside me. “How bad?”

  Julian let out a sigh. “His lung has been nicked but he’s in stable condition for now. We’ve treated the wound and given him two units of blood and some pain management. They’re sending an ambulance from the mainland so he can get more comprehensive care.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. How far out is the ambulance?”

  “An hour, maybe less. They aren’t sending it lights flashing, but it’s close.”

  “Have the police been in?”

  “Yes. They just left.”

  “Thank you, dear.” I rested the phone on my chest. To Violet, I said, “Do you want me to drop you off at home? I just need to pop in on a friend.”

  Her head made a movement that could have been a nod.

  “I’ll be there directly,” I said to Julian, spinning the boat around and heading back the way we’d come.

  Four—Violet

  Lately, I’d been wondering how many ways Irma was going to try to kill me, and which one was actually going to succeed. Yesterday’s trek into mosquito-infested woods—a trip that somehow managed to be uphill both ways—had been a big contender. So far today, death by boat seemed to be winning because I was hanging on to a tiny handle by my seat as Irma sped back the same way we’d just come.

  “Where’s the fire?” I asked, my teeth gritted.

  Irma stood in front of the boat’s steering wheel while the wind buffeted her, a feat that would be challenging for a normal-sized person, but Irma was no normal person, not in height or any other way. I still wasn’t sure exactly what it was that Irma was retired from, but it wasn’t government supply chain management like she told everyone. I’d never seen a retiree foil a semi-mysterious plot on the way to dinner like Irma had last Friday. Didn’t even mess her hair up.

  This was either the best or worst vacation I’d ever taken; I still wasn’t sure which, although that might be because I had almost no experience with vacationing. But Max had finally texted to tell me the bank needed more time to consider our application, so my life’s work was still in a precarious
spot. Spending my days being almost killed by a tiny British ninja was even starting to seem like not a half-bad distraction.

  We rounded a bend, water rooster-tailing out the back of the boat.

  “The security guard who was kidnapped, Scooter, is at the clinic,” Irma said. She was wearing a crisp white golf shirt and pink pedal pushers that terminated halfway up her tiny toned calves, with tennis shoes, her chin-length silver bob—with its natty sixties-style kerchief—fanning out glamorously in the wind behind her. I gave up on trying to snap another end of hair elastic over my curls. I probably looked like someone had run an eggbeater through my hair.

  “So he’s been found. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Quite.”

  “And so why are we going back?”

  “I just need to chat with him briefly. Won’t take a mo’.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Of course. That sounds totally reasonable. Except why would you need to chit chat with a crime victim?”

  “Charlotte Van Oot asked me to look out for him. I just want to see if he’s all right.” Then she mumbled something that was swept away in the wind.

  Since Irma could teach elocution and deportment exercises in her spare time, I could feel my eyes narrow. “What now?”

  “I’m just going to ask him what happened,” she said, only slightly more clearly.

  “Won’t the police do that?”

  “I mean, I suppose,” she said, casting a glance at me over her shoulder. “Although police always get tied up with all that paperwork. You’re not so fond of local law enforcement either, if memory serves me correctly. In any case, they’ve already spoken to him, so we won’t be interfering with anything. Isn’t that nice? It’ll just be in and out. I’ll get us back home afterword in a jiffy, never you worry.”

  “No, really…” The boat launched into the air and came down with a thwack that made my spine rattle. “Just take your time.”

  “We could use the trip back to teach you more about the boat. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Remember the conversation we had about bodily autonomy and personal boundaries last week?”

  “Not even a little,” Irma said cheerily. “We’re almost here. Do you mind tying us up?”

  It was difficult to understand how we’d taken a twenty-odd minute boat ride in seven minutes, but it looked like that was exactly what had happened. Somehow. I still hadn’t quite figured out how Irma was able to bend both time and space to her will. Like a Jedi. But she meant well. Plus, I planned on figuring out what her secret was. Because if I’d been more like Irma, my life wouldn’t be the mess it was right now.

  The clinic was like everything else on the island, pretty on the outside, with beautiful cornflower-coloured paint, large, attractive windows trimmed in white, a place purpose-built to be lovely and comfortable and welcoming. A sudden memory of the awful apartments I’d grown up in, thanks to my mother Phyllis’s penchant for larceny and terrible housing decisions, sprouted in the back of my mind.

  Even the bell over the door tinkled prettily as we entered, Irma in front as always, after she’d swept the street up and down in her paranoid patrician way. The clinic’s reception area was awash in pale blues; the paint on the walls, the antique reception desk. The chairs were white and plush and comfortably understated. It even smelled nice. It was somewhere people came to get better. My doctor when I was growing up had worked out of a cramped third-floor walkup over a Mexican takeout joint, which kept getting shut down for health code violations.

  “Hello, Irma. Hi, Violet.” The pretty young receptionist—who I’d never met before in my life—greeted us.

  I tried to smile at her even though it felt creepy that everyone in town knew who I was. I was used to living in a city of millions, a place you could get lost in.

  Irma marched up to the desk in her usual manner; half casual, half laser-focused. It was fascinating to watch. She tilted her head and smiled at the young Asian woman at the desk, whose black hair was blown out to perfection, her nails short but gel manicured, her lipstick the exact right amount of shiny. She didn’t stand a chance.

  Irma leaned forward and murmured to the receptionist, whose name tag read: Kendelle.

  Kendelle looked slightly alarmed at Irma’s whispers, but I’d seen Irma get that a lot. And she was unstoppable. The two of them chatted for a moment—urgent-sounding peeps coming out of Kendelle, a soothing undertone in Irma’s replies—but eventually, the receptionist motioned that Irma should follow her. I trailed behind them, not sure if I was uncomfortable because I wasn’t sure if I should go back to Reception and sit down, or because that’s how I felt most of the time anyway.

  At the end of the hallway, Kendelle stopped in front of a closed door, then slipped away behind us. Irma opened the door, grabbed me, and had the two of us inside before I could blink.

  “In a rush, Irma?” I asked, breathless.

  “You never can be too sure who’s around,” she answered.

  “Like who? Who would be around?”

  Instead of answering, she muttered, “That poor girl.”

  “Why? Who?”

  “Kendelle’s mother has blocked her on Instagram, she said. I don’t know what that is, but it sounded serious. They haven’t spoken in a year.”

  “Ah,” I said as I took in the room. In front of us, the security guard lay in a hospital bed, a bunch of tubes snaking out from under his gown, liquids humming into his veins. He looked like he was asleep, his plump form covered in blankets.

  Irma sidled up to the IV stand and started reading the display.

  “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “Yes,” she said cheerily, and I wondered how many pickles she’d gotten herself out of with that particular tone of voice. It helped that Irma looked like a glamorous—if tiny—old money socialite, even if the truth was probably a little darker.

  The man on the bed made a noise. He was somewhere in his thirties, his face unlined and smooth. Botox?

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Shot in the chest, the poor thing.”

  “Geez.”

  “Geez, indeed.”

  Machines beeped.

  “What’s he on?” I joined Irma in peering at the stand. All the equipment in the clinic looked state-of-the art and the IV stand was no different. It was futuristic, with a sleek LCD panel covered in complex measurements and calculations, designed with clean lines and Scandinavian flair. VANOOTSCOOT, the panel read, as it whooshed its liquids into the man on the bed.

  “Saline and propanifen.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a morphine alternative.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve had it,” Irma said simply. She finished examining the IV stand and placed a chair beside the bed, pulling the security guard’s hand into hers in an almost tender gesture. “Scooter, can you describe the person who took you?”

  His eyes fluttered and he seemed to rouse himself. After pulling the mask off his face he said, “Hey.”

  “I’m so glad you’re all right, dear. Your Aunt Charlotte has been very worried about you.”

  He took in a deep breath. “Thank…you.”

  “Do you know why the man took you with him?”

  Scooter gave Irma a lopsided grin. “Needed me to…drive.”

  “How did you get free?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “Tried to get out at a stoplight and…fought…over the gun. Gun went off…twice…I got out. He drove away but…I think I shot him…too.” His eyes shut again. “In the leg. I shot him…leg.”

  Irma stiffened. “Good for you, Scooter.” Then she put her hand on his arm and squeezed. “How did you get here?”

  “Walked.”

  “Good boy. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Tell Aunt Charlotte...” He rubbed his forehead. “…late...for dinner.”r />
  “Of course,” Irma said, nodding kindly.

  The door flew open, two burly men in the doorway. Irma murmured her goodbyes to Scooter and greeted the two EMTs cheerily. I gave the figure on the bed a wave that looked and felt awkward before he was engulfed by the technicians and their preparations.

  Dr. Julian Harper was in Reception. “Irma! Violet,” he said, smiling warmly.

  “Hello, dear,” Irma said. “How are you?” She reached behind me like she was about to fling me into the doctor’s arms.

  I stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding her weaponized little hand. “Hey, Julian.”

  “Hey yourself,” he replied, the skin around his eyes crinkling.

  He was a fair bit taller than me, but I’d never minded looking up. Stop that. I tried to concentrate on his sandy brown hair instead of his height, his blue-green eyes, the freckles scattered over his face. A kind face. Enough. I have no time for stuff like that.

  “Did the police say anything when they were here?”

  He glanced at the reception desk, which was currently empty, before shaking his head. “I don’t know. It was pretty hectic when Scooter came in.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “He was really out of it and in pain.”

  “So the police said nothing about the kidnapper?”

  “He had a mask on, from what I heard. I don’t know, Irma. I leave all that up to you.”

  She splayed her hand on her chest as if to say who, me? and they both grinned. I wasn’t sure if I should smile along with them, so I did nothing. It was generally the safest.

  From down the hallway, I heard shouting. Julian pushed forward, running into Scooter’s room. A nurse in blue scrubs raced in as well, her long black ponytail streaming behind her.

  “What’s the situation?” Julian called. He was all business, laser-focused as he snapped on a pair of gloves.

  The closest EMT turned to him, his eyes wide. One of the machines was spitting out a high-pitched squealing noise. “I don’t know! We were getting him ready for transport and—”

  “He’s coding!” Julian yelled before embarking on a rapid dialogue. “Pupils are pinpoint, clammy skin, he’s not breathing.”