Overboard on the Ocean

by Ellen Jacobson

  After giving her our assurances, Scooter and I walked back toward our boat.

  “Herbert did raise a good point,” I said. “Why are we investigating Fletcher’s murder?”

  “We saw the man die. If that’s not good enough a reason to get to the bottom of things, I don’t know what is.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay. I guess we need to regroup and figure out what our next steps are.”

  “Where’s your notebook?” Scooter asked.

  “I left my purse on the boat when I dropped Mrs. Moto off.”

  Scooter tapped the side of his head. “I’ll try to remember everything until we get back. By the way, do you think we could get a more manly notebook and pen? I feel a little silly writing in something with unicorns on it. Not to mention the glitter pens. Should notes about murder investigations really be sparkly?”

  “I know plenty of guys who use glitter pens.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Um . . . Alan Simpson.”

  Scooter chuckled. “Okay, I can see that. Alan’s the creative type. The man knits sweaters for hamsters.”

  “They’re selling like gangbusters.”

  “You’re kidding? People are buying hamster sweaters?”

  “People will buy anything, especially if it’s tiny and adorable.”

  “Obviously, I need to put more effort into our online shop.”

  I held my hand up. “It’s not our online shop. That is all you, buddy.”

  “It’s really Mrs. Moto’s shop. Her YouTube followers really like buying merchandise with her image on it, especially since the proceeds go to the non-kill animal shelter. The t-shirts have been doing well. Maybe sweaters would be popular too.” He paused to wave at the owners of Mistletoe, a large catamaran which was tying up at the fuel dock. “You know what would be fun? Ugly Christmas sweaters for cats.”

  “I think you should branch out and make ugly Christmas sweaters for dogs too. Frick and Frack would look cute in them. Actually, you know what would be even better? Matching sweaters for the humans. Anabel and the chief could match their dogs, and we could match our cat. We could all wear them to the Christmas parade.”

  “That does sound fun,” Scooter admitted. “But which one of us is going to learn how to knit.”

  “I nominate Mrs. Moto. She can play the ukulele, why not knit a sweater too?”

  When we reached our boat, Scooter said, “This probably sounds bad, but investigating a murder is kind of fun too. It’s like a puzzle.”

  “That’s an apt description. Let’s figure out what pieces we do have and which ones are missing.”

  “We have three suspects—Anthony, Dominic, and Herbert. Sylvia and Madison both have an alibi.”

  “But so did Anthony,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but theirs is different. They were at the magic show together. I can’t see both of them lying, can you?”

  “It’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

  “But we need to prioritize,” Scooter said. “I say we start with the three guys. We need to find out exactly where they were when Fletcher was killed.”

  “Okay, I think we should tackle Anthony first. He’s now our number one suspect. And even if he didn’t kill his uncle, I want to know why he lied.”

  “And why he coerced Velma into lying for him,” Scooter added. “This is going to ruin the girl’s life.”

  “I think we should give Herbert some space. He’s not exactly eager to talk with us, so we’ll need to figure out the best way to approach him.”

  Scooter nodded. “Makes sense. What about Dominic? We don’t even know where he is.”

  “Sylvia might know. Why don’t I give her a call?” Before I could pull my phone out of my pocket, I felt a furry paw tap me on the side of my face. I laughed as Mrs. Moto yowled in my ear. “We might need to feed the cat first.”

  10

  Reservations Required

  After feeding Mrs. Moto, Scooter and I headed to one of Coconut Cove’s popular seafood restaurants—Chez Poisson. I had called Sylvia while Scooter opened up a can of Frisky Feline Ocean’s Delight, and she had told me that Anthony and Madison had gone out for a romantic dinner.

  “I think he might be popping the question,” Sylvia said. “It will be fun having another wedding to plan.”

  “That’s where the chief proposed to Anabel,” I said.

  “Really? Chez Poisson is a fancy restaurant. I told you that I have a sixth sense about brides. If Anabel likes Chez Poisson, then she’s going to love those canapes with caviar and gold-leaf.”

  “Well, the chief did wear an Elvis costume when he proposed. So I guess they put their own spin on fine dining.”

  “An Elvis costume,” Sylvia spluttered. “Surely, you’re joking.”

  “Nope, not joking at all. Hmm . . . the King of Rock and Roll. That would make a great wedding theme, don’t you think? The chief could wear his Elvis costume. Maybe the white one with the red and gold trim. Although, I suppose that would clash with the bride. His sequined royal blue one is nice though. And it has a cape that goes with it.”

  “Chief Dalton has more than one Elvis costume?” Sylvia’s voice had raised at least an octave by this point.

  “Uh-huh. And you could serve peanut butter, bacon, and banana sandwiches at the reception.” I was just warming up to the subject. Finally, I had found a way to get Sylvia to withdraw her services. There was no way that she would want to be associated with a theme as tacky as this one.

  After a beat, she said, “Oh, I get it. You’re pulling my leg. You’re such a card, Mollie.”

  “No, really, I’m serious. Elvis is definitely the way to go.”

  She hemmed and hawed for a few moments, then unfortunately came around to the idea. “I suppose peanut butter, bacon, and banana sandwiches wouldn’t be so terrible. We could cut the crusts off and make them look more like the little sandwiches you get at high tea. The bridesmaids could even wear blue suede high heels. It’s a stroke of genius. So kitschy that it’s classy. Okay, dear, I have to run. I have a million things to research.”

  When we walked into Chez Poisson, the maître d’ seemed incredulous that anyone would turn up without booking a table in advance. Giving a Scooter a meaningful look, he consulted his leather bound reservation book. Scooter hated this sort of thing, but he reached for his wallet.

  With the skill of a magician, the maître d’ took the folded bills from Scooter and made them disappear. One second the money was in his hand and in the next second it was gone. He snapped his fingers. A waiter rushed over, the maître d’ had a whispered conversation with him, then turned back to us.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t accommodate you tonight. We are completely full. Perhaps you and madame would like to have a drink at the bar instead.”

  Scooter clenched his fists, then did that calming ritual of his. Apparently, it helped keep you from losing your temper as well as coping with murder.

  As we sat at a small table in the corner of the bar sipping on gin and tonics, I said, “I don’t think this is going to work. The idea was to casually run into Anthony and Madison. We can’t even see the dining room from here.”

  “We can pretend to be going to the restroom,” Scooter suggested.

  “That’s a great idea, but unfortunately they’re located in the lobby by the entrance. The maître d’ would notice if we tried to sneak past him into the dining room.”

  Scooter sighed. “This isn’t going well.”

  I patted his hand. “Things don’t always go to plan. We’ll figure something out.”

  Turns out we didn’t need to worry about how to accidentally run into the couple. They made it easy for us.

  Hearing a commotion, I leaned sideways and peeked through the arched doorway which led into the lobby. I tugged on Scooter’s sleeve. “Madison is out there.”

  He shifted his chair over so that he had a better view. “She doesn’t look happy.”

  It was true. Madison had
her arms folded across her chest and was tapping her foot on the marble floor. “Get my coat,” she barked at the maître d’.

  Anthony grabbed his girlfriend’s arm. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “It’s all about you, isn’t it?” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re just like your uncle.”

  Anthony narrowed his eyes. “What does my uncle have to do with this?”

  “Stop changing the subject.”

  “Me? You’re the one who mentioned him.” Anthony’s jaw tightened. “There was something going on between the two of you, wasn’t there?”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. Don’t forget how I met you. You were the type of beauty pageant contestant who would do anything to get what they wanted. Stealing that girl’s hairspray and blow dryer? That was really low.”

  Madison stamped her foot. “I’ve wasted enough time on you. It’s over.”

  Anthony threw his hands in the air. “Fine with me.”

  “Fine with me too.” Madison hesitated for a moment, then strode toward the door. She paused only long enough to snatch her coat from the maître d’.

  Anthony murmured something to the maître d’, then slipped him some money.

  “Wow, dinner and a show,” I said under my breath. “Well, not really dinner since we couldn’t get a table, but the show sure was something.”

  Scooter shifted his chair back to its original position. “Shush, he’s coming in here.”

  “Scotch on the rocks,” Anthony told the bartender.

  After taking a sip of his drink, Anthony turned around and surveyed the room. The other patrons avoided his gaze, chatting quietly about what had just happened.

  I took the opposite approach, locking my eyes with Anthony and waving him over.

  Anthony drained the rest of his scotch. After the bartender refilled his glass, he walked over to our table. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “All couples fight from time to time,” Scooter said diplomatically.

  Anthony rubbed his finger around the rim of his glass. “Yeah, but not like that.”

  “I’m sure you guys will make up,” I said.

  “She’ll come around. She always does. I’ll give her some time to cool off before I head back to the bed-and-breakfast.” He patted the pocket of his jacket. “You know, the funny thing is that I was going to . . .”

  I leaned forward. “Going to what?”

  Anthony shook his head. “Never mind. It isn’t important. What about you two? Are you waiting for your table?”

  “No, we just popped in for a drink,” Scooter said.

  “It’s a nice place. Shame I didn’t get to try the food before Madison threw one of her fits.”

  “Why don’t you eat with us?” I suggested. “The bar menu looks good.”

  “I thought you were just having drinks,” Anthony said.

  I patted my stomach. “I guess I’m hungry after all.”

  Scooter chuckled. “When aren’t you hungry?”

  After ordering appetizers to share, Anthony raised his glass. “I’m glad I ran into the two of you. It’s nice to see a friendly face, especially after the past few days.”

  “Good thing Herbert didn’t join us then,” I said. “I understand that he wouldn’t exactly be a friendly face.”

  Anthony tightened his grip on his glass. “Why’s that? Because he’s practically ruined the company or because he killed my uncle?”

  Scooter cleared his throat. “I saw Herbert earlier today. He was adamant that he didn’t have anything to do with Fletcher’s death.”

  “He’d say anything to save his own skin, wouldn’t he?” Anthony took a sip of his drink. “It’s only a matter of time before he’s arrested. The only reason they haven’t done so yet is because that fool of a captain is still insisting that it was an accidental death.”

  “Herbert said something interesting,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

  “He thinks you killed Fletcher.”

  Anthony slapped his hand on the table and roared with laughter. “He better come up with a better defense than that. I have an alibi.”

  “But you—”

  Scooter gripped my hand tightly and shot me a warning glance.

  “But I what?” Anthony prompted.

  “Um, you have a spot on your shirt,” I said.

  Anthony looked down and scowled. “Madison was drinking red wine. She slammed her glass on the table, and some of it must have sloshed out. Excuse me for a minute while I try to get this out.”

  As he walked to the men’s room, I gave Scooter a questioning look. “Why did you stop me?”

  “If he killed Fletcher, what do you think he’d do to Velma if he found out she confessed to faking his alibi?”

  I put my hand to my mouth. “Oh, my gosh, you’re right.”

  “We have to find another way to find out what he was really doing that night. We can’t ask him directly.”

  “When did you get so good at this kind of thing?”

  He pecked my cheek. “I learned from the master.”

  * * *

  Scooter and I kept the conversation light once Anthony returned to the bar. Anthony didn’t seem eager to go back to the bed-and-breakfast and face Madison, so we stayed late, listening to him talk. We learned a few interesting things—Madison’s talent in her beauty pageants was twirling batons that lit up (she was an electronics whiz and had done all the wiring herself), Sylvia had spent a month in Alaska in search of a cure for the dry patch on her right elbow (sadly, instead of coming back with a cure, she came back with a severe case of frostbite), and Anthony loved listening to audiobooks while in the tub (long, hot baths in the morning was his favorite ritual to pamper himself)—but nothing that helped with our investigation.

  The next morning, I headed to the police station to share our concerns about Velma’s safety. One of Scooter’s molars was causing him a lot of pain, having kept him up all night, so he had ended up making an emergency dental appointment. When he suggested canceling so that he could join me, I told him that taking care of his tooth took precedence. He reluctantly agreed.

  Charmaine Buttercup greeted me enthusiastically, offering me not one, but two kinds of homemade fudge. “Go on, try them. Tell me which one you like better.”

  “Definitely the one with peanut butter.”

  “Good. That’s the one I’ll make for Anabel’s bachelorette party. I’ll whip up a huge batch.”

  “You’re bringing something?”

  “Well, sure. It isn’t a party without fudge.” When she saw the expression on my face, she said, “Is that okay? I assumed everyone was bringing a dish to share.”

  “No, that’s absolutely perfect,” I reassured her. “It’s just that I haven’t even thought about food for Anabel’s party. I have so much to get done before this weekend. Catering, party games, picnic blankets . . . and everything else I can’t think of.”

  Charmaine smiled. “Don’t forget the music. Gotta have music to dance to.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. There was no way I was going to be able to pull this off. Nancy was right—I was a party planning failure.

  Charmaine came around the front desk and gave me a hug. “Honeybell, what’s wrong?”

  “I have a murder to plan and a party to investigate.”

  She chuckled. “I think you have that backward.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a party to plan and a murder to investigate, right?”

  I groaned. “Did I say I had a murder to plan?”

  “You sure did. And while I know you could plan yourself a fine murder with all the bells and whistles, you probably don’t want to go around telling everyone that. Now, don’t you worry. You focus on the murder investigation.”

  “But the party—”

  “Shush, now. While you’re in with the chief, I’ll start on a list of what needs to be done for Anabel’s party. Once ever
ything is down on paper, it won’t seem nearly as overwhelming as it does right now. Then together we can go through it one by one and figure out how to get it all done. I’ll be right by your side to help you every step of the way.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  She grinned and handed me a large piece of peanut butter fudge. “Shoo, now. The chief is waiting for you.”

  “Don’t eat in my office,” Chief Dalton grumbled without even looking up from the papers on his desk. “You’ll get crumbs everywhere.”

  “It’s fudge, not toast. Crumb-free. Want some?”

  The chief leaned back in his chair. “Is it the one with peanut butter swirls?”

  “Sure is.” I split the fudge in two, then handed him half.

  “I’ve gained weight since Charmaine started working here.” He patted his belly. “I’m not sure if my tux is going to fit.”

  “You’re going to wear a tux to the wedding?”

  The chief scowled. “That wedding planner of yours told me I have to.”

  “She’s not my wedding planner.”

  “You introduced her to Anabel. Case closed.”

  “When exactly is the last time you wore this tux of yours?”

  “Sometime in the last century.”

  I bit back a smile as visions of a powder blue tux paired with a ruffled white shirt filled my head.

  He sighed. “Yeah, it’s never going to fit. I don’t know why Anabel wants such a fancy wedding. I thought we’d do something simple.”

  “I’m not so sure she wants anything fancy either.”

  “Then why does your wedding planner keep dropping off magazine articles about floral centerpieces, champagne fountains, and fancy food like caviar and gold leaf canapes. I don’t even know what canapes are.”

  “They’re hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Why would anyone eat food covered in gold? What’s wrong with chicken wings?”

  “She’s trying to distract herself. It’s a way of coping with her husband’s death.”