Overboard on the Ocean

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Fair enough,” he said. “But can’t she find a way to distract herself without making me wear a tux or eating metal?”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  The chief nodded, then opened a file folder and examined the contents.

  I cleared my throat. “Ahem, I’m still here.”

  “I thought we were done,” he said as he scrawled his signature on a form.

  “No, I came in to talk with you about Melvin’s niece. I’m worried about her.”

  “The girl will be fine,” the chief said. “No one is going to press any charges. I think she’s learned her lesson.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

  The chief glanced at me. “Oh, you’re worried she might lose her job when the cruise line finds out that she lied.”

  My shoulders slumped. “I hadn’t even thought about that. I hope that doesn’t happen.”

  “Then what are you worried about?”

  “That she could be in danger. If Anthony Wright finds out she’s admitted to lying about his alibi, he might come after her.”

  “He might be angry, especially if his girlfriend finds out that he was with another woman. But I don’t think he’ll take it out on Velma.”

  My eyes widened. “Wait a minute, I get what’s going on here. You don’t think that Fletcher Tolliver was murdered.”

  The chief rubbed his temples. “Mrs. McGhie, why must you think that every single death is sinister? Mr. Tolliver fell overboard. It’s tragic, but not criminal.”

  “But that’s not what happened. Scooter and I witnessed the whole thing.”

  “You saw a man fall overboard, right?” The chief asked. “Did you see anyone push him?”

  “You don’t have to see someone be pushed to know that he was pushed.”

  “I have it on good authority that it was an accident. Case closed.”

  “Then why is Fletcher’s nephew saying that it’s murder?”

  The chief shrugged. “People say crazy things when they’re upset.”

  I leaned forward. “The captain of the cruise ship is covering this up. I’m positive.”

  “I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Mrs. McGhie.” He waved his hand at the stacks of paper covering his desk. “I have enough to deal with in terms of real crime in Coconut Cove. I don’t have time to worry about hypothetical crimes on the high seas.”

  “The high seas,” I mused. “How exactly does that work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If someone commits murder in international waters,” I held up a hand. “Hypothetically speaking, of course. Who has jurisdiction?”

  “Well, it falls under the scope of maritime law. It would be up to the captain of the ship to decide if someone should be incarcerated if they’re suspected of committing a crime.”

  “That’s it? The captain gets to decide what happens?”

  The chief drummed his fingers on his desk. “It’s not as simple as that. The laws of the country in which the boat is registered would apply. There’s also the ‘passive personality principle.’”

  “How does personality type figure into this?”

  “No, not personality type. It refers to the jurisdiction of the country that the victim is from.”

  “Fletcher was an American citizen. So this is an American matter.” I cocked my head to one side. “So, hypothetically speaking who would be in charge of the investigation? The FBI? Do you have their number?”

  The chief suppressed a smile. “No, but I’m sure you can find it online. Make sure you tell them about how your cat sometimes helps you with your investigations. They love that kind of thing.”

  * * *

  I was on hold with the FBI for forty-five minutes before I hung up. Sylvia had insisted that Anabel and I meet her at Sailor’s Corner Cafe for a late breakfast to continue the flurry of wedding planning that she had unleashed ever since meeting Anabel. I was running late, and the thought of poor Anabel trying to fend off Sylvia’s ideas without support made me anxious.

  As I was rushing down Main Street, Nancy bellowed from across the road. “Mollie, wait up.” Instead of crossing at the crosswalk—which surprised me as usually she was a strict rule follower—she walked briskly through traffic. Of course, all the cars came to a screeching halt when they saw Nancy. Her force of personality made crosswalks unnecessary. Why wait for a light to change when you want to give someone a scolding? Especially when that person was me.

  She scowled. “You haven’t sent out an updated invite to Anabel’s bachelorette party yet. All the guests still think it’s taking place at the Tipsy Pirate.”

  “Everyone that’s coming is from Coconut Cove,” I said. “So, they all know that the Tipsy Pirate is shut down.”

  “Humph.” Nancy pursed her lips. “But they don’t know where the party is going to be held. If you had created a spreadsheet, like I suggested, then you wouldn’t be in this predicament. You would have been organized and promptly informed people about the change in venue.”

  Okay, she had a good point, but I wasn’t going to let her know that. “Of course they do. Didn’t you get my email telling everyone about the change of plans? Maybe it went into your spam folder.”

  “Why did you send it to my spam folder? That’s poor planning on your part. Invitations should be sent by postal mail, preferably, but if you are going to email . . .” she paused to make sure that I realized that the emailing of invitations was not really acceptable in her etiquette handbook, “then you should send your emails directly to everyone’s main email inbox.”

  “I don’t control how email servers operate,” I said. “If I did, I wouldn’t get regular emails from people in Nigeria promising me a huge commission if only I’d help them by transferring funds on their behalf. I probably wouldn’t get emails about updates to the marina rules and regulations either.”

  Nancy furrowed her brow. “Hang on a minute, I send you the marina emails. And you never respond in a timely fashion.”

  “See what I mean? You can’t control email servers.” Before she could figure out that her emails go into a special folder, otherwise known as my trash, I told Nancy that I was late.

  “Are you having breakfast at the cafe? Do you know if they have any rutabaga specials back on the menu?”

  I groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re back on that Rutamentals diet.”

  “Goodness, no. It’s for a gentleman I met at the marina. He swears by Rutamentals. Says it’s helped him build muscle without gaining fat. He actually stopped by looking for Herbert. He said that he’s a friend of his.”

  “Let me guess. Large guy? Lifts a lot of weights. Name of Dominic?”

  “Yes, that’s him. Did you meet him on the cruise?”

  “Sure did. I hung out with him at the casino. He called me his Lady Luck.”

  “Humph. You’ll be lucky if you pull off Anabel’s party this weekend.” Having said that, she scurried off to check her spam folder while I sent Scooter a quick text.

  Guess who is in town? Your favorite rutabaga-loving loan shark.

  11

  Bob Newhart is Calling

  When my phone rang, I smiled. Scooter had added a new ringtone for me. It sounded exactly like Bob Newhart saying, “It’s your wonderful hubby calling. Please answer the phone.” The deadpan delivery and slight stammer were so cute that I listened to it twice before picking up.

  “Hang on a sec,” I said. “Let me go somewhere quieter so I can hear you.” Realizing I was right outside of the peaceful courtyard that housed the town’s rose garden, I pushed open the gate. I nodded at Mrs. McDougall, who was sharpening her pruning shears, then put the phone back to my ear and said to Scooter, “Okay, shoot.”

  “Waa djw ceef se?” Scooter asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Waa djw ceef se?” he repeated slowly, emphasizing each word. The emphasis didn’t help. I still didn’t have a clue what he was trying to convey.

  “I can’t understand you.” />
  “E aat wut kanna.”

  This felt a bit like trying to figure what Mrs. Moto was trying to communicate when she meowed insistently at us. Usually she wanted food, scratches behind her ears, a game of laser pointer, or sometimes catnip. But what was Scooter trying to say? I assumed his topic of conversation was slightly more complex than needing a can of wet food opened immediately.

  I pressed the phone closer to my ear. “Come again?”

  “Lwakane,” he said.

  “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to speak Klingon.” I cleared my throat, then switched to speaking the famous Star Trek warrior species’ language. “TlhIngan QaQwI’’e’,” I said, complimenting him.

  To be honest, his Klingon wasn’t all that good, but I appreciated him making an effort. He knew how much I loved the Star Trek franchise. Though to my surprise, Scooter hung up. A few moments later, a text came through from him.

  I wasn’t speaking Klingon.

  I scratched my head. What other Star Trek languages could Scooter possibly know? I shot him back a quick reply. What was it? Vulcan? Ferengi?

  It was English. I had an emergency root canal. The tooth was badly infected. The lidocaine hasn’t worn off yet. Makes it hard to talk.

  So that was why his tooth had been causing him so much pain. You poor thing. Does it hurt? Are you okay?

  While I waited for Scooter’s reply, I watched Mrs. McDougall spread fertilizer underneath the velvety red roses climbing up the brick wall. Then I looked back at my phone. You’d think a guy who works in telecommunications would be faster at texting.

  My phone pinged. I’m fine. Back at the boat. What did the chief say?

  After trying to figure out how to sum up my less-than-helpful conversation with Chief Dalton, I finally settled on a rolling eye emoji.

  That good, huh? Scooter replied.

  Basically, we’re on our own unless we can get the FBI to help. Going to the library to research maritime law.

  I’ll try to track down Dominic. Catch up later, Scooter texted back, along with several sailboat emojis.

  On my way out of the garden, I stopped to chat with Mrs. McDougall. “What kind of rose is that? It’s taking off like wildfire. I bet it will cover that entire wall soon.”

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s called ‘Don Juan.’ Definitely a bit of a show-off. Still, you can’t help but fall in love with it.”

  “Kind of like its namesake,” I said.

  She laughed. “Yes, be careful it’ll seduce you with its good looks.”

  While I helped Mrs. McDougall carry some bags of fertilizer from her car into the garden, I thought about Madison. She was a stunning woman. It was no wonder that she had competed in beauty pageants. Had she also used her looks to seduce men? I remembered the conversation I had overheard between Fletcher and Madison on the cruise ship. Fletcher had threatened to tell Anthony something about Madison. What was that secret? Had she been cheating on her boyfriend?

  Cheating on her boyfriend . . . I played this scenario over and over again in my mind, then I gasped. At Chez Poisson, Anthony had practically accused Madison of sleeping with his uncle. She had denied it, but really, would she have admitted it to Anthony if she had? Scooter and I had found that pink cigarette butt at the crime scene. Had Fletcher and Madison argued that night about their affair? An argument that had become so heated that she took the opportunity to make sure he could never reveal her secret by pushing him to a watery grave.

  Mrs. McDougall interrupted my train of thought to give me some tips on what herbs would grow well on our sailboat. After I said goodbye to her, I realized that I was supposed to be meeting Anabel and Sylvia at the cafe. When I rushed in, Anabel was sitting at a table by herself.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “Did I miss Sylvia?”

  “She was only here for a second. She dropped off some more bridal magazines and told me she couldn’t stay.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Mentioned something about going to see a guy named Hank.”

  “Hank? Oh, that hypnotist she told me about. She must have a new rash.”

  Anabel sighed. “I think I’m going to start breaking into a rash if I have to look at one more picture of place settings, wedding arches, or boutonnieres. I told Tiny last night that we should elope.”

  “Eloping sounds romantic.”

  “I guess.” Anabel absentmindedly traced her finger on the cover of one of the magazines. “But I really want all our friends to be there.”

  “Let me talk to Sylvia,” I said. “You should be excited about your wedding, not dreading it.”

  “Do you mind? It’s not that I don’t appreciate her help, but it’s so . . .” she chewed on her lip as her voice trailed off.

  “Overwhelming?”

  “Exactly. Just tell her that I want to put the wedding planning on hold, at least until after my bachelorette party on Sunday. I have a commission to work on this week, which is going to take all my focus. And then I want to enjoy the party without stressing about anything else.”

  After reassuring Anabel that I would take care of everything, I grabbed the stack of magazines. “I’ll give these back to Sylvia and explain the situation.” Then with more confidence than I actually felt, I added, “And don’t worry about your party. I’ve got everything organized. It’s going to be lots of fun.”

  Making a mental note to catch up with Charmaine Buttercup about the to do list she was working on, I headed to the library. First things first, the murder, then the party.

  * * *

  Hudson smiled at me when I walked into the library. “Back for more chocolate?”

  Remembering what a struggle it was to button up my jeans this morning, I shook my head. “I’ll pass.”

  “Really? You’re giving up chocolate?” Hudson nodded approvingly. “I told you seeing a hypnotist would help.”

  “Whoa, I never said I was giving it up. Just cutting back a little.”

  Dr. McCoy hopped onto the counter and snaked a paw into the box of chocolate bars. With a bit of effort, he pushed one out. When it landed on a stack of books, he meowed at me.

  Hudson stroked his fur, then placed the bar back in the box. “Don’t tempt the lady.”

  Locking his eyes on me, Dr. McCoy meowed again.

  “That time, I think he was asking where Mrs. Moto is,” Hudson said.

  “Sorry, she’s back on the boat,” I said. “I’ll bring her in next time.”

  “Dr. McCoy sure is going to miss her,” Hudson said.

  “Miss her? Why?”

  Hudson leaned across the counter and lowered his voice. “Can you keep a secret? I’m dying to tell someone.”

  “Of course. I’m great with secrets.”

  He tapped his fingers on the counter for a moment, then said, “I have an interview for a head librarian position lined up.”

  “Where’s Janice going? She’s too young to retire.”

  “No, the position is at another library.” He grinned. “I couldn’t believe it when they called.”

  “You’re leaving Coconut Cove?” I glanced at Dr. McCoy. “You’re both leaving?”

  Hudson held his hands up. “It’s not a done deal. They’re interviewing two other candidates.”

  “Wow. That’s big news. The library won’t be the same without you. Is it far away?” When Hudson nodded, I said, “Your family will really miss you.”

  “They don’t know yet. And you have to promise not to tell anyone, especially Aunt Nancy. If she gets wind of it, well, all heck will break loose.”

  “Understood. I know what the Coconut Cove grapevine is like.”

  “Thanks, Mollie. I’ve been bursting to tell someone, and you happened to come around at just the right time.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. If anyone deserves to be a head librarian, it’s you. Your nautical book club has been a big hit. Of course, now that I’ve read Moby Dick, I’m little anxious about running across a whale in our tra
vels.”

  “Don’t worry. If a whale approaches Marjorie Jane, Mrs. Moto will scare it off.”

  I laughed. “Knowing that cat, she’d jump in the water. She loves swimming. She’d probably think the whale was a giant dolphin which had come just to play with her.”

  “Dr. McCoy doesn’t like to go in the water, but he does like walking along the beach. If I do get this job, I hope Dr. McCoy can adapt. The weather will be quite different.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say that I’ll need some serious cold weather gear.”

  “After living in Florida, I don’t think I could do winter anymore.” I mentally shook myself when my eyes drifted to the box of chocolate. I could swear it was whispering to me, Resistance is futile. Averting my gaze, I said, “I need to do some research on maritime law. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Of course. We have a number of books on the subject.”

  Dr. McCoy followed us to the reference section. He stretched up on his hind legs and sniffed at a set of large leather-bound books.

  “He’s my secret weapon,” Hudson said. “Who needs a card catalog when Dr. McCoy knows exactly where what you need is shelved.”

  “Does the library that’s interviewing you know that you have a cat who comes to work with you?”

  “Not yet. I thought I’d wait and see if they make an offer before I bring that up.” Dr. McCoy tapped one of the books with his paw, and Hudson pulled it off the shelf. “What do you want to know about maritime law specifically?”

  “What happens when someone is murdered in international waters,” I said.

  “Still on the case, huh? Why don’t you start with this one?” he suggested, placing the book in my hands. “Dr. McCoy usually has a sixth sense about these sorts of things.”

  As I sat at one of the tables reading through overly dry paragraphs of legal jargon, my eyes began to glaze over. Maritime law is one of the oldest bodies of law that still operates in the world. Maybe the fact that it was developed back in ancient times was why it was so dull. Despite the excruciating boredom, I continued to plow through the book. Unfortunately, most of what I read seemed to apply to people such as offshore oil workers, international seamen, and ferry boat workers. Nothing jumped out at me that pertained to folks who went on a cruise ship for pleasure.