Overboard on the Ocean
Page 15
In between yawns, I mentally filed away a few tidbits in case the Tipsy Pirate reopened. Their pub trivia nights had been one of the highlights of my week. If they started back up, I would be able to belt out the fact that maritime law is also known as admiralty law. I smiled, thinking about what Mrs. Moto’s reaction would be if I told her about admiralty law. As the honorary admiral aboard our boat, she would assume that meant she was entitled to pass judgment on us. Not that she doesn’t do that already. She’s a cat. Cats are always judging their humans and finding them lacking.
When I reached the section about wrongful death, I perked up. The captain of the cruise ship had refused to label Fletcher’s death as murder. Despite that he still had to be investigating the incident, didn’t he? The killer had opened the gate and then pushed Fletcher through it. Shouldn’t the gate have been locked to begin with? What if some kids had been up on that deck, messed around with the gate, and one of them had fell overboard? That would have to be negligence on the cruise ship’s part.
I leaned back in my chair and considered the implications of the unlocked gate. Pushing someone through an open gate was one thing. However, lifting Fletcher up and shoving him over the railing? That would have been much harder. Someone like Dominic, with all of his muscles, probably would have been able to toss Fletcher overboard easily. But I wasn’t so sure about Herbert and Anthony. They were both on the scrawny side, their physiques indicating that they spent more time behind a desk than in the gym.
Then there was Sylvia and Madison. Would either of them be strong enough to push Fletcher overboard? It didn’t seem likely, but Fletcher had been drunk. Both of them had alibis, but I didn’t want to rule them out completely. There was also the pesky question regarding the cigarette butt that we still needed to get to the bottom of.
I snapped the book shut and ran my fingers through my hair. Why was I engaging in hypothetical scenarios? Sure, if the gate had been locked, maybe Fletcher would still be alive. Except it hadn’t been, and Fletcher was dead.
Then I cocked my head to one side. There was something else strength-related to take into consideration—the gate. I had tried and couldn’t unlatch it. Scooter was the one who had opened it when we were inspecting the crime scene.
Drumming my fingers on the table, I thought about all the suspects. The gate would have been child’s play for Dominic, and probably not have presented a problem for the other guys. Or would it have? On the cruise, Anthony had struggled to open a jar of jam and Madison opened it for him. At the time, he joked that he had loosened it up for her. But had he? Or was Madison the one with the muscle in their relationship?
That brought me to Sylvia. I shrugged, not really knowing if she had the capability to open jars, let alone sticky gates. Then I remembered her special badminton exercise regime designed to strengthen her hands and forearms. The gate would have been a cinch for her.
Dr. McCoy hopped up on the table to lay down on the maritime law book. “Are you saying that’s enough research for today?” I asked him. Dr. McCoy meowed, and I scratched his head. “I didn’t learn too much from it, but it did confirm the ‘passive personality principle’ the chief told me about. Basically, it means that the federal authorities need to get involved, because Fletcher was an American. Even if they don’t believe that it was murder, they should still investigate it as a wrongful death, don’t you think? That gate shouldn’t have been left unlocked.”
Soft snoring was the only response I got from Dr. McCoy. Gingerly removing my hand from underneath his head, I walked into the lobby to try phoning the FBI again.
While on hold, I checked out the community bulletin board. Mrs. McDougall had posted a sign-up sheet for volunteers to work in the rose garden. If we weren’t leaving for the Bahamas after the holidays, I would have added my name to the list. The high school marching band was holding a pancake breakfast to raise money for new uniforms. I made a note of the date. Pancakes and a good cause? Count me in. My mouth was salivating in anticipation of light, fluffy pancakes drenched in maple syrup.
Tapping my foot along with the cheesy hold music, my eyes caught sight of a bright orange flier tacked to the corner of the bulletin board. I could hardly believe it. Trixie Tremblay, the founder of the Rutamentals program, was back in town. She was even holding a cooking seminar tonight at the community center. Dominic was a fan of Rutamentals. Was it possible that he would be attending Trixie’s seminar this evening?
I sent Scooter a quick text—Hope you’re able to chew by tonight. Rutabagas are on the menu—then scowled when my call to the FBI got disconnected.
* * *
The upside about Scooter’s lidocaine wearing off is that he was able to talk. The downside was that now he could feel the pain from where the root canal had taken place. He tried to insist that he was fine, wanting to go with me to the Rutamentals seminar. Though the way he rubbed his jaw, and the agony etched on his face, made me insist that he take a couple of pain pills and crawl into bed.
After kissing him on the forehead, I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll call you if I find out anything interesting from Dominic.”
“Be careful,” Scooter said. “Don’t let Dominic know you think he’s a suspect.”
“I’ll be fine. The event is taking place at a public place so there will be lots of people around. Besides, Dominic isn’t the brightest turnip to fall off the truck. Or should I say the brightest rutabaga? Honestly, I could probably ask him straight out if he killed Fletcher and he still wouldn’t have a clue.”
Scooter squeezed my hand. “Promise me you won’t ask him that. Try to be more subtle with your questions.”
“Subtle? Not a problem,” I said, smiling brightly. After giving Mrs. Moto and Scooter a final kiss goodbye, I headed to the community center. The lot was full, and I ended up having to park my car on the street. It always amazed me that so many otherwise intelligent people thought that a diet based on rutabagas was a good idea, despite the, ahem, digestive issues it caused. Still, I had to hand it to Trixie Tremblay. She had managed to transform a humble root vegetable into a vast business empire.
When I walked into the center, I realized that Rutamentals wasn’t the only show in town. Trixie was competing with a knitting workshop, a master gardener seminar, and an alcohol addiction recovery meeting.
Alan Simpson cornered me by the coffee urn and tried to convince me to attend his workshop. “Don’t you want to learn how to make tiny sweaters for hamsters?” he asked. When I reminded him that I didn’t have a hamster, he said, “They work for gerbils and guinea pigs too. Well as long as you adapt the pattern.”
“What about something cat-sized?” I asked. “I want to make Mrs. Moto an ugly Christmas sweater.”
“Sorry, no can do,” Alan said. “My needles are too small to work for feline apparel. But I can give you some pointers.”
After arranging to catch up for a knitting lesson the following week, I helped Mrs. McDougall carry some boxes of heirloom seeds into her classroom. When Trixie Tremblay’s theme music started blaring from the room next door, Mrs. McDougall and I exchanged glances.
“I can’t believe that woman is back in Coconut Cove. The only thing rutabagas are good for is ground up as fertilizer,” the older woman muttered.
“I don’t know. That seems kind of cruel to the other plants,” I joked, taking my leave.
It appeared to be standing room only at the Rutamentals seminar. Somehow, as I weaved my way through the crowd, I spotted an empty seat right next to Dominic. It was like the universe knew I needed to speak with him.
As I sat down, I realized why no one was in that spot. Dominic’s legs were so muscular that his left thigh spilled onto half of the chair I was attempting to sit on.
He grinned when he saw me, his tiny baby teeth glinting in the overhead lights. Tapping the arm of the man sitting on the other side of him, he pointed at me. “Lady Luck,” he said.
The man nodded, then went back to looking at his Rutamentals catalog.
By the time I got to my feet, everyone else had taken their seats again. Assuming that I was standing up because I was eager to ask a question, Trixie pointed at me. “Tell everyone your name,” she said, in her high-pitched and annoyingly chirpy voice.
“Uh, Mollie.” My face grew warm as everyone turned to look at me.
“Tell everyone why you’re here, Mollie,” Trixie said.
I glanced down at Dominic. I couldn’t very well tell Trixie and everyone else that I was here to investigate a murder. So, I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head. “I want to give up chocolate.”
A few people gasped. Probably folks who knew me and were all too aware of my torrid love affair with all things chocolate. I gasped too. Why did I say that? Was my subconscious trying to tell me something? Since I know my conscious mind in no way, shape, or form ever wanted to give up chocolate.
“You’ve come to the right place, Mollie. Within one week of being on the Rutamentals program, I guarantee you won’t want to eat chocolate again.”
She gave me an appraising look, then continued. “I can’t help but notice that your upper arms are a little flabby.” I arched an eyebrow, and she held up her hand. “Don’t worry. It happens to most women when they reach your age. But Rutamentals will help transform that flab into muscle. Look at the gentleman sitting next to you. Before he embraced a diet of rutabagas, he was scrawny. He could barely lift a ten-pound weight. Now he can easily bench press two hundred pounds.”
As the room broke out in applause, I hastily took my seat. Or my half a seat. When Trixie held up her hands for silence, Dominic put his arm around me and said, “Lady Luck.”
Trixie smiled. “She certainly is a lucky lady. Lucky that she’s discovered Rutamentals.”
All I can tell you about the following hour is that it was one of the longest of my life. I had to endure a presentation on ten little-known facts about rutabagas, taste test a new line of iced rutabaga teas, and do chair yoga. When the seminar finally ended, I managed to engage Dominic in conversation.
Okay, it wasn’t really a conversation. I asked questions and Dominic gave what could charitably be called ‘concise answers,’ some of which made no sense.
I started with the note that someone had sent Dominic on the cruise ship. Since he had eaten it after reading it, the only thing I knew about it was that it mentioned extortion and financial records. Maybe I could get him to reveal what it had said and who sent it to him.
“Is someone trying to extort money from you?” I asked.
Dominic furrowed his brow. “Extort?”
Remembering that he had been stumped by the term “extortion” in the note and had to ask an elderly couple what it meant, I explained, “You know, like when someone threatens you unless you pay them.”
He flexed his biceps. “Threat. No threat.”
“Okay, gotcha. No one in their right mind would threaten you with bodily harm, but they could threaten you with something else. Perhaps by revealing a secret of yours?”
He gave me a toothy grin. “Secret. I keep secret. I no tell secret.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets too.” I put a hand to the side of my face and whispered, “Why don’t you tell me one of your secrets and then I’ll tell you one of mine. For example, maybe you could tell me if Fletcher owed you a lot of money. That would be a fun secret to share.”
Dominic nodded, and I leaned forward, eager to hear the answer. “Fletcher not lucky.”
I rubbed my hands together. Now we were getting somewhere. “Fletcher lost money gambling, so you loaned him money, right?”
“Yes. Gave him money.” Dominic pulled out his wallet and handed me a piece of paper. “I got this.”
I unfolded the paper, then said, “Oh, this is a check. A check drawn on Fletcher and Herbert’s company account.”
“Check,” Dominic said.
“But it’s postdated. You can’t cash it until January of next year.” I cocked my head to one side. “That’s odd. Why would Fletcher give you a postdated check?”
Dominic stared at me blankly, then tried to take the check back.
“Hang on a second, let me take a picture of it first.” After I returned it to him, he carefully folded it back up and placed it in his wallet. “When did you get this?”
“Got it on cruise,” Dominic said.
“But when on the cruise? What time?”
Dominic pulled up his sleeve and squinted at his watch. “Nine.”
“Yes, it’s nine o’clock now. But what time did Fletcher give you this check? Did he give it to you at the casino?”
Dominic held his wrist up to my face. “Nine.”
That’s when I noticed that his watch had a plain black leather strap. It wasn’t the flashy gold watch that I had seen Fletcher hand Dominic that night. When I asked him what had happened to Fletcher’s watch, he gave me another blank look. I decided to try another tack.
“Remember how you were watching Fletcher play craps at the casino?” Dominic nodded. “Then I left.” This earned me another nod. “Did you stay at the casino after I left?” When Dominic nodded for a third time, I felt elated. My questions were getting through to him. “Did you stay at the casino the entire night?”
Dominic shook his head. “Casino. No.”
“Where did you go? Did you go outside onto the deck?” I know that Scooter had urged me to be subtle in my questioning. However, I had thrown that strategy out the window a long time ago when even straight-forward questions proved challenging for Dominic. “Were you outside with Fletcher?”
“No. No outside. Magic.”
I furrowed my brow. “Magic?”
“Big spiders. Magic.”
“You went to the magic show?”
Dominic nodded vigorously, then abruptly stood and walked toward the front of the room where Trixie was selling Rutamentals merchandise.
Realizing that was probably as much information as I was going to get out of Dominic for the night, I decided to head back to the boat to debrief Scooter. As I walked out into the hallway, Mrs. McDougall waylaid me. “Can you help me carry some pruning shears to my car? They’re on the table in the classroom.”
As I went to retrieve them for her, I noticed two familiar men in the room next door. I could understand why Herbert had attended an alcohol addiction recovery meeting, but I was surprised to see Anthony there as well. I was even more surprised to see the two of them speaking in what appeared to be a civil manner. They detested each other.
The room was empty except for the two of them, and they were speaking quietly so I wasn’t able to eavesdrop inconspicuously on their conversation. Instead, I leaned against the door frame, trying to decipher what they were saying through body language alone. Unfortunately, my ability to understand body language was worse than my ability to understand Klingon, so I had no idea what they were talking about.
After a few moments, they rose from their chairs and shook hands. When they saw me, they both did a double take.
“What a pleasant surprise. Are you here for the knitting workshop?” Anthony asked smoothly.
“No, I was at the Rutamentals seminar,” I said.
Herbert wrinkled his nose. “Rutabagas?”
I nodded, then asked, “What are you two up to?”
Anthony clapped Herbert on the back and said in a jovial tone, “Just talking about my uncle’s unfortunate death and how we should take the company forward from here.”
Herbert’s smile was more forced. “Yes, it’s sad that we�
�ll no longer have Fletcher at the helm, but Anthony will do a fine job taking over the company reins.”
My eyes widened. “Anthony is taking over? That’s certainly a surprise.”
“Yes, I’ve decided to retire and sell the company to Anthony,” Herbert said. “When you see how a tragic accident can end your life, like it did with Fletcher, it makes you reconsider things.”
“Tragic accident,” I spluttered, looking back and forth between the two men. “But it wasn’t a tragic accident. It was murder.”
“Murder?” Anthony frowned. “It wasn’t murder. My uncle drank too much and fell overboard.”
“But both of you were convinced that it was homicide,” I said, leaving out the part that each of them had accused the other one of killing Fletcher.
Herbert shook his head. “That was just grief talking. Anthony lost his beloved uncle, and I lost my dear friend. When something like that happens, you want to lash out and blame someone, anyone really.”
Anthony fixed his gaze on me, his eyes turning steely. “It was an accident. A tragic accident.”
After the two of them left, apparently best buddies now, I slumped onto a chair in shock. It had only been a few days since Fletcher had been killed. Anthony and Herbert had been mortal enemies, and now this? Now they were suddenly united not only about the leadership of the company, but also about the cause of Fletcher’s death? Something was going on and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.
12
International Bagel Day
It was obvious that Anthony and Herbert had made some sort of pact to cover up the truth. On the surface, it looked like Anthony had come out ahead. He was going to take over the company. Apparently denying that his uncle had been murdered was the price Anthony was willing to pay in order to become CEO.