Dead in the Dinghy

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Did you hear me, Mollie?” Ben said. “It wasn’t her.”

  I patted his hand. “I heard you.” This whole conversation was going downhill. I was realizing that talking about suspects with friends of suspects was a bad idea. It was time to change the subject.

  “So, what kind of costumes do you think Mrs. Moto should wear in her YouTube videos?”

  It’s amazing how talking about cats makes everyone chill out.

  * * *

  The next day was pretty eventful. Not eventful in terms of murder. No one else was killed, no one confessed, and no new evidence came to light. What was eventful was that Marjorie Jane won the final race back to Coconut Cove. Nancy claimed we cheated, and that I had to relinquish our trophy. I clutched the trophy to my chest and said something about sore losers. That rendered her speechless. I think she assumed that I was going to back down like the two goons had on the beach.

  Fortunately, Ned intervened, reminding both of us that neither Pretty in Pink nor Marjorie Jane had won the overall regatta. Instead, that honor had gone to the catamaran, the Mistletoe. The couple that owned the boat were gracious winners, inviting all of us to a Christmas party on their boat. When I mentioned it was only July, and that December was a long way off, the wife laughed and told me it was never too early to start organizing catering. She seemed like the type of woman who filed her taxes early and never ran out of toilet paper.

  That evening, Scooter and I met Anabel and Chief Dalton at the Tipsy Pirate. I was eager to hear more details about her escape from Destiny Key. When she had called me earlier, the brief update she had given sounded like something out of a James Bond movie, with the chief racing from Coconut Cove to the island in a powerboat, sneaking into the building where she was being held, and overpowering the goons standing guard, before whisking her back to the mainland. I had a feeling what really happened had probably been a little less exciting.

  As we walked into the bar, I stopped to have a word with Coconut Carl’s statue. “How come you never told me you were a ghost?” I asked. He didn’t respond. Which is probably a good thing. When wooden statues start talking back, you’ve either had too many rum shots or something else weird is going on.

  After I did the ritual rubbing of Carl’s belly, Scooter asked me what I wished for. “To prove that Anabel is innocent.”

  “And…?” he prompted.

  “And for Hershey’s to start making S’mores candy bars again.”

  “Good call,” he said. “I hope both of those wishes come true.”

  “What do you mean by ‘you hope’? You don’t think Anabel really did it, do you?”

  “Of course not. It was just a figure of speech,” Scooter said. He looked around the large room. The owners of the Tipsy Pirate had converted an old fish processing plant into a kitschy bar, popular with locals and tourists alike. There was still a lingering fishy odor, but after a few rum punches, people didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you see them?” I asked.

  “Yep. They’re outside.” As we walked over to join them, I noticed Frick and Frack sleeping quietly at the chief’s feet. “We should have brought Mrs. Moto with us,” I said.

  Scooter looked over the railing of the back deck which extended out over the water. He pointed at some fish swimming past. “No way. She’d have dived in to go for a swim and make new friends.”

  I squinted in the Dalton’s direction. “Do you notice anything different about the chief?”

  Scooter shook his head.

  “I think he trimmed his eyebrows. Guys do that sort of thing when there’s a woman involved. He’s trying to look good for Anabel.”

  “His eyebrows don’t look any different to me,” he said.

  “They definitely do. It used to look like two giant caterpillars had taken up residence on his forehead. They were constantly twitching. It was like a form of sign language. I could tell what he was really thinking by looking at his bushy eyebrows. But now that they’re neat and tidy, I don’t have a clue.”

  Scooter laughed. “You’re crazy. Let’s go,” he said, grabbing my hand.

  As we neared the table, Anabel rushed over to me and gave me a hug.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I said.

  “I’m fine now, thanks to Tiny.” She beamed at her ex-husband. He gave her a shy smile in return.

  “What can I get you?” a waitress asked after we had taken our seats.

  After she returned with drinks and appetizers, the chief said he wanted to take our statements.

  “Statements?” I said. “That seems quite formal. We’re having egg rolls with pineapple dipping sauce. Hardly the type of food that goes with an interrogation.”

  The chief frowned. “I said a statement, not an interrogation.”

  “What kind of food do you think goes with an interrogation?” Anabel asked me.

  “Something with mashed potatoes and gravy,” I said. “You really need something that’s going to stick to your ribs if the police are grilling you.”

  “Ladies, this isn’t a cooking show,” the burly man said impatiently. “I need everyone to cooperate if we’re going to clear Anabel’s name.”

  “We have the same goal,” I said soberly. “What do you need?”

  Anabel placed her hand on the chief’s arm. “Tiny needs your help.”

  “He does?” I said.

  “He does.” She looked at her ex. “Don’t you? Tell her what you told me.”

  The chief jabbed an egg roll into the dipping sauce, splattering it across the table.

  Anabel handed him a napkin, then said, “Why don’t I just go ahead and tell you? We need you to find out who murdered Gregor. Tiny can’t get officially involved. If he’s caught poking his nose into things, it will cause trouble for him. So we want to hire you to be our private investigator.”

  The chief made a choking sound, then spluttered, “That’s not what I said. What I said was that I wanted you to do what you do best—be a busybody.”

  I shrugged. “I can do that.” After pulling a notebook out of my purse, I started making a list. “The first thing we need to do is make sure Gregor’s body has a proper autopsy. Second is to get a hold of the evidence and have it analyzed by someone trustworthy.”

  “How are you going to get the evidence?” Scooter asked. “It’s on Destiny Key.”

  “Let’s put a pin in that and come back to it later,” I said. “Third, we need to interview the suspects. And fourth…” I tapped my pen on the notebook. “What was the fourth thing?”

  “It probably had something to do with chocolate,” the chief said dryly.

  “No, that’s not it. But that is a good point.” I jotted down, ‘4 - Buy more M&M’S.’ “Okay, let’s talk about the suspects—Thomas, Victoria, Olivia, and Sawyer. Let’s cover their possible motives first, then talk about opportunity.”

  The chief bit back a smile. “Go on.”

  “I hate to say it,” I said, pausing to make sure no one was listening in on our conversation, “but Thomas has the strongest motive. There was a lot of bad blood between the two of them. Then, when Gregor showed up uninvited and started acting like he owned the place, it might have been the straw that broke his back.”

  “Thomas is such a nice guy,” Anabel said. “I can’t picture him killing someone.”

  “We have to leave our emotion out of it,” I said. “Next is Victoria. At first, I was convinced that she did it because of the hair that we found, but…” I looked at Anabel. “Did you know she was losing her hair?”

  “No,” she said. “But that might explain why she started wearing hats and scarves earlier this year. Poor thing.”

  “Uh-huh. From what she told us, it explains how the hair ended up in the dinghy and how it was caught in Gregor’s ring.”

  “So, you’re ruling her out because she had a convincing explanation,” the chief said.

  I sat back in my chair. “That’s a good point. Even if her hair fell out in their room that night, she
still could have lost some during an altercation with Gregor. You’re pretty good at this,” I said.

  He snorted. “That must be why they gave me a badge.”

  “Have I shown you this?” I reached into my purse and pulled out a leather wallet. I flipped it open to reveal an identification card and a badge with a spaceship logo. “See, it’s from FAROUT. It proves that I’m an official investigative reporter.”

  The chief put his head in his hands. “Can we get back to the suspects, please?”

  “Okay. Let’s move onto Sawyer. Victoria told us that Gregor was having an affair with her. He broke it off, and she got upset.”

  The chief nodded. “Jealously is often a motive.”

  “The thing is that I’m not sure whether it’s true or not.” I turned to Scooter. “I thought we could invite Sawyer over for dinner tomorrow night. We can say it’s so that she can see the inside of Marjorie Jane since she made those nice sketches of the outside. Then we can grill her about her love life.”

  “What are you thinking of making?” he asked.

  “Lasagna,” I said. “Italian food and a nice bottle of red wine is the perfect recipe for an investigative session.”

  “Chianti would be nice,” Scooter said. “Will there be garlic bread too?”

  “Okay, enough chit-chat about your dinner menu,” the chief said. What about the other girl, Olivia?”

  “She didn’t know Gregor at all,” I said. “I can’t see a motive.”

  “Those are the ones you have to look at more closely,” the chief said.

  “Fair enough. Scooter can question her.”

  Scooter set down his glass on the table. “Me? I’m not the busybody, you are.” When he saw the look on my face, he clarified. “I meant investigator, not busybody. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “I’ll give you a list of questions and prep you,” I said. “You have the perfect excuse to speak with her.”

  “I do?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “You can talk to her about your YouTube channel, then casually direct the conversation to the murder.”

  “You seem to have this under control,” Anabel said to me before turning to Chief Dalton. “Doesn’t she, honey?”

  He pursed his lips, probably to keep a compliment about me from escaping them. “So you have plans to question the two girls. What about Thomas and Victoria?”

  “Thomas is easy. We’ll go for breakfast at the Sailor’s Corner Cafe tomorrow and catch him there. He said he would be hanging some new paintings for sale.”

  “And Victoria?” the chief asked.

  After a moment, I said, “I know. She left her hat on our boat. I’ll go return it and have a chat with her.”

  “What about opportunity?” Anabel asked. “We’ve talked about motive, but not opportunity.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Sawyer and Olivia shared a room. Could one of them have sneaked out in the middle of the night without the other one knowing?”

  Anabel shrugged. “Maybe. It depends if the other one was a heavy sleeper.”

  “Thomas had his own room, so it wouldn’t have been a problem for him to have gone downstairs without anyone noticing.” I eyed the lone egg roll on the plate. Before I could make my move, Scooter swiped it. I gave him a look, then continued, “But Victoria and Gregor were sharing a room. Did she lure him down to the dock somehow to kill him there? Were they out for a stroll, got into an argument and then she stabbed him?”

  The chief cleared his throat. “Any one of them had opportunity. I suggest you focus on motive.” His phone buzzed. “I need to get this.”

  While the chief was chatting, the rest of us debated whether we should order more egg rolls or try the fried cheese balls. I suggested we get both.

  “I’ve got some bad news.”

  I looked up from the menu.

  Chief Dalton’s face looked grim. “You can cross the first item off your list. There won’t be an autopsy. Gregor was buried at sea this afternoon.”

  10

  Edward Scissorhands

  The next morning, Scooter and I went to the Sailor’s Corner Cafe to speak with Thomas. As usual, people were lined up outside patiently waiting for a table. Conversation buzzed as everyone shared how they had spent the Fourth of July weekend. Parades, fireworks, and picnics topped their lists. I decided not to mention that we had celebrated with sparklers and a murder investigation.

  When we finally got inside I was surprised by how chaotic things were. Customers were impatiently waiting to pay their checks, dirty dishes were piled up on tables, and the cook was pounding on the bell in the kitchen.

  “Order up,” he yelled. “Is anyone out there? Food’s getting cold!”

  As we waited to be seated, Jim rushed past balancing a tray with one hand and carrying a pot of coffee in the other. While he was topping up a young couple’s coffee cups, their toddler wriggled in his high chair, knocking a glass of juice on the floor. The harried man let out an exasperated sigh, then bent down to clean up the mess.

  An older man shouted from across the room. “We’ve been waiting for over an hour. Where’s our order?”

  Jim placed the broken glass and the wet rag in a bin at the service station, straightened his Hawaiian shirt, then smiled at the man. “Coming right up, sir.” It was one of those smiles that looks slightly manic, like a nervous breakdown could happen at any minute.

  We caught Jim’s eye as he walked toward the kitchen. “Sit anywhere you like,” he muttered.

  Fortunately for us, our favorite booth had just opened up. Unfortunately for Jim, it was because the couple who had been waiting to order got fed up and stormed out.

  I grabbed a couple of menus from the hostess station and passed one to Scooter as we sat down. “What are you going to get?” I asked, although I knew the answer. He always ordered a Denver omelet and hash browns. Pancakes with extra-crispy bacon was my usual.

  Scooter checked the time on his phone. “Do you see Thomas anywhere around here?” he asked. “I have a conference call in an hour.”

  I scanned the room. The cafe was decorated with arts and crafts for sale. I noticed a few paintings that obviously were Anabel’s—the unicorns, fairies, and dragons were a giveaway. There were a couple of drawings of sailboats on the far wall. I wondered if they were Sawyer’s work. Prominently displayed near the entrance were Thomas’ paintings. A display of greeting cards, carved model ships, and jewelry was positioned next to the cash register.

  “No, I don’t see him,” I said. “Maybe he’s helping out in the kitchen.”

  After a few minutes, Jim came to take our order. “Sorry, folks. Alejandra is out of town, and two of the other waitresses called in sick.”

  “Where’s Alejandra?” Scooter asked.

  “She’s at a cosmetology convention,” he said.

  “I told you about that,” I reminded Scooter. “She texted yesterday to say that it’s going really well. She’s lined up suppliers and ordered a couple of pedicure spa chairs.”

  “Oh, yeah. Her nail salon is opening soon,” Scooter said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “She leased a space at the Seaside Center. She’s nervous about the grand opening.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.” He wagged a finger at me. “As long as you don’t stumble across another murder.”

  “A murder at a nail salon,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Jim looked up from his phone. “Phew. One of the gals is going to be able to take a shift. She should be here in about thirty minutes.” He surveyed the room. “Hopefully, I can keep the crowd under control until then.”

  The bell rang again. “Order up.”

  “Do you need help?” Scooter asked. “My little stegosaurus used to waitress part-time back in Cleveland.”

  Jim’s eyes lit up. “Really? Do you think you could help out?”

  “Happy to,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Breakfast is on me.”

&
nbsp; “With extra bacon?” I asked.

  He smiled and handed me an apron. “As much as you can eat.”

  Scooter grinned. “You’ll be sorry you said that.”

  After taking orders, filling coffee cups, and bussing tables for a half hour, I remembered why I never became a professional waitress. My feet were killing me. Finally, the other waitress arrived and took over for me.

  As I slid into the booth, Scooter held up his coffee mug. “Refill?”

  “No way,” I said.

  “You’re not going to get a tip with an attitude like that,” he joked.

  As the breakfast crowd thinned out, Jim set our orders in front of us. “Extra bacon, as promised. Plus extra butter for those pancakes. I think you’ve earned those calories. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Why don’t you have a seat and rest a while?” I pointed at the waitress. “It looks like she has things under control.”

  I scooted over in the booth and Jim slid in next to me.

  “We were hoping to see Thomas here,” Scooter said.

  “He’s at Coconut Creations,” Jim said.

  “Gregor’s gallery?” I asked. “What’s he doing there?”

  “It’s top secret,” Jim said with a smile.

  “A good kind of secret or a bad kind?” I asked.

  “A very good kind. He’s had some good luck. I’ll let him tell you about it.”

  Scooter took a sip of coffee. “After what happened on Destiny Key, he could use some good luck.”

  Jim frowned. “You’re telling me. He hardly slept a wink last night. He was tossing and turning.”

  “Bad dreams about the murder?” I asked.

  “Yes. It upset him on a number of levels,” Jim stroked his white beard. “First finding the body and then the altercation with Chief Tyler. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was finding out Anabel had been arrested.”