Poisoned by the Pier
Page 2
“No, not us. Against Mrs. Moto.” I handed him the letter. “How do you file a restraining order against a cat?”
Ben laughed. “Especially a cat like yours. She’s always wandering around the place and jumping on people’s boats.”
“That’s because everyone is always giving her cat treats,” I said. “They love it when she comes to visit.”
Scooter folded up the letter. “Everyone except this lady. I guess she didn’t like it when Mrs. Moto climbed through her window and made herself at home. Let me see that envelope,” he said. “Hmm. This came from Mike’s firm.”
“Mike Wilson, the guy who just bought that new sailboat?” I asked.
“That’s the one. Hey, there’s something else in this envelope.” He pulled a piece of paper out, then scowled. “This is ridiculous—a bill for a cat-hair removal service.”
“Want some Hershey’s Kisses?” Ben asked. “That might cheer you up.”
Scooter reached into the bag, then stopped himself. “No. I think I’ll go back to our boat and have a Red Ruta Smoothie instead. It’s designed to energize you. It’s made out of radishes, radicchio, ginseng, and concentrated rutabaga extract. You guys want one?”
“Yeah, I’m going to pass,” I said.
“Uh, I think I’ll have to give it a miss too,” Ben said. “I’ve got a bit of a tummy ache.”
“You go on ahead. I’ll be right there,” I said. “I need to catch up with Ben about something.”
After Scooter was out of earshot, I playfully punched Ben in the arm. “Tummy ache? Yeah, right. Faker.”
Ben rubbed his stomach. “I’m not faking it. Did you see all that chocolate I ate? Not to mention I polished off the potato chips when you weren’t looking.”
“Lightweight,” I said with a smile. “Now, listen, I need you to do me a favor and stash the rest of this stuff on your boat.”
“You mean until after you’re finished with the diet?”
“Huh? That doesn’t make sense. I’m going to need as much wine and junk food as I can get my hands on to make it through Scooter’s diet.”
“And I suppose you don’t want your husband to know about our little arrangement.”
I carefully reached into the garbage bag, pulled out a bag of Doritos, and handed them to Ben. “Is this enough to buy your silence?”
“Throw in that Kit Kat bar, and we’ve got a deal.”
2
UNICORNS IN SPACE
“Rise and shine, my little Milk Dud,” Scooter said the next morning. He gently pulled back the covers and kissed me on my forehead. I propped myself up on the pillows and yawned. “How did you sleep?” he asked as he handed me my favorite coffee mug, the one with Luke Skywalker saying, “May the froth be with you.”
“Fine. But I had the weirdest dream. I had turned into a giant Persian cat with luxuriant long white hair and an adorable pink bow.”
“I thought you didn’t like the color pink,” Scooter said.
“I don’t. But it’s not like I have control over my dreams. If I did, I’d be dreaming about being the United Nations ambassador to Endor and having diplomatic dinners with the Ewoks, not being a huge cat wearing a bow.” I stared at the lump nestled under the covers next to me. “No offense, Mrs. Moto.”
“You do realize Endor isn’t real, don’t you? Star Wars was just a movie.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “Sure, George Lucas has a good imagination, but come on, nobody could come up with all that unless there was some basis in reality.”
“Why don’t you get back to your dream,” Scooter suggested.
“Okay, there I was, lying on my back and sunning myself in front of a window, when that crazy neighbor lady grabbed me and shaved all my fur off with an electric razor. By the time she was finished, I resembled one of those Sphynx cats, the bald ones. Believe me—a pink bow does not look good on wrinkly, hairless skin.”
Mrs. Moto peeked out from under the covers and meowed plaintively. “Don’t worry. We won’t let that happen to you.” She snuggled against my side while I took a sip from my mug. “Gross! What is that?” I said, spitting out a foul-tasting liquid that bore no resemblance to coffee.
Scooter sat on the edge of the bed. “Remember, you agreed yesterday to do the Rutamentals program. This is the Rise and Shine Smoothie. You drink this in the morning to stimulate your energy follicles, which primes you for a vibrant day.”
“My energy follicles? Are those anything like hair follicles? Wait a minute, did I lose my hair while I was sleeping? Is that why I had that dream?” I reached up and felt my head. Nope, same old frizzy rat’s nest. Phew. While I may not love my hair, I still loved having hair. “The only thing I want to stimulate are my taste buds. All I want is my regular morning mocha. Chocolate and caffeine. That’s the secret to a vibrant day.” I handed him back my mug. “Have you actually tried this?”
“Uh, no. I wanted to give you yours first.”
“Go on, take a sip.”
“No way,” he said. “You spit in this one.”
“Trust me, that will probably make it taste better.” Scooter snorted. “Fine. Go get your own cup and try some.” While Scooter went into the galley, Mrs. Moto and I snuggled back under the covers. Just as I was dozing off, I heard a gagging sound. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Scooter said faintly. “It just went down the wrong way.”
“See, I told you, it tastes horrible,” I said. Scooter’s reply consisted of more gagging, so I crawled out of bed to investigate. I found my husband leaning against the teak cupboards clutching my second-favorite mug—the one with Princess Leia riding a unicorn in space. “You look a bit green. Kind of like the color of that dreadful Rise and Shine Smoothie. Why don’t you put that down, and we’ll have some normal coffee, like normal people?”
He shook his head. “No, it tastes great. I must just have a stomach bug or something. I probably caught it from Ben. I’m totally committed to Rutamentals.”
“Well, if it tastes so great, have another sip.”
He put the mug to his mouth, took a cautious drink and then shuddered. He gave me a forced smile. “Yum.”
“Very convincing,” I said. “Why don’t I let you finish that while I go to the grocery store. You threw out all the ingredients for my cake, so I’m going to have to stock up again.”
“Okay, but get just what’s required for the cake. Nothing else,” he said. “I’ve already got everything we need for our meals this week.”
Mrs. Moto jumped on the counter and butted her head against my arm. “While I’m away, you better feed this one. You know how she is when she doesn’t get her breakfast on time.”
Scooter scratched the feline on her head and smiled. “Wait until you see what I have for you, kitty. Trixie Tremblay has a range of pet foods too.” Mrs. Moto sniffed the Princess Leia mug, then sat back on her haunches and yowled.
“Wow, you’re a brave man to try to feed her anything other than Frisky Feline Ocean’s Delight. Good luck with that,” I said as I grabbed my shower bag and a change of clothes and darted up on deck.
* * *
After a quick shower in the communal bathrooms at the marina (yes, you heard that right: communal bathrooms—life on a sailboat isn’t as glamorous as you’d think), I stopped off at the best bakery in Coconut Cove—Penelope’s Sugar Shack.
The lavender brick building with its bright purple awning and colorful flower boxes had beckoned to me as I drove down Main Street. I was going to need fuel before I hit the grocery store, so I picked up an extra-large cinnamon mocha and two muffins. One of the muffins was chocolate chip, because I needed an extra dose of chocolate to get rid of the taste of the Rise and Shine Smoothie. There was only so much toothpaste could do in that department. The other one was blueberry. I figured if Scooter asked me if I’d stuck to the diet, I could tell him how I’d had fruit for breakfast. Can you believe I came up with such a cunning plan even before I’d had coffee?
I pointed at a life-size cutout of a woman standing next to the table. She looked like a cross between Suzanne Somers from her Three’s Company days and Aquaman himself, Jason Momoa. Yep, just as weird as it sounded. Doubly weird when you took into account the canary-yellow legwarmers, royal-blue leotard, and purple stilettos. “Is that Trixie Tremblay?” I asked.
“Yes,” Wanda gushed. “Isn’t she fabulous?” She waved the plate in front of me. “This is her latest creation—fermented tofu cubes drizzled with rutabaga dressing and pickled poppy seeds. It’s delicious.”
The smell promised anything but delicious. I took a step back to get away from the stench and bumped into a short man dressed all in gray. Gray pants, gray short-sleeved button-up shirt, gray baseball hat, and gray sneakers. His socks were probably gray too, but I decided not to investigate too closely. Men’s socks always seem to smell bad, even ten seconds out of a brand-new package. But I would have rather smelled a pair of Scooter’s socks after one of his basketball matches than what Wanda was serving.
“Sorry, Alan,” I said as I untangled myself from the gray-clad man’s camera-bag strap. His color choice matched his personality—quiet, mild-mannered, and bland. He stared at the ground and mumbled something. “What was that?” I asked.
“Can I get a picture of you trying some of Wanda’s food?” he asked softly.
“Do you mind, Mollie?” Wanda asked. “Alan agreed to do a photo shoot for the company. It would be a big help if he could get photos of people enjoying the samples.”
“Sorry, I wish I could help, but I’m afraid all you’d get from me is a grimace if I had to choke that down.” I pointed at a woman clad in fuchsia spandex leggings and blue legwarmers. The way she was pushing her shopping cart made me think she was going to break out into an aerobics routine at any minute. “That lady seems like a likely candidate.”
After being waylaid, the woman reluctantly took the plate Wanda offered her. She slowly put the fork to her lips while Alan leaned in and snapped pictures. Her face while she chewed and swallowed was expressive to say the least, and not in a good way. For someone who dressed like a Trixie Tremblay–wannabe, she didn’t seem to enjoy her food. After handing the half-finished plate back to Wanda, she murmured something about having a stomach bug, then made a rapid exit.
“I’m never going to make any commission at this rate,” Wanda said with a sigh. She pointed at a stack of brochures on the table. “For every person I get to sign up for the program, I earn a little bit of money. So far, I’ve only been able to get a few people to give it a try.”
“Let me guess. One of those people was my husband.”
Wanda smiled. “Yes, he was my very first customer. He was so excited to tell you all about it. How are you enjoying it so far? You really should try this sample. It’s a great recipe the two of you can add to your meal plan.”
I cleared my throat. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I didn’t want to lie either. “I already had blueberries today.” There, completely truthful.
“Oh, you must have had the blueberry, rutabaga, and algae breakfast bar. Trixie says they’re wonderful for muscle pain. All that climbing up and down a ladder to get on and off your boat must cause a lot of aches and pains.”
“It does,” I said. What I didn’t say was that blueberry muffins, minus any algae, were wonderful for giving you a nutritious sugar high. And nutritious sugar highs also had a way of making you forget about any aches and pains.
When Wanda asked me what I thought about the roasted parsnip swirl in the breakfast bar, I suggested that Alan take some photos of her next to the cutout of Trixie Tremblay. Before she could continue extolling the virtues of Rutamentals, Alan pointed at where she should stand, then mumbled something.
“What was that?” Wanda asked.
“I think he said that you’re very photogenic. And he’s right. I’ve always thought your green eyes were very striking with your dark hair.”
Wanda smiled and tucked some stray hairs behind her ears. “Well, at my age, it isn’t dark like this naturally, but it’s close to the color it was when I was younger.”
Alan viewed the pictures he had taken, then quietly said, “These remind me of someone I know.”
“Who’s that?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I can’t put my finger on it. It’s something about your eyes.”
“They are quite distinctive,” I said. “Mrs. Moto has emerald-green eyes like yours.” I turned to Alan. “Maybe that’s who you’re thinking of—my cat.”
Alan furrowed his brow. “No, not a cat.”
“Do you have a sister or a cousin in the area?” I asked. “Maybe that’s who Alan knows.”
Wanda’s lips trembled and her eyes grew moist. “I had a sister.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a packet of tissues. She took one gratefully and dabbed her eyes, taking care not to smudge her eyeliner. “Sorry. I still get so choked up every time I think about her. It happened almost twenty-five years ago, but…” Her voice trailed off. She threw the tissue in the trash and took a deep breath.
I gave her a hug. “It’s okay. She was your sister. No matter how much time has passed, you’re still going to miss her.”
“It’s not just that I miss her. It’s that her death was so tragic.” Her expression darkened. “All because of him. He betrayed her. I never forgave him. How could I after what he did to her?”
While Alan shuffled his feet and stared at the ground, I racked my brain trying to figure out what to say. I wanted to ask who he was and what he did to her sister, but the look on Wanda’s face made me think twice about that. Instead, I asked her if she wanted me to take some brochures and pass them out at the marina.
She gave me a weak smile. “That’s okay. I already put some up on the bulletin board by the office. Thanks anyway.” She pulled a few containers out of a cooler and placed them on the table. “I better get more samples ready.”
After saying my goodbyes, I grabbed a grocery cart. As I glanced back at Wanda chopping vegetables, I thought about how lucky Wanda was to have had a sister, even if her life had been cut short. As an only child, I had always wanted siblings. I rolled the cart down the baking aisle, tossing in flour and three kinds of sugar while thinking about whether I could forgive anyone who hurt someone close to me. Betrayal could drive people to a very dark place.
* * *
Things were not going well. And that was a serious understatement. My attempt at baking a cake for the competition had turned into a disaster. So much of a disaster that I searched through all the nooks and crannies on our boat in search of any chocolate that Scooter might have overlooked in his purge.
“Aha! I found some,” I told Mrs. Moto as I plopped on the couch next to her. “It was in the engine compartment. Scooter is always so worried that he’s going to electrocute himself or set something on fire that he never looks in there. I think it’s going to be up to me to learn about diesel engine mechanics instead of him.” The calico sniffed at the plastic storage box I was holding. “See how clever I was? I put bags of chocolate inside so they wouldn’t get any oil or fuel on them.” I opened the lid and pulled out a bag of miniature Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. “Sure, they might be a little melted, but they’ll still taste great.”
I popped a few in my mouth and sighed with pleasure. Then I looked at the remnants of my baking efforts in the galley and sighed in disappointment. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, batter had spilled on the floor, and the trash bag had ripped, causing the contents to be strewn all over the place. There’s a reason why they called cooking facilities on boats “galleys”—because they in no way, shape or form resembled a pro
per kitchen on land. They’re not worthy of the designation of “kitchenette,” let alone “kitchen.”
Cooking on board a boat is no small feat. First, you have to find all the ingredients. Unfortunately, they’re not conveniently located in a cupboard next to your Cuisinart. You don’t even have a Cuisinart. Who has room on a small sailboat for an appliance that can make your life easier? No, the bottle of vanilla you need will inevitably be squirreled away in a locker in the V-berth—otherwise known as that pointy cabin at the front of your boat—underneath spare fuel filters, bungee cords, and a life jacket. Then, once you find the vanilla, you have to put everything back. But you can’t put it all back right away because, the cat has jumped inside the locker and refuses to get out.
As if locating what you need wasn’t a big enough problem, counter space will make you want to tear your hair out. Marjorie Jane’s galley consisted of one tiny counter, and part of that counter was on top of the fridge. If you need anything out of your fridge, like butter, then you need to move everything off the counter and put it someplace else temporarily. I find that the ladder that leads up from our main cabin to the cockpit is a good place for resting things. Just make sure everyone else knows you have a bowl of cake batter sitting on one of the rungs. I won’t make that mistake again.
Just thinking about it all was giving me a headache. I unwrapped another chocolate. “Hey, don’t give me that look,” I said to Mrs. Moto. “You have your catnip, and I have my chocolate. Let’s see you give up your magical kitty-cat stress reliever. Should I dump the catnip in the trash?” She yowled. “Don’t worry,” I said as I stroked her head and admired the black markings around her eyes that resembled glasses, like those worn by her namesake in the old Mr. Moto movies. “I would never do that to you. But Scooter, now, there’s someone you need to watch out for.”
As she settled on my lap, I tried to figure out how I could manage to bake my cake in the tiny oven we had. It wasn’t big enough to hold the special pans that one would normally use for the creation I was making. Forget about even getting a 9x13 inch pan in there, and you certainly couldn’t fit two round layer pans at the same time. Not that it mattered—the latch that held the oven in place had broken. Yes, that’s right, our oven swayed back and forth unless you fastened it shut. I accidentally knocked the stupid oven as I was reaching for a glass, and it rocked so much that the door swung open and the cake pan flew out onto the floor.