Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  8

  RUTABUBBLES

  I could barely drag myself out of bed the next morning. Nightmares had continued to plague me. This time they featured C-3PO and R2-D2 chasing after me with bolt cutters while I was running through the Death Star wearing a giant raccoon costume and holding a bottle of gelsemium.

  I attributed my bad dreams to the herbal remedy I had found in my bag the previous afternoon. It completely freaked me out to know I had been carrying the possible murder weapon around with me, right next to my bag of M&M’S. The possibility of having a secret twin sister might have also been a factor in sleeping poorly. My mom still hadn’t responded to my texts. She’d probably misplaced her phone yet again.

  When I had dropped the bottle off at the police station yesterday, Chief Dalton had subjected me to a barrage of questions about when I had found it, what else I knew about herbal remedies, and what I was doing in the men’s room. He wasn’t amused when I kept replying, “No comment.” In the end, I explained everything to him, including the fact that men’s rooms never seem to run out of paper towels and that maybe his officers should investigate why some men think washing their hands is optional. He assured me that he practiced good hygiene.

  I finally dragged myself out of bed, but only because Scooter was talking about going to Melvin’s to pick up a shore power cord adapter. Not only was I reluctant to let Scooter go to the marine store unsupervised but I also wanted to pick up some supplies. Somehow I had volunteered to be in charge of installing a new fuel filter and water separator system for our diesel engine. I blamed sleep deprivation for having agreed to take this project on. It was the only logical explanation. Well, there was also the fact that I had been hiding chocolate in the engine compartment that I didn’t want him to find.

  As we pulled up in front of the store in our newly repaired car, I noticed a sign in the window advertising for a store manager. Melvin had been through a lot in the past couple of months, and I was glad to see he was finally going to get some help. The high school kids who worked on weekends and after school were great, but it wasn’t the same thing as having someone manage the store day in and day out. Maybe Melvin would finally have a chance to relax and be able to go back to the Bahamas to visit his family.

  Scooter got sidetracked with a display of boating shoes, so I headed to the back of the store. While I tried to remember what model number I was searching for, I overheard two women talking about Emily’s death.

  Yes, overheard, not eavesdropped. I was in the engine systems aisle before they were. It’s not like I was hiding somewhere listening in on their conversation. It’s just that my ears perked up when one of them mentioned herbal remedies.

  “See, what did I tell you? You shouldn’t use anything unless your doctor prescribes it,” the older woman said.

  “Mom, lighten up. I only rub lavender oil on my temples at night. It helps me sleep better. It’s not like I’m ingesting anything.” She squeezed her mother’s hand. “And I made sure to do my research before I started using it.”

  “That’s the problem. People don’t research these things. They just pick up a bottle. It says it’ll cure your migraine or whatever else ails you, and they take it without a second thought. Would you have known what gelsemium was before that article in the newspaper? Would you have known what the side effects are and how dangerous it is if you have certain medical conditions?”

  The younger woman pursed her lips. “I’m not sure. It did sound kind of familiar. Maybe it was on some sort of TV show?”

  “You shouldn’t get medical advice from TV.” Her mother frowned. “TV or not, I don’t think most people would have ever heard about it before. I’m telling you, whoever killed that poor girl knew exactly what they were doing.”

  When the conversation turned to less interesting matters—like why the young woman didn’t come home to visit more often—I grabbed the equipment I needed and headed in search of my husband.

  While I watched Scooter try on shoes, I considered what the mother had said. I certainly hadn’t known what gelsemium was before yesterday. The killer must have gotten the bottle the day of the murder. Did they buy it from Nancy and Ned’s daughter’s stand? No, that didn’t seem likely. Ned had mentioned that Sofia wasn’t going to be setting up her stand until later that afternoon. Then I remembered what had happened after Ned’s seminar. When the pack of dogs raced across the stage, the boxes with the herbal remedies had spilled on the ground. Could someone have pocketed one of the bottles?

  I sat down on the bench next to Scooter and pulled my notebook out of my bag. Time to make a list. I chewed on my pen as I tried to remember who had been there. I wrote down their names—Ned, Nancy, Wanda, Jeff, Mike, Alan, the chief’s ex-wife, and, of course, poor Emily.

  Ned and our crazy former neighbor hadn’t been at the cake competition, so I crossed them off the list. Besides, Ned didn’t have a mean bone in his body, and someone who had been married to a police officer wouldn’t be a likely suspect.

  Nancy’s name was the next to be scratched off. The last thing she would have wanted was for the cake competition to be ruined, not after she had spent so much time organizing it. Besides, what motive would she have had?

  That left me with Wanda, Jeff, Alan, and Mike. I put stars next to the first two names. Wanda and Jeff definitely were hiding something, and both had a connection to Emily. Maybe Alan had also had a connection to Emily. She certainly seemed to have been avoiding him at the boatyard when Penny was showing boats to her and Jeff. I put a question mark next to the photographer’s name. When I got to the next person on the list, Mike, I chewed my bottom lip. What possible link could there be between a small-town lawyer and a young woman from the remote island of Destiny Key?

  * * *

  “What are all these kids doing out of school on a Monday?” Scooter asked as he drove down Main Street.

  “It’s spring break,” I said. “That’s why they hold the festival during this part of March, so that families can attend events during the week. Lots of parents take the week off work.”

  “Smart thinking,” he said. “Tourist dollars are important to Coconut Cove’s economy.”

  I adjusted my cardigan. “I’m glad it’s not as hot as it was this weekend. Folks won’t be rushing back to their hotels to soak up air conditioning instead of spending time at the festival. Hey, do you mind stopping here?” I asked, pointing at one of the gift shops lining the street. “We need to pick up your sister a birthday present, and I think she’d like one of those flamingo aprons they have for sale there.”

  “I completely forgot about her birthday,” Scooter said.

  “That’s why you have me. Quick, a spot just opened up over there.”

  After parking the car, we crossed the street, dodging tourists carrying ice cream cones, hot dogs, and funnel cakes. “Hey, isn’t that Mike coming out of the gift shop?” I said.

  “It is. Perfect timing. I want to talk to him about referrals for contract lawyers.”

  It certainly was perfect. A perfect opportunity to speak with him about Emily’s death.

  After Mike gave Scooter a few suggestions of people to contact, he offered to have a look at the contract in question. “It’s not my area of specialization, but maybe I can give it a once-over while you try to line someone else up to look at it more in depth. It can take a while to get a hold of these guys.”

  “That would be great,” Scooter said. “I’m under the gun with this thing, and there are a few areas that are really concerning me. You could at least steer me in the right direction.”

  “No problem.”

  “You deal with wills and estates, right?” I asked. Mike nodded. “So what happens when a young woman like Emily dies without a will?”

  “Well, it depends what state they’re a resident of.” He gave me a quizzical look. “But why do you assume she didn’t have a will?”

  “Oh, it’s just that when I was her age, I didn’t have one. I didn’t even think about it.”


  “But you have them now, don’t you?”

  “We updated them recently to make a provision for Mrs. Moto,” Scooter said.

  Mike smiled. “You’d be surprised how many people mention their pets in their wills.”

  “So, in Emily’s case, assuming she didn’t have a will, who would her estate go to?”

  “Well, her estate would get divided by a set formula determined by the state.”

  “Okay, so we know she wasn’t married, both her parents are dead, and she was an only child. How would it work in that scenario?”

  Perspiration began dripping down Mike’s face, along his goatee, and onto his shirt collar. Wanda probably would have said his energy follicles were detoxifying. Maybe he needed some sort of neck warmer to soak up the sweat. “She was an only child?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh. I thought you knew her?”

  Mike shook his head. “No, not really.”

  “Hmm. Well, I think she was loaded. She mentioned having an estate. So there certainly have to be people interested in what happens to her money, right?”

  Mike loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “Listen, even if I knew, I couldn’t say anything. You know, attorney-client privilege.”

  “I’m just asking hypothetically,” I said as Mike wiped his brow. “Besides, you said you didn’t really know her, so there wouldn’t be attorney-client privilege.”

  “Why are you so interested, my little Milk Dud?” Scooter asked. “It’s the guy’s lunch break. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk shop.”

  Mike patted Scooter on the back. “Yeah, I should grab something to eat. I’ll touch base later, okay?”

  “Did you see the way he was sweating? It’s not that hot today,” I said as Mike hightailed it down Main Street toward the Sailor’s Corner Cafe.

  “Man, I hope he isn’t coming down with something,” Scooter said. “We’ve got the race tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t so sure Mike was getting sick. I had a feeling my line of questioning had hit too close to home. I was pretty sure he knew more about Emily’s situation than he wanted to admit to.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I successfully installed our new fuel filter and water separator unit. And I made sure everyone knew about it.

  “Whoo-hoo!” I shouted from the deck of our boat. “I did it!”

  Ben looked up from the thru-hull he was installing on a neighboring boat. “That’s great, Mollie. I keep telling you, you could get a job working at the boatyard if you wanted to.”

  “Yeah, no,” I said as I climbed down the ladder. “My work for FAROUT keeps me busy enough.”

  “Where’s Scooter? He should be here to share in your moment of triumph.”

  “He went to drop some paperwork off at Mike’s office.”

  “Mike the lawyer?” I nodded. “Is it for a will?”

  “No, a work contract.” Ben frowned. “Why? What is it?” I asked.

  “There’s been some talk about Mike around town. Let’s just say he operates on the edge when it comes to his law practice. He’s known as the guy to go to if you want to do something shady.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “The last thing Scooter needs now is to have some crooked lawyer working on his stuff.”

  “It’s just rumors,” Ben said. “There might be nothing to it. What do I know about lawyers, anyway? Look at me. I’m living paycheck to paycheck. I’ll never have enough money to need a lawyer, let alone hire one. I’m sorry I said anything. Let’s change the subject, okay?”

  “All right,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me about this latest T-shirt of yours.”

  “You like it?” he said. “I picked it up at the festival.”

  I took a closer look at the skull and crossbones and the slogan emblazoned underneath: “I might be the reason the rum is gone.”

  “It suits you,” I said with a smile. “A nice addition to your pirate T-shirt collection.”

  As I was telling Ben about everything that had gone wrong during the installation and how many things I had to do over, Scooter pulled up in the car. “Why are you grinning from ear to ear?” he asked me.

  “I did it!”

  “Really, you finished already? That’s great!” He stepped out of the car and pulled me into a bear hug before kissing the top of my head. “I’m so proud of my little Milk Dud. This calls for a celebration. I have just the thing.” After grabbing a few bags out of the back of the vehicle, he gave me another kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

  I spun around in a circle. “I knew it. He got me some chocolate cupcakes to celebrate!”

  “Are you sure?” Ben asked. “I thought he was really serious about his diet.”

  “I think that particular obsession is over. These things usually last a day or two. Maybe three days tops. But he broke down and had Thai food the other night and hash browns yesterday. I think it’s safe to say we can kiss Rutamentals goodbye.”

  Scooter climbed down the ladder with a tote bag slung over his shoulder. “I’ve got some good news, bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “I want the one that involves chocolate.”

  Scooter gulped. “Sorry, neither has to do with chocolate.”

  “Okay, give me the bad news first.”

  “The fridge isn’t working. But now that you’re done with the fuel filter and water separator, maybe that can be the next project you tackle.”

  I sighed. “The good news better be extra good to make up for the fact that one more thing has broken on Marjorie Jane.”

  “I have some bubbles to celebrate. I just picked it up at the store, so it’s cold.” He pulled a bottle out of the bag, along with three coffee cups. Yes, coffee cups. We sure know how to celebrate in style.

  “Ooh, champagne,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly champagne. To be champagne, it has to be—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. It has to be made in a certain region in France. That’s okay. I’m not fussy. A nice bottle of prosecco from Italy will do just fine.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly prosecco. Here, Ben, grab these.” He handed him the coffee cups, then unwrapped the foil from the top of the bottle. I wasn’t sure I had heard of prosecco coming with a screw top before. What kind of bubbles were these?

  After Scooter poured some into each of our cups, he made a toast. “Here’s to being one step closer to sailing off into the sunset and around the world.”

  I choked on my drink. For two reasons, really. One, there was no way I was going to sail around the world, especially in this boat. And two, whatever was in my glass was disgusting. Even Ben seemed a little green around the gills after he took a sip, and he’s the type of guy to guzzle down any kind of booze, particularly if it was free.

  “What exactly is this?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it great?” Scooter said. He turned the bottle around so I could see the label. “It’s nonalcoholic sparkling wine made out of rutabagas.”

  “So, I guess Rutamentals is back on,” I said before downing my glass. If you can’t fight them, you might as well join them.

  * * *

  On again, off again. Off, on. On, off. I was so confused as to what was up with Rutamentals. After choking down the Rutabubbles, Scooter announced he was taking me to Alligator Chuck’s for a celebratory dinner. Visions of ribs slathered in tangy barbecue sauce, french fries, creamy coleslaw, and a slice of brownie pie for dessert filled my head. My mouth watered. My tummy growled in anticipation. I put on a pair of shorts with some very forgiving elastic in the waistband, grabbed my purse, and hopped in the car.

  Turned out Rutamentals was still on. Very much on.

  Wanda had somehow convinced Chuck to serve diet-friendly meals at his restaurant. Scooter eagerly pointed out the options: rutabaga “hummus” with celery sticks, pasta made out of spiralized rutabaga and served with a creamy tofu sauce, and a rutaburger featuring plenty of rutabaga and nothing else you’d associate with a burger,
like a bun, meat, or cheese.

  I told Scooter to order for me and excused myself to go to the ladies’ room. As I walked through the dining room, I noticed no one else had ordered anything from the Rutamentals menu. I said hi to a few people I knew, stealing some fries and nachos along the way.

  On my way back from the restroom, I ran into Ned and Nancy in the entryway. “Crowded, isn’t it,” Ned said. “We’ve been waiting almost twenty minutes for a table.”

  “Come join us,” I offered. “We’ve got a booth over by the window.”

  “Thanks, but we’re meeting our daughter, son-in-law, and the grandkids for dinner,” Ned said. “Katy and Sam love coming here. I think it’s the alligator hats they hand out to the kids.”

  “Totally understandable,” I said. “Those hats are really adorable. I got one last time I was here.”

  Nancy snorted. “You realize those are for kids, don’t you?”

  “I’m not so sure about that. The waitress didn’t ask to see my ID. Maybe you should get one tonight.”

  Nancy pursed her lips, then looked at her watch. “They’re running late, as usual.”

  “They’re only a few minutes late,” Ned said. “You know how hard it is to get two young kids ready and out the door on time.”

  “I never had any problems with punctuality when I was raising our children.” Nancy fixed Ned with a pointed stare. “Our daughter must have inherited the lateness gene from you.”

  While Ned stared uncomfortably at the ground, I decided to get out of there before Nancy started to analyze my DNA. I was pretty sure she’d find some unsatisfactory traits like “leaves dirty dishes in the sink overnight” and “doesn’t floss regularly.”