Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  “Great. It was going to be the most productive thing I did today. I might as well give up now and take a nap.”

  “Come on, it can’t be that bad,” he said after taking a sip of his icy-cold soda. I was tempted to see if he’d sell the rest of it to me, but I was feeling too lazy to climb up the ladder onto my boat and dig through my purse to find some money. Warm water it was.

  Scooter pulled up one of the other chairs and sat next to me. “Did you get the fridge working?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “Either something’s wrong with the compressor, or we need to add more magic gas to it.”

  “Magic gas?” Scooter asked with a puzzled look on his face. “What’s that?”

  Ben grinned like a five-year-old boy. “Sounds like unicorn farts. It probably has glitter in it.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have to ask Anabel Dalton about that,” I said. “She’s the town expert on unicorns and quadricorns.”

  “Uh, quadricorns,” Scooter said. “Let’s get back to that in a minute. First, can you tell me what this ‘magic gas’ is all about? Is fixing our fridge going to be expensive?”

  “It’s a substance that starts off as a gas, then goes through the compressor, turns into a liquid, then finally goes through the evaporator and turns back to a gas, and, in the process, magically keeps everything in your fridge cool.”

  Scooter smiled. “I have no idea what you just said, but you’re awfully cute when you talk about marine technical stuff.”

  “I think she’s talking about adding some refrigerant to your system,” Ben said. “Kind of like topping up your car’s air-conditioning system. It comes in a can. You can pick it up at Melvin’s.”

  “Bingo,” I said. “One of the guys a couple of boats over told me about it. He offered to help if that turns out to be the issue.”

  “I still can’t get over how you know this,” Scooter said. “For someone who didn’t want to own a sailboat, let alone work on fixing one up, you’ve sure become pretty knowledgeable about it all. I think you know more than I do.”

  “I’m just as surprised as you are,” I said. “It does make me wonder if I’ve been abducted by aliens and if they did something funny to my brain. Do you realize I actually read a whole chapter on fixing marine refrigeration systems in that boring boat-repair book we have?”

  “Is that the one Mrs. Moto likes sleeping on?” Scooter asked.

  “Yep, that’s the one. She’s really taken to napping on books these days. Doesn’t matter what kind of book it is, she just curls up on top and begins snoozing away.”

  “Not just on closed books,” Scooter said. “I saw her nudge one open yesterday with her nose. She flipped the pages over until she found just the right section, then settled down on top of the open book.”

  “Where is Mrs. Moto?” Ben asked.

  “She’s napping inside in the air conditioning. Unlike us foolish humans sitting outside sweltering in the heat.”

  “Why don’t you go take a nap?” Scooter asked.

  “I’d like to, but what I really need to do is finish the alterations to Mrs. Moto’s costume.”

  “What’s she dressing up as?” Ben asked.

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll have to wait until Sunday to see.” With the cake contest having ended on a disastrous note, I was pinning all my hopes on winning the pet-costume competition. I already had a place picked out on the boat to put the trophy—on a shelf above the chart table. Of course, I’d have to move Scooter’s new collection of Rutamentals cookbooks to make room, but I was sure he would understand.

  “What is today, anyway?” Ben asked. “I’ve lost track of what day of the week it is.”

  “Did you have one too many at the Tipsy Pirate last night?” Scooter asked.

  “Well, maybe,” Ben said sheepishly. “There was this really cute girl sitting at the bar watching my band play. I was trying to get up the nerve to go talk to her during a break, but then this other guy swooped in, started chatting her up, and I lost the opportunity. My buddy bought a few rounds of shots to try to cheer me up.”

  Poor Ben. He never seemed to have any luck with the ladies. I tried to think of any women I knew who would be interested in a sweet guy who lived on a sailboat. The problem was that there weren’t many of them out there. It seemed like unattached male sailors outnumbered female ones by leaps and bounds.

  “I know what you’re doing,” Scooter whispered to me. “You’re trying to think about who you can fix him up with. I think you should stay out of it. Remember the last time you tried to set someone up?” In a louder voice, he said to Ben, “It’s Wednesday.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Ben said. “Another week whizzing by.”

  “That’s probably because so much has happened. The festival opened on Saturday and…” My voice trailed off as I thought about the drama that had ensued on Saturday with Emily’s death and all that had transpired since then. I couldn’t believe it was only Wednesday. Hopefully, we could make it through to the close of the festival on Sunday without another murder.

  “What were you going to say?” Ben prompted.

  “I don’t know. Just thinking about Emily, I guess. Has anyone heard anything about her memorial service?”

  “Ned emailed the marina staff,” Ben said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Here it is. The service is going to be on Friday evening. Jeff’s chartered a boat so he can scatter her ashes at sea while the sun is setting.”

  “I like that idea,” Scooter said. “That’s what I want you to do—take Marjorie Jane out at sunset and scatter my ashes.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I said. “I don’t want to think about you dying.”

  “I don’t want to think about it either for a long, long time. That’s the point of Rutamentals. Eating better so we can live longer.”

  “Speaking of Rutamentals, Ben was telling me that you can get food poisoning from eating rutabagas that haven’t been refrigerated. Isn’t that right, Ben?”

  “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask. I can barely remember what day of the week it is,” he replied.

  “Nicely dodged,” I said, punching him in the arm.

  “I thought so too.” Ben smiled. “Ned also attached a copy of Emily’s obituary. Want me to read it out loud?”

  “Sure,” I said, taking a swig of my very warm water before passing the bottle to Scooter.

  “Emily van der Byl, aged twenty-nine, lifelong resident of Destiny Key, passed away in Coconut Cove on—”

  Scooter leaned forward. “Did you say Emily van der Byl?”

  “Didn’t I pronounce it correctly?” Ben asked.

  “I think so,” Scooter said. “It’s not a very common name. I only know one other person with that name, or rather knew one other person—Maarten van der Byl.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “You know that contract dispute I have going on? It’s with his company.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “What are the chances of knowing two people with an unusual last name like that?” I turned to Ben. “Does it say anything about her family in the obituary?”

  Ben scrolled down. “Yes. It says that she was predeceased by her mother, Laura van der Byl, and her father, Maarten van der Byl. No mention of any other relatives.”

  Scooter rubbed his temples. “I wish I had known who she was. Maybe I could have spoken with her directly about the contract issues.”

  “You’re assuming she had inherited her father’s business,” I said.

  “That’s my understanding. My lawyer mentioned that Maarten van der Byl’s daughter took over after his death. That’s when we started having issues. They’re trying to change all the terms and conditions, payment schedules, intellectual property agreements—everything. They’ve got so much money that I’m afraid they’ll tie us up in court for years, and I’ll end up broke in the process.”

  I tried to reconcile the Emily I had met—a sweet young woman who seemed more interested in fashion t
han accounting—with a cutthroat business owner out to destroy my husband’s livelihood. It was like there had been two different personalities inside her. I thought about this for a moment. Had there been two different personalities or two different people? Had someone else been calling the shots when it came to the Van der Byl business?

  * * *

  After the revelations about Emily van der Byl and her father, Scooter got a headache. I gave him a couple of pain relievers and suggested he lie down for a while. Mrs. Moto was in a feisty mood, running back and forth across the boat batting her origami birds, which wasn’t doing Scooter’s headache much good. So I grabbed my cat and her costume and headed to the marina lounge to work on the alterations in order to give my husband some peace and quiet.

  “Stop wiggling,” I said to the squirming ball of fur on the couch. “I just need to put this one pin in, and I don’t want to stick you with it.” After aligning the zipper against the seam and fastening it in place, I pulled the costume over her head and freed her from my grasp. She darted across the room and leaped onto the bookshelf, perching next to a stack of books.

  “Don’t give me that look. You’re the one who wanted to wear this particular outfit. I gave you two options—you coughed up a hairball on the other one and started kneading this one while purring. Your choice was clear. If you want to look your best, then we need to make sure the bottom part fits just right.”

  Mrs. Moto’s response was to knock one of the books onto the floor, then begin washing behind her ears. After folding her costume and setting it on the coffee table, I picked the book up. “Oh, good choice,” I said. “I’ve read this one. Do you want to know whodunit?” I took her loud yowl to be an affirmative. “It was the butler. I know that’s a cliché, but in this case, it really was the butler.”

  After I placed the mystery back on the shelf, she knocked another one down. “This one was trickier,” I said as I leafed through the pages. “I thought I knew who the murderer was, but the author had a huge twist at the end. I didn’t see it coming.”

  Another book landed at my feet. “You’re really enjoying this game, aren’t you?” I asked. A pair of green eyes stared down at me innocently. “Okay, I have to admit, I didn’t love this one. The characters were really boring, and unless the characters grab you right away, it doesn’t matter how good the plot is. I’m sure you’d agree.”

  Mrs. Moto meowed loudly, then jumped onto my shoulders. I pulled her into my arms and snuggled her against my neck. “You’d be a great character in a book, wouldn’t you? There wouldn’t even have to be a plot. Just a bunch of scenes of you doing cute things. If you kept a journal of what you did every day, we could publish that. It’d be a bestseller.”

  The door burst open, startling Mrs. Moto and causing her to dig her claws into my chest. But when she saw who had entered the lounge, she meowed, then jumped onto the floor to greet her admirers.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” Katy called. She sat on the floor and coaxed the cat into her lap. Her little brother, Sam, plopped down next to her, and they took turns petting Mrs. Moto. While the three of them were occupied, I sat back down on the couch and pulled a sewing kit out of my bag. I picked the cat costume up and started to stitch the zipper in place.

  “Ouch!” I said as I pricked my finger with the needle.

  “Are you okay?” Katy asked.

  “I’ll be fine.” I walked over to the kitchenette, which ran along one side of the lounge, and grabbed a paper towel. Pressing down on my wound, I sat at the small table by the window and stared outside. There was nothing quite like people-watching at a marina. The types of folks who were drawn to living on boats were often quirky and had fascinating backstories. Some of them were trying to reinvent themselves, escaping from the day-to-day grind of working in a corporate job. Others were drawn to the sea and wanted to enjoy a simple life off the grid. And then there were those whose backstories remained a mystery, like Wanda. How had she ended up in Coconut Cove at the Palm Tree Marina?

  “What’s this?” Katy asked, pointing at Mrs. Moto’s costume.

  “Yeah, what’s this?” Sam echoed as he put part of the costume on his head.

  “It’s for the pet-costume competition,” I said.

  “Cats don’t wear costumes,” Katy said. “Only dogs do.”

  “This cat does.” I removed the piece from Sam’s head and smoothed it out. “Don’t you think she’s going to look adorable in it?”

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “Don’t you recognize it?” They both shook their heads. “We really need to do something about the educational system in our country.”

  “I don’t like school,” Sam said.

  “You’re only five,” I said. “What’s not to like about school? Aren’t there crayons involved?”

  Katy tugged on my arm. “I like school. My teacher puts stickers on my worksheets.”

  “Stickers are good,” I said. “We could all use more stickers in our lives.”

  While the three of us were talking about our favorite stickers—Katy was partial to dinosaurs while Sam liked the ones from the latest Pixar movie—Ned came into the lounge. “There the two of you are,” he said. “Your mom is here to pick you up. She’s in a rush, so you better hurry up. Give your grandpa a kiss goodbye first though.”

  After both Ned and Mrs. Moto got kisses goodbye, he walked over to the coffee machine. “Want a cup, Mollie?”

  “That would be great. Extra cream if you have it.”

  Ned brought two mugs over and set them on the coffee table. As he settled into the couch, the pile of books on the floor caught his eye. “What’s that about?”

  “Mrs. Moto was trying to pick something out to read. She likes a good bedtime story. Don’t worry. I’ll put everything back later.” I took a sip of my coffee. It was delicious—pure caffeine and half-and-half. Not a rutabaga to be found. “Ben was telling us about Emily’s memorial service earlier.”

  “It sounds like it will be a nice tribute to her,” Ned said. “You guys are still coming, aren’t you?”

  “Of course…although now it might be a little weird.”

  “Weird?” After I explained the connection between Emily’s father and Scooter’s business dealings, Ned frowned. “That is strange. But I hope you’ll still attend the service. Jeff doesn’t have anything to do with Van der Byl’s company, and the memorial is really about supporting Jeff during his time of grief.”

  “You’re right. I’m sure Scooter will see it that way.” I went to the fridge and added some more cream to my cup to cool it down. As I stirred my coffee, I said, “Thinking about it, the memorial service might also be a good opportunity to talk to some of Emily’s family and friends. Maybe they can shed some light on what this contract dispute is all about.”

  “She doesn’t have any family, remember?”

  I sat back down on the couch next to Mrs. Moto and scratched her belly. “That’s right. But her friends will be there.”

  “I’m not sure about that either. According to Jeff, Emily led a pretty sheltered life. I don’t think she had too many friends, and any that she had live on Destiny Key.”

  “So, why wouldn’t they come? There’s a ferry from the island to the mainland.”

  “You haven’t lived here long enough to know much about Destiny Key. The inhabitants are a pretty reclusive bunch. They rarely leave the island.”

  “Makes you wonder how Jeff met Emily,” I said.

  Ned smiled. “Sometimes, I think you have more curiosity than a cat.”

  “Hopefully I have as many lives,” I said.

  “I think you must have, considering the dangerous situations you’ve found yourself in. How many bodies is it that you’ve found in Coconut Cove?”

  I sighed. Tallying up my murder victim count seemed to be a popular pastime among local residents. I think they liked to keep their math skills sharp. “Five,” I said. “But getting back to Jeff, you’ve got to be curious about how he met Emily too. We’l
l have to ask him about it at the memorial.”

  “That would probably be the perfect opportunity. He’ll want to reminisce about his time with her. And it might also be your only opportunity, as he’s leaving on a business trip next week.”

  “What kind of business is he in?” I asked.

  “He’s a pharmaceutical sales rep,” Ned said. “He’s got a lot of big clients all over the country. Internationally too.”

  I thought back to the disagreement that Jeff and Chief Dalton’s ex-wife had had over herbal remedies versus drugs that doctors prescribed. Jeff had certainly seemed to know a lot about the subject and had warned us of the dangers of medicines that weren’t regulated. If only we had known at the time that his warnings would turn out to be prescient. Emily did end up dying as a result of being poisoned by an overdose of an herbal remedy.

  * * *

  After Ned left, I picked the books up off the floor and set them back on the shelf. All except one—a cozy mystery that featured a corgi—which I decided to borrow. Although Mrs. Moto would have preferred a book that had a cat as a central character, I thought it would be fun to read about how a dog helped solve a murder investigation. Plus, it might give us some insight into the canine mind and get a leg up on the pet-costume competition.

  Next, I washed the mugs in the sink and put them in the drying rack. After wiping down the counter, I tried to shoo Mrs. Moto off the table by the window so I could clean it as well. She wasn’t having it. Instead, she pawed at a brown leather notebook, which was sitting next to a set of salt and pepper shakers and a napkin dispenser. She poked her nose in between the pages and pushed the front cover open.

  “We have our own book,” I said, showing her the corgi mystery. “Why don’t you sleep on that instead of someone else’s?” Mrs. Moto rolled on her back and stretched out all four of her legs, obscuring the pages. I lifted her off and set her on the chair. She hopped back on the table and made a beeline for the notebook. This time, I used more common sense. I pulled a napkin out of the dispenser, crumpled it up, and tossed it across the room. While she bounded after it, I picked the notebook up to close it. That’s when I recognized the distinctive green ink, precise, compact letters, and dots over the i’s and j’s as Wanda’s handiwork.