Poisoned by the Pier

by Ellen Jacobson

  “I hope she told him that he was asking inappropriate things.”

  “You know what she’s like. She’s so sweet. She never tells anyone when she doesn’t like something. She can’t stand hurting people’s feelings.”

  I remembered how Penelope hadn’t wanted to award prizes at the cake competition. I didn’t recall her saying anything negative about anyone’s cake. Nancy could probably learn a thing or two from her about diplomacy. “So what happened next?” I asked.

  “He switched over to the topic of genetic diseases. He asked her if she had any medical conditions.”

  “Surely she slugged him by this point.”

  “Nope. She kept smiling and offering him cookies.”

  “She’s too sweet for her own good,” I said.

  “Good thing she owns a bakery. A sweet lady selling sweet things. It’s the perfect fit for her.” Alejandra did a few more neck stretches, then reluctantly got up from the table. “The lunchtime crowd is going to start coming in soon, and those tables aren’t going to clean themselves.”

  As I finished sipping my coffee, I thought about Alan’s devious behavior. Faking a newspaper interview to try to pry information out of Penelope was pretty low. Why in the world was he so interested in her family and her medical history?

  While I pondered this, I sent my mom a text.

  Any genetic diseases in our family I should know about?

  I had come to the conclusion that I didn’t have a secret twin sister named Mary. It had probably been my mom’s idea of a joke. She rolled on the floor in laughter over knock-knock jokes, which gives you an idea of the sophistication of her humor. I was ninety-nine percent sure there was no way she’d forget to tell me that I had a sibling. But she might have forgotten to tell me something important about my medical history.

  A few minutes later, she replied.

  Do you mean like Mary’ s large ears?

  Great. We were back to this whole Mary business. I reached up and felt my ears. Were they misshapen too, like Jeff’s and Mary’s?

  * * *

  I ran into Alan at the place I least expected—the hairdresser’s. I’m one of those people who puts off getting their hair cut until it’s so out of control that even Mrs. Moto encourages me to wear a hat in public. Each time I visit the salon, I have renewed hope that it will be the time my frizzy hair is finally tamed once and for all. Instead, I squeal with delight at how sleek and shiny the stylist makes my hair, eagerly buy the latest miracle product, and step outside with a huge grin, only to find the unruly frizz resurfaces within ten minutes’ time in the humidity.

  Alan was in the back having his hair shampooed. I sat in the chair next to him while I waited for the hairdresser to get an industrial-size container of deep conditioner from the back. I was already convinced that the “Frizz Banishment Gel, Now with Extra Moisturizing Pearls of Liquid Gold and Imported from Siberia for Discerning Ladies” was going to be the answer to my dreams. Intellectually, I knew that it didn’t contain any gold and that Siberia probably wasn’t where you wanted your beauty products imported from. But I was happy to suspend disbelief. After all, I was certainly a discerning lady.

  “Mollie, what are you doing here?” Alan whispered as a towel was wrapped around his head.

  I pointed at my frizzy mane. “Turning this into a work of beauty. What about you?”

  “I wanted to make an effort for Emily’s memorial service,” he said.

  “Exactly how long did you two date?” I asked.

  “Long enough.”

  “And how long is that?”

  “A week,” he said as he fiddled with his smock. “But it was enough to know we were meant to be together. If only Jeff hadn’t gotten in the way.”

  Before I could hear more about his ill-fated love affair with Emily, his hairdresser whisked him away to one of the stations. For the next ten minutes, I oohed and aahed during my shampoo. My body felt like it was melting into a puddle of happiness as my head was massaged with the Siberian miracle mix.

  As luck would have it, I was shown to the station right next to Alan. I picked up where we left off. “I heard you asked Penelope out. Was that before or after you dated Emily?”

  Alan spun his head toward me, causing his stylist to narrowly avoid nicking his ear with the scissors. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Oh, you know how small towns are. Nothing stays secret for very long.” Alan’s hairdresser gently turned his head back toward the mirror and started snipping the hair on his neck. “You know what else isn’t a secret,” I added. “The fact that Wanda accused you of poisoning her.”

  Both of our stylists gasped. They were torn between wanting to keep a distance from a potential murderer and wanting to hear all the juicy tidbits so they could pass them on to their other clients. I did notice that Alan’s hairdresser kept a firm grip on her scissors.

  “That’s not true,” Alan said emphatically, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “I wasn’t even at the festival yesterday. I was photographing a wedding seventy-five miles away from here.”

  “Can you prove that?” I asked.

  He clenched his hands in his lap. “I’ve already been through this with the chief. There are plenty of witnesses, starting from the bride and groom down to the flower girl and ring bearer. Do you want to talk to them too?”

  By this point, Alan’s hairdresser had given up all pretense of cutting his hair. He set down his brush and scissors, sat in the chair next to Alan’s, and eagerly listened to our exchange. Mine was still combing and sectioning my hair but in a very halfhearted way.

  “Why do you think she tried to pin the blame on you? And more importantly, if you didn’t do it, who did?”

  “Wanda is vindictive,” he said. “She doesn’t understand what’s involved in investigative journalism. She claimed I was sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong, and she’s been out to get me ever since.”

  “Well, were you?”

  “Was I what?”

  “Asking nosy questions?”

  “It seems like you’re the one asking nosy questions,” Alan said with a surprisingly firm tone. It stunned me into silence for a few moments.

  “You know, Alan, maybe we’re going about this all wrong. You’re not just a wedding photographer. You’re also an investigative reporter and photojournalist, right?”

  “That’s correct. I’m in discussions with the local newspaper about a permanent role with them.”

  I had a feeling his dialogue with the newspaper might be a little one-sided, but I plowed on. “Well, I’m an investigative reporter for FAROUT. We should join forces. Between the two of us, we’d get to the bottom of what’s going on a lot faster. You did help me out with my last case, after all.”

  He grinned from ear to ear. “That’s a great idea! We’ll be a detective team, like Nick and Nora from the Thin Man movies.”

  “No, they had a dog, Asta, and I’m a cat person.”

  “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson?”

  I shook my head. “I look funny in hats.”

  “The Hardy Boys?”

  “Nope. Nancy Drew all the way for me,” I said.

  One of the stylists chimed in. “How about the guys from CHiPs? They had good hair.”

  Alan frowned. “That won’t work. My mom won’t let me ride a motorcycle.”

  “I’ve got it,” I said. “Shawn Spencer and Burton Guster from Psych. You’re Gus and I’m Shawn. Shawn pretends to be a psychic in the show. I’ve met a lot of psychics in my time, so I can pull that off.”

  “What does Gus do?”

  “He has a really good sense of smell,” I said. “You can smell things, right?”

  Alan furrowed his brow. “Sure.”

  “What’s your favorite scent?”

  “I have a candle that smells like cotton candy. I also have a peanut butter scented one. It’s—”

  “Perfect. Burton Guster it is. Okay, now that that’s settled, let’s get down to business.” I re
ached down, picked my bag off the floor, and whipped out my notebook. “Here’s what I need to know…”

  While the stylists worked on our hair, I managed to get Alan to tell me why he had asked Penelope all those strange questions about her family and genetic conditions. It turned out that Emily had put him up to it. On their first date—Alan took her to the video arcade—she suggested that he do a series of profiles on some of Coconut Cove’s residents. He was excited about the idea and thought he could pitch it to the local newspaper. Before he could draw up a list of prominent citizens to interview, she handed him her own list. It had only three names on it: Wanda, Penelope, and one of Penelope’s mother’s old friends.

  Penelope’s name made some sense. She was a young, local, award-winning business owner, but the other two names didn’t. Wanda led a relatively quiet life. She wasn’t involved in community activities or the town council, and didn’t own a business. And speaking with an old friend of Penelope’s mom and asking questions about her was just plain odd. Sure, Penelope’s mom had worked at the library up until her death—and everyone loved library people—but even that, from Alan’s point of view, didn’t merit a profile in the paper.

  Emily had given him a very specific set of questions to ask. While he rattled them off, I jotted down the highlights in my notebook:

  Wanda

  1 – When did she move from Destiny Key to Coconut Cove?

  At first Wanda denied being from Destiny Key, but after Alan showed her a copy of old property records, she said that she moved to Coconut Cove following the death of her sister twenty-five years ago.

  2 – Does she have any family back on Destiny Key?

  She stated that she was the only one left in her family. When pressed on the issue, she clammed up.

  3 – Why did she leave Destiny Key?

  At this point in the interview, she burst into tears. Alan felt terrible. He offered to take publicity shots of her Rutamentals food demonstrations for free to make it up to her.

  Penelope

  1 – What does she know about her family history? Where did her father come from?

  She said she didn’t know her father. He had died before she was born. Her mother didn’t like to talk about him. Her mom became moody whenever Penelope asked questions about him, so she learned to stop bringing it up. She changed the subject and brought Alan a selection of pastries to try. His favorite was the chocolate éclair.

  2 – Does she have any genetic conditions that she inherited from her parents?

  Penelope was surprised by Alan’s question, but after a while she told him about having a congenital heart condition. She was able to manage it with medications, but had to be careful with certain activities. She didn’t know which side of the family she inherited it from. At this point in the interview, Penelope made Alan a latte.

  3 – What’s the secret to her puff pastry?

  Penelope wouldn’t share her secret recipe no matter how many times Alan asked.

  Cindy, Penelope’s Mom’s Friend

  1 – What was the family history of Penelope’s mom? Where did she grow up?

  Cindy didn’t know anything about her background. They had children the same age. Cindy divorced when her daughter was quite young, so the two of them bonded as fellow single moms. But despite doing so much together, Cindy never learned anything about her life prior to Coconut Cove.

  2 – When did she move to Coconut Cove?

  A few months before Penelope was born.

  3 – How did she support herself with a young baby?

  She seemed to be financially independent. She wasn’t rich, but she didn’t have to worry about putting food on the table and was able to stay home with Penelope when she was young. Later, she got a job working at the local library, but that seemed like it was more for something to do while her daughter was in school, not because she needed the money.

  I asked Alan if by any chance Emily had broken up with him after he’d finished the interviews. He admitted that was the case, but was still convinced Jeff was the reason why Emily had ended things.

  Eventually, we had to halt our conversation so that my hair could be blown out. It looked amazing! I asked Alan to take a picture of me so I could remember what I looked like before the humidity destroyed my sleek coiffure. As he showed me the photo, I remembered the video from the cake competition. In the spirit of our newfound partnership, he was more than happy to pull it up on my tablet.

  “But you can’t really tell what happened,” I complained. “All I see is a bunch of people milling around. What we need is a clear shot of who put the poison on the cake slice.”

  Alan replayed the video at a slower speed. We watched as Nancy cut four slices from each cake—one for each judge—and placed them on the different-colored plates that Norm handed her. Penelope and Chief Dalton then carried the plates over to the small tables set up at the back for the judges. All the blue ones were placed on the chief’s table, the green ones on Norm’s table, the white ones on Nancy’s table, and the ill-fated purple ones on Penelope’s table.

  “Okay, so it didn’t happen then,” I said. “You can clearly see Nancy’s and Norm’s hands as they plated up the cake slices. Neither of them got out a bottle and doused one of the slices with gelsemium. And it couldn’t have been when Penelope and the chief carried the plates over. There’s no way Penelope would poison herself, and if Chief Dalton did it, then we’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

  “Have a look here,” Alan said. “After they set the cake slices on the tables, all the contestants and judges gathered around to check out the display.”

  “What’s Scooter doing there?” I watched as he walked over to Penelope’s table and looked from side to side for a few moments. “I thought Nancy forbade the general public from that side of the barrier.”

  “Look there,” Alan said as he pointed at the screen. Scooter bent down and picked up a ball from the floor, then walked out of the frame. “I think he was retrieving it for those kids.”

  “And isn’t that you?” I asked, pointing at a short man wearing a gray shirt.

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “I had my camera on a tripod at that point.”

  I watched as Alan stood with his back to the camera right in front of Penelope’s table all by himself. My earlier doubts about the newly christened “Burton Guster” resurfaced. Maybe he’d had an alibi for when Wanda was poisoned, but he could have still been responsible for what had happened to Emily.

  “Hey, you don’t think I did it, do you?” He fast-forwarded and then froze the picture. “See, that’s you all by yourself by the cake. It could have been you too. In fact, it could have been any of us.”

  As we watched the rest of the video, my heart sank. He was right. Everyone had been by themselves in front of Penelope’s table at one point or the other, and with the angle of the camera, there was no way of knowing if they had taken that opportunity to poison the cake.

  “Ugh. We’re no closer to finding out who did it.” I tapped my fingers on the armrests of my chair. “Hey, wait a minute. What if someone came in the back door?”

  “Easy enough to find out,” Alan said. He tapped on my tablet for a few minutes, then passed it to me. “Here you go. The security footage from the camera in the courtyard.”

  “How did you get this?”

  Alan shrugged. “Don’t ask.”

  My estimation of him shot up. A man with hacking skills. That could come in handy in the future. It never pays to underestimate mild-mannered people. They often surprise you.

  “So what does it show?” Alan asked.

  “Only two people entered through the back—Emily and Mrs. Moto. I guess we’re back to the drawing board.”

  Alan ran his fingers through his hair, studying his reflection in the mirror. “Mollie, can I ask you a serious question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think I should color my hair? Maybe go for dark brown like Scooter? Women like tall, dark, and handsome men, don’t t
hey?”

  “Um…it’s what’s on the inside that counts, not the outside,” I said diplomatically.

  Alan picked at his fingernails. “If that’s the case, why did Emily break up with me?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it might have had something to do with his taste in scented candles or the fact that he had a YouTube channel featuring mice in tiny costumes. But I am convinced that there’s someone out there for everyone. Once we nabbed the murderer, I planned to turn my attention to finding Alan the perfect woman. Provided, of course, that he didn’t turn out to be the murderer himself. My skills at fixing people up on blind dates only went so far.

  15

  WRINKLE-FREE CLOTHES

  Once I got back from the hair salon, it was time to get ready for Emily’s memorial service. I wasn’t sure what to wear. Normally, I’d select a black dress and heels, but the service was being held on a boat. My typical boat wear consisted of shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops, but that seemed disrespectful. And my hair wasn’t helping matters either. The sleek beauty-salon look was gone, replaced by the usual frizz. Sure, the frizz had a better shape to it, but it was still frizz.

  I ended up opting for a navy-blue sundress, a cotton pashmina draped over my shoulders, and my dressy flip-flops. Yes, there really is such a thing as dressy flip-flops, at least here in Florida. Scooter scrubbed up nicely—he had freshly ironed khaki pants on, which were paired with a dark-green button-up shirt and his deck shoes.

  Confession time—we didn’t own an iron or an ironing board. Given the lack of space we had on board our boat, they were luxury items that didn’t make the cut, much like a Cuisinart. We didn’t even have a place to hang clothes. Everything was stacked on shelves in a cupboard. Fortunately, we didn’t have a full-length mirror either, so when we got dressed in the morning, we had no idea how bad we looked. It was a blessing in disguise. When you ate as many sugary treats as I did, it was nice not knowing exactly how big your behind really appeared in your shorts.