“You must have resented her,” I said. “Blamed her for your sister’s death.”
Wanda pursed her lips. “If it hadn’t been for her, everything would have been fine!” she snapped. “I would have stayed on Destiny Key, watching my niece grow up and spending time with my sister. Instead, I spent the past twenty-five years stuck in Coconut Cove.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Why would you move to the same town as the woman you despised?”
“It was part of the terms he set me. I had to stay and keep an eye on Penelope and her mother. My brother-in-law figured if the two of us saw each other on a regular basis around town, we’d be reminded to keep our silence so we could keep our checks coming.”
I considered my next words carefully. “It must have galled you to see Penelope grow up into a successful young woman when you were separated from your own niece. Perhaps enough to want to kill her?”
“I can see why you’d think that, but it wasn’t me. I’m color-blind. The killer would have to be sure he poisoned the right slice of cake, and he would only be able to do that if he could be sure the plate was purple.”
“I thought color-blindness only affected men,” I said.
“Usually, but there’s a small percentage of women who are affected. It has to do with genetics.”
I felt another headache coming on. Instead of a math-induced one, this one felt science-related. I tried to remember what I had learned in my genetics class in high school, but all that came to mind were the letters X and Y and something to do with pea plants. Ugh. Peas. Such an overrated vegetable, much like rutabagas. As I mentally ranked vegetables in my head by order of tastiness (potatoes topped the list, especially in the form of french fries), I realized that there was something different about Wanda tonight.
“How come you’re not wearing anything with Trixie Tremblay’s face on it?” I asked.
“Let’s just say we’ve parted ways.”
“No more Rutamentals?”
“If I never see another rutabaga again in my life, it won’t be soon enough,” she said with a shudder.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s quite a turnaround. Do you mind having a word with Scooter and convincing him that rutabagas aren’t all they’re cracked up to be?”
“All you have to tell him is that if he keeps up with Rutamentals, he’ll end up in the hospital like me.”
I sat up straight. “Wait a minute, you mean you weren’t poisoned?”
“No, it was a side effect of the rutabagas. Apparently, if you eat too many, you can develop some nasty symptoms, like a severe stomachache. It exacerbated my heart condition, which made it hard to breathe, causing me to lose consciousness.”
“But why did you tell me that Alan had poisoned you?”
She bit her lip. “He’d been digging into my background, and I was afraid he’d expose our family history.”
“So you would have sent an innocent man to jail just to keep your dirty laundry from being aired?”
“I regret what I did,” she said. “When you’ve spent your whole life lying and covering up lies, it becomes easy—all too easy—to keep lying.”
“Did you tell the chief that you accused Alan falsely?”
“No, but what does it matter, anyway? He had an alibi for that day, and it turns out it wasn’t poison, just too many rutabagas.”
“It does matter. The poor man was dragged into the police station, questioned, and made to feel like a common criminal. Actually, worse than a common criminal. You implied he was a murderer.” Wanda stared at the deck silently. “You knew he wasn’t the murderer, didn’t you?” She nodded. “You know who the murderer is, don’t you?” She nodded again. “And before you found out it was the rutabagas that made you sick, you actually believed someone had tried to poison you, didn’t you? You thought it was Jeff, right?”
Before she could answer, Norm called out, “Liam, get those dock lines ready. We’re almost there.”
While Norm maneuvered the boat toward the dock, Wanda grabbed my hands and stared at me intently. “I’ve said all I can,” she said softly. “The chief knows Emily and I were related and he knows about Penelope, but he doesn’t know everything. Talk to Mike. He can fill in the missing pieces. Talk to him before someone ends up taking the fall for Emily’s murder.”
* * *
Once the boat was secured, Wanda rushed off, pushing others out of her way in her haste.
“Is she feeling sick again?” Scooter asked. “She probably shouldn’t have been discharged from the hospital so soon.”
“She’s sick because of rutabagas. And guilt…” my voice trailed off as I watched Mike help Penelope down to the dock.
“Guilt?” Scooter asked. “She feels guilty about rutabagas?”
“It’s a long story. But I need to speak with Mike first. In the meantime, stay away from rutabagas. They really are bad for your health.” I started to walk toward the lawyer when Scooter grabbed my arm. “Hey, you can’t just run off like that without filling me in on what’s going on.”
“I’ll be fine. Mike isn’t the murderer.”
“Right,” Scooter said slowly. “So Mike isn’t the murderer, and that makes it okay? Let me hazard a guess—you’re planning on talking to him about murder, though.”
“Of course. From what Wanda said, he’s the key to it all.”
“Okay, no. Just no,” Scooter said emphatically. “You’re not going off to talk with someone about murder late at night by yourself. I’m coming with you.”
“I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere, sir,” an officious voice said, a voice that could belong to only one person—Chief Dalton. “I need to speak with you about some developments in the case,” the burly man said.
“Don’t you mean you need to speak with me?” I asked. “I’m the one who knows about the case.”
“No, I need to speak with Mr. McGhie.”
“Who you need to speak with is Jeff. He’s the one who killed Emily.”
“Emily wasn’t the target,” the chief said.
“I know that. We all know that,” I said. “He meant to kill her sister, Penelope.”
Scooter furrowed his brow. “Her sister? Penelope and Emily were sisters? How come I didn’t know that?”
“As I told you, I have a lot to fill you in on.” I turned to the chief. “But you knew they were related, didn’t you?” His only reply consisted of raising one of his eyebrows. “Jeff thought he was killing Penelope. I just haven’t figured out why yet, but I’m sure it has something to do with their father’s estate.”
“Maarten van der Byl’s estate?” Scooter asked. “So this is all about money?”
“So you’re admitting you knew Mr. Van der Byl?” the chief asked.
“I never met him personally. Everything was done through lawyers,” Scooter said.
“But your company had dealings with him, isn’t that correct?”
Scooter ran his fingers through his hair. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“That’s exactly what we’re going to find out. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll give you a ride to the police station.”
“What?” I stepped forward and jabbed my finger at the chief. “Listen here, Tiny. You need to back off right now, and go arrest Jeff Morgan this instant!”
Scooter gently pulled me back. “Did you just call him Tiny?” he whispered in my ear.
The chief’s face remained impassive. He pointed at his squad car. “Shall we, Mr. McGhie?”
“You can’t question him without a lawyer,” I said.
“I’m so tired of lawyers,” Scooter said. “It seems like we can’t do anything anymore without involving lawyers. And you can’t trust any of them.”
“That’s not true. Some of them are trustworthy, like your lawyer, Tom. You’ve been working with him for years.”
He sighed. “Fair enough. If only he wasn’t laid up at the moment.” He shook his head. “Listen, we’re making a bigger deal out of
this than we need to. I’m sure I can clear things up with Chief Dalton in no time. Nothing to worry about. I just want to get this over with as soon as possible. Why don’t you go back to the boat, feed Mrs. Moto her supper, then come pick me up in our car.” He turned to the chief. “It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, a half hour tops, right?”
The chief shrugged.
“I can interpret his silence for you,” I said to Scooter. “What he meant to say was ‘no comment.’”
As the squad car sped away, I sank down on one of the park benches next to the public docks. Thoughts raced through my head—why did the chief want to question Scooter? He didn’t really think he had anything to do with Emily’s death, did he?
“Good night, Mollie,” someone said behind me. I turned and saw Alan walking across the grass holding his camera. Oh, no, the camera! That’s what caused this all! Scooter had been caught on tape near Penelope’s table retrieving that kid’s ball on the day of the cake competition. The chief would have taken one look at that and determined that Scooter had an opportunity to kill Emily. But the big question was, what motive did he think he had?
Mrs. Moto’s dinner was going to have to wait. I had some investigating to do, starting with Mike.
17
A BOX OF KITTENS
“Hey, wait a minute!” I stepped in front of Mike’s car before he could pull out of the parking lot.
He rolled down the window and leaned out. “You could have been killed. I almost didn’t see you.”
“Killed. That’s a good choice of words.” I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and slid into the seat.
“Uh, what are you doing?” Mike asked.
“We’re going to have a little chat.”
He glanced at his watch. “Can this wait until tomorrow? I’m beat.”
“No, it most certainly cannot. Scooter needs our help. He’s at the police station. And you’re going to get him out of that place.”
“I can’t represent him,” he said, gripping the steering wheel. “But I can refer him to a criminal lawyer.”
“He does need a lawyer, but it won’t be one that you recommend. No, what I need from you is to know all the details of the Van der Byls’ estate.” Mike’s phone buzzed. He reached for it, but I grabbed it from the dashboard before he could. “Hmm. Looks like a text from Jeff. Want me to read it out loud?”
“Give me that!” We tussled for a few moments, and then Mike gave up after I threatened to throw his phone out the window. He leaned back in his seat and groaned. “Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?”
“Sure,” I said with a shrug. “But the people who usually say that are people who have something to hide. Like you. Look, I already know most of it. I just need you to fill in some of the details.”
“What is it that you think you know?”
“One—Penelope is Maarten van der Byl’s illegitimate daughter. Two—Emily and Penelope were half sisters,” I said, ticking items off with my fingers. “Three—Wanda was Emily’s aunt. Four—Maarten van der Byl bought Wanda’s, as well as Penelope’s mother’s, silence. And five—Jeff is the murderer.”
Mike ran his fingers through his hair. “If I tell you about the estate, will you leave me alone? Deal?”
“Let’s hear what you have to say first, before I make any promises.”
He shook his head and sighed. “Fine. Upon Maarten van der Byl’s death, his estate was to be divided equally between his children.”
I furrowed my brow. “If that’s the case, how come Penelope doesn’t know she was his daughter? Wouldn’t you have had to inform her of her inheritance?”
“It’s not that cut-and-dried. He didn’t mention Penelope by name. The only way she would inherit was if she came forward with proof that she was his daughter.”
“But she didn’t know he was her father.”
“Correct. And—”
“Oh, wait, I think I know what you’re going to say next,” I said. “Emily wanted to make sure that Penelope didn’t know about her parentage. And with Penelope’s mother having passed away, she would have never known unless someone else told her.”
“That’s right. And—”
“I know this one too!” I said, bouncing up and down in the car seat. It was like being on a game show, albeit one where the grand prize was saving your husband from incarceration. “The only people who knew about Penelope this whole time were Wanda and Emily.”
“You’re half-right,” Mike said. “As you said before, Wanda had been paid off by Maarten van der Byl to keep quiet, but Emily didn’t know about her sister until recently.”
“Ah, that explains the interviews that Alan did with Wanda, Penelope, and Penelope’s mom’s friend.”
Mike cocked his head to one side. “So you know about that.”
I nodded. “Emily put Alan up to it, didn’t she? She pretended to like him, going out on dates with him, but all she really wanted was for him to dig into Penelope’s background.”
“That’s right. She ran across some old letters in her father’s study and realized her father had another child. She just needed proof of who that child was, and then…” his voice trailed off when his phone buzzed again.
“Once she had the proof, she decided to eliminate her rival heir.” I glanced at Mike’s phone. It was another text from Jeff: When are you dropping off the papers? I tapped my fingers on the screen. “No, that’s not quite right. Emily didn’t want to kill Penelope, did she? It was Jeff.”
Mike stared out the windscreen and stroked his goatee. “I don’t want to talk about Jeff.”
“Why? Are you afraid he’ll kill you too?”
“Kill me? No, he doesn’t have any reason to. He has other ways of getting what he wants.”
“But you are saying he’s a murderer.”
He shook his head. “I’m not saying any such thing. But if we’re talking hypothetically, Jeff isn’t a violent person by nature. He doesn’t even own a gun.”
“You don’t need a gun to kill someone. Turns out poison is pretty effective.”
“Let’s just say that was a one-off.” He held up his hands. “Hypothetically, of course. People like Jeff and the Van der Byls are more sophisticated when it comes to getting what they want. Blackmail, forged documents, less-than-legitimate legal transactions, financial fraud—those are their tools of the trade.”
“He has something on you, doesn’t he?” The lawyer nodded. “But he didn’t have anything on Penelope, so he had to resort to poison, right?”
Mike drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve said all that I’m going to say. We had a deal. Once I told you about the estate, you promised to leave me alone.” He leaned across me and opened the passenger door. “You should probably go see what’s happened to your husband.”
I reluctantly exited the car. As I walked toward my own car, Mike pulled up alongside me, leaned out the window and held out his hand. “You’ve still got my phone.”
“Just one more question,” I said. “Wouldn’t Jeff still want Penelope dead? Otherwise, he only inherits the half of the estate that belonged to Emily.”
“But Emily and Jeff were married,” Mike said. “That changes everything. In the event that Emily married within a year after her father’s death, she stood to inherit the entire estate. Don’t worry, Penelope is safe now. So are you and everyone else. Jeff has all his ducks in a row.”
I dropped the phone into his hand and watched him speed away. While Mike had answered a lot of questions, he hadn’t answered all of them. And I needed answers, not only to put a killer behind bars but also to save my husband from being falsely accused.
* * *
I didn’t have time to get answers to my questions, not with Scooter at the police station. I rushed over there, breaking speed limits willy-nilly, only to end up waiting on the hard wooden bench in the lobby for hours.
The receptionist was pleasant the first twenty times I asked her how much longer my
husband would be. After that, her only response was “no comment.” She even had the nerve to pretend to be on the phone when I asked her if I could have one of the donuts she had in the box next to her computer.
I tried to forget about my hunger pangs by texting my mom.
You were joking about Mary, right?
No response. I tried again.
Do I need to worry about my ears becoming unnaturally large?
Crickets. Maybe she was playing bridge. I spent the next thirty minutes reorganizing the contents of my purse. I really did have a lot of pens. Finally, my phone buzzed.
I would never make fun of you. It’s so cute when kids have imaginary friends. Or a twin sister, in your case.
I ran my fingers through my hair, then tapped a reply.
OMG. Did you mean Veronica this whole time?
Wasn’t her name Mary?
No. Veronica. Not even close.
Oops. Gotta go. Got brownies in the oven.
I could really have used a brownie by this point. Texting with my mom always drove me nuts and straight into sugar’s open arms. I stared up at the ceiling and smiled, remembering Veronica. Sometimes, it had been lonely being an only child when I was younger. Making up an imaginary sister had helped.
I slapped my thighs. Shoot. While the mystery of Mary was solved, my mom hadn’t answered the really important question. I sent her one last text.
What about my ears?
Not surprisingly, I didn’t hear back. Like me, when my mom is focused on brownies, everything else fades into the background, including the sound of a phone buzzing.
My stomach churned as I watched the hours tick by on the large clock mounted on the wall. I paced back and forth, stopping periodically to reread the wanted posters, reward notices, and takeout menus tacked to the bulletin board. I had tried in vain to have Thai food delivered to the station, but the restaurant had already closed.
The reward notices were typical of crime in Coconut Cove—information was sought about the theft of a golf cart from the Tropical Breeze condos, the identity of the person who had left a box of ten-week-old kittens outside the Tipsy Pirate (they had all since been adopted), who was passing counterfeit ten-dollar bills around town, and who had stolen roses from Mrs. MacDougal’s garden.
Poisoned by the Pier Page 18
