2 The Witch Who Saw a Star

by Emma Belmont

  Mac nodded. “He was.” Although Alan waited, as though Mac might elaborate, he didn’t—and Maris was glad.

  The sound of footsteps drew all their attention to Kaitlyn Cameron. The young actress was holding a plate of fresh fruit, and also a piece of paper.

  “Good,” she said to Mac. “Now I don’t have to go looking for you.”

  9

  While Kaitlyn sat down, Alan got up. “I’ll let you get to it,” he said to them. “Unless you have more questions for me?” He looked at the sheriff.

  “Not for now,” Mac said. “Thanks for your time.”

  The cinematographer picked up his tablet, but left the food, and headed back inside.

  “I didn’t mean to make him leave,” Kaitlyn said, looking after him. Then she moved his plate aside so she could put down her own. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

  “Not at all,” Mac said. “We were finished. You said you were looking for me?”

  She held out a wrinkled piece of paper. “I found this in the dining room just now.” When Mac took it, she picked up a strawberry from her plate. “It was wadded up into a ball next to the trash can. I assume somebody missed it, so I picked it up to drop it in, and then I noticed that dollar figure.” She took a small bite of the strawberry.

  Mac took a quick look at the paper, and set it on the table in front of Maris. “Read it,” he said, “but don’t touch it.” He stood up. “I’m going to the SUV and get an evidence container bag.” With that, he strode off.

  “But I touched it,” Kaitlyn said, her eyes wide.

  “There’s no need to worry,” Maris assured her. “The only thing that will happen is that your fingerprints will be taken.”

  “I hope so,” the young actress said, not sounding convinced, as she put the strawberry back on the plate.

  The piece of paper was stationary from Odyssey Studios, Fritz Falschung’s company. It was a brief letter, dated a week from yesterday, and addressed to First Mate Lloyd Kunkel. In it, the director was offering him the captaincy, effective immediately. As Kaitlyn had already noted, the offer letter ended in a salary figure—a rather generous one. It was signed by Fritz Falschung.

  Maris narrowed her eyes at it. The director had somehow neglected to mention his plan to replace Hazelwood with his underling. It would appear that it wasn’t just a matter of trying to have two directors on the same movie—one was going to fire the other.

  Or had Fritz known that Hazelwood wouldn’t be around much longer to pilot the ship?

  The sound of Mac’s quick footsteps signaled his returned. He was wearing a pair of latex gloves and was carrying a clear plastic sleeve. He picked up the offer letter and gently slipped it into the sleeve, sealing the top.

  Kaitlyn watched him, sitting stock still, her eyes never leaving the letter. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked. “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

  “No,” Mac said. “But this is evidence in a murder investigation and you happened to have touched it.” He set it back down on the table.

  Then he took a small plastic box and something that looked like an index card from his jacket pocket.

  “Fingerprints,” Maris said to Kaitlyn smiling. “It’s just to eliminate you from the list of people who’ve touched it.”

  “Exactly,” Mac said, opening the kit and putting the card at the edge of the table. “I’ll start with your right-hand thumb. Just try to relax and let me do the moving.”

  For the next few minutes, Maris watched as Mac rolled each of the actress’s fingers on a black pad, moved it to the card, and repeated the procedure, leaving her black print on it.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she muttered. “I’ve never been fingerprinted before.”

  “It’s standard,” Mac said, his tone reassuring. When he finished, he took a moist towelette packet from the other jacket pocket and handed it to her. “Done.”

  Kaitlyn quickly tore it open and used it to clean her fingers, but the little towelette was already getting dark. She looked around, but only saw the linen napkins.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’ve got to wash this off.”

  As she got up and hurried off, Mac picked up the offer letter. “I think it’s time to speak with Fritz.”

  10

  Maris followed Mac down the stairs where Nadia had taken them yesterday, and nearly ran into her. Clipboard in hand, she was climbing to the deck.

  “Sheriff,” she said, surprised. “Maris.” She smiled at the two of them as she backed down a step into the wood-paneled hallway. “I didn’t know you were aboard.” She looked between the two of them, and then at the evidence bag that Mac held in his gloved hands. “Is there, uh, something that I can help you with?”

  “We need to speak with Fritz,” Mac said, in a brisk and no-nonsense tone.

  “Um, sure,” Nadia said, backing up against the wall. She pointed with a pen down the hallway. “Past the fitness center, all the way at the end.”

  “Thank you,” Mac said, heading that way, and Maris exchanged a quick look with Nadia.

  Maris had to trot a little to keep up with the sheriff. They stopped outside the polished teak door, and Mac immediately knocked. He waited for a few moments, and when there was no sound from within, he knocked again. Again they waited, and Mac glanced over his shoulder at Maris who lifted her hands and shrugged.

  “Maybe he’s not in?” she said.

  Mac pounded on the door. “Mr. Falschung,” he said loudly. “It’s Sheriff McKenna. Open the door.”

  A loud muttering came from inside, then a banging, some stomping, and two failed attempts to turn the doorknob before the door opened.

  “What in the bloody hell?” the director yelled. He was wearing a very rumpled and stained white dinner jacket, and gripped the edge of the door to keep his balance. “Who in the hell do you…” He scowled at Mac’s face, and then took in the uniform. “Oh,” he said. He stood up a little straighter, and leveled his bloodshot eyes at both of them. “Sheriff,” he said, his voice gravelly. He shoved the door the rest of the way open. “Come in.”

  As they entered, he struggled to close the door behind them but it had jammed over the top of some clothes on the floor. He gave up on it with a huff, and lumbered over to the intercom next to the king-sized bed, thumbing it on.

  “Coffee,” he yelled, but then groaned and put a hand to his head.

  “Yes, Mr. Falschung,” came the monotone reply from the mesh panel, as the director put his forehead to the wall and took in a deep breath.

  Although Mac was watching the director, Maris took a moment to look at their surroundings. If she had to guess, she’d say that an entire teak forest had been sacrificed for the yacht’s interior. Though the director’s state rooms were no more opulent than the rest of the boat, they were enormous. They’d entered into a beautifully appointed sitting area, with tasteful flower arrangements on the surrounding counters, and more of the world photography that they’d seen in the hallways. The wet bar was generously stocked, and Maris realized for the first time that every flat surface on the furniture was rimmed with a small rail, likely to prevent objects from slipping off in choppy seas.

  Beyond the sitting room, built-in cabinetry flanked the round, king-sized bed, which faced a screen that could have been used in a small cinema. A dressing room beyond the bedroom held floor to ceiling closets, some open, with their drawers pulled out. Windows to the ocean on the far wall let in a beautiful light through the shear blinds.

  Fritz collapsed into one of the low armchairs. “To what do I owe this inestimable, early-morning pleasure?”

  Without a word, the sheriff handed him the sheet of paper in its evidence bag to him. For a few moments Fritz simply tried to focus on it. He held it at arm’s length, and Maris could see his lips moving as he read it. Then he scowled.

  “What is this?” he demanded. “Where did you get this?”

  “Is that your company stationary?” Maris asked.

 
“So what if it is?” he shot back. He glared at her and then Mac. “You didn’t answer my question.” When neither of them volunteered any information, Fritz tossed the bag and enclosed paper to the floor. “I didn’t write that.”

  “Is that your signature?” Mac asked, not bothering to pick it up.

  Fritz leaned forward in the chair, and then apparently thought better of it and sat back with a grunt. “You think I offered the captain’s job to the first mate?” he said loudly. Then understanding seemed to dawn. “Oh, I see. This is your evidence that I knew the captain would be dead. That I was planning to replace him.” He barked a sharp laugh. “Preposterous and, I might add, stupid. Anyone could get their hands on that stationary.”

  “Not anyone,” Mac countered. “And it’s your company.”

  “For your information,” Fritz said, sounding as if he were speaking to a child, “I didn’t like either of them. You’d think the first mate ought to be able to obey the ship’s rules. No fraternization.” He chopped the air in front of him. “Pure and simple. No fraternization among the crew.” He glanced at the hallway. “It’s a big ship, but it’s still a ship. No one is going to carry on an affair here and not be seen.”

  At that moment, a young male steward appeared in the open doorway holding a silver service tray.

  “Come, come,” the director said, waving him in. “Be quick.”

  The steward set the silver service on the table between the three of them, and Maris noted a bottle of aspirin on it. No doubt Fritz’s hungover state was not something new. Quickly the young man began to set out three cups and saucers.

  “Not for them,” Falschung said angrily. He took the coffee pot from him and poured a half cup for himself. “Now, get out.” As the steward hurried back to the door, the director downed the entire half cup in one monstrous gulp. He watched as the young man tried to close the door. “Leave it,” he bellowed, and quickly pressed a hand to his temple. As he watch the steward leave, he muttered, “Bloody useless.” He was in the midst of pouring himself another half cup, when he stopped and a sly look stole over his face. He grinned at Mac. “I can’t hire the first mate as captain.” He sat back in his chair, holding the cup to his stomach. “Do you know why that is, Sheriff?” He took a sip.

  Maris saw Mac’s jaw muscles working. “I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

  The director’s gaze slid over to Maris. “Nadia’s friend, do you know why I can’t hire the first mate?”

  Now it was Maris’s turn to grind her teeth, but all she said was, “No.”

  Fritz chuckled, and smiled down into his cup. “Because he’s the first mate, that’s why.” He looked up at them both. “He’s not licensed to captain a ship.” Then, as if for emphasis he added, “He’s not legal to run a vessel like Copernicus. I’d void every insurance policy from here to Shanghai if I hired him.”

  Though Mac didn’t say a word, he picked up the letter in its clear bag.

  The smile on the director’s face vanished. “I need some aspirin.” He grabbed the bottle, flipped off the top with his thumb, and poured several into his mouth before loudly swallowing. “And a lawyer.” He stared at Mac. “This conversation is over.”

  11

  When Maris followed Mac into the hallway and up the stairs, she blew out a sigh of relief. “What an ego,” she muttered. “I don’t know how you put up with people like that.”

  To her astonishment, Mac looked behind him and gave her a smile. “By getting to the truth,” he said.

  As they emerged onto the sunlit deck, Maris saw that the fog had lifted, as it always did. Here in the fresh morning breeze, with the warmth of the sun on her face, she took a deep breath. Mac was right. She was here to help a friend who had called for her aid.

  Maris had left people like Fritz far behind in the hospitality trade. It pained her to know what Nadia—everyone on-board—had to put up with. Yet Nadia had seemed happy with her choice, and her compensation. Likewise the first mate had seemed genuinely excited to be traveling the world.

  Mac came to a stop just beyond the conversation pit and lifted the letter. “I don’t think Falschung cares about licensing or any seafaring legalities. His story of worrying about insurance policies is just that.”

  Maris nodded. “Agreed.”

  He lowered the letter. “But there’s no denying how fortuitous the discovery of this letter was.” He glanced down at it. “I’ll have it fingerprinted and the signature checked but…” He glanced outside.

  “It might be time to question its discoverer,” Maris finished.

  As they moved to the aft deck, Mac checked along the right hand railing, while Maris sighted down the other.

  “Here,” Mac said, waving Maris over.

  About midway down the side of the ship, in the sunlight, Kaitlyn was standing against the handrail, while the portly cinematographer used a phone to take a picture of her. As Maris and Mac approached, he handed the phone to the young actress and she smiled down at it. She looked up when she heard them approaching, and showed them the screen.

  “Alan is shooting some new headshots for me,” she said. “What do you think?”

  Maris peered at it in the bright sunlight but could make out the young actress’s winning smile. “Lovely,” she said. “I can’t imagine you’d take anything other than a wonderful photo.”

  “The camera loves her,” Alan put in.

  Kaitlyn swiped to the next shot, and looked up at Maris.

  Pixie Point Bay glittered in the background and, in this one, Kaitlyn tilted her head a bit, her smile genuine and endearing. Though the young actress might appear waif-like in person, she looked perfectly proportioned in the photos.

  “Stunning,” Maris said, and Kaitlyn beamed. For a second, Maris was struck by the strangeness of the scene. A Hollywood starlet was asking her opinion on a headshot. But the amazing part was that Kaitlyn really seemed to care what she thought. “I’m sure these are going to work wonderfully for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and a little color rose into her cheeks. “Alan did a great job.” She glanced at the big man. “I mean, as long as we’re stuck here, and there’s a cinematographer on-board, why not get something done, right?”

  Alan smiled and nodded his agreement.

  Mac said, “Kaitlyn, I’ve got a few questions for you. Would now be a good time?”

  “Oh,” the actress said, blinking at him. She turned off the phone. “Um, sure.”

  “I think I hear my cue,” the cinematographer said, and turned to go.

  “Thanks for your help, Alan,” Kaitlyn said.

  “Any time,” he replied before he headed off.

  Kaitlyn took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Ready.”

  Mac gave her a little smile. “It’s not going to be as bad as all that. I won’t even be using bright lights in a dark room. Promise.”

  Both Maris and Kaitlyn laughed, and the young actress relaxed.

  The sheriff handed the evidence bag to Maris and took out his notepad. “Did you know Captain Hazelwood?”

  Kaitlyn shook her head as she leaned back against the railing. “Not at all. I mean, I don’t know when the crew eats, but the captain only ate with us once or twice. He wasn’t much of a talker. I think I heard that he’d been in the navy.”

  If Maris had to guess, the crew likely ate in the kitchen. Though the yacht was large and the guest rooms sumptuous, she had yet to see the crew quarters.

  Mac made a few notes. “And how do you know Mr. Falschung?”

  “I had a supporting role in Fully Loaded,” she answered. But when she saw Mac’s raised eyebrows, she added, “His last movie.”

  “Ah,” Mac said. “That’s where you met.”

  “Right,” Kaitlyn said. “It was just a casting call, something my agent told me about. But I landed the roll of the daughter and Fritz and I hit it off. I think we really share the same vision for the work.”

  According to Fritz, they shared much more than that, Maris thoug
ht, and she wondered how Mac would broach that topic.

  He focused on his notepad but asked. “And is that why you’re here on the Copernicus? Because you hit it off.”

  Kaitlyn laughed lightly. “Oh no. I’m here to give notes on the next project.”

  Maris glanced at Mac. “Give notes?” she asked.

  The young actress nodded quickly. “I’ve never really done it before, but it’s so exciting.”

  Maris cocked her head. “Really? And why is that?”

  “Hold on,” Mac said, putting up his hand. “Maybe you should explain what ‘giving notes’ means.” Maris nodded in agreement.

  “Oh sorry,” Kaitlyn said and rolled her eyes. “I forget that you guys aren’t in the industry.” She thought for a moment. “Well, it’s basically making comments on the script.”

  “Okay,” Mac said. “You’re here to make comments on the script.” He looked up from the notepad. “But couldn’t you just do that, say, in an e-mail?”

  Kaitlyn shrugged. “Sure.” Then she grinned, and Maris glimpsed the little girl who’d just struck it big. “And miss out on all this.” She gestured with both hands to the surroundings. “But really, giving notes is more than that. At this stage of the project, when it’s not cast in concrete, you have a chance to change it.”

  “So the director asks for your feedback on the script,” Maris said, “and then takes it to the script writer?”

  Kaitlyn shook her head. “Fritz wrote the script. He’s his own screenwriter. He’ll take my notes, and Alan’s, the producer’s, the lead actors, and whoever else he trusts, and then he’ll make the decision on what changes he wants. He’s an absolute genius when it comes to that stuff.”

  “It sounds complicated,” Maris said. “I always thought there was a writer who’s job it was to write the whole thing.”

  “Sometimes,” Kaitlyn said. “But it’s a lot harder to write a script than it looks. I should know. I wrote one.”

  “You did?” Maris said. “Really?”