Murder at the Marina

by Ellen Jacobson

  MURDER AT THE MARINA

  A MOLLIE MCGHIE SAILING MYSTERY #1

  ELLEN JACOBSON

  Murder at the Marina

  Copyright © 2018 by Ellen Jacobson

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-7321602-1-7

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-7321602-0-0

  Editor: Chris Brogden, EnglishGeek Editing

  First Published: June 2018

  Published by: Ellen Jacobson

  www.ellenjacobsonauthor.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATION

  THE CREW

  CHAPTER 1 | SURPRISE!

  CHAPTER 2 | THE RED-HAIRED HUSSY

  CHAPTER 3 | MY LITTLE SWEET POTATO

  CHAPTER 4 | UNEXPLAINED LIGHTS

  CHAPTER 5 | EMERGENCY CHOCOLATE

  CHAPTER 6 | FLYSWATTER

  CHAPTER 7 | NOSEBLEEDS

  CHAPTER 8 | TO-DO LISTS

  CHAPTER 9 | PRETTY IN PINK

  CHAPTER 10 | WEEVILS

  CHAPTER 11 | DISNEYLAND

  CHAPTER 12 | LITTLE GREEN MEN

  CHAPTER 13 | BELLY BUTTON LINT

  CHAPTER 14 | DATING SCOUNDRELS

  CHAPTER 15 | MR. AND MRS. DIAMOND

  CHAPTER 16 | KILLER COCONUTS

  CHAPTER 17 | THE MYSTERIOUS TOTE BAG

  MOLLIE'S SAILING TIPS

  AUTHOR'S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  For my mother

  THE CREW

  MOLLIE MCGHIE—WANTED diamonds for her anniversary, got a dilapidated sailboat instead. Focused on getting a promotion at work, investigating mysterious events at the marina, and getting rid of the unwanted boat.

  SCOOTER MCGHIE—Needs to up his game in the gift-giving department. Recently sold his business. Now has way too much time on his hands to devote to his midlife crisis—a sailing obsession.

  NANCY AND NED SCHNEIDER—Owners of the Palm Tree Marina. Nancy runs a tight ship, keeping everyone on their toes. Ned is easy-going and has a soft spot for cats.

  KATY AND SAM—Nancy and Ned's grandchildren. Seven-year-old Katy takes sailing lessons, while her younger brother tags along.

  CAPTAIN DAN—Local boat broker. A Texan native, Captain Dan uses his dubious southern charm to try to woo the ladies.

  PENNY CHADWICK—Also from Texas, Penny lives aboard her boat at the marina and teaches sailing classes.

  SANDY AND JACK HOLT—Had hoped to be enjoying their retirement by now. Instead, Jack runs a small business from their boat, while Sandy struggles with health issues.

  MRS. MOTO—Sandy and Jack's cat, a Japanese bobtail. A talkative calico with black markings on her face that resemble eyeglasses.

  ALEJANDRA LOPEZ—A young waitress at the Sailor's Corner Cafe. Saving up her money in the hopes of opening up a nail salon one day.

  BEN MORETTI—A wannabe pirate often found drinking beer. Struggles to make ends meet. Picks up odd jobs at the marina.

  MR. AND MRS. DIAMOND—Mollie isn't sure what their real names are, but she's dubbed them “the Diamonds” on account of the wife's sparkly diamond necklace.

  LOLA—A curvaceous, flirtatious redhead and Mollie's rival for a promotion at work.

  BRIAN MORRISON—Works with Mollie. Impervious to Lola's charms and rooting for Mollie to get the promotion.

  CHIEF DALTON AND OFFICER MOORE—Local law enforcement officers who investigate the murder at the marina. Mollie is fascinated by the chief's eyebrows.

  WAYNE GRIMM AND FRED ROLLINS—Two local hooligans who are often found at the Tipsy Pirate bar.

  TONY DUBLONSKI—Manager of Melvin's Marine Emporium.

  TIFFANY AND CHAD—Two teenagers who work at Melvin's part-time.

  CHAPTER 1

  SURPRISE!

  WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF you found out your husband was having an affair? Would you:

  (a) be understanding—he's just going through a midlife crisis;

  (b) throw your glass of champagne in his face and storm out of the restaurant;

  (c) tell him about the new love of your life—Sven, your Swedish masseur; or

  (d) order an extra-large piece of chocolate cake?

  You can cross (a) off the list—believe me, I wasn't in a very understanding mood. And (b) is out too. Why would I waste a perfectly good glass of champagne? Of course it's not (c)—what kind of girl do you take me for? The correct answer is obviously (d), chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate, washed down with lots and lots of champagne.

  You know what made matters worse? He told me about her during our ten-year anniversary dinner. You're supposed to get diamonds after ten years, not your husband's confession about his torrid love affair with some hussy named Marjorie Jane. And, as if that weren’t bad enough, it turned out that she was a redhead! I mean, Lucille Ball is great, but certain other redheads really made my blood boil.

  There we were, dining at my new favorite seafood restaurant, Chez Poisson, when Scooter reached across the table, took my hand in his, and rubbed it softly. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Any minute now, he was going to reach into his jacket pocket and present me with a velvet jewelry box containing some lovely little thing encrusted with diamonds.

  Instead, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “You know how much I love you, don't you, Mollie?” I nodded, wondering why he was holding his phone. Maybe it was going to magically turn into a diamond bracelet. I kept my eyes on it, just in case.

  He pressed a button, looked at the screen, and smiled. “Well, it turns out I've fallen in love with another pretty lady too. Her name is Marjorie Jane.” He glanced at me and chuckled. “Not that anyone could replace you, of course, but Marjorie Jane is pretty special.”

  I was stunned. My husband, in love with another woman. And not only in love with another woman, but casually announcing it over dinner as if I'd be okay with it. I think I would have been less surprised if Scooter's phone had turned into a diamond bracelet than I was by his confession.

  “Wait until you see these shots of her,” Scooter said. He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses, then swiped his finger across the screen on his phone, gazing at picture after picture of the new love of his life. “She has the sleekest lines. You won't believe how she moves through the water.” He got a dreamy expression in his dark brown eyes. “You can really see her red coloring shimmering in this one.”

  Now I was starting to get angry. There he was, ogling photos of this red-haired hussy in her bathing suit, swimming in the water. I bet it wasn't a one-piece suit either, but one of those skimpy bikinis that left nothing to the imagination.

  I leaned back in my chair, ran my fingers through my frizzy, mousy-brown hair, and stared at my empty crystal champagne flute. I really needed a refill. And where was the cake I had ordered earlier?

  As I scanned the restaurant for the waiter, my eyes were drawn to a young couple sitting by a window overlooking the water. She toyed with her wedding ring while the waiter refilled her wine glass. I heard the young man tell his wife to close her eyes. He got up from the table and walked behind her. He pulled a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket, opened it, and removed a necklace. Brushing her long, black hair to the side, he gently placed it around her neck. She opened her eyes and squeale
d as she looked down and saw—yes, you guessed it—a diamond pendant sparkling on a delicate gold chain. I bet they hadn't been married for even a year and he was already giving her diamonds.

  Our waiter bustled up to the table, interrupting my thoughts about sparkly diamonds and unfaithful husbands. “Voilà, madame,” he said, putting a dessert plate down in front of me with a flourish.

  “You call this big?” I pointed at a tiny slice of chocolate cake. Sure, it was beautiful, artfully arranged on a rectangular white plate with a drizzle of raspberry sauce and crushed hazelnuts sprinkled in the shape of a heart, but it was positively microscopic in size. “I specifically asked for the largest piece of chocolate cake you have. Can't you see that this is an emergency?”

  I thrust the plate into the waiter's hands. “Take this back to the kitchen and add at least three more slices before you come back.” As he started to walk away, I grabbed his arm. “How about a couple of scoops of chocolate ice cream while you're at it?”

  I looked over at Scooter. He had been oblivious to the whole chocolate cake fiasco. I took the opportunity to switch my empty champagne glass with his full one. He didn't even notice.

  “You're drooling all over your phone!” I said sharply.

  Oops, that might have been a bit too loud. The young woman with the diamond necklace turned and stared at me. My mother would have been telling me to use my indoor voice right about then. She'd probably also have had something to say about ordering chocolate cake and what it could do to my waistline.

  Just then my phone beeped. I pulled it out of my beaded evening bag. Yep, right on cue—a text from my mother.

  What did Scooter get you for your anniversary this year? Something with diamonds?

  I sighed. How was I going to explain Marjorie Jane to her? She had never been that crazy about Scooter to begin with. Probably best to get straight to the point. It was easier that way.

  No diamonds, just a redheaded midlife crisis named Marjorie Jane.

  I saw the waiter coming back to the table with a heaping plate of chocolate cake and enough ice cream piled on top to guarantee a healthy tip. My phone kept beeping. No doubt my mother wanting to know more about the other woman in Scooter's life. I tucked the phone back into my purse. Chocolate deserves one's undivided attention.

  “Sir, can I get you anything else? Some more coffee, perhaps?” the waiter asked. Scooter barely glanced up from his phone. “No, thank you. I'm fine,” he mumbled.

  Who sits and stares at pictures of their mistress during an anniversary dinner with their wife? I could feel the muscles in my neck tense up. Too bad Sven wasn't around to work out the knots. Maybe that would have gotten Mr. Oblivious's attention—the sight of a cute, young, blond guy massaging my neck. Nah, probably not. He was so wrapped up in Marjorie Jane that he wouldn't have even noticed Sven.

  I felt my eyes tear up, which I didn't like one bit. I pride myself on not breaking down every time something goes wrong. I took a deep breath. You're in control. I crumpled up my linen napkin and placed it next to my dessert plate, which sadly only had crumbs left on it, took aim, and kicked Scooter under the table. I was wearing very pointy shoes. That got his attention.

  “So, did you think you could just find another woman and I'd be okay with it?”

  He looked at me with surprise. “What are you talking about, my little sweet potato? What other woman?”

  “Are you serious? You've been staring at pictures of her for the last half hour.” I was proud of myself for using my indoor voice this time. “Sure, I know men have midlife crises, but they usually get a sports car or a toupee or something like that. But no, you had to go and get yourself a mistress. And a redhead at that!”

  Scooter's brow furrowed. “But Marjorie Jane isn't my mistress. She's a sailboat. I'm buying her for you as an anniversary present.”

  I put my champagne flute down. “What? An anniversary present? A sailboat?” This wasn't making any sense. I wondered if he had had too much champagne to drink, but I think it was possible I had finished off the entire bottle myself. Normally, I would guess that's why my head had started to hurt, but let's be realistic—my husband was talking gibberish. Who buys their wife a sailboat as an anniversary present?

  “Yes, a sailboat. See, she's gorgeous.” He passed me his phone. “Look at those classic lines, those teak decks, the red hull, and the white-and-gold trim. Snazzy, huh?”

  He leaned over the table and squeezed my hand. “I've arranged for us to meet the boat broker at the marina tomorrow so that you can see her. I know you're going to love her as much as I do.”

  I was so flabbergasted I didn't say anything. Trust me, that's highly unusual. I've typically got a lot to say. All of it very interesting, I might add, and none of it about sailboats.

  I didn't talk to Scooter as we left the restaurant.

  I didn't talk to Scooter on the car ride home.

  I didn't talk to Scooter when we got home.

  I didn't talk to Scooter when we went to bed.

  A normal guy would have figured out by this point that he was getting the silent treatment. Nope, not Mr. Clueless. He was so wrapped up in his daydreams about Marjorie Jane that he didn't even notice.

  Marjorie Jane was seriously getting on my nerves. Something was going to have to be done about her.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE RED-HAIRED HUSSY

  I STARTED TALKING TO Scooter again in the morning, but that was only because he asked me if I wanted a mocha. I need caffeine to function, preferably caffeine that’s made by someone else.

  I could have just nodded in response to his question, but I noticed that he wasn’t putting nearly enough chocolate syrup into my cup. After the events of last night, I deserved an extra chocolaty start to the day. This required words.

  “Scooter, why are you skimping on the chocolate?”

  He turned and smiled. “Sorry, I was lost in thought about Marjorie Jane.” He stirred in a few more spoonfuls.

  I put my head in my hands. I couldn’t believe it. Marjorie Jane was even getting in the way of my morning mocha.

  Scooter tapped me on the shoulder, placed the steaming cup on the counter in front of me, and gave me a kiss on my forehead. I took a sip and sighed. It was delicious. That man sure could make a tasty mocha. It was almost hard to stay mad at him.

  He sat on the barstool next to mine with a bowl of Froot Loops. Just like I can’t start my day without caffeine, Scooter can’t start his day without cereal. He prefers it to be full of brightly colored, sugary nuggets that crunch loudly when you eat them, disturbing those of us who prefer to quietly sip our mochas.

  As he munched away, Scooter sorted through a pile of mail. He passed some catalogs and bills to me, then pulled out a magazine that had a picture of a couple of geeky-looking guys underneath a headline declaring them the winners of this year’s telecommunications technology innovation award.

  “Why do they keep sending me this?” He clenched the magazine in his hands. “The last thing I want to be reminded of is these two idiots. The only reason they’re on the cover is because of my research.” He tossed the magazine across the counter, pulled his bowl toward him, and pushed the rest of his Froot Loops back and forth with his spoon.

  I reached over and squeezed his arm. He gave me a half-hearted smile. Ever since he had been forced to sell his stake in the high-tech telecommunications business that he had founded with the two geeks in question, he hadn’t been himself. Sure, he had made enough on the sale that he didn’t have to work again, but he was struggling to figure out what to do next with his life, especially as he was only in his forties. Although the gray that had begun to appear in his dark-brown hair made him look distinguished, it was probably due to stress.

  I pulled out one of his sailing magazines from the stack. “Here, why don’t you read this instead? That should cheer you up.”

  He leafed through the pages for a few minutes, then seized my hand. “Thanks for being so understanding. I’m sorry i
f I’ve been a real pain to live with lately.”

  “It’s okay. You’ve been going through a rough patch.”

  He put the magazine down and slurped up the last of the milk in his bowl. “What do you say we head over to the marina after I take a quick shower?”

  I shrugged. Might as well get it over with. Maybe I could talk some sense into him about the boat once I saw what I was up against. “Sure, as long as you make me another mocha for the road.”

  “ARE YOU EXCITED TO meet Marjorie Jane?” Scooter asked as he pulled into the marina parking lot.

  “Sure, as excited as that time the dentist told me I was doing an excellent job flossing my teeth.” I gave him a big grin to prove my point. “See, good dental hygiene does pay off.”

  “Why do I think you’re being a tad sarcastic?”

  “Sarcastic? Me? Never. No, I’m dying to meet this red-haired hussy of yours.”

  I stepped out of the car and closed the door. It might have sounded like I slammed the door, but I swear that’s just the acoustics you get when you’re near the water. Sound carries farther over water; at least that’s what I think my science teacher said back in high school.

  While I reminisced about my struggles getting a passing grade in physics class, Scooter was busy grabbing a navy-blue tote bag out of the back. It had a picture of a sailboat with “Let Your Dreams Set Sail” printed underneath. No doubt he had bought it at one of those boat shows he was always going to.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

  “You know I don’t like surprises.”

  “Sure you do. Remember how thrilled you were last night when I surprised you with Marjorie Jane?” He bent down and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before hurrying down the path.

  “You really are dense sometimes, aren’t you?” I shouted after him as I tried to catch up.

  Scooter sure can move fast when he’s focused on something. And by focused, I mean obsessed. He has two modes of operating—fixated on something 24/7 or completely disinterested.