by Iris Kincaid
When Margo and Finn stopped for little break, Zoe stayed in, purposefully giving the other two a little alone time. A cheerful fellow with an icy beverage cart rolled right up to them.
“Icy cold sparklers. Just the thing to hit the spot.”
“Let me see. Hmm. Pineapple coconut. Raspberry kiwi. Guava passion fruit. That’s the ticket. What do you think?” Finn asked Margo.
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“We’ll take three.”
Margo accepted the drink gratefully. She looked around at the crowded beach and smiled. “I feel like a tourist today. I feel like I’m on vacation.”
Finn tried to restrain an admiring glance, not altogether successfully. “You look like a tourist.”
“Yeah? Well, you look like . . . like . . .” Margo was finally able to indulge her inclination to examine her bare-chested companion. There was much to admire. The man stayed fit. But there was also . . .
“Is that a . . .a . . .?”
“A bullet hole?” Finn offered helpfully. “Yeah, it sure is. I’ve got five of them. Want to see the others?”
Margo was about to retort that she had no interest in his other wounds. Except that she did. What a terrible thing to have happened to him. Suddenly, she really needed to know what he had been through. The first bullet had caught him on the right side of his waist. The second was to his shoulder.
“My aim was a little wobbly after that one,” Finn commented. “A lot of physical therapy on that one.”
The next went through his left hand. The fourth, through his upper right arm. Margo searched vainly for the fifth bullet hole.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, gluteus maximus. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re thinking about my gluteus maximus?”
“I am not thinking about your . . . that is not where you got shot. Is it? Oh, no. Is that where the fifth bullet hole is?”
Finn shrugged tragically. Then his face popped into a grin. “I should probably have left you in suspense. But here you go.”
He bent his head down close to her and brushed his hair back with his hand. There it was, a bullet hole right above his left ear, right through his skull. Margo felt sick.
“That’s actually holes five and six, but they were made by the same bullet,” Finn explained. “No, don’t look like that. That’s all behind me. I’m doing just great now.”
“That’s why you were in the hospital for two months,” Margo said.
“That Zoe . . . biggest mouth in the family. Yeah, two months. And the family nagged me to get a new job. I still don’t know if that was the right move. But I needed a little time to think, so . . . Oyster Cove. Close to the family. But not too close, you know what I’m sayin’? Chance to get some surfing in before I forget how.
“Surfing!”
“That’s right. This cartwheel challenged boy can surf. Hey, Zoe should probably come in.”
Margo looked out at the swimming area. It was cordoned off on three sides with the buoy line and the lifeguard’s station right at the edge. Zoe was bobbing up and down the far corner. Close enough to the line for safety. But, still . . .
“Let’s go get her,” she said enthusiastically, running for the water.
“But you can’t swim!” Finn yelled, close on her heels.
“’Course I could swim. I swam two full laps across the pool once. Just never in the ocean. And not recently. But of course I remember how to do it. Everyone can do it, so why shouldn’t I be able to?”
She plunged into the water, taking in the sensation of being tossed about by the waves in an amused and detached manner. Instinctively, just as she had known her heart could handle the ladder, and could handle a full out sprint around the hospital, she knew her heart could conquer the ocean. Not just the endurance involved, but the fear.
There was no panicking. She made her way confidently toward the corner where Zoe was hanging out and felt a thrill when she knew that she had gone so far, there was no more touching the ground. Wow! She had a heart sturdier than her wildest dreams. She and Finn reached Zoe at about the same time.
“Okay, both of you come in before you give me a heart attack,” Finn demanded.
“Only if you promise—” Margo began.
“I promise. I promise. What am I promising?”
“You’re going to teach me how to surf,” Margo crowed. Among the many new sensations she’d experienced over the last few weeks, that of having a man wrapped around her finger was a truly astonishing development. And for a month where she had acquired a new heart and discovered witchly powers, that was really saying something.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a freestanding surf supply shack just about fifty yards in from the waves. Margo had walked past it hundreds of times, taking little notice of it. What was she ever going to have to do with surfing? And now here she was, in a wetsuit, with a long, heavy surfboard under her arm.
“Already looking like a pro,” Finn said admiringly.
He cut quite the figure himself. Who knew rubber could be so sexy?
“Okay. First thing is to learn how to get on the board.”
Margo thought for a second and then quickly stepped on the board planted on the sand in front of her and looked toward Finn for the next step.
“Oh, a regular prodigy. That move can come very handy if you can walk on water. Can you walk on water?”
Could she? “Not that I know of.”
“How about we try this lying on the board . . . that’s right. Now, you pop up in as close to a single motion as possible and land right in the middle. Stick that landing like a gold medal gymnast.”
Perhaps it was her recent practice with cartwheels. Margo’s unshakable faith that all things were now within grasp had her leaping confidently up and landing firmly.
Finn assured her that the most difficult part of her day was going to be not panicking and recovering after each spill, of which there would be many. Margo had already conquered her fear of deep waves the previous day. All that seemed required was an attitude adjustment. Expect to fall. Enjoy the fall. Play with the fall. The friendly waters would always carry her back to the surface.
Finn was amazed. “Man, you can handle anything. I’ve never seen anyone so relaxed the first time out.”
“Well, it must be because I have such a talented instructor.”
“If you had such a talented instructor, you wouldn’t keep falling off.”
Margo pretended to be affronted.
“No, I mean, you’ve got something you can’t bottle, sell, or buy. No fear—it’s very unusual. Were you born that way?”
“Aren’t we all?”
Finn shook his head. He’d never met anyone like her.
“I’m not going to stop until I make at least one ride all the way in,” Margo declared.
“All right, let’s see it.”
As it so happened, Margo was able to complete three rides into shore without losing her balance. It was like flying! The final ride came with an unforgettable surprise. While she and Finn were waiting for the right wave, a dolphin started circling them.
“Ooh! Hello there. Aren’t you the friendly one? Come here.”
The dolphin swam right up against Margo’s outstretched hand. Finn held his breath as the dolphin poked its head onto Margo’s board. She gently rubbed its head, which it seemed to enjoy. It looked Margo right in the eye as she murmured gently, admiring its beauty and bravery. After a few moments, it slipped back into the water below. Finn knew what Margo was thinking.
“No. That never happens. Never, never, ever, never. You’re thinking, oh yeah, the dolphin stopped by to say hello. Trust me. That never happens.”
“I think dolphins are just more sociable than you realized. Oh, here’s our wave.”
Finn watched Margo take yet another successful ride back to shore. Her balance was fantastic. There was something more about her than natural athleticism. What was up with that dolphin?
Margo wond
ered the same thing herself. Maybe the dolphins had some natural chemistry with witches. More importantly, where was the chemistry with this young cop going to lead?
*****
Though life was increasingly full of distractions, Margo had to maintain her focus on getting to the bottom of Julian Meeks’s murder. She knew that she had to speak to everyone of note who had gone to the restaurant that night. She roped Bette into having a late lunch at Verona, the Italian eatery across from Russell’s tapas restaurant.
Even though it was the end of lunch hour, the place was still pretty crowded. It seemed that the stain on Barcelona had driven customers right back to Verona. Things were so busy that they had to take a buzzer and sit in a waiting area until a table was ready for them. The restaurant was clean and tastefully decorated, but nondescript, with none of the creative effort that Russell had poured into his tapas place.
“Okay, so the plan is, we have lunch and then I get lost?” Bette asked.
“That’s the plan. I need to talk to this owner, Ian Fowler. It’s probably nothing, but just to be sure.”
“Whatever. But let’s get to the important matter. Finn Cochran. Tell me everything.”
“I already did tell you everything. There’s just not a whole lot to tell.”
“It’s like pulling teeth. Okay, how old is he?”
“I didn’t ask. He looked a bit older than me.”
“Who would play him?”
“A young Mark Ruffalo . . . and pretty fit.”
“That’s so unfair! I love Mark Ruffalo a lot more than you do.”
“Mark Ruffalo only exists in the movies. This guy is . . . very real. For some reason, we seem to get along.”
“You’re killing me. And you said government law enforcement. What agency?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You’re useless.”
“He’s a very sweet uncle. He knows how to surf. And he likes horror movies.”
“He sounds like a prince. Can’t wait to meet him.”
Their buzzer finally rang. They both ordered the shrimp ravioli special, which smelled heavenly and tasted pretty great. They also had a really tasty side of fried calamari, which Margo didn’t mind sharing with Newhart, who waited impatiently below the table in his carrier. The meal was a bit pricey, but it was definitely targeting the tourist crowd. Margo asked the waitress if she could have word with the owner, assuring her that the service had been terrific, and Bette made a quick exit.
Ian Fowler came straight to her table, looking concerned.
“Everything okay, ma’am?”
“Everything was terrific. That shrimp ravioli was spectacular. I’m going to have to tell all my friends about it.”
“That’s nice to hear. That’s really nice to hear. So, how can I help you?”
“I’m Margo Bailey. I own Margo’s Movie House.”
“All right. Yeah, yeah. I hear it’s a great place. ’Course, running the restaurant in the evenings, I can never get to the movies.”
“Well, I just had an idea to run past you. I belong to an association of small businesses and we meet monthly. It’s the whole Cape Cod area. And they’re a great bunch of people. But as business owners in Oyster Cove, we don’t have exactly the same issues and concerns as Martha’s Vineyard. Am I right?”
“Yeah, I see what you’re sayin’.”
“So I’m putting together a local business association, and I wanted to talk to local owners and just figure out what our big issues are, how we might be able to help one another, what legislation we should be pressing for, and, you know, what’s going to make Oyster Cove a better place to conduct business. Do you have any time right now? Just twenty minutes in your office would be great.”
“Sure, that sounds good. Yeah, there’s a bunch of things I can think of to improve things for people like us.”
Ian’s office was a modest size, filled with do-it-yourself IKEA-style furniture and one tall metal file cabinet. It looked as if he’d just been working on his desktop computer.
“Your business is doing so well. I was worried that the poisoning at Russell Knox’s restaurant might’ve scared the tourists away. You know how irrational people can be.”
Ian shook his head sadly. “Shame. Terrible shame. I’m still kind of in shock over it. And it does shake the customers’ faith in the people who serve them. I gotta admit I felt a little bit betrayed. I was like his mentor. Showed him the ropes, gave him advice on where to get the good equipment, taught him about the regulations, how to fill out the permits . . .”
“Well, you got him off to a great start. Barcelona was going like gangbusters for a while there.”
“Yeah, who’d have thunk? I honestly didn’t figure there’d be that much of a demand for little hors d’oeuvres. Guess it was a novelty thing. Yeah, he was pulling quite a crowd. Of course, the guy has to close up now. Terrible.”
“That just reminded me. That place will need a new renter. You know who it would be perfect for? This guy in Provincetown who’s got this crazy popular barbecue joint, and he was looking for a second location. We don’t have anything like that in Oyster Cove yet. And you know how the summer crowd loves barbecue. He would clean up.”
“Now hold on. That’s not a very good idea. In fact, that’s a terrible idea. You can’t be putting these restaurants too close together. They need to be spread out, for everyone’s sake. I mean, you wouldn’t want to have three fish and chips places on the same block, right?”
“No, not the same type of food. You’re right about that. But different kinds of food . . .”
“Better for businesses to have, you know, a complementary symbiotic relationship, you know what I’m saying? Like a hotel. The people stay there and then cross the street to my place for dinner. Or like a dance club. The people dance for hours, work up an appetite, and then come over to my place for a little snack. Businesses that help each other out. You know what I’m saying?”
Mighty convenient for you that Russell is out of business. The question is did you have anything to do with it? “I’m sorry to bother you, but could you bring me a little bowl of water for my cat? I think he’s getting a little dehydrated.”
“Sure, sure. No problem. Back in a sec.”
As soon as he had closed the door to the office, Margo clasped her pendant and pointed at the door lock. “Refractere,” she said decisively. Then she tested the door—it wouldn’t open. It was jammed—it worked! Then she turned her attention to the desktop computer. She’d have to wrestle with her ethics later. Right now, she needed to search that browser history and find out whether there were any searches for arsenic or food poisoning. Or any mention of Russell Knox.
Indeed, there were a few searches on arsenic. But they all seemed to occur after Russell’s arrest date. Just another member of the public interested in a scintillating news story. Also a search on Russell’s business. Real estate searches. And what was this? Food poisoning searches. A whole bunch of them. Dating back a few weeks, and certainly predating the murder. Why? Was it about an issue that came up at his own restaurant?
What had she been thinking? Even if Ian were behind this, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave evidence lying about. But not being able to prove something is not the same thing as disproving it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Ian Fowler was up to no good. She certainly couldn’t be dissuaded by the delectable ravioli.
The door handle rattled.
“Hey! What’s going on?”
“What you mean?” Margo asked innocently.
“Door’s locked. Did you do that?”
Margo walked over to the door and tried to open it. It was still jammed.
“The lock’s not working. Don’t you have a key?”
“I sure do.”
She heard the key slip into the lock and his angry, frustrated groans is it failed to open the door.
“What the heck? What did you do?”
“I haven’t touched it except to try to open it just now
when you asked me to. It sounds very defective.” Margo flinched. Lying did not come easily to her.
“For heaven sake. Gonna have to take off the hinges. I can’t believe this. You hold tight—back in a minute.”
Margo proceeded to rifle through the metal file cabinet. It looked identical to pretty much all other small business folders that you expect to find. Health permits, state regs, employee files, liquor license folder . . . which reminded her she’d have to check on her petition at the liquor board again soon. The customers loved the BYOB option in her two small parlor-like viewing rooms. But it would be much nicer if she could stock bottles of wine for sale. She had been waiting patiently for a response from her petition. But Russell’s paperwork had gotten messed up. Maybe hers had been as well.
But a quick check in the liquor license folder revealed two envelopes that definitely looked as if they didn’t belong in Ian Fowler’s file cabinet—as they were addressed to Russell Knox! A quick look inside revealed letters from the liquor bureau that said that his application had been incorrectly filled out and that he would have to revise it and resubmit.
But Russell had never seen these documents. He had waited and waited, and finally contacted the Bureau, and assumed that they had messed up their jobs. And then he did resubmit, and waited and waited some more. And while he was waiting, he was unable to open his restaurant, and eventually, was unable to pay Julian Meeks back on the loan. Ian Fowler had created all that trouble for Russell. Whether he was involved in framing him for murder, she couldn’t say. But this was bad enough. This was infuriating. She tucked the letters inside her purse.
Through the door, she could hear Ian muttering and grumbling.
“This is crazy. Sure you didn’t touch the lock? ”
“Never laid a hand on it.”
Margo wondered how long it would take for the lock to unbreak. As luck would have it, it was still inexplicably broken ten minutes later when Ian was able to unscrew the hinges off. He opened it and suspiciously examined the derelict doorknob. Margo scooped up Newhart’s carrier.
