Overboard on the Ocean

by Ellen Jacobson

  Walking behind the open shelving unit that divided the periodical section from the lobby, I spied Hudson perched on the edge of an armchair with both cats vying for his attention. I watched for a few moments as he took turns petting them. Mrs. Moto certainly was more demanding, but Dr. McCoy held his own, getting his fair share of scratches under his chin.

  “How are they doing?” I asked.

  “The cats or your friends?”

  “They’re not really my friends,” I said. “Scooter did some work with Fletcher back when we lived in Cleveland, and I would just see Sylvia occasionally at dinners and cocktail parties.”

  Hudson cocked his head toward the lobby. “They seem to have forgotten that this is a library.”

  “They are pretty loud. I wonder what they’re arguing about?”

  “Whatever it is, they should do it in private.” He looked down at the cats sprawled on his lap. “I really should go over and tell them to keep it down.”

  I walked over to the shelving unit and peered through a gap. Sylvia had placed her package on the new release display table and unwrapped it. Fletcher was pointing at it, a sour expression on his face.

  “That is the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “It’s not ugly.” Sylvia placed her hands on her hips. “I think it’s charming. The colors are so bright and cheerful. It will go great with our living room furniture.”

  Fletcher bent down to inspect it. “Are those unicorns?”

  “Actually, the artist told me they’re quadricorns. See how they have four horns? And those are pixies braiding their manes.”

  I smiled at Sylvia’s description, realizing that it must be one of Anabel’s paintings. My smile quickly faded when Fletcher clenched his fists, took a step toward Sylvia, and glared at her.

  “Quadricorns? Pixies? How could you waste money on something so ridiculous?”

  To her credit, Sylvia didn’t back down. “Me waste money? Are you kidding? You’re the one who drops thousands and thousands of dollars at poker games every weekend. Thank goodness for my inheritance. If it wasn’t for that, we’d be flat broke.”

  “You’re exaggerating as usual,” Fletcher said. “I work hard all week. So what if I play poker with the guys to relax?”

  “Well, I work hard too.”

  Fletcher scoffed. “You mean with that silly little business of yours? I’d hardly call that work.”

  Sylvia jabbed Fletcher in the chest. “All I did was buy one little painting. Living with you, I need something to cheer me up.”

  A commotion prevented me from hearing Fletcher’s response. I turned and saw Mrs. Moto yowling as Hudson tried to extricate her from his lap. He finally managed to stand, placing her back on the chair next to Dr. McCoy.

  “I need to put a stop to this,” Hudson said as he walked toward me.

  I grabbed his arm. “Hang on a sec. They’ve lowered they’re voices. I can’t hear what they’re saying, which means they’re not causing a disturbance anymore, right?”

  “Are you eavesdropping?” Hudson whispered.

  I put my fingers to my lips, then leaned around the corner of the shelving unit.

  Fletcher had picked up the painting and was studying it dispassionately. “It’s hideous.”

  “I like it, and I’m keeping it.” Sylvia folded her arms. “I can enjoy it long after you’re gone.”

  “Gone? I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. The doctor gave me a clean bill of health.”

  Sylvia chewed her gum while she gave her husband an appraising look. “Really? Even your liver?”

  Fletcher ignored her question, then hurled the painting on the ground. He forcefully pulled the door to the library open before he stormed out.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Sylvia yelled before rushing after him.

  Hudson looked at me. “Maybe it would be better if they didn’t move to Coconut Cove.”

  * * *

  Hudson picked the painting up and inspected it.

  “Any damage?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Looks like Anabel’s work. I have one of her paintings hanging in my bedroom. When I wake up in the morning, it always makes me smile.”

  “I wonder if they’re going to come back for it?”

  Hudson rolled his eyes. “I hope not. They’ve already made enough of a commotion in here for one day. Do you think you could return it to them?”

  “Hmm, I’m not really sure where they’re staying. But I suppose—” I chewed my lip. Scooter would know how to track them down, but I wasn’t ready to talk with him yet.

  Hudson thrust the painting into my hands. “Thanks, I appreciate it. You can leave Mrs. Moto here if you want while you drop this off.”

  Realizing that there wasn’t an easy way to get out of this task, I hauled the painting to my car. After stowing it in the back seat, I considered the accommodations in town. Fletcher had always flaunted his wealth, so my guess was that they had a suite at the Golden Astrolabe Hotel. As I pointed the car in that direction, I hesitated. Sylvia had given Fletcher a hard time for gambling his money away. Sure, she had mentioned her inheritance, but were we talking millions or thousands? Could they afford to stay at a luxury boutique hotel? Perhaps they were staying at the Honeysuckle Cottages, a reasonably priced bed-and-breakfast that was popular with tourists?

  When I got to the intersection at Main Street, my intuition told me to turn left toward the Honeysuckle Cottages. I was trying to pay more attention to my intuition lately. It seemed to know when there was a sale at my favorite bookstore, when Mrs. Moto was about to hack up a hairball on my pillow, and even when a killer might be after me. It didn’t fail me this time. I spotted a flashy car with Ohio license plates as I pulled through the gate to the bed-and-breakfast.

  “Thanks, intuition. You were right again. They’re here.” I grabbed my purse, but before I could open the car door, I felt a tingling sensation in my left hand. I knew it was a message from my intuition again, but it wasn’t a very specific one. As I stared at my hand, my wedding band glimmered in the sunlight.

  “Darn it, intuition. Are you saying that I should read Scooter’s text?”

  The tingling stopped immediately. Sighing, I pulled my phone out of my purse. Scooter hadn’t just sent one text; he had sent several.

  The first one was pretty straightforward, asking me to call him so we could talk. The next couple were variations on that theme, but the fourth one was different. Based on the number of meows in the message and the cat emojis, it almost appeared to have been sent by Mrs. Moto.

  Meow, meow, meow. Call Scooter meow.

  I have to confess; it did make me smile. Only I was pretty sure that Mrs. Moto hadn’t sent it. While she was a whiz at typing on my computer, pressing her paws on the keyboard and coming up with highly creative sentences like, “Pfzg urrrr oooosff,” she hadn’t mastered texting yet. Scooter was trying his best to tug at my heartstrings by pretending to be our cat.

  I replied with a GIF of a scary-looking Chihuahua

  He responded right away with a GIF of his own—a kitten wiping away tears from its enormous eyes. The words written underneath said, “I’m sorry.”

  My heart melted a little bit. Kittens will do that to you.

  “Stupid kittens,” I muttered as I called Scooter.

  He answered the phone right away. Scooter apologized for his reaction and storming off the boat. When I asked him about why he had behaved so uncharacteristically, he was at a loss.

  “I don’t know why I did that, Mollie. Maybe it’s the stress of getting ready to go to the Bahamas. Maybe it’s because I worry about our finances … maybe it’s because …” his voice trailed off.

  “Why don’t we talk more about it tonight?” I suggested.

  He agreed, then added that he understood my concerns about Fletcher. “I promise we won’t invest anything unless both of us agree that it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Then why did you tell Fletcher this
morning that you were in?” I asked.

  “I never said that.”

  “Well, he’s got a different story.”

  “When did you talk to—”

  I spotted Fletcher coming out of his cottage. “I have to go,” I said, abruptly ending the conversation.

  Fletcher looked surprised to see me step out of my car. I gave him a wave, then retrieved the painting from the back seat. His eyes narrowed as I walked up the pathway.

  “You left this at the library,” I said.

  “Consider it a donation.”

  I set the painting on the porch swing. “I don’t think Sylvia would like that.”

  “She bought this on a whim. When she comes to her senses, she’ll realize how ridiculous this is. I mean, look at it. Unicorns and pixies, are you kidding? This isn’t art.”

  “I think there are many people who would beg to differ. Anabel got a commission from a very famous movie actor just last week.”

  “Anabel?”

  “Anabel Dalton. The woman who painted this. She’s a local artist.”

  “Hmm . . . a commission from a movie star, huh?” I nodded. “So, this could really be worth something. Maybe we will keep it after all.”

  The door to the cottage opened and Sylvia peeked her head out. “Fletcher, your phone is ringing.”

  “Why don’t you answer it?”

  “I tried, but all I ended up doing was making it ring louder.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, hand it to me,” he demanded. Then he muttered, “That incompetent woman doesn’t have a clue how to work a toaster, let alone a cell phone.”

  After a moment, she came back out with his phone. “Looks like Scooter tried to call you. Oh, hey, Mollie, I didn’t see you standing there.”

  “I just came to return your painting,” I said.

  While she took it into the cottage, I listened to Fletcher’s side of the conversation with my husband.

  “No, no, there’s been a misunderstanding. I never told her that . . .” Fletcher rocked back and forth on his heels while he listened to what Scooter was saying. “Uh-huh . . . I see . . . well, are you sure I can’t change your mind? Herbert will be really disappointed. Maybe you want to talk with Mollie first before you decide? Let me pass you to her.”

  As Fletcher thrust his phone into my hand, I said, “Did I just hear you mention Herbert? Herbert Miller?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “Are you still partners with him?”

  “Sure. We started the business together.”

  “And he’s going on the cruise?”

  “Of course—” Fletcher scowled, then stuck his head through the cottage door. “Stop yelling, Sylvia. I’ll be right there.”

  I waved Fletcher away, then pressed the phone to my ear.

  “What are you doing at the Honeysuckle Cottages, my little gnocchi?” Scooter asked.

  “I came to return something. It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.”

  “Sounds like we have a lot to talk about tonight,” Scooter said. “Maybe I should get a bottle of wine to go with dinner. I finished making the gnocchi and I have some sauce simmering on the stove.”

  “I forgot about the gnocchi,” I said. “I hope you threw out that dough and started from scratch. It either has too much salt in it, or not enough.”

  “Sure did,” he said brightly. I laughed, knowing from the tone in his voice that he hadn’t thrown the dough out and started over. “Listen, before you go, you should know that I told Fletcher that we wouldn’t be going on the cruise to the Bahamas.”

  “Actually, you know I’ve been mulling it over and I think we should go. I’ll reschedule looking at wedding venues with Anabel.”

  “You think we should go?” Scooter sounded stunned.

  “Yes, I for one would be very interested in hearing more about Fletcher’s investment opportunity.”

  “Really,” Scooter said dryly. “Why do I have a feeling that you’re up to something?”

  “Me? Never,” I said, crossing my fingers. A little white lie never hurt anyone, did it? And, besides, hadn’t Scooter just fibbed to me about the gnocchi dough?

  3

  Telecommunications Geeks

  A couple of days later, Scooter and I were standing in line, waiting to check in for the cruise. I grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. He glanced at me, and I smiled. “I’m so glad we kissed and made-up. I hate the fact that we fought.”

  “That’s ancient history,” Scooter said, squeezing my hand back. As the group in front of us shuffled forward, he added, “I still can’t believe the only reason you agreed to come is because of Herbert Miller.”

  I shrugged. “Well, Fletcher did say that Herbert would be disappointed not to see you. I didn’t want to let him down.”

  Scooter chuckled. “We both know that’s not why you agreed. You can’t rest until you know why Herbert and Fletcher are still business partners.”

  “Aren’t you curious too? Fletcher embezzled money from their business—”

  “Allegedly.”

  “Fine. Fletcher allegedly embezzled money, and Herbert is still working with him. Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Look, for the record, I don’t think Fletcher is an embezzler. Herbert and Fletcher’s partnership works well. They’ve made a lot of money together over the years. What I don’t get is why you’re so interested. Usually, someone has to be murdered . . .”

  Scooter paused to do that weird ritual of his—exhaling three times, pressing his fingers on the bridge of his nose, tugging his earlobes while muttering something, then exhaling again. After he was finished, he just carried on talking about dead bodies like it was no big deal.

  “When someone gets killed in Coconut Cove, you dive straight into investigating who did it. But no one has died. Why are you getting involved?”

  “Just listening to my intuition,” I said. “And, as it turns out, Anabel and the chief are thinking about having their wedding on a cruise ship. I told them I’d check this one out as an option.”

  “Getting married aboard a boat,” Scooter mused. “That’s not a bad idea. Although wouldn’t they rather do it on a sailboat than on a big ship like this?”

  “I’ll suggest it to her.”

  “You should, my little jellybean.”

  “Jellybean. Hmm . . . I guess that’s better than calling me your little gnocchi. Wait, is that because I was eating jellybeans in the car?”

  Scooter frowned. “I know, it’s not very original. I’m off my game.”

  “Maybe it’s time to retire the pet names,” I suggested.

  “What? Never.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Besides, I thought you liked them.”

  I smiled. “I do, just don’t tell my husband.”

  “Your husband? Does he know you’re going on a cruise with your handsome boyfriend?” Scooter quipped.

  “No, he has no idea.” Scooter ran his finger down my cheek. “He’s a lucky guy, that’s for sure.”

  “And I’m a lucky girl.”

  Scooter looked intently into my eyes. “You know, with all this wedding talk, I was thinking maybe we should—”

  “Next, please.” The agent at the check-in desk waved us forward.

  As the agent scanned our passports and boarding passes, I heard a loud voice bellowing.

  “There you are.” Fletcher clapped Scooter on the back. “Boy, do you drive fast. We couldn’t keep up.”

  “Mollie was driving, not me.”

  “Well, I do like fast women,” Fletcher said, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing it.

  As I squirmed out of his grasp, Sylvia walked toward us, dragging a suitcase behind her. It was one of those roller bags, but one of the wheels was broken. It was apparent that Sylvia was struggling to carry it.

  “Fletcher, where did you go? I could have used some help,” she said.

  “Just checking us in, sweetheart.”

  “But we can’t check i
n without Anthony and Madison.”

  Fletcher let out an exasperated sigh. “Where are they?”

  “Madison needed to stop at the ladies’ room.”

  “How many times does that girl need to touch up her lipstick?”

  Sylvia glared at Fletcher, then looked at Scooter and me. “Madison is Anthony’s girlfriend. Anthony met her when she was competing in a beauty pageant sponsored by the company. I think Herbert was one of the judges that year. Anyway, now she works for the business as a secretary. I don’t think you’ve met her before, but I’m sure you remember my nephew, Anthony, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” Scooter said. “We met him at your Christmas open house. I think he had just gotten his MBA.”

  “That’s right. He’s such a smart boy.” She beamed at a man in his early thirties who was walking toward us. He was accompanied by a stunning woman. She was tall and slender, with one of those figures that would make even a potato sack dress look glamorous on the catwalk. “There they are now.”

  Fletcher drummed his fingers on the check-in desk while he waited for the couple to join us.

  The agent looked at Fletcher, then asked Scooter, “Excuse me, sir. Is this gentleman with you?”

  “Of course, I am. You see me standing here, don’t you?” Fletcher said curtly.

  The couple standing behind us started murmuring, then the man tapped Fletcher on his shoulder. “Hey, buddy, wait your turn.”

  “It is my turn.”

  “No, it isn’t. You cut in line.”

  Fletcher squared his shoulders. “Mind your own business, fellow.”

  Actually, he didn’t say “fellow.” He used another word, but it’s not one that I want to repeat here.

  The other man lunged at Fletcher, but Anthony intervened. He nudged Fletcher toward the check-in desk, then tried to pass Fletcher’s bad behavior off as a medical condition. “Sorry about what he said. It’s his medication. Makes him say things he doesn’t mean to.”

  The man’s wife whispered something to her husband, likely trying to avoid the conflict from escalating any further. He relented, allowing Fletcher to check in.