Holy buckets! What would you do if you had read something like that? Wanda seemed like such an ordinary woman—she lived on a sailboat, made money doing food demonstrations at the grocery store, wore legwarmers, and led a quiet life—but I guess she wasn’t ordinary after all. Unless scribbling homicidal journal entries was normal. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.
One of my favorite quotes from The Empire Strikes Back popped into my head: “Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.” I had always liked how Yoda uttered that phrase with that cute speech pattern and accent of his, but now it had taken on a new meaning. Wanda’s grief over her sister’s death had caused her to take a very, very dark path toward murder. And not just one murder, but two murders. Penelope’s life was in danger.
“Come on, Mrs. Moto,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
I grabbed the journal and stuck it in my bag along with the corgi mystery and the pet costume. Mrs. Moto must have sensed the urgency of our mission, because she sat quietly while I put her harness and leash on.
We dashed out the door while I dialed the chief. “What do you mean he isn’t at the police station?” I demanded of the woman who answered the phone. “He’s at the festival? Doesn’t he know there’s a murderer on the loose?”
I hung up and quickly texted Penelope, warning her to avoid Wanda. Then I sped toward the waterfront park. After asking around, I heard that the chief was where I least expected him to be—at his ex-wife’s art booth.
Anabel was busy with some potential customers, helping them to decide which painting would look better displayed over their mantel. My vote would have been for the one of fairies dancing around a toadstool, but they seemed partial to one of an elf family picnicking on a beach. The chief was sitting on a stool underneath a nearby tree feeding Frick and Frack treats.
“There you are!” I said after I caught my breath. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere!”
The burly man stood, then pointed at the doggie bed in the corner of Anabel’s stand. “Lie down.” After the Yorkies were convinced to settle down, he turned to me and raised both of his eyebrows. “Looks like you’ve found me.”
I reached into my bag and thrust the evidence into his hands. “Read this.”
“I’m not sure this is my cup of tea,” the chief said. “Now, if it was about Yorkies instead of a corgi, then maybe.”
“Oops. Sorry, wrong one,” I said, exchanging the cozy mystery for the journal.
“It’s nicely bound,” he said, turning it over in his hands. “I like the decorative pattern on the leather.”
“I’m not showing you this because of how it looks. It’s proof that Wanda is the murderer.” I grabbed the journal out of his hands, flipped the pages to the relevant entries, and passed it back to him. “Start here.”
The chief’s eyebrows were eerily still while he was reading. “Where did you find this?” he asked when he was finished.
“I didn’t find it. Mrs. Moto did.”
“Of course she did.”
“Really, she did. It was sitting on the table in the marina lounge. I didn’t pay any attention to it until Mrs. Moto pointed out its significance.”
“I see. Will you excuse me for a moment?” The chief walked toward the waterfront while he talked to someone on his phone. I desperately wanted to follow him and listen in, but Anabel had finished up with her customers and wanted to know what was going on.
“I’ve just given your ex-husband an important clue that’s going to crack open the murder investigation and save someone’s life. He’s probably on his way to arrest the culprit now.”
She put her hands over her mouth and gasped. “I hope Tiny takes backup. I always get so worried.” Frick and Frack, no doubt sensing their mom’s distress, rushed over and began barking. She bent down and gave them a cuddle. “It’s okay. Your daddy is going to be okay.”
Mrs. Moto decided to get in on the cuddling. She barged in between the two dogs and butted Anabel’s hand, catching her by surprise. I held my breath, waiting to see how she would react. “Okay, but just this once,” Anabel said as she tentatively scratched the top of Mrs. Moto’s head.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “You seem a little shaky.”
“Can you grab me a rutabaga juice? Feel free to get one for yourself too.”
“I think I’ll pass,” I said. “Why don’t you go sit on that stool and I’ll bring it over.”
While I dug through the assortment of bottles in the cooler—who knew there were so many varieties of rutabaga juice available—Frick and Frack crawled into their doggie bed. Mrs. Moto followed, her leash dragging behind her. The three of them looked pretty adorable snuggled up together.
“I used to find her in my condo like that,” Anabel said. “When she wasn’t napping with Frick and Frack, I’d find her eating their dog food.”
I sat on the ground next to Anabel and ran my fingers through the cool grass, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the letter she had sent us. After a few moments, I went for the direct approach. “Listen, I’m really sorry she kept getting into your place, but why didn’t you just talk to us about it and let us know it was a problem?”
“I don’t know.” She fiddled with the lid on her juice bottle while she stared at the people wandering through the booths, hunting for that perfect souvenir from the Coconut Cove Boating Festival. “I guess, if I’m honest, it’s because it gave me an excuse to talk with Tiny. He came over one afternoon and listened to me complain about the cat hair. It was nice having a conversation with him about something other than joint custody of our dogs. I went to the station the next day to talk with him about it some more, and he told me he didn’t have time. Then I think things just escalated from there. I guess I took out my anger at Tiny on you guys.”
“I get it,” I said. “Scooter tells me that sometimes I let things get out of hand.”
“Do you think we could just forget about everything that’s happened and move on?”
“Sure,” I said. “Water under the bridge.” Mrs. Moto looked at us and meowed softly. “I think she forgives you too. Either that or she wants one of those dog treats.”
I had another sleepless night. If Chief Dalton thought I had an overactive imagination during my waking hours, he’d be amazed at what my mind came up with while I was sleeping. My nightmares were getting stranger and stranger. The latest one featured giant rutabagas wearing Trixie Tremblay T-shirts and polka-dotted legwarmers and chasing after me on stilts. I wasn’t sure what I found more disturbing—the fact that the rutabagas had somehow grown legs and could move around unaided or the fact that I thought their legwarmers were cute.
While Scooter made our morning smoothies, I checked my phone. Despite having sent Penelope several texts warning her about Wanda the previous day, she hadn’t replied. My stomach churned. I really hoped that meant that Wanda hadn’t gotten to her first. I dialed the police station and asked to be connected to the chief. After the receptionist asked who was calling, she told me that the chief had left a message for me: “No comment.”
I choked down my smoothie while drawing some unflattering pictures of the chief’s eyebrows in my notebook. It was a therapeutic way to deal with my annoyance. They actually looked very realistic. Maybe I was more artistic than I realized. I’d have to show my drawings to Anabel and ask her what she thought. Art classes might be in my future.
I finally dragged myself out of bed and headed to the waterfront park. I was scheduled to man the FAROUT booth that morning. If I hadn’t been running late, I would have stopped by the Sugar Shack to check on Penelope beforehand. Fortunately, I didn’t have plans for the afternoon, which would give me time to visit her, as well as finish Mrs. Moto’s costume.
Anabel was setting up her artwork when I got there. I helped her hang a large painting of a leprechaun riding on the back of the Loch Ness monster while it swam through the water. I have to confess that I was a little confused by it at first—leprechauns were indigenous to Ireland and the Loch Ness monster lived in Scotland—but then she explained that the Loch Ness monster had actually spread worldwide. There was even one living in Lake Okeechobee in the middle of Florida. It was quite reclusive, so most people weren’t aware that it was there.
Then she confided to me that if she sold that painting, it would cover her mortgage payments for several months. After hearing that, I definitely decided to look into art classes. Perhaps I could make a small fortune selling watercolor paintings of the chief’s eyebrows.
When I asked Anabel if she had heard from her ex-husband, she got a little teary-eyed, so I dropped the subject. I tried to reassure myself that he had everything under control. Surely, Wanda was locked up in a cell. Penelope’s cell phone battery had died, and she was safe and sound at the Sugar Shack whipping up a batch of muffins. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I was organizing T-shirts when I heard a cheery voice call out, “Get your free Rutamentals sample here!” My jaw dropped when I saw Wanda standing only a few feet away holding a large tray and trying to convince people about the health benefits of carob-covered rutabagas. My hands started shaking, and the T-shirts tumbled to the ground. As I bent down to pick them up, I bumped my head against the table. When I looked up, I found myself staring into a pair of homicidal green eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I spluttered. I reached into my bag and tried to pull out something to protect myself with. The best I could come up with was my trusty roll of breath mints. If only I had stuck with those karate classes. Fresh breath wasn’t really going to be an effective self-defense strategy. Bad breath maybe, but not fresh, minty breath.
“One of the other gals is watching the Rutamentals booth, so I decided to stroll through the park and hand out samples.” She waved a gooey brown lump in front of my face. “One taste of these and people will be flocking to our booth to sign up for the program. Go on, try it. You’ll be surprised how much carob tastes like chocolate.”
I took a step backward. “Surprised? I’ll tell you what I’m surprised about, that you’re walking around free.”
Wanda set the tray on the table and wagged her finger at me. “You know, I should be mad at you. That was very naughty what you did—giving the chief my journal. It was private.”
I glanced over at Anabel and frantically tried to make eye contact. Fortunately for her, she was busy making a sale. Unfortunately for me, she didn’t notice I was alone with a homicidal maniac.
“Cat got your tongue?” Wanda asked. “Speaking of, where is that cat of yours? Chief Dalton said she found my journal.”
For once I was glad Mrs. Moto had decided to stay on the boat with Scooter rather than keep me company. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”
Wanda pursed her lips. “Why would I hurt her? Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” She smiled. “Kind of like how you overreacted when you read my journal. Like I told the chief, it didn’t mean anything. It’s just an exercise my therapist has me do. By writing about things that anger or frustrate us on a daily basis, we can process our feelings and let go of our negative emotions.”
“The things you wrote about were pretty out there. These weren’t everyday frustrations you were talking about,” I said. “You wrote about murder, for goodness’ sake.”
“You’re right, Mollie. I wrote about some serious things.” She sighed. “I’ve experienced some very painful things in my past. I’m still angry to this day about what happened to my sister. But you have to believe me. I would never actually hurt anyone.”
“What exactly happened to your sister?”
Her eyes welled up with tears. “My therapist says I should confide in other people. I’ve never told anyone other than him what happened, but since you’ve read my journal, I might as well tell you.” She pointed at the chairs set up behind the table. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. There were enough people milling around that I didn’t think she’d try anything. Still, to be on the safe side, I didn’t plan on eating anything that she had prepared. Not even poison could enhance the taste of rutabaga.
Wanda ran her fingers through her long dark hair and took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. My brother-in-law killed my sister.”
“That’s awful! He murdered her?”
“She committed suicide, but he drove her to it. Although it wasn’t murder in the technical sense, she wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for him. He betrayed her in the worst possible way.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “She was only twenty-five. She left behind a…” I handed her a tissue. After blowing her nose, she continued. “She left behind a beautiful four-year-old girl. I couldn’t bear it. My sister and I had been so close. We did everything together. We were best friends.”
Wanda started sobbing uncontrollably. I shifted uneasily in my chair. People were staring at us. Anabel mouthed, “Are you okay?”
I nodded, then gently patted the distraught woman on her back. “There, there,” I said, which was such a stupid thing to say. What do people mean when they say that while consoling someone? It’s not like you’re pointing at something when you say it—There, there, look at that there. Over there. There, there. Get a grip, Mollie, I told myself. You’re starting to channel Dr. Seuss.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. Another pretty banal thing to say, but it got Dr. Seuss out of my head.
“Do you have any rutabaga juice?” she asked.
“You’re sure you don’t want something with some sugar and caffeine instead? That’s what I turn to when I’m stressed.”
Wanda glanced down at her Trixie Tremblay T-shirt. “No, I’ll stick with the juice. Live Healthy, Live Long, Live Strong.”
“Okay, coming right up.” I scooted over to Anabel’s booth. “Can I snag a juice from you?”
“Sure.” She scratched her head. “Didn’t you tell me that she’s a murderer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Um, far be it from me to judge, but do you think it’s a good idea to be having a drink with her?”
I held up my hands. “Honestly, I don’t know what to think right now. When I read her journal yesterday, I was convinced she was a killer. But now, I’m not so sure. She said her therapist told her to write that stuff down. You wouldn’t believe the horrifying story she told me about her sister. I think she might just be a messed-up lady.”
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Besides, if she was a killer, Tiny would have locked her up.”
A sense of relief washed over me. “That’s true. She isn’t in custody, so her story must have checked out.” I squeezed Anabel’s hand. “Thanks for that and for the juice.”
After I handed Wanda the bottle, I apologized for reading her journal and giving it to the police.
“That’s okay. I probably would have done the same thing in your shoes,” she said. While she sipped her juice, I noticed a slight grimace on her face. Was it possible that the Trixie Tremblay spokesperson didn’t like the taste of the products she was selling? “You sure you don’t want some?” Wanda asked.
“Oh, I’m sure. I think I’ll stick to water.” I tapped my finger on my lips. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but who were you talking about in your journal? Were the women you wrote about Emily and Penelope?”
Wanda’s eyes grew wide, and she started coughing. She set her bottle on the table. “Sorry, it must have gone down the wrong way. Why would I have written about Emily and Penelope? I didn’t really know either of them.”
“But you wrote about the wrong girl dying. I assumed that referred to Emily. Then you talked about another girl who didn’t deserve to live. Wasn’t that a reference to Penelope?”
“Goodness, no. It doesn’t have anything to do with present-day. I was writing about what happened in the past. The wrong girl was my sister. She didn’t deserve to die.”
“Then who was the other girl?”
Wanda bit her lip. “My brother-in-law had an affair. It referred to his mistress. It’s what drove my sister to…”
I squeezed her hands. “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to dig up painful memories.”
She pulled her hands back and folded them in her lap. “The chief did say that you fancy yourself an amateur investigator. If you’re really interested in who’s after Penelope, then you might want to talk to Alan.”
“Alan?” I asked in disbelief. “Why would he want to kill her?”
“He was in love with Penelope, but she refused to go out with him. He got really angry.”
“Angry enough to kill?”
“Emily’s death is proof of that,” she said.
I thought about this for a minute. If you had asked me a few weeks ago if mild-mannered, meek-as-a-mouse Alan could fly into a jealous rage and murder someone, I would have laughed. But I remembered the confrontation he’d had with Jeff before the sailing race. There had been a look in Alan’s eyes that had frightened me. Maybe he was capable of violence.
Wanda patted my hand. “The chief and I had a long talk about it. You don’t need to worry. He has everything under control. They’re conducting some lab tests. Once he gets the results back, he’ll arrest Alan, and Coconut Cove can go back to being the pleasant, sleepy tourist town that it is.”
“Are you ready to go, my little Milk Dud?” Scooter asked.
“Well, that depends on where we’re going,” I said. “Is there going to be lunch involved?”
“I think that could be arranged.”
“Then I’ll be ready in five minutes.” After I explained to the volunteer who had arrived at the FAROUT booth for the afternoon shift which T-shirts were on sale, I grabbed my bag and put my arm through Scooter’s. “Where do you want to eat at?”
“I would say the Rutamentals booth, but after you told me about Wanda’s journal, I’m hesitant to go there.”
I was torn. Scooter was on the cusp of being persuaded to have hot dogs instead of rutabagas. If I let him continue to believe that Wanda had a deft touch with using poison as a seasoning, that would be unfair to her. But the price of telling him about her therapy and her tragic past was that he’d probably opt for the “healthy” choice.
My big mistake was glancing up at him. One look at those dark-brown puppy-dog eyes of his and I sang like a canary. I waited nervously while he thought about what I had said. For the record, it turned out that telling the truth worked in my favor this time.
“Hmm. I suppose that means we could eat something that has Trixie Tremblay’s blessing on it,” Scooter said. “But maybe we deserve a treat. We’ve been doing really well on our diet. I’m sure having one hot dog wouldn’t do any harm.”
Falling off the wagon never tasted so good, I thought to myself as I piled extra sauerkraut on my dog. Scooter moaned with pleasure as he took a bite of his. After handing him an extra napkin, I went in for the kill. “Wanna get some ice cream after this?”
Scooter took a swallow of his soda. “I’m not sure we should.”
“We don’t have to get sundaes,” I said. “They sell small cones. Surely, one little scoop of ice cream would be okay. Even Trixie Tremblay must have a treat from time to time.”
“I guess…”
“Good. I’m glad we’re in agreement.” I wiped some mustard off Scooter’s cheek. “You won’t regret this.”
After we got our dessert—double chocolate chip for me and raspberry swirl for Scooter—we walked toward the waterfront and sat at one of the picnic tables next to the public docks. Fishing and charter boats tied up there to offload their catch and pick up passengers. One of Norm’s boats, the newly christened ET, was coming into port. A bunch of college-aged kids on spring break disembarked. A good-natured argument broke out about who had caught the biggest fish.
“It seems like Norm’s charter business is benefiting from visitors to the festival,” I said.
Scooter licked the ice cream that was dripping down the side of his cone. “Do you think he’ll be able to juggle his business with being mayor?”
“Bite your tongue,” I said. “Let’s pray he doesn’t get elected.”
“Isn’t that Mike over there?” Scooter smiled. “Hopefully, he’s not making a campaign contribution.”
“Maybe it’s time that you got into politics,” I mused. “I think you’d make a fine mayor. You tick all the boxes—you’re honest, trustworthy, reliable, and you look good in green.”
“What does green have to do with running for office?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Green has—”
“Hey there,” Mike said. He slapped Scooter on his back, jostling his elbow. I looked on in dismay as his ice cream toppled off his cone and onto the table. “Oh, man, I’m sorry about that. Let me get you another one.”
“No, it’s okay,” Scooter said glumly. “It was probably a sign that I shouldn’t be eating it.”
I hurriedly finished my ice cream before he decided that the sign also applied to me. “What were you doing talking to Norm?” I asked as I licked the last of the double chocolate chip off my fingers. “I’m surprised to see the two of you so chummy after the sailboat accident.”
Mike stroked his goatee. “We came to an agreement.”
“You mean he paid you off?” I asked.
“Something like that. Let’s just say we’ve put our differences aside for the moment to focus on something more important—making the arrangements for Emily’s memorial service tomorrow. Jeff asked if I could help out.”
“He chartered Norm’s boat?” Scooter asked.
“Yeah. He gave him a good rate.”
“Norm must want something from him,” I said.
Scooter laughed. “His vote.” He turned to Mike. “It’s nice of you to help Jeff out.”
“That’s what friends are for,” he said. “And I have an idea of what she would have wanted. Plenty of yellow roses and the soundtrack to Mamma Mia!”
“I thought you didn’t know Emily,” I said. “How would you know about the flowers and music?”
“It’s hot today, isn’t it,” Mike said. He grabbed one of the napkins on the table and wiped his brow.
“Not really,” I said. “It’s actually quite pleasant. I don’t think the temperature is why you’re breaking out in a sweat.” I patted the seat next to me. “Why don’t you take a load off.”
“Um, I should probably get going,” Mike said with a slight stammer.
“Sit,” I said, doing my best imitation of Nancy. It worked. Mike planted his butt on the bench next to me. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve been pretending not to know Emily. I already know you drew up her will.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “You do?”
“I do now.” By this point, his napkin was soaking wet. I passed him another. “Why have you been keeping it a secret? Wouldn’t it impress potential clients if they knew you were doing work for such a big estate?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “Her family is very secretive. They don’t like outsiders knowing about their business. When I first started working for her father—”
“Maarten van der Byl, right?” Scooter asked.
Mike nodded slowly, then leaned forward. “You might want to keep that name to yourself,” he said softly.
Scooter banged his fist on the table. “Why should I do that? He’s putting the screws into me from the grave. Don’t pretend like you didn’t know it was his company that I’ve been having contract disputes with.”
Stunned by my husband’s uncharacteristic outburst, I found myself at a loss as to what to say next. I watched as Scooter drummed his fingers on the table while Mike tried his best to avoid eye contact. “How about some more ice cream?” I suggested. Unsurprisingly, that fell flat.
“How about some answers, Mike,” Scooter said.
“The Van der Byls are one of the families who founded Destiny Key. They have a lot of money, and they use that to buy people’s silence.” He gulped. “Including mine. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.”
“Like trying to destroy my company.”
“No,” Mike said. “I didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Van der Byl’s business interests. The only thing I dealt with was the family’s estate planning.”
“Then you can tell us about Emily’s will,” I said.
Mike blanched. “No. I can’t.”
“You’re going to tell us something,” Scooter said.
“Listen, I know the firm that represents the Van der Byl’s business side of things. Maybe I can try to find out what’s going on with the contract.”
“And you can tell us about Emily,” I said.
“I’ve already told everything I know to the police,” Mike said.
I furrowed my brow. “Does that mean you’re a suspect?” At the rate sweat was dripping down his face, Mike was in danger of becoming dehydrated. I offered him some of my water.
“Me? Why would I be a suspect? I don’t stand to gain anything from Emily’s death. But if you want to know who I think the police have in their sights, I can—”
Before Mike could spill the beans, he was interrupted by the screams of a young girl. She had her hands over her mouth and was staring at something lying on the ground next to the dock.
The three of us leaped up and raced toward her. It turned out it wasn’t a something lying on the ground. It was a someone, and her name was Wanda.
I leaned down to check on her while Scooter dialed 911. She was breathing shallowly, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to stay conscious. As I stroked her forehead and told her that help was on the way, she whispered my name.
“Ssh. Don’t say anything. Save your breath, Wanda,” I said.
“Mollie,” she said weakly. I put my ear against her mouth to hear her better. “Alan. It was Alan. He poisoned me.”