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 wondered 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.

“Litter box time. Gotta go.”

“I thought you might have some more questions for me.”

“No, you gave me a lot to think about. Support. Mentoring. Symbiotic relationships.”

With a big, fake, grateful smile plastered on her face, Margo made her exit. Walking home, she sighed, disappointed. She knew more than she had before, but nothing about the murder.

Again bumping up against her frustrating limitations, Margo eagerly looked forward to the next lesson with Delphine. Perhaps she would learn how to read minds or see shadows of the past. Or speak to Julian Meeks’s ghost—something that would be useful for solving this case.

She also thought that it was about time that she discussed the case with someone who actually solved murders for a living. Good thing she had a date with one tonight.

*****

Margo and Finn had just come out of the last showing of Casablanca at her theater and headed over to The Clam Shack next door. The walls and corners of the eatery were crammed with hanging fishnets, anchors, buoys, ship models . . . over the top nautical excess that tourists and locals alike got a kick out of.

Margo tried to ignore Clarissa’s big, curious eyes and gestures in Finn’s direction.

“It’s on the house. Whatever you want, my pleasure,” Clarissa gushed.

“You don’t have to do that,” Margo protested.

“You let me sneak into movies for free all the time. And since I will continue to do so, I think I can spare a few clams.”

“All right then, I’ll take this scallop special. How about you?” She asked Finn.

“The crab sticks sound really good,” Finn said.

“That’ll just be ten minutes,” Clarissa said.

“You must be a real VIP,” Finn said. “Gettin’ meals comped like a boss.”

She knew that he was teasing. But just being on a date with this very hot guy who couldn’t take his eyes off her went a long way toward making her feel like a VIP.

“So, how did you like the movie this time around?”

“I can’t believe it was the same movie that I saw when I was sixteen. All I can remember is thinking that Humphrey Bogart wasn’t a terribly good-looking guy. And his character wasn’t even very nice. But yet this woman, this gorgeous woman, was crazy about him. And then the end left me a little befuddled. Because if you’re lucky enough to have a woman like that love you, you just hold on for dear life.”

“This time, I’m hoping it made a better impression.”

“Well, I finally noticed all that political stuff that you said to look out for. American isolationist policy before World War II, and Rick standing in for that. And then eventually, Rick and America making sacrifices for the greater good. That just completely went over my head when I was sixteen and probably would have again if you hadn’t told me to look out for it.”

“It’s nothing original, I assure you. I read a lot of movie critiques. But it’s just so well done. And the dialogue is just the best.”

“I have to hand it to you. You know how to pick ’em. But you’ve promised—next time, I get to introduce you to my taste in movies. And you’ll keep an open mind, right?”

“Does any of these movies you have in mind feature someone named Jason or Chucky?”

“Oh, no. That would ruin the surprise.”

They exchanged a long smile, and Margo looked away thoughtfully.

“Franc for your thoughts?” Finn teased.

“I wanted to talk about Russell Knox,” Margo began.

“I was afraid of that,” Finn said, shaking his head. “But I’m really not allowed to discuss the details of this case.”

“I didn’t want you to tell me anything. I wanted to tell you something. You know Ian Fowler, the owner of the Verona restaurant across from Russell’s place?”

“Verona, yeah. Great sausage lasagna.”

“You’ve been over there? What were you doing over there? Did you try to talk to Ian?”

Finn shrugged noncommittally.

“Is Ian Fowler a suspect?” Margo asked excitedly.

“Hey, keep it down,” Finn shushed her. “He’s just . . . a person of interest.”

Margo gingerly pulled the letters from the liquor license bureau out of her purse. “Ian Fowler stole these letters from the liquor license bureau and tried to ruin Russell Knox’s business.”

“Yeah? Where’d you get those letters?"

“Out of the file cabinet in Ian Fowler's office.”

“I did not hear that. Are you insane?

“That's a crime all by itself, isn't it?”

"By him or by you? By him? Maybe. Maybe not. Little hard to prove now that the letters are no longer in his possession and your fingerprints are all over them.”

“I actually tried to handle them very carefully. I'm sure Ian's fingerprints are still there. Can you check them?”

Finn took the letters by the corner edges. “Maybe. But I’m still not seeing a connection to the murder.”

“Ian hated the competition from Russell's restaurant. He tried to slow down his liquor license, and he did, by six months. It put Russell in a bad spot. But he finally made a huge success with the restaurant, and Ian lost a big chunk of his business.”

“Okay . . . what next?”

“He had to try something else to shut Russell down. Something to take away Russell's business. Scandal. A rumor. Food poisoning. What if Ian arranged the food poisoning? And maybe he didn't even intend to kill anyone, just have someone get sick at Russell's place and ruin the reputation of the restaurant. Maybe things got out of hand. He used too much arsenic. Maybe he never intended for someone to die.”

“You’ve got imagination, I'll give you that. You know we don't get that many arsenic cases these days. Antifreeze is now the number one way for people to poison someone. Everyone's got some in the garage. Nothing suspicious about it. But arsenic . . . that's a lot harder to acquire and a lot harder to explain. Leaves a trail of some kind, one way or the other.”

“What if he had access to poison? Don’t restaurants use rat poison? Maybe that's how he got it.”

Finn pulled out his cellphone and pulled up an arsenic webpage. “Not really used for rat poison. They’re worried about kids and animals having too much access to it. But it’s still used in electronics, LED lights, and wood—it prevents wood from rotting. Lotta buildings that got put up with lead in the walls also had to be checked for arsenic as well.”

“Will you look into it?” Margo pleaded.

“I’ll do that. But you’ve got to stop stealing things.”

“It didn’t belong to Ian Fowler. There’s nothing wrong with trying to restore something to its rightful owner . . . but it sounds as if you’re at least willing to entertain the possibility that Russell is not the killer.”

“There’s plenty of evidence against him. But there’s things about his case that never added up. Why kill someone in your own restaurant and keep the poison in your car? It’s not smart. Not saying that criminals are always smart, but . . . the thing that puzzles me the most is no motive. There’s absolutely no reason for Russell Knox to target Julian Meeks. No motive whatsoever.”

Margo shifted uncomfortably. There actually was an incredibly damning motive. Finn and the police were still unaware of the $50,000 that Russell owed Julian Meeks and was not going to be able to pay. If they did know, the following up of all other leads would come to a crashing halt. So as badly as she felt about it, Finn was going to have to be kept in the dark a bit longer about that very problematic detail.