Coastal Cottage Calamity (A Logan Dickerson Cozy Mystery Book 2) (6 page)

Chapter Ten

I’d finally got
something to eat and was alone in my room. I sat in the middle of my four
poster bed, legs crossed Indian style and fired up my laptop. I took a bite of the
lasagna cupcake – all the ingredients layered in a phyllo dough shell and
cooked in a muffin tin – that I’d swiped from the kitchen and took a gander at
the pictures I’d taken.

It was a good thing
that I’d stayed so busy all day (not a good thing about Oliver, I didn’t mean
that). It was best I didn’t talk about the fish until I found out more about
it. And knowing me, if things hadn’t been so chaotic all day, I would have
mentioned the fish to someone.

After looking at
them on my phone, I emailed the pictures of the fish to myself. Pulling up my
AOL account I went in and downloaded them.

“Okay, Mr. Fishy.
Let’s see who you are,” I said to the fish that was staring at me from my
computer screen.

I typed “fish of
the Savannah River” into a Google search screen.
Oh good,
I thought
after reading one of the links.
There are twelve hundred miles of streams in
Georgia.

This is not going
to be easy.

I found a list that
appeared to be pretty exhaustive of the fish in the area. Some I knew right off
what they looked like and could rule them out.
Bass, rainbow trout, catfish
. . .
Some I didn’t know, so I looked up pictures of them.
Chain
pickerel, bream, crappies . . .

I searched for two
hours, even finding other fish classified in the same family of fish I did know
to try and identify it. But I couldn’t find it, or anything similar to it, anywhere.
I fell back the pillow and kicked the laptop away with one foot and the plate
back with the other.

How is it so hard
to find a fish?

I put my pillow
over my face and let out a muffled growl.

What the hey . .
.

I sat up. I needed
help. I looked at the clock. Midnight. My mother was in the bed. She’d be
groggy this time of night and wouldn’t be any help at this time of the night.
And I didn’t think she knew anything much about my fish anyway. But it made me
think. What would my mother do?

I smiled. I knew
exactly what she’d do.

I opened up my
contact list on my computer and found the name I was searching for. I had decided
to email a colleague. It was what my mother did whenever she couldn’t figure
out something. And she had told me it was good to network with people in other
disciplines – may come a time when you’ll need their expertise. “You never
know,” she had said.

This was exactly
one of those times.

I clicked on the “Email”
icon and typed in the email address from the contact I’d found. He was a
zoologist. And I remembered once that he’d told me that he wanted to
concentrate in ichthyology – the study of fish. Didn’t know if he followed
through, but I figure it couldn’t hurt to give it a shot.

I wrote him a
quick message and attached a few of the pictures. I pressed send and closed the
lid of my laptop. I tossed and turned through the waves of my covers the rest
of the night, dreaming of Oliver, fish smoking e-cigarettes, and blonde-haired
mannequins.

No more lasagna at
midnight.

By the time
morning light fell on my room, it seemed as if I hadn’t gotten any rest at all.
I felt restless and still drowsy.

Maybe a shower
will help
,
I thought sleepily.  

Oh! I shot up. The
fish.

So before I even
bothered to wipe the crust from my eyes or even brushed my teeth, I turned on
my side and pulled my computer close.

Maybe he emailed
me back. A slight smile emerged subconsciously and I felt my heart pick up its
beat. Looking at my email I saw I had one message. It was from
[email protected]
.

That was quick.

I opened it up and
it was ten words long. All caps with a string of exclamation and question
marks. I read it very slowly, taking a breath each time my mouth formed a word.

“THAT FISH IS
EXTINCT!!!! WHERE DID YOU GET THE PICS???

Omigosh!

I slammed down the
top of my laptop and jerked my hand away.

Is this good?
Now it felt as if
my heart had stopped beating all together.
This couldn’t be a good thing.
I stared at my laptop and inched my hand toward it like it might leap up and
snap at me. I lifted the lid, swiped my hand over the mouse pad and read the
email again. Then again.

Crap.

I closed the
email.

I thought about
deleting the message. Evidence and all. But that wouldn’t help. Fishywannabe knew
now that I had proof of this living “extinct” fish.  I pulled up those pesky pictures
and stared at the fish that no longer existed.

Only it did.

How can you be
extinct and you’re swimming around my excavation site?

Then I thought
about how Renmar and Oliver – dead Oliver Gibbons – were always on that Island
and always so secretive about it. Memories smacked me with a jolt. Renmar never
wanted anyone to have the recipe to her bouillabaisse. Her world famous
bouillabaisse. A stew made from
fish
. And when Sheriff Haynes thought it
might have been the bouillabaisse that killed Gemma Burke, Renmar had had Oliver
get rid of the whole pot before the Sheriff could get his hands on it.

I wonder. Does she
make that fish stew of hers with an extinct fish?

And then I
repeated it out loud. “Extinct fish.” I laughed. “I just found something that
everyone thinks is extinct.” I shot up straight in the bed, staring out at
nothing necessarily, my eyes big and thought about that if I did just find an
extinct fish, I would be famous.

A grin curled up
the side of my lips.

Well, maybe not
famous, but at least well-known.

Almost.

At least in the
field of ichthyology.

Like anyone’s
heard of that.

A sudden burst of
energy hit me. My feet and legs fought with the covers as I tried to leap from
the bed. Today was Friday. The Maypop served Renmar’s bouillabaisse every Friday.
I was going to find out about that fish she put in it that made it win awards.
And then, I was going to call my mother and tell her I was about to be more
famous than she ever was.

Chapter Eleven

Oliver died on a
Thursday. And at the Maypop on Fridays, Renmar always made bouillabaisse. But
the Friday after Oliver died she wasn’t making her famous fish stew, she was
making crab cakes instead.

I had thrown on
some sweats and a T-shirt that said “I Dig Dead People” with a dancing
skeleton, and slipped my feet in a pair of flip-flops. But before I made it out
my room I saw my reflection in the mirror and thought about Oliver.
Extinct-Fish-Reviving-Oliver, but still Dead Oliver and realized my shirt might
be insensitive. I pulled it off and put on the one that simply said
“Archaeologist.”

I had walked
slowly into the kitchen and stopped. Sniffing the air in front of me, I tried
to catch a smell of the longtime-gone fish, prepared to pounce on Renmar if
necessary to find out what was going on. I stepped lightly into the room and
found Renmar, Brie and Hazel Cobb (I had taken to calling people by two names
just like Miss Vivee) sitting around the kitchen table. I let my eyes scan the
room. No 18-quart pot on the stove simmering. No mussels. No shrimp spread out
on the butcher block top of the island.

“Why are you
standing there, honeybun,” Brie said. “Grab a cup of coffee and come sit with
us.”

“What’s going on
in here?” I asked suspiciously as I walked to the table.

“Nothing,” Renmar
said. “We were just reminiscing about Oliver.” She patted the seat next to her,
signaling me to come and sit. “I was saying that I was probably the last person
to see him.”

Oh. My. Gosh.

I stopped dead in
my tracks. I’d forgotten all about that argument she’d had with Oliver. I swung
my eyes over to look at Renmar at the same time her eyes met mine.

Was the argument
about the fish?
I
tried to remember what she had said.

She would hurt
Oliver if he told . . .

Told what? I
gasped at the thought.

Maybe he told someone
about the fish and she was the one that killed him.

Crap!

Am I staying at
the home of a murderer?

“You okay? Come
sit down.” Renmar patted the seat again. “I’ll get your coffee.”

“I’ll get it,” I
said in a voice louder than I intended.

Wasn’t sure if I
wanted possible murderers, who poisoned people no less, pouring anything for
me.

“No
bouillabaisse?” I asked in a sweet, tiny voice after I gained my composure.

“Not today,” Renmar
said. She seemed sad. Maybe even . . .
Remorseful?

Like she was sorry
for killing someone?

“Just don’t have
it in me today,” she was still talking. “You know after Oliver and everything.”

I poured my coffee
and remembered how Miss Vivee had put Renmar on her list of suspects she’d
compiled in Gemma Burke’s death. She said that Renmar had a mean streak.

Is what I
witnessed yesterday – the argument with Oliver – what Miss Vivee meant?

I walked over
slowly to the table, deep in thought, when Bay came and grabbed my sides making
me almost spill my coffee.

“Bay!” I said and
smacked him on his arm. “I could’ve gotten burned.”

“Morning, Miss
Archaeologist,” he said pointing at my shirt. He went and stood behind his
mother’s chair.
“How
you doin’, Ma?” Bay put his arm around his mother’s neck and she leaned her
head back into his chest.

“I don’t know. I
just can’t believe Oliver’s gone,” she said.

I raised an
eyebrow and slid into a kitchen chair, one leg tucked under me.

Unless of
course you’re the reason he’s gone.

“I know,” Bay said,
an exaggerated sad face showing he empathized. He went and leaned over to Hazel
Cobb sitting in the chair and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Aunt Hazel. You
doin’ okay?”

Hazel wasn’t Bay’s
aunt, she was really a cousin. Best friend to his mother and cousin to his
father, Hazel, Renmar and Oliver were a threesome. Other than at the Island,
when Oliver was around Renmar, so was Hazel. And it seemed that Oliver, per
Miss Vivee, was Hazel’s cousin “by slavery,” as she put it. They shared the
same great, great, great grandfather.

“I know that the
relations between me and Oliver go back more than a century,” Hazel said dabbing
her eyes. “But he was still family.”

“I’ll have to
drive up to Atlanta with the body,” Bay made the announcement to the room after
double kissing his Auntie Brie on her cheek. He walked over to the stove,
lifting the lids he looked inside the skillet and pots.

“No food, Ma?”

“I have a plate
for you. I put it in the warmer,” she said and got up to get it.

“And isn’t this
Friday? Where is the bouillabaisse? I was counting on having some,” Bay said
grabbing silverware out the drawer and taking a seat.

I lifted my eyes
over the rim of the cup and looked surreptitiously at Bay.

No
bouillabaisse for you, Bay. And I hate to tell you because it just might ruin
our relationship, but I think your mother is a murderer. With a capital “M.”

“Atlanta? Why?”
Brie asked

“We’re going to do
the autopsy there. At the Bureau.”

Cup still up to my
face, I trained my eyes on Renmar, watching her reaction to Bay talking about
the autopsy.

“Mother told me
that that God awful man was going to get an injunction,” Renmar said as she
poured Bay a glass of orange juice and set it in front of him. “Put a stop to
your autopsy.”

I bet
you’d like that, Renmar.

“Ron Anderson
won’t win that argument,” Bay said confidently, forking in a mouthful of
scrambled eggs that he had covered in hot sauce. “Georgia laws states that an
autopsy is legally required if a death is a result of violence or no doctor was
in attendance at the time of death. Or,” he pointed his fork at his mother. “If
the victim had a suspicious death - sudden like a person that appeared to be in
good health.” He cut a slice of fried country style ham and stuffed it into his
mouth. “All the above apply to Oliver’s death.”

“He’s at the
courthouse. Ron Anderson. I heard it this morning,” Renmar said. “People coming
by first thing telling me. Says he’s the next-of-kin and no one’s going to tell
him what he can do.”

“An injunction to
stop an autopsy might work where he’s from. But it won’t work in Georgia. Here,”
Bay took a swallow of his orange juice, “the medical examiner doesn’t need
permission from the next-of-kin to perform an autopsy. Any judge in Georgia oughta
know that.”

“Evidently, he
thinks differently,” Renmar was shaking her head. “He also said you can’t keep
him from getting into that house,” she lifted her eyebrows at him. “Says he
going to get an injunction for that, too.”

“That man talks a
lot, Ma, but that’s all he does.” He wiped his mouth on his napkin. “He has no
legal standing to do any of the things he says.” Bay pushed his plate back and
folded his arms on the table. “Anyway, I thought it was Charlotte, the wife that
was related to Oliver? How is he running the show?”

“Who knows what’s
true with those two. She’s so mousy and obsequious. He could probably put her
up to anything,” Renmar said.

Ah, was
she trying to pass her murderous deeds off on someone else?

“I wouldn’t be
surprised if
they
killed poor Oliver,” Renmar said. She shrugged and
raised her coffee cup to her lips. “They’re awful people,” she said before
taking a sip.

Uh-huh. She was
definitely going on my list of suspects.