SEAS THE DAY Read online

  Seafood Capers Mystery Series

  by Maggie Toussaint

  SEAS THE DAY (#1)

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  Copyright

  SEAS THE DAY

  A Seafood Caper Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | April 2020

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2020 by Maggie Toussaint

  Author photograph by CSAW Photo

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-583-3

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-584-0

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-585-7

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-586-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my siblings, near and far

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book comes to print by itself. I’m grateful to many in my writing community who have encouraged me and cheered me on over the years. Thanks to Jill Marsal of the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency who took a chance on this new series and also to Henery Press for loving it too.

  No list of thanks would be complete without mentioning my critique partner Polly Iyer, whose sharp eyes always bring more shape and zest to my words.

  The nucleus for Seas the Day sprang from an anthology call I received from author Beth “Jaden” Terrell for romantic mystery short stories featuring Carolyn Haines’s black cat Trouble. The couple from my “Trouble with Horses” short story kept nudging me for a series, so I began the Seafood Capers Mysteries with a new black cat.

  I am very thankful to the men and women in law enforcement who were so kind to answer questions: Georg Trexler with the McIntosh County Sheriff’s Office, Wesley Harris and Wally Lind of Crimescenewriters, and Lee Lofland’s Writer’s Police Academy.

  Also, I’m blessed to have family who know how to cook and greatly appreciate their tips and suggestions. Any mistakes in this book are my own.

  Chapter One

  “My Chili’s gone,” Estelle Bolz sobbed in my ear. “You gotta help me, River. You can find anything. Please, please find my son.”

  “Gone?” Oh, no. I needed his fresh fish for tonight’s Holloway Catering client. Still holding the phone, I stepped away from the pie crust bowl, moved to the kitchen window, half-expecting to see Chili sauntering across my lawn. “I don’t understand. He left town?”

  “You tell me. His keys are on the hutch. His truck was parked at the house until the cops took it. His boat’s in the slip. He hasn’t called me since Tuesday morning. I can’t lose another son.”

  My heart went out to this woman who’d been through so much. Her youngest son perished at sea last year. Having another missing son was my late mother’s bridge partner’s worst nightmare.

  I switched the phone to speaker and reached for pen and paper. “When did you last see him?”

  “Monday. Around dinnertime.”

  “Did you notify the cops?”

  “I did. A deputy is looking for Chili, but he’s made no progress all week. I rode over to the Law Enforcement Center for three days in a row. They say there’s no sign of foul play and he’s an adult. Meanwhile, Chili hasn’t called in three nights. This is not right.”

  Today was Friday. “I ordered sea bass from Chili on Tuesday morning, right after I booked a catering job. Nobody’s heard from him since Tuesday?”

  “Nope. He wouldn’t take off like this and leave me to worry about where he is. That’s why he calls every night. I’m tied up in knots.” She sniffed loudly into the phone. “You’ve always been like a daughter to me, and I know this is a lot to ask. Please help me find Chili.”

  I felt uneasy being asked to find a missing person. That was much different from finding misplaced keys or a lost dog, but Chili was my friend. He must be in trouble if he wasn’t calling his mom. Estelle’s rapid breaths filled my ear like a huffing freight train. “I’ll help you. First, sit down and breathe deeply. We’ll sort this out together.”

  “Thank you,” Estelle said. “I just didn’t know where else to turn.”

  “That’ s it. Deep full breaths. In and out.” My breathing calmed too. I started with the easy questions: “Have you tried his friends? Did he find a new girlfriend after he and Trina broke up?”

  “After his brother died at sea, Chili kept to himself. That no-account Trina lasted six minutes past Kale’s funeral. Chili’s all I got left in the world. When I consider possibilities of why he’s missing, my gut aches so bad I can’t stand up straight. Something’s horribly wrong. I’m terrified he’s hurt or worse, and I need to do something. We need to do something.”

  I felt for her, I truly did. Mr. Bolz died of a heart attack long before the family moved here. Estelle supported her family with a dry-cleaning business, with only her sons and friends for companionship. My mother died last year, a few months after Kale was lost at sea. It was hard enough to lose one relative, but to lose two so close together would be devastating.

  Estelle needed an advocate. Without her boys, she was all alone. Mom’s friend needed an insider who knew her son. However, there must be a reason the cops weren’t getting anywhere.

  “Chili needs your help,” Estelle continued while I mulled things over. “I’m begging you. Find my son.”

  I stated the obvious. “If he left Shell Island, I don’t have the resources to find him. The cops do. Convince them to expand their search. I’ll go with you to the station if you like.”

  “Don’t get me started on the po-lice. The sheriff has his eye on reelection and that new deputy thinks I’m an alarmist. It’s so frustrating.”

  Estelle paused for so long I thought she must be crying, then she began again. “Your mother, bless her heart, used to brag on you all the time, especially how good you were at solving puzzles. I trust you, River, not the people who hand out speeding tickets. Those outsiders don’t know my family. They don’t understand why Chili wouldn’t leave. Not on purpose. We rely on each other. I-I-I can’t make it without him. Please, River.”

  I’d known the Bolz family most of my life. Chili was two school grades ahead of me, Kale a school grade behind. Like in my family, the children worked several jobs to make ends meet because money was scarce here.

  “I’m flattered by your faith in me, but I’m not a detective. I don’t have a network of professional investigators like the sheriff does. If I ask around, will you keep the pressure on the cops? They can put out a notice that he’s missing, and it will go all over the state. Did you think about going to the newspaper, radio, or TV with your story?”

  “Heavens, no,” Estelle shrilled. “Chili doesn’t want everybody and his brother spying on him. He’s a private person. First, I thought he must’ve fallen off the wagon and gotten tangled up with Mr. Jim Beam again.” She sighed. “I looked, and there’s not a drop of booze in his pla
ce or in his trash. He isn’t on a bender. I want somebody I trust on the case. I’ll pay you too.”

  “I won’t take your money. I’m hesitating because if he’s in dire straits, you need more than me helping you.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll keep the pressure on Sheriff Vargas, if you’ll question the younger crowd,” Estelle countered. “They’re more likely to talk to you than a stranger anyway.”

  I was relieved she sounded calmer. “I am very concerned about Chili and wish I could drop everything and start searching right now. But my livelihood depends on successful catering events. Tonight I’m booked for the Robertson’s anniversary dinner. I’ll be busy all afternoon prepping the meal. They eat at seven and it will be after nine before I get home.”

  “Do what you have to do, and ask everyone about Chili. We have to find him.”

  “I’ll do my best. If I learn anything, I’ll call you. When you spoke to him on Tuesday, what did he say?”

  “He cancelled on our regular lunch at the Sunset Buffet. It’s unlike him to miss the meatloaf special. That boy loves his meatloaf. If I’d’a known that when I had him, I’d’ve named him Meatloaf.”

  “Did he say why he cancelled?”

  “Nope. Said something came up. I didn’t actually speak to him. He left me a message.”

  “Did you play it for the cops?”

  “Deputy Hamlyn said it wasn’t helpful. I’m out of my mind worrying about Chili. You’ll find him, won’t ya?”

  “I hope so.”

  Estelle ended the call. I glanced at my notepad. At the top of the page I’d written “no fish.” I’d also written “Chili missing.” With no fresh fish coming off a deep-sea fishing boat today, I needed another fish source pronto.

  A few calls later, I struck gold and headed to Neptune’s Harvest over by the new marina. Except for the high traffic weeks before and after Easter when most schools took their spring break, springtime was slow on the island. Sunshine dappled the two-lane road, creating radiant pools of light beside dark shadows on the oak-shaded pavement.

  I loved the centuries-old live oaks here, and the bearded look they had from the moss-draped limbs. Mom always rolled down her windows as she drove across the causeway toward the island. At first, I thought it was to catch a sea breeze, but she didn’t relax until we crossed that last bridge. She always said the island smelled like home.

  I agreed with her. Shell Island’s warm, moist salty top notes hit me first on that same causeway drive, followed by the fragrant heart notes of seasonal azalea, jasmine, and honeysuckle, and infused with woody bass notes of oak, pine, and cedar. This fragrant symphony permeated my life and emotions, forever anchoring my memories here.

  Memories. So many of my childhood memories included the Bolz brothers. Now Chili was missing, and Kale was dead. Everything about this felt wrong, only I didn’t know why. I navigated a bit of congestion around the airstrip and made a right.

  When I pulled into the seafood market’s parking lot, Dasia Allen waved me inside the store. Dasia and Jerry married right out of high school, and thanks to his father’s life insurance policy, were able to open Neptune’s Harvest two years ago. Dasia was ten years younger than me with jet black hair and a lithe body, a knockout.

  Display cases held fish, shrimp, crab, and scallops on ice. The shelves were lined with colorful seasonings and sauces. “Jer’s in the back finishing with the filets,” Dasia said. “I’m so glad you called. We were going to run the whole lot down to Jacksonville. With selling half of them to you, I can push the rest out the door today and tomorrow. And we get a larger slice of the pie that way.”

  “I hear you about pie slices. Every dollar counts in a small business.” I cleared my throat. “Thanks for helping me out on such short notice. I had arranged to buy fish from Chili today, but he’s missing.”

  “I know Chili. What’s going on?” Dasia asked.

  “He disappeared on Tuesday, but I learned about it a few minutes ago. I assume he sells fish here if he doesn’t already have a client on the hook.”

  “Yes, we buy his fish. He calls as he heads to shore with his catch.”

  “I’m trying to find him. Does he have a regular fishing buddy?”

  Dasia snickered. “Not since that sucky Loretta gal threw up all over his boat. He said chicks weren’t allowed on board unless they were paying customers.”

  “No guys as first mates either?”

  “He used to take his brother, but that can’t happen, not unless he takes Kale’s ghost.”

  I winced at her poor choice of words. “Still. Seems dangerous to head offshore alone.”

  “Lotta guys do it.”

  Jerry sauntered in with a bag of sea bass filets. His tall, lean physique mirrored his wife’s. “How’re you fixing these, Ms. River?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Seriously. We talking broiled, baked, sautéed, grilled?”

  “Seriously, how I prepare my food is proprietary information. All I’ll say is there’s a marinade, parchment paper, and spicy veggies.”

  “My mouth’s watering just thinking about it.”

  “Good. Hire Holloway Catering, and you’ll have the most delicious seafood meal ever.”

  “I hear you.” Jerry snuck a quick glance at Dasia who was helping another customer. He lowered his voice. “Maybe we can work out a deal. I’ll catch up with you later to share my idea.”

  A deal? He had seafood, and I cooked seafood and other foods. If he’d discount seafood to me for a specialty meal here or there, I would agree to that in a heartbeat.

  I dug out a business card and passed it to him as I paid for the fish. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Dasia laughed at something her customer said, and Jerry leaned forward as he handed me the receipt and whispered, “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Chapter Two

  The Robertsons loved my arugula and pear salad with citrus vinaigrette so much they asked for seconds. I was tempted to remind them to save room for the main course, but I knew better. The simple truth about keeping my business afloat had nothing to do with the quality or quantity of food I provided or my appearance, none of which I ever let slide.

  My ultimate success depended on customer satisfaction. Therefore, whatever they asked for, they received. The customer was always right.

  Unless they asked for me. The few times that happened, I made it clear I wasn’t on the menu. Tonight, I brought out more of the extra salad from the kitchen. Since the Robertsons were repeat customers, I knew their kitchen layout in advance and had pressed their double oven into service. The smaller top oven kept the pre-cooked parchment-wrapped sea bass warm, while the lower oven roasted onions and sweet potatoes, perfuming the air.

  As the Robertsons and their four friends enjoyed dinner, I prepped the decaf coffee they liked and plated slices of lemon meringue pie. During the dessert course, I loaded their dishwasher, refrigerated leftovers, ate a few bites of fish from the packet I made for myself, and packed my catering van.

  A thin black cat mewed plaintively from the yard as I came and went. He sounded hungry. The poor thing. I placed some fish on a stepping stone. The cat blinked its golden eyes at me, then skittered over and inhaled the fish.

  “You must’ve been starving,” I said. “What’s your name, kitty? You remind me of my friend’s cat, Trouble. He stayed with me not long ago.”

  The feline scampered a safe distance away and watched me steadily. It felt like he or she wanted me to understand something, only I wasn’t getting it. I bid the kitty goodbye, drove the van home, unloaded everything, and checked the time. Ugh. Nine thirty. I thought longingly of the sofa. My usual MO after catering involved putting my feet up and falling asleep in front of the TV.

  But I’d promised Estelle to ask people about Chili’s whereabouts, so that was my pla
n. The hour wasn’t late for island nightspots, only for me. I locked the commercial kitchen and hurried next door to my home. After a quick pass through the shower, I donned clean jeans, a flirty top, and strappy sandals and headed out.

  Creekside Grill was packed to capacity as I threaded through the crowd to the bar and ordered a soda. Then, I asked everyone if they recognized Chili’s photo on my phone. I struck out, so I drove to the Wine and Dine, known to locals as the wine bar. Surely, I’d have better luck here.

  The animated conversation from the outdoor tables drifted over to my catering van. The last time I came here was with the love of my life, Pete Merrick, before he left Shell Island, Georgia, for California. Even though we’d reconnected recently, he didn’t understand how demanding catering was or how long it took to establish a caterer’s reputation. I was equally at fault for not mentioning this, but at the time I’d assumed he knew since he specialized in business. Love and divergent careers put blinders on both of us and now we had to take them off, whatever the cost.

  That memory was bittersweet. Bitter for the geography still between us and sweet because we had a shot at a future. As I approached the bar, my gaze flitted to the table where we’d had that momentous discussion. I wished Pete was here to help me find Chili.

  I elbowed my way to the counter where Reg the bartender asked me which red wine I wanted. His trademark navy bandana around his bald head added a splash of normal to this night.

  “Surprise me,” I said.

  Vivian Declan swept me into a hug. Two inches taller than me and easily twenty pounds lighter, she wore her bleached blonde hair big and her shorts short. The scents of beer and honeysuckle sweetness clung to her. We’d been buds in elementary school, but our adult friendship fell victim to busy schedules.