Ransom at Sea (17 page)

“Has it?” Emily said, prompting her to continue.

“She's the type of person who drives people away. Her daughter will have nothing to do with her—she told me she's never even seen her own grandson. Isn't that sad?”

“Yes…,” Emily said vacantly. “A grandson … he would probably be in his twenties now, wouldn't he.…”

“I suppose so.”

“Yes … that would explain it.…”

“Explain what?” Lily asked blankly.

“Something I saw on Navy Pier when we sailed. I hadn't thought about it until you mentioned this. There was a young man who showed a great deal of interest in our little group, or somebody in it. I was just thinking that if a boy that age had never seen his grandmother and was curious about her, that is probably the way he would do it … though how he would've known she was there … well…”

“How mysterious!” Lily exclaimed breathily.

“Oh, it's probably not at all,” Emily replied airily. “It's just another odd thing.” She adjusted herself in her chair. “Now, tell me, Lily, in your tenure as church secretary, you must know most of the people on this boat.”

“The passengers, yes.”

“I got the impression that there was some problem between the Millers and their grandchildren. When they were taking pictures as we sailed, Martin said something about their grandchildren, and Laura became very upset.”

Lily was shaking her head. “I don't know about that. The Millers joined the church after I retired. I think I've heard that they're estranged from their children, but isn't that always the way with children nowadays?”

“I don't know about that. My late husband and I were never blessed with children. What about the other passengers?”

“Well, Stuart Holmes is divorced,” Lily replied, more than willing to provide the information. “I don't think he and his wife had any children. That, if you ask me, was one of the problems. That man was all work, and his wife couldn't stand for it. Mr. Driscoll's wife passed away a few years ago. Nearly ten now, if I remember correctly. They never had children. And poor Mr. Brock never married. I don't think he ever met the right woman.”

“I see,” said Emily. Then she asked, “Marcella told me that Claudia's grandson had had some problems.”

“Drugs,” Lily said darkly. “Although you'd never think it to look at her.”

“I beg your pardon?” Emily said, drawing back slightly with surprise.

“I mean that that sort of thing would happen in her family.”

“Oh, yes, well. One never knows what one will find in anyone's family.”

“That's very, very true,” Lily agreed eagerly.

Ransom emerged from around the far corner of the wheelhouse. He paused for a moment to survey the scene, then approached Emily and Lily.

“Hello again,” he said to Emily, then turned to the other woman. “Hello, Miss…?”

“DuPree,” Lily said, her eyes brightening. She made an attempt to straighten herself in her seat, but ended up in the same position. “Are you really the police?”

He smiled. “Yes. The boat looks deserted. Any idea where everyone is?”

With difficulty, Lily craned her neck around the side of her chair, a process that appeared to be quite painful given the way the muscles in her face tightened.

“Well, that's Muriel Langstrom,” she said. Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “She seems to be … not herself today, although that's to be expected, under the circumstances. She's stayed to herself all morning.”

“And the others?” Ransom asked.

“No, I'm afraid I haven't been paying attention. I heard some of them going off in dribs and drabs earlier, but I didn't look to see who it was. Anyone who's not gone will either be in the lounge, which is the next deck down, or in their cabins,” said Lily.

“And everyone should be back soon. It's nearly lunchtime,” Emily concluded.

“Thank you, ladies,” Ransom said cordially. He started to walk away, then paused. “By the way, which cabin belonged to Miss Hemsley?”

“Number eight,” Emily answered.

“Thank you.”

He crossed the deck to where Muriel Langstrom lay on a chair that had been reclined to a forty-five-degree angle. She was so still that Ransom thought for a moment that she might be dead—an impression that was instantly dispelled when he cleared his throat and she started violently.

“What? Who are you?” Her right hand had gone to her throat as if to ward off an imminent attack by Marcella's strangler.

“I'm so sorry to startle you, Miss Langstrom. I'm Detective Jeremy Ransom. I'm looking into Miss Hemsley's murder.”

“Oh.” Her tone was lifeless and her body immediately relaxed once she had the explanation. Her eyes were barely visible behind the dark glasses, but Ransom could see enough to know that she was staring straight ahead rather than looking at him.

“Did you know Miss Hemsley well?”

“No. Only to speak to.”

“And you didn't get to know her any better on this trip?”

“No.”

He moved around to the foot of her chair, by the railing, blocking her view. “I'm trying to get an idea of where everyone was when Miss Hemsley was killed. Can you tell me where you were?”

“In the woods.”

“I see. Were you with anyone?”

Three evenly spaced, shallow lines appeared across her forehead. “What?”

“I asked if you were with anyone.”

She swallowed. “Yes. I—for a while. We got separated somehow.”

“Would you happen to know what time it was when that happened?”

“I wasn't wearing a watch.” She said this without emotion, so Ransom was surprised to see a tear slowly emerge from beneath the right lens of her sunglasses. It disappeared into the corner of her mouth, leaving a wet trail behind.

“How long were you alone?”

“I don't know. It seemed like hours. I was … I was … sort of frightened.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“But it was probably only about twenty minutes or so.” She sniffed and ran a meaty wrist beneath her nose. Then she straightened herself up a bit and made an attempt to sound lighter. “I don't know how it happened! One minute we were together—Jackson Brock, Bertie Driscoll, and myself—and then suddenly I was alone. I was talking—” She broke off and there was a noticeable hesitation before she continued. “I was talking and we just somehow got separated.”

“And you were alone for about twenty minutes, you think? That's quite some time. Why didn't you just retrace your steps and come out of the woods?”

She sniffed again, and it was apparent that it was difficult to explain this without breaking down completely. “I got all turned around. I started … I thought I'd started back in the right direction, but somehow I got the idea in my head that I was going farther into the forest, so I turned back again, and pretty soon I didn't know which way was out.”

“Aren't the trails marked?”

She nodded. “But they're the same on both sides. I went this way and that, and after a while I just sat down on a tree stump. I know it sounds silly, but … I was frightened. And then Jackson caught up with me.”

“And he explained to you what had happened.”

Her assent was barely audible.

“So it was only about twenty minutes when Mr. Brock reappeared and you never saw Mr. Driscoll again?”

“That's right.”

“Thank you,” Ransom said kindly. He felt much less pleasantly disposed toward Brock and especially Driscoll. “You've been a great help, Miss Langstrom.”

“Have I?” She lifted her head slightly, some life returning to her voice.

“Most definitely.”

He left her and went to the starboard staircase. As he started down the steps he glanced across the deck and noticed that Emily had gone. At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself outside of the dining room. Although he didn't see anyone through the windows, the long table along the portside wall was in the process of being laid out for lunch: it had been covered with a white cloth, and a stack of bread on a silver plate was at the far end. He pushed open the door and stopped just inside at the sound of voices coming from around the corner in the lounge.

“That's all right, Mr. Driscoll, that's what I'm here for!” said a voice that Ransom found excessively cheerful. “Just yesterday I was telling Mrs. Farraday that they always need me to man the bar, just in case!”

“Don't usually start so early in the day,” a second voice said, presumably belonging to Driscoll. There was a huskiness and age to it.

Ransom came around the corner and found a young man, blond, well shaped, and wearing a broad grin that looked like a permanent fixture working behind the bar. He twisted the cap off a bottle of beer and plunked a glass onto the bar.

“Don't need a glass, David,” said Driscoll, who sat on a stool with his back to the detective. “I drink it straight.” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and Douglas joined in dutifully. It was then that he noticed Ransom over Driscoll's shoulder. His smile waned and his eyebrows went up.

“Who are you?”

Driscoll swiveled around on his stool.

“I'm Detective Ransom,” he said, coming into the lounge.

Any residual amusement Douglas had been displaying completely vanished. “Huh?”

“I'm here looking into Miss Hemsley's murder.”

“I thought the sheriff got the murderer,” Douglas said as he wiped his hands on a black towel.

“We just want to be sure.”

“Detective?” said Driscoll. Ransom noticed that his face was rather flushed. “I didn't know they had detectives in these parts.”

“They don't. I'm up from Chicago.”

“Um, would you like a drink?” Douglas asked.

“No, thank you.”

Douglas hung the towel across the tap on the bar's small sink. “If you'll excuse me, I have to get back to getting lunch on the table.”

“I do want to speak to everyone.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” His eyes shifted for a split second in Driscoll's direction, a move that caused Ransom to raise an eyebrow.

Ransom said, “I can talk to you later.”

With a look of relief profound enough to shake even the most doting mother's confidence in his veracity, Douglas disappeared through the door behind the bar.

Driscoll spoke to Ransom's reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “That young fellow's about as genuine as a plug nickel!”

“Is he?”

Driscoll screwed up his mouth. “I could tell you stories! Here, pull up a stool.” He gestured to the maroon padded seat next to him. The directive was figurative since the stools were anchored to the floor, but Ransom accepted the invitation and slid onto the seat.

“Bertram Driscoll,” the older man said, offering him a hefty paw to shake.

“What stories could you tell me?” Ransom asked.

Driscoll grimaced. “You're probably too young to remember the sort of thing—carnivals, hucksters—you know the type of thing I'm talking about?”

The fortyish Ransom entertained an inward glow at the idea of being thought too young to remember something. “Yes.”

“That's what that Douglas reminds me of. Those guys that could smile in your face, butter not even meltin', while they take your money. He's the type of man who, if he shook my hand I'd check to see if my watch was still there after.”

“Really?” Ransom knit his brow slightly. “Has he actually done something to make you think he's dishonest?”

“Oh, no, no,” Driscoll backpedaled quickly. Then he leaned over toward the detective. “But he always looks like he's going to.”

Ransom studied him as Driscoll laughed at his own joke and took a swig of beer. It was a self-conscious action, calculated to punctuate the punch line, like a failed repertory actor.

“So, Mr. Driscoll, I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday.”

“Awful business, that,” Driscoll replied soberly. “'Course, I don't really know anything about it.”

“Maybe not directly,” Ransom said smoothly, “but I'm checking on everyone's movements, just in case they might have seen something … without realizing it, perhaps?”

Driscoll turned from the reflection to the original. “You think I might've seen or heard something? Sorry, can't help you. I was off in the woods.”

A smile played about the detective's lips. If Driscoll had been more astute, he would've noticed a hint of malevolence in it. “So I understand. Now, you went off with the rest of the party originally, is that correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And you split off from the larger group with Jackson Brock and Muriel Langstrom.”

“That's right.”

“I understand that after hiking for a while, you … became separated from them?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How did that come about?”

Driscoll hesitated before answering. “Well, I … you know, we … thought we'd play a little joke on Muriel. She was walking up ahead of us, and when we came to a fork in the path, she went one way, and we went the other.”

“You and Brock decided this together?”

His ruddy complexion turned darker. “Well … no, I guess. I just sort of pulled Jackson over to the right and clapped a hand over his mouth, and after Muriel was out of sight, I explained I thought it would be a fun trick to pull.”

“And he went along with it?”

“Yeah, yeah. That old milquetoast would just about go along with anything rather than put up a fuss.”

There was a beat, then Ransom said, “It didn't occur to you that what you were doing might be dangerous?”

“No! 'Course not! No way anybody could get lost out there! The trails are clearly marked.” Driscoll said this broadly, but his face grew even redder and he shifted on his stool. “Listen, I'll tell you. Muriel is a good woman, but God, can she talk! Yakety-yakety-yakety! It's like to drive you crazy! I mean, it was just a joke, our going off! I wanted to see how long it would take her to realize we weren't there any more.”