Ransom at Sea (19 page)

“Oh.” Hoke blinked and appeared somewhat mollified. “I went to the store there.…” He cocked his thumb in the general direction of the dock.

“Friendly's?”

“Yes. I had a soda. I didn't see anyone there. And there are a few shops on that road out there. I went into them and looked around. There isn't really much to do here.”

“And you still didn't see anyone?”

He shook his head. “It wasn't until I came back to the boat that I hear something is wrong.”

“How long were you off the boat?”

Hoke frowned and squinted as if trying to read an imaginary clock. “I don't know. Maybe an hour. Less, probably.”

Ransom nodded. “Thank you very much.”

“That's is all?” Hoke said with surprise as he jumped to his feet. He was unable to hide his delight that the ordeal was over.

“That's all,” Ransom said with a shrug. “Oh, except one thing. You seem like a very observant young man.…”

“I do?”

“I was wondering, what has it been like working with David Douglas?”

“What do you mean?”

“He seems nice enough. I was wondering what you thought of him.”

“David?” A tiny bit of fear returned. Clearly he didn't relish the position in which the detective was putting him. “I don't know.”

“Surely you must have some opinion.”

“David is very nice.”

“Um-hm. But I notice you're down here ‘doing the rooms' alone.”

“He … he has other duties.”

“Like bartending.”

“Yes!” Hoke had brightened again, as if greatly relieved to have thought of one.

“Did he help you with the cabins yesterday?”

“Um … yes. Some.”

Ransom smiled with understanding. “Like today.”

“Yes.”

Ransom turned to leave, then turned back again. “Do you know what time it was when you left the boat?”

Hoke scrunched up his nose and squinted. “Not exactly. No. It was after ten-thirty. Not very long after, I don't think.”

“But before eleven.”

He nodded. “Oh, yes.”

Much to Hoke's relief, this time the detective did leave.

Ransom went back into Marcella's cabin where Emily was waiting.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“Joaquin Vasquez.”

“Ah. A very nice young man.”

Ransom smiled. “And with that considered assessment may we strike him off the list of suspects?”

“Well, I should be very surprised—and distressed—if Joaquin had anything to do with it. But that's just the trouble. If Marcella was murdered because she walked in on someone, then I
suppose
we have to consider him.” She frowned. “But I would hate to think it.”

“I wouldn't worry about it. Both he and Douglas were off the boat before eleven. And it wasn't until around then that Rebecca lost her aunt, wasn't it?”

They were silent for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

“So, what do we do now?” Emily asked.

Ransom glanced at his watch. “It's nearly twelve. The rest of the passengers will be coming back for lunch. I think I'll join them.”

6

The cells at the sheriff's station were located in a large, blank room behind a door to the left of the desk in the outer office. Only one of the cells was occupied.

Rebecca Bremmer sat on the narrow bed against the rear wall of the ten-foot square, surrounded on three sides by bars. After Ransom dropped Lynn off at the station, Sheriff Barnes had bent the rules enough to allow her to sit in the open cell beside her. They spent the remainder of the morning talking in between long lulls.

“I don't know what I'm going to do,” Rebecca said, breaking one of the silences by a return to a theme she was finding hard to let go of. “I suppose I should call a lawyer, but … I don't know one.”

“You don't have to do that yet,” Lynn said reassuringly. “Ransom will sort this all out and find out who really did it. He's very good. I wouldn't admit it to him, but he is.”

Rebecca didn't appear to have heard her. “That Stuart Holmes is a lawyer. I suppose I could ask him to help me.…”

“You can't do that. He's one of the passengers.”

Rebecca looked up. “So?”

“So that makes him a suspect.”

“But why would he—oh, it's no use!” She had animated for a moment, but now the energy drained from her again.

“You shouldn't think like that. Ransom really will get to the bottom of this. He's a regular Mountie: he always gets his man, or woman.” Lynn was aware that she'd said this too brightly. She knew that if she'd been in Rebecca's situation, it would've sounded like an offer of false hope.

Rebecca's cheeks were stained with drying trails of tears. Her dark hair had gone limp, and her face was deathly pale. “I miss her already,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“It's funny, the past few days I've been with her … the way she was acting … I can't really picture them in my mind. All I can see now are the good times: the woman I knew when I was younger, who baked muffins and bread and made some of her own clothes, and who was stern but never harsh. She never had a bad word to say about anybody.”

“I know,” Lynn said quietly. “When my lover died—she'd been sick for a long time and had physically withered away. She never really lost her faculties, but it was hard to see someone I loved physically deteriorate like that. After she died, it was funny … I could only picture her the way she'd been when she was sick if I tried really hard. What came easy was seeing her healthy and happy. I guess that's probably some kind of blessing that we're given at times like that.”

“Your lover … so you're…?”

Lynn hadn't been thinking of the implication when she'd said this—that she would be revealing something about herself that could potentially destroy the budding friendship with this woman. Despite the circumstances, her heartbeat quickened when she realized that it mattered to her how Rebecca responded.

“Uh-huh,” Lynn said, her eyes leveled at Rebecca.

“Same here,” she replied vacantly.

Lynn cleared her throat and tried to slow her heart. “Anyway, remembering those good times should be a blessing.”

Rebecca looked down at the hands she'd folded in her lap, her slender white fingers looking pale against the rust-colored dress. A fresh onslaught of tears ran down the tracks on her cheeks. “I guess they should, but … I feel so guilty.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted her to die,” she replied without looking up.

Lynn shot a glance at the door leading to the outer office and wondered whether or not their conversation could be heard. “You shouldn't say that.”

“You know it's true. I told you just the other night.”

“You told me something that was very human. Everybody feels that way when someone close to them is suffering.”

Rebecca looked at her with wide, watery eyes. “Did you feel that way?”

The normally direct Lynn averted her eyes. She didn't think it would help the situation if she were to break down. “Yes, sometimes.”

“I'm sorry.”

Lynn looked up. “It was a long time ago now. Look, it's natural to feel the way you did.”

They fell silent for quite some time.

“Lynn, could you do me a favor?” Rebecca said at last.

“Anything.”

“Sheriff Barnes said that they'd gone through my things and Aunt Marci's at the boat. Could you pack them up for me and bring them here?”

“Well, sure,” Lynn replied, though the idea made her heartsick. She took Rebecca's request as a sign of acquiescence to her fate—or at least, that Rebecca could see that the matter wasn't going to get cleared up quickly. This caused a dent in Lynn's reserve. She felt as if something were slipping away.

But she knew her own feelings made little sense. Surely the tour wouldn't go on now. And if it did, and Rebecca were of necessity left behind, Lynn didn't have to go with it. Having made a tentative start, she wondered if offering to stay behind would look as if she were rushing a relationship that had barely begun at the worst possible moment. At the same time, she mentally kicked herself for even thinking of these things while the object of her newborn affection was in this predicament. Right then, more than anything, she wanted to get away for a little while and get a grip on herself.

“I'll take care of it,” she said.

*   *   *

Ransom saw Emily back to her cabin, where she wanted to freshen up before lunch, then headed for the red deck. He'd only gotten as far as the staircase when he ran into Stuart Holmes, who came to a halt three steps from the bottom at the sight of the unfamiliar face.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Detective Ransom. I'm here looking into Miss Hemsley's murder. And you are…?”

“Stuart Holmes.” He descended to the bottom and extended a hand with a distinct lack of grace. “I thought the case was all settled.”

“Not quite,” Ransom said lightly as he shook the hand. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.” Holmes looked as if he were about to protest, and Ransom added quickly, “As I'm doing with everyone.”

“All right,” Holmes said after a beat.

“Your cabin?”

“No, over here, if you don't mind.” He was already moving over to the brief expanse of railing to the left of the stairs. “The cabins on this boat are awfully small. I feel claustrophobic enough in it myself. I don't think I could take it with another person.”

“I understand.” He'd had only a moment to assess the retired lawyer, but Ransom thought the old man cut quite a dignified, if slightly starchy, figure. Holmes was dressed, as always, in a lightweight suit and tie. The crisp whiteness of his shirt made his skin look a bit yellow and his powderlike hair seem dingy.

“I first should say,” Holmes began, planting his palms on the railing and looking out over the side as if making a speech, “that I, of course, had nothing to do with the murder. I hardly knew the woman. And from our brief acquaintance—if you could call it that—I wouldn't have wanted to know her.”

“She was that difficult?”

“From what I could see.”

“Well, what I'm most interested in getting from the passengers is an account of their movements after leaving the boat yesterday, through the time the body was discovered.”

“Yes, of course. I was in the general store.”

Ransom's right eyebrow elevated. “The whole time?”

“Yes. I suppose it doesn't do me any credit, but I was already tired of the mob and wanted to be away from them. Didn't particularly want to go walking in the woods, either, so I stayed there and had a cup of coffee.”

He sounds like he's rehearsed this,
thought Ransom. “I'm a bit confused. You see, Joaquin—Hoke, the steward—went into the store and he didn't see any of the passengers.”

Holmes didn't turn a hair. “Boy can't see his own nose.”

Ransom waited, silently staring at the side of Holmes's face. The former lawyer lasted for a while under the scrutiny, but finally faltered. “Well, I might've gone out and looked at those little shops across the way for a while. Yes, I did do that, come to think of it.”

“You don't sound very sure.”

The old man turned toward the detective. “Hoisted on my own petard!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I used to be a lawyer. Used to hear from my peers how when they asked people where they were at the time of the crime, they'd say they were so shocked they couldn't remember. After all these years I'm damned if I don't find myself in the same state. Heard one of our members had been murdered, and everything else went out of my head.” A smile slid across his face. “And like they say, I didn't know I was going to need an alibi.”

“You were a criminal lawyer?”

Holmes looked completely surprised by the question. “No. I did … other kinds … most other kinds of law. But I know some criminal lawyers. Fellows I went to school with.”

“So you were on your own when the murder occurred.”

“Probably was. But as I said, except for on this trip, I didn't know the woman at all.”

“Um-hmm.” Ransom cleared his throat. “I'm also checking up on any strangers who might've been in the vicinity.”

The detective thought he noticed a split second during which the former lawyer froze in place. “Yes?”

“Some members of the tour saw a man drive up and go into Friendly's while you were there.”

“They did?” Holmes said lightly. His eyes had gone blank, and his tone was vague. Ransom thought this was a technique that had probably served him well in his practice. “I don't remember seeing anybody.”

“You don't? That's interesting.…”

“Why?”

“Because the people who saw him arrive told me that it was a man they'd seen before … talking to you on the street in Sangamore.”

There was a longer pause this time during which Ransom could hear the gears turning in the old man's head. “You know, I do remember somebody coming in. He sat by me at the lunch counter.”

“And was it the same man?”

“As a matter of fact, it was. But he's nothing to me—just somebody I got into a conversation with in Sangamore.”

Ransom was finding Holmes's responses more and more puzzling. There was no doubt in his mind that the former lawyer was lying, and pretty badly, at that. But what possible reason he could have for doing so under the circumstances eluded the detective.

“Mr. Holmes, if you'll forgive me for saying it, you're not very good at this.”

“What?” Holmes exclaimed, his lower jaw dropping with an odd click. “What do you mean?”

“As a lawyer, you should know the importance of telling the absolute truth in a murder investigation, regardless of whether or not you practiced criminal law.”