Hula Done It? (16 page)

T
he bad thing about having a stateroom full of flowers is that when the ship is bucking forty-foot waves, the flowers end up in a watery heap on the floor.

The great thing about being in the Royal Family Suite is that with a single call, you can summon the concierge, who'll have the whole mess cleaned up while you sip frozen strawberry margaritas in the intimate confines of the Anchor bar.

It was 9:45
P.M
. and I had the room all to myself, save for the bartender and a chunky, middle-aged bald guy with a trendy goatee who was obviously as immune to seasickness as I was. He occupied a table at the far end of the bar, chugging one cocktail after another and staring out into the violent blackness beyond the bow, his blaze orange and screaming yellow shirt making me happy that Hawaiian prints had never caught on in the forty-eight contiguous states.

I sat near the entrance, waiting for Duncan to arrive and wondering how I'd react if he admitted to being the secret benefactor who'd upgraded my stateroom, filled it with flowers, and asked me to marry him. I stared into my frothy pink margarita, unsure how many I'd have to knock back before the answer became clear.

Etienne or Duncan? Etienne or Duncan?
Old World or modern? Elegant or rugged? Caged or uncaged? Predictable and dependable or wild and untamed?

Nuts.

I took a swig of my margarita. How could I decide? It...it was like trying to choose between double chocolate cake or fudge brownies. Impossible! I wasn't even sure how to broach the subject. Should I be direct or subtle? Lay all my cards on the table when he arrived or beat around the bush?

I licked a band of crystallized sugar off my glass, shifting my gaze to the doorway as the ship's photographer rocketed into the room like a seasoned veteran of countless storms at sea. Oh, God. He wasn't going to take pictures, was he?

"How about a smile?" he asked, stopping in front of my table.

I regarded him drolly. "Business a little slow tonight?"

He pressed the shutter, blinding me with his flash. "Yeah, unless I want pictures of guests with their heads down the john. I know my clientele. Those shots don't sell worth beans." He wandered toward the bar, snapped a picture of the only other
Aloha Princess
guest who didn't have his head down a toilet, then propped himself up on a stool at the bar, looking as if he were calling it quits for the night.

I wish he'd call it quits for the rest of the cruise.

As I licked another stripe of sugar off the rim of my glass, the overweight guy with the goatee heaved himself out of his chair and zigzagged across the floor, nodding to me as he staggered past my couch. I smiled in return and toasted him with my margarita. Any landlubber who could avoid slamming into a wall in these conditions deserved to be toasted. As he propelled himself toward the exit, the door swung open and Duncan appeared, lunging for a decorative chrome rail as the floor seesawed dramatically. The bald guy saluted him and charged out of the bar while Duncan anchored himself to the rail, looking like a shipwreck in the offing.

Uh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

When the floor leveled out a few degrees, Duncan made a mad dash across the floor and slid onto the sofa beside me. "Thanks for...meeting me," he choked out, his voice low and raspy.

I eyed him speculatively. "Are you all right? You look a little...how should I say this...seasick."

He shook his head. "I don't get seasick."

Of course he didn't. That was why his complexion was the color of old pavement.

"I apologize for last night, Em. Balmy English." He leaned back on the sofa, looking glad to be off his feet. "I'm not sure what they put into that vault, but from the way they were acting, I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be a transcript of the eighteen deleted minutes from the Nixon tapes. They didn't finish signing documents 'til after midnight. Those two really know how to stifle a guy's love life."

Recalling the hit list on the back of Percy's business card, I wondered if Duncan's love life was the only thing the two Brits had stifled recently. "Duncan, remember when you suggested yesterday that I should do myself a favor and not ask the Brits about their society affiliation? Well, I didn't, but now I wish I had. So, what's the big deal with the Sandwich Island Society?"

He massaged a spot on his forehead as if he were willing away a migraine. "They're zealots. One-issue fanatics. No sense of humor. If you don't share their beliefs, they'd just as soon --"

"Kill you?" I said in a preemptive gasp.

He lowered an eyebrow at me. "They'd just as soon back you into a corner and talk at you until you decide to change your point of view."

"My point of view about what?"

"About Captain James Cook. They blame him for everything from the rise in oil prices to the disappearance of Elvis. They despise him for destroying the culture of the Sandwich Islands and for contaminating every South Sea island he set foot on. They claim he introduced disease and political strife and created social unrest where none existed. They're happy to tell you that because of Captain James Cook, the Sandwich Islands lost their true identity. According to Percy and Basil,
they
would have done a much better job of preserving the culture."

"Get you something from the bar?" the bartender asked as he approached our table. "Beer nuts? Popcorn?"

Duncan waved him off, looking as if he could easier stick pins in his eyes than entertain any thought of snack food. He backhanded a line of sweat from his upper lip and shifted position on the couch.

"Are you sure you feel okay?" I asked skeptically.

"Maybe I'm a little queasy," he confessed. "Too much Tabasco in my Bloody Mary."

Right. He was a little queasy like some women were a little pregnant. "Duncan, maybe you shouldn't be here tonight. I wouldn't mind taking another rain --"

"So you met Percy and Basil," he cut me off, twining my fingers with his. "What did you think of them? Entertaining, huh?"

I frowned at his question. "Why does the name Broomhead sound familiar to me? I know I've heard it before, but I can't remember in what context. Did he invent something, or sue someone, or get his name in the
Guinness Book of World Records
for some oddball reason?"

Duncan shrugged. "I think Basil is related to some famous Englishman, but don't ask me who. I try not to listen when they start dragging out the family crests. It gets to be so overblown." He drew my hand to his mouth and kissed each of my fingertips, causing darts of electricity to needle my arm. "I'll tell you what, the next time I see him, I'll inquire."

"Would now be too soon?" I checked the time. "It's not too late. He might still be up."

A pause. "Are you serious? Now?"

"If it's not too much trouble."

He fixed me with a puzzled look. "Just so you know, neither Basil nor Percy was at dinner this evening. I suspect that means they may both be incapacitated, in which case, I'm not going to make the mistake of disturbing them."

Incapacitated...or gone? Now there was an intriguing concept. Had they gotten out of Dodge before anyone could shake them down about Professor Smoker's death? Could they have missed dinner not because of illness but because they were no longer aboard the ship? Euw, boy. "Were you on the same excursion as Percy and Basil today?"

He shook his head. "I haven't seen them since last night. I took a big group to Smith's Tropical Paradise today. I don't know what they did."

Gears started grinding in my head. Could they have gone back to the Secret Falls in search of another windfall? Had they found something again today? Or had something or some
one
found them first?

The dead body on the trail loomed large in my thoughts as we plunged into a trough and bucked out again. I grabbed my margarita and steadied it as the floor slid up and down. Back and forth. Left and right. Twitching my mouth at the annoyance, I stared hard at Duncan. "Okay, here's the thing. What would you say if I told you that Basil Broomhead and Percy Woodruffe-Peacock have created a hit parade of --"

"I'msorryEmily," he choked, clapping his hands over his mouth. As we belly flopped into another trough, Duncan raced across the floor and ripped through the doorway like an Iowa twister, leaving me to stare dumbly after him.

No! He couldn't leave! We hadn't even touched on the important stuff yet. What about my upgrade? My flowers?
My proposal?
I NEEDED TO KNOW! Was it him or Etienne?

Damn. Pouting at my missed opportunity, I raised my glass into the air to signal the bartender for a refill. I should have known better than to insert murder into the conversation.

I'd been way too subtle.

The computer room was tucked away on deck four, opposite the business/copy center and conference rooms. I staggered left and right as I negotiated the corridor, my steps governed by the pitch and yaw of the bucking ship and
not,
I told myself, by the two margaritas I'd polished off in the last half hour. Reaching the computer room entrance, I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself and peeked inside.

It was a small interior room whose banks of overhead lights looked down on four rows of buffet-size tables equipped with the latest flatscreen monitors, split keyboards, and tower CPUs. I suspected that the place was usually busy twenty-four/seven but tonight, it was as dead as the rest of the ship.

Unlatching myself from the door frame, I shuffled off-balance to the nearest workstation and sat down, feeling a little daunted by all the spiffy hardware. Computers weren't my medium. I could turn them on and off, all right. It was the stuff in between the "on and off" that sometimes gave me hives. I did much better with a catalogue and a phone. But this Basil Broomhead thing was driving me nuts, so I was going to get to the bottom of it in the only way I knew how.

I'd Google him.

I swiped my room key through the proper slot, encouraged when I gained instant online access and thrilled when the screen I called up actually appeared. I typed the words "basil broomhead" into the search field, and seven-tenths of a second later saw that my inquiry had produced two hundred and six hits. All right! Now we were getting somewhere.

I scrolled slowly down the page, discovering a Broomhead dance page, a University of Sheffield calendar that included someone named Broomhead, an article from
Horse & Hound
that quoted Basil Appleyard, several genealogical sites for people named Broomhead, a Broomhead Gallery and Museum, various awards and prizes offered by men named Basil, a listing for a block of new flats that had been built in Broomhead Park, but no Basil Broomhead. I clicked on the next page and sighed. Ten down. Only a hundred and ninety-six to go.

Twenty minutes later, having scrutinized all two hundred and six listings and finding diddly-squat, I decided to broaden my search. I typed the word "broomhead" into the search field and two and two-tenth seconds later was looking at a grand total of --

I winced at the number on the screen. Please tell me that wasn't right. Twenty-two thousand eight hundred hits? I'd be there until I was eligible for social security!

I heard a door slam shut in the corridor but ignored it as I tried to figure out how best to attack my problem. I needed help from a computer whiz. Someone with expertise in advanced searching techniques. Someone who could hack and find as easily as I could cut and paste.