Murder of a Needled Knitter (10 page)

“What entry fee?” demanded a dishwater blonde with an elegant English accent. “There was nothing in the literature about an additional charge.”

“Guinevere claimed that because she wasn't originally scheduled to lead this group, errors in the brochure were not her fault,” the lady in the wheelchair sputtered. “She said if I wanted to be a part of the competition, I'd have to pay a late fee on top of the original amount to cover the administrative cost.”

“If bullshit were music, that woman would be the whole orchestra,” the English woman declared. “For an all-inclusive junket, this is turning into a bloody expensive trip.” She ticked off the list on her fingers. “There are the drinks, the photographs, the shore excursions and spa. Not to mention bingo. At least I found a partner with a great way to offset that expense.” She put her hands on her hips. “One could easily end up with a bill for hundreds or thousands of dollars.”

“But you don't have to buy any of those things,” the woman in the wheelchair protested. “It's the stuff that was supposed to be included in the knitting group package that gripes me. Like the yarn and the contest.” She fussed with her leg. “And after breaking my ankle, I can't even go on most of the included shore excursions.”

Skye edged closer. Money was always a good motive for murder. She was fairly sure someone confined to a wheelchair couldn't have stabbed Guinevere, but the English woman seemed capable of it.

While the group assured the injured knitter that she should be given a partial refund for the tours she couldn't participate in, Skye tried to figure out why the blonde looked so familiar. Had she been with the group in the dining room New Year's Eve, or maybe in the photo at the observation tower on the private island?

While she pondered, traces of conversation floated around her. Skye paused when someone said, “To me, knitting feels almost like magic. If you listen hard enough, the yarn will tell you if it's meant to be a sweater or a dress or a shawl or whatever.”

•   •   •

Skye's bemused smile faded when static sounded from the PA system and a voice said, “May I have your attention, please?” When most people continued to talk, the voice said, “Everyone, I need to ask you to be quiet.”

While the disembodied voice made a couple more requests for the group's attention, Skye found her mother and the two of them worked their way toward the small stage at the rear of the lounge. May pushed to the front and Skye followed. Officer Trencher, flanked by three of her staff, was speaking into the microphone. In her crisp, white uniform with her dark hair in a sleek chignon, the security officer was an imposing sight.

May yanked on her daughter's arm until Skye tilted her head downward, then whispered in her ear, “No info from my friends, and now everyone will know, so it will be harder to question them.”

Skye agreed and made a face.

Officer Trencher said, “It is my sad duty to notify you that your leader, Guinevere Stallings, has passed away.”

Immediately voices buzzed around the room. Skye heard shocked exclamations and conjecture regarding the cause of Guinevere's death. Heart attack and falling overboard were among the top guesses, although strangely someone suggested that she'd been eaten by a giant squid.

After a few moments, Officer Trencher's smooth contralto washed over the crowd in a soothing wave. “We are very sorry for the loss of our colleague and would like to speak to each of you regarding the matter.”

Once again, voices rose. This time most wanted to know why security wanted to talk to them, but a few were more concerned about the premature ending of the cocktail party. Several of the latter group rushed to grab another drink and fill their plates with hors d'oeuvres.

Officer Trencher observed the crowd for a moment, then said, “Anyone who is a guest of the knitters, and not a part of the group, may go.” She glanced at a list in her hand. “Would knitters with last names beginning with R though Z please follow Mr. Loewenberg.”

She indicated a compact man with a dark buzz cut who started toward an alcove separated by a red velvet upholstered half wall.

Once that group shuffled away, Officer Trencher continued. “Those with last names beginning with K through P please follow Mr. Eichler.” She paused, then said, “And A through J will go with Mr. Admor.”

Although Skye was a guest, she decided to stay with her mother, and when May moved toward her assigned line, Skye did, too.

But before they reached Mr. Admor, Officer Trencher pointed to them, and said, “Mrs. Denison and Mrs. Boyd, you're with me.”

Know the Ropes

W
hile Officer Trencher questioned May as to her movements after Guinevere had dismissed the group's knitting activity that morning, Skye was on red alert. She was ready to intervene if her mother went off the script they had prepared after lunch, but May repeated the story and strayed from the facts only once.

When it became clear that May wasn't going to blurt out any incriminating information, Officer Trencher switched gears and tried to entice her into revealing her feelings toward the deceased. Skye tensed and gripped her mother's hand, but May didn't take Officer Trencher's bait.

Finally, the security chief said in a conversational tone, “I wonder what Ms. Stallings would want people to say about her when they stand beside her casket at her funeral?”

As Skye was pondering the odd comment, May blurted out, “I know what I'd want them to say.”

“Oh?” Officer Trencher quirked an eyebrow. “What?”

“Look, she's moving.” May's face was utterly serious.

Skye suppressed a giggle at the security chief's
astonished expression, then decided to ask a question of her own. “I was wondering about Guinevere's next of kin. When will you notify them?”

“According to her file, Ms. Stallings's only living relative is a brother in the air force. We are attempting to locate him now and will inform him of his sister's death as soon as we are able.” Officer Trencher narrowed her eyes. “Anything else, Mrs. Boyd?” Skye shook her head and the security chief said, “Then we're done for now. Thank you both for your time.”

As they walked away, May said, “It's almost six; your father will be starving.” She jabbed the elevator button repeatedly. “Are you and Wally coming to dinner with us?”

“We're meeting Trixie and Owen at seven.” Skye pasted an innocent expression on her face. “Do you want to wait until then and join us?”

“You know your dad won't eat that late.” May frowned. “The elevators are taking forever. We'd better take the stairs. It's only ten flights down to our cabin and only nine for you.”

“Be my guest, Mom, but I'm not climbing down steps in these.” Skye indicated the three-inch heels on her white strappy sandals. “Have a nice dinner. I'll see you tomorrow.” She patted May's shoulder. “Don't worry too much about all this. Get a good night's sleep.”

“I'll try,” May said. “I'm going to let God take care of it.” She took off down the stairs at a fast clip, shouting over her shoulder, “I figure I might as well since he's up all night anyway.”

Moments later, when an elevator door opened, Skye, still smiling, nodded to the people inside, stepped on board, and pushed number seven. Things had worked out well. Her mother had stuck to the approved script and her father's demanding stomach would allow her and Wally to have a pleasant dinner with the Fraynes.

Wally hadn't returned to the suite when Skye
arrived, but he'd left her a note indicating that he'd meet her at the restaurant. Having some time to kill, Skye freed her hair from its headband and plugged in her hot rollers. While they heated up, she grabbed a flyer from the wastebasket advertising a wine and caviar tasting and jotted down notes about what she'd overheard at the cocktail party.

At five to seven, freshly coiffed, Skye hurried into the restaurant's foyer and joined Trixie and Owen, who were already in the line in front of the maître d's station.

“There's a forty-minute wait,” Trixie said. “I guess seven is a popular time.”

“Shoot!” Skye's stomach growled. She'd been too busy snooping to eat anything at the cocktail party. Now she regretted it. “I don't suppose you brought me any nibbles from happy hour?”

“Sorry.” Trixie grinned. “You'll have to go up with us tomorrow night. The snacks were awesome. They had salmon and mini quiches and—”

“And that sushi stuff everyone raves about.” Owen made a moue of distaste. “Who wants to eat raw fish, gluey rice, and seaweed?”

“Actually, I like sushi and right now I'd love a California roll.” Skye's stomach growled again. “I should have thought to make a reservation.”

“No worries, sugar, I took care of it.” Wally appeared at Skye's side and kissed her cheek. “Our table's ready.” He gestured to the tuxedoed server waiting in the dining room entrance holding four menus.

“My hero.” Skye hugged her wonderful husband and took his hand. “Let's go.”

The people in front of them glared as the quartet bypassed the line. Following the headwaiter as he threaded his way to their table, Skye inhaled the amazing aromas.
Yum!
The dining room was made elegant by white linen, beautiful artwork, and huge windows displaying diamond stars sprinkled across a never-ending expanse of black velvet sky.

Once the two couples were seated, they briefly examined their choices, and immediately ordered appetizers. Seconds later, a sommelier appeared and Wally selected a bottle of wine for the table.

As soon as the wine steward left, Skye said to Trixie and Owen, “Did you locate Sebastian?”

“Not exactly,” Trixie reported. “We found out that he's part of the entertainment staff, but he wasn't scheduled to be on duty anywhere tonight.” Trixie snatched a breadstick from the basket and slathered it with butter. “We did get his last name”—she paused before taking a bite—“and you'll never guess what it is.”

“What?” Skye selected a crusty baguette, broke off a piece, and popped it into her mouth, almost moaning at its yeasty goodness.

“Stallings,” Owen mumbled around the dinner roll he was chewing.

“As in Guinevere Stallings?” Skye nearly choked. “They were married?”

“Divorced,” Trixie corrected. “And fairly recently according to Ben. He's the maître d' at the Coronet Brasserie.”

“Ben?” Skye raised a brow, impressed that Trixie was already on a first name basis with the man. “So he was willing to talk to you?”

“Of course.” Trixie beamed. “Everyone's so friendly. He's a big old sweetie. And since we were there early, before the restaurant got busy, he was happy to chat with a fellow Redbird.”

“How did you figure out he was an ISU alumnus?” Skye knew that a cardinal named Reggie was the Illinois State University mascot.

“His class ring,” Trixie said, her expression smug. “Good thing I'm so observant.” She took a piece of folded paper from her tiny evening bag, and said, “Ben was surprised that Guinevere and Sebastian were on the same ship since the breakup wasn't pretty.”

“So, a prime suspect,” Wally said. He paused to taste
the merlot the sommelier had poured into his glass, nodded his acceptance, then added, “I assume security is aware of their past relationship.”

“Yep.” Owen accepted a glass of wine, took a sip, then said, “Trixie's new pal told her that the crew bar is one giant rumor mill.”

“Hmm.” Skye waited until the waiter had finished serving everyone their starter, then picked up her fork and speared a melon ball drizzled with port and mint. “I wonder if there's any way to get invited there.”

“No.” Trixie spread lobster and seafood pâté on a toast point. “I asked. It's belowdecks, so we'd have to sneak in somehow.”

“Don't even think about it.” Owen took a bite of his shrimp cocktail; then after swallowing he scowled and said, “You promised me that if I went along with looking into the murder, you and Skye wouldn't pull any Lucy and Ethel escapades.”

“Of course not,” Skye agreed, glancing at her own husband, who was absorbed in his vegetable spring roll. “We wouldn't dream of doing that.”

“
I Love Lucy
is one of my favorite television shows of all time,” Trixie said. “Whenever they have a marathon of the programs on one of the retro channels, I make a point to watch it.”

“Remember when they were working in the candy factory?” Skye asked. “And when they were stomping the grapes?”

Trixie and Skye debated their favorite episodes while they finished their appetizers, but as their dirty dishes were removed, Wally brought them back to Guinevere's ex.

“So Sebastian is a member of the entertainment staff?” Wally asked. “What does he do?” Wally tapped his fingers on the white tablecloth. “Since he was eating in the specialty restaurant, I'm guessing something unique.”

“He's leading a bridge group.” Trixie paused as their
soups and salads were served. “They have the same deal as the knitting group—special activities, tournaments, and such.”

“I bet he's a Grand Master, and the participants can earn master points.” Skye had played bridge with her previous boyfriend, Simon Reid. The game was one of the few things she missed about not dating him. “He sort of looked like the type—suave and debonair.” Maybe she should try to talk Wally into learning to play. She studied her new husband. No. He was more a poker kind of guy.

“I think that's what Ben said.” Trixie swallowed a spoonful of her porcini mushroom soup. “He also mentioned that while Sebastian was housed in a passenger cabin, Guinevere was stuck on the crew decks. The woman she replaced hadn't minded the less comfortable accommodations, so that's what was reserved.”

“Her ex having a better room than hers must have galled her.” Skye dug her fork into her watercress and red radish salad. “It would most women.”

“Ben said she made quite a fuss, but they are at full capacity and there was nowhere else to put her,” Owen commented.

Trixie and Skye discussed how annoyed Guinevere would have been over the inequity between her room and her ex-husband's until they were finished with their second course.

Finally, Owen pushed away his empty bowl, commenting, “That spinach and tortellini soup was real tasty. I thought I might not like all the fancy food on the ship, but once you get past the stupid names, it's not bad.”

“I told you you'd like it.” Trixie poked Owen's arm. “It's good for you to try new things.”

“Maybe.” Owen grabbed another roll. “But new isn't always better.”

Trixie made a face, then said to Skye and Wally, “At least Guinevere didn't have to share.” Trixie thanked
the server when he cleared her plate and put her entrée in front of her. “Ben said all the crew and a lot of the staff have roommates.”

“Is there a difference between crew and staff?” Skye asked, wrinkling her brow.

Trixie explained, “Crew are the lowest ranking employees and their jobs are related to the ship's operations. Like the safety workers, maintenance, housekeeping, and restaurant workers. The staff is more a part of the hotel/entertainment group.”

“The crew wear blue uniforms, the staff wear street clothes, and the officers wear white,” Owen said, summing up the difference.

“Good to know.” Wally nodded his appreciation of Owen's succinctness.

As Skye slid her fork under a piece of pan-fried barramundi, she said, “The bridge players probably meet in the card room, but we need to find out when.”

“We can request the group's schedule from passenger services after dinner,” Trixie suggested, then asked, “You didn't have any trouble getting the one for the knitters, did you?”

“Not at all. I just said that my mother was part of the group and they handed it right over.” Skye took a sip of wine. “Trixie can say that her father is with the bridge group.” Skye drank a little more of the merlot. It was almost as good as Diet Coke. “Maybe I can see if they need a fourth the next time they're playing party bridge rather than duplicate. Since points are earned during the duplicate tournament, probably only members of the group are allowed to play.”

For the next several minutes they concentrated on the terrific food; then after she finished her apricot pork, Trixie asked Wally, “Did you discover anything interesting at the crime scene?”

“I don't know how interesting it is, but I sketched the room, which might be helpful once we have your photos.” Wally polished off his prime rib. “And I did
establish that there are only two ways in or out of Cloud Walkers. The main entrance and a service door next to the bar.”

“Good thing I took pictures of that area,” Trixie said.

“Because it's probably how the murderer got away?” Skye asked.

“Right,” Trixie agreed. “Otherwise, the perp would have had to pass right by us to leave by the main doors.”

“True.” Wally's smile indicated his amusement at Trixie's use of police terminology. He turned to Skye. “You were correct that Officer Trencher really has no way of sealing off the crime scene. There was a cocktail party for past cruisers going on while I was there. Good thing no one checked to see if I had an invitation.”

“Heck!” Skye was disappointed. “I thought maybe Officer Trencher was just saying that to lull me into a false sense of security in hopes that I'd incriminate myself.”

“There are movable walls in place but no guard, and it would be easy to get in and destroy any evidence.” Wally frowned. “Not that I think there's much chance of finding anything worthwhile since the area around it has all been cleaned. At this point, with all the people who have tracked through the crime scene, I doubt that any evidence the FBI recovers could be used in a court of law.”

“Darn!” Skye shook her head, but before she could say anything more, the waiter distracted her by handing her the dessert menu. She looked it over and asked him, “I don't suppose any of this isn't totally decadent?”

“Sorry, madame.” The server couldn't hide his smile. “Our chef cooks with a flair for the spectacular and a wanton disregard for calories.”

Chuckling, they all placed their orders, and once the waiter walked away, Wally asked Skye, “Did you learn anything relevant at the cocktail party?” He winked.
“Except this year's most popular pattern for baby booties.”