Murder of a Needled Knitter (17 page)

The professor glared at her husband as Sebastian won the hand with the jack from the board. “That was a dumb move, darling. You should have known the queen was already gone.”

Philip shrugged good-naturedly. “Only you, my dear, can memorize the entire deck as it's played.” Apparently he was used to his wife's criticism and unconcerned by her reproach.

Skye examined Sebastian. She was surprised he was so vocally negative about his ex, considering she had just been killed. She needed to nudge him a little more about his former spouse.

Sebastian led a two of diamonds from the board and the professor took the hand with an eight. For the first time since the cards had been dealt, the woman smiled and led the ten of clubs.

Skye, pretending to have just thought of it, said, “Stallings. You know, the woman who was leading my mother's knitting group was named Stallings.” She kept her expression innocent. “Was she any relation to you, Sebastian?”

Sebastian didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took the hand with the jack, led the king taking another hand, then led a nine of spades taking a third hand. He needed one more to make the bid.

Finally, as he pondered his next play, he said, “Not anymore.” He gazed at Skye, a speculative look in his eyes. “Guinevere was my ex-wife. She kept my name along with everything else I owned.” He tapped his cards. “Interesting that you ask about her, since, from your use of the past tense, I'm sure you know she was murdered two days ago.” He flicked a glance at the professor and her husband, who remained silent. “Now let's concentrate on the game.” He led a four of diamonds from the board.

The professor smiled triumphantly and took the hand with her jack, then led her king and queen of spades in quick succession. She paused dramatically before laying down her last card, a queen of clubs. If Sebastian took the hand, he would make his bid; if the professor or her husband took it, they would set him.

Grimly Sebastian threw in his ace of hearts and pulled across the ten of diamonds from the board. Philip put down his king of hearts and the professor jubilantly claimed the winning hand.

After congratulating the couple on their victory, Skye and Sebastian waited for the remaining groups to finish playing. She knew she had only a few minutes left to get anything from the bridge master before he went to one table and she went to another. She was racking her brains for a way to ask him about an alibi, but nothing came to her.

Finally, deciding to see if she could provoke Sebastian into some sort of reaction, Skye lowered her voice, leaned close, and said, “I'm the one who found Guinevere right after she was stabbed.”

“Oh.” His voice bore no trace of interest. “How shocking for you.”

“She was still alive,” Skye said, knowing she was entering dangerous ground. “I tried to save her, but there was nothing I could do.”

“That's too bad.” His tone belied the sentiment his words expressed. “Did Guinevere have any last words? Perhaps where she hid my bank accounts?”

Skye didn't answer. Was he afraid that his ex-wife had fingered him for her murder? Or was he just being flippant?

At her silence, he sighed and said, “Relax. I was conducting a duplicate tournament that morning from ten to one. Check with Officer Trencher. She verified my alibi.”

“Oh.” Skye's cheeks flamed. “Thanks.” They really needed to know what security had already learned.
Maybe Wally could sweet-talk the female officer. “Officer Trencher inferred security wasn't going to interview people. She said they'd turn the case over to the FBI once we got back to Fort Lauderdale.”

“By people she meant passengers, not employees,” Sebastian said with a sneer. “And even though security won't do much, they did check out the obvious suspects—like a disgruntled ex-husband and any one of the crew or staff with whom they
knew
she'd had an altercation.”

“But I've heard about so many run-ins between her and others,” Skye murmured. “I bet there were some that security missed.”

“Exactly.” Sebastian nodded. “So, did my dearly departed ex have a deathbed utterance?”

“No, Guinevere didn't say anything.” Skye fingered her neck. “With the wound in her throat, I doubt she could have spoken, but she was unconscious the whole time I was with her.”

“I truly am sorry she died in such a horrible way.” Sebastian hunched his shoulders. “She was a nasty piece of work, but no one deserves that.”

“No,” Skye agreed. “They don't. And everyone deserves justice.”

“Perhaps.” He patted her hand. “But if word gets around that you were the last one with her before she died and are asking questions, aren't you afraid the killer might get nervous?”

“A little.” Skye had been thinking about that since she'd been knifed in St. Maarten. “But if Guinevere had told me anything, I would have reported it to security, so surely the murderer has no reason to fear me now.”

“Not everyone on board comes from a place where the police are trusted,” Sebastian warned. “Many of the crew and staff would never consider sharing information with the authorities and they might believe you wouldn't either. Don't assume you're safe because of that.”

Starry Night

S
kye sat on their balcony and smiled at Wally as he handed her a Diet Coke. Thank goodness May was occupied with her knitting group activities. So far, having her mother on board the ship hadn't been as intrusive as Skye had feared. But there were still three days left for May to become annoying, and Skye was determined to keep up her guard. She was not going to let her mother push her around or guilt her into doing what May wanted her to do.

For instance, when Skye had returned to their cabin at six after playing bridge, there had been a message from her mother suggesting they get together for supper. But Skye and Wally had already decided that they preferred to be alone, so Skye had phoned her mom and declined the invitation. May's feelings had been hurt and the call had ended with an offended good-bye.

Shrugging off her mother's snit, Skye had turned her attention to Wally, and the two of them had spent the next hour or so in a manner universally approved of for honeymooners. Now, freshly showered and wearing only a knit aquamarine and white tank dress, Skye
luxuriated against the cushioned chaise and admired her handsome husband.

Wally had put on a pair of linen drawstring pants that rode low on his hips. They emphasized his washboard abs and trim waist, but were too loose to show off his sexy butt. Skye sighed when he pulled a T-shirt on over his head. It was such a shame to cover that wonderfully muscled chest, but at least she could still enjoy his delts and biceps.

“Are you ready to order, darlin'?” Wally asked, picking up one of the two leather menus that their steward had left for them. They'd decided to have a romantic dinner for two on their balcony. “I'm starved. That sandwich earlier this afternoon didn't do much for me.”

“Almost.” Skye flipped open her menu. “I'm considering escargots à la bourguignonne with shallots, garlic, parsley, and Pernod butter for my appetizer, but I can't quite wrap my mind around eating snails.” She nibbled on her thumbnail. “Still, I want to be adventurous.”

“This is a good place to try dishes you wouldn't want to order in a restaurant at home.” Wally leaned back, resting his elbows against the railing. “If you don't like it, you can always get something else.”

“And it's not as if I'll go hungry if I skip a course.” Skye pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What are you starting with?”

“Corvina soufflé,” Wally answered immediately. “You can't go wrong with crab and truffle creamed leeks. Followed by French onion soup, and the glazed pork loin with mushroom ragout, rosemary blini, and crispy vegetables.” He licked his lips. “And for dessert, I want apple strudel pie with homemade cinnamon ice cream.”

“Yum.” His healthy appetite made her smile. She wished she could eat the way he did without ever gaining an ounce. Of course, he got a lot more exercise—he'd squeezed in time at the onboard fitness center every day while she hadn't even figured out where it was located yet.

“How about you?” Wally asked.

“I'll have the lobster bisque with cognac cream and chopped tarragon, followed by the Mediterranean phyllo tart with marinated artichokes, vegetables à la Grecque, and red pepper coulis.” She wasn't going to worry about calories. This cruise was a once in a lifetime experience. When she got home, she'd resume her normally healthy diet and swim some extra laps. “And I'll end with, white chocolate–macadamia nut crème brûlée.”

Two hours later Skye pushed away her empty dessert plate and nearly purred in contentment. Between the satisfying meal, her earlier lovemaking with Wally, and the ship's gentle rocking, she felt like a cat ready for a snooze on her favorite chair. Too bad they'd arranged to meet Trixie and Owen at nine thirty in the Fresco Lounge to discuss the results of the afternoon's sleuthing.

Wally checked his watch. “We'd better go.” He shoved his chair back from the table and stood. “We have a lot to talk over with the Fraynes before the meet and greet with the entertainers at ten.”

After hearing Jessica's story about Guinevere threatening the dancer, they needed to talk to Candace Davidson, and the exclusive, suite-guest-only cocktail party with the performers provided a perfect opportunity to have a casual chat with her. There was nothing like alcohol to loosen someone's tongue.

When the Boyds arrived at Fresco, they found that Trixie and Owen had already claimed a secluded corner table. As Skye and Wally joined them, a waitress instantly appeared, and while Wally quizzed the young woman about the beer selection, Skye perused the drinks menu. She was still full, and decided that a crème de menthe frappé would be the perfect digestif.

Once they had ordered, Skye described her encounter with Sebastian. She concluded with his warning regarding the danger she and Trixie might be in
because of the non-American crew's differing perception of law enforcement.

Trixie frowned. “You know, Sebastian made a good point about people from other cultures not believing we would have already shared everything we know with the ship's security team.” She looked nervously over her shoulder. “And we were followed on St. Maarten.”

“Maybe other times we didn't know about as well,” Skye added.

“Which means we'd better sure as hell get more serious about investigating,” Owen said, taking a healthy gulp of his beer.

“I agree.” Skye was once again surprised by Owen. Of their foursome, she would have expected him to be the least likely to want to continue looking for the murderer. “I think it's time for Wally to charm Officer Trencher into sharing what her team has already learned, so we don't duplicate security's efforts.”

“I'll give it a shot before we go onshore tomorrow morning,” Wally agreed. “Judging from the conversations you've reported having had with her, she seems pretty open, but don't count on her revealing much to me.”

“Sweetie, most women take one look into your deep brown eyes and tell you anything you want to know.” Skye stroked his arm. “The combination of your charisma, good looks, and aura of authority just sweeps them clear off their feet.” She laid her head on his shoulder and gazed up at him. “At least, that's how I feel.”

“That's nice to hear from my wife.” Wally's lips quirked upward. “But I think you're a little prejudiced and overestimate my talents.”

“Nah.” Trixie twirled the paper umbrella she'd plucked from her piña colada. “Skye's right. It doesn't work on all women, but I've seen a lot of them succumb to that Texas, aw-shucks mannerism you use to get what you want from the ladies.”

“Owen,” Wally said, “help me out here, bro.”

“First thing to learn as a married man . . .” Owen grinned, stretching out his legs. “If your wife is complimenting you, don't disillusion her.” He patted Trixie's thigh, then put an arm around her. “Better she thinks too much of you than too little.”

They all fell silent as the waitress arrived with Skye's and Wally's drinks. She placed them on cocktail napkins, along with a bowl of Guadalajara trail mix, then handed Wally a leather folder with the bill. As he signed it, she asked, “May I get you folks anything else? Perhaps another round for you, Mr. and Mrs. Frayne?”

Owen and Trixie declined, and after the server left, Trixie said, “I think we should just go ahead and use the ship's equipment to print the pictures.”

“Only if we can't find somewhere in port tomorrow.” Wally's tone was firm. “Printing them on board has to be our last resort.” He held up his hands, palms out. “If we could do it ourselves in the Internet Lounge that would be one thing, but we don't have any photo paper, so they would be so fuzzy they would be useless.”

“Right.” Skye blew out an exasperated breath. “We'd probably see more detail squinting at them on the tiny screen of Trixie's netbook.”

“The monitors in the Internet Lounge are fairly large,” Owen pointed out. “Couldn't we take a look at them there?” He leaned forward. “At least we might get an idea if there's anything worth seeing.”

“I say no, for the same reason we can't have the ship's photography department print them for us.” Wally sucked in his cheeks. “There's just no way to explain pictures of a dead body to other people without letting on that we're conducting an unofficial investigation. What could we possibly say that wouldn't make us look like ghouls collecting trophies of gory scenes?”

“Crap!” Owen crossed his arms. “We don't get into Grand Turk tomorrow until one in the afternoon, and we have to be back on the ship by six thirty.”

“And we're all signed up for the Semi-Sub Underwater Exploration and Dune Buggy Island Adventure excursion, which according to the tour info takes four hours.” Trixie's expression was stubborn. “There is no way I'm missing my chance to ride in a sub and drive a dune buggy. I doubt I'll ever get another one.”

“And the three hundred bucks we paid is nonrefundable,” Owen added.

“That means we have to know for certain where we can print the photos, since we'll only have an hour to get it done,” Skye said as she examined the bowl of snacks. She was by no means hungry, but the mix of rice crackers, peanuts, sesame sticks, almonds, sunflower seeds, toasted corn, and spices was tempting.

“This would be so much easier if every port had an OfficeMax,” Trixie said. “It's worse than Scumble River. I can't believe there's only one place to print photos on any of these islands.”

“I'm sure there are other places,” Owen said. “We just can't seem to find them.”

“And we also can't seem to find anyone who can tell us where they are,” Skye added, taking a sip of her frappé. “That seems weird.”

“Not at all.” Wally unclenched his jaw and exhaled noisily. “We're only interacting with people in highly touristy areas. They may not want to tell us because then we would leave the shopping area and wouldn't use their services or buy their goods.” He grabbed a handful of the trail mix. “The ships aren't in port every day, and a lot of these folks only make any money when the cruisers are in town, so you can see their point.”

“I suppose so.” Skye's voice was doubtful. “I hate to think they'd be deliberately unhelpful, but you're probably right.”

“So what are we going to do?” Owen demanded, draining his beer bottle. “We need to get those photos printed without fail tomorrow.”

“I'll figure it out,” Wally promised with a resigned
expression. “Now, Trixie, did your friend Ben the maître d' have anything useful to say about the vic? Any more enemies he could think of?”

“He said that mostly she was equally mean and snotty to everyone.” Trixie ate the cherry from her piña colada and put the stem in her empty glass. “But he didn't mention the dancer or the hairdresser that Skye heard about, so their run-ins with Guinevere must not be common knowledge.”

“Which means security might not have checked their alibis,” Skye said, finishing her drink. “We'll try to talk to Candace tonight and I'll make an appointment to get my hair done at the salon Saturday so I can question the stylist that Guinevere harassed.”

“I'll make an appointment, too.” Trixie touched her short brown hair. “Maybe for highlights since I obviously don't have much to cut or style.” She glanced sideways at her husband. “Or I could go completely blond.”

“No!” Owen yelped. “We've talked about this before, Trix. I don't like dyed blondes.”

“It's my hair.” Trixie's eyes narrowed. “Do I say anything about your buzz cut?”

“Folks, can we discuss our personal style preferences some other time?” Wally asked, then zeroed in on Trixie. “So Ben didn't have anything helpful to share?”

“I didn't say that.” Trixie glared first at her husband, then at Wally and Skye. “If you all would stop distracting me, I was going to tell you that Ben mentioned that the day after Guinevere got on board she did something to tick off her steward.”

“That sounds interesting,” Skye said, dangling one of her turquoise-encrusted sandals from her toe. “Did he tell you any more?”

“Unfortunately, there wasn't anything more to tell. Ben didn't get the whole story, but he said he was in the crew bar and the steward was telling a buddy from his home country about whatever happened. When he
noticed people eavesdropping, he switched from English to Ukrainian, and Ben couldn't understand the rest.”

“You know”—Skye tilted her head—“it's odd that with workers from all over the world, I haven't heard them speaking anything but English.” She pursed her lips. “Not even to each other.”

“Ship employees are forbidden to speak any other language in front of the passengers,” Trixie said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Ben told me that the cruise line has lots of rules that can get you fired.” She widened both her eyes. “Or even worse.”

“Did you get the steward's name?” Skye asked before Trixie went on a tear about workers' rights. Not that she didn't agree with her friend about civil liberties, but they needed to head off to the party soon. “Did Ben suggest how we can find the guy to talk to him?”

“Yuri Cheburko is his name,” Trixie answered. “He works the crew cabins, and Ben had no idea how we could track him down.” She giggled. “Ben said guests aren't allowed into the crew area without special dispensation, so we might have to go undercover.”

“Hell, no!” Owen slammed his hand down on the table. “That was the one thing I said when we started this whole shebang.” He glared at Skye and Trixie. “You both promised no Lucy and Ethel capers.”

“I was just kidding,” Trixie assured her husband. “Skye and I wouldn't do something that foolish with a murderer running around.”

Skye's heart sank when she glanced over at Trixie, and saw that her friend's fingers were crossed. Why did she have a feeling that soon she and Trixie would be wearing a housekeepers' uniform and making the crew's beds?