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Authors: Jessica Fletcher

Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (11 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
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I considered joining Gladys in the Explorers’ Lounge but decided against it. The meal had been elaborate and filling. I needed to do something that involved more than sitting.
 
 
I wandered down to the lower promenade deck and followed the sound of slot machines to the casino, where the post-dinner gambling action was in full swing. I’m not a gambler, although I suppose that every time I devote many months to writing a book, I’m gambling that it will appeal to enough readers to make it worthwhile.
 
 
I have, however, been in casinos before and have even pulled an occasional slot machine lever, investing a couple of quarters for the experience. But what has always fascinated me is the craps table. Of all the games, that seems to be the one in which the players have the most fun, whooping and hollering, their fortunes rising and falling on the next roll of the dice.
 
 
A spirited game was in progress, and I sidled up to watch the action. I took in each player surrounding the green felt playing surface and smiled. Win or lose, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. As I observed the table, a man entered the casino, the same man we’d seen in our hallway earlier in the day. He came directly to the craps table and tossed a hundred-dollar bill on it. “Change,” he told one of the young crew members, who shoved a pile of chips toward him. He wore the same clothes as when I’d first seen him: white shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. I wondered whether he’d worn that outfit to the dining room. While this first night at sea wasn’t designated a formal night—tuxedo or suit and tie for men, evening wear for the women—I’d seen no one at dinner who wasn’t dressed in what might be termed neat-casual, which didn’t include shorts and sandals. Had he changed clothing after dinner before heading for the casino?
 
 
He hadn’t noticed me, and I stood behind him, watching intently as the game continued. I had no idea what was going on. It seemed that when someone rolled a seven with the dice, it won money for the players at the table. But then someone else rolled a seven at a different time and it was a loser. Everyone was yelling and tossing chips on various sections of the table. How could anyone keep track of what was going on, especially the men and women in charge of the play?
 
 
A man standing next to the man in the white shorts muttered something about the dice going cold and left the table. A woman of approximately my age who’d been standing next to him motioned for me to take his place. I stepped up to the table, shook my head, and said, “I don’t know how to play.”
 
 
The man I’d been observing heard my voice and turned to face me. He grimaced, picked up what chips he had left on the railing in front of him, and left.
 
 
“Maybe another time,” I told the woman.
 
 
“It’s fun,” she said. “This table is about to get hot. You’ll miss the action.”
 
 
I thanked her and looked for the man. He was gone. I peeked into the sports bar, where multiple TV sets featured replays of current sporting events. No luck. I walked through the nightclub, where a jolly bald man sat at a piano bar and sang tunes made familiar by Frank Sinatra, my kind of music. No white shorts there, either.
 
 
I retraced my steps to the dining room and went up the circular staircase to the upper level where we’d had dinner. From reading material about the ship, I knew that the promenade deck was the only one that made a full circle—the exercise deck, three times around it and you’ve done a mile. I went to a door leading outside, stepped through it, and took in a deep breath of salty sea air. The full moon was now partially obscured by low clouds that seemed suspended like a gauzy gray shroud. There was a damp mist in the air; we were heading into less-pleasant weather than we’d experienced in Seattle. Still, it was good to be outdoors. Was I up to three turns around the deck? Probably not. That would wait until morning. But once around was appealing. The low-heeled red shoes with rubber soles that I’d worn to dinner would provide decent traction on the slippery deck.
 
 
As I started to walk, I thought about my unusual interest in the man dressed in white. I’m not an advocate of the “woman’s intuition” theory. My experience has been that men have intuition every bit as keen as women’s. Maybe my heightened interest in him was because I’ve devoted so much of my professional life to delving into crime, both literary and, unfortunately, real. I’ve spent considerable time with members of law enforcement; perhaps their natural curiosity and suspicious nature have rubbed off on me. Whatever the reason, there was something about the man that told me to be a little more observant.
 
 
An older couple coming from the opposite direction said hello as they passed. I was pleased to see them. There was something eerie about being out there alone, and I considered turning and following them, but I didn’t. I kept walking in the direction of the bow, keeping my legs a little farther apart to compensate for the ship’s motion through the water. There was more movement than there had been earlier in the evening. I stopped, went to the rail, and looked out over the sea. A pronounced swell had begun to build, a departure from the slick calmness that had prevailed when we set sail.
 
 
I continued on my nocturnal walk. The moisture-laden air was chilly, and I pulled the crimson jacket I’d worn to dinner a little closer around me as I neared the front of the ship. I glanced through windows into the public rooms, now populated with men and women enjoying their first night at sea.
Once around
, I told myself.
Pick up the pace, Jess.
 
 
I walked faster until I reached the point where the deck curved to the left, bringing me to the bow. I stopped and drew a series of breaths as I looked ahead, seeing what the ship’s crew was seeing from the bridge high above. A briny spray stung my cheeks and nose. I heard footsteps and turned. A power-walking young couple came into view.
 
 
“Good evening,” I said.
 
 
“Hi. Getting stormy,” the man said as they passed from my sight to the opposite side of the ship.
 
 
I was about to continue my walk when I heard more footsteps. I waited to see who they belonged to. They stopped just out of my line of vision. Maybe whoever it was decided to retrace his or her steps and not complete the circuit. But I didn’t hear the sound of feet fading away.
 
 
I took steps back in the direction from which I’d come. As I rounded the bend, I came face-to-face with the man in the white shorts. He obviously hadn’t expected to be confronted by me, judging from the look of confusion on his thin face. He stared at me for a moment with eyes that were almost yellow in the diffused light of the moon, before hurrying away, almost at a run.
 
 
“Excuse me,” I called after him.
 
 
He turned his head but never broke stride.
 
 
I started after him but thought better of it. Instead, I completed my one turn around the deck, ducked inside, and went to my cabin. After donning an extra jacket to ward off the chill, I went out onto my balcony and gazed out over the expanse of black water.
 
 
Who was this man who I was now certain had a special interest in me, and possibly in Kathy?
 
 
I would not let another day go by without finding out.
 
 
Chapter Four
 
 
Gladys Montgomery was already at the table when Kathy and I walked into the dining room the following morning. The
Glacial Queen
’s grande dame, in a stylish aqua pantsuit, was adorned by only slightly less jewelry than she had worn the night before. I thought back to her comment at dinner about judging societies by how they treat their less fortunate, a philosophy not often associated with wealthy older women. No doubt about it, this was a formidable human being, as secure in her views as she was financially.
 
 
When Kathy had picked me up to go down for breakfast, I immediately noticed something different about her. She seldom wore much makeup, and always applied it with a light touch. This morning, however, she’d applied a deep red lipstick, eye shadow, and mascara, and had painted her cheeks a glowing pink. Or were the pink cheeks natural, generated by an inner liveliness?
 
 
“You look ready to attack the day,” I commented.
 
 
“Nothing like a good night’s sleep,” Kathy replied with a wide smile.
 
 
“Did you enjoy the concert last night?” I asked Gladys after we’d taken our seats at the table.
 
 
“Very much. They played Vivaldi. It’s said that Vivaldi wrote four hundred concertos. I prefer to think that he wrote one concerto four hundred times. Still, it was pleasant, although the violinist’s intonation was slightly off.”
 
 
“I don’t know much about classical music,” Kathy said. “My tastes run to bluegrass, and country and western.”
 
 
If my friend’s musical tastes failed to please Gladys, the older woman didn’t state it. She merely smiled and consulted her menu.
 
 
After we’d ordered, I asked Kathy how her evening had gone.
 
 
“It was fun,” she said. “Bill is a very good dancer.”
 
 
Gladys looked at us over half-glasses. “You’re speaking of Mr. Henderson?” she asked.
 
 
“Yes,” said Kathy.
 
 
“A very pleasant man,” Gladys said, now turning her attention to that morning’s shipboard notice of activities, accompanied by a description of Glacier Bay, our first stop after a day and night at sea. Actually, we wouldn’t be stopping there in the usual sense of getting off the ship to explore the area. Glacier Bay was a body of water surrounded by some of Alaska’s most spectacular glaciers. According to the flyer, we would arrive at eleven, and after passing Reid and Lamplugh glaciers, the ship would hold its position for much of the day just off such spectacular sights as the Grand Pacific and Margerie glaciers. My level of anticipation was high. I’d read about glaciers before leaving home and was eager to see just how far they’d retreated in this age of global warming. I’m no scientist, but it seems to me that
something
is happening that isn’t good for this planet we inhabit.
 
 
I’d walked slowly when entering the dining room that morning, taking in each table in search of the man who was wearing white shorts and a T-shirt last night. He wasn’t there.
 
 
“Gladys,” I said, “you seem to know everyone on the ship. Did you notice a small, wiry man with a thin face yesterday? He was wearing white shorts and a white shirt.”
 
 
She made a disgusted face. “He doesn’t sound like someone I would pay particular attention to. Why do you ask?”
 
 
“Just curious,” I said.
 
 
“The man we saw in the hallway?” Kathy asked.
 
 
I nodded as our breakfast was served.
 
 
As we were about to depart, the Johansens arrived. “Slept in a little,” he said.
 
 
“That’s a nice thing to do once in a while,” I said. “How was the talent show?”
 
 
Kimberly laughed. “It was so funny,” she said, “but amateur talent shows always are. I suppose that’s why the TV show
American Idol
is so popular.”
 
 
“I consider it cruel to make fun of well-meaning people,” Gladys intoned.
 
 
“They’re having fun,” David Johansen said defensively.
 
 
“Perhaps,” said Gladys.
 
 
“Excuse us,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Time to get the day moving.”
 
 
Kathy and I left the dining room and found two vacant overstuffed chairs alongside a window.
 
 
“Nasty weather,” Kathy remarked. The rain was coming down hard, a stiff wind splattering drops against the pane.
 
 
“I hope it clears a little before we reach Glacier Bay,” I said. “So, tell me about last night.”
 
 
Kathy laughed. “What’s to tell? We went to one of the clubs where they were playing old-fashioned swing music—you know, like Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller.”
 
 
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
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