Murder Walks the Plank (5 page)

On the forward deck, Henny introduced the players, one by one:

“Wanda Wintersmith, mistress of Mudhen Manor.” A plump matron draped in a huge pink towel crossed the stage, blowing soap bubbles, her bare wet feet slapping on the wood. “I always take the most luxurious bath before a grand evening event.”

“Walter Wintersmith, Wanda's errant husband.” A balding actor in a tuxedo carried a pair of dress shoes. He brandished a swab dripping with black sole dressing. “As far as I'm concerned, a shoe isn't fully polished until the rims are done.”

“Periwinkle Patton, Wanda's niece.” Mavis Cameron held out a whisk broom and dustpan. “Oh dear, I don't know if I can get all this bath powder swept up. It's such a mess.”

“Augustus Abernathy, Wanda's nephew.” Augustus carried a hoe. He swiped at his face with a red bandana. “I know it's almost time for the party but I want to finish mulching the roses.”

“Heather Hayworthy, an aspiring actress whom Walter—ah—admires.” The voluptuous blonde flounced across the stage, sequins scattering from a tear in her fancy dress. “Oh, this is just too much. My dress is ruined and I don't have another for the party tonight!”

“Moose Mountebank, who believes he would make a fine squire of Mudhen Manor.” The handsome actor reached down to swipe at his shoes, held up muddy fingers, his face chagrined. “Wanda despises people
who arrive late. And here I am, out of gas and the road's a swamp from all the rain yesterday.”

Henny's clear voice announced, “Detectives may now pose their questions.” Annie took another bite of delectable fish. A frown suddenly creased her face. “Have you seen Rachel?”

Max dipped his fish in tartar sauce. “She's sitting with a bunch of girls in the main saloon and studiously ignoring Pudge and Sylvia at the next table. Pudge looked tired.”

Annie munched the crisp, delicious fish. Okay, when they got home tonight, it was time for her and Rachel to have a talk. But Rachel's unhappiness was the only blight on an otherwise perfect—

A voice rose in a shrill scream.

Annie's breath caught in her chest. She knew at once that something dreadful had happened. That cry had been freighted with horror. Harsh shouts rose in a discordant, frightening jumble. Another scream sliced through the night. She and Max ran to the starboard railing in time to see a geyser of water plume above the dark surface.

“Man overboard.”

The stentorian yell shocked the crowd to silence for an instant. A hoarse call followed. “Stop the engines. Man overboard.”

The boat shuddered to a stop. Running feet sounded, calls, shouts, cries.

“…fell from there…”

“…saw her on the way down…”

“…what happened…”

“…can they get her in time?”

“…throw down life preservers. Yeah, over there…”

Ben Parotti's gravelly but authoritative voice barked
over the PA system. “Remain where you are until further notice. Passenger sighted off starboard bow. Rescue efforts are under way.”

A clanking creak signaled a winch lowering a rowboat.

Annie leaned over the railing as a limp figure bobbed to the surface. There was no life, no movement, no struggle.

A searchlight swung up, down, wavered, settled on hair streaming in the water and a floating arm. The arm moved with the surge of the water. A spot of yellow marked one shoulder. Two life preservers wobbled nearby.

Yellow…Annie grabbed Max's arm. “Oh God, it's Pamela.” Pamela had been so clever, attaching the figure of a canary to one shoulder. “She doesn't know how to swim. Oh Max, she's going down—”

The body, weighted by sodden clothing, was slipping beneath the dark surface.

Max kicked off his loafers, climbed onto the railing. For an instant he was poised against the night sky and then he arched into space, down, down, down.

Annie clapped her hands to the railing, the sea-damp wood slick beneath her fingers. Max's dive seemed to take forever, though she knew he was plummeting faster and faster toward the surface. He knifed into black water that plumed in a high white ruffle. Rough voices shouted instructions, commands.

Annie struggled to breathe. If anybody could save Pamela, Max could. He was a champion diver, a superb swimmer. She tried not to think about the night sea and sharks and a heavy weight pulling him deeper and deeper. She stared at the unbroken surface of the ocean, opaque as the dark sky. How far down had Pamela
gone? How could he find her? Oh, Max, come up, come up.

Abruptly, the water frothed. Max shot into view, one arm in a tight lifeguard grip around Pamela. He treaded water, breathing deeply. Pamela's head lolled back and forth.

Annie's cheer melded into a triumphant roar from the onlookers.

A lifeboat smacked into the water. Two crew members wielded the oars, synchronizing the rise and fall as they pulled through the water.

Annie's heart steadied into a slower rhythm. Max was fine. He could tread water as long as necessary. But Pamela was clearly injured. Annie hung over the railing when the boat wallowed next to Max and his inert burden. It seemed to take so long, the careful easing of Pamela's limp body up and into the lifeboat, then Max clambering in the back. By the time the lifeboat was alongside the hull, a swing with a stretcher dangled near the water. Max held the swing steady as the crewmen gently strapped her onto the stretcher. Then there was a slow and careful ascent as Pamela was hauled aboard.

In a moment more, a sopping Max was beside her and she clung to him, not caring that he was wet, caring only that he was there, safe in the tight circle of her arms.

“I'm okay, honey.” He was impatient. He gave her a squeeze, stepped back, looked toward the clump of people gathered around the stretcher. “Pamela's unconscious. Or…” The sentence trailed off.

Annie stood on tiptoe, craning to see. The boat engine rumbled as the
Island Packet
began a slow turn in the water. Max, still straining for breath, looked
over the massed heads. “Billy's doing CPR. That means she's still alive.”

Annie hoped that was true. She would try to believe that was true.

“He's stopped.” Max's voice was grim. He folded his arms, frowned.

Annie wanted to shout and cry and push back time. Pamela must have been so proud of her costume. She obviously was having a wonderful time tonight. How could cautious, careful, prudent Pamela have tumbled overboard? Dear Pamela, serious, kind, good, well-meaning, and literal. What rhyme or reason was there? But accidents happen to everyone. Oh damn, damn, damn. Pamela had been so excited to be on the cruise, so grateful to Annie. But it wasn't Annie who'd sent her a ticket. Annie had forgotten all about finding Pamela, explaining the mix-up. Now it was forever too late. Poor Pamela, so grateful for kindness. How tragic that her exciting evening had ended like this. And how heartbreaking for her to lie there with no one near who cared for her. Sometimes people came around if they just kept working on them….

Annie tried to push through the crowd.

Max caught her arm. “Annie, they need room. We shouldn't try to get closer.”

Her throat ached as she pushed out the words. “He mustn't stop.” Tears brimmed. “If he'll just keep on—”

The word swept through the onlookers like sea oats rustling in the wind. “She's breathing…breathing…breathing….”

 

Annie lifted the megaphone. “I have wonderful news. Police Chief Billy Cameron successfully performed
CPR on Pamela Potts, who was rescued”—Annie's glance at Max was proud, but his quick head shake precluded mention—“after falling overboard. Pamela is breathing well but remains unconscious.” Surely Pamela would be all right. Surely she would…. “We are returning to the harbor where an ambulance will take her to the hospital. I know everyone joins with me in wishing Pamela a speedy recovery. Please feel free to continue with the mystery events as we return to shore. As a special thank-you for your understanding our shortened outing, I'd like to invite everyone to attend a free watermelon feast next Saturday afternoon on the boardwalk in front of Death on Demand. We will announce the winner of our jewel theft mystery. And Pamela Potts will be our special guest of honor.” Please God.

Annie clicked off the megaphone and turned. “Max, let's go see.” She headed for the steps down to the saloon where they had taken Pamela.

 

He stood in the door frame, blocking the way. “Sorry. Off-limits.” He was young, muscular, cocky, and good-looking, with smooth olive skin, greenish eyes, and dark hair. His yellow polo shirt was a tight fit, his khakis fashionably baggy.

Annie peered around him. A teenage boy was stationed at every entrance. Billy had utilized his newly acquired cadre for more serious work than the search for a nonexistent pickpocket. Aft, a scarecrow-thin six-footer in a red and white rugby shirt stood with a jutting jaw and folded arms. Port, a sharp-featured, bony boy nervously paced. Starboard—Annie knew at once—was Sylvia Crandall's son, a tangle of brown
curls framing a heart-shaped face. His brown eyes had the nervous look of a spooked horse.

In the center of the saloon, people clustered near a table. Billy Cameron, big and imposing, glanced at his wristwatch. It was odd to see Billy in a Hawaiian print shirt and blue jeans. She was accustomed to his khaki uniform. Ben Parotti had shed his green blazer. He stood with thumbs hooked onto orange braces, his gnome face glowering. Mavis Cameron bent over the table, her light brown hair falling forward, screening her face. Father Patton had a thoughtful, considering look on his face. His arms were folded across his chest.

Annie called out, “Billy. Hey, Billy!”

Billy turned. “Annie.” His voice was tired. “That's okay, Stuart. Let them in.”

The teenager stepped back to let Annie and Max enter, firmly closed the door after them.

Annie hurried across the floor, Max close behind. The boat was running hard and she had to concentrate to keep her balance. As they reached the group, Ben said gruffly, “Going as fast as we can. We dock in about ten minutes.”

Annie felt a moment of surprise when she looked at the table and saw Emma Clyde seated next to Pamela, holding one hand in a firm grip. Emma glanced up. “Pulse is steady, Annie.” Long ago Emma had been a nurse. And Emma could always be counted upon to take charge, whatever the situation.

Annie felt shaken when she looked at the limp form. She'd known that Pamela was unconscious, but to see her like this was shocking. Pamela was wrapped in a dark gray blanket. There was not a vestige of color in her skin. The slack muscles made her almost unrecognizable. Her face was as still as marble. The hair plastered against her
head was darkened by the seawater. If she was breathing, it wasn't apparent. But Emma said her pulse was steady.

Annie noted the odd little lump beneath the blanket on Pamela's left shoulder and blinked back tears. She knew Pamela well enough to be sure that she'd been very proud of her costume and was eager to tell everyone about Miss Pinkerton's beloved canary, Dickie. Annie reached out, gripped Max's arm.

“She's breathing.” Emma was reassuring. “Apparently she hit her head when she fell. They'll run tests. When the swelling goes down, she'll very likely regain consciousness.”

Ben Parotti glared at the still figure. “Don't make no sense to me. She must've been where she had no business to be to fall from the upper deck. If she was behind the railing, there's no way she could take a tumble, not unless she climbed up and over and jumped.”

“No.” Annie was emphatic. Some things were possible. Some weren't. Pamela Potts was not a candidate for suicide. If ever anyone accepted seriously the charge to finish the course, it would be Pamela.

Ben lowered his head like a terrier ready to snap. “Then, missy, you tell me how it happened.”

Max used a handful of paper napkins to wipe his face. He gave a couple of swipes at his head. His wet hair stood on end. Water dripped from his slacks. “Wait a minute, Ben. Didn't anybody see her fall?” He looked at Billy.

Billy frowned. “Nobody's come forward yet to say they saw her go over.”

“We heard someone scream.” Annie looked toward the windows of the saloon. Night pressed against the glass. The outside deck was invisible. Of course Pamela hadn't fallen from this level.

Billy kneaded the side of his neck. “By the time I got up there, a bunch of people were hanging over the rail, pointing to her bobbing in the water. Nobody admitted seeing her fall—or jump.”

“She didn't jump.” Annie's retort was swift and decisive.

“We'll have to see what an investigation reveals.” Billy's answer was rather formal.

Max flapped the damp napkins at her. His blue eyes held a warning.

Annie understood. Damn. Why had she been so sharp? It wouldn't help matters to embarrass Billy. Billy was the hero of the night, along with Max. She spread her hand in apology. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. But I know Pamela. She'd never, ever do anything like that.” How could she make Billy understand that Pamela never met a rule she hadn't embraced? “She'd rather die than cause a public scene.”

Mavis cleared her throat. “Maybe she felt sick. Or faint. Maybe she started to fall and she slipped between the railings.”

Billy squinted his eyes in thought. “A chest-high wooden rail runs from stanchion to stanchion and knee-high metal rails. I don't see how anyone could fall accidentally.”

Ben scratched at his bristly jaw. “Looked to me like she must of come off that portion of the deck by the upper lifeboat—and that's behind a chain. Ain't nobody got no cause to climb over that chain.”

“Look”—Annie shoved a hand through her hair—

“why don't we check it out? Ask people who were near that spot?”

“I expect someone would already have spoken up if she'd been seen. And Ben knows his boat. If he's right,
she must have jumped.” Billy spoke with authority, a man who'd covered a lot of accident scenes. “You say she wasn't the kind for a big scene. Likely she waited until the deck was empty and then she got over the rail. But we can try.” His tone was equable. He flung up a meaty hand, gestured. “Hey, Cole, come over for a minute.”