Frustrated by her father's silence, Bree turned on Kristin. "You killed my mother!"
Brian grabbed his daughter's wrist and pulled her around to face him. In a low voice he said, "Bree, please listen. Kristin didn't kill your mother. You've got to believe me."
Bursting into tears, Bree pulled her wrist loose. "Well, I guess we know whose side you're on, don't we?"
She fled outside, weeping uncontrollably. Nancy stood there, torn between going to comfort the girl and questioning her suspects. Then she made up her mind. She could quiz Brian and Kristin anytime. Right now, though, Bree needed a friend.
Heartsick, Nancy left the house. Things certainly looked bleak. Lucinda had been Kristin's chief rival and worst enemy. And now it appeared that their rivalry had extended to Lucinda's husband, as well. Kristin might have killed Bree's mother so she could marry Brian.
Then again, it could just as easily be the other way around. Brian might have killed his wife so he could be with Kristin. Nancy sincerely hoped that wasn't the case. How would poor Bree ever be able to live with it?
Nancy found the girl on the windswept beach. Bree was sitting on a driftwood log, hunched over, sobbing into her upraised hands. Kneeling down, Nancy opened her shoulder bag and withdrew a tissue.
"He knows, Nancy." Eyes shiny with tears, Bree blew her nose. "My father. He knows Kristin killed Mother. He's covering up for her."
"Thank you, Sherlock. This is the wildest leap of illogic I've ever heard," Nancy scolded gently, handing her a fresh tissue.
"Kristin left the house, and—"
"That's all we know," Nancy interrupted quietly. Bree was too emotional right then to see that she had no real proof for what she was saying. "Let's find out where she went before we start accusing her of murder."
Bree dabbed at her eyes. "Innocent people have nothing to hide. Why don't they level with us?"
Nancy had no answer to that one. Squeezing Bree's shoulder, she stood up. "Want me to drive you back to Papeete?"
Bree shook her head, frowning. "I—I just want to be by myself for a while—if you don't mind."
"All right. I'll be back at the car."
Nancy walked slowly across the spacious lawn. A hot breeze ruffled her hair, blowing reddish gold strands into her face. She brushed them away, lost in thought.
Things certainly looked bad for Kristin and Brian. Yet Nancy was reluctant to point a finger just yet There were still too many loose ends in this case.
Rupert Holmberg, for instance. Three million dollars was an excellent motive, but how was he linked to Kristin? Why did Kristin accuse Nancy of being Rupert's spy after she mentioned the Chat Noir?
Speaking of the cafe, what about Pierre Panchaud? Why did he lie about not going there? Was it because he didn't want anyone to think he gambled? That didn't seem very likely. But then what was he hiding?
Then there was Manda Withers, who certainly acted like someone with something to hide. Nancy wondered if Manda had known of Kristin's feelings for Brian. Manda might have killed Lucinda, hoping to pin the blame on Kristin.
Finally there were the letters. Who wrote them? And why hadn't he come right out and said what he had to say?
No, there were still too many unanswered questions. Plenty of digging remained to be done.
Perspiration moistened Nancy's hairline. Her mouth tasted like beach sand. Thinking in the tropic sunshine was thirsty work.
Fortunately, there was a tiny village half a mile down the road, just beyond Faretaha's coconut groves. She remembered seeing an open-air store there.
A few minutes later Nancy stepped under the store's awning. The owner and his wife occupied a dining table, listening to a battered transistor radio. Nancy greeted them in simple French, handed over a few francs, and helped herself to a soda from the ice chest.
Sipping the frosty liquid, Nancy wandered outside and leaned against the rusting steel railing at the edge of the village's busy waterfront.
Fifty feet away lay the main boatyard. Workmen toiled with sandblasters and chisels. Chainsaws sang. Squawking sea gulls patrolled the boatyard.
Nancy's gaze skimmed the racing sloops and workaday cruisers. All at once she spied a familiar-looking superstructure amid the jumble of boats. Her sharp gaze zeroed in. A small cabin cruiser lay tucked away in a narrow canal. And its name was Sous le Vent!
Nancy tossed her soda bottle in a nearby trash bin. No doubt about it. She'd know that cruiser anywhere.
Its owner had chosen a good hideaway, all but invisible from the main highway. From a distance the Sous le Vent looked like one of the vessels in the boatyard.
Leaving the railing, Nancy circled the dockside area. She decided to act as if she were out for a casual walk.
Nancy moved quietly. Reaching the end of a lumber pile, she peered around the corner and saw the cruiser sitting in placid water. Opaque curtains shielded its windows. The hull's creaking was the only sound.
Crouched low, Nancy dashed over to a pile of oil barrels. She peeked around the side. The Sous le Vent looked deserted.
She listened carefully. A taut rope hummed. Wavelets splashed against the hull.
Nancy approached the canal's edge, then paused as she gauged the distance between dock and boat. A running leap put Nancy on deck. She immediately flattened against the cabin, waiting to see if anyone emerged.
Nothing. No one.
Nancy made her way aft, then halted before the cabin's door. Her heart was pounding as her hand rotated the aluminum doorknob. After a quarter turn it stopped. Locked!
She studied the lock and was in luck. Checking to see if she was being watched, Nancy took out her wallet and removed her plastic library card.
She eased the card into the gap. The plastic slid beneath the latch. She thrust her hand upward. Click! The cabin door swung open.
The vinyl curtains cast an eerie green light. A wave of heat washed over her. The breezeway's glass door was shut. Nancy guessed that the boat had been closed up much of the day.
An open cardboard box occupied the settee. Japanese lettering covered the side. Sifting through the mass of Styrofoam chips, Nancy's fingers made contact with a Teflon-coated object.
She pulled it out and held it up to the light. Tiny wires littered the surface like a golden spiderweb.
Nancy gasped. This must be a system card, the advanced computer device she had overheard the police talking about. What was it doing aboard the Sous le Vent?
Outside, a mooring line groaned in protest. Nancy felt the floor shift ever so slightly beneath her feet.
Someone had just boarded the boat!
Stuffing the system card in her purse, Nancy silently made her way aft. She flattened herself against the bulkhead, keeping her gaze on the door.
Soft footsteps sounded. She stared at the doorknob. It began to turn.
Suddenly a cool breeze broke Nancy's concentration. She frowned in confusion. Wasn't the cabin sealed?
Too late, she heard the hushed sound of the breezeway door sliding open.
Behind me!
Nancy's head swiveled, but she was a split second too slow. Something came whistling out of the shadows.
Nancy's consciousness rode a roller coaster of dazzling fireworks. Then it plunged into blackness.
Chapter Twelve
At first Nancy was aware of distant sounds. The tinkle of cutlery. The rattle of dish ware. The scraping of chairs on a wooden floor.
Then the smells began to register. The oily stink of drying paint. The pungent odor of French cuisine.
Nancy groaned. Her eyes fluttered open.
She was suddenly aware of a thundering headache. She moaned again.
Through bleary eyes, Nancy studied her surroundings. She was slumped in a straight-back chair. Ropes confined her wrists. Gray fuse boxes hung from one wall. Thick metallic cables crossed the room from a sturdy engine to an opening on the opposite wall. Freshly painted stage scenery occupied the far wall.
Nancy tried to reconcil
e the room's backstage appearance with the restaurant noises beyond. Then she spied a stairwell leading down to a gambling casino.
Of course! Nancy thought. The Chat Noir has a stage. I must be in one of the back rooms.
Nancy grimaced at the intensity of her headache. Sitting up, she felt hemp tighten and bite into her ankles and chest.
Just then, footsteps sounded on the stairwell. Two men marched into the room, toting boxes with Japanese calligraphy. Nancy's eyes flickered in recognition. Her two friends from the Chat Noir—Thin Face and Black Beret.
Ripping open a box, Thin Face remarked, "This is the last of them, eh?"
"Yes. There'll be another shipment next month." Black Beret glanced at his watch. "We'd better hurry though. That ship leaves for Valparaiso with the tide change." An evil smile twisted his mouth as he glanced at Nancy. "Well, well, look who's back with us again."
"Little Miss Deuxieme Bureau." Thin Face cruelly tweaked Nancy's chin. She recoiled from his touch. "I still say we should have dumped her in the canal."
Black Beret scooped a handful of system cards out of his box. "She'll be feeding the fish soon enough. You heard what the boss said. She dies —but not around the boat."
Nancy rotated her wrists, trying to work some slack into her bonds. "Would your boss's name, by any chance, be Henri Chaumette?"
Black Beret blinked in astonishment.
Thin Face laughed out loud. "Hey, Chaumette!" he cackled. "She knows your brother."
"Shut up, Brumaire! You talk too much." The big man loomed over Nancy. "You think you're clever, don't you? Sneaking aboard our boat in search of evidence. How'd you find out about the Sous le Vent, eh?"
"I kept seeing it around." Nancy relaxed in her chair. It was no use—the knots were too tight. "Was that you with the spear gun? Or was it Henri?"
Brumaire's thin face snarled in disgust. "That fool! I told you we should've let the boat stay where it was!"
"Shut up, idiot! When are you going to learn? Don't chat around cops." Chaumette tossed him a computer part. "Here, make yourself useful. I'll see that this one won't cause any more trouble." He picked up a roll of thick, silver gaffer's tape and cut a strip. He said nothing but smiled as he placed it over Nancy's mouth.
Nancy now watched helplessly as the two men brought in a crate of ripe breadfruit. With painstaking care, they pushed a system card through each fruit's pulpy skin.
I must have stumbled onto the smugglers Captain Mutoi was looking for, Nancy realized. She tilted her head back. It was so hard to think with a headache.
Here was another piece of the puzzle. But it made no sense. The Sous le Vent was the killer's boat. Twice it had been used in murder attempts against her and Bree. Yet the smugglers acted as if it were theirs.
The Cafe Chat Noir was the key, she knew. That's where she had first encountered the smugglers. Pierre Panchaud was a regular customer. Kristin Stromm did her gambling there. And, judging from Kristin's outburst, Rupert Holmberg had something to do with the cafe as well.
But Nancy just couldn't see a link between Lucinda Prado's murder and the computer smugglers.
"There!" Brumaire hoisted a breadfruit crate onto his shoulder. "Let's get this stuff down to the docks."
"Right!" Chaumette sneered at Nancy. "Then we can take care of this little snooper."
The two trudged down the stairwell. The door slammed, cutting off Nancy's view of the casino.
I've got to free myself, she thought desperately. Chaumette and Brumaire won't be gone for long!
An electric guitar twanged. Heavy footsteps trod the stage beyond the wall. Nancy heard a baritone voice. "The last show of the night, boys. Let's make it good."
Behind her the engine clattered to life. The cables began to vibrate. Nancy had an idea!
The band onstage was about to raise the curtains. When they did so, the cables would start to move. Nancy noticed that the cables' metallic texture was as rough as sandpaper.
Nancy's fingers curled around the edge of her chair. Her sneaker soles pressed the floor. The tape on her mouth muffled the grunts of her effort as she jockeyed her chair back, one inch at a time, closer to the cable.
The engine picked up speed.
Ropes bit into her ankles. Ignoring the pain, Nancy shoved the chair back again and again. Gears engaged. The cables began to move. The humming reached a crescendo. Gasping, Nancy threw herself backward. The chair tottered on its hind legs, then came to rest against the cable.
A buzzsaw sound reached Nancy's ears. The ropes around her chest went slack. Leaning forward, she lifted her bound wrists. The thrumming cable ate into the ropes. Hemp began to fray.
Just then the cable quivered to a halt. Nancy exhaled deeply. The curtain must have reached the top.
Gathering all her strength, Nancy strained against her frayed bonds. One by one the weakened strands parted.
After untying her ankles and pulling the tape painfully from her mouth, Nancy hobbled over to the stairwell. Painful pins and needles prickled her legs.
As soon as her circulation was back, Nancy picked her way down the stairs. She tried the door, the only entrance to that backstage room. Relief washed through her. The smugglers hadn't bothered to lock it.
Nancy swiftly made her way through the casino. White sheets covered the dice tables and roulette wheel. Rock music serenaded her all the way to the door.
Opening it a crack, Nancy peered into the main dining area. A busboy cleared an abandoned table. Otherwise, the place seemed empty.
Dropping to her hands and knees, Nancy crawled into the dining room. Crouching, she moved gradually toward the front door from table to table, hiding whenever the busboy walked by.
All at once Nancy heard masculine laughter. She peered over the top of the neighboring table.
Rupert Holmberg and the maitre d' stood together in the foyer. Chuckling to himself, Rupert counted out several large-denomination francs and placed them in the maitre d's outstretched hand.
All smiles, the maitre d' crooned, "It's always a pleasure doing business with you, Monsieur Holmberg."
"You've always been a very great help to me, Marcel," the producer replied. "See what else you can dig up, eh?"
Nancy studied them intently. Could Rupert be the mysterious boss the smugglers had mentioned?
Putting on his Panama hat, Rupert sauntered out of the cafe. Marcel carefully counted his loot, then tucked the wad into his back pocket.
Minutes later Chaumette and Brumaire appeared. The maitre d' flashed them an impatient look. "It's about time you two got back."
"Don't be nervous, Marcel." Chaumette showed him a smirk. "We weren't going to leave the girl with you."
Sweating apprehensively, Marcel mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "You shouldn't have brought her here at all."
"Don't worry!" Brumaire slapped the maitre d's back heartily. "She's coming with us to South America. Well—halfway, at least." He snickered. "Sharks have to eat too."
Nancy held her breath as the smugglers drifted toward her table, laughing at their private joke. She ducked behind the white tablecloth.
Suddenly the kitchen doors swung open behind her. The busboy hurried in, exclaiming, "Dishes are all done, Marcel. Can I go?" Halting, he stared in bewilderment at Nancy. "Hey! What are you doing?"
Blood freezing, Nancy peeped over the table-top. The two smugglers were staring right at her!
"She got loose!" Brumaire whipped out a switchblade. "Get her!"
Chapter Thirteen
Nancy bolted into action. Zipping around the neighboring table, she dashed into the casino. Angry footfalls echoed behind her. She slammed the door shut.
Her gaze found the deadbolt. She thrust it home just as a heavy weight crashed into the door, rocking it on its hinges. There were two more crashes but the stout door held.
Nancy stepped away. The locked door had bought her a few minutes' reprieve, but that was all. They'd soon find something to break it down with.
Her spirits sank. She was trapped. The only other door led to the stairs up to the backstage room where she'd been tied up.
Refusing to give up, Nancy pulled the sheets from the gaming tables. There had to be something she could use as a weapon. Ivory dice mocked her.
Nothing!
The door vibrated under the impact of each savage assault. Nancy clenched her fists, thinking furiously.
Her gaze kept returning to that backstage room. If she could only trick them into going up there, she might be able to get the upper hand.
Nancy's hand closed around a pair of dice. She ducked under the roulette table.
Crash! The casino door splintered open.
"Search the room!" Chaumette bellowed. "She's got to be hiding here somewhere."
Nancy knew her cue. Turning, she flung the dice through the open door. Ivory cubes clattered noisily on the stairs.
"She's in there!" Brumaire cried.
Nancy watched as the two smugglers stormed the stairway. Then, scrambling to her feet, she rushed across the room, slammed the stairway door, and dropped the sidebar, locking it.
Realizing they had been tricked, the smugglers bellowed in rage. Angry fists hammered the door.
Hasty footsteps caught Nancy's attention. Looking to the left, she spied the maitre d' trying to sneak out.
Coming up behind him, Nancy tapped him on the shoulder. "Not so fast, Marcel! I know a police captain who'd like to talk to you."
Marcel flinched at her touch, his pudgy face turning pale. Nancy could see that he vividly remembered her karate demonstration.
"Don't hit me!" he pleaded.
"Behave yourself and I won't," Nancy replied, trying hard not to grin. "Now let's go make a phone call."
Ten minutes later the late-night street outside the cafe was full of police cars. Nancy watched in satisfaction as the khaki-clad officers marched the smugglers out to a waiting van.
Just then, a familiar male voice sounded behind her. "I seem to have underestimated you, Mademoiselle Drew. I've been looking for you." Captain Mutoi's expression was aloof but friendly. "Bree Gordon called me late this afternoon. When you didn't return to Faretaha, she became quite concerned. The young lady and I had an interesting conversation." He glanced at the van. "How did you catch those two?"
031 Trouble in Tahiti Page 7
