Death In A Deck Chair

by Georgia Kains

  For a week after, the palms of my hands were the same shade as pennies, but it had been worth it to see the smile on Annalise’s face.

  I inspected my creation. I might only be doing this for a pet bird and to save a little dignity, but this was most definitely my happy place. Planning, making, organizing, decorating. Doing.

  Yep, my brain felt clear and focused. And ready to figure out who the murderer was.

  Preston and Peg were still high on my suspect list (especially as my suspect list had dwindled to the two of them). Either had motive a’plenty, more motive than Tammi at least, but what I didn’t have was a shred of evidence.

  I grabbed one of the antique bulbs and started to wrap the copper wire around the cord, but I hit the end of the spool before I’d made it more than a few inches.

  Dang it.

  I pulled the next spool over and began wrapping. After some quick visual calculations, I realized I’d run into the same problem. I’d need to can that particular project.

  Bummer.

  After I’d tidied my mess, I locked the cargo hold and headed toward the main lobby, salt water sign in hand. A large, fluorescent piece of paper was taped on the door to Bebe’s room: “Do Not Enter.”

  Evidence.

  I took the key out of my pocket and bit my lip, staring at the key then at the lock on Bebe’s door.

  Surely they wouldn’t have a single master key that unlocked all the doors on board.

  But in an emergency, if they had to help passengers quickly …

  I peered both ways down the hall. No one in sight. I stuck the key in the lock and turned it. Click. Oh crap, it had worked. I gnawed on the edge of my tongue. This was my chance to sneak into Bebe’s room and search for any clues to her death. Obviously, it would be wrong, but it was also wrong that someone was framing my cousin for murder. And the longer we sat out here in the middle of the ocean, the lower the chances for the authorities to find any evidence to prove her innocence.

  Against my better judgment, I took a deep steadying breath and pushed my way in.

  Bebe’s room was bigger than mine. Well, that wasn’t saying much. A hobbit’s pantry was bigger than my room.

  No, Bebe’s room was fabulous. It was the only room I’d seen so far that had fully renovated décor—soothing shades of white and soft cerulean, like the first wisps of cloud in an endless spring sky. One entire wall was a sliding glass door that opened to a spacious balcony. The view of the inky turquoise waters as far as the eye could see grabbed hold of my breath and wouldn’t let go.

  A separate sitting area with overstuffed chairs and piles of throw pillows opened to a kitchenette and fully-stocked bar. On the wall hung a flat screen television that was as wide as the entire bed in my cabin.

  What the heck had Bebe been whining about in those video diaries?

  Come on, Piper, focus.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was careful not to leave any fingerprints behind. Once the jurisdiction issues were resolved, this room would get a forensic overhaul. They’d have their work cut out for them. She’d strewn her many belongings across the room haphazardly. Shirts and shoes, bras and beach towels—all tossed on the floor without a care.

  I used the corner of my shirt to pull open Bebe’s desk drawer. Nothing but an untouched Bible, a pen, and a notepad. I lifted the notepad to hold it up to the light and see if Bebe had scribbled anything of importance on it. Alas, Jessica Fletcher I was not. As far as I could tell, it hadn’t been used.

  Other than the fact that Bebe had been a slob, it was hard to deduce much of anything from her room. And the slob info, anyone would have known from watching her show. All of her stuff had apparently been left untouched and in place, awaiting the investigators.

  On her vanity lay a makeup case that rivaled my Uncle Joe’s fishing tackle box in size. Probably in the ability to produce a fish face, too. A pile of lingerie had been dumped to one side, and on the other side stood two identical platinum blonde wigs on top of mannequin heads.

  Well, that solved the case of How Does The Reality Star Maintain A Perfect Updo In Tropical Humidity. But it didn’t help the murder investigation.

  Over in the corner, dumped in an unceremonious heap, were the knockoff designer clothes she’d stolen from under my nose on the island. I scowled. Those clothes were rightfully mine. Not only had she taken my wardrobe dupes, but she’d gloated over the theft at that final dinner. That was neither here nor there, though. It wasn’t like I needed more proof that Bebe was a vindictive wench.

  I needed proof that my cousin wasn’t.

  A velvet drawstring bag lay on top of the dresser. Its top was stretched wide open, exposing a pile of jewelry. Rings, bracelets, earrings.

  None of them were as spectacular as the sapphire pendant, but they still seemed to be the real deal. It further convinced me that Tammi wasn’t the murderer. If she had gone to the trouble to kill Bebe, why not take all of her jewelry, not just the flashiest piece?

  No, I still firmly believed my cousin had been framed.

  But it wasn’t proof.

  I let the bag fall closed and went back over to the vanity. The boat swayed with a wave, sending me tumbling to the side. I flung my arm out and knocked the makeup case over.

  Dang! I shoved everything where it had been, give or take. The case had bumped into one of the mannequin heads, and the wig was crooked. I lifted it up to straighten it. The Styrofoam head was hollow, and there was something inside.

  I gasped.

  It was the camcorder that Bebe had been dragging around with her everywhere. Why would she leave all her jewels out in the open, then go to so much effort to hide the camcorder?

  I was about to return the wig to the mannequin head when the doorknob to the hallway jostled. Crap on a cracker! I dove for the closet still holding the wig, smooshed myself inside, and pulled the door closed right before whoever it was stalked into the room. I couldn’t see anything through the slats on the door, not even whether the person was a man or a woman, but I could tell from their purposeful stride that they were on a mission.

  I looked at the wig in my hand.

  Uh oh.

  The closet wasn’t large to begin with, and being stuffed in there with Bebe’s trunks and junk, it wasn’t more than two seconds before a full-blown claustrophobic panic attack set in. I twisted my head, and a feather boa tickled my nose, bringing on a sneeze. I grabbed my nostrils and pinched them, stifling the prickles that shot through my skull.

  The person outside scuffled around the room, opening drawers and murmuring curses under their breath.

  “Come on,” they muttered, barely audible. “Where is it? Where is it?”

  I prayed they wouldn’t notice the quote sign I’d made, propped behind one of the chairs. But then they grabbed the door to the closet, and my limbs froze in icy dread. Slowly they slid it open a couple inches. I could picture them on the other side, absentmindedly tugging on the door while their eyes scanned the room one last time. If this was the murderer—and duh, of course it was—I didn’t need to worry about being turned in so much as being, gulp, killed.

  The latch caught on the boa and jostled it, fluffing it into my nose once more. I smooshed my body as far into the corner as I could and squished my face into a prune of determination.

  Just when I was certain I couldn’t hold in my sneeze one millisecond longer, the door stopped moving. The footsteps shuffled away. There was a faint, “yes” and a rustling noise. They must have found whatever it was they had come for. More footsteps as they hurried out of the room. Then silence.

  I counted backward from ten, my sneeze long forgotten as my heart resumed its normal pace, before I exited my hiding place. I glanced down at the wig in my hand then walked over to its stand, dreading what I’d find.

  Empty.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My first instinct was to run and tell Jenna or Silas what I had witnessed, but then what was I going to say?

  Oh, he
y, remember how you entrusted me with the key to the cargo hold? Yeah. I totally used it to break into a sealed off crime scene.

  Nope. Something told me that would not go over well at all.

  But that camcorder might have held the piece of evidence that exonerated Tammi. There must have been something on it—something Bebe had recorded in one of her video diaries—that someone didn’t want getting out.

  Preston had made that crack earlier about how Bebe enjoyed making trouble. Maybe I had been right in my theory that Bebe was blackmailing someone on board. And maybe that person killed her to shut her up.

  Whatever was on that camcorder could be the key to the whole thing.

  So whether or not I got into trouble, I needed to tell them what I’d seen. Or … heard. Witnessed, whatever.

  But then another thought came to me. Obviously Peg or Preston would have had an easy enough time getting into Bebe’s room. They might have had spare keys. But it also could have been someone on the crew. With my own eyes, I’d seen Bebe bash the ship and everything about it on that camcorder. What if one of them wanted to stop that footage from getting out?

  I couldn’t trust anyone on this blasted boat.

  All right, Piper, deep breath. Think.

  I scurried down the hall and had just reached the stairwell when Silas rounded the corner flanked by his mother and the cruise director Amanda.

  “How are you, Piper?” Cappy cocked her head to the side and her brow knit together in concern.

  “Oh, um, I’m okay.”

  “Silas told us what happened with Tony Hudson,” said Amanda. “I’m so sorry. We’ve secured him. You don’t need to worry about any more threats to your safety.”

  Except for the murderer still on the loose.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “And is this one of the decorations you’re making for the lobby?” asked Cappy, taking the saltwater sign from my hands that were shaking slightly. She held it up for Silas and Amanda to see.

  I nodded.

  “Oh my goodness, aren’t you talented?” said Cappy. “But I want to make sure that you don’t feel in any way obligated to—”

  “Not at all. I love making stuff. There’s a lamp that’s still drying, and I have plans for one of your ottomans, I hope you don’t mind. Oh, and I had the cutest idea to wrap the cords of some vintage lights in copper wire, but I didn’t realize there were only remnants left. But that’s okay. I’ll figure out something else to do with them and … crap, I’m boring you guys, aren’t I?”

  Cappy roared with laughter. “Heck no. This is what I love, watching passengers have fun. And if this floats your boat, go for it.”

  “Sorry about the wire,” said Silas, “but check the other spools. They were left over from a shipment from New Brunswick to the Bahamas last year. The receiving company couldn’t accept them because of a customs problem. The Canadian company couldn’t take them back. There should be more than enough for your project, though.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Maybe I’d missed some.

  “Well,” said Amanda, “you may say a dusty old cargo hold seems like fun, but it’s still my personal mission to get you up topside relaxing. Wait.” She clapped her hands together in front of her chest like a trained seal on cocaine. “I know what I’ll do. I’ll set up a crafts table out at the pool, and you can make your stuff there. That way you can have fun and still get some sun. The best of both worlds.”

  “I—”

  “What do you need?” Her voice sped up. “Paint? Glue? Cardboard? Glitter?”

  My word. Did they pay her in motor oil-strength coffee and Red Bull?

  “Maybe hold off on the glitter, Amanda,” said Silas, probably imagining his atrium suddenly looking like a fourteen year-old girl’s bedroom.

  “You don’t have to go to that trouble for me,” I said. They had enough on their plates with the murder investigation and now whatever additional media glare would come with the charges against Tony.

  “Nonsense,” said Cappy. “It’s a fabulous idea. One of the benefits of a small cruise ship is personal attention.”

  It was like she was reading from their brochure, but hey. It actually did sound like fun. Getting my craft on by the pool. Amanda asked what supplies I’d need, and I listed them off. Cappy seemed intrigued by the plans I had for old canvas sailcloth and rope, and I found myself excited for the big reveal of their lobby when I was finished with everything.

  “One more thing,” said Silas. “Will you be attending Mrs. Bosley’s memorial service tomorrow morning? The family doesn’t want to make a huge affair of it, but they welcome other passengers who want to attend. Fans of her show or people who got to know her on this trip. We’re trying to get a rough head count.”

  I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t twist the teensiest bit for Tammi, stuck in her cabin cell. She would have loved to attend the memorial. She had genuinely adored Bebe, heaven knows why. Ah, well. I’d go in Tammi’s place. And it would give me a chance to watch people’s reactions to Bebe’s demise. Maybe another person had motive to kill her, someone I hadn’t thought of yet.

  “The family has requested one thing for the service,” said Amanda, and I reminded myself that it wasn’t so much what the family had requested as what Mr. Bosley had dictated in his will. “Pink was Bebe’s favorite color, and they would like everyone who comes to wear it in her honor.”

  That should be interesting. It was hard to imagine an entire room full of people wearing pink. I envisioned a flock of flamingos, but if that was what they wanted …

  The next morning, I scoured my already pathetic, mismatched, borrowed wardrobe for a pink dress. No dice on the dress, but I managed to piece together some magenta capris and a fluffy bubblegum pink angora sweater that added ten pounds to my upper half. Pink wasn’t a great color on me in the first place, but given the head-to-toeness of my current ensemble, it was downright hideous. The overall effect was of a malfunctioning cotton candy machine, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. At least I’d blend in with all the other attendees.

  Except that when I got to the memorial service, every person there wore tasteful and dignified shades of black and grey.

  How was I the only one who got the pink memo?

  Upon closer inspection, though, almost everyone had trimmed their funeral-appropriate attire with a tiny pop of pink in the form of an accessory. Silas and the captain had pinned pink roses to the lapels of their dark dress uniforms. Jenna had switched the streak in her hair from blue to a vibrant fuchsia. Preston wore a pale pink silk necktie that hung loose and crooked tucked into his rumpled suit. Peg seemed to have figured out the least possible amount of the color she could wear and still technically meet her former employer’s wishes, adding a single strand of glossy pink pearls to her wrist.

  In contrast, I felt like a Muppet in my garish garb.

  I backed out the door slowly, hopeful no one had seen me. Maybe I’d have time to run to my room and change before the service began. A simple black tee shirt would have been better than what I had on. An artfully arranged trash bag would have been better.

  I smacked full-on into Amanda. Rather than moving out of my way, she wrapped her arm around my shoulder, steering me forward again.

  “There’s a seat open at the front,” she said. We stood in sharp juxtaposition to each other. She, classy and understated in a knee-length black dress and pink strappy sandals, just like the ones I’d lost, that provided the perfect splash of color.

  Me? Well, I felt like a life-sized Lotso Huggin Bear.

  “Nice shoes,” I said begrudgingly.

  “Thanks! Nice … flip-flops.”

  I sighed. She would have to mention that sore spot. That was the one thing I couldn’t find in my size in the cargo hold—shoes.

  “I normally wouldn’t wear something like this to a funeral,” I said. “It’s just that I didn’t realize that the color thing was supposed to be an accent piece. I’m not dressed appropriately for a
funeral, so I’m going to go—”

  “Oh, c’mon now. Nonsense,” said Amanda. “No one cares what you’re wearing. You’re here to pay your last respects. That’s what matters.”

  I made a noncommittal sound in reply. Because I wasn’t actually there to pay my last respects. I was there to see if I could eavesdrop on any conversations that might give me a clue as to who Bebe was blackmailing with her videos. Two immediate possibilities came to mind. I’d seen with my own eyes how Bebe was making a case on the video diaries against Peg’s mental capacity. Not only would that have enabled Bebe to fire Peg, it would have robbed Peg of her hard-earned pension.

  Then there was Cappy. This ship was her livelihood. If what Silas had told me was true, she’d probably invested her husband’s entire life insurance settlement and their retirement fund into it. Bebe had spewed nothing but vitriol about the cruise line, and she was in a position to do real damage to their reputation and their bottom line.

  Preston Bosley sat in the row ahead of me. He drummed his fingers along the chair beside him as we listened to somber hymns piped over the room’s speaker system. His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, typing out a quick text and replacing it in his pocket. Another buzz. More typing. Another buzz. As he read the message, his face went pale except for the tips of his ears and the back of his neck, which burned a fiery scarlet. Preston tugged at his collar, gulping, then placed his arm over the seat next to him. This time his hand clenched the top of the chair.

  I leaned forward to see if I could get a glance at his phone screen. He noticed the movement behind him and whipped around to face me. I covered by pretending to have dropped a tissue. Preston made a big show of switching off his phone. But not before two words from his messages stood out and caught my eye.

  Money.

  Desperate.

  My mind swirled. Any combination of those two words forced together could equal one heck of a murder motive. I had taken everything Preston had told me at face value, that he had nothing to gain from Bebe’s death. But what if he’d been lying?