Death In A Deck Chair

by Georgia Kains

  What if he was hiding something about the family fortune and Bebe had found out and threatened to expose him? Say what you wanted about the woman, she was a lot shrewder than she pretended to be on her show.

  The memorial service was as pleasant and non-dramatic as it could have been under the circumstances. Peg wasn’t able to hold in a snort while reading a posthumous statement from Mr. Bosley calling Bebe “his great love.” She clenched the locket around her neck like a talisman before she went on.

  When Peg glanced up from the paper she was reading, she caught me staring at the necklace. Her expression was anything but grief-stricken as she tucked the locket into her blouse.

  Jenna let out a small sniffle when we concluded the last verse of Amazing Grace. Hers were the only red eyes in the entire room. She was sitting with her face a foot from a bouquet of roses, though. It might have been allergies.

  White roses. Which was odd as I remembered Silas saying that Bebe hated white roses. But then Peg rolled the petals of one of the roses between her thumb and forefinger with a vindictive smirk on her face. I fought back a snort of laughter at her small act of rebellion.

  Bebe had been one disliked woman. But there was a big mental and emotional, not to mention physical jump from displaying the wrong color roses to pouring poison in someone’s drink.

  I wasn’t sure what I had expected, other than for someone to conveniently stand up and yell, “Yes, I killed the interfering witch and here’s why I did it!”

  Well, no such luck.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I de-Muppeted then headed to the pool to think. Greeted with a smorgasbord of craft supplies laid out under a shaded cabana, I couldn’t help but smile. Amanda had kept her word.

  After double-checking with Jenna, I rolled one of their tacky, round mirrors from the atrium out to the workstation and coiled rope around the edge in concentric circles. It was a tedious process but would be perfect for the nautical chic theme.

  “Ow.” I burnt my pinky on a blob of molten hot glue and pressed the throbbing knuckle against a glass of ice water.

  When I glanced up, I saw Lance sprawled out in a lounge chair a few feet away. His lifeless arms and legs flopped over the sides of the chair like he was a dead starfish, and he stared out at the water listlessly, his sunglasses pushed high on his forehead at a lopsided angle. Dark circles had formed under his eyes. His hair, which was normally styled to perfection, lay limp and flat.

  I tried to ignore him and return to my project, but every few seconds, he’d let out a pitiful sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

  He was a steaming hot mess.

  And Lord have mercy, I felt sorry for the man.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Hi, Lance,” I said.

  “Oh, hey there, Pipesqueak,” he said absently, not even looking at me.

  I bit the edge of my tongue to keep from snapping at the loathsome nickname.

  “You, uh, you okay there?” I asked.

  “Am I—?” He blinked and finally glanced around him as if emerging from a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I’m f-f-fiiii—”

  Lance’s voice broke off in a sob. His shoulders convulsed as he buried his head in a towel, wailing.

  “Oh, umm. There, there.” I couldn’t bring myself to actually touch him, so I reached over and tapped a glue stick against his back soothingly. “There, there.”

  “I’m so worried about Tammi.” He lifted his head from the towel and stared at me hopefully. “Do you have a progress report?”

  “Progress report?”

  “Where are you with the investigation?”

  “The investigation. Umm, yeah.” I wasn’t sure I should share the tidbits of possible clues I’d gleaned the last couple days. I didn’t want to give him the false impression that I was moments away from cracking the case. “It’s … progressing.”

  “Progressing? So does that mean—?” He squinted at the glue sticks in my hand then glanced at the supply table behind me. “Wait. Are you making crafts, Piper?”

  “I … I don’t have to answer to you for how I spend my time.”

  “You were the one who agreed to help clear Tammi’s name.”

  “And I am.”

  “I don’t see how sitting out here playing with yarn and glue helps her.” His expression hardened.

  “Last I checked, I’m not the newest character on CSI: Caribbean. So lay off.”

  “Fine.” He tossed his hands in the air. “You don’t have to be so touchy.”

  “If you must know, I do some of my best thinking while I craft.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing a little thinking myself. And if you don’t prove Tammi’s innocence before we reach land, I have a new theory to share with the police.”

  “What are you talking about? What new theory?”

  “Well, I was thinking about it, and maybe they shouldn’t focus on who wanted to kill Bebe. Maybe they should focus on who wanted to frame Tammi.”

  “What are you implying, Lance?” I rolled my eyes.

  “All I’m saying is that only one person on this boat wanted to see Tammi get her comeuppance after being left at the altar by a hot guy.”

  “Are you supposed to be the hot guy in this scenario?” Sh’yeah, right.

  “Obviously.” He lowered his sunglasses and smirked.

  “So you’re speculating that I killed a woman I barely knew in order to frame my cousin as revenge for losing you?”

  He nodded again, a little more stiffly.

  I blinked a few times then exploded into laughter. Real laughter. The side-hurting, shoulder-shaking, tears-rolling-down-my-cheeks fit of giggles that I hadn’t experienced in a while.

  “Oh my gosh.” I wiped my eyes. “Thank you. I needed that.”

  To think I had ever considered marrying this egotistical, fancified fart.

  “I’m not kidding.” His eyes widened as he sat up straight.

  “That is literally the most insane thing I’ve ever heard.” Truly laughable, but my stomach still twisted into a knot. My fingerprints were all over Bebe’s room now.

  “Tammi and I were in the market when Bebe stole those clothes out from under you. You were furious. You could have decided to shoot two ducks with one shell. There are crazier motives.”

  “Okay, crazy motives aside, I was sitting next to the bartender the entire time when Bebe’s drink was being poisoned. He can vouch for me.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Lance raised his eyebrows.

  “Uhh, yeah.” But while, yes, I was sure I’d been sitting there the entire time, I had no clue if Karl had paid one speck of attention to me. He’d probably replayed those minutes as many times as anyone on board this boat, but I had no guarantee that my presence played into his recollection.

  “Are you threatening me, Lance?”

  “Aww, Pipesqueak. You know me better than that.” He slapped his good ol’ boy persona on like a mask. “I don’t want to share my theory with the police. All I’m saying is, you might want to make the best use of your time while you’re on board.”

  He plucked the glue stick from my hand and tapped the edge of the chair.

  “Course, maybe it’s smart of you to get all the sun you can,” he said as he pushed himself up. “You’re lookin’ awfully pale there, Pipesqueak.”

  Lance tossed the glue stick on the table with a sneer and wandered off.

  Part of me wanted to laugh off his threat as the ridiculous garbage it was, but a small flame of fear flickered in my chest. If this case ended up in U.S. jurisdiction, it would be fine. There’d be a team of forensic specialists all over the boat to search for clues to find the real killer.

  A team that would find proof I’d been in Bebe’s room. It could be something as small as an eyelash, but it would still be evidence of my trespassing.

  But then again, the jurisdiction could easily end up being in the tiny island nation of Saint Burts. Who knew what kind of investigation they’d conduct? T
hey might listen to Lance’s harebrained accusation and run with it.

  I studied myself in the circular mirror on the table. My hair was tugged into a messy ponytail that had been aiming for beachy tousled and hit Texas tumbleweed instead. And my skin was … well, it was a bit like a vampire after a long winter’s nap.

  Lance had been trying to spook me with that “pale” comment, but it was true. For someone who had spent several days on a cruise ship in the middle of the Atlantic, bobbing in beautiful, crystal blue Caribbean waters, I really was white as an albino lab rat.

  A touch of color couldn’t hurt. I remembered seeing that the spa had a free spray tan booth you could use. At least I could squirt some sun on even if I hadn’t soaked up any actual rays.

  “Hello?” I stuck my head into the spa, tugging the complimentary robe from my cabin tight around my waist. The musky scent of aged cedar filled the room as the sauna hissed in the corner, steam billowing off the hot stones. Whiffs of eucalyptus and mint puffed into the air from a vaporizer in the corner, and I inhaled a deep breath, fresh and crisp.

  The entire spa consisted of the one large front room and a single small treatment room off to the side. A sign on the front counter listed their menu, not that it was much of a menu. Apparently, passengers had a choice between waxing and a full-body fermented kelp wrap. Blech. If I wanted to be tortured, I’d go hang out with Lance some more.

  Another sign on the counter stated that all treatments were by appointment only. Everything else was self-service—the one-person sauna, a sad mani/pedi station, and the spray tan booth. Unsurprisingly, the place was deserted.

  It had been ages since I’d attempted a fake tan. Oh, how easily they could go wrong and look about as believable as a tap-dancing hamster. As a wedding planner, I’d spent many a Friday and Saturday morning calling in emergency favors with professional makeup artists to cover a bride’s terrible last-minute tanning decision.

  I pulled the privacy curtain across the corner where the booth was and read the instructions on the wall. Green light, three beeps, get sprayed, count to three, turn. Seemed easy enough. The control panel was on the outside of the machine. I dialed the intensity down to the lowest setting, the lightest of mists. Then I hung my robe on a nearby hook and stepped into the booth, fighting a wave of claustrophobia. The machine reminded me of a cramped airplane bathroom.

  Just as the light turned green, the spa door outside opened and shut. Someone came over to the tanning booth and tried the handle.

  “Occupied!” I yelled because apparently the privacy curtain and the red occupied bar on the lock wasn’t enough.

  The three beeps sounded, and I closed my eyes, waiting for the mister to do its job on the first side. The spray began—pfft, pfft-pfft. A few quick puffs and my front was now officially light golden (at least according to their color guide). I flipped around.

  Right outside the tanning booth, something made a scraping metal sound and a click. Then a grating crack.

  The beeps began again, and I shut my eyes. Pfft-pfft-pfft-pfffffffffft. The spray began … and just kept going. This wasn’t right. The machine must have gotten stuck or something. It was getting hard to breathe with the chemicals shooting at me every which way.

  I turned the knob to get out of the booth, but the door stuck tight. I tried it again, yanking it hard. It was jammed shut.

  Oh. Crap. Oh crapcrapcrapcrapcrap. This was bad.

  I banged on the door, the unrelenting spray still coming at me from all sides. I’d heard someone come in. Surely they were still nearby.

  “Help!” I screamed, fumes filling my mouth. I put my hand over my face to try to shield it. “Let me out of here! The door’s stuck!”

  It was hard to hear anything over the hiss of sprayers and my choked breaths. But I could have sworn I heard a door open and close again.

  I banged on the side of the booth. As hard as I could. My nostrils were burning. My lungs, on fire. I tried to cover as many sprayers as I could, but there were too many.

  “Somebody help me! I can’t breathe.” I doubled over coughing then kicked the door.

  Nothing.

  Dizzy and lightheaded, I could barely think straight, much less strategize my next move. I was running out of options, but maybe if I rammed my entire upper body at the doorway, it would give. By then, I was hacking so hard, maybe one of my coughs would knock the door off its hinges. Who was I kidding? I’d be lucky if I had the strength to even wobble the contraption.

  Nevertheless, it was the only plan I had. I squared my shoulders and with all the strength I could muster, rushed at the door …

  It opened on its own, and I went sprawling across the spa floor. When I blinked my eyes open, my rescuer hovered over me, her face aghast.

  You’d think Dr. Jo had never seen a half-naked woman coated in ten gallons of self-tanner before.

  “What the Sam hill o’ beans are you doing?” She propped her hands on her hips, shaking her head slowly.

  “I—” I tried to answer, but it came out a hoarse croak.

  “I wish they’d get rid of this contraption. Sets off people’s asthma. Not to mention the fact that you’re pale as the inside of a summer squash to begin with. You’re not going to fool anyone spraying those chemicals all over yourself and staining your skin. Much less pushing the knob so far it broke off past ten.”

  “Didn’t,” I choked out, my lungs slurping every last bit of oxygen from the air that they could. “I set it to one.”

  “You can read numbers, correct?” She pointed to the knob, which sure enough had been twisted past the max setting. In fact, it had been wrenched crooked to stay in that position.

  “But, I didn’t—”

  “And next time—although I hope and pray you’ve learned your lesson and won’t ever go near one of these demon boxes again—close the door to the dang thing. Don’t slam it so hard that the handle jams. You’re lucky I heard you hollering as I went past.”

  I reached out and touched the plastic handle. A crack ran down the center, like someone had tried to twist it off its hinge. That explained the metallic screech earlier and the crunching noise, and why the door wouldn’t budge.

  “I didn’t do that either.” I pointed at the handle. “I know it sounds crazy, but I think someone attacked me.”

  “Attacked you?” Her eyebrow arched.

  “Yes, attacked me.”

  “Who would have a reason to attack you?”

  The murderer. I was on their tail. Now, if I could just figure out whose tail that was.

  “I … don’t know,” is what I said instead.

  “You don’t think that ex-fiancé of yours did this, do you?”

  “No.” It would have given me great joy to name that turd-nugget as the culprit, but he was the only one who had motive to keep me safe for the rest of the cruise. He was counting on me to find the real murderer and get Tammi off the hook. That, or stay healthy enough so he could spew his scapegoat theory about me when we docked.

  No, this was someone who was familiar enough with the spa that they knew they could grab this moment of opportunity when they saw me headed here in my robe. They must have known I was going to use either this thing or the sauna. Getting trapped in either one would have been dangerous to my health.

  “That’s a serious allegation, honey,” said Dr. Jo. “I can call Silas in to take your statement if you want. Lord knows I’m all for getting this infernal machine off the boat once and for all.”

  I frowned. Dr. Jo was one of the few people on board who couldn’t be the killer. She was a trained pathologist, and it would have been easy enough for her to rule Bebe’s murder an accidental death. With the amount of alcohol that Bebe had ingested, that would have been perfectly believable. I highly doubted the Bosleys would have called for an autopsy. No, the doctor was certainly innocent. But I couldn’t say the same about any of the other crew members.

  Silas was growing on me, but that didn’t mean I could trust him. My taste in men so
far had been dismal.

  No, now wasn’t the time to fling accusations around.

  “No, you’re right. I must be mistaken.” I examined my arms that were already turning orange. “Do you think it would help if I go shower immediately?”

  “I wouldn’t. You’ll go as streaky as a pumpkin popsicle in July.”

  She bit her lip, and I could tell she was suppressing a chuckle.

  “Thank you for the commentary,” I said. “You can go ahead and laugh.”

  She let out a guffaw and tossed me a towel.

  “Well, at least we can swab you off,” she said.

  “Should I worry about my lungs?”

  “I’ll give them a listen to be safe.” She pulled out her stethoscope and moved it around on my chest. “You’re clear. But I’m glad I came along when I did.”

  So was I.

  “I’ll send maintenance over to fix the evil device. And by ‘fix’, I mean throw the rotten thing into the sea. I’m tired of checking people’s livers because they’ve gone yellow after a few days and are convinced they’re dying.”

  I de-oranged as much as possible in my cabin, which sadly wasn’t much. I was already the shade of an underbaked sweet potato pie and still shaking with fear from my brush with almost being tanned to death.

  I sat on the corner of my bed—careful not to touch any skin to the covers—and racked my brain trying to figure out who had done this to me. But I was at a loss.

  This struck me as the same kind of attack that had killed Bebe. Spur of the moment. Desperate, even. Someone who had seen a moment of opportunity and pounced on it.

  So who had I crossed paths with in the last twenty-four hours? There was Preston and his texts. I’d only seen two words, but he didn’t know that. Maybe the rest had contained something truly damning.

  Or perhaps Peg had realized I’d connected the dots on the locket. And Bebe had taped that video rant about Peg’s supposed senility. That footage had now gone missing. Peg was as quick-thinking as they came, and it wasn’t hard to imagine her pulling off two spur-of-the-moment attacks.