“Very good! You must have studied up on this.”
“No,” I said. “I’m just good at making logical deductions. But you appear to have studied up on it. Any particular reason why?”
“Because I’m a glutton for punishment.” Lambert sighed, and his enthusiasm dimmed a little. “I’m an attorney, you see. And I’m completely incapable of getting into something without studying up on the legal aspects of it.”
“So who investigates a shipboard crime?” Horace asked. “Specifically, this crime. The Bahamian authorities?”
“The Bahamians?” Lambert gave a bark-like laugh. “You must be kidding. They’re a thousand miles away. They’re not going to do anything. If we were in the territorial waters of a country, or better yet in a port, that country’s laws would apply. At least probably. But here at sea, in international waters, we’re covered under admiralty law. Which basically means the captain’s in charge.”
“Oh, great.” I could see from their expressions that neither Dad nor Horace had much confidence in Captain Detweiler’s detective abilities. And they didn’t yet know about his allegedly being encore bourré last night.
“The captain or his security officer,” Lambert added.
“Well, that’s something,” Dad said. “Maybe we need to talk to the security officer.”
“Since that would be First Officer Martin … well, good luck with that.” Lambert grimaced. “I can’t imagine that he’d do anything other than what the captain tells him to do.”
“This is crazy,” Horace muttered.
“Technically, the FBI has jurisdiction if the perpetrator or victim of a crime is a U.S. citizen,” Lambert went on.
“So maybe they’re waiting for the FBI to do their investigation?” Horace looked hopeful. He’d enjoyed the several times he’d worked cases with colleagues from the FBI.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Lambert said. “In practice, what that usually means is that the ship files a report with the FBI and the FBI does however much investigation they feel it’s worth. And that almost certainly won’t happen until the ship gets to port—even the FBI doesn’t have the resources to fly agents out to every ship where a crime’s reported. And the FBI’s investigation is only as good as the evidence they have to work with, and there’s nothing to make the ship do more than a token job on that.”
He shook his head and the three of them fell silent for a while—contemplating Pastime’s highly unsatisfactory investigatory procedures, I assumed. I was ruminating on something else.
“Look, I don’t mean to pry,” I said to Lambert finally. “But you know all this about how little real law enforcement there is on board a ship—and you came anyway?”
“The wife,” he said. “Always wanted to take a cruise. I tried to convince her to fly to some tropical island and just hang out on the beach—but no. She wanted a cruise. I figured, how bad could it be? Then this happens. And to top it all off, she picked a week when I have to work on a brief for one of my biggest clients.” He held up the sheaf of papers he’d been hiding behind his book. “Due Monday. I only hope we get to someplace with working Internet by Monday, or I’m totally screwed.”
“We should let you get back to it,” I said.
“That’s okay.” He picked up a beach bag and tucked both book and brief in it. “I’ve spent two hours on the damned thing already today, and I need to rest my eyes. So do you know the dead woman?”
“No,” I said. “I know who she is, that’s all. Why?”
“I gather she came on this trip alone,” he said.
I nodded.
“Wish there was some way of getting in touch with her next of kin, whoever that is.”
“Let me guess—you want to help her next of kin sue the cruise line.”
“Me? No.” He laughed softly. “I do corporate law. Contracts. I wouldn’t know the first thing about suing Pastime. No, it’s just that … she probably did jump. But what if she didn’t? What if someone pushed her, or if she fell overboard because of a broken railing or something that would constitute negligence on the part of the cruise line—just how hard do you think they’re going to look if there’s no one putting pressure on them? No friends or family. Anyway—I’ve got to run. The wife’s expecting me.”
He smiled at us and trotted away.
“He has a point,” Dad said. “Ms. St. Christophe has no friends or family here. So it’s up to us to speak for them. And her.”
He lifted his chin as if bravely, though recklessly, taking on a dangerous mission. Horace echoed his pose.
I decided not to point out that both of them would probably still be trying to investigate even if the entire ship were full of Desiree’s friends or family. And for that matter, even if Desiree’s friends and family were dead set against an investigation and the captain were investigating vigorously and capably anyway.
“Let me know what you come up with.” I leaned back into my recliner.
“Aren’t you going to help us?”
“I think the most useful thing I can do now is think.” I tapped my forehead. “Remember Poirot’s little gray cells.”
“Excellent!” Dad beamed at me, and then the two of them nodded vigorously at each other. I was expecting them to stride off to investigate, leaving me to think in peace. Instead they both leaned on the ship’s rail, looking thoughtful. Clearly they weren’t entirely sure how to begin their investigation.
I remembered something. I pulled out the little feather charm.
“By the way,” I said. “What do you make of this?”
I held it up. They both stared at it for a moment and then exchanged a puzzled look.
“I found it at the crime scene.” I should have mentioned that right off the bat. Suddenly they were interested. I handed it to Dad and they both peered intently at it.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Dad said. “Considering our destination … do you think it could be some kind of sinister voodoo thing?”
“We’re heading to Bermuda, not Haiti, remember,” I said. “I don’t think voodoo’s much of a thing in Bermuda.”
“We don’t know that for sure.” Dad was clearly reluctant to give up a dramatic theory. “Rose Noire seems to be quite agitated about our being becalmed in such a dangerous place. And she’s berating herself for not doing enough research on the local supernatural perils.”
“I’m not a big believer in the supernatural,” Horace said.
“But what about the nocebo effect?” Dad exclaimed.
“There is that,” Horace said. “Opposite of placebo,” he added, looking at me. “If you believe something will hurt you, sometimes it will. Psychosomatically.”
“What if Desiree was superstitious?” Dad suggested. “And someone, knowing that, left this in her cabin, knowing it would drive her over the edge.”
“It’s a theory.” I realized from Dad’s expression that he was a little hurt that I wasn’t taking his theory more seriously. “I can ask the writers if she was known to be unusually superstitious. And I’ll turn that feather charm over to the authorities, once we’re finally in contact with some authorities. Authorities other than the captain and the first officer, who would probably say it’s nothing and toss it overboard.”
“In the meantime, perhaps you should hide that horrible thing somewhere—what if it does its evil work on someone else? Psychosomatically,” he added, seeing Horace’s expression.
“You’re the first people to see it,” I said. “Apart from the captain and crew members who were at the crime scene—and I don’t think they were particularly shocked or horrified by it. They didn’t even bother picking it up.”
“Still—don’t carry it around,” Dad said.
“I’ll find a safe place to hide it,” I said. “Just as soon as I show it to Rose Noire and get her take on its aura.”
“Good.” Dad seemed much relieved.
“Meanwhile, don’t you two have some work to do?”
“She’s right, you know,�
� Horace said. “Although before we begin investigating, we need to do some serious planning.”
“Yes.” Dad didn’t sound thrilled. Clearly he wanted to be doing, not planning. “And for that we need sustenance!” he said, more happily. “Let’s do our planning over a bowl of soft-serve ice cream.”
“It’s only an hour till lunch,” Horace pointed out.
“A small bowl, then. What with the alleged suicide and the power outage and whatever it is they’re having to repair, who knows if they’ll be serving meals on schedule. We should eat while we can.”
“And if they don’t get the power back soon, all the ice cream will have melted,” Horace added. “Better get some before that happens.”
With that they finally did stride off and disappear inside.
The deck was so quiet I could hear the occasional wave slapping against the hull, and occasionally a faint hint of sound from one of the newlyweds’ earbuds.
I went back to staring at my book and trying to think, or at least stay awake.
Until Dad reappeared.
Chapter 14
“I forgot to ask—do you want any ice cream?”
“No thanks.” I went back to my book. After a minute or so I realized he was still standing over me. I glanced up.
Dad looked troubled.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s about the writers,” Dad said.
Oh, dear. Was he tiring of his role as medical consultant to Angie? That seemed unlikely—unless he felt helping her was going to keep her from spending as much time as he wanted on investigating Desiree’s disappearance.
“What about the writers?” I asked aloud.
A pause.
“I hate to say it, because they’re all very nice, and Angie has to be one of the best new mystery writers to come along in a while—I should lend you one of her books—but … well…”
“Are you trying to suggest that if Desiree didn’t leave the ship under her own steam, they’re the most likely suspects to have helped her along?”
He nodded, evidently relieved that I’d had the same thought.
“Of course, you’ve spent more time with the other three than I have,” he said. “Maybe I’ve gotten the wrong impression.”
“If you’ve gotten the impression that they all hated Desiree’s guts, then you’re right,” I said. “I also think it would be safe to say that none of them have been cast into the depths of despair at her untimely death.”
“But they haven’t broken out the champagne, either, right?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.” Come to think of it, how would I describe their reaction? I mulled it over, with Dad waiting patiently, as if he guessed what I was doing. “If I had to describe their collective reaction, I think stunned would be the most accurate term,” I said finally. “I also think they’re a little relieved—Desiree made life hell for their friend. From something Janet, the fantasy writer, told me, I think maybe they were worried that she’d go after one of them next. It must be a relief to know that can’t happen. And they wouldn’t be human if they didn’t feel just a twinge of satisfaction.”
“Oh, yes.” Dad nodded vigorously. “They believe Desiree’s responsible for their friend’s death.”
“And karma’s already gotten her. And yet, they’re women, raised in a society that tries to drum into us the importance of always being nice, so I bet they feel terribly guilty about even that little twinge of satisfaction.”
“Yes.” Dad sounded thoughtful. “So imagine how wracked with guilt one of them would be if she had pushed Desiree over the side. Does one of them seem more stressed and anxious than the rest?”
“Up until I introduced her to you and Horace, I’d have said Angie. But she was already stressed and anxious before Desiree jumped or was pushed, and for all I know, stressed and anxious is her normal state of mind. I don’t know them that well.”
“But now is the perfect opportunity to change that.” Dad beamed at me. “Get to know them. Find out which ones are rooming together, and whether any of them are heavy sleepers and—”
“I get it, Dad. I read the occasional mystery book, too. I’ll find out as much as I can about them, their relationship with Desiree, their whereabouts last night, and anything else that seems useful.”
“But be careful.” Dad looked suddenly stricken. “After all, this could be a murder investigation.”
“And one of them could be the murderer. I’ll be careful.”
“Worse, what if they’re all murderers?” Dad’s expression was a curious mix of anxiety over the dangers I might be facing and excitement at what would be, in one of his mysteries, an elegant plot twist. “They all have motive—the same motive.”
“You’re thinking a real-life Murder on the Orient Express.” I tried not to let him hear my skepticism. “I’m sure Agatha Christie would approve, but Murder on the Pastime Wanderer doesn’t quite have the same ring.”
He chuckled slightly. I went back to my book.
“You’re not going to just sit there reading, are you?” Dad sounded very disappointed.
“Of course not.” I didn’t look up from my book.
A pause.
“That certainly looks like what you’re doing.”
I lowered my book.
“Yes,” I said. “But what you fail to take into account is that before picking up this book, I reviewed all the evidence we’ve found—”
“That wouldn’t take long.”
“And all the suspects, and everything they’ve said about their relationship with Desiree. Having loaded all that into my brain, I’m now going to do something else completely different with the top level of my brain so my subconscious can work undisturbed.”
“Do you find it works?”
“At home, it works very well. Of course, if I were at home, I’d do the laundry, or run errands, or best of all, spend some quality time at my anvil. Blacksmithing’s always good at giving the old subconscious the peace and quiet it needs to do its work.” I hoped he’d notice the not-even-very-subtle bit about peace and quiet.
“So you’re hoping to close your book in a little while and have the solution?”
“Unlikely,” I said. “About the most I’m hoping for is that eventually I’ll think of something useful we can do to get us closer to a solution.”
“Even that would be a good thing.” Dad looked disappointed that I wasn’t promising miracles.
“And just between you and me,” I added, “I’m also going to test a theory. If I go around asking people questions in the wake of a suspicious event, they’re bound to be on their guard and clam up. But if I just lounge here with my book, looking like someone minding her own business, people with something they want to get off their chests are much more likely to sidle up and confide in me.”
“Now that sounds more like it. Carry on!” Dad hurried off with a satisfied expression.
I focused back on my book. What I’d told him wasn’t a complete fabrication. I often had some of my best ideas while doing something else. And I sometimes deliberately did something else in the hope of jump-starting my brain. But I wasn’t sure my subconscious had enough information to come up with anything brilliant. Especially since what I was sure Dad wanted me to come up with was proof that Desiree had been murdered. And by whom.
I wasn’t expecting success. But at least I could finish the book my book club was supposed to be discussing right after I got back. I planned to give some of my fellow members the third degree about why they’d insisted on choosing it, an operation that would be much more successful if I’d actually finished the wretched thing.
I heard someone settling into the recliner to my left. I glanced over. One of the Three Stooges. Not Evans of the thinning red hair, the one I’d knocked down the night before. This was the five o’clock shadow one. I wondered, briefly, if he knew what his buddy had been up to. Probably not, or at least he had no idea that I was the one who had thwarted his buddy. If he’d known that, he’
d probably steer clear of me. But instead he took the recliner right beside me, rather than politely leaving at least one empty recliner between himself and a stranger. I deduced that he was planning to attempt conversation. I stayed focused on my book. If I’d known my plan to let suspects come to me and reveal themselves would involve interacting with the Stooges—
“I’m going to kill my travel agent if I ever get back to Baltimore,” he announced.
I lowered my book slightly and looked at him over my sunglasses.
“If that’s intended as a pickup line, you need to work on your technique,” I told him. “Starting with your ability to identify single women to try your lines on.” I waved my left hand slightly so my wedding ring caught the light.
“Pretty sure there aren’t any single women on this tub,” he said. “At least none under sixty.”
He was wrong about that, but if Rose Noire had managed to avoid encountering him so far, I wasn’t going to ruin her day. And maybe his buddy hadn’t told him about Léonie.
“There’s not even a casino.” From his tone, you’d think gambling facilities were up there with electricity and running water as basic requirements for civilization.
I shrugged and returned to my book.
“And that old dude who took over the main dining room after dinner and kept droning on about birds and stuff—how come they let him get away with that?”
“Actually, they’re paying Grandfather to do that.” I’d have gone back to my book but I wanted to see his expression when the word “Grandfather” sank in.
He winced.
“Sorry. I’m sure he’s great if you’re into all that educational stuff. Me, I’m not an egghead. I just wanted to have some fun.”
He looked so forlorn that I felt just a little bit sorry for him.
“Your travel agent didn’t tell you this was supposed to be a quiet, environmentally oriented, educational cruise?” I asked.
“Nope.” He shook his head. “She told us Pastime was cheaper than most cruise lines to begin with, on account of it being new and trying to build market share. And that this cruise was dirt cheap because it was the last minute and they still had two double staterooms that hadn’t sold. We’ve done it before, you know. Gotten a bargain on a last-minute cruise out of Baltimore or even New York. There are almost always a few unsold rooms, and we don’t much care about the destination—the journey, not the arrival, matters, am I right?”
Terns of Endearment (Meg Langslow Mysteries) Page 11
