Murder of a Needled Knitter

by Denise Swanson

  “Did she believe you?” May grimaced. “I mean, after last night?”

  “Not entirely,” Skye answered after a slight hesitation. “But you have an alibi. You were in the dining room with Dad during the time of the murder. Did you sit with anyone or by yourselves?”

  “By ourselves.” May’s voice quavered. “Jed says it takes too long to eat with a big group since you have to wait through all the courses even if all you want is a sandwich.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “That man’s going to get me arrested for murder.”

  “Maybe the maître d’ or the server will remember you,” Skye soothed.

  “They’re so busy I can’t imagine that they’d be able to pinpoint the exact time you were in the restaurant,” Trixie said. Then she brightened. “Unless you caused a fuss or something.”

  “No.” May drooped. “It took a few minutes to get seated, but once we were, we ordered right away, ate, and left.” Her face sagged. “We were there less than half an hour. Then Jed went to take a nap and I decided to work off some of the calories by walking around the jogging track. Five and a half laps equal a mile. I was thirsty after all that exercise so I came to the buffet for a glass of iced tea.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine, but when the security chief talks to you, tell her exactly what you told us about your movements. Don’t add anything about how you felt about Guinevere. Just stick with the facts.”

  “Got it.” May’s brow was still wrinkled. “What I did, not what I felt.”

  “It was fairly obvious that Officer Trencher found my story of how Trixie and I discovered the body suspicious, too.” Skye patted her mother’s hand. “Probably anyone who had a run-in with Guinevere is a suspect, and from what the security chief said last night, that’s a pretty long list.”

  Trixie added, “The guy who interviewed me made it clear he wasn’t satisfied with our explanation of why we were at the nightclub. He said it was mighty convenient, and it was obvious he thought one of us probably committed the murder. Which is why I intend to figure out who really killed Guinevere Stallings.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” Owen asked, an unhappy look on his face. “Skye just said they aren’t collecting forensic evidence, and security won’t share the information they do have.” He shook his head. “This isn’t Scumble River, where you know everyone and they’re willing to talk to you.”

  “Trixie does have one tool, if we were to poke around a little,” Skye pointed out. She stared meaningfully at her friend’s chest and said, “Right?”

  “Her cleavage?” Owen shook his head. “I love Trixie and all, but she’s not exactly as well-endowed as Dolly Parton or even Trisha Yearwood.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Trixie shot her husband a fake venomous look, then giggled. “At least I don’t have men speaking to my boobs instead of to my face.”

  “Trixie’s décolletage aside,” Skye said, “something that she does have might be useful in an investigation.”

  “True . . .” Trixie pushed her plate aside and reached into her bra. “After I made the call, I took pictures of the victim and the scene. I took the memory card out in case they confiscated my camera, but since they didn’t, I’ll put it back in, transfer the images to my netbook, and copy them onto a flash drive.” She shrugged at her husband’s horrified expression. “At the time, I was thinking of it as research for my book.”

  “But the photos might come in handy if we do try to solve Guinevere’s murder,” Skye said, glancing at Wally, who didn’t seem as opposed to the idea as she thought he would be. “I mean, we could at least hang around the knitting group and listen to the gossip.”

  “Sure.” May nodded. “I could say you two want to learn to knit.” She grinned, her mood suddenly improved. “After all, now that you’re married, the little ones will be on the way soon, and it would be natural to want to make some darling booties or a hat or even an afghan for your future babies.”

  “Mother.” Skye hurried to stop May’s train of thought. “Let’s worry about babies after I’ve been married for more than two seconds.”

  May cocked her head. “That reminds me. Tomorrow, when we’re in port, I need to find a phone—maybe I should get a cell like everyone keeps telling me,” she muttered, then frowned and went back to her original train of thought. “I want to call Vince to see if Loretta has had my grandchild yet. I still don’t understand why those two wouldn’t tell us if it’s a boy or girl.”

  Skye rolled her eyes at May, then said to Wally, “What do you think, sweetie? Should we look into the murder?”

  “Well . . .” Wally paused for a long moment, tapped his fingers on the tabletop, and finally seemed to make a decision. “An investigation might be the only way to clear all of you completely.” His lips thinned. “And more importantly, it might be the only way the vic will get any justice.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Scuttlebutt

  Skye had been amazed that Wally had agreed that they should look into Guinevere’s murder. Then again, Wally couldn’t stomach letting anyone get away with breaking the law, especially someone who took another’s life. Still, that he was willing to support her and investigate when none of them had any legal standing in the matter made her love him all the more.

  Realizing that any further discussion should take place in private, they quickly finished eating and left the dining room. Trixie and Owen followed Skye and Wally to their stateroom, while May stopped by her cabin to leave Jed a note regarding her whereabouts.

  Once the five of them were settled in the suite’s living room, Skye said, “We need to make a list of what we’re going to do.”

  Wally glanced at her, then scanned the others. “Any suggestions?”

  May pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, consulted it, and announced, “The U-knitted Nations group has a cocktail party at five.” She tapped the page. “I bet that’s where security will announce Guinevere’s death and question us about our movements during the time she was murdered.”

  “I’m betting that Dad won’t want to go to that,” Skye said, knowing Jed’s opinion of standing around trying to balance a drink and a weenie on a toothpick while making inane small talk with strangers.

  “You’re right,” May confirmed. “We were going to skip the party, but maybe one of you—and I mean Skye—could go with me.” She stared meaningfully at her daughter.

  “That’s a good idea.” Wally stroked Skye’s knee. “And while you’re at the party, I’ll check out the scene of the crime.”

  “Because there’s a good chance the majority of the security staff will be occupied interviewing the knitters,” Trixie guessed.

  “Exactly.” Wally patted his shorts pockets, then made a face and asked, “Anyone got paper and something to write with on them?”

  “Here’s a pen.” Owen flicked open the pearl snap on the pocket of his Western-style plaid shirt and handed Wally a ballpoint.

  “You can use the back of this flyer advertising the art auction.” Skye slid him a sheet of paper extolling the value of investing in fine paintings. No matter how often she tossed stacks of circulars into the wastebasket, whenever they returned to their suite another pile was waiting for them in the diamond-shaped holder outside their door. “And if you run out of room on that one, there’s a brochure from the spa and one from the jewelry shop.”

  “Let me see that last one.” Trixie held out her hand, but let it fall to her side when Owen glared at her. “Hey, I was just going to look.”

  “So we have Skye and May at the cocktail party gathering intel.” Wally jotted down a note. “I’ll be at the nightclub looking over the crime scene.” He added that information to his list. “Trixie and Owen need to make hard copies of the photos she took.” He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “On second thought, it’s probably not a good idea to use the ship’s photography studio for that, even if they agreed t
o do it for you.”

  “Maybe after the four of us do the Rhino Rider Boat Adventure tomorrow on St. Maarten, we can find someplace to print out the pictures ourselves,” Owen suggested.

  “In the meantime,” Skye said, leaning forward, “Trixie and Owen can track down that man we saw arguing with Guinevere at the Coronet Brasserie.” She reminded Wally, “The guy she wasn’t happy to see.”

  “Do you remember his name?” Wally asked. “I can’t think of it.”

  “Something fancy like Ashby or Emerson or Cullum.” Skye tapped her chin. “I thought of the Little Mermaid when I heard it.”

  Both men’s expressions went blank.

  After a second Trixie suggested, “Prince Eric?”

  “No.” Skye shook her head. “Not Max or Chef Louis or Ollie either.”

  “What other male characters were there?” May asked. “Surely not Dudley?”

  “Sebastian,” Skye burst out. “The crab who was King Triton’s court composer.”

  Wally and Owen exchanged perplexed looks, but Trixie and May nodded.

  “How are we supposed to find this Sebastian the crab guy?” Owen demanded. “Does he wear a shell or something?”

  “He works for the cruise line,” Skye offered, ignoring Owen’s sarcasm. “But he isn’t an officer or a part of the crew.” She paused, thinking. “And he eats at the Coronet Brasserie, which means someone there should be able to tell you who he is and maybe even give you an idea of where he’ll be.”

  “Okay.” May stood. “We all have our assignments.” She checked her Timex. “It’s four thirty. I need to go and change.” She stared pointedly at Skye’s shorts. “And so do you.” May continued toward the door. “I’ll pick you up in twenty-five minutes.” As she exited, she ordered, “Wear something nice.”

  Skye shook her head. “What does she think I’ll put on for a cocktail party, a pair of jeans and a T-shirt?”

  “Nah.” Owen got to his feet and pulled Trixie up beside him. “That’s just the way some people are. Not happy unless they feel in control.”

  “I know.” Skye was surprised by Owen’s insight. Her opinion of him was rapidly improving on this trip. Instead of being taciturn and oblivious, he was actually quite perceptive. A lot like her dad.

  “Do you want to have dinner together?” Trixie asked, then slid a glance between Skye and Wally. “Or do you need some alone time?”

  Skye raised her brows at Wally, silently asking if he preferred a romantic meal for two. He hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug and tilted his head in her direction, leaving the decision up to her.

  “We’re good,” Skye decided. “Let’s meet at one of the main restaurants.”

  “How about the Titian dining room?” Trixie asked. “We haven’t eaten there yet and I understand the artwork is fantastic.”

  “Sure.” Skye looked at her watch. “Is seven too late for you?”

  “Because your folks will want to eat earlier?” Owen asked with a knowing grin.

  “Yeah,” Skye admitted, then explained, “The cocktail party will bring me up to my mom quotient for the day. And although Wally’s been a good sport about my folks, he deserves a parentless dinner.”

  “Since we didn’t eat lunch until nearly two, I can last until seven.” Trixie poked her husband’s arm. “And we’ll get Owen a snack after we figure out who Sebastian is.” She headed to the door. “There’s a happy hour with four-dollar drinks and free appetizers for suite passengers from five until six thirty in the Haven.”

  “Great.” Skye closed the door behind her friends and rushed to the bathroom. “Shoot! I need to shower and figure out what to wear. And I only have twenty minutes.” She stripped, grabbed a shower cap from the basket of toiletries on the marble counter, and stepped under the cold spray. No way could she get her hair dry if she washed it.

  Wally said something, but the water drowned him out. Skye shrugged. He’d repeat it if it was important. Right now, she had to concentrate on getting ready. If she kept her mother waiting, May would harp about it during the entire party.

  As Skye swiftly washed, the vision of Guinevere bleeding out at her feet slammed into her. She sagged against the smooth ceramic tiles and felt hot tears running down her cheeks. The knitting guru might have had some serious personality flaws, but no one should have to die that way. And no one’s murder should go unpunished.

  • • •

  The cocktail party was held at Fresco, an intimate lounge on deck sixteen next to Raphael’s, the second of the Diamond Countess’s specialty restaurants. Skye and May were among the first to arrive, and while her mother filled out their name tags, Skye glanced around at the people already at the party.

  Fresco was reminiscent of a New York–style piano bar, and a Frank Sinatra look-alike was softly playing “Come Rain or Come Shine.” As more knitters poured into the small space, the swell of their voices drowned out the song and Skye felt sorry for the pianist whose long-suffering expression indicated that he was used to his performance being relegated to nothing more than background music.

  May joined Skye and handed her a white rectangle with red yarn stitched along the border. May had printed Skye’s name in black Magic Marker below the word GUEST. After Skye pinned the tag to the bodice of her blue-green sundress, she tried to identify the people sitting in a dimly lit corner. She wasn’t surprised when she recognized Officer Trencher and three of her security staff observing the guests.

  By quarter after five, the lounge was packed. Clusters of knitters stood around the room. Servers wandered through the crowd offering trays of complimentary drinks and tiny hors d’oeuvres. May introduced Skye to the ladies from her local knitting society, and although Skye recognized many of them, she was relieved that none of the women were relatives, friends, or anything more than extremely casual acquaintances from home.

  May had explained that the U-knitted Nations group on board was made up from members of many smaller clubs from the Midwest, the South, and the West. In all, there were sixty-two participants—fifty-nine women, two men, and one person of indeterminate gender.

  Skye pulled her mother aside and instructed in a whisper, “While I mingle, you try to get a reading on the Scumble River knitters’ attitudes toward Guinevere. But don’t tell them that she’s been murdered.”

  “I can do that,” May said. “But if you’re going to hang around with me at these activities, you’re going to have to pretend to really want to learn to knit.” When Skye nodded, May added, “Remember, always be honest about your feelings, even if you don’t really mean it.”

  Somewhat dazed by her mother’s last words, Skye left May in charge of scoping out her friends and drifted over to a knot of a dozen or so women who had gathered by the bar. All were dressed in hand-knitted garments, and several carried tote bags with balls of yarn and knitting needles peeking from the tops.

  As Skye neared the group, she recognized one of the women from the private island photo shoot. This time instead of a neon green cowgirl hat, she wore one knitted from a shiny gold metallic yarn that matched her minidress. Next to her stood the friend in the pink hat, who now sported a silver one that coordinated with her jumpsuit.

  “What a shocker—once again, Guinevere isn’t on time,” Ms. Gold said.

  “Yeah. I’m sooooo surprised.” Ms. Silver downed her champagne. “We should call her the late Guinevere Stallings since she claims that only the lower class insists on being on time.”

  Skye flinched, then examined the women’s expressions. Did anyone in the group seem to take more meaning from that comment than she should?

  “Guinevere’s delusions of grandeur have gone to her head.” Ms. Gold chugged the rest of her drink. “Do you all know the difference between Guinevere and the pope?”

  Her friends shook their heads.

  “The pope only expects you to kiss his ring, not his a—�
��

  Skye snickered softly, then edged closer when a man joined the group, nodded toward a fortyish-year-old woman standing a few feet away, and asked, “Did y’all hear what Ella Ann accused Guinevere of doing?” When the others indicated no, he stage-whispered, “Do you want to?”

  “Of course we do.” Ms. Silver Cowboy Hat snorted. “Spill it, Dylan.”

  Skye held her breath and repeated the name Ella Ann to herself while memorizing the features of the woman Dylan had indicated. He might be about to reveal the motive for Guinevere’s murder, and she didn’t want to forget the suspect’s identity.

  “You know they’re both from Harbor Oak, Georgia.” He paused and they all nodded. “Well, Ella Ann said that Guinevere went into their local yarn shop and demanded that the owner price her yarn the same as the junk yarn that the big box craft stores feature in their ads.”

  “What a witch.” Ms. Gold Hat narrowed her heavily made-up eyes. “I heard that Guinevere lies about spinning her own yarn.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Ms. Silver Hat said. “I tried one of the patterns she designed and it took me hours to figure it out. I needed a calculator and a degree in math to decipher it.”

  “Anyway, back to my story.” Dylan crossed his arms, his rigid whippetlike body broadcasting his impatience. “When the owner said she couldn’t match the price of the chain store, Guinevere threatened to have the knitting group she leads meet somewhere else. And you know how much business that would take away from that poor lady’s shop.”

  “It could very well put her out of business,” Ms. Silver Hat confirmed.

  “That is just so mean.” A sweet-faced teenager stamped her foot.

  “It’s almost as bad as when you spend months knitting something for your best friend and she informs you that she’s allergic to wool.” Another woman had joined the conversation. “Or she tells you she loves the shawl you made for her, but then you never see her wear it.”

  “Not to mention the aunt who tells you she could have gotten the same sweater you slaved over for six months at Kmart for twenty bucks,” Dylan said with a huff. “Or the cousin who asks why you bother to knit socks when they’re three for five dollars at Sears.”