Murder of a Needled Knitter

by Denise Swanson

  “That is my meal break.” Yuri’s expression was puzzled. “My friends Bogdan and Danya and me were in the crew mess. Tuesday is borscht, and Bogdan spill the kettle of soup all over me, so I remember.” He looked at his watch. “Is that all? I need to finish my cabins, or I have no time to eat.” When Ben nodded, Yuri said, “You keep your promise?”

  “Next cruise you’ll be on my staff,” Ben pledged. “Scout’s honor.”

  After Ben tracked down Yuri’s pals and they swore Yuri had been with them on Tuesday during lunch, he led Skye and Trixie back to the International Café. They thanked him profusely and reminded him that they needed to get Yuri’s e-mailed snapshot as soon as he sent it to Ben. Ben promised to deliver it to Trixie’s cabin the minute he received and printed the picture.

  By the time Skye and Trixie said good-bye to Ben, it was a few minutes past noon so the two women headed toward the Pilothouse Bar. When they arrived, Skye’s parents, Owen, and Wally had already secured a spot. Wally had a Diet Coke with lime waiting for Skye, and Owen had gotten Trixie a Dr Pepper.

  Sinking into the sofa next to her husband, Skye grabbed her drink and took a healthy swallow. Her mouth was dry from the heat belowdecks; it was at least twenty degrees warmer there. While she quenched her thirst, she looked around the lounge.

  This was her second visit to the bar, and only now did she notice the decor. Paintings of early ships and sea captains dotted the wall, and the nautical theme continued in the brass fixtures and looped ropes decorating most surfaces. Huge leather couches and club chairs were grouped around coffee tables made out of old ship’s wheels.

  “Guinevere had a lover on board,” Trixie blurted out as soon as the waitress left after taking everyone’s lunch order.

  “That’s certainly not a surprise.” May pressed her lips together in disapproval. “The woman was a harlot.”

  Harlot? Skye rolled her eyes. When had her mother become so biblical?

  “He was a passenger and that was against the rules,” Trixie added before taking a sip of her soda.

  “Did you find out who he was?” Wally and Owen asked at the same time.

  “No.” Skye shared Yuri’s story, finishing with, “So we’ll have a snapshot as soon as his phone gets charged.”

  “Speaking of pictures . . .” Wally paused while the server slid a plate of steak and kidney pie in front of him. “Since I couldn’t exactly tell Officer Trencher why I needed to print out some photographs, when she said she had no idea where on Grand Turk I could find that sort of service, I couldn’t pursue the matter.”

  “So you struck out,” May said, scowling at her fish and chips as if they had somehow offended her.

  “Pretty much,” Wally admitted. “Officer Trencher was willing to chat, but she really didn’t have much to share. They checked on the whereabouts of the obvious suspects—the ex-husband, knitting group, and anyone they knew she’d argued with, which included a couple of the staff, but nearly everyone had alibis.”

  “Except me,” May moaned.

  “Most of the knitters went to lunch together, the ex was with his bridge group, and the staff was on duty.” Wally took a swig of his Guinness. “The only ones besides May who can’t account for their whereabouts between eleven thirty and noon are a couple of the knitters. And of them, the only one who they know had a public altercation with the victim is May.”

  “Oh, my God!” May cried out, then collapsed on her chair and wailed, “The FBI will send me to Guantánamo, and I’ll never be heard from again.”

  “Now, Ma,” Jed said around a mouthful of bangers and mash. “Guantánamo is a detainment and interrogation facility used by the United States military. The FBI would put you in a local jail.”

  May wailed again, then whimpered, “I’ll never hold my grandchild.”

  “Really, Dad?” Skye shot her father a censorious look. Jed rarely spoke. Why had he chosen this moment to suddenly become more talkative?

  “It’ll be fine, May.” Trixie put her arm around the teary woman. “We’ll find out who really killed Guinevere and you won’t even have to talk to the FBI.” Trixie scooted back in her chair, picked up her fork, and dug into her chicken curry. “Right, guys?”

  “Of course.” Skye crossed her fingers. At this point, they’d need a miracle to solve the case before they reached Fort Lauderdale. She turned to Wally. “Sweetie, do you think Officer Trencher was telling you the truth?”

  “Why would she lie when she could have just refused to speak to me? No. She seemed pretty open, like she hoped we could figure out who the killer was since she has orders not to disturb the passengers or stir up trouble.” Wally paused, then asked, “Owen, did you get anything interesting from your Internet research?”

  “There were lots of hits on Guinevere. Mostly blogs about knitting. She was pretty famous as a designer and she had several books out on the subject. It was too much to read in the time I had, so I printed everything out. We can each look at a stack when we get a chance.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Skye smiled, impressed with Owen. She was really glad she was getting to know him better. “Anything about how strong you’d have to be to stab someone with knitting needles?”

  “Not specifically.” Owen frowned. “But as Wally said earlier, the throat is soft tissue. Plus when you factor in the adrenaline rush of murdering someone, probably even the weakest person on board could do it.” He looked at Wally. “What do you think?”

  “That was my guess, but I was hoping you’d find something that would prove me wrong,” Wally answered, then asked, “Any luck finding a place to print pictures on Grand Turk?”

  “Sorry.” Owen shook his head. “Nothing I could find. Grand Turk is really small.”

  “Well, hell!” Wally sighed. “That means I’ll have to ask for help from someone I’d rather not owe a favor.” He stood and looked at Skye. “Why don’t you come with me? Trixie, Owen, we’ll meet you on the dock for our excursion.” Turning to Skye’s parents, he asked, “Do you want to have dinner together about seven?”

  Jed started to protest the lateness, but May overrode him. “Just tell us where to be.”

  “Is the Donatello dining room okay with everyone?” Skye asked, pushing away her empty plate. After they all agreed to meet there, she hugged her mom and murmured a few reassuring words in May’s ear, then followed her husband out of the room.

  Skye trotted to keep up with Wally’s long-legged strides. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to our suite,” he answered over his shoulder. “I noticed we docked a few minutes ago, so I should have cell reception.”

  “Who are you calling?” She pushed the elevator button.

  “Dad.” Wally’s tone was grim. “I hate to do it, but money talks and he has no problem using his to shout loud enough to get those freaking pictures printed.”

  “Your father knows people on Grand Turk?” Skye asked as she jogged behind Wally down the long corridor toward their cabin.

  “If he doesn’t, he’ll find someone who does.” Wally used his key card to open the door.

  “Why are you upset?” Skye could tell Wally hated what he was about to do.

  “Because Dad is a quid pro quo kind of guy. If he does this favor for me, he’ll expect me to do something for him in return.” Wally gritted his teeth. “But I can’t let your mother go to jail without trying everything in my power to clear her.”

  With that, he grabbed his cell and stepped out onto their balcony. The last thing Skye heard before he shut the sliding glass door was, “Hi, Dad. I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 20

  From Stem to Stern

  Skye and Wally walked quickly through the terminal, ignoring the Colombian Emeralds store, the Ron Jon Surf Shop, the Piranha Joe’s, and the Dizzy Donkey—a boutique offering women’s beachwear, sundresses, and flip-flops. Spotting Trixie and Owen stan
ding with a group surrounding a young man holding a sign that read SEMISUB UNDERWATER EXPLORATION, Skye and Wally headed in that direction.

  As soon as they joined the Fraynes, Trixie demanded, “Were you able to figure out how to get the photos printed?”

  “Yes.” Wally shoved his hands in the pockets of his green-and-navy board shorts. “A driver will meet us here at five thirty. She will take us to the Bank of Nova Scotia, where we’ll have access to a computer and a printer equipped with photo paper.”

  “How did you manage that?” Owen asked, a puzzled look on his face. “Won’t the bank be closed that late in the day?”

  “I’m exchanging favors with someone.” Wally’s tone was clipped. “We’ll be using the director’s office and I’m sure our driver will know how to get us in so it doesn’t matter if the bank is closed or not.”

  “Who’s helping you?” Trixie wrinkled her nose, her expression matching her husband’s. “How in the world do you happen to have a contact on Grand Turk?”

  “You know how law enforcement officers are,” Skye said. She hated to mislead her friends, but Wally had made it clear he didn’t want anyone to find out about his father’s wealth, and as his wife, she considered it her duty to honor that wish. “They always have each other’s backs.”

  Having settled the photo printing issue, the foursome resolved to forget the murder and enjoy their day. Skye’s parents were off on a bus tour with the other knitters. It stopped only at the Salt House, a museum that focused on the island’s salt trade, and Light House Park, which appreciably lowered the probability of May getting into trouble. With her parents off the ship and fully occupied for the next several hours, Skye could stop worrying that security would put her mother in the brig. At least for the time being, May was safe. What would happen to her after they got back to Fort Lauderdale was anyone’s guess.

  As Skye allowed the hot sun to ease the tension in her shoulders, their guide announced, “Please follow me to the tenders.”

  After a short boat ride, the tour group arrived at the semisub. From the surface, the bright yellow-and-white vessel looked like a pontoon boat with a conning tower attached to the deck. But once Skye descended the ladder, she saw that the seating area was entirely underwater.

  A double bench was situated down the center of the space and passengers had seats facing their own windows with their backs to the people on the other side of the bench. The two couples found four places in a row, and as soon as everyone was settled, the semisub began its slow cruise out into the Atlantic waters.

  When the vessel reached its destination, the escort announced, “This is the third largest barrier reef system in the world.”

  There was a dramatic intake of breath from the passengers as they watched the ocean floor, which had been gradually sloping downward as they progressed, take a sudden plunge thousands of feet. Skye’s stomach plummeted and she felt a little woozy. Leaning her head against Wally’s shoulder, she closed her eyes until the queasiness subsided, glad for her husband’s solid warmth.

  The eerie silence was broken by the guide’s voice. “The abrupt drop here provides opportunities for what is commonly called wall diving. Experienced scuba enthusiasts and snorkelers come from all over the world to dive along this underwater cliff face.” He smiled. “They tell me that it’s similar to climbing the side of a skyscraper.”

  Excited chatter broke out among the group until the leader continued. “Fortunately for you all, you are getting a close-up look at this natural phenomenon without getting wet.” He directed their attention to the view in front of them. “Covering the wall are tube sponges of every color imaginable, many varieties of coral, and if you’re lucky, a humpback whale may make an appearance.”

  “That would be amazing,” Trixie exclaimed, squeezing Skye’s hand. “Wouldn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” Skye agreed, then glanced around the tiny interior. “I just hope Guinevere’s killer doesn’t put in an appearance.” She so didn’t want a repeat of what had happened on St. Maarten. Her wound from the purse snatching was still tender. She whispered to Wally, “Does the man over there look familiar?”

  “That guy?” Wally tensed, then relaxed. “Oh, yeah. He and his wife are in the cabin right around the corner from our suite. We’ve seen them in the hall several times. They’re from Wisconsin.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Skye tried to relax and concentrate on the lecture. “Now I remember.”

  “Be on the lookout for seahorses, stingrays, hawksbill turtles, dolphins, and sharks,” the guide continued his patter. “Now as we pause here, the crew will put out food to lure tropical fish to swim by your windows. Pay close attention to the smaller species.”

  Forty-five minutes later, as they disembarked the semisub and transferred back to a tender, Skye still felt as if something bad was about to happen. Viewing the reef had been a wonderful experience, but she couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that they were being watched.

  Back at the Grand Turk Cruise Center, the two couples joined the dune buggy tour. While they waited in yet another line, Skye kept glancing over her shoulder. Had that lady wearing sunglasses and a long caftan with the hood pulled up been on the semisub with them? She opened her mouth to ask Wally, but the woman disappeared before she could get his attention.

  Turning back to their new guide—this one had a trim goatee and gleaming dark skin—Skye focused on the orientation and safety briefing. They were given helmets and instructed to climb into their vehicles. Wally got behind the wheel of their buggy and Skye took the passenger seat. She glanced at Trixie and Owen. The couple appeared to be in a lively discussion about who should drive.

  Skye glanced away, and a moment later she heard a shriek. Turning toward the scream, Skye saw someone running into the throng of tourists heading to the beach. Owen had hold of Trixie by the waist and she was fighting to free herself from her husband’s grasp. Getting out of the dune buggy, Skye and Wally hurried over to their friends.

  As soon as they were within earshot, Trixie shouted, “That jerk stole my Nikon!” She glared at her husband. “And Owen won’t let me chase the creep.”

  A crowd had gathered, including their guide who said, “It is no use. Your camera was no doubt immediately handed off to an accomplice.” His expression sympathetic, he added, “You could report the theft to the authorities, but that would mean missing the tour.”

  Skye pulled Wally, Trixie, and Owen aside and said in a low voice, “I’m about ninety-nine percent sure that the thief was the same person who mugged me in St. Maarten. I didn’t get a good look, but the height and build were similar and even the clothing seemed the same—jeans, a long-sleeved chambray shirt, and a baseball cap.” She looked at Trixie. “Did you see his face?”

  “No.” Trixie shoved her hands in her pockets. “I felt a tug from behind and then my Nikon was gone. I only saw the back of the robber as he ran away.” She put her hand to the nape of her neck, then held out her fingers. There was a trace of blood on the tips. “But he must have cut the strap just like he did with your beach bag.”

  “Are you okay?” Skye gripped Trixie’s shoulder.

  “I’m fine.”

  Skye examined her friend’s neck. The wound was only a scratch. Apparently the mugger was getting more skillful with his knife.

  Once everyone had calmed down, the guide urged them all back on their dune buggies and led them to a narrow dirt track. As they roared down the path, Skye wondered if the woman in the caftan could have been the thief. She could have easily had jeans and a shirt on under the long tunic, and the baseball cap would have been concealed under the hood. It was a definite possibility.

  When they arrived at Gun Hill, Skye gingerly removed her helmet, glad she’d pinned her hair up since it was soaked with perspiration. She was also thankful that the island hadn’t had any recent rain. They’d been warned that if the road was wet, they’d be splatte
red with mud. Instead, she was able to brush the dust off without leaving too much sticking to her skin and clothes. Still, she hated to think of what they’d look like entering the bank later that day.

  After climbing to the top of Gun Hill and snapping photos of Gibb’s Cay and several uninhabited islands, they got back into their buggies and drove to a replica of John Glenn’s space capsule located at the entrance to the International Airport. On the way, they passed ponds that had been used to mine sea salt during Grand Turk’s salt industry era.

  Their next stop was Cockburn Town, the administrative and political capital of the Turks and Caicos Islands. The guide allowed a few minutes for pictures, and Trixie tapped Skye’s shoulder and gestured to a man asleep on the front step of an office building.

  Skye raised her brows questioningly and Trixie said, “Apparently the sandman does drive-bys in the Caribbean.”

  Skye chuckled at her friend’s quick wit, then got back in the dune buggy as the guide steered everyone to their next destination, North Wells. Here Skye took snapshots of flamingos that from a distance looked like a carpet of pink rose petals. As they drove to the Lighthouse, the last stop on the tour, Skye saw wild horses and donkeys.

  It was after five when they began traveling back along Breezy Brae to the pier. While Owen and Wally took care of tipping the guide, Skye and Trixie headed to the bathroom. The men would make a quick pit stop, as well, and they’d all meet in the parking lot where the bank’s driver was supposed to pick them up.

  As Skye washed her face and refastened her hair into a ponytail, she said, “I sure hope we get those photos printed this time.”

  Trixie ran a comb through her short tresses. “Fortunately, I brought the flash drive and didn’t rely on the using the Nikon’s memory card or we’d be out of luck.”

  “It was a smart move to back up the pictures that way,” Skye agreed. “I bet a lot of people wouldn’t have thought of doing that. I wouldn’t have.” She frowned. “I’m so sorry about your camera. Did you lose all your vacation snapshots?”