“Yeah, for a hefty price,” Paige said. “Unless it’s in crop rooms. I’ve been able to sneak some into my flask so I have my own portable bar. Screw them and their twenty dollars for a glass of wine.”
“My mom,” Randy said, laughing. “Class act.”
“How’s your head?” Eric asked Sheila.
“It hurts. After dinner, I’m going to meet with Theresa, then go back to my cabin and go to sleep. You all will have to party without me.” She grinned.
“Truth is I’m about partied out. This cruise has been exhausting. Maybe tomorrow I’ll relax by the pool. I love to scrapbook, but this has been intense,” Paige said.
“I’m a bit weary, too,” Vera said after a few minutes.
“And with the murder and everything . . . I don’t know. I’m a bit freaked out. I can’t stop thinking about the poison. Is it in the food? In the water? Where is it? Maybe I’ll join you at the pool tomorrow, too. Until Sheila’s journaling class. We won’t miss that.”
“Tomorrow night is the award ceremony?” Eric asked.
“No,” Sheila said. “It’s the next night. It was supposed to be after my class in Mexico, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to get there. I ran into the captain and he gave me a heads-up on that.”
“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere,” Eric said.
“They’re just being safe,” Vera said. “I don’t mind if they turn around and go to some other ports. Just as long as we get there safely.”
“Seems like a long time,” Paige said.
“Well, they said to reroute requires permission from several agencies and islands,” Randy said. “It must be taking longer than what they expected.”
Sheila finished the last bite of her meal and excused herself to go meet with Theresa again in the Cut and Paste lounge. That name tickled Sheila, even though she knew that the Jezebel had adopted it temporarily for the scrapbooking cruise.
She looked around the dark lounge, her eyes adjusting from the brightly lit hallway. She didn’t see Theresa. She walked around a bit and then she saw her. She was sitting with a man—maybe it was her husband?
Sheila walked toward them and Theresa stood up to greet her. “Sheila, so glad you could make it. This is Harold Tuft,” she said.
Sheila extended her hand. He offered his in a cold and clammy weak handshake. How weird.
“Nice to meet you,” he said meekly. His eyes and nose were red and swollen. Was he sick? Drunk?
“I’m sorry, Sheila. Please have a seat. We were just talking about Allie. Her death . . . it’s such a tragedy. She was so young and vibrant,” said Theresa.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “I had just been with her the night before she died.”
“Really?” Theresa said. “Why?”
“She loved my work and wanted to borrow my scrapbook to look at it. I’ve not seen it since—”
“Oh, that’s why you don’t have it,” she said.
Harold patted his eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, ladies. I really must go back to our—my—cabin. I’m feeling quite under the weather.”
He took his leave and Theresa’s eyes followed him.
“Poor man,” she said. “He and Allie were close. I don’t know what the man is going to do.”
“You mean—?”
“Yes, they were planning to be married, as soon as her divorce was final.”
“Oh,” Sheila said. Why weren’t they sharing a room together? Maybe they were. Maybe she never really stayed in her own cabin. Oh hell, she’d have to find the security guard and tell him what she knew. It could help with the case—and help find her scrapbook. Her head was pounding. She reached into her bag for an ibuprofen and slipped it into her mouth. How many had she taken today?
“So let’s look at your photos. I hope it will jog my memory,” Theresa said with a flat note in her voice.
Sheila pulled out her envelope from her bag and showed her photos to Theresa. She wished the woman would say something other than “lovely, just lovely.”
Finally she did.
“I remember this book quite vividly,” she said, looking at Sheila over her glasses. Those droopy bloodhound eyes were shot. “I think it’s average, I’m sorry to say. I was surprise that Allie liked it so much and put her weight behind it. And I was surprised that this book was designed by the same person who designed the exquisite digital pieces. That’s where your strength as a designer lies. We would never hire you to design scrapbooks, I’m sorry to say.”
Sheila couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She choked back a tear. She thought her scrapbook was unique—everybody else had told her that. But maybe they were just being polite. But wait. She’d won a major competition. You didn’t win a competition like this unless you were good. This was confusing.
“I don’t understand,” Sheila said. “I won the contest.” Her voice came out weak.
“As I said, Allie really liked it and persuaded some of the other judges. But our company’s designers have a much higher standard than hers,” Theresa said with a tight smile.
Sheila fought back anger as she realized this was not about her. Theresa and Allie were competitors. And while Allie’s body was still in the ship’s morgue, Theresa could not muster a kind word for her or for Sheila.
“If that’s all,” Sheila said, gathering up her photos. “I’ve got a raging headache.” Her voice was steady. She’d be damned if she’d let this woman know how she’d upset her. “I really need to lie down.” She grabbed her things and left.
“Hope you feel better soon,” Theresa said with a fake lightness.
I bet you do.
When Sheila turned around to look at her once more, she was grinning off into another direction at nobody in particular. It looked evil and malicious. Maybe murderous.
Oh Sheila, now you really are losing your mind!
She walked over to the elevator, pushed the button, and waited. Oh Lord, she wanted her bed. Tomorrow she’d meet with David’s Designs, teach her class, and then lounge by the pool with her friends. Yes, that’s what she’d do. That thought warmed her.
She slipped into the elevator and smiled at the woman already there. Sheila’s room was on the top floor. She felt a bit pampered in her luxurious quarters; her friends’ rooms were on another deck completely and did not have windows. Sheila was treated like a star by everybody. Everybody except Theresa, that is.
When she exited the elevators, she noted sounds of scuffling or something, which was odd because the halls were usually quiet and kept clear. She turned the corner and saw Harold splayed on the floor, with three women crowded around him.
“He’s dead,” one woman cried.
“What do we do?” another woman said through her sobs.
Sheila spotted an emergency phone and ran toward it. “I’ll call security.”
This cruise was becoming a nightmare. Only this morning she’d tripped over Allie’s body. Tonight she watched as the security team and medics took Harold’s body and comforted the three women who’d found him.
“He was heading to his room,” one said, and gestured to the room next to Sheila. “He said he wasn’t feeling good.”
“He looked very sick,” another one said.
“Ms. Rogers . . .” Matthew Kirtley came up beside her. “Fancy seeing you again.”
Chapter 18
Annie arose at 4 A.M. to get some work done on her manuscript before the start of the day. It was the first day of Hanukkah—okay it really didn’t start until sundown, but she allowed herself to feel the joy of the holiday.
She clicked on her computer and the information about Allie Monroe and the ship was still on her screen. It was a tragedy, to be sure, this young woman killed on a cruise ship. She read over Allie’s death notice. She was surprised to read that Allie had been in the process of divorcing her husband of twenty-three years. Wow. Three kids, money, and a divorce. That sent alarm bells off in Annie’s head.
She typed in “Allison and John
Monroe” and bingo, a list of blog articles came up on the computer:
Scrapbooking Superstar Allie Monroe Fights for Custody of Her Three Children
Mega Millionaire Allison Monroe Tells Her Divorcing Husband “Not a Dime”
Allie Monroe Can’t Scrapbook This: Husband Accuses Her of Cheating for Years with Fledgling Assistant.
Wow, what a tangled, sordid web.
What if Allie’s husband is on the cruise?
Would a jealous soon-to-be ex-husband go to the trouble of killing his cheating wife while she was miles away from home?
Annie’s guts twisted. Probably. Especially since there was a lot of money involved. And she’d been cheating on him. That would sting anybody, especially since it was so public. The humiliation would be searing. Some men would have to get revenge.
Annie knew she couldn’t get a list of passengers on the ship, but she racked her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody that could.
She reached for her cell phone—she would text everybody she knew on the ship. At least one of them would be bound to get it.
Looking into murder vic’s background. Bad divorce.
Her soon-to-be ex on board? His name is John.
Send.
She typed in the words “Jezebel Cruise” and saw that the ship was at a standstill on the sea due to the storm and would be rerouted.
Whew, that was a relief.
But still. Her friends were on a ship in the middle of the western Caribbean with a murderer and a pending storm.
The coffee pot beeped. Ahhh, coffee. It was just what she needed. A toilet flushed, announcing that one of her boys was up—it was probably Mike.
He sauntered into the kitchen.
“Coffee?” she asked.
He nodded. “Man, I was up and down all night. I shouldn’t have had that beer.” He kissed her cheek. “Good morning, Annie.”
“Morning,” she said, pouring him some coffee.
“Get much work done?”
“Not really. I’ve been distracted by the murder on the cruise ship.”
“Ah, yeah,” he said, bringing his cup to his mouth.
“Find out anything?”
She told him what she knew.
“I’m glad you didn’t go,” he said, smiling.
She liked the way her man looked in the mornings. All dark and rumpled. Unshaven.
“What?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re cute.”
He laughed. “Okay.”
She drank more coffee. “I wonder if there’s a way for me to hack into the ship’s database and get a passenger list.”
He grinned. “I bet I know someone who could help you with that.”
“Really? I’d feel better knowing if her ex is on the ship.”
“Whose ex?”
“Allie Monroe’s ex-husband. If he’s the one who killed her, he’s not much danger to anybody else. But if it was just some random killing . . .”
“Your friends would be in more danger. But, Annie, there’s not much you can do from here.”
“I can warn them.”
“If you can get through to them. With a storm so close by, I imagine communication will be rough.”
She grimaced.
“They are a resourceful and smart bunch of women,” Mike said.
“True.”
“I mean, there’s Vera, one of the strongest women I’ve ever known. She’s not going to get herself killed after everything she’s been through,” he said, and grinned.
It was true that Vera was the cliché of a “steel magnolia.” On first meeting Annie thought she was vapid, prissy, and not very bright. Boy was she wrong. Vera was a smart businesswoman who knew what she wanted and never had a problem saying what that was.
“And then there’s Paige.” Mike rolled his eyes. “I mean, c’mon. I’ll never forget when you all went up on Jenkins Mountain after that cult. Paige told you not to do it. And then she helped figure out all that historical stuff for Bea.”
“She’s definitely the voice of reason. And she has Randy with her,” Annie said. “He’s a bright young man.”
“And Sheila? Well . . .”
Sheila was a mess on the outside—but it was because she had so much going on in the inside that she couldn’t be bothered brushing her hair most days. It had taken Annie a while to realize what Sheila was about; she was so creative that she sometimes didn’t concern herself much with the little things in real life. Things like matching her clothes and brushing her hair. Annie smiled.
“Sheila is a trip,” she said.
“A crazy talented trip,” Mike said. “It’s a shame this has all happened to her when she’s finally coming into her own. Maybe it won’t bother her much.”
Annie thought for a moment. “You know, Mike, I think it’s going to bother her a lot. It’s been a struggle for her to accept her talent. She’s put it aside for years. When she’s finally acknowledged, this strange murder takes place on the ship. I hope it doesn’t hold her back. But it some ways, Sheila is the most fragile of all of us. What I mean is that she’s on a precipice of great change in her life. And that makes her vulnerable.”
Chapter 19
Beatrice woke up with a headache. Had she overdone it with the bourbon last night?
The scent of frying bacon let her know that Jon was up and fixing breakfast. That man. He was a good one.
She sat up slowly—her bones weren’t happy with her this morning. Was a storm going to blow in? She made a mental note to check the local weather, not only the Caribbean weather. From what she could tell last night, the little boat on their Web site was moving again, which meant that it had been rerouted because of the storm. That was a good thing.
She reached for her robe and slipped it on and padded downstairs to the kitchen. She stood a moment to marvel at her man frying bacon and eggs. She glanced at the coffeepot, full and fresh. He was a winner.
“Good morning,” she said, coming up behind him, wrapping her arms around him.
“Good morning, mon amie,” he said. “There is your aspirin.” He pointed to the counter where a glass of water and an aspirin sat ready for her.
“Well, now. How’d you know?” she said.
“You left the bottle out. You always get a headache from it,” he said. “No matter what your daddy told you, I do not think it is good for what ails you.”
She smiled, then took her aspirin. “The good news is the Jezebel is moving again. Of course, it’s not heading for the Mexican coast anymore. Thank heaven for that. I was worried because it doesn’t seem like the cruise is being run professionally.”
Jon sighed and fiddled with the sizzling bacon. “The Mexican coast is getting hit hard. It’s devastating to these small coastal communities.”
“It’s a shame,” Beatrice said, and reached into the cupboard to get a cup. Lawd, she needed some coffee. She had too busy a day ahead to let a headache get the best of her.
After pouring herself the coffee, she sat down at the table and drank it silently. Jon piled plates high with scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits, and brought them to the table.
“Thanks for making breakfast this morning. I’ll clean up,” she said.
“No thanks needed, Bea,” he said, and kissed her forehead.
After a mostly silent breakfast, Jon informed her that snow was expected, which didn’t surprise Beatrice, given the way her bones ached. They always seem to know, unfortunately.
“It’s supposed to start tonight,” Jon said.
“Tonight? Maybe I’ll try to move the meeting up to this afternoon.” She had one more official meeting planned for the Christmas bazaar.
Lizzie came bounding her way down the stairs and climbed up on Beatrice’s lap.
“Good morning, sugar. You hungry?” Beatrice said.
Lizzie nodded and Jon set a plate in front of her. She dug her head into Beatrice’s chest and sobbed. “I miss Mama.”
�
�Aww, baby,” Beatrice said, as she slipped her arms around her. “I miss her, too. She’ll be home soon.”
“In the meantime, your daddy is going to come and get you today and he’s going to take you to see Santa. Isn’t that exciting?” Jon said.
She sniffed and nodded.
Beatrice’s heart ached. That child loved her mama, of course. They’d been through a lot together, perhaps making them closer than most. Bill’s odd relationship with one of his law students was something both Vera and Elizabeth had suffered through. Some people should never have children. Bill was one of them. Beatrice hated sending her granddaughter off with him this morning, but the man had proven he was a fit parent according to the court’s definition. It struck Beatrice, then, as it did from time to time, that half the world’s problems would be solved if people were tested before they were allowed to become parents.
Oh, she could hear the crazies calling her fascist and inbred now. But, Lawd, some people should not breed. For years, she thought she might be one of them. After all, if she were to be honest with herself, physics was her first love. But then there was Ed, and when she met him she had grappled with the desire to bear his child. They got one in right under the wire. And she was a doozie.
“I had a dream about Mommy last night,” Elizabeth said. “I dreamed she was fighting an octopus!”
“Did she win? Did she kill that ol’ octopus?” Beatrice said.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I woke up before the ending. But his arms were around her and she was crying.”
“Dreams are funny things,” Beatrice said.
“You’ve been watching too much Jacques Cousteau,” Jon said, setting a plate of biscuits on the table.
“But he’s neat,” she said. “I like the way he talks. He talks like you, Grandpa.”
Beatrice loved to hear her call him Grandpa. So sweet.
Jon’s eyes caught hers. He loved it, too. “He’s just another crazy French guy,” he said, and smiled.
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