by Laura Levine
…She has the nerve to compare herself to Mary Higgins Clark!
Wait a minute! I wanted to shout. You’re the one who keeps comparing me to Mary Higgins Clark. Not me!
But I was too hot to defend myself. I just sat there, watching Puerto Vallarta speed by in a heat-soaked blur, praying for a breeze to make it past my three inches of open window.
As Pepe whizzed past historical landmarks, he gabbed excitedly about the fabulous jewelry shop he was going to take us to.
“It’s where all the Hollywood movie stars shop when they’re in Puerto Vallarta!” he exclaimed.
Finally, when the temperature in Black Beauty had reached inferno proportions, Pepe parked the hearse in a distinctly seedy part of town.
“Okay, senoritas!” he announced. “Time to go jewelry shopping.”
We stepped over a trash-choked gutter onto a street straight out of downtown Beirut. Paint peeled from the small storefronts; security bars adorned the grimy windows.
Pepe led us over to one of the shops, a small stucco structure that had once been painted yellow but was now mottled gray with dirt and water stains. The sign in the window read, Pepe’s Fine Jewelry.
Pepe opened the door and waved us inside.
An old man was sitting behind the counter, sound asleep, a thin line of drool trickling from his mouth.
“Papa. Wake up!”
The old man came to with a start.
“We have visitors,” Pepe announced. “Let us show them our fine merchandise. All handmade by Mexican artisans.”
He showed us a bunch of junk that made the stuff at The 99-Cent Store look like Tiffany originals. If Pepe’s jewelry was made by Mexican artisans, they were living in China at the time.
Unfortunately, the inside of Pepe’s Fine Jewelry was only slightly less stifling than the inside of the hearse, so while Rita and her friends were buying dubious-quality silver I headed outside to breathe in the muggy tropical air.
As I stood there in the blazing sun, my pores gushing like Niagara Falls, I could hear Desi squawking, Are we having fun yet?
After what seemed like eternities, the gang emerged from the jewelry shop, and Pepe herded us back into the hearse. He then drove a grand total of two blocks to Puerto Vallarta’s “most famous pottery factory”—Pepe’s Pottery Barn, where I passed up the “chance of a lifetime” to buy a genuine I Left My Heart in Puerto Vallarta chips ’n’ dip plate.
By now Pepe had given up any hope of parting me from my money and was lavishing all his charm on Senorita Rita and her buddies, Senoritas Marilyn and Judy.
“Vamanos, senoritas!” he said when they’d bought their share of pottery and were back in the hearse. “Now, off to the most famous cantina in all of Mexico!”
Three guesses what it was called.
Those of you who did not guess Pepe’s Cantina, go to the back of the class and put on your dunce caps.
Lord, what a dive. Thank heavens Pepe led us past the seedy bar up front—where final-stage alcoholics were downing shots of paint thinner—out onto a tiny soot-choked patio.
I took a seat at a rickety table with a torn plastic tablecloth. A dying potted palm nearby provided no shade whatsoever.
Naturally, Rita and her gang sat as far away from me as humanly possible.
A sullen teenage waitress with beady eyes and a mighty cleavage informed me there was a five-dollar drink minimum.
Just as I was being served a lukewarm bottle of water, Pepe stepped up to a microphone in a small clearing that served as a stage.
“And now,” he announced, “here to entertain you is the world famous Desi, the talking parrot!”
Unfortunately, the parrot was napping at the time of his introduction. Pepe poked him awake and held out a treat.
Desi eyed it without much enthusiasm.
“Come on, Desi,” Pepe smiled. “The senoritas are waiting.”
Once more he waved the treat in front of the bird.
Finally, Desi let out a giant squawk and said, Lucy, I’m home!
Rita bust a gut over that one, slapping her thighs with glee.
Why couldn’t she be half as appreciative in my class?
“What else have you got to say, Desi?” Pepe asked the bored bird, waving another treat in front of his face.
Reluctantly, the bird squawked something that sounded like, You gotta lotta splainin’ to do.
By now Rita and her buddies were practically peeing in their pants. Maybe it was the paint-thinner piña coladas they’d ordered to drink. I’d heard Rita tell the waitress that piña coladas were Mary Higgins Clark’s favorite drink.
For the show’s grand finale, Pepe accompanied Desi on the conga drums while the bird belted out an earsplitting rendition of “Babalu.”
As I sat there, holding my ears, I thought longingly of the ship. It seemed like decades ago that I was safe in its air-conditioned embrace. What had ever possessed me to go ashore? After all, I had a murder to solve. And a manuscript to edit. What was I doing sitting here listening to a parrot sing “Babalu”?
One thing was for certain:
I sure as heck wasn’t having fun yet.
Chapter 12
By the time Pepe released us from captivity—I mean, brought us back to the ship—I was starving. I hadn’t had a thing to eat since that banana centuries ago.
Back on board, I raced to the buffet, where I practically kissed the ground in gratitude. Then I loaded my tray with a ham and swiss on rye, an extra-jumbo iced tea, and some poached salmon to take back to Prozac. (And, if you must know, just the weensiest piece of chocolate layer cake. Okay, so it wasn’t so weensy. And there was ice cream involved. Two scoops. Oh, don’t go shaking your head like that. If you ask me, I deserved every single calorie, after what I’d just been through.)
The buffet was fairly empty at that time of the afternoon, and I was able to nab myself a window table, where I instantly dove into my sandwich, washing it down with giant gulps of iced tea. Every once in a while, I rubbed the frosty glass of tea against my forehead. Ahhhh. What a heavenly contrast to the blazing inferno of Black Beauty.
When I finished eating, I sat back and gazed out the window at the mountains of Puerto Vallarta, the prettiest view I’d seen all day.
I was almost tempted to get myself a glass of wine and get a head start on the cocktail hour, but I couldn’t linger. It was way past Prozac’s snack time and we all know how cranky she gets when her tummy’s empty. I reached for her poached salmon and was wrapping it in some napkins when I heard:
“Really, Ms. Austen, I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that.”
I looked up and saw Ms. Nesbitt standing over me, holding a mug of coffee and a container of nonfat yogurt.
“Doing what?” I asked.
“Taking food to your cabin.” She glared down in disapproval at my kitty care package.
“Oh, it’s just something to snack on later,” I said, carefully omitting the fact that Prozac would be the one doing the snacking.
“Somehow,” she said, eyeing my thighs, “you don’t seem like the kind of woman who snacks on poached salmon.”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but that was a fairly low blow, n’est-ce pas?
“Oh, but I adore poached salmon,” I insisted. “Yum! Can’t get enough of it. My friends say I’m a salmon-holic.”
“Then why didn’t you order it when it was on the menu last night?” she asked, oozing skepticism.
“Was it on the menu? Gee, I didn’t see it.”
“It was there, all right.”
And with a final sniff of disapproval, she marched off to another table.
But I wasn’t about to let her get away so easily. Lest you forget, Nesbitt was one of my prime suspects, and I intended to question her. So I got a refill on my iced tea and skedaddled over to where she was sitting.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked with a bright smile.
“Well, actually—”
I slid down across from her befo
re she had a chance to voice her objections.
“So what have you and Emily been up to today?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t heard about the murder. I didn’t dare tell her I was investigating the case. She’d never fall for my USDA Meat Inspector routine. And it would be just like her to rat on me to the captain.
“Ms. Pritchard has been in bed all day,” she said stonily.
“She’s not ill, I hope.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?” I asked, still playing the babe in the woods.
“Graham’s dead.”
“No!”
“Yes,” she nodded, quite chipper at the thought. “Stabbed in the heart with an ice pick. They arrested the singer who made a scene in the showroom last night.”
“Cookie?” I asked, in mock surprise.
“Yes. Apparently she stole the ice pick from that greasy sculptor fellow. Probably after his demonstration yesterday.”
“Omigosh. I suppose you saw her take it.”
“Why would I have seen her?”
Time for a little fib.
“I could’ve sworn I saw you at the display table after the demonstration was over.”
I’d meant to surprise her, and I had.
She looked up, startled.
“I was nowhere near that table!” she protested.
Was that a glimmer of guilt I saw in her eyes? Had Nesbitt been the one who took the ice pick? It certainly would have been easy enough. Everyone in the Pritchard clan had been carrying a shopping bag at the demo; they’d all been to the gift shop that morning. It would’ve been a snap for Nesbitt to slip an ice pick or two into her shopping bag when no one was looking.
I wracked my brain trying to remember if I’d seen her lingering at the demo table. But all I could remember was Anton’s smarmy face, blocking my view.
By now Nesbitt had turned away from me and was staring fixedly out the window.
My keen powers of perception told me our little tête-à-tête had come to an end.
“Catch you later,” I said, and left her to binge on her nonfat yogurt.
Down on the Dungeon Deck, I spotted Samoa wheeling his linen cart along the corridor.
Believe it or not, I was actually happy to see him.
“Wait up, Samoa!” I called out, trotting to catch up with him.
“Yes, Ms. Austen?” he said, flashing me his deceptively sweet smile.
“I need your help with a little problem.”
And at that, his smile went bye-bye.
“I already told you, Ms. Austen, no more pillows.”
“It’s not that, Samoa.”
“What is it then, this problem of yours?”
“I need to break into some cabins.”
Yes, it’s true. I’d decided to do a little breaking and entering. According to Cookie, Graham’s cuff links had been stolen at the time of his death. Of course, it was possible that an opportunistic thief had come along and taken the cuff links from Graham’s already dead body. But not likely. Why would a casual thief risk implicating himself in a murder? The way I figured it, whoever had the cuff links was the killer. Hence my decision to go cuff link hunting.
I explained my plan to Samoa, who knew all about Graham’s death and Cookie’s subsequent arrest. Apparently it was the topic du jour below deck.
“So how about it, Samoa?” I asked. “Can you get me a passkey? And cabin numbers for Kyle Pritchard and Leona Nesbitt?”
He shook his head.
“Samoa could get fired for that.”
“Come on, Samoa,” I said, appealing to his better nature, praying that he had one. “We can’t sit by and let Cookie get arrested for a crime she didn’t commit. We have to help her!”
He thought this over for a beat, rubbing his chin.
Then, with all the gravitas of a sultan agreeing to take on another wife, he proclaimed, “Samoa will do it.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“On one condition,” he added.
“What’s that?” I asked, with no small degree of trepidation. I knew only too well what a hard bargain Samoa could drive.
“You type my book for me.”
Oh, crud. As if editing his miserable manuscript wasn’t enough torture, now he wanted me to type the damn thing, too!
No way. Absolutely not. I refused to wear my fingers to stubs typing that piece of crappola. But just as I was about to tell him so, I thought of Cookie sitting in a cold, damp brig.
“Okay,” I agreed, with a sigh. “I’ll do it.”
“Samoa have friend in security.” He smiled, no longer the least bit worried about getting fired. “I bring you passkey tonight at midnight. And while I’m there, you show Samoa what you’ve done on the book so far.”
Uh-oh. Thanks to my many distractions, what I’d done on the book so far could be summed in two words: Not much. I’d have to hurry back to my cabin after dinner and cram in some more editing before my midnight deadline.
“Fine,” I agreed. “And one more thing. I’ll need Robbie Pritchard’s cabin number, too.”
A mere formality. But I couldn’t in all good conscience call myself a part-time unlicensed P.I. without snooping in Robbie’s cabin.
Of course, I’d never find the cuff links there.
At least that’s what I was telling myself.
Chapter 13
Emily was AWOL at dinner that night, still sequestered in her cabin with Nesbitt.
According to Robbie, she was utterly devastated over Graham’s death.
“I’ve never seen her this unhappy,” he said. He’d come to dinner in chinos and a rumpled polo, looking pretty upset himself.
Kyle, on the other hand, was Mr. Joviality.
“Ah, Ms. Austen,” he said, when I’d shown up at the table. “How nice to see you.”
Alert the media. He was actually talking to me. With a smile, yet.
I almost fainted when he filled my wineglass with pinot noir. Up until that night, I’d had a hard time getting him to pass me the butter.
Throughout dinner he dominated the conversation, cracking jokes and chattering happily about a kayaking excursion in Mazatlan the next day.
“Remember to bring sun block, honey,” he told Maggie, gracing her with a rare smile. “You burn so easily.”
For once, he wasn’t barking at her like a Marine drill sergeant. She smiled back at him in mute, if somewhat puzzled, gratitude.
All the while Robbie sat quietly, his jaw clenched, turning his wineglass around by the stem.
Yet again, I sensed tension in the air. If you ask me, dinner with the Pritchards ought to come with a valium appetizer.
When they cleared away our entrée dishes, Kyle launched into an X-rated joke about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in a deli.
With each beat of the joke, I could see Robbie’s jaw grow tighter.
Finally, just as Kyle was delivering the punch line, a rather tacky denouement involving Snow White and a pickle, Robbie exploded.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Kyle?”
Kyle’s life-of-the-party smile froze on his face.
“How can you sit there telling jokes when Aunt Emily is so unhappy?”
“Oh, please,” Kyle said, waving him away like an unwanted waiter. “She’ll get over it. Graham was bad news. Anyone could see he was just after her money.”
“And you’re not?”
Kyle sat up, clearly affronted.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come on, Kyle. All you ever think about is Aunt Em’s estimated market value.”
Kyle barked out a laugh.
“As if you’re not interested in inheriting a bundle someday. At least I’m honest enough to admit it. And I’m sorry that Aunt Emily is unhappy, but better now than later.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Such a foolish woman. Buying Graham those diamond cuff links. Do you realize how much those damn things cost? Seven grand! I wasn’t about to let her fritter away her estate like
that!”
And suddenly an image flashed in my brain—of Kyle leaning over Graham’s dead body yanking off the cuff links, unwilling to part with seven thousand dollars’ worth of gold and diamonds.
“Emily’s always been foolish,” Kyle was saying. “Naïve and gullible. When Grandfather was alive he had to watch her like a hawk.”
“If Grandfather hadn’t been so busy interfering in her life,” Robbie snapped, “she might have wound up happy.”
“Really, Robbie, must you air the family’s dirty laundry in front of strangers?”
This said with a none-too-subtle glance in my direction. Clearly I was the stranger in question.
“Actually, Ms. Austen,” he added, “while my aunt is confined to her cabin, I see no need for you to join us at the dinner table.”
Hey, wait a minute. What happened to the guy who just five minutes ago was plying me with pinot noir?
“Kyle!” Maggie gasped in dismay. “How can you be so rude?”
“Years of experience,” Robbie snapped, throwing down his napkin. “You really are a piece of work, Kyle. Ms. Austen will join us whenever she damn well pleases. And right now I hope she will join me in getting the hell away from you.”
Then he got up from the table so abruptly, I was afraid his chair was going to topple over.
“How about it, Jaine?”
In spite of the fact that they were just about to serve lemon tart for dessert, I got up, too.
We Austens do not hang around where we’re not wanted. Besides, I don’t much care for lemon tart.
“Kyle’s such a jerk,” Robbie sighed, licking the scotch off a swizzle stick.
He wasn’t going to get an argument from me on that one.
We were sitting at the bar in the Tiki Lounge, where Robbie was soothing his angst with Johnny Walker. I’d refrained from ordering one of the lavish umbrella drinks on the menu and stuck with my usual chardonnay.
Out on the dance floor a group of seventy-something ladies from the Lutheran Church of the Master in St. Cloud, Minnesota, were learning to do the Electric Slide. I knew where they were from because the handsome wannabe actor/emcee in charge of the festivities had been questioning them on his mike and flirting with them shamelessly.
