Murder Caribbean-Style (High Seas Mystery Series Book 1)

by Diane Rapp

  When her cab darted into the narrow entryway allotted for boarding, baggage handlers opened the door and tagged Kayla’s suitcases. She swung a carry-on bag over her shoulder and tipped each baggage handler personally. She remembered soothing the angst of angry tourists deprived of clothes because longshoremen diverted bags onto another ship to teach stingy passengers a lesson.

  Air-conditioning units in the terminal building sputtered an inadequate supply of cool air into the large facility filled with grumpy cruisers. Kayla forced herself to climb the stairs slowly, respecting Caribbean heat and humidity. She approached the security guard at the crew entrance, secured a guest pass, and passed through the metal detectors while regular passengers waited in the sluggish line.

  Crossing the elevated gangway heavily decorated with brightly colored streamers, she skirted past the ship’s photographer snapping pictures of couples in front of a big sign exhibiting the Aurora’s logo and entered the ship on the Ruby Deck.

  CCL ships labeled their decks with names of gemstones symbolized by vibrantly colored signs to guide passengers. Ruby, deck five, was centrally located on a vertical diagram of the ship. Automatically Kayla turned right to starboard and walked the short distance down the hall to the Pursers’ Office.

  All Constellation ships were laid out in roughly the same configuration. Therefore, an employee quickly felt at home when transferring between ships, able to navigate the corridors without disorientation the first day. Kayla fell into a familiar stride.

  As an employee she’d worked countless hours in this same Pursers’ Office. Today all the faces behind the counter looked new. With piles of paperwork stacked in a familiar chaos strained smiles greeted Kayla in a valiant effort to mask fatigue.

  “Is Shannon Ferguson on duty?” Kayla asked.

  “Oy! Is tha’ you, Kayla?” a familiar voice called from behind her.

  “Paula!” Kayla turned and a leggy six-foot bleached blonde grabbed her in a friendly bear hug. “I didn’t know you were on board. Last I heard, your contract expired and you returned home to England.”

  “Righ’ enough, but our dance troupe got a new contract las’ month, didn’t they? Truth be told, I felt right eager to get back to the sunny Cah-reeb. The fog and drizzle is ever so gloomy in England. Shannon’s tied up with port papers for hours yet, so she asked me to fetch you right and proper? I’ll see to your kit and squire you down to your berth—real fancy, like a VIP, eh? Follow me to Shang-gree-lah, milady.”

  Paula scooped up Kayla’s carryall and headed down the corridor, her long dancer’s stride making Kayla rush to keep up. When they last met, Paula had been a redhead who looked like Rita Hayworth but sounded like Liza Doolittle. As a blonde, Paula was more like Betty Grable. Her cockney accent sounded thicker than ever, fresh from England. Kayla enjoyed the sing song rhythm of the dialect. Paula ended each sentence with the raised sound of a question mark but was not asking a question.

  “The captain expects you at his cocktail party tonight, seeing as how you’re ever so grand, but meet us for a drink in the crew bar after the show, eh? Here’s yer berth. I’ll be off to me nap, right?” Paula opened the unlocked door, plopped the flight bag onto an empty twin bed in the neat cabin, and pecked Kayla’s cheek before breezing out.

  On embarkation day everyone on staff worked long hours of straight time regardless of scheduled shifts. The dancers got drafted for menial tasks but were expected to perform two shows that same evening. Kayla understood Paula’s need for a nap.

  Checking her watch, Kayla changed from heavy winter clothes into cool Sea Island Cotton shorts and shirt from her bag, and arranged toiletries on the small table obviously cleared for her use. Grabbing the dog-eared copy of her own book, she plopped a white baseball cap onto her head, and headed out. With three hours until sailing, she had plenty of time to visit Old San Juan.

  Ignoring a row of taxis, Kayla hustled on foot toward the tourist information center. The heat of the afternoon sun tingled on freshly washed skin. The ponytail strung through the hole in the back of her baseball cap, swung like a metronome to the easy rhythm of her stride.

  Within minutes she reached the information center, a flamingo-pink structure nestled in the cool shade of mature trees where vendors sold crafts on folding tables outside the building. Inside Kayla picked up brochures. She accepted a free sample of potent rum served in a plastic cup.

  Kayla headed out to confirm the accuracy of the walking tour in her book. Massive renovations to Puerto Rico’s capital might play havoc with the recommended route. Demolished buildings and streets gone askew could divert unwary readers into a tourism vacuum. She followed the recommended route down a tree-lined boulevard past a new bandstand and refurbished government buildings to a new open-air plaza. The sparkling bay formed one side of the plaza while the towering Muralla wall enclosed the other side. An impressive new fountain dominated the center of the plaza with sculptures symbolizing a ship sailing the people of Puerto Rico into the future guided by dolphins dancing in sprays of water.

  Built from sandstone blocks up to twenty feet thick, the Muralla once surrounded the entire colonial city. The wall rose hundreds of feet into the air and supported the massive governor’s mansion above. Walking along the wall, Kayla reached San Juan Gate, one of six gigantic doors that once provided entrance to the city.

  A garden entrance simplified the access to Casa Blanca, a museum originally built as Ponce de Leon’s residence. The cool shade of the garden pathway was a welcome respite from the tropical sun. At the pinnacle of her uphill journey, Kayla enjoyed the cool mist created by a hundred fountains at the sparkling hilltop plaza overlooking the El Morro Fortress. She didn’t have time to visit the fort today, perhaps on the return leg of the cruise.

  Turning downhill toward the port, Kayla bought a snow cone from a street vendor and sipped the icy liquid melting into the paper cup. The headline from a newspaper in the magazine racks attracted her attention: Poison Dart Frog kills Janitor in Barbados! The first paragraph of the story said that Parliament halted dangerous shipments of botanical specimens when customs inspectors threatened to invoke a general strike. What was a poison dart frog doing in Barbados? Poisonous creatures on Caribbean islands had been eradicated in the earliest days of colonization.

  The walking tour ended on Calle Cristo, a street paved with original blue cobblestones carried as ballast on early Spanish ships. The lure of shopping in attractive shops diverted those easily bored by historic sites, and the downhill portion of the journey eased hot, tired feet. She noted interesting new shops and confirmed old favorites. As she returned to the ship, she felt satisfied that her book’s walking tour was accurate.

  Flushed from the tropical heat and the exertion of her walk, Kayla opted for a shower. She undressed before entering the closet-sized marine bathroom. It was possible to use the toilet, brush your teeth, and shower without moving two feet in any direction. A ship’s cabin couldn’t waste space on luxuries.

  The water pressure pummeled aches from her travel weary shoulders and back as silken water slithered sinuously down hot skin. She loved this water! It almost made up for tiny bathrooms. Caribbean water contained the natural softening elements advertised by luxurious health spas, making skin feel supple, pampered. She lathered with cocoanut oil soap and leaned into the spray, tempted to linger, but water was always on short supply in the islands so she finished quickly.

  After drying her hair, she plopped onto the bed and closed her eyes for just a minute. She woke to the unmistakable drumbeat of ship engines. Soon she’d feel the floor rumble as the ship propelled itself from port.

  Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Kayla headed to the Trade Winds Café, vacant at this time of day. On the Emerald level, the restaurant overlooked the Sapphire deck and an open-air pool with an unobstructed view astern. Passengers thronged the decks along the sides and bow of the ship, squeezing shoulder to shoulder. Kayla enjoyed her favorite sight alone—the harbor reflected in the afternoon sun. It glo
wed like a fire opal framed by El Morro Fort, an ominous dark silhouette stretching across the bay on a finger of rock. The empty shell of the fort remained a relic of bygone imperial glory.

  Kayla visualized the shadowy fort as a sleeping dragon. A magical summons might rouse the dragon from slumber to crush the army of tourists crawling over his skin with the flick of his massive tail. Kayla grinned. How many cruise ships filled with unsuspecting tourists sailed past the menace of her dragon?

  She walked back to the cabin and found a note from Shannon. Kayla sighed. She must report to the main show room for lifeboat drill and “dress” for the captain’s cocktail party. The familiar announcement for the drill crackled over the intercom. Kayla grabbed an orange life jacket stowed under the bunk and headed to the main show room.

  Passengers meandered to their muster stations, joking and chatting with friends while crew members directed traffic in the timely fashion expected during a real emergency. Seeing a half-drunk buffoon hover over a petite Latin girl dressed in uniform, Kayla grimaced. Drunks were funny in movies, but in reality this man might become a hazard. She nudged the man toward the door to the show room.

  “Hey,” the man grumbled. “Don’t be so pushy.” He hitched a dangling life jacket up under his elbow, splashing his drink on the carpet. “See what ya did? I was just havin’ some fun,” he slurred.

  “You’d be heaps of fun if the ship were really sinking,” Kayla snapped. “Get serious! During a real emergency the crew can’t take time to baby you. This lesson might save your life!” She’d always wanted to dress down an obnoxious drunk. He retreated grumbling as she glared him down.

  Inside the show room Kayla watched her friends do their jobs with a sense of pride and satisfaction. Shannon smiled in Kayla’s direction, but there was no time for conversation. As the voice of the cruise director crackled over the loudspeaker, Shannon wiggled into a plump life jacket and demonstrated attaching the safety straps. Passengers tried to follow her instructions while crew wandered through the crowd.

  Kayla helped an elderly gentleman strap on his jacket then watched as he turned to assist his wife. The woman’s fingers worked feebly at the straps and the jacket threatened to engulf her small frame. Kayla cast them as George Burns and Gracie Allen.

  “I can’t do this, Henry!” his wife whined.

  “Of course you can, my dear. It’s no more complicated than buttoning up your old winter coat.” Henry poked a plastic piece into its buckle. “There! You see?”

  “I’m so useless. What if you’re not here to help me? What if I can’t make it to the room and back up here in time?”

  Kayla leaned in close and whispered, “Come directly to this room if you hear the emergency signal. They store extra life jackets at each muster station.”

  “You see? If we get separated I’ll meet you right here and this lovely girl will help you with your buckles until I arrive.” Henry grinned at Kayla and she imagined him gesturing with a cigar, ready to break into song. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Everyone on the staff is trained to help. You’ll both be perfectly safe.” Kayla patted Henry’s hand, feeling the thin parchment-like skin stretched over protruding bones.

  After the drill, Kayla waited on deck for the crowds to diminish. She gazed down at the white-capped waves and enjoyed ocean mist on her skin. Would she ever find someone to care for her when she grew old? She felt like a lonely lighthouse on a rocky shore, doomed to cast a solitary beam through the fog, endlessly searching while warning every ship to stay away.

  What had gone wrong in her relationship with Patrick? She believed he loved her! Maybe he did love her at first, so what did she do to mess it up? Stop it! She would not allow this cruise to dredge up the painful memories it took four years to erase!

  The captain’s cocktail party for VIP passengers was the first event Kayla actually looked forward to attending. Leaving CCL as a trouble-maker, she returned as the successful author of a travel guide. It was a role she could play, straight out of her mental movie. No one at this party knew her guidebook netted only $3,500 in royalties. No one at this party knew she earned her real living typing resumes for a secretarial service, wore borrowed clothes, and traveled free in return for favorable treatment in her next book. Tonight she lived a dream that might become reality some day.

  Answering a knock on her door, Kayla found a diminutive girl. Large chocolate-colored eyes with luxurious lashes peered out from thick chestnut hair that hugged an elfin face. Kayla cast the girl as a buxom heroine from a modern Disney movie, all cleavage and soulful eyes. The girl wore standard evening uniform, a tailored jacket of blue gabardine with gold piping, a crisp white shirt, and a long blue skirt. Kayla admired how well the girl’s shapely figure enhanced the drab attire.

  “I’m Shannon’s assistant, Bryanne Davidson, but call me Bree. Shannon asked me to fetch you for the party.” She grinned, displaying dimples as she shook Kayla’s hand. “I feel I already know you. Shannon talks about you all the time.”

  Shannon hasn’t said a word about you, Kayla thought, wondering about Bryanne’s mysterious accent. The soft dulcet tones sounded like a cross between British and Spanish; the cadence reminded Kayla of an English nanny, but the breathy way she said Bryanne—a long brreee followed by a soft ahhn—sounded Latin American. Kayla couldn’t wait to ask Shannon about Bryanne’s background.

  Bryanne said, “What a dreamy outfit you’re wearing!”

  Kayla’s major expense for the cruise had been a rust-colored silk skirt and matching blouse accented by a delicate gold chain belt at her narrow waist. She executed a pirouette and the skirt floated in an artificial breeze. Standing about five foot seven with a shapely but slender figure, Kayla’s honey-blonde hair hung shoulder length, highlighting a heart-shaped face sprinkled with freckles. “I’ve always dreamed of wearing silk.”

  “The color really suits you! It highlights your hair and enhances your blue eyes. Shannon will beg to borrow it. You look like sisters. Sure you’re not related?” Bree scurried out the door and up the hall, chattering about members of the crew Kayla might know. They walked down the linoleum flooring of the busy crew corridors then out into the carpeted hallways used by passengers.

  Did she and Shannon really look like sisters? Kayla couldn’t see it. Shannon’s thick tawny hair curled naturally, while Kayla’s feathery corn-silk tresses hung straight and limp unless she used a curling iron and tons of hair spray. Her sky-blue eyes were pale, while Shannon’s royal blue eyes looked like deep pools. Two inches taller than Kayla, Shannon’s sleek frame and angular bone structure was more suited to a fashion model. Kayla dieted for over a month to fit into this outfit, while Shannon ate freely without gaining an ounce. Sisters! Kayla hated to bet on who would end up a spinster.

  The captain’s party was already going strong in the Sea Breeze Lounge on the Diamond level. This floor contained high-priced suites with large rooms, private decks, a private elevator, and thick insulation to insure quiet. Classical music created a soft backdrop to the murmur of conversation while guests sipped champagne and nibbled exotic hors d’oeuvres.

  Kayla nearly tripped when she saw Patrick standing next to Shannon. Patrick MacIntyre oozed charm as he concentrated attention on a middle-aged woman dripping in diamonds. Kayla nearly bolted but realized she must attend this party. Silently cursing Shannon, she assumed a phony smile and sauntered forward.

  Shannon bent close and whispered, “I know just what you’re thinking but don’t be mad. By the end of the week you’ll be glad he’s on board.” She pushed Kayla toward Patrick and said, “I’m sure you recognize our newest celebrity, Patrick.”

  Kayla met his gaze. The pupils of his moody gray eyes contracted like the eye of a predator focusing on its prey. His feathery black lashes and sexy half-lidded gaze were calculated to draw women into the trap of his cool appraisal. He wore a custom-tailored version of the regulation-cut uniform. The cut accented an angular physique, slim hips, broad shoulders, and impre
ssive six-foot frame.

  Impressive! That was the appropriate word to describe the image Patrick presented. His bronze skin and wavy black hair were carefully groomed to create just the right image. When she first met Patrick, she cast him as a young Cary Grant. He had a dazzling smile and moved with the easy assurance of an athlete that might have been a famous soccer player or the first British tennis star to win at Wimbledon in decades.

  “Kayla,” he said, raising his glass of red wine in a nonchalant salute. The soft baritone voice was calculated to seduce women with its warmth. “Our wandering author returns home victorious.”

  She blushed under his penetrating gaze. “I didn’t know you were stationed on the Aurora.”

  “Didn’t you?” He smirked.

  Kayla bristled. This vain man believed she arranged to sail on his ship. Soon the arrogant braggart would spread the story among the entire crew. Memories of Patrick’s cruelty flooded her with outrage. He was no Cary Grant! He was Bela Lugosi, drinking a cup of blood. Kayla cast herself as Sarah Michelle Geller from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, ready to kill the undead with a swift kick.

  A red spot of anger colored her cheeks. “No. Shannon made all the arrangements without informing me of your current location.” An amused smile flickered across Shannon’s lips, bolstering Kayla’s courage. “I’m here to promote my book.”

  “So, you’re a successful author. Any money in it?”

  Kayla imagined she saw vampire fangs behind those curving lips.

  “How mercenary of you to ask,” she snarled. “I see you’re finally wearing the stripes of Chief Purser. Congratulations. You can afford a custom-made cashmere uniform.” She touched his lapel, admiring the soft material.

  He leaned in and murmured, “Cashmere is designed to encourage touch.” He slipped fingertips along the edge of her silk blouse. “Silk offers the same encouragement toward intimacy.” His hand slid down her lapel, brushing her breast.