by Diane Rapp
As Abel answered, Kayla stood. “Thanks. I’ll show myself out.” Kayla left the office and watched tourists amble down ship gangplanks two-abreast. At the bottom of the stairs a photographer snapped pictures as passengers moved through a customs checkpoint.
The Polaris was docked next to the Aurora.
Hoping to interview Erin McFarland and Garrison Caldwell, Kayla trudged up the Polaris gangway. She learned that Erin McFarland was in the gym. Dancers used the empty gym when passengers went ashore to shop and tour the island.
The room was filled with computerized equipment, stair steppers, treadmills and sparkling chrome weight machines. The tangy smell of new nylon carpeting mingled with the scent of sweat from used towels in a hamper by the door in a pungent combination.
Erin, a tall, leggy redhead bent over a dancer’s bar in front of a mirrored wall, looking like a leggy Nicole Kidman in tights. Kayla realized she’d seen the dancer perform on the Aurora.
She met Erin’s glance in the mirror. “Hi. I’m Kayla Sanders.”
Erin stood up, towering over Kayla. Her thin mouth narrowed into a tight line—meant to be a smile. “You’re the lady writer snoopin’ after the killer of that snake callin’ himself Patrick MacIntyre. Maxine said you’d come a visiting.” Erin draped a towel over her slender neck.
“No doubt you’ve been told I wished Patrick dead. Well, I’d not be putting my soul at risk by lyin’ to you now, would I? I’ll tell you straight. Patrick was a grown man when he put the bomb to our flat, old enough to know he killed the people inside. It was five years ago December—made for a right merry holiday!” Hot tears streamed down her reddening face without Erin wiping them. “That bomb killed six people and maimed a good many more, a cowardly thing to do if you’d be asking me. We lived with the peace agreement for over five years, so why kill us then?” Her green eyes flashed defiantly through the tears. “You’ll be asking if I killed the man, now won’t you?”
Kayla blushed under Erin’s steady gaze. “You were on the Aurora the morning he died?”
Erin’s narrow smile turned into a grimace. “Yeah. Maxine and I switched places for the night as I planned to see Patrick’s face after he was fired. Sure and I was Johnny on the spot when I heard the fiend was dead. I didn’t kill the man, but I’ll not be mourning his death.”
“How’d you make the switch with Maxine?”
Erin turned toward the mirror, placed her foot on the dancer’s bar, and bent gracefully to touch her toe. “I’ll not be gettin’ Maxine into trouble?” Erin asked looking into the mirror.
Kayla shook her head and saw her own strained expression reflected in the glass.
Erin said, “You see the Polaris and the Aurora both dock in St. Thomas on Monday. We traded places in St. Thomas. Sure and it was easy enough to take the ferry Wednesday night between Martinique and Dominica to trade back. It’s done all the time.”
“You had the opportunity to kill Patrick,” Kayla pressed.
Erin’s green eyes stared into the mirror. “If he was killed in the tanning booth on board the Aurora I had the opportunity. You see the weather on Dominica is beastly—too rainy for my taste—so I stayed on the ship all day. I spent the morn’ in the beauty parlor gettin’ myself a right smart perm.” She touched her curly red hair. “At the time they say Patrick died, I was toastin’ me buns in a tanning booth gettin’ an all-over-tan. It’s the best way to avoid pesky tan lines under our skimpy costumes. Sorry, lass.”
Kayla leaned against the dancer’s bar. “Someone could have helped you.”
Erin smirked. “If it was me to do the killing of Patrick MacIntyre, I’d have none of the quick and easy way he died. Sure and I would have given that man a slow, painful death with God as my witness.” She crossed herself. “No other hand than mine would do the grim deed, and I’d watch every blessed minute of it. The way Patrick died was a blasted waste, considering what was waiting for him back home.”
“What do you mean?”
Erin wiped her sweaty face with a towel. “With the lady boss as a witness to Patrick’s chicanery, he was sure to be fired and forced to return to Ireland. At home Patrick would meet the family and friends of the dead, those who waited for the blessed day he stepped foot on Irish soil. Patrick would have faced Irish justice and get the death he rightly deserved for his deed!” Erin’s fair skin looked splotchy from tears, but her angry green eyes glinted. “Whoever killed Patrick did that scoundrel a favor! You’ve got the truth of it.”
Kayla shrugged. “If you had evidence to arrest Patrick, why wait?”
“Evidence? Arrest?” Erin laughed. “Did I say one word about arresting the man, did I now? I referred to Irish justice—more appropriate than the easy death he died. His victims deserved the better revenge. I’ll not be tellin’ you I’m sorry he’s dead, but I’ll be forever sorry he didn’t fall prey to our plan. Sure and I’d not be helpin’ coppers put his killer behind bars.”
“So you won’t help me?” Kayla’s shoulders slumped.
A cloud passed over Erin’s fiery gaze. “I’d not be givin’ the law any help. Still and all, you need to know the truth to protect yourself. You see, lass, I wasn’t the only crew working on the Polaris who boarded the ferry on Wednesday. I don’t know him personally but he works as a dealer. I’d be thinking a nice chat would do you ever so much good.”
Kayla said. “Patrick used an Irish orphanage as his excuse for raising money. Was he sending money to the IRA?”
Erin’s eyes narrowed. “Not likely, Patrick was a Protestant, raised by the bloody English to do their dirty work. The folk he killed were all Catholic. Does that set you straight?” she hissed.
“Sorry. I didn’t know,” Kayla sputtered. “Thanks for the information.”
Erin nodded before pushing her shapely leg above her head at such an angle that Kayla flinched. Erin’s eyes looked unfocused as tears streamed down her red cheeks unhampered.
Dazed, Kayla walked away. She remembered the day Patrick came back from Ireland five years ago. She ran to kiss her lover but stopped when she saw his face. A stranger, cold and cruel, replaced the man she once loved and within months their relationship dissolved.
She thought, Did Patrick really bomb those people? Had misguided Irish allegiance transformed his personality? If he didn’t send money to St. Bertram’s or to the IRA then where did it go?
She headed to the Purser’s Office, hoping to find a friendly face. Strangers manned the desk, dashing Kayla’s hopes until she recognized a voice coming from inside the office.
“Chris?” she called out. “Chris Sorenson?” A tanned face under a mop of dark auburn hair appeared at the door in response.
“Kayla! As I live and breathe. I heard you were back on the Aurora, but I never thought you’d come callin’,” Chris exclaimed in a deep Southern baritone. “Come inside where it’s nice and comfy.”
Looking like a grown-up Huckleberry Finn, Chris draped his lanky frame over a creaky wooden chair and motioned Kayla to sit. “So what y’all need, darlin’? I don’t dare to hope you came just to see me.”
Kayla smiled. “You read me like a book.”
“Yeah, darlin’, a best seller. So what’s up?”
She twisted a stray piece of hair. “I need to know if one of the casino dealers missed sailing on the Polaris last Tuesday, reporting back on Wednesday. Can you help me find out?”
“Let’s see.” He stared up, as if he were reading lines written on the ceiling. “You mean like who had a chance to kill ol’ Patrick on Dominica?” He sat up, excited. “Is this some kinda murder mystery? A real-life thriller?”
“Something like that.”
Chris strummed his fingers on the desktop. “Hell’s bells, I’d be more then happy to help. Providin’ you give me all the gory details before it hits print. Are you plannin’ to write the story?”
Kayla chewed on her bottom lip. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“Good lord, girl!” He pounded a fist on the
desk, rattling a cup filled with pens. “You need someone to lead you by the hand? This is your chance to become an international best-selling author writing about a real-life murder you solved all by your lonesome!” He squinted. “Who’s your agent? I’d be happy to quit this piddling job and manage your career.”
She squirmed in her chair. “Why don’t we solve the murder first?”
“Just a technicality, sugar. Let’s see here.” Chris cracked his knuckles and worked on the computer keyboard. He said, “I can hack into the personnel program from this station.”
Kayla listened to the blunt clicking of the keyboard. Chris made the rhythm sound like some weird kind of music, his longish hair dangling like a concert pianist.
“There’s the roster, now to access the casino. Pay dirt!” He did a seated victory dance, like a football player who’d scored a touchdown. “Your number-one suspect is Garrison Caldwell. He missed sailing Tuesday night and reported back Wednesday evening—took the ferry to Martinique. Does that ring your bell, honey?”
“Like a symphony!”
“No, no, no.” He waved his hands in the air. “You’ve got the down-home jargon all wrong. Your bells should ring like a fire engine on the fourth of July,” Chris corrected.
“You can keep the down-home lingo for yourself, Chris. I hail from snowy Colorado.” She leaned in and looked at the computer screen. “Just tell me where I can find Garrison Caldwell.”
“Do I have to do all your work for you? The duty roster says . . . whoa, looks like your suspect is at the hospital. He got called this morning—something about his sister takin’ ill.”
“Bryanne’s in the hospital?” Kayla gasped. “I’d better get back to the Aurora and find out what’s happening.”
“Don’t forget! I get all the gory details,” Chris called plaintively from the door as Kayla ran down the corridor.
The Purser’s Office on the Aurora was in a state of confusion. Shannon’s eyes looked red. Andy shuffled papers without looking while the junior staff fluttered back and forth trying to look busy.
Kayla grabbed Shannon and ushered her into the back office.
“What happened? Why is Bryanne in the hospital?”
Shannon nodded. “The cabin steward found her this morning passed out on the floor and it doesn’t look good. She’s in a coma.”
“Do they know what happened?” Kayla prodded.
“It looks like drugs but so did Patrick’s death. Do you suppose someone poisoned her too?” Shannon’s dark blue eyes widened. “Do we have a serial killer on board?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ll take a cab to the hospital and find out as much as I can. Pull yourself together. These guys need you to act like the Chief Purser.” Kayla nodded at the despondent staff. “Can you handle it?”
“I’ve handled the job before, but when things went wrong there was always Patrick to blame.” Shannon glanced through the door at her sluggish staff. “Reality stinks.” Shannon wiped her eyes and stuffed the tissue into her pocket.
“Oh! Could you do me a favor? Find out if Erin McFarland got a perm in the beauty parlor and used the tanning booth last Wednesday.”
Shannon nodded. “I’ll have someone check it out. Give us a call from the hospital.”
“Okay,” Kayla said, heading for the door.
Shannon grabbed a clipboard hanging on the wall. “Brian, we need to rearrange our schedule first thing.”
Kayla could hear Shannon’s persuasive voice issuing orders as she marched down the corridor, her mind racing. Was Bryanne’s illness attempted murder? Was the killer nervous enough to eliminate witnesses? Who might be next?
Barbados, nicknamed “Little England,” had been under Britain’s continuous control for over three hundred years, establishing its own Parliament modeled after England. The capital city, Bridgetown, mirrored traditional English architecture complete with statues honoring Lord Nelson, a miniature Trafalgar Square, and Houses of Parliament.
Absorbed by the complexity of her investigation, Kayla hardly noticed the scenery as the cab wound through the busy streets. Once a prison built from volcanic stone, the hospital’s exterior looked dirty and unkempt. Entering the hospital corridors was like stepping back a hundred years. The interior rooms were clean but dreary. Windows stood open without screens, allowing neighborhood cats to roam undeterred. Antique carts rattled over uneven flooring, pushed by nurses in crisp green uniforms and starched white caps.
Kayla entered Bryanne’s room. A man sat by the bed, Garrison Caldwell she assumed.
She didn’t know what to say, but Garrison looked up at her with bleary brown eyes.
“You’re here from the ship?” he asked in a half-whisper.
Kayla nodded. “All her friends are dreadfully worried. What do the doctors say?”
Garrison stood. Kayla was struck by his resemblance to Bryanne. Although taller, just shy of six feet, her brother’s handsome face mirrored Bryanne’s dark hair and dusky brown eyes. He motioned Kayla outside.
“She’s out of immediate danger, but they’re still worried. It’s a blessing she’s still got some immunity to the poison.”
“What poison?” Kayla asked.
He blinked. “I thought you knew. Bree was exposed to Poison Dart Frog toxin.” His soft eyes filled with tears. “She’ll get published again in the medical journals.”
“I don’t understand,” Kayla said.
“No. Of course you don’t.” Garrison eyed the doorway to the room and gestured for Kayla to follow him down the hallway. He headed to a bank of plastic chairs and slumped onto the nearest seat. The plastic creaked as Kayla joined him.
“Bryanne and I were raised by our mother while she worked in Costa Rica doing medical research. My father was killed by Poison Dart Frog toxin when I was about five.”
“I’m so sorry.
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago, and I don’t remember him. Mother sent me to boarding school in the states, but she stayed on and eventually married another research scientist. Bryanne was born and raised in the jungle, not leaving until she was seven. She literally grew up with the natives, eating the same kind of food, living and playing in the jungle with natives. That’s how Bree developed immunity to the toxin.”
“How’d they know she was immune?”
He leaned forward and ran his hands through thick brown hair. “Bree was six, running wild through the jungle. Nothing scared her, so she picked up a Poison Dart Frog. When the frog jumped away, she tasted the sticky stuff on her fingers. Just like that, a little kid playing with the most poisonous creature in the jungle.”
Kayla gasped. “What happened?”
“Bree got real sick. She developed a high fever and almost died. This time’s not quite as bad, but the doctors are still worried.”
“Was she tested the first time?” Kayla asked.
He stiffened and his tone became livid. “Tested! They treated her like a bloody lab rat, poking and prodding. The year she spent at the Baltimore Aquarium made her look like an addict, needle marks up and down her arms. One day she threw a fit, utterly refused to allow another doctor with a needle to come near. That’s when we both went to live with Aunt Jillian.”
Shoulders slumping, he stared at the floor. “When mother died, I handled it pretty well, but Bree blamed herself.”
“Why?”
He swallowed a sob. “Mother was determined to prove her theory about Bree’s immunity, so she ate a native diet and tested the toxin on herself. She failed.”
Kayla said, “Bryanne blamed herself for refusing to continue the experiment.”
Garrison nodded. “I told Bree that Mother would’ve tried it at any rate to prove her theory.”
Kayla chewed on her lower lip. “So how was Bree exposed to the toxin this time?”
Garrison’s shoulders sagged. “It was on tweezers she used to pluck her eyebrows, enough toxin to kill any normal person.”
A knot formed in Kayla’s stomach. “Tweezers
? Were the tweezers from a black pocketknife?” she asked.
“Yes. The knife Patrick gave her.”
Kayla felt guilty. She had stopped Bryanne from throwing that knife overboard! “I need to talk with Bree.”
Garrison shook his head. “They gave her a sedative. She won’t be awake for several hours.”
“Were you on Dominica the day Patrick died?”
He nodded. “I stayed to help Aunt Jillian after the scene with Patrick. She was furious when she got back to the hotel.”
“Angry enough to kill?”
Garrison’s eyed widened. “Aunt Jillian? You must be mad! She planned to file official charges against Patrick. He’d be arrested today if he hadn’t died.”
“How about you?” Kayla asked.
Garrison laughed. “I wanted to beat Patrick to a bloody pulp for what he did to Bree, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Didn’t Patrick threaten your inheritance?”
He jumped up from the chair and paced. “Aunt Jillian changed her will as often as she changed her hair color. Look here. The mutiny plan was to discredit the jackass. It worked. Jillian called her lawyer from the hotel room so Patrick was history.” He bent close enough for Kayla to smell his spicy aftershave. “Why kill him? He was no longer a threat so why risk the gallows?”
“I wouldn’t risk it,” Kayla said. She stood and gestured toward the hallway. “Let’s see if Bryanne’s awake.”
They walked back to the room where Bryanne slept peacefully. She looked small and vulnerable. Her translucent skin formed dark hollows around her eyelids and tubes secured by white tape protruded from thin bruised arms. Garrison’s searched his sister’s face for any small improvement as he sat by her bedside.
Kayla touched his arm and whispered, “I’ll stop back later.”
She phoned the ship from the hospital. Shannon sounded composed. “Things are almost back to normal. We’ve restructured the schedule without problems. How is she?”
