“There wasn’t anyone to tell.”
“Nobody even questioned you about George’s movements on the ship before he went overboard?” I asked, my concern growing. What if evidence had been destroyed because no one realized its significance?
Kenny seemed to share my anxiety. “You didn’t give anyone a statement?”
“No. Some man found me at the pool and took me to the security office. He told me there was a medical emergency. I thought my husband had had a heart attack.” She stopped to take a deep breath and once that air filled her lungs, she slowly exhaled, trying to keep herself calm. “They sat me down in a chair and asked me if George and I had had an argument this morning.”
“Had you?” That intense gaze of Kenny’s suddenly fastened on Kathleen, refusing to release her. Was he putting her back in the hot seat? I didn’t think that was very fair. I immediately protested this line of questioning.
“Kenny, she’s not a suspect!”
“Scarlet, I need to know what she told the security people!” he snapped. “I have to find out where they went wrong, so I can backtrack from there and correct the record!”
“Oh,” I responded lamely, the wind in my sails quickly dissipating. “I just thought....”
“Well, you thought wrong, just like a lot of other people did!”
Kathleen, seeing the tension between us, quickly brought us back to the question at hand. “No, George and I didn’t argue this morning. He was distracted, and I told them that, but he wasn’t mad at me.”
“Let’s return to the Internet issue for a moment. Did George have a prepaid package for computer time?”
“I don’t believe so. We discussed getting one when we were sitting at the kitchen table, planning the trip. He told me I could have one if I wanted it, but he preferred to leave all that behind and just have a relaxing vacation in Bermuda. I decided against it, in favor of paperbacks and my e-Book reader. I shopped for downloads before we left.”
“It was unusual for him to seek out computer time on the ship?” I cut in, trying to understand the kind of man George Delaney was.
She gave a brief laugh. “Are you kidding? He hated to pay for services like that.”
“Meaning that he’d only have sought out a computer to do a search if it was important to him?”
“Well...I guess so,” she agreed, bobbing her head up and down slowly. I could tell the wheels were beginning to turn in her mind as she sorted through what did and didn’t make sense of her husband’s behavior just before he disappeared. “He took our travel credit card from the safe and left.”
“Did he put it back?”
“Oh, I don’t know...I assume so. I haven’t looked because I didn’t need to use it myself.”
“Go on,” Kenny encouraged her. ‘What happened next?”
“He seemed to be in better spirits when he got back from practicing his golf swing. We made plans to hit the adult pool for the afternoon. My orthopedist had urged me to take advantage of the whirlpool, so I went up by myself to soak right after lunch. George told me he wanted to catch the news on CNN and the sports on ESPN, so he stayed in the room to watch TV. He promised to join me, but he never showed up.”
“Does that mean he was kidnapped from his stateroom?” I asked Kenny. “Surely he would have put up a ruckus.”
“I doubt he was dragged kicking and screaming up a couple of decks, stabbed, and tossed overboard, Scarlet. It’s far more likely he went in search of something or someone.”
“What was he wearing when he went into the water?” I wanted a description of the clothing and Kenny obliged.
“He was found in a white shirt and blue shorts.”
“No bathing suit?” I was surprised because Kathleen had said he was supposed to join her at the pool.
“No bathing suit,” he confirmed.
“He’s got....” The widow gave a tiny gulp, swallowed, and corrected herself. “He had a pair of Hawaiian trunks, with palm trees on them.”
“What was he wearing when you last saw him, Kathleen?”
“He was dressed in his favorite Caulkins Cove Golf Club shirt and a pair of slacks.”
“So,” I paused, considering the possible significance of this, “he changed into the white shirt and blue shorts. Why would he need to do this?”
“He could have been hot and decided shorts were more comfortable,” Kenny told us. Kathleen frowned, hearing that.
“But why did he change his shirt? Those shorts would have looked fine with his golf shirt.”
“Maybe he spilled something on it at breakfast.” The security expert tried again, making a lame joke. “He didn’t want to have egg on his face...or his shirt.
“Or,” I gave it some more thought, “he needed to disguise himself.”
“What?” Kenny looked at me like I had two heads. “Why would he need to disguise himself?”
“Maybe he thought the killer was up to something and wanted a chance to confirm his suspicions before he told anyone.”
As Kenny started to protest, Kathleen held up a hand. “No, no. She’s right. That was exactly the kind of thing George would have done. He would have wanted to be very sure he was right about his suspicions. He once told me that there was a case of accidental death that looked like it might be murder. He stumbled across something when he was preparing the body for burial. He and the coroner went back over everything with a fine tooth comb, and when they thought they had an idea of the type of wound the deceased had suffered, they questioned the family. It turned out that the man had injured his head two days before his death, in a fall that was witnessed by several people. The man stumbled a second time a few days later, when he was alone, causing a massive brain hemorrhage that proved to be fatal. There were two head wounds, but no foul play.”
“That’s interesting,” I told her. It sounded like the funeral director was ethical in his business practices. That suggested he wouldn’t have gone off half-cocked, crying out that the sky was falling every time a leaf fell to the ground. “Would you say George was a cautious person, rather than an impulsive one?”
“Absolutely. He said it would have been devastating to the family if he had just gone ahead and asked investigators to look into the possibility that the head injuries were deliberately inflicted by another person.”
“He was right.” Kenny picked up his notebook from the coffee table and began to scribble furiously. “Kathleen, do you think we could go back to your room, to tidy up and see what’s missing? And then I’d like to run a check on that credit card at the Internet café, so we can identify the computer George used and look at his search history.”
“Okay. It’s the least I can do for George.”
“We should just inform Laurel and Thaddeus that we’re going to be up there a while,” I told the other two as we stood up.
Five minutes later, a rather worried Laurel extracted an explanation from us of why we hadn’t checked in with her in over an hour. Once she’d heard that Kathleen was due to be removed from the ship in handcuffs unless we could find a better murder suspect, she tacitly gave her approval for us to, as she put it, chase after a maniac.
“I don’t want any of you killed,” she called out as we left the room. “Do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” I replied.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. W. I’ll make sure Scarlet stays out of trouble,” Kenny promised.
“I’m more concerned about the possibility she’ll drag you into danger,” was her response. “I’m counting on you to be sensible, Kenneth.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, putting his hands on my shoulders and steering me towards the door. Kathleen followed us into the hallway. I waited until the door was shut before I took him to task.
“Why do you encourage her, Captain Peacock? I swear you enjoy playing the dashing hero to my supposedly meddlesome amateur sleuth!” I poked him in the side as we headed to the elevator. “Must I remind you that I’ve actually saved a few lives with my so-called
detective work? I’m not some bumbling idiot!”
“Now, now!” That big smile plastered on his face told me he was enjoying the drubbing I took at the hands of my mother. “It’s nothing to get your pretty panties into a bunch over.”
“Have you really been that successful at solving cases, Scarlet?” Kathleen’s fingers gripped my forearm, stopping me in my tracks. When I gazed into her big blue eyes, I saw the fear there.
“A little bit,” I said, trying to be modest, but then I realized she was looking for reassurance. “Well, actually more than a little bit. But, yes. Why?”
“I’m terrified that I’ll be charged with George’s murder. Who’s going to care if I’m convicted? They’ll lock me up and throw away the key. I wish George was here.” She glanced away, still feeling the unexpected sting of widowhood. “He’d know what to do....”
“You said your sister had a couple of kids. I’m sure they care. And what about your stepson and stepdaughter -- won’t they worry about you?” The elevator doors opened and we stepped into the car.
“They’ll probably all think I did it!” she moaned. There was panic in her voice. She looked from me to Kenny and back again, still holding me tightly. “I can’t believe any of this happened. George was a good, good man. He shouldn’t be dead, but he is.”
“We know you didn’t do it,” I reminded her.
“But just because you two don’t think I did it, that doesn’t mean the FBI will agree. Without any solid evidence to the contrary, I’ll be the main suspect. I’ve seen how these cases go. Juries convict on circumstantial evidence all the time.”
“Then we’ll just have to find physical evidence, Kathleen, so there’s no doubt you’re innocent.” One glance at her distraught face told me she wasn’t buying my inflated show of confidence.
“But we only have a few more hours before I’m supposed to be arrested! Oh my God, I’ve never ever been in jail before! I’ve only had one speeding ticket in my life and that was thirty years ago!” She stood there shivering. Was she going into shock?
Kenny stepped in and guided her back to reality. “Kathleen, when we started discussing your case a little while ago, we had nothing to go on; now we’ve made some progress. This is not the time to fall apart. We need you to have your wits about you. Can you manage that?”
“I guess I’ll have to,” she decided, steeling herself for the effort. As the elevator whirred softly, carrying us up to Deck 7, she pressed herself against the wall. She seemed to be fighting the urge to wail like a baby. The fear of facing arrest on murder charges will do that to a sane adult. Kenny took her gently by the elbow, partly out of gallantry and partly to keep her moving her forward. I tagged along a few steps behind as he continued his pep talk, speaking softly in her ear. He really was worried someone might hear us discussing the case.
“We’re going to go to your stateroom and look through that mess. From everything you said about your husband, I gather he was a smart guy. That means he probably left us some clues somewhere. It’s just a matter of recognizing them for what they are. And, as far as the FBI is concerned, Marley Hornsby said what he said to scare you. It was his way of stirring up the pot, to see your reaction. Guilty people tend to do and say certain things under pressure. I’m not worried about you being some deranged killer. If the FBI agents are dumb enough to arrest you in the morning, I promise you that I will keep looking for the person who stabbed your husband.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you two,” she told us, sniffing as her eyes grew moist once again.
“Come on,” I smiled, stopping in front of Stateroom 7310. “It’s time we got to work.”
By quarter to twelve, we had collected all of the clothing, unceremoniously yanked out of drawers and off hangers in the closet, which the killer had dumped onto the floor. These items were now in neatly folded piles on the sofa by the balcony. Kenny was more interested in Kathleen’s impressions of what was missing than what remained.
“Let me check the list,” she said.
“You have a list?”
“We always write everything down. I know it probably sounds silly, but someone got into our hotel room in Cancun and stole George’s camera, with all of our honeymoon photos on it, and his electric razor. Ever since, we’ve always made a list, so that when we pack to go home, we’re sure we’ve got everything.”
“That’s a good idea,” Kenny decided, offering his kudos. “It makes it easier if you have an insurance claim to file, because you’re aware of when and where the item went missing.”
Kathleen’s remark about an earlier robbery made me think about the old saying, “Once burned, twice shy.” If the Delaneys had a list, did they also take other precautions to prevent another robbery?
“Is there any chance you two came up with some way of concealing your valuables from prospective thieves after you were robbed?”
Kathleen grabbed George’s shaving kit from the bathroom and dumped the contents on her bed. Ignoring a can of Schick shaving cream, she retrieved the Barbasol and handed this triumphantly to Kenny; then she grabbed a spray can of Desenex and offered it to me. I immediately pulled off the cap, only to find a small nozzle ready to dispense anti-fungal spray.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked her. Ignoring the question, she crossed the room and pulled out a bottle of Centrum vitamins from a hot pink tote bag; laughing, she hoisted it in the air. “There you go.”
I was baffled. Kenny was amused.
“Ah, the old fake cans routine. The college kids use these to stash their drugs,” said the man who spent several years as assistant public safety director at Princeton University. “You would not believe how many of these ended up in the Lost and Found box at the end of each semester. Most of them were empty, but some were not. They were rarely claimed by our departing student body.”
“George was a big James Bond fan and a gadget man,” the widow told us. “He used to say that if folks were going to rip him off, he was going to make them work hard for their ill-gotten gains.”
Chapter Eight --
“What did he keep in these?” I asked, impatient for Kenny to access the contents.
“We normally kept our travel documents and valuables in the room safe; anything that didn’t fit into the safe was concealed in the cans. Usually, it was a couple hundred dollars of casino cash and some small items.”
Sure enough, inside the Barbasol can was a wad of bills, all twenties, tens, and fives. Kathleen counted it and determined that none of the money was missing, so we moved on.
I gave the Desenex can a twist and removed the bottom section. It held an SD card.
“I wonder what’s on this,” I said, holding the plastic chip in my hand. “Maybe this is what the killer was looking for when he broke in.”
“That’s the extra memory card we use for our camera. I can check, but I don’t think George had a chance to use it yet.” She inserted it into the slot and turned the camera on. “No, there’s nothing on here.”
“Your turn,” I encouraged her, pointing to the Centrum bottle in her hand. “Open it.”
“Okay.” She twisted the top and peered inside. With two fingers, she reached in and retrieved a single piece of paper folded into a small wad. With trembling fingers, she handed it to Kenny.
“You do the honors. I’m afraid to look.”
He obliged, carefully unfurling it before he placed it on the bed and smoothed out the creases with his hands. Kathleen and I leaned over his shoulder, trying to read the printed words.
“It’s a brochure for the Forsythe Casket Company in Memphis, Tennessee. Does this mean anything to you, Kathleen?”
“I don’t think so. It’s possible that George did business with the company. But why would he need to hide it in his can safe? And why did he have it with him on our vacation? This wasn’t a business trip.”
We sat there silently, staring at the ad for “the finest wood caskets made by old-fashioned artisans”, offering fu
neral homes quality caskets at an affordable wholesale price.
“How much do you know about the funeral business?” Kenny asked the widow. “Did George usually order his caskets from individual manufacturers?”
“No. he always kept a small supply of caskets at the funeral home. Whenever his inventory was low, he would call up his wholesaler in Boston and have a half dozen shipped to the funeral home. The fancier caskets were selected from a catalogue by the families of the deceased. George would take a deposit and then place the order. They normally arrived by truck within a day or two.”
“So, he probably wasn’t shopping around for a new supplier?”
“He never mentioned that he was having problems,” she answered him. “Harry Gulanian’s been in the wholesale casket business a long time, and he always gave my husband a good price on them. Harry even had an upholsterer to do special linings and handles on demand. Last year, a long-time bagpiper died. His family buried him in a casket lined in the tartan of his band.”
“Besides these fake cans, did George have any other tricks for hiding stuff?” I asked her.
“Sure. Whenever he played golf, he always wrote down the locker number and lock combination on a label that he stuck under the insole of his right shoe; that way, he didn’t have to memorize it.” The three of us looked down at the pair of black shoes still standing at attention by the bed.
“Did he do the same thing with the left shoe?” I asked.
“That was reserved for passwords, like for the PIN for his bank card. You don’t think that he....”
“It’s worth a shot.” Kenny reached over and picked up the left shoe. Carefully lifting the bright blue, oh-so-squishy comfort liner, he found a label with George’s passwords in tiny print fixed to the bed of the shoe. But there was also a second label beside it. This one was handwritten in blue ink.
“Anson Reddy,” he read aloud.
“Who’s Anson Reddy?” I wanted to know.
“I’ve never heard of the guy,” Kathleen told us. “Try the other shoe.”
[Scarlet Wilson 05] - Miz Scarlet and the Perplexed Passenger Page 7
