[Scarlet Wilson 05] - Miz Scarlet and the Perplexed Passenger

by Sara M. Barton

  “We’ll knock on your door when we’re ready to go,” I promised the men, seeing them off through the connecting door.

  A little before six, the four of us descended in the now-functional elevator and exited the ship, walking down King’s Wharf for the second time in a day and over to the ferry dock. There were only a few dozen people waiting on the platform. When the catamaran motored up to its slip and was secured by the deck hands, we quickly boarded, choosing window seats inside.

  The journey over to Hamilton was surprisingly pleasant. The afternoon sunlight settled on the colorful houses on the hillside, painting them in a golden glow that made them picture postcard perfect. We passed a few sailboats as they made for land, their crews working the jibs, and a couple of fishing boats heading out to the open sea for night excursions.

  “Someday I want to come back here,” I told my companions, “just to see all the things I didn’t get to see this time around. It’s just so pretty.”

  “Maybe that can be arranged.” Kenny slipped his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Bermuda’s nice in August.”

  “Mm, unfortunately that’s when I have a couple of weddings scheduled for the inn,” I sighed.

  “We’ll figure something out, Scarlet.” My mother gave me a hopeful smile.

  “Perhaps we could fly down for a long weekend in September.” Thaddeus told us. “It’s only a two-hour flight from Connecticut.”

  “Does it have to be a weekend?” I wondered. “It’s sometimes easier to take off early in the week.”

  “I could do that,” he replied, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s the beauty of being retired. I’m my own man, so to speak.”

  I twisted in my seat, focusing my attention on Kenny, hoping he’d say the magic words I wanted to hear. After all, what’s the point of coming to romantic Bermuda and leaving the boyfriend at home?

  “I don’t see why I can’t take a couple of days off to relax, given that I ended up working this cruise. Besides, Cedric promised to help me get a tee time at Port Royal Golf Club.” He winked. “I’m in.”

  That left one more vote to be cast. We all looked at my mother expectantly.

  “Oh, are you waiting for my answer? How can I say no, especially now that Kathleen is in good hands?”

  As long as Kenny and I could keep disaster at bay and prevent another murder, my mother would happily return to Bermuda. But if, for some reason, another unfortunate death occurred, I had my doubts she’d ever want to travel again. That’s your incentive to solve this case, Miz Scarlet. Not only will you save poor Vicky from a dastardly fate, you’ll get to come back here for a few more days in paradise.

  By the time the Sea Express catamaran tied up to the ferry dock in Hamilton, we’d made plans to stay in a wheelchair-accessible hotel on our next visit and hire Cedric to drive us around the islands. That left me in much better spirits.

  “Okay, folks,” Kenny said, leading the way to Front Street, “Scarlet and I are going to catch a bus. We’ll meet you here in about an hour and a half.”

  “Give Kathleen our best,” my mother called out to us as we started across the busy thoroughfare. “And be careful!”

  “We will!” I gave her a farewell wave and when I turned back, Kenny was already a good fifty feet ahead of me. “Whoa! Wait for me!”

  He slowed down long enough to allow me to catch up and then he sped up again. I struggled to stay with him as he trotted along Queen Street and rounded the corner, stepping onto Church Street. For heaven’s sake, where’s the fire?

  “Ah, Captain Peacock, would you mind?” I reached out a hand and latched onto his arm. “I know you’re in a hurry, but....”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t thinking. Let me help you.”

  With that, his hand folded over mine and the next thing I knew, I felt myself pulled along as the pace picked up. If I’d have known we were going running, I’d have worn my sneakers.

  “We’re here,” he told me, pointing to the central bus terminal where half a dozen pink buses were parked in their respective bays. “I didn’t want to miss this bus and have to wait for the next. At this time of night, it really would have cut into our time with Kathleen.”

  “Of course.” I should have known there would be a logical explanation for the unexpected race through Hamilton. We purchased our tickets from the cashier at the window and hopped onto the bus that would take us up Route 7.

  “And don’t forget that we still have to catch the bus back to Hamilton after our visit,” he reminded me, pointing to the schedule he held in his hand. “In a pinch, we can grab a taxi.”

  We boarded the iconic pink bus, selected seats in the middle, and got comfortable. There were only a couple of other passengers occupying seats. Once the driver backed out slowly and pulled the bus out of the station and onto the road, I posed a question to Kenny.

  “If George met Anson Reddy at that funeral directors’ convention in Nashville last year, do you suppose Anson confided in George?”

  “Are you suggesting Anson found out about the plot to kill Vicky and told George?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” I looked at him for confirmation. “Could the FBI concentrate on passengers from the Nashville area, to narrow down the list of possible suspects cruising on the Liberty of the Seas?”

  “It depends. How do you know Vicky isn’t a funeral director herself? How do you know she lives in Nashville, or even in Tennessee? Maybe she was at that convention as a participant. Or she’s the wife of a participant. Or she just happened to be a guest at the same hotel. Or maybe she sat at a stool in the same bar. Or perhaps the killer did, and that’s when Anson Reddy realized he planned to kill a woman named Vicky.”

  “Thanks for adding hay to the haystack. That’ll make it really easy to find that damn needle now!” I grumbled. I knew he was right. Vicky could have been someone without any real connection to Anson Reddy, but somehow I didn’t think so. Why? Think, Miz Scarlet!

  “We have to go on facts -- not supposition, not intuition, not wishful thinking.”

  “Wait a minute. Remember what Kathleen said? She told us that when George came back from his walk, he was upset because he’d seen someone he thought he recognized. That’s really when the trouble started, right?”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Kenny conceded. “Go on.”

  “We know that George caught up to the woman who was with the man he thought he knew. We also know that the man was in that same crowd, and shortly after that, George was stabbed and tossed over the railing.”

  “So?”

  “So, did George follow the killer or did the killer follow George?”

  “Judging from his camera work, I’d say....”

  “No, no. That’s not what I mean. What I mean is, did George book the trip because he found out Anson Reddy was murdered and he knew just enough about the plot to be on the lookout?”

  “We’ve been going on the presumption that George just happened to run into someone he thought he knew on the ship.”

  “Kathleen said her husband was a big James Bond fan and that he loved gadgets. Was he playing amateur detective, trying to find Anson’s killer on the Liberty of the Seas? Why else would we have these three break-ins? The killer’s trying to find something, probably some incriminating evidence. And now that the FBI is involved, it doesn’t look like that’s a real deterrent. Why? Why would a killer think he could get away with murder while the FBI watched?”

  “Actually, there have been four break-ins, if we consider the one back in Caulkins Cove, Maine.”

  “At the funeral home!” I tapped my forehead. “Of course!”

  “Maybe what we need to find out from Kathleen is how this trip came to be booked. Maybe George deliberately chose it because he wanted to get more information on what he feared was a plot to kill again.”

  “Kenny, we know Anson Reddy died in the Cumberland River, not far from the convention center. Was he murdered while he was attending that convention?
”

  “Good question, Miz Scarlet. Actually, the murder took place two days after the convention wrapped up.”

  “He stayed on?”

  “He did.”

  “He must have had a reason for not going back to Memphis right away.”

  “Indeed.” I saw those eyes of his wander off into space, a sure sign he was doing the math in his head. I left him to it. It was time for my own mental gymnastics.

  Why would Anson Reddy have stayed on in Nashville? As the old saying goes, cherchez la femme. -- ou l’homme, as the case may be. As a lifelong bachelor, he might not have married, but that didn’t mean the funeral director didn’t have a romantic life away from his work place. Had he known Vicky from Memphis or did he meet her in Nashville?

  Nashville, the home of country music and the Grand Ole Opry...was Anson a big fan of country music? Was that the connection?

  “How would we find out if Anson stayed on to see some shows at the Grand Ole Opry?” I poked my seatmate. “He could have met Vicky there, couldn’t he?”

  “Again, you’re not narrowing down the field, Miz Scarlet. You’ve just opened this case up to include how many more thousands of potential suspects?”

  Disappointment overtook me once more. We really were beginning to run out of time. In less than twenty four hours, a killer was poised to strike again. There had to be some way of whittling this conundrum down to a more manageable size.

  Exactly ten minutes after the pink bus pulled out of the central terminal, we were deposited on the sidewalk outside the King Henry VII Memorial Hospital. It was just shy of six thirty.

  We found our way to the General Wing and then, from there, to the General Ward. A stop at the nursing station, to check in with the staff, yielded us the invitation to stay for fifteen minutes, but no more, from the charge nurse.

  Kathleen was resting in her hospital bed, her eyes closed. In the bed next to her, I noticed her temporary roommate was on the phone. She looked suspiciously like the female FBI agent we had seen earlier in the day.

  “How are you feeling?” I queried Kathleen. I noticed her cheeks were wet and there were little wads of tissues scattered across her tray table, evidence she had been crying again. “Have you had a chance to rest at all?”

  “A little. I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Laurel and Thad send their best,” Kenny told her.

  “Mm, they’re good people,” was the sleepy reply.

  I sat myself down on one of the two visitor chairs and leaned close to her. “Can I ask you something?”

  Those big blue eyes tried to focus on my face, but I could see it was an effort on her part. Sleep was calling to her. I patted her hand, hoping to gain just a few more minutes of her attention.

  “Did you and George plan this cruise for a long time?”

  “What?” Her eyelids fluttered a few times before she glanced over at me. “Plan the cruise?”

  “Yes, did you and George decide to take the Liberty of the Seas because you knew someone who had sailed the route before?”

  “No,” she mumbled.

  “They gave her a sedative about fifteen minutes ago,” said the woman in the other bed.

  “Oh, damn. Now what? I really wanted to find out why she and George picked this trip.”

  “Was a surprise. Came home with the tickets a month ago,” said the sleepy widow.

  “He did?” I felt the excitement rush through my veins. Even Kenny sat up suddenly, his curiosity rising.

  “Um...said he was so sure he had to be on this ship, he went ahead and booked it without telling me. Don’t normally take a vacation in June. Had to rearrange...um, business...business app...appointments.”

  Those were the last words Kathleen spoke before she surrendered to the powerful effects of the medicine and dozed off.

  Chapter Sixteen --

  “Did you hear that? George had to be on this ship!” I kept my voice low, trying not to be overheard.

  “Pardon me,” said a uniformed nurse from the doorway, a stiff, professional smile on her face. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to go. The patient needs her rest.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” As the nurse turned and left the room, Kenny stood up, but I was reluctant to leave. There was something nagging at me.

  “Kathleen said they had a special bank account for their vacations and that they saved for every trip, planning every detail together.”

  “So?”

  “Without telling his wife what he planned to do, George booked the cruise and brought home the tickets.”

  “What’s your point?” Kathleen’s roommate wanted to know. “I’m Special Agent Amy Fielding, by the way.”

  She pulled her FBI credentials out from under the covers and flashed them in our direction before she continued to press me on the point. It was time to fish or cut bait. I had to decide to trust this investigator or withhold what might be important information in the case. When in doubt, throw it out, even if it’s a theory that has enough holes in it to sink to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean in the blink of an eye. Here goes nothing.

  “If George Delaney was such a creature of established habits, what made him suddenly alter that behavior pattern so drastically?”

  “Maybe he had an affair or something,” suggested the woman feigning illness in the bed next to Kathleen. I wondered if she had her gun stashed under her pillow. Surely the FBI had made some kind of arrangements for Kathleen’s safety, especially if the killer was expected to show up to the party.

  “No, I think the more logical explanation is that Anson Reddy’s murder led George to book passage on this ship,” I told her.

  “George was trying to find Anson Reddy’s killer on the Liberty of the Seas....” Kenny considered the possibility. “It might fit.”

  “Let’s say he wanted to save Vicky, whoever Vicky is. If he planned this trip with that goal in mind, he might have carried some kind of evidence onto the Liberty of the Seas. How else would he be able to get investigators to take him seriously when he finally figured out the killer’s identity? He’d have to back up his allegations. How many times have you told me it takes facts, not speculation?”

  “But he didn’t hide any evidence in the cabin. We know that because we searched the room with Kathleen and so did the killer, twice.”

  “Kathleen said George liked James Bond,” I reminded Kenny and Amy. “What would James Bond do in a situation like this?”

  “He’d disguise it somehow and then hide it in plain sight,” she said.

  Think, Miz Scarlet. You’re overlooking the obvious. “He didn’t tell his wife about his concerns because he didn’t want to worry her.”

  “Or,” Kenny interrupted, “he didn’t want to endanger her. Maybe he was afraid the killer would go after Kathleen if he thought she knew too much, so George deliberately kept her in the dark.”

  “But he must have told someone else, someone he trusted,” I insisted.

  “Let’s go back over his movements on the ship before he died,” said the federal investigator. “What did he do?”

  “He spent time near the adult pool on Deck 11. He used the golf simulator. He went to Royal Caribbean Online and used a computer. He had lunch with his wife....”

  “We checked his Internet use after his wife gave us his email address and helped us figure out his password.” Amy shook her head. “There’s nothing in his Gmail account that seems unusual. He sent a message to his secretary, asking her notify him of any burials the funeral home was going to handle in his absence. He also sent his son an email about the weekly bank deposits. We looked for attachments on the emails, but found nothing. There were a couple of Google searches on funerals that we think were his.”

  “That’s not really very Bond-like though, is it?” I pointed out.

  “True.” Agent Fielding nodded, resting her hands on her laptop as she sat up in bed. “It’s not. Bond would have been clever about passing messages to his cohorts.”

  “But we were assu
ming that George Delaney had nothing to hide, weren’t we?” I pointed out to the pair of puzzled investigators. “Shouldn’t all of that computer’s Internet activity be checked?”

  “Damn!” he groaned. “She’s right! The only email account we focused on was the one that actually had George’s name on it.”

  “That’s too obvious. What about a secret email account?” I wanted to know. “Couldn’t George have passed information under a cover name? Did you see anything from Goldfinger@gmail.com or J.Bond7@yahoo.com on the computer he used?”

  “I saw something, but it didn’t mean anything at the time.” Kenny paused, lost in thought. He tapped his forehead. “Bond... but it was a woman’s name. Charmian. That’s it.”

  “Charmian?” Amy was already tapping on her laptop keyboard. “She happens to be the fictional aunt of James Bond. If we want to look at the account, we’ll have to get a subpoena, which will take time. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking. How can we figure out who received the email?”

  If I were George, I would...I would do what? I would send the evidence to a friend...someone the killer would never suspect of being involved...someone who was not a regular part of the funeral home staff.

  “What about George’s buddy, the guy who helped him with the burials at sea? The fisherman friend...I can’t think of his name.”

  “Hector,” Kenny shot back. “He’s got some kind of charter fishing business up in Maine. Kathleen can tell you his last name.”

  “You think he’s the killer?” Amy demanded, suddenly energized.

  “No, I think he’s the one person George would have trusted with his secret. What if he had an email alias too?” I asked them.

  “That sounds likely,” Kenny agreed. “It couldn’t be anything too obvious or too Bond-like. Me, I’d go with Kissy Suzuki, Bond’s lover in You Only Live Twice.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with the funeral business.” Agent Fielding looked up. “Are we talking about some kind of money laundering on an international scale? Did Delaney or Reddy ship caskets loaded with cash?”

  “Isn’t this where you usually tell me I should not make assumptions?” I turned to the man from Mercer Security. “And you say that we need hard evidence before we can rule that in or out, because hunches don’t get convictions?”