He said nothing, but I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. Agent Fielding was so convinced she was on the right track, she was already building a case in her mind.
“Two men stabbed and tossed overboard, one in a river, one in the ocean. How could it not be connected to the funeral business?”
“What if it’s a red herring,” I responded, “and the killer wants you to think it’s about the funeral business? What if he wants to mislead investigators, especially because he plans to kill Vicky on this cruise? Could he have hired someone to break into the funeral home in Maine in an effort to confuse investigators?”
“That would suggest he’s a man with significant criminal connections. I think it’s more likely his cohort was actually looking for something specific. Besides, I think you’re giving the killer too much credit for being smart.”
“How so?” I wanted to know.
“If this isn’t something to do with the funeral business, that doesn’t mean the killer is trying to fool anybody. It just means we don’t have a handle yet on what he’s trying to accomplish. He could just be desperate to find something he thinks George Delaney had,” Kenny suggested thoughtfully, “something he thought Anson Reddy passed along to him.”
“Maybe.” Maybe I got carried away with the James Bond thing, I admitted to myself. Just because George liked spies, that doesn’t mean the killer was sophisticated enough to baffle anyone with his arsenal of razzle dazzle tricks. “I guess if the killer was really clever, he wouldn’t have used that kind of pocket knife to kill two men.”
“True. Why leave the weapon in the victim’s back in both cases? That’s kind of sloppy and gives us information which might eventually help us to identify him, “Agent Fielding decided. “So, let’s say the killer isn’t some brilliant assassin, but rather an ordinary one. With all the attention the FBI and the ship’s security team are paying to the crimes, it’s going to be hard for him to kill again. The only way he could pull off a murder now is if he doesn’t make Vicky’s death look like one.”
She was right. A third stabbing would attract FBI agents to the scene faster than a carafe of freshly brewed coffee and some warm Krispy Kreme glazed donuts. “It would have to look like an accident, with no foul play involved. How could they pull that off?”
“They could slip Vicky some kind of drug,” Kenny decided, “maybe a Rufie or some Molly in her drink.”
“Rohypnol? Ecstasy? That might work.” The FBI agent scratched her chin and then tapped a finger on her lip, lost in her rumination. “They could stack the deck by providing witnesses to the supposed accident.”
“That makes sense,” I nodded thoughtfully. “That way, nothing’s suspicious. How can you doubt more than one witness to an accidental death?”
“It depends on whether their stories are credible. Don’t forget the sister was concerned when Vicky suffered bruises after the last attempt,” Kenny reminded us. His gaze suddenly moved from me to a point above my head and he gave a startled twitch.
“Excuse me,” said a firm female voice from behind me, “but I thought I told you it was time for visitors to depart. Now, shall we?”
The charge nurse, sporting a “we will brook no nonsense” frown, had returned and that ramrod posture of hers signaled her displeasure with her wayward visitors. I could see she clearly had every intention of personally escorting us from the ward, possibly with a little help from the tip of her oh-so-white hospital clog.
“They’re working with me,” Agent Fielding announced matter-of-factly, readjusting her pillows with a couple of punches. For a moment, I was afraid she was going to pulverize the hypoallergenic contents inside the cotton cases. I took it as the womanly equivalent of spitting competition. In my estimation, the investigator easily triumphed. “Undercover.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize....” The woman in uniform did a one-hundred-and eighty-degree attitude adjustment and suddenly wanted to be on our good side. “Please accept my apologies.”
“None needed,” I responded magnanimously. Given the unexpected atmospheric warm-up, I figured I’d milk the situation for what it was worth and have some fun. “It just means we’re doing a good job of looking like regular folks. My personal forte in undercover work is my ability to blend into crowds. When you see me coming, you’re likely to mistake me for a real nobody.”
“I see,” said the nervous nurse, scrambling to recover from her faux pas. “Yes, I would never think you were with the FBI, not in a million years. You really do appear to be quite ordinary.”
Agent Fielding snorted when she heard that. I ignored her, playing the scene for all it was worth.
“Thank you, Nurse....”
“Waller. Yes, you certainly are quite good at your craft, Agent....”
“Shh! We don’t like to identify ourselves, just in case the bad guys are around,” I replied, pausing for effect. I had no intention of joining George Delaney’s killer in federal court, accused of impersonating a federal agent. “All of this business is rather hush-hush. I’m sure you understand.”
“Completely. Please, stay as long as necessary. And let me know if there is anything I can do to assist you.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but we appreciate the offer,” I told her.
A loud, unexpected buzz cut through our conversation and suddenly the woman in uniform recoiled, as if she had been stung by an aggravated bee. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled her cell phone out and glanced quickly at the tiny screen.
“Excuse me. I have an emergency.” She turned abruptly and disappeared, closing the door behind her.
“You!” Kenny wagged a finger at me. “That was some performance you put on with Nurse Waller. Bur would be so proud of you.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” I grinned. My older brother has a reputation as a prankster and a wise guy. This was exactly the kind of stunt he would have pulled -- a little on the snide side with a smidgen of snarkiness thrown in for good measure. I chalked it up to the fact that I was still operating under stress and with little sleep.
“We should get going,” my companion insisted. “We’ve got to catch the next bus into Hamilton.”
“I’ll talk to Kathleen and get the contact information for her husband’s friend, to see if he’s willing to cooperate and share the information,” the federal investigator promised. “This may be the break we’ve been waiting for, guys. Thanks.”
“Good luck. I hope it pans out.” I waved on my way through the door Kenny held open for me.
We left Kathleen in Agent Fielding’s capable hands, returning to the bus stop for the ride back into Hamilton. I was starting to feel peckish.
“Where are we eating tonight?”
“Your mom and Thad are scouting potential restaurants as we speak.”
“Anything but sushi,” I replied. “It’s a comfort food kind of night.”
“I agree. I’m in the mood for a hot and hearty meal.”
By the time we caught up to them, sitting by the ferry terminal at Albuoy’s Point, my mother and her affectionate escort had done a little reconnoitering and discovered Flanagan’s Irish Pub on Front Street. The building offered elevator access to the main dining room, which made it easy for Laurel to get around in her wheelchair.
When we stepped into the main dining room, it was easy to see why the pub was a local favorite. The atmosphere was lively and the dishes were decidedly pub fare, from the bangers and mash to the steak and Guinness pie. We had no trouble getting a table on the terrace overlooking Front Street, where we had a bird’s eye view of the action below.
Half an hour later, I put down my fork and cried uncle. “That was a delicious meal.”
“It was indeed,” Thaddeus agreed, tipping his beer glass at the waitress. “Who’s having another?”
“Count me in,” said my companion, slicing through the last piece of his steak with gusto.
“Well,” Laurel studied her nearly empty wine glass, “I probably shouldn’t, but I’m not
driving, am I? And it’s been a hellish day, if I do say so myself.”
I savored the last few sips of the rum and mango concoction in my glass, better known as the pub’s popular Irish daiquiri. “Who am I to say no to another of these?”
We lingered at the table, chatting about what to do on our last day in Bermuda. We seemed to have more options than time.
“Let’s come back into Hamilton and wander around. I believe there is an art museum somewhere around here,” Dr. Van Zandt remarked.
“I think we should go to the zoo,” Kenny told us. I had other ideas.
“I’d like to see the botanical gardens. I could use some inspiration for the Four Acorns Inn.” Sure, I played the inn card, trying to convince them that I wasn’t doing this just for my own selfish reasons. No one seemed to buy it. And then my mother took us all by surprise.
“It seems a shame not to go to the beach,” said Laurel. The moment she said that, I realized she was right. Even if we only spent an hour there, it was an opportunity to wiggle my toes in some of the most beautiful sand in the world. The question was how were we going to get Laurel down to the edge of the sea?
“I was told by Cedric that we can rent a beach wheelchair at Horseshoe Bay Beach,” my mother announced proudly. “And it just happens that he has no bookings tomorrow, so I took the liberty of hiring him.”
“Did you?” I gave her an amused smile. Laurel can be a very determined lady when she wants something; those are the times you do not want to get in front of that wheelchair. She’ll roll right over you. “That’s certainly convenient.”
“I thought so. I’m sure he’ll be able to take us to the museum, the zoo, and the botanical gardens too.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Thaddeus said, scratching his head. “Don’t forget that traffic can be heavy. We might wind up wasting time running around from place to place.”
“Not really.” She wore a sly smile on her face. “The zoo shares the same address with the aquarium, and the botanical gardens are just down the road.”
“I keep forgetting you bought a guidebook,” I laughed. “You’ve got your ducks all in a row, don’t you?”
“I thought we might take the ferry back to Hamilton tomorrow morning and walk to the National Gallery on Church Street,” she continued. “Cedric can pick us up when we’re done, take us to the beach, and then, in the afternoon....”
“I’ll say one thing about your mother,” Thaddeus remarked jovially. “For a woman in a wheelchair, she sure does get around!”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I laughed.
“So, are we all agreed?” She wasn’t going to let it go until she got her confirmation from the other three members of her newly formed cultural arts group.
“We are!”
Chapter Seventeen --
A little after eight, we started back to the ferry terminal, enjoying our leisurely stroll. The streets were less crowded now, no doubt in part because it was Monday evening. We paused on the sidewalk in front of a little antiques shop, admiring a handsome blanket chest.
“I’d put it at about 1825 or so,” Thaddeus decided. “Look at the unusual wood patina. It’s not your typical mahogany.”
My mother and I stepped forward and took a closer look. I recognized the style of the chest as Queen Anne, but as for the material, I was stumped. Leave it to Laurel to straighten us out.
“Actually, dear, I think that piece is made of Bermuda cedar.”
“Cedar? I don’t think so.”
“I do. Bermuda cedar was a popular wood for early Bermuda furniture. The Latin name for it is juniperus bermudiana, or Bermuda juniper. It’s an evergreen that has blue-green foliage, cones, and soft berries. About forty years ago, only one percent of them remained. That’s because two types of scale were accidentally introduced into Bermuda. These insects attacked the native trees, decimating them.”
“Good heavens, woman, how do you know so much about Bermuda’s trees?”
I could tell Thaddeus was stunned by the depth and breadth of my mother’s knowledge, but not me. I come from a family with long ties to trees. The Googins brothers were big on conservation long before Earth Day was invented, and Laurel Googins Wilson was her father’s daughter after all. She not only continued using the family tradition of naming offspring after types of trees (I’m named after the Scarlet oak), she raised us to respect the forest. When we were kids, she used to take us through the woods in search of saplings to replace the damaged or diseased trees my father and other volunteers would cull from White Oak Hill. We’d carefully dig up each one and add it to the miniature forest growing in a narrow plot of land in our backyard. Every spring, she’d pick out the ones that were ready to be transplanted and we’d traipse up the mountain with our shovels in hand and replenish the forest.
“My father and uncle were tree people,” she smiled at him. “So was my husband.”
“But I thought your family manufactured paper products.”
“No, the Four Oaks was a pressboard company. They made those hard covers for accounting ledgers from wood pulp. I spent a lot of time learning the ins and outs of the forestry business, first from my father and then from my husband. My son Bur is involved in reforestation projects all over the country.”
“Well, what do you know,” Thaddeus gave an admiring sigh. “I certainly do have to make an effort to keep up with you. What else do you know about Bermuda juniper, also known as cedar?”
“When the trees died off, it threw the native birds a curve. Now the Bermuda white-eyed vireo and one type of eastern bluebird face extinction because their nesting ground is gone. Even if the reforestation effort is successful, this is such a slow-growing tree that it will take about two hundred years to succeed. It’s not likely that the birds will hang on that long.”
“You continue to amaze me. Does this mean you’re also an expert on furniture, in addition to trees?”
“No, but I do know that if this chest is made of cedar, it’s much more likely to have been constructed in the late seventeen hundreds, because later on, furniture makers, even those in the Caribbean, switched to mahogany,” she said, smiling up at the man beside her. “So 1775 or so is my educated guess.”
“Hold on, folks.” Kenny stepped up to the storefront window. I found myself gently displaced as he got between me and the building. “I think I can settle this. I’ll read the tag.”
“Allow me,” I told him, giving him a wide berth. “We wouldn’t want to leave Hamilton without an answer. Some people might spend what remains of the evening trying to research the subject and the rest of us would have no sleep.”
Kenny, long and lean, pulled out his reading glasses, squatted down, and pressed his nose against the glass in his attempt to glean the printed details of the gilt-edged card, tied to the foot of the antique chest with a red silk ribbon.
“I think I see a one and a seven,” he announced. His elbow caught me in the thigh.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, babe.”
“Do you want me to have a look?” I offered. “I don’t mind.”
“No, Scarlet, I’ve got this. If I could just have a little more room, I’ll be able to see that other number....”
I stepped away again and that’s when something odd happened. My right ankle unexpectedly got tangled up with an unseen obstacle, something hard, thin, and unyielding, like a stick. As I scrambled to stay upright, I stumbled backwards off the curb and into Front Street traffic. The sharp beep of a horn signaled a driver’s warning, but it was already too late. Twirling around, trying to save myself, my left hand struck the metal hood of the vehicle, and then my right followed suit. Looking down, I saw the rear tires rolling towards my toes. Oh, God! This isn’t going to end well. What do I do?
In a fraction of a second, as alarm bells sounded their warning inside my head, my mind took in all this information and spat out an emergency plan. Sheer panic drove me to use simple physics to save my derrière. I implemented my own v
ersion of the “motion of a mass on a spring” principle. Folding my arms tight to my chest, I deliberately fell towards the car and then pushed away from that death trap on wheels, using my biceps as springs.
“Oh, good God!” I heard my mother scream.
“Scarlet!” Thaddeus yelled.
Propelled backwards by the force of my trajectory off of the moving vehicle, I bumped back over the curb and landed hard on the sidewalk, fanny first. My elbows felt the sting of the sidewalk as they skidded along the rough surface. And I thought roller derby was a dangerous sport. At least you get to wear knee and elbow pads.
“Are you okay?” Kenny’s worried face suddenly appeared in front of me.
“Huh?” was the only reply I could muster. My heart was racing, remembering how close I came to becoming a human speed bump on Front Street. My brain was trying to tell me something, but all I could think about was the pain.
“Is she okay?” my mother wanted to know. “Scarlet...darling....”
“She’s in shock,” the good doctor replied. I felt firm fingers on my wrist. “Her pulse is fast. Let’s give her a moment.”
A small crowd began to gather as I sat there, sprawled out. My body felt like it had been hit by a car, which was pretty close to the truth, all things considered. What was wrong? I think someone tripped me.
“Do you think you can stand, Scarlet?” Thaddeus seemed hopeful I hadn’t sustained too much damage. “See if your ankle can support some weight. We’ll take you back to the ship and get you cleaned up.”
Two strong sets of hands lifted me up and set me down, feet first, on the pavement. I wobbled to and fro, wincing as a sharp ache made it impossible to stand on my right foot. That’s when Dr. Van Zandt issued his medical opinion.
“It looks like a sprain, Scarlet. It will be sore for a week or two.”
I was still trying to process what had just happened to me. One second I was stepping back on the sidewalk to give Kenny some room, and the next, I was entwined with an object that pulled my ankle out from under me. And it all happened while my mother, Thaddeus, and Kenny were trying to find out about that damn blanket chest.
[Scarlet Wilson 05] - Miz Scarlet and the Perplexed Passenger Page 15
