by Cathy Ace
Nigel Knicely nodded. I wonder if he’s capable of conversation—or if he ever gets the chance.
It was clear that Janet was the chatty type and, as we all headed up the steps under the portico of our hotel, I could see she was winding up to something.
“It would be nice to have some company for dinner tonight,” she said, gushing. “Have you made any plans yet?”
I didn’t know who looked more horrified—Bud or Nigel.
“We’ve planned a romantic dinner for two,” Bud said firmly. Nigel’s shoulders dropped in relief, but Janet looked disappointed.
“I’m sure we’ll see you around on the ship,” I said brightly. Bud’s eyes widened.
“You’re taking the same cruise as us?” asked Bud of Nigel.
“Stellar Sol. We embark tomorrow, but don’t sail until the day after that,” said Nigel brusquely.
Bud half-smiled. “Yes, same as us. Well, as Cait said, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other onboard.” We all shook hands and went our separate ways.
“Odd couple,” said Bud.
“Peacock and peahen,” I replied.
“And a very pecky peacock at that,” said Bud, frowning. “I didn’t feel at all comfortable with the way he was treating his wife when we first met them.” I’d already spotted that, and had been comforted to see how Bud had acted under the circumstances. Comforted and proud.
“Hard to believe they were renewing their vows under the banyan tree over there,” I said, waving my arm toward the bar area, beyond the lanai, “just yesterday.”
“Really?” Bud sounded as surprised as I had been.
“If you and ‘Mr. Knicely with a silent K’ weren’t talking about cruises and vow renewals, what were you talking about?”
“Cars.” Bud sounded as bored as I guessed he must have been. “Why are so many men obsessed by cars? I mean, sure, they need to be able to get you from A to B, and I must admit I enjoy driving my truck, but to want to talk about engines and intakes and all that? Don’t get it. Not for me.”
“No, you’d rather be discussing the delicate balance of ingredients in a recipe, or the latest on the Paris runways for the man about town, wouldn’t you?” I said, grinning.
“You know me so well,” mugged Bud. “So, what about the ice cream I promised you? Time enough to think about the Knicelys when we’re on the ship, eh?” He purposely pronounced the silent K with a wicked smirk, and we headed for the large man in a vivid orange shirt who was handing lurid blue shave ices in cups to two little girls.
“I hope he’s got chocolate ice cream. I want something with a bit more substance than just frozen, flavored water,” I said.
Mahalo Waikiki
THAT FIRST EVENING OF OUR honeymoon, Bud had arranged everything to perfection. We sat at the corner table of the open verandah attached to the Beach House Restaurant at our hotel, overlooking the sea. Bud dined on poke—saying it was the best ahi tuna he’d ever tasted—while I opted for the foie gras on a tiny corn cake, with caramelized sweet Maui onion and blackberry jam. My taste buds exploded at the first taste, and I was in heaven. I had the fish of the day—a meaty mahimahi, stuffed with crab and accompanied by a light, zesty salad containing a lot of ingredients I didn’t recognize. Unsurprisingly, Bud chose the rack of lamb, and said it tasted wonderful. We sipped Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, which was insanely expensive, but Bud insisted we have it because he knew it was my favorite. I made sure I kept the cork and the cage to add to our little collection. We had the most perfect couple of hours, watching the sun go down and the stars appearing in the darkening sky.
A young man with a melodious voice and a talent with the ukulele strummed quietly at the end of the verandah farthest from us, and, just as the sun disappeared into a blood-red sea, he began to sing a song I’d never heard before, but that made me fill up with tears. Sung by a man to the woman he loves, it spoke of weaving a lei of stars for the love of his life to wear on such a beautiful night. Bud, who never, ever sings, began to hum along with the tune the moment he saw I was enjoying it. I told him to stop. It’s not that I’m not a romantic at heart; it’s just that I don’t cope well with it, and it makes me blub. Then I feel like a fool.
Other than the blubbing, the evening was exactly what a honeymoon should be. After dinner, we decided to walk along the beach toward the Royal Hawaiian Hotel—also known as The Pink Palace—and let our food settle while we partook of an after-dinner drink at the wonderful circular bar beside the beach. Once again, we managed to find a little table looking out toward the now-moonlit sea and, as we chatted, we could hear the rushing of the surf and the sounds of music and jollity coming from the bars along the bay. Along the sweep of Waikiki were dozens of flaming tiki torches, which gave the whole view a grand and unique atmosphere.
Just as we’d finished our drinks, a petite blond in her fifties, wearing a long gown and carrying a pair of spike heels, attempted to skip over the rope in front of us—which seemed to be the way all the beachfront properties separated themselves from the beach itself. She tripped and landed on her bottom in the sand with a squeal. A largish man hurried, as best he could, from the tideline toward the woman, who seemed to be having a fine old time sitting just where she was. I suspected a few cocktails might have something to do with her lack of sensitivity or concern.
“You alright there, princess?” called the man, as Bud rose from his seat to offer the woman a helping hand. I wonder how many damsels in distress Bud will rescue before the day is out.
“Sure am, honey,” she called back, giggling.
Once Bud had managed to get her onto her feet, and safely over the rope links, she brushed herself down and dropped her shoes onto the ground. “Oh, my stars, I guess I should have drunk that last one a little more slowly, honey,” she said. Then, looking up at Bud, she added, “Thank you, kind sir. Let me buy you a drink. And the lovely lady you’re with. Derek? We must buy these wonderful folks a drink. You order. I’m off to the little girls’ room.” She pulled up the hem of her long, cotton gown into a ball, grasped it in one hand, then ran as lightly as a child toward the main body of the wonderful pink hotel. Very lithe for her age.
Taking his time to cross the rope with care, the man straightened himself up and held out a hand to Bud. “I’m Derek. Glad to make your acquaintance, sir. And thank you for helping out my good lady-wife. She’s old enough to know better than to try to jump rope like that.”
Bud smiled. “Bud Anderson. No problem at all, pleased to be able to help. But my wife and I were just leaving. No need for that drink. Another time, maybe?”
Turning to me, Derek held out his hand again. “Derek,” he repeated.
“Cait,” I replied. I didn’t feel the need to add “Morgan.”
“Good to meet you too, Cait. And the little lady won’t take no for an answer, I’m afraid. Not used to it, ya see?” he winked at me as he spoke. “So, what’ll it be?”
I hesitated for a millisecond, but when I locked eyes with Bud I knew that he, like me, would relent pretty easily. “How about we have one last mai tai?” I said.
“Two mai tais comin’ up,” said Derek as he weaved his way a little unsteadily toward the bar.
“Bud to the rescue, again,” I said, smiling. He shrugged. “I love you, Husband. Have I told you that recently?”
“Not for at least ten minutes,” he said with a pout.
Derek was back in a flash and plopped himself next to Bud. “Guy’s gonna bring the drinks in a moment. I promised him you’d finished the ones you had, so you’d better drain ’em. Can’t serve you no more than one at a time. Guess they don’t trust folk to know when to stop around here. Some damn fool rules they have. Folks have to step over the rope to smoke a cigarette, even though they’re standing no more than two inches from this side of the rope, but then they can’t have a drink in their hand at the time. No drinking on the beach, no smoking on hotel property. And the guy at the bar told us they’re gonna stop smoking on the beach a
ltogether next year. I guess that’s not the end of the world. But one drink at a time? We’re not kids. Heck, wish I was!”
Despite his little rant, Derek seemed like a pretty happy chap, because he grinned as he spoke.
A waiter in a dapper outfit delivered our drinks and cleared away our empty glasses. I spotted Derek’s wife waving toward us from the hotel. “I think your wife’s trying to get your attention,” I said to our “host.”
He turned, straining to see. “Laurie? What’s she up to?”
“She seems to be beckoning you,” Bud said. “She’s pointing at her feet, and calling you over. Maybe she wants you to bring her shoes?”
“Good idea if she’s off to the ladies,’” I said.
Derek rose, smiling. “These shoes have been the bane of my life this evening. Had to be this pair with that outfit, but she couldn’t walk in them more than five steps. It’s why we came along the beach. Why do you women wear these things?” he said, looking at the four-inch heels he’d scooped up from the floor.
“I don’t,” I replied, waggling a ballet flat in his direction.
Smiling down at Bud, Derek said, “I see you’ve found yourself a sensible one. Hope she’s fun, too, cause without that, there ain’t no point in it.”
“She’s definitely fun,” said Bud, returning Derek’s smile. “Never a dull moment.”
“Be thankful for it,” said Derek as he tottered away with his wife’s shoes. “I’ll be right back. Talk among yourselves,” he giggled.
“They seem nice,” I said.
“They do indeed,” said Bud.
“Maybe one cocktail over the top?”
“I’d say so.”
“But that’s what holidays are for—overdoing it a bit and having a silly time, right?”
Bud winked at me over the rim of his raised glass. “This is absolutely, definitely, my last drink of the day,” he said.
As we clinked glasses, I said, “Me too.” And it turned out that it was, because neither Derek nor Laurie ever appeared again. After half an hour, we took their drinks back to the bar, told the barman what was happening, and set off along the sand back to our own hotel.
The fiery necklace of tiki torches along the edge of the beach reminded us of civilization, but looking out across the ocean, everything was black velvet, trimmed with silver surf, moonlight, and stars.
Corpseman’s Quarters
JUST AS I WAS WALLOWING in the recollection of our first wonderful night in Honolulu, the phone in our cabin rang.
Bud answered, listened, said, “Sure,” a couple of times, then replaced the receiver. “Ezra says to meet him at the medical office as soon as we like,” he said. “It’s down on Deck 2, forward, so it shouldn’t take us long to get there. Are you fit to make a move?”
“Just about,” I said, pulling open the door to the bathroom. “Best to go before we go,” I quipped.
Only one of the four elevators closest to our stateroom was capable of taking us as low as Deck 2. Waiting for the glass pod to arrive, Bud and I chatted through our initial meetings with the Knicelys and the Croppers. Well, I chatted, and he listened.
I summed up with, “So, at first meeting, we have a couple with a seemingly off-kilter relationship—and an unnecessary letter K in their surname—and another without an apparent care in the world, but a love of cocktails.”
As we swept down the soaring atrium of the ship, I noted gaggles of folk in the other glass capsules, all oblivious to the fact that a man in their midst had met an untimely end. Smiling faces, family gripes, romantic couples—all on display, but unaware. The elevator cars were full of tales never to be told in full, only to be glimpsed in passing. Fascinating.
“After you, Cait,” said Bud as he waved me out of our capsule into the somewhat gloomy corridor. Unlike all the decks above, this one was primarily reserved for the crew. Yes, sick guests would visit, and we had disembarked using this deck when we were at port, but otherwise, it was crew territory. We followed the signs giving directions to the medical center, and I noted the posters reminding crew members about the penalties for using or smuggling drugs, for abusing alcohol, or each other, and about the STAR! Program for crew members with the highest guest ratings each cruise.
In this part of the ship, below the waterline, the wave-patterned carpeting of the upper decks gave way to practical, durable linoleum that ran from the floor up to a waist-high grab rail. The uneven surface of the rail told me it had been rubbed down and repainted many times, unlike the sleek, brushed stainless steel found on the passenger decks. My nostrils told me we were nearing the medical area. Nothing else ever smells quite like medical disinfectant.
Bud and I entered through a wide doorway, and found ourselves standing in a tiny waiting area, with a hatch leading into a miniscule office. No one was in sight.
A moment later, Ezra appeared in the little office, having entered from a hidden corridor. He beckoned us to follow him.
Making our way along a short corridor, Ezra said, “I haven’t managed to speak with Rachel yet, but I decided not to wait any longer before calling you. Time is of the essence.”
Finally settling into a small medical consultation and examination room, I could feel the windowless, theoretically soothing pale green walls closing in about me as we awaited the imminent arrival of Dr. Rachel White. I tried to imagine how it would feel to put in multiple shifts in such enclosed quarters every week for months on end. Suddenly the life of a ship’s doctor didn’t seem quite as glamorous as I’d imagined.
After what felt like half an hour of silence—probably only five minutes—Bartholomew Goodman stuck his head into the room and exuberantly announced, “For once, callin’ this the ‘Corpseman’s Quarters’ is bang on! That’s what they used to call it in the olden days. I never liked the term myself. There you go. She won’t be long. Just washing up. You can aks her your questions. She’ll tell you everything. I’m outta here. Things to do, people to see.” On this occasion, the nurse practitioner’s London accent seemed to have given way to a distinctly Caribbean lilt, highlighted by his use of the word “aks” instead of “ask.” Odd. Maybe he feels more comfortable now, here, than when he was in charge of the crew at the scene of a death?
Finally, the doctor appeared. As she entered the room, Ezra rose a little from his seat, and Bud followed suit. Clearly used to this display of good manners, Rachel White waved at the men, indicating that they should be seated. You’re deferring, Bud, you don’t usually do that.
A white coat covered the floral dress Rachel White had been wearing to enjoy her time off; the woman looked a little strained.
“Well, this is a right flamin’ pain and no mistake,” she said angrily.
I was surprised, as were Bud and Ezra.
Running her hand through her coppery hair, she added, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m tired, and I’ve been looking forward to some time off. I’m terribly sorry for the deceased and his loved ones. I’ve done all I can to discharge my duty to the rest of the people on this ship.” She clamped her lips together and pulled the edges of her mouth down with the forefinger and thumb of her left hand. Shaking her head, she added, “As promised, I can now make a preliminary report, Ezra. Would you rather wait until we’re alone?”
Ezra motioned toward Bud and me. “Bud Anderson, retired homicide cop; Cait Morgan, professor of criminal psychology. On their honeymoon. Prepared to help out. Cleared with the captain. They will consult on this case, but I will run the investigation. You may speak freely in front of them.”
Rachel White regarded us with the same blank, cold, cornflower eyes she’d cast over us in the Games Room. She was a tough one to read, so I decided to give as good as I was getting, and returned her steely gaze. As she noticed what I was doing, her expression changed to one of puzzlement, then she gave her attention to the digital pad she’d placed on the desk in front of her.
“Very well. I dare say we can use all the help we can get. Your Filipino
Army won’t be much use if there’s a killer on the loose, will it, Ezra?”
Ezra cleared his throat. I got the impression that a line had been crossed. I judged that these two knew each other as more than colleagues, and that Rachel White had used a private term inappropriately.
“My security officers aren’t trained investigators, as Bud and Cait are,” said Ezra defensively. He smiled politely at us. “Pretty much every one of my officers is from the Philippines, as Rachel says, though I do have a couple of female officers from Jamaica.”
Rachel almost smiled. “The Mamas?” she chuckled coldly. “I swear they’re more intimidating than all the men put together.” I was finding it difficult to get the measure of this woman. Was she essentially obnoxious, or was she just trying to flaunt that she was an insider, highlighting that Bud and I weren’t? I suspected the latter, but wondered why she felt the need.
Bud seemed eager to please. “I think I’ve seen the two officers you’re referring to. They had words with a couple of older teens the other evening up on the front deck. I understand what you mean about them having a presence.” Oil on choppy waters, Bud. Good job.
“So, what can you tell us, Rachel?” Ezra asked the question we all wanted answered.
Prodding and sliding her finger across the device on her desk, Rachel read aloud the facts, and embellished them as she did so.
“I can’t find any sign of trauma, other than a bitten tongue. No signs of an injection site, or any other puncture wounds. Luckily for us he did, indeed, bite his tongue, because I was able to get some blood samples without having to do anything invasive. I’m still having a think about how exactly I can use the supplies on hand so I can work out what killed him, but at least I have something to work with. That said, don’t hold your breath. I’m not equipped for such work here, and the samples are small. I might be better off holding onto whatever I have to test any possible sources of poison you might find. It’s unlikely that we’d find a source of poison A if he was killed with poison B, so … we’ll see. His body is telling me it could have been any one of a number of things. Cyanide, ricin, strychnine, arsenic—it could even have been a massive dose of something not usually lethal, like antihistamine, or any number of over-the-counter, or even prescribed drugs. They are all possibilities. I suppose the most worrying would be ricin, especially if he inhaled it.”
