The Corpse with the Diamond Hand

by Cathy Ace

  By now, we were back in the waiting room, though this time the door to the outer corridor was closed, so I felt comfortable saying, “Thanks, Ezra. I do have one question for the doctor. There were some playing cards among Tommy’s effects. Where did they come from?”

  “He was clutching them when he died,” replied Rachel. “It appears that his convulsions had forced his hand into a spasm that gripped the cards when he died. I had to rip them out of his fingers, because his muscles had remained rigid.”

  “Isn’t that rather unusual?” asked Bud.

  “It is, and it isn’t,” she said. “Cadaveric spasm, or instantaneous rigor mortis, can happen when a death occurs during an extreme physical episode. Your description of the man’s convulsions would likely explain it, Cait. It doesn’t always happen, and it certainly doesn’t happen as often as those who create fiction would have us believe, but it seems to have happened here. I’m sure you all saw how his left hand and fingers were curled into a claw-like shape, and maybe you noted that the toes on his left foot were also curled. I would suggest these signs were the result of his manner of death.”

  “Thank you Rachel, that’s all fascinating,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “The human body is an amazing thing, don’t you think?”

  I nodded politely. “It certainly is, but that wasn’t what I was thinking about.”

  No Guests Beyond This Door

  AS EZRA LED US TOWARD Tommy Trussler’s stateroom, I refused to answer any of Bud’s questions about what I’d found so interesting. Luckily he knew my methods well enough to stop pushing for an answer.

  We’d walked up one flight of stairs and entered the main foyer area, above which soared the four-storey atrium. The imposing, angular sculptures, the swathes of diaphanous draperies, the sweep of the stunningly under-lit marble staircase, and the elegantly simple classical music of the string quartet—four Russian girls in their twenties, all blond, and all very good—told me that life onboard was proceeding as usual. On the decks above us I imagined people ordering specialty coffees while comparing handmade leis, or else enjoying the thrill of the glittering casino while bedecked in silk shirts covered in colorful plumeria and hibiscus. Some would be wandering through the shopping arcade, while others would already be planning to head back to their rooms to prepare for the main seating of the final formal dinner of the cruise. I noted that the photography team was already setting up its equipment at the foot of the imposing central staircase—a popular choice for group photographs.

  Bud and I were due to dine at eight thirty, and I’d brought a suitably posh, glittery midnight-blue dress for the occasion—a brave departure from my usual black. I wondered if I’d have the chance to wear it, or if Bud and I would be “otherwise engaged” for the entire night. I hoped not. I also hoped that the dress in question would still fit me after two weeks of overindulgence—it had been a little snug when I’d packed it. And now? I told myself off. Priorities, Cait, there’s a murder to solve!

  Leaving the hubbub of the guest relations area and the central lounge behind us, we padded forward along the deep carpeting of Deck 3 toward a door clearly marked NO GUESTS BEYOND THIS DOOR—CREW ONLY. Ezra pushed the heavy door, and we entered yet another restricted area onboard the cruise ship.

  Instead of wide, carpeted corridors with tastefully veneered doors on either side, we were now faced with a much narrower passage. Following Ezra as he wound along between a warren of rooms, I noticed that the linoleum covered the floor and came halfway up the walls, just as it had on Deck 2. Scuffed and dinged, these walls bore testament to having taken some heavy traffic. We seemed to be walking in a loop, and Ezra shook his head. “We should have come the other way,” he said. “He was in 3519. It’s a cabin reserved for guest entertainers, speakers, and so forth. It’s a big step up from a crew cabin. There are three on each side of the ship. Nearly there.”

  As we rounded yet another corner, I spotted the security officer named Ocampo outside a room on the outside of the ship. She stood to attention as she caught sight of her boss, and knocked lightly on the door to the dead man’s room.

  Bartholomew Goodman stepped into the doorway to greet us. He was, rather surprisingly, wearing a surgical facemask and a paper over-garment, the type surgeons wear in the operating theater. The latex gloves I found more understandable.

  He peeled off one glove, removed his face mask, and extended a hand toward Ezra, who took it, and shook it heartily. “Nothing in here anymore that could present a danger,” announced Bartholomew. Beginning to pull off all his remaining protective gear, he added, “You can’t be too careful when unknown substances are concerned.” He rolled his eyes toward the cabins we’d just passed. “Lot of interest about this, sir. Cabin chatter’s running amok. The crew will need some information soon, or they’ll fill in the blanks themselves.”

  “I’m aware,” said Ezra gravely. “When you say ‘nothing,’ what do you mean, exactly?”

  Bartholomew drew closer to Ezra and spoke in low tones. Luckily, on this occasion, I caught every word. “Checked everywhere. Nothing out of the ordinary. Some painkillers, but I’d expect them, given his leg issues. I’ve bagged anything that could be poisoned, and I’ll take it all with me.” He held up three sealed plastic bags.

  “May I?” I asked, leaning forward and reaching for the bags.

  Bartholomew snatched them away from my grasp. He looked at Ezra for guidance. Ezra nodded, and I was handed the bags, one at a time. I checked the first two bags quickly, but gave more attention to the third. I rolled and flipped the bottles it contained. Three bottles of prescription medications in the dead man’s name, all for pain management, each more potent than the other. A bottle of over-the-counter antihistamines, some laxatives, multivitamins designed for men over the age of fifty, an additional bottle of vitamin C capsules, and a box of statins.

  “Thanks,” I said, returning the final bag to the nurse.

  “I don’t think there’s much more I can do here,” said Bartholomew. “I’ve briefed all the members of your team who are guarding the people who were in the Games Room this morning to be vigilant, and to alert me if anyone feels unwell at all. But I would now like to be able to check the Games Room for any substances that shouldn’t be there, as Dr. White asked. I suppose you have a person on duty there who can let me in, to make sure I don’t do anything I shouldn’t?”

  “Indeed,” Ezra said. “Officer Ocampo, I’d like you to accompany Nurse Goodman, and you will be in charge of the management of the scene. Understood?”

  “Yessir,” said the woman with the slick, black hair. I noticed she had intelligent eyes, and she seemed proud to be given such a responsibility.

  I hated feeling as though I wanted to be in two places at once, then I realized I could be—well, as good as. “Could Bud go along too?” I asked.

  “Will you stay here with me and begin to build your impressions of Tommy from his quarters, Cait?” asked Ezra.

  “I will.”

  Bud looked a little taken aback, then said, “Of course I’ll go, if it’s okay with you, Ezra.”

  “It certainly is,” said Ezra.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve worked a crime scene, but I reckon it’s like riding a bike,” continued Bud. He felt his pockets. “If Officer Ocampo is to take the official photographs, I’ll use my phone’s camera to take shots before we move anything, so you can see them right away, Cait. I dare say you’ll be taking everything that needs to be removed from the scene to the medical facility, right?”

  Ezra agreed. “It seems to be the best place to gather everything together.”

  Bud added, “I assume there’s refrigeration there we can use for any perishables. We’ll have to keep all the food from the buffet, if nothing else, for example.”

  Bartholomew looked at the small plastic bags in his hand. “We’ll need bigger bags than these.”

  Officer Ocampo looked at Ezra with uncertainty. “I don’t think we hav
e big enough evidence bags for this job,” she said.

  “How about garbage bags, with ties we can seal and sign?” asked Bud.

  “We’ve got medical waste bags. How about them? I don’t know how many we’ve got, but I know some of them are pretty big. Why don’t we go and grab some supplies from the medical center and the security office, then tackle the Games Room?” Bartholomew Goodman seemed to be a practical man.

  Bud, Bartholomew, and Officer Ocampo left, allowing Ezra and myself to enter Tommy Trussler’s stateroom alone. We both donned latex gloves, and, after allowing the door to close behind us, I stood for a moment and took in the scene.

  The stateroom was not dissimilar to the one Bud and I had; it was about the same size, had a slightly different layout of essentially all the same elements, but was a little narrower, and had a round porthole where our balcony door would have been. To my immediate right was the door to what I knew would be the bathroom. Without moving, I pulled it open. It was tiny—a far cry from the one we had. Our bathroom was large, with a marble-tiled floor, a large shower capsule with semi-circular sliding doors, and two washbasins separated by a decent counter space. There was even a little privacy screen dividing the loo from the rest of the room. Tommy Trussler’s bathroom was so small he could have taken a shower while sitting on the toilet and brushing his teeth at the miniscule sink, all at the same time.

  Along the wall housing the bathroom was the closet area. One sliding door was open, revealing what, at first glance, seemed to be a paltry amount of clothing when compared with how much Bud and I had brought with us on the trip. As I’d expected, the bed was made up, there were fresh towels in the bathroom, and the room had been cleaned after Tommy had left it that morning.

  “We’ll need to talk to the attendant and his or her assistant to check on what was taken from the room during their cleaning this morning,” I said to Ezra. “Is there some way you can find out what would have happened to any rubbish they removed?”

  Ezra looked at his watch. “By now, anything taken from here would have been dealt with as a part of the general garbage sorting operation. I don’t think we stand any chance of getting our hands on it, but I’ll check. Let me make a call.”

  I thanked him as he punched a number into his phone and began to speak to someone in Greek. Multilingual too.

  I walked to the farthest wall of the room and peered onto the windowsill above the head of the bed. I picked up a couple of paperback books and flicked through the pages. A receipt from the Sundowner Bar for a bottle of San Pellegrino water was being used as a bookmark. It was dated two days earlier. Turning it over, I could see a penciled list on the back:

  BENNY—2K 10%, CIGAR MAN OUT,

  QUEENIE $$$$, K—⅓=$?

  I put it on the bed so I could pop it into one of Ezra’s evidence bags. I replaced the books, which told me that the dead man had enjoyed reading a good thriller. I’d read them both, and applauded his taste.

  One little shelf to the right side of the bed was bare; the one on the left held an old-fashioned fold-out traveling alarm clock, with the alarm set for 6:10 AM.

  I picked up the pillows and pulled back the coverings. As I’d expected, nothing. I knelt on the floor and looked under the bed. A suitcase was wedged in there, so I wriggled it out of its storage place, plopped it onto the bed, and unzipped it. It had seen a lot of miles, but was completely empty. I pushed it back under the bed where it joined a lifejacket, stuffed against the outer wall. On the other side of the bed I spotted a rectangular aluminum case. I grappled with the bedcovers that dangled down, and finally pulled it out. Unclipping it, I found it contained a large collection of multicolored gambling chips, all neatly fitted into recesses—a few were missing—and some beakers and dice. Odd.

  I turned to the sofa and coffee table. There was nothing at all on the coffee table. The cushions on the sofa were, I noted, the same as in our room, but, whereas the theme color in our quarters was blue, here it was green. Same pattern, same fabric, different hues. It was the same with the carpeting; some decks were blue, others green. I reasoned that the décor of such a ship had to be equally at home in the Pacific, the Caribbean, Australasian waters, or sitting beside an Alaskan glacier. Thus, the predominant theme throughout the ship, other than being sumptuous, was the one thing the ship was always close to—the sea. Wavy lines, foaming patterns, blues, greens, grays, sandy yellows, and even corals, all repeated throughout the vessel. It made for a pleasing atmosphere.

  I dug my fingers into the recesses of the sofa, but, again, found nothing. Similarly, the desk had nothing upon it except the books and supplies provided by the ship. Tommy hadn’t allowed anything personal to spill into the room at all. I pictured the mess in our room and told myself it was much more difficult for two people to remain contained in such a small space.

  Ezra finished his phone call and announced, “Everything he might have disposed of is gone, as I suspected. Already sorted into recyclables and garbage. Garbage sorted and already crushed, or else mixed in with garbage from the rest of the ship, ready to be crushed.”

  “Well, thanks for trying,” I said, smiling.

  “Find out anything about him yet?” asked Ezra. His tone was hopeful.

  “He’s neat,” I replied with a sigh. “Onto his closet space next,” I added more cheerily.

  I looked into the open part of the closet to begin with. Given how little he’d brought with him, it was easy to see why he’d chosen to place everything on a hanger, rather than folded on a shelf—he had the space to be able to do so. Shorts, work-out shorts, golf shirts, T-shirts, a couple of short-sleeved dressier shirts, a dark suit, and a white long-sleeved shirt. That was it. Five pairs of flip-flops were neatly lined up on the floor of the closet beside a worn pair of training shoes and one pair of black dress shoes.

  “He liked his slippers,” I said. “He lived in Hawai’i, so I expect that’s what he called them, though I’ve always called them flip-flops.”

  “Slops,” said Ezra. “That’s what we called them when I was a boy. Though I know they have many names around the world. I’ve heard them called thongs, slides, tsinelas, and other names.”

  I took my chance. “Where did you grow up, Ezra? You have an interesting accent.”

  “Born in South Africa, moved to the States when I was seven. Pasadena. Nice place. My mother died when I was fourteen, so I went to live with her brother in Israel. Tel Aviv. Did my service there, then joined this company. In the last seven years, I’ve visited every continent, even Antarctica, on one of our ships. I guess that would explain my strange accent.” He smiled, but his eyes hardened a little.

  “Sounds like you’ve had an interesting life so far. Do you think you’ll remain at sea for long?” I tried to sound as though I was having a chatty, fussy moment, because I’ve found that puts people at ease. It didn’t work on Ezra Eisen.

  “I have no plans to leave the company,” was his guarded reply.

  “I hope they treat you well,” I said, almost, but not quite, gushing. “You seem to be experienced in matters pertaining to security.” Will he bite?

  “It is my profession, and, I believe, it is my nature,” he said with finality. “What do Trussler’s clothes tell you about the man, Cait?” Well deflected.

  I decided to be as professional as he. “He was a man with few needs,” I said. “His clothing isn’t expensive, though the formal suit, which is old, was probably a fair price when he bought it. His clothing is well-used, but not worn out, so he took some pride in his appearance. His flip-flops suggest he wanted comfort rather than style, though the lack of support they offer is puzzling; he could have chosen footwear that might have offered more comfort for his problem leg. I noticed he had a bunion on his right foot, so maybe that explains his choices. That, and his life in Hawai’i. There is nothing unnecessary here. Maybe he was an efficient packer when he traveled, but I suspect his home would look similar to this. Is there a laundry that he could have used onboard? Or would
he have used the same laundry service as the guests? His clothes all look clean and pressed, as though the only items he had worn are those in plastic bags in the mortuary. I suppose he could have hand-washed them in his little bathroom, but I know that no irons are allowed in staterooms. Is it different here in the crew area of the ship?”

  “No, it is not,” said Ezra, his voice sharp. “No irons, no naked flames allowed in cabins. Fire onboard a ship is one of our greatest dangers. He’d have had a choice for his laundry. There is a crew laundry area, below us, where crew members can look after their own clothing—and where there are pressing facilities—or he could have used the same system as the guests where you bag up your items for them to be taken away, washed or dry cleaned, pressed, and returned to your room, for a fee. He’d have received a discount on such services. I’ll find out if he sent any items for cleaning this morning. Another phone call. Excuse me. I’ll allow you to continue.”

  I nodded, and turned my attention to the bathroom.

  Above the minute sink a mirrored cabinet protruded from the wall. I guessed this was where he’d stored his medications. Now it was empty. Bartholomew had even taken away the bottles of body wash and shampoo that had been housed in dispensers on the wall of the shower unit. I wouldn’t learn much in there.

  I moved back into the main room and opened the drawers in the cabinet beneath the flat-screen television, which, as in our quarters, was mounted on an arm on the wall. A couple of pairs of socks—both black—some underwear, two pairs of swimming shorts, and a baseball cap were in the top drawer. In the drawer below that, nothing, and in the deepest drawer at the bottom, two more hats—the floppy type that give good shade from the sun.

  I pulled open the little fridge, which seemed to contain the same standard array of bottles and cans that ours did. There was nothing in there of a personal nature. No more pots of poi?