The Corpse with the Diamond Hand

by Cathy Ace

  “Are you able to open the safe?” I asked Ezra, who’d now finished his phone calls. “If he’s anything like Bud and me, he’d have stored his personal valuables in there. They could give me some useful insights.”

  “Yes, I can do that,” he replied, bending to do so. “By the way, he sent off a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and two Hawaiian-style shirts to be washed this morning. That’s it. Nothing else in the system. There—” he pulled open the door to the little safe, which sat at waist-height, and I bent down to peer inside. I poked my hand in and realized it wasn’t just dark in there; it was full. I pulled out my hand and took a proper look. I was surprised by what met my eyes. “Oh dear. I think you should take a look at this, Ezra, before I move anything. I think we should take some photographs too.”

  Ezra and I both knelt on the floor and stared into the safe. Like the one in the room I was temporarily calling home, it was about a foot wide and nine inches high. I suspected it went back about a foot as well, as did ours. Whereas we’d used our safe to secure our passports, the credit cards we didn’t need onboard, our car and house keys, and cash, in Tommy Trussler’s room the safe was full, and I mean full, of wallets.

  “Oh no,” said Ezra heavily. When he looked at me, he was clearly horrified. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” I asked apprehensively.

  “I’ve had a lot of reports of guests losing wallets, cash, and credit cards while they’ve been ashore. More than is usual. I’ve got to be honest and say I put it down to the fact that times are tough; cruise ship guests always stick out like a sore thumb on the Islands, and I thought maybe they were simply being targeted by local gangs as we island-hopped. But this makes much more sense. The thieves weren’t on each island—there was one thief, and he was traveling with us.” He sat back on his haunches and shook his head. “It’s a nightmare,” he said quietly. “I should have known. Tommy Trussler was a pickpocket.”

  Ezra looked as though someone had smacked him in the face with a halibut. His upright bearing collapsed.

  I felt compelled to try to comfort him. “Well, first of all, Ezra, I don’t know how you could have known, if he wasn’t spotted and reported. And that’s rather beside the point, now. We’d better take all these items out of the safe, so you can identify their owners by their contents—where that’s possible—and check that against reports made to you,” I suggested. “First, let’s get some photos.”

  I snapped away with my phone’s camera, then we emptied the contents of Tommy Trussler’s safe onto his bed. There were fifteen wallets, which all seemed to be full of credit cards and various other valuable items, like family photos. Some looked as though they might have belonged to women, some to men. Along with them was an impressively large roll of cash. There was also a little carrier bag with the logo of a jewelry store on Maui. It contained two pairs of diamond earrings and a receipt for three pairs. Odd.

  Ezra whistled when he saw the earrings, each set fixed in a presentation box. “They’re quite something,” he said. “Look—excellent color, complex cut, seem to have great clarity, and I reckon they’re about half a carat each earring.” Ezra checked the receipt. “Whoever bought these got a good price. Not as good as they’d get in the Caribbean, of course, but not bad for Hawai’i.”

  I felt my multipurpose right eyebrow shoot up as I said, “Very interesting.”

  “Okay, I see why he’d hang onto these, and the cash. But why would he keep everything else in his safe like this?” said Ezra. “He could have just taken the cash, then dumped the rest of the stuff before he came back onboard. Heck of a lot easier than getting items back onto the ship.” Ezra gave the matter some thought. “I guess if he went off the ship with no wallet of his own he could easily get back on and run a couple through the X-ray machine at a time without raising any queries. Folks often have a couple of places where they keep their valuables when they go ashore. My guys would be used to seeing someone carrying more than one wallet-type item. But what’s the point of bringing it all back to the ship anyway?” He seemed dumbfounded.

  “Yes, it’s curious,” I observed. “Maybe it wasn’t about the money. Maybe he wanted to study the contents of the items he stole, and to do that in the privacy of his stateroom, in his own time.”

  Ezra’s tone was almost dismissive as he replied, “But why?”

  “That’s an interesting question, Ezra. And it means that Mr. Tommy Trussler, however much his personal possessions suggest otherwise, was clearly a fascinating man. I tell you what, I’ll leave you to check through these, but if you could find his wallet among all the others, would you keep that separate so I can look through it later?”

  Ezra sighed heavily. “Sure. But where are you going?”

  “I want to see what Bud has discovered in the Games Room, if anything.”

  Deck 5, Amidships

  I LEFT EZRA TO TAKE photographs of each of the items that now adorned the late Tommy Trussler’s bed, and set about matching them to the descriptions he’d received from the guests of items they’d lost. Heading toward the Games Room two decks up, I decided to take the scenic route, and grab some much-needed fresh air along the way. Not having the patience to wait for the elevator, I climbed the two flights of stairs and pushed open the heavy door that allowed access onto the open deck. I wandered along the line of wooden steamer chairs, which were usually occupied by those seeking shade and some peace and quiet.

  Looking up at one of the ship’s clocks, I was surprised to discover that it was only 1:11 PM. Tommy Trussler had been dead for less than two hours, and I already knew a little about the man, but I wanted to discover more. Clearly his proclivity for relieving folks of their cash and credit cards meant that any number of people might have a reason to want him dead, but only if they knew he’d stolen from them. But why would anyone kill him when they could simply tell a security guard of their suspicions, or knowledge, in order to become reunited with their stolen items?

  “You alright there?” An elderly gentleman in a panama hat and a Hawaiian shirt so vivid that it made me wish I was wearing sunglasses peered up at me from his deck chair. Have I been muttering aloud?

  “Yes, fine thanks,” I said in a curt tone, and went on my way. The breeze was invigorating, the warmth of the sun tempting, but I needed to get back to business. I hoped that Bud would have lots of information for me, and that I could get a good look at the crime scene for the first time without dozens of people in the way.

  Stepping back into the air-conditioned interior of the ship, I oriented myself. I was in the posh bit of the shopping area where all the designer labels were proudly displayed. The aromas of expensive perfumes jostled with each other for dominance in the cosmetics area, and I almost gagged as I rushed away.

  Moments later, one of Ezra’s security guards opened the door to the Games Room for me. Officer Ocampo stood looking down at Bud and Bartholomew, who were both on their hands and knees, their noses close to the carpet near the card table at which Bud and Tommy had been seated. The table had been moved aside, presumably to allow them to act like bloodhounds with space to spare.

  “Manage to sniff out any clues?” I asked in a cavalier fashion.

  Bud knelt up like a meerkat and said snappily, “Ha, Ha. I just might have. Come and smell this, Wife. But put on some gloves first.”

  I shot him a withering look as I took a pair of surgical gloves from Officer Ocampo and wrestled them on. “Okay, if I must.”

  “Yes, you should,” said Bartholomew, looking uncomfortable in his keeling pose. “Bud thinks it’s—”

  “No! Don’t tell her what I think it is,” interrupted Bud. “Let’s see what Cait thinks.”

  I knelt down and sniffed the area they indicated. “Okay,” I said noncommittally.

  “Now smell over there a bit,” said Bud, waving to another part of the carpet which was, I assumed, not contaminated with whatever they thought they could smell in the first area.

  I hauled myself up and sniffe
d. “Quite different,” I said.

  “So?” said Bartholomew, his eyes wide with anticipation.

  I got up and brushed down my knees. I waved toward the spot I’d just smelled. “I’m guessing that this is the ‘control’ area?”

  “It is,” said Bud.

  “And all the rest of the carpet smells the same?”

  “It does,” said Bartholomew.

  “But the first area I examined, close to where Tommy died, is the only area that smells different?”

  “Yes,” answered Bud.

  “Well, the critical area smells of coffee grounds. Not coffee, but coffee grounds. There are even some in the fibers of the carpet. They’re clearly visible. Why is that important? Couldn’t someone have simply spilled their coffee there?”

  Bud shook his head. “Tommy and I were the first to enter here this morning. He had the guy come along to unlock the room for us. Officer Ocampo, Grace,” Bud nodded at the woman, who grinned toothily back, “told us that if anything had been spilled on the carpet yesterday, even late last night, the overnight cleaning crew would have got rid of it. Each room is inspected by one of the housekeeping managers at the end of the night shift, around six in the morning, and the room was then locked until Tommy and I entered it. I even saw them deliver all the supplies for the buffet, and I can tell you that nothing at all was spilled. No coffee, no coffee grounds, nothing.”

  “Okay,” was what I said; odd was what I thought. “Why would Tommy purposely drop coffee grounds onto the floor where he was sitting?” I said.

  “Smugglers use coffee grounds in drug shipments to try to confuse the sniffer dogs,” said Bud.

  “But there aren’t any sniffer dogs on the ship,” I replied as patiently as I could. My mind was racing. “What can coffee grounds be used for? Other than for making coffee, of course.”

  “My mum mixes them in with the potting soil on her balcony,” said Bartholomew.

  I nodded. “They add acidity to the soil, as well as a good color, and help repel slugs,” I said. Bud looked surprised. “You’ll be glad I know all this stuff when we begin to work on our five acres at the new house,” I added.

  “I dare say I will be,” said Bud with uncertainty in every syllable, rising to his feet. “But that’s for when we get home. Not for now. I, for one, have no bright ideas, other than the grounds being used by drug traffickers. But why are they here? It’s a mystery.”

  “To add to all the rest of them,” I pondered. “Anything else? Other than the white powder on the carpet, of course.”

  Both men were now fully upright, and looking a lot less like naughty puppies. “White powder?” Bud replied. “What white powder? Where? What have we missed?”

  “Stand here and look across all the carpeting in the room. Can you make out anything odd?”

  “It’s tough to tell,” said Bud. “The wavy pattern makes it difficult to spot anything other than the waves and the colors. What do you mean?”

  I moved toward the area where Tommy Trussler’s little desk stood. Without getting too close, I bent down and brushed my hand across a part of the floor covering. A little spray of glistening white granules sprang up.

  “Careful!” called Bartholomew. “That could be toxic.”

  “Yes, you shouldn’t do that,” agreed Grace Ocampo.

  “It looks like salt,” I said.

  “A lot of things do,” said Bartholomew in a worried voice. “Many dangerous things can look like salt. Out of the way. Alright with you if I take a sample, Grace?”

  The security guard grunted her agreement, and I stood back and allowed Bartholomew to do his work. Bud peered at me, looking worried.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Cait,” he scolded.

  “Excuse me, you were the one telling me to join you on my hands and knees to sniff the carpet,” I replied quietly.

  Bud looked deflated. “Maybe that wasn’t the wisest thing to do, under the circumstances,” he admitted.

  “You don’t say,” was, I felt, my best possible reply.

  Finally happy with the amount of the white powder he’d managed to get out of the carpet with some sticking tape, Bartholomew joined us again, all four of us standing in a row close to the door. “At least we can test this to see if it’s anything illegal,” he said, lifting the little baggy in his hand. “You both feeling quite well?”

  Bud and I nodded.

  “So, Cait,” said Bud, “since we all seem to have survived the white powder, show me again, from here, where you can see it on the carpet, because I’m having trouble.”

  I indicated what I believed to be swathes of the stuff, almost all around the room. Bud finally said, “Yeah,” when he spotted it.

  “I see it,” said Grace.

  “Very strange,” said Bartholomew.

  “That it is,” I said. “So, other than missing that, how did you get on?”

  Bud answered, “We supervised the bagging of all the foodstuffs, all the equipment, crockery, and so on. Most of it’s already been taken to the medical facility for refrigerated storage. Both Grace and I took photographs before anything was moved. You and I can look at them later on my laptop, Cait. Maybe that powder will be more obvious on a screen image. Everything the victim definitely used, or could have touched, has been bagged separately; this final bag,” Bud cast a glance at a plastic sack beside the door, “contains everything that was on his desk, and the table where he and I were playing gin rummy. I know I don’t have your memory for details, Cait so I’ve listed everything in this bag, here.” He held out a list, written in pencil on one of the little pads that had been dotted on each of the card tables.

  Turning to the nurse, Bud said, “Bartholomew’s been a great help, Cait. Highly professional. I know he’s keen to liaise with Dr. White, and I also know that we need to have a few moments together, alone. Why don’t we let him get back to the medical facility?”

  “Good idea,” I replied. “Feel free to take this last bag with you—and could you ask Rachel to try to establish if the dead man’s hands had recently been in contact with coffee grounds, please? And could you check if he had any in his possession? You know, in the corners of his pockets, for example. Thanks.”

  “Sure t’ing,” said Bartholomew, reverting to his natural accent. He looked bemused, but happy enough to be taking his leave of us. “You comin’ wit’ me, Grace?”

  “I am,” she said. “You’ll get the guard to lock up when you leave, right, Mr. Anderson?” she added as they departed, in such a way that the guard knew what was expected of him.

  “Will do,” said Bud, waving. As the door closed, he turned to me and said, “Cait, what were you thinking, bending down and touching that white powder without knowing what it was? You’re not the most cautious of people, are you?”

  “You married me,” I replied coyly. “You should know.”

  Bud sighed and returned my smile. “You’re right; I did, and I do. But enough about us. What have you discovered? Anything more telling than a hint of coffee grounds and a mystery white powder in the carpet?”

  “You have no idea,” I replied. I told him about the discoveries Ezra and I had made in the dead man’s stateroom.

  “Whoa, that opens up a large can of worms.”

  “Yes, Bud, but pickpocketing is hardly a good reason for murder. Not that anything really should be, but you know what I mean.”

  Bud mused for a moment. “The sad truth is, Cait, both you and I have witnessed circumstances where murder has been committed for what any right-minded person would consider absolutely no reason at all. I don’t mean a violent outburst over a five-dollar bill, or a bar brawl because of a spilt drink that gets out of hand—oh!” Bud paused, and grabbed my hand. “Sorry, Cait, I didn’t mean to remind you of how Angus died.”

  I patted Bud’s hand, “It’s okay, Husband. Don’t worry. I’ve got a dead ex-boyfriend in my past, and you have a dead wife in yours. We cannot go tiptoeing through life, especially our lives, without somethi
ng coming up to remind us about them, and how they died. So we have to each deal with it in our own ways, and keep moving on.”

  Bud nodded and rubbed my back.

  “But you see,” I continued, “my point isn’t that a pickpocket might not steal something valuable enough to make someone want to kill them to get it back, however insignificant it might seem. What I mean is that, because pickpocketing is an illegal activity, there are options other than murder available to the person who’s been robbed.”

  “Unless they don’t want anyone to know they were originally in possession of whatever the pickpocket stole from them,” said Bud.

  “Yes, the theft of something compromising might mean the target wouldn’t report it to the authorities. But I saw what was in his safe—well, not properly, of course—and it seemed to just be wallets, cash, and so forth. Nothing else, except a bit of jewelry.”

  “Besides,” mused Bud, following a slightly different train of thought, “there are much easier ways to kill someone, especially on a cruise ship. Just push him over the side in the dead of night, for example. None of this messing about with poisons.”

  I probably shouldn’t have said it aloud, but I did. “But pushing someone over the side of the ship would take strength. Poison doesn’t. It just takes knowledge, cunning, nerves of steel, and maybe patience.”

  “So a woman?” said Bud, without missing a beat.

  I sighed. “I’m not going to chastise you for making a sexist remark, because we both know that statistics tell us that women are more likely, when they kill, to use methods that allow for a ‘peaceful’ rather than ‘violent’ death. We have to consider that Tommy wasn’t a large man—maybe his old leg injury meant he would have been a relatively easy target for tipping over a railing, since his balance wouldn’t have been good. So, no, not necessarily a woman. But a person with a knowledge of poisons, and an ability to get their hands on something deadly on the ship, someone possibly averse to using overtly violent methods to kill. That suggests to me someone who is comfortable with, and knowledgeable about, poisons.”