by Cathy Ace
“Bartholomew?” Bud blurted out the man’s name. “It couldn’t be him. He wasn’t even here until Tommy was dead.”
“True,” I replied. “Without knowing what sort of poison was used, and how long it takes to act, how can we be sure when the poison was ingested? And, without testing all the foodstuffs that were in here, we can’t even be certain how it was administered—though my money is on the poi.”
Bud brightened. “You’ll be delighted to know that there was no pot containing poi in this room, by the way. You were right, and now we can encourage Ezra to take our theory seriously.”
I felt my shoulders relax. “Good. That makes a huge difference. Now I’m ready to push forward down that path—someone in this room must have been involved in Tommy’s death, and they must have known the poison was in the poi. Now the question is, who could have removed the pot without being observed?”
“Yep, you’re right,” said Bud.
Rather than worrying about that for a moment, I added, “We need to convince Ezra to let us sit in with him as he interviews everyone who was in this room when Tommy died, because they should be our focus.”
“He was quite clear that he didn’t want us to do that, Cait,” replied Bud, “and I can understand why. When I allowed you to observe me interrogating suspects back in Vancouver, I was able to do so in controlled surroundings where the suspect was unaware of your presence. I cannot imagine there is any way Ezra would allow us to be a part of his questioning process. Besides, if we let him get on with the interviews, you’d be free to do your recollection thing again—you can concentrate on whether anyone picked up the pot—”
I interrupted. “I don’t have to concentrate on that. I’ve recollected this morning’s events, and I know I didn’t see anyone pick it up—I know it was there, and then it wasn’t. I am also quite certain that it would have been almost impossible for anyone to take it from the room without being spotted by everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“The pot was about six inches tall, and a few inches in diameter. It wouldn’t have fitted into a pocket, and none of the women had a purse large enough to accommodate it.”
Bud scratched his head. “So you’re saying it was definitely taken, but that no one could have taken it?”
I nodded. “Hmm. Yes. Not an easy one to work out, is it?”
“Right, well, let’s not dwell on that problem for now,” said Bud. He looked deflated. “Let me call Ezra; we can find out what his plans are, and if he’s got any more information—about anything.” He pulled Ezra’s card from his pocket.
“I wonder how Action Man’s interrogation skills are,” I said as Bud crossed the room.
“‘Action Man?’”
“Ezra. What do you reckon? Mossad?”
“Possibly,” mused the man with full CSIS clearance who had headed up an international anti-gang task force, and had a history of undertaking covert operations. “I don’t have any way of checking while I’m on this ship, and I cannot see Ezra and me sitting down any time soon to compare dark-ops stories.”
“You’d have some to compare?” I teased.
“You know I can’t tell you that, Wife, because then I’d have to kill you. And, even though our belated honeymoon isn’t going quite as we’d hoped, I am looking forward to a post-honeymoon life together.”
Bud shot me a wicked grin, picked up the house telephone, and punched numbers into it. I love you, I mouthed silently, and listened while he spoke briefly.
Replacing the handset, he said, “Ezra is on his way here. He wants to talk to us first, then he’s off to see the Croppers. But we are absolutely not invited.”
We didn’t have to wait long for Ezra. He entered the Games Room bearing a plastic bag containing a wallet, and was holding two pairs of surgical gloves.
“Here you are,” he said, holding out the gloves for Bud and me to put on, before handing me the bagged wallet. “This is Tommy Trussler’s own wallet. I’ve checked it; there’s nothing unusual in there, but you said you wanted to inspect it. I realize that’s a good idea if you’re trying to build up a picture of the guy. You might also want these,” he added, pulling some papers from under his arm. “The dead man’s file from the cruise director’s office, and his embarkation and registration paperwork. Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’m off to interview the Croppers. They’ve cruised with the Stellar line on more than forty previous occasions, and often stay in the ship’s most exclusive and expensive suite. Of course, all guests are treated equally well on this ship, though some are—” he paused and shrugged, allowing us to infer the rest of the Orwellian reference, which both Bud and I did.
“Just before you go, Ezra—a couple of things,” I said. “First, we can now confirm that the pot that both Bud and I saw Tommy using, and in which he appeared to have his own supply of poi, was not found among the items here in the Games Room. Someone must have removed it, and that backs up our theory that someone here this morning knew the poi was poisoned.”
Ezra was silent for a moment. “That’s significant,” he said. Bud and I agreed.
“Also,” I continued, “how many of the items we found in Tommy’s room were stolen from guests on this ship? And were any of them stolen from the people who were in this room this morning?”
Ezra consulted a notepad he pulled from his breast pocket. “I have a total of ten items that match descriptions of items lost by—or as we now know, stolen from—guests on this ship. I have no idea if the other items belong to guests on other ships, or people Tommy Trussler targeted who were visiting, or lived on, the Islands. I can tell you that every single time something went missing from one of our guests, the incident happened ashore, but that’s to be expected. Guests don’t usually, nor do they need to, carry their wallets and credit cards with them on the ship. It’s why we use the charge-card/key-card system. It’s simple, it’s cash free, and much more secure. The fewer occasions that cash is around, the better. No one who was in this room this morning had reported anything missing, and I didn’t find any items that I could directly link to any of them. Now, I really must go.” He looked at his watch. “I hope to be finished in one hour, so would you telephone me then, and we can make arrangements?” He dashed off, leaving us standing in the middle of the Games Room.
“Nothing belonging to anyone who was here? So that’s one possible motive gone.” I must have sounded low because Bud gave me a hug, lifting my spirits right away.
“Okay, let’s have a look at what a pickpocket keeps in their own wallet,” I said, pulling on yet another pair of protective gloves before peeling open the plastic bag Ezra had given me. It was a disappointment. Tommy Trussler’s wallet contained a fifty-dollar bill, his drivers’ license, one solitary credit card, and nothing else. The paperwork from the cruise director’s office was also uninformative. It gave contact details for Tommy ashore, an emergency contact, and the name of the agency in Miami that had hired him.
I stuffed everything back where it belonged, then grumpily shoved it into my bag.
Bud, using his most encouraging tone, said, “Tell you what—why don’t we get outside, find a quiet spot, and give some more thought to our interactions with the folks who were here this morning. It’s a good use of time, right?”
“You’re right, and I could do with feeling the wind on my face. Sundowner Bar?”
It wasn’t long before Bud and I were sitting in a sunny, windy spot on the top deck, each with a cold drink in hand, and taking the time to give some more thought to how our paths had crossed with the others who’d shared that morning’s tragic scene.
‘A‘ole Pilikia
THAT FIRST NIGHT IN HAWAI’I, Bud and I had slept with the window open, wanting to hear the surf on the beach outside our hotel window. It was an incredibly soothing sound, and we both slept deeply. When I awoke, I did so with a start, but I couldn’t work out what had disturbed me. Sitting up, still swathed in bedding, I peered out toward the glittering sea; it was obvious tha
t the “noise” was the joyous sound of people for whom an early morning romp in the waves was the normal start to their day. Good for them. I snuggled back under the bedclothes and allowed my body to wake up slowly.
If we hadn’t needed to get cleaned up, repack, have breakfast, and checkout by eleven o’clock, I think Bud and I could have slept in until noon. As it was, we were installing ourselves in a cab to be whisked away to the Aloha Tower Pier, and our waiting cruise ship, by a little after half past eleven.
Neither Bud nor I had cruised before, so we had no idea what to expect when we arrived at the ship. I was in awe. I’ve seen cruise ships—albeit from a distance—docked at Canada Place in Vancouver, but to stand right next to one for the first time is quite something. It’s like peering up at an apartment building that’s twenty floors high, clad in white metal, and studded with hundreds of glassed-in balconies that reflect every ray of the sun. It’s huge, dazzling, a little overwhelming, and very inviting.
Our bags were taken from us on the dockside by impressively large men in vibrant shirts who lifted my mammoth suitcase with an ease borne of great experience. Bud and I strolled into the cavernous embarkation area following the arrows on signs, and were waved ahead by welcoming staff members. Massive reproductions of Hawaiian travel posters from the middle of the twentieth century, as well as representations of some of the most photogenic flora, fauna, and locales in the Islands, bedecked the walls. The only hold-up was a short line in front of the security scanning machines. Bud and I emptied our pockets and stuffed things into carry-on bags as we moved closer to the inevitable conveyer belt. A good-looking couple stood behind us, and chatter about security screenings ensued.
My first impression of Kai Pukui and his wife, Malia, as they introduced themselves to us, was that they were a couple with a special bond; they seemed to carry a stillness within them. Each was physically beautiful—evenly bronzed skin gleamed, perfect white teeth shone, dark eyes smiled, graceful gestures made every movement balletic. They seemed to be at peace with themselves and the world. My only less-than-positive reaction reflected more on me than them; Malia was shorter than me by a head, about half my girth, and looked entirely comfortable within her skin. I, on the other hand, was already sweaty, my orange linen shirt looked as though I’d slept in it, and the gray in my hair was a stark contrast to her lustrous, long dark locks. I’d felt rather good about my crisp, white linen pants and vivid overshirt when we’d left the hotel, but now I felt like a rumpled mess. I wanted to hide behind my sunglasses, but I’d already relinquished them to the voracious X-ray machine. Bud grasped my hand and squeezed it tight just before he walked through the security arch—almost as though he knew how insecure I felt in that moment. The Pukuis didn’t notice my momentary lapse of self-confidence, and they spoke slowly and happily about the joys of honeymooning on the Hawaiian Islands.
By the time we’d all moved to the next line to check in and get our ship pass-cards, I’d gathered that the Pukuis were retained by the Stellar Cruise Line to act as our onboard Hawaiian cultural ambassadors, and would be offering a wide range of culturally appropriate activities and talks as our cruise progressed from one island to the next. They kindly gave us some helpful tips, suggesting we head for the Sundowner Bar as soon as we embarked, because we’d get the best view of both sea and land from there while we waited for our rooms to be opened. They also cleared up the question I had about when our luggage would be likely to arrive at our room; I’d purposely worn something that I had thought would serve me well for a full afternoon and evening ashore before returning to the ship to sleep for the night. Now that I was beginning to wonder if that was the case. The Pukuis were able to tell me that our luggage would likely arrive at our stateroom by five o’clock at the latest, and that, once we had our pass-card, we’d be able to embark and disembark as we wished. They did point out, however, that because the ship was to be docked for this one night, guests might be checking in at all times of the day, right up until midnight.
I was grateful to gather such useful information from experienced cruisers. I’d read up on the Cruise Critic website before we’d left home, but it never hurts to get information from someone standing right in front of you, with specific knowledge about that ship, sailing a specific route at a certain time. I thanked them in their own language, my “Mahalo,” receiving smiles and bowed heads.
“’A’ole pilikia,” said Kai. “That’s ‘you’re welcome.’” He paused, then added, “I don’t know anyone Welsh, nor anything about the Welsh language. How do you say ‘Thank you’ in your language?”
“Diolch yn fawr,” I replied. We all giggled as the Pukuis tried to make the guttural sound required to pronounce the words, and our conversation shifted to how the Hawaiian culture was managing to thrive anew on the Islands, in much the same way that the Welsh culture was seeing a rebirth in Wales. The Pukuis demonstrated a deep-seated and warm connection with their native cultural history. With a little hug of gratitude from me—please don’t snap in two when I embrace you!—for Malia, and a hearty handshake for Bud and Kai, we went on our separate ways to complete the embarkation process.
“Delightful couple, and so helpful,” said Bud as we mugged for the photographer who was offering to capture our excited arrival. We were now at the final exit from the harbormaster’s realm and were about to take our first step on the ship, where the captain reigned supreme.
“I hope they got a good shot of us,” I added, as we climbed the not insignificant rake of the embarkation ramp.
Bud looked surprised, with good cause. “You usually hate having your photo taken,” he said.
“This is the thinnest I’m going to be for about the next month,” I replied ruefully. “Me, fifteen restaurants, twelve bars, and no bills to pay for any of it for eleven days? I suspect I might pack on a few extra pounds. Then there’ll be the battle to lose it all, of course. Yep—I am now the thinnest I’m going to be for some time.”
“Hey, Cait, if you want it, have it. And if you’re having it, enjoy it. And if you’re enjoying it, don’t worry about what will happen when we get home. I love you as you are now, as you have been, and as you will be. I love the you that’s inside that body.” He blushed a little, “Which is not to say I don’t love the body you’re in too.” It was my turn to blush. “But please, don’t make every mouthful a trial.”
I relaxed, and Bud did too. “I promise that when they deliver a side of guilt with every dish, I’ll thank them to take it away with them,” I said, grinning.
“Mahalo, Wife,” said Bud, picking up his bag.
“And mahalo to you too, Husband. I know I’ll overindulge, but I’ll do it and enjoy it.”
“And we can buy shares in the Greek yogurt business when we get back home, okay?” called Bud over his shoulder, almost at the top of the ramp.
“The yogurt can be on you,” I replied, which seemed to amuse the short Filipino woman who took my sea-pass from me. She swiped it through the large machine, which made a “bonging” sound as I stepped aboard.
“Champagne?” asked a gloved server in a burgundy jacket.
“Thank you. Of course, I only ever drink it if there’s a ‘y’ in the day,” I quipped as I took the glass.
Star Signature Salon Suite, Deck 12
THAT MOMENT OF EMBARKATION SEEMED like a long time ago, as I reminisced about our first encounter with the Pukuis while sitting at the Sundowner Bar. Our time aboard had been joyful—up to the point when Tommy Trussler dropped dead, of course. But I felt a bit guilty that we weren’t doing more about his death. Saying as much to Bud, he nodded, finished the last gulp of his beer, and said, “How about we make our way down to the guest relations area on Deck 3, then call Ezra from there and find out how he’s doing?”
I agreed, and we strolled, in as carefree a manner as possible, toward the elevator pods. As the doors opened, they revealed Derek Cropper, who reacted to us as though we were catnip, and he a cat. He didn’t get out of the elevator; instead
he remained with us and rode down. It was clear that he was keen to talk, but the presence of another couple prevented him from doing so. When they got out on Deck 5, he almost exploded with excitement.
“Have you seen the security guy yet? Ezra. Nice guy. Bit scary, I reckon. He just left us. Hey—come on,” he punched the button for Deck 12 before Bud and I could get out on Deck 3, “Come and have a quick drink with me and my honey. She’d love to see you.”
As soon as he invited us to join him and Laurie for a drink in their suite, I agreed. Bud tried to stop me, but I dragged him out onto the Cropper’s floor. Derek led the way while Bud hissed, “Ezra will not like this.”
“Tough. I know we’ve run into them a couple of times, but I want to know more about the Croppers,” was all I managed before I had to return my attention to our “host.”
Deck 12 was laid out in much the same way as our own deck, except there was a beautifully etched glass wall around the midship point. Derek used his security card to open a sliding door. It swooshed back, sounding almost like something you’d hear on Star Trek. Beyond it was another part of the ship that Bud and I would never have seen without the need for this inquiry; the Salon Suites area. Even thicker carpeting, more elaborately flamed veneers, and double-width doorways were arranged along this short, sumptuous corridor. The space between the doorways signified the size of the suites. Big. There were two sets of doors to the left, and two to the right, with just one ahead of us, which Derek opened with his card.
Walking through that door was like entering a different world. The stateroom that Bud and I had called home for the better part of two weeks was very pleasant. It had everything we wanted and more, and was delightfully appointed. But this suite was something else. The first thing that struck me was the view. From my position at the doorway, I looked straight ahead at a glass wall, with sliders, that gave a view of the ocean at the rear of the ship. Our wake foamed in the distance, and everything was sea, sky, and openness. Between the sliders and the sea was an expansive deck, set with lounge chairs, and a table that seated eight. The room in which we were standing was clearly a sitting room, with two sofas and four elegant chairs, but it also had another dining table that seated eight, and there was a grand piano in the corner. Who needs a grand piano in their room on a cruise ship? I realized my mouth was open, and shut it.
