The Corpse with the Diamond Hand

by Cathy Ace

  Bud tried to not roll his eyes. “You’re right, she does,” he said.

  I hurled a warning eyebrow in Bud’s direction, then explained. “As you know, I build profiles of victims. A few years ago, I wrote a paper about the sort of person who falls for Internet fraud. Are you familiar with the whole ‘I’m a Nigerian with millions of dollars and I’ll pay you x to allow me to put it into your bank account, so long as you send me y right now’ sort of thing?”

  “I am,” Ezra said.

  “Well, people who actively support charities are terribly vulnerable to all sorts of scams, I discovered. Their psychological profile is often of someone who wants to believe the best of people, and is therefore less likely to be cynical when it comes to assessing what seems, on the face of it, to be an offer that can benefit a cause in which they believe. Of course, the Nigerian money-laundering scam, or just plain fleecing, is as old as the hills, but there are new variations all the time. It was while I was working on that particular paper that I found out about the rosary pea bracelets; they weren’t a scam, just an unfortunate error on the part of some well-meaning person who saw a way to buy trinkets from a part of the world that needed the money, and sell them to support their own charity.” I peered inside the bag at the vivid red beads with their little black “eyes.” “I’m sure these are those beads,” I added.

  Ezra sighed heavily. “Would someone have to make Tommy eat the whole bean, or pea, or bead—or what?”

  I shook my head. “No. They are relatively safe when they are whole, and can pass through the human body without causing death. They are the deadly seed of the plant abrus precatorius, and if they are punctured, drilled, or powdered, the inside of the bean is lethal. They contain abrin, a toxin that is much more lethal than ricin. People have been known to die by pricking their fingers when they are making holes in them to make them up into jewelry.”

  Bud looked amazed, and raked his hand through his hair. “Don’t you dare open that bag, Cait,” he snapped. “What on earth are people doing making jewelry out of lethal seeds? And why are they able to export them from where they grow, anyway? It makes no sense.”

  “They’re used in many countries around the world for a variety of folklore-inspired purposes, from being a symbol of love to warding off evil spirits.” I smiled brightly, and handed the bag to Ezra. “There you go. Tell Rachel to be careful with them, if she does anything to them at all. These are already drilled, and the powder from them could be lethal. I realize Janet’s been wearing the bracelet for some time without any side-effects—as many unsuspecting people do—but that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. She’s been very fortunate. I didn’t mention any of this to the Knicelys, by the way. I thought you should make that call—after all, one of them, or even both of them, might have known about the beads and used them as a weapon to kill.”

  Ezra put the bag into his pocket. “And the liquid nicotine you mentioned?” he asked.

  “Electronic cigarette,” said Bud quickly. I smiled at him, and let him continue. “Laurie Cropper uses one. She was ‘vaping’ on her deck when we had drinks with the Croppers in their suite.” Bud tried to make it sound as though we’d been having a casual social interaction, but Ezra wasn’t buying it.

  “I thought I’d been perfectly clear about you two not interviewing the guests,” he almost growled, though he leaned back onto the chair, rather undermining his attempt at angry indignation.

  “We’re a team,” said Bud. “Your instincts were right, Ezra; if Cait and I had accompanied you when you questioned the guests, it would have compromised our possible ability to get to know them a little better, and to be able to talk to them as ‘one of them’ rather than as ‘one of you.’ You know exactly what I mean, right?” The men exchanged a significant glance, and I knew that Ezra would soon be on-side again. “So that’s what we’ve been doing. We’ve managed to turn up two possible sources of poison already, and we haven’t even talked to Frannie Lang, Kai Pukui, or Afrim yet. But I hope we now have your permission to do so.”

  Ezra nodded grudgingly. “What if they all find out we’ve been working together on this? That you’ve been pumping them as suspects, rather than merely being witnesses?”

  “Justice needs to be served,” said Bud quietly.

  “We don’t care about what people might think of us, Ezra, not when there’s a killer to be caught,” I added.

  Ezra smiled wryly. “I like you two,” he said, standing up. “Do as you must, and do it fast, and well. But please, keep me informed.”

  “We will,” I said.

  “Phone me in an hour. I hope to have some concrete news from Tommy’s home by then. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said Bud.

  I looked at my watch. “We’ve just got time to get hold of Frannie Lang and Kai Pukui in that case,” I said, “if we’re quick about it.”

  “How will we find them?” asked Bud.

  “I can help with that,” said Ezra just before he left. “Frannie Lang said she wasn’t leaving her stateroom until dinner—late seating. She’s in 8739, on this deck. I’m pretty sure you could come up with some reason for visiting her in her room.” He smiled. “As for Kai? He’ll be giving a presentation about Hawaiian flora and fauna in the cinema at 6:00 PM. He’s always there twenty minutes early. You have my blessing to speak to them both. Now I must go. Good luck, and phone me.”

  The Ezra Eisen who left our stateroom looked more confident and buoyant than the one who’d entered, and I was pleased about that. I was more pleased that he’d seen how Bud and I could complement his efforts, if only we were left to get on with things for ourselves. After all, I like bending the procedures, on occasion.

  Stateroom 8739

  FIVE MINUTES LATER, BUD AND I knocked on Frannie Lang’s door bearing a fruit basket that we had left over from lunch. When she invited us inside, I was happy to see that her room was delightfully

  messy. Earlier in the day, knowing that Ezra was going to visit ours, I’d done some hurried clearing of all the bits and pieces that Bud and I had allowed to accumulate on the various surfaces in our stateroom. Frannie Lang hadn’t felt the need to tidy. Carrier bags bearing the ABC Store logo were piled on the back of the sofa, and mounded on the deep windowsill. Her closet door was open and displayed almost as many hanging garments as Bud and I had between us. A glance into the bathroom showed me three swimsuits draped over the frame of the shower door. Enough toiletries to stock a small drugstore littered the entire length of the marble counter. The sliding doors were open, so the air in her room was sea-breeze fresh mixed with the scent of pineapples. Very Hawaiian.

  Cheerfully welcoming us, Frannie pushed items that looked like bits of garbage to one side on the bed and the sofa so that we could all sit down. She placed the detritus down with such care that I peered at it. She noticed.

  “I scrapbook,” she explained. “I like to keep lots of little things that mean something to me, then I can decorate pages in a really personal way. Do you scrapbook?”

  I shook my head.

  Picking up the hairdryer from the chair next to the desk, Frannie stood holding it awkwardly, not knowing where to put it. In the end, she dumped it on the floor beneath the seat upon which she then sat.

  “It’s so nice to have company,” she said, smiling. “Can I offer anyone a drink?”

  We declined. “We just wanted to make sure that you were doing okay,” I said as convincingly as possible. “It was such a shock this morning.”

  “Yes, it’s very sad,” said Frannie. “I’ve been thinking about Tommy a lot since he died.”

  “Did you get to know him on the cruise?” I asked directly.

  “Yes. Well, no. I didn’t get to know him well, but I did meet him before I knew what he did on the ship. I met him at the Pacific Tsunami Museum in Hilo. Outside it, to be exact,” she replied. “I’d walked off the ship alone, and I’d taken the little shuttle bus into downtown Hilo, if that’s what you can call it. I have to say, it w
asn’t what I was expecting. It’s a bit …” she paused and searched for the right word, “… run down? The restaurants all looked a bit grubby, and I hadn’t expected thrift stores. Anyway, I found the place I was looking for, and Tommy was outside. We were both carrying Stellar Cruise totes, so we got talking, and we both went in. It was interesting. We battled each other on the tsunami simulator thingy there. It was fun. He was ever so knowledgeable. Then we went off to the Lyman House and Museum. He knew the way, which was good, because the map wasn’t helpful and it was a lot farther than I’d thought. The rain had stopped by then, but my shoes were wet through.”

  Bud interrupted her flow with, “Did Tommy Trussler talk to you about his life at all? We hardly knew the man.”

  Frannie looked guilty. “I’ve thought about that, but he didn’t really talk about himself, just about stuff. I must admit, I do like the chance to talk about my boys, and I think I did rather a lot of that. One thing he was insistent about was that I should understand all about Isabella Bird.”

  “Who’s she?” asked Bud, suddenly alert.

  “She died over a hundred years ago,” I said softly, just so he didn’t think he was on the trail of a viable suspect.

  Frannie’s expression told me she was curious why I’d know about the woman. “Yes, she did, Cait,” she said quietly. “Did you two go to the Lyman Mission House too?” We nodded. Frannie brightened. “She stayed there, you know. The guide went on and on about Mark Twain visiting there, but didn’t mention her at all. Tommy told me all about her. She did a lot, Isabella Bird—a lot that women weren’t expected to do back in the day. Maybe not even today. And she wrote about it all. That’s when I told Tommy about my journaling. I’ve joined a writers’ group in Edmonton, and I read from my journals sometimes. One of the women who runs it thinks I could write a memoir. I’m going to read Isabella Bird’s books when I get home.”

  To keep Frannie from getting sidetracked, I said, “As a female explorer, traveler, and the first woman to be elected a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, she was a pioneer; no question about it—she was a fascinating woman. Why do you think Tommy was so keen to tell you about her?”

  Frannie gave it some thought. “He said everyone should be free to be who they really wanted to be. Who they were meant to be.” Her pale face looked a little more drawn when she added, “We talked about my husband, you see, and he was very sympathetic.”

  Her gaze wandered off into silent remembrances, though I didn’t know if they might be of her husband or the deceased card tutor. I decided to ask. “Is your husband dead, Frannie?” Best to be forthright.

  The woman’s head shot up and her eyes blazed. “I wish! He should be. If I could just get my hands on him—but he’s the father of my children, so I shouldn’t say such things.” She flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so angry. I have learned some techniques to manage all that in my counseling sessions. No, my husband is not dead. He’s living in Calgary with a widow and her daughter. I found out he’d been carrying on with her for years. They even had a dog.” She spat out the word dog as though this were the final straw.

  She took a deep breath and squeezed her fists, then added, “I didn’t tell the security man, Ezra, because it’s not really relevant. I don’t know why I told Tommy. He just seemed like a good listener, and I was feeling a bit angry. I think it was the exhibit about Burma at the museum.”

  “You remember, Bud,” I said, as I struggled to make a connection. “There was that lovely display of photographs at the museum, showing the concept of kind acts made real.”

  Bud nodded vaguely.

  The photographs had been touching, and had captured a real grace in giving, and receiving, acts of kindness across the troubled little nation of Burma. I couldn’t fathom what that had to do with Frannie Lang’s ex-husband, but I made a guess.

  “Sasana?” I asked.

  Frannie nodded. Good guess!

  “Yes, Sasana, the Buddhist idea that all living things have a mutual obligation,” she said quietly. “Barry, my ex-husband, never felt any obligation to me for the life I gave up to be his wife and raise our children. It was unfair of him. He was a long-distance truck driver, you see, so he was away a great deal. I couldn’t work; I had to give it up. I’d been a good nurse, and I could have been promoted, but he didn’t like the shifts. So I packed it in. I did everything for them—him and the boys. And the boys have turned out to be just super. Really they have. I think I managed to teach them right from wrong, and how to treat their wives. They don’t speak to their father anymore, which is sad for them—and for him, I hope.”

  “It was an impactful exhibit,” I said. “It’s amazing how small acts of kindness can move through a community.”

  “Only looked at the kind side, didn’t they? I think mutual obligation should work all ways,” said Frannie Lang sharply. Telling.

  I recalled that Frannie had told Dr. White that her sons had sent her on this cruise as a gift for her birthday. I guessed that must be her fiftieth birthday, so she was the same age as Janet Knicely, and just a couple of years younger than Laurie Cropper. How very different these three women were: one flush with cash she’d earned in partnership with her other half, and happy to spend it; one living frugally in the shadow of a quixotic husband; the other a discarded, unfulfilled wife with a penchant for history and philosophical thinking. Suddenly I saw myself in the same light as the three of them. I’d celebrated my own forty-ninth birthday just a few days earlier, so was pretty much their contemporary. If I could summon a caricature for each of them, what would the equivalent be for me? Stop it, Cait, think about the case.

  “I’m sorry to hear that things didn’t go well for you in your marriage,” said Bud gently. “But I wonder, would it be rude of me to ask if you can remember anything that Tommy said or did, either when you spent time with him in Hilo, or when you spent time with him here on the ship, that might help us understand the man?” Bud’s calming voice worked well. “We’ve been wondering if we should organize something to remember him, but we don’t know what to do.”Bud was working hard.

  Almost smiling, Frannie replied, “No. Not really. The only thing he seemed truly passionate about was his poi.”

  “His poi?” I tried not to pounce.

  “Yes,” she said, “he always had it with him. In a big pot. He told me about it in Hilo, when we were walking to the museum. He loved poi, he said, couldn’t get enough of it. He preferred it sour. He explained to me how it was made, and he said he liked it a day or two old, so that the flavor changed and it got sour. He offered me some when we shared a sandwich on the waterfront in Hilo, but I knew I didn’t like the stuff; just looking at it was enough for me.”

  “But you say he always carried a pot of it with him?” pressed Bud.

  “Yes, he told me he bought it on every island, from a particular place on each. I went to the place in Hilo with him.” Frannie Lang rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t very clean there, but he seemed to know the guy who ran the place. He looked to be about a hundred years old, like the store. He bought a big plastic tub of it, his last stock for the trip. He wasn’t looking forward to being without poi on his way back to the islands on the return trip, but he said he’d manage. He was funny about it. Said he’d miss it like sake. I suppose he didn’t drink for some reason. Or didn’t drink sake anymore, anyhow.”

  Why would Tommy Trussler miss drinking sake, rice wine, so much? An alcoholic as well as a pickpocket?

  “You two didn’t hang out on the ship at all—other than this morning in the Games Room?” asked Bud.

  “I was there yesterday as well,” replied Frannie. “But I left when the argument broke out. I don’t like it when men raise their voices.”

  “What argument?” asked Bud.

  Frannie looked thoughtful. “Maybe it was something and nothing. You know how men can be. The young man serving the buffet yesterday had just gone off to get some hard-boiled eggs for that American who has all the nice c
lothes. Laurie, yes, Laurie. Anyway, the English man, Nigel, who was there today, told Laurie’s husband that he could have got the eggs for her himself, and Derek—that’s her husband—began shouting at Nigel. Derek left, and then Tommy and Nigel got into it. Tommy said something about Nigel knowing how to take care of his wife, and Nigel—well, he sort of went nuts. Weird. Anyhow, I didn’t like it, so I left. I wasn’t really playing a game at the time, just watching, so it didn’t matter.”

  I could tell that Bud was thinking the same as me: Why had neither Nigel Knicely nor Derek Cropper mentioned their little contretemps the previous day?

  “We’d better be going,” said Bud, looking at his watch. “We’re glad you seem so … together about all this. We were concerned for you.”

  Frannie smiled. “No need to be. I’m used to death, and being on my own.” As she spoke, I noticed that she touched a locket that hung at her throat, and glanced toward a picture frame placed next to her bed.

  I looked at the photo in the frame as Bud and I stood to take our leave. “Yours?” I asked, nodding at the photo.

  Frannie brightened, and passed the frame to me.

  “I like the Hawaiian word ohana. Me and my boys,” she said proudly. I took in the shot of her with two strapping young men who beamed at her with wide grins. Neither of them looked anything like her at all.

  Once again, Frannie stroked the locket she wore, looking sad—wistful.

  “And I am guessing that locket contains a photo of someone close to you too,” I said, not meaning to.

  “That’s right,” replied Frannie, a strange light in her eyes. “Fay, my kid sister. Gone now.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  Frannie smiled. “Oh, it’s alright, really. She died many years ago, so I’ve come to terms with it quite well, now …” Frannie Lang paused, and the faraway look returned to her gaze. “She was on holiday in Honolulu with her boyfriend, and their car went off the road. She died instantly, they said. This trip was my first chance to visit the place where she died. It didn’t feel like I thought it would.”