The Body on the Lido Deck

by Jane Bennett Munro

  “I’m tellin’ de truth!” Jamal protested.

  “Thank you, Jamal. Carry on,” Braithwaite said. “We can talk over here,” he said to us, indicating the starboard windows, and we moved over to them, out of earshot of Jamal. The giant lorry had ceased loading waste and appeared to be preparing to leave.

  Braithwaite sighed. “So much for the trash,” he said. “I wonder if they found anything.”

  “So that means,” I said, “that someone else removed the head before maintenance came to drain the pool.”

  “That could be any crew member,” Hal said. “Or even a passenger.”

  “Not a passenger,” I said. “The captain ordered this part of the Lido deck blocked off right after I told him the head was in the pool. Those security guards wouldn’t have let any passengers in.”

  “Then how did that lady get into the spa?” Hal asked.

  “What lady?” Braithwaite asked.

  “The one who said the earring looked familiar. How’d she get in?”

  Braithwaite frowned. “Is there another way into the spa other than from the Lido deck?”

  “There’s a freight elevator just forward of the spa,” Grant said.

  “You know what this means,” I said. “One of the spa employees could have removed the head and disposed of it before maintenance came up here.”

  “Disposed of it where?” Braithwaite asked. “We looked everywhere and didn’t find it.”

  “Would there happen to be a laundry chute forward of the spa also?” I asked.

  “There is,” Grant said. “It goes straight to C deck where the laundry is.”

  “How did we miss that?” Braithwaite wondered.

  Nigel shrugged. “We didn’t ask the right questions.”

  “If that lady was a passenger,” I said, “what was she doing using a freight elevator to get to the spa?”

  “Could she have been a crew member?” Hal wondered.

  “What nationality was she?” I asked Braithwaite.

  “She spoke with a British accent,” Braithwaite said.

  “That doesn’t help much,” Hal said. “There are lots of Brits and Canadians among the passengers. She could be anybody.”

  “She might have been part of the entertainment staff,” Grant said. “Sometimes they avail themselves of spa services before a show.”

  “Now we’re back to a spa employee,” I said. “What could be easier? One of them goes into the pool after the head, wraps it in a towel, tosses it into the laundry chute, and then goes and gets cleaned up in one of the locker rooms. A shower, a hair dryer, a spare uniform in a locker, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “But why?” Hal asked. “It makes no sense.”

  “It would,” I said, “if one of them was in cahoots with the murderer.”

  “Sweetie,” Hal said in mock disbelief, “did you really just say ‘in cahoots’?”

  “For that matter,” Braithwaite said, “someone from maintenance could be in cahoots, as you say, with the murderer.”

  “One of them could also be the murderer,” Hal said. “It would have to be a crew member who could open and close the roof.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that the captain is the murderer,” Grant said, a shocked expression on his face.

  “No, but it would have to be someone on the bridge,” I said.

  The door opened, and Captain Sloane, Inspector Jones, Officer Dalquist, and young Dr. Welch came toward us. They all looked hot and tired. Even the captain’s starched white uniform looked a little limp.

  “Any luck?” inquired Braithwaite.

  The captain shook his head. “How about you?”

  Braithwaite shook his head too. “No joy.”

  I opened my mouth to tell the captain my theory about the spa employee and the laundry chute, but Braithwaite shook his head at me. “The coroner’s taken the remains,” he told the captain. “So we’ll be going back to the station. We’ll be in touch if there’s anything more that we need.” He handed the captain a card. “Keep us posted.”

  They shook hands all around, and Braithwaite and Jones headed for the elevator.

  “I’ve got office hours at five o’clock,” said Dr. Welch. “I must go clean up. It won’t do to see patients whilst smelling like a garbage dump.” With a smile, he departed, getting onto the elevator with Braithwaite and Jones.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” said Captain Sloane, “I have to get a cleaning crew up here to deal with that mess. It’s going to take a lot more than young Jamal and his mop, if you ask me. The passengers are starting to come back aboard, and I can’t have them looking in the door and seeing it. Officer Grant, you’ll need to assign some of your staff to keep them away until we can get it cleared up.” He fixed me with a stern look. “I don’t need to tell you, do I, Dr. Day, not to talk about this to anyone? The consequences would be quite dire.”

  He nodded to Nigel and walked away, issuing staccato commands over his radio as he went. Officers Grant and Dalquist also excused themselves and followed the captain to the elevator.

  “Dear me,” I said. “Did that sound like a threat to anybody else, or is it just my overactive imagination?”

  “It’s your overactive imagination,” my husband said.

  “I don’t know,” Nigel said, “but he’s right about the consequences being dire. We’ll all have to be extremely careful what we say from here on out. I’m not sure I should even tell Fiona about it.”

  “You know everybody’s going to be talking about it,” Hal said. “Fiona will hear about it soon enough.”

  “If she hasn’t already,” I said.

  “It’s not just that,” Nigel said. “Don’t forget, the murderer could be anyone. If he or she thinks we know anything, we could be in considerable danger.”

  I wasn’t worried about Mum talking about it. She was very good at keeping secrets. She’d even kept Nigel a secret from us right up until she decided to marry him. The problem was, when Mum had a secret, everybody knew she had one. She’d get this coy little smile on her face, and a mischievous look in her green eyes. That was what worried me. The murderer might see that and kill her just on the off chance that her secret had anything to do with the murder, whether it did or not.

  The only way to prevent that was for none of us to tell her anything.

  What were the chances of that?

  Slim to none.

  The only thing Mum did better than keeping secrets was worming them out of other people.

  Particularly me.

  I’ve never been able to get anything past my mother. She could always see right through me.

  This time it could get her killed.

  Hal and I headed straight for the Ocean Lounge on the Promenade deck. Nigel went to his cabin to check on Mum, after saying that they would join us as soon as she was up from her nap.

  Without thinking, I ordered a martini, as usual. Hal vetoed that, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and was no doubt dehydrated—whereas he and Mum had eaten lunch ashore—and dinner was still three hours away. So I changed my order to a Virgin Mary, which would be accompanied by olives, celery, and a dill pickle. I also asked for a large glass of ice water. I could have the martini later, after I’d filled my stomach with vegetables and my third space with water.

  The last thing I needed was to blurt out details about the murder while under the influence.

  Nigel and Mum joined us about half an hour later. I didn’t need to ask what they’d been talking about, because Mum already had that secret look on her face. So much for not talking about the murder to anyone.

  But I’d misjudged Nigel. Mum reached into her capacious purse, pulled out a gift box, and handed it to me.

  She and Hal had bought me a pair of earrings. They were blue topaz set in white gold, not nearly as ornate
as the murder victim’s. “Mum, these are gorgeous,” I exclaimed as I put them on. “What’s the occasion? Did I have a birthday and not notice?”

  “Thank your husband, dear,” she said. “He said you were having a rough day and might need a pick-me-up.”

  I hugged Hal and gave him a big kiss. “Thank you both. I love them. And that reminds me: I need to show you something, Mum.” I reached into my boat bag, which I’d rescued from the Lido deck, and pulled out my smartphone.

  Mum made a face. “No, no, kitten, please, I don’t want to see any of those dreadful gory pictures.”

  “I know. That’s not what I want you to look at.” I went quickly through the pictures in my phone gallery until I came to the one I wanted. “There. Have you ever seen that earring before?”

  “Yes, I think I have,” she said immediately. “The singer last night at the show was wearing earrings just like this. Don’t you think so, Nigel?” She held the phone out to him.

  He shook his head. “Now, Fiona, you know I never notice things like that. She could have been wearing barrel hoops and a burlap sack for all I know.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible!” She pouted prettily at him and handed the phone back to me.

  “Mum, are you sure?”

  “Yes, dear. You would be too if you’d been there. Fairly blinded me, they did.”

  “What did this singer look like?” I asked.

  “She was a tiny little thing,” Mum said. “Very thin, like one of those supermodels, you know, with long blonde hair and a very dark tan. Quite leathery-looking, if you know what I mean. I really don’t think these very dark tans are good for the skin, you know, dear, they get skin cancer and spots and wrinkles and end up looking just like little brown monkeys.”

  “How old do you think she was?”

  “Late twenties, early thirties, I’d guess, dear,” Mum said. “She was one of those torch singers, you know, all whisky-voiced and sultry. She was rather good at it too. We quite enjoyed her, didn’t we, love?”

  Nigel nodded.

  “Why are you asking all these questions, kitten?”

  I looked at Nigel, hoping for guidance, but he was no help. “It’s no good trying to keep it from her, you know.”

  Mum gasped and put her fingers to her mouth. “Hell’s bells and buckets, you can’t mean … do you mean to tell me that it was her body up there?”

  Hastily I looked around to see if anyone was listening. Nobody was. I lowered my voice. “If that’s her earring, it is,” I said. “What else was she wearing?”

  “A rather skimpy dress,” she said. “Red, with gold threads all through it, and gold shoes. Sandals, you know, all straps, and very high heels. I really don’t think those stiletto heels are good for the feet, you know, dear, they cause bunions and—”

  Nigel interrupted the tirade. “Fiona love, do you remember her name?”

  “No, dear, but I still have the program here somewhere.” She rummaged through her bag and fished out a rather crumpled document. She flattened it out on the table and ran her finger down the list of performers. “Here it is. Leonie Montague. There’s a picture too.”

  I’d never have recognized her from what her face looked like in the swimming pool, but I didn’t think Mum needed to know that, so I said nothing. I noticed that in the program photo she was wearing the same dress that Mum had described, as well as the same earrings and a heavy necklace of woven gold.

  “Mum, was she wearing that necklace last night too?”

  “Why, yes, dear. Didn’t you find it on the body?”

  “No. All we found was that one earring. The other had been ripped—”

  Hal interrupted before I could finish the sentence. “Toni, stop.” But it was too late. Mum put her fingers to her mouth and groaned softly. “Dear God.”

  “When are you going to start engaging your brain before putting your mouth in gear?” my husband chided me.

  Probably never, but Hal didn’t need to hear that now. Mum always got squeamish at the mention of gory details, but she usually got over it pretty fast. “I wonder where that necklace is now,” I said.

  Hal shrugged. “Maybe the killer took it as a trophy.”

  Nigel stood up. “I think the captain needs to know this straightaway.”

  I stood up too. “I’ll go with you.”

  Hal objected. “Toni, you don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “Really, I do.”

  “Go ahead, kitten,” Mum said. “Hal and I will be just fine here.”

  In the elevator, I said to Nigel, “I need to talk to you before you talk to the captain.”

  “About what?”

  “When we were talking to the captain up there on the Lido deck, I started to tell him that we thought maybe it was a spa employee that removed the head from the pool, and Braithwaite gave me this look and shook his head, like he didn’t want me to talk.”

  “And so?”

  “I think maybe he suspects the captain.”

  “Oh, surely you’re mistaken.”

  “Well, perhaps he doesn’t actually think that the captain is the murderer, but maybe he’s not above suspicion.”

  “You were right,” Nigel said. “This isn’t something you should say to anyone but me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The elevator door opened on the navigation deck where our cabins were just aft of the bridge. Of course, passengers were not allowed on the bridge except by invitation, but Nigel was right that the captain needed to know as soon as possible who the victim was so he could contact the Royal Barbados Police and let them know. They’d probably still want to run her fingerprints anyway, but it would just confirm her identity. Then we could all get to the down-and-dirty business of figuring out who would have wanted to kill her and why.

  Nigel rang the bell next to the double doors separating the bridge from the rest of the Nav deck, and someone opened it a crack. Nigel said, “I need to talk to the captain straightaway.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you come onto the bridge without permission from the captain, and he’s not here right now.”

  “Where is he?” Nigel asked. “You see, I’m from Scotland Yard, and this is official police business.”

  The officer opened the door wider. “You must be Chief Superintendent Gray. Captain Sloane mentioned you. He’s in his cabin. I’ll show you.”

  “Thank you,” Nigel said. “And you are?”

  “First Officer David Lynch, sir. This way, please.”

  First Officer Lynch was of average height and slightly built. He was handsome in a conventional way that would have made his face totally forgettable if it were not for his exceptionally large ears. I wondered if he’d been called Jughead as a child.

  “Did anyone from the Royal Barbados Police talk to you?” I asked him as we walked down the corridor.

  He looked askance. “No. Should they have?”

  “About the lady who was crushed in the roof,” I reminded him.

  He went pale. “Dear God. Do you mean to say that I—”

  “No, no,” I hastened to reassure him. “She was killed early this morning.”

  He sagged with relief. “Thank heaven. It would be a bit of a facer to realize that you’d accidentally killed someone. Here we are.”

  The captain’s cabin was actually right next to the bridge, but the entrance to it was hidden up a little hallway off the main corridor. First Officer Lynch knocked and announced himself.

  The captain opened the door. “What is it, Lynch?”

  “Some people to see you, sir. Chief Superintendent Gray and …” He looked at me questioningly.

  “Dr. Day,” I said.

  “Of course,” the captain said graciously. “Please, come in.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Nigel said
.

  “Excuse me, Captain, I’ll be returning to the bridge now.” First Officer Lynch withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  The captain’s cabin was larger than ours, with a bigger sitting area, more chairs, and larger sliding glass doors leading out to his veranda, which was also larger than ours. His office was in another room, furnished with a large desk, a conference table, and charts all over the walls. The furnishings were otherwise the same as our cabin. I noticed that the coffee table was chipped and stained darker on one corner, and wondered if something had happened to it or if it was a natural defect in the wood.

  “Please, sit down,” the captain continued. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you, but no,” Nigel said. “This won’t take long.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “We’ve identified the murder victim,” Nigel said and handed the program to the captain. “The singer, Leonie Montague. There’s a picture.”

  The captain took the program, looked at it, and blew out a breath. He reached behind him, as if to make sure the chair was really there, and sat down slowly, still staring at the program.

  “Captain? Are you all right?” I asked. “Do you need some water or …”

  “No, no, I’m quite all right,” he said. “How did you—”

  “My mother recognized the earring,” I said. “She was at the show last night.”

  “Do you know the lady, Captain?” Nigel asked. “If you’ll pardon me saying so, you look a bit shaken.”

  “Not well,” the captain said. “I do know who she is, because this isn’t the first time she’s been with us. I rather fear that the long afternoon down in the bowels of the ship took it out of me. I’ll be quite all right after a shower and a change. And speaking of that, would you and your party consider dining with me tonight at the captain’s table?”

  “We’d love to,” I said. “Wouldn’t we, Nigel?”

  “Oh, quite,” said my stepfather. “Fiona will be delighted.”

  I never did get my martini.

  We all had to go clean up and change for dinner. On board ship, one couldn’t wear shorts and tank tops into the dining room. Men were required to wear a jacket and tie, and women had to wear a skirt or long pants, at the very least. Dining at the captain’s table, however, required more formal dress, and so I wore a long dress instead of my usual black pants with a tunic top. It was sleeveless and teal green and accentuated my olive complexion and green eyes. With it I wore an opal necklace and earrings. Hal whistled. “That’ll make the captain be nice to you, I’ll bet.”