"You know, when I hand this over, the police will likely jump to the same conclusions I did," I said.
Cady moved her head from side to side a couple of times. "True, but…"
That sounded suspicious, and from the weird look on her face, my radar went into full alert.
I widened my eyes and whispered, "What did you do?"
A couple of people passed us on the sidewalk, so Cady waited until they were out of earshot before responding.
"I deleted his video. He doesn't need to be suspected of murder and drug dealing," she said.
I probably would've done the same.
"You ready?" she asked.
"Nope. But let's do this."
I hadn't a clue how I was going to give Clarke or Newton the SD card without them figuring out I went through Barclay's belongings to get it, which meant I likely broke into his room. And now that they knew it was murder, they probably went through his room yesterday. I couldn't slip it under the door and hoped it was found. Maybe Barbadian jails were better than American ones.
We stepped inside, and the air conditioning did little to alleviate the stickiness on my body.
I started to turn the corner and walk to Sergeant Clarke's desk, when I heard low sobs. They were coming from close to the entrance. I stopped short when I realized there was a woman sitting in the chair at Constable Newton's desk. It was Mimi.
Cady crashed into me. She opened her mouth to say something as I pointed to Mimi. Cady clamped her lips shut, put both of her hands around my upper arm, and dragged me backwards. We hid behind the potted palm and listened.
"Can I please get my passport," Mimi asked between cries. "They aren't even my friends. I can't stay with them."
When had the police taken their passports? They couldn't have gotten the fingerprint results back yet.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but until we have ruled you out as a suspect, you cannot leave the island," the constable said.
"But I didn't even know Barclay. I only met him at the airport."
"I understand, but those are the rules."
"Why does she want to ditch Greer?" Cady whispered.
That was exactly my thought, and I wished I had an answer.
"I understand," Mimi said, but her voice cracked and she sounded beyond distraught.
What had happened?
"Perhaps you can change rooms," Constable Newton said, trying to offer a solution to whatever problem she was having.
"Thank you." The legs of her chair squeaked against the floor as she stood up.
Crap, she was going to leave and pass us. This palm only hid our presence in one direction.
Someone behind me cleared their throat.
I turned, and Sergeant Clarke loomed over us.
I smiled and swallowed down the panic that his cocked brow created. "Hi. I wanted to see you."
"And you thought I was sitting in the plant?" he asked.
Cady snickered.
I didn't respond and continued smiling.
He held out a hand telling us to follow him to his desk.
Mimi stopped short when she saw the three of us but quickly looked away. Not before I noticed the deep maroon bruise on her temple though. She didn't say anything but quickened her step and hurried outside.
"Did you see that?" I asked Cady.
"Yep, and it was not pretty. Do you think…?"
She didn't finish her sentence. I assumed she was thinking of Greer and his temper too. That would explain Mimi not wanting to be with the reunion friends anymore.
"What can I do for you?" the sergeant asked us.
"How did the poison kill Barclay?" I asked.
He frowned and parted his lips to say something, but I spoke faster and louder so he wouldn't cut me off.
I sat in the chair beside his desk. "I know you can't tell me things, but I only want to know how it was administered."
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs under the desk, and folded his hands in his lap. "Why do you want to know? Should I start to suspect you?"
"Of course not," I shouted. But this definitely meant he didn't. Yet.
He raised a brow.
Cady came to my rescue. "Don't mind her. She's just a dog with a bone."
Some rescue.
"Excuse me?" the sergeant asked with a frown.
"Um…" Cady stuttered.
Still not helping.
The constable stood and approached us. "It means she is persistent. Won't let go of a problem until she finds a solution."
I smiled at the younger man. He returned the grin, and from the way he beefed out his chest, he seemed particularly proud of himself.
The sergeant, however, wasn't impressed and shook his head. "Fine. I will tell you this. The poison was found in an insulin vial on Mr. Murdock's body."
So he had injected it. I was feeling pretty darn proud now too.
"Then why is Aiden still a suspect? If it didn't come from his bar, wasn't something in Barclay's food or drink, shouldn't he be eliminated?"
Cady squeezed my shoulder.
Clarke's gaze traveled from me to Cady and back to me. "It may not have been in something he ate or drank, but that doesn't mean Mr. Griffith didn't inject it into the vial."
Cady and I scoffed in unison.
"Oh, come on," I said. "Why would he do that?"
"I don't know yet, but until I am certain he hasn't, he will remain a suspect. Can I help you in any other way?"
We were not going to be able to convince this man of Aiden's innocence.
I stood up. "No. Thank you."
I turned to leave, but Cady stood directly in my way.
With an overexaggerated expression of surprise on her face, she flailed her arms and tumbled onto the ground. The whole thing was so extreme, I could've sworn I was watching it in slow motion.
She knocked into another chair, tipping it over. It skidded out and hit a wall, and a book jumped off a shelf and fell onto a desk, causing another policeman to flinch and spill the coffee he was drinking down the front of the shirt. He jumped up, trying to keep the wet fabric off his skin.
It had become a comedy of errors.
The constable and sergeant leaned over to help Cady, while the other guy ran to…I don't know. Get paper towels, go to the bathroom, find a new shirt?
I looked down at my friend, who bugged her eyes out at me, and that was when I realized she had done this on purpose (again), so I could do the one thing I really came here for. I slipped my hand into the front pocket of my black and white striped shorts and pulled out the SD card that I'd wrapped in a tissue—to keep my fingerprints off it after I'd wiped it down. I placed it on the sergeant's blotter, pulled the tissue back, and shoved it into my pocket.
By time I was done, they had helped Cady to her feet.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I hope the other man didn't get hurt."
The sergeant went to retrieve the chair and book and tsked. "He'll be fine. Maybe this will teach him to stop trying to drink scalding coffee."
I grabbed Cady's arm and thanked them. We rushed along until we were just outside the room again and stopped.
"Are you okay?" I asked her.
She giggled. "Falling down to create a diversion is way more fun than I ever imagined."
I held in a laugh and turned to look at the sergeant's desk.
He set the extra chair back and sat down on his. It took him less than a minute to see the SD card. He lifted it and looked around the room.
Cady and I scrambled out of there before he noticed us hovering.
* * *
We left the station and were going back to the ship when we spotted Whitney and Finley walking hand-in-hand ahead of us. They turned down a street, oblivious to us, and I quickened my pace.
"Come on," I said, tugging Cady along.
"Why are we following them?" Cady asked. "What could they possibly do that will help your case?"
My case. I kinda liked the ring to that. But she was right. Fol
lowing them while they were sightseeing or shopping was going to do us no good. Just the same, I continued on.
They stopped at a gift shop called Bajan Gifts and went inside. The display in the window showed homemade pottery and picture frames. Cady and I entered the bright blue store.
This shop seemed to have it all when it came to souvenirs—postcards of Barbados sunsets and nature trails, flags, mugs, spoons, T-shirts, and even fabric in bright and bold prints.
A multicolored painted bowl caught my attention. Mom would've loved it. It seemed more decorative than practical, and she had a shelf of similar ones. If I mailed it to her, it could easily be traced back. But if I mailed it to Kyle… This wasn't why we were here.
We found Whitney and Finley by the hand-painted picture frames. They each looked surprised when we walked straight up to them.
"Zibby, Cady, hi," said Whitney. She and Finley were holding hands and looked at ease.
"So poor Barclay was murdered," Cady said.
They stiffened. There went that ease.
I loved how direct Cady was at times. Unless she was telling me that my hair looked like a bird's nest or it looked like I was drunk when I'd applied my eyeliner. That was never cool.
Whitney frowned and looked off, as if she couldn't stand to discuss it—and likely so, considering her actual relationship with the deceased. Or it was a smokescreen, and Whitney didn't want us to see the guilt on her face? I couldn't remember if I was always this cynical or if it had begun recently.
"I can't believe it," said Finley, aka the man with two motives. He should've been my lead suspect, but Greer was so volatile and Finley always came across as calm and collected. Then again, he was a politician. He was probably well rehearsed in showing only one side of his personality. No one wanted to elect a grumpy-before-coffee, snappy-when-hangry, screaming-at-the-sports-team-on-TV leader.
Whitney looked to her fiancé and then us. "I know. It's awful. Who could've done such a thing?"
"One of his so-called friends," Cady said.
They both frowned at her.
There was direct, and there was a truth-punch to the face. I was unprepared for the latter, and I had to pull my top lip down with my teeth to keep from laughing. It wasn't ha-ha funny but unexpected. I gave a playful jam into Cady's arm with my elbow. I didn't want her scaring them off.
"We just saw Mimi at the police station. Did you know she was going there?" Changing the subject seemed like a good idea.
Finley and Whitney exchanged confused glances.
"No," he said. "Do you know why she was there?"
"Not exactly, but she was talking to the constable. She wanted her passport and said she couldn't stay with you guys anymore."
I watched their expressions intensely, and Whitney's frown suggested she was clueless.
"She has a bruise on her face," Cady said. "It looked like, well…" This time she wasn't blunt.
"Is Greer violent?" I asked.
Finley shook his head. "There's no way he'd hit her, if that's what you're suggesting."
"I heard them arguing last night," Whitney said, more to him than us. "It was after we went back to our rooms, and I wanted to give her back her shawl. I was about to knock on their door when I heard them shouting."
Finley continued to shake his head, not believing or wanting to believe this truth about his friend.
When no one said anything, I decided another change of topic was in order.
"I was going to stop by the hotel later and invite you all to an early dinner. A bon voyage of sorts. My treat."
And there went any money I had saved so far. Why had I said that?
Before either of them could protest, I continued on. "You may not be in the mood to hang out again, but I've liked spending time with you."
This was mostly true.
Whitney's face softened, and she semismiled.
"And I really wanted to do something nice for you in such a trying time. One last meal at Ocean Grille?"
"You want to go there?" Whitney asked.
Cady cleared her throat. "The owner's business took a hit when the police suspected Barclay died of an allergy. Now that that has been ruled out, I would like to help him out."
She leaned toward me and whispered, "I'll pay half."
I squeezed her hand in thanks. She truly was a great friend.
"I don't know," Finley said. "With everything going on, I'm not sure it seems right."
"You have to eat, right?" Cady asked.
"There's something I want to share too. With all of you together," I said.
Cady gave me a surprised look that asked if I knew what I was doing.
I pulled my phone from my purse, swiped to contacts, typed in Whitney's first name, and handed it to her. "Put in your number. Go back and speak with the others and see if they want to or not. We have to head back to the ship for rehearsals, so it won't be before late this afternoon."
Whitney entered her number and asked, "What show are you putting on?"
"Grease," Cady said. "This is my third time performing it, but it's Zibby's first."
"How exciting. Too bad we can't go see that. Who are you each playing?"
"I'm playing Frenchie," Cady said with a huge, proud grin.
"And I'm one of the background dancers." Mostly only the singers got named parts.
Whitney handed me back my phone, and I immediately wondered if she had input a real or fake number. So I pushed the green receiver and called. Her phone rang, and she reached into her pocket.
Great.
I hit to end the call and said, "And now you have mine. So I'll call later, but if you decide before we're done, leave a message or text."
Whitney nodded but didn't look comfortable with any of this.
I knew the feeling. As much as I wanted to learn what really happened, I didn't relish the idea of spending my last afternoon with hotheaded Greer. Someone had pushed me into the water, and I had a feeling it was him.
We said good-bye and headed back to the ship.
When we were far out of earshot, Cady asked, "So why dinner, and what do you plan to share?"
"The truth. Ever watch those mystery shows where at the end, the sleuth gathers everyone around and reveals who he thinks the killer is along with their secrets?"
She nodded. "And the killer confesses everything rather than getting a lawyer and keeping their mouth shut? Yep, I'm aware."
I laughed 'cause I'd often thought the same about how unrealistic those moments were.
"Well, we're gonna stage an old-fashioned killer guessing game."
"Telling their secrets. Won't that be like poking a bear?" she asked.
My stomach knotted. She was right. "Probably, but we'll all be together in public, and then we'll be sailing to our next port. It should be foolproof."
Of course, it was possible I'd reveal their secrets and no one would confess or show a modicum of guilt. But then at least we would get to eat.
She gleefully rubbed her hands together. "I'm not sure how you're going to pull this off, but I have total faith in you."
It was awesome that one of us did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We were forty minutes into rehearsal when my Barclay train of thought caused my feet to pivot right when everyone else was going left. The Hand Jive was a pretty easy routine, same movements left to right and back again with some clapping and knee slapping, but all I could think about was insulin bottles and motivations.
Our stage manager looked my way twice with frowns and other expressions of disdain. Preoccupation could be hell on a dancer, but focusing right now was futile.
My gaze drifted toward the right center of the empty theatre seats and spotted Shawn. My pulse rose, and that next mistake of not shimmying on the count of three was more about my libido than murder.
When the stage manager called an end to rehearsal, I sighed in relief, but I knew I needed to get my act together come tomorrow. There wasn't much time left. While most of the
cast ran backstage to grab their gear and go to their cabins to shower and change, a few of us remained on stage.
Shawn approached at the same time the stage manager walked over to me.
Uh-oh. She was going to lay into me, and I'd deserved it.
"Zibby, what was going on out there?" Her brow had been permanently creased today. I was going to be the cause of her early aging.
"I'm sorry. I have a lot on my mind. I'll be fine for tomorrow." I smiled as confidently as I knew how.
She leaned into me and lowered her voice. "I heard what happened last night on the dock. Are you sure you're up for this?"
As much as I disliked anyone thinking I couldn't do something I was qualified for, the fact that she assumed my blunders were due to a head injury was better than my being distracted. The latter was unprofessional.
"Yes, I'm fine, and I will be near perfection tomorrow."
She quirked her brow. "Near isn't good enough."
I almost laughed at her Jekyll and Hyde routine. This was the first time I'd heard her drill sergeant voice. She had always been so nice and gentle. This reminded me of all of the dance teachers I'd had growing up. They weren't mean, but they were firm and strict. Okay, so a few were mean.
"Yes, ma'am."
She gave a curt nod, glanced to Shawn who was now standing onstage, and headed into the back.
He stepped under the bright lights and asked, "Everything okay?"
"You mean other than tripping over my own feet? Yeah, peachy."
His charming grin was alarming. "You're talented."
I snorted. "Ha! Like you could tell from that."
"You're preoccupied."
A heavy sigh escaped my mouth. Wasn't that the truth? "Yes."
"More breaking and entering?" he asked with a wink.
I chuckled loud. "No."
"Ah, so you're staying out of trouble."
I looked away, not wanting to admit the truth but not wanting to lie to him either. "Well, not exactly."
"Do tell," he said.
"I—"
"Zibby!" I was cut off by Cady running toward us. She was holding my phone.
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