A Witch On The High Seas: Merryweather Mysteries

by Bankhead, Jenny

  “I know who the ship’s owner is,” Lou said. “You don’t need to tell me his name.” He waved his hand. “Get to the point. My tea is getting cold.”

  Lorna knew how unsatisfying a cup of lukewarm tea could be. “Raul is involved with business that is not aboveboard,” she said, using Ana’s words exactly. She did this because she did not know what, precisely, the Spanish woman meant by them.

  Was Raul involved with some sort of criminal activity? Here Lorna reached the limiting edges of her imagination. She found that she could not conjure up what sorts of activities Raul might be involved in. The thing that came to mind—a scheme involving replicating paintings by great master artists—seemed highly unlikely. Raul did not seem like the kind of man who would appreciate a fine work of art.

  “Not aboveboard?” Lou repeated. “What are you implying?”

  “Criminal activity,” Lorna said, raising one brow in a knowing manner. She hoped that the look implied to Lou that she knew a great deal about the particulars of Raul’s activities.

  Lou’s face turned red. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have worked for over a decade on the Mariasca, sailing her throughout the Mediterranean. As a captain, I have faith in my crew.”

  “There was a murder on board,” Lorna reminded the defensive man. “So at least one person on this ship is not worthy of your faith.”

  “How dare you tell me not to trust my own crew!” the captain sputtered. “I don’t know anything about criminal activities on this ship. Are you saying that you think I’m involved with criminal activities?”

  “You are the captain,” Lorna said.

  “Do I need to remind you that I was thrown overboard this morning?”

  “That’s right,” Lorna said. She did need reminding of this fact. Now it struck her to ask, “Who threw you overboard, Captain Gasparini? And do you not think that your heave-ho might be a reason to distrust your ship’s crew?”

  “You and your questions,” the captain huffed. His face was as red as a tomato from Lorna’s garden. “I don’t know who threw me over the rail. It was a surprise attack. But I do know that if you’re going to investigate something, you would do well to investigate that incident. And I’ll be the one deciding who to trust and who not to.”

  Lou lifted his cup of tea. “And now, I’m going to go enjoy my Earl Grey on the bridge. If you’ll excuse me...” He did not wait for her response. Instead, he turned and continued on his course to the stairs.

  Lorna was once again left watching a suspect retreat from her. She didn’t like it.

  She trailed after the captain. “I’ll let you enjoy your tea,” she said. “I myself love a good strong cup of Earl Grey. As long as there’s a touch of milk in it and a teaspoon of sugar, or else the bergamot can be too strong, in my opinion. It must be mellowed out—the corner’s rounded so to speak—with the milk and sugar.”

  The captain paused at the bottom of the stairs. His hand was on the railing. When he turned to face her, he looked more than a little annoyed by her persistence. She didn’t care. There’s a murderer on board this ship, she reminded herself. The captain was acting suspiciously. That flush in his cheeks—what was causing it? Why was he being so defensive?

  She spoke up. “When was the last time you spoke to Leon, Captain?”

  Lou Gasparini answered tersely. “It’s been a busy day. I don’t know. It must have been some time before I was tossed overboard.”

  “And that was…”

  “It must have been around ten,” Lou said. “I don’t see why this is important.”

  Lorna could tell that he was flustered. Not only were his cheeks tomato-colored, but now there were small beads of sweat on his temples.

  “What’s wrong, Captain?” Lorna said. “You seem nervous.”

  “I am not nervous,” Lou insisted. “I don’t get nervous.” He wiped his brow. “It’s hot, standing here in this muggy air with this hot cup of tea in my hand.”

  “Right,” Lorna said, not buying a word of it. Lou was clearly nervous and flustered.

  He turned and began ascending the stairs. Lorna’s stomach growled again. She could find no plausible excuse for detaining the Captain further, and besides that, she didn’t try very hard to because she was now very hungry. So she let him go.

  Lorna’s nose led the search for Betty. This was not purposeful, but as she began scouring the ship for her partner in crime investigation, the smell of grilled, spice-rubbed beef tenderloin with chimichurri caught her attention. In addition, she found that she was thirsting for a second grapefruit IPA.

  Perhaps Betty is in the bar, thought Lorna hopefully. Her mouth was watering.

  To her great delight, Betty was in the bar room. She was sitting at a table on her own, cradling a cup of tea and munching on cookies.

  “You’ll ruin your appetite,” Lorna said as she approached. The smell of grilled beef was thick in the air. Betty’s decision to eat sweets while such a savory smell lingered in the room baffled her.

  “Impossible!” Betty said with a grin. “If there’s one thing that is beyond the threat of being ruined in this life, it is my appetite for tea biscuits.” She took a bite and munched contentedly. As she swallowed, she added. “All of that talk about baked goods with our dancer friend made me quite hungry for dessert.”

  “But we haven’t had dinner yet. And tea hour has passed.”

  “We’re on vacation,” Betty replied, as if that said it all.

  “It doesn’t feel like it,” Lorna said, falling into a chair near Betty and slumping down with exhaustion. “I’ve been running around this ship like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  “That’s not good,” Betty said. “I’ve seen my share of chickens without heads. They nearly always collapse eventually.”

  “Nearly?” Lorna found that she was curious.

  “It was the summer of ’85, ten years ago,” began Betty. “Farmer Jones was in the middle of slaughtering his birds, and quite a few of us villagers were gathered round for the show. This was before the days of the Tweed Park Days Pickleball Tournament, so our summer calendars were absurdly empty. We were in desperate need of entertainment. Jones started with—”

  “Betty,” Lorna said, cutting her friend off apologetically. It had to be done. Lorna recognized that the story was going to be long-winded. “I would love to hear all about this, really I would. But do you think it could wait until we return to Tweed-upon-Slumber? I feel there are more pressing matters, right about now.”

  “How true,” Betty said. “It is dinner hour. I smell asparagus, buttered baked potatoes, and herb-crusted halibut!” She sounded uncharacteristically enthusiastic about this.

  All of the legwork she had engaged in during the day had fired up her appetite to such a degree that she forgot all about her longing for hearty English dishes. She was ready to embrace the gourmet cuisine that the chefs doled out in stylish but small arrangements.

  “You can discern all that just by smell?” Lorna asked. She knew that Betty’s sense of smell was very good, but she was unaware that the woman could differentiate between types of mild white fish.

  “That, and the server read the menu to me,” Betty said, holding up a little white embossed card.

  “Ah.” Lorna reached for the card and read it. “I knew that I smelled beef and chimichurri. That will go wonderfully with an ale.” She set the card down. “But Betty, dinner wasn’t the pressing issue that I was referring to.” Although, due to her hunger, it did seem to have become a true priority. “I was talking about the murder.”

  “Oh yes,” Betty said. “The murder. What did you find out in Sandy’s room?”

  “Sandy was having an affair with Leon,” Lorna said. “She saw Leon this morning, but she didn’t kill him. At the moment of his death, she reports that Raul was with him.”

  “Raul,” said Betty. “I knew he had a rotten core.”

  “But,” Lorna said, holding up a finger. “I also spoke to Raul. He admits to
being there with Leon, but he says that he was blinded by sunlight just at the moment that Leon died.”

  “Do you believe him?” Betty asked.

  Lorna thought for a moment. “He was very drunk when I discussed it with him. I don’t think he could have fooled me if he tried. I believe he was telling the truth.”

  “Alcohol is somewhat akin to truth serum. On top of that, it’s very hard to fool you,” Betty said.

  This pleased Lorna. “I read faces well,” she said. “Which brings me to my next point. I also talked to Ana Almeda. She was acting fishy.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to have some of that halibut,” Betty said.

  In a fortuitous coincidence, the waiter came by at just that moment. “What can I get you two ladies?” he asked.

  Of course, Betty requested the fish while Lorna asked for the beef dish. Both ordered the asparagus and potato side dishes, and Lorna asked for a pint of beer. After quite a lengthy discussion with the waiter on the matter, Betty decided that a chardonnay from the Canadian Okanagan would go best with her meal.

  “Now,” said Betty, once the waiter departed. “That’s taken care of, so we can get back to business. Where were we?”

  Lorna began lining up the facts that she had gathered. Just as she got to the place that she’d left off—with Ana Almeda acting fishy—the waiter returned to the table. The women were deterred once again, this time by a basket of freshly baked bread and their alcoholic beverages.

  “I will miss this bread,” Lorna said, reaching for her second piece. The butter was served in a little white porcelain dish, whipped and chilled, and she scooped some of it out now. She marveled at how the creamy, aerated butter melted into the bread the instant she applied it.

  “And this butter!” she exclaimed. “Leave it to a five-star chef to imagine whipping the butter. I may have to start doing it at home. I believe I have an immersion blender somewhere that would do the trick.” She thought of the one box she hadn’t yet unpacked since her move six months prior and decided that it must be in there. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather have on toast.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Betty said. “There are plenty of things better than plain old butter. Beans, for one thing.” She got a faraway look in her sightless, crystalline blue eyes. “Cheesy beans and toast, beans and sausage on toast, Welsh Rarebit, beans and ketchup—”

  Lorna stopped her there. “I’ll give you Welsh Rarebit,” she said. She’d become fond of the dish that consisted of a delicious melted cheese over toast. “But beans and ketchup? Come now. You don’t even like ketchup, Betty.”

  “On beans and toast I do.”

  Lorna vowed, then and there, that she would give beans and toast a try. It was one of the few British ways that she still found particularly peculiar, the other being the funny cheese race that she’d witnessed in the late fall.

  There had been almost two dozen participants, and everyone wore serious expressions as they chased a seven-pound wheel of Gloucester cheese down the steepest hill in the Tweed-upon-Slumber park. The winner, a young man by the name of Oliver, had been awarded one-third of the wheel. The other two-thirds were then sliced up then and there and dished out to racers and spectators alike.

  When her meal arrived, Lorna forgot all about beans on toast and run-away wheels of Gloucester cheese. She almost—not quite, but almost—forgot about the murder investigation she was mud-pit deep in. Her thoughts turned to the meal in front of her, and she dug in ravenously.

  Betty also began shoveling food into her mouth. “I must confess,” she managed to say between bites, “all this legwork gives me such an appreciation for a good meal.”

  “It’s true,” Lorna said. “But I do wish we had some magic on our side. My spells have always tuckered me out, but all this running around is having the same effect.”

  “Hopefully we’ll get to the bottom of things soon,” Betty said. At the moment, however, the only thing she wanted to get to the bottom of was her white wine. The waiter was right; the full-bodied, oak-aged chardonnay went perfectly with the flakey, delicate fish.

  “Yes,” Lorna said, although she was in no rush. She, too, was enjoying her meal. The beef was tender and juicy. “I propose that after dinner, we return to the crime scene,” she suggested. “A good look around there would be helpful, I think.”

  “Quite,” Betty agreed. “After dinner.” She wanted to verify this, because she had no intention of getting up, sprinting off to the lower deck, and leaving half of her meal behind.

  “Yes, after,” Lorna assured her. “I believe I do my best sleuthing on a full stomach.”

  “That makes two of us,” Betty said happily, “which is why we make such a wonderful team.”

  Chapter 12

  Lorna truly did think that she did her best sleuthing on a full stomach. But it turned out that actually, what she did best on a full stomach was to take a light snooze on a comfortable, cushion-lined lounge chair. Betty, too, was very good at taking postprandial naps after dinner and wine.

  The two women settled down on their favorite lounge chairs, scooching their round bottoms into the indents that had been molded into the chairs over the course of the week.

  “Ah,” Lorna said as her eyes drifted closed. “This is just the thing. After we rest our eyes, we’ll go investigate the crime scene.”

  “Yes, after,” Betty echoed. Her heavy lids were also drifting down, and she adjusted her neck and the back of her head so that she was perfectly poised for a little shut-eye. “Now I remember… I do my best sleuthing after a good nap.”

  “A nap will clear our heads,” Lorna said. It had turned out that her favorite IPA also happened to pack quite a punch. She was a bit tipsy and already drifting off into dreamland.

  Lorna felt as though she’d just closed her eyes—although really she’d been asleep for half an hour—when a loud sound woke her up. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she looked around her.

  “Sorry ’bout that!” It was Charlie.

  His face was red and puffy, but for the first time, Lorna noticed that the redness did not seem to be fueled by alcohol. Instead, he looked as though he may have been crying.

  He spoke again as he righted a tipped glass on the table next to him. “I hoped to just sit down on this chair here next to you, but I knocked over my glass. Looked as though you and Betty were having such a peaceful snooze.”

  “We were,” Betty said, “until that loud sound woke us up.”

  “That was my glass,” Charlie said. “Again, I apologize. Clumsy me. I knocked it right over.” He hung his head. He seemed quite down on himself; he was entirely devoid of his usual blustery good cheer.

  Lorna jumped in before Betty could vent any more annoyance at being woken up. “Having a cocktail?” she asked, gesturing to the glass.

  Charlie looked at the cup and shook his head. “No, not right now. It was just water.”

  Lorna tried to cheer him up. “Any luck finding your crime-scene tape?” she asked.

  This made the head of security frown. He hung his head down even lower than before. “No—no. Gave up on that hours ago. Must have tossed it…or it’s mixed up with my fishing gear, and that’s a hopeless mess.”

  “I’m sure it’s not hopeless,” Lorna said, giving Charlie a conciliatory pat on his slumped shoulder. “There’s hope in every mess.”

  “Not this one,” Charlie said. Lorna had the feeling that the man was no longer talking about his tangled fishing gear.

  Lorna glanced at Betty. What’s this depressed mood all about? Lorna tried to convey to her friend.

  Betty’s eyes twinkled. I’m not sure, but we’d better find out. You take the lead. He likes you.

  Lorna received the telepathic message and nodded.

  She turned to Charlie, who was settling back in the lounge chair, looking like he’d rather curl up into a ball and disappear than face reality on the cruise ship any longer. “So, Head of Security Charlie Wright, is Captain Lou still your prime su
spect? Perhaps you’ve found some more evidence against him?”

  She hoped to bolster his confidence with the question, but he remained dejected. “I don’t know… I don’t know! I could really use a drink, right about now. But the police will be here soon, and I want to be dead sober when they arrive. I can’t—” He stopped abruptly and met Lorna’s eye.

  She did not look away. “What is it?” she asked. “You can’t what?”

  He sighed. “I can’t let them know what I’ve done.” He looked close to crying again. He closed his eyes tightly, like a child trying to block the frightening parts of a horror film.

  Again, Lorna looked to Betty. Maybe you’d better take it from here, she thought.

  You’re doing just fine, Betty assured Lorna.

  Lorna spoke up, “Charlie, what is it that you’re afraid to tell the police?”

  “He paid me too much,” Charlie said, his eyes still closed. “It was double what I was earning with the London police. And on a cruise ship, no less! And no one was getting hurt. That was what he told me—that no one would get hurt.”

  “Who?” Betty chimed in.

  Charlie opened his eyes. He looked from Lorna to Betty and then back to Lorna. “Raul, of course. The owner of the ship. He pays my salary.”

  “And it’s too much?” Lorna asked. She was feeling quite lost.

  “Too much,” Charlie said, shaking his head. His sunburnt jowls waggled back and forth. “I’m not worth it. But he wanted someone who would stay quiet. Someone who would turn a blind eye. And that’s just what I’ve done, but now—with this murder aboard—the whole thing’s falling apart.”

  He furrowed his brow. “And that woman Ana seems to know about it—her and her pesky assistant, bothering me like that last night. Plus, I’ll have to talk to the police and…” He became lost in thought.

  Lorna waited for more. She was now perched on the edge of the low chaise lounge, and as she leaned forward in anticipation of hearing more, she felt the entire chair tip over.