Death on the Diversion

by Patricia McLinn

  “He might not have intended such a thing, but was caught in a moment of anger. We have motive from her threats to have him dismissed, opportunity from his failure to produce an alibi, means. We did not, as you describe it, latch onto the first suspect, especially not based solely on your words. Now, if you—”

  “Means? The cane, right? Have you found Leah’s cane?”

  I felt more than saw Henri start. I was keeping my focus on Gerard Edgars.

  “I would ask why you would be interested in the victim’s cane?”

  “It fits what the doctor said about how she was killed, something held across her throat. She had it with her every time I saw her, but it wasn’t by her body. If you found it in her cabin you’d have said so by now. So you don’t have the cane—”

  “How—” came from behind me.

  Without looking away from me, the security chief raised his index finger from where it rested on his opposite arm and Henri subsided.

  “Where is it?” I persisted.

  “An interesting question. We do not know. Beyond that, we will not discuss such specifics with you, Ms. Mackey.”

  “Fine. Don’t. But it sure sounds to me like a whole lot of other people have means, motive, and opportunity. As strong as his.”

  “You are free, of course, to write a letter stating such. We, however, shall be turning him over to the authorities at the first place we dock.”

  “But that’s—”

  A puff of subdued cheering came from next door.

  Before we could do more than exchange looks, a knock on the door. At Edgars’ invitation, a young officer poked his head in.

  “We have cleaned up that footage, sir.”

  Gerard Edgars strode out. The young officer pivoted smartly and followed. Henri, too.

  I considered staying put.

  Just kidding.

  In the absence of direct orders otherwise — and, let’s be honest, possibly in the presence of direct orders otherwise — I was behind them in a flash. Unobtrusively, quietly, but there nonetheless.

  It only required three strides to reach the other room. Edgars swung the door open, not bothering to close it behind him with Henri right at his hip. The message bringer also left it open, perhaps too well trained in not slamming doors in a passenger’s face to break the habit. I didn’t bother, either. I stayed close, figuring that would make me look like part of the team.

  It worked.

  As we entered, I saw rows of monitors, showing all sorts of angles of spots all over the ship, with a bigger screen in the middle. Unfortunately, broad backs blocked out the bigger screen from my view.

  “This is it, sir.”

  I saw nothing but the back of jackets.

  Then one of the men seated in front of monitors to the right saw the door swinging open from the movement of the ship and stood to close it. I slid partially into his space and had an angle on the big monitor.

  In time to see a shadow disappear out of the shot, which was recognizable as the line of deck chairs where Leah’s body had been.

  I bit my lip to keep from demanding it be replayed.

  My self-restraint was rewarded when Edgars said, “Repeat.”

  Rewind went by too fast to make sense of what I was seeing, but then it stopped and moved forward again at normal pace.

  The shadow was a human form. Carrying something the size and shape of a Leah-like body wrapped in towels.

  The shadowy human moved into deeper darkness, then emerged. It wore a waiter’s tunic, tennis shoes, and plain, dark, loose pants. The lack of light prevented me from identifying the few objects the figure passed, much less using them as a gauge of height.

  “Again,” Edgars said.

  This time I concentrated on the way the figure moved at the beginning. It was a strange movement, awkward, as if the person were trying to avoid stepping in something, but nothing was visible on the deck.

  It must be that carrying the bundle — presumably Leah — altered the figure’s walk. Which meant it wouldn’t help with identification.

  I switched to concentrating on the deck chair. That was something tangible I could use as a gauge to “measure” the figure.

  Except the shadows and loose pants made it hard to tell where on the carry-er’s leg the deck chair came.

  I squinted harder at the image. If this was the cleaned-up version, the original must have been a mess.

  But as they played it a third time, I became more confident. The person was about my height of five-eight, with an inch or two leeway, either side.

  If the leeway stretched to three inches, Wardham and Ralph remained in the suspect pool. All the women fell in that range, including the ill-tempered German woman, though she was on the short end of possible.

  “Ms. Mackey.” Gerard Edgars faced me with his impressive arms crossed over his chest.

  Oops. I’d been spotted.

  * * * *

  After I was escorted to the passenger area, I saw I’d received a text.

  The shops and main desk were crowded because rain and wind drove everyone inside. Took me a while to find a spot without a dozen people looking over my shoulder to read the text.

  They take him TOMORROW!!! You must DO something!!!! Now!!!!!

  Imka had gone for subtle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The dining room was almost empty at dinner. Our waiter was absent, replaced by the head waiter.

  I didn’t notice until halfway through the meal and asked the others where everybody was.

  “Sheila comes up from the depths of thinking serious thoughts,” Bob said.

  “Don’t be teasing the girl, Robert,” Catherine admonished. “She’s trying to solve a murder.”

  Petronella gasped. “Oh, no. You’re not involved in that horrible thing, are you? I mean I know you found poor Leah, but to get as far away as possible from what happened must be your only wish.”

  Catherine made a sound I couldn’t spell. It told Petronella not to be silly using only consonants. “But of course she is. They’re taking that boy off this ship tomorrow and giving him to the officials in the Bahamas as the only suspect. Unless Sheila can unravel the mess.”

  Gee, thanks for the pressure, Catherine.

  Petronella’s eyes widened to goggling.

  “That boy’s being blamed when it’s pure bigotry,” Catherine added.

  Petronella blinked. “Bigotry? His race? Nationality?”

  “His mood,” I said. “I think Catherine’s saying they’re prejudiced against him because he can be surly.”

  Bob laughed and Petronella relaxed.

  “As for your question, Sheila,” Bob said, “the rough seas have brought on an epidemic of seasickness. Even laid low our waiter, who, as she told us numerous times, has worked many cruises. We’re one of the few hardy tables intact.”

  I suppose the ship was moving more than usual, but it wasn’t that bad.

  Though I was grateful for the abundance of railings when we left the dining room. Bob and Catherine headed for another show — “We’ll get the prime seats with the field thinned by this,” Bob crowed — while I declared my intention to go to my cabin.

  To think.

  Might as well have said to fret.

  A lurch sent me grabbing for a railing as a couple stumbled out of the Wayfarer Bar. No way to know who was drunk and who wasn’t, thanks to the ship’s rolling.

  Petronella started to come with me to the corridor where our cabins were, then abruptly stopped and said she’d forgotten something.

  * * * *

  My sheets of paper covered the bed. I’d stared at them to no purpose for a good hour, when a knock sounded at my door.

  I felt as if I’d spent every minute since finding Leah’s body running around asking questions. The answers remained a jumble.

  Getting up disturbed a few of the pages, but no harm done, since nothing made sense anyway. Then a roll of the ship nearly took me off my feet.

  Another knock. Not ve
ry patient.

  Before I stumbled my way around the bed, more banging rattled the door and Petronella called, “Sheila, Sheila, I have something to tell you.”

  I made it to the door by pressing my hands to the walls on either side of the narrow entry for balance.

  “What’s the matter? You’re not seasick, are you?”

  “No, thank heavens.” She clearly wasn’t. Just as clearly she had far better sea legs than I did.

  If the ship rocked and rolled like this the first day, many more than Coral would have fallen, with or without a cane being stuck under their feet.

  I stumbled my way back, past the bed, to the sofa. She followed me with no problem, staring at the bedspread of notes as she came past.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to organize ideas about suspects, motives, timing.”

  “Oh, dear. All these are suspects?”

  “A lot of them are. Because any one of them could have done it.”

  “Oh, no.” Petronella clasped raised hands to her chest.

  “You do realize it has to be someone on the ship?”

  That startled her. After a pause, she said, “I suppose.” Though she appeared to be longing for the possibility of a murderous ultra-marathon swimmer. “But surely someone we haven’t met?”

  “That’s possible.”

  She brightened.

  “Not probable.”

  Her face fell. “But why?”

  “Murder is most often committed by a person who knows the victim. Stranger murder is relatively rare. One of the things I learned at Aunt Kit’s knee over the past fifteen years.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “You know Aunt Kit writes mysteries, don’t you?” I asked her.

  “Oh, yes. And other little books. Nothing important, like what you wrote, though.”

  I felt myself bristling in Kit’s defense. Or in defense of all those “little” books. I’d heard it often enough from the publishing establishment.

  Even though, in this case, having “my” book held up as superior to Kit’s was sort of complimenting her … while insulting her.

  “Have you read any of Kit’s mysteries?”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t. Tony doesn’t approve.”

  Tony was a beer-swilling beer-gutted bully. Why on earth he’d object to her reading mysteries was beyond me.

  “Now you’re divorced from Tony, you can,” I said cheerfully.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  Before she slid irretrievably into lachrymose, I said, “Aunt Kit’s are excellent, and she does lots of research to get things right. I’ve listened to her tell me about the research and joined her in some of it. We’ve toured police stations and talked to the FBI and ATF and lots of other people to find out about murders.”

  “Oh, dear. Murders?”

  “Of course.”

  “But she writes mysteries.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  My first response was a blank, Huh? “You do know mysteries are almost always about a murder, don’t you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Kit’s written about murder? How awful.”

  I slid past that point for the moment.

  “I’m glad she has, because Aunt Kit’s research and what she’s taught me about murders and investigating is all I have to work with now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s been a murder on board,” I reminded her.

  “But why you? Shouldn’t you let the officials handle this?”

  Why me? Because I’d have to answer to Kit if I didn’t get involved. Or if I didn’t stay involved. To the end.

  In fact, I’d answer to Kit and to Imka.

  I responded to the other part of Petronella’s question. “They appear to be stymied.” Also locked myopically on Badar. “More important, they don’t know the people like I—” I had an idea. “—like we do. We know their backgrounds and personalities. At least some.”

  “But it could be anyone.”

  “I don’t think so. Most murders are committed by someone who knows the victim. On this ship, that’s a limited number of people. And we know them. Let’s consider them one by one.”

  She stared at me.

  “This’ll be good.” Maybe sorting thoughts aloud would work better than rearranging pages. Couldn’t be worse. “We’ll start with the most likely suspect. Wardham.”

  She gasped. “That sweet man?”

  I had my doubts, too. Not based on sweetness, but apparent weakness. A pose? Protective covering against a wife like Leah? But then how would a strong man end up married to a woman like her. On the other hand, why would Odette have ever married a man as ineffectual as Wardham appeared to be? Could he have changed drastically during his marriage to Leah?

  Then, at the extreme edge of maybe was the idea of someone killing Leah to break Wardham’s heart. It would have taken a remarkably unobservant murderer not to have noticed how she treated him.

  The paper listing that theory had fallen off the bed when I stood and I’d kicked it under the bed on my way to the door.

  “No matter how seemingly sweet, the spouse is always a prime initial suspect according to Aunt Kit. Has to be looked at for sure. In this case, everybody had means. They could hold her cane across her throat and, since she was so small, they—” I caught Petronella’s expression and stopped. “Right. No details. He had means. Also opportunity. He said he was in the cabin sleeping, but there’s no proof, so it’s wide open. And motive — well, that’s obvious.”

  “What motive could he possibly have? Why would he ever kill his wife?” she asked. “No, no, I can’t believe it of him.”

  I suspected her unwillingness to consider any husband would consider killing any wife was projection. Or denial. Heck, I’d heard her apply the same denial to divorce, despite Tony already finalizing theirs.

  “Look at their marriage, Petronella. She wasn’t at all nice to him. She bossed him around and did nothing for him.”

  Remind you of any other marriages, Petronella? Tony told everyone — including within Petronella’s hearing — their irreconcilable difference was “She’s boring as sh—”

  She froze like a bunny in the middle of the lawn with our big, goofy childhood golden retriever, Bounce, bounding toward it.

  “Some people like caring for those they love,” she said in a small voice.

  “And that’s wonderful. But when the other party doesn’t acknowledge, appreciate, or reciprocate the generosity, it has to be wearing.” Without looking at her, I lightly added, “It could make someone like Wardham into a doormat. If he became tired of being a doormat no one could blame him, but—”

  “But murder.”

  Did Petronella recognize her doormatness? Had she ever considered ways to change it?

  “If he wasn’t strong enough to stand up to her, to get out of the marriage — can you imagine what Leah would say and how she’d make him suffer — he might have seen it as his only solution. Plus, he had another motive.” I slid a look toward her. “Odette.”

  “Odette? But…”

  “You saw him coming out of her cabin. She might, unwittingly, have sparked him to act.”

  As I said it, though, I wondered about unwittingly. I didn’t see Odette as unwitting about any situation.

  Petronella shook her head. “I can’t believe it of him.”

  “Then how about Ralph?”

  “What? That handsome man?”

  Handsome is as handsome does shot to my lips. I clamped them closed.

  “His motive could be anger at the way Leah threw him over. Or it could be anger — or protectiveness — over Leah’s treatment of Maya.”

  I read in her face that she rather liked the idea Ralph might have battled the dragon for lady fair. What she said was, “But Maya said he was with her in the cabin all night. They both said that.”

  News to me. “When did they say that?”

  “Yesterday. Right before we found you looking for your ea
rring.” With some triumph, she added, “That gives him an alibi.”

  I waved that away. “Lying to protect him. Or to protect herself. Because Maya might have done it, too. In which case Ralph was lying about being in the room together to protect her. Sometimes a mutual alibi doesn’t alibi either party.” Kit used that plot point recently.

  Petronella frowned at me as she puzzled out what I’d said. “I don’t understand.”

  I refused to feel a twinge of fellowship with Tony. “If one person lies about being with the second person and the second person agrees, both people are unaccounted for at the important time.”

  “Oh… Oh, yes, I see. But do you think Maya… I mean she might lie, but would she really hit someone? She’s … gentle.”

  Her tone didn’t sound enchanted with the female version of Wardham as an uber sensitive soul.

  “Even the gentle can get fed up. And Leah did a lot to make her fed up.”

  “Maya did marry her husband.”

  She gave that enough snap to make me wonder if she’d heard Tony was lining up a second Mrs. Domterni. “Ex-husband,” I emphasized. “And Leah instigated the ex-ness.”

  Petronella pursed her lips and blew out a breath. It was almost a humph. Pretty wild for her.

  “One question is if Maya could have carried Leah the way the figure in the security footage did.”

  “Yes.”

  The crisp, solitary word brought my head up. “Yes, that’s a question or, yes, she could have carried her?”

  “Maya could have carried Leah. That’s what I came to tell you. Bob was impressed with your trying to solve this murder—” I could have sworn that was Catherine. “—and I thought maybe I was being old-fashioned, thinking I needed to keep you away from all that. So, when I saw Ralph and Maya in the Wayfarer Bar after dinner, I went in and chatted with them. They said they had cabin fever—

  “Ha! Cabin fever on a ship.”

  “—and came out tonight because so few people were around. What?”

  “Never mind. Go ahead.”

  “I’m afraid they don’t want to talk with you. They say you’re nosy. But we chatted and they said a few things.”

  “That’s great, Petronella. What did they say?”