by Laura Levine
Robbie, however, was oblivious to the action around us; he just stared into his drink, still upset over the scene at dinner.
“What a family, huh?” he said.
“Well, you know Tolstoy’s old gag. Happy families are boring. It’s the unhappy ones that are interesting.”
“You’ve read Tolstoy?” he asked, looking up from his drink.
“Not really. But I Google him a lot.”
That prompted a wan smile.
“Well, if Tolstoy’s right, we Pritchards are probably one of the most interesting families you’ll ever meet. As you can tell, there’s not a lot of love lost between me and Kyle.”
I doubted there was a lot of love lost between Kyle and anybody.
“Kyle’s always been a cold fish. It’s in the genes. He’s just like Grandfather.”
“I don’t mean to pry”—of course I did—“but what did you mean when you said Emily might have been happy if it hadn’t been for your grandfather?”
He took a stiff slug of his drink and swiveled on his bar stool to face me.
“Remember that romance I told you about, when Emily was young, the one that broke her heart?”
“I remember.”
“The man she fell in love with didn’t measure up to Grandfather’s standards. He was a crew member on one of her cruises. They were crazy about each other, and Emily was all set to marry him. But Grandfather put his foot down. He wasn’t about to have his only daughter hook up with a lowly crewman. He offered her lover money to go away. And the guy took it. He never saw her again.”
“Then he couldn’t have really loved her.”
“Or maybe Grandfather just scared the bejesus out of him. Grandfather was a pretty intimidating guy. All I know is he was the love of her life, and she never met anybody else.”
“How sad,” I sighed, hoping my shipboard romance would have a happier ending.
“Poor Aunt Em,” Robbie said. “She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken twice in a lifetime. Although Kyle’s probably right.” He stirred his scotch pensively. “Maybe it’s all for the best. Graham was a pretty slimy character.”
Possibly even a criminal, I thought, remembering the Butterfly Bandit clipping I’d seen in his wallet.
“Frankly,” he said, “I’m not sure I blame that singer for bumping him off.”
“Oh, but she didn’t!”
“What do you mean?”
“Cookie’s in the cabin next to mine. Or she was before they carted her off to the brig. I got to know her pretty well, and I don’t believe she’s a killer.”
“If she didn’t kill him, then who did?”
“I have no idea. But whoever it was stole one of Anton’s ice picks to do it. I don’t suppose you noticed anyone hanging around the display table after his demo, did you?”
“No. After Anton cornered you, I left.”
By now the Lutheran ladies had kicked off their orthopedic sneakers and were Electric Gliding on the dance floor with abandon. One of them had grabbed a whistle from around the emcee’s neck and was tooting every time his tush came into view, provoking lusty whoops from the rest of the gals.
“At least somebody’s having fun on this cruise,” Robbie said, noticing them for the first time.
“Probably a little too much fun,” I replied as the emcee struggled to get his whistle back.
“By the way,” he said, “in all the fuss over the murder, I almost forgot—I’ve got some good news!”
“Really? What is it?”
He smiled proudly.
“Well, seeing how much you like water sports, I pulled some strings and got you a spot on our scuba excursion the day after tomorrow.”
“Scuba diving?” I gulped. “The day after tomorrow?”
“Yes. Isn’t that terrific?”
Oh, Lord. Why on earth had I told that outrageous lie? I knew absolutely zippo about scuba diving. And the last thing I wanted was to appear in public in a bathing suit. I was simply going to have to fess up and tell Robbie that the closest I’d ever come to a scuba dive was watching old Sea Hunt reruns.
“To be perfectly honest, Robbie, I’m not a very experienced diver.”
“As long as you know the basics, you’ll be okay. You do know the basics, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure, I know the basics.”
What was wrong with me? Could I not tell the truth for two consecutive minutes?
“And I promise I’ll watch out for you,” he assured me. “So how about it? Is it a date?”
He shot me a grin that could melt mozzarella.
“It’s a date,” I said, caving like you knew I would.
At which point the Lutheran ladies broke out into a deafening chorus of “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy),” lassoing the emcee with his microphone cord. Poor guy looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. I knew exactly how he felt.
“What do you say we get out of here and go for a walk on deck?” Robbie asked.
“Gee, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
Which was no lie. Thanks to that scuba excursion looming on the horizon, all thoughts of romance had gone flying out the porthole. Besides, I had to get back to the cabin and get some work done on Do Not Distub before Samoa showed up for our midnight meeting.
“Oh.” Robbie’s smile faded.
“Maybe some other night?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, waving to the bartender for another drink.
“Well, see ya.”
I slid off my barstool and made my way back to my cabin, wondering how I could possibly lose fifteen pounds in forty-eight hours.
By the time midnight rolled around, I’d managed to plow through half of Do Not Distub. I was bleary-eyed with fatigue when Samoa showed up, as promised, with the passkey and requested cabin numbers.
“You must return passkey to Samoa tomorrow afternoon by three o’clock,” he commanded, handing it to me.
“Absolutely,” I promised. I planned to get started snooping as soon as the Pritchards left for their kayaking excursion. Which, according to the Holiday Happenings, began at 9 A.M. So I’d have plenty of time to poke around.
“Now it’s time to show Samoa what you’ve done,” he said, making himself at home in my one and only chair.
“Here you go,” I said, handing him my sweated-over pages.
He began reading, moving his lips as he did so. Not a good sign. As a rule, lip movers are rarely speed readers. At this rate, we’d be here for hours.
And, alas, we were. He didn’t finish until after 2 A.M.
Prozac had a lovely nap during the interim, and I must confess I dozed off a bit myself.
Finally he’d lip-read his last syllable.
“Samoa is finished,” he announced, crossing his arms over his chest, very Yul Brynner in The King and I.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”
He broke out in a wide grin.
“Samoa is pleased!”
Thank heavens; otherwise there might have been another murder on board.
“Do Not Distub will be international best-seller!” he proclaimed.
At which point I could have sworn Prozac rolled her eyes.
Whatever he’s smoking, I want some.
“Samoa will go now,” he said, getting up from his chair.
I loved the way this guy narrated his own life.
After making me promise once more to return the passkey by three the next afternoon, he finally trotted off.
It had grown pretty stuffy in the cabin, so after he left I decided to go to the pool deck for some fresh air.
I don’t suppose you fell for that, did you? Of course I didn’t go to the pool deck for fresh air. I went to the buffet for a brownie. Yes, I know I’m a disgrace—just a few paragraphs ago I was talking about losing fifteen pounds in forty-eight hours—but what can I say? I was hungry!
And it was all that darn Pepe’s fault. I’d eaten lunch so late, I’d hardly touched my dinner. An
d now at 2:30 in the morning I was starving. I’d just have one measly brownie to tide me over till breakfast, at which point I would start a spartan exercise and weight-loss regime.
So don’t give me any flak, okay? I get enough of that from my scale.
And besides, I’m only telling you about my shameful caloric lapse because of what happened on my way back from the buffet.
There I was, strolling past the casino, wondering who the genius was who first mixed nuts with chocolate, when I saw a familiar face at the roulette wheel.
It was Kyle’s wife, Maggie. What was she doing in the casino in the middle of the night? I looked around for Kyle, but he was nowhere in sight.
Maggie was shaking a pair of dice with surprising expertise, the players around her shouting words of encouragement. Then she tossed them, and a collective groan arose from the table. Maggie blanched in dismay as her chips were raked away. For a minute, I thought she might even cry.
From the way she’d handled those dice, I could tell Maggie was no casual gambler. Far from it. This gal had “addict” written all over her. With her ashen face, frizzled hair, and gleam of manic desperation in her eyes, she looked like a poster girl for Gamblers Anonymous.
Very interesting.
Up to now Maggie hadn’t been on my suspect list, but suddenly I wondered. Could she possibly be the killer? What if she depended on Emily’s money to feed her habit? Hadn’t Graham threatened to cut off all Kyle’s access to Emily’s portfolio? Had Maggie stabbed him with Anton’s ice pick to keep herself in chips?
Just something to ponder while I ate my brownie.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jaineausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Such Wonderful News!
Jaine, sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me that you and Lance were engaged??
To: Jaineausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Congratulations, Lambchop!
Your mom just told me the good news!
Lance seems like a very nice fellow. Of course, in my eyes, no fella’s good enough for my lambchop. But if he makes you happy, that’s all that counts!
Love and kisses,
Daddy (aka The Father of the Bride)
To: Jaineausten
From: Sir Lancelot
Subject: Don’t Kill Me
Don’t kill me, Jaine, but I told your mom that you and I were engaged. I was helping her do the dishes after dinner, and she started talking about how I needed a special gal in my life. I told her I already had a special gal in my life—you—and somehow she just assumed we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I wanted to tell her the truth, but she was so happy, I couldn’t bust her bubble.
Anyhow one thing led to another and the next thing I knew I’d invented this fabulous love affair culminating when I proposed to you on bended knees after a moonlit stroll on the beach. The bottom line is—after I get off work this afternoon, we’re going to check out wedding chapels.
But don’t worry. I promise I’ll tell her the truth today.
Love from,
Lance
To: Jaineausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: I Almost Forgot
Jaine, honey—
In all the excitement of the wedding, I almost forgot: I hired a handyman to get the paint stains off your floor. A very nice fellow named Ricardo. I saw him doing some work for one of your neighbors up the street, and as luck would have it, he said he’d be free today to stop by. And he’s only charging $30! What a bargain!
Daddy agrees it’s best we let a professional take over from here. He’s going to stay home and “supervise” while Lance and I look at wedding venues.
Oops. There’s Lance at the door now.
More later!
XXX,
Mom
To: Jaineausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Outraged!
Would you believe your mother hired a handyman to clean a few drops of paint from the floor?
If your mom thinks I’m going to pay some stranger off the streets thirty bucks for a job I can do blindfolded, she’s nuts!
Love and kisses from your outraged,
Daddy
To: Jaineausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: A Beachside Wedding!
Jaine, darling, I just this minute got back from looking at wedding venues and had to race to the computer to tell you all about it. We’ve found the ideal spot! A lovely hotel right on the beach! Just think! A beachside wedding. How utterly romantic!
Of course, it’s terribly expensive but Lance really seemed to hit it off with the hotel manager, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to get a discount. Afterward Lance and I had cocktails out on the hotel’s terrace. Oh, honey. I had a whiskey sour and it went straight to my head!
Lance has such wonderful ideas for the wedding. He’s so creative. Unlike your father, who wants to have the wedding at the Tampa Vistas clubhouse, and serve chili cheese dogs at the reception. My goodness, have you ever heard of anything so silly?
Well, time to get dinner started. Not that I’m the least bit hungry. That sweet hotel manager sent us complimentary hors d’oeuvres with our cocktails.
Love from,
Mom
To: Jaineausten
From: Sir Lancelot
Subject: Fabulous News!
Fabulous news, Jaine! I met the most wonderful guy, the manager at the Casa Del Mar Hotel. What a dreamboat. I swear, he could be Mr. Right. Anyhow, I never did get around to telling your mom the truth about our “engagement.” She was having so much fun, it just didn’t seem like the right time. But I swear I’ll tell her tomorrow when we go to check out wedding cakes.
Signing off from cloud nine, your fiancé (haha!),
Lance
To: Jaineausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: So Mad I Could Spit!
Something simply awful has happened!
I was on my way to the kitchen to fix dinner when I looked down and saw the most horrible mess on the living room floor!
You’re not going to believe this, but Daddy sent Ricardo away this afternoon and tried to clean up the paint stains himself. He got out the stains, all right, but the darn fool wound up taking up the walnut finish. So now, instead of a few drops of paint on your floor, you’ve got a big white patch of bare wood!
I am so mad at your father I could just spit!
Your disgusted,
Mom
To: Jaineausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Minor Mishap
Good news, honey! I got all the paint off your floor. One tiny problem, though. Some of the finish came off, too. But fear not. I’ll just pick up some walnut stain at the hardware store, and your floor will be as good as new! Easy-sneezy, no problemo!
Love and kisses,
Daddy
PS. Don’t worry about hiring a musician for the wedding, lambchop. I’ll be happy to play my accordion.
Chapter 14
The next morning Prozac clawed me awake for her breakfast at the ghastly hour of seven a.m.
Let’s do the math, shall we? Asleep at three, awake at seven. That’s four not-so-refreshing hours of sleep.
“Prozac, show a little mercy,” I groaned.
But she went right on to digging her claws into my chest.
With a weary sigh, I dragged myself out of bed and tossed her some roast turkey I’d picked up on my brownie run last night.
She turned up her little pink nose in disgust. I knew what she was thinking.
Leftovers again?
“It’s not leftovers; it’s barely four hours old!”
Seeing that I wasn’t about to dash over to the buffet for a replacement breakfast, she reluctantly started eating.
The minute she did, I scrambled back into bed, hoping to get some more sleep. But as much as I tried, sleep would not come. I just laid there, listening to the snorting noise Prozac makes w
hen she inhales her food. Out in the hallway, early birds were clomping past my room to start their day, their footsteps echoing like cannons.
It looked like I was up for good.
So once more I pried myself out of bed. Then, true to my vow to whittle away some unwanted pounds before Scuba Day, I threw on some sweats and headed off to the jogging track.
High up on the prow of the ship, the jogging track provided an unsurpassed view of the ocean. But what really caught my eye was the sight of Kyle and Maggie doing laps.
Good heavens. Weren’t they about to head off to Mazatlan for a day of strenuous kayaking? And yet there they were, working out before a workout. Talk about gluttons for punishment.
Clad in shorts and a sweatshirt, his muscular legs churning like pistons, Kyle whizzed along with impressive speed. Maggie—like me, a charter member of the cellulite club—struggled to keep up with him. After a grueling night at the casino, the bags under her eyes were the size of carryons.
I waved to her, but, lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see me. Kyle saw me but chose to ignore me.
I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the track. There was no delaying it any longer. Time to burn some calories.
I managed to keep up a nice steady trot for all of about thirty seconds. After which, my heart pounding in protest, I settled for a fast walk.
It was then that I heard Kyle and Maggie coming up behind me.
“Oh, Kyle,” Maggie was saying, “I’m worried. “What if the police find out?”
The police? Find out what?
I was hoping to hear more tidbits as they overtook me on their laps, but before I knew it, Kyle had Maggie by the elbow and was hustling her off the track, shooting me a nervous glance as they left.
I continued to puff along, my brain in overdrive.