Killer Cruise

by Laura Levine

So Cookie wasn’t the only one having an affair with Graham. Paige had also been boffing the guy. Which means Paige was also jilted by him. What’s more, Paige was there the day of Anton’s ice sculpture demo. So she had access to his tools. Was it possible she flipped out when she learned of Graham’s betrayal and sought revenge with Anton’s ice pick?

  “Jaine, are you okay?” Robbie asked as I stood there lost in thought.

  “I’m fine,” I said, adding another suspect to my ever-growing list.

  Chapter 18

  All thoughts of murder suspects quickly faded as the dancing started up again and once more I found myself making body contact with Robbie. The next few hours sailed by in a happy blur.

  When the deejay had spun his last record, Robbie asked if I felt like getting a nightcap at the Tiki Lounge.

  “Absolutely,” I said, not wanting the evening to end.

  We nabbed ourselves a cozy booth under a thatched umbrella and settled down with two margaritas and a bowl of mixed nuts. I studiously avoided the nuts, hoping to pass myself off as the kind of person who can sit across from a bowl of Planters’ finest without inhaling it on contact.

  “Here’s to the real winner of the Musical Men contest,” Robbie said, raising his glass in a toast.

  “And to the last Musical Man standing,” I added, fighting the impulse to scoot closer to his thighs.

  There was no denying it. I was major league attracted to this guy.

  I’d always pegged surfer types as beer-swilling dodos with marshmallows for brains. But Robbie was different. I wanted to learn more about him, hoping he’d live up to my hormones’ expectations.

  “So tell me how you got started making surfboards,” I asked, grabbing a handful of the nuts I had not two seconds ago vowed not to touch.

  “I’ve always loved the beach,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “ever since I was a kid. I used to ride the bus two and a half hours to get to Santa Monica every weekend. So it’s only natural I got into making surfboards. I can’t think of anything I’d like doing better. It’s my way of being creative.”

  Every day Robbie seemed less and less like the bad boy of my first impressions and more like the sensitive artist of my dreams. I suddenly had visions of the two of us in a cottage by the sea, Robbie carving his surfboards while I dashed off a Great American Novel or two.

  “Yes, I’m a water baby, all right,” he said. “Which reminds me—are you all set for scuba diving tomorrow?”

  And just like that, my fantasy bubble popped.

  I’d forgotten all about the darn scuba excursion. No way was I going to let my surfer prince see me in a bathing suit. But what excuse could I use to get out of it? Could I fake a sprained knee? Nah. Then I’d have to spend the rest of the cruise limping. Okay, how about a stomach flu? That wouldn’t work either. Then I’d have to stop eating the nuts. Wait. I’d tell him I had an ear infection. That could work. People with ear infections weren’t supposed to swim.

  “Actually, Robbie—”

  “Yes?”

  Oh, hell. He looked so darn eager, I couldn’t fink out on him. Heaven knows what strings he had to pull to get me on the excursion at the last minute. Or how much it cost. Some of those fancy excursions were nosebleed expensive.

  “Actually,” I said, caving yet again, “I can’t wait either.”

  “That’s great,” he grinned.

  Then he helped himself to a handful of nuts in the absentminded way naturally skinny people do.

  “So now that you know I’m a surfaholic, what about you? What’s your passion in life?”

  I adroitly refrained from mentioning the first three answers that sprang to mind: milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and pepperoni pizza.

  Instead, I said, “Oh, writing. Definitely.”

  “I’ve always been in awe of writers.”

  I smiled modestly, hoping he wouldn’t remember that I spent most of my days writing about toilet bowls.

  We hung around the bar for a while longer, sharing tidbits from our lives (mine carefully edited). When we’d licked the last of the salt from the rims of our margarita glasses, Robbie said, “Well, I guess it’s time to call it a night.”

  “I guess so.”

  He hesitated a beat.

  “Say, why don’t I walk you back to your cabin?”

  Whoa. You know what that meant, don’t you? It was the nautical equivalent of Your place or mine? Well, if he thought I was going to leap in the sack with him he had another think coming. I wasn’t about to get frisky with him this early in the game. Not with my principles, not with my ethics—and not with my cat stowed illegally in my cabin.

  But maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe he had nothing more licentious on his mind than a good-night kiss.

  Which sounded awfully appealing to me. It couldn’t hurt to try for a good-night kiss, could it?

  Up to now Robbie and I had been chattering like jaybirds, but as we headed down the corridor to my cabin, we fell silent.

  I was desperately trying to think of something clever to say, but not a single conversational gambit cropped up in my allegedly creative brain.

  “Here we are,” I squeaked, when we finally reached my cabin.

  I looked up and saw that Robbie was staring at me. For once his lopsided grin was nowhere to be found. Indeed he looked quite serious when he said, “You know, Jaine, I really like you.”

  “I do, too! Like you, that is, not me. Not that I don’t like myself. Of course I do, although sometimes I can be rough on myself, self-critical, you know. I’ve really got to work on that—”

  Oh, for crying out loud. Of all times to start babbling.

  “I know what you meant, Jaine,” he said, touching his finger to my lips.

  This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for since I first saw him buttering a French roll in the dining room. He was leaning in to kiss me!

  Then, just as our lips were about to meet, I looked over his shoulder and saw something that made my blood freeze.

  It was Prozac, peeking out from behind an alcove!

  Dammit! She must’ve sneaked out when Samoa came in to turn down the bed. I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before she made a break for it.

  “Oh, no!” I cried, pulling away.

  “What’s wrong?” Robbie asked.

  Time for some fast talking.

  “Um, I lost my earrings!” I clutched my earlobes as if I’d just realized the earrings were missing.

  “Let’s go look for them,” I said, yanking him down the corridor as fast and as far away from Prozac as possible.

  “I didn’t realize you were wearing earrings,” he said, as we raced along.

  “They’re very small. You probably didn’t notice them. They must’ve fallen off while we were dancing. They mean so much to me; my grandmother gave them to me on her deathbed. In fact, her dying words were, ‘Jaine, whatever you do, don’t lose the earrings…’”

  Clearly the lobe in my brain in charge of idiotic babbling was in overdrive.

  “I totally understand,” Robbie said, as we reached the elevators.

  I jabbed the elevator button, terrified I was going to see Prozac prancing into view.

  It seemed like centuries before the dratted contraption finally showed up. I leapt on eagerly, and then, just as the doors were about to shut, I pressed the DOOR OPEN button and scooted out again.

  “Guess what?” I cried. “I found my earrings. They were in my pocket all along.”

  “They were?” Robbie said, quite justifiably looking at me as if I had more than a few screws loose.

  “Well, nighty night!” I chirped.

  And as the elevators closed on Robbie’s stupefied face, I raced off in search of my escaped stowaway.

  I found the little devil at the end of the corridor, chowing down on the remains of someone’s room service dinner.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I hissed, snatching her up in my arms.

  She shot me an affront
ed glare.

  Hey, wait! I haven’t finished those fries.

  I hustled her back to my cabin and was just about to put the key in the slot when I heard, “Well, hellooo, kitty.”

  Oh, groan. I’d recognize that smarmy voice anywhere.

  I turned to see Anton, decked out in an eye-popping outfit of orange Bermuda shorts, Day-Glo Hawaiian shirt, and—his pièce de résistance—black socks with sandals.

  “Last I heard,” he said, eyeing Prozac, “cats weren’t allowed on board.”

  “Gorillas aren’t either, but they let you on.”

  Okay, so I wasn’t dumb enough to say that.

  “How on earth did you find my cabin?” were the words that actually came out of my mouth.

  “I’ve been following you all night.”

  Not all night. Clearly he’d taken some time off to rendezvous with his buddy Jack Daniels. The guy reeked of booze.

  “Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to report your kitty to the authorities?” he asked, scratching Prozac behind her ears.

  The little slut purred in ecstasy.

  “Aw, c’mon, Anton.” With Herculean effort, I managed a smile. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

  “That depends,” he leered, “on whether you invite me in for a little mattress action.”

  Yuck. I’d rather suck a slug.

  But just then I saw another couple coming down the hallway. Panicked lest they see Prozac, I opened the cabin and dragged Anton inside.

  “I knew all along you were into me, babe,” he preened. “Just playing hard to get, huh?”

  “Forget it, Anton,” I said, tossing Prozac onto the bed and barricading myself behind the cabin’s only chair. “No way on earth am I going to sleep with you.”

  “How about some heavy petting?”

  “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Okay, then. I’m going to tell. One word from me and the cat’s in quarantine.”

  He started for the door.

  I should have let him go. I’d jumped through enough hoops for my spoiled feline princess, who was now sprawled out on the bed licking her privates, no doubt dreaming about her next snack. But you know what a softie I am when it comes to Prozac. I couldn’t let Anton turn her in.

  “Wait a minute!” I called out, wracking my brain for a way to keep him quiet. “I don’t suppose you have a book you’d like me to edit?”

  He shook his head.

  “A screenplay? Surely you have an idea for a screenplay. Nine out of ten men with ponytails do.”

  “Sorry, babe. The only idea I have involves you and me between the sheets. So whaddaya say?”

  And then, as a preview of coming attractions, he whipped off his Hawaiian shirt.

  I gasped. Not at the sight of his hairy belly. Or his rusty nipple studs. (Although Lord knows they were gaspworthy.)

  No, what had me transfixed was a large technicolor tattoo on his chest. And not just any tattoo. But a tattoo of a butterfly.

  A gold star to those of you who guessed what that meant.

  “Omigosh,” I blurted out. “You’re the Butterfly Bandit!”

  And just like that, he sobered up.

  “How did you find out?” he asked warily.

  “I saw the newspaper clipping in Graham’s wallet.”

  “That was a long time ago, Jaine. I’ve cleaned up my act since then.”

  “Graham was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he was blackmailing me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Threatened to tell the cruise line about my checkered past.”

  A shiver of fear ran down my spine. Had Anton killed Graham to shut him up? Was I alone in my cabin with a half-naked, hairy-bellied killer?

  “But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He shot me one of his meant-to-be-sexy smiles, but this time there was something forced about it.

  “C’mon, doll. You don’t really think I’m the kind of guy who’d kill someone?”

  Of course I did! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? What if no one had stolen Anton’s ice picks? What if he’d just pretended they were missing to throw suspicion off himself? I thought of how he’d complained to me that day on the deck, telling me the ice picks were gone from his case. But maybe he just wanted everyone to think they were stolen—so that when Graham showed up with one of them plunged in his chest, no one would suspect the seemingly foolish ice sculptor.

  He didn’t seem the least bit foolish now, I thought, eyeing his thick chest and brawny arms.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” he asked, with a feral smile.

  “Sure,” I lied.

  “And you’re not going to tell anyone?”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said, trying not to show my growing fear. “If you don’t tell about my cat, I won’t tell about the Butterfly Bandit.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Deal. Sure you don’t want to seal it with a kiss?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I could tell he didn’t really want to either. No, by now he was playing a part. His eyes were no longer hazy with desire, but focused and calculating.

  I’d finally succeeded in dampening his libido.

  And as he picked up his shirt and headed out into the corridor, I suddenly remembered that there had been two ice picks “stolen” from his supplies. You know what that means, don’t you?

  One of them was still out there, ready and available for getting rid of pesky P.I.s.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jaineausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Good as New

  I just finished staining the floor, lambchop, and if I do say so myself, I did a magnificent job! You’d never guess in a million years there’d ever been any paint there. Even your mother had to admit it looks pretty darn terrific.

  Love and kisses,

  Your daddy,

  “Handy” Hank Austen

  To: Jaineausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: A Minor Miracle

  You won’t believe this, honey, but Daddy actually managed to stain the floor without spilling anything! Talk about your minor miracles! Now he’s strutting around the apartment, puffing on that dratted pipe of his, talking about his “inner craftsman.” Heavens. The way he’s carrying on, you’d think he’d just painted the Sistine Chapel.

  Meanwhile, Lance and I are headed off to check out wedding cakes. I asked Daddy to come with us, but he wants to stay home like an old fuddy-dud and watch golf on TV.

  Do you realize how lucky you are to have found a man who actually enjoys the fun things in life like wedding planning? Oh, I just know you two are going to be so happy together!

  XXX,

  Mom

  PS. I ordered you a fabulous peignoir from the shopping channel. Perfect for your honeymoon. It has adorable pink sequined hearts all over the bodice. The show host said the Duchess of Windsor wore one just like it on her honeymoon!

  To: Jaineausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Home Improvement

  Your mom and Lance just left to check out wedding cakes. Those two sure are hitting it off. You’d better watch out she doesn’t steal him away from you. Ha-ha.

  By the way, lambchop, I’ve been taking a good look around your apartment and I see a lot of home improvement projects I could tackle while I’m here. Track lighting, for one. Marvin, the guy down at the hardware store, says it’s all the rage. And how about some new plumbing fixtures in your bathroom? Those should be a snap to install.

  Yep, as long as I’m here I may as well put my Inner Craftsman to good use and spruce your place up. It’s the least I can do for my little lambchop!

  XXX,

  Daddy

  To: Jaineausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Chocolate or Strawberry?

  Lance and I just got back from looking at the most gorgeous wedding cakes! Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like the
m. My favorite was a devil’s food castle—surrounded by a moat of hot fudge! Doesn’t that sound yummy?

  The baker was such a charming man. And very attractive. He and Lance hit it off so well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave us a discount, too! It’s just wonderful how Lance has won everyone over!

  Now you have to decide about the cake. Which do you like better? Devil’s food with chocolate crème filling? Or lemon with strawberry? Oh, why am I even asking? I already know the answer. Chocolate it is!

  Love from your very excited,

  Mom

  To: Jaineausten

  From: DaddyO

  Just ran out to the hardware store and picked up the plumbing fixtures. Wait’ll you see them, lambchop! The faucets are shaped like beer kegs! Nifty, huh? Marvin said it’s what all the trendy decorators are using. And did I tell you he’s giving me a Frequent Buyer Discount?

  I’ll get started first thing in the morning. In the meanwhile, time to sit back and relax with my pipe.

  Love & kisses,

  Daddy

  To: Jaineausten

  From: Sir Lancelot

  Subject: Wild Idea

  Jaine, sweetie, I had no idea the wedding industry was so packed full of eligibles. You should’ve seen the baker we met today. To die for! I swear, getting engaged to you has been the best thing to happen to my love life since spandex bike shorts.

  Don’t kill me, but I didn’t tell your mom the truth.

  In fact, she and I are having so much fun planning this wedding, I’ve just had a wild idea: Why don’t we go through with it? I mean, I’ve always dreamed of a beachside wedding. We won’t stay married, of course. Once we split up, I can start dating all the men I’ve met. And we’ll cash in the wedding gifts and reimburse your parents for what they spent. This way your mom and I get to have the wedding of our dreams, and you get to have a devil’s food wedding cake with a hot fudge moat. What do you say? Does it work for you?