by Laura Levine
XXX,
Lance
Chapter 19
“I swear, Marian, I saw a cat!”
I was standing in the elevator the next morning when I heard those alarming words. I turned to see a middle-aged couple in Holiday Cruise Lines sweatshirts.
The man, a florid guy with a drinker’s web of broken capillaries on his nose, was clearly agitated.
“A cat!” he repeated, in case his wife didn’t get it the first time.
“Don’t be silly, Fred,” she replied, checking her hair in the elevator’s mirrored walls.
“I’m telling you, Marian, I saw that cat as clear as day. It was right outside our door eating french fries.”
Oh, crud. The last thing I needed was this guy broadcasting news of Prozac’s midnight escapades. Thank heavens there was no one else in the elevator. But what if his wife believed him? What if they went racing off to the authorities and they did a cabin-to-cabin search looking for Prozac?
“It was probably just a shadow,” his wife said, now wiping a lipstick smudge from her teeth. “That’s what you get for drinking so many martinis last night.”
“But it looked so real.” Suddenly he sounded a lot less sure of himself.
“Remember the time you thought you saw a mountain lion in our garage and it turned out to be your exercycle?”
He nodded, abashed.
“Tonight you’re having one glass of wine with dinner. And that’s it.”
“Yes, Marian.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heavens for henpecked husbands.
The moment of truth had arrived. I could put it off no longer. Like it or not, I had to buy a bathing suit for that dratted scuba excursion.
(WARNING: Sensitive readers beware. Graphic tush-in-three-way-mirror scene ahead.)
I made my way to the ship’s clothing boutique, where I was greeted by a tiny redheaded sprite. I’m guessing she was about a size zero soaking wet. I hadn’t even tried anything on, and I was depressed already.
There ought to be a law about bathing suit salespeople. Only nice motherly women with generous hips should be allowed to sell them. Not tiny slip-of-a-thing sprites.
“How may I help you today?” She smiled perkily. I’d be perky, too, if I had a torso the size of a Pringles can.
“I need a bathing suit.”
Minutes later I was trapped in front of a three-way mirror (don’t say I didn’t warn you) in a dowdy black number that looked like it was designed by the same mortician who’d come up with my outfit for formal night.
It was a choice between that and a hot pink tankini that left nothing to the imagination except thoughts of suicide.
“See how it takes inches off your waist?” the sprite gushed as I stared at my image in dismay.
Yes, indeedie, it did. Unfortunately, it shoved those inches right down to my hips, which had all the inches they needed, thank you very much.
“Are these all you’ve got?” I asked.
“I’ll go check and see what else is out there.”
Soon she was back in the dressing room holding up a red floral monstrosity.
“How about this one? It’s got a special compartment for incontinence pads.”
“I guess I’ll stick with the one I’m wearing.”
“I think you’ll like it. We sell a lot of them to nuns.”
And ninety dollars later I was walking out of the shop with my black nunsuit.
I was a lot less depressed than I would normally be under the circumstances. Mainly because I was too busy worrying about that missing ice pick. Needless to say, I’d had a hard time falling asleep after Anton’s visit to my cabin last night. I’d just laid there, my head resting on the tiny bit of pillow that Prozac had grudgingly allotted me, wondering if Anton could possibly be the murderer-at-large on the SS Festival.
Of course, he was just one of my many viable suspects. If only I could figure out which of them was the killer.
After a while I turned on the light and did what I often do when faced with a thorny problem. I grabbed a pen and paper and began writing. Writing, I find, like fine chocolate, often helps clarify my thoughts.
For the record, here’s what I wrote:
My Suspects
By Jaine Austen
Anton. AKA the Butterfly Bandit. The latest entry in my suspect sweepstakes. Graham’s blackmail victim. And a man with a known criminal history. In addition to bank robbery and numerous fashion crimes, had he used his own ice pick to stab his blackmailer to death?
Kyle Pritchard. The Suspect I’d Most Like to See Behind Bars. Desperate to keep his hands on Emily’s money. Threatened to do whatever it took to keep Graham from marrying Emily. Did that include murder? (True, I didn’t find the cuff links in his safe. But maybe I was wrong about the cuff links. Maybe the killer didn’t take them, after all. Or maybe I was just a lousy cabin searcher.)
Leona Nesbitt. Another juicy suspect. Graham had threatened to fire her. Did she kill him to save her job? Was she in cahoots—both in and out of bed—with Kyle? And what about those damp shoes? Did she get them out on deck plunging an ice pick into Graham’s heart?
Maggie Pritchard. Mousy on the outside, but a killer on the inside? Compulsive gambler with a nasty habit to feed. Had she wiped out Graham to protect her source of chips?
Chips. Wonder if they have any down at the buffet. Yes, chips would be nice right now—with some melted cheese—and maybe some guacamole—
Okay, so my mind wandered a tad. But you’ll be happy to know I did not go tearing down to the buffet for nachos. I couldn’t possibly allow one more empty calorie past my lips, not when I had to show up in front of Robbie in a bathing suit. So for once I reined in the tapeworm that resides in my stomach and went back to bed.
After a while, with the sweet sounds of Prozac snoring in my ear, I finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
Sad to say, when I woke up this morning, I was just as confused as ever. Writing down my thoughts had brought me no clarity whatsoever. All I knew for sure was that my murderer-at-large was still very much at large.
With that happy thought bouncing around my brain, I set off for a fun day of scuba diving.
I’d arranged to meet the Pritchards for lunch in Cabo before heading off for our scuba adventure. Heaven knows where those sports nuts had been all morning. Probably squeezing in a triathlon.
Unfortunately, I had to take a cab to the restaurant where we were meeting. I found the cheapest taxi available, a rattletrap VW Beetle that had been around since Goebbels was in diapers, and forked over twenty-two bucks for the privilege of bumping along in a miasma of exhaust fumes.
At last we arrived at our destination, a charming hacienda-style restaurant awash in hot pink bougainvillea, with a spectacular view of Cabo San Lucas Bay. As I walked up the steps to the front patio I could hear the sounds of strolling mariachis inside.
I checked at the front desk, but the Pritchards had not yet arrived.
So I went back outside and called Lance on my cell. I dreaded to think what a long-distance international phone call would cost, but I’d checked my e-mails that morning and was determined to call a halt to our impending “wedding” before the invitations went out.
Thank heavens he picked up.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said, his voice faint but bubbly with excitement. “Your mom and I just got back from interviewing the most amazing florist. What a hottie! Fabulous abs, and peonies to die for! That’s what we’re going with for the wedding, by the way. Peonies.”
“Lance!” I shouted into the phone. Our connection wasn’t all that great and I had to cover my exposed ear to block out the sound from the mariachis. “There will be no peonies! There will be no wedding! I insist that you tell my mother the truth!”
“But, Jaine,” he whined, “I’m meeting so many great guys.”
“I don’t care how many guys you’re meeting, you’ve got to tell my mother the wedding is off.”
“Are you sure you
don’t want to go through with it? I’ll invite some straight guys. You might meet somebody, too!”
“Forget it, Lance. I do not intend to go trolling for dates at my own wedding.”
“Oh, all right,” he sulked.
“Promise you’ll tell my mom the truth?”
“I promise, I promise.” Then grudgingly he asked, “So how’s the cruise? Having fun?”
“Not exactly.”
“I told you it would be a disaster!” he gloated. “I want all the details.”
And before I knew it, I was spilling my guts to him at about a zillion dollars a minute, telling him all about Graham’s murder.
“It’s been incredibly frustrating. The captain won’t listen to a thing I say. The minute we get back to L.A. I’m going to the police and tell them everything I know.”
“Just be careful, okay?”
“Oh, I will. But I’d better hang up now, before I need a cosigner to pay my phone bill. And tell Daddy I absolutely forbid him to do one more repair on my apartment!”
“Will do. Oops. Gotta go. There’s your mom on the other line.”
I hung up, and the minute I did, I realized I had company. I turned to see the Pritchards standing just a few feet away from me. I hadn’t heard them coming over the noise of the mariachis.
Damn. What if they heard me yapping about the murder? I scanned their faces, checking their reactions. Kyle and Nesbitt were glaring at me, but then they were always glaring at me. Robbie was smiling tentatively. (At least he was smiling—which was more than I deserved after my nutty behavior last night.) And Maggie wasn’t looking at me at all, busy applying sunblock to her already red nose.
I was happy to see that Emily had made it out of her cabin and had joined them on their expedition. She stood at Nesbitt’s side, staring vacantly out to sea.
“Gee, I didn’t know you guys were here.”
“We were waiting for you to finish your phone call,” Nesbitt snapped.
Emily turned to me with a wan smile.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “We haven’t been waiting long.”
As we headed into the dining room Robbie pulled me aside.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Sure.”
“I only ask because you were acting sort of strange last night.”
Strange? Moi? Just because I was hopping on and off an elevator like a bipolar bunny?
“Oh, no, I’m fine. Just fine.”
I plastered on my brightest smile.
“Good,” he said, gracing me with a high-octane grin of his own. “Glad to hear it. And I’m glad you found them.”
“Found what?”
“Your earrings.”
“Oh, right. My earrings. Of course.”
My God, Jaine. Pay attention!
We joined the others at a primo window table with a breathtaking view of the water below.
A bevy of waiters and busboys descended on us, passing out menus, wine lists, rolls, and bottled water.
I opened the menu and, like a high-cholesterol homing pigeon, zeroed in on the Petit Filet Mignon. For days I’d been lusting after a nice juicy steak. And there it was—just the way I liked it—with shoestring fries and crisp onion rings.
But I couldn’t possibly order it. It was the most expensive thing on the menu. And I’d be nuts to eat a big meal before putting on a bathing suit. My waist could not afford to expand one more millimeter. No, I’d do the sensible thing and get a healthy green salad, hold the dressing.
“And for you, senorita?”
The waiter was at my side, his pad at the ready.
“I’ll have the filet mignon.”
I know. I’m impossible. But what the heck? Once Robbie saw me in my nunsuit, it was all over anyway. What did it matter if I had a steak and fries under my belt?
“Are you crazy?” Kyle squawked. “A steak before scuba diving? You want to sink like an anchor?”
“Most unwise,” Nesbitt chimed in, lips pursed in disapproval.
“Actually,” Robbie said, shooting me an apologetic smile, “it’s probably not the best idea.”
With heavy heart, I kissed my steak good-bye and ordered the Cabo salad, which turned out to be an anemic plate of greens and veggies with a few shards of shredded chicken on top.
“So how did you spend your morning, Jaine?” Maggie asked as I rooted around my salad in search of croutons.
“Oh, just lazing around,” I said, saving the details of my bathing suit fiasco for a therapist. “What were you guys up to?”
“We went on a tour of a factory where we watched the artists make handblown glass. So fascinating!”
“Yes, that was interesting, wasn’t it?” Emily said, a spark of her old enthusiasm returning to her voice. “I’ve always loved glass collectibles. Remember that wonderful factory outside of Venice, Leona? Such beautiful goblets. Graham and I are going to stop off there on our honeymoo—”
She blinked in confusion.
“Oh, dear. For a moment I forgot.”
Then tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered that she and Graham were going nowhere together.
“Excuse me, everyone,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need to powder my nose.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nesbitt said.
“No, you stay here, dear. I’d rather be alone.”
And with that, she got up from the table and hurried toward the ladies’ room.
“Poor thing,” Maggie sighed.
“Time heals all wounds,” Nesbitt intoned solemnly, as if she’d come up with that ditty on her own.
“Ms. Nesbitt is right,” Kyle said. “By next week, she’ll have forgotten all about it.”
Robbie shook his head, disgusted. “You’re an idiot, Kyle.”
Hear, hear! I felt like shouting.
“I won’t dignify that with a response,” Kyle said.
The two brothers exchanged glares as the mariachis played gaily in the background. Everyone proceeded to pick at their food—everyone except Kyle, who wasn’t going to let his aunt’s tears get in the way of his lunch. I gave up my search for croutons in my salad and wasn’t at all sad to bid it adieu when one of the busboys whisked it away.
After a while Emily returned to the table, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.
Kyle put on his caring face.
“Are you okay, Aunt Em?”
“I’m fine.” She forced a smile.
“You know what they say,” he cooed, taking her hand in his. “Everything always happens for the best. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I had Graham checked out by a detective agency. They e-mailed me their report this morning. He was a complete fraud.” This said with a smug nod. “Never worked at British Petroleum. Was a ship’s steward all his life. Cleaned toilets for a living.
“I hate to say this, Auntie,” he went on, not hating it at all, “but all he wanted was your money.”
Emily sat up rigid in her chair.
“Then you two had a lot in common,” she said, yanking her hand from his.
Kyle blanched under his country club tan.
“You think I don’t know what you’re really like?” Emily said, with glacial calm. “Fawning all over me, counting the days till I die and you inherit my money. I understand you all too well, Kyle. And now it’s time you understood me.”
By now Kyle’s jaw was slack with disbelief.
“You say one more word against the man I loved, and you’ll never see another penny of my money again. Is that clear?”
He nodded numbly.
Then Emily picked up her spoon and calmly began stirring her coffee.
Way to go, Aunt Em!
If I could, I would’ve given her a standing ovation.
Chapter 20
We rode over to our “Scuba Adventure” in a private van the Pritchards had hired for the day. I sat next to Robbie in the backseat, hoping he couldn’t hear my stomach growling. It wasn’t used to salad for lunch.
I nodded
intently as he talked about a scuba expedition he’d taken in Tahiti, but I didn’t hear a word, my mind paralyzed at the thought of my impending doom.
Any minute now he’d be getting his first look at me and my cellulite in my nunsuit. I could practically see cupid putting away his bow and arrow and heading off to greener pastures.
All too soon we got to the beach and were herded off to cabanas to change.
The good news is I did not have to appear in public in an unflattering bathing suit.
That’s because my unflattering bathing suit was hidden underneath an even more unflattering wet suit, a black neoprene monstrosity that revealed every lump and bump in my body.
Why oh why hadn’t I come up with an excuse to get out of this damn excursion?
I prayed for a shark sighting, an earthquake, a tsunami—anything to shut down the beach.
When Mother Nature did not oblige with any natural disasters, I took a deep breath and headed out to join the others.
It was a blazingly hot day and the beach was crowded with tourists and locals alike.
Instantly I began sweating in my neoprene straightjacket.
My only consolation, I thought, as I trudged along in the sand, was that at least the less-than-svelte Maggie would look as ghastly as I did.
But then I saw her, still in her street clothes, stretched out alongside Emily in a comfy lounge chair under the shade of a huge thatched umbrella. I wasn’t surprised to see Emily sitting it out. But what was Maggie doing here?
“Aren’t you going diving?” I asked her as I approached their umbrella.
“I decided to keep Aunt Emily company.”
What a great excuse. Why hadn’t I thought of it? How I longed to change back into my elastic-waist shorts and plop down next to them.
“Have a good dive, dear!” Emily said.
“Oh, I will,” I lied with a sick smile.
Still praying for a last-minute tsunami, I trekked off to join the other Pritchards. They were standing at the shore with the rest of the tour divers—all of whom were in depressingly better shape than I was. One of the gals, a hawk-faced dame with abs of steel, smugly announced that it was her eightieth birthday. This is what she did on her eightieth birthday? Had the woman never heard of birthday cake and margaritas?