She picked up the platter of appetizers and looked around the deck. She’d expected the Warbecks and their guests to be chatting amiably in one or two circles by now. Instead, the group had broken into twosomes and loners, spaced out like pods on the open deck.
Otto and Homer stood near the railing on the port side, discussing auction prices for Titanic collectibles. Louisa lingered near them, sipping champagne and staring—or was it glaring?—at her handsome husband, who was monopolizing Cheyenne. They sat on the built-in bench that ran along the back railing.
Trey and his mother stood on the starboard side of the yacht, talking to Bethany and sampling s’mores.
As Val approached the bench where Cheyenne and Damian were sitting, she saw that Trey had moved toward them, close enough to eavesdrop. Damian was talking about lobbying the state legislature to grant more permits for poultry farming. Val offered the tray to him and Cheyenne, who took the goat cheese bruschetta, bit into it, and gave her a thumbs-up.
Damian shook his head. “Thank you. I’ve been eating those cheese s’mores. Delicious.” He turned back to Cheyenne. “It looks like we’ll get some permits in spite of the efforts of the radical environmentalists to prevent it.”
“We’re not radical,” Trey protested loudly. “We’re protecting natural resources. Poultry farms are a leading cause of bay pollution.”
Damian managed an indulgent smile. “Maybe that used to be the case, but we’ve come a long way in how we handle the waste. And the new farms will follow the latest guidelines.”
Trey stabbed his index finger in the lobbyist’s direction. “Those guidelines are too lax.”
Val stepped back from the fray and stood next to Bethany, who held skewered marshmallows over the portable grill.
Stacy locked arms with her son. “Pollution isn’t the only problem with poultry farms.” She spoke slowly and calmly, in contrast to Trey’s belligerent tone. “Chickens are raised in cages so tiny that they can’t move. It’s cruel and immoral, and it should be illegal.”
Bethany leaned toward Val and spoke softly. “Good thing you’re not serving chicken tonight.”
Louisa stormed across the deck. “My father has been in the poultry business for fifty years.” She pointed to Stacy. “You want to outlaw a major business in this state and throw workers out of their jobs. You’ll drive up the price of chickens so poor people can’t afford them.”
Val expected the host to defuse the conflict, but he merely watched it as though his guests were characters in a play.
Val whispered to Bethany, “Did you pick up any info on how the Warbecks know these guests?”
“I chatted with Stacy. She’s Otto’s ex-wife, and Trey is his former stepson.”
Val shook her head in disbelief. “They must have had an unusually amicable divorce.”
Cheyenne stood up and interrupted the chicken dispute. “Otto has an announcement to make about tonight’s entertainment.”
All eyes turned toward him.
“I planned to say this at the sail-away toast, but since Cheyenne jumped the gun”—he gave her a stony look—“I’ll do it now. As you know, our dinner will re-create the last meal served on the Titanic. While we eat, we’ll play a mystery game. You’ll each assume the role of a Titanic passenger. Together we’ll try to determine who’s responsible for the death of young Annie Milner, who disappeared the night before the ship hit the iceberg. A thorough search revealed she was no longer on board.”
Val saw her own surprise mirrored in the faces of Otto’s guests.
The antique dealer fingered his handlebar mustache. “Did that really happen on the Titanic?”
Otto shrugged. “It could have. The big tragedy destroyed the records of any smaller ones that occurred on board. That said, tonight’s scenario is indeed a fiction. You will not play a real person, but someone who resembles a Titanic passenger.”
Trey sneered. “Are you playing a role too, or are you just the puppet master?”
Otto showed no annoyance, suggesting he was used to hostility from his former stepson. “I’ll assume the role of Captain Smith. That’s the name of the Titanic’s actual captain. I expect lively and even heated table talk, but it’s all in good fun.”
“Where did you get this game?” Louisa asked in her high-pitched voice.
“I adapted it from a Titanic mystery game I downloaded. You’ll each play a role and act as witness, suspect, and detective. You’ll have a script to follow with a few set lines, but otherwise you’re free to accuse each other and defend yourself against accusations.”
“That sounds ominous,” Val whispered to Bethany. “A minute ago I was worried about a food fight at the table. Now I’m glad they won’t have steak knives at their places.”
“Relax, Val. I’ve played these mystery games before. The murder always happens before the game starts.”
A chilly gust ruffled Val’s hair. “Otto didn’t say the girl was murdered.”
“No, but I’ll bet it turns out that way.” Bethany put a mini round of Brie on a wooden skewer and held it over the flame. “This game is a brilliant way to keep the peace. One year, when my family was feuding before our Thanksgiving dinner, my mother took a murder mystery game from the closet. Instead of real arguments, we all had a great time getting into character, accusing each other of crimes, and defending ourselves.”
Val shook her head. “Playing the game wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision tonight. Otto planned it, like he did everything else about this dinner. The game was the reason he needed exactly eight people at the table.” Val remembered what he’d said about the date, the place, and the guests aligning perfectly for his party. Why did he invite this odd assortment of guests? What game was he really playing?
Chapter 3
Val made another circuit of the deck with the tray of hors d’oeuvres and asked Otto’s guests about food allergies and aversions.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Trey told her.
“Then skip the soup course and ignore the meat in the fifth course. Is your mother also a vegetarian?”
“She eats everything except chicken.”
Val continued her rounds and was relieved to learn that none of the other guests had special food requirements.
Cheyenne asked for their attention. “Would anyone like to see the rest of the boat? Otto can show you the bridge and tell you about the navigation gizmos. I’ll give a tour of the other decks if you’re interested.”
Damian was interested in seeing the lower deck with Cheyenne. Louisa went with them. Otto led the others through the glass door to the bridge.
Val, Granddad, and Bethany headed for the bench vacated by Damian and Cheyenne.
Granddad sighed. “Feels good to get off my feet.”
“Amen to that,” Bethany said. “I expected sparks tonight, but not about chickens. According to Cheyenne, she just met Otto’s ex-wife for the first time and—get this—she only found out today that he’d invited Stacy.”
Val gaped at her. “Otto wanted a perfect dinner party, so he invited wife one without clearing it with wife two? Go figure.”
Bethany shrugged. “Cheyenne told me she didn’t know any of the guests. They all knew Otto and no one else, except for the person they came with. Weird party.”
“I knew it would be,” Granddad said. “Is Otto the kid’s father?”
Bethany shook her head. “Former stepfather. Otto insisted Trey wear a tux tonight, rented it for him, and had it delivered. I heard Trey say to his mother, Are these suits always uncomfortable, or did Otto order double starch in my shirt? He’s not used to dressing up. He works for an environmental nonprofit and telecommutes most of the time.”
“He’s protesting the dress code with a ponytail held by a rubber band.” Val checked her watch. Almost seven thirty. The sun wouldn’t set for another ten minutes, but under thick clouds, darkness was coming on fast. “I’m going down to get the first courses ready. Dinner is scheduled to start in fifteen minutes.”
> She hurried down to the galley, warmed the consommé and made the garnish for it, snipping chives and slivering carrots. Then she made the mousseline sauce for the salmon.
Granddad came into the saloon. He left the hors d’oeuvre tray on the galley counter. “It’s getting too cool up on the deck. Otto’s moving the guests inside for the toast.” He popped open two champagne bottles and poured generous amounts into eight glasses and a taste into two glasses. “These last two are for us.”
They stood at the door to the deck and handed out the champagne as Otto shepherded his guests into the saloon.
When everyone was inside, he raised his glass. “Let’s drink a toast to the victims and survivors of the Titanic.”
“Hear, hear!” Homer Huxby called out. He raised his glass on high, the way the Statue of Liberty holds her torch.
Otto’s lips barely touched the edge of his glass. He gestured toward the sofa and chairs. “Please sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Trey didn’t move. He stood by the door to the deck, looking as if he wanted to bolt. The vibrations Val felt in the floor meant he’d lost his chance. The boat had pulled away from the marina. Otto remained standing, while his other guests found places to perch in the sitting area.
The champagne was as delicious as Val had anticipated. She and Granddad returned to the galley with their glasses to plate the cold salmon, the course after the soup. She glanced at Otto across the room.
He put his nearly full champagne glass on the coffee table. “I’d like to thank you for joining me and Cheyenne tonight for the Titanic dinner and mystery game. Here’s how the game will work. You’ll each get a booklet with a character sketch for your role and a script for the four scenes in our little drama. Your part in each scene consists of one question to ask someone and one answer you must give to a question you’re asked.”
“I’m glad to hear it’s all written down and we don’t have to ad lib,” Louisa said. “I played a murder party game once, and I was terrible at it. Everyone was supposed to tell the truth. Only the designated murderer was allowed to lie. Someone accused me of being the murderer. Then the others jumped on the bandwagon. I wasn’t the murderer, but I got flustered when everyone ganged up on me. So I said, Okay, I confess. I’m the murderer.”
Trey snickered. “Why did you say that?”
“They all wanted me to say it, and I wanted them off my back.”
“You were coerced. That’s how false confessions happen,” Stacy said. “What was the result of your confession?”
Louisa looked sheepish. “I ruined the game, and everyone was annoyed with me.”
Damian nodded. “Especially the guy who played the role of the murderer.”
Otto took papers from the built-in cabinet in the saloon. “That can’t happen in our game tonight. The character sketches and scripts don’t identify who the culprit is.”
Cheyenne frowned. “So the culprit doesn’t know he or she did it? That’s not very realistic.”
Trey snorted. “Nothing about this whole night is realistic.”
Otto didn’t react to the barb. “I’d hate to deprive the guilty party of the chance to solve the mystery along with the rest of us. I’m sure many of you would enjoy playing detective. Once we’ve gone through all four scenes, you’ll have all the information you need to identify the culprit. You’ll announce who you think is guilty. Then I’ll open the envelope containing the solution.” He crossed the room and climbed up the two steps to the dining area. “The booklets will also serve as place cards. I’ll put them on the table while you finish your champagne.”
When he’d done that, he stopped to talk to Val and Granddad in the galley. “I don’t want to leave you two out of the fun, so I have a small mystery for you to solve too. I challenge you to find the envelope with the solution. I hid it in this room. Where would you look for the conclusion to a Titanic mystery?”
When Otto rejoined his guests in the sitting area, Granddad said in an undertone, “It should be easy enough to find the envelope. It’s not that big a place.” He peered into a cabinet in the galley.
“There are also built-in cabinets near the sofa and chairs, Granddad. We won’t have much time to search them while we’re serving dinner.” Val went around the counter between the galley and the dining area.
Each place at the table now had a small pen and a booklet, one-quarter of the size of letter paper, with an image of the Titanic on the cover. Val checked the seating arrangement. Otto would sit at one end of the table, with Louisa on his right and Damian on his left. Cheyenne was at the other end, with antique dealer Homer on one side and Bethany on the other. Trey and Stacy had the middle seats.
Once the guests were at the table, Val and Granddad served the soup.
“While you enjoy the soup,” Otto said, “please familiarize yourself with your character’s background and your question and answer for the first scene, but don’t read any further. I’ll tell you when to turn the page to the next scene. From now on, we are all dining at the captain’s table on the Titanic.”
Busy preparing the upcoming course, Val caught only bits of the table talk. When Otto asked his guests to introduce themselves in their Titanic personas, Bethany jumped into her role as a retired governess hired to chaperone young Annie back to America. Bethany sniffed and sighed, distraught that her good name would be ruined because the headstrong girl had vanished.
Later, it came out that the chaperone did not have a good name to ruin. Damian said she’d lost her former job for tippling. She’d been drinking heavily since boarding the ship. Bethany denied it and accused him of marrying for money and seducing young girls. She’d seen him plying Annie with drinks and drugs the first night at sea.
Val glanced at the table. Damian wore a game face, amused and detached. Louisa, whose back was to Val, fidgeted in her chair and rushed to her husband’s defense. As Val focused on preparing the next courses, she heard insinuations of blackmail, jewel theft, and fraud coming from the table. Everyone protested the veiled allegations against them with a vehemence that surprised Val, almost as if they’d taken them personally. She wondered what was left for the upcoming two scenes. Possibly an accusation of murder, as Bethany had predicted.
The turmoil at the table mirrored the increased motion of the boat, from rocking to rolling.
Otto pushed his seat back from the table. “In the next scene we’ll find out where everyone was when Annie disappeared. I suggest we take a break now so you can stretch and read the next section of your booklets.” He stood up.
So did Cheyenne. She went up to him. “I hope you’ll get the yacht back to calm water.”
“We’ve hit a squall. I’ll do what I can.” He leaned toward her, spoke into her ear, and left the saloon.
She went over to the entertainment cabinet and cut off the mix of classical and ragtime music. It had played quietly in the background during dinner. The silence in the room didn’t last long. Rap music blasted from the speaker, similar to what Val had heard coming from the aerobic dance class at the club. Cheyenne turned up the volume and moved with the beat, dancing in place. The music made conversation difficult, and maybe that was its point. She might have had her fill of small talk with guests she’d just met.
As Granddad took the plates from the previous course off the table, Val worried that he’d lose his balance with the yacht rolling. “Why don’t you sit down and let me clear the table?”
He cupped his hand around one ear.
She shouted over the music, repeating what she’d said.
“I got better sea legs than you do,” he yelled back.
But her bones wouldn’t break as easily. She took the roast from the oven. It could sit for ten minutes before Granddad sliced it. He loaded the dishwasher with the plates he’d cleared, while she washed the used forks and put them on the table for the next course.
The guests took turns going out the sliding door, probably to visit the head. Trey and then his mother left. Cheyenne
lowered the music long enough to announce that there was a guest head on the lower deck, nicer than the one on the aft deck. Louisa passed by the galley and went down the curved staircase to the deck below. When Bethany asked if she could help in the galley, Val could tell that the boat’s motion was bothering her friend and suggested she sit down. Homer, still at the table, looked ashen. Val didn’t feel great either. The stuffiness in the room bothered her more than the motion, and her head pounded in time with the music.
As Louisa came up and Homer went down the stairs, Val coaxed Granddad to take a break. He went to the sitting area and took the chair near the sliding door. Louisa sat on the sofa next to her husband.
Val added cream to the carrots and stirred constantly until it thickened. As she was taking the potatoes out of the oven, someone turned down the music. Thank goodness. She glanced toward the sitting area and noticed Cheyenne had left.
Val tested the potatoes. Perfect. Any more time in the oven and they’d turn mealy. It was past time to slice the roast, but she was reluctant to do it until Otto came back. Where was he anyway? When she looked around the saloon, she saw that everyone had returned except Trey and the host.
Trey flung open the sliding door and burst into the room, his face bone white. “Something’s wrong with Jerome. He’s zonked out. Where’s Otto?”
Cheyenne frowned, perplexed. “You mean he’s not on the bridge?”
Trey shook his head. “Does anyone know how to pilot this yacht?”
Chapter 4
Cheyenne stood up and wrung her hands. “Otto can pilot. Where is he? We have to find him.”
“He isn’t on this deck or the one above. And we need a pilot now,” Trey shouted.
The boat lurched, underscoring his message.
Granddad stepped forward. “I have navigation experience. I’ll go up to the bridge and take a look.”
S'more Murders Page 3