by Cathy Ace
Ezra held up his hand. “I have conceded much during this case, but I cannot have you accusing guests of murder, or of anything else, Cait. I only have the right to detain, not charge.” He paused for a moment as he considered what he’d just said. “If we get to that point,” he added. “Nigel Knicely has a possible motive, he had the opportunity, but did he have the means?”
“The poisoned beads from his wife’s bracelet,” I replied. “You wrote that on the Murder Wall yourself.”
“But they belonged to his wife, and how would he, or either of them, get to the poison in the center of the bead, as you described?”
“I’ve been giving that some thought,” I replied, “and I think I’ve worked it out. As we all know, both he and Janet wear spectacles. Everyone I know who wears prescription spectacles carries a repair kit with them containing tiny little screwdrivers, and so forth. With a great deal of care, he could have extracted enough of the center of a couple of the beads to effectively poison Tommy’s pot of poi. It would have been a daring plan, but I read him as possessing sufficient self-belief that he would have thought he could get away with it.”
Ezra didn’t look happy. “So, it is Nigel?” he said.
“Not necessarily,” I replied. “It might have been Derek Cropper.”
“What?” chorused Bud and Ezra.
“To be certain of my theory, we’ll need to question Michael, the butler in the Cropper’s suite, but I believe that Laurie Cropper has been hosting illicit, private poker parties while Derek’s been at the tables in the casino. I saw gambling chips in the Cropper’s suite when we visited, Bud. I initially thought that Derek had brought them back from the casino, but I saw this evening that all the ones used there have the Stellar logo on them. The ones in the Cropper’s suite were differently colored, and, I believe, will match the $100 denomination of chips that Tommy Trussler had in a set in his room. If Derek found the chips, he might have discovered what his wife was up to. You saw how delighted he was that he was $40,000 up, Bud. What if Laurie was losing? That might explain her comments about Tommy being untrustworthy, and Derek’s about how she’d made him wise to the fact. A young man spoke to Laurie earlier on about ‘tonight’ being off. I don’t believe for one minute she’s having an affair, and that seals it for me. And remember that huge roll of cash we found in Tommy’s safe?” I raised an eyebrow toward Ezra and he nodded. “I reckon that’s his winnings. The cash in the wallets provided his stake, and he’s used his ability at sleight of hand to take a lot of money off folks who didn’t know how good he was at cheating at cards.”
“How do you know he was good at that?” asked Ezra, nonplussed.
“That one’s easy. When I was watching him play gin rummy with Bud, he had a run of diamonds in his hand. The cards that Rachel ripped from his dead fingers didn’t contain a single diamond. And I watched as he ‘entertained’ the Knicelys with his tricks. It all takes quite some doing. He was an experienced cardsharp. Something that ties in with his work as a magician, no doubt.”
“But how would Derek Cropper have killed him?” asked Ezra. “Wait, yes, I see. His wife’s liquid nicotine.” He paused for thought. “We know about that already. He could have poured it into Tommy’s poi quite easily. Would he do this because of money? He has a lot of money, and he makes a lot more every year,” said Ezra. “He is a very successful businessman—everyone on the ship knows it.”
“He’s a very successful businessman who is dying,” said Bud quietly.
Ezra stopped pacing about and sat down. “This is news to me,” he said. “How do you know this?”
Bud sighed. “I’ve done a very dumb thing, Ezra: I allowed myself to be knocked sideways by emotion. I got personally involved with a suspect, and filed a piece of information under ‘irrelevant,’ when it was anything but.”
“You have, but I think it’s understandable, Husband.” Turning my attention to Ezra I added, “Derek Cropper hasn’t got long to live, and he shared that knowledge with Bud. Now, while it’s true that he and his wife have spent their lives aiming to fill their ‘Cropper Coffers,’ his determination to set up Laurie as best he could for the life she’ll have to live without him is clear. He’s dying, yet he works until the last hours before they leave on vacation; he’s gambling big to win big, which he has; he’s giving Laurie one last fabulous vacation. She’ll be alone when he’s gone—they chose to have no children. If he found out she’d been taken advantage of, he would be very angry. Frannie Lang told us he was angry enough with Nigel, who made a comment about him not being considerate toward Laurie, to have a loud argument with him. I judge that to be unusual for a man of his polite nature. Laurie is his life, and he might not have killed Tommy Trussler because of the money—after all, he’d never get it back then—but he might have done it if he thought his wife had been cheated, slighted, and made a fool of. So, anger, an easily available poison, and, of course, the fact he has nothing to lose even if he is found out, might have allowed him to do this. Or, maybe Laurie did it, not thinking for one moment she’d be found out.”
“So, it was Derek, or Laurie, Cropper?” said Ezra, sounding hesitant.
“Or Frannie Lang, or the Pukuis,” I replied.
Ezra slapped his hand on his desk in exasperation. “What’s this now?”
“Frannie Lang’s sister, Fay Banks. I believe that Tommy Trussler was her boyfriend, and was driving the car in which she died,” I said. “I’m basing this assessment on everything she told me tonight, though I have no proof, as yet. I can see from the wall that you have no more information about that incident.”
“No, we do not,” said Ezra. On his feet once again, he continued, “That’s it. This is becoming quite ridiculous. How could Frannie Lang have killed him?”
“Over-the-counter meds. She used to be a nurse,” said Bud.
“And the Pukuis?” said Ezra, sounding angry.
“He was mixed up in the death of their son, as I told you,” said Bud. “And the Pukuis found out about Tommy before they got on the ship. Either one of them could have brought a preparation of deadly castor nuts, with the intention of killing him.”
Ezra, utterly frustrated, raised his voice. “So, we’ve been at this all day, and we’re back where we started—except now it’s much worse. Originally I believed that no one on my ship could have had access to poison to kill this man. Now you tell me that everyone in the room did, and they all wanted him dead. Is this how all your cases work out, Bud? Every suspect remains a suspect? Is this all we are able to achieve by our investigations?”
Bud looked at Ezra with sympathy. “No. Things don’t usually turn out this way,” he said. “But, on this occasion, they have. Gathering facts can only go so far. Now we have to work to interpret those facts. We appear to have compelling circumstantial evidence against both Pukuis, though only Kai was in the room; both Croppers, though the husband was the only one with nothing to lose; and both Knicelys, though I can’t really envisage the wife possessing enough emotion to kill someone.”
“And what about Afrim, the server? He was there. He could have done it. It might not be any of the guests,” said Ezra.
“I really don’t think so,” I said. “I believe our real problem is that any of the people in the Games Room this morning could point to the circumstantial evidence pertaining to the others, and raise reasonable doubts about their guilt in the mind of a jury. So the guilty would get off while the innocent would have their lives shredded. The courts and the press can destroy people—especially the press. Believe me, as someone who was essentially hounded out of a country by the tabloids, I wouldn’t want anyone to experience that.”
Ezra was completely worn out. He sagged as he said, “But detaining is all I can do. All I have the authority to do. What am I to tell the captain? That I must lock up several guests and a couple working on behalf of the cruise line?”
“No, I don’t think you should do that,” replied Bud. “I think you have to let Cait take one more step.”<
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“And what would that be?” scoffed Ezra. “Prove to me there’s just as much evidence against fifty other people on the ship?”
“No,” I responded calmly. “I suggest you give me the chance to get the killer to confess.”
Ezra shook his head. “And how do you plan to achieve this?”
“How about a gathering tomorrow morning—say eleven o’clock? People will be in bed now, so you’ll need some time in the morning to alert people, or invite them politely, to get it organized. I suggest you propose a memorial gathering. Everyone who was there when Tommy Trussler died should attend, plus Rachel White, Bartholomew Goodman, Winston Williams, you, of course, and Officer Ocampo. Maybe the worst of the sales rush will be over by then.”
“If the captain and I allow this to happen, you believe you can extract a confession from the guilty party?” said Ezra. I nodded. “Do you think your wife can do this?” he asked Bud.
Bud smiled warmly at me and said, “If Cait says she can, she can.”
“Thank you, Bud,” I said.
“I will speak to the captain and will telephone you in the morning. I suggest we all try to get some sleep, so go now, please.” Ezra dismissed us with a curt nod of the head, unlocked his door so we could leave, and all but kicked us out.
I was done in, and I held onto Bud’s arm as we made the final journey of the day to our stateroom.
When we got there, I pulled off my fancy frock, peeled myself out of my horrid “shapewear,” and dropped everything onto the floor. I didn’t even take off my makeup—I just fell into the bed and wriggled in the cool sheets. I imagined myself adrift on a sea of pillowy foam, being carried to a land where a suspect would walk up to me and beg forgiveness. Of course, I couldn’t sleep at all, so as Bud snored, I lay there and sorted through all the data that he and Ezra had compiled. I assessed its value against my own discussions with, and judgments of, our pool of suspects.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes—mistake—then nestled into my pillows. I knew I had to try my wakeful dreaming technique. I was in our room, and Bud was beside me, so I was safe. I closed my eyes and stopped searching for sleep; instead I searched for the place where dreams and reality mix, where I can allow facts and circumstances, suspicions and realities, to mix and intermingle, then settle into patterns that make sense—for me, in any case. I told myself to let go—to trust the technique I knew had helped on so many former occasions, and to allow it to work. I hoped I wasn’t too tired, and went with it …
All At Sea
I AM FLOATING. I AM not on a ship—I am floating in the air, which smells of pineapple, hibiscus, and plumeria. I can taste the air. It is sweet. I know I am floating down toward a lush landscape. It is beneath my feet, just a little below me now, and I prepare for the thump when I land. But there is none. I am cushioned by a bed of tropical plants; they grow around me as I lay in their embrace. They grow quickly, and I am soon struggling to be released.
I burst out of the foliage and run away to higher ground. As I run, the plants from which I have escaped rear up and shoot giant seeds at me. I know that if they touch me I will die. I run, but I do not move. I am running on an elliptical machine, and I am slaving up a steep incline. I smell sulfur. The earth is moving beneath my machine, and I can see the glow of what I know is lava ahead of me, pouring down the hillside on which I and my machine stand.
A clown in a hot air balloon appears above me and throws a rope so I can escape the lava flow. I grab the rope and begin to struggle up it, but it’s very short. Then I am inside a bouncy castle, filled with squealing children, each wearing a hat that looks like a white rabbit, but the children have no color, nor blood in their veins. I know they are all dead, and their squeals are of horror, not amusement. I try to bounce my way out of the castle that’s now massive, but there’s no exit. Above me is the clown, leering at me, and cheering on the children, who begin to throw playing cards at me as missiles. They cut me when they make contact with my skin, but I do not bleed. Instead my broken skin weeps with fragrant lotions that become blooms of exotic flowers.
I am melting into nothing; then I am in the Games Room. I am alone, save the presence of Tommy Trussler. He is sitting in a giant pot of poi, eating his way out. He slurps and squelches. It makes me feel sick. I push over the pot so he can escape, but he chooses to remain inside it, laughing at me, even as it rolls across the floor, which is covered with a sandy beach of white powder.
“I can help you out,” I call to him, but he is rolling into the distance of the now-massive room. It runs to the horizon, black and silver, red and gold. He is escaping me. I cannot run as fast as his pot is rolling, my footing is soft, and white sands are dragging me back.
Kai and Malia appear as if floating toward me from the horizon, both dressed in the traditional outfits from their stage performances. Each of them is carrying a surfboard under one arm, and a castor plant in their other hand. They are crying, and I know that their tears are the Pineapple Express, sending heavy rains to my home in British Columbia. I tell them to stop, that there is too much rain, but they cry even more. The water pours from their eyes, though they both smile at me. They are speaking to each other in a language I do not understand, and bubbles start to come from their mouths. “For you,” says Malia when she reaches me, and she hands me the castor plant. It is very heavy. It pulls me down through the white sands until I am in a forest of surfboards, unable to escape.
“I can save you,” says Tommy Trussler. He is bleeding from his legs, and his gut, and from his mouth. I don’t want to take his bloodied hand, but I do. It is slippery with poi and blood. I cannot hold onto it. I am being crushed by the weight of surfboards, which crash onto me on crystal waves laced with silver glitter.
“No, me—come to me,” says Laurie Cropper. She’s standing on the solid ground that I know is just inches from me. “Don’t tell Derek, but I have this for you.” She passes a giant vaping stick to me. I grab the end, which she pulls, and I am now beside her. We are both smoking cigars that taste of apples, and Derek and Bud walk toward us with fire extinguishers.
“No naked flames,” says Bud, covering me with white powder. “Gotta get rid of the evil weed,” he says above the noise of the extinguisher.
“Of course,” I say, and bathe in the powder, feeling it cleanse me as though I am in a shower.
As the powder clears, I see Nigel Knicely with a group of children. They all look exactly like him. Beside him is Frannie Lang. “My boys,” she says, smiling and twirling her blond hair as though she’s a small child. “It’s our birthday. Do you want some cake?” she asks. Her voice sounds like a chorus. She passes me a pot of pills, which are all tiny cupcakes with sprinkles. “These are my sister’s favorites,” she says, pushing the pot of pills into my hand, which I notice has incredibly long fingers. I look at my other hand. It is encased in a diamond-encrusted glove. The glittering stones transform themselves into tiny playing cards, all in the suit of diamonds. As they do this I feel pain searing through my right leg, then my left.
“This will stop the bleeding,” says Janet Knicely. She hands me a fat rope made of many strands of string, looped into a noose. She is wearing a bracelet made of massive red pearls, each with a clown face painted on them, and giant chandelier diamond earrings. “Nigel gave them to me. He loves me so much. I’m his bride. I’ll always be his bride. He married me twice, that’s how much he loves me.”
I run from Janet. She frightens me. She is so sure of her husband. She loves him. That frightens me. I know now that it was Nigel Knicely who was the clown who was laughing at me. I know this with certainty. And I know why he is so angry with me: he hates me because I am with Bud. He hates Bud, so he hates me.
Ezra appears with a machine gun in his hands. It’s made of pineapple, but I know it’s a machine gun. He marches toward Nigel and demands that he release Rachel. Nigel dissolves, and Rachel appears. She is dressed in white and her skin is very white. She wears white latex gloves. Bartholomew Goodman run
s from behind me, slamming the door of the dispensary, scattering slugs he’s been holding in a pot as he passes by. “Got to get a cup of coffee,” he shouts.
“Cait? Do you want a coffee?” It was Bud. “It’s almost eight. I’m going to run to the library to get a quick cup.”
I managed to harrumph a yes, then dragged myself from between the sheets to face myself in the bathroom. Raccoon eyes, rats’ tail hair, bags under bags under my eyes. Great! Happy honeymoon, Cait!
Getting it Ship Shape
BY THE TIME BUD RETURNED with our coffee and a couple of bananas, I was at least clean, if not very tidy. Bundled up in the fleecy robe provided by the ship, I blew on the steaming mug, then gave in and put some cold water into it; it was far too hot for me, and I needed caffeine.
Bud was quiet. Already dressed for the day’s events, he’d elected to wear long pants for the first time since we’d flown out of Vancouver. I suspected it was a wise choice. We were due to be in for a taxing morning, and a long day after that.
Rolling up his empty banana skin and wrapping it in a napkin, he said, “Did you do your wakeful dreaming thing? And did it work?”