“Tell me about this fellow,” Eric ordered.
“I said, he’s not a problem.”
“Let me be the judge of that, my dear.”
Irene stiffened. “Are you forgetting that it’s my money—” She stopped when he jerked his head in Marla’s direction. “Very well, I suppose you might find the information useful. But I need another drink first. Marla, would you like something from the bar?”
Wearing a scowl, Eric acquiesced to her wishes. After he returned with Irene’s cocktail and a Coke for Marla, he prompted the older woman to continue. They sat around a polished wood table bolted to the floor. Marla popped the tab on her soda can.
“John Vail is a budding artist,” Irene said, clutching her glass and staring at the clear liquid, while Marla noticed with fascination that her foundation makeup had pooled in her creases.
“He’d entered a competition where I was one of the judges. I liked his work and contacted him. John is fantastic in the stained-glass milieu. Not the usual variety, you know, business card holders and such.” Irene’s eyes fired with enthusiasm. “His designs are unique. I offered to sponsor his entry into juried art shows.”
“What were you doing in Marigot?” Marla asked, not about to let the opportunity pass.
“I have contacts throughout the art world, darling. That particular shopkeeper likes unusual pieces, so I had John send him a few samples. Pierre wanted to meet the artist in person before placing an order.”
Irene’s altruism stunned her. “Did Oliver know you and John planned to meet on this cruise?”
“He doesn’t concern himself with my activities.” Her chin lifted, belying her insouciant tone.
Irene cared more than she let on about her husband’s neglect, Marla thought. Could that be what had driven her into another man’s arms?
“You shouldn’t worry about John making a play for Irene,” Marla told Eric. “He loves his wife. But you two…you go way back to when Eric was curator at the museum, don’t you?”
Irene and Eric exchanged an intimate glance. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was in charge of the art collection,” Eric explained. “Oliver and Irene attended many of our social events. I couldn’t help running into her.”
“Especially when Olly left me stranded,” Irene interrupted.
“Yes, um, we started discussing art, you know. Both of us share that interest. And then one thing kind of led to another.”
“I see.” Marla tilted her head. “And I appreciate your sharing this with me. I’ll keep my lips sealed.”
Eric pushed himself from his chair. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’d best go check the lockers. Someone tried to break in last evening. I can’t imagine why.” The words tripped sarcastically off his tongue.
“Wait, I have another question,” Marla called, then hustled after him as he headed toward the spiral staircase. Irene slipped out through another exit.
“I’m wondering if you have any of Alden Tusk’s pictures on board that show a woman wearing a ballet outfit? I modeled for him when he lived in South Florida, and I’d really like to find one of those paintings. I had forgotten all about him until I heard his name mentioned at your auction.”
Eric halted, his foot on the lower rung. “I know he did some portraits of girls in dance costumes, but we don’t have any in our collection. I can check the catalogues for you, if you like.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Tell me, what’s so important about Alden’s triptych? The museum gang is spastic about it.”
He gave her a hooded glance. “There’s a reason the middle piece was missing after Tusk’s death. By all indications, he’d painted a portrait of his killer. And that person most likely is one of the people sitting beside you at dinner.”
“Killer? I thought his fall was an accident.”
“It’s more likely Alden was pushed.”
Like Helen? Marla mused as she climbed the atrium steps searching for her family.
Her steps invariably took her toward the art gallery. Upstairs, the door to the auction room itself stayed locked when unattended. Knowing that Eric had gone below decks to check the storage containers, she questioned the glimmer of light around the door frame.
Padding silently up the carpeted staircase, she reached a hand to try the doorknob. It twisted easily. She swung the door open and spied a familiar figure scurrying from one of the back workrooms.
“Oh, Marla, it’s you,” Kent Harwood breathed in relief. His florid complexion and sheen of sweat betrayed his state of nerves. Doubtless he had been afraid of being caught red-handed by the auctioneer.
“You needn’t worry,” she told him, leaving the door ajar behind her. “Eric is on one of the crew decks checking his lockers. What are you doing here? And how did you get in, by the way?”
He shot a glance at her from under his thick eyebrows, his glare much like that of a seagull searching for prey. Was the fish he hunted small enough to chew, or so big that it might bite back? “I have talents that aren’t evident,” he said, rolling the words in his mouth as though choosing them carefully.
“Along with an education that you hide. You’re no bug man, Kent. What do you really do for a living?”
He shrugged. “I suppose if I tell you, it might help keep you out of trouble. I’m investigating theft at the museum.”
“What kind of theft?” She thought of Bob Wolfson’s real estate purchases. Was the business manager dipping into funds belonging to the museum?
“Reproductions are being substituted for original works of art. Eric Rand tipped off the insurance company after he left and arranged for Brooklyn Jones to claim they had a pest problem in the kitchen. I came in under the guise of being an exterminator, which I’m actually licensed to do. I studied entomology in college,” he explained, “but ended up going into investigative work because it paid better.”
Good disguise, Marla thought, and you just lost your gruff manner of speech. I hope your awful haircut and loud shirts are part of your camouflage, too.
“So did you find the triptych?” she asked, peering around his bulk.
“Nah, Eric must have it squirreled away somewhere.” Jabbing his thumb, he indicated they should move out. After they’d each passed beyond the door, he jiggled a tool in the keyhole to set the lock.
“Did you ever see the side panels?”
“I got a peek after the accident. Everything had been roped off for the fund-raiser, and by the time the commotion had died down, someone had removed the center triptych piece from the exhibit.”
“What did the outer panels show?” Exiting the gallery, Marla waited for him to join her.
Kent halted to remove a toothpick from his pocket and stick it in his mouth. “Both scenes show a room with traditional furnishings. One side holds a piano, and the other has an ornate fireplace. Each panel contains a portrait of a lady. The two ladies are wearing long gowns and are staring at each other from opposite ends of the room, although it’s clear their eyes actually focus on the center.”
“So? What’s the big deal?”
He glanced at her. “You have to see it to understand the emotional impact. They look horrified, as though they’re watching some atrocity.”
She strolled beside him down the corridor toward the nearest staircase. “What do you think it means?”
“That something bad happened to Alden, and this was his way of relating the experience. Mind you, it may have been a past event, but nonetheless, you get a creeped-out feeling from seeing the pictures.”
“Maybe Alden painted himself committing an inappropriate act, and his guilt compelled him to capture the scene on canvas. He could’ve done it as a means of atonement.”
Kent’s lips shifted the toothpick. “Possibly, but then why would someone remove it?”
“To protect him?”
“Could be, but I have another theory,” Kent replied. “What if the central panel implies a crime? Surely the guilty party would want to bury it.”
>
They descended to deck three, where the photo gallery was crowded with passengers. No sign of any family members or museum people. Thank goodness. She wanted to continue their discussion uninterrupted. Music from Mariner’s Martini Bar drifted in their direction, along with the smell of cigarette smoke.
“That makes sense,” Marla said, wrinkling her nose. “It could account for Alden’s ‘accident’ and the missing piece if this other person didn’t want the scene revealed.” Then she added, returning to her original idea, “Or if Alden was guilty, he could have decided at the last minute that he couldn’t give himself away. Alden could have hidden the panel before leaping from the balcony and taking his own life.”
“What about the music Martha said she heard from the gift shop just before Alden screamed?”
“You know about that?”
“I make it my job to learn about everything.”
A shank of hair tumbled across his forehead. Noting the greasy strands, Marla bit her lip to keep herself from commenting aloud. When did you last wash your hair, pal? I don’t care if its part of your disguise. Make an appointment at the ship s salon.
“Do you know who’s substituting fake works of art at the museum?” she asked, scratching an itch on her arm.
“I’ve got some clues, but I’m not ready to point the finger at anyone just yet. You hear anything relevant? I understand you and your boyfriend have been asking some sharp questions.”
“Well, it’s not Betsy, because she noticed a painting in St. Maarten that she said was an exact duplicate of one back in the museum. She wouldn’t have mentioned that if she’s involved.”
Pausing at the foot of the atrium staircase, Kent tilted his head. “Oh yeah? Brooklyn said he had news about her. I haven’t been able to hook up with him since.” His gaze darkening, he chewed on his toothpick.
“I hope he’s okay.”
“Me, too. I’d better go look for him. And if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut about our conversation.”
She wondered if she ought to mention the incident in Philipsburg. Her probes must have hit a nerve, because someone wanted her out of the way. Probably she could scratch Kent Harwood off the list, but it bothered her what Brooklyn Jones might know about Betsy.
When Brooklyn didn’t show up for breakfast on Friday morning, Marla’s alarm escalated. He didn’t make it to the dining room, nor did she spot him upstairs at the buffet. Aware that time was short and she had to get ready for their shore excursion on Grand Cayman Island, she phoned Brooklyn’s cabin number. Getting no response, she tried Kent’s stateroom.
“I haven’t seen him,” Kent’s gruff voice replied on the telephone. “I’m waiting for a call back from ship’s security. They’ve checked his room. He’s not there, but his passport is on top of his nightstand. If he doesn’t turn up, they’ll page him. Hey, can you do me a favor on shore?”
“Sure, what is it?” She gestured at Vail, who was pacing by the door. Just a few more minutes, she mouthed.
“Keep an eye on Wolfson.”
What happened to minding my own business? Now you want me to spy for you? “Why?”
A pause. “Brooklyn told me that Bob Wolfson asked him to sign off on some invoices at work that included kitchen items he never ordered. I don’t care to think Bob had anything to do with Brooklyn’s absence, but I’d like to know what he does in town today. I may be late getting off the ship.”
“I don’t know how much help I’ll be.” Marla shrugged. “We’re going on the stingray snorkeling adventure.”
“Oh. Well, never mind then. We’ll just have to hope Brooklyn turns up.”
Marla kept her concerns to herself while she stuffed various advertising flyers and brochures into her bag. From here on, she intended to give Vail her undivided attention.
Slated to meet his parents and Brianna before descending to the gangplank, she hustled alongside him down the corridor with closed cabin doors on either side. She could swear this hallway got longer each time they strode its length. During the wait for the elevator, she filled Vail in on the conversation she’d had with Kent Harwood.
“I’m glad you told him we’re off duty,” Vail said in a dry tone. His fingers made figure eights along her spine.
Her mouth curled in pleasure. “That feels good,” she murmured, edging closer.
He rubbed his hip against her. “Not as good as I’ll make you feel later.”
“Then stop that, or we’ll be heading back to the stateroom instead of the exit.”
Grasping her shoulder, he turned her to face him. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” he answered, giving her a fierce kiss.
The elevator’s arrival along with his teasing banter took her mind off the museum gang. Soon they found themselves in the Sailaway Lounge, where his parents had already obtained tickets for the tender. When their number was called, they descended to the gangplank deck. The small boat bobbed on the swells as crew members assisted passengers in boarding. Squeezed together on rows of benches, they jostled elbows while the engine revved prior to launch. Wind whipped the passengers’ hair as they got under way.
Waves splashed against the bow, the water an incredible shade of turquoise that made her impatient to dive into the bath-warm ocean. Sparkles of sunlight glinted off the crests as they neared the shoreline.
Kate shaded her eyes even though she wore a wide-brimmed hat. “Look, there’s a Royal Caribbean vessel anchored farther out. Their passengers are also coming in by tender.”
“Crap, that means the shops in town will be crowded,” Brianna griped.
“Brie, we didn’t come on this cruise just to shop. And please watch your language,” Vail remonstrated.
“Listen to your father.” Marla squinted behind her sunglasses. Even though they sat under cover, the sun’s reflected glare hurt her eyes. “Ladies don’t use bad words.”
“And you don’t? Give me a break. I’ve heard you say—”
“Brianna!” Vail’s authoritative tone brooked no arguments.
Giving him a disgusted glance, the teen shut her mouth. Nobody spoke, occupied with private thoughts. Marla, busy sorting the flyers she’d grabbed from their cabin, decided she didn’t need the one advertising facials in the ship’s spa. She gave Brianna the jewelry shop ads to browse while she studied the port guide and map. Vail, working on the ship’s daily trivia quiz, muttered to himself.
“Peachtree Street is in Atlanta, isn’t it? What about Via Veneto? It’s about famous streets,” he told Marla.
“That’s in Venice,” Kate contributed, applying sunscreen to her arms. She and John planned to take a taxi to the turtle farm. They’d been to Grand Cayman before.
Once on the pier, they separated. “We need to find our tour group,” Marla said to Vail and Brianna. “Do you see the van anywhere?” Their excursion included transportation to a marina, from which they would sail to the stingray sandbar. It had cost them forty-five dollars each for three hours. Finished by one o’clock, they’d have plenty of time for shopping later.
“Folks, can you stand together for a shot, please?” hollered the ship’s photographer, cornering them for a Welcome to Grand Cayman pose that would cost a mere ten dollars to purchase. Buy enough photos, and you could pay for another cruise, Marla thought, grinning at the camera. She almost felt sorry for the guy sweating in the heat while trying to snap photos of the milling passengers.
They located their van and boarded quickly. Inside, Marla tapped Brianna’s shoulder. “Head for the rear. I see a few empty seats back there.”
Sinking into an empty space next to the teen, Marla swung her large beach bag onto her lap. She’d brought enough supplies for a weekend, and it was a relief to get the weight off her arm.
“Have you noticed how cruises advertise their all-inclusive rates?” she said to Vail, who sat across the aisle. “You get room and board, port visits, and activities, but then you end up paying twice as much for drinks, tours, photos, shopping, and gambling. Your money g
oes down while your weight goes up.”
“Some would claim that’s a fair trade-off for a week of fun in the sun,” he answered in a mild tone. “Say, there go the Wolf-sons. Isn’t that the bus for the botanical garden group?”
She twisted her neck. “Oh, yeah. We won’t have to worry about where Bob’s going, then. At least not until later.” She watched the other passengers board, squinting as she caught sight of another familiar face. The elegant blond woman wore a snappy red outfit with a matching hat. Accompanying her was a white-haired man sporting a naval cap, dress shirt, and dark trousers.
“It’s Countess Delacroix and her gentleman friend,” Marla stated. “I wonder if she’s going along to put the screws on Bob to sell his property in Mexico. He isn’t aware that Sandy knows what’s going on, so that should be an interesting ride.”
Vail leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “Didn’t someone other than Kent Harwood say to watch him in Grand Cayman?”
“Bless my bones, you’re right. Martha said the same thing to Oliver. Damn, we’re on the wrong tour. We should have gone on theirs.”.
Her ponytail swishing, Brianna rapped on Marla’s wrist. “Listen to yourself, Marla. You just cursed. How can you tell me not to use bad words when you do it?”
Chiding herself, Marla rolled her eyes. “Some occasions call for them, honey, but you have to be careful which ones you choose.”
CHAPTER 15
A motorized snorkel boat shuttled them to the sandbar two miles offshore. Marla sat with Brianna on an open bench in the rear but Vail preferred the shaded area up front. Since the rumbling engine made hearing difficult, Marla relaxed and enjoyed the ride. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath of the fresh sea air and savored the sensation of skipping over the waves. The wind beat salt spray onto her skin, warmed by the sun.
I could get used to this. We’ll have to take a longer cruise next time.
She snapped open her eyelids to regard the gleaming water, a lighter shade of jade in the shallow depths. Sweating under the tropical sun, she yearned to dive in, especially when the ocean turned a brilliant aqua as they got farther from shore.
Killer Knots Page 17