Killer Knots

by Nancy J. Cohen

  “Like you didn’t need that kind of tzures.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Tzures. It’s a Yiddish word meaning woes or troubles.”

  “No kidding. When I got the note on my cabin door, I got kinda scared and hopeful at the same time.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, the message that read ‘I know what you did and I have what you want.’”

  “Oh, that note.” Had everyone in the museum group gotten that same message? “I don’t understand the connection.”

  “Don’t you see? It can only mean one thing.” Betsy leaned forward. “The person who bought Dad’s watch from the pawn shop may be on board the ship, and he’s offering to give it back to me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  How can anyone know what you did with your father’s watch? Marla asked Betsy after the waitress delivered their order. Too hungry to wait, she dipped a nacho into the bowl of melted cheese and crunched it in her mouth. “And wouldn’t it be the wildest coincidence that this same person is on the cruise?”

  Betsy shrugged. “I can’t imagine what else that note could mean. It’s creepy, Marla. Like, somebody’s been watching us. Someone who knows our secrets and enticed us on board with free tickets. But why?”

  Marla tapped her finger on the table. “There’s one item that everyone in your group would like to possess: Alden Tusk’s triptych.”

  “Holy mackerel, you’re right.” Nodding thoughtfully, Betsy cracked her knuckles. “Poor Alden. He had so much angst in his life. Now he’s haunting us, so we’re forced to examine the past.” Casting her eyes downward, she fell silent.

  Raising her Coke glass, Marla offered a toast. Liquor always loosened people’s tongues. “To Alden, a talented artist who was taken from the world too soon.”

  “Hear, hear.” Betsy downed her Shiraz.

  “Look, if I can keep your secret, you can keep mine.” Marla leaned forward. “I’ve only told Dalton, but I modeled for Alden in his early days as an artist, before he made a name for himself. I posed in my ballet outfit for several of his paintings. I’d forgotten all about him until this cruise.”

  “How could you not mention it before?” Betsy said, reproof in her eyes.

  “I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “Hello, have you considered that your being here may not be a coincidence? And that you’ve been seated at our table for a reason, not a mistake?”

  “Impossible. Dalton’s parents bought our tickets.” And John has a link to Irene, she reminded herself. Irene, who had had an illicit relationship with Eric Rand.

  “How much contact did you have with Alden in your role as publicity manager?” Marla asked. “Did you ever go to his studio, see his work? I’d love to find one of the paintings he did of me. Do you remember any portraits of a woman in a leotard?”

  Betsy’s brow creased. “Not really, but then he’d already been established when we met.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I fell in love with his work at an outdoor art show, and, well…we clicked.”

  Marla sat upright. “You and Alden?”

  “Yeah, we were an item.” Betsy gave a tight smile. “He wasn’t an easy person to care about. The guy had hang-ups. Alden wouldn’t talk about it but you could see it in his paintings. The children he portrayed were always unhappy. When I asked him why, he closed me out. And I noticed he was very skittish about orchestral music. He’d only listen to rock stations.”

  “How did you get along with him if he was so difficult?”

  “By being gentle and not making demands. I helped Alden in the studio, fed him, and let him make the first move in terms of any further intimacy. I know it did him good, Marla.” She cocked her head, while Marla munched on cheese-dribbled chips. “After he painted the triptych, Alden acted like a new person. Somehow it redeemed him. But that wasn’t enough. He suggested that I apply for a position at the museum. I’m responsible for getting him the gig at the fund-raiser.”

  “I’ve gathered that much.” Marla sipped her Coke, enjoying the syrupy taste and the bubbles sizzling down her throat. “So it was important to Alden to show his work at your art museum. Didn’t you wonder why? Was it just recognition he craved, or something more?”

  Betsy gave her a shrewd glance. “In retrospect, I’d say he wanted to send a message to one of my colleagues via the middle triptych panel.”

  Marla shook her head. “1 still don’t understand.”

  “Look at it this way. Alden felt traumatized by something. He felt better after painting this picture. He meant to show it at the museum. The center piece disappeared on the same day he died. That panel must explain what we’re missing.”

  “Likely it’s meaningful to someone from the museum gang.”

  “Don’t omit Eric Rand. He might hang out with the crew on board the ship, but he had belonged to our museum staff.”

  “Eric told me he suspects the center panel reveals Alden’s killer.”

  “What?” Betsy stiffened. “Alden’s fall was an accident.”

  “That’s what I thought, but Eric believes otherwise. Kent Harwood saw the outer pictures. He said each piece contains a woman looking toward the center with an expression of horror.”

  Betsy’s eyes widened. “Holy mackerel.”

  “His triptych must point the finger at someone in your group. You said Alden couldn’t talk about his past, so he painted it instead. What could possibly have disturbed him so profoundly?”

  Betsy clutched her glass with a white-knuckled grip. “From the way he depicted children in his work, I’d always suspected he’d been abused as a child. That would explain why he had such trouble getting close to me. We were finally moving forward when he…” Her voice trailing off, she blinked rapidly.

  “If that’s true, perhaps the painting shows his abuser, but it still doesn’t explain who brought you all on board and why.”

  “Alden’s completed set is here,” Betsy replied in an earnest tone. “Someone might be seeking justice by exposing the missing panel. I can’t imagine who would have gone to all this trouble and expense. You can eliminate some of us just by cost. I could never afford to buy cruise tickets for the entire gang.”

  So you say, but what if one of your group members has financial backing? Then money would not be an eliminating factor.

  That would put two people in partnership, though. And it again drove home the thing that puzzled her the most—why? Who cared enough about Alden, besides Betsy, to seek justice for a possible murder that was never proven?

  “Did Brooklyn know about your relationship with Alden? I gather you kept it under wraps. Brooklyn meant to tell Kent Harwood something about you, but now no one can find him.”

  Betsy arched her eyebrows. “Find whom, Kent? That man is strange. He doesn’t act like any exterminators I’ve known.”

  You’ve got that right. “If you promise not to tell, I’ll share another secret with you.”

  “Go ahead; my lips are sealed.”

  “Kent is an insurance investigator. He’s looking into theft at the museum. But Brooklyn is the person who’s missing.”

  “Brooklyn knew about me and Alden, but why would he tell Kent? What kind of theft?” Betsy’s voice rose an octave.

  “Substituting fakes for original paintings. Brooklyn may have hoped Alden had confided in you. If Alden had discovered who was stealing paintings at the museum, the guilty party may have bumped him off to ensure his silence.”

  “By shoving him over the railing? From the position of his body, the police said it appeared he had leaned his back against the railing before toppling over.”

  “So he could have been facing someone.”

  “I suppose. Most of us were outside setting up for the dinner party, but just about everyone slipped away at some point for various errands.”

  “Not Martha. She was in the gift shop and fancied she heard flute music right before Alden screamed.”

  Betsy waved a dismissive hand
. “The sound system was off, but the gift shop sells chimes, so it could have been one of those making noise.”

  “Didn’t you say Alden had an aversion to classical music?”

  “Right. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It’s odd that Martha heard someone playing an instrument just before Alden died.”

  “Marla, for God’s sake, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Dalton interrupted, charging in their direction like a Rottweiler sniffing fresh meat. “You could at least have let me know where you were.” With a curt nod, he said to her companion, “Hi, Betsy.”

  “Sorry,” Marla replied with a flush of guilt. “I ran into Betsy and lost track of time.” Truly, she’d acquired John’s habit of wandering off alone. Or maybe she wasn’t used to the idea that Dalton expected her to account for her movements. At first, his protectiveness had been a challenge, but now that she knew it sprang from his concern, she found it endearing.

  “We need to go in to dinner,” he said. “It’s almost six.”

  “Okay.” Collecting her purse, she signaled for the waitress.

  Betsy snatched the check before Marla could grab it. “This is my treat. You were good enough to listen to my problems.”

  “Our problems,” Marla corrected. “Everyone at our table is involved, one way or another. I hope Brooklyn shows up. I’m worried about him.”.

  “Me, too.”

  When Marla and Vail stopped to greet his parents and Brianna in the dining room before finding their own seats, Marla noticed the empty chair right away. Brooklyn’s absence didn’t seem to faze Cliff Peters. The buff young man was already stuffing down a buttered roll.

  “Has anyone seen Brooklyn?” Marla asked.

  Kate gave her a troubled frown. “I know you were anxious about him. Have you checked the infirmary? Maybe he got sick.”

  “I’ll ask Kent. He was looking for Brooklyn earlier.” She let her face soften. “Sorry I didn’t make it upstairs. I got sidetracked by Betsy.”

  That caught Cliff’s attention. He raised his head, eyes partially hidden by a shank of ebony hair. “What’s she been telling you?”

  “Nothing that relates to your private affairs,” Marla said pointedly.

  Tossing his napkin down, he half rose. “You’re not even part of our group,” Cliff snarled. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Because when someone goes missing, I wonder what happened to them. You don’t seem to care.”

  “Maybe I do care, but there ain’t nothing I can do about it. Maybe I figure one of us might be next unless we keep our nose to the ground.”.

  “Then you’ll be certain to stay out of harm’s path.” Marla’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “Martha missed the ship’s sailing. Helen fell down the stairs. Someone tried to waylay me in St. Maarten, and now it’s Brooklyn’s turn. You should be worried, but if we work together, we might find out who’s pulling the strings.”

  John, digging into his salad, glanced up. “Helen hasn’t made it back to dinner. Is she discharged from sick bay?”

  Marla had noted the other empty chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from her since my visit there.”

  Kate wagged a finger. “Marla, can we discuss these topics later? Brie should have a peaceful meal,” she said with a kindly smile.

  “Absolutely. Come on, Dalton, let’s go.”

  They wound through the cavernous room to their assigned seats. Kent Harwood, chewing on a celery stick, regarded them over his menu. “Brooklyn Jones is nowhere on board the ship,” he blurted. “The crew filed a missing person report and notified the Coast Guard.”

  Marla glanced at him with dismay. “What do you think happened?”

  Kent tilted his head. “People fall overboard. Remember the news reports about a Connecticut man who disappeared on his honeymoon to the Mediterranean, a Canadian lady whose husband reported her missing, and a fifteen-year-old girl lost at sea?”

  “That last one really bothered me when I read about it,” Vail commented, leaning back while the busboy filled his water glass. “I understand congressional subcommittees are conducting hearings on cruise ship crimes. The cruise lines don’t like to publicize sexual assaults, robberies, and disappearances, but they happen.”

  “What do you expect?” Kent responded. “A cruise ship is like a contained city involving different nationalities. You can’t control everyone. At least now there’s an agreement to report serious incidents to the FBI. They can’t sweep their dirt under the rug anymore.”

  “True, but I doubt Brooklyn’s vanishing act has anything to do with crimes perpetrated by the crew,” Marla put in.

  “How do you know?” Irene spoke up, looking as though she’d ingested a lemon pit. “Somebody booked our tickets and assigned us these tables. That person also knows our cabin numbers. If I’m not mistaken, that’s insider information.”

  “Someone from the crew must be involved, perhaps in collusion with one of us,” Kent muttered, glancing at each of them in turn.

  If you ‘re correct, pal, and that person is sitting right here, you’ve just put yourself in their target sight. “Has anyone checked on Helen?” Marla inserted to distract the others. “I’m wondering if she’s out of the infirmary yet.” With a bright smile, she plucked an olive from the relish bowl.

  Kent pushed a greasy lock of hair off his forehead. “Helen was gone from sick bay when I checked to see if Brooklyn had been admitted. I presume she’s staying close to her cabin.”

  “Or she went to the buffet.” Vail bristled impatiently. “Which brings to mind, what are you having to eat?”

  They segued into small talk over the meal and discussions of the upcoming art auction.

  “I hope you don’t mind when I go to the auctions,” Marla said under her breath to Vail. “We could be taking a salsa lesson or listening to music in one of the lounges.”

  “You don’t have to go,” he said, forking a bite of smoked trout into his mouth.

  Marla had ordered gazpacho for an appetizer. “I’m still hoping one of Alden’s pictures with my ballet poses might turn up, plus I’m learning a lot about different artists. It’s quite interesting,” she replied, dipping her spoon into the cold tomato-based soup. Her toughest decision of the day had been what to select for an entree. Lobster thermidor, salmon fillet, roast duckling, veal loin, or prime rib. All of her favorites! If she didn’t gain at least five pounds on this trip, it would be a miracle.

  The miracle came when Eric Rand announced at the auction that he was giving them a sneak preview of an item for sale on the last night of the cruise. He’d start it off as a mystery piece tonight, with any interested parties holding up their bidding cards so their numbers could be recorded. Then when they returned on the final evening, the heavy bidding would begin.

  Marla’s pulse accelerated when the assistant set up three easels. Eric, wearing his earpiece microphone, along with a pale-lemon shirt, black pants, and trademark bow tie, paraded in front of the audience like a leopard showing his spots.

  Betsy, in the adjacent chair, elbowed her. “Do you think it’s Alden’s set? Holy mackerel, I wish we’d sat closer.”

  They’d taken seats off to the side, where Marla could watch the proceedings while sipping her free champagne. She could barely feel the ship moving; they might just as well have been at a theater Stateside. Crossing her legs, she held her bidding card lightly between her fingers. Would Eric really tease them with a glimpse of Alden’s triptych? Sitting upright, she listened for his introductory spiel.

  “This is the opportunity of a lifetime, folks. A one-of-a-kind set by a talented young artist. This guy was slated to be one of the movers and shakers in the art world before his untimely demise. I don’t need to tell you how much the value of his work has gone up since then. Get a piece of the action by owning this fabulous suite. I’ll give you a quick look now, but return for our final blowout auction, and you’ll have the chance to win this wonderful additi
on for your home gallery.”

  The audience took in a collective breath when Eric paused. “Retail price: fifty-five-thousand dollars. This is hand signed, folks. You can have the complete set for the bargain price of twenty-nine-thousand five-hundred dollars. Who wants it? Two, seven, twelve…”

  Each time he read off a bidding card from the audience, he banged his gavel on the podium. A girl wearing a black shirt with the ship’s logo rapidly scribbled the numbers onto a slate. 1

  Marla’s hand had shot up despite the price and so did everyone else’s from the museum crowd. Thurston Stark looked about to burst a blood vessel, while Oliver Smernoff’s eyes bugged out. Kent Harwood bent forward, focusing intently. Beside him, the Wolfsons jostled with each other, Bob waving his card in the air while Sandy tugged on his arm. From her disapproving expression, Marla guessed she didn’t want him to bid. But who could resist the call? This had to be Alden’s set.

  As he called out the last number, Eric pumped his fist in the air. “All right, ladies and gents, this is what you’ve been waiting for. It’s Alden Tusk’s famed triptych. Whoo-hoo!”

  He reached over and flipped the first canvas around, then did the same with the flanking painting. Squinting, Marla observed two ladies in long gowns, each gazing toward the center of a traditional drawing room. They almost appeared to be looking at each other, but their focus actually aimed at some point in between. Abhorrence showed on their faces.

  Then Eric flashed the critical central portrait. A boy, maybe eight or nine, sat on a stool wielding a brush. He was painting strokes on a canvas. A man hovered nearby, touching the child in an inappropriate manner. She had no trouble discerning the boy’s reaction. His large, dark eyes held a troubling mixture of self-loathing and empty resignation.

  “Oh my.”

  Betsy’s words were barely out of her mouth when Eric whipped the pictures away.

  Marla cursed under her breath. She wanted to get a closer look. From this distance, she couldn’t see details.