Killer Knots

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Killer Knots Page 24

by Nancy J. Cohen


  Don’t tell me Dalton is missing now. Her heart pounding, she figured he’d have to turn up by dinnertime. Contemplating the other possibilities made her vision blur.

  “Marla, come have a drink with me.”

  Whirling at the sound of Irene’s voice, she caught sight of the elegant blonde in a quiet alcove by Mariner’s Martini Bar, on the other side of the stairway.

  “Have you seen Dalton?” she asked, approaching. Having a drink wasn’t a bad idea. It might quell the panic blooming inside her. “I can’t find him anywhere. I’ve looked all over the ship.”

  “That can be a good thing, darling. Sometimes we have more fun without the men.” Irene’s words were slightly slurred, undoubtedly due to the two empty glasses in front of her.

  As Marla took a seat opposite the round table, Irene waved at the waiter. Bracelets clinked on her arm, six white-gold chains sharing wrist space with her diamond watch. Although casual dress was the mode for that evening, Irene wore a pair of silver silk trousers and a beaded black top.

  “What did you and Oliver do today?” Marla asked after the waiter took their orders. She wondered if they still served drinks when passengers got too tipsy. “We went into town for shopping. I bought these earrings.” Lifting her hair, Marla showed off her new purchase.

  “You can never lose with jewelry.” Irene tried to smile, but with her frozen facial muscles, she only managed a grimace. “Oily and I went to the Mexican folkloric performance. It was colorful albeit rather standard.”

  “Was that your choice, or his?”

  Irene switched her gaze to the floor-to-ceiling window. “You know how Olly likes his music.”

  “That’s true. Did he ever play an instrument, Irene?”

  Irene didn’t answer until the waiter delivered their beverages. She’d ordered her third martini while Marla got a Caribbean Cooler. Taking a sip, she smacked her lips. She needed the energy from the fruit juice.

  “Olly is obsessed with the arts in general,” Irene said, swirling the liquid in her glass. “If he’d been a better instrumentalist, he might have joined an orchestra. As for painting, he got as far as teaching novices but was never good enough for the galleries. Mediocre, that’s his middle name.” From her sour expression, she meant that across the board.

  “What does he play?” Marla asked in a conversational tone. “Maybe he’d like to join the passenger talent show.”

  “Hell no.” Irene gulped down a large swallow. Her hand shook as she replaced the glass on the tabletop. “He plays his flute in private.”

  Marla couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips.

  “Oops,” Irene hiccuped. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  “Why is that, Irene? Is he shy about it?”

  Irene gave her a searing look that could boil water. “I don’t believe so, darling. He has other reasons. But why in heaven shouldn’t I tell you? You’re not one of us.”

  While she waited for Irene to continue, Marla’s mind raced with possibilities. According to Betsy, Alden Tusk had an aversion to hearing the flute. Martha, the gift shop manager, claimed she heard flute music immediately before Alden plunged over the balcony railing to his death. Just how were those facts related?

  “Olly threatened to reveal our secret,” Irene said in an increasingly slurred tone. “You won’t rat on me, will you?”

  “Of course not,” Marla replied, wondering why Irene hadn’t come forward during the police investigation. But how could she if her husband was involved? “I’m sorry, what secret is that?”

  Ice rattled from the direction of the bar, and Marla glanced around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. The lounge was beginning to fill with pre-dinner passengers. She caught a whiff of lady’s perfume, similar to her favorite, Obsession. Resisting the urge to crane her neck to search for Dalton’s familiar face, she focused on Irene.

  “Our daughter…she isn’t his,” Irene’s voice grated. “Delaney is the result of my affair with Eric Rand.”

  Marla’s brow wrinkled. “Your daughter? I wasn’t aware you had a child.”

  “She’s grown now and living on her own. The sad truth, darling, is that my passion for Eric has never abated. Especially when Oily isn’t…he doesn’t…he’s never been very attentive in our sex life.”

  Marla nearly jumped from her seat. “If you’ll forgive me for asking, then why are you still together?”

  “Olly needs my money. And I fear he’d break Delaney’s heart if he told her. She adores her daddy and might turn against me. My baby is the only good thing in my life, Marla.”

  Marla, seeing the distress on Irene’s face, reached across the table to pat the older woman’s hand. “When the truth comes out, she might be glad Oliver isn’t her father.”

  They locked gazes, and Marla saw that Irene understood what she meant. “Here, I’ll show you some pictures,” Irene said, with a misty smile. “I took these of Delaney when she visited us for Mother’s Day.”

  After Marla made appreciative comments and Irene packed away the photos, Marla said, “I appreciate what you’re doing for Dalton’s dad. John said you’re introducing him to the art world, and he’s excited about participating in the various shows.”

  Irene gulped down the remnants of her drink. “His wife is holding him back.”

  “Kate may have a change of heart. Aren’t you also helping them find a condo in Florida? I remember you said you worked in real estate.”

  “I like to keep my hand in it.” Her expression sobered. “It’s not that I need the income, but working gives me a sense of independence. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure do.” Marla pulled her key card from her purse.

  Irene gestured. “Put that away, darling. It’s my treat. You’ve made me feel a whole lot better.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, half rising. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find my fiancé. And don’t worry, Irene. Things will work out for you.”

  She headed for the staircase, deciding to check their cabin first to see if Vail had stopped by.

  Vacancy met her disappointed glance. The efficient steward had already turned down their bed, leaving a towel twisted into a penguin shape, and chocolate mints on each pillow. She’d miss this service when she got home.

  Sick to her stomach with worry, Marla wound her way through the ship’s maze to John and Kate’s stateroom. Hearing Brianna’s excited voice from within, she felt a whoosh of relief. At least they’d returned to the ship safely.

  Her ease didn’t last long. Kate said they hadn’t seen Vail either, but then they’d only just made it back after lingering in the shops outside by the pier.

  “Do you want to come in, Marla? We’re getting ready for dinner, but you can wait with us,” Kate said in a kind tone. “I’d love to hear all about your day.”

  “Like wise, but I have to find Dalton. I thought he’d be in the Outrigger Cafe but I didn’t see him.” She bit her lower lip. When she did catch up to her betrothed, she hoped he would have answers to some of the questions that plagued them.

  An increase in vibration told her the ship was getting under way. While people were occupied, she might be able to slip into the art gallery unnoticed. A burning desire to see Alden Tusk’s center painting took hold of her; it might confirm her theories.

  On the seventh deck, she slipped past the polished wooden door into the ornate foyer. Overhead, the crystal chandelier gleamed brightly, sparks of light flashing off its facets like the jewels she’d seen in town. The place was empty, so she tiptoed past paintings propped on easels and up the red carpeted stairway toward the gallery beyond.

  Oddly enough, the upper doors weren’t locked, which would have inhibited her progress but proved to be a lucky break instead. Why they weren’t secured became evident soon after she entered the auction house. Someone had ripped paintings off walls, toppled easels, and left a side door ajar. She hadn’t really studied the workrooms before, but now she saw they were set up for repairs, framing, a
nd packing in preparation for shipping. She bet the auctioneer had an office there too.

  Likely, the center triptych painting, if not locked away in the bowels of the ship, was inside one of those warrens.

  A low moan drew her attention as she picked her way through the chairs and trashed canvases. Behind the podium, a floor-to-ceiling curtain provided a backdrop that wavered in the air-conditioning. Or else its motion was a result of the ship picking up speed. The vessel’s rocking had increased, making her steps unsteady. Lurching from side to side, she berated herself for drinking the rum concoction too fast.

  Shadows lurked in the depths beyond the lighting, but the moaning had come from the opposite side.

  Hey, why are the lights on?

  Because the miscreant who’d wrecked the place had been searching for something. Probably the same thing she wanted to see before it was exposed to the public in full detail.

  The moaning repeated.

  Her palms sweaty and her heart pounding, Marla called out in a soft voice, “Hello, who’s there?”

  “Help me,” a man’s voice croaked.

  She stepped through the portal into the first workroom, but it wasn’t until she wound her way past a floor strewn with tools, broken frames, glass shards, and nails that she saw the man stretched beyond. Eric Rand lay halfway into his office, blood oozing from a wound on his head. Bruises darkened his face, but he didn’t appear to be mortally hurt.

  “Where’s your phone? I’ll call Security,” she said, stooping beside him.

  “No.” The word barely escaped his parched lips. “Take the painting. Hide it.”

  But you ‘re hurt. You need assistance.” Gripping his cool hand, she scanned the room for a clean cloth. The gash on his temple still oozed and might need stitches.

  His palm squeezed hers. “Do as I say. It’s my only proof. B-behind the pickle…”

  “What?” Was he hallucinating? His injury must be worse than it appeared.

  She tried to yank her hand from his grip, but he held on.

  “Look behind the pickle…brightly colored scene, musicians playing.” His expression, a pained grimace, suddenly brightened. “Le Sacre du Printemps. Should be labeled.” And then his grasp went slack and his eyes clouded.

  Feeling her throat constrict, Marla slid her fingers to his wrist, where his pulse, rapid but steady, reassured her that life still flowed through his veins. However, she knew from past experience that a concussion was nothing to dismiss.

  The man needed a medic, but curiosity drove her to ponder what he’d meant. He’d mentioned a scene with musicians. Very well, then. This seemed important.

  She rose from her stooped position. Obviously, she wouldn’t find the item in this room, which contained a standard desk and accoutrements. Nor did she see such a painting in any of the workrooms through which she strode. Aware that each minute was critical to Eric’s need for medical treatment, she began a methodical search through the auction room.

  She almost missed it, hanging on the wall. A colorful panorama of a dozen musicians playing various instruments. Picot, the artist’s name, you idiot, not pickle.

  Scraping a chair over to the spot, she stood on the seat cushion and removed the picture with a small measure of difficulty. Wasn’t this a larger version of one of their free seriolithographs? Perhaps. She ventured a guess that Eric had purposefully enlarged one, then mounted and framed it to disguise what lay underneath.

  Leaping from the chair, she carted the heavy picture to the first workroom. Using a box cutter from an open drawer, she slashed a line across the top and down one side of the brown paper sealing the rear. Gently peeling back the layer, she peered inside. Nothing lay hidden there. The reproduction appeared to be fastened to the frame.

  But what if it wasn’t the right picture?

  Obtaining a different tool, she pried the nails loose and freed the Picot from its prison.

  Behind it, a painting fell away, into her hands.

  She recognized the parlor setting, muted tones, and artist’s style without a doubt. Tusk’s center portrait, the one she’d seen before only in a flash. Eric must have removed it from the original frame to hide it here until the final auction. A firefly in her stomach fluttered and sank.

  Beside the figure of the small boy who sat on a stool painting a canvas was the man whose blurry features remained indistinguishable, but whose actions couldn’t be denied.

  But that wasn’t the damning clue.

  Marla’s gaze drew inexorably to the shiny metal flute lying on a nearby table.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.

  Marla spun at the sound of Oliver Smernoff’s deep voice.

  “I don’t think so.” Hoping she wouldn’t damage the precious artwork, she cleared a space on the counter and carefully laid down the canvas.

  “Give me the painting.” Reaching toward her, the museum director took a step forward. His hulking figure filled the space like a grizzly bear, blocking her exit.

  “In a minute,” she said, stalling. “Tell me, are you responsible for hurting Eric?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me where he’d hidden Tusk’s piece. I’m glad I waited around. You finished the job very nicely.”

  “I know why you want this painting so badly,” she said in a taunting tone. “You’re the man hovering over Alden.” She’d left the box cutter in its drawer. If she could distract him, she might be able to grab the sharp implement and use it as a weapon.

  His lip curled. “People couldn’t tell it was me in the center panel unless they knew the significance of that flute. Martha heard me playing right before Alden toppled over the balcony rail. That’s why I paid someone to delay her in San Juan.”

  “Huh?”

  His lip curled. “I figured if Martha missed the ship’s sailing, she’d fly home. Then she couldn’t clue in whoever had brought us on board.”

  “Everyone knew she’d reported hearing music that night.”

  “Yeah, but they discounted her statement. I didn’t want her harping on it. Someone might add two and two together.”

  “So you paid some fellas on the island…”

  “To make sure she didn’t surface until the ship left port.”

  A surge of hope swept through Marla. “You mean Martha isn’t dead? Where is she?”

  “Who knows? I’ll worry about her later.” An unnatural gleam entered his eyes. “You’re my concern right now. Too bad I couldn’t lose you and your companions on Roatan. That driver was eager to take my money.”

  She edged sideways. “Why did you want to get rid of us? For the same reason?”

  “That’s right.” He nodded, advancing another step. “You’d been asking too many questions, and who knew what Martha had told you. I tried to put you out of action in St. Maarten, but that plan backfired.”

  “How did you know I’d go inside the guavaberry emporium?”

  “I paid a native fellow to tail you. How he disposed of you was up to him. He didn’t look to be the reputable sort; that’s why I approached the guy. I told him not to cause you any permanent damage, just to temporarily detain you.”

  “Oh joy. Thanks for that much.” She supposed the director possessed some scruples; otherwise, he wouldn’t have cared about the outcome. Under the circumstances, she might never know if the proprietress at the bar had been involved. “Did you eliminate Brooklyn, too? He’s been missing.”

  “That isn’t my doing. Come on, Marla, quit rambling. Give me the painting so I don’t have to hurt you.”

  “Brooklyn noticed how Bob Wolfson ordered kitchen supplies that he hadn’t requested,” she said quickly. “Your business manager doesn’t have the best interests of the museum at heart. You might want to examine the books when you get home.” Assuming you keep your job and aren’t in jail.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Oliver sneered, taking another step forward. “It just so happens that I’m fully aware of Bob’s financial transactions.


  She gaped at him. “So why haven’t you said anything? I’d think it would take the heat off you.”

  “Bob saw the flute in my office. If I expose him, he’d rat on me. We’re covering for each other.”

  Feeling the counter nudge her spine, Marla slid toward the drawer. “Bob’s not the only one who knows you play the flute.”

  “Irene?” He gave a harsh laugh. “She won’t talk, or I’ll tell Delaney she isn’t my daughter.”

  “Is that why you’ve done all this? You’re jealous of Eric Rand? Has he always come between you and your wife?”

  He gave her a look of pity. “You don’t get it, do you? Alden’s painting tells the story. He used to be my pupil when I taught art. I enjoyed music even then, and I’d play my flute for him before we began. Our sessions included more than just art lessons, Marla.”

  Horror gnawed at her stomach lining. “You abused him, an innocent little boy? No wonder he hated hearing the flute. He associated it with your vile acts.”

  “Poor Alden developed a true phobia. Years went by, and he couldn’t face his past. But the day came when he could express himself in his painting. And when he heard that I was about to initiate a children’s art program at the museum, he feared that I might resume my previous tendencies.”

  “So he intended to use the fund-raiser to expose you?”

  “Presumably. Alden had painted the figure blurry enough so my features wouldn’t be distinguishable, but anyone who knew our history together and that I play the flute would question me. My reputation would be ruined. So I sent Alden a note. I offered to resign my position if he withdrew his triptych from the fundraiser. We set a meeting to discuss it.”

  Comprehension dawned. “You met him upstairs at the museum while everyone else was outside setting up for the event.”

  “Correct. I maneuvered him close to the railing and then withdrew my flute from where I’d hidden it. Hearing the music caused him to back up in a fit of panic.”

 

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