“Merde!”
“Yeah, I’ll murder you if you don’t get it right,” said Greg in a soft, sweet voice, the words not at all matching his tone.
The girl saw me hovering behind him and raised her eyebrows at me. Greg, realizing that she’d seen something, turned around and saw me too.
“Hey, girl. You in here fishing for trade secrets?”
“Nah. My grandmother showed me years ago how to cook better than anything you make. Have you got a minute? Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Hold on.” He turned back to the junior chef. “Keep practicing. Just smooth it over with a palette knife and start again with more cream on top. You can never have too much cream!”
The young chef nodded and Greg turned back to me, taking me by the arm and leading me further into the depths of the kitchen.
We walked into a tiny office, which was a stark contrast to the huge restaurant and kitchens of the International Buffet.
The dinky little room had a wooden desk that looked older than the ship itself—though not in a good way, like an antique—a worn-out computer chair, a single chair with a high back for guests, and a low ceiling with a bare bulb and a dusty overhead fan.
“Welcome to my den. Fabulous, isn’t it?”
Glancing around the room and back at him, I didn’t know how to respond.
“I know, I know. It’s awful. But the truly talented work with what they’re given. Now, what’s up?”
I told Greg that one of the passengers died. Before I could continue, he interrupted me.
“Yeah, yeah, I know all about that. Cece told me.”
Of course she did. At least the news wasn’t getting around among the passengers.
“Right. Anyway, there was some champagne found in the room. I wondered if you could check and see if she ordered it?”
He asked for her room number, I gave it to him, and he hunched over his computer, typing in the details at a snail’s pace as he pursed his lips.
“Nope. That cabin didn’t order anything from room service.”
“Not surprising. I think the killer must have brought it in. Do you think you could check whether anyone else ordered it? Can you search by their names? I don’t know all their cabin numbers.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Stan Westbrook,” I said first.
Greg pecked the name into the computer using only the index finger of each hand and then looked up at me. “No champagne. He had a bottle of whiskey delivered, though.”
“Nope. That’s no good. What about Alejandro Ciudad?”
Greg tapped away again before looking up with a frown.
“Nope. He hasn’t ordered a thing.”
We checked the room service records for Helen Johannsen, Milton McPherson, and even Paul Parker. None of them had ordered champagne.
“Do you know what kind of champagne it was? We can see if anyone who ordered it seems familiar. It doesn’t matter if it was from room service or at one of the bars or restaurants. If they charged it to their room, we’ll be able to look it up.”
“Awesome! Give me a second and I’ll find out.”
Pulling out my phone, I dialed Ethan’s number. As soon as it connected, I started talking.
“Hey, Ethan, quick question. What kind of champagne did you find in Lesley’s room?”
The signal was bad in Greg’s office and Ethan’s voice sounded tinny and distant, even though he was only a short walk away.
“Hold on. I took a picture. Give me a sec.” In less than a minute, his rich but crackly voice was speaking again. “It’s Bethany Estate Luxury Sparkling Wine from the Napa Valley. By the way, interested in lunch around one o’clock?”
“Thanks! And sure, lunch sounds great. Text me the details. I’m looking into something.”
“Sounds like you’re busy. Talk to you later.”
We both hung up, and I told Greg the brand. He didn’t leap into action and begin typing away. Instead, he shot me a withering glance.
“Bethany Estate? That junk?”
I shrugged. The quality of the champagne the dead woman was drinking really wasn’t a concern for me. “That’s what was found.”
“You don’t understand. Champagne has to come from France. If it’s not from France—the Champagne region specifically—it’s not real champagne. Despite what the shysters in California may tell you. Nuh-uh, darling. Not champagne.” Greg sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
“Right. Okay. Not champagne. Whatever. Can you please check who ordered it?”
Greg shook his head again and I felt my blood pressure rising.
“What do you mean no?”
“I don’t need to check. I can tell you. We don’t offer it to our regular customers. It’s only offered for special events. On this cruise, there’s only one special event. The Let’s be a Millionaire group. They ordered about eight cases of the horrid stuff. I think they were giving some out as prizes on the first night?”
I slouched in the uncomfortable guest chair and didn’t bother to correct Greg on the name of Paul Parker’s event. So much for tracking down the killer through the champagne order.
The only good thing was that we may have narrowed it down to the Claim Your Million group itself. Or someone who had access to them. Thinking about it more, it didn’t seem that good after all.
I’d have to come up with another way to find them.
BZZZ.
It was a message from Ethan.
Lunch at the Buffet? Now? I’m starving!
“Thanks for your help, Greg. If you think of any way we can track down who it was through the champagne, let me know.”
“Won’t do, because it’s not possible,” he said as he stood up.
“Thanks anyway,” I said, half-amused and half-annoyed by his bluntness. “See you later.”
By the time I’d made it through the kitchens and waded through the lunchtime rush in the front of the house, Ethan was already waiting for me.
“Done a first round already?” he asked with a grin.
“Ha, ha. No. I was talking to Greg in the back. Come on. You’re starving, right?”
We headed inside, chose a small table in a quieter section of the restaurant near the back, and loaded up our first plates full of food.
After we were seated, I ate a mouthful of mashed potatoes and sweet and sour shrimp before we got down to business.
“Any luck with the champagne?” asked Ethan, a spear of asparagus lanced on the end of the fork that hovered in front of his mouth.
I shook my head. “Not champagne,” I said while trying to keep my mouth closed. I swallowed before I continued. “California sparkling wine. It was the cheap stuff they give out to half the ship. It could have come from almost anywhere. I don’t think we’re going to get far with that angle. The only fact I can confirm is that she didn’t order it herself, and she wasn’t one of the passengers who’d been given a complimentary bottle.”
Ethan nodded. “Got it. Maybe we should focus on the chemicals anyway, since that was what killed her.”
“Yeah. And continue talking to the suspects. Speaking of which, what do you think of Alejandro?”
Ethan finished chewing some Chinese peppered beef before he responded. “Alejandro? Who’s that?”
I frowned as I remembered Ethan hadn’t had to listen to as much of the Claim Your Million nonsense as I had. He still had his duties on the rest of the ship.
“He’s one of the investors for the competition they’re going to run. There’s two of them, him and Stan Westbrook. They’re undercover at the moment though, so the other participants don’t bother them. But Lesley figured them out.”
“Oh, for the shark thing?”
“It’s spiders, not sharks. Paul Parker says his Spider’s Web is nothing like any of the television shows.”
“He means exactly like it except for the name, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I tried to talk to Alejandro earlier about
something, but he was really dismissive. There was something about him that just gave me a bad vibe. I mean, I know that’s not evidence of anything, but it’s just a feeling I’ve got. There’s something off with him.”
“Okay. But is there any reason to suspect he had anything to do with Lesley’s death?”
I poked at some carrots I had selected so that Ethan wouldn’t think I just ate the good stuff. I ate healthy things like vegetables too. “I don’t know. Stan Westbrook thought Alejandro might have been interested in investing in Lesley’s cleaning products. But that would be more of a reason not to kill her than to kill her, wouldn’t it? Then again, that could have been a reason for champagne. Maybe he and Lesley were celebrating his investment.”
“I should speak to him and find out if that was a possibility. If he was going to invest, what on earth could have happened between them sitting down to celebrate and her being killed in her own cabin?” Ethan’s brow furrowed as he spoke.
We continued our meal, getting two more plates of food each before declaring that we were both stuffed. Ethan fetched cups of coffee for the two of us, and we sat back in our chairs across from each other, our stomachs content but nothing else.
We still didn’t know who killed Lesley.
“Adrienne, are you okay? It seems like something’s been bothering you.”
Something was bothering me. Paul Parker’s story, which seemed to mimic my own—other than the part where I end up a millionaire.
I still hadn’t been able to get it out of my head. It didn’t make sense that his story would have been so similar to mine—a story that I thought only Sam knew. I hadn’t told Ethan. But I thought that maybe now was the time.
“There… there is something else.” Before I could continue, my phone buzzed.
Ethan gestured at my phone with his chin, so I picked it up and checked the banner.
Yo! Come eat ice cream with me? :( In the parlor by the GA.
I turned off the phone’s screen without replying.
“There is something, but it’s not about Lesley. Well, maybe it’s a tiny bit related, but not really. Can I see you again later?”
“Sure. I’ve got to get back to work, anyway. Let’s meet tonight. I’m not sure if I can manage dinner, but if not, we’ll meet afterward. Okay?”
“Thanks.” My smile felt weak. I wanted to tell Ethan everything, but I was also nervous about how he would react. And what he would think about Paul Parker’s story. Maybe he’d tell me it was just a coincidence. I frowned at the thought of it.
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, no. Just thinking.” I turned the phone’s screen on again and tapped out a reply to Cece.
Be there in a few.
I stood up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Well, I’ve got to go, but you could stay and have an ice cream if you want.”
I laughed. “I don’t think I need it…”
“If you want one, have one.”
“Nope.” I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
“What is it?” He couldn’t help but smile too, though he didn’t know why I was so amused.
“The message I just got. It was from Cece. I’m going to meet her for some ice cream. She’d be mad if I ruined my ice cream appetite by eating a bowl here first.”
Ethan chuckled. “Okay. Then I’ll drop you off. It’s on my way.”
Arm in arm, we left the International Buffet and made the short trip down the hallway to the ice cream parlor, where Cece was already waiting.
Chapter Fifteen
I waved Ethan off and headed inside Two Scoops, where every order came with at least two scoops of ice cream. There was some painted writing on the wall that read: ‘We don’t even know the meaning of the word one.’ I couldn’t make up my mind if it was cute or dumb.
Cece was sitting alone in a cream-colored booth. Both the seats and the table were made of shiny plastic that looked clean and modern in a slightly retro way. Apart from the slogan on the wall, there were pictures of sundaes, splits, floats, and other ice-cream related desserts.
There was an empty glass bowl in front of Cece.
“Hey,” she said without her usual energy. “Get me two more scoops of mint chocolate chip?”
I was tempted to make a quip about getting her own since she was one of Paul Parker’s millionaires now, but from the look on her face I figured it probably wasn’t the best time. Instead, I just offered her a friendly, “Sure.”
The girl behind the counter wore a bright pink uniform with a paper sailor’s cap. She looked proud as she floated behind the range of thirty-two different ice cream flavors.
“Can I get two scoops of mint chocolate chip and…” I ran my eyes over everything, “two more scoops of mint chocolate chip.”
The girl laughed. “Coming right up.”
While she prepared my order, I turned to watch Cece. She was sitting in the booth, staring down at the plastic table as if it was a video screen. She didn’t even have her phone out. There was definitely something up with her, even beyond being a murder suspect.
“Here you go. Are you all set? Do you want any toppings or anything else?”
I shook my head and handed over my staff ID so she could swipe it.
When I got back to the table, Cece hadn’t moved. When I set down our bowls, she finally drew her eyes away from the table and looked up at me.
“Thanks.”
“What’s the matter, Cece? You’re not worried about being locked up, are you?”
“No, it’s not that. Well, that too. But not just that. It’s the cruise. The Claim Your Million thing. I was an idiot, Adrienne.”
“No, you are not. Cece Blake, you are one of the smartest people I know. Aren’t you supposed to be off looking at the Mayan ruins?”
“What’s the point? What’s the point of anything?”
“What happened? Was someone mean to you?” I couldn’t figure it out. I doubted she was upset because someone had been nasty to her; she was the kind of person who’d be twice as mean right back to them rather than getting upset over it.
“No. They weren’t mean. They were polite, even.”
“Who was it?”
“Stan Westbrook.” Cece picked up her spoon as if it were as heavy as a brick, and she dug herself out a spoonful of green ice cream. “I went to see him. To ask about investing in my product.”
“You’re not supposed to do that,” I reminded her.
“I know. But Lesley did, and she didn’t get in any trouble.”
Yeah, apart from winding up dead, I thought.
“We don’t know what would have happened.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I showed Stan my products, but he told me he already has his own!” Cece whacked the side of her glass bowl with the metal spoon, making a loud clink.
I cocked my head at her. “Wait, he said what? That he has his own cleaning products?” He hadn’t mentioned anything like that when I sat with him at Hemingway’s. He’d only told me that he owned a cleaning company, not that he made cleaning products too.
Cece lowered her head. “He said he’s got his own products in development. He’s already working on them, so he’s got no use for mine.”
Cece began to spoon the ice cream into her mouth like it was her job. A job she didn’t particularly enjoy.
“That’s weird. I spoke to him yesterday, and he didn’t even mention he was making cleaning products. And no offense to the man, he didn’t exactly seem the type to hide his accomplishments. Do you know what he calls himself?”
“What?” asked Cece, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her white blouse, oblivious to the mint chocolate smear she put on it.
“Stan the Man.” I stopped. “Wait, that wasn’t it. It was longer than that. ‘Stan the Man is the cleaner who can’ was the whole thing.”
“Maybe he forgot,” said Cece as if she didn’t care one way or the other.
“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, there’
s still Paul and Alejandro, right? Why don’t you wait for the big competition? Maybe one of them will want to invest in you.”
My friend shook her head again. This was not the usual Cece, always on the go and ready to slay people with sassy comebacks at a moment’s notice.
“I don’t think Alejandro is going to be investing in much.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why? What did he say?”
Cece lifted and dropped her shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Nothing. But look at him.”
I looked around. He didn’t seem to be anywhere within my line of sight.
“Not literally, doofus.” She gave me a playful slap on the arm. This was closer to my regular Cece.
“What did you mean then?”
“I mean… he doesn’t seem like he’s that rich, you know? Not like the ones on TV—everyone knows who they are and how much they’re worth. And even Paul Parker—we know he’s rich just from how much people pay to take his courses. I don’t think Alejandro is all that. I don’t think he’d have what it takes to launch my cleaning products nationwide.”
“Did you sneak a peek at his bank account?”
“Nah. That’s a good idea though. Maybe if I lifted his wallet…”
“Cece!” I yelled, peering around to make sure no one was listening.
“I was just kidding. I don’t think there’d be much in it, anyway.”
“Is it just a feeling? Or do you know something?”
She shrugged off my question and sat in silence for a moment. It was like pulling teeth trying to get anything out of her today. Finally, she squared her shoulders and began to talk.
“This morning, I nearly went with the rest of them on shore. I saw Alejandro, and he was wearing these dirty old knock-off tennis shoes. I mean, what kind of rich guy does that? He’d totally wear something nicer.”
I laughed. “Is that it? Plenty of rich guys don’t care about things like that. There are millionaires who drive around in fifteen-year-old Toyotas. Maybe he doesn’t care about shoes. And anyway, they were going to explore Mayan ruins. He probably didn’t want to ruin his best shoes clambering over old temples and things.”
Cruise Millions: A Humorous Cruise Ship Cozy Mystery (Cruise Ship Cozy Mysteries Book 6) Page 10