Killer Cruise Page 9

  Having given up on Robbie, my mind wandered to my nightly pit stop at the buffet. I was debating between chocolate chip cookies and brownies—brownies had a slight edge—when suddenly I heard a woman shrieking:

  “You miserable sonofabitch!”

  I turned to see Cookie storming down the aisle in one of her spangly show gowns.

  She screeched to a halt at our row.

  “I just heard the news,” she spat at Graham. “You’re marrying her?”

  She eyed Emily in disbelief.

  “Yes, Cookie,” Graham replied, cool as a cucumber. If the opposite of nonplussed was plussed, he was plussed to the max. “Emily and I have decided to tie the knot.”

  “But you can’t marry her!” Cookie wailed. “You’re engaged to me!

  “He’s engaged to me!” she repeated to Emily. “I swear. He gave me half a heart.” She lifted her pendant and showed it to Emily and everybody else in the Grand Showroom. “He promised he’d marry me!”

  By now, two security guards had descended on her.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, swatting at them. But these guys were as big as refrigerators. They hoisted her by the elbows and began hauling her back up the aisle.

  “You miserable sonofabitch!” she screamed at Graham as they carted her away. “You don’t deserve to live!”

  A buzz of excited chatter filled the air in the wake of her exit, everyone yapping about the dramatic scene they’d just witnessed.

  The Great Branzini sure had a tough act to follow.

  “I knew all along your precious Graham was no good!” Kyle crowed. “The man is a con artist, Aunt Emily!”

  “He’s just out for your money!” Nesbitt chimed in.

  Emily turned to Graham and looked at him questioningly, her face pale.

  But he didn’t miss a beat.

  “You mustn’t believe Cookie,” he said, smooth as silk. “She’s mentally unbalanced; anyone can see that. We’re not engaged. Never were. We’re just good friends, that’s all. Everything else is all in her imagination.”

  Okay, I could sit through this claptrap no longer. Time to speak up.

  “That’s not true, Emily,” I protested. “Graham is engaged to Cookie. I heard him tell her he’d buy her a wedding ring.”

  Graham whirled on me, his gray eyes cold as steel.

  “I don’t know what you think you heard, Jaine, but I never proposed to Cookie. She and I are just good friends.”

  “Emily,” I said, “I swear I heard—”

  Emily held up her hand to stop me.

  “No more, Jaine. I’m sure you must be mistaken. If Graham says he didn’t ask Cookie to marry him, I believe him.”

  She gazed up at him and smiled serenely.

  And at that moment, I realized Emily knew exactly what she was getting into. She knew Graham was a gold digger, and she didn’t care. She’d tossed her good sense out the window and put her heart and money on the line.

  Just another hapless victim in the game of love.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jaineausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: A Perfect Match!

  Well, lambchop, your old Daddy did it again!

  I just finished painting over that spot on your wall, and if I do say so myself, I did a terrific job. It was a perfect match. You’d never know there was ever a scuff mark!

  Love and hugs,

  Daddy

  To: Jaineausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: What a Klutz!

  Oh, Lord. Your father has gone and done it again!

  I knew I should’ve never let him paint that scuff mark. Not only does the paint clash with the color on your wall, but now he’s gone and spattered some of it on your beautiful hardwood floor! What a klutz!

  Sorry I can’t write more now. Lance is coming for dinner and I’ve got to check my pot roast.

  Love from,

  Your frazzled Mom

  To: Jaineausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: One Tiny Problem

  Hi, Lambchop—

  I forgot to mention a tiny problem that cropped up when I painted that spot on your wall. A bit of the paint spattered onto your hardwood floor. But I’ll just get it off with some paint remover, easy-sneezy, no problemo.

  By the way, did your mom tell you she invited Lance over for dinner tonight? Such a production! You’d think the Pope was coming. All I can say is it’s a good thing I’ve got my trusty pipe to relax with.

  XOXO,

  Daddy

  To: Jaineausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: PS from Mom

  PS. When was the last time you cooked a meal in your oven, sweetheart? When I opened it to put in the roast, I found an umbrella.

  Chapter 10

  I was jarred awake the next morning by a commotion next door in Cookie’s cabin. I did not need to put my ear to the wall to hear footsteps stomping, drawers slamming, and Cookie shouting, “I swear I don’t have them!”

  Then the cabin door banged shut and all was quiet. Except for the faint sounds of Cookie sobbing. Oh, dear. Something was obviously very wrong.

  I needed to find out what I could do to help. But first I had to tend to Prozac, who had assumed her morning position on my chest, clawing me for her breakfast.

  I staggered out of bed to get her some roast beef I’d had the foresight to pick up last night at the buffet bar. I’d stored it in the cabin’s mini-fridge, along with the $6 Cokes and $20 half bottles of wine. (Apparently beverages were not included in my free cruise, a happy tidbit of info I was not to discover until checkout time.)

  “Here you go, Pro,” I said, putting the meat down in front of her.

  She sniffed at it dismissively.

  I don’t do leftovers.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Pro, you’ll eat it and like it.”

  It was about time I laid down the law with that cat.

  Ignoring the death ray looks she was shooting me, I headed to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. After which I grabbed the Holiday Cruise Lines robe in my closet (only $95, should I choose to keep it), threw it on over my I My Cat nightshirt, and headed for the door.

  Prozac, who was once more sniffing the roast beef, tried to make me feel guilty with one of her Starving Orphan looks.

  If you really hearted your cat, you’d be getting me fresh-baked ham from the buffet bar.

  “For once, just do me a favor and cooperate.”

  And what do you know? After a beat of hesitation, the little devil actually started eating.

  Grateful for small miracles, I scooted next door to Cookie’s cabin. She came to the door, ashen faced, her eyes rimmed with mascara she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

  “Cookie, what’s going on?”

  She ushered me inside and sank down onto her bed.

  “Graham’s dead,” she said, her eyes glazed with disbelief. “Murdered. Stabbed in the heart with an ice pick.”

  Omigod. So that’s what happened to Anton’s missing ice picks.

  “They found his body early this morning out on the Lido Deck, the ice pick still in his heart. They think I did it. The security guys were here just now searching my cabin for some cuff links the old lady gave him. They think whoever killed him stole the cuff links, too.”

  Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

  “They’re going to arrest me, Jaine. I’m sure of it.”

  “Can they do that without the police?”

  She nodded wearily.

  “On board ship, the captain makes the laws. They can do anything they want.”

  “But they don’t have any evidence.”

  “Are you kidding? Three hundred people in the Grand Showroom heard me telling Graham he didn’t deserve to live.”

  “That’s not nearly enough to convict you in a court of law.”

  “But that’s not all, Jaine.” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “I was at the scene of t
he crime.”

  Ouch.

  “Graham called me about one in the morning and begged me to meet him out on deck. And like an idiot, I went. He said that hooking up with Emily was the opportunity of a lifetime and that he couldn’t afford to pass up the money. He said it wouldn’t be long till she kicked the bucket and he inherited her money. After that, he promised, we’d get married. In the meanwhile, he wanted to see me on the side. Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Expecting me to hang around waiting for the poor old biddy to die?”

  She got up now and began pacing, angered at the memory.

  “At that moment I knew he’d never marry me. He played me for a fool, just like he was playing Emily for a fool. I lost it then and told him what a miserable creep he was. Then I ripped off that stupid pendant he gave me and threw it in his face.”

  “And they found the pendant when they found his body?”

  “With my fingerprints all over it.” She nodded glumly. “Not to mention my initials engraved on the damn thing.”

  I gulped in dismay.

  “And it gets worse.”

  How was that possible?

  “They’ve got an eyewitness who saw me. Eddie Romero, one of the other Gentlemen Escorts.

  “Oh, Jaine,” she cried, “what am I going to do?”

  “I’ll help you, Cookie.”

  “What can you possibly do?” She looked up at me, mascara flowing down her cheeks in tiny rivers.

  “I’ll investigate.”

  “Investigate? As in private investigator?”

  “I’m not exactly licensed,” I confessed, “but I have solved a couple of murders in my time.”

  (And it’s true. For those of you unfamiliar with the titles listed in the front of this book, I solve murders as a hobby—in between writing assignments and my main job, catering to Prozac’s every whim.)

  Cookie blinked in amazement.

  “Somehow I can’t picture you as a private eye.”

  I get that reaction all the time. A woman in a chenille scrunchy and I My Cat nightshirt doesn’t exactly scream Philip Marlowe.

  “I’d be happy to help if you’d like,” I said.

  “That would be wonderful.” She managed a feeble smile. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulder. “Just try not to worry. They’ve done studies that show that ninety-nine percent of the things people worry about never happen. It’s a scientific fact.”

  (No, it wasn’t, but I had to say something to get that suicidal look off her face.)

  But wouldn’t you know, just then, in the Bad Timing Department, there was an ominous banging on the cabin door.

  I opened it warily and saw one of the ship’s officers, a strapping Scandinavian, looking a bit like old Thor about to let loose with a thunderclap. Flanking him were the same security goons who’d hauled Cookie away last night.

  “Cookie Esposito,” Thor intoned solemnly, “I’m arresting you for the murder of Graham Palmer.”

  So much for made-up statistics.

  I returned to my cabin, my mind reeling at the thought of Graham stabbed in the heart with an ice pick. I didn’t believe for a minute that Cookie was the killer. Why make a big scene in a public place if she intended to bump him off?

  I could think of two far more likely suspects at my own dinner table: Kyle Pritchard and Leona Nesbitt. Both had juicy motives to see Graham dead. Kyle, to keep control of Emily’s finances. And Nesbitt, to keep her job. Graham had threatened to fire them both. I remembered the murderous look in Nesbitt’s eyes at the cocktail party last night, and Kyle’s threat to stop Graham from marrying Emily “no matter what it takes.”

  What if “what it takes” was a stolen ice pick? Kyle said he knew from the get-go that Graham was trouble. What if he swiped Anton’s ice picks to nip that trouble in the bud? Then when Emily announced their engagement, Graham’s doom was sealed.

  Same with Nesbitt. She’d loathed Graham on contact. I could easily picture her hacking her enemy to death and then stopping off at the buffet for a veggie plate.

  And what about Robbie? Was he my killer? True, he seemed to like Graham, but that could’ve been an act. Was it possible he’d knocked off the charming Gentleman Escort to protect his inheritance? My stomach sank at the thought. No, it couldn’t be Robbie. I mean, the guy smelled like baby powder.

  Shoving the idea of Robbie as a homicidal surf bum to a dusty corner of my mind, I stepped into the shower and began planning my investigation.

  “I need to speak with the captain.”

  I was at the main desk in the ship’s lobby talking to one of the clerks, a deeply tanned dude with dark hair glossed back Armani style. His name tag read Franco.

  “Captain Lindstrom is unavailable right now,” Franco said, beaming me his official Holiday Handbook employee smile. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Nope,” I replied firmly. “I need the captain.”

  “May I ask what it’s regarding?”

  “Graham Palmer’s murder.”

  “Please keep your voice down,” he hissed.

  He glanced around to make sure none of the other passengers had heard me, then scurried over to whisper with a puffy blond dame I could only assume was his supervisor. She looked up at me in alarm, then got on her phone.

  Minutes later, Franco was escorting me to the captain’s office.

  “How did you find out about Graham?” he asked as we walked along.

  “My cabin’s right next door to Cookie Esposito’s. I was there when they arrested her.”

  “You’re down on Cookie’s deck? That’s usually for employees.”

  “Yes, I’m one of the ship’s lecturers.”

  “Well,” he said, all traces of formality gone now that he knew I was a hired hand, “you’d better keep your mouth shut about the murder. It’s all very hush-hush. The last thing the Holiday honchos want is a dead body splashed in the news. None of the passengers know except for the old lady he was engaged to. And her family.”

  “But what about Graham? What are they going to do with his body?”

  “They’re keeping him in cold storage till we get to L.A.”

  By now we’d reached Captain Lindstrom’s office. But when Franco opened the door to let me in, the captain was nowhere in sight.

  “He’ll be with you in a minute,” Franco said. And then, in a gossipy whisper, he added, “They’re having trouble freezing the body.”

  I stifled a shudder. A little TMI for moi.

  Franco trotted off to resume his duties at the front desk, and I took advantage of my alone time to gawk at the captain’s impressive digs: Gleaming teak furniture. An entire wall lined with nautical photos. And a scale model of the Festival mounted on a stand.

  I checked out the model ship, locating the Dungeon Deck mere inches from the bottom, all the while trying not to think of Graham’s body decomposing somewhere nearby.

  Then I wandered over to Lindstrom’s desk, where I saw a framed photo of his family (a smiling wife and four towheaded kids) along with the usual desk accessories.

  But what really caught my eye was a plastic bag in his in-box. Inside I could see a wallet, a man’s watch—and a half-a-heart pendant with the initials G.P. engraved in the center. The same pendant Graham had worn around his neck as a token of his “commitment” to Cookie.

  Clearly I’d stumbled upon Graham’s personal effects.

  I eyed his wallet, dying to snoop inside. Did I dare? Lindstrom could walk in on me any second.

  Oh, what the heck. Adrenaline racing, I pulled out the wallet and began rummaging through it.

  Graham had the standard collection of credit cards, along with a not-so-standard business card from an establishment called the Hoochie Mama Lounge. When I checked the billfold I was somewhat surprised to find two thousand dollars in cash. Very interesting. Maybe Emily had been showering him with money as well as diamonds
.

  I was just about to put the wallet away when I noticed a security compartment hidden under the credit cards. I ran my finger inside and felt a piece of paper. Eagerly, I pulled it out. It was a faded newspaper clipping. Just a few paragraphs long—about the arrest of a bank robber known as the Butterfly Bandit, so called because of a large tattoo of a butterfly on his chest.

  What was an old crime clipping doing in his wallet? Could Graham have been the Butterfly Bandit? He’d been a lowlife, for sure; was it possible he had a criminal record?

  Or was the Butterfly Bandit someone else on board ship? Had Graham found out about this guy’s criminal past and cashed in on his discovery with a little blackmail? Maybe all that cash in his wallet wasn’t from Emily, but from his blackmail victim.

  All very interesting questions, none of which I had time to ponder, because just then I heard voices in the hallway.

  I frantically stashed the wallet back in the plastic bag, just milliseconds before Captain Lindstrom came striding into the room.

  A rosy-cheeked guy who looked like he’d had one too many Swedish meatballs at the midnight buffet, he spoke with the merest hint of a Scandinavian accent.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said.

  “No problem,” I replied from the chair I’d hurled myself into.

  He settled behind his massive desk and glanced over at the plastic bag.

  Oh, Lord. Could he tell I’d tampered with it? Maybe he could see that the objects inside had been moved. I broke out in a cold sweat, wondering if I’d soon be bunkmates with Cookie in the brig. But no, he simply adjusted the picture of his wife and kids and turned his gaze back to me.

  “So, Ms. Austen. Apparently you know about Graham’s death.”

  “Yes, my cabin’s right next door to Cookie Esposito’s. I was there when they arrested her. And I think you’re making a grave mistake.”

  “Oh?” His pale brows lifted in surprise. “Why is that?”