Murder of a Needled Knitter (16 page)

To Wally and Skye's right, Harry was just joining his
wife on a wooden bench located in a little recess. He handed her an icy glass and sat down. Silently, Skye and Wally drifted closer, keeping their backs to the other couple. Skye racked her brain trying to figure out a way to get Jessica talking about Guinevere.

Finally in a loud voice she said to Wally, “Wasn't it horrible about that murdered woman?” She shuddered theatrically. “So scary that a nice lady knitter was killed for no reason at all.”

“Terrible. Just terrible,” Wally replied, playing along. “With someone like her being targeted, can the rest of us feel safe?”

After their contrived exchange, Skye and Wally were quiet, and a few seconds later they were rewarded for their patience when Jessica said, “Hey, I never told you what Guinevere did to Candace Davidson, that cute little girl who dances in all the Broadway shows.”

“Keep your voice down,” Harry ordered her. “Why are you so obsessed with that woman?”

Skye laid her head on Wally's shoulder, pretending to be completely oblivious to the other couple. Wally put his arm around her and nuzzled her neck.

“I'm not,” Jessica protested. “It's just that Guinevere was so darn mean.”

“Fine.” Harry blew out an exasperated breath. “What did she do?”

“Well,” Jessica began, then paused dramatically before continuing, “she told Candace she was going to turn her in to the cruise director for breaking some rule.”

“What rule?”

“She didn't say.” Jessica's voice oozed disappointment. “Still, whatever it was really upset the girl. Candace pleaded with her not to say anything because there's a Hollywood talent scout due to take the next cruise, and if Candace gets fired, she'll lose her chance to be discovered and become a star.”

“Well, my dear,” Harry said, sounding surprised, “that actually might be a good enough motive for murder.”

Skye heard shuffling and turned to see the couple walking away.

As Harry and Jessica headed toward the bar's entrance, he added, “Which means you'd better keep your mouth shut about that conversation or you might become her next victim.”

Caribbean Blues

D
ue to a tardy couple who hadn't adhered to the tour schedule, the bus was late getting back to the port and it was nearly one fifteen before Skye, Wally, and the Fraynes began looking for a taxi. With less than two hours in which to find the photo-printing place and do some shopping, the two couples hurried toward the row of cabs that Skye had spotted earlier. As they rushed down the street lined with enticing stores, Skye grabbed Trixie's hand to keep her friend from straying.

Jewelry, perfume, cameras, and exotic clothing beckoned them. They wove their way through the crowds with Skye trying to memorize the locations of the shops she wanted to visit when they returned. Trixie almost got away from Skye when they passed the Dockside Bookshop, but Skye tightened her grip and kept her friend moving toward the taxis.

Cab drivers stood outside their vans attempting to load up as many people as possible. Skye glanced down the row, and couldn't see any smaller vehicles. This was not at all like the taxis she was used to in Chicago. How in the world did this system work?

Wally approached one of the drivers and explained
where they wanted to go, but the man spoke rapidly and tried to herd them into his van. Wally shook his head and asked another guy, who shrugged and turned his back. Skye watched as this scene was repeated again and again.

After several more attempts, Wally said, “No one appears to be willing to take us directly to our destination. The practice here seems to be that we get into one of these vehicles and eventually it will take us to the American Yacht Harbor at Red Hook.”

A woman with flawless café au lait skin and a lilting voice commented, “These men do not like to go off the beaten path of tourist sites.” She had drifted over to where Skye, Wally, and the Fraynes were standing and now faced them.

“So it seems.” Wally raised a brow. “Do you have a solution for us?”

“Of course.” She smiled, flashing blinkingly white teeth. “You could rent a car. There's a place over there.” She tilted her head. “But we drive on the left-hand side of the road here and if you aren't familiar with that, it may be a challenge. Also, with six ships in port today, we have around twenty-thousand additional people on our island, which makes the roads quite crowded.”

“Or?” Wally asked, gazing at the teeming masses of tourists everywhere.

“Or,” she pointed to herself, “you could hire Clea to drive you.” She gestured to an old white Lincoln Continental. “As you see, I have a quality vehicle with plenty of room for four passengers.”

“How long will it take us to get to the American Yacht Harbor at Red Hook?” Skye asked, slipping her hand through Wally's arm.

“With today's traffic, it will take Clea thirty minutes to get you there,” Clea answered. “Driving yourself, who knows how long?”

“Is there any place closer than Hawkins Surf Shop
that prints photos?” Trixie asked. “Some place where we can do it ourselves?”

“Perhaps.” Clea's expression was impassive. “But I do not know of one.”

“How much?” Owen asked. His stare dared the woman to name an unfair amount.

“Fifty dollars each way,” Clea said, then held up her palm when Owen sputtered his indignation. “A taxi for the four of you would cost forty per leg.”

“We're down to ninety minutes,” Skye said softly into Wally's ear. “And if we have her drive us, it will be a lot harder for anyone to follow us.”

“Those are both good points,” Wally whispered to Skye, then said to Clea, “I'll pay you the full amount if the round trip takes the hour you promised, but I'll deduct a dollar for every minute it exceeds the hour.” He stared at her. “And we pay when we get back here.”

“Deal.” She offered her hand. “And perhaps you will add a dollar per minute that I reduce the time.” She cocked her head. “As my tip.”

“That seems fair,” Wally agreed.

“You are most generous.” Clea beamed.

“I admire strong women who don't allow anyone to get the best of them,” Wally said, smiling back.

“While it is true that I am a strong woman, I prefer to be a woman of strength.” Clea escorted the two couples to the Lincoln. “A woman who gives her best to everyone.”

The ride to Red Hook was breathtaking, and not just because of the scenery. Clea was a fast and fearless driver, darting in and out of traffic, blowing her horn when anyone got in her way, and steering the car as if she were racing it in the Gran Prix at Monaco.

Twenty-six minutes later, she triumphantly eased the big vehicle into a parking spot. As they piled out of the car, she said, “Four dollars early.”

“Agreed.” Wally tipped his head. “You'll wait right here for us?”

“Yes.” She picked up a tattered paperback from the seat beside her.

Skye glanced at the teal-colored cover. A strawberry blonde wearing a pretty pink dress stood in front of a store entrance with a gray cat rubbing against her ankles. “That's a good mystery,” Skye said. “I just finished reading it.”

“I am enjoying it so far.” Clea flipped it open. “But we shall see if the ending lives up to the promise of the beginning.”

Consulting the map of the Red Hook area that Clea had given him, Wally led his group to Hawkins Surf Shop. While Wally and Owen waited across the road, keeping an eye out for anyone who might have followed them, Skye and Trixie went inside. Edging between racks of board shorts, tables of organic candles, and shelves of brightly colored flip-flops, the two women searched for the photo kiosk that Wally had seen mentioned on the Internet.

A few minutes later, nestled between displays of suntan lotion and dark glasses, Skye spotted the booth. She felt a victorious rush. Yes! They were going to be able to get the photos printed. Darting forward, she skidded to a stop an inch from the machine. Taped to the glass was a piece of notebook paper with
OUT OF ORDER
scrawled across the page in black Magic Marker.

“Darn it all to heck!” She stamped her foot and pointed as Trixie joined her. “All this time and money to get here, and now this.”

“Son of a bee sting!” Trixie howled. “What next? Locusts?”

“Doesn't this beat all?” Skye shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts.

“Someone up there isn't playing fair.” Trixie glared at the ceiling.

“We sacrificed shopping for nothing.” Skye checked her watch and grimaced. “We'd better get our butts to the car. We're down to forty-five minutes before we
have to be back on the ship. We're going to be cutting it close if traffic is worse on the return trip.”

Wally and Owen met Skye and Trixie as they exited the store, and Skye told them about the broken machine. They all sprinted toward the waiting car and piled morosely into the Lincoln.

Clea took one look at their expressions and said, “It did not go as you hoped?”

“No.” Wally bit off the word.

“Well.” Clea eased the Continental out of the parking space. “We cannot change the direction of the wind, so we must adjust our sails.”

No one responded to her words of wisdom and it was a long, unhappy drive back. They arrived at Havensight with less than fifteen minutes to walk through the mall and down the length of the dock to the
Diamond Countess
. After paying Clea the agreed upon hundred dollars plus a bonus ten—she'd shaved six minutes off the ride back—they hurried away.

Trixie and Skye whimpered as they raced past all the enticing shops, and Wally let out a groan when a hawker standing in front of A.H. Riise shouted that they had twelve-year-old The Balvenie on sale for thirty dollars. Skye knew that the single malt scotch was Wally's favorite and usually sold for at least ten dollars more.

They arrived at the gangway at two fifty-nine and were greeted with a long row of passengers waiting to board the ship. After nearly missing the boat in St. Maarten, Skye had asked why they needed to be on board at five if the ship didn't leave that port until six. The excursion manager had explained that previously they'd asked their guests to be on board thirty minutes before the sail-away. Unfortunately, many passengers had cut it too close and missed the boat, so management had doubled the safety margin. He'd said that there was a specific length of time during which each ship was required to vacate the dock, or it was fined.

As they stood in line, a young man wearing
swimming trunks, flip-flops, and a T-shirt with the words
CARPE CEREVISI
on its front approached them.

He poked Wally in the shoulder and asked, “Bro, do these steps go up?”

“Nah, man.” Wally wrinkled his nose and took a step backward out of stench range. “Try those over there, dude.” He pointed to a second set of metal stairs at the other end of the ship.

After the guy stumbled off, Skye wacked her husband's biceps. “That was mean.”

Wally slung an arm around her. “Believe me, sugar, you did not want to have him standing behind us. He smelled like a combination of Bingo's litter box, a brewery, and your uncle Dante's cheap cigars.”

Skye tried to maintain a serious expression. “Still, that gangway is for crew only.” She snickered. “Of course, he might not notice.”

Once they were back on board, Trixie and Owen headed to the Vista Buffet and Skye and Wally went to their suite. Skye needed to clean up in order to be ready to play bridge at four.

As she stripped off her sweat-soaked shorts and T-shirt, she said to Wally, “Can you order me a chef salad and Diet Coke from room service while I shower?” They hadn't had time for lunch while they were on shore. “Better get some chocolate chip cookies, too.” She darted into the bathroom and turned on the water, then stuck her head through the open doorway and added, “I'm starving.”

Wally ordered their food and checked in with the police department back home while Skye showered. When she emerged from the bathroom, he told her that nothing much was happening at home. She nodded and grabbed his cell to make her own calls. After talking to her brother, who said that Loretta hadn't yet gone into labor, and Frannie, who assured her that Bingo was fine, Skye wolfed down the food that had arrived while she'd been on the phone and hurried from the suite.

The bridge group was scheduled to meet in the card room on deck five. At three fifty-eight, Skye dashed through the door. Butterflies boogied in her stomach. It had been a couple of years since she'd played the complicated card game. She hoped she remembered all the complex rules about bidding. What if she made a fool of herself?

“Hello, I'm Sebastian Stallings. I'm in charge of bridge.” The handsome man Skye remembered from the Coronet Brasserie greeted her warmly, then asked, “Are you here for our open play?”

“Yes.” Skye smiled nervously. “But I might be a little rusty.”

“This is just a friendly game,” Sebastian assured her. “We save the cutthroat moves for when master points are involved.”

“Good to hear.” Skye glanced at the tables. There were only two empty seats. “But I'd still like to start with a partner who won't get upset if I bid wrong.”

“How about me?” Sebastian checked his watch. “I don't think anyone else is coming.”

“But . . .” Skye was about to protest being paired with such an advanced player, then realized she'd have a chance to question him about his ex-wife without being too obvious. “Great.”

The room had been set up for a four-table progressive, which meant there would be seven rounds and each person would be partners with and play against different opponents during the course of the afternoon.

For the first round, Skye and Sebastian played opposite a married couple. The woman said she was a calculus professor at a prestigious university in Pennsylvania, and since bridge took a mathematical and organized mind, Skye knew she would be a tough adversary.

After the first hand was dealt and the bidding was completed at two no-trump, the professor led a four of hearts and Skye said, “Have you and your husband played together long?”

“Since before our wedding twenty-six years ago,” the woman said without looking up from her cards.

“That's great.” Skye as dummy laid down her hand. “I wish my husband played.”

Sebastian scanned Skye's cards, took the six of hearts from the board, and commented, “Being bridge partners can be both a blessing and curse to a marriage.”

The professor frowned, threw down her nine, and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Depends on how competitive you both are.” Sebastian won the hand with a queen and led a seven of diamonds. “If it's overly important to either spouse to always win, it can be a problem.”

Skye muttered, “Yes, I can see how that could be true.” Then seizing the opportunity, she asked, “Does your wife play, Sebastian?”

The professor's husband played his king, and as Sebastian overcame it with the ace from the board, he said, “I'm divorced.”

The professor threw in a three, then arched a brow. “What did she do, trump your ace?” She winked at Skye. “Philip and I almost separated over that.”

“I wish that was all she did to me.” Sebastian's lips thinned. “She was the Queen of Mean and she treated me like her court jester.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Skye murmured. “Divorce can be so brutal. My husband's first marriage didn't end well.” She tilted her head and added brightly, “But I'm sure your relationship wasn't all bad. Maybe some time apart will help you both see that.”

After Sebastian won another hand with the queen of diamonds from the board and led a seven of clubs, he answered, “There isn't enough time in eternity to change my mind about that witch.”

Philip took that hand with his ace and led a two of hearts before saying to Sebastian, “I recall that you mentioned you'd spent most of your year on board ships leading bridge and ballroom dance groups, so at
least you don't have to worry about running into your ex. One of my colleagues works with his ex, which makes it awkward for all of us.”