Murder of a Needled Knitter (8 page)

“Then, will the movable walls somehow be secured or will you be posting a guard?” Skye asked. “Will you be making sure the scene isn't disturbed?”

“We don't have enough staff for that.” Officer Trencher stood, plainly uncomfortable with Skye's questions—or maybe with her own answers. “And there's no way to lock the barricades into position.”

“How about dusting for prints and collecting fiber evidence?”

“We aren't equipped for that. We'll preserve the knitting needles for the FBI, but because you wrapped the T-shirts around them to put pressure on the wound and the doctor handled them, I doubt there will be any usable fingerprints.” The woman's expression was hard to read. “You have to understand. This isn't the United States. The cruise line doesn't have to follow the procedures that you're used to at home. The company is almost like a supreme dictator. The only authority they're concerned with satisfying, or legally have to answer to, is their stockholders.”

Skye couldn't believe what she was hearing. “So no investigation?”

“We'll talk to the knitting group and try to piece together the time line. And I especially want to speak to your mother.” Officer Trencher put her notebook and pen into her pocket. “When we arrive back in Fort Lauderdale, we'll give that information to the FBI, who will do the forensics and interview the pertinent passengers and crew before anyone is allowed to disembark. I'm sure they, too, will be particularly interested in having a conversation with your mom.”

“But until then, nothing?” Skye was shocked at how lightly the loss of a human life was being taken.

“You've heard the phrase ‘the show must go on,'” Officer Trencher said. “Well, a cruise is like a Broadway show, only bigger, more elaborate, and with more money at stake. So unless the ship sinks, the cruise must go on.”

Cut of His Jib

W
hen security finished questioning Skye and Trixie, the two immediately headed toward a nearby restroom. Trixie hadn't gotten any blood on her, but Skye wasn't as fortunate; her forearms and shins where caked with it.

After several cycles of scrub, rinse, and repeat, Skye finally felt clean. Fortunately, instead of the standard disposable towels or, worse yet, air dryers, the cruise line provided terry hand cloths for their passengers. She'd been able to use one to wash and a second to dry off, which made the process a heck of a lot easier than it would have been otherwise. Shredded bits of brown paper just weren't the fashion statement Skye was trying to achieve on this trip.

Once her arms and legs were clean, Skye inspected her clothing and was amazed that it hadn't been spattered. Relieved that she didn't have to change outfits, she splashed her face with cold water, refastened her hair on top of her head, and put on some lip gloss. One last glance in the mirror and she was ready to go.

Trixie had been unusually quiet as Skye cleaned up, and she remained so as they walked out of the ladies'
room. Skye was grateful for the silence. She was still trying to wrap her head around what she'd just experienced, but her mind kept shying away from the overall situation and questions about inconsequential details kept popping into her head. Would they notify the next of kin now or wait until they got back to Fort Lauderdale and leave it up to the FBI? Who would lead the knitting group? And how would the crew ever get the stains out of the carpet?

The latter question was answered when she spotted several crew members armed with heavy-duty cleaning equipment entering Cloud Walkers. Clearly, the four p.m. floral demonstration that Skye had seen listed in the newsletter was going to take place as scheduled. She wondered if the people attending the program would have any idea that a woman had just been killed in the same lounge in which they were now learning how to arrange tiger lilies and daisies.

Finally Skye corralled her thoughts and said, “I wonder if Owen and Wally were worried when we didn't show up for lunch. We're a good hour and a half late.”

“Shoot!” Trixie grimaced. “I forgot we were supposed to meet them.”

“I asked one of the security guys if they could get word to them at the buffet.” Skye pushed the elevator
DOWN
button. “He said they didn't have any staff they could spare.”

“Do you have any idea how we're going to find them?” Trixie asked.

“Not a clue.” Skye nudged Trixie to the left as the arrow above the far elevator lit up. “My first thought was to call, but then I realized that my phone doesn't have any service on board. I can't believe how dependent I've become on my cell after I never even wanted to get one.”

“We need to establish some sort of system to meet up if we get separated.” Trixie moved forward as the
elevator dinged. “Like if we miss each other we automatically go to our cabin.”

“Or . . .” Skye pointed as the doors slid open and Wally, Owen, and May stepped out. “We can just wait for them to find us.”

“Where in the heck have you been?” Owen asked his wife. “You were supposed to be at the Vista Buffet ninety minutes ago.”

“What's wrong?” Wally put his arms around Skye and murmured into her hair, “I can tell from your expression that something's happened.”

Before Skye could answer, May pointed behind them. “Oh, my sweet lord. Is that what kept you two?”

They all turned and stared as the doctor and two of the security staff wheeled a gurney transporting a white body bag out of the nightclub's entrance. Skye's chest tightened as she watched the trio head toward the opposite end of the hallway. It saddened her to know that only a few hours ago the person in that plastic shroud had been someone with hopes and dreams. That she'd had no idea this was the last day she would spend on Earth. That another human being had brought a premature end to a life not yet fully lived.

Once the funeral-like procession disappeared behind the large metal door marked
CREW ONLY
, May demanded, “What's going on? Who was that in the body bag?”

Skye took a deep breath, about to explain, but Trixie blurted out, “I'm starving. Let's go to the buffet and we'll tell you everything while we eat.”

Trixie had uttered the magic words and May's nurturing instinct kicked in. Then when the men also admitted they hadn't had lunch, Skye's mother immediately punched the elevator button and swept the two couples inside the instant it arrived. She peppered the women with questions as they rode down to deck fourteen, but both Trixie and Skye ignored her.

“Let's separate and meet over there once we have our food.” Trixie pointed to a row of tables along the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The section she indicated was the most coveted spot in the dining room because of the stunning sea views. It would take timing and tenacity to nab a table there, since they were all currently occupied.

“I'll go hover until someone leaves,” May volunteered. “Our knitting session broke up at eleven thirty, so Jed and I went straight to the dining room to eat. I wanted to eat here at the buffet, but he said that if he wanted to stand in line for food, he'd go to McDonald's. You know your dad and his routines. Sometimes I think he's just rusting in peace.”

Skye and Wally exchanged a glance as May prattled on. They were used to her stream of consciousness communications and knew they had to let her run out of steam.

May took a breath and continued. “I came up here later to get a glass of iced tea and ran into Wally and Owen, who were waiting for you two.”

“So the three of you joined up to find us?” Trixie asked, starting May off on another long monologue.

“When the guys said you two were more than thirty minutes late, I knew something was wrong.” May frowned. “We stopped by both your suites, and when you weren't there, Wally suggested we start at the bottom and go deck by deck. Of course, you were on the last one we checked.” Flinging the last few words over her shoulder, May darted off, intent on grabbing a table that someone had just vacated.

The two couples grinned at each other, then headed toward the buffet line.

While they walked, Skye pulled Trixie close and spoke into her ear. “That explains why the knitting group wasn't at Cloud Walkers when we arrived.”

“And if someone remembers seeing her in the
dining room, May will have an alibi,” Trixie whispered, patting Skye's shoulder.

Both women's attention turned to food when they approached the buffet and saw that Tuesday's theme was a gastronomic Tour of Italy. Trixie grabbed two plates and darted toward the appetizers.

The smell of garlic, oregano, basil, and fresh baked bread surrounded Skye like a loving embrace, calming her frazzled nerves, and despite the grisly proceedings of the last couple of hours, she was hungry. As she gazed at the amazing smorgasbord spread out as far as she could see, her resolution to eat lightly evaporated faster than rain on an Illinois sidewalk in a July heat wave.

While she made her selections from the salad bar, the hot pasta station, and the dessert table, Skye tried to process all that she'd seen and heard since finding Guinevere on the floor of Cloud Walkers.

The more she thought about the poor woman's death going uninvestigated until the FBI took over in Fort Lauderdale, the more upset she became. By the time they got back to Florida, it was likely that any evidence would be long gone and the killer would get away scot-free.

Once they were all seated, and had given their drink orders to the server, May pointed to Skye and Trixie and said, “One of you needs to tell us what happened, right now.”

Trixie immediately shoveled a huge bite of lasagna into her mouth and shot a triumphant glance at Skye. Skye accepted defeat and reluctantly put down her fork. She just hoped she'd get in a few nibbles before her hot food got cold and the salad got warm.

“Trixie and I decided to see if you wanted to join us for lunch,” Skye told her mother, meeting Wally's skeptical look without flinching. Knowing that May would throw a fit if she thought her daughter had intended to check up on her, Skye mentally excused
herself for taking liberties with the truth. “So I got the knitting group schedule from passenger services and we headed up to Cloud Walkers to invite you.” She paused to take a sip of the Diet Coke the waiter had just served her.

“Obviously, I wasn't there,” May said, then tsked, “As usual, Guinevere cut our knitting session short.”

“Did she give a reason for ending early?” Trixie asked in between bites of garlic bread.

“No,” May answered, stealing a cookie from Skye's dessert plate. “She considers explaining herself beneath her.”

“And no one asks?” Skye asked before putting a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

“We ask, but she ignores us.” May frowned. “Quit distracting me with all your questions. You two still haven't told us who was in that body bag.”

“When we got to the nightclub,” Skye resumed, “it was obvious that your knitting group wasn't there, and we were about to leave when we heard a thud.” She was tired of reciting this story after having repeated it again and again to the security chief, but knew she had no choice but to tell it at least one more time. “Trixie and I went to see what had caused the noise and found Guinevere Stallings lying on the floor with knitting needles sticking out of her neck.”

“Oh, my heavens!” May gasped and clutched her chest. “Was she dead?”

“Not then.” Skye closed her eyes and a tear slipped down her cheek. No matter how often she witnessed the tragedy of someone's life being cut short, she never got used to it.

Wally and Owen were silent, but it was clear the men were shocked by the news. Wally scooted his chair closer to Skye and put an arm around her, and Owen did the same with his wife.

“What did you do?” May asked, glancing between her daughter and Trixie.

“I put pressure on the wound and Trixie called for help.” Skye shook her head. “But it was too late. By the time the doctor and the security team arrived, she'd stopped breathing.”

“Oh.” May was unusually silent. She toyed with her coffee cup and broke in half the snickerdoodle she'd appropriated.

“The doctor worked on Guinevere for a while.” Skye briefly rested her head on Wally's shoulder, then straightened and said, “But she never had a chance. Officer Trencher told me that the knitting needles had nicked the carotid artery.”

“That must have been terrible, darlin'.” Wally hugged her. “I take it that during the rest of the time we couldn't find you, the two of you were going over your movements with security.”

“They made us tell them over and over,” Trixie said. “Like in mystery novels. In fact, this whole murder is like a locked-room whodunit.”

“Trixie.” Owen's voice was irritated as he tried to shush his wife.

“What?” Trixie seemed surprised at Owen's tone. “It is. It reminds me—”

“Not now,” Owen interrupted her. “This isn't the time to talk books.”

“I was just going to point out that—” Trixie scowled at Owen when he put his finger to her lips. As soon as he removed it, she huffed, “Fine.” She swiped a skewered prosciutto-wrapped honeydew melon chunk from her husband's plate, slid the morsel off the toothpick, put it into her mouth, and grumbled, “Let me know when I'm allowed to speak.”

The rest of the group ignored Trixie's snit, and Wally asked, “Did Officer Trencher say how they'd be proceeding?” He added, “I can't imagine they get a whole lot of murders on board.”

“This is her first.” Skye summarized what the security chief had revealed about her background, ending
with, “It didn't sound like she'd ever had to actually investigate a complicated case.”

“That's too bad.” Wally drew his eyebrows together. “Did she indicate what her next step would be? Will she need to talk to you again?”

“I doubt it.” Skye explained the ship's procedure on handling a serious crime at sea, then added, “Officer Trencher said the security staff would interview the knitting group to get an idea of what happened when. Other than that, the cruise line's policy is to turn the information over to the FBI once the ship reaches its home port.”

“Which means a lot of the forensic evidence will be lost and the chances of finding the killer are almost nonexistent.” Wally's mouth tightened. “I can't abide a victim not getting any justice.”

Everyone at the table nodded, although Owen's nod was not very enthusiastic. Skye figured he either wasn't as invested in catching criminals or he was afraid of what his wife might decide to do in her quest to see the killer punished. After a few seconds of silence, the men slid their chairs back to their original spots and resumed eating.

Trixie had already polished off her main course and moved on to dessert. She poked the dome-shaped sweet on her plate and said, “Does anyone know what this is?”

“It's an Italian delicacy called zuccotto,” May answered. “A liqueur-moistened sponge cake is layered with a vanilla pastry cream, then sprinkled with grated chocolate and chopped almonds.”

“I've never heard of it.” Owen took a forkful and licked his lips.

“It's believed to have been inspired either by the dome of Florence's main cathedral or by the shape of a cardinal's skullcap, which is called a zucchetto,” May explained. “It's served at special family celebrations in Tuscany, where my mother's family originated.”

“You need to get the recipe, Trixie,” Owen said, spooning in another mouthful.

Trixie nodded as she moved the dish out of her husband's reach.

“I could give the recipe to Skye and she could share it with you,” May offered with a sly glint in her eye. “Now that she's finally married, maybe she'll take more interest in the kitchen so she can feed those babies when they come.”