Set Sail for Murder (22 page)

Before Tim was out of the lounge, he called back, “Don’t forget who we’re meeting at seven.”

“Who, dear?” Polly asked.

“Frick and Frack,” Tim said conspiratorially.

Polly looked into Dorian’s eyes. “By the way, Tim once decked his father #2 for calling him ‘Son.’”

“T
he captain’s a killer!” Marc Garner wailed.

“He’s a cutthroat!” Stephen Ronson cried.

“Knew it!” Polly clapped her hands as she eagerly ushered the two men into her elegant new veranda suite stateroom. She handed them both flutes of chilled champagne. “Of course, I suspected it all along. That ratty rug of curly hair on his head. The dumb mustache over his thin lips. Those deep-set beady brown eyes. He’s a dead ringer for a police sketch I once saw of a serial killer!” Polly turned to her maid and extended a hand with her empty glass. “We’ll open another bottle to celebrate our finally pinning down Laura’s nefarious butcher. Captain ‘Ahab’ Sheridan!”

Stephen and Marc exchanged horrified looks. “No!” Stephen shrieked. “I mean, yes, the captain’s an executioner, but I’m not saying he slaughtered anyone. Just our careers.”

“And egos,” Marc added. “I’ve never seen Captain Sheridan more angry. He’s relieved us of duty.”

“Fired?” Polly said.

“He’s holding us personally liable for any witness or evidence tampering that may have occurred during the hours that we were guarding your cabin. He said that he suspects
that you have something to do with Laura Crawford’s death and he’s calling the Coast Guard to question you when we reach Juneau.”

“Of course he would accuse someone of note,” Polly said, “especially if he’s trying to divert attention away from himself. ‘He who smelt it, dealt it!’”

Tim grimaced. “Or words to that effect. What exactly happened when you met with the captain?”

“It was ugly,” Stephen said. “My ears are still ringing. I didn’t know if I should hold my sphincter or my tears.”

“In a nutshell, Sweetums,” Polly encouraged. “Less editorializing.”

“Um, other than we’re idiots, he said what we already knew, that a killer roams this ship. He also said that he suspects Polly Pepper of being involved. By the way, he’s going to monitor each of you, and your every move, until we reach port,” Stephen said. “We’re to be tailed, too.”

“We’re under surveillance?” Placenta said. “Then the captain is sure to know where you are right now, and with whom. Maybe you are idiots. Kidding. Sort of.”

Polly was suddenly and uncharacteristically enraged. She stood up from the cheap knockoff of a Barcelona chair on which she had strategically seated herself to be the center of attention. Grabbing her head of red hair with both hands, she stepped out on her balcony and screamed maniacally into the sea air. “You want my blood? Take my blood!”

The room became deathly silent as Stephen and Marc looked on in shock and surprise at the woman whose legend for being a great star was matched by her reputation for always being as pleasant as Felicity Huffman. They were equally surprised to see Tim and Placenta quietly sipping champagne, oblivious to the meltdown taking place.

Polly returned to the living area and paced the room. After a moment of watching her, Placenta lethargically clapped her hands and dryly said, “Brava, diva. When in
doubt about what to say in any situation, there’s always a quote from a movie.”

Tim said, “That was Polly’s impersonation of Samuel L. Jackson. From
The Negotiator.
She does a great Sly Stallone. And Schwarzenegger, too.” He looked at his mother. “Say ‘California’ the way our governator does.”

Polly plopped herself back down in the chair. “I’m frustrated with this case, and angry that Captain Sheridan dares to impugn my integrity and character.” She looked at Stephen and Marc. “What else did that nautical Neanderthal say? Anything that might suggest that he’s hiding something or protecting someone? Maybe himself?”

Stephen and Marc exchanged looks. “He mostly yelled and called us words that we can’t use in front of ladies,” Stephen said.

“Ain’t no ladies here,” Placenta teased.

“Get this,” Marc continued. “After we were dismissed, we went to the infirmary.”

“To throw up,” Stephen said.

“And to score a couple of Xanax,” Marc said. “While we were there, we overheard Dr. Girard saying something like, ‘Of course she’s locked up, sir. Tight as a witch’s …’”

Stephen abruptly nudged his colleague.

“Sorry, Miss Pepper,” Marc said.

Polly waved away the apology. “Placenta’s the prude.”

Placenta harrumphed. “I watch
South Park
religiously!’”

Stephen added, “The doc also said, and I quote, ‘A little freezer burn, but otherwise, as fresh as the day we rolled her into storage.’”

“Oh, and he said something about a memory card being safe,” Marc said.

Stephen looked at Marc. “What do you think he meant when he chuckled and said, ‘You’ll make another killing with that, sir’?”

“Sounds incriminating to me,” Polly said and took a sip of champagne. “Especially the killing part.”

Tim hedged. “A murder victim is in the crisper section of the fridge to keep her fresh for the autopsy. The captain is right to make sure the body is under lock and key.”

“What about the reference to
another
killing?” Polly said. “And what’s a memory card? Another nauseating Hallmark greeting?”

Tim reached for his digital camera that he’d left on the coffee table, and withdrew an object the size of a foil-wrapped chocolate mint square. “This is a memory card,” he said. “It’s what digital pictures are stored on.” He passed it over to Polly.

As she examined the tiny article, Polly shook her head in amazement. “All those party and vacation pictures you take are on this little thingamajig? Anything from last week’s pool soirée at Jason Priestley’s? I’d like to squeeze his Charmin.”

Tim snatched the memory card out of his mother’s hand and quickly reinserted it into his camera.

“What if …” Stephen started to speak then changed his mind.

“What if what, dear?” Polly encouraged. “There are no stupid questions. Only stupid people.”

Stephen gathered his nerve. “What if the captain took pictures of the dead celebrity and has plans to make money by selling ‘em to the
National Peeper?
Therefore making ‘another killing’ as Dr. Girard said.”

Polly shook her head. “It’s a fabulous idea, but I don’t think it’ll fly. Captain Sheridan’s not a complete moron. To do something so sinister, repulsive, and unethical would be to jeopardize his entire career. By the by, can you scam a couple of Xanax for me?”

“The captain’s career is already in jeopardy,” Marc said. “He’s certainly not foolish, and if I were in his position, facing the possibility of getting booted out of my job just before retirement, I’d keep something of value around for insurance. Either something to sabotage the company I’ve
given my life to, or something that would provide an annuity of sorts.”

Stephen said, “What would be better than dead celebrity pictures, fresh from a brutal crime scene? There’s always a market in any number of tabloids. Or on gossip Web sites. Perez Hilton or
TMZ
would probably cough up a fortune. If they pay multimillions for the rights to publish pictures of celebrity babies coming into this world, it stands to reason they’d pay a bundle for pix of celebs leaving the planet. Especially if it’s in a particularly ghastly way.”

Polly wondered aloud, “Hypothetically speaking, if Captain Sheridan indeed had photos of a dead Laura Crawford, and wanted to sell them, wouldn’t he think that such material might somehow link him to her death? Or, if he actually were the killer, why would he keep photographic souvenirs? Maybe to prove to someone that he knew a celebrity—dead or otherwise.”

For a few moments the stateroom was quiet as everyone considered the previously unthinkable possibility that Captain Sheridan, a lifelong sailor and dedicated commander of cruise ships, might have had a hand in the murder of Laura Crawford, or at least in reaping rewards from her death.

Polly cleared her throat. “Let’s think about this rationally. What would be his motive for killing Laura? They didn’t even know each other. On the other hand, if anyone could get in to any room on this ship, including the spa, without attracting suspicion, it would be the captain. But why would he risk his career?”

Placenta added, “Don’t forget the murder weapon. It doesn’t make much sense that Captain Sheridan would have the new boxed set collector’s edition DVDs of
The Polly Pepper Playhouse.”

Polly gave her an indignant look. “I have ardent admirers in every society and station in life.”

“If he was such a fan, why would he take one of his precious
discs and sharpen the hell out of it, then leave it in Laura’s neck?”

Polly raised an eyebrow.

Tim leaned forward and picked up the champagne bottle. He refilled his mother’s glass and Placenta’s, and then filled his own. Marc and Stephen waved a pass. “Before we waste time trying to figure out if the captain had a motive for killing Laura, we’d better make sure he’s a legitimate suspect. We’ve got to find the memory card and see if Laura’s dead body is on any of the frames.”

Marc looked at Tim. “You know how small that thing is. You’re looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

Tim nodded. “First things first. We’ve got to get in to see Dr. Girard. Find out what he knows.”

Polly coughed, then felt her head for fever. “I’m getting dizzy,” she moaned. “I have an earache, too.”

“Mmm, mmm.” Placenta nodded. “All the symptoms of
Infectiouschronicosis!”

Tim looked at Marc and Stephen. “You don’t need a vaccination. But we’d better get Polly to the infirmary, pronto.”

Dr. Girard was tall, rugged, and wore a luxurious mane of prematurely gray hair. His teal-colored V-neck scrub top couldn’t conceal his packed chest, and the short sleeve of the shirt showed off muscular forearms. Tim wasn’t the only one instantly smitten. Polly and Placenta were tonguetied as they tried to explain the symptoms of Polly’s malaise.

As Polly kept Dr. Girard occupied with taking her temperature, feeling the glands in her neck, swallowing, sucking in deep breaths for the stethoscope, and giving a list of medications she was currently taking for high blood pressure and cholesterol, Tim and Placenta surreptitiously scoped out the clinic. Although they didn’t know where to begin, they felt the pockets of white lab coats, opened desk drawers,
picked up stacks of papers and even opened the instrument-sterilizing machine. Nada.

Suddenly, Placenta had a scheme. She opened the door to the private examination room and announced, “You’ve saved a star’s life! Bless you, Doctor! I’ll make sure that she gets rest and drinks plenty of fluids.”

Dr. Girard was startled by the intrusion and annoyed that Placenta, followed by Tim, would barge into the examination room while he was performing a medical checkup on a patient. Placenta buttoned Polly’s blouse and helped her off the exam table. “Miss Pepper would love to have a photograph of the two of you together,” Placenta said. “And I’m sure you’d love one too, for your wall of fame, which I see you don’t have yet. But what better legend to start with than the one highest on the heap!”

Tim quickly caught on. “Oh, darn,” he said. “I left my camera at home.”

“Dr. Girard must have a good digital camera on hand,” Placenta said. “You never know when a passenger might come down with Werewolf syndrome, or bubonic plague makes a comeback and you need photographic evidence to e-mail to the CDC. Yes?”

“Hardly,” Dr. Girard declared testily. “I don’t need pictures of passengers with a case of Montezuma’s revenge.”

“Of course, that would be creepy!” Placenta continued. “But please let us thank you with an autographed picture! She doesn’t have any recent eight-by-ten headshots on hand, so we’ll have to play photographer. Timmy’s an expert. He shoots a lot of Hollywood A-list stars.”

Polly played along. “Do let me have a picture of the man who made me well,” she said.

Dr. Girard gave Polly a suspicious look. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Because you’re a great healer! You should have seen me an hour ago! You are Mayo, Johns, and Hopkins all rolled into one great medicine man.”

Weary of this trio, Dr. Girard sighed and said, “I’ll get my camera.” He left the examination room, and Tim slyly shadowed him as he retreated through the main infirmary and into his private office. From a distance, Tim watched as Dr. Girard withdrew a key fob from the top drawer of his desk and selected a key to a filing cabinet. He opened the drawer and withdrew an ultrathin chrome-colored Kodak camera. Tim quickly backed up and raced to his mother’s side arriving seconds before Dr. Girard.

“Ever use one of these before?” Dr. Girard asked Tim, hesitant to let a novice use his expensive camera.

“Just like the one I have,” Tim said. As he arranged his subjects side by side, in front of a poster depicting the human heart, Tim pushed the On button. “Um, what am I doing wrong? It’s not working. Are you sure it’s charged?”

Dr. Girard sighed and stepped forward to take the camera out of Tim’s hand. “I thought you knew how to work this!” As he attempted to turn on the camera, he discovered that it really wasn’t working. “There goes our picture,” he said, making no attempt to hide his lack of distress.

Tim snatched the camera out of Dr. Girard’s hand. “I had this problem last week. Yeah, my memory card was full and I had to replace it.” Tim opened the slot for the chip and said, “Just as I suspected. Empty. You’re as forgetful as I am.”

Dr. Girard rolled his eyes and left the room. As before, Tim shadowed him to his private office. This time, a key on his chain unlocked a heavy metal box that Dr. Girard picked up from the floor and placed on his desk. He looked around before opening the lid, quickly took out a memory card, then locked the box again and proceeded back to the examination room. Dr. Girard took the camera from Tim’s hand and inserted the memory card into the slot. “Now try it,” he snapped. “And let’s get this over with fast. I’m a busy man.”