I found Duncan and reminded myself to call him when I got back to my cabin to see how he was feeling. Scanning some more, I discovered Gjurd in a solo shot without Nils or Ansgar, and Shelly looking good enough to be on the cover of
Sports Illustrated.
She wasn't wearing a lei either, which confirmed my suspicion that the supply had run out by the time I'd left for my helicopter tour.
I spotted Percy and Basil looking goofily English in a picture high above my head and wondered where they'd gone yesterday. They were both wearing leis, so they must have left fairly early -- though according to Duncan, not with his tour group. Had they gone off on their own to participate in some nefarious Sandwich Island Society activity?
I whipped through photo after photo, finding no surprises -- until I reached the middle of the second display case, where I found a glossy shot of Jennifer French standing in front of the Kauai panel, her tattoo exposed, her hair a riot of straw, her expression cool and smug. I arched an eyebrow at the photo. Hadn't Shelly told me that Jen had planned an all-day spa treatment on the ship yesterday? Obviously, she hadn't spent the entire day in the spa. So where had she gone when she'd disembarked? What had she done? Could her leaving the ship explain how she'd learned that Nana and the gang had unearthed Griffin Ring's treasure?
Shoot. How come I was ending up with more questions than answers? Logically, Bailey could have told Jen about the treasure, but that seemed highly improbable since the two women hated each other so much. So if Bailey hadn't spilled the beans, who had? Bernice?
I sucked on the inside of my cheek. Bernice would normally get my vote, but the gang had threatened her within an inch of her life if she blabbed. Even Bernice wasn't willful enough to misplace all that trust, was she?
I continued with my visual inventory, running into a slew of recreational photos. An enormous splash frozen in time as someone belly flopped into the pool. Poolside guests sipping frosty beverages. A guy making like Spider-Man as he scaled the climbing wall on the top deck. A quartet of ladies in bowling shirts playing miniature golf. A prostrate body with what looked like cooked spinach slopped all over it.
I eyed it more closely. Hey, that must be the Ionithermie treatment Nana had talked about. I curled my lips in distaste. Euw. If she saw this picture, I bet she wouldn't get anywhere near that treatment room. Spinach gave her gas.
I skimmed over a face painted peacock blue with cucumber slices over its eyes. Two women reading magazines under hair dryer hoods. A stylist wielding a blow-dryer as if it were an unholstered gun. A manicurist sitting at a table opposite --
I zeroed in for a closer look. Huh. It looked as if Shelly had gotten back in time to have her nails done yesterday, because there she was in the nail salon -- I shifted my gaze from Shelly to the woman beside her -- sitting right next to...Jennifer French? Okay, so Jennifer had spent at least part of her day yesterday in the spa. But should I be deducing something from this, other than that archaeologists-in-training probably had to sink a bundle into restorative nail care? Was it possible that Jennifer had learned about the treasure from Shelly? But how could Shelly have found out what had happened on the Wailua River kayak adventure, when she'd spent the day with me? Unless...
Unless Shelly and Bailey had run into each other on the ship before Shelly's nail appointment. Shelly and Bailey were on speaking terms, weren't they? That could explain it. Bailey had told Shelly, who repeated the story to Jennifer. And the rest, as they say, was history.
I dusted my hands off with satisfaction. Damn, I was good. Now all I had to do was catch Jennifer red-handed with the puzzle box and force her to admit she was the one who killed Professor Smoker.
Unfortunately, this was the part that always gave me a
teensie
bit of trouble.
Feeling confident about my theory, though, I returned to the
DAY ONE -- AT SEA
and
DAY TWO -- WELCOME TO KAUAI
displays and briefly reexamined the photos I'd seen two nights ago. No new detail grabbed me by the throat. The same guests boarded the ship. The same people posed for predinner photos. The same faces showed up for their prepaid excursions. I recognized the cell phone guy in the muscle shirt without effort. The honeymoon couple with the matching T-shirts. Percy Woodruffe-Peacock in his kayaking shorts and bow tie, and Basil Broomhead in his plaid knickers and slouch cap, just like that famous golfer used to wear. What was his name? I snapped my fingers to trigger my memory. Something like --
Wait a minute.
I lasered a look at Basil's knickers again. Oh, my God! That was it! Golf! That's why Basil Broomhead's name was familiar to me! I'd seen it written down on the sign-up sheet for the golf simulators, directly above the name Dorian Smoker! Eh! Had the two men accidentally run into each other that first day near the simulators? Had Basil seized the opportunity to eliminate the first name from the Sandwich Island Society's hit list?
Oh, my God! Had I just blown my Jennifer French theory to hell? Was it Basil, not Jennifer, who'd killed Professor Smoker? And if Basil had done the killing, had he also stolen the treasure? But why would he want Tilly's treasure if he already had one? WHY WAS THIS SO FREAKING COMPLICATED?
Frustrated and confused, I circled around the display case, stopping dead in my tracks when I ran into Nils Nilsson on the other side, standing before a column of photos. Oh goody, just my luck. I was alone in a room with Nils Nilsson, of felonious - assault - with - baseball - bat fame. I wondered if he'd notice if I shuffled quietly backward and started running.
"Do you know how one goes about purchasing these photographs?" he asked without removing his gaze from the display case.
Since I was the only other person in the room, I guessed he was directing that question at me. "Uhh -- You see those numbers in the bottom right-hand corner of each photograph? I think if you give that number to someone in the general store, they'll have copies made for you."
He nodded his thanks before slipping back into statue mode. I slatted my eyes at him. There was definitely something weird going on here. "Did you find one you like?" I asked, inching closer to see what he was looking at.
He bobbed his head toward the case. "The boarding photo. You think it's a good likeness, yah?"
"I noticed that picture the other night. Yeah, it's a great shot. You guys are really photogenic."
"It's especially good of Ansgar's hair. I think his family will like it."
"Yup. He has one great head of hair. Soooo..." I said, angling to snare more information, "did he ever show up last night?"
"Yah." He turned his head, looking down at me with dull eyes. "But not aboard ship. He showed up on the hiking trail to the Secret Falls with his head caved in. Ansgar is dead."
Oh, my God. The dead body the paramedics had been discussing at the hospital had been Ansgar? A lump the size of Delaware caught in my throat. "Nils, I'm so sorry."
He nodded. "There was much competition between Ansgar and me. There has always been great rivalry between Nilssons and Norstedts. But I would not have chosen to beat him in this way."
I hoped his use of the word "beat" was a linguistic faux pas and not a subliminal reference to anything more deadly.
"His identification was missing," Nils continued, "so it took the authorities many hours to notify his family. Gjurd and I will leave the ship once we reach Kona, so we can fly back to Kauai and accompany his body home."
"You're going to finish the cruise? You're not going to fly back to Kauai right away?"
"The authorities tell me they cannot release Ansgar's body for many days yet. Not until their investigation is complete. Gjurd and I feel that Ansgar would want us to finish the cruise, despite the misfortune that has befallen him."
"But...are you sure it's Ansgar? If his identification was missing, how --"
Nils slapped the tattoo on his upper right arm. "His name was here. Like mine.
Ansgar Norstedt. World Navigators Club
. This was how the authorities traced him."
"But...you said last night that his name was listed in the computer as having reboarded the ship."
He gave his beard a thoughtful scratch. "I was wrong."
A frisson of unease snaked up my spine. Okay, so if Ansgar hadn't reboarded the ship, who had?
B
y three o'clock, the heavy sea had lost its fizzle, going flat as old ginger ale. By four o'clock, guests began crawling out of their cabins, looking anxious to make up for lost time. By five, I'd checked in with each member of my Iowa contingent, and by six, all eleven of them were gathered in my Royal Family Suite, listening to the sordid details of what they'd missed in the last twenty-two hours.
"I contacted the head of security this morning about the puzzle box's disappearance," Tilly informed us, "but it was a rather disappointing conversation. He wanted to know if there was anything of value inside the box, and when I said I didn't know if the contents were valuable or not, he sighed condescendingly and instructed me to reexamine my cabin. He suggested I may have forgotten where I stowed the box and might actually have hidden it on myself, as so often happens with cruise guests, and I quote, 'of a certain age.'"
Boos from the room at large. Hissing from the Dicks. "So'd you set that fella straight?" Osmond called out.
Tilly smiled archly. "I certainly did. I thanked him for his time, told him to have a nice day, and hung up the phone."
A thunder of applause. Hoots. Hollers.
Yup. Midwesterners could deliver tongue-lashings that were second to none.
Tilly motioned for quiet. "Since it's obvious we'll receive no help from ship's security, we're left with only one recourse. We'll have to band together and find it ourselves."
"Woo! Woo! Woo!" yelled the Dicks, pumping their fists in the air. Head bobbing from the women. Margi leapt to her feet and did the jump-around, knocking Osmond off his chair with an errant hip. Bernice raised her hand.
"How come Emily gets the penthouse suite when the rest of us are booked into kennels? Does the bank know about this?"
"Emily thinks her sweetheart paid for the upgrade," Nana defended. "Isn't that romantic?"
Bernice crossed her arms defiantly. "Sure he did. If you ask me, something smells funny."
"No one
did
ask you," Osmond countered as he struggled back into his chair. "So there."
"Don't pick on Bernice," Lucille Rassmuson scolded. "I smell something, too. Florally. Smells like" -- she sniffed the air -- "a funeral parlor."
I crooked my mouth into a smile. "I had a few flowers in here earlier, but they, uh, they didn't survive the storm."
"Hey, why am I wet?" Osmond asked as he regarded a dark stain on his pant leg.
Moans all around. "Maybe you should cut back on those diuretics," Dick Stolee teased.
"It's the carpet," I apologized. "It got a teensie bit wet...because of the flowers."
A half dozen hands went down to test the floor. "Teensie bit wet?" complained Bernice. "It's soaked!"
"Watch this," Dick Stolee instructed as he popped out of his chair. He bounded across the floor at a dead run, assuming a surfer's stance as he skidded the last ten yards, geysering water in every direction. I looked heavenward and shook my head. Oh, God.
Grace Stolee let out a guttural sound that I suspected her husband had heard many times before. "Would someone
kindly
tell the human squeegee that if he tears his ACL or breaks his hip, I'll be taking the bike ride down Mount Haleakala without him?"
"Si'down, knucklehead," Dick Teig barked out. "You're pissing your wife off."
Tilly grabbed the nonstick fry pan we'd confiscated from the kitchen and gave it a whack with a meat-tenderizing mallet, creating a sound like an out-of-tune Chinese gong.
BOINNNNK!
"Order, people. I'll have order!"
Osmond gave his hearing aids another tap. "Would you give that thing another whack, Til? Seems to help the ringing in my ears."
BOINNNNK!
"All right, I'm turning the meeting over to Emily. She's devised a plan, and I think it's a good one. She'll give you the logistics."
"Show of hands." Osmond stood up. "All those in favor of turning the meeting over to Emily?" Ten hands shot into the air. "Opposed?"
Bernice raised her hand. "Doesn't anyone else want to know who Emily's sleeping with to get set up in a room like this?"
"The ayes have it," Osmond announced. "Take it away, Emily."
Tilly thrust the meat tenderizer at me, looking as if she wanted to get rid of it before she was tempted to use it on Bernice. I set it down on the table in front of me and stood up. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. The thing is, we don't have much time to execute my plan. I'm afraid that once the gangplank goes down in Maui, our thief is going to hightail it off the ship with the puzzle box. So if we don't catch him or her sometime within the next three hours, we may not catch him at all."
"So what's your plan?" Dick Teig called out.
"I have a stack of photos here, and if my instincts are right, one of the people I'm about to show you is responsible for Macing me, stealing the puzzle box, and killing Professor Smoker."
"You think the three incidents are related?" inquired Alice.
"I can't prove it yet, but that's my theory."
Low groans. Head shaking. Raised eyebrows.
"What?" I protested.
"We've heard your theories before," Dick Teig complained.
"Yeah," Lucille Rassmuson agreed. "You're always wrong."
"Well, I'm not wrong this time. I'm positive I'm on the right track."
"That'd be a first," grumbled Bernice.
Okay, so I was fairly confident I was on the right track. Or...at least pretty sure.
All right, so it was a shot in the dark. Crime solving was not my chosen career path.
"Ignore all the sourpusses," Margi told me. "We have a few people in the group who are a little cranky because they don't like their Halloween costumes, and they're taking it out on those of us who had the foresight to rent early." She smirked at Bernice and Lucille, who turned in unison to smirk back. "Go ahead, Emily," she encouraged. "Tell us what you've got."
"Okay, I'll explain a little about the person in each photo, then I'll pass the print around the room so you can get a closer look. When I'm done, I'll assign a photo to each of you, and that's the person you'll be responsible for following until we reach Maui."
Helen Teig raised her hand. "You want us to spy on people for the next three hours? But that'll interfere with dinner. When are we supposed to eat?"
Imminent starvation was apparently a huge fear for women weighing two thousand pounds and over. "There's only one show in town tonight: a huge Halloween buffet in the main dining room, starting at seven. All you can eat, open seating. I assume our suspects will have to eat, so do your best to keep an eye on them while you're making your way through the buffet line. If you're clever, you might even be able to wrangle a seat at the same table with them."
"How are we gonna recognize 'em if they're wearin' masks?" Nana asked.
"I've written names and cabin numbers on the back of their photos. Once you're in costume, casually stake out their rooms to check out what they're wearing, then don't let them out of your sight."
"What are we supposed to be looking for?" Dick Teig piped up. "You think someone's gonna be dumb enough to be carrying that box around with them?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But if any of them do anything to give themselves away, we need to be there to catch them. Okay, suspect number one." I held up the first photo. "Jennifer French. Some of you might remember her as the foul-tempered blonde from the Secret Falls. She had a grudge against Professor Smoker and was in a good position to steal the box last night. If she heads for the disembarkation deck when we reach Maui, do whatever you have to do, but don't let her off the ship."
I handed the photo to Tilly and held up the next one. "Nils Nilsson. Member of the World Navigators Club, with a criminal history that includes assault against a university history professor. He apparently isn't fond of anyone who promotes explorers of non-Scandinavian descent. I think this guy could be a very bad dude."
Helen Teig shot out of her chair and snatched the photo from my hand. "Say, this is the fella that gave me a whole bag of Skittles clear out of the blue on the first day of the cruise. Why'd he do that? How'd he know I like Skittles? You think he might have been stalking me?" She held the picture up to the light, an appreciative smile teasing her lips. "He's a big one, isn't he?" A little twinkle lit her eyes. "You don't need to hand this one around, Emily. I'll take him."
"Down in front!" Bernice sniped. "The rest of us can't see!"
"This is Nils's sidekick," I said, holding up a predinner photo of my next suspect. "His name is Gjurd. I don't know anything about him other than if he hangs around with Nils, he's probably in cahoots with him. He might be his strong-arm man or something."
"What about the young fella with the pretty hair?" Margi questioned.
I held my breath for a moment before exhaling. "Ansgar. Right. Um, Ansgar was involved in that bad mishap on the Secret Falls hiking trail yesterday, and...and I'm afraid he didn't survive his injuries."
Margi's face turned Clorox white. "That nice young fella is dead? The one who ate dinner with us? Oh, my goodness. And to think I'd been mustering my courage to ask him a very personal question. In English, of course. I don't speak Norwegian, except for a few cusswords."
"What were you fishing for?" crowed Bernice. "His phone number?"
"The name of his shampoo. You don't get body like that using ordinary over-the-counter hair products." She sighed dismally before looking up at me. "Two people dead in four days, Emily? That's not a normal death rate for holiday travel, is it?"
"Four's about normal," Nana said helpfully. "That's what we averaged in Italy."
"I told you that trail needed more signs," Dick Teig proclaimed. "That fella probably got lost on the same trail we did and broke his neck falling down that damned embankment."
"His neck wasn't the problem," I hedged. "It was his skull. Someone apparently altered the shape of it with a lethal blow then made off with all his identification."
Gasps. Whispers. Tooth sucking.
"So he was murdered," Tilly declared, her voice vibrating with uncharacteristic anxiety. "Perhaps by the same person who killed the professor?"
I nodded. "That's my guess."
"Which means our miscreant has struck not once, but twice?" She shook her head. "I don't like those statistics. Go on with your talk, Emily." She bowed her head in my direction, and whispered behind her hand, "And you might want to hurry."
"Basil Broomhead." I held his photo up like a cue card. "He may have been the last person to see Professor Smoker alive." I flashed the next picture. "Percy Woodruffe-Peacock. The flip side of Percy's business card is annotated with two names: Professor Dorian Smoker and Bailey Howard. I think these annotations comprise an actual hit list. Suspect number six: Shelly Valentine."
The two Dicks elbowed each other as I displayed a
DAY ONE
photo of Shelly in her hot pink halter top and cheek-hugging short shorts. "Shelly may have nothing to do with any of this, but she was sleeping with Professor Smoker, so in my book that earns her billing with everyone else."
Dick Stolee rocketed his hand into the air, his tongue hanging down to his belt buckle. "I'll take that one, Emily."
Grace thwacked him on the arm. "In your dreams."
"My last photo is Bailey Howard, and you know what she looks like because you were with her all day yesterday. But I'm adding her to our picture gallery because rumor has it that her academic career could actually be furthered by Professor Smoker's death."
Margi executed a little finger wave to draw my attention. "I don't mean to sound dumb, Emily, but how would Bailey have found time to kill Ansgar if she was with us all day yesterday?"
"An excellent question. And the answer is --" I let out a ragged breath. "I don't have a clue. We have a lot of puzzle pieces that don't fit yet."
"Bailey knew we found the treasure," Bernice blurted out. "I betcha she's the one who stole it."
"She was seasick along with everyone else last night, so that's a stretch," I allowed. "But she might have mentioned it to one of the other suspects. Or better yet" -- I fisted my hands on the table and directed a long, pointed look at Bernice -- "someone
else
in our group might have had loose lips and told a whole
slew
of people."
Ten heads snapped around to stare at Bernice, who shifted nervously in her chair before sticking her chin out in self-defense. "Why are you looking at me? I took your stupid oath of silence! Do I look like the kind of person who'd blow off an oath?"
"We didn't make you swear on a Bible," Lucille accused. "Maybe you took advantage of the loophole."
Osmond jumped to his feet. "Show of hands. How many think Bernice blabbed?"
Ten hands darted into the air.
"Majority rules. You blabbed."
"If I blabbed, may God send the upper deck crashing down onto my head this very second!"
Screams. Shouts. Everyone doubled over, flinging their arms over their heads to protect against concussion, cranial trauma, and all other forms of divine retribution.
I ducked down and cringed at the ceiling, relieved when the overhead panels didn't rain down on the baby grand. Five seconds passed. Ten.
Osmond poked his head out from beneath his arms to give the ceiling a distrustful look. "Damn. She might be telling the truth."
I marked the hour on my watch. "Come on, you guys. We don't have much time left. Let's go over this again so I know we're on the same page. When I cut you loose, what are you going to do?"
"Get into our costumes," said Alice.
"Loiter casually in the corridors so's we know what our suspects are wearin' to the Halloween bash," added Nana.
"Eat," bellowed Helen.
I nodded approval. "And what's the most important thing you're going to do tonight?"
"Eat," repeated Helen.
I gave her a withering look.
"I'm going to hand out condoms," said Margi. "It's not a widely known fact, but posing in a costume can sometimes alter a person's psyche. The subject begins to assume the qualities of the person he or she is playing and can even start exhibiting the same behavior, which often causes increased hormonal activity that can trigger episodes of uncontrollable sexual arousal. It's a real problem."