Murder of a Needled Knitter Read online

  “True.” Wally’s smile indicated his amusement at Trixie’s use of police terminology. He turned to Skye. “You were correct that Officer Trencher really has no way of sealing off the crime scene. There was a cocktail party for past cruisers going on while I was there. Good thing no one checked to see if I had an invitation.”

  “Heck!” Skye was disappointed. “I thought maybe Officer Trencher was just saying that to lull me into a false sense of security in hopes that I’d incriminate myself.”

  “There are movable walls in place but no guard, and it would be easy to get in and destroy any evidence.” Wally frowned. “Not that I think there’s much chance of finding anything worthwhile since the area around it has all been cleaned. At this point, with all the people who have tracked through the crime scene, I doubt that any evidence the FBI recovers could be used in a court of law.”

  “Darn!” Skye shook her head, but before she could say anything more, the waiter distracted her by handing her the dessert menu. She looked it over and asked him, “I don’t suppose any of this isn’t totally decadent?”

  “Sorry, madame.” The server couldn’t hide his smile. “Our chef cooks with a flair for the spectacular and a wanton disregard for calories.”

  Chuckling, they all placed their orders, and once the waiter walked away, Wally asked Skye, “Did you learn anything relevant at the cocktail party?” He winked. “Except this year’s most popular pattern for baby booties.”

  Skye choked on her water. Was Wally suggesting he wanted a child? By the time she stopped coughing the server was back with their desserts.

  After he placed her gâteau savoiarda in front of her, Skye said, “Several of the knitters were complaining about Guinevere.”

  “More of the usual?” Wally asked, digging into his chocolate soufflé.

  Skye savored a bite of the angel food cake filled with marsala wine–flavored sabayon cream, then shared what she’d heard. She finished with, “After about twenty minutes, security announced Guinevere’s death and interviewed everyone.” Skye used her napkin, then added, “Officer Trencher personally questioned Mom.”

  “How did that go?” Wally asked, concern evident in his voice.

  “Fine, I guess.” Skye put down her fork and pushed away her plate. “Mom stuck to the facts, didn’t ramble, and didn’t volunteer any extra or incriminating information. Which, considering my mother’s usual method of communicating, was the best we could hope for.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Wally and Skye decided to go to Raphael’s for breakfast. It served breakfast and lunch to suite guests before transforming into a specialty restaurant for dinner service. Skye was surprised that there were only three other couples enjoying the perk, but then again, most passengers were probably still sleeping, having stayed up until all hours to enjoy the ship’s amazing variety of entertainment, bars, and casinos.

  After so many years of getting up with the chickens in order to be at school by seven thirty, Skye found it hard to sleep in, even when she didn’t set an alarm. And unless Wally had a really late night, he was naturally an early riser.

  As Skye sipped her first cup of coffee, Wally relayed snippets from the ship’s newsletter, which included onboard activities and facts about St. Maarten, the port they’d be sailing into later that morning. Only half listening, Skye gazed out the large windows that formed a semicircle along the back of the restaurant, and was almost hypnotized by the serene blue water.

  Wally drained his mimosa, put down the champagne glass, and asked, “So what do you want to do? There’s an early-morning trivia contest or Wii bowling.”

  “We could just sit here until it’s time for our excursion,” Skye said, her attention drawn to the table next to them. A middle-aged couple had already been seated there when Skye and Wally had arrived, and the wife was clearly a little tipsy.

  Skye watched as the woman leaned toward her husband and slurred, “Did you hear that that witch from yesterday got exactly what she deserved?”

  “What the devil are you talking about, Jessica?” The military-looking man had been intent on reading his book, and he looked up with a confused expression.

  “The woman you gave our table to yesterday, Harry.” Jessica clicked her fingernails against her cocktail glass. “The one who smelled like your mother’s velvet Elvis painting looks.”

  “Don’t go there, Jessica.” Harry turned a page. “I don’t know why you caused such a fuss about that incident yesterday, anyway.”

  “Because I specifically requested this table.” Jessica thumped the white cloth. “It’s situated exactly in the center of the wall-to-ceiling windows, and is the best table in the restaurant. If you’re going to read all through our meal rather than carry on a civilized conversation with me, I want to be able to watch the ocean. This table has my favorite view.”

  Skye’s eavesdropping was interrupted by their server, who appeared at her side and asked, “How may I make madam’s morning wonderful?”

  “Uh.” Skye paused, then interpreted the waiter’s query to mean he wanted her to order, and said, “I’d like the soft-poached egg over potatoes and vegetables with hollandaise sauce and rye toast.”

  “And sir?” The server turned to Wally. “How may I delight you?”

  “The brioche French toast with apple and cinnamon compote, a side of bacon, and hash browns,” Wally requested, sharing a smile with Skye at the waiter’s flowery words. Before the server left, he added, “And another mimosa when you have time.”

  “Immediately, sir.” The server gave a slight bow and backed away.

  “Thank you.” Wally picked up the Diamond Dialogue and continued to peruse their options. With Wally occupied, Skye refocused on the neighboring couple’s discussion of the woman who had unseated them the day before.

  “I still don’t understand why you gave her our table.” Jessica chugged the rest of her peach Bellini, snapped her fingers at a passing waiter, and pointed at her empty glass. “What did that woman say to you yesterday that made you agree to move? Something about a game.”

  “Nothing.” Harry didn’t look up from his book. “Since she was obviously so distraught at the idea of sitting elsewhere, deferring to her was the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  “But . . .” Jessica opened her mouth, then slowly closed it and narrowed her eyes. “It was about being on the winning trivia team yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “She congratulated me.” Harry squirmed and took a sip of his water.

  “Did she play?” Jessica asked, then answered herself. “No. I remember her saying she was sitting above and behind you on the mezzanine, having a meeting with the cruise director.” Jessica wrinkled her brow. “Why was that so important?”

  “I told you it was nothing.” Harry slammed his book closed. “Now drop it.”

  “Fine,” Jessica huffed. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I just wondered what it was about her that made you want to please her instead of your own wife. But since I heard that two passengers found her dead in Cloud Walkers yesterday, I guess it’s irrelevant.”

  As the waiter served her breakfast, Skye wondered what Guinevere had said to the man. Whatever it had been, it seemed that before her death the queen bee of the knitting world had managed to needle at least one more passenger.

  CHAPTER 10

  Give a Wide Berth

  Once Skye and Wally finished breakfast, they made a quick trip back to their suite to brush their teeth, put their bathing suits on under their clothes, and gather the items they wanted to take with them into St. Maarten. Skye waited impatiently while Wally took their tour tickets from the safe, then hurried him toward the Voyager’s Lounge.

  After overhearing the bickering couple in the restaurant discussing Guinevere, Skye had decided that the perfect pre-port activity would be the early-morning trivia game. She wanted to know what the knitting gu
ru had said to Harry about his trivia victory that had made him give up his breakfast table. A few minutes of observing Jessica harangue her husband had convinced Skye that whatever tidbit Guinevere had imparted to Harry had to have been something he considered more frightening than his wife’s wrath.

  Unless, of course, Jessica was drunk and delusional, which had to be considered. And which was why Skye hadn’t mentioned her dining room eavesdropping to Wally. She wanted to see if there really was something to Jessica’s tipsy accusations before she revealed her suspicions that Guinevere had somehow blackmailed Harry out of his primo table.

  As they entered the lounge, Wally asked, “Do you want to play alone or join some other people?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” Skye examined the room, looking for the perfect seat. Most of the players were clustered near the front of the lounge.

  “It looks as if a lot of groups are already full. I understand the maximum number is six.” Wally stuck his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “A guy told me that people hook up the first day out and usually stick together.” Wally gave Skye a sidelong glance. “Apparently, the competition is cutthroat. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Let’s give it a try. We don’t have to do it again if it isn’t fun.” Skye bit her lip. Where had Jessica said that Guinevere had sat? Ah, yes. On the mezzanine, above and behind Harry’s team. Skye spotted him with his group. “Let’s sit there.” Skye pointed to an empty table for four exactly where Guinevere must have been seated.

  As she and Wally made themselves comfortable, Skye thought about Trixie. During dinner, Owen had made it clear that he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than participate in any of the games, but Trixie would probably enjoy trivia. If Skye and Wally played tomorrow, Skye would have to ask her to join them. The librarian’s encyclopedic knowledge of books and authors might really come in handy.

  At precisely nine o’clock, one of the cruise director’s staff stepped up to the microphone and said with an Australian accent, “G’day. My name’s Jasper.”

  Evidently well trained, the crowd roared back, “Hi, Jasper.”

  “Is everyone here ready for some difficult questions?” Jasper asked.

  Most people groaned, but a few shouted, “Yes!” Skye noted that Harry’s team was among the minority in favor of tough trivia. There were two men, Harry and a clean-cut techie type, and four women, none of whom was Jessica. If Harry’s wife didn’t play, maybe Guinevere had caught him making a pass at one of his teammates.

  As Skye considered the possibility, Jasper said, “One of each group needs to fetch a piece of paper and a pencil from me.”

  There was a mad rush to the podium, and Skye jumped up. “I’ll get ours.” As she hurried away, she said over her shoulder, “If any latecomers show up, invite them to join us. I think we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  “Will do.” Wally smiled indulgently. It was clear he was playing only to make his new wife happy. “They won’t get past me.”

  Skye joined the end of the line, stepping behind the techie from Harry’s group. She noted that as Jasper handed out the trivia forms, he kept a close eye on the box of pencils and stopped anyone who tried to take more than one with a firm, “Sorry, mate.”

  Shuffling forward, Skye kept her expression neutral as the techie boasted to Jasper, “What are the prizes my team is winning today?”

  “We have the sought-after Diamond Countess playing cards,” Jasper answered, his expression completely blank.

  “Those babies are already in my pocket.” The techie pumped his fist.

  “Good on ya.” Jasper’s smile was forced, and when the techie moved away, he muttered under his breath, “You drongo, they’re worth all of fifty cents.”

  Skye interpreted drongo to mean idiot, and raised her brows at the host as she accepted her trivia form and pencil.

  Jasper grinned and shrugged his shoulders, then grabbed the microphone and announced, “Remember to whisper your answers to your mates so the other team doesn’t steal them.”

  When Skye returned, she was happy to see that another pair of chairs had been dragged over to their table and two couples had joined Wally. They quickly introduced themselves—Angel and Robert from Florida, and Wendy and Neil from Canada.

  Then they all fell quiet as Jasper asked the first question. “What is the surname of the Hungarian inventor whose multicolored, rotatable cube became a world cult in nineteen eighty?”

  “Rubik,” Angel whispered and when everyone nodded, she wrote it down.

  They easily came up with the next several answers and since Skye wasn’t needed by her own team, she was able to keep an eye on Harry’s crew. They were hovered protectively over their answer sheet and each member had his or her own pen and paper, each scribbling furiously rather than speaking when a question was asked. Competitive didn’t begin to describe their attitude toward the game.

  Jasper cleared his throat and said, “This is number ten. We’re halfway through our quiz.” He squinted at the card in his hand and read, “What is the acronym for the agency set up in nineteen twenty-three to provide cooperation between police forces worldwide?”

  “Any idea, Wally?” Skye asked when the others on her team were silent.

  Wally wrinkled his brow. “Let me think about it.”

  While Wally deliberated, Skye glanced at Harry’s bunch. The six players had formed a semicircle with their backs to her and she couldn’t see what they were doing.

  Before Skye could come to a conclusion about the other team’s odd behavior, Robert whispered, “INTERPOL.”

  “Right,” everyone agreed, and Angel scribbled down the answer.

  Skye’s team had guesses for questions eleven through nineteen, and although she’d watched Harry’s gang closely, she hadn’t seen anything irregular. Glad she hadn’t voiced her suspicions to Wally, Skye relaxed and chatted with her new friends.

  A few seconds later, Jasper said, “And last, in which war was the Battle of Naseby fought?”

  Everything from World War II to the Boer War was suggested, but no one really knew the answer, or even thought their guess was the best one. Finally, they put down the War of the Roses.

  Jasper instructed the groups to exchange papers, and as they scored each other’s sheets, Skye kept a close eye on Harry’s team. Most everyone in the room groaned when the English Civil War was announced as the answer to the final question. And while Skye’s team got eighteen correct, Harry’s got twenty and won the prize. Except for winning with a perfect score, Harry’s group hadn’t done anything she could see that was blackmail worthy.

  “It’s nine forty,” Wally said as he and Skye joined the mass exodus from the lounge. Last night, Wally and Skye had arranged to meet Owen and Trixie on the pier at ten.

  “If there’s a line, it might take a while to get through security, so we’d better head down to the gangway right away.”

  “Okay,” Skye agreed. “But I want to hit the restroom one more time.”

  “Sure.” Wally stopped in front of the ladies’ room. “But be quick.”

  “Since a lot of the tours started at nine, the mob should have thinned out by now.” Skye smiled to herself. Wally liked to be on time, but at least he wasn’t as fanatical about keeping on schedule as her ex-boyfriend had been. She’d definitely married the right man, and hoped that Simon’s new girlfriend, Emmy, could handle his somewhat obsessive need for punctuality.

  As Skye had predicted, the line to have their cruise card swiped was short and they emerged from the ship by five to ten. Owen and Trixie were waiting on the dock when Skye and Wally walked down the metal stairs. Owen had on slacks and a windbreaker, while Trixie wore a sun hat and a gauzy minidress over her bikini.

  Considering that it was in the mid-eighties and they were on their way to the beach, Skye wondered at Owen’s choice of attire. She
knew that Trixie’s husband always claimed to be cold, but seriously? Did he even have swim trunks on under all those clothes?

  As the two couples posed for the ever-present cruise photographers, a passenger wearing a T-shirt with GOT BEER printed across the front asked the woman, “How do I get the picture you just took of me?”

  “They’re displayed each evening in the portrait gallery, sir.” The photographer continued to position the Boyds and the Fraynes.

  “But how will I know which picture is mine?” the man asked with a bewildered look on his face. “Are they numbered or something?”

  “No, sir.” The photographer finished with Skye’s group, and said to the befuddled man in a perfectly serious and ultra-polite voice, “Yours will be the one with you in it.”

  Skye snickered as she and the others walked along the wharf. Staff probably answered the same stupid questions fifty times on each cruise. How did they keep a straight face? It was a testament to the crew’s training that she’d never seen any of them snap.

  The ship had docked on the Dutch side of the island and the signs read WELCOME TO PHILIPSBURG, SINT MAARTEN. They strolled along the pier, which was lined with cafés, ice cream shops, and colorful vendors. Flyers and coupons were thrust into their hands, and tour offers were shouted at them from all sides. It was a little like walking a gauntlet of overeager puppies wanting to be petted.

  Skye swayed to the music as they passed a trio of men beating on recycled oil drums. She tugged on Wally’s hand and asked, “Do you know the name of the song that the steel band is playing?”

  “Yep.” Wally grinned and dropped a couple of bucks in an upturned hat. “It’s called ‘Give Me the Money, Mon.’”

  Skye giggled, then shaded her eyes. A young man dressed in white shorts and a bright red T-shirt holding up a placard with RHINO RIDER BOAT ADVENTURE printed on it stood a few feet away. A crowd had already surrounded him, and her quartet joined the throng of excited passengers.

  As they waited, Trixie nodded toward several elderly couples and whispered, “I thought this excursion was marked strenuous, for the physically fit only. Some of those people over there are one broken hip away from a nursing home.”