Murder of a Needled Knitter Page 6

  True, the last day at sea, the final game had a purse of five thousand dollars. But a player had to cover his or her entire card within a certain number of calls. What were the odds of anyone actually winning the big money?

  They were on the last game of the session when Trixie said, “You can call me butter because I’m on a roll now. I only need two more numbers.”

  Before Skye could respond, a dishwater blonde at the table directly below them stood and screamed, “Bingo!”

  Trixie gripped Skye’s knee and whispered in her ear, “I think she’s cheating.”

  “How can you cheat at bingo?”

  “I haven’t figured it out yet, but that guy sitting with her won the two biggest pots yesterday and now she’s won the big one today.” Trixie narrowed her eyes. “No one is that lucky.”

  “She must be.” Skye loosened Trixie’s fingers from her leg. “Don’t you love her accent?”

  Trixie muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Damn Brits,” then glared at the couple who had settled back in their booth and were ordering a celebratory drink.

  Skye shook her head, stood, and changed the subject. “We have fifteen minutes until we need to meet the guys for lunch. Would you mind going with me to check on Mom?”

  “Not at all.” Trixie joined Skye as they shuffled along with the rest of the crowd toward the exit. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes. Remember I picked up the knitting group’s schedule at the passenger service desk on our way here. They’re meeting in Cloud Walkers Nightclub from ten until noon today.” Skye studied her pocket-sized trifold map of the ship. “It’s right above us, on the top deck.”

  “The elevators are over here.” When they emerged from Club Creation, Trixie pointed to their left. “Or we could take the stairs.”

  “Ten flights?” Skye shook her head. “I can do three, four in a pinch, but not ten.” She pushed the UP button and kept an eye on the indicators above the three widely spaced elevators. It was like a game of roulette to guess which set of doors would open first.

  Trixie repeated her complaints about the bingo winner cheating as they rode to the seventeenth floor, but she quieted when they approached Cloud Walkers. A shiver ran down Skye’s spine and she glanced at her friend. Was it the overly air-conditioned temperature or was she picking up a weird vibe? The lower decks were full of people, bright lights, and noise. Up here, the hall was dim, deserted, and the only sound was their own breathing.

  A freestanding pedestal sign that read PRIVATE FUNCTION, positioned in front of the nightclub’s closed frosted-glass doors, made Skye hesitate, and she said in a low voice, “Maybe we shouldn’t bother them.”

  “We’re here.” Trixie grabbed the chrome handle. “We might as well take a peek.”

  “I guess so.” For some reason, Skye didn’t want to go inside.

  “We’ll be quiet.” Trixie pushed the door and it swung noiselessly open.

  They entered an empty vestibule and Skye whispered, “I guess they broke up early.” She walked down three steps into a larger open area. “I don’t hear anyone talking.”

  Along the front wall was a bar lit by neon stars and swirls, and in the rear were floor-to-ceiling windows. The place was divided into two distinct spaces separated by opaque panels.

  “I don’t think anyone’s here,” Trixie said in a hushed voice.

  “Yeah,” Skye agreed. “Either they changed locations or they already finished their activity.” She took another look around. “Let’s go.”

  “Okay.” Trixie turned back toward the entrance, then froze. “What was that?”

  “It sounded like a thud and then glass breaking.” Skye tilted her head. “Someone might have fallen.” She called out, “Is everything okay?”

  Silence.

  “It came from over here.” Trixie gestured to a partitioned-off area to their left, then dashed off.

  “Wait!” Skye yelled. “We should stay together.”

  A door slammed shut. Then a split second later, Trixie screamed. Skye ran around a circular booth and saw her friend standing at the far end of the space behind a seating arrangement that consisted of two chairs on either side of an occasional table. Trixie had one hand over her mouth and she was pointing to a spot a couple of feet in front of her.

  Skye skidded to a stop next to Trixie and looked down. There, sprawled on the floor next to an overturned table lamp with miniature cloud-shapes cut out of the brass shade, was Guinevere Stallings. Sticking out of the group leader’s throat was a pair of knitting needles.

  CHAPTER 6

  Don’t Rock the Boat

  “Go get the doctor,” Skye ordered Trixie as she knelt at Guinevere’s side and assessed the situation. Having read somewhere that removing an object from a wound made it bleed even more, Skye was afraid to pull out the needles. Instead she looked around for something she could use to staunch the blood that was pouring from around the metal rods. Spotting a pile of T-shirts with U-KNITTED NATIONS, DIAMOND COUNTESS 2007 printed on them, she grabbed a couple, wrapped them around the steel shafts, and pressed down where the needles entered the woman’s neck.

  “We have to get out of here right now.” Trixie grabbed Skye’s arm and tried to lift her up. “Whoever did this could still be here.”

  “But we need to help her.” Skye put the fingers of her left hand around Guinevere’s wrist. Was there a faint pulse or was Skye feeling her own heart pounding?

  “We will.” Trixie continued to try to tug her taller, heavier friend to her feet. “But first, we should get somewhere safe. I definitely feel like someone is watching us.”

  “I can’t abandon her. You go for help.” Skye held her left palm over Guinevere’s mouth. Yes! There was a rapid and shallow breath. Skye touched the woman’s cheek. Her face was cool and clammy. “She’s going into shock.”

  “I’m not leaving you here alone with a killer on the loose.” Trixie gave up on her attempt to make Skye move, darted to the bar, and grabbed a tiny paring knife with one hand and the phone with the other. As she frantically punched random numbers she shouted, “Whoever’s watching us, I have a knife and I’m not afraid to use it. Don’t make me cut you.”

  The only response was a gurgle of hysterical laughter from Skye, which she stifled before it fully emerged.

  Finally, someone answered the telephone, and Trixie shouted, “A woman’s been stabbed in Cloud Walkers! Send medical and security here right away!”

  “Maybe this was an accident,” Skye said as she grabbed the remaining dry T-shirts and used them to try to stem the flow of blood that continued to spurt from around the needles. “Maybe she fell.” Even as she said it, Skye knew that her suggestion was ridiculous, but she didn’t want to believe that someone had deliberately committed such a horrific act.

  Trixie answered, “First, can you think of any scenario where a person would have the needles at her throat, trip, fall, and land on them faceup? Second, how about the banging door we heard right after the thud?”

  Apparently phoning for help had calmed Trixie down because she began to search the room. Seconds later, she darted back and reported, “The service closet and pantry are empty, and there’s nowhere else in the lounge to hide. Whoever slammed the door is gone.” She dug a camera out of her purse.

  “Someone could have been with her.” A lump formed in Skye’s throat as she clung to her accident theory and tried to ignore the facts. “Maybe they ran to get help.” The last of the T-shirts was soaked, and the pool of blood around Guinevere was spreading rapidly. Skye realized she was kneeling in the gore, but she didn’t look up as she instructed, “Get me something I can use as a compress.”

  Trixie fetched a box of napkins and handed them to Skye, then began to snap pictures. Moving around Guinevere and Skye, Trixie shot photos from all angles.

  Skye glared at her friend. “What
in God’s name are you doing?”

  “Documenting the scene.” Trixie continued to photograph Guinevere, the space around her, the area near the bar and the rest of the lounge leading to the exit.

  “Why?”

  “Last night, after Wally mentioned how different the regulations at sea are from American laws, I did a little research on the Internet. I thought a cruise might be a good setting for my book.” A while back, Trixie had decided to write a mystery and she now considered anything she experienced as fodder for her plot. “According to several Web sites I found, ship’s security isn’t equipped to handle murder investigations. They put the body in the morgue and they might—emphasis on the word might—cordon off the scene, but most forensic evidence is lost.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Skye was appalled that there was so little effort to solve crimes committed on cruise ships. “Why is that?”

  “Like that security officer told you, the cruise lines don’t want to spoil the picture of an idyllic vacation, so they tend to sweep under the rug any incidents that might mar that image.”

  “That’s just wrong.” Skye was horrified that criminals went free because of the fear that investigating their crime might cause a public relations problem. “How do the cruise lines get away with that, especially since so many passengers are Americans?”

  “There’s a subcommittee in Congress conducting hearings on the issue.” Trixie lifted her hands, then let them fall. “But who knows if anything will change. Meanwhile, the cruise lines have agreed to turn any victims or victim’s bodies over to the FBI when they return to their home port.”

  “And we won’t be back in Fort Lauderdale for five more days,” Skye said, half to herself. A second later, she leaned closer to Guinevere and said to Trixie, “I don’t think she’s breathing anymore. Should I try mouth to mouth?”

  Before Trixie could answer, a man dressed in an officer’s uniform pushing a gurney dashed into the lounge. On his heels came several crew members wearing black T-shirts with SECURITY stenciled in white across the front. Skye waved and the group rushed toward her.

  “I’m Dr. Jimenez.” The man pushed Skye aside and said, “I’ll take over.”

  The security team evaluated the situation, then ushered Skye and Trixie to the far side of the lounge. Because of the frosted partition between them and the crime scene, they could no longer see what was happening with Guinevere. The security guy ordered them to stay put, then used a walkie-talkie to contact his boss.

  While the two women waited, Trixie slipped the memory card out of her camera.

  When she tucked it into her bra and replaced it with a spare from the pouch around her waist, Skye leaned over and whispered, “What are you doing that for?”

  “If they search our belongings, they might confiscate my Nikon, and I want to make sure I don’t lose the pictures I took.” Trixie frowned and began to repeatedly hit the camera’s DELETE button. “I don’t know if the images stay on the Nikon once the card is removed, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure.” Trixie bit her lip. “I just have a hunch that I should. If they see them on the camera and not on the memory card, they might realize I have a spare and take it, too.”

  Skye started to respond, but was distracted when Lucille Trencher ran into the nightclub and hurried over to where the doctor was working. A few minutes later, she walked into the area where Skye and Trixie sat. She frowned when she saw Skye.

  “We meet again.” Officer Trencher looked down at Skye, her expression now neutral. “Who’s your friend?” Once the introductions had been made, the security chief had one of her staff take Trixie away and said to Skye, “What happened?”

  “My friend and I were looking for my mom,” Skye explained, then crossed her fingers and fibbed. “We wanted to see if she was available to join us for lunch.” Considering May’s history with Guinevere, Skye didn’t think it was wise to admit that she was actually checking up on her mother. “Mom mentioned that she had a knitting group activity in Cloud Walkers from ten until noon.”

  “Was she here?”

  “No.” Skye shook her head. “At first glance the lounge seemed to be empty and we figured the group had finished early, so we started to leave.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Before we got to the exit we heard a thud and the sound of breaking glass. We thought someone might be hurt, so we went toward where the noise had come from, and we found Guinevere lying on the floor.” Skye fingered the purse strap that lay diagonally across her chest and asked, “Is she going to make it?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Officer Trencher watched Skye closely. “The doctor said she never had a chance. Her carotid artery was nicked.” At Skye’s gasp, the security officer sat down in the chair opposite Skye. “The only reason she lasted as long as she did was because you didn’t remove the knitting needles.” Trencher raised a brow. “How did you know not to do that?”

  “I read a lot of mysteries.” Skye stared down at her hands. Before Officer Trencher’s arrival, Skye had found a couple of Wet-Naps in her purse and managed to wipe off her hands, but they were far from spotless; she only hoped her conscience was cleaner. Had she done everything possible to save Guinevere? “Any idea who stabbed her?”

  “Did you or your friend do it?”

  “No!” Skye squeaked. Was the security officer serious? “Of course not.”

  “How about your mother?” Trencher asked. “She certainly was upset with Ms. Stallings.”

  Skye felt a quiver of alarm. Was there any chance her mother had quarreled again with Guinevere and stabbed her in a fit of rage? No. Skye was absolutely sure May would never do that.

  “Mom is over last night’s misunderstanding,” Skye said.

  “Is she?” Officer Trencher didn’t appear satisfied by Skye’s assurances.

  “Yes.” Skye chewed her lip. How to convince the security officer of that fact? Then she remembered something and said, “Besides, Mom is too short. The needles where thrust straight in Guinevere’s throat. If my mother had done it, they’d be angled upward.”

  “Oh?” The security officer’s tone was skeptical. “And you know this how?”

  “My mother is five-foot-two. Guinevere was a couple of inches taller than me and I’m five-seven. Mom would have had to reach up to stab Guinevere in the throat.”

  “So you’re saying the killer had to be close to the victim’s height,” Officer Trencher said, then paused and added, “Or the murderer was standing on something that made them taller.”

  “The only things around to stand on were chairs and tables, and then the angle would be downward.” Skye was beginning to worry that the security officer was seriously considering May as a suspect.

  “Then perhaps Ms. Stallings was sitting,” Officer Trencher suggested.

  “We found Guinevere on the floor behind the chairs. If she’d been sitting, the needle position would only be possible if both she and the murderer were both seated knee to knee, in which case height would come into play again,” Skye pointed out. “If Guinevere was sitting and the killer was standing, the angle would be downward.”

  Trencher shot Skye a thoughtful look. “Those are insightful observations to have made in the heat of the moment.” She tilted her head. “You said your husband was a police chief, but you didn’t mention if you were in law enforcement as well.”

  “I’m a psychological consultant for my husband’s department.”

  “I see.” Officer Trencher studied Skye, then seemed to make a decision. “Have you had much experience with homicide investigations?”

  “I’ve been part of a team that has solved nearly twenty murders,” Skye answered, then hesitated. If Trixie’s info about crimes committed on cruise ships was correct, how much experience did the security officer have? Making a decision, she asked, “No dis
respect, but what’s your law enforcement background?”

  “I was an MP in the navy for twenty-five years before signing on board the Diamond Countess six months ago,” Officer Trencher replied.

  “So you’ve investigated a number of murders?” Skye asked.

  “I’ve seen my share of homicide cases,” Officer Trencher said, then admitted, “but usually the perp was standing over the body or we had a dozen witnesses or the killer immediately confessed.”

  “Is this your first murder on this ship?” Skye asked. She was surprised the woman was sharing so much information, and was determined to take advantage of her openness.

  “Yes.”

  “I understand that ship’s security doesn’t really investigate serious crimes,” Skye probed. “According to the Internet, you turn the matter over to the FBI once the ship is back in its home port.”

  “That’s correct.” The security officer sighed, then added almost under her breath, “Not that I personally agree with that policy.”

  “Because the case is stone cold by the time the FBI gets involved,” Skye guessed. “And most forensic evidence is lost by then.”

  “Exactly.”

  Officer Trencher took out a pen and a small notebook and had Skye start from the beginning and go over her actions from the time she and Trixie entered Cloud Walkers until the security team arrived. After another half hour of questions, it was obvious to Skye that despite her insistence that the angle of the knitting needles proved her mother wasn’t the killer, the security chief still considered May a prime suspect. She made it apparent that neither Skye nor Trixie were in the clear either.

  Finally, when it seemed that the security chief was running out of questions to ask, Skye said, “Can you tell me what happens now?”