Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise (15 page)

All the while Robbie sat quietly, his jaw clenched, turning his wineglass around by the stem.

Yet again, I sensed tension in the air. If you ask me, dinner with the Pritchards ought to come with a valium appetizer.

When they cleared away our entrée dishes, Kyle launched into an X-rated joke about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in a deli.

With each beat of the joke, I could see Robbie’s jaw grow tighter.

Finally, just as Kyle was delivering the punch line, a rather tacky denouement involving Snow White and a pickle, Robbie exploded.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Kyle?”

Kyle’s life-of-the-party smile froze on his face.

“How can you sit there telling jokes when Aunt Emily is so unhappy?”

“Oh, please,” Kyle said, waving him away like an unwanted waiter. “She’ll get over it. Graham was bad news. Anyone could see he was just after her money.”

“And you’re not?”

Kyle sat up, clearly affronted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Kyle. All you ever think about is Aunt Em’s estimated market value.”

Kyle barked out a laugh.

“As if you’re not interested in inheriting a bundle someday. At least I’m honest enough to admit it. And I’m sorry that Aunt Emily is unhappy, but better now than later.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Such a foolish woman. Buying Graham those diamond cuff links. Do you realize how much those damn things cost? Seven grand! I wasn’t about to let her fritter away her estate like that!”

And suddenly an image flashed in my brain—of Kyle leaning over Graham’s dead body yanking off the cuff links, unwilling to part with seven thousand dollars’ worth of gold and diamonds.

“Emily’s always been foolish,” Kyle was saying. “Naïve and gullible. When Grandfather was alive he had to watch her like a hawk.”

“If Grandfather hadn’t been so busy interfering in her life,” Robbie snapped, “she might have wound up happy.”

“Really, Robbie, must you air the family’s dirty laundry in front of strangers?”

This said with a none-too-subtle glance in my direction. Clearly I was the stranger in question.

“Actually, Ms. Austen,” he added, “while my aunt is confined to her cabin, I see no need for you to join us at the dinner table.”

Hey, wait a minute. What happened to the guy who just five minutes ago was plying me with pinot noir?

“Kyle!” Maggie gasped in dismay. “How can you be so rude?”

“Years of experience,” Robbie snapped, throwing down his napkin. “You really are a piece of work, Kyle. Ms. Austen will join us whenever she damn well pleases. And right now I hope she will join me in getting the hell away from you.”

Then he got up from the table so abruptly, I was afraid his chair was going to topple over.

“How about it, Jaine?”

In spite of the fact that they were just about to serve lemon tart for dessert, I got up, too.

We Austens do not hang around where we’re not wanted. Besides, I don’t much care for lemon tart.

“Kyle’s such a jerk,” Robbie sighed, licking the scotch off a swizzle stick.

He wasn’t going to get an argument from me on that one.

We were sitting at the bar in the Tiki Lounge, where Robbie was soothing his angst with Johnny Walker. I’d refrained from ordering one of the lavish umbrella drinks on the menu and stuck with my usual chardonnay.

Out on the dance floor a group of seventy-something ladies from the Lutheran Church of the Master in St. Cloud, Minnesota, were learning to do the Electric Slide. I knew where they were from because the handsome wannabe actor/emcee in charge of the festivities had been questioning them on his mike and flirting with them shamelessly.

Robbie, however, was oblivious to the action around us; he just stared into his drink, still upset over the scene at dinner.

“What a family, huh?” he said.

“Well, you know Tolstoy’s old gag. Happy families are boring. It’s the unhappy ones that are interesting.”

“You’ve read Tolstoy?” he asked, looking up from his drink.

“Not really. But I Google him a lot.”

That prompted a wan smile.

“Well, if Tolstoy’s right, we Pritchards are probably one of the most interesting families you’ll ever meet. As you can tell, there’s not a lot of love lost between me and Kyle.”

I doubted there was a lot of love lost between Kyle and anybody.

“Kyle’s always been a cold fish. It’s in the genes. He’s just like Grandfather.”

“I don’t mean to pry”—of course I did—“but what did you mean when you said Emily might have been happy if it hadn’t been for your grandfather?”

He took a stiff slug of his drink and swiveled on his bar stool to face me.

“Remember that romance I told you about, when Emily was young, the one that broke her heart?”

“I remember.”

“The man she fell in love with didn’t measure up to Grandfather’s standards. He was a crew member on one of her cruises. They were crazy about each other, and Emily was all set to marry him. But Grandfather put his foot down. He wasn’t about to have his only daughter hook up with a lowly crewman. He offered her lover money to go away. And the guy took it. He never saw her again.”

“Then he couldn’t have really loved her.”

“Or maybe Grandfather just scared the bejesus out of him. Grandfather was a pretty intimidating guy. All I know is he was the love of her life, and she never met anybody else.”

“How sad,” I sighed, hoping my shipboard romance would have a happier ending.

“Poor Aunt Em,” Robbie said. “She doesn’t deserve to have her heart broken twice in a lifetime. Although Kyle’s probably right.” He stirred his scotch pensively. “Maybe it’s all for the best. Graham was a pretty slimy character.”

Possibly even a criminal, I thought, remembering the Butterfly Bandit clipping I’d seen in his wallet.

“Frankly,” he said, “I’m not sure I blame that singer for bumping him off.”

“Oh, but she didn’t!”

“What do you mean?”

“Cookie’s in the cabin next to mine. Or she was before they carted her off to the brig. I got to know her pretty well, and I don’t believe she’s a killer.”

“If she didn’t kill him, then who did?”

“I have no idea. But whoever it was stole one of Anton’s ice picks to do it. I don’t suppose you noticed anyone hanging around the display table after his demo, did you?”

“No. After Anton cornered you, I left.”

By now the Lutheran ladies had kicked off their orthopedic sneakers and were Electric Gliding on the dance floor with abandon. One of them had grabbed a whistle from around the emcee’s neck and was tooting every time his tush came into view, provoking lusty whoops from the rest of the gals.

“At least somebody’s having fun on this cruise,” Robbie said, noticing them for the first time.

“Probably a little too much fun,” I replied as the emcee struggled to get his whistle back.

“By the way,” he said, “in all the fuss over the murder, I almost forgot—I’ve got some good news!”

“Really? What is it?”

He smiled proudly.

“Well, seeing how much you like water sports, I pulled some strings and got you a spot on our scuba excursion the day after tomorrow.”

“Scuba diving?” I gulped. “The day after tomorrow?”

“Yes. Isn’t that terrific?”

Oh, Lord. Why on earth had I told that outrageous lie? I knew absolutely zippo about scuba diving. And the last thing I wanted was to appear in public in a bathing suit. I was simply going to have to fess up and tell Robbie that the closest I’d ever come to a scuba dive was watching old
Sea Hunt
reruns.

“To be perfectly honest, Robbie, I’m not a very experienced diver.”

“As long as you know the basics, you’ll be okay. You do know the basics, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure, I know the basics.”

What was wrong with me? Could I not tell the truth for two consecutive minutes?

“And I promise I’ll watch out for you,” he assured me. “So how about it? Is it a date?”

He shot me a grin that could melt mozzarella.

“It’s a date,” I said, caving like you knew I would.

At which point the Lutheran ladies broke out into a deafening chorus of “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy),” lassoing the emcee with his microphone cord. Poor guy looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. I knew exactly how he felt.

“What do you say we get out of here and go for a walk on deck?” Robbie asked.

“Gee, I’d love to, but I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

Which was no lie. Thanks to that scuba excursion looming on the horizon, all thoughts of romance had gone flying out the porthole. Besides, I had to get back to the cabin and get some work done on
Do Not Distub
before Samoa showed up for our midnight meeting.

“Oh.” Robbie’s smile faded.

“Maybe some other night?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, waving to the bartender for another drink.

“Well, see ya.”

I slid off my barstool and made my way back to my cabin, wondering how I could possibly lose fifteen pounds in forty-eight hours.

By the time midnight rolled around, I’d managed to plow through half of
Do Not Distub
. I was bleary-eyed with fatigue when Samoa showed up, as promised, with the passkey and requested cabin numbers.

“You must return passkey to Samoa tomorrow afternoon by three o’clock,” he commanded, handing it to me.

“Absolutely,” I promised. I planned to get started snooping as soon as the Pritchards left for their kayaking excursion. Which, according to the
Holiday Happenings
, began at 9 A.M. So I’d have plenty of time to poke around.

“Now it’s time to show Samoa what you’ve done,” he said, making himself at home in my one and only chair.

“Here you go,” I said, handing him my sweated-over pages.

He began reading, moving his lips as he did so. Not a good sign. As a rule, lip movers are rarely speed readers. At this rate, we’d be here for hours.

And, alas, we were. He didn’t finish until after 2 A.M.

Prozac had a lovely nap during the interim, and I must confess I dozed off a bit myself.

Finally he’d lip-read his last syllable.

“Samoa is finished,” he announced, crossing his arms over his chest, very Yul Brynner in
The King and I
.

“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”

He broke out in a wide grin.

“Samoa is pleased!”

Thank heavens; otherwise there might have been another murder on board.

“
Do Not Distub
will be international best-seller!” he proclaimed.

At which point I could have sworn Prozac rolled her eyes.

Whatever he’s smoking, I want some.

“Samoa will go now,” he said, getting up from his chair.

I loved the way this guy narrated his own life.

After making me promise once more to return the passkey by three the next afternoon, he finally trotted off.

It had grown pretty stuffy in the cabin, so after he left I decided to go to the pool deck for some fresh air.

I don’t suppose you fell for that, did you? Of course I didn’t go to the pool deck for fresh air. I went to the buffet for a brownie. Yes, I know I’m a disgrace—just a few paragraphs ago I was talking about losing fifteen pounds in forty-eight hours—but what can I say? I was hungry!

And it was all that darn Pepe’s fault. I’d eaten lunch so late, I’d hardly touched my dinner. And now at 2:30 in the morning I was starving. I’d just have one measly brownie to tide me over till breakfast, at which point I would start a spartan exercise and weight-loss regime.

So don’t give me any flak, okay? I get enough of that from my scale.

And besides, I’m only telling you about my shameful caloric lapse because of what happened on my way back from the buffet.

There I was, strolling past the casino, wondering who the genius was who first mixed nuts with chocolate, when I saw a familiar face at the roulette wheel.

It was Kyle’s wife, Maggie. What was she doing in the casino in the middle of the night? I looked around for Kyle, but he was nowhere in sight.

Maggie was shaking a pair of dice with surprising expertise, the players around her shouting words of encouragement. Then she tossed them, and a collective groan arose from the table. Maggie blanched in dismay as her chips were raked away. For a minute, I thought she might even cry.

From the way she’d handled those dice, I could tell Maggie was no casual gambler. Far from it. This gal had “addict” written all over her. With her ashen face, frizzled hair, and gleam of manic desperation in her eyes, she looked like a poster girl for Gamblers Anonymous.

Very interesting.

Up to now Maggie hadn’t been on my suspect list, but suddenly I wondered. Could she possibly be the killer? What if she depended on Emily’s money to feed her habit? Hadn’t Graham threatened to cut off all Kyle’s access to Emily’s portfolio? Had Maggie stabbed him with Anton’s ice pick to keep herself in chips?

Just something to ponder while I ate my brownie.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jaineausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Such Wonderful News!

Jaine, sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me that you and Lance were engaged??

To: Jaineausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Congratulations, Lambchop!

Your mom just told me the good news!

Lance seems like a very nice fellow. Of course, in my eyes, no fella’s good enough for my lambchop. But if he makes you happy, that’s all that counts!

Love and kisses,

Daddy (aka The Father of the Bride)

To: Jaineausten
From: Sir Lancelot
Subject: Don’t Kill Me

Don’t kill me, Jaine, but I told your mom that you and I were engaged. I was helping her do the dishes after dinner, and she started talking about how I needed a special gal in my life. I told her I already had a special gal in my life—you—and somehow she just assumed we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I wanted to tell her the truth, but she was so happy, I couldn’t bust her bubble.