Killer Knots (14 page)

Marla sought a glimmer of comprehension. “Possibly he’s looking for validation to make himself feel useful. When people retire, often they lose their source of self-esteem. It has to be a blow to the ego, so perhaps this is his way to compensate.”

“If that’s true, I haven’t helped by putting him down.” Bending forward, Kate pursed her lips, then continued, “I’ll try to be more encouraging, but only if John asks me before he makes any travel plans. I might be willing to go with him, assuming we have nothing else on the calendar.”

Marla heard what her future mother-in-law wasn’t admitting, that she feared John would go off on his own. Retirement could lead to marital strife if a couple found themselves veering in opposite directions. She supposed they had to work at compromising all over again.

Holy highlights, marriage is hard work. Do I really want to dive into this morass?
she asked herself.
It’s better than diving into an empty pool with a torn safety netting and no one to catch you, she reasoned. Let that analogy be a lesson. If you don’t want to go through life alone, you have to make sacrifices.

She cleared her throat. “Where is John now?”

“He’s playing bridge in the card room. We’re meeting you for lunch. Brie should be finished with her makeover session by then. Her group is spending the morning in the spa,” Kate explained. Leaning over, she patted Marla’s arm. “Brie talks about you all the time. You have no idea how much she respects you. You’re a wonderful role model, dear. Dalton is a lucky man to have you.”

“Thanks,” she said, a warm glow spreading through her.

After lunch, Marla went searching for Kent Harwood. She only had an hour before the art auction. When she didn’t find him in any of the public lounges or on deck, she gave up and headed to the gallery.

Dalton had refused to accompany her, citing fatigue as his excuse. Brianna had run off with her crowd, John had headed below for a nap, and Kate had made a beeline for the Internet Cafe to research wedding reception sites for Marla and Vail.

Finding a seat next to Betsy, Marla scrutinized the patrons. Irene, Brooklyn, and Kent remained absent. Strange; they’d shown up for nearly every other event. Chatting idly with her friend, she kept her eye on the door but none of them entered.

The auction proceeded, with people waving their bid cards excitedly over a mystery set. It turned out to be a minor artist’s work, making the museum members grumble in disappointment. Only one painting sold from Tusk’s collection. Thurston won the nude woman gazing at a vase of flowers.

“Where’s Irene?” Marla asked Oliver as they squeezed down the staircase after the event concluded. She held the free limited-edition seriolithograph she’d gotten for attending, a tropical scene by Pauker.

The big man ran a hand over his partly bald head. “She had an upset stomach and went to rest in our cabin.”

“Betsy and I might stop by the Cargo Cafe. I like their Hair Raiser brand coffee.” She hesitated. “Would you like to join us?”

“No, thanks, my dear. I’ve got things to do.”

“I’m hoping to run into Kent. I was disappointed he didn’t come to the auction. Neither did Brooklyn. Have you seen them around?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Isn’t there a kitchen tour this afternoon? That’s where I would go to find Brooklyn.”

“Good idea. Thanks.”

She and Betsy signed on for the tour, which gave them a tantalizing glimpse into the culinary department. Standing beside gleaming stainless steel stations, white-uniformed chefs demonstrated their technique, offering samples to taste. Her appetite whetted for dinner, Marla proceeded to search for Vail after the tour concluded. Brooklyn still didn’t show up on her itinerary, and neither did Kent.

Her manhunt turned up Irene Smernoff having a cocktail with Eric Rand in a quiet corner of the Pirate’s Grotto.
Irene recovered fast from her indisposition
, Marla thought, edging her way toward their booth while trying to remain out of sight.

Irene had one hand around her martini glass and another hand on top of Eric’s wrist. Leaning inward, she offered him a view down her cleavage.

I don’t understand how you ‘re not cold wearing such a skimpy dress in this air-conditioning. Maybe that’s why you keep scooting nearer, to share his body heat
, Marla mused.

Irene murmured something in an imploring tone, but Marla couldn’t make out her words. Stepping closer, she fumbled when the ship swayed and knocked her against a bronze statue of a grizzly bear with glowing red eyes. It didn’t budge, fortunately for her. Even the smallest sound would echo in this space.

“I can’t,” Eric’s voice carried clearly. “Do you think you’re the only one? Everyone’s made an offer to buy Alden’s triptych. You’ll have to wait until the last night, like everyone else, my love.”

Holding the bear to steady herself, Marla inched around its bulk to a better vantage point. No one else sat in the dimly lit room. The pair must have obtained their drinks from the bar on the upper level then come down here to talk in private.

“He’s threatening to tell Delaney about us,” Irene replied.

“That’s always been a risk.” Marla heard the censure in Eric’s radio announcer voice.

“Please. I’ll even…”

Irene lowered her decibels and Marla had to strain her ears. No luck. Darn, she wanted to hear what they said. From the way they kept touching each other, she gathered they’d shared a more intimate relationship in the past.

Venturing forward, she didn’t watch her footing and tripped over a cable taped to the floor.

“Marla!” Irene sprang from her seat, alarm crossing her features.

Eric rose more slowly, a look of anger on his face. He no longer had the boyishly cheerful mien he put on for the auctions. His mouth tight with determination, he marched toward her. His heavy footsteps resounded on the polished wood floor.

Irene scurried to reach him. “No, Eric, don’t.”

What are you doing here? Eric demanded.

Marla backed up a step. “I was looking for Kent Harwood. Have either of you seen the man? He missed the auction and I need to talk to him.” She heard dishes clanging and ice rattling into glasses from the bar upstairs.

“Haven’t seen the guy.”

“But you know who he is. You’re acquainted with everyone from the museum.”

“Evidently, so are you. Kent isn’t here. Go look elsewhere.”

“I will.” She swung her gaze toward Irene. “Your husband said you weren’t feeling well and were resting in your cabin. You should’ve seen that colorful beach serigraph by Fanch at today’s auction. I was tempted to bid on it myself.” She forced a chuckle. “Eric is such a great auctioneer that he makes me want to raise my bidding card on everything.”

Eric balanced on the balls of his feet, as though he couldn’t decide whether to rush her or leave her alone.

“What do you want?” he growled, seeming so different from his usual cheerful personality that her mind went momentarily blank.

“We’ve never properly met,” she gushed, extending her hand with a bubbleheaded grin. “I’m Marla Shore.” She nodded at Irene. “Irene and I are dinner companions.”

Pressing his lips, Eric gave her a quick handshake. His sweaty palm told her he was unnerved by her abrupt arrival. He still wore his bow tie and sports coat from the auction. Its dark color matched his slicked-back ebony hair, tinged with gray.

“I’ve heard about you,” he replied in a flat tone that didn’t hint at his opinion. “Somebody screwed up, and you were seated at the wrong table.”

“Yes, I believe my fiancé’s parents were slated to sit with the Smernoffs. We should have been at the other table with his daughter. Did you arrange that ahead of time, Irene? John must have been terribly disappointed when your plans didn’t work and you were seated at separate tables. You had arrangements to discuss with him, isn’t that correct?”

“What’s this?” Eric said, twisting to regard his companion. He didn’t sound pleased from his cutting tone.

Irene plunked down her empty martini glass. “It has nothing to do with us,” she reassured him in a shaky voice. Her body swayed, and she stabilized herself by grabbing a nearby column. The ship’s rocking motion seemed more pronounced here, or else she’d just imbibed one drink too many.

“Tell me about this fellow,” Eric ordered.

“I said, he’s not a problem.”

“Let me be the judge of that, my dear.”

Irene stiffened. “Are you forgetting that it’s my money—” She stopped when he jerked his head in Marla’s direction. “Very well, I suppose you might find the information useful. But I need another drink first. Marla, would you like something from the bar?”

Wearing a scowl, Eric acquiesced to her wishes. After he returned with Irene’s cocktail and a Coke for Marla, he prompted the older woman to continue. They sat around a polished wood table bolted to the floor. Marla popped the tab on her soda can.

“John Vail is a budding artist,” Irene said, clutching her glass and staring at the clear liquid, while Marla noticed with fascination that her foundation makeup had pooled in her creases.

“He’d entered a competition where I was one of the judges. I liked his work and contacted him. John is fantastic in the stained-glass milieu. Not the usual variety, you know, business card holders and such.” Irene’s eyes fired with enthusiasm. “His designs are unique. I offered to sponsor his entry into juried art shows.”

“What were you doing in Marigot?” Marla asked, not about to let the opportunity pass.

“I have contacts throughout the art world, darling. That particular shopkeeper likes unusual pieces, so I had John send him a few samples. Pierre wanted to meet the artist in person before placing an order.”

Irene’s altruism stunned her. “Did Oliver know you and John planned to meet on this cruise?”

“He doesn’t concern himself with my activities.” Her chin lifted, belying her insouciant tone.

Irene cared more than she let on about her husband’s neglect, Marla thought. Could that be what had driven her into another man’s arms?

“You shouldn’t worry about John making a play for Irene,” Marla told Eric. “He loves his wife. But you two…you go way back to when Eric was curator at the museum, don’t you?”

Irene and Eric exchanged an intimate glance. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was in charge of the art collection,” Eric explained. “Oliver and Irene attended many of our social events. I couldn’t help running into her.”

“Especially when Olly left me stranded,” Irene interrupted.

“Yes, um, we started discussing art, you know. Both of us share that interest. And then one thing kind of led to another.”

“I see.” Marla tilted her head. “And I appreciate your sharing this with me. I’ll keep my lips sealed.”

Eric pushed himself from his chair. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’d best go check the lockers. Someone tried to break in last evening. I can’t imagine why.” The words tripped sarcastically off his tongue.

“Wait, I have another question,” Marla called, then hustled after him as he headed toward the spiral staircase. Irene slipped out through another exit.

“I’m wondering if you have any of Alden Tusk’s pictures on board that show a woman wearing a ballet outfit? I modeled for him when he lived in South Florida, and I’d really like to find one of those paintings. I had forgotten all about him until I heard his name mentioned at your auction.”

Eric halted, his foot on the lower rung. “I know he did some portraits of girls in dance costumes, but we don’t have any in our collection. I can check the catalogues for you, if you like.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Tell me, what’s so important about Alden’s triptych? The museum gang is spastic about it.”

He gave her a hooded glance. “There’s a reason the middle piece was missing after Tusk’s death. By all indications, he’d painted a portrait of his killer. And that person most likely is one of the people sitting beside you at dinner.”

“Killer? I thought his fall was an accident.”

“It’s more likely Alden was pushed.”

Like Helen?
Marla mused as she climbed the atrium steps searching for her family.

Her steps invariably took her toward the art gallery. Upstairs, the door to the auction room itself stayed locked when unattended. Knowing that Eric had gone below decks to check the storage containers, she questioned the glimmer of light around the door frame.

Padding silently up the carpeted staircase, she reached a hand to try the doorknob. It twisted easily. She swung the door open and spied a familiar figure scurrying from one of the back workrooms.

“Oh, Marla, it’s you,” Kent Harwood breathed in relief. His florid complexion and sheen of sweat betrayed his state of nerves. Doubtless he had been afraid of being caught red-handed by the auctioneer.

“You needn’t worry,” she told him, leaving the door ajar behind her. “Eric is on one of the crew decks checking his lockers. What are you doing here? And how did you get in, by the way?”

He shot a glance at her from under his thick eyebrows, his glare much like that of a seagull searching for prey. Was the fish he hunted small enough to chew, or so big that it might bite back? “I have talents that aren’t evident,” he said, rolling the words in his mouth as though choosing them carefully.

“Along with an education that you hide. You’re no bug man, Kent. What do you really do for a living?”

He shrugged. “I suppose if I tell you, it might help keep you out of trouble. I’m investigating theft at the museum.”

“What kind of theft?” She thought of Bob Wolfson’s real estate purchases. Was the business manager dipping into funds belonging to the museum?

“Reproductions are being substituted for original works of art. Eric Rand tipped off the insurance company after he left and arranged for Brooklyn Jones to claim they had a pest problem in the kitchen. I came in under the guise of being an exterminator, which I’m actually licensed to do. I studied entomology in college,” he explained, “but ended up going into investigative work because it paid better.”

Good disguise
, Marla thought,
and you just lost your gruff manner of speech. I hope your awful haircut and loud shirts are part of your camouflage, too
.

“So did you find the triptych?” she asked, peering around his bulk.

“Nah, Eric must have it squirreled away somewhere.” Jabbing his thumb, he indicated they should move out. After they’d each passed beyond the door, he jiggled a tool in the keyhole to set the lock.

“Did you ever see the side panels?”

“I got a peek after the accident. Everything had been roped off for the fund-raiser, and by the time the commotion had died down, someone had removed the center triptych piece from the exhibit.”

“What did the outer panels show?” Exiting the gallery, Marla waited for him to join her.

Kent halted to remove a toothpick from his pocket and stick it in his mouth. “Both scenes show a room with traditional furnishings. One side holds a piano, and the other has an ornate fireplace. Each panel contains a portrait of a lady. The two ladies are wearing long gowns and are staring at each other from opposite ends of the room, although it’s clear their eyes actually focus on the center.”

“So? What’s the big deal?”

He glanced at her. “You have to see it to understand the emotional impact. They look horrified, as though they’re watching some atrocity.”

She strolled beside him down the corridor toward the nearest staircase. “What do you think it means?”

“That something bad happened to Alden, and this was his way of relating the experience. Mind you, it may have been a past event, but nonetheless, you get a creeped-out feeling from seeing the pictures.”

“Maybe Alden painted himself committing an inappropriate act, and his guilt compelled him to capture the scene on canvas. He could’ve done it as a means of atonement.”

Kent’s lips shifted the toothpick. “Possibly, but then why would someone remove it?”

“To protect him?”

“Could be, but I have another theory,” Kent replied. “What if the central panel implies a crime? Surely the guilty party would want to bury it.”

They descended to deck three, where the photo gallery was crowded with passengers. No sign of any family members or museum people. Thank goodness. She wanted to continue their discussion uninterrupted. Music from Mariner’s Martini Bar drifted in their direction, along with the smell of cigarette smoke.

“That makes sense,” Marla said, wrinkling her nose. “It could account for Alden’s ‘accident’ and the missing piece if this other person didn’t want the scene revealed.” Then she added, returning to her original idea, “Or if Alden was guilty, he could have decided at the last minute that he couldn’t give himself away. Alden could have hidden the panel before leaping from the balcony and taking his own life.”

“What about the music Martha said she heard from the gift shop just before Alden screamed?”

“You know about that?”

“I make it my job to learn about everything.”

A shank of hair tumbled across his forehead. Noting the greasy strands, Marla bit her lip to keep herself from commenting aloud.
When did you last wash your hair, pal? I don’t care if its part of your disguise. Make an appointment at the ship s salon
.

“Do you know who’s substituting fake works of art at the museum?” she asked, scratching an itch on her arm.

“I’ve got some clues, but I’m not ready to point the finger at anyone just yet. You hear anything relevant? I understand you and your boyfriend have been asking some sharp questions.”

“Well, it’s not Betsy, because she noticed a painting in St. Maarten that she said was an exact duplicate of one back in the museum. She wouldn’t have mentioned that if she’s involved.”

Pausing at the foot of the atrium staircase, Kent tilted his head. “Oh yeah? Brooklyn said he had news about her. I haven’t been able to hook up with him since.” His gaze darkening, he chewed on his toothpick.

“I hope he’s okay.”

“Me, too. I’d better go look for him. And if I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut about our conversation.”

She wondered if she ought to mention the incident in Philipsburg. Her probes must have hit a nerve, because someone wanted her out of the way. Probably she could scratch Kent Harwood off the list, but it bothered her what Brooklyn Jones might know about Betsy.

When Brooklyn didn’t show up for breakfast on Friday morning, Marla’s alarm escalated. He didn’t make it to the dining room, nor did she spot him upstairs at the buffet. Aware that time was short and she had to get ready for their shore excursion on Grand Cayman Island, she phoned Brooklyn’s cabin number. Getting no response, she tried Kent’s stateroom.

“I haven’t seen him,” Kent’s gruff voice replied on the telephone. “I’m waiting for a call back from ship’s security. They’ve checked his room. He’s not there, but his passport is on top of his nightstand. If he doesn’t turn up, they’ll page him. Hey, can you do me a favor on shore?”

“Sure, what is it?” She gestured at Vail, who was pacing by the door.
Just a few more minutes
, she mouthed.

“Keep an eye on Wolfson.”

What happened to minding my own business? Now you want me to spy for you?
“Why?”

A pause. “Brooklyn told me that Bob Wolfson asked him to sign off on some invoices at work that included kitchen items he never ordered. I don’t care to think Bob had anything to do with Brooklyn’s absence, but I’d like to know what he does in town today. I may be late getting off the ship.”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be.” Marla shrugged. “We’re going on the stingray snorkeling adventure.”

“Oh. Well, never mind then. We’ll just have to hope Brooklyn turns up.”

Marla kept her concerns to herself while she stuffed various advertising flyers and brochures into her bag. From here on, she intended to give Vail her undivided attention.

Slated to meet his parents and Brianna before descending to the gangplank, she hustled alongside him down the corridor with closed cabin doors on either side. She could swear this hallway got longer each time they strode its length. During the wait for the elevator, she filled Vail in on the conversation she’d had with Kent Harwood.