Killer Knots (17 page)

They’d taken seats off to the side, where Marla could watch the proceedings while sipping her free champagne. She could barely feel the ship moving; they might just as well have been at a theater Stateside. Crossing her legs, she held her bidding card lightly between her fingers. Would Eric really tease them with a glimpse of Alden’s triptych? Sitting upright, she listened for his introductory spiel.

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime, folks. A one-of-a-kind set by a talented young artist. This guy was slated to be one of the movers and shakers in the art world before his untimely demise. I don’t need to tell you how much the value of his work has gone up since then. Get a piece of the action by owning this fabulous suite. I’ll give you a quick look now, but return for our final blowout auction, and you’ll have the chance to win this wonderful addition for your home gallery.”

The audience took in a collective breath when Eric paused. “Retail price: fifty-five-thousand dollars. This is hand signed, folks. You can have the complete set for the bargain price of twenty-nine-thousand five-hundred dollars. Who wants it? Two, seven, twelve…”

Each time he read off a bidding card from the audience, he banged his gavel on the podium. A girl wearing a black shirt with the ship’s logo rapidly scribbled the numbers onto a slate. 1

Marla’s hand had shot up despite the price and so did everyone else’s from the museum crowd. Thurston Stark looked about to burst a blood vessel, while Oliver Smernoff’s eyes bugged out. Kent Harwood bent forward, focusing intently. Beside him, the Wolfsons jostled with each other, Bob waving his card in the air while Sandy tugged on his arm. From her disapproving expression, Marla guessed she didn’t want him to bid. But who could resist the call? This had to be Alden’s set.

As he called out the last number, Eric pumped his fist in the air. “All right, ladies and gents, this is what you’ve been waiting for. It’s Alden Tusk’s famed triptych. Whoo-hoo!”

He reached over and flipped the first canvas around, then did the same with the flanking painting. Squinting, Marla observed two ladies in long gowns, each gazing toward the center of a traditional drawing room. They almost appeared to be looking at each other, but their focus actually aimed at some point in between. Abhorrence showed on their faces.

Then Eric flashed the critical central portrait. A boy, maybe eight or nine, sat on a stool wielding a brush. He was painting strokes on a canvas. A man hovered nearby, touching the child in an inappropriate manner. She had no trouble discerning the boy’s reaction. His large, dark eyes held a troubling mixture of self-loathing and empty resignation.

“Oh my.”

Betsy’s words were barely out of her mouth when Eric whipped the pictures away.

Marla cursed under her breath. She wanted to get a closer look. From this distance, she couldn’t see details.

“That little boy…it’s Alden,” Betsy whispered, meeting her questioning gaze. “I’d seen pictures of him when he was younger. But the other…I can’t tell.”

“Me neither, but you could guess what the man is doing. It goes along with your suspicion that Alden might have been a victim of child abuse. The evidence is right there in his middle painting.”

“Poor fellow couldn’t talk about it, so he painted what happened to him.” Betsy’s face sagged. “Just the act of portraying this scene must have been incredibly painful.”

Marla scratched her forearm. Was it possible to get mosquito bites on a ship? “You’d said he felt better after painting this picture, so it probably served as a catharsis for him. Why then did he offer the piece to the museum for its fund-raiser? To expose whoever had abused him as a child?”

“Hello…why else?” Betsy said.

“That means someone among us is a closet pedophile.”

As the auction drew to a close, they stood to get in line for their free picture. Maybe Kent knew what the other museum members were hiding, she thought, glancing at his hairy neck from behind. He had been investigating the museum gang in search of a thief, but maybe instead he’d uncovered other buried secrets.

Marla missed the chance to confer with Kent Harwood about his investigation into the backgrounds of the museum members. Momentarily distracted when she spotted Countess Delacroix in the line for a free work of art, she whipped her head forward in time to see Kent scurry off.

“Drat, I was hoping to catch him,” she told Betsy.

“What for? Do you think he’ll share anything he learns? He’s investigating theft at the museum, not a possible murder.”

“They may be related.”

Betsy poked her elbow. “Give it a rest for now. Wanna take a walk? I need to build an appetite for the chocolate buffet.”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll have a word with the countess. Did you see her arrive at the auction? She must have been sitting behind us.”

“Sorry.” Betsy’s eyes lit as though torched. “Holy mackerel, there’s that Texan I met at the singles party. His company has made gobs of money in construction barricades.”

Marla caught a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a trim beard before he ascended a nearby staircase. Nice butt.

“Here, get in line ahead of me. Then you can chase after him. He seems to be alone.”

After Betsy departed, Marla accepted her free picture at the checkout desk and handed in her bid card until the next auction. She didn’t bother to look inside the envelope to see what painting she’d received. Instead, she spun on her heel and marched back to where the noblewoman waited with her gentleman friend, ever dapper in a white dinner jacket.

“Madame Delacroix, what a surprise,” Marla droned.

“Indeed.” The countess’s face crinkled into a smile, her make-up glowing like grease paint. Or maybe Marla made the connection in her mind because the countess’s lips curved upward but her eyes chilled. No actress worth her salt would emit such contradictory signals. Marla admired the classic lines of her outfit, a royal blue ensemble with silver threads. She’d blend in perfectly with the decor in the Starlight Lounge.

“How are you this evening?” the countess asked politely.

“Curious. How did you make out with the Wolfsons on your shore excursion?” Marla shifted her position so the glint from the crystal chandelier wouldn’t hit her in the eye. Stumbling when the ship rocked, she steadied herself.

Countess Delacroix pursed her lips. “How very gauche of you to inquire about my personal business, but then my sources tell me you possess plenty of—what is the word?—chutzpah.” Holding onto her companion’s arm, she shuffled forward in line.

Marla wouldn’t have thought the countess needed any free pictures, but who knew? “So did your offer to buy his property still meet with resistance? Vanilla is such an important commodity. You’d think Bob would cash in on its worth. I mean, Mexico being the heart of the industry and all.”

She needn’t worry about being overheard. Bob and Sandy had already moved on. By mentioning the countess’s passion, Marla hoped to encourage her to talk.

“That only makes his land more valuable,” the countess replied. “However, I used a lever that will help him see the light.” Lifting her chin, she raised her voice. “
Mon dieu
, why can they not go faster? I shall be late for black box bingo.”

Sensing a dismissal, Marla tried another tack. “I’m looking forward to the chocolate buffet tonight. What’s the chance they’ve used vanilla from your company to make the sweets?”

Countess Delacroix arched a penciled eyebrow. Actually, if she drew it outward any farther, it would end up looking like a question mark.

Bad Marla. Stop being so critical
.

“I am unaware of who supplies the ship’s kitchen ingredients. If I saw the vanilla beans, I could tell.”

“Really. How so?” 1

“We brand our beans when they are green, and the markings remain after they dry. Vanilla rustling has always been a concern to growers because it is such a valuable crop.”

Marla’s brow folded in thought. She couldn’t deny the topic intrigued her. “Haven’t synthetics consumed much of the market?”

The countess and her escort reached the checkout desk, where they exchanged their bidding cards for a complimentary work of art. “
Vraiment
. Ninety-seven percent of the vanilla used today is synthetic. Still, the current demand is for twenty-two-hundred tons of natural vanilla annually.”

“That’s a lot,” Marla agreed.

The older woman paused just outside the exit. “You seem sincerely interested,
cherie
. So let me share with you some more particulars. Besides playing a role in the food industry and in perfume making, did you know vanilla has industrial applications? It is utilized to make medicines taste better and to cover the strong smell of tires, paint, and household products.”

“Is that right? I had no idea. So how do the synthetics compare to the real stuff? Wouldn’t they be just as good in these industries?”

Countess Delacroix grimaced, while her gentleman friend turned away with a bored expression. “Vanillin is the organic component mimicked in synthetics, but natural beans contain additional elements that cannot be duplicated. Thus, natural vanilla has a much richer smell and taste.” She glanced at her watch. “Pardon,” she said in her French accent, “I have to go.”

“Wait. What’s French vanilla?”

“It is a custard base for ice cream, not a type of vanilla.”

Marla kept pace as the countess climbed the staircase. “Is it true that vanilla is good for an upset stomach?”

“
Oui
. That is why people drink sodas like cola when they feel ill. These contain vanilla, which calms the digestion.”

“So growing vanilla is really a contribution to mankind. Is this what you told Bob to convince him to sell his property?”

The countess stopped, one foot on an upper step. “Oh, no, I said I knew where he is getting the money for his real estate purchases.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “
Mon dieu
, I should not have said that, should I?” 1

Marla’s eyes widened. So if Bob didn’t want the countess to blow the whistle on his activities, he’d have to accept her offer. “How did he react?” she asked.

Countess Delacroix frowned. “Bob understands that he could buy land elsewhere to build his resort, but he is afraid.”

“Afraid of whom? And where is he getting the money from?”
Could he be blackmailing someone who’s threatened him in turn?

“What you do not know cannot hurt you,” the gentleman said, startling her. He cleared his throat. “Come,
mon amour
, your bingo money is burning a hole in your pocket.” While firmly tugging on his lady friend’s hand, he said to Marla, “
Au revoir
.”

Wishing she’d had the opportunity to learn more, Marla met her group at the late show and related her findings after the curtain fell. Dalton didn’t want to talk about Bob Wolfson, the countess, or Alden Tusk’s hang-ups. He brushed off her report with a shrug.

“Let’s go dancing,” he suggested as they filed out of the theater. “I need the exercise.” Regarding her, his eyes smouldered. Clearly the man had another type of exercise in mind.

“Bor-ring,” Brianna chimed, her ponytail swishing. “Let’s get in line for the midnight buffet. We can preview the food and take pictures. It’s already eleven-thirty.”

Marla gave the teen’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “How can you eat again? I’m still full from dinner.”

Kate and John, along for the company but not necessarily the food, urged Marla to check out the array of sweets.

“How can you pass up all the chocolate?” Kate queried. “Even if you don’t eat, it’s a feast for the eyes.”

“You’ll miss night owl bingo,” Marla commented, noting that John’s face seemed more relaxed. He no longer had that constant frown on his forehead.

Kate snuggled close to her husband. “We should stick together tonight,” she said, smiling meaningfully. “Besides, I’m kind of hoping they’ll have éclairs. They’re my favorite.”

Not only were éclairs on the menu, but so were Black Forest cake, chocolate peach cake, chocolate cream puffs, chocolate lemon cake, chocolate tart topped with pistachios, candied pineapple slices dipped in dark chocolate, and more.

Salivating, Marla snapped photos to show people back home what they’d missed.
Diet be damned. I can’t wait until they open the doors for real
.

Grabbing a plate thirty minutes later, she didn’t know where to start. White chocolate-dipped strawberries, cocoa layer cake decorated with fresh kiwi, chocolate mousse, and an edible display of chocolate sushi tempted her. All were laid out artistically on amber satin drapes and intermingled with butter and ice carvings depicting the Eiffel Tower, dolphins, sea horses, and myriad fantasy creatures.

“Oh gosh, I’m so stuffed,” she moaned, clutching her stomach when she and Vail finally entered their cabin past one o’clock. “I shouldn’t have eaten that last truffle. I’m gonna barf.”

“Me, too.” Vail threw aside the towel on his bed that the cabin steward had shaped like an elephant. “We’d better walk up and down the steps a few extra times tomorrow.”

Marla tucked her purse into a drawer. “The ship arrives in Roatan at nine. We’ll have to get ready early. Hey, the message light on the phone is flashing.”

“Hi, Marla,” said Helen’s voice when she hit the playback key. “I wanted to thank y’all for visiting me in the infirmary and let you know that I’ve been released. I’m taking it easy in my state-room for a couple of days, so don’t worry about me.”

“What did she say?” Vail asked as he yanked his shirt over his head, revealing a muscled chest sprinkled with dark hairs.

Intent on listening, Marla gestured for him to wait. “And Marla,” Helen’s voice continued, “don’t worry about anyone else either. We’re all okay. Just watch your own back, huh? I’ll see you at the farewell dinner on Monday night.”

“Strange, I wonder what she meant,” Marla said to Vail after she’d related the message. Why did Helen tell her not to worry about anyone else? Because she should be concerned about herself? What did Helen know that Marla didn’t?

Her gaze trailed down Vail’s torso to his waist, where he was unfastening his pants.
Oh heck, who cares?
She glided closer, her senses heightening. His spice cologne filled the air.

“You have that look,” he said, grinning down at her. With deliberate slowness, he slid his zipper south.

“Damn right I do.” Warmth pooled in her female zones. The ship’s gentle rolling motion served as an aphrodisiac while she studied the planes and angles of his face, memorizing each craggy prominence. Unable to resist touching him, she stroked his jaw, already bristling with stubble.

A growl rose from his throat. His eyes fired, and his head descended. Pulling her close, he claimed her mouth, his lips crushing hers.

Marla’s mind swirled, succumbed to a carnal mist.

The world receded until it consisted of nothing but the two of them. When his hands caressed her, she yielded to his sublime skill. Her cares fell away. Her clothing soon followed, and she forgot that anything else existed.

Ding dong, ding dong
.

“Good morning, ladies and gents,” came the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker on Saturday morning. “We hope you’re ready for a pleasant day in Roatan. The skies are clear, the temperature is a delightful seventy-six. We’ve cleared Customs, and you’re free to proceed to the gangway on deck one.”

“That’s our signal,” Marla said to her gang. She and Vail had met up with Kate, John, and Brianna in the Outrigger Cafe for breakfast. They’d brought their beach bags so they could go directly to the exit.

She’d watched their arrival into port from the pool deck earlier. Her first glimpse had noted mountain ranges, villages terraced up hillsides, and occasional cars on a coastal road. Greenery graced the island, which had a rocky shore on the harbor side. Concrete-block houses in muted pastels looked substantial, not like shacks. The water, uniformly deep blue, was skinny-dipping calm.

In contrast, the scene on the pier blindsided her with chaos. A costumed dance troupe entertained the throng. Wearing red and white shirts, blouses, and turbans, eight men and women gyrated to a drumbeat and waved people to a box labeled TIPS prominently displayed on a stool. Behind them rose the behemoth ship, painted white, portholes on a lower deck beneath the deluxe wide-windowed cabins.

Marla could barely hear the island music. People chattered, engines idled, and guides yelled out tour names. Passengers milled about, seeking the appropriate transport for their excursions. Beyond the parking area was a security gate manned by uniformed guards. Natives hawked at them from the other side, pressing forward like a mass of humanity, eager for tourist dollars. She gripped her purse close to her chest.

Locating the van for Tabyana Beach, Marla’s group hustled over. It promised to be a hot day, with the air already warm and sticky. Grateful for the air-conditioned interior, the five of them climbed inside. The vehicle sat four across on each side of a center aisle, with latecomers crammed beside the driver. Marla spotted some of their museum mates out the window.

“There’s Sandy,” she mentioned to Vail. “She and Bob are going to Carambola Gardens, and then they’re planning to take a taxi to the butterfly farm. Betsy passed on the snorkeling this trip to do the canopy tour at Gumbalimba Nature Park.”

“What about Kent Harwood? Is he tailing anyone?”

“Kent told me he’s joining the dolphin encounter. The Smernoffs and Starks are heading for Las Palmas Beach Resort. Oliver wants to look in their shops for quality native art.”

If it hadn’t been for Brianna, she thought regretfully, they might have chosen a different excursion. The teen had wanted to lie out on the beach, not explore nature parks or swing from the rain forest canopy. And she wasn’t old enough that Marla would condone her going off alone with friends.

Hoping she’d be able to relax for a day, she settled back in her seat. The driver revved the motor and they crawled forward, past the gate with barbed wire on top. Outside the barrier, wares beckoned at an open-air market. That appeared to be the extent of the local shops.

At least she wouldn’t have to worry about extending her credit card debt.