Killer Knots (9 page)

Across the table, Oliver hummed along to the tune of “Yellow-bird,” playing in the background. Irene, casting him an annoyed glance, drew her elbows inward, as though she couldn’t stand his proximity. “Aren’t you sorry you couldn’t get your seats changed?” she called to Marla with a sniff.

“I feel bad that Dalton’s parents paid for our trip and we’re not even sitting with them,” she acknowledged.

“Who the hell paid for ours?” Bob grumbled. “I’d like to find out who knows so much about us.”

“I’ll bet you would,” Marla muttered under her breath. Next to her, Vail raised his eyebrows.

Bob gave the foundation chair a shrewd glance. “You’re not pulling the wool over our eyes, are you?” he asked Thurston.

Thurston slapped a hand to his chest. “I may be generous in my contributions to the museum, but regrettably, it wasn’t I who thought to treat everyone to this voyage.”

“You think he’s the only one with money?” Irene demanded, appearing affronted. With a jerky motion, she tucked a strand of teased hair behind her ear, showing off the diamond stud on her lobe. “Some of us just aren’t as showy with our wealth.”

Oliver wagged his finger. “Thurston is very kind to make such large donations to the cause, and remember, I’m beholden to him for our children’s art program. I would never have gotten it off the ground if it weren’t for his support of our fund-raiser,” he told his wife in a chastising tone.

“Speaking of the fund-raiser,” Betsy spoke in a quiet voice, “can someone tell me how Alden’s missing panel came to be here?”

“Talk to Eric Rand,” Irene suggested. “He’s got what it takes…to get answers,” she concluded, although Marla figured that wasn’t what she meant. Her husband’s face purpled but he kept silent, while Marla got the impression Irene had just won a battle of wills between them.

“I just love that cute bow tie that Eric wears,” Heidi purred in her little-girl voice.

“Listen,” Thurston said, hunching his shoulders “if y’all let me make the high bid on Tusk’s series, I’ll show my appreciation by making a significant contribution toward the museum’s next traveling exhibit.”

“Oh, we’re not going to let you have all the fun,” Irene said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Are we, darling?” She nudged her husband, who’d been gnawing on a piece of lettuce.

Swallowing, Oliver jabbed his finger in the air. “Certainly not. I already have some of Tusk’s work in my collection. I’m not passing up a chance to get what could be the highlight of his career.”

“Alden considered that piece to be his redemption,” Betsy mumbled. “Said it would give him back a part of his soul that he’d lost.” The others stared at her. “What? I’d…admired his talent. We…we communicated with each other.” Her face flushing, she lowered her head.

After a moment’s silence, Oliver laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. “No kidding? You’re our public relations specialist. You had to be in contact with him to arrange for publicity.”

“Sure, that’s it.” Betsy lifted her chin, beaming brightly. “So who’s going to the ice show later on?”

She effectively switched the conversation to a more neutral topic and chatter flowed easily from then on. But Marla sensed she hadn’t been entirely truthful and indeed knew more about Alden Tusk than she let on. Resolving to delve into their history at the art auction, Marla dug into her lobster tail when it arrived. Enjoying their meal became paramount, but she bit back a remark when Dalton ordered seconds and then thirds on the seafood.
Lord save me, we’d better add that treadmill to our new house
. She knew Ma’s boyfriend had a predilection for buffets, but now Dalton was turning into a
fresser
as well. Did all men expand their waistline after they found a woman?

“Aren’t you too full for dessert?” she finally said after the waiter cleared their plates. “I’m going to order the coconut cake. You can have a taste.”

“Nope, I can’t pass up a slice of Key lime pie.” He waved off the wine steward who circulated with after-dinner drinks in fancy-colored cups.

She patted his thigh. “Just keep eating, and you’ll need to get your wardrobe adjusted before we leave the cruise.”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “Keep your hand there, and I’ll need something else adjusted instead.”

One appetite led to another, and they paused for an interval in their cabin before venturing forth to join Brianna and her grandparents. The ice show was spectacular, better than the theater productions. After it concluded to a standing ovation, Marla strolled toward the photo gallery alongside the teenager.

“Did you find out what happened to that lady who fell down the stairs?” Brianna asked, giving her a concerned glance.

“You’re an angel to care, you know that?” Marla said, squeezing her in a brief hug. “Mr. Harwood said Helen should be all right. I hope she doesn’t have to spend the rest of the week in the infirmary, though. That would be an awful vacation.”

“She doesn’t have her roommate anymore, does she?”

They halted before a rack showing formal portraits from the previous evening. Passengers could pose for free in front of various backdrops, but the eight-by-ten photos cost nearly twenty dollars each. Kate had expressed a wish for a family picture.

“We haven’t had any word on Martha, if that’s what you mean,” Marla answered.

Brianna shook her head as though Marla were daft. “I mean, if Helen is lying there in an infirmary bed, she has nobody to bring her things from her cabin.”

“Oh. That would be a thoughtful gesture, wouldn’t it?” She glanced at her watch. “I only have fifteen minutes until the art auction, and aren’t you supposed to meet your friends?”

“We’re meeting at ten-thirty. I can be late.”

“I’ll tell you what. In the morning, before we arrive at St. Maarten, I’ll stop by sick bay. Even if Helen is conscious, she’s probably sleeping by now. The nurse may let me in to see her tomorrow, and then I’ll ask Helen if she wants me to bring her anything. I’ll tell her it was your idea.”

Marla smiled, pleased with her plan and the potential chance to question Helen.

At the art auction, Marla sat on the sidelines, away from the museum people who had claimed front-row seats. She’d arrived early to find Oliver Smernoff talking privately to the auctioneer, who repeatedly shook his head as though replying negatively to whatever Oliver was saying. With a snarl, Oliver took his seat, while the auctioneer’s assistants flanked him for escort to center stage.

Irene, already on a refill of her bubbly, shifted away from her husband’s bulk with a distasteful glance. She caught Eric Rand’s eye and lifted her shoulders in a questioning gesture. He gave a barely perceptible nod, then straightened to search the crowd. His glance seemed to fall upon Kent Harwood, sitting several rows back. The exterminator slumped in his chair, passing on the free champagne while he idly thumbed through the catalog provided by the gallery showing samples of works for sale. A toothpick hung from his mouth like an attached tentacle.

Up front, Eric spoke into his headset microphone. Tonight he wore a pale-yellow shirt, black trousers, and a lemon and steel bow tie. He’d fixed his graying hair in a brushed style like a television newscaster and flashed a smile worthy of a toothpaste commercial.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said after explaining the rules for any newcomers, “tonight we’ll start off with a fifteen-hundred-dollar piece by Fanch. He’s considered one of the top ten artists today. Look at the vibrant colors in this beautiful serigraph. Don’t you get the impression that someone has just left the room, from the blazing fire in the fireplace and the bowl of fruit on the table?”

Marla admired the picture that looked like someone’s living room overlooking a view of city skyscrapers. But at the opening bid of six hundred thirty dollars, she let it go. She passed on the Kinkade piece, the art deco work of Eric, an attractive female form by Bellet, and an abstract work by Alfred Gockel. At least it looked abstract to her uneducated eye.

“I can’t believe they sell all these pieces,” she confided to Betsy, sitting beside her. The brunette lounged in her seat and cracked her knuckles. Her face held a pinched but alert mode. “I mean, I don’t have several thousand dollars just to throw out on this stuff.”

“…A bid for twenty-five-hundred dollars,” Eric’s baritone voice boomed. “Do I have an advance to two thousand five hundred fifty? No one? Are we done at twenty-five hundred? Going once, twice, third, and final warning,” he yelled, banging his gavel. “Sold for twenty-five-hundred dollars. Whoo-hoo!”

Marla sipped her champagne, feeling her seat vibrate, although the ship barely seemed to be moving. Her eyes bulged when she noted the assistants setting up a couple of more easels and propping three pictures on them, backs to the audience. Three mystery pieces! Could this be Alden Tusk’s set?

After putting her glass flute on the floor, she straightened. Her hand shot up with a bidding card along with most of the other people in the room. But when the price escalated to over $3,000, she quit the race. To her surprise, Betsy kept her arm up. Marla hadn’t gotten the impression that the public relations guru had much money, but she could have been wrong. Or maybe Betsy figured Alden Tusk’s work was worth it. After the majority of people dropped out, Betsy competed against Thurston Stark, Oliver, Bob Wolfson, and Kent. Marla did a double-take at the bug man. Why would
he
want Tusk’s paintings?

Thurston Stark, she could understand. The foundation chairman collected art and made no bones about his wealth.

Oliver seemed to prefer music, but it could be he was putting his bid in for his wife’s sake. She seemed more cultured and at ease in the art world, but then again, hadn’t Irene mentioned he shared her interests?

Bob remained an enigma. He complained about how he wasn’t adequately compensated as business manager for the museum, and yet he was practically bouncing in his seat each time Eric Rand raised the price.

At the end, Thurston won out again. No one could have been more disappointed when the auctioneer turned the pictures and revealed a suite of watercolors by Tarkay. The ornate gold frames were probably worth as much as the pictures, Marla figured, admiring the colorful scenes.

She’d seen a Tarkay she’d liked earlier, a signed serigraph on wove paper depicting two ladies having tea in a cafe. Maybe she should consider getting some art for her new salon, in which case she could deduct the cost! The risqué picture by Rut that came up next for bidding, a seminude couple entwined in an embrace, certainly couldn’t be shown on her walls. Fanch’s style appealed to her, but his work was priced beyond her means. Maybe she could find a lesser artist for a more reasonable cost.

“Remember the triptych by the late Alden Tusk that I mentioned we’ll be offering for sale on this cruise?” Eric Rand was saying when her mind refocused. “You don’t want to miss that fantastic opportunity. We’re going to give you a sneak preview beforehand, so be sure to attend every night if you want a glimpse of this amazing set.”

“Holy mackerel, he’s got to be kidding,” Betsy said, cracking her knuckles again. She must fall back on that habit when she got excited, Marla realized, because Betsy rarely did it at dinner.

After the auctioneer called the raffle, Marla stood and stretched her arms above her head. By the time she looked around, the auctioneer had vanished, letting his assistants straighten up. She noticed several closed doors toward the sides of the gallery, workrooms or offices perhaps.

Obviously, Eric didn’t care to mingle with the guests, or else he had more pressing business elsewhere. She’d like to talk to him to find out where he had obtained Tusk’s completed work, especially the panel that had been missing from the museum. Perhaps that’s what Oliver had been questioning him about earlier. Hoping he’d share any response, she glided over to where the museum director milled about with his colleagues.

“We’re going out on deck for the pool party,” Irene said to Heidi, who clung to Thurston’s arm. “What about you, darling? Want to join us?”

“No, thanks, dearest Thurston and I are headed to the promenade for a cup of coffee,” Heidi replied in her girlish tone. From the way she was rubbing against him in her skimpy black dress, she had other plans in mind.

“Sandy, how about you and Bob?” Betsy cut in. “I’m craving some ice cream. Wanna get a sundae with me?”

“Sorry,” Sandy replied in a tired voice. “I’m turning in early so I’ll have enough energy for tomorrow. We have a full day in St. Maarten. And Bob doesn’t need the extra calories.”

Taking his wife’s elbow, Bob steered her away. “There you go, putting words in my mouth again.”

Betsy smiled at Marla. “So, are you free, or do you have to rejoin your family?”

Marla glanced at her watch. “I have to meet Dalton, so we can make our plans for tomorrow.”

“Oh, are you going on any tours?”

“Yeah, over to Marigot on the French side, then to a beach. I need to get up early so I can visit the infirmary. I want to see if Helen is okay and if she needs anything.”

Several pairs of curious eyes swung in her direction. “What?” Betsy said to the others in their party. “Marla may not work for the museum, but she’s our friend. She’s talked to Helen a couple of times and is concerned. What’s wrong with that? The rest of you should be so caring. Like, has anyone heard any news about Martha?”

Shaking their heads, the members of the group broke up. Marla left, intending to make good on her promise in the morning.

On Wednesday, she hit the buffet before heading down to the infirmary, on the bottom deck. After gobbling a mushroom omelette and croissant along with bacon, hash browns, and sauteed onions, she passed on the smoked salmon and bagels, fresh fruit, sliced luncheon meats, cheeses, pastries, cereal, and yogurt. Who could eat all that for breakfast and still make it off the ship?

Feeling stuffed, she waddled into the elevator next to Dalton, who’d insisted on accompanying her.

While the lift descended, he patted his belly. “That meal should keep us until lunch.”

“I should hope so. We’d better do a lot of walking today.”

“We can always climb the stairs.” He peered beyond the open doors when they arrived at deck one. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

Striding into the corridor, she noticed the GANGWAY sign and a utilitarian crew section but no sign of sick bay. “Maybe we should have taken the elevators on the other side of the ship.”

“Let’s go around that corner. It could be behind the elevator bank.”

“There’s a crewman. We could ask him.” She’d spotted a fellow in a nondescript uniform lugging a bucket of paint.

“No need.” Vail stalked ahead, his chin jutting forward. “We’ll find it.”

Typical male, unwilling to ask for directions
. Much more aware of the ship’s vibration at this level, she backtracked to their point of entry and discovered a door emblazoned with a big red cross.

“Here it is,” she called, noting the small sign indicating the medical center. “Looks like they don’t want to advertise so much, but they could put up a banner telling people where to go.”

More importantly, the hours were posted for seeing the nurse: eight in the morning to twelve noon, or two to six in the afternoon. The doctor had shorter hours: from nine to eleven in the morning or from four to six. Marla would try to remember that if she felt ill.

After pushing open the door, Vail held it for her to enter first. What met her eyes wasn’t what she’d expected. Her only view of infirmaries on ships came from watching old movies. But this wasn’t a big ward with hospital beds lined up. Instead, she had stepped into a typical waiting room such as she’d find at home in the local doctor’s office.

The door to the inner sanctum remained open, and beyond she could see a nurse’s station staffed by medical personnel in white uniforms and clerks busy with paperwork. One of the women looked up at her approach.

“Hi, one of your patients is a friend of mine,” Marla said, her heartbeat accelerating. She couldn’t help it. Hospitals did that to her. “I wanted to inquire about her condition and ask if I could visit her.”

“The patient’s name, ma’am?”

“Helen Bryce. And I’m Marla Shore. This is my fiancé, Dalton Vail.” Resisting the urge to wring her hands, she gave a hopeful smile. As though sensing her anxiety, Vail gave her a reassuring pat. He left his hand on the small of her back.

“If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll come out to talk to you,” said one of the nurses, wearing a stethoscope around her neck. She was a thirtyish woman with curly natural blond hair.

Obediently, Marla retreated to a blue upholstered chair in the waiting room. Her gaze scanned the amber and cobalt carpet before rising to a vending machine that dispensed throat lozenges, Band-Aids, and Benadryl tablets.

“If we have to wait long, I’m going to need those,” Marla said, pointing to a sign that read: SEASICK TABLETS ARE ON YOUR RIGHT. Acutely aware of the ship’s rocking motion, she swallowed. A Toshiba television stood silently on a shelf, while framed pictures of flower gardens and Mediterranean villas took up wall space.

A teenager banged his way inside. Tugging at his baggy shorts, he limped along in a pair of sandals. “I hurt my foot,” he whined to the receptionist, who leaned over the counter to survey his open wound.

“Come on inside,” she told him, while Marla gnashed her teeth. Now they’d have to waste more time here.

Leaning forward, Dalton rested his elbows on his knees. “We’re gonna have to meet our tour group. This was a bad idea.”

“I didn’t expect a delay this early in the morning.” She pursed her lips, prepared to postpone their visit, when the nurse strolled out to greet her.

“Miss Shore? I’m Wilhelmia from South Africa,” she said with a pleasant accent. “How may I assist you?”

“I’m worried about my friend Helen. I heard she fell down some stairs and cracked her head. Is she awake?”

“Indeed, and she’ll be fine. It’s only a mild concussion, but she’s very dizzy when she sits up. We’ll have to keep her a few more days for observation and to make sure there’s no internal bleeding. We have X-ray machines plus a fully equipped laboratory, but unfortunately, we don’t have the capability to do MRIs or CT scans.”

“I didn’t know you even had that much equipment.” She’d thought of shipboard amenities as basically being first-aid stations, but she supposed they had their share of heart attack victims. For surgical emergencies, they could probably airlift people. Hadn’t she seen a helipad somewhere?

“We are prepared like any emergency room at home,” Wilhelmia replied in a serious tone. “We have fully equipped private and semiprivate hospital rooms, crash carts, and also a morgue.”

Thanks, pal, I really wanted to know that
. “Would I be allowed to see Helen? I’ll be quick. I just want to ask if she needs anything from her cabin.”

The nurse shook her head. “Normally we permit visitors, but Helen expressly requested that we admit no one.”

“Please, she might want to see me. I’m not one of her colleagues and we’ve…become friends. Can you just ask her if I can come in?” She saw the nurse glance at Dalton, who stood studying the contents of the vending machine. “Not him. I’ll be alone.”

“Wait here.” A few minutes later, the nurse ushered her inside. Marla passed by the nurse’s station and entered the room indicated behind a partially drawn curtain.

Helen lay flat in bed, her pale face framed by her auburn hair. An IV line snaked from her arm to a hanging bag on a pole.

“Hi, Helen. Thanks for seeing me. How do you feel?” She noticed the head docent’s left arm was in a cast up to her elbow.

“I’m sore all over, and I feel as though someone used my head for a punching bag, but I guess I got off lucky with just a concussion and a broken wrist.”

Marla winced.
Ouch
. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about your accident. I’d just spoken to you in St. Thomas. What happened?” She pulled over a chair and took a seat. From Helen’s bright expression, Marla surmised she welcomed the company. If Helen showed signs of fatigue, though, Marla would leave. Crossing her legs, she gave an encouraging smile.