Chapter 14 #2
skipping down to the station in his free time just to solve the unsolvable crimes. Shuffleboard, I told him. A good hobby
for a man his age was shuffleboard. But did he listen? Noooo. Determined to pore over all those old crimes, making a gruesome
game out of gruesome events. Well, now he’s had what’s come to him, hasn’t he, and we’re all stuck in this mess.”
“Yes, but the whole wing was locked off. And none of us lost a key. And Carragan said there was no sign of forced entry.”
“Unless you are just determined enough to steal a key from one of the staff.”
Of course.
The wind sucks right out of my chest as I sit back in my lounge chair.
Of course.
How had I not seen it? How, in all these hours, had the fact that Hugh dabbled in detective work for his former police unit
not dawned on me? How many angry, unhinged people had he set off?
I guess Carragan had guided us early on to assume it was one of The Seven. And when he said he knew who it was after interviewing
everyone, it was so clearly inferred that it was one of us . . .
But if we widen the possibilities . . .
Jackie’s alarm goes off on her phone and she jumps up with the words, “Time for a break.”
My head pops up. By the time I get my feet planted on the ground, she’s already several yards ahead.
Arms tucked into her sides, legs briskly sweeping her away.
“Where are you going?” I call out.
“Ambulatory recess,” she says over her shoulder.
“What?”
She turns her head a little more sternly my way. “A walk, Pip,” she says, eyeing me like an unintelligent child who is proof that the education system of our government has let all
of society down. “I’m taking my walk.”
“Now?”
“Every hour on the hour from dawn to dusk. A turn around the boat for circulatory health.”
“But we’re in the middle of an interview!” I call out.
Several heads turn.
“Circulatory health!” she repeats.
Amazing.
The woman can manage to hiss at you while yelling at the same time.
Now the heads bobbing in the pool turn their curious eyes on me, and I’m forced to put up a smile.
“For . . . a magazine,” I say. “A . . . very elite . . . League of Luxury Cruise Liners interview.”
I have no idea what I’m saying. I just threw out a bunch of random words. Nevertheless, attention drifts away from me.
And the watery swirl of the flamingo water dance continues.
Fine.
Jackie’s taking a recess from the interview halfway through for the sake of circulatory health. How long will it take her to circle back? Ten minutes? Twenty? Surely not twenty. The woman walks like she’s in Olympic
training.
“A refreshment, ma’am?”
An older gentleman has glided over in his coattails and elegant peacock bow tie and is now standing over me poised for an
order.
I realize how out of place I look in my fully clothed, mostly-in-black self—I’m probably the person they put on a poster during hospitality training as an example of being “a veritable cry for relaxation help.”
“Something more tasteful, perhaps?” he inquires, casting a subtle eye at my ensemble. Neena and the others have now picked
up Hula Hoops in the water and are twirling. “Something a little more . . . elevated? A nice red blend from the esteemed Chateau Calon-Ségur?”
“No, thank you.”
“A cup of coffee?” he says, shifting quickly. “Some still water in a chilled glass?”
“I’m probably fine. Thanks—”
My words cut off at a curious sound and I jump-start to standing. To his ears, and to everyone else around no doubt, the sound
is nothing more than the caw of a passing seagull. Swift. High-pitched. Not lasting more than a heartbeat.
But to me, having been sitting on the edge of a knife the past few days, eyes and ears on high alert, the sound was undeniable.
Jackie.
I jump up and begin a brisk walk in the direction Jackie went.
“Will you return, miss? May I raise your umbrella?” the man calls out.
At this point it’s just rude to deny him. “Oh yes!” I call back. “Thank you. That’d be terrific.”
And then I turn the corner.
The stretch of deck ahead of me is long and narrow. The ship railing lies to the right, with a stretch of ocean beyond. A
dozen doors stand stoically to the left, quiet and waiting.
A few strollers dot the deck, floppy hats and bright tops whipping in the breeze.
There is no sign of Jackie as far as the eye can see, and I would spot her, given she was dressed like she was prepping for a funeral just as much as me.
It should be as easy as spotting a penguin in a crowd of flamingos.
I never should have let her go. What was the rule we all agreed on?
Groups of two or more.
Ambulatory recess or not.
Swiftly I pull open the first door to my left.
A carpeted hallway running the length of the boat.
Empty.
Next.
I stride on, yanking open door after door.
By the time I’m on my eighth door, my certainty about hearing Jackie’s cry is waning, and a part of me is starting to consider
turning back.
Perhaps she’s walked the circle by now and is waiting for me, foot tapping, sighing exasperatedly.
She’s probably dusting off her lounge chair right now, scowling at the server trying to offer her an umbrella in a drink.
Just one more door.
I dart a look inside the door ahead of me. Just as I’m about to move on, however, my eye is drawn to the only—and unusually—dark
room to the right.
A gilded sign hangs on the wall beside the entry. Greeting Lounge.
A greeting lounge for the hallway, just like in every other hall on the ship, and yet this one is dark.
Intentionally dark.
I take a step forward.
Feel my nerves shoot through my body.
Hesitate to walk another step.
“Jackie?” I call out, arm holding open the door.
Sea-salt air mingles with trace orangey scents of room perfume, the thick Atlantic mixing with the crisp thin oxygen of manufactured
air-conditioning.
Childhood me feels incredibly guilty as I hear my mother’s voice telling me not to let the air out and shut the door.
“Jackie?” I call again.
The pause before she responds is a lifetime.
“What?” she snaps at last, and I can honestly say I have never been more relieved to hear her irritated voice.
I let go of the door.
Step forward as the door swings shut.
Turn the corner.
Halt.
“Jackie? What are you . . . doing?”
I cast my eyes around, gathering in the surroundings.
Jackie is standing in the center of the room, in the dark. The heavy drapes on the wall of windows are drawn. A coffee table
is beside her, alongside half a dozen wingback chairs.
Nobody is in the room.
Jackie herself looks . . . in a word . . . rigid. As in, more rigid. (Has she ever not looked rigid? I bet the woman sleeps like a statue.)
“I’m . . .” She looks to the ceiling, directing her scowl there for several seconds. “I’m . . . stretching.”
“Here?”
“Yes.” With minimal effort, she draws her left foot backward, then leans her weight on her right thigh.
“In the dark?”
“It’s calming.”
My brows furrow. “With a knife in your pocket?”
“Obviously not.”
I point at the handle of the steak knife at the hip of her tweed pants.
“Except . . . for that one,” she says, pulling it out by the gleaming white handle.
What . . . in the Sam Hill?
She takes a breath.
Looks up at the ceiling one more time.
Squeezes her eyes shut.
And opens them.
When she looks at me again, there’s a certainty in her expression.
Something surprising. Something decided.
It sends a chill up my spine.
“Fine. You caught me. You no doubt find it suspicious. But obviously I keep personal protection on me, Pip. I’m not a fool who would walk anywhere around this ship alone when two people have been murdered. Luck favors the prepared.”
“Right.” I take a step backward, because for the first time I see something in Jackie’s expression that leaves me truly unsettled.
It’s a moment when you think you know everything about a person, and then they take you by surprise.
Her eyes flashed at the word murdered.
Flashed.
Gleefully.
I cast a glance down the empty carpeted hallway and the bizarre thought I can outrun this woman, right? enters my mind. But surely I could, right, in a worst-case scenario?
I know I’m not exactly the most athletic person, but surely a twenty-seven-year-old can outrun a sixty-six-year-old woman in a pinch—even if she’s an award-winning
ambulator?
“Let’s finish with that interview of yours,” she snaps. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? You didn’t have to hunt me down. You’d think you wouldn’t be so impatient as to cut off my walk. We’ll do it here.”
“No,” I say quickly. The last thing I want right now is to be alone with her.
Pairs. Forget pairs.
We need to be in groups of four or more.
Why did I leave Neena again?
Look at me.
Am I not a walking case of secondary character bound to get herself killed?
I left the safety net of the passel of people. I raced after what I believed was a cry for help. And now I’m standing with
a suspect with a knife, in the dark, away from the public eye.
Just. Perfect.
“You can finish your walk,” I say, taking two quick steps backward.
“Too late now. You’ve ruined the mood.”
The mood for the walk. Sure. One must have a mood. Just a minute ago it was all “we must have ambulatory walks for our health
in the middle of interviews, rain or shine,” but now, apparently, one also needs to be in the mood.
“We’ll finish it up outside then,” I say quickly. “Healthy sea air and all that.”
The silence stretches a mile long between us.
“Fine,” she says at last.
My eyes can’t help it. I’m drawn to staring at the gleaming white handle and sleek silver body of the knife. Perfectly clean.
Perfectly ready.
She looks from me to it.
“Well, if you’re going to obsess . . .” Jackie says.
Then she does the unthinkable.
She drops the knife on the floor. Casually. Tip of the blade face down. Like it’s of no more significance than a tissue.
It rests on the dark red carpet like in a pool of blood.
Who is this woman?!
I’m gaping at her when she starts after me, and when she makes that first step, I call out, “Terrific. I’ll meet you there”