Chapter 14 #3
and dash for the door.
The door resists my attempts to open it because of the wind but, with a frenetic yank with both hands, finally releases.
I practically leap for the promenade deck and don’t look back until I’m in the safety of the wading ladies.
The scene has shifted with the change of the hour. The clock reads 11:05 a.m. A live band has set themselves up in the corner
now, testing their instruments, and a group of ladies has settled by the bow of the ship, large blank canvases set on easels
before them. A man in a hat stands in front of them, holding up a palette of paints, instructing as he points at the horizon.
Sure enough, an umbrella is open over the lounge chairs where I left them, and I note two glasses of sparkling water on a
little silver tray between them, the frost on the glasses still visible. The man in the peacock bow tie stands over by the
bar, and our eyes meet.
I feel compelled toward the glass, drawn by his gaze.
When at last I take a sip, he smiles, satisfied.
There’s comfort in knowing this highly attendant man isn’t far off. He looks like the rescuing type, doesn’t he? Saves the
day via drinks with umbrellas, ergo saves the day via restraining the knife-wielding, ambulatory woman?
Jackie walks just as strict and composed as she always is toward the chair.
Dusts it for a particularly long period of time.
Sits.
I look over at her body. Nowhere as far as I can see is there a steak knife.
“Now where were we?” she says.
“Okay. Yes,” I say, taking a breath as I open my notes. The stream of words I was typing earlier breaks off abruptly. Notes
about the murderer acting out of revenge over one of his previous solved crimes. “You were saying you thought the murderer
is someone from the outside. Someone, perhaps, who had faced jail time and had gotten out and was ready to get revenge. Care
to elaborate?”
“I’m wrong. Stupid idea. All his solved murders were men, no doubt, and look around. It’s a women-filled ship.”
True, there are a lot of floppy hats.
“Well,” I say slowly, “women can commit murder.”
“Of course,” she snaps. “They just aren’t so stupid as to get caught.”
I stifle a smile. Seems even under the threat of death I find things funny.
“So you retract your idea then?” I say. “You don’t think it was some irate criminal seeking revenge?”
“I never retract anything, dear. I’m just elaborating on my supplied response.”
Sounds a lot like a retraction to me, but I don’t fight her on it.
There’s a peace in thinking the crime was committed by an outsider, even if it also is a little scary to have the net of suspects
widened by several hundred. Still. I’d take that over the possibility of it being one of The Seven any day.
I switch over to text message and type in the name of young Cedar Pogache, who has taken over the case.
Do you have the names of everyone on the ship? Are there background checks for everyone on the ship?
I doubt he would allow me to have access to the names, and if I press too hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets irritated
with me even trying to have these little interviews with my working peers. But he’s young and impressionable. Less confident
and demanding than Carragan. Perhaps he will be willing to share some information.
“I don’t have all day.”
I look up from my text to see Jackie’s bitter glare.
Quickly switch back over to my notes.
How do I jump in again? I think, racking my brain. The goal is to ask, “Are you by chance the murderer?” without exactly saying, “Are you the murderer?”
To hedge around the question without saying outright, “So . . . were you just hanging over his bed with the knife, or what?”
How did Hugh do it in his books again?
A perennial favorite book of Hugh’s comes to mind—A Game of Hot Seat—and I cling to that thought. Ask as many questions as you can at a rapid pace, take a stab at every subject possible as quickly
as you can, and see what suspicions come out.
“So I have to say,” I bring up quickly and casually, “it was a little surprising seeing you back there with a knife.”
“I don’t see why. Neena’s been carrying one around in her purse two of the past three days.”
“Do you always carry around a knife?”
“Obviously not.”
“But you carry one around now.”
“Given the situation, yes.”
“And you and Hugh have never had any trouble getting along.”
“Nothing beyond the typical.”
“Have you ever had any arguments?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What have you argued about?”
“The usual. Transportation services. Publicity plans. The weather.”
“Have you ever killed off anyone in your books?”
“I write historical. Death is abundant.”
“But murder?”
She pauses.
Purses her lips so deep I wonder if she’s going to make herself bleed.
“No.” She pauses again. “I mean yes.”
I lift a brow. There’s at least one that I know of. The House of Claire. But I haven’t read all of her works. “No, but maybe yes?”
“I . . . I can’t be responsible for remembering every little detail in my books.”
“It’s a pretty big detail to include,” I say. “It’s a pretty major premise.”
“Unlike people and their one-hit wonders, I’ve written a lot of books.”
“What?” I say. Is she really insinuating that she can’t be expected to remember those kinds of details from her books? I was
planning to use this quick-pace style of interview to guide her toward talking about murder in her books and how she feels
about the motivational factors for her killing characters. Hoping to catch her resonating with them. Figure out why.
But this?
I’ve talked to Hugh plenty of times over the years. The man may forget what he just bought in a bag in his hand, but he never
forgets his books. Any of them.
The plotlines are a part of his core memory.
When you’re a reader, you forget details. You forget scenes. But when you have poured your heart and soul into a story you’ve created in your mind
and spend a year editing, followed by another year of meticulous edits, you don’t forget.
I know as close to firsthand while not actually firsthand as anyone can get.
And what Jackie has said is just not true.
“How many books have you written now, Jackie?”
And to my surprise, she frowns deeper. “Why? What does that have to do with anything?”
A thought is forming, but it’s too vague to see any clear shapes yet.
“Just answer the question.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Thirty-six,” I say, typing it down. “Half the number of Hugh’s books, and yet he can recall every single one.”
“He had a sharp memory.”
“As do you,” I reply. “In fact, you often pride yourself on that sharp memory.”
She does. We can’t have a conversation in the group without her informing us who wore exactly what on which day.
“You’re simply wrong. Perhaps your memory isn’t as sharp as you think,” she retorts.
“Tell me, what is the premise of The Black Portrait?” I say, throwing out a book of hers from a few years back. I’ve read it. It’s your typical Jackie Ann work: depressing plotline,
multiple tragedies, war nurse who gets the guy briefly before he dies in battle, that kind of thing.
“A young nurse defies her isolated, dying father and joins the war force, finding love and ultimately death in Okinawa,” she
spouts back.
It sounds rehearsed. The elevator pitch, a perfect twenty words.
“And the plot to The Coal Sisters?” I say.
“Two widowed sisters fight to keep their farm running during the most devastating fire to engulf their Appalachian mountain
town,” she says automatically.
And there it is again. That elevator-pitch response.
I switch it up.
“You say that your first two books were less than successful. But after you teamed up with The Seven, sales grew. Was it right
away?”
“Alliance with the group gave my books immediate results. Yes.”
“Which, I assume, led to higher and higher advances. Royalties.”
“And?”
“Remind me, Jackie,” I say, tapping my head. “What happened again in that scene in Where the Jasmine Grows? Did Jasmine tell Hunter she was a Confederate supporter or keep the secret to the end?”
And to my surprise, she does exactly what I found myself wanting her to do, what I suspected, and yet at a deeper level, what
I didn’t really expect at all.
Jackie squints at me.
Her mouth opens; she’s poised to answer.
Wanting to answer.
And yet . . . doesn’t.
Turns her attention to the water glass beside us.
Takes a sip.
“I don’t know,” she says at last.
I’m already two steps ahead of her now, though. I’ve already gotten into my email, found the file, opened the pdf document of one of her former books, scrolled down to a random place, read a few lines.
“What about when Joetta meets Emsley’s grandmother?” I say. I hardly remember this scene myself, but it’s at the tip of my
memory. “What happened just before that again?”
Her blue eyes are ice as she furiously sets her glass down.
Skirts her eyes around her surroundings, cautious that no one is close enough to hear.
Through her clenched teeth she elucidates slowly, “I. Don’t. Remember.”
Incredible.
This really can’t be possible.
“Jackie? Did you . . . write these books?” I say.
And as if this is the last straw, she stands. “I am frankly appalled you would ask. I have done nothing illegal and built my career on my own. To insinuate something so . . . well, I’m done. Play your little sleuthing game if you like. I have a session to attend
to.”
But then, just before she begins to move, she leans down and says under her breath, “But. If I didn’t write them on my own, that is not affiliated with the murder and no concern of yours.
And if you tell anyone, mark my words, I will sue you for defamation of character faster than you can type the words on your little phone. ”
And as the band strikes the first note of their cheery song, she strides away.