Chapter 19 #2
“You all can get back to bed.”
“Are you going to inspect it?!” I say, motioning to the room.
Easy now, Pip. Easy.
“It’s already been inspected,” Pogache says. “The source of the fire was found.”
“Yes, but was it by accident?” I press. My eyes dart around. “I mean, given the circumstances here, I think it’s pretty obvious that it would be unwise
to assume anything about anyone.”
My eyes land on Neena, who jumps in. “I hate to say it, but she has a point.”
Gordon nods as well.
Pogache looks uneasily around the group.
“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I’m going to inspect the room just to make sure we’re all clear”—he gives me a pointed look—“again.”
He walks inside Crystal’s room.
Shuts the door.
I feel a tingle of adrenaline prick up my neck and just barely let my pinky finger graze against Nash’s.
This is it.
He’s left us alone with Crystal in the hallway, and any moment Pogache is going to find the knife and the whole thing will
be given up.
I eye Crystal.
Now’s the time to plan next steps.
What is she going to do?
Make a run for it?
But where could she go?
Hide inside a crate of lemons for the next week until we get off this ship?
She’d be stupid to give herself up like that.
Better to pretend it isn’t hers.
Better to have some fighting chance by feigning ignorance.
And yet . . . my hand grips Nash’s and squeezes tightly before releasing. Sending a little signal. Prepare yourself.
We have no idea what’s about to happen next.
I inch closer to Crystal, Nash beside me, and Crystal catches my eye.
Her smooth forehead creases into tiny furrows.
She gives me a queer look.
Almost a . . . a loathing look.
“Funny how the fire just started out of nowhere, isn’t it, Pip?” she says.
My heart pounds in my chest. “I heard you left your iron on.”
“And yet . . . if I’m not mistaken”—she takes a strand of her long brown hair and winds it round her finger, inspecting—“I
didn’t curl my hair today.”
She flashes a smile I’ve never seen before, and my blood runs cold.
It’s absolutely shocking seeing her like this.
I mean, we haven’t been the best of friends, sure.
I might have thought her a bit too flighty, sure.
A little too reckless.
Careless.
Unstable.
The kind of person you like enough at a distance but don’t invite over to dinner at your place because, well, you just never
know what kind of chaos you might end up in.
But . . . this look.
This murderous look.
I mean, it’s shocking.
Just when you think you know someone . . .
I’m really going to have trouble trusting anyone. Ever. Again.
Suddenly, Crystal’s door swings open.
Pogache steps out, arms behind his back. “I’ve finished my search.”
“Yes?” Nash says, frowning.
“And I did find something . . . quite . . . concerning.”
I lean forward in anticipation.
“And . . . ?” I say, unable to help myself. “And? What is it?”
“And this,” he says, whipping it out, “is not allowed on board. I’m going to have to take it.”
Crystal flings out a hand. “No, dude. Not the board.”
He’s holding out a hoverboard with a long flame down the center. And he’s looking at it like he’s fully intending to use it
the second he gets down the hall and out of sight.
“Code 7375. No hoverboards, Airwheels, or drones allowed on the craft. Do you”—he looks up curiously—“have a drone in there
too?”
Crystal glares. “No.”
She grabs for the board.
Swiftly, he puts up a hand. “Code 6828. No physical contact with an officer. Get your hands off me before I cuff you for physical
aggression with security.”
And while they continue to scuffle like schoolchildren at a playground, I loudly clap my hands. “Hey! Kids!” I call out. “Anything
else in there worth noting?” I wave my hand around at the others. “Because if you haven’t noticed, we’re a little stressed.”
“Miss Dupont.” Pogache looks me straight in the eye. “You would do well not to stereotype people. Me included.”
It’s a little hard to take him seriously with a hoverboard tucked under his arm.
“Rest assured,” he continues, “I am taking this all very seriously. Very seriously indeed.”
“So you didn’t see any evidence inside?”
He moves to lift up the heinous hoverboard to show it to me, and I add, “Any real evidence that would help with this case?”
“The man says no,” Crystal puts in.
He looks to her. “Thank you.”
I squeeze the back of my neck. Working with this guy is a nightmare. This whole situation is a nightmare. I throw my hand out toward her hand, which is now reaching gently for the hoverboard, and he, idiot that he is, is unconsciously
handing it over. “She just wants the hoverboard back. Please. For the love of all, focus.”
But it’s no use.
Pogache orders us all back to our rooms.
Nash and I are both exhausted. Absolutely and totally exhausted. To the point of making mistakes if we’re not careful.
Nash pushes the rolling chair to the door.
Drops down into it.
Crosses his arms one over the other.
“What are you doing?”
He tilts his head. “Pip, you weren’t exactly discreet.”
I open my mouth to protest, but he beats me to it. He raises a hand. “I’m not saying you did any less or more than you had
to do. That Pogache kid is incompetent, as has been made abundantly clear.”
“Do you think he really missed the knife?”
“Of course. I think he took one look around, ate some Fritos off the floor, and stole a hoverboard. Because he’s twelve.
“But regardless,” Nash continues, “if Crystal is the killer and saw you hinting as much, and if we really have this situation on our hands to deal with on our own, then I’m going to park here and personally make sure we don’t have any visitors in the middle of the night.”
That’s it.
Nash has summed it up nicely, unfortunately.
It is up to us now.
Not just “could be up to us” but definitely is up to us to figure this out, and soon, because the second we get on land, there’s no doubt the killer is going to make a beeline
out and we’ll never see them again.
Or worse, I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for crazy lunatic Crystal to come at me with a knife.
Just. Super.
No pressure, Pip, at all.
I look over at Nash.
Good, unbelievably good, Nash.
His hat is tipped over his face again, boots on. One leg crossed over the other at his ankle. Leaning back in the chair. Chin
dipped to his chest. Arms crossed. Pocketknife, I note, resting in his hand.
“Do you really think she did it?” Nash murmurs.
My cheeks flush, leaving me feeling spotted for staring at him in the dim light.
“She must have. I guess,” I add with less certainty. “We all know Crystal is unreliable. And emotionally irresponsible. And
spends way too much money on ridiculous things—”
“I think she has a whole wall of those hoverboards,” Nash says.
“And who knows?” I say with a shrug. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe somehow money had a part in it. Usually does, somehow. Anyway,
I think I’ll have a better guess after I interview her tomorrow.”
“After you what?” He tips his hat up. Gives me a look that absolutely should not make me feel a thrill inside, but there it is. It can’t be helped. Concern for someone is entirely attractive. Especially
when tipping up a cowboy hat is involved. “You can’t be serious.”
“I have to. What better way to get a good read on the situation than by interviewing her, just as I have the others? Everyone’s
agreed to it. She’ll look suspicious if she denies my request to interview her. And what is she going to do? Kill me in plain
sight?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what she could do. Kill you in plain sight.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“And how do you know that? You have an inside track into the minds of murderers?”
“She likes to hoverboard. She wants to keep the hoverboard. And nobody who has a death wish of being tossed overboard in your wrath, Nash, has an active hobby
of hoverboarding. The girl wants to live. She wants to get away with it.”
“I don’t like it. I saw the way she looked at you. She suspects you now—”
“I couldn’t help it. I had to try to get Pogache to use his brain. He’s the one with the handcuffs after all.”
“Let’s hope that’s all he has on him. I’d hate to think he’s walking around with a gun.”
“Hovering around, you mean. The point is, I have to interview her. Because the problem is, everybody is starting to look like a killer on this ship. Every interview has been weird. I think it’s Crystal now with a knife in her bedroom, but then, who knows?
Tomorrow a waiter could be poisoning Neena’s water for all I know, and I’ll be thrown again.
Frankly, I wish it was someone else entirely on this boat.
Someone we don’t know to make this all easier. Speaking of—”
I pull out my phone, dial Pogache’s number. He doesn’t answer.
I tap to call him again.
Pogache picks up on the third ring.
“What now?” he says.
“I’m calling about the checks. Did you have that information?”
“Checks?” Pogache says.
“Background checks,” I say. I hear a familiar song on the other end and frown. “Are you seriously leaving a crime scene and moving on to a restaurant right now?”
The music immediately stops.
He’s muted me.
Muffled me.
“If you must know, I’m in bed. With the television on. Like you should be.”
He’s trying to sound authoritative. It falls flat.
“Did you do the background checks?” I repeat.
There’s a massive sigh. It goes on . . . and on . . . and on.
“It’s none of your business,” he says at last. “But they’re all clear.”
I feel a drop in my stomach. I didn’t even realize how much hope I had in this theory, treacherous as it was, and now it’s
slipping away. “Everyone on board?” I say. “There are, what, three hundred people—”
“Two hundred ninety-seven,” he corrects, and I’ll give him that. For the first time he sounds a little like he knows what he’s doing. “And they were all checked before we even boarded.”
I nod sullenly.
I had background checked many of the people myself before they came on this cruise. Not a legitimate background check, of
course, but I looked up their social media handles before adding them to the list of people coming on this trip.
Everybody looked about the same. Pictures of their Christmas trees in their living rooms. Pictures of their new wainscoting
in their hallways. Pictures of grandchildren dressed up in matching blue gingham for Easter.
Nobody looked like they were secretly hoarding hate and planning murder.
But of course, I guess, the good killers never do.
“And the staff?” I venture hopefully.
“All checked. The cruise ship, as you can imagine, keeps close tabs on their staff.”
“Not even for money?” I say. “Maybe somebody offered them a lot of money—”
“The job’s competitive. They make good salaries and travel the world thirty weeks out of the year. For free.” I open my mouth,
and he adds, “While eating the same food they feed us.”
“So . . . free lobster.”
“Free lobster,” Pogache repeats. “Nobody, I can assure you, Miss Dupont, is killing on this ship for money. They’re all happier
than we are.”
“And . . . none of the guests for sure—”
“Stop it. Stop it right there. I’m done talking about this. I am the professional. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s late. I have
to go to bed.”
“I thought you were in bed.”
Pogache pauses. “Again.”
He hangs up and I hang my head.
Silence weighs heavy in the air. Nash breaks it.
“So?”
“That’s it. I can’t trust myself. I am going crazy,” I say, putting the phone back on the bedside table. “There’s not one person here who looks like they aren’t covering up murder. Even Pogache seems off.”
“Except for me.”
I smile lightly. “Yes. Except you. But everyone else seems absolutely sinister,” I say, waving a hand in the air. “Jackie’s
harboring the secret that she uses a ghostwriter to make her books a success.”
“Really?” Nash says, looking as startled as I was at the news.
“Crystal’s got the weapon in her dresser. Ricky screams of psychopath hiding behind curtains writing thrillers. And did you know that Neena and Hugh
were engaged at one point? And then he broke it off with her?”
“Neena?” Nash rubs his face. “I know Neena has always been flirtatious with Hugh, but . . .”
“And apparently holding it against him. Everybody has a motive, Nash.”
“Except Gordon.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Even Gordon.”
“Why?”
“Gordon’s in the will.”
“So?”
“Gordon’s the only one in the will. Gordon gets it all.”