Anchors Aweigh - 6 (4 page)

And option number three? I could do what I did best— indulge that good ol’ killed-the-cat Calamity curiosity and stick my nose into someone else’s business—especially if that business had to do with murder. Add to the aforementioned nosy nature a certain affinity toward comrades in cluelessness (Hey, we have to stick together, don’t we?) and my decision was made.

I ran over to the small desk and grabbed my backpack. Purchased in the gift shop of an historic hotel adjacent to the Grand Canyon, the bag featured “Harry” Javelina, an adorable peccary. (A peccary is a small, hairy, pig-like critter, and I’d grown especially attached to this one.) I retrieved my camera from the bag and hurried back to the door, which I yanked open, prepared to snap a picture of the conniving culprit, but instead I was greeted by a wall of orange strolling past my doorway, as scores of passengers obediently followed the captain’s orders.

“Sheep,” I snapped, forgetting I’d been prepared to join the flock before I’d been sidetracked by
Dial M for Murder.
I stretched up on my tippy-toes and looked down the hallway in the direction the cruise conspirator had been, but the crowd prevented any chance of identification. Great. Now how was I going to find out just who planned to turn a honeymoon cruise into a marital massacre?

I waited for a break in the stampede to shove my way into the corridor, hoping I might catch up with the culprit at the mustering station and somehow figure out who he was. I had one thing to go on: the potential victim was here on a honeymoon. A long-overdue honeymoon. There couldn’t be all that many honeymoon couples aboard
The Epiphany.
Could there?

I thought of my own gammy and her new hubby, Joe. They were on their honeymoon.

I shook my head at the direction my thoughts were taking. Get real, T, I told myself. While my gammy was a pretty good catch—if you like to live dangerously, that is—her assets were hardly alluring enough to commit homicide for. And as far as I knew, my gammy didn’t even carry much of a life insurance policy. So that left her out. As if she’d even been in contention. Joltin’ Joe Townsend was many things: a pain in the posterior crime-fighter wannabe, legend in his own mind lothario, snoop extraordinaire. But a black widower? The idea was as likely as my gammy being a
Playboy
Playmate of the Month. Me, either, for that matter.

I followed the parade of orange to the assigned location, keeping my eyes open for anything suspicious. I studied each female passenger as we stood waiting for further instructions, hoping somehow to establish a psychic link with the unsuspecting newlywed whose husband had a grisly wedding gift in mind.

I smiled at a thirtyish, rather rotund woman. She wore a wedding ring.

“Hello,” I said. “Your first cruise?”

She nodded and held out her hand.

“Joni. You?”

“First-timer, too,” I responded. “I’m Tressa.”

“This cruise seemed like such a fantastic opportunity. I’ve been wanting to do something like this for a long time and surprise my husband, so I decided to get serious about it and just do it,” she said.

“Oh, you’re married?” I asked, looking around.

“Ten years,” she replied. “But I’m here with my sister Darla.” She motioned to a younger and heavier girl to her right. “We figured we could encourage each other over the long haul. How about you? What made you decide to get serious about your health and future?”

I blinked, confused.

“Huh?”

“It’s important to know you’re not alone in your struggle,”

Darla chimed in. “That others are going through the exact same thing you are.”

“Wh—?”

“That’s true, Darla. So, when did you decide to get serious about
your
weight, Tressa?”

My mouth flew open.

“Excuse me?”

“Tressa! Tressa Turner! You stay right there! You and Mo need to talk!” The volume of that shout rivaled a bullhorn, and could belong to only one person. “I see that fight-or-flight look in your eyes, so don’t you be gettin’ any ideas! Hear?”

I rethought my initial impulse to flee the approaching storm as the bodies pressing around me effectively closed off all means of escape. Reluctantly I stood my ground.

“There you are. Mo’s got you cornered now.”

“Aunt Mo, fancy seeing you here!” I exclaimed, my acting job on par with Jessica Simpson as Daisy Duke.

“Don’t you feed Mo that line, Tressa Turner. Manny told Mo he’d warned you already.”

I blinked. “Warned me? I’d hardly categorize it as a warning—”

“Is this your aunt, Tressa?” Joni asked.

“Tressa’s engaged to my nephew,” Mo said, and I felt the deck shift beneath my feet.

“Oh, I see,” Joni said. “You’re taking this cruise together to bond as family and to motivate each other as you undertake this new, exciting, and challenging phase of your lives. That is so sweet.”

Mo looked at me. “Who’s she? What’s she talking about?”

“This is Joni and her sister Darla,” I said. “This is their first cruise, too. This is Marguerite Dishman. She’s from my hometown back in Iowa.”

“So, you’re engaged, Tressa? How exciting!” Darla grabbed my left hand. “Where’s your engagement ring?”

“Yes, where
is
your ring, Tressa?” Mo parroted. “It’s a family heirloom and worth more than you make at that Dairee Freeze in a year.”

“Ohmigawd, you work at a Dairee Freeze?” Darla’s eyes got big. “Girlfriend, that explains a lot.”

“Huh?” I seemed to be saying that frequently.

“Shh! Do you mind? We’re trying to hear the emergency instructions,” a really large man with bright red hair and freckles barked.

“Well, excuse us for breathing,” Aunt Mo responded. “And what do you think’s gonna happen? You think this ship is gonna sink? You think you’re gonna have to haul your heavy carcass into that lifeboat? Mister, you been watchin’ too many disaster movies. And just so you know, in the original
Poseidon Adventure,
Shelley Winters…? She died, dude. She died. And she was about your size.”

“Easy, Aunt Mo. Down, girl,” I said. “She’s not herself,” I told the nervous passenger. “It’s the seasickness patch,” I whispered.

“We need to talk, Tressa,” Mo said.

“We
are
talking,” I pointed out.

“We need to plan,” Mo said.

“She’s right,” Joni agreed. “It’s really important to establish a realistic plan for each of you based on your specific needs and physical limitations.”

“Limitations?” I stared at Joni.

“We gotta set a date,” Mo said. “Figure out a menu.”

“Menus are extremely important,” Darla said. “They should be healthy and nutritious and, of course, low in carbs. I’ve been reading up on this.”

I looked at Darla. A carb-free wedding cake? Nutritious cocktail weenies? What the—?

“What you been reading, girl? Weight Watchers’ weddin’ planner?” Aunt Mo asked.

“They make one?” Darla responded, eyes wide.

The dubious thread of this conversation quickly unraveled. I cast my eyes skyward and caught sight of a familiar dark-haired head, its owner moving slowly in my direction.

Holy harpoons! Ranger Rick!

Frantic, I looked for a place to hide. My eyes landed on the considerable girth of the red-headed guy who’d shushed us earlier. If I could just manage to get behind him…

I started to inch backwards, hunching over like Quasimodo in order to conceal my presence. I bumped up against said immovable object and made a quick pivot move. Preparing to make my apologies to a fellow I fully intended to use as a human shield, I turned. But instead of the chubby chider of earlier, I was stunned to look up into a striking face I’d seen on the covers of countless tabloids and magazines for well over a decade. An actress, singer and entertainer whose career had tanked as she’d piled on the pounds, this woman still exuded beauty and glamour despite the giant orange vest she wore. By comparison, I’m sure I looked like slightly bruised produce.

“You’re Coral LaFavre,” I said, marveling at the flawless, mocha-colored complexion, perfect makeup and divine ‘do. Topping my five-feet-seven by at least three inches, she looked like a beautiful, benevolent, slightly older version of Queen Latifah smiling down on her awed subjects.

“You must be a fan if you recognized me in this getup,” she said, dispelling the royal rush.

“But what are you doing here?” I asked, putting Coral LaFavre between yours truly and Rick Townsend’s line of sight.

“I’m one of the lounge acts,” she said. “They thought I’d be perfect for this particular cruise. You know. Theme-wise.” She rolled her eyes. “The price was right and they offered some nice perks. My husband and I tied the knot almost a year ago, but we hadn’t had the opportunity for a proper honeymoon so the offer came at a nice time.”

“You’re a newlywed?” I asked, remembering the honeymoon surprise awaiting some blushing on-board bride.

“Well, eight months’ worth, if that qualifies. As a matter of fact, I was looking around for my husband when you bumped into me,” she said.

I winced.

“Sorry about that, Miss LaFavre,” I said. “Uh, if you’d give me a description of your husband, I’ll keep an eye out for him,” I offered. It was a long shot. I hadn’t seen anything but the big orange back of the man on the phone, and he’d kept his voice low so chances were I wouldn’t recognize him if he walked up and shook my hand. But it seemed as if this couple’s honeymoon was overdue. And it was a place to start.

“Oh, here he is,” Coral said. “I wondered where you ran off to, David. One minute you were there, and the next you were gone.”

While Coral’s husband was an inch taller than his wife, his weight was considerably less. With light brown hair and eyes, and teeth that screamed, “White strips worn here,” he looked like a greasy game show host.

“Forgive me,
cara.
I wanted to make sure all the arrangements were made for your performance before we set sail. No last-minute glitches and all that.” He finally noticed me. “Hello. Have you made a new friend, Coral?” he asked with a chilly smile.

I stuck my hand out. “Yes. Yes, she has,” I responded. “Tressa. Tressa Turner. It’s nice to meet you. I understand this is a sort of
long-overdue
honeymoon cruise for you both.”

Coral’s husband’s smile faltered. He took my hand, his limp and moist, the bleh factor off the charts.

“Mixing business with pleasure, as it were,” he said, barely squeezing my fingers. “David Frazier Compton. Good to meet you, too—Tressa, is it? Unusual name for an unusual woman, I daresay.”

David Frazier Compton? As it were? Daresay? Who did he think he was?

“So, you’re taking advantage of the cruise theme, as well. Good for you,” he continued as I reclaimed my hand with relief. “Good for you.”

“I’m actually here with a wedding group,” I told him. “My grandmother got married at the Grand Canyon a couple of days ago, and some of the family accompanied them on a combination celebratory and vacation cruise.”

David Frazier Compton looked puzzled. “Your grandmother, you say? How…interesting.”

“What’s the deal, Tressa? You can’t just go wandering off when people are talking to you. That’s downright rude!” Aunt Mo had powered her way over to us. “We got wedding stuff to decide.”

“Ah, I see. This must be your grandmother, Tressa,” Coral said.

“Grandmother? I’m no grandmother!” Mo barked. “Tressa here’s gonna marry my nephew. If I can ever manage to set her down and get her to name a wedding date, that is.” Aunt Mo paused and gave Coral the once-over. “Don’t I know you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Do you?” Coral seemed amused.

“Aren’t you that star who got real fat and lost all that weight and then gained it back again?” Aunt Mo said, and I wished for Jack Sparrow’s kerchief so I could stuff it in her mouth.

“Aunt Mo!”

“I think you’ve got me confused with Oprah—or Kirstie Alley maybe, ma’am,” Coral said. “Yes, I gained weight. Unfortunately, I never lost it.”

“I’m Marguerite Dishman, but everyone calls me Mo.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Do you people ever shut up?” I heard, and turned to see the copperhead who’d asked us to muzzle ourselves earlier pointing at me. “She’s Tressa, he’s David, she’s Coral, that’s Marguerite but everyone calls her Mo, and I’m Lou,” he said, clearly exasperated. “And I hope to hell we don’t have a real emergency or, thanks to your little social club, none of us will know stem from stern!”

I winced. I hoped they didn’t give a pop quiz over the safety drill or I’d be royally screwed.

“Now, why do you have to go and be so unfriendly, Lou?” Mo asked. “Your mama never teach you manners?”

I noticed other passengers beginning to disperse. Hoping to divert a nasty scene—or Mo’s imminent melee—I held up my camera and suggested, “How about I commit this moment to photographic memory? Smile and say, ‘Poop deck’!” I hit the button and the camera flashed. “One more—and let’s get you in this one, Lou,” I said, slowly inching backwards. I snapped another one. “Fantastic. A keeper!

“Well, everyone, it’s been real!” I said, “but alas, all good things must come to an end, and I’ve really been looking forward to that touching travel tradition I’ve seen in the movies. You know the one: tossing streamers over the rail, waving farewell to all those poor slobs left behind on land. So, if you’ll excuse me—Coral, David, Aunt Mo, Lou—it’s been a pleasure.”

I slipped away before Aunt Mo could stop me, but I caught her parting comment.

“If Sailor Moon there thinks she can give ol’ Mo here the slip, she’s been smoking too much seaweed.”

I grimaced. It seemed Townsend had some stiff competition from Aunt Mo for amateur night on the Custom Cruise Comedy Club stage.

Pass the M&M’s and the popcorn.

Buttered.

Naturally.

Arrgh!

CHAPTER FOUR

I made my way back to the cabin, threw my life vest in a chair and ran a brush through my straggly hair, pulling it back into a ponytail and securing it with a scrunchie. I shoved a pink baseball cap on my head that said
All Cowgirl—No Bull
and pulled my ponytail out through the opening at the back. I surveyed my reflection and stuck my tongue out.
Real mature, Tressa.

I pulled my backpack on over my shoulders, grabbed a pink hoodie in case it got chilly, and headed out again. No friggin’ way was I missing out on the traditional bon voyage festivities. And if I didn’t get something to eat soon, I was never going to make cruising speed. Still, I first needed to speak with cruise security and let them know that there was mischief afoot—mischief aboard
The Epiphany
that could spell murder for one of their passengers.

I hurried up to the main desk. A dark-haired gal about Taylor’s age was just finishing up with a man in line ahead of me.

“May I help you?” she asked, one eyebrow rising slightly when her eyes came to rest on my hat.

“I need to speak with security,” I said. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

Her other eyebrow joined the first. “Life and death? What do you mean, exactly?”

I paused and put my thumb and finger to my chin. “I don’t know. How would you describe a scheme to do away with an unsuspecting spouse on a long-overdue honeymoon cruise?” I asked.

She picked up a phone and pushed a button. “This is Erica at the service desk. I have a passenger who has a, uh, security issue to discuss. Yes.” She paused. “Your name?” she asked.

“Tressa. Tressa Turner,” I responded.

She nodded. “Tressa Turner. Yes. Thank you,” she said and hung up. “Someone from our security office will be with you shortly,” she told me.

I cooled my heels for a few minutes, wondering what it was about me that so unerringly homed in on trouble and troublemakers.

“Tressa Turner? Samuel Davenport, chief security officer.”

I looked up to find a hand stuck out, its owner smiling down at me. His teeth were brilliantly white against chocolate-colored skin, and he kind of reminded me of a young Bill Cosby. He looked capable and competent in his spanking-white uniform.

I held out my hand and he gripped my fingers firmly. Now
this
was a handshake.

“Tressa Turner, first-time cruise passenger.” I shook his hand vigorously.

“Nice to meet you…Miss or is it Mrs. Turner?”

“It’s Miss,” I told him.

“How can I help you, Miss Turner? I understand you have a concern with regards to safety or security. Is that correct?”

I bobbed my head up and down. “That’s right.”

“Let me assure you, Miss Turner, you’re quite safe sailing with Custom Cruise Lines. We have a stringent set of security procedures and policies and a top-notch security staff to see those policies and procedures are implemented. Our captain and crew are experienced, capable sailors, and
The Epiphany
is as seaworthy a vessel as you’ll find, so you’re in good hands. My recommendation? Sit back and leave the cruising to us,” Samuel Davenport suggested.

“That’s all very reassuring,” I told him honestly. “But it’s not really
my
safety I’m concerned about. It’s another passenger’s.”

He looked confused. Gee. Imagine that.

“Who would that be?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said.

Davenport looked even more confused. Another shocker.

“I’m not following,” he said.

I took a step closer. “There’s skullduggery afoot aboard
The Epiphany,”
I said in a low voice. “An evil plot to turn a honeymoon cruise into a booty bonanza.”

“Come again?” he said.

“Murder, man! Some groom is planning to do away with his bride aboard your vessel!” I said. “A honeymoon homicide!”

Samuel Davenport’s eyes got big, the whites of his eyeballs standing out against his dark skin. He took my elbow. “If you’ll come with me, Miss Turner, I think this is a discussion best conducted in private.”

I didn’t miss the look exchanged between Davenport and Erica, the passenger service cutie. It was your basic “Don’t turn your back on her, she could be dangerous” look. No biggie. I’ve seen it before. On more than one occasion.

I followed Davenport to a small office several doors down a narrow corridor. He closed us in and took a seat behind an off-white workspace. A laptop computer sat to his left. Davenport grabbed a white legal pad. He pulled a silver pen from inside his jacket pocket and tossed it on the pad.

“Why don’t you take it from the top, Miss Turner?” he suggested, and I explained about the phone conversation I’d overheard in the corridor outside my cabin.

“I’m actually an investigative reporter,” I told him, pulling my bag off my shoulder and setting it on the surface between us. “I have a card,” I assured him and unzipped my Javelina bag, sifting through the contents. “It’s in here somewhere. You see, in the course of my employment I’ve had a bit of experience in the area of crime-detecting.” I finally located a battered business card I’d made on the computer and handed it to him. “So, it’s not as if I’m an amateur.”

“ ‘Tressa Jayne Turner,
Grandville Gazette. Can we talk?’
” Davenport read. “Catchy.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I was torn between that tag line and ‘Can I quote you on that?’ but went with the shorter one. I think it works.”

“And you’re certain the conversation you just described to me was an accurate representation of the conversation you heard outside your cabin?” he asked.

I nodded. “Well, it’s not verbatim,” I admitted, “but from what I heard I don’t see how it can mean anything other than that somebody out there is planning to kill his wife for insurance money. I tried to get a picture of the guy, but when I got back to the corridor the security drill was underway and the dude was swept away by a moving river of orange.”

He looked up at me. “You didn’t attend the safety drill? It’s mandatory, you know,” he said.

Jeesch. Talk about broken records.

“Oh, I went. I thought maybe I’d somehow be able to discover who I’d overheard by mingling with the masses.”

“So, you played sleuth?” Davenport asked, twisting a diamond horseshoe ring on his finger.

“Investigative journalist,” I pointed out.

“Ah. And in your capacity as investigative journalist did you discover anything prescient?”

I frowned. “Prescient?” I said, thinking I needed to add a new word to my dictionary.

“Were you able to discern anything useful at the safety drill?”

“Well, for one thing, you’ve got some really crabby passengers on board, so beware,” I said, thinking of Lou, the red-headed party pooper. “And I did make contact with one honeymooning couple at the drill.” I took out my digital camera and hit the power button. “That’s the bride, Coral LaFavre—she’s a shipboard entertainer—and her new husband, David Frazier something or other.” I handed him the camera.

“Okay. I’m looking at an elderly man wearing a Jackie Chan hat asleep on what appears to be an aircraft.”

I grabbed the camera back. “Oh, sorry. That’s just Joe—my gammy’s new hubby. I’m making a book of memories for the happy couple as a wedding gift.” I advanced the shots. “That’s Coral and her husband.”

He looked at the picture for a few seconds. “I’m acquainted with Coral,” he said. “She’s sailed with us before. And who are the other two people in the photo?”

“That’s Aunt Mo. Not
my
aunt Mo, but my fiancé’s Aunt Mo. Well, not
my
fiancé, really—my fake fiancé. And the other dude there is Lou, the crabby passenger I warned you about before. The guy seriously needs to chill out.”

Davenport shook his head back and forth slowly as if to get all the loose pieces to settle back into place. “You think Coral LaFavre’s husband is the fellow you overheard?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I couldn’t make a positive I.D of the voice if that’s what you mean, because he kind of whispered,” I admitted. “But it’s a place for you to start.”

He handed me the camera. “How do you mean?”

“Why, get Coral in here and find out if she’s got a hefty life insurance policy covering her,” I said. “And go from there.”

“Oh, I see. Just bring Coral LaFavre in and explain to her that a fellow passenger overheard one side of a very short phone conversation that might or might not point to a criminal conspiracy and, based on that information, we’d like to invade her privacy in order to ascertain if her new husband has a monetary motive for wanting her dead. Is that what you expect me to do, Miss Turner?” Davenport asked.

“Would that be a problem?” I asked, giving a weak smile.

“And where would we go from there?” he continued. “Haul every honeymooner—or second-honeymooner, for that matter—in here and grill them about their spouses’ devotion and delve into personal financial information?”

“How many honeymooners could we be talking about?” I asked.

“I have no idea. And I don’t feel particularly compelled to find out,” Davenport said. “Listen, Miss Turner, I understand your concern in this matter, and I appreciate that you brought it to me, but I really don’t think there’s anything for you to be concerned about.”

I sat back in my seat. I’d heard this song so often I could sing the friggin’ refrain backwards.

“So, you’re not planning to do anything with the information I just provided,” I said.

“I didn’t say that,” Davenport replied, putting his pen down. “I’ll certainly make sure my people are aware of this information and advise them to keep their eyes and ears open. Beyond that, I’m not sure we have the level of corroboration required to do more.”

“And what kind of corroboration do you need, Mr. Davenport?” I asked. “A blood-stained canopy? A passenger who mysteriously disappears? A human chum line? Tell me. Just so I know it when I see it.”

Davenport’s chair squeaked as he eased back and gave me a look like the one I wear when I belly up to the Chinese buffet and the guy before me takes the last of the spring rolls and crab Rangoon.

I placed my camera back in my book bag and zipped it up. I stood. Samuel Davenport did the same.

“I do hope you can manage to take advantage of this Custom Cruise, Miss Turner, and use it as a springboard to a healthy, happy, balanced lifestyle,” he said. “And leave the sailing—and the sleuthing—to the professionals.”

I nodded and left. Same old song. Same old story. But was I, the same old Tressa, going to march to her own drum or take Davenport’s advice and leave the sailing to someone else? Okay, folks. Place your bets.

The long loud sounding of the ship’s horn and the movement of the deck beneath my feet announced we were getting underway. Great. My first cruise, and instead of waving farewell to strangers on land as we sailed away, I was stuck below deck trying to reason with a dubious security chief

I took the elevator to an upper deck and hurried out to where I jockeyed for space at the already crowded railing.

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing in between two other tourists. They were both about the size of Crabby Lou from the drill. I checked down the deck for familiar faces and, observing none I recognized, relaxed. The ship’s horn blasted, and as we slowly pulled away from the pier I put a hand up and did my best Queen Elizabeth wave.

“Good-bye! Farewell! Adios, landlubbers!” I called out, and the woman to my right gave me a half smile. I snapped a couple shots of the Galveston pier growing smaller, clicking a few pictures of the people lining the sides of the boat to bid adieu to those bound to land.

My stomach, tired of being ignored, decided to send a signal that it was time for chow, and it let out a long, loud rumble.

“Oh, dear, I guess we’d all better get used to hearing that sound a lot around here,” the woman next to me commented. “I’m not sure I’m up for this. At the time it seemed like a good idea, but now that I’m here, I’m not so sure.”

“Oh? Why? Are you afraid of water?” I asked.

“No. I’m afraid of starving,” she replied.

I looked at her. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” I said, my mind on all the culinary delights awaiting every cruise customer.

The woman turned to face me. “And just what is that supposed to mean?” she asked, her face turning red. “That I can live off the fat of my morbidly obese body for an extended period of time? That I’m in no danger of starving in this decade? Listen, I know I’m fat. That’s why I’m here.”

I stared at her.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand—”

“Of course you don’t, cowgirl. You’re not in the same boat as I am. Yet,” she added.

I was left to stare at her broad back as she stomped away.

“What on earth? What was that all about?” I asked the man on my other side.

“Insufferable insensitivity and an appalling lack of manners?” he answered, his accent decidedly British. “Americans,” he said with a sniff.

“Now just a minute,” I started to object when I felt an arm curl around my waist from behind.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding?” I heard, and turned around to find Rick Townsend encroaching big-time on my personal space. “I didn’t see you at the safety drill. You didn’t skip by any chance, did you, Tressa?”

“I was there—and I’ve got photos to prove it,” I told him.

We stood there on the ship’s deck, the sun sinking below the horizon, as we set sail. With Townsend’s arm around me, his chest pressed against my back, the moment was incredibly romantic. When Townsend bent to nuzzle my neck I almost leaped over the rail.

My stomach chose that moment to gurgle louder than the cheap fountain at the butterfly garden back home.

“Hungry?” Townsend whispered in my ear.

“Always,” I responded.

“They’ve got a nifty little thing called room service—or make that
stateroom
service—here,” Townsend said, giving my neck his full attention. “We could order whatever you like.”

I turned to look at him. “Whatever I like?” I asked. “What if I wanted something like Beluga caviar or a five-hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Pérignon?”