Huckleberry Finished (7 page)

H
e tasted like bacon and orange juice and the champagne we'd had earlier. His hand closed on the bare flesh of my upper arm, below the sleeve of my dress. His grip was gentle, but strong enough to be warm and firm. My arms wanted to lift up and go around his neck.

I stopped them. Because, unlike what I had told him about playing Mark Twain as a younger man, what we were doing now was
not
a good idea.

Mark must have sensed the tension that sprang up in me, because he let go of my arm and pulled his head back. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I don't know what came over me. I know we just met earlier today—”

“No, it's all right,” I told him. I didn't want him beating himself up over something as nice as that kiss had been. “I'm just tired, that's all, and upset about what happened to Mr. Webster.”

“Of course you are. I'm an idiot.”

“Not hardly. I enjoyed it. Maybe your timing could've been a mite better, that's all. How about a rain check?”

He grinned in relief. “Sure. That's better than a slap in the face any day.”

We went back to talking about Mark Twain and finished up the food. I'd be lying if I said the kiss wasn't lingering in the back of my mind, though.

I liked Mark Lansing. Maybe liked him too much under the circumstances. I had a business to run in Atlanta, and he had his job on the riverboat cruising between St. Louis and Hannibal. If we tried to date, we wouldn't be able to see each other very often, and I've never been much of a believer in long-distance relationships. I didn't have
that
good a track record with short-distance relationships.

So I told myself that maybe it would be better to just accept what had happened between us this evening for what it was—a pleasant flirtation and a darn nice kiss—and move on. That would sure simplify things.

When we were finished with the meal, I helped Mark clean up. His prediction turned out to be true. Unless one of the cooks noticed that some of the bacon, eggs, bread, and orange juice were gone, nobody would know that we had been here.

“I'll walk you back to your cabin,” Mark offered.

“That's very gentlemanly of you,” I said, “but not necessary.”

He frowned. “One person has already been killed on this riverboat, and there might be a murderer running around loose. I'm not going to let you walk all the way back to your cabin by yourself.”

That was a good point, and Mark didn't even know for sure yet that Ben Webster had been murdered. I did. Even though I couldn't think of any reason the killer would want to come after me next, I didn't see any point in taking chances.

And it was possible, I realized, that if the murderer knew about my connection with Webster, he might worry that the young man had told me something I shouldn't know, something that the cops might use to get on his trail. In that case, he might decide that the easiest thing to do would be to get rid of me.

That made a shiver go through me. Mark saw it and asked, “Are you cold?”

It was a warm night. I shook my head and said, “No, I'm fine. I could just use some sleep, that's all.”

He linked his arm with mine. “Sure, it's getting really late. Come on.”

We left the kitchen. Galley, I mean. Mark knew his way around the boat and took me through some corridors where passengers weren't allowed to get us back out on the main deck. The lights had been lowered for the night in most places except the casino. Just like in Vegas, it stayed open around the clock while the
Southern Belle
was on a cruise.

As we walked along, I looked for security cameras and spotted one or two, tucked away in unobtrusive corners. In my in-expert opinion, though, there was a lot of deck area the cameras didn't cover. As Logan Rafferty had said, the main concern of the security personnel was the casino.

I was sure Detective Travis would study whatever surveillance footage was available to her, anyway. But I didn't hold out much hope that she'd find pictures of the killer dragging Ben Webster's body below decks. I had a hunch the killer was pretty familiar with the riverboat and knew how to avoid the cameras.

When we stopped in front of the door to my cabin, I said, “Thank you for the parts of the evening that were lovely.”

“And the less said about the unlovely parts, the better?” Mark asked.

I thought about Ben Webster's dead face and said, “Yeah. Definitely.”

He leaned toward me and brushed his lips over mine. No passion this time, just a friendly gesture. “Good night.”

“Night,” I said.

He squeezed my shoulder for a second and backed off a step. I realized he was waiting for me to open the door and go inside. Maybe he wanted to make sure I hadn't brought him to a cabin belonging to someone else, like Ben Webster had done with me. Maybe he just wanted to know that I had gotten inside safely before he left. I took my key out of my purse, slid it into the lock, and turned it. I opened the door and reached inside to flip on the light.

Then I stepped back with a surprised gasp.

Mark was beside me instantly. “What's wrong?”

I pointed through the open door without saying anything.

“Son of a
bitch
!” Mark said as he looked at the mess inside the cabin. Someone had searched it, and he hadn't been too careful about it, either. He had torn off the bedclothes, pulled everything out of the closet and the tiny chest of drawers, and upended my bags, dumping their contents on the now-bare mattress.

I started through the door, but Mark grabbed my arm and hung on, urging me back away from the opening. “You can't go in there,” he said. “Whoever did it might still be inside.”

“No, he's not,” I said. “You can see the whole cabin from the door.”

“Not the bathroom.”

He had a point there. The bathroom door wasn't closed, but it was pulled up so that there was only a small gap. That was how I'd left it—but that didn't mean someone couldn't be hiding in there. The intruder could have pushed the door almost closed again from the other side.

My laptop had been in its case inside the closet. That was the only really valuable thing I had with me. I didn't see the case anywhere inside the room. It might be on the other side of the bed, out of sight from where I was, I thought. I wanted to know if it was gone.

“Was the door locked when you opened it just now?” Mark asked. He still had hold of my arm with his left hand.

“Yeah, I think so,” I told him. “That doesn't really mean anything, though. You can just turn the little button on the knob and lock the door when you go out.”

He nodded. That must have been what the intruder had done. I was willing to bet there were no fingerprints on the knob, though. The thief would have had sense enough to wear gloves.

That's all I thought it was, a simple burglary. Sure, the place was torn up like someone had searched it thoroughly, I thought as my speeding pulse started to slow down and reason reasserted itself in my brain. But it was much more likely that someone had broken in to look for valuables. That would explain the search, too. There was no reason in the world this incident had to be connected with Ben Webster's murder.

But that was the first place my brain went, anyway. The killer was after me, too. He thought I had some sort of evidence that would convict him, and he had broken into my cabin to look for it.

When I thought about all the wandering around on the boat by myself I had done earlier in the day, not to mention in Hannibal, I got a cold, scared feeling in the pit of my stomach. The murderer could have been stalking me then. It might just be luck I was still alive.

I gave myself a stern warning not to overreact. I said, “I guess we'd better report this.”

“To the police, or to Logan Rafferty?”

I glanced at the dock. A couple of police cars were still parked there, although the crime scene SUV with the State Police emblem on it that had been there earlier was gone. I supposed the technicians had done their work and left. Detective Travis might still be on board the riverboat, though.

And to tell the truth, I didn't want to have anything more to do with Logan Rafferty than I had to.

“Let's go see if we can find the cops,” I said. I reached out, hooked the doorknob with one finger, and pulled the door closed.

Mark shook his head. “Call them instead. We should stay here, in case the guy's still in the cabin and tries to sneak out.”

“So we can confront him?” I shook my head. “I don't think that's a very good idea.”

“You're probably right,” Mark admitted. “Let's move down there to the other end of the deck so we can keep an eye on the door. That way if he tries to get out, at least we'll see him.”

I wasn't convinced at all that the burglar was still in the cabin, but I couldn't rule it out. So we did what Mark suggested, walking quickly down to the other end of the deck and glancing over our shoulders with just about every step. When we had put enough distance between us and the cabin to be safe, I got out my cell phone and called 911.

“Is Detective Travis still on the
Southern Belle
riverboat?” I asked when the dispatcher answered.

He didn't answer my question, instead asked one of his own. “What's your emergency, ma'am?”

That was standard procedure. I said, “There's been a burglary on the riverboat
Southern Belle
, docked here at the foot of Center Street.” I gave him the cabin number. “My name is Delilah Dickinson. I spoke to Detective Travis earlier tonight about another matter, and I thought if she was still on board, she might like to see this.”

“Is the perpetrator still in the cabin?”

“I don't know. I don't think so, but I'm not sure.”

“Is anyone hurt? Were you assaulted?”

“No to both of those questions. Whoever it was, he got into the cabin while nobody was there.”

“You're certain you've been burglarized?”

“Pretty sure. I think my laptop is gone.” I was getting pretty impatient. “Are you going to send somebody or not?” I didn't even care that much anymore if it was Travis.

“Yes, ma'am, I've already text-messaged Detective Travis. She should be on her way.”

The wonders of modern technology. “Thank you,” I said.

“Would you like to stay on the line with me until the detective gets there?”

Just then I saw Travis emerge from one of the stairways that led between decks. I said, “That's not necessary, thanks. Here she comes now,” and folded up the phone, breaking the connection.

“Ms. Dickinson,” Travis said as she came up to me. I couldn't tell if she was annoyed or not. As usual, she didn't allow much emotion to appear on her face. She looked vaguely curious, though, as she glanced at Mark.

“This is Mark Lansing,” I told her. “He works here on the riverboat.” I didn't explain that he did a performance in the salon as Mark Twain. That didn't seem to have anything to do with what was going on here.

I halfway expected Travis to pull out her notebook and write down Mark's name, but she didn't. Instead she said, “You reported that someone broke into your cabin?”

“That's right.” I pointed. “It's over there.”

“The burglar's not still inside?”

“I don't think so.”

Travis reached into the blazer she wore—just like a travel agent's or a Realtor's, I realized—and brought out a gun. It was a small-caliber semiautomatic, probably a 9mm. I didn't know enough about guns to recognize the make.

“Stay here,” she said. “I'll check it out.”

“Shouldn't you have some backup?” Mark asked.

“I'm fine.” She sounded a little irritated.

“Let me come with you,” Mark suggested.

“Just stay here,” Travis snapped. She started toward my cabin, glancing back at me to ask, “Is the door unlocked?”

“Yeah, it is.”

She nodded and moved closer to the door, using her left hand to grip the wrist of her right hand, which held the gun. Just like they do on TV, in other words.

When she reached the door, she used her left hand to twist the knob. Then she pushed the door open with her foot and went in fast, turning from side to side so that she could sweep the gun back and forth. I realized that I was holding my breath, waiting for shots to sound inside the room, but there weren't any. Travis moved farther into the cabin, so Mark and I couldn't see her from where we were, but she wasn't gone long. When she stepped out again a minute or so later, she held the gun down alongside her leg.

“You can come in,” she called to us. “The cabin's empty.”

That didn't really surprise me. We hurried along the deck and went into the cabin. Travis said, “Look around and see if you can tell what's missing, if anything.”

Something was missing, I was certain of that, and sure enough, my laptop was gone. It took me only a couple of minutes to look everywhere in the cabin it could have been. Somebody had grabbed it, case and all, and taken it out of there.

“Anything else?” Travis asked when I told her about the computer.

“I didn't have anything else really valuable,” I said as I pawed through the mess. “I'm wearing the only jewelry that means anything to me, at least that I brought along on this trip. My money and my phone are in my purse.”

I looked around as best I could, just to be sure, then reported, “Nope, the only thing that seems to be gone is the laptop.”

“Describe it.”

“It's a laptop computer,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated.

“Make, model, serial number?”

“I don't know.” I knew the brand, and which operating system it ran, but that was about all. “That information will be on file in my office records, though. I can get it. I'll just send an e-mail—” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Or not. I can call the office in the morning and get the information.”