Killer Knots (21 page)

Likely, the center triptych painting, if not locked away in the bowels of the ship, was inside one of those warrens.

A low moan drew her attention as she picked her way through the chairs and trashed canvases. Behind the podium, a floor-to-ceiling curtain provided a backdrop that wavered in the air-conditioning. Or else its motion was a result of the ship picking up speed. The vessel’s rocking had increased, making her steps unsteady. Lurching from side to side, she berated herself for drinking the rum concoction too fast.

Shadows lurked in the depths beyond the lighting, but the moaning had come from the opposite side.

Hey, why are the lights on
?

Because the miscreant who’d wrecked the place had been searching for something. Probably the same thing she wanted to see before it was exposed to the public in full detail.

The moaning repeated.

Her palms sweaty and her heart pounding, Marla called out in a soft voice, “Hello, who’s there?”

“Help me,” a man’s voice croaked.

She stepped through the portal into the first workroom, but it wasn’t until she wound her way past a floor strewn with tools, broken frames, glass shards, and nails that she saw the man stretched beyond. Eric Rand lay halfway into his office, blood oozing from a wound on his head. Bruises darkened his face, but he didn’t appear to be mortally hurt.

“Where’s your phone? I’ll call Security,” she said, stooping beside him.

“No.” The word barely escaped his parched lips. “Take the painting. Hide it.”

But you ‘re hurt. You need assistance.” Gripping his cool hand, she scanned the room for a clean cloth. The gash on his temple still oozed and might need stitches.

His palm squeezed hers. “Do as I say. It’s my only proof. B-behind the pickle…”

“What?” Was he hallucinating? His injury must be worse than it appeared.

She tried to yank her hand from his grip, but he held on.

“Look behind the pickle…brightly colored scene, musicians playing.” His expression, a pained grimace, suddenly brightened. “
Le Sacre du Printemps
. Should be labeled.” And then his grasp went slack and his eyes clouded.

Feeling her throat constrict, Marla slid her fingers to his wrist, where his pulse, rapid but steady, reassured her that life still flowed through his veins. However, she knew from past experience that a concussion was nothing to dismiss.

The man needed a medic, but curiosity drove her to ponder what he’d meant. He’d mentioned a scene with musicians. Very well, then. This seemed important.

She rose from her stooped position. Obviously, she wouldn’t find the item in this room, which contained a standard desk and accoutrements. Nor did she see such a painting in any of the workrooms through which she strode. Aware that each minute was critical to Eric’s need for medical treatment, she began a methodical search through the auction room.

She almost missed it, hanging on the wall. A colorful panorama of a dozen musicians playing various instruments.
Picot, the artist’s name, you idiot, not pickle
.

Scraping a chair over to the spot, she stood on the seat cushion and removed the picture with a small measure of difficulty. Wasn’t this a larger version of one of their free seriolithographs? Perhaps. She ventured a guess that Eric had purposefully enlarged one, then mounted and framed it to disguise what lay underneath.

Leaping from the chair, she carted the heavy picture to the first workroom. Using a box cutter from an open drawer, she slashed a line across the top and down one side of the brown paper sealing the rear. Gently peeling back the layer, she peered inside. Nothing lay hidden there. The reproduction appeared to be fastened to the frame.

But what if it wasn’t the right picture?

Obtaining a different tool, she pried the nails loose and freed the Picot from its prison.

Behind it, a painting fell away, into her hands.

She recognized the parlor setting, muted tones, and artist’s style without a doubt. Tusk’s center portrait, the one she’d seen before only in a flash. Eric must have removed it from the original frame to hide it here until the final auction. A firefly in her stomach fluttered and sank.

Beside the figure of the small boy who sat on a stool painting a canvas was the man whose blurry features remained indistinguishable, but whose actions couldn’t be denied.

But that wasn’t the damning clue.

Marla’s gaze drew inexorably to the shiny metal flute lying on a nearby table.

I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.

Marla spun at the sound of Oliver Smernoff’s deep voice.

“I don’t think so.” Hoping she wouldn’t damage the precious artwork, she cleared a space on the counter and carefully laid down the canvas.

“Give me the painting.” Reaching toward her, the museum director took a step forward. His hulking figure filled the space like a grizzly bear, blocking her exit.

“In a minute,” she said, stalling. “Tell me, are you responsible for hurting Eric?”

“He wouldn’t tell me where he’d hidden Tusk’s piece. I’m glad I waited around. You finished the job very nicely.”

“I know why you want this painting so badly,” she said in a taunting tone. “You’re the man hovering over Alden.” She’d left the box cutter in its drawer. If she could distract him, she might be able to grab the sharp implement and use it as a weapon.

His lip curled. “People couldn’t tell it was me in the center panel unless they knew the significance of that flute. Martha heard me playing right before Alden toppled over the balcony rail. That’s why I paid someone to delay her in San Juan.”

“Huh?”

His lip curled. “I figured if Martha missed the ship’s sailing, she’d fly home. Then she couldn’t clue in whoever had brought us on board.”

“Everyone knew she’d reported hearing music that night.”

“Yeah, but they discounted her statement. I didn’t want her harping on it. Someone might add two and two together.”

“So you paid some fellas on the island…”

“To make sure she didn’t surface until the ship left port.”

A surge of hope swept through Marla. “You mean Martha isn’t dead? Where is she?”

“Who knows? I’ll worry about her later.” An unnatural gleam entered his eyes. “You’re my concern right now. Too bad I couldn’t lose you and your companions on Roatan. That driver was eager to take my money.”

She edged sideways. “Why did you want to get rid of us? For the same reason?”

“That’s right.” He nodded, advancing another step. “You’d been asking too many questions, and who knew what Martha had told you. I tried to put you out of action in St. Maarten, but that plan backfired.”

“How did you know I’d go inside the guavaberry emporium?”

“I paid a native fellow to tail you. How he disposed of you was up to him. He didn’t look to be the reputable sort; that’s why I approached the guy. I told him not to cause you any permanent damage, just to temporarily detain you.”

“Oh joy. Thanks for that much.” She supposed the director possessed some scruples; otherwise, he wouldn’t have cared about the outcome. Under the circumstances, she might never know if the proprietress at the bar had been involved. “Did you eliminate Brooklyn, too? He’s been missing.”

“That isn’t my doing. Come on, Marla, quit rambling. Give me the painting so I don’t have to hurt you.”

“Brooklyn noticed how Bob Wolfson ordered kitchen supplies that he hadn’t requested,” she said quickly. “Your business manager doesn’t have the best interests of the museum at heart. You might want to examine the books when you get home.”
Assuming you keep your job and aren’t in jail
.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Oliver sneered, taking another step forward. “It just so happens that I’m fully aware of Bob’s financial transactions.”

She gaped at him. “So why haven’t you said anything? I’d think it would take the heat off you.”

“Bob saw the flute in my office. If I expose him, he’d rat on me. We’re covering for each other.”

Feeling the counter nudge her spine, Marla slid toward the drawer. “Bob’s not the only one who knows you play the flute.”

“Irene?” He gave a harsh laugh. “She won’t talk, or I’ll tell Delaney she isn’t my daughter.”

“Is that why you’ve done all this? You’re jealous of Eric Rand? Has he always come between you and your wife?”

He gave her a look of pity. “You don’t get it, do you? Alden’s painting tells the story. He used to be my pupil when I taught art. I enjoyed music even then, and I’d play my flute for him before we began. Our sessions included more than just art lessons, Marla.”

Horror gnawed at her stomach lining. “You abused him, an innocent little boy? No wonder he hated hearing the flute. He associated it with your vile acts.”

“Poor Alden developed a true phobia. Years went by, and he couldn’t face his past. But the day came when he could express himself in his painting. And when he heard that I was about to initiate a children’s art program at the museum, he feared that I might resume my previous tendencies.”

“So he intended to use the fund-raiser to expose you?”

“Presumably. Alden had painted the figure blurry enough so my features wouldn’t be distinguishable, but anyone who knew our history together and that I play the flute would question me. My reputation would be ruined. So I sent Alden a note. I offered to resign my position if he withdrew his triptych from the fundraiser. We set a meeting to discuss it.”

Comprehension dawned. “You met him upstairs at the museum while everyone else was outside setting up for the event.”

“Correct. I maneuvered him close to the railing and then withdrew my flute from where I’d hidden it. Hearing the music caused him to back up in a fit of panic.”

“To where you’d already loosened the railing supports?”

“Exactly. He tried to come at me when he realized I had no intention of keeping my end of the bargain. We struggled. He leaned against the rail, lost his balance. The screws gave way.”

“And you tipped him over for the final touch.”

His bared teeth gave her the affirmative answer. Noting his muscles tense, she offered one last attempt to delay him. “What about Helen? Why did you push her down the stairs?”

“I didn’t hurt Helen. You won’t be so lucky. Fortunately, disappearances on cruise ships happen all the time these days.”

Marla saw movement from the corner of her eye. Eric Rand, conscious, was crawling in their direction.

She twisted and snatched the blade from the drawer. Before she could turn, Oliver grabbed her wrist in a painful vise. He squeezed hard, making her gasp in agony. Just as her fingers loosened, something smashed into Oliver’s knees from behind.

Eric had lifted a broken chair and rammed the legs into her assailant. The effort exhausted his strength, and the auctioneer collapsed like a sand castle in a wave.

Oliver bent over, howling. Her respite didn’t last long. With a triumphant cry, he scooped a hammer from the floor and straightened to his full height.

An evil leer on his face, he raised his hand for a killing blow. As his arm came down, she parried his thrust with her elbow. They wrestled while he pinned her against the counter with his body. If he got a good swing at her head with that hammer, it would be over.

“Marla,” she heard Eric’s voice rasp, “Alden’s painting.”

“What?” Did he mean for her to secure the artist’s painting for safekeeping? He must be really out of it. Didn’t the guy see what was going on?

It struck her what he meant at the same time as Oliver’s palm hit a glancing blow to her temple.

She saw stars, and her pulse throbbed. Losing ground against Oliver’s strength, she faltered. He lifted the hammer with another triumphant cry.

Damn you, I refuse to suffer another concussion. Once in my life was enough
.

Twisting, she seized the wooden frame that she’d left on the counter and twirled around.
Crack
. A corner connected with Oliver’s jaw, producing a satisfactory crunch.

Their eyes locked.

Oliver’s gaze widened, and then he slid to the floor like a blob of paint.

Marla stood frozen, her breath coming in pants. Eventually, she had enough presence of mind to kick him to see if he responded. Thankfully, he didn’t budge.

They all needed medical attention. And if she was quick enough, she could just make dinner.

Dalton’s face showed a mixture of consternation and relief when she arrived at their dining table. He leapt from his seat, confronting her. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been searching the ship high and low for you. If Mom hadn’t said she’d seen you earlier, I would’ve called the FBI myself.”

“I ran into our killer.” Lifting her hair, she showed him the bruise on her temple.

“By God, who did that to you?”

“Holy mackerel, are you all right?” Betsy said, shoving her chair back and rising.

The Wolfsons and Starks stared at her in shock while Marla noted two empty seats at the table. Kent Harwood didn’t react at all, swiping another roll when no one was looking.

“If I’d met you earlier,” Vail said, “you wouldn’t have had to face the brute alone. Who was it?”

“I wasn’t alone. Eric Rand helped me.”

“Against whom?” His face reddened, as though steam were about to shoot from his ears.

“Oliver. He’s responsible for everything. Well, almost everything.”

Betsy glanced at his empty seat. “Where is he?”

“In custody. I imagine Irene was too embarrassed to join us, although I have her to thank for clueing me in. She might be better off once she clears the air with her daughter.”

“What daughter? Never mind, you’ll tell me later,” Vail said. “Meanwhile, Brie is worried about you. Go tell her you’re okay. And I need to make a phone call. Be right back.”

Marla wound her way through the crush of bustling waiters to his parents’ table. Upon spotting her, Brianna knocked back her chair and rushed over.

“Marla!” the teen cried, hugging her.

“I’m fine,” Marla said in a reassuring tone, patting the girl’s shoulder. Moisture tipped her lashes. Before meeting Vail and his family, she hadn’t been used to anyone except her own mother caring about her.

“We’ve all been so concerned,” Kate remarked, plopping her napkin on the tablecloth. John gave a solemn nod in agreement.

“I discovered that Oliver was responsible for our problems in Roatan, among other things,” Marla replied. “Let’s meet after dinner, and I’ll tell you all about it. I want to hear about Tulum also. In the meantime, please enjoy your meal. It’s been a long day, and you’re probably starved.”

Back at her table, she regarded Dalton after placing her order.

“So where were you this afternoon?”

Smiling, he winked at her. “You’ll see in a minute or so. Pass the butter, please.”

Too hungry to argue, she complied. Halfway through her salad course, she looked up to note two newcomers claiming the empty seats at their table.

“Brooklyn!” Marla exclaimed, catching sight of his familiar face. He grinned at her, a white slash in his dark complexion. Helen sat next to him in Irene’s chair. Aside from her wrist in a removable cast, she looked comfortable in a pair of capris, sandals, and a knit top.

“Dalton called and said it was safe to come down,” Helen said. “He’d come to my stateroom earlier when you were looking for him,” she told Marla. “And he found Brooklyn there. We insisted that he fill us in on things, so he stayed a while to chat. Holy macaroni, I’d never have suspected Olly.”

“Sorry to worry everyone,” the cafe manager said, settling his bulk and flipping a napkin open onto his lap. “I’ve been hiding out in Helen’s cabin.” He gave Bob Wolfson a sheepish glance. “I thought it was you, man. Didn’t want to take no chances and end up like Martha.”

“Except Martha’s all right,” Helen babbled. “I received an e-mail from her that she’d made it home. Someone pulled the same trick on her as they did to you in St. Maarten,” she told Marla. “Eventually she got free and found her way to the airport in San Juan.”

“That’s a relief.” Thurston Stark had recovered his voice, although he sounded hoarser than normal. “We’ll be looking for a new museum director now, even if Oily is only charged with assault and not murder.”

“That’s questionable,” Marla said. She then shared Oliver’s confession about how he’d abused Alden Tusk as a youth and how Alden had intended to prevent him from resuming his perversion via a proposed children’s art program. She also told them that Oliver had lured Alden to his death at the fund-raiser, hoping to abscond with his triptych, but that someone else had beat him to it by stealing the critical center panel.

“I can’t believe we had a pedophile on our staff,” Thurston muttered.

“Is there actually such a thing as a phobia to flutes?” Heidi said in her girlish voice. Her neckline showed off a sparkling emerald necklace that matched the green in her dress.

“Yes, it’s called aulophobia,” Marla answered, leaning back so the busboy could remove her empty salad plate. “I asked the doctor in the medical center. Presumably Alden developed this fear because Oliver played the instrument prior to his abusive sessions. Flute music acted like a trigger for Alden’s self-loathing and feelings of dread.”

Falling silent to examine her food that had just arrived, she sniffed the sautéed onions and garlic accompanying the red snapper, pimiento rice, and baked plantains. A trio of musicians serenaded diners with Mexican music while the ship’s photographer hopped from table to table plopping a large sombrero onto people’s heads and snapping pictures.

Marla cringed when he approached their group, but waving him off had no effect. The guy was as persistent as a life-insurance salesman.

Kent Harwood, who’d been silent until then, finally spoke up after swallowing a mouthful. “Looks like the museum staff will have more than one vacancy.”

The others glanced at him, startled. Without waiting for any further explanation, Bob Wolfson blurted out a confession. “You’ve got no proof that I’m responsible for the bookkeeping problems,” he said, eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “I’ve kept careful records.”

“Ah, but you can count on Countess Delacroix to take up the slack in that regard,” Kent said, his lips broadening in a slow smile.

“I don’t understand,” Kate commented to Marla the following night. “Where does the countess come into the story?” They sat outside on the aft terrace, overlooking the ship’s wake that frothed in the moonlight. “By the way, Marla, I love what you did with my hair. My bridge pals at home will be envious.”

Marla smiled proudly. That morning, she’d trimmed the layers on Kate’s auburn hair, which had given it more lift. A balmy breeze teased wisps of bangs onto Kate’s face. Marla felt a surge of affection for the older woman, whose generosity seemed boundless. They’d already packed for debarkation and left their suitcases out in the hall for pickup. Aside from a quick breakfast the next morning, they wouldn’t see each other again for some time.