Murder of a Needled Knitter (20 page)

“Guinevere Stallings threatened to reveal the fact that your trivia team was cheating if you didn't give her your table at Raphael's,” Skye stated as soon as they were all seated. She had figured there was no way
to ease into this conversation, so she had opted for the advantage of surprise. When Harry didn't respond, she added, “I heard you and your wife discussing the matter at breakfast the other day.”

“You did?” He wrinkled his brow, obviously trying to remember what they'd said.

“Yes,” Skye confirmed. “The day after Guinevere was killed. What I couldn't figure out until now was what the knitting guru had on you.”

“And you think I murdered her over that?” Harry's ruddy complexion paled.

“Not necessarily,” Skye assured him. “But unless you can satisfy me that you didn't, I will have to bring the matter to the attention of security.” She felt reasonably safe making the threat, since they were in full view of anyone who passed by the alcove.

“Fine.” He stiffened. “My understanding is that she was killed sometime between eleven thirty and twelve. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Skye wondered where he'd gotten that information, then realized that the ship was like a small town. Rumors were spread like suntan lotion at the pool—thickly and with little regard for the slippery consequences. “That's my understanding as well.”

“Then I have an alibi.” Harry took a starched white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I had a session with the golf pro from eleven until noon. He hangs out at the Diamond Links on deck nineteen.” Harry stood. “I'll walk up with you now so you can be assured that I haven't tampered with the witness.”

“Let's go.” Skye rose and led the way. “One more question,” she said as they waited for the elevator. “I understand that being called a cheat would be embarrassing, but there must have been more to it to make you willing to upset your wife by giving up your table. What was the big deal?”

“I'd rather not say.” Harry glanced nervously over
his shoulder but seemed assured that no one was listening to their conversation.

“If we're going to let the matter drop,” Skye said, keeping her expression unyielding, “and we fully intend to do so once your presence at the golf simulator is confirmed, I need to know the whole story.”

“You both solemnly promise this will go no farther?” Harry demanded.

Trixie and Skye swore to keep quiet, and Skye coaxed, “We truly have no desire to cause you any harm or embarrassment.”

“Fine.” He stared into her eyes then nodded to himself and said, “For most people, being caught cheating at trivia would have been a minor humiliation, but I'm a professor at West Point. We abide by a strict honor code, with a zero-tolerance policy, so an accusation of dishonesty could cost me my job.” He studied the brightly polished toes of his shoes. “I shouldn't have let that techie fellow do it, but I told myself I wasn't the one cheating.” He grimaced. “Winning was such an adrenaline rush. I was weak and didn't quit the team or demand that he stop.”

“So Guinevere's threat to expose you was quite a motive for killing her,” Trixie said. “Good thing you have an alibi.”

•   •   •

Once they confirmed that Harry had been with the golf pro during the time of the murder, Trixie contacted Ben and arranged to meet him at the International Café for coffee. The IC was decorated like an old-fashioned soda fountain with marble-topped tables and wrought-iron chairs. It was a charming spot to take a break from the frenetic energy present in so much of the rest of the ship.

Trixie and Skye ordered lattes and biscotti, almond for Skye and chocolate for Trixie, then nabbed a secluded table by the window and waited for the maître d' to arrive. After a few minutes of gazing at the
peaceful blue ocean, Skye sighed. This was not exactly how she'd dreamed of spending her honeymoon.

Trixie interrupted Skye's musings. “Again, I'm shocked that Harry told us so much. Does everyone just spill their guts to you?”

“Pretty much.” Skye blew across the top of the hot beverage. “I think it's a combination of my looks—wholesome, girl next door—and my training as a psychologist to be a nonjudgmental listener.”

“Still.” Trixie crunched into her cookie. “This is a murder investigation, not breaking curfew or refusing to do your homework.”

“Look at it this way.” Skye closed her eyes, gathering her thoughts. “Harry really had nothing to lose and everything to gain by revealing the whole truth.” She took a cautious sip of her drink. “Think about it. By telling us what we wanted to know and providing us with an alibi, he avoids having to explain himself to security. As a result, the matter of his team's trivia cheating doesn't become a big deal, which means that it's highly unlikely that anyone at West Point will ever find out.”

“That's true.” Trixie finished her biscotti and gazed longingly at Skye's untouched cookie. “Heck, we don't even know his last name and I bet nobody else at trivia does either. All he has to do is lie low for the next couple of days and his secret is safe.”

“Exactly.” Skye smiled, then puffed out a frustrated breath. “Too bad the same can't be said for the murderer. We're eliminating suspects left and right, and we're still no closer to figuring out who needled the knitting guru.”

Man Overboard

W
hen Ben joined them, Skye bought him a Black Tie, a sweet and spicy mixture of chilled black tea, orange blossom water, star anise, crushed tamarind, sugar, and condensed milk with a double shot of espresso. Once he was settled in his chair and sipping his drink, Trixie launched into an explanation of why they needed to talk to Guinevere's steward.

The Coronet Brasserie maître d' listened to their reasons for investigating the murder, then said, “I sure wish they'd change the laws. With jurisdiction over cruise ships so iffy, most of the serious crimes remain unsolved.” He smiled at Trixie. “You mentioned you were writing a mystery. You should set it on a cruise ship and call it
Dangerous Waters
.”

“Believe me, I'm taking notes.” Trixie grinned back at her new friend. “But I think
Dead Man Floating
is catchier.”

“How about
Murder of a Cranky Cruiser
?” Ben countered.

“Oh, I like that one.” Trixie clapped her hands.

“Is there any way you could help us speak to the steward?” Skye asked in an attempt to refocus the
conversation. “Or maybe it would be better if we tell you what we want and you talk to him while we listen in?”

“That's probably best, but I'll still have to get permission from the food and beverage manager to bring you down to the crew deck.” Ben glanced at his watch. “Yuri will be making up the staff cabins for the next couple of hours, so this would be a good time to approach him.” Ben took out a notebook. “Tell me what kinds of information you want from him; then I'll call my boss and get his authorization for your visit.”

“We need to know what the fight was about between Yuri and Guinevere.” Skye ticked off the points on her fingers. “Also, the result of that argument.”

“And if he has an alibi for Tuesday morning between eleven thirty and noon,” Trixie added.

“Got it.” Ben drained his cup and rose. “I'll be right back.”

Ten minutes later, Ben returned and flashed them a thumbs-up. Skye and Trixie hurried to their feet and he led them to an unmarked door tucked behind a screen in the rear of the Grapevine Bar. They entered a bland hallway that could have been found in any of a thousand office buildings.

As they walked, Ben said, “I told my boss that you two are old friends from home who want to see the ‘real' ship. He was cool with that, but warned me that you aren't to take any pictures.”

“No problem,” Trixie assured him. “I don't even have my camera with me.”

“I promise,” Skye vowed. “I don't have my Nikon with me either.”

“Yuri is assigned to deck three,” Ben said as he punched in a series of numbers on a keypad. Ushering them through the entrance, he explained, “The deck at the waterline is considered Deck Zero and has the medical center and gangplank. Below that are decks three, two, and one. Deck One has the water tanks and engines, two has the crew cabins, and three has the employees' bar, dining
rooms, and the staff cabins.” His lips quirked. “A good way to remember is that the higher the rank, the higher the cabin.”

“Got it,” Skye said. “There's a difference between crew and staff, but everyone is an employee.”

Ben pointed to a metal door. “This is an employee elevator.”

When they stepped inside the car, it was like entering an entirely different world from the passenger areas. Here, there was no carpet, mirrors, or bright colors. The flooring was worn tan linoleum and the walls were a dull green marred by a myriad of scuff marks.

While they rode down the slow-moving elevator, Ben said, “I'll locate Yuri, then find a place nearby for you two to hide and listen.”

“Great.” Trixie bounced excitedly beside the maître d'.

Skye smiled her gratitude, but was overwhelmed by her surroundings. Their footsteps pinged off the steel-plated floor of the hallway and the air reeked of solvent and sweat. Overhead fluorescent tubes produced a glare that highlighted every dingy corner. She noticed an angled ladder to her right that was marked
CREW STAIRS
and shuddered at the thought of having to climb something as ungainly as those steps a hundred times a day.

As they walked past open doors, Skye saw a bathroom with a toilet and a shower no bigger than a voting booth that was shared by two cabins. She'd assumed that the crew's quarters would be more utilitarian than the areas of the ship that guests occupied, but the reality was even bleaker than she had expected.

A little ashamed of the lavish lifestyle she'd been enjoying, she said in a low voice to Ben, “The living conditions are pretty Spartan down here. I feel sort of bad about our suite.”

“Don't.” He patted her arm. “Most of the people who work as crew members are immensely grateful to be here. In comparison to the standard of living in their
own countries, this is luxury. They have a clean, temperature-controlled room, three all-they-can-eat meals a day, and their annual salary is more than they could earn in ten years at home.” He patted her again. “Yes, their work schedules are long and tough, but when they leave the ship, they can return to their countries and live like the aristocracy.” He added, “The staff members who are employed in the spa, shops, and run the activities are usually European, or from Australia or South Africa. Since they are generally very young, and their duties are less arduous, they tolerate the austere conditions until they either leave the ship or are promoted to positions with better accommodations and perks.”

“I understand,” Skye murmured, but she still felt a little guilty. “Thank you for explaining it to me.”

“Wait here.” Ben pointed to an alcove. “I'll be right back.”

Skye and Trixie were silent as droves of workers rushed past them, hurrying toward their next chores. No one ever stood still, or even walked. Instead they sprinted down the hallway while carrying on loud conversations in their native languages.

A few minutes later Ben returned, led the two women into a storeroom, and said, “I'll get Yuri over here and leave this door cracked.” He started to walk away then grinned over his shoulder, plainly excited by the idea of playing detective. “You should be able to hear everything.”

While Skye and Trixie stood quietly, Skye examined the shelves of supplies. Boxes of rubber gloves, bottles of cleaner, and stacks of rags were piled high. The odor of antiseptic reminded her of her office at the junior high school, which had started out as the janitor's closet. Thinking about the smell made her nose start to twitch. What if she sneezed while Ben was talking to Yuri? Or what if someone suddenly needed a can of Lysol?

Before she could whip herself into full panic mode, Ben and the steward strolled up to the storeroom and stopped in front of the slightly ajar door. Both Skye and Trixie leaned forward and peered through the tiny opening.

Ben was a huge bear of a man, and next to him Yuri Cheburko looked like his cub. Yuri was stocky with a broad nose and high forehead, but he was only an inch or two taller than Skye. Definitely the right height to have murdered Guinevere.

“What you want?” When Yuri spoke, his accent sounded Russian to Skye. “Why we have to come over here to talk?”

“I understand that you would like to join my waitstaff?” Ben stood with his back to the door, which forced Yuri to face the storeroom.

“Yes! Yes!” The steward's dark eyes lit up. “I would be a most excellent waiter.” He brushed at his dark blue uniform pants and tugged at the matching tunic's stand-up collar. “I am the finest steward. I am irreplaceable.”

“Don't say that,” Ben cautioned. “If you're irreplaceable you can't be promoted.”

“Right! Right! No more irreplaceable.” Yuri bobbed his head. “You help me?”

“Perhaps.” Ben's voice was totally professional, and his choice of words was now formal. “However, I'm aware of two problems.”

“My English.” Yuri's shoulders slumped. “It is not so good.”

“Yes, but that can be overcome with practice,” Ben assured him. “It's the other matter that concerns me and might be an obstacle.”

“What?” Yuri's heavy brows drew together over his generous nose.

“The argument you had with Guinevere Stallings,” Ben answered. “I must know what it was about and how it was resolved.”

“It was nothing.” Yuri stared at his shoes. “A misunderstanding.”

“Nevertheless,” Ben said, “I would be uncomfortable recommending you without full knowledge of the incident.”

“How do you know of this?” Yuri demanded, his accent changing the “th” sound to a “z.” “There was no incident report filed.”

“I overheard you talking to your buddy in the crew bar.” Ben lowered his voice. “Tell me what happened or I can't help you and you'll be cleaning the crew's toilets for the rest of your time here.”

“You promise to help me if it is nothing?” Yuri asked and when Ben nodded, he said, “She accuse me of smoking in her cabin.”

“And were you?” Ben asked, straightening his shoulders. “Smoking anywhere but a designated area is cause for instant dismissal.”

“No! No!” Yuri shook his head vigorously. “The first day she is aboard, she claims to smell smoke and says that she would report me to the head of housekeeping unless I provide her with all the little extras she would expect if she were in her rightful place on a passenger deck.” His voice rose. “She wanted the fancy towels and toiletries and turndown service and—and everything.”

“And since crew members work fourteen-hour days with few, if any, breaks, this would be almost impossible for you to accomplish,” Ben said, clearly for Skye and Trixie's benefit.

“I tell her that.” Yuri crossed his beefy arms. “But she say that she will make sure I am fired and sent back to Ukraine.” Yuri shivered theatrically. “I cannot go back there. When I was foolish young man, I published a political article against the current regime's dismantling of Ukraine's democracy. I would be arrested the minute I set foot in my homeland.”

“Did you do as she demanded?” Ben asked. “Or did she report you?”

“Monday, I get it all for her.” Yuri smirked. “But that night when I come to turn down her bed, I see a man leaving her cabin.”

“So what?” Ben raised a brow.

“He was a passenger.” Yuri's self-satisfied expression turned into a knowing leer. “He was hurrying away still zipping his pants as she stood in the doorway. She had on only a robe and a contented smile.”

“Ah, I see. Guests are not allowed on the crew decks without special permission,” Ben said, again obviously reciting the rules for Skye and Trixie's benefit, “and staff is forbidden from having any kind of sexual relationship with the passengers.”

Skye and Trixie exchanged glances and Skye aimed her thoughts at Ben, trying to convey via mental telepathy that he should ask for a description of Guinevere's lover.

“That is when, as you Americans say, the worm turned.” Yuri grinned, displaying yellow teeth. “I had something on her. She had something on me.”

“Or as the politically incorrect of my country say, a Mexican standoff.” Ben chuckled. A few seconds later he seemed to get Skye's psychic request and asked, “What did this man look like?”

“Tall, about your height, but not so big in the body,” Yuri said after thinking. “Maybe forty or so, with blond hair and blue eyes.”

“Anything distinguishing about him?” Ben asked. “Did she call him by name?”

“No.” Yuri shrugged. “But I took picture of him with my cell phone.” He pursed his lips. “Why you so interested?”

“For my files,” Ben hedged. “Can you e-mail me a copy of that photo?”

“My phone is dead.” Yuri snapped his fingers. “But
as soon as it charges, I do it.” He brightened. “And you get me on the waitstaff?”

“If you have the right answer to one more question, on the next cruise I will ask that you be assigned to my dining room as an assistant.”

Yuri tensed. “What you want to know? I already tell you everything.”

“Where were you Tuesday morning between eleven thirty and noon?”

“That is my meal break.” Yuri's expression was puzzled. “My friends Bogdan and Danya and me were in the crew mess. Tuesday is borscht, and Bogdan spill the kettle of soup all over me, so I remember.” He looked at his watch. “Is that all? I need to finish my cabins, or I have no time to eat.” When Ben nodded, Yuri said, “You keep your promise?”

“Next cruise you'll be on my staff,” Ben pledged. “Scout's honor.”

After Ben tracked down Yuri's pals and they swore Yuri had been with them on Tuesday during lunch, he led Skye and Trixie back to the International Café. They thanked him profusely and reminded him that they needed to get Yuri's e-mailed snapshot as soon as he sent it to Ben. Ben promised to deliver it to Trixie's cabin the minute he received and printed the picture.

By the time Skye and Trixie said good-bye to Ben, it was a few minutes past noon so the two women headed toward the Pilothouse Bar. When they arrived, Skye's parents, Owen, and Wally had already secured a spot. Wally had a Diet Coke with lime waiting for Skye, and Owen had gotten Trixie a Dr Pepper.

Sinking into the sofa next to her husband, Skye grabbed her drink and took a healthy swallow. Her mouth was dry from the heat belowdecks; it was at least twenty degrees warmer there. While she quenched her thirst, she looked around the lounge.

This was her second visit to the bar, and only now did she notice the decor. Paintings of early ships and
sea captains dotted the wall, and the nautical theme continued in the brass fixtures and looped ropes decorating most surfaces. Huge leather couches and club chairs were grouped around coffee tables made out of old ship's wheels.

“Guinevere had a lover on board,” Trixie blurted out as soon as the waitress left after taking everyone's lunch order.