Murder of a Needled Knitter (4 page)

“I don't need a reservation,” Guinevere thundered. “My arrangement with the cruise line is that when I lead a tour group, I eat at this restaurant every night.” She drew herself up and thrust out her considerable chest. “Don't you know who I am?”

“I'm sorry—”

“I am Guinevere Stallings, the foremost knitting authority in the world, a best-selling author, and an award-winning designer.”

A handsome man dressed in an exquisite Ralph Lauren tuxedo had entered the restaurant while Guinevere was ranting. He waited until she took a breath, then drawled, “Darling, don't forget your most outstanding accomplishment—being the biggest bitch alive.”

She whirled around and snarled, “I wasn't born a bitch, Sebastian. Men like you made me this way.” When he only chuckled, she demanded, “And what are you doing here?”

“Working.” The man smiled serenely. “The same as you, my little buttercup.”

“My contract expressly forbids that we be assigned to the same ship.”

“Ah, but then you weren't originally scheduled to lead this group, were you?” Sebastian shrugged an elegant shoulder. “I guess no one thought to see if one of your many enemies was on board when they asked you to fill in for Pearl after her extremely mysterious but convenient accident. I'm surprised you didn't check.”

“I like taking risks,” Guinevere retorted. “If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much room.”

“Or is it that you really wanted this assignment for some particular reason?” Sebastian asked.

“What do you mean by that?” Guinevere snapped. “I hope you aren't insinuating—”

“After our last court battle, would I be stupid enough to slander you?” Sebastian narrowed his navy blue eyes. “Or is it libel? I can never remember.”

“Someone's going to be sorry for this mix-up,” Guinevere vowed, her beautiful face an unattractive brick red. “Heads will roll.”

“No doubt.” Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps even yours.”

Setting Sail

T
wo hours later, as Skye and Wally left the restaurant, Skye said, “That knitting woman sure seemed upset about the reservation mix-up.”

“So you mentioned.” Wally put his hand on Skye's waist and guided her toward the exit. “Several times.”

“Sorry.” Skye's expression was sheepish. “There's just something about her that's irritating.”

“I understand.” Wally's tone was indulgent. “It's the sense of entitlement she exudes.”

“Look, she's still fuming,” Skye whispered, flicking a brief glance at Guinevere as they passed her table. “I wouldn't want to have been her server tonight.”

“Or any other night,” Wally muttered. “When you were in the restroom, she reamed the poor guy out about the size of her steak.”

“It was too small?” Skye's voice rose to an incredulous pitch. She was so stuffed, she was half convinced Wally might have to roll her out of the dining room.

“Nah.” He snickered. “Ms. High-and-Mighty was unhappy because it was too big.” Wally took Skye's hand. “She accused the waiter of trying to make her fat.”

“Right,” Skye scoffed. “I'm sure in the small amount
of time the crew has off, they scheme to sabotage the passengers' diets.”

“Of course they do, sugar,” Wally agreed, playing along with the joke as he and Skye wandered through the portrait gallery.

Here, the ship's photographers posted the pictures they'd taken of the passengers both on board and in port. In an attempt to spur impulse purchases, the gallery was strategically placed between the dining rooms and the entertainment venues. Panels and panels of plastic holders lined the walkway, and it often took folks several sweeps to locate their own photos.

“The bartenders plot how to get their customers to overindulge and become drunken fools, too,” Wally added as an apparently inebriated couple did a conga down the gallery.

Skye chuckled, then pointed. “There we are when we embarked.” She and Wally were posed in front of a background of painted palms with a huge banner reading B
ON
V
OYAGE
D
IAMOND
C
OUNTESS
strung between the trees.

“Do you want to buy it?” Wally asked, reaching for the print.

“Maybe.” Skye peered more closely at the photo, then shook her head. “My eyes are half closed.”

They strolled on to the next set of pictures, stopping next to one of Skye and Wally on the beach. They'd been lying side by side on the sand when the photographer had taken the shot.

“How about this one?” Wally tapped the plastic shield. “Since you have your sunglasses on, you can't tell if your eyes are open or shut.”

Skye was okay with being quite a bit curvier than present fashion dictated, but a swimsuit revealed everything. And because she'd acquiesced to Wally's pleading, she was wearing a two-piece suit. It was by no means a bikini, having a high-waisted bottom and a full-coverage bandeau top, but still . . .

“I'm not thrilled with pictures of me dressed that way,” she said. “Or I should say undressed that way.”

“I am.” Wally put his arm around her and hugged her to his side.

“I'm sure there'll be plenty of other snapshots of us we can buy.”

“You look terrific,” Wally insisted. “I want this picture for my desk so when it's below zero and the mayor is driving me crazy, it'll remind me of cuddling with you on a tropical beach.”

“Well, since you put it that way . . .” How could she be self-conscious about her body when her new husband obviously loved her the way she was? “Go ahead.”

While Wally stood in line to make his purchase, Skye listened to the disembodied voice on the PA system urging passengers to attend the various activities taking place throughout the ship. She was so glad that the incessant loudspeaker announcements were not audible in their cabin. If they wanted to hear the broadcasts, they could tune one of the three televisions in their suite to the ship's channel, but they weren't continually bombarded by the annoying messages.

When Wally returned holding a cardboard folder with the intricate
Diamond Countess
logo emblazed in gold across a background of aquamarine waves, he asked, “Do you want to see one of the shows tonight? According to the
Diamond Dialogue
there's a ventriloquist in the Pioneer Lounge, a country-and-western party on deck, and a Broadway production in the theater.”

“The singers and dancers might be fun,” Skye decided. “We get enough country music in Scumble River, and ventriloquists creep me out.” She made a face. “Vince had this scary dummy that he used to torment me with when we were little.”

“Some of your stories about your brother make me glad I was an only child.” Wally put his palm on the small of her back and steered her toward the stern. “At
least by the time Quentin came to live with us, the only thing I had to worry about was him stealing my girlfriends.”

“I can't imagine any female preferring your cousin to you.” Skye glanced at the store window displays as they made their way through the galleria. She could feel the vibration through the floor as the ship picked up speed heading toward its next destination.

“Thank you, darlin'.” Wally leaned down and gave her a swift kiss. “You're sweeter than honey to say that, but of course you're also prejudiced.”

“Just stating the facts,” Skye assured him absentmindedly. The numerous shops along the promenade sold everything from high-end cosmetics and designer purses to fabulous jewelry. She would have to stay out of this section of the ship or she might be tempted to do some serious damage to her credit card. And her Visa had taken enough abuse, what with Christmas gifts, wedding expenses, and honeymoon clothes shopping. “Tell the truth. Did any of your high school sweethearts ever dump you for your cousin, or was it always the other way around, and you poached his girls?”

“I plead the Fifth.” Wally drew Skye to his side as an older woman on a motorized scooter nearly ran her over. “Is that the kind of perfume you like?” He pointed to a display of heart-shaped bottles topped with tiny golden crowns studded with purple crystals.

“One of them, but it's sort of expensive.” Skye kept walking. The show started at ten and it was nine forty-five. “Hurry. I wonder if we'll have trouble finding a place to sit.”

“We shouldn't.” Wally increased his pace. “One of the suite perks is reserved seating in the balcony.”

As Skye had feared, the theater was crowded when they entered, and if they hadn't been able to use the places roped off for suite guests, they might not have found free spots. Once Wally showed his key card to the crew member in charge of that area, they were
allowed to edge past those who were already seated and claim two of the last four chairs. A few seconds later, a server approached and took their drink order.

As the waitperson moved on to the next row, Skye examined the theater. Both the balcony and main floor had tiered blue velvet seats with tiny marble tables on the armrests between them. A gold satin curtain ran the length of the stage and spotlights hung from the baroque ceiling.

Turning to Wally, Skye asked, “Who do you think that guy was in the restaurant tonight?”

“What guy?”

“The one the knitting lady was so bent out of shape about.”

“It sounded like he was another guest lecturer employed by the cruise line.” Wally adjusted the crease of his tuxedo pants as he crossed his legs. “Somebody she evidently didn't like working with.”

“I figured that much out, Sherlock.” Skye snorted, then thought over the conversation she'd overheard. “I meant, who was he in relation to that woman? It sounded a lot more personal to me than a dispute among colleagues. Like maybe they'd been romantically involved and it ended badly or something of that sort.”

“Hard to say.” Clearly not interested in anyone's love life except his own, Wally put his arm around Skye and breathed in her ear, “You know, it's not too late to skip the show and go back to our room.”

“Later, baby.” Skye caressed his jaw. “We're here now. We've ordered drinks. Let's enjoy the production.” She leaned closer and whispered, “Besides, the anticipation will make it that much better when we are alone in that nice big bed.” She put her hand on his thigh and her lips to his ear. “I want to open the balcony doors while we—”

“Excuse us.” A familiar female voice intruded on Skye's erotic murmurings. “Watch your feet.” The voice
continued to come closer as the person moved down the row. “Hey, keep your hands to yourself, buddy!”

“Skye! Wally!” Trixie Frayne dropped into the chair next to Skye. “What are you two doing here?” Trixie's bright brown eyes sparkled as she hugged Skye. “Did you know we were on the same cruise?”

“Not at first,” Skye admitted. “But we worked it out this afternoon.” She smiled at her BFF. “You look amazing. I love your dress.”

Trixie had on a red strapless mini that was perfect for her size-four figure.

As the women chatted, Trixie's husband, Owen, shook Wally's hand and said, “Good to see you, man.” He smoothed his straight black hair off his forehead. “So they got you decked out in a monkey suit, huh? I told Trix, no way was I wearing one of those.”

Skye raised a brow at her friend and Trixie whispered, “It wasn't worth the fight.”

“Definitely,” Skye agreed. “So where have you two been the past couple of days? Why haven't we run into you before now?”

“With it being your honeymoon and all, my guess is you've hardly left your cabin.” Trixie smirked. “I'm surprised you're here now.”

“We attended the sail-away yesterday and spent several hours at the resort this afternoon,” Skye protested. “And we ate in the Titian dining room last night and in the Coronet Brasserie tonight.” Skye's cheeks were pink. “We're not a couple of sex-crazed teenagers.”

“Speak for yourself, darlin'.” Wally winked and gave her a resounding kiss. “We'd be in our suite now if it were up to me.”

“Now, that's what I'm talking about.” Owen hooted and grinned, then said, “Gotta keep the womenfolk happy. Anybody who tells you that marriage is a fifty-fifty deal doesn't know anything about ladies or fractions.”

Trixie smacked her husband's arm and giggled, then
rolled her eyes at Skye. Skye smiled back. It struck her that back home Owen rarely participated in the conversation, at least not this much. He was clearly a lot more at ease here than she was used to seeing him. She'd always thought of Trixie's husband as attractive in a sinewy, ascetic way. He wasn't her type, but she could see the appeal, especially when he was relaxed like this instead of his usual intense and driven self.

After the men exchanged a fist bump, Trixie demanded, “So, how did you figure out we were on this ship?” She tilted her head. “You knew Owen and I were taking a cruise this week, but I'm pretty sure I never mentioned the name. I kept calling it the love boat.”

Wally sat forward in his chair so he could answer Trixie without shouting over his wife. “We spotted the knitting group on the island this afternoon. And once we thought about it—or I should say Skye thought about it—all the pieces fell into place.”

Skye explained, “I remembered that when Owen agreed to postpone your vacation so you could be in town for our wedding, he mentioned it was actually a better deal to take a cruise this week because the travel agent had a big group going. And then when Wally said he got a good price for our trip for the same reason, from the same travel agent, I realized it had to be the same cruise.”

“Then—” Trixie started say something.

“Is it okay for you two to be sitting here?” Skye had suddenly remembered that they were in a reserved section. “This area is for suite guests only.”

“No way could I afford a suite on this tub.” Owen fingered his ornate horseshoe-shaped belt buckle and looked at Wally as if for confirmation.

“Yeah,” Wally quickly interjected. “I know what you mean, man.” He chuckled. “We'd be in the cheap seats if Dad's boss hadn't insisted on paying for our honeymoon as his wedding present to us.”

With the exception of Skye, no one from Scumble
River knew that Wally's father was a millionaire, or that Wally's mother had left him a hefty trust fund when she died. Wally was careful to live within his means, and if anyone noticed that Wally's father seemed to have more money than he should, the story was that the CEO of the company that Carson Boyd worked for was very generous.

Before either Trixie or Owen could wonder why Carson's boss would give his employee's son such a lavish gift, Skye said, “We'd better find somewhere else to sit. We'll move so we can be together.”

“No need to do that,” Owen assured her. “As of five p.m. today we are occupying the St. Maarten suite.”

“You were upgraded?” Skye squeezed Trixie's hand, thrilled for her friend.

“Not exactly.” Trixie twisted her mouth. “We've been through hell since we boarded and the suite is sort of a consolation prize.”

“What happened?” Skye asked. “Are you all right? Did you get hurt?”

“We're fine.” Owen crossed his arms. “But a lot of our stuff isn't.”

“First it was the air-conditioning,” Trixie said, taking over the story. “When we got to our cabin yesterday it was too warm. We complained and they sent someone to fix it. Apparently, whatever the repairman did to the AC made it worse, because during the night it got hotter than hades.”

“Since we were in an interior cabin with no way to get any fresh air, we ended up sleeping out on deck,” Owen interjected.

“This morning,” Trixie continued, “we complained again and this time the guy really screwed something up because both the toilet and the shower stopped working. We notified the purser's office just before we went over to the island this afternoon and when we got back, evidently the sewer system had had some sort of
eruption and everything that we had left out in or near the bathroom was covered with you-know-what.”