Ransom at Sea (22 page)

“No.”

During the short silence that followed, Ransom did a quick assessment of Mr. Brock: the wide-set eyes, his blank expression, and his weedy physique made his explanation plausible. He was like a feather that could be caught in an updraft and carried along a great distance before its own weight would bring it to the ground.

“So, I went back to the … to the fork in the path. We'd gone much farther than I thought. And I tried to find Muriel.”

“How long did it take?”

“What?” Brock said, blinking.

“I mean, how long were you on your own?”

He sat back in his chair and touched the fingers of his right hand to his chin. “Oh, I don't know.…”

“An estimate?”

“I'm really terrible at that sort of thing. I really don't know.… Did the others have any idea?”

“Yes, but I'm asking you.”

“Well, whatever they said, they were probably right.”

Ransom smiled. “Please, Mr. Brock, just a guess.”

“A guess…” he said slowly, his gaze trailing off into another dimension. As he thought he tapped his fingertips just beneath his lower lip. “A guess … I don't know … ten minutes? Maybe twenty? It seemed a very long time.”

“But you did find Miss Langstrom again.”

He nodded. “Yes. She was in quite a state. She was crying, very much so. It was a terrible thing to do. I felt ashamed of myself, and very angry with Bertie.”

There was a long pause, then Ransom said, “Mr. Brock, while all these … hijinks … were going on, did you see anyone else? Any of your fellow passengers?”

“No. It took a while to get Muriel calmed down, and then I walked her back to the boat. We didn't see any of the other passengers until we got there.” There was a pause, then he suddenly remembered something. “Oh, we did see that steward fellow, though.”

“The steward? Which one?”

“David Douglas, the blond one.”

“Where was this?”

“On our way back. He came up from behind us when we were coming down the road. He joined us.”

“From behind you,” Ransom said with some surprise.

“Yes. And then we got back here and heard about the murder.” He shuddered.

Out of the corner of his eye Ransom saw the Millers rise and start to depart. He thanked Brock, then quickly moved to intercept the retreating couple.

“Mr. and Mrs. Miller?” he said, catching them just by the starboard door.

“Yes?” the husband said brightly. “Oh, is it our turn?”

Ransom smiled. “I'm afraid it is. Why don't we go into the lounge and have a word before you leave.”

“Sure thing.” Miller put his arm around his wife, whose forced smile showed that she was more apprehensive about this meeting than her husband. Ransom preceded them into the lounge, and they sat at a table by the port windows.

“Nice view here,” said Ransom offhandedly, glancing toward the beach.

“It's getting old,” said Miller, “but aren't we all!”

Ransom winced internally. The encroaching gray in his own close-cropped hair was enough of a reminder. “Your names are Martin and Laura, correct?”

They nodded.

“Did you know Marcella Hemsley at all?”

They both shook their heads, but it was Martin who spoke. “Only by sight. We've seen her at church.”

“I see. So you didn't have any personal knowledge of her.”

They both shook their heads again. “Haven't spent any time with her at all. Don't think we've ever said hello to her before this trip.”

“Ah. Now, as for the trip, what were your impressions of her?”

The Millers exchanged glances, then their mouths simultaneously melted into nearly identical, regretful frowns.

“Sad, very sad,” said Martin.

“Very, very sad,” his wife added.

“Her mind was obviously going. That poor girl, her niece, she did everything she could to make her way easy, but everyone on the boat—the older ones, I mean—could recognize that Marcella was going to have to go into a nursing home.”

“Only thing to do,” Laura said, shaking her head remorsefully.

“You seem fairly observant,” said Ransom cordially.

Martin shook his head. “Didn't really have to be observant.”

“We've seen the same sort of thing time and time again,” his wife added.

“Hmm,” said Ransom. “I was just wondering what you thought of Rebecca Bremmer, and how she took care of her aunt.”

“The girl seems very nice,” said Martin. “And she was good to her aunt.”

“Better, I think, than most could've been,” added Laura. “Her aunt wasn't overly nice to her.”

“The girl was tired, though. Very tired. Worn out.”

“Did she strike you as the kind of person who could've done this? Maybe … out of mercy?” Ransom asked.

The Millers exchanged another glance, which seemed to convey a mutual admonition for caution.

“I wouldn't say that,” said Martin. “I wouldn't have thought it. But you never know what someone will do, do you?”

“When pushed beyond the limits of their endurance,” his wife added quickly.

“Is that how it struck you?”

Husband and wife stared at him for a moment, then blinked.

“What?” Martin asked.

“That Rebecca Bremmer was being pushed beyond her limit.”

“Ho, no,” Martin replied with a nervous laugh. “We aren't psychologists or anything like that! And we don't know what the young lady's limits are!”

“Point taken,” Ransom said after a beat. “Now, I understand the two of you were the first to split apart from the others.”

“Yeah! Bunch of old fogeys!” Martin exclaimed, though not unkindly. “Laura and me, we like to keep really active. No ol' nature walks for us!”

“Where did you go?”

“Right out there,” Laura replied, bending a finger toward the beach.

Martin chimed in. “Minute we saw all those dead tree formations, we knew we had to get some pictures.” He stopped and gave a rueful glance toward the scene. “Funny, though, now that we're stuck here, all those twines of dead wood seem like a … like a … web or barricade or something. Helluva place for us to have to stay, know what I mean?”

“Honey, don't,” said Laura.

“The detective knows what I mean.” He turned to Ransom. “Don't you?”

“I think I do. How far up the beach did you go?”

“Oh, a ways away!”

“You didn't get out of sight of the boat, though.”

“Well, that's hard to say.…”

“We did go some way,” Laura offered, “but … I don't know that we got completely out of sight.” Her eyes did a quick sidelong glance at her husband, and her cheeks colored slightly.

“You see,” said Ransom, “if Rebecca Bremmer didn't murder her aunt, given the time element involved, she had to have been killed by someone who was either already on or near the boat.”

The Millers remained silent.

“What exactly were you doing on the beach?”

“Um … just taking pictures, like we said,” Martin replied. “You know, of the different … various … tree formations. Dead tree formations.”

“They're very beautiful,” Laura said quickly. “I suppose many people might not think so, but we … we see the beauty.”

“So you were taking photos,” said Ransom. “Only of the trees? Did you take any of each other?”

“Well, yes … of course. I guess we did,” said Martin.

Ransom's brow had creased. “So you must've taken at least some photos in the direction of the boat.”

“Uh … maybe. I don't know, though. Besides, we were far away. What difference does it make?”

“Surely you can see that,” Ransom replied with a puzzled smile. “It could make all the difference in the world. I'm going to have to ask you for the film.”

“The film!” Laura exclaimed. “Our film? No! You can't have it!”

“Why would you want it?” What does this have to do with us?” Martin asked with the wariness of someone who is naturally a bit afraid of the police.

“I should think the answer is obvious. You may have accidentally captured the murderer returning to the boat on film.”

“But we were too far away!” Laura protested, her tone becoming shrill. “We couldn't have caught anyone!”

Ransom's expression showed his bafflement at her reaction. “Even if the image is very small, it might help us a great deal.” He turned to Martin. “Mr. Miller … you wouldn't be trying to shield someone, would you?”

“No! Of course not! We don't want to lose our pictures, is all. I don't want anybody messing them up. I do all my own developing, you know. I don't trust anyone else, not even photo labs.”

“I'm sure you can make an exception in this case. We'll develop them for you, and once we've examined them will give you prints and the negatives. For free.” In the back of his mind Ransom hoped that Sheriff Barnes had the capability for doing this.

“I—” Martin stopped when confronted with the eyebrow Ransom had raised in answer to further protest. “All right.”

As he rose from the table, Laura put a hand on his arm. “Martin, don't, please!”

“Mrs. Miller,” said Ransom. “Think of this: All of the passengers knew you were going up the beach to take pictures. It may be that what I'm suggesting will occur to the murderer. Keeping the pictures yourself could prove dangerous.”

She looked at him with large, anxious eyes.

Martin said, “Honey, I don't see any way around it.”

He went away from the table, leaving his wife alone with the detective. She attempted a smile. “We're enthusiasts, you see. We like taking pictures.”

“I understand,” said Ransom, though in truth he was still perplexed over the level of her anxiety. “There's one thing I forgot to ask you. While you were up the beach, did you yourself see anyone?”

She shook her head. “We told you. We were too far away.”

“No, I don't mean at the boat. I meant up the beach where you were.”

“No. I didn't see anyone.”

Having exhausted the subject, they fell silent until her husband returned. It seemed to Ransom that Martin Miller was walking a bit more slowly as he rounded the corner from the dining room and came into the lounge.

“Here,” Martin said as he handed a small black canister to the detective. “Please … uh, be careful with them.”

“I will.” Ransom rose from he seat. “And I'll get the pictures back to you as soon as possible.”

“And the negatives.”

“Yes,” Ransom said after a beat.

Martin gave his hand to his wife and she got out of her chair.

“Thank you,” she said to Ransom, averting her eyes.

The couple left the lounge, exiting the dining room through the starboard door. As they went down the stairs to the blue deck, Laura said anxiously, “Did you switch the rolls?”

“Fah!” Martin exclaimed. “Of course not! They can see what the landscape looks like! They would know if I didn't give them the right film.” When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Martin took his wife by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Laura, are you really upset about this?”

There was a short pause, then her lips spread into a broad smile. “No. I'm excited!”

7

Ransom watched as the Millers made their exit, then stuck the film in his pocket. Jackson Brock had left the dining room, and Lily DuPree had finished her lunch and was chatting with Emily as she did the same. Ransom crossed to the back of the bar and went through the door behind it, assuming it led to the kitchen. He found himself in a large but crowded galley lined with cupboards and the usual fittings for preparing and storing food. The plump woman in the gray uniform, her hair held in place with a black net, was busy wrapping the remainder of the lunch meats and cheeses for storage.

“I told you to wait for the rest until I got this lot put away!” she said without looking up.

“Mrs. O'Malley, isn't it?” said Ransom.

The woman jumped and turned, letting out a scream. Her eyes goggled at him.

“My God! You gave me the fright of my life, sneaking up on me like that! Who are you?”

“I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” he replied smoothly. “I'm Detective Ransom.”

She finally allowed herself to exhale. “Oh, yes, I was told you'd be talking to me. You gave me quite a turn.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I took you for David. You mind if I go on working while we talk? I have to get this lot refrigerated. Ha! The cheese is going limp as it is!” She held up a slice of Swiss for him to see, and it had, indeed, lost some of its body.

“Go right ahead. I understand that you were here on the boat when the murder occurred?”

She slued her eyes at him as she slapped the cheese back onto the plate and began to pile the rest on top of it. “Yes, and don't think that helps me sleep any too good at night, either!”

“I can imagine.”

“To think of me being alone with a murderer!” She grabbed up a long rectangular box, measured a length of cling wrap, and stripped it off, replacing the box. “'Course, the one thing that gives me any peace is knowing that it was someone getting murdered in particular, and not some random thing—” She stopped abruptly. “Not that I'm happy the poor old thing is dead. Everybody should be let to live out their lives, with no interference from any outside source.” She turned back to her work and began folding the wrap around the cheese. “Still and all, I hate to think of me alone in the boat when it happened.”

“Are you sure you were alone?”

She turned to him again, paling as if she thought he was suggesting that the killer had been hiding in one of her cupboards.

Ransom shrugged. “I mean, since you were working in here, you wouldn't have seen anybody.”