Ransom at Sea (25 page)

Emily patted her hand. “Please.”

Ransom continued. “Apparently nobody could have, with the possible exception of Mrs. O'Malley, though why she should kill a perfect stranger is a mystery. Or Lily DuPree, except that even I still doubt she could've wielded anything with enough force to knock out the victim, let alone be able to strangle her.”

Emily was looking at him intently, a half smile on her face. “There's something more, isn't there?”

“Yes … and I know you're not going to like it.”

“What?”

“You're friend Joaquin.”

“What?” Emily exclaimed with surprise.

“He was the last to leave the boat. You all left first, the captain and his wife, then Douglas, and last was Joaquin.”

Emily knit her slender brows. “Really. I seem to remember.…” She searched her memory, then shifted slightly. “Lily DuPree said that she saw Joaquin leave
before
David … of course she was very vague.”

Ransom shook his head. “She was half-asleep. Both Mrs. O'Malley and Joaquin himself verified that Douglas left first. But that leaves Joaquin here on the boat for a time, and we have only his word for when he left. It's possible that Miss Hemsley came back to the boat and found him doing something he shouldn't have been doing.”

Emily sighed. “I'd hate to think it. Of course, I've seen enough of life to know that anything's possible. But … Joaquin?”

“It's those Bambi eyes of his, Emily. That's what's getting to you.”

She smiled. “‘Bambi eyes' rather denotes innocence, doesn't it?”

He laughed. “So, say Joaquin managed to leave the boat without killing Miss Hemsley. What does that leave us with? That somebody came back to the boat and did her in? The problem with that is first of all, everyone is alibied for at least part of the time, if not all of it. The notable exceptions are Claudia Trenton, who went off on her own, Bertram Driscoll, who was alone part of the time, and Douglas, who claims to have been walking on the beach.”

“I see,” said Emily, sitting back.

“And I think we can rule out Driscoll.”

“How so?”

“You remember we wondered if it would've been possible for him to come back to the boat via the beach, kill Hemsley for whatever reason, then double back and ‘run into' you?”

“Yes?”

“Well, Douglas headed south on the beach, sometime between ten-thirty and eleven.”

Emily nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, yes!”

“I don't get it,” Lynn said testily.

“You see, my dear, if Mr. Driscoll had come down the beach, he would've run into Mr. Douglas.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lynn said. Then her visage darkened again. “That's assuming Douglas is telling the truth!”

“Of everything he's said,” Ransom replied, “there's one thing I'm sure of: he was telling the truth about going down the beach.”

“How can you be sure about that?”

He shrugged. “Why lie about having been alone for so long? It would only cast suspicion on him. And someone could've seen him. He knew that.”

“Who would've seen him?”

“Lily DuPree might have, for one. And possibly the Millers.”

“Did he know they'd gone up the other end of the beach?” Emily asked.

Ransom nodded. “He saw you off. And then there's the possibility that Joaquin could've seen him as well, since he left after Douglas.”

“Oh, dear,” Emily said, her eyes widening.

“What is it?” Lynn asked.

“I've just realized that anyone who planned on coming back to the boat was running a great risk of being seen—the passengers all thought that the Farradays, the rest of the crew, and Lily were on the boat, and the Millers were in view of it.”

“Yes,” said Ransom. “And even the crew knew that DuPree and the cook were on board, and the Millers were nearby.”

“It really does look bad for Joaquin in that case, doesn't it?” said Emily.

“Yes. Hemsley could've come back, surprised Joaquin doing something, he killed her, then went to the shops to establish something of an alibi.”

“Why didn't you want to tell the sheriff that?” Lynn asked warmly. “That must be it! That has to be it!”

Ransom and Emily glanced at each other.

“No, Lynn, that couldn't be what happened,” Emily said.

“Why not? He just said—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Ransom. “But Lynn, the thing is, Joaquin
did
go to the shops. At least we know he went to the general store.”

“So what if he did?” Lynn demanded.

“If Rebecca didn't kill her aunt, and her aunt really wasn't there when she looked in, then Miss Hemsley had to have been murdered between the time you spoke with Rebecca after she left the boat, and when you discovered the body. That lets Joaquin out because we actually know that he at least went to the general store—Mrs. Friendly confirmed that. If he'd left the boat after Rebecca, you would've seen him.”

“That would also definitely let Mr. Driscoll out,” said Emily, “since it was during that time that we spoke to him.”

The young woman's lips trembled. “Then I don't see how it could've been done.” She gave a forlorn sniff, working at keeping herself under control. But it proved too difficult. She rose from her place on the bed and without raising her eyes, said, “I should get Miss Hemsley's things together,” and left the room.

Ransom sat down beside Emily and sighed. “What she really meant is she doesn't see how anyone other than Rebecca could've done it.”

“The poor dear,” said Emily. “I know it's only been a short time, but she really does seem to care for Rebecca.”

He turned as curious eye toward her. “A short time? Maggie's been dead for a few years now, hasn't she?”

Emily bestowed a smile on her ersatz grandson. “I meant a short time since she's met Rebecca.”

This correction occasioned a rare blush from the detective. “Ah. Of course.”

“I suppose people do form bonds quickly nowadays, just the way they do everything else. Especially under such extraordinary circumstances. In my day things would've always been taken more slowly.”

Ransom produced an impish grin. “Emily, in ‘your day' a respectable elderly lady would not have been playing matchmaker to two women.”

She laughed. “Yes. As you would say, touché!”

The detective's smile quickly faded. “The trouble is, I'm afraid Lynn is going to be disappointed. I'm not a magician. And … no matter how she may feel, you realize she doesn't really know what Rebecca's capable of.”

Emily nodded. “And she knows that, too.”

They fell silent for a time, each lost in thought. Then Emily said, “You know, there is one other possibility, as far-fetched as it sounds.”

“What's that?”

Her shoulders elevated slightly. “That the murder was done by someone who has nothing to do with the tour. They watched the boat, waiting for an opportunity to come aboard, perhaps to rob it? And they could've taken the opportunity and been caught by Marcella.”

“And then what? When they left the boat, if they went north up the beach they would've run into the Millers, south would've taken them to Douglas, and if they'd gone around the general store they would've run into you.”

“I know,” Emily said with a cluck of her tongue, “it's very vexing. But you know, it is possible. There was that incident quite some time ago when a man strolled into Buckingham Palace, walked the length of it, went up the stairs and wandered into the queen's bedroom.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Well, as unlikely as it may be, someone could've watched the boat until after Joaquin had left, seen that Lily was asleep, and took a chance that so near to lunch the cook would be busy in the galley, just as she was. Then he or she could've come onto the boat, been discovered by Marcella when she returned, killed her, and fled. You said that Mr. Douglas left the beach?”

“Yes.”

“Then couldn't it have been a stranger who came on, committed the murder, then went a little way down the beach and disappeared into the woods?”

Ransom heaved a sigh. “I grant you, it's possible. But I don't like it.”

Emily nodded ruefully. “It doesn't seem likely.”

“It's not just that. I have enough trouble with the suspects we have without bringing a mysterious stranger into it.” He got up from the bed. “And speaking of which, the one last thing I have to do is check up on Stuart Holmes's friend, or client, or whatever he is. I'll be back to take you and Lynn to dinner.”

“Oh, no, I don't think you should do that,” said Emily, getting to her feet with his help.

“Why not?”

“I think it would be better if we dined with the rest of the passengers—Lynn and I, I mean—because we might be able to get some useful information.”

Ransom smiled. “All right. I'll be off, then.” He started for the door, and she followed, intending to go to her own cabin. But Ransom stopped short. “Oh, one other thing: the sheriff plans to tell the captain that you're all free to go in the morning.”

“Oh, dear,” Emily said quietly.

*   *   *

Lynn had gone from Rebecca's cabin to Marcella's, where she proceeded to fold the old woman's belongings. It was with some effort that she'd managed to pull herself together after leaving Ransom and Emily. She was at once embarrassed by her loss of control and disgusted with herself for allowing her feelings to grow so strong for someone she really didn't know.

That was the thing that really plagued her mind: that no matter how she felt, no matter what she thought of Rebecca, she didn't really know her. She couldn't. Not after such a short time.

Packing up the things that had been so recently worn by someone who had been alive not forty-eight hours earlier brought back the dreadful period after Maggie had died. The loneliness and unnatural stillness of the garden apartment they'd shared for so many years. Lynn had given up her job as a high-paid corporate personal assistant and taken on the role of what she'd called charwoman to the rich and famous, a high-priced and terribly exclusive cleaning woman for equally exclusive Gold Coast clients. She'd done this so that she could arrange her time flexibly and be able to take care of Maggie at home.

But after Maggie died, that same freedom worked against the healing process. Without having to be somewhere at a specific time, with being able to come and go more or less as she pleased, and not having to really deal with many people, she found herself feeling even more adrift and lost: perhaps more than she would have if career demands had forced her to work her way back into life and the world in general.

She held one of Marcella's faded peasant dresses at arm's length and looked at it. It reminded her of when she'd finally been able to bring herself to pack Maggie's things. She had held Maggie's favorite violet evening dress just the way she was doing this now. It was like looking at a ghost; a lifeless shell that had once contained her beloved friend. It had been a comfort to keep Maggie's things for a while, but when the time came to do something with them, they seemed to mock her with their familiarity. She had pressed that violet dress to her cheek, dappling it with her tears, and found that Maggie's scent still clung to it. It had been almost too much to bear.

And do you want to go through that all over again?
she thought to herself now.
Get involved with someone else. Love them, care for them, spend years with them, and then lose them? Again?

She shook her head briskly. “You're being ridiculous,” she said aloud. She carefully folded the peasant dress, placed it in the bottom of the suitcase, then retrieved another from the closet.

Emily's right,
she thought.
I don't know Becky at all … not enough to know what she's capable of.

She stopped as she slipped a light brown dress off a hanger. “But I know she's not guilty of murder,” she said firmly, answering her own thought.

8

Before going back to the motel, Ransom decided to take a walk on the beach. He went down the dock to the point where it circled the general store, turned to the right, and at the corner of the building jumped down onto the sand, then headed south.

On the deck of the
Genessee,
Hoke bent beside the chair on which Lily DuPree was reclined. “Would you like something, Miss DuPree? Could I get you something cool to drink from the bar?”

“What?” she said in her breathless whisper, startled by his unexpected appearance at her side. “Oh! No, no thank you. I'm fine.”

“Okay,” he said, giving her his usual warm smile.

He straightened himself and started for the wheelhouse to check in with the captain, but stopped when he noticed the movement on the beach. He slowly moved toward the starboard railing and crouched down, peering over it. He could see Ransom in the distance, strolling down the beach as if he had no particular purpose in mind. The detective's progress was neither slow nor fast, so it didn't seem as if he were looking for anything or heading for a specific place.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The voice made the young steward leap to his feet with a cry. He found himself face-to-face with David Douglas, who wore an expression of perplexed displeasure.

“I was just looking at that detective.”

Douglas followed Hoke's glance and saw the now remote figure. He turned back to his subordinate. “So what? So he's on the beach.”

“It makes me nervous, having the police around.”

“That's what happens when some old fool gets herself murdered.”

“But that happened on the boat. Why should he go there?”

“Why do you care?” Douglas said, eyeing him suspiciously. “You weren't there.”