Ransom at Sea (28 page)

Barnes couldn't help laughing at the frozen expression on the detective's face.

“This is really why you decided to wait, isn't it?” he said.

“No, really, Nagel just now got them to me.”

The photo was much like the earlier ones: a tangle of dead, twisted limbs and branches that put one in mind of a Celtic knot design. But at its center was the broadly smiling Martin Miller, only in this picture he was stark naked.

“Oh, dear,” Ransom said, sounding very much like Emily, as he leafed through the rest of the shots in which Miller and his wife had taken turns posing
au naturel.

“No wonder they didn't want you to take the film!” Barnes laughed.

There were thirty-six photos in all. Ransom took out the few that included the boat and laid the rest of them facedown on the desk. He then looked more closely at the boat pictures.

“They were telling the truth about one thing,” Ransom observed. “They were a fair distance from the boat when they took these.”

“And farther away when they took the rest.”

When Ransom got to the third picture, in which a clothed Martin Miller grinned at the camera, his left palm shielding his eyes from the sun, the detective noted something in the background. He squinted at it, but was unable to make it out, which brought another pang to his vanity.

Without lifting his eyes from the photo, he said, “You wouldn't happen to have a magnifying glass, would you?”

“Matter of fact, I do,” Barnes said as he opened the center drawer of his desk. He extracted a rectangle of glass surrounded by a frame of black plastic with a matching handle. He handed it to Ransom. “What is it?”

“It's hard to tell. I think—way in the background—there's a man on the dock. It looks like … David Douglas.” He bent the magnifying glass to the photo and peered through it. “Hmm.”

“What?”

“I'm not sure … wait a minute. It's not a man at all. Unless I'm very much mistaken, that's Claudia Trenton.”

He handed the photo and magnifying glass to the sheriff, and was heartened when the younger man had to use the glass to look at it.

“Where?” Barnes asked.

“Just to the right of Miller's shoulder.”

Barnes brought the photo close. “Oh, yeah! I see. That is Trenton.” He looked up at Ransom. “She's walking toward the boat.”

He nodded. “Yes. That means she went back to the boat. She didn't tell me that. Did she tell you?”

“No, but I didn't ask her that directly. I didn't see any reason to.”

“Neither did I,” said Ransom.

Barnes looked back down at the photo. “I can't see that it makes any difference, though. This is one of the early pictures. The Millers took over twenty pictures after this. It must've been while the crew was still there doing their thing. She's walking right there out in the open, not trying to sneak back. If the crew was still there, she couldn't really have hidden on the boat until everybody left and then did the old lady in. She probably just went back for something she forgot.”

“Yes, I'm sure you're right,” Ransom conceded. “It's odd, though.”

“What is?”

“That nobody else mentioned seeing Claudia Trenton return. If she went back right after leaving, as you say the whole crew would've been there, and the stewards would have been doing the cabins.” He spent a minute pondering this, his jaw firmly set and his eyes narrowed. “I think I'll have a word with Miss Trenton.”

Barnes started to get up, though he did it reluctantly. “I'll go with you.”

“Um, it might be better if you didn't, if you don't mind.”

“I should be there.”

“I know, but Miss Trenton was very upset when I spoke to her before, and I think that having you there would make it worse.” Barnes started to say something, but Ransom held up a hand. “I realize you're the law here, but my unofficial capacity—with the help of Miss Charters—might make it easier to get Miss Trenton to open up.”

“Miss Charters?” the sheriff said with a quizzical grin.

Ransom nodded. “Some things are better left to Emily.”

*   *   *

“They wouldn't let me bring your things back here,” Lynn said as she took a seat on the bench outside Rebecca's cell. “They're keeping them out there.”

“That's all right,” Rebecca replied colorlessly. “Thank you for getting them.”

There was a long silence. Lynn was finding it difficult to make conversation: discussing the situation seemed futile, and making small talk seemed brutally inappropriate under the circumstances. In the silence she fought with the turmoil of her feelings for Rebecca, another topic that she didn't deem proper at the moment. But the feelings existed, and Lynn had to hold back the overwhelming urge to declare them.

Rebecca was staring at a spot on the cement floor. Without looking up, she quietly asked, “Has … has Detective Ransom found out anything?”

Heat rushed into Lynn's chest. It was a simple question, but it was also the first indication that Rebecca might actually maintain a kernel of hope. It made sense, since the shock of what had happened must be starting to wear off, and she was probably becoming more aware of her position. Lynn only wished her answer could be more positive.

“Yes, he has,” she said, inwardly warning herself against fostering any false hope. “Well, not anything tangible—but I know he agrees with Emily, that things don't seem right on that boat.” She paused, then added, “He really will solve this.”

Rebecca raised her head and revealed a smile. Lynn couldn't remember whether or not she'd seen her smile before. It wasn't broad, and was definitely halfhearted, but it was there.

“You make him sound like The Saint.”

Lynn returned the smile. “Nothing like that. Ransom is far from that. But his results are the same.”

Rebecca unexpectedly laughed, albeit lightly. But what little there had been of a smile soon vanished. “Lynn, I really can't—I don't know … how to thank you for what you've been doing.…”

“You don't have to.”

“And I really do appreciate you going to the trouble of packing up my things … and Aunt Marci's.”

“It wasn't any trouble.”

“I don't know why, but it makes me feel better knowing that everything's here.”

“It was no prob—” She broke off and grimaced. “Oh, damn!”

“What is it?”

She sighed. “I didn't bring everything. I just remembered, I forgot something.”

“What?”

“That package. Didn't you tell me your aunt had some package that you found when you were unpacking for her?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I'm sorry, I forgot to look for it.”

“It's nothing. Given the … the state of her mind, it was probably a box of spoons or something.”

“I don't remember seeing it. Do you know where she put it?”

“She slipped it under the bed.”

“I'll bring it in the morning.”

They fell silent for a time. Lynn thought, not without an inner warmth, that it was as companionable a silence as two people could experience with bars separating them.

*   *   *

Dinner had long since concluded by the time Ransom made it back to the
Genessee,
and most of the passengers had gone up to the white deck to relax. When he came up the gangplank he spotted Emily sitting on a chair with its back to the wheelhouse, where she had a full view of her fellow passengers. Her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes glazed over. She resembled an elderly Buddha pondering the riddles of the universe within herself. When she saw Ransom, her eyes livened.

His appearance had a different effect on the rest of the passengers. Having settled into a postmeal torpor, the sight of the detective caused an immediate crackle in the atmosphere, as if everyone on board had tensed at once.

With his eyes on his elderly friend, he gave a very slight nod in the direction of the staircase, then went to it and descended to the red deck. He glanced into the dining room and found that everything had been cleared, and nobody was around. Emily followed shortly thereafter and they held a brief council by the railing.

“I'm so glad you've come back,” she began rather breathlessly. “There's something I want to tell you.”

“You've discovered something?”

She hesitated. “No, not exactly that. But I am convinced now that Rebecca did not murder her aunt.”

“I thought you were convinced of that before.”

“I believed it before, partly because of the bizarre circumstances surrounding the death, and from having observed her on this trip, I didn't think she was capable of the murder. But now I'm convinced of it.”

“Why?”

“I was able to talk to Lily DuPree again at dinner, to try to get her to remember for certain whether or not Joaquin was last to leave the boat. Once the idea was introduced, she became very confused.” She paused and clucked her tongue. “Poor thing, I'm afraid she's very easily addled and terribly unreliable.”

“Emily…”

“Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Anyway, Lily said she couldn't be sure because she heard so many footsteps while she was drifting in and out of sleep. She said the whole thing was a jumble. That's why I'm convinced Rebecca couldn't have done it.”

“I'm not following you,” he said when Emily failed to elaborate.

“‘So many footsteps,' you see. So many people coming and going. The murderer would've been taking an awful chance had he or she
planned
to commit the murder here. Too much of a chance.”

“Yes. That's what you thought from the beginning, and it's the very thing that's bothered Barnes about it. He wondered why Rebecca didn't simply kill her aunt in the woods, then claim she'd lost track of her. It would've looked as if some stranger had come upon her and killed her.”

“Exactly,” Emily replied, sounding rather excited. “I don't think the murder could've been planned, and that rules out Rebecca. Why would she have suddenly killed her aunt? That wouldn't make any sense.”

Ransom nodded. “Well, you'll be pleased to know that there's some credence to the idea that someone—even a stranger watching the boat—could've come onto it unobserved.” He smiled. “Just like in Buckingham Palace.”

“Really?” the old woman replied, her head tilting slightly.

“Yes. Your friend Claudia Trenton managed it.”

“Claudia?”

He nodded. “She was caught on one of the Millers' photos coming back to the boat.”

“Claudia…,” Emily said again, looking thoroughly mystified.

“Yes. But I don't think it means she had anything to do with the murder. It's one of their earlier pictures. She must've come right back to the boat, and as Barnes pointed out, she couldn't very well have hidden for the next hour with the stewards doing the rooms, and then killed Marcella for whatever reason, and escaped the boat.”

“No, she couldn't,” said Emily. “But you know, she didn't come up to dinner this evening. Mrs. Farraday is quite worried about her. It occurs to me, Jeremy, that as distressed as she is over what happened, perhaps she saw something when she came back … or heard something … that has caused her distress. Only…” Her voice trailed off and her expression adopted the vacant quality it had when she was mulling over something that didn't quite make sense.

“Only what?” Ransom said with some impatience.

“Only …
why?
”

He waited, then said, “You'll have to give me more than that.”

“Why be so distressed, and keep to herself? She wasn't just distressed, she was afraid. If she didn't have anything to do with the murder.… if she only thinks she knows something about it … why not tell you or the sheriff? Surely that is the way to ensure her safety.”

“We'll never know until we ask her.”

Ransom led Emily down the second flight of stairs and soon they were at Claudia's door. He knocked, and a voice from inside said, “Come in.”

Emily preceded Ransom into the room. They found Claudia sitting up on her bed. The tray that the captain's wife had provided her sat on the bedside table untouched. Although her complexion was still very pale, she had brushed her hair and dressed herself in a lavender suit, as if she were planning a dinner out or a shopping expedition.

“What do you want?” she asked without expression.

“Claudia, you haven't eaten anything,” Emily said. “That's not good. You must keep up your strength.”

“I wasn't hungry.”

“You remember Detective Ransom?”

Claudia nodded but didn't look at him.

“Miss Trenton,” said Ransom, “I'm afraid there are one or two more questions I need to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“You told us, and you told the sheriff, that yesterday you left the boat and went to the visiter's center with the others, then went off on your own to trail three. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't do anything else?”

She turned her eyes toward him. The area just above her nose was pinched. “No.”

After a beat, he said, “Are you sure about that? You didn't, by chance, come back to the boat for some reason?”

“No!” she said quickly. She attempted her former haughtiness, but it didn't work.

“What if I were to tell you that you were caught on film?”

“What?”

“The Millers were taking pictures, as you might remember. Although they were far away from the boat, I'm afraid they did catch you on film coming back to it.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she trembled as if the strain were about to break her apart. “I … I … yes, I did. But I didn't—” She broke off and buried her face in her hands.

“Claudia,” Emily said gently, “no one believes you had anything to do with the murder.”