Page 112 of Without a Clue

Let’s be blunt.

I set the phone down.

“Did you murder Hugh, Ricky?”

“Ah. Oh dear.” Sure enough, one of Ricky’s white fingertips has slit on the corner of the book, and now a thick drop of blood is leaking from it. “No. Although, has anyone ever . . . at this stage . . . said yes?”

“No, but . . .”

“Would be foolish . . . I assume . . . to finally get away with . . . the murder of your dreams . . . only to tell someone . . . now.”

Yes, yes. I know. But I’m clueless here. I need to stick to the basics: securing a motive, means, and opportunity.

Problem is, we were all in our rooms the night Hugh was murdered.

We all had the means to slip in.

We all had access to a knife.

None of us have an alibi.

The only thing we don’t all have—well, except on this crazy ship where everyone has one—is a motive.

Stick to that.

“Have you ever had disagreements with Hugh over the way he ran the group?”

He pauses, thinking, looking up, for an enormous amount of time.

“I didn’t like the croissants,” Ricky says at last.

“The . . . croissants.”

“Yes.”

“The croissants we got catered to the room for lunches,” I say.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t like them.”

“I prefer Asiago bagels.”

“I get the croissants for the lunches,” I say.

“Oh. Then . . . nothing.”

So nothing.

I sigh.

“You’ve never disagreed with Hugh, over anything, in your entire life.” The lady at the CVS checkout line has had more disagreements, according to this man, than Ricky.

“I guess not. But that’s how . . . rage goes . . . isn’t it? The deadly ones . . . we just hold . . . inside.”

The grandfather clock opposite strikes three and begins to chime.

We stare at each other in silence.