Page 68 of Without a Clue

I practically leap for the promenade deck and don’t look back until I’m in the safety of the wading ladies.

The scene has shifted with the change of the hour. The clock reads 11:05 a.m. A live band has set themselves up in the corner now, testing their instruments, and a group of ladies has settled by the bow of the ship, large blank canvases set on easels before them. A man in a hat stands in front of them, holding up a palette of paints, instructing as he points at the horizon.

Sure enough, an umbrella is open over the lounge chairs where I left them, and I note two glasses of sparkling water on a little silver tray between them, the frost on the glasses still visible. The man in the peacock bow tie stands over by the bar, and our eyes meet.

I feel compelled toward the glass, drawn by his gaze.

When at last I take a sip, he smiles, satisfied.

There’s comfort in knowing this highly attendant man isn’t far off. He looks like the rescuing type, doesn’t he? Saves the day via drinks with umbrellas, ergo saves the day via restraining the knife-wielding, ambulatory woman?

Jackie walks just as strict and composed as she always is toward the chair.

Dusts it for a particularly long period of time.

Sits.

I look over at her body. Nowhere as far as I can see is there a steak knife.

“Now where were we?” she says.

“Okay. Yes,” I say, taking a breath as I open my notes. The stream of words I was typing earlier breaks off abruptly. Notes about the murderer acting out of revenge over one of his previous solved crimes. “You were saying you thought the murderer is someone from the outside. Someone, perhaps, who had faced jail time and had gotten out and was ready to get revenge. Care to elaborate?”

“I’m wrong. Stupid idea. All his solved murders were men, no doubt, and look around. It’s a women-filled ship.”

True, there are a lot of floppy hats.

“Well,” I say slowly, “women can commit murder.”

“Of course,” she snaps. “They just aren’t so stupid as to get caught.”

I stifle a smile. Seems even under the threat of death I find things funny.

“So you retract your idea then?” I say. “You don’t think it was some irate criminal seeking revenge?”

“I never retract anything, dear. I’m just elaborating on my supplied response.”

Sounds a lot like a retraction to me, but I don’t fight her on it.

There’s a peace in thinking the crime was committed by an outsider, even if it also is a little scary to have the net of suspects widened by several hundred. Still. I’d take that over the possibility of it being one of The Seven any day.

I switch over to text message and type in the name of young Cedar Pogache, who has taken over the case.

Do you have the names of everyone on the ship? Are there background checks for everyone on the ship?

I doubt he would allow me to have access to the names, and if I press too hard, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets irritated with me even trying to have these little interviews with my working peers. But he’s young and impressionable. Less confident and demanding than Carragan. Perhaps he will be willing to share some information.

“I don’t have all day.”

I look up from my text to see Jackie’s bitter glare.

Quickly switch back over to my notes.

How do I jump in again? I think, racking my brain. The goal is to ask, “Are you by chance the murderer?” without exactly saying, “Are you the murderer?” To hedge around the question without saying outright, “So . . . were you just hanging over his bed with the knife, or what?”

How did Hugh do it in his books again?

A perennial favorite book of Hugh’s comes to mind—A Game of Hot Seat—and I cling to that thought. Ask as many questions as you can at a rapid pace, take a stab at every subject possible as quickly as you can, and see what suspicions come out.