The Corpse with the Diamond Hand Read online

  For Edna and Nolan

  Star Code, Star Code, Star Code

  THE LUXURY CRUISE SHIP Stellar Sol was about halfway between Hilo, Hawai’i, and Vancouver, BC. For the past two days the crew had been doing a great job of maintaining the Aloha Spirit: lei-making classes, hula lessons, demonstrations of how to prepare food using pineapples or Spam, and lectures about the flora and fauna of the Hawaiian Islands were taking place in venues all over the vessel. Snuggled into a massive wing-backed chair in the Games Room on Deck 5, I hummed “Ke Kali Nei Au” as the ukuleles strummed the now-familiar tune over the background music system; the Hawaiian Wedding Song was something Bud and I had heard many times during our belated honeymoon. Lovely.

  I laid the book I’d been reading in my lap and peered over my reading cheats at my husband. My husband. I couldn’t help but smile as I mused that every experience, big or small, good or bad, has the potential to shape us. What the last one hundred and twenty-four days had taught me was that even the best of experiences need time to percolate their way through, and show us how they will affect our lives. When Bud Anderson and I married, I knew I was going to be happy. What I hadn’t expected, because I’d never experienced it before, was the complete sense of contentment I would begin to feel. Every day of our marriage had felt like a honeymoon, but the last ten of them, spent first in Honolulu, then on this wonderful ship sailing between the Hawaiian Islands, had been the best so far.

  I could see Bud’s foot tapping on the thick, luxurious carpet in time to the subtle music, though his brow was furrowed. Indeed, the only reason he didn’t return my smile was because Tommy Trussler, the onboard card-game tutor, was schooling him in gin rummy at one of the green baize-covered tables. Bud’s expression informed me that he was concentrating. Hard. Tommy had his back to me so I could see the cards he was holding. I’d watched as he’d thrown away an ace, then an eight; now he held a run of seven diamonds, from the five to the jack, and a set of three threes. Bud didn’t stand a chance. I wondered why the coach hadn’t already called gin. It would have been a merciful release for my husband.

  “Oh look, dolphins! Derek, quick, bring that camera o’ yours,” squealed Laurie Cropper, a delightfully polite—and almost irritatingly petite—woman from Nashville, Tennessee, who was unabashedly enthusiastic about pretty much everything. All I had to do was turn my head to see the thrilling display; hundreds of Pacific white-sided dolphins were leaping, bounding, pirouetting, and, yes, even grinning at us as we lumbered past them in the almost unnaturally navy blue Pacific waters at a stately eighteen knots. Fabulous! As people crowded toward the window to get a better view of the spectacle, I relinquished my seat and joined them.

  Enjoying the odd glimpse of the show between the backs of folks pointing flashing phones and cameras at the ocean, I called over my shoulder to Tommy, “You should try to get a quick look. This might be it for the rest of the trip.” I wasn’t looking at him as I spoke, because he was still sitting at the card table behind me. When he didn’t reply, I turned to see why he hadn’t rushed forward with everyone else. Maybe he’s seen it all before?

  As soon as I saw him, the smile froze on my face. Although I could see only his back, I could tell Tommy Trussler was convulsing, his entire body gripped by a terrible force. It was as though he was being shaken from the inside. I raced around to be in front of him, hoping I could somehow help by making eye contact. What an idiot I am!

  The poor man’s teeth were clenched in a grimace. Blood from his tongue oozed from the corners of his mouth. His eyeballs bulged. His head hit the table with a deadly thud. I called for Bud as I darted toward the house telephone, which sat at the end of the linen-draped buffet table.

  Bud was at Tommy’s side almost immediately. He checked for a pulse. As the expression on my husband’s face confirmed my worst fears, I punched the emergency button on the rather clunky phone. I heard no ringing, but a woman answered immediately.

  “What is the nature of your emergency, please?”

  “A man has collapsed in the Games Room on Deck 5. It’s very serious. Critical, I’d say. We need urgent medical assistance.” I spoke rapidly, and tried not to sound panicked, but I was.

  “Hold, please,” said the disembodied voice. A couple of seconds later, a piercing claxon cut through the excited chatter beside the window of the Games Room, and, I suspected, throughout the entire ship.

  The voice of the woman I’d been speaking to on the phone rang out clearly. “Your attention, please. The following is an announcement for the ship’s crew, and the ship’s crew only. Star code, Star code, Star code. Games Room, Deck 5, amidships, Fire Zone 3. I repeat, this is an announcement for the ship’s crew only. Star code, Star code, Star code. Games Room, Deck 5, amidships, Fire Zone 3. Thank you.”

  “Are you there, madam?” The woman was speaking to me on the phone again.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you traveling with the guest who has become unwell?”

  “No. And he’s not unwell, he’s—” I stopped myself before I said the word. “No, I’m not,” I said with finality.

  “Does he have a traveling companion nearby?”

  I looked around the room. The emotions I saw expressed on the faces there ranged from confusion to horror as people spotted Tommy’s collapsed body. I used a professorial tone as I asked, “Does anybody know if Tommy Trussler has a traveling companion?” Heads shook. Shoulders shrugged.

  “He’s traveling alone,” said Derek Cropper, the large, balding husband of the perfectly coiffed Laurie. “Had a stateroom to himself.”

  I nodded, and returned my attention to the telephone. “The man who has collapsed is named Tommy Trussler. He is onboard as a tutor for card games, on behalf of your cruise line. He is traveling alone.”

  “Oh, I see,” the woman at the other end of the line replied. She sounded disconcerted. At that moment the glass door set into one of the glass walls was pushed open by a gaggle of the ship’s crew, drawing the attention of the people sitting in the coffee lounge beyond our aquarium-like Games Room.

  “Your crew members have arrived,” I told the woman on the phone.

  “Good,” she said, sounding relieved. “They will do what is needed now. Thank you for raising the alarm. May I have your name and stateroom number, please?”

  “Certainly,” I replied. “Professor Cait Morgan, 8221.” I wonder why I used my professional title?

  “Thank you, Professor. You have been most helpful. Goodbye.” The line went dead.

  As dead as Tommy Trussler. As dead as the chance of two more romantic days at sea for me and Bud.

  Operation Rising Star

  A SHORT, DARK-SKINNED MAN WITH an English accent took charge of the room and the crew members. He announced, “Could everyone please stand back, but remain in the room. Thank you.” He was polite, professional, and sounded as though he’d left the East End of London about five minutes ago. He got to work on Tommy’s body.

  I moved to stand with the rest of our group beside the window, and watched the man whose badge proclaimed him to be BARTHOLOMEW, NURSE PRACTITIONER. He checked for vital signs; first at Tommy’s pulse points, then with his stethoscope.

  “Officer Ocampo, curtains, please,” said Nurse Bartholomew, his voice now tinged with a harder edge.

  A short woman with hair that shone like black patent leather, and enveloped in a uniform that pretty much de-gendered her, appeared. She manipulated discreet pulleys that allowed multilayered aquamarine voile curtains to swoosh around all three glass walls of the Games Room. The tension in the room ratcheted up as the drapery concealed us from the interested gaze of our fellow passengers; until the kerfuffle, they had been sipping specialty coff
ees and nibbling handmade biscotti in the comfort of the Italian-themed coffee lounge.

  Nurse Bartholomew spoke quietly into a small cellphone. He appeared to make two phone calls. Each of us strained to hear what he said, but not even my sharp ears could catch any discernible words.

  Almost immediately, the claxon sounded again. This time a male voice rang out.

  “Your attention please. This announcement is for the ship’s crew, and the ship’s crew only. Operation Rising Star, Games Room, Deck 5, amidships, Fire Zone 3. Once again, this announcement is for the ship’s crew only. Operation Rising Star, Games Room, Deck 5, amidships, Fire Zone 3. Thank you.” The disembodied voice sounded almost jolly.

  “So, he’s really dead,” said Kai Pukui, our stately on-board Hawaiian cultural interpreter. He spoke quietly, and looked toward the ceiling as he whispered, “Mahalo.”

  “How d’you know he’s dead?” asked Derek. His Tennessee drawl conveyed more curiosity than accusation.

  Kai bowed his head. He managed to endow the slight gesture with as much grace as his on-stage performances of traditional Hawaiian dances. “It is the code used to prevent guests from becoming concerned about the fate of a fellow shipmate, while informing the crew that someone has died.”

  A moment later, a woman flapped open the curtaining and entered the room. Despite her casual clothes, she had a professional air. She dropped her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses onto an empty chair, and accepted a pair of surgical gloves from the nurse practitioner.

  Snapping the latex onto her hands, her gaze swept the room. I noted intelligent eyes that matched the light blue gloves, a pale, freckled oval face framed by a practical bobbed cut of what appeared to be naturally copper-red hair, and a nasty bruise on her bare left forearm.

  Nurse Bartholomew stood beside Tommy Trussler’s corpse. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Dr. White,” he said. “You’ll need to pronounce.”

  “Will I?” she said enigmatically. It didn’t sound like a put-down, but it wasn’t far off.

  Repeating the processes already undertaken by the nurse, Dr. Rachel White, as her badge announced, took her time. Finally she nodded and looked at her watch. “Note pronouncement at 11:37 AM, please,” she said curtly. Pulling the curtains back, she told the waiting crew members they could enter.

  None of our group had spoken. Bud and I clung to each other, as did Laurie and Derek Cropper. Another married couple—Nigel and Janet Knicely—stood stock-still, agape. Kai Pukui stood next to, but apart from, Frannie Lang—a lone cruiser we’d come to know a little—and close to the young waiter who’d been allocated to the Games Room as our buffet and refreshment server and runner. His badge told me his name was Afrim, and that he was from Albania. A little star on his badge further informed me he was one of the highest-rated staff members of the month.

  By this time, we guests were outnumbered by crew members. The glossy-haired female security officer named Ocampo was attending to the door access, and the first group who’d arrived had departed, with the exception of Bartholomew the nurse, who remained hovering over the body, marshalling its installation into a wheelchair.

  Dr. White approached our somewhat tense group, pulling off her latex gloves. “I’m terribly sorry you all had to witness this,” she began. “A death, especially a sudden one, is always terribly distressing. Did any of you see what happened, exactly?”

  Her tone was light, but I detected an edge in it, which suggested a high level of anxiety. Not surprising for someone who’s just pronounced a person dead, maybe?

  I could see that Bud was about to answer, but he was interrupted by the arrival of a man whose presence distracted the doctor. Tall, lean, fit, and tanned, with a shock of lustrous black hair, the new arrival’s short-sleeved white shirt strained to contain his well-developed upper body. He ignored all of us, and gave his attention to the doctor. He whispered close to her ear. She nodded in response to his question. He sighed, and shook his head angrily. Although he was holding only a cellphone, he wielded it as though it were a weapon. He trained it on our group. His dark eyes glittered as he regarded us each in turn.

  “Allow me to introduce myself, ladies and gentlemen. I am Ezra Eisen, head of security. I am pleased to meet you all, despite these unfortunate conditions.”

  A few of our group muttered a muted response to his terse, yet professional, greeting.

  “You are all clearly aware that this gentleman, Mr. Tommy Trussler, has died unexpectedly, and every member of the Stellar Cruise Line family is terribly sorry that you had to witness such a sad and upsetting event.” The expression of sympathy on his face was unconvincing. “As you can imagine, a sudden passing at sea needs to be reported upon fully. I would like to begin by ascertaining who everybody is, and your relationship to the deceased. I would ask that you do not share your experiences with your fellow guests. I would welcome the chance to have a few moments with each of you over the next few hours so I can gather the information needed to complete the necessary paperwork. But first, we must respect this man’s remains.”

  A general hubbub ensued as Tommy’s corpse was wheeled out, over which I heard Eisen instructing Officer Ocampo to accompany the body.

  Derek Cropper raised a hand with slight hesitation. “My wife and I met him at the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor a couple of days before we sailed out of Honolulu,” he said. “Didn’t know the guy before that. We’ve hung out in this place a fair bit in the past few days, though I wouldn’t say we knew him well.”

  Officer Eisen smiled. “And you are?”

  Derek flashed a sincere, warm smile in response. “Derek Cropper, and my good lady-wife, Laurie, from Nashville, Tennessee. At your service, sir.” He mock-bowed while his wife smiled and tilted her head like a cute little girl.

  “Stateroom number, please?” added Eisen.

  “We’re in the Star Signature Salon Suite, Deck 12,” replied Derek.

  Eisen scribbled in a little notepad. When he’d finished, he looked up, thanked the man, and turned his thoughtful gaze toward the next couple in line. “And you? Names and stateroom, please.”

  We all followed Eisen’s gaze. Looking at the British couple, Nigel and Janet, I noted that the small, neat woman’s outfit—completely free of style and consisting of various shades of beige—seemed to match her skin tone. I realized how pale the couple was, especially considering they’d spent the better part of two weeks in the Hawaiian sun. Nigel had been cleaning his wire-rimmed spectacles with a cloth while Officer Eisen had been conversing with the Croppers, and I watched as he purposefully replaced them. In stark contrast to his wife, Nigel was wearing a vivid, clashing get-up, as usual. Today it was red shorts with a yellow shirt and green deck shoes.

  At the security officer’s question, Nigel became animated, grabbing his wife’s hand and gesticulating with it as though it were his own. It was strange to see, and oddly, his wife didn’t react in a way that indicated anything outlandish was happening.

  “Hullo. Pleased to make your acquaintance—though not under …” His sentence trailed off to nothing, though he flapped his wife’s hand about. “Quite right, quite right,” he added, apropos of nothing. “Nigel Knicely, with a K. The K is silent.” It was exactly what he’d said when he’d introduced himself to me back in Honolulu.

  Eisen scribbled, then held up his hand. “Where is this silent K?”

  “At the beginning.”

  “You spell Nigel with a K?” Eisen sounded baffled.

  “Of course not,” snapped Nigel. “You spell Knicely with a K, at the beginning of the name. As I said, it’s silent.”

  I noticed Laurie Cropper stifling a smile as Eisen crossed through something he’d written and glared at Nigel.

  Nigel continued in a louder voice, speaking slowly. “Wife Janet. From Bristol. England, of course. On holiday. Well, what else, really? Room 3749. Deck 3.”

  “And your relationship to the deceased?”

  “None. Met the man when we were taking a da
y trip organized by the ship around Maui. He was on the bus as the sort of guide. You took to him, didn’t you Janet?” He looked at his wife, realized he was waggling her hand about, and dropped it as though it was on fire. He blushed.

  “Yes, Nigel,” she said, though without a smile. “As you say, a very nice man. Poor thing. His heart, was it?” She sounded both sympathetic and hopeful, though her manner of speech was such that everything she said sounded like a whining apology. I noted that Janet’s weird and unsettling habit of closing her eyes when she spoke to someone made Eisen give her a stern look, which, of course, she couldn’t see.

  I also realized, as she mentioned Tommy’s heart, that of the guests in the room, Bud and I were the only ones who’d seen the dying man’s contorted face; everyone else was still hovering near the window at the time.

  Eisen didn’t respond to Janet Knicely’s question; instead he directed his gaze toward Bud and myself. “And you?” he said. I opened my mouth to respond, but Bud was just a little quicker than me. Unusual.

  “Bud Anderson, and wife Cait Morgan. C-A-I-T. Maple Ridge, British Columbia, Canada. Cait was introduced to the deceased for the first time here, about an hour ago, though she’s seen him about the place, from a distance, during the cruise. I happened upon him in the ship’s gymnasium on the first morning of our time onboard. We’ve encountered each other on several occasions since, and engaged in general chit-chat. I know almost nothing about the man, other than that he was here to teach card games to those who might wish to learn, and that he lived on O’ahu. My wife and I are in stateroom 8221.”

  Good job, Bud.

  Eisen scribbled as he said, “And you?” He looked at the woman who’d been playing cards with the Croppers and Kai Pukui.

  “I’m Frannie. Frannie Lang, room 8739,” said the woman brightly. “Another Canadian,” she beamed at Bud and me. “I’m from Alberta. Born and raised in the boonies, but now I live in Edmonton. My lovely sons have sent me off on this cruise for a special birthday, though it’s not until November. They’re both in Calgary now, when they’re home. Oil sands, you know.” She looked at me as she spoke, seeming to seek a sympathetic response. I smiled politely.