The Corpse with the Diamond Hand Read online

  The head of security prompted her. “Did you know the deceased at all?”

  Frannie laughed. “Me? Oh good heavens, no. I also met him on the cruise. Well, ashore during the cruise.”

  “Thank you,” Eisen said, a little exasperated. He made eye contact with Kai Pukui. “Maybe we can talk later?”

  Kai nodded graciously. They’re friends.

  “And I’ll speak to you later too,” he said to the server, who looked terrified.

  Eisen smiled at our group with a professional air. “Thank you, everybody. You’ve been helpful.”

  “It was his heart, wasn’t it?” whined Janet Knicely.

  The pause before the head of security responded allowed the nervous energy in the room to increase.

  “Did anyone see him suffering his attack?” he asked—choosing his words carefully, I noted.

  “I did,” I replied.

  All eyes turned toward me. I decided that it was best to say less, rather than more. “It was sudden. I’m pretty sure he was dead by the time his head hit the table.”

  I pressed myself even closer to Bud. He squeezed my hand, then backed me up.

  “My wife is correct. He had no pulse. I’d been sitting opposite him less than five minutes earlier, and he’d shown no signs of medical distress at that time.”

  Dr. White, who’d been silent while Eisen addressed us, looked Bud up and down with some suspicion. “Do you have experience in finding a pulse, Mr. Anderson?” she asked. Her clipped English accent made her sound like a schoolmarm. A copper-topped English rose—with thorns?

  “Yes, Doctor, I have established signs of life, or the lack thereof, on many previous occasions.”

  “And you’d have done that because … ?” The doctor’s cornflower-blue eyes glinted with the challenge.

  Bud was about to answer, but Eisen held up his hand.

  “This is best discussed in private,” he said. “I suggest, therefore, that everyone return to their own stateroom for a little while, until I can visit each of you there, and where we will speak further about this matter.”

  Our fellow guests were then escorted to their respective staterooms by members of the security team, and a guard was posted discreetly outside the Games Room when it was locked after our departure.

  Eisen himself escorted Bud and me. I was glad, because it gave me a chance to speak up as we walked. “Officer Eisen, I must mention that I saw the face of the deceased as he was in his death throes; I don’t think he died of natural causes.”

  Eisen stopped in his tracks; his almost-black eyes regarded me with disdain. I noticed that he stood rigid as if a rod ran from the top of his head to his ankles.

  “Really?” was all he uttered. His tone said the rest.

  I looked at my husband. “Bud, backup, please?”

  Bud nodded and extended a hand toward Eisen. “Bud Anderson, retired law enforcement officer. My wife, Cait Morgan, professor of criminal psychology at the University of Vancouver, and sometime consultant to the integrated homicide squad I used to head up. I realize you’ll want to check us out, but might I suggest that you consider my wife’s opinions to be worth listening to? She’s no amateur when it comes to dealing with sudden death.”

  We’d all paused as we rounded the bottom of the staircase, which opened onto the long corridor to our stateroom. Veneered walls and subtly patterned blue and green carpet stretched ahead of us. I thought of the Overlook Hotel in the movie The Shining—odd, because there wasn’t anything remotely menacing about the ship.

  The two men regarded each other, and I took the chance to look at them both. Bud was tanned from our time in the sun, and his hair had bleached to an even white, the silver in his eyebrows and the color of his skin making his eyes look even more piercingly blue than usual, an effect heightened by his choice of an aqua-colored, casual linen shirt. Eisen was a little taller than Bud, and possibly twenty years his junior—so that would put him in his late thirties. He glowed with health, and I was convinced he could have broken a person’s arm with his little finger; he gave off no aura of being threatening, but it was clear he’d be a man you’d want on your side in a fight.

  They both started walking again. I followed suit.

  “I think it would be more appropriate if we had any such conversation in the privacy of your stateroom,” said Eisen. With a military bearing, he strolled effortlessly, smiling broadly at a few passing guests as he did so. He seemed to be cool and calm; I felt less so, and almost had to canter to keep up with him. I was desperate to tell him what I’d seen.

  Arriving at our room, Bud opened the door. Eisen gestured that we should enter, which we did. “I must see the captain now,” he said, hovering at the door, “but I will return presently. Please do not leave your stateroom until then, and do not discuss your theory of an unnatural death with anyone at all. Understood?”

  We both nodded, and he left. I felt as though I’d been scolded by an obnoxious schoolteacher; even Bud looked deflated.

  “Well, that was rude,” I said. “And shortsighted too. Tommy Trussler didn’t look like a man having a heart attack; he looked like a man who’d been poisoned by something particularly aggressive and swift acting. I wish he’d let me tell him what I’d seen.”

  Bud sighed and placed his hand on my shoulder. “If I were him, I’d check us out before I took any sort of statement, and I bet that’s what he’s doing right now.”

  “What are we supposed to do while we wait for him to come back?”

  “What everyone else who was in the Games Room has to do: hang about until he’s ready to talk to us. There’ll be procedures he has to follow.”

  I plopped myself on the edge of our bed in a huff. Procedures? I hate being on the wrong end of procedures. “Wonderful,” I grumped. “What a waste of time! And I don’t mean because we could be sitting in the sun—I mean because I could be helping that Eisen chap with his investigation.”

  Bud sat beside me on the bed. “We’ve done pretty well, haven’t we, Wife?”

  “How d’you mean, Husband?”

  “You know, ten days away together without encountering a dead body.” He half smiled; I shrugged. “I don’t think it was natural, either.” Bud paced about as best he could, given the size of the room; it was similar to a good-sized hotel room, delightfully appointed with light wood furnishings upholstered in shades of sea blues and greens, which toned well with the carpeting and curtains. It had been cleaned and made up by our stateroom attendant since we’d left a couple of hours earlier.

  I scooted up onto the freshly made bed and propped myself up against the comfy pillows. “Even if he doesn’t want our help, we have to offer it, right?” Bud gave me a look that spoke volumes. “Why don’t I do my recollection thing for the time we were in the Games Room? It might help us both to understand how Tommy Trussler died, and give me some facts I can share with Mr. Grumpy Security Man.”

  “Good idea, though I wouldn’t say he was especially grumpy. Do you want to stay there? I’ll sit over here on the sofa out of your way.”

  I nodded and got going. I screwed up my eyes to the point where everything goes fuzzy and begins to hum—it’s the best way for me to recollect that which I can pull from my eidetic memory bank. “I’ll talk it through, but I might not make much sense, so bear with me,” I said.

  “I’m listening,” said Bud, picking up a pad from the desk. “I’m going to take notes.”

  “I’m rushing along the corridor from our room. I’m feeling a bit hungover and sorry for myself. I’m cross that I feel this way. You’ve gone ahead to the Games Room, and I am also cross with myself that I am late. When I open the door to enter, Tommy Trussler is sitting at his little desk in the corner, arranging notepads and pencils that he’s still pulling out of a small cupboard behind him. You are standing at the buffet, pouring coffee. The server is hovering, but allowing you to help yourself. I read his badge: Afrim. Nice name. He looks nervous. Why?

  “We three are alone in the r
oom with the server. I smell warm chocolate. It’s delicious. It’s coming from a tray of pain au chocolat that’s sitting on the table at the buffet. I join you, and you pour me a coffee. I pick up a pastry and we agree it’ll help settle my tummy. Derek and Laurie Cropper arrive. I haven’t seen them since the first formal dinner. You greet them, and Laurie kisses my cheek. I smell her expensive perfume. She gives you a big hug, then laughs and pats your tummy. She seems to act more warmly toward you than me, as does her husband. I wonder why this is. It’s clear to me they have a connection with you they don’t have with me. I remind myself to ask you about this.”

  I paused and opened my eyes. “What sort of secret life have you been living on this ship, Husband? What’s going on between you and the Croppers that I don’t know about?”

  Bud smiled and looked up from his notepad. “It’s the gym, Cait, that’s my secret world. You know very well I get in there for at least half an hour every morning, leaving you to besport yourself in the bathroom, or whatever. Laurie Cropper is always there, too, and sometimes Derek accompanies her. Laurie and I sweat together every day—me more than her, because I slog it out on the elliptical machine, while she walks on the treadmill overlooking the sea. Derek pretends to lift weights, though it’s obvious he’s just there for show, but at least he joins his spouse sometimes.” Bud winked.

  I chose to ignore his barbed remarks, and continued with my recollection.

  “Laurie is the epitome of cruise-chic in a lemon ensemble; her highlighted hair is perfect, as is her makeup. Derek looks a little disheveled. He’s well tanned, but looks tired, drawn. I wonder if he has a hangover, like me. Their attitude seems bright and jovial, which is the only way I’ve ever seen them act. They leave us and go talk to Tommy who is still at his little desk. They crowd him. They are both close to him. I leave you so I can settle in a chair with my book. Do I hear what they say from my seat? Yes. Derek asks if Tommy will have time to play poker with them, and refers to something about Laurie wanting to practice with someone other than her husband. Their voices drop. I notice that Derek’s neck is getting red. Tommy is shaking his head and saying, ‘No, no.’ They are still at Tommy’s desk when Kai Pukui rushes in. Laurie turns and beams at him. He apologizes to her for being late; she says it’s fine because they have just arrived. Kai looks a little lost. He goes to sit at one of the card tables, and waits with his hands in his lap. He doesn’t want to be there. ‘Duty’ is written all over him.

  “Derek leaves Laurie talking to Tommy and takes a plate at the buffet. Afrim the server stands at attention, eagle eyed for a chance to help. He is smiling; Derek is ignoring him. I watch as he fills his plate. I am amazed that he fits so much on it, and am sickened at the sight of bacon sitting on top of waffles, with syrup poured over both, beside a pile of scrambled eggs. I hate that syrup-on-savory habit. I nibble at my delicious chocolate pastry, and am glad that it’s just sweet, though I can taste Laurie Cropper’s perfume as she wafts past me to join Kai Pukui at the card table, smiling down at me as she goes. ‘Not playing with your husband?’ she asks. ‘I don’t play cards,’ I reply, through crumbs. ‘I never used to, though I’m learning a few important lessons,’ she replies.

  “I resume eating, and look at your face as you concentrate on shuffling a deck of cards on the table at which you have taken a seat. You’re not finding it easy, though I can tell you’ve been shown how to do it properly, and are trying to make your hands work the cards into a truly random order. Looking past you I see Frannie Lang arrive. She’s alone, and she’s flushed. She’s been hurrying. As she enters, she glances at Tommy and looks … apologetic? Yes, that’s it. Tommy’s being treated like a schoolmaster by you all. It’s odd, but maybe it’s to be expected.

  “Frannie Lang joins Derek at the buffet table and allows Afrim to pour coffee for her, while she picks at the goodies on the buffet. She is now joined by Tommy who helps himself to a plate of bacon, sausage patties, and egg; Frannie takes a bran muffin and a black coffee to the table where Laurie and Kai are sitting.

  “Tommy sits at his desk, away from everyone else, and begins to eat his food. He pulls a pot out of a holster thing he’s slung on the back of his chair. It’s a clear-ish plastic pot with a blue lid, and stepped sides. He unscrews the lid. The pot’s about six inches tall, and seems to contain something he values. He dips his bacon into it and eats. His expression tells me he is enjoying the taste. I can see that the bacon has poi—a staple Hawaiian snack made out of mashed, fermented taro root—on it.

  “Frannie leaves her food at the card table, walks to Tommy’s desk, steps between me and him, and whispers in his ear. He doesn’t stop eating as he listens. His expression is … angry. He’s eating, but his jaw shows anger. Frannie rejoins the group at her table. What did she say to him that made him angry? No one joins you at your table, Bud, and you continue to concentrate on shuffling cards. At the table where Kai, Laurie, and now Frannie and Derek are seated, there’s not a great deal of chatter; everyone is eating, except Kai, who bows his head slightly and stands.

  “He walks to the buffet where he talks quietly to Afrim, who looks about, shakes his head, then dashes out of the room. Kai moves to stand near Tommy. He leans over him, and chats to him quietly. I cannot hear what is being said, but both men look relaxed, and I suspect general pleasantries are being exchanged, though Tommy is still eating, and doesn’t stop to converse properly with Kai. Eventually Kai moves aside, and I watch as Derek nips over to have a quiet word with Tommy. The men seem tense, their voices too low for me to hear; it’s not an easy conversation. Derek finally moves back to his wife at the card table.

  “Moments later, Afrim returns with a large platter of bananas, one of which Kai takes and peels. Afrim places the platter at the end of the buffet nearest Tommy’s desk, making room for it by rearranging the pastries. I uncurl myself, and move to replenish my coffee. Afrim serves me, and I am standing with my back to the door when there’s the noisy arrival of Nigel and Janet Knicely. As they enter the door, Nigel Knicely is saying, ‘You’ve never truly understood,’ to his wife. I have no idea what he’s talking about, because once through the door, they both shut up.

  “The atmosphere in the room is like a library or a church. No one speaks loudly—except Nigel and Janet, who use their normal speaking voices. They sound raucous, but aren’t shouting at all. Janet and Nigel greet Tommy; they approach him at his desk, and they all shake hands. I wouldn’t say it’s a warm greeting, but they huddle together for a few moments, exchanging polite morning pleasantries. Janet Knicely eventually waves at me as she moves toward you, then puts her hand on your shoulder, making you jump, and whispers to you. You look at me, smile, and raise your eyebrows slightly. As she moves away, your expression tells me you are glad she didn’t stay longer, or say more. You roll your eyes at me, wink, and return your attention to your shuffling.”

  “Once she starts, she never shuts up,” said Bud. “Oops—sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I looked at Bud, and said, “Too late now.”

  Bud tutted. “She annoys me. You know what she’s like. She’s a woman who doesn’t know when to stop. Very … intense, though almost vacuous. Strikes me as probably lonely, but doesn’t seem to have the skills to get people to like her. She talks people away from her.”

  “And what do you think about her husband?” I asked.

  Bud’s smile was wry. “A man of few words. Necessarily, I suspect. Seems nice enough though. Typically English, I’d say—you know, reserved.”

  “Not all English are reserved,” I replied, “in the same way that not all Canadians are beer-swilling Zamboni drivers with a penchant for being out and about in their boats.”

  “Touché,” replied Bud, “though, being Welsh, I know you’re not the greatest fan of the English. What is it you said once? The only three teams you support are Canada, Wales, and anyone playing against England?”

  “And touché to you too,” I replied. “That was in a weak moment, when
Wales was playing England in the Six Nations Rugby on TV and I was shouting ‘Cymru am byth’ for all I was worth. You know I’m not really that closed-minded when it comes to racial stereotypes. Indeed, much though it pains me to admit it, not all Welsh people are lovely innocents with hearts as big as the valleys. As we know only too well.”

  “True,” replied Bud quietly, no doubt thinking back to our wedding weekend in Wales just a few months earlier. “Though, to be fair myself, Nigel Knicely is what most folks would call ‘typically British,’ meaning ‘typically English,’ in many respects. He’s big on rank and form aboard ship, I’ve noticed. In fact, I saw him request the maître d’ to come to his table at dinner a couple of nights ago so he could make some comment about his wife’s food, rather than deal with a humble waiter.”

  “Interesting,” I remarked. “Right, so back to it … I know I read my book for a while. I cannot be sure how long. I read about twenty pages, so I suppose about five minutes.”

  “Or maybe just three, given the speed at which you read,” noted Bud, flirting with danger.

  “Maybe three, then,” I conceded, “but I know I missed some interactions and movement, because the next time I looked up, Tommy was bending over your back, shuffling the cards for you. I’ll start again from there …”

  “I am amazed at how the man’s hands work. Tommy Trussler has remarkably long, slim fingers, and they are fast. I am not surprised that, if he has taught you how to shuffle this way on a previous occasion, you are having difficulties replicating his movements. He’s very much at ease with a deck of cards. He leaves you and moves to the table where the Knicelys are sitting. He sits with them and again begins to shuffle a pack of cards. I can tell by the expression on his face that he enjoys this. He’s dazzling the Knicelys—and he likes to do that. Interesting.