Vinnie was damaged.
But not dead.
As Vinnie had pressed my face into the pillow, Claire came up behind him and slammed my rock hammer toward his head, connecting with the top of his spine, just below the cerebellum. One inch higher and Vinnie would’ve dropped dead. But the woman with broken-clock accuracy hit a hole-in-one. The perfect strike, immediately shutting down Vinnie’s deranged motor.
As Jack said, drunks will surprise you.
Holding her hands like she was a misbehaving child, I maneuvered her back into my cabin, setting her down on my bed. She was still babbling about swinging, and some thin strands of dried Superglue dangled from her forehead. As she prattled on, I yanked the pink benitoite. She didn’t even feel it.
Backing away, smiling, I leaped into my aunt’s cabin, locking the door.
Vinnie snored on the bed. In profile, the forehead looked like a continental shelf.
I took the nylon evidence tape from my rock kit and wrapped his wrists behind his back. I taped his ankles together, moving quickly because he was stirring, grunting toward consciousness. Once he was tied, I went into the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth.
When he grunted again, I stuffed the cloth into his mouth and sat on the twin bed opposite him. From the cabin phone, I called the concierge and reported a drunken woman in cabin 513. She was behaving erratically and needed immediate help.
Vinnie’s eyelids were fluttering as I hung up. When they opened, he stared at the bedside table for several long moments. But somebody was already knocking on Claire’s door and I got up. In the hall, I saw Jack standing at her door, holding a plastic bag.
“Wrong one,” I said.
“Why is your face so red?”
“Hurry!” I motioned for him to come inside, and as he passed through the door, he handed me the plastic bag. It advertised a Ketchikan gift shop.
“Open it,” he said.
The jewelry box was inside.
When I looked up, Jack was already standing beside the bed, staring down at Vinnie. “You want to ask me how I found it, but I want to know how you hog-tied this guy.”
I set the plastic bag on the bureau, relief spilling out of my heart, welling in my eyes. I could only nod.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” he said. “Dad was keeping the box.” He looked down at Vinnie. “You rotten creep. Dragging those old people into it, like they don’t have enough problems. I should throw you overboard right now, with your hands tied.”
“Jack.”
He didn’t hear me. Or couldn’t. Locked on Vinnie, his eyes had that cold camera-lens expression. I reached out, touching his arm.
He pointed at Vinnie like he was Exhibit A. “He took the box. That day Milo sent us to get his shoes. Vinnie realized that if Milo noticed the box was gone, he could blame the FBI. And the bodyguard had a key to the cabin.”
Vinnie tried to turn his head, gagging on the washcloth. The forehead dripped with sweat.
“After he grabbed it, he had to get back to the set. He was on a supposed bathroom break, and the girl with the clipboard was watching the door. Whose cabin is three doors from Milo? Sandy’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Butz.” He looked down at Vinnie again. “You miserable thug. You killed her, didn’t you? You killed Judy Carpenter.”
The forehead rippled, the eyes darted.
Jack sat down beside him, leaning down close. “That bracelet and those stones in her jewelry box, that’s what this is about—she died for some pretty rocks?”
Vinnie shook his head, then moaned in pain.
I rifled through my rock kit, searching through the mess I’d made. When I found the list from the purser, I checked the names again. I didn’t get far. Third name from the top: Herman Butz. I stared at the sheet, dumbfounded. According to the schedule, it was on Sunday. Ramazan worked for more than ninety minutes. Safety concerns for handicapped passenger.
“Jack, did his father say anything about a handyman?”
“No. Why?”
I walked over, pointing to the schedule. Suddenly I remembered something Larrah Sparks told me. “His mother was causing problems before the ship left Seattle. She locked her husband’s wallet in the safe, then forgot the code.”
“The safe, huh?”
“Ninety minutes seems like a long time.”
The name! I kicked myself. That might have been my biggest mistake. When I spoke to the father at the phillumenist convention, he was grateful that Lysander-turned-Sandy had “at least kept me in his last name.” Sparks. I thought that was their name. But Sparks was a stage name. The son was honoring his father’s passion for collecting matchbooks.
Lysander Butz of Philadelphia became Hollywood’s Sandy Sparks.
I had assumed—and it did exactly what the medical examiner said it would.
Jack slapped Vinnie on the back, hard.
The bodyguard winced, moaning again into the washcloth.
“I’m sure you know what happened, and why. You knew enough to give the old man the jewelry box. And if Raleigh’s got you bound up like this, she’s got plenty of rope. Get it, Vinnie, rope? You’re going to a place where they’ll call you Vickie. If you’re lucky, it’s Vickie.” He paused, letting the image sink in. “But I’m a nice guy, not like that Dutchman. Did Martin Webb tell you about him? The big guy just does not care at all about your rights. And when he hears what you did on his ship . . .” Jack shook his head, feigning compassion. “You’ll wish somebody was calling you Vickie.”
Vinnie started talking into the washcloth.
Jack pinched the edge but didn’t pull it out. “But here’s the deal. You can tell us the truth—and I mean the whole truth—and it will buy you some really good favor with us later. Or you can not tell us and we’ll hand you over to the Dutchman who will be happy to take care of it. Which one?”
Vinnie gave his answer to the washcloth. Jack still didn’t pull it out.
“And make it fast,” he said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”