Chapter 17
Dinner was a lavish affair. Each night the ship seemed to outdo itself from the previous night. Buffet tables piled high with fresh seafood, gorgeous vegetables and fruit welcomed them each night. Even though Sheila’s grand prize allowed her to eat for free at any of the onboard restaurants, she chose to dine with her friends at the buffet. They all came to love the lavish dessert tables. A chocolate fountain surrounding delectables like pound cake, fruit, and pretzels consumed their attention this night. Even Randy was impressed.
“I’ve often thought about working on a cruise ship,” he said. “I’d get to see the world.”
“It would be fun,” Sheila agreed. “You’re young and now would be the time to do it.”
“I’d never see him then,” Paige said.
“You hardly see each other now,” Vera said. “How’s it going with Earl?”
“We spoke on the phone yesterday,” Randy announced. “He said he was sorry to hear that Fred and I broke up.” His voice cracked and he gazed off.
Sheila wondered if he was emotional because of chatting with his father or because of the break-up with his partner.
“Wonders never cease,” Vera said. “Your dad is talking with you. That’s great.”
A huge smile appeared on Paige’s face. “Earl is just working through it. He loves Randy. It’s going to be okay.”
Randy, fair and blond, blushed easily and his face reddened as he sipped his wine. “Maybe it’s time for change in my life,” he said. “Maybe I’ll check into pastry gigs on the ships.”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had such good lobster,” Vera said. “The food is amazing. I swear I’m going home at least ten pounds heavier. And everything is so clean. Hard to imagine someone has been poisoned.”
“But they didn’t say food poisoning, did they? I don’t think so. It’s not just the food, but the booze. I mean everywhere you go, they are shoving drinks under your nose,” Sheila said.
“Yeah, for a hefty price,” Paige said. “Unless it’s in crop rooms. I’ve been able to sneak some into my flask so I have my own portable bar. Screw them and their twenty dollars for a glass of wine.”
“My mom,” Randy said, laughing. “Class act.”
“How’s your head?” Eric asked Sheila.
“It hurts. After dinner, I’m going to meet with Theresa, then go back to my cabin and go to sleep. You all will have to party without me.” She grinned.
“Truth is I’m about partied out. This cruise has been exhausting. Maybe tomorrow I’ll relax by the pool. I love to scrapbook, but this has been intense,” Paige said.
“I’m a bit weary, too,” Vera said after a few minutes.
“And with the murder and everything . . . I don’t know. I’m a bit freaked out. I can’t stop thinking about the poison. Is it in the food? In the water? Where is it? Maybe I’ll join you at the pool tomorrow, too. Until Sheila’s journaling class. We won’t miss that.”
“Tomorrow night is the award ceremony?” Eric asked.
“No,” Sheila said. “It’s the next night. It was supposed to be after my class in Mexico, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to get there. I ran into the captain and he gave me a heads-up on that.”
“Doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere,” Eric said.
“They’re just being safe,” Vera said. “I don’t mind if they turn around and go to some other ports. Just as long as we get there safely.”
“Seems like a long time,” Paige said.
“Well, they said to reroute requires permission from several agencies and islands,” Randy said. “It must be taking longer than what they expected.”
Sheila finished the last bite of her meal and excused herself to go meet with Theresa again in the Cut and Paste lounge. That name tickled Sheila, even though she knew that the Jezebel had adopted it temporarily for the scrapbooking cruise.
She looked around the dark lounge, her eyes adjusting from the brightly lit hallway. She didn’t see Theresa. She walked around a bit and then she saw her. She was sitting with a man—maybe it was her husband?
Sheila walked toward them and Theresa stood up to greet her. “Sheila, so glad you could make it. This is Harold Tuft,” she said.
Sheila extended her hand. He offered his in a cold and clammy weak handshake. How weird.
“Nice to meet you,” he said meekly. His eyes and nose were red and swollen. Was he sick? Drunk?
“I’m sorry, Sheila. Please have a seat. We were just talking about Allie. Her death . . . it’s such a tragedy. She was so young and vibrant,” said Theresa.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “I had just been with her the night before she died.”
“Really?” Theresa said. “Why?”
“She loved my work and wanted to borrow my scrapbook to look at it. I’ve not seen it since—”
“Oh, that’s why you don’t have it,” she said.
Harold patted his eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry, ladies. I really must go back to our—my—cabin. I’m feeling quite under the weather.”
He took his leave and Theresa’s eyes followed him.
“Poor man,” she said. “He and Allie were close. I don’t know what the man is going to do.”
“You mean—?”
“Yes, they were planning to be married, as soon as her divorce was final.”
“Oh,” Sheila said. Why weren’t they sharing a room together? Maybe they were. Maybe she never really stayed in her own cabin. Oh hell, she’d have to find the security guard and tell him what she knew. It could help with the case—and help find her scrapbook. Her head was pounding. She reached into her bag for an ibuprofen and slipped it into her mouth. How many had she taken today?
“So let’s look at your photos. I hope it will jog my memory,” Theresa said with a flat note in her voice.
Sheila pulled out her envelope from her bag and showed her photos to Theresa. She wished the woman would say something other than “lovely, just lovely.”
Finally she did.
“I remember this book quite vividly,” she said, looking at Sheila over her glasses. Those droopy bloodhound eyes were shot. “I think it’s average, I’m sorry to say. I was surprise that Allie liked it so much and put her weight behind it. And I was surprised that this book was designed by the same person who designed the exquisite digital pieces. That’s where your strength as a designer lies. We would never hire you to design scrapbooks, I’m sorry to say.”
Sheila couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She choked back a tear. She thought her scrapbook was unique—everybody else had told her that. But maybe they were just being polite. But wait. She’d won a major competition. You didn’t win a competition like this unless you were good. This was confusing.
“I don’t understand,” Sheila said. “I won the contest.” Her voice came out weak.
“As I said, Allie really liked it and persuaded some of the other judges. But our company’s designers have a much higher standard than hers,” Theresa said with a tight smile.
Sheila fought back anger as she realized this was not about her. Theresa and Allie were competitors. And while Allie’s body was still in the ship’s morgue, Theresa could not muster a kind word for her or for Sheila.
“If that’s all,” Sheila said, gathering up her photos. “I’ve got a raging headache.” Her voice was steady. She’d be damned if she’d let this woman know how she’d upset her. “I really need to lie down.” She grabbed her things and left.
“Hope you feel better soon,” Theresa said with a fake lightness.
I bet you do.
When Sheila turned around to look at her once more, she was grinning off into another direction at nobody in particular. It looked evil and malicious. Maybe murderous.
Oh Sheila, now you really are losing your mind!
She walked over to the elevator, pushed the button, and waited. Oh Lord, she wanted her bed. Tomorrow she’d meet with David’s Designs, teach her class, and then lounge by the pool with her friends. Yes, that’s what she’d do. That thought warmed her.
She slipped into the elevator and smiled at the woman already there. Sheila’s room was on the top floor. She felt a bit pampered in her luxurious quarters; her friends’ rooms were on another deck completely and did not have windows. Sheila was treated like a star by everybody. Everybody except Theresa, that is.
When she exited the elevators, she noted sounds of scuffling or something, which was odd because the halls were usually quiet and kept clear. She turned the corner and saw Harold splayed on the floor, with three women crowded around him.
“He’s dead,” one woman cried.
“What do we do?” another woman said through her sobs.
Sheila spotted an emergency phone and ran toward it. “I’ll call security.”
This cruise was becoming a nightmare. Only this morning she’d tripped over Allie’s body. Tonight she watched as the security team and medics took Harold’s body and comforted the three women who’d found him.
“He was heading to his room,” one said, and gestured to the room next to Sheila. “He said he wasn’t feeling good.”
“He looked very sick,” another one said.
“Ms. Rogers . . .” Matthew Kirtley came up beside her. “Fancy seeing you again.”