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“But why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” He gave a quick shrug, dismissing the question.
“I believe Kathleen when she says she has no idea what’s going on.”
“I know you do.” He looked at me with that deep, penetrating gaze that I always found so irresistible, but for the first time in our relationship, I couldn’t fathom what he was thinking. There’s something going on here that I don’t know about, some dark, sinister, cloak-and-dagger intrigue that’s being kept from me and from Kathleen. What could it possibly involve?
I decided to play “Poke the Bear”. I knew from experience that when he wasn’t expecting me to figure things out, he was unguarded in his answers and occasionally let things slip out. But if he gave the slightest of flinches, it was a sign that Kenny was already on guard and prepared to go to extremes to protect whatever secret he was keeping. I went ahead and pointed my imaginary stick at his soft underbelly, jostling him to see how he reacted.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I demanded, deliberately making my tone slightly accusatory.
“What?” His response was as smooth as melted Lindt semisweet baking chocolate, a sure sign he had practiced it. I watched as his gaze left my face and slowly rose in a measured effort to focus on a point across the room and well above the top of my head. No eye contact is always a bad sign. It means he doesn’t trust himself to return my gaze.
“Oh, crap. How bad is it?” I groaned. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”
“Honey, I don’t know what you mean.” He glanced back at the medical team busily consulting about Kathleen.
“Damn. It’s really bad.”
“Did I say that?” he calmly replied. In Kenny speak, that meant he had already built a thick, impenetrable wall of stone around his castle and was ready to fend off any attack. In this case, I was the uncivilized barbarian at the gate, wielding the mighty ax.
“You didn’t have to say it. It’s written all over your face.”
“Is it?” That was so effortlessly nonchalant; just another sign the trouble was on the horizon and closing in fast.
“This has got to be about that casket company. Why else would George print up that brochure?”
“You tell me.”
“And,” I continued, giving him a sly sideways glance, “I think something happened on that business trip he took to Nashville, something he didn’t tell his wife about.”
“It’s an interesting theory—hard to prove, but interesting.”
Obviously, Kenny was not going to confide in me. And from past experience, that usually meant he was working with a law enforcement agency that required him to keep his mouth shut. The FBI must have found something big. It was time to switch gears and lead him away from the prize. I could always return to it in the hopes of chipping away at his defense, but only once he believed I was done with it.
“Did you get a hold of your lawyer friend?”
“I did. He’s agreed to represent Kathleen during the interview.”
“So, what happen when the FBI arrives?”
“Well, at the moment, she has a medical issue, so that’s going to take precedence over the investigation. Thad wants her to go to the emergency room. He thinks the stress of her husband’s murder, coupled with missing a couple of doses of her medication, may have taken its toll on her.”
“And that means she’ll be carted away in an ambulance, right in front of the killer?”
There it was—that miniscule intake of air through his pursed lips, another variation on his flinch. I had hit pay dirt. It was time to mine that ore.
“I’ll take a stab at this and suggest that by moving Kathleen away from the ship, you expect to watch the killer and his accomplice try to recover whatever it was they lost.”
“Maybe they didn’t lose anything,” he suggested helpfully. For a moment, I thought he was toying with me, but the glance he gave me seemed sincere, almost like he was hoping I’d guess what the truth was.
“Then why did they go back to Kathleen’s room and tear it apart a second time? Why did they leave that horrible message? That was really mean.”
“Yes, it was.” He skipped the first two questions, only confirming that what was done to Kathleen’s stateroom wasn’t nice.
“Oh my God! This isn’t about setting a trap for them in her stateroom on board the ship. You really do expect them to try to kill her...at the hospital!”
“Again, that’s your theory.”
“Hmm....” I paused. There wasn’t much point in asking him, so I just started a conversation with myself. “But why go after her? Kathleen doesn’t work at the funeral home. What connection could she possibly have with the Forsythe Casket Company?”
“Why do killers kill?” He was willing to play along. That was a curious development.
“Is this a generic question or do you have an answer in mind?”
“Take your pick, Miz Scarlet.”
“Well, killers kill for any of a number of reasons. If it’s personal, it’s usually about love, power, or money. But people have been murdered for the thrill of it or because they witness a crime.....”
“In other words, you’ve got nothing to go on,” he pointed out. “We call it speculation when there’s no evidence to back up your hypothesis.”
“I’m still confused about the brochure. Why did George have information on a casket company with whom he didn’t do business? And why did he write that man’s name on the slip of paper and hide it in the fake Centrum bottle. Did you find out anything on that?
“Yes,” he nodded. I waited for more but he was not forthcoming.
“Well?”
“Anson Reddy is dead. The owner of the Forsythe Casket Company was murdered in his hotel room in Nashville at the annual convention for funeral directors.”
“No!” I admit I was shocked. I had made that cardinal error all detectives, amateur and professional, dread. I had assumed that George was identifying Reddy as our suspect. It was time to redeem myself.
“I don’t suppose he has a wife by the name of Vicky.”
“No, he was a lifelong bachelor.”
“How was he murdered?”
“Funny you should ask, Miz Scarlet. It was with the same type of knife that was used to kill George Delaney.” Now I knew he was not only deliberately withholding information, he was thoroughly enjoying himself as he lobbed each of his bombshells, watching me react with surprise.
“Is there something, er...special about the kind of knife the killer used?” I inquired hopefully.
“It’s a fishing knife.”
“You mean something used for boning tuna or bluefish?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“It’s a Victorinox Swiss Army Skipper fishing knife.”
“A pocket knife? Seriously?”
“Yes, it’s got a lock blade with a wavy edge, meant to go through scales and flesh.” He bumped against me gently. “Close your mouth, Miz Scarlet, unless you’re hoping to catch some flies.”
“Wait a minute. Why would the killer use a pocket knife to kill two men?”
“No, he used two pocket knives to kill two men.”
“He got a replacement after he killed Anson Reddy?”
“He did.”
“But why would he choose a folding knife as a murder weapon? What if it malfunctioned on him in the middle of stabbing his victim?”
“He’d have a problem.”
That was a bit of an understatement, in my opinion. Either the killer had amazing confidence in his own abilities or he was afraid of getting caught with a more substantial knife. When I suggested that to Kenny, he just laughed.
“Maybe that knife represents his comfort zone, Miz Scarlet.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He’s using what he’s familiar with because he doesn’t want to fail at his task.
“What does that mean, Captain Peacock? That he’s a rank amateur?”
“Maybe he believes a fixed-blade knife that can gut and filet a fish might be too big for him to handle.”
“Or he’s afraid someone will see him threatening his victim. A knife with a long handle and blade would be noticeable, but a Swiss Army knife could be concealed, even in a crowd.”
“A crowd?” A funny look crossed Kenny’s face.
“What? Tell me!”
“Anson Reddy was last seen at Music City Center, where the convention was held. His body turned up a couple of blocks away, floating in the Cumberland River. It all happened in the middle of the day, but no one saw anything.”
“Just like George’s murder. The killer sounds sneaky. Why not just wait until his two victims were alone? And why were they each thrown into water?”
“That’s an interesting point of view, Miz Scarlet. There may be a connection. Perhaps our murderer is very comfortable on the river and on the sea. We know he used a fisherman’s knife. Maybe fishing is his hobby.”
“But we still don’t know why he chose to kill both of the men, do we?”
“No, we don’t. Nor do we know the context of the killer’s relationship to either man.”
“Only that the connection between George and Anson is the funeral business.”
“Sorry to break into your conversation, but we’re just about ready to transport Mrs. Delaney to the hospital,” Eleanor informed us.
“Can we walk with you, at least as far as the gangway?”
“Sure. Come on. I think Kathleen would like that.”
After the EMTs arrived with the stretcher, their apprehensive patient was strapped down and we began the journey from the infirmary to the gangway. Winding our way through the halls, we made idle chitchat. Kathleen begged us to visit her.
“Of course we will,” I promised. “And you can call us anytime, day or night.”
“There’s your attorney now,” Kenny announced, as a good-looking man in his late forties, wearing chino cargo shorts and a lime green golf shirt with his brown leather sandals, approached. After the old friends shook hands, Kenny did the introductions. Ross Whitaker cheerfully greeted Kathleen as she lay on the gurney.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard good things about you, Kathleen.” I caught him glancing at the Royal Caribbean security staff as he said that. “Pardon us, folks. I need a moment with my client.”
The two of them conferred, head-to-head, for the better part of five minutes, the attorney kneeling at the side of the stretcher. Finally satisfied, Ross stood up as Kathleen reached into her wallet and withdrew a dollar bill. She gave this to her new lawyer. He handed her a piece of white paper to sign, and when she was done, he folded it and tucked it into his pocket.
“Ah, it looks like she’s retained him as counsel,” Kenny told me. “And just in time, too. The FBI agents are here.”
A woman and two men in street clothes stood at the open door of the ship, looking especially official as they waited to take Kathleen into custody. With the EMTs in charge of the stretcher, the group departed the ship together. I watched as they waited to be cleared by the Bermuda Customs officer. One of the agents had an animated conversation with Kathleen, seemingly friendly. She smiled a few times in response to things he said to her. And then, just as the doors of the ambulance were opened, she raised a hand, beckoning to the agent. He leaned over to listen to her, nodded a few times as he patted her hand, and then he trotted back to the ship. I heard an excited murmur from the growing crowd of rubbernecking passengers behind me, all eager to find out what was going on dockside.
“Is there a Scarlet Wilson here?” he hollered in my direction.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Mrs. Delaney has something for you. Follow me.”
I had to hurry to match the stride of the agent as he led me down the gangway. A minute later, I was standing next to the stretcher as Kathleen beckoned me to lean closer to her. In a soft voice, she made a request.
“Scarlet, this is going to sound silly, but George and I had a tradition whenever we traveled. We always launched a message in a bottle.” A big tear splashed down her cheek. “Could you....”
“Of course. Kenny and I will be honored to do it.”
“It’s all ready to go. You just have to find the right spot when the tide is going out. It helps if the wind is blowing out to sea.”
“Sure, that’s no problem.”
“Thank you.” She thrust a white plastic bag into my hands. I could feel the bottle inside. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“You just concentrate on getting better.”
“I’ll call you once we have the contact information,” Ross promised. “She’ll be in the general ward at King Henry VII Hospital in Hamilton. We’ll make sure she has a phone, so she can call you.”
As I walked back to the ship, the bottle safe inside the white bag still in my hands, an unexpected wave of sadness hit me. How difficult it must be for Kathleen, the sole survivor of what was a loving marriage. Too bad I never had the chance to meet George Delaney. I probably would have liked him a lot.
“What’s that?” Kenny met me by the door, his interest piqued. “What did she give you?”
Still emotional, I didn’t trust myself to speak. All I could manage was a few words as I deposited the package into my oversized handbag. “I’ll tell you later.”
As we headed back into the labyrinth of the ship, I surreptitiously lifted the flap and poked my hand into the CVS bag for a peek at the contents inside; what I found surprised me. The mouth of the clear, long-necked glass bottle was covered in bright green sealing wax. There was a long, tightly rolled scroll of paper inside the glass vessel. This was the final message from George Delaney to the world. What had he wanted to tell the finder?
I should take a look at the note before I toss it away forever. What if he hid something inside? What if he wrote down the name of his killer and no one ever finds it?
Laurel and Thaddeus met us near the elevator and the four of us lined up to wait for our turn. A short time later, we rode it up to Deck 4. Now that Liberty of the Seas was in port, people were eager to eat quickly and exit. After all, the schedule only allowed for a day and a half for us to explore the islands of Bermuda. We waited a good ten minutes to be seated in the main dining room. Escorted to a round table for eight, we joined a German couple who didn’t speak English, but gave us friendly smiles. They were nearly done with their omelets, toast, and fruit salad.
“What shall we do today?” Thaddeus asked, holding his cup out for some coffee as the waiter blew by with a fresh pot in his hand. “Stick to our plans or wing it?”
“Why don’t we go ahead with the minibus tour?” Laurel suggested.
I was operating on only a few hours of sleep and definitely not at my best, but I saw those two eager faces on the other side of the table. How could I say no to the tour that Laurel and Thaddeus had spent so much time and energy planning? We were here on vacation and it would be a real shame not to see what Bermuda offered. If I couldn’t climb into bed and nap until lunchtime, my next best option was to curl up in the back seat of the minibus for a little snooze.
“That sounds good to me,” I agreed, “as long as you don’t hold it against me if I accidentally nod off.”
“Not to worry,” my mother told me, amused by my concerted effort to stifle a yawn.
“I’m in.” Kenny fought hard to keep from acknowledging his own exhaustion, but lost the battle. His mouth suddenly opened wide and out came a sound that could have passed for a morose moose bellowing to his mate. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, you two are such good sports,” Laurel exclaimed, “after all you’ve been through in one day.”
“Then it’s settled,” Dr. Van Zandt replied. “I’ll go call Cedric and find out what time he’s picking us up. Order me two eggs over easy, toast, and bacon. I’m a hungry man.”
We made small talk while we waited for him to return. He was back at the table just as his order arrived.
“He’ll be waiting for us on the street. There’s no rush. Let’s eat.”
I managed to stay awake during breakfast, and fueled by more coffee, I was ready to go with bells on when we departed the dining room. By now, most folks had passed through Customs, so the line was short. We showed our travel credentials and were cleared for entry.
Strolling along King’s Wharf, on our way to our rendezvous point on Dockyard Terrace, we passed a long line of jet skis tied up to the dock, ready to be rented, and an even bigger crowd waiting for their chance to take the machines out on the open water. Further on, people were boarding the Sea Express catamaran for the twenty-minute ride to Hamilton. There was no denying that the Royal Naval Dockyard was a tourist hub. The tropical landscape, vibrant with its turquoise waters, verdant palms, and pink hibiscus, energized me.
“There he is,” Thaddeus announced, thrusting an emphatic hand into the air to hail our tour driver. A moment later, a tall, heavyset man with graying hair and skin the color of café au lait broke away from the conversation he was having with a group of other locals and joined us. He had to dodge a helmeted Segway rider in the process.
“Good morning to you,” Cedric greeted us, his green eyes twinkling. “It looks like a fine day for a drive.”
“It does,” Laurel nodded. “I’m looking forward to this, especially after yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” He glanced at each of us. “Did you have a rough day at sea?”
“But why?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” He gave a quick shrug, dismissing the question.
“I believe Kathleen when she says she has no idea what’s going on.”
“I know you do.” He looked at me with that deep, penetrating gaze that I always found so irresistible, but for the first time in our relationship, I couldn’t fathom what he was thinking. There’s something going on here that I don’t know about, some dark, sinister, cloak-and-dagger intrigue that’s being kept from me and from Kathleen. What could it possibly involve?
I decided to play “Poke the Bear”. I knew from experience that when he wasn’t expecting me to figure things out, he was unguarded in his answers and occasionally let things slip out. But if he gave the slightest of flinches, it was a sign that Kenny was already on guard and prepared to go to extremes to protect whatever secret he was keeping. I went ahead and pointed my imaginary stick at his soft underbelly, jostling him to see how he reacted.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I demanded, deliberately making my tone slightly accusatory.
“What?” His response was as smooth as melted Lindt semisweet baking chocolate, a sure sign he had practiced it. I watched as his gaze left my face and slowly rose in a measured effort to focus on a point across the room and well above the top of my head. No eye contact is always a bad sign. It means he doesn’t trust himself to return my gaze.
“Oh, crap. How bad is it?” I groaned. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”
“Honey, I don’t know what you mean.” He glanced back at the medical team busily consulting about Kathleen.
“Damn. It’s really bad.”
“Did I say that?” he calmly replied. In Kenny speak, that meant he had already built a thick, impenetrable wall of stone around his castle and was ready to fend off any attack. In this case, I was the uncivilized barbarian at the gate, wielding the mighty ax.
“You didn’t have to say it. It’s written all over your face.”
“Is it?” That was so effortlessly nonchalant; just another sign the trouble was on the horizon and closing in fast.
“This has got to be about that casket company. Why else would George print up that brochure?”
“You tell me.”
“And,” I continued, giving him a sly sideways glance, “I think something happened on that business trip he took to Nashville, something he didn’t tell his wife about.”
“It’s an interesting theory—hard to prove, but interesting.”
Obviously, Kenny was not going to confide in me. And from past experience, that usually meant he was working with a law enforcement agency that required him to keep his mouth shut. The FBI must have found something big. It was time to switch gears and lead him away from the prize. I could always return to it in the hopes of chipping away at his defense, but only once he believed I was done with it.
“Did you get a hold of your lawyer friend?”
“I did. He’s agreed to represent Kathleen during the interview.”
“So, what happen when the FBI arrives?”
“Well, at the moment, she has a medical issue, so that’s going to take precedence over the investigation. Thad wants her to go to the emergency room. He thinks the stress of her husband’s murder, coupled with missing a couple of doses of her medication, may have taken its toll on her.”
“And that means she’ll be carted away in an ambulance, right in front of the killer?”
There it was—that miniscule intake of air through his pursed lips, another variation on his flinch. I had hit pay dirt. It was time to mine that ore.
“I’ll take a stab at this and suggest that by moving Kathleen away from the ship, you expect to watch the killer and his accomplice try to recover whatever it was they lost.”
“Maybe they didn’t lose anything,” he suggested helpfully. For a moment, I thought he was toying with me, but the glance he gave me seemed sincere, almost like he was hoping I’d guess what the truth was.
“Then why did they go back to Kathleen’s room and tear it apart a second time? Why did they leave that horrible message? That was really mean.”
“Yes, it was.” He skipped the first two questions, only confirming that what was done to Kathleen’s stateroom wasn’t nice.
“Oh my God! This isn’t about setting a trap for them in her stateroom on board the ship. You really do expect them to try to kill her...at the hospital!”
“Again, that’s your theory.”
“Hmm....” I paused. There wasn’t much point in asking him, so I just started a conversation with myself. “But why go after her? Kathleen doesn’t work at the funeral home. What connection could she possibly have with the Forsythe Casket Company?”
“Why do killers kill?” He was willing to play along. That was a curious development.
“Is this a generic question or do you have an answer in mind?”
“Take your pick, Miz Scarlet.”
“Well, killers kill for any of a number of reasons. If it’s personal, it’s usually about love, power, or money. But people have been murdered for the thrill of it or because they witness a crime.....”
“In other words, you’ve got nothing to go on,” he pointed out. “We call it speculation when there’s no evidence to back up your hypothesis.”
“I’m still confused about the brochure. Why did George have information on a casket company with whom he didn’t do business? And why did he write that man’s name on the slip of paper and hide it in the fake Centrum bottle. Did you find out anything on that?
“Yes,” he nodded. I waited for more but he was not forthcoming.
“Well?”
“Anson Reddy is dead. The owner of the Forsythe Casket Company was murdered in his hotel room in Nashville at the annual convention for funeral directors.”
“No!” I admit I was shocked. I had made that cardinal error all detectives, amateur and professional, dread. I had assumed that George was identifying Reddy as our suspect. It was time to redeem myself.
“I don’t suppose he has a wife by the name of Vicky.”
“No, he was a lifelong bachelor.”
“How was he murdered?”
“Funny you should ask, Miz Scarlet. It was with the same type of knife that was used to kill George Delaney.” Now I knew he was not only deliberately withholding information, he was thoroughly enjoying himself as he lobbed each of his bombshells, watching me react with surprise.
“Is there something, er...special about the kind of knife the killer used?” I inquired hopefully.
“It’s a fishing knife.”
“You mean something used for boning tuna or bluefish?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“It’s a Victorinox Swiss Army Skipper fishing knife.”
“A pocket knife? Seriously?”
“Yes, it’s got a lock blade with a wavy edge, meant to go through scales and flesh.” He bumped against me gently. “Close your mouth, Miz Scarlet, unless you’re hoping to catch some flies.”
“Wait a minute. Why would the killer use a pocket knife to kill two men?”
“No, he used two pocket knives to kill two men.”
“He got a replacement after he killed Anson Reddy?”
“He did.”
“But why would he choose a folding knife as a murder weapon? What if it malfunctioned on him in the middle of stabbing his victim?”
“He’d have a problem.”
That was a bit of an understatement, in my opinion. Either the killer had amazing confidence in his own abilities or he was afraid of getting caught with a more substantial knife. When I suggested that to Kenny, he just laughed.
“Maybe that knife represents his comfort zone, Miz Scarlet.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He’s using what he’s familiar with because he doesn’t want to fail at his task.
“What does that mean, Captain Peacock? That he’s a rank amateur?”
“Maybe he believes a fixed-blade knife that can gut and filet a fish might be too big for him to handle.”
“Or he’s afraid someone will see him threatening his victim. A knife with a long handle and blade would be noticeable, but a Swiss Army knife could be concealed, even in a crowd.”
“A crowd?” A funny look crossed Kenny’s face.
“What? Tell me!”
“Anson Reddy was last seen at Music City Center, where the convention was held. His body turned up a couple of blocks away, floating in the Cumberland River. It all happened in the middle of the day, but no one saw anything.”
“Just like George’s murder. The killer sounds sneaky. Why not just wait until his two victims were alone? And why were they each thrown into water?”
“That’s an interesting point of view, Miz Scarlet. There may be a connection. Perhaps our murderer is very comfortable on the river and on the sea. We know he used a fisherman’s knife. Maybe fishing is his hobby.”
“But we still don’t know why he chose to kill both of the men, do we?”
“No, we don’t. Nor do we know the context of the killer’s relationship to either man.”
“Only that the connection between George and Anson is the funeral business.”
“Sorry to break into your conversation, but we’re just about ready to transport Mrs. Delaney to the hospital,” Eleanor informed us.
“Can we walk with you, at least as far as the gangway?”
“Sure. Come on. I think Kathleen would like that.”
After the EMTs arrived with the stretcher, their apprehensive patient was strapped down and we began the journey from the infirmary to the gangway. Winding our way through the halls, we made idle chitchat. Kathleen begged us to visit her.
“Of course we will,” I promised. “And you can call us anytime, day or night.”
“There’s your attorney now,” Kenny announced, as a good-looking man in his late forties, wearing chino cargo shorts and a lime green golf shirt with his brown leather sandals, approached. After the old friends shook hands, Kenny did the introductions. Ross Whitaker cheerfully greeted Kathleen as she lay on the gurney.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard good things about you, Kathleen.” I caught him glancing at the Royal Caribbean security staff as he said that. “Pardon us, folks. I need a moment with my client.”
The two of them conferred, head-to-head, for the better part of five minutes, the attorney kneeling at the side of the stretcher. Finally satisfied, Ross stood up as Kathleen reached into her wallet and withdrew a dollar bill. She gave this to her new lawyer. He handed her a piece of white paper to sign, and when she was done, he folded it and tucked it into his pocket.
“Ah, it looks like she’s retained him as counsel,” Kenny told me. “And just in time, too. The FBI agents are here.”
A woman and two men in street clothes stood at the open door of the ship, looking especially official as they waited to take Kathleen into custody. With the EMTs in charge of the stretcher, the group departed the ship together. I watched as they waited to be cleared by the Bermuda Customs officer. One of the agents had an animated conversation with Kathleen, seemingly friendly. She smiled a few times in response to things he said to her. And then, just as the doors of the ambulance were opened, she raised a hand, beckoning to the agent. He leaned over to listen to her, nodded a few times as he patted her hand, and then he trotted back to the ship. I heard an excited murmur from the growing crowd of rubbernecking passengers behind me, all eager to find out what was going on dockside.
“Is there a Scarlet Wilson here?” he hollered in my direction.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Mrs. Delaney has something for you. Follow me.”
I had to hurry to match the stride of the agent as he led me down the gangway. A minute later, I was standing next to the stretcher as Kathleen beckoned me to lean closer to her. In a soft voice, she made a request.
“Scarlet, this is going to sound silly, but George and I had a tradition whenever we traveled. We always launched a message in a bottle.” A big tear splashed down her cheek. “Could you....”
“Of course. Kenny and I will be honored to do it.”
“It’s all ready to go. You just have to find the right spot when the tide is going out. It helps if the wind is blowing out to sea.”
“Sure, that’s no problem.”
“Thank you.” She thrust a white plastic bag into my hands. I could feel the bottle inside. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“You just concentrate on getting better.”
“I’ll call you once we have the contact information,” Ross promised. “She’ll be in the general ward at King Henry VII Hospital in Hamilton. We’ll make sure she has a phone, so she can call you.”
As I walked back to the ship, the bottle safe inside the white bag still in my hands, an unexpected wave of sadness hit me. How difficult it must be for Kathleen, the sole survivor of what was a loving marriage. Too bad I never had the chance to meet George Delaney. I probably would have liked him a lot.
“What’s that?” Kenny met me by the door, his interest piqued. “What did she give you?”
Still emotional, I didn’t trust myself to speak. All I could manage was a few words as I deposited the package into my oversized handbag. “I’ll tell you later.”
As we headed back into the labyrinth of the ship, I surreptitiously lifted the flap and poked my hand into the CVS bag for a peek at the contents inside; what I found surprised me. The mouth of the clear, long-necked glass bottle was covered in bright green sealing wax. There was a long, tightly rolled scroll of paper inside the glass vessel. This was the final message from George Delaney to the world. What had he wanted to tell the finder?
I should take a look at the note before I toss it away forever. What if he hid something inside? What if he wrote down the name of his killer and no one ever finds it?
Laurel and Thaddeus met us near the elevator and the four of us lined up to wait for our turn. A short time later, we rode it up to Deck 4. Now that Liberty of the Seas was in port, people were eager to eat quickly and exit. After all, the schedule only allowed for a day and a half for us to explore the islands of Bermuda. We waited a good ten minutes to be seated in the main dining room. Escorted to a round table for eight, we joined a German couple who didn’t speak English, but gave us friendly smiles. They were nearly done with their omelets, toast, and fruit salad.
“What shall we do today?” Thaddeus asked, holding his cup out for some coffee as the waiter blew by with a fresh pot in his hand. “Stick to our plans or wing it?”
“Why don’t we go ahead with the minibus tour?” Laurel suggested.
I was operating on only a few hours of sleep and definitely not at my best, but I saw those two eager faces on the other side of the table. How could I say no to the tour that Laurel and Thaddeus had spent so much time and energy planning? We were here on vacation and it would be a real shame not to see what Bermuda offered. If I couldn’t climb into bed and nap until lunchtime, my next best option was to curl up in the back seat of the minibus for a little snooze.
“That sounds good to me,” I agreed, “as long as you don’t hold it against me if I accidentally nod off.”
“Not to worry,” my mother told me, amused by my concerted effort to stifle a yawn.
“I’m in.” Kenny fought hard to keep from acknowledging his own exhaustion, but lost the battle. His mouth suddenly opened wide and out came a sound that could have passed for a morose moose bellowing to his mate. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh, you two are such good sports,” Laurel exclaimed, “after all you’ve been through in one day.”
“Then it’s settled,” Dr. Van Zandt replied. “I’ll go call Cedric and find out what time he’s picking us up. Order me two eggs over easy, toast, and bacon. I’m a hungry man.”
We made small talk while we waited for him to return. He was back at the table just as his order arrived.
“He’ll be waiting for us on the street. There’s no rush. Let’s eat.”
I managed to stay awake during breakfast, and fueled by more coffee, I was ready to go with bells on when we departed the dining room. By now, most folks had passed through Customs, so the line was short. We showed our travel credentials and were cleared for entry.
Strolling along King’s Wharf, on our way to our rendezvous point on Dockyard Terrace, we passed a long line of jet skis tied up to the dock, ready to be rented, and an even bigger crowd waiting for their chance to take the machines out on the open water. Further on, people were boarding the Sea Express catamaran for the twenty-minute ride to Hamilton. There was no denying that the Royal Naval Dockyard was a tourist hub. The tropical landscape, vibrant with its turquoise waters, verdant palms, and pink hibiscus, energized me.
“There he is,” Thaddeus announced, thrusting an emphatic hand into the air to hail our tour driver. A moment later, a tall, heavyset man with graying hair and skin the color of café au lait broke away from the conversation he was having with a group of other locals and joined us. He had to dodge a helmeted Segway rider in the process.
“Good morning to you,” Cedric greeted us, his green eyes twinkling. “It looks like a fine day for a drive.”
“It does,” Laurel nodded. “I’m looking forward to this, especially after yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” He glanced at each of us. “Did you have a rough day at sea?”