After everyone on Queen of the Seas was released, they trudged down the ramp with heads down, shuffling as they walked like in a chain gang from an old black-and-white movie. The only one not appropriately sad looking was Garrett. Liz had thought she’d seen a grin on his face and a sparkle in his green eyes. Charlotte had been tightlipped as she’d passed Liz. When Liz had stopped Susannah to ask her to meet up later she’d refused, explaining she was too distraught. But after Liz added a second “pretty please, it will be quick, promise.” Susannah agreed.
Back at the Indialantic Liz had given Chef Pierre and Greta a heads up that the wedding was canceled and passed on that Charlotte wanted everyone to bunker down at the hotel until the cause of death could be determined. It seemed Liz’s family run hotel would once again become a holding tank for possible murder suspects. Knowing she had an hour until meeting Susannah, she left Farrah’s cage in the butler’s pantry, much to Barnacle Bob’s delight, and took the service elevator up to the second floor. She crept down the hallway to the Oceana Suite, Julian and Dorian’s suite. As she passed the Golden Sands Suite, she heard voices from inside and paused at the door.
“You can’t get money from a will if there’s no money to get,” she heard Phoebe say. “She got the villa in Tuscany, and father had been renting the apartment in Paris, most of his money went to nursing staff over the past couple years. At least that’s what she told me.”
“What about the Degas?” Branson asked. “He said it would be ours.”
“His solicitors came after he passed and when they read the will, it was listed as ours to share, but there was only one problem. The statue had gone missing. The wife said she hadn’t noticed because they’d only used the bottom floor of the apartment. The statue was supposedly in father’s study. The Matisse was there. But of course, that belongs to Madeline now. I wouldn’t put it past her to have taken the Degas and hidden it. I know she resents Mama and us. You must let it go. Now, tell me the truth, did you kill future-stepdaddy?”
“Don’t deflect, Phoebe. You seem way too happy about getting nothing from our father’s estate. Maybe you gave Julian shellfish so he would croak? He wasn’t so keen on supporting your lavish lifestyle. I’ll be honest though, I’m not exactly unhappy about his passing. Just worried about mother.”
“Oh, she’ll be fine.” Phoebe answered. “Barely knew the guy. I read Mother’s cards yesterday and saw it coming. I think she saw it too. And what’s that country bumpkin doing here? Wren? What kind of a name is that? And what were you and she talking about on the boat? Hope you’re not interested in her. She probably fed Julian shellfish.”
“Nice change of subject, sister. Don’t think I’m letting Father’s Frenchie wife get away with stealing the Degas. How easy would it be to stick that little statue in Stepmonster’s handbag? I asked Garrett to hire someone in Paris to look into its disappearance.”
“You did what!” Phoebe screeched. “Does Mama know? I wanted to keep her out of it.”
“No. Of course not Phoebe. Just Garrett. He’s going to give me an update Monday morning.”
Liz heard Branson’s footsteps moving toward the door. She shot into the next suite, which was unlocked, and took a minute collecting her breath and her thoughts.
The Oceana Suite, Dorian and Julian’s suite, was her favorite. Even after what had happened in it a year ago. The Baccarat chandelier illuminated a room decorated in rattan Bombay style furniture with blue and white décor. Chinese ginger jars sprouted white orchids. Over the sofa was a large piece of art covering almost the entire wall. It was made by Home Arts by the Sea’s mixed-media artist, Minna Presley. The down cushions on the white sofa in the sitting room showed the imprint of a body. Based on Friday night’s conversation on the beach between Dorian and her fiancé, the imprint must have been from Julian Rhodes’s prone body. Sadness enveloped her. No matter how Julian had died and how big of a jerk he might have been, his death was undeserved. Was any death deserved?
Suddenly, she felt like a voyeur. She’d only wanted to see the suite in case there was a sign of a something Julian could have eaten that sent him into anaphylactic shock. Squidly’s next door was known to deliver to the hotel. Maybe they’d ordered a lobster or clam roll for a snack? But there wasn’t any half eaten food. She even checked the trash can.
Peeking in the bedroom, she saw Dorian’s colorful wardrobe hanging in the closet next to Julian’s natural fabric drawstring pants and tunics. All were in either shades of white or off-white. Susannah’s book on etiquette was open on the nightstand as if Dorian had been reading it and wishing her wedding could be more lavish. Poor Dorian. She must be devastated. Liz sent up a silent prayer that she would be fine.
She went back into the sitting room and looked around. There was nothing in the Oceana Suite to point to Julian’s presence. A closed suitcase; no witchcraft paraphernalia. His wallet was on the credenza. Should she look inside? No. There had to be a line. And this wasn’t the time to cross it. Next to the wallet was a blue bottle of Sunshine Wiccan Society Water. She picked it up and read the back again with the address in Jacksonville. She wasn’t sure if using the word Wiccan on a bottle of water was a selling point. But obviously she was wrong, if Julian had planned on investing in a new filtration system like she’d seen on the bill he had handed Garrett earlier, business must be good. She put the unopened bottle down and quickly left the suite.
At the door to Branson’s suite, she paused. As she put her ear to the door, it inched open at the same time something flashed by her feet. A furry weasel nosed her way inside. “Farrah! How did you get out of your cage? Barnacle Bob, I’d bet. Darned bird! Farrah get back here.”
She had no choice but to go inside and get her. Right?
“The suite was on the messy side. Through the open doorway to the bedroom, Liz saw Branson’s suitcase open on the luggage stand, clothes spilling onto the sisal bedroom rug. Next to her on the counter that divided the sitting room from a small kitchenette, was a nearly empty bottle of Patrón tequila, two shot glasses and a half of an unwrapped lime. Someone had been partying. She smelled the floral scent of perfume. Phoebe’s, she assumed, seeing she’d just overheard, okay, eavesdropped, on their conversation minutes ago.
“Farrah! Come out this instant.” She thought she saw the tip of the ferret’s tail under the bed. She went in the room, worried that Branson might return and think she was snooping. Quickly, she got down on all fours and looked under the bed. There she was. And she was holding something between her teeth. “What is that? Give it to Liz. Come on, Farrah, I’m in charge of you until your mommy comes back from the hospital. Hand it over. The ferret took a step toward Liz’s hand then backed off. “You little, rascal! Okay, I’ll lock you in here. No treats.” At the word treats she turned her little head. The word seemed a universal bribe no matter what kind of domesticated animals. Farrah inched forward and finally Liz grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, at least she thought it was her neck. She carefully got up, then wrapped her around her shoulders like she’d seen Dorian do. “Hand over the gum.” It was an unwrapped piece of Extra mint flavored gum. “I’ll take that, missy.”
Not knowing if it was Branson’s gum or some previous guest’s, she threw it in the trash next to the nightstand, and perused Branson’s reading material. A magazine for restaurant owners and a book on the artist Degas.
When she came back into Branson’s sitting room, Dorian’s financial advisor, Garrett, was standing just outside the open doorway. He smiled when he saw her, then quickly asked, “Any news about Dorian?”
Farrah nuzzled under Liz’s chin at the name Dorian. “That tickles, Farrah. No, sorry Mr. McGee…”
“Garrett.”
“Garrett. I haven’t heard anything.”
“Thank you. Do you know what happened to him, I mean Julian, uh, Mr. Rhodes?”
“No, I don’t. I was going to ask you the same thing,” she said.
“It is such a tragedy.” He said the words, but his eyes almost looked gleeful. He must have realized it and said in a somber tone, “Branson told me to meet him here so we can go to the hospital and check on his mother. Have you seen him?”
“No, I haven’t,” she answered, “the door was open, Farrah ran in and hid under the bed. The little scamp.” She didn’t know why she was explaining. For once she had a real alibi to her snooping.
“Okay. I’ll go check in the lobby for Branson. Must have gotten our wires crossed.” He reached over and gave the ferret a satisfying scratch behind the ears. They seemed old friends. Aunt Amelia’s motto that being kind to an animal was a true measure of a man, seemed to fit in Garrett’s case.
As Garret walked away, Liz couldn’t help liking him for it.