Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise (19 page)

Which left just me and Rita, fighting for Robbie.

The music began. I was determined to win. But how? Rita played dirty. I saw how she elbowed that poor teenager. If I wasn’t careful, I could lose a kidney.

She was glaring at me now, circling Robbie like a caged tiger, her squinty eyes shooting death rays, her elbows poised to attack.

And then I got a brilliant idea. A stroke of genius, if I do say so myself.

Just as the music stopped, I pointed off to the side, shouting, “Look! It’s Mary Higgins Clark!”

And in the brief instant it took Rita to turn and look, I flung myself onto Robbie, throwing my arms around his neck.

Victory! I had defeated the Most Irritating Woman in the World!

My victory was short-lived, however. Because just then Paige stomped over in her grass skirt and cardigan, a frown marring her bland features.

“Ms. Austen,” she snapped, “contests are for
paying
passengers only.”

“Here you go,” she said to Rita, handing her first prize, a fifty-dollar gift certificate to one of the ship’s boutiques.

Rita just about broke the needle on the smirk-o-meter.

“Doesn’t Jaine get anything?” Robbie piped up. “After all, she really was the winner.”

Paige faked a smile for the paying customer. “Of course, sir.”

“Here you go, Jaine,” she said, handing me a cheesy ballpoint pen shaped like a maraca.

“Thanks,” I said, shoving it in my pocket. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” she said, failing to detect the irony in my voice.

Then she headed back to the mike to continue emceeing the festivities.

As she walked away, something about her cardigan caught my eye. It was a bright chartreuse. I felt certain I’d seen it somewhere before.

And then I remembered. The second night of the cruise, when I’d come back from my brownie run, I’d seen a blonde in a nightgown and that same chartreuse cardigan slipping into Graham’s cabin with a bottle of champagne. At the time I thought it was Cookie. But I was wrong. It was Paige.

So Cookie wasn’t the only one having an affair with Graham. Paige had also been boffing the guy. Which means Paige was also jilted by him. What’s more, Paige was there the day of Anton’s ice sculpture demo. So she had access to his tools. Was it possible she flipped out when she learned of Graham’s betrayal and sought revenge with Anton’s ice pick?

“Jaine, are you okay?” Robbie asked as I stood there lost in thought.

“I’m fine,” I said, adding another suspect to my ever-growing list.

Chapter 18

A
ll thoughts of murder suspects quickly faded as the dancing started up again and once more I found myself making body contact with Robbie. The next few hours sailed by in a happy blur.

When the deejay had spun his last record, Robbie asked if I felt like getting a nightcap at the Tiki Lounge.

“Absolutely,” I said, not wanting the evening to end.

We nabbed ourselves a cozy booth under a thatched umbrella and settled down with two margaritas and a bowl of mixed nuts. I studiously avoided the nuts, hoping to pass myself off as the kind of person who can sit across from a bowl of Planters’ finest without inhaling it on contact.

“Here’s to the real winner of the Musical Men contest,” Robbie said, raising his glass in a toast.

“And to the last Musical Man standing,” I added, fighting the impulse to scoot closer to his thighs.

There was no denying it. I was major league attracted to this guy.

I’d always pegged surfer types as beer-swilling dodos with marshmallows for brains. But Robbie was different. I wanted to learn more about him, hoping he’d live up to my hormones’ expectations.

“So tell me how you got started making surfboards,” I asked, grabbing a handful of the nuts I had not two seconds ago vowed not to touch.

“I’ve always loved the beach,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “ever since I was a kid. I used to ride the bus two and a half hours to get to Santa Monica every weekend. So it’s only natural I got into making surfboards. I can’t think of anything I’d like doing better. It’s my way of being creative.”

Every day Robbie seemed less and less like the bad boy of my first impressions and more like the sensitive artist of my dreams. I suddenly had visions of the two of us in a cottage by the sea, Robbie carving his surfboards while I dashed off a Great American Novel or two.

“Yes, I’m a water baby, all right,” he said. “Which reminds me—are you all set for scuba diving tomorrow?”

And just like that, my fantasy bubble popped.

I’d forgotten all about the darn scuba excursion. No way was I going to let my surfer prince see me in a bathing suit. But what excuse could I use to get out of it? Could I fake a sprained knee? Nah. Then I’d have to spend the rest of the cruise limping. Okay, how about a stomach flu? That wouldn’t work either. Then I’d have to stop eating the nuts. Wait. I’d tell him I had an ear infection. That could work. People with ear infections weren’t supposed to swim.

“Actually, Robbie—”

“Yes?”

Oh, hell. He looked so darn eager, I couldn’t fink out on him. Heaven knows what strings he had to pull to get me on the excursion at the last minute. Or how much it cost. Some of those fancy excursions were nosebleed expensive.

“Actually,” I said, caving yet again, “I can’t wait either.”

“That’s great,” he grinned.

Then he helped himself to a handful of nuts in the absentminded way naturally skinny people do.

“So now that you know I’m a surfaholic, what about you? What’s your passion in life?”

I adroitly refrained from mentioning the first three answers that sprang to mind: milk chocolate, dark chocolate, and pepperoni pizza.

Instead, I said, “Oh, writing. Definitely.”

“I’ve always been in awe of writers.”

I smiled modestly, hoping he wouldn’t remember that I spent most of my days writing about toilet bowls.

We hung around the bar for a while longer, sharing tidbits from our lives (mine carefully edited). When we’d licked the last of the salt from the rims of our margarita glasses, Robbie said, “Well, I guess it’s time to call it a night.”

“I guess so.”

He hesitated a beat.

“Say, why don’t I walk you back to your cabin?”

Whoa. You know what that meant, don’t you? It was the nautical equivalent of
Your place or mine?
Well, if he thought I was going to leap in the sack with him he had another think coming. I wasn’t about to get frisky with him this early in the game. Not with my principles, not with my ethics—and not with my cat stowed illegally in my cabin.

But maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe he had nothing more licentious on his mind than a good-night kiss.

Which sounded awfully appealing to me. It couldn’t hurt to try for a good-night kiss, could it?

Up to now Robbie and I had been chattering like jaybirds, but as we headed down the corridor to my cabin, we fell silent.

I was desperately trying to think of something clever to say, but not a single conversational gambit cropped up in my allegedly creative brain.

“Here we are,” I squeaked, when we finally reached my cabin.

I looked up and saw that Robbie was staring at me. For once his lopsided grin was nowhere to be found. Indeed he looked quite serious when he said, “You know, Jaine, I really like you.”

“I do, too! Like you, that is, not me. Not that I don’t like myself. Of course I do, although sometimes I can be rough on myself, self-critical, you know. I’ve really got to work on that—”

Oh, for crying out loud. Of all times to start babbling.

“I know what you meant, Jaine,” he said, touching his finger to my lips.

This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for since I first saw him buttering a French roll in the dining room. He was leaning in to kiss me!

Then, just as our lips were about to meet, I looked over his shoulder and saw something that made my blood freeze.

It was Prozac, peeking out from behind an alcove!

Dammit! She must’ve sneaked out when Samoa came in to turn down the bed. I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before she made a break for it.

“Oh, no!” I cried, pulling away.

“What’s wrong?” Robbie asked.

Time for some fast talking.

“Um, I lost my earrings!” I clutched my earlobes as if I’d just realized the earrings were missing.

“Let’s go look for them,” I said, yanking him down the corridor as fast and as far away from Prozac as possible.

“I didn’t realize you were wearing earrings,” he said, as we raced along.

“They’re very small. You probably didn’t notice them. They must’ve fallen off while we were dancing. They mean so much to me; my grandmother gave them to me on her deathbed. In fact, her dying words were, ‘
Jaine, whatever you do, don’t lose the earrings…’
”

Clearly the lobe in my brain in charge of idiotic babbling was in overdrive.

“I totally understand,” Robbie said, as we reached the elevators.

I jabbed the elevator button, terrified I was going to see Prozac prancing into view.

It seemed like centuries before the dratted contraption finally showed up. I leapt on eagerly, and then, just as the doors were about to shut, I pressed the DOOR OPEN button and scooted out again.

“Guess what?” I cried. “I found my earrings. They were in my pocket all along.”

“They were?” Robbie said, quite justifiably looking at me as if I had more than a few screws loose.

“Well, nighty night!” I chirped.

And as the elevators closed on Robbie’s stupefied face, I raced off in search of my escaped stowaway.

I found the little devil at the end of the corridor, chowing down on the remains of someone’s room service dinner.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I hissed, snatching her up in my arms.

She shot me an affronted glare.

Hey, wait! I haven’t finished those fries.

I hustled her back to my cabin and was just about to put the key in the slot when I heard, “Well, hellooo, kitty.”

Oh, groan. I’d recognize that smarmy voice anywhere.

I turned to see Anton, decked out in an eye-popping outfit of orange Bermuda shorts, Day-Glo Hawaiian shirt, and—his pièce de résistance—black socks with sandals.

“Last I heard,” he said, eyeing Prozac, “cats weren’t allowed on board.”

“Gorillas aren’t either, but they let you on.”

Okay, so I wasn’t dumb enough to say that.

“How on earth did you find my cabin?” were the words that actually came out of my mouth.

“I’ve been following you all night.”

Not
all
night. Clearly he’d taken some time off to rendezvous with his buddy Jack Daniels. The guy reeked of booze.

“Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to report your kitty to the authorities?” he asked, scratching Prozac behind her ears.

The little slut purred in ecstasy.

“Aw, c’mon, Anton.” With Herculean effort, I managed a smile. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“That depends,” he leered, “on whether you invite me in for a little mattress action.”

Yuck. I’d rather suck a slug.

But just then I saw another couple coming down the hallway. Panicked lest they see Prozac, I opened the cabin and dragged Anton inside.

“I knew all along you were into me, babe,” he preened. “Just playing hard to get, huh?”

“Forget it, Anton,” I said, tossing Prozac onto the bed and barricading myself behind the cabin’s only chair. “No way on earth am I going to sleep with you.”

“How about some heavy petting?”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Okay, then. I’m going to tell. One word from me and the cat’s in quarantine.”

He started for the door.

I should have let him go. I’d jumped through enough hoops for my spoiled feline princess, who was now sprawled out on the bed licking her privates, no doubt dreaming about her next snack. But you know what a softie I am when it comes to Prozac. I couldn’t let Anton turn her in.

“Wait a minute!” I called out, wracking my brain for a way to keep him quiet. “I don’t suppose you have a book you’d like me to edit?”

He shook his head.

“A screenplay? Surely you have an idea for a screenplay. Nine out of ten men with ponytails do.”

“Sorry, babe. The only idea I have involves you and me between the sheets. So whaddaya say?”

And then, as a preview of coming attractions, he whipped off his Hawaiian shirt.

I gasped. Not at the sight of his hairy belly. Or his rusty nipple studs. (Although Lord knows they were gaspworthy.)

No, what had me transfixed was a large technicolor tattoo on his chest. And not just any tattoo. But a tattoo of a butterfly.

A gold star to those of you who guessed what that meant.

“Omigosh,” I blurted out. “You’re the Butterfly Bandit!”

And just like that, he sobered up.

“How did you find out?” he asked warily.

“I saw the newspaper clipping in Graham’s wallet.”

“That was a long time ago, Jaine. I’ve cleaned up my act since then.”

“Graham was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he was blackmailing me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Threatened to tell the cruise line about my checkered past.”

A shiver of fear ran down my spine. Had Anton killed Graham to shut him up? Was I alone in my cabin with a half-naked, hairy-bellied killer?

“But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He shot me one of his meant-to-be-sexy smiles, but this time there was something forced about it.

“C’mon, doll. You don’t really think I’m the kind of guy who’d kill someone?”

Of course I did! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? What if no one had stolen Anton’s ice picks? What if he’d just pretended they were missing to throw suspicion off himself? I thought of how he’d complained to me that day on the deck, telling me the ice picks were gone from his case. But maybe he just wanted everyone to
think
they were stolen—so that when Graham showed up with one of them plunged in his chest, no one would suspect the seemingly foolish ice sculptor.