Ransom at Sea (33 page)

“Too damn bad about him!” the young man sneered contemptuously. “But my pals thought he'd ‘double-crossed' us.” He broke off and laughed, amused by the mocking way he'd said it. “We thought he'd stolen the stuff to sell it! But it taught his granny not to screw with us, didn't it?”

“Yeah,” the young woman said limply.

“Well … I have the box right here,” Emily said fussily. The box had been blocked from their view. Emily now turned to the side and picked it up, then handed it to the young man.

“It don't feel right!” He frowned, shaking it. “It don't feel heavy enough! Not for what was in it! That Trenton kid must've taken some out!”

“What was in it?” Emily asked breathily.

“Heroin!” he spat back. “Real pure, and real simple!”

“Heroin,” the girl echoed lazily.

The young man leaned in toward Emily, towering over her. “You been delivering heroin—you and old lady Trenton. Tell her that. Tell her we got it on her now—she's been delivering heroin!”

A slight flutter in the foliage was the only noise that preceded the appearance of Barnes, Ransom, and a pair of deputies from the woods onto the platform.

Barnes's rich baritone called out calmly but firmly, “All right, you two, don't move.”

Presumably it was the couple's familiarity with similar situations that caused them to freeze the moment they heard him. The young man continued to glare down at Emily as one of the deputies searched him, turning up both a gun and very nasty-looking knife, while Barnes read them their rights. Suddenly the young man's face relaxed, and still staring at Emily he began to laugh—lightly at first, building to something unnervingly out of control. His girlfriend giggled helplessly at his side, her eyes shifted back and forth as if she were trying to figure out what was so funny.

*   *   *

Ransom was allowed to sit in on the interrogation of the pair, whose names proved to be Denny and Janet. Whatever amusement Denny had found in their situation in the woods had disappeared the minute he was at the sheriff's station. Barnes assured them that they were “going down”—a phrase that, to Ransom, sounded hopelessly anachronistic coming from his rural counterpart—as he put it, on drug charges and complicity in the murder of Johnny Trenton, but the surly youths were unimpressed, particularly when pressed about the matter of Marcella Hemsley.

When Barnes asked them what they had done after they left Claudia Trenton at Lookout Point, Denny replied churlishly, “We just went back to that fleabag dump and
partied.
” He childishly emphasized the last word, as if he intended for it to encompass a multitude of sins that would shock his listeners.

“What I think you did,” said Barnes, “was go to the boat, the
Genessee,
and tried to find that package yourself. And you got caught. And you panicked and killed a woman.”

“Yeah, prove that!” Denny replied with the curt confidence of someone who knows an accusation can't be proved.

It went on like that for some time, and Ransom finally left. Emily had waited in the outer office, and rose when Ransom came out.

“Is it over?” she asked.

“Not by a long shot. The drug charge is certain, and probably their part in Johnny Trenton's death. But they're not going to admit anything, and they insist they never went to the boat.”

As they walked out to Ransom's car, Emily said, “It makes my blood run cold to see young people like that. So lost at such an early age. And no comprehension of the value of life. They must've called their confederates and told them to take care of Johnny.”

“That much we can assume from what they said to you.”

Ransom opened the passenger door and helped her in. Once she was buckled into her seat, he closed the door, went around to the other side, and climbed in behind the steering wheel. But before he started the car, his phone rang. He pulled it out, flipped it open, and said hello.

“Jer, it's me,” Gerald White's voice crackled across the not-too-clear connection. “I got an answer on Stuart Holmes. He was a divorce lawyer. He was supposed to be a really good one—wealthy clients, that kind of thing.”

“Ah,” his partner said, grinning into the phone.

“You planning to get a divorce?” Gerald said, amusement in his tone. “'Cause I should tell you, you have to get married, first.”

“Then I'll have to find another lawyer. Holmes is in his seventies. By the time I get married, he'll probably be dead.”

Gerald laughed. “You making any progress up there?”

He told Gerald about the arrest of the young couple and the Chicago connection.

“So you have a couple of names to go on now,” he concluded.

“Great. Does this mean you'll be back soon?”

Ransom paused. “I'll tell you tomorrow.” He disconnected, snapped the phone shut, and stuck it back in his pocket.

“What was that about Stuart Holmes?” Emily asked.

“Holmes was a high-powered divorce lawyer. Rich clients.” He stopped for a second, knitting his brow. Then he smiled. “Oh, yes! That's where I've seen Percy Faulk—his client—before. In the newspapers. I can't remember in what context, but he's got money.”

“So Mr. Holmes really was seeing a client, just as he told you, completely unconnected to this case. There really was nothing shady about it.”

“I wouldn't say that. The surreptitious way they were going about it leads me to believe that Faulk must not have wanted anyone to know he was consulting Holmes. If he was simply getting a divorce, it would be natural for him to see the proper attorney. So I would suspect that there's something more to it … perhaps not quite legal.… Perhaps he's interested in hiding assets? Anyone with Holmes's experience would know how to do that.”

“But it didn't have anything to do with Marcella's murder. It was exactly as Mr. Holmes said. Oh, dear!” Emily's brow furrowed so deeply that she almost looked cross. “I really have been very, very stupid!”

“What is it?”

She didn't appear to have heard him. “Weaving mysteries out of things that have perfectly logical explanations.”

“Emily, what is it?”

She turned to face him, leveling her crystal blue eyes at his. “Jeremy, suppose
everything
is exactly as it seemed?”

“I don't follow.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, Holmes was telling the truth; the reason for the Millers' anxiety over their pictures had a perfectly natural reason.…”

“I think you mean
au naturel
reasons,” Ransom said wryly.

She ignored this. “We now also know that what I overheard that first day on the deck was Claudia talking on her cell phone, so Mr. Driscoll's arrival on the scene was just coincidence. So I think we can also assume that there was nothing really suspicious about Mr. Driscoll and Claudia having dinner together at the pub in Sangamore. It was just as he explained. Propinquity.” She stopped abruptly. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. “Propinquity. Oh, dear, dear, dear! It's exactly as I thought from the beginning!”

“Emily, what is it?” Ransom asked with concern.

“There is one other thing I think we can assume was exactly as it appeared to be. If we do that, it's the answer to everything.” She told him what it was.

He pondered this for a long moment. “But
can
we assume that?”

“I think we have good reason to,” she said with finality. “Now, Jeremy, you must go back in there and talk to the sheriff. He has to tell Captain Farraday that we can sail tomorrow morning.”

11

The pall that had been deepening over the
Genessee
and its passengers had lifted somewhat at the news that they would be allowed to leave the following morning, despite the fact that the delay meant they would have to sail directly back to Chicago rather than continuing the trip. Not that any of them wanted to. The atmosphere at dinner that evening was one of reserved jubilation.

Their number had further diminished: Claudia Trenton would be having to stay on for a day or so in Macaw, and had removed to the Lakeview Motel, made safe now that her tormentors had been taken into custody. Her absence allowed the mood aboard the boat to lift a bit more.

After dinner, the passengers spent the evening on the white deck chatting and watching the sky grow dark. Now that they were going to be loosed from the town to which they'd been unwillingly moored for the past few days, some of the charm returned to it, and they spoke of leaving in surprisingly wistful terms.

At a little after ten the passengers began to retire to their cabins one by one, disappearing from the white deck like stars quietly going out.

Midnight found Emily sitting up very straight in her room in the chair beside the chest. She had changed into a robe of pearl gray silk, which she wore over a powder blue nightgown. The compass lamp was turned on, and she was reading, though she found it difficult to concentrate: every snap and thump of the boat snatched at her attention.

The white deck was deserted and shrouded in darkness, the lone worklight having been switched off. The wheelhouse was empty, lit only by the dim light reflected from a quarter moon.

It was nearly 12:45 when a thin ray of light appeared around the corner of the general store: its source was a penlight, thin and weak enough that it didn't provide much illumination, just enough to be sure of one's footing.

The light proceeded down the dock and snapped off as it reached the foot of the gangplank. Catlike footsteps quietly padded up the plank, across the deck, and down the two flights of stairs. The figure then turned left, went into the short hallway, and with great care to ensure silence, very slowly turned the handle to the cabin door.

Once the door was opened, the sound of a hand groping for the wall switch could be heard, followed by a sudden flood of light.

Detective Jeremy Ransom was seated on the chair, which he had drawn up in front of the table so that he wouldn't be trapped in the corner.

“Good evening, Mr. Douglas,” he said airily.

The steward stood in the doorway, a soiled parcel tucked under his left arm. His eyes bulged with surprise and fear, and he made a sudden move as if to bolt, but found his way blocked by Sheriff Barnes and Deputy Mitchell, who had silently stolen up behind him.

“Damn that woman anyway,” Douglas said bitterly.

Ransom wondered which one he meant.

*   *   *

“How did you finally figure it out?” asked Lynn as she folded Emily's dress. She'd already packed the linens and was now in the process of adding the items from the closet. Emily was seated on the corner of the bed while Ransom leaned against the door.

“It was simple, really, once one put aside the little sidelights that had nothing directly to do with the murder,” Emily replied.

“I'd hardly call Claudia Trenton's dilemma a ‘little sidelight,'” said Ransom.

“True, but the only thing it actually had to do with Marcella's murder was that it was responsible for bringing the parcel into the matter. It was as I'd said at the outset: Marcella was killed because she happened to walk in on someone.” She paused and sighed, not very pleased with herself. “I suppose I can console myself with the fact that there really was something terribly wrong on this tour, but I was utterly mistaken as to what it was. It wasn't until Jeremy had discovered that the secretive meetings between Stuart Holmes and the stranger didn't have a sinister connotation, and that what I overheard on deck had a logical explanation, that I realized my error.” She paused again and clucked her tongue. “I daresay I'm becoming a fanciful old woman, seeing plots all around me.”

“Nonsense,” said Ransom. “You sensed something was wrong here, and there was. And it was something very dangerous. That fact is what made you suspicious of the other things. All you said was that if Rebecca hadn't killed her aunt, then these little things might have significance. In a normal murder investigation, those are exactly the kinds of things we would've had to follow up.”

She bestowed a benignant smile on him.

“But how did you figure it out?” Lynn asked again.

“Well, realizing those two things, I thought perhaps we should take
everything
at face value.”

“And that meant Lily DuPree's statement as well,” said Ransom.

“Exactly. You see, Lily had said she'd seen Joaquin leave the boat before David Douglas. Well, everyone else said that David left first, so we chalked the discrepancy up to the fact that Lily had been dozing, and so wasn't clear about what she'd seen. It wasn't until I pressed her about which one had left first that she became vague about it—much in the way some people do when you challenge something they really believe to be true. If we took Lily's original statement at face value, it meant that Douglas had left last, and that he'd lied about the fact.”

“But what about the people who verified it?” asked Lynn.

Emily shrugged slightly. “Well, you see, Mrs. O'Malley had been told by David himself that he was leaving, and Joaquin thought he had left because he looked for him and didn't find him onboard. But Douglas had secreted himself somewhere.”

“In the captain's cabin,” Ransom chimed in.

“How do you know that?” asked Lynn.

“Because like most clever people with healthy egos, once Douglas knew he was caught, he got very chatty. He wanted us to know how clever he'd been. He hid in the captain's cabin because he knew Joaquin wouldn't look there.”

Emily nodded. “Of course. So Joaquin looked for him, then left, and Douglas had a free hand.”

“To do what? Search the cabin?”

“No, he didn't need to do that. He'd already found the package while cleaning the cabin … and he took it.”