Tapas on the Ramblas (13 page)

I had no idea if James knew he was dancing with a man. As Richard and I joined the others, I
decided it didn't much matter.

After a couple of doubles I switched to water by the glassful as a pre-emptive strike against the hangover I would get if I kept going down the rye-and-Coke-soaked road. The pro was that it would work, the con was that it kept me from Richard's side because of all the time I spent visiting the bathroom. It was on one of these trips that I caught sight of Flora, waiting in line to get into the Emerald City's women's washroom (there was, as usual, no lineup for the men's). I sidled up to her and complimented her once more on her new look.

"I
really don't know what came over me or why I let her do this," Flora said, her usual nodding replaced by doubtful shakes of her newly coiffured head.

"Don't ask why," I suggested. "Just enjoy."

She ran a red-tipped fingernail, already showing signs of chipping, down her makeup-caked cheek. "It doesn't feel like me. It's like I'm in disguise or something." She said it with a sad smile and I wondered if being in disguise was a good feeling for her.

I looked around to ensure the gals nearest us weren't paying us any attention-they weren't-before I asked, "Flora, did you know about your grandmother's intention to change her will?"

"No. But it wouldn't have made much difference if I had. She never really listens to my opinion-or anyone's opinion-once she makes up her mind about something, it's full steam ahead."

"So you don't like the idea?" Flora already had a million dollars of the Wiser fortune, but I knew from my review of Charity's will that she had been due to inherit a great deal more, dollars that were now going to charity.

"Of course not. I knew it would put her in greater danger. And I was right. You saw the note."

Flora knew-assuming the poisoning of Morris the cat was indeed a failed murder attempt on her grandmother-that Charity was already in danger, even before she set foot on this boat. But she was right.

Charity's plan to rile up her relatives couldn't help matters and might even encourage someone driven to the thought of murder to actually commit it even faster.

"Do you have any idea who could have sent that note, Flora?" I asked her.

"I really don't," she said, wide-eyed, almost as if she thought she should and couldn't believe it wasn't obvious to her. Or maybe she was just having a tough time seeing since Phyllis had made her dump her glasses in favour of glamour. "Do you?"

Flora had reached the end of the line and it was her turn to enter the bathroom. I shook my head. Sh
e nodded a bit and disappeared.
 

It was hours later, long after Cher had wiped the fake tattoos off her butt and gone to bed, replaced by a DJ who kept the crowd awake with mindless thumping tunes, when the scuffle broke out. I don't know what it is that draws me to a fight like a cat to catnip. I simply cannot sit back and watch. It must be my police training that brings only one thought to mind whenever I hear the unmistakable sounds of a brawl: break it up! The commotion began somewhere in the back corner of Emerald City. Richard and I were in our booth, making forays into the "How far up his thigh can I put my hand in public" game, so he was no doubt a little startled when I jumped up like a jack-in-the-box.

Fights in a gay bar aren't like fights in a straight bar. First of all, the chance that the combatants are women rather than men is pretty high. If it’s women, the reasons for the fight are usually the same as they are in a straight bar: drunkenness, sports, jealousy over a woman, vehicle envy or just because. If it's men, the cause is likely even more irrational, like the wearing of a certain pair of pants when you promised your boyfriend you wouldn't, a bitchy comment about someone's new haircut, or an overheated debate regarding who has the best pecs: Orlando or Brad or Tom or Mel (depending on your generational preference). If it's women, the fists are out and there is likely to be blood. If it's men, there's generally a lot of slapping and name-calling-as you'd expect from people whose only frame of reference for a good fight is Alexis and Krystle on
Dynasty.
If it's women, there are usually a lot of other women around catcalling, urging it on, taking mental notes for the next time they're in the ring. If it's men, the women onlookers are bored and the men look away with disdain or horrid childhood memories of schoolyard bullies.

"Break it up! Break it up!" I ordered as I bulled my way towards the scrappers, grabbing the attention of the few nightclub patrons in that part of the bar who weren't already observing the action.

I saw that it was two men, both big burly sorts in jeans and Lacostes that were stretched tight over heaving chests. They were doing a wrestling kind of dance while standing up, all entangled arms and legs, pushing and pulling, neither one getting anywhere. They seemed evenly matched. It wasn't until I began inserting one of my own arms between them that I realized I knew one of the combatants.

"Nick, Nick," I grunted as I sluiced my way into the fray. "Just stop it. Come on guys, call it off."

Hearing his name threw him off. Nick Kincaid released his grasp on the other guy and stumbled back.

"You asshole!" his opponent screamed at him. "What's the matter with you? I said I was sorry, okay!"

I looked at Nick and saw he was bleeding from his lip and a cut on his cheek. I'd seen cuts like that before. I gave the other guy a once-over. He was wearing a ring on the middle finger of his right hand that had done the damage, and now he was also wearing a black-blooming eye and swollen nose. A fair exchange of war wounds I'd say.

"That's enough," I said with authority, as if I had any. It was about then that ship security pulled up, a man and woman looking posh in their uniforms and a little surprised. "Just call it a night, would ya?" I suggested, still having no idea what the fight was about.

"Yeah, whatever," the guy with the shiner said, skulking off into a group of waiting friends-the goslings I'd noticed around the pool.

Nick stood there, silent, staring after the guy as if he'd just woken up and was wondering what had happened.

"What’s going on here?" one of the guards asked with indignation.

I ignored him and rounded up Nick under my arm and began leading him to the exit.

From the stage came a blaring announcement, "Ladies and ladies, gentlemen and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen! We're going to top off your evening with a special treat," bellowed the DJ, valiantly trying to refocus the crowd's attention on having fun. As if spontaneous fisticuffs weren't special treat enough. "We have with us on The Dorothy one of the greats of jazz."

Everyone clapped wildly and scanned the room as if they could identify a jazz great by sight. I was still pulling on Nick to get him out of there but we both came to a full stop when we saw Jackson Delmonico take to the stage, looking as clear-eyed and lively as I'd ever seen him. The applause died down and he played a few trilling riffs on his horn, stopped, and searched the audience until he found who he was looking for.

"Harry, honey," he rasped into a microphone. "Come on up here and give these folks a thrill."

Without further urging, Harry joined her father on stage, looking for all the world like a real star. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the two security guards heading our way. I didn't think there was anything they could do to Nick other than ask him to leave. But why give them the satisfaction? Besides, I wanted to find out what happened. So with the sound of Harry's dulcet tones transporting the appreciative crowd somewhere over the rainbow, I pushed Nick to somewhere out of Emerald City. I glanced back only once, hoping to catch sight of Richard, but all I saw was Flora, on the dance floor, arms outstretched, face turned up, eyes closed, twirling round and round and round. All by herself in the middle
of a diffused circle of light.
 

"You need to visit the infirmary," I said to Nick as we made our way out of the nightclub. "You're bleeding pretty good."

"I'm okay, I just need some fresh air," he grumbled, walking so fast it seemed he was trying to get away from me.

Now why would he want to do that?

"Okay, look, at least let me get you cleaned up," I suggested, scrambling to keep up.

There's a scene in almost every romance-slash-action movie where the hero gets hurt and the heroine attends to his wounds. For a moment the woman is the strong one, in a way rescuing the man by nursing him back to health, and the man is the weak one, wincing like a baby whenever she tries to clean the injured area. The whole thing usually leads to a kiss, or even sex, during which all injuries miraculously disappear.

I shook my head to clear away this type of thinking. Hadn't I just been playing the thigh game with Richard? And, Nick Kincaid was a suspect. Surely I could come up with a better way to investigate him than playing doctor.

Nick threw open the door that led to the Pool Deck and strode into the darkened outdoor area, pulling in great lungfuls of air as he went. I followed. He made for the pool which of course led me to imagine any number of "you really should get out of those wet clothes" scenarios. But instead of a midnight dip he did a couple paces back and forth then ended up at the railing, fists tightened around the steel bars, gazing out at the black sea.

I pulled up beside him. "What happened back there? What was the fight about?"

"Can't you just leave me alone?"

Ahhhhh...nope. I studied Nick Kincaid's profile. Strong, jagged, dark, his jaw bristling with pricks of black hair that defied two shaves a day. Was this a man given to extremes of temper? Violence? Was he capable of murder? What would it take? His share of the Wiser fortune? Yup, I could see this bronco of a man as a killer, but I didn't think poison and threatening notes would be his modus operandi.

"How far would you have gone with that guy?" I pushed him. "Break his nose? Arm? Really hurt him?"

"Get
lost, would you?"

"Why are you on this boat, Nick? Why did you come? You don't seem to be having a very good time.

You're getting into fights. Is Charity's money so important to you?"

"The fight wasn't my fault!" he turned to look at me, his face pushed into mine. "You don't know...you...you just don't know, man."

"So tell me."

"Listen," he said, his deep voice a baritone warning. I could feel his cold words hot on my cheeks. "I don't care who you are. You just stay out of my way."

With that he walked off. I debated following him and decided to do it.

"Why are you here?" I called after him, thinking that if I asked the question enough times maybe I'd get an answer.

He was back at the double doors that would take him inside. He stopped and turned to stare at me, frustration on his face. I stopped too, about three metres away. He closed the distance in a flash and the next thing I knew he was breathing down my neck. As he hovered over me with his extra two inches I noticed something I hadn't noticed about him before. It was a refinement, a look about him that told a different story. He was a big, rugged man, but his skin looked soft, his hair well-cut, teeth unnaturally white and straight. This was a guy who cared a lot about how he looked.

"Why are
you
here?" he growled.

Oooo. Got me there.

And just as suddenly, he backed down and stepped away. "I'm here same as the rest. I'm playing by the rules. Right?"

I uttered a sound that could have meant anything and watched Nick go, leaving in his wake the scent of ex
pensive cologne...and a secret.
 

After tailing Nick Kincaid to the cigar bar where he ordered a hefty scotch, I dashed back to Emerald City and saw that Jackson and Harry were still entertaining an enthralled crowd of giddy spectators.

Perfect. It looked to me that both Nick and Jackson would be otherwise engaged for a while, hopefully long enough to allow me to do a Little spy work.

It was the threatening note Charity received that convinced me a bit of snooping in the Wiser family rooms wouldn't be a bad idea. In particular, I'd be looking for samples of the room occupant's handwriting to compare to the note, but generally I'd be taking a sniff for anything else that might help me confirm their position on my list of suspects, or even eliminate them from it completely. My room searches were going to be difficult. Except for Flora, who had her own room, all the other Wisers shared a cabin on The Dorothy--Charity and Dottie, Faith and Thomas, Marsha and Ted, James and Patrick, Nigel and Nathan, Kayla and Harry, and, my first targets, Nick and Jackson. For a successful incursion-i.e. I don't get caught-I had to ensure that both roommates would be occupied while I was in their room. And, the fact that I was supposed to be with the Wisers during most waking hours didn't make it any simpler. What was simple was the breaking-in part. I'd practiced on my own cabin door with my handy set of lock picks and had the whole thing down to less than ten seconds.

I sauntered up and down the hallway in front of Nick and Jackson's room until I was certain I'd have enough time to get in without being seen by a fellow passenger, then, nine seconds later, I was in. The room itself was identical to the one I was sharing with Errall, so I was immediately familiar with the layout. I noticed the bed had been turned down-good thing, I didn't want a maid interrupting me. I turned on a bedside lamp that I knew to have subtle lighting and began my foray into the world of the dark and brutish and handsome Nick Kincaid and the heavy-drinking, hard-living, jazz-playing Jackson Delmonico.

I gave myself ten minutes tops.

Twelve minutes later I'd found several near-empty bottles of vodka (Jackson) decorating the room at strategic locations-as if the drinker wanted to ensure he'd never have to move more than a few steps should he suddenly want a snort; two hefty rolls of cash (Nick or Jackson?); several cartons of cigarettes (Jackson); a bathroom with a dizzying array of expensive men's products (Nick) and some cheapass crap (Jackson); sparkling white bikini undies (Nick, I hoped) and some I didn't want to touch (Jackson); music industry mags (Jackson) and blow 'em up novels (Nick); and, other than wardrobes consistent with what I'd seen the two men wearing-pricey and tasteful (Nick); colourful and dated (Jackson)-very little else. I found writing samples for both men-Jackson had written some notes in one of his magazines and Nick had carelessly left his passport in an easy-to-find hiding place-but neither looked even remotely similar to that of the note.

I glanced at my watch and knew I was running out of time. What had I found out? Jackson was a man with some bad habits. Could he afford them? Was he desperate for money? Nick had expensive tastes.