Death on the Diversion Read online

  In those places you’re more likely to need gloves, hats, scarves, boots, and hot chocolate than sunscreen, sunglasses, and cold water.

  But my summery-here supplies were on hold, thanks to Kit arranging for these manicures.

  “Are you sure? Maybe my envelope isn’t the same…”

  Petronella brought out the worst in me. I so wanted to say, Yeah, you’re right. Kit sent me a balloon and a manicure, but you she sent a balloon and the news that one of your nearest and dearest has died.

  With more determination than grace, I said, “I’m sure. Open your envelope.”

  While she did, I attached both our balloons to a nearby railing — railings are nearby almost everywhere on a cruise ship.

  With still-shaking hands she removed the card.

  “Oh. It’s for a manicure,” she said in astonishment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Did you hear? The she-devil is onboard.”

  “No.”

  “Shh.” The whispered order from the spa receptionist to her coworker was banished with a perfect, professional smile. “May I help you?”

  She-devil? Had I heard correctly? I wasn’t supposed to have heard. It seemed such an unlikely word, especially in the bright and shiny spa of the Diversion.

  “I’m Sheila Mackey—”

  “I will do your nails, miss.” The mahogany-skinned young woman who’d exhaled that distressed No smiled at me.

  I smiled back. “—and this is Petronella—”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the receptionist. “We have detailed instructions. Everything has been spelled out precisely. Right this way, Miss Petronella.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. This is too much.” Petronella had protested all the way to the spa — up several decks — and wasn’t done yet. “I shouldn’t…”

  “This way,” the receptionist kept repeating, leading us past an open area to our left with a hallway straight ahead. The receptionist gestured to the hallway’s first door. “Right here for you.”

  Petronella put on the brakes. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”

  Another smiling young woman came out of the room and told Petronella, “The instructions specifically said you were to have a private room.”

  This smiling young woman also wore the uniform of the ship’s spa. She had an Eastern European accent and a firm hold on Petronella’s arm.

  Were Kit’s reasons for this arrangement to spare me? Or more Machiavellian?

  At the moment it was moot. Petronella wasn’t budging.

  “Oh, no, no. I couldn’t possibly…”

  If you mentioned Petronella — known throughout Kit’s extended and far-flung web as Poor Petronella — to anyone in my corner of the family, they instantly mimicked, “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…” Sometimes at the most inopportune moments.

  You’d be saying, “I walked up to the casket beside Poor Petronella and—” You’d be interrupted by a chorus of “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…” instantly followed by chuckles.

  According to Kit, this distant relative of her long-dead fiancé had been Poor Petronella since she was old enough to display a personality, which came later than most kids.

  If there was a mishap floating around, Petronella reached out and grabbed it like the last life jacket on the Titanic — sorry, not a good image when I’m talking about cruising. But it fits.

  Her latest misfortune was getting divorced by the husband who’d been abusing her mentally, physically, emotionally, and financially since before they were married. Yes, before and she still married him.

  You should hear Aunt Kit on that topic.

  Then how was the divorce a misfortune, you might ask. You and me both. To Petronella, however, it was a tragedy of epic proportions.

  Her kids, who loved her for reasons beyond explanation but with the sane caveat of living in distant time zones, begged Aunt Kit to beg me to help her.

  They’d thought I would pay for the cruise, while Kit would have soulful, reasonable talks with Petronella.

  Instead, Kit paid for the cruise, then bailed on both of us.

  “You must go in the room to be happy and for your giver to be happy,” said the young woman who’d been talking with the receptionist when we arrived and said she’d do my nails. South African accent, possibly with English not her native language. Her nametag read Imka.

  Between Petronella’s protests, she put one arm across Petronella’s back and the other on her forearm and simply walked forward, scooping along the recalcitrant client. In less time than I could have imagined, Petronella was in the room off the hallway and the door closed.

  “Do not worry. Your relative will be very fine.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I am a little worried about your colleague and I’m wondering if I could learn that move.”

  She slanted a look at me, apparently found me trustworthy, and said in a low voice, “I learned helping with the old ones at home. They don’t always want to go where it’s best for them to go. But it’s not respectful to pick them up and put them like a child.”

  “Very true.” Though Petronella wasn’t that old. Chronologically.

  Imka waved me to an open area with floor-to-ceiling windows angled out at the top. If you wanted to look almost directly below, you could by leaning out. But why would you want to?

  Two chairs in white leather — crossbred from recliners and airline pilot seats — offered the best views of the windows, blow-out stations, hair dryer chairs, and the hallway, depending on which way you swiveled.

  One was occupied by a woman around Aunt Kit’s age. She had mostly gray hair, with dark brown at the back. Laugh lines waited for employment at the corners of her mouth and eyes. They flickered when she smiled, polite but not intrusive, as I was directed to the other chair.

  “I’m afraid you have a remedial case here,” I told Imka.

  I’m not the best about getting regular manicures — something the publicist reminded me before each TV appearance — but never far enough ahead of time for me to actually get a manicure. Just enough to make me feel insecure about my long, too often raggedy nails.

  Imka smiled broadly, rounding her cheeks becomingly. “We will fix you.”

  I wished that were true, since that promise seemed to cover more than nails.

  The older woman met my gaze and her laugh lines deepened.

  I said hello. She did the same. She introduced herself as Odette Treusault. I gave my name — the one known as the author of Abandon All.

  She looked at me intently for a moment, then gave a small nod and carried on as if she didn’t recognize the name. She did. Neither of the nail technicians did, or were too discreet to show it.

  Quickly, I learned Odette had cruised on this ship multiple times and knew both nail technicians. She was onboard with a group she’d cruised with for decades. She and I and Imka and Odette’s technician, Bennie, chatted about cruises, cruising, the schedule ahead of us, and excursions.

  “We’ve done this so often, I’ve become quite the curmudgeon about excursions,” Odette said. “We’ve done them all multiple times. Are you signed up for any?”

  When Aunt Kit ran the show, we seldom joined the excursions. If she was deeply interested in a stop, she’d hire a driver and guide. Otherwise, we tramped around the town, poking into interesting corners, gathering a sense of the place along with a string of factoids, and people-watching. Always, always people-watching with Aunt Kit.

  “I don’t know.”

  As I said the words, a phrase repeated in my head. When Aunt Kit ran the show.

  She wasn’t running my show anymore. I was. I could — had to — decide for myself.

  “I’ll have to check them out.” The excursions were a couple days off, when we stopped at a different port in the Canary Islands three days in a row.

  “There’s a hike into a volcano that’s breathtaking.” Odette chuckled. “In more ways than one. Also, if you’ve never ridden a camel, that is worth doing, even if
it is a short ride under the tamest of circumstances. Though sometimes even then…”

  Looks flickered among the other three women.

  “She is onboard? Your… The, uh, other Mrs.?” Imka asked.

  Clearly the other three recognized a connection between a camel ride and Imka’s question. I was in the dark.

  Odette asked, “Did you see her last year?” As an aside to me, she added, “I wasn’t here last year. Only one couple of our group was.”

  “Yes,” Imka said carefully. “She—”

  All four of us broke off to turn toward the noise coming our way.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Five women strode in, like a formation of attacking jets, sharp voices rising, long hair not moving, skinny legs shrink-wrapped in capris, foot-breaker heels clacking.

  Though that wasn’t what I noticed first.

  Let’s say enhancements. On display. Almost completely on display.

  “Oh, my dear, we’re the amateurs,” Odette murmured, apparently to herself. “They’re the professionals.”

  Amateurs and professionals at what?

  Before I could ask, the loudest voice, emanating from the one in the middle, with dark hair, a wide mouth, and hurt-your-eyes white teeth spoke without looking at anyone. “Yes, I said now. That should be clear enough.”

  “She’s back, too?” Bennie muttered. “This cruise is cursed.”

  Imka gave her a be-quiet look.

  The receptionist trailed the women, almost pleading. “But you must have appointments and—”

  “We are here now. You aren’t busy.” This loudest woman waved toward the first open doorway. “You’ll do my nails. In here.”

  “I have to be at the desk for other custo—”

  “You won’t have any customers. I’ll see to that. Unless you give us the service we deserve.” She swept into the room.

  “And send someone to me, as well,” said the next one, with hair nearly as dark, a mouth nearly as wide, and teeth nearly as white, as she strode to the next room.

  “And to me.” A redhead on her other side, streaked down the hall to a third room.

  The receptionist scurried back to the desk, presumably to call in reinforcements.

  That left one open door, past the closed door where Petronella was.

  A white blonde who reminded me of a tanned praying mantis — huge eyes, skinny limbs, and a considerable butt — angled toward the door the first woman disappeared behind.

  “She always thinks she comes first.”

  The remaining woman, slightly less blonde than the praying mantis, lips pulled back from more dazzling teeth, snarled, “You think you have any right to complain? You’re the new one. I’ve been here longer than you.”

  Presumably she meant the group, not the spa, since they’d all arrived together.

  “And done less. Not to mention that husband of yours who can barely afford your Botox, much less what you really need. A boob—”

  The slightly less blonde of the pair piled into the blonder praying mantis with a shoulder to her diaphragm, applying a technique few females who grew up without brothers managed. It shut off the stream of words.

  More, it carried both of them toward the windows.

  The four of us — Odette and I in the chairs, Imka and Bennie on the stools in front of us — froze.

  The hitter pulled up, digging her heels in hard enough that she stumbled to the side.

  The hittee kept sailing backward toward the slanted windows.

  Arms and legs spread, she splayed wide catching at supports.

  She also connected with the glass. We all heard the impact. Especially where her impressive derriere landed.

  Gasps echoed in a breath-held moment, wondering if the glass would hold. If it didn’t, it would be a direct drop to the deck below.

  The glass held.

  Had to wonder if the builders’ safety measures accounted for cat fights.

  Imka was more practical, jumping up from her stool and grasping the woman’s wrist with both hands. If the glass broke now, the woman had a chance of rescue, thanks to Imka.

  “Ow. You’re hurting my wrist,” came the piercing whine of ingratitude.

  I would have let her go, maybe — only maybe — would also have given her an extra little push into the windows. Imka held on, drawing her upright from the windows’ slope and setting her on her feet, as stable as those spikes allowed. A far more impressive demonstration of strength than her earlier sweep of Petronella into the private room.

  “All right, Ms. Laura?” she asked evenly.

  The woman jerked free, snapping, “Don’t.” Under her cold stare, Imka released her and stepped back.

  Having driven off her savior, she rounded on her attacker.

  “It’s no thanks to you I’m not dead. Coral, you’re a—” She bit that off with evident effort.

  Coral made a sound that might indicate relief the woman she’d hit didn’t go through the glass, but if so, it was mixed with residual irritation.

  They glared at each other, gave simultaneous humphs of disdain, accompanied by hair tosses.

  The woman who’d been spread on the windows like a praying mantis on a windshield, turned and started in one direction, leaving Coral to go the opposite way.

  Odette leaned closer and said, “Window sprawler lost the skirmish, but might have won the battle.”

  She was right. The direction the window sprawler went was toward the remaining private room. The only way the hitter could go the opposite direction was by leaving the spa … and the battlefield.

  * * * *

  With our nails looking great, Petronella and I acquainted ourselves with the ship.

  At least I was acquainting myself. Petronella was listlessly lagging behind, sighing and saying she didn’t know what she’d done to deserve this.

  From her tone, you’d think she was being tortured by an expert. And Aunt Kit wasn’t even here. I am not above torturing, especially when called upon to channel Aunt Kit’s instructions. Some might even call me an expert, including some particularly whiny editors.

  But from the time we’d rendezvoused at Newark airport and through our five days in Barcelona, the torturer’s whip was in the other hand. Petronella was relentless in her limp, lachrymose determination to show her gratitude by “looking out” for me.

  She’d asked me six thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine questions about safety measures on the ship. Honestly, I didn’t know what they did if an engine blew up. Make all the drinks half price?

  In her company, a dive over the railing looked more and more tempting.

  She was still going on and on about safety, despite our locating the privilege lounge, the buffet, a snack bar, two other passable bars, and — most important — the soft ice cream machine.

  Finding the cubbyhole saved me from going overboard before we’d left the dock.

  It was perfect. A stretch of maybe fifteen outdoor deck chairs tucked in past the indoor swimming pool solarium and before stairs up to the fry-me-so-my-dermatologist-can-send-her-kids-to-college open deck above.

  The indoor pool types wouldn’t want to come outside. The fry-me types wouldn’t like the amount of cover. Few other passengers would even know it was here.

  Except two did know it was here and this gray-haired couple was ensconced in the precise middle of the line of seats. The prime spot.

  He was distinguished looking. She was comfortably round.

  They might be nice, but I wasn’t ready to forgive them for beating me to this secret spot.

  I scoped out the stairs at the far end, the door behind me to the indoor pool, the projected coverage of the overhang, and decided on the second-best (nice, but sub-prime) seat midway between the couple and the door.

  “You want to stop here?” Petronella asked with a plaintive air.

  Since I was already sitting, that seemed too apparent to require a reply.

  “I thought you wanted to see the whole ship?”

 
; “The rest can wait. Let’s relax here.”

  “No, no. I’ll go on and continue the tour,” Petronella the Martyr said. “That way I’ll know where something is if you need it.”

  “That’s not nece—”

  “I wonder where the medical center is.”

  “Petronella, relax. Have some fun.”

  “How can I when you’ve been so kind, so generous, so caring.”

  The couple looked over when we started talking. They looked away when Petronella began sniffling. I wished I could.

  “There’s no need—”

  “There is. I want to make this trip as comfortable as possible for you. I’m going to know this ship from top to bottom.”

  I had a vision of the captain barring the door to the bridge against Petronella’s determined weepiness. Better him than me.

  “If that’s what you want to do. I’ll be here until our cabins are ready.”

  She sniffled, then trudged to the stairs.

  I settled in with my go-bag.

  The sky was blue, the sun warm without being hot, the couple murmured quietly enough to each other that I couldn’t eavesdrop if I tried. Okay, I did try. Another habit learned from Aunt Kit. She maintained it was an essential tool for an author.

  Or a pretend author in my case.

  Eyes closed, I felt the knot between my shoulders loosen slightly. It was where I’d been storing all my repressed snap-backs at Petronella.

  This was better. This was so much better.

  Did the door from the pool area clanging open or did the penetrating voice of the woman assault me first? I never could sort that out.

  “…and you failed to impress on that man to deliver our bags first. You know I need my— You. What are you doing here?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The most wonderful thing about cruise ships is you don’t have to do a thing.

  It’s a reasonable and worthy use of your day to spend it stretched on a deck chair reading. To me that’s the height of civilization.

  The next-best wonderful thing about cruise ships is they feed you all the time and it’s pretty darned good.