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  He was already standing up and walking around his desk back to the two sofas.

  He was obviously more comfortable in the less confrontational space, and so was I. If it weren’t for his fancy uniform, I could almost have forgotten he was about a hundred levels senior to me in the ship's hierarchy. Then again, if he didn't have his uniform, I'd be entirely too distracted...

  We spent the next hour going over all that we knew.

  While I wasn’t sure we were making headway, I learned a lot more about the ship, the crew, the passengers and how the whole big machine actually operated. After some time, we began to talk about the exact manner of Patrick Murphy’s dispatch.

  “Contrary to the rumors, we're working under the assumption that he was not poisoned, but he was in fact killed by the large brass lamp that we found near the body."

  I nodded. "Yep, that's what I figured. I think I know how that rumor might have started though..."

  I told him about the stories I'd heard, and then what I'd learned from the horse's mouth—well, Greg Washington's. Then I told him about Sylvia's mysterious absences, and her run-in with Mrs. Murphy herself.

  Upon hearing Mrs. Murphy’s name, he seemed to perk up. He leaned in closer toward me.

  "Do you want to know something awful?"

  “Yes. Yes, I do want to hear something awful,” I said with a barely-concealed grin.

  "Do you know when I first arrived at the scene, after you had called security?"

  "Yeah..." It was ingrained in my memory forever.

  "Guess where Mrs. Murphy was."

  My mouth dropped open. "She wasn’t.”

  Our eyes met and he was smiling as he told me something pretty horrific. "Yep. She was in the bedroom that whole time, passed out drunk."

  "No way. Then why isn't she the prime suspect? She was there! Lock her up, not Sam."

  He shook his head. "No. She wasn't there when it happened. She was in the Dive Bar until Very Late o’clock that night."

  "Yeah, she mentioned that to me. Maybe she's lying."

  He shook his head. "No, we have CCTV footage of her outside the bar around midnight, stumbling around like a college freshman at her first kegger. Turns out, she went back to her room and collapsed straight into bed without even turning on the lights or noticing what was on the floor of the cabin's living room."

  I shook my head in surprise, though not disbelief. "Wow. I can believe it... but, I can't believe it!"

  He chuckled. "I know. Some people..."

  United in our shared disdain for the two Murphys, we spent a happy hour discussing all the details of the murder and our potential suspects. If it hadn't been for the fact he had my best friend locked up, I suspected I could’ve grown to like the man.

  "So, what's next?" he asked. From the way he said it, I knew he had plenty of ideas of his own, but he wanted to hear mine.

  "I think I'd like to hear a little more about what Mrs. Murphy has to say about it all,” I said with a frown.

  "Good thinking. From what I know, she really wasn't too happy with her husband."

  "I don't think anyone could be happy being in the same room as that man," I said. "At least, from everything I've heard."

  "It doesn’t sound like you’re too far off the mark. I'll go and talk to her and let you know what I hear." He leaned back on the sofa, hands behind his head, pleased with himself.

  "Nuh-uh," I said with a single shake of my head. "I'm coming with you."

  He frowned. "Do you think that's wise?"

  " Super wise. I want to hear what she has to say. I know you said she was in the bar at the time, but still, I don't think we should write off her involvement just yet. Maybe she had an accomplice. You need me there. I'll be able to tell if she's lying."

  "Really?" he asked dubiously.

  I grinned at him.

  "Trust me, I'm a journalist."

  Chapter 16

  We found Mrs. Murphy at Happy's Bar (It's always Happy Hour at Happy's!).

  It was on one of the higher decks and had both inside and outside seating areas. Mrs. Murphy was sitting outside, an unopened book on her table, while she stared out to sea. She was wearing an expensive-looking sundress, and had oversized sunglasses that obscured about half her face.

  Before we approached her, I nudged Ethan on the arm. I didn’t mean to, but my fingers brushed just a touch too long over the hard muscles under his shirt.

  "What is it?”

  "How did you know she was here?"

  He grinned at me. "When passengers order anything, or participate in any event, they flash their keycard so it's registered. We can pull up their records at any time to see just exactly what they did at any particular time."

  "Oh. Wow. It's like you're spying on everyone."

  "It is a bit. But it's a massive boon to shipboard safety."

  Just as we were about to start off again, I grabbed his arm again. "Hey."

  He gave me a quizzical look.

  "You didn't go near a computer to check. You led us right here."

  He grinned. "Well, there's one other way—people like to follow routines. Especially our regulars. And it's part of the job to notice these things, especially the VIP customers. If you know what they like to do and when they like to do it, you can anticipate their needs before they even think of them. It's part of good customer service."

  "Huh."

  "And Mrs. Murphy there, well, her routine involves a pre-lunch cocktail every day."

  "Always here?"

  He nodded. "Always here. Ever since last year, anyway.”

  “What happened last year?”

  “I don’t know what happened to her, but she didn’t used to be a big drinker. But a year ago, she started hitting the bars pretty hard. Now you could set a watch by her drinking habits.”

  “Huh. Interesting. I bet the death of her husband will make it even worse, too. Let’s see what she has to say.”

  When we arrived at her table, Mrs. Murphy agreed to let us join her, though she lowered her sunglasses and gave me a very long and very hard stare before she did so. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything about our earlier encounter.

  Ethan pulled out a seat for me first, before sitting down beside me so that we were across from her.

  "Mrs. Murphy, just checking in here. I was wondering, do you remember anything else that may be important about your husband's final days?"

  She turned her head away from the horizon where she had returned to staring. "No. Nothing special. He was the same old Patrick, you know?"

  We both nodded sympathetically. "It must be hard," I said.

  She stared at me for a moment before responding. "You wouldn't understand. No one could. Not unless it happened to them."

  Her voice was so quiet, and with so little life behind it, I ran my eyes over her again to make sure it was indeed the same woman who had nearly been struck by Sylvia. It was like someone had sapped the life right out of her.

  "No, I can't even imagine." I said with as much tenderness as I could muster. "Mrs. Murphy, was there anyone with whom your husband had a falling out with recently?"

  "A falling out…? Oh, definitely not," she said, shaking her head. "He's what you call a people person, you know? Always the life of the party. Chatting and bragging and boasting with the men, flirting with the girls. All harmless fun, of course, but he was just so full of life. But now..."

  He was full of something, all right is what I didn't say. One thing was for certain: Patrick Murphy's character seemed to have improved tenfold since his untimely demise. And his wife, strangely, actually seemed to miss him, hard to believe as that was. It was as if the shock of his death hadn’t yet hit her at the time of our previous encounter, but now it had fallen on her like a ton of bricks.

  "No one at all?" asked Ethan.

  She began to shake her head, and then paused as if remembering something. "Oh, perhaps that one chef. He and Patrick had a bit of a quarrel. But I'm sure there was nothing to it. Sometimes h
e gets in these moods..." her voice faltered as she realized she was talking about him in the present tense, as if he was still alive. She licked her lips and tried again. "He... he used to get in these moods, but he was like a volcano—he'd have an eruption but then it would all be over."

  I wanted to point out to her that volcanic eruptions actually tend to last several weeks, if not much, much longer, but it didn't seem like the right time to educate her on geology.

  "The chef was Greg Washington?"

  She nodded. "I think so. That sounds right, anyway."

  "And can you think of anyone else?"

  "No. No one. Everyone liked him, didn't they?"

  "He sure was a character," said Ethan, which was just about as charitable as he could be without crossing the line into flagrant dishonesty. It seemed to suffice for Mrs. Murphy. "We'll leave you alone now, ma’am. I'll let you know as soon as we have more information to share with you."

  "Thank you," she said, clasping her hand on top of his and rubbing her thumb across the ridges of his fingers.

  We bade her our farewells and left.

  “That was a bust," I said as soon as we had rounded a corner.

  "Perhaps. Interesting, though. She suddenly seems a lot keener on her husband than she did when he was alive."

  "Absence makes the heart grow fonder?" I suggested.

  He laughed. "Indeed. Speaking of which, I've been absent a little too long from my own duties. I'm sure you have lots to be getting on with as well."

  "Sure do."

  "Stay in touch. I want you to keep me fully informed of what you find out, okay?"

  "Okay."

  He held out his hand, and we exchanged a handshake that now seemed excessively formal.

  But it sealed the deal, and thus, we went our separate ways.

  Chapter 17

  It's all hands on deck as preparations for the Grand Masque Ball begin... I began to write.

  Then I stopped and deleted it with a mutter.

  The crew is working hard to get everything ship-shape for the Grand Masque Ball... I tried again.

  My hands fell to my lap as I stopped, giving up for the moment at least. Do people on cruise ships like ocean-based puns, or are they all seasick of them? I couldn't make up my mind.

  I sat there for twenty minutes, unable to write a thing, while I argued in my head about the suitability of nautical and oceanic puns for cruise passengers.

  When I finally did stop my mental wrangling, it wasn't because I came to a decision; it was because I received a visitor. There was a loud thump at my steel door as someone kicked it.

  "Yo! Let me in!"

  "It's open!" I yelled back to Cece.

  She was in the door right away.

  "What're you doing?"

  I pushed my chair back and away from the desk, which was affixed to the wall of the cabin so that she could see my computer and its screen full of text. Actually, that was an exaggeration. The screen had a single solitary line of text and an aching field of white across the rest of the screen.

  "Still working, huh?"

  "Yeah." I pursed my lips and blew out a long sigh.

  “Try not to go overboard with the puns.”

  "Ha ha.” I blew out a long breath of air. “Sometimes, I don’t know if this job is right for me. I never know when I'm done. Sylvia says she wants stuff posted every hour of the day, and then I'm supposed to be doing these little fluff articles as well. I just don't know when to stop for the day.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. "At least I don't have that problem. When my rooms are clean, I'm done."

  "You think I should just quit?" I asked her.

  "Say what now?"

  I shrugged. "My friend is locked up and they still haven't let her go. Sylvia sucks. I just..." I didn't know what to say. It was difficult not to feel down about everything after the uninspiring and rather sad interview with Mrs. Murphy.

  "You can't leave me now! No way! They'll clear Sam eventually and then we'll be like the three musketeers."

  "Do we get swords?" I forced a jokingly hopeful tone into my voice, for Cece’s benefit if not my own.

  "Sure. But only those little plastic ones they sometimes put in cocktails instead of a cocktail stick."

  I laughed. "Neat."

  "So, I heard you and Hot Stuff were sneaking around earlier."

  I was about to say how ludicrous that was until I realized who she meant. "You mean the first officer? That’s what you call him?"

  She shrugged. "Tell me I'm wrong."

  "He's..."

  "Hot?"

  I shook my head. "Annoying! It's his fault Samantha's locked up."

  "You were smiling when you said 'annoying.' Spill it."

  "Was not!"

  She just raised her eyebrows at me and smirked.

  I was not going to rise to the bait. "I don't know what you heard, but we're kind of working together."

  "Ooh. An office romance."

  "One, I don't work in an office, and t—"

  Cece held up her hand for me to stop and then talked over me anyway.

  "Wait, I've got it. Not an office romance, an officer romance!"

  I gave her a playful kick and shook my head. She couldn't be more wrong if she tried. There was nothing between me and the stupid first officer who wanted to work one-on-one with me to... I shook my head to try and derail that train of thought straight out of my head.

  "Now you're blushing."

  "No, it's just hot in here now…"

  "Thanks," said Cece, running her hands over her torso.

  "I didn't mean—just let me tell you, okay?"

  Cece dropped down onto the lower bunk and leaned back against the wall, an expectant expression on her face.

  "He said that because of my role on the ship, I can basically go around wherever I want, asking everyone questions. So he's asked me to help him investigate. Since that gives me the chance to clear Sam, I of course jumped at it."

  "You jumped on him?" asked Cece in mock confusion.

  "No! I jumped at the chance to try and clear Sam."

  "Right, right," she said in a tone that indicated she thought something entirely different had happened.

  "Anyway, that's what happened. But we didn't get far today and I don't know what to do next. I figure the real police won't find anything on Sam when we get back to port so they'll have to just let her go, but she'll be out of a job. So I'll go too."

  "No way. You and Hot Stuff better work hard and find out who the real killer was."

  "Yeah. That’s the best-case scenario. Clear her name and get recognition for my amazing investigative journalism skills." I threw my hands up in the air like I was reaching for the stars themselves.

  "You know, he obviously likes you."

  I was going to play dumb and ask who but I thought Cece wouldn't have any time for those kinds of games.

  "No, I don't think so. And anyway, I’m not interested."

  "Yeah, right."

  "Really! I mean, it was nice of him to include me in his investigation, but he locked up my friend! And anyway, I've got to figure out my own life before I consider including anyone else in it. I just moved, like, a thousand miles away from home, and now suddenly I'm living on a boat and my job is Twitter and Insta and writing articles so fluffy they could pass for sheep.

  “I don't know if I like it or hate it or what. My life's a mess and my best friend's locked up for a murder she didn't commit. No way I’d add a man to that mix."

  "All right. I got it." Her words said she understood what I meant, but the way she rolled her eyes told a different story.

  "Adrienne, darling!" came a nasal voice echoing from the hallway outside.

  Cece slithered off the bed and went to stand in the corner closest to the door. She wouldn't be spotted by anyone peering in from outside the room. I guess she didn’t want to see Sylvia again after our meeting in Murphy’s cabin—and the way she’d spoken to her.

  "Yes?" I called as I go
t up from my chair and went to the door.

  I opened it to reveal the concerned face of my superior.

  "Wonderful pizzazz today!"

  "Thank you…" I said awkwardly. She surely wasn't there just to tell me that.

  "There was a phone call. Someone called the ship's main switchboard. It was the mother of your former friend." Sylvia nodded her head toward the bunk beds.

  "She's not a former friend," I corrected.

  Sylvia shook it off. "Anyway, somehow, some way, they heard about the unfortunate passing of one of our passengers all the way over in Idaho."

  "Nebraska."

  She gave me a quizzical look as if wondering whether there was a difference. "Anyway, just to let you know, talking about the death of the passenger is strictly forbidden for any member of staff or crew. It is a dismissible offense. So if anyone calls you and asks about that, well, tell them you know nothing."

  "Oh, I should lie?" I asked innocently. I heard Cece let out a muffled snicker and then the slap of her palm covering her mouth. Sylvia tilted her head as if to locate a sound, but then shook it off and ignored it.

  "Not lie, but you need to not tell anyone, do you see? We have a PR department that handles this kind of thing on land, and ship-based staff members are forbidden from contacting the media. It's in the rulebook. But I thought you might need a refresher, especially since they were inquiring about you too."

  "What did you tell them?" I asked suspiciously.

  "Well, I told them that Sam's phone had broken and that she's overwhelmed with her work, but she'll be calling them as soon as we return to port. I promised them I'd make her call!"

  "Wow." I was kind of flabbergasted at Sylvia’s casual disregard for the truth when talking to Sam’s parents.

  "So no telling anyone about dead passengers, darling. Do you see?"

  I nodded. "Twenty-twenty, Sylvia."

  "What?"

  "I mean, I understand. No blabbing about the murder. How are you going to stop the passengers from talking though?"

  "Oh, that's not my concern, darling. We can't stop the passengers, but we can stop the employees! Do you see?"

  "Got it. Anything else?"

  I was already closing the door.

  "No, goodnight!" The last syllable of her words was muffled by the steel door as I got it fully shut.