Hula Done It? Read online

  Cruise Control

  “So who decided to chain off the area around the crime scene?” I asked.

  Tilly laid her walking stick on her lap. “It seems logical to assume that the chief security officer and the ship’s captain were probably instructed to do that by either the Coast Guard, the FBI, or some other mainland law enforcement agency.”

  Nana nodded agreement. “Cruise ships got the right to ask help from any law enforcement agency they want.”

  “Did you learn that on your A&E special, too?” I asked.

  Nana shook her head. “Reruns of The Love Boat.”

  “I suspect that’s why they cordoned off the crime scene,” said Tilly. “To preserve the area as much as possible for the island police, though I’m not sure how much evidence can be preserved on a windswept deck. This is a cruise line’s worst nightmare. They’re in the business of selling fantasy, and crime scene tape and evidence kits are not part of the Aloha Princess fantasy package. Can you imagine the panic aboard ship if word leaks out that there could be a killer prowling the decks?”

  “But there is a killer prowling the decks!”

  Top O’ the Mournin’

  “Hilarious and delightful…. I found myself laughing out loud and wiping away tears (of joy) as I quickly flipped the pages. I can’t wait for the next trip!”

  — Old Book Barn Gazette

  “A delightful cozy that is low on gore but rich in plot and characterizations. There is plenty of slapstick humor…. The mystery is well constructed and the supporting cast yields a number of suspects….”

  — TheBestReviews.com

  “No sophmore jinx here…very funny and full of suspense.”

  — Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine

  “WARNING: Do not munch on Triscuits or anything covered in powdered sugar while reading this book! I nearly choked from laughing so hard…. There was belly laughter, or at least a chuckle, on each page. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while.”

  — The Mystery Company newsletter

  Alpine for You

  “I found myself laughing out loud…. The word ‘hoot’ comes to mind.”

  — Deadly Pleasures

  “Light and witty…. While we’re all waiting for the next Janet Evanovich, this one will do perfectly.”

  — Sleuth of Baker Street (Ontario, Canada)

  “A debut with more than a few chuckles…. Alpine for You is one to cheer the gloomy winter days.”

  — Mystery Lovers Bookshop

  “A very funny and promising start to Hunter’s Passport to Peril series.”

  — Romantic Times

  “If you’re looking for laughter, you’ve come to the right place…sure to provide giggles and guffaws aplenty. Hunter’s confident voice and her compelling first person narration…mak[es] Emily a complete person with pluck and purpose and personality. The writing style is breezy and accomplished…. First-rate entertainment!”

  — Cozies, Capers & Crimes

  “Move over, Evanovich, there’s a new author in town…. One of the best I have read for a long time…. Hilarious. The characters are an absolute hoot.”

  — Under the Covers

  “Delightfully fresh, with a great deal of humor.”

  — Creatures ’n Crooks Bookshoppe

  “As funny as anything by Katy Munger, Janet Evanovich, [or] Joan Hess…. The laughs started on the first page and continued, nonstop, to the last…. This one gets five stars. It’s a winner.”

  — Blackbird Mysteries

  “A compelling heroine, an intriguing hero, and a great scenic tour. I’m impatiently looking forward to the next one.”

  — Old Book Barn Gazette

  Also by Maddy Hunter

  PASTA IMPERFECT

  ALPINE FOR YOU

  TOP O’ THE MOURNIN’

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 by Mary Mayer Holmes

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-2447-9

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Dedication

  To Mum —

  Everything I am, or ever will be, I owe to you.

  I love you!

  — mmh

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 1

  Aboard the cruise ship, Aloha Princess En route to Kauai, Hawaii — October 28

  “The Hawaiian islanders weren’t as predictable as the English, and it was this unpredictability that Captain Cook and his crew found so confounding. There was no rhyme or reason behind the natives’ gift giving one day and their hostility the next. History places blame for Cook’s death and dismemberment on the shoulders of the islanders, but I prefer to blame the era. Cook needed the assistance of a behavioral psychologist, and unfortunately, psychology was hardly even a fledgling science in 1779.”

  Professor Dorian Smoker glanced toward the back of the lecture room for the umpteenth time, his pale blue eyes flickering with an uneasiness that seemed unwarranted for a man recognized as the world’s leading authority on Captain James Cook. What in the heck was back there that he found so disturbing?

  I glanced subtly over my shoulder to find people packed into the room like proverbial sardines. I wasn’t surprised to find standing room only. Professor Smoker was the academic headliner for our cruise, which advertised excursions to the sites visited by Captain Cook on his fateful third sea voyage, so the audience was filled with bespectacled, erudite types with name tags that identified them as members of organizations I’d never of: the Sandwich Island Society, the World Navigators Club, Haute Cuisine International.

  I wasn’t sure why the Haute Cuisine people were here, but intuition told me they’d probably confused Captain Cook with Mr. Food and were expecting a guy in an apron and chef’s hat to wow them with food preparation and tasty free samples. Instead, a man in a navy cardigan and baggy Dockers had mesmerized them with tales of an eighteenth-century English explorer.

  And I do mean “mesmerized.” Even the guests who were obviously sitting in on the wrong lecture made no attempt to leave. As physically unremarkable as Professor Smoker was, once he started speaking, he oozed such magnetism that he held all of us spellbound. His knowledge gave him an intellectual swagger and confidence that elevated him from dowdy to dazzling, from Mr. Rogers to Buck Rogers. Without having to rely on artificial creams, costly implants, or media hype, Professor Dorian Smoker suddenly became the sexiest man on the planet — not bad for a fiftysomething academic with a slight paunch, bad posture, scruffy beard, and thinning gray hair.

  But I still wondered about the odd glint in his eyes. Was it alarm or a piece of fuzz caught behind a contact lens?

  I’m
Emily Andrew, full-time coordinator of global excursions for a senior travel club and person most likely to misinterpret a lot of things related to life, death, romance, and spastic eye movements. I’m aboard the Aloha Princess as the official escort for a group of eleven Iowans who’ve lived in my hometown most of their lives. I’m a longtime resident, too, except for a few years when I worked the New York City theater scene and was married to Jack Potter. I refer to that phase in my life as my “preannulment period.” I was hoping my “postannulment period” would show marked improvement, but I keep running into glitches, most especially with a certain Swiss police inspector by the name of Etienne Miceli.

  Professor Smoker cleared his throat. “Five days after the Captain was slain in the surf of Kealakekua Bay, one of King Terreeoboo’s chiefs returned a jumble of bones to the crew of the Resolution — Cook’s hands, skull, legs, lower jaw, and feet. His thigh bones and arms were never recovered.”

  My grandmother — whose name tag was crammed with microscopic text that read Marion Sippel — Windsor City Bank Travel Club, Windsor City, Iowa, Birthplace of America’s First Pork Fritter Fingers — looked up from the ragged sheet of paper she was studying and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “If they’d waked him at Heavenly Host, there wouldn’t a been no public viewin’. It’s one a them rules a thumb. You gotta have a body to be eligible for the open casket option.”

  A man with a high-tech camera around his neck slipped through the door at the front of the room. He snapped a few shots of the professor and the audience, then disappeared unobtrusively out the door again. Ship’s photographer. The same man who’d snapped individual and group photos of us as we’d boarded and showed up to take candid shots during the lifeboat drill. I had a sneaking suspicion this guy’s camera was going to be in our faces a lot during the cruise, whether we wanted it there or not. Our own personal paparazzi.

  Professor Smoker sipped a mouthful of water before allowing his gaze to drift slowly over his audience. “Captain Cook’s remains were committed to the deep on February 22, 1779, and on the following day, under the command of Warrant Officer William Bligh, who would gain infamy years later aboard the mutinous ship, Bounty, the Resolution set sail for England. Eight months later the ship arrived back in the Thames, having suffered the deaths of a score of crew members, and the ship’s surgeon, as well. As a note to any actuaries who may be sitting in the audience, Cook’s wife, Elizabeth, survived him by fifty-six years.”

  “I hope I don’t survive your grampa by fifty-six years,” Nana whispered. “That’d make me” — she pinched her eyes shut in a quick calculation — “a hundred and thirty-two. We’re talkin’ brain cells like leaf lettuce.”

  Nana had switched from cable to Direct TV after our Italian trip, so her always impressive store of mindless trivia had increased exponentially over the last four months.

  Professor Smoker smiled with pride and conviction. “Let there be no mistake. Captain James Cook’s accomplishments were both extraordinary and unparalleled — distinctions that have earned him the title of the greatest explorer of all time.”

  Applause. Whistles. More applause.

  Followed by a voice that bristled with animosity. “Your praise completely ignores the darker side of Cook’s explorations. How do you answer those who charge that he and his crewmen spread incurable diseases and precipitated the collapse of countless native cultures?”

  Smoker’s pale blue eyes hardened like magma. “I call the charges ignorant and unfounded. Next question.”

  “The great explorers sailed without instruments,” another man shouted out. “Cook’s ships boasted the finest navigational equipment of the era. That fact alone diminishes his achievements and sets other explorers far above him. This is not new to you. When will you admit that you’ve misled the public about —”

  “I’ve never misled the public about anything,” Smoker cut him off, obviously annoyed. “Are there any more questions?”

  Wow. The last time I’d heard people get so hot under the collar about an historical figure was during my senior year at the UW, when the Memorial Union sponsored a panel of experts who rabidly debated the burning question: Was Attila the Hun a midget, or was he just short? I’m always surprised how fanatical people can get about obscure details. I mean, what difference would it make if Attila had charged into battle on a miniature pony instead of a stallion? He’d gotten the job done, hadn’t he?

  “Excuse me, Professor.” Tilly Hovick raised her walking stick in the air to attract his attention. Tilly was a retired university professor who’d become fast friends with Nana on our trip to Ireland. She stood nearly six feet tall in her stocking feet, was thin as a torchlight, and had an affinity for pleated woolen skirts with matching berets, though as a concession to the tropical climate, she’d switched to Madras plaids with coordinating visors. “You’re familiar with the Resolution’s crew roster. Was there a seaman aboard by the name of Griffin Ring?”

  Dorian Smoker lifted his brow in surprise and a curious smile touched his lips. “There was indeed a crewman by that name aboard the Resolution. Ordinary Seaman, Griffin Ring. A taciturn fellow with a dubious background that scholars later discovered may have involved the suspicious death of a relative and the theft of a family heirloom before he embarked on the expedition. But no formal charges were ever drawn up because he died shortly after returning to England. His name is absent from most primary sources, so he remains something of a mystery in the annals of navigational history.” Smoker’s eyebrow arched further upward at Tilly. “Do you mind my asking what interest you have in Ring? He’s mentioned so sparingly in the literature. How do you know his name?”

  Tilly extracted a plastic storage bag from her canvas tote. Inside was a book the size of a paperback novel, which she removed from the plastic and held up for Smoker’s observation. Bound in discolored leather, it was as thick as a deck of playing cards and looked like something straight out of the Old Curiosity Shop. “I found this in a hidden compartment of an antique chest I recently inherited. It appears to be the handwritten journal of Griffin Ring, Ordinary Seaman aboard the sloop, Resolution. From what I’ve read, it documents the events of Cook’s last journey of discovery in the South Pacific. You’re the expert, Professor. How would you determine if this journal is authentic or a masterful hoax?”

  The room erupted in a low-level buzz. Heads turned. Chairs creaked. All eyes riveted on Tilly and the slim book she clutched in her hand. Professor Smoker inhaled a deep breath, then nodded meaningfully to a young woman in the front row, who stood up to address us.

  “Professor Smoker thanks you for attending today’s lecture.” Her voice projected into every corner of the room without effort. Good lungs. Great diaphragm. I suspected she’d had professional voice-training instruction, or lived in a big family. She was in her midtwenties with a foot of coarse brown hair caught in a scrunchie at the base of her skull and no visible jewelry other than a glimmer of a chain peeking beneath the open collar of her blouse. She wore a straight skirt that hit her just above the knee and a pale yellow knit vest that I’d seen in the latest Lands’ End catalogue. Her smile was subdued, her tone no-nonsense, and she wore serious, elliptical eyeglasses that appeared to add ten years to her age and twenty points to her IQ. My instincts told me she was probably Phi Beta Kappa, Phi Kappa Phi, and the quintessential type-A personality — the kind who experienced total meltdown when she wasn’t in control.

  “Please check the schedule in tomorrow’s Compass for the time and location of our next session,” she continued. “Apparently we’re going to be a moveable feast. And if you have questions about —”

  “I’ve got a question,” a woman at the back of the room called out. “Where’s the Coconut Palms Cafe? The ice-cream social begins in ten minutes, and they’re serving thirty-two different flavors. That’s one more than Baskin-Robbins!”

  “I know where it is,” another woman replied. “Five decks up. And it’s all you can eat!”

  That
led to serial chair-scraping and a mass exodus through the two exit doors. Who could blame them — one more flavor than Baskin-Robbins? Even I was curious.

  Nana tugged on my arm. “I need two M&M’s for the scavenger hunt. You think they might have M&M’s at the ice-cream social?”

  “What kind do you need? Peanut, almond, crispy, peanut butter, or plain?”

  She consulted her list. “Blue.”

  Professor Smoker left his podium and sauntered in our direction. “Would you mind if I took a closer look at your journal, Mrs.” — he eyed Tilly’s name tag — “Hovick?”

  “Professor Hovick,” she corrected, giving his hand a firm shake. “Iowa State University. Retired.”

  The degree of respect in his eyes inched upward, like water on the indicator level of a twelve cup coffee maker. “History?”

  “Anthropology. And these are my traveling companions, Marion Sippel and her granddaughter, Emily.”

  Smoker nodded to each of us before beckoning to the young woman who had announced the end of the lecture. “Let me introduce you to Bailey Howard.” He gave her an appreciative smile as she joined us. “My brilliant graduate assistant who has single-handedly rescued me from drowning in a sea of memoranda, email, and otherwise useless bureaucratic spam. It’ll be a sad day when she graduates. I’ll be lost without her organizational skills.”

  Bailey angled her mouth into a crooked smile, looking uncomfortable with the compliment. She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m a Virgo. We have an obsessive need to create order out of chaos.”

  If she alphabetized her soup cans and spices, I’d have to bring her home with me. My mom would love her.

  Smoker laughed. “Bailey knows nearly as much about Captain Cook as I do. In a few years, I suspect she’ll be applying for my position. But in the meantime” — he extended a polite hand toward Tilly’s book — “I should very much like to peruse your journal. You found it in an antique chest, you say?”