Fleur De Lies(73)

            My jaw hit the floor. “You’re kidding.”

            “They run one of them toxicology panels. Got it firsthand. Straight from the horse’s mouth. That Irv fella what sits in the lounge in a stupor all day? He told us. He can be pretty chatty between cocktails.”

            “How did Irv find out?”

            “He heard it from the bartender, what heard it from the purser, what heard it from the waiter what was servin’ some snacks to the gendarmes when they was talkin’ to the captain in the dinin’ room.”

            I grinned. “Yup. It doesn’t get any more firsthand than that.”

            I’d found most of the gang on the top deck, sitting beneath the canopy, fondling their iPhones and sipping drinks that sported little parasols, swords, and pink flamingo swizzle sticks. Their eyes were glassy. Their mouths were curved into silly grins. They looked a little punch-drunk, as if they’d just been forced to sit through eight hours of nonstop campaign speeches—and something else was different about them, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

            “Did Irv know what kind of drug she overdosed on?”

            “Not yet,” said Tilly. “But his plan was to continue tippling in the lounge until the end of the day, so he’s well positioned to hear further information. He told us to check back with him later.”

            Stunned, I pulled out a chair and flopped down at the table with them, my thoughts heading off in eight different directions. “A drug overdose? Does that mean she didn’t die from a brain hemorrhage?”

            “The toxicology report doesn’t change the results of the postmortem,” said Tilly. “But what it might indicate is that the overdose caused the brain hemorrhage. The police were in her cabin earlier. No doubt searching for the drug in question. If they find it, I believe they might suspect an accidental overdose. If they don’t, I assume they may reclassify her death as a homicide.”

            Nuts! We were home free. A natural death. No suspicions. No flags. I sighed. Here we go again.

            “If the police don’t find the drug in her cabin, what are the chances they’ll search for it elsewhere aboard ship?” asked Dick Stolee, trying unsuccessfully to hide a nervous tremor in his voice. “You think they’ll search all the guest cabins?”

            “What do you care?” questioned Grace, eyeing him suspiciously. She gasped. “Oh, my Lord! ARE YOU HIDING ILLEGAL CONTRABAND IN OUR CABIN?”

            “Shhhh!” He shot a furtive look to left and right.

            Tilly raised her forefinger. “If you’ll allow me to make a grammatical correction, Grace. Contraband is always unlawful, so the expression ‘illegal contraband’ is redundant … much in the same way as ‘close proximity’ or ‘false pretense’ or ‘foreign import,’ or my absolute favorite, ‘two twin beds.’”

            Grace drew her lips back over her teeth in an unflattering sneer. “What about ‘buzz off’? Is that redundant?”

            “I thought ‘two twin beds’ was one a them oxymorons,” said Nana.

            Tilly shook her head. “An oxymoron is an expression that seems to contradict itself, like ‘jumbo shrimp,’ or—”

            “Isn’t ‘two twin beds’ hotel lingo for a double?” asked George.

            Dick Teig snickered. “ ‘Oxymorons’ are what Bernice calls us when we’re all in the same room together. You know. More than one moron.” He squinted in thought. “ ‘Oxy’ means ‘more than one’, doesn’t it?”

            “Quiet!” snapped Grace, her gaze boring into her husband like a drill bit into butter. “Out with it, Dick. What are you trying to hide from the police?”