A Ruff Voyage

Carolina Canines #4

©2025 Madison Boyd

CHAPTER 1

Bea Whitman adjusted the rearview mirror of her SUV, catching a glimpse of the three dogs settled in the back. Luna, her golden retriever therapy dog, sat regally as always, her gentle eyes watching over Max, the French bulldog who had become such an unexpected but treasured part of Bea's life. And then there was Sadie, the sweet golden with soulful brown eyes who had been James's foster for the past three months.

Today was the day. Sadie's forever home awaited.

"You okay?" Bea asked, glancing over at James in the passenger seat. His wire-rimmed glasses couldn't hide the mix of emotions in his blue eyes.

"I'm fine," he answered, but his fingers drummed an uneven pattern on his knee. "It's for the best. The Bennetts are perfect for her."

Bea reached over and squeezed his hand. "You did an amazing job with her rehabilitation. Remember how skittish she was when animal control first brought her to the Charleston clinic?"

James nodded, a small smile forming. "She wouldn't even take treats from my hand for the first week."

"And now look at her," Bea said, checking the mirror again. Sadie was now stretched across the back seat, her head resting comfortably on Max's sturdy little body. The French bulldog seemed unbothered, blinking slowly as if falling asleep despite the car's movement. Luna maintained her watchful position, the unofficial guardian of their canine family.

The drive to the Bennetts' home in the Harbor Side neighborhood took them past familiar landmarks—Martha Wheeler's cottage, where the retired librarian would undoubtedly be tending to her prolific garden of native plants; the Dune Tavern, already setting up for the lunch crowd on its dog-friendly deck; and the turn-off to Sunrise Coffee & Biscuits, where Bea had already stopped earlier for their morning ritual of coffee and fresh-baked treats, including the special dog biscuits that Max adored.

Palm Harbor sparkled in the June sunshine, the small coastal town coming alive with early summer energy. Beach-goers were already staking their claims on the shore, colorful umbrellas beginning to dot the sand like confetti. Locals moved at their usual measured pace, contrasting with the eager bounce of seasonal tourists.

"Kevin texted that they're all ready," James said, checking his phone. "They've been up since dawn baby-proofing—I mean, dog-proofing—the house."

Bea smiled. "They're going to spoil her rotten."

"Good," James replied, his voice softening. "She deserves it after everything she's been through."

As they pulled into the Bennetts' driveway, Bea felt a surge of affection for the man beside her. James Crawford had shown her many sides of himself in the months they'd been together, but his dedication to the animals in his care remained one of the qualities she admired most. His ability to nurture and then let go was something she'd been learning from him—a counterbalance to her own tendency to hold on perhaps too tightly at times.

The Bennett home sat on a quiet street, elevated like most homes in the area to protect against potential flooding. A wraparound porch adorned with hanging ferns and comfortable rocking chairs gave the place a classic Lowcountry feel. A small dock extended behind the house into the intercostal waterway, where a modest pontoon boat gently bobbed in the calm water.

Kevin and Margaret Bennett emerged from the front door before Bea could even cut the engine. They were the picture of retired contentment—Kevin with his neatly trimmed white beard and Margaret with her silver hair pulled back in a stylish bob. Both wore broad smiles and matching light blue polo shirts.

"She's here!" Margaret called, clasping her hands together in delight.

In the back seat, Sadie's ears perked up at the sound of Margaret's voice. She recognized these humans from their previous meetings when the Bennetts had come to James's clinic to get acquainted with their potential new family member.

"Ready, girl?" James asked, opening the back door. All three dogs looked at him expectantly. "Just Sadie for now. We'll all play in a bit."

Sadie stepped carefully out of the vehicle, her gaze darting between James and the Bennetts. Margaret knelt down despite her arthritic knees, extending a hand slowly.

"Hello, beautiful girl," she cooed. "Welcome home."

Something magical happened then, one of those moments Bea had witnessed many times in her years of working with dogs but which never failed to touch her heart. Sadie's hesitation melted away. She moved forward with increasing confidence, her tail beginning a hopeful wag that grew more enthusiastic with each step toward Margaret.

"That's it," Kevin encouraged, joining his wife at her level. "We've been waiting for you."

Sadie reached them and, after a brief sniff of their extended hands, pressed her head against Margaret's palm in a gesture of acceptance. Margaret's eyes filled with tears as she gently stroked the dog's soft fur.

"Oh, Kevin," she whispered. "Isn’t she such a sweetie?"

James stood silently watching, a complex mixture of pride and wistfulness in his expression. Bea slipped her hand into his, their fingers intertwining in wordless understanding.

"Let's show you around your new kingdom," Kevin announced to Sadie, his voice carrying the gentle cadence that came naturally to him after forty years as an elementary school principal. "We've got a special bed for you in the sunroom, and wait until you see the backyard."

They led Sadie into the house, the dog looking back once at James as if for reassurance. He nodded encouragingly, and Sadie trotted forward with new purpose.

"Bring your other pups around back," Margaret called over her shoulder. "We've got that fenced area all set up now."

Luna and Max watched the proceedings with interest from their vantage point in the car, Luna with serene attention and Max with his head tilted quizzically to one side.

"You heard the lady," Bea told them, opening the door. "Let's go see Sadie's new digs."

The Bennetts' backyard was a testament to Kevin's post-retirement passion for gardening. Native plants created natural borders, while a sprawling live oak draped in Spanish moss provided ample shade over a large portion of the space. A newly installed fence—clearly the "dog-proofing" project Kevin had mentioned—enclosed a generous area where Sadie could run safely.

As they rounded the corner of the house, Sadie came bounding out the back door, already looking remarkably at home. She spotted her canine friends and rushed to greet them, all three dogs engaging in the timeless ritual of sniffs and circles.

"She's going to miss them," Margaret observed, watching the dogs interact.

"You're welcome to bring her for playdates anytime," Bea offered. "My training center has open play sessions every Saturday morning."

"We'll be there," Kevin promised. "Retirement's been wonderful, but we've been looking for more structure in our routine."

James reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tennis ball—Sadie's favorite toy. "One last game?" he suggested, his voice betraying more emotion than he'd likely intended.

Kevin nodded understanding. "Of course."

James knelt down, showing Sadie the ball. Her entire body quivered with excitement, her focus laser-sharp on the neon green sphere. Max positioned himself nearby, equally interested despite his shorter stature. Luna sat patiently, content to supervise.

"Ready?" James asked, and then tossed the ball in a gentle arc across the yard.

Sadie took off like a shot, Max huffing along behind her despite his anatomical disadvantage in the speed department. Sadie retrieved the ball deftly, bringing it back to James with her tail wagging so hard it seemed her entire back half might take flight.

"Good girl," James praised, his voice warm with affection. He threw the ball again, this time in a different direction.

This continued for several minutes, a simple game loaded with emotional significance. Bea noticed how James made sure to throw the ball to Max occasionally as well, positioning it perfectly for the French bulldog's more limited jumping abilities.

After one particularly enthusiastic return, Sadie dropped the ball not at James's feet but at Kevin's. The meaning was clear to everyone present.

"Looks like it’s your turn,” James said softly.

Kevin picked up the ball with reverence. "We'll take good care of her, Doc. You have my word."

The actual goodbye, when it came, was brief but heartfelt. James knelt down one last time, gently holding Sadie's face between his hands.

"Be a good girl," he whispered. "You're home now."

Sadie licked his cheek once, then turned and trotted back to Margaret's side, leaning against the woman's leg in a gesture of trust that spoke volumes.

As they walked back to the car, Luna and Max subdued as if sensing the emotional weight of the moment, Bea felt James take a deep breath beside her.

"You okay?" she asked again.

"Yeah," he said, and this time she believed him. "It's the best part of fostering—seeing them go to the right home. It's what makes the hard work worth it."

They waved goodbye as they pulled away, watching in the rearview mirror as Sadie stood between Kevin and Margaret on the porch, the perfect picture of a family newly formed.

---

"I think there's sand permanently embedded in my car upholstery," Bea remarked as they drove away from the Harbor Side neighborhood. "Between the three dogs and our beach walks, it's a losing battle."

James chuckled, seemingly grateful for the shift to lighter conversation. "At least sand is clean. Remember when Max found that dead fish last month? I thought we'd never get the smell out."

"Don't remind me," Bea groaned. "I had to use that enzyme cleaner Martha recommended. Twice."

Max, hearing his name, perked up from the back seat where he'd been napping. His expressive face seemed to suggest he remembered the fish incident fondly and would gladly repeat the experience given the opportunity.

"No more dead fish adventures for you," Bea told him, catching his eye in the mirror. Max tilted his head, his bat-like ears at full attention, looking so innocently puzzled that Bea couldn't help but laugh.

"I can't believe how crazy these past few months have been," James said, changing the subject. "First the whole situation with your family visit coinciding with that last case, then the clinic expansion project, your new therapy dog certification program..."

"And don't forget moving in together," Bea added with a smile.

"As if I could forget that," James replied, returning her smile with one that still, after all these months, sent a pleasant warmth through her. "Finding space for all your dog training books alone was a major architectural challenge."

"Says the man with an entire bookcase dedicated to veterinary journals from the 1990s."

"Hey, those are classics! Veterinary science is timeless."

"Mmm-hmm," Bea hummed skeptically, but reached over to squeeze his hand affectionately.

The truth was, merging their lives had gone more smoothly than either of them had anticipated. James's house, with its waterfront view and spacious layout, had accommodated their combined possessions with minimal fuss. They had found an easy rhythm together, respecting each other's space and routines while creating new shared traditions.

Mornings began with coffee on the deck, watching dolphins occasionally surface in the intercostal waterway. Evenings often found them walking the dogs along the shore as the sun set, casting Palm Harbor in golden light. It was a good life, one they were building together day by day.

"What do you want to do about dinner tonight?" James asked as they approached downtown Palm Harbor. "I need to swing by the clinic for an hour or so to check on that parrot with pneumonia."

"How about I make that pasta thing you like? The one with the shrimp and lemon?" Bea suggested. "I need to call Harriet anyway to get more details about this cruise ship situation."

At the mention of Harriet, James nodded thoughtfully. "Are you really considering going? On a cruise?"

"I don't know yet," Bea admitted. "I need more information."

The postcard from her college roommate had arrived just three days ago, its cryptic message intriguing and concerning in equal measure. Harriet Hughes, now working as the Environmental Officer aboard the luxury cruise ship Paradise Voyager, had written of troubling thefts occurring throughout the vessel—culminating in the disappearance of her own family heirloom, an emerald necklace passed down through generations.

"Well," James said after a moment, "if you do decide to go, you know I'll support you. Max and Luna can stay with me, of course."

Bea glanced back at the dogs, both now dozing peacefully in the afternoon warmth filtering through the windows. "Actually... if I go, I was thinking of bringing Max along. Luna could stay with you, though. It’s just…Max is small and I can carry him around if I need to. Luna…not so small."

James raised an eyebrow. "Max on a cruise ship, huh?"

"Apparently this cruise line has a pet-friendly policy on certain voyages. According to Harriet, they have a designated deck with facilities for dogs, even a small relief area with artificial grass."

"Huh," James mused. "Seems like that could be a logistical nightmare for the ship."

"Limited number of pets allowed, hefty additional fee," Bea explained. "I'm just considering it. But given Max's track record with our previous cases..."

She didn't need to finish the thought. Max had proven himself remarkably helpful in their past investigations, his keen nose and intuitive behavior providing crucial assistance at key moments. The little French bulldog had an uncanny ability to sense tensions and react to people's emotional states in ways that often revealed more than words could.

"He would probably enjoy the adventure," James acknowledged.

They pulled into the driveway of their home, the elevated structure gleaming white against the vivid blue South Carolina sky. Luna immediately perked up, recognizing they had arrived home. Max yawned dramatically, stretching his compact body in preparation for disembarking.

Inside, the house was cool and welcoming, ceiling fans creating a gentle breeze that carried the faint scent of vanilla from the morning’s earlier coffee. Luna headed straight for her water bowl in the kitchen, while Max trotted to the large picture window overlooking the water, assuming his self-appointed position as guardian of their home against the ever-threatening squirrels and seabirds.

"I'm going to grab a quick shower before heading to the clinic," James said, dropping his keys in the ceramic bowl they kept by the door.

"Okay," Bea replied, already moving toward the desk in the corner of the living room where she'd left Harriet's postcard propped against a stack of books.

She picked it up again, studying the tropical beach scene on the front—palm trees swaying against an impossibly blue sky, white sand beaches pristine and inviting. Turning it over, she reread the message written in Harriet's distinctive angular handwriting:

*Bea – Need your expertise. String of thefts on ship, including Gram's emerald necklace. Crew frightened, passengers unaware. Security overwhelmed. Next cruise June 10-17, Miami-Bahamas. Can you come? Will arrange everything. Call me ASAP. – Harriet*

A phone number followed, along with a hastily added P.S.: *Pet-friendly voyage! Bring those dogs of yours if you want!*

Bea ran her finger over the postcard's slightly textured surface. Harriet had been her roommate for three years at UNC, a dedicated environmental science major with a passion for ocean conservation that had eventually led her to her current position with Festival Cruise Lines. They had stayed in touch over the years, their friendship one of those rare connections that required little maintenance but remained strong despite the long gaps between communications.

If Harriet was asking for help, the situation must be serious. The emerald necklace she mentioned had been a frequent topic during their college days—a family treasure with a romantic history involving Harriet's great-grandmother and a dashing naval officer during World War II.

Luna padded over and pressed against Bea's leg, sensing her thoughtful mood. Bea absently stroked the golden retriever's silky head.

"What do you think, Luna? You OK hanging out with James while Max and I go on an adventure?"

Luna gazed up at her with warm brown eyes that seemed to hold infinite wisdom and trust, as if saying she'd be completely fine staying behind with James.

From his post at the window, Max gave a single sharp bark, head tilted in that inquisitive way that always made Bea smile. Whether he was responding to a passing boat on the waterway or expressing interest in a potential sea voyage remained a mystery.

"I'll take that as a vote of interest from you," Bea told him, chuckling.

She set the postcard down and reached for her phone. Whatever decision she made, she needed more information first. With a deep breath, she dialed Harriet's number, mentally preparing herself for whatever might come next.

As the phone rang, she glanced again at the postcard, the vibrant colors of the tropical scene seeming to grow more vivid by the moment. A case on a cruise ship... it would certainly be different from anything they'd encountered in Palm Harbor, if she decided to take it on.

The line connected, and Harriet's familiar voice came through, laden with relief. "Bea! Thank goodness. I was hoping you'd call. You won't believe what's been happening here..."

Bea settled into the comfortable armchair by the window, Max immediately abandoning his post to leap into her lap. Luna curled at her feet, ever the attentive companion. She listened carefully as Harriet began describing the increasingly bold thefts aboard the Paradise Voyager, taking mental notes and asking clarifying questions. This was just information gathering for now; she'd need time to consider whether she could—or should—get involved.

Outside, the waters of the intercostal waterway glittered in the afternoon sun, a reminder of home and stability. Though Bea wasn't ready to make a decision, she couldn't deny the pull of curiosity about what might await on the high seas, and whether Max's unique talents might once again prove valuable in unraveling a mystery.

CHAPTER 2

Bea Whitman sat at her kitchen island, sipping her afternoon tea as she scanned the local newspaper. Max, her French bulldog, sprawled contentedly at her feet, his chest rising and falling with each snore. The front page of the Coastal Chronicle's lifestyle section featured a photo of Bea with Luna at last year's Palm Harbor charity dog walk, alongside a lengthy article about what locals now called "The Dog Show Murder."

"I still can't believe they're writing about this again," Bea muttered, shaking her head as she read the headline:

*Local Dog Trainer's Keen Eye Helps Solve Puzzling Murder Case*.

She skimmed the article, which detailed how Doug Fairfield, the notoriously harsh dog show judge, had been strangled with a show dog lead and how Bea, along with a little help from Max, had cracked the case. The writer called back to two other murders Bea had helped solved and liberally painted Bea as some sort of amateur detective genius.

Max stirred at her feet, one ear perking up as he sensed her discomfort.

"This is getting ridiculous," she said to the little dog. "Three murder investigations in only a few months? What are the odds?" She reached down to scratch behind his ears. "It's like we're living in some kind of cozy mystery novel."

Max tilted his head, his expression almost thoughtful.

"Don't look at me like that," Bea told him. "Normal people don't stumble across dead bodies and solve crimes. They just... I don’t know…read about things like that."

The sound of a key in the front door interrupted her musings. James entered, carrying a bag of groceries and whistling a cheerful tune. His face brightened when he spotted her.

"Hey there," he called, setting the groceries on the counter. "How's my favorite dog whisperer?"

Bea groaned. "Please don't call me that. Especially not after reading this." She pushed the newspaper toward him.

James scanned the article, his lips twitching with amusement. "Well, at least they got your good side in the photo. And…hey—isn’t that my shoulder? Nice!"

"James, be serious. Don't you think it's strange? Most people go their entire lives without being involved in a single murder investigation. I've somehow been part of three."

"And now you're considering diving into a jewelry theft," James added as he unpacked a carton of eggs. "Though I suppose that's a step down from murder. Good, right?"

"Still not exactly normal for a dog trainer," Bea pointed out. "Most of my colleagues spend their days teaching 'sit' and 'stay,' not tracking down stolen heirlooms."

"Ah, yes. The cruise ship mystery." James placed a hand on his chin, affecting a theatrical detective pose. "The Case of the Purloined Pendant."

Despite herself, Bea laughed. "It's an emerald necklace, not a pendant, and this isn't funny. Harriet sounds genuinely worried."

"Have you called her yet?" James asked, his expression growing more serious.

"Not yet. I've been thinking about it, though." Bea fidgeted with her teacup. "I'm just not sure what I could actually do to help."

James leaned against the counter, studying her face. "I think you should go."

"Go? To the cruise?"

"Why not? You're good at this sort of thing. You notice details other people miss." He gestured toward the newspaper. "Evidence suggests you have a knack for solving mysteries."

"That's ridiculous," Bea protested, though a small part of her warmed at his confidence in her abilities.

"Is it?" James walked around the island and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Bea, you have an incredible ability to read both animals and people. You helped solve three murder cases because you noticed things others didn't."

"That was different. I was already involved. This would mean deliberately inserting myself into an investigation."

"You wouldn't be inserting yourself. Your friend asked for help." James squeezed her shoulders gently. "Besides, when was the last time you took a vacation?"

Bea opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again when she realized she couldn't remember.

"Exactly," James said, noting her silence. "And don't you mention Harriet in the same breath as your college friends that you really need to reconnect with?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"But nothing. Your friend needs help, you need a vacation, and the cruise line allows dogs." James ticked the points off on his fingers. "Max can go with you—we both know he's your secret weapon when it comes to investigations."

At the sound of his name, Max's ears perked up. He padded over to James, who bent to scratch under the dog's chin.

"See? Max agrees."

Bea couldn't help but smile at the way the little dog leaned into James's touch. After initial wariness, Max had accepted James completely. Luna, too, adored him—a testimony to his character that Bea valued more than any human reference.

"What about the training center? I have classes scheduled all next week."

"Karen is more than capable of covering for you," James replied, referring to Bea's assistant. "And I can handle any emergencies that might come up.”

"You have your own clinic to run," Bea reminded him.

"A clinic that just hired a new associate vet, which gives me more flexibility." James straightened up. "Bea, you've been talking about taking some time off since before we moved in together. Maybe this is the universe's way of making you follow through."

Bea glanced down at the newspaper again, at the photo of her standing confidently with Luna at her side. The woman in that picture did look like someone who could solve mysteries and help friends in need.

"What about Luna?" she asked, her resistance weakening.

"I'll take care of her," James said. "She loves our evening walks along the waterfront."

"You've really thought this through, haven't you?"

James smiled. "I just want you to be happy. And I think helping your friend while enjoying a Caribbean cruise might contribute to that happiness."

Bea felt a rush of affection. After her divorce, she'd convinced herself she was better off alone. James had changed that perspective, showing her that the right relationship didn't diminish her independence but enhanced her life.

"I'll call Harriet," she decided. "Get more details before I commit to anything."

James grinned triumphantly. "Perfect. And to celebrate your tentative decision, I've made a reservation at Bonita Vista for tonight."

"Bonita Vista? That's not a 'tentative decision' restaurant. That's a 'major life event' restaurant."

"Well, consider it an early bon voyage dinner." He kissed her cheek. "Seven o'clock. Wear that blue dress I like."

Bea watched him as he returned to unpacking groceries, a warm feeling spreading through her chest. This was so different from her previous marriage, where her ex had subtly undermined her career at every turn. James supported her—even when that support meant encouraging her to leave for a week to chase down a jewel thief.

With newfound determination, Bea pulled out her cell phone and dialed Harriet's number.

The call connected after three rings. "Bea?" Harriet's voice contained equal parts surprise and delight. "Girl, I was just thinking about you! Did you get my postcard?"

"I did," Bea confirmed. "That's why I'm calling. Tell me more about these thefts."

For the next twenty minutes, Harriet detailed the incidents aboard the Paradise Voyager. The thefts had started small—cash from cabins, personal electronics—but had escalated to jewelry and valuables over the past two cruises.

"The security team is completely overwhelmed," Harriet explained, her voice lowering as if she feared being overheard. "The cruise line is keeping it quiet to avoid scaring passengers, but the crew is on edge. When my necklace disappeared from my locked cabin, I knew I had to do something."

"And you think having Max and me on board would help?" Bea asked, still uncertain.

"Are you kidding? After what you did with the Blackwood case and the dog show murder? Absolutely." Harriet paused. "Plus, I miss you. It's been what, five years since we last got together?"

"Seven," Bea corrected, feeling a pang of regret. "Your promotion party in Charleston."

"See? We're overdue. And the cruise is lovely—five days in the Bahamas, all-inclusive. The Paradise Voyager is a floating luxury hotel."

"And they really allow dogs?"

"On certain cruises, yes. This is one of their pet-friendly sailings. They have a designated area for dogs to do their business, even a small dog park on one of the decks. Max would love it."

Bea glanced at Max, who had returned to his napping spot, though one ear remained cocked in her direction, monitoring the conversation.

"When does the cruise depart?" she asked.

"June 15th. From Charleston." The hope in Harriet's voice was palpable. "Please say you'll come. All expenses paid, and I'll even arrange for you to have a balcony cabin."

Bea thought of her schedule, of the clients she'd have to reschedule and classes Karen would need to cover. She thought of the emerald necklace with its romantic history, stolen from her friend's cabin. Then she thought about how awesome it would be to have a real vacation for the first time in years.

"I'll be there," she said finally. "With Max."

Harriet's squeal of delight was so loud that Max's head popped up, eyes wide with alarm.

"You won't regret it," Harriet promised. "I'll email you all the details. And Bea? Thank you. I knew I could count on you."

After ending the call, Bea sat quietly for a moment, processing her decision. A cruise hadn't been in her plans, but James was right—she needed a break. And if she could help Harriet while enjoying some sunshine and relaxation, why not?

"Well, Max," she said to the little French Bulldog, who was watching her intently, "looks like we're going on an adventure."

Max's tail wriggled against the floor, his wrinkled face seeming to smile.

---

Bonita Vista lived up to its name, offering a breathtaking panorama of Charleston Harbor as the sun began its descent. From their favorite window table, Bea and James could see the glittering city lights beginning to emerge against the deepening purple and blue sky.

"This is perfect," Bea said, taking a sip of her chardonnay. "Thank you for suggesting it."

James looked particularly handsome in his outfit, which included a light blue shirt that matched his eyes. Bea had worn the requested blue dress, a flowing sleeveless number that always made her feel confident.

"I wanted to make this special," he replied. "It's not every day you embark on a crime-solving cruise adventure."

Bea laughed. "When you put it that way, it sounds absurd."

"Life is absurd sometimes. That's what makes it interesting." James raised his glass. "To solving mysteries and taking vacations—preferably not at the same time, but we'll work with what we've got."

They clinked glasses, and Bea felt a surge of happiness. Seven months ago, she would never have imagined herself here, in this restaurant, with this man, preparing for this journey.

"Did Harriet give you more details about the thefts?" James asked as they enjoyed their appetizers—a shared plate of seared scallops with a citrus glaze.

"Yes, and it's concerning. The thief is getting bolder with each cruise. Started with cash and electronics, moved up to jewelry." Bea twirled her wine glass thoughtfully. "Harriet thinks it might be someone on the crew, since they seem to have access to keys and know when cabins are likely to be empty, and of course since this has happened over several cruises now."

"Makes sense," James nodded. "And her necklace—you said it has sentimental value?"

"Family heirloom. Her great-grandmother received it from a naval officer during World War II. According to family lore, he saved her from a bombing in London, they fell in love, and he gave her the necklace before shipping out to the Pacific."

"Did he return?"

"Yes, against all odds. They married after the war and moved to South Carolina, where he worked as a harbor pilot." Bea smiled. "Harriet loves telling the story. That's why the necklace means so much to her—it's a symbol of hope and survival."

James's expression softened. "Then we definitely need to get it back."

"We?" Bea raised an eyebrow.

"Figure of speech," he amended quickly. "I know this is your mission. But I'm with you in spirit."

Their main courses arrived—grilled swordfish for Bea, filet mignon for James—momentarily pausing their conversation. The food was exquisite, the flavors complex yet harmonious, much like their relationship.

"I got the cruise documents today," Bea said after a few bites. "We board at noon on Monday, June the 15th. The ship sails at four."

"We?" Now it was James's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Max and I," Bea clarified with a chuckle. "Though I'm sure he'd be thrilled if you joined us."

"As tempting as that sounds, someone has to hold down the fort." James's expression grew more serious. "Just promise me you'll be careful. Thieves can turn dangerous when cornered."

"I promise to exercise all due caution," Bea assured him. "Besides, I have Max to protect me. He may be small, but he's fierce when it counts."

"That he is," James agreed. "But—check in with me when you can?"

"I will," Bea promised, touched by his concern.

They finished their meal with a shared dessert—a decadent chocolate soufflé that melted on the tongue—and lingered over coffee as the last traces of sunset gave way to a star-filled sky.

"Any other preparations for your maritime adventure?" James asked as they drove home along the quiet coastal road.

"Just packing tomorrow," Bea replied. "Though I'm looking forward to having time to finally read that novel I've been trying to get through for weeks."

"Ah, 'The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise,'" James remarked with a teasing grin. "Nothing says 'relaxing vacation' quite like a book with 'lethal' in the title."

"Hey, don't judge," Bea protested good-naturedly. "It's a perfectly valid beach read."

"I'm not judging," James insisted, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Just noting the irony of escaping real-life mysteries by reading fictional ones."

"The fictional ones are much neater," Bea pointed out. "Everything ties up nicely in the end."

"And the real ones don't?"

Bea thought about the cases she'd been involved in, the messy human emotions and complicated motives that had led to and followed the murders.

"Not always," she said softly. "Sometimes there are loose ends that never get resolved."

James reached across the console to take her hand. "Well, let's hope this cruise mystery is the tidy kind."

When they arrived home, Luna greeted them at the door with her usual gentle enthusiasm, her golden tail sweeping in wide, happy arcs. Max, never one to be outdone, squeezed past her to perform his own welcome dance, spinning in tight circles and snorting with delight.

"I think someone suspects an adventure is coming," James observed as Max followed Bea's every move with unusual intensity.

"Or maybe he just suspects the leftovers in our doggie bag," Bea replied, bending down to ruffle his ears.

Later, as James and Luna settled in the living room to watch a documentary on marine conservation, Bea retreated to the bedroom to begin packing. Max hopped onto the bed, positioning himself as supervisor of the operation.

Bea pulled her suitcase from the closet and laid it open on the bed. "Five days, warm weather, potentially formal dinners," she mused aloud, assessing her wardrobe. "Plus whatever one wears to catch a jewel thief."

Max tilted his head, observing her selections with apparent interest as she moved between closet and suitcase.

"You're coming too, mister," she told him, retrieving his travel carrier from storage. "Think of it as a working vacation."

Max's eyes lit up at the sight of his carrier—unlike many dogs, he enjoyed travel—and he hopped off the bed to investigate it, sniffing its familiar contours.

Bea continued packing methodically, selecting versatile pieces that could transition from daytime exploring to evening dining. Into a separate tote went Max's essentials: his special food, favorite toys, portable water bowl, and the bowtie collar James’ mother had given them that he wore for special occasions.

"Can't forget this," she said, retrieving "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise" from her nightstand and tucking it into her carry-on. The novel's cover featured a muscular lifeguard gazing intensely at a woman with windswept hair against a stormy beach backdrop. James teased her about her occasional forays into romance novels, but she found them a perfect mental palette cleanser between the more serious books she typically read.

She had just finished zipping her suitcase when James appeared in the doorway.

"All set?" he asked.

"I think so," Bea replied, glancing around to ensure she hadn't forgotten anything important. "Though I keep feeling like I'm missing something."

"Actually," James said, reaching into his pocket, "I have something for you." He pulled out a small blue velvet box.

Bea looked at him with surprise as he handed it to her. She opened it to find a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny paw print charm dangling from it.

"James, it's beautiful," she whispered, lifting it from the box.

"I thought you might like something to remind you of home while you're gone," he said, taking the bracelet and fastening it around her wrist. "And it seemed fitting, given your line of work."

Bea admired how the silver caught the light. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"I’m glad you like it," he said with a gentle smile.

The tenderness in his voice made her heart swell. She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"I'll miss you," she murmured against his chest.

"It's only five days," he reminded her, though his arms tightened around her. “And we have some time too before you actually leave.”

"Still." Bea looked up at him. "Thank you for encouraging me to do this. For understanding why it's important."

"That's what partners do," James said, kissing her forehead. "Support each other's adventures, even the slightly crazy ones."

From his spot beside the suitcase, Max gave a soft whine, as if to remind them of his presence.

"Yes, and your dog supports you too," James added with a laugh.

"Our dog," Bea corrected automatically, then paused, realizing what she'd said. Max had been legally hers since Diana Blackwood's death, but this was the first time she'd referred to him as "theirs."

James's smile broadened, clearly catching the significance. "Our dog," he repeated, his voice warm with affection. "Who is apparently eager to embark on his nautical adventure."

As if to confirm this assessment, Max trotted over to his carrier and pawed at it, his expression expectant.

"Patience, buddy," Bea told him, laughing. "We don't leave until Sunday morning."

But as she finished her packing preparations and joined James in their evening routine, Bea found herself sharing in Max's anticipation. The prospect of solving a mystery aboard a luxury cruise ship, reconnecting with an old friend, and perhaps even finishing her novel—it all combined into a pleasant flutter of excitement.

Whatever awaited them on the Paradise Voyager, Bea felt ready to face it. With Max at her side and James supporting her from home, she had everything she needed for this unexpected adventure.

CHAPTER 3

Bea stood at the bustling Charleston port, the massive white hull of the Paradise Voyager looming before her like a floating city. The June morning sun warmed her shoulders as she adjusted Max's travel harness for the third time. The French Bulldog sat patiently at her feet, his tongue lolling with excitement and his nose wiggling at the swirl of new scents and sounds.

"You've checked his papers four times now," James said, his hand resting at the small of her back. "Everything's there—vaccination records, service dog certification, even that unnecessary letter from me as his vet."

Luna, sat beside him with the dignified calm that made her such an excellent therapy dog. Her intelligent eyes tracked the movement of passengers and luggage carts.

"I know, I know," Bea sighed, patting the folder tucked securely in her crossbody bag. "I just don't want any surprises at check-in. This is my first cruise, and I've never traveled with Max before—at least not on something that floats."

James chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "The mighty detective Bea Whitman, solver of the infamous Dog Show Murder, nervous about a little paperwork?"

Bea shot him a look, but couldn't help smiling. "Don't you start. I'm still trying to live down that newspaper article." She glanced at her watch. "We should probably get in line. Boarding starts in twenty minutes."

A flurry of activity caught her eye as porters whisked luggage from arriving vehicles. Excited passengers clutched boarding passes and passports, families corralled children and belongings, and crew members in crisp white uniforms directed the organized chaos with practiced efficiency.

James pulled her close, his blue eyes serious behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Remember what I said—thieves can get dangerous when cornered. Don't take unnecessary risks."

"I'm just going to observe and help Harriet figure out who might be behind the thefts," Bea reassured him, though the knot of worry in her stomach tightened. "My protector here has my back." She nodded toward Max, who was now intently watching a seagull strut along the edge of the dock.

"Some protector," James said with a fond smile.

"I love you." She reached up to touch his face, the familiar contours of his features suddenly precious now that they would be separated for five days. "Take care of Luna, and don't work too late. Dr. Patterson can handle night calls this week."

James leaned down, kissing her with a gentleness that contrasted with the urgency of his embrace. When they parted, Bea felt a flutter of something new—not the passionate excitement of their early days, but a deeper, steadier warmth. Missing him would be harder than she'd expected.

“I love you too.”

Luna nudged her hand, and Bea knelt to give the Golden Retriever a proper goodbye. "Keep an eye on him for me," she whispered into Luna's soft fur. "Make sure he eats something besides takeout." The dog licked her cheek once, a solemn promise between friends.

As Bea stood, James handed her a small package wrapped in white paper. "Something to read on your trip," he said with a half-smile. "In case that romance novel isn't enough."

"The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise is literary art," Bea protested with mock indignation, accepting the gift. She peeled back the paper to reveal a leather-bound notebook. "James, it's beautiful."

"For your case notes," he explained. "Every good detective needs one."

For a moment, Bea wondered silently if that was really what she was—not just a dog trainer, but a real-life detective. It still seemed terribly unusual to her, even after everything she’d been through the past few months.

A loudspeaker announcement cut through the dockside clamor: "Attention Festival Cruise passengers! Priority boarding for the Paradise Voyager will begin in fifteen minutes at Gate 3. Please have your boarding documents ready."

"That's my cue," Bea said, tucking the notebook into her bag. She scooped up Max's travel bag and gripped his leash more firmly. "I'll call you tonight once we're settled."

James nodded, his hand lingering on hers. "Have fun, solve the mystery, and come back to me."

"Always," she promised.

With a final wave, Bea turned and walked toward the check-in line, Max trotting at her side. She felt James watching them go, and fought the impulse to look back. This was what she wanted—a chance to help Harriet, a mini-vacation with Max, and maybe the satisfaction of solving another mystery. Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something significant waited for her aboard the Paradise Voyager, something beyond stolen jewelry and oceanfront sunsets.

The check-in line moved with surprising efficiency. Bea presented her documentation, answered questions about Max's service animal status, and received her room key card with minimal fuss. A crew member in a sharp white uniform with gold trim directed her toward the gangway.

"Welcome aboard the Paradise Voyager, Ms. Whitman. You're in Cabin 8217, port side, with a lovely view. The pet-friendly deck is on Deck 12, and our pet concierge will be available throughout your voyage for any special needs."

"Thank you," Bea said, tucking her boarding materials into her bag. "Is there a way to leave messages for other passengers? I'm meeting a friend—Harriet Hughes. She's an Environmental Officer on board."

"Ah, Ms. Hughes!" The crew member's professional smile warmed. "She mentioned she had a friend joining us. I believe she's arranged to meet you at the Welcome Aboard party in the Grand Atrium at two o'clock. Any messages can be left at the Purser's Office on Deck 4."

Max gave a small snort, drawing the crew member's attention.

"And who's this handsome gentleman?" he asked, bending slightly at the waist.

"This is Max," Bea said, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "My partner in crime-solving."

"Crime solving? Is that so?" The crew member's eyebrows lifted with polite interest. "Well, I hope you both enjoy a perfectly uneventful cruise." He gestured toward the gangway. "Right this way, please."

The transition from dock to ship happened in a blur of procedure—security checks, welcome greetings, directional guidance from smiling crew members. Bea felt a momentary disorientation as she stepped onto the main deck, the subtle movement of the ship beneath her feet both strange and exhilarating.

Max seemed to take it all in stride, his compact frame moving with the ship's gentle sway as if he'd been born to sea life. He sniffed interestedly at the gleaming floor, tail wagging with enthusiasm.

"Well, partner," Bea murmured to him, "let's find our cabin and get settled before meeting Harriet."

Their cabin on Deck 8 proved to be a pleasant surprise—more spacious than Bea had expected, with a small private balcony overlooking the harbor. The decor featured nautical blues and crisp whites, with cleverly designed storage tucked into every available space. A small welcome basket waited on the desk, containing bottled water, fruit, and—Bea noticed with amusement—gourmet dog biscuits wrapped in cellophane with a Paradise Voyager logo.

"Someone's thought of everything," she told Max, who was already inspecting every corner of their new territory. She unpacked efficiently, hanging her few dresses in the compact closet and setting out Max's portable water bowl and bed by the sofa.

With their belongings settled, Bea checked her watch. Just past noon—enough time for a quick exploration before meeting Harriet. She clipped Max's leash to his harness and slipped the cabin key card into her pocket.

"Let's get our bearings," she suggested, and Max pranced to the door with renewed enthusiasm.

The corridor outside their cabin stretched in both directions, plushly carpeted and dotted with identical doors. Bea consulted the ship map provided in their welcome packet and headed toward the central elevators. They passed other passengers similarly engaged in exploration, many offering admiring glances or comments about Max, who trotted along with the confident air of someone exactly where they belonged.

The Paradise Voyager revealed itself as a marvel of design—twelve decks of restaurants, lounges, pools, entertainment venues, and amenities connected by sweeping staircases and glass elevators. Bea and Max wandered through the Grand Atrium, a soaring space that rose through multiple decks with glittering chandeliers and panoramic windows.

They discovered the Crown Room, the main dining room on Deck 5, where waitstaff were preparing for the evening's dinner service. On Deck 7, they passed the Art Gallery, currently closed but displaying promotional posters for upcoming auctions. The adjacent Ship's Shop offered everything from sunscreen to evening wear.

"I should pick up a spare hat," Bea mused, noting the reasonable prices on summer essentials. "I only packed one, and knowing my luck, it'll blow overboard on day one."

Max's ears perked up suddenly, his attention captured by something down the corridor. Following his gaze, Bea spotted a slim woman with a camera dangling from her neck, seemingly photographing an empty stretch of hallway.

"That's odd," Bea murmured to Max. The woman turned suddenly, catching Bea's eye. She gave a startled little jump, her wild curly red hair bouncing with the movement.

"Oh! Hello!" The woman's voice came out higher than seemed natural. "Ship's photographer—just checking lighting for, um, passenger photos later. Cute dog!" She hurried past them, camera clutched to her chest.

Bea frowned after her. "Well, that wasn't suspicious at all," she commented to Max, who sniffed the air where the woman had passed. She made a mental note to mention it to Harriet.

They continued their exploration to Deck 12, where the dog-friendly area occupied a sheltered section of the open deck. A small patch of artificial turf designated as the "Pet Park" was equipped with waste stations and surrounded by comfortable seating for pet owners. Despite the ingenious design, Bea couldn't help but smile at the contrast between this carefully controlled environment and the wild beach romps Max enjoyed at home.

"It's not exactly the Palm Harbor dog park, is it?" she said to Max, who investigated the turf with diplomatic interest.

The sun beat down on the open deck, and Bea guided Max toward a shaded seating area near one of the pools. A few early swimmers splashed in the brilliant, turquoise water, while others claimed lounge chairs with towels and personal items.

"I think we've earned a little break," Bea decided, settling onto a cushioned chair. She pulled out "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise" from her bag, eager to finally dive into the story. Max curled contentedly at her feet, his eyes half-closing in the warm breeze.

Bea had barely finished the first chapter—in which ruggedly handsome lifeguard Jack Wavecrest spotted mysterious newcomer Selena during his morning patrol—when piercing shrieks shattered the peaceful atmosphere. A group of children raced around the pool deck, engaged in an enthusiastic game that seemed to involve increasingly louder screaming and plenty of squirt-gun blasts in seemingly every direction.

"So much for quiet reading time," Bea sighed, marking her place reluctantly. Max had raised his head, eyes tracking the children with mild interest rather than alarm. His tail gave a small wag when one child waved at him before being chased away by playmates.

A flash of orange caught Max's attention. His head swiveled sharply, ears pricked forward in sudden alertness. Bea followed his gaze to a deck chair partially hidden behind a stack of towels, where a sleek orange tabby cat was leisurely grooming herself in a patch of sunlight.

"Well, hello there," Bea murmured in surprise. The cat paused mid-lick, regarding them with regal indifference before resuming her toilette. Max gave a small whine, shifting his weight forward with obvious interest.

"Easy," Bea cautioned, shortening his leash slightly. "Let's not start a chase scene on our first day."

Max showed no signs of aggression—just intense curiosity. The cat, evidently satisfied with her grooming, stretched luxuriously and then settled into a compact loaf, eyes blinking slowly at them as if acknowledging their presence but finding it unremarkable.

A passing crew member noticed Bea's attention to the cat. "I see you've met Clementine," he said with a fond smile. "Our ship's mascot."

"She's allowed to roam freely?" Bea asked, keeping a gentle hold on Max's leash, though he remained unexpectedly calm.

"Clementine goes where she pleases," the crew member confirmed. "Been with the ship for years. No one's quite sure how she came aboard originally, but she's quite the character—known for 'collecting' small shiny objects and leaving them in strange places. Passengers love her, though."

"Interesting," Bea said, filing away this information. A cat with a penchant for shiny things on a ship experiencing thefts was certainly noteworthy, if likely coincidental. "Does she get along with the dogs on the pet-friendly cruises?"

"Depends on the dog," the crew member shrugged. "She's the queen of this ship, and she knows it. Some dogs she tolerates, others she avoids. Your little guy seems to have gotten her approval though—she usually disappears when dogs come around."

Max's tail wagged gently, his gaze still fixed on Clementine with what Bea could only describe as respectful interest.

"Good to know," Bea said. She checked her watch and realized it was nearly two o'clock. "We should be going—meeting a friend."

As they stood to leave, Clementine stretched once more, leapt gracefully from the deck chair, and sauntered away, her orange tail held high like a signal flag. Max watched her go with clear fascination.

"Made your first shipboard friend, huh?" Bea commented as they headed toward the Grand Atrium to meet Harriet. "Although I'm not sure how helpful a kleptomaniac cat will be in catching our thief."

The Grand Atrium buzzed with activity as they arrived. A small orchestra played light jazz while crew members circulated with trays of colorful welcome drinks. Decorative streamers and balloons in the cruise line's colors adorned the railings of the upper decks, and a banner proclaiming "Welcome Aboard Paradise Voyager!" hung above the central staircase.

Bea scanned the crowd for Harriet, struggling to reconcile her memories of a college-aged environmental science student with the ship's officer she expected to see. Max seemed to be searching too, his nose working overtime as he processed the myriad new scents.

"Bea! BEA WHITMAN!"

The voice cut through the ambient noise, and Bea turned to see a woman waving enthusiastically from near one of the ornate pillars. For a moment, she didn't recognize her old roommate—the Harriet in her memory wore flannel shirts and hiking boots, not the sharp white uniform with environmental officer's insignia that this woman wore. But then Harriet's familiar wide smile broke through, and seven years vanished in an instant.

"Harriet!" Bea called back, making her way through the crowd. As they reached each other, Harriet pulled her into a fierce hug.

"It's been way too long," Harriet said, stepping back to look at her. "You look amazing! Palm Harbor must agree with you."

"You too," Bea said, taking in Harriet's practical short haircut and the confident stance that came with authority. "The uniform suits you."

Harriet grinned and then glanced down at Max, who was regarding her with friendly interest. "And this must be your famous furry partner." She crouched down to his level, offering her hand for inspection. "Hello, Max. I've heard quite a lot about you."

Max sniffed her hand thoroughly, his tail beginning to wag with increasing enthusiasm. He gave a small snort of approval that made both women laugh.

"He likes you," Bea confirmed. "But then, he's an excellent judge of character."

"I'm counting on that," Harriet said, her voice lowering slightly as she straightened. "Thank you for coming, Bea. I know it was short notice, but..." She glanced around at the crowded atrium. "Let's grab a quiet table in the Ocean View Lounge. I can fill you in there."

They made their way to a glass-enclosed lounge on Deck 8, where floor-to-ceiling windows offered spectacular views of Charleston Harbor. The space was less crowded than the atrium, with scattered groups of passengers enjoying welcome drinks or afternoon tea. Harriet led them to a secluded corner table and gestured for Bea to sit.

"I've got thirty minutes before I need to be back on duty," she explained, settling into her chair. "So much for my grand plan to show you around the ship properly."

"We did some exploring on our own," Bea assured her. "This ship is incredible, Harriet. I can see why you love working here."

Harriet's expression brightened. "It really is my dream job—combining maritime operations with environmental protection. Plus, I get to see the world while helping preserve it." She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "But these thefts are casting a shadow over everything. The latest one was three days ago—a diamond tennis bracelet taken from a suite on Deck 10. Before that, it was a rare coin collection from a locked safe."

"Tell me about security measures," Bea prompted, grateful for the relative privacy of their corner table. Max settled at her feet, alert but relaxed.

"That's part of what's so baffling," Harriet said, frustration evident in her voice. "Every cabin has an electronic lock that records each entry. Safes require personal codes. Security cameras cover all public areas. Yet somehow, items keep disappearing without any evidence."

"Inside job?" Bea suggested quietly.

Harriet nodded grimly. "Has to be. Someone with access to override codes or master keys. But that's still dozens of potential suspects among the crew."

"And the passengers don't know?"

"Management's been keeping it quiet. The official line is that items reported missing were likely misplaced." Harriet's disapproval was clear. "They're worried about reputation damage if word gets out. Only senior staff know the full extent."

Bea considered this, absently twisting the silver bracelet with the paw print charm that James had given her. "So what's your theory?"

"Honestly?" Harriet sighed. "I think it's someone who knows ship operations inside and out. Someone who can predict crew movements, passenger habits, security patrol timing. Someone who's been here long enough to have perfect cover."

A server approached with a tray of colorful tropical drinks, offering them complimentary welcome cocktails. Bea selected a non-alcoholic fruit punch, while Harriet declined with a polite "On duty, sorry."

When the server moved on, Harriet continued in a hushed tone. "Our purser, Oliver Drake, is coordinating with security, but progress has been painfully slow. I've been documenting everything I can, but..." She shrugged helplessly.

"Start from the beginning," Bea suggested, taking a sip of her punch. "When did the thefts start, and what pattern have you noticed?"

As Harriet began detailing the timeline of thefts, Max suddenly shifted at Bea's feet, his head rising with interest. Following his gaze, Bea noticed a distinguished man in a purser's uniform observing them from across the lounge. When he saw her looking, he smiled and approached their table.

"Ms. Hughes," he greeted Harriet with professional courtesy before turning to Bea. "And you must be Ms. Whitman. Welcome aboard. I'm Oliver Drake, Chief Purser."

"Pleased to meet you," Bea replied, studying him carefully. Black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses gave him an intellectual appearance, and his perfectly pressed uniform spoke of meticulous attention to detail.

"I trust you're settling in well?" Drake inquired smoothly. "I understand from Ms. Hughes that you're something of an amateur detective." There was no mockery in his tone, just polite interest.

"Just a dog trainer with good observation skills," Bea demurred.

"And a dog with a nose for trouble, I hear." Drake glanced down at Max, who returned his gaze steadily. "Well, I hope you enjoy purely recreational activities during your voyage, Ms. Whitman. Though if you do happen to notice anything... unusual, my office door is always open."

"I'll keep that in mind," Bea said, matching his pleasant tone.

Drake nodded to them both. "Enjoy your cruise, ladies." With that, he moved on to greet other passengers.

Harriet waited until he was well out of earshot before leaning in. "That's the man coordinating the investigation. Thirty years in the cruise industry, reputation for running a tight ship."

"Seems very... controlled," Bea observed.

"You have no idea," Harriet said with a small grimace. "Everything by the book, all the time. But he's good at his job."

Max had settled back down, but Bea noticed he kept one eye trained on Drake's retreating form. Interesting.

"Let me ask you something," Bea said, returning to her punch. "Have you noticed a cat on board? Orange tabby, apparently wanders wherever she wants?"

Harriet laughed. "Clementine! You've met our ship's cat already? She's a character—been aboard longer than most of the crew. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Bea said lightly. "A crew member mentioned she has a habit of collecting shiny objects."

Harriet's eyes widened. "You can't seriously think a cat is behind high-value thefts?"

"Of course not," Bea chuckled. "But cats don't usually open safes or override electronic locks either. I'm just gathering information."

Harriet checked her watch and grimaced. "I need to get back on duty. There's an environmental briefing for the crew at 2:30."

"Go," Bea waved her off. "We can catch up more at dinner?"

"Perfect. I made reservations at the Crown Room for seven-thirty." Harriet stood, straightening her uniform. "Your table assignment is with me—I pulled some strings."

They said their goodbyes, and Bea watched her friend navigate through the lounge with professional efficiency. Harriet had grown into her role with confidence, a far cry from the sometimes awkward environmental science student Bea remembered.

"Well, Max," Bea said quietly, finishing her punch. "We've got thefts with no evidence, a ship full of suspects, and a cat who likes shiny things. This should be interesting."

Max yawned in agreement, and together they rose to continue their exploration of the Paradise Voyager as the massive ship prepared to leave port.

CHAPTER 4

Bea adjusted the life vest over her shoulders as passengers crowded onto the muster station on Deck 7. Max sat patiently at her feet, wearing his own custom-fitted canine life jacket—bright orange with reflective strips that made him look like a miniature construction worker. The French bulldog seemed unimpressed with his new attire, giving Bea a baleful sideways glance that clearly communicated his opinion.

"I know, buddy," she whispered, bending down to scratch behind his ears. "But rules are rules. Even you have to follow safety protocols."

All around them, passengers fidgeted and chatted while crew members in white uniforms demonstrated how to properly secure life vests. The mandatory safety drill was the one part of cruising that nobody enjoyed but everyone endured. Bea had positioned herself near the back of the crowd, giving Max some space from the press of unfamiliar legs and feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a crew member announced through a megaphone, "please remain in your assigned muster stations while we complete the roll call."

Bea glanced at her watch—almost twenty-five minutes since the drill had begun. She'd been hoping to use the afternoon to properly explore the ship with Max, maybe even start outlining her investigation strategy in the leather-bound notebook James had given her. The thought of James brought a smile to her face. They'd only been apart for a few hours, and already she missed his steady presence.

"Well, if it isn't Beatrice Whitman."

The voice came from behind her, familiar yet completely unexpected, like a song from her youth suddenly playing on the radio. Bea froze, her hand still on Max's head. She knew that voice—its rich timbre, the slight lilt on the second syllable of her name. She turned slowly, already certain of who she'd find.

Stone Coolidge stood before her, looking like he'd stepped out of a luxury travel magazine. His dark hair was artfully tousled, silver streaks at his temples catching the light. He wore a linen shirt that matched the crests of the wavetops visible through the nearby windows, sleeves casually rolled to reveal tanned forearms. His smile was exactly as she remembered—confident, with a hint of mischief in the corners.

"Stone?" she managed, surprise rendering her momentarily inarticulate. "What are you doing here?"

His smile widened. "I could ask you the same thing. Last I checked, you weren't much for sea travel." He gestured to the life vest she was wearing. "Though I must say, emergency drills have never looked so good."

"I'm here on... business," Bea said, recovering her composure. "And you?"

"Ah, always the practical one." Stone's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'm writing a series on luxury cruises for World Travel & Leisure. Research, you might say."

Before Bea could respond, Max let out a curious snort and moved forward to investigate the newcomer. Stone immediately crouched down to greet him.

"And who's this handsome fellow?" he asked, offering his hand for Max to sniff.

"This is Max," Bea said, watching as her dog assessed Stone with impressive thoroughness. "He's my... partner."

Stone laughed, the sound warming the air between them. "Always knew you'd end up with someone solid and dependable." He reached into his pocket and produced a small piece of what looked suspiciously like bacon, wrapped in a napkin. "Mind if I make a friend?"

Bea raised an eyebrow but nodded. Max, ever the opportunist when it came to treats, accepted the offering with gentlemanly restraint, his stumpy tail wagging with approval.

"Bacon? You just happen to be carrying bacon in your pocket during a safety drill?"

Stone winked. "You never know when you'll need to make a friend." He straightened up, his eyes never leaving hers. "All these years and you're still just as beautiful, Bea."

The compliment caught her off guard. It had been twenty years since their whirlwind romance—eight months of intensity that had ended when Stone's wanderlust proved stronger than their connection. She'd been twenty-five, a young dog trainer just starting out. He'd been her adventure, her departure from planning out her life. And then, like a summer storm, he'd moved on.

"It's been a long time," she said carefully.

"Too long," he agreed. "And yet looking at you, it could have been yesterday."

Max chose that moment to issue a single sharp bark, drawing the attention of nearby passengers. Bea wasn't sure if it was coincidence or canine intuition, but she was grateful for the interruption.

"We should catch up," Stone continued, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. "Dinner tonight? I'd love to hear what Beatrice Whitman has been up to for the past two decades."

Before Bea could formulate a response, the crew member with the megaphone announced that the safety drill was complete and passengers were free to return to their activities. The crowd began to disperse, people flowing toward elevators and staircases.

"I actually have plans tonight," Bea said, which wasn't entirely untrue.

Stone nodded, undeterred. "Another time, then. We have five days at sea, after all." He handed her a business card with his cabin number scrawled on the back. "For when those plans fall through."

With a final smile that managed to be both charming and presumptuous, Stone melted into the dispersing crowd. Max looked up at Bea, his head tilted in canine curiosity.

"Don't give me that look," she told him, tucking the card into her pocket. "That's ancient history."

Max snorted in what sounded suspiciously like disbelief.

---

The Crown Room on Deck 5 glittered with crystal and silver as Bea entered for the evening's dinner service. The main dining room stretched expansively across the width of the ship, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering views of the darkening ocean. Tables draped in stark white cloth with candle-lit centerpieces filled the space, while waiters in formal attire navigated between them with practiced grace.

Bea had changed into a simple floral dress for dinner, complemented by the silver bracelet with the paw print charm that James had given her. Max trotted beside her on his leash, freshly brushed and sporting his service vest. She'd spent what remained of the afternoon exploring the ship with him, familiarizing herself with its layout while keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. They'd visited the pet area on Deck 12 a few times, where Max had marked his territory both literally and figuratively among the other dogs, and walked through the public spaces on Decks 7 and 8, including the art gallery where several valuable pieces were displayed with what felt like minimal security.

"Ms. Whitman?" A dining room host approached her, tablet in hand. "We have you at table fourteen. If you'll follow me."

As they wound through the dining room, Bea spotted Harriet already seated at a round table for eight near one of the windows. Her friend waved, looking professional but relaxed in a forest green blouse that complemented her practical short haircut. Bea smiled, relieved to see a familiar face.

Harriet waved enthusiastically as Bea approached, patting the empty chair beside her. "I saved you a seat! I can't believe we're finally doing this after all these years."

Bea settled into the chair, arranging Max comfortably beneath the table. "It's good to see a friendly face. I've been exploring the ship all afternoon and haven't had a chance to really catch up with you yet."

"Well, we have five whole days," Harriet replied, her eyes bright with excitement. "Though I should warn you, these tables are assigned for the duration. Our other tablemates should be arriving any—"

"Well, if this isn't the most fortuitous seating arrangement in cruise ship history."

Bea turned to find Stone Coolidge standing beside their table, that same confident smile as before playing across his features. He gestured to the empty chair directly across from Bea.

"The maître d' assures me this is my assigned seat," he said, pulling out the chair. "What a delightful coincidence."

"Or the dining room manager is bribed easily," Bea murmured, noticing how Harriet's eyebrows shot up with interest. "Harriet, this is Stone Coolidge, an old... friend. Stone, this is Harriet Hughes, the ship's Environmental Officer and my former college roommate."

"Enchanted," Stone said, shaking Harriet's hand across the table. "Any friend of Bea's is a friend of mine."

"Stone Coolidge," Harriet repeated, a knowing glint in her eye. "As in the travel writer? Your piece on the Amalfi Coast was spectacular."

Stone's smile widened. "I'm flattered. Yes, I'm working on a series about luxury cruises. The Paradise Voyager is my third ship this year."

Harriet turned to Bea, her expression clearly communicating that they would be discussing this "old friend" in detail later. Bea subtly shook her head in warning just as Max settled under the table at her feet.

A small commotion at the entrance to the dining room caught their attention. A flash of orange darted between tables, followed by a server calling out, "Clementine! Not during dinner service!"

The orange tabby cat weaved gracefully between chair legs, apparently on a mission. Several diners laughed or reached down to offer pets as she passed. Max's ears perked up, his attention fixed on the feline intruder.

"That's Clementine," Harriet explained. "The ship's unofficial mascot. She has the run of the place, though she's not supposed to be in the dining areas during service."

As if hearing her name, Clementine changed course and headed directly for their table. She slipped beneath the tablecloth and a moment later, Bea felt Max shift position. She glanced down to find the French bulldog nose to nose with the tabby, both animals checking each other out curiously.

"That's unusual," Harriet commented, also peering under the table. "Clementine typically avoids dogs."

"Max has that effect on most animals," Bea said proudly. "He's very non-threatening."

Stone leaned down to look. "Quite the diplomatic summit happening under there."

Their remaining tablemates arrived in short succession: Isabella "Izzy" Ramirez, the ship's photographer with wild curly red hair that seemed to have a mind of its own; Betty Davidson, an elegant older woman dripping with tasteful jewelry; and Waldo Frankenblatz, a lanky, disheveled man who immediately informed everyone that he was standing on his head in his cabin just before dinner "to improve his digestive energies."

As the first course was about to be served, Captain Michael Anderson stopped by their table, immaculate in his dress whites. He greeted each guest personally, lingering to chat with Harriet about ship operations.

"Ms. Whitman," he said, turning to Bea with a warm smile, "Harriet tells me you're helping us with our little... situation. Discretely, of course." He lowered his voice. "Please know that my door is always open should you require any assistance."

Before Bea could respond, Chance Wellington appeared beside the Captain, his chef's whites pristine despite the dinner service underway.

"I wanted to personally welcome you all aboard," the chef announced, his perfect smile flashing. "Tonight's menu features my signature sea bass with seventeen distinct marine flavors, three of which are secret." He winked at Betty Davidson, who appeared charmed by the attention.

After the Captain and Chef departed, introductions continued around the table, with Stone charming everyone effortlessly. Bea noticed how Izzy, the photographer, seemed particularly nervous, her fingers constantly adjusting her napkin or water glass. When the topic turned to her work, she nearly knocked over her water.

"I—I document everything," she stammered. "The ship, the guests, the activities. Available for purchase, of course. Memories to take home."

"She's being modest," Captain Anderson said. "Izzy's photographs have been featured in our company brochures. She has quite the eye."

Bea remembered the "ship's photographer" she'd spotted earlier photographing an empty hallway. Now that she saw her more clearly, Bea was certain it was the same woman. What had she been photographing in that empty corridor, and why had she seemed so furtive about it?

Under the table, Max and Clementine had apparently reached an understanding. The cat had curled up against Max's side, and Bea could feel her dog's contentment through the gentle pressure of his body against her foot.

"So, Ms. Whitman," Betty Davidson addressed her, "Harriet tells us you're a professional dog trainer. Any famous clients?"

"None I can name without breaking confidentiality," Bea replied with a smile, "but I specialize in therapy dog training. My golden retriever, Luna, who's at home, is my demonstration dog for certifications."

"Fascinating," Betty said, adjusting a stunning pearl necklace. "I've always believed animals have healing powers beyond our understanding."

"They certainly have a way of knowing things we don't," Waldo added, twirling his fork like a baton. "My axolotl, Chairman Mao, always knows when it's going to rain. His gills get extra fluffy."

The conversation flowed as the first course was served—a delicate seafood bisque that lived up to Chef Wellington's description. Throughout the meal, Bea noticed how Stone managed to direct the conversation back to her at every opportunity, highlighting shared experiences and inside jokes that made their connection clear to everyone at the table.

"So how do you two know each other?" Izzy asked, her photographer's curiosity piqued.

"Ancient history," Bea said quickly.

"I don’t know… I wouldn’t say ancient exactly," Stone countered, his eyes warm on Bea's face. "We were together for a brief but spectacular time in our twenties. Eight months that felt like eight years—in the best possible way."

"Until you left for Machu Picchu," Bea reminded him, keeping her tone light despite the flutter of old emotions.

"A decision I've questioned at least once a day since," Stone replied, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "The view was spectacular, but it didn't compare to what I left behind."

Bea felt heat rise to her cheeks and took a deliberate sip of water. Across the table, Harriet watched with barely concealed amusement.

As the main course arrived—a perfectly seared sea bass for Bea—she noticed Oliver Drake, the Chief Purser, circulating among the tables. He stopped to chat with various passengers, his manner professional and attentive. When he reached their table, he greeted the Captain with deference and nodded to Harriet.

"I trust everything is to your satisfaction?" Drake asked the table at large. "Ms. Whitman, I hope you and your companion are finding your accommodations comfortable."

"Very much so," Bea assured him, noticing how Max's ears swiveled toward Drake when he spoke. The French bulldog had emerged from under the table when the food arrived, sitting attentively beside Bea's chair, but now his focus was entirely on the Chief Purser.

"Excellent." Drake turned to Betty and added, “Looking radiant tonight, Miss Davidson. Lovely pearls you’re wearing, by the way.”

"He runs this ship like a Swiss watch," Captain Anderson commented proudly. "There's nothing about passenger services that man doesn't know."

"I've noticed," Bea remarked casually. “He seemed interested in Betty’s jewelry as well.”

"Oh, Oliver appreciates fine things," Betty confirmed. "He's quite knowledgeable. Just yesterday he was telling me about the history of South Sea pearls just like these." She patted her necklace. "It's refreshing to meet a man who understands quality."

Bea filed this information away. A purser with detailed knowledge of valuable jewelry who had access to passenger cabins and their safes would be perfectly positioned to identify worthy targets for theft.

As dessert was served—a delicate chocolate soufflé—Bea found herself unexpectedly enjoying the evening despite Stone's presence. Or perhaps, if she were being completely honest with herself, partially because of it. He was as charming as she remembered, his stories of exotic travels captivating the entire table. Yet every time she caught herself smiling at one of his anecdotes, she felt a pang of guilt, as though she were somehow being disloyal to James.

When dinner concluded, Stone predictably offered to escort her back to her cabin. "For old times' sake," he suggested, his expression hopeful.

"I think I can find my way," Bea declined gently. "Besides, Max and I usually take an evening constitutional around the deck before turning in."

If Stone was disappointed, he hid it well. "Another time, then. The offer stands for the duration of our voyage." He bent to scratch Max behind the ears. "Take care of her, little man."

Max responded with a polite tail wag that seemed notably less enthusiastic than his earlier greeting. Bea couldn't help but wonder if her dog was developing opinions about Stone's intentions.

Harriet caught up with Bea as they exited the dining room. "Stone Coolidge," she whispered, linking her arm through Bea's. "The one who broke your heart junior year? The man you described as 'emotional wanderlust personified'?"

"The very same," Bea confirmed. "And before you ask—no, it's not an issue. That was twenty years ago."

"Mmm-hmm." Harriet's tone suggested complete disbelief. "And the fact that he's still gorgeous and clearly still interested is also not an issue?"

"I'm with James now," Bea said firmly. "James is... real. Solid. Present."

"All excellent qualities," Harriet agreed. "Just watch yourself. Stone Coolidge looks at you like you're a five-star destination he never got to fully explore."

Bea laughed despite herself. "Your metaphors need work."

They parted at the elevator bank, Harriet heading down to the crew areas while Bea and Max took a glass elevator up to Deck 8. As they ascended, Bea watched the ship's grand atrium reveal itself below them—a soaring space with hanging art installations and multiple levels of balconies. Even at this hour, passengers milled about, enjoying cocktails and live piano music that drifted upward along with the soft murmur of conversation.

Back in her cabin, Bea kicked off her shoes and opened the sliding glass door to her small private balcony. The night air was warm and salt-scented, the darkness beyond the railing absolute except for the faint phosphorescent glow of the ship's wake far below. Max joined her outside, sitting companionably at her feet as she leaned against the railing.

In the distance, the lights of Charleston were fading, a sprinkle of gold on the horizon that grew dimmer with each passing minute. Soon they would be truly at sea, surrounded by nothing but water. The thought was both exhilarating and slightly unnerving.

Bea twisted the bracelet James had given her around her wrist, running her fingers over the silver paw print charm. The metal was cool against her skin, solid and real, unlike the city lights that were rapidly disappearing into the darkness.

"I miss him," she admitted to Max, who looked up with understanding eyes. "Is that silly? We've only been gone half a day."

Max pressed against her leg in what felt like solidarity. From somewhere inside the cabin, her phone chimed with an incoming text. Bea smiled, already knowing who it would be. James, checking in to make sure they were settled.

As she turned to go back inside, Bea caught a flash of movement on a nearby balcony. Someone ducking quickly out of sight. She squinted into the darkness but could make out nothing beyond the divider.

Max growled softly, his ears forward.

"Just another passenger, buddy," she reassured him, though she wasn't entirely convinced. The movement had seemed furtive, as though someone had been watching her and retreated when noticed.

With one last look at the now-invisible coastline, Bea guided Max back inside, sliding the door closed, locking it, and drawing the curtain. She had five days at sea to investigate the thefts, reconnect with Harriet, and apparently navigate the unexpected complication of Stone Coolidge's presence.

As she changed into pajamas and settled on the bed with her notebook, Max curled beside her, Bea reflected that this cruise was already proving more eventful than anticipated. She opened James's text—"Missing you both. Luna says the bed is too big without Max snoring in it."—and felt a warm glow of contentment despite the lingering unease from the balcony.

Whatever was happening on this ship—the thefts, Drake's suspicious behavior, Stone's reappearance in her life, and now possibly someone watching her—Bea was determined to get to the bottom of it all. With Max at her side and her own sharp instincts, she would unravel these mysteries one by one.

She picked up "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise" from her nightstand, eager to lose herself in the cheesy romance she'd been looking forward to reading. Just as she opened to the first page, another text from James arrived with a photo of Luna looking forlornly at Max's empty dog bed.

Sighing, Bea set the book aside and replied to James instead. The romance novel would have to wait. Just like the mystery of the thefts, it would still be there tomorrow.

CHAPTER 5

Bea woke to Max snuffling at her face, his wrinkled snout pressed against her cheek. Sunlight streamed through the partially open curtains of her cabin, illuminating dancing dust motes in the air. She reached for her phone on the nightstand—nine o'clock already. The gentle rocking of the ship had lulled her into a deeper sleep than she'd anticipated.

"Morning, partner," she murmured, scratching behind Max's ears. The French bulldog responded with a happy grunt, his stocky body wiggling with anticipation for the day ahead.

Bea's mind drifted to dinner the previous night. Stone's unexpected appearance had thrown her off balance. His easy charm and the way he looked at her—as if the twenty years between them had evaporated—had momentarily pulled her back to her twenties. But James's text afterward had grounded her. She picked up her phone and reread her last reply to him the previous night.

*Miss you both too. Max says woof. Ship's beautiful. More later. ❤️*

Bea rarely used heart emojis, but after last night's encounter with Stone, adding that small symbol felt important.

After a quick shower, Bea dressed in lightweight cotton pants and a navy blue top, comfortable but presentable for a day of investigating. She clipped Max's service dog vest into place, smiling as he immediately sat up straighter, as if understanding the responsibility that came with it.

"Ready to catch a thief?" she asked, slipping James's leather-bound notebook into her crossbody bag.

Max gave a determined snort that Bea chose to interpret as agreement.

A text from Harriet pinged as they were heading out the door.

*Meet in my quarters to talk privately? Deck 2, cabin 2118. I'm off duty today. Bring Max and your detective brain. Brunch after if you’re hungry!*

Bea replied with a thumbs-up emoji and headed to the small dog park on Deck 12 first. Max needed it, and she could use the fresh sea air to clear her thoughts. The vibrant blue of the ocean stretched to the horizon in every direction, dotted only by the occasional wisp of cloud reflected in its surface.

Several other dogs and their owners were already enjoying the artificial turf. Bea nodded greetings as Max sniffed around, marking his territory and investigating every corner and dog butt with methodical precision.

"Aren't you the cutest little pup," cooed an elderly woman with a miniature poodle tucked under her arm. "What's your case today, detective?"

Bea smiled politely. If only the woman knew. "Just enjoying this cruise," she replied, keeping her voice light. "I’m on vacation, so that means Max here is on vacation too. We’re loving it so far."

Bea wondered to herself how much of that was true. It didn’t exactly feel like a vacation. And having Stone on board too? She wasn’t exactly loving it, and it certainly complicated matters. Bea decided that perhaps a distraction from all that was the best thing. And what better distraction than an unsolved jewelry theft?

---

Finding the crew quarters required navigating a maze of corridors that grew progressively narrower as Bea descended into the bowels of the ship. The plush carpeting of the guest areas gave way to practical, non-slip flooring. The walls, while clean, lacked the decorative touches that adorned the passenger decks.

Bea knocked on Harriet's door, and it swung open immediately. Her friend looked different in casual clothes—jeans and a faded baby blue UNC t-shirt that read TARHEELS #1 in bold letters—instead of her officer's uniform.

"Come in," Harriet said, glancing both ways down the corridor before ushering Bea and Max inside.

The cabin was tiny compared to Bea's—just enough room for a single bed, a small desk, and a compact bathroom. Photos were taped to the wall: Harriet with various crew members, scenic ocean views, and one of Harriet and Bea along with some of their other friends from their college days, all of them laughing with their arms around each other's shoulders on a beach trip to Wilmington.

"Sorry for the cloak and dagger," Harriet said, sitting on the bed and gesturing for Bea to take the desk chair. "But things are getting serious. Captain Anderson and Oliver Drake had a closed-door meeting this morning. The latest theft was a passenger's entire jewelry case—including a diamond-encrusted watch valued at over thirty thousand dollars."

Max had begun a thorough investigation of the cabin, nose to the ground, sniffing methodically along the baseboards.

"Have they reported it to the authorities at the next port?" Bea asked.

Harriet shook her head. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Festival convinced the captain to keep it internal for now. They're worried about a media disaster if word gets out."

"That's not just unethical, it might be illegal," Bea said, frowning. "Did they at least file an incident report?"

"Yes, but—" Harriet stopped as Max suddenly dropped to his belly and squirmed halfway under the bed. "What's he doing?"

"Being nosy," Bea said affectionately. "Max, come out from there."

Instead of obeying, Max's stubby tail wagged more vigorously. His snorting grew more intense—the sound he made when he'd found something interesting.

"Max?" Bea knelt beside the bed. "What have you got, buddy?"

The French bulldog backed out, something glinting between his teeth. He deposited it proudly in Bea's palm and sat, looking enormously pleased with himself.

"Good boy," Bea said automatically, examining the object. It was a cufflink—gold-toned metal with the cruise line's compass logo etched onto a round face. "Is this yours?"

Harriet leaned closer, frowning. "No, I don't wear cufflinks. And that's staff uniform issue, not officer-grade. That's the kind housekeeping staff wear."

Bea turned the cufflink over in her palm. "How did it get under your bed?"

Harriet's expression darkened. "My cabin was cleaned yesterday while I was on duty. Housekeeping has master keycards. Maybe someone dropped it?"

"You've had things stolen," Bea said slowly, the implications settling in. "Including your family heirloom."

"Yes, my great-grandmother's emerald necklace." Harriet's voice tightened. "The one I told you about in my postcard. I kept it in my cabin safe."

Bea's mind was already working through the possibilities. "Do you know which housekeeper services your cabin?"

"There's a rotation, but I can find out. The head of housekeeping's office is on this deck." Harriet stood. "Let's go."

Max followed them eagerly, seeming to understand they were on a mission. Bea slipped the cufflink into the front pocket of her bag.

The head of housekeeping, Mrs. Paulson, was a stout woman with iron-gray hair pulled into a severe bun. Her office was impeccably organized, with cleaning schedules posted on one wall and staff assignments on another.

"How can I help you, Officer Hughes?" she asked, barely acknowledging Bea and Max.

Harriet explained that Bea was helping with the theft investigation, deliberately vague about her official capacity.

"Mrs. Whitman found this in my cabin," Harriet said as Bea produced the cufflink. "Can you tell us who it belongs to?"

Mrs. Paulson squinted at it through reading glasses. "Where exactly was it found?"

"Under the bed," Bea said.

Mrs. Paulson's mouth tightened into a thin line. "This belongs to Roger Blackburn. I'd recognize it anywhere. That boy is constantly losing something. I just got these new ones in for him less than a month ago. I've written him up twice already."

“What day did you notice the necklace was missing, Harriet?” Bea asked her friend.

“It was May 20th,” Harriet answered. “Easy to remember because it just so happens to be my Festival Cruise Line anniversary date.”

"And did Roger clean Officer Hughes's cabin that day?" Bea asked Mrs. Paulson.

"Let me check." Mrs. Paulson consulted a clipboard hanging by the door. "Yes, he was assigned to that section from May 18th through May 23rd. Is there a problem?"

Bea and Harriet exchanged glances.

"We'd like to speak with him," Harriet said. "Is he on duty now?"

Mrs. Paulson checked her watch. "He should be finishing up the midmorning cabin refreshes on Deck 8. After that, he reports to the laundry room on Deck 1 to help with the sheet changeovers.”

"Thank you," Harriet said. "We'll try to catch up with him on Deck 8 first."

As they left the office, Bea noticed Max was unusually alert, his ears perked forward.

"Let's take the service elevator," Harriet suggested, leading them down a utilitarian corridor.

"What will you do if Roger is behind the thefts?" Bea asked as they waited.

Harriet sighed. "Lock him in the brig, I suppose. We have a secure room for holding anyone who needs to be detained until we reach port. Little a little jail on the ship. But I doubt it will be that simple.”

"It rarely is," Bea said, thinking of her previous cases. "What do you know about him?"

"Roger? Not much. He's been with the company about a year, I think. Young guy, early twenties. Keeps to himself mostly. He’s late, like, all the time." The elevator arrived with a ding. "Friendly with passengers, though. Gets lots of compliments on comment cards."

As they stepped into the elevator, Max suddenly froze, his nose working overtime. He shuffled his front paws anxiously, a behavior Bea recognized from their previous cases.

"What is it, Max?" she asked.

Before she could process his reaction, the doors opened on Deck 6, and Izzy Ramirez—the ship's photographer—nearly collided with them as she hurried into the elevator.

"Oh!" Izzy's eyes widened at the sight of Harriet. She clutched her camera bag tighter. "S-sorry, Officer Hughes. I was just—I mean, I needed to—"

"It's fine, Izzy," Harriet said. "You remember Mrs. Whitman from the welcome party?"

Izzy nodded, her wild curly hair bouncing with the movement. Her gaze darted to Max, then back to Bea, then to the control panel. "Yes, of course. Excuse me, I need to get to Deck 4."

She jabbed the button repeatedly, as if that would make the elevator move faster. Bea noticed a slight tremble in her fingers.

Max stared at the photographer, his head tilted quizzically. Izzy avoided looking at him.

"In a hurry?" Bea asked conversationally.

"Late for a shoot," Izzy mumbled. "Family portraits on Deck 4."

The elevator stopped, and Izzy practically bolted out the doors. "Nice seeing you again!" she called over her shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.

"That was odd," Bea commented as the doors closed.

Harriet frowned. "Izzy's always been a bit high-strung, but she does seem jumpier than usual lately." She pressed the button for Deck 8. "Could be nothing."

But Max was still staring at the closed doors, a low rumble emanating from his chest.

"I'm not so sure," Bea said. "Max doesn't usually react like that to nothing."

The elevator continued its ascent to Deck 8, where they spent the next forty-five minutes checking with passengers whose rooms were on Roger's assignment list. No one had seen him since early morning, and several complained that their rooms hadn't been serviced at all.

"This isn't like Roger," one elderly passenger told them. "He usually does a real good job taking care of the room. Always remembers I like extra towels."

“How do you know him so well?” Bea asked, genuinely curious.

The old man gave her a cheesy grin. “Ah, it’s because I basically live here, young lady. I cruise about six months straight out of every year, right on the Paradise Voyager. It’s my home away from home. Lot’s of retirees like myself are doing it. We’ve even got our own little social group here on the ship.”

"The Six-Month Sailors, we call ourselves," the man continued, rocking back on his heels. "Cheaper than a retirement home, better food, and the view changes every day. Plus, we get the best gossip."

"I bet you do," Bea said, sensing an opportunity. "I don't suppose you've noticed anything unusual lately? With the crew, perhaps?"

The old man's eyes twinkled. "Like that young fellow you're looking for? Roger's usually reliable, but between you and me—" he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "—he's been acting kind of strange lately.”

Max's ears perked up, and Bea felt a familiar tingle of interest. "Really? How so?”

"Depressed, maybe?" The man scratched his temple. "I’m not sure. He just seemed kind of distracted. Forgot to wipe down the bathroom counter and never brought by the shampoo I asked for—and I’m still out.” He said the last part while looking right at Harriet, almost as if he expected her to make sure he got that shampoo.

"That's very interesting," Bea said, filing away this new information. "Thank you, Mr...?"

"Caldwell. Walter Caldwell. Cabin 9112 if you need any more inside information." He winked and bent down to Max's level. "And you, little guy, come visit anytime. I think I’ve got some ham or something around here, give me a sec—"

Before Bea or Harriet could say anything, the man stepped behind the door and then reappeared a few moments later holding a small piece of ham in his hand. Bea nodded permission, and Max gently accepted the offering, his stubby tail wagging in appreciation.

"We should get going," Harriet said, checking her watch. "Thanks for your help, Walter."

"Always happy to assist the authorities," Walter said with a mock salute. "Or their consultants."

As they continued down the corridor, Bea mulled over this new piece of the puzzle. "So Roger was acting off about something," she murmured.

"The thefts, maybe?" Harriet suggested. "If he was involved..."

Bea nodded thoughtfully. "Or he knew something about them. Either way, it adds to the picture we're building."

She paused outside another cabin door. "Should we check this one too?"

"It's on Roger's list," Harriet confirmed, knocking firmly.

No answer came from within. After a second knock, Harriet used her master key to open the door, calling out as she did so. The cabin was empty, bed unmade, towels still on the bathroom floor from the morning shower.

"Definitely missed this one," Harriet said, stepping back into the hallway.

Bea glanced at Max, who seemed increasingly restless. "I think we've seen enough. Roger isn't making his rounds, and according to your Six-Month Sailor friend, he's been acting strange lately."

By the time they'd checked half the deck, Bea's instincts were humming. "He's not here," she said. "Let's try the laundry room."

The laundry facility on Deck 1 was an industrial operation—massive washing machines and dryers lined one wall, with sorting tables and folding stations throughout the center of the room. The air was hot and humid, heavy with the scent of detergent and steam.

Only two staff members were present, feeding sheets into a commercial folder. They looked up as Bea, Harriet, and Max entered.

"We're looking for Roger Blackburn," Harriet said, her official tone returning despite her casual clothes. "Has he reported for duty?"

One of the workers, a young woman with her hair wrapped in a colorful scarf, shook her head. "Haven't seen him all morning. He was supposed to be here an hour ago."

"Could he be in the storage room?" Harriet asked, pointing to a door at the far end of the laundry.

"Maybe," the woman said with a shrug. "Sometimes we go in there to grab more detergent pods or fabric softener."

As they approached the storage room, Max's behavior changed dramatically. He stiffened, ears flattening against his head. A low, distressed whine escaped his throat.

"Max?" Bea knelt beside him. "What's wrong, buddy?"

The French bulldog planted his feet, resistant to moving closer to the storage room door.

A chill ran down Bea's spine. "Harriet," she said quietly, "I think you should open that door carefully."

Harriet hesitated, then nodded. She grasped the handle and pushed the door open slowly.

The storage room was dim, illuminated only by a single overhead bulb. Shelves lined with cleaning supplies and laundry products stood in neat rows. But what caught their attention immediately was the sound of movement at the far end of the room.

A woman with elegantly styled silver-blonde hair was bent over something on the floor, her back to them. She wore a dramatic designer jacket in a bold geometric pattern. At the sound of the door, she startled violently and spun around, her perfectly manicured hand flying to her throat.

"Harriet!" the woman exclaimed with obvious relief. "Thank God it's you."

"Trish?" Harriet rushed forward, concern evident in her voice. "What are you doing down here?"

As Trish shifted, Bea could see what—or rather who—was behind her. A young man in a ship's housekeeping uniform lay on the floor, a dark stain across the front of his white shirt. A single wound marked the center of his chest, and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Roger!" Harriet gasped, her professional demeanor momentarily cracking at the sight of the body. She quickly composed herself. "Trish, please step back from him."

Trish complied immediately, backing up until she hit a shelf of detergent. Several bottles wobbled precariously. "I found him like this," she said, her voice shaking. "I-I swear. I was looking for the dry cleaning pickup, got completely turned around, and heard something fall in here—"

Bea studied the victim. So this was Roger Blackburn—boyishly handsome with tousled blonde hair, slim build, and what would have been a friendly, open face now frozen in shock. His uniform was impeccable except for the wound and one other thing—a missing cufflink on his right sleeve, which Bea suspected was the mate to the one now in her bag.

"Bea," Harriet said, remembering introductions despite the shocking scene, "this is Patricia Newman—Trish—one of my closest friends on board. She runs the art auctions. Trish, this is Beatrice Whitman, my friend from college I told you about who's helping with the...situation."

Trish nodded distractedly at Bea, clearly more focused on the body. "I can't believe this," she whispered. "Who would hurt Roger? He was such a sweet kid."

Max positioned himself between Trish and the door, his posture alert but not aggressive. Bea noticed his eyes tracking Trish's every movement.

"How well did you know him?" Bea asked gently.

"He cleaned the art gallery every morning," Trish explained, wrapping her arms around herself. "Always had a smile, asked questions about the paintings. Seemed genuinely interested."

Bea studied Trish's face, looking for signs of deception. "Why were you bending over him when we came in?"

"I was checking if he was alive," Trish said, running a trembling hand through her silver-blonde hair. "I thought maybe I could help him."

Bea glanced down at Roger. The amount of blood suggested he'd been dead for at least a little while. She noted there was no obvious weapon nearby.

"Trish," Harriet said, placing a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder, "I need to report this. You'll have to stay here until security arrives."

Trish nodded, looking pale beneath her perfectly applied makeup. She looked around nervously. "Of course, whatever you need."

Harriet pulled out her radio to call the bridge. While she made the call, Bea continued her assessment of the scene.

"Single wound to the chest," she murmured. "Precise and direct. Don’t think it’s a gunshot. Maybe he was stabbed? And his uniform is clean except for the bloodstain. No signs of a prolonged struggle."

"Meaning he might have known his attacker," Harriet said quietly as she finished her call. "Someone he wouldn't see as a threat until it was too late."

"Or someone who caught him completely by surprise," Bea added.

Max suddenly tilted his head, his attention caught by something Bea couldn't perceive. A moment later, she heard it too—rapid footsteps approaching from the corridor.

Oliver Drake appeared first, his usual immaculate appearance slightly disheveled, as if he'd hurried to dress. Behind him came two security officers in uniform, followed by Captain Anderson.

"Officer Hughes," Drake said, his voice tight. "Report."

Harriet quickly explained their discovery, keeping her account factual and concise. Bea watched Drake's face as he processed the information. His expression remained professionally concerned, but there was something in his eyes—a calculation that seemed out of place for someone just learning of a crew member's death.

"Mrs. Whitman," Captain Anderson said, acknowledging her presence. "I understand you've been helping with our... situation."

"Yes, Captain," Bea replied. "My dog Max actually found a clue that led us here." She didn't mention the cufflink specifically, deciding to hold that piece of information back temporarily.

Drake stepped forward to examine the body, careful not to touch anything. "This complicates matters significantly," he said. "We'll need to contact the authorities at our next port of call. In the meantime, this area is now off-limits to all but essential personnel."

"Should we alert the passengers?" Harriet asked.

Captain Anderson and Drake exchanged glances.

"Not yet," the captain decided. "Let's not cause panic. We'll announce that there's been a medical emergency in a crew area, and certain facilities will be temporarily closed for sanitization."

"With respect, Captain," Bea interjected, "this isn't just a medical emergency. It's a homicide. And it may be connected to the thefts."

Drake's head snapped up. "What makes you say that, Mrs. Whitman?"

Bea hesitated, then decided to show her hand. She withdrew the cufflink from her bag. "Max found this under Officer Hughes's bed this morning. Mrs. Paulson identified it as belonging to Roger. And as you can see, he's missing one cufflink."

Drake took the cufflink, examining it closely. "This does seem to suggest Roger may have been involved in the thefts. Perhaps he was killed by an accomplice, or by someone who discovered his activities?"

"Or by someone framing him," Bea suggested. All three turned to look at her. "It's a possibility we should consider."

Captain Anderson sighed heavily. "Either way, we now have a murder investigation on our hands. Mrs. Whitman, given your experience with such matters, I would appreciate your continued assistance. Unofficially, of course."

"Of course," Bea agreed. Max sat up straighter, as if understanding his role had just been formalized.

"We'll need to interview everyone who had contact with Roger in the past twenty-four hours," Drake said, already organizing tasks in his mind. "And review the security camera footage from this area."

"I can help with the interviews," Bea offered. "People sometimes say things to a civilian they wouldn't tell an officer."

Drake nodded. "Very well. But please pass along any findings with me or the captain immediately."

The security team had begun photographing the scene and taking preliminary notes. Bea stepped back, giving them room to work while observing their procedures. Max stayed close, occasionally sniffing the air but maintaining his composure.

As they left the laundry room, Bea felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. A text from James: *How's the investigation going? Any leads? Give Max a treat from me.*

Bea smiled despite the gravity of the situation. She'd tell James about the developments later, but for now, she typed a simple reply: *Just got complicated. Will update tonight. Max says thanks for the treat.*

She slipped her phone away and rejoined Harriet, who was conferring with Drake about the next steps.

"We should start with the head of housekeeping," Harriet was saying. "Find out everything she knows about Roger's background and relationships on board."

Drake agreed. "I'll review his employment file and speak with his cabinmate."

"And I'd like to talk to Izzy Ramirez," Bea added. "We ran into her earlier, and she seemed unusually nervous."

"The photographer?" Drake raised an eyebrow. "Why would she be involved?"

"I don't know that she is," Bea admitted. "But Max reacted to her, and in my experience, that's worth investigating."

Drake looked skeptical but nodded. "As you wish, Mrs. Whitman. But remember, discretion is paramount. We don't want to create panic among the passengers or crew."

As they dispersed to begin their investigations, Bea felt the familiar buzz of a case taking shape. A stolen necklace, missing jewelry, a dead housekeeper, a nervous photographer, and a ship full of secrets. And at the center of it all, a cufflink that might tie everything together—or lead them down the wrong path entirely.

Max looked up at her expectantly, alert and ready.

"Let's get to work, partner," Bea said quietly. "We've got a murderer to catch."

CHAPTER 6

"Ok, everyone out, please." Drake's voice returned to its clipped efficiency as he gestured toward the door. "Ms. Whitman, Ms. Hughes, Ms. Newman—if you would wait in the security office, we'll need your official statements for the record."

Harriet placed a gentle hand on Trish's shoulder. The art auctioneer's face had drained of all color, making her red lipstick appear even more vivid against her pale skin.

"Come on, Trish," Harriet murmured. "Let's go."

The walk to the security office felt interminable. Max trotted beside Bea, occasionally glancing up at her with questioning eyes. When they passed a crew member in the narrow corridor, Max's ears perked forward, his nose working overtime, and Bea wondered what information he was gathering that she couldn't perceive.

The security office on Deck 4 resembled a small police station, with monitors displaying various areas of the ship. A uniformed officer with "O’Dell" on his nameplate directed them to a waiting area with three chairs.

"Ms. Newman, we'll speak with you first," he said, leading a still-shaking Trish through a door marked "Interviews."

Left alone with Harriet, Bea leaned closer to her friend. "What's your take on Trish? You said she was a friend."

Harriet tucked a strand of short hair behind her ear, a gesture Bea remembered from their college days when Harriet was thinking deeply.

"We're friendly, but I wouldn't say close friends. She joined the cruise line about a year ago—runs the art auctions. She's dramatic by nature, loves to tell stories about famous art pieces." Harriet lowered her voice. "But finding a body would shake anyone."

Max settled at Bea's feet but remained alert, his compact body oriented toward the interview room door.

"How well did Roger know Trish?" Bea asked, remembering the relationship dynamics she'd need to understand.

"Roger cleaned the art gallery every morning before it opened. I've seen them chatting." Harriet frowned. "Now that I think about it, they seemed pretty friendly. Roger always lingered there longer than his other assignments."

“Romantic, maybe?” Bea asked.

“Bea, she’s in her fifties!” Harriet said with a tone of disbelief but then shook her head noncommittedly. “I mean…maybe? Trish never said anything about something like that, and her and I have been friends for a while now. We hang out off duty all the time. Why wouldn’t she tell me if her and Roger were…well, you know—"

The door opened, and Captain Anderson emerged with Trish, whose mascara had created dark smudges beneath her eyes. He escorted her to the exit with a gentle hand at her elbow.

"Ms. Hughes," he called, "we'd like to speak with you now."

As Harriet disappeared into the interview room, Bea turned her attention to Trish, who had paused by the door.

"Are you all right?" Bea asked, though the question felt inadequate given the circumstances.

Trish dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. "I just can't believe it. Roger was such a sweet guy—" Her voice caught. "Who would do this to him?"

"Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior recently?" Bea kept her tone conversational, friendly.

"He seemed... like something was on his mind the past few days. Less talkative." Trish squared her shoulders. "I need some air. The auction preview starts in two hours, and I can't cancel it." She glanced at her watch. "The show must go on, right?"

After Trish left, Bea pulled out her phone, contemplating whether to text James. Before she could decide, the device vibrated in her hand.

*Any adventures with Max today?* James had written, accompanied by a photo of Luna lounging on their deck at home, her golden fur gleaming in the sunlight.

Bea hesitated. How much should she share? She settled on: *More than we bargained for. A crew member was found dead. Max and I are helping with the investigation.*

*What? You have to be kidding me!*

*Nope. Not kidding. I’m beginning to think I’m bad luck. Or maybe I’m like the grim reaper with a ponytail. I show up and people start dying.*

*You are no such thing, Beatrice Whitman.*

*I at least have some truly awful bad timing. I’m surprised that I’m not under investigation yet myself.*

James’ reply was simple: *Be careful. Both of you.*

Bea smiled faintly at his concern for Max, then added: *We will. Miss you!*

She slipped the phone back into her pocket as Harriet emerged, looking drained.

"Your turn," Harriet said, dropping into the chair beside Bea. "They're very thorough."

Inside the interview room, Captain Anderson sat behind a small desk while Drake stood by the window, gazing out at the ocean. A security camera blinked in the corner.

"Ms. Whitman," the captain began, "please describe how you came to discover Mr. Blackburn's body."

Bea recounted the morning's events: finding the cufflink under Harriet's bed, their search for Roger, and the grim discovery in the storage room. She included Max's behavior throughout, noting how he had led them directly to the laundry area.

"Your dog seems quite perceptive," Drake observed, turning from the window. "Any special training?"

"He's naturally intuitive," Bea replied, stroking Max's ears as he sat attentively beside her chair. "But yes, we've worked together before in... similar situations."

"Ms. Hughes mentioned you're experienced with investigations." Captain Anderson cleared his throat and continued, “I may have read a few articles about you, as well.”

"I've assisted in a few cases back home," Bea acknowledged, deciding honesty was the best approach. "Usually when there's a connection to the dog community."

Drake adjusted his glasses. "This is rather different from a small-town mystery, Ms. Whitman. We’re in international waters with over seven thousand passengers aboard."

Something in his tone—dismissive, perhaps—raised her hackles. "Crime is crime, Mr. Drake. People's motivations don't change just because they're at sea."

The captain exchanged a glance with Drake before leaning forward. "Under normal circumstances, we would handle this internally until we reach port. However, like I said before, given the theft situation and now a murder, I believe we could benefit from your expertise."

“I’m happy to help,” Bea answered. She couldn’t believe the words were coming out of her mouth. *Here we go again,* she thought.

"Discreetly," Drake interjected. "We don't need passengers panicking."

"As you’ve repeatedly said." Bea nodded, already mentally cataloging what she knew. "May I see the crime scene again?"

***

Twenty minutes later, Bea stood alone in the storage room with Max and a security officer. The body had been moved to the ship's medical facility, but the outline remained marked on the floor.

"The medical officer estimates time of death this morning, around 10 AM," the officer explained, pointing to a small table nearby where evidence bags lay labeled. "We found this one in his pocket."

Inside one bag was a folded piece of paper with block letters: RETURN WHAT YOU TOOK OR NEXT TIME WON'T BE A WARNING.

"A warning?" Bea murmured. "This wasn't a warning—he's dead."

"And this was clutched in his hand." The officer indicated another bag containing a white card with a magnetic strip.

Bea leaned closer. "May I?"

With gloved hands, she examined the card through the plastic. The front of the card was labeled STAFF KEY and had the name “Roger Blackburn” printed in black letters on the bottom. It looked relatively new.

"His housekeeping key, I guess." she said.

The officer just nodded.

Max, who had been sniffing methodically around the room, suddenly froze near a ventilation grate, his stubby tail rigid.

"What is it, Max?" Bea knelt beside him.

The dog pawed at the grate once, then looked at her expectantly.

"Officer, could we check behind this?"

With a small screwdriver from his utility belt, the man removed the grate. Using his flashlight, he illuminated the narrow duct.

"There's something..." He reached in delicately and extracted a small object wrapped in tissue. “Got it!”

Unwrapped, it proved to be a very nice diamond tennis bracelet.

"Good boy," Bea whispered to Max, who accepted the praise with a dignified snuffle.

The officer dropped the bracelet into a clear plastic bag and wrote something on the outside of it. “Nice find. Looks just like the one that was stolen the other day. I’ll take this to the security office and we’ll check it out. We’ll let you know what we find out.”

***

By late afternoon, Bea needed a break from the investigation. Her mind was crowded with information, theories, and questions. She changed into her swimsuit, grabbed her paperback copy of "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise," and headed to the pool deck with Max, who wore his service vest to comply with ship regulations.

The sun-drenched deck bustled with vacationers oblivious to the morning's grim discovery. Bea found a lounge chair in a quiet corner and settled in with her novel, while Max curled at her feet, ever vigilant despite his relaxed posture.

She'd been trying to read this book since boarding, and finally she immersed herself in the story of Selena, the aspiring marine biologist, and Jack Wavecrest, the brooding lifeguard with secrets. She'd just reached the first steamy scene where Jack rescued Selena from a rip current, his powerful arms cutting through the waves as he pulled her to safety.

*"You could have died," Jack whispered, his voice rough with emotion as they collapsed on the shore. Water cascaded down his tanned face, those piercing eyes holding a storm of their own. "The ocean doesn't forgive mistakes."*

*Selena's breath caught as his hand brushed wet hair from her face. "Then why do you look at it the way you do? Like it holds answers you're afraid to find?"*

*Jack turned away, muscles tensing beneath his bronzed skin. "Because everyone has a past, Selena. Mine just happens to be—"*

A shriek of childish laughter interrupted the moment as a wave of cold water splashed across Bea's legs and spattered over the pages of her book. She looked up to find three children who’d all jumped into the pool at the same time, oblivious to her drenched state.

"Sorry about that," a woman in a nearby chair called out halfheartedly from behind a book of her own, not bothering to rise or rein in the children.

Bea sighed, dabbing at the dampened pages with her towel. The book wasn't ruined, but her reading mood certainly was. Max had jumped up at the commotion, his expression comically indignant at the unexpected shower.

"I guess Jack's dark past will have to wait," Bea told him, closing the book as she glanced at her watch. It was nearly time for dinner anyway.

As she gathered her things, a familiar voice called her name. Stone Coolidge approached, looking unfairly perfect in swim trunks and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. A pair of dark sunglasses were perched on his nose.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said with that easy smile that had once made her heart flutter and pulled down his sunglasses at her. "Mind if I join you for a moment? I have some information that might interest you."

Bea nodded, conscious of Max's sudden alertness. The dog watched Stone with what appeared to be mild suspicion.

"I heard about what happened with that young crew member," Stone said, lowering his voice as he sat on the edge of her lounge chair. "Terrible business."

"How did you hear?" Bea asked, surprised the news had spread.

"Travel writers develop sources everywhere." He winked. "Plus, I may have chatted up someone from security."

This was exactly why Stone had been a good journalist, Bea remembered. He could charm information out of anyone.

"Last night, I saw that Roger fellow at the casino," Stone continued. "Around eleven, he was having what looked like a heated discussion with someone at the slot machines."

Bea straightened. "Could you see who it was?"

"Not clearly. They were partially hidden behind one of those large machines, but Roger was definitely agitated. He kept showing something on his phone to whoever it was." Stone ran a hand through his hair. The gesture reminded her strongly of James, who often did the same thing. "The conversation ended abruptly when Oliver walked through doing his nightly rounds."

"Oliver Drake?" Bea clarified, remembering the Chief Purser's calculated expression at the crime scene.

"Yes. Roger practically jumped when he saw him." Stone frowned. "I thought it was odd because Roger was off-duty but still in his uniform pants and shirt. Aren't there rules about that?"

Bea made a mental note to ask Harriet about crew policies. "Did you mention this to security?"

"I tried, but they seemed more interested in when I last saw him alive than what he was doing." Stone glanced at his watch. "I should get ready for dinner. Are you still at our table tonight?"

"Yes, with Harriet," Bea confirmed.

Stone's smile returned. "Perfect. See you then.”

After he left, Bea looked down at Max, who had maintained a dignified distance from Stone throughout the conversation. "What do you think, partner? Something doesn't add up."

Max tilted his head, his bat-like ears perked forward in what Bea had come to recognize as his thinking pose.

***

At dinner, the atmosphere at their table was subdued. Betty Davidson wore a different pearl necklace than the previous night, and Stone charmed everyone with tales of his travels. Trish's seat remained conspicuously empty.

"Ms. Newman sends her regrets," Oliver announced as he stopped by their table. "She's still preparing for tonight’s art auction and doesn't feel up to company."

Harriet caught Bea's eye across the table, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"Perhaps finding a body dampened her appetite," Stone suggested, though Bea noticed his eyes tracking Oliver's progress through the dining room with unusual intensity.

Waldo Frankenblatz, who had been quiet throughout the meal, suddenly spoke. "Did you know the average human body contains enough iron to make a three-inch nail?" He pushed his spectacles up his nose. "Fascinating what we carry within us, isn't it?"

A startled silence fell over the table.

"I read that somewhere," Waldo added, returning to his dessert without explanation.

When dinner ended, Bea and Harriet lingered over coffee while the others departed.

"What did you make of Trish's absence?" Bea asked once they were alone.

Harriet stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "It's not like her, especially with potential buyers at the table." She glanced around to ensure they weren't overheard. "Things on this ship are... complicated. The crew is like a small town with all the politics and relationships that entails. But yes, it wasn’t surprising that she didn’t join us tonight after what happened earlier. I imagine she’s still in a state of shock."

"Tell me about Roger," Bea prompted. "Did he have friends? Enemies?"

"He kept to himself mostly, but was always pleasant." Harriet frowned. "Though now that I think about it, I once overheard him arguing with Chance—our head chef—I don’t know exactly what it was about, though. I heard it was some kind of get-rich-quick pyramid scheme that Roger was involved in."

Max, who had been resting quietly under the table, suddenly sat up, his ears alert. Following his gaze, Bea spotted Izzy, the ship's photographer with the wild red hair, snapping photos of diners at a nearby table. When the woman noticed them watching, she quickly turned away.

"Remember, we saw Izzy near the laundry area yesterday," Harriet said softly. "She claimed to be documenting 'behind the scenes' for a brochure, but photography isn't allowed in crew areas without special permission. I asked the Captain about it and he told me she absolutely did not have permission to shoot anywhere except passenger areas."

Bea made another mental note, watching as Izzy hurried from the dining room. "Interesting."

"What are you thinking?" Harriet asked.

Bea glanced down at Max, who had returned to his relaxed position, then back to her friend. "I'm thinking we need to attend an art auction tomorrow."

As they left the dining room, Bea's phone vibrated with a text from James:

*Any progress on the case? Luna misses her partners in crime-solving.*

Attached was another photo of Luna, this time with her nose pressed against the glass door, watching the intercostal waterway as if expecting Bea and Max to appear at any moment.

Bea smiled, feeling a pang of homesickness amid the investigation's growing complexity. She typed back:

*Following several leads. Max misses Luna too—he keeps looking for her whenever we return to the cabin. I'll call you tomorrow with an update.*

That night, as Bea reviewed her notes in the cabin, Max curled beside her on the bed, the soft sound of his breathing a comfort amid the unsettling events of the day. Outside, the ship cut smoothly through dark waters, carrying its complement of passengers, crew—and one killer—toward their next destination.

Somewhere among them was a thief-turned-murderer, and Bea was determined to find them before they struck again.

CHAPTER 7

Bea adjusted the collar of her navy blue dress as she and Max made their way to the Paradise Voyager's art gallery on Deck 7. The gallery entrance featured ornate gold trim around a set of double doors that stood open, inviting passengers inside. Max trotted at her side, his nails clicking softly against the polished floor.

"Remember, we're just curious art lovers," Bea whispered to Max, who tilted his head as if considering her words. "And you're on your best behavior."

The gallery was already filling with passengers dressed in cocktail attire, many holding flutes of complimentary champagne. Displays of artwork lined the walls—colorful seascapes, abstract pieces, and what appeared to be signed prints from well-known artists. Harriet waved from across the room, looking slightly out of place in her environmental officer uniform.

"I couldn't change," Harriet explained when Bea reached her. "They called me to check the ventilation system right before this. Something about the humidity levels being off."

"You'd think they'd be more concerned about a murder than humidity," Bea said quietly.

"That's Drake for you. Everything by the book, even with a killer on board." Harriet glanced around. "Have you seen Trish?"

"Not yet." Bea surveyed the room, noting the small podium at the front where auction paddles were being distributed. "How is she holding up?"

"Hard to tell. She's good at putting on a face for work."

Max's attention suddenly shifted, his ears perking up. Bea followed his gaze to see Clementine, the ship's orange tabby, slinking between the displays, pausing occasionally to observe the gathering crowd.

"Look who's on patrol," Bea said with a smile.

Harriet chuckled. "Clementine never misses an art auction. She has good taste—or maybe she was a painter in a past life."

As they spoke, Oliver Drake entered the gallery, scanning the room with practiced efficiency. He wore his usual pristine uniform, not a wrinkle in sight despite the day's events. When his gaze landed on Bea and Max, he offered a small nod before continuing his circuit of the room.

"He doesn't miss much, does he?" Bea murmured.

"Nope," Harriet replied sullenly. “Which is good, I guess… but it does make it hard to slack off sometimes.”

“Now there’s the Harriet I remember!” Bea said followed by short burst of laughter.

The gallery lights dimmed slightly, and Trish Newman appeared at the podium. She wore a striking sequined emerald green dress that complemented her silver-blonde hair, but Bea noticed the concealer that didn't quite hide the dark circles under her eyes. Despite her polished appearance, her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the microphone.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Trish began, her voice carrying the practiced cadence of someone who had done this many, many times before. "Welcome to our exclusive Paradise Voyager art auction. Tonight, we have some exceptional pieces for your consideration, including limited editions from Maxwell Perkins and original oils by Marina Constance."

Max suddenly stiffened, a low rumble emerging from his chest. Bea glanced down, then followed his line of sight to see Chef Wellington standing near the back of the gallery. The chef looked immaculate in a tailored suit instead of his kitchen whites, but his expression was tense as he watched Trish.

"I didn't expect to see the chef here," Bea whispered to Harriet.

"He never misses these auctions," Harriet replied.

“Another potentially reincarnated artist?”

Harriet chuckled. "He’s bought a few things here and there. An art lover, would be my guess."

As Trish continued her introduction, the gallery doors swung open with dramatic force. Every head turned to see Waldo Frankenblatz enter, dressed in what could only be described as a suit made entirely of playing cards, the edges fluttering with each movement.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he announced, arms spread wide. "Before you bid your hard-earned money, these masterpieces require proper metaphysical cleansing!"

Trish froze mid-sentence, her professional smile faltering. "Mr. Frankenblatz, we haven't started the bidding yet—"

"The time is now!" Waldo declared, moving to the center of the room and beginning what appeared to be an improvised interpretive dance. His lanky limbs moved in sweeping arcs as playing cards occasionally detached from his suit and fluttered to the floor.

Max watched with his head cocked to one side, clearly puzzled by the display. Several passengers laughed nervously while others backed away from Waldo's flailing movements.

"The quantum resonance of fine art cannot be properly assessed while standing upright!" Waldo announced, suddenly dropping to the floor and performing a somewhat wobbly headstand. "Everyone, please! You must view the artwork inverted to truly appreciate it!"

Security personnel appeared at the gallery entrance, but seemed unsure how to proceed with the bizarre scene unfolding before them.

"Mr. Frankenblatz," Drake intervened smoothly, approaching the upside-down man. "Perhaps you could continue your... assessment... after the auction?"

"Impossible!" Waldo declared, his face reddening from his inverted position. "And I haven't even introduced my qualified authenticator!"

To the astonishment of everyone present, Waldo produced a small modified lava lamp from inside his card suit. Inside the colorful liquid, a pale amphibian floated serenely.

"Chairman Mao has helped me select pieces from emerging artists that went on to be worth millions!" Waldo insisted, somehow managing to hold the lamp up while still balancing on his head.

Max let out a sharp bark, more of surprise than alarm, and Clementine darted under a nearby display table.

Drake signaled to the security personnel, who finally moved forward. "Mr. Frankenblatz, I'm afraid outside pets are not permitted aboard the Paradise Voyager except in designated areas."

"Chairman Mao is not a pet! He is a certified art professional with credentials in three countries!"

As security gently but firmly escorted Waldo and his amphibian from the gallery, Bea noticed Trish exchanging a heated glance with Chef Wellington. The chef's face had darkened during the commotion, and he abruptly left the gallery, brushing past Stone Coolidge, who had just arrived.

“Quite a character, that guy,” Bea observed.

“Waldo is definitely a character.” Harriet fished her buzzing phone out of her pocket. “He’s here all the time. And he’s not lying about those paintings. The guy is a multi-millionaire. If he didn’t spend so much money, the cruise line would’ve kicked him off the ship a long time ago.”

Stone caught Bea's eye and smiled, making his way toward her. "Did I miss something entertaining?"

"Just a man in a card suit doing a headstand with his pet axolotl," Bea replied drily.

Stone laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "And they say cruises are predictable."

Trish had regained her composure at the podium and was continuing as if nothing had happened. "Let's begin with Lot Number One, an original seascape by Caroline Winters..."

Harriet, who had been looking at her phone, leaned close to Bea. "I need to check something. Can we meet later?"

"Everything okay?" Bea asked.

"The fix I made to the ventilation system—it didn’t take." Harriet replied. “I’ll catch up with you later. Captain will lose it if the walk-in humidor in the cigar shop downstairs drops below 70%.”

As Harriet slipped away, Stone took her place beside Bea. "Not bidding today?" he asked.

"Just observing," Bea replied, keeping her focus on Trish.

"The art's not the most interesting thing in the room anyway," Stone said, his gaze fixed on Bea.

She recognized his look—the same one from their twenties that had preceded many impulsive adventures. Max seemed to recognize it too, positioning himself firmly between them with a snuffle that sounded almost disapproving.

"Max has become quite the chaperone," Stone observed with amusement.

"He's protective," Bea replied simply.

The auction proceeded with surprising normalcy after Waldo's interruption. Bea watched as Trish expertly guided the bidding, her professional persona firmly in place despite the occasional tremor in her voice. Several pieces sold for impressive sums, with Betty Davidson securing a small abstract painting after a spirited bidding war with an elderly gentleman.

Throughout the auction, Bea noticed Drake observing from near the entrance, occasionally speaking into his radio. Clementine had returned from her hiding place and was now weaving between guests' legs, occasionally stopping to watch Max with feline curiosity.

"Join me for a glass of wine after this?" Stone suggested as the final lot was presented. "For old times' sake?"

Before Bea could respond, Max suddenly stiffened, his attention locked on something across the room. Following his gaze, Bea spotted Izzy photographing the auction from a discreet corner. Unlike her usual multiple cameras, she had only a small one that she occasionally raised to her eye, focusing primarily on Trish.

"Uh, sure," Bea told Stone. "I need to follow up on something first though."

Stone smiled. "Sounds good. I’ll be on the front deck around 9."

As the auction concluded with applause, Bea made her way toward Izzy, but the photographer slipped out a side door before she could reach her. By the time Bea and Max exited into the corridor, there was no sign of her.

"Lost her," Bea murmured to Max. "But we know where to find her."

Walking away, Bea felt a flutter of uncertainty in her stomach. Had she just agreed to drinks with Stone? She glanced down at Max, who seemed to give her a disapproving look.

"It's just wine," she whispered to him. "For the case." But even as she said it, she wondered if she was trying to convince Max or herself. The familiar pull of Stone's charm was both comforting and dangerous—like the memory of a favorite dessert that you know doesn't agree with you anymore. She absently touched the bracelet James had given her, its silver paw print cool against her skin.

***

Two hours later, after jotting down some quick investigative notes in her cabin, Bea found herself in the Ocean View Lounge on Deck 8. The space was dimly lit, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the moonlit ocean. Only a handful of passengers occupied the small tables, most of them couples enjoying nightcaps.

Stone was already waiting at a corner table with two glasses of wine. "I took the liberty," he said as Bea approached. "Pinot noir still your favorite?"

"Some things don't change," she replied, sitting down while Max settled at her feet. "But most do."

"Fair enough." Stone pushed one of the glasses toward her. "No pressure, Bea. Just two old friends catching up."

The familiarity of the scene—Stone across a table, the crystal wine glasses, the backdrop of stars—triggered a cascade of memories from their brief but intense relationship. The midnight conversations, the spontaneous road trips, the feeling that anything was possible.

"Remember that all-night club in Savannah?" Stone asked, as if reading her thoughts. "The one with the jazz trio?"

"And the waitress who kept bringing us drinks we didn't order," Bea added, smiling despite herself.

"We were there until sunrise, planning that cross-country trip we never took."

Bea sipped her wine. "You took it. Just not with me."

A shadow crossed Stone's face. "One of my many regrets." He leaned forward. "We were good together, Bea."

"We were young together," she corrected. "There's a difference."

Max shifted at her feet, resting his chin on her shoe as if offering support.

Stone's smile turned rueful. "Always the practical one. That's what I missed most about you—your ability to see things as they are, not how I wanted them to be."

Their conversation drifted to safer topics—Stone's recent travels, Bea's training center, the characters they'd encountered on the ship. As they talked, Bea found herself relaxing, remembering what had drawn her to Stone in the first place—his storytelling, his ability to find humor in any situation, his genuine interest in others.

"So tell me about James," Stone said, surprising her with the direct question.

Bea hesitated, then smiled. "He's steady. Thoughtful. Brilliant with animals."

"Sounds like someone you invented," Stone teased.

"He's real," Bea replied. "More real than anyone I've known."

Max looked up at her, his expression almost approving.

Stone nodded slowly. "He's a lucky man." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "But does he appreciate your sense of adventure? The part of you that would drop everything for a midnight beach walk or a spontaneous road trip?"

Before Bea could answer, Max suddenly stood, ears forward. A moment later, Bea's phone vibrated with an incoming call. James's name lit up the screen.

"Speak of the devil," Stone said, withdrawing his hand.

"Mind if I take this?" Bea asked, already standing.

"Go ahead. I'll be here."

Bea moved to a quieter corner of the lounge, Max following closely. "James," she answered, unable to keep the smile from her voice.

"Hey," he replied, the single word warming her more than she expected. "Bad time?"

"No, perfect timing actually." She glanced back at Stone, who was now staring out at the ocean. "How are things at home?"

"Luna misses you both. She keeps checking Max's bed." The sound of movement came through the line. "I'm at the clinic—emergency surgery on a retriever who ate a tennis ball."

"On a Saturday night? You're as bad as me."

James chuckled. "Speaking of which, how's the investigation going?"

Bea lowered her voice. "Complicated."

"When are they not?" James's concern was immediate. "Bea, maybe you should—"

"It’s ok, I promise,” she assured him. "Captain's asked for my help, actually."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

"Max is with me every step," Bea said, looking down at her faithful companion. "And I think we're making progress. The victim was likely involved in the thefts."

"Well besides the case," James said. "How is the trip so far?"

"Good. Wish I had more time to read. Or maybe take a nap." Bea watched as Max's ears twitched in agreement. "How are things with you? Besides tennis ball surgery."

As James recounted his day, Bea felt her focus returning. The momentary nostalgia Stone had stirred began to fade, replaced by the present reality—a complicated case, a ship with a killer on board, and a partner waiting for her at home.

"I should go," she said eventually. "Early morning tomorrow."

"Call me if anything happens," James said. "Any time."

"I will." Bea hesitated, then added, "I miss you."

"Miss you too," he replied simply.

After ending the call, Bea returned to Stone's table. "I should head back to my cabin," she said. "It's been a long day."

Stone stood. "Walk you to your door?"

"Thanks, but no," Bea replied firmly. "Max and I are good."

Stone studied her face. "The call put things in perspective, didn't it?"

"It did," she admitted.

"He must be special." Stone's smile was genuine despite the disappointment in his eyes. "Good night, Bea."

"Night, Stone."

As Bea and Max made their way back to her cabin, she reflected on the evening's events. The bizarre scene at the art auction, the tension between Trish and Chef Wellington, Izzy's secretive photography, and Stone's attempt to resurrect old feelings—all pieces of a puzzle she was still assembling.

In her cabin, Bea pulled back out the leather-bound notebook James had given her and began noting her observations. Max settled on the bed, watching her work with attentive eyes.

"What do you think, Max?" she asked. "What are we missing?"

Max tilted his head, ears forward.

"Exactly," Bea agreed, as if he'd answered. "Tomorrow we talk to Izzy and find out what she was photographing. And we need to understand what's going on between Trish and the chef."

She added a final note to her growing list of questions: *Why was Drake so interested in the art auction?*

Outside her cabin window, the moonlight created a silver path across the dark water as the Paradise Voyager continued its journey, carrying its passengers—and at least one killer—through the night.

CHAPTER 8

Morning sunlight spilled across Bea's cabin as she stretched, mentally preparing for the day ahead. Max already stood at attention by the door, excited to begin their morning routine. After their evening encounter with Stone and the curious events at the art auction, Bea felt more determined than ever to make progress on the case.

"Ready for breakfast, buddy?" she asked, clipping his service vest in place.

Max responded with an enthusiastic snort, his wrinkled face somehow managing to look both dignified and eager at the same time.

The Horizon Café on Deck 9 buzzed with morning activity—vacationers loading plates at the lavish buffet, crew members refilling coffee urns, and the occasional announcement about the day's activities filtering through overhead speakers. Bea selected a quiet corner table with a view of both the entrance and the food stations, a habit she'd developed during previous investigations.

"Beatrice! Mind if I join you?"

Bea looked up to find Betty Davidson standing beside her table, elegant as ever in a pale blue pantsuit with a tasteful sapphire brooch at her throat.

"Please do," Bea gestured to the empty chair across from her.

Betty set down her tea cup with trembling hands, her normally composed features tight with distress. "Something terrible has happened," she said in a low voice, leaning forward. "My pearl necklace is missing."

Max's ears perked forward at the shift in Betty's tone, his attention fixed on the older woman.

"When did you notice it was gone?" Bea asked.

"This morning when I went to put it on for breakfast." Betty's fingers unconsciously touched her bare throat. "I always keep it in my cabin safe. I checked it last night before bed, and this morning it was simply... gone."

Bea's mind immediately returned to the bracelet Max had discovered hidden in the laundry room ventilation grate, wondering if there was a connection. "Have you reported it to security?"

"Of course. Mr. Drake took the report himself." Betty stirred her tea absently. "He assured me they would handle it discreetly, but after what happened to that poor young man..." She shuddered delicately.

"The timing is certainly interesting," Bea agreed, watching Betty carefully. "Especially since Drake seemed so interested in your pearls at dinner."

"Yes, he complimented them specifically," Betty said, her brow furrowing. "I didn't think anything of it at the time."

"Have they found any stolen items yet?" Bea asked cautiously.

"Not that they've told me," Betty replied with a frown. "Drake just took my statement and assured me they'd investigate."

"I'll keep an eye out," Bea promised. "Max has a talent for finding things."

Betty nodded, composing herself. "Of course. I apologize for being so upset. It's just—those pearls were an anniversary gift from my late husband. The monetary value is considerable, but the sentimental value..." Her voice trailed off.

"I understand completely." Bea made a mental note to speak with Drake about the theft. "Can you describe them in detail?"

As Betty described her missing jewelry—South Sea pearls, perfectly matched and cream-colored with a distinctive vintage gold clasp featuring a small sapphire—Max suddenly stiffened beneath the table. Following his gaze, Bea spotted Izzy Ramirez hurriedly photographing a family by the window, her movements jerky and nervous as usual.

"Betty," Bea said, "I need to go do something. Would you excuse me?"

"Of course, dear. And thank you." Betty touched Bea's hand. "I feel better just having told someone who actually seems to care."

Bea wound her way through the breakfast crowd, Max trotting at her heels, his focus never leaving the photographer. As they approached, Izzy glanced up, momentarily freezing when she spotted them.

"Morning, Izzy," Bea greeted her casually. "Busy day ahead?"

"Always is," Izzy replied, fidgeting with her camera settings unnecessarily. Her wild red curls seemed even more untamed than usual, as if she'd been running her hands through them repeatedly. "Family portraits all morning, then the Captain's lunch photos at noon."

"I noticed you at the art auction last night," Bea said, moving closer so they wouldn't be overheard. "You seemed particularly interested in photographing Trish."

Izzy's fingers stilled on her camera. "Just doing my job," she mumbled, but her eyes darted nervously.

"In the service corridor yesterday too?" Bea pressed gently. "That didn't seem like regular ship photography."

Max emitted a soft whine, sensing the photographer's mounting anxiety.

"I—I can explain that," Izzy said, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced around, then leaned closer. "Not here, though. Meet me at the photography studio during lunch? Most people will be at the dining room, and my assistant takes over for an hour."

Bea nodded. "One o'clock?"

Relief flooded Izzy's face. "Yes. And please—don't mention this to anyone, especially not Drake or Trish."

Before Bea could question her further, Izzy hurried away, almost colliding with a waiter carrying a tray of orange juice.

"What do you think she's hiding?" Bea murmured to Max, who tilted his head in that thoughtful way that always made her smile despite the circumstances.

They spent the next few hours exploring the ship more thoroughly, Bea taking detailed notes in the leather journal James had given her while Max investigated every corner with his sensitive nose. They paid particular attention to the service areas accessible to crew members, noting the complex network of passages that allowed staff to move throughout the ship unnoticed by passengers.

Just before noon, Bea decided to check out the main galley where lunch preparations would be in full swing. She'd been meaning to observe Chef Wellington after his odd behavior at the art auction and his rumored argument with Roger.

The kitchen was a hive of activity—gleaming stainless steel workstations, chefs in crisp whites calling orders, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, and the sizzle of pans creating a symphony of culinary industry. Bea lingered at the entrance, using her training center connections as a pretext for her visit.

"I'm considering adding a cooking class to help my disabled clients learn to work with their service animals in the kitchen," she explained to the sous chef who questioned her presence. "The ship's kitchen is such an impressive operation—I'd love to see how you manage everything."

The explanation seemed to satisfy him, and Bea was allowed to observe from a corner near the dessert station. Max sat patiently beside her, though his nose worked overtime with all the enticing aromas.

Chef Wellington dominated the central cooking area, barking orders and inspecting plates before they left the kitchen. His movements were precise and deliberate, his expression focused as he drizzled sauce onto perfectly arranged fish fillets.

"Temperature's wrong on this bisque," he snapped, shoving a soup tureen back toward a junior chef. "Do it again."

The young chef scurried to comply, his face flushed with embarrassment.

Bea watched as Wellington checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes, his eyes darting toward the kitchen entrance with increasing frequency. When a server returned with a complaint about cold soup, Wellington's reaction was immediate and shocking.

"If passengers can't arrive at properly scheduled times, they can't expect properly maintained temperatures!" he shouted, his handsome face contorted with rage.

The entire kitchen stilled, staff exchanging glances of confusion and alarm. Wellington never lost control of his image, especially not in front of his team.

"Chef," his sous chef said carefully, "shall I remake the order?"

Wellington stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, then abruptly untied his apron. "You handle it. All of it. I need air."

He stormed out through the service door, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind him.

Max's ears flattened against his head, his body tense with the residual energy of the outburst. Bea stroked his head reassuringly while making another mental note. Wellington's behavior wasn't just unusual—it was the complete opposite of the calculated, image-conscious chef she'd observed previously.

"Is he always like that?" she asked the nearest kitchen worker, a young woman arranging fruit garnishes.

"Never," the woman replied, eyes wide. "Chef prides himself on being unflappable. This is... not normal."

The sous chef was already reorganizing stations and calming the staff, his efficiency suggesting he'd stepped into Wellington's role before. Bea slipped out during the commotion, checking her watch—nearly one o'clock, time to meet Izzy.

The photography studio on Deck 6 was empty when they arrived, the walls lined with sample portraits and promotional posters for various photo packages. Displays showed smiling families against tropical backgrounds, couples silhouetted against sunsets, and children playing on pristine beaches—memories carefully crafted and preserved.

Izzy appeared moments later, locking the door behind her and flipping the sign to "Back in 30 Minutes."

"Sorry for the mystery," she said, leading Bea to a small office behind the main studio. "I can't risk anyone overhearing this."

The office was cluttered with equipment—camera lenses, lighting accessories, and stacks of photo albums. Izzy moved a pile of promotional flyers from a chair, gesturing for Bea to sit while she perched nervously on the edge of the desk. Max settled at Bea's feet, his attentive gaze fixed on the photographer.

"I've been noticing things," Izzy began, her fingers fidgeting with the lens cap of a nearby camera. "Things that don't add up on this ship."

"Like what?" Bea asked, genuinely curious.

Izzy hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "I studied journalism before becoming a ship's photographer. Old habits die hard, I guess. I notice patterns, inconsistencies."

"You've been taking photos of more than just passengers," Bea observed. It wasn't a question.

Izzy nodded, glancing toward the door as if worried someone might be listening. "When these thefts started happening, and management kept covering them up—it felt wrong. My grandfather worked cruise ships for forty years. He'd be horrified."

"And Roger? Did you notice anything about him?" Bea prompted.

Izzy twisted her hands together. "I saw him in places he shouldn't have been. Cabins he wasn't assigned to clean." She paused. "But what really caught my attention was his relationship with Trish."

Bea leaned forward. "Trish Newman? The art auctioneer?"

"They argued the night before he died," Izzy said, lowering her voice. "In the crew corridor outside the casino. I didn't hear everything, but she was begging him for something. Said she needed 'just a little more time.'"

"Time for what?"

Izzy bit her lip. "I'm not supposed to talk about this," she said, looking uncomfortable. "But there's a casino worker named Miguel who's been helping me gather information. He told me Trish has lost over fifty thousand dollars in the casino over the past three months."

Bea's eyebrows shot up. "Fifty thousand?"

"Yes," Izzy confirmed. "And she's been borrowing from crew members too. Miguel overheard her asking Roger for a loan just days before he died."

Max shifted at Bea's feet, sensing the tension in Izzy's voice.

"That's quite a motive," Bea said thoughtfully. "Have you shared this with security?"

Izzy's expression hardened. "I don't trust everyone on this ship." She didn't elaborate, but her meaning was clear enough.

"Why are you telling me this?" Bea asked finally.

"Because I've been watching you too," Izzy admitted. "I saw your dog find that hidden bracelet. And I heard about what you did back in Palm Harbor—those murder cases you helped solve. I thought maybe..." She trailed off.

"You thought I might help figure out what's happening," Bea finished for her.

Izzy nodded. "I have... other information. Things I've been gathering. But not here, not now." She glanced at her watch. "I've already said too much."

"This is valuable information, Izzy," Bea said gently. "But it could also be dangerous for you to be poking around alone."

"I know." Izzy's shoulders slumped. "But what choice do I have? The passengers deserve better."

A sudden knock at the studio door made them both jump. Max stood, hackles slightly raised.

"Just a minute!" Izzy called, then lowered her voice to Bea. "Look, I can't talk more now, but I'll find you again when it's safe. There's more you should know."

"I'd like to hear it," Bea assured her as Izzy unlocked the studio door to reveal a family of four, eager for their portrait session.

"We'll talk again," Bea whispered as she and Max slipped out past the waiting family.

Back in the main corridor, Bea checked her watch—past two o'clock, and her stomach reminded her she'd missed lunch while meeting with Izzy. Max looked up at her expectantly, clearly sharing her hunger.

"Let's grab something from the buffet," she told him. "Then we need to find Harriet and compare notes."

As they walked toward the elevator, Bea's mind worked through everything she'd learned. Trish's gambling debts provided a potential motive—if Roger had been blackmailing her over a loan, or threatening to expose her addiction to the Captain, that could explain the argument Izzy had witnessed. But it didn't explain Wellington's bizarre behavior, or Drake's possible involvement.

Her phone buzzed with a text from James: *How's the investigation going? Any breakthroughs?*

Bea smiled, composing a quick reply: *Following several leads. This ship has more secrets than you can shake a stick at. Miss you.*

His response came almost immediately: *I know you’ll get to the bottom of it. Of, BTW, Martha stopped by with today. Said you’d better bring her back something fun from Grand Cayman. Oh yeah, and he’s another pic of Luna.*

Attached was a photo of Luna sitting by their front door, head tilted in that patient, slightly melancholy way golden retrievers perfected.

"We'll be home soon," Bea promised Max, showing him the picture of Luna. "After we solve one more mystery."

Max's tail wagged at the sight of his golden friend, but his expression suggested he was fully committed to their current mission.

CHAPTER 9

Bea eased into a plush armchair in the Paradise Voyager's library, sighing with relief at finding this quiet sanctuary. The library occupied a secluded nook on Deck 7, tucked away from the usual passenger thoroughfares. Shelves of hardbound books lined the walls, their spines forming a colorful patchwork against the rich mahogany woodwork.

"This is perfect," she whispered to Max, who settled at her feet with a contented grunt. The French bulldog's compact body curled into a perfect circle, his watchful eyes still scanning the room despite his relaxed posture.

Outside the library's windows, the previously calm ocean had transformed. Whitecaps dotted the surface as far as she could see, and the ship had developed a noticeable roll that sent occasional tremors through the floor beneath them. The captain's announcement earlier had confirmed what many passengers had already suspected – they were sailing into rougher seas, and outdoor activities would be suspended until conditions improved.

Bea pulled "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise" from her bag, eager to finally make progress in the story. She'd barely made it through the first few chapters between investigating Roger's murder, reconnecting with Harriet, and navigating Stone's persistent attention.

"Let's see what trouble Selena and Jack are getting into now," she murmured, opening to her bookmark.

She quickly lost herself in the story, following marine biologist Selena as she conducted her early morning beach survey. The protagonist had risen before dawn to document tide patterns, only to discover a set of mysterious footprints in the sand near the lifeguard tower where Jack Wavecrest kept watch.

*Selena knelt beside the impressions, her scientific mind automatically cataloging details. Too large for a woman, too narrow for a fisherman's boots. And they led directly from the water's edge to the storage area beneath the lifeguard tower—where Jack kept the equipment no one else was allowed to touch.*

*Her heart raced as she traced the outline with her finger. The sand still held moisture from the night's high tide, meaning these prints couldn't be more than two hours old. Who would visit the lifeguard tower in the darkest hours before dawn?*

*She stood, brushing sand from her knees, and approached the weathered wooden stairs. The tower loomed above her, silent and secretive in the growing light.*

*"Looking for something?" Jack's voice startled her from behind.*

*Selena whirled around, nearly colliding with his bare chest. He stood too close, his muscled arms crossed defensively, sea water still dripping from his morning swim.*

*"These footprints," she said, gesturing toward the sand. "They—"*

A commotion at the library entrance shattered Bea's concentration.

"The vibrational frequency of literature cannot be properly assessed in a state of gravitational conformity!" proclaimed a familiar voice.

Bea looked up to see Waldo Frankenblatz striding into the library, wearing what appeared to be a suit fashioned from shredded book jackets. Pieces of colorful cover art had been stitched together in a patchwork nightmare that rustled with each flamboyant step. A small gathering of bewildered passengers trailed behind him, apparently drawn by the spectacle.

"Mr. Frankenblatz," the library attendant said, rising from her desk. "This is a quiet space, sir."

"Silence is the enemy of enlightenment!" Waldo declared, dropping suddenly to the floor and assuming a headstand position. His suit jacket fell open, revealing a t-shirt with "BOOKS ARE FOOD FOR THE THIRD EYE" printed across the chest.

"You must invert yourself to truly understand Hemingway's intentions!" he announced to the room at large. "The blood must rush to the cerebral cortex!"

Max raised his head, ears swiveling toward the commotion. He gave Bea a look that seemed to ask why humans were so inexplicably weird sometimes.

"I apologize, but I must insist—" the librarian began again.

"Chairman Mao agrees with me!" Waldo interrupted, somehow producing the pale axolotl in its modified container from an inner pocket while maintaining his headstand. "He's read more classics upside-down than most professors right-side up!"

Bea sighed, tucking her novel back into her bag. Her peaceful reading retreat was clearly over. As amusing as Waldo's antics might be, she'd hoped for at least an hour of uninterrupted escape into her book.

"Come on, Max," she whispered. "Let's find somewhere else."

They slipped out as security arrived to address the situation, Waldo's passionate discourse on "the metaphysical implications of reading while inverted" following them into the hallway.

The ship lurched suddenly, and Bea steadied herself against the wall. The rough seas were intensifying. Outside the windows, rain now pelted the glass, distorting the view of the churning ocean beyond.

"Looks like we're in for some weather," a voice remarked beside her.

Bea turned to find Stone leaning casually against the corridor wall, looking unfairly composed despite the ship's motion. Unlike many passengers who had begun to show signs of discomfort with the increasing roll of the vessel, Stone appeared completely at ease.

"Waldo chase you out?" he asked with an amused smile.

"Apparently Chairman Mao has strong opinions about reading posture," Bea replied.

Stone laughed, the sound warm and reminiscent of easier times. "That man is either completely unhinged or secretly brilliant. I'm still deciding which."

Max snorted, his stance suggesting he'd already made his assessment of Waldo's mental state.

"Heading somewhere specific?" Stone asked, falling into step beside her as they navigated the corridor.

"Just looking for a quiet spot," Bea replied. "Though I'm guessing those are in short supply with everyone forced indoors."

"The observation lounge on Deck 10 is usually overlooked during rough weather," Stone suggested. "Most passengers avoid the windows when the seas kick up, afraid it'll make their seasickness worse."

Bea raised an eyebrow. "You seem to know a lot about this kind of stuff."

"Part of the job," he shrugged. "I've written articles about seven different cruise lines in the past three years. You start to notice patterns." He steadied himself with practiced ease as the ship dipped into another trough. "The average passenger retreats to their cabin during rough seas. The gamblers head to the casino, believing the center of the ship offers more stability. The drinkers crowd the bars, self-medicating their discomfort."

Stone leaned closer and whispered, “That last one usually doesn’t work out too well, though. Whiskey and sea sickness don’t often mix very well.”

The ship's public address system crackled to life. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Anderson. We're experiencing moderate sea conditions that are expected to continue for the next several hours. For your safety, all outdoor decks are temporarily closed. Our entertainment staff has arranged additional indoor activities in the Grand Atrium. Thank you for your understanding."

"And now the mad rush for distraction begins," Stone predicted with a knowing smile.

Sure enough, the corridor suddenly filled with passengers emerging from their cabins, all headed toward the ship's central areas.

"Observation lounge, you said?" Bea asked, not relishing the thought of being caught in crowded public spaces.

Stone nodded. "Follow me. I know the quietest route."

He led her through a series of less-traveled corridors, eventually arriving at a glass-enclosed lounge with panoramic windows. As he'd predicted, it was nearly empty, with only a couple seated in a far corner, gazing out at the dramatic seascape.

"How do you know all these shortcuts?" Bea asked as they settled into comfortable chairs near the windows.

"I make it my business to learn the layout of every ship I review," Stone replied. "The hidden corridors, the service elevators, the quiet nooks where you can escape the crowds." He winked. "It's what separates a good travel writer from a great one."

Max climbed onto the adjacent seat, his compact body fitting perfectly in the cushioned chair. He watched the rain streaming down the windows, seemingly fascinated by the patterns it created.

"May I join you two?" Harriet's voice broke through their conversation. She stood nearby in her environmental officer uniform, looking slightly harried. "The captain has me checking water drainage systems throughout the ship, but I'm due for a break."

"Please," Bea gestured to an empty chair. "We're hiding from the crowds."

Harriet sank into the seat with a grateful sigh. "It's chaos out there. The cruise director is organizing emergency bingo in the atrium, and I swear I saw two elderly ladies nearly come to blows over the last seat at a table."

Stone chuckled. "Cruise ships during bad weather – bringing out the primal survival instincts in senior citizens since 1970."

"How are you holding up?" Bea asked her friend. "With everything that's happening?"

Harriet's expression sobered. "Honestly? I'm rattled. Roger's death, the ongoing thefts... and I still can't stop thinking about my grandmother's necklace."

"Tell me about it," Bea encouraged, seeing the wistful look in Harriet's eyes. "The necklace, I mean."

Harriet's fingers unconsciously touched her throat where the missing jewelry would have rested. "It was beautiful – an emerald pendant surrounded by tiny diamonds on a delicate gold chain. My great-grandmother received it from her naval officer husband during World War II."

"You mentioned that in your postcard," Bea recalled.

"What I didn't mention was how much that necklace meant to me growing up," Harriet continued, her voice softening. "Grandma kept it in this ornate wooden box with red velvet lining. On special occasions, she'd let me try it on."

A small smile played across Harriet's face as she recalled the memory. "I was probably seven or eight the first time she placed it around my neck. It hung almost to my belly button then." She laughed. "I'd parade around her bedroom, pretending I was a princess or a famous explorer who'd discovered a magical gem."

"That sounds adorable," Bea said, touched by the image.

"Grandma used to tell me stories about how my great-grandfather saved her during the London Blitz. He pulled her from a collapsed building, and they fell in love amid the chaos of war." Harriet's eyes grew distant. "When he shipped out to the Pacific, he gave her the necklace as a promise to return."

"And he did," Bea finished, remembering what Harriet had told her previously.

Harriet nodded. "Against all odds. They moved to South Carolina after the war and built a beautiful life together." She sighed deeply. "That necklace represents so much more than its monetary value. It's my family history, my heritage."

"We'll find it," Bea assured her, reaching across to squeeze her friend's hand.

The ship rolled heavily to starboard, sending an unattended coffee cup sliding across a nearby table. Max stabilized himself by pressing his sturdy body against the chair's arm, his expression distinctly unimpressed with the ocean's behavior.

"I should get back to work," Harriet said, checking her watch. "The captain wants all drainage systems triple-checked before we hit the worst of this weather front. But don’t worry, weather radar looks like things should clear up again in about 3 hours. We’ll be back in the sunshine before you know it."

After Harriet left, Bea and Stone sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the dramatic seascape. The ocean had turned a dark slate gray, matching the brooding sky above. White-capped waves crashed against the ship's hull, sending spray high enough to splash against their windows ten decks up.

"Beautiful, in its way," Stone remarked, his gaze fixed on the turbulent horizon. "The raw power of nature."

"You always did love a good storm," Bea recalled. During their brief relationship, Stone had often dragged her outside during thunderstorms, insisting that feeling the elements was among life's essential experiences.

He smiled at the memory. "The best experiences aren't always comfortable ones." He turned to face her more directly. "Speaking of discomfort – how's the investigation going?"

Bea hesitated, unsure how much to share. "It's... progressing. More complicated than I initially thought."

"Murder investigations usually are," Stone said with surprising seriousness. "Especially when they happen in contained environments like cruise ships."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

Stone shrugged. "I've seen how these things typically unfold. Cruise lines hate negative publicity. They'll pressure the captain to resolve matters quickly and quietly, even if that means simplifying complex situations." He leaned forward. "My contacts in the industry have told me about cases where valuable evidence was 'lost' before reaching port authorities."

"Are you suggesting the cruise line might interfere with the investigation?" Bea asked, troubled by the implication.

"Not interfere exactly," Stone clarified. "But they'll certainly prioritize their reputation over abstract justice. A dead crew member, unfortunate as it is, won't impact their bottom line as much as news about a jewel thief targeting wealthy passengers."

Max suddenly perked up, his attention drawn to a group of passengers who had just entered the lounge. Bea recognized Betty Davidson among them, her elegant posture unmistakable even from across the room. Betty was holding court with several other well-dressed women, their conversation animated despite attempts at discretion.

"Gossip squad at three o'clock," Stone murmured. "Want to move before they spot us?"

"Actually," Bea said thoughtfully, "this might be informative."

With Max at her heels, Bea casually relocated to a seating area closer to Betty's group, selecting a spot partially obscured by a large potted palm. She pulled out her phone, pretending to check messages while actually listening to the conversation unfolding nearby.

"...absolutely dreadful," Betty was saying, her pearl earrings swinging as she shook her head emphatically. "That's three valuable pieces gone missing this cruise alone, not counting my necklace."

"Did security find anything in your cabin?" asked a silver-haired woman in a Hermès scarf.

"Nothing," Betty replied. "Mr. Drake was very thorough, but whoever took my pearls knew exactly what they were doing. No forced entry, no disturbance of any other items."

"The same thing happened to the Williamsons last month," another woman chimed in. "Their anniversary diamond bracelet vanished from their cabin safe. The cruise line insisted they must have misplaced it."

"How convenient," Betty remarked dryly. "Just like they insisted that poor young man's death was an 'unfortunate accident' until they couldn't deny it anymore."

“It wasn’t an accident?” one of the women said, surprised.

“Oh no,” Betty answered back. “I hear he was stabbed. Dreadful. Just dreadful. The thought that something like that could happen somewhere like this.”

Bea exchanged a glance with Stone, whose expression confirmed he was also listening intently.

"I've started keeping my good jewelry in the purser's safe," the woman in the Hermès scarf said. "Though after hearing about the security breach in the laundry area, I'm not sure anywhere on this ship is truly secure."

"Martha Tilson up on the ninth deck told me she actually caught someone trying her door handle yesterday afternoon," Betty revealed in a hushed tone. "When she opened the door, they claimed to be checking for an electrical issue on her deck."

"Was it a crew member?" one of the women asked.

"She couldn't be certain," Betty replied. "They were gone too quickly. She said he was wearing a pair of brown coveralls, not the standard white uniforms most of the staff wear."

Max shifted at Bea's feet, his ears twitching as if he too found the gossip intriguing. The ship rolled again, more severely this time, and several passengers reached reflexively for stability. Stone didn't move, perfectly balanced despite the motion.

"You develop sea legs quickly in this line of work," he explained, noticing Bea's observation. "I once spent three weeks on a research vessel in the North Atlantic during storm season for an article on climate scientists. This is nothing compared to those waves."

"Show-off," Bea muttered good-naturedly.

Betty's group eventually moved on, headed for an emergency wine tasting that had been hastily organized in the nearby lounge. When they were gone, Stone turned to Bea with raised eyebrows.

"Interesting," he said. "Sounds like our thief has been quite active."

"And potentially posing as crew to gain access to cabins," Bea noted. "That matches what we've been piecing together."

The ship's intercom system activated again. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your cruise director, Tom! We've arranged special indoor activities throughout the ship to keep everyone entertained during this patch of rough weather. Join us in the Grand Atrium for Broadway trivia, the Vista Lounge for wine tasting, or the Starlight Theater for an emergency screening of 'The Perfect Storm'... just kidding about that last one, folks!"

Stone rolled his eyes. "Cruise directors – perpetually one dad joke away from a mutiny."

Bea checked her watch, surprised to find it was already after four. The afternoon had slipped away faster than she'd realized. "I should check in with Oliver Drake before it gets too late. I’ve been meaning to interview him and get all the details Festival has on the jewel thefts."

"Always working," Stone teased gently. "Some things never change."

As they stood to leave, the ship suddenly pitched forward dramatically. Bea lost her balance, stumbling directly into Stone's arms. He caught her reflexively, strong hands steadying her shoulders.

"Got you," he said softly, his face unexpectedly close to hers.

For a fraction of a second, time seemed suspended. A memory flashed through Bea's mind – Stone catching her the same way when they'd gone hiking along a rain-slicked trail in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a lifetime ago.

Max's sharp bark snapped her back to reality. The French bulldog had planted himself firmly between them, his stocky body creating a physical barrier as he looked up at Stone with what could only be described as canine suspicion.

"Thanks," Bea said, quickly regaining her composure and stepping back. "I think Max is telling us it's time to go."

"Smart dog," Stone acknowledged with a rueful smile. "Always looking out for you."

They parted ways in the corridor outside, Stone heading to research an article deadline while Bea and Max made their way toward Oliver Drake’s office on a lower deck. As they walked, Bea absently touched the silver bracelet with the paw print charm that James had given her, its familiar weight on her wrist a comforting reminder of home.

Max stayed close to her side, occasionally glancing up as if checking that she was okay. "Don't worry, buddy," she assured him quietly. "I've got my priorities straight."

The French bulldog seemed satisfied with her answer, his stumpy tail giving a single approving wag as they continued through the rolling ship, both physically and mentally keeping their balance amid increasingly choppy waters.

CHAPTER 10

Bea straightened her jacket as she approached the Purser's Office on Deck 4. After the revelations from Izzy and the strange behavior she'd observed from various crew members, she wanted to speak directly with Oliver Drake about the security protocols on the ship. The formal dinner was still a few hours away, giving her time to gather more information before the evening's festivities.

The ship swayed beneath her feet, a gentle rhythm that she was finally becoming accustomed to after two days at sea. Max trotted alongside her, his service vest crisp and professional against his white coat.

When she reached the office, the door was closed, a small sign reading "Back in 15 minutes" hanging from the knob. Bea checked her watch and decided to wait, leaning against the wall beside the door. Max sat at attention, occasionally glancing down the corridor as passengers and crew passed by.

After nearly ten minutes, Bea was considering giving up when Oliver Drake rounded the corner, a folder tucked under his arm and his ever-present air of efficiency surrounding him like an invisible force field.

"Mrs. Whitman," he said, nodding politely. "Looking for me, I presume?"

"If you have a moment," Bea replied. "I had some questions about the security measures aboard the ship, given recent events."

Oliver unlocked the office door, gesturing for her to enter. "Of course. Though I must be brief—preparations for tonight's formal dinner require my attention."

The Purser's Office was immaculate—every surface polished, every file perfectly aligned. A series of monitors displayed various areas of the ship, and a large safe dominated one wall. Oliver set his folder on the desk and adjusted his glasses.

"What can I help you with?"

"I was wondering about the ship's protocol for handling passenger valuables," Bea began, watching his face carefully. "With Betty's pearls going missing, and Harriet's necklace before that—"

"Ah, yes," Oliver interrupted, his expression professionally concerned. "Actually, there's been a development you might find interesting." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a smartphone in a protective case, its screen visibly cracked. "This was discovered this morning during routine maintenance."

"A phone?" Bea prompted, intrigued.

"Roger Blackburn's phone, to be precise," Oliver confirmed. "One of our engineers found it wedged inside an AC unit in the crew break room. Curious place to lose a phone, wouldn't you agree?"

Bea studied the damaged device. "Can you access it?"

"Unfortunately, no. The screen is damaged, and it appears to be locked." Oliver turned the phone over in his hands. "Our technical team will examine it, but given the circumstances, I'm not optimistic."

Max's ears perked up, his attention fixed on the phone. Bea had learned to trust his instincts during their previous cases.

"Where exactly was it found?" she asked.

"In the ceiling-mounted unit. The engineer was checking filters—we do this regularly for air quality—and found it lodged against the main cooling coil." Oliver moved toward the safe. "I'll secure it with the other evidence until we reach port."

He dialed the combination, revealing the safe's interior as the heavy door swung open. Bea couldn't help but notice several velvet pouches and small boxes inside—far more than would be needed just for evidence from Roger's case. One open pouch revealed what appeared to be the diamond tennis bracelet Max had discovered in the ventilation grate.

"Are those recovered stolen items?" Bea asked casually.

Oliver quickly shut the safe door after depositing the phone. "Some recovered items, yes, plus evidence. The rest are passenger valuables entrusted to our care during the voyage. Quite common when guests aren’t wearing them for a formal event—many prefer not to leave certain high-value pieces in cabin safes."

Before she could press further, Oliver glanced at his watch.

"If there's nothing else, Mrs. Whitman? The Captain's expecting my report on tonight's seating arrangements."

"Of course," Bea replied, sensing she'd get nothing more from him now. "Thank you for your time."

---

Back in her cabin, Bea surveyed the contents of her small closet, considering her options for the evening's formal dinner. She'd packed light, bringing only one truly formal outfit for such occasions.

The black dress she selected featured a subtle shimmer in the fabric that caught the light as she moved. Its modest neckline was complemented by three-quarter sleeves and a hem that fell just below her knees—elegant without being overly fussy. She paired it with matching ballet flats that offered both style and the practical advantage of stability on a moving ship.

James's silver bracelet with the paw print charm completed her ensemble, a comforting link to home that she found herself touching whenever her thoughts drifted to Palm Harbor.

"What do you think, Max?" she asked, turning to find the French bulldog watching her from his perch on the bed.

Max tilted his head, his expression suggesting approval. Bea had packed his formal attire as well—a bow tie collar that matched her dress perfectly. As she fastened it around his neck, Max sat up straighter, as if understanding the importance of making a good impression.

"Very handsome sir," she told him, scratching behind his ears. "Now remember, best behavior tonight. We're here to observe, not create a scene."

Max snorted softly, as if offended by the very suggestion that he might be anything less than a perfect gentleman.

The Crown Room had been transformed for the formal dinner. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, their light reflecting off polished silverware and crystal glassware arranged on tables draped in pristine white linen. Centerpieces featuring exotic orchids and floating candles created intimate pools of light throughout the space.

Bea and Max were escorted to their assigned table, where Harriet was already seated in her dress uniform, the gold braid on her shoulders catching the light. Betty Davidson sat beside her, resplendent in a silver gown that complemented her elegantly coiffed gray hair. In place of her missing pearl necklace, she wore a striking sapphire pendant that Bea suspected might be the same one Rose tossed into the ocean at the end of Titanic.

"Wow, Bea!" Harriet looked at her friend with surprise. "Girl…Black suits you."

"Thank you," Bea replied, settling into her chair as Max positioned himself beneath the table. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

Harriet smiled, though Bea noted the tension around her eyes. The investigation was clearly taking a toll on her friend.

Izzy arrived next, looking almost unrecognizable in a simple white dress, her wild curly hair somewhat tamed into an updo secured with what appeared to be two ornate chopsticks. She clutched her ever-present camera, though a smaller, more discreet model than her usual professional equipment.

"Just a few candids," she explained nervously, noticing Bea's glance. "Passengers like souvenirs of formal night."

Captain Anderson stopped by their table to welcome them personally. "Ladies, you brighten our dining room this evening. I trust everything has been satisfactory despite our... recent difficulties."

"The crew has been handling everything admirably, Captain," Betty replied, her voice warm but her eyes sharp. "Though I do hope my pearls will be recovered before we dock."

"As do I, Mrs. Davidson. As do I." The Captain nodded politely before moving on to greet other tables.

The final member of their party arrived with his usual theatrical timing. Waldo Frankenblatz approached their table in what appeared to be a vintage tuxedo from the 1970s, complete with a ruffled shirt and velvet lapels in a shade of purple that might have been fashionable at Studio 54. Unlike his previous appearances, however, he seemed relatively subdued, nodding politely to each person as he took his seat.

"Madame Whitman," he said, executing a small bow in Bea's direction. "Your aura is particularly luminescent this evening. The indigo wavelengths suggest excellent intuition."

"Thank you, I think," Bea replied, finding herself oddly charmed by his eccentricity when it wasn't being expressed through headstands or interpretive dance.

"Chairman Mao sends his regrets," Waldo continued, taking his seat. "He's contemplating the existential implications of formal attire this evening. The axolotl mind works in mysterious ways."

Well, Bea thought, perhaps "subdued" was a relative term when it came to Waldo.

The first course arrived—a delicate seafood bisque garnished with a single perfect shrimp and a sprig of fresh dill. Bea savored the rich flavor, appreciating Chef Wellington's undeniable talent despite his suspicious behavior.

As they were finishing their soup, Stone Coolidge made his entrance. He paused in the doorway, scanning the room until his gaze landed on Bea. Even from a distance, she could see his expression change—a momentary widening of the eyes, a pause in his confident stride.

He approached their table with his usual grace, though Bea noticed his attention never wavered from her.

"I apologize for my tardiness," he said to the table at large, though his eyes remained on Bea. "A deadline waits for no man, not even on formal night."

He took the empty seat across from Bea, his tailored tuxedo and Hollywood-handsome good looks making him look like he'd stepped out of a classic film. "You look absolutely stunning," he said quietly as servers whisked away the soup bowls.

Bea felt a momentary flush rise to her cheeks.

"A travel writer learns to pack a tux," Stone added with a wink. "You never know when you might need to blend in with royalty or crash a diplomatic reception."

The main course arrived—filet mignon for Stone, Dover sole for Bea, and various selections for the others. The conversation flowed around cuisine, ports of call, and the upcoming entertainment, carefully avoiding any mention of thefts or murder. It was as if, by unstated agreement, everyone had decided to pretend normality for the duration of the meal.

Under the table, Max remained alert, his head occasionally swiveling toward the kitchen doors whenever they swung open. Bea slipped him a small morsel of her fish, grateful for his steady presence.

"Have you seen much of the ship, Stone?" Betty asked, expertly guiding the conversation. "I understand this is research for you."

"Indeed," Stone replied, cutting his steak with precision. "Though I find the human element far more fascinating than the amenities. A ship like this is a floating microcosm of society—all the drama, intrigue, and connection of a small town, but with no escape hatch."

"Except the lifeboats," Waldo interjected seriously. "Though statistically speaking, your chances of survival if thrown overboard at night while wearing formal attire drop by approximately forty-seven percent. The weight of waterlogged wool is quite problematic."

A brief silence followed this pronouncement before Harriet cleared her throat. "I believe the survival rate is actually improved by our modern measures, Mr. Frankenblatz. The Paradise Voyager exceeds all international safety standards."

Throughout the meal, Bea noticed Stone finding reasons to touch her arm or lean close to speak over the ambient noise of the dining room. Each time, she gently but firmly established distance, conscious of the silver bracelet on her wrist and what—and who—it represented.

As dessert was served—a chocolate soufflé with raspberry coulis—Bea felt Max shift beneath the table, his posture suddenly alert. Following his gaze, she spotted Chef Wellington emerging from the kitchen, his whites immaculate but his expression troubled. He conferred briefly with the maître d' before disappearing back through the swinging doors.

"If you'll excuse me," Bea said, rising from her chair. "Max needs a quick trip outside."

"I'll walk you," Stone offered immediately.

"That's not necessary," Bea replied firmly. "We won't be long."

Before Stone could insist, Bea and Max were making their way toward the exit. Instead of heading directly to the pet relief area, however, Bea took a detour past the kitchen. The doors were propped open as servers rushed in and out with dessert trays, providing a glimpse of the organized chaos within.

Chef Wellington stood at a prep station, his back to the entrance as he examined something on his phone. His posture radiated tension—shoulders hunched, free hand clenched into a fist at his side.

"This is unacceptable," she heard him say sharply into the phone. "We had an agreement. Twenty percent on the premium items, fifteen on the midrange stuff."

Max's ears perked forward, his attention fixed on the chef.

"I don't care what your costs are," Wellington continued, his voice low but intense. "Your payout needs to reflect our arrangement, or I'll find someone else who understands how this works."

He listened for a moment, then laughed without humor. "Threats? Really? Remember who holds the cards here. One word from me and—"

Wellington turned suddenly, nearly catching Bea watching him. She quickly pretended to be examining a dessert display, feeling his gaze linger on her back before she heard him say, "I have to go. Too many people around right now. Fix this by tomorrow or our arrangement is terminated."

Bea waited until she heard the chef move away before continuing on with Max to the pet relief area. The night air was refreshing after the stuffiness of the dining room, the sky above them a canopy of stars unmarred by the light pollution of the mainland.

"Well, that was interesting," she murmured to Max as he investigated the artificial turf. "Not exactly murder-related, but definitely suspicious."

After Max had taken care of business, Bea found herself reluctant to return to the formal dinner and Stone's increasingly obvious attention. Instead, they took a detour along the promenade deck, enjoying the solitude and sea breeze.

The ship was quieter now, most passengers still at dinner or attending the evening's entertainment in the theater. Bea leaned against the railing, gazing out at the dark water, its surface occasionally illuminated by the ship's lights.

Max nudged her leg suddenly, a soft whine escaping him.

"What is it, buddy?" Bea asked, following his gaze to a figure standing alone at the far end of the deck.

The silhouette was unmistakably Oliver Drake's—his rigid posture and the way he periodically adjusted his glasses giving him away even in the dim lighting. He appeared to be waiting for someone, checking his watch every few minutes.

Curious, Bea moved to a shadowed area where she could observe without being obvious. Max stayed close, his body pressed against her leg as if sensing her need for stealth.

After several minutes, a second figure approached—shorter, moving with the nervous energy Bea had come to associate with Izzy. The ship's photographer clutched her camera protectively as she spoke to Oliver, her free hand gesturing emphatically.

Though too distant to hear their conversation, Bea could read the body language clearly enough. Izzy was agitated, while Oliver maintained his usual calm demeanor. At one point, he reached for her camera, but she pulled back sharply, shaking her head.

The encounter ended abruptly when Oliver checked his watch again and gestured toward the interior of the ship. They separated, Oliver heading toward the bow while Izzy remained at the railing, her shoulders slumped.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Bea whispered to Max. "What do you suppose that was about?"

Max tilted his head, his expressive face somehow conveying both curiosity and concern.

When they finally returned to the dining room, the atmosphere had shifted from formal elegance to relaxed conviviality. Many passengers had moved to the adjoining lounge for after-dinner drinks, while others lingered over coffee and dessert.

Stone rose as Bea approached their table, pulling out her chair with old-world courtesy. "We missed you," he said softly. "Dessert isn't the same without good company."

"Max needed some air," Bea explained, noting that Izzy had not returned to the table. "Have I missed anything exciting?"

"Only Waldo's discourse on the metaphysical properties of chocolate soufflé," Harriet replied dryly. "Apparently, it vibrates at the same frequency as enlightenment…whatever that means."

Waldo nodded solemnly. "The Mayans understood this, of course. Their cacao ceremonies were gateways to higher dimensional awareness."

The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly enough, though Bea found her thoughts continually returning to Oliver and Izzy's mysterious meeting on the deck. When Stone suggested another nightcap, this time in the Ocean View Lounge, Bea declined politely.

"I'm afraid Max and I are ready to call it a night," she said, rising from the table. "It's been a long day."

"Another time, perhaps," Stone replied, his smile suggesting he wasn't discouraged by her refusal. "Sweet dreams, Bea."

Back in her cabin, Bea kicked off her shoes and changed into comfortable pajamas before settling on the bed with her leather-bound notebook. Max curled beside her, his bow tie removed but his attention firmly on Bea as she began making notes.

"Let's organize what we know," she said, thinking aloud as she wrote. "Roger had access to cabins as a housekeeper. We found his cufflink in Harriet's cabin, and now his phone turns up hidden in an AC unit. Trish has gambling debts and argued with Roger before his death. Chef Wellington appears to be involved in some kind of shady scheme. And Oliver and Izzy had a tense meeting about... something."

Max snorted softly, as if agreeing with her assessment.

"Then there's Stone," Bea continued, absently stroking Max's head. "He seems genuinely interested in helping with the investigation, but his timing is... inconvenient."

She twirled her pen thoughtfully. "The question is, which of these threads connects to Roger's murder, and which are just the usual complications of life aboard ship?"

Max had no answers, but his warm presence was reassuring as Bea continued piecing together the puzzle until sleep finally claimed them both, the gentle rocking of the ship carrying them into dreams considerably less complicated than the mystery they were attempting to solve.

CHAPTER 11

Bea woke to the gentle vibration of her phone on the nightstand. Max, already alert, watched her with his head tilted to one side, pressed against her leg as if offering comfort before she even read the message.

"Morning, partner," she murmured, reaching for the device.

A text from James illuminated the screen: *Hope you slept well. Any breakthroughs on the case? Luna sends slobbery kisses to Max.*

Bea smiled, tapping out a quick reply: *Still piecing things together. Max says woof back to Luna. Will call tonight with updates. Miss you!*

She attached a photo she'd taken of Max in his formal bow tie from the previous evening, knowing James would appreciate it.

After a brisk shower, Bea dressed in crisp linen pants and a lightweight blouse—practical but presentable for a day of investigation. Max, freshly brushed and alert, waited patiently as she fastened his service vest.

"Game plan for today," she told him, checking her watch. "Breakfast first, then we track down some crew members who might have seen Roger in his final hours."

Max gave an affirmative snort, his wrinkled face somehow managing to convey determination.

The Horizon Café on Deck 9 hummed with morning activity. Passengers filled plates at the extensive buffet while crew members circulated with coffee carafes and cheerful greetings. Bea selected a quiet corner table with good sightlines to both entrances, a habit she'd developed during previous investigations.

She had just settled with her coffee and a plate of fresh fruit when Betty Davidson appeared, elegant as always in a peach linen outfit accented with diamond earrings that caught the light as she moved.

"Mind if I join you, dear?" Betty asked, already pulling out the chair opposite Bea. "My usual breakfast companions are still recovering from last night's festivities."

"Please," Bea gestured to the empty seat. "Max and I would appreciate the company."

Max, who had stationed himself beneath the table, gave a polite thump of his tail at the mention of his name.

Betty arranged herself with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to making an entrance, even at breakfast. "I noticed you disappeared rather quickly after dessert last evening."

"Max needed some air," Bea explained, sipping her coffee. "The formal atmosphere can be a bit... constraining."

"For both of you, I imagine," Betty replied with a knowing smile. "That handsome travel writer seemed quite…attentive."

“That’s one word for it.” Bea steered the conversation to safer territory. "I understand you purchased something at the art auction. An abstract piece?"

"Yes, a small Rothmann. Not his best work, but I have a weakness for his use of color." Betty delicately cut into her grapefruit. "I've been collecting art almost as long as I've been collecting jewelry."

"Speaking of which," Bea said, seizing the opportunity, "I was so sorry to hear about your pearl necklace."

Betty's hand moved unconsciously to her throat, where the missing pearls would have rested. "Such a terrible loss. They were South Sea pearls, you know—the finest quality, perfectly matched in color and luster. My Harold gave them to me on our thirtieth anniversary."

"They sound beautiful," Bea said, genuinely sympathetic. "Were they a family piece?"

"No, Harold selected them personally from a jeweler in Singapore during his last business trip before retirement." Betty's eyes took on a faraway look. "He was always thoughtful that way—remembered how I'd admired a similar strand in a shop window years earlier when we couldn't afford such luxuries."

Bea nodded encouragingly. "Do you have other pieces with similar sentimental value?"

"Oh my, yes. Each piece in my collection tells a story." Betty warmed to her subject, her earlier distress temporarily forgotten. "The sapphire earrings I'm wearing now—a gift when our first grandchild was born. Even this modest ring—" she extended her right hand to show a simple gold band set with a small emerald, "—has significance. Harold bought it for me in a little shop in Florence on our first trip to Europe."

Max shifted position beneath the table, his ears perking forward as Betty continued recounting the histories of various pieces. Bea listened attentively, finding the stories genuinely interesting while also noting potentially useful details. Betty's descriptions were precise, including unique characteristics that might help identify the stolen items if recovered.

"The most distinctive feature of the pearls," Betty explained, "was the clasp—18-karat gold designed like a delicate flower, with a small sapphire at its center. Custom-made by the jeweler to complement the necklace."

Bea made a mental note of this detail, thinking it might help distinguish Betty's necklace from others if needed.

"Have you noticed anything unusual about your cabin lately?" Bea asked, keeping her tone conversational. "Any signs that someone might have been inside?"

Betty considered the question. "Not particularly, though I've been more observant since the theft. Mr. Drake suggested I might have forgotten to secure my safe properly, but I'm absolutely certain I did. I've used that same combination for years—Harold's birthday and our anniversary date."

Bea winced inwardly at this revelation—predictable safe combinations were a security nightmare. "And the cabin door itself?"

"Always locked automatically when I left." Betty frowned slightly. "Though there was one odd thing. The evening before I discovered the pearls missing, my cabin steward mentioned she'd come by earlier to turn down the bed, but I had the 'Do Not Disturb' sign displayed. I hadn't put it out, though—I was at the Captain's cocktail reception all evening."

Another significant detail. Bea filed it away. "Which steward is servicing your cabin?"

"A lovely young woman named Nina. Very efficient, always remembers my name." Betty dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "She was quite apologetic about the confusion with the sign."

As they continued their breakfast, Bea noticed Chef Wellington emerge from the kitchen area. Unlike his usual impeccable appearance, the chef looked distinctly disheveled—his uniform wrinkled, his normally perfect hair uncombed, dark circles shadowing his eyes. He barked orders at a server who had apparently delivered a plate to the wrong table, his voice carrying across the café.

"Chef seems out of sorts this morning," Bea observed.

Betty followed her gaze. "Indeed. He’s been like that often as of late. Quite a contrast to his usual camera-ready persona." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "I've heard rumors that he's been offered his own cooking show on one of those cable channels. Perhaps the pressure is getting to him."

Max suddenly tensed beneath the table, his body alert though he remained silent. Bea felt his shift in posture against her leg and discreetly glanced in the direction of his attention.

Stone Coolidge sat at a table near the entrance, partially obscured by a decorative plant. Unlike his usual sociable demeanor, he appeared deeply focused on a small notebook, occasionally glancing up to observe crew members as they moved through the café. A pen moved swiftly across the page as he made notes.

Sensing he was being watched, Stone looked up and caught Bea's eye. In a smooth, practiced motion, he closed the notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket, his expression transforming instantly from concentration to his characteristic easy smile.

He raised his coffee cup in a silent toast to her, but made no move to join their table.

"Your admirer keeps his distance this morning," Betty remarked, not missing the exchange. "Though he certainly seems interested in something—or someone."

Before Bea could respond, Izzy Ramirez appeared at their table, her wild red curls even more chaotic than usual, as if she'd been repeatedly running her hands through them. Her camera hung from her neck, but she wasn't using it—unusual for the ship's photographer who typically circulated throughout meals taking candid shots for purchase later.

"Good morning," she greeted them, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal. "Lovely day for photos. The lighting in the Grand Atrium will be perfect around noon if either of you would like a portrait session."

Bea recognized the nervous energy radiating from Izzy—the photographer was clearly using her professional patter as cover for something else.

"That might be nice," Bea replied, playing along. "What times are available?"

Izzy fumbled with her appointment book, dropping her pen in the process. As she bent to retrieve it, she discreetly pressed a folded piece of paper into Bea's hand beneath the table. Max observed the exchange with interest but remained silent.

"Let me check... we have several openings," Izzy continued, her eyes darting around the café. "I could fit you in at two o'clock, or perhaps later this afternoon?"

"Two would be perfect," Bea confirmed, understanding that this was likely not about photographs at all.

Izzy nodded, relief briefly crossing her features before she composed herself. "Excellent. I'll pencil you in." She straightened up, adjusting her camera strap. "If you'll excuse me, I need to check with the other tables."

As she hurried away, Bea carefully slipped the note into her pocket without examining it. Whatever Izzy needed to communicate, she clearly didn't want it observed.

Betty watched the photographer's departure with a raised eyebrow. "That young woman always seems on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Is she well?"

"I think she's just conscientious about her work," Bea deflected, not wanting to draw attention to Izzy's behavior. "Speaking of work, I should probably get started on my day. I promised Harriet I'd help her with some research for an environmental presentation."

It wasn't entirely a lie—Harriet had mentioned using Bea as cover for some of her investigative activities.

Betty accepted the excuse graciously. "Of course, dear. Don't let me keep you. Perhaps we'll see each other at dinner?"

After saying goodbye to Betty, Bea made her way to a quiet alcove near the elevators where she could discreetly check Izzy's note. Max positioned himself to block anyone's direct view as she unfolded the small piece of paper.

Written in hurried handwriting were the words: *Engine room corridor, storage locker 3. 2:30 PM. Come alone. Important info about R. Dangerous.*

Bea frowned, refolding the note and tucking it securely in her pocket. The last word—"dangerous"—concerned her. Clearly, Izzy believed whatever information she had put her at risk.

As they stepped into an elevator, Bea caught sight of Stone watching her from across the atrium, his expression unreadable at this distance. He raised a hand in greeting, but again made no move to approach.

"He's up to something," Bea murmured to Max as the elevator doors closed. "But what?"

The ship hummed with morning activity as they made their way to the crew areas. Harriet had provided Bea with temporary access to certain restricted sections, explaining to security that Mrs. Whitman was assisting with "special projects" at the Captain's request.

Their first stop was the housekeeping department, where Roger had worked. Nina, the cabin steward Betty had mentioned, was restocking her cart when Bea approached.

"Excuse me," Bea began, introducing herself. "I understand you work on Deck 8?"

Nina nodded, a petite woman with a serious expression. "Yes, ma'am. Cabins 8200 through 8230."

"I'm trying to put together Roger Blackburn's movements on his last day," Bea explained. "I understand you knew him?"

Nina's posture stiffened slightly. "Not well, but yes. He worked one deck above me most of the time." She hesitated. "We sometimes had coffee breaks together."

"When did you last see him?" Bea asked gently.

"The morning before they, uh, found him," Nina replied, her voice dropping. "Around 7:30. He seemed... distracted. Kept checking his phone."

"Did he mention any concerns? Anyone he was worried about?"

Nina shook her head. "He wasn't very talkative that day. But..." she glanced around before continuing, "he did ask me a strange question. He wanted to know if I ever noticed anything unusual when cleaning Mrs. Davidson's cabin."

Bea felt a flicker of interest. "Betty Davidson? Did he say why he was asking?"

"No, and I told him I didn't gossip about passengers." Nina fidgeted with the folded towels on her cart. "That's when he got this look—like he wanted to tell me something important but couldn't decide if he should."

"And did he?" Bea prompted.

"No. His phone buzzed with a message, and after reading it, he just said he had to go. That was the last time I saw him." Nina's eyes filled with tears. "I know they say he as a thief but… He wasn’t all bad, you know? Always helped carry supplies. Remembered everyone's birthday. Gave me a cupcake last month for mine. He was the only one on this whole ship to tell me ‘Happy Birthday’."

Max, who had been sitting quietly beside Bea, leaned against Nina's leg in a gesture of comfort. The cabin steward smiled faintly, patting his head.

"Thank you, Nina," Bea said, handing her a tissue from the supply on the cart. "If you think of anything else, anything at all, would you let me know?"

Nina nodded, composing herself. "There is one more thing. Later that day, I saw him talking to that photographer—the redhead with all the cameras. They were arguing near the crew stairwell on Deck 6."

"Izzy? Did you hear what they were discussing?"

"No, but Roger looked angry. He kept pointing at her camera, like he wanted to see something on it." Nina shrugged. "When they noticed me, they stopped talking immediately. It seemed... intense."

Bea thanked Nina for her help and continued her interviews, speaking with three more crew members who had interacted with Roger on his final day. Each conversation added small pieces to the puzzle—Roger checking the maintenance schedule for the air conditioning units; Roger lingering near the Purser's Office during Drake's lunch break; Roger exchanging what appeared to be an envelope with Chef Wellington in a service corridor.

By early afternoon, Bea had compiled detailed notes in the leather journal James had given her. Max remained attentive throughout, sometimes indicating with subtle movements when someone seemed particularly nervous or evasive.

As they headed back toward the passenger areas, intending to grab a quick lunch before meeting Izzy, Bea mentally organized what she'd learned. Roger appeared to have been involved in multiple suspicious activities on his last day—possibly connected to the thefts, possibly related to whatever information had ultimately gotten him killed.

The question remained: was he a perpetrator caught in his own scheme, or had he discovered something that made him dangerous to someone else aboard the Paradise Voyager?

"What do you think, Max?" she asked as they paused at a window overlooking the vibrant blue ocean. "Are we dealing with a thief who became a murderer to cover their tracks, or something more complicated?"

Max tilted his head thoughtfully, his expressive eyes fixed on her face as if considering the question seriously.

Bea checked her watch—almost two o'clock. They had time for a sandwich before heading to meet Izzy at the engine room corridor. She couldn't shake a sense of unease about the rendezvous. The photographer's nervousness, combined with that word—"dangerous"—suggested they were getting closer to something significant.

"Let's be extra careful this afternoon," she told Max, who responded with a solemn blink that somehow managed to convey complete agreement.

As they turned toward the café for a quick bite, neither noticed the figure watching them from the shadows of a service entrance—observing, calculating, and reaching a decision that would dramatically alter the course of their investigation.

CHAPTER 12

Bea checked her watch as she approached the engine room corridor, Max keeping close to her side. The rhythmic thrumming of the ship's massive engines vibrated through the deck beneath her feet, growing more pronounced with each step. The air grew noticeably warmer as they descended deeper into the ship's mechanical heart.

"Just a quick meeting, Max, and then we'll get you some fresh air," she promised, eyeing the "Crew Only" signs they were clearly ignoring.

Unlike the polished elegance of the passenger areas, this utilitarian section featured exposed pipes, safety warnings, and the faint scent of machine oil. Their footsteps echoed off metal surfaces as they navigated through the narrow passageway.

Storage locker 3 appeared nondescript—just another metal door in a corridor of identical doors. Bea hesitated before knocking softly, conscious of the warning in Izzy's note. Max's ears perked forward, his body alert but calm.

The door opened just enough to reveal Izzy's wild red curls and one anxious eye.

"You came alone?" she whispered, peering past Bea.

"Just Max," Bea confirmed.

Izzy glanced both ways down the corridor before pulling the door wider. "Quick, get in."

The storage locker was surprisingly spacious—about the size of a small office, lined with shelving units containing cleaning supplies and maintenance equipment. A small desk had been fashioned from an overturned crate, where several file folders and a laptop sat open.

"You've made yourself comfortable," Bea observed as Izzy secured the door behind them.

"I come here during breaks to organize my evidence," Izzy explained, her fingers nervously adjusting her camera strap. "It's one of the few places without security cameras." She gestured to the crate. "Please, sit."

Max investigated the small space with methodical precision, sniffing along the baseboards while Bea perched on the edge of the makeshift seat.

"You said you had information about Roger," Bea prompted gently.

Izzy nodded, her expression solemn. "Roger found out something he shouldn't have." She pulled a folder from beneath her laptop and handed it to Bea. "I've been tracking the thefts for months now."

Inside the folder, Bea found meticulously organized sheets of paper: dates, cabin numbers, items reported missing, and crew schedules cross-referenced with each incident.

"My grandfather worked cruise ships for four decades," Izzy explained, her voice steadying as she spoke about her work. "He taught me that a ship is like a small town—everyone knows everyone's business eventually. When the thefts started happening more frequently, I began keeping records. Just dates at first, then patterns."

Bea flipped through the pages, impressed by the detail. "You were building a case."

"Trying to," Izzy confirmed. "The cruise line keeps covering everything up, issuing refunds with confidentiality agreements. But I started noticing something strange."

She flipped to a particular page and pointed to a highlighted section. "These thefts occur during specific crew shift patterns. Not just one person's schedule, but when certain combinations of staff are on duty."

Bea studied the information, intrigued by the methodical approach. "You think there might be multiple people involved?"

"Possibly," Izzy agreed. "Too many cabins got hit in too many different areas for it to be just one person acting alone. Someone with broad access would need to coordinate with others who have specialized knowledge."

Bea leaned closer to the charts. "Like knowing which passengers have valuable jewelry."

"Exactly," Izzy said, her expression brightening at Bea's understanding. "Or which cabins have safes, or when certain passengers would be away from their rooms for extended periods."

She pulled out another sheet covered with a hand-drawn grid of the ship's layout. Certain cabins were marked with different colored highlighters. "The yellow ones were targeted during the May cruises, pink during April, green in March."

Bea examined the grid. "They're all in different sections."

"Exactly," Izzy said with satisfaction. "If it were a random thief, they'd likely stick to familiar areas. But these are methodically spread out—different decks, different sides of the ship. Someone making sure not to establish a pattern that security would notice."

Max had completed his inspection of the storage locker and settled by Bea's feet, though his ears remained alert, swiveling toward the door occasionally.

"This is impressive work," Bea acknowledged, "but how does it connect to Roger's murder?"

Izzy bit her lip, then reached into her camera bag. "This is where it gets dangerous." She extracted a memory card from a hidden compartment. "I've been taking photos—not just passenger portraits but evidence. This is why Roger and I argued."

She inserted the card into her laptop and opened a series of images. "Three weeks ago, I caught Roger leaving a cabin he wasn't assigned to clean." She flipped through images showing Roger exiting a stateroom, looking carefully around before closing the door. "The next day, the passenger reported jewelry missing."

"So Roger was stealing," Bea said thoughtfully.

"Initially I thought so," Izzy nodded. "But then..." She clicked to another image showing Roger in what appeared to be a heated conversation with Trish Newman in a service corridor. "This was four days before he died. They were arguing about money—I could hear bits of it. She kept saying she needed more time to pay him back."

Bea recalled what she'd learned about Trish's gambling debts. "Was he blackmailing her?"

"I'm not sure," Izzy admitted. "But after that, Roger started acting paranoid. He began documenting things himself—taking pictures of cabins, security logs. He even asked to borrow one of my smaller cameras."

She paused on an image showing Roger photographing the electronic lock on what appeared to be a service door.

"Did he tell you why?" Bea asked.

"Not specifically. Just said he was 'building insurance.'" Izzy's fingers tapped nervously on the desk. "The night before he died, he told me he'd discovered how the thefts were happening and who was involved, but he wouldn't give me names. Said it was too dangerous."

Max suddenly shifted position, his head turning toward the door with focused attention. Both women froze, listening. Footsteps passed in the corridor outside, fading as whoever it was continued down the hallway.

"We shouldn't stay here too long," Izzy whispered. "But there's more you need to see."

She clicked to another set of photos—these showing Stone Coolidge talking with various crew members. "Your friend has been asking questions about the thefts for weeks, well before Roger's murder."

Bea felt a strange mixture of relief and concern. "He mentioned he's working on an article about cruise security."

"Maybe," Izzy said noncommittally. "But he's been especially interested in cabins with valuable jewelry." She displayed a photo of Stone in conversation with a cabin steward, gesturing towards a passenger's door. "This was the day before Mrs. Thornton's diamond earrings disappeared."

A knot formed in Bea's stomach. She'd grown increasingly comfortable with Stone over the past few days, even finding herself drawn to his charm despite her commitment to James. The possibility that he might be connected to the thefts was both disturbing and somewhat plausible.

"And then there's this," Izzy continued, bringing up another image. This one showed Oliver Drake checking cabin doors after hours, testing handles when he clearly thought no one was watching. "He's always so proper in public, but I've noticed him doing things outside his normal duties."

Bea studied the image carefully. "That's interesting, but he is Chief Purser. Security checks could be part of his responsibilities."

"At 2 AM?" Izzy countered. "And look at this one."

The next photo showed Chance Wellington accepting what looked like an envelope from a man in ordinary clothes near the crew exit during a port stop.

"Could be anything," Bea noted. "Supplies invoice, personal mail."

"Maybe," Izzy conceded. "But I've taken enough of these to see something isn't right. Almost everyone in authority on this ship has something to hide."

"There's one more thing," she continued, lowering her voice even further. "The night before Roger died, I was photographing the sunset from Deck 10. I caught this in the background."

She displayed a zoomed image showing Roger and Chef Wellington in what appeared to be an intense discussion by the lifeboats.

"Chef Wellington?" Bea asked, surprised.

"They knew each other before this ship," Izzy explained. "A junior cook told me they worked together on the Mediterranean Princess two years ago. Apparently, they had some kind of scheme going—Roger would 'find' lost items from cabins, and Wellington would claim the rewards from grateful passengers."

"Small-time stuff compared to what's happening now," Bea mused.

"Exactly," Izzy agreed. "But maybe Roger tried to blackmail Wellington about their past? Or Wellington is involved in these current thefts too? Everyone who has contact with Roger seems suspicious in some way."

Max abruptly stood, a low rumble emanating from his chest. This time, the footsteps outside the door didn't pass by. They stopped.

Izzy quickly closed her laptop, shoving it into her bag. "Someone's out there," she whispered.

Bea positioned herself between Izzy and the door, while Max moved forward, his stocky body tense but controlled.

A sharp knock made them both jump.

"Housekeeping," called a female voice. "Need to restock supplies."

Izzy exhaled audibly. "It's Nina," she whispered to Bea. "She's safe."

She cracked the door open. "Hey Nina, just using the space for a minute. We'll be out soon."

The cabin steward nodded understanding. "Take your time. But heads up—the security team is doing random checks of all service areas today. They'll be on this deck in about ten minutes."

After thanking Nina, Izzy quickly gathered her materials. "We should go. Separately, I think. I'll take the service elevator, you take the main corridor."

"Wait," Bea said, taking out James's notebook. "Let me write down my cabin number. If you discover anything else, or if you feel unsafe, come find me."

Izzy nodded gratefully, tucking the paper into her pocket. "Just be careful, Bea. Right now, I don't think anyone on this ship is beyond suspicion."

As they parted ways, Bea felt the weight of new information settling in her mind. Max stayed close by her side as they navigated through the service areas back toward the passenger decks.

---

The ship's rhythm had transformed by late afternoon—the usual lazy vacation atmosphere replaced by a subtle undercurrent of tension. Crew members moved with increased purpose, security officers were more visible throughout public areas, and passengers exchanged whispered theories about the "incident" below decks.

Bea had spent an hour in her cabin organizing her notes, connecting the pieces Izzy had shared with her own observations. Max had dozed beside her, occasionally opening one eye when she spoke her thoughts aloud.

"The question is, Max," Bea said, scratching behind his ears, "are these thefts the work of one person or a coordinated group? And which of our suspects—if any—took the next step to murder?" She frowned thoughtfully. "What did Roger discover that got him killed?"

Max offered no insights beyond an affectionate nudge of his wrinkled snout against her hand.

"You're right," Bea sighed. "We need a break. How about we try to read by the pool again?"

At the word "pool," Max's ears perked up. He enjoyed watching the water, even if he showed no interest in entering it himself.

The pool deck was moderately crowded despite the earlier weather issues having passed. Children splashed in the shallow end while adults reclined on lounge chairs, determined to salvage their vacation experience despite the rumors circulating about locked areas and increased security.

Bea found a relatively quiet spot and settled into a chair, pulling "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise" from her bag. Max stretched out beside her chair, positioning himself to observe both the pool and the surrounding deck.

Opening to her bookmark, Bea immersed herself in Selena's investigation of the mysterious footprints near Jack's lifeguard tower. The aspiring marine biologist had just discovered a hidden compartment beneath the tower steps when Max gave a soft whine of recognition.

Glancing up, Bea spotted Stone and Oliver in conversation near the bar. Their body language suggested a serious discussion—Stone occasionally jotting notes in his small pocket notebook while Oliver spoke with measured gestures.

Lowering her book slightly, Bea watched them with careful nonchalance. After a few minutes, they shook hands cordially and parted ways—Oliver heading toward the ship's interior while Stone remained at the bar, ordering what appeared to be some kind of cocktail.

When Stone turned with his drink, he immediately spotted Bea and raised his glass in greeting. After a moment's hesitation, he approached her chair.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said, his easy charm intact despite the serious conversation she'd just witnessed. "Getting some reading in?"

"Trying to," Bea replied, marking her place. "Though it seems the universe is conspiring against me finishing this book."

Stone glanced at the cover with amusement. "The Lifeguard’s Lethal Promise? Sounds like quite the thrilling read." He gestured to the empty chair beside her. "Mind if I join you? Or would that constitute another interruption?"

"Since you've already interrupted," Bea said dryly, "you might as well sit."

Max observed Stone with what appeared to be studied neutrality, neither welcoming nor rejecting his presence.

"I saw you talking with Oliver," Bea commented, trying to sound casual. "Looks like a serious conversation."

"Research," Stone explained, sipping his coffee. "I'm doing a piece on cruise security measures. Oliver's explaining how electronic key cards work, guest access levels, that sort of thing."

"Fascinating subject," Bea remarked. "Especially with the recent thefts."

Something flickered across Stone's face—so quickly Bea almost missed it. "Naturally. Though the cruise line downplays these incidents, characterizing them as isolated events."

"Of course they would," Bea murmured.

Stone studied her over the rim of his glass. "You sound skeptical."

"Let's just say I've noticed some patterns," Bea replied carefully.

Before Stone could respond, the ship's intercom system crackled to life. Captain Anderson's authoritative voice filled the pool deck.

"Good afternoon, passengers. This is your captain speaking. Due to our ongoing security situation, we are implementing additional safety protocols effective immediately. All passengers are required to carry their key cards at all times. Random security checks will be conducted throughout public areas. The midnight to 4 AM curfew remains in effect. Thank you for your cooperation and understanding."

Murmurs spread across the deck as passengers processed this announcement. Several families began gathering their belongings, apparently deciding the pool no longer felt like a carefree environment.

"Getting serious," Stone commented, his professional interest evident. He tipped back his glass and had another drink. "I wonder what triggered the enhanced measures."

Bea thought of Izzy's documentation and Betty's missing pearls. "Probably more missing items reported."

Stone nodded thoughtfully, then changed the subject. "I'm heading to the galley after this. Chef Wellington agreed to an interview about provisioning challenges at sea. Care to join me? Could be enlightening."

Bea considered the opportunity. Wellington's connection to Roger remained unclear, and this might provide valuable insights. "Actually, that sounds interesting."

"Excellent," Stone smiled. "Meet me by the dining room entrance in twenty minutes?"

After Stone departed, Bea packed away her novel with a sigh. Jack Wavecrest's mysterious past would have to wait a little longer.

---

The galley at mid-afternoon presented a different atmosphere than during meal service—still busy, but with more measured activity as staff prepared for dinner. The massive kitchen stretched across an impressive portion of Deck 5, gleaming stainless steel workstations organized in efficient stations.

Stone's press credentials had secured them access, though Wellington had insisted Max remain outside due to "health regulations." Bea had left him with a sympathetic crew member who promised to keep him company in the adjacent crew lounge.

Wellington greeted them with his trademark camera-ready smile, though Bea noticed the strain around his eyes.

"Mr. Coolidge, Mrs. Whitman—welcome to my domain." He gestured grandly to the bustling kitchen. "Apologies for the controlled chaos. Feeding three thousand passengers three meals daily is quite the operation."

Stone immediately launched into his interview, asking detailed questions about supply logistics, menu planning, and staff management. Wellington answered with practiced expertise, occasionally directing them to different stations to illustrate his points.

Bea used the opportunity to observe the kitchen staff, noting their interactions and reactions to Wellington's presence. Most showed professional deference, though a few exchanged glances when Wellington made particularly grandiose claims about his culinary innovations.

As they approached the pastry station, Bea noticed a young woman watching Wellington with undisguised skepticism. When Stone became engrossed in examining the massive refrigeration system, Bea casually drifted toward the pastry chef.

"Those look delicious," she commented, nodding toward the row of perfectly formed chocolate soufflés awaiting the dinner service.

"Chef's special recipe," the woman replied, her tone suggesting otherwise. She continued piping delicate cream designs onto small tarts without looking up.

"You've worked with him long?" Bea asked conversationally.

"Two years," the pastry chef answered. "Since the Mediterranean Princess."

Bea felt a flicker of interest. "That must have been before Roger joined the crew."

The piping bag paused momentarily. "You knew Roger?"

"Not well," Bea admitted. "Did you?"

The woman glanced toward Wellington, who was still engaged with Stone across the kitchen. "Roger was good people. No matter what they're saying now." She resumed her work, voice lowered. "He and Chef had their issues, but Roger didn't deserve what happened."

"What kind of issues?" Bea pressed gently.

Another quick glance at Wellington. "Roger helped Chef with some side business on the Mediterranean Princess. Handled paperwork, deliveries, that sort of thing." She set down her piping bag and picked up a palette knife. "When accounting started asking questions about vendor costs, Chef blamed Roger for the discrepancies."

"Discrepancies?"

"Let's just say Chef likes the finer things in life, and his salary doesn't quite cover those ambitions," the pastry chef explained cryptically. "That's all I know. And all I should say." She pointedly turned her attention fully to her work, signaling the end of their conversation.

Bea rejoined Stone and Wellington as they completed their tour. Wellington was explaining the intricate plating procedure for his signature sea bass when a sous chef approached, whispering something urgent in his ear.

"Excuse me," Wellington said, his pleasant expression faltering slightly. "A small crisis requires my attention. Feel free to continue exploring—my staff will answer any remaining questions."

As Wellington hurried away, Stone turned to Bea with raised eyebrows. "Learn anything interesting in your little side investigation?"

Bea blinked in surprise. "You noticed?"

"I notice everything about you, Bea," Stone replied with a hint of his old charm. "Always have. The way you casually drift toward people with information, the slight tilt of your head when you're asking a seemingly innocent question." He smiled. "You haven't changed."

Before Bea could respond, a commotion near the entrance caught their attention. A security team entered the galley, led by a senior officer Bea didn't recognize.

"Mandatory security sweep," the officer announced to the kitchen staff. "Continue working but please cooperate with our officers."

As the security team began methodically checking work areas, Stone discreetly withdrew a small camera from his pocket.

"What are you doing?" Bea whispered. "Photography isn't allowed in restricted areas."

"Professional necessity," Stone replied, snapping several quick photos of the security team's procedures. "For my article. Don't worry—my editor knows how to blur identifying features."

Bea frowned, remembering Izzy's concerns about Stone's unusual interest in the ship's security. Before she could comment further, Stone tucked the camera away as one of the officers approached them.

"Press interview," Stone explained smoothly when questioned about their presence. "Just wrapping up now."

The officer nodded, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press the issue. "I'll have someone escort you back to the passenger areas. We're implementing additional security protocols throughout the ship."

As they were led from the galley, Bea found herself torn between multiple suspicions. Wellington's past connection to Roger seemed significant, but Stone's behavior raised questions as well. And then there was Oliver Drake—always present, always observing, always perfectly positioned to know everything happening on the ship.

Back in the crew lounge, they found Max charming a group of off-duty staff members who had been taking turns scratching his wrinkled head. He greeted Bea with his typical enthusiastic snorts and wiggles.

"Quite the popular fellow," Stone observed as they reclaimed the French bulldog.

"He has that effect on people," Bea agreed, clipping Max's leash to his harness. "Thanks for letting me tag along to your interview."

Stone's expression grew serious. "Bea, I sense you have questions about me. About why I'm so interested in the ship's security."

Bea met his gaze steadily. "The thought had crossed my mind."

"I'd like to explain, properly," he said. "But not here, not now. Perhaps after dinner? My intentions are professional, I assure you."

Before she could answer, Max barked suddenly and turned toward a passing corridor, his ears pricked forward with sudden interest. Following his gaze, Bea caught a glimpse of Clementine, the ship's orange tabby, trotting purposefully toward a service elevator, something small and shiny clutched in her mouth.

"Looks like we've got another thief on board," Stone remarked with amusement.

Bea watched the cat disappear around a corner, wondering—not for the first time—how many secrets lurked beneath the Paradise Voyager's gleaming surfaces, and how many of those secrets might be worth killing for.

CHAPTER 13

The Paradise Voyager's main deck had undergone a dramatic transformation for Dance Night. Twinkling lights strung overhead created a canopy of artificial stars, complementing the genuine article visible beyond the ship's railings. A temporary dance floor gleamed in the center, surrounded by cocktail tables adorned with flickering battery-operated candles. A live band occupied the small stage, the lead singer crooning a mellow rendition of "The Way You Look Tonight" as couples swayed to the rhythm.

Bea adjusted the strap of her simple navy blue sundress, feeling simultaneously overdressed and underdressed for the occasion. She'd initially planned to skip the event entirely, but Harriet had insisted it would be a perfect opportunity to observe crew interactions in a more relaxed setting.

"Everyone gets a little looser on Dance Night," Harriet had explained. "You'd be surprised what people say after a rum punch and a few turns around the dance floor."

Max, sporting his service vest despite the festive atmosphere, sat attentively at Bea's side as she claimed a small table at the periphery of the action. From this vantage point, she could observe the entire deck while remaining somewhat inconspicuous.

"Just the two wallflowers I was hoping to find," Harriet said, appearing with two glasses of punch. She wore civilian clothes for once—a flattering emerald green dress that brought out the warmth in her eyes. "Drink up. It's mostly fruit juice with just enough rum to make the accounting department loosen their collars."

Bea accepted the glass with a grateful smile. "Thanks. How long have you been here?"

"About twenty minutes. Long enough to notice that Chef Wellington is pointedly avoiding Trish, who looks like she might either burst into tears or throw someone overboard." Harriet nodded toward the opposite side of the deck, where Trish stood alone, clutching her glass like a life preserver as she watched Wellington chat animatedly with a group of admiring passengers.

"That's interesting," Bea mused, remembering their tense exchange at the art auction. "Any sign of Oliver?"

"Making his rounds with mechanical precision," Harriet replied, gesturing toward the Chief Purser, who was moving from group to group with professional smiles that never quite reached his eyes. "Twenty seconds of small talk per passenger, just enough to be remembered as attentive without actually engaging."

Max's ears suddenly perked up, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the deck. Bea followed his line of sight and nearly choked on her punch.

Stone Coolidge had arrived, and "subdued" was decidedly not in his fashion vocabulary tonight. He wore what could only be described as a sartorial fever dream—a blazer patterned with swirls of electric blue, sunset orange, and vibrant purple that seemed to shimmer under the string lights. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to suggest confident casualness without crossing into inappropriate territory. His usual five o'clock shadow looked freshly trimmed, and his hair was artfully tousled in a way that suggested both effort and effortlessness.

"Oh my," Harriet whispered, eyebrows raised in amused appreciation. "Is that for your benefit, or does he always dress like a tropical cocktail on Dance Night?"

"I wouldn't know," Bea replied, shrinking slightly in her seat. "But I have a feeling I'm about to find out."

As if sensing her gaze, Stone turned and spotted her. A smile spread across his face—warm, genuine, and alarmingly disarming. He made his way through the crowd with easy grace, stopping occasionally to exchange pleasantries with passengers who recognized him from around the ship.

"Beatrice Whitman," he greeted her, performing a small theatrical bow. "And the ever-vigilant Max. I was hoping you'd both be here tonight."

Max gave a polite snort of recognition but remained firmly positioned against Bea's leg.

"That's quite a jacket," Bea observed, unable to help herself.

Stone grinned, clearly pleased by her notice. "My lucky dancing jacket. Found it in a little shop in Madrid after getting caught in a flamenco flash mob. The owner insisted it was made for me." He performed a small turn to display the full effect. "I've never lost a dance battle while wearing it."

"I wasn't aware cruise ships hosted dance battles," Harriet remarked dryly.

"The night is young," Stone replied with a wink. He extended his hand to Bea as the band transitioned to a upbeat swing number. "May I have this dance? For old times' sake?"

The question triggered an unexpected memory—Stone and Bea in a dimly lit jazz club in Savannah, swaying to a saxophone solo long after midnight. The way his hand had fit perfectly at the small of her back, how effortlessly they'd moved together despite having had no formal training. It had been one of those rare moments of perfect synchronicity that had made their brief relationship so intoxicating.

And so dangerous to revisit.

"I, um—"

"Mrs. Whitman!" Captain Anderson's voice provided an unexpected reprieve as he approached their table. "I've been hoping to speak with you."

"Captain," Bea acknowledged, relief evident in her voice. "Is everything alright?"

"A small matter regarding the investigation," he said with diplomatic discretion. "Perhaps we could speak privately for a moment?"

"Of course." Bea rose quickly, gesturing for Max to follow. To Stone, she added, "Perhaps another time?"

Stone's disappointment was evident, but his smile remained undiminished. "I'll hold you to that. The jacket stays on until we dance—it's a matter of principle now."

As the Captain led her away, Bea felt both relief and an unsettling flicker of regret. She pushed the latter firmly aside, focusing instead on the Captain's concerned expression as they reached a quieter corner of the deck.

"I wanted to update you personally," he said in a low voice. "We've completed our initial review of the security footage from the night Roger died. Unfortunately, there's an unaccounted-for gap in the recording for the laundry area corridor."

"Someone tampered with it?"

"Possibly. Or it could be a system glitch—we've had issues with that particular camera before." He frowned. "Either way, it complicates matters."

"Has Oliver seen this footage?" Bea asked carefully.

The Captain regarded her with a calculating look. "Yes. He was present during the review, as protocol dictates."

Before Bea could respond, a loud crash from the bar area drew their attention. Trish had apparently knocked over a tray of empty glasses, though whether accidentally or deliberately was unclear. Her face was flushed, her movements unsteady as she attempted to help the bartender clean up while Wellington studiously ignored the commotion.

"If you'll excuse me," the Captain said with a sigh. "I should attend to this."

Bea nodded, watching as he strode toward the scene with practiced authority. Max nudged her leg gently, as if suggesting they take advantage of the distraction to make a strategic retreat.

"Good idea," she murmured to him. "Let's circulate a bit."

They made their way around the periphery of the dance floor, Bea nodding politely to passengers she recognized from dinner or the art auction. She kept her eye on various crew members, noting how they interacted—or conspicuously didn't—with each other.

Izzy was present but not photographing, which struck Bea as unusual. The ship's photographer stood near one of the support pillars, nursing a virgin cocktail and watching the festivities with uncharacteristic stillness. When she spotted Bea looking her way, Izzy gave a small, tight nod before slipping away toward the interior of the ship.

"She's scared of something," Bea whispered to Max. "Or someone."

Max's ears swiveled in response, his attention diverted by a new arrival to the dance floor. Waldo Frankenblatz had appeared, wearing what appeared to be a vintage zoot suit in a shade of mustard yellow that clashed spectacularly with Stone's jacket. He moved with surprising grace, however, executing an impressive series of swing dance steps with a delighted elderly passenger.

"So he can be normal," Bea mused, watching Waldo's transformation on the dance floor. "Relatively speaking, anyway."

She continued her circuit of the deck, eventually finding herself near the bar where Trish now sat alone, staring into a half-empty glass of something amber. The art auctioneer's usual polish had slipped, revealing the strain beneath her carefully maintained facade.

Something in the woman's posture—the slight slump of shoulders usually held rigid with pride—compelled Bea to approach.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked quietly.

Trish looked up, her eyes slightly unfocused before recognition dawned. "Bea. Of course." She gestured to the empty stool beside her with a fluid motion that suggested it wasn't her first drink of the evening.

Bea sat, signaling the bartender for a water. Max settled at her feet, his warm weight against her ankle oddly comforting.

"Not much for dancing tonight?" Bea asked gently.

Trish gave a humorless laugh. "Not much for anything tonight." She took another sip from her glass, wincing slightly at the burn. "Did you know they track our alcohol consumption? Staff accounts have limits. Can't have the crew getting sloppy in front of the paying customers."

"That seems reasonable," Bea offered neutrally.

"Oh, it is. Very reasonable. Very prudent." Trish's voice took on a bitter edge. "Everything about this ship is reasonable and prudent on the surface. It's what happens underneath that's the problem."

Bea remained silent, sensing Trish was heading somewhere with this line of thought.

"Do you know what's not included in our 'reasonable' staff privileges?" Trish continued, lowering her voice. "Casino access. We're not supposed to gamble on board. Bad for morale, they say. Sets a poor example." She laughed again, the sound brittle and sharp. "But there are ways around that, if you know the right people."

"And you found the right people," Bea prompted softly.

Trish's eyes filled suddenly with tears. "I found the wrong people. I always do." She blinked rapidly, determined not to let the tears fall. "I wasn't always like this, you know. I had a gallery in Charleston. Beautiful space, local artists, even some regional recognition."

"What happened?"

"What always happens. Trust." Trish took another sip. "I trusted my business partner—who was also my husband—when he said we needed to expand. Trusted him when he said he'd handle the finances. Trusted him right up until he cleaned out our accounts and ran off with his twenty-two-year-old assistant."

Max shifted position, pressing more firmly against Bea's leg as if sensing the emotional temperature rising.

"I'm sorry, Trish," Bea said sincerely. "That's terrible."

"Ancient history now." Trish waved a dismissive hand. "This job was supposed to be my fresh start. Travel the world, rebuild my savings, maybe open a small gallery again someday." Her expression darkened. "Then I discovered the casino on my second voyage. Turns out I have quite the talent for losing money at blackjack."

Bea hesitated, then ventured, "And Roger found out?"

The change in Trish's demeanor was immediate and dramatic. Her spine stiffened, and when she turned to face Bea, her eyes were suddenly sharp and focused.

"How did you know about Roger?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"I've been helping with the investigation," Bea reminded her gently. "And people talk."

Trish glanced around nervously before leaning closer. "Roger was a sweet kid with a rotten core. The perfect person to do someone else's dirty work."

"Whose dirty work?"

Trish shook her head. "I don't know. I only know he approached me after a particularly bad night at the tables. Told me he knew I'd been breaking company policy, that he had photos." Her voice trembled slightly. "Said he could make them disappear for the right price."

"He was blackmailing you," Bea concluded.

"He called it 'helping me out of a tight spot,'" Trish said bitterly. "Five hundred a week to keep my secret. I don't even know where he thought I'd get that kind of money when I was already in debt to the casino."

"Did you pay him?"

"The first couple of times, yes. What choice did I have? But after that..." Trish trailed off, staring into her glass. "I told him I couldn't keep paying. That he might as well turn me in. And then..."

"And then he died," Bea finished softly.

Trish's head snapped up, her eyes wide. "You can't possibly think I—no. Absolutely not. I didn't kill him. I was relieved when he died, I won't pretend otherwise, but I didn't do it."

Max let out a small whine, drawing Bea's attention to the dance floor where Stone was now performing an energetic salsa with Betty Davidson, who looked positively delighted by her partner's expertise. His jacket seemed to contain its own light source under the overhead bulbs, making him impossible to miss.

"I believe you," Bea said, turning back to Trish. "But I think you might know more than you're saying."

Trish opened her mouth to respond, then abruptly closed it as Oliver Drake appeared beside their table, his expression professionally concerned.

"Ms. Newman," he said, "I wonder if I might have a word with you about tomorrow's auction schedule?"

The tension between them was palpable. Trish drained her glass in one swift motion and stood. "Of course, Mr. Drake. Duty calls." To Bea, she added in a whisper, "Be careful who you trust on this ship."

As they walked away, Max's ears flattened slightly, his gaze tracking Oliver's retreating back with unusual intensity.

"I know, buddy," Bea murmured. "I don't like him either."

The evening continued its curious dance of forced gaiety and underlying tension. Bea successfully avoided Stone's repeated attempts to claim his dance by engaging in strategic conversations with various passengers whenever he approached. She caught glimpses of his amused expression each time, suggesting he was well aware of her tactics and found them entertaining rather than offensive.

By ten-thirty, Bea had gathered enough observations—and dodged enough dance invitations—to justify a retreat. Max, too, seemed ready for some quiet, his vigilant posture beginning to give way to occasional yawns.

"Let's call it a night," she told him, scratching behind his ears. "I think we've seen enough."

They slipped away during a particularly energetic group number that had drawn most attendees to the dance floor. As the sounds of laughter and music faded behind them, Bea felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. The corridor leading to her cabin was blissfully quiet, the plush carpeting muffling their footsteps.

Inside her cabin, Bea kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief and unclipped Max's service vest. He gave himself a thorough shake, as if shedding the formality of the evening along with his working attire.

"You were very patient tonight," she told him, filling his water bowl fresh. "I'd say we both earned some relaxation."

While Max lapped at his water, Bea changed into comfortable pajamas and stepped out onto her private balcony. The night air carried a slight chill, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the ship's interior. The ocean stretched endlessly into the darkness, the horizon a barely perceptible line where the black of the water met the navy of the star-flecked sky.

Wrapped in this cocoon of peaceful solitude, Bea retrieved "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise" from her nightstand, determined to make at least a little progress before sleep claimed her. She settled into one of the balcony chairs, pulling a light blanket over her legs as she found her place in the story.

*Selena stood at the edge of the water, watching Jack's silhouette against the setting sun as he completed his final patrol of the shoreline. The photograph burned in her pocket—evidence that upended everything she thought she knew about him.*

*When he finally approached, his expression changed as he registered the tension in her stance.*

*"What's wrong?" he asked, water still dripping from his powerful frame.*

*"I know about the Thornfield incident," Selena said quietly. "About the businessman's son."*

*Jack's face hardened instantly, the warmth draining from his eyes. "Where did you hear about that?"*

*"Does it matter? Is it true? Were you accused of letting him drown?"*

*For a long moment, Jack said nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if searching for an escape route. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with suppressed emotion.*

*"I was cleared of all wrongdoing," he said. "But the damage was done. The Thornfields are powerful people. They couldn't accept that their precious son would take such risks in a storm. They needed someone to blame."*

*"So you just left? Gave up your career at the resort?"*

*Jack's laugh held no humor. "I didn't 'just leave.' I was told to disappear quietly or face a ruined reputation and endless legal battles. It didn't matter that the investigation found no negligence on my part. The Thornfields made sure everyone at that resort saw me as the man who let their son die."*

A sharp knock at Bea's cabin door startled her from the narrative. Max was on his feet instantly, alert but not alarmed as he trotted to the door.

Bea checked the peephole to find a disheveled Harriet on the other side, her earlier elegant appearance now marred by obvious distress. She quickly opened the door.

"Harriet? What's wrong?"

Her friend pushed past her into the cabin, scanning the room as if checking for intruders before speaking.

"Someone's been in my cabin," she said, her voice tight with anger and fear. "While I was at Dance Night. Everything's been searched—drawers pulled out, mattress disturbed, even my personal photos moved around."

"Was anything taken?" Bea asked, guiding Harriet to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Nothing obvious," Harriet replied, running a hand through her short hair. "But they were looking for something specific, I'm sure of it. Only my things were touched—my cabinmate's side is untouched."

"Did you report it to security?"

Harriet gave a bitter laugh. "And tell Oliver Drake that someone's been through my things? When he's the one with the master key to every cabin on this ship? No thanks."

Max approached Harriet, gently placing his paw on her knee in a gesture of canine solidarity. She scratched his wrinkled head absently.

"I don't feel safe there tonight," she admitted. "I know it sounds paranoid, but—"

"It's not paranoid," Bea assured her. "Not with everything that's happening. You can stay here tonight if you want."

Harriet shook her head. "Thanks, but I've already arranged to bunk with another officer. I just wanted to warn you to be careful. Whoever's behind this is getting desperate."

After Harriet left, Bea double-checked the lock on her cabin door and balcony. Max watched her movements with solemn attention, understanding the seriousness of their situation without needing explanation.

"Just a quick walk before bed," she told him, clipping his leash to his collar. "Then we'll lock ourselves in for the night."

The deck was quieter now, with Dance Night winding down and most passengers either returned to their cabins or relocated to the late-night lounges. Bea and Max strolled along the port side, the peaceful rhythm of the waves against the hull creating a deceptive sense of normalcy.

They had just rounded the corner toward the aft deck when Max suddenly froze, his body tensing as he stared upward. A split second later, he lunged sideways, pulling Bea sharply with him. Something heavy crashed onto the deck precisely where they had been standing, the impact reverberating through the wooden planks beneath their feet.

Bea gasped, adrenaline flooding her system as she registered what had just happened. A heavy metal deck chair lay crumpled where she'd been standing moments before. Had Max not pulled her aside...

A movement on the deck above caught her attention. A shadowy figure was retreating rapidly from the railing. Without thinking, Bea rushed toward the nearest staircase, Max keeping pace beside her as they ascended to the upper level.

"Hey!" she called out, but the figure had already disappeared around a corner.

Max barked sharply, an unusual sound from the normally quiet dog. The bark echoed in the night air, bouncing off metal surfaces as they pursued their would-be attacker.

When they reached the spot where Bea had seen the figure, the deck was empty. Heart pounding, she scanned the area for any sign of movement, finding nothing but shadows and the gentle flutter of a deck flag in the sea breeze.

Something caught her eye—a splash of color against the otherwise muted tones of the ship's exterior. Draped over a railing, as if casually discarded by someone in a hurry, was an unmistakable garment: Stone's wildly patterned "lucky" dancing jacket.

CHAPTER 14

Bea stood frozen on the deck, staring at Stone's wildly patterned jacket. The colorful garment that had seemed so playful just an hour ago now hung draped over the railing like an accusation. The ship's gentle roll beneath her feet couldn't explain the unsteadiness she felt as pieces clicked into place in her mind.

"Stone?" she whispered, the name catching in her throat.

Max pressed against her leg, his sturdy body providing an anchor as her thoughts whirled. The metal deck chair still lay crumpled where it had crashed—where she would have been standing if not for Max's warning. Someone had deliberately pushed that chair, intending to harm her. And now Stone's distinctive jacket—the one he'd claimed never to part with during Dance Night—hung nearby.

She reached for the garment with trembling fingers, then stopped herself. If this was evidence, she shouldn't disturb it. But evidence of what? Of Stone Coolidge—charming travel writer, old flame, the man who'd been flirting with her relentlessly since boarding—attempting to seriously injure or kill her?

It seemed impossible. Yet the jacket was unmistakable.

Max whined softly, glancing between the jacket and the empty deck. His expressive face seemed to mirror her confusion.

"I know, buddy," she murmured. "Let's get back to our cabin. We need to think."

They moved quickly through the corridors, Bea constantly checking over her shoulder. The Paradise Voyager suddenly felt less like a luxury cruise ship and more like a trap. Every shadow held potential danger, every corner a possible ambush.

Inside their cabin, Bea double-bolted the door and checked the balcony before drawing the curtains tight. Max inspected every corner as if conducting his own security sweep before settling on the bed, his watchful gaze fixed on her.

Sleep came fitfully, with Bea jolting awake at every creak and groan of the ship. When morning finally arrived, she felt exhausted but resolved. She needed more information before confronting Stone—or reporting him. And she needed to be extremely careful around him.

"Strategic avoidance today," she told Max as she fastened his service vest. "And we stick together, no matter what."

Max's snort sounded like agreement, his wrinkled face more serious than usual as if he sensed the gravity of their situation.

As they made their way to breakfast, Bea scanned the Horizon Café carefully before entering. Relief washed over her when she spotted Betty Davidson sitting alone at a corner table, elegant as always in a pale pink linen ensemble. No sign of Stone anywhere.

"Betty," Bea said, approaching the older woman with a smile that she hoped didn't reveal her tension. "Mind if Max and I join you?"

"Please do!" Betty gestured to the empty chairs. "I was just thinking how lovely it would be to have some civilized company this morning."

Bea settled into the chair with her back to the wall, positioning herself to see both entrances to the café. Max took his place beneath the table, but remained alert, his ears swiveling at each new arrival.

"You seem a bit on edge, dear," Betty observed, stirring her tea with practiced precision. "Didn't sleep well?"

"Just a restless night," Bea replied, deliberately vague. "This case is getting more complicated by the hour."

Betty nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine. The only mystery I anticipated solving on this cruise was which dessert to choose." She smiled, her eyes twinkling. "Though I must admit, there's a certain excitement to all this intrigue."

"You don't seem particularly worried," Bea noted, adding cream to her coffee.

"My dear, at my age, very little truly alarms me anymore." Betty straightened the napkin in her lap. "I've found that most problems in life aren't worth the energy of excessive worry. Harold—my late husband—used to say that worry is interest paid on trouble before it's due."

Bea smiled at the wise words. "He sounds like he was quite the philosopher."

"Only after his second scotch," Betty confided with a wink. "But he did have moments of profound clarity." She gazed out the window at the vast ocean stretching to the horizon. "You know, this is my first cruise without him. We had planned to do this voyage together for our fiftieth anniversary."

"I'm sorry," Bea said softly. "That must be difficult."

"It is and it isn't," Betty replied thoughtfully. "There's a certain poignancy to experiencing things we planned together, but I've decided that living these moments is better than avoiding them." She tapped her fingers lightly on the tabletop. "Which reminds me—how did you get involved in this detective business? It seems an unusual sideline for a dog trainer."

Bea couldn't help but laugh. "Very unusual. It started with a murder in my small town—a woman who left her French bulldog to me in her will."

"Max?" Betty asked, glancing down at the attentive dog.

"The very same," Bea confirmed. "One thing led to another, and somehow I've become the person who keeps stumbling onto bodies and mysteries."

Betty's eyes lit up with interest. "How fascinating! In my youth, I wanted to be a private investigator. I even took a correspondence course in criminology."

"Really?" Bea asked, genuinely surprised.

"Oh yes. It scandalized my parents completely." Betty chuckled at the memory. "This was the 1960s, mind you. Nice girls from Charleston didn't aspire to chase criminals. I was supposed to join the Junior League and marry well."

"Which you did anyway," Bea observed.

"Indeed, but on my terms." Betty's smile turned mischievous. "Harold never knew that I occasionally solved little mysteries around our social circle. Who was skimming from the charity funds, which husband was having an affair with his secretary—that sort of thing."

Bea studied the elegant woman with newfound respect. "Betty Davidson, amateur sleuth. I'd never have guessed."

"The best detectives are the ones no one suspects," Betty said with quiet pride. "People say the most revealing things when they think they're just chatting with a harmless old woman."

As they continued talking, Bea noticed Izzy enter the café. The photographer appeared even more disheveled than usual, her wild red curls escaping a halfhearted attempt at a ponytail. She carried her camera but wasn't using it—another departure from her typical behavior.

When Izzy spotted Bea, her posture changed subtly. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod toward the exit before busying herself with her equipment.

"Betty, would you excuse me for a moment?" Bea asked. "I need to check something with Izzy about the photos from last night."

"Of course, dear," Betty replied, turning her attention to her grapefruit. "Though I do hope she captured my good side during that rumba with Mr. Coolidge."

The mention of Stone sent a chill down Bea's spine, but she maintained her composure as she made her way to Izzy, Max trotting faithfully beside her.

"Morning," Bea greeted the photographer casually. "Got a minute?"

Izzy glanced nervously around the café. "Not here. Crew lounge on Deck 6, fifteen minutes. I have something you need to see." She hurried away before Bea could respond.

Returning to Betty's table, Bea made her apologies. "Sorry, Betty, but Max and I need to attend to something. Thank you for the information about your necklace—I'll keep you posted if I learn anything new."

"Of course, dear. And do be careful, won't you?" Betty's tone was light, but her eyes held genuine concern. "I've noticed how that Mr. Coolidge watches you when you're not looking. Quite intently."

Bea felt her stomach tighten. "I've noticed too," she said quietly. "Thanks, Betty."

The crew lounge on Deck 6 was a small, utilitarian space hidden behind an unmarked door—not a place passengers were meant to find. Harriet had shown it to Bea earlier in the voyage, explaining it was where off-duty crew members could relax without the pressure of maintaining their professional demeanor.

Izzy was already waiting, nervously fidgeting with her camera. She looked up sharply when Bea and Max entered, visibly relaxing when she recognized them.

"I was afraid you wouldn't find it," she said, gesturing for Bea to sit at a small table in the corner.

"Harriet showed me," Bea explained, settling into the chair while Max positioned himself where he could see both women and the door. "What's going on, Izzy? You seem even more nervous than usual."

"With good reason," Izzy replied, glancing toward the door. "I've been reviewing my photos from the past few days. There's something you need to see." She pulled a small tablet from her camera bag and tapped the screen several times. "I caught this yesterday afternoon."

She handed Bea the tablet, which displayed a photograph of Stone Coolidge in a service corridor—definitely a crew-only area—engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation with a young crew member.

"He's been in crew areas multiple times," Izzy explained, flipping through a series of images showing Stone in various restricted sections of the ship. "Always asking questions, taking notes."

"Research for his article, maybe?" Bea suggested, though her doubt was evident in her voice.

"That's what I thought at first," Izzy replied. "But then I found these."

She swiped to another series of photos. These showed Stone talking with Roger Blackburn in what appeared to be a heated discussion. Roger was gesturing angrily, while Stone maintained his usual composed expression.

"When were these taken?" Bea asked, studying the images carefully.

"The evening before Roger died," Izzy said quietly. "In the crew corridor outside the casino. I couldn't hear everything, but Roger kept saying something about 'getting what he deserved' and 'fair share.'"

Bea felt something cold settle in her stomach. "Do you have more?"

Izzy nodded, swiping to another photo. "This is from security footage I... borrowed. Stone entering a crew-only stairwell about twenty minutes before the estimated time of Roger's death."

Max gave a soft whine, pressing closer to Bea's leg.

"There's one more thing," Izzy said, her voice dropping even lower. "Oliver let me examine Roger's phone yesterday—it's still locked, but the notification screen shows several missed calls in the hours before his death." She paused, eyes fixed on Bea. "From someone identified only as 'SC'."

"Stone Coolidge," Bea whispered, the pieces falling into horrible alignment in her mind.

Izzy nodded solemnly. "It looks that way."

Bea sat back, trying to process this information. The charming travel writer who'd been pursuing her so persistently—the man from her past who'd stirred up old memories and feelings—now appeared connected to Roger's death in multiple ways. And after last night's incident with the deck chair and his abandoned jacket...

"I need to call James," she said suddenly, reaching for her phone. "Thank you, Izzy. Please be careful with these photos—and with Stone."

Izzy nodded, packing away her tablet. "I will. And Bea? Watch your back. If he is involved and he thinks you suspect him..."

The warning hung in the air between them, unfinished but understood.

Back in her cabin, Bea paced as she waited for James to answer her call. Max watched from the bed, his expression somber as if he understood the gravity of the situation.

"Bea?" James's voice finally came through, warm and familiar. "Everything okay? You don't usually call this early."

"James," she began, suddenly uncertain how to explain everything. "I—I need to tell you something."

A pause. "That sounds serious. What's going on?"

Bea took a deep breath. "There's someone from my past on this cruise. A man named Stone Coolidge. We... we were involved, briefly, about twenty years ago."

"Involved?" James's tone remained carefully neutral.

"We dated for about eight months when I was in my twenties," Bea clarified. "It was intense but ultimately went nowhere when he left for an assignment in Peru."

"I see," James said slowly. "And why are you telling me this now?"

Bea sank onto the edge of the bed. "Because he's become a factor in this investigation. And because I should have mentioned him earlier, but I didn't, and now things are complicated and I feel terrible about it."

"Complicated how?" The caution in James's voice was evident.

"He's been flirting with me since we boarded," Bea admitted. "I've made it clear I'm not interested, but he's persistent. And now evidence is suggesting he might be connected to Roger's death and possibly the thefts."

A longer silence followed.

"James?"

"I'm here," he said finally. "Just... processing. You've been spending time with an ex who's been actively pursuing you, and you didn't think to mention this until now?"

The hurt in his voice was unmistakable, and Bea felt a pang of guilt. "I know how it sounds. I should have told you immediately. I was trying to handle it myself, and then the investigation took over, and it just... I messed up, James. I'm sorry."

She heard him sigh on the other end. "What does your evidence suggest about him?"

Bea explained what she'd learned—the photos Izzy had shown her, the missed calls from "SC" on Roger's phone, Stone's presence in restricted areas, and finally, the incident with the deck chair and his abandoned jacket.

"Someone tried to hurt you?" James's voice sharpened with concern. "Bea, you need to report this."

"I know. I will. But I needed to talk to you first." She hesitated. "Are we okay, James?"

Another pause. "We're okay," he said finally. "I wish you'd told me sooner, but I understand why it was awkward. And whatever this Stone person meant to you in the past, I know what we have now is different."

Relief washed over her. "It is different. It's better, James. It's real."

"Just promise me you'll be careful," he said. "If this guy is behind the thefts or worse, the murder, and he thinks you're onto him..."

"I will," she promised. "Max hasn't left my side, and I'm going to talk to the Captain as soon as we hang up."

"Good. And Bea? When you get home, I think we should talk more about this—not in an accusatory way, just... I want to understand why you felt you couldn't tell me right away."

"I'd like that," she agreed. "We're still figuring out how this works long-term, aren't we?"

"We are," James confirmed, his tone warming slightly. "And part of that is learning to share the uncomfortable stuff too."

After ending the call, Bea sat quietly for a moment, absently stroking Max's head. The conversation with James had gone better than she'd feared, but she still felt a lingering guilt. She should have been honest from the beginning about Stone's presence and his attempts to reconnect with her.

Max nudged her hand with his wet nose, his expressive eyes fixed on her face.

"You're right," she told him, scratching behind his ears. "Time to focus on the investigation."

She pulled out James's leather-bound notebook and began organizing what she knew:

1. Stone had been seen in crew-only areas multiple times

2. He had argued with Roger the evening before his death

3. Someone labeled "SC" had called Roger repeatedly before he died

4. Stone's jacket was found near the site of what appeared to be an attempt to harm her

The evidence was circumstantial but concerning. Stone's charm and ease of movement throughout the ship had made him seem harmless—even attractive—but what if that was precisely what made him such an effective thief? His connections as a travel writer would give him access to countless luxury locations. His social skills would help him identify wealthy targets.

But murder? That seemed a significant escalation. Unless Roger had discovered something or threatened exposure.

A knock at her cabin door startled her from her thoughts. Max immediately went on alert, a low rumble emanating from his chest.

"Who is it?" Bea called, moving cautiously toward the door.

"Room service," came the reply. "Complimentary breakfast, Mrs. Whitman."

Bea hadn't ordered room service. She approached the peephole cautiously and looked out.

A ship's steward stood in the corridor, holding a covered tray. Nothing appeared unusual, but Bea's instincts—and Max's continued wariness—gave her pause.

"Who sent this?" she asked through the door.

"Compliments of Mr. Coolidge, ma'am," the steward replied. "With his apologies for missing you at breakfast."

A chill ran down Bea's spine. Stone knew she'd deliberately avoided him this morning. And now he was sending food to her room—food she hadn't requested and hadn't seen prepared.

"I'm not hungry," she called back. "Please return it with my thanks."

"But ma'am—"

"I'm not accepting deliveries," Bea said firmly. "Thank you."

She waited until she heard the steward's footsteps retreat before turning back to Max, whose stance had relaxed slightly.

"I think we need to speak with the Captain right away," she told him, gathering her notes. "Things just got more urgent."

Max gave a determined snort of agreement, positioning himself at the door as if ready to escort her safely through whatever dangers might await outside.

Bea checked the corridor carefully before stepping out. The morning sun streamed through windows along the passageway, illuminating the elegant décor in cheerful contrast to the dark suspicions forming in her mind. As they made their way toward the Captain's office, Bea couldn't help but feel the weight of Stone's potential betrayal—not just of her trust, but of the charming, adventurous person she'd believed him to be.

If he was behind all this, he was far more dangerous than she'd imagined. And she'd been enjoying his attention, even reminiscing about their past together, while he'd potentially been orchestrating thefts, murder, and now an attempt on her life.

The realization left her feeling not just wary, but deeply foolish. She'd always prided herself on her ability to read people—it was part of what made her good with animals and effective in her previous investigations. But Stone Coolidge had managed to charm her despite her best instincts.

That wouldn't happen again.

CHAPTER 15

Bea marched down the corridor with Max trotting purposefully beside her, her mind racing as fast as her heartbeat. The dancing jacket draped over the railing near where she'd nearly been crushed couldn't be a coincidence. Stone had seemed so attentive last night, but perhaps his attention had been more sinister than flattering.

"We need to tell the Captain," she murmured to Max. "Someone tried to kill me last night, and I have a pretty good idea who."

Max's ears perked forward, alert to her tension. As they rounded the corner toward the officers' quarters where Captain Anderson's cabin was located, Max suddenly froze, his stubby nose twitching rapidly.

Bea glanced down. "What is it, buddy?"

The French bulldog angled his head toward a partially open door several cabins down from where they stood. A familiar orange paw appeared in the gap, followed by Clementine's sleek form as the ship's cat slipped out of the doorway with feline grace.

Bea recognized the cabin number immediately—8104, Oliver Drake's quarters. The Chief Purser should have been on duty at this hour, supervising the various ship services that fell under his domain.

Clementine noticed them and, rather than darting away as most cats would, sat down and began methodically grooming her paw, her yellow eyes occasionally flicking toward the open door as if inviting Bea to investigate.

"Is this a feline setup?" Bea whispered to Max, who responded with a soft snort.

The opportunity was too perfect. Drake's cabin might hold answers about the thefts—perhaps even about Roger's murder. Bea hesitated only briefly before making her decision.

"Keep watch," she instructed Max, leaving him positioned where he could see both directions down the corridor.

Bea approached the cabin cautiously, listening carefully for any sounds from within. Hearing nothing, she peered through the partially open door. The cabin appeared empty. She pushed the door open wider, wincing at a small squeak from the hinges, and slipped inside.

Oliver's quarters were a study in disciplined organization. Unlike her own cabin with its casual, lived-in comfort, Drake's space resembled a military barracks after inspection. The bed was made with surgical precision, corners tucked so tightly that a quarter could have bounced off the surface. A small bookshelf contained volumes arranged by height, their spines perfectly aligned at the edge of each shelf.

The desk was equally meticulous—pens lined up by size, papers stacked at exact right angles. A framed photograph of a younger Oliver receiving some kind of cruise line service award stood beside a small model ship in a glass case. Nothing personal, no family photos, no mementos beyond professional accomplishments.

Bea felt a prickle of unease. The cabin's extreme orderliness wasn't necessarily suspicious, but it spoke of a man who valued control above all else.

Moving carefully to avoid disturbing anything, Bea examined the desk drawers. The top two were locked tight, but the bottom drawer slid open when she pulled the handle. Inside lay a legal pad with the cruise line's logo embossed on the top binding.

Bea removed it carefully and opened to the first page. Lists of cabin numbers filled the pages, organized by deck, with passenger names neatly printed beside them. Special notations indicated VIPs, passengers with accessibility needs, and guests with special dietary requirements.

Nothing suspicious there—just the kind of information a diligent Chief Purser would maintain. She continued flipping through the pages until she reached a section marked "Incidents."

Here, Drake had documented the missing items in meticulous detail: dates, cabin numbers, descriptions, and passenger names. Betty's pearls, Harriet's emerald necklace, and a dozen other valuable items appeared on the list. Beside each entry, Drake had noted a monetary value—but the numbers seemed oddly low.

Bea frowned. Betty's South Sea pearls with their sapphire clasp were listed at just $2,200, when Bea knew from her description that they must be worth at least ten times that amount. Harriet's family heirloom, with its historical significance and emotional value, was marked at only $1,800.

Why would Drake undervalue the items so significantly? Was he trying to minimize the crimes in the ship's official records? Or did these numbers represent something else entirely?

The cabin door suddenly swung open. Bea quickly returned the notebook to the drawer, trying to position it exactly as she'd found it. She spun around, heart hammering against her ribs, expecting to see Oliver Drake's outraged face.

Instead, Stone Coolidge stood in the doorway, Max cradled comfortably in his arms, looking altogether too relaxed for someone breaking into the Chief Purser's quarters.

"Your little friend here gave you away," Stone said with a bemused expression.

"Found him sitting dutifully outside the door. Some folks might have thought he was lost, but I recognized a lookout when I see one."

"Some watchdog you are," Bea muttered to Max, who had the decency to look slightly abashed, his wrinkled face somehow conveying both apology and contentment in Stone's arms.

Before Bea could demand an explanation for Stone's presence, the sound of voices approaching in the corridor sent a spike of adrenaline through her system.

She recognized Oliver's clipped tones immediately, his voice rising in an uncharacteristic display of anger.

"This is absolutely unacceptable! Look at this railing—I can see fingerprints from five feet away! Are you trying to make us look like some bargain basement cruise? These passengers pay premium prices for impeccable presentation!"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," came a subdued response from another crew member. "We've been short-staffed since—"

"I don't want excuses, I want results! This entire section needs to be completely repolished before dinner service. Every inch, do you understand? Every. Single. Inch! Make it shine, crewman!"

Bea froze, trapped. The cabin had no balcony, and the bathroom offered no hiding place large enough for an adult.

Stone quickly grasped Bea's wrist, pulling her toward the closet. He pressed a finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence, his expression transforming from amusement to focused urgency.

With no time to question his presence, Bea allowed him to tug her into the narrow closet just as Oliver entered, still berating the unfortunate crew member.

"And when you've finished with that, the brass fixtures in the Crown Room need attention. I spotted tarnish this morning—tarnish! It's as if everyone has forgotten the standards of the Paradise Voyager overnight!"

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," the crew member replied, clearly eager to escape Oliver's tirade.

"Dismissed," Oliver snapped. The cabin door closed with a decisive click.

In the closet, pressed uncomfortably close to Stone in the narrow space, Bea could smell his cologne—something with notes of cedar and bergamot that triggered unwelcome memories of their past together. His chest rose and fell against her shoulder, his breathing carefully controlled.

Through a small gap in the closet door, Bea could see Oliver moving around the cabin. He paused, his head tilting slightly as he surveyed the room. His eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses.

"Something's off," he murmured to himself, turning slowly in place.

Bea's breath caught as his gaze swept past the closet door. Stone's hand found hers in the darkness, squeezing gently. Whether the gesture was meant to comfort or silence her, she wasn't sure.

Oliver approached his desk, studying it carefully. His fingers traced the surface, stopping at the leather blotter that Bea had carefully avoided touching. With precise movements, he opened each drawer, checking the contents. When he reached the bottom drawer, his frown deepened.

"Did I not close that?" he muttered, pushing it shut with a definitive click.

Bea felt Stone's questioning look in the darkness but avoided meeting his eyes. In the confined space, Max was pressed between them, his body tense but remarkably quiet, as if understanding the need for absolute silence.

Oliver continued his inspection of the cabin, moving with the thoroughness of someone accustomed to noticing details. He seemed to sense that something was amiss but couldn't identify what specifically had changed.

Eventually, he sighed and sat at his desk, withdrawing his phone from his pocket. He punched in a number with sharp jabs of his index finger, his annoyance evident in every movement.

"It's me," he said after a moment. "We have a problem. No, not that—that’s been taken care of, remember? The captain has just announced that we won't be docking at Grand Cayman tomorrow due to the ongoing investigation." He listened briefly, his expression darkening. "No, that won't work. We had an agreement. The exchange needs to happen face to face, that was the arrangement."

Another pause, longer this time.

"I don't care about your schedule conflicts! This is precisely why I don't work with amateurs." Drake's voice had dropped to a harsh whisper. "The merchandise is secure, but I'm not making the transfer before I see payment. Find a way to be in Charleston when the crew can finally disembark or the deal is off entirely and I’ll find another buyer."

He rose from his chair, pacing the small cabin as he continued the conversation. "Yes, it's still in the ship's safe. Where else would I keep it? I'm not an idiot."

Bea and Stone exchanged glances in the dim light filtering through the closet slats. Was the “merchandise” the stolen jewelry? Who was Drake planning to meet? And why insist on an in-person exchange when electronic transfers would be less risky?

Oliver's path was bringing him dangerously close to the closet. Max tensed further, his muscles coiled as if ready to defend Bea if discovered. Stone shifted slightly, positioning himself between Bea and the closet door in a protective gesture that she found both unnecessary and oddly touching.

"I don't like complications," Oliver continued into the phone, his voice tight with controlled anger. "The situation is already more delicate than anticipated.”

He stopped directly in front of the closet, so close that Bea could see the tight weave of his uniform jacket through the slats. His free hand reached toward the handle.

A piercing scream cut through the air from somewhere down the corridor. Oliver froze, then immediately disconnected his call.

"We'll finish this later," he muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket and rushing from the cabin.

Bea released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. In the sudden quiet, she became acutely aware of how close she stood to Stone in the confined space, the familiar contours of his body bringing back memories she'd spent years trying to suppress.

"Well," Stone whispered, a hint of his usual wry humor returning to his voice, "of all the closets in all the ships in all the world, you had to walk into mine."

"I think technically, you pulled me into it," Bea replied softly, trying to create mental distance where physical distance was impossible.

"Fair point." Stone made no move to leave their hiding place. "So, found anything interesting before I arrived? Besides me snooping around, of course."

"I could ask you the same question," Bea countered. "What are you doing in Drake's cabin?"

"Research for my article. The mundane truth, I'm afraid." His voice took on a more serious tone. "Though I've been finding that security on luxury cruises isn't quite as robust as the brochures suggest."

"And your connection to Roger?" Bea challenged, remembering what Izzy had told her earlier. "There were calls from 'SC' on his phone before he died. I know all about it."

Even in the dim light, she could see Stone's surprise. "You've been thorough. Yes, I interviewed him several times about crew experiences. He was an excellent source—knew every corner of this ship and wasn't shy about sharing the less glamorous aspects of cruise work."

"Is that why your jacket was found near where I was almost crushed by a falling deck chair last night?" The question came out more accusatory than she'd intended.

Stone's body stiffened beside her. "My jacket? What are you talking about?"

"After Dance Night. Your 'lucky' dancing jacket was draped over an upper deck railing right where someone pushed a heavy chair that nearly hit me. Convenient coincidence, don't you think?"

"Bea." Stone turned to face her fully in the cramped space, his expression serious. "I lost that jacket during the dance. I set it aside for the final number—'Boogie Wonderland,' my absolute favorite—and it was gone when I went back for it. I've been looking for it ever since."

"How convenient," Bea said, not entirely convinced.

"I was nowhere near the upper deck last night," Stone insisted. "I swear to you. After the dance ended, I joined several passengers in the casino until curfew. There are security cameras and witnesses who can verify that."

Max, who had remained utterly still during their hiding, shifted slightly at Stone's words. His reaction wasn't his usual alert posture when detecting a lie, but neither was it full relaxation.

"I'm not sure what to believe anymore," Bea admitted quietly. "This entire ship feels like a web of secrets."

"Welcome to the cruise industry," Stone replied. "Floating cities with their own rules and hierarchies. It's why I wanted to write about security issues in the first place."

A silence fell between them, broken only by Max's soft breathing. Despite the tension of their situation, Bea became uncomfortably aware of how intimate their position was—hidden together in a dark space, speaking in whispers, their bodies close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from Stone.

It was a bizarre parallel to their relationship twenty years ago—the excitement of being somewhere they shouldn't, the thrill of shared secrets, the physical attraction she couldn't entirely ignore despite her commitment to James.

"We should probably get out of here," Bea finally said, breaking the spell. "Whoever screamed might need help."

"Probably a wise idea," Stone agreed, though he made no immediate move to open the closet door. "But Bea... I need you to know I'd never hurt you. Whatever's happening on this ship, I'm not part of it. At least, not the dangerous part."

The sincerity in his voice gave her pause. Max, usually an excellent judge of character, wasn't exhibiting the wariness he typically showed around people he distrusted. Yet something still felt off about Stone's explanations, even if she couldn't pinpoint what.

"Let's go," she said, reaching for the closet door.

The corridor outside Drake's cabin was empty when they emerged, though the sound of distant voices suggested that whatever had caused the scream had drawn a crowd elsewhere on the ship.

"Max, let's check it out," Bea said, straightening her clothes and trying to look as though she hadn't just been hiding in a closet with her ex.

Stone fell into step beside her, his longer stride easily matching her purposeful pace. "Two heads are better than one," he remarked when she glanced at him questioningly.

"I work alone," Bea replied, then looked down at Max. "Well, with one very important partner."

"Partner noted and respected," Stone said with a nod to Max. "But considering we both just committed the same act of breaking and entering, perhaps we could call a temporary truce in our investigation? Share notes?"

Bea hesitated. Stone had journalism connections and an outsider's perspective that might prove valuable. And if he was involved in the thefts or Roger's murder, keeping him close might reveal more than pushing him away.

"Fine," she conceded. "Temporary truce. But no more disappearing jackets or mysterious coincidences, understood?"

"Crystal clear," Stone agreed, his familiar smile returning. "Now, shall we go see what fresh disaster has befallen the Paradise Voyager?"

CHAPTER 16

Bea and Stone moved briskly down the corridor toward the source of the scream, Max trotting alertly beside them. The French bulldog was tense, his ears pricked forward with keen attention. Crew members rushed past them, their faces etched with concern.

"That came from the galley area," Stone said, his usual easy charm replaced by focused determination.

They followed the growing commotion toward the ship's massive kitchen. As they approached, Bea noticed the increasing number of staff gathered near the service entrance, their hushed voices creating a susurrous backdrop to the more urgent shouts coming from inside.

"Stay back, please!" a staff member said, holding his arm out to block their path. "There’s been…an incident."

Stone stepped forward with practiced confidence. "The Captain approved my access, let me through." He flashed his press credentials with such authority that the man hesitated.

Bea seized the momentary confusion. "And I'm assisting with the ongoing investigation. Captain Anderson can confirm."

Whether it was Stone's credentials, Bea's confident assertion, or simply the chaos of the moment, the man relented with a reluctant nod.

The kitchen's usual orchestrated chaos had given way to an eerie stillness. Most of the staff had abandoned their stations, gathering instead in a tight cluster near the walk-in freezer at the far end of the galley. Chef Wellington stood slightly apart, his face ashen beneath his usual tan, phone pressed to his ear.

"Security is on the way," he announced to no one in particular, disconnecting the call. His hands trembled slightly as he lowered the phone—a startling contrast to the precise, controlled movements Bea had observed during his cooking demonstrations.

When he spotted Bea and Stone, his expression shifted. "You shouldn't be here," he said, but the words lacked conviction.

A young woman—the same pastry chef Bea had spoken with earlier—sat huddled on a nearby stool, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. A colleague stood beside her, one hand resting awkwardly on her shoulder in attempted comfort.

"What happened?" Bea asked, keeping her voice gentle.

Before anyone could answer, Oliver Drake pushed through the crowd, two members of security right behind him, his usually immaculate appearance slightly disheveled—perhaps from the hurried journey from his cabin. His gaze swept the kitchen before settling on the freezer door standing ajar, a thin ribbon of condensation spilling out like misplaced fog.

"Who found her?" Oliver demanded, his voice razor-sharp.

"Marta," Wellington replied, nodding toward the pastry chef. "She was getting ingredients for tomorrow's desserts."

Her. The word settled like ice in Bea's stomach. She exchanged a glance with Stone, whose expression had grown uncharacteristically grim. Max leaned hard against Bea's leg, sensing her rising unease.

Oliver approached the freezer doorway and peered inside. His body stiffened momentarily before he pulled himself straighter, assuming the mantle of authority. "Secure the area. No one goes in or out."

Despite his instructions, Bea felt compelled to see for herself. She approached the freezer quietly, positioning herself where she could glimpse inside without disturbing anything.

The sight made her breath catch painfully in her throat. Izzy lay crumpled on the freezer floor, her wild red curls splayed across the stainless steel like flames frozen in mid-dance. A kitchen knife protruded from her back, the handle plain and utilitarian—not one of the chef's distinctive personal tools, but rather one of the standard-issue knives available throughout the kitchen. Izzy's face was turned away, preserving the illusion that she might simply be sleeping.

Most noticeable, however, was what was missing—Izzy's ever-present camera was nowhere to be seen. The photographer had never been without it during Bea's time aboard the Paradise Voyager.

A surge of grief and guilt washed over Bea. Just hours ago, Izzy had shared her suspicions and evidence with Bea. Now she was dead—likely because of what she knew.

Max whined softly, nudging Bea's hand with his cool nose. His gesture brought her back to the present moment, reminding her that they weren't alone. Oliver watched her with an unreadable expression.

"You knew her?" he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

"We spoke occasionally," Bea replied carefully. "She took photos at several events I attended."

Oliver's eyes narrowed slightly behind his thick glasses, but before he could respond, even more security arrived, led by the same officer who had interviewed Bea after Roger's death.

"Everyone clear the area," the lead officer instructed. "Chef Wellington, we'll need statements from all kitchen staff, starting with the person who found the body."

As the kitchen staff were shepherded to a nearby break room, Bea touched Stone's arm lightly. "We should stay. We might notice something security misses."

Stone nodded, stepping back to give the security team space while remaining close enough to observe.

The ship's doctor arrived shortly after, a compact man with silver hair and efficient movements. After a brief examination, he looked up at the security officer. "She's been dead approximately two to three hours. I'll need to conduct a more thorough examination, but cause of death appears to be the very obvious knife wound."

Bea quickly calculated in her head. She had met with Izzy around 2:30 PM, which meant Izzy had been killed sometime between 2:30 and 3:30—after their meeting but before the kitchen would have become busy with dinner preparations. The timing gave most of the crew and passengers, including Stone, no clear alibi.

As the doctor continued his preliminary examination, Bea noticed Oliver approaching the body. With movements that seemed almost practiced, he carefully checked Izzy's pockets, his thoroughness unusual even for someone in his position. Was he searching for something specific?

"Looking for her cabin key?" Bea asked, keeping her tone neutral.

Oliver straightened, adjusting his glasses with one finger. "Standard procedure. Victims sometimes carry identification or personal effects that could be relevant to the investigation."

Before Bea could respond, Chef Wellington approached, his typical bombastic demeanor subdued to near invisibility. He rubbed his hand absently, wincing slightly as though in pain.

"Security wants to speak with you, Mr. Drake," he said. "They're setting up in my office."

When Wellington noticed Bea watching him, he quickly dropped his hands to his sides, flexing his fingers with a forced casualness that did nothing to mask his discomfort. "I should get back to the kitchen," he muttered. "Dinner service will be chaotic enough with half the galley cordoned off."

As Wellington walked away, Bea frowned thoughtfully. The chef's hand pain seemed inconsistent with his usual precise movements. Was it simply the stress of the situation, or something more significant?

Stone appeared at Bea's side, his voice low. "The plot thickens, as they say in your mystery novels."

"This isn't fiction," Bea replied sharply, then immediately regretted her tone. "Sorry. It's just—I spoke with Izzy just a few hours ago. She was gathering evidence about the thefts and Roger's murder."

Stone's expression grew serious. "And now she's dead. That can't be coincidence."

"Exactly." Bea glanced over to where the doctor was completing his examination. "And her camera's missing. Izzy never went anywhere without it."

The doctor gestured to one of the security officers. "I've found something interesting," he said, lifting one of Izzy's hands carefully. "There are traces of what appears to be printer ink on her fingers. See these faint blue-black marks? She must have handled photographs or documents recently."

Bea's mind immediately went to the photos Izzy had shown her—the evidence she'd been collecting about the thefts and Roger's death. Had Izzy printed additional copies? Hidden them somewhere? If so, where—and did her killer know about them?

Captain Anderson arrived, his authoritative presence causing the assembled crew to straighten instinctively. He conferred briefly with the security team before addressing the room.

"This is a tragic situation," he began, his voice grave but controlled. "We will conduct a thorough investigation. Until further notice, all crew members are to travel in pairs while performing their duties. The existing curfew remains in effect and will be strictly enforced."

He paused, surveying the solemn faces around him. "Additionally, I must inform you that we will not be docking at Grand Cayman this afternoon as scheduled."

A murmur of surprise rippled through the group. The Captain raised his hand for silence.

"Port authorities have been notified of our situation. We will maintain our current position until they provide further instructions. This may involve returning directly to our home port of Charleston. In fact, I’d say it’s quite likely, especially given the…current circumstances."

Bea caught Oliver's reaction from the corner of her eye—a momentary tightening of his jaw before his expression smoothed back into professional concern. She recalled his phone conversation in the cabin: *We won't be docking at Grand Cayman... The exchange needs to happen face to face... The merchandise is secure...*

Whatever exchange Oliver had planned for Grand Cayman would now have to wait. The question was: would that make him more desperate—and therefore more dangerous?

The security team began organizing interviews, starting with Marta, the pastry chef who had discovered the body. The young woman's face was tear-streaked but composed as she recounted finding Izzy when she'd opened the freezer to retrieve butter for tomorrow's pastries.

"I swear to you, I didn't touch anything," she insisted, her accent thickening with emotion. "I saw her there and I screamed. Then Chef came running."

"And what time was this?" the security officer asked.

"Just after four-thirty. I was preparing the dessert components for tonight while the main kitchen staff was at their pre-service meeting."

The timeline aligned with Bea's calculations. Izzy had been killed during a relatively quiet period in the kitchen's daily rhythm—a window where someone could enter, commit the crime, and leave without being noticed.

Stone edged closer to Bea. "What do you make of that?" he whispered, nodding toward Wellington, who was now speaking with another officer, still occasionally flexing his hand when he thought no one was watching.

"I'm not sure," Bea admitted. "He seems genuinely shocked, but there's something about that hand that bothers me. It looks like maybe he injured it."

"Could be nothing," Stone suggested. "Kitchen work is physically demanding. Maybe he strained something chopping vegetables."

"Maybe," Bea agreed, though she wasn't convinced. "But the timing is suspicious."

As the initial investigation continued, the security team began clearing non-essential personnel from the area. Bea and Stone found themselves politely but firmly escorted back to the passenger areas of the ship.

"We should compare notes," Stone said as they walked away. "Pool our information."

Bea hesitated, studying his face. Despite their temporary truce, she still wasn't certain how much to trust him. His jacket had been found near her near-miss with the falling deck chair, and the mysterious "SC" calls to Roger's phone remained unexplained to her satisfaction.

Max, however, showed none of his usual wariness around Stone. The French bulldog walked comfortably between them, occasionally glancing up at Stone with what almost seemed like approval.

"Alright," Bea agreed cautiously. "But somewhere private."

They found a secluded corner in one of the less popular lounges on Deck 8. The space was designed to resemble an old-world library, with wood paneling and leather armchairs tucked into discreet alcoves. Perfect for conversations that required privacy.

Max settled at Bea's feet, his body relaxed but his eyes alert, scanning the lounge periodically as if standing guard.

"Izzy showed me photos this morning," Bea began, keeping her voice low. "She'd been documenting suspicious behavior throughout the ship—including yours," she added pointedly.

If Stone was offended, he didn't show it. "Smart woman. What kind of behavior specifically?"

"Crew members in places they shouldn't be. Conversations that seemed confrontational. She had photos of you talking with Roger the night before he died."

Stone nodded, unsurprised. "As I said, I was interviewing him about crew experiences. But our last conversation got heated when he started demanding money in exchange for 'exclusive' information."

"Was he blackmailing you?"

"Not exactly. More like aggressive negotiation. He claimed to have inside knowledge about security vulnerabilities on luxury cruises—my article topic. When I told him it didn’t work like that and I refused to pay, he got angry."

It aligned with what Bea knew about Roger's character—he'd been blackmailing Trish about her gambling, after all. Still, something didn't quite add up.

"And the calls from 'SC' on his phone before he died?"

Stone spread his hands. "Stone Coolidge. I called a few times to try and get his information legitimately, without payment. He never answered."

Before Bea could respond, the ship's public address system crackled to life.

"Attention all passengers and crew," Captain Anderson's steady voice filled the lounge. "Due to an ongoing security situation, we are implementing additional safety protocols effective immediately. All scheduled shore excursions at Grand Cayman have been canceled. We will be adjusting our itinerary to return directly to Charleston, with an estimated arrival time of 0800 hours on Sunday."

The announcement continued with details about refund procedures and alternative onboard activities, but Bea's mind was already racing ahead. The timeline had accelerated—they now had less than forty-eight hours to solve both murders before reaching port.

"We need to find Izzy's camera," she said once the announcement concluded. "Or whatever documents had ink on her fingers. She was building a case against someone on this ship, and they killed her for it."

"Agreed," Stone said. "But we have to be careful. Two people are already dead, and someone tried to crush you with a deck chair." He met her gaze steadily. "And despite what you might still think, it wasn't me."

Max shifted at Bea's feet, looking up at Stone with an expression that seemed almost contemplative for a dog. After a moment, he moved to sit between them, no longer keeping his protective position solely by Bea's side.

"Max seems willing to give you the benefit of the doubt," Bea observed.

"Smart dog." Stone smiled, then grew serious again. "What about Oliver? That thorough pocket-check seemed odd."

"Very," Bea agreed. "And his reaction to the canceled port call was... interesting. He was on the phone earlier claiming 'the merchandise is secure' and insisting on a face-to-face exchange."

Stone's eyebrows rose. "The stolen jewelry?"

"Possibly. And he mentioned meeting someone in Charleston when the ship docks."

"A fence, perhaps? Someone to sell the stolen goods to?"

Bea nodded slowly. "We need to get back into his cabin—check that safe we glimpsed earlier."

"Breaking into the Chief Purser's safe?" Stone shook his head, a glimmer of his usual mischief returning. "That's ambitious, even for us."

"Maybe we won't have to break in," Bea mused. "If Oliver thinks we're less suspicious about him, he might let down his guard."

Stone considered this. "Classic misdirection. Direct his attention elsewhere while we gather more evidence."

"Exactly." Bea glanced at her watch. "It's nearly seven. Dinner service will be starting soon, though I imagine many passengers will opt for room service tonight."

"Not me," Stone replied, straightening his collar. "The dining room is the perfect place to observe reactions to Izzy's murder. Who looks nervous, who's conspicuously absent..."

"Good point," Bea conceded. "Though I should check on Harriet first. With two murders now, she must be worried sick."

As they stood to leave, Max suddenly stiffened, his attention fixed on something across the lounge. Bea followed his gaze to see Clementine sitting regally on a windowsill, watching them with unblinking golden eyes. The ship's cat seemed to be observing their conversation with unsettling focus.

"Even the cat's suspicious on this ship," Stone muttered.

"Or maybe she knows something we don't," Bea replied thoughtfully, remembering how Clementine had led them to Oliver's cabin earlier that day. "On this ship, I'm starting to think everyone has secrets—even the four-legged residents."

CHAPTER 17

"I need to be there," Bea insisted, her voice firm as she faced Captain Anderson across his polished desk. "Izzy trusted me. If there are clues in her workspace, I might notice things others would miss."

The Captain's quarters reflected his military background—spartan yet dignified, with nautical charts and a single family photo and another photo with him shaking hands with some kind of political figure as the only personal touches. He considered her request, fingers steepled beneath his bearded chin.

"Mrs. Whitman, I appreciate your assistance thus far, but this is now a double homicide investigation."

"Exactly," Bea countered. "And with all due respect, your security team hasn't exactly solved the first murder yet."

Harriet, standing beside Bea in her officer's uniform, cleared her throat. "Captain, I'd like to formally request that Bea accompany us. Her investigative experience could prove invaluable."

Max sat at attention between them, his wrinkled face somehow managing to look equally determined. The Captain's gaze fell to the French bulldog, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"Very well," he conceded after a long moment. "But security will be present at all times, and nothing leaves the photography studio without being logged as evidence."

"Understood," Bea agreed, relief washing through her. "Thank you, Captain."

As they left the Captain's quarters, Harriet bumped Bea's shoulder gently. "You know, for someone who claims to be 'just a dog trainer,' you can be pretty persuasive."

"It's all those years negotiating with stubborn terriers," Bea replied with a half-smile. "Humans are actually easier."

The photography studio occupied a surprisingly spacious area on Deck 6, nestled between the theater's upper level and a row of specialty shops. During operating hours, it would be bustling with cruise-goers reviewing their portraits or booking special photo sessions. Now, in the somber aftermath of Izzy's murder, the space felt hollow, the cheerful promotional posters of smiling families jarring against the reality of what had happened.

Two security officers flanked the door, nodding to the Captain's written authorization before allowing them entry. Inside, the main studio area remained untouched—lights still positioned for portrait sessions, backdrop screens ready to transport subjects to tropical beaches or elegant ballrooms.

"Her office is through here," the lead security officer explained, guiding them toward a door at the back of the studio.

Izzy's workspace proved as chaotic as the woman herself had been—desk cluttered with camera equipment, walls plastered with photographs ranging from stunning landscapes to candid passenger moments. Sticky notes in messy handwriting covered one wall, many containing cryptic abbreviations and numbers that made little sense at first glance.

"Has anyone been in here since her death?" Bea asked, scanning the room carefully.

"Just the initial security sweep," the officer replied. "Nothing's been removed."

Max moved methodically around the perimeter of the small office, nose working overtime as he investigated every corner. Bea followed his lead, noting details that might escape casual observation.

The computer monitor sat dark on the desk. When Bea touched the mouse, the screen remained blank.

"It's been wiped," Harriet said, leaning over to inspect it. "Completely reset to factory settings."

"Recently?" Bea asked.

Harriet nodded grimly. "Very. The setup prompt is still active."

“They might still get something off it, but it’s going to take days and have to pass through to the FBI or something like that first.” Bea frowned, moving her attention to the desk drawers. Most contained what you'd expect—camera accessories, shipping logs for photos, maintenance schedules for equipment. Nothing immediately suspicious.

"The printer's empty," she observed, checking the paper trays. "Completely empty."

"That's odd," Harriet agreed. "These machines hold hundreds of sheets."

Max's persistent snuffling drew Bea's attention to a wastepaper basket tucked beneath the desk. Unlike the rest of the methodically searched office, it appeared untouched—still full of crumpled papers and trash.

"Interesting that security didn't empty this," Bea mused, crouching beside Max.

The security officer shrugged. "Standard procedure is to photograph trash in place, then bag everything for later examination."

“Ok for me to sort through it now?” Bea asked.

The officer reached into a small bag and withdrew some nitrile gloves and handed them to Bea. “Should be fine. They’ve already gotten pictures of everything here anyway. Put everything in this evidence bag when you’re done.”

Bea slipped on the pair of gloves and carefully sifted through the contents while Max watched intently. Mostly torn photo prints with minor flaws, discarded shipping notices, and equipment packaging. But at the bottom, partially hidden beneath a coffee-stained napkin, lay a crumpled receipt.

She smoothed it carefully on the desk surface. "Business center, printed yesterday. Fifteen pages," she read aloud. "And a locker rental receipt. Locker 42B."

"The business center has temporary storage lockers for passengers," Harriet explained. "Usually for people working remotely who need to secure documents."

The security officer stepped forward. "We should report this to the Captain immediately."

"Absolutely," Bea agreed, handing him the receipt. "This could be crucial evidence."

While he stepped out to make the call, Bea continued examining the office. Max remained fixated on the trash can, as if certain there was more to discover.

"He's rarely wrong," Bea told Harriet, resuming her search through the discarded items.

"There’s a key," Harriet whispered suddenly, pointing discreetly toward the desk. "Second drawer on the right. I saw it when I was checking the computer. Looks like it probably would go to one of those storage lockers."

Bea glanced toward the door where the second security officer stood with his back to them, speaking into his radio. With subtle movements, she opened the indicated drawer. Tucked beneath a stack of camera manuals lay a small brass key with "42B" engraved on its head.

Harriet gave an almost imperceptible nod. While the officer remained distracted, she deftly palmed the key and slipped it to Bea, who tucked it into her pocket just as the lead officer returned.

"The Captain wants everything documented and brought to security," he announced. "We'll need the area so the rest of the team can collect everything now.”

Bea made a show of checking her watch. "Understood. It's getting late anyway. I should probably get Max back to the cabin."

The lead officer nodded. "We appreciate your assistance, Mrs. Whitman. The Captain will contact you if we need anything further."

As they left the photography studio, Harriet whispered, "Business center closes at eleven. I'll create a distraction if needed."

"Let's hope that won't be necessary," Bea replied softly, feeling the weight of the key in her pocket.

The business center occupied a quiet corner of Deck 7, adjacent to the library. Despite the late hour, a handful of passengers occupied computer stations, checking emails or printing boarding passes for connecting flights. A bored-looking attendant manned the front desk, more interested in his phone than the sporadic customers.

"I'll wait here with Max," Harriet offered, gesturing toward a small seating area near the entrance. "Less conspicuous that way."

Bea nodded, making her way casually toward the back wall where a row of small lockers stood. Finding 42B, she glanced around to ensure no one was watching, then swiftly inserted the key. It turned with a soft click.

Inside lay a manila envelope, sealed and unmarked. Bea slipped it into her crossbody bag without examining the contents, relocked the empty locker, and returned to Harriet with measured steps.

"Got it," she murmured as they exited. "Let's go somewhere else."

They decided on Bea's cabin, which offered both privacy and security. Once inside with the door locked, Bea carefully opened the envelope on the bed while Max watched with keen interest.

"Oh my goodness," Harriet gasped as the contents spilled out.

Color photographs—at least a dozen—along with a handwritten note in Izzy's distinctive scrawl: *If anything happens to me, give this to the Captain ONLY.*

The images told a disturbing story. Several showed Oliver Drake using a master key to enter passenger cabins.

"Look at the timestamps on the photos," Bea pointed out. "These dates all correspond with reported thefts."

Harriet sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "I can't believe it. Oliver has been with the company for decades. He's the most trusted officer aboard."

"Which makes him the perfect thief," Bea reasoned. "Who would suspect the Chief Purser? He has legitimate access to passenger information, cabin assignments, even the ship's safe."

She flipped through more photos. Oliver in conversation with Roger in a service corridor, exchanging what appeared to be a small package. Oliver checking his watch outside a cabin door, clearly waiting for the right moment to enter.

"Izzy was building a case against him," Bea said softly. "She must have been tracking his movements for weeks."

"And it got her killed," Harriet added grimly.

Max suddenly raised his head, ears perked forward as he stared intently at the cabin door. His posture shifted from relaxed to alert in an instant, muscles tense beneath his short coat.

"Someone's out there," Bea whispered, quickly gathering the photos and slipping them back into the envelope.

She moved silently to the door, Max keeping close to her leg. Through the peephole, she saw nothing at first—just the empty corridor. Then a flicker of orange fur appeared at the lower edge of her vision.

"It's Clementine," she said with relief, opening the door slightly.

The ship's cat sat regally in the hallway, her golden eyes fixing on Bea with unsettling intelligence. As soon as the door opened fully, Clementine rose and trotted a few paces down the corridor, then stopped to look back expectantly.

"I think she wants us to follow her," Bea said.

Harriet looked skeptical. "She's a cat, Bea."

"A very unusual cat," Bea replied, already clipping Max's leash to his collar. "And at this point, I'm willing to follow any lead we get."

With a resigned sigh, Harriet joined them in the corridor. Clementine, seemingly satisfied that her human entourage was following, continued her purposeful trot toward the aft section of Deck 8. She led them through a maze of passenger corridors, occasionally pausing to ensure they kept pace.

"This is ridiculous," Harriet muttered after several minutes. "We're following a cat."

"A cat that's lived on this ship longer than most of the crew," Bea countered. "If anyone knows its secrets, it's probably Clementine."

The orange tabby finally stopped at an unmarked maintenance panel in a quiet section of corridor. She pawed at the edge of the panel, then looked expectantly at Bea.

"I think she wants us to open it," Bea said, examining the simple latch mechanism.

Max's demeanor had changed from initial wariness to intense curiosity. He sniffed eagerly at the panel's edge, his stubby tail vibrating with excitement.

Harriet glanced nervously up and down the empty corridor. "Make it quick."

Bea unlatched the panel, revealing a small access space for electrical and ventilation components. But what immediately caught her attention wasn't the ship's infrastructure—it was the collection of items nestled in a makeshift nest of fabric scraps.

"Clementine's treasure trove," Bea whispered, shining her phone's flashlight into the space.

The cat had amassed an impressive collection. Earrings without matches. Luggage tags. Shiny casino chips. A child's plastic bracelet. Hotel key cards from ports of call. Most were essentially worthless—the kind of small, shiny objects that naturally attract feline attention.

"Looks like junk to me," Harriet said.

Max disagreed. His excited snuffling intensified as he tried to stick his head further into the maintenance panel. With gentle restraint, Bea held him back while reaching into the collection.

"Some of these might be from the thefts," she speculated, carefully shifting items. "Small pieces that Oliver didn't consider valuable enough to take."

Her fingers touched something plastic near the back of the space. She withdrew a small white pill container, the kind dispensed by pharmacies. The label bore Chef Wellington's name, partially scratched off but still legible.

“Hey, look at this,” Bea said, holding the pill container to the light.

“What’s it say on the side?”

"Dexicam," Bea read aloud. "Prescribed three weeks ago." She opened the container, finding several small pills inside. "There's still medication in here."

"It’s for severe arthritis," Harriet said, peering at the label. "My mother takes it. Serious stuff with pretty significant side effects."

"Like increased irritability?" Bea asked.

"Among others, yes. It can affect mood, cause agitation, even tremors if the dosage isn't right."

Bea thought back to Wellington's kitchen outbursts, the way he'd been rubbing his hands, his uncharacteristic mood swings. "His hands have been bothering him. I've seen him flexing them when he thought no one was watching."

"Hand arthritis would explain a lot," Harriet agreed. "He's been hiding it because his entire career depends on manual dexterity. For a chef, losing hand strength would be devastating."

Clementine watched them with apparent satisfaction, as if pleased that her collection had provided valuable information. Max gave the cat a friendly nudge with his nose, earning a tolerant blink in return.

"This helps clear Wellington, at least partially," Bea reasoned as she carefully replaced the panel. "Someone with severe hand arthritis would struggle to commit these murders, especially Izzy's. The doctor said significant force was used to drive that knife into her back."

"And it explains his erratic behavior lately," Harriet added. "He's been in pain and trying to hide it."

They made their way back to Bea's cabin, Clementine accompanying them partway before vanishing down a service corridor with a flick of her tail. Inside, Bea locked the door securely before pulling out her phone.

"I need to call James," she said, checking the time. "He'll be worried if I don’t…and he’s really not gonna like it when I tell him about Izzy. He might just charter a helicopter and try to come get me.”

As the phone rang, she stroked Max's head absently, grateful for his steadfast presence amid the chaos. The little dog had settled on the bed beside the envelope of photos, his body positioned protectively over the evidence.

"Bea?" James's voice came through, warm and familiar. "I was just thinking about you. How are things going? You’ve solved it, haven’t you?"

The sound of his voice triggered an unexpected wave of emotion. So much had happened since their last conversation—Izzy's murder, the evidence against Oliver, Stone's unsettling presence—that she hardly knew where to begin.

"Uh…not exactly. There's been another murder," she said quietly. "The ship's photographer, Izzy. She was gathering evidence about the thefts and Roger's death."

"My God, Bea," James's alarm was evident. "Are you sure you're safe?"

"I'm being careful," she assured him. "And I'm never without Max."

She recounted the day's events—discovering Izzy's body, finding the locker key, retrieving the damning photos of Oliver. James listened without interrupting, only asking occasional clarifying questions.

"So you think the Chief Purser is behind everything?" he said finally.

"The evidence is compelling," Bea confirmed. "But we still don't have the full picture. Why kill Roger? Was it just because he wanted a bigger cut of the theft profits? And how did he know Izzy was gathering evidence against him?"

"What does Stone think about all this?" James asked, a hint of tension entering his voice.

Bea hesitated. "He's been helpful, actually. He seems genuinely interested in solving the case."

"Just be wary around him, Bea. Former flames have a way of burning twice."

"Don't worry," she replied, smiling despite the gravity of their conversation. "My heart is firmly anchored in Palm Harbor. How's Luna doing?"

"Missing you both. She keeps checking Max's usual napping spots." James's voice softened. "I'm missing you too. The house feels empty without your morning coffee ritual and Max's snoring."

"We'll be home soon," Bea promised. "And hopefully with this case resolved."

After they said goodbye, Bea stared at the envelope of photos on the bed. The Captain had instructed Izzy to bring evidence directly to him, according to her note. But after finding Oliver going through Izzy's pockets at the crime scene, Bea wondered if the Captain might be compromised as well.

"What do you think, Max?" she asked the little dog. "Who can we trust on this ship?"

Max tilted his head thoughtfully, then settled more firmly over the envelope, as if suggesting they should keep the evidence secure for now. His loyalty and instincts had proven invaluable throughout this investigation, and Bea was inclined to follow his lead.

Alone in her cabin with the weight of Izzy's evidence and the knowledge of a murderer walking freely among them, Bea found unexpected comfort in the simple presence of her four-legged partner. Whatever tomorrow brought, they would face it together—just as they had faced every challenge since Max had entered her life.

She securely stored the photos in a hidden compartment of her suitcase, then prepared for bed, keeping her cabin door double-locked and a chair wedged beneath the handle for good measure.

CHAPTER 18

Bea woke early, her mind still processing the revelations from the night before. The clock on her bedside table read just past six—too early for most passengers to be stirring, but perfect for gathering her thoughts. Max lay curled at her feet, his gentle snores a reassuring soundtrack in the quiet cabin.

She reached for James's leather notebook, flipping through her scribbled observations. The photos of Oliver entering passenger cabins at suspicious times, the prescription pill bottle with Wellington's name on it, the fact that Izzy had been systematically documenting activities aboard the ship for weeks before her murder—all pieces of a puzzle Bea was determined to solve.

"What do you think, Max?" she whispered, not wanting to wake him fully but drawing comfort from his presence. "We're getting closer to the truth, but something still doesn't fit."

Max opened one eye, offering a sleepy blink before stretching his little legs out widely. He yawned, his wrinkled face contorting expressively, before settling back into a more alert position. Even half-asleep, he seemed ready for whatever the day might bring.

"You're right," Bea said, smiling at his silent support. "Time to get moving."

After a quick shower and a simple breakfast from the Horizon Café, Bea decided her first order of business was to follow up with Trish Newman. The art auctioneer's gambling debts and connection to Roger demanded further exploration, especially given her visible distress since his death.

Finding Trish proved easier than expected. The ship's daily schedule listed an "Exclusive Preview of Fine Art Selections" at nine o'clock in the gallery—a smaller, more intimate version of the regular auctions. When Bea arrived with Max at her side, she found Trish alone, carefully arranging paintings against the gallery's track lighting.

"Good morning," Bea called softly, not wanting to startle the woman. "Need any help?"

Trish turned, her silver-blonde hair catching the gallery lights. She looked more composed than the last time Bea had seen her.

"Bea," she acknowledged with a weary smile. "And Max. What brings you to the gallery so early? The preview doesn't start for another forty minutes."

"Actually, I was hoping to talk with you," Bea said, approaching a display of watercolor seascapes. "About Roger."

Trish's hands stilled on the painting she was adjusting. "I've already told security everything I know."

"This isn't about the official investigation," Bea assured her. "I'm just trying to understand what happened. For Harriet's sake, at the very least."

Something in Trish's posture softened at the mention of Harriet's name. She glanced toward the gallery entrance, then back at Bea.

"Five minutes," she conceded. "I need to finish setting up before Betty and the others arrive."

"Betty's coming?" Bea asked, momentarily distracted.

"She requested a private showing for herself and a few friends," Trish explained. "The safest time for our most valuable pieces is early morning—fewer people around. Less risk."

The irony wasn't lost on Bea, given the recent thefts. She followed Trish to a small seating area tucked behind a partition.

"You mentioned Roger was blackmailing you," Bea began once they were seated, Max settling at her feet with a contented sigh. "About your gambling."

Trish's perfectly manicured fingers twisted together in her lap. "Yes. He somehow obtained photos of me playing blackjack in the casino after hours. It's strictly against company policy—grounds for immediate termination."

"And given your debts, losing this job would be catastrophic," Bea filled in.

"Precisely." Trish sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "But I need to be clear about something, Bea. I didn't kill him. I couldn't have."

"Because?"

"Because when Roger was killed, I was on a video call with my bankruptcy attorney." Trish met Bea's gaze directly. "The ship's internet logs can verify it. I was in my cabin for over two hours that morning, desperately trying to find a way out of this financial nightmare."

Bea nodded thoughtfully. "And Izzy?"

"During that time, I was right here in the gallery, conducting a private showing for several other passengers." Trish gestured around them. "At least six people can vouch for my whereabouts. We were discussing a particularly valuable Conrad oil painting they're considering as a group investment."

The timeline matched what Bea knew about both murders. Trish couldn't have been in two places at once. While her gambling problem had given her a potential motive, her alibis effectively removed her from suspicion.

"Did Roger ever mention anything unusual to you?" Bea asked. "About discoveries or suspicions he might have had?"

Trish hesitated, her gaze drifting to a distant point. "Actually, yes. The last time I saw him—the day before he died—he said he'd 'discovered something big' that would solve all his financial problems."

"Did he elaborate?"

"No, but he seemed almost manic about it. Excited and terrified at the same time." Trish shook her head. "I assumed it was just another of his schemes. Roger was always looking for the easy way."

From what Bea had gathered about Roger, that assessment seemed accurate. His blackmailing of Trish certainly suggested opportunism rather than principle.

"Thank you for being honest with me," Bea said, rising as she noticed movement near the gallery entrance. "I appreciate it."

"I didn't kill anyone, Bea," Trish said quietly as they walked back to the main gallery. "But whoever did needs to be stopped before anyone else gets hurt."

Leaving Trish to her preparations, Bea's thoughts turned to her next target of investigation: Chef Wellington. The pill bottle in Clementine's treasure trove had raised interesting questions about the temperamental chef's behavior.

Max padded alongside her as they made their way to the kitchen areas, his nails clicking softly on the polished floors. The ship's rhythm had changed since Izzy's murder—crew members moved in pairs, security was more visible throughout public areas, and passengers spoke in hushed tones when passing through corridors.

The galley was between meal services, the usual frenetic energy temporarily subdued. A few prep cooks worked at stations preparing vegetables for lunch, but the main cooking area stood relatively quiet. Bea spotted Wellington in a small side kitchen, alone and intensely focused on a row of sauce preparations.

His back was to the entrance, but Max's soft whine alerted him to their presence. He turned, surprise briefly crossing his face before his professional mask slipped back into place.

"Mrs. Whitman," he acknowledged with a stiff nod. "You again. The dining room isn't open for another two hours."

"I'm not here for food," Bea replied, stepping into the small prep area with Max at her side. "I wanted to ask you about your medication."

Wellington's knife clattered against the cutting board. "E-excuse me?"

Bea reached into her pocket and produced the small prescription bottle they'd found in Clementine's hidden nest. "Dexicam. For arthritis, I believe."

The chef's face paled beneath his tan. "Where did you get that?"

"Clementine had it. The ship's cat has quite the collection of items. She appears to be quite the little thief herself."

Wellington's jaw worked silently for a moment before he sighed, the sound heavy with defeat. "I suppose everyone will know soon enough."

"Know what?" Bea prompted gently.

"That my career is over." He flexed his right hand, wincing visibly. "Rheumatoid arthritis. Started about eighteen months ago. The medication helps, but the doctor says it's progressing faster than they'd like."

Bea observed his hands more carefully—the slight swelling at the knuckles she'd previously attributed to years of kitchen work, the careful way he positioned his fingers when reaching for items.

"It must be painful," she said, setting the bottle on the counter between them.

"You have no idea." Wellington's carefully maintained façade cracked. "Some mornings I can barely hold a spoon, let alone a chef's knife. But what else am I supposed to do? This kitchen is my life."

"Is that why Roger was helping you?"

Wellington's head snapped up. "How did you—"

"I observe things," Bea said. "The same way I've observed you struggling with tasks that should be simple for someone with your experience. Roger was covering for you, wasn't he?"

The chef sank onto a nearby stool, suddenly looking much older than his years. "Yes. He helped me with prep work when no one was looking. Carried things when my hands were particularly bad." He gave a bitter laugh. "The irony is, I was the one who recommended him for this ship when we worked together on the Mediterranean Princess. I thought I was doing him a favor."

Max moved closer to Wellington, his warm body pressing against the chef's leg in a gesture of canine empathy that made the man's eyes widen in surprise.

"That phone call I overheard," Bea said. "About pricing and agreements. It wasn't about stolen goods, was it?"

Wellington shook his head. "My medication. The pharmaceutical supplier that works with the cruise line has been steadily raising prices. I've been trying to negotiate better terms since my insurance only covers part of it." He gestured to the bottle. "That stuff costs more than some of the fine wines we serve."

"It would be incredibly difficult for someone with such severe hand arthritis to stab two people with significant force," Bea observed, thinking aloud.

"Is that what this is about?" Wellington's expression darkened. "You think I killed Roger and Izzy? Are you mad?"

"I'm just gathering information," Bea assured him. "Would you mind showing me how you hold a knife now?"

After a moment's hesitation, Wellington held up his knife. His fingers curled around the handle with visible effort, the grip awkward and clearly painful. When he attempted to make a chopping motion, his hand trembled noticeably. He barely made it through the carrot which was placed on the cutting board in front of him.

"I can still manage some tasks on good days," he explained, setting the knife down with relief. "But precision cutting? Deboning? The signature techniques that built my reputation?" He shook his head. "Those days are numbered."

"I'm sorry," Bea said sincerely. "Does the Captain know?"

"Not yet. I've been putting off that conversation." Wellington's pride was evident in the set of his shoulders. "Once they know, it's only a matter of time before I'm replaced. Relegated to some corporate test kitchen or worse, cooking demonstrations for retirees on cruise ships."

“What about the cable television show I’ve heard about?”

“Forget it,” Wellington said, tossing the knife down on the counter with a clatter. “As soon as they see me working in the kitchen, they’ll know…and then that goes away like everything else.”

The scenario he described—a diminished version of his current role—clearly terrified him more than the pain itself.

"Your secret is safe with me," Bea assured him. "For now, at least."

Wellington nodded gratefully. "Roger was many things, Mrs. Whitman, but he did help me when I needed it. I didn't kill him. Or Izzy."

With Wellington's arthritis essentially ruling him out as a killer, Bea's mental list of suspects narrowed further. She needed to speak with Nina, the cabin steward who had known Roger, to fill in more gaps.

She found Nina on Deck 8, restocking her housekeeping cart near the service elevator. The young woman looked up as Bea and Max approached, a weary smile crossing her face.

"Mrs. Whitman," she greeted them. "And Max. How can I help you today?"

"I wanted to ask you a bit more about Roger," Bea said, helping Nina arrange fresh towels on her cart. "You worked with him for several months, right?"

"Almost a year," Nina confirmed. "Since he joined the Paradise Voyager last summer."

"Did you ever notice anything unusual about his cleaning routine?" Bea asked. "Specifically regarding the ventilation systems?"

Nina paused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "That’s funny—now that you mention it, yes. Roger was always checking vents and air conditioning units. More thoroughly than any of us."

"Did you find that strange?"

"Not really? I figured he was just being meticulous." Nina lowered her voice. "But after... what happened... maybe there was more to it."

"More how?" Bea prompted.

"Like maybe he was using the vents to hide things temporarily," Nina explained. "It would make sense, given where they found that bracelet, and later his phone."

Max nudged Bea's leg, his ears perked with interest as if he understood the significance of this connection.

"Did you ever see Roger interacting with Oliver Drake?" Bea asked.

Nina's eyes widened slightly. "Actually, yes. Once, about a month ago, I saw Roger slipping something into a welcome basket that Mr. Drake was preparing for a VIP passenger in the Sunset Suite."

"What kind of something?"

"I couldn't tell exactly. It was small, wrapped in tissue paper." Nina bit her lip. "But Mr. Drake caught him doing it. They had a tense exchange in the corridor afterward. Roger looked scared."

This new piece of information aligned with the emerging pattern. If Oliver and Roger had been working together on the thefts, perhaps Roger had overstepped or tried to operate independently.

"Thank you, Nina," Bea said. "You've been very helpful."

As Bea and Max made their way back toward the passenger areas, the sound of familiar voices caught her attention. They were passing one of the smaller lounges where a group of older passengers gathered around a table, Betty Davidson's distinctive laugh rising above the general conversation.

"I haven't had that much fun at a casino since Monte Carlo in '89," Betty was saying. "And to win nearly five hundred dollars while learning Texas Hold'em—what a delightful evening!"

"You're a natural card player, Betty," another woman responded. "Though I suspect having such a charming instructor helped."

"Mr. Coolidge definitely knows his way around a poker table," Betty agreed.

Bea slowed her pace, Betty's casual mention of Stone sending a jolt of interest through her. She lingered near the lounge entrance, pretending to check the daily activities board while continuing to listen.

"What time did you finally leave the casino?" someone asked Betty.

"Nearly midnight," Betty replied. "I would’ve stayed longer, but the curfew, you know. They closed the entire casino early. Right when I was on a hot streak!"

The timing struck Bea with sudden clarity. Midnight. The same time she'd almost been struck by the falling deck chair—the incident where Stone's distinctive jacket had been found nearby.

She entered the lounge casually, greeting the assembled seniors with a warm smile. "Good morning, everyone. Sounds like you had quite the evening."

"Bea, dear!" Betty waved her over. "And Max, how handsome you look today. Have you been to the art preview yet? Trish has some lovely new pieces."

"Just came from there, actually," Bea replied, taking a seat beside Betty while Max settled at her feet. "Couldn't help but overhear about your poker success. That must have been around the same time I was taking Max for his evening walk."

"We were all together from about nine until midnight. Mr. Coolidge was teaching us poker basics. I'd never understood the appeal before, but he made it quite entertaining."

"Stone was with you the entire time?" Bea asked, trying to keep her tone casual.

"Absolutely," Betty confirmed. "He never left the table. Maybe he was trying to win back all the moolah he lost!" She chuckled. "I’m afraid luck was not on his side that night!"

The knot that had formed in Bea's stomach began to loosen. If Stone had been in the casino with Betty and her friends until midnight, he couldn't have been on the upper deck pushing furniture at her. Someone else must have taken or used his jacket.

Betty must have noticed something in Bea's expression, because she leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Is everything alright, dear? You seem troubled."

"Just putting pieces together," Bea replied. "This investigation has taken some unexpected turns."

"Speaking of unexpected," Betty said, glancing around before continuing in a hushed tone, "I remembered something that's been bothering me. About Oliver Drake."

"Oh?" Bea's interest sharpened immediately.

"The first night at dinner, when he complimented my pearl necklace—he specifically mentioned the sapphire clasp." Betty's perfectly manicured fingers touched her throat where the missing pearls would have rested. "But I never mentioned that detail to him. The clasp was always hidden at the back of my neck."

"Could he have seen it when you turned away?" Bea suggested, playing devil's advocate.

Betty shook her head. "That's what I wondered at first. But then I remembered a conversation we had weeks ago, during a previous cruise. He seemed particularly interested in which jewelry pieces I kept in my cabin safe versus wearing daily."

This revelation sent Bea's mind racing. If Oliver had been cataloging Betty's jewelry before it went missing, it suggested premeditation and insider knowledge that went beyond opportunity theft.

"That is interesting," Bea acknowledged, careful not to show too much reaction. "Thank you for telling me."

As Bea excused herself from the gathering, the pieces were finally falling into place. Oliver Drake, the fastidious, respected Chief Purser, had both the access and opportunity to execute the thefts. His position gave him legitimate reasons to enter any cabin on the ship. He managed the ship's safe where valuables could be stored. He knew passenger schedules and habits.

And now, it seemed, he had specific knowledge about jewelry items before they were stolen.

Max trotted alongside Bea as they headed toward the Purser's Office, his demeanor alert and ready for whatever came next. The prescription bottle had cleared Wellington. Trish's alibis removed her from suspicion. Stone's presence in the casino eliminated him as her attacker.

All arrows now pointed to Oliver Drake—the perfect thief hiding in plain sight. It still somehow seemed impossible.

Bea paused, considering her next move carefully. Confronting Oliver directly would be dangerous, especially if he had already killed twice to protect his operation. She needed to bring her evidence to Captain Anderson, but first, she wanted to gather one more crucial piece of information.

"Come on, Max," she said, changing direction. "We need to find Harriet."

CHAPTER 19

"So that's everything," Bea concluded, placing the last photograph on the small table between her and Harriet. "The undervalued items in his notebook, the photos of him entering cabins during reported thefts, the mysterious phone call about 'merchandise' and a face-to-face exchange in Charleston."

Max lay at her feet in Harriet's cabin, occasionally lifting his head to track their conversation. The afternoon light filtered through the tiny porthole window, casting shifting patterns across the evidence they had methodically arranged.

Harriet exhaled slowly, running a hand through her short hair. "I still can't believe it. Oliver Drake? He's been with Festival Cruise Lines for years. He has commendations from three different captains."

"The perfect cover," Bea replied, tapping one of the photographs. "Who would suspect the Chief Purser? He has legitimate reasons to be everywhere, knows passenger schedules, has access to all the rooms."

"And the ship's safe," Harriet added, the realization dawning in her eyes. "He's been storing the stolen items there I bet, right under everyone's noses."

"Hiding in plain sight." Bea gathered the photos into a neat stack.

"But a murderer?" Harriet's voice held a note of disbelief. "Stealing jewelry is one thing, but killing Roger and Izzy?"

"Roger probably tried to blackmail him for a bigger cut. And Izzy..." Bea gestured to the photographs. "She was documenting everything. If these photos had reached the Captain before Oliver could intervene—"

"It would have been over for him," Harriet finished.

Max suddenly perked up, his wrinkled face turning toward the door moments before a knock sounded. His eyes remained alert but not alarmed, suggesting he recognized the scent of whoever stood outside.

"Expecting someone?" Bea asked.

Harriet shook her head, rising to answer. When she opened the door, Captain Anderson stood in the corridor, his expression grave.

"Ms. Hughes, Mrs. Whitman," he nodded to each in turn. "I've just been briefed on the contents of Izzy's locker. The security team is preparing to question Mr. Drake, but discreetly. We don't want to tip him off."

"Captain," Bea said, standing, "I think we need more than questions. We need to catch him in the act."

"What did you have in mind?" the Captain asked, his tone careful but interested.

Bea was about to respond when a commotion in the hallway caught their attention. The unmistakable sound of Waldo Frankenblatz's voice carried through the open doorway.

"But the crystals must be properly aligned before we reach port! The harmonic convergence depends on proper north-south orientation when crossing the thirtieth parallel!"

Harriet rolled her eyes. "He's been bothering the navigation team all afternoon about some 'electromagnetic disturbance' he claims is affecting his sleep patterns."

Max trotted to the doorway, his head tilted with curiosity as Waldo came into view. The eccentric passenger was dressed in what appeared to be a robe made entirely of metallic strips in various shades of gold and copper, giving him the appearance of a human disco ball. But what caught Bea's attention was the bracelet adorning his left wrist—a gaudy, oversized piece with what looked like enormous gemstones catching and scattering light with every dramatic gesture he made.

A plan began to form in Bea's mind.

"Mr. Frankenblatz," she called, stepping into the hallway. "That's quite a bracelet you're wearing."

Waldo paused mid-gesticulation, his face lighting up at being addressed. "Ah, the canine whisperer and her noble companion!" He crouched down to Max's level, addressing the French bulldog directly. "And how is your aura today, good sir? Very blue-green, I see. Excellent for intuitive work."

Max responded with a polite snort, his stubby tail giving a single wag of acknowledgment.

"My bracelet?" Waldo continued, standing and thrusting his wrist forward for inspection. "A magnificent piece, isn't it? The stones appear to be precious gems of extraordinary mystical value, but they're actually composed of common earthly ingredients—glass, compressed minerals, and what I believe was once part of a 1970s lava lamp."

"It's remarkable," Bea said truthfully. "And it certainly looks valuable.”

"That's the point!" Waldo exclaimed with delight. "Reality is merely perception filtered through expectation. If one expects to see value, value appears!"

Captain Anderson watched this exchange with the patient expression of a man accustomed to Waldo's eccentricities. "Mr. Frankenblatz, I believe the navigation team has addressed your concerns—"

"Would you mind if we borrowed your bracelet?" Bea interrupted, the final pieces of her plan clicking into place. "Just for this evening."

Waldo's eyebrows shot up, his expression one of surprised pleasure. "Borrow my cosmic conductor? For what purpose, if I may inquire?"

"To catch a thief," Bea said simply.

A gleeful smile spread across Waldo's face. "Intrigue! Mystery! Clandestine operations!" He unclasped the bracelet immediately and placed it in Bea's palm with ceremonious gravity. "And most importantly, karmic justice! Use it wisely, detective. The universe has clearly orchestrated our paths to intersect at this precise moment for this exact purpose."

"Thank you," Bea said, closing her fingers around the bracelet. "We'll return it tomorrow."

"Keep it if you wish!" Waldo declared magnanimously. "I have seventeen more in various chromatic frequencies. This one is merely calibrated for Wednesdays and detecting deception—perfect for your needs, I suspect!" With that, he continued down the corridor, humming what sounded like the theme from "Mission: Impossible."

When Waldo was out of earshot, Bea turned to the Captain and Harriet. "I think I know how to catch our thief red-handed."

---

"Are you sure about this?" Betty Davidson asked, examining the bracelet that now adorned her wrist. "This bracelet…it’s really something else.”

"That's the beauty of it," Bea explained. "Oliver doesn't need to examine it closely. He just needs to believe it's valuable enough to steal."

They sat in Betty's cabin, preparing for the evening ahead. The "Final Night Formal" dinner was scheduled to begin in just over an hour, and Betty was already dressed in an elegant silver gown that complemented her perfectly coiffed hair.

“But—” Betty started.

"You'll need to make sure he overhears you," Harriet added. "Mention it casually but clearly—you're grateful the thief somehow missed your even more valuable bracelet."

"And don't forget to mention your plans to continue your 'hot streak' at the casino tonight," Bea reminded her. "We need him to believe your cabin will be empty for several hours."

Betty nodded, a spark of excitement in her eyes. "I understand completely. It's rather thrilling, isn't it? Like something out of an Agatha Christie novel."

"Except the danger is very real," Captain Anderson interjected from his position near the door. "Mrs. Davidson, if at any point you feel uncomfortable with this plan—"

"Nonsense," Betty interrupted with a dismissive wave. "That man has my pearl necklace—the last gift my Harold gave me. I want him caught, and I'm delighted to help make that happen."

Max, who had been investigating the perimeter of Betty's cabin with methodical care, suddenly paused near the wall-mounted air conditioning vent. He sniffed intently at the edges, then looked back at Bea with what she recognized as his "discovery" expression.

"What is it, buddy?" Bea asked, moving to examine the vent. It was larger than the one in her own cabin, positioned near the floor and secured with standard screws. "I think Max just found another way Oliver might access the cabins. Through the ventilation system."

Captain Anderson frowned. "The maintenance conduits are too small for an adult to navigate."

"Not to crawl through," Bea agreed, "but perhaps to reach through. If Roger was helping by hiding items in vents, what if Oliver used the maintenance access panels to retrieve them? He'd only need to reach in with a tool to grab whatever was stashed there."

Harriet knelt beside Max, examining the vent more closely. "It's possible. The maintenance panels in crew areas connect to these vents. If you knew the ship's layout well enough..."

"Which Oliver certainly does," Bea finished.

"I'll have security check all access points after dinner," the Captain promised. "For now, let's focus on our original plan."

Bea took a moment to check her appearance in Betty's mirror. She wore the same black dress from the previous formal night, its subtle shimmer catching the light as she moved. James's silver bracelet with the paw print charm adorned her wrist, a comforting reminder of home amid the building tension of their operation.

"Everyone clear on the plan?" Bea asked, turning back to the group.

Captain Anderson nodded. "Once dinner concludes, security will position themselves in the cabin across the hall. Mrs. Davidson will make a point of mentioning the casino, then leave with several other passengers. Mrs. Whitman and Ms. Hughes will join us in the surveillance position."

"And when Oliver takes the bait," Harriet added, "we catch him in the act."

Betty studied Waldo's bracelet on her wrist, turning it to catch the light. "What a strange little man that Waldo is."

Bea smiled. "Sometimes the most unexpected people provide exactly what we need." She glanced down at Max, who had returned to her side. "Ready for dinner?"

Max's expression conveyed both readiness and resignation—another formal event meant another bow tie.

---

The Crown Room had been transformed for the final formal dinner of the cruise. Crystal chandeliers gleamed overhead, catching and multiplying the light from hundreds of candles arranged throughout the space. White orchid centerpieces adorned every table, their elegant simplicity allowing the fine china and silverware to take center stage.

The atmosphere carried a hint of celebration tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that their voyage was nearing its end. For most passengers, tomorrow would bring a return to ordinary life. For Bea and her companions, it would—hopefully—bring resolution.

Their table was set for eight, though Bea noticed only six place settings had been arranged. "Is someone missing?" she asked Harriet quietly as they took their seats.

"Izzy's place hasn't been set," Harriet whispered back. "And I believe they've removed Trish from our rotation as well."

Bea nodded understanding. Izzy's absence was a somber reminder of why they were here, playing out this elaborate trap.

Max settled beneath the table, his body pressed reassuringly against Bea's ankles. She had clipped his bow tie collar in place before leaving the cabin, the formal attire drawing approving smiles from the dining room staff.

Betty was seated directly across from Oliver's place setting at the table—a position strategically selected to facilitate their plan. She made a point of adjusting Waldo's bracelet several times, ensuring it caught the light whenever she reached for her water glass.

When Oliver arrived, Bea noted that his uniform was, as always, impeccable—not a wrinkle visible, golden braid gleaming at his shoulders. His composure seemed entirely unaffected by the knowledge that security was actively investigating the thefts. Either he was innocent, or he was a man with remarkable self-control.

"Ladies," he greeted them with a slight bow, "you all look lovely this evening. Final night formal dinners are always my favorite event of the cruise."

Betty beamed at him. "Why thank you, Mr. Drake. I do try to make an effort for these occasions."

Stone arrived moments later, his tuxedo perfectly fitted, hair artfully tousled in that way that suggested deliberate carelessness. His eyes found Bea immediately, a smile spreading across his face.

"I was beginning to think you might have abandoned ship," he said, taking the seat beside her. "You disappeared quite thoroughly this afternoon."

"Investigation business," Bea replied, keeping her voice light. "Sometimes leads can't wait."

"Ah, the demanding schedule of an amateur detective," Stone teased, though she caught the genuine curiosity in his eyes. He knew something was afoot but was wise enough not to press for details in their current company.

Captain Anderson completed their table, his presence unusual enough to draw curious glances from nearby diners. Typically, the Captain dined at a table with the most high-profile passengers, not with a random assortment of guests.

"Special occasion," he explained smoothly when Oliver raised a questioning eyebrow. "I like to rotate through different tables during the final night. Gets me better acquainted with our passengers."

Dinner progressed through its courses: a delicate seafood amuse-bouche, followed by a rich lobster bisque, then a refreshing citrus sorbet to cleanse the palate. Throughout the meal, Betty maintained a steady flow of conversation, skillfully working in mentions of jewelry and valuables with natural ease.

"I was just telling Mrs. Whitman," Betty said as the main course was served, raising her voice slightly to ensure Oliver could hear, "that despite the unfortunate disappearance of my pearls, I'm actually quite relieved the thief somehow missed my bracelet." She extended her wrist, making sure he could see it. "It's considerably more valuable, though I rarely wear it on cruises. Too ostentatious for everyday, don't you think?"

Oliver's gaze flickered to her wrist, lingering just a moment longer than casual interest would warrant. "Indeed, Mrs. Davidson. A beautiful piece."

"Rather sentimental too," Betty continued with practiced nonchalance. "Belonged to my grandmother." She adjusted it again, ensuring the light caught the stones. "I typically keep it in my cabin safe, but I thought, why not enjoy it on our final night?"

"A wise choice," Oliver replied, his tone perfectly modulated to convey polite interest without excessive enthusiasm. "One should enjoy one's treasures."

Bea observed this exchange carefully, noting the way Oliver's pupils had dilated slightly at the sight of the bracelet. His interest was undeniable, though masterfully concealed.

As the dessert course arrived—a decadent chocolate soufflé with gold leaf accents—Betty seamlessly introduced the second part of their setup.

"I'm looking forward to visiting the casino after dinner," she announced to the table at large. "I had quite the lucky streak last night, and I'm hoping to continue it. Mr. Coolidge gave me some excellent poker tips."

Stone raised his glass in acknowledgment. "Happy to help, though I suspect you have a natural talent for cards, Betty." He took a sip of wine and turned to Bea. “How about you? Won’t you join us as well? I seem to remember you being quite good at blackjack.”

Bea blushed slightly. “Sure,” she lied. “I’ll join you. Sounds fun.”

Oliver dabbed his lips with his napkin, his expression pleasantly neutral. "The casino can be quite entertaining on the final night. Many passengers feeling lucky before returning home and wanting to take something big back with them."

"Will you be joining us, Mr. Drake?" Captain Anderson asked, his tone casual but his eyes watchful.

"Unfortunately, sir, I have duties to attend to," Oliver replied smoothly. "End-of-cruise inventory and preparations for disembarkation keep me quite busy this evening."

"Such dedication," Betty remarked. "The ship clearly runs so efficiently because of staff like you."

The irony of her statement hung in the air between those aware of their plan, though Oliver appeared to take the compliment at face value.

As coffee was served, Bea felt the familiar sensation of Max shifting position beneath the table. His warm body pressed more firmly against her legs, a subtle signal that he was processing something of interest. She discreetly glanced under the tablecloth to find him watching Oliver with focused attention, his ears up and swiveling to catch every sound the Chief Purser made.

Stone leaned close to Bea, his voice a murmur meant for her ears alone. "I get the feeling I'm missing something significant. Care to enlighten me later?"

"Possibly," Bea replied just as quietly. "If everything goes according to plan."

The dinner concluded with the Captain's traditional farewell toast, thanking all passengers for choosing Festival Cruise Lines. As they prepared to disperse, Betty made a point of speaking loudly about meeting friends at the casino in twenty minutes, "after I freshen up in my cabin."

Oliver excused himself first, citing his duties. Bea watched him go, noting the deliberate pace of his exit—unhurried, giving no indication of urgency or anticipation.

"Think he took the bait?" Harriet whispered once Oliver was out of earshot.

"We'll find out soon enough," Bea replied.

---

The surveillance position had been carefully prepared in the cabin directly across from Betty's. Two security officers in plain clothes had set up discreet monitoring equipment, allowing them to observe the corridor without being obvious about it.

Bea, Harriet, Captain Anderson, and Max settled into position, the anticipation in the small space almost palpable. Max lay near the door, his body alert but calm, occasionally tilting his head as if listening for specific sounds in the corridor.

"Once Mrs. Davidson has been seen entering the casino," the Captain explained, "we'll give it thirty minutes. If Drake is going to make his move, it will likely be then."

Bea nodded, her mind reviewing their plan for any potential weaknesses. "What about the ventilation access I mentioned earlier?"

"Security has a team checking maintenance panels throughout this deck," the Captain assured her. "If he attempts entry that way, we'll be alerted."

The minutes ticked by slowly. Bea occupied herself by double-checking the equipment while Harriet made small talk with the security officers. Max never left his post by the door, his vigilance unwavering.

Finally, a radio clipped to one of the officer's belts crackled softly. "Target subject has been observed entering the casino area. All observed aspects of the plan appear to be proceeding as expected."

"Excellent," the Captain replied. "Maintain visual contact with Mrs. Davidson and alert us of any changes."

Bea checked her watch. The waiting game had begun.

Twenty-three minutes later, Max suddenly raised his head, ears swiveling toward the door. A moment later, the radio crackled again.

"Subject Drake observed entering passenger corridor on Deck 8. Moving in your direction."

Everyone tensed, moving to their assigned positions. One security officer monitored a small screen showing the corridor feed, while the other positioned himself near the door, ready to move when given the signal.

"Visual confirmation," the first officer whispered. "Drake approaching target cabin."

Through the peephole, Bea could see Oliver pausing outside Betty's door. He glanced in both directions, then withdrew something from his pocket—a master key card. With practiced efficiency, he swiped it through the reader and slipped inside once the light flashed green.

"He's in," Bea whispered.

"Wait," the Captain instructed. "Let's give him time to locate the bracelet."

The seconds stretched into minutes, tension building in the small cabin. Max remained utterly still beside Bea, his focus absolute.

"Now," the Captain finally said, giving the hand signal they had agreed upon earlier.

They moved swiftly and silently into the corridor. The Captain nodded to Bea, who inserted the duplicate key card Betty had provided.

The door swung open to reveal Oliver Drake standing beside Betty's dresser and on the opposite side of the bed, Waldo's bracelet in his hand, examining it under the nightstand lamp. His head snapped up, surprise flashing across his face before his features settled into a mask of professional concern.

"Captain," he said, his voice betraying only the slightest tremor. "I was just conducting a security check. Mrs. Davidson reported concerns about her—"

"Save it, Oliver," Captain Anderson interrupted, his tone hard. "You’re under arrest."

For a suspended moment, Oliver remained perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Then, with unexpected speed, he lunged toward the balcony, shoving the nearest security officer to the floor with surprising strength.

"Stop him!" the Captain shouted as Oliver wrenched open the sliding glass door.

The security officer grappled with Oliver, but the Chief Purser delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs, momentarily stunning him. In the confusion, Oliver managed to slip out onto the balcony, slam the door shut, and wedge one of the small deck chairs under the handle creating a temporary barricade.

"He's going up!" Harriet shouted, pointing to where Oliver had begun climbing onto the railing, reaching for the balcony above.

The Captain immediately directed one security officer to clear the barricade while sending the other to head upstairs and cut Oliver off from above.

“Break the glass if you have to! Don’t let him escape!” Captain Anderson shouted.

"Come on," Bea said to Harriet, already moving toward the door with Max at her heels. "We can take the stairs!"

They raced down the corridor to the stairwell, hearts pounding as they took the steps two at a time. Max kept pace easily, his sturdy legs propelling him upward with surprising agility.

Emerging onto the deck above, they scanned the area for signs of Oliver or the security team. The upper deck was quieter than usual, most passengers still at dinner or evening entertainment.

"I don't see him," Harriet said, her breath coming in short bursts from their sprint.

"Let's check the balconies," Bea suggested, moving toward the row of cabin doors.

They had just rounded a corner when Max suddenly growled—a sound so unexpected from the normally quiet dog that Bea turned in surprise. Before she could process what was happening, a figure lunged from behind a service door, grabbing her from behind.

Oliver's arm locked around her throat, not quite choking but firmly restraining her. "Don't move," he hissed into her ear. "Tell your friend to back off."

Harriet froze, her eyes wide with alarm. "Oliver, don't do this. You're only making things worse."

"Worse?" He laughed bitterly. "I'd say we're well past 'worse' at this point."

Max began barking furiously, his stocky body tense with protective rage but unable to attack without risking Bea's safety.

"Years of perfect service," Oliver continued, his voice harsh against Bea's ear. "Decades of building a reputation, and for what? To be paid a fraction of what I deserve?" His grip tightened slightly. "Do you have any idea what I've had to put up with? Entitled passengers, demanding captains, endless regulations—"

"So you started stealing," Bea managed to say, trying to keep her voice calm despite her racing heart.

"I started collecting what I was owed," Oliver corrected. "A retirement fund. No one would have gotten hurt if Roger hadn't gotten greedy and if that photographer hadn't been so nosy."

Bea could feel the tension in his body, the slight tremor in his hand indicating the strain of his position. She needed to keep him talking while looking for an opportunity to break free.

"The jewelry in the ship's safe," she said. "You were planning to transfer it in Charleston?"

"Enough talking," Oliver snapped, beginning to edge backward toward another service door. "We're going to—"

A dull thud interrupted him, followed by his sudden release of Bea as he crumpled to the deck. Standing behind him, a large metal ice bucket in hand, was Stone Coolidge.

CHAPTER 20

"Sorry I'm late," Stone said, placing the bucket carefully on a nearby lounge chair. "I was looking for you when I heard Max barking." He glanced down at Oliver's prone form. "Did I miss much?"

Max immediately rushed to Bea, licking her face and looking up with concern in his expressive eyes. She reassured him with a gentle scratch behind his ears and stood back up.

"Your timing is impeccable," she told Stone, her voice a bit shaky despite her attempt at composure.

Harriet was already checking Oliver, who was groaning softly, clearly stunned but not seriously injured. "He'll have quite a headache, but he'll live."

Thundering footsteps announced the arrival of the security team, followed closely by Captain Anderson. They quickly secured Oliver, who offered no further resistance as he was helped to his feet.

Bea and Harriet exchanged triumphant glances as they gathered with Stone, the Captain, and security personnel in a loose semicircle around Oliver. The ship's Chief Purser looked considerably less dignified now, his perfect uniform rumpled and his usual composure shattered.

"Mr. Drake," Bea began, her professional dog trainer voice in full effect, "we've assembled quite a collection of evidence against you." She nodded to Harriet, who produced the envelope of photos from Izzy's locker.

"Photos of you entering passenger cabins during reported thefts," Harriet continued, displaying several images. "Testimony from multiple crew members who saw you in places you shouldn't have been at suspicious times. And let's not forget Waldo's bracelet, which you so eagerly pocketed just now."

Oliver's eyes darted between them, calculation evident even in his dazed state. Max remained vigilant at Bea's side, his sturdy body practically vibrating with attentiveness.

Captain Anderson stepped forward, his expression a mixture of disappointment and resolve. "You've been with Festival Cruise Lines for over thirty years, Oliver. I trusted you completely."

"And that's exactly why it worked so well," Oliver replied, a surprising hint of pride creeping into his voice. His shoulders straightened slightly as he seemed to make a decision. "Perfect service record, commendations from three different captains, always by the book. Who would ever suspect me?"

"So you admit to the thefts?" the Captain asked, his tone hardening.

"Why deny it now?" Oliver said with a casual shrug that chilled Bea to her core. "Yes, I've been running this operation for years. Quite profitable too, until Roger got too greedy."

Bea felt her breath catch. The cold admission was more disturbing than any denial would have been.

"Roger was helping you?" she prompted, wanting to hear the full confession.

"Not exactly," Oliver replied, adjusting his glasses with a finger – the familiar gesture now seeming sinister rather than merely fastidious. "Roger wasn't my partner. He caught me hiding jewelry in a ventilation shaft one night after that maintenance training. The little opportunist immediately saw a chance for profit."

"So he blackmailed you," Harriet stated.

Oliver's expression darkened. "He threatened to expose everything unless I gave him half the profits. Half!" He shook his head in disgust. "After all my planning, all my risk, he wanted half for simply keeping quiet." He shrugged again, the gesture chillingly casual. "Business decision, really. He had to go."

Bea felt a wave of disgust. "And Izzy? The ship's photographer?"

"Just in the way," Oliver replied dismissively. "I caught her photographing me retrieving items from the vents. Some hobby photographer she was—always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Couldn't have her showing those photos to anyone."

Stone shook his head in disbelief. "All this for what? Money?"

"For what I'm worth," Oliver snapped, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through his calculated calm. "Do you have any idea what this company pays me after thirty years of perfect service? A fraction of what I deserve. So yes, I created my own retirement fund."

"Mr. Drake," Captain Anderson said formally, "you're relieved of duty and confined to the ship's brig under guard until we reach port. There, you'll be remanded to the authorities to face charges of theft, multiple counts of breaking and entering, and two counts of murder."

Two security officers moved forward to secure Oliver's arms. For a moment, he seemed to accept his fate, shoulders slumping in resignation. Then, with surprising speed, he twisted free of their grasp and bolted toward the side of the ship.

"He's making a run for it!" Harriet shouted.

Bea saw with horror that they were near the railing overlooking the ocean. Through the darkness beyond, she could make out the distant lights of Grand Cayman, still visible though they'd been forced to bypass docking there.

"Stop him!" the Captain commanded as Oliver vaulted onto a deck chair and from there to the polished brass railing.

"You'll never catch me," Oliver called back, a wild gleam in his eyes visible even behind his thick glasses. "I'm an excellent swimmer, and I've planned escape routes in every port. Grand Cayman's not that far—I can make it!"

As he prepared to launch himself overboard, his foot slipped on the highly polished brass railing—the very same railings he'd obsessively demanded be kept immaculate throughout the cruise. Instead of diving gracefully into the ocean, Oliver tumbled backward, landing hard on the deck with a painful thud.

Security personnel were on him instantly, restraining him properly this time.

"Those spotless railings finally served a purpose," Harriet muttered, watching as Oliver struggled against the officers' grip. "Just not the one he intended."

As Oliver was led away, still cursing and fighting, Captain Anderson turned to Bea with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.

"I can't thank you enough, Ms. Whitman," he said, shaking his head. "Oliver Drake—I still can't believe it. I never would have suspected..." He trailed off, then straightened his shoulders. "Well, the passengers and crew of Paradise Bound owe you a debt of gratitude."

Bea found herself suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline of the past few minutes draining away to leave fatigue in its wake.

"I see you decided against meeting me in the casino," Stone commented lightly, though his eyes studied her with genuine concern. "Though I can see you had more pressing engagements."

"Sorry about that," Bea replied with a weak smile. "Next time I'm setting a trap for a killer, I'll be sure to schedule more carefully."

Stone laughed, the sound warm and unexpectedly comforting. "I'll hold you to that."

Max pressed closer to Bea's side, his solid warmth a reminder of everything she truly valued—loyalty, protection, and the simple comfort of a friend who asked for nothing in return.

"I should check on Betty," Bea said, looking toward Harriet. "Let her know we were successful."

"And I should help the Captain with the aftermath," Harriet agreed. "There will be reports, evidence to catalog..."

"I'll escort you back to Betty's cabin," Stone offered to Bea. "After what just happened, I'd feel better knowing you're not wandering the ship alone."

Under normal circumstances, Bea might have insisted she could manage perfectly well on her own. But the memory of Oliver's arm around her throat was still too fresh, the reality of how dangerous he truly was now undeniable.

"Thank you," she said simply.

As they walked back toward the stairs, Max keeping close by her side, Bea found herself reflecting on the strange path that had led her here—from a simple vacation meant to help her friend to uncovering a theft ring and capturing a killer.

Tomorrow they would begin the journey home, back to Palm Harbor, back to James and Luna and the life she had built there. But tonight had changed something fundamental in her understanding of herself. Whatever label others might apply—amateur detective, dog trainer with a knack for mysteries—she had faced genuine danger and emerged victorious.

Max looked up at her, his wrinkled face somehow managing to convey pride, and Bea couldn't help but smile. Whatever adventures lay ahead, she knew exactly who she wanted by her side—her loyal partner with the cold nose and warm heart.

CHAPTER 21

The morning sun warmed Bea's face as she settled into a quiet deck chair, far from the bustling activity of passengers preparing for disembarkation. Max had accompanied her on an early walk around the ship, both of them savoring their final hours aboard the Paradise Voyager. Now, with the French bulldog contentedly curled at her feet, she finally had the opportunity to finish "The Lifeguard's Lethal Promise."

"Third…or is the fourth… time's the charm," she murmured, opening to her bookmark. The novel had become something of a running joke in her mind—every attempt to read it had been interrupted by something or other. But with Oliver Drake now securely confined in the ship's brig awaiting authorities in Charleston, Bea could finally immerse herself in Jack and Selena's fictional cheesy romance-mystery-drama.

She quickly found herself caught up in the story, the real world fading around her as Selena confronted the powerful Thornfield family about their son's drowning:

*"You've been lying all this time," Selena said, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her veins. "Your son didn't drown because Jack failed to save him. He drowned because he ignored the warning flags and swam out during a riptide after drinking at your private beach party."*

*William Thornfield's face hardened, his wealth and privilege a tangible force in the room. "You have no proof."*

*"Actually, I do." Selena placed the waterproof camera on the mahogany desk. "Your son's friend was filming that day. He sent me this footage after your threats forced him into silence."*

Bea turned the pages eagerly, following as Selena and Jack worked together to clear his name, expose the Thornfields' web of corruption, and ultimately find justice. The final chapter showed them opening a small marine conservation center, Jack's knowledge of the ocean now dedicated to education and preservation rather than rescue.

*"Some things are worth fighting for," Jack said, his arms around Selena as they watched the sun set over their new beginning. "Some people, too."*

*Selena leaned into his embrace, the past year's struggles fading like footprints in the sand at high tide. "We saved each other," she whispered. "And now we'll save this place, too."*

*As his lips met hers, Selena knew that some promises were meant to be kept, and this one—their promise to each other, to the truth, to the future—would endure like the eternal rhythm of the waves against the shore.*

Bea closed the book with a satisfied sigh. Despite the somewhat melodramatic prose, the story had provided exactly the escape she'd been seeking. She tucked the novel into her bag, mentally composing a recommendation for Martha Wheeler back home. The retired librarian had a weakness for beachside romances.

A soft snuffling sound drew her attention to the deck beside her chair. Max had shifted in his sleep, his stumpy legs twitching as he chased dream rabbits. Next to him, curled in a perfect orange circle, lay Clementine. The ship's cat had apparently decided Max made an acceptable napping companion. The unlikely pair dozed in a patch of sunlight, the cat's tail occasionally flicking across Max's wrinkled face without disturbing him.

"Well, look at you two," Bea whispered, unwilling to disturb their peaceful slumber.

A passing steward noticed her watchful gaze and paused. "They've been inseparable all morning haven’t they?" he commented quietly. "Captain says Clementine's earned extra treats for helping solve the case."

"Her collection certainly provided valuable clues," Bea agreed, thinking of the pill bottle that had helped clear Chef Wellington.

The steward nodded. "Management decided her 'borrowing' habit is harmless—part of her charm. Guests love telling stories about the items she's relocated over the years." He glanced at his watch. "Will you be attending the Captain's farewell luncheon at noon, Ms. Whitman?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Bea replied, though her thoughts were already turning toward home, toward James and Luna waiting in Palm Harbor.

When the steward moved on, Bea leaned back in her chair, enjoying the gentle sway of the ship and the distant horizon where ocean met sky. After days of tension and danger, this peaceful moment felt particularly precious.

---

The Grand Atrium had been transformed for the Captain's farewell luncheon. White linen tablecloths draped round tables positioned to maximize the panoramic ocean views. Silver cutlery gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, and elaborate floral arrangements perfumed the air. The guests of honor—those who had contributed to solving the case—occupied the center table.

Betty Davidson adjusted her pearl necklace, newly restored to its proper place around her neck. "I can hardly believe I have it back," she said, her fingers lingering on the distinctive sapphire clasp. "I thought surely my pearls would be gone forever."

Harriet nodded, her own emerald necklace catching the light as she moved. "Finding my grandmother's necklace intact was... well, there aren't words." Her voice caught slightly. "When I think of what it survived—the London Blitz, my great-grandfather's naval service, all those years—only to be stolen on my watch..."

"But now it's home," Bea said gently. "Where it belongs."

Max lay beneath the table, his compact body pressed against Bea's ankles. He'd been remarkably adaptable throughout their adventure, but she could sense his readiness to return to familiar territory—their home, their routines, and especially his friend Luna.

Captain Anderson approached their table, looking supremely casual in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt adorned with pink palm trees and flamingos. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, addressing the assembled guests, "on behalf of Festival Cruise Lines, I extend our deepest gratitude for your assistance in resolving the unfortunate situation aboard the Paradise Voyager."

His speech continued, diplomatic and measured, referring to Oliver's crimes as "incidents" and "unfortunate events" rather than the theft ring and murders they truly were. Corporate damage control at its finest, Bea thought, though she understood the necessity.

"Mrs. Whitman," the Captain concluded, turning specifically to Bea, "your insight and courage deserve special recognition. Please accept this token of our appreciation." He presented her with an embossed envelope.

Inside, Bea found a voucher for a complimentary cruise for two. "Thank you, Captain," she said politely, though the thought of boarding another cruise ship anytime soon made her stomach clench slightly. Still, perhaps someday—with James beside her—she might consider it. Definitely with James though, she thought firmly.

As lunch progressed through multiple courses, Bea noticed Chef Wellington moving through the space with practiced efficiency, supervising the service. His hand movements seemed more measured now, no longer attempting to hide his condition. Their eyes met briefly across the room, and he gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. Not friendship, exactly, but mutual respect.

Near the dessert station, Trish stood chatting with a group of passengers. She'd traded her flashy designer clothes for a more subdued ensemble—elegant still, but less ostentatious. Bea had heard through Harriet that Trish had enrolled in a gambling addiction program and was working with the cruise line's employee assistance department rather than facing termination.

"Not exactly happy endings," Harriet murmured, following Bea's gaze, "but hopeful beginnings, perhaps."

Bea nodded. "Sometimes that's enough."

A familiar flamboyant figure approached their table, drawing every eye in the vicinity. Waldo Frankenblatz had outdone himself for the farewell luncheon, wearing what appeared to be some kind of black spandex suit with oversized sunglasses and a pair of eyeglasses with built-in LEDs that flashed brightly in every color of the spectrum.

"My fellow cosmic voyagers!" he greeted them, executing a small bow. "What a journey we've shared through these temporal and spiritual waters!"

Betty chuckled. "Indeed, Mr. Frankenblatz. Your assistance was invaluable."

"The bracelet!" Waldo exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering. "My crystalline frequency transmitter! I trust it performed its deceptive function admirably?"

Bea reached into her purse and carefully withdrew the gaudy bracelet. "It worked perfectly," she assured him, holding it out. "Thank you for lending it to us. We couldn't have caught Oliver without it."

"Ah, yes, the bracelet," Waldo said, accepting it with casual indifference. "Cartier, 1938, platinum with Burmese rubies and African diamonds. Worth about four million at auction, I'd imagine, though material value is such a limiting concept, don't you think?"

Bea froze, her mouth slightly open. "Cartier? Four million?"

"Give or take," Waldo shrugged, already slipping the priceless piece into the glitter-covered fanny pack on his waist as casually as if it were a subway token. "I bought it from a delightful old woman in Monaco who claimed it once belonged to a Russian grand duchess. The vibrational frequency aligned perfectly with my collection's harmonic balance."

"But—" Bea struggled to find words. "I thought it was costume jewelry. You said it was made of 'earthly ingredients' and—"

"Well, aren't all things ultimately composed of earthly ingredients?" Waldo laughed, the sound like wind chimes in a breeze. "Carbon and minerals arranged in particular patterns. Fascinating, isn't it?"

Without waiting for a response, he performed a small spin and his glasses nearly fell off. "Must dash! The gravitational pull of the charleston harbor activates precisely at 2:17, and I need to be properly aligned with magnetic north!" With that, he danced away, leaving Bea staring after him in stunned disbelief.

"Did that really just happen?" she asked Harriet.

"With Waldo? Always." Harriet grinned. "Though I have to admit, even I didn't know about the bracelet's value."

Betty leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. "I did. Recognized it immediately. It's from the Cartier Winter Collection of 1938—only three were ever made. I almost said something when you first showed it to me, but I figured if Waldo was willing to risk it, who was I to object?"

Bea shook her head, wondering yet again at the strange cast of characters this cruise had assembled.

As the luncheon wound down, guests began dispersing to finish their packing. The ship would dock in Charleston within hours, ending their remarkable voyage. Bea found herself lingering at the table with Harriet, reluctant to say goodbye to her old friend.

"I should probably finish packing," Bea said eventually, though she made no move to leave.

"Probably," Harriet agreed, equally stationary.

They exchanged smiles, the kind that acknowledged the deeper currents beneath the surface. Their college friendship had been rekindled under extraordinary circumstances, creating a new bond forged through danger and discovery.

"You'll have to come visit," Bea said suddenly. "When you're on shore leave. Palm Harbor is beautiful in the fall—not too hot, water still plenty warm enough for swimming."

"I'd like that," Harriet replied. "My next scheduled leave is in October. I could rent a car in Charleston, drive down."

"Nonsense. You'll stay with us." The words came easily, naturally. "The guest room has a great view of the water. And Max would love to see you again." At the sound of his name, Max lifted his head from his paws, tail thumping against the carpet in agreement.

"I still can't believe how much has happened," Harriet said, her fingers absently tracing the outline of her reclaimed necklace. "When I sent that postcard asking for help with some thefts, I never imagined we'd end up in the middle of a murder investigation."

"That seems to happen around me a lot lately," Bea admitted. "It's becoming something of a pattern."

"Perhaps you missed your calling," Harriet suggested. "You're good at this—really good. The way you put the pieces together, noticed things everyone else missed..."

Bea smiled but shook her head. "I'm a dog trainer. That's what I love. The investigations just seem to find me."

"Fair enough." Harriet stood, smoothing her uniform. "I need to report for final duties before we dock. See you on the gangway?"

"Absolutely."

After Harriet left, Bea returned to her cabin to finish packing. Max supervised from the bed, occasionally investigating a particular item before Bea placed it in her suitcase. The small space already seemed less personal, transitioning back to an anonymous hotel room awaiting its next occupant.

Bea carefully packed the cruise voucher between layers of clothing, still uncertain whether she'd ever use it but grateful for the gesture. She'd decide later, with James. Just like they'd decide everything else that mattered from now on. Partners. A team.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Stone Coolidge stood in the corridor, looking slightly different from his usual polished self. His hair was slightly mussed, his expression more serious than she'd seen it before.

"I wanted to say goodbye properly," he said. "And to apologize."

Bea stepped back, allowing him to enter. Max watched from his perch on the bed, alert but relaxed.

"Apologize for what?" Bea asked, though she suspected she knew.

Stone moved to the balcony door, gazing out at the approaching coastline for a moment before turning back to her. "For not seeing who you are now," he said simply. "I came aboard this ship thinking of you as you were twenty years ago—as we were. I didn't fully recognize how much you've grown, how complete your life is now."

The admission surprised her with its honesty. "Thank you for saying that."

"You and James," Stone continued, a genuine smile touching his features. "It's real, isn't it? What you have together."

"It is," Bea confirmed, the certainty in her voice undeniable.

Stone nodded, accepting this truth. "I'm genuinely happy for you, Bea. And I hope—" he hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain. "I hope we can be friends. Real friends, not whatever weird flirtatious thing I've been trying to resurrect since we boarded."

Bea laughed, the tension between them dissolving. "I'd like that. You're a good person, Stone. And you were an important part of my life once. I'm glad we got this chance to... resolve things."

"Me too." He glanced at his watch. "I should go finish packing. My editor's already bombarding me with texts about deadlines for this cruise ship security article."

"Will you mention the murders?" Bea asked curiously.

"In carefully anonymous terms," Stone confirmed. "The dangers of a perfectly cultivated façade hiding dangerous secrets—it practically writes itself." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Take care of yourself, Bea.” He turned back and scratched Max behind his ear. “And this little guy, too.”

"You too, Stone. Safe travels."

After he left, Bea finished her packing with a lighter heart. Seeing Stone again—confronting that chapter of her past—had proven unexpectedly healing. Their romance had been right for who they were then. What she shared with James was right for the person she'd become.

---

The ship docked in Charleston harbor precisely on schedule. Passengers lined up in the designated areas, luggage in hand, ready to disembark. Bea and Max waited in their assigned zone, her carry-on slung over her shoulder, Max's leash secure in her hand.

Through the crowd, she spotted Stone on the opposite side of the deck, his suitcase beside him as he looked out at the harbor. Feeling her gaze, he turned and met her eyes across the distance. With a knowing smile, he tipped an imaginary hat in her direction—acknowledgment, farewell, and well-wishes all conveyed in that single gesture.

Bea raised her hand in response, a similar smile curving her lips. The sight of him no longer stirred the complicated emotions it had days earlier. Instead, she felt gratitude for the memories they shared and the clarity their reunion had brought. The past was precisely where it belonged—treasured but firmly behind her.

As the first passengers began moving toward the exit, Bea found herself alone for a moment in a temporary lull. She moved to the railing, Max at her side, gazing out at Charleston harbor spread before them. The familiar coastline welcomed her home, the distinctive silhouette of the Ravenel Bridge and the city rising against the morning sky.

Five days ago, she'd watched this same coastline recede into the distance, uncertain what adventures awaited her aboard the Paradise Voyager. Now she returned with a mystery solved, a friendship renewed, and a deeper appreciation for the life she'd built in Palm Harbor.

James would be waiting at the port, probably with Luna bouncing excitedly beside him. Tonight they would sleep in their own bed, tomorrow they would resume their routines—morning coffee, evening walks along the shore, the comfortable rhythm of their shared life. The thought filled her with quiet joy.

"Ready to go home, partner?" she asked Max, who looked up at her with complete devotion in his expressive eyes.

His stubby tail wagged enthusiastically, confirming what Bea already knew—their adventure had been exciting, but home was where they truly belonged. Together with James and Luna, they had everything they needed.

EPILOGUE

The early July morning breeze carried the sweet fragrance of sea oats and native flowers through the open windows of the Harbor Side home that Bea and James now shared. Three weeks had passed since the Paradise Voyager had docked in Charleston, bringing her impromptu maritime adventure to a close. Life in Palm Harbor had settled back into its comfortable rhythm—morning coffee on the deck watching dolphins surface in the intercoastal waterway, evening walks with the dogs along the shore, and the gradual rebuilding of Bea's training schedule at Coastal Canine.

Bea sipped her coffee, watching James sort through the small stack of mail he'd just grabbed from their box at the end of the drive. Max lounged snoring at her feet, while Luna monitored James's every move from her position near the kitchen doorway.

"Bill, bill, advertisement," James murmured, sorting the envelopes into neat piles on the counter. "Hello, what's this?" He held up a bright tropical postcard and a manila envelope.

"Anything interesting?" Bea asked, joining him at the counter. She placed her coffee mug down and accepted the postcard he handed her.

The image on the front featured a stunning vista of crystal-clear water and pristine white sand. She flipped it over to find Harriet's distinctive angular handwriting.

"It's from Harriet," Bea said, smiling as she read. "She's docked in Cozumel for a few days. Says the crew is still talking about the 'Great Jewel Thief' case. Apparently, Captain Anderson has been promoted for his handling of the situation, and Festival Cruise Lines has completely overhauled their security protocols."

James nodded approvingly as he sliced open the manila envelope. "Good. After everything that happened, they needed to make changes." He pulled out a glossy magazine and whistled softly. "And look at this—'World Travel,' courtesy of your old friend Stone, I take it?"

Bea took the magazine, noting Stone's handwritten note on a sticky flag marking a specific page: *"Thought you might appreciate the final result. Your insights were invaluable. Safe travels, always. – SC"*

She flipped to the marked article—a six-page spread titled "Secrets of the Sea: Security Challenges in Luxury Cruising." Stone's byline was accompanied by a professional headshot that captured his easy charm perfectly.

"Well, he certainly didn't waste any time," Bea remarked, skimming the article. "He's careful not to name the Paradise Voyager specifically, but the details are thinly veiled."

James peered over her shoulder, his breath warm against her cheek. "Does he mention the amateur detective and her trusty canine companion who actually solved the case?"

Bea laughed, flipping to the second page. "Actually, yes, though he calls me 'an observant passenger with a background in behavioral analysis and her remarkably intuitive service dog.' Not a bad description, really."

"Not bad at all," James agreed, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. "Though 'brilliant' and 'beautiful' could have been added."

"Stop," Bea said, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "Stone was surprisingly decent in the end. After initially trying to relive our ancient history, he seemed to genuinely respect what we have."

"What we have," James repeated thoughtfully, his arms encircling her waist from behind. "I like the sound of that."

Their quiet moment was interrupted by Max, who had awakened and now sat at their feet, head tilted expectantly upward. His imploring expression needed no translation.

"Yes, we promised you a trip to the dog park, didn't we?" Bea said, scratching behind his ears. "Luna too."

At the sound of her name, the golden retriever's ears perked up, her tail immediately beginning a hopeful sweep across the kitchen floor.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Palm Harbor's coastal dog park—a spacious fenced area near the beach with separate sections for large and small dogs, shaded benches for owners, and even a shallow splash pool for the more aquatically inclined canines. Despite the early hour, several locals had already arrived with their pets.

Bea spotted a familiar golden retriever racing across the grass after a tennis ball, with Kevin Bennett watching proudly from a nearby bench.

"Look who's here," she nudged James, gesturing toward the far corner of the park. "Sadie seems to be thriving with the Bennetts."

They made their way over to the bench, where Margaret Bennett had joined her husband, a thermos of what smelled like hot chocolate between them despite the warm morning.

"Bea! James!" Margaret called, waving enthusiastically. "We were just talking about you yesterday."

Luna immediately recognized her former foster-sister, bounding across the grass to greet Sadie with enthusiastic tail wags and playful bows. Max followed at a more dignified pace, greeting the larger golden with a friendly sniff before trotting off to investigate the perimeter of the park, his nose working overtime.

"Sadie has been an absolute joy," Kevin said, his weathered face creasing with happiness. "We've been bringing her here every morning and then taking the boat out in the afternoon when the weather’s nice. Man, she sure loves the water."

"I'm so glad," Bea said sincerely, watching as the two golden retrievers engaged in a game of chase. "She looks wonderful."

"How was your cruise?" Margaret asked, adjusting her sunglasses. "Martha told us there was some kind of jewelry thief. And a murder! Sounded exciting!"

Bea and James exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them.

"It was certainly memorable," Bea replied diplomatically. "Though perhaps a bit more excitement than we'd bargained for."

As James chatted with the Bennetts about Sadie's adjustment to her new home, Bea found herself reflecting on the events aboard the Paradise Voyager. Despite the danger they'd encountered, the experience had clarified something important—her relationship with James had grown stronger, more secure. Seeing Stone again, confronting that chapter of her past, had only confirmed what she already knew: what she shared with James wasn't just passion or convenience but something deeper and more lasting.

Max had abandoned his perimeter check and was now engaged in his favorite dog park activity—burying a tennis ball under a small mound of dirt and mulch, only to "discover" it moments later with great fanfare, prancing around proudly with his treasure before starting the process all over again.

"He's quite the character," Kevin observed, watching Max's burial ritual with amusement. "Has he always done that?"

"As long as I've had him," Bea confirmed. "James thinks it might be a game he played with a previous owner, though we can't be sure. Whatever it is, it brings him joy, so we let him indulge."

The conversation drifted to community news—Martha Wheeler's upcoming birthday celebration, the summer reading program at the library that would feature therapy dogs, the new seafood restaurant opening near the pier. The easy, small-town rhythm of Palm Harbor wrapped around Bea like a familiar blanket.

After about forty-five minutes, James checked his watch reluctantly. "I should probably head to the clinic. I have appointments starting at ten."

"And I need to meet Karen at Coastal Canine," Bea agreed. "We're restarting the advanced therapy dog certification classes today."

They said their goodbyes to the Bennetts, promising to arrange a dinner soon, and collected their dogs. Luna came immediately at Bea's whistle, while Max required a bit more coaxing to abandon his treasure-hunting game.

"I was thinking," James said as they walked back to the car, dogs trotting happily ahead on their leashes. "What about dinner in Charleston downtown this weekend? I could make reservations at that new Italian place on Market Street everyone's been talking about."

"The one with the rooftop garden?" Bea asked, remembering an article she'd read in the local paper.

"That's the one. Saturday night, maybe? We could make a day of it—walk the historic district, visit that art gallery you mentioned."

"It sounds perfect," Bea agreed, warmth blooming in her chest at his thoughtfulness. "A proper date that doesn't involve a single murder investigation."

James laughed, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "Let's not jinx it."

The peaceful morning was interrupted by the distinctive sound of tires on gravel as a Palm Harbor Police Department cruiser pulled into the dog park's small parking area. Bea noticed it first, tapping James's arm lightly.

"Looks like Nancy," she commented, recognizing the officer as she emerged from the vehicle.

Officer Wachowski spotted them and changed course, heading directly toward their bench with purposeful strides. Her normally cheerful expression was replaced by tight lines of concern, instantly putting Bea on alert. Even the dogs seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere—Luna abandoning her play with Sadie to trot back to Bea's side, while Max paused his digging to watch the approaching officer with focused attention.

"Morning, Nancy," James called as she approached. "Everything okay?"

Nancy glanced at the Bennetts, then back to Bea and James. "I was hoping to catch you two. I stopped by your house first, but when I saw your car was gone, I figured you might be here."

"What's going on?" Bea asked, the officer's serious demeanor sending a prickle of unease down her spine.

The officer sank onto the bench beside them, her official demeanor slipping to reveal genuine worry. "It's Detective Martinez. He's missing.”

"Missing?" Bea repeated, her mind already shifting into problem-solving mode. "Since when?"

"His shift ended yesterday evening, but he never made it home," Nancy explained, lowering her voice. "His car was found abandoned at the marina early this morning. Keys still in the ignition, phone on the passenger seat."

James frowned. "That doesn't sound like Martinez at all."

"No, it doesn't," Nancy agreed. "And the timing couldn't be worse with the fishing tournament starting this weekend. The harbor's already filling up with boats from all over the Eastern seaboard."

Bea watched as Max suddenly tensed, his attention fixed on something across the park. She followed his gaze but saw only the usual morning dog walkers.

"Did Martinez mention what he was working on recently?" Bea asked, turning back to Nancy.

The officer hesitated. "Officially, just routine stuff. But between us, he's been asking questions about the tournament. Seemed interested in particular boats coming in from outside Palm Harbor."

"The fishing championship?" James raised an eyebrow. "That seems kind of odd."

"I thought so too," Nancy said, standing up and brushing invisible lint from her uniform. "Look, I should get back before anyone notices I've gone off-route. Just... keep your eyes open, will you? Martinez respects you both."

After Nancy departed, Bea and James exchanged concerned glances.

"So much for our quiet weekend in Charleston," James said with a rueful smile.

"We can still do dinner," Bea replied, though her mind was already elsewhere, mentally rearranging her schedule. "But maybe we should take a walk by the marina later this afternoon?"

Max had returned to her side, his posture alert, as if he sensed the shift in plans. Luna too seemed to pick up on the change, her golden eyes watching Bea intently.

"I've got a feeling," Bea said quietly, "that our summer just got a lot more complicated."

END

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