MAI TAI TO MURDER
by Candy Calvert
ISBN: 07387-1074-1
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Release date: September 2007

Knives, poison, strangulation…ER nurse Darcy Cavanaugh is about to show-and-tell all kinds of deathly dos and don'ts for a mystery writers' workshop at sea. Teaching the Nurse's Guide to Murder seminar was a small price to pay for a Caribbean cruise in paradise. If only she didn't have to share deck space with her boyfriend's uptight mother! Aspiring novelist and wife to a powerful Virginia judge, Mrs. Skyler wishes her son had better breeding prospects than a redheaded Yankee from California. To make matters worse, the Skyler matriarch wants to submit her novel to a merciless agent whose biting criticism is matched only by her squawking, sailor-tongued parrot.

In a crazy twist, a real murder takes place and the judge's wife becomes the main suspect. To protect her boyfriend's mother, Darcy scrambles to peg the real killer from a tangled and nutty cast of desperate writers, overzealous fans, and distracting male cover models with killer abs.

MAI TAI to MURDER
copyright© 2007 Candy Calvert

Chapter One

“I'm serious,” I said, waggling the knife, “one more word and I'll whittle your horny heart out.” I raised the blade and eyed my target, a tanned and softly furred expanse of well-defined masculine chest muscle. Then did a speedy medical assessment: a four-inch blade plunged through the pectoralis minor, between the anterior ribs and directed down toward the heart's ventricles ought to . . . “Hey,” I warned, raising my eyes to the smug smirk on my victim's handsome face, “if you dare laugh, I swear I'll--”

In an instant Luke Skyler's hand shot out to grab my wrist. The plastic picnic knife slid from my fingers and into our warm, rumpled nest of bed sheets. Behind him, the Florida morning sun peeked through a gap in the hotel's bamboo shades closed in haste during the crazy rush of last night's reunion. Haste being the key word. After the Bureau moved Luke to Boston last spring, we'd burned up the air miles whenever our hectic schedules allowed. But it was never often enough.

“You stab like a girl, Cavanaugh,” Luke said with a slow smile. The autumn sunlight played across his dark blonde hair, and those amazing blue eyes crinkled at the edges with the widening of his dimpled smile. He leaned close, his breath tickling my ear. “Besides, I'm pushing thirty-six and weakened by six damned weeks of celibacy; if you want to kill me, let's just go for the big heart attack, okay . . .?” His faint Southern drawl dissolved into a deep chuckle as warm hands slid beneath my mango silk chemise. “God, I've missed you, Darcy.”

“Wait . . . wait,” I said, shaking my head and sending my long, and stubbornly curly, tangle of red hair sweeping across my shoulders, “you promised to help me with this, remember? Stabbing, strangulation, poison, bludgeoning . . . my whole deadly spreadsheet.” I glanced toward my laptop in the suite's business niche. A leather office chair was heaped high with Luke's clothing and paraphernalia: tweed sport jacket, starched oxford shirt, Levis, Oakley sunglasses, ID badge, shoulder holster . . . and the gun of course. 9 mm Glock. Try stuffing that sucker in your beach tote when your man wants to play volleyball bare-chested. Dating a Federal Agent gets creative, trust me. “You know, the outline for my 'Nurse's Guide to Murder' workshop. I brought the notes and all my cute little props.” I fumbled with a fold of bed sheets trying to locate my pink plastic knife and--

Ooh. I tried not to weaken as Luke's mouth moved into the hollow of my neck, his warm tongue snaking across my collarbone. I peered over his head at a digital clock perched atop the office desk. “I'm serious, Luke. I've got to board that cruise ship in exactly two hours and I have no clue what to say to a bunch of Romance and Mystery writers.” I groaned and rolled my eyes. “I could choke Marie for talking me into this. I mean, we're ER nurses for godsake! We save lives--took a friggin' oath for that. And now we're hooked into teaching a bunch of writers how to murder people? Why did I agree to do this?”

Luke sighed and scooted back against the headboard, lifting me up into his arms until my head rested against his chest. He reached to pull up the sheets and I caught a glimpse of the ragged and still-pink scar on his left shoulder, from the gunshot wound he'd suffered six months ago. The last time I'd been aboard a cruise ship; it still freaked me out to remember all of that. This man could teach a murder class himself.

Luke laughed softly and his chest hairs tickled my cheek. “Why you agreed to do this workshop? That's a no-brainer. You're doing it for the comp-ed vacation, five days in the Caribbean and away from Northern California fog. I'd go with you in hot minute, but you how many strings I had pull just to come here to Canaveral.” His lips brushed the top of my hair. “And you're also doing this workshop because Marie Whitley is your best friend, and she's a complete pushover for all of Carol's artsy-fartsy whims.”

I nodded and then smiled at the image of my cigar-smoking lesbian pal and her long-time partner, strangely the most traditionally committed couple I knew. Right down to a white picket fence and strawberry pancakes on Sunday mornings. Face it; they had Ma and Pa Cavanaugh beat by a long shot. And it hadn't been hard for Carol to convince Marie to do the writers' workshop because, normally, Marie worked when she was aboard cruise ships--as infirmary nurse. This mini-vacation promised sunshine, snorkeling and umbrella drinks without the pesky interruptions of STAT pages for emergency nursing stunts. I could hardly argue with that logic.

“And most importantly” Luke said, tightening his arms around me, “you're doing this for the opportunity to spend some quality time with my mother.”

Oh . . man. I bit my lip and stifled a groan. If Marie were here, her gray eyes would be bugging out of her head. I hadn't exactly shared this ugly tidbit of information with her yet. I took a deep breath and lied through my teeth.

“That's right,” I said sweetly. “It was so great that your mom was able to take the time off from her . . . work to come along on this cruise.” Right. However will Judge Lucas Jefferson Skyler II survive without someone to oversee the ironing of his honorable boxer shorts? And--horrors-- what if there were a Charlottesville Garden Club emergency? Chrysanthemums were at risk.

I forced the image of my divorced parents, Bill the Bug Man Cavanaugh and a novice nun turned Vegas blackjack dealer, from my mind, not wanting to conjure up the inevitable oil-on-water comparison with Luke's family. And admit that I'd somehow managed to fall into a yearlong relationship with forbidden (and Roman numeral-ed) fruit. Forbidden fruit according to Angela Barrett Skyler, that is. The woman hated me like chiggers in her panty hose.

“That's because she likes you so much, Darcy,” Luke said, nuzzling my earlobe. “Really, I sense that.”

Mm-hmm. Right. It was pretty obvious that, right this minute, all of this man's senses were focused somewhere below his navel.

“Well,” I said, smiling because I knew how much Luke wanted to believe that his mother and I could find some common ground, “I do think she was impressed that I was able to snag her an appointment with that hotshot literary agent.” I shook my head. “Although I had no idea that your mom is a writer.”

Luke laughed. “Well, supposedly she's been working on that; all I can remember are things like the Ladies Club Cookbook and six-page Christmas letters. Let's see . . . can we count all her long-winded notes on morals and social etiquette? She hid them in my suitcase every time I came home on college break.”

My jaw dropped. “She didn't. Morals?”

“On the Judge's letterhead paper, folded up and slipped between layers of my boxers.” Luke's his voice dropped to a whisper as he traced a fingertip up my inner thigh, “I'm a true product of proper Southern breeding. Haven't you noticed that I always remember to say,” . . . his fingers continued their teasing climb, “ 'Please may I, ma'am'?”

I sneaked one last look at the clock. There was still an hour left before I had to catch the port shuttle. And this Federal Agent was asking politely, but first . . . . I spotted the plastic picnic knife and lifted it from the sheets. “First explain why I 'stab like a girl.'” I batted my lashes when Luke groaned. “C'mon. Just humor me with a couple of tips, so I don't make a complete ass of myself in front of those writers. And your mother?”

“Okay, okay.” Luke took the pink plastic knife from me and grimaced. “But if the Bureau gets wind of this, I'll be laughed out of Boston.” He sighed and nodded toward my suitcase near the desk. “Exactly what are these other 'cute props' you brought?”

I grinned. “Rope for strangling; or maybe I'll use pantyhose; that's more interesting, don't you think? And a plastic baseball bat, a jar of almond potpourri--”

“Potpourri? What . . . murder by air freshener?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Cyanide. I'm covering deadly poisons and cyanide smells like almonds, so I'll pass the jar around and--”

“Got it. And by the way . . .” he leaned away and reached into his wheeled carryon case near the bed. “I brought you something else to take along.”

I raised my brows with curiosity, not the mixed-emotion panic I'd felt six months ago when I thought Luke was chasing me with an engagement ring. I had no idea then that Mama Skyler would see hell freeze over before she let that happen.

“Comfort food,” he said, grinning and handing me the blue-on-blue box adorned with a likeness of Sponge Bob. I smiled--Kraft macaroni and cheese, my secret pig-out.

Luke tapped the box. “I figure there'll be a microwave in your room, and water. In an emergency, Marie could mix it up in a Styrofoam cup. Would that work?” He laughed at the look on my face. “Five long days with The Judge's Wife, Darcy. That could make for a meltdown, trust me.”

I didn't know whether to laugh at the image of Marie cooking a batch of mac and cheese like a heroin fix, or cry because--hey--there's something pretty mushy-wonderful about a guy who can love you despite your pathetic quirks. I decided to kiss Luke instead but, before I could do that, he brandished the plastic knife.

“Now observe,” he said as seriously as if he were giving a Bureau briefing. “A woman typically grabs a knife and swings in a downward arc, like this.” Luke demonstrated, grazing the plastic tip across the front of my chemise. “Not always effective, because the blade can be deflected by the ribs, which protect vital organs.”

I nodded and then saw a smirky smile tug at the corners of Luke's mouth. His dimples deepened. “A man,” he said, slowly lifting a spaghetti-thin strap of my chemise with the plastic blade, “does it more like this.” He watched the strap slide down my arm and then repeated the tactic with the remaining strap, until the chemise fell to my waist, leaving me bare. His gaze moved appreciatively to the tiny tattoo above my left breast. To say the man was intrigued by that Mardi-Gras mishap would be an understatement. Mrs. Skyler would have a stroke if she knew that her son's thirty-foot classic sailboat, The ShamrockTattoo, was named after a redheaded Yankee's left boob. You can bet she wasn't going to hear it from me.

Luke's smile spread, and he changed his grip on the blade as I squirmed and struggled to sit still--A Nurse's Guide to Murder was suddenly the last thing on my mind. “A man stabs with an upward cut, more like this,” he explained. The tip of the knife moved slowly across my bare skin from navel to ribcage, making my skin quiver. “Leaving the victim's body vulnerable to . . .” The blade followed the lower curve of my breast and moved upward to touch--

“Got it,” I said, interrupting before I spontaneously combusted. “Now drop your weapon, Skyler and let's get back to that, 'please, ma'am thing.' I've got a boat to catch.”

I tossed the box of mac and cheese onto the floor alongside the plastic knife and we got back to our reunion. But I knew that when I packed up, I'd be sure that both of those items were safely tucked into my suitcase along with the rope, baseball bat and that little jar of faux cyanide. Jeez, it sounded like I was drawing cards for a game of Clue. But after all, I was headed to the tropics with a bunch of artsy and imaginative women who wanted to learn about murder. Along with one very moral and very proper Southern matriarch--a woman I may want to kill before this week was through.

A few hours later, we were preparing to sail, and I'd finally come clean with Marie--who already had her own ideas on how to handle my surprise guest.

“Well, hell,” she said, watching her cherry-scented smoke ring drifted beyond the polished deck rail. “Simple solution: what does Mrs. Judge drink? We'll get her snockered and then--” Marie's gray eyes blinked wide and she jabbed her little cheroot in the air, pointing down the sun-drenched Lido deck. Her husky voice rose to compete with the steel drums of a reggae band tuning up next to the pool. “Did I just see a guy with a ponytail and a plaid skirt, carrying a sword?”

“Brandy,” I said, pulling my eyes away from the dwindling line of passengers filing along the palm-lined dock below. We would set sail for The Bahamas in less than twenty minutes. Where was Angela Skyler? Cruise ships didn't hold up a launch for late passengers. I frowned and then completed my answer to Marie's question. “Angela drinks brandy from a set of crystal glasses that probably cost more than my Subaru.” I nodded toward the guy with the sword.

“And that's a kilt, not a skirt.”

I brushed some specks of coconut prawn from the front of my beaded tunic and then pointed to the blonde, bare chest-ed man now surrounded by an admiring covey of women. “See?” Then I pointed toward another man with shoulder-length dark curls and a hint of a beard. “There's another Highlander over there, talking to the werewolf and that woman with the pin-striped suit and a parrot on her shoulder.” Aagh. I knew as soon as the words left my lips, that I had just proven what fools we were for being here. I cleared my throat. “The guys in the kilts are models; at least that's what it said in the Writers Afloat brochure. You know, for those romance book covers--Historical Suspense, Paranormal Mystery . . .” I bit my lip before I could add, “Erotica.” I needed another drink before I could go down that steamy road, even after my morning's strip-search by the FBI. “But then,” I narrowed my eyes and shot a look at my best friend, “this cruise was your idea.”

“Carol's idea,” Marie corrected quickly, reaching for a couple of pina coladas as a deck steward stopped beside us. She handed the man her shipboard charge card. “Carol owed that favor to one of her writers' groups. And it was only natural that when they were organizing this cruise-conference, she sort of . . .” Marie hesitated, peering up at me through her dark fringe of bangs.

“Offered us up like sacrificial lambs,” I said, filling in the blanks and taking a frosty umbrella-topped drink from Marie's hand. I turned away for moment and offered a quick apology after bumping against a middle-aged woman, with heart-shaped sunglasses and a feathered sun visor, standing at the rail beside me. She was loaded down with tote bags and fumbling with brochures, and her freckled shoulders were already crisp with sunburn. A plastic ID badge hung from a ribbon around her neck and was so studded with multi-colored stickers and logo pins that I could barely see the woman's name--Vicky, maybe. I had no problem, however, reading the huge button on her orange tank top: “Indulge Your Inner Vixen.” One of the Writers Afloat, I'd bet, and maybe even registered for our Murder workshop tomorrow.

I turned back to Marie. “And so Carol is just basically cutting us loose in her writing world without a roadmap or a guide. Jeez, like Alice in Wonderland. That psychotic Cheshire cat could pop up any second.” I shook my head slowly, remembering the last time we'd cruised, the trip that left Luke with the scar on his shoulder. “Or worse,” I said. “With our bad-juju cruise record, I'm surprised Carol trusted us with this at all. Two cruises, two dead bodies and--”

“Don't go there,” Marie interrupted, lifting her palm quickly. “I'm trying really hard not to obsess on that. It's past; it's done. The point is, that Carol's a national-level officer in that writers' association now, and she's responsible for some of the event planning. This workshop needed medical experts, so . . .” Marie winked at me. “ 'Who ya gonna call'?” She lifted the paper umbrella from her drink and aimed it at me. “Besides, it's giving you this great opportunity to bond with your lover's mom.”

I frowned and glanced down at my watch. “Yeah, well, if she doesn't hustle it, Angela Skyler's going to be left standing on the dock with confetti curls on head. We're sailing in ten minutes.”

“She's not on board?” Marie asked, glancing toward the pool where a raucous crowd was gathering. They seemed to be closing in around that woman with the huge red parrot, and around another woman who had joined her. From the level of frenzy, you'd think they were royalty. Even the two Highlanders and the werewolf had joined the group. Cardboard cameras, held overhead, clicked rapid-fire.

“I don't think so,” I said, watching the escalating commotion. “I've left messages in Angela's suite and I tried the cell number that Luke left me. A bunch of times. No luck.”

I moved out of the way as the Vicky the Vixen lifted a camera and pointed it toward the group at the pool, adjusting a large and complicated looking lens. There was a metallic tick-tick and whir as she snapped a series of shots. I shook my head, clueless. Nobody over there looked remotely like a celebrity to me.

“I don't think there's anything else I can do,” I said, feeling a little guilty about my surge of relief. It's not that I didn't want to please Luke; that was certainly climbing high on my priority list. But suddenly, minus Angela, it seemed like my little vacation could be a real vacation. Workshops and cruise juju worries aside, it would be fun spending time with my pal Marie, away from the chaos of our ER jobs. With no pressure to impress a woman who'd perfected the art of looking down her nose at me.

I took a substantial sip of my drink, letting the rum and the warm Florida sunshine wash over me as my spirits rose. “Well, if Mrs. Skyler missed the launch, so be it. Although you'd think if she were really serious about getting her book published she'd jump at the chance to show it to that hot snot literary agent. Trust me, I had to do some fast-talking to get her that appointment. I think I promised somebody they could use my cousin's neighbor's boyfriend's beach house.”

“Who is this agent?” Marie asked. “Carol told me, but I can't remember.”

We both slid down the rail a couple of feet to accommodate another pin-laden and camera-toting comrade who had joined Vicky. This one was younger, and dressed in what looked like a Renaissance-era velvet gown. Her face was dripping with perspiration in the Florida heat. Her calligraphy nametag read, “Renee.”

“The agent's name is Theodora Kenyon,” I said. “All I know is that she's from New York and that every writer onboard wanted to pitch a manuscript to her. Her appointments have been booked for weeks. Her name meant nada to me, but Luke said his mom knew who she was, and that she got totally excited. She's sure this woman will read her manuscript and know she's the next Nora Roberts.” I shook my head. “Plenty of ego there.”

Marie raised her dark brows. “Not if she doesn't get her ass onboard.” She twisted the band of her Kermit watch to see its face. “The engines ought to be starting up any second now. And as a ship employee, I can tell you that the time schedule is everything and . . .” Marie's voice was obliterated by the series of overhead blasts from the PA system.

Renaissance Renee lowered her camera and smiled at us, “They're going to announce a departure delay,” she said, swiping a hand across the sweat trickling over her brow. “I know somebody who works in the Purser's office, so I get the inside scoop on things.”

“A delay?” I glanced sideways at Marie and smirked. “Well then, maybe Angela will have her chance to get onboard, meet that agent and become the next New York Times bestseller.” I lifted my index finger. “One point for the Yankee redhead.”

“Don't count on it,” Vicky said, wrinkling her nose in the shadow of her feathered brim. “See that woman in the red suit, next to the woman with the parrot? The blonde, with the face so tight it looks like she's battling G-forces?”

I raised my brows and nodded, watching the red-suited woman jab her finger in the air to make some sort of point. In her other hand she held what looked like the slim, leather case of a laptop computer. The pinstriped woman with the parrot nodded her head up and down, like one of those toy dogs on springs in the back window of a car. “Yes, I see her. So?”

Vicky sighed as she watched the entourage in the distance. “That's Theodora Kenyon; she goes by 'Thea.' She's brilliant, well connected, and some of her clients make millions of dollars in royalties. You know that heiress, Paris Hyatt, the one who just wrote the great tell-all? Thea brokered that deal.” She turned back to me. “And see that parrot?”

I nodded, fighting a sudden unnerving sense of foreboding as I watched the huge red and green Macaw nip at its human perch.

“Thea's parrot,” Vicky explained. “The assistant carries it wherever they go, perched right there on her skinny shoulder. Let me tell you, I couldn't afford those dry cleaning bills.” She lowered her voice and I began to hear Hitchcock theme music in my head. “I heard she feeds little pieces of rejected writers to that bird.” Vicky stared through her heart-shaped lenses and into my eyes. “This agent is the scariest woman in the publishing business. You'd better hope your friend survives that appointment. She could be eaten alive. Overblown ego or not, she's no match for Kenyon.”

I jumped as the PA system crackled again and the launch delay was officially broadcasted. A fifteen-minute delay, the polite British voice announced. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience. There would, however, be a complementary round of cocktails. Please drink up and enjoy.

My skin prickled and I turned to Marie. I didn't like the way I was starting to feel. “I wonder what that's all abou--”

Renee tapped me on the shoulder, interrupting. She blinked again a rivulet of perspiration dripping into her left eye, and smiled knowingly. “The delay is for a VIP passenger, according to my inside source.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “She got someone high up in Virginia state government to pull some strings because of a late appointment at the beauty salon. Can you imagine the nerve?” The woman shook her head in quiet amazement as a bead of sweat dripped from her chin onto her embroidered velvet bodice. “Some judge's wife.”

Aagh. I had a sudden, and all-consuming, hunger for macaroni and cheese. My bad cruise juju was holding.