Dinner that night started out to be uneventful.
Martin Sands was already at the table when Johnny Liddell walked in. Harry and Belle Doyle were in their seats for a change and were carrying on an animated conversation with Hilda Phelps. Jack Allen, the cruise director, obviously relieved at the diversion of the old woman’s attention, was carrying on a desultory conversation with Sands. He looked up as Liddell slid into his chair.
“Well, Mr. Liddell. We missed you this morning. Get over to the island at all?” he asked.
Liddell shook his head. “I slept in. Guess I was more tired than I realized.” He broke off as Martin Sands’s “niece” came to the table. Her eyes were red and puffy. She avoided the eyes of the others as she took her seat, busied herself with her napkin.
“Guess you heard w
