Hula Done It - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,10

opposite one labeled X-RAY, we found Bailey Howard lying in a standard-size hospital cot, her eyes red and puffy behind her designer frames.

"Have they found him yet?" she asked without preamble.

I opened my mouth to reply, surprised when nothing came out. Bailey took one look at my face and dissolved into tears. "He's gone, isn't he? He's really gone."

I scurried to her cot and sat down on the edge. Nana poured water. Tilly yanked a tissue out of the box and held it at the ready. "I'm so sorry," I said, squeezing her hand.

She bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks and onto her chin. The nurse gave me the eye and quietly retreated. Bailey squeezed my hand tightly. "This isn't real. It can't be. How do I go back to school and tell them Professor Smoker is dead?"

Chances were the wire services would pick up the story and spread it worldwide before Bailey ever got the chance, but that's not what she needed to hear right now. "The cruise staff may have asked you this already, but is there someone you'd like us to contact for you? Your parents? Boyfriend?"

She slipped off her glasses and swiped tears from her face. "I don't have a boyfriend. And my parents are a joke. They're both off finding their 'inner child' -- with new spouses half their ages. I don't even know where they are right now."

"Tissue?" asked Tilly.

Bailey dried her eyes on the tissue and slid her glasses back on. "Thanks. The three of you have been so nice to me. You've been nicer than people who know me." She sniffled, looking suddenly guilty. "But that's my own fault, I guess. When you're working on a dissertation, you become pretty self-absorbed. Since I've been in grad school, I've shut out everyone except Professor Smoker...and...and the members of my major committee." She bowed her head. "He was everything to me. Mentor. Cheerleader. Coauthor of a half dozen critically acclaimed papers that appeared in some of the most prestigious refereed journals in the academic world. What am I going to do without him?"

When her bottom lip began to quiver, Nana pressed the water glass into her hand and encouraged her to drink. Nana visited hospital patients every week as part of her Legion of Mary duties, so her bedside manner had become the stuff of legend.

"We've all lost people who's dear to us," Nana empathized. "When I lost my Sam, I didn't know how I'd go on. Fifty-three years, we was married. We'd pretty much turned into each other, except for he had more hair growin' out his ears, so when I lost him, I lost a big piece a myself."

"I'm sorry." Bailey sniffled again. "Was he ill for very long?"

Nana shook her head. "It happened real sudden-like."

"Heart attack?"

"Ice shanty. And Tilly here lost her brother a few months back, didn't you, Til?"

"A tragic accident," Tilly said glumly. "He fell from his saddle during an ostrich race in Kuwait and was trampled by the rest of the pack. It was sad he couldn't have held on. He'd been in first place until then, and the grand prize was an oil well."

Bailey stared at Tilly, her breathing shallow.

"Even Emily's lost someone," Nana continued.

Bailey turned her soulful gaze on me and sniffed loudly. "Who did you lose?"

I whipped my head around at Nana. "Who did I lose?"

"Your young man, dear."

Bailey sucked in her breath. "You lost someone in a tragic accident, too?"

Why was it that the subject you wanted to talk about the least was the subject everyone else wanted to talk about the most? "I didn't lose anyone," I defended, but my halfhearted denial tipped Bailey off immediately.

"That's okay," she rasped through her grief. "You can tell me. What happened? Did your guy find another woman?" When I winced, she clapped her hand over her mouth. "Another man?"

"That woulda been her first husband," Nana said.

"ALL RIGHT!" I sputtered. "You want to know what happened? I'll tell you. But first you tell me: when a man tells you he loves you, what usually happens after that?"

"In what society?" asked Tilly.

"Great sex," said Nana.

"He asks you to marry him," said Bailey.

I pointed my finger at Bailey. "Exactly. He proposes marriage. And when he tells you he has an important question to ask, you expect him to say, 'Will you marry me?' Right?"

The three women nodded.

"Well, not Etienne Miceli. Nooo. A marriage proposal from my black-haired, blue-eyed Swiss/ German/Italian police inspector with the washboard stomach and