Randolph did indeed seem at least partially lucid. He raised his glass in a mock toast as Myrtle and Miles approached. "My old friends," he said, half-standing in a courteous manner. At least he attempted the half-standing crouch, until he wobbled so much that he dropped back into the armchair again. "Good to see you. But then, I do usually run into you at night, don't I. You don't sleep either, is that it?"

Myrtle shrugged as she and Miles took the other seats in the little conversation area. "We sleep sometimes, just not others. I've found that the best thing for me to do when I can't sleep is to get up and be productive."

Randolph raised his eyebrows archly. "Really? I've found quite the opposite. I take the opportunity to rise and have another drink in the hopes of relaxing myself."

"Oh no," said Miles, sounding rather scandalized. "The doctors say that's definitely not what we should do. Alcohol disturbs our sleep patterns."

Myrtle decided to wrest the conversation from Miles, who was beginning to sound more of an old woman than she was. "Being productive might prove a good alternative for you, Randolph. I'll get up and do some rote things around the house. Sometimes, at home, I'll even walk down the street to Miles's house and we'll have a coffee."

Randolph said, "Yes, but who would I talk to? Everyone I know would be asleep. That's the problem with being an insomniac, isn't it? You keep a different schedule." He looked thoughtfully at Myrtle and Miles. "You're very lucky and I don't think you even realize it. A friend to be awake with; imagine that. I always feel like I'm haunting a house when I'm the only one awake. It's a very ghostly feeling. Perhaps that's why I turn to alcohol. Even here, even on this ship, most people turn in at some point, even the crew."

Myrtle decided to try to segue into asking questions. "You can do other things, you know. You can think. I spend a good deal of time thinking."

Randolph's mouth twisted into a smile. "Maybe you spend too much time in your own head. We can. I don't particularly like myself so I'd rather not spend too much time with my thoughts. Although it seems like I still do, no matter what. And will even do more now that Celeste is gone." He looked curiously at Myrtle. "What sorts of things do you think about? You're not trying to solve the world's problems, are you? Attain world peace; cure cancer? So ... what?"

"No, no, they're all very small problems and very local to me. How to avoid my nosy and atrocious neighbor, Erma. How to keep crabgrass from creeping into my yard and squirrels out of my birdseed. Who I'll badger to drive me to the grocery store. How to keep my tomatoes watered even when I'm out of town. On the ship, though, they've been larger problems. Who has been killing members of your family?" said Myrtle.

Randolph's eyes grew sharp and Myrtle agreed with all the family who thought he wasn't as intoxicated as he always appeared. He said, "Indeed. It's quite the puzzler, isn't it? And I've got a notion that you and your friend are very adept at solving puzzles."

Myrtle attempted and failed to look modest. Miles continued blinking owlishly at Randolph.

Randolph took a sip from the dregs of his glass and Myrtle realized that he wasn't quite ready to comment on the elimination of his family on the ship. She chose a different tack. "You said you didn't like yourself much. Why is that?"

Randolph sighed. "Oh, where to start? There's the fact that I married for money, instead of love, for one. Society rather frowns on that. Probably provided me with a lot of bad karma."

Miles appeared somewhat shocked. Myrtle frequently wondered how Miles had gotten as old as he was and remained as naïve as he sometimes appeared. Miles said, "You must have cared for Celeste, though, surely."

A faint smile played around Randolph's lips as he studied Miles. "I didn't want her murdered, if that's what you're asking. But no, I didn't really care for Celeste, as you put it. Or, if I did, I was roughly disabused of that notion after weeks of being yelled at and put down. It sort of stomps the affection out of one. Trains you not to like the person. Did I respect her? Yes. And I admired her intelligence and wit. But her most appealing attribute was her money. There, I've admitted it. Relief."

Randolph didn't seem relieved, though; he seemed uneasy with his admission. He seemed ... guilty. Whether this guilt was a result of feeling bad for having married for money or for something else, it was impossible to say.

Myrtle prompted, "You said you weren't sure where to start. Is there more that you don't like about yourself?"

Again Randolph smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes. "Quite persistent, aren't you? I feel as if I'm in a therapy session. The next thing I know, you'll be asking me for my debit card and to check my calendar to book the next appointment." Myrtle didn't reply to this and Randolph grew quiet as he considered his own failings. "There's the gambling. I do so enjoy it, but I do so hate succumbing to its pleasures."

Myrtle said, "To me, gambling equals debt. And debt definitely isn't pleasurable to me. What's the draw? Really. It baffles me."

"Everything is the draw. The sound of coins going into slots, the lights and music from the machines. Especially the hopeful feeling—that's probably the biggest draw. That on-top-of-the-world feeling you get thinking that this time you're going to hit it big. Once you've convinced yourself that you're going to hit it big, you open up all the possibilities. Everything seems possible. You allow yourself to dream about extravagant trips or vacation homes or cars or whatever else you might want," said Randolph.

"I suppose," said Miles, sounding a bit stuffy, "that that sort of dreaming stops as the night goes on, though. Wouldn't it? As you start losing, you couldn't possibly still have the riches in mind, could you?"

"Well, you could. But first, you feel this desire to keep playing to make up for what you've lost. I start thinking that my luck is sure to change with that next roll of the dice or the next dealing of the cards. In the back of my head, I'm still thinking that once I get back to the place I started, I still have the chance to make it big. Except, apparently, my luck is second to none. My bad luck, I mean," said Randolph languidly.

Myrtle said, "Am I right, then? Does gambling equal debt?"

Randolph sighed. "It appears to. For me, anyway."

"Are you in debt now?" asked Miles. His tone was rather horrified. Myrtle was quite certain that Miles had never carried a credit card balance. He likely made extra principle payments every month toward his car payment or mortgage.

"Sadly, yes. I'm in debt now. Although, who knows? Maybe I'll win big tonight at the casino and pay off all my debt. You see—that's how the addiction works. It twists your mind a little. But I have to say that I think the likelihood of my winning in the ship casino is higher than the likelihood of my getting any sort of legacy from Celeste's estate." He made a face, whether at his mention of Celeste or at the will or both.

Myrtle said, "What was Celeste's attitude toward your gambling?" Although, she had a pretty good idea what it must have been. Celeste didn't suffer fools lightly.

Now Randolph made a more pronounced face. "She didn't consider it appropriate, to put it mildly. Celeste felt that gambling was beneath her; and me by extension. She thought it very common. She kept forbidding me to gamble, which only seemed to make me want to gamble more, just to defy her."

Myrtle wondered if it were even possible that Randolph could have killed Celeste so that he was free to gamble. Could he be that addicted to it? Or what if they'd been having an argument about his gambling on the ship and he struck her with the champagne bottle in a fit of anger?

"What did you do when she told you not to do it?" asked Myrtle. "Did you argue with her?"

"What's the point of that? Celeste always won. She made sure of it. Besides, she held the purse strings to a certain extent, although I had an allowance. That always drove me a little crazy: an allowance. As if I was some sort of gawky teenager. Did I take the allowance? Grin and bear it? I did. But I hated the way it made me feel. The allowance, by the way, wasn't large enough to support my gambling, in case you were wondering. I never complained, but I always wished there was some way to express my displeasure in a non-verbal way."

Miles said, "Myrtle is an expert at doing that. She has a large collection of yard gnomes and she pulls them out and scatters them all over her front yard whenever she's angry with her son. He lives across the street from her."

Myrtle smiled smugly. "It works, too."

Randolph smiled in return. "What a wonderful idea! Gnomes. Say, are you the person who has gnomes on your cabin door?" Myrtle nodded. "I thought they was so whimsical. And now that I know the story behind it, they're even more delightful."

Myrtle said, "It's a real testament to Red's current level of distraction that they're still on my door."

Miles was still clearly worrying about the gambling. He said, "Is the gambling debt serious? That's to say, in movies it's always a matter of life or death—you have to pay the bad guys back or else they'll do something horrible to you."

"Cement shoes," agreed Myrtle. "Isn't that what they always say in the movies? That they'd throw you in the lake with cement shoes on."

Randolph now looked slightly amused. "Where on earth do you think I'm gambling? I'm not involved with the mafia, you know. Most of my debts were accumulated online and then more on this ship. It's more of a debt problem than it is an I'm-worried-about-saving-my-life problem."

"Oh," said Miles, looking relieved. "Well, that's a good thing, anyway."

Randolph said, "And let's see. Where were we? That's right; we were enumerating all the things I don't like about myself. I think we've come to the last thing. That's alcohol."

"You do seem to like that," observed Miles.

"Right you are. I just don't like myself when I'm on it. Which is most of the time. I drink, perhaps, just a wee bit too much. But since I like so little of myself, maybe it makes sense that I spend so much of my time drinking. It makes me forget," said Randolph.

"What are your plans when you return home?" asked Myrtle.

Randolph sighed again. It was a long, gusty sigh. "It sounds as though I'll be camped out at the old homestead waiting for the probate courts to figure out what to do with this mess. Perhaps surreptitiously selling off bits and pieces of Celeste's estate for cash ... just the small bits that no one would miss or notice. One has to do something to survive in the meantime. And maybe cleaning myself up to make myself charming and presentable to some other widow of means looking for a companion. That will take some doing."

He didn't look particularly cheered by the prospect.

Miles said, "And what do you think the rest of the family will be doing in that interim where the courts are making decisions?"

Randolph didn't appear to be any more cheered by considering them. "Heavens. It will be something to behold, I'm sure. Maisy will go off on some sort of tear, I'm guessing. Since her mother isn't around to curb her behavior, she'll likely be doing one ill-advised thing after another."

"Would she have the income to do that?" asked Myrtle. "I'd gotten the impression that her mother was supporting her, completely."

"She was. So maybe Maisy will be there alongside me—pinching family heirlooms and selling them at pawn shops," said Randolph with a smirk. "I'll have to make sure to beat her to it. And then, let's see. Bettina wasn't counting on money from Celeste, obviously, but she'd be off hunting for a new beau since Celeste apparently ruined her last match."

Miles shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Then we have Terrell," said Randolph with relish. "Old Terrell, old stick in the mud. Do you know I've rallied up some sympathy for old Terrell lately? Very surprisingly."

Myrtle said, "Have you? Why?"

"I suppose because he seems vulnerable now, somehow. Now that he's out there on his own and trying to forge his own relationships. I spotted him with that new gal ... the new friend of his. Donna?" asked Randolph.

"Donnice," corrected Myrtle and Miles in chorus.

"That's right. Terrell looked like a blushing schoolboy. Quite amazing. He was always so stony-faced and solemn and completely miserable. Having his mother die was probably the absolute best thing that could have happened to that man, as terrible as it is to say. He's finally coming out of his shell. It's a pity for him that it took all the way to middle-age for him to be able to spread his wings a bit." A waiter walked by and looked expectantly at Randolph and he nodded at his glass for a refill. He gave Myrtle a smile. "Gnomes. I shall start thinking of you as the gnome lady."

"You won't be the only one," said Miles. "Myrtle has become something of a local attraction at home."

"They're perfect," said Myrtle with a shrug. "They please me and irritate my son. What could be better? But, moving on again to your family. Overall, what are your thoughts about the family? In light of everything that's happened on this trip, I mean."

Randolph raised his eyebrows. "Well, they're not hypocrites. I'll say that for them. They're all very relieved to have Celeste out of their hair. But, sadly, one of them is a killer. Because it's not me."

Myrtle and Miles left Randolph when his drink arrived. They'd silently and mutually decided that any additional alcohol would not help with Randolph's general coherence. Besides, they'd likely gotten everything they needed to know from him.

"So we have Terrell remaining," said Miles.

Myrtle said, "That's right. We want to follow up with him on that lecture and the fact that his alibi really isn't an alibi. I suppose he wouldn't want to speak with us if he's still out with Donnice."

"Unlikely," agreed Miles.

"In that case, I think the best time to find him is tomorrow morning. He seems to be a creature of habit, and Terrell's habit is to rise early and go to the top deck for a coffee and crossword puzzle. And we can help him out with the puzzle since he seems an inept player at best," said Myrtle with a sniff.

"I'm sure he'll be delighted," said Miles dryly.

Myrtle surprised herself by sleeping through the entire night until her alarm went off at six forty-five. It was rare for her to fall asleep and then wake the next morning with absolutely no recollection of what might have transpired for the previous seven hours. Sleeping was a gift and something she was given only occasionally. It made her quite cheerful to have gotten it. She got ready for the day with a smile on her face.

Miles was waiting for her when she walked out of her room. "Buffet first, or Terrell first?"

"Oh, I think Terrell, don't you? I'm not sure how long he'll be up there working on the puzzle. I'm imagining that he's the sort of crossword puzzler who gives up about three-quarters of the way through the puzzle." There was a slight smugness in Myrtle's voice that she couldn't quite get rid of. That was the smugness of someone who rarely found a puzzle she couldn't complete.