“This morning’s daily mentioned the demised Mrs. Amberly Sloane. I’ve taken refuge on E-Deck. But your clothes are still in Mrs. Sloane’s room.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. But I am sorry to see Mrs. Sloane go.” She hands me a glass and lifts hers for me to clink. We both sip. It tastes like gasoline fumes.

April’s room is laid out similarly to Mr. Stewart’s, though an explosion of clothes litters every surface. Her trademark menswear suits seem to lounge over the beds, with beaded capes thrown over the backs of chairs. Bright scarves hang from the bedposts, like pennants. April scoops a dress off a chair, clearing a space for me to sit.

“I like to air my clothes. Makes them last longer. Maybe we can hide you in here?”

“Thank you, but the farther I am from the scene of the crime, the better.”

“Hmm.” Her mouth swishes to one side. “So your brother’s not going with you?”

I shake my head and take another sip of the gasoline, which seems a good alternative to airing my emotions in front of her.

“The sooner you let people be who they want to be, the better for all.” She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “When I told Mother I had no interest in men, she was angry for a good year. Every time we saw a child, she’d give me a dirty look.”

She raises an eyebrow at me, and I shut my mouth, which has begun to gape. Well, that certainly explains her remark about Jamie not being her “type.”

Overlooking my rudeness, she continues, “But one day, out of the blue, she said, ‘I guess that’s that, then.’ And we’ve been fine ever since.”

I nod. “I just thought I knew him.” I focus on a stunner of a dress spread over a bed, which looks sunrise yellow from one angle and sky blue from the other. It’s much cleverer than Marigold Fantasy. “Why did you send that Lucile for me to wear?”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I was trying to throw Lucy off the scent by having you wear that dress. She thought House of July had planted you to upstage her. Which is true, but I didn’t want her to accuse you of being a phony.”

Someone knocks.

“Who could that be at this hour?” April smoothly crosses to the door, still holding her glass. “Yes? Who is it?”

“It’s your steward, ma’am. Please don’t be alarmed, but it seems we’ve run into a bit of a snag, and we’re calling all passengers to the Boat Deck.”

Casting me a disbelieving gaze, April cracks open the door. “You can’t be serious. It’s the middle of the night.”