“So Captain Detweiler is probably sweating bullets right now. Very worried, that is,” I added, seeing her puzzled look.
“I like sweating bullets.” She seemed to be filing the idiom away for future use. “Yes. Between the loss of a passenger and the increasing delay, he is very much worried.”
“He’s not telling the passengers much about the delay,” I said.
“A problem with the navigation system. The engineers say they can fix it, but it will take hours and hours, and requires the power to be off, because they do not particularly wish to electrocute themselves. And the captain does not seem to realize that to stand right behind them and ask every five minutes how much longer they will take does nothing to speed them up.”
“In fact, I bet it slows them down.”
“It is possible.” She nodded.
“I can tell you another thing the captain doesn’t seem to realize,” I said. “That the less he tells his passengers about what’s going on, the more worried they get, and the more likely they are to complain and write negative reviews when they finally get back to land.”
“It is unfortunate,” she said. “And also unfortunate that First Officer Martin does understand this. He will use that as he can.”
“He wants the captain’s job?”
“Oui.” She nodded. “He has wanted it for a long time now. Pastime is only a small cruise line, and the job of captain does not present itself very often. He may have to wait until Captain Detweiler leaves.”
“And Captain Detweiler doesn’t look old enough to be anywhere near retirement.” It was the perfect opening for her to spill the beans about the captain being encore bourré, but she said nothing. I actually liked her for that. “So Martin’s in limbo unless Detweiler gets a job elsewhere—”
“Unlikely. Most cruise lines prefer to promote from within.”
“So Detweiler’s probably planning to stay put until retirement, and Martin’s only hope is for the captain to screw up—in which case, Martin gets the job?”
“Probably,” she said. “Pastime, too, likes to promote from within. For most of the crew, that would be the only reason for regret if Captain Detweiler’s career were to suffer as a result of what currently happens aboard the ship. Should the first officer replace him—well, fortunately my contract is up soon. I do not think I will sign again with Pastime. But it would be better if that were not widely known,” she added, looking worried, as if suddenly realizing she had said too much.
“Of course.” Perhaps I should take what she had to say about Martin with a grain of salt, given that she obviously didn’t like him.
I’d been scanning the cabin as we talked, looking for some signs of occupancy. And not finding anything. Although something odd did catch my eye. One of the zippered outside pockets of Trevor’s suitcase was half-unzipped, and the top of a paperback was sticking out of it. Which wouldn’t have seemed the least bit odd—Trevor was an avid reader—but what I could see of the book’s cover bore the name “Desiree” in large, flowery, bright red letters. I pulled the book out of the pocket, revealing “St. Christophe” in the same overblown script. The title appeared to be The Sharp Claw of Love—although the script typeface was hard to decipher. The cover illustration showed a woman in a disheveled red gown, who appeared to have fainted on top of a sleek black panther.
“Monsieur is a reader of romance?” Léonie sounded amused.
“Not that I know of,” I said. “I’d have expected either one of Patrick O’Brian’s seafaring novels or something earnest and self-improving.”
I flipped the book open and saw an inscription: “To my adorable Trevor, with grateful thanks for everything you have done for me!!!!”
“To my adorable Trevor?” I read aloud.
“Your friend knew Ms. St. Christophe?”
“News to me.” I didn’t like the past tense. Of course, it was obviously applicable to Desiree. But not, I hoped, to Trevor. “Maybe he doesn’t know her. Maybe he met her during boarding and did something useful for her and she gave him the book to thank him.”
“She thanks him for everything he did for her,” Léonie pointed out. “And besides—this is not a new book—it has been read.”
She had a point. Definitely not a brand-new book. Was Trevor a covert reader of romance? Had he, perhaps, learned that one of his favorite authors was coming on the cruise and brought this well-thumbed paperback to get it autographed?
Stranger things had happened. But on the whole, I preferred the idea that he’d done her some small service on the pier and been rewarded with a book. A battered one, because it was the only one she had in her pink straw suitcase. And maybe the gushing inscription was just her style.
“I think I’ll hang on to this,” I said. “Nothing else I can do here—but thank you for letting me in.”
“You are most welcome.” She followed me out of Trevor’s cabin. “And not just because I know who to thank for the many guardian angels who seem to be watching over me on this voyage. It is good of you to concern yourself for your friend.”
“I only wish I had concerned myself about Trevor last night.”
“When the power eventually comes back, we can check with our staff at the Baltimore pier,” she said. “If he missed the ship, they will offer to help him arrange a flight to Hamilton—perhaps even in time for him to greet you when we sail in.”
“Let’s hope so.”
She smiled, wished me bonjour, and left. I stood for a few moments thinking. Okay, thinking and dreading climbing all the way back up to deck five. Especially since there was more than an even chance Grandfather and the rest had gone elsewhere. Like down to the main dining room to figure out whatever adjustments they needed to make to their setup in case the power wasn’t back on by seven and they had to do the session with no slides and no microphone. And that was assuming anyone would even want to attend a lecture if the power was still out by evening.
And why even go looking for them? My search to find out what had happened to Trevor seemed to have reached a temporary dead end. When we got communications back, I could find the first officer and get him to contact Baltimore to see if Trevor was there. And if he was, maybe I could get him on the line to ask about his connection to Desiree. But until then …
“When I said I wanted to get away from civilization, this was not what I had in mind,” I grumbled.
Chapter 16
As I was hovering by the stairwell, I spotted Rob and Delaney coming up.
“Morning,” I said. “Did you happen to notice if Grandfather and Caroline and the rest were in the main dining room?”
“Wim and Guillermo were a little while ago,” Rob said. “But they were just fetching some sandwiches and sodas to take up to deck six.”
“Rats,” I said. “As far away as they can possibly get without climbing a mast—not that a ship with no sails needs masts, of course.”
“It has mast-like things on top of the roof,” Rob said. “Although they probably have a more nautical word for roof. They could climb those.”
“The mast-like things are masts,” Delaney said. “They don’t need them for sails, but they still use them for hanging things that need to be high up—like signal flags and radio antennas.”
“Then they’re definitely not being used for anything right now. Good time to climb them.” Rob almost sounded eager to do it himself.
“We’re going up to deck six,” Delaney said. “Want us to give Caroline and Grandfather a message?”
“Please,” I said. “Tell them I got someone to let me into Trevor’s room and there’s no sign he was ever there. We’re hoping he just missed the sailing time and will fly out to Bermuda and meet us there,” I added, seeing the alarm on their faces.
“Of course, if we had power, we could just call him,” Rob said.
“I think that’s what I miss most in a power outage nowadays,” I said. “I could live without electric light, and do just fine on cold food. But the ability to call som
eone, and to look something up the minute I start wondering about it—that’s what I miss. Communications.”
“I know,” Delaney said. “I keep taking out my phone and trying to do stuff with it. And I’m kicking myself for not bringing a satellite phone. Or a shortwave radio.”
“She’s going into Internet withdrawal,” Rob teased.
“At least the phone’s still good for taking pictures and telling the time,” I said. “Although maybe I should ration that. Who knows how long the power will be out?”
“Oh, charging things isn’t a problem.” Delaney held up what looked at first like a cell phone, until I realized that instead of a screen with brightly colored icons on it I could see only a sort of gray grid pattern. “Solar charger.” She held up another similar object. “I’m field testing several different models—I figured the ship would be the perfect place for it.”
“We’re going up to deck six because it’s got the most open deck space,” Rob explained. “Find a nice sunny spot to arrange all the solar chargers and then sit in the shade and watch them work. Drop by later if you need a recharge.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
They resumed their climb. I decided the idea of a soda sounded nice. A ginger ale, maybe. Even if it would probably turn out to be lukewarm. So I headed down and took the well-traveled passageway to the main dining room.
I found three of the writers—Tish, Kate, and Janet—sitting around a table, looking a little glum. They looked up warily when I came in and then relaxed when they saw it was me.
“Have a seat.” Tish gestured toward an empty chair.
“We can use her as a fourth.” Janet shoved a stack of cards over toward where I was about to sit.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Kate said, seeing my expression. “You don’t actually have to play bridge with us. I don’t even know how.”
“But if that wretched first officer comes in and tries to force us to have some kind of fun, pick up your cards and pretend to be fascinated,” Tish said.
“I know he means well,” Kate grumbled. “But he is seriously getting on my nerves.”
“We did tell Angie and your father to let us know if there was anything we could do to help them with their investigation,” Janet said. “But I got the definite impression they were relieved not to be saddled with us. After all, it’s not as if we have any expertise in criminology.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kate said. “I’m pretty knowledgeable about Judge Henry Fielding and the Bow Street Runners.”
“I think police work has progressed a little since the 1700s,” Tish remarked.
“No doubt, but the offer stands.” Kate lifted her chin and assumed a determined expression. So did the others. Were they perhaps a little put out at not being asked to join the investigation? Or relieved to be left to get on with their work?
“Oh, and in case you’re interested, lunch is served.” Janet waved over at the buffet tables. I’d assumed they were occupied by the remains of breakfast, for the convenience of late risers. The fruit, pastries, and cereal were still there, but they’d been joined by bread, butter, mustard, mayonnaise, and a selection of sliced cheeses and cold cuts.
“Better help yourself while it’s still fresh.” Tish didn’t sound very thrilled at the prospect. “There hasn’t been time for most of that to spoil—”
“I wouldn’t risk the mayonnaise,” Kate said.
“—but I doubt if they’ve got any way of keeping it fresh,” Tish continued.
“Surely it’s early for—” I was glancing at my phone and stopped. “Okay, it’s noon. Not too early for lunch. Maybe I’ll take your advice. You know, I get the distinct feeling that none of you are particularly enjoying this unscheduled break from the hectic pace of the modern world.”
Their expressions changed from merely glum to downright annoyed.
“Well, apart from the lack of a morning shower,” Tish said, “and the fact that if this continues the toilets are going to be pretty … um…”
“I think we can all fill in the blank,” Kate said. “And also, we made a bit too merry in the bar after your grandfather’s talk and didn’t do a good job of plugging in our electronic devices.”
“I did plug stuff in,” Tish said. “But it was nearly two when I did, and I guess they didn’t have much time to charge.”
“My laptop’s completely out of power.” Janet held up a spiral notebook. “I was supposed to write a synopsis while I was on this trip and turn it in to my agent when I got back. I’m trying to do it with pen and paper, and remembering just why I do it on the computer.”
“And I’m feeling guilty because my laptop still has power.” Tish gestured to the MacBook on the table in front of her. “But only twenty percent, and who knows how long the ship’s electricity will be out, and I have to make my word count every day or I’ll be in trouble when I get back.”
“Not your fault,” Janet said. “And anyway, your laptop wouldn’t help. All my notes and my draft are in my laptop, and besides, you’re Mac and I’m PC.”
“Come over from the dark side,” Tish whispered.
“I seem to be the only one who planned to take a real break on this trip,” Kate said. “But my e-reader’s down to ten percent. And I didn’t bring any paper books because of the weight. So instead of lying in a deck chair, losing myself in a book, I’m saving what little power I have left for bedtime. I have a hard time falling asleep without reading.”
“Surely they’ll fix whatever it is by bedtime,” Tish said.
“I’m not betting on it.”
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Not so much because it was funny—although it was—but because I was so relieved to find that they weren’t, like Dad, obsessing about Desiree’s suicide or murder.
“Come with me,” I said. “And bring your dying devices. There may be hope.”
I led them up to deck six. Rob and Delaney had settled in under the starboard sun shade, happily watching the patch of sunny deck at their feet where Delaney’s solar chargers were doing their thing to three phones, two iPads, and a laptop. And even better, Grandfather’s contingent had set up their industrial-sized solar chargers in a sunny spot on the other side of the deck, and were sitting under the port sun shade having, to my surprise, what sounded like a poetry appreciation session. Grandfather, in his best orator’s pose, was declaiming:
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
“It’ll only depress them,” Caroline said.
“Don’t you mean ‘impress them’?” I said. “I had no idea Grandfather ever read poetry, much less memorized bits of it. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—right?”
“He only recites it because he considers it an early, prescient expression of environmental awareness,” Caroline said.
“I’m impressed that he knows it at all,” I said. “But if he’s planning for tonight’s talk, don’t you think you might want to avoid the next verse?”
I echoed Grandfather’s dramatic pose and recited:
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
“Oh, very good,” Tish said. “Most people mangle that last line.”
“English teacher.” Kate nodded in Tish’s direction.
“On a more mundane note,” I said to Caroline. “Can you spare a few volts for the writers? All their infernal devices are running low.”
“Be our guests.”
Caroline, Wim, and Guillermo got busy setting up the various cables required to charge everyone’s phones and laptops and e-readers. Delaney came over to contribute a few cables from her collection. The writers settled into chairs and recliners and seemed to be enjoying just watching their devices being refueled.
“This is fabulous,” Janet said. “I don’t know how to thank you.
”
“By the way, Delaney,” I said. “Remember that project you were telling me about—Project Bacon?”
“You know, that’s a great idea,” Kate said. “You probably could cook bacon if you put a sheet of metal out in this sun.”
“This Project Bacon’s a lot less practical,” Delaney said, with a chuckle. “It’s called Project Bacon because a bunch of us geeks started off to see if we could add anything useful to the old debate about whether Sir Francis Bacon actually wrote Shakespeare’s plays. Which he probably didn’t according to our programs.”
“You use computer programs to analyze the text, then,” Tish said. “I’ve heard of that.”
“These days there are a lot of programs out there to do it,” Delaney said. “Ours is a bit different because it’s an open-source project—anyone with something to contribute can join in, and even more important, anyone can see how we’re doing the analysis.”
“Do you also use it to detect plagiarism?” Janet asked.
I could see that Tish and Kate were paying close attention. By now they’d probably guessed why I’d brought up Project Bacon.
“That’s one of the main practical applications,” Delaney said. “The other being what you might call forensic use.”
“Forensic?” I echoed.
“Say you have a case—and this is from real life, by the way—where a woman is getting sexually harassing emails from someone in her company. The cyber techs do their thing and figure out the emails were sent from some guy’s computer—only he claims he didn’t do it. They have a fairly open office plan, so anyone could have gotten access to his computer and sent them. And what’s more, she has it in for him, he claims, and could have written the emails herself and sent them to herself from his computer, to make trouble for him. That’s where our software comes in. We feed fifty to a hundred pieces of writing from each of them into our program, until we get a profile of how each one writes. And then we feed in the harassing emails and our program tells us which one wrote them.”
Terns of Endearment (Meg Langslow Mysteries) Page 13