by Joan Hess
“Not well. Pookie played the second session with all the acumen of a trustee at a psychiatric facility. She then refused to listen to a single word about the string of ghastly errors she made, although I did make every effort to temper my criticism with a few kind words. It was not easy to find those kind words, and I was most irritated when she abandoned the table to dance with that orthodontist who thinks he’s the Charles Goren of Hartford.”
“Oh, really?” Theo said, having learned in sixty-one years that his sister could not be diverted once she had been launched.
“I told Pookie that if she insisted on dancing half the night with Mr. Straight Teeth, then she would have to find another partner for the team event tomorrow. Of course, Betty Lou and Adele will be livid if we cancel on such short notice, but I shall tell them it is entirely Pookie’s fault. She has not been stable since her last divorce; I don’t know why I attempt any serious bridge with her. She is adolescent, at best.”
“Indeed. Was there anything else, Nadine? It is well past midnight, and I was asleep.”
“I am aware that it is nearly two o’clock in the morning. The evening session was not over until after eleven, and we stayed to have a drink and discuss the hands. I did, anyway. Pookie seems to have stayed in order to gyrate on the dance floor with the kingpin of orthodontia. I simply left her there and drove home alone. I cannot repeat some of the things I said to myself along the interstate; I simply cannot.”
“Has Ellison had any word about his daughter?” Theo hazarded.
“Why else would I call? This is not an inexpensive conversation, Theo. I had to deal with all sorts of operators whose enunciation is less than crisp, and Charles will expire when he sees the telephone bill next month. If you will cease chattering, I will tell you what Win said when he came over during the cocktail hour this afternoon. There has been a second demand.”
“You waited nine hours to tell me this? Really, Nadine, it is vital that the girl be found—”
“I could hardly call you during the second session of the women’s pairs, could I? Tournament bridge is a timed event, and I am not the egotistical sort to demand that everyone sit in limbo because I need to make a personal call. Yesterday afternoon a woman from Philadelphia had a coronary at the table, and the game was halted only long enough to allow the paramedics to wheel her out of the room. Pookie completely forgot the bidding and leapt to six spades, then preceded to go down three.”
“What was the substance of the demand?”
“A muffled voice on the telephone instructed Win to place fifty thousand dollars in small bills in a suitcase and leave it in a Salvation Army collection box in the shopping center. He was to do so by midnight. If he refused to cooperate, all sorts of dreadful things would be done to Mary Margaret.”
“Did he follow the instructions?” Theo asked, blinking.
“He asked me for my opinion. I told him it was absurd, that you were seeing to the situation down there, wherever it is. Besides, the banks were closed and the idea melodramatic and utterly preposterous. Win doesn’t know a Salvation Army box from a hat box. One has a maid call them to come along in their battered truck to pick up whatever one is discarding; it’s their responsibility, after all. Win would have had a sporting chance had the demand involved safe deposit boxes or even cigar boxes.”
“Oh, dear,” Theo said. He sank down to the floor and leaned against the refrigerator, which rumbled against his spine in a comforting way. “Did Ellison tell this muffled voice that he intended to comply with the demand?”
“I really couldn’t say, Theo. Pookie and I had to leave before he finished the little story. You have found Mary Margaret, haven’t you? Although her monetary value seems to be decreasing, this ransom business is still disturbing Win.”
“I am looking for her,” Theo said, looking at the baseboard. “I have every hope I shall find her soon. If there is another communication from the kidnappers, I would like to be informed immediately. Is that possible?”
“The first session of the team event begins at eleven tomorrow morning, and the second at five. If I hear from Win either before or after the sessions, you may rest assured I shall spare no expense to call you, Theo. I am not heartless.”
She hung up before Theo could offer an opinion. He remained on the floor, this time fairly certain he would not be caught by Amelia and Emelda, should they ever return. The floor was cool. The view was almost as familiar as the verdant sweep from the terrace to the Caribbean. He had done a reasonably competent job of tidying up after the police search, although from this perspective he could see a wisp of flour underneath the table. “Tut, tut,” he said dispiritedly.
The kitchen door swung open. “Who’s here?” Dorrie demanded as she came into the room, a golf club clutched in her hand. She looked around wildly.
“Down here, my dear.”
“What on earth are you doing, Uncle Theo? I heard a noise and came down to investigate, but I hardly expected to find you on the kitchen floor.”
“I’ve been on the telephone to your mother. Once we got through the latest adventures at the bridge table, she told me there’d been a second ransom demand. Midnight—or else. It seems we got ‘else,’ for better or worse.”
Dorrie propped the golf club (a five iron, Theo noted) in a corner and sat down beside him. “You mean something has happened to Mary Margaret? You don’t believe someone would actually do … something to her, do you? But that’s terrible—totally terrible. I know I said some catty things about her, but she’s one of my best friends, for pete’s sake.”
“I don’t know. I would have hypothesized that the situation was losing momentum, since the film has not been found. The police seem discouraged and rather at a loss to determine the next move, but for some reason the pressure has intensified for our unknown player—or players. Mary Margaret is now worth only fifty thousand, although it was to be paid within a matter of hours after the demand was made.”
“She’s down to fifty thousand? She’ll be furious when she learns that.” Dorrie gulped several times. “She will learn that, won’t she? Uncle Theo, we’ve got to do something. This is no longer amusing, and I want you to get her back immediately so that I won’t have to worry about her.” She held out her hand for his inspection. “Look at that. I’ve chipped two nails since this morning.”
Theo found himself wishing he had not sworn off cigarettes thirty years ago; it was the perfect time to light a cigarette, blow a cloud of smoke at the ceiling, and ask his niece what precisely she thought he ought to do. About Mary Margaret, about the murderer, or even about her manicure predicament. He was about to inquire when the door opened and Sandy, dressed in pajamas dotted with red and blue sailboats, came cautiously into the kitchen, a golf club in his hand.
“Who’s here?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.
“We’re down here,” Dorrie said, fluttering her fingers.
“My God, are you okay? Did Mr. Bloomer fall? Did he break his hip? Can I get him a glass of water or something?”
“Uncle Theo didn’t fall and he didn’t break anything. He’s just sitting here thinking about what to do next.”
“Are you sure he’s not dizzy or weak? He’s an old guy, Dorrie.” Sandy put down the golf club (a seven iron) and bent over to peer at Theo. “He looks pale, too.”
“He’s not that old,” she said in an indignant voice. “Well, he’s not all that young, either, but he’s not so gaga that he wouldn’t know if he were dizzy or weak-kneed.”
The dizzy, weak-kneed, gaga topic of conversation patted the floor beside him. “Have a seat, my boy. If I feel a sudden compulsion to drool, I’ll give you ample warning. Dorrie and I were discussing Mary Margaret’s whereabouts.”
“They want fifty thousand for her,” Dorrie added, her eyes wide. “They might do something totally awful to her if her father doesn’t pay.”
“Wait a minute,” Sandy said. “Maybe you’re the one going gaga. What the hell are you talking about?”
>
Dorrie related the tale of the ransom demands. “So,” she concluded, patting Theo’s knee, “Uncle Theo and I were trying to figure out what to do in order to rescue Mary Margaret from the clutches of the kidnappers—if there really are kidnappers. Right, Uncle Theo?”
Theo had been pondering the criteria each of them used in the selection of a golf club. “Yes, indeed,” he said, “we are pondering which course of action would prove most beneficial to the girl.”
Sandy scratched his chin. “Do we have options, sir? I mean, do you have any idea where she might be? I don’t see how we can snatch her away from the kidnappers if we can’t find them.”
“A keen observation,” Theo said. “We cannot retrieve her if we don’t know where she is. Have you any theories?”
“She could be anyplace on the island. It’s a big island.”
“What if,” Dorrie said slowly, “she really is a conspirator in the kidnap plot? I doubt she’s met any strangers crazy enough to help her, so it’s liable to be someone she already knew. I can’t see her working up a scheme with the cook or the maid, and Eli’s dead. That leaves Count D’Orsini and the real estate woman.”
“The real estate woman has a name,” Theo said, trying not to sound irritable.
“Everyone has a name, Uncle Theo; I simply do not clutter my mind with names of short-term employees. Heavens, we had a chauffeur for six months and I never could remember if he was John or James. He could still drive.”
Sandy leaned forward, his expression animated. “If Mary Margaret cooked up this disappearance with D’Orsini, then she might be hiding in his villa. We could go pound on the door and demand that we be allowed to search every room. He’s not a big guy; I could hold him while you—”
“The police have already searched his villa,” Theo interrupted before Sandy could leap to his feet, grab his seven iron, and storm the neighbor’s bastion.
“Oh,” he said, sinking back against the refrigerator. “I guess they would have found her.”
“One would assume so,” Theo murmured.
Now Dorrie leaned forward. “But did they search the yacht? Knowing Mary Margaret, she’d absolutely die to hide out on a zillion-dollar yacht stocked with champagne and caviar.”
“Wow,” Sandy said, “she really might think that was a riot. But wouldn’t the police have searched the yacht?”
“They didn’t mention it,” Theo said. He absently took off his bifocals and polished them on the hem of his bathrobe. “I suppose it is possible, but we shouldn’t get our hopes too high.”
“I think it’s a totally wonderful theory,” Dorrie sniffed, offended by his lack of enthusiasm. “I think we ought to go right down to the marina and see if she’s there. We ought to do it this very minute, before the kidnappers have a chance to … to do things.”
“We might call the police,” Theo said.
Sandy shook his head. “If the kidnappers see the police, they’ll panic and shoot Mary Margaret. Dorrie’s right. We can sneak up on the yacht and try to determine if anyone’s on board. The captain gave me an extensive tour the other day, and showed me all the staterooms and the equipment below decks. I can get us on board, then we can explore the rooms where Mary Margaret might be a prisoner.”
“Calm down,” Theo said. “The theory that led to all this was that she is a conspirator, rather than the hapless victim of kidnappers. According to Dorrie, Mary Margaret is guzzling champagne and munching caviar, not hog-tied in the bilge. We don’t need to dash down to the pier, brandishing golf clubs and tiptoeing across the deck. We—”
“Good idea, Uncle Theo—we’ll take the golf clubs. I’ll meet you two by the car in five minutes. I have on no makeup whatsoever.” She glanced at Sandy’s pajamas and Theo’s bathrobe. “You might want to change into something more appropriate yourselves.” She picked up the five iron as she left the kitchen.
“It’s a genetic problem,” Theo said. When Sandy looked bewildered, he sighed, stood up, and went upstairs to change into something appropriate for yacht skulking and kidnapper bashing. Two of his least favorite hobbies.
They met by the car. Theo gave Sandy the key and told him to open the gate at the bottom of the driveway. With Dorrie breathing heavily beside him, he let the car roll to the street, then waited until Sandy had locked the gate and climbed in the backseat before starting the engine.
“I am not at all sure we ought to do this,” he said as the car lurched forward. He started the engine again and reminded himself of the necessity of using left when right felt—well, right. He drove down the hill and turned toward the city of Montego Bay, where they would, with luck and a certain amount of divine guidance, find the harbor.
Dorrie turned the rearview mirror to examine her lipstick. “Come on, Uncle Theo, we’re rescuing Mary Margaret, not holding up a bank. If she’s on the yacht, we’ll bring her back to the villa and call Mother. If she’s not, then we’ll just slip away and admit defeat.”
“And if we’re arrested for trespassing?” Theo asked.
Sandy patted Theo on the shoulder. “Just think of it as a school prank, sir. We’ll tell the police that D’Orsini told us we could use the yacht whenever we wanted to. The captain explained all the equipment to me; I could take us out for a moonlight cruise.”
“Could you really?” Dorrie asked. “You know enough to operate the yacht after one quick tour?”
Theo realized the situation was careening out of control. “We are not going to steal the yacht for a moonlight cruise,” he said firmly. “We are going to take a quick look for Mary Margaret while praying we are not spotted by the harbor security men. If we are arrested, I can assure you that Sergeant Stahl will not be amused and will not release us with a little slap on the wrist. There has been a murder, you know. It was not a school prank.”
He kept up the lecture, although he could see Dorrie was craning her neck to search the sky for moonlight. He suspected Sandy was envisioning himself at the helm of the Pis Aller, the wind ruffling his crewcut as he opened the throttle or whatever one did in the nautical sense.
The streets of the city were dark, the last of the tourists safely abed at their hotels and the natives abed at their homes. There were no cars, no motorcycles, no pedestrians wandering from bar to bar. The stores were black boxes. A dog came out of an alley to stare at them as the car lurched by, then ducked back into the shadows to root through garbage cans.
A streetlight gleamed dimly over the gate to the marina. Theo parked across the road and cut off the engine. “Well,” he said, trying to sound disappointed, “there’s no way we can get inside the fence, so I suppose we ought to go home and call the proper authorities.”
Dorrie eyed the fence. “I am not about to climb that thing. I have on new jeans, and I have no intention of ripping them on barbed wire.”
“I can open a regular lock with a credit card,” Sandy said from the backseat. “The guys at school are getting locked out of their dorm rooms all the time, and I charge a buck to get them in. But that’s a padlock.”
“A shame,” Theo said. He reached for the ignition key, but Dorrie’s fingernails cut into the back of his hand.
“You can open that padlock, Uncle Theo. We’ll wait in the car until you’ve opened the gate, then I’ll drive the car through and park where we can’t be seen by a patrol car.” She gave him a beady Caldicott look. “Go on, Uncle Theo. I’d hate to be arrested now, since we haven’t even accomplished anything. Just imagine what Mother would say.”
It was not a difficult chore to imagine Nadine’s reaction. Nor was it difficult to open the padlock, swing back the metal gate, and wait while Dorrie drove through and found an inky shadow in which to park. She and Sandy joined him, both armed with golf clubs and determined smiles.
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Dorrie said, slipping her arm through Theo’s. “Now we’ll simply find D’Orsini’s yacht, slip aboard, and search for Mary Margaret. I find this rather exciting; it’s like pouring detergent in the
fountain by the library, or drinking wine in the dorm.”
Sandy pointed at a long pier lined with boats of all sizes. They were rocking silently, their masts and wires etched against the dull matte of the sky. Things creaked like unseen tree frogs. Water slapped softly against hulls.
“Ooh,” Dorrie whispered, “this is straight from some creepy movie, isn’t it? All we need is for some hulk to leap onto the pier in front of us, lunging and snarling. Sandy bashes him with a golf club, Mary Margaret stumbles out from the yacht, her eyes glazed from dope, and the credits roll while she babbles gratitude and hugs everybody.”
Theo could not find the precise words to convey his reaction to her scenario. It did bring to mind Sitermann, however. Theo was unable to resist a quick peek over his shoulder, prepared to see a flash of white hair and a glowing red nose. He saw only a flurry of insects around the streetlight and a solitary cat ambling along the top of the fence.
Sandy pointed his golf club at the boat at the end of the pier. “That’s D’Orsini’s yacht. We’d better hurry. I think I saw a flashlight on the far side of the building; it could be a security man making rounds.”
The three went down the pier and stopped in front of the Pis Aller. It was dark, as to be expected at three in the morning, Theo thought with a sigh, and its deck smooth and glinting. Sandy helped Dorrie scramble over the rail and onto the deck, then turned to Theo with a hesitant look.
“Shall I give you a hand, sir? The deck should not be wet, but it might be slippery and I wouldn’t want you to fall.”
“I shall be careful,” Theo said. He joined Dorrie, who was giggling, and they waited as Sandy stepped soundlessly over the rail in his rubber-soled shoes.
Sandy looked around for a moment, then pointed at a doorway. “She’s likely to be asleep in one of the staterooms,” he hissed. “Follow me, and watch your head. Keep a hand on the wall to steady yourself, sir.”
Before Theo could point out that he was hardly in the doddering stage, Sandy ducked through the doorway. Dorrie followed, leaving Theo alone on the deck. No, he told himself, Nadine would harp well into the twenty-first century if he simply returned to the car and drove to the villa. He ducked his head and went down the stairs.