by Pat Murphy
Though he’d been cruising in the Caribbean for weeks, Ian retained the pallor of a man who spent his life in front of a computer screen, living on coffee and junk food. During his first week aboard, Ian had ordered only coffee, turkey sandwiches, and fries from the galley. After a week of this, Osvaldo, the steward who took care of the bridge staff, had taken on the task of improving Ian’s diet. Ian still drank too much coffee, but he ate what Osvaldo brought him—and his diet now included fresh fruit and an occasional salad. Ian was still thin, but he no longer looked quite as malnourished.
When Tom stepped through the security office door, Ian looked up from his computer screen and grinned. “So who is she?” He spoke quickly, as always, riding as he did on a constant caffeine buzz.
Tom frowned. “Who is who?”
“The beautiful redhead you were escorting to her stateroom,” Ian asked.
Tom sat down at his desk, shaking his head. “How do you know about that?” Then he held up a hand. “No, wait—let me guess.”
Ian grinned and poured himself another cup of coffee from the pot on his desk. The coffeepot was on a tray from the galley. By the aroma, it was quite fresh.
“The coffee was delivered by someone who talked to someone who saw me.”
Ian nodded. “Osvaldo delivered the coffee. He had talked to Mario who was making up a stateroom on the Calypso deck when you passed by. According to Osvaldo, Mario said she’s quite attractive.”
In his first week aboard the Odyssey, Ian had taken it upon himself to know everything that happened aboard the ship. He wanted to know who was sleeping with whom, who was angry about what and why. He had an astounding predilection for gossip and intrigue. He was, he explained to Tom, very fond of information.
“Just a lost passenger who found her way onto the bridge somehow. She was asking Gene Culver for directions when I passed by.”
“Why didn’t Gene escort her himself?” The cruise director, the man in charge of the ship’s entertainment and passenger activities, had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Ian knew that, of course.
Tom smiled. Ian was grilling him, but Tom was willing to indulge the younger man. “Gene was not having a good day. He was talking to a tweedy looking chap about a writing workshop.”
“Max Merriwell,” Ian said. “Excellent science fiction writer. He also writes fantasy as Mary Maxwell and mystery as Weldon Merrimax.” Ian opened one of his desk drawers, pulled out a hardcover book, and tossed it to Tom. “That’s his latest. I just finished reading it last night. Wonderful book.”
“Seems like he has too many names,” Tom said.
Ian shrugged. “He writes in different genres under different names. He doesn’t want to confuse his readers.”
Tom laughed. “Then I’d say he’s going about it the wrong way.”
“Well, his pseudonyms are not common knowledge.” Ian sipped his coffee, smiling a self-satisfied smile. He was, Tom had noticed, fond of knowing things that were not common knowledge.
“How did you find out?” Tom asked.
“I’m on an Internet mailing list with people who make it their business to know this sort of thing. When I found out Max Merriwell was coming aboard, I asked about him.”
Tom nodded and glanced at the book in his hand. There and Back Again, by Max Merriwell. On the cover, a woman with a tattooed face gazed into a cube in which stars swirled.
“You can borrow it,” Ian said.
“I don’t read much fiction.” Tom handed the book back to Ian and sat down at his desk. He glanced at the stack of papers in the center of the desk—Ian’s print—out from the A Pass system. Over the past month, Tom’s security staff had been trained in the new system and had simultaneously maintained the old system, relying on roster sheets and paper records. On this cruise, the switch to the new system would be complete and security would rely on the A Pass system.
Tom glanced at the print-out, knowing that Ian would tell him what he needed to know before he could ask.
“Everything went smoothly,” Ian said, not waiting for Tom to review the print-out. “All crew accounted for. Last visitor disembarked at 4:15 with minutes to spare.”
“Great. I checked at the gates, and there didn’t seem to be any problems there.”
Ian nodded, sipping his coffee.
Tom glanced at his watch, then stood up. “I’ve got to get ready for dinner.” On the Odyssey, company policy required officers to dine with the passengers, making small talk and serving, according to company memos, as “ambassadors for Odyssey Lines.”
Ian nodded. “I’ll see you there.”
“Really?” Tom was surprised. As a consultant, Ian was exempt from this requirement. He had, on all the earlier cruises, opted to eat with the rest of the crew, rather than dining with the passengers.
“I decided it might be interesting. So I checked with the purser and he signed me up.”
“Interesting?” Tom shook his head. “You have an optimistic streak I’d never noticed before. You’ll probably be seated with six little old ladies.” Some officers enjoyed presiding over a table at dinner; Tom regarded it as a necessary part of his job.
“Watch your tongue,” Ian said. “If they’re passengers, those little old ladies are vertically challenged senior citizens.” The company had recently sent out a memo on the politically correct terms to be used for passengers.
“Have it your way.” Tom left the office, closing the door firmly behind him.
Ian returned to his computer screen. With a few key strokes, he called up the list of passengers dining in the Ithaca Dining Room at the eight-fifteen seating. They were listed by table; he searched for Tom’s table. Eight passengers and Tom.
He tapped a few keys to call up the passenger list. According to Mario, the beautiful redhead was in stateroom 144. Two women occupied that stateroom: Susan Galina and Pat Murphy. For good measure, he located Max Merriwell, too. He returned to the seating chart, bumped four passengers to other tables, and inserted himself, the women from stateroom 144, and Max Merriwell.
He smiled. Much better, he thought. He liked Tom, but he thought the security officer could use a bit of loosening up. It had been more than a year since Tom had had a girlfriend; that’s what Mario had told Ian. Tom had dated a singer for a while, but she’d transferred to another ship, and he’d been on his own ever since. Ian thought Tom deserved good company at dinner, and Ian was happy to arrange it. And even happier to set wheels in motion and see what happened.
It was shaping up to be an interesting cruise, he thought happily. He was looking forward to meeting Max Merriwell; he was looking forward to seeing what, if anything, developed between Tom and the redhead. And the ship was heading into the Bermuda Triangle.
For the past few weeks, Ian had been reading up on the Bermuda Triangle. He didn’t believe all the stories about ships and planes that had disappeared there, but he was interested in them, just as he was interested in anything that smacked of conspiracy and cover-up. He didn’t believe in the mystical power of the Bermuda Triangle, but he enjoyed the fervor of those who did. He tried to keep an open mind.
Yes, he thought, it was bound to be an interesting cruise.
TWO
She slit open the belly of a fish while cleaning it for dinner, and found a gold ring. The ring was inscribed “With all my love.” She considered the ring, muttered her thanks to whatever god sent it her way, and sold it in the market. It was a lovely ring and a lovely sentiment, but when it got right down to it, she felt she’d be better off with the cash.
—from Here Be Dragons by Mary Maxwell
THE ITHACA DINING ROOM on the Lotus Deck had the look and feel of an expensive steak house: dark wooden paneling on the walls, heavy wooden chairs upholstered in leather, white linen tablecloths. Candles burned on every table; in the ceiling, tiny lights twinkled like stars. It all looked so solid, so stable. But Susan could feel the ship rocking beneath her, a subtle shifting that made her feel unsteady, as if she had already
had too much to drink. A little dizzy, a little disoriented. “Welcome to the Odyssey,” the head waiter said, smiling at the two of them. Susan noticed that he blinked once at Pat’s hair—blinked as if checking his vision. But then he simply smiled—a precise smile of professional greeting. He did not mention Pat’s hair; he did not mention her jeans. He simply checked their cruise cards and consulted a computer print out. “Ah, yes—you’re at one of the officer’s tables. Nicholas will show you the way.”
Susan and Pat followed Nicholas to their assigned table. A placard in the center of the table said “233.” Six people smiled at Susan expectantly; three seats were still empty. Susan forced herself to smile back at the people, but her smile faltered when she noticed that Max Merriwell was seated at one end of the table and the officer who had shown her to her stateroom was at the other.
“I see you found your way to the dining hall,” the officer was saying, and she could feel her cheeks reddening. She hoped that the light was dim enough that no one would notice. She felt like fleeing, but Pat was already taking the seat next to Max Merriwell. Susan reached for the back of one of the remaining seats, leaving an empty chair between herself and the officer. But before she could pull out the chair and seat herself, a man came hurrying up. He was just a few years older than Pat. Like Pat, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Allow me,” he said, smiling at her, and pulled out the chair next to the officer.
Susan hesitated, then took the seat, not wanting to make a scene. “We weren’t properly introduced before,” the officer said, still smiling. “I’m Tom Clayton, ship’s security officer.”
“Susan Galina,” she murmured. She felt tongue-tied and self conscious. She had made a fool of herself earlier; she just hoped she could make it through dinner without embarrassing herself further.
“So sorry I’m late,” said the man who had pulled out her chair. “I’m Ian Macabbee. Consulting Propellerhead.”
Susan blinked, wondering if she had heard him right. But she didn’t have a chance to ask. Ian was already turning to Pat, murmuring something about her fabulous hair.
“I’ve decided that the Captain has us all pegged as troublemakers,” said the balding man on the other side of the table. He was grinning. “That’s why we’re all at Tom’s table. This way, he can keep an eye on us.”
“You’re the troublemaker, Bill,” said the woman beside him, shaking her head fondly “Don’t go dragging the rest of us into it.”
“Well, clearly Tom has already met this young lady,” said a redheaded man at the far end of the table. “If that isn’t suspicious I don’t know what is.” He was a large, prosperous-looking fellow who appeared to be used to living the good life. “I’m Charles Rafferty,” he told Susan.
Then everyone introduced themselves, a great confusion of names and identities. Bill Carver, the balding joker at the end of the table, and his wife Alberta were from Cleveland, Ohio. Charles Rafferty was a banker from Boston. His wife, a slim Asian woman named Lily, was an antique dealer.
Ian Macabbee smiled at Susan sympathetically and she wondered if she looked a bit panicked. “It’s always hard to keep track of all the names at the first dinner,” he murmured. “It’ll get easier.”
“Max here seems determined to make it harder than usual.” Bill Carver said jovially. “He has more than his share of names.”
Susan glanced shyly at Max. Beside Bill Carver, he looked even shorter and shabbier. She imagined how difficult it could be to explain all his pen names to people like Bill and Charles.
Susan had been reading Max’s science fiction novels since she was ten years old. They were wonderful tales that had let her escape from the demands of her family into a world of adventure where anything was possible.
At about the same age, she had discovered Mary Maxwell’s novels, stories in which girls and women led heroic lives. It wasn’t until she became a librarian that she discovered that Mary Maxwell was a pseudonym for Max Merriwell. She knew some women who had been disappointed to learn that a man had written Mary Maxwell’s books, but she still thought that the books were marvelous and that the man who wrote them must be equally extraordinary. On the cruise, she had brought Max’s latest novel, a rollicking space adventure titled There and Back Again, and Wild Angel, a new book by Mary Maxwell.
She knew Max had also written books as Weldon Merrimax, but she hadn’t read them. She’d started one once, but it was so bleak she had set it aside.
“Really, Max,” Charles chimed in. “It does seem like you are going out of your way to be confusing. I really don’t see the point.”
“Now let’s see if I’ve got it straight,” Bill said. “You’re Max Merriwell when you write that wild sci-fi stuff. You’re Mary Maxwell when you write fantasy. And you’re Weldon Merrimax when you write bestsellers.” Bill rubbed his head, pretending he was baffled. “Of course, I don’t read all that far-out stuff. I’ve heard of Weldon, at least. But keeping track of all those names is too much for me.”
Susan thought she saw a flicker of irritation cross Max’s face at the mention of Weldon Merrimax. Clearly, Bill was the sort of person who didn’t read science fiction, but felt he knew all about it. He knew it was trashy and a waste of time. Kid stuff. Susan felt she had to speak up.
“I don’t have any problem with all the names,” she said abruptly. “I already know his names because I know his books. I’m looking forward to your workshop, Mr. Merriwell.”
“Call me Max,” he said, rewarding her with a small smile.
She managed to smile back, startled by her own audacity.
“A workshop,” Alberta said, leaning forward a little. She was a stout woman with obviously bleached hair and an earnest and determined manner. “What sort of workshop?”
“I’ll be teaching a writing workshop on board,” Max said. “Really,” Alberta said. She clasped her hands in front of her like a child anticipating a treat. “I’d love to come to that. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. I have so many stories to tell.” She glanced at Susan and Pat. “Are you both writers?”
“Only if you count writing a dissertation on quantum mechanics,” Pat said. “My advisor tells me I might as well be writing a science fiction novel, so maybe that counts.”
Susan shook her head. “I’m a librarian, and I love books. I really don’t think I can write one, but I thought I’d go to Max’s workshop anyway.”
“A cruise is a lovely place to try new things,” Alberta said briskly. “Last year, Bill and I tried swing dancing and I took a boxing class in the aerobics studio. There’s so much to do on board.”
Susan nodded, imagining Alberta throwing a punch. It wasn’t difficult. She would, Susan thought, approach boxing with the same earnest doggedness that she approached conversation.
Their waiter arrived with menus, and the conversation turned to food.
“The smoked salmon with caviar cream sounds lovely to start with,” Alberta was saying. “Then perhaps the grilled eggplant salad.”
“The rack of lamb could be good,” Charles said. “Tom, what can you tell me about the prime rib.”
Susan realized, listening to the conversation, that Bill, Alberta, Charles, and Lily had all been on many cruises before. Charles was praising the wine selection on Celebrity Cruises and Bill was maintaining that Norwegian Cruise Lines had the best chefs. Susan kept her eyes on her menu, having nothing to add to the conversation and feeling a little out of her depth.
“It’ll all calm down after a bit,” Ian said to her softly. She glanced up to find him studying her. “They’re just jockeying for position. Like a pack of wolves. They’re establishing the pack hierarchy. Who’s the alpha male, who’s beta, and so on.”
She glanced at Charles and Bill, who had engaged Tom in a conversation about wine, while their wives discussed their salad selection. Pat and Max were studying their menus.
“Everyone will sort it out to their satisfaction soon enough,” Ian said. “Then they’ll all c
alm down. We’ll just have to lay low until that happens.”
Susan watched as Charles asked the waiter a complex question about the sauce on the veal. He wanted to know where the juniper berries used in the sauce had come from, something that apparently affected the flavor. Then he had a few questions about the wine. He did seem to be establishing his credentials as a gourmet.
“Who do you suppose will win?” she asked Ian softly.
“I’d put my money on Tom. He wins by not playing.”
“You’re not playing either,” she said.
“I play a different game,” Ian said. “I watch.”
Charles and Lily and Bill and Alberta continued discussing the menu, with comments designed to demonstrate their knowledge of food and wine and cruises. Following Ian’s lead, Susan watched and listened. Bill and Charles dominated the conversation, talking about activities on board and comparing them with other cruises. Among the women, Alberta seemed to be the one who kept the conversation going, asking questions and waiting for the answers with her head cocked attentively.
Tom participated in the conversation mostly by joking. Susan agreed with Ian’s assessment—he wasn’t playing, but he would win. The others were jockeying for second position in the pecking order, since Tom seemed so clearly in charge.
Tom glanced in Susan’s direction when she was studying him, and she dropped her eyes to her water glass, then busied herself with her salad.