Savasana at Sea

by Ava Dunne

  As I headed to the Sun Deck, thinking about other things instead of paying attention, someone banged into me. We both took a step back and said, “Sorry” at the same time, and then laughed.

  I’d collided with one of the guests, a young man, about fourteen by the look of him. In a refreshing change of pace, instead of his head down because he was fascinated by his smart phone, he’d bumped into me because he was deep in a book. “The onboard library’s great,” I said.

  “I’ll spend a lot of time there,” he said.

  “Come to yoga to get out the kinks,” I suggested.

  He gave a laugh of surprise. “I just might. You the teacher?”

  “I am, and all are welcome.”

  He smiled and continued on his way.

  The pleasure I felt from that small exchange was quickly dissipated as I heard, “You’re so stupid. I don’t know why I put up with you. I wish you’d fall overboard.”

  I rounded a curve on the Sun Deck and saw a man glaring at a woman who was about to burst into tears. I figured both were in their late twenties. “Cal, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You never mean anything! You’re such an idiot.” His face was flushed. I supposed some might consider him handsome, but to me, his inner ugliness pervaded the veneer of good looks.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked in a firm voice to indicate I thought there was one.

  “Yeah, but I don’t suppose you can perform a personality transplant on the ship.” The man sniffed as though he was coming down with a cold, shoved past me and disappeared toward the stairs for the Lido Deck. I calculated he was on the way to the bar. Cruel, I named him. Cal the Cruel.

  “Don’t mind him, he didn’t mean it,” the young woman said. “He gets like this sometimes.”

  Of course he means it, I wanted to say. They always do. They always make excuses. Instead I said, “Are you okay?”

  She gave me a trembling smile. “I will be in a minute.” She took a deep breath.

  “Breathing helps,” I said. “The meditation room is open twenty four hours a day, if you need it.”

  She looked surprised. “I’ve never tried meditation. Maybe I will while Cal is. . .being Cal.” She considered. “Is there yoga, too?”

  “Several classes a day. The studio is on Citrine Deck.”

  “I’ve always wanted to try yoga.”

  I was touched by the longing in her voice. “This is a good week to start.”

  She gave me a real smile this time. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She went off in a different direction than her husband.

  I made a mental note to mention this Cal guy to security.

  I took a few deep breaths to regain my center, in the space where I held my Moonlight Yoga classes. It felt good out here, and today, anyway, was a nice summer day. It would be hot when we got to Bermuda. But I’d never been, and the thought of it was exciting.

  I glanced down at the Lido Deck, where guest already congregated around the gorgeous pool. A few dozen yards away, the red Corvette gleamed in the sun. To me, it looked like an accident waiting to happen. I was grateful it wasn’t my problem.

  I don’t know why the man at the rail caught my attention. For a minute, I thought he might be a new member of the staff or one of Quark’s people. He had the good looks I’d learned to associate with Diamond Line hires. He was dressed in navy blue trousers, a white shirt, and a navy blue jacket that hit him mid-thigh. Far too long for current fashion. A heavy ring flashed on one hand. Signet ring? Class ring? The more I looked at him, the more he reminded me of a character in a late 1920′s or early 1930′s whodunit, someone from an aristocratic family who was on a rowing team. All he needed was a straw boater.

  The vintage sense was intensified because he was smoking. One wasn’t supposed to smoke on the Sun Deck. There was a tiny place for guests to smoke on Hematite Deck, a couple of decks down and all the way at the back of the guest portion of the ship. But here he was, leaning on the rail, looking out as we passed New Jersey, smoking.

  He turned his head and saw me. I blushed, but he smiled and said, “I promise I’m real, not an apparition. And yes, I’m aware there’s no smoking up here. Too bad.”

  I joined him at the rail. “I was trying to figure out if you’re a new hire or one of the salvage team or a guest.”

  “Guest or ghost?” He flashed me a grin. “I don’t work for Diamond. You couldn’t pay me enough to be on Quark’s team.” He took another drag on his cigarette before flicking it out into the water. He turned a lazy smile on me. “I litter, too.”

  “I’m trying not to give you a lecture on the issue of garbage harming the ocean.” I was only half-joking.

  But it got a laugh from him. “I’m Alistair Rawlins. And you are?”

  “Sophie Batchelder. I teach yoga on the Charisma.“

  “I might have to try a class while I’m here.”

  “We have classes for all levels of comfort.”

  “I like to sow discomfort whenever possible.” He watched me. “I’m a passenger, here on my own dime. I debunk charlatans for a living. I’m here to take down Oliver Quark.”

  …

  Davy Jones Dharma, the second Nautical Namaste Mystery, releases November 2018.

  Visit the Nautical Namaste Website:

  http://nauticalnamaste.devonellingtonwork.com

  and the Nautical Namaste Facebook Page:

  http://m.facebook.com/Nautical-Namaste-Mysteries

  Continue reading for sample chapters of Playing the Angles (the first Coventina Circle paranormal romantic suspense novel) by Devon Ellington, Tracking Medusa (the first Gwen Finnegan mystery) also by Devon Ellington, Delectable Digital Delights, and more!

  PREVIEW OF PLAYING THE ANGLES

  WITCHCRAFT, POLITICS, AND THEATRE COLLIDE as Morag D’Anneville and Secret Service agent Simon Keane fight to protect the Vice President of the United States — or is it Morag who needs Simon’s protection more than the VP?

  Witch and theatre professional Morag D’Anneville is annoyed when she’s assigned to dress the conservative Vice President as he makes a surprise appearance in his favorite Broadway show. Even more irritating, she has to teach Agent Simon Keane, part of the security detail, the backstage ropes in preparation. A strong attraction flares between them which they both recognize is doomed, and Simon must also fight his superior’s prejudice that Morag’s beliefs make her a threat to the Vice President. When Morag is attacked, Simon’s loyalties are torn between protecting the man he’s sworn to protect, and protecting the woman he loves.

  This is the first Coventina Circle paranormal romantic suspense novel by Devon Ellington, released October 2017.

  …

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You wanted to see me?” Morag D’Anneville slid through the door into the stage manager’s office. “I got a text from Tom.”

  Beth, one of the assistant stage managers, smiled at her, flicking a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. “They’re sitting in the house. There were too many of them to fit here.”

  Morag frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “A special event that’s going to be a major pain in all our asses.” She saw that Morag wanted to ask more and shook her head. “Go out there and discover for yourself.”

  Morag muttered a few choice words under her breath as she hauled her purse and her tote bag from backstage through the pass door into the upper lobby, across the faded gold carpet, and then into the auditorium with its red, faux velvet seats. She saw them right away – a group of suits, male and female, grouped around Tom Walloon, the production stage manager, and Josiah Berg, the most hands-on of their many producers.

  She dumped her bags on an empty seat and sat in the one beside it. “Secret Service. Recognize the suits. What dignitary wants to see the show this time?”

  Several of the people in the group jerked their heads up, surprised. An older one, with graying hair cropped short in a military buzz, looked annoyed. A blond,
blue-eyed, square-jawed man smiled.

  “Morag. Thank you for joining us.” Josiah smiled at her, reminding her, as he always did, of an alligator focused on its prey. She didn’t think he’d bothered to learn her name in the year and change since the show opened. After all, she only dressed the star. If it wasn’t an actor, Josiah wasn’t particularly interested. “Morag dresses George Wendall.”

  “The Vice President.” Tom answered Morag’s question.

  “What day’s he coming? I’ll remember to leave my pick-axe at home.” Morag stared at each of the agents in turn. The older one looked angry. The blond smiled, and the dark-haired, female agent covered her mouth with one hand, but Morag saw the smile reach her eyes.

  “It’s a little bit more complicated than that,” said Josiah.

  “Which is why I’ve been included in this meeting.” Morag nodded. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  The older agent spoke. “As you know, the Vice President loves theatre. Every time he comes to New York on business, he makes sure to stay long enough to catch at least one show. He participated in theatre in college, before focusing on international economics. He even did a few years of summer stock.”

  “Oh boy,” Morag said in a low voice. She felt the blond man stare at her.

  “This is his favorite show of all time. He’s seen it a half a dozen times, as those of you know. The character of Roscoe Scroggs is his ultimate favorite. It’s always been his dream to sing on Broadway stage.”

  “So he’s going to play Roscoe Scroggs.” Morag barked out a laugh.

  “Only for one night,” soothed Josiah.

  “Not for the whole show,” Tom added.

  “Explain.” Morag folded her arms across her chest. This brought another frown from the older agent, obviously the one in charge.

  Tom complied. “George will do the show up until the big production number towards the end of the second act. When the statue revolves towards the audience, with Scroggs on it, it will reveal the Vice President. He’ll sing that number and also take the bow with George.”

  “How does George feel about this?”

  “He’s fine with it,” Josiah answered.

  Morag didn’t believe that for a second. But George was smart enough to know he didn’t have a choice. “How long will the Vice President be around?”

  “He’s rehearsing the song today and tomorrow with the musical director. The put-in will be the day after, and he goes on that night.”

  “We’re not publicizing this,” the older agent interjected. “There will be publicity at the party after, but we want to keep it quiet going in. We kept our advance work quiet, and we’re only having the production meeting because Mr. Walloon said there were details which needed to be ironed out. Everyone has to sign confidentiality agreements.”

  “There are one hundred and fifty people who work in this building,” Morag pointed out. “Someone’s going to talk.”

  “You?”

  “I wouldn’t be in the job I’m in if I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.” She looked at Tom. “This is really only gonna take three days?”

  “Promise.” He smiled at her.

  “Not bad.” She looked over to the older man. “Are you in charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have a name?”

  “Agent Mark Beers.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Beers.” Morag’s tone negated the words. “Can we have our own K-9 backstage?”

  The blond man leaned forward. “Why?”

  “I’ve been through the drill before. You need to sweep the theatre, backstage, front of house, the fly rail, everywhere. If anything happens and turns out to be nothing and the show is stopped, it ruins the surprise and the Vice President’s dream is shattered. I can tell you everything that needs to happen and when, so you can backtrack from that how much time you need to do what you need to do. Our own K-9 backstage is going to save us a lot of time and effort. We can’t be running around looking for you once the show goes up. There’s no time and not enough personnel.” Because God forbid the producers should hire enough people to run the show easily, in spite of making a profit of over a million dollars per week. Even Morag knew some comments were better left unsaid.

  “Makes sense.” Beers nodded. “You’ll have Lincoln Turner and Bruno.”

  “I have another request.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “I assume there’ll be an agent with the Vice President in the dressing room and one with me on deck as well as whomever else you need scattered on deck and on the fly rail.”

  “Correct.”

  “May I have that agent with me tomorrow night during the show? He—or she—can get the feel of the piece and learn where to stand so as not to be run over by two tons of scenery. That way, he’ll be able to recognize if something goes wrong, because he knows the show.”

  Agent Beers considered the request and then nodded. “That’s reasonable. Agent Keane will be with you.” He nodded towards the blond man, who smiled at Morag.

  “If you’ll meet me an extra hour early tomorrow, I’ll walk you around before I have to start my hour-before-half-hour work,” said Morag. “Five-thirty.”

  “Fine,” said Agent Keane.

  “Anything else, Miss D’Anneville?” Agent Beers asked.

  Morag caught the sarcasm in his tone. “I think we’re good. For now.”

  “We’ll do a background check, you know.”

  “Go right ahead.” Morag shrugged. “You may find stuff you don’t like, but there’s nothing of which I’m ashamed.”

  “If we find anything dangerous. . .” Beers warned, and Morag cut him off with a snort of laughter.

  Josiah leaned forward. “Morag’s part of the deal,” he said. “You don’t want her – the Vice President doesn’t get his dream. Period.”

  Beers looked uncomfortable. “She better not be a threat. And she better keep her left wing liberal opinions to herself.”

  “Let me get something straight with you,” said Morag. “I think this administration is sending our country to hell, without even the benefit of a hand basket. It makes me angry. However, when the Vice President is under this roof, I’m not here to discuss politics with him. I’m here to flip him in and out of his clothes and get him onstage on time. That’s all I care about. He’s just another actor, albeit one with lots of baggage. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely,” said Beers. “If you prove yourself a hypocrite, Agent Keane over here will take you down. Do you understand?”

  Morag glanced at Keane, who looked uneasy. “Fair deal. If you’ll excuse me, I have a show to prep.”

  “Thanks, Morag,” said Tom, as she picked up her bags and left.

  She was in the lobby, headed to the pass door, when the voice behind her stopped her. “Miss D’Anneville?”

  Morag turned. “Agent Keane. Please call me Morag.”

  “Simon.” He extended his hand.

  She gave him a half smile and took it. “Simon.”

  “I look forward to this. I’ve never been behind the scenes on a Broadway show before.”

  “It’s chaotic. And fun.” She handed him her card. “That’s got my cell number on it. Please call if you’re going to be late tomorrow. I find lateness disrespectful.”

  “Thanks.” He took the card and smiled down at her, over a head taller than her own five feet, eight inches. She figured he was over six feet tall. “Don’t worry. I won’t be late. I’m very. . .respectful.”

  She had the feeling he was laughing at her. “Good.” She turned, punched the code into the pass door, and left him in the lobby.

  …

  “You’re sure you’re good with this?” Morag asked George Wendall later, helping him slip into his frock coat for the opening number.

  “It’s a little weird, but so what?” George shrugged. “It’s one night. A week of this guy stealing my big number would be a different story, but I can deal with it for one night.”

  “Well
, it’s his fantasy, and he is in a position where he can live it out. At least you don’t have to share a dressing room with him and all the Secret Service people.”

  “Dave and Bobby are bitching and moaning about having to clean out the room next door for him.” George grinned. “Never a dull moment, eh?”

  Morag sighed. “And people think what we do for a living is glamorous.”

  “My girl, that’s why they pay us. For the illusion. So they can fantasize.”

  …

  “You think we can get our pictures taken with him?” Hazel Smith, who dressed the female ingénue, put down one of her numerous tabloid magazines as Morag walked past.

  “Sure. Check with one of the Secret Service agents. It’s not like the Vice President’s going to have a lot to do before he goes onstage.”

  “You are so lucky,” Hazel sighed.

  “It’s a major pain in the ass.”

  “I’m surprised they’re letting you dress him. You know, with your. . .strong opinions and all.”

  “When he’s backstage, he’s just another actor.”

  Hazel laughed. “That is such a lie!”

  “Hazel, I don’t care if someone’s famous or a politician or whatever. I just want them to be pleasant backstage. I want to do the gig and go home.”

  “To what?”

  “I have a life outside this building, you know.”

  “It’s not like you’re married or anything.”

  “I still have a life.”

  “So are you sleeping with somebody?” Hazel’s eyes gleaned. “Anyone I know?”

  Morag knew better than to confide in Hazel. Hazel was incapable of anything except gossip. Hayley, the actress Hazel dressed, counted on Hazel to leak information to the paparazzi. But if Hazel wanted to assume her silence meant Morag was hiding a relationship, maybe she’d ease up from her constant snooping. Morag merely smiled at the woman and stepped out of the hallway and onto the deck.

  …

  Morag unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped inside. She flicked on the lights, closed and locked the door, slid out of her shoes, dropped her bags on the floor, and padded down the hallway to the living room in her socks.