The Golden Gates

by C. R. Kliewer

*

  4:07AM.

  What was that?

  Anna rolled over. More footsteps. Raising a hand to her face, she rubbed the crusted sleep from her eyes before focusing them on the door. This time a dim light did shine from the crack underneath, blocked sporadically by shadows passing behind.

  Her nose twitched.

  What’s that smell?

  She raised herself up from sleeping position and swung her legs over the side of the berth. Bare toes touched the cold floor. Scheiße! Shit! Her toes jerked back. Squinting in the darkness, she searched the floor around her for anything to put on her naked feet. Stockings were in a pile to the left. No good. Heels to the right. Absolutely not! Sweater draped over the open suitcase. Need that, but not for my feet. She reached for the sweater and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her eyes rested on the afghan blanket that covered the bed. Good enough. She pulled at the afghan until it dropped to the floor. Toes touched the afghan. Much better. Using the blanket as a type of mono-slipper, she shimmied across the floor to the door and opened it.

  The pungent smell poured into the room. Her nose twitched again. She peered around the jamb in the direction of the galley. She couldn’t see anyone, but there were definite signs of movement, and light.

  “It’s a shame, Finn.”

  “Aye. What a waste.”

  Anna shimmied down the passage.

  “Going to leave a stain.”

  “Aye.”

  Anna peered around the corner into the galley.

  Moreau stood with his back to her, sleeves rolled up, hands on hips, white apron tied about his waist. And though his voice was heard, Forster was nowhere to be seen.

  “Got any more rags, Moreau?”

  “Those were my last ones. We’ll have to pick some up in the city today.”

  “What should I do with these?” Forster appeared in the doorway of the cooler, undershirt soaked in red, hands stained crimson, holding what used to be white cloths. He looked past Moreau and saw Anna. “Hello, Miss Kelly.”

  Moreau whipped around to see Anna clutching her sweater closed.

  “What happened?” she asked wide-eyed.

  “Case of Bordeaux fell last night.” Forster replied. He disappeared back inside the walk-in ice box.

  Moreau, smiling at the disheveled, bed-headed Miss Kelly added, “It wasn’t secured to the wall properly last night. The bottles fell, and now we have a red floor and a red Finn.” He laughed at his own joke. Anna couldn’t help smiling herself.

  “I heard that,” Forster sneered deep from inside the cooler. “You never said where to put these. If we’re boarded, it wouldn’t look so good.”

  “Ah, just toss ‘em down the chute.”

  “Chute?” Anna asked.

  “Ah,” Moreau stammered, “le garbage.”

  Forster reappeared in the doorway. “Maybe you should go back to bed.” He looked at her with a look she couldn’t quite understand. Relief?

  “Oui, chérie. It is still early. Let us take care of this and say nothing of this to those upstairs. Monsieur Beltran is not going to be happy when he finds out.” He wrung his hands together and looked at the rags in Forster’s hands. “It was his Bordeaux.”

  Anna looked from Moreau to Forster. He nodded, firmly supporting Moreau’s suggestion. But something wasn’t right. He looked tired. As he should. Who knows when he last had a full night’s sleep. But it was more than that. There was an added strain in his features. He was pale. Forster nodded again, clearly motioning for her to go.

  Reluctantly, she obeyed, shimmying back to her room and closing the door. She plopped back down on her berth now fully awake and with no hope of falling back to sleep again.

  24

  The Elephant on Starboard

  * * *

  Two and half hours later, Anna woke up for the third time that morning. It took over an hour, but she eventually drifted off to sleep. Head full of the smell of Bordeaux, her dreams had been strange and unpleasant. Raising herself up from her bed yet again, her head ached. The heavy stench had finally subsided to a slight odor. Light, though not bright, seeped in through the porthole signaling that it was not quite dawn. Breakfast would not be ready for at least a couple of more hours. But that was okay, Anna wasn’t thinking about food.

  Donning a simple knee length skirt and a pullover, she stepped out her door and quietly made her way down the passageway up the stairs and out onto the starboard side.

  Cool sea air eased the pain that had gripped her head. The morning sun was shrouded in chilled white fleece and dark waters disappeared into the fog only a few feet from the hull. Anna stood there alone and silent, lost for a while in her thoughts.

  Once again, the sound of footsteps caught her attention. If it hadn’t been one of those mornings where dense fog enhanced sound instead of deadened it, she would not have heard him coming. But it was, and she did.

  She turned to see Forster walking out of the fog towards her. He too must have been lost in thought, for he did not see her there until after she had already spotted him. If he had seen her first, things might have been different. But he hadn’t.

  He hesitated, fully aware that she was looking straight at him. He couldn’t avoid her. Wasn’t sure he wanted to. Knew it would be smarter if he did. He held a cigarette firmly between his lips, and for once the end had been lit.

  Anna had been dying to talk to him, to ask him, but never found the opportunity. Of course the opportunity might have presented itself if she hadn’t been just a little fearful of the answer. But now was the perfect time. There was no excuse! He was right here, and no one else was around, that she could tell.

  He made a motion to turn, but she stepped forward. He stopped. Hands in his pockets, he looked at her from under the brim of his hat as if to say, “What?”

  He leaned his elbows against the rails and looked out into the mist where the sound of a foghorn penetrated the soup swirling about them. He looked down into the black waters, pulled the cigarette from his lips, debated tossing it, then replaced it to its former station. She watched him, not turning to follow his gaze out into the white obscurity or down into the murky oblivion.

  What was it? What was wrong? Something had changed. Something was different. Whatever it was, it was wrong . . . horribly, horribly wrong.

  Her eyes traced the lines on this side of his face, so different from the lines of amusement she had seen on the train, most often at her expense. There were no lines of laughter now. No smile. Not the jocular one he used around the crew, nor the deferent one he used in front of the party. It was almost as if the banter on the train was from a separate reality, and the after dinner drinks on the Allura, a delusion.

  Quiet minutes ticked by.

  Turning back to face her directly, his eyes focused themselves upon her with a forced cold and emotionless gaze. She looked back without flinching, her eyes pleading the question that still refused to voice itself. Whether it was an answer or a refusal to give one, she could not be sure, but his gaze veered away from hers. Looking down, eyes hidden again by the brim of his hat, he shook his head. Then without a word, or even another glance, he turned to leave, making her second guess herself. Could she be wrong? Please, let me be wrong.

  A sudden blast ripped through the white shroud. A single word resounded from somewhere inside the yacht: “Eva!”

  “Damn!” breathed Forster and split, leaving Anna with her own thoughts on the matter.

  For once, let me be wrong.

  25

  Body of Water

  * * *

  “Eva!” came the cry again, this time more desperate. Anna recognized in it the voice of Mr. Beltran and found herself making her way towards the frantic call. As she reached the aft deck, Beltran burst through the Dining Saloon door.

  “Anna, have you seen Eva?” he asked face pale, eyes pale, voice pale.

  “No sir, I haven’t.”

  He ripped passed her and disappeared into the fog. “Eva!” was heard again and ag
ain all over the yacht. Passengers and crew in various stages of dress began to emerge from the depths of the lower decks. Marian, seeing Anna already out on the upper deck, came up to her asking her what it was all about. Anna responded telling her that she had no idea, but I bet Forster does.

  “He hasn’t found her yet?” came a voice from somewhere behind them. Daniels appeared a second later in a silk navy morning coat and slippers.

  “She’s missing?” Anna’s stomach sank.

  “Banged on my door ‘bout 15 minutes ago certain she was with me. Tore my room to shreds. As if she could hide between the floorboards.” He lit the cigarette dangling from his lips before withdrawing it and offering it to Marian. She took it gratefully as he drew out another from his pocket motioning to Anna with the same offer.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Don’t drink. Don’t smoke. What do you do for fun Miss Kelly?” He eyed her suggestively, placing the snipe he had offered her between his lips and lighting it before drawing a deep draught of satisfaction.

  Not responding to the allusive question and seeing Hess appear in a similar state of dress as the scantily clad Captain Daniels, except that his robe was a little more glitzy having the addition of satin green and gold threads worked through material in a paisley design, she asked him, “Do you know where Eva, I mean, Ms. Lorraine, is?”

  “I thought I knew,” he looked at Daniels with a significant grin, “but now I am not so sure.”

  “Do you think she could have fallen overboard?” gasped Marian at the sudden thought.

  Both women looked with wide-eyed inquiry at Hess.

  “Highly unlikely,” he chortled with confidence. Then his face changed. “Actually, I . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. “Excuse me,” he brushed passed them.

  Daniels, whose face had also gained a more serious expression, followed closely after him. Marian and Anna looked at each other and, in mute mutual decision, split up to begin their own search for the missing Eva.

  It did not take long for almost everyone aboard the Allura to join in on the hunt. Within the hour all three decks as well as the captain’s quarters at the very top of the yacht had been covered by more than one person. All came back to the aft deck with the same result:

  Eva was nowhere to be found.

  “What the Hell is all this shouting about?” A disheveled Una emerged still in her white satin negligée and black satin robe, her black satin eye mask pushed back against a white porcelain forehead, a short ebon cigarette holder clutched in an unsteady alabaster hand. The neglected removal of the heavily applied mascara from the night before, gave her the “living dead” look she would become so famous for in future roles at Loew’s Studios thanks to Beltran’s keen observation of any detail that might enhance a film, even at a time like this. “Some of us are in need of our beauty rest!” Momentarily stunned into silence by the aptness of her statement, the others on deck had no explanation to give.

  Satisfied that she had accomplished the task she set out to achieve, Una turned a wobbly 180 with the idea of going back to her stateroom to sleep off the fumes still lingering from the night before in undisturbed silence. However, her slow spin accompanied by a sudden lurch from the vessel caused a shift in her inner ear exactly simulating the effect of a headchopper drop on a high-speed rollercoaster. An effect not very pleasant to Una.

  Her face turning a sickly greenish hue and the blood draining from under the leftover rouge on her cheeks and stain on her lips, she stumbled over to the side of the yacht, leaned over the rails, and succumbed to that dreaded disease that affects so many who take to the sea, which in her case was aggravated by the tipping back a few too many the night before.

  After abandoning her so completely, it would be several minutes before Una’s senses ultimately came back to her, and when they did, they did so one at a time. The first to arrive home was her sense of smell. A deep cleansing breath of salty sea air purified her lungs, leaving the door open for rest of her senses to return. Next came the sense of sound. Waves splashing against the sides of the Allura. The mourning cry of a gull. The last to return was her sense of sight. The bright blur of the fog around her made it hard to focus at first. But finally, with her eyes adjusting to the pale sheet in front of her, she began to pick out details: The shifting darkness of the water. The smooth sides of the yacht. The pale lifeless body floating just a short distance away from the hull.

  The resulting sound that issued forth from the lips of the famous horror star was not the bloodcurdling, full-bodied scream that she was so renowned for in Zombies from a Different Time, but hyperventilating gasps punctuated by shrieks the same pitch and volume of a common door mouse that has just been surprised by a patiently waiting tabby cat. It wasn’t until she herself fainted and fell overboard that those on the deck behind her, having turned away from the vomiting Una to discuss the more important dilemma of the missing woman, realized something was wrong with Mrs. Stuart beyond the common stomach ailment. The loud splash, however, drew the immediate attention she warranted.

  Forster, thinking a little more quickly than the rest, jumped in after her. The ultimately successful rescue of Mrs. Ocello would have been more expedient if Una hadn’t been hysterical, kicking, splashing, and striking her would-be hero in the face more than once.

  After being pulled aboard by more hands than could possibly be considered helpful and after many concerned offerings of towels, blankets, and warmth inducing drinks (the last was Stu’s idea, knowing his wife all too well), she was finally able to communicate with various hand gestures and broken sentences what she had seen before her fateful plunge. With the first intelligible word being “Eva,” the crowd rushed to the edge of the Allura to see what they could in the thick surrounding mists. The rolling fog revealing and obscuring different areas of the waters at different times, it would be a number of seconds before the object they were searching for was finally brought into view.

  There she was.

  Floating face up.

  Her head turned away from the boat. Her dark lips, still bearing the lipstick from the night before, barely visible due to the angle. Her flaxen hair floating around her face in the way one might paint the locks of a water-nymph swaying in the currents, dramatic, morbid, and somehow beautiful in this her final death scene. One could liken her to the drowned Ophelia in Hamlet, if it wasn’t for the rather large butcher knife sticking out of her chest.

  An awed hush fell over the captive crowd. The boat teetered slightly, causing many of the onlookers to subconsciously step back while keeping their eyes transfixed on the floating corpse. Surprisingly, it was Hess who made the first attempt at reaching the body. Using a life ring, he tossed it overboard at the unfortunate Eva, missing his target by several inches. The resulting ripples caused the body to shift and roll. In consequence, the face that had been barely visible before, turned its gaze on the multitudes above. The chilling specter instilled horror and revulsion, sending gasps throughout. Anna, instinctively searching for a way to hide from the eyeless Eva, didn’t care that it was Forster’s cold wet shirt that she had chosen to bury her face in. Feeling his arm wrap around her head, she heard him whisper:

  “He’s here.”

  Momentarily distracted by his strange response to the floating cadaver, she looked up at him with knitted brow and asked, “Who?”

  He looked down in surprise, as if his mind had just caught hold of what his body had automatically done in wrapping itself around the little rat. However, instead of drawing away, which, of course, he knew was the right thing to do, he pulled her tighter to him and whispered in her ear.

  “Raven. You be careful, you hear. You be damned careful.”

  That’s all he would say. And it made her tremble.

  *

  Minutes passed. Passengers and crew continued to stand hushed and unmoving on the deck above, unable to look away from the floating brutality in front of them. It was O’Connell who finally broke the spell. “Daniels, go call t
he police.”

  Daniels nodded, but did not move.

  Spurred into action by the voice of O’Connell and the inaction of Daniels, Forster gently detached himself from the clutching Anna. He motioned for her to get the women out of there. She gratefully took up his charge and gently herded them back inside the dining saloon, leaving the men behind on deck. Forster looked to O’Connell. “We’ve got to get the body out of the water.”

  O’Connell nodded. Grabbing a rope, he tied a loop and then stepped back up to the side. He aimed, tossed, and reached his target, but unfortunately failed in catching hold. He pulled in the rope, coiled it, and prepared to toss it again. In mid throw, something unexpected happened. As the rope left his hands, the body shifted visibly. As the rope flew through the air, it began to sink. When the rope landed there was nothing left to strike but surface water. Eva Lorraine, the beautiful siren of the screen had succumbed to the cold and bitter bay, vanishing under dark waters, descending to a silent and unknown grave.

  With no body and no weapon, the case against a murderer would be difficult to prove, a thought that occurred to more than just one person who saw the body slip away.

  26

  One Hotcake Short of a Stack

  * * *

  Despite everything, the buffet tables in the dining saloon were still beautifully arrayed with savory fanfare. Moreau had started his breakfast preparations shortly before discovering the mess in the cooler. He continued the work he had begun immediately after Forster finished cleaning up the wine. He’d just commenced in the sautéing of mushrooms and the whipping of eggs for his delectable omelets when the initial alarm was raised over Eva’s disappearance. He did not pause in the furious stirring of his hollandaise as others milled around him searching for the missing star, and as the body was seen slipping below the surf, he was putting the finishing touches on his cheese soufflés.