I was finally dozing off when the phone rang. Hector’s room rearrangement had left the phone on the far side of both beds—on Naomi’s side of both beds. “It might be your grandmother,” Naomi mumbled, stirring sleepily. “You’d better answer.”
I hotfooted it out of bed. Feeling self-conscious, I paused long enough to put on a robe, then headed around the beds in the dark. On the way I stubbed my little toe on the bed frame hard enough to jam it and maybe even break it. Groaning, cussing, and hopping on one foot, I made it to the phone and picked up the receiver in time to hear a woman’s voice say. “If he’s not there, just hang up,” followed by a distinct click.
“Hello,” I said into the mouthpiece. “Hello? Hello?” But it was too late. Whoever was calling had hung up. All I heard was the dial tone.
“Who was it?” Naomi asked, sitting up and switching on the light.
I stood staring at the phone, trying to decide if the whole thing was a dream. No, my toe hurt too bad for it to have been a dream. And I thought I knew who the caller was—knew the person the woman sounded like. The deep-throated, smoky voice sounded as though it belonged to none other than Mrs. Margaret Featherman. But that was utterly impossible, since Margaret Featherman was dead. Or, if she wasn’t dead—if she was alive and capable of making phone calls—why would she be calling me, of all people? The only thing the two of us had in common was a bad case of mutual antipathy.
No, her calling me didn’t make any sense at all. Maybe it was someone who sounded like Margaret Featherman, I told myself finally. A close relative or something. A sister, maybe.
Without any further information—without some solid form of identification—it would have been wrong for me to say anything at all. It would have been inhumane to pass along that unsubstantiated information to Naomi Pepper, raising possibly false hopes that her friend—her former friend, most likely—was still alive and that Naomi herself was no longer a homicide suspect.
Not wanting to sound like a nut case, I lied. “I have no idea who it was,” I told Naomi. “It must have been a wrong number. Forget about it.”
Naomi waited until I was back on my own side of the bed to turn out the light. Within minutes she had rolled over on her side and was snoring softly. Not me. I lay awake for the next several hours, wondering what the hell was going on. I turned the question over and over in my mind. If through some incredible miracle Margaret Featherman was still alive, what the hell did she want with me? No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t come up with an answer that made any sense.
I went from wondering about the call to thinking about Margaret Featherman herself—Margaret and her two shipboard faxes. Had she bribed someone in her husband’s law firm to deliver a copy of his will to her? If so, why? And what about this company she worked for, the one that was supposedly about to go public? What was the name of it again? I remembered that when Rachel Dulles had mentioned the name, it had struck me as something biblical.
It took several minutes for me to dredge Genesis out of the old random-access memory. So what the hell was Genesis and what did it have to offer that made selling stock possible or profitable? Supposing the IPO had happened, and Margaret Featherman had come out of it a wealthy woman? Would that offer enough motivation for some other killer? Originally, the fax had been mistakenly delivered to Chloe, and presumably she had read it. Despite her daughter’s being a so-called Daddy’s girl, I couldn’t imagine Margaret Featherman leaving her estate to anyone other than Chloe.
In the end, though, I came back to the name—Genesis. Was there a possible connection between a company called Genesis and a shadowy organization that went by the name of Leave It To God? The very idea was enough to send me spinning right back to square one. This wasn’t a night when late-night ruminations were going to give me the kind of answers I needed.
Sometime along the way, I’m not sure when, I realized that I wasn’t alone in my room. That probably sounds silly, of course, since I knew Naomi Pepper was there. It was more than her simply being there. It was the realization that someone else was sharing the room with me—sleeping side by side on a bed that was less than a yard from mine. I heard Naomi’s slow, even breathing and caught the faint scent of her shampoo and perfume in the air when she turned over in bed or rustled her covers. It was an odd sensation.
Most of the time I’m alone without really thinking about it. It’s the way things are, and it would be far too much trouble to make any substantive changes in that solitary state. It had been years since Karen and I had slept together, sharing a room and a bed on a nightly basis. Anne Corley wasn’t a part of my life long enough for us to get used to sleeping together, and during the course of my several-months-long affair with a lady named Alexis, we had hardly ever slept over at each other’s places. One or the other of us was forever getting up in the middle of the night, dressing, and going home to our own separate condos.
And yet, the simple knowledge that I was sharing my stateroom on the Starfire Breeze with another human being soothed me somehow. It felt as though a coil that had been wound too tight in my chest was letting go. My body relaxed. My own breathing smoothed and deepened.
I barely knew Naomi Pepper. Some of the things she had done appalled me, but I liked the sound of her laughter. And I liked the fact that she could beat me—barely—at Scrabble. What the two of us shared could hardly be called a relationship, and yet I was glad she was there in the room with me. Glad she was lying next to me. I was still alone, only not quite as profoundly alone as I had been before.
That realization, pleasant as it may have been, still didn’t make me fall sleep. The last time I checked the clock, it was a quarter to four. So much for another restful night on board the Starfire Breeze. When it came to cruising, getting your beauty sleep wasn’t high on the agenda. I guess that’s why people are glad to come home from vacations. It’s only when they’re back in their own beds that they finally have a chance to rest up.
17
ONCE I FELL ASLEEP, I really slept. I woke up at nine-thirty only because the phone was ringing, which is the story of my life. I’ve never needed an alarm clock because the telephone never lets me sleep late anyway.
I glanced over at the other bed and discovered that Naomi Pepper was already up and out. The bathroom door was shut. Once again I grabbed up my bathrobe and raced to the phone. On the way I discovered that the toe I’d bumped the night before was black and blue and hurt like hell.
“Hello.”
“You are there,” Ralph Ames said. “I thought I was going to end up leaving a message. How are you doing?”
“Other than having broken a toe from running after the phone, I’m fine.”
“Sorry about that,” he said.
I could have told him that my injured toe had nothing to do with him—that I had damaged it while trying to answer somebody else’s middle-of-the-night phone call. But since Ralph was willing to accept full responsibility, I let him.
“I’m about to go into a meeting,” he said. “But I wanted to check with you first and see how things are going up there.”
“Thanks for calling Carol Ehlers,” I said. “She’s on the job, and it sounds as though Lucy Conyers is in good hands. As for Naomi Pepper, Todd Bowman seems to be leaving her alone for the time being, so I guess she’s all right, too.”
“The search still hasn’t turned up any trace of Margaret Featherman?”
“That depends,” I replied.
“What do you mean?” Ralph asked.
“I may have had a phone call from her last night.”
“From Margaret? What’s going on, Beau? Have you fallen off the wagon or started channeling or what?”
“It was a real phone call, Ralph.”
“What did she say?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure it was her—maybe it was someone who only sounded like her—and she hung up before I had a chance to say anything.”
“Assuming Margaret Featherman is alive, and after this muc
h time that’s doubtful, why would she be calling you?”
“I have no idea.”
“When did the call come through?”
“Last night, after I was in bed.”
Ralph sighed. “Well, if someone plucked her out of the water before she drowned, no one here knows anything about it. Seems to me that it would have been broadcast over all the news media by now.”
“It’s on the news?”
“Sure. Margaret Featherman’s disappearance is a big deal down here in Seattle—front-page headlines for both papers, the works.”
What makes for headlines always astonishes me. “It is?” I asked.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be? Margaret Featherman gets turned into a paper multimillionaire one day, and the next day she’s missing or dead and most likely the victim of foul play.”
“Did I hear you say multimillionaire?” I asked.
“I haven’t checked the stock prices this morning, but as of close of business yesterday, that Genesis IPO had gone through the roof. By last night, I’d say Margaret Featherman’s net worth was right around twelve or thirteen million, give or take. Since she’s one of Genesis’ primary researchers, it’ll be bad for them if she’s out of the picture permanently. The stock could take quite a hit. There’s always a chance, if it drops like a rock, she’ll end up being worth next to nothing after all.”
“Did I hear you say twelve or thirteen million is Margaret Featherman’s share?”
“That’s right. At the moment.”
“And what the hell is Genesis?”
“It’s one of Seattle’s booming bio-tech genetic-engineering firms,” Ralph replied. “What else would it be?”
What else indeed. “And what exactly do they engineer?”
“From what I’ve read, they believe they’ve designed a patch—a genetic patch—that can be downloaded into a damaged fetus in utero to correct Down syndrome.”
“In utero. They correct the problem before the baby is born?”
“Right. And before the fetus is that badly damaged.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“I read it in this morning’s paper—The Times—front page, right alongside the article about Margaret’s disappearance.”
“It sure as hell isn’t front-page news in the Starfire Courier,” I grumbled. “Could you fax me the articles, Ralph? I need to see them—all of them. The main article and all the little sidebars as well.”
“Sure,” Ralph said. “I’ll have my secretary do it right away. But other than that, everything is fine? How are your grandparents doing?”
“They were more than a little blue about what happened on the train yesterday. Mike and Lucy Conyers had become friends of theirs. They took Mike’s death pretty hard. Lars thinks he should have kept hold of Mike and prevented him from falling. If Beverly’s discovered that they’ve put Lucy under arrest, I’d imagine she’s on the warpath this morning.”
“Tell Beverly that Carol will do a good job.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “But so far as I can tell, nobody’s ever had much luck telling Beverly Jenssen anything.”
“No,” Ralph agreed with a laugh. “I suppose not. All right. If you want that fax, I’d better make arrangements to send it before I disappear into my meeting.”
The bathroom door was closed. I hadn’t heard any sounds coming from inside, but that didn’t mean Naomi wasn’t there. As soon as I got off the phone, I went over and tapped lightly on the door. When there was no answer, I eased it open. Evidence in the bathroom was consistent with her having already showered before leaving the stateroom. Concerned that Naomi might return and catch me half dressed, I locked myself in the bathroom and showered as well.
As the hot water cascaded over my body I was stunned by what Ralph had told me. The whole time I had been under the impression that Margaret Featherman was living off the proceeds of her divorce settlement from her ex-husband. From things Naomi had said about her, it sounded as though her friends had believed much the same thing—that if she had worked, it was because she wanted to do something with her time rather than because she needed a paycheck. Now, though, it sounded as though there was more to Margaret Featherman and her job than any of us—her good friends included—had suspected.
By the time I finished showering, dressing, and shoving my complaining toe into a too-tight shoe, there was still no sign of Naomi. That was just as well. I may have mentioned the late-night phone call to Ralph, but his reaction convinced me I had been right in not discussing it with Naomi. And, without seeing her, it was easy not to say anything about the possibility that Margaret Featherman might still be alive.
I paused by the phone and considered calling Lars and Beverly to see how they were doing. I went so far as to pick up the receiver, but I put it back down without dialing. If I talked to them, they would want to know what, if anything, I had heard about Lucy Conyers. I wasn’t at all eager to tell them that the woman had been arrested. No, that was another conversation I was better off dodging for as long as possible.
When I stepped into the hall, Hector and his omnipresent cart were both there. It made me wonder if Starfire Breeze room attendants ever had any time off or if they worked round the clock, seven days a week.
“Good morning, Mr. Beaumont,” he said as I walked past his cart. “Madame said to tell you she was going up to the buffet.”
“Thanks, Hector,” I returned, but instead of taking the hint and heading for the Lido Deck and Naomi, I went straight to the purser’s desk and asked if they had a fax for me.
“That was fast, Mr. Beaumont,” the young woman told me as she handed over a fat envelope with my name typed on the outside. “I only just now finished leaving you a message about this.”
I went to the Sea Breeze Bar and ordered a cup of coffee. I tore open the envelope and pulled out a stack of faxed pages. Unfortunately, the resolution on the paper wasn’t very good. I could read the headlines fine, but I found myself scowling and squinting as I tried to decipher the text of the articles.
“Try these,” someone said.
I looked up to see a smiling Naomi Pepper standing over me offering me the use of a pair of reading glasses. I don’t consider myself vain, but I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I’ve never needed to wear glasses of any kind.
“Try them,” she urged again. “They won’t bite.”
Reluctantly I put them on. To my dismay, the print resolution in the faxes improved immeasurably.
“Thanks,” I said. “Where do you get these things?”
“Any drugstore,” she said. “Those cost nine ninety-eight a pair at Bartell Drugs. What are you reading?”
For an answer, I returned the reading glasses along with the first article, a two-column piece topped by a glamorous photo of Margaret Featherman that discussed her disappearance from the Starfire Breeze and the fact that the FBI was investigating. It also detailed the progress of the so-far-unsuccessful search the Coast Guard was conducting in Alaska’s Chatham Strait just off Port Walter. The article included the information that the loss of Ms. Featherman’s considerable talent could possibly cast a cloud over the future of the long-awaited Genesis IPO. The offering had been met with unbridled enthusiasm, but there was concern that news of Margaret Featherman’s death might scare away other potential investors.
Naomi Pepper read through the article with a deepening frown forming on her forehead. “Did you know anything about that?” I asked when she finished. “About Genesis, I mean.”
“I knew Genesis was the place where Margaret worked,” Naomi said. “Just like she knew I work for The Bon, Virginia works for Boeing, and Sharon for the City of Seattle. But I thought it was just a job. I had no idea about her being what it says here—a key researcher.”
“What was her training?” I asked. “What did she study in school?”
“Originally, she wanted to be a doctor, but you know how things were back then, when girls were supposed to be nurses, not doct
ors. Besides, Margaret was too much of a party animal. Her grades weren’t good enough. She ended up with a degree in biology and eventually she got a teaching certificate. She could have taught high school biology, but as far as I know, she never did. Harrison didn’t approve of having a working wife. Doctors’ wives’ careers were to be doctors’ wives. It wasn’t until after the divorce that she went back to school. First she got an advanced degree and then she went to work for this outfit. I know she worked long hours, but there was nothing to stop her since she didn’t have to worry about taking care of Chloe.”
“Harrison got custody?” I asked. Naomi nodded.
“How long ago was it that Margaret went to work for Genesis?”
Naomi shrugged. “It must have been about the same time Frederick and Nelson closed down and I went to work for The Bon.”
The Bon Marché and F & N started out in Seattle as neighboring but competing department stores. The Bon was now the sole survivor of that mercantile rivalry. Frederick and Nelson’s demise in the early 1990s was now ancient retail history. It surprised me to know that despite having been divorced that long, Margaret and Harrison Featherman were still caught up in each other’s lives. But then I thought about Karen Beaumont Livingston and me and knew I shouldn’t have been surprised at all.
“Which Bon?” I asked, returning to the conversation.
“Downtown,” Naomi replied. “I sell small household appliances. By the way, could I interest you in a coffee grinder or a blender?”
“I already own one of each, but I don’t use them often,” I told her. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“Who is these days?”
“Let me have your glasses again,” I said. She handed them over, and I read the next several faxes before I passed them and the glasses back to Naomi. One of them was evidently from the Business section of the paper. In it Grant Tolliver, president and CEO of Genesis, offered reassurances that even if Margaret Featherman proved to be out of the picture permanently, her pioneering research had placed Genesis firmly in its position as leader of the pack.
Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) Page 21