by Marie Moore
“I can see that, Jay. But I am not interested in the Captain. He comes on a little strong for me, and you know Zoe, that tall, blond agent with Poseidon Tours? She told me this afternoon that she made a play for him a couple of trips back and he told her he is married.”
“If Zoe made a play for me, I’d tell her I was married, too. Zoe gets around, you know. I wouldn’t take her word for it. But I have to tell you, Sidney, any guy that hot is going to be totally self-absorbed He’s no kid. He’s at least ten years older than you, and he’s been around. So maybe it’s better for you to leave him alone. You’ve attracted way too many of those smooth dudes already. And you can bet your last drachma that this big Greek is macho to the core.”
Jay had a point. Captain Vargos was hot in his dress whites as he presided over his table, but I was pretty sure that he was also well-aware of his good looks. He is just over six feet tall and tanned, with broad shoulders and a lean waist. His hair is thick, dark and wavy and beginning to silver at the temples. There is nothing boyish about him. His smile is a man’s smile—arrogant and knowing. He leaned down to whisper something in the ear of the woman on his right, and she looked up at him and laughed. Her deep blue silk dress was almost the exact color of his eyes.
“Somebody told me that it’s okay to order two of everything if you want to, Miss Marsh. Is that true?” Gladys Murphy brought my attention back to the table.
“Well, yes, you can, Gladys, you certainly can ... and then there is also the Heart Helper diet and the Chef’s Suggested Menu, both of which are always excellent.”
“Well, I’m just gonna have two of them prime ribs and just a little tiny taste of every one of them desserts. You can keep the veggies. Don’t that sound good to you?”
“You bet, Gladys. That certainly sounds wonderful. Just remember to save some room for the Midnight Buffet!”
“Don’t you worry none about that, Miss Marsh! We wouldn’t miss it for the world! It’s called Sweet Dreams Buffet and it’s all desserts. Pete and I will try everything they got. Muriel might not, though. Muriel has to watch her figure. Did I tell you already that she wants a career in show business? She’s looking for those bright lights, aren’t you, Muriel? Muriel wants to be a star, don’t you, honey?”
Muriel ignored her. She was ordering another drink from the cocktail waiter.
As Gladys launched into a long monologue of Muriel’s performance history, beginning with tap dancing recitals at age four, I made a mental note to speak privately to the maitre d’ after dinner about a change in table assignments. To hell with duty. The Murphys were pleasant enough people, but a week can be an awfully long time.
* * *
I have a favorite spot just above the Lido deck of the Rapture of the Deep that very few people seem to frequent. That is where I escaped with my wine glass after the last of the dessert plates was cleared away.
Before heading for the Lido deck stairs I had made a swing around the ship, checking to be sure that everyone was fairly well settled-in and happy.
All the High Steppers seemed to like the ship, with her bright and spacious, elegantly decorated public areas. The Rapture was a good ship, large enough with her eleven passenger decks not to feel cramped, but not so big as to overwhelm a port with too many people. She was sleek and modern with clean lines, and her crew kept her extremely well-maintained. Her hull was deep and her stabilizers worked well, allowing barely noticeable movement on deck that first night out. Some ships are built with only Caribbean cruising in mind and have a hard time handling the rigors of the North Sea or a Trans-Atlantic crossing. The Rapture was designed to take on rough seas.
Everyone had been pleased with the staterooms on the ship at check-in, even Gertrude.
“This is real nice,” she said, peering into in her closet on arrival. “Not too big, but plenty of room for my things. I’m glad you told us to bring extra hangers, though, Sidney. Either they cheaped out on that or somebody stole some of them. I bet someone did steal them. Those hangers are good, but there’s not nearly enough. I don’t like my mattress, though. Tell them to bring me another one.”
I always encourage my clients to pack some extra lightweight wire hangers. The ship’s closets have a fair number of good wooden ones, but never enough for all the High Steppers’ stuff. I also recommend that they pack a full-sized bar of their favorite bath soap. Nice but small bath amenities are always provided, but High Steppers prefer to stash those away in their suitcases to take home.
The staterooms on the Rapture were comfortable and spacious, with muted, tasteful colors and small but well-fitted bathrooms and closets equipped with in-room safes. There were small televisions but no in-room Internet access, as you might find on many newer ships. The beds were designed so that they could be set up as twins or a queen, by prearranged preference.
Most of the group had opted for outside cabins. A very few chose the slightly cheaper inside cabins that had no window. Amy and Charlie Wu had a balcony cabin, as did the Johnsons. Abe Klein and Brooke Shyler had each booked a suite.
Some of my group—the ones who hadn’t ordered room service and gone straight to bed—were attending the welcome show immediately after dinner. Looking in on the show, I saw that the Murphys had grabbed seats on the front row center of the Broadway Showroom. Muriel seemed mesmerized by the dancers. She didn’t miss a move, bobbing with the music, smiling and clapping enthusiastically after every number. It was clear that Gladys was correct; the cast members, in their sequined costumes, were apparently living Muriel’s dream. Her longing was painful to watch. The Johnsons and Angelo Petrone and the Levy sisters were all enjoying the show, too, but no one was as enthusiastic as Muriel.
I didn’t see any of the other High Steppers in the audience. The missing ones were probably all resting in their cabins, reading the Daily Program for tomorrow, eating pillow mints, watching the clock so they could be first in line for the Sweet Dreams Buffet.
The only group member I hadn’t spotted at all since we boarded was Jerome Morgan. Dark, heavy-set and clean-shaven, Morgan had close-cut, almost buzz-cut hair and a long, hooked nose. He wore dark sunglasses most of the time and a flashy watch. The watch was the only flashy thing about him; otherwise he was very quiet in dress and manner. We had little personal information about him. At Kennedy, Morgan had told Jay that he and Fernando Ortiz worked for Abe Klein’s business, without mentioning exactly what they did. He did volunteer that Abe had paid for their trip as a reward for good job performance.
Itchy Feet Travel (IFT) sells a lot of incentive travel, usually rewarding top producers in a company. It was hard to imagine either Jerome Morgan or Fernando Ortiz as super-salesmen. They did not fit the glad-handing stereotype. Both were too quiet and kept to themselves.
Morgan, who clammed up when anyone tried to have the simplest conversation with him, had disappeared into his cabin the minute we boarded. No one had seen him since. He was either seasick or really anti-social. Judging from his permanent scowl, I voted for Door Number Two. When he did appear, he just watched people with his cold little eyes. I guess if you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, you could call him the strong, silent type.
Ortiz was more social and had created a stir among the ladies with his lean but powerful presence and bold black-brown eyes.
I slipped out of the Broadway Showroom just as the magician was beginning his act. The spacious, tiered auditorium was filled from the top level—where the big sound and light control board was located—all the way down to the stage. His performance was a comic one, combining magic and jokes and using a lot of funny sound effects and voice synthesizers. It was really quite good, but I had seen him before on previous cruises and I thought I should finish my rounds. I wanted to be sure everyone was having a good time on the first night out.
A few High Steppers were in the casino. As soon as a ship enters international waters, the casino opens and at least one or two of our clients always plant themselves there, only emerging to ea
t or sleep.
I saw Al Bostick in the casino, slouched over a blackjack table, the lines in his face deepened in concentration. He was wearing the same sad old clothes he had worn on the plane. His long gray hair was slicked back and greasy and his thin lips moved slightly. I was fairly sure he was counting cards, but if the dealer noticed, he didn’t say anything to Al. Behind the blackjack tables, Maria Petrone, eyes glazed over, was steadily feeding a quarter slot as if she were an orange-polyester extension of the machine.
Fernando Ortiz was slow-dancing in the Starlight Lounge with a young, gorgeous, blue-eyed blonde. Fast worker, that guy. Only a few hours on board, and he had already hooked up. Maybe he was a super-salesman after all.
I have to admit; I’m not a fan of tiny, doll-like blondes. I am tall, with all this wild black hair and stormy, gray eyes, and I am well aware that I would make a far better witch than fairy princess. Those witch parts were the ones I always got in school plays, from the third grade on.
Jay was nowhere to be found. He always cruises the ship the first night out to “see if there’s anyone interesting aboard, darling,” so I was quite alone, for once, and happy to be so.
There is something so truly wonderful about a big ship, at least for me. I love to travel. Anyone would, who came from my tiny little hometown. That’s why I headed to New York when I had the chance.
But I always feel an extra-special thrill on a huge ocean liner when the long lines are dropped and the ship slips away from the pier. I love the parting blast of her horn and the feel of her deck under my feet as she crosses the bar and enters deep water. I might have considered joining the Navy, but my mother would have passed out at the thought. She would have insisted that the naval life was entirely too rough for a delicate Southern flower like me. You should have heard everything she said when I told her I was skipping college, and more importantly, sorority rush, to move to New York and work for a travel agency.
On the stern deck, I leaned over the rail, the wind whipping at my hair, and watched the white foam boil up behind us as the huge screws churned their way through the dark ocean. I’ve been on dozens of cruises in my career and have never, ever tired of it. Granted, the bingo and horse racing games and theme nights on some ships get old, but for the most part, I don’t mind because I really, really love the sea.
Immersed in the moment, I didn’t see or hear the approach of Johnny Depp’s stand-in until he was right behind me, lips close to my ear.
“What are you doing out here all alone, Sidney?”
I could barely hear his words over the sound of the wind.
“Are you going to jump overboard and never be heard from again? It would be hours, you know, before anyone knew you had gone missing. Much too long for a rescue.”
I turned to face him and noticed for the first time a thin scar marring his left eyebrow. The scar, paired with muscular shoulders, enhanced his slight aura of menace, of fascination. He was dressed in an open-collar white shirt and an expensive blazer. I caught a faint whiff of his cologne in the wind.
“Wrong, Fernando,” I said, looking up at him, meeting his black eyes and wicked grin. “The High Steppers could find me. One of them ferrets me out every fifteen minutes on average.”
“What a miserable way to live. I do not envy you,” he sneered. “You have such a dismal life, and you don’t even realize it. Those people are disgusting.”
Turning abruptly, he melted into the gloom of the stern.
“Well, why did you sign on for a trip with us then,” I wanted to shout after him.
But he was gone, and I wouldn’t have said it anyway. IFT escorts are not rude to our customers.
The deck no longer seemed romantic, just cold, wet and lonely, spoiled by Fernando’s nastiness. We were in heavy seas, and a light roll could be felt despite the ship’s stabilizers. Breaking a rule, I tossed what was left of my wine over the side, watching the red drops disappear into the darkness, and climbed the outside stair to the Sports Deck. Buffeted by the wind and trying not to slip on the wet boards in my new black evening sandals, I didn’t look where I was going and almost collided with a deckhand. He gripped my arms to steady me; his eyes and demeanor were oddly familiar. Had I seen him somewhere before? Perhaps on another cruise.
“Go inside with the others, lady, go inside now. It’s dangerous out here.”
And then he, too, marched on toward the stern without another word.
I pulled hard to open the heavy forward door against the wind and stepped quickly into the welcome noise and light of the disco.
Leaning against the bar, I ordered another glass of Malbec and waited for my eyes to adjust to the flashing strobes. I scanned the room for familiar faces. No High Steppers here, not tonight. The poor, tired dears were probably all tucked in, covered with motion sickness patches now that the seas had kicked up. My London-in-a-capsule tour had worn them out.
I was surprised Jay wasn’t there. The band was good and the room was crowded. Jay is usually the King of Disco. Once, in a Mexican nightclub in Puerto Vallarta, he had jumped on the bandstand and started gatoring with such enthusiasm that the band stopped playing and the management called an ambulance. They thought the big red-headed gringo was having a seizure.
I was sorry not to see him, because I really wanted to tell him about my unpleasant little chat with Ortiz. I wasn’t sure how I felt about Mr. Fernando Ortiz. He was clearly appealing to me in some ways, but sort of repellent in others, all at the same time. I wondered what Jay thought of him.
Never underestimate Jay. Under all the jazz, he is very sharp and little escapes him. Sometimes he laughs at my concerns, but he doesn’t ignore them. After my vaguely ominous encounters on deck I longed for his reassurance and large, comforting presence.
I looked in the Castaway Bar, in the library, and even in the dining room, but the midnight buffet was long over. Only busboys remained, cleaning up the wreckage of the feeding frenzy. Finally I gave up and went to bed.
* * *
The luminous dial on my clock read 3:05 when I heard the steel handle of my cabin door turn for the second time.
The first time I heard it I was really still asleep, but when it turned again a few seconds later, I was wide awake and watching.
I knew that no one could enter, of course. I had turned the night bolt securely before climbing into my berth, and only the room steward and the purser had keys. I guessed some drunk just had the wrong room. But if it was a late-night hell-raiser, he was a mighty quiet one.
I lay awake for a long time after, listening for the sound of the door handle, for footsteps or voices in the passageway, but hearing only the faint throb of the engines and the sound of the waves. Whoever had been at my door had slipped silently away.
* * *
I was awakened again at 6:15 by Jay, pounding on the door and shouting my name.
“Okay, okay, calm down, I’m coming,” I said, unlocking the door. “Come in. What is it?”
He burst into the cabin and grabbed me by both arms, nearly lifting me off the floor.
“Just get dressed right now. It’s awful. I don’t know what we are going to do, Sidney. Ruth Shadrach is dead.”
I sank back down onto the bed.
“Dead.” I stared at him. “What do you mean, dead?”
“I mean dead,” he said, “real dead, as in not alive. So stop asking dumb questions and get dressed.”
He opened my drawer and started throwing underwear and t-shirts at me.
“Here, put this on. No, not that, that’s tacky, this.”
I grabbed my clothes away from him.
“I can dress myself, thank you!” I yelled. “Stay out of my stuff. How is she dead? Where? When?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He ran his hands through his red hair until it was sticking up all over. “All I know is that the room steward saw the other old ladies going to the Early Riser’s Breakfast this morning and thought Ruth was with them. So he knocked on the door. When there
was no answer, he went into Ruth’s cabin to make up the bed, and there she was. Dead. As a hammer. Someone’s killed her. Dr. Sledge, the ship’s doctor, is there now and the purser and they want you. So hurry up, Sidney, for God’s sake, put your shoes on, and let’s go!”
Strangely, we didn’t meet anyone as we rocketed up the stairs to the Continental Deck where poor Ruth Shadrach, afraid to room with a stranger, had booked a single.
She looked so pitiful, lying there in the new pink nylon travel pajamas that she’d bought especially for this trip. Twice she’d told me about them and the matching robe, its sleeves now securely knotted around her throat.
“Oh, my God!” I turned away from her and buried my face in Jay’s big chest.
Dr. Sledge pulled the sheet back over her.
“Miss Marsh,” said the purser, “I know what a terrible thing this is for you. It is terrible for all of us. But could you please inform your group of Miss Shadrach’s passing while Mr. Wilson comes with me now to the bridge to speak with the captain? Dr. Sledge will stay with Miss Shadrach, and Anthony will guard the cabin.”
* * *
How we got through the rest of that day, I’ll never know. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life was to gather the High Steppers together and tell them about Ruth Shadrach. They were stunned and saddened. Many were in tears.
“Who would do such a thing?” Mrs. Weiss said, shaking her head. “No one had any reason to harm her. No one knew her but us.”
She looked around the room at the others. They were no longer the jolly band of High Steppers, but frail individuals, peering at each other with closed, suspicious, fearful faces.
“We don’t know.” I said. “We don’t know anything yet. And at this point we don’t know what the procedure will be or what the captain will do. He will let us know when a decision has been made. Each of you will probably be questioned to see if you can provide any helpful information.”