by Marie Moore
“She wouldn’t eat,” Ethel said.
“All that gorgeous food and she wouldn’t eat,” Hannah added. “Steamship round of beef, roast spring lamb, white asparagus, barely tasted it. She just picked, picked, picked. When I asked her why she didn’t eat, she just looked out the window and said something about the bus and her little red suitcase.”
“That’s right, she wouldn’t eat,” Maria Petrone added. “And she didn’t even stay for the Crepes Suzette. She just got up and left, right after our waiter, Vlamin, fired it up.”
“I can’t wait for the Baked Alaska tonight,” said Hannah. “I just love those flaming desserts. So good, so pretty.”
“What is Baked Alaska?” asked Muriel Murphy.
“What, you never had Baked Alaska?” Ethel peered at her over her big black bifocals.
“She never had Baked Alaska.” Hannah looked at others, shaking her head, and then at Muriel and explained, “Baked Alaska is this delicious cake, filled with ice cream and then covered all over with that sweet, fluffy stuff—I can’t think of the name of it right now—and then baked. Then the waiters flame it up, turn out all the lights and march around the dining room singing, “Hot, Hot, Hot” with the Baked Alaskas on their heads. It’s beautiful. You should see it. And it tastes so good.”
Her sweet little wrinkled face glowed with nostalgia.
“That was the Baked Alaskas that we saw this morning in the big freezers when we went on the galley tour,” Hannah continued. “They looked so delicious, all lined up on the racks and ready for tonight.”
“The fluffy stuff, Hannah, is meringue,” Gertrude snapped. “And that’s not on the menu tonight. The Baked Alaskas are on Caribbean Night. That’s tomorrow night. If you would read your Daily Program, you would know that we have French cuisine tonight, because of the Bal Masque.”
She finished with an acid smile. “Did you see Ruth while you were in the freezer?”
“Now, Gertrude, you know they wouldn’t keep Ruth with the Baked Alaskas. You’re just trying to make everyone sad again and spoil the whole thing.” Ethel made a vicious cut into her turnip and turned her back on Gertrude.
Gertrude had the last shot. “I just don’t think it shows the proper respect, that’s all,” she said, for the fifth time. “And I’m not dressing up tonight like some hootchie-cootchie dancer, either!”
“Just imagine, Sidney, Gertrude Fletcher as a hootchie-coochie dancer!” Jay said in my ear.
He stepped over the back of the chair and plopped down beside me. “Still mad?”
“Hell, yes, I’m still mad, party boy.” I whispered, “We’ve got this big mess on our hands, and the High Steppers to take care of, and we still haven’t talked to Itchy, and, oh, by the way, sugar britches, a killer roaming around the ship, and you get hammered and hide in the hot tub with the magician. I’d like to make you both disappear!”
“But you can’t,” he murmured, “and you wouldn’t if you could, because you love me. And I’ve got news. While I was in the room taking a little aspirin, Captain Vargos called and asked me to come to the bridge again. I don’t know why he needed to see me in person unless he was trying to make an impression. All he wanted was to tell me again to shut up about Ruth. He said that he is ordering everyone—particularly us—to carry on as if nothing is wrong. So, my sweet, at least until we get to Norway, the drill is business as usual on the high seas. He said he’d already put the word on you. That means you’d better put a smile on that sad little face and get ready to party tonight, my angel, because there’s nothing else to do unless you and Fletcher want to go sit down below with Ruth.”
I really wanted to stay mad at Jay, but I just couldn’t. I do love him, and between us we’ve covered a lot of ground together over the years, some of it pretty rocky. I also needed an ally.
And, after all, it’s not fair to get angry with the tiger because he has stripes.
We sneaked out of the veggie demo and grabbed mugs of coffee from the Buccaneer Bar before heading to my special hideout overlooking the Lido deck.
The wind was strong, all right—the captain hadn’t been exaggerating—and you couldn’t see far into the mist. There were no stars. Thick clouds scudded across the sky. We ducked into my favorite little shelter above and behind the Lido Bar, now as deserted as the pool it served in better weather.
I outlined my plan for Jay, who thought it was a very, very bad idea.
“Look, Sidney, you are not a detective, or a trained investigator, or any of that stuff. You are a travel agent, not a cop, and you could get yourself in a whole lot of trouble messing around in all this. What if you DO figure it out? What if you find the killer? What are you going to do then? Arrest him? Whip out the nunchucks?”
What indeed? Somehow, my plan hadn’t gotten quite that far.
“I don’t know, Jay. But I’ve got to do something. I can’t just sit around and sleep and eat and hope for the best. Besides everything else, we’ve got to get this thing solved so they’ll let us go home. Do you really want to spend the next couple of months locked up in some historic, freezing old hotel in Oslo while the High Steppers are questioned by Interpol or somebody? And what about our careers?”
I finally had his attention. He was silent for a minute. Then he turned and looked hard at me, suddenly serious.
“Okay, I’ll help you, and you may, may be right. But you have to promise me, Sidney Lanier Marsh, promise me that you won’t do anything that might get you iced like Ruth. Don’t forget, little Miss Clouseau, that Ruth was a big chicken. She probably had ten locks on her apartment door at home, but her cabin door was not forced, not even locked. So the only way this perp could have gotten into her cabin was if she opened the door for him. That means he was someone she knew, someone she trusted. Someone we know and trust. This isn’t a game, sweetie. The same thing could happen to you.”
8
After Jay left, I tried to put his warning out of my mind.
I knew I couldn’t think long about the risks I was taking or I would chicken out. I also knew that even though Jay had promised to help me, and even if he really meant it, he has trouble staying on task for long, particularly when he finds the task distasteful.
I went to finish questioning Al Bostick. He had never brought the mystery bag by the cabin, and I’d never finished our conversation about it, either.
Our plan for the day was simple. While I tackled Bostick, Jay would talk to Ortiz and Morgan. That wasn’t exactly earthshaking, but it was a good start. After making his handsome offer to “do this little detective job,” Jay declared his intention to work on his costume for the party. He loves to dress up.
The one time that I wanted to find him, of course, Mr. Bostick wasn’t in the casino, and the blackjack dealer said that he had been gone for quite a while.
I didn’t think Al Bostick would be working on any costume. I had never seen him wear anything but a faded black shirt and sagging pleated pants. I couldn’t imagine what kind of costume he would choose in any case. A bookie? A racetrack tout? He wouldn’t need a costume for either of those personas.
The slot machines were getting some heavy use tonight. I had a hard time making myself heard over the clatter of the payouts and the ringing of the bells, not to mention the crooning of the singer in the Moonbeam Room next door.
The dealer’s thick Welsh accent didn’t make my task any easier. The casino, like the beauty salon and the shops on The Rapture, is run as an outside concession, a British one. All the dealers and the pit boss are British.
A cruise rep once told me that some of the casino vendors on ships set the slot machines to pay out big at the beginning of a cruise to get everybody playing and in a party mood. Then later in the week, he claimed, they tighten them back up and make a killing.
I don’t know if that’s truth or cruise legend, but it certainly has been rumored for years. It could be true, I guess. Casinos have to close the entire time while a ship is in port and they reopen when it sails back i
nto international waters. Plenty of time for a little tinkering.
I looked in the shopping arcade—no Bostick there—and then I had a long conversation with Amy and Charlie Wu, who were pricing designer watches.
“I saw him in the casino. Did you look there?” said Amy.
“He’s always in the casino. I can’t imagine what he’ll do when we get into port,” Charlie said. “Maybe then he’ll eat and sleep.
“But enough about Al. We are interested in the German Christmas Market Tour you have advertised for this winter. Is it still available? Can you tell us something about it?”
While I was talking with the Wus, the shop clerk set up a kiosk of long silk scarves, mostly knock-offs of designer scarves, but really beautiful in their own right.
After the Wus left to find costumes for the party, I lingered over the gorgeous silks, trying to rationalize a purchase. I ended up buying a lovely, pale pink pashmina, also some nail polish remover and a paperback book. I gave up on Al and went down to the cabin.
I was in the shower when I heard Jay’s key in the door.
“Put a towel on and come out right now, I’ve got a surprise for you,” he bellowed over the noise of the water.
I took my time drying off, ignoring the hammering on the bathroom door.
After I stepped out into the totally dark cabin, I almost dropped my towel in a sudden blaze of light as he yelled, “Surprise! Surprise! What do you think? Don’t you love it?”
He could have been an extra in Moulin Rouge. I have seen Jay in a lot of strange get-ups over the years, but this one topped them all.
He wore a red spandex bodysuit to which he had somehow attached strand after strand of clear Christmas chaser lights. He must have begged or bribed his way into the ship’s show props to get them.
Tiny, white lights raced around his legs and down his arms. On his head was a crown of sparklers which I was sure he planned to ignite at the proper moment. He had sprayed his hair gold. I hoped it didn’t ignite along with the sparklers.
The only flaw in this otherwise splendid creation was limited mobility, because to achieve maximum impact he had to be plugged into a wall socket.
Even for Jay, that costume was over the top.
I sat down on the bunk in my towel and howled until my stomach hurt and tears ran down my face.
Jay, delighted and encouraged by my reaction, began to dance.
“Stop it. Stop. Stop it. You’ve got to stop. I can’t stand it,” I gasped as he flexed back and forth, striking bodybuilder poses with chaser lights rippling up and down his body.
“They’re going to love me, aren’t they?” he smirked.
“I’m not going in until just before dinner. I want them to get the full effect when I arrive. Please have me announced.”
He unplugged himself from the wall, covered the whole thing with a long black overcoat, and left.
* * *
Somehow, in spite of all the desserts I’d been enjoying, I struggled into my standard black cat outfit that I bring for all of these masquerade things.
Mostly, it is a black dance leotard and tights, with a tail, a mask, and a headband with ears. It is easy to pack and I don’t care if Jay’s seen it about a million times. It works for me.
I brushed my hair, put on the cat ears, and longed to spritz on some free French perfume that my buddy Helga—the boutique manager—had just given me in the shop. She saves samples and the old testers for me sometimes when the new ones come in.
I put the bottle away in my suitcase. Unfortunately, I can only enjoy wearing a fragrance, especially heavy scents, when Jay is not around. He can’t tolerate perfume. He’s not just being a toot about it—he would love to wear it himself—but he is really deathly allergic. If it touches his skin, he breaks out in a blistering rash, can’t breathe. Poor guy even has to use unscented soap.
I knew he would really wow them tonight in that crazy costume. I laughed again, picturing how he would look. Unbelievable. There is only one Jay.
I turned off the lights, locked the door, and headed for the Starlight Lounge.
People were already lining up for photographs with Captain Vargos when I got to his cocktail party. I ducked past that line, feeling his eyes on the tail of my cat suit.
“Thish ish shoooo exschiting!”
Muriel Murphy’s round green eyeballs were trying to focus between gigantic false eyelashes. She was dressed as a nightclub performer and stuffed into a low-cut sequined costume. Obviously she had been into the champagne for quite a while. I learned on the first night out that besides food, Muriel also has quite a problem with alcohol.
My dad has seven sisters, and one of them—my Aunt Minnie, a very buttoned-up Methodist—refers to drinking alcohol as “taking a drink.” In her pinched-up opinion, “taking a drink” is the first step before “taking dope.” Aunt Minnie would thoroughly disapprove of Muriel. My old high school friends would just say Muriel was “bad to drink” and some of them would be able to match her shot for shot, but they would never consider partying with poor Muriel.
It was quite an evening. Everyone had gone all out on the costumes. Some were brought from home, others rented in the gift shop or created on board. But none were in Jay’s league. Not even close. There were hula girls and sailors, comic book characters, nuns and priests. Elvis was in the building, along with Prince Charles, Sarah Palin, Obama and Michelle, you name it.
Waiters passed silver trays filled with beautiful canapés, shrimp tempura, cucumber sandwiches, and eggs topped with caviar; others kept the champagne flowing. A small combo played on the bandstand ... big High Stepper favorites like “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” “Tiny Bubbles,” and “Bill Bailey.”
I danced with most of the men in our group: Charlie Wu, Angelo, Dr. Johnson, and Pete Murphy. Chet Parker swooped by with Marjorie Levy.
To my surprise, Fernando Ortiz and Jerome Morgan were there, all decked out in full costume and seemingly caught up in the festive mood. Fernando even swept off his black hat and bowed, flashing a mocking smile at Hannah and Ethel. The little ladies, who missed the “mocking” part, looked pleased.
Maybe he isn’t so superior after all, I thought. He seems to actually be enjoying the party.
But when Muriel Murphy sat down at their table, both men immediately left, heading for the bar. I watched Fernando, as Zorro, talking in low tones at the far end of the bar with Morgan, as Darth Vader. Or at least Darth was the right size and shape for Morgan. With the mask and costume, it was hard to tell. Later I saw Fernando dancing with Sylvia, who in her costume had a lush, uncanny resemblance to Marilyn Monroe.
In fact, everyone but Jay and Al Bostick seemed to be there. I was right about Al—the party was not his sort of thing—but Jay’s arrival should be imminent.
I got a fresh drink and posted myself near the door as promised, waiting for Jay and watching my gang have fun. At 7:45 I heard Jay hissing “Lights, lights!” at the door, so I dimmed the switch for his grand entrance.
He slipped inside the room in the darkness, dropped the raincoat, and plugged himself in. The magician stood on a chair behind him and lit the sparklers.
He was magnificent.
As predicted, they loved him. In time with the music, he did his little dance, made all his moves. They hooted and whistled and cheered, not just our group, but everyone. I’ve never seen him happier. He didn’t even mind when the waiters doused his sparklers and shooed him out of the room before he could set off the fire alarms.
The dinner chimes sounded, and I was turning to leave when Captain Vargos took my elbow and propelled me out the door, saying, “Tonight, the elusive Sidney dines with me.”
9
“Do you see what I see, Angelo? Sidney is eating dinner with the Captain.”
“Yeah, and I bet before the night’s over, he gets lucky. He’s slick, that one.”
“I wish he’d get lucky with me, don’t you, Hannah?
“I don’t know, Ethel, I’ve forgotten.”
* * *
Shards of the High Steppers’ conversation drifted up to the Captain’s table.
Blushing, I stole a glance at Vargos, whose blue eyes glittered with amusement. He raised his glass in a toast: “Here’s to the High Steppers, my lovely Sidney, and to a magical evening.”
I would have loved a magical evening with this man. There was just one big problem. His wife. I had been attracted to him from the moment I met him, but when Zoe told me he was taken, the bloom was off the rose. Married guys fooling around just don’t do it for me—no matter how attractive they are, and this one certainly was. I think they are all weasels.
“A better toast would be to the faithful Mrs. Vargos and all the little Vargoses who I’m told are waiting for you back in Athens, Captain.”
There was a moment of silence. I was surprised to see him look genuinely perplexed. “There is no Mrs. Vargos, Sidney, although I admit I have encouraged that assumption on occasion when I felt it necessary. It’s easier than saying, ‘I’m sorry, but I do not find you attractive,’ don’t you think? I am not married. Many captains are, but marriage is not easy for a ship captain. It is difficult to make a marriage and family work well with such long separations. Command of a ship like this is very demanding, very difficult, and actually quite lonely. I am on duty, working away from my home base for months, in faraway ports and at sea.”
“Well if it is so hard and lonely, why do you do it?”
He gestured toward the huge windows that filled the stern end of the dining room. A faint moon had emerged from the clouds and was gleaming on our wake, illuminating the churning sea.
“That’s why, my dear,” he said, smiling down at me. “The sea, as they say, is my mistress. I do this job because I must. It’s all I ever wanted to do, from the time I was a small boy at Piraeus. But I consider it to be a fortunate voyage indeed when I meet and find myself attracted to a beautiful woman.”