by Marie Moore
“It’s really not like an ordinary amusement park, Maria,” Maxine said. “Fred and I wouldn’t miss it, and neither should you. Especially for a pork roast.”
I hoped Brooke and Maxine would convince Maria. If many of the others embraced the Petrones’ reasoning, only a small group of High Steppers would be going on the evening excursion, and I hated for them to miss the unexpected treat.
A lot of them don’t go out much at night even when at home on familiar ground. They would certainly be apprehensive about leaving the ship after dark in a foreign port.
I went back to the cabin to shower, hoping that I had given Jay enough time to get out of my way, but he was still there, waiting for me.
“You’d better step it up, Sid, if we are going to be on the first bus. I thought we might stay at Tivoli for a couple of hours and then get back in time to dress for the Fairytale Ball. I found us some costumes. I’m going to be a troll and you can be a pixie. The pixie suit will be really cute on you.”
“Sorry, Jay. I’m afraid that I’m the troll tonight. I’m not going to Tivoli with the High Steppers. You are. I’ve been accompanying most of the High Steppers around Kronberg all day while you went to the art gallery with Brooke and a tiny group in a private car. Tonight is my night off. I’m not working. I’m going to Tivoli with Chet Parker.”
“You are what? Going to Tivoli with Chet instead of me? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it, Jay, believe it. And I won’t be back in time for the Fairytale Ball either. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s my turn in the shower.”
Grabbing my robe, I went in the bathroom and closed and locked the door.
He yelled for a while, but I really couldn’t make out what he was saying over the noise of the water. I wasn’t listening anyway. Finally I heard him go, slamming the cabin door. On his way out he childishly turned off the bathroom light, leaving me to shower in the dark.
The switches and plugs are on the outside of the bathroom door on the Rapture, and on a lot of ships—so that you can’t electrocute yourself, I guess. In your bathroom at home in the U.S., with wet feet and floor, you might plug into 110 volts and just do a little dance, but on this ship, grounding 220 could take you out.
Reluctant to leave the warm water, I stood under the showerhead in the dark until the shampoo was all rinsed away, then turned off the water, wrapped my hair in a towel, pulled on my robe, and groped the wall outside the door for the light switch.
A big hairy hand snaked out, grabbed my wrist and jerked me out of the bathroom and into the room. It scared me so much that I couldn’t even scream.
“Hah! Got you. Now dry your hair and come on the bus with me. I’ll tell Chet you changed your mind.”
Furious, I wrenched my arm away from him and shouted, “I am NOT going with you tonight, Jay Wilson. Not on the bus. Not to Tivoli. Not to the costume party. Not ANYWHERE. I need a night off. I DESERVE a night off. I am going to Tivoli with Chet Parker and I am going to have FUN. Without the High Steppers. Without YOU! Get that through your head. I am not going with you.”
He finally got it.
“Okay, Sidney, okay,” he said in that little crybaby voice he gets when he’s miffed. “Have it your way. I understand. Of course you prefer Chet’s company to mine. I completely understand. And I really didn’t want you around anyway. You would look like crap in a pixie suit. Your ass is too big.”
And this time he really did leave, all huffy and sniveling.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on him, but it had been a long day, and I had had just about enough of Mr. Jeremiah Parker Wilson II for a while, particularly until he decided to start doing his share of the work.
14
Eight forty-five p.m. and Chet was nowhere.
I waited as long as I could stand it, knowing that at any moment, Jay and the High Steppers would be filing off the ship, headed for the bright red tour bus. It was waiting, caution lights flashing, at the end of the pier.
Furious with Chet and with myself for provoking a fight with Jay for apparently no good reason, I jumped into the first cab in the taxi line and sped off alone for Tivoli.
I paid the driver at the east entrance of the gardens, gave my pass to the smiling ticket taker, and rushed down the first path I saw, not wanting to be lingering in the entrance area when the shore excursion bus arrived.
There was not much of a crowd, at least not in the east end of the park. Indeed, no one was on that dark path but me, and I began to get a spooky feeling that someone was watching from the overhanging shrubbery or following me, stopping when I stopped, walking when I walked.
“You are being totally ridiculous,” I told myself firmly. “You are not being followed. It’s a big park, and no one but Chet and Jay even knows that you are here.”
I sat down on a bench near an empty bandstand to consider my options, none of which seemed very attractive.
As I saw it, I could either hide in the bushes until after Jay and the High Steppers arrived and then grab a cab back to the ship and go to bed, or have a grand old time at Tivoli all by myself.
Or I could take Fernando Ortiz up on his dinner invitation.
I followed the signposts to the entrance of The Peacock.
The maitre d’ was a short stocky Dane with thinning silver hair, a luxuriant moustache, and twinkling blue eyes. “Yes, Miss, may I assist you? Did you have a reservation?”
“Um, maybe. Well, you see, I might be meeting someone here. I mean, someone might be expecting me, but I don’t know. I don’t see him. I’m not really sure. Maybe not.”
“I see,” he said. “Are you, perhaps, Sidney Marsh? If so, we have been expecting you.”
I nodded.
“This way, then, please, follow me.”
Fernando sat alone, sipping a martini. He rose as we approached and the maitre d’ handed me a menu and seated me across from Fernando, facing the window with a view of the lake.
What am I doing here? I thought. Avoiding Jay? Chasing Fernando? Why am I so nervous? What am I, a teenager? No. I am a fool.
Fernando smiled as if reading my thoughts again, damn him.
“Ah, Sidney. How lovely you look, and right on time, too. Now what will you have to drink?”
Whiskey, I thought, and lots of it. This man makes me so nervous! But I said, “A glass of malbec would be nice, thank you.”
“Malbec it is, then. Would you ask Gustav to bring us a bottle of the Mendoza malbec, please, Karl, and perhaps some of the pâté and flatbread for a starter?”
Karl bowed and moved away, signaling to a waiter.
“Tell me, Sidney, where did you develop a taste for Argentine wine? My home is in Columbia, but I also enjoy the wines of Argentina. Have you been to Buenos Aires? Perhaps you know the tango? We must go dancing. I expect we would be very good together.”
Cheese City, I thought. But irresistible, of course, because he is so very good looking. This just might turn out okay after all.
* * *
The Peacock dinner with Fernando Ortiz was one of those rare and amazing evenings that I would have memorialized in a scrapbook—if I kept a scrapbook.
I’m sure that you don’t want to hear all the sappy details of our sparkling repartee and meaningful glances, or how we drank too much wine and slow-danced under the stars on the terrace, so just let me say that Ortiz is definitely hot, and I had a great time. It was maybe one of my top ten dinner dates ever.
That’s why it was such a shock when he abruptly looked at his watch, called for the check, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and left me sitting there alone with my tango fantasies at the beautiful, candlelit table.
Crap, I thought. The Marsh curse strikes again!
As the meal progressed, I had envisioned us strolling slowly together, arm in arm, beneath the twinkling white lights of the gardens; perhaps riding the carousel or the dragon boats, or winning a big teddy bear on the midway.
Now the only big teddy bear in my room tonight woul
d be Jay.
Ah, well, I thought, mustering up all the pride I could as I said goodbye to the waiter, maybe it’s for the best. Relationships with clients are tempting, but not usually a good idea.
I tried to wrap that prim little thought around myself. At least he hadn’t stuck me with the check.
Instead of a check, I received a note.
“Who gave this to you?” I asked the waiter.
He shrugged. “He did not give his name. He said he was a friend of yours. He gave it to me at the height of the dinner service, when we were the busiest. I don’t remember what he looked like, really, except that he was a very large man, and dark. An American, I think. He gave me a twenty dollar tip.”
“Would you know him if you saw him again? Is he still here in the restaurant?”
He looked around the room, which was largely empty now. We had lingered far too long. He shook his head and picked up his tray, “No, Miss, he is not here. We are closing soon. I don’t know if I would recognize him again or not. As I said, we were very busy when he gave me the note. I did not get a good look. Excuse me now, Miss, I am needed in the kitchen.”
I opened the folded paper. The note said:
I am your friend. I have been following you and your group since New York and it is now time for us to meet and talk. I mean you no harm. Do not be afraid. You have nothing to fear from me. Please mingle with the crowd near the carousel just before midnight. I will find you there and tell you all you need to know.
Should I meet him? Should I be afraid, despite his assurances? Was I crazy to consider such a meet? Maybe. But the carousel was usually a mob scene. I would be safe in a crowd, I thought. And maybe, finally, I was going to get the break I needed.
I couldn’t resist. I had to know what he knew. My mother’s voice whispered in my mind: Curiosity killed the cat.
The fireworks were beginning as I left the Peacock. It was getting close to midnight. I would have to hurry to make it to the carousel before the rides closed for the evening. The wind was blowing fairly hard, it was getting colder and thick clouds were moving in from the sea, obscuring the stars.
In my somewhat fuzzy state, I was not exactly sure of the way out. I could hear tinkly music, so I knew that I was near the carousel.
I started down the dim path to the left and was headed for the carousel when a sudden illumination of the fireworks overhead gave me a glimpse of Pete and Gladys Murphy on the path ahead. They were deep in hushed, intense conversation with Dr. Sledge, of all people. They were watching two other figures farther down the path, a man and a woman locked in a passionate embrace, standing in the deep shadow of the fun house.
I stopped, too, and quickly stepped off the path into the bushes so neither group would catch me spying.
“I tell you something’s got to be done about her and fast,” Gladys said. “People are starting to suspect things. People are talking.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, “this just ain’t working out at all like you said it would. It ain’t working at all.”
“You must both be patient,” Dr. Sledge said. “These things take time, what? Give it some time, I say.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been saying that all along and things are only getting worse,” Gladys hissed. “Those old bats are nosy as hell, and Sidney is getting closer to the truth all the time. She’s got to be stopped!”
Gladys was practically shouting now, shaking her finger in Dr. Sledge’s face.
He tapped his pipe out on the heel of his shoe. “Calm down, Mrs. Murphy.” His voice was cold, his expression hard as he removed her hand from his arm. “I will not have you shouting at me. You must listen. You must follow my orders. You know we have a scheme to follow. Any deviation ...”
I had been inching closer through the trees, straining to hear. At that moment I stepped on a stick, which broke with a loud crack. I tried to melt back into the thicket, thankful for the clouds that suddenly obscured the moon.
“Hush!” Pete said. “Both of you. Someone’s coming. We’ll talk later, on the ship. But you haven’t heard the last of us, Dr. Sledge. Gladys is right. She’s got to be stopped, and soon.”
I stepped back onto the path and collided with Muriel Murphy, who, feeling no pain, was woozily weaving her way toward her parents. I clutched her arm to steady her, to keep her from falling. She was sweating, breathing hard, and every breath was a cloud of gin.
“He almos’ knocked, bastard almos’ knocked me down,” she blubbered, tears streaming down her face, mascara running into the crevices of her cheeks, “he said ‘get out of my way, fat bitch’ ”
“Who did that, Muriel?”
“Jerome Morgan, thass who. Morgan, Morgan, Morgan, hogging the path, bumping into me, calling me ‘fat bitch.’ He can’t call me names. Called me a drunk. Called me a fat bitch. He better not call me names, Schidney, he better not!”
She was really worked up now, poor thing. Mascara dripped off her chin and her face was red and blotchy. Had she tried to come on to Morgan?
“Look, Muriel, forget about Morgan. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings and I’ll speak to him about it. Your parents are just ahead of us, see there? Let’s join them. Don’t let this spoil your evening.”
I steered her forward toward Pete and Gladys.
“Look at them two, would ya,” Pete laughed, as we approached. But he wasn’t talking about me and Muriel, he was looking the other way. “Why don’t they just get a room?”
Just as a blue and gold chrysanthemum lit the sky, I saw the faces of the couple as they finally parted and walked rapidly away in opposite directions. It was Sylvia Klein and Fernando Jackass Ortiz.
I was close enough to the Murphys then to release Muriel’s arm and head her, still wailing, down the path toward Pete. He put his arm around her, patted her back, and looked at me over her head, mouthing a thank-you. I nodded, gave a quick wave and headed back up the path in the opposite direction, away from the Murphys, away from Fernando and Sylvia.
“Wowzers. Look at that,” said a disembodied voice that came from a bench by the edge of the path. “Bet old Abe Klein has been asleep for hours. She must have drugged his cocktails. Tell me, what do you think attracts all these guys to Sylvia? Is it her big, baby blues or those great big knockers? And why are you hiding in the bushes, spying on them? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You were supposed to meet me at the park entrance at 8:00.”
Of course, I hadn’t seen Chet Parker in the gloom. All I could see even now was the glow of his cigarette.
I looked back toward the fun house, but Sylvia, that big rat Fernando, Dr. Sledge, and the Murphys had all disappeared.
I turned to face Chet. Could he be the writer of the note? But no, he was clearly referring to our earlier 8 p.m. meeting time, not midnight at the carousel.
“We were not supposed to meet at the public entrance. We were supposed to meet on the pier, as you well know, Chet. I was there at 8:00 and you were not. So where were you?”
“Would you believe trapped in the Starlight Lounge with the Levy sisters? No? Well then, what about ...”
“Look, Chet, don’t give me any excuses. Just go back to the ship and call it a night. The park is closing soon. No, don’t explain. I don’t care. And I’ve got to go now. I’m meeting someone near the carousel and I want to get there before the rides stop, if they haven’t already. No, don’t explain, Chet. I don’t care what you have to say, I really don’t give a rat’s ass. But if you ever mess with me again, you are toast, my friend. Hear me? Toast. Your little glass slippers will never dance again, at least not on Empress Lines.”
This pointless conversation would probably have continued for much longer if a long, shrill scream hadn’t come from the direction of the carousel.
Parker and I looked at each other and, without another word, took off running toward the sound.
* * *
A crowd had gathered around the carousel. Everyone stared in shock and horror at the sight of the body—
a large, dark-skinned man, seated on a carousel horse, tied by his neck to the pole, flopping back and forth, back and forth, as the carousel turned round and round, its gaily gilded and painted wooden animals moving up and down with the music. The macabre figure seemed to be swaying in time with the tinkling, music-box melody.
The wire holding the grisly equestrian in place had cut into his neck, and dark red blood had bathed the front of his shirt and pants. It was coagulating in a black-red puddle beneath the hoofs of the horse. His eyes—large, gray-green, and now sightless—seemed to stare back at the crowd, the lights of the carousel bizarrely reflected in them.
The onlookers, even the screamer, fell silent, waiting and watching in horrified fascination for the bloody horse and its terrible rider to come around again.
It seemed as if hours passed before the police arrived to shut off the machine and secure the area. In reality it was probably no more than a few minutes.
Chet and I moved in stunned silence away from the grotesque carousel. The dead man was clearly not one of the High Steppers, thank God, not another one, though his clothes—some kind of uniform—indicated he might have been a member of the ship’s crew. With all the blood, it was hard to tell.
“Let’s go, Sidney,” Chet said. “We’d better get the hell out of here. They are going to cordon off this area. If we stick around much longer it could be hours before we are allowed to leave, and we might miss our sailing. Stop staring and let’s go. That poor guy is probably not from the ship. He must be a local. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
But I had.
He had stumbled over me in the New York subway.