by Marie Moore
I fully agreed. No amount of luxurious gifts could convince me to hook up with a guy like Abe, either.
Of course, I had no basis for comparison. The best gift I get from my cheap dates is a rose from the deli on the corner and maybe a heart-shaped box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day.
Jay was standing at the racks outside the photo gallery hunting for pictures of himself when I finally emerged from the beauty salon.
We walked together to our cabin. He commented on Monique’s handiwork the entire way. For once, I passed.
“You really look terrific, Sidney. Very chic. I don’t see why you don’t splurge like this more often. Put a little fun in your life. Don’t be so stingy!”
Have I mentioned that even though Jay has a great apartment and a closet full of designer clothes, he never has a dime? At the end of his pay periods he has to go to parties put on by travel vendors and people he barely knows just to eat.
“Just because I save enough to pay my bills, you call me stingy! If you would pay up what you owe me I might not have to be stingy!”
“I’ll even things up next month, you know I will, but let’s not talk about that now, okay? I didn’t mean to start anything, Sidney, I just wanted to say that you look really good, very chichi!”
Jay unlocked the cabin door, and we were both stopped in our tracks by the enormous vase of deep red roses on my bedside table.
“Oh, look! Someone sent me flowers!” Jay trilled. He made a grab for the card, but I snatched it out of his paw and opened it, turning my back to him.
The card inside was printed “With the Compliments of the Captain.” Written below it in slashing black ink were the words,
It would give me great pleasure if you would join me on the bridge at 8:00 tonight for dinner followed by stargazing in my private quarters.
—Stephanos Vargos Master, m/s Rapture of the Deep
Jay laughed as he read over my shoulder. “Good going, Sid. Roses from that handsome hunk. Are you going?”
“No, I’m not. It’s too late. I already have plans for the evening. Remember the ballet?”
“Well, yeah, but who wants to go to the ballet with some old ladies when you could let our captain put stars in your eyes?”
“Stop pestering me, Jay, or I’m going to have you seeing stars!”
“Touchy, touchy, Miss Prickles. Why are you so supersensitive?”
I thought about Fernando and the ballet. Then I thought about the captain and the roses and the stars. And that reminded me of the beautiful blonde I had seen him with, looking at those same stars, less than twenty-four hours ago. Wonder if she received roses with her invitation, too?
I rang for Abdul, and when he came, gave him the flowers and five bucks.
“Abdul, would you please return these to Captain Vargos? Tell him that I said there must be some mistake, that they must have been delivered to the wrong girl. Will you do that?”
He nodded yes, and I thanked him, then reentered the cabin and closed the door.
“I don’t understand you, Sidney,” Jay said, “and I think you must be nuts to turn down that invitation, but it’s your choice, not mine. I think there is something I’m missing here. Now, show me your outfit for tonight and then I’ll show you mine!”
Shelving all thoughts of Captain Vargos, I forced myself to open my disaster of a closet. Besides getting myself together for the evening, I really needed to spend part of the afternoon sorting and packing my stuff, although I sure didn’t want to. I hate packing, but this was the last free day for a while.
After two days in St. Petersburg, the itinerary called for a day in Estonia, then back to Harwich for disembarkation and the flight home.
My stuff seemed to be in a bigger jumble than usual.
“Jay, have you been rummaging through my things again? This closet is a mess.”
“Your stuff is always a mess, Sidney, unlike mine, which is always perfect.”
True. Jay pitches a fit if his clothes are disturbed in any way, even slightly out of place. He wants his trousers all hanging neatly on special hangers covered in dry-cleaner plastic. He packs his suitcase with tissue paper—you know the type. No one would ever think of calling my motley collection of outfits a wardrobe.
I planned to wear my one really, really good dress, a black silk, to the ballet. The silver sandals that go with it had super-high heels. I thought my new pink pashmina would be great with the black silk dress, but the scarf wasn’t where I had left it. I couldn’t find it anywhere.
I looked in the closet and all through the drawers, then hauled my suitcase out from under the bed and dug through the dirty clothes, but I still couldn’t find it. By then I was pretty sure someone had been going through my stuff, and the prime suspect was sitting right there, looking innocent.
“Okay, Jay, where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“My new pink pashmina, that’s what. Where is it?”
“Don’t glare at me like that. I didn’t take it,” Jay said. “I don’t wear fake-minas, and it’s the wrong color for me anyway. You don’t need a shawl with that dress, Sidney. It’s going to be warm outside tonight, and the boys at the ballet will like you better if you don’t cover up your boobs.”
He was right. The plunging neckline of the black silk dress would have Aunt Minnie clucking, but Fernando would probably think it was just fine.
I gave up looking for the scarf and chose instead an amethyst drop on a fine silver chain and matching earrings.
Neither Jay nor I had to babysit the High Steppers tonight. None of them were going ashore. A troupe of Russian folkloric dancers was performing after dinner in the Stardust Lounge, and all the old folks wanted to get to bed early because of Sunday’s all-day shore excursions.
Instead of the regular bus trip, Brooke had hired a car and driver through the ship’s concierge for the next day, inviting Hannah and Ethel to go along as her guests.
They were thrilled, of course, but Gertrude, who was not invited, was furious. At dinner, she sat with the Murphys and Marjorie and Esther Levy, glaring across at Brooke’s table and making loud spiteful remarks about her throughout the entire meal.
“Just look at her,” she said, giving Brooke venomous looks, “all that red hair and just dripping in diamonds! She thinks the bus isn’t good enough for her. She can’t sightsee with the likes of us. No, she has to have a private car and driver! I wouldn’t go in the car with Miss Got Rocks if she begged me.”
Gertrude, the Levys, the Johnsons, the Petrones, and Chet Parker had all booked the all-day bus tour, Palaces and Treasures of Imperial Russia, which was scheduled to leave from the pier at 8:00 a.m.
“Muriel Murphy was pretty vague about her family’s plans,” Chet Parker reported over eggs and caviar. “Either they haven’t told her yet or she was too fuzzy to remember.”
“I hope they go with you.” I murmured. “You should have to sit between them and the Levys on the bus as payback for the dirty trick you played on the Levy sisters in Stockholm.”
“But they don’t know I did it,” he smirked. “I was too smooth. They think the Institute of Social Justice really exists, and that everyone, including you, was just too stupid to point them in the right direction. But have mercy on me, Sidney. If you had to spend the time I’ve spent with those two, you’d be sending them on snipe hunts, too.”
He had a point.
Chet is really not a bad guy. He’s sort of appealing in a little lost boy kind of way. At least he was honest about his guest host duties, and he didn’t appear to be trying to take advantage of any of the ladies he entertained. I wasn’t going to pass judgment on Chet Parker. Plus, I wasn’t totally sure of his orientation—not that it was any of my business. Jay says Chet is gay, and Jay probably knows.
Our captain was not at his table at dinner, and I wondered where he was dining, and with whom.
Jerome Morgan had gone ashore the second the ship was cleared, and no one had seen him since. That seemed
to be his pattern whenever the ship reached a port. No one had a clue what Morgan’s business was in St. Petersburg. But there was lots of High Stepper speculation.
“I heard in the beauty shop/ spa/ at breakfast/ last night for sure that Jerome Morgan is a drug dealer/ CIA agent/ evangelist/ smuggling Bibles to poor people/ a gun dealer/ a kidnapper, has run off with that little blond girl …” Their speculation covered most possibilities. Take your pick.
Angelo Petrone had the most solid information. “He eats at our table at dinner, see, not because he wants to, just because he has to, the way this set-up works. Most nights he don’t show. My wife, she tried fishing around, you know, just being friendly, but he clammed up tight. She kept pestering him—she wants to know everything—but all he would say was that he is a “business associate” of Fernando Ortiz and Abe Klein. He tried to sound on the up-and-up, real official-like, but whatever he’s selling, I ain’t buying. I seen guys like him before. Smells like mob to me.”
I wasn’t sure either what Morgan’s real story was, but I didn’t care as long as he stayed away from me. I wasn’t totally convinced that he was innocent in that crypt deal. Morgan had certainly been in the area when the doors slammed behind me.
Vargos had been, too, of course. His story was that he was visiting an old friend there—a priest at the cathedral. If his story was true, then he must have entered the church and then passed through the public area to the private area with his friend; that could explain why I didn’t see him when I entered a few minutes later. If it were true.
There were so many possibilities, so many variables in this thing, that I had stopped counting. Not to mention, of course, the literally thousands of other passengers and crewmen. The culprit could have been anyone. It could have been someone in the church or the town, someone totally unrelated to this whole deal. It could have been a kid, playing a prank.
I was sick and tired of worrying about everything and everybody. This crazy cruise was making me crazy, and I decided that for once, Jay was absolutely right. I did need to cool my jets. Nothing really bad had happened to me in the church, but it sure could have. A night off relaxing at a beautiful ballet with a great-looking man was just what I needed. An evening with Fernando might also exorcise any lingering feelings I had for the captain. Fun! It would be fun! And for tonight, at least, no more Sherlock Holmes.
28
I have to admit that Jay had been right about something else, too.
The Mariinsky Theatre may have been the famed home of Pavlova, Nijiinsky and Barishnikov, but at the ballet that evening Fernando spent more time watching my neckline than he did watching the ballerinas.
At intermission he ordered a glass of champagne for me and an iced vodka for himself, and we stood on the same balcony where czars and princesses had stood, overlooking the moonlit square.
He raised his glass. “To you, Sidney. You are beautiful, you know, you really are, and especially tonight.”
He kissed me then. Three more champagnes led to a lot more kisses. We stayed out in the moonlight long after the chimes signaled that intermission was over.
“You don’t really want to see the rest of the performance, do you?” he asked.
Suddenly I felt woozy. I did want to see the rest of the performance, but I wasn’t sure I could stay awake for it. I shook my head and we started down the steps toward the exit. In front of the theater, Fernando whistled and a car instantly appeared. He helped me into the backseat.
I needed help. I don’t know whether it was the booze or the man, but by that time I was more than a little wobbly. The car left the square and sped us away down a broad avenue.
He kissed me some more and then pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket, insisting that I have a drink. I don’t like vodka, so I shook my head.
“Oh, come on, my darling, one drink. It will relax you. Take a little sip.”
He held me tighter, put the flask to my mouth, and tried to pour some of the vodka between my lips, while at the same time unzipping the back of my dress. He said something to the driver in Russian; the driver laughed and the car accelerated.
I pushed the flask aside but he forced it right back up to my lips, spilling a few drops down the front of my dress. His grip on my arms tightened. Alarm bells were going off big time in my head, with the word roofie flashing neon in my brain. Was the vodka drugged? My magical evening was going to hell in a hurry.
To make matters worse, I suddenly realized that the car, which had been steadily accelerating, was heading away from the ship, not toward it.
He pulled me even closer, nuzzling my neck, and whispered into my ear, “Sidney, darling, where is the red bag?”
Those five little words scared me so badly that I almost wet my pants.
“Sidney Lanier Marsh,” I told myself, “get your young ass out of here now.”
I kissed Fernando hard on the mouth. “Fernando,” I purred, breathing into his ear, gently prying his hand from its lock grip on my wrist and placing it squarely on my breast, “Can you get the driver to pull over real quick and tell him to take a walk? I just really, really want to be alone with you, and I don’t think I can wait another minute.”
Fernando shouted something to the driver, who immediately braked and swerved into a dark side street. Ortiz was so busy getting his pants down that he didn’t realize for a minute that I had bailed.
I hit the ground running, cutting across the backyards of two houses so they couldn’t chase me with the car.
Feet, I prayed, don’t fail me now!
He was out of the car then, running down the alley behind me, screaming my name. His needing to pull his pants back up before he could chase me had given me a tiny head start, and I needed every second of it. I had kicked off the silver sandals before I jumped out or I would never have made it.
I cut through the back yards of some dilapidated apartment buildings, dodging clotheslines, rusted out cars and garbage bins, going as fast as I could without falling over anything. My feet were hurting, running barefoot through the night, but they could take the abuse if I didn’t step on glass or anything. I’m a Southern girl and go barefoot all the time.
I ran silently, staying in the deep shadows and praying that no dogs would give me away.
Fernando swore and shouted to the driver, and the car’s engine roared. Then a car door slammed and the black Mercedes began to cruise slowly up one street and down the next, lights on bright, searching for me.
The Neva River was in front of me then, and to go any farther I somehow had to get across it. The bridge was impossible—too exposed, too much traffic. I couldn’t swim the river. Fernando and his pal were right behind me.
I crouched down in the shadows, desperate for an escape plan.
I was trapped, just as they had known I would be. My only option was to hide somewhere until they gave up looking for me.
Having grown up a tomboy in the rural South, I had no trouble shimmying up the first good tree I saw.
And there I sat, treed like a coon in the moonlight, being hunted down by a lying, sneaky, dangerous son of a bitch whom just one hour before I had found attractive.
I must have been out of my mind. Jay had been totally right about this dirtbag. What was I thinking? My mother is right. Like all my aunts, I clearly have no brains at all when it comes to men. The Marsh Curse strikes again!
29
When I finally decided it was safe to come down out of that tree, the eastern sky was starting to lighten.
Limping back toward the port, barefooted, exhausted, my good dress torn, my hair full of twigs and leaves, I didn’t even feel sorry for myself. Before all of this mess, I had thought of myself as a sophisticated, street-smart, worldly-wise New Yorker. Not. I was a dumbass from the sticks.
I traded my silver necklace to a truck driver for a ride back to the ship. I think he stopped for me because he thought I was a hooker winding up a night’s work, maybe willing to turn one last trick cut-rate. Maybe he just recogn
ized me as a crazy American. He didn’t have much English but I managed to communicate where I needed to go. “Tourist? Ship? Da!”
Whatever. His wife would love my necklace, and I was more than happy with the deal.
* * *
The sun was just beginning to come up when the truck turned into the port. Its light illuminated the ship, and also police cars and an ambulance and Jay, in his polka dot pajamas. Two burly policemen had him by the arms. Edgar was talking to the cops at the end of the pier. God knows what Jay and Edgar had done, I thought.
“Where the hell have you been, Sidney Marsh?” he screamed at me. “Just where the hell have you been?”
“Don’t yell at me, Jay. I’ve had a rough night.”
“Yeah, I can see that. You look like crap. Well, I’ve had a rough night, too, sweetie ... not that you care, of course. While you out having a blast with your Latin lover, I tried and tried to call you, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. Then I heard your purse ringing in the closet. You left your cell in the cabin on purpose, didn’t you Cinderella, so I couldn’t call you when I needed you! Well, welcome back, Sidney, welcome back. I have a little bad news. There’s been another emergency. And guess what? I’m being arrested. They think I did it.”
Sylvia Klein hadn’t left Abe and the ship in Stockholm, after all. She was still on the ship, floating naked in the hot tub in the red glow of the sunrise, my new pink scarf knotted securely around her throat.
* * *
“Wait a minute,” I said for the fourteenth time, to the Russian detective. “You can’t arrest him. He had nothing to do with Mrs. Klein’s death. How could you even think such a thing? There is no proof. This is ridiculous!”