by Jane Heller
“I’m sure Mrs. Thayer didn’t mean any harm,” Kenneth appeased his wife, as was his role in the marriage, apparently. Hoping everyone would settle down, he turned back to Jackie, with whom he’d been discussing the next day’s stop in Nassau. He asked her what the three of us were planning to do during the few hours the ship was docked there. She told him she didn’t know what Pat and I were planning to do but she was spending the day with Per Johansson.
“Who?” asked Kenneth.
“The doctor who took care of me when I was in the hospital,” she explained. “He’s from Finland, originally, but he’s been working for Sea Swan long enough to know his way around the ports of call. I couldn’t ask for a better tour guide.”
Kenneth arched an eyebrow, as if he were surprised or amused that Jackie had struck up a friendship with Dr. Johansson.
“What are you and Gayle going to do in Nassau?” she asked.
“What we do back in New Jersey,” he said resignedly. “We’re going shopping.”
After dinner, Jackie, Pat, Simon and I sat in the atrium and talked for an hour or so before Jackie announced she was ready to call it a night. Pat said she was tired too. We all took the elevator up to Deck 8 together, the unspoken assumption being that Simon and I would say our goodnight in private, in my stateroom.
“Do me a favor, both of you,” I said to Jackie and Pat as we all stood outside their cabins. “Double lock your doors, okay?”
“Elaine,” Jackie sighed.
“There was a robbery right down the hall from us,” I lied. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I figured neither of you would believe me.”
“We don’t, but we’ll double lock our doors anyway,” Jackie agreed.
Pat nodded. “I wouldn’t want the thief to take all the souvenirs I’ve collected.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said.
I kissed my friends goodnight, wishing that the hit man would chicken out and let the three of us live to be at least as old as Dorothy Thayer.
22
“So tell me about Eric,” Simon asked after we’d settled into my cabin, he in the chair, I on the bed. We had determined that my assignment was to furnish him with short biographies of the ex-husbands.
“I’ll start with his parents,” I said. “The mother came from money and lorded it over the father. But the father was the one with the business sense. It was his ideas and her dough that made Zucker Funeral Homes what it is today. Eric simply stepped into a good thing.”
“You mentioned the other day that he’s been making abusive phone calls to you, ever since you did PR for his business rival.”
“Yes. Eric isn’t one to keep his anger all bottled up inside. He’s a yeller and screamer. He’s compulsively neat and organized, as I’ve told you, but he gets totally out of control when he’s mad. A major Type A. He rants and raves and shuts up, then rants and raves all over again. His father is like that too. They’re a couple of heart attacks waiting to happen.”
Simon pursed his lips. “Eric just doesn’t sound like our man,” he said. “Why would he arrange to have you murdered because of a PR campaign you did almost six years ago? If he’s such a hothead, he would have had you murdered back then. Or is there something you did more recently to slight him, Slim? Think.”
I thought for a minute, then shook my head.
“All right. Tell me about his friends, the guys he hangs out with on the golf course or wherever.”
“He doesn’t have any friends. And he doesn’t play golf.”
“He must do something when he’s not working.”
“Yes. He cleans out his closet. Every single weekend. It’s a thing with him.”
“No wonder you married him. Let’s move on to Jackie’s ex-husband,” Simon said. “Give me the story there.”
“Well, as I think I’ve told you, Peter and Jackie met in college, at Penn State.”
“Right. You said that Jackie was from Pittsburgh. Is Peter a Pennsylvania native too?”
“Yes, but his family moved to New York when he was a kid. Why?”
He shrugged. “Henry Prichard’s from Altoona. I’m grasping at straws.”
“I know. Me too. After Peter and Jackie graduated from college, they got married, moved to Vermont, and bought a farm there. It was the sixties, and people were into buying farms in Vermont, remember?”
He nodded.
“The problem was, they didn’t make a dime off that farm. They had all the butter they could churn, but they couldn’t pay their mortgage. Then, Peter’s parents were killed in a plane crash, and Peter, an only child, inherited their place in Manhattan. It offered Peter and Jackie a way to get out from under their debts in Vermont, so they sold the farm and moved into the apartment. Peter taught a course at the New School. Jackie worked in a florist shop.”
“How did the nursery in Bedford come about?”
“Unlike Eric, Peter’s a very gregarious fellow. A natural networker. Someone he knew knew someone else who knew someone else who wanted to be a partner in a nursery in Westchester. Peter and Jackie had some money left from Peter’s inheritance, and they ended up going into business with the man.”
“We don’t know the name of this person?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. Apparently, he was stung by a bee while he was pruning some rose bushes and died instantly. Personally, I never go anywhere without my EpiPen Auto-Injector.”
“Did this poor guy leave his share of the business to Peter and Jackie?” Simon asked.
“Yes, and they renamed it J&P Nursery and made a huge success of it. Jackie was the workhorse. Peter was the schmoozer. The combination was great for the business but lousy for the marriage. He was always out there hustling, while she was always out there hoeing or whatever she does. And while he was out there hustling, he met Trish, the present wife.”
“How did he meet her?”
“The same way he met the business partner that died: through a friend of a friend of a friend—a rich friend. I’ll tell you one thing: For a guy who used to be a hippie farmer, he sure made a smooth transition into a capitalist. Jackie says he wears suits now. With suspenders.”
“That is cause for alarm.”
“What’s alarming is Peter’s ambition. He wants control of that nursery, and Jackie is an obstacle—as long as she’s alive.”
“Okay. Let’s suppose that Peter’s the ex-husband we’re after. Who’s the hit man? That’s the question that needs answering now.”
“It could be one of his laborers at the nursery,” I suggested. “Maybe the guy’s an illegal immigrant and Peter threatened to send him back to the old country if he refused to kill Jackie.”
“Maybe.” Simon rubbed his eyes. He looked exhausted, defeated. He knew as well as I did that we were just playing a guessing game, just wasting our time. Neither of us was a detective, or even an amateur sleuth, and all we had to go on were a garbled, ship-to-shore phone call and a nursery rhyme.
“Is it worth talking about Bill Kovecky at this point?” I asked. “I’ve pretty much told you his story, especially how he bolted out of New York so suddenly and left his kids the way he did. I still think he could be our bad guy and Albert could be his henchman. The only thing that throws a monkey wrench into that theory is that Pat still loves Bill. He must have some redeeming qualities.”
“Listen, Slim, I need a break from all this,” said Simon, slumping in the chair. “Could we turn on the TV or something? Just to clear the cobwebs a little?”
“Sure.” I jumped up from the bed and switched on the television. Larry King was just winding up an interview with Demi Moore. She was discussing the perils of having money, fame, and a fabulous body.
I reclined on the bed. Simon remained in the chair. It took me a few seconds to realize how silly that was. Why should he be uncomfortable, while I was stretched out like a queen? Especially when the reason he was in my room was to watch over me, to be my bodyguard?
“Simon. Why don’t you lie do
wn next to me?” I patted the bed. “It’s okay. Really.”
“Are you sure? I know you weren’t crazy about having a sleep-over date when I first brought it up.”
“I know, but that was only because of the last time we were…” I stopped. Water under the bridge. “Now, of course, we’re much too consumed with this hit man business to even consider having sex. Isn’t that right?”
“Absolutely,” he said, getting up from the chair and collapsing onto the bed, his body inches from mine. We were both completely clothed, but he was so close to me that I suddenly wanted him more than ever, despite what I’d just said.
I lay there, my heart beating, my lips burning, my loins aching, so tempted to tell Simon that I’d changed my mind and would be perfectly willing to make love to him. After all, we didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, did we? I could turn out to be the ex-wife who got killed and then it would be too late.
Yes, I decided. We should take advantage of this time alone. It might be our last opportunity to have carnal knowledge of each other.
Without saying a word, without even glancing at Simon, I rose from the bed, took off my clothes, and hung them in the closet (I couldn’t help it). Then, I turned to face him in all my naked lust.
“Simon,” I said throatily.
He didn’t move or speak.
“Simon?” I said less throatily.
No response.
I tiptoed over to my handbag, put on my bifocals, and inspected him more closely.
His eyes were shut. His body was still. And his mouth was hanging open at an odd angle, a tiny pool of drool accumulating on the pillow. Pretty soon, the snoring kicked in.
Some bodyguard, I thought, and slipped into my nightgown.
I turned off the television and the lights, climbed onto the bed as quietly as I could, and carefully wrapped myself around Simon. He stirred but only for a moment. Long enough for me to whisper: “I love you.” Long enough for him to murmur: “I love you too.”
Day Seven: Saturday, February 16
23
Simon woke us both up at about seven, when he rolled over in bed and discovered, to his surprise, that his body parts were entangled in mine.
“Oh! Sorry!” he said with a start, extricating his arms and legs and then feeling for his pants and shirt. I couldn’t tell whether he was relieved or disappointed when he realized that he was still fully clothed.
“Sorry about what?” I asked as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, hoping Simon wasn’t turned off by my morning breath. I certainly wasn’t turned off by his. On the contrary; my desire for him hadn’t diminished one iota during the night. I found it incredibly exciting to wake up next to him, especially since what I usually woke up next to was my briefcase.
“Sorry about nodding out the way I did,” Simon said. “I was supposed to stay up and watch over you.”
“Hey, listen. These things happen. I’m still in one piece, as you can see.”
He appraised me in my nightgown. “So you are.” He smiled in a suggestive way that pleased me enormously. “Did I just pass out in the middle of a sentence or what? I honestly don’t remember a thing.”
“Not a thing?” I asked, wondering about our exchange of “I love you’s.”
“Zero,” he confirmed.
I got up, padded to the phone, and dialed Jackie’s cabin, then Pat’s—to make sure that they, too, were in one piece. Thankfully, they seemed fine and were on their way to have breakfast together. Pat asked if Simon and I had shared a pleasant evening.
“Very pleasant,” I answered.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she fluttered, then collected herself and got on with the business of the day. “About Nassau,” she began. “We arrive at eleven-thirty. Jackie has made plans to meet Dr. Johansson at the hospital at eleven forty-five and then the two of them are going off somewhere. Albert has invited me to—”
“Why don’t you and Albert spend the day with Simon and me?” I interrupted, afraid for Pat to be alone with Albert this late in the game. “It’ll be fun—a double date.”
“First you didn’t want me to see Albert. Now you do. I was under the impression that you didn’t care for him.”
I don’t, I wanted to say. I care for you. “Don’t be silly. He’s okay.”
“Well, if you’re sure. We’ll have a foursome then. Where should we meet and when?”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and asked Simon, the travel maven, where the four of us could rendezvous.
“Tell her we’ll see them at Parliament Square, at the statue of Queen Victoria,” he said. “When they come out of the ship, they should cross Rawson Square to Bay Street. Parliament Square, which is a cluster of historic yellow buildings with green shutters, will be right there.”
I repeated all that to Pat and suggested that we meet around noon. After I hung up, I sat back down on the bed next to Simon.
“It’s only seven-thirty,” I said. “We have time for a run, if you feel up to it. You could go back to your room and change and I could join you on the Promenade Deck.”
Simon shook his head.
“Okay. So we won’t run,” I said, figuring he was still worn out from all the whodunit stuff.
“I have the rest of my life to run,” he said.
“Well, sure you do,” I said, not understanding. “I just thought—”
He silenced me by taking hold of my hand and clasping his fingers tightly around mine. And then he looked deeply into my eyes and said with genuine drama, “The hit man could strike today—or at the very latest, first thing tomorrow morning. I may not be able to save you, Slim. Don’t you get it?”
“Simon,” I said, leaning over to kiss him. “We’ve already been through this: it’s not your responsibility to save me. If it turns out that I’m the one the hit man’s after, I’ll give him the lecture of his life the second he comes within a foot of me. You probably thought I was shy and retiring, but that’s just a pose I hide behind.” I blinked demurely.
He laughed. “Well, if I can’t save you,” he conceded, “then the very least I can do is make love to you.” He moved closer. “Right here. Right now. Before anybody tries to kill anybody.”
Now there was an idea. “I accept,” I said, delighted that he was seeing things my way. “Right here. Right now.”
He undressed himself, never taking his eyes off me, even when he reached into his pants pocket for a condom. I couldn’t help recalling that it was that innocuous piece of latex (or rather, Simon’s disappearing into the bathroom to put it on) that had, only a few nights before, led me to believe he was the hit man and then to flee his cabin in tears.
There were no such histrionics this time. He simply slid the condom over himself quickly and efficiently, lifted my nightgown over my head, and let it fall to the floor on top of his own clothes, our garments commingling the way our bodies were poised to.
I can’t believe this is finally happening, I thought, as Simon and I clung to each other—two tall, naked people whose legs were hanging off the end of the bed but whose other body parts were exactly where they were supposed to be.
Yes, it’s finally happening, Elaine Zimmerman. Someone may murder you, but you’re gonna go out with a great, big smile on your face.
Afterward, as we remained nestled in each other’s arms, my body throbbing from all the activity it hadn’t seen in years, I took my forefinger and traced the outline of Simon’s face. Such a face, I marveled. Such a man. And such a lover! I had literally cried out with pleasure—and the people in the cabin below us had literally banged on the ceiling for me to shut up.
Simon seemed to enjoy himself too, judging by the way he said at the end, when it was over: “You’re really something, Slim.” I mean, that’s a compliment when a guy says that to you, right?
There hadn’t been any talk of love during our lovemaking—at least, not on Simon’s part. I’d let a couple of “I love you’s” slip out in moments of supreme ecstasy, but he had only moa
ned a few “Oh, Lord’s.”
So you’ll wait, I told myself. There’ll be time for him to utter those three little words. There has to be.
I was mulling over the question of why women, in particular, are so hung up on the I-love-you thing, when Simon said he was hungry. I started to get up, thinking he meant for us to have breakfast in the Glass Slipper café, but he pulled me back down onto the bed.
“I wasn’t talking about food,” he said, flashing me that sexy half-smile of his. “I was talking about this.”
What came next was more satisfying than any whole wheat toast and decaf, let me tell you.
The Princess Charming pulled into Nassau Harbor at eleven forty-five, just a few minutes behind schedule. The sky was slightly overcast, the wind swirling a bit, but the air felt warm and soothing as Simon and I stepped off the ship, onto the wharf, into Rawson Square. Our ship was only one of several that was docked in Nassau that day, so the streets were packed with tourists chattering in a variety of languages. I worried that we’d never find Pat and Albert in the crowd, but Simon took my elbow and guided me across Bay Street and there, in the center of Parliament Square, next to the statue of young Queen Victoria, were my friend and her escort.
“Elaine! And Sam!” Albert greeted us enthusiastically. (Simon and I had agreed that he would remain “Sam” for the duration of the cruise.)
“Hello, Albert,” I said warily, then hugged Pat and asked her how her ankle was feeling.
“Better,” she said, still sporting her cane, “but I’m not up to running any marathons.” Pat didn’t run marathons even when her ankle felt fine. She didn’t even walk vigorously.
“So: Do you two have any idea what you’d like to do today?” I asked her and Albert.
Albert nodded. “If we head west on Bay Street, we’ll reach Chippingham Road.”
“What’s the big deal about Chippingham Road?” I asked.