Set Sail for Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  If I hadn’t contacted Margaret, I could have left well enough—or ill enough—alone. But now I knew too much and could not pretend ignorance. Someone was lying. Angela. Kent. Heather. Or Sophia.

  Did Kent ask Sophia to buy off Heather?

  Did Sophia tell Heather the check was from Kent? Was that a lie?

  Did Heather believe the check was from Kent or did she lie to Angela?

  Did Angela accuse Kent without knowing any facts?

  I lifted my hand to wave at the occupants of a gleaming mahogany speedboat.

  I recalled the conversation I’d overheard at Tivoli between Kent and Rosie. The pain in his voice had been genuine. I believed Kent loved Heather, that he wanted her on any basis, that he grieved for her.

  If that was true, he had not asked Sophia to offer Heather a check in his name.

  So the question remained: Had Sophia lied to Heather or had Heather or Angela created the fiction that the check came from Kent?

  I didn’t have to know to satisfy my own curiosity. I had to see if I could find out the truth because if Sophia lied to Heather, Kent must be told.

  I had an after-dinner coffee in the main lounge and listened to Latin rhythms. A handsome couple, her white ruffled dress swirling, danced a dramatic tango. I love to tango. Richard was a wonderful dancer, not a usual skill for a newspaperman. I smiled in remembrance. It was almost as if Richard were there with me, short blond hair with reddish glints, quizzical eyes, a loving smile on his broad open face. We’d had fun, Richard and I. We laughed. We loved. We lived. There is no better epitaph.

  At eight o’clock I said good evening to two sisters from New Jersey with whom I’d shared a table. The ship was ablaze with lights and good cheer, men in dinner jackets, women in elegant gowns. It seemed inordinately quiet when I closed my cabin door behind me.

  I sat at the small desk, my hand resting on the receiver. Once I placed this call, there would be no turning back. I met my own gaze in the mirror. I looked solemn despite my festive peony-bright dress and gold-plated necklace with dangling azure crystals.

  I picked up the receiver, dialed. I tried Angela’s home number first and triggered the answering machine. I clicked off. It was too early for her to be at work. I dialed her cell.

  True to her generation, it was answered on the second ring. “Angela Rodriguez.”

  I liked her voice, fresh, firm, pleasant, crisp. As we all do, I formed a picture in my mind of a young woman I likely would never see: raven-dark hair, intelligent gaze. She sounded forthright and capable.

  “Angela, I’m calling from a ship on the Baltic Sea.” I hoped this fact, surely intriguing to a travel agent, would buy me a few minutes of her patience. “My name is Henrie O Collins and—”

  The interruption was swift. “What ship?”

  “The Clio. We’ve just left Tallinn en route to St. Petersburg.” I hurried to forestall a disclaimer that her agency had no travelers aboard. “I need help on behalf of Heather Bennett. I may have information that will be important to her.”

  “What connection does Heather have to a cruise in the Baltic?” Her voice was wary. “I had a call yesterday from somebody who wanted to know about Heather. What’s going on?”

  “Kent Riordan did not instruct his stepmother to offer money to Heather. He knew nothing of that offer until he was told Heather accepted a check to drop him.” I held tight to the receiver, hoping she wouldn’t sever our connection. “Kent and his family are aboard the Clio. At a dinner, it became clear that his stepmother acted on her own initiative to end their relationship.”

  I heard a quick-drawn, derisive breath. “And pixies turn beer green on St. Pat’s Day.”

  “I’m calling you at great expense to find out the truth.” I kept my tone pleasant. “Why are you positive Kent provided the money?”

  Her exasperation was clear. “That’s what happened. He’s a jerk. And Heather’s still crazy about him. I keep telling her he’s good riddance but she gets thinner and thinner. She’s lost hope. If it weren’t for Buddy, I don’t know what might happen. She keeps on for him. She’s sweet and gentle and not tough, not at all tough. I keep telling her she’s beautiful, I know a lot of nice guys, I’ll fix her up. She shakes her head. She has really soft brown hair and a thin face—awfully thin now—and deep purple eyes like an iris in the spring. They say nobody dies of a broken heart. I don’t know if that’s true. She gets thinner every day. She told me what happened, how Kent’s stepmother brought a check and said Kent wanted her to have it because he thought the world of her but knew they weren’t right for each other. Heather said she understood”—there was a sob in Angela’s voice—“she knew she wasn’t good enough for him but it showed how good and kind he was to send her money, and she didn’t want to take it but she couldn’t say no because that would be mean. She didn’t want to be mean to him!”

  “She took the check.” The cashed check was all that had been needed to convince Kent that Heather didn’t love him.

  Angela’s reply was swift, uncompromising. “She gave every penny to the mission. I can give you the phone number. Call and ask.”

  I wanted to be certain I had it right. “Heather told you specifically that his stepmother said the check was from Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure Heather was telling you the truth?”

  “Bitter truth. I’ll never forget that day, the only time she’s missed work. I found her in her apartment, sitting there, staring at nothing. Hurting. Why would Heather lie? Make it worse than it was?”

  Why indeed? I didn’t think Heather had lied. I didn’t think Angela was lying. I didn’t think Kent had lied. That left Sophia. “I see.”

  “Do you honestly believe Kent didn’t know?” Angela’s voice was thoughtful.

  Once again I was in Tivoli, the long-ago music boisterous and happy, hearing Kent’s anguished voice.

  “Angela”—I was crisp—“I’m positive Kent had nothing to do with his stepmother’s offer. He only knew Heather accepted a check.”

  She drew her breath in quickly. “That’s horrible.”

  Sophia’s interference, even if well meant, was altogether too clever and, ultimately, cruel.

  “Why would she do that?” There was a trace of disbelief yet in Angela’s tone.

  “To be fair to Sophia, she felt it was in Kent’s best interest. I imagine Sophia told Heather the check was on behalf of Kent, perhaps knowing that Heather would assume Sophia meant Kent sent the check.” Sophia would never lack for subtlety of expression. If taxed, she could reply that certainly she had made the offer on his behalf, for his protection. If she had been misunderstood, that was yet another indication of Heather’s lack of suitability. “I doubt if Heather inquired deeply.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I had a sense of inexorability. My answer would unleash events beyond my control. But I had to answer. My voice was grave but definite. “I am sure that Kent did not know or authorize the offer of a check.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Angela’s voice was soft. “I can’t wait to tell Heather. She’s out of town until tonight. Buddy got a camp scholarship and she’s gone to pick him up. I’ll tell her as soon as they get back.” Angela was joyous. “It will mean the world to her.”

  I felt like a lion tamer in the performance ring. “Let me tell Kent first. He’ll want to call Heather. For reasons that have nothing to do with Kent and Heather, it would be better if I spoke with him tomorrow night. Thursday night.” After the dinner. After Sophia was publicly committed.

  Angela was silent.

  “Please let me handle it. After all”—I tried to put a smile in my voice—“I’m the one who discovered the mix-up.”

  “Not a mix-up.” Angela was firm. “That woman deliberately lied. Somebody should tell her in no uncertain terms—”

  I was equally firm. “It’s Heather and Kent that matter. There’s no point in making matters worse between Kent and his stepmother. He’s very angry now. If I
wait until tomorrow night, there won’t be any reason for Kent to be in contact with Sophia.” If I was as adroit as the most skilled mediator, perhaps Kent would focus on his reunion with Heather, understand that an explosive scene with Sophia would be unwise and unavailing.

  “Tomorrow night. Okay. There’s the time difference.” A travel agent had no difficulty making the adjustment between California and Russia. “That’s morning here. It will be a great way to start Heather’s day.”

  I felt limp when I hung up. I remembered a long-ago visit to Niagara, watching the incredibly swift current sweep toward the edge. If a boat came downstream unaware of the falls, there would never be time to make for shore. I hoped I’d kept a tight grip on the tiller of a frail craft and avoided utter disaster.

  13

  The Clio docked in St. Petersburg at noon, gliding up the fabled Neva river to her berth at the Old City Harbor. I looked forward to the drive through the city to the Hermitage, where Catherine the Great housed her ever-growing collection of masterpieces. I also looked forward to the dinner at the Grand Hotel Europe.

  The announcement of their forthcoming inheritance should please the Riordan siblings. They would never be fond of Sophia, but possibly they might be more inclined to be agreeable. After we returned to the ship, hopefully in a glow of bonhomie, I’d invite Kent to join me in Diogenes Bar. Mahogany and teak and nautical paintings combined with Oriental rugs and muted piano music to create an ultracivilized environment. I’d ask Rosie as well. Between the two of us, surely we could convince Kent that getting home to Heather was more important than confronting Sophia. I’d suggest he talk to the purser, see about arranging a flight home from our next port, Helsinki.

  As I strolled toward the breakfast buffet line Thursday morning, I saw Jimmy and Sophia at their usual table. I was reaching for a plate when Kent Riordan strode into the breakfast area, handsome face twisted in a furious scowl. He’d not yet shaved. He wore a T-shirt and shorts and espadrilles.

  It didn’t take a crystal ball to figure out what had happened. Heather came home and Angela told her of my call. Angela owed me nothing and I understood her eagerness to share good news. But there was no trace of excitement and joy in Kent’s face. He headed straight for Sophia and Jimmy.

  I moved fast, skidded to a stop in front of him. He tried to sidestep me, not recognizing me or not caring.

  I grabbed his arm. “Kent.” I spoke sharply, trying to pierce the anger that enveloped him. His arm was rigid beneath my fingers. “I called Angela, found out the truth.”

  He stared at me. His breath came in quick, short spurts. “Sophia lied.” His gaze fastened on Sophia. “She lied to Heather. She lied to me. I could kill her.”

  “Come with me.” My voice was loud, demanding his attention.

  “Get out of my way.” Kent yanked his arm free, tried to go around me.

  I moved too.

  His only recourse was to pause or knock me down. He grabbed my arm, his hand like steel. “Get—”

  “Heather loves you. You would not know that”—I paused between each word for emphasis—“except for me. You would never have known if I hadn’t made inquiries. That has to be worth something to you. You owe me a few minutes of your time. Now.”

  He looked at me, saw me.

  I pointed toward the deck. “Five minutes. That’s little enough for me to ask.”

  “Five minutes.” They might have been words in another language. He loosened his grip. His hand fell away. “Sorry.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to be rude. But—” He twisted toward Sophia. His face was hard again with anger and bitterness.

  “Please.” I spoke quietly. “Come out on deck with me.” There was no point in his railing at Sophia. She would never understand the injury she had inflicted.

  He hesitated, shot another furious glance toward Sophia, then turned and we walked toward the door. On deck, we went to the stern and stood by the railing.

  I welcomed the fresh sea-scented air. The Clio’s massive wake spread a ruffle of white against the dark blue water. Gulls squawked. In the distance, another ship’s deep-throated horn gave greeting. It was high season in the Baltic and gleaming cruise ships passed us every hour or so.

  I talked slowly, hoping time would diminish some of his anger. I traced my efforts, contacting Margaret, Margaret’s e-mail, the discrepancy between what she had learned and Val’s revelations at dinner, my talk with Angela.

  I held his gaze. “You understand that you would have no future with Heather if I had not intervened.”

  His face creased in despair. His big hands bunched into fists. “Heather won’t come back to me.”

  I was jolted. “Even though she knows that you didn’t ask Sophia to give her a check?”

  He lifted one fist, rubbed his knuckles against his bristly cheek. “She has the sweetest voice.” His eyes were soft, filled with love and longing. “I was still asleep when the phone rang. It was like a miracle to answer the phone and hear her. I couldn’t believe it. On the Baltic and Heather talking to me. I’ve dreamed about her so much, I thought it was a dream. She talked fast, much faster than she ever really does. She said Angela had found out I had nothing to do with Sophia saying I wanted to be free. She wanted me to know she took the check because she thought I was good and kind and it would hurt my feelings if she turned it down, but she couldn’t ever have used any of it. She gave the money to the mission. She said she still loves me, but she knows we weren’t meant to be, that my world is too different, and if my family didn’t want her, then it would be a bad thing for her to take me away from them. She said she’ll always love me”—his voice was hoarse—“but I should find someone who was right for me. She hung up. I called and called and there was no answer. She’d turned off the answering machine. I couldn’t even leave a message. I know she was sitting there, hearing the phone ring and crying. Do you see what Sophia’s done to us? I’m going to tell her—”

  “That she interfered when she shouldn’t have? That’s true. Berating Sophia won’t get Heather back. And”—I was emphatic—“you can get Heather back. The minute you get home, you can take Rosie and Val with you and they’ll sweep Heather in their arms, make her welcome. It may take time, but it can be done. It can and will happen, but it can only happen because I made it possible. There’s a quid pro quo, Kent, and I’m calling it due right now.”

  The hardness of his face eased. He stared at me, brows bunched, eyes questioning. “What do you want?”

  “Promise me you will keep away from Sophia this morning, take the afternoon Hermitage tour with the family—”

  He took a step back, scowling.

  “—and come with us to the hotel for dinner. Don’t talk to Sophia. When dinner is over”—I couldn’t reveal the announcement Sophia planned to make—“keep your mouth shut, come back to the ship, go to your cabin. That’s what I want.”

  He stood with his shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of his shorts. Obviously the thought of spending time with Sophia galled him. But slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. I saw grudging acceptance in his eyes. He wanted desperately to confront Sophia, but he understood he owed me a debt.

  “Do I have your promise?” I held out my hand.

  Solemnly he shook it.

  Disaster was averted. At least for now. Perhaps I could distract Kent enough that his initial boiling fury would drain away. “Meanwhile, there are a bunch of things you can do to fix up your future with Heather. Wire flowers. Rent a billboard near her apartment, put up a message: ‘Heather, will you marry me? Kent.’ See if you can get a flight out of Helsinki to go home. Send telegrams. Have Val and Rosie send telegrams. Does Heather have a computer? Go up to the Internet lounge, e-mail her—”

  “You think she’ll come back to me?” Hope struggled against fear.

  “She will come back.” There was no doubt in my mind. To someone in Heather’s precarious financial condition, ten thousand dollars was a fortune. She’d given it away. Oh yes, she love
d Kent and love has a way of winning out against all odds.

  A huge grin transformed his face, making him young, even more handsome, utterly appealing. A big hand gripped my shoulder. “I can get on the Net?”

  I pointed toward the stairs. “Deck 10. Forward. Port side.”

  I watched him go, a man in a very big hurry.

  I smiled. Perhaps now everything would go smoothly.

  14

  The bus rolled to a stop in front of the lime green Winter Palace. The guide reminded passengers to leave all umbrellas, coats, bags, and cameras on board. Since the temperature was in the eighties and the sky cloudless, Evelyn and I exchanged a smile.

  As the door to the coach opened, Evelyn gathered up her straw purse and smiled at Rosie. Kent was sitting by Val, the two of them in deep conversation. It had not been especially obvious that Kent was keeping his distance from Sophia. Sophia smiled at Jimmy as she pointed to the bronze angel atop the pink granite monolith of the Alexander Column in the huge Palace Square. Madge thumbed through a guidebook. I was willing to bet she wanted to ditch the museum and go to Nevsky Prospect, the main shopping street. I wondered if she wanted amber jewelry or a matrioshka doll. Jewelry, very likely. Alex gestured toward the museum. Madge’s face folded in a pout.

  As a priest I once knew was fond of saying, all was as it should be, an enigmatic pronouncement that always puzzled me. Perhaps now I’d fathomed its meaning. There was, at this moment, nothing untoward or worrisome. The group was together and there was a semblance of bonhomie.

  I felt even more relaxed when we went into the entrance vestibule, jammed with tourists in passels of twenty or thirty with guides shouting in English, German, Italian, Greek, and Japanese. Our guide held up a staff with a red flag on it with the number 14 for our coach and off we went.

  Despite crowds thicker than ants on spilled honey, sweltering stuffy rooms, tourists jostling for space, and the melee of languages as guides shouted to their charges, the Hermitage was spectacular.