by Carolyn Hart
Val suddenly looked younger, eager. “‘I have a yellow acacia and can’t resist an apple because cedar leaf.’”
Rosie whooped with laughter. “It’s coming back. It’s coming. ‘I have a secret love and can’t resist—’” She frowned in thought.
“‘Temptation.’” Val managed a weak grin.
“‘—because I live for thee.’” Rosie was triumphant.
Kent stared at them in bewilderment. “I don’t get it.”
I chimed in. “In Victorian times, a young man could communicate with his lady love, no matter how well chaperoned, through the flowers he sent her.”
Madge sniffed. “Sounds awfully artsy.” She jangled the gold bracelet on her arm.
“Kind of fun, though.” Kent looked at his sisters. “What’s some more?”
Rosie’s eyes sparkled. “I remember some of them. African marigolds represented vulgar minds. That was a favorite. Rendezvous was chickweed. We’d write notes saying, ‘Let’s chickweed at the soda shop.’”
Val brushed back a straggle of auburn hair. “Bachelor’s buttons meant celibacy. We had a great time with that.”
Rosie patted Kent’s knee. “We’ll fix up the prettiest arbor you ever saw. Because my name is Rosemary—for remembrance—I memorized all the meanings of roses. Rose itself means love. Let’s see: white rose—transient impressions, Carolina rose—love is dangerous, red rosebud—pure and lovely, bridal rose—happy love.” She smiled at Kent. “Cabbage rose—ambassador of love. There’s lots more. It’s going to be fabulous.”
Alex poked his brother. “As long as there is plenty of champagne, the girls can drape roses over their ears and we won’t care.”
The tender thumped alongside the quay.
Evelyn surged to her feet despite the uneven motion of the boat. “Here we are.” Her voice was hearty.
We were among the last to disembark. By the time we climbed the steps to Fishing Square, Val looked queasy again. The broad cobblestoned square overlooked a harbor teeming with tour boats. Sailboats, white sails bright, slipped gracefully past. The Clio, riding at anchor, looked small in the distance, her dark blue hull glistening in the sunlight.
The cobblestone square was crowded with families, children squealing as they raced toward water’s edge. Evelyn studied a self-guided tour. She looked comfortable and at ease, stylish today in a ribbed peach blouse that matched the flower pattern on her white slacks. A matching peach hair band tamed her often flyaway locks. Madge looked almost too elegant for her surroundings in a beige silk blouse and trousers and sandals with rhinestones. She tugged on Alex’s arm, pointing at the vendors’ stalls. Alex shaded his eyes with his hand, looked toward the booths. His dark blue polo was overlarge, his khaki shorts mid-knee length. Rosie, of course, was spectacular as usual, her lovely hair fiery in the bright sunlight, her green cotton top and white capris both flattering and comfortable. She gestured to Kent, her words drifting toward me. “…I’ll keep calling Heather…” Kent’s handsome face was eager, at great variance with his sour expression earlier in the trip. True, he’d not bothered to shave, his blue cotton shirt was frayed at the neck and his khakis old and worn, but women from eight to eighty would notice him with pleasure. The Riordans made up such a genial group, their natural and wholesome demeanor quite in keeping with their holiday surroundings.
Except, of course, for Val.
Val walked like an old woman, head down, shoulders slumped, to a stone bench not far from the Erik Höglund statue The Fisherman’s Wife. I quietly followed, slipped onto the hard bench next to her. Several strands of dark red hair had slipped loose from the bun at the nape of her neck. The vagrant strands made her look disheveled, emphasized her pallor and the bluish smudges beneath her eyes. She hadn’t dressed with her usual care. Her blouse and slacks matched in color but the blouse had a spot near the shoulder.
“Here, Val. Take the water.” I held out the bottle.
She took it docilely, looked at me with a forlorn expression. “I don’t feel good.”
“I know. Drink some water. You’ll feel better. Rest here for a while. You don’t have to go on the tour.”
“I don’t?” She uncapped the water.
“No. I’ll stay with you. It’s a lovely view.” I gestured out at the harbor. “The air is fresh. We can watch the children.”
Her smile was tremulous. “You’re very nice.”
The words twisted within. I wasn’t nice. I was as predatory as a tiger. I forced a smile. “Oh”—my tone was careless—“I like to sit by the sea.”
Rosie was suddenly beside us. She looked down at Val, her gaze questioning. “You okay, baby?”
Val lifted the bottle. “This is all I need. I’m going to sit here with Mrs. Collins, enjoy the view.”
Evelyn rounded up the group. “It isn’t far to the Maritime Museum. I want to see the glass tunnel.” She stopped beside the bench. “Come on, Val. You’ll be sorry you missed it. Mrs. Collins won’t mind.”
“I don’t ever want to move again.” Val drank deeply.
After they left, Rosie with one last worried glance back toward us, I remained silent, letting Val garner strength, sitting in peace on the hard bench in the mild sunlight, cooled by the brisk breeze.
“I wanted to get away from the ship.” Val’s words were abrupt. “But it doesn’t do any good. I can’t forget. I hated her. I wanted her to die. And now I can’t remember”—her hands came together, twisting, twisting—“anything about that night. Every time I try to remember, I have a terrible feeling, an awful feeling. I needed a drink. I didn’t have anything to drink, the bottle was empty. I came out into the hall and I didn’t know which way to go. It was like a nightmare when your feet get stuck in slime and you don’t know where you are, nothing’s familiar. I started off and the floor kept moving. I don’t know which way I went. I wanted to run and I couldn’t run.”
I sat as still as the bronze statue of the fisherman’s wife, one hand forever linked to her cart. The timing had to be so close. It was possible that Val, woozy and disoriented, turned toward the stern. If she reached the cross hall just as someone unlocked Sophia’s door, she might have seen the back of a familiar figure. If she could remember…
Val shuddered. “I try to remember, but I don’t want to remember.” She looked toward me. “It couldn’t have been me, could it?” Her eyes, filled with foreboding, stared into mine.
I wished I knew. What memory did she fear? Was it what she did? Or what she saw? Or was her foreboding the product of an alcoholic haze, peopled with phantasms of her own making?
I temporized. If Val was sincere, I couldn’t deepen her misery. If she wasn’t, it didn’t matter how I responded. “I’d try not to think about that night. Perhaps in time the memories will come back.”
Val gulped in a deep breath. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” She looked at me hopefully. “Rosie said I came up to the bar and I was with you. Was I okay?”
I saw terror in her eyes. I was glad I could offer some comfort here. “You’d had too much to drink, but you acted quite normal.” If it was normal to obsess over the death of a sibling.
She gave me a tremulous smile.
I patted her hand. I liked Val, felt enormous sympathy for her. I hoped that she was what she appeared to be, a distraught young woman burdened by anger and guilt, frightened by alcohol-induced memory lapses, not an accomplished film director with the skills of a consummate actress.
As I stepped into my cabin after our return from Karlskrona, I saw the envelope that had been slipped beneath the door. My name was on the outside in Jimmy’s familiar script.
I fixed an icy club soda, settled on the small sofa, opened his sealed note.
Henrie O,
Glenn asked me to pack up Sophia’s things. They’re finished with the cabin. Glenn said I could get into the cabin at nine-thirty in the morning. I’d be glad of your help, but if you’d rather not, I understand.
Hope the afternoon in Karlskrona offere
d some respite. Please join me for dinner at seven in the main dining room.
Love—Jimmy
I felt cold, knew the chill wasn’t from my icy drink. This time last week Sophia had laughed and loved, been angry, felt chagrin, enjoyed the caress of silk against her body, reached out for Jimmy’s hand, knowing it would be there. Now her husband steeled himself to touch clothes that bore her impress, carried her scent. To be in that silent suite, look toward the balcony, would be terribly difficult for me. Yet those moments would be much harder for him.
I didn’t want to go. I would go.
Now it was time to shower and dress for dinner. The living sit down to meals no matter the turmoil in their minds and hearts.
All through my shower, I pictured Sophia’s suite, the small sofa where she’d faced me and told me how much she loved her husband. Jimmy must now rid the cabin of her belongings. On the next cruise, new occupants would enjoy its elegance, stand on the balcony looking out at the sea, unaware that death had preceded them by only a few days.
I toweled quickly, used the hair dryer, brushed my hair. As I pulled on the comfortable terry-cloth robe, I heard the telephone. I steeled myself, moved quickly to answer.
But it wasn’t Jimmy.
“Henrie O.” Evelyn talked fast. “I’m glad I caught you. I thought it would be a good thing for all of us to have dinner together tonight. I’ve already talked to Jimmy and he’s agreed.”
That didn’t surprise me. Jimmy would grab any opportunity to be with the Riordans.
“We’ll meet in the main dining room at seven. I think we should—well”—an uncomfortable pause—“we can’t bring Sophia back and we need to remember her”—Evelyn’s tone was an odd mixture of uplift and gravity—“but we can’t let ourselves get mired in grief. Don’t you agree?”
I had difficulty picturing any of the Riordans overcome by grief. Fear. Worry. Relief. Even elation. The disliked stepmother gone, their father’s fortune theirs to share. There were many possible emotions, but not grief.
“I certainly do.” I saw my wry expression in the mirror.
“Good. We’ll see you then. Oh, and thank you for being so kind to Val. She’s much more herself now. We’re so glad.”
I put down the phone. All was right with Evelyn’s world, a world Sophia no longer inhabited.
I liked being outside on my balcony in the darkness, swept by sea-scented air beneath the canopy of stars. I’d settled there to watch the Clio’s departure at nine. We were on our way to Travemünde, the port for our visit to Lübeck and our last stop before we spent two and a half days at sea en route to London, where the cruise ended.
I felt worn and worried. Dinner had been a strain, a long meal studded with awkward pauses. We’d eaten together in the main dining room, everyone who began the journey with Sophia.
I realized before the first course was done that Evelyn simply wanted to make everything appear as normal as possible, underscoring her belief that Sophia had been the victim of an unfortunate accident.
I watched distant lights glide past, another cruise ship heading north, and pictured the Riordans at dinner. Evelyn had been alternately vivacious and quiet, chattering to her family, looking anxiously at Jimmy. Rosie smiled steadily and covertly watched her sister. Val’s hands trembled, but she’d drunk only water with the meal. Madge burbled happily to Alex that she wanted to stay over in London, do some shopping, she’d seen an article about the most wonderful jewelry shop on Regent Street. Alex nodded agreement with his wife, eagerly discussed investment plans with Kent. Kent had been on his best behavior, freshly shaven, dark curls well brushed, wearing a blazer. He’d managed small talk though his face in repose was creased by uncertainty. So, no contact yet with Heather. If Kent had any thoughts about Sophia, they were well hidden.
Jimmy was quiet, though he responded to conversation. His eyes moved from face to face around the table. He was seeking answers. He hadn’t found any. Nor had I.
I rose and walked to the railing of my balcony, knew I should turn in. I placed my hands on the damp wood, looked down at the froth marking the Clio’s passage. Tomorrow the ship docked at Travemünde. Tomorrow night it departed, en route to London. Time was running out.
25
The sea was pond-smooth this morning. There was scarcely a hint of motion as I hurried toward the stern. I didn’t want to keep Jimmy waiting, but he was there before me, standing by Sophia’s door. He looked thin, his white polo sagging over khaki shorts. He managed a weary smile.
I reached out, touched his arm.
For an instant, his eyes lightened. “I’m okay.”
He wasn’t okay. Time passes, wounds close, but scars remain.
The young woman who’d guarded Sophia’s door on Friday night came around the corner. She looked at us, light blue eyes curious as a cat’s. “Good morning, Mr. Lennox, Mrs. Collins.” As with all the Clio staff, whether service personnel or security or deck hands, courtesy was ingrained. “I’ve brought a key. After you complete the packing, you may leave it with the luggage or bring it to the security office. If you will leave the luggage in the foyer, it will be unloaded in London.”
She handed the key to Jimmy, turned away.
Jimmy hesitated briefly, then abruptly shoved in the electronic key card. He held the door for me.
When we stood in the center of the living room, the door soughing shut behind us, I felt as if Sophia might come through the bedroom doorway any moment. Her aura was everywhere, from the indentation in the sofa cushion where she’d sat, to the casual heap of an open magazine on the coffee table, to the straw purse lying on a sideboard, to the tumbler filled with amber liquid, whiskey diluted by melted ice.
The balcony doors were open. I looked at them in surprise.
Jimmy followed my gaze. “I guess nothing’s been touched since Friday night. They’re supposed to be kept shut but Sophia liked them open, liked the way the air felt, liked hearing the swish of the water. Let’s keep them that way.” He turned toward the bedroom, stopped in the open doorway, staring.
The bed was turned down. A lacy white nightgown was tossed near the foot. Brocaded house slippers, mandarin orange with a black design, lay on the floor. A guidebook rested on the night table. A pair of wire-rim glasses were folded near the lamp. There was a faint scent of orchid, possibly from perfume or bath powder. The doors to the balcony were wide open in the bedroom, too. The pink fringe on a lamp shade moved in the breeze.
I didn’t look at Jimmy’s face. There is nothing that reaches out to the living with as much impact as ordinary, everyday belongings that no longer matter. Sophia had looked ahead to her night’s rest, assumed without giving it any thought that she would step into the nightgown, throw back the sheet, settle against the downy pillows.
Head down, he strode to the closet, yanked open the door, began to pull out suitcases. I crossed to the bed, picked up the negligee, felt its silky softness, folded it into a neat square.
Jimmy began with the dresses hanging in the closet, taking them out one by one, folding them neatly, packing them in the largest case.
I started with the top drawer of the dresser. Both of us had spent many years traveling to far-flung destinations and packing quickly and efficiently was second nature, but I had never dealt with such an extensive wardrobe. It took a good half hour for us to finish with the closet and the dresser, filling two large suitcases. That left the vanity.
Jimmy set a small cosmetic case on the satin-cushioned bench. He gestured helplessly at the array of potions, makeup, perfumes, oils, and powders. “Would you take care of these?”
“Of course.” I slid onto the bench, put the case in my lap. Jimmy walked out into the living area. The beauty products didn’t take long. I opened the drawer and found a slim, elegant black-lacquered box. I slid it out, lifted the mother-of-pearl-decorated lid. My eyes widened. I’d not paid a great deal of attention but I’d noticed that Sophia had jewelry that matched every outfit. The array of lovely and expensive
pieces ranged from diamond earrings and necklace and bracelet, to jade pendants, to silver bracelets and golden chains. There was a spectacularly lovely old-fashioned amethyst necklace. I carried the jewel box into the living room.
Jimmy stood by the blue damask sofa, staring down at the cushions where Sophia had sat. He heard my step, looked around.
I came up to the back of the sofa, which faced the balcony, held out the jewel case. “You’ll want to take this with you.”
He took the case, opened it. His lips pressed tightly together.
I came around the end of the sofa and scanned the room. Nothing was out of place. The four chairs around the small dining table were perfectly placed. The coffee table sat squarely in front of the sofa. The easy chairs were on a diagonal slant facing the sofa. The drapes hung straight, though billowed a bit by the breeze through the open doors to the balcony.
Jimmy closed the case and moved to my side. He, too, looked around the luxuriously appointed living room, at the blue sofa and rust-colored chairs, the shining oak table and matching chairs, the glass coffee table, the drapes gently stirred by the breeze from the balcony. “Nothing’s out of place. It doesn’t make sense.”
I glanced at him. We’d always been attuned, our minds working through circumstances to the same conclusion. Now we grappled with the incongruity of this serene room as the site of murder, the murder of a woman fully alert to danger, a woman who was not feeble, a woman who’d always been a fighter.
I pointed to the wet bar. “When I left, she was standing there, fixing a drink.” I pictured Sophia with glass in hand walking across the room to use the telephone, call Jimmy. “We know she called you. Then…” I glanced at the sofa. “If she sat there again, she was facing the balcony. But if someone came to the door, knocked, she would have gotten up, gone to the door, and when she opened it, she definitely would have known if it was one of the Riordans. Jimmy”—I balled my hand, thumped it into the opposite palm—“I don’t believe Sophia would have opened the door without looking through the peephole. Sure, she’d have hoped it was you knocking, but she would have looked.