Marla admired the picture that looked like someone’s living room overlooking a view of city skyscrapers. But at the opening bid of six hundred thirty dollars, she let it go. She passed on the Kinkade piece, the art deco work of Eric, an attractive female form by Bellet, and an abstract work by Alfred Gockel. At least it looked abstract to her uneducated eye.
“I can’t believe they sell all these pieces,” she confided to Betsy, sitting beside her. The brunette lounged in her seat and cracked her knuckles. Her face held a pinched but alert mode. “I mean, I don’t have several thousand dollars just to throw out on this stuff.”
“…A bid for twenty-five-hundred dollars,” Eric’s baritone voice boomed. “Do I have an advance to two thousand five hundred fifty? No one? Are we done at twenty-five hundred? Going once, twice, third, and final warning,” he yelled, banging his gavel. “Sold for twenty-five-hundred dollars. Whoo-hoo!”
Marla sipped her champagne, feeling her seat vibrate, although the ship barely seemed to be moving. Her eyes bulged when she noted the assistants setting up a couple of more easels and propping three pictures on them, backs to the audience. Three mystery pieces! Could this be Alden Tusk’s set?
After putting her glass flute on the floor, she straightened. Her hand shot up with a bidding card along with most of the other people in the room. But when the price escalated to over $3,000, she quit the race. To her surprise, Betsy kept her arm up. Marla hadn’t gotten the impression that the public relations guru had much money, but she could have been wrong. Or maybe Betsy figured Alden Tusk’s work was worth it. After the majority of people dropped out, Betsy competed against Thurston Stark, Oliver, Bob Wolfson, and Kent. Marla did a double-take at the bug man. Why would he want Tusk’s paintings?
Thurston Stark, she could understand. The foundation chairman collected art and made no bones about his wealth.
Oliver seemed to prefer music, but it could be he was putting his bid in for his wife’s sake. She seemed more cultured and at ease in the art world, but then again, hadn’t Irene mentioned he shared her interests?
Bob remained an enigma. He complained about how he wasn’t adequately compensated as business manager for the museum, and yet he was practically bouncing in his seat each time Eric Rand raised the price.
At the end, Thurston won out again. No one could have been more disappointed when the auctioneer turned the pictures and revealed a suite of watercolors by Tarkay. The ornate gold frames were probably worth as much as the pictures, Marla figured, admiring the colorful scenes.
She’d seen a Tarkay she’d liked earlier, a signed serigraph on wove paper depicting two ladies having tea in a cafe. Maybe she should consider getting some art for her new salon, in which case she could deduct the cost! The risqué picture by Rut that came up next for bidding, a seminude couple entwined in an embrace, certainly couldn’t be shown on her walls. Fanch’s style appealed to her, but his work was priced beyond her means. Maybe she could find a lesser artist for a more reasonable cost.
“Remember the triptych by the late Alden Tusk that I mentioned we’ll be offering for sale on this cruise?” Eric Rand was saying when her mind refocused. “You don’t want to miss that fantastic opportunity. We’re going to give you a sneak preview beforehand, so be sure to attend every night if you want a glimpse of this amazing set.”
“Holy mackerel, he’s got to be kidding,” Betsy said, cracking her knuckles again. She must fall back on that habit when she got excited, Marla realized, because Betsy rarely did it at dinner.
After the auctioneer called the raffle, Marla stood and stretched her arms above her head. By the time she looked around, the auctioneer had vanished, letting his assistants straighten up. She noticed several closed doors toward the sides of the gallery, workrooms or offices perhaps.
Obviously, Eric didn’t care to mingle with the guests, or else he had more pressing business elsewhere. She’d like to talk to him to find out where he had obtained Tusk’s completed work, especially the panel that had been missing from the museum. Perhaps that’s what Oliver had been questioning him about earlier. Hoping he’d share any response, she glided over to where the museum director milled about with his colleagues.
“We’re going out on deck for the pool party,” Irene said to Heidi, who clung to Thurston’s arm. “What about you, darling? Want to join us?”
“No, thanks, dearest Thurston and I are headed to the promenade for a cup of coffee,” Heidi replied in her girlish tone. From the way she was rubbing against him in her skimpy black dress, she had other plans in mind.
“Sandy, how about you and Bob?” Betsy cut in. “I’m craving some ice cream. Wanna get a sundae with me?”
“Sorry,” Sandy replied in a tired voice. “I’m turning in early so I’ll have enough energy for tomorrow. We have a full day in St. Maarten. And Bob doesn’t need the extra calories.”
Taking his wife’s elbow, Bob steered her away. “There you go, putting words in my mouth again.”
Betsy smiled at Marla. “So, are you free, or do you have to rejoin your family?”
Marla glanced at her watch. “I have to meet Dalton, so we can make our plans for tomorrow.”
“Oh, are you going on any tours?”
“Yeah, over to Marigot on the French side, then to a beach. I need to get up early so I can visit the infirmary. I want to see if Helen is okay and if she needs anything.”
Several pairs of curious eyes swung in her direction. “What?” Betsy said to the others in their party. “Marla may not work for the museum, but she’s our friend. She’s talked to Helen a couple of times and is concerned. What’s wrong with that? The rest of you should be so caring. Like, has anyone heard any news about Martha?”
Shaking their heads, the members of the group broke up. Marla left, intending to make good on her promise in the morning.
On Wednesday, she hit the buffet before heading down to the infirmary, on the bottom deck. After gobbling a mushroom omelette and croissant along with bacon, hash browns, and sauteed onions, she passed on the smoked salmon and bagels, fresh fruit, sliced luncheon meats, cheeses, pastries, cereal, and yogurt. Who could eat all that for breakfast and still make it off the ship?
Feeling stuffed, she waddled into the elevator next to Dalton, who’d insisted on accompanying her.
While the lift descended, he patted his belly. “That meal should keep us until lunch.”
“I should hope so. We’d better do a lot of walking today.”
“We can always climb the stairs.” He peered beyond the open doors when they arrived at deck one. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
Striding into the corridor, she noticed the GANGWAY sign and a utilitarian crew section but no sign of sick bay. “Maybe we should have taken the elevators on the other side of the ship.”
“Let’s go around that corner. It could be behind the elevator bank.”
“There’s a crewman. We could ask him.” She’d spotted a fellow in a nondescript uniform lugging a bucket of paint.
“No need.” Vail stalked ahead, his chin jutting forward. “We’ll find it.”
Typical male, unwilling to ask for directions. Much more aware of the ship’s vibration at this level, she backtracked to their point of entry and discovered a door emblazoned with a big red cross.
“Here it is,” she called, noting the small sign indicating the medical center. “Looks like they don’t want to advertise so much, but they could put up a banner telling people where to go.”
More importantly, the hours were posted for seeing the nurse: eight in the morning to twelve noon, or two to six in the afternoon. The doctor had shorter hours: from nine to eleven in the morning or from four to six. Marla would try to remember that if she felt ill.
After pushing open the door, Vail held it for her to enter first. What met her eyes wasn’t what she’d expected. Her only view of infirmaries on ships came from watching old movies. But this wasn’t a big ward with hospital beds lined up. Instead, she had
stepped into a typical waiting room such as she’d find at home in the local doctor’s office.
The door to the inner sanctum remained open, and beyond she could see a nurse’s station staffed by medical personnel in white uniforms and clerks busy with paperwork. One of the women looked up at her approach.
“Hi, one of your patients is a friend of mine,” Marla said, her heartbeat accelerating. She couldn’t help it. Hospitals did that to her. “I wanted to inquire about her condition and ask if I could visit her.”
“The patient’s name, ma’am?”
“Helen Bryce. And I’m Marla Shore. This is my fiancé, Dalton Vail.” Resisting the urge to wring her hands, she gave a hopeful smile. As though sensing her anxiety, Vail gave her a reassuring pat. He left his hand on the small of her back.
“If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll come out to talk to you,” said one of the nurses, wearing a stethoscope around her neck. She was a thirtyish woman with curly natural blond hair.
Obediently, Marla retreated to a blue upholstered chair in the waiting room. Her gaze scanned the amber and cobalt carpet before rising to a vending machine that dispensed throat lozenges, Band-Aids, and Benadryl tablets.
“If we have to wait long, I’m going to need those,” Marla said, pointing to a sign that read: SEASICK TABLETS ARE ON YOUR RIGHT. Acutely aware of the ship’s rocking motion, she swallowed. A Toshiba television stood silently on a shelf, while framed pictures of flower gardens and Mediterranean villas took up wall space.
A teenager banged his way inside. Tugging at his baggy shorts, he limped along in a pair of sandals. “I hurt my foot,” he whined to the receptionist, who leaned over the counter to survey his open wound.
“Come on inside,” she told him, while Marla gnashed her teeth. Now they’d have to waste more time here.
Leaning forward, Dalton rested his elbows on his knees. “We’re gonna have to meet our tour group. This was a bad idea.”
“I didn’t expect a delay this early in the morning.” She pursed her lips, prepared to postpone their visit, when the nurse strolled out to greet her.
“Miss Shore? I’m Wilhelmia from South Africa,” she said with a pleasant accent. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m worried about my friend Helen. I heard she fell down some stairs and cracked her head. Is she awake?”
“Indeed, and she’ll be fine. It’s only a mild concussion, but she’s very dizzy when she sits up. We’ll have to keep her a few more days for observation and to make sure there’s no internal bleeding. We have X-ray machines plus a fully equipped laboratory, but unfortunately, we don’t have the capability to do MRIs or CT scans.”
“I didn’t know you even had that much equipment.” She’d thought of shipboard amenities as basically being first-aid stations, but she supposed they had their share of heart attack victims. For surgical emergencies, they could probably airlift people. Hadn’t she seen a helipad somewhere?
“We are prepared like any emergency room at home,” Wilhelmia replied in a serious tone. “We have fully equipped private and semiprivate hospital rooms, crash carts, and also a morgue.”
Thanks, pal, I really wanted to know that. “Would I be allowed to see Helen? I’ll be quick. I just want to ask if she needs anything from her cabin.”
The nurse shook her head. “Normally we permit visitors, but Helen expressly requested that we admit no one.”
“Please, she might want to see me. I’m not one of her colleagues and we’ve…become friends. Can you just ask her if I can come in?” She saw the nurse glance at Dalton, who stood studying the contents of the vending machine. “Not him. I’ll be alone.”
“Wait here.” A few minutes later, the nurse ushered her inside. Marla passed by the nurse’s station and entered the room indicated behind a partially drawn curtain.
Helen lay flat in bed, her pale face framed by her auburn hair. An IV line snaked from her arm to a hanging bag on a pole.
“Hi, Helen. Thanks for seeing me. How do you feel?” She noticed the head docent’s left arm was in a cast up to her elbow.
“I’m sore all over, and I feel as though someone used my head for a punching bag, but I guess I got off lucky with just a concussion and a broken wrist.”
Marla winced. Ouch. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard about your accident. I’d just spoken to you in St. Thomas. What happened?” She pulled over a chair and took a seat. From Helen’s bright expression, Marla surmised she welcomed the company. If Helen showed signs of fatigue, though, Marla would leave. Crossing her legs, she gave an encouraging smile.
Helen plucked at her covers with her free hand. “I had a note on my door when I returned. It said I could get what I want if I took the forward elevator to deck twelve and went outside to the stairs that lead down to the bridge view. I’d just stepped onto the landing when someone hurtled by and bumped me.”
“And you lost your balance?”
“Presumably. At least that’s what I told the doctor. But in reality, that person didn’t brush past me accidentally.”
Marla’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
Helen narrowed her eyes.
“I got pushed, honey.”
“No way.”
“I’m just mad that I missed who did it.” She turned on her side to regard Marla more closely but squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh gosh, I get so dizzy. The doctor said it should go away in a few days, but it’s hard to believe I’ll ever be able to sit up straight again.”
“You will. I’ve had a concussion myself. As long as there aren’t any complications, you’ll be on your feet soon.”
Helen’s lids flew open. “I hope you’re right, because I’d really hate to miss the rest of the cruise. I won’t be able to get off at the ports, but I’d at least like to enjoy the meals without feeling as if I’m going to throw up.”
“Haven’t they given you something for nausea?” She remembered the sickening feeling from the room spinning after she’d conked her head in a car accident.
“Suppositories. I couldn’t keep down any pills.”
Rising, Marla pushed her chair back. “I don’t want to tire you if you’re feeling ill.”
“Don’t go yet. I’m worried, Marla. Something happened to Martha, and we still don’t know that she’s safe. And now something bad happened to me.”
Tell me about it. “Assuming someone is behind this, why do you think you were targeted? Or Martha, for that matter?” She had to stop by Guest Relations to see if they had any news on the gift shop lady.
“I’m not sure, but I’d sure as hell like to know who’s pulling our strings.”
“Back in St. Thomas, you’d mentioned Bob Wolfson’s name. What exactly were you referring to?”
Helen averted her gaze. “Forget I said anything, Marla. Has he asked about me at all?” Tension strained her tone.
“Everyone has been concerned, especially Kent Harwood. He even came down to the infirmary to check on you.” She didn’t want to say that Bob had remained silent while they discussed her condition, and that Sandy had looked almost gleeful. “We were trying to figure out who might know so much about all of us, or rather, all of you. Kent seemed to imply that your accident and Martha’s disappearance might be related.”
“Really?” As she regarded Marla, Helen’s expression crumbled. “Now I won’t get my insurance policy back, will I? That last note was just a trick. I’ll never recover what I lost.”
Marla hesitated. “How well did Betsy know Alden Tusk? I mean, she did the publicity for your fund-raiser, so she had to advertise the artist’s collection, but do you think she saw any of his paintings before they were displayed to the public? Your words made me remember what she said at dinner. Alden viewed his triptych as a type of redemption.”
“I wonder what she meant by that. Now that I think about it, I can’t recall who brought Alden to the attention of the museum in the first place.” Helen put a hand to her head. “If only this headache would go away
, I could think more clearly.”
“Who usually schedules exhibits for visiting artists?”
“That would be Olly’s job, but I don’t think it applies in this case.”
“Why not?” Resisting the urge to check her watch, Marla folded her hands in her lap. She should have enough leeway to get off the ship in time.
Helen’s face scrunched in thought. “Oily came up with the idea for a children’s art program, but Bob said we’d need extra funding to get things rolling. He’s the one who proposed a gala dinner to raise money. I found out about it only because Olly asked if I could get my docents to help that evening.”
“So how did that work? Were different artists scheduled to have their work sold?”
“Well, Alden’s name sort of popped up as a rising star. Betsy said it would create a buzz if his work was featured because he was already getting great press.”
“So you’re saying that Betsy was influential in snagging him for the fund-raiser?”
Helen shrugged. “I suppose. She knew how to contact him, and it was a done deal before anyone could blink.”
“Interesting.” Marla sniffed the pungent smell of antiseptic amid a bustle of activity outside the room. “I went to the art auction last night. It was quite lively when they showed a mystery set with three panels. Everyone tried to outbid each other, especially the members of your group. They were disappointed when it wasn’t Alden’s work.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Eric is keeping people in suspense, so he must know what’s so important about those paintings. He said he’d give viewers a sneak preview, but it hasn’t happened yet.”
“Betsy might have seen them already,” Helen remarked.
“How could she?”
“At the museum, I mean.”
“Oh.” Marla tried to figure how that would be possible. “Weren’t the paintings crated when they arrived?”
“They would’ve been unpacked in preparation for viewing after dinner. Actually, that would have been Eric’s job as curator.”
“Did he accept delivery, or could someone else have gotten a peek upon arrival?”
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