Shelby shook her head. ‘So . . . ?’
‘Right now we are leaning toward the theory that this was an accident.’
‘But it just doesn’t make any sense,’ Shelby cried. ‘How can someone accidentally fall overboard?’
‘It’s not that difficult,’ said Agent DeWitt grimly. ‘Not if a person is inebriated.’
For a moment Shelby stared at him in disbelief. ‘Inebriated? You mean drunk? You think my daughter was drunk?’ Shelby let out a mirthless laugh and shook her head.
‘She wouldn’t be the first person . . .’ he said.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but you don’t know my Chloe. She’s a health nut,’ said Shelby. ‘She was worried that I was going to give her son junk food while she was gone.’
Agent DeWitt held her in his steady gaze without speaking.
Shelby rattled on. ‘I’m not saying that my Chloe never took a drink. I mean, it’s possible that she had a drink or two. But how drunk would you have to be to fall overboard?’
Agent DeWitt sighed slightly, and picked up a paper that was lying on the desk in front of him. He frowned at it. ‘Probably very drunk.’
Shelby spoke firmly. ‘Obviously.’
‘Mrs Sloan, are you aware that your daughter had a problem with alcohol?’
Shelby was stunned. She felt as if he had smacked her across the face. ‘That’s a complete lie,’ Shelby cried. ‘That’s just not true.’
Agent DeWitt was stone-faced. ‘We have surveillance video of your daughter playing bingo that evening. At one point, she passes out at the table and falls off her chair.’
‘No,’ Shelby scoffed. ‘Maybe she was ill. Seasick.’
The agent looked at her steadily. ‘Two other couples at the table had to help her back to her room. She couldn’t walk unaided.’
‘No, no that’s not possible,’ said Shelby. She was trying to picture Chloe – trying to imagine her falling-down drunk. The only image which came to her mind was of her own mother, passed out on the bathroom floor, and Shelby calling out, trying to rouse her, pushing the door up against her, trying to force it open. Chloe? No. That wasn’t Chloe. ‘No. Wait a minute. What you’re saying . . . I don’t . . . no. I mean, it’s possible to get a little high without meaning to . . . that could happen to anyone . . .’
Agent DeWitt sighed and tapped his forefinger on the pile of papers on the desk. ‘I have a statement here from a bartender on the boat. Apparently she ordered seven double-vodka tonics that night.’
Shelby stared at him.
Agent DeWitt smoothed down the papers on the desk. ‘This was not an isolated incident. She repeated this behavior every night that she was on board the ship.’
Shelby’s face flamed.
‘You didn’t know,’ he said. It was not a question.
FIVE
‘My Chloe?’
‘You didn’t know about her . . . problem.’
‘Her problem?’ Shelby repeated, stunned and bewildered.
‘She never mentioned this to you.’
‘No.’ Shelby tried to align this news in her head with her fixed image of her daughter. A girl who worked for a doctor, who was ever vigilant about her health, her tidy home, her orderly needlework. Chloe? A drinking problem? No. A drinking problem was her own mother, forgetting to wear underwear to a block party and lifting her skirt to scratch her thigh. Kids laughing. Howling. Not Chloe. Never. Shelby doubled over, as if she had taken a blow to the stomach.
Agent DeWitt watched her patiently.
‘I don’t understand,’ Shelby wailed.
‘Were you close to your daughter?’ Agent DeWitt asked.
Shelby knew what he was thinking. She must be the worst mother who had ever lived not to know this. ‘Yes. She was my whole world,’ Shelby said.
‘She may have wanted to spare you,’ he said.
Dimly, Shelby knew that it could be true. If Shelby ever noticed that she seemed irritable, or in a blue mood, Chloe denied it. ‘But why? Why would she get drunk? She was happy with her life,’ Shelby cried.
Agent DeWitt shrugged. ‘It’s a disease.’
Shelby stared ahead, her face flaming. How many times had she scoffed when people tried to excuse Estelle Winter’s behavior as a disease? Shelby had always seen it as a choice. Diseases were something you couldn’t help getting. Something genetic. An inheritance. Something her mother might have passed down to her granddaughter. Her mother who had never remembered Shelby’s birthday and had spent her children’s lunch money to buy another bottle. But Chloe was not anything like her grandmother. Not in any way. ‘You don’t understand. My Chloe has a son. She’s the most devoted mother. Ask my son-in-law. She would never—’
‘I’m afraid, it’s your son-in-law who informed us.’
‘Rob?’
DeWitt nodded.
Shelby’s frantic gaze met his cool, hazel eyes. ‘What did Rob say?’
Agent DeWitt shook his head, as if to say that he was not going to share that information. ‘You can ask him about it. It’s not as if we are basing our conclusions solely on what he said. As I told you, we have sworn statements from a number of people who saw her drinking heavily during the course of the cruise.
‘I think we have to proceed on the assumption that her . . . fall . . . was the result of her diminished capacity. She was extremely intoxicated, and perhaps she became disoriented when she was alone in her cabin. Her judgment was impaired. We are surmising that she may have stepped outside on to the balcony, leaned over too far and lost her balance. Now, we’re still questioning people, hoping to find an actual witness. But even without a witness, it seems pretty clear what occurred.’
Slowly, Shelby rose to her feet. ‘I have to talk to my son-in-law,’ she said.
‘I have a few more questions,’ said Agent DeWitt.
‘No,’ said Shelby, holding up a hand to stay him. ‘I can’t.’ She walked through the doorway and stepped into the crowded hall.
‘Hey,’ one of the passengers, a paunchy, sunburned man in a t-shirt, long basketball shorts and sandals, a madras bucket hat covering his head, said in a loud voice, ‘how much longer are we going to be stuck here?’
‘We’re going to get this done as quickly as possible, people,’ said Agent DeWitt. ‘I want to thank you all for your patience.’
‘This is my vacation,’ the man called after him. ‘We want to get back on the damn boat and get moving again.’
Some of the other passengers grumbled agreement, while others tried to shush the irate passenger.
Shelby’s face flamed and she lowered her head. She blinked away the hot tears in her eyes and tried to thread her way through the crowd.
‘Hey, what did he ask you about in there?’ demanded the man in the t-shirt.
‘They’re trying to find a witness,’ Shelby said in a shaky voice, avoiding his impatient gaze.
The man raised his voice and looked at the bedraggled crowd. ‘Listen, if anybody here saw that dame go overboard, do us all a favor and speak up, will ya? So we can all get out of here.’
Shelby looked up at him, her cheeks flaming. ‘That dame is my daughter,’ said Shelby.
The complaining man looked startled. ‘Sorry,’ he said gruffly. His expression was grumpy, but he was clearly reddening from embarrassment.
Shelby turned away from him. The people in the crowded corridor parted, creating room for her to pass through. They watched her warily.
As Shelby hurried through the crowd, a woman reached out a hand and stayed her. Shelby looked up and saw a dried-out stick of a woman with lifeless brown hair and kind eyes. She was wearing a sprigged blouse, a pale blue A-line skirt and shiny white sneakers. A man in a plaid, short-sleeved shirt, who could have been her twin brother, stood nearby, looking sympathetically at Shelby. ‘You’re Chloe’s mother?’ the woman asked.
The sound of her daughter’s name from this stranger’s lips caught her by surprise. Shelby nodded, wiping away her tears.
‘Don�
�t mind that guy. Some people ought to be ashamed of themselves. This is a tragic situation. Don’t they know what’s important?’
‘Darn right,’ said the man standing beside her.
‘My name is Virgie Mathers, and this is my husband, Don. We’re on this cruise for our fiftieth anniversary. We played bingo with your Chloe. And she was a real nice gal. She was sweet as could be. Told us all about her son. And her quilting. Right, Peg? Peggy and Bud were there too.’
The old woman indicated a stocky, balding, middle-aged man. The pudgy, sweet-faced woman who was holding his arm and leaning on a metal cane nodded enthusiastically. ‘Very nice girl,’ said Peggy stoutly. ‘She was just having a good time.’
Bud raised his eyebrows. ‘She was pretty wasted.’
‘Bud, hush. You don’t know that. She might have been feeling sick is all,’ said Peg. ‘You got a little sick yourself on this boat.’
‘That’s true.’ Bud admitted.
‘Are you the people who tried to help her?’ Shelby asked.
Don gallantly shrugged off the suggestion. ‘We didn’t do much. We walked her back to her room. She kept saying she was sorry, but it wasn’t necessary. We were happy to help her.’
‘That’s for sure,’ his wife, Virgie, agreed.
‘It’s just awful what happened to her,’ said Peggy, ‘A young girl like that. With a husband, and a little child. Got her whole life ahead of her.’
Peggy’s husband, Bud, nodded solemnly in agreement. ‘Terrible thing.’
Despite her middle age and obvious infirmity, Peggy had a soft, unlined face, and pink cheeks. ‘The poor thing,’ she said gently, and, for a moment, Shelby felt grateful if these people were the last her daughter had seen.
Virgie wrapped her cold, bony fingers around Shelby’s hand. ‘Now, don’t you give up just yet. They still might find her. I was reading somewhere that people have been known to survive a fall from a ship like this. Don was in the Navy. He would know. Isn’t that true, Don?’
Don winced. ‘I don’t know about that . . .’
‘Mr and Mrs Ridley,’ Agent DeWitt called out. He was gesturing to Bud and Peg.
‘He wants to talk to us,’ said Bud anxiously. ‘We better go.’
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ said Shelby.
‘Oh, heavens, don’t you be sorry,’ said Peg. ‘We’re just sorry this happened.’
All the others murmured agreement.
Shelby felt hot tears spring to her eyes again at their kindness. But their recounting, however downplayed, of Chloe’s last evening on the ship had closed around her heart like cold fingers.
‘Thank you for your kindness,’ said Shelby to the couple as Bud cleared a path for his wife who dragged one leg as she walked and leaned on her cane.
‘We’ll keep your Chloe in our prayers,’ Peggy called back.
Virgie reached out her hand and patted Shelby’s forearm consolingly. ‘And you too.’
‘That’s right,’ Don agreed, and the pity in his eyes was so genuine that Shelby could not bear to look at him.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. She lowered her head and hurried away from them. She was intercepted by Chief Giroux as she reentered the incident room.
‘I want to speak to my son-in-law,’ Shelby said.
‘Right now, that’s not going to be possible,’ said the chief. ‘He’s being questioned.’
Shelby looked around for a vacant chair. ‘I can wait,’ she said. ‘I just need a chair.’
Chief Giroux looked pained. ‘Mrs Sloan,’ he said. ‘You’ll pardon me for saying so, but you look exhausted.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Shelby.
Chief Giroux ignored her protestations. ‘And you’ve probably not had a bite to eat. We have arranged for you and your son-in-law to have rooms at a guesthouse here in town tonight. You can have some dinner there and get a bit of rest.’
‘No,’ said Shelby, shaking her head. ‘I’m fine. I want to stay here.’ Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her face.
The chief’s voice was firm. ‘I will call your cell phone if there’s any news.
‘I promise you. If there’s anything at all, I will contact you. It’s not five minutes from here.’
Shelby looked at him helplessly. Did she have to go, she wondered? Could he force her to leave? In this strange, exotic place, she did not know the rules. She appealed to him the only way she knew how. ‘It’s my daughter,’ she pleaded.
Chief Giroux took her hand and held it briefly. The warmth of his grip made her aware of the coldness of her own hand. For a moment she felt lightheaded, as if she was going to faint. She gripped his wrist with her own hand to steady herself.
‘I understand,’ Chief Giroux said. ‘I have a daughter myself, ma’am. Believe me. You don’t need to be in this room to remind me of the importance of all this. I will do my very best for your daughter. But right now, you should go.’ Without giving her a chance to protest, the chief summoned one of his officers, a light-skinned young man with pale green eyes.
‘Darrell, drive Mrs Sloan to the Maison,’ he said. ‘Christophe is expecting her.’ Then, he turned back to Shelby. ‘When we are finished talking with your son-in-law, I will send him along. And I will see you both in the morning. First thing. Now, you go with Darrell and he will take you to the guesthouse. Go on, now. It’s best if you do.’
The young officer nodded and indicated that they would be heading to the door.
Numbly, Shelby picked up her bag and followed him.
SIX
Shelby sat in the back seat of the police car and stared out the window. The young officer drove slowly, waving and calling out occasionally to people he passed on the street. Though it was evening, the sunset lingered. On the waterfront the sea was silver, the sky layered with violet and blood orange over the low, dark hills that ringed the harbor. On the darkening streets, between the tall graceful trunks of palm trees, Shelby saw elegant boutiques with wrought-iron fences and restaurants glowing from within, shoulder to shoulder with modest, shuttered gingerbread cottages.
Darrell pulled over to a curb in front of a wooden house with a café on the first floor, and the floors above encircled by white railings with flowerboxes trailing exotic, brilliant blooms. A sign above the café read, Maison sur la Mer. Darrell got out of the car, and retrieved Shelby’s bag from the trunk of the car. Then he opened the door for her.
‘This is it,’ said the young officer.
A tall, mocha-skinned man with dreadlocks came out of the front door and greeted Darrell. He had a broad face, even features, and fuzzy traces of gray around his hairline.
‘Christophe, this is Mrs Sloan.’
Christophe’s smile was so kind and solicitous that Shelby had to look away to keep herself from bursting into tears. ‘Your room is ready for you,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Shelby whispered.
She turned and thanked the officer as well. Then she picked up her bag and followed her host into the cool foyer of the guesthouse.
Christophe nodded at the doors of the off the lobby café. ‘We have a restaurant if you’re hungry.’
Shelby shook her head. ‘I couldn’t eat,’ she said.
‘As you wish.’ Christophe went behind the desk, and handed her a key. ‘Second floor,’ he said. ‘Room 204. Do you need help with your bag?’
Shelby shook her head and took the key from him.
‘If you need anything . . .’ he said.
Shelby nodded, and began her climb up the dimly lit staircase to the floor above.
The room was cell-like, with roughly surfaced walls painted the color of sunflowers. A narrow bed was covered with a Provençal quilt in a red and mustard print. Beside it, on an end table, sat a pottery lamp, and, against the opposite wall along with a small chest, a spindly desk and a chair, on which Shelby placed her bag. On the desk, a bud vase held an exotic, fresh bloom. Shelby turned on the bedside lamp and went to the French double doors that took up most of the fa
r wall, pulling them open. A balcony, only large enough for two small chairs and a tiny round table between them, looked out on the street below. Through the palm fronds of the tree in front of the building, Shelby could see people moving lazily along the gas-lit street, calling out to one another, or quarreling or laughing.
Shelby felt the tropic breeze envelop her and she felt a sudden longing for someone to lean on. She thought that she was used to being alone. She had lived alone ever since Chloe moved out, and in some ways she enjoyed her solitude. But she had never in her life felt as alone as she did this night. Through the spaces between the buildings across the street she could see the twinkling lights along the harbor and the blackness of the sea beyond. Somewhere, in that sea, her only child was lost.
Shelby began to shiver, although the night was warm. She had rushed to get to this island in the grip of a superstitious agitation that her presence on the scene would somehow rescue Chloe from peril. It was irrational, of course, but it was part of being a mother – the belief that you could protect your child if only you could reach them. It didn’t matter how many mothers could testify that this was untrue and that fate was implacable. The belief persisted. Though she was no sailor, there was a part of Shelby that wanted to flee from this narrow room, and run to the harbor. She wanted to hire a boat, clamber in, and set out to sea. She imagined herself in the prow, calling Chloe’s name. Somehow, her voice would drown out the sound of the motor, and the trade winds, and reach to the middle of the vast sea, to where Chloe floated, waiting for rescue. Shelby could almost picture Chloe there, bobbing impatiently on the shifting waves, wondering what was taking her mother so long. The image made her smile, and then her smile faded and the image dissolved. Chloe was not suspended there awaiting her, safe from the elements, the creatures of the sea. She was gone.
Shelby turned her back on the open window. She could not bear to look out at the lights of St Thomas’s capital: Charlotte Amalie. The sight of them made her feel short of breath, as if she could feel her daughter’s panic. Shelby’s stomach heaved as she imagined Chloe falling overboard, hurtling into the water. Despite what everyone had told her, she continued to wonder if perhaps Chloe had survived the plunge from the deck to the water. And then . . . what? Had she struggled to the surface only to see the huge ship, unaware of her plight, steaming on its way to the next port, deaf to her cries? Perhaps, frightened and desperate, Chloe saw those faraway lights of the harbor and tried to swim towards them, barefoot in her yellow dress, her curly hair streaming behind her. Did the hopelessness of her situation dawn on her as she swam, her arms weary, her heart heavy, as she made little progress? Was she full of regret, like a mermaid who realized too late that she had foolishly traded her tail for the dream of love with an indifferent mortal? At the thought of it, Shelby’s soul could not contain her anguish, and she let out an unearthly groan of pain and misery.
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