Murder on Board

by Mark Rice

  The round trip takes ninety minutes and is well worth the charge as the drivers keep up a running commentary and disperse local information.

  I was surprised how small Key West is—only four miles long and two miles wide with 26,000 inhabitants. It’s located closer to Cuba than Miami and all its water is pumped in along thirty-two-inch pipes from the Everglades. The tour guide explained how it used to be the richest town in America thanks to sales of salt and sponges but then it became the poorest when the depression came, and Utah found salt mines below ground.

  Soon we arrived at the West Martello Fort, an old partially demolished fort from the 1780's. It had been turned into a garden by the local Key West Garden Club and had previously been used as target practice for the two other Martello Forts built around the same time.

  For over fifty years the gardeners of the Key West Garden Club had added soil and plants and trees to the West Martello tower so to wander around this free to enter garden was inspiring. One of the volunteers led us round and removed a few leaves and scrunched them up in the palm of his hands before passing them amongst our group. The scent given off by the leaves was wonderful, even spicy. "It's actually all-spice," he told us. Outside they had a row of potted plants free to take.

  "If only," uttered Margaret.

  We walked a bit further and found a long queue snaking back a hundred yards or more. Curiosity got the better of us and, after further investigation, we discovered they were all just waiting to have their pictures taken next to a lump of metal which proclaimed that spot to be the southernmost point in all of the USA.

  "You'll hear a lot of that over the next few minutes," our trolley driver said upon our return. "We are now approaching the southernmost house in America and just to your right is the southernmost cafe. The house built in 1860 by Florida's first millionaire, Mr Curry, has twenty rooms but only one bedroom. He built three smaller houses across the road from his own so he had accommodation for his visitors. Each house had a servant’s quarters."

  In 1982, Key West left the United States of America and declared its independence as the Conch Republic. It then immediately surrendered without a shot being fired and as an independent and third world subtropical nation applied for fifty-two million dollars of foreign aid. The flag of the Conch Republic still flies on buildings today.

  We took the trolley back to Mallory Square and returned to the ship for lunch. We purchased a Key West traditional lemon and lime cake slice and devoured it in seconds.

  In these parts of the world, at this time of the year, sunset comes early. We found a bar near the dock where a sunset party was held every night and I ordered a local beer for me and a rum and coke on ice for the lady and we sparked up a conversation with a couple from New York, who’d escaped the city for a few days rest and recuperation in Florida.

  Within minutes, the resident two piece jazz combo of trumpet and xylophone began creating some fabulous soft jazz music and we were there for the next hour. As we sat on our bar stools sleek expensive yachts returned to port and immediately before us a continuous stream of humanity walked by. I ended up being reluctantly dragged back to the ship as our departure time loomed.

  "I really don't want to leave this place," whispered Margaret as we stood on the upper deck and watched the gangplanks being removed and the security team exiting the dock.

  "Neither do I," I said. "Neither do I"

  We missed the formal dinner and stood again on the upper deck watching the lights of Key West fade into the distance.

  Day 17

  Thursday 19th January.

  At Sea in the Gulf of Mexico.

  I awoke a little earlier than normal this morning. I'd finished off the laundry run last night but, flying solo, I had cocked up the dryer settings so the clothes I collected at midnight were still damp this morning.

  The bow camera showed daylight from the minute I flicked it on. The screen was just blue sea and lots of it.

  We caught breakfast and waited by the tennis court until the deckhand appeared and erected the net. We were only just starting to play when Vicky appeared and sought to join in. We'd seen her before. Apparently, her husband doesn't play so she was alone again today. We played a game ourselves before inviting her onto the court to knock up in a two-against-one game, with me being the one.

  Vicky, a tall, yet heavy, woman played twice weekly with a group of women, when at home in Sussex. Her trained shots at the net showed her familiarity with the game. She did, however, not endear herself to Margaret by attempting to hog both sides of the court and I had to intercede several times to get her to stick to playing one side only.

  Steam was coming out of Margaret's ears as she glared at Vicky's back while Vicky continued to play all shots as if I hadn't spoken.

  In the end, I resorted to lobbing the ball over Vicky in an effort to reach a stranded Margaret at the back of the court.

  Vicky, by her own irritating behaviour, was putting herself forward to membership of a most unwanted list but she ranks at the lower end of the bad behaviour spectrum.

  We fled the court to join our bridge players, Jennifer and Jimmy, for a largely note taking class, dealing with conventions around bidding before we finally played one hand. Brendan, having belaboured the conventions for forty minutes, gave an identical hand to all tables which had nothing to do with conventions. Give me strength!

  With our session concluded the intermediate bridge class pupils swept into the room and surrounded the tables. My two card playing victims were noticeable by their continued absence, not only at the bridge classes but also around the ship The two women's husbands have not been seen either so I suspect they all disembarked at Cape Canaveral, the cruise ending prematurely for them. No sign, either, of the loud-mouthed Manchester United football supporter whose crisps I’d flavoured in the bar. I truly hope now my job is done with this group of people and we can all look forward to a stress-free, learning environment.

  The next port on our itinerary was New Orleans so we thought we had better educate ourselves on what would be the biggest city we would be visiting. We attended a lecture on what to expect and are looking forward to the experience.

  An hour later we were back in the Gaiety Theatre for our choir rehearsals and I thought we were better than the one, “Gorgeous!” scored today.

  Once that practice was over we travelled by lift up to the Hawks Inn for a lunchtime concert Jazz at Vespers, where our New Orleans speaker, Chris, appeared now in his role as a clarinettist featured with the Lorcan Bond Trio.

  They played a medley of gospel songs with the largely white audience singing the choruses with gusto. They started with the Battle Hymn of the Republic moved onto Just a closer walk with thee, and then Chris featured in a Hymn to Freedom, written to commemorate the murder of Martin Luther King. Amazing Grace was given the jazz treatment but lost none of its emotional power and then the black gospel number, Down by the riverside, which doubled as an anti-war anthem with the chorus, Ain't gonna study war no more. Next up was; What A Friend We Have in Jesus, an old Salvation Army favourite that Margaret knew from her childhood. No lyric sheet consulted singing that one.

  As befits a ship drawing closer by the day to New Orleans, the traditional jazz standard, When the Saints Go Marching In, finished the concert in a rousing fashion and the musicians received a prolonged and thunderous ovation of applause.

  We descended to our room and changed bag contents dumping the bridge handouts and choir lyric sheets and replacing them with towels and swimwear.

  I set Margaret up on a lounger by the pool and we had a light lunch.

  Afterwards, I headed to the gym, where there was a scattering of people like me who cared about their bodies and were prepared to mix up the holiday pleasure experience with a little work-out pain. They were prepared to counterbalance the days of excessive good living with a few hours of exercise.

  I recognised some of those present as musicians in the ship bands and one or two passengers looked famili
ar, but there are thousands on board so I wasn’t surprised to see mostly strangers working out.

  The gym was well equipped with free weights, dumbbells and skipping ropes, a modest yoga area and a large selection of aerobic equipment. I plucked a running machine from a line of six and keyed in the setting before starting off on a 5 kilometre run. The sea was relatively calm now and I was able to run with confidence looking out a porthole at the sea flashing past.

  After a short while, I became aware of a tall thin man, about my age, who was supposedly, working out too. In reality, he was sat at the foot of a weights machine, chatting loudly to two women wearing leotards and carrying yoga mats.

  I tried to block him out of my mind, but he sat directly in front of the porthole and one of the women with him had a shrill laugh that cut right through me.

  Ten minutes into my run I found that I wasn’t as fit as I first thought. The pace I’d set of five minutes thirty seconds a kilometre, was proving too fast for me today. Seventeen days of living the high life had taken its toll. This irritated me somewhat and I grudgingly reduced my pace on the machine. Minutes later I had to adjust downwards again and still, the chatter continued. By now I’d been half an hour in the gym and this guy hadn’t exercised anything other than his vocal chords.

  As I entered the last kilometre of my run, the sweat was running like a stream freely down my face, my breathing was laboured and my legs began to wobble. Add to that the constant cackle of this woman and you can imagine I was not in the best of moods.

  I finished the run and grabbed a towel before making my way to the dressing room and jumping in the shower.

  While I was drying myself, same man walked in and opened a locker to retrieve his own towel.

  I finished dressing and as I left, I spotted him enter the sauna. After he’d passed inside the unit I grabbed one of his shoes and wedged it, at one side under the external door handle and forced the other end of the shoe under the towel rail that hung out of the door frame.

  He must have heard someone messing about with the door as I heard a banging on it coming from inside. “Hey what’s going on out there?” he called.

  I wasn’t going to identify myself to him in any way, so I ignored his shouting. Even standing just the other side of the door I found his speech garbled and distant. He had zero chance of anyone hearing his cries outside of that room. In a parting last sadistic twist, I turned the temperature gauge up to its highest setting, 100 degrees centigrade and left the dressing room.

  Almost immediately, I passed another male passenger in the corridor outside and, looking back, saw him enter the dressing room. My sauna prisoner would, it would appear, escape with a mild scare. Hopefully, he would link this brush with death to his loud manner earlier, but probably not. Manners maketh the man, and a lack of manners can certainly piss people off, I concluded, as I walked away.

  That evening we attended the formal black-tie dinner and we were eight again. We decided to skip the theatre show which featured a ventriloquist and a singer, and opted instead for the Topstars ABBA tribute show, Thank You for the Music, which was in the Pacific Lounge.

  We split for our cabin and decided to have an early night. The SS Azara was set to sail up the Mississippi River for the next nine hours. Outside shards of lightning lit up the sky while rain fell heavily.

  Day 18

  Friday 20th January.

  New Orleans, Louisiana, USA.

  Margaret and I rose early enough to watch the sun slowly rise. The information channel told us the ship was travelling up the Mississippi River at a stately 11 knots but outside, a dense morning mist is covering the water along with all the neighbouring docks and buildings.

  We proceeded up the river to our berth next to a major bridge which carried cars and trains into the city. The mist finally disappeared and we played a short game of tennis on a still wet court after our breakfast.

  Once we’d cleared the security area around the ship, we emerged onto tram tracks and a street overlooked by several very tall buildings.

  "Remember that building," Margaret said and pointed at the Hilton Hotel. “It will be our landmark for finding our way back to the ship.”

  We stopped to help a pair of well-spoken English octogenarians who wanted to see antiques in New Orleans. Moving slowly using a stick and a walking frame respectively they intended to dine in the Two Sister's restaurant, an expensive but apparently, stunning restaurant with outdoor eating beneath trees in the restaurants garden.

  "Damn well left the bally ship without our map," the husband quipped cheerfully, so Margaret gave them ours and off they went. You have to admire such intrepid explorers who have chosen to live life to the full rather than settle for a safe existence watching television from the comfort of an old person’s home.

  We walked a bit further and crossed several roads. Jaywalking doesn't appear to be a crime in the USA anymore and we saw Americans and tourists readily crossing before the white illuminated man showed. We strode into the city and noticed military veterans standing on street corners armed with collection boxes. They collect for the Veterans Chaplain Core and are on the streets all year round.

  Walking around a group of tap dance street performers, whose admiring audience snarled up the footpath, we nipped into a branch of Walmart Supercentre to buy some cream in order to treat an insect bite on the back of Margaret's leg.

  Finally, we reached the tourist’s area of the French Quarter and wandered around the external fencing of Jackson Square, a small city park. The park was bordered on three sides by performers, artists and psychics who had set up stalls in the streets. The remaining side; horse-drawn carriages gaily decorated with colourful flowers awaited paying passengers. Their drivers shouted their itinerary to the sea of tourists who constantly flowed past. We set off to find Bourbon Street; the most popular tourist street in the city. We overshot it at first but that’s okay as we discovered some beautifully decorated houses, dressed ready for Mardi Gras.

  Witchcraft and voodoo appeared to be a big part of the city’s culture and many shops sold related articles and trinkets such as facemasks and sculptures.

  Anyway, once on Bourbon Street, we found that it was long and noisy as hell, with music coming from many locations, but none of it was the jazz I wanted to hear. It was still only noon but I fully expected to hear jazz music emanating from the city at all hours of the day.

  The noisiest vehicle on the street was a de-commissioned fire truck that had been draped in colours of red, white, and blue. A party on board was already in full swing with people dancing and waving to pedestrians while singing patriotic songs broadcast from large loudspeakers carried on the open back. Many on board appeared to be military veterans and the music they played drowned out the music from the businesses they slowly passed. We began to tire after a couple of hours walking and sought out somewhere to rest our weary feet. Wafting towards us, carried on a cooling breeze, was a rocking bluesy version of the Animal's classic hit, The House of the Rising Sun. Like a powerful magnet, we were drawn to the music. We followed it inside the Big Easy bar and found the three-piece band set up at the rear.

  We sat at two empty stools and waited for service, but it wasn’t as forthcoming as I’d like it to be so finally, I went up to the counter but was ignored. Waiters came and went but none took any notice of me except to ask me to move as I blocked the service end of the bar. In frustration, I gestured to Margaret and we decided to take our business elsewhere.

  We crossed the road where we found an upstairs restaurant and claimed an outside balcony table. We sat and listened to the same music while sharing a delicious large shrimp platter with chips, washed down by two Hurricanes each. The Hurricane, along with the Hand Grenade, are two local cocktails delivered in tall glasses with ice and a slice of orange that New Orleans is famous for.

  Thus fed and watered, we rejoined the streets and came across a busking jazz group on the side of the street playing inspired music. We walked a little further on
to a covered but open-sided market where tourists wandered aimlessly from stall to stall. Margaret bought a couple of New Orleans jazz CDs. And a poet, Charles Garrison, caught us examining his bookmarks for sale and recited one of his poems to us, then and there.

  “The Strength to Face the Day by Charles E Garrison,” he announced in a loud voice. A crowd gathered in around us to listen to him too.

  The dawning of a new day

  A new day has come my way

  Full of joy or sorrow

  I know I cannot say

  But whatever be the challenge

  I know that if I pray

  I'll have the power that I need

  And the strength to face the day

  No one knows what the day will bring

  It may be sunshine or it could be rain

  But whatever be the problem

  Whatever be the pain

  If I sing and if I pray

  My Master will give me the courage

  and the strength to face the day

  so my friend you too by Grace

  have a brand new day

  Filled with joy or sorrow and

  Hope for a brighter day

  If you start out singing

  And never cease to pray

  Almighty God will give to you

  The strength to face the day

  He smiled warmly and took a bow as applause rang out. We bought several bookmarks which carried this poem and shook hands with Charles and wished him well. I felt fated that we should meet and that I should spread his words further afield. He wrapped the bookmarks in a piece of paper that revealed him to be a pastor as well as a poet and on the back of the page was a story about life being an empty mayonnaise jar and be sure to fill it with the right stuff, cause if you don't, you may not have room for the right stuff.