Dark Passage

SIX

‘Invisibility was the ultimate concealment.’

Jim Steinmeyer, Hiding the Elephant,

Da Capo, 2004, p. 90

We’d agreed to meet for breakfast at 7.30 a.m. but that plan got shot out of the water when Julie, burrowed deep into the sheets under her duvet, had turned into a block of stone. Georgina stood in the connecting doorway, gazing back into the darkness of her own cabin. She excused her daughter with an indulgent smile. ‘Julie’s not used to staying up so late, even on weekends. If Scott knew she didn’t get in until almost midnight last night he’d have a conniption.’

I checked my watch; it was nearly 8.00 a.m. I was working on a headache, and if I didn’t pump some caffeine into my veins pretty soon, I’d be more than grumpy. ‘Ruth and I will go on down, then. Shall we bring you something, or do you want to call room service?’

Georgina stepped all the way into our stateroom and closed the door quietly behind her. ‘I’m coming, too. Let her sleep. If she wants breakfast later she can pick up something to eat in the Firebird.’

My sisters and I headed aft toward the Oceanus dining room, conveniently located – at least for us – on deck four. We emerged from the narrow passageway into a bright, spacious lobby that was also home to the Oracle, the Islander’s trendy wine bar. An attractive young barkeep was already at work dumping ice into large, shell-shaped basins – one at each end of the sprawling, horseshoe-shaped bar – where splits of sparkling wine would be kept properly chilled. I made a note to check out the wine bar later.

Breakfast and lunch aboard the Islander was open seating, but that didn’t mean it was a free-for-all. We were met by the maître d’, who greeted us like long-lost cousins, then handed us off to the first in a long line of servers – Paolo from Brazil, who escorted us to a table for eight near a window. Not that there was much to see. Overnight we’d sailed out of the Chesapeake Bay, past Norfolk, Virginia and into the Atlantic Ocean, well out of sight of land.

A squad of Paolo’s fellow waiters materialized out of the woodwork to hold our chairs until we were seated, whip open our napkins and float them gently into our laps. Then, with a slight bow, we were each provided with a menu.

Ruth studied the menu through her reading glasses. ‘Ah, just like home.’

Georgina giggled. ‘I don’t know about you guys, but I have Eggs Benedict every morning.’

I scanned the long list of choices – omelets, Belgian waffles, crepes, quiches, oatmeal with all the trimmings – until I came to the Eggs Benedict. ‘Ah, but are yours prepared with Coho salmon rather than ham, Georgina?’

Georgina laid her menu down. ‘The truth? In my house, it’s Spam on toast.’

‘ “Eggs bacon sausage and spam; spam sausage and spam; spam spam spam baked beans and spam.” ’ Ruth’s heroic attempt to channel Monty Python.

I buried my head in the menu. ‘I don’t know who either of you two are.’

Christina from Greece was hovering over my left shoulder, prepared to take my order for Belgian waffles with fresh fruit when a voice called out, ‘Oh, look, Cliff. It’s Hannah Ives.’

Still clutching the menu, I turned my head. Liz Rowe was chugging in my direction, followed by her husband. ‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Liz asked, dismissing their server with a wave of her hand.

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Georgina, Ruth, you remember the Rowes, from when we checked in?’

‘It’s a lovely ship, isn’t it?’ Liz said, settling into the chair next to Ruth. ‘One of the loveliest we’ve sailed on, isn’t it, Cliff? They actually have standards for formal night, for one thing. Pity the poor passenger who shows up at dinner wearing blue jeans!’

Cliff grunted, presumably in agreement, and sat down next to his wife. I pictured him dressed in a tuxedo, and decided it’d look good on him. But then, all men look good in tuxedos. When Paul wears his, I want to jump his bones.

Nobody spoke for a moment as Paolo poured coffee all around and Christina took our orders. After Christina headed back to the kitchen, I said, ‘My husband and I sailed on the Queen Mary Two, so I have to confess that it takes a lot to impress us. I’m really enjoying myself so far.’

‘We’re in a good mood today because Cliff won a hundred dollars in the casino last night,’ Liz confided.

Cliff smiled around his coffee cup. ‘Blackjack.’

‘My husband’s a good blackjack player, too,’ I said, picking up my glass of orange juice, ‘but he’s a mathematician and has studied all the odds. The casino holds no attraction for me at all, I’m afraid. I’m much more interested in the hot tub.’ I took a sip of juice, then raised my glass. ‘And the champagne bar.’

‘Do you knit?’ Liz asked.

I stared at her, puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do you knit?’ she repeated. ‘There’s a knitting club that meets at three o’clock every afternoon in the Oracle. Knitting, crochet, needlepoint. I read about it in the daily programme.’

Although the daily programme had been slipped into the notice box mounted just outside our stateroom door the previous evening, I had assigned it to my post-breakfast agenda, so hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet. ‘That sounds dangerous,’ I said. ‘Knit one, purl two, take a sip of champagne, knit one – or was it three? – purl, perhaps another sip.’ I faked a hiccup. ‘Could be interesting.’

‘I’m going to try it out today,’ Liz said. ‘I’m working on a hoodie for my grandson. Would you care to join me?’

Her question took in all three of us, but I was the only knitter in the group. Ruth raised a hand, palm out. ‘Not me. I’ve already signed up for a session of Ashtanga yoga in the fitness center.’

Ruth had graduated from Hatha to Ashtanga, a kind of power yoga, all fast-paced lunges and push-ups. Way too intense for me. ‘Why ever not?’ I said. ‘I brought along a hat I’ve been knitting for my granddaughter. I had visions of lying in a deck chair, knitting, while being served tea and crumpets, but knitting with champagne sounds way more fun.’ I winked. ‘It’ll cut into my hot tub time, of course.’

Chin down, Liz murmured, sotto voce, ‘Don’t look now, but here comes David. What’s his last name, Cliff?’

‘Warren.’

‘He sits with us at dinner,’ Liz continued. ‘He’s a bit odd.’

‘Odd in what way?’ I asked while looking casually over my shoulder to see if I could spot some guy acting strangely.

‘Doesn’t talk much,’ Cliff offered.

‘No, it’s more than that, Cliff. He’s nervous, edgy. Almost like he’s being stalked. And always scribbling in a little notebook he keeps in his breast pocket.’

On Islander, diners were pre-assigned to tables of two, four, six, eight or ten. My sisters and I shared a table for four, so breakfast and lunch were the only opportunities we had to dine with strangers. ‘How many are at your table, Liz?’

‘Four. We also sit with a retired schoolteacher from Washington State, but she and David definitely aren’t travelling together. She’s a hoot, but frankly, we don’t know quite what to make of David.’

Several groups had trooped by our table by then, but I hadn’t noticed anyone who looked particularly nervous or distracted. I kept my voice low. ‘Which one is David?’

Liz jerked her head, indicating a table for six several feet away. ‘Over there. In the blue blazer. Just sitting down.’

David Warren was the only passenger within a hundred nautical miles wearing a sports jacket rather than a polo shirt, so he was easy to spot. Under the jacket, he wore a pale yellow button-down Oxford shirt. When he picked up a menu, a signet ring flashed on the pinky of his left hand. He had a full head of dark hair, streaked with gray, which he combed straight back and kept neatly trimmed around the ears. He looked like a banker, or maybe a stockbroker.

‘What does he do? Did he say?’ I asked.

‘Real estate.’

‘That covers a lot of territory,’ I said.

‘Real estate! Territory!’ Georgina snorted.

I shot her a dirty look. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I think David deals in commercial properties,’ Cliff said. ‘He mentioned a shopping center.’

‘He’s obviously on his own,’ Liz said. ‘I heard him ask Elda – Elda Homer, that’s the schoolteacher – if she’d be attending the Solo Travelers Lunch today.’

‘A widower, then, looking for love.’ Georgina is an incurable romantic.

Ruth must have been standing behind the door when the Good Fairy handed out the gift of curiosity. ‘None of our business, is it?’ she said, stirring sugar into her coffee.

But soon, it would become very much our business.

We finished our breakfasts and excused ourselves, with me promising to meet Liz later that afternoon in the Oracle, yarn and knitting needles in hand. Back in our stateroom, I extracted the plastic bag that contained my knitting from the drawer where I’d stashed it, then settled down in the chair to read the ship’s schedule, grandly titled The Daily Programme. From the programme I discovered that Islander was travelling in a north-easterly direction; the sun came up at 5.24 a.m.; clocks would be set back one hour overnight; and dinner that night was formal. At 11.00 a.m. there’d be a talk on skincare by a famous, plump-lipped, blemish-free actress I’d never heard of; bingo in the Trident Lounge at 2.00 p.m. and yoga in the fitness center at 3.00 p.m., if you weren’t already taking ballroom dancing lessons from Ted and Lisa. And if I still didn’t have anything to do, a crossword puzzle and a Sudoku had thoughtfully been printed on the back page.

I scanned forward to the evening’s activities. The show that night was a comedian followed by a magic act.

‘Ruth, do you want to go to the show after dinner?’

‘Don’t forget we have that Neptune Club reception,’ Ruth mumbled around a mouth full of toothpaste.

‘Right. It’ll probably be a bit of a bore, but at least the drinks will be free.’

‘Your dance card is getting full, Hannah.’

‘So, what are you going to do today, Ruth, other than twist your body into strange and unnatural positions?’

‘Well, I’m not going to waste my time knitting, that’s for sure.’ She dabbed her lips dry with a towel. ‘Wonder what Georgina feels like doing?’

I tapped quietly on the connecting door in case Julie was still asleep. Georgina opened it almost immediately. ‘What’s up?’

‘Is Julie awake?’

‘Finally! She’s in the shower.’

‘What’s she going to do today, Georgina?’

‘Julie’s signed up for a teen barbecue and some sort of organized scavenger hunt. I’ll hardly ever see her.’

‘Does that worry you?’

Georgina raised one pale, well-shaped eyebrow. ‘Do I look worried? So, I’m up for just about anything. Except knitting,’ she added, with an accusatory glance at me.

Clearly, in the knitting department, I was outnumbered. ‘I never promised we’d be joined at the hip, Georgina.’

Thirty minutes later, after Julie was safely delivered to one of the Tidal Wave youth counselors, my sisters and I found ourselves marinating in one of three hot tubs in the adults-only solarium. When we were pink and medium-well boiled, we wrapped ourselves in oversized Turkish towels and arranged ourselves on adjoining deck chairs with our reading – a Kindle for Georgina and actual books for Ruth and me – while solicitous uniformed attendants made sure we had everything our hearts desired. After ordering a bloody Mary, I did.

Georgina powered on her Kindle, considered my well-worn paperback. ‘Don’t you have a Kindle, Hannah?’

‘I do, back home, but I figured reading it in a hot tub would be a bad idea. And what if I lose the charger? I’d be up the creek if my battery ran out in the middle of the latest P.D. James.’

‘I like my Kindle because you can’t really lend books,’ Georgina said, kicking off her flip flops. ‘Saves me the social embarrassment of having to remember who I lent that hardback to that I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet.’

As we considered the people sprawled in the deck chairs around us, we decided that you could tell a lot about a stranger by what he or she is reading. Final Sail by Elaine Viets? I think I might like that person, while – not being snobbish or anything – I’d be unlikely to initiate a conversation with someone engrossed in a Jackie Collins novel. ‘See that guy over there?’ I asked, nodding my head in the direction of the Surf’s Up Café. ‘The blond in the red bathing trunks, with the hardback propped up on his gut?’

‘What about him?’ Ruth muttered from behind her ancient copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

‘Well, he’s reading Harlen Coben. If he were reading an iPad, Nook or Kindle we wouldn’t be able to see the cover, so we wouldn’t have the slightest clue what he’s reading.’

‘So?’ Ruth wanted to know.

‘Serious disadvantage, Ruth, if you’re on the prowl for guys. Hot or not? With a Kindle, it’d be hard to tell. Dude could be reading Danielle Steele, for all you know. Or a self-help book on overcoming addiction. But, if you can see he’s reading Robert Crais, you’ve got your opening. ‘ “Oh, hi,” you say. “I like Crais, too. Is that as good as his last one?” ’

‘I’m not on the prowl for guys, Hannah.’

‘Neither am I. I just think it’s interesting.’

Georgina studied the guy reading Coben thoughtfully for a few seconds. ‘You think he’s hot, Hannah?’

I tended to be attracted to tall men – my husband, Paul, towered over me – and although Red Bathing Suit was certainly tall, he was a little too, how shall I say, fleshy for my taste. ‘Not really. Besides, I think he’s married. See that skinny blonde standing in the buffet line? In the teeny-weeny black bikini? They came in together.’

‘Where?’ Georgina asked.

‘She’s fixing a hot dog,’ I said.

Ruth sniffed. ‘Looks like a Stepford wife. Or married to a Republican candidate for President. I’m sure it’s a character flaw on my part, but I simply can’t tell those women apart.’

As I watched Black Bikini cross the solarium to rejoin her husband, I had to agree with Ruth. The woman looked as if she’d been stamped out of a template: five foot five or six, fit and trim, aggressively-styled bottle-blonde hair, makeup applied with the skill of an artist. She handed the hot dog to her husband, but apparently she had failed the hot dog fixings test because he said something, then shoved the plate back into her hands so suddenly that the potato chips she’d heaped on the side of it went flying. She yelled something in response, spun around and stomped out of the solarium as elegantly as one can while wearing flip flops, dumping the hot dog, plate and all, into the trash can nearest the door.

‘ “The course of true love never did run smooth,” ’ Ruth quoted, bard-like.

‘If he wanted a damn hot dog, he should have gotten it his damn self,’ Georgina sputtered, staring after the woman. After she’d disappeared into the main pool area, Georgina flipped over on her stomach, stretched out full-length on the deck chair and returned to whatever she had been reading on her Kindle. The sun blazed through the glass canopy of the solarium, its rays catching the damp tendrils of her hair, turning it to burnished copper.

The Belgian waffles with fresh fruit I’d had at breakfast were taking their toll. Bathed in the warmth of the sun, I slept easily, until a stranger’s voice suddenly roused me from my nap.

‘Excuse me?’ The voice was deeply male and melodious, like a late-night host on the Oldies But Goodies station.

My eyes snapped open. I blinked.

A man carrying a big-ass camera stood like a pillar at the foot of Georgina’s lounger. Tall and sturdy, dark hair speckled his head like new growth on a Chia Pet. He wore a white polo shirt tucked into a pair of navy chinos, and deck shoes with no socks.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked, thinking how extraordinary his eyes were. They had been bleached to a pale amber, like the 3.2 beer we used to drink in college.

The question seemed to fluster him. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to ask your friend here…’ His hands full of camera, he nodded toward Georgina. ‘… if she’d mind if I took her picture.’

My sister was clearly asleep, Kindle flung to one side, head turned, her cheek resting on her folded arms.

‘She’s asleep,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘What’s it for?’

The man shifted his camera to one side and dug into his breast pocket with a thumb and index finger like fat sausages. ‘Buck Carney,’ he said, handing me his business card. ‘I’m a photographer.’

‘I never would have guessed,’ I said, indicating the fancy camera with a corner of his card which read, when I glanced at it a few seconds later, LeRoy ‘Buck’ Carney, Freelance Photographer, with an address and telephone number in Atlanta, Georgia. ‘LeRoy,’ I said. ‘No wonder they call you “Buck.” ’

‘Yeah, well…’ he began.

I squinted up at him. ‘Didn’t I see you taking pictures last night in the disco?’

‘Yeah, it’s a dirty job, but somebody’s gotta…’

‘You were going to tell me what you wanted my sister’s picture for,’ I cut in. ‘Do you work for the cruise line?’

‘In a way. C.L.I.A? It’s the cruise line association. They’re doing a coffee table book to hand out to VIPs – senators, congressmen and the like. They hired me to take the pictures.’ His eyes flicked toward Georgina, still blissfully unaware we were talking about her. ‘The sun lighting her hair? The white bathing suit? Irresistible to an old shutterbug like me.’

Something in his gaze made me feel slightly uneasy, but where was the harm in a photograph? I nudged my sister gently on the shoulder. ‘Wake up, Georgina. This guy wants to know if it’s OK to take your picture. He wants to use it for a book he’s doing for the cruise lines.’

Georgina opened an eye, gave the photographer a few seconds’ worth of attention, then buried her head between her forearms again. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t block my sun.’

Buck raised his camera, aimed and took a rapid-fire series of shots. ‘Thank you,’ he drawled, stepping back toward the pool. ‘’Preciate that.’

‘No problem,’ Georgina muttered into her lounger.

After Buck wandered off, I returned to my novel, but had read only a paragraph when Ruth poked me with a finger. ‘Look who just came in. Isn’t that the David guy that Liz and Cliff were talking about at breakfast?’

David Warren, still dressed like the manager of a country club, had wandered into the solarium. He glanced around the room, as if looking for someone, shook his head slightly, then retreated to a table on the other side of the pool, not far from where we were lounging. Once seated, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook and began flipping through it until he came to a blank page. His eyes went on to scan mode: up to the solarium’s crystal canopy and down; one end of the glass enclosure to the other.

‘He’s not looking for any one,’ I suddenly realized. ‘He’s looking for some thing.’

Ruth agreed. ‘I’ll bet he’s an undercover inspector.’

‘A mystery passenger,’ Georgina added. ‘Like one of those mystery shoppers, you know? Reports back to management?’

Ruth swiped a rivulet of sweat from her brow. ‘Wonder what he’s looking for?’

I shrugged. ‘Safety violations?’

An attendant balancing a tray of drinks on the flat of his hand stopped beside David’s chair, but was waved off impatiently. The interruption must have broken the man’s concentration, because he tucked the notebook back into his breast pocket, stood, and shuffled out of the solarium the way he had come.

‘If he’s an undercover inspector, he couldn’t be more obvious,’ I said. ‘One doesn’t usually wear a sports jacket, chinos and penny loafers when going to a swimming pool.’

‘Funny how we keep running into the same people,’ Ruth muttered before returning to her book.

‘Yeah, isn’t it?’ I agreed, thinking about the Rowes.

Day one of an eight-day cruise. Somehow I suspected I hadn’t seen the last of David Warren.