Murder — His and Hers

A Cruise to Forget

Before he signed on as medical officer aboard the Carnival Fun Ship Fantasy, Dr. Tom Swayze had interned at Cook County Hospital. At first, the excitement of working in the notorious Chicago emergency room exhilarated him, made him feel indispensable and important; but, in time, the incessant array of blood and pain, torn tissue and red tape, began to chip away at him, and one day the thirty-one-year-old bachelor woke up feeling that if he didn’t get out of that Dante’s Inferno of an E.R. soon, he would be the next patient admitted, strapped to a gurney and shuttled off to the nearest psychiatric unit.

When a former colleague approached him to work for the Carnival line, Tom eagerly “jumped ship” and turned in his hospital resignation. The idea of sun and snorkeling and shipboard romances was irresistibly seductive — fun, even glamorous activities he’d never had time for in his current life.

But after four years of sun and snorkeling and shipboard romances, Dr. Tom Swayze — his hair sun-lightened to the color of a sandy tropical beach, his boyish, round-as-a-coconut face handsomely tanned — woke up one day feeling that if he didn’t get out off this ship soon, they’d be wheeling him down the gangway, strapped to a gurney and shuttled off to the nearest psychiatric unit.

Shipboard life, he found, was incredibly boring, and this latest cruise was no exception. The Fantasy was about to leave Port Canaveral, Florida, for a four-day trip to Nassau, and out of two thousand passengers only three had bothered to look him up in his office adjacent the infirmary on the Main Deck. Two were a husband and wife, Anthony and Margaret Vane, who the doctor found seated in his outer office after coming back from the pharmacy.

The husband was perhaps in his early fifties, suavely handsome, already deeply tanned, with dark, slicked-back hair in the time-honored Valentino fashion, and dark, deep-set eyes hooded with apparent concern. He was wearing tailored tan linen slacks and a silk cream-colored shirt, open at the neck, his black chest hair curling out; his left hand sported an expensive gold watch and a gold ring with a diamond that was no larger than the knuckle it rode.

Seated next to the aptly named Mr. Vane, the wife was a bundle of twitches and tics. Perhaps fifteen or even twenty years older than her husband, she had been beautiful once, but her face had been ravaged by one too many lifts. She, too, was expensively dressed, wearing a white pants suit with gaudy silver rhinestones and too much jewelry.

“Margaret, I’m afraid, has misplaced her medication,” Anthony Vane said, after introducing his wife and himself to the doctor. There was mild irritation in his tone, but Vane seemed, for the most, anxious, genuinely worried for his companion’s welfare.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” she said to him, her body moving in jerky, bird-like fashion. “I’m afraid I’m getting forgetful in my old age.”

Vane slipped his hand in hers. “You? Never... But it was hectic at the hotel — we stayed overnight at Cape Canaveral, and I blame myself, really. When she’s feeling good, my wife tends to put her medication out of her mind...”

“That’s understandable,” the doctor said.

Vane smiled tenderly at his elderly bride. “I just don’t want anything to spoil this trip for you, dear.”

Her smile in response was more a twitch than a smile.

“I’m sure we can remedy the situation,” Swayze told them, in his practiced, calm tone. It was what he said to everyone who came to see him, to put them at ease. He gestured toward his inner office.

Once inside, with the couple seated in front of him, Swayze sat behind his desk as Vane handed the doctor a folded sheet of paper.

“It’s a letter from our doctor,” the man explained. “Just in case something like this might happen. You can give him a call if you like.”

Swayze read the note regarding the woman’s medication, which was written on stationery from a Fifth Avenue doctor in New York. Fifth Avenue doctors didn’t seem to have any better penmanship than anyone else in the medical fraternity

“This will be fine,” Swayze told them. “I’ll just make a photocopy and return it to you.” He looked at the wife, fidgeting in her chair. “And I’ll need to ask you a few questions...” He consulted the letter again. “...uh, Margaret?”

Her reply was a mouse-like squeak: “Yes.”

He gave her his best bland, meaningless physician’s smile. “How long have you been taking this anti-depressant, Margaret?”

The woman peered sideways at her husband as if asking permission to answer. He nodded reassuringly.

“About a year now.”

“And you feel it’s helping your depression?”

Again she looked at her husband, who again nodded.

“I think it is,” she said.

Swayze didn’t. He thought this bundle of nerves needed something a whole lot stronger, and soon. But it wasn’t his job aboard ship to fix a gaping wound, just slap a Band-Aid on it.

He wrote on his prescription pad. “This should be sufficient to carry you through the cruise... Then you’ll need to see your own physician as soon as you get back, understand?”

The woman smiled, relieved. “I will, and thank you doctor.”

“Don’t hesitate to come see me again if you have any more trouble,” he told them, as he told everyone when they left.

The third person who came to see him the morning the ship sailed for Nassau required a bit more of his time; but he didn’t mind — he had plenty of it to spare. And besides, she was attractive, and (he soon discovered) single.

Wearing navy slacks and a red top decorated with little gold anchors, the thirty-something blonde with shoulder-length hair sat across from his desk, her poise undermined by hazel eyes that hinted that not all was well, and in fact carried a look of controlled hysteria.

“Thank you for your time, doctor,” she said. Her voice was a melodic alto. “You’re probably very busy.”

Swayze half-smiled, saying, “Whatever your problem is. I’m sure we can remedy it,” then wondered if he’d sounded too openly flirtatious.

She shifted in her seat. “I wish you could,” she said sadly, “but I don’t think you’ll be able to... I don’t think anyone would be.”

He frowned.

“My name is Jennifer Kafer,” she explained. “I’m on the cruise with my mother, Cora Hazen, and I have reason to believe she’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.”

Swayze leaned forward in his chair. “I am sorry,” he said. “You haven’t seen a doctor at home, then?”

“No, this is a problem that has accelerated rather rapidly, I’m afraid,” Jennifer said, and went on to explain. “After my father died last year, I had Mother move in with me and my six-year old daughter, Lisa, who’s staying with her father while Mother and I take this trip... We’ve been divorced for several years.”

He managed not to smile at this good news, keeping a professionally concerned expression in place; and he was concerned, even if his musings about this pretty passenger were somewhat less than professional.

“Anyway,” Jennifer Kafer continued, “Mother seems fine most of the time — I would have canceled the trip, if she weren’t — but every now and then, more and more often, Mother just isn’t herself. She’s almost like a child. Last week, I came home and found her playing with my daughter’s Barbie dolls... She looked at me like she didn’t know who I was. But then, a few hours later, she was back to her old self again.”

Swayze leaned on his elbows and made a tent with his hands. “Has your mother shown any violent tendencies?”

Jennifer shook her head. “No, she’s always quite cheerful.” She paused, then added, “I guess I should be thankful for that. My girlfriend, Susan, her mother has Alzheimer’s... and Susan’s mother has turned very mean. Last year, when Susan bought a new television, her mother smashed it with a baseball bat and cursed her for buying a TV that played commercials. Her mother became so abusive she finally had to be institutionalized.”

Swayze sat back in his chair and heaved a sympathetic sigh. “It’s quite typical, people suffering with Alzheimer’s venting their anger and frustration on family members. But if your mother remains cheerful, and content, as the disease progresses, you will indeed be lucky... at least as lucky as a caretaker of a loved one with Alzheimer’s could ever hope to be.”

Jennifer nodded in agreement, then dug into her purse. “I’d like to give you this picture of her,” she said. “Even though I’ll be with her every moment on the ship, well... Sometimes small children can wander away, if you know what I mean.” She placed the photo on his desk. “It could be helpful in finding her.”

Swayze looked at the photo. “Is this a recent photo?”

“Just a year ago, before any signs had become apparent.”

Cora Hazen was a vibrant older woman with short red hair, a dazzling smile and intelligent bright eyes that in time, he knew, would be dimmed by the insidious disease, robbing the poor woman, and her family, of the last years of her life.

“I could arrange to sit at your table during meals,” the doctor offered.

Jennifer’s face lighted up like fireworks off the starboard bow. “Oh, that’s very generous, doctor!”

And it was a generous offer, but then, the lovely woman seated in front of him would be enjoyable company, and he’d grown tired of eating at the staff table.

“That is,” he said, “if you think my observations might help, or at least give you some peace of mind.”

“Oh they would, and I hope I can find some way to repay you, doctor,” she said, her expression radiant.

He said, “No thanks are necessary,” thinking that he hoped she would find a way, adding, “And of course, don’t hesitate to come see me again if you have any more trouble.”

When the woman had gone, Dr. Swayze put the picture of Cora Hazen aside, filed away his thoughts for a promising shipboard romance, and settled back in his chair for yet another uneventful cruise.

The ship’s enormous Celebration dining room, located in the middle of the Atlantic Deck, was decorated as if every night were a party: carpet like colorful confetti, tables aglow with candles, streamers hanging from the ceiling, and everyone dressed to the nines; the whole place looked like a big birthday cake with all its candles glowing, ready for a wish.

Anthony wished he was on the boat with one of his several current, younger love interests, and not his stupid older wife. But, then, the three women he was having affairs with did not have Margaret’s money. Margaret had Margaret’s money — and for him to have to access to that tidy fortune, he had to put up with having Margaret.

It was the first evening meal of the cruise, and they were dining near the center of the room at one of the round, white-linen-sheathed tables that seated eight. He didn’t know the others at his table (nor did he want to); they were just strangers thrown uncomfortably together for a few days. But by the end of the cruise, Margaret would know all of them intimately and add the whole boring bunch to their Christmas card list.

He looked at his wife, chattering away giddily, endlessly, to anyone who would listen, about their quiet country life in South Hampton alternating with travel like this “scrumptuous cruise.” Social situations like this gave her a means of channeling her nervous energy. He concentrated on his Beef Wellington and did his best not to show how he felt, or what he was thinking.

Earlier, when he first arrived in the dining room, he’d spotted Dr. Swayze several tables away, seated between a shapely thirty-ish blonde and an older attractive redhead — the lucky bastard. Either woman would have suited Anthony just fine — they both looked like they had money — but if he had his choice he’d pick the redhead; it wasn’t so much that he had a penchant for older woman as they seemed to have a penchant for him.

It never occurred to him that perhaps younger women saw through his dated technique.

After being seated, however, Anthony never looked their way again, other than to make sure the doctor didn’t notice him perfidiously keeping his wife’s wine glass filled. Alcohol, in combination with her medication, made Mrs. Vane grow quiet... and depressed.

Thinking back, Anthony wasn’t exactly sure when he first decided to do away with Margaret. At some point, the scales had tipped: living with a neurotic woman, and having anything her money could buy, seemed far less attractive than just having anything her money could buy.

In the beginning, it was a daydream, a fantasy; but he had returned to the thought again and again, until it hardened into reality...

He had met Margaret just over ten years ago in Central Park, when he was in his early forties and insolvent, having run through the meager inheritance left him by his previous wife, who had been in her seventies and whose estate had largely gone to her grown children. Margaret was younger than the previous Mrs. Vane — she’d just turned sixty — and was the childless widow of a Manhattan real estate tycoon, who’d made his mint long before Donald Trump came on the scene.

At first, the future Mrs. Vane had been cautious about sharing her wealth with him, and even spoke of a prenuptial agreement; but soon Anthony’s talk of love and trust, plus his considerable sexual prowess, convinced her that there was more to life than money.

“Is anything the matter, dear?” he asked his wife sweetly. “You seem so quiet.”

Morosely, she shook her head.

Voices from the doctor’s table drifted to him, and Anthony caught snatches of conversation. It seemed the two women dining with the physician were mother and daughter — the mother widowed, the daughter divorced. He wondered idly if they might be interested in a threesome? Menage with a mother and daughter was on the short list of sexual adventures life had as yet denied him.

But it was the mother’s youthful voice and musical laughter that made the front of his black tux pants tingle. He wanted to look the redhead’s way, to catch a glimpse of her enticing smile, but instead he adjusted his linen napkin in his lap and forced himself to carry on a conversation with the stodgy banker from Boston seated next to him.

After the main course plates had been cleared, Anthony leaned toward his wife and said, “You don’t look at all well, my dear — you seem rather peaked. Why don’t we go for a stroll on deck?”

She peered at him, blue eyes touched by a filigree of red. “I don’t care to. Dessert is coming.”

He gave her a little smile. “Just thought you might like to catch a little air, sweetheart.”

The others at the table had stopped their conversation and were looking the couple’s way; but Margaret didn’t seem to notice.

Anthony leaned toward her and, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek, asked, “Then you won’t mind if I stretch my legs for a while?”

What to the other passengers might seem an innocent question to Margaret was a veiled threat. She knew, as well as her husband, that there were any number of lonely women on board the Fantasy, eager to meet a handsome stranger.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said abruptly, placing her napkin on the table. “I’ll get some air with you.”

Their fellow diners had noticed his wife’s dramatic mood swing — from belle of the ball to sullen wallflower — and this suited Anthony’s plans ideally.

As they exited the dining room, Anthony put a comforting arm around his wife, as if she were ailing. And when they passed the doctor’s table, Anthony maintained his concerned expression, his eyes fixed only upon his dearly beloved.

On the Upper Deck, he opened the heavy wood door inset with oval cut-glass and the burst of weather from the outside was almost enough to make Margaret turn back; the wind was strong, the night black, and a slight drizzle spat insolently in their faces.

“My hair!” she wailed, both hands flying to the sides of her head. She had spent two hours in the ship’s beauty shop that afternoon, a waste of time and money, in her husband’s opinion; her looks were gone, like his patience with her.

He ignored her plea, ushering her out on the narrow platform and over to the steel rail. The deck was deserted; everyone else was still in the dining room, gorging themselves on pastries and pies, and even the non-gluttons had been warded off by the weather.

Mr. Vane had planned on taking Mrs. Vane in his arms and kissing her one last time — he really was a romantic, and once had felt something akin to love for her, when she was still attractive. One last kiss, remembering some of the good times... But since nothing came to mind, he gathered her in his arms, like a bride about to be ushered over the threshold, and — her eyes wide, her mouth open, as she tried desperately to make this a romantic gesture — he hurled her unceremoniously over the rail.

He was surprised at how light she’d seemed in his arms, and how quickly she disappeared into the ocean, the black, white-capped waves reaching upward as if to catch her, then pulling her down and under.

She’d been too surprised to scream; or had she simply accepted her fate, would rather be dead than unloved by him? Anthony would never know, and would also never ponder the answer again.

He lingered only a second or two before turning toward the outer deck door to leave. The door was being partially held open by someone.

Hell!

It was the red-haired woman, the attractive older widow, who had stepped out onto the deck — her daughter was nowhere to be seen. How long she’d been there, Anthony didn’t know; but her expression of shock told him what she’d seen.

Everything.

He froze, horrified, not knowing what to do. And as voices trailed out to him from the open door, telling him others were on their way to the deck, he realized there wasn’t time for the woman named Cora Hazen to join his wife under the choppy sea.

“I... I...” He could only stammer as he took a few tentative steps toward her, his suave facade dropping like pants whose suspenders had snapped.

Cora Hazen let go of the door and plastered herself against the wall of the deck.

“Please keep quiet,” he said, gathering the shreds of his dignity about him. “I have money... A great deal of money.”

Her eyes seemed oddly blank, then came alive. “Money? Let me see!”

He quickly dug into his pants pocket and brought out a wad of cash that had been meant for the casino, later that night, and thrust it toward her.

“This is all I have on me... but I can get you more, much more...”

Her eyes were as wide as Margaret’s going over the side; but her face had taken on a child-like glee.

“I like money!” she said and snatched the cash from his hand.

He leaned an arm against the deck wall, pinning her there. “We’re alike, you and I.”

She gazed up at him girlishly. “You like money, too?”

What a tease!

“Oh yes,” he said.

She was riffling through the money as if she were counting it, but not really keeping track, taunting him, the clever bitch.

So, the eyewitness to his crime was as greedy as he was, it seemed; this would be costly, but with Margaret’s fortune, he could control it. He could turn this around...

Then the deck door opened again, and the woman’s daughter emerged. Cora quickly thrust the wad of bills behind her back.

“Mother,” the pretty woman said anxiously, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The daughter seemed oddly distraught.

“Dear,” the mother said, “I’ve been talking to this nice gentleman.” She leaned toward her daughter and added in a loud whisper, “He has a lot of m-o-n-e-y.”

Damn her, needling him like this.

Fortunately, the daughter merely looked at him with embarrassment. “I’m sorry about this, Mr., uh...?”

“Vane,” he said with slight bow of his head. “Anthony Vane. It’s so nice to meet you and your delightful mother.”

“And you, too,” the daughter said distractedly, then turned to the older woman. “Mother, it’s time we get back to our stateroom.”

“Yes, and I must try to find my wife,” Anthony said. “I seem to have misplaced her.” He laughed a little, sneaking a look at the mother. No reaction. Her lovely face remained cheerfully placid.

A cool customer, this one. Had he finally found the woman who was his equal?

“I hope you ladies have a pleasant evening,” he said, bowing to the women. “Perhaps I’ll be seeing you later.”

The mother giggled. “If you’re lucky.”

Damn, if she wasn’t a beguiling creature! He watched the pair go back inside, standing there with his heart pounding as if trying to burst from his rib cage. Funny — he’d been calm as he tossed Margaret overboard; only now was his pulse racing, fear and excitement coursing through him.

He leaned at the rail and breathed deeply of the cold night air. It was time to put the rest of his plan in motion — he would go to the casino for a few hours, then when he returned to his room and found his wife not there, he would search the ship (making sure his efforts were witnessed) and finally report that she was missing.

The cloak that was his suaveness gathered about him again, self-composed once more, he headed for Club 21 on the Promenade Deck, wondering what he should do about Cora — kill her, or make love to her.

Or both — in reverse order, of course. He wasn’t sick, after all.

It was only when the dessert dishes were being cleared that Jennifer realized how long her mother had been away on her trip to the ladies’ room, and began to panic. She had been engrossed in conversation with the doctor (Tom was single, she discovered, with a fascinating history as an E.R. doctor) when her mother had said she’d be right back.

But “right back” turned into fifteen minutes and Jennifer stopped listening to what the doctor was saying and began looking anxiously around the vast dining room.

“I’m sure she’ll be along soon,” Tom said, doing his best to put her at ease. “She seems fine tonight.”

“It’s so easy to forget,” Jennifer said. “When she’s behaving like herself, it’s easy to treat her like the adult I knew.”

“There’s nothing to worry about — really.”

Jennifer was shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have let her go by herself. Even I can get lost on this big ship... And you just don’t know how quickly she can change.” She stood, pushing back her chair.

“Why don’t I go with you,” the doctor offered, putting his napkin down. “We both can search.”

Jennifer put a hand on his shoulder. “No. Let me look first, and if I can’t find her, I’ll come back and get you.”

“You’re sure? Because it’s no trouble...”

“I need to learn to handle situations like this,” she told him, firmly but not unkindly, “myself.”

Jennifer first checked the restrooms just outside the dining room near the elevators, then moved on to the Pavilion with its smaller restrooms, and finally descended the grand staircase in the center of the ship to the lower floor. As she hurried along she was reminded of the time she’d lost her own daughter in a big department store, and all kinds of terrible images had rampaged through her mind, until the child was at last found in the toy department, playing happily away with Barbie dolls.

Perhaps the Galleria Shops had caught her mother’s attention; they were located back on the same deck as the dining room. She was taking a shortcut past the galley when she spotted her mother’s red hair through the oval window of a deck door; her mother was standing on the windy deck, talking to a handsome middle-aged man.

When Jennifer went through the door into the cold, spitting sea air, she knew in an instant that her mother was not herself; she could tell by the animated way her mother was talking to the man, who, upon closer look, had the slick, archaic look of a Noel Coward-era gigolo. She remembered noticing him a few tables away, with a dejected-looking older woman seated at his side.

Jennifer got her mother away from the man as gracefully as she could — he seemed to be misinterpreting her infantile behavior as coquettish, thankfully — and, back in their stateroom, called and left word for the doctor that she had found her mother and that they were in for the night.

As Jennifer undressed, she wondered if the two of them were going to survive the trip; in a very short time her mother had gotten so much worse.

Their stateroom (so-called), on the Empress Deck, had two twin beds and an ocean view. It was a little cramped, but nice enough, the decor a soothing mauve and turquoise, with a TV high in one corner, a writing table with fresh flowers against one wall, and a lovely pastel picture of a tropical beach on another.

“I think we should get some sleep,” Jennifer said to her mother. “It’s been a very long day.”

“But I’m not sleepy yet,” her mother responded. She was sitting on one of the beds, bouncing every so slightly.

“We’re going to have an even longer, busier day tomorrow, Mother. We’ll be docking in Nassau in the morning.”

Her mother wrinkled her nose, as if smelling something icky.

“Why don’t you get into your new nightgown,” Jennifer cajoled. “I’ve put your things in the closet.”

Her mother got up from the bed and went to the closet, but instead of retrieving her nightgown, she brought out a small pink suitcase, which she took back to the bed and opened.

Jennifer sighed. “Mother, please don’t get into that. It’s late.”

Her mother ignored her plea, rifling through the pink child-size suitcase — which had once belonged to Jennifer’s daughter — filled with old and new Barbie dolls, accessories and tiny clothes.

Jennifer stared at her mother, who in her heyday had been one of the movers and shakers of the fashion world, designing and launching her own work-out clothes, long before any other designer had. Now she was stripped of any remaining talent, still somehow connected to fashion in the withering recesses of her mind, reduced now to playing with doll clothes, drawn to them, perhaps not even knowing why.

Mother looked up at daughter anxiously. “Where’s Nibbles? I can’t find Nibbles.”

“We talked about that before we left, Mother,” Jennifer said slowly, trying to stay calm but feeling exasperation begin to overwhelm her. “I told you we couldn’t bring everything. Don’t you remember?”

But, then, that was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

“But I need Nibbles! You know Barbie will want to ride her horsey.” She held up one of the dolls; its blonde hair was a mess, giving it a crazed look.

Jennifer closed her eyes, gathering all the strength she could. Then she went over and sat on her mother’s bed and slipped an arm gently around the woman’s shoulders.

“Look, Mom,” she said tactfully, “you be a good girl and get to bed, and tomorrow we’ll find another horsey in Nassau.” It was a fib, of course, or close to one: Jennifer doubted any store on the island carried Barbie toys.

“But what if they don’t have it? What then?” her mother sniffed, holding back tears.

“Then we’ll buy something else, just as nice.”

“Nicer!”

“Nicer.”

“Like My Very Own Vanity for fifty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents? Or the Cruisin’ Car convertible for thirty-four dollars and ninety-five cents?”

“That’s right. One of those.”

Her mother shifted on the bed, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. “Or the Malibu Beach House for ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents?”

“We’ll see.”

“I have my very own money, you know,” her mother said, with a smile that was lovely if you didn’t study it.

“Yes. Yes.” Before the trip Jennifer had given her mother twenty dollars to carry; she didn’t trust her with anything more. “But you have to get to bed, first.”

“Goody goody goody! G’night... what’s your name again, dear?”

“Jennifer, Mother. It’s Jennifer.”

“You’re my daughter.” Her mother seemed proud of this observation.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

Five minutes later, with the lights out and the ship rolling gently over and through the waves, steaming its way to Nassau, Jennifer lay in her bed staring up at the cabin ceiling.

How could her mother remember every single Barbie toy and exactly what it cost and not remember her own daughter’s name? Such was the way of this maniacal disease.

Maybe someday, she thought, I’ll laugh at the absurdity of it all.

But not tonight.

Jennifer waited until she heard her mother softly snoring before turning her head into the pillow and sobbing.

It was a very distraught Anthony Vane who banged on Dr. Swayze’s cabin door, well after four in the morning, waking him from a sound sleep.

“I just don’t understand it,” Anthony said, tightening his forehead as if in concern, working exasperation into his voice, words tumbling out. “I don’t know where my wife could be. I took her back to our stateroom after dinner, then went off to the casino and stayed till closing.”

The casino closed at three a.m.

“And when I returned shortly thereafter,” Anthony continued, “she wasn’t there.”

“Now, just take it easy, Mr. Vane.” The doctor put his hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Most likely you’re just missing each other — she probably went to the casino to look for you, andБ”

“No! No, I went back and checked, I’ve been all over this damn ship, searching, and no one’s seen her!” He paused. “And the bed hadn’t been slept in... Doctor, I’m worried that... that something has happened to her.”

“That something has happened to her? Or is it that she may have...”

Anthony covered his mouth with a hand, spoke through his splayed fingers. “I don’t even want to think it.”

Swayze frowned. “She did seem a little blue at dinner... I was seated a few tables away from you.”

“Doctor, I’m afraid... she was drinking.”

Alarm flared in the doctor’s eyes. “Mixing alcohol with her medication?”

“Just wine. I didn’t say anything to her about it, because I know it relaxes her... oh, hell, I blame myself for this...”

Swayze sighed. “Mr. Vane, there’s not much you can do right now, other than return to your room, and try to remain calm.”

“That’s easily said...”

“In the meantime, I’ll contact the ship’s security. Just try not to worry. She isn’t the first person to get lost on this ship. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

Keeping a dejected expression going, should he be seen, Anthony strolled along the deck, making his way to his stateroom. It was nearly five in the morning and he paused at the rail, not far from where he’d pitched his wife into the sea; he took in the first purple-pink rays of a magnificent sunrise appearing on the ocean’s horizon as the Fantasy slowly cruised into Nassau Harbor, heading for Prince George Wharf.

In the stateroom, Anthony got out of his evening clothes, put on a pair of silk pajamas, climbed into the king size bed and fell fast asleep, dreaming of wealth, no story really, just lots of pretty women and nice things and so very much money.

Around nine, the phone by his bedside rang him awake.

Startled, as if a long-dormant conscience had stirred, he sat up, rubbed his face with the heels of his hands and grabbed the phone before it could ring for a fourth irritating time.

“Hello,” he answered thickly.

“Mr. Vane?” a husky voice said.

“Yes.”

“This is Jake Lausen.” The voice had a Brooklyn tinge. “Chief of ship’s security.”

“I’m relieved to hear from you, Mr. Lausen — you’ve found my wife?”

“I’m afraid she hasn’t turned up.” The voice paused. “Could you come to my office?”

“Certainly. Where and when, sir?”

“On the Verandah Deck. Would now be convenient?”

“I’ll be there in half an hour, if that’s all right,” Vane told him. “I’ve been up all night with worry.”

“I could see that. Half an hour, Mr. Vane.” The phone clicked dead.

In the shower, Anthony mentally rehearsed. He shouldn’t appear too distraught — overplaying could raise suspicion; but he had to appear distressed enough, as underplaying could make him seem cold. This needed to be a suicide, otherwise he was the chief suspect — really, the only suspect. He toweled off, blow-dried his hair and applied gel, shaved and splashed on Polo cologne, trying on various faces of concern and sorrow in the mirror. When he stepped from his stateroom, dressed in Armani head to toe, he felt confident he could strike the right tone.

The security office, located next to the radio room on the Verandah Deck, was tiny and messy, files and papers littering the small desk. That put him instantly at ease; nothing about this cubbyhole looked very official.

Except for the chief of security, Jake Lausen. The man gave Anthony a bit of a start: short and stocky, balding, thickly mustached, the man’s facial features seemed benignly bland, even baby-ish. But his eyes belonged to a grown-up: under mini-mustache slashes of eyebrow, they were cobalt blue and ball-bearing hard.

What if this Lausen character had been one of New York’s finest who’d gotten his fill of big city crime and moved to this cushy job? The man could be a real threat, a slumbering beast awakened by the wrong word or gesture, if Anthony didn’t watch his step.

Lausen had opened the door for him and was now gesturing toward a gray steel folding chair across from the cluttered desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Vane, would you?”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve already spoken to Dr. Swayze,” Lausen said. He perched on the edge of his desk, looking down at Anthony like a huge stone gargoyle from a church rooftop.

“And he filled me in, as regards to your wife’s depression. You mind my asking, was this cruise meant to cheer her up, that sort of thing?”

Anthony, shifting in the uncomfortable metal folding chair (was that on purpose?), nodded. “Yes, precisely. And earlier in the evening, she seemed fine, conversing with the other passengers seated with us for dinner. But then, as has been the case of late, her mood shifted, and she simply didn’t seem herself. So we took a brief walk on the deck, and then I escorted her back to our room.”

“What was her mood?”

“Withdrawn. Quiet. She and I frequently gamble together, but last night she sent me onto the casino by myself. The last thing she said to me was, ‘Enjoy yourself, sweetheart.’Ю” Anthony swallowed; touched the thumb and forefinger of one hand to the bridge of his nose, then drew a breath and composed himself. A nicely acted piece of business, he thought to himself.

“When I returned around three in the morning,” Anthony continued, “she wasn’t there, and the bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“Not a good sign,” Lausen said, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

Anthony swallowed. “Well,” he began hesitantly. “There is something else.”

The security man gazed at him with his ball-bearing eyes.

“Last year we took this very same cruise, and... Margaret threatened to jump overboard.” The first part was true, the second a lie.

“Why?”

“...Why?”

A non-smile twitched under Lausen’s mustache. “When people threaten to kill themselves, there’s usually a reason. What reason did your wife give you, Mr. Vane?”

“I feel... awkward discussing this, Mr. Lausen. As if I might be... betraying my wife’s confidence.”

“This situation is a little beyond social niceties, Mr. Vane. Why did your wife threaten to kill herself last year?”

Anthony heaved a sigh. “She was once a very beautiful woman, Mr. Lausen. She still is... to me. But she was very unhappy with the way her last cosmetic surgery came out, and as you may have suspected, there’s something of an age difference between us... At any rate, her seventieth birthday was fast approaching, and she became... despondent.”

All of this was true, more or less — except for the threat of suicide. Margaret had been depressed about her fading beauty — and her husband’s roving eye.

“Did you get your wife any help?”

“Of course. She’s been seeing a psychiatrist, and has been on anti-depressant medication for almost a year. Well, but then, you know that already, from Dr. Swayze...”

“Yeah. She ever threaten to kill herself again?”

“No. Never.”

“Not even last night?”

“No. But... I shouldn’t say.”

“By all means, Mr. Vane, ‘say’ away.”

Another sigh. “I thought perhaps that this cruise... being as we’d taken it before, and she’d made that threat, walking on the very deck where we strolled last night... this cruise had brought all that unpleasantness back to mind.”

The small room fell silent, with Lausen staring down at Anthony from his perch. Then the security chief stood up and went around behind the desk and sat.

“Well, your wife isn’t on the ship, Mr. Vane. We’ve done a cabin-to-cabin canvas, and she didn’t disembark in Nassau this morning.” He paused. “That leaves only one other place she could be.”

Anthony hung his head. “Oh, my God,” he said softly. His hands were shaking; he hoped Lausen would see that as sorrow, and not the unexpected nervousness Lausen’s hard gaze had engendered in him.

“There’s a procedure we follow when a passenger turns up missing, Mr. Vane. I’ll have to ask you to remain on board today. I’ll want to talk to you again later, and sign some missing person’s papers.”

Anthony nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

“I hope I’m wrong,” Lausen said. “And that she turns up. Otherwise... sorry for your loss, sir.”

But he didn’t sound very sorry.

“Thank you,” Anthony said, as if the expression of condolence had been sincere. “Should you need me, I’ll be in our stateroom.”

Anthony hated the thought of that — missing the Nassau stop, losing out on a sumptuous meal at Greycliff, the only five-star restaurant in the Bahamas, and a fun-filled evening in the casinos on Paradise Island. But it was a sacrifice he could live with; after all, with Margaret’s money he could come back any time he wanted.

He strolled down the narrow corridor, away from the security office, wondering if Lausen harbored any major suspicions about him. Perhaps that sour demeanor, that terminal cynicism, simply went with the job.

But so what if Lausen did suspect him? That insignificant little bastard couldn’t prove anything. There was only one person on earth — one person on this ship — who could.

He went in search of her.

He was beginning to think she’d gotten off the boat already and gone into Nassau for the day, when he spotted her flaming red hair. Cora and her daughter were up on the sun deck. They were in casual attire, the mother in a knit turquoise pants suit, her daughter in a sunny floral-print sundress, next to each other in deck chairs, big straw hats on their heads, big straw handbags at their feet; their slender, shapely figures were almost identical. When the daughter saw him, her face lighted up and she called out to him.

“Oh, Mr. Vane!” She motioned with one hand. “Could you come here?”

“Good morning, ladies,” he said as he approached them, rather surprised by this greeting from the younger woman, who’d barely seemed to notice him last night. “Isn’t this sun lovely, after that cold wet evening?”

“Could you do me a tremendous favor?” the pretty blonde woman asked.

“Anything.”

“You remember my mother — Cora?”

“How could I forget?”

Cora, that minx, looked up at him with a blank expression, as if he were a stranger.

The daughter said, “Would you please keep her company while I run to the gift shop? I need to pick up some suntan lotion before we head into town.”

He beamed at her. “I’d be delighted. Simply delighted.” Then he smiled at the mother, who looked back at him with an expression as blank as a doll’s.

“I’ll be only a minute or so,” the daughter said, leaving the two behind.

“Take all the time you need, my dear,” he responded.

Anthony settled into the vacated deck chair next to Cora, who was staring out at the magnificent view of Nassau which lay before them, a tourist’s dream come true.

He leaned toward her. “And how are you today, my love?”

She turned to him. “Do I know you?” she asked.

He half-smiled at her. She was good; so very good. “You don’t have to pretend, now. We don’t have to be strangers.”

The woman shrugged and looked back at the view.

“What are you going to do with the money?”

She looked at him and blinked. “What money?”

He laughed out loud. “Oh, so that’s how you’re going to play it? I told you last night... if you agree to keep our little secret, there will be plenty more where that came from. The question is, Cora — will we be business partners, or could we explore a more pleasant option?”

She didn’t respond to that, which unnerved him a little. He’d better find out how much her silence was going to cost him.

“What do you want from me, Cora?” he asked quietly. Gently, he placed a hand on her thigh. “There’s so much more than money that I can give you...”

Cora turned back to him and her placid face came suddenly alive. “I want My Very Own Vanity!” she said.

Such poetry in her speech — her own vanity, indeed. She had that ability so many vixens had, to seem at once a woman and yet child-like in her energy, and her greed.

And he found that beguiling; something about her told him she was a kindred spirit, and he hoped they would not be adversaries.

“What specifically can I give you, my love?”

“I want a Cruisin’ Car Convertible.”

Now that was specific. Wanting a car was more along the lines he’d expected, but a convertible? She was a remarkable lady; young, at any age...

“And what else?” He was almost afraid to ask.

“A Malibu Beach House. I really want that.”

The back of his neck tingled. “Do you have any idea what a house in Malibu costs these days?”

“Ninety-nine ninety-five.”

He laughed hollowly. “Maybe when you were in bloomers, a beach house went for ninety-nine thousand. Now it’s more like nine million... but maybe that wouldn’t be out of the question, my love, if we could share it...”

She frowned. “I don’t like to share my toys.”

“I’m back, you two!”

Anthony looked up from his deck chair at Cora’s daughter, whose smile upended into a frown. “Is everything all right, Mr. Vane? You look... strange. I hope Mother behaved herself.”

“She does like to get her way,” he said pleasantly, standing.

“Yes, she does,” the daughter admitted.

“But she’s certainly charming company,” he said with a smile, nodding at Cora, who was looking off to the right, as if the children splashing in the ship’s pool were particularly fascinating.

“I’m glad you’re getting along so famously,” said the daughter. “Perhaps we’ll see you again, Mr. Vane, when we get back to the ship. Come, Mother, it’s time to go.”

He watched the pair leave, then wandered back to his room, where he sat on the edge of his bed. This Cora was a shrewd one, blackmailing, scheming bitch that she was; there was much to admire in the woman.

What a team they could make. He could love a woman like that; but could he ever trust her?

And could he ever hope to outsmart the likes of her?

In his state room, Anthony basked in self-pity; everyone else was off roaming the bustling, native-filled streets of Nassau, enjoying the beautiful day, eating traditional Bahamian conch fritters and grouper fingers from colorful vendor carts.

The phone rang beside the bed.

“Mr. Vane,” the Brooklyn-tinged voice said, “Jake Lausen again.”

“Any news, Mr. Lausen?”

“Afraid not. Need you to stop by my office at four this afternoon.”

“All right.”

“Listen, you don’t have to hang around till then. If you want get off the ship, go into Nassau, take your mind off things, go ahead.”

“Well, that’s kind of you, Mr. Lausen. I am getting a little stir-crazy. Walking around the town might help calm my nerves; Margaret’s disappearance has me at wit’s end.”

“No problem. Just be back by four.”

As he disembarked onto Woodes Rogers Walk, Anthony tried not to seem too happy as he strolled along the harbor where sponge boats were docked, bobbing in the water. Now and then a Bahamian woman tried to get him to buy a straw hat or shell, but he ignored them. He passed over the fresh conch, too, because he had a place in mind for lunch.

Nowhere in the world had he ever had a finer meal than those he’d enjoyed, over the years, at Greycliff. Once the summer home of Lady and Lord Dunmore, the elegant but unpretentious restaurant catered to the well-off, from royalty to rock stars, from CEOs to drug dealers. All of their food was magnificent, but his favorite was the well-cooked goose.

Crossing Bay Street, crowded by mid-afternoon with its horse-drawn surreys carrying well-heeled tourists, he quickened his step as he thought about the culinary delights which awaited him just a few blocks away, up steep Blue Hill Road. As he passed Rawson’s Square, where tuckered-out travelers sat on quaint wooden benches, he stopped short. Sitting in the shade of a palm tree, with their backs to him, but their identity unmistakable, were Jennifer and Cora.

The daughter seemed somewhat worked up, saying impatiently to her mother, “All right, I’ll go back to the store and buy it, even thought it’s not the right one... But you have to promise me not to move from this bench.”

He couldn’t hear what the mother said, but saw her nod her head, yes. Then Jennifer stood up, and hurried across the plaza.

He approached Cora, whipping off his Ray-Bans dramatically. “Well, hello, my love,” he said, looming over her. “We meet again.”

She ignored him, continuing to mutter to herself.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Not having a good time?”

“No,” she said, scrunching up her face, like a kid talking back to a parent.

This coy act was starting to get to him; she was attractive, but playing cute simply wasn’t cute, at her age.

“What’s the matter, my love?”

“We couldn’t find him.”

“Who?”

“Nibbles.”

“Nibbles?”

“The right horse.”

He couldn’t imagine why she was looking for a horse.

“Well, I’m sure he’s around somewhere.” After all, there were plenty of horses pulling carriages in downtown Nassau. Then he asked, “Where did your lovely daughter go?”

Cora looked at him oddly. “I don’t have a daughter.”

“Oh, I see.” He smiled. “Have a fight, did you?”

She looked away, pouting.

And he made a decision; sudden, but necessary. This woman was too unpredictable, too cunning. Right now he didn’t want a lover or need a partner; and he certainly didn’t require some blackmailing bitch, however clever and attractive, in his life.

“Have you been up the Queen’s Staircase yet?” he asked, working some enthusiasm into his voice. The last thing he wanted to do right now was trudge up some cliff-side stairway. But if it was the last thing Cora did, it would be worth the effort...

“No.”

“It’s just a short distance from here. And at the top of the stairs is a fort with all the armaments; it’s like stepping into the past. Very romantic.”

She considered that. “You mean, like My Very Own Castle?”

“Our very own castle,” he said, and touched her thigh.

“Oh, take me there. Take me there now!”

Just off East Street, steep steps had been carved into a limestone hill leading to Fort Fincastle. Shaped like a paddle-wheel steamer, the small fortress was build to protect the town from any enemy who landed. Heavy cast-iron cannons pointed out to sea, guns that had never been fired.

Cora climbed briskly, with an enthusiasm and energy a young girl might have envied. What a handful she was! What a pity she had to go...

Halfway up the steps Anthony halted. “Let me rest,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow, “catch my breath a second.” He couldn’t believe that the older woman wasn’t even breathing hard.

“Well, okay, but not for long.” She was standing one step ahead of him. “I want to see the castle.”

Two teenagers, most likely brother and sister, squeezed around them on the steps, raced each other to the top, soon disappearing from view.

Then they were alone on the stairs.

He felt a pang of regret; what a beautiful relationship he might have had with such a beautiful, vibrant and oh so cagey a woman...

“Okay, I’m ready,” he said and they continued the climb, with her in the lead and him just behind. As they neared the top, he reached out and gave her arm a quick, vicious tug, side-stepping as she fell backward past him, cascading down the limestone steps, leaving red impressions as she went.

He didn’t stick around to watch her tumble all the way down, but turned, wanting to remove himself from the scene and let someone else discover the body, and bolted to the top.

And bumped into a man beginning to descend.

A baby-faced, mustached man named Jake Lausen.

“Well, Mr. Vane,” Lausen said, “it doesn’t look like you’re having a very relaxing cruise, now, does it?”

Lausen was again perched on the edge of his desk, with Anthony seated before him in the hard, cold folding chair.

“Disaster seems to follow you, Mr. Vane, wherever you go.”

Anthony avoided the security chief’s glare. “I’ve told you a dozen times, it was an accident,” he said. “I was taking Cora — Mrs. Hazen — to see the fort and she lost her footing, and slipped on the stairs.”

“Problem with that story,” Lausen said, “is I saw you give the gal a yank, to help her along.”

Anthony said nothing.

Lausen sighed. “Of course, I’m just a little old eyewitness. I’m sure the victim herself will have her own opinion of exactly what happened.”

Anthony looked at him sharply.

“That’s right,” Lausen smiled nastily, “she’s got some broken bones, some bumps, some scratches, a concussion. But she’s a tough old gal. Dr. Swayze will be bringing her here in a few minutes to give a statement.”

Anthony sat forward, gesturing frantically. “It was an accident, I tell you. I mean, maybe it was me who slipped on the steps, and I grabbed her to catch my balance...”

“Again, let’s see what Mrs. Hazen thinks — and I’m hoping she’ll have some idea of what your motive might’ve been. After all, I can understand why you tossed your rich wife over the rail...”

“That was uncalled for.”

“It sure as hell as was.”

Anthony scowled at the smug son of a bitch. “What were you doing there, anyway, Lausen?”

“When I saw you head up the stairs, I couldn’t follow, since I was in a car,” Lausen said flatly. “I took the drive up to the top... see, my men and me have been keeping you in our sights ever since you reported your wife missing, and saw you hookin’ up with this Hazen woman. It’s gonna be real interesting findin’ how she’s involved — but I’m sure she’ll be willing to fill us in, now that you’ve just tried to kill her.”

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Lausen said, “Come on in.”

The door opened and Cora Hazen came slowly in, on crutches, one arm in a cast, a bandage wrapped around her head as if she had a big toothache. Dr. Swayze followed right behind her.

Anthony groaned at the sight of her and lowered his gaze and shook his head.

“Mrs. Hazen,” Lausen said gently, “how are you feeling?”

“Awful!” she snapped. “Just awful. Somebody pushed me down some stairs.”

“All right, all right,” Anthony blurted, “I waive my rights. I pushed her. I pushed the silly bitch!”

“And your wife?” Lausen asked.

“Ask Cora Hazen — she was there. She saw me throw Margaret over the side. She... she saw it all.”

Lausen smiled, gestured to Anthony. “Mrs. Hazen, is there anything you’d like to tell us about this man?”

Cora looked sideways at the doctor, then at Lausen, and finally at Vane. “I’ve never seen him before in my life!” she said. “But he is a nice-looking gentleman.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hazen,” Lausen said. “That’ll be all for now.”

And when they’d gone, Lausen told Anthony.

“Alzheimer’s?” Anthony asked.

And Anthony began to laugh, laughter that turned to tears as he buried his face in hands, wishing he could forget.

That night, on deck, standing at the rail, Jennifer Kafer and Dr. Thomas Swayze looked out at the gently rolling ocean painted ivory by moonlight.

“You’ve been wonderful about Mother,” she said to him. She wore a blue evening gown and he wore his dress uniform. Her arm was hooked in the crook of his.

“Keeping her in the infirmary, under constant watch,” he said, “is a precaution I felt needed taking.”

“I hate to say this, but it is nice to have some time away from her, alone... I mean, I love her, and as you said, I feel lucky that this disease has taken only her memory, not turned her mean or ugly.”

“You can have many wonderful moments with your mother... worth remembering.”

“Even if she can’t,” Jennifer said, with sad, wry smile.

“You know what you need?”

“What do you prescribe, doctor?”

“You need some memories of your own...”

And he kissed her, and she kissed back; it was just a shipboard romance, of course, but it would be fun for both of them, to look back on in their old age.