Dark Passage (9 page)

I laughed, but I'd been missing my husband, too. After hearing what Pia had to say earlier that afternoon, I had wanted to discuss it with him. Paul always listened to my ravings calmly, helped talk me through them sensibly and, above all, logically. My sister tended to be more laissez-faire. She'd ridden many a bus to never-ever land during the Summer of Love.

‘Do you think Georgina's pissed off that I'm not taking her to the reception?' I asked.

‘Hell, no. You know how she is about cocktail parties. Rather than dress up, she's decided to take Julie to dinner at the Firebird tonight. I think she's feeling a bit guilty, like she's neglecting Julie by letting her have the run of the ship.'

Since my usual sounding board was back in Annapolis, and Ruth had kind of brought it up, I made her sit down on the sofa while I filled her in on what I'd learned from Pia Fanucci about Charlotte Warren.

Ruth poo-poohed my concerns. ‘This Charlotte person was an
employee
of the cruise line, right, not one of the kids. Nothing happened to any of the kids on her watch, did it?'

I shrugged. ‘I don't know. It's possible, I suppose. I'll have to ask Pia about that.'

Ruth pressed her palms together. ‘I wouldn't worry about Julie, then. Every time I've been up to Tidal Wave the kids seem well-supervised. And when they send them out, it's always in groups. Honestly, those counselors have the patience of Job. The noise alone …' Ruth's voice trailed off. ‘Have you been in the video game room?' When I shook my head ‘no' she added, ‘Sheer torture! Ten minutes working in that place and I'd blow my brains out.'

While Ruth slipped into her dress sandals, I wondered what David Warren hoped to accomplish by wandering around the
Islander
, carrying a red shoe and asking questions like Detective Columbo. According to Pia, his daughter had disappeared a year and a half ago and from another ship.

I decided to concentrate on touching up my makeup. I was on holiday, after all. ‘Stairs or elevator?' I asked a few minutes later as we headed for the Trident Lounge.

‘It's only two decks up,' Ruth said, heading for the staircase.

I followed, figuring the exercise would do me good.

The entrance to the Trident Lounge was through the piano bar where a pianist with the improbable name of John Darling was sitting at a white Steinway grand, tinkling the ivories. As we waited to go through the receiving line, he finished ‘My Way' and segued neatly into ‘The Candy Man,' then ‘That's Amore,' crooning his way through songs that had been popularized by the Rat Pack in the sixties.

‘Did you bring the invitation?' Ruth whispered as we got close to the head of the line.

I patted my evening bag. ‘Right here, but I doubt they'll ask for it.'

And they didn't. We were glad-handed through a series of ship's officers, arranged in ascending order by rank and number of stripes on their sleeves. We shook the hand of the head chef – wearing his double-breasted jacket and traditional toque – the entertainment director, the head of security, the hotel director, the deputy captain, and finally, the captain, each resplendent in crisp white gold-buttoned uniforms, loaded with braid. As the captain released my hand and allowed me into the lounge, I said to Ruth – who had preceded me, ‘I feel thoroughly welcomed aboard by now, don't you?'

Inside the lounge, a vocalist accompanied by a piano and bass combo sang, ‘Besa Me Mucho' in a throaty alto. Servers worked the room carrying silver trays of canapés; others weaved through the guests carrying champagne aloft. As one passed, I snagged a glass of wine and took a sip. I recognized it by now: Ode Panos. The house wine.

‘C'mon, Hannah, let's find a seat. The room is filling up fast.'

Based on what Liz and Cliff had told me, they'd ply us with food and drink, then welcome us to the Neptune Club, the frequent cruiser club, with discounts and other incentives. I hoped they wouldn't drone on too long, as dinner was just an hour away and I was already signed up. It didn't cost anything, as Liz had said, and a penny saved is a penny … well, you know.

Just thinking about Liz, I spotted her, sitting with Cliff at a table for six near a bank of windows that looked out over the stern. Even from where I stood, I could see the water foaming in the ship's wake, leaving a white trail to mark our passage across the sea. I thought about poor Charlotte pitching overboard, and if she survived the fall, floundering helplessly in that wake, calling out as the ship pulled away, growing smaller and smaller in her view until it was merely a dot on the horizon and she was totally alone. I shivered and grabbed Ruth's arm, ‘There's Liz. Let's see if we can sit with them.'

I waved at Liz, who caught my eye, smiled and waved back, indicating we should join them, and we did.

I was just getting settled in my chair when Liz said, ‘Golly, there's David Warren. I'm going to ask him over, too.'

Cliff rolled his eyeballs back until only the whites were showing, stuck out his tongue and mimed hanging himself with a rope.

Liz punched him in the arm. ‘Behave yourself, Cliff. I feel sorry for the guy.'

Cliff straightened up. ‘Well, if you
must
.' He grinned at me. ‘Liz is always doing charity work. David must be her next project.'

David had turned away from us by then, so Liz got up and chased after him. She returned a few minutes later with David in tow, saying, ‘David, I'd like you to meet Hannah Ives and her sister, Ruth … sorry, I don't know your last name.'

Ruth extended her hand and David shook it. ‘It's Hutchinson.'

I'd learned so much about David from Liz and from Pia that I'd almost forgotten we'd never been introduced. The ‘nice to see you again' on the tip of my tongue was quickly replaced with, ‘so pleased to meet you,' as David joined our group, taking the chair next to me. He'd spent the afternoon on deck ten, he informed us, walking laps around the jogging track, working off the pounds he'd put on in the late-night buffet the evening before.

To his credit, Cliff tried to draw the man out by asking about the real-estate market in Minnesota. Homes moved quickly there, it seemed, and the Minneapolis suburbs were ranked among the top twenty-five places in the country to live by
Money
magazine. As David droned on about ‘median sale price' and ‘average days on the market,' I zoned out, preferring to sip my wine, pop the occasional cashew into my mouth, chew thoughtfully and study the room.

Who were the ‘usual suspects' among this group? I wondered. All the passengers had been on former Phoenix cruises, I knew, or they wouldn't be at this party, but how about the crew? The captain? Nuh-uh. I'd read in the program that Nicholas Halikias had been in charge of the
Islander
for more than three years. One of the others, then?

The receiving line had broken up and the officers were mingling. In their white uniforms they were ridiculously easy to spot. I kept one eye on David, hoping he'd shoot daggers at someone in particular, pull out his notebook and make a note, but if his notebook was with him it wasn't making an appearance.

After about fifteen minutes of serious schmoozing, Captain Halikias stepped onto the stage, accepted the microphone from the chanteuse, and welcomed us aboard. Again. Halikias passed the mike to the Cruise Director, Bradford Gould, who had been hovering by the captain's left elbow. Gould also welcomed us aboard with the practiced, oily charm of a lounge singer.

‘I've never felt so welcomed in all my life,' I whispered to David.

‘Of course,' he snorted. ‘They want you to re-up.'

A flurry of activity to the left of the stage caught my eye. Led by a sequinned-bedecked woman enthroned in a motorized chair, folks were being gently, but firmly herded into a line that meandered lazily around the bar. In short order, we learned that Emily Rothenberg – the woman in the chair – would be receiving a Trident platinum medal. ‘Seventy-five cruises with Phoenix Cruise Lines, ladies and gentleman! Think about it! We love you, sweetheart!'

We watched as Gould bent at the waist, straining his starched white pants, and hung the medal, attached to a blue and white-striped ribbon, around Rothenberg's neck. She kissed it, held it up for the audience's inspection, and grinned as the audience erupted in wild applause. You'd think she'd just medaled for Greece in the Olympic Games.

‘How many cruises have you been on, David?' I asked as the applause for Emily Rothenberg died away.

‘Compared to Ms Rothenberg over there, I'm small potatoes. Only four.'

‘You have me beat,' I said. ‘This is only my third. What kind of medal do you get for three? Paper? Cotton?' I turned to Cliff and Liz to ask, ‘Why aren't
you
standing up in that line?'

Liz patted her husband's hand. ‘Next year, if all goes well, we'll make the Silver Trident category. We were awarded the Crystal back in 2010.'

Next up were two aging jocks, diamond-award winners at sixty cruises apiece, who apparently knew one another because they were high-fiving all the way from the stage back to their seats.

As a group of Gold Trident awardees neared the stage, I poked Ruth and said, ‘Do you recognize that guy? The tall one?'

‘Help me out, Hannah. Which tall one?'

‘Waiting in line. Blond hair, kinda thin on top.'

‘Well,
that
certainly narrows it down. Most of the guys around here are follically challenged.' She flushed. ‘Present company excepted, gentlemen.'

‘Wearing the tuxedo,' I amended, ‘next to the bottle blonde in the electric-blue dress.'

‘Ah, I see who you mean now,' Ruth said. ‘He's the guy we saw in the solarium who didn't like the way his wife fixed his hot dog.'

The two had apparently gotten over the Incident of the Hot Dog in the Solarium because they were now joined at the hip, smiling toothily and holding hands.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage our next Gold Trident award winners, Jack and Nicole Westfall!' Gould bellowed into the microphone. ‘Jack, Nicki, so good to have you with us again. Fifty cruises, ladies and gentlemen!'

‘He certainly looks like a Jack,' Ruth commented as we watch Gould drape gold medals around the couple's necks. ‘She looks more like a Tiffany or a Brandy to me, or maybe even a Brie.'

Liz burst out laughing. ‘I
do
like you, Ruth. You can sit next to me anytime.'

I had a sudden brainstorm. Through most of the proceedings, David had been sitting silent, inscrutable, like a stone Buddha. Turning to him, I said, ‘My sister and her daughter are eating in the Firebird tonight, so there's only two at our table. Would you like to join Ruth and me at dinner?'

Cliff shot me a grateful glance as Liz jumped in to say, ‘We wouldn't mind at all, would we, Cliff? Mix it up a little bit, right?'

It was the first time I'd seen David smile. ‘I'd like that very much.'

Dinner was a gorgeous surf and turf, and how they managed to serve all four hundred or so diners at approximately the same time and still deliver the lobster moist and sweet, and the steak medium rare as I'd asked for, simply amazed me. ‘You work magic, Paolo,' I told our server as he removed my plate, as clean as if I had licked it.

I'd wanted to draw David out about his daughter, and about what he hoped to accomplish while on board the
Islander
, but I kept losing my nerve. The subject was bound to be a sensitive one, after all.

It was Ruth who finally broke the ice. ‘I just
love
to cruise,' she drawled, ‘but my husband's an attorney, and the only way I'd get him aboard would be bound, gagged and tied up in a sack!'

Which wasn't far from the truth, I thought to myself.

Paolo handed dessert menus around, and as I studied it, trying to decide whether to have the key lime pie or the crème brûlée, David said, ‘I've always cruised alone.'

Ruth swooped in. ‘Doesn't your wife enjoy cruising?'

‘I'm a widower,' David mumbled into his menu.

‘I am
so
sorry!' Ruth laid an apologetic hand gently on David's sleeve and looked mortified. ‘I shouldn't have assumed …'

‘No, no, it's all right.' The corners of his lips twitched up, the semblance of a smile. ‘What I can't stand is the matchmakers. Can't a person go on a cruise without, uh, cruising, if you know what I mean?'

Ruth nodded vigorously. ‘The solo travelers lunch, for example, and the guys who are paid to dance with you.'

Paolo was hovering over my shoulder. ‘Key lime pie, please,' I said, handing him the menu. Paolo had already moved on to David when I added, ‘And, Paolo, perhaps a shot of tsipouro?'

Ruth looked up from her menu. ‘What's tsipouro?'

‘A kind of Greek brandy,' I replied. ‘From Mount Athos, I think. Thought I'd give it a try.'

The key lime pie came in due course, and I'd taken only a bite when Paolo reappeared, carrying the tsipouro in a small glass, poured over crushed ice. ‘This is for madam, too,' he said, setting a dessert plate in front of me. Arranged artistically in the middle was a pale green square, studded with sliced pistachios. I leaned down for a closer look. ‘What's this, Paolo?'

‘Is halva. You try it. Delicious. With tsipouro, is very good.'

Paulo waited by my elbow as I took an experimental bite of what turned out to be an impossibly rich nut butter and sugar confection. ‘Now, the tsipouro,' he coaxed. I was expecting it to taste like ouzo, but the tsipouro was smoother, much cleaner than ouzo, but as with ouzo, the fumes shot straight up my nose. ‘Whoa!' I turned to Paolo, fanning my lips with my free hand. ‘That's quite an experience.'

He beamed like a proud coach, and I made a mental note to be generous with his tip.

After Paola was out of earshot, I leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘That stuff is like rocket fuel!'