One Dangerous Lady (32 page)

 

Chapter 37

T
he flight to Bridgetown was uneventful. I stepped off the cool airplane into a curtain of heat. After clearing immigration, I walked into the terminal where Captain Mike Rankin was waiting for me, ready to escort me to the yacht. Rankin, wearing his white captain's uniform, was a tall, nice-looking, middle-aged man, with thick, shiny brown hair, an even tan, and an affable, if slightly nervous manner. A steward from the boat saw to my luggage. As we drove to the harbor in a spacious black van, Captain Rankin asked me how my trip was, and once again expressed his condolences to me over Larry's death. He didn't say much else, and he seemed ill at ease.

We reached the dock and walked down the main pier to a waiting tender. I sat with the captain in the motor boat as it skimmed past the muddy harbor water toward the clear aquamarine sea. Suddenly, there she was,
The Lady C
, floating on the water, big, white, and placid, like a great iceberg. There was something sinister about her, and I suspected that, just like her namesake, this lady, too, had many secrets. The tender headed straight for her and eased its way up alongside the stern. A crew member extended his hand to me and I hopped onto the large platform at the back of the yacht. Captain Rankin jumped out after me, then led the way up the steps to the main deck.

As I climbed those stairs, a vivid picture of Carla Cole flashed through my mind. There she was, standing above me, hand extended, just like she had been the night of the bridal dinner, ablaze in turquoise and diamonds, gracious to a fault, the perfect hostess about to commit the perfect crime. None of her guests could possibly have imagined then what she was planning to do to her husband that night. What was on her mind all the while that party was going on? What did she see when she looked at Russell across the table, knowing she was about to kill him? Or was she so cold-blooded that she was able to relax and enjoy herself and live in the moment? Certainly, it proved my theory that you can never tell what people are truly thinking at parties.

Several members of the crew, wearing their starched, white uniforms, stood at attention in a line on the deck waiting to greet me. The captain introduced me to each one as I shook his or her hand. I knew they were looking me over with perhaps even more scrutiny than usual, as I'm sure it was a rare occurrence to have a single guest charter a yacht that could accommodate at least sixteen guests.

“And this is the purser, who is also my wife, Nancy,” the captain said, as we reached the last person in line.

Nancy Rankin was a good ten years younger than her husband, somewhere in her early thirties. She was a lithe, broad-shouldered woman—one of those all-American girls whose tanned good looks and athletic body proclaim a love of the outdoors. Her straight brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but wisps of it fell over a pair of blue eyes that crinkled around the edges when she smiled. She, too, seemed oddly ill at ease.

Captain Rankin informed me that my luggage would be taken to my cabin and unpacked for me, if I wished. I accepted the offer, pleased that the old-fashioned standards of service still existed on board this yacht. Then he and Nancy offered to show me around, in part so I could choose which cabin I wanted. Nancy gently reminded me I wouldn't be needing my shoes from now on. Most footwear was forbidden on the sleek decks of the yacht, and was unnecessary on the carpeted interiors. I took off my shoes and placed them in a large wicker basket set aside for that purpose. The weather was wiltingly hot and it was a relief to go inside where air-conditioning kept the temperature comfortably cool.

It was strange being on board again after all this time, and after all that had happened. Viewing her now, I thought
The Lady C
less of a lap of luxury and more of a crime scene. To the best of my recollection, the décor of the rooms was exactly the same as it had been the night of the bridal dinner, yet the ambiance was totally different—more utilitarian somehow. Then I realized that, of course, it was because the great paintings were gone. In their place, mounted in the same frames on the wall, were large color photographs of exotic places from all around the world. Though striking and decorative, they could not re-create the shimmering, jewel-like atmosphere I remembered. How could they? Even an impressive shot of the Lake Palace Hotel in Udaipur hanging above the mantelpiece in the library looked cheap compared to the haunting Gauguin of two Tahitian women bathing in a river that had once hung in its place. Without the great paintings to enhance it, the profound beauty of the interior was gone. No longer a floating museum, it was now just another rich man's boat.

Since I had my pick of the rooms, I chose Carla's old suite, with its faux boiserie and light colors; it was much warmer and cozier than Russell's dark, minimalist abode. Two young stewardesses unpacked my bags for me, leaving me free to relax. Captain Rankin asked if I would mind setting sail right away. I had no objections.

A short time later, we were under way, moving majestically through the water. I lay down and fell asleep, lulled by the rhythms and hums of the boat. When I awoke, we were anchored in a secluded cove. The tropical evening was descending in a pale purple veil.

As I dressed for dinner, I was impressed by all the luxurious touches in Carla's old suite, particularly those in the palatial marble bathroom, with its gold-plated fixtures in the shape of swans. The large room was virtually a miniature spa, with a steam bath, Jacuzzi, bidet, sunken tub, and a separate cabinet for the toilet, which looked amusingly like a tiny throne room, all gilded and hand-painted with heraldic crests. I thought about Carla, in particular what she had said to me the day Russell disappeared, “I always hated that boat.” There was such coldness in her voice. But it seemed to me she had a point. Luxurious as it was, there was something claustrophobic about being on a yacht. Though sailing gives the illusion of great freedom because you can go anywhere you want, the fact of the matter is you're still a captive in a confined space—however splendid that space may be. As I soaked in the tub, I thought of how Carla must have languished there herself on many an occasion, fearing she was doomed to spend the rest of her life aboard
The Lady C,
traveling the world with a moody, melancholy man.

T
he Rankins were waiting for me in the main salon promptly at eight thirty. They had both dressed for the occasion—he in a blue blazer and white trousers, she in white pants and a pale blue silk blouse. With her hair in a chignon, Nancy Rankin's wholesome beauty seemed more sophisticated, less girlish. They were a handsome couple, demonstrably fond of each other. I felt a twinge of envy. We all had a glass of champagne and talked about the weather and other polite pleasantries. But underneath the banter, I felt a thread of tension, as if they were purposely avoiding what was really on their minds.

It was a balmy night, so we ate outside on deck. The long dining table was elegantly set with crystal candlesticks, white china, and a vivid spray of tropical flowers, a dramatic contrast to the highly polished dark wood. Scattered lights on the distant mainland pricked the deepening twilight. We were served dinner by two stewardesses, whom I encouraged to keep the wine flowing. The conversation was stilted at first, but as the meal progressed we talked more about Russell Cole. The Rankins seemed impressed that I was an old friend of his—someone who had known him before he was married to Carla. Whenever Carla's name came up, they glanced at each other, and I got the distinct feeling that they didn't like her at all. But they were not very forthcoming and finally, over coffee, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I said, “Now, Captain Rankin, what was so urgent that you had to get me down here right away?”

Rankin and his wife exchanged looks of concern. He cleared his throat.

“We have a saying on board, Mrs. Slater. What happens on the yacht,
stays
on the yacht.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Just what it says. Things that are said and done and seen here
remain
here. They go no further.”

“Well, if you're worried that I'm going to say anything to anyone about what you have to tell me, I'm not. Believe me. In fact, I was hoping you'd answer a few questions for me in confidence. But you go first.”

They glanced at each other again.

“We have something we'd like to show you, Mrs. Slater,” Rankin said, rising abruptly from the table.

I followed the couple down two flights of stairs to one of the guest rooms. The captain unlocked the door. It was dark inside. For a moment, I had a terrible feeling that this was all a setup, and that something bad was going to happen to me. Nancy must have sensed my apprehension because she whispered, “Don't be afraid, Mrs. Slater.”

Rankin flicked a switch on the wall. A soft glow suffused the large pale room. A man was asleep in the king-size bed. We all quietly drew near and looked down at the sleeping figure. He was an old man with long, matted hair, and a scruffy, brownish beard. His skin was blotched and leathery from the sun. His closed eyes were sunk deep into gaunt cheeks. His mouth was open slightly and his face contorted in bouts of fitful snoring.

I looked at Rankin questioningly. “Who's that?” I whispered.

“Don't you recognize him?” Rankin asked, looking at me with a meaningful gaze.

And, of course, the minute he said this, I understood who was lying there in front of me, unrecognizable as he was. I leaned down and peered at him more closely, unable to believe that the pathetic creature asleep in bed was none other than Russell Cole.

I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp. I stood gazing at him for a long moment. All the life and moisture had been sucked out of him. Even in his sleep, his face seemed coated with suffering. Gone were the boyish looks and the dapper demeanor of the youthful middle-aged man I had once known. In their place was a frail, exhausted soul.

Rankin motioned me to follow him out of the cabin. Nancy stayed behind, adjusting the bedcovers. I followed the captain upstairs to the grand salon, where a steward fixed us both drinks. God knows I needed one. Rankin dismissed the steward so we could talk alone.

“Does the crew know who he is?” I asked.

“I haven't announced it, but I'm sure they've guessed. I don't want it getting out—not yet.”

“Tell me the story. What happened? How on earth did he get here?”

“Two days ago, we were refueling in Bridgetown and this dock bum was hanging around, staring at the yacht. He was dressed in rags. He looked like one of those crazy people you see sometimes on these docks. Hapless, hopeless souls. He was working on a trader and I'm always nervous about those guys when they come near the yacht.”

“What's a trader?”

“A trader boat is one of those island-hopping rust buckets. They carry all different kinds of cargo from island to island. a lot of criminals work those boats: drug runners, thieves, ex-cons, fugitives. Probably some terrorists nowadays. The captains don't ask any questions as long as you put in a hard day's work. We always steer clear of 'em. . . . Anyway, he went away, but I remembered him. And then the next thing I know, he sneaked aboard.”

“How?”

“Oh, it's not too hard on a yacht this size, believe it or not, particularly if you know the boat. He was wandering around below and the first mate was in the process of throwing him off when I came down. When I saw his eyes, that was when I knew it was Mr. Cole. I didn't let on, though. We took him to a guest suite and tried to give him something to eat, but he was too ill. I told the crew we'd let him stay until he was well enough to leave. But, as I said, I think several of them guessed who it was.”

Rankin sipped his drink.

“You think he's been working on one of those boats all this time?”

He shrugged. “Could be . . . sure. And then seeing the yacht again triggered something in him. I tell you, Mrs. Slater, in one of my very first talks with Mr. Cole after he hired me as captain, he told me about his condition. Well, he had to, didn't he? In case he ever disappeared. The fear was always with him, like people who have epilepsy or narcolepsy—they never know when they're going to have a seizure. So they have to prepare the people around them in case it ever happens. I asked him what I should do if, God forbid, he ever did disappear. The one thing he told me definitely
not
to do was to move the boat. I remember he said to me, ‘Mike, whatever you do,
don't go anywhere.
Send out search parties, but don't go anywhere. Just wait for me to come home.' Mr. Cole was always afraid that one day he might get lost for good. He told me that people afflicted with this condition can vanish for weeks, months, even years if there's nothing to remind them of who they were or where they came from. He told me he worked as a bagger in a supermarket during one of these episodes. He was quite funny about it. He said he felt something was missing, but he didn't really understand it was his entire life.”

“But if something
does
trigger their memory . . . ?”

“Then they can come home,” Rankin said. “That's what happened to Mr. Cole this time. He saw
The Lady C
, and he came aboard.”

“But he has no idea where he's been?”

“He has no idea about anything at the moment. He's just babbling.”

“So I guess this means that he really did have an episode, after all. Mr. Locket and I were convinced that Mrs. Cole had somehow done away with him.”

Rankin pinned me with a hard gaze. “Don't be so sure she didn't try.”

“What do you mean?”

Rankin put down his drink. “In my last conversation with Mr. Locket, he mentioned something to me about a set of plans and a secret room . . . ?”

“Yes! That's why we chartered the boat. Larry wanted to see if we could find that room and maybe dig up some evidence of a crime.
Is
there a secret room?”