The Mountains Bow Down (10 page)

“Mom, are you feeling okay?”

“I'm a little tired.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “She talked the entire time.”

“Who?”

“Claire, on the bus. She sat next to me and talked the entire time.”

Claire, our cross to bear.

“I'm sorry.”

“How was your hike?” she asked.

I almost said
nice
. “Good. It was good.”

“You better shower,” she said, staring at the green sand under my fingernails, my wet shoes.

In the shower I scrubbed my fingernails and hummed that tune from
South Pacific
, about washing that man right out of my hair. When I stepped out, I felt renewed and cracked the door to release the steam that turned the mirror opaque with mist. The bathroom was the size of a broom closet.

And I heard the voice.

“I'm not making it up,” Claire was saying. “It's true.”

“But . . . how . . . ?” My aunt. Her words stalled. “When . . . ?”

“This morning. Remember the fat dude with the body bag? That was Judy. They found her hanging.”

“Hanging!” my mother cried.

“Yep. Hung herself last night.”

My mother gasped. “Oh my lands.”

I grabbed a white towel, pressed it to my mouth, and screamed.

Claire continued, unabated by the panic in my mother's voice. “Must have planned the whole thing. The trip, our tickets. That's what suicides do, you know. Plan everything down to the last detail. When people ask me to contact somebody who killed themself, I say—”

“Claire!” I wrapped the towel around my body, kicking open the door. “May I speak with you?”

There was a pause.

I came around the corner. “Claire?” They stood in the middle of the room, aquatic creatures lost at sea. Aunt Charlotte had the startled expression of somebody who just got bad news and was trying not to freak out. I looked at her, holding eye contact, waiting until she got my signal.

“Nadine,” she said to my mother,“I need your opinion.”

“About what?” My mother sounded scared.

“Which jewelry goes with this outfit.” My aunt gently led her through the door between our cabins. “You have such an eye for style.”

I closed the door.

Claire's curry-yellow Indian sari was three inches too long. She looked like bleached kelp. And for some reason she had a pink stone stuck to the middle of her forehead. It looked so weird I couldn't take my eyes off the thing.

“My third eye.” Claire tapped it with her finger. “But, boy, does Superglue sting.”

“You Superglued that to your forehead?”

“Be careful. Stare at it too long, you'll get hypnotized.”

I closed my eyes for different reasons and drew a deep breath. The room smelled of patchouli and my mother's panic. “How did you hear about Judy Carpenter?”

“Milo told me.”

“Milo. When?”

“When I went up there.”

“Up where?”

“To his room. Judy booked a reading for this afternoon. When she didn't show up I went to get her, and Milo totally broke down. Just lost it. He told me what happened and I decided she made the appointment so she could talk to him. You know, from the hereafter.”

Concrete wasn't this dense.

“But I don't think she's reached her final destination.”

“Pardon?”

“I told him we should try calling tomorrow.”

It was too much. The voice that sounded like a metal spoon banging an empty pot. The yellow outfit that made her squat body look like an emergency life raft. This whole idea that she could call the hereafter, like AT&T for the dead. I was drawing another deep breath, trying to measure my words, when Claire jumped into the silence.

“It's those people next door. I haven't had one good night's sleep since we got on this boat.”

“Ship.”

“What?”

“This is a ship, Claire. Not a boat.”

“Okay, whatever, but somebody needs to tell them to stop partying. I'm about to lose my mind.”

I let that one go.

“Claire.” I spoke slowly, the way Quantico taught us to talk to belligerent drug addicts. “I need a favor. A really big favor.”

She frowned. Her forehead buckled around the pink rock.

“Don't talk about Judy's death, to anyone. But especially not in front of my mom.”

She reached up, massaging the skin around the pink stone. “What's wrong with your mom anyway? I'm not being nosy. I just want to be prepared in case she's another suicide waiting to happen.”

“Nothing is wrong with her.”

“Then why's she so jumpy? And sometimes I can't understand a word she's saying.”

My mother was too nice to tell her to shut up. Instead, she was probably showering her with Southern platitudes and blessing her heart all over the place. But those manners came with a price. The strain was all over my mother's face.

“Claire, don't you think Judy would be way upset about you talking about her, instead of to her?”

She gave another frown. “You think that's why she didn't make contact?”

I released the official smile.

“Because I'm talking too much? Hey, you know, that's an idea. I need to
listen
. Okay, now I feel better.”

“And that's what matters.”

“You know, if you ever want to get in touch with your dad, just say the word.”

Feeling a shiver run up my spine, I opened the door separating our cabins. Claire trundled away. Airy flute music was playing in my aunt's cabin, some South American woodwinds, and the volume was turned up to block my mother from overhearing my conversation with Claire. I caught Aunt Charlotte's eye, silently thanking her. My mother sat on one of the twin beds, watching her sister-in-law model jewelry.

I pulled on a sleeveless black velvet tank with black pants and three-inch black heels. Stepping into the bathroom, I combed my wet hair into a sleek ponytail, added mascara and pearl earrings. I was no girlie-girl, but I loved being a girl. I was finishing my lipstick when somebody knocked on the door. “I'm almost done!”

“There's somebody here for you,” my mother said.

Once again the three women stood in the middle of the cabin. Only now they gaped at the open cabin door.

Turning, I followed their gaze.

The black tux was tailored to his muscular frame. I hated to admit it, but he looked good. No. He looked
amazing
. He'd even shaved and combed his hair, and I was trying to figure out how he got that tux into his duffel bag without wrinkling it when Aunt Charlotte breathed her own declaration: “Yum.”

My mother simply stared.

Amid the hail of hair spray and evening attire—not to mention Claire—I forgot to deploy my latest fabrication. With a smile plastered on my face, I introduced each of the ladies to Jack. It was discouraging to see that his manners were impeccable.

“How do you know Raleigh?” My mother shook his hand.

“We used to work together,” I interjected. That was true. “We ran into each other this afternoon.”

“On the hike?”

“Right,” I said, before Jack could reply.

“You're a geologist?” my mother asked.

“Geologist? No, ma'am. I'm a special a—”

“A specialist on glaciers.” I grabbed my purse. “Jack's specialty is glaciers. He's a glaciologist. Freezing cold atmospheres. So cold, it's cruel.” I leaned down, kissing my mother's soft cheek. Her beautiful eyes were confused and stabbed my heart. “If you need anything, I have my cell.”

“You're not eating with us?” she asked.

“Jack needs some help with his research on Alaskan glaciers.” I waved good-bye, shoving Jack into the hallway, slamming the door shut.

“What was all that about?” he asked.

I jogged down the hallway. When necessary, it is possible to run fast in three-inch heels.

“Harmon, what's going on?”

“Just stick to the story, okay?”

“But your mom thinks—”

I picked up the pace.

But he stopped.

When I turned, he was standing in the hallway, looking genuinely shocked.

“She doesn't know,” he said. “Your mother. She doesn't know you're an FBI agent.”

Unable to speak, I headed for the elevators and kept my head down, sending up more desperate prayers for forgiveness, wondering when God would get as tired of me as I was.

Chapter Eight

Y
ou look nice,” Jack said.

I lifted the menu, hiding my face. My cheeks felt hot, suddenly. It was the run in heels, I decided. That's all.

“What are you going to order?” he asked.

The same thing I'd ordered two nights in a row, though I pretended to scan the menu until our waiter appeared. His name was Paolo, from Naples. He asked us what we'd like to drink.

“Coke, no crushed ice.”

“Club soda,” Jack said. “Two limes.”

That happened to be my second-favorite drink.

“Would it be possible to order dinner now?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Paolo. “I thought you wanted some time with your fiancé.”

He smiled, full of Mediterranean romance, and glanced discreetly at my engagement ring. I was about to explain—Look, buddy, my fiancé's in Virginia—when I suddenly wondered if Geert had come up with some ruse to explain Jack's presence onboard. One more way for security to cover up the FBI investigation.

“Thank you, but we're in a hurry to get somewhere tonight.”

Paolo slid his eyes toward Jack, then lifted his eyebrows with insinuation. “Tonight,” he said, “we have oysters.”

“No thanks,” I said. “Filet mignon, medium rare. Baked potato, loaded.”

“And for the vegetable?”

“Chives on the potato.”

Paolo hesitated.

“They're not a vegetable,” I agreed. “But they're green.”

“Very good, miss.” He turned to Jack. “For you, sir?”

“The same.”

“Excellent.” Collecting our menus, Paolo bowed and left.

I took one of the warm rolls from the bread basket.

“I'm a geologist,” Jack said. “And I'm your fiancé. This trip gets better and better.”

Tearing the bread in half, I thanked God, even for annoyances. I slathered two pats of butter on half a roll.

He said, “Do you prefer ‘sweetheart' or ‘honey'?”

“Here's the deal, Jack. My mom doesn't know I'm an agent—”

“Why not?”

“If you'll be quiet I'll tell you. She worries, and I don't like her to worry.”

“So you told her you're a geologist?” he asked, incredulous.

“I have a degree in geology. I worked in the mineralogy lab.”

“Harmon, almost true is not true.”

“You want to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Then for the next couple days smother that huge ego of yours and pretend you're a humble geologist instead of some hotshot violent crimes agent whose belt buckle is a deadly weapon.”

He smiled. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Hiding from you.”

“I've missed you.”

“I'm serious, Jack.”

“So am I.”

Reaching into my purse, I took out the copies of the passenger list, courtesy of Geert. Paolo arrived with our drinks, and I sipped and drew circles around the names associated with the movie crew.

“How's life been in Virginia?”

I looked up. His blue-green eyes seemed brighter than I remembered.

“There are twenty-two people on this ship who are working on the movie,” I said. “They all knew Judy Carpenter, or knew of her. If we divide them equally, prioritizing interviews, we can knock this out quickly. I already talked to the producer and his wife. He says Judy Carpenter killed herself because Milo's a philandering drunk, some tabloid ran a story about it. Except we know she didn't kill herself, so our main suspect remains the husband, Milo. I tried. Now it's your turn. See if you can confirm his alibi. He claims he was—”

“That's a nice ring, something for our undercover work?”

I glanced down at the thin gold band encircled with yellow and green gems. Citrine and peridot, two of my favorites.

“I'm engaged, Jack.”

“You can't be.”

“Judy Carpenter had to know her killer. There were no signs of struggle at the crime scene. I didn't see any defensive wounds and the mortician didn't mention any. Again, that points to the husband.”

“What if the killer got off the ship in Ketchikan?”

“Everybody who got off came back on, according to Geert.”

“That crazy Dutchman can track everybody?”

“The room keys. They're scanned into the computer whenever anybody leaves or comes back. One key per person.”

“What's he like?”

“Geert's tough but I think—”

“I meant your fiancé.”

Looking away, I hoped to sever this line of questioning. I didn't want to talk about DeMott, especially not with Jack, but something even more disturbing was barreling through the dining room like a giant yellow Nerf ball.

“Oh no.”

Claire pointed at Jack. “I've seen you before!” Her metallic voice silenced the conversations at the other tables. People turned, staring. “I knew it! You're that guy from the mountain!”

Jack looked at me. “I was waiting to bring this up, but what is she doing here?”

Last fall Claire decided to “help” me with my missing persons case. When she showed up on Cougar Mountain, tracking the killer in her mind, Jack basically told her to go find her aluminum hat so the aliens could find her.

“I warned you about this guy, Raleigh. He's totally toxic.”

Jack squinted. “Is that a zit on her forehead?”

“Two nights ago I had a nightmare about sharks,” Claire continued. “Sharks were attacking us. We all died. It was a sign. Predators among us!”