Dark Passage (10 page)

David grinned, his amiable nature fully restored, and toasted me with his water glass.

‘Paul and I enjoy cruising, David, but this trip was supposed to be all about the sisters.' I indicated the empty chair. ‘Unfortunately, Georgina seems to be avoiding us lately.' I grinned across the table at Ruth. ‘I hope it wasn't something I said.'

We sat in companionable silence for a while. I was sipping my tsipouro cautiously, waiting for the right moment to bring up the delicate subject of Charlotte when Ruth swooped in again, this time for the kill. ‘Do you have any children, David?'

If her question upset him, there was no sign. ‘I had a daughter, but she died,' he said simply.

‘I have a daughter, too,' I told him, ‘and just to
think
about losing her is a pain beyond bearing.' I wondered if I should press him, but his response had been so blunt, so matter-of-fact that I thought I'd risk it. ‘Several years ago, my infant grandson was kidnapped, and the agony we went through before he was returned safely to our daughter's arms was indescribable.'

There was a short silence then, as if David were sizing us up. ‘Charlotte worked on a cruise ship,' he confided at last. ‘A sister ship to this one called the Phoenix
Voyager
. Somehow, she went overboard. But there's more to it than that, I know,' he declared, a steely edge creeping into his voice. ‘Much, much more.'

I reached across the table and laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I'm so sorry, David. Did they ever find …?'

Anticipating my question, David cut me off. ‘Charlotte's body? Yes. Many months later, on Little Cayman. When the phone call came, that was the day that my wife took her own life. Until then …' He let out a slow breath; his Adam's apple pumped up and down as he swallowed, hard. ‘Well, until then Elise could talk herself into believing that Charlotte was still alive, that she'd somehow managed to swim ashore. Perhaps living a Robinson Crusoe existence somewhere on a remote island, surviving on breadfruit, coconut and bananas, weaving clothing out of palm fronds.'

David sank back in his chair, spread his arms wide. ‘I can tell by the expressions on your faces that you're wondering what this crazy old man is up to. Well, I'm here because something very fishy was happening on that ship.' He sat up straight, fire in his eyes. ‘I'm fed up to here with the cruise line,' he snapped. ‘They've been stonewalling me since day one and I've run out of patience. I'm going to find out what
really
happened to my daughter. That phone call she was seen making?' he continued. ‘It was to my wife and me.' The stony determination in his eyes turned to agony. ‘Every day for the rest of my life, I'll have to live with the fact that when the phone rang at five in the morning, I simply turned over and let voicemail pick up. We'll never know what Charlotte was going to tell us, but whatever it was, I believe that she died for it.'

The sheer pain in David's eyes and his story was making it hard for me to keep my own emotions in check, but I managed to blurt out, ‘When you didn't pick up, did Charlotte leave a message?'

‘She did, and that's why I'm here. I can remember every word.' He screwed up his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘ “Something bad is going on, Dad, and I need your advice. Call me back, OK? I don't know what to do. Love you.” '

Just like a character in a B movie, I thought, to leave a cryptic message rather than coming right out and saying whatever was on her mind. Why is it never, ‘Charlie's robbing the company blind,' or ‘Henry slipped cyanide into Sandra's drink?' It would certainly save the police a lot of time should the whistleblower end up dead, like poor Charlotte Warren.

‘When we listened to the message, I called her back right away, of course, but the phone went to voicemail. I simply figured she was out of range – it happened all the time on the cruise ships – but when Charlotte never called us back, I worried. We didn't get the call from the captain until three days later. Basically he told us that he didn't know what had happened to our daughter.'

‘Three days after she disappeared?' Ruth sat back in shock. ‘What the heck were they waiting for?'

David slumped wearily against the cushions, the energy percolating out of him as he spoke to us now spent, leaving him looking drained. ‘They suspected she was hiding somewhere on the ship, I suppose. Even the surveillance tapes weren't conclusive.'

I asked David the same question I had asked Pia earlier. ‘If Charlotte disappeared from the
Voyager
, why are you sailing on
this
ship, David?'

David smiled cryptically. ‘I'm following up on a hunch. It may be a complete waste of time, but I owe it to Charlotte – and to Elise – to pursue it.'

My antennae began to twitch, and before I or anyone else could stop me the words had already escaped from my mouth: ‘If there's anything we can do to help …' David looked so unbearably sad, I wanted to get up out of my chair and hug him. ‘Really, I mean it.'

‘Take it from me,' Ruth chimed in. ‘When Hannah's curiosity is piqued, there's no stopping her. It's easier to take a mouse away from a cat.'

David managed a weak smile and nodded, although his response was perfunctory. ‘Thanks. I'll be sure to let you know.'

‘[Houdini's] most famous escapes, like being locked inside a giant-sized milk can or shoved upside-down into the tall, narrow aquarium of water he called the Chinese Water Torture Cell, were thrilling examples of showmanship … The audience seemed to sense that they were watching something extraordinary, and more than a few have commented on the odd sensation of being in the audience when – those in attendance suddenly remind themselves – something might go wrong.'

Jim Steinmeyer,
Hiding the Elephant
,
Da Capo, 2004, p. 9

O
ur dinnertime conversation with David had depressed me more than I could say, reminding me, as it did, of our own family's journey through despair when our grandson, Timmy, disappeared.

When Ruth and I arrived at the Orpheus Theater, Georgina and Julie were already there. My heart did a little dance when I saw them. From where we stood, ranks of comfortable red plush velvet chairs were arranged in tiered semicircles facing an enormous stage, and Georgina had snagged premium seats in the second row.

‘Good job!' I said as we eased into the row.

‘They even have little tables for our drinks!' Julie chirped, setting her glass of something clear and bubbly – Sprite, I presumed – down on the small round table that separated her chair from mine.

A server appeared immediately, so we ordered drinks all around, and settled in.

In spite of what Pia had told me about the comedian, I was looking forward to the performance. I recognized his name from the Comedy Channel – Tony Malone – but with the exception of a short stint on
Comic Relief
, I'd never seen his act.

At the appointed hour, Malone exploded from the wings onto the stage, literally tackling the standing microphone as he passed.

‘A funny thing happened on my way to the theater …' He paused, anticipating the groans of the audience, and we didn't disappoint.

When we quieted down, he continued, ‘You're not going to believe it, but two vultures got on board my plane, and each was carrying two dead raccoons. The stewardess looks at them and says, “I'm sorry, gentlemen, only one carrion allowed per passenger.”'

I had to laugh, but then, I'm a sucker for puns.

‘Last night I was told that some passengers complained because of my material. Too adult, they said, a little too blue. Holy cow, I said, didn't they see my act on television? Who were they expecting, Mother Theresa?' Shading his eyes with a hand, Malone squinted beyond the spotlights and into the audience. ‘So, any children out there tonight?'

Julie squirmed, making herself small in the chair as if hoping she'd not be singled out as a ‘child.'

When I looked around, about a dozen small hands were raised.

‘OK, OK,' the comedian continued, ‘so this is for the kiddies. What do policemen eat for dessert?' He paused for a few beats, then shouted, ‘Cop cakes!'

Encouraged by a smattering of pint-sized laughter, he forged on with additional ‘clean' material. ‘A couple of years ago, I heard this knock at my front door. I open it, right, but nobody there. So I start to close the door, when I spot a snail on the doorstep. I pick up the snail and throw in it the trash. Two years later I hear another knock at the door. Again, nobody there except this damn snail. You know what he says? “So what was that all about?” '

Beat. Beat. ‘
Ba-da-bing!'

A few people laughed, but I suspected most of them didn't get the joke.

Malone changed tactics. ‘The captain tells me that we have an international group of passengers aboard this cruise, practically a United Nations. Any Americans out there?'

We raised our hands, as did about half the audience.

‘Brits?' he continued.

Maybe twenty hands shot up.

‘Canadians? Australians?' He shaded his eyes and peered into the audience. ‘
No
Australians? Good, so did you hear about the Olympic gold medal winner from Australia? He loved his medal so much he had it bronzed!'

Malone launched into a series of one-liners – ‘How does Moses make his tea? Hebrews it!' – like an old-fashioned baggy-pants comic.

I was rapidly losing the will to live.

Julie slouched in her chair. Even in the darkened theater, I could see she was pouting. ‘This is so lame,' she said at last.

‘I quite agree,' I whispered, ‘but I have it on good authority that the magician will be better.'

She jiggled the straw up and down in her Sprite, then drained the glass noisily. ‘As if.'

By that time, Malone had lost most of the audience. The noise level in the theater gradually rose as people began talking, or making their way to the bar, and Malone had to shout to be heard over them.

‘Did you hear about the dyslexic devil worshiper?' he yelled. ‘He sold his soul to Santa!'

After ten excruciating minutes where I was wishing – no, praying – for a shepherd's crook to extend from the wings, hook this clown by the neck and drag him off stage, it was finally over. The curtain rang down, the lights came up, and servers materialized from every corner of the room to take our drink orders.

‘I think I need a double,' Ruth groaned.

Julie perched on the edge of her chair and turned to her mom. ‘Do I
have
to stay? They're showing part two of
Breaking Dawn
in the outdoor theater tonight.'

‘Haven't you seen
Breaking Dawn
numerous times already, Julie?'

‘Well, yeah, but I could look at Robert Pattinson all day … you know? Please, Mom!'

For some reason, Georgina looked at me. ‘Do you think I should let her go up on her own?'

Before I could weigh in with my two cents, Julie quietly erupted. ‘Mother,' she moaned, ‘I am
not
a child!'

Georgina patted her daughter's bare knee. ‘I know you aren't, sweetheart. Are you sure you know where you're going?'

Sensing victory, Julie was already on her feet. ‘Of course I do. I've been all over this ship.'

Georgina checked her watch. ‘OK, but be sure you're back in the room by eleven-thirty. And Julie?' She reached out and grabbed her daughter's hand, dragging the girl backward. ‘Don't make me come looking for you.'

Julie bent down and brushed her mother's cheek lightly with her lips. ‘Thanks, Mom.'

With a casual flip of her apricot hair, she turned and bounced up the aisle.

Georgina melted back into the upholstery. ‘I think I'll take that refill now.'

I moved into the seat that Julie had vacated and set my empty wine glass down next to Georgina's. Waving my hand, I caught the attention of a server a couple of rows over. ‘Help is on the way.'

I was in the middle of telling Georgina about our dinner with David Warren when an officer I recognized from the Neptune Club reception strolled out onto the stage – Bradford Gould, the entertainment director. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my extreme pleasure to present to you, all the way from Las Vegas, Nee-va-da, the ah-maze-zing Channing!'

From all corners of the theater, spotlights focused, blood red, on the curtain. The theme from
Star Wars
came blasting from the speakers; the curtain rose to reveal Thomas Channing, dressed in traditional tails, his lapels glittering with sequins.

Channing was older than I had expected – in his late forties or early fifties – and extraordinarily tall, perhaps six foot four. His abundant silver hair was swept straight back and glistened blue in the spotlights.

The music grew softer. On a nearby table sat a large silver ball. Channing draped the ball with a black silk cloth and we watched in amazement as it began to rise. When he held the cloth by the corners, the ball didn't drop. It began to dance, floating beneath the cloth. Slowly the ball crept up, until it was riding along the edge of the cloth, hypnotically, back and forth, back and forth. It dove under the cloth again, then up, then down as if the ball had a life of its own.

When the ball trick was over, the music changed. I recognized Zimmer's theme from
Batman the Dark Knight
. The rapid urgency of the strings, accented by the percussion and low brass, washed over us like an oncoming steam locomotive, indicating that something big was about to happen.

Pia Fanucci drifted out on the stage wearing a pink Chinese gown and carrying a parasol. While she danced with the parasol like a lover, Channing wheeled a tall upright cabinet onto the stage. He opened all the doors, Pia climbed in and, one by one, the little doors were shut over her body.