Dark Passage (13 page)

Georgina made sweeping motions with her hands. ‘Shoo, shoo! Don't worry about me. That's why God invented room service.'

Since we missed it, Ruth and I had a late lunch – a proper fish and chips – at the Frog and Onion Pub, a building reclaimed out of the cooperage of the old fort. The shopping arcade in the clock tower offered porcelain, fine china and crystal, silverware, Harris Tweed jackets, and the kinds of Scottish woolen goods typical of duty-free shops everywhere, and were of absolutely no interest to me. I was much more taken with the charming boutiques that featured local art and crafts, and I managed to pick up a few souvenirs for the grandkids at a shop called Bermuda Triangle. With a name like Bermuda Triangle, how could I resist?

At the Dockyard Glassworks I bought a rum cake for Paul, then spent a good hour drooling over the pieces on sale at Bermuda Clayworks. My credit card would take a major hit, but I couldn't resist one of Joe Faulkner's contemporary salt glaze ceramics – a whimsical, tilted teapot with a teal-colored, orange-peel texture.

Carrying our shopping bags, Ruth and I visited the visitors' information center near the ferry landing, weaving our way to the ticket counter through untidy racks of overpriced souvenir hats and T-shirts. We bought four three-day bus and ferry passes that would allow us to explore the island at our leisure. By then we were exhausted, and a proper English tea was in order. Fortunately, there was a tea room nearby.

The next day, with Julie up and about, but still looking a little green around the gills, we all ventured ashore.

As punishment for her poor judgment at poolside the previous day, Georgina had banned Julie from participating in the teen excursions she'd previously signed up for. Missing the glass- bottom boat cruise wasn't a particular heartbreak, but when her mother yanked her out of the teen swim with the dolphins excursion, too, the lesson stung.

To her credit, though, Julie took the two days we'd set aside to explore Bermuda as an opportunity to rehabilitate herself in our eyes, tagging along with the adults and at least pretending that she wasn't embarrassed to be seen in our company. ‘We promise not to bore you with talk about income taxes and the stock market,' I told my niece as we were passing through ship's security in order to disembark.

From King's Wharf, we took the ferry to historic St George, where we picked up a pocket map of the town at the King's Square Visitor's Center not far from a huge bronze sculpture of George Somers, who founded the place in 1609 when his ship,
Sea Venture
, wrecked on a nearby reef. We strolled along the narrow lanes, exploring Bridge House and the Old Carriage House before stumbling onto Somers Garden, named after old George himself.

We toured the quiet garden – sunk several feet below street level and thoughtfully planted with native specimens – pausing at a charming little moon gate to take pictures.

‘ “Somers intended to return to Bermuda to collect additional provisions for the Virginians in Jamestown,” ' Ruth read from the brochure we'd picked up, ‘ “however, he died on the return voyage. In the event of his death he asked to be buried in Bermuda. His nephew partially honored the request by taking out Somers' heart and entrails and burying them …” ' Ruth paused and caught Julie's eye. ‘You'll like this, Julie. Says here that the nephew sent his uncle's body back to England in a barrel of rum but buried his innards here.'

Julie looked up from her iPhone and rolled her eyes. ‘Gross.'

‘The amount of time you spend on your iPhone, Julie, anyone would think you're bored,' Ruth teased.

Julie glanced up again from the tiny screen. ‘Bored? Nuh uh. When I'm bored I send a text message to a random number saying, like, ‘ “Don't worry, I've hidden the body” ' or ‘ “I'm pregnant.” ' But she tucked the phone into her pocket. ‘Signal's not very strong here, anyway, Aunt Hannah. I was just playing Bejeweled.'

‘She spends
hours
playing that game,' her mother complained.

As for me, I could have spent hours exploring perfect little St Peters Church on Duke of York Street, built in 1612 and the oldest Anglican Church in the western hemisphere. When we'd exhausted the possibilities at St Peters, the church warden on duty, a white-haired, grandmotherly type, directed us up the hill to the Unfinished Church, a massive Gothic revival ruin perched, cathedral-like, on a hill overlooking the sea. With its towering stone walls, brick columns, grassy floor, and only the sky for a roof, it was the sort of atmospheric ruin, like Tintern Abbey, that sends poets and painters into creative spasms. I had to confess that it warmed my unapologetically Anglophilian heart.

‘Was it wrecked by a hurricane?' Julie wanted to know.

‘Worse than that. The parishioners squabbled for years over the money it was costing. In the end, it was never finished. Just sat here, abandoned. Hurricanes since then have done the rest.'

Ignoring well-placed signs that warned visitors against venturing inside the crumbling ruin, Julie dashed down the grassy strip that had once been the nave, spinning like a ballerina.

‘Julie Lynn, get back here!' Georgina called half-heartedly, but she was smiling when she said it.

Julie skipped back in our direction. ‘This would be a cool place to have a wedding,' she said breathlessly, then stopped in her tracks. Something over my shoulder had apparently caught her attention. ‘Say, aren't they those people from the ship?'

I turned to see where she was pointing. A group of around twenty was straggling up the steep grade of Government Hill Road. ‘I think every tourist in town today is from the ship, Julie. Which people in particular?'

‘The ones from Maine.'

I pushed my sunglasses up on my forehead and squinted into the crowd. Indeed, Cliff and Liz Rowe were chugging our way, leading the ragged pack. The photographer, Buck Carney, trailed along after them, like a caboose.

We hadn't seen Cliff or Liz for a couple of days, so when they reached the church a few minutes later, we invited them to join us for coffee after they finished touring the ruin. ‘Or are you obliged to stick with the group?' I inquired.

‘Not at all,' Liz laughed. ‘And I'd welcome a little vacation from some of them, to tell the truth. See that woman in the yellow slicker over there? Honestly, I don't see why she even bothers to leave the ship. “Can't drink the water, can't eat the food, don't know what I'd do without my canned tuna and Tang,” ' Liz quoted. ‘She's impossible.'

I had to laugh. ‘You've been to St George before?'

‘Several times. Why?'

‘We've invited you for coffee, but we don't have the vaguest idea where to go to get some!'

‘Well, you're in luck,' Cliff said, waving his arm in a forward-ho kind of way. ‘Follow me.'

Cliff led us back down Government Hill Road to an unpretentious luncheonette on York Street called Temptations Two. We placed our orders at the counter, then squeezed ourselves around a table normally reserved for four by the window, not far from the bottled drink coolers.

‘I haven't seen much of David Warren, lately,' I said. ‘Has he been to dinner?'

Liz nodded. ‘Every night, but he still doesn't talk much.'

‘Do you think he's been going on any of the excursions?'

‘I very much doubt it,' Cliff huffed. ‘The man's on a mission. Thinks he's Sherlock blinking Holmes, but frankly, he's not cut out for it.'

‘I told him he should hire a private detective,' Liz chimed in. ‘He said he already had. The P.I. took every penny he had, and came up with virtually nothing. So David hired another one, some hotshot P.I. from Miami. Even took out a second mortgage, and cashed in one of his IRAs to pay the guy.'

‘And …?' I prodded.

Cliff shrugged. ‘Don't know. He's still on David's payroll, as far as I know. Throwing good money after bad, if you ask me.'

‘Sad,' Ruth said. ‘The man's obsessed.'

‘He is,' Liz agreed, ‘but if it were my daughter who'd disappeared under similar circumstances, I'd be obsessed, too.'

Thinking about Emily, I had to agree. ‘What does he hope to do on the ship while everyone else is ashore?' I wondered aloud.

Liz shrugged. ‘He told me he was staying on board in order to pursue some line of inquiry. Whatever that means.'

‘Means he watches too much
Law and Order
,' Cliff snorted.

I rested my elbows on the table and leaned forward so I could speak without the other customers overhearing. ‘What I don't get is this: let's say it wasn't an accident – that, for whatever reason, his daughter
was
murdered and tossed overboard. Let's also assume, as David seems to do, that the person or persons responsible for Charlotte's murder got away with it and are now travelling aboard the
Islander
.'

Everyone nodded. They were with me so far.

‘So, assuming I am the murderer, and I find out that my victim's father is on board the same ship and, furthermore, that he is on to me … what do I do?'

I didn't realize that Julie was paying any attention until she glanced up from the game on her iPhone and said, ‘Bash him on the head and dump him overboard, too.'

I leaned back in my chair, gently patting Julie's ponytail as if she were a good little puppy. ‘Exactly. That's precisely what I'd do.'

‘Maybe that's why he's keeping such a low profile,' Ruth said.

‘A low profile isn't going to cut it,' I said. ‘What he needs to do is shake things up a little. And watch his back.' Using a spoon, I scooped the foam out of the bottom of my cup.

Ruth fixed me with a narrow-eyed stare. ‘Hannah, you're not going to get involved, are you?'

I paused, took a breath, poised to protest in a no-of-course-not sort of way, but I was already lying awake at night worrying about David, wondering about Charlotte, reviewing scenarios, pondering who Pia's ‘usual suspects' were and scribbling lists of possible suspects I'd seen at the Neptune Club reception on the pages of my mind. At lunch the other day, David had responded to my offer of help with a perfunctory don't-call-us-we'll-call-you, but he'd been smiling when he said it, and I took that as a sign of encouragement.

‘I think I already am,' I answered truthfully. ‘I can't get what happened to Charlotte out of my mind. If it had been Emily …' I couldn't go on. I took another breath and let it out slowly. ‘If there
is
a murderer on board the
Islander
, Ruth, he's certainly not going to stand up, wave his hand and shout, “Look, it's me, over here!” That's all I'm saying.'

Ruth skewered me with her eyes. ‘Unless someone rattles his cage.'

I smiled. ‘You might well think that, but I couldn't possibly comment.'

The return ferry deposited us back at King's Wharf with an hour and a half to spare before departure time. Rather than head straight to the ship, we decided to visit the Clock Tower Mall since Georgina had missed it when she stayed in to nurse Julie through a lulu of a hangover the previous day.

I was fingering a gorgeous teal-colored silk pashmina when the first crack appeared in Julie's Dear Dutiful Daughter façade. ‘I'm bored,' she whined.

‘How about a Bob Marley T-shirt?' her mother suggested.

Julie heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘I'd rather have that rainbow hat with the rasta braids. Not!'

Ruth returned the painted bowl she had been checking for a price tag back to the shelf. ‘I'm bored, too, Julie. How about we go for Häagen Dazs, just you and me? Nannini's is just at the end of the hall.'

Julie took off in a cloud of dust, with Ruth trailing along behind. After they'd gone, Georgina and I gathered up our purchases – a pashmina for me and a pair of wooden candlesticks for her – and took them to the counter.

I was rooting around in my handbag for my credit card when Georgina whispered, ‘Don't look now, Hannah, but there he is again.'

‘Who?' I asked, handing my VISA card over to the cashier.

‘That photographer,' Georgina said, indicating the next shop over with a jerk of her head.

I craned my neck in order to see over a rack of embroidered tablecloths.

Buck Carney stood framed by a display of ethnic masks. I wondered vaguely what ‘ethnic' meant in the context of Bermuda; the masks all wore expressions that ranged from startled to horrified and, unless I was badly mistaken, had been carved out of trees by natives in the Congo.

As I watched, Carney snapped another picture, then lowered his camera. He grinned sheepishly and waggled his fingers in my direction – Hi-How-Are-Ya? – then trained his lens unconvincingly on an elderly couple trying on hats.

‘So I see.'

‘He looms, Hannah, like Snoopy on the doghouse. I wish I had never said it was OK to take my picture.'

‘Why don't you tell him to go away?'

‘I tried to. Yesterday he followed me and Julie, and I asked him to stop. Taking my photo is one thing, but I don't want him hanging round Julie. He took on such a sad-eyed, kicked puppy look that I didn't have the heart to say anything further when I saw him snapping away again. It's just a camera, after all, not a gun.'

I remembered thinking something along the same lines when I had originally encountered Buck at the pool, but that didn't stop me from feeling guilty for not acting on my unease at the time. We gathered up our bags and wandered out of the shop, heading in the direction of the ice-cream parlor. There was plenty to mull over and, lost in thought, we walked quietly until we reached a scented-candle shop, where Georgina paused outside for a moment. ‘Just what the cruise lines want in their pictorial book, huh? Redhead Sunbathing. Redhead Strolling With Daughter. Redhead Exiting Restroom.'

‘You're kidding.'

‘I am,' Georgina said with a chuckle, ‘but only just.'