Dark Passage (6 page)

Ruth grinned.

From her frown, I gathered that Georgina wasn't quite so pleased with her drink – a gorgeous, peachy-pink mai tai, loaded with fruit, but she thanked Ruth for it anyway. ‘When does the show start?' she asked, her lips pursed around the straw.

Ruth checked her watch. ‘Eight o'clock. Any minute now.'

As if the producer had overheard, the lounge lights dimmed, the spotlights flared and four middle-aged musicians – two guitarists, a pianist and a drummer – charged onto the stage. They wore white, button-free tuxedos with Nehru-style collars over electric-blue vests. Matching blue-striped ties were knotted at the necks of ordinary, pointed collar white dress shirts.

Georgina choked on her drink, coughed and whispered, ‘The
Da Doo Ron Rons
are Japanese?'

‘Korean,' Ruth corrected. ‘Or so says Wikipedia.'

I melted into my chair. ‘This should be interesting.'

‘They're a rock and roll band, so they cover tunes of the fifties, sixties and seventies,' Ruth continued while staring at the stage and absent-mindedly chasing olives around the bottom of her dry martini glass with a swizzle stick. ‘A good choice for our demographic, I should think.'

Without preamble, the combo launched into their signature tune, ‘Da Doo Ron Ron,' a faithful tribute to The Crystals rather than that young upstart, Shaun Cassidy, who covered and re-popularized the song in the late seventies. Then they segued into an equally authentic cover of the Monkees' ‘Daydream Believer' with the lead guitar channeling Davy Jones.

The lead guitarist was equally well cast as Jim Morrison. ‘Morrison could light my fire any day,' Ruth said as she flagged down a server and ordered another round. ‘His father was a navy admiral, did you know that? When Dad was stationed in San Diego they overlapped.'

I raised my glass. ‘Missed opportunity, Ruth, but then, had you actually snagged the guy, you'd have been a widow at twenty-something.'

She raised her glass. ‘True, but a rich one.'

The bass guitarist sported a Beatles-style do and managed a credible Paul McCartney, but when the voice of Elvis Presley or Roy Orbison was required, the job fell to the pianist. Alternately gravelly or sweet, the Korean's amazing voice soared effortlessly into the higher octaves in his rendition of ‘Oh, Pretty Woman' which he performed complete with Orbison's trademark dark glasses. By the time he lit into ‘Blue Suede Shoes,' the whole audience was singing along. At the end of the set, we put our drinks down on the table and clapped until our palms stung.

I went to bed that night with an earworm. Long after Ruth had turned out her light, plunging our stateroom into darkness, I lay on my back with Orbison's ‘Crying' looping through my brain.

The tune was still haunting me at breakfast the following morning –
cry-y-y-y-ing, over you, cry-y-y-y-ing, over you
– as hard to shake as ‘It's a Small World After All,' until Cliff and Liz Rowe showed up at our table and drove the melody, and all other thoughts, clean out of my head.

‘Invisibility was the ultimate concealment.'

Jim Steinmeyer,
Hiding the Elephant
,
Da Capo, 2004, p. 90

W
e'd agreed to meet for breakfast at 7.30 a.m. but that plan got shot out of the water when Julie, burrowed deep into the sheets under her duvet, had turned into a block of stone. Georgina stood in the connecting doorway, gazing back into the darkness of her own cabin. She excused her daughter with an indulgent smile. ‘Julie's not used to staying up so late, even on weekends. If Scott knew she didn't get in until almost midnight last night he'd have a conniption.'

I checked my watch; it was nearly 8.00 a.m. I was working on a headache, and if I didn't pump some caffeine into my veins pretty soon, I'd be more than grumpy. ‘Ruth and I will go on down, then. Shall we bring you something, or do you want to call room service?'

Georgina stepped all the way into our stateroom and closed the door quietly behind her. ‘I'm coming, too. Let her sleep. If she wants breakfast later she can pick up something to eat in the Firebird.'

My sisters and I headed aft toward the Oceanus dining room, conveniently located – at least for us – on deck four. We emerged from the narrow passageway into a bright, spacious lobby that was also home to the Oracle, the
Islander
's trendy wine bar. An attractive young barkeep was already at work dumping ice into large, shell-shaped basins – one at each end of the sprawling, horseshoe-shaped bar – where splits of sparkling wine would be kept properly chilled. I made a note to check out the wine bar later.

Breakfast and lunch aboard the
Islander
was open seating, but that didn't mean it was a free-for-all. We were met by the maître d', who greeted us like long-lost cousins, then handed us off to the first in a long line of servers – Paolo from Brazil, who escorted us to a table for eight near a window. Not that there was much to see. Overnight we'd sailed out of the Chesapeake Bay, past Norfolk, Virginia and into the Atlantic Ocean, well out of sight of land.

A squad of Paolo's fellow waiters materialized out of the woodwork to hold our chairs until we were seated, whip open our napkins and float them gently into our laps. Then, with a slight bow, we were each provided with a menu.

Ruth studied the menu through her reading glasses. ‘Ah, just like home.'

Georgina giggled. ‘I don't know about you guys, but I have Eggs Benedict
every
morning.'

I scanned the long list of choices – omelets, Belgian waffles, crepes, quiches, oatmeal with all the trimmings – until I came to the Eggs Benedict. ‘Ah, but are yours prepared with Coho salmon rather than ham, Georgina?'

Georgina laid her menu down. ‘The truth? In my house, it's Spam on toast.'

‘ “Eggs bacon sausage and spam; spam sausage and spam; spam spam spam baked beans and spam.” ' Ruth's heroic attempt to channel Monty Python.

I buried my head in the menu. ‘I don't know who either of you two are.'

Christina from Greece was hovering over my left shoulder, prepared to take my order for Belgian waffles with fresh fruit when a voice called out, ‘Oh, look, Cliff. It's Hannah Ives.'

Still clutching the menu, I turned my head. Liz Rowe was chugging in my direction, followed by her husband. ‘Do you mind if we join you?' Liz asked, dismissing their server with a wave of her hand.

‘Of course not,' I said. ‘Georgina, Ruth, you remember the Rowes, from when we checked in?'

‘It's a lovely ship, isn't it?' Liz said, settling into the chair next to Ruth. ‘One of the loveliest we've sailed on, isn't it, Cliff? They actually have
standards
for formal night, for one thing. Pity the poor passenger who shows up at dinner wearing blue jeans!'

Cliff grunted, presumably in agreement, and sat down next to his wife. I pictured him dressed in a tuxedo, and decided it'd look good on him. But then,
all
men look good in tuxedos. When Paul wears his, I want to jump his bones.

Nobody spoke for a moment as Paolo poured coffee all around and Christina took our orders. After Christina headed back to the kitchen, I said, ‘My husband and I sailed on the
Queen Mary Two
, so I have to confess that it takes a lot to impress us. I'm really enjoying myself so far.'

‘We're in a good mood today because Cliff won a hundred dollars in the casino last night,' Liz confided.

Cliff smiled around his coffee cup. ‘Blackjack.'

‘My husband's a good blackjack player, too,' I said, picking up my glass of orange juice, ‘but he's a mathematician and has studied all the odds. The casino holds no attraction for me at all, I'm afraid. I'm much more interested in the hot tub.' I took a sip of juice, then raised my glass. ‘And the champagne bar.'

‘Do you knit?' Liz asked.

I stared at her, puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Do you knit?' she repeated. ‘There's a knitting club that meets at three o'clock every afternoon in the Oracle. Knitting, crochet, needlepoint. I read about it in the daily programme.'

Although the daily programme had been slipped into the notice box mounted just outside our stateroom door the previous evening, I had assigned it to my post-breakfast agenda, so hadn't gotten around to reading it yet. ‘That sounds dangerous,' I said. ‘Knit one, purl two, take a sip of champagne, knit one – or was it three? – purl, perhaps another sip.' I faked a hiccup. ‘Could be interesting.'

‘I'm going to try it out today,' Liz said. ‘I'm working on a hoodie for my grandson. Would you care to join me?'

Her question took in all three of us, but I was the only knitter in the group. Ruth raised a hand, palm out. ‘Not me. I've already signed up for a session of Ashtanga yoga in the fitness center.'

Ruth had graduated from Hatha to Ashtanga, a kind of power yoga, all fast-paced lunges and push-ups. Way too intense for me. ‘Why ever not?' I said. ‘I brought along a hat I've been knitting for my granddaughter. I had visions of lying in a deck chair, knitting, while being served tea and crumpets, but knitting with champagne sounds way more fun.' I winked. ‘It'll cut into my hot tub time, of course.'

Chin down, Liz murmured,
sotto voce
, ‘Don't look now, but here comes David. What's his last name, Cliff?'

‘Warren.'

‘He sits with us at dinner,' Liz continued. ‘He's a bit odd.'

‘Odd in what way?' I asked while looking casually over my shoulder to see if I could spot some guy acting strangely.

‘Doesn't talk much,' Cliff offered.

‘No, it's more than that, Cliff. He's nervous, edgy. Almost like he's being stalked. And always scribbling in a little notebook he keeps in his breast pocket.'

On
Islander
, diners were pre-assigned to tables of two, four, six, eight or ten. My sisters and I shared a table for four, so breakfast and lunch were the only opportunities we had to dine with strangers. ‘How many are at your table, Liz?'

‘Four. We also sit with a retired schoolteacher from Washington State, but she and David
definitely
aren't travelling together. She's a hoot, but frankly, we don't know quite what to make of David.'

Several groups had trooped by our table by then, but I hadn't noticed anyone who looked particularly nervous or distracted. I kept my voice low. ‘Which one is David?'

Liz jerked her head, indicating a table for six several feet away. ‘Over there. In the blue blazer. Just sitting down.'

David Warren was the only passenger within a hundred nautical miles wearing a sports jacket rather than a polo shirt, so he was easy to spot. Under the jacket, he wore a pale yellow button-down Oxford shirt. When he picked up a menu, a signet ring flashed on the pinky of his left hand. He had a full head of dark hair, streaked with gray, which he combed straight back and kept neatly trimmed around the ears. He looked like a banker, or maybe a stockbroker.

‘What does he do? Did he say?' I asked.

‘Real estate.'

‘That covers a lot of territory,' I said.

‘Real estate! Territory!' Georgina snorted.

I shot her a dirty look. ‘You know what I mean.'

‘I think David deals in commercial properties,' Cliff said. ‘He mentioned a shopping center.'

‘He's obviously on his own,' Liz said. ‘I heard him ask Elda – Elda Homer, that's the schoolteacher – if she'd be attending the Solo Travelers Lunch today.'

‘A widower, then, looking for love.' Georgina is an incurable romantic.

Ruth must have been standing behind the door when the Good Fairy handed out the gift of curiosity. ‘None of our business, is it?' she said, stirring sugar into her coffee.

But soon, it would become very much our business.

We finished our breakfasts and excused ourselves, with me promising to meet Liz later that afternoon in the Oracle, yarn and knitting needles in hand. Back in our stateroom, I extracted the plastic bag that contained my knitting from the drawer where I'd stashed it, then settled down in the chair to read the ship's schedule, grandly titled The Daily Programme. From the programme I discovered that
Islander
was travelling in a north-easterly direction; the sun came up at 5.24 a.m.; clocks would be set back one hour overnight; and dinner that night was formal. At 11.00 a.m. there'd be a talk on skincare by a famous, plump-lipped, blemish-free actress I'd never heard of; bingo in the Trident Lounge at 2.00 p.m. and yoga in the fitness center at 3.00 p.m., if you weren't already taking ballroom dancing lessons from Ted and Lisa. And if I
still
didn't have anything to do, a crossword puzzle and a Sudoku had thoughtfully been printed on the back page.

I scanned forward to the evening's activities. The show that night was a comedian followed by a magic act.

‘Ruth, do you want to go to the show after dinner?'

‘Don't forget we have that Neptune Club reception,' Ruth mumbled around a mouth full of toothpaste.

‘Right. It'll probably be a bit of a bore, but at least the drinks will be free.'

‘Your dance card is getting full, Hannah.'

‘So, what are you going to do today, Ruth, other than twist your body into strange and unnatural positions?'

‘Well, I'm not going to waste my time
knitting,
that's for sure.' She dabbed her lips dry with a towel. ‘Wonder what Georgina feels like doing?'

I tapped quietly on the connecting door in case Julie was still asleep. Georgina opened it almost immediately. ‘What's up?'

‘Is Julie awake?'

‘Finally! She's in the shower.'

‘What's she going to do today, Georgina?'

‘Julie's signed up for a teen barbecue and some sort of organized scavenger hunt. I'll hardly ever see her.'