Dark Passage (7 page)

‘Does that worry you?'

Georgina raised one pale, well-shaped eyebrow. ‘Do I
look
worried? So, I'm up for just about anything. Except knitting,' she added, with an accusatory glance at me.

Clearly, in the knitting department, I was outnumbered. ‘I never promised we'd be joined at the hip, Georgina.'

Thirty minutes later, after Julie was safely delivered to one of the Tidal Wave youth counselors, my sisters and I found ourselves marinating in one of three hot tubs in the adults-only solarium. When we were pink and medium-well boiled, we wrapped ourselves in oversized Turkish towels and arranged ourselves on adjoining deck chairs with our reading – a Kindle for Georgina and actual books for Ruth and me – while solicitous uniformed attendants made sure we had everything our hearts desired. After ordering a bloody Mary, I did.

Georgina powered on her Kindle, considered my well-worn paperback. ‘Don't you have a Kindle, Hannah?'

‘I do, back home, but I figured reading it in a hot tub would be a bad idea. And what if I lose the charger? I'd be up the creek if my battery ran out in the middle of the latest P.D. James.'

‘I like my Kindle because you can't really lend books,' Georgina said, kicking off her flip flops. ‘Saves me the social embarrassment of having to remember who I lent that hardback to that I hadn't gotten around to reading yet.'

As we considered the people sprawled in the deck chairs around us, we decided that you could tell a lot about a stranger by what he or she is reading.
Final Sail
by Elaine Viets? I think I might like that person, while – not being snobbish or anything – I'd be unlikely to initiate a conversation with someone engrossed in a Jackie Collins novel. ‘See that guy over there?' I asked, nodding my head in the direction of the Surf's Up Café. ‘The blond in the red bathing trunks, with the hardback propped up on his gut?'

‘What about him?' Ruth muttered from behind her ancient copy of
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
.

‘Well, he's reading Harlen Coben. If he were reading an iPad, Nook or Kindle we wouldn't be able to see the cover, so we wouldn't have the slightest clue what he's reading.'

‘So?' Ruth wanted to know.

‘Serious disadvantage, Ruth, if you're on the prowl for guys. Hot or not? With a Kindle, it'd be hard to tell. Dude could be reading Danielle Steele, for all you know. Or a self-help book on overcoming addiction. But, if you can see he's reading Robert Crais, you've got your opening. ‘ “Oh, hi,” you say. “I like Crais, too. Is that as good as his last one?” '

‘I'm
not
on the prowl for guys, Hannah.'

‘Neither am I. I just think it's interesting.'

Georgina studied the guy reading Coben thoughtfully for a few seconds. ‘You think
he's
hot, Hannah?'

I tended to be attracted to tall men – my husband, Paul, towered over me – and although Red Bathing Suit was certainly tall, he was a little too, how shall I say,
fleshy
for my taste. ‘Not really. Besides, I think he's married. See that skinny blonde standing in the buffet line? In the teeny-weeny black bikini? They came in together.'

‘Where?' Georgina asked.

‘She's fixing a hot dog,' I said.

Ruth sniffed. ‘Looks like a Stepford wife. Or married to a Republican candidate for President. I'm sure it's a character flaw on my part, but I simply can't tell those women apart.'

As I watched Black Bikini cross the solarium to rejoin her husband, I had to agree with Ruth. The woman looked as if she'd been stamped out of a template: five foot five or six, fit and trim, aggressively-styled bottle-blonde hair, makeup applied with the skill of an artist. She handed the hot dog to her husband, but apparently she had failed the hot dog fixings test because he said something, then shoved the plate back into her hands so suddenly that the potato chips she'd heaped on the side of it went flying. She yelled something in response, spun around and stomped out of the solarium as elegantly as one can while wearing flip flops, dumping the hot dog, plate and all, into the trash can nearest the door.

‘ “The course of true love never did run smooth,” ' Ruth quoted, bard-like.

‘If he wanted a damn hot dog, he should have gotten it his damn self,' Georgina sputtered, staring after the woman. After she'd disappeared into the main pool area, Georgina flipped over on her stomach, stretched out full-length on the deck chair and returned to whatever she had been reading on her Kindle. The sun blazed through the glass canopy of the solarium, its rays catching the damp tendrils of her hair, turning it to burnished copper.

The Belgian waffles with fresh fruit I'd had at breakfast were taking their toll. Bathed in the warmth of the sun, I slept easily, until a stranger's voice suddenly roused me from my nap.

‘Excuse me?' The voice was deeply male and melodious, like a late-night host on the Oldies But Goodies station.

My eyes snapped open. I blinked.

A man carrying a big-ass camera stood like a pillar at the foot of Georgina's lounger. Tall and sturdy, dark hair speckled his head like new growth on a Chia Pet. He wore a white polo shirt tucked into a pair of navy chinos, and deck shoes with no socks.

‘Can I help you?' I asked, thinking how extraordinary his eyes were. They had been bleached to a pale amber, like the 3.2 beer we used to drink in college.

The question seemed to fluster him. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to ask your friend here …' His hands full of camera, he nodded toward Georgina. ‘… if she'd mind if I took her picture.'

My sister was clearly asleep, Kindle flung to one side, head turned, her cheek resting on her folded arms.

‘She's asleep,' I said, stating the obvious. ‘What's it for?'

The man shifted his camera to one side and dug into his breast pocket with a thumb and index finger like fat sausages. ‘Buck Carney,' he said, handing me his business card. ‘I'm a photographer.'

‘I never would have guessed,' I said, indicating the fancy camera with a corner of his card which read, when I glanced at it a few seconds later,
LeRoy ‘Buck' Carney, Freelance Photographer
, with an address and telephone number in Atlanta, Georgia. ‘LeRoy,' I said. ‘No wonder they call you “Buck.” '

‘Yeah, well …' he began.

I squinted up at him. ‘Didn't I see you taking pictures last night in the disco?'

‘Yeah, it's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta …'

‘You were going to tell me what you wanted my sister's picture for,' I cut in. ‘Do you work for the cruise line?'

‘In a way. C.L.I.A? It's the cruise line association. They're doing a coffee table book to hand out to VIPs – senators, congressmen and the like. They hired me to take the pictures.' His eyes flicked toward Georgina, still blissfully unaware we were talking about her. ‘The sun lighting her hair? The white bathing suit? Irresistible to an old shutterbug like me.'

Something in his gaze made me feel slightly uneasy, but where was the harm in a photograph? I nudged my sister gently on the shoulder. ‘Wake up, Georgina. This guy wants to know if it's OK to take your picture. He wants to use it for a book he's doing for the cruise lines.'

Georgina opened an eye, gave the photographer a few seconds' worth of attention, then buried her head between her forearms again. ‘Just as long as he doesn't block my sun.'

Buck raised his camera, aimed and took a rapid-fire series of shots. ‘Thank you,' he drawled, stepping back toward the pool. ‘'Preciate that.'

‘No problem,' Georgina muttered into her lounger.

After Buck wandered off, I returned to my novel, but had read only a paragraph when Ruth poked me with a finger. ‘Look who just came in. Isn't that the David guy that Liz and Cliff were talking about at breakfast?'

David Warren, still dressed like the manager of a country club, had wandered into the solarium. He glanced around the room, as if looking for someone, shook his head slightly, then retreated to a table on the other side of the pool, not far from where we were lounging. Once seated, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook and began flipping through it until he came to a blank page. His eyes went on to scan mode: up to the solarium's crystal canopy and down; one end of the glass enclosure to the other.

‘He's not looking for any
one
,' I suddenly realized. ‘He's looking for some
thing
.'

Ruth agreed. ‘I'll bet he's an undercover inspector.'

‘A mystery passenger,' Georgina added. ‘Like one of those mystery shoppers, you know? Reports back to management?'

Ruth swiped a rivulet of sweat from her brow. ‘Wonder what he's looking for?'

I shrugged. ‘Safety violations?'

An attendant balancing a tray of drinks on the flat of his hand stopped beside David's chair, but was waved off impatiently. The interruption must have broken the man's concentration, because he tucked the notebook back into his breast pocket, stood, and shuffled out of the solarium the way he had come.

‘If he's an undercover inspector, he couldn't be more obvious,' I said. ‘One doesn't usually wear a sports jacket, chinos and penny loafers when going to a swimming pool.'

‘Funny how we keep running into the same people,' Ruth muttered before returning to her book.

‘Yeah, isn't it?' I agreed, thinking about the Rowes.

Day one of an eight-day cruise. Somehow I suspected I hadn't seen the last of David Warren.

‘She vanished as quickly as an electric light goes out when the switch is turned.'

David Devant,
Secrets of My Magic
,
Hutchinson
, 1936

S
itting for hours in a hot tub can suck the energy clean out of you. Add a gorgeous lunch of broiled lamb skewers, baby arugula and lemon vinaigrette, followed by a square of baklava, and all you can think about is a nap.

Ruth had already headed off for her yoga session when I hauled myself off my bunk, collected my knitting and made my way aft to the Oracle.

I was ten minutes early.

The attractive barkeep I'd noticed there earlier that morning was alone, moving busily behind the bar, arranging empty glasses on a tray, presumably preparing for the arrival of the knitters who, if the number of splits being chilled was any indication, were expected to be heavy drinkers.

I sidled up to the bar. ‘Hello,' I said. ‘How does this work exactly?'

The barkeep – Pia from Italy – looked up, smiled, and tucked an errant strand of her straight black bob behind an ear with her little finger. ‘What would you like? Phoenix specializes in Greek wines, of course.' She indicated the iced basins. ‘Our featured wine today is Ode Panos, a sparkling wine from Domaine Spiropoules. It's lovely.'

I dug the sea pass out of my pocket and slid it toward her across the bar. ‘I'd like to try some, thanks.'

Pia ran my sea pass through her portable scanner and handed it back. ‘Shall I start a tab?' When I nodded, she slid a bottle of Ode Panos out of its ice bath, quickly and expertly removed the cork – with a muted pop and a wisp of smoke – tipped the flute against the lip of the bottle and slowly poured.

Since nobody else had arrived, I asked, ‘Have you been working on
Islander
long, Miss …?'

‘It's Fanucci. Pia Fanucci.' She handed me the glass. ‘Not on this particular ship, no, but Tom and I have been with Phoenix Cruise Lines for a while. We used to work on
Voyager
.'

I took a sip of the wine. Pleasantly bubbly, a touch of rose, a bit of green apple with a hint of banana. A little too perfumy for my taste, but as a mid-afternoon aperitif, not bad. ‘Is Tom your husband?'

‘No, he's my work partner.' She brightened. ‘I guess I should explain. When I'm not tending bar, I'm Tom's assistant. He's Thomas Channing, the magician. He goes by Channing exclamation point,' she added, drawing a line in the air and dotting it with the tip of a well-manicured finger.

I knew all about One Name celebrities, like Elvis, Cher and Madonna. My son-in-law's real name was Daniel Shemansky, but ever since he and my daughter returned east from Colorado, he'd styled himself just plain Dante. Not that Dante was particularly famous, but their luxury bay-side spa, Dante's Paradiso – get it? – seemed to be thriving.

‘You should come see the show,' Pia continued.

I set my glass down on a paper coaster, carefully centering the base over a black-and-white sketch of the ship. ‘I read about it in the program and was thinking about going tonight.'

‘You'll enjoy it,' Pia said. ‘I'm a newbie, but Tom's been in show business a long time. Atlantic City, Las Vegas. He's been working the cruise ships now for about three years. He designs his own illusions, although there's a guy in Virginia who actually builds them for him. They're totally amazing.'

I grinned. ‘What kind of magician would he be if they weren't?'

Pia beamed. ‘Exactly!'

‘So you get cut in half, float in mid-air …' I waved a hand vaguely. ‘That sort of thing?'

‘
Exactly
that sort of thing,' she chuckled. ‘My favorite is the Zig-Zag Box, but the highlight of the show, really, is the Indian Sword Basket.'

‘Eeeek!' I squeaked. ‘I've always wondered about that. Are the swords fake?'

‘Oh, no, they're very real. You'll see!'

‘How's the comedian? I see he's on first.'

Pia shrugged. ‘He's OK, I guess. But this is his first gig for Phoenix Cruise Lines, and I think he's a bit too blue for a family audience. Last night we had people walk out. Not good if he's opening for us.'

‘Not at all,' I agreed. ‘But I promise to tough it out, laugh at all his jokes – lame or not – and look forward to seeing you and the amazing Mister Channing Exclamation Point. And I'll bring my sisters.'