Sailing to Capri (23 page)

I found Hector’s flamboyant gypsy looks a bit startling but noticed how considerate he was of Rosalia, anxious for her not to be embarrassed by her deafness. Still, I thought Rosalia couldn’t have chosen anyone more different from Bob. Magdalena, the daughter, was tall and rangy, with her mother’s winning smile, and the little granddaughter was enchanting. I shook hands and greeted them all.
If only, if only
was going through my mind, but there was never any going back.

When the steward came to escort them to their rooms, I said to Montana, “Now I know why Bob couldn’t get Rosalia out of his mind. And don’t even begin to suggest she might have killed him because I refuse to believe it. My money’s still on Dopplemann. Anyway, where
is
Dopplemann?” I glanced at my watch. “It’s five o’clock, and we’re supposed to sail at six. Do you suppose he’s still coming?”

“He made it to New York the week Bob died so I’m sure he’ll make it here from Munich.”

“He
what?”
My eyes almost popped from my head, and I sank into the nearest sofa. “Now I’m
certain
he did it. All you have to do is prove it, Montana.”

“Don’t be too sure. Charlie Clement was also in New York, and so was Davis Farrell.”

I groaned, thinking of the luxury yacht full of suspected murderers. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“We’re only just getting the information. It takes time, you know.”

“So what about the women suspects?”

“I’ve got nothing on them. Yet.”

“What does that mean?”

Montana lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “I guess we’ll have to find out,” he said, just as Dopplemann lumbered into the atrium.

Dopplemann was sweating. He hadn’t realized it would be so hot and he was wearing his loden green wool jacket with the pleated back and the half belt. Pushing his brand-new Panama from his perspiring forehead, he looked around. He’d never seen such a dazzling display of luxury and it crossed his mind—just for a moment—that if Bob had not done what he’d done to him, he himself might have owned a yacht like this.

His bottle-thick glasses misted over and he took them off and polished them on a new cotton handkerchief, gradually becoming aware of the man and the woman standing opposite him. He put the glasses back on and they swam into focus.

“Welcome to
Blue Boat,”
I said to Dopplemann. “I’m Daisy Keane, Bob’s friend and your hostess. I believe you know Harry Montana.” For the life of me I couldn’t offer him my hand. I stared astonished at him, pale and sweaty and peering back at me through his thick lenses. “We were afraid you’d miss the sailing.”

“I caught the wrong bus,” Dopplemann said in his strange hissing voice. “It took me a mile or so out of my way and I had to walk back.”

“You should have taken a taxi,” Montana said severely. “You might have delayed the sailing.”

Dopplemann merely shrugged. “I apologize,” he muttered, and taking off his glasses he polished them again. He darted a quick glance at me from his cold watery green eyes, then clicked his heels and made a formal little bow as the steward came to show him to his room.

“Dinner’s at eight-thirty,” Montana called after him. “Try not to be late.”

I sank into the sofa again. I couldn’t believe how strange Dopplemann was. “He looks like Dirk Bogarde in the final scenes of
Death in Venice,”
I said. “All he needed was the dribbling mascara. Poor little man,” I added, suddenly overcome with a feeling of pity.

“That ‘poor little man’ has one of the best scientific brains in the world,” Montana reminded me. “Spacecraft might not be
heading for Mars if it were not for him. He’s perfectly capable of planning a murder.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Just promise me I don’t have to sit next to him at dinner.”

Montana grinned as he took my hand. “I’ve got it all worked out. You’re sitting next to me. How about we meet in the piano bar at seven-thirty?”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” I teased. Then, with an impulsive kiss on the cheek, I left him and hurried back to my suite, relieved not to have to confront any more potential killers—at least for a couple of hours, while I snatched some sleep.

The throb of the ship’s engines woke me. I got up and opened the window, watching the palm trees and Prince Rainier’s palace recede into the distance and then the long green pine-filled coastline of the Côte d’Azur slide into view. The yacht slipped smoothly through the water leaving a creamy wake in which dolphins darted, and I tried to fasten the memory in my mind so that later I could close my eyes and live it over again. Regrets swept over me as I thought of Bob, and I realized how important it was to safeguard the memories of the time we had spent together. I knew how much he would have enjoyed this cruise, and the Villa Belkiss, but Bob had not expected to die; he’d thought he had all the time in the world.

I looked around my peaceful suite, glowing in the rosy sunset and filled with flowers. In a way, this cruise on a luxury yacht was Bob’s final gift to me, and my final gift to him would be to help Montana find his killer.

I showered and dressed quickly in an apple green pleated chiffon shirt and narrow cream silk pants, adding my emerald beads and earrings and the big, flashy princess-cut yellow diamond ring Bob had given me last Christmas and that I almost never wore. Gold sandals and a whiff of the Hermès Rouge scent I’d bought because I’d thought, erroneously it transpired, it was meant only for redheads, and I was on my way to the bar to meet Montana.

I was the first to arrive; there was just the bartender and a nice man named Melvyn, who told me he hailed from Oklahoma, playing standards on the white baby grand.

The lighting in the bar was soft and outside the windows the last of the sunset streaked the sky with rose and pale green. Deep curved banquettes were piled with cushions and the walls were of dark wood inlaid with intricate designs. I hitched myself onto a barstool and ordered a cosmo. As if by magic, a steward appeared bearing hot hors d’oeuvres. And right behind him came Montana.

“You’re early,” he said, touching my arm lightly and giving me that half smile.

“And
you
are late. Do you always keep women waiting?”

“Not if I can help it, and certainly not when they look like you. Would you take it as an insult if I tell you you look beautiful tonight?”

I eyed him warily, uncertain whether he was making fun of me. “Okay,” I said grudgingly, “even though it’s not true.”

“Who gave you the diamond?” He picked up my hand to inspect it.

“Would you believe me if I told you I bought it myself?”

He let go of my hand and looked into my eyes. “No.”

Despite myself, or maybe it was the cosmo since I’d now had more than a few sips, I giggled. “Of course I didn’t, it was a Christmas present from Bob.”

“A generous man.”

“Among other fine qualities, yes, he was.” I closed my eyes and saw Bob’s face in front of me: my ogre, my Shrek, my beloved friend and mentor. “Listen, Montana,” I said, suddenly very serious, “I promise to do everything I can to help you nail Bob’s killer. Just tell me—and I’ll do it.”

“Okay, fine…. I appreciate your cooperation—it’s easier than fighting all the time. And anyhow, here they come,” he added softly.

They arrived all at once, looking, I thought, as mixed a bunch of suspects as you could envision. Filomena was every inch the South of France woman in a tangerine silk slip dress. She said hello then took a seat at the bar and soon had a martini and a plate of olives in front of her as she chatted to the bartender. Texas was sexy as all get-out in another jersey shift, lavender this time, sweeping her long blond hair to one side as she talked music with Melvyn at the piano.

Dopplemann sidled in, still wearing his heavy loden green jacket with the half belt and the little pleat in the back, only now he had matching pants and a gray-checked shirt. He looked like an escaped convict. He nodded good evening to us as he made his way purposefully to the bar, where we heard him ordering a glass of good Bordeaux. He certainly had fine taste in wines.

He took a barstool next to Filomena, bidding her a gruff
Guten Tag.
She gave him a shocked stare, then looked around for an escape. Spotting us, she came over.

“Amici,
save me from that strange man,” she said nervously. “What’s he doing on this ship?”

“He’s one of your fellow guests,” Montana said, explaining who Dopplemann was. She stole another glance at him, wanting to be impressed but failing.

Meanwhile Melvyn was playing “Body and Soul,” which I couldn’t help thinking was appropriate. After all this was a wake.

Captain Anders arrived, smart in his white uniform. All the officers and crew seemed to have been chosen for their looks as much as their abilities.

“Just came to check everyone was comfortable,” the captain said. “I hope you all enjoyed the sunset, it was spectacular tonight.”

Montana went off to speak to him alone while I attempted a conversation with Filomena. I said I liked her dress, a safe subject, I thought; and she told me in her halting English that the designer was Roberto Cavalli, her favorite of the moment. She asked “who” I was wearing, and I admitted I had no idea; it was just something I’d bought in a hurry at Harvey Nichols.

“A good store,” she said approvingly. “I shopped there when I was with Bob too.”

I wondered what she meant by
too.
Was she putting me in the mistress category? I suddenly realized that probably all my suspects thought I had been Bob’s mistress and hastened to tell her I was merely his employee. “And his friend,” I added.

She gave me a long shrewd look. “I believe you tell the truth,” she said, sounding surprised.