Tapas on the Ramblas (23 page)

Wha...? Now he had my attention.

"You see the enzymes in the animals' stomachs add something unique to the coffee's flavour through fermentation. And," he added with a hearty laugh, "the farmers get to harvest the coffee without climbing the trees."

"Wait," I said. "Are you telling me the world's priciest specialty coffee comes from the partially pre-digested...excrement of some tree-hugging animal?"

He laughed again. "Shit. Yes, it comes from shit. Pass me the Towle please?"

Towel? He wanted a towel? "Uh, how about one of these serviettes?" I asked, passing him a white linen napkin.

Aristotle (as I'd come to think of him) stood back and gave me one of those looks. I've been around obscenely rich people and know the look. It wasn't the "I'm better than you, get out of my way" look, but rather, the much less common, "You're not like me, I could teach you a thing or two" look. He started off slowly, "I meant the flatware, a fork and knife and spoon please. They're Towle Sterling Chippendale.

Four-hundred-and-seventy-four-dollars for a five-piece setting. Retail of course."

I fought a blush I did not want and handed him the cutlery.

"Your plate and cup are Versace, Rosenthal Meandre D'or, also about the same price for five pieces.

Marvellous, yes? You'll always know it by the Gorgon's head leitmotif. The crystal is Dartington; Christina I think." He shrugged then, lesson over. "I've been waiting for someone to go for the Bennies. Care to share one?"

I forgave him for calling the eggs Benedict "Bennies." He was cute and trying to be kind-in his own way. What did throw me off was that he wanted to
share
an eggs Benedict. I took a closer look at him. He
was
a big man-but a big man with a twenty-nine inch waist. On his Versace plate were a quarter of one piece of unbuffered toast, a single wedge of cantaloupe, half a beautiful sausage and three slices of tomato.

"Uh, sure," I agreed, rethinking my plan of having two all for myself.

"You're one of the stowaways," he commented as he proceeded to separate one of the "Bennies" into two equal portions with the precision of a surgeon.

"Yes. We were fortunate that Sereena and the Kismet came along when they did."

"Sereena, as you call her, has a habit of that," he said, ladling over my meagre benny ration.

As you call her? What did he mean by that? "Are you the Kismet's owner by any chance?" I asked, recalling Sereena's reluctance to share that information with us the night before.

He laughed a deep, rich laugh. "Oh no. I, too, am a stowaway of sorts." With that he walked off to join a young woman sunbathing topless at the opposite
end of the deck.

After loading up the rest of my Versace, Rosenthal Meandre D'or-sorely lacking with only half a Bennie on it-I surveyed the deck to find a place to sit. The thought of joining Richard entered my head-right move or wrong move or dumb move? I looked over to where he was sitting with Flora and noticed things had changed between them. If I didn't know better I'd have guessed that these two were having a rather heated argument. Sure enough, as I made my way over, hoping to overhear, Flora rose to her Birkenstocked feet and fled, looking red-faced and unhappy.

"Richard?" I said questioningly as I pulled up alongside his table.

He looked up at me, not having noticed my approach and, gentleman that he was, half-rose and indicated the seat just vacated by Flora. "Russell, please, join me." His smile was pasted on with a weak adhesive. "Lovely day."

Lovely day? Lovely day? We'd spent the night together; he'd just had some kind of altercation with my client's (and his client's) granddaughter and he wanted to comment on the weather?

I sat, laying my breakfast and coffee before me. "Richard, I just saw Flora run off as if something was wrong. Is it? What happened?"

His brow shrugged into three horizontal lines. "You saw that then? I'm sorry."

"What were the two of you fighting about?" As far as I knew, Richard and Flora barely knew one another. What could they have to bicker over?

"It wasn't a fight, it was..." He looked at me, pained. "It was an accusation."

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, went my sensors.

"Flora is under the impression that all this is my fault, the fault of GrayPride Tours. As you know, GrayPride helped Charity organize this family trip and, more specifically, organized the tenders for the transportation into Palermo yesterday."

Ah. "Certainly she can't believe you're responsible for what happened to us?" I asked sympathetically, always hating to see anyone wrongly guilted.

"Well, it was one of my associates who made most of the arrangements, but in the end, yes, she believes I am at fault."

I silently hoped GrayPride Tours had good insurance. "She's upset right now," I told him. "She's been through a lot in the last couple of days. She's young, and she's worried about her grandmother and Dottie."

"Yes," he nodded slowly. "Yes, she is very worried about her grandmother."

With every one of us who'd been on the tender feeling subdued and more than a little worn down from our harrowing experience, most disappeared into their rooms after breakfast for more rest. Sereena seemed preoccupied and there was little else for me to do for the balance of the trip but exchange banalities with the other Kismetites, which was pleasant but ultimately futile. So I settled into a semi-secluded spot on a side deck and scribbled away on a pad of paper. I drew the Wiser family tree, three-pronged with the sisters Hope, Faith and Charity at the top, and stared at it for a long time wondering which was the thoroughly rotten apple. I made notes on each of the relatives, what I knew about them, what I suspected about them and why each of them could be the killer. We were on the sixth day of the cruise and I felt frustratingly far from figuring out who the culprit was. I had ideas, growing suspicions, but little concrete evidence. There'd been plenty snooping around and fisticuffs, but all I'd been left with were a sore jaw and raw throat. As I unconsciously rubbed the spot where the tender captain had grabbed me about the throat, I saw Richard and Flora in the distance, leaning over the yacht's railing and talking calmly. At least
they
were making some progress.

We'd had less than a day aboard the Kismet, a luxury yacht whose guests proved to be companionable, pleasant, colourful, bordering on eccentric, generous in allowing us to share their space for a night and a day.. .and wholly unrevealing. They were like a pen of magnificent birds, usually preferring to be elsewhere, but every so often congregating to compare their plumage and relax in the complaisance of sameness. Who were these people? Where had they come from? Where did they belong? Why was my Saskatoon neighbour amongst them?

We left the Kismet, Sereena, and her playmates, at 4 p.m. Wednesday afternoon, well within curfew for The Dorothy's 5:30 departure from Messina. As I strode away from the yacht and Sereena's farewell embrace, I glanced at the upper deck. No one. I lowered my gaze to Sereena who was eyeing me carefully, her face a granite mask.

Although we missed the earthquake-prone, three-thousand-year-old city of Messina, we were glad to be reunited with our shipmates on The Dorothy, not to mention our luggage. When Errall and I finally made our way back to our cabin, our beds were white with invitations-missed ones from last night and new ones for tonight. Also in the pile of communiques was the trusty ship's newsletter that reminded us that tonight was a formal night. If we were planning to go out, we had once again to pull out the tuxes and gowns. I hurried through my prep. Despite what we'd been through in the past twenty-four hours, our time aboard the ritzy Kismet had put me in the mood for more champagne and fancy bib and tucker. I left Errall barely out of the shower and, jaunty in my tux, made my way to the ship's library to check e-mails and do a bit more electronic snooping before we commenced our evening plans. I had just reached the Deck Six lobby area when I heard arguing voices. They were coming from a small area adjacent to and slightly behind the grand staircase, there for the use of passengers who didn't want to wait for one of the four guest elevators.

The arguers had backed themselves far into the corner space beneath the stairs and were therefore blocked from my line of sight. Unless I marched right up to them and asked to join in, I couldn't get close enough, to make out what they were saying. But I
was
close enough to identify one of the voices. It was James McNichol, Harry's greatgrandfather and Charity's witless suitor and brother-in-law.

I tiptoed closer, approaching the staircase at tortoise pace, listening for whatever bits and pieces I could catch before my presence became known to them. It sounded as if the unknown voice, a man's, was angry with James, accusing him of something. Something to do with his mother. And then, lucky for me, it got louder.

"I married your mother for love!" bellowed James. "Not money. And shame on you for suggesting otherwise! God rest her soul."

"Then where is it, you swindler? Where is her money?" the other man yelled.

"I don't have to stand here and listen to this poppycock. Excuse me, sir!"

That was my cue to get moving. I started up the stairs, slowly. From the landing I heard the sound of heavy feet and turned around to see James, oblivious to me, stomp off. Then, out from under the stairs, came the other man, thirtyish with a Pee-wee Herman look about him. He looked up at me snippily.

I smiled. It did no good. "Lover's quarrel?" I asked innocently.

He stalked off in full pique.

James McNichol had just climbed up my list of suspects. Was he truly a swindler? Where
was
Pee-wee's mother's money? And, God rest her soul, how did she die?

I proceeded up to the library on Deck Eight. Like last time, the room was almost deserted, a cool, peaceful respite from the fast-paced activity outside its doors. I chose a computer workstation and opened my e-mail account. I visually sifted through the contents, deleting spam (mostly X-rated) that had somehow gotten through my filter settings. I was looking for one message in particular, but there were two others I couldn't resist opening. The first was from Anthony, wanting to confirm the details of our arrival at his house in Tuscany. I replied, saying we were looking forward to the visit. The second was from my home e-mail address. Before leaving for Barcelona, I'd taught my reluctant Ukrainian mother a thing or two about the computer. I thought she might get a kick out of it while she was house-sitting. I didn't think much of my lesson had gotten through, but there it was, a message from my mother, sent just yesterday. I opened it with great anticipation, hungering for news of home sweet home. Instead, I got a curt inquiry, which I read in her voice: "Ya, uh-huh, hello? You dere? Mom."

I chuckled to myself, wondering how long she'd sat patiently in front of the computer screen, waiting for a reply as if this was some sort of electronic telephone call. I'd have to teach her about chat rooms. I wrote her a quick note, updating her on how the trip was going so far-having fun, weather is great, wish you were here-without elaborating on some of my more perilous experiences to date. I had doubts about whether she'd actually go near the computer again, but you never know.

Near the end of my row of messages was the one I was looking for, from my friend Mary in Toronto. I'd e-mailed her the other day asking for a favour. And, by her reply, I saw she'd come through: "Russell.

Spink's is a local chain of fitness facilities, three locations, only in Toronto. According to them, there is no one by the name of Nick Kincaid who works or has ever worked for them. Hope that helps. The weather is here, wish you were beautiful."

Oh there's just something about that Mary.

Why would Nick Kincaid lie about his career? Was he out of work and ashamed to admit it? Yet, by the look of his wardrobe and the Rolex on his wrist, it seemed he wasn't suffering much in the financial sense.

What about the rolls of cash I'd found in his room; were they his or Jackson's? And then there was the fight in Emerald City. He was definitely hiding something.

I was about to log off the computer when another thought hit me. I checked my watch. I still had plenty of time before I'd agreed to meet Errall back at our room. I returned to the browser, made my way to Google and typed in: Kismet.

342,000 hits. I added the word "yacht." 1,810 hits. I added the word "Benetti."

Four hits.

I quickly determined that each of the four hits referred to the same boat: a fifty-metre, Zuretti-designed, Benetti yacht with a nine-metre beam and cruising speed of fourteen-point-five knots. The same boat that rescued us last night. I spent the next few minutes scouring the four websites. I wanted to know what Sereena had been unwilling to tell me. Who owned that baby?

I clicked and clicked until finally I hit pay dirt.

The registered owner of the boat was A&W Incorporated.

A&W? A&W? Sereena was on a boat owned by a hamburger chain, the home of the Mama burger?

Preposterous.

I searched a little more but there was nothing left to learn. This was one mystery that would have to wait.

I still had time before I was to meet Errall, so I began trolling the public areas (i.e. bars) for the whereabouts of some Wisers. I had a couple rooms left to search and if that didn't work out it was time for me to become more aggressive with my pool of prime suspects. Besides, I was feeling rather James Bond-ish in my tuxedo. I was hoping to find Nick Kincaid but instead found Jackson Delmonico in Curses, the bar next to the casino. Jackson was good enough. I had a few questions for him, too.

"Russell man," he announced loudly to the mercifully empty room when I sat on the barstool next to him. He had obviously been keeping the bartender company for a few hours. "Anything this good man wants, give him a double and pour me one too!"

I nodded politely at the cute bartender from
The O.C.
or somewhere like that and ordered a glass of champagne. I didn't want to get into a double rye drink-a-thon with this guy. He could really hold his liquor: me, not so much.

"I really enjoyed your playing the other night. Harry tells me you used to tour, and that you've spent a lot of time in New Orleans, playing with some of the best."

"I've been all over this world, man, even these parts before. But that's a long time ago, Russell man, loooooong time ago. Now I do the best I can, you know. It's really all I got, you know, the music, and Harry of course."

"She's a wonderful singer. It's obvious where she gets her talent from."

Despite being in the middle of a drink-a-thon, Jackson sipped at his bourbon on the rocks with the finesse of an English gentleman. "Not so obvious, it was her mama, Hy...you didn't get to know Hyacinth, did you? Naaaaahhhh, of course you didn't...but Hy, ooooo that girl could sing. Like an angel, a fuckin'

angel-just like Harry sings now." Another sip and a signal for another. "But you're right about one thing, we are alike in one way. Just like I only got the music, same with Harry. It's all she got, Russell man."

I frowned. "What do you mean? What is she, twenty, twenty-one? She has a lot ahead of her." I tried to make light. "I wish I was that age again."

"This fuckin' family, this fuckin' Wiser family curse! Hy and me thought we had it beat, you know. We knew well enough about her mama and her granny dying when they gave birth to their daughters. But they were small women, frail-like women, you know. Now Hy, she was healthy as a horse, man, big hip bones.

If there was a woman meant to bear babies it was her, man. But we were wrong, Russell man. We were so fuckin' wrong. And Harry, she'll be just like the rest of them. No babes for her. If she does, she dies. What a thing for a young'un to live with, huh? Since Hy's gone, all I got is the music, man and Harry's just like her old man. No babes for her, just music."

I was nodding empathetically in the silence that followed. Somehow I couldn't relate this sad story to the bright, energetic, optimistic girl I saw when I looked at Harry. But I also know that outward appearances can be deceiving.

"Fuckin' Wisers," Jackson concluded, as he gratefully took hold of his fresh drink before the Beverly-Hills-zip-coded bartender could place it on the counter.

"You're not a fan of the family obviously. Do you blame them for what happened to your wife; do you blame Charity?" Here goes.

"You wanna know if it’s me trying to kill the old skeleton, right?"

Not so drunk after all.

"Where were you yesterday afternoon? Did you go ashore with the others? Were you alone?" It was a lot of questions to ask a drinking man, but I wanted to throw him off-kilter. It makes for better answers.

"I stayed on the ship, Russell man. Having some drinks. No way I went to town and hired lackeys to rig that boat you were on. How'd I know how to do that?" He'd just told me he'd been to these parts before.

Maybe he knew someone. "Besides, I was here all day, ask this guy."

I looked up at the young Jason Priestley double.

He nodded. "Except for potty breaks, this big guy was my date all day long, yesterday
and
today."

I peered into Jackson's life-hewn face wondering how someone could drink so much and still be standing (or in his case, slouching on a stool) and, really, still be functioning pretty well. Practice, I guess.

He gave me a mile-wide grin that ballooned his cheeks and drew his lips thin, showing widely spaced, yellowed teeth. "See Mister Russell man, you got the wrong fella here." He winked at me. "So let me give you a hand."

"Okay," I agreed.

"Way I heard it, that boat’s engine pooped out and had itself a leak, right?" There was a little more to it than that, but all right. "Now who is gonna know how to do that better than a mechanic, huh, I ask you? A me-chan-ic. Who you know is a mechanic here now, huh?"

"Are you talking about Ted?"

He took a deep pull of his drink, looking away then back at me.

"Why do you suspect Ted of the sabotage? Just because he would know how to pull it off?"

"And he needs money, man. People think just because I'm sitting here drinking I don't hear them when they're talking to me. Well old Tedding does some drinking too, let me tell you, and he tells me stuff over the years. He wants so far away from that woman of his that you can smell it on him. He wants money so he can run. And he won't be running with her, let me tell you, man. Nosiree."

"What else can you tell me, Jackson?" I asked, taking a sip of my drink, pretending to be only half listening to his rantings.

His big black eyes fell on me with sudden clarity. "I know lots, let me tell you, but that's all I'll tell you, Russell man. And you tell anyone I told you so.. .well, just don't do it, man."

Was this a threat or just a drunken slur? Ah, well, didn't matter. It was time to turn up the heat.

"I saw you, Jackson. I saw you in Tunis. You were in the medina when I was looking for Charity, right before she was attacked. You were supposed to be aboard The Dorothy."

His eyes grew darker and narrow and now I had my answer: threat. "You best be getting out of that seat, man."

I glanced over at the bartender to see if he had heard what I heard, but he was busily serving some newly arrived customers, two women who looked like twins and wore matching rings on their wedding fingers. Their formal attire consisted of unpressed golf shirts over jean skirts and well-worn sandals from a Wal-Mart discount bin.

I looked back at Jackson. Certainly he couldn't think I'd scare off that easily. "Tell me why you were in the medina, Jackson."

"There you are!" Phyllis' reedy voice rang out from the bar's entrance. "I've been looking all over for you." She sashayed over to us and laid a hand on my shoulder. She was wearing a sleeveless pink pantsuit and had her hair up in typical Phyllis style. "I want you to swear you'll be at the show tonight after dinner.

It's going to be the best boys-will-be-girls-and-girls-will-be-boys show you have EVER seen!" She gave Jackson a little tap on the chest. "And you too, mister." She turned her head, curls jangling everywhere, and eyed up the twins with a scrunched up nose. "You two can stay home if you like."

Jackson grunted, heaved himself off his stool and stumbled for the exit. I debated following him but, in his state, I doubted I'd get much more out of him. He knew I was on to him. That was good enough for now.