Tapas on the Ramblas (5 page)

"Actually it's Sharon. Sharon and Pete," the woman stammered, now totally confused.

"Of course it is,
dearie,"
Charity proclaimed, already giving them her back, bored of her Devonshire creams. "Russell, you'll order for us of course. I wouldn't have an idea what to ask for. Well, except for the jamon serrano and the gambas a la plancha. And we must have some polio al ajillo. And I love the banderillas, don't you? And maybe some of those chorizo sausage things with a bit of toast? Errall, what of the albondigas? Love them? Hate them? Oh Juan, where is Juan when you need him? But really, Russell, go ahead. Anything will be fine. Anything."

Errall and I were each handed a laminated one-page tapas menu. It was a dizzying array and I finally concluded on the best thing to order. "Perhaps one of everything?"

"You are a genius of simplicity," Charity announced to those who cared. "And I can only add..." And here she studied the menu as if it were a priceless piece of art. "Oh, let's throw caution to the wind and have two of everything. Juan, please...?"

The server appeared with our doctored pitcher of sangria, another for our bewildered neighbours and a pleasant smile. "Two of all, Madame?" he confirmed.

"You lovely," she said to him, placing a smile back on him. "Yes, indeed, two of all."

"I'm so glad to meet you," I said, trying to bring this conversation. . .meeting.. .happening.. .whatever it was, under some control.

"Do you know tapas, Mr. Quant?" Charity asked me with a look on her face that warned me I was about to be tested.

Although I sometimes love making stuff up when I don't know an answer, just for fun, my senses told me this wasn't the way to go with Charity Wiser. "No," I admitted.

"They're sometimes called pinchos," she told the assembled group and about six or seven eavesdroppers. "They originated in Andalusia in the nineteenth century to accompany sherry...ah, exhilarating Andalusia, how I miss it...anyhow, it all began with the lowly bartender, one of the most underrated professions of all, don't you agree?" No waiting for an answer. "You see, the Andalusian bartenders would ply their trade in these flea-infested Andalusian villages as best they could, serving drinks, sherry, Cosmopolitans and dark beers mostly, I think. But these damnable flies kept getting into the drinks. Probably all the sugar in the sherry, don't you think? Anyway, what to do? Well don't you know, those clever bartenders began to cover the glasses with a saucer or small plate...also known as...a tapa...to keep out the flies! Well, eventually the custom progressed to where the kind-hearted barkeeps would place chunks of Gamonedo cheese, or maybe a nice blue, I don't know for sure, perhaps a few olives-black to be sure, with the pit-on the tapa to accompany the drink. And these bits of food became known as tapas. In those days the tapas were free, but now of course we're charged outrageous fees...for keeping
their
flies out of
our
drinks!"

Everyone nodded appreciatively. I was betting that about seventy per cent of the story was true.

Cosmopolitans in the nineteenth century?

"To tapas!" Charity exclaimed, raising her goblet of crimson sangria with hearty pomp. "The greatest cover-up in history!"

We all laughed, toasted and drank to tapas on the Ramblas. The sangria was good; sweet, but strong, and cold. A perfect complement to the balmy day.

"Enough frivolity," Charity proclaimed. "Let us get down to work. Russell...may I call you Russell?...Russell, tell me, is there anything you need before we board The Dorothy tomorrow?"

"Well," I began haltingly, unsure whether this was the best place to be having such a conversation. But the client always knows best, so I went for it. "I was wondering if you could tell me more about why you feel you are being targeted for murder?" I said this low enough so the Devonshire cream couple couldn't overhear.

"It was Morris, dear, dear Morris who paid the ultimate price so that I might have that knowledge, so that I might be warned, so that I might live," she announced, choking back a hint of a tear.

"Morris?" This was something new. Who was Morris? "Are you telling me Morris...?"

"Yes, Mr. Quant. Morris was murdered!"

"Morris was our cat." This bit of information came from Dottie Blocka who until now had remained mostly silent while she knitted. "All you need have said, Charity," she told her partner with a gentle but reproving look, "is that Morris,
our cat,
died."

"Not just died, my love, but he..." I could almost hear the director instructing her to pause, wait, wait, and then, with dramatic flourish reveal, "...was poisoned!"

Ah, the poisoned tea Flora had told me about. "Can you tell me more about what happened?" I asked.

"It was during the most recent Charity Event?"

"That's correct. At first, when I discovered poor Morris, in my bedroom, dead as a doornail and stiff as a fag at a Chippendales show, my suspicions were not immediately aroused. You see, Morris was not a young feline. He'd seen his share of pussies and catnip. I thought it lamentable of course, but not unusual in the grand scheme of things. It wasn't until some time later that I realized what had truly transpired.

Dottie and I were idly chit-chatting-as we old lady types tend to do-about habits and how one of ours, for years and years, has been to have a cup of tea before bed almost every night. You'd think we were crowned British royalty or something."

Dottie took the wee-est of sips from her glass of sangria and said, "Which, of course, you are."

Charity came as close to giggling and blushing as a woman of her ilk is likely to do. She fluttered a hand in Dottie's general direction. "No, no, no, it is
you
who are
my
queen." They smiled at each other with fondness over an old joke. Sated with their verbal love-making, Charity kept on. "Anyhow, the evening Morris passed on, I had returned to my room following a particularly invigorating day of boot camp training. That was when I found the cup of tea waiting for me. How lovely, I though to myself, Dottie knew what a trying day it had been and, as she sometimes does, she'd brought up my tea for me. However, as good fortune would have it, I'd already prepared my own cup and seeing as mine was the hotter of the two, that was the one I drank that night.

"The next morning I did notice that Dottie's tea seemed to have half-evaporated, but with the chaos of Morris being discovered soon after, I forgot all about it until much later."

"When we did finally speak of it," Dottie continued the story, correctly assuming she could do so in many fewer words. "I found it doubly odd because, although my physical body is giving out on me and my heart is growing weak, my mind remains strong as a whistle blow, and I recall, absolutely without a doubt, that that evening I had most definitely
not
brought Charity any tea."

"I'm not sure if I understand the significance of the tea to the cat's death," Errall said, at the same time accepting a draft beer from the waiter as replacement for the sangria, which she hadn't found appealing.

"Thank you, Juan."

Flora tilted towards Errall and whispered, "His name isn't really Juan."

Errall frowned and said, "But she...?"

Flora did her nodding thing. "Grandmother also called him Jose. She makes up names as needed."

"You see, the
cat's..."
Charity emphasized the word in such a way so as to communicate to Errall that she did not appreciate Morris being referred to so cavalierly, especially when Errall clearly knew the cat's name, "...death was caused by the tea."

"What?" I asked, unsure how she'd made the connection, myself quite enjoying the sangria.

"Since Dottie had not brought me the tea, suddenly the second cup became suspicious. I recalled how, the next morning, half of the tea was gone. Also suspicious and conspicuously coincidental so close to

Morris' death, wouldn't you say? I, of course, immediately had the body exhumed and an autopsy performed." She stopped then, as any good actress would, acting coy as if there was nothing more of import to say.

"What were the findings?" Russell, the straight man.

"Morris," Charity exclaimed, "had been murdered!"

"Oh good Lord," Errall let out. Fortunately Charity read it as shock at the news rather than incredulity.

"The tea had been poisoned. Morris drank it," Charity announced. "That poison, which stopped dear Morris' heart as sure as if it had been ripped from his chest, Russell Quant, was meant for me. But we were left with nothing. I could prove nothing to the police. The cup and its contents were, of course, long gone. As for Morris, well, they had the balls to suggest that perhaps he'd mistakenly eaten some rat poison set out by a neighbour. Happens all the time, they said. Well, my Morris was accustomed to only the finest feline cuisine. No rat-eater him. So, as you can appreciate and no doubt sympathize with, I am left to discover the culprit-my murderer-on my own. And that, my mighty gumshoe, is where you come in."

A dead cat. A dead cat and a cup of tea. That was why I'd been flown halfway around the world to solve a murder-which had yet to be committed. I sat in my seat trying not to squirm, trying not to give credence to the police theory that perhaps the cat had died a mistaken death and a killer was not stalking Charity Wiser. I cleared my throat, ignored the incorrigible smirk on Errall's face, and plowed on, "Flora suggested the motive for someone wanting you dead might be financial?"

"Yes. The terms of my will...generous terms I might add...have been made widely known to the family."

She allowed herself an inward smile. "By me. It's what keeps them coming back like lemmings to my little shindigs. Dottie teases me about it, but it’s a fair arrangement. They pay a price. I pay a price. I get something out of it, and they-eventually-will too. But someone doesn't want to wait. Greedy bastard. I'm eighty years old for crying out loud. I won't live twenty more years." Another smile. "Nineteen perhaps, but certainly not twenty."

"May I have a look at your will?"

"On the boat, on the boat," she said with a dismissive wave. Next subject.

"Do you have any idea who the killer might be?"

A hearty guffaw. "It's one of 'em."

Helpful. "And you're convinced the murderer will try again on The Dorothy?"

"I've arranged to give our murderer the best opportunity he or she could hope for. Accidents happen all the time on water. And having the rest of the family around certainly helps divert attention and suspicion, don't you think?"

"Charity," I began carefully, "if that is indeed the case, I wonder if perhaps what you need more than me is a bodyguard."

"Can't you do both?"

Growl. "No. I'm a detective. I detect. I'm not a trained bodyguard. I can't assure your physical safety."

She gave me a slow and careful once over. "You look tough enough to me. What are you, six foot plus, wide shoulders, big chest, big arms, what else do I need? Or are you one of those homosexual men who have muscles for show but don't know how to use them?"

"I am not a bodyguard," I repeated. I needed her to understand this. If the situation arises I can whip it up with the best of them but that isn't what I hire myself out to do.

"You'll do," she decided with finality. "What I need most is someone who can find this asshole
before
he kills me, not some piece of sirloin to pull him off me
after
I'm already dead. You'll do." She tipped her regal head to one side and away from me, signalling an end to the conversation and called out, "Carlos, you lovely, more sangria!"

Friday was boat day. Although Errall and I would have dearly loved several more days to explore Barcelona (or Bar
th
elona as the locals pronounce it), we were just as excited to start our adventure at sea.

Well, she was excited. I was excited and a little anxious: about the validity of my case, the eccentricity of my client and the seaworthiness of the boat we'd be on.

We were up at 8:15 a.m. to place our luggage outside our hotel room door as instructed by the Friends of Dorothy people who would be collecting it for transport to The Dorothy. Although we probably should have gone back to sleep to continue our jetlag recovery, we instead found our way to a little coffee shop we'd spotted the night before on Passeig de Gracia. After a light breakfast and heavy coffee, we found our second wind and toured city sights until, exhausted but exhilarated, it was time to return to the AC for the
FOD bus to pick us up at 3 p.m.

Although it's not like me, I took almost no notice of the other passengers aboard the FOD bus or the scenery as we were driven to the docks. I was too busy fretting. I was worrying about whether I'd take one look at The Dorothy, turn tail and hop the first plane home to my landlocked prairie home. I was also thinking about my first meeting with Charity. Between that meeting and the dossier she had prepared for me, I should have been comforted by the depth of background knowledge I had about my client and her family, but I couldn't help wonder about what I didn't know. And, despite my protestations, I worried that I had witlessly signed up to play a human shield rather than a detective. To top it off were my concerns about Errall. Had I been a complete numbskull to think she and I could coexist in one room for a week aboard a ship from which there was no easy escape?

I did my best to push aside my worries as the bus slowed and pulled to a stop. I could sense a mounting excitement from the other passengers as the level of chatter rose and they laughed and joked and strained to see out. I wanted badly to feel it too. I looked out the window and for the first time laid eyes on what would be our floating home for the next week-The Dorothy. It, thankfully, appeared to me to be huge. For some reason that made me feel better. Certainly something that size couldn't sink? Could it? It was gleaming white, as if fresh from a giant car wash and wax, six hundred feet long, eighty wide, with a towering smokestack looming over the back end emblazoned with the FOD logo: two gleaming red sequined shoes, ready to click us far, far away from Kansas.

It was only as we filed off the bus and were directed into a large building-kind of like an airport terminal for ships-that I began to take a good look at the people around me. I had expected them to look as if they'd just walked out of one of those gay travel magazines: buff, ridiculously young and attractive, and mostly men-the type who can pull off sarongs with barely-there hips and jaunty sailorboy caps. Who are those guys anyway? And how did these teenagers with hardly a waking hour left over after all the time they spent in gyms, tanning salons and clubs, manage to have jobs that paid enough to afford them a luxury cruise? (One green-eyed monster present and accounted for.) However, in taking a gander around me, although I did see some of the above-mentioned variety, in general this crowd looked as unremarkable as any other assemblage of people gathering in any train station, airport, pier or bus depot in preparation for a grand voyage. With the exception of the fact that most came in same-sex combinations.. .and the men seemed more excitable than the women.. .and the trio of drag queens channelling Mary, Rhoda (her heavy years) and Phyllis.. .this was a pretty pedestrian crowd. Uh-huh, for sure.

Before being allowed on the ship, our passports were exchanged for electronic boarding cards. We were to present these each time we embarked and disembarked the ship. After that we dutifully traipsed through two sets of security, and, that done, the life of salty luxury was finally ours to embrace. We stepped aboard the craft and were welcomed by an endless row of white-gloved, navy-suited crewmembers with broad smiles and good tans. I knew from the cruise information we'd been given that The Dorothy was built in 2000, registered in the Bahamas, and manned with an Italian crew. With a staff of almost three hundred and holding just three hundred and ninety-five passengers, it was nearly a one-to-one ratio. Eyeing up some of the particularly handsome cruise ship employees, I wondered if we would be allowed to choose the "one" we wanted. One such denizen approached Errall and me, introduced himself and, gently prying our canyons from our hands, replaced them with glasses of champagne, and escorted us to our cabin. My kind of welcome.

Our cabin was Room 654, a veranda suite on Deck Six. We gasped at the sight of it, like a king and queen seeing their newly decorated throne room for the first time. The next moments were a blur as we tried to take everything in. Somehow I'd envisioned a dark, dank closet with a single porthole through which we'd see dirty, green, frothy water splashing about, with maybe an octopus or two glaring in at us with malevolence. Instead we found original artwork (mostly whimsical seascapes) hung from brightly painted walls, colourful silk cushions tossed haphazardly about, and sari-inspired damask draperies that could be pulled closed to separate the sleeping area from the sitting/dining area. There was a full-size marble bathroom with a double-sink vanity, bathtub and separate shower, complete with a full line of complimentary Bulgari bathroom products. We had a fully stocked wet bar with Vera Wang (yup, she does that too) crystal stemware, and on top of a sitting desk were two sets of stationery, each piece personalized in gold calligraphy with "From the room of Russell Quant" or "From the room of Errall Strane." Best of all was a wall of glass with a sliding door that opened onto a private teak-floored veranda.

"What are those?" Errall asked while playing with the remote for a large, flat screen TV. On the crisp Frette linen of our beds was a pile of equally crisp, white envelopes.

I reached for a handily available letter opener and sliced open one of the envelopes which was addressed to me, noticing that for every one addressed to me, was another for Errall. "It's an invitation!" I called out, as if I'd never been invited to anything before in my life.

Errall had settled on a channel dedicated solely to describing the countless things an FOD passenger needed to know while on board. "It says here," Errall answered back, studying the TV screen, "that the dress code for each day applies to all guests in public areas after six p.m. and for the duration of the evening." Then asked, "Who's it from?"

I read from the black-scripted invite: "Cruise Director Judy Smythwicke requests the pleasure of your company at the Departure Party on the Pool Deck at six p.m.,” I read.

"How are we supposed to be ready in time for that?" She turned her attention back to the television. "It says here if we want to book tours in Mahon tomorrow we have to do it before six p.m. tonight."

I opened another. "This is from Richard Gray of GrayPride Tours thanking us for booking with him and asking us to join him for dinner tonight at nine."

"Who's he?" she responded, beginning to sound a little frazzled as she continued to study the long list of must knows. "The tour desk is on Deck Five and is only open until seven p.m."

I ripped open the next invite with shaking fingers. "This one says we're required to be at muster station Five A at five p.m. for a life jacket drill."

"The Pool Bar closes at seven p.m.," Errall crowed, sounding increasingly overwhelmed.

"Here's one from Charity and Dottie asking us to join the family for dinner tomorrow...oh, and she's reminding us that tomorrow is the first of two formal nights on board..."

"Wait, wait, I just saw that.. .yes, here it is," Errall said, rifling through a stack of papers and brochures she'd come across on the wet bar. "Here it is...formal wear is defined as evening gowns, cocktail dresses or dressy pantsuits for the ladies, and tuxedos or dark suits for the gentlemen. My God, Russell, how quick do you think the laundry service turnaround is? My clothes have been squished in a suitcase for days!

Wait a second, I saw that too.. .we need lists, lists and a binder to organize all this...and do any of those invitations require RSVPs? We should get calling on those, and oh gosh I'd like to have a shower before going out, and who the heck is Richard Gray? Do you know him? Do you know the cruise director? Why did she invite us? Did she invite everyone on board? Or just you and me? Is it a party for four hundred or four? What should I wear? How can we find out? My hair is a mess!"

I'd taken the opportunity during her frenzied tirade to open a bottle of Moet and thrust a newly topped champagne glass into her quivering hand. "Just drink this and shut up."

We had just enough time to unpack, organize clothes into piles to be sent to the laundry service, check the laundry service price list, move half the laundry service clothes into the iron-ourselves pile, organize and respond to our invitations, and splash water on our faces when an announcement informed us that it was time to don our life jackets and proceed to our assigned muster station. What followed was a rather light-hearted (but with serious intent) demonstration of what to do in an alarming number of disaster-movie-of-the-week scenarios. They showed us the location of the lifeboats, which looked a little puny to me. Someone asked if the old maritime rule of women and children first still applied on a gay cruise.

People made jokes about it, like how there'd be a sudden proliferation of drag queens as soon as the boat showed signs of sinking, or how the lesbians would be too busy trying to fix the leak to save themselves, leaving the guys free to first decorate and then sail off in all the lifeboats. I didn't think it was a laughing matter. Sure, The Dorothy was a spiffy-looking vessel and I was impressed with the free booze and nice towels, but I was still a bit jittery. Once the drill was over, they mushed us into the Munchkin Land Auditorium, the three-hundred-plus seat arena, along with the passengers from all the other muster stations throughout the ship.