Tapas on the Ramblas (8 page)

Dottie looked at me with a sweet smile as if we'd been talking about nothing more serious than the weathe
r, and said, "Of course, dear."

Minorca lies off the eastern coast of Spain in the western Mediterranean. It's the second largest of the Balearic Islands which collectively form an autonomous region and province of Spain, declared a Biosphere Reserve by UNESCO in 1993. As The Dorothy quietly pulled into the seaport capital of Mahon early the next morning, I was nursing my first cup of coffee on our deck and flipping through the surprisingly few pages of the Last Will and Testament of Charity Wiser. She had followed the keep-it-simple-stupid principle. After taxes and all other estate and probate expenses were taken care of, the home in Victoria and all its adornments, including cars in garages and extensive art collection, would go to Dottie Blocka.

All other assets, including ownership in Wiser Meats, were to be liquidated and one half of those proceeds would also go to Dottie. Of the half remaining, fifty per cent would be divided between her remaining sister, Faith Kincaid, and her granddaughter Flora Wiser; twenty-five per cent would be equally apportioned to Nick Kincaid, Marsha Moshier, James McNichol, Patrick Halburton and Jackson Delmonico; and the remaining twenty-five per cent would be shared by Nigel, Nathan and Kayla Moshier and Harriet Delmonico.

I noted on a pad some interesting points I wanted to keep in mind. First, several of the beneficiaries, Faith, James and Dottie, were aged. In the event of their predeceasing Charity, the will remained silent, meaning their inheritance would go to their estate and would filter down to their own heirs. I guessed Charity decided they could best decide where they wanted their portions to go. Second, the document made no mention or adjustment for the fact that Flora had already received a million dollars. This didn't particularly surprise me, given Charity and Flora's relationship, almost mother/daughter rather than grandmother /granddaughter.

Third, in the case of Faith Wiser's family, no money was allocated to those who married into the family, namely Faith's husband Thomas or Marsha's husband Ted. Yet for the family of deceased sister, Hope Wiser, the by-marriage in-laws, James, Patrick and Jackson, were included. Was this a nod to the bad luck that befell the Hope Wiser women or a slight of the Faith Wiser inlaws or simply a best attempt at fairness?

Fourth, I wondered if anyone in the family was upset with their "ranking" in the overall distribution scheme. Niece and nephew Nick and Marsha were grouped with James and Patrick and Jackson who are unrelated by blood. Faith's grandchildren were in a different strata than Charity's own grandchild yet in the same grouping with Hope's great-grandchild Harriet. And finally, fifth, although impossible to determine Charity Wiser's exact net worth, it was clear that even those relatives sharing the smallest portion of the pie were in for a hefty financial windfal
l-more than enough to kill for.

Despite it being a lovely, sunny day, the sky a palette of mixed blues with the occasional puffy cloud for contrast, Alberta was all in black, from a scarf which covered much of her head down to her boots that reached high up her calves beneath a heavy black skirt. We were sitting across from each other at a wobbly square table on the front porch of Ixo, a small dockside restaurant in Mahon. In the distance we could hear the babbling sounds of island commerce.

Mahón is famous for its daunting sets of stairs one must scale to reach the main streets of town, where more numerous shopping and dining options are available. So daunting are they in fact, that many tourists choose not to make the tiring trip and make do in the harbourfront area. Each day, enterprising locals haul their wares down the stairs and set up a makeshift market at the foot of the steps. Here you can buy locally crafted ceramics, shoes, costume jewellery and other souvenirs, all without doing a
Rocky...as
long as you're willing to pay a premium. As I half-listened to the constant bartering chatter, I became vaguely aware that one of the loudest and most insistent contributors was Errall. She was using her intimidating lawyer voice to obtain the best price for a pair of scuffs and a belt. The vendors, however, had heard it all before.

"Alberta," I said, once a waiter had deposited our lunch in front of us. "Are you all right? What’ s going on? You seem nervous about something."

"I can't afford to have The Blacksmith catch me," she told me as her eyes scanned the sidewalk.

"The Blacksmith? Who the hell is The Blacksmith?" It sounded like a nickname you'd give a sixteenth-century executioner.

"You know, old Smithy, Smythwicke."

My brow crinkled in disbelief. "Are you talking about the cruise director? Judy?"

"Don't let her fool you, Russell. She's a bowl of sweet and sour ribs. The sweet only disguises the sour."

"What are you talking about? She's Mary Poppins."

"To you and all the other passengers maybe. But to the staff, she's an ogre. It's not even part of her job, really, but she watches us like a hawk, just waiting to pounce should we do anything wrong."

"That still doesn't explain why you're dressed like an old Italian woman in mourning."

"I
don't want her to recognize me just in case she happens by."

"Aren't you allowed off the boat?" I was beginning to wonder if life with FOD wasn't all lollipops and cotton candy as I'd imagined it was.

"Oh sure, we get our days off and privileges to leave the ship at certain ports, but we're not supposed to fraternize with the guests."

"Ohhhhhh. You're not supposed to be seen with me off the ship."

"But there was no way I wasn’t going to have at least one visit with you. Imagine running into you and Errall so far from home," she enthused, seeming to forget The Blacksmith for a moment.

"We were certainly surprised to see you last night too. We didn't even know you had left Saskatoon."

"Oh well, it's just temporary. For the money," she said, zealously stuffing her mouth with a chunk of the delicious bread our waiter had brought us along with a tasty
calderetta."
And the glamour. A friend of mine, who's a dancer on the boat, has worked for FOD for a couple years and told me about the gig. They have a regular psychic, but she wanted some time off, so here I am, filling in. Isn't it fabulous?"

"Don't you have to be gay to work on The Dorothy?" I asked.

"Nope. Just gay-friendly. And that I am," she said, reaching over the tabletop to give my cheek an elderly-aunt-type pinch.

"Alberta, about last night?"

She was suddenly intent on digging into her Minorcan fish casserole and was taking her time chewing her food into very small pieces. She helped herself to a healthy gulp of bottled water before looking at me.

"You saw that, huh?"

"Yes, Alberta. It looked like you got spooked."

She looked at me for a moment then said, "That's a very precise way of describing it, Russell. I've been searching for a word to describe what I felt, and that's it. I was spooked. Spooked by a spook."

"What was it? What scared you?"

Alberta pulled her chair closer to the table and brought her face so close to mine I could see a tiny crumb of bread stuck to her bright pink lipstick. "At the end of the show.. .when I was searching for thoughts..."

"Yes?"

"I found one.. .one that wasn't very nice. I tried to ignore it but it kept on popping into my mind, as if demanding to be heard. It was horrible, Russell. I've rarely felt such a strong thought before. When it comes in that strong.. .well, it can only mean that the person who's thinking it is pretty serious about it.

Like a song they can't get out of their head, it's all they can think about."

"So, what was it? What was the thought?"

"Over and over and over," Alberta began, her voice uncharacteristically shaky. I could feel her breath on my cheek as she spoke. "I could hear it as clear as if the words were being whispered into my ear...over and over...I heard the words."

"What? What did the voice say?"

"I'm going to kill her."

Upon our return to the ship later that afternoon we found a new pile of invitations on our beds, enough to fill the rest of our evening and more. We donned a tuxedo (me) and a sparkly cocktail dress (Errall) and headed out. At the Meet the Captain reception, Captain Bagnato kept Errall in close visual proximity while playing charming host to the other guests. I spent my time wondering when the heck she had time to plot courses, whip the oarsmen and watch out for glaciers and all the other captain-y stuff I thought she should be doing, what with all the schmoozing responsibilities she seemed to have. Afterwards we joined Richard at the Cowardly Lion Lounge for a quick pre-dinner drink until it was time for Errall and me to head off to meet the rest of the Wiser family for the first time.

At nine o'clock sharp we entered Tin-Sel, one of three private dining rooms on Deck Seven, which Charity had reserved for our use that evening. The other two were appropriately named Roar and The Haystack. Tin-Sel was what the Tin Man's home might have looked like if only he'd had a heart.. .and a well-padded bank account. The colour scheme was predominantly red and silver, with tin (or tin-like substances) used in abundance throughout the heart-shaped room. From tin flower bouquets to a tin-inlay floor, tin sculptures and a well-stocked tin bar where drinks were being served in, what else, tin cups.

Even the serving staff was in on it. For comfort and efficiency, none of them wore the clunky tin armour poor Jack Haley had to endure in the movie, but rather, much sexier tin-hued body paint, and little else except judiciously placed oil cans and funnels.

I immediately caught sight of Charity at the far end of the room holding court over about half of the fifteen assembled guests, while the others chatted amongst themselves in small groupings of two or three nearby. As soon as we stepped into her line of sight, Charity stopped whatever she'd been pontificating on and raised her funnel-shaped martini glass high above her head as if in salute. I knew I was in trouble.

"There he is!" she announced in a loud, boisterous voice, in case the rats scurrying along the boat's lowest depths couldn't hear her. Her drink hung precariously in the air, a few drops spilling from its sides as if the boat were lolling from side to side. (It wasn't.) "Behold, my family, Mr. Russell Quant."

At once all Wiser eyes were upon me, a rather unsettling feeling.

"And his charming companion, the dark princess, Errall Strane."

Errall appeared nonplussed but had the good sense to stand her ground in silence.

"And Mr. Quant," she said to me, "behold...my family!" And with this she swept her drink hand before her with a flourish, as if to present to me the human specimens in the room (which about then were beginning to collectively take on the look of a herd of sheep trying to figure out why the farmer was holding a pair of shears). "Family," she bellowed, her voice a bit slurred, "Mr. Quant is my legaaaaaaal adviiiiiiisor!" She let loose a caustic laugh and, with a wink for me, added, "Go get 'im!"

And with that, she resumed whatever it was she'd been saying to the group surrounding her. I'd been properly and completely dispensed of, like a household chore. Those not in Charity's circle gazed at me for a few seconds longer, some with frowns on their faces that I thought wholly inappropriate, but before long they resumed their whisperings and gossiping and left me alone. I looked at Errall and she at me. Was this a play and someone forgot to give us our lines? Fortunately for us, at that very moment an apologetic Flora Wiser trotted up to us, her sad dogface even sadder and paler than usual, her eyeglasses askew.

"I am so sorry for my grandmother," she said, nodding away. "She gets a bit tipsy during cocktail hour.

She'll be fine once she's eaten something."

I noticed Flora had done little to cruise-up her wardrobe, her diminutive frame covered head to toe in layers of bohemian-style clothing in colours so drab they looked seasick.

"Don't worry about it, Flora. But what did she mean by 'go get 'im'?" I asked.

She smiled weakly. "Well, I can't be sure, but I suppose it was a bit of a joke." She glanced over our and her own shoulders to check for any possible eavesdroppers. Finding none she said, "Grandmother knows how paranoid the family is about her will and the eventual distribution of her estate. Having a lawyer or advisor of any kind on this trip will drive them insane. They'll be wondering why you're here."

"Did she think they would actually attack Russell?" Errall, the real lawyer in the group, asked, incensed at the thought.

"Not really," Flora said. "They'd never be so forward about it. But she'd think it was humorous to watch their reactions."

And indeed, when I lifted my head from our tête-à-tête with Flora, I caught Charity's cool green eyes carefully scanning the room, a tight smirk on her lips. She met my eye and delivered another wink. This woman, I was quickly coming to realize, was a fascinating yet frustrating enigma.

"But never mind all that," Flora urged. "They're about to serve dinner. I'll show you to your seats.

Grandmother arranged the seating plan." Of course.

I offered Errall my arm. "Dark Princess..."

She gave me a scowl befitting her new title.

There were three round tables set up around Tin-Sel, two seating six apiece and one for five. Flora showed us to a sixer, around which stood three men and the stunning young woman we'd noticed the night before. With her toffee coloured skin, heart-shaped face, and bright smile, the woman immediately reminded me of a twenty-one-year-old Vanessa Williams.

"Errall, Russell, this is my cousin, Harriet," Flora introduced us, looking like a desiccated stalk of straw next to a glorious gardenia.

Harriet threw out her hand and a friendly smile. "So nice to meet you. Errall, I just love your name.

Mine makes me sound as if I'm a ninety-year-old schoolmarm. Please call me Harry."

"And this is Harry's father, Jackson Delmonico." Flora was referring to a slightly stooped-over black man who could have been any age between forty-five and seventy. His weary, bleary face, yellowed eyes and ruined voice told me that this was a man accustomed to long, hard nights of overindulging. Even so, he was spiffily turned out that evening, wearing a purple dress jacket with black lapels, a black shirt with ruffled front, billowing black pants and shiny black dress shoes. Everything about the outfit was a little worn and out of date, but certainly attention-grabbing. He had an easy, wide smile that showed off large, tobacco-stained teeth and closely shorn greying hair, beard and moustache. I noticed when Flora introduced Harry, Jackson looked about as proud as if she'd just been awarded a Nobel prize.

The man next to Jackson was also stooped, but that’s where the similarity ended. He was thinner, shorter, and looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to have his food and get out of there. He was in his early sixties, with a small, oval face blanched white as Wonder Bread. His dull eyes met ours for less than a second as we shook hands when Flora introduced him as Harry's grandfather, Patrick Halburton.

"And this," Flora said indicating the last man, "is Harry's greatgrandfather."

"James McNichol," he declared sprightly, barely noticing me but paying Errall an inordinate amount of attention.

Harry, Jackson, Patrick, James. Harry, Jackson, Patrick, James.

H-J-P-J, H-J-P-J, I repeated to myself to help keep the names and faces and relationships straight.

At eighty-two, even though James outdistanced Jackson and Patrick in age by decades, he appeared substantially heartier and healthier and, I must say, was the most attractive of the three. He was tall, with an almost full head of wavy hair dyed a rusty shade of blond, and his large chest, forty-four inches at least, seemed even larger due to an inspiringly small waist for a man of his years. "What an absolute delight to have you at our table, young lady," he said to Errall as he raised her hand to his lips for a lingering smooch. I've never gotten that: hand-kissing. What's that all about? Why the hand and not the palm or left knee? "Does your mother know you're out this late without a chaperone?" he chided.

Errall gave him one of her rare Crest-commercial smiles. "I guess old Russell here is my chaperone."

He regretfully pulled his eyes from Errall's bosom and regarded me pleasantly. "Well, well, Mr. Quant.

The legal advisor." For a burning second I felt a sensation of being named the victim in a game of seafaring Clue: The GreatGrandfather Killed The Legal Advisor in The Galley with The Anchor. "Good to meet you. You best keep a close eye on your young lady here." He bestowed a salacious leer on Errall.

"Who knows what type of trouble a fair maiden such as she could get into on this ship? I've noticed a lot of randy-looking young men aboard who I'm sure would like nothing better than to get to know her better." He gave me one of those manly winks that says, "If you know what I mean?"

I exchanged a bemused grin with Errall and nodded thanks for the warning. Didn't James McNichol know what kind of cruise this was? The only thing any of the randy men on this boat might want from Errall would be the sequins off her dress.

Flora made off for her own table leaving us to take our seats just as the wine steward and menus came around. The selection was awe-inspiring and I finally settled on a lamb dish. The steward suggested a Marques de Caceres Reserva 1995, from Rioja, Spain, which apparently was a very agreeable wine enhanced by a menthol note on the finale. The combo sounded so good that two others at the table ordered the same.

After the wine and amuse bouche were served, I reflected on our tablemates. Charity had seated us with what was left of her late sister Hope's family. Seeing these people in person, particularly Harry-the sole remaining woman-made the story I'd read in Charity's dossier more real and somehow more tragic.

Each of the men around this table had married a woman who, upon giving birth to a baby girl, had died, leaving him a widower with a small child to raise. And what of Harry, the last of the baby girls? Would she too become a victim of this sad legacy? Or was she doomed, in order to save her own life, to remain childless forever, regardless of what her desires and dreams might be?

Yet, despite this gloomy future, as I watched Harry interact with her menfolk, all of whom obviously cherished her, she seemed a hopeful, happy girl. Would all of that one day be shattered by a lineage that seemed intent on either restricting her happiness or killing her? I hoped for her sake that she had no desire to be a mother or, if she did, would find ways to be one without giving birth herself. The alternative was..

.well, a risk greater than most.

"I'm gonna check out that deck out there for a ciggy or two," Jackson announced as he pulled away from the table.

"Oh Daddy, they'll be serving the meal soon," Harry ragged on her father good-naturedly. "You stay right in your seat."

Errall stood up as well. "I think I'll join you."

The two of them regarded each other with the relief of having found a fellow smoker in a world where lobby groups and governments were making it increasingly harder for them to indulge their addiction.

"How about we slip by the bar for some scotch to bring with us?" Jackson suggested to Errall, with an expectant look on his face.