She would not return the letter and that was that, but people had now begun to stare. Clay grabbed Anne’s arm and led her quickly down to the swimming pool, where a group of sunbathers were clustered around. De Jongh and the two men followed.
It was the last day of the trip and several couples, dreading the ending of shipboard romances, were ardently kissing. Clay led Anne to a couple of vacant deck chairs, put his arms around her, and kissed her. Then he whispered in her ear.
“Anne, when the next group of people moves toward the front of the ship, I’m going to walk you to your cabin. Bolt the door and don’t let anybody in, not even your roommates. Make them bring the steward to get in. Tonight we’ve got to stay in crowds of people. We have to have people around us all the time. All the time. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“And, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry, that I’ve got you involved in this.”
“I’m not,” Anne said, and gave him a kiss that was full of promise.
That evening was a game of hunter and hunted. They dawdled through dinner, went early to the Captain’s Ball, and stayed late. All evening long, De Jongh and his hoodlums seemed right at their elbow. Clay could not read De Jongh’s mind, but it occurred to him that De Jongh must have just about made up his mind to commit murder and take his chances with Customs. He was a fool if he hadn’t, and De Jongh did not impress him as a fool.
Finally, the ship’s orchestra played the last note of music. The ball was over. Soon the crowd would be breaking up. What then? The moment Clay Felton had dreaded was approaching. Watching De Jongh from across the room, he fancied he saw a catlike look of anticipation on the fat man’s face.
Then Anne said unexpectedly in a lilting voice, “Surprise, everybody!” The gay banter hushed. Anne stood up. “Since this is the last night aboard ship, and a lot of us who have grown fond of each other might not see each other for long time...”
A chorus of groans greeted this dismal prospect.
“Some of us girls thought it would be silly to waste the last night sleeping, so we’ve arranged a deck party...”
Cheers.
“The stewards have set up a lot of chairs on the fantail. We thought we’d spend the last night watching the full moon...”
Wild cheers.
“We won’t go to bed at all. We’ll just stay on deck until we dock tomorrow...”
Pandemonium.
Anne and Clay led the parade back to the fantail. Perhaps two hundred deck chairs and robes were waiting.
Overwhelmed, Clay turned to Anne admiringly. “You’re a pretty clever girl.”
Anne smiled brightly. “Oh, you don’t know half of how clever I am, darling. I can cook and I can sew and do all the things that well brought up young ladies are supposed to be able to do.”
She led him to two deck chairs in the center. As they kissed, she whispered, “I don’t think those men would commit murder in front of two hundred witnesses, do you?”
“No. It isn’t likely.”
“Let’s forget all about them then, darling.”
The long night that Clay had dreaded turned out to be memorable — but in a way he had not expected. As Anne slyly pointed out to him, a good woman can smooth a man’s path in unexpected ways.
The Groot Vreeling docked at dawn. Plans had been made for Clay to be the first person off the ship. Perhaps he could get the jump on De Jongh and his men. He could get off the boat, pass Customs, disappear quickly, call Anne at her hotel later.
But after a night of romance, Clay found this was the bleak morning after. De Jongh and his men had anticipated him. They were waiting to disembark, too. He was trapped. In the struggling swirl of humanity getting off the boat, Clay found himself next to De Jongh and his musclemen all the way. They surrounded him. He handed in his landing card, showed his passport to Immigration, and displayed his yellow vaccination card to the Public Health Service man. Then Clay found himself at the head of the line for Customs inspection.
The Customs man, garbed in white shirt and dark tie, smiled pleasantly. “Welcome home. Have you got your luggage ready for inspection?”
Clay smiled weakly. Once past this line, he could be either rich — or dead. “No. I haven’t any luggage. I left it aboard ship.”
The Customs inspector’s smile faded to a puzzled frown. “Aren’t you going to bring your luggage into the United States? It must pass inspection if you are.”
“No.” Clay shook his head.
“Do you have anything to declare, then?”
“Nothing,” said Clay, “except a small bag full of diamonds.”
The Customs inspector stared at him as if he were a lunatic. Then Clay reached into his pocket, took out the bag, and poured the glittering stones into the astonished inspector’s hands.
“These aren’t mine. They’re the property of that gentleman,” Clay pointed to Klaas De Jongh standing in the next line, “over there.”
The inspector glanced at the glittering diamonds, then motioned excitedly to a policeman. “Hold that man!” He pointed to Klaas.
The fat man panicked and began to run. He didn’t even reach the end of the pier before he was caught, and Francoise and the two musclemen were subsequently arrested.
There were many questions. It was hours before they released Clay Felton. But there was one item of good news. He had not known that there is a reward for information leading to the arrest of smugglers and the confiscation of valuable property that one attempts to smuggle into the United States. Up to twenty-five percent of the market value of the contraband merchandise, to a maximum reward of fifty thousand dollars, was what the man said. At any rate, it ought to be a tidy sum.
Clay quickly ducked into a phone booth to call Anne. It was time to start planning that celebration.
Picking Daisies
by Edie Ramer
I had been looking for wildflowers. Instead I found a bone — a human bone.
It was late August. The humid air clogged my sinuses and fogged my head. My blouse stuck to my back, and when my cocker spaniel pulled on the leash, the bursitis in my right shoulder gave me hell. But Honey was only two years old, a teenager in dog years, and she could go on for another five miles. I was forty-five, with a human’s two legs instead of a dog’s four, good for maybe a half mile more.
We reached the swamp. Birds squawked at Honey. Crickets sang. Honey stopped to do her business on the edge of the road. Two boys, about six and seven, played catch across the street. I waved to their mother, then turned away. That’s when I saw them.
About three yards in. Milk-white petals, butter-yellow insides, twice as large as the daisies in my rock garden. I wanted them. I could picture them in my Chinese vase on my dining room table. My mother-in-law was coming to dinner that night, looking down at me as usual for being an unpaid poet and a housewife. I would show Helen that homemaking could be an art form.
Honey finished and strained at the leash. I took a step onto the green edge. Water squished under my shoes. Muddy water. I hesitated, and Honey hesitated, too. Was I actually letting her in this special place after pulling her out of it for months? I thought of my white Reeboks. I thought of the bath Honey would need, the burrs in her curly hair. A car honked at the family across the street — someone from our subdivision, probably, because the road was less than a mile long. I looked at the perfect daisies again. I stepped forward.
I separated weeds and long grasses. Honey sniffed the ground. Bugs hovered over her head and her tail. I brushed some from my short hair. We reached the daisies and I bent down. Honey sprinted after a squirrel, jerking the leash. Off-balance, I fell. My hand pushed through wet grasses and wetter ground, and when I came up I had a bone in my hand.