‘No problem,’ Georgina muttered into her lounger.
After Buck wandered off, I returned to my novel, but had read only a paragraph when Ruth poked me with a finger. ‘Look who just came in. Isn’t that the David guy that Liz and Cliff were talking about at breakfast?’
David Warren, still dressed like the manager of a country club, had wandered into the solarium. He glanced around the room, as if looking for someone, shook his head slightly, then retreated to a table on the other side of the pool, not far from where we were lounging. Once seated, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook and began flipping through it until he came to a blank page. His eyes went on to scan mode: up to the solarium’s crystal canopy and down; one end of the glass enclosure to the other.
‘He’s not looking for any one,’ I suddenly realized. ‘He’s looking for some thing.’
Ruth agreed. ‘I’ll bet he’s an undercover inspector.’
‘A mystery passenger,’ Georgina added. ‘Like one of those mystery shoppers, you know? Reports back to management?’
Ruth swiped a rivulet of sweat from her brow. ‘Wonder what he’s looking for?’
I shrugged. ‘Safety violations?’
An attendant balancing a tray of drinks on the flat of his hand stopped beside David’s chair, but was waved off impatiently. The interruption must have broken the man’s concentration, because he tucked the notebook back into his breast pocket, stood, and shuffled out of the solarium the way he had come.
‘If he’s an undercover inspector, he couldn’t be more obvious,’ I said. ‘One doesn’t usually wear a sports jacket, chinos and penny loafers when going to a swimming pool.’
‘Funny how we keep running into the same people,’ Ruth muttered before returning to her book.
‘Yeah, isn’t it?’ I agreed, thinking about the Rowes.
Day one of an eight-day cruise. Somehow I suspected I hadn’t seen the last of David Warren.
SEVEN
‘She vanished as quickly as an electric light goes out when the switch is turned.’
David Devant, Secrets of My Magic,
Hutchinson, 1936
Sitting for hours in a hot tub can suck the energy clean out of you. Add a gorgeous lunch of broiled lamb skewers, baby arugula and lemon vinaigrette, followed by a square of baklava, and all you can think about is a nap.
Ruth had already headed off for her yoga session when I hauled myself off my bunk, collected my knitting and made my way aft to the Oracle.
I was ten minutes early.
The attractive barkeep I’d noticed there earlier that morning was alone, moving busily behind the bar, arranging empty glasses on a tray, presumably preparing for the arrival of the knitters who, if the number of splits being chilled was any indication, were expected to be heavy drinkers.
I sidled up to the bar. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘How does this work exactly?’
The barkeep – Pia from Italy – looked up, smiled, and tucked an errant strand of her straight black bob behind an ear with her little finger. ‘What would you like? Phoenix specializes in Greek wines, of course.’ She indicated the iced basins. ‘Our featured wine today is Ode Panos, a sparkling wine from Domaine Spiropoules. It’s lovely.’
I dug the sea pass out of my pocket and slid it toward her across the bar. ‘I’d like to try some, thanks.’
Pia ran my sea pass through her portable scanner and handed it back. ‘Shall I start a tab?’ When I nodded, she slid a bottle of Ode Panos out of its ice bath, quickly and expertly removed the cork – with a muted pop and a wisp of smoke – tipped the flute against the lip of the bottle and slowly poured.
Since nobody else had arrived, I asked, ‘Have you been working on Islander long, Miss…?’
‘It’s Fanucci. Pia Fanucci.’ She handed me the glass. ‘Not on this particular ship, no, but Tom and I have been with Phoenix Cruise Lines for a while. We used to work on Voyager.’
I took a sip of the wine. Pleasantly bubbly, a touch of rose, a bit of green apple with a hint of banana. A little too perfumy for my taste, but as a mid-afternoon aperitif, not bad. ‘Is Tom your husband?’
‘No, he’s my work partner.’ She brightened. ‘I guess I should explain. When I’m not tending bar, I’m Tom’s assistant. He’s Thomas Channing, the magician. He goes by Channing exclamation point,’ she added, drawing a line in the air and dotting it with the tip of a well-manicured finger.
I knew all about One Name celebrities, like Elvis, Cher and Madonna. My son-in-law’s real name was Daniel Shemansky, but ever since he and my daughter returned east from Colorado, he’d styled himself just plain Dante. Not that Dante was particularly famous, but their luxury bay-side spa, Dante’s Paradiso – get it? – seemed to be thriving.
‘You should come see the show,’ Pia continued.
I set my glass down on a paper coaster, carefully centering the base over a black-and-white sketch of the ship. ‘I read about it in the program and was thinking about going tonight.’
‘You’ll enjoy it,’ Pia said. ‘I’m a newbie, but Tom’s been in show business a long time. Atlantic City, Las Vegas. He’s been working the cruise ships now for about three years. He designs his own illusions, although there’s a guy in Virginia who actually builds them for him. They’re totally amazing.’
I grinned. ‘What kind of magician would he be if they weren’t?’
Pia beamed. ‘Exactly!’
‘So you get cut in half, float in mid-air…’ I waved a hand vaguely. ‘That sort of thing?’
‘Exactly that sort of thing,’ she chuckled. ‘My favorite is the Zig-Zag Box, but the highlight of the show, really, is the Indian Sword Basket.’
‘Eeeek!’ I squeaked. ‘I’ve always wondered about that. Are the swords fake?’
‘Oh, no, they’re very real. You’ll see!’
‘How’s the comedian? I see he’s on first.’
Pia shrugged. ‘He’s OK, I guess. But this is his first gig for Phoenix Cruise Lines, and I think he’s a bit too blue for a family audience. Last night we had people walk out. Not good if he’s opening for us.’
‘Not at all,’ I agreed. ‘But I promise to tough it out, laugh at all his jokes – lame or not – and look forward to seeing you and the amazing Mister Channing Exclamation Point. And I’ll bring my sisters.’
Pia smiled. ‘You won’t be sorry.’
I thanked Pia again and carried my wine over to a comfortable, white leather chair decorated with brass studs. I settled in, arranged my knitting on my lap, and took another sip, transporting myself to the whitewashed houses and brilliant blue sea of Santorini, a place I’d visited only in my imagination.
I was jolted out of my daydream when a group of teenagers erupted into the lobby from the elevator and breezed into the bar. Each girl carried a sheet of paper and a pencil. ‘Hi, Aunt Hannah!’
‘Julie! What are you doing here?’
‘We’re on a scavenger hunt.’ Julie flapped her list in my direction. ‘We’re supposed to count the number of jeroboams in the Oracle bar. I don’t even know what a jeroboam is!’
Pia Fanucci pointed behind her where four giant wine bottles were arranged, like pillars, supporting a glass shelf on which was displayed a sterling silver plate with an engraved inscription commemorating an international wine award. ‘Those are jeroboams.’ Pia explained, ‘They hold about four litres of wine each.’
‘Four!’ shouted one of Julie’s three companions. Heads down, they scribbled the answer onto their worksheets and disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.
‘Your niece is a pretty girl,’ Pia commented after they were out of sight.