‘I think he’s conducting his own investigation. The official one was crap.’ Pia paused to hand a glass of wine to another passenger and scan his sea pass. Once the customer was settled into a chair, she turned back to us. ‘When we got back to Fort Lauderdale, the F.B.I. came on board, but what was there to investigate? Charlotte had simply vanished. Might as well have been abducted by aliens. The F.B.I. dismissed the case for lack of evidence. Verdict? Accident, possible suicide. And don’t get me started on the Bahamian police!’
My geography of the Caribbean was pretty good, having spent six months of Paul’s recent sabbatical living on an island in the Bahamas. Jamaica and the Caymans, I knew, were nowhere near the Bahamas. ‘How the heck did the Bahamian police get involved?’
‘All the Phoenix ships are registered in Nassau,’ Pia explained. She jabbed an index finger toward the ceiling. ‘You probably noticed the flag.’
Liz screwed up her face. ‘Let me get this straight. A Greek citizen, living in the British Isles, owns ships that sail in and out of ports in the United States of America, and those ships are registered in the Bahamas?’
‘That’s right. It keeps taxes low.’
Liz shook her head. ‘Jeeze Laweeze.’
Pia took a deep breath, let it out. ‘Anyway, the detective they sent from Grand Bahama spent about an hour on the ship, interviewed a couple of people, pawed through Char’s things, then flew home. End of story.’
Something wasn’t right. ‘But why is David Warren investigating this ship, so many months later?’
‘How do you Americans say it? The usual suspects? Voyager is in dry dock until early next year. Some of her staff ended up here. Like Tom and me.’
Pia grabbed a napkin from the pile near her elbow and dabbed at the tears that had started to spill from her eyes.
‘You and Charlotte must have been friends,’ I said sympathetically.
‘Friends? You could say that. She was my roommate.’
Ouch! No wonder the tears. ‘What was Charlotte’s job on the Voyager?’ I asked gently. ‘Did she work for Channing, too?’
Dry-eyed, Pia considered my question. ‘She was one of the youth counselors.’
A cold ribbon of fear snaked up my back. Was that what was behind Pia’s warning to me earlier about keeping an eye on Julie? ‘Jesus,’ I croaked.
‘Exactly.’
EIGHT
‘ “Fake” is a technical term used by magicians to indicate something that the audience actually looks at but camouflaged or prepared to look like something else.’
Jim Steinmeyer, Hiding the Elephant,
Da Capo, 2004, p. 234
‘How do I look?’ Ruth wanted to know.
The last time I’d seen the dress – a gold, gauzy, floor-length floral with leg-o-mutton sleeves – Ruth had been standing barefoot in a mountain meadow with daisy chains twined in her hair. ‘I’m surprised you kept the dress,’ I told her. ‘Once you got rid of Eric, one would think you’d want to get rid of everything that reminded you of the jerk.’
‘Well,’ my sister said, twisting her body one way, then another in front of the mirror, then pausing to smooth the gown over her hips. ‘I divorced Eric, not the dress. Besides, it still fits.’
‘Waste not, want not,’ I quoted.
Ruth performed a pirouette, then faced me. ‘What are you going to wear to this reception thing?’
I was already wearing my ‘uniform’ – the black crepe pants – but was sitting around in my bra being wishy-washy about what to wear on top. I’d laid three choices out on the coverlet, and asked Ruth for her advice. ‘Which one do you think?’
Ruth considered my question carefully. ‘The red with the sequins. Definitely. And you have those crystal earrings to go with it.’
Ruth had talked me into the earrings when we’d been browsing at the jewelry boutique on deck six, one of a cluster of shops behind the photo gallery, just off the atrium. We’d gone up to check out the photograph that had been taken of us when we boarded, one of hundreds arranged in slots on the wall. When we finally found it, we were amazed: all our eyes were open, so Ruth bought it. I had to pay for the earrings, of course.
I slid the sequinned top on over my head and offered my back to Ruth so she could zip it up. I dug the earrings out of the bag in the top drawer and hung the beaded loops from my earlobes where they swung like chandeliers. ‘There!’ I said, presenting myself for inspection.
Ruth slid an arm around my waist and hugged me close. ‘We’re quite the glamorous pair. Too bad Hutch and Paul aren’t here to enjoy the view.’
I laughed, but I’d been missing my husband, too. After hearing what Pia had to say earlier that afternoon, I had wanted to discuss it with him. Paul always listened to my ravings calmly, helped talk me through them sensibly and, above all, logically. My sister tended to be more laissez-faire. She’d ridden many a bus to never-ever land during the Summer of Love.
‘Do you think Georgina’s pissed off that I’m not taking her to the reception?’ I asked.
‘Hell, no. You know how she is about cocktail parties. Rather than dress up, she’s decided to take Julie to dinner at the Firebird tonight. I think she’s feeling a bit guilty, like she’s neglecting Julie by letting her have the run of the ship.’
Since my usual sounding board was back in Annapolis, and Ruth had kind of brought it up, I made her sit down on the sofa while I filled her in on what I’d learned from Pia Fanucci about Charlotte Warren.
Ruth poo-poohed my concerns. ‘This Charlotte person was an employee of the cruise line, right, not one of the kids. Nothing happened to any of the kids on her watch, did it?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose. I’ll have to ask Pia about that.’
Ruth pressed her palms together. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Julie, then. Every time I’ve been up to Tidal Wave the kids seem well-supervised. And when they send them out, it’s always in groups. Honestly, those counselors have the patience of Job. The noise alone…’ Ruth’s voice trailed off. ‘Have you been in the video game room?’ When I shook my head ‘no’ she added, ‘Sheer torture! Ten minutes working in that place and I’d blow my brains out.’
While Ruth slipped into her dress sandals, I wondered what David Warren hoped to accomplish by wandering around the Islander, carrying a red shoe and asking questions like Detective Columbo. According to Pia, his daughter had disappeared a year and a half ago and from another ship.
I decided to concentrate on touching up my makeup. I was on holiday, after all. ‘Stairs or elevator?’ I asked a few minutes later as we headed for the Trident Lounge.
‘It’s only two decks up,’ Ruth said, heading for the staircase.
I followed, figuring the exercise would do me good.
The entrance to the Trident Lounge was through the piano bar where a pianist with the improbable name of John Darling was sitting at a white Steinway grand, tinkling the ivories. As we waited to go through the receiving line, he finished ‘My Way’ and segued neatly into ‘The Candy Man,’ then ‘That’s Amore,’ crooning his way through songs that had been popularized by the Rat Pack in the sixties.
‘Did you bring the invitation?’ Ruth whispered as we got close to the head of the line.
I patted my evening bag. ‘Right here, but I doubt they’ll ask for it.’
And they didn’t. We were glad-handed through a series of ship’s officers, arranged in ascending order by rank and number of stripes on their sleeves. We shook the hand of the head chef – wearing his double-breasted jacket and traditional toque – the entertainment director, the head of security, the hotel director, the deputy captain, and finally, the captain, each resplendent in crisp white gold-buttoned uniforms, loaded with braid. As the captain released my hand and allowed me into the lounge, I said to Ruth – who had preceded me, ‘I feel thoroughly welcomed aboard by now, don’t you?’