“But I need Nibbles! You know Barbie will want to ride her horsey.” She held up one of the dolls; its blonde hair was a mess, giving it a crazed look.
Jennifer closed her eyes, gathering all the strength she could. Then she went over and sat on her mother’s bed and slipped an arm gently around the woman’s shoulders.
“Look, Mom,” she said tactfully, “you be a good girl and get to bed, and tomorrow we’ll find another horsey in Nassau.” It was a fib, of course, or close to one: Jennifer doubted any store on the island carried Barbie toys.
“But what if they don’t have it? What then?” her mother sniffed, holding back tears.
“Then we’ll buy something else, just as nice.”
“Nicer!”
“Nicer.”
“Like My Very Own Vanity for fifty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents? Or the Cruisin’ Car convertible for thirty-four dollars and ninety-five cents?”
“That’s right. One of those.”
Her mother shifted on the bed, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. “Or the Malibu Beach House for ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents?”
“We’ll see.”
“I have my very own money, you know,” her mother said, with a smile that was lovely if you didn’t study it.
“Yes. Yes.” Before the trip Jennifer had given her mother twenty dollars to carry; she didn’t trust her with anything more. “But you have to get to bed, first.”
“Goody goody goody! G’night... what’s your name again, dear?”
“Jennifer, Mother. It’s Jennifer.”
“You’re my daughter.” Her mother seemed proud of this observation.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
Five minutes later, with the lights out and the ship rolling gently over and through the waves, steaming its way to Nassau, Jennifer lay in her bed staring up at the cabin ceiling.
How could her mother remember every single Barbie toy and exactly what it cost and not remember her own daughter’s name? Such was the way of this maniacal disease.
Maybe someday, she thought, I’ll laugh at the absurdity of it all.
But not tonight.
Jennifer waited until she heard her mother softly snoring before turning her head into the pillow and sobbing.
It was a very distraught Anthony Vane who banged on Dr. Swayze’s cabin door, well after four in the morning, waking him from a sound sleep.
“I just don’t understand it,” Anthony said, tightening his forehead as if in concern, working exasperation into his voice, words tumbling out. “I don’t know where my wife could be. I took her back to our stateroom after dinner, then went off to the casino and stayed till closing.”
The casino closed at three a.m.
“And when I returned shortly thereafter,” Anthony continued, “she wasn’t there.”
“Now, just take it easy, Mr. Vane.” The doctor put his hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Most likely you’re just missing each other — she probably went to the casino to look for you, andБ”
“No! No, I went back and checked, I’ve been all over this damn ship, searching, and no one’s seen her!” He paused. “And the bed hadn’t been slept in... Doctor, I’m worried that... that something has happened to her.”
“That something has happened to her? Or is it that she may have...”
Anthony covered his mouth with a hand, spoke through his splayed fingers. “I don’t even want to think it.”
Swayze frowned. “She did seem a little blue at dinner... I was seated a few tables away from you.”
“Doctor, I’m afraid... she was drinking.”
Alarm flared in the doctor’s eyes. “Mixing alcohol with her medication?”
“Just wine. I didn’t say anything to her about it, because I know it relaxes her... oh, hell, I blame myself for this...”
Swayze sighed. “Mr. Vane, there’s not much you can do right now, other than return to your room, and try to remain calm.”
“That’s easily said...”
“In the meantime, I’ll contact the ship’s security. Just try not to worry. She isn’t the first person to get lost on this ship. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
Keeping a dejected expression going, should he be seen, Anthony strolled along the deck, making his way to his stateroom. It was nearly five in the morning and he paused at the rail, not far from where he’d pitched his wife into the sea; he took in the first purple-pink rays of a magnificent sunrise appearing on the ocean’s horizon as the Fantasy slowly cruised into Nassau Harbor, heading for Prince George Wharf.
In the stateroom, Anthony got out of his evening clothes, put on a pair of silk pajamas, climbed into the king size bed and fell fast asleep, dreaming of wealth, no story really, just lots of pretty women and nice things and so very much money.
Around nine, the phone by his bedside rang him awake.
Startled, as if a long-dormant conscience had stirred, he sat up, rubbed his face with the heels of his hands and grabbed the phone before it could ring for a fourth irritating time.
“Hello,” he answered thickly.
“Mr. Vane?” a husky voice said.
“Yes.”
“This is Jake Lausen.” The voice had a Brooklyn tinge. “Chief of ship’s security.”
“I’m relieved to hear from you, Mr. Lausen — you’ve found my wife?”
“I’m afraid she hasn’t turned up.” The voice paused. “Could you come to my office?”
“Certainly. Where and when, sir?”
“On the Verandah Deck. Would now be convenient?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour, if that’s all right,” Vane told him. “I’ve been up all night with worry.”
“I could see that. Half an hour, Mr. Vane.” The phone clicked dead.
In the shower, Anthony mentally rehearsed. He shouldn’t appear too distraught — overplaying could raise suspicion; but he had to appear distressed enough, as underplaying could make him seem cold. This needed to be a suicide, otherwise he was the chief suspect — really, the only suspect. He toweled off, blow-dried his hair and applied gel, shaved and splashed on Polo cologne, trying on various faces of concern and sorrow in the mirror. When he stepped from his stateroom, dressed in Armani head to toe, he felt confident he could strike the right tone.
The security office, located next to the radio room on the Verandah Deck, was tiny and messy, files and papers littering the small desk. That put him instantly at ease; nothing about this cubbyhole looked very official.
Except for the chief of security, Jake Lausen. The man gave Anthony a bit of a start: short and stocky, balding, thickly mustached, the man’s facial features seemed benignly bland, even baby-ish. But his eyes belonged to a grown-up: under mini-mustache slashes of eyebrow, they were cobalt blue and ball-bearing hard.
What if this Lausen character had been one of New York’s finest who’d gotten his fill of big city crime and moved to this cushy job? The man could be a real threat, a slumbering beast awakened by the wrong word or gesture, if Anthony didn’t watch his step.
Lausen had opened the door for him and was now gesturing toward a gray steel folding chair across from the cluttered desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Vane, would you?”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve already spoken to Dr. Swayze,” Lausen said. He perched on the edge of his desk, looking down at Anthony like a huge stone gargoyle from a church rooftop.
“And he filled me in, as regards to your wife’s depression. You mind my asking, was this cruise meant to cheer her up, that sort of thing?”
Anthony, shifting in the uncomfortable metal folding chair (was that on purpose?), nodded. “Yes, precisely. And earlier in the evening, she seemed fine, conversing with the other passengers seated with us for dinner. But then, as has been the case of late, her mood shifted, and she simply didn’t seem herself. So we took a brief walk on the deck, and then I escorted her back to our room.”