Haunted Destiny

by Heather Graham

  “Assuming it’s one killer, which we believe it to be,” Jude added.

  The captain rose. “I must be getting back to my duties,” he said. “You’ll keep me apprised of what you discover? When do you expect your reports?”

  “Soon,” Crow assured him. “And thanks for the use of your computers.” They’d been given a cabin near the security offices, complete with high-end equipment and systems.

  “I’d like the reports as soon as possible. Naturally, I expect you to be discreet. I don’t want people in an uproar because they’re afraid a killer could be on board—unless we find it to be true.” He paused. “You believe this man might be a frequent traveler or a ship employee? No murder has taken place on the Destiny. Well, except for the strictly historical ones,” he acknowledged with a grimace. “You might keep my passengers the safest by never indicating that you suspect this killer might be on board. You could cause an out-and-out panic. Some sort of mistaken vigilante justice, that kind of thing.”

  “We’ve taken that into consideration, Captain,” Jude said.

  “Which is why we want you to make your announcement very carefully,” Crow told him. “Just mention that, since the ship disembarked from New Orleans, we’re all aware of the recent murder. Say that our hearts are with the family and friends of the young woman killed in New Orleans. Emphasize that they should take care at all times, even amidst the warmth and hospitality of the Destiny.”

  “I’ll give this some serious thought,” the captain said. “Now...” He smiled drily. “Enjoy your time aboard the Destiny. She’s a splendid lady, created when sailing meant grandeur.”

  They left the captain’s office. “That didn’t go badly.” Jackson Crow gave Jude an awkward half smile. “Not as badly as I expected.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” Jude agreed. “How soon will we get those reports?”

  “In an hour or two. Meanwhile, I’m going to suggest that since the shops on the Promenade Deck are open, we buy more appropriate attire. Once we’ve done that, I suspect we’ll have our reports. Not just names and numbers, but in-depth intel on anyone who might’ve been in any of those ports at the relevant times.”

  “You have someone really good on this?” Jude asked.

  Crow nodded, his smile growing. “The very best. Angela Hawkins. My wife.”

  * * *

  At seven Alexi joined Clara and some of the other performers and crew members in what they affectionately called “the bowels,” or the employee cafeteria area, far toward the stern on the second deck. They didn’t dine in any of the three main restaurants on the ship, but in a private space that didn’t sport linen napkins or elegant wineglasses. It was still fine; Alexi thought the food served belowdecks was just as good as that in the dining rooms and buffets above. She also liked the fact that the Celtic American line considered all “staff”—from prestigious guest performers to the catering and cleaning crews—to be equal. There were no elite employees. Bradley Wilcox was hard to take at times, but aside from that, they were all treated courteously and with respect.

  Alexi scooped up tuna and chips and got a salad from the buffet. She saw that Clara was seated with Ralph Martini and Simon Green. Ralph was shaking his head as she sat down with them. “Can’t figure it. Can’t figure how the police haven’t got this guy yet.” He shuddered. “Sorry. I’m obsessing. It’s just...he’s in New Orleans!”

  “He struck in New Orleans,” Simon said. “Doesn’t mean he’s still in New Orleans. He may be moving north now. Or to Texas.”

  “How can the cops not catch this bastard?” Ralph asked.

  “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” Clara said.

  “Hey, there are fibers, fingerprints, blood... Forensic science has given the cops all kinds of tools for catching killers,” Ralph protested. “I watch all those crime-scene TV shows. This guy has to have left something behind.”

  “The police use experts and technology and everything,” Alexi said, “but crimes aren’t always that easily solved. I mean, even if you do have a hair sample, you have to have a suspect to compare it with. And from what I’ve read, it sounds like the killer must watch all the shows, too—since he hasn’t left anything behind.”

  “Not that they’re telling us about, anyway!” Ralph said.

  Young, blond and sun-drenched handsome in shorts and a tank top, Larry Hepburn made an appearance with his tray, smiling and indicating that he’d like the seat next to Alexi. “You people are being morbid and depressing, and you need to stop,” he said as he took his chair. “It’s hot and humid, but we’re at sea and a breeze is coming in. We have to have faith and let the cops and agents and whoever else worry about it. Who knows? They may have him by the time we’re back to port.”

  “Or he’ll have moved on. To Texas, probably,” Simon said, obviously still worried. He looked around the table. “I have a sister. And I’m from Galveston. If he does head for Texas, terrible as it may seem, I hope he goes to Houston.”

  “They’ll get him,” Larry said. He turned to Alexi. “We have a rehearsal tonight. After that we’ll come by the piano bar. Or at least, I’ll come by the piano bar. They say you’re always packed. You must be good.”

  “I’m good at getting people to sing,” Alexi said. “And that’s what they want to do at a piano bar.” She smiled at him, but suddenly wanted to escape. She was horrified by what had happened in New Orleans and disturbed by the men Nolan had introduced her to, the Celtic American line “bigwigs,” and the strange man she’d seen running by. Something was going on.

  “And that’s why they love you!” someone announced. Jensen Hardy, the cruise director, was beaming down at them from the end of the table.

  She’d sailed with Jensen before. He was a nice guy—but so perpetually cheerful that he actually got on her nerves. He was a great cruise director, precisely because he never seemed to tire. He had a crew of underlings who managed everything from kids’ activities to “naughty” trivia, poolside events and more. Jensen was determined that everyone on board have a good time.

  She forced a smile. “Thanks, Jensen.”

  “Squeeze in, can you?” he asked.

  “I have to leave, anyway,” she said. “You can have my seat.”

  “Aw, we have to switch you out for Jensen?” Larry teased.

  “Yes, for now,” Jensen said, sounding stern. “But don’t leave right away. I want to remind you all that many of our passengers have saved for years to get on this ship. We’re on the pricier side, as you know. We’re here to see that they’re entertained. I overheard you talking—murders are happening in the States, not on this ship. Don’t go about discussing your fears or ideas, okay? We’re not going to ruin lifetime dreams for hundreds of people, are we?”

  “Nope, we’re not!” Alexi agreed. She stood, a little too wedged in between Clara and Larry, and she smiled apologetically. “Jensen,” she told the cruise director, “I will be the embodiment of good cheer. You all have a great rehearsal. The show is the highlight of the cruise for many people. And yes,” she added, smiling at the performers, “I’m delighted when you come to the piano bar—especially since, every once in a while, no one wants to sing, so it’s great to have your voices.”

  Larry moved aside but offered her a come-hither smile as he did. He was used to people liking him. He was definitely hot and studly; it was just that his kind of hot and studly was lost on her. She managed a polite smile. “See you later,” she said as she tried not to brush against him. She made her way around him, ready to take her tray to deposit at the receptacle.

  “You’re the best, Alexi!” Jensen called out.

  She widened her smile—and escaped them.

  Set for the evening in a feminine tuxedo, she went up to the piano bar, passing through the casino, waving or saying hello to some of the hosts and hostesses she’d saile
d with before. She crossed the Picture Gallery and one of the night clubs on her way to the piano bar and paused to browse through some of the pictures.

  The gallery was always fun to see. Couples smiled and embraced as they were photographed boarding the ship. Large family groups, sometimes all wearing the same T-shirts, grinned and posed for the camera.

  Frowning, Alexi went through the first round, the boarding photographs. It wasn’t that she really studied every one. But she was pretty sure that at least three travelers had not been captured by the camera.

  She didn’t see either of the “bigwigs.”

  Nor did she see the man who’d leaped through the piano bar and shown up at her door.

  It was a mystery, but one she didn’t intend to pursue at the moment. She went to her piano; seated at the bench, she arranged her music, smiling and telling those who paused to ask that she started at nine.

  Her first number would be “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” as she’d promised. That would make Minnie happy.

  She actually began a few minutes before nine, welcoming the people already seated at the bar and at the cocktail tables scattered around the room. There were children among them. She idly played melodies while she talked to the guests, asked where they were from and made a point of involving them. Parents usually took their kids up by ten or eleven.

  Minnie draped herself over the piano and Blake leaned against it.

  “Minnie is ready,” Blake told her.

  Alexi smiled as she looked down at the keys. “Hey, kids! How many of you have seen The Wizard of Oz?”

  Some had; some hadn’t. A few had seen newer versions of the old classic.

  She talked about the original movie and the book, and was glad to see one preteen gazing at her with wide eyes.

  She hoped they had the book in the ship’s library, because she knew the young girl would be asking for it the next day.

  “So this, my young friends,” she told them, “is the song that Judy Garland sang in the original movie—which is even older than I am!” She sang the song. Minnie, of course, was singing, too, in her high, clear soprano. Blake was watching Minnie, enthralled.

  It had taken Alexi a while not to be thrown off by Minnie, but now she kept her ghost performer’s voice in a compartment in her mind.

  She paused to encourage everyone to join in on the chorus.

  A cheerful group did so. Even a grouchy-looking old man urged the kids to sing along. When the song ended, she found the piano surrounded by young fans. She asked them what they liked, and pretty soon she’d begun a round of tunes that encompassed most of the animated films produced in the past fifty years. Little girls were fond of princess movies, while little boys seemed to like superheroes of all kinds, pirates and robots. At least, that was the case with her young crowd tonight.

  She was glad to see she had two seasoned travelers in the piano bar that evening—Roger Antrim and Hank Osprey. They weren’t close friends who took trips together, but retired men who often took Celtic American cruises. Roger had been a TV network CEO and he and his wife, Lorna, just hopped on a cruise whenever the whim struck them. They preferred the Caribbean, since they were both fond of heat. Hank was some kind of computer programming whiz who’d sold his first multimillion-dollar company before his thirtieth birthday. He wasn’t yet forty, although he was retired and rolling in money. Alexi was surprised that he wasn’t married and that he usually sailed alone. He was slender but wiry and while not classically handsome, he had warm brown eyes and a pleasant face. He’d told her once that he tended to attract beautiful women—who were usually after his beautiful money. He was looking for a nerdy girl, he’d said. Or a musician, he’d added with a wink, at which point she’d explained that she had a while to go before she was ready to see anyone again.

  She’d mused on his comments, thinking that many young women might like the idea of being with someone who had everything—everything material, at least. She liked him just fine; the problem was that she felt absolutely no sense of attraction to him. Hank got on well with kids; he was far easier, more relaxed, with them than he was with adults. So she wasn’t surprised that he popped up, asking if he could sing a number from Song of the South.

  The ice was broken. Roger came up next, wondering if she knew an old cartoon song, which she fudged. The kids sang some more, and then Roger and Hank sang a few tunes. After that she started getting passengers to join her on the choruses, but not performing themselves.

  Luckily, Larry Hepburn showed up, just as he’d promised, around ten thirty. She made the kids very happy by doing a few prince/princess duets with him. Then the families began to leave and the more adult crowd moved in. She did some Carole King songs; a regular who was often on the ship sang a couple of Billy Joel numbers and Larry piped in with some Broadway. Someone requested a number by Lady Antebellum, and Larry took a seat at the piano with her to share the song.

  Luckily, it was during Larry’s part that Alexi noticed the man standing across the hallway from the open bar; he leaned against the clear glass walls to the Banshee Disco.

  It was the man she’d seen earlier. But as she watched him, he began to pull the prosthetic makeup from his face. It fell away in clumps; he seemed oblivious.

  He just stared at her—and she stared at him.

  Larry nudged her. She realized her fingers had moved over the keys by rote, but she was forgetting to sing.

  She corrected her mistake quickly, breaking the song to make a joke and tease a woman who was coming in to take a seat. Then she picked up the song again.

  When she looked back, the man was gone.

  Why hadn’t she told the men she’d met that afternoon, the men from Celtic American’s headquarters, more about him? What if he was a weird social predator of some kind?

  He wasn’t, she thought. He was young, in his early twenties. Not particularly tall or well built, but attractive in a wholesome way. She’d seen that once the makeup was gone.

  She was grateful that Clara came in then; she asked her friend to do some Kelly Clarkson songs. Clara smiled and agreed.

  Alexi searched the area to see if the young guy had headed toward the gallery or even the casino; she didn’t see him, but she did note that one of the “bigwigs” was in the lounge.

  She froze, quickly looking from him to her piano keys. It was the man who’d been introduced to her as Jude McCoy.

  He looked more as if he belonged on the cruise now, wearing denim jeans and a blue polo shirt. Maybe it was because of the shirt, but it seemed as if his eyes were more blue this time than green. A piercing blue. He seemed to be studying her, but for some reason, she didn’t believe he was grading her performance or planning to fire her.

  He seemed to be looking for something else.

  Perhaps he knew she’d been lying to him earlier.

  “Let’s do the duet from Wicked!” Clara said.

  Clara was leaning on the piano, dangerously close to Minnie. Minnie could have moved; she didn’t. Instead, she glared at Clara—as if she saw her as a rival for Blake’s affections.

  “Come around here,” Alexi suggested, and Clara joined her. Once again, Alexi felt strangely hemmed in, seated between Larry Hepburn and Clara. But she smiled, talked about the fact that they’d started the night with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which made it fitting that they should move into the popular Broadway play.

  She loved the duet and had done it with Clara many times. They were a hit with the crowd, who applauded loudly. When Alexi looked around again, Jude McCoy was gone.

  She didn’t understand why she felt so miserable. The night was endless. Other members of different entertainment groups on the ship came by and sang. The crowd grew a little more giddy—the many ship’s cocktails no doubt had something to do with that—and was ready to laugh about anything.

  Finally,
Clara said good-night and left.

  Soon after, Larry, tired of being brilliant and handsome, said good-night, too.

  Even Minnie and Blake left the piano bar, holding hands, smiling, waving as they headed out for a “constitutional.”

  By one o’clock, the crowd had dwindled down to about five. Alexi announced the last song, but even after that people stayed. She made a point of picking up her music books; the cocktail waitress made a point of clearing the tables and announcing which lounges were open until two.

  At last she was alone. She sat at the piano bench and sighed, closing her eyes, enjoying the moment of peace.

  When she opened her eyes, she nearly screamed.

  He was back. The man who’d raced through the lounge today, who’d reappeared in the hallway and then again tonight—standing there, watching her, ripping off his makeup.

  There was no one else near her now.

  The gallery was closed.

  She could hear bells and whistles from the casino, but it seemed far away.

  She glanced over to where he’d been standing earlier and began searching the floor. There was nothing there, no refuse from the prosthetic he’d peeled off his face. His makeup was now as ghostly as he was himself.

  She turned back to him.

  “Please!” he whispered, adding quickly, “Yes, yes, I’m dead. But I need your help. And please believe me—you need mine!”

  * * *

  Jude was tired but he wasn’t giving in to his exhaustion until the last of the guests on the Destiny had cleared the lounges and gone to bed.

  Stupid, maybe. He couldn’t be on every deck, and he and Crow had decided they were going to split the time while they waited for the next reports. Crow had gone to his cabin; he’d get up in an hour or so and cruise the decks. They had no idea what time the Archangel struck. No one really knew, since his victims were discovered by day. In every case, the time of death could only be approximated. It was presumed that he killed at night, making use of the darkness and the shadows. If someone meant to attack a guest, this would be the time. Easy to follow an inebriated or tipsy young woman down a quiet hallway...and slip up behind her.