Decked

by Decked (lit)

  The deep boom of the ship’s whistle signaled the beginning of the voyage. Veronica rushed to the railing of the balcony and began to wave her overseas cap vigorously in the direction of the dock. The Scottish bagpipers, in one final burst of energy, whined a tinny version of “Sailing, Sailing, Over the Bounty Main.”

  Veronica sniffed the air appreciatively. “Aren’t the sea breezes invigorating?”

  “There is something magical about setting sail, Veronica,” Regan agreed as she breathed in the salty air. “And now I just want to get the rest of the unpacking out of the way.”

  “And I shall just stand here and watch the merriment below.” From their perch they could lean over the railing and observe the promenade deck two floors down where excited voyagers were still waving and shouting to their friends and relatives.

  “Well, don’t lean over too far,” Regan warned as she started back inside.

  “Do pop that lovely bottle of champagne the Captain sent us,” Veronica ordered. “We must toast our journey.”

  Regan thought this might be the best idea Veronica had had since she decided to marry a wealthy knight who had only taken up two weeks of her time.

  Veronica quaffed down the bubbly contents of her glass before Regan could even pour her own. She extended it for a refill. “Now for our toast.”

  Regan remembered that Philip had warned her that Veronica could not tolerate much alcohol. But, she reasoned, she could hardly refuse, and she was safe enough here. She filled both glasses and dutifully clicked hers with Veronica’s, who sang, “Bon voyage, dear Regan, bon voyage.”

  As Regan took her first sip the bubbles tickled her nose. “Good stuff, Veronica.”

  “It goes down like water, my dear.”

  Regan prudently carried the bottle back inside. She was taking no chances on leaving it with Veronica. And she wanted to keep busy. The sight of all the happy people saying good-bye to their loved ones suddenly made her feel sad. What were Athena’s parents doing right now, knowing that their daughter was never coming home? She tried to push the thought away as she filled the dresser drawers.

  I’ve got to make the best of this, she told herself. It is Veronica’s vacation. Next week I’ll go over every line of my journal. Maybe I’ll find something that will help Livingston.

  That led her to wondering whether Jeff was back in Los Angeles. When she left he’d been on location in Canada shooting a mini-series. Regan had initially hired him to help out in her office and go along with her on surveillances when he was between acting jobs. “You’re getting too famous for me,” she had told him recently. “I can’t take you along because people recognize you.” But he was always available to bounce ideas off, and he’d been a real help in cracking some of her cases. “Detective work is just like acting,” he had said, “you’ve got to figure out the character’s motivation.”

  She had just jammed the last suitcase in the overhead closet when she heard Veronica shriek, “Monica, Monica, I say, is that you?” Regan whirled around to see Veronica’s body bent horseshoe-shaped over the railing. She raced outside as shouts of “Be careful!” chorused from the promenade deck. She locked her arms around Veronica’s dangling thighs and yanked her back.

  “My God, Veronica, what are you doing?”

  Veronica seemed oblivious to the danger. “That woman in the pink hat isn’t Monica after all. But what a startling resemblance.”

  “If you’d leaned over any more, that hat would have been squashed into a beanie.” Regan sighed. “Please, Veronica, you must be careful.”

  “Is everything quite all right up there?” someone shouted.

  “Lovely. Just lovely,” Veronica yelled down to the dozens of distant staring faces. She gave Regan a glassy-eyed smile. “I hope the rest of the champagne is still nicely chilled, my dear.”

  Cameron Hardwick had checked to see which dining room they had chosen and was gravely satisfied to learn they were at a table for ten in the King Arthur, the largest of the first-class restaurants. It solved the problem of getting close to them without seeming overt. He had been assigned to a nonsmoking table and had asked to be switched to the smoking section.

  Together with the maître d’, he studied the seating chart. Trying to seem casual, he pointed to the community table directly at the window on the starboard side. There were eight names listed, including Lady Exner’s. “That table looks as though it has a great view. Any chance you could put me there?”

  The maître d’, a suave, slender man with a seemingly perpetual smile, was delighted to accommodate him. Already working on his tip, no doubt, Cameron thought. It always gave him pleasure to stiff the help whenever possible. Now he would make it his business to get into the dining room directly behind the old bat and Regan Reilly and make sure he was seated next to them.

  EVENTUALLY LADY EXNER took to her bed for an afternoon nap, which gave Regan a welcome break. She had hoped to sneak down to the next deck, where Luke and Nora had a first-class cabin, but after the episode of Veronica’s near swan dive, decided not to leave her. Instead she stretched out in the chaise on the deck and reviewed the incredible events of the past forty-eight hours.

  The realization that Athena had probably not caught the train to London that Friday night, but had been murdered right in Oxford, was beginning to fill her with guilt. Athena had asked her to come down to the pub next to the train station, the Bull and Bear, and have a drink before she caught her train. As the memory of those final moments came back in ever sharper focus, Regan thought, I almost went with her. But I didn’t want to take the time. I was so glad she was leaving for a couple of days and I wouldn’t have to listen to her nonstop complaining about St. Polycarp’s and the English weather.

  The ship was moving smoothly. The breeze was strong. Regan shivered and pulled on her sweatshirt. Livingston had asked her to try and remember anything at all that might be helpful in the investigation. Luke and Nora always teased her that she could remember everything from the time she was three. Regan laid back, closed her eyes, and from an investigative viewpoint began to recall the academic year she had spent in historic Oxford with Athena as her roommate.

  Athena so seldom went to parties. She never indicated interest in any of the students. I never remember her going on a date, Regan thought. So who would want to kill her?

  LUKE AND NORA spent a pleasant afternoon. After unpacking in the cabin they went to the sports deck for a drink and snack and then settled in deck chairs with their books.

  “This is heaven,” Nora murmured as she stared out, hypnotized by the sight of the open sea. “It’s so nice to read somebody else’s book instead of talking about one of mine.”

  She had been keynote speaker at a mystery convention in Spain and had followed that with an intense schedule of newspaper, magazine and television interviews in Italy and France.

  Luke nodded, “Well, I’ve had enough of waiting in green rooms for a while.” Then he frowned. “Speaking of green rooms, I wonder if Mrs. Shea is satisfied with the arrangements for Dennis. Maybe I’d better call and find out.”

  “Luke, it’s not exactly a matter of life or death.”

  Luke chuckled as he enjoyed one of the oldest and, as Regan pointed out, corniest jokes they shared. “I see your point.”

  They returned to their books. Luke ordered another round of piña coladas and they remained comfortably ensconced until four-thirty, when the breeze turned sharply cooler. At that point there was a general flurry of activity as the occupants of the pool and scattered deck chairs began to gather their belongings, leaving the sports deck to the shuffleboard and paddle-tennis players.

  As they meandered back to their cabin, they passed a group of children being led around the deck by two youth counselors. “It seems crazy to know Regan is on this ship and we have to avoid her,” Nora said wistfully.

  “Well, maybe we can get a table for four and you can spend the whole time taking notes for Lady Exner’s totally authorized biography,” Luke sugge
sted.

  “God forbid!” Nora exclaimed. “That reminds me. Regan warned me to make sure we’re not sitting too near them in the dining room. Lady Eagle Eye might recognize me from my pictures on the book jackets.”

  The seating chart showed them to be in the nonsmoking section, well out of the view of anyone at Lady Exner’s table.

  “Regan’s in the smoking section?” Nora said with not a little surprise in her voice. “I wonder if Lady Exner has shared that little jewel with her yet.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Luke observed. “Knowing Regan, after dinner she’ll drag Lady Exner out for a walk on the deck to get some fresh air in her lungs.”

  “A moonlight stroll with an eighty-year-old woman,” Nora lamented. “That Walker boy she was dating was so nice. If she’d only given him half a chance. I do so want to have a grand——”

  “I know, I know,” Luke interrupted. “Let’s go.”

  GAVIN GRAY DRESSED for dinner carefully. It had been a tremendous relief to see Mrs. Watkins totter off the ship this morning, still wildly protesting the loss of her million-dollar bracelet. She had posted a reward of fifty thousand dollars, which had every steward, waiter and lackey walking around the ship with their eyes peeled, like a collection of hopeful lottery players waiting for their numbers to come up.

  Don’t waste your time, he had thought. I’m going to be the million-dollar winner. But there won’t be any press conference to announce it. He deplored those idiotic television appearances of lottery winners surrounded by long-lost relatives with howdy-doody grins.

  There was, of course, the obstacle of retrieving the bracelet from the Camelot Suite. He had already found out that a Lady Veronica Exner and her female companion would be staying there. It was good news that it was to be occupied by two women. The fear had lurked in the back of his mind that it would be inhabited on this crossing by a honeymooning couple who wouldn’t come up for air until the skyline of New York City was in sight. But two women . . .He’d probably end up dancing with them anyway.

  The first night out meant informal dress. Gavin laid out a pale yellow linen jacket and white slacks. His tie in place to his satisfaction, he pulled on his jacket and studied himself in the full-length mirror. Not bad, he reasoned. The facelift he’d had two years ago was still holding up. In fact, it looked even better. That bargain-rate plastic surgeon had pulled the skin around his eyes so tight he could have blinded himself with dental floss.

  The jacket hid his thickening waistline. Then he frowned. Its lemon-yellow tone accentuated the orangish shade of his just-colored hair. The girl at the salon on two deck had been too busy gossiping about the missing bracelet to notice the timer on the dryer had gone off. Gavin had dozed and by the time he woke up the dye had been on an extra twenty minutes. I look like a pumpkin head, he thought angrily. Oh shit, forget it. Next week I’ll go to my hairdresser in New York. With that thought, a wave of anxiety washed over him. He was not booked as a host again until September. If he didn’t retrieve the bracelet in these next few days, he wouldn’t have another chance.

  As he headed for the door of the cabin, he felt the undulating movement of the ship accelerate. Was it going to be another rough crossing? Then Gavin smiled. If so, maybe Lady Veronica Exner or her companion would need a steady arm to guide them back to the Camelot Suite.

  AT 7 P.M., DRESSED in a lavender-and-white silk print by Mary Beth Downey, her favorite new designer, Regan sat waiting on the sofa which she had been thrilled to discover was indeed a pullout. Thank you, Bernadette Castro, she thought as she watched Veronica flutter around, trying on and rejecting various accessories. Regan had convinced Lady Exner that nobody dressed in formal evening wear the first night out. Reluctantly Veronica had abandoned the silver lamé ball gown in which she’d planned to make her grand entrance. Instead she settled for a simple blue crepe, one of the few items in her wardrobe that did not seem inspired by the drug culture.

  With rapt attention Veronica again sprayed her already stiffened blond hair. Regan had been keeping count. That was the twelfth time in the last fifteen minutes. Regan was about to warn Veronica that it was getting late when Veronica reached for her purse. Regan stood up as Veronica squealed, “I almost forgot!”

  “What is it, Veronica?” Regan asked anxiously. “Your medicine?”

  “No. No. My cigarette holder.” Veronica reached into the top drawer of the bureau and pulled out a leather case. She unzipped it and shook out a highly polished silver cigarette holder and an open pack of Benson & Hedges.

  “Veronica, I’ve never seen you smoke.”

  “Of course I don’t smoke. I simply give the appearance,” Veronica answered gaily as she jammed a stale-looking cigarette into the holder.

  Incredulous, Regan asked, “Why?”

  “On our trips Penelope and I sit at a group table whenever possible. The nonsmokers’ table is always filled with dreary reformed smokers who never want to have any fun. The people at the smokers’ table have a reckless edge which I find intriguing.”

  Not a great commercial for the American Cancer Society, Regan thought as she tucked another allergy pill in her purse.

  As they started down the hall to the small elevator which only served the two penthouses, the night steward approached them. Tall, stick-thin, with round glasses resting on a shiny nose and slicked-back brown hair, he looked to Regan like a college freshman. His voice had a hint of cockney as he asked if everything was satisfactory. After assuring him that it was, Veronica inquired about the occupants of the other suite. “I’m so anxious to meet them,” Veronica bubbled. “Do you know who they are?”

  The elevator arrived and the steward held the door open for them. “That suite is empty this crossing. You’ll have total privacy up here.” He released the door. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  AT FIVE MINUTES before seven o’clock, Cameron dwick was ready to leave for the cocktail lounge adjacent to the King Arthur Dining Room. He knew it was customary for many passengers to enjoy an aperitif before dinner, but in any case, everyone assigned to the King Arthur had to pass through the lounge. He wanted to be situated where he could follow Lady Exner into the dining room and place himself, if not actually next to her, as near as possible. The companion, he reflected, looked like she was in her mid to late twenties. Would it be smart to play up to her? Cameron considered. Maybe.

  Carefully he examined his image in the mirror and frowned at the slight crease on his collar. Nobody knows how to do laundry anymore, he thought. At least the valet had done a decent job pressing his jacket and slacks. He liked to wear the seemingly ageless combination of a blue blazer, light blue shirt, striped tie and khaki pants. His Bally loafers had the gleam of shoes right out of the box. They weren’t new but he was meticulous about every detail of his wardrobe.

  He was ready to go. He gave one last admiring glance into the mirror at the deeply tanned good-looking guy he saw there. As always, the litany of praise he heard from women echoed through his head. The blonde at the croupier’s table in Monaco who had slipped him her phone number while her boyfriend lost another hand of blackjack. “Don’t ever stop scowling, Heathcliff,” she’d purred. The rich college kid in London. “Boys my age are so immature. Not like you.” The fiftyish widow he’d latched on to in Portugal. “It’s no fun to go to the casinos alone. My husband was also tall and lean and handsome ...”

  He’d soaked in the gushing or whispered admiration while he escorted them to the high-stakes tables and later collected his share of their losses.

  But for the last few years he’d realized that his own luck was subtly changing. He hadn’t had a big win in too long. The women didn’t mind paying for dinner or the suite, but they weren’t as free with their cash anymore. He needed major bucks, the kind that would put that sense of being a winner back in his hands when he was dealt the cards. That was why, when this opportunity was presented to him, he’d grabbed it. It must be in the cards, he had thought. It’s linked to my first bonanza.

&
nbsp; The trophy of that first job was in the safe in his New York apartment. He’d only worn it once in public, that dazzling pocket watch with its equally beautiful fob, both encrusted with gemstones, ancient, priceless, created for a Doge of Venice in the sixteenth century. He had argued that it would be too dangerous to sell it anywhere, that it was on every list of stolen jewelry all over the world, that inevitably it would be traced back to him. Not true, of course. He wanted it for himself. He wanted to be able to put it on when he was alone, wear it with the brocaded dressing gown that closely resembled the ornate robes of a Doge and imagine that he was the master of Venice, the one who had built St. Mark’s Cathedral as a private chapel.

  Turning from the mirror, Cameron walked to the dresser, snapped on the Rolex watch that was a poor substitute for the hidden treasure, and reached for his card case. No, he thought as he put them back. I’m not handing these out to anyone on this ship. His cards, discreet, in exquisite taste with raised lettering on fine paperstock, gave his home address, 66 Gramercy Park South, New York City. No one need know he was in a rent-stabilized walk-up. He’d been smart enough technically to live with his father and never take a place of his own. The bitchy owners hadn’t been able to repossess the apartment when the old drunk finally passed out for the last time. His occupation was listed as “personal investment counselor,” which never failed to impress and which satisfied any curiosity about his lack of direct business commitment.

  Cameron felt good. He was getting the sense he was on a winning streak. By the end of the trip two bodies would be bobbing around in the Atlantic. As he started for the cocktail lounge, he envisioned the moment when two hundred thousand dollars in cash was placed in his hand.

  GAVIN GRAY ENTERED the cocktail lounge and looked around with an experienced eye. Not a very interesting group, he thought. There was the usual assortment of couples, some with the air of seasoned travellers, some overly dressed for first night, beaming with joy, overwhelmed by their good fortune at being one of the one-half of one percent of the people on earth who could afford to sail across the Atlantic. They’d probably never ridden anything bigger than the Staten Island ferry before, Gavin thought, dismissing them. It would be easy to avoid that type. They’d undoubtedly spend most of their time writing postcards that all started with “Wish you were here.”