“My wives are dead,” I added brusquely. “Both of them.” So much for winning friends and influencing people.
I expected the comment to shut her up, but I doubt even that would have worked had it not been for the appearance of our white-coated waiter. His name was Reynaldo and his accent was definitely Italian. He came to the table prepared to take orders for the Starfire Breeze’s second dinner seating. Like my tablemates, Reynaldo blithely assumed I would know whether or not whoever wasn’t occupying the empty chair next to me was coming to dinner.
“Will your wife be joining you, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t have a wife,” I growled at him.
It was far more of a rebuke than the poor guy deserved. After all, Margaret Featherman was the one who’d gotten my dander up, but Reynaldo was obviously experienced in dealing with cantankerous American tourists.
“Very good, sir,” he responded smoothly. “And what would you like for this evening’s first course?”
It turns out placing a dinner order on a cruise ship is a complicated affair—appetizers, salad or soup, an entree along with pasta and fish courses, as well as dessert. It was a world away from the greasy grub at Seattle’s long-gone Doghouse where they used to fry everything, including the lettuce. On the Starfire Breeze the menu was written in assorted European languages with rib-eye steak nowhere to be found. Reynaldo patiently explained each menu item. His English, I’m sure, was fluent enough, but his pronunciation was somewhat opaque. Or maybe his and my failure to communicate had less to do with his accent and more to do with all those years of work-related target practice before anybody came up with the bright idea of muffling ears to shut out the noise and the damage.
What with one thing and another, it took a long time for everyone to place their orders, and I welcomed the breather. As long as Reynaldo was quizzing the ladies over their dining choices, the blonde had no other option but to leave me alone. I knew that once she tackled me again, I’d be forced to admit the ugly truth—that I was on the Starfire Breeze for one reason and one reason only: to serve as my newlywed grandmother’s chaperon.
“I’d feel so much better if you’d agree to come on the honeymoon with us,” Beverly Piedmont Jenssen had said to me a number of weeks earlier. “Lars and I are both getting up there, you know. If anything did happen to go wrong—not that it will, mind you—I wouldn’t worry nearly so much if you were along to take charge of things.”
“Getting up there” was something of an understatement. When my grandmother stepped onto the gangplank of the Starfire Breeze, she clocked in at a spry eighty-six-soon-to-be-eighty-seven. Her new husband, Lars Jenssen, is a year older than she is. My new step-grandfather also happens to be my AA sponsor.
The two of them had met months earlier, doing KP duty after the memorial service for my dead partner, Sue Danielson. That acquaintanceship, struck up over washing and drying dishes, had led to a whirlwind romance. Beverly had lobbied for “living in sin” and not disturbing the social security and retirement arrangements left to her by my late grandfather. Lars, a retired halibut fisherman, had convinced her that he had salted away enough money to take care of both of them in their old age, whenever that might occur. To prepare for that eventuality, they had bought their way into Queen Anne Gardens, a retirement/assisted living place on Queen Anne Hill, only a matter of blocks from my Belltown Terrace condo at Second and Broad.
Beverly and Lars had tied the knot at a simple ceremony in front of a justice of the peace. Lars, who still regretted never having made good on a promise of taking his deceased first wife to see his old haunts in Alaska, was determined to treat his new wife better than he had his previous one. Their honeymoon cruise on the Starfire Breeze had been Lars’ idea. Having me along as aide-de-camp was Beverly’s, although, to give the man credit, Lars never murmured a word of objection.
The very word “cruise” is usually enough to turn me green around the gills. During my college days, I had once tried to earn money by joining up with one of my fellow Ballard High School Beavers as a summertime hand on his father’s salmon-fishing boat. We had barely exited the Straits of Juan de Fuca before I became hopelessly seasick, helped along by an old Norwegian salt who had cheerfully advised me that putting a chaw of tobacco under my tongue would help ward off the unpleasant symptoms. I ended up being put off the boat and shipped home from Neah Bay in what could only be termed total disgrace. After that I became a committed landlubber, swearing never again to set foot on a ship or boat. For more than thirty years I had made that vow stick—right up until I went head-to-head against Beverly Piedmont Jenssen about taking my grandfather’s ashes on board The Lady of the Lake over at Lake Chelan. And now, she was trying to do it again.
“I’d like to help out, but I don’t do cruise ships, Beverly,” I had told her. “I’m a pitiful sailor. I’d be so sick, you and Lars would end up taking care of me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” she responded brightly. “But I have just the thing.” She had opened her capacious purse and dug through it for some time before extracting her trump card—a small, rectangular clear plastic container. She handed the box over for my inspection. On top were the words “Travel-Aid.” Inside the see-through lid was something that resembled two pieces of gray cloth with two button-sized squares of white plastic stuck in the middle of each piece.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“You’ll see. Open it up,” Beverly ordered.
I did. What emerged from the box turned out to be two small stretchy bracelets made of knitted cloth tubes over some kind of elastic. What had appeared to be buttons actually turned out to be two small squares of white plastic, smooth on the outside but with a lump of smoothly formed plastic on the inside. I studied them for some time, then looked back at Beverly. “I still don’t get it,” I said. “What are they?”
“Bracelets,” she declared. “You put them on like this.” Grabbing one of my wrists, she stretched the cloth-covered elastic until it opened wide enough to admit my big-knuckled hand. Then she positioned the bracelet so the smooth plastic knob came to rest between the tendons inside my wrist. “There,” she said, surveying her work with satisfaction. “That’s how you’re supposed to wear them. If your watch gets in the way, you may have to stop wearing it for a day or two.”
“I’m supposed to take off my watch and wear this?” I demanded. “What for?”
“Why, to keep from getting seasick, of course,” she told me with unflinching confidence. “I’ve checked with several people, including the pharmacist at Bartell’s. They all swear these things work like a charm.”
And although I hadn’t been much of a believer, I had to admit they were working. Once we exited Queen Charlotte Strait, we had hit rough waters. The Starfire Breeze was making her way north through the kind of swells that, in days past, would have had me barfing my guts out, but here I was, sitting down to dinner and planning to enjoy myself. All I had to do was survive Margaret Featherman’s updated version of the Spanish Inquisition.
Reynaldo swept the table clear of all but one of the menus and then disappeared again. I braced myself for the next assault, only to be spared by the arrival of our missing tablemate. “Sorry I’m late,” a male voice said. “I decided to take a before-dinner nap. I must have gotten carried away with the sleeping bit. My name’s Marc Alley,” he added. “That’s Marc with a c, not a k.”
I felt an instant affinity for the guy. Here was some other poor unfortunate soul who, like me, had spent a lifetime having to explain his name to every stranger he met. Across the table from me, Margaret Featherman brightened instantly. I stood and held out a hand in greeting, which is when I noticed that he, too, was wearing the telltale Travel-Aid bracelet. Obviously Marc Alley and I had more in common than trouble with our given names.
“I’m J. P. Beaumont,” I told him. “Most people call me Beau.”
Stumbling over trying to remember all the women’s names, I hesitated for only a moment, but that w
as long enough for Margaret Featherman to jump in and resume control. “Naomi Pepper,” she said, indicating the somewhat plump woman just to my right. Naomi’s softly curling brunette hair was flecked with gray.
Marc nodded. “Glad to meet you,” he said.
“And this is Sharon Carson.” Sharon was an attractive-looking woman with silver—almost white—hair pulled back in a French twist and held in place by an enormous black comb. Her ready smile had an easy grace about it. “How do you do,” she said.
I found out later that Marc was in his mid-thirties, but with his fresh good looks and wire-rimmed glasses, he seemed far younger than that. And far too nice. Maybe I was just having a bad day, but considering my initial encounter with the four women, I felt as though I were introducing a guppy into a pool filled with sharks.
“This is Virginia Metz,” Margaret continued. Virginia wore her red hair in what would have passed for a military regulation buzz cut. I wondered at the time if her hairstyle had to do with sexual proclivity, extreme fashion slavery, or, as in Karen’s case, with the aftereffects of chemotherapy.
“And I’m Margaret Featherman,” Margaret concluded with a triumphant smile. “So glad you could join us.”
Outside the movies I’d never seen a classic double take until Marc Alley did his the moment Margaret spoke her name. “You’re not by any chance related to Dr. Harrison Featherman, are you?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she answered with a disarmingly bright smile. “Or at least, I was. Harrison and I were married for twenty-some years. We aren’t now, of course. You know him, I take it?”
“Know him!” Marc exclaimed. “He’s my doctor. He’s the man who performed my brain surgery. I used to have terrible grand-mal seizures, sometimes two or three a day. Since the surgery I haven’t had a single one. Dr. Harrison is here on the ship to discuss the procedure and its aftereffects with a group of other neurologists from all over the country. That’s why I’m here, too. He dragged me along as his exhibit A, so to speak.”
“Are you saying Harrison is on this very ship?” Margaret demanded.
“Yes,” Marc told her. “You mean you didn’t know that?”
Margaret shook her blond mane. “I had no idea,” she said. “What a coincidence.”
The other women at the table exchanged discreet but knowing glances. Clearly none of them believed a word of it, and neither did I. Not then. And not now.
2
DURING DINNER I did my best to hold up my end of the conversation. That wasn’t too difficult, since I was no longer Margaret Featherman’s principal target. That dubious honor was now bestowed on poor Marc Alley. Casting herself in the role of magnanimous hostess, Margaret saw to it that wine—a high-priced Cabernet—flowed like water. So did the double entendres.
From the moment Marc sat down at the table, I suspected that Margaret had every intention of using him, later that evening, to tick off another notch on her bedpost. By the time the second bottle of Cabernet had made the rounds, I think Marc was picking up on that same message. I don’t believe he was particularly happy about it.
The tipsy looks Margaret beamed in Marc’s direction were about as subtle as a fully loaded Mack truck. And about that enticing. Reynaldo and his assistant waiter, an attentive Portuguese named Joaô, were delivering the crème brûleé when Naomi Pepper, the woman sitting next to me, leaned over and whispered, “If Marc hadn’t shown up, my money would have been on Joaô to get lucky tonight. As things stand, I’m betting Marc is it.”
Startled and struck momentarily dumb by her comment, I glanced furtively in Naomi’s direction, only to have her wink at me. That little bit of byplay was enough to draw Margaret Featherman’s sharp-eyed attention. “Wait a minute, you two,” she said. “What’s going on over there? No secrets allowed.”
According to my scorecard, Margaret was well on her way to being snockered. I was grateful the only kind of driving she’d be doing at the end of the evening would be in the elevator going back to whichever deck her cabin was on.
“Don’t work yourself into a lather, Margaret,” Naomi said. “I was just asking Mr. Beaumont here if this was his first cruise.”
This was, in fact, a bald-faced lie, but I figured my best tactic was to follow Naomi’s lead. “First one ever,” I responded brightly. “If this is how they feed us at every meal, no one is likely to starve.”
Margaret was looking straight at me when I started to answer, but then her eyes wavered and her glance slid away. The back-and-forth movement of her irises told me she was watching someone make his or her way across the room. From the tightening of her bare shoulders and the down-turned stiffening of her lips, I could tell that this new arrival was someone Margaret wasn’t thrilled to see.
“Mother!”
“Why, Chloe,” Margaret Featherman responded enthusiastically. As she spoke, she rearranged the separate features of her face into what passed for a welcoming smile. “How wonderful to see you.”
I looked up and saw at once that Chloe could be none other than Margaret Featherman’s daughter. She was a blonde, unreconstituted, and younger, early-thirties version of her mother, but the resemblance between the two women was striking. In terms of prickly personality, she was evidently a carbon copy.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chloe Featherman demanded.
“I’m taking a cruise,” Margaret returned. “And don’t be so rude. Say hello to my friends. You know this is the time of year when we always get together. We usually spend the week in Reno. This time we decided to come cruising on the Starfire Breeze instead.”
Chloe Featherman glanced perfunctorily around the table and nodded briefly to each of the women seated there. When her eyes reached Marc Alley, who was fumbling to his feet, napkin in hand, her jaw dropped.
“Marc!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to sit at the same table with Dad and me and some of the others. We’re upstairs—in the other dining room.”
“I’m so sorry,” he stammered uncomfortably. “There must have been some kind of misunderstanding. When I got to my cabin, there was a message waiting for me about a change in the dining arrangements. The note said I would be at table sixty-three in the Crystal Dining Room rather than upstairs in the Regal.”
With her face a study in barely controlled fury, Chloe Featherman swung back to face her mother. “I doubt there’s been any misunderstanding,” she said pointedly. “And I’m sure I know who it is who left you that message. Stay out of Dad’s business, Mother,” Chloe warned. “You have no idea what’s at stake here.”
“Oh, I know what’s at stake, all right,” Margaret Featherman replied. Her voice dripped ice and so did her eyes. Clearly there was no love lost between this mother-and-daughter duo—in either direction. Moments earlier, Margaret had been flirting with Marc and giggling like a drunken schoolgirl. Now she seemed much older and stone-cold sober.
“It’s the same thing Harrison’s been chasing all his life,” she continued. “Some multimillion-dollar grant, I’ll bet, with a skirt or two thrown in on the side. Marc here was telling us all just a little while ago that he’s along on the cruise as Dr. Featherman’s exhibit A. Which reminds me, how is the lovely Leila? Has she finished up her degree yet? And doesn’t it bother you having a stepmother who’s three whole years younger than you are?”
Muscles tightened in Chloe Featherman’s slender jaw. “It happens that Leila and Dad are very happy together,” she said stiffly. “As you well know, whatever makes Daddy happy makes me happy.”
“How touching,” Margaret returned. “But then you always were Daddy’s little girl. There’s certainly nothing new and different about that. However did you know to come looking for me here?”
Chloe Featherman held out her hand. In it was an envelope with the cruise line’s distinctive logo on it. “I guess no one in the purser’s office thought there might be more than one M. C. Featherman on board the Starfire Breeze. Since it’s marked ‘urge
nt,’ someone brought it to me at our table upstairs. I opened it by mistake.”
Margaret took the envelope. Without even glancing at it, she stuck it into her purse. “That’s quite all right,” she said. “I’m sure you have no interest in my personal dealings.”
“You’ve got that right,” Chloe Featherman said. Then, with one final glare in poor Marc Alley’s direction, she turned and stalked off. He stood looking longingly after her as she made her way out of the dining room.
“Oh, Marc, do sit down,” Margaret Featherman said impatiently. “Obviously we’re not going to have the benefit of your company for another meal. Chloe will see to that. So we’d best make the most of the time we have.”
Snubbed by the daughter and too polite to tell the mother where to go, Marc sank back into his chair, but he made no effort to return to his crème brûlée. Margaret resumed her role of head honcho. “So what are we doing after dinner?” she said.
“There’s a musical in the theater,” Naomi offered. “That looked like it might be fun. Or else there’s a pianist/comedian in the Twilight Lounge, followed by big band music and dancing.”
“I do so love dancing to all that wonderful old music from the thirties, forties, and fifties,” Margaret said. “The Twilight Lounge sounds good to me.”
Margaret Featherman made her pronouncement with all the authority of a papal decree and with the obvious expectation that everyone else in the group would agree with her. Naturally, they did so at once, with the single exception of Marc Alley, who had nerve enough to raise an objection.
“I think I’ll turn in early,” he protested. “I have an interview with a reporter early tomorrow morning. I should probably get some sleep.”
Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) Page 2
