by C. A. Larmer
“I’m not pining for anyone!”
“Speaking of which, why don’t you track down Cheyne Smith and see what he has to say?” said Alicia.
“Okay, but why bother with him? Even if Corrie was having an affair, what makes you think it was Cheyne? There are other men on the ship, granted not many and none as good-looking but—”
“Just start with him, that’s all I’m saying. He’s clearly got an eye for the ladies. He might have been watching her. He might have seen something. Oh and ask him about Corrie’s friend, the skinny one, Anita I think it is. I noticed him give her a strange nod the first night we were on board. I wonder what that was about.”
“Right, so I just go straight up and ask him, do I?”
Alicia smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be more subtle than that. Maybe Claire can distract Dame Dinnegan while you do it.” When Claire frowned at this, she quickly added, “Ask her about her vintage frocks or something.”
“I could talk to the stewards,” offered Missy. “I’ve been getting on really well with our guy, Valeno. He’s a total sweetie! Did you know he says if you eat green apples, you’re less likely to get seasick?” She slapped a hand to her lips. “Sorry, I’m ranting again, aren’t I? Okeydokey, I’ll see if Valeno knows something or maybe he can ask around, see what the stewards working the posh suites have to say.”
“Brilliant idea,” said Alicia. “Who needs CCTV when you’ve got stewards working around the clock? If anyone knows who’s coming and going between cabins, it’d be them. Okay, let’s split up after lunch and meet again in the music bar for predinner drinks. That’ll also give us time to get a nap in if we need one.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Lynette. “What about you?”
A smile slipped across Alicia’s lips and not just because she was ignoring Anders’s instructions. “I have a date with a certain barman who’s very bad at his job and very friendly with other people’s wives,” she said.
Chapter 4
The young blonde was straddling a vacuum cleaner wearing nothing but hot pink stilettos and a provocative smile.
Lynette smudged her lips together, trying very hard not to laugh as she stared at the enormous photograph that had been framed and hung on the wall just to the right of the grand staircase.
Missy had suggested, correctly, that she would find the gigolo in the foyer of the ship where his photos were now being exhibited, and so she was slowly making her way through the makeshift art gallery, pretending to be engrossed rather than grossed out. The exhibition featured numerous photographs of women, some in black-and-white, all completely starkers. It was imaginatively titled Nudes by Cheyne.
Gratuitous Naked Chicks was more apt, thought Lynette.
Every photograph featured at least one woman, sometimes two or three, sprawled across some household appliance or another—a stove, a washing machine, a Sunbeam Mixmaster—looks of faux ecstasy on their faces. One woman was even clutching an egg whisk between her legs, and this time Lynette had to stifle the giggle that threatened to escape.
Didn’t want the artist to take offense.
Cheyne Smith was standing just to the right of the reception desk, watching everyone keenly, while a man in a pinstriped suit chatted away beside him. Probably the curator, Lynette decided, the one who should get the sack. This kind of exhibition would be scandalous in the early 1900s, not at all something you would expect on the original SS Orient.
Not even P&O would stoop this low.
Dame Dinnegan was conveniently absent, so Lynette caught Cheyne’s eye a few times as she moved between photos, careful not to display her distaste but not quick to smile either. She knew his type. He would want to enjoy the chase.
After what seemed an inordinately long time, he finally said something to the curator and began to stride towards her. That’s when Dame Dinnegan decided to make her entrance. She was rolling herself into the foyer from a side carriageway, and while he could not have seen her, his view obscured by the grand staircase, Cheyne seemed to sense her presence because he spun around with a frown.
Lynette also frowned. Damn it, the woman’s timing was abysmal.
Suddenly Claire appeared like an angel from heaven, gliding down the staircase and straight to the older lady where she bent down and began to speak to her. Within minutes the woman was laughing and allowing Claire to wheel her chair around and back out of the foyer. As she did so, Claire glanced back just long enough to offer her friend a coy smile.
That was all the incentive Cheyne needed. He didn’t hesitate this time, striding straight across to Lynette, who now pretended to be mesmerised by a brunette who had got herself caught up inside an ironing cord.
“It’s a dissertation on the modern feminist and the shackles that still bind,” he said beside her, and she smacked her lips together again, staring straight ahead.
After leaving him waiting just a fraction too long, she said, “Hmmm, interesting” and then strode to the next photo.
For a worrying moment she thought he would not follow, but of course he did, and this time he began gushing about the Madonna-Whore Complex. The picture was of a woman in a nun’s habit pole dancing a straw broom.
“Very…” Lynette began, and he turned, dark eyes wide, “provocative.” That was all she could manage, but it was enough.
He beamed and bowed his head. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
Like she had just told him he was the next Annie Leibovitz.
“Where do you get your inspiration?” she asked, deciding it was time to reel him in.
“From beautiful women like yourself, of course. ”
She tried not to choke. “So you photograph women you meet in real life, like on this ship?”
He smiled coyly, his voice smooth as glass. “Why? Were you interested in posing for me?”
She laughed. “I think not.”
“It’s a pity.” His eyes darted about the foyer. “Everyone else here is a little… old for my tastes.”
“Really?” He nodded. “So what about your wife?”
Cheyne’s smile faltered just slightly. “What about her?”
“Isn’t she a little ‘old’?”
Lynette knew it was an impertinent thing to say, but his reaction still took her by surprise. The man burst out laughing, his voice so loud the curator began to stare across, twitching a little as though wondering whether to get in on the action.
“Oh she’s not so old,” Cheyne said when he’d recovered. “Not at all.”
That was gallant of him, she thought. “She must have been a great beauty once, your wife.”
Now he was the one who looked surprised as though it had never occurred to him. He gave a noncommittal murmur and then directed her to the next photograph. This time there were three naked women, each with a different-sized cooking pot in her hands, the lid resting like a hat on each head.
“Now these, wow, amazing,” she said, throwing more bait on the hook. “So, what about Corrie Van Tussi?”
He stiffened a little beside her. Or did she just imagine it?
“What about her?”
“Did you ever photograph Corrie?”
“Why would I?”
“I just thought…”
“Well you thought wrong,” he replied, his tone taut.
She turned to look at him and saw that his smile had vanished. When he next spoke, his voice had an almost menacing edge.
“Why are you asking about Corrie?”
“Oh, no reason. I… I just wondered, that’s all.”
He stared hard at her, his eyes boring into hers as if trying to read her thoughts, then he stepped back. His eyes began darting around the room again.
“Who sent you here?”
“What? Nobody, I—”
“I have to go.”
She stepped towards him. “Look, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean—”
He caught her eye again, and there was something there, something she couldn’t read.
“It wasn’t like that,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
“Okay—” she went to say, but he had already turned around and was now striding away, past the curious curator and out of the foyer. Lynette watched him go, perplexed, just as Claire returned, wheeling in a chatty Dame Dinnegan. They also looked surprised by the man’s departure, and the Dame said something to Claire before swivelling her wheelchair back around and following her husband out.
Claire and Lynette locked eyes across the lobby, and Lynette darted hers in the direction of the exit.
Once safely on the outer deck, the salty wind rushing down the side, Claire said, “What was that all about?”
Lynette’s head was still spinning a little as she relayed just what had happened.
“That’s bizarre,” said Claire. “He sounds defensive to me. What do you think he meant by ‘It wasn’t like that’?”
“I’m not sure. I definitely touched a raw nerve though. He seemed pretty paranoid. Maybe he’s hearing all the rumours about Corrie and is feeling under the gun. Very odd. So tell me, how did you get the Dame away so quickly? One word and it was like you were her BFF.”
Claire’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, easy. I told her the Solarno sisters had smashed me at shuffleboard and asked her for some shuffleboard tips. She couldn’t share them fast enough! Said it was high time someone gave those ‘upstarts’ a run for their money.”
Lynette laughed. “So she’s not as ‘away with the fairies’ as everyone makes out?”
“Not at all. I mean, she was a bit scatty, went off the subject a few times, but no, I really liked her. She was sweet. Smart too.”
“Did you get anything else out of her, apart from how to thrash the Salami Sisters at shuffleboard?”
“Not really. I did talk to her about Corrie, but she seemed quite confounded by the idea of her going overboard. I don’t think she’s got her head around it yet. Kept saying, ‘Oh sweet Corrie, she’ll be all right.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her the chances were beyond slim. I did ask her what Corrie was like, whether she had any enemies, but I think she’d lost the plot by then. She said, ‘Oh the captain, such a lovely man!’ and that was that.”
Lynette’s hair slapped against her face, and she brushed it back. “They all seem to adore the captain, don’t they? He’s either fooling everyone, or I’ve got some apologising to do. So did Dame Dinnegan have any idea whodunit so to speak?”
“Well, she did have one theory that sounded kind of lucid. She pointed the finger straight at some barman, said he was ‘a shifty-looking fellow’ although she didn’t seem to have any other reason to suspect him than that.”
Lynette felt a prickle run down her spine. “What barman?”
“She didn’t say exactly. Just that he had a dodgy look about him, oh and a bad accent. She thought he might have been a Kiwi.”
She laughed, but Lynette was not laughing along.
It had to be the surly Aussie barman Alicia kept running into, the one she was attempting to track down now.
Oh dear, thought Lynette, I hope Alicia’s okay.
Chapter 5
Alicia felt a stab of despair. As she was making her way into the bar, it occurred to her that they were sailing again and she hadn’t even noticed. She stopped to peer out one window, her throat constricting with grief for Corrie. Perhaps the remaining search teams would find her, but the chances were next to nil.
She glanced around the bar and then down to her watch. It was only midafternoon, but there was already a bit of a crowd settling their nerves with a few stiff drinks, no doubt. For her part Alicia wanted nothing more than to slink into bed, her hangover still raging, but she knew Lynette was right. Someone on this ship needed to ask the prickly questions, the questions Corrie couldn’t entrust to anyone but a group of strangers in a mystery lovers’ book club. Feeling emboldened, she ran some fingers through her hair, pulled her shoulders back and strode across the empty dance floor to the bar.
Sadly—annoyingly—the smarmy barman was not on duty, and she wrestled with her memory, trying to recall when she had last seen him. There was a vague recollection of him standing near Anders at the start of the head count early that morning, but she hadn’t caught sight of him since. Perhaps he was busy at another bar, the one by the pool perhaps?
Or perhaps it was more sinister than that.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the Indonesian barman.
“Don’t know where the other barman is, do you? The Aussie guy?”
He shook his head, and she thanked him, turning around just as a woman to her right caught her eye. She smiled.
This might be even better.
Corrie’s best friend, Anita, was by herself, leaning against the bar, a large glass of red wine in one hand, a fistful of crumpled tissues in the other. There was a packet of cigarettes on the bar in front of her, and Alicia tried to get a look at the brand but didn’t recognise it.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping towards Anita.
The woman gulped back a sob, sniffed, glanced at Alicia and then away just as quickly. She looked miserable, her eyes red with weeping, and Alicia’s conscience began arm wrestling her curiosity, seeing which one would be strongest.
She was just about to walk away when the woman said, “He didn’t do it, you know.”
She turned back, her curiosity doing an imaginary high five. “Sorry?”
“Tonio. It’s not his fault.”
Alicia took a step closer trying to work out to whom she was referring.
“Everyone thinks because the ship’s sailing again, that somehow he doesn’t care, that somehow he didn’t love her.”
Ah, the captain.
“I don’t think Captain Van Tussi did it.”
“No, well, they all do.”
“They?”
She shook the question away. “The truth is, he was too good for Corrie. There, I’ve said it.” She slugged a mouthful of wine and snuck another glance at Alicia. “I’m sorry, I know it sounds really bitchy now that… But it’s true. Tonio was devoted to Coz, worshipped her, and she didn’t care. The way she treated him, it was unforgiveable.” She must have read the surprise in Alicia’s eyes because she quickly added, “Just because she was my best friend, doesn’t mean I didn’t know what she was.”
“What she was?’
She looked away again, and Alicia took a punt and said, “She was a bit of a flirt, wasn’t she?” When the woman didn’t say anything she added, “She was flirting with my boyfriend too.”
Anita’s jaw dropped as she glanced back. “Oh, that’s so typical of Coz! I’m so sorry.”
“Well it’s hardly your fault.”
Her eyes clouded over. “That’s the thing. It’s all my fault. If I’d stood up to her, if I’d said no… she… she…” Anita grappled for her drink and took another large gulp. It seemed to bring her to her senses because she looked back at Alicia with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, don’t know why I’m babbling on. I don’t even know you.”
“Oh it’s fine.” She held out a hand. “I’m Alicia Finlay. I’m on this cruise with my book club friends.”
“That’s right, Corrie mentioned something. Anita Monage.” She shook Alicia’s hand then polished off her wine and said, “I should go. See how poor Tonio is doing.”
“But you were saying something about Corrie, about how it was all your fault?”
“Ah, I’m just being morose, ignore me.” She picked up her cigarettes—a generic brand, Alicia saw now—and gave her a small smile. “Thanks for listening.”
“Any time,” Alicia called after her, wondering what on earth that was all about.
********
Perry was wondering where on earth the cute barman was leading him, and whether it was astray. He half hoped it was, but it turned out to be a small, stuffy common room, deep in the bowels of the ship. It was packed with staff, some in uniform, others in civvies, all killing time between shifts.
“You t
ell my boss I brought you here, I throw you overboard myself, right?” said the handsome Filipino, and Perry nodded.
“It’ll be our little secret.” He glanced around. “Well, us and twenty-five of your compatriots.”
Several of the staff looked up when they entered, one or two frowned, but most were too busy gossiping about the latest events to really give Perry’s presence much thought, and he was appreciative of that.
“You will find Ramond over near the PlayStation. That’s his usual hang,” said the barman, and Perry’s eyes widened.
“You guys get computer games?”
“Sure, Wi-Fi too if you want to check your Facebook.” He pointed towards the corner. “I have to get back. Don’t stay long—the crew hate outsiders—and remember, don’t say a word to anyone.”
Perry did the international symbol for silence, mimicking a zip across his lips, and then made his way across the room, past several scruffy lounges where staffers were dozing or stabbing at iPods, tiny buds in their ears, and towards a man on a beanbag in front of the PlayStation. It was the barman who had been on duty the night of Corrie’s disappearance, and he had a controller in his hand, which he was madly jabbing at with both thumbs. On the screen before him was the football great Lionel Messi about to take a penalty shot.
“Watch this!” the barman said, sensing Perry’s presence, and he swivelled something and jabbed harder as Messi planted a ball neatly over the goalie’s head and into the right side of the net. The crowd roared, Messi ran around with his arms stretched out, and the barman whooped.
“I am the King!”
Well, Messi is really, Perry wanted to say but left it for now and said, “Have you got a minute, Ramond?”
Ramond looked behind him, an eyebrow raised. “Oh, it’s you. How you find my crib?”
“Not with my GPS tracker that’s for sure. How come you guys get the mod cons and we’re stuck in the nineteenth century?”
Ramond blinked at him confused by the question and said, “You want game?”
