Since I had my pick of the rooms, I chose Carla’s old suite, with its faux boiserie and light colors; it was much warmer and cozier than Russell’s dark, minimalist abode. Two young stewardesses unpacked my bags for me, leaving me free to relax. Captain Rankin asked if I would mind setting sail right away. I had no objections.
A short time later, we were under way, moving majestically through the water. I lay down and fell asleep, lulled by the rhythms and hums of the boat. When I awoke, we were anchored in a secluded cove. The tropical evening was descending in a pale purple veil.
As I dressed for dinner, I was impressed by all the luxurious touches in Carla’s old suite, particularly those in the palatial marble bathroom, with its gold-plated fixtures in the shape of swans. The large room was virtually a miniature spa, with a steam bath, Jacuzzi, bidet, sunken tub, and a separate cabinet for the toilet, which looked amusingly like a tiny throne room, all gilded and hand-painted with heraldic crests. I thought about Carla, in particular what she had said to me the day Russell disappeared, “I always hated that boat.” There was such coldness in her voice. But it seemed to me she had a point. Luxurious as it was, there was something claustrophobic about being on a yacht. Though sailing gives the illusion of great freedom because you can go anywhere you want, the fact of the matter is you’re still a captive in a confined space—however splendid that space may be. As I soaked in the tub, I thought of how Carla must have languished there herself on many an occasion, fearing she was doomed to spend the rest of her life aboard The Lady C, traveling the world with a moody, melancholy man.
The Rankins were waiting for me in the main salon promptly at eight thirty. They had both dressed for the occasion—he in a blue blazer and white trousers, she in white pants and a pale blue silk blouse. With her hair in a chignon, Nancy Rankin’s wholesome beauty seemed more sophisticated, less girlish. They were a handsome couple, demonstrably fond of each other. I felt a twinge of envy. We all had a glass of champagne and talked about the weather and other polite pleasantries. But underneath the banter, I felt a thread of tension, as if they were purposely avoiding what was really on their minds.
It was a balmy night, so we ate outside on deck. The long dining table was elegantly set with crystal candlesticks, white china, and a vivid spray of tropical flowers, a dramatic contrast to the highly polished dark wood. Scattered lights on the distant mainland pricked the deepening twilight. We were served dinner by two stewardesses, whom I encouraged to keep the wine flowing. The conversation was stilted at first, but as the meal progressed we talked more about Russell Cole. The Rankins seemed impressed that I was an old friend of his—someone who had known him before he was married to Carla. Whenever Carla’s name came up, they glanced at each other, and I got the distinct feeling that they didn’t like her at all. But they were not very forthcoming and finally, over coffee, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I said, “Now, Captain Rankin, what was so urgent that you had to get me down here right away?”
Rankin and his wife exchanged looks of concern. He cleared his throat.
“We have a saying on board, Mrs. Slater. What happens on the yacht, stays on the yacht.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“Just what it says. Things that are said and done and seen here remain here. They go no further.”
“Well, if you’re worried that I’m going to say anything to anyone about what you have to tell me, I’m not. Believe me. In fact, I was hoping you’d answer a few questions for me in confidence. But you go first.”
They glanced at each other again.
“We have something we’d like to show you, Mrs. Slater,” Rankin said, rising abruptly from the table.
I followed the couple down two flights of stairs to one of the guest rooms. The captain unlocked the door. It was dark inside. For a moment, I had a terrible feeling that this was all a setup, and that something bad was going to happen to me. Nancy must have sensed my apprehension because she whispered, “Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Slater.”
Rankin flicked a switch on the wall. A soft glow suffused the large pale room. A man was asleep in the king-size bed. We all quietly drew near and looked down at the sleeping figure. He was an old man with long, matted hair, and a scruffy, brownish beard. His skin was blotched and leathery from the sun. His closed eyes were sunk deep into gaunt cheeks. His mouth was open slightly and his face contorted in bouts of fitful snoring.
I looked at Rankin questioningly. “Who’s that?” I whispered.
“Don’t you recognize him?” Rankin asked, looking at me with a meaningful gaze.
And, of course, the minute he said this, I understood who was lying there in front of me, unrecognizable as he was. I leaned down and peered at him more closely, unable to believe that the pathetic creature asleep in bed was none other than Russell Cole.
I put my hand to my mouth to stifle a gasp. I stood gazing at him for a long moment. All the life and moisture had been sucked out of him. Even in his sleep, his face seemed coated with suffering. Gone were the boyish looks and the dapper demeanor of the youthful middle-aged man I had once known. In their place was a frail, exhausted soul.
Rankin motioned me to follow him out of the cabin. Nancy stayed behind, adjusting the bedcovers. I followed the captain upstairs to the grand salon, where a steward fixed us both drinks. God knows I needed one. Rankin dismissed the steward so we could talk alone.
“Does the crew know who he is?” I asked.
“I haven’t announced it, but I’m sure they’ve guessed. I don’t want it getting out—not yet.”
“Tell me the story. What happened? How on earth did he get here?”
“Two days ago, we were refueling in Bridgetown and this dock bum was hanging around, staring at the yacht. He was dressed in rags. He looked like one of those crazy people you see sometimes on these docks. Hapless, hopeless souls. He was working on a trader and I’m always nervous about those guys when they come near the yacht.”
“What’s a trader?”
“A trader boat is one of those island-hopping rust buckets. They carry all different kinds of cargo from island to island. a lot of criminals work those boats: drug runners, thieves, ex-cons, fugitives. Probably some terrorists nowadays. The captains don’t ask any questions as long as you put in a hard day’s work. We always steer clear of ’em. . . . Anyway, he went away, but I remembered him. And then the next thing I know, he sneaked aboard.”
“How?”
“Oh, it’s not too hard on a yacht this size, believe it or not, particularly if you know the boat. He was wandering around below and the first mate was in the process of throwing him off when I came down. When I saw his eyes, that was when I knew it was Mr. Cole. I didn’t let on, though. We took him to a guest suite and tried to give him something to eat, but he was too ill. I told the crew we’d let him stay until he was well enough to leave. But, as I said, I think several of them guessed who it was.”
Rankin sipped his drink.
“You think he’s been working on one of those boats all this time?”
He shrugged. “Could be . . . sure. And then seeing the yacht again triggered something in him. I tell you, Mrs. Slater, in one of my very first talks with Mr. Cole after he hired me as captain, he told me about his condition. Well, he had to, didn’t he? In case he ever disappeared. The fear was always with him, like people who have epilepsy or narcolepsy—they never know when they’re going to have a seizure. So they have to prepare the people around them in case it ever happens. I asked him what I should do if, God forbid, he ever did disappear. The one thing he told me definitely not to do was to move the boat. I remember he said to me, ‘Mike, whatever you do, don’t go anywhere. Send out search parties, but don’t go anywhere. Just wait for me to come home.’ Mr. Cole was always afraid that one day he might get lost for good. He told me that people afflicted with this condition can vanish for weeks, months, even years if th
ere’s nothing to remind them of who they were or where they came from. He told me he worked as a bagger in a supermarket during one of these episodes. He was quite funny about it. He said he felt something was missing, but he didn’t really understand it was his entire life.”
“But if something does trigger their memory . . . ?”
“Then they can come home,” Rankin said. “That’s what happened to Mr. Cole this time. He saw The Lady C, and he came aboard.”
“But he has no idea where he’s been?”
“He has no idea about anything at the moment. He’s just babbling.”
“So I guess this means that he really did have an episode, after all. Mr. Locket and I were convinced that Mrs. Cole had somehow done away with him.”
Rankin pinned me with a hard gaze. “Don’t be so sure she didn’t try.”
“What do you mean?”
Rankin put down his drink. “In my last conversation with Mr. Locket, he mentioned something to me about a set of plans and a secret room . . . ?”
“Yes! That’s why we chartered the boat. Larry wanted to see if we could find that room and maybe dig up some evidence of a crime. Is there a secret room?”
“There are many,” Rankin said with a slight laugh. “A yacht this size is riddled with ’em. Mr. Cole designed a lot of storage space for his art and there are hidden passages leading to and from the various rooms. You can move around on The Lady without ever being seen if you want to. But when Mr. Locket told me about the two different sets of plans, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I never thought to look there, but when he mentioned it, I did. And I was surprised at what I found.”
“What?”
“Well, come have a look for yourself.”
Chapter 38
First, Rankin gave me a quick tour of all the “secret” passages on the boat, a rabbit warren of concealed corridors, rooms, and cupboards. I understood how right Larry had been: the great yacht had a character all her own. This seemingly radiant lady, constructed for pleasure, privilege, and protection, was, in fact, a stealthy creature with twisty insides and a dark personality.
The last stop on my secret passage tour was a “safe room,” located off Russell’s dressing room behind the long clothes rack in one of the huge walk-in closets. Its entrance was invisible to the naked eye. Rankin pressed a spot in the wall and a panel sprang open, revealing a steel door with a keypad on it. He punched in some numbers and there was a click. He pushed down the handle and the door opened inward. This room was a miniature sitting room, with chairs, a couch, and a desk on which there was a cellular telephone and a shortwave radio. There were books neatly arranged in bracketed shelves, a split-screen television monitor built into the wall that allowed one to see what was going on, not only directly outside in the master cabin, but also on the various decks. There was a stockpile of canned goods and bottled water in a large wooden chest, plus a fire extinguisher, life vests, extra clothing, flares, and an inflatable raft. Rankin pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk. Inside was a twenty-two-caliber pistol and three boxes of ammunition.
“One of Mr. Cole’s Renoirs used to hang right up there,” Rankin said, pointing to a space on the wall. “He said he wanted something cheerful to look at if he was ever forced to come in here. Mr. Cole’s paintings were like his children. He used to put his hand on a painting and close his eyes and just stand there for minutes at a time. He said the thing about great art was that you could physically touch a genius across time.”
Rankin pressed the television monitor with his two hands. There was a tiny click, like a latch opening. The monitor and its entire panel sprung forward slightly, revealing another door.
“This is what Mr. Locket was talking about. It’s the safe room’s safe room,” Rankin said. “No one knows it exists except the captain and the owner, of course. It’s there for extra protection. It was drafted on the original plans, but it doesn’t appear on the engineer’s blueprints for obvious reasons. I don’t know how Mr. Locket knew about it, unless someone got hold of either the captain’s or the owner’s copy. I never even thought to look here until I talked to Mr. Locket on the phone.”
Rankin opened the door slowly and flicked a switch. A fluorescent light flickered overhead, revealing a small room, like a closet, just big enough for two people to hide in.
“No locks on these safe room doors so you can get out, but the bad guys can’t lock you in . . . I haven’t moved a thing,” he said, pointing down.
There on the gray floor lay a large red plastic cooler, inside of which were two rolls of duct tape, a small hatchet, a box of plastic garbage bags, and an industrial-size container of bleach. I stared down at the grisly cache. I didn’t say a word, but to my mind we were looking at Carla’s plans for her husband right there in that cooler. This kind of killing was the province of lowlife Mafia figures and organized serial killers, not of a rich socialite dancing her way through life on a skein of money and privilege. But then, you just never know . . .
“Did you tell the police about this?” I asked him.
“Look, these things aren’t proof of a crime. They’re normal to have aboard a boat. I was surprised to see them in here though. But they do kind of point to a theory I have. Come on, I’ll tell you about it.”
We walked back up to the grand salon. Rankin sat forward on the couch, bristling with intensity.
“These episodes of Mr. Cole’s are supposedly triggered by severe emotional distress,” he began. “I believe one of the little games the three of them played got out of hand.”
“Wait. Slow down. What games? And who are the three of them?”
“Jasper Jenks and Mr. and Mrs. Cole. The three of them had a scene together. The second I heard that Mr. Cole had disappeared, I just figured they’d all been up to their old tricks. I knew Jenks was no good the minute I met him.”
“How did he get to be the captain? I remember when Russell disappeared this fellow Jenks didn’t really seem to know what he was doing.”
Rankin gave a mordant little chuckle. “Oh, he knew what he was doing, all right. But not as a captain. . . . We were in St. Maarten. The Lady always draws quite a crowd. Jenks was admiring her and somehow he struck up a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Cole. Before I knew it, Mr. Cole comes to me and says he wants to hire him. So I interviewed the guy. He’d definitely sailed before, so on Mr. Cole’s orders, I brought him on as a mate. Then I lost my bosun and he took the job. But very early on, I sensed there was a whole lot else going on.”
“How come?”
“For one thing, I saw Jenks and Mrs. Cole talking when they didn’t think anyone was watching. And, believe me when I tell you, Mrs. Slater, they weren’t talking to each other like they were strangers. Plus, you get hunches about people—especially in this business because you’re very close to people, living with them. Good captains have to be good shrinks, as well. Megayachts like The Lady C are basically floating loony bins, you know. You have to be very careful who you let aboard the asylum,” he said with a grin.
“So you think Mrs. Cole already knew Jenks? That it was a setup?”
“I’d bet my captain’s license on it. The way he and Mr. Cole hit it off right away . . . ? Jenks had to have been coached by someone who knew Mr. Cole very, very well. Right away, he starts talking to Mr. Cole about Mr. Cole’s favorite subject: art. Not a usual topic for a seaman, believe me. Mr. Cole’s a shy man, and Jenks knew how to get around him, knew just how far to go and when to pull back, you know? Like he’d been coached, as I say. But here’s the main thing: Don’t you find it strange that two people as paranoid and security-conscious as the Coles would pick some guy up off a dock in St. Maarten and give him a job—just like that?” He snapped his fingers.
“Yes, I do. And Larry thought so, too.”
“Particularly with all those pricey paintings around? The rest of the crew and me, we were all checked out
within an inch of our lives. It just didn’t make sense that they’d just throw caution to the wind like that. But I was ordered to take him on, without the usual vetting. . . . Anyway, once Jenks was aboard, the three of them got pretty cozy. I believe that Mr. Cole was a little conflicted about his sexuality,” Rankin began matter-of-factly.
“Is that a euphemism for gay?” I asked him.
“No . . . I think that Mrs. Cole prevented him from being actively gay by providing other outlets, shall we say.”
“Like what other outlets are you talking about?” I asked him.
“Games,” he said, sharply. “Look, to be frank, Mr. Cole sometimes got crushes on crew members. They were harmless, schoolboy kinds of things. But Jenks encouraged Mr. Cole’s attentions and flirted with him quite openly. And Mrs. Cole encouraged the two of them. I saw it happening. And I knew it was just a matter of time before the three of them got into a scene,” Rankin said.
“A sexual scene?” I said.
“Is there another kind?” Rankin snickered. “Jasper Jenks is a chameleon. He turns whatever color he has to in order to get the job done.”
One Dangerous Lady Page 34
