by Marie Moore
“It was me, Sidney.” She giggled in my ear. “Did you know, did you know, did you know? It was me all along. All along. All along. And you never guessed, did you, did you, did you? No, no, no. No one suspected. No one guessed. Hee hee! Poor drunk fat Muriel punished them all. One by one. By one. By one. Snippy Ruth, sleeping with her nasty Mr. Bostick, and silly Sylvia and you! Harlots, both of you, screwing, screwing, screwing my beautiful Fernando. Don’t say you didn’t. I know you did. Because he didn’t want me, you know. He said so. He laughed at poor Muriel, all because he only wanted you. He could only see you. But when you are gone; then he will want Muriel. Yes, yes, yes. Beautiful, beautiful Muriel. And if he doesn’t, why then Muriel will punish him too, dear, when she catches him. Yes, she will. Muriel will punish him, too.”
She had me pinned face down on the floor of the elevator, slowly twisting the cord tighter against my fingers and neck, her horrible, hateful voice whispering in my ear.
I kicked the wall of the elevator, over and over, kicked it, trying to buck her off, trying to turn over, but it did no good. She paid no attention, just kept up the relentless pressure on my neck.
I fought her as hard as I could for as long as I could, but in the end, her massive weight and manic strength in the enclosed space were too much for me.
I couldn’t breathe. She sat on the middle of my back, crushing me against the floor, riding me into oblivion. I was weaker now, and weaker still, unable to push her off my back, unable to breathe, and the cord was tightening. I could no longer feel my fingers. She was huge, she was relentless, and her strength was amazing.
I could barely hear her hideous voice. I was losing consciousness, no longer able to fight, going down, down, down into darkness.
This is it, I thought at the last, this is really it. What a stinking way to go.
35
When I heard the shouts I thought it was the angels.
They shout when you get to heaven, right? And they were all dressed in white.
The biggest angel picked me up in his arms and rocked me gently, like a child, like a baby, kissing my hair, saying my name over and over. “Sidney. Sidney, darling. Oh, my darling Sidney. Open your eyes, Sidney. Wake up, my dearest, my love. It’s all over now, Sidney. You are safe, Sidney, my precious girl. You’re safe.”
* * *
The big angel turned out to be Captain Vargos, of course, in his whites, and the other angels were the security guards who had pulled Muriel off of me right before I checked out for good.
Vargos knew that the final shore excursion bus had already left. After he saw us pass through the atrium in the elevator, he had realized from the wild look on Muriel’s face that something must be terribly wrong. That’s why he started down the stairs to help me with her. Then the security guards heard the sound of my kicks in the elevator.
I didn’t make the flight home with the High Steppers. Jay got them all back safely, except, of course, for the ones who were already dead or in jail.
It turned out that there truly was no Mrs. Vargos or any little Vargoses waiting back in Athens. Zoe was definitely wrong about that. And I finally met that beautiful blonde I thought was my big competition. She is the Captain’s niece, Helen, who is completing an Empress Line internship in the purser’s office.
I sailed back to England, without the High Steppers, on the Rapture of the Deep, recuperating in the big bed in the captain’s cabin.
“But will you still have a job if you go back to New York?” he asked, nuzzling my shoulder, kissing the bruises that, after a few days, were beginning to fade from my neck.
“I don’t know,” I said, turning over, “and right now, I just really don’t care.”
* * *
I guess now you’re waiting for me to tell you all about the big wedding on the ship, with the ship’s horn blasting, and the pastry chef’s seven tier cake, and my designer gown, and all the white doves and balloons being released from the Sun Deck, but I can’t, because it didn’t happen that way.
Instead, when we reached Harwich, Devon, the High Steppers’ faithful driver, picked me up at the dock to take me back to Heathrow for my flight home to New York.
It wasn’t that things didn’t work out for Stephanos Vargos and me. Things are great. He is a very sweet man, a pretty special guy. It’s just that his job comes first, and I don’t think any woman can ever compete with it, whether he realizes it or not. He said so himself; his first love is the sea. But we’ll be together again soon when he comes to New York for a visit, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll change my mind about learning to make spanakopeta. Can’t you just see me, Jay and Stephanos drinking ouzo and breaking plates at the wedding? Oom-pah!
But even if I never see my Captain again, I will have a smile on my face for a very long time.
It was only that, leaving the North Sea and nearing England, standing on the flying bridge in the mist, I finally thought it all through and realized that I couldn’t picture myself bouncing babies and making baklava in Athens while Stephanos sails around the world without me.
At the dock, Devon put my bags in the car and then insisted over my protests that I ride in the back seat. Devon is a very proper guy.
As we rolled away from the pier with Captain Stephanos Vargos—his white uniform silhouetted against the sky—watching us from that flying bridge, it was with more than a little regret that I watched the twin stacks of the Rapture of the Deep grow smaller and smaller, then finally disappear from view in the rear window.
Devon accelerated onto the A10.
“Sidney?” Devon said.
“Yes, Devon?”
“Remember the red bag?”
Do I? I thought, How could I possibly forget it? But what I said was, “Yes, Devon, yes, I do.”
“And remember those two cheery chaps who stopped to help us with the bus accident?”
I nodded. His warm, brown eyes watched me in the mirror.
“Well, it turns out that they weren’t such good lads, after all. I picked them out of a lineup at the Yard yesterday morning. There was a third chap, too, the driver of the lorry that clipped us. The inspector explained that bit to me.”
He paused for a moment, as he passed a large truck, then continued. “The lads we thought were our friends after the accident were actually the ones who switched Miss Shadrach’s red bag in New York for the one with all the treasure. One of them tried to grab it back at Heathrow, but she snatched it away from him, so they followed us on the road to have another go. After the first chap hit us and drove away, the other two stopped and pretended to help. While one of them was talking to Jay, the other one was trying to steal the bag from the bus, but he couldn’t because I was right there. He fooled me. I thought the bugger was being helpful, checking the boot for damage. Miss Shadrach must have been on to them. I think she saw him out the window, mucking about with the luggage. He saw her spot him, and that did it for her, what?”
“No, Devon, I don’t think so. Those men didn’t kill Ruth. Muriel Murphy did. Muriel killed Ruth, Al, and Sylvia out of jealousy or for her own strange reasons. That it was Ruth’s bag that was involved with the smuggling ring had nothing to do with Muriel or any of the High Steppers’ murders. The fact that the gang picked Ruth’s bag instead of one of the others was completely coincidental. One of the guys who was following us in New York before the cruise saw her buy that bag at Macy’s; so he went back, bought one just like it and loaded it up with all the goodies. Then they followed us to make the switch. We were all apparently leading a parade around New York without knowing it. Any one of the High Steppers’ bags would have done, not just Ruth’s. All the gang really needed was a bag that might go through customs without suspicion. A group like ours was perfect. The whole scheme was working pretty well for them, until Muriel came along.”
“She is mad, then, Muriel, is she?” he said.
“As a hatter.”
“Right-o,” he said. “So are you happy to be headed home, Sidney, with everything all
finally solved? I mean the mystery and everything.”
“Yes, Devon, I am. I certainly am.”
“Well,” he smiled, “now that this trip is all wrapped up, might I just mention that Diana rang me this morning and said to tell you that she hopes you enjoyed your little holiday, and that she has you booked to go out again on Sunday?”
I won’t tell you what I said in reply.
Not you, or my grandmother, and especially not my Aunt Minnie.
Photograph by Chad Mellon
Marie Moore is a native Mississippian. She graduated from Ole Miss, married a lawyer in her hometown, taught junior high science, raised a family, and worked for a small weekly newspaper—first as a writer and later as Managing Editor. She wrote hard news, features and a weekly column, sold ads, did interviews, took photos, and won a couple of MS Press Association awards for her stories.
In 1985, Marie left the newspaper to open a retail travel agency, and for the next fifteen years, she managed the agency, sold travel, escorted group tours, sailed on nineteen cruises, and visited over sixty countries. Much of Shore Excursion was inspired by those experiences.
Marie also did location scouting and worked as the local contact for several feature films, including Heart of Dixie, The Gun in Betty Lou’s Handbag, and Robert Altman’s Cookie’s Fortune.
In mid-1999, because of her husband’s work, Marie sold her travel agency and moved to Jackson, MS, then New York City, Anna Maria Island, FL, and Arlington, VA. She and her husband now live in Memphis, TN, and Holly Springs, MS.
Shore Excursion is Marie’s first novel, and the first book in a new series featuring amateur sleuth Sidney Marsh. You can find more information online at
www.MarieMooreMysteries.com.
