by Ed Gorman
"I don't know. But in the morning I think I'll find out."
From the stage, Marty Gerber was saying, "Hey, isn't that just like actors? Give us a show even when we don't want it!"
The diners broke into applause for his clever ad-lib.
Todd Ames kept his gray and handsome head down.
Jere Farris and his wife, Alicia, looked humiliated. And the blond strongman Kevin Anderson gave everybody watching them a look at his capped teeth in a public relations textbook smile that tried to pretend everything was fine.
But Tobin's attention turned quickly to the redhead and the man in the western suit.
They'd quit talking and now simply watched the celebrity table. Obviously they were fascinated.
Once again Tobin had the impression that they knew something special-something Tobin should know- but he had no idea what it was.
Only that it undoubtedly involved the notebook Alicia Farris and the redheaded woman had been wrestling over outside his cabin door this afternoon.
"Oh, no," Cindy said.
"What?" Tobin said.
"It's going to happen."
"What's going to happen?"
"When I have four drinks I get slightly drunk and have a very good time. And when I have six drinks my inhibitions sort of go and I-well, you know. I just sort of can't help myself. But when I have seven drinks…" Then she paused and shook her head.
"Yes?" Tobin said. "Seven drinks and you do what?"
"I," Cindy said, getting to her feet unsteadily, "barf."
16
11:46 P.M.
They made love of sorts (what would have been called third base back in high school, "I'm sorry, I just can't-you know, so soon after Ken and all, you know, don't you? Aren't you sensitive, Tobin, aren't you?"), this being after Cindy threw up three times and then began lamenting the death of her dog when she'd been eight and how her father had always traveled too much and really never talked to her about stuff that mattered and how she'd slept too readily with far too many men and how she really should read more and see a better grade of movies ("I really think Barbra Streisand's a great actress, I can't help it") and how she was two months behind on her Trans-Am car payments because she'd loaned this Kansas City Chief she occasionally dated $1,000 from her savings account so he could help out his brother who was in a jam, and then she told him about the one and only time she'd ever really been in love and how the guy just wouldn't make a commitment and how crazy that was with all the guys chasing after her virtually begging her to marry them and then the one guy she really wanted just really abused her ("But isn't that always the way, Tobin, isn't that always the way?") and some of it interested him and some of it he kind of dozed through and some he felt very sorry for her about and some of it made him feel truly superior to her and that of course made him feel like a complete shit and some of it made no sense at all ("I just keep thinking I'm from this other planet, Tobin; you know, like these aliens dropped me off here and forgot to come back and get me. Do you ever feel like that?"). And anyway what he was truly interested in was her neck (she had a wonderful, graceful, chewy kind of neck) and her delightful breasts and her lickable legs and finally, finally he started kissing her and she more or less responded and then they got seminaked on his bed and he liked the way the moonlight came through the louvered windows and the way the salt air smelled and the distant festive music and then kissing her breasts at last and then putting his hand against her warmest part and her saying, between kisses, "I just keep thinking about Ken and all and how promiscuous I've become. I wasn't always this way, I really wasn't, otherwise I'd do it, really, Tobin, I would," and then with that gentlest but most final of female gestures, pushing him away so he could not get inside and saying, "But I really like you, Tobin; you've been so great to me, and you're a celebrity and you don't have to be great to people or anything if you don't want to be." And then about two seconds later he was up like a teenager caught by a girl's enraged mom, up and jerking on his pants and stumbling to the door because somebody was pounding on it and finding there Kevin Anderson, blond and apparently still under the impression that he was a TV cop, saying, "You'd better come up to the deck, Tobin. Something really incredible has happened" and all the while peeking over Tobin's shoulder at the naked form of Cindy writhing about in the shadows back there trying to get dressed. "Something really incredible.”
17
THURSDAY: 12:17 A.M.
There were two of them in deck chairs side by side, the redhead and the man in the western suit. They might have been enjoying a view of the moonlit ocean swelling on the endless line of horizon. Or the clarity of the Big Dipper laced across the ebony tropical sky.
Each of them had been shot several times in the chest. They were very bloody.
They appeared, as dead people usually appeared to Tobin, to be playing a trick of some kind. Any moment now they'd be leaping to their feet and saying they'd only been trying to frighten people.
He edged Cindy a little closer to the bodies. They did not seem to have been bound in any way. They just sat in their chairs with their eyes fixed in the general vicinity of the Big Dipper.
A semicircle of passengers stared at the corpses with a mixture of awe, terror, and bewilderment. There were tears, of course-soft and childlike, without anger because apparently no one here had known these two people-and there were furious glances at Captain Hackett, who stood among a group of white-uniformed stewards whom he was dispatching to various tasks with an air of sweaty purpose that might soon become-unthinkable for the placid captain-real panic.
The chairs in which the dead people sat were adjacent to one of the ship's three pools. The water was aqua. The tartness of chlorine was in the air. When Tobin looked back at the assembled passengers-some were in pajamas and robes and nightgowns and some still wore neckties or loud Hawaiian shirts from any number of private or public parties-he felt his first bit of sympathy ever for Capt. Robert Hackett. The ship was three days out with four more days to go before port. And now there could be no doubt about it. There was a killer on board and this time it would do no good whatsoever to point a finger at a beautiful secretary from Kansas City, Missouri.
"There's that doctor," Cindy McBain whispered to Tobin.
A stolid, brown-haired man in a white shirt and dark slacks and white deck shoes came up the steps from the deck below and walked over to the bodies. He nodded to several of the stewards and then started talking to the captain.
Tobin glanced around at the crowd and, not seeing who he was looking for, said, "Cindy, would you mind waiting here?"
"For what?"
"I forgot something in the room."
"Forgot what?"
"Gee, I'm glad you don't ask a lot of questions."
"Well, you're lying to me, Tobin."
He sighed. "I need to go find somebody."
"Who?"
"Alicia Farris."
"The producer's wife?"
"Right."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure."
"Bull."
"I'm not. I mean, I just want to ask her what she knew about the red-haired woman."
"And you can't take me with you?"
"It'll be easier if I go alone."
"Thanks a lot."
"I'm sorry but it will." Now she sighed. "All right."
"C'mon, Cindy. I'm really not trying to hurt your feelings."
"I know."
"I won't be long. I promise."
She made a little flouncing motion, as if her entire body had simply given in to his deserting her. "Just go on, Tobin. Just go on.”
Not even after Ken Norris's murder had Tobin thought of all the neat places a killer could hide aboard a cruise ship but now as he made his way down two decks and along shadowy passageways, he realized that, especially late at night, a killer would have no problem at all hiding and then fleeing back to his or her room. No problem at all.
When he came to the Farrises' cabin, he put his ear to the d
oor before knocking.
Inside he heard drawers being opened and closed hurriedly. It did not seem likely either Jere or Alicia Farris would frantically search through their own drawers-not unless they were planning to go someplace… and where could they go in the middle of the ocean?
He moved away from the door and pressed himself against the wall.
More drawers were jerked open, slammed shut. Closet doors on rollers were hurled back. Then, more faintly, things in the bathroom medicine cabinet were pushed around.
All Tobin could do was wait.
Two minutes later the door squeaked open and a figure he did not at first recognize moved out into the hallway.
True to TV movie fashion, the figure wore a dark beret, a dark sweater, a dark jacket, dark socks, and dark shoes.
Unfortunately, her hair was not dark but dishwater blond.
He got her by the wrist. "You're the last person I would have suspected of being a thief."
Joanna Howard, the quiet makeup girl, glanced up at him and said, "Oh, God, Mr. Tobin, are you going to tell anybody?"
From the opposite end of the hall, he could hear passengers coming. This corridor was no place to talk.
He kept hold of her wrist. "Come on," he said.
"I don't know why she started suspecting us," Joanna Howard said ten minutes later.
Tobin had gone to one of the lounges and gotten them diet 7-Ups. He puffed on a cigarillo and let her explain.
"This is Alicia, you mean."
"Yes."
"Suspecting what?"
"The fact that Jere and I were having an affair."
"You and Jere?"
She smiled, looking sad as she did so. "I know, neither one of us are likely types, are we?"
Tobin shrugged. They stood on the sports deck watching the ocean churn behind them. He was chilly.
"Unfortunately for the institution of marriage," Tobin said, "everybody seems to be the type at one point or another."
"It wasn't sleazy."
"I'm not saying it was."
"And it wasn't just a one-night sort of thing."
"I don't imagine it was."
"And I really think we may love each other. We've talked about it, anyway." She paused and glared at him. "What's so funny?"
"The idea of talking over if you're in love or not. I'm not sure that's necessary. It seems to me you're either in love or you're not."
"That's because you've had so many affairs, Mr. Tobin. Jere and I-well, we're not really experienced." She flushed. "He's my first real lover and even though he won't exactly admit it, I think Alicia was the first woman he ever slept with." In her beret and dark clothes, she was fetching. But how sad she looked leaning against the railing with the furious white wake waters below them, the dark and silver ocean covering all else.
"You could get hurt."
"He wouldn't do that to me, Mr. Tobin."
"He might not want to but he might have to."
"If he decides to stay with her, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I'm prepared for that." But there was a catch in her throat and Tobin knew better.
"So why were you in their room?"
"Because I'd acted impulsively. Stupidly, really."
"Tell me."
"I'd… I'd been afraid of exactly what you were talking about."
"Of being dumped?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And so tonight I wrote him a letter. It was a very… it was kind of a real blunt letter."
"Telling him you love him?"
"Yes."
"And telling him you want a decision right away?"
"Yes."
He smiled and slid his arm around her shoulder. "Joanna, we've all written letters like that. We get lonely and scared and it's only natural."
"Yes, but I made the mistake of sliding it under his door because he told me Alicia was going to a party tonight and that he was just going to go to bed. They don't have a very good relationship and do a lot of things alone like that." She paused, shook her head. "So I pushed it under the door and knocked, hoping he'd wake up and see it. Then I went back to my cabin and waited for a phone call. I thought he'd read it and call me right away. I mean, I figured my knock had awakened him for sure. But then no call came. I waited for nearly two hours. Then I got this terrible feeling. What if he changed his mind at the last minute and went to the party and when they got back to their room they would find my letter on the floor? She'd see it for sure."
"So you sneaked back to their room. How'd you get in?"
"Credit card."
"Really?"
"One of the crew showed me how to do it."
"Nice crew."
"But it wasn't there."
"The letter?"
"No."
"And that's why you were tossing the room?"
"You mean opening drawers and stuff?"
"Right."
"I just went crazy. Started throwing stuff around and… I really got scared. If she ever saw a letter like that she'd-she'd have proof then, not just suspicions."
"So you didn't find the letter?"
"No."
He said, "Two more people were murdered tonight."
He wasn't sure why, but he was very interested in her reaction. "Who?"
He told her. "Did you know or speak with either of them ever?"
"No." Then she seemed to understand his motive. "You think I had something to do with it, Mr. Tobin?"
He laughed and touched her shoulder again. "No, I don't, Joanna." He glanced at his watch. He'd left Cindy alone now for nearly half an hour. He said, "Did you put the room back in order?"
"Yes. I was very careful."
"Then all you can do is wait."
"What if she came back for something and found it on the floor?"
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "There are all sorts of possibilities and every one of them will make you crazy if you think of it too long. So why not go have a drink somewhere and wait till you hear from Jere? That's really about all you can do now."
This time she touched him. "You're really nice, Mr. Tobin. I'd heard a lot of stories about you, but." She stopped herself. "Well, you know, everybody tells stories about everybody."
"I know," Tobin said. "'Yosemite Sam.'"
She giggled. "Coming from you, it sounds funny."
Suddenly all Tobin wanted was to go back and find
Cindy. To hell with murders. To hell with this young woman's love affair.
"I'll walk you back to your cabin," Tobin said.
"See," she said, "you really are nice.”
He took her to her cabin and said good-night and said to try and get some sleep and then he went back to the deck where the bodies had been found.
The passengers were gone, and so were the corpses, and so were the captain and the stewards in white uniforms.
And so was Cindy.
He checked his own cabin and then he checked her cabin and then he tried a few of the lounges where, of course, the murders were the number one topic. In one of the lounges he saw a crew member and described Cindy to him and asked if he'd seen her and the guy said, "Oh, the babe from Kansas City? God, isn't she all right?" He shrugged. "She was in here a while ago but she left."
"Alone?"
"Huh-uh. With everybody's least favorite TV cop."
"You're kidding? Kevin Anderson?"
"Right." He grinned. "Why would she take him when she could have had me without hardly begging at all?”
18
3:14 A.M.
He didn't find her. He checked out her cabin several times and he checked out the various lounges but he didn't find her and he recalled once a high school girlfriend who'd made him unbelievably jealous, and how in his battered Ford he used to drive around and around her house, knowing she was out on a date with someone else, there being a kind of solace in the mere motion of driving around and around her house, there having been no solace in anything else duri
ng those terrible nights, knowing she was irretrievably gone from him. He hated being jealous, the way it demeaned him, but he never seemed able to escape its clutches long. He had been known to get jealous during the first ten minutes of a blind date when, at a party, his date had seen an old boyfriend and merely nodded, proving to Tobin (as he had admitted to Dr. Spengler during six useless months on the couch) that he was probably at least 37.8 percent crazy after all.
He went back to his cabin and stripped and lay down and took his emergency cigarette from his dinner jacket and, of course, being months old, it was hard and stale but Tobin tried not to notice that as he sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear inhaling the thing, thinking of Cindy in the arms of Kevin Anderson and wishing that he were not five-five and not so complicated and that Cindy and he could fall madly in love for the remaining three days of the cruise. It was testament to his frame of mind that he only rarely thought about the bodies he'd seen earlier on the deck, or about the dead Ken Norris.
And then, cigarette half-smoked and already starting to feel guilty about his indulgence ("Now isn't that a stupid reaction to something like Cindy dumping you-smoking? Exactly who did it help? You? Anybody? No."), a knock like a rock fell on the door and of course he thought: Cindy. She's spent enough time with the TV playboy and is sorry and now at last we're going to make love and spend three fleshy, blissful days together.
But it wasn't Cindy at the door. Not at all.
It was Captain Hackett.
19
4:34 A.M.
"Small caliber bullets, close range."
"Dr. Devane used to be a coroner," Captain Hackett explained. "He's now a full-time physician aboard the ship."
"I see," Tobin said.
"Upstate New York," the doctor said. "Where I was a coroner, I mean." He seemed to think his former address had some bearing here. He was the same brown-haired man Tobin had seen on deck earlier. He wore a blue suit and a white button-down shirt and a red tie. He looked like a politician. He had the teeth for it, anyway, and that odd, cold distance Tobin had always sensed in politicians.
