Stowed Away

by Barbara Ross

  In the meantime, I had a rare morning to myself. I pulled on my clothes, ducked out Gus’s back door, and headed for Blount’s.

  * * *

  On the footbridge, I paused to look toward the Garbo. The rain had stopped, though the sky was still gray. I closed my umbrella and stowed it in my tote. The yacht sat in the calm harbor, dignified and imposing, despite the yellow crime scene tape that crisscrossed the dock. All was quiet on the yacht, but there were two small boats next to her in the water. One belonged to the state police and one to the Maine Marine Patrol. A man in black scuba gear pushed himself off the state police boat backward, joining at least two others who were in the water. What were they looking for? The diamond? Or the body of Maria Consuelo? Was she still missing? I hugged my arms tight to my sides and resumed walking.

  Who owned the Garbo now? There would be probate and all that stuff, no doubt complicated for someone as rich as Geoffrey. But who had inherited that magnificent ship? Would whoever it was go through with the refit? Probably not on schedule. There would be layoffs at Herndon’s if the job was pulled at the last minute.

  When I got to Blount’s, I had the kid at reception call Emil Nicolescu’s room. I was surprised when the bodyguard agreed to take my call, and even more surprised when he said he’d meet me in the hotel coffee shop.

  “I’m here. What do you want?” His English was fluent, his accent subtle, like he’d learned the language when he was young, before his palate hardened and the way he used his tongue became uncontrollable habit.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” We entered the coffee shop, where the hostess escorted us to a small table by the windows that looked out on the harbor, the dock, and the Garbo, crime scene tape and all.

  He squinted at me warily from under thick, black eyebrows. “I do not think you have come to me to make chitchat. I understand you are a busy woman, with some sort of tourist attraction to open.” He paused, hands on the table, steepling fingers as big as hot dogs. His knowledge about my connection to the Snowden Family Clambake, the “tourist attraction,” as he called it, meant he had checked me out. Exactly who at this table was using whom to get information? “You are an old friend of Miss Jayne’s,” he finished.

  The waitress arrived. Emil ordered a coffee, “black, strong.” I did the same. “With milk,” I added. The pause in the conversation gave me a chance to consider my tactics. I made a decision. “Wyatt and I are old classmates, as you said. The police may consider her a suspect in Geoffrey’s death. I want to help her out, if I can.”

  “You have aided the police in previous inquiries.” He looked at me and nodded. “I have asked the Google.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Look”—I spread my hands out on the table, miming showing my cards—“this situation can’t be good for you. You were Geoffrey Bower’s bodyguard, and he’s been murdered. You want an explanation and I need an explanation. I’ll tell you what I know, and you tell me what you know.”

  He nodded his agreement. “Fine. You go first.”

  The waitress arrived with our coffees in white ceramic mugs and a small pitcher of cream. She returned with bowls of sugar, loose and cubed, a vessel holding packets of sweetener. I would have expected nothing less of Blount’s.

  “Here’s what I know,” I started. “Two nights ago, Wyatt invited my friend, my boyfriend, and me to dinner aboard the Garbo.”

  “Seems—what you say? Presumptuous,” he said. “It is not her ship to invite people to.”

  “You tell me. Did Wyatt have the . . . I guess you would call it ‘standing’ as Geoffrey’s girlfriend to invite friends to dinner?”

  “I would not have said so, no. Mr. Bower never had guests, never. He forbid the crew to have guests as well. And Wyatt has only been a guest on the yacht three times.”

  “That would be when she visited at Portofino, at Capri, and this week.”

  He nodded. “She has been staying on the yacht all week. But this, we were told, was for her work, at her insistence. So she could see how Mr. Bower lived aboard and what he needed, for any last-minute additions to the furniture or equipment for the refit.” He looked down at the table. “She stayed in her own quarters.”

  The same thing Genevieve had indicated. Wyatt had implied it as well. She wasn’t sleeping with Geoffrey. “She didn’t stay in Mr. Bower’s quarters?”

  “Most definitely not. When people move around the yacht at night, it is my job to know this.”

  “You’re on duty day and night?” When did he sleep?

  “No, no. Normally I have a team of three or four working for me, but while we are here for the fixing of the yacht, the crew are skeletons.”

  “A skeleton crew,” I confirmed.

  “Yes, this.”

  “What time did you leave the Garbo on Friday?” I asked.

  “Just after two PM. Mr. Bower had asked for privacy. I waited while Rick set the dining room table for two. The captain and I helped him move the food from the refrigerator in the galley, where Chef Genevieve left it, to the small one in the service area off the dining room. He put luncheon out for Mr. Bower. Then Rick, Marius, and I left the boat.”

  “And you were gone the rest of the day.”

  “Rick went along to the beach. This is his favorite preoccupation. Captain Marius and I thought we would enjoy being tourists in Portland. We arrived back when you saw in this hotel that night.”

  On a long June evening, the restaurants and bars of the Old Port in Portland would be teeming with people. I imagined Emil, of the broad shoulders, and Captain Marius, of the flowing brown hair, creating quite a stir, particularly if they casually mentioned they were in Maine on a mega-yacht. People would remember them. Women would remember them. I assumed the state police had checked their statements. I’d try to pry the information out of Binder later.

  “Who was still on the boat when you left?”

  “All had left. Part of my job was to be the last one off.”

  “It’s a big boat. How could you be sure?”

  “I inspected it, of course. There was no one aboard but Mr. Bower, Rick, and Marius, who left with me. But more important, I saw them all leave. Chef Genevieve left with her boyfriend first. Ian and Doug left together when they finished their morning tasks, around noon.”

  “What about Wyatt? She wasn’t part of the crew.”

  “Miss Jayne had left earlier. Around eleven thirty. Her leaving the boat, and then returning for dinner was necessary to Mr. Bower’s surprise for her.”

  “And Maria Consuelo?” As far as I knew the young stewardess still wasn’t accounted for.

  “I did not see her leave,” Emil admitted. “But I had inspected the boat, including her cabin, the galley, the crew room. I am confident she was not on board.”

  “Was it difficult to provide security for Geoffrey?” Apart from the whole being murdered thing, Geoffrey seemed like an ideal client. He never left the ship. And he wasn’t a big celebrity. But there had been the protesters, which seemed weird for an obscure billionaire.

  Emil threw his hands in the air. “The hate. The hate. You do not understand the hate directed at this man.”

  “No, I don’t understand it.” I really didn’t. “I get that he was rich, but what did he do?”

  “This, truly, I do not understand. It was my job to read the e-mails. They come every day, sometimes nearly a hundred. They accuse him of everything bad that has happened in their lives. The loss of their homes, health, jobs, loved ones.”

  “Did you pass these threats on to Geoffrey?”

  “No. I have strict instructions not to tell him. When I thought the threats were real, I forwarded them to a special e-mail box to keep them secure. Then I would increase security on the yacht. Advise the captain to stay at sea, avoid the ports. Have a crew member stand watch all through the night.”

  “Who gave you these instructions?”

  “Mr. Bower himself did.”

  “Did he ever give any indication he went into the special mailbo
x and read the e-mails?”

  “No. Never.”

  Perhaps Geoffrey didn’t want to know. The hate mail had pushed him out to sea, away from the rest of humanity. Why would he want the details? “Had there been any credible threats lately?”

  “None. We are in this place.” He looked out the coffee shop window at the part of the harbor that was visible around the gigantic Garbo. A family went out for a sail. A lobster boat chugged along, laden with traps destined for the harbor floor. “So peaceful. So hidden. I thought, when we arrived, ‘Nothing bad can happen here.”’ He let out a defeated sigh. “I was wrong.”

  “Did you tell Lieutenant Binder about the threats?”

  “Yes. Reluctantly. Mr. Bower prefers his privacy, but this situation is unique. The police are reviewing the e-mails now.”

  “There’s a safe in Geoffrey’s office on the yacht,” I said. “What’s in it?”

  “As far as I have known, I have only seen him use the safe for important papers, papers of great confidentiality.”

  “No jewelry?”

  Emil considered, but not for long. “I do not think so. What need would a single man have for jewelry?”

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Bower?”

  “From the beginning, before he moved onto the Garbo. Eight years, almost to the day. Tomorrow would have been my anniversary.” Up until then, the big bodyguard had been businesslike, gruff, but with the last sentence his voice broke. He seemed genuinely sad at the loss of his employer.

  “And before you worked for Mr. Bower?” I asked.

  “I did similar work for a famous person. A name you would recognize. I have signed a nondisclosure, so I could not tell you the name, even if I cared to. Which I do not.” Emil motioned for the check.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. I’d invited him. “I’d like to talk to the others.”

  “I can’t stop you, if they agree. But you should know, every question you have asked, I have already answered.”

  “To Lieutenant Binder?”

  “Yes, to him. And to Genevieve’s boyfriend, this Flynn. I understand he is also a policeman.”

  * * *

  So Flynn was making his own inquiries. Fascinating. But then, he was a man in love, whose girlfriend was worried she’d poisoned someone. Investigating was the obvious thing for a man like Flynn to do.

  I walked with Emil to the lobby. As soon as he stepped into the elevator, I asked the receptionist to ring the captain. Emil and Marius had gone to Portland together, so I assumed they were friends. I needed to reach Marius before the bodyguard did. The receptionist nodded toward a house phone on the other side of the lobby. I made it there as the call rang through.

  “Hello?”

  “Captain Marius, this is Julia Snowden. We met the other night on the Garbo.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. And again in the conference room as we waited for our interrogations.”

  “I believe the detectives call them interviews.”

  “You are the attractive blonde.” It was hard to imagine I’d been attractive that night, after seeing Bower’s corpse. I pictured Captain Marius, the thick, wavy, brown hair that fell over one of his enormous brown eyes. I smelled a line. “Interviews. Interrogations. It makes no difference to me.” He sounded casual, unconcerned.

  “I’m in the lobby. I wonder if you would join me in the coffee shop. I’d like to ask you some questions about the Garbo and your work on the ship.”

  “Questions? Why would you ask the questions? I have already spoken to two policemen. Excuse me a moment. My mobile phone is ringing. Excuse.”

  Marcus’s accent was stronger than Emil’s and quite similar. Yacht captains, like airline pilots, were required to understand and speak English, as well as to have numerous licenses and certifications. The requirements only got more demanding as yachts went up in size, and the Garbo was enormous. So Marius definitely spoke English, but I wondered how much he understood of American lingo and culture, especially when the conversation wasn’t about ships. Perhaps he had not understood that Flynn was asking him questions informally, not as a member of the police force.

  “Hello?” Marius was back on the line. “I am sorry. I am called away. We will have this coffee another time.” With a click, he was gone.

  * * *

  I hung up the house phone, nodded my thanks to the receptionist across the lobby, and went out the glass front door. On the walk, I ran smack into the leader of Thursday night’s protest against Geoffrey Bower. The man who’d also been in the hotel lobby the night Geoffrey’s body was removed. I recognized him instantly. He was memorably handsome, tall and lean with regular, masculine features. The kind of person anyone would give a second look to.

  “Sorry.” He stepped to the side.

  “My fault,” I answered. “I’m sorry. I’m Julia Snowden.” I offered my hand and let it hang in the air until he had to respond.

  “Cliff Munroe.” He took my hand and shook it.

  “Didn’t I see you Thursday night on the dock beside the Garbo?”

  He held up his hands, palms out. “Guilty as charged.”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure I’d throw that word around, given Geoffrey Bower’s murder.” The color rose behind his early-season tan. Protesting was outdoor work. The blush made him seem vulnerable, approachable. “Can we talk?” I asked.

  “Sure. Here?” We were blocking the entrance to Blount’s.

  I pointed to Fishermen’s Park next door. A statue and a flagpole sat on a little rise overlooking the harbor. The clouds had broken and the sky and sea offered up two different, dazzling shades of blue. An American flag moved gently in the June sea breeze. There was a bench facing the sea.

  The protester followed me and we sat, both of us staring at the water for a moment. On the other side of the harbor, the Snowden Family Clambake kiosk sat on the town pier, with our tour boat, the Jacquie II, anchored beside it. Captain George and his crew were already on board, carrying out preparations for their first cruise of the season. I’d have to hurry through the conversation if I wanted to make it.

  “I know who you are,” he said. “I’ve been following the investigation. As best as I can from a distance.”

  “Where are you from, Cliff?”

  “New York City.”

  “Me too. Most recently North Moore Street. Tribeca. I live here now.”

  “Upper West Side.”

  That fit better with him than the idea of a scruffy protester. Though his hair had grown shaggy, he looked more Wall Street than Occupy Wall Street. “What brings someone like you all the way from the Upper West Side to protest against Geoffrey Bower?”

  Munroe’s eyes flashed. “The man’s a monster. Do you know how he made his money?”

  I thought back to my conversation with Quentin. “Something about the housing collapse?”

  “He made billions betting against the housing market. While people suffered, lost their jobs, their homes, their futures, in some cases their lives.”

  “Wasn’t that legal and, given what happened, smart?”

  Munroe sat back on the bench. He had a backpack, which he slipped off and pulled onto his lap. He opened it and handed me a pamphlet. In big black letters on the front it read, “GEOFFREY BOWER, ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE.” “You tell me. Is it okay for him to live in luxury while so many people suffer? To profit off desperation and despair?” His voice rose as he came to the end of the sentence.

  I knew about the desperation, and the despair. My family had almost lost our business, Morrow Island, our tour boat, and Mom’s house to a terrible loan. I looked over at the Garbo. I didn’t like the idea that Geoffrey Bower could enjoy that gleaming yacht while other people, elderly people, people with kids, lost everything. But had Geoffrey enjoyed it, or had he been a prisoner on it? And had people like Cliff Munroe, and the people who sent the threats Emil had told me about, made him so? “Your beef seems more personal than political,” I said.

  “It is,” he said. “Deeply
, deeply personal.”

  “How so?”

  He ignored me, as if he hadn’t heard the question, and sat staring out at the harbor. Three deep whistle blasts sounded. The ten-minute warning from the Jacquie II. I stood. “I have to run.”

  “Read the pamphlet I gave you,” Munroe called after me, shouldering his backpack. “It’s all in there. Then tell me what you think.”

  Chapter 16

  I pelted down the pier as fast as my work boots would carry me and made it to the Jacquie II as the lines were released, hardly a good example for the young crew members on board. I ran up the stairs to the pilothouse, huffing and puffing. Captain George gave me a kindly look and steered the boat away from the dock.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  For as long as I could remember, Captain George had piloted the Jacquie II, bringing customers to Morrow Island. In July and August that would be two hundred people twice a day, back and forth, four total trips. The captain had been a friend of my father’s and a friend to me as I’d struggled to keep the clambake afloat the previous season.

  “Walk around and be a guest,” he instructed. “Order from the snack bar. Ask questions. Inspect to make sure everything is clean and tidy. At some point, I’ll run a safety drill.”

  George was one of the most experienced captains in the harbor, but his crew was almost entirely new—a half dozen college students, only a few with boating experience. The jobs were excellent for kids who wanted to spend the summer outdoors, but the hourly pay was low and the tips sporadic. As a result, our waitstaff jobs were easier to fill. Unless employees were really committed to a life on boats, they almost always opted for a better-paying, island-based job if they returned for a second summer.

  I left the bridge and walked down the center aisle that separated the seating on the open upper deck. The benches gleamed white in the sun, no dirt and no bird mess. Good job. On nice days most of our guests would sit up here, the better to experience the sights and sounds of the harbor.