Set Sail for Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  I paused on the balcony for only a moment. I’ve spent my life doing and seeing, seeking and finding, rarely in repose. I had a ship to explore. Color-coded map in hand, I started one deck down. The main dining room was at the stern of Deck 5. A small bar with easy chairs and sofas offered a cozy corner for preprandial visiting. Animated voices rose as I passed. Then came the shops, clothing both formal and informal, jewelry, and artworks.

  Amidship, Diogenes Bar had the heavy masculine charm of a gentleman’s study with mahogany chairs and small tables. Nautical paintings hung between huge windows. I passed a painting of Admiral Nelson’s HMS Victory, which carried him to his great success at Trafalgar and to his death. Forward was the main lounge for after-dinner drinks and coffee and entertainment.

  I took a lift to Deck 9 with its public areas for the hale and hearty. A teenager squealed as she jumped into the sparkling pool. A muscular young man lounged in the Jacuzzi and watched her with interest. A foursome had already settled into bridge in the card room. Signs pointed to a fitness center, beauty salon, and spa forward, observation deck and informal dining room aft.

  I climbed outdoor steps forward from the pool to Deck 10 and the upper promenade. An athletic teenager loped around the track, long hair streaming in the breeze. Two stout ladies walked briskly. At the bow, curving windows provided a panoramic view of the harbor. Comfortable petit point sofas and chairs sat behind small tables, perfect for tea or evening cocktails. A brightly lit enclave contained a half dozen computers affording Internet access. Aft of the promenade was an extensive library replete with reference works, novels, histories, and travel guides. I checked out the main dining room and spotted the Clio’s five-star restaurants, the James Beard and the Julia Child.

  I returned to my cabin and was pleased to find my two cases in the hall. It took only a few minutes to unpack. I had enjoyed my afternoon exploring the ship and I hadn’t spent a minute thinking about the Riordan family. For now, I wasn’t concerned about the Riordans. There was nothing I could do until I officially met them. The Clio sailed at noon tomorrow from Copenhagen en route to Gdańsk. Jimmy’s plan was for me to wander into Diogenes Bar shortly before dinner on Sunday and—huge surprise—old friends would come together. Until then, my time was my own.

  I looked forward to this evening. The ship offered an excursion to Tivoli Gardens, the famed amusement park that opened in 1843. I intended to go. I had an instant’s hesitation. Sometimes it is unwise to revisit the scene of a special memory. Sometimes the reality of the present destroys a fragile long-ago moment.

  I would take that chance.

  I tucked dark glasses and a scarf into the pocket of my loose linen jacket in case my path crossed that of the Riordans. But none of that group was aboard my bus—number 12—and there were such big crowds waiting to enter Tivoli that I was certain, should I see them, I could easily remain unnoticed.

  The minute I stood on the walk in front of the ornate arched entrance with Tivoli inscribed in white Roman letters, I was suffused with happiness. Or rather, as I moved forward, purchased my ticket, and entered the park, I was wrapped in emotions from the past. I was eleven years old when my father brought me to Tivoli. The dark clouds of World War II were forming. Certainly he was aware that the world was poised to explode, but I was innocent of knowledge and foreboding. A widower, my father was a wire service bureau chief based in Paris. I last saw him just before the fall of Paris. I never knew where or when he died. But our final separation was still in our future that summer evening when we came to Tivoli.

  I remembered lights and flowers and music and happy faces. This evening, a lifetime later, mimes told a story of love and loss on a stage to my left, lights outlined a turreted building to my right, the path sloped forward, inviting me to return. Red and gold flowers bloomed in profusion. There were, of course, tourists everywhere, camera-laden, backpack-saddled, guidebook-encumbered. There were also hundreds of holidaying Danes, families and young people, many with white-gold hair and fjord blue eyes, just as I remembered from long ago.

  My goal was the lake, ringed by restaurants. There was even a restaurant aboard a pirate ship. I didn’t recall the huge loop-the-loop roller coaster or a tall tower where riders plummeted down from a platform. I expected they were later additions. But so much was the same. Most of all I remembered the sounds: laughter, the scrape of shoes, cheerful shouts and squeals.

  I sat on a bench, watched the streaks of light on dark water, and listened with my heart. Perhaps it was the strains of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” that created an instant of magic. It was as if my father were sitting beside me on the bench, his hand on my shoulder, leaning forward to listen. I smelled the mustiness of cigarette smoke, felt the warmth of his touch, heard his laughter. I saw him so clearly, short-sleeved white shirt, blue bow tie, and dark trousers. His summer straw hat rested atop his neatly folded suit coat on the bench beside him. My lips curved into a smile.

  A little girl pelted past me in hot pursuit of an older brother holding a bobbing balloon out of reach and my father’s presence was gone.

  I rose and strolled toward the bandstand, intrigued by hearing the long-ago swing music that lifted the hearts of dancers during World War II. The audience clapped as the piece ended. I felt curiously warmed that Glenn Miller’s music still played on a summer evening almost sixty years after his small plane was lost in the English Channel during the war.

  I was tempted to stop and buy an ice cream cone. My father had bought me one. No, I would let that memory remain unchallenged. I was glad I had come. I was wandering back to the entrance, intending a brief stroll on Stroget, the world’s longest pedestrian shopping street, when I saw Kent Riordan and his sister Rosie. They were sitting on a bench near the fountain. Her hand gripped his arm.

  I stopped, perhaps fifteen feet away. Kent’s features were a mask of sorrow, eyes downcast, mouth drooping, expression desolate. Rosie gripped his arm as if she were holding tight to keep him safe. Her brows drew down in a straight line. Her lips pressed together.

  I passed them, unnoticed in the milling crowd, and stepped behind their bench, my back to them as I gazed toward the roller-coaster, my head tilted slightly so that I could overhear their conversation. I couldn’t see their faces. But, of course, neither could they see mine, should they look.

  “…I never knew anything could hurt this much. I love Heather. I’ll always love her, even though—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “If it weren’t for you and Val and Alex, I wouldn’t have come. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t know I could hate anyone as much as I hate her.” Kent’s bitter words carried the chill of unrelieved fury.

  His tone was shocking. For the first time I understood Jimmy’s fear. I wasn’t quite ready to see a death threat to Sophia, but I realized Jimmy was unquestionably right in sensing hostility.

  “Hush, Kent.” Rosie’s musical voice was low and soft and filled with compassion. “Sophia’s not worth hating. She’s like a stupid, willful child picking up a piece of pottery, thinking she sees a flaw, and tossing it over her shoulder.”

  “Flaw…”

  From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed his swift movement as he swung around to face his sister.

  “Is that how you see me? Flawed?” His tone was harsh.

  “No.” The retort was quick. “That’s not what I meant. Never. Not you. It’s Heather. Sophia’s shrewd, Kent. Somehow she knew Heather—”

  I heard his quick indrawn breath. The bench creaked. I turned enough to see him striding away, head down, hands jammed in his pockets, moving fast.

  Rosie slowly stood. In the growing twilight, she was young and lovely, her dark red hair bright as a flame in the lamplight. Her face was filled with love and sorrow. Abruptly, her features hardened and she hurried after her brother. So might Alecto, the avenging Fury, have set out to punish a transgressor.

  I shivered though the night was balmy. Had Sophia any inkling of the passions she aroused?

  5

  Refre
shed by a dreamless sleep, I was in a holiday mood Sunday morning. I moved through the breakfast buffet, looking forward to the morning of sightseeing in Copenhagen before the Clio sailed at one. I’d opted for the informal breakfast area on Deck 9, carrying my choices from the buffet out to a table at the bow. Seagulls circled. Pleasure craft idled near. Weekend sailors waved as they passed. I’d noted Jimmy and Sophia seated at an interior table and carefully avoided passing them. My quick glimpse had been troubling. Sophia’s head was bent. She jabbed at a waffle as if poking hay with a pitchfork. Jimmy’s face was creased in a tight frown. He looked frustrated. Hurt. Stymied.

  I found a table outside on the open deck. I had a quick sharp memory of the night before. Kent’s voice had been freighted with hatred of Sophia. Rosie had clearly been angry on Kent’s behalf. Now Jimmy and Sophia appeared at odds.

  Laughter sounded from a nearby table. An attentive steward smiled as he poured coffee. My spirits lifted. I wasn’t going to let the shadow of my purpose on the ship dampen this lovely morning. I had a few hours yet before I would meet Sophia and her entourage. Until then I intended to enjoy the harbor, my breakfast, and the morning excursion.

  I love a Scandinavian breakfast and had chosen my favorites from the buffet: smoked salmon, liverwurst, assorted cheeses, and fruit. When I finished, I lingered, drinking coffee. There was no hurry. The first buses would not depart for another hour.

  “Madam, I have a message for you.” A waiter held out a folded sheet of paper to me.

  I thanked him. As I unfolded the sheet, torn from a small pocket notebook, I recognized Jimmy’s bold handwriting. Obviously he’d seen me as well. The message was brief: Your cabin. Three o’clock.

  “Outside, please.” I pointed toward the balcony.

  The steward placed the tea service on the plastic-topped table. He lifted the silver lid to display the dainty sandwiches—salmon, egg salad, butter—and scones. There was a plate of petits fours for dessert. I had chosen Darjeeling for Jimmy, green tea for me. When Jimmy and I had traveled together, afternoon tea was a highlight of the day. One of the highlights.

  When the steward left, I waited on the balcony, the sliding door open, my ears attuned for Jimmy’s knock. I heard a familiar rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, a knock I would recognize anywhere, three rapid taps, a pause, three rapid taps. I pulled open the door.

  He gave a nervous, searching glance down the hallway before stepping inside. He was Jimmy, quick-moving, intense, vigorous, yet different from the man I thought I knew well. As the door shut, he looked down at me, his face unsmiling. His words were hurried. “I only have a few minutes. I told Sophia I was going up to the promenade. Look”—he pulled a small notebook from his pocket, tore out a sheet, wrote quickly—“here’s where everybody is. We’re on this deck at the stern, port side. Sophia and I have an end suite, 6088. Evelyn’s in 6086, Alex and Madge in 6084, Kent in 6082, Rosie in 6080, Val in 6078.”

  I doubted I would visit any of them in their cabins, but I took the sheet as he held it out.

  “Let’s connect after the Captain’s Reception. It starts at six-thirty, then we plan to go down to Diogenes Bar for a drink before dinner. Why don’t you stroll into the bar about seven-thirty?”

  I looked at him soberly. “Sophia looked furious this morning.”

  “Yeah.” Jimmy’s assent was brusque. “At me. At the Riordans. At the universe for not running on Sophia time.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Suddenly his wry grin was there, the sardonic, unflappable Jimmy I knew. “Maybe it’s reality time for me. Sophia’s—” He looked suddenly uncomfortable, a man not eager to explain a new love to an old. He was also a man who had spent his life scraping through dissemblance to the base vein of truth. He and I had been too close to lie to each other. He shrugged. “Sophia’s what you see, vibrant, arresting, unpredictable, fascinating. And”—his eyes were suddenly sad—“incapable of seeing anyone else’s viewpoint. She thinks I’m trying to tell her what to do.” He tilted his head, looked faintly surprised. “You know, I guess she’s right.” His tone was thoughtful. “I’m telling her to ease off, kiss the money goodbye, give these people their lives. I told her the money belongs to the Riordans, let them have it. She told me in a voice like ice granules that the money belonged to Frank. I told her Frank was dead. She told me I obviously had no sense of honor. On that happy note, I told her I was going to take a walk and slammed out of the cabin. If we were back in California, I’d walk right out of her life.” His voice was hard, his eyes hurt. “But she’s my wife. I have to protect her.” He stared down at me. Without warning he pulled me close, held me in a fierce embrace. “I don’t deserve your help in taking care of her. Sophia for sure doesn’t.”

  I felt the warmth of his touch even after the door closed and he was gone.

  I walked numbly out to the balcony. The silver tea service glistened in the sun. I sat down. Tea for one, not for two.

  I studied my reflection in the broad full-length mirror on the forward wall of my cabin. The sleek silver crepe dress was simply cut, a bateau neckline and Empire waist, and a stylish flared three-tier skirt. A garnet necklace and matching earrings added color. I smoothed back a curl of my silvered dark hair, which I’d pulled back into a French twist.

  My expression was a trifle rueful. I wanted to look my best, not perhaps for the most admirable of motives. I was going to see Jimmy and Sophia. I had no intention of appearing old and frumpy in comparison to her. I grinned at the mirror. All right. Reality was reality. Possibly old, but never frumpy. I’d earned every wrinkle on my face and saw them as indicators of a long life fully lived, not always as well as I would have wished, but as well as I had been able to manage. One of the nuggets of age is the realization that, save for the purposefully evil, everyone does the best they can, a conclusion both mitigating and chilling.

  I tightened an earring and picked up my silver evening bag. As my cabin door closed behind me, I paused for a moment. Oh yes, the stairways and lifts were to my right. The carpeted corridor was well lit but had the cavernous aspect peculiar to a passageway on a ship. I was getting accustomed to the gentle rock beneath my feet. Other passengers, too, wobbling a bit as they got their sea legs, were on their way to the reception or dinner or drinks. I didn’t hurry. It was a few minutes before seven. I would attend the captain’s party for a few minutes, then go to the bar as planned.

  The party was on the pool deck. The dark-haired captain was impressive in his white uniform. He and others of his staff mingled with the guests, women in pastel dresses, some chiffon, some silk, the men in dark suits and some in black tie. He smiled when we shook hands, and I introduced myself.

  “Mrs. Collins.” An engaging smile softened his formal appearance. He had an angular face with piercing blue eyes and a blunt chin. “Welcome to the Clio. I’m Captain Wilson. I hope you enjoy our cruise.”

  “I’ve enjoyed everything so far.” Everything but my silent observation of Kent Riordan and his sister in Tivoli. “The tour this morning was excellent.”

  “What did you find most interesting?” He looked at me intently, as if he truly was interested in my reply.

  My answer was immediate. “The queen’s birthday tapestries.” The magnificent modern-day tapestries depicting a thousand years of Danish history from the Vikings to modern times were created to celebrate the queen’s fiftieth birthday in 1990. The seventeen Gobelins hang in the Royal Reception Chambers of Christiansborg Palace. The brilliant colors were a reminder that old tapestries bedecking museums and castles once were fresh and spectacular in their beauty. “I was especially taken by the Gobelins of the present and the future.”

  His smile was sudden and genuine. He looked like a small boy with a fistful of agates. “My wife is Danish and we spend our shore leave there. They say The Little Mermaid is Copenhagen’s greatest treasure. She is very fine, but the queen’s tapestries can’t be matched anywhere.” He gave my hand a firm squeeze, then turned to the man behind me.

/>   I stood near the port rail sipping fruit punch and observing the passengers, some stylish, some dowdy, but all affluent and for this moment secure and happy in a very insecure world.

  It was easy to find Sophia Montgomery. She was vivid in a lobster pink sleeveless silk dress with a drape neck. Her smile flashed. Her light laughter invited everyone to laugh with her. She was the center of an admiring throng. She exuded star quality. A distinguished-looking man in a boxy jacket and kilt beamed down at her. Jimmy was smiling too and looked like the Jimmy I knew, affable, interested, kindly.

  My gaze slipped past them, rested on Alex and Madge Riordan. The contrast could not have been greater: Sophia’s effervescence, Madge’s pinched face and thin lips.

  Careful to keep my head averted from Jimmy, I drifted close to Alex and Madge. “…the most beautiful necklace I ever saw. You’re disgusting not to get it for me. You know my card’s full.”

  Alex shot a hunted glance toward Sophia. “Don’t make a scene, Madge.”

  His wife tossed her head, slapped her hands to her hips. “I like to make scenes. Maybe I’ll go up to Sophia and tell her she’s turned you into a miser. I can tell everyone here”—she flung out a thin hand with bright red nails—“that you’re under her thumb and she’s a bitch. How would she like that?”

  His hand shot out, gripped her arm. “Shut up. Don’t alienate her. She’ll cut us off.”

  Madge yanked her arm free, rubbed the splotches on her skin. “Look what you’ve done.” There was surprise as well as anger in her voice. She stared at him, blue eyes wide. “Don’t ever touch me like that again. If I’d known when I married you—” She broke off.