The Mountains Bow Down

by Sibella Giorello

  I nodded.

  “You want to hear the rest?”

  There’s more?

  Lying again, I nodded.

  “The FBI bugged our cabins with listening devices. And her food’s poisoned.”

  I placed my hands on my head, repeating three words. Do not cry. Do not cry.

  “And she thinks there’s a madman loose on the ship, trying to kill everyone. But then, Claire says the same thing.”

  “Because Claire’s crazy too.” I looked up.

  “You’re wrong. Claire is spiritually tapped in.”

  “To what—a sewer line?”

  “You’re so hard on her, Raleigh.”

  “No, you’re too soft. All this stuff about crystals and vibrations, all this earth-worship nonsense, it’s dangerous. Especially for her.”

  She waved her plump hand, dismissing me. “Not this lecture again.”

  “Listen to me, Aunt Charlotte. How do you know all this hocus pocus didn’t cause her breakdown?”

  “Because I know.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. “I know how when I tore that Episcopal brace off my neck, I felt free. Finally. I could live my life the way I wanted. And I’ve never been happier.”

  Her defensive tone silenced me.

  I knew my aunt’s life. We lived with her for several months. Her life was one long chasing after wind. She followed the currents as though each shift meant there was a new intentional path. But somewhere deep within her heart, the void persisted. It was real. And I could see it, a hunger in her soul that yearned for peace and tranquility and truth. That was what drove her, that was what spurred the search for harmony. But like a traveler whose journey never ended, because it had no authentic destination, her quixotic path filled me with sadness.

  “I don’t want to argue, Aunt Charlotte.”

  “Neither do I. The real issue is Nadine. What do we do? Somebody needs to stay with her but it can’t be you. She doesn’t trust you. That leaves me. Or Claire.”

  “No Claire. No way.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t make me say it again.”

  She sighed. “Raleigh, you’ve got some kind of . . . vendetta against Claire.”

  “It’s not a vendetta. It’s about keeping Mom safe. I’m sorry, I realize that puts more pressure on you, and that it’s totally unfair, especially since you were the one who got us these cruise tickets but—”

  “Don’t you dare.” She pointed her finger. “Don’t you dare insult me. We are family.”

  In her bright eyes, across her intelligent broad forehead, I saw my dad. There was a piece of him here, and not here. The fragile presence made my bond with his sister feel both tangible and too delicate to touch. A wafer-thin connection, capable of shattering with one careless flick of the wrist. We disagreed, she and I. We saw the world from distinctly different plateaus. It mattered. And it didn’t.

  When she opened her arms, there was no hesitation.

  Her hug was warm, sheltering, and my throat tightened against tears. I held them back, feeling that cocoon, that nest, the kin who call you their own.

  They are the people who stand up in this hard, hard world, holding out that soft landing.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The phillumenists, it turned out, weren’t meeting in the Chinese Palace. They were in the conference room next door.

  It was a plain space—remarkable on the ship for simply being ordinary—but smelled of sesame oil and peppered beef and I was suddenly wishing for the food I left at the medical clinic. I left it all, hoping to lure Persephone from the dark.

  But my stomach was growling as Jack and I made our way past the many tables that displayed different matchbook collections. Some silver-foiled, shiny as magpie lures; others made of bark and balsa wood and cut into shapes resembling medallions and coins and wheels. There were even antique matchboxes with Revolutionary War emblems, faded down from the Ben Franklin era.

  “Striking, aren’t they?” Jack asked.

  I groaned.

  “It’s safe to say these guys have a burning desire for matchbooks.”

  “Jack, enough.” But I couldn’t help smiling.

  “One more?”

  “No.”

  “I’m fired up about this case.”

  “Stop.” I felt almost dizzy, still clutching that despair from the medical clinic, now catching Jack’s buoyancy and laughter.

  “You do realize,” he said, “the last name is Sparks?”

  The elder Sparks stood in the far back wearing his phillumenist club cap and the quilted red vest with the flapping covers. To his left an overhead projector beamed a bright square on the back wall, waiting for a presentation. Beneath that, Sandy Sparks was digging through some boxes as his father looked on. Sandy also wore a cap but it wasn’t for the phillumenists. It was the blue-and-gold spartan cap, the one he wore to my aunt’s seminar.

  And standing with the Sparkses was a young guy with a fulsome blond ponytail. It was the second cameraman. The guy who wanted to direct.

  Sparks opened another box, looked through it. “We’ll work something out,” he told the cameraman. “Maybe a percentage of the profits.”

  The guy’s face lit up. “Yeah?”

  Jack whispered to me, “Like that movie’s going to make a profit.”

  I nodded, trying not to think about how good he smelled.

  “Keep the dad busy,” Jack continued. “I’ll go talk to our pal Lysander.”

  All three men froze as Jack approached, but the elder Mr. Sparks showed the most fear. When I came up on his other side, I pointed to the matchbooks on the table.

  “Is that Zazu Pitts?” I asked.

  Startled, he turned. Then gazed down at the table. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “And that one looks like Gloria Stuart.”

  He leaned back. “You’re correct.”

  I named the other faces lined up in a row on the table. Katherine Hepburn. Slim Summerville. George Raft.

  Mr. Sparks gave the vest a firm tug, bouncing the matchbook covers. “You seem much too young to know.”

  “My dad and I watched the old classic films. They were his favorites.”

  “Mine as well,” he said. “This particular collection is known as The Silver Screen Test set. It’s quite rare. I had to travel all the way to Australia to find Richard Arden. Frances Dee? She made me go to Newfoundland.”

  “You’ve been collecting awhile?”

  “Thirty-seven years.”

  “Really?”

  “Started the day I quit smoking.”

  “That’s an interesting connection.”

  “Yes, it seems odd to people, until I explain that a matchbook’s value plummets if the cover is struck. You can’t collect them and use them.”

  Over by the boxes, Jack was taking Sandy aside, speaking to him confidentially.

  “And you probably appreciated the term phillumenist,” I said. “Your son told us you taught Greek and Latin.”

  “He did?” The father looked pleased.

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Lysander mentioned it.”

  His skin buckled back, thick but pliable. There was a forensic term for that skin. Ichthydermis. Literally, fish-skin. The Greeks once again showing their precision for naming.

  But his smile faded as he looked over at his son. “He never cared for his name. Now I understand. But when he was born, my passion for ancient Greece consumed every thought. Lysander seemed like a strong, noble name. It wasn’t until years later that he told me how the children teased him, called him ‘Lice,’ all sorts of horrible monikers.” He sighed. “Fortunately he doesn’t hold it against me, and he kept me in his last name, but everyone calls him Sandy now. Except me. It was my wife who—” He turned, suddenly remembering me. “He explained her problem? She doesn’t mean to take things.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Her Alzheimer’s must be difficult for you.”

  “Doris.” His old gray eyes misted. “I called her Dorics. My classical colum
n, holding up the whole structure. She really understood the children much better than I. When Lysander left for college, I pressured him to study the classics. But Dorics insisted he should find his own path, way out in California. She always said he was more Athenian than Spartan. And she was right.” Gazing once again at his progeny, the father seemed a little awed. “My son has done quite well for himself. And do you know he still calls us every single day?”

  The crowds were filling the meeting room, working their way around the tables. The elder Sparks seemed anxious to get his collection fully displayed. He looked nervously at his son. But Lysander didn’t seem in any hurry to unpack.

  “May I ask you a question?” I smiled again.

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you know Judy Carpenter?”

  The sadness swept back over his face, the skin sagging at his mouth. “Judy was always extremely nice. Friendly, disciplined. I truly admired her discipline, especially given the way her husband carries on. Her suicide is difficult to comprehend. But it reminds me of what Plato said.”

  I waited, but he didn’t continue. “Plato said so many things.”

  He leaned back again, lengthening his throat and tugging at the vest. I suddenly saw the classics high school teacher, a man whose passion for ancient Greece was completely unappreciated by randy teenage minds. “Among the great adages of Plato was this: ‘Must not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?’”

  I wanted to respectfully disagree, since I knew of someone who was not swallowed up in death. But a man was staring intently at the Silver Screen set. The bill of his cap said “Twin City Phillumenists— We Know Matches.”

  Lifting his cane, the man pointed and said, “Where did you get Irene Dunn?”

  “Ft. Lauderdale,” said Mr. Sparks. “Guess what I paid for it?”

  “Don’t even tell me.”

  “A dollar. They had no idea what it was.”

  Jack was stepping away from Sandy, so I offered my good-bye to the elder Sparks, who barely noticed now that he was talking with a fellow phillumenist. Jack and I walked toward the exit, gazing at the collections from old five-and-dimes, and every restaurant along Route 66—in order from east to west—and a series that commemorated great torch singers. Military matches. Matches from presidential campaigns.

  “Here’s the deal,” Jack said, keeping his voice down. “They’ll shoot tomorrow if I can keep Milo sober. While they’re shooting, you and crazy Dutchman can search the cabins for that jewelry box.”

  “You cleared it with Geert?”

  He had stopped at one of the tables, checking out another collection. “No, I didn’t talk to him.”

  “Then forget it,” I whispered, glancing around at the crowd. “He’s not letting us search without a good reason. And I can’t exactly tell him about that box.”

  Jack pointed to one of the matchbooks on the table. The collection was advertisements for self-help programs. “I could have written that,” he said.

  On the cover: “Light Up Your Life.”

  “Jack—”

  “Not here.”

  Taking my elbow, he led me through the crowd. I didn’t resist his hold, and on the wide promenade we passed groups of giddy passengers, everybody laughing as they headed to the nightly shows or for drinks in the bar.

  “Harmon, don’t look so down. You’re forgetting the carrot.”

  “What carrot?”

  “The Dutchman wants that bracelet back. And we have it. If he wants it back, he has to let you search the cabins. And you don’t need to tell him why. But those stones have to go back in that box.”

  I nodded, too ashamed, too tired to say anything.

  Jack stopped at the stairs. “I’m off to see Milo.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m going to get him drunk.”

  “Way to aim high.”

  He laughed. “My plan is to get him so drunk, he only needs maintenance booze tomorrow.”

  “Good luck.” I smiled.

  “You don’t believe in luck,” he said.

  “Exactly.” I was still smiling, but felt sad inside. “I’ll go find Geert.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Harmon, you look exhausted.” He reached up, brushing hair off my face. “Beautiful, but exhausted.”

  I turned my head away, cheeks on fire. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ve heard that a million times from you. Tomorrow’s a big day and you need sleep. That’s an order.” He gave my arm a soft chuck. “And if you argue, I’ll make you stay up and drink with Milo.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  A bride was posing for pictures on the atrium’s winding staircase, her white satin dress spilling down the stairs like a champagne fountain. At her feet, a woman wearing a mother-of-the-bride blue suit arranged the train, setting it just so. The photographer lifted his camera and my cell phone vibrated. God, I decided. He wanted DeMott to call at the exact moment I saw this.

  Closing my eyes, not bothering with caller ID, I said, “Raleigh Harmon.”

  “Pilot’s on his way.”

  “Marvin?”

  “At your service.” Marvin Larsen, our FBI agent at Sea-Tac airport.

  I breathed out. “Thank you. When does he land?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Raleigh, all I can tell you is, the minute that ship docks in Skagway, run for the airport. Alaska’s got weather that shifts on a blade. If the wind keeps blowing like it’s been, I can’t guarantee this pilot will wait around. He’ll take off again. With the bracelet.”

  “But he’s coming?”

  “Let me put it this way. He’s flying in that direction. But I’m not promising he can land in Skagway.”

  We had a brief talk about Ramazan, who was under arrest for stealing the bracelet but still not talking.

  “Thanks for trying, Marvin. I appreciate what you’ve done. Really. Even if that bracelet doesn’t get to Skagway, you’re still my hero.”

  “Oh, gee whiz.” He was one of those tough old FBI veterans, easy to embarrass.

  I promised my first priority tomorrow was the airport, and we hung up.

  The bride was still standing in the same spot on the staircase. She clutched her bouquet of lilies so tightly the blossoms shook. But the woman who was presumably her mother now fussed over the brown curls that dangled beside pearl-drop earrings. The bride’s smile was as icy as Sawyer Glacier.

  Standing outside my cabin, fishing for my keycard, I heard Jimmy Buffett’s voice ambling down our hallway. It was followed by a young man wearing a floppy straw hat, wasting away again in the wrong time zone. His merry face was flushed, a bottle of beer in one hand.

  “The music too loud for you?” he yelled.

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” he yelled. “That fat egg next door keeps complaining.”

  I hoped he meant Claire, not my aunt, and pushed open my door. My first step landed on a white envelope. It lay on the crimson carpet with my name written on the front. Inside, I found a brief note from York Meriweather and three pages that detailed the work schedules for Ramazan and Serif. I scanned their calls. Fix leaking toilet. Remove broken chair. Repair broken shelf. Adjust sticking door. I ran down the passenger names that called; none matched with the movie crew.

  And on the night that Judy Carpenter died, Ramazan was working way down on the Highway, helping repair a busted freezer. Serif was off duty. Which meant Serif could’ve been anywhere, at any time.

  “Raleigh, is that you?”

  My aunt knocked on the locked door between our cabins. When I opened it, she was standing at the bureau mirror, removing her makeup. Her eyes had the lashless appearance of a white rabbit, making her look even more tired.

  Claire came trundling out of the bathroom carrying a glass of water. She walked to the windowsill and began talking to the plants she’d brought on board. Some feng shui thing. But I decided that maybe
she was talking to the crystals. They were lined up there too.

  “Even when I’m not here, I’m thinking of you,” she told the vegetable or mineral. “And I know that noise next door bothers you.”

  I glanced at my aunt.

  She gave a soft shake of her head. “Really, who can say it’s wrong?”

  “You want a list?” I asked.

  “Raleigh . . .”

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Heavily sedated,” she said grimly. “She wakes up scared, the doctor gives her more drugs.”

  I looked away. Jimmy Buffett sang through the walls, telling me about changes in attitudes, changes in latitudes, and Claire began humming that odd vibration. Then suddenly she stopped.

  “Charlotte.” She lifted a rock. “Something’s wrong. This aquamarine. The vibration is not working anymore. Did you call the steward?”

  “Twice.”

  I was incredulous. “You asked the steward to fix the mineral vibration?”

  “Of course not.” Aunt Charlotte leaned into the mirror, rubbing night cream on her face. “I called him about the noise next door. Claire hasn’t been able to sleep.”

  Claire lifted another stone, a lighter blue. Perhaps tourmaline. “And it’s not helping that we’re this close to the Arctic Circle.”

  “We’re one thousand miles from the Arctic Circle,” I pointed out.

  “That’s still closer than in Seattle.” She set down the rock like it was an uncooked egg. “These are very delicate vibrations, Raleigh. If you paid attention, you would understand.”

  Once more I looked at my aunt, but held my tongue. With her makeup gone, I could see the tension lining her forehead, her brows gathered with concern. A close acquaintance was dead; her sister-in-law had lost her mind; and if she hoped to work in movies, it wasn’t going well.

  And she had to share a room with Claire, listening to her whine about the noise.

  I decided Jimmy Buffett was right.

  “Claire,” I said, changing my attitude, “why don’t you take my room?”

  She turned from the windowsill, surprised. “Really?”

  “It’s quieter. I haven’t heard the music.” I looked at Aunt Charlotte. “If that’s okay with you?”

  Her eyes seemed moist. “I think it’s a wonderful idea.”