I paused in fantasy for a nanosecond and then renewed my departing flurry.
I threw my small, folding travel umbrella into my purse. This was England, the land of rain and greenery, despite global warming.
It was a few minutes before six by the cabin clock. I checked the cabin for anything I might have left. Nothing. I grabbed my purse, black jacket, and carry-on. I would make it to the cafeteria almost on time if the elevators were not too full.
I was looking forward to Amy’s arrest. I relished being a witness to her demise. After that, I would be on my way to London. I would sit and have coffee in Leicester Square until the last minute; discount theatre tickets went on sale there for the best theatre scene in the world. Too bad Curtis had to go straight to Heathrow and home.
But, face it; I was happy my cohorts and I were getting off this ship alive and kicking—which I believed to be certain now. Too bad it had cost me my last shipboard night with Curtis. It was a large price but worth it for Mary’s and my safety.
With just a glance back, I left our stateroom. It had indeed been an “eventful” voyage.
⌘
Chapter 47
An Anxious Disembarkation Day
In the cafeteria, I spotted the ever-social Elias sitting at a table with Sean and Mary. Three award winners, and some hangers-on, clustered around Elias.
Sean and Mary conferenced together, ignoring Elias’s boisterously festive congratulations and heartfelt good-byes.
I caught Sean’s eye and waved. I pointed to the cappuccino station where I detoured to get activated. I grabbed a strong double cappuccino. As I went to our table, I scoped out the food stations and densely packed tables for Amy. She was nowhere to be seen. But Curtis was in a cluster of passengers down the way at the Belgian waffle station.
Amazingly and suddenly, I craved a waffle to go with my cappuccino.
I sidled up behind Curtis and tapped on his shoulder.
“Hey there.”
Curtis turned and his smile disappeared. “Veronica, good morning, I . . . uh . . .”
I was unfortunately face to face with the attractive gray haired woman from last night.
I looked from Curtis to the woman—the woman with a face emanating that unmistakable fresh-fucked glow. It was the same glow I had after my first night with Curtis. She had the sparkly eyes of a woman who had possessed and enchanted a man, a man who she made want her in every way. She had the aura that should have been mine this misty morning in Southampton—that would have been, but for the multiple murders and the protectiveness of my new friends.
Suddenly, I was angry with Mary, my other new friends, Amy, Brent, and myself. At that moment, I didn’t care about solving multiple murders or Amy’s arrest.
I salvaged the situation and my pride. “I . . . I just wanted . . . to pop over and say goodbye and thanks for all the . . . help.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Curtis recovered his winning smile. “I’ll call.”
“Sure. See you Stateside.”
The last thing I wanted was to linger and be introduced to my usurper. The female who had gotten the things I had bargained for and charmed for and planned on having yet again.
I walked away, head held high, but feeling like a deflated balloon crash landing in lava.
“Who cares?” I muttered, flushing him down and out of my mind and heart, or, at least, trying to.
Then I answered myself, fighting back my tears, “I do.”
* * *
I joined Sean and Mary at our table and avoided Elias’s carnival. I was heartbroken. I didn’t want to be a catalyst for yet more happy, congratulatory conversation. Besides, we had business to discuss—the business of murder.
Mary and Sean were debating where Amy’s actual arrest would take place. I was heartened they were debating where and not if.
I buried my disappointed heart and focused on our murderer’s apprehension. I realized I needed this victory and these friends, since my Curtis endeavor had apparently floundered. I put him on the back shelf for now, a teeter-tottering one, but a shelf. Southern California would be the test with a phone call from him using just the right words. After all, I rationalized, there was no spoken commitment between us, and last night the champagne had flowed along with that predatory woman’s estrogen—or what she had left of it.
I thought that my propensity to male forgiveness was embarrassing even to myself. Like any woman, I parsed circumstances and found distinctions without differences when it came to men. Especially men to whom I had given myself, given myself in ways I had never imagined. I considered it a genetic flaw in the female of our species, designed to keep the family unit strong and the offspring fed. I tuned out the static roar of passion in my mind distracting me. I had to deal with the Amy problem at hand.
“I think they’ll take her at the customs desk when they scan in her passport.” Sean was analytical and confident.
“I don’t,” Mary countered. “They’ll wait until she steps off the gangplank onto British soil.”
“I think on British soil, too,” I jumped on board with Mary. “It’ll be less of a spectacle.”
“That’s true.” Sean agreed.
“And with more legal authority.” I was on a roll.
“That’s true, too. A good point,” Sean said. “But the nearer she gets to disembarking, the more likely she could slip away.”
“Are you kidding? The Brits have taken care of that,” Mary sniped. “The U.K. is the land of surveillance. London has surveillance cameras on every corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were on camera now.”
I involuntarily glanced around, but saw no obvious surveillance. As we conferred, the loudspeaker announced that disembarkation of group one would begin in ten minutes and that everyone should use the stairs to get to the departure deck and customs if possible.
With that, the social flurry around Elias waned. Other breakfasting passengers downed the last of their coffee and started out.
“Congratulations, again,” Elias handed one of his Greek dancing-man cards to the author who had won for best published short story. “We’ll have lunch when I’m in New York. I’m taking some time in London and then Mykonos, but I have meetings in New York next month.”
“Wonderful.” The ecstatic author pocketed the card. “I’ll e-mail.”
The remaining groupies unglued themselves from Elias’s charm and wandered chatting toward the door.
Then, just as Elias joined our debate on Amy’s detention, Anne flurried by our table—a blue floral burst from head to toe. She was the quintessential British woman crowned with an absurd, silk-flower-bearing hat—a throwback to the early 20th century.
“Good morning all.” Anne paused. “See you next awards cruise. I’ll give you a call, Elias.”
“Yes. Wonderful”
“Cheerio. Splendid crossing, all things considered, of course,” Anne gave Mary and me the evil eye as she left.
“Good bye,” Elias boomed for our group.
“Forget her,” Mary whispered to me.
“I will.”
“Sean, have we gotten any word from your partner?” Elias asked.
“No. Could be the on-board communications or the time difference. I tipped the steward. He’ll keep checking and get me here. So . . . if something comes through, we’ll know.”
“Not to change the subject, but what about Brent? Even if he’s dead doesn’t the NYPD have to look into that too?” I didn’t want to sound like an amateur, but I had a personal interest in Brent—dead or alive.
“It’s a judgment call,” Sean answered. “You see, Helga’s . . .”
“Forget Helga,” Mary interrupted. “What about him throwing Veronica around like a rag doll and your jettisoning him overboard?”
“Look, he’s dead and . . .”
Elias interrupted. “They shouldn’t drop anything. I have one book where the cops . . . excuse me . . . the detectives . . . investigated a deceased serial killer and they f
ound cold cases years back. The book was based on true police work and the killer was dead. I think . . .”
“I know that case,” Sean cut Elias off. “And I read your book. It was good . . . the detectives were a little cardboard, but . . .”
“Of course, you would think they were cardboard, Mr. Thirty-Year homicide detective,” Mary mocked.
We all laughed.
“Seriously,” Sean added. “Brent was not a serial killer. There is no trail of bodies. Veronica and I are alive and kicking. Helga’s the one dead and the word is, Helga has no one who cares enough to push the department. My partner said it’s a nonstarter. They are busy enough. And the Wessex Line and the MWW doing the cover-up dance doesn’t help.”
“But he tried to kill Veronica,” Mary fumed.
“It’d be a civil suit against his estate,” Sean said. “Sorry, Veronica.”
“He was penniless!” Mary blurted. “That’s why he married Helga in the first place.”
“Men like that always start pilfering and stashing money away from the honeymoon. Veronica could get some of that, but he has relatives and I bet there’s a poor one somewhere!” Elias suggested.
“You’re right,” Mary agreed. “If there is a penny in the estate, some obscure relative will crawl out of the woodwork to fight you.”
“Besides,” I said. “I was stressed out enough when I filed in small claims for a deposit I had stupidly paid a contractor who walked out on my bathroom remodel. No lawsuits. I . . .”
“Now. Let’s focus,” Elias interrupted. “What about Amy, Sean?”
Sean recapped the options we had discussed while Elias played host.
“Bottom line: My partner said Scotland Yard was going to detain her.”
“And they might find the Prolixin on her,” Mary added.
“Yeah, but too bad Amy deep-sixed all that other stuff we had,” Elias said.
“And too bad the bodies are stale,” Sean added.
“Agreed,” Mary said. “The Queen Anne’s refrigeration was obviously not designed for bodies . . . just food . . . and rightfully so.”
“They’ll find the cause of death, won’t they?” I interjected. “The Prolixin!”
“Maybe,” Sean said. “At least, they’ll sweat her.”
I stopped. I bordered on being the overly enthusiastic amateur. I was just so frustrated. I also worried that Amy would come after us if she went free. She knew that we knew. We were loose ends—a lingering threat to her freedom, if she somehow managed to keep it.
Over the loudspeaker the first group was announced for disembarkation.
“What are we doing sitting here? Let’s go watch Amy get taken down.” Mary gulped the last of her coffee.
We got up, grabbed our things, and followed Mary.
⌘
Chapter 48
Just Us
Mary led our caterpillar line of four through the mingling passengers to the elevators. Her unkempt bun bounced down on her neck as she maneuvered through the crowd. When she reached up to replace a loosened bobby pin, her purse slammed into a man competing for the elevator ride.
“Hey!” He protested.
Mary ignored him and beat him and everyone else as she squashed herself into the full elevator going down. She ignored the grumblings of her elevator fellows as they pressed together to accommodate her substantial presence.
“I’ll meet you below. Hurry,” Mary bellowed.
“Which floor?” Sean called out as the doors slammed shut.
“It’s on . . .” Mary’s voice disappeared down the elevator shaft.
“Shh,” Elias said. “The loud speaker. Listen. Instructions.”
“Down the main stairs to the customs floor,” I repeated the announcement.
“Let’s go.” Sean led the charge for us three down the jam-packed, chattering hallway to the main stairs.
Sean called back to Elias, “Hurry.”
* * *
We bounced down the stairs with the stream of excited passengers. Far ahead, Mavis was affixed to Esther, as she had been the entire trip. Now, of course, I knew it was a parasitic coupling. Mavis needed to extract some kind of living as a ghostwriter from Esther or her contacts. Not far behind them were Jody, Herbert and Agnes—parasites of another type.
“Hold up, Mavis,” Agnes bellowed, reverting to schoolyard behavior yet again. “Where are you staying in London?”
“Where are you staying?” Jody parroted Agnes with the unfortunate perfection born of the days they had spent together. “We can have dinner.”
Esther and Mavis ignored the trio and pushed their way into a short customs line. They were intent on disembarking before the three stooges could catch up. Who could blame them? I would do the same. In fact, I realized I had better hide in case they looked my way.
As we neared the last landing, I marveled at the frantic herding of these people.
“Really? Seriously?” I mumbled to myself. Did they think the cruise line was going to keep them aboard for an all-expense paid kidnapping back to New York?
Then I spotted Amy at the bottom of our staircase, working her way into the overcrowded customs room. Her shiny honey blond hair stood out and I recognized the mustard pants suit she had also worn at the embarkation in New York. She moved with her usual smooth grace while all the passengers surrounding her were jostling packages and each other with awkward and unnecessary fervor.
“There she is. Down there,” I called to Sean who was now just ahead of me, in the staircase waterfall of passengers.
“I see her. But there’s no one here to detain her.”
“I don’t see any cops either,” I added.
“It’s bobbies.” Sean proceeded to barrel through the crowd with the skill of a detective in hot pursuit of a suspect.
“She’s down here,” Sean yelled back to Elias who was closer than I was.
“I see her.” Elias was unexpectedly swept past Sean in an unimpeded ribbon of people hugging the right hand rail. “But what do I do if I get to her?”
“Just stall her. Until someone shows up.”
Sean stopped cold on the steps to survey the lobby below. I bumped into his back and but for his strength we both would have started a domino fall of passengers.
“Sorry.” The very British and proper woman behind me peeled herself from my back.
“No. No. My fault,” I insisted, letting British politeness rule out by accepting responsibility when in fact it was Sean’s fault.
“That’s right. Your fault,” a typical American chimed in. “Keep it moving lady. I have a tour bus to catch.”
Sean turned back to me, took my arm, and kept it moving.
“Come on,” Sean whispered. “We’ve got to catch up to Elias. I can at least stall her by acting like a cop.”
Sean and I descended, again. I couldn’t help but think that Elias would be more effective stalling her with his sociability than Sean strong-arming her.
“Just remember,” Sean whispered to me. “I’m retired. And we’re in England. I have no real authority. Just follow my lead. Back me up.”
“Back you up? What the . . .” I had only seen back up in the movies and it always ended in guns and blood and death.
“Yeah, just confuse the hell out of her.”
“Okay. Okay,” I agreed.
Unexpectedly, the crowd loosened. We got halfway down the last flight of stairs before it slowed again. I now saw the total expanse of densely packed passengers below in the large foyer. I figured Amy was not going anywhere anyway unless she cut in front of everyone. And that wouldn’t happen in Britain. They are famous for the rigidity of their queuing.
* * *
The jumble of people disembarking was quite unceremonious compared to the gala boarding process. Wessex Cruise Line had gotten their money and was focused on the gala boarding of more paid customers at the other end.
There were rows of customs tables that stalled the departure. They needed more. Everyone in line policed th
ose trying to get ahead. A couple tried to slip in front into a line and they were cold shouldered to the end. With that, I was assured that Amy could not speed the process for herself.
“She’s moving toward the short line at that customs table,” Sean observed. “Damn.”
“But look, there’s Heather waving at her.”
“Good. That’ll slow her down.”
It did. Amy waited for Heather as other passengers trickled around her in line. The two greeted each other like long lost sisters. As they chatted, the crowd funneled past them to the table. Then, they rejoined the line of disembarking passengers.
“There they go,” Sean muttered. “And no Scotland Yard anywhere. I don’t understand.”
“Wait. There’s Mary coming off the elevator. She’ll stall her.”
Mary spotted me and thrust up one of her usual big, uninhibited, and enthusiastic waves. She fought to get to us against the throng of exiting passengers, chomping at the bit to get on with their lives or their vacations.
It was the wrong way. I reached my hand above the woman’s brittle blond hair in front. I pointed and directed Mary to Amy and Heather.
“Over there,” I mouthed.
Mary looked confused.
“Over there. Amy. Amy.” I mouthed again.
It worked. Mary turned and saw Amy. She steamrolled through the other passengers to get to her. Elias was close at hand, but not close enough.
I grabbed Sean’s arm.
“We have to get there too. You’ll have to fake a detention,” I urged. “There’s no one anywhere in sight.”
“Okay!” Sean agreed, much to my surprise.
But Sean and I were stuck tight on the last flight of stairs. There was nowhere for the people to go in the packed disembarkation foyer. The forward undulation of the crowd had stopped.
Our advance had ground to a complete standstill. Worse yet, we started to be pushed back to the stairway. I looked. Fortunately, Amy was halted too.
Death Sets Sail_A Mystery Page 36
