Decked

by Carol Higgins Clark

  He was displeased to see that several tables in the lounge had been pushed together. A group of sixteen or so occupied them and already their laughter was becoming raucous. Gavin deplored the tendency of companies to reward their top salesmen with first-class cruises. There was something so essentially vulgar about brushing shoulders with people who were only on board because they had succeeded in unloading a quantity of snowmobiles or garage-door openers on gullible buyers. After all, when cruising really started in the 1920s, it was meant for the very elite who brought along their servants and were treated like royalty. He had voiced those thoughts to someone on the last crossing and his listener, a twentyish, leggy blonde, had said, “Well, at least they’re paying. One of the ship’s officers told me you have a free ride in exchange for dancing and playing bingo with blue-haired old ladies.” Too late Gavin had found out that the leggy blonde was the daughter of the beefy head of the A-l Sales Winners Club.

  He ordered a gin and tonic and stood at the bar. There were three or four sets of harpies guzzling their vodkas. He recognized Sylvie Arden, the divorcée who had made countless crossings looking for a rich husband. Two trips ago she had confided that her cash was running pretty low. She had to get her hooks into someone pretty soon. Too frantic, my dear, Gavin sometimes warned her. Calm it a bit. You blitz when you should beguile. But he liked her. Sylvie was fun and they both understood each other. They surreptitiously compared notes on the old bats he jollied along and the old birds she tried to intrigue.

  Gavin sighed. Back to work, he decided. He had noticed a table where two sixtyish women were eyeing the crowd with avid glances. Rhett Butler can’t make it, ladies, he thought as he drifted over to chat with them. He stopped abruptly when he saw the couple who were standing in the doorway of the lounge. Surely. Of course it was. Nora Regan Reilly. There was no mistaking her. That small trim figure, that pretty face, the ash-blond hair, short and wavy. She’d been on his program several times and had been one of the last guests he’d had just before it was canceled a year ago. And that was her husband, the funeral director. Talk about a lousy job! Gavin rushed to greet them, immediately assuming his talk-show persona. “Nora Regan Reilly,” he boomed.

  “Ssshhh.” Panic-stricken, Nora and Luke whirled their heads around. They had spotted Regan and Lady Exner stepping off the elevator and rushed to put a healthy distance between them. Of all the luck to meet Gabby Gavin, Nora thought. I’ll never have any privacy on this trip. And, oh God, here they come.

  Regan and Lady Exner were less than six feet away. Regan caught Nora’s eye and began making frantic shooing motions with her hand. Fortunately Lady Exner had paused to light a cigarette and all her attention was devoted to the lighter, whose starter was clearly not responding to her vigorous thumb-snapping.

  Luke took Gavin’s arm and propelled him to an isolated table. “We’ve got something to let you in on,” he explained in a low voice.

  They told it straight. Their daughter was on board acting as a companion to an elderly woman, Lady Veronica Exner, whose goal in life was to have Nora collaborate on her memoirs. For that reason they wanted no one to identify Mrs. Luke Reilly as mystery writer Nora Regan Reilly.

  “I’m sure she’s a lovely person,” Nora said, “but we really took this cruise to unwind and be together.”

  Gavin was sure he had died and gone to heaven. Nora Regan Reilly’s daughter was Lady Exner’s companion! And they were staying in the Camelot Suite. It would be so easy to get friendly with them. His thoughts moved with lightning speed. “I certainly understand your dilemma. My celebrity friends all cherish their privacy.”

  Celebrity friends, Nora thought. The only people he’s interested in. You’d think he’d hosted “The Tonight Show” instead of his dinky radio broadcast which had had about three listeners. Once she’d been on and he’d spent half the time begging the audience to call in with questions. Luke and Regan had spent the whole half hour trying to find it on the dial. In vain, of course. And as for privacy, forget it. He couldn’t help himself. He loved to name drop.

  Now Gavin hunched over the table and his eye disappeared in a lengthy conspiratorial wink. “It will be our little secret,” he assured them. “As a matter of fact, I believe I’m seated at their table. Do tell your daughter that I’ll be happy to accompany Lady Exner to some of the activities. There’s a psychic on board who invariably attracts senior citizens to her sessions. Why, I’ll never know.” Gavin drained his glass and broke out his hearty show-business laugh. “Her specialty is predicting the future, and since many of them look as though they won’t live to see land again, her predictions should be limited to exactly when they’ll be needing the services of someone like you, huh, Luke?”

  No, Luke thought. You’re the only stiff around here.

  I DON’T NEED any more close calls like that, Regan thought, and I don’t want to be around when the maître d’ discovers that Veronica’s cigarette singed the back of his jacket when he leaned over to look up our table number.

  “Beautiful ladies, follow me,” he smiled.

  Three people were already seated at the spacious round table: a middle-aged couple who offered a big welcome, and a rail-thin fashionably dressed frosted blonde who could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty. She was situated opposite the couple. Good move, Regan thought. No doubt the single woman had left plenty of empty seats around her hoping they’d be filled by that rare commodity on cruise ships, single men.

  The maître d’ seated Veronica and pulled out the chair to her left for Regan.

  General introductions followed. Mario and Immaculata Buttacavola announced they were taking their first cruise ever, and had decided to go all out by travelling first class. “The way I see it,” Mario explained, “I work for a swank hotel in Atlantic City and figured it’s high time me and the missus got a taste of the good life. Besides, being I’m in the banquet office, maybe I can earn some Brownie points by bringing back new ideas about ship-style food and beverage service. Everyone tells me all you do on a cruise is eat.” He patted his generous girth. “I’m ready.”

  Immaculata gazed at him with an adoring look that made Nancy Reagan’s swoonlike gaze at Ron seem surly. “This is like a second honeymoon for us,” she bubbled.

  Sylvie Arden was from Palm Springs. “I love to travel,” she sighed, “but I hate packing and unpacking. That’s why cruising is the perfect solution for me. You unpack once and then just enjoy yourself.”

  “Good evening.”

  Regan and the others turned to see a sophisticated-looking dark-haired man in his late thirties approach. Sylvie’s eyes brightened as he chose the seat between her and Veronica. “May I?” he asked.

  “Please do!” Veronica and Sylvie chorused.

  A moment later the seat to the left of Regan was filled. A man about her father’s age wearing a lemon jacket introduced himself as Gavin Gray and greeted the frosted blonde with the familiarity of old friends.

  “So good to see you, Sylvie,” he said.

  “You two know each other?” Veronica cried as she waved the cigarette holder, whipping it past Regan’s nose.

  “Oh yes,” Gavin replied. “We’ve been on many of these sea adventures together. You see, I am originally from Manhattan. For many years I was the host of “Gavin’s Guests,” a popular radio program in New York. I interviewed literally thousands of celebrities. Now that I am retired, I have taken my interest in people into an affiliation with the cruise line. I am one of your hosts.”

  Gavin Gray, Regan thought. Gavin Gray. I’ve heard his name. Of course! She’d been in New York when Nora was on that program. Nora called him Gabby Gavin and said she doubted he ever read a book before he interviewed the author. Regan’s heart sank. If he spotted Nora and talked about her to Veronica, that would be it.

  The dark-haired man on Veronica’s right volunteered, “I’m Cameron Hardwick from New York.” His smile was pleasant.

  Veronica spoke for Regan and herself. “I am Lady Veroni
ca Exner from Oxford, widow of the late Sir Gilbert Exner, and this is my dear friend, Regan Reilly.”

  Immaculata Buttacavola’s large brown eyes filled with understanding. “Did you lose your husband recently?” she asked tenderly.

  “Forty years ago,” Veronica said briskly, but then added, “sometimes it feels like yesterday.”

  Oh brother, Regan thought. Let’s hope Immaculata what’s-her-name doesn’t ask Veronica how long they were married.

  “Regan Reilly,” Gavin Gray mused. “What a charming name.” He gave her a knowing look and a hint of a wink.

  The captain, pad in hand, approached them. “Do you care to order a beverage now?”

  “Lovely.” It was obvious that Veronica had already become the self-appointed spokesperson. “But tell me. Will these two seats be occupied?” Her question was hopeful.

  Regan couldn’t help but notice that Sylvie Arden was trembling to hear the answer.

  “Yes, they certainly will,” called out one of two men circling the table and heading for the empty seats. He was about five feet nine, of average build, with thinning brown hair flecked with gray, a matching mustache, and horn-rimmed glasses that magnified amused, intelligent eyes. His companion was a couple of inches taller, a bit stockier, and his shiny black hair was pulled back into a pony tail fastened by a diamond clip. Both seemed to be in their early forties.

  Regan watched Sylvie’s hopes dry up faster than a drop of water on a sizzling sidewalk as she realized that the newcomers were a couple.

  “Oh, perfect timing,” Veronica gushed. “We’re just about to order our sherry.”

  “I’m not having sherry,” Mario protested.

  “It gives him a headache,” Immaculata rushed to explain. “We usually have a mixed drink before dinner. It could be a tequila sunrise, it could be a rye and ginger, it could be an old-fashioned; on special occasions I get out the blender and start to make—”

  “Could we possibly place our orders?” Cameron Hardwick interrupted, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  The first of the new arrivals was seated next to Immaculata. Quickly he turned to her, smiling warmly. “Your suggestion of an old-fashioned is marvelous. Will you join us in one? Does that sound good to you, Kenneth?”

  The moment of tension passed as they gave their orders. You’re a nice guy, Regan thought, smiling across the table at the newcomer. And what about you, Cameron Hardwick? she wondered. You’re good-looking, well-dressed, and at an age when a lot of women should be chasing after you and you’re traveling alone? Why? You must be a jerk.

  The introductions began again. Regan was relieved that on this go-round everyone just volunteered their names. The late arrivals went last.

  “I’m Dale Cohoon,” said the one with the glasses who had done all the talking, “and this is my friend, Kenneth Minard.”

  “Nice to meet you all.” As he patted his hair behind his ears and adjusted his cuffs, Kenneth favored them with a nervous smile. “All this rushing. Dale and I were out on the deck working on our tans and were both so exhausted, we fell dead asleep. We didn’t have nearly enough time to get dressed for dinner properly.”

  “Poor Kenneth.” Dale’s tone was loving and sympathetic. “I’ve dragged him all over Europe hunting down antiques for my shop. We live in San Francisco.”

  “Antiques!” Veronica’s eyes brightened. “I adore browsing through antique shops.”

  Browse must be all you do, Regan thought. From the looks of Llewellyn Hall, the only real antique is the plumbing system.

  “And what is your profession, Kenneth?” Veronica inquired.

  She could sub for Barbara Walters, Regan thought.

  “I’m a hair stylist,” Kenneth told her proudly.

  The drinks arrived. Cameron Hardwick began to chat with Lady Exner. Gavin Gray was listening to Mario’s and Immaculata’s questions about the activities on the ship. Regan glanced around, enjoying the gentle sway of the ship as it gracefully moved through the night. The room was decorated in a blue-green motif that suggested the ocean setting. Huge windows ran from floor to ceiling on both the port and starboard sides. The moon was bright and glistened on the dark murky sea. The tables were now filled, and captains and waiters bustled as they took orders and carried silver-covered dishes. The sommelier, wearing an impressive key around his neck, was opening a bottle of Dom Perignon with theatrical flair. At tables for two, some couples were smiling, others looked as though they had run out of conversation twenty years ago. A strolling violinist was winding his way through the room. A young couple signaled to him to come to their table, where he played a musical selection with great passion.

  Regan looked over her shoulder. From where she was sitting she could not spot Luke and Nora. “They’re at the corner table behind the pillar,” Gavin Gray whispered.

  Regan stared at him. “Excuse me.”

  His eye once again disappeared into a squiggly line. “I’m a dear friend of your mother and father,” he hissed. “I had a drink with them in the lounge and understand the predicament. It will be our little secret.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. His second wink made Regan wonder whether he was working his way into a nervous tic. She managed to withdraw her hand. She tried to wink back but it felt ridiculous.

  “Regan, do you have something in your eye?” Veronica asked.

  “No, I’m fine.” Regan anxiously reached for her glass of wine. I only hope I can trust him, she thought.

  The captain took the dinner orders. Regan, Lady Exner and Gabby decided on the coq au vin as the main course. Kenneth and Dale ordered the rack of lamb. Cameron and Sylvie decided on the steak au poivre. Mario and Immaculata had a terrible time choosing between the lamb and the steak. They finally agreed to order one of each and share. They also ordered onion soup. When the waiter was about to make his escape Mario pulled him back and said, “You may as well give us some of them crab-meat appetizers.”

  Throughout the meal the conversation varied between group talk and individual exchanges. Sylvie Arden bounced back from her initial disappointment at the slim pickings of eligible men and spoke knowledgeably with Dale Cohoon about Regency furniture. Except for his grunts of contentment, Mario didn’t say a word during the meal. He meticulously mopped up every trace of liquid on his plate with a sour-dough roll.

  Kenneth listened with admirable patience to Immaculata’s description of her adorable grandchildren, Concep-cione, “who is sort of named after me,” and Mario the Third, “the image of his father.” She ordered big Mario to pull out his wallet and pass their pictures around. Regan smiled and murmured polite compliments about the two chubby-cheeked toddlers.

  Veronica was too busy trying to light yet another stale cigarette to do more than glance at the snapshots of the youngest Buttacavolas. She passed them on to Cameron Hard wick, who looked visibly pained and fired the collection at Sylvie. A waiter rushed to assist Veronica, who huffed and puffed until a dismal glow at the tip of the cigarette rewarded her efforts. With that accomplished, Veronica launched into a rhapsody of how the late Sir Gilbert had always enjoyed coq au vin. She went on to describe his life and times in minute detail, proclaiming him a Renaissance man who wrote beautiful poetry. When she finally ran out of breath Sylvie quickly changed the subject by asking Gavin if the missing bracelet from the last crossing had turned up.

  “Not that I know of,” Gavin said, sounding a touch abrupt.

  “One of the stewards was telling me all about it,” Sylvie confided. “I’ve made several crossings with Mrs. Watkins. She wears so much jewelry she looks like Queen for a Day. But that bracelet she lost was really something. They’ve posted a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for whoever finds it.”

  “What happened?” Veronica asked, sounding excited.

  “Gavin, you were there. You tell,” Sylvie replied.

  “Well, I was on the ship,” Gavin answered with a defensive tone, then quickly resumed the demeanor of a genial host. “Apparently it fell off her wrist. It was
the night of the Captain’s party. Who knows? Anyone could have picked it up.”

  “From what the steward tells me, they ripped the ship apart looking for it,” Sylvie insisted. “Mrs. Watkins travels frequently on this line,” she explained to everyone at the table. “I must have met her a dozen times. She spends money like water and always books the Camelot Suite.”

  “That’s where we’re staying,” Veronica cried. “Regan and I are all alone up there. I was hoping we’d have neighbors, but the suite across the hall is empty.” She puffed on her cigarette. “I’ll have to keep my eye out for the hidden treasure.”

  “The steward is convinced that bracelet went off the ship in someone’s luggage,” Sylvie continued. “They’re sure whoever found it kept it. I know it was worth a fortune, but I thought it was awfully garish.”

  “Antique jewelry is the only jewelry worth having,” Cameron Hardwick commented. “The real craftsmen died a couple of hundred years ago.”

  “I have a friend who deals in antique jewelry who agrees with you,” Dale said. “Do you collect?”

  “I have one or two interesting pieces,” Hardwick replied with a knowing smile.

  It was only after Mario and Immaculata had finished their horn of plenty, a dessert described on the menu as “a symphony of fresh fruit in puff pastry on raspberry sauce,” and were sipping their cappuccino that Immaculata jumped back into the conversation, picking up where Sylvie had left off.

  “There’s nothing worse than being robbed. Such an invasion. Last year when we were visiting Mario Junior and Roz and the children—they live about twenty miles from us—we ended up staying the night. It was an act of God that the car didn’t start. Mario Junior offered to lend us his car but it has a stick shift and big Mario hasn’t driven one of those in thirty years. So we ended up staying in the guest room. That way we could get the car fixed in the morning and be on our way. The munchkins love it when we stay over. That very night our own home was robbed. My neighbor noticed a car parked in front at around eleven o’clock. That was exactly the time we would have arrived if our car had started. Who knows? We could have walked in on them and been killed. I knew something was wrong the minute we pulled in the driveway and there were Mario’s old dentures on the welcome mat. His new ones don’t snap in quite as good, so he keeps the old pair for around the house. They were in his jewelry box with his good cuff links and his solid-gold watch, and you know what? We figured the robbers must have had good teeth and didn’t need them.” She laughed heartily at her own witticism.