The Memory of Eva Ryker

by Donald Stanwood

  With a sigh I sat on the edge of my desk. “In many ways it’s the oldest game in the book—Double-barrels of Sex and Jealousy. Aimed at an unattached wife and her tough but oddly vulnerable bodyguard. An explosive brew, especially since it was common knowledge that Clair Ryker and James Martin were having an off-and-on affair over the years.”

  Ryker sat hunched over in his chair, weighed down and shrunken. His mouth opened but no words of denial emerged.

  “With a combination like that,” I said, “the Eddingtons didn’t even have to breathe hard. Even as a little girl, as we heard, you sensed the moth-and-flame gambit between Jason and your mother. Although you weren’t privy to them, we can assume similar maneuvers between Lisa and Martin. Unfortunately, both Clair and J.H. seemed to imagine themselves as the flames in this unwholesome ménage. As we’ll find out later, they were sadly mistaken. Along with Georgia Ferrell, they were hardly more than pawns to be swept off the board. The object of capture was you, Eva.”

  She sat very still. “Go on, Norman.”

  “At this point,” I gently explained, “your tape fails to tell us what happened that night. Georgia Ferrell put you to bed and you slept through the next hour and a half. And yet that time, from nine-thirty to eleven, may have been the most important ninety minutes in your life.

  “So, how to find out what happened? One segment of the tape which we’ll hear later provides part of the answer. As for the rest, I can only do some woolgathering based on the available facts. We know from you that Jason left the lounge with your mother not far behind. You saw him heading for the stairs which led to the Boat Deck …”

  Moonless, the sky formed a black tent over the Atlantic, the stars sparkling pinpoint holes in the fabric. Black upon black, oily smoke poured from the black and yellow funnels.

  Jason Eddington clamped his teeth as he shuffled along the Boat Deck. Tiny ice shavings glinted around the deck lights. The crew had a name for them, he remembered absently. “Whiskers ’round the lights.” It meant ice was near.

  He rested one hand on the white tarpaulin of Lifeboat thirteen and gazed toward the stern of the Titanic. White and faintly phosphorescent, her wake trailed off into the darkness.

  Footsteps tapped behind his back. He ignored them. Clouding in the cold, Clair Ryker’s breath blew over his shoulder.

  “So much for the blood feast, Jason.”

  His head turned a fraction, eyeing her mordant frown. “How’s that?”

  “I thought you might need company after the unleashing of the demons.” A sad smile. “Walpurgis Night isn’t supposed to be until the end of the month.”

  “I guess we just couldn’t wait.” His hand wearily kneaded the back of his neck.

  Clair shoved both hands in her coat pockets, looking down at his feet. “Jason, I’d like to say it was all my fault, but it wouldn’t be true. The two of you together are a very sick pair.”

  Air hissed through Jason’s teeth as he faced her. “Just what do you want from me? You heard Lisa’s little speech. Plenty of other men will be only too happy to give you what you need.”

  Clair leaned on the railing. “People say things when they’re angry. I don’t place much stock in them.” She looked up at him. “It isn’t true, is it?”

  Jason’s face was haggard. “God, no.”

  Clair watched the ocean, her hands close to his on the railing. Then she shivered and shied away. “You’re not going to prove anything by freezing out here. I’ve got some champagne in my suite. It’ll soon go flat.” She looked over her shoulder. “It’d be a shame to waste it.”

  “I thought you were worried about gossiping stewards.”

  “After this fight, I don’t think any of us have a reputation left to protect.”

  “Lisa won’t be with me tonight. Why don’t you stop by?”

  She nodded. “Give me a call.”

  Jason waited until she was out of sight, then moved across the ship to the starboard deck. He skulked in the shadows and peered down the long railings. His lips tightened as he saw them; two figures silhouetted against the night sky. Jason recognized the voices of Martin and Lisa. A few more words were lost in the distance. Then Martin kissed her and left.

  Lisa stood alone at the railing. Her eyes, dark and empty, regarded Jason as he approached.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  She didn’t react to his apology. “Is everything set?”

  “Yes. I’ll call her in about fifteen minutes.”

  Without another word, they fell into step together, heading below decks.

  Clair Ryker caressed a magnum of Tattinger ’05 and tapped her knuckles on cabin door B-76.

  Jason’s eye ogled her through the open crack in the door. She smiled and held up the bottle.

  “Room service!”

  His grin was forced. “Come in.”

  Brushing past him, she idly gazed around the cabin, then walked to the porthole, peering out into the darkness.

  “Look at the sea,” she whispered slowly. “I’ve never seen it so smooth. Have you, Jason?”

  “No … no, I never have.” His hands shook slightly as he popped the bottle and filled two champagne glasses on the end table next to the bed.

  Clair saw his face and was amused. “My, my, Jason. Stage fright?”

  He grinned in spite of himself. “Opening night jitters.”

  Slowly Clair moved to the door, turned the latch, and dropped the key in the cleavage of her gown. “You see,” she said, spreading her hands, “I’ve taken the initiative. You’re my prisoner.”

  Her low laugh stopped as she spotted a Victrola sitting on its stand opposite the beds. She curiously thumbed through the records. “Jason, you didn’t tell me you had one of these things.”

  His words were brittle. “It’s my wife’s.”

  “Sorry I asked.” She scooped a record out of the pile.

  Putting the disc on the turntable, Clair fiddled with the crank, then threw her hands in the air. “I give up. How do you work this thing?”

  “It’s a special model,” Jason answered, fumbling with the Victrola, “mounted on gimbals so it’ll work aboard ship. You have to release the turntable like so … then turn the crank.”

  He wound the spring, adjusted the horn, and set the tone arm onto the disc. Harsh and brassy, the band rasped out of the Victrola’s horn.

  Clair snapped her fingers to the music and leaned against Jason, a glint of alcohol in her eyes.

  “You’re still my prisoner, you know.”

  He held up his wrists. “Want to handcuff me?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she murmured, feeling his hands stroking her hair. “You look safe enough to me.”

  Their lips met. Softly. Barely a touch.

  “Is that a compliment?” His hand skimmed along the curve of her back.

  “Jason,” she whispered, her lips wet along the lobe of his ear. “Shut up.”

  His tongue slid over her teeth, gliding along the silky inside of her mouth.

  The Victrola bellowed gaily. “Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde …”

  Rough, tanned fingertips grappled with dress lacings.

  “… and the Band played on …”

  Untying the strings. Rustling brocade petticoats.

  “… He’d glide cross the floor with the girl he a-dor’d …”

  Metal corset snaps. Petticoats swishing over the carpets. Gown sagging, slipping. On the carpet in a heap.

  Saxophones blew gaily.

  Kneading hands on wool jacket. One sleeve. Two. Flung on bed. Celluloid collar snapped. Top button. Second, third, fourth. White shirt, dark under armpits, hung on bedpost.

  A trumpet rattled the horn.

  White bra straps against white skin. Long brown hair spilling over shoulders. Left. Right. Snap at the back.

  Moist nipples against brown chest. Soft. Red, slushed. Stiffening.

  Plunk-plunk-plunk of bass.

  Las
t clothes on floor. Trousers on chair back next to bed. Red tongue along blond chin stubble. Bare toes clutched white against blue carpet.

  “… But his brain was so loaded it nearly exploded …”

  Blunt fingers piercing black thicket. Low groan in her throat.

  “… The poor girl would shake with alarm …”

  Sinking. Silently, in two. Tiny squeaks of mattress springs.

  “… He’d ne’er leave the girl with the strawberry curls …”

  Nails probing blond pubic hair. Curling gently.

  Leg muscles clenched hard against soft thigh. Brown palms along white flanks, drawing shiny sweat line glinting in faint yellow light.

  “… and the Band played on.”

  Kneecap pushing inside of leg. Slender fingers at groin, stroking, guiding.

  The tone arm reached the end of the record and moved toward the hub. Sigh-pop-hiss from the Victrola’s horn. The big needle bounced heavily in the groove.

  Thrust. Slow and measured. Fingernails clutching, furrowing rippling back. White scar lines, welling pink, then dusty salmon.

  Red lips drawn away from white teeth and pink glistening gums.

  Clenched buttocks thrusting, driving. Blond and black curls mixing, gnarling wetly. Blue and brown eyes meeting; vacant, vast, and piercing.

  Sigh-pop-hiss. Trapped in a circle. Sigh-pop-hiss.

  Tangled pale and tanned legs in rhythm on white silk sheets. Sea pounding. Sighs deep in throat like shore-breaking waves.

  Tongue curling slowly, lingering around nipple. Pink and shining.

  Light and dark flesh riding the wave. Through crests and troughs. Crests and troughs. Crests and troughs.

  Rictus grin, teeth sinking gently into brown corded shoulder muscle. Sweat darkening blond hair, down forehead and cheeks, collecting in amber stubble.

  Sigh-pop-hiss. Sigh-pop-hiss.

  Brown palm cupped hard on breast. Rising and falling. Crest, trough.

  Hand off breast, roaming along mattress to the nearby chair.

  Drive deep and silky. Brown hand delving in back pocket of pants on chair.

  Crests and troughs. Plum-taut glans advancing, retreating.

  Hand taking bottle from pocket, flipping cap with a thumbnail. Little white pellet jostling into palm.

  Painted toenail gliding along brown sole. Crests and troughs.

  Pill dropping into champagne. New bubbles rising, frothing. Thin film around glass, then nothing.

  Legs intertwined, pushing through mattress. Rising, falling. Red lipstick smudge on brown earlobe. Crest and trough. Long thrust.

  Sigh-pop-hiss.

  Rising, falling. Rising, falling. Crest, trough. Rising, rising. Crest, cresting. Wave breaking, writhing, curling, frothy white foam. White against open dark triangle, across tan belly.

  Wave crashing on shore, foam slowing on sand; thin, tired, and flaccid. Hard muscles softening wearily against flushed skin. Moist air pumping through lungs.

  Hiss of bodies against silk, turning On sides. Head sagging, leaning gently against breast.

  “You know what, my darling Jason?” Laugh lines fanned out from the corner of her eyes. “Lisa’s even dumber than I thought.”

  He chuckled, low and sleepy. They lay together for a moment, listening to the expiring noise from the phonograph. Finally Jason propped himself up, reaching between her shoulders and the bedboard for the champagne glasses. He gave one to Clair and took the other.

  She smiled smugly, her eyes distorted through the champagne as she held it up to the light. “What shall we drink to?”

  Jason stared at the ceiling, then grinned, pointing to the Victrola.

  Clair giggled, leaning against his chest.

  Jason smiled, his eyes watchful. Her throat rippled down the wine.

  He slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Clair lay propped against a pillow, listening to the stream of water from the washbasin.

  “Where might Lisa be?”

  He walked back to the bedroom and stood impassively before her. His eyes regarded her for a moment, then turned dully away. “You don’t have to worry about her, Clair.” His voice was calm as he bent down and put on his underwear.

  “You know, for a doting husband, you’re very casual about all this.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he grappled with his socks. “I can hardly be concerned over something that doesn’t present a problem.”

  “That’s a fine …”

  Suddenly she doubled over in bed, her face pale. Face muscles grimaced as she straightened.

  “God, I feel sick. It must’ve been something I ate.”

  “Or drank.” Jason snatched his pants off the chair back.

  Clair bent over again, a thin scream hissing from her throat. “Get my dress! I’ve got to see Dr. O’Loughlin!”

  Jason’s face was impassive as he buttoned his fly. “You’re a big girl. Do it yourself.”

  “You stupid bastard!” She fell off the mattress and knelt, naked and shaking. “I’m sick and …”

  Convulsions began and Clair writhed on the carpet. Jason bent down, felt the bodice of her dress for the cabin key, and pocketed it.

  Arms and legs thrashing, she retched over and over, saliva wet and glistening on the carpet as she staggered for the door.

  Clair fell to her knees and fought with the knob. Another spasm hit and she shivered on the deck, bile bubbling green and ugly over her lips.

  Jason’s fingers fastidiously buttoned his shirt.

  Her face turned a motley purple.

  He looped his tie into the tight Windsor knot.

  Eyes bulging almost out of their sockets, her lungs strained for air.

  Jason spotted his gold clasp on the dresser. He stepped over Clair, snatching it up to align it on his tie.

  A deep gurgle in her throat and Clair Ryker was gone.

  He took a mirror from her purse and thrust it under her nose. No vapor. Tanned fingers gently felt the neck. No pulse.

  Jason was satisfied. He grabbed both arms and dragged the body across the cabin. The bare feet traced scuff marks on the carpet. Kneeling, he shoved it under the bed. The fabric fringing the box springs hid it from sight.

  He rose and gathered up Clair Ryker’s clothes. Jason chucked the Madame Lucille evening gown under the bed with the body, followed by the shoes, coat, lingerie, and the heavy laced corset.

  Carefully, Jason inspected the cabin, kicking an errant foot back under the bed. The Victrola was winding down. Sigh-pop-hiss. Sigh—pop—hiss. Sigh … pop … hiss.

  Lashing out, he ripped the arm off the record. The big needle etched a screaming gash through the grooves.

  Except for the low rumble of the Titanic’s engines, all was quiet. Jason poured himself more champagne from the Tattinger bottle, then went to the telephone on the end table and lifted the receiver.

  “The library, please.” His enunciation was slow and deliberate. “Yes, I know it’s late.”

  A click and a pause. “Library. May I help you?”

  “Is Lisa Eddington there?”

  “One moment please.”

  Jason waited, the yellow bulb of the bed lamp reflected in each eye.

  Another click in the receiver. Lisa’s voice was low. “Yes?”

  His mouth moved slowly. “The bitch is no longer with us.”

  “Fine. Yes, I’ll see you soon, darling.”

  Bidding the librarian a brief good night, Lisa walked down the grand staircase to B Deck, donning long white evening gloves. A glance down the starboard corridor revealed only locked doors receding into the distance. She made sure no one could see her before she knocked on cabin door B-57.

  It opened quickly. Martin hustled her inside. They stood in darkness relieved only by a table lamp in the living room. She clung to him with one arm, the other clutching her purse.

  His lips nestled tenderly by her ear. “Did you have any trouble with Jason?”

  Light from the lamp cast long shadows across L
isa’s face, hiding her eyes. “I haven’t seen him since … since …”

  Tears crept down her cheeks as she lay her head on his chest, the drops streaking on the silk lapels of his evening jacket.

  “Ssh. Ssh,” he whispered, stroking her long blond hair. “Come on. What you need is a drink.”

  Martin led her into the bedroom. He quickly grabbed a decanter of scotch and poured her two fingers’ worth.

  Pale blue eyes stared doubtfully at the amber liquid.

  “Go on. Drink it. It won’t kill you.”

  She smiled away her tears and swirled the scotch down. “I’m … I’m sorry I acted so silly.”

  He laughed indulgently, turning around and throwing his jacket on one of the beds. As he began unknotting his tie, Lisa opened her purse. Her hand reached for the lamp switch. A click and all was black, except for the stars twinkling through the porthole.

  Martin frowned in puzzlement, then grinned, tossed his tie on the bed and turned to her. “Lisa, darling …”

  A surprised little sigh bubbled over his lips as a knife stabbed him between navel and groin. Lisa thrust until the blade scraped against his spine.

  He had no time for pain. A femoral artery ruptured, rushing red over her white gloves. He sagged like a puppet with cut strings.

  Lisa released the knife still in his stomach and stood, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she peeled off the gloves. Red and white, they flashed out of the porthole.

  She swung the glass shut, then went to the bed and plucked a monogrammed handkerchief from Martin’s coat, dabbing away leftover tears on her cheeks. She walked to the door and listened for any sound. Nothing. She pocketed the handkerchief and walked out of cabin B-57.

  Next door were cabins B-55, 53, and 51, which formed the Rykers’ suite. Lisa loitered in the corridor until a steward passed by, pushing a dinner tray toward the kitchen, then knocked on the door of B-51.

  A curt and sleepy Georgia Ferrell answered.

  “What do you want, Mrs. Eddington?”

  “Is Clair here?” Lisa slurred nastily. From the corner of her eye she could see the steward fiddling with the tray, working busily at not listening.

  “No.” She started to close the door. “It’s late. Please go …”

  “That whore and my husband are in there! Let me in!” She struggled past Georgia and slammed the door behind her. “Where are they!” she yelled, searching frantically around the dark and vacant parlor.