Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  I was just leaving when I remembered the orange lifejacket which normally hung inside the wardrobe. It had looked a bit protruding and out of line. They usually fitted tidily against the wall. I am of a tidy nature.

  Funny thing, I knew what I would find before even moving the lifejacket. It was George Foster’s briefcase.

  *

  Richard Norton took the briefcase off me with gloved hands. He put it in another bag. I gave him the other bin bags. He was collecting bags fast.

  ‘I suppose I should say “what a clever girl” and “thank you”,’ he said, somewhat reluctantly. I was doing his job. He was security, dammit.

  ‘You don’t have to. It was just a hunch. As soon as we found out about his fake CV, I reckoned something was fishy. Thank goodness he’s got off the ship.’

  I wished I’d taken a look in the briefcase, a rummage around, but it was too late now. Whatever George Foster kept in there that was valuable to Darin Jack would have gone now. The lock had been broken.

  ‘If he has got off. He could still be on board. We have no proof that he left at Barbados. We only know that he hasn’t been seen since Barbados. Two totally different things.’

  I could not disguise a tiny shiver. I didn’t like the thought of this Darin Jack roaming the ship, unknown and unseen. We had too many vulnerable people on board. And Rosanna? Where on sea was she now? Half mad and crazed with sunstroke and hunger. Mrs Foster and her sister, Mrs Banesto, not talking. Three bodies in the medical centre, one with a head wound. I was beginning to think serving in Top Shop would have been a less stressful career.

  ‘Hey, Casey. How’s your ankle? How’s your arm? Have I left out any current ailment?’ It was Dr Mallory walking past with a voluptuous dark beauty in a backless white sundress that clung everywhere, mostly in front. I hadn’t seen her before. He was entirely off duty.

  ‘Only current ailment connected to meeting with pain-in-exterior medical staff. Everything else healing in a satisfactory way,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your efficient care. Kindly send me a bill.’

  ‘On the house,’ he said with a mock salute. The dark beauty flashed me a smile of triumph. She could have him. I was not in the queue.

  ‘What it is to have such fatal charm,’ said Richard, wryly, watching them out of sight. ‘No good-looks fairy at my christening.’

  ‘But you’re a lovely person,’ I said warmly. ‘Kind and generous and considerate. That goes a long way. It’s not all about George Clooney, drop-dead gorgeous looks.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. A woman sees a man and at first she takes in how he looks. That’s natural. You know, handsome, good-looking, nice enough. Then she forgets all about how he looks and it’s more about what kind of man he is. How often do you see a gorgeous woman with a bald-headed, paunchy geezer? It’s because he’s nice, he’s fun and he’s good company, not how he looks.’

  It was a long speech for me. Richard looked a few degrees relieved, peering down from his lofty six foot three. ‘So there’s hope for me, yet?’ he asked.

  This was skating on ice. Did he mean me or womankind in general? Careful, Casey. It was time for me to move on. I could not get involved.

  ‘Lots of hope. See you soon,’ I said, squeezing his arm. ‘We’ve a truckload of evidence.’

  ‘Casey, it’s important that you back off now. Go organize your shows, your entertainers, lectures. Leave all this to me,’ he urged. ‘I don’t understand. I thought I was being helpful.’

  ‘Yes, you are, but it’s all getting too complicated and too nasty. Remember the magician’s missing box? All I’m going to say is that we found some ultrasound equipment in Merlin’s magic box.’

  ‘What do you mean, ultrasound equipment?’

  ‘It’s a means of detecting what is below layers of paint. They can find out what is under the top layer of a painting.’ He looked as if he had said too much. I pretended not to be interested, but I was fascinated.

  ‘So what?’ I said casually. ‘What’s underneath? A lot of mistaken brush strokes?’

  He clammed up. It was obvious he was not going to tell me. But I knew someone who would. Little Miss Auctioneer in Person. Tamara Fitzgibbons. The font of all knowledge in the art world.

  I thought I would at least tell Mrs Foster that her husband’s briefcase had been found and that the security officer had it. She might be relieved to know of its whereabouts. I went to her suite.

  She had been curled up on the sofa, reading a book. Crime, I noticed, from the title. She looked at ease and welcomed me into the stateroom, offered me a drink but I declined.

  ‘It was very kind of you to think of me during Hurricane Dora,’ she said. ‘It was a bit alarming and being on a high deck, we got the brunt of the wind. But I was all right with young Amanda with me. I only see her on very rare occasions.’

  ‘I saw Amanda today and she seemed a bit upset.’ I was snooping, plain nosey. ‘Quite sharp, in fact.’

  ‘I think she got it in the neck from her mother for coming to see me,’ said Mrs Foster, a bit distantly. ‘Quite unnecessarily. The girl is a free spirit. She can see who she likes. But then her mother is like that. Wants to own everybody.’

  I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t. It was not my place. Mrs Foster shut her mouth firmly. She was not going to say any more. It was the wrong moment to try and find out why the two sisters were locked in a silent war. My curiosity would have to wait.

  ‘I thought you might like to know that your husband’s briefcase has been found,’ I said. ‘It was in an unoccupied cabin.’ That was partly true. ‘The security officer has it at the moment. I’m sure he will return it to you when he has finished his investigations.’

  She seemed about to ask me something, then changed her mind.

  ‘I’m so glad it’s been found,’ she said, nodding. She poured herself some mineral water. ‘I thought someone might have thrown it overboard. Was there anything inside it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. Did you think that there might be?’

  ‘I’m not really sure. Travel documents perhaps. Our passports and currency are in the safe.’

  ‘Very wise. By the way, Dr Mallory is wanting to know if your husband was on any kind of medication for his heart trouble.’

  ‘Yes, he was. Something to slow the heartbeat down, I think. I’m not sure. He took them every day. I’ll show you the prescription.’

  She went into the bedroom and came back with the normal plastic container which Boots dispense. It had a Boots label with current date and Mr Foster’s name printed on it. She shook the container. ‘There’s still some left …’

  ‘Would you mind if Dr Mallory had these now?’ I asked. ‘It’s just a formality.’

  ‘They are no good to me,’ she said.

  ‘Did he take anything else?’

  ‘He took a vitamin supplement. B5 or B12 or something. You can buy them from any health food shop. I’ll get them for you.’

  They were a well-known brand. Their content was mostly vitamin B5, B12, and some trace minerals, magnesium and niacin.

  ‘Dr Mallory might like to see them but I doubt if they would be of any help. He had a heart attack. It was his time.’

  Mrs Foster did seem remarkably composed for a woman who had recently lost her husband. Perhaps the reality had not hit her yet. Cruising is like being in another world, remote from real life. The truth would hit her when she got home and she suddenly realized that George was no longer there.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you to your book. Is it any good?’

  ‘Very intriguing thriller,’ she said. ‘And funny. A good author.’

  I left Mrs Foster with her intriguing thriller and hurried to the art gallery. They often closed early and then opened again in the evening when passengers were strolling around and might drop by for a look at the pictures.

  There was no one in the gallery which was strange. Pictures of all shapes and sizes hung on the walls and others wer
e propped on easels. Piles of highly illustrated brochures lay on small tables, along with the obligatory floral display. Everything was very tasteful. I looked at the price tags on the paintings. The prices were not exorbitant, but then they were mainly reproductions and prints. There were a few originals, mostly the ‘white and blue oil paint laid on with a knife’ school of art.

  ‘Hello,’ I called out. ‘Anyone around?’

  I picked up a brochure and flicked through it. Nice enough exotic pictures of Capri, Naples and Sorrento. A bit touristy. But then our passengers were tourists and if that’s they wanted for a souvenir, why not buy a picture to hang in the hallway?

  There was a small pen and ink print of an Egyptian cat, staring enigmatically into the distance. I liked it but I didn’t like it enough to buy it. My salary was going straight into my savings pot. I was saving up for a home, somewhere along the coast, where I could watch the sea all day long. My favourite occupation.

  ‘Hello again. Anyone here?’

  This was very unusual. The girls were usually careful never to leave the gallery unattended. They were a suspicious lot. Their stock was valuable. Walking off with a print would be somewhat difficult to disguise. A framed painting was not something easily wrapped in a beach towel and casually walked along a deck.

  Suddenly the lights went out. There were shutters which sealed the entrance to the gallery. They came down with a clattering and a clang. I ran to the entrance and banged on the grill.

  ‘Hey, don’t shut up. I’m in here.’

  I rattled the shutters. I had no idea how they worked, whether manually or automatic. For all I knew, the gallery manager could have activated them by remote control. I knocked into an easel and sent a painting flying.

  ‘Hells bells.’

  This was not funny. I had a million things to do and being locked in a darkened art gallery was not one of them. There was a phone on the sales desk. I checked her name, Tamara Fitzgibbons. I knew she wouldn’t be a plain Jane. The answer phone in her cabin took up the call.

  ‘This is Casey Jones, Entertainment Director. Please open the gallery immediately,’ I said. I wasn’t going to explain that I was locked in or why I was there.

  I waited about ten minutes. I righted the painting, hoping it wasn’t scratched or damaged. No gaping hole. I didn’t want to involve Richard Norton, especially since the warning that morning, when he had told me to keep out of the investigation. Susan was not an option. It would have to be the ship’s Lothario, if he was not otherwise engaged with current dark beauty.

  He answered the phone. ‘Dr Mallory.’

  ‘Are you busy?’ I asked.

  ‘Never too busy for you, Casey. How can I help? Twisted the other ankle?’

  ‘I’m locked in the art gallery. I can’t find Tamara Fitzgibbons. Would you phone some electrical engineer who knows how to open the shutters? Could you please contact the first officer and ask? He’s bound to be a buddy of yours.’

  ‘I guess I could do that for a buddy of mine.’ He was laughing. ‘Would you like me to pass you a sandwich through the bars? I’ve a few stale biscuits you can have.’

  ‘I don’t want anything except to get out. I feel so stupid, locked in here and I particularly don’t want anyone to know, so please don’t broadcast it over the loudspeaker system as a news flash.’

  ‘Operation rescue in motion. Stand by the phone, Casey, and keep calm. What’s the extension number?’

  ‘I’m always calm,’ I said gritting my teeth as I gave him the number.

  It seemed like hours but it wasn’t. I didn’t calm down but cursed myself for stupid blundering. It was none of my business. Why couldn’t I content myself with placating Estelle Grayson and standing in for the bingo caller? The ship’s resident comedian had already added my adventures to his repertoire, quipping last night about the cruise director who missed the cruise and had to be hauled aboard like a sack of cauliflowers.

  ‘The chef is adding the cheese sauce tonight,’ he’d said. His jokes were pretty awful. Several passengers had complained about his corny act. A comedian was difficult to pitch. Sometimes passengers were broadminded and laughed at anything. Another cruise and they would want a more sophisticated routine.

  The phone rang. ‘Hello,’ I said.

  It was Samuel. ‘Go to the back of the art gallery and open a cupboard door marked Private. You’ll find the key in the top desk drawer. Don’t ring off.’

  I did as I was told. Found the key and opened the cupboard door. It held stationery supplies, wrapping materials and some crates. It also had some bottles of flat champagne.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Cupboard door open.’

  ‘Go through the cupboard and you will find another door at the back, bolted and locked. The same key will open this door. Lock the first door behind you and proceed to freedom.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’ I asked, barely able to contain my embarrassment. I was so annoyed with myself.

  ‘Ship’s maps. Fascinating stuff.’ He rang off.

  He was irritatingly right. The back door of the cupboard opened on to a little used corridor that was a short cut for staff between two areas. I locked it behind me, knowing I would have to return the key to Tamara Fitzgibbons with some explanation. But now I was only too glad to be somewhere that I almost recognized.

  I went through some heavy curtains, clearly marked No Admittance, and knew exactly where I was. In minutes I was back in my office. We learn something new every day.

  Susan looked up. She’d been to the beauty salon again and had her hair done into a topknot with stiff ringlets. She was wearing an unflattering halter-necked red dress that highlighted her blotchy skin. Her feet were squeezed into pointy shoes that looked far too small.

  ‘Another date?’

  She smirked. ‘Dr Mallory seems quite smitten,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting him again for a drink up at the Lido Bar.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Make the most of it. He might take you on an evening of dancing. He loves dancing.’

  I knew Susan couldn’t dance in those shoes.

  Nineteen - Curaçao

  I didn’t tell anyone what I had found in the sales desk as I waited to be rescued.

  It was between me and a body in the freezer. It was an invoice. Nigel Garten had bought a painting to be shipped home, only a few hours before he died. It was called Sunset Over Amalfi and cost him £175 plus shipping, handling and insurance. His painting was waiting to be crated before being shipped home.

  It was really sad. Although Nigel Garten had gatecrashed parties I felt sure it was not for the free drinks. He was lonely. He needed to meet people. Given time and opportunity, I would have introduced him to someone. Maybe Mrs Laurent, the passenger with a broken ankle, might have suited him. She was good company and easy to get along with. She would have laughed at all his jokes.

  I went into low-profile mode for a fast round of the bars and venues, but made sure of an early night, and awoke to bright sunlight.

  Curaçao. I loved this island and Willemstad, the capital. It was half Caribbean, half Amsterdam, with delightful Dutch-style architecture. All candy-coloured colonial buildings with the distinctive gabled roofs. They were mainly merchant town houses, going back to the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. My spirits rose as the city loomed in the distance, a brisk ten-minute walk from the docks.

  The swinging Queen Emma Bridge that crossed over to Willemstad was closed due to maintenance and repairs. But there was a free ferry going backwards and forwards to the Handelskade embankment. A pleasant change not to be charged. Step on and step off. Buy a drink, go for a stroll, find the floating fish market. Some of the fish were still gasping. Have your photo taken with your supper.

  Many of the houses were graded now and in 1997 Willemstad joined the UNESCO heritage list. And not a moment too soon. Developers could have ruined the whole of this colourful city.

  And the islanders had a language of their own but I was too lazy to learn much.
It was Papiamentu, a blend of Dutch and African dialects. Bon bini was welcome, danki was thank you and Mi stimabo was I love you. That was as far as I’d got. All everyday useful phrases. Ayo was goodbye.

  Early this morning we’d taken the pilot on board and were making the final approach to Curaçao’s new cruise berth, the Mega Pier. The port was used a lot by oil tankers as there was a refinery close by which exported to the US and Europe.

  It was a pretty windy island, sitting right in the flow of the trade winds, usually a force four, northeasterly. There’d be a few hats blown off today. But no hurricanes. Curaçao escapes most of the big blows.

  There was going to be a Sailaway Art Auction in the late afternoon. It would be a good time to slip in to talk to Tamara. I’d already returned the key. I’d put it in an envelope with a note saying it was found by accident. She could make what she liked of that.

  A new entertainer was joining the Countess here. Ray Roeder, a big name from the Eighties. He was a fading pop star but still a name to draw audiences with his string of hits. Estelle’s nose would be put severely out of joint.

  He arrived in the agent’s car straight from Hato International Airport, instantly recognizable despite the greying floppy hair and roadmap of lines on his tanned face. He was the easiest person to get on with. No demands, no fuss, totally professional.

  ‘I need to get my head down for a couple of hours,’ he said. ‘Never can sleep on planes.’

  ‘Would you like something light sent to your cabin?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I feel as if I’ve already had four breakfasts. But I will take a quick look round Willemstad if there is time this afternoon. I’ve never been here before. All those colourful houses are fun.’

  ‘Apparently there was a governor who got migraines looking at sparkling white buildings so all the houses were repainted in pastel colours,’ I told him. ‘In the Scharlooweg area there’s a house called the Wedding Cake. It’s spectacular.’

  ‘I’ll make a point of looking for it and buy some of their famous orange liqueur.’