“I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Robin, or think I dislike Gene on principle.” She reached across the mattress to give my hand a squeeze. “Your Uncle Herman was my high school sweetheart, just as Gene was yours. Early marriages can work—my own certainly did—but both parties have to go into it with the understanding that they won’t be the same person in twenty or thirty years that they were in high school. You have to give one another permission to grow and change—and you each have to commit to loving the person the other becomes, as well as the one who said ‘I do.’ The Herman Watson who returned from the war was not the one who’d left with flags waving and bands playing. It changed him.”
“I knew he’d been awarded a Purple Heart, but I didn’t realize his injuries had been so serious.”
“Oh, they healed very well,” she assured me. “But I’m not talking about injuries, or at least, not only about injuries. He’d had experiences, he’d seen things, that were beyond my imagination. There were things he never told me about his war—probably because I could never have understood, even if he had. Mind you, I’d changed, too. I’d worked at a munitions plant during the war, and for the first time in my life I’d had money of my own, and no obligation to account to anyone as to how I spent it. I learned how to balance a checkbook, and how to manage ration coupons without using them all up in the first week of every month, and how to run the household on a budget. When Herman came home, I resented the idea that I should meekly surrender the household accounts and let him handle everything.” She smiled at the memory. “You may find it hard to imagine me fighting with your uncle, but I can promise you we had our share of battles on the subject before we reached a compromise.”
“I should think so!” I said, roused to her defense. “The idea that women can’t manage money—why, it’s absolutely Victorian!”
“Yes, and if you marry a man who’s off on a submarine for months at a time, you’ll have plenty of opportunity for handling the family finances. Still, there will always be new challenges. Times may change, but human nature doesn’t.”
“Gene would want me to be able to cope during his absences,” I insisted, but even as I said the words, I wondered if they were true. To be sure, Gene had been proud when I’d been named salutatorian of our senior class, and he’d been pleased as punch when I’d received a modest scholarship to the state university. “It’ll be something to keep you busy while I’m at sea,” he’d said at the time, and I hadn’t argued, because I’d seen it in much the same way. But as Maggie suggested, the Robin he’d be coming home to would not be the Robin he’d left. What would Gene think of this new Robin, the one who’d climbed up the side of a moving ship, and who seemed to have become embroiled in some sort of skullduggery at sea—and who had kissed a handsome foreigner on a sun-drenched Greek island without a second thought?
Before I could begin to form an answer, a knock sounded on Maggie’s stateroom door.
“Drat! Can you see who that is, honey?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, grateful for the interruption. I unfolded my legs and crossed the tiny cabin to open the door. The cabin steward stood there holding an alligator handbag.
“Good evening, Miss Fletcher. Is Mrs. Watson in?”
“Yes, but she’s indisposed at present.” I gestured inside the cabin to where Maggie sat propped up against the headboard with a pillow beneath her foot. She wiggled her fingers at the steward, giving him to understand that I could act on her behalf.
“Miss Fletcher, I am pleased to report that your aunt’s handbag has been found.”
I couldn’t remember Maggie ever having an alligator handbag, much less losing one. Still, it did look vaguely familiar. “My aunt’s—?”
His smile faded. “I apologize for the delay. It was found up on the Promenade Deck late last night, and with all the activity following the disturbance—” His suddenly sober expression gave me to understand that he was talking about Sylvia Duprée’s death.
“Of course. But are you certain this belongs to my aunt?”
If he was certain before, he didn’t look quite so sure now. “You must ask her, of course, but the key to this stateroom was found inside, and since the ship’s manifest shows this cabin registered to Mrs. Watson, we naturally assumed it must be hers.”
“Of course,” I said again. My brain was spinning, for I had just recognized where I’d seen this particular handbag before. I thanked the cabin steward and shut the door.
“Maggie,” I said unsteadily, turning back into the room, “is this your purse?”
“No, but I’ll take it if no one else wants it.” She eyed the bag appreciatively. “I’d be willing to bet that’s genuine alligator.”
“You’d win that bet. It belonged to Sylvia Duprée. She bought it when we were in Rome.”
“So why did the steward bring it here?”
“It was found on the Promenade Deck last night. Your stateroom key was inside.”
“So that’s what happened to it! I suppose I must have lost it on the bus that day, and Sylvia found it.” Her expression grew sober. “Poor Sylvia! I never even had a chance to thank her.”
I made no comment. I didn’t think Sylvia deserved thanks. In fact, I thought I had discovered the reason she had clung so tightly to my aunt during our excursion to Rome. I recalled the signs of untidiness in Maggie’s stateroom, and wondered for the first time if the intruder in my cabin yesterday had broken into my room only after unsuccessfully searching my aunt’s. But surely those footfalls I’d been conscious of inside my own stateroom must have been made by someone heavier than the slender Frenchwoman. Did she have an accomplice—Mr. Devos, perhaps? And if so, what had they been looking for? I couldn’t begin to guess. I only hoped the trouble, whatever it might have been, had died with her.
“I suppose we’d better make sure the bag is returned to Mr. Grimes,” Maggie continued. “He’ll be leaving the ship tomorrow when we dock in Istanbul, accompanying Sylvia’s body back to France, or wherever it is she’ll be buried. Would you mind taking it back down to the purser’s desk? I would, but—” She gestured toward her injured foot.
“Of course.” Actually, I had no intention of taking it down to the purser’s desk. I was going up to Aegea Deck, where the luxury suites were, and I was going to put it in Mr. Grimes’s hands myself. And while I was at it, I was going to see what I could learn about Sylvia Duprée. “I’ll be right back.”
Upstairs on Aegea Deck, I discovered eight identical doors arranged in paired groups of four, all spaced more widely apart than the cabins on the lower decks. Clearly, these were the larger suites—and outside each door, just as outside our own, a small nameplate held a card containing the last name and first initial of the passengers staying in it; the only difference was that these nameplates were made of polished brass, while our own was a far more mundane aluminum. Two of the plates were empty—apparently not all the suites were occupied—and a third bore an unfamiliar name that looked Oriental. I was just about to move farther down to inspect the next group when one of the doors opened and a uniformed crew member backed into the passageway, still talking to someone inside.
“—when we dock in Istanbul. Someone will come to fetch you, and transport to the airport has been arranged. Let me say again on behalf of the captain and crew of the Oceanus how very sorry we are for your loss. We take the safety of our passengers very seriously, and will continue to look into the cause of this tragic incident.”
“Thank you, and please express my gratitude to the captain and crew for all you have done.” The cultured voice belonged to Mr. Grimes, but he sounded weary and—and old in a way he had not before.
As the door closed behind him, the crewman gave a brief nod in my direction and took himself off, no doubt relieved to have his unpleasant duty done, at least until the ship docked in the morning. I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps on the midships staircase, then stepped up to Mr. Grimes’s door and rapped gently.
It swung
open at once. “Yes, what else—? Oh, forgive me, Miss Fletcher. What may I do for you?”
“I wanted to return this to you.” I handed over the alligator bag, feeling vaguely ratlike for harboring ulterior motives. “It was Miss Duprée’s. She’d bought it when we were in Rome. My aunt lost her cabin key that day, and apparently Miss Duprée found it, because it was in her bag. The purser’s mate returned the bag to my aunt by mistake.”
“Thank you.” He took the bag and turned it over in his hands as if he didn’t know quite what to do with it. Mr. Grimes had always struck me as a man who would never be at a loss, whatever the situation, and I found his changed demeanor pathetic.
“Mr. Grimes,” I said impulsively, “will there be someone to go to the airport with you tomorrow? I mean, if not, I would be happy to—” Maybe “happy” was the wrong word, but I couldn’t leave this man to face such a task alone, no matter my opinion of the woman he mourned.
“You are a very sweet young lady,” he told me with a sad smile, “but you need not worry about me. My children have flown to Constantinople”—he used the old name for the city—“and will be waiting at the dock when I disembark. One of the ship’s crew has been assigned to accompany me down the ramp as well, so I won’t be alone.”
“I’m glad of that, anyway.”
He regarded me speculatively. “Tell me, Miss Fletcher, what is your shoe size?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My daughter never liked Sylvia,” he said, and somehow I wasn’t surprised; as a prospective stepmother, she would be the kind of woman who inspired a hundred fairy tales. “I doubt my Marla would have any interest in owning any of Sylvia’s possessions. But poor Sylvia had enjoyed that day in Rome with you and your aunt, and hers was a life that had known its share of tragedy. I think she would have wanted you to have these—this handbag and the shoes that match it, if you can wear them.”
To my shame, I knew a moment of pure, unadulterated greed. “I—I would be honored,” I said, trying not to betray any unseemly eagerness.
“If you’ll come inside, then, I’ll fetch them for you.”
He stood aside to let me pass, and I stifled a gasp. This, I decided at once, was the way to travel. Where my stateroom was only slightly larger than the average walk-in closet, this one had a separate living room with wood-paneled walls. There was no sign of a bed—a fact that spared me, at least, any of the details regarding Mr. Grimes’s and Miss Duprée’s sleeping arrangements—so I could only assume the suite contained a separate bedroom. One corner of the living room was taken up with what appeared to be a compact yet fully stocked bar, and on the outer wall, sliding doors opened onto a small balcony. Which raised yet another question regarding Sylvia Duprée’s death: with her own private balcony to enjoy, what had she been doing on one of the public decks?
“Here they are.” Mr. Grimes emerged from the bedroom area bearing a red and white cardboard box I recognized at once from my shopping trip with Sylvia Duprée. “The box says they’re size thirty-eight, but that will be a European size. How it translates into American sizing, I have no idea.”
“Neither do I,” I confessed. Although I’d bought a pair of leather sandals at the same shop, I didn’t remember what size they were, if I had ever noticed it at all. I’d just tried on pairs until I’d found one that fit. I took the box Mr. Grimes offered, removed the lid, and carefully lifted one of the high-heeled shoes from its tissue paper nest. I felt a bit like Cinderella as I slid my foot inside—and doubly so when I discovered it fit.
“Perfect!” I pronounced, rolling my ankle back and forth to admire the effect. I was sorely tempted to put the other shoe on and strut back and forth across the cabin like a model on the catwalk, but managed to restrain my eagerness when I considered how these shoes had come into my possession.
Mr. Grimes’s thoughts must have been running along similar lines. “I would be honored if you would take these, Miss Fletcher, and wear them in memory of poor Sylvia. She did so enjoy shopping with you that day in Rome.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grimes, I will. She was a wonderful shopping companion. Her tastes were exquisite, but she had an eye for a bargain, as well.” I meant the compliment just as sincerely as I’d ever meant anything—but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to get what information I could before basic courtesy demanded that I leave the chief mourner in peace. “But you said her life had been tragic. In what way? If you don’t mind my asking,” I added quickly.
“I don’t see how it can hurt; nothing can hurt her anymore,” he said with a sigh. “Sylvia was a widow. She’d made a hasty marriage during the war—so many young women did, you understand, not knowing if their sweethearts would be alive to marry them afterwards—and her husband was a hero of the Resistance. He managed to come through relatively unscathed, but jobs were scarce, and the country could, or would, do nothing to help. The economy was wrecked after the Nazi occupation, and the nation had no money to spare, not even for her heroes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. It didn’t shed any light on her death, much less her quarrel with Devos, but it explained, at least to some extent, why she’d latched onto a wealthy man decades older than herself.
“I may be old, Miss Fletcher, but I’m not stupid,” the wealthy man in question said with a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. “I knew exactly what appeal I held for Sylvia, and I could not fault her for it. She’d been poor and hungry. Who can blame her for wanting to enjoy a taste of luxury before her youth slipped away?”
I glanced from the alligator shoes in my lap to the luxurious cabin in which I sat, and thought he’d given Sylvia more than just a taste.
“My children didn’t understand,” he continued. “They thought she was taking advantage of me, or maybe they feared I was frittering away on Sylvia the money they hoped would someday be their inheritance. But I had needs of my own, too. I needed companionship—beauty—youth—”
It was hard for me, at twenty-three, to think of Sylvia’s forty as being young, but I supposed to Mr. Grimes it was.
“I was tired of being alone,” he said with a shrug. “My wife had died years ago, and my children were busy with their own lives, which is as it should be. As long as we weren’t hurting anyone else, what did it matter?”
Clearly, something about Sylvia had “mattered” to someone. Mr. Grimes picked up a long-necked square bottle from a small table next to the sofa and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass. His hand shook slightly—no surprise there, given what he’d been through—and when he picked up the glass, I noticed for the first time the numerous residual rings on the tabletop. How many times, I wondered, had that glass been refilled in the last twenty-four hours? His manner toward me had been so urbane, so charming, that I hadn’t noticed he’d been drinking. And apparently drinking a lot, for the bottle was almost empty. Drowning his grief—or, perhaps, anesthetizing a guilty conscience? Was it possible Devos was not the villain of the piece after all, but one-third of a love triangle? I’d never even thought of that possibility, but wasn’t the spouse or lover the first person the police looked at in the case of murder, or possible murder? True, there had been no hint of anything between Sylvia and Devos at the dinner table, but she struck me as too smart, or at least too cunning, to tip her hand. If that was the case, then their quarrel in Pompeii may have been about nothing more sinister than a frustrated lover’s demand that his mistress make up her mind and choose between him and another. And if that was the case, then my own name might have meant nothing more than Devos venting his frustration at the dining room seating arrangements that placed him between me and Mrs. Hollis, as far as possible from Sylvia.
Was the whole thing really that simple? Had I created a mystery where none existed, all because I’d seen Devos up on deck in the middle of the night? Granted, there was something about that scenario that didn’t quite add up, something that concerned Markos and the photos I’d taken in Pisa, but my adventure at sea was begin
ning to catch up with me, and I was too tired to think any more. Perhaps my head would be clearer in the morning, but in the meantime, I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. For if Sylvia’s death had been what the mystery novels called a crime of passion, then my own personal nightmare—most of which would have turned out to be all in my head after all—should end with Mr. Grimes’s departure from the ship in less than eight hours.
Still, if Mr. Grimes had shoved Sylvia overboard in a fit of jealousy, then I was at that moment alone in the suite with a murderer. Discretion being the better part of valor, I rose to my feet, thanking him for the shoes and bag and expressing my condolences once again (with mixed emotions this time) before returning to my cabin, where I soon slept the sleep of the just.
Chapter 12
Beware of desp’rate steps!
WILLIAM COWPER, The Needless Alarm
The next morning, I rose and dressed for the day in Istanbul, then took a circuitous route to the dining room that would take me past the ship’s camera shop. I hadn’t seen Markos since I’d climbed up the side of the ship and into his arms, and I wasn’t quite sure what I would say to him when I did. Had our little escapade on Mykonos gotten him a dressing down from the captain for missing the “all aboard”? If so, I owed him an apology. As for me, I had a fiancé, for heaven’s sake! What had I been thinking, kissing a handsome Greek while the boy I’d loved since high school was somewhere at sea serving his country? To my shame, I felt far worse about the possibility of causing trouble for Markos than I did the fact that I’d betrayed my fiancé. When I reached the camera shop and found it closed, I hardly knew what to think. I was spared, at least for a while, the necessity of seeing Markos again and explaining why the most glorious experience of my life had been a terrible mistake—the kiss, that is, not the nerve-racking climb up the side of a moving ship; on the other hand, I couldn’t help wondering if his absence from the shop meant that our indiscretion had cost him his job.
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