By the time the coffee had percolated, Natasha came out dressed in ivory slacks and a pale pink silky tank top with her wet hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“How do you feel?”
“Fuzzy. I don’t like sleeping pills.” She slumped on the bar stool across from me.
I handed her a cup of coffee and took her in.
“Well you look a lot better. You needed sleep.”
“I’m never going to care about how I look again.”
“That’s silly,” I said.
We sat there in silence for a moment sipping our coffee. Then the boat engines, a constant rumble and vibration, turned off. We both glanced toward the wall of windows.
“Oh!” Her exclamation was the first time I’d heard any energy in her voice since she’d found Henry missing.
The endless blue of the sea had been replaced with square white buildings perched on a hillside reflected the sunrise. Small oats dotted the water between the cruise ship and shore. Tangier. Morocco.
We both went out on the balcony. I lit two cigarettes and handed her one.
“It’s just like I imagined it,” Natasha said in a small voice. “I’d told Henry I’d always dreamed of coming here. Casablanca is my very favorite movie of all time. I watched it when I was fifteen, and it changed my life. I had no idea life could be like that. That’s one reason he booked this trip.” She turned to me. “This vacation was partly so I could go to Casablanca. Henry didn’t care where we went. He just wanted me to be happy. You see, I didn’t grow up rich like Henry.”
I tried to not act surprised.
“I grew up poor in the Ukraine. In fact,” she cast a glance my way. “I grew up with a different name. Natalie. I invented Natasha as soon as I left our village at eighteen. I never want to be Natalie again. She is homely and shy and awkward. But Natasha is chic and flirtatious and confident.”
All I could think about was the stack of passports. “Did you legally change your name?”
“Huh?” She shot me a quick glance.
“Are you still legally Natalie?” I held my breath waiting.
“No. I changed my name to Natasha when I married Henry. When you fill out the marriage license, you can become anyone you want.”
“You said you left your home when you were eighteen, but you’ve only been married to Henry for six months. When exactly did you become Natasha?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” She turned and walked back inside.
I went inside when I heard the elevator ding. I hovered in the background, pretending to snoop in the refrigerator for breakfast as Natasha headed to the foyer.
I recognized the voice right away.
Detective Solange.
“This is our first port of call since your husband disappeared. We are keeping track of who gets on and off the ship. Trust me, we will know if someone gets off and doesn’t return. But we have you signed up for the day trip to Casablanca. I wanted to know if you are planning on going?”
“No. God no,” Natasha said.
“Good,” the detective said.
I stepped into the room. I watched the detective carefully, but she didn’t act surprised to see me there.
“Of course, she’s going,” I said. I turned toward Natasha. “You told me earlier you’d dreamed of coming here ever since you were a child. You are going.”
“But that was before,” she said.
“I think it’s a good idea.” I said, crossing my arms.
Detective Solange remained expressionless. I turned to her.
“Unless she’s under arrest, I see no reason she can’t take the excursion to shore.”
The seconds stretched in silence, and finally the detective nodded slowly.
“You said you are keeping track of who comes and goes off the ship, right?” I said. “What about Sharon Long? You are keeping track of her whereabouts I hope?”
The detective raised an eyebrow.
“We have this under control, thank you for your concern.” She punched the elevator button. “I will keep you apprised of the investigation. We will have more experts on the case once we reach Lisbon.”
After the elevator doors slid closed, I stubbed out my cigarette.
“I need to go back to my cabin to change and shower. Are you going to be okay here in the meantime?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes. I think so. I’m just worried about being alone when I sleep or shower. I should be fine now. Can I meet you at your cabin in an hour?”
I gave her the suite number and headed back. After a long shower, I took my time doing my makeup, sipping on a small glass of bourbon.
When she arrived, Natasha actually looked a little bit back to normal.
She wore a snug white tank top, a flowing pink and orange print maxi skirt, and tan gladiator sandals. An oversize, filmy pink wrap was draped across her shoulders, and she wore massive white-framed sunglasses. As soon as she came in, she pushed up her sunglasses, flung her wrap on my bed and looked around with wide eyes.
“This is nice.”
“Very funny.”
She cracked a grin. It was a hovel compared to her penthouse.
“Gia, don’t forget I didn’t grow up rich. I’m not spoiled.”
“That’s true.” I smiled. “It’s probably why we get along so well.”
She threw open my closet doors. “I couldn’t decide what to wear. Can I see what you have?”
I swallowed my irritation. Maybe this is what female friends did. Snooped. Then I was flushed with guilt. I’d sure as hell snooped in her closet, hadn’t I?
“Uh, sure. Go ahead and look.” I eyed her long skirt. It probably wasn’t the best choice. I could imagine it sweeping up all the dirt as we walked city streets and temples.
Leaning over my dresser mirror, I finished applying dark kohl around my eyes. I’d pulled on some black linen ankle pants and a black linen button down top, leaving the top button undone. Worn with espadrilles, a large straw hat, and dark sunglasses, I was ready to explore Morocco.
“This! This is cute!” She pulled out a strapless red sundress. “Can I try it on?”
“It’s probably not great for sightseeing. Aren’t we visiting caves and mausoleums?”
She frowned. “Yeah, you’re right.”
My fingers itched to grab her arm and yank her away from my things. But I’d done even worse with my own snooping. I wondered if Henry had a stack of fake IDs as well. Maybe they were con artists, maybe that’s why he’d been killed. My eyes widened at the thought.
“Hey, why did you change your name again?”
She froze.
Well, it was awkward. There was no reason for my question. No context. Nothing.
I watched her back stiffen. I couldn’t see her face. Then she exclaimed loudly. “These! Please can I try them on? Like you said, I’ll be doing touristy things. This skirt isn’t very practical.”
She held out a pair of white Capri pants.
I shrugged. White was still a shitty choice but possibly a tad better than that long-ass skirt she had on. “I’m not sure we’re the same size, but go for it.” I watched her. It hadn’t escaped me that she’d deftly avoided my question about changing her name.
“I’ll just go in the bathroom and try them on where there is a good mirror,” she said. Leaning over she plucked her bag from the top of my dresser. “Besides I have to fix my makeup.”
I was surprised by her modesty. But whatever.
Like I kept being reminded: I didn’t know how to do girlfriends. I’d only had boyfriends.
After a few minutes, she came out in the pants. They fit perfectly.
“Do you mind? I love them.”
“Wear them. It’s fine.” I tried to smile, even though I was slightly annoyed. God, this girly stuff was exhausting. I glanced at my watch. “We’ve got to go.”
I followed her out, but as soon as we were in the hall, she slapped her palm to her head. “Oh, shoot. I left my lipstick in you
r bathroom. Do you mind?” She gestured to the door.
If she said, “Do you mind?” one more time I was going to scream. Guys didn’t say that. Why did women? I wasn’t sure if I said it, too, but I vowed to never say it again.
I punched in my code.
“I’ll be right back,” she said and slipped inside.
I leaned against the wall in the hall. It was nice to see Natasha back to normal but it was tiring to be around her. Did all female friends need this much attention and energy? Guys were so much easier. They said what they thought and didn’t preface everything by making sure the other person was okay with what they said and did.
Men suited me much better.
But I couldn’t help but smile. I liked being friends with Natasha. It was fun. Fun wasn’t necessarily a natural part of my life. It was something that had definitely been missing. But then I remembered the stack of passports. What was that about? I didn’t think I should trust Natasha. Not just yet. She was hiding something. And what the hell was taking her so long? I moved to the door, ready to punch the keypad, when it opened.
“Sorry,” she said and looped her arm through mine. “You ready? I’m so excited!” But then her smile faded. “God, I’m a beast. I feel so guilty. Henry is dead and here I am acting giddy about going to Casablanca.”
I also felt torn. As if we should be tracking down and confronting Sharon Long instead of gallivanting around in Africa. But I also knew Natasha needed to do this. It was a small thing that would help take her mind off her grief.
“Natasha,” I said. “It’s okay. Really. I’ve been where you are. You still have to live. It’s okay to find joy even as you grieve. When someone you love dies, it doesn’t mean you have to die with them.”
Shaking her head, she kept walking without answering.
Chapter Twelve
Chop-Chop
Tangier
The sun beat down on us without mercy.
We savored our view of Morocco from the harbor as our ship coasted in to the dock.
White-washed buildings—Andalusian, Moorish, and Colonial styles—dotted the hillside before us.
As soon as we stepped onto land, we were assaulted with the smoky, spicy smells of Morocco. It smelled warm and fragrant like a sultry exotic perfume. I inhaled deeply and stretched.
To my right, a golden beach was dotted with figures in colorful swimsuits and, to my surprise, camels! I spotted three of them on the beach before I was shuttled off to a van waiting to take us into Tangier proper.
Even though it was less than one hundred feet from the port turnstile to our waiting driver, no fewer than three men approached and offered to give us private tours of the city.
Natasha kept her head high and averted her eyes, as if she were a celebrity fending off paparazzi. I wasn’t so passive.
When one man reached for Natasha, saying he’d pay twenty camels for a redhead like her, I grasped his wrist and twisted it so hard he howled in pain. He scowled and took off as soon as I released him. I raised my eyebrow at his companion, who glared at me but then slunk off to accost some Canadian tourists.
Mosquitos. I remembered hearing someone on the ship saying the hawkers who greet the cruise ship tourists were called this. That’s fine. I had no problem squishing pesky bugs. Especially if they bit.
But we weren’t staying in Tangier long. We had a hot date with Casablanca. We’d have time to explore the medina and do some shopping later. We were the only ones on our small cruise ship that had opted for the Casablanca leg of the excursion, so we got a private tour vehicle—a new SUV.
Our driver waited at the appointed meeting place and introduced himself as Chop-Chop.
“As in C-H-O-P C-H-O-P?” I asked.
He nodded with a big grin.
“Okay,” I said, and got in.
We stopped at the Cave of Hercules where the sea pours in through an opening that is the shape of Africa and then traveled along the coast with stunning views of the ocean.
As we approached the legendary city, Casablanca didn’t look to be anything special. A big metro area with skyscrapers.
Natasha’s face fell.
“This is it?” Her voice was soft.
“I had no idea it was a big city,” I said.
Chop-Chop shrugged. “It’s modern. This is industrial center of Morocco. The port is one of the largest artificial ports in the world.”
“It’s just so…big,” Natasha said.
“Nearly 4 million in city. About 7 million in area,” he said.
But once we got out of our vehicle, Natasha was like a little girl. Curious about everything and exclaiming over the architecture, the people, the bazaar—called a souk—and the Hassan II Mosque. There was still a heavy pallor of sadness over her, though.
I’d catch her with a look of sorrow wiping away a stray tear, but then turning to me to try to smile. I didn’t know what to do or say except be there for her.
We stopped for Moroccan mint tea and tiny pastries for a late lunch before we got back in the SUV for the Casablanca movie portion of the tour. It essentially consisted of a visit to Rick’s Café in the old medina section of the city. But it was a replica of the nightclub used in the movie. As soon as we pulled up and Natasha saw the masses of white tourists wearing spandex and fanny packs, her mood grew sour.
“I don’t want to go inside,” she said. “It will ruin the image I have in my mind. It is a tourist trap.”
She was right.
“Should we go somewhere else?” I asked.
She nodded furiously.
“I hate it. I hate that they did that.” Her voice was vicious. I’d never heard her angry so this surprised me. “A fake. They ruined everything.”
Her phone buzzed and she glanced down at it and scowled.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. The detective asking when we were coming back aboard?”
“Really?” It was my turn to scowl.
“It’s fine,” she said.
“They’re grasping at straws. She’s a rent-a-cop. Not a real detective anyway. As soon as we get to Lisbon, they’ll bring the big guns aboard.”
She frowned. “Why Lisbon?”
“I think because Henry is a EU citizen they want it investigated that way.”
Nodding, she leaned forward and spoke in Chop-Chop’s ear. “Can we go back to Tangier early?”
He nodded. She sat back and closed her eyes.
For a second I was going to argue with her and say maybe I wasn’t done with Casablanca. But I was. It was her dream. Not mine.
The sun was low in the sky when we arrived back in Tangier and Chop-Chop dropped us off at what he called “a hidden treasure” restaurant.
It was at the far edge of the medina—the old walled city within Tangier. The medina was comprised of a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets for pedestrians only and was surrounded by the walls of a 15th century fortress.
We sat at an outside table and took in the scenery. The sidewalk café gave us ample opportunities for people watching. Down the street, boys kicked around a soccer ball. Men wearing djellabas clustered in corners, smoking. Women carrying baskets laden with vegetables passed by. A few Americans and Europeans wandered past, clutching plastic bags of souvenirs.
I kept an eye out in case Sharon Long passed by. I wasn’t yet convinced she’d murdered Henry, but I sure as hell had a few things to ask her about. So far, she looked good for it.
A waiter brought us fragrant bowls of tagine and thick bread to sop it up with, some couscous with herbs and more mint tea. Natasha ordered a bottle of wine, and I didn’t object.
We didn’t have to return to the ship until seven.
Natasha kept glancing at her phone.
I was getting antsy. The sightseeing was fun, but I was eager to confront Sharon Long.
“Do you think she stayed onboard the ship?” I asked.
Natasha knew who I was talking about.
“I have no idea. Hopefully, t
hey’ve arrested her by now.”
“Are you still getting texts from Solange?”
She didn’t answer.
After our meal, I downed the rest of my wine and stood, eager to start back to the ship so I could start digging around.
But Natasha grabbed my arm. “First let’s have a cigarette, and then we’ll go shopping.”
I glanced at my watch. We still had more than an hour until the boat left for the ship. I was happy to see her good spirits restored. I sat back down and handed her my cigarette pack with my small pink lighter stuck in the plastic lining.
After we each smoked a cigarette, we headed for the heart of the medina, which lured us with exotic colors, sounds, and smells from the souk—the marketplace. Stands crowded the sides of the narrow street, filled with spices, rugs, silks, and flowers. On some stretches, women had fresh produce displayed for sale on colorful blankets.
At one stand, manned by a cute, dark-skinned vendor with a short beard and piercing blue eyes, Natasha grabbed a long, silk scarf from a table and swished it around, moving her hips suggestively to the music of a nearby lutist.
I hadn’t seen those moves on the ship’s dance floor.
“Brava!” I said when she was done, and both men broke into applause.
She tried to give the man money for the scarf, but he refused.
“No. You give me such pleasure knowing you will own that scarf. Please take.” He put his hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “My gift.” He folded it in a neat bundle and tied it with a silk ribbon.
She bowed and accepted it. We walked on.
“That was something else,” I said.
As we walked through the narrow streets, she spoke without looking at me.
“Even though I grew up poor, my uncle—well, that’s what we called him—paid for my Hopak dance training. It incorporates dancing, singing, martial arts, playing a musical instrument, sword fighting, and becoming fluent in several languages.”
I thought about what she said. “Sounds like finishing school for bad ass girls to me. Sign me up.”
She looked down. “It is only for men. My uncle chopped off my hair and made me dress like a man for the training.”
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