Decked Page 11

  Last night Violet had complained because the patch didn’t work. This morning she’s complaining because it fell off. Eyeing Violet with a manufactured look of sympathy on her face, Sylvie sized her up quickly. Early seventies, a good ten years older than her brother, with an expensive gray-and-white cotton dress that fell in a precise line from shoulder to mid-calf. It looks like a cover for an ironing board, Sylvie thought, and immediately proceeded to admire it. You’re not going to squeeze me out, toots, she exulted as for a fleeting moment Violet visibly thawed.

  “Gray is my favorite color,” she acknowledged, then pointed in the direction of the bar. “That young man looks familiar. I’m sure we have met him somewhere.”

  Sylvie and Milton turned to follow her outstretched index finger. Cameron Hardwick was the object of Violet’s attention.

  Terrific, Sylvie thought. Let him keep her busy. Jumping up, she waved vigorously to Cameron, beckoning him to the table. He picked up his drink and began to cross the deck toward them.

  Sylvie explained, “Cameron is seated at our table.”

  “I don’t remember him, Violet,” Milton said.

  When Hardwick reached them, Sylvie swiftly began introductions. “And Mrs. Cohn is sure she knows you from somewhere.”

  Violet was staring at him with the intensity of a hawk about to descend on its prey. “I never forget a face. They used to say Herbert Hoover could kiss a baby when it was fourteen months old and recognize it twenty years later when it was eligible to vote. As my brother will verify, I have that same talent.”

  And I’ll bet she never forgets a grudge either, Sylvie thought.

  Violet narrowed her eyes. “It was ten or twelve years ago. Which trip? Oh, I know. Milton, remember when we went to Greece?” She turned to Sylvie. “It was eleven years ago. My dear husband Bruce had just died.” Her face brightened. To Sylvie her smile was a triumphant snarl. “You were working in the Olympic Hotel as a waiter.”

  Hardwick’s face darkened to crimson, then purple. “I’ve never been to Greece. I think you ought to have that memory of yours checked.” He turned on his heel as Milton Wanamaker jumped up. “See here,” Milton protested.

  Sylvie put a restraining hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry I asked him over. I had no idea—”

  Violet looked intensely satisfied. “Obviously he doesn’t like to be reminded he was a waiter. He’s probably insinuating he was born to the purple. Milton, remember how Sir John and Lady Victoria joked about the dreadful people who brag about fine connections?”

  Sylvie saw the pride with which Violet dropped the names of her titled friends. Inspiration struck her. “It just occurred to me . . .” She hesitated. Should she call the battle axe Violet or Mrs. Cohn? Violet. We’re going to see a lot of each other. “... I mean, I was just thinking, Violet, that you’d very much enjoy meeting Lady Exner, who also sits at my table. We’ve become very friendly and she’s already suggested that I visit her estate in Oxford. It’s called . . .” Oh, heck, what’s it called? Sylvie thought frantically. Lolly? Louie? Lew . . . Lew . . . “Llewellyn Hall!”

  Violet joyously agreed that a drink with Lady Exner during the Captain’s Cocktail Party tonight would be a great pleasure. Then, sighing, she said her stomach was really pitching with the way the ship was rocking, and would dear Milton escort her to her cabin for a brief lie-down before luncheon?

  Why don’t you just get on your broom and fly back? Sylvie thought.

  LADY EXNER AND Regan had lunch served on the iwprivate deck of the suite. As Regan pointed out, “Veronica, you’ve done the Sit-and-Be-Fit class; you’ve had a boat drill; you’ve attended a financial lecture, and it’s just past noon. Why don’t we order salads and relax for a couple of hours?”

  “An excellent idea,” Veronica agreed merrily. “The psychic session is at two-thirty, and before one consults with a psychic, one should meditate. Get in touch with one’s inner life, deepest feelings, profound, unvoiced emotions.”

  There’s nothing unvoiced in your life, Regan thought as she reached for the room-service menu. “How does chicken salad sound?”

  “Delightful. Perfect for this balmy, sun-filled day. And don’t forget a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

  “I just hope Philip and your accountant don’t think the Dom Perignon is my idea,” Regan commented.

  “It’s absolutely none of their business whether I drink dishwater or Dom Perignon,” Veronica replied. “Besides, I foot the bill for acres of flowers every year that do not survive the winter chill.”

  She’s more worldly than I realized, Regan thought with a grin. “No flies on you, Veronica.”

  “Such a quaint American expression, and you’re absolutely right.”

  The champagne did the double duty of keeping Veronica’s spirits joyous throughout lunch and then putting her to sleep in the chaise longue on the deck as soon as she laid down her fork. Regan sipped her second glass as she stared out at the horizon.

  The soft peal of the telephone did not disturb Veronica’s mercifully even breathing. Regan hurried to answer it. Who would possibly be calling? Surely not Luke or Nora. Livingston? “Hello.” Regan realized she sounded nervous.

  A crackling sound filled her ear. “Hold on, please, from New York.” Do operators purposely sound like Lily Tomlin? Regan wondered.

  “Regan,” a voice boomed. “How was the reunion? I hear Athena put in an appearance.”

  “JEFF.” Regan laughed reluctantly. “I gather Kit filled you in.”

  “I talked to her last night. I had called New Jersey expecting to find you keening for your father’s clients at Reilly’s Remains.” His tone changed, became solicitous. “How are you doing? From what Kit tells me, you’ve taken on quite a job.”

  Veronica’s breathing was changing to a short-long-short wheeze. Through the open door to the sun deck, Regan eyed her apprehensively. “For one thing, I’m sitting here drinking Dom Perignon.”

  “Save some for me.”

  “Too late. The bottle’s upside down in the ice bucket. What are you doing in New York?”

  “I’m here for a couple of weeks working on a film.”

  “Oh, anything good?” Regan asked.

  “It’s an action film. I play a burglar who turns out to have a heart of gold.” Jeff paused and then added, “It’ll probably go straight to video.”

  “I’ll be looking for it on the Disney Channel,” Regan chuckled. As she gave him the details of their expected docking time and place, she visualized Jeff, the slight frown of concentration that creased his forehead, the thick dark brown hair, the hazel eyes, the mustache that he was always shaving off and growing back, the six-foot-three linebacker build. No question about it. He was a hunk. “Okay then. I’ll see you Saturday,” Regan said, feeling a welcome boost. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Jeff said.

  “Me too.”

  Veronica bobbed up just as Regan replaced the receiver. “My dear, you should have called me. Who was that?”

  “A friend I’ll be seeing in New York.”

  “A man, I hope?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “I’m so glad. Regan, dear, you must be quite special to him if he phoned you all the way from New York.”

  “Believe me, Veronica, that doesn’t necessarily mean a thing. I’ve had guys call me from halfway around the world who didn’t call when they got home. Sometimes I think long distance is even better than being there.”

  “Where are their manners?” Veronica sighed. “I guess they threw away the mold when dear Gilbert entered this sphere. Well, let’s be off to the psychic and see if she has any favorable predictions for our loving, yearning psyches.”

  Regan felt the chicken salad rise in her throat.

  THE PSYCHIC SESSION with Madame Lily Spoker began promptly at two-thirty in the Theatre. Regan judged Madame Spoker to be about fifty years old, with large dark eyes, a generous Roman nose, a wide mouth, and brassy red h
air that straggled out from an iridescent turban. She wore a v-necked rust-colored satin blouse which was not intended to conceal her swelling bosom, and a swirly multicolored skirt that swished in unison with the unmistakable sound of panty-hosed thighs vigorously chafing each other as she made her way to the lectern.

  Regan had noticed Nora seated in the rear on the right and deliberately steered Veronica to the two vacant seats near Kenneth and Dale, who were settled in the first row on the left. Dale leaned over to them and raised his eyebrows. “We figured this was too good to pass up.”

  “Isn’t this thrilling?” Veronica chirped. “Ssshhh. She’s about to start.”

  Madame Spoker beamed at them. “I can tell this is going to be a most interesting and productive session. My vibrations are very strong. Many people come to psychic sessions to scoff. If some of you feel this way, I assure you when you leave you will not be scoffing.

  “The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing. I submit to you that the head also has reasons of which reason knows nothing. From eons ago, before time began, your fate was written in the stars. What you were, what you would be, was already decided.” She threw out her arms and closed her eyes. “I know the questions in your minds. Why then, am I here?”

  That’s what I was wondering, Regan thought.

  “I will tell you why—because to all of us is given, at defined points in our lives—a crossroads. If we do this, one scenario will follow. If we do something else, a far less favorable, perhaps even tragic, result will occur. I cannot believe that every one of you did not at some time have a premonition, a feeling, a warning that you ignored. That was your subconscious trying to point you toward the good path, to warn you of the perils of the other one.”

  Her voice dropped dramatically, became a near whisper.

  “In most of us that secret voice is too still, too small, a weak faint cry against the tide.” She threw out her fleshy arms in a sweeping gesture that embraced the room. “Today with my help you will hear the secret warnings of your subconscious.” As she let her arms flop to her sides, which was not a very great distance, she looked around the room and waited for applause. Veronica did not disappoint her.

  “Let’s get started, Madame Spoker,” Veronica cried as she clapped and squirmed in her seat.

  “I want you all to write a question about your life on these pieces of paper I am passing out. I will then call you up one by one at which time you will hand me your folded paper and take a seat right here.” Madame Spoker pointed to a lonely-looking chair on the bare stage. “This way I will be able to gather your own personal vibrations. I’m not going to look at the question—I will feel it.”

  Veronica started scribbling madly on her allotted scrap while Regan sat there wondering what the heck to ask this voodoo woman. Then it came to her. She leaned the paper on her purse and wrote, “Will we ever find Athena’s murderer?” As she folded it up she realized this was a first in her years of detective work.

  There was no way Madame Spoker could avoid calling Veronica up to the hot seat immediately. Veronica grabbed it as though it were the last one available in a game of musical chairs. “What do you feel for me?” she beseeched.

  Madame Spoker crumpled Veronica’s paper into a ball in the palm of her hand, closed her eyes, and began to sway back and forth. “You are a very wise woman, Miss . . .”

  “Exner. Lady Veronica Exner, widow of the late Sir Gilbert.”

  “Yes. I feel that peerage. You are a most giving person and much more savvy than people realize. You’ve had a long life . . .” She paused, shook, and opened her eyes.

  “But what about my question?” Veronica asked.

  Madame Spoker looked troubled. “It would be best if you come to my next session on Friday. I’m not getting a good enough reading on you right now. I need more time to concentrate on your magnetic field and I don’t have it today. There are numerous people here and I want to give as many as possible a chance to come up. I promise you will be first on Friday.”

  Veronica looked disappointed but was a good sport and reclaimed her seat next to Regan.

  Nice way to make sure people come back to your next hour of abracadabra, Regan thought. Abracadabra. It sounded like abra-cadaver.

  Others came and went to the front of the room and Madame Spoker went through all the appropriate shaking and writhing motions. There was a group of girls from a cosmetics firm who were traveling together, all having won the trip for selling cases and cases of everything from lip gloss to eyebrow pencils to the ever-popular concealer stick. One of them, twentyish, with teased hair sprouting from every follicle on her scalp, and wearing a diamond engagement ring, was warned not to marry her fiancé.

  “I see trouble there. There is something you don’t know. He might take you to nice places but he’s a LIAR! I’m sorry, but I feel so strongly about this, I must warn you.”

  As the distressed damsel returned to her seat, chewing furiously on a wad of gum, Regan heard her mumble, “Ah, what the hell does she know?” But she looked concerned. Poor guy, Regan thought. He probably put his life savings into that ring and will never get it back if his betrothed decides to heed the advice of Madame Spoker.

  Next up, from the back of the room, came Immaculata Buttacavola. Nervously she took her place.

  Madame Spoker beamed as she finally doled out some good news. “I think there’s going to be an addition to your family very soon. In the next year, I’d say.”

  Immaculata clapped her hands and cried out, “My daughter-in-law Roz missed a period right before we left on our trip. Maybe they’ll have an announcement when we get back.” She got up from the chair. “Thank you, Madame, thank you,” she gushed as she hurried to the back of the room. “Mario, I told you we should have bought that adorable baby T-shirt with the ship’s insignia. Let’s rush and see if they’ve got any left.”

  Veronica turned to Regan. “Isn’t that lovely? I wonder what they’ll name it.”

  Almost time for a new family portrait at Sears, Regan thought.

  Veronica continued, “Regan, you haven’t had your chance yet. Madame Spoker ...”

  “Of course. Miss, please join me.”

  Well at least she didn’t call me ma’am, Regan thought as she got up and handed over her question.

  Madame Spoker closed her eyes and started to hum, a low-grade staccato noise that sounded like an engine in trouble. Regan waited, wondering what she would “feel” for a question about a murderer.

  “Something is close ... I feel like you are closer to something or someone than you ever suspected. But there is danger. Stay out of harm’s way.” Madame Spoker rolled the paper around and around in the palm of her hand, the momentum increasing with the fluttering of her manicured fingers. She cried out, “Ouch. Damn it, I got a paper cut. They take so long to go away.” Shaking her head, she resumed her humming.

  A moment later her hand sprang open. Desperately she tried to close it over the folded question but her fingers seemed to be frozen. The scrap fell to the floor. The psychic jumped back from it as if it were a ticking bomb and started to shake. “I have never lost control of a question before. The power and vibrations coming from that little square of a dead tree are threatening to overwhelm me. Miss, you have asked a very serious question and I must warn you . . . you cannot be too careful. Dangerous people surround you. You will find what you are looking for, but the cost may be too great.”

  Regan fervently wished her mother had opted for the two-thirty bridge lecture.

  CAMERON HARDWICK SWAM furiously from one side of the deserted pool in the health spa to the other. It was small but he couldn’t stand to be around a bunch of pesky kids jumping in and out of the larger pool on the Lido Deck, the younger ones being coaxed in and out by their goofy parents. It should be against the law to take kids on these ships. He winced again when he thought of the pictures taken at Chez Buttacavola.

  That banquet manager from Atlantic City wasn’t as big a dope as he looks, he t
hought to himself, surging into the butterfly stroke. God, it felt good to stretch and work his muscles. In the space of fifteen minutes this morning there had been two breaks from his desired anonymity. His gut felt as if it had twisted into a pretzel. He breathed in the scent of the chlorine and felt the water shimmering across his back. I have to cool it, he thought.

  He reached the side of the pool, did a somersault underwater and reemerged as he now started the backstroke. Who would have thought that sitting in on some stupid finance lecture would result in that idiot Mario calling attention to him? Hardwick felt his blood start to boil again. Of all the lousy stinking luck. He could have throttled him. And now he had to see him every night at dinner. Willing himself not to let his volatile temper get the best of him, he realized that he was going to have to smooth things over with the dinner crowd. He couldn’t wait until this job was over with. Wouldn’t his old man be proud of him now? he thought angrily. I’m making money, Dad, but not the way you wanted me to. Selling drugs at his prep school twenty years ago had spoiled him for real work. Sure, this was high-risk, but the returns were better. And he liked living on the edge.

  Today was Tuesday. The inactivity was driving him crazy. He started to think. Was it possible to make a move sooner than Friday? Should I wait for that one shot? On Friday night all the heavy luggage would be put out in the hallways, collected and stored for easy disembarkation early Saturday morning. Hardwick smirked. He had heard about a group of drunken waiters who, on one crossing, had wandered down the hallways the night before arriving, fished what they wanted out of a dozen suitcases, then merrily thrown them overboard. But they had been caught. He had no intention of letting that happen to him. Reilly’s and Exner’s suitcases would be picked up and the two of them wouldn’t be missed until the ship was nearly empty, the luggage lay unclaimed on the pier, and he was long gone. As Hardwick pulled himself up out of the pool, he decided it was best to wait till Friday night. The less time they had to investigate the disappearance of the occupants of the Camelot Suite, the better.