Disclaimer: Most of the characters aren't ours and we make no profit from them. This is a work of fiction. No real persons, living or dead, are depicted.
Authors' notes: This novella appeared in the third Star for BK fund-raising 'zine. Judy, Hivequeen Emeritus, was on extended leave, and Owl stepped in to take up the slack. Notecards were strewn everywhere, and charts and graphs were in evidence, all proof that those implants aren't quite what the specs indicated--LML
Murder at Sea
by
The Gulls Way Collective
Chapter One
After a day that had begun ten hours earlier, at LAX, and had included several nervous minutes of a layover in Little Rock, where Aunts Zora and May had almost failed to make the flight (because they'd gotten busy watching "a man in a gabardine coat who was very clearly up to no good"), Milton C. Hardcastle might have been excused if all he really wanted to do was sit down and put his feet up.
But Mark McCormick was having none of it. In his first half-hour aboard the S.S. Thalia, he'd already poked into the various corners of their cabin, pronounced it "neat", then campaigned for a return trip up to the promenade deck.
"We don't want to miss the cast-off," he said insistently.
The judge checked his watch. "We've got forty-five minutes. Relax, will ya? Got the boat drill after that, and some kinda champagne 'welcome aboard' thing, and then dinner. You gotta pace yourself on these cruises."
The only pacing the younger man was doing was the five steps between the balcony and the desk, where he looked over Hardcastle's shoulder to study the schedule himself.
"But we need to get the Aunts, and find a good spot on the deck," he said, still trying to sell the plan.
"It's a big deck. Sit."
Mark sat, though it didn't look like it would hold long.
Hardcastle went back to his perusal of the itinerary. "We've got seven days, a whole week. Rio Blanco, a couple of days of blue water sailing, and then Bermuda and back again. Looks like we're assigned to the first seating for dinner." He ran his finger down the evening's entertainments, stopped abruptly at one unexpected thing, and frowned.
It was a long moment of puzzled silence before he gradually became aware that Mark was still sitting silently, too. He half-turned, looking over his shoulder, wondering if his own sudden concern had somehow transmitted itself to the younger man.
No, Mark was frowning as well, but it seemed to be a worry of his own. He looked up and met the judge's eye. "I feel a little guilty."
"Huh?"
"The Aunts, I mean, this is all kind of expensive. They really didn't have to—"
Hardcastle shook his head sharply. "It's not about 'have to'. They wanted to do something nice for your graduation. Just made more sense to put it off until the bar exam was over."
"You mean I wouldn't have been much fun six months ago?" Mark grinned ruefully.
"Yeah, well, all that gloom and doom mighta worn a little thin." As the main guy who'd had to put up with it, Hardcastle was speaking from extensive experience. "And, anyway, this is the cruise they wanted to go on."
He turned back to the itinerary, flipped the page, and looked at the neatly-printed insert sheet with its blood-red heading: "Murder at Sea". Below that, in Gothic script, it continued on—"The Mystery Writers League proudly presents a week of crime with a nautical air." He squinted at the headshot that occupied the middle of the page—Lex Portly, best-selling author. Hardcastle had already heard the man's latest work discussed at length on the flight down from Little Rock. Even McCormick had admitted to knowing whodunit.
"I dunno," the judge said grimly, "maybe we shouldn't be encouraging them."
"Come on," Mark chided, "lots of people like mysteries. They're escapism. Nothing like that ever happens in real life—the coincidences, the clues, the hairs-breadth escapes. And," he smiled, "the good guys always win."
"Not very realistic."
Mark shrugged. "Who wants realism? Got enough of that. Hey," he leaned forward a little, "what's on the schedule for after dinner?" He started reaching for the program.
Hardcastle pushed it aside and said, "The usual, got a dance review and a magic act. Hey," he checked his watch, "probably should check on May and Zora; might take us a while to find a good spot."
Mark smiled, puzzled. "I thought you said it's a big deck."
"Well, yeah," the judge shrugged, already on his feet, the program neatly closed, "but they're kinda short, so we need to snag a place by the railing for 'em, right?"
00000
The Aunts were found, settled into their own cabin, and already working on their to-do list.
"The Agatha Christie Memorial Tea," Zora chortled. "We can't miss that."
"It's to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Ten Little Indians," May added.
Hardcastle looked blank.
"You know," Zora prodded, "And Then There Were None."
Still blank.
"The one where the judge did it," May chirped helpfully. "He kills the other nine people because they couldn't be punished in the courts."
Mark grinned. "You mean they got off on technicalities?" He gave the judge a quick elbow nudge. "I shoulda figured you got the idea from somewhere."
Hardcastle was biting down, Mark figured, and probably keeping score, but half the time he himself couldn't tell if the Aunts knew they were providing straight lines. He suspected they did more often than they let on.
A long toot of the ship's horn interrupted that thought.
"Oh," May said, "that'll be the 'all ashore'. We'd better get up to the deck if we want to see it all."
They found an elevator, and joined the throng moving out to the landward side of the promenade deck.
"Forward or back?" Mark asked, shepherding the ladies through the crowd near the doors.
Zora looked up, and over her shoulder at him, with a smile. "I'd say towards the bow." She stepped a little to the side and let him take her arm. "Always better to see where you're going than look at where you've been."
There was no appreciable motion yet, but the sounds from the crowd closer to the rail let them know the ship was already underway. They moved forward until they reached a thinly-populated patch, where May and Zora could fit side-by-side at the railing. May waved cheerfully to no one in particular, perhaps to the longshoremen clearing away the equipment below.
And now the gap between ship and dock was widening at a faster pace. Zora sighed and smiled at May. "Departures are always so sad."
"It's Miami," the judge muttered, "none of us are even from here."
"It's the principle, Milton." She reached back and patted his arm. "You'll understand when you're older."
There was something in her tone that caught Mark's ear and made him take a closer look at the two women tucked in against the railing. They were brisk and beaming, but undeniably advanced in years.
Old . . . that's what you mean, right? And every time you leave a place, it's knowing that maybe— He shook his head almost imperceptibly as if to get rid of the thought. He didn't want anything to cast a shadow on them right now.
Even Hardcastle had fallen silent. Mark saw him looking down at the water, now slipping more swiftly past the side of the ship. They had gathered speed smoothly. They'd soon clear Fisher Island, and the end of the narrow seaway, with bluer water ahead.
Mark turned, facing back toward the west. The sun was slipping down into the afternoon cloud banks. He saw the crowd thinning around them, some people snapping one last photograph. He glanced down at his watch.
"We've got a schedule to keep," he said cheerfully. "Boat drill next, then champagne. Meet the captain."
"There's over a thousand of us and only one of him. He's gonna be spread a little thin," the judge pointed out, as they headed back toward the doors.
"But Mr. Portly will be there, too." Zora said, smiling.
May nodded eagerly. "Though we already saw him, coming aboard." She dropped her voice to a half-whisper, "He's a bit older than he looks on his dust jackets, but we knew him right off, even in dark glasses."
Mark ushered them back inside and toward the elevators, pondering the perils of attempted anonymity around the Aunts.
00000
The boat drill went off without a hitch, but Mr. Portly proved surprisingly elusive at the welcome party. May and Zora were not alone in their disappointment; it was obvious that a sizable coterie of fans, mostly ladies of a certain age, had been hoping to meet him. The Aunts consoled themselves with the glasses Mark fetched for them.
"He's probably holed up in his stateroom, hard at work on his next chapter," Zora said understandingly.
"Yes," May agreed, "it's a demanding art."
"Potboilers?" Hardcastle asked; his tone was skeptical.
"Heavens, no," Zora replied.
"Not potboilers," May looked equally shocked. "Cozies. He's the master of the cozy."
"What the heck is a cozy?" Hardcastle gave Mark a sideward glance. The younger man was looking, very pointedly, off somewhere else.
"Well," said Zora thoughtfully, "it's rather a hard thing to define."
"Amateur sleuth, usually female, small town, and the victim dies off-stage."
All three of them were now looking at McCormick, who returned their gazes and shrugged once, lightly.
"Yes," Zora nodded, "I'd say that's about right."
Hardcastle was still staring.
"They're like puzzles," Mark said. "Good for taking your mind off things . . . like where you are."
"And there wasn't much left on the library cart by the time they got to the upper tiers," Hardcastle speculated.
"That too," he admitted ruefully.
00000
They adjourned to the dining room a little before six-thirty, with Aunt May on Mark's arm and Zora on Hardcastle's. There was an intimidating amount of linen and crystal. Mark had visions of snooty waiters and steak tartare, but to his delighted surprise, the man who seated them was pleasantly polite.
"I will be your waiter on this voyage," he said, with a smile. "My name is Phillip."
They were four at a table for five, and the other seat remained stubbornly unoccupied.
"Oh, dear," May said quietly, once it had become clear that no one else was coming, "I hope nothing bad happened."
Mark looked down, counting forks and trying to assign them different roles. "Some people just don't like fancy dinners," he said quietly.
"Or they're pooped out," Hardcastle added. "Long day."
"Or they met with foul play, on their way to the ship," Zora mused, and then, seeming to notice that this had been met with a considerable silence from the two men, she added primly, "Well, it happens."
May nodded her support. Hardcastle frowned sternly.
The wine steward arrived, followed thereafter by Phillip again, and menus, and courses, and a series of silverware navigational issues. Zora tutored gently and Mark proved an apt pupil.
"A different knife for fish?" he asked dubiously.
"So you don't cut the bones. They're very fragile."
"Which means," Hardcastle interrupted, "that you really don't need a knife at all."
"Yeah, but they're short of sticks here." And when this got him a questioning look from May, he added, with a grin, "That's how he eats 'em. This is better, heads cut off and everything."
And so through to dessert and coffee, and the four of them easing back in their chairs, looking properly sated.
"Nice," Mark said. "Very nice. Thank you," he added, to the ladies.
"Now stop that," Zora sighed. "You can't be thanking us every few minutes all week. It won't work."
"All right, but just this once, okay? Thanks."
"You're very welcome," May replied, and then, "The cabin is all right?" A slightly worried expression. "Not too small?"
"It's great," Mark grinned, not adding that he'd stayed in much smaller accommodations for much longer than one week, and the food had never been this good. There was something in the judge's expression that made him think the man had gotten the unspoken reference.
"Not that we'll be spending much time in our cabins, anyway," Zora said.
General comments of agreement and then, with a farewell nod to Phillip, they decamped.
"There's some sort of show this evening," Mark offered, as they crossed the main lobby toward the elevators.
The judge had covered a couple of yawns toward the end of dinner; he looked like he might be constructing an excuse to bow out, but Mark was determined to be a good guest, even if yodeling and clog dancing were on the program.
It was Zora, though, doing the excuses. "Never mind us—you go have a good time."
"I hear they have a magician." May beamed. Hardcastle gave up the fight and yawned widely. "But, you must be worn out. You had a lot further to come than we did today."
"Yeah," Hardcastle admitted, "but you two can't be tired yet."
"No," Zora confided, "but we have a little get-together to attend."
Mark and the judge had matching puzzled looks.
"Mr. Portly's fan club is meeting tonight. We have a newsletter—The Lexicon."
"We've been in correspondence," May added, "but we've never actually met before. We're all devoted admirers of his work."
"And, oh my," Zora took a peek at the fob watch she had pinned in her sweater pocket, "if we don't hurry we'll be late."
"Breakfast?" Mark asked. "Not too early," he added hopefully.
"Whoever's up first should knock," May replied practically.
And then they were off, scurrying to parts unknown. The two men stood there for a moment. When the Aunts departed, there was always a bit of an energy void, as though nature needed a moment or two to deal with the vacuum.
"Sounds harmless," Hardcastle finally conceded, but as though he'd had to think about it first.
Mark nodded, then he turned his head, looking sideward. "How tired are you, anyway?"
"Too tired for a magic show, that's for sure."
Mark smiled. "Okay, but if you go straight to bed after a meal like that, you'll be sorry. How 'bout a walk on the deck?"
The judge nodded without giving it much apparent thought and they found a stairwell. The deck was sparsely populated and dusk had verged into twilight. The two men settled into an easy strolling pace, with only the occasional technical comment from Hardcastle.
"You've been on a lot of cruises?" Mark finally asked, after twenty yards of silence.
"Oh," the judge lifted his chin from whatever he'd been contemplating, "yeah, some. The first time wasn't too much fun."
Mark lifted an eyebrow in question.
"It was to Hawaii, '43. Bunks from floor to ceiling, 'bout a foot and a half clearance between each. Not so bad for the officers, though, we got an extra six inches," he grinned.
"I'm surprised you ever wanted to do it again."
"Well," he conceded, "Nancy liked it. Shuffleboard, deck chairs," he made a little and-so-on gesture with his hand, "magic shows, too. She liked all that stuff." He was smiling, maybe it had taken on a shade of the pensive. "Been a while, though, since I've done it."
Mark was rapidly calculating "a while" as at least fifteen years. He was groping about for a change of subject when he saw the judge looking fairly fixedly to the left. His head turned as they walked, still tracking on something that was now behind them.
"What?" he asked curiously, looking in that direction himself and seeing only a few fellow passengers, standing in the lobby just the other side of the aft-most doors.
"I know that guy," Hardcastle said quietly.
Mark was still looking, though they were almost past the sight line. There were several guys to choose from, all mostly nondescript.
He sighed. "Why do I suppose that we aren't talking about somebody you attended a legal conference with?"
Hardcastle broke off his long stare and shifted his gaze back to the younger man. "Huh," he huffed, "I know a lot of people. They're not all underworld types."
"But this guy is, huh?"
Hardcastle nodded reluctantly, looking like he wanted to turn around and have another gander.
"So," Mark said, catching his elbow and correcting his course firmly, "even the Godfather is allowed to take a vacation once in a while. And it's not like he's going anywhere, at least not till we get to San Rio."
The judge, temporarily persuaded, resumed his stroll. The silence had gone a little tense, though.
Mark finally sighed. "Is this guy on the lam or something?"
"Probably not," Hardcastle conceded. "Been a while since I heard anything about him."
"He's got a name?"
"Oh, yeah," Hardcastle looked grim. "A bunch of those. Let's see. For passport purposes he'd probably be Henry Ruby. To his close associates, it'd be 'Harry the Collector', or maybe 'Meat-hook Harry'."
Mark suppressed a shudder.
"I'd heard he's kinda nautical, though," Hardcastle continued, almost without a pause. "Nobody's ever proved it, but they say he's given a lot of people a one-way ride out past Sandy Hook on his boat."
A moment of thoughtful silence and then McCormick asked quietly, "Are we still on vacation?"
More silence. Another ten feet.
"Yeah," Hardcastle finally replied. "Not likely he'd do something stupid out here. But if he were to . . ." He cast one quick glance backwards, almost wistfully.
"We'd tell the authorities in Bermuda all about it, right?" Mark grinned.
A sigh of resignation from the man beside him was followed by a reluctant, "I suppose."
00000
They were approaching the midship entrance on the starboard side, well away from the object of Hardcastle's interest. Mark reached for the door and opened it, waiting for the judge to step in.
The older man frowned for a moment and then took the hint.
Mark took a quick look at the diagram on the wall near the staircase and then headed down. The judge followed, still lost in thought. Mark had turned right again, two decks down, not the most direct route back to their cabin. He'd already gotten a few steps ahead.
The judge got a sudden twinge as he oriented himself. "Hey," he said sharply, "wrong way."
"Nah," Mark assured him, "still out for a walk, just inside." The hallway widened up ahead, sounds of people laughing, a few strains of music, a drum roll.
McCormick was still just strolling, not looking as if he intended to turn left and join the crowd in the Nautilus Room. The judge heaved a sigh of relief. They were almost past—Mark was saying something about it being still early, Malibu time—when a few words of a half-familiar song floated out above the buzz of the distracted crowd inside.
"Come rain or come shine . . ."
Mark paused in mid-step, and Hardcastle was forced to a sudden stop behind him. It was a mellow baritone that would never be mistaken for Frank Sinatra.
"We'll be happy together, unhappy together. Now won't that be just fine."
Mark had turned, and was just standing there, with the oddest expression on his face.
"The days may be cloudy or sunny. We're in or out of the money. But I'm with you always; I'm with you rain or shine."
The big finish sounded slightly out of synch with the over-extended band. A smattering of applause came from an audience that was probably more interested in ordering another round of drinks. And Mark still stood, not taking the five steps back that would be required to confirm what he obviously already knew.
The music was starting up again, but before the vamp had played through, McCormick suddenly unstuck himself and turned on his heel, moving down the hall, out of range of the voice.
Hardcastle hustled to catch up and they walked on, in hurried silence, for a few more moments before Mark finally said, still looking straight ahead, "You knew he was on board?"
"Hell no," the judge said sharply. "Well, I mean, not until we were on the ship ourselves."
"When the hell were you planning on telling me?"
Hardcastle gave that one some thought, and finally said, in all sincerity, "Not till after we'd cast-off."
"Well," Mark stopped again, turning toward him, "you got that right. Dammit. I swore I was never going to show up on his doorstep again. He'd have to make the next move . . . and we all know how that's gone the last couple of years." He shook his head. "I sent him an invitation to my graduation, you know," he added. "I suppose he might not have gotten it. Might have been an old address." He paused, looking back down the hallway. "Now look at this. It looks like I hunted him down again. Damn."
"It's a big ship," the judge offered assuringly "Might go the whole week without running into him."
"Yeah, but I'd have to know he was on board; his name's probably all over that program you were looking at."
Hardcastle nodded glumly.
"And how the hell do these things happen?" McCormick's eyes narrowed. "The Aunts," he answered his own question with an air of confident suspicion.
"Do they even know about Sonny?"
The younger man looked suddenly self-conscious. "Um . . . yeah. I think it was a few years ago. Zora. Maybe I was a little upset."
"You got a lot to learn about the confession business, kiddo. A couple of glasses of blackberry cordial, a little pat on the arm, and the next thing you know, they've got it all out of you, the whole ball of wax. And they never forget."
"Yeah." Mark let out a heavy breath, changing the subject, "Okay, so, if he does spot me, he'll know I knew he was here, and well . . . that'll sure as hell be awkward." He shook his head again. "I'll just have to hide-out in the cabin. Maybe not mornings. I don't think he gets up much before noon. Good thing there's room service."
"Nonsense," Hardcastle interrupted the nervous soliloquy, "you just face it like a man."
Mark looked doubtful.
"And I'll make sure he knows May and Zora set you up. But you probably shouldn't put it off too long; then it really would look like you were avoiding him, like you had something to hide."
McCormick nodded in what appeared to be pained agreement.
"Wanna go back and hear some Sinatra?" The judge hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
"No," Mark replied sharply. "It was a nice day. Let's not ruin it. Tomorrow is plenty soon enough."