CHAPTER 7
Clad in a colorful sarong, sunglasses and a floppy canvas beach hat, Laura picked her way carefully among the bronzed bodies supine on lounge chairs on the pool deck. She carried a large tote bag that contained sunscreen, a towel and Pamela Johns' latest potboiler, The Case of the Sinister Secretary. Spotting Marian Peabody, Carolyn Galloway, Sarah Morgan and Lydia Huntington seated around an umbrella table, Laura pulled the brim of her hat further over her face. As unobtrusively as possible, she selected a lounge chair a short distance from the women, pulled out the paperback and pretended to read.
Half an hour later Mr. Steele appeared on deck. He was wrapped from neck to calves in a maroon terrycloth robe, cinched closed over his hairy chest. Like Laura, he had donned protective headgear – in his case, an oversized sombrero. Startlingly, his nose glowed an eerie white from a thick slathering of zinc oxide cream. Laura watched heads turn as he passed along the row of deck chairs – and for once, it wasn't in admiration of his extraordinary handsomeness.
"Cunning disguise, Mr. Steele," Laura muttered as he claimed the lounger next to hers. "Which one are you supposed to be: the Cisco Kid or his faithful sidekick, Pancho?"
He gave her a blank look. "I assume this is some arcane reference to one of those old television programs you're so devoted to?"
She laughed. "Now you know how I feel."
"If you're referring to me favoring you occasionally with my encyclopedic knowledge of film, I hardly think it's comparable, Laura. First of all, films are a form of art, while television is, as your Edward R. Murrow so articulately put it, the 'opiate of the people.'"
"I see."
"And secondly," he continued, warming to his dissertation, "whereas my film references have often provided critical insights that have helped us crack a case, those TV facts and stats you spout are just meaningless trivia. Actually, I begin to suspect you use them to confuse me and make me look foolish. Tsk, Laura. You're better than that."
"Oh, Mr. Steele," Laura responded innocently. "I can't even imagine you looking foolish." She playfully flicked the fringed brim of his sombrero.
"It was all they had left in the gift shop," Steele explained glumly.
"It's … extraordinary. Strikes just the note of inconspicuousness we were aiming for," Laura teased. "And it coordinates so well with your …" - she gestured vaguely over his voluminous robe – "… cassock? Did you steal that thing from the Abbott of Costello?"
"Fair skin," Steele said defensively. "I burn very easily."
"Yes, I'd say you're doing a slow burn already." Chuckling, she reached over and used her index finger to plough a furrow in the cream down the bridge of his nose.
"Great. Now I'm going to have a tan line," he retorted, grabbing her hand and forcing her cream-covered finger to draw a glossy mustache under her own nose. "Very nice. Now you can play Pancho."
"Gracias, Senõr Seesko," Laura said in an over-the-top Mexican accent.
They sat back in their deck chairs and grinned at each other. After a moment, Steele nodded in the direction of the hen party at the adjacent table. "Hear anything useful?"
She shook her head. "As expected, they've been talking non-stop about the Merriwethers, but nothing that sheds any light on what happened. I did learn that Corny met Darla nine months ago while on a business trip to Vegas. He set her up in a swank apartment two weeks later, and filed for divorce from Joanne a month after that."
"Classy."
"Mmm hmm. Naturally, the ladies' loyalties lie with the spurned wife, though apparently she took up with her yoga instructor shortly after Corny moved out."
"A veritable Peyton Place," Steele commented.
"Aha! A TV reference!" Laura said gleefully. "My mother used to watch that soap all the time."
Steele gave her a pitying look. "Oh, Laura. I know nothing of this soap you refer to, but it can only have been a pale imitation of the original Peyton Place. Lana Turner, Hope Lange, Lloyd Nolan. 20th Century Fox, 1957."
"You just can't let me have even one, can you, Mr. Steele?"
"I know how competitive you are, Laura. Would you really want me to take it easy on you?"
"You better not!" she retorted. "In fact, if I thought you—wait a minute." She clutched his forearm and cocked her head toward the women's table. "Something's happening."
The ladies, who had been playing cards and sipping tall drinks, had been interrupted by a waiter. He bent and quietly said something to Sarah Morgan. "What?" they heard her say loudly. "That's ridiculous. Check again." Whatever the waiter's response was, it wasn't what Mrs. Morgan wanted to hear. "Fine," she said even more indignantly. "My husband will take care of this." She pushed her chair back from the table and stalked off. After a moment of whispered conversation among them, the other women also dispersed.
Laura held her book in front of her and Steele pulled his hat down over his face as Marian Peabody approached, but the woman paused beside Laura's chair anyway. "Laura! And … er … Mr. Steele?"
Steele lifted his sombrero sheepishly. "Fair skin," he explained.
"Lovely afternoon, isn't it?" Laura said.
"I suppose," Marian fretted, "but it's beginning to seem like this whole cruise is cursed."
"We couldn't help noticing that Mrs. Morgan left your table rather suddenly," Laura noted. "I hope nothing is wrong."
Marian sighed. "Apparently the Morgans are having the same sort of mix-up with their onboard credit that Martin and I are."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It's terribly embarrassing. We booked the cruise using the account we had with Corny's investment firm. Now the ship is claiming they can't access our funds. Of course, Corny would have been able to clear up this mess instantly, but he's no longer with us."
"It's an unfortunate coincidence – Corny's death and this misunderstanding with your funds," Steele noted with a significant look at Laura.
"Isn't it, though? As I said, it's like this ship is cursed."
Steele squinted into the bathroom mirror and frowned. "Laura, I think I got a burn out there," he called over his shoulder. He placed a finger on the reddened bridge of his nose, pressed gingerly, and winced. "Yep. Definitely burned." He moseyed out into the main room of the cabin, where Laura was inserting bobby pins to secure her sophisticated up-do. She was already dressed for dinner, this time in a red satin, knee-length dress and matching pumps. Steele was wearing his navy suit, and now tucked a red handkerchief in the breast pocket. He walked over to Laura and stood beside her in front of the wall mirror. "We make an elegant couple, if I do say so myself," he said.
She smiled, then turned and adjusted his tie. "Well, this spoils the effect slightly … Rudolph." She tapped him lightly on the tip of his red nose. He took advantage of her proximity to place his hands lightly on her waist.
"Wounded in the line of duty, Laura," he said, dipping his head closer to hers. "Surely I deserve comfort, not mockery." He touched his lips lightly to hers. She began to respond, then pulled back slightly and placed a palm on his lapel.
"We'd better get going or we'll miss our dinner seating." She stepped away from him to pick up her clutch from the bed.
"Think we'll make it past the appetizer tonight?" Steele said, holding the cabin door open for her.
"That depends, Mr. Steele," she said as she stepped past him into the passageway. "Have you committed any other underhanded acts of charity you forgot to mention?
"Not to worry, Laura. I've given up good deeds," he assured her. "As far as I'm concerned, those orphans can learn their equestrian skills on the mean streets, like I did. Builds character."
It was a subdued group gathered around the table at dinner. Two of last night's couples – the Pollards and the Morgans – were absent. And of course the Merriwethers' chairs were also vacant. Marian Peabody was in her place, but her husband Martin, she explained, was meeting with the purser to try to work out the "fuss and bother" with their credit account.
Conspicuously, the Merriwethers' names were not mentioned around the table. Instead, the handful of diners discussed the weather, tomorrow's shore excursions on Nassau and that evening's "champagne memories" dance in the ballroom. Laura and Steele stuck it out through dessert, then politely excused themselves.
"Care for a moonlight stroll?" Steele asked as they left the dining room.
"It is a lovely evening," Laura answered. They turned their steps toward the Promenade Deck.
The breeze was freshening and wispy clouds scudded across the sky as they meandered along the ship's perimeter.
"The dinner parties seem to be getting smaller," Laura commented. "If this keeps up, we'll be a table for two by the end of the cruise."
"What a delightful notion."
She shot him a wry look. "Hm. I'm beginning to believe Marian's theory that this ship is cursed."
"Or perhaps haunted by Corny's vengeful ghost?"
Laura shrugged. "Maybe. I've heard the Queen Mary is haunted."
"There's a venerable tradition of spectral ships and doomed voyages," Steele said. "I remember once in a tavern on Naxos, an old salt told me of his encounter with a sea hag one foggy night off the straits of Gibralter-" His tall tale was cut short by a dig to the ribs from Laura.
"Do you see what I see?" she whispered.
About 20 yards ahead of them walked a slim figure in a flowing, light-colored dress. Even in the dim light, a cascade of bright, copper-colored tresses identified her at once.
"Not exactly a sea hag, but ominous nonetheless," Steele said quietly.
"You don't think she's planning to do something rash? Maybe she's more grief-stricken than she appeared."
They quickened their steps slightly, prepared to make a dash toward her if she headed for the rail. Instead, she turned into a brightly lit doorway. Reaching it themselves a minute later, they realized Darla had entered the Sapphire Seas Ballroom. Several dozen couples swirled around the dance floor to the strains of a tuxedo-clad ensemble playing "Sentimental Journey." Darla skirted the tables ringing the floor and sat down at a small table close to the band.
"I wouldn't have pegged her for a Big Band aficionado," Steele commented.
"Maybe she's hoping to meet her next true love."
"You're a born romantic, Laura."
They strolled to an empty table with a view of the widow and ordered drinks. Over the course of the next 20 minutes, they kept a surreptitious eye on Darla and listened to a succession of frothy old-time favorites. When the orchestra struck up "Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing," Steele stood and offered his hand to Laura. The glamorous young couple made a marked contrast to the elderly pairs around them; Laura couldn't help but remember another evening, more than two years ago, when she'd danced in Mr. Steele's arms in the Golden Lady Ballroom. She'd been mourning the downfall of her mentor, Eliot Walsh, and Mr. Steele had been surprisingly supportive. She hadn't known him well then, and despite her attraction to the man, his infuriating refusal to share anything about his past or true identity kept her guard up.
Since then, he hadn't been much more forthcoming. But who he was before had somehow become much less important than who he was now. Patiently, inexorably, he had chipped away at her defenses. She found, gradually, that she trusted him. Liked him. And, especially after Murphy and Bernice left, relied on him. She didn't realize how much until Eldon Veckmer destroyed her home and took away everything that made her feel safe and secure. She had felt so lost and vulnerable … and Mr. Steele had been there. Laura smiled at the memory of entering her new apartment and finding Nero, a rose, and a grand piano to welcome her home.
"Is it the music or my twinkle toes?"
Startled, Laura looked up into Steele's bemused face. "What?"
"You were smiling."
She clasped her hands behind his neck. "I enjoy dancing."
"Even with me?"
"Always with you."
Steele smiled and pulled her a little closer. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Holt," he whispered in her ear.
The orchestra segued into "Moonlight Serenade" and Laura rested her cheek on his shoulder. He smelled good: a delicious mix of some musky cologne and his own natural scent. Laura sighed and let her eyes drift closed, lulled by the steady throb of his heartbeat under his lapel.
When "Moonlight Serenade" ended, the couples around them stepped apart and clapped politely. Reluctantly, Steele and Laura separated and as the bandleader announced a 15-minute set break, they returned to their table and their surveillance. Finally, their patience was rewarded. While most of the band members chatted and smoked, the detectives observed a young trumpet player nod slightly to Darla, then exit through a door near the stage. After a moment, Darla got up and followed him. Steele and Laura were only a minute behind.
The door led back out onto the Promenade Deck. It had fully clouded over now, and the deck was swathed in shadow. Darla and the musician were nowhere in sight. "Probably in some dark corner, necking," Steele said.
"Unless he's a slumming trust fund baby, that kid doesn't seem like Darla's type," Laura answered.
They walked quietly, side by side, scanning the recesses along the deck. Laura was about to suggest they give up and go back to their cabin when she felt Steele's hand lightly press the small of her back. "There," he whispered.
Darla and the trumpeter were indeed concealed in a dark niche, but they weren't in a clinch. Instead, they appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation. Steele and Laura watched Darla reach into her handbag, withdraw something and hand it to the young man. They moved further into the shadows, and when Laura and Steele crept stealthily closer, they were surprised to find the niche empty.
"Where did they go?" Steele whispered.
Laura shrugged – then suddenly grabbed Steele by the lapels, twisted him against the deck rail, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. Surprised, he didn't respond for a few seconds … but soon Laura felt his hands reach around her and his lips press against hers. Demanding. Desperate. His mouth moved over Laura's, urging her lips open. Gaining entrance, his tongue slipped tentatively between her teeth. She heard him groan softly as the kiss deepened, her tongue now meeting his in a slow, teasing dance. His hands cupped her backside and he pulled her against him. She caught her breath as he shifted her slightly so that his hardness pressed against her. Instinctively she ground herself against him lightly, provoking another groan deep in his throat. Lost in a tempest of sensation, they began to explore each other almost frantically with hands and mouths.
Suddenly Laura pulled away, gasping as she grabbed the rail and sought to restore her equilibrium.
"What? What's wrong?" Steele panted, lowering his face toward hers again.
She put a hand on his lapel to hold him off, then glanced over his shoulder. He turned and looked, spying Darla Merriwether disappearing into the darkness, having passed them while they were kissing. "I didn't want her to recognize us," Laura said breathlessly.
Steele looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. "I might have known," he said curtly, removing her hands from his chest and stepping back from her. "Obviously the only reason you could have for … getting close … to me would be a professional tactic. All in a day's work, eh, Laura?"
She was stung by the coldness of his tone. "I'm sorry. I panicked. It was the only thing I could think of when I saw she was turning toward us."
"Right. People are hesitant to intrude on something like that," he said bitterly, echoing the explanation she'd given him back when they'd investigated the mystery surrounding the vintage Auburn speedster that was now Steele's much-loved automobile.
"Yes." Laura looked away from his steely gaze. She felt dazed, unsettled and embarrassed. "I didn't mean to … confuse you."
"No confusion," he retorted. "In fact, I've never seen things more clearly." He exhaled sharply, blowing a little puff of air in her face. "Now if you'll excuse me," he said levelly, "I have some business to attend to." He turned and walked briskly away from her.
"What kind of business?" she called after him.
He didn't answer.