Tapas on the Ramblas (27 page)

Judy Smythwicke had been called into emergency service and the hallways and corridors were reverberating with her stoic announcements: "Ladies and gentlemen. There is absolutely no cause for panic or distress. As I'm sure you are all familiar with the rules, I expect each of you will be hastening to your assigned cabins in an orderly fashion. Please remain there until further notice." Her royal-wannabe voice had a much less pronounced singsong quality to it than usual, but Miss Judy was doing her headmistress best to instill confidence and obtain submission from her charges. "Might I suggest a calming beverage from your ice boxes, and I understand the movie channel is showing a wide variety of moving picture shows this evening that I most highly recommend. Very entertaining and good for a chuckle or two."

And then the floor began to shudder.

The atmosphere of barely controlled alarm began to falter.

Judy Smythwicke let out a nervous titter. Then nothing. Then, "Not to worry. Not at all," she finally said and clicked off.

People stopped in their tracks and an uncomfortable silence ensued while our cruise director no doubt checked things out for herself. Mercifully the PA system came alive again after less than a minute. "Not to worry. Please carry on to your rooms," she advised in a voice loud enough to be heard over the siren.

"You may have felt a little shake. Nothing at all to worry about. You see, it appears that The Dorothy has..

.come to a stop."

The crowd got moving again, hopefully most of them to follow Judy's advice. Not us. Our progress was slow, but eventually we found ourselves back in exactly the same spot we'd been in only a short while earlier: outside Charity and Dottie's cabin door.

I banged on it. Hard.

Again. Then again.

"Who is it?"

Thankfully Charity had listened to me on this one bit of advice. "It’s Russell. And Flora. Are you two all right?"

The door opened slowly and Charity gazed out at us, Dottie standing in the background.

"Come in, come in," she said, stepping back to allow us into the foyer of their suite.

"You're okay then!" Flora cried out. "I was so worried."

"What in God's name is happening out there? No one in management will take my calls. What is that infernal noise?" Charity railed on, ignoring her granddaughter's concerns. "And I think the ship has stopped moving."

"It's the man overboard signal," Flora explained. "Someone fell overboard."

"Oh my goodness, is he all right? Is..." She stopped and studied the expression on Flora's face more carefully. "You thought it was me, didn't you?"

We were silent.

"Oh you dear, sweet lovely," Charity cooed, pulling Flora into her grasp. "Your grandmother is just fine, just fine. We all are. Nothing to worry about." Then she said to me over Flora's nestled head, "Do they know who it is?"

I shook my head, deciding not to tell her that it was only Flora who thought it was she. I had been pretty sure it wasn't. "Not that I know of," I told her, my black heart feeling ill with my own suspicions about the true victim. "They're asking everyone to return to their cabins. So they can inventory the guests, I suppose."

"Of course. You should be going then." She patted Flora's back. It was still shuddering. Charity looked at me again. "I'll send her along in a minute. You go ahead. You should be with Errall now."

I nodded and left them. The hallways and public areas were quickly emptying out and I was able to make it to my cabin with little delay. I unlocked the door and was crestfallen when I saw that the room was empty. Where was she? Where was Errall?

There was nothing I could do. Judy Smythwicke's banter had been replaced by serious messages from the captain and other senior officers instructing all passengers to stay where they were, preferably in their own cabins. My legs felt like two columns of lead as I slugged over to the balcony doors and slid them open. I fell into a waiting chair, feeling beaten and exhausted and fearful for what the FOD officials would find out.

For a long time I sat there, as if paralyzed, staring into nothingness, hoping the impossible, that perhaps it had all been a bad dream, or that maybe, just maybe she'd be rescued. To believe she was down there, spiralling into the murky depths of the sea like a disappearing ghost, was too ghastly to comprehend.

I don't know how long I sat there before I finally got to my feet and took myself into the bathroom where I scraped off my filthy, tattered clothing and stood under a shower of punishingly hot water. I shampooed and soaped myself over and over until I felt some semblance of warmth and cleanliness.

Afterwards, in a soft, white FOD bathrobe, I lay down on my bed to await t
he news I hoped would not come.
 

An hour later a call came to verify my presence in the room and that no one else was with me. I confirmed with a choked voice that indeed, Errall Strane was not in the cabin and that no, I did not know
where she was. And that was it.

I must have fallen asleep because the sound of the phone was a clanging alarm jangling me awake. I grabbed at the receiver like a blind man, at the same time registering that Errall was still not in her bed.

Where was she?

Where was she!

"Hello?" My voice came out shaky. I must have left the draperies open before I fell asleep and I could see that it was still dark out, but the rain had stopped.

"Russell?" It was Errall. "Are you okay?"

"God, yes, Errall, are
you
okay? Where are you?"

"I woke you."

"What time is it?" I asked, still trying to orient myself. I heard a splashing sound and realized the ship was moving again. Had they found the body already?

"It's after four, Russell, I'm sorry to wake you; I just thought you'd want to know what was happening, or at least what I know."

I sat up now, rubbing my face and running my hands through my hair that had dried into a fright wig.

"Where are you, Errall? Do you know how worried I was about you?"

"I know. I should have called sooner.. it’s just that things have been so crazy here. I've been with...I was with Gio when...I was with the captain when the man overboard sounded and I just stayed around."

Uh-huh. Well, more about that later.

"We're moving. Did they find her?"

"You knew it was a woman?"

"Tell me. What's happened, Errall?"

"Well, no one immediately came forward to report a missing friend or family member or cabin mate, so they checked all the passengers...someone must have called you?"

"Uh-huh." Tell me for God's sake!

"Russell, I'm sorry, but it was Phyllis."

I was right. But knowing it did nothing to quell the sick feeling at hearing my suspicions confirmed. I felt numb. I felt too sad for words.

"Her electronic boarding card confirmed she was on the ship when we left Messina, and her friends and a number of other people she'd gotten to know on board reported seeing her on the ship after we left.. .but, she's gone now. So chances are pretty high she's the one who went overboard. That’s what they think right now, anyway."

I was pretty sure they were right. When the body flew by the Emerald City window I was sure I recognized the bundle of hair, the big hoop earrings, and worst of all, the terrified face of Phyllis Lindstrom...or whatever her/his name really was. I wish I had asked. "And Mary and Rhoda...?"

"Those two were sharing a cabin. Phyllis was travelling alone. That's why they didn't identify her as missing right away. But the security people have searched her cabin and most of the rest of the ship.

There's no sign of her."

"But the ship is moving. Are we just leaving her there?" I questioned, dismayed at the thought.

"Of course not, Russell. Members of the crew began searching the water as soon as the ship came to a stop and until the Coast Guard and other Italian authorities arrived on the scene. But eventually, The Dorothy, through Italy's discussions with FOD's owners and management, was ordered to continue on her way. There are hundreds of other passengers to consider." Errall's no-nonsense lawyer voice told me she agreed with the decision, but then she added, "Mary and Rhoda did get off though. They stayed behind on one of the Coast Guard vessels. For a couple of gals who really seemed to detest each other, they sure were a mess when they found out. Anyway, I guess if they find anything we'll hear about it, but G...the captain thinks the chances Phyllis survived or will even be found are slim."

"Why.. .why was she even up there?"

"Well, eventually another passenger came forward and admitted to agreeing to meet Phyllis up there at Lovers' Lane...did you know they have one of those on this ship?... any way, he insists he never went.

Stood her up, the asshole. I guess she must have been waiting for him up there when...well, when something happened."

I sat silent for a moment then asked, "Do they think it was suicide?"

"I...I don't know. Don't you?" She seemed taken aback by my question. "It would be pretty difficult to accidentally fall over one of these railings."

I shrugged without saying anything, then, "Thanks for telling me all this. Are you coming home soon?"

She was quiet, then, "I'm not sure."

"Okay."

"Okay."

We hung up.

My stomach rumbled and I remembered I hadn't eaten anything since lunch the day before. I didn't want to bother room service at that time of night (or rather morning), even though twenty-four hour service was offered, so I rummaged around in my airplane carry-on bag where I always stash something for circumstances just like this and found a package of Pull'n Peel red licorice and a bag of dry-roasted peanuts. I took my bounty with me outside onto the deck. It was cold and the ship seemed to be moving very fast, no doubt attempting to make up lost time. I let my thoughts flow into the blackness, remembering my shipboard friend and wondering what circumstances could possibly have led her to such a dreadful end.

And then a fiery explosion erupted in the sky.

I fell back, aghast. Now what? Was the whole world going nuts tonight? I blinked a few times to make sure I wasn't imagining it, but in the distance, seemingly suspended in air, I could make out a yellow and orange ball of fire, sometimes massive and angry-looking, sometimes almost disappearing into little more than a flaming matchstick. I watched in awe and disbelief, trying to identify what it was I was seeing. Was it a distant lightning storm? Fireworks? The end of the world? Was it a bomb or some sort of missile launching? Were we passing by some war-torn country?

I ran back into the cabin, switched on the TV and clicked the remote until I found the channel that kept passengers abreast of our current geographical location. There was my answer. What I was seeing wasn't magic or some freak of nature or my imagination, but rather something that had been happening almost continuously for the past two thousand years. The Dorothy was passing by th
e volcanic island of Stromboli.
 

We arrived in Salerno two hours late on Thursday morning. Because of our unscheduled stop during the night, our time in Salerno was cut short and longer land-tours, like those to Ravello and Amalfi, were cancelled and re-routed to Pompeii, only forty minutes away by bus.

It was a cool-ish, overcast day and the ancient town of Salerno with its heavy Romanesque architecture and dramatically arching cliffside bridges seemed dull and foreboding. I'd have given anything to stay in bed, close the curtains and watch movies all day, with the only interruptions being the steward bringing me treats and fresh champagne every two hours. But this was not to be. I had a case to attend to.

Just as I was locking the door to our cabin, Errall arrived from parts unknown...although I could make a good guess...and together we headed for the dining room. After a quiet breakfast with the Wiser clan, we lined up to get on one of the buses that would ferry us from the grey industrial port, crowded with massive seafaring transport containers, to whatever was left of the ancient city of Pompeii. The mood amongst the passengers, all aware of the previous evening's gloomy events, was decidedly sombre, a fitting match for the weather. En route, the rain began to come down, sometimes in spits, like a giant cat unhappy to see us, and other times in sheets so thick it threatened to overwhelm the wiper blades of the bus.

I love a good rain-when I'm at home under a blanket listening to music or reading a good book and looking out at it. But being caught in it while on a bus in a foreign country...not so much. And to be expected to tour a ruined city through it was just a miserable state of affairs. But, I kept on repeating to myself, how often do I get to visit Pompeii?

Despite the weather, the parking lot outside the walls of Pompeii was crammed to capacity. Our driver let us out near the front entrance while he circled around to find a place to stop. We were led inside by our FOD host and assigned a guide who must have been the last English-speaking one available, although to call him English-speaking was generous. He spoke in that mumbo-jumbo, garbled, hurried way that people do when they incorrectly assume they know how to speak another language but they really don't have a clue. As we took the first steps into the doomed city, the sky erupted, pelting the hoods of our umbrellas with such a clatter that it was almost impossible to hear him anyway.
Questa e la vita. ("C'est la
vie," "Que sera, sera"
or "Oh well," Italian-style.) In 79 AD, a volcano called Mount Vesuvius, not far from last night's Stromboli, surprised the prosperous capital of Pompeii by erupting and burying the city under twenty feet of ash and pumice stone.

The event created a hermetic seal about the town, preserving many public structures, temples, theatres, baths, shops, private dwellings and even some of its two thousand victims.

With its narrow streets of weathered rock, crumbling monoliths and leftover walls left standing like tombstone sentinels, it was an eerie, funereal place, made more so by the bleak weather. Yet at the same time, it was a truly remarkable picture of life in an Italian provincial city in the first century, if you're into that sort of thing. Although many of the other passengers were giving it a go, most of the Wisers weren't.

Disappointed the town wasn't fully populated with lifelike volcanic ash mannequins caught doing laundry or having sex or taking their Roman cockapoo for a walk, they soon got bored and grumpy and eventually resorted to their favourite pastime: bickering.

I wasn't in a much better mood. At breakfast I had strongly suggested to Charity that she and Dottie remain on board. After the threatening events, direct and otherwise, of the past few days, I didn't believe taking another land excursion was the safest activity at this point in the investigation. Although Phyllis'

death appeared to be wholly unrelated, it contributed to my general discomfort. It would be easier to ensure Charity's safety if she remained behind the locked doors of her cabin rather than out playing tourist in Pompeii. But, despite her promise to me on the Kismet, she paid my suggestion little heed and did
what she wanted. Big surprise.
 

"You're a disgrace!" the words echoed down the rutted corridor.

Our group had become mixed with the general population of The Dorothy as we stumbled along en masse down the wrecked city streets of Pompeii. We were touring the town's once bustling red light district, bordellos and bawdy houses now little more than brick-and-mortar shells. According to my rough translation of what I thought our guide was muttering far ahead of me, whereas most of the structures were original, some were meticulous reconstructions. I couldn't tell the difference.

As we passed yet another closed-for-business brothel, I saw the target of the harsh admonishment.

Jackson Delmonico was on his knees, in the doorway, hunched over with one hand braced against the crumbling façade, his back shuddering. He was being ignored by most passersby, except one. Standing above him was his father-in-law, Patrick Halburton.

"A horrible disgrace," Patrick repeated, spitting the words at the fallen man.

"What's happening here?" I asked, weaving my way through the parading crowd of tourists. "Is he all right?"

"Oh he's all right," Patrick told me, his eyes never leaving the heaving back of the man below him.

"He's just drunk! Drunk as a skunk and it's not even lunch time. Look at him!"

I crouched down beside Jackson just as he let go of some rather unpleasant noises and a flow of bile.

Fortunately there was still a steady enough rain to wash away the mess. I gently rubbed his back as my mother used to rub mine whenever, as a child, I had to throw up. I thought I could hear him trying to say something between retches so I leaned in closer.

"Not drunk." The words came out sounding more like he was trying to clear his throat rather than speak. "Not drunk. Sick. I'm sick."

I kept rubbing his back and tried to sound soothing but probably came off condescending as I said, "Of course, Jackson, I know, you're sick."

"Felt okay when I got up," he persisted, gagging a bit between each word.

I looked up at his father-in-law, still hovering above us like a menacing cloud.

"Right where everyone can see him," Patrick pelted out mercilessly, spittle flying. I guess he wasn't buying the "sick" bit. "He should have the sense to be a mess where no one can see. But here he is, for all to see, even poor Harriet. I begged Hyacinth not to marry him, but she ran off and did it anyway. This is what she got, what we all got. An embarrassment for us and for Harriet. Poor girl. Got no mother and barely got a father. All he cares about is his booze and his music. That's no career. Can't provide nothing for nobody with music. Poor, poor Harriet."

It was the most animated I had ever seen the old man and his performance left me speechless.

"Patrick, that's quite enough." It was Charity. She'd come up behind us, Dottie and Flora in tow. "I think that will be all the castigation Jackson will require this morning."

Patrick pulled his burning eyes from Jackson's quaking back to meet Charity's implacable ones gazing at him from below the rim of her black umbrella.

"Look at him. He's a disgrace."

"I said that will be enough," she ordered, her tone imperious.

Patrick stepped back, grumbled something and wandered off.

At about the same time Marsha and Ted with their children, a sullen, sodden threesome behind them, trotted by with only a "tsk"ing sound from Marsha. Not far behind came Thomas and Nick Kincaid who offered to look after Jackson.

"Get some food into him," Charity suggested. "He needs something to throw up other than his own gullet."

I lowered my head back down to Jackson's level. "You okay to walk yet?"

He grunted. "Helps to throw it up."

He did look ill, his features pale and waxen. I'd come to believe that if Jackson Delmonico was an alcoholic, as many of his family labelled him, he was a highly functioning one. I'd seen him that morning in the dining room. He hardly looked like a man who was drunk, never mind sick enough to be vomiting in the street a couple of hours later. I had noticed on the bus that he'd slept the entire way to Pompeii. "Were you not feeling well during the bus ride?"

"Not bad. Groggy though, groggy as all get out."

"Maybe it was something you ate for breakfast?"

"Nah, man. Never eat breakfast. I was just there for the company." He tried a gritty laugh.

"Nothing? Nothing to eat or drink or..."

"Nah, I..." Then something passed over his face like a shadow.

"What is it?"