Land Sakes (23 page)

As for her husband, he was wearing a white dinner jacket, ruffled shirt, black tie, and dark slacks. There was something about him that reminded me of that bartender back at the Jack Daniel bar; maybe it was his big belly.

“How charming that we are seated here with you, Mrs. Win
chus
ter,” the woman said.

Huh! She probably asked to be seated at our table
.

In addition to the Baileys, there was a suntanned young man in his thirties, I'd say, with slick black hair, dark eyes, and the whitest teeth I'd ever seen. Flashing a smile that could bowl over most women, he introduced himself. “I am Lionel Listrom, of the Rodeo Modeling Agency.” Dressed in black leather and sporting a pleated shirt open at the neck to reveal chest hair and a gold chain, he looked for all the world like some flamenco dancer you might see on TV. Because there was no woman with him, I figured he was single, divorced, or otherwise on the loose.

Fortunately, there was a fortyish woman, dressed no better than me, who told us she was Mildred Peterson, a high school librarian from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She looked as self-conscious as the wallflower at a senior prom. I thought that if I had the opportunity, I would take her under my wing and try to show her a good time.

Our table had one oddball—an Indian from India, wearing a turban, a Nehru jacket, and a jade medallion. I don't think he spoke much English, because he had to repeat his name, Alphonso Pasquali, three times before everyone understood what he was saying. In my book, that name didn't fit him. Neither did his fair skin and handlebar mustache—not for an Indian. He was fifty if he was a day, a tall man, more stout than fat, and I wondered,
Why would a man like that be taking a cruise to Alaska alone
? I never caught what he said his line of work was. He kept his head down, serious as a judge,
and didn't look like the type who would be interested in the shows, the spa, or the scenery.
He's probably a gambler
, I thought. Of course, a body can never tell about foreigners.

Our red-coated waiter had gone around the table taking orders and was at my elbow waiting for me to make up my mind. As I turned my wine glass upside down, I decided to skip the appetizer and go for the cheddar and broccoli chowder, a green salad, and prime rib.

Mrs. Bailey was talking as I ordered my food. “What do you plan to do in Ketchikan, Mrs. Win
chus
ter?”

“Enjoy myself.”

“I mean, will you take the flight over the Misty Fjords or visit the Native Village?”

“We haven't decided.”

“I see.”

The waiter served the appetizers. My chowder was delicious.

Mrs. Bailey sipped the wine and hardly touched her shrimp. “My husband, Raymond, is interested in the canoe safari, but I thought, Mrs. Win
chus
ter, if you were planning to go on one of the land excursions, I would tag along with you.”

Lionel spoke up. “Oh, by all means you should take the canoe safari. It's the only way to see the backcountry.”

Unsmiling and sounding irritated, she replied, “I take it you've been on that one?”

“Oh yes. I often travel the Inside Passage and have enjoyed most of the excursions. The canoe trip is exciting.” He leaned over to speak to the librarian. “And, Miss Peterson, what do you plan to do in Ketchikan?”

“I'm going to visit some of the shops.”

“Oh, come now, there are shops everywhere. Come with me and we'll take a jeep and a canoe and explore the country. You'll see breathtaking sights, maybe a bear or some wild goats.”

Flustered, her cheeks rosy, she murmured, “I don't think so.”

The waiter served our dinners.

The prime rib was tender and juicy, and the serving was small enough to be just right. In a restaurant they often overload my plate, and I feel I have to eat it all, which only goes to make me uncomfortable around my middle, and after that it plumps up my rear.

As for Mrs. Winchester, she left off eating and just kept drinking wine. I should have kept track of how many glasses she downed.

Talking up a storm, Mrs. Bailey didn't come up for air. “Raymond and I flew to Vancouver from Dulles—we live in Westchester when we're not in Europe or Asia. Raymond's business takes him all over the world, because most prominent foreign investors depend upon the Bailey brokers for the best investment service. My Raymond manages portfolios for the Saudi royal family as well as many other heads of state, don't you, dear?”

He did not comment; neither did anyone else. Alphonso never looked up from his plate except to turn up his glass and drain it dry. The waiter made sure no glass stayed empty and was quick to pour his full again.

Lionel was carrying on a conversation with the Peterson woman while the rest of us ate and Mrs. Bailey talked. “We were in Monaco last winter and saw the princesses
Stephanie and Caroline. What a tragedy that Grace died in that accident. Her daughters are as beautiful as she, but unfortunately, their scandals have besmirched the royal family name. What a pity.”

If anyone was interested in what she was saying, they didn't show it, particularly Mrs. Winchester. I was curious about the Indian, so I said to him, “Mr. Pasquali, what part of India are you from?”

He waved his fork at me, and I was given to understand that he didn't hear me. When I repeated my question, he still didn't understand. I gave up. I don't think that man spoke six words during the whole time we were at the table.

Frankly, I was glad when we finished eating the meal and had ordered dessert. It meant we could soon leave the table and be done with that motor mouth. I had ordered the French chocolate chambord with chocolate sauce, although I didn't have the foggiest idea what chambord was. I had learned that when you order from one of these menus that is not totally wrote in English, what you do is pick what you do recognize, as in this case, chocolate, and go with that. Usually it's edible if not scrumptious.

I never tasted anything as good as that dessert. My curiosity got the better of me, and I had to ask what chambord was. Right away Mr. Bailey explained, “It is a raspberry liqueur, Miss Esmeralda.”

Liquor or not, I figured it was nothing more than flavoring. After all, vanilla extract is about 90 proof. I enjoyed
that dessert so much I wasn't going to spoil it by feeling guilty over a little alcohol. But as good as it was, I wanted to finish it so we could leave.

But wouldn't you know it, Mr. Bailey came up with something that would keep us at the table no telling how long. He was studying the wine list, which was a yard long, when he frowned and beckoned to the waiter.

Practically beaming, Mrs. Bailey explained. “Raymond is such a connoisseur of fine wines that he is never satisfied with the common selections offered on lists.”

Raymond Bailey looked up at the waiter. “See if you can't find us a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pope.”

Mrs. Bailey turned to Mrs. Winchester. “As you see, my husband is quite reserved, aloof, you might say. Raymond is never one to flaunt his knowledge, wealth, or prominence, which I understand is true of your husband as well, Mrs. Win
chus
ter. Only the nouveau riche calls attention to their wealth. We both come from first families of Virginia and are proud of our heritage. Gentility is, of course, the mark of a blue blood, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Win
chus
ter? Raymond's family tree goes back to James Madison, and my family is rooted in the aristocracy of land-grant planters.”

Huh! Planters, my eye. I bet they were dirt farmers
.

I had finished this chocoholic's dream dessert when, finally, here came the waiter with that bottle of wine.

“The Chateauneuf du Pope is from the captain's private stock,” he explained as he was filling all the glasses except mine.

Still bending Mrs. Winchester's ear, Mrs. Bailey was saying, “Both our families go back to the highlands of
Scotland. Raymond is of the Campbell clan and my family is of the MacDonald clan.”

That gave me something to ask her. “Do you go to the Highland Games on Grandfather Mountain?”

“No, we've never been there.”

In my book, how could they be Scotch if they'd never been to the Highland Games? Any Scotchmen worth their salt would go to the celebration on the Grandfather at least once in their lifetime.

“You really shouldn't miss it,” I told her. “All the clans are there with their men in skirts blowing bagpipes.”

“Are you Scotch?”

“I don't know. Maybe Scotch-Irish.”

“Then I don't suppose you have been?”

“Oh yes. Several times. I like to watch the border collies rounding up ducks, putting them through hoops. And I like to watch the Scottish games. As for the bagpipes I'd just as soon hear donkeys braying.”

Mrs. Winchester and the men laughed at that, but I think Mrs. Bailey might have been taken aback; at least she was stumped long enough for Raymond to stand up and get a word in. “Gentlemen, I see that we have enjoyed the last drop of this magnificent Chateauneuf du Pope. Shall we retire to the smoking lounge for cigars and brandy?”

Lionel begged to be excused. “Miss Peterson and I are going to the Ocean Bar where we can dance. Perhaps we'll see you later when the show begins in the theater.”

We all got up, and to my surprise, as the men filed toward the lounge, Mrs. Winchester followed them.

“Mrs. Winchester,” I whispered, “the men are going to smoke cigars.”

“I know,” she said, as tipsy as all that wine had made her.

There was nothing for me to do but go along with her. Once inside the lounge, she said in too loud a voice, “Anything to get rid of that woman.”

A dozen or more men were coming into the room, and, seeing two women in their ranks, they all looked surprised. A few of them found it funny and nudged each other, chuckling. The steward whispered, “Madam, the ladies room is down the corridor on the left.”

Mrs. Winchester brushed him off. “I'll have a brandy... thank you... a brandy... and a cigar.”

The look on that steward's face was one to behold. He quickly began serving her first and offered brandy to me, but I declined. Then he passed her the humidor of cigars, and when she took one, he offered her a light. The men were really getting a kick out of this, but not Raymond Bailey. He cleared his throat to say something. “Ah, Mrs. Win
chus
ter, how nice of you to join us. Gentlemen, this is Mrs. Win
chus
ter, the wife of Philip Win
chus
ter, whom you all know for his highly successful financial acumen and his phenomenal exploits in the world of business.”

He didn't bother to introduce me. What did he think I was, a pinch of snuff?

He turned to Mrs. Winchester, who puffed a cloud of smoke in his face. “We are indeed delighted to have you join us,” he said.

There was no way in the world he could mean that. He was much too flustered to be delighted.

Mrs. Winchester did not acknowledge his welcome with so much as a nod. As she sat drinking and smoking, the room was awfully quiet. Cigar smoke drifted in the air, rising to the ceiling. I guess those men didn't know what to say or think—at least not while Mrs. Winchester and I were present. They made sidelong glances at us and then faced the other way, chuckling. I'm sure they'd have a rip-roaring good time over her and me once we were gone; this was something they would never forget and their wives would never stop talking about.

“What's the matter... what's the matter with this crowd?” Mrs. Winchester hollered. “I've seen... I've seen better parties at a wake.”

The men busted out laughing.

“That's better,” she said and swirled the brandy in her glass before taking another sip. But she wasn't done. Hailing Mr. Bailey in a loud voice, she bellowed, “Mr. Raymond... Raymond Bailey.” She waved the glass at him. “That wife of yours... that wife of yours never stops running her mouth... never... She has no... has no terminal facilities... What she needs... sir... what she needs is a muzzle—that's what she needs, a muzzle!”

The room exploded! The men were laughing so hard that some of them had to wipe away tears. All except Mr. Bailey, that is. Red in the face, he sputtered, “Thank you, Mrs. Win
chus
ter. Now, may I help you to your feet?”

“Indeed not! I am not ready... not ready to leave.”

I was so embarrassed I could have crawled under the
rug. If she kept on drinking and smoking, she'd be getting sick off that cigar, probably upchucking all over the place.

Thankfully, she shut up, snuffed out the cigar, drained the brandy glass, and showed no signs of throwing up. “Aren't you ready to go?” I whispered.

She did not answer. I was helpless to do anything but wait.

She tried to stand up; I propped her up with both hands on her back. Wielding the empty glass, she waved it around, announcing, “I am Winifred Win
chus
ter... and I am here to tell you... to tell you...” She stopped, unable to remember what she wanted to say. Looking at me, she mumbled, “What is it... I want to say?”