On Tour (13 page)

Mark grumbled and rolled back over.

I answered the phone. "What is wrong with you?" 

"Diana, I couldn't sleep, so I was working on your email. I…I found a message sent two days ago." Her voice, was high and it came out in a sob. "It's a photo of a scrapbook picture."

I hit the speaker button and nudged Mark. "What is it, Ashley?"

"It's…it's a picture of a boat exploding!" she sobbed.

Mark cursed and jumped out of bed. "Forward it to me, Ashley."

He was on the phone in seconds.

I was in shock. Couldn't speak. Andre and Marsha…and I felt like it was all my fault.

"Oh, God, Diana. What if they're dead? How could this have happened?"

"I don't know, Ashley." I stifled my own tears.

"Forward the email to Mark. I'll call you as soon as we know something." My voice sounded dead even to my own ears.

Mark pulled up the email on his laptop. The picture was a work of art. Bits of paper layered to look like churning blue water. In the middle, the remnants of a boat lay, broken and scattered. Two bodies, one with bright blonde hair, floated face down in the water.

"Believe it or not, this is a break. We will get more data off this email than if The Spider had hand delivered it to our door." He got on the phone again as he forwarded it to someone, presumably at the CIA.

I nodded and lay back on the bed. Tears ran down my cheeks as I stared up at the ceiling. Andre's face floated in front of my eyes. All the crazy things we'd done played across my mind like an old movie reel. The first time we met in Rock Hall when I'd pushed Billy Prescott into the Chesapeake Bay, our wild week in California when I first recorded my songs, the chance meeting at San Juan airport in Puerto Rico that led to the tour with Carlos.

Mark joined me on the bed a few minutes later. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against him.

"I know it looks bad," he whispered, "but we've got to have hope. Even if the boat blew up, there's a chance they got away or weren't even on it at the time. Let's try to get a little more sleep, okay?"

I nodded glumly. He switched off the light.

At seven, Mark's phone rang. It was the call we'd both been dreading.

The wreckage had been found south east of Bermuda, spread across a mile of open ocean. There was no sign of bodies, but sharks were a constant threat in that area. There were a dozen or so islands—small scrubs of rocks that disappeared during big storms—which they were going to check.

There was little hope for survivors.

Mark and I spent Tuesday morning holed up in the crappy motel room, contacting the friends and family of Andre and Marsha. And trying to keep up hope despite the odds.

The news agencies caught wind of the story that afternoon. By the time the evening news rolled around, they'd connected the dots to me and Carlos, and the paparazzi went crazy. They tracked down Carlos who gave a sound bite that coming from anyone else would have sounded trite. But I cried when Carlos, his voice cracking with emotion, had called Andre "the best first mate a man could have."

By Tuesday evening the conspiracy theorists were asking what a bodyguard and a CIA agent were doing on a boat supposedly carrying a singer and her boyfriend. Our pictures were flashing across every TV screen in the country. I fielded multiple frantic calls from my family, Carol, and even my high school sweetheart, Rick. Who, after not seeing in over a decade, had come roaring back into my life on the heels of a messy divorce swearing his love for me. When I had finally realized that he was part of my past, I had been able to move forward with Mark.

In between calls, I had a running text discussion with Carlos on all the what-ifs. He was sure Andre and Marsha had made it off the boat. I didn't disagree, but I was becoming more disheartened with each passing hour.

As we sat eating really bad Chinese food, I fumed over not being able to do something. "We should be out there helping," I said for the hundredth time.

"We stay put until something gives," Mark said, stuffing a wad of noodles in his mouth.

"Shouldn't we change hotels or something?"

Mark shook his head. "That's only in the movies. The most risk in these situations is in the first few hours. When you're a fresh face. We've become part of the woodwork here. No one notices an old car or an old face."

I guessed he was the expert, but the room was getting claustrophobic. "Shouldn't we have heard something from the guy they picked up in Miami or even about the scrapbook email you forwarded?"

"We'll hear soon. I promise. It takes time," he said.

I sighed and switched on the news.

It was seven, so all of the network news shows had finished. Mark scooped up the remote and surfed through channels looking for anything covering the story.

"Stop!" I yelled, climbing off the bed and looking more closely at the screen. "Oh, my God!"

The screen showed a reporter standing with a bunch of old people. I turned the volume up.

"This is TMZ reporter Rachel Elliot live here at The Meadows to speak to some of the family of singer/songwriter Diana Hudson."

Granddaddy Hacker, Uncle Grover, Aunt Pearl, and Mammaw surrounded the woman. All were wearing big grins and their best duds.

"Noooo!" I moaned.

Mark sat forward. "This ought to be good. Didn't you tell everyone not to talk to the press?"

"I didn't talk to The Grands. Just The Parents and Ashley. This can't be happening."

The reporter began, "So have any of you spoken to Diana since the accident?"

The Grands shook their heads in unison.

The reporter looked unsure of what to do next.

"Do you know where she is?"

They shook their heads again.

Okay, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Do you know why she wasn't on the boat, and her bodyguard and a CIA agent were?"

Granddaddy stepped forward and put his mouth on the microphone. His voice came out in a loud muffle. "She was givin' the hitman the slip."

I groaned. Mark banged his head on the bed. The whole hitman story had not been reported—until now.

"Did you say
hitman
?" the reporter asked.

Aunt Pearl edged her way to microphone. "Outta my way, Hacker," she ordered. She grabbed the microphone from the reporter. "Gimmee that! A hitman been after our girl for a month. Sending her threatening letters. We're here to tell the hitman that we'll fill his backside full of buck shot if he keeps after our granddaughter."

Granddaddy grabbed the microphone back. "Yer darn tootin'. I ain't a man of many words, but here's a few for you Mr. Big Bad Hitman." Granddaddy pointed his finger at the camera and got right in the lens. He needed to do a better job on trimming his nose hairs. "You keep yer dirty paws off our Queenie Baby, or we'll knock yer block off."

Uncle Grover leaned forward, adding in his effeminate voice, "I challenge the scoundrel to a duel!"

The Grands cheered.

Mark said, "Can't wait to see the auto-tune of this. Could be the next internet sensation."

The reporter looked at The Grands and wisely decided to wrap it up. "Rachel Elliot reporting live from The Meadows in Delaware."

"I guess it could've been worse," I said, switching off the TV.

Mark just stared at me.

"What? It's not like I could've stopped them."

"You're all crazy. You know that, right?" He sounded resigned more than angry.

"But you can't say we're boring," I shot back.

*  *  *

By Thursday morning, Mark had finally had enough of the little motel. I put on my red wig, and we folded ourselves back into the subcompact. I would've been happy to take our chances at my place, but images of the water littered with boat debris made me hold my tongue.

Mark thought trading the car in at a rental counter for something larger would be too risky. And we certainly couldn't go pick up my car. So I called Carol. We arranged to borrow her car, and she would hold on to the rental for the time being. We were meeting at a restaurant on the east side of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge at noon.

It was blindingly sunny as we pulled up to Hemingway's Restaurant. I hadn't been there since last summer when I'd played a couple of gigs. Great food. Awesome view. I couldn't wait.

But first we had to play secret agent.

"There's her car." I pointed to a beige four-door Ford. It looked like a Mercedes compared to what we had now.

"Give her a call." Mark circled the parking lot peering down each row.

I rolled my eyes, as I made the call. "Hey, Carol. Any weirdos hanging around?"

"Make sure her table is outside and away from other people. Shouldn't be a problem since it's not crowded," Mark ordered.

"She heard you. Okay, we'll see you in a couple minutes." I hung up.

"Mark, you do realize we're not exactly keeping a low profile cruising the parking lot in this thing."

Mark parked the car. We unfolded ourselves and headed up the walkway.

"Oh, I am so sorry about Andre and Marsha," Carol said as soon as she saw us. She hugged me to her tightly. Then she let go and took in my wig for the first time. "Going for a new look?"

"Yeah," I grinned. "The stayin' alive look."

"Not funny! The whole situation is horrible." She shook her head. Her short mousy brown hair was cut in a serious bob, and her coke-bottle-thick, dark-rimmed glasses made her appear like a wise old owl even though she was only about forty.

She hugged Mark, and then whispered to me, "Wow—he really does smell good."

"Yep." I laughed. Seeing Carol again made me feel happy and hopeful for the first time in days.

We ordered lunch and then got down to the plan at hand.

"So, you two are going to lie low until they catch this guy? What if it takes weeks? Look at poor Marsha and Andre—maybe you should just go to the police and get into a witness protection program."

"If it comes to that," Mark replied grimly, "we'll go through the CIA. Local authorities are too risky. Too easy to buy info."

"We're still hopeful that Marsha and Andre got away, Carol." I wasn't being a Pollyanna. I felt hopeful. "There's been no sign of bodies or body parts."

Carol made a face and shivered.

Mark added, "That's what has the investigators stumped. No bodies, but the dingy and life preservers were all found intact. The officer I spoke with said there are always human remains, even with the sharks. They're still treating it as a rescue."

"That is good news. But what happened to them? Maybe they got sucked into the Bermuda Triangle." Carol's eyes widened behind her thick glasses.

Actually, that thought had crossed my mind, but I'd kept it to myself. Mark already thought I was crazy.

"Or maybe they were already off the boat for some reason," I said.

"Okay." Mark sounded interested. "Let's walk through this again. It's the afternoon of their first day on the boat. They've made it to open water. The weather was perfect."

"And there are a lot of little islands—just rocks sticking out of the water—close by," I added.

"But the boat wasn't found up on one of these islands. And the dingy wasn't used to get to one of the islands."

I nodded. "So maybe we should focus on their mindset."

The three of us sat quietly for a second. "Maybe Marsha shot Andre for getting fresh with her and then fell in the water too."

Mark rolled his eyes at me. "Columbo, you're not. There were no bodies, remember. Besides, Marsha wouldn't shoot Andre. She likes him."

"What?" I cried. "No way! She won't give him the time of day."

"I've known Marsha for years. This is her MO with men. She pretends she can't stand them, plays hard to get when they start chasing her. It usually ends up with her throwing the guy over her shoulder and carrying him off to her cave. Figuratively speaking, of course," he added.

Carol thought seriously about that technique for a moment. "Gosh, I never thought of that method before. I can be forceful. Figuratively speaking, of course. Maybe I'll give it a try the next time we go out to sing karaoke, Diana."

Mark's lips twitched. I elbowed him under the table. Karaoke with Carol was an experience I wasn't looking forward to repeating.

"Sure, Carol. Okay, so they're on the boat. Andre's in hot pursuit, Marsha's playing hard to get," I said getting the conversation back on track.

Mark chimed in, "Weather's beautiful, and they have a long trip in front of them. What would make them both get off the boat?"

Then an image popped into my head. "Snorkeling!" I shouted triumphantly.

"What?" Carol and Mark said in unison.

"It explains everything. Andre talks Marsha into going snorkeling. Hey, it gets her into a bikini, right?"

"Makes sense," Mark agreed.

I continued excitedly, "They leave everything—phones, life preservers, dingy—because they're swimming with masks and flippers. Maybe they brought noodles to float on, but that's it."

"And the best snorkeling is going to be close to shore on one of those little islands," Mark replied.

I looked over at Mark with tears in my eyes. "Mark, they're alive, aren't they?"

"It's just a theory. A really good theory," he added with a smile. "Let me make some calls. The rescuers need to focus on the islands within snorkeling distance. And I take back my Columbo comment. We might make an agent out of you yet." He gave me a wink as he left the table.

"This is good news," Carol said, squeezing my arm.

I nodded. "Oh, I hope so. Let's talk about something else for a minute. I'm about to jump out of my skin."

"You want to talk a little business then?" Carol reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

"Sure."

"So, I have August's numbers with me. I think you're going to be impressed."

I looked at the P&L statement. "We're billing ten thousand hours a week? What were we billing this time last year?" The staffing service used weekly hours billed to measure success.

"Less than five." Carol flashed me a wide smile.

"Impressive! Most of this is light industrial hours at Personal Manufacturing?"