Ransom at Sea (7 page)

David secured the plank, then sprinted up it and called out, “All ashore that's goin' ashore!”

The passengers moved to the top of the plank en masse, then went down it, progressing slowly due to the fact that by some quirk of fate, Lily DuPree had managed to be in the lead. She was followed by Muriel Langstrom. When the two ladies reached the bottom, Muriel gave her arm to Lilly.

“I'll stay with you,” said Muriel, “so you have somebody to hold on to. It's been years since I've been to this town, but I remember it well! The main street and all the shops are just over that way. Come on, now!”

She went charging up the pier with Lily nearly running to keep up.

“I feel sorry for Miss DuPree,” Lynn said to Emily as they went down the plank.

“Do you?” Emily replied with surprise.

“You mean you don't?”

Emily's gaze followed the retreating forms of the two old women. “No, I would think one's sympathy might be better spared for Muriel.”

Lynn laughed. “You know, sometimes I think you work at being an enigma!”

“Me? Oh, no. I'm sure I'm an open book.”

The passengers more or less fell naturally into the groups they had formed at lunch: the Millers were arm in arm, Martin's expensive camera bouncing rather alarmingly against his sternum as they went along; the three unattached gentlemen talked amicably as they followed Claudia Trenton, whose hand braced the back of the sunhat, which was threatened with flight by a soft breeze; and Rebecca and her aunt stayed close beside Emily and Lynn. At a glance from Rebecca, she and Lynn fell slightly behind the two older women.

“Do you think you and Emily will be having dinner in town?” Rebecca asked.

“We haven't talked about it, but I imagine so. Emily loves an adventure.”

“Do you think … would it be all right if my aunt and I had it with you? She seems to do a little better when there's other people around, and she likes Emily. And Emily doesn't—”

“You don't have to explain,” Lynn replied, cutting her off sympathetically. “It's really fine. We'd enjoy the company.”

“That's very kind of you,” Rebecca said with barely masked relief.

“I'm not being kind. It's true. Why don't you come along with us and look at the shops?”

“Oh … no. It would be better for Aunt Marci and I to be on our own. She has a tendency to get … distracted.”

In her mind Lynn formed a protest along the lines of the fact that she and Emily would not exactly be blazing any trails through the town, but she didn't say it because she thought it likely that Rebecca was using the term “distracted” diplomatically. “Anyway, where should we meet?”

“Well … David told me that there's an English pub that might be fun. It's called the Red Lion.”

Lynn raised her eyebrows and grinned. “David told you that, did he?”

She sighed. “He's been kind of a pest. A little bit. Hovering around me.”

The grin faded. “He has? Maybe you should do something about that.”

“He hovers around everyone. He doesn't mean anything. I know the type.”

“Now you sound like your aunt,” Lynn said without thinking. The anguished look that crossed Rebecca's face caused Lynn to inwardly kick herself. She would've apologized, but she thought acknowledging that she'd seen Rebecca's pain would've made it worse.

“I mean,” Rebecca continued as if nothing had happened, “if it got any worse, I would do something. But I think he's harmless.”

“Well, if you say so. Anyway, the pub sounds like fun to me. Emily?”

The two older women paused and turned around. “Yes?”

“Rebecca was just telling me that there's an English pub here that's supposed to be good. Do you think that would be all right for dinner?”

“That sounds great!” Marcella exclaimed. “An English pub! Don't think I've ever been to anything like that!”

“That would be fine,” Emily said.

“Where should we meet you?” Lynn asked Rebecca.

“Why don't we meet at the pub? It's a small town, I'm sure anyone can direct us to it. Six o'clock?”

“Fine.”

Once the passengers arrived at the end of the dock, they dispersed like a mist spreading in the general direction of Main Street. As Rebecca had predicted, her aunt's attention was distracted almost immediately by a pair of very young, unsupervised little girls who were playing on the grass between the pier and a riverside motel. Both girls were wearing faded plaid jumpers, and giggled with delight as they tossed an underinflated beach ball back and forth.

Marcella stood on the grass, tilted to the same degree as its slope, gazing at the girls with rapt attention, an envious grin on her face. She looked very much as if she'd like to join in with them. Lynn exchanged a hasty glance with Rebecca, then she and Emily left the two women behind.

It was a short walk to River Street, where they found themselves beside a small white, cottagelike building that housed a shop selling Christmas ornaments.

“Well, that's unseasonal,” said Lynn. “Would you like to go in?”

“It looks charming,” Emily replied, peering through the window in the door.

They spent some time inside the shop, which Emily felt was like being spirited to the inside of a Christmas tree. The overall ambiance was rather dark, while miniature lights and painted glass ornaments glittered on artificial trees. When they'd finished making a circuit of the store, they continued on to Main Street. Just before reaching it, they passed a sort of wide, bright alleyway. Near the opening was a door over which hung an old-fashioned wooden shingle that said Red Lion.

“Ah. There's our pub,” said Lynn.

They turned the corner onto Main and felt as if they had stepped back in time. The street was lined on both sides with shops fronted by small, evenly spaced trees in full foliage. There were also occasional public benches for the benefit of tourists. There didn't appear to be very many people shopping at the moment, though there were a few.

“My, my, this is a lovely place,” Emily said, her arm through Lynn's as they strolled down the street.

“It's very quiet,” said Lynn.

“Just as the captain's wife said, it's not quite the season yet, and it is Monday. Do you mind the quiet?”

“Not at all. It's a welcome change from Chicago. Everything moves so fast there, and everything is so noisy.”

There was a weariness in the young woman's tone that caught Emily's attention. She couldn't remember hearing it before.

“I don't think you've ever told me,” said Emily. “Have you lived in Chicago all of your life?”

“Yes, I have.” They paused in front of a small wood-framed store that was painted a muted mustard yellow. In the window were shelves lined with tiny glass fantasy figures, including a unicorn whose horn was tinted purple, and a gargoyle with glimmering green eyes.

“Would you like to go in?” Lynn asked.

“No,” Emily replied with a chuckle. “They're very pretty, but there are enough things collecting dust in my house. I don't need any more.”

“I beg your pardon!” Lynn exclaimed with mock distress. “I do your dusting!”

Emily laughed. “It's just a figure of speech.”

A little farther down the street they came to a shop with white lattice windows. A sign painted in plain script boasted an array of cutlery, cookware, and comestibles. They stopped and looked in the windows.

“I'd like to go in, if you don't mind,” said Lynn.

“Not at all,” Emily replied. “But I think I'll wait out here and enjoy the sunshine.” She gave a nod toward a bench by the curb that faced the shop.

“I won't be long.”

“Take your time.”

Lynn hesitated in the doorway for a split second, then entered the shop.

Emily took a seat. It was a typical wooden bench with the back curved to fit the general shape of a man's back—which made it out of proportion for most women—and the whole seat was tilted back a little too far. But exposure to the elements had left the wood soft, and Emily found it surprisingly comfortable.

She sat for a while listening to the wind rustling through the trees. The air smelled deliciously damp, with the kind of freshness that signals the presence of a nearby body of water, rather than the cloying heaviness of Chicago's humid climate.

Three young women came out of a small shop that specialized in handmade jewelry that Emily and Lynn had already passed.

“Yeah, but do you like it?” said one of the girls, a petite brunette, as she held her right hand up for the others to inspect.

“I
like
it,” said the tall blonde. “It's right for
you.
It's just not my kind of ring.”

The brunette
tsk
ed noisily, then turned to the third girl. “What do you think?”

“I love it! I just love it!” she replied with the intensity of youth that betrays a desperate desire to please.

As they passed Emily, the first girl lowered her hand with her fingers splayed out and looked down at the glittering trinket. “Well, I like it,” she said with finality.

Emily smiled to herself at their youthful innocence. She was an eminently practical woman, and wouldn't have wanted to be young again for all the tea in China, if such a thing were possible. But the brief exchange reminded her of a time of life when problems were small and only
seemed
big.

Emily watched as they continued down the street, then stopped and looked in the window of another store. After a hurried conversation, they went in. Emily was just about to turn away when she noticed something at the end of the block: a man was standing by the building at the corner. At that distance she couldn't clearly make out his face, but from the color of his hair and the clothes he was wearing she took it to be Stuart Holmes. She became certain when he gestured in Holmes's tentative manner. Whomever he was speaking with was out of sight, behind the building.

She thought nothing of this at first, since she assumed that the three single men had stayed together and presumably it was one of them with whom he was in conversation. But then his companion stepped into view, and Emily was startled to realize that she'd never seen him before. He was wearing a pair of black pants and a white shirt over which he sported a red jacket. After two or three more minutes, they disappeared, either into the building or around the corner.

Emily sat staring after them for a moment, then shook her head.

Well, after all,
she thought,
we're not that far from Chicago, and many people from there come here. He could easily have run into someone he knows. For that matter, he could've simply become involved in a conversation with one of the local people. But … there was something in their posture and the way they were gesturing that indicated familiarity.…

“You have the funniest look on your face,” said Lynn, who had come out of the store without Emily noticing.

Emily started and put a hand to her chest. “Oh! I didn't hear you!”

“I'm sorry. What were you thinking about so intently?”

The old woman sighed. “I was just thinking that I must stop making a mystery out of everything.”

“I knew this cruise was getting to be too peaceful,” Lynn replied with a wry smile as she helped Emily off the bench. “What have you seen in this sleepy little village that's so mysterious?”

“Nothing at all. That's just the point.” As they started down the street, she added, “I see you're empty-handed.”

“Yes. I don't really need anything for the kitchen at the moment, but … they do have some lemon curd I might pick up on the way back.”

“What ho!” cried Bertram Driscoll as he emerged from the shop they were passing. “Hey, there, ladies. Nice little town, isn't it?”

“It's generally very quiet,” Emily replied primly.

Driscoll cleared his throat and lowered his voice somewhat. “I've been looking around. Haven't found anything I want but they got a lot of nice stuff here.”

“What has become of your companions?”

He wrinkled his nose questioningly, then allowed it to relax. “My—Oh, yeah. Well, Dismal Jack—otherwise known as Stuart Holmes—the minute we reached River Street, he said he was going off on his own.”

“How odd,” Emily said lightly. “Of course, some people do like to be on their own.”
But he isn't on his own.

“He turned down the street before this one, I guess to get away from us. Truth to tell, I don't think he wanted to be seen with us, more's the pity for him!” This was said in Driscoll's usual, jovial manner, but Emily sensed a degree of hurt behind the words: a lifelong hurt.

“Not-So-Dismal Jack,” he continued, “otherwise known as Jackson Brock, is still in this little hidey-hole of a store. Sells scented soaps and things. The stink started to get to me. I had to come up for air.”

It was at that moment that Brock emerged from the store carrying a small red shopping bag.

“Sorry I took so long, Driscoll, but they had a very big selection,” he said in the wide-eyed manner that was peculiar to him. It seemed to Emily that Jackson Brock always looked as if he'd just heard something that had seriously thrown him for a loop.

“Oh!” he exclaimed when he noticed the two women. “Hello. I didn't mean to ignore you.”

“So you've found something already?” Emily said with a glance at his bag.

He spread the handles wide and showed the contents to her. “Yes. Soap. They have many flavors—er, aromas—of them in there.”

“And a bottle of lavender,” she said, peering into the bag.

Brock closed it, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. “Yes. I've been having trouble sleeping, and … of course now, in a strange bed. I thought it might help. It's supposed to be very good for that … spraying it on the pillow.”