Tapas on the Ramblas (10 page)

After a pause, during which her brilliant eyes made a circuitous route around the room, she concluded with: "I'm sure this will meet with all of your approvals and put all rumblings and grumblings and tall tales to rest."

Another person might have then left the room in some dramatic fashion, but Charity stood her ground, staring at the crowd, daring someone, anyone, to speak, challenge her decision, take her on. Of course, no one did. In moments the room was cleared with the exception of Charity, Dottie, Flora, Errall, a few well-entertained serving staff and me.

"Do you know what you just did?" I asked, as I approached Charity's table.

"Do you remember what you asked me on the Ramblas?" she shot back with a question of her own.

"You asked me how I could be certain someone would try to kill me again while we were aboard The Dorothy."

I remembered.

"Well," she said with a sly smile on Cheshire Cat lips, "I think I've just assured you that they will."

Sunday was a day at sea. According to Miss Judy Smythwicke's multitudinous announcements over the PA system, the daily newsletter and the TV station that kept us informed about such things, we were heading for Tunisia, located on the northern coast of Africa. After leaving Minorca we had sailed east towards Sardinia and would travel south along its western coast for a good part of the day. Charity had timed her stunning revelation well. There was no getting off the boat in a huff for any of the family-or me-unless we were in the mood for a very long swim.

When I woke early Sunday morning, I was startled to see through the slits of my morning eyes a churlish grey sky and, as if showing off, a narrow bolt of lightning flashing in the distance. A storm! In an instant my stomach muscles contracted and goose-bumps multiplied over the mounds of my bare chest. I rolled over to look at Errall, fast asleep in the next bed. Should I wake her? Should we put on our life jackets? At the first sighting of Shelley Winters or Kate Winslet I would surely faint dead away.

Then, like one of those brain-numb, soon-to-be-dead, horror film heroines, I threw back my bedcovers and reached for my housecoat, intent on facing the demon outside. I stood up, slipped my feet into white terry slippers, and placed them shoulder-width apart, in preparation for the swooping motion of the ship's embattled hull. Yet all seemed still. Surprisingly the floor did not sway with a sickeningly slow, dull lull as I expected. I took a baby step forward and then another, making my unsteady way to the windows. With a gentle swoosh I pulled aside the sliding door and gophered my head through the space I'd created. Salt.

Spray. Heady wind. They were all there, but not in any immediately threatening way. I opened the door a little wider, allowing myself room to squeeze through onto the deck, dry except for the edges nearest the railing. I stood there, in my luxurious robe and slippers, stock-still, back plastered against the glass as far from the railing as possible, fighting a rising panic. What had I done? Why had I gotten on this boat for an entire week? Couldn't I have had the sense to try out my sea legs in a less dramatic fashion, perhaps in a wading pool or something less, less, less...big?

I stared at the busy sky and roiling waters, almost indistinguishable at that time of day and in those weather conditions. And then I got all philosophical-like-perhaps it was the acceptance of my imminent demise that brought it on. What is the difference between sea and sky, I asked myself? Sea evaporates into air to become rain that falls into the sea. How do I...and this boat...fit into that cycle? Did we too have to be consumed somehow, to appease the god of the sea-whassisrtame? Morpheus? Titan? Ed? And yet...yet...even though the sky looked angry and the water unwelcoming, we seemed to be.. .just fine, plowing along with the steadiness of a chip through dip. The sea was holding us up, propelling us to our next destination, as if we were her guest and under her tender care.

For a long time I stood there, staring at our hostess, making friends with her, watching day slowly, softly tinge the night sky with smudges of light, as if to say, "Good morning, it’s my turn now."

I heard Errall rustling about in bed. I poked my head into the cabin and was surprised to see by the clock that I'd been communing with mother sea and sky for almost an hour. I pulled in one last lungful of the lusty sea air and, finding myself oddly invigorated, romped into the room and roused Errall with a well-placed pillow to the buttocks.

By 11 a.m. we'd been to the gym and had our breakfast. Although we could still see the storm hanging like a wet, cold blanket far off the port side of the ship (I was beginning to get the hang of nautical terms), the sky directly above The Dorothy was startlingly blue and sun flooded the Pool Deck. Mindful of her alabaster skin, Errall debated slathering on a coating of factor 45 sun block or finding a nice quiet shaded spot elsewhere to read and eventually chose the latter, leaving me to brave the Mediterranean rays on my own. I slipped on a pair of Body Body Wear trunks (I'd given up Speedos last year), cut to mid-thigh, orange with a vaguely Hawaiian strip of flowers down each side, a bright yellow tank and pair of flip-flops, prepared a beach tote with Frances Mayes'
Bella Tuscany,
Ombrelle, baseball cap and Dasani and headed out.

The Pool Deck was a large, rectangular, open area, glass walls down both lengths, protecting guests from wind and sea spray but allowing an unimpeded view of the water. At the aft end was a festive-looking cantina that offered a wide selection of frou-frou drinks and tasty poolside snacks. At the fore was a hot tub and behind that an area for playing table tennis and shuffleboard. Tables for two or four, each with a ruby-red umbrella, created an outer rim circling the pool; the inner rim was populated with full-length chaise lounges with mats of blue-and-white gingham like Dorothy's dress in
The Wizard of Oz.

Despite the early morning storm, the sun had brought out the gays as surely as a sale at IKEA (or Canadian Tire for the lesbians). Immediately, I could tell this was a high-class cruise for there was nary a thong in sight. Instead, most of the crowd was outfitted in tasteful, designer swimwear. On the running track, which was actually on Deck Nine and suspended above the circumference of the pool, were several super-fit men and women, in track suits stylish enough to meet any Saskatoon restaurant dress code, taking their morning jog or fast-walk. As I ambled about near the pool, taking in the scenery and looking for a spot, I was glad I still had a tint of summer colouring so I wasn't the whitest white person on board.

But I was close. Judging by suntans ranging from almond to mahogany, I guessed the combined money spent on tanning bed sessions prior to this trip could have paid Martha Stewart's legal bills.

"Russell! Alone? Why don't you join us?" It was Phyllis, suddenly standing next to me, looking shockingly spectacular in a one-piece maillot that revealed not a hint of the wearer's masculinity, but rather a lithe, sway-backed figure reminiscent of...who else, Phyllis Lindstrom. "Mary, Rhoda, look who's here!" she called across the entire Pool Deck expanse to where her friends were relaxing around a table in somewhat less revealing outfits. "Oh, stop gawking," she said with a coy smile, her attention back on me and noticing me noticing her shape...or rather lack of one. "A little Scotch tape goes a long way. Except I have to stay out of the sun or else the adhesive starts melting and then whoops! A nasty surprise for everyone!" She laughed and laughed as she pulled me along by the arm. "My, my, you are a piece of beef, aren't you, Russell Quant," she commented, massaging my bare biceps. "I never would have guessed. You seemed so buttoned-down before."

By this point we'd reached the girls' table and I greeted the sitcom stars as if they were just regular folk.

"Oh, Mar, I don't know if we should ask him to stay," Rhoda, a rainbow-coloured scarf covering her head and knotted above her right ear, complained to the Mary drag queen. "With him around, no one's ever gonna notice me."

Mary gave me a smile as big as Minneapolis and as white as fresh snowfall and waved off Rhoda's concerns. "Mr. Quant, please join us. Can we get you anything?"

"Mary!" Phyllis hissed. "Russell is
my
friend." She turned to me and asked deadpan, "Russell, can Mary get you anything?"

"Thank you, ladies, for the kind invitation," I said as graciously as I could. "But I think I'm going to find a spot in the sun for a while; try to darken up a bit."

"Let me tell ya," this from a cynical Rhoda. "It'll kill ya, Russell, all that sun. And even worse, it'll make you look old."

"Now, Rhoda," Mary admonished her friend before turning back to me with that smile. She was really quite a beauty. "Maybe some other time then?"

I gave her a choir of teeth and a wink. "I'd be delighted."

"Oooooooohhhhhhh, Mr. Quant!" she replied in a quivering alto. Perfect Mary Richards.

Phyllis pulled me aside, but not far enough away so the others couldn't hear her. "Don't mind them, Russell. I promised I'd sit with them, or else I'd come with you." She ran a finger down one of my sideburns. "But let me know when you find a spot and maybe I'll sneak away later."

I smiled, bobbed my head and headed off.

I surveyed the sun-washed area nearest the pool and saw there were still a few tempting spots available.

Like the one between the gym bunny and the Antonio Banderas look-alike, or the one next to Mr. Pecs with a goatee, but alas, I spotted some of the Wiser clan and reminded myself that this was a working trip and headed in their direction.

It was the perfect group. With the exception of Harry, it included several of the family I'd not yet formally met (since they'd all disappeared from dinner the previous evening in a rush). Playing charming hostess, Harry stood upon my approach and introduced me to her Great-Aunt Faith, Faith's husband Thomas, their son Nick, and grandchildren Nigel and Nathan and Kayla. Apparently Marsha and Ted, parents of the twins and Kayla, were elsewhere.

"Won't you sit with us, Mr. Quant?" Faith offered kindly. "There's plenty of room."

"I'd love to, thank you," I accepted and pulled up a nearby lounger. I deposited my bag, peeled off my tank and began the laborious process of applying Ombrelle 15.I kind of hoped I'd get a surreptitious peek from Nick, but he seemed steadfastly focused on the pages of a paperback, something with "Blood" in the title. However, I did catch Kayla giving me a once-over.

"Are you enjoying the trip so far, Mr. Quant?" Thomas asked.

"Yes, thank you." I answered, applying block to my face.

Thomas was a tall man, although he had that unmistakable look some older men get that makes it appear as if they've shrunk. But for eighty-one, three years Faith's junior, he appeared every bit as fit and trim as his wife. They had the air of people who are steadfastly dedicated to a well-researched physical fitness regime. I imagined them heading out every morning for a several-kilometre walk with their dog, Muffin, wearing matching velour track suits, after which they'd eat abstemious breakfasts and lunches, only splurging at dinner with a drop of wine and maybe a single chocolate for dessert.

"I'm rather surprised we haven't met before now," he said. "Do you mind my asking how long you've known Charity?"

Oh no you don't. I'm the detective. I'm the one who drills for information. Sheesh, you'd think he'd at least give me time to get this damn block on. "Oh, quite some time now." Vague be my name.

He nodded as if I'd given him quite a lot to think about, then, "And, what is it exactly that you do for her?"

"Oh Thomas, the poor man is going to rue his decision to join us if you keep at him like this," Faith softly chided her husband.

"Oh my gawwwwd! Look at them now!" This came from Kayla, making like a 1980s Valley girl, even though the closest she came was the foothills of Alberta. Maybe she was a Foothilly girl? Her hair was mousy brown at the roots but startlingly blond elsewhere and even in the heat of midday she wore dark eye makeup that was beginning to run down the side of her face and coagulate with her suntan oil, which smelled overwhelmingly of coconut. I turned to see what she was referring to and saw that the object of her derision was none other than Phyllis, Mary and Rhoda. They had exchanged their wigs for rubber, floppy-flower-covered swim caps, having neatly placed their hairpieces on three wigstands, one on each of their chairs around their table, and were in the pool attempting some rather shocking synchronized swimming routines.

"My," Faith commented, "they certainly are...agile."

"That is like soooooo gross!" Kayla added her own commentary. "You can see the fat one's thingy!"

Before we knew it, two long, lean, brown-haired bodies dived into the water alongside the trio and began a duelling set of water ballet, much to the delight of a growing group of onlookers. Joggers on the running track above the pool had stopped and were leaning over the protective railing to watch the spectacle as well. The joiners were Nigel and Nathan.

Harry clapped her hands a few times exclaiming, "Oh those two! I'd forgotten they were such dolphins in the water. They won some swimming competitions, didn't they Kayla?" she asked her cousin.

Kayla's face was curdled in disgust. "Yeah, I guess so. What a couple of freaks. Who knows what’s in that water."

"Are you not intending on utilizing the pool this entire week then, dear?" asked Grandma Faith. Nice shot.

Kayla snorted her answer.

After a few more moments, the rabble-rousing in the pool died down and most of the sunbathers went back to the business of cooking their hides and ordering colourful drinks and the joggers returned to their jogging. Nigel and Nathan remained in the pool trading harmless barbs with the girls. I finally completed my blocking, lay on my lounger and welcomed the first delicious kiss of sun on my autumn-chilled skin.

"Where is Flora this morning?" I asked whoever might be listening. Flora was about the same age as Harry, Kayla and the boys. I would have expected her to be poolside with her cousins.

"I called her room to ask her to join us," Harry answered. "But she said she was going to be busy with Charity and Dottie."

And with that, we fell into silence. Even the others around the pool, as if by some unspoken acquiescence, were quiet and subdued, content for the moment to drink in the sun (and their cocktails) in peaceful bliss. I knew I should be interrogating my companions in search of a potential killer, but instead I allowed myself a few minutes of luxury on our floating Easy-Bake Oven set to Broil.

The next thing I knew I heard Faith's voice announce, "We're going in for a spot of lunch. Anyone care to join us?"

I opened my eyes and knew I'd been sleeping. Faith and her husband were slipping on shirts and shorts over their bathing suits and gathering their things. How long had I been out?

"Sure, I'll come," Harry said, gathering up her things.

With the twins nowhere to be seen, that left me alone with Kayla and Nick, both motionless and silent beneath the black lenses of their sunglasses. I closed my eyes. Maybe just ten more minutes of shut-eye would be okay.

"Flora never sits in the sun," Kayla said out loud after a minute or two. "She's a bit of a screwball, if you hadn't already noticed."

I lay still and said, "Oh?"

I could hear Kayla slither into the lounger next to mine, leaving her uncle to his slumber a couple spots away. I pretended not to notice. "Actually, most of us kids are screwed up," she said, her voice much closer than before. "In one way or another, and it's because of our fucked up parents." I turned my head to look at her. She was facing sunward, pouty lips and nose pointing straight up, but from my vantage point I could see that her eyes were rolled to the side, peeking at me from behind her dark shades. She was checking if I was shocked to hear her say the "f" word-I wasn't. "They're the ones who fucked us up."