Tapas on the Ramblas (22 page)

"Yes, thank you. Until then."

Charity and Sereena exchanged cheek kisses, the kind where lips actually touched skin. As Charity moved to leave she gave me a look and said, "Russell, may I have a word in private before I go?"

I followed my client indoors into the empty salon where the others couldn't hear us.

"Russell," Charity said, standing very near to me, her expression serious, her voice fighting to keep control. "Who could have done this thing?"

I looked at her with nothing to say and sadly admitted to myself that I had no idea. Any one of her family could have arranged to have our tender driver sabotage the boat, attack us, then leave us adrift and sinking, surely to our deaths. Any one of them could have hired the thugs in Tunis, sent her the threatening notes. All of them were reasonable suspects. If Charity Wiser hadn't managed to piss off every member of her family before this trip began, she certainly had now. Enough to push one of them to murder? It seemed so. Someone was trying their best to kill Charity Wiser. And, damn it, I was going to find out who. I just hadn't done it yet.

Charity read the look on my face and sank into a nearby armchair, letting out a mournful, "Oh dear."

She placed a hand on her brow and I was surprised to see it tremble.

I knelt down next to her. She removed the hand that shaded her eyes and looked deep into mine. "This is my fault. I caused this. Bringing this family on this cruise, knowing full well there was a murderer amongst them. Announcing changes to my will. It is my doing." I stayed mum. Briefly she fingered the outline of the faded bruise on my jaw where the tender captain had punched me. "Russell, I told my family that you were my advisor. It was meant as a deception, a cover for your real purpose. But, I've come to think of you as such. An advisor and trusted friend and a man who has saved my life on more than one occasion, and the precious life of those I hold most dear. I am forever grateful for that. I hope you know that. I can be a true mule at times, have been and will be again. But I hope you know that what I say right now is true and will not change."

I nodded. It was a heartfelt and honest speech.

"It was one thing when it was just me," Charity continued tremulously. "But what happened tonight could very well have taken my Dottie's life. And Flora's. I cannot have that. I've only now come to realize that I may have been acting irresponsibly by egging on this killer."
May
have? "It never dawned on me that doing so would put others I love in mortal danger. Tell me what to do, Russell Quant. Tell me what to do and I will do it."

I doubted she would keep that promise, but I accepted it, tried to comfort her as best I could, and finally sent her off to be with Dottie.

When I returned to the deck, Sereena was speaking to Flora. "Please, have a seat. Phillipe will bring you anything you wish."

Flora settled herself into a straight-backed chair slightly away from the group and I marvelled at how on this ship of excess and beauty, she had still managed to find a set of dry clothing that looked dowdy.

Maybe it was the wearer. I felt sorry for her. She looked upset, spooked. Maybe the reality of our salvation had not quite set in. Or, perhaps, how close we'd come to death, had.

Phillipe delivered my food and drink and Richard's glass and took Flora's order for hot milk, and then I asked the questions I was dying to know the answers to. "Sereena, what are you doing here? How did you ever find us?"

Sereena filled Richard's glass from the bottle she'd been sharing with Errall and began her story. "When you first told me about your travel plans," she said, instinctively knowing better than to mention in front of Errall that I'd first approached her about joining me on The Dorothy, "I knew of course that I'd also be sailing somewhere in the Mediterranean. But I wasn't sure about the timing and exactly where I'd be.

Yesterday I asked our captain to contact the captain of The Dorothy to compare itineraries and by happenstance it seemed we might cross paths here in Palermo. However, by the time the Kismet arrived, you and the others had already gone ashore. So we stayed in the harbour and waited to hear from Mr.

Corsaro, your concierge, who kindly agreed to inform us when you re-boarded, hopefully in time for a short visit."

"But we never returned," I said.

Sereena refilled her glass and passed the bottle to Errall.

"The message we received was that you and four other passengers had departed for Palermo on a tender late in the afternoon, never returned and that The Dorothy was preparing to leave port. The captain informed the Port Authority about your status, but of course they had no reason to suspect foul play.

Apparently there had been a precedent of certain members of your party returning late to the ship from a previous day?"

Tunis. I gave her a weak smile and gulped my rye.

"At the same time we received a rather strange request from The Dorothy," Sereena continued.

"Really?" Flora asked. "What was that?"

"One of the other passengers wanted to come aboard the Kismet."

"Richard," I murmured, giving the big lug a syrupy smile, hungry for something other than my hamburger.

"Yes. He'd learned about our communications and that I was a friend of yours."

Richard added, "I was worried when you hadn't returned to the boat by nine-thirty and more so by ten o'clock. Someone from your family told me about Charity's announcement that morning at breakfast...about the threatening letter...and I became even more concerned. I knew you wouldn't miss The Dorothy's departure unless something bad had happened. The captain, knowing you were clients of mine, kept me well informed of what was happening. I tried to convince her to send out a search party.

Then the Kismet kindly offered its assistance."

"How did you know to search for us in the water?" Errall asked.

"Richard eventually managed to contact the people who supplied the tenders," Sereena told her.

"Although they won't admit to any involvement in the matter, they did concede that they were indeed missing one of their tenders."

"And one of their tender drivers?" I asked, my voice tinged with anger. The little shit.

"So, with Richard aboard, we went searching for you and here you are."

"What now?" Errall wanted to know.

"Our captain has informed the Palermo authorities that you've been safely recovered, and Captain Bagnato of The Dorothy has agreed to take you back on board when we rendezvous with them tomorrow.

So, once my travelling companions return, we are off to Messina to put you back where you belong,"

Sereena concluded with a smile. "Until then, you are guests of the Kismet." "Speaking of which," Errall began, "Who owns this tub?" "It belongs to a friend of mine. He has sportingly gone along with this adventure every step of the way."

"The man on the deck?" I asked. "The one I saw when we were being pulled up from the water. Is he the owner?" "That was Richard, darling," Sereena told me. "No, not next to you. The man on the upper deck, watching us." "Perhaps then. All the other guests are ashore in Palermo." I nodded and then, emboldened by liquor, took an uncharacteristic further step into the veiled labyrinth that is Sereena's world. "Who is he? Who is the man who owns the Kismet?"

Sereena's face was as immovable and unreadable as the Mona Lisa's. She said, "He's a wonderful story best left for another time," she answered lightly, adding, "Your food is getting cold, Russell. Eat it." Shut down.

Wednesday morning arrived in a blaze of citrus sun and cerulean sky, and the scene on the main salon deck was much different from the night before. It was crowded for one thing. I couldn't imagine where all these people, maybe seventeen or eighteen in all (including we five), had slept. And the boat was moving, fast. But that didn't seem to deter the group from partaking in a leisurely mid-morning breakfast party beneath the toasty Mediterranean rays. The guests, sitting, standing, lounging, were spread throughout the area in haphazard groupings-couples, threesomes, foursomes, some singles-oriented towards the sun or the tuxedoed musicians playing light classical pieces at the far back end of the deck. I later learned the musicians had been convinced to come aboard in Palermo (at the urging of the Kismet's onshore rabble-rousers) and would disembark in Messina. From my
CBS
Masterworks Dinner Classics: Breakfast in Bed
CD I recognized the current piece: Peer Gynt Suite number 1, opus 46: Morning. Perfect. Off to one side was a buffet table dressed in gauze white and faint blue, and laden with chafing dishes, immense serving platters, champagne buckets, coffee urns, samovars and candelabras that somehow remained lit in the vigorous breeze created by our speed. Nestled in ice were crystal jugs of colourful juices made from native berries and fruits, there were heaps of caviar, eggs, scones, pate and delicate pieces of curled meat too beautiful to be called sausages, right alongside bottles of chilled Bollinger, Krug and Veuve Clicquot sweating fetchingly in the sunshine.

No one paid me much attention when I stepped onto the deck, back in my original outfit that had miraculously been laundered overnight. I caught sight of Richard sitting with Flora at a table for two, drinking coffee. Richard and I had spent the night together doing research on one another, but he'd woken early and left behind a note saying he'd see me later. My cheeks involuntarily pinked at the memory, like I was friggin' Audrey Hepburn mooning outside Tiffany's (when the only Tiffany's I'd ever known was a long-defunct pizza joint on Saskatoon's 8th Street). Sereena, Charity and Dottie were at another table, deep in conversation. Errall, ever the schmoozer, was amidst a group of three I did not recognize: a sixtyish man with a trumpeting voice, a thin wisp of a fellow wearing a Speedo that just covered the required bits and who had the face of a beautiful but bedraggled street urchin, and a large caftaned woman with countless strands of colourful wooden beads hanging heavy from her thick neck. I waved a cheery hello that went wholly unnoticed.

I shrugged and approached the majestic smorgasbord. The rich-looking coffee urn was a classic, resting on a stepped pedestal base and adorned with a band of scrolling grapes, leaves and vines at the foot, midsection and lip. The handles were carved with waterleaf thumb rests and held in place by cornucopia devices. I selected a white cup from an arrangement nearby, fingering the emblem on its side and filled it with coffee. I picked up a matching plate and, while having my first sip, surveyed the considerable breakfast pickings. Just as I was about to scoop a couple helpings of eggs Benedict onto my plate a voice at my right said, "Are you enjoying the coffee?"

I turned to find a dashing man posing next to me. He was Greek, I surmised, based firstly on his accent, secondly on his dark features (that had had a longtime love affair with the sun) and thirdly on my in-depth study of the movie
Summer Lovers.
He might as well have been bare-chested, for his unbuttoned shirt was made of something I can only describe as cotton chain mail. He wore tight black shorts and black sandals.

Actually the Java had a bit of a musty smell to it, but, just in case he'd been the first one up on the yacht that morning and had made it himself, I said, "It's good. Strong, just the way I like it."

"Kopi Luwak," he said, with a knowing nod.

Okay, maybe he wasn't Greek. What language was that? Kopi Luwak? Sounded Indonesian or something.

"You know Kopi Luwak then?" he asked.

Silly me. Kopi was obviously someone's name. "Oh, no, I don't. I.. .well I just got here." I smiled brightly. "I'm afraid I don't know most of these people."

He smiled too, wide and long, toothy and somehow lascivious. Yup, he was Greek. "No, no, my friend, the cafe, Kopi Luwak. It is the world's rarest."

I looked suitably impressed and took another sip of the earthy, rich liquid. There was something about it though....

"You may be considering Jamaican Blue, Kona, Tanzanian Peaberry...true, all exceptional coffees...but Kopi Luwak beats them all, wouldn't you agree?"

I nodded and slurped.

"Perhaps only as little as five-hundred pounds available per year, sometimes seventy-five dollars per quarter pound..."

I spit up a bit then.

"But it is more than the unique flavour that sets it apart."

Yeah, the ridiculous price. "Oh? What's that?" I inquired, adding uselessly, "It's very tasty though."

The Greek laid his large, dark hand on mine, bringing it and the coffee cup it held up to his healthy nose. He closed his eyes and whiffed. His face transformed into an expression of orgasm, but only for a second. "What makes this coffee so rare is the processing," he told me.

Oh gawd! I have a cousin who roasts coffee for one of those ubiquitous GottaDrinkMe coffee spots with stores on every corner. Don't get me wrong, I like the product, I just don't want to spend two hours learning how it's made. Just pour it and let me drink it. How was I gonna get away from this guy?

"Kopi Luwak comes from the islands of Sumatra, Java and Sulawesi." Here it comes. "On these islands is a small mammal called the
Paradoxurus Hermaphroditus.
You've heard of this
Hermaphroditus?
A musang, a toddy cat, a palm civet?"

Uh, no.

"They are tree-dwelling animals belonging to the civet family. Most Indonesians consider them pests."

Ah-hah, I was right about the Indonesian thing. "They climb into the coffee trees and eat only the ripest, reddest coffee cherries."

"That is a shame," I sympathized. Maybe an omelette instead of eggs Benedict?

"But," he smiled winningly. "What goes in must come out. The locals gather the...beans...which, amazingly, come through the digestion process fairly intact, still wrapped in layers of the cherries'

mucilage."