Ransom at Sea (2 page)

The other woman looked to be in her late thirties. She had long auburn hair that framed an oval face. Her eyes were brown and noticeably sad, and there were anxious lines at the corners of her mouth.

“I'm not fussing,” the young woman said lightly. “I didn't want you to trip. There was a crack in the walk. I didn't think you saw it.”

“Nothing wrong with my eyes!” the old woman replied. There was an edge to her tone, as if she had sensed an implied accusation.

When they reached Emily and Lynn, the young woman said, “Excuse me. Would you mind if my aunt sat with you?”

“Not at all,” Emily said. She shifted further to one side of the bench, though there was already plenty of room.

“Thank you,” the old woman said as she lowered herself onto the seat.

“You are Marcella Hemsley, aren't you?” Emily asked.

“That's me.”

“And who is this nice young woman?”

Miss Hemsley started to reply, then stopped and looked up at her companion.

“I'm Rebecca Bremmer,” she said hurriedly. “Her niece.”

“Let me introduce Lynn Francis,” Emily said. “She's being kind enough to accompany me on the cruise.”

“Oh,” said Rebecca, shooting a glance at Lynn that looked almost relieved.

“Will you be accompanying your aunt?” Emily asked.

“Yes. Yes, I thought it best.”

Miss Hemsley sat staring straight ahead. Her mouth had hardened into a thin line, her lips all but disappearing, but she said nothing. It was apparent that she either didn't relish the company or didn't appreciate the implication that it was needed.

Lynn was at a loss as to how to bridge the awkward gap in the conversation that followed, but the moment was rescued by Emily.

“Ah! Here come the Millers.”

Lynn turned and saw the approaching pair. The Millers were one of those couples who, after decades of living together, had come to resemble each other to the point of blood relations. The man's head was the shape of a pie plate and crested with hair so thin that from a distance it couldn't be seen at all. He was stocky but not fat, and his nose skewed very slightly to the left. An expensive-looking camera dangled from a large black strap around his neck. The wife was the same size, shape, and coloring as the husband, and though she had shoulder-length hair, it too was thinning markedly. Their incautious bearing was identical, making them appear as if they might at any moment make contact in the area of the hips and be sent careening way from each other like human bumper cars. They each carried matching suitcases and shoulder bags.

“Good morning, Emily,” the man said amiably. “Looks like a good day for it, doesn't it?”

“Good morning. Lynn, this is Martin and Laura Miller. Martin, Laura, my friend Lynn Francis.”

“How do you do?” said Martin, jutting a paw at the young woman.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” Lynn said, shaking his hand and then his wife's.

“Take a seat over there, why don't you, Laura?” He gestured toward the bench where Brock was sitting.

“Okay, sweetie,” Laura replied. The two of them crossed to the middle bench, dropped their bags to the ground and sat heavily on the bench. They noisily greeted Mr. Brock, whom they appeared to know in passing. Brock visibly stiffened at the voluble recognition.

The next to arrive was a very thin gentleman with powder white hair and a florid complexion. He wore a dark gray suit and tie and a smile that twitched as if its owner were putting a brave face on oral surgery. His head hung down and his shoulders were slightly raised, which gave him a predatory look. He muttered greetings as he passed the three benches, choosing to stand off to the side by the kiosk. In one hand he held a leather briefcase, in his other was an olive green vinyl suitcase.

“That,” Emily whispered to Lynn, “is Stuart Holmes. He was once a lawyer, I believe.”

Lynn peered over Emily's head at the old man. “Of the type that could be found in one of your friend Ransom's favorite books.”

Emily laughed in a quiet, ladylike fashion.

Holmes's arrival was followed closely by that of another man, this one the antithesis of the lawyer. He was thick around the middle and had damp black hair streaked with gray. His face was heavy, his cheeks sagging so much they appeared to be losing the war with the law of gravity. He wore a canary yellow shirt, lime green checkered pants, and white shoes. He made straight for the first bench.

“Why, hello, Miss Charters!” he said expansively. “So glad to see you this fine morning! Didn't know you'd be coming on this little trip!”

“Good morning, Mr. Driscoll,” Emily replied primly. “Lynn, this is Bertram Driscoll. Mr. Driscoll, my friend Lynn Francis.”

“Glad to know you. And what's all this Mr. Driscoll and Bertram stuff? Just call me Bertie!”

Emily made a doubtful noise.

He continued. “I really am glad to see you here. I can't tell you! 'Least I know there'll be some good company on the trip!” This statement was aimed over Emily's head in the general direction of Claudia Trenton, who ignored it. He looked back down at Emily. “Yes, I'm certainly glad to see you here.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “The trip is a birthday present from a dear friend.”

“Well, that's nice! That's very, very nice. This everybody, here?”

Emily did a quick survey of the assembly. “I seem to remember the church bulletin saying there would be space for twelve. We're a couple short.”

“That's always assuming they actually got twelve people to join in this shindig.”

“Quite.”

“Didn't have all that much notice.” He aimed the explanation at Lynn. “This here boat doesn't usually go out this early—preseason, they call it. But the weather's been so good that our preacher—”

“Reverend Hurley,” Emily interjected.

“—struck up the deal with the owner. I'd still be surprised if they filled up the tour. Most people our age are dead!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

Nobody spoke for a short time. Driscoll seemed rather uncomfortable with the silence.

“Boy, she does look to be a regular tub, doesn't she?”

“Hmm?” Emily said.

“The boat! The S.S.
Genessee!
Our home away from home for the next four days!”

Emily glanced up at the deck and noted with dismay that the captain's wife had turned in their direction, apparently unable to miss Driscoll's booming comment.

“I wouldn't say that at all, Mr. Driscoll,” Emily said with surprising volume. “The boat looks rather charming to me.”

Driscoll laughed loudly, and Emily feared that he was about to be even more embarrassing on the subject, but he was stopped by the sudden arrival of a small vehicle resembling a golf cart. It was driven by a youth who looked too young to have a license of any kind, and in the passenger seat was a tiny woman with windblown white hair, who looked a trifle startled, presumably because she hadn't expected the conveyance to move at such a speed.

The young man brought the cart to a stop behind the passengers, and Emily swiveled around on the bench so that she could see.

“Good morning, Lily,” she said.

The woman turned to her and blinked, then her lips moved. Lynn was unsure of whether or not a sound had emanated from them.

“I beg your pardon, dear?” said Emily, leaning forward.

Lily attempted a bit more volume. “I said, is this it? Am I in the right place?”

“Of course you are!” Driscoll said with a hearty laugh. “Unless you think we're all in the wrong place!”

“You said you wanted the
Genessee,
ma'am,” said the driver. “This is it.” He climbed out of his seat and lifted her suitcase off the back of the cart. Then he came around to the passenger side and helped the old woman to step down from it with a measure of patience that was beyond his years.

While they were doing this, Emily noticed movement beyond them. In the dark hallway of the main building, a man appeared to be hovering near one of the rolled-up doors. Emily supposed it wouldn't be odd for a visitor to the pier to loiter in this fashion, but this man seemed to be paying particular attention to the members of their party. In his hand was a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Lily managed to struggle from her seat with difficulty while clutching the driver's hand with her tiny claw. When the old woman was finally standing on solid ground, Lynn thought for a moment that she had dropped something for which she was searching the pavement. When she didn't straighten after half a minute, Lynn realized that she was stooped with osteoporosis. The driver led Lily to Emily's bench and dropped her bag carelessly beside it.

“May I?” Lily asked in her barely audible whisper.

“Certainly,” Emily replied, shifting a little closer to Marcella Hemsley.

Lily began to lower herself onto the corner of the bench, pausing at the halfway point as if uncertain whether or not she was going to hit the mark. Then she proceeded until she had touched down.

Lynn smiled to herself as she watched this. The phrase “suspended between heaven and earth” came to mind. She exchanged a glance with Rebecca, who was also smiling as if the same thought had occurred to her.

Emily introduced the woman to Lynn as Lily DuPree.

“I'm so excited,” Miss DuPree said so softly it seemed to belie her words. “I've never been on a ship before. It will be a new experience for me.”

“I'd hardly call it a ship,” Driscoll boomed with a snort, miraculously having heard the faint voice.

“You've never been on a boat before?” Emily prompted, ignoring him.

“No! And I've been looking forward to it ever since it was announced in the bulletin. I've brought some of my favorite books along to read on the trip.”

Emily produced a perceptive smile. “I see.” She turned to Lynn. “Lily was once the secretary to our former minister, Reverend Dawson. For … how many years was it?”

“Close to thirty!” Lily said glowingly. “Oh, Theodore Dawson! Now,
there
was a holy man. A true man of God. He was one of those ministers from whom goodness just shines! When he retired … well, I just thought it was time for me to retire as well. There'll never be another like him.” Her face clouded over. “I don't know about this new minister at all … Reverend Hurley.…”

“How long has he been your minister?” Lynn asked.

“Seven years,” Emily replied with a twinkle.

“Well, there's eleven of us so far,” Driscoll piped up. “Always assuming that the two young 'uns are going along with us!”

Lynn and Rebecca exchanged a quick, embarrassed glance.

“Yes, we are going along,” said Lynn.

“Lot of fun you're going have with a boatload of old cats!”

Lynn's cheeks reddened on Emily's behalf, but she was stopped from replying when she noticed the amused look on Emily's face.

“So I guess we're waitin' here for one more,” said Driscoll, oblivious to the effect he had caused.

“Oh, no, Mr. Driscoll,” said Miss DuPree. “There's to be only eleven. I called up Miss Warner yesterday and asked specifically.” She turned to Emily. “I only wanted to know—just for my own peace of mind—who would be coming on the trip. It will be four days, after all, in a small space, and one does want to be sure of one's company.”

On the deck of the
Genessee,
the slight flush that had appeared on Samantha Farraday's cheeks at Driscoll's words had faded. She sighed heavily and gave her husband's arm a squeeze.

“Look at them,” she said, though they had their backs turned to the passengers on the pier. Her husband patted her hand. She continued without animosity. “A bunch of doddering old folks. Do you mind too much?”

The captain laughed lightly. “I don't mind at all.”

“You must! This has to feel like a comedown after the navy.”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Is that how it seems to you? That I've come down?”

“No!” Samantha exclaimed with distress. “No! I didn't mean that. I love what we're doing. I love the business. I love being on the lake. It's just, when I look at the caliber of our passengers sometimes, I worry about what
you
think of our life.”

“I don't miss being in the navy. And I love our life as much as you do.” He said this in what Samantha called his textbook tone, which always left her wondering what he really thought.

A man appeared through a door on the second level. He was tall with short blond hair he kept combed back. He was dressed in black denim pants and a tight white nylon shirt that showed off a well-chiseled torso. He sprinted up the steps to the first deck, gave a wave in the direction of the captain, then headed down the boarding plank.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” the man proclaimed jauntily as he reached the promenade. “My name is David Douglas—you can call me David. I'm the head steward on the
Genessee,
which means that I pretty much do everything.” He laughed self-effacingly. “I guess we've reached that time in the world when everything's reversed—used to be if you were the head of something, that meant you got to sit back and delegate. Now it means just the opposite: I'm the one that makes sure all the work gets done, that each and every one of you is happy, and that everything's shipshape and Bristol fashion—whatever that means. And usually I do it myself. I'm just telling you so's you know that if you want anything at all while you're on board, anything at all, you just say the word to me, and if it can be done I'll do it!”

The passengers all seemed to be a bit taken aback by this sudden, lengthy introduction. They stared at Douglas with bewilderment.

He broke the silence with a clap of his hands. “So! Anybody feel the need for help getting up the boarding plank?”