Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (7 page)

“So what have you two been up to?” Margaret asked pointedly. She didn't ask right out whether or not Naomi Pepper and I had spent the night together, but the snide implication was there all the same.

“Sitting and talking,” Naomi answered before I had a chance to. “We considered going for a walk on the Promenade Deck, but it's a little too blustery out there for my money.”

“Mine, too,” Margaret said. “That's why I'm opting for the treadmill in the gym. Care to join me?”

“No, thanks,” Naomi told her. I didn't bother to answer, since the question clearly hadn't been directed at me.

Margaret stood up then. “That's all right,” she said. “But you're forgiven. I can see why you might find Mr. Beaumont's company more stimulating than mine.”

I waited until she was out of earshot. “That woman is irritating as all get out.”

“Isn't she though,” Naomi Pepper agreed.

I turned on her in amazement. “But I thought you were friends.”

“You don't know much about women, do you,” Naomi observed.

That was absolutely true, and it worried me some that my state of mystification was so blatantly obvious to the casual observer.

“Just because someone's a royal pain in the ass doesn't mean you stop being friends,” Naomi continued. “I suppose you've heard about unconditional love?”

I nodded. “I'm aware of the concept,” I replied.

“Well, this is unconditional friendship.”

“I see.”

About that time Lars Jenssen came wandering into the buffet. He spotted me from the doorway and came straight to the table without bothering to collect a tray or food. His two-hour-plus nap on the bed in my cabin appeared to have done him a world of good. He was chipper and cheerful.

“Beau,” he said. “There you are. Where've you been hiding?”

Right here in Grand Central Station,
I felt like saying. “I've been having coffee and waiting for you to wake up so I could have my cabin back.”

I caught Naomi Pepper's puzzled look. “This is my grandfather,” I explained hastily. “Or rather, my step-grandfather. Lars Jenssen. He and my grandmother got married a few weeks back. They're on their honeymoon.”

“And who's this lovely young woman?” Lars asked, leering ever so slightly.

“Naomi Pepper,” I said. “We're seated at the same table in the dining room at dinner.”

“Good for you,” Lars said. “I was hoping you'd find someone your age to hang around with. It yust wouldn't do for you to be eating with Beverly and me. Where is she, by the way?”

“In your cabin the last I saw her.”

“Still upset?” he asked warily.

“You could say that.”

“Dang,” Lars said, shaking his head. “I still don't know what I did that made her so mad, but I was hoping she'd be over it by now.”

Beverly had instructed me not to tell Lars what the score was. Since I didn't want her mad at me, too, I kept all elucidating comments and explanations to myself. “Maybe you'd better go ask her,” I suggested. “And, as I said before, you might consider taking her a little something from the gift shop when you do.”

“As a bribe, you mean? Well, all right,” he agreed. “That's probably a good idea.”

With that he turned and went back the way he had come. Several steps away, he stopped and returned to the table. “I almost forgot,” he said. “You had a phone call. That's what woke me up.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

Lars shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “Some guy. Didn't leave a name. Must not have been that all-fired important. Said he'd be seeing you later anyway.”

Giving Naomi a mock salute, Lars went on his way. I wondered who might have called. The only person I had made arrangements to see later was Marc Alley. Maybe he needed to cancel our lunch date.

“What a perfectly dear old man!” Naomi exclaimed as Lars disappeared from sight.

“He's dear, all right,” I said. “That's what last night's lovers' quarrel was all about. Beverly, my grandmother, was evidently having a blast dropping money in the slot machines in the casino. Lars got all burned up about it. He thought she was throwing away his hard-earned cash which she, on the other hand, claims was her hard-earned cash. The upshot is the bride locked the groom out of the honeymoon suite. He ended up on my doorstep at six o'clock this morning. So much for my short-lived reputation as a fortune hunter. I agreed to come on the cruise to handle things in case one or the other of them got sick or hurt. I didn't think I'd end up having to serve as an on-site marriage counselor.”

My explanation caused Naomi Pepper to break into peals of laughter. “You mean you're here as a chaperon?” she managed when she was finally able to speak again.

I didn't think it was nearly as funny as she did. “That's right,” I told her.

She reached over and touched my arm. “I think that's one of the sweetest things I've ever heard.” She stood up then. “I have to go. See you at dinner?”

“I guess,” I told her. “Unless I get a better offer.”

“Good. See you then.”

With that Naomi left. I waited for a few moments before I headed back to my cabin. There I treated myself to the luxury of a long soak in the Jacuzzi, which I had missed when I first woke up. From the damp steam in my bathroom I assumed Lars had treated himself to a shower of his own, but by the time I got back to my stateroom, my ever-vigilant room attendant had already replaced one set of wet towels with new dry ones.

Standing in my bathroom I was just putting my wristlets back on when the phone rang. “Hello.”

“You're back,” Marc Alley breathed. “I don't want to be a pest, but I need to talk to you right away.”

“About?”

“He fired me.”

“Who fired you?”

“Dr. Featherman. There was a message waiting for me here in my cabin after I finished up with the interview. He said that as soon we get back to Seattle I need to find myself a new doctor.”

“Good riddance, if you ask me,” I told him. “From what I saw on the dance floor last night, the guy strikes me as a complete jerk.”

“But I didn't do anything,” Marc countered. “I had dinner with his ex-wife, and I danced and necked with her, but that's all. And I'm not the one who changed the dinner reservations. When we left the lounge, all I did was walk her back to her stateroom. Period.”

I remembered the hickey I had spotted on Marc's neck. Despite his protestations, I still suspected Marc's woebegone look that morning had something to do with sexual overindulgence.

“That scene on the dance floor really embarrassed me,” he continued. “And then there's Chloe.”

“Dr. Featherman's daughter.”

“Right. She works in his office, you see. I was sort of under the impression that she liked me. In fact, I was building up to asking her out on a date, but now I suppose I've blown that as well.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Marc. I think Chloe's mother blew it for you. But you said you needed advice. What kind of advice?”

“What do I do about dinner?”

“Dinner?” I asked.

“Should I ask the maître d' to put me at another table or in another dining room or what? From the sounds of it, I don't think I'm going to be eating dinners with Dr. Featherman and Chloe.”

“Who paid for your trip?” I asked.

“Dr. Featherman,” Marc replied.

“And what do you have to do in return?”

“The interview, for one thing, and I've already done that. And then I'm supposed to be part of a panel discussion on our next at-sea day—Friday, I think. If any of the other attendees want to talk to me, I'm supposed to make myself available, but that's about it.”

“So kick back and enjoy yourself,” I advised him. “I'm sure you're right. After what's gone on, you're not going to get to first base with Chloe Featherman. You could just as well forget about her and keep your options open. Margaret herself may be a handful, but the rest of the women at the table aren't that bad.”

“That was why I asked to talk to you later when I saw you in the dining room. What do you think about Margaret, Beau? I mean, it seemed like she really liked me. You strike me as a man who's been around. Do you think she was just putting on an act, or do you think she's truly interested in me?”

The poor sap.
She's interested, all right
. That's what I wanted to say, but I didn't. “If you want advice to the lovelorn, you're barking up the wrong tree,” I told him. “Ask Dear Abby. Ask Ann Landers. But don't ask me. As far as Margaret Featherman is concerned, I wouldn't even hazard a guess.”

S
OMETIME DURING THE AFTERNOON
, the wind died down, the clouds rolled away, and the sea turned relatively calm. Late in the afternoon, shortly after we turned into Chatham Strait, an announcement came over the intercom that a pod of whales had been sighted off the port bow.

Ralph Ames, my attorney and good friend, is an experienced cruiser. He had insisted that I invest in a tux for the cruise. While I was dressing for that night's formal-night dinner, I realized that the ship wasn't rolling nearly as much anymore, and it gave me hope that we were in for some smooth sailing.

This was my first cruise, and I was starting to learn that I'm not much good at doing nothing. Considering the efforts cruise directors make to keep people occupied, I'd guess my fellow passengers weren't any better at it than I was. In the course of that first seemingly endless at-sea day, in addition to dodging seasickness, I had also managed to avoid the art auction in the Promenade Deck Sea Breeze lobby bar.

Ralph, who is as much an old hand at purchasing original art as he as at cruising, had advised me in advance that cruise art auctions are seldom a good idea. On my own, I had opted out of entering the Trivia Tournament or trying my hand on the golf simulator. But I knew better than to think I'd be able to dodge that evening's formal dinner. Bored as I was, by the time evening rolled around, dressing for dinner almost seemed like a good idea. Based on the way people looked that night, most of the other folks apparently felt the same way. Other than getting all gussied up, there wasn't much else to do.

Cruise ships are a world unto themselves. I had quickly picked up on the prevailing photo-op mentality. Ship's photographers were all over the place. Pictures were posed and snapped at various set times—coming on board in Seattle, for example, or being attacked by pirates or drinking champagne at the Captain's Welcome Aboard party. The photos are then displayed (for sale, of course) in a long interior gallery on one side of the Promenade Deck. Figuring Lars would balk at the idea of actually purchasing any of the pictures with more of his “hard-earned cash,” I went down to the gallery prior to the first dinner seating. I wanted to locate Lars and Beverly's “Welcome Aboard” photos. I was also hoping that I'd catch sight of the two of them dolled up in their evening-dress finery. I figured the once-in-a-lifetime chance of seeing Lars Jenssen decked out in a tuxedo was worth the price of admission.

There were lots and lots of photos—hundreds of them, in fact—arranged in row after neat row. It took a while for me to locate the specific ones I was searching for. In the process I came across one of Harrison Featherman. The good doctor was part of a trio, the other members of which were two young women. I recognized his daughter, Chloe, at once. The other was an olive-skinned woman whose almond-eyed beauty stood in stark contrast to Chloe's blond good looks. I estimated both young women to be in their early thirties. They stood on either side of Harrison, posed on a hokey set that had them all standing in front of a life ring imprinted with the cruise ship's logo. Harrison was grinning for the camera and looking enormously pleased with himself.

A closer examination of the picture revealed why he might possibly have been so proud. The two young women were both lovely. As far as Chloe was concerned, her natural beauty was far more apparent when her lips weren't curled into a sneer and when the white heat of anger toward her mother hadn't robbed her cheeks of all their natural color. Even though I remembered Margaret Featherman mentioning Harrison's new wife, I couldn't recall her name as I examined the photo. Her exotic beauty was more subtle than Chloe's, and seemed to come from the inside out. On further study I realized that not only was the new Mrs. Harrison Featherman a looker, she was also pregnant—very pregnant. If my memory of such things served, she had to be at least eight months along. I wondered if going on a cruise that late in her pregnancy had been recommended or approved of by her ob-gyn.

I glanced back at the white-haired Dr. Featherman, who had to be a decade or so older than I am.
Harrison, you randy old devil, you!
I said to him silently.
Fathering a child at your age! But I'll bet having a wailing newborn baby in the house, or better yet, a terrible-twos toddler, will wipe that smile off your face in a hell of a hurry
. I walked away from the picture grateful that I wasn't standing in Harrison Featherman's shoes.