The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (3 page)

“That must have been most distressing for the rest of the crew.”

“There is unrest among them, madam, I would not be truthful if I told you otherwise.”

“There must have been rumors . . .” She sipped more of her ale, allowing the barman time to consider how much to tell her. In her years as a detective, she had learned to spot those who lived to talk; who thrived on gossip; who never forgot an overheard word or a glimpse of odd behavior. Such a man could prove most useful in her investigations. At that moment, however, a stout figure entered the bar. He had about him an unmissable air of authority and a stern visage, the full force of which he turned upon the steward, silencing him instantly. Gretel did not allow irritation to take hold. There would be time enough to visit the bar again.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” the imposing man addressed the small gathering. His clothes were particularly fine, Gretel noted, boasting excellent tailoring and expensive cloth. He wore a large watch on a heavy gold chain, which he took from his pocket, checking the time before snapping it shut again. “I am pleased to inform you that the
Arabella
is about to set sail.” He looked around the room, his gaze taking in every person present, as if he were committing their faces to memory. Gretel felt a shiver as his eyes studied her, albeit briefly. He gave a stiff bow and continued on his way.

This information was greeted by a murmur of excitement. People got up to leave, heading for the upper decks from which they could view the casting-off and wave farewell to any who had come to see them off on their voyage.

“Come along, Hans, we must join the fray, show willing, play the part of enthusiastic cruisers.”

“Must we? I rather like it here,” he said, leaning happily against the bar, reaching for his freshly filled glass. Gretel had not the energy to cajole him.

“Have it your way. Once we are at sea I shall take myself back down to the priest hole that passes for our cabin and dress for dinner. I would appreciate your absence while I do so.”

“If it means I can remain ensconced where I sit, I am happy to oblige.”

Up on the main deck Gretel took a position at the railings overlooking the quayside. The gathering of well-wishers was pitifully small, and there were no streamers nor any band to send them on their way. Farther along the quay she noticed an altogether more colorful and elegant crowd amassing next the splendid
Fair Fortune
. With a sigh she turned and refocused her attention onto the activity on deck. She caught sight of the cabin boy.

“Will!”

He scampered over when beckoned.

“Tell me, who is that strutting fellow in the smart waistc't?”

“That is Herr Hoffman, the quartermaster, fraulein.”

“He is an important person?”

“Oh, yes, fraulein. He is second only to the captain himself.”

“Thank you, Will.” She let him scurry off about his business, which was much and hectic, as setting sail appeared to involve just about every man aboard. Men swung about in the rigging overhead, or hauled on this rope or that lever. She watched Captain Ziegler, still resplendent in red, standing at the wheel issuing orders, while Herr Hoffman strode about, hands clasped behind his back, doling out an admonishment here and a rebuke there. Where one was swagger and show, the other was quiet determination and an ever-watchful eye. Where the first was glamor and charm, the second was stealth and sharpness. It struck her that the two men were each powerful in their own ways, and that such large personalities rarely sat comfortably at the same table. She wondered there was room enough for them both on board the
Arabella
.

Ropes and jiggers were untied from the quayside and thrown on deck to be swiftly coiled and stashed away. The anchor was weighed. A sail or two unfurled. Throughout it all, Captain
Ziegler's voice sang out clear as the ship's bell, though similarly showing signs of weather. The quartermaster moved among the crew, prodding and berating where necessary. Lesser men issued orders that were, to Gretel's landlubbing ear, composed of incomprehensible sailor-speak, but which resulted in one vital seafaring action or another. In no time at all, she felt the ship give a single mighty lurch before settling into a more stately movement away from the quayside, past the harbor wall, and swiftly and silently, without so much as a whistle blown, out to the open sea. She could not help feeling a smidgen of disappointment. A bit of bunting. A cheer or two. Maybe the odd handful of colored rice thrown. Any of the above would have been welcome. Would have gone some way to making her believe that she was actually setting sail on a cruise ship for the journey of a lifetime. Instead she had the feeling she might be on a vessel loaded to the gunwales, slinking out of port stealthily in the hope of avoiding the customs officers.

Still, she reminded herself, she was not a paying passenger. She was here to work. And work she would. She would find out what had befallen the two missing crewmembers. She would ascertain whether or not a mermaid did indeed live in these dark, icy waters. She would give her flamboyant and outlandish client answers, and he would give her money. That was the way of things. This thought made her feel altogether more cheerful, so that she found herself ready to face the cramped confines of her cabin in order to wash off the dust of the journey and dress for dinner.

Given the constraints of space, it took a good deal of puffing and struggling to extract a gown from her trunk, extract herself from her traveling clothes, bathe in the three inches of tepid
water provided, and then fight her way into her chosen garment. By the end of it, her hair, according to the looking glass she had had the good sense to bring with her, was a fright. Muttering curses along the lines of how much easier it would have been had the occasion been sufficiently grand to warrant wearing her beloved, as-yet-untried, wig, Gretel battled her increasingly frizzing locks into some semblance of order. She applied powder liberally, followed by an extravagant spritzing of perfume, and then went out along the passage. Sideways, as the cut of her gown was too full for forward movement. A person less enamored of fashion, less wedded to the challenge of keeping up with the very newest of new when it came to
haute couture
, might have opted for one or two simpler garments for daytime sailing. But Gretel was not such a person. So it was that she made crablike progress the length of the ship. During this ungainly journey, she had the curious sense that she was being followed, and yet whenever she looked behind her, the passageway was empty. She squeezed on, her path involving strenuous effort when ascending the near-vertical stairs, so that she arrived in the dining room more than a little short of breath, temper, and love of her fellow mankind.

The room itself offered nothing likely to restore her to good humor. It was capacious, but this was to its detriment, as the quantity of diners was small. Each party sat at some remove from the next, so that the tables appeared as life rafts adrift on some unknown sea. An attempt had been made with the decor—to wit, swags of silk at the windows, silk cushions on the hardwood chairs, and no shortage of lamps—but the overall effect remained somewhat desultory. And brown. Very brown. The same brown as the wood that was both skin and skeleton of the ship herself. As if everything had received a coat of treacly varnish. Even the scruffy assortment of waiting staff, some of whom she recognized as crewmembers who not
many hours past had been occupied in the business of sailing the ship. They had cleaner clothes on, but nothing could hide their salt-weathered skin and callused hands as they held chairs for the ladies and fetched drinks hither and thither. She was pleased to see the steward from the bar among them. At least he had the look of someone who could be trusted to serve food.

As was the case in the bar, the ceiling was unpleasantly low. In such a large room this had the effect of suggesting it was actually, if imperceptibly, pressing downward. Gretel saw at least three passengers stooping or crouching as they walked. She was baffled by this curious construction. The
Arabella
seemed to have been designed with no thought as to the appeal of its interior spaces—or comfort thereof—in regard to its clientele. She recalled Will telling her that the ship had been converted for cruising, leading her to ponder exactly what its previous incarnation had been. Particularly given that it necessitated cannons.

“Gretel! Over here!” Hans's cheery voice reached her through the general hubbub. As she approached him, the reason for his good cheer became evident. His cheeks had about them a particular glow, his eyes a particular twinkle, such that only quality ale and plenty of it could bring about. “You are not a moment too soon,” he told her. “Dinner is about to be served and I am assured we are in for a feast of some quality and flair!”

“I find that hard to believe,” she told him, taking the seat next to him. Their table was set for six, with all their fellow diners save one already seated. She exchanged nods and politenesses with them as she wrestled her skirts into place on the less than generous chair provided. She was on the point of inspecting the silverware as Hans hailed the ubiquitous steward to request wine, when there arose from the assembled company a burst of glove-muffled applause heralding the arrival of Captain Ziegler.

“Hrmph,” said Hans through the unlit cigar jammed between his teeth, “not very good form, is it? The captain being late. Mean to say, if the rest of us can get here on time . . .”

“His tardiness is not born of disorganization, Hans. It is calculated. This is a man who likes to make an entrance.”

“You think so?”

As they watched, Captain Ziegler gave a low bow in thanks for his warm reception. He acknowledged the room with a sweep of his feathered tricorn before returning his hat to his head. As he made his way to his table he paused to kiss a hand here, to playfully punch a shoulder there, to bestow a lingering look now and again, to wink lasciviously where called for. There was about his gait a confidence and a swagger that was at once both ridiculously narcissistic and enormously appealing. His spell fell over all present like a soft, warm wave lapping a tropical shore. Even Hans was won over.

“He's coming this way!” he piped. “Look! Look, Gretel, he is to dine with us. We are at the captain's table!”

“Calm down, Hans, before you swallow that vile cigar.”

“Ahh, Fraulein Gretel!” The captain bowed again, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

Now, Gretel had had her hand kissed before. Many times. There were kisses she would rather forget and kisses she would always remember. Sadly, more of the former than the latter, but that was the way of things. Etiquette, tradition, good manners, all were designed to encourage this liberty-taking. On good days it made her feel like a queen. Or a pope, possibly. On others it made her skin crawl. At the periphery of her vision she became aware of jealous glances from women not so blessed as to be enjoying the full force of Captain Ziegler's attention. She noted one or two men among them. She was aware of Hans beaming in a that's-my-sister-don't-cha-know kind of way. But beyond that, nothing. No violins. No celestial
choirs. No desire to swoon. No desire at all, in fact. For all the captain's many charms, he could not reach her. Gretel knew that, since she was already in a detective/client relationship with the man, this was a Very Good Thing and boded well for a working partnership that would remain just that. She was also conscious of the fact that this lack of attraction brought to mind an Other. A man who, contrarily,
was
able to move her. A man whose company she missed. A man she wished very much right at that minute was the one whose teeth were grazing her palm. But he was long ago and far away. She must deal with the matter in hand. On hand. Literally.

“Save your appetite for the meal, captain,” she insisted, withdrawing her hand. “I hear it is to be worth the wait.”

“Oh, it will be,” he assured her. “Our cook was schooled in Paris, no less.” He held her gaze. “I'm certain you will not be disappointed.”

“I'm certain too!” chirruped Hans.

“I am hard to impress,” Gretel warned.

“I will make it my personal duty to see that you are,” the captain said.

“I will be! I'm easily impressed,” Hans insisted, puppylike in his enthusiasm but still failing to attract Captain Ziegler's attention.

“Let us hope that Cook is equally committed to his work,” said Gretel, summoning the steward for more wine in an effort to defuse the moment. She knew what the captain was about. What better way to convince all who cared to think about it that she was here for recreation, rather than in her capacity as detective, than to have her seen flirting with the master of the ship? It was not a ruse she felt inclined to encourage, however.

At last Captain Ziegler took his seat. At a neighboring table, Gretel noticed Herr Hoffman looking bored and checking his pocket watch. As more wine was poured and the first of many
courses appeared, she scrutinized the passengers at her table. Across from her sat a young couple who revealed without being asked that they were on their honeymoon. Certainly Rudie and Lena Schmidt wore the inescapable glow of love, lust, and lots of money recently spent on showing it off. Next to them sat the lone middle-aged man she had also seen up on deck. His name was Dr. Becker, retired, and he told them he was a keen watcher of birds, and hoped to see many rare species on visits to the famously wild islands that dotted the Schleswig-Holstein coastline.