Feast of Murder(39)
“Dangerous,” he murmured to himself.
“Get away from there,” Tony Baird said from behind him. “We’ve already had a sailor go over the side this morning. We don’t need you going into the drink, too.”
2
It was the second time in less than an hour that Tony had surprised him, and Gregor wanted to say that the young man was something of a sneak. The truth of it was that Tony was probably nothing of the kind. Earlier this morning, the fog had hidden him. That had hardly been his doing. This time, nothing had hidden him at all. He wasn’t even alone. Gregor just hadn’t been paying enough attention. Gregor looked beyond the young man’s shoulder and saw a small, pretty woman with too much eye makeup. Then he moved away from the side and shook his head.
“Why is it so low?” Gregor asked. “I’m not surprised somebody fell overboard. I want to know how you’re going to keep that from happening over and over again all through the trip.”
Tony Baird shrugged. “I’m not going to keep anything from happening. It’s not my boat. And it’s low like that because the sides were low on the original Mayflower. Or at least I assume they were. Do you know my stepmother, Sheila Callahan?”
“Sheila Callahan Baird,” Sheila said, stepping out from behind Tony. She held out a single long-fingered hand and smiled that bright and overwattaged smile women develop when they spend too long paying court to famous men. Gregor had just taken the hand when they were joined by two more people, a young man and a young woman, both dressed impeccably in outfits for sailing from Abercrombie & Fitch. Tony saw them, nodded a little, and said, “Mr. Demarkian, this is my cousin Mark Anderwahl, and his wife Julie.”
“Fritzie was just behind us,” Julie said, and then darted a nervous glance at Sheila. “She looked so pale I thought it would be a good idea, getting her out in the air.”
“She won’t want to get around all this food,” Sheila said. “Did any of you see Calvin come on board? I was supposed to be notified as soon as he got here so I could check him off on my list, but I haven’t heard a word.”
“I saw him come on,” Mark Anderwahl said. “He stopped to talk to Charlie Shay. I think they had business to discuss.”
“Charlie never has business to discuss,” Sheila said dismissively, “but at least if Calvin’s here we’re all here and I can stop worrying about it. Jon has been fretting so much about getting off on time. Do you all like the breakfast spread? Jon is so picky about everything being authentic, but this time I just put my foot down. You can’t have a lot of people on deck like this in the middle of November and serve them cold food. And you can’t light fires under things, either, not docked the way we are. There are regulations. I suppose once we set off, Jon will insist, but as long as we’re docked I can carry the point. Don’t you think it would have been a much better idea if Jon had done what builders do, and made this a replica on the outside with modern plumbing in?”
If Sheila had been talking to anyone in particular, that person might have answered her. Instead, she had been talking to the air, for general consumption and background noise. That was something else women did when they had spent too long paying court to famous men. Gregor had to assume it had some salutary effect on the famous men. For everybody else, it was an embarrassment. They looked at their shoes. They looked at the water. They looked at everybody and everything except Sheila, and then they began to edge together, drawing into a circle for protection.
“Sheila’s always so definite,” Julie Anderwahl murmured, sidling up next to Gregor and coming to a halt. “Tony said you were Mr. Demarkian. You must be our detective.”
“This week I’m just a guest,” Gregor said politely.
“Are you? They’re all convinced you’ve got something going with Jon. I’ve heard them talking about it all week.”
“Have you?”
“Sheila was insisting just last night that you’d been hired to run some kind of murder game. Charlie Shay believed her, I think. Nobody tells poor Charlie anything any more. Have you been hired to run a murder game?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. I take it you aren’t here to investigate the death of Donald McAdam, either.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Julie Anderwahl shook her head. Her hair was fine and blond and perfectly cut. Because of that, she looked much better and younger than Sheila did, even though she was probably older. She ran a hand through her bangs, took it down and frowned at it. The air was thick with moisture and her hand had come out wet.