Fleur De Lies(116)

            No Rob.

            The bridge tour had just concluded, so I waited while guests filed back down to the main deck for the galley tour. I didn’t want to tour the galley, and I wasn’t about to head back into Vernon to track down Rob, so I decided on the next best option.

            I’d treat myself to a well-deserved drink in the lounge.

            “Any luck finding him, Mrs. Miceli?” the purser asked when I passed the reception desk.

            “He’s MIA.”

            “I’m sorry I can’t give you his mobile number, but he’s expressly forbidden us to give it out. Too many non-emergency calls in the middle of the night, apparently.”

             I shrugged. “If you’d put a note in his mailbox, telling him I’d like to speak to him about something fairly urgent, I’d really appreciate it.”

            “I’ll do that right away. And where will you be?”

            “In the lounge. For however long it takes.” I stepped in closer to the desk. “Tell him I’m wearing black capris and a pink and black striped top. Does he do better with clothing than he does with names and faces?”

            She bowed her head and shielded her mouth with her hand. “He’s a disaster, isn’t he? He can’t remember a name for more than half a minute, and on two occasions he’s returned from optional tours transporting complete strangers. I have it on good authority that this is his last cruise.”

            I couldn’t say I was surprised. “How did he get the job in the first place?”

            “He and Patrice are members of the same cycling team, so Rob was offered the job on Patrice’s recommendation. Patrice has vouched for many employees over the years, all who have worked out quite brilliantly. Rob is his first major failure. Absolutely ruined his perfect record. But I imagine it was bound to happen sooner or later. It was just a matter of time.”

            With a majority of guests touring the galley or taking an afternoon stroll around Vernon, the lounge was pretty much deserted. A woman I’d never seen before was distributing art supplies around the room—paper, brushes, water jars, paints, pencils. She’d already set up a table in the center of the lounge arranged with a ceramic bowl stacked high with summer fruit, an empty wine bottle plugged with a wax-dripping candle, and a long loaf of hard-crusted French bread. The trick for the instructees would be to paint the objects rather than eat them. Patrice was bartending once again, but his only customer was Irv Orr, who greeted me as I entered the room by raising his cocktail in a mock toast and motioning me toward him.

            “Have a sheat,” he slurred cordially. “Lemme buy you a drink. Patreesh!” He shot his hand into the air. “Another round. One for me, and one for my friend Emily.” He drained his glass as I sat down in the chair beside him, and though he was obviously hammered, I had to give him credit for one thing.

            Even drunk, he remembered my name.

            He might have a great future as a tour director if he ever sobered up.

            “What are we drinking?” From where I sat, I had a wide-angle view of the gangway, so there was no way I could miss Rob when he crossed it.

            “Cu-ba … li-bre,” Irv said with exaggerated slowness. “Inshpired by the country to our shouse. Cola, rum, and a hefty shquirt of lime. At a whopping fifteen pershent dishcount. We can drink all day at these prishes!”

            “Did you travel to Giverny with us today?”

            “Nope. Sheen one flower, sheen ’em all. I shtayed here instead, entertaining my buddy Patreesh. ISHN’T THAT RIGHT, PATREESH?”

            Patrice waved from the bar. “Oui, monsieur.”