the lingua franca of the
“Where is she now?” Constance asked. “Did they medevac her off the ship?”
“Too far from land for a helicopter,” said Nika. “They lock her in infirmary. And now I have to do half her rooms.” She scowled. “Juanita, I knew she was heading for trouble. She is always talking about what she see in the passengers’ rooms, poking her nose where it not belong. A good maid sees nothing, remembers nothing, just does her job and keeps her mouth shut.”
Constance wondered if Nika ever took her own advice on the latter point.
Nika went on. “Yesterday, how she talk at lunch! All about that stateroom with the leather straps on bed and vibrator in drawer. What is she doing looking in drawer? Curiosity killed the cat. And now I have to clean half her rooms. This Jonah ship.”
Her mouth set firmly into an expression of disapproval and she sat back and crossed her arms, point made.
There were murmurs and nods of agreement.
Nika, encouraged, uncrossed her arms and opened her mouth again. “Passenger disappear too on ship. You hear that? Maybe she is a jumper. This Jonah ship, I tell you!”
Constance spoke quickly to stem the flow of words. “Marya tells me you work in the larger cabins,” she said. “You’re lucky—I just have the standard suites.”
“Lucky?” Nika looked at her incredulously. “For me is twice as much work.”
“But the tips are better, right?”
Nika scoffed. “The rich ones give you smallest tips of all. They always complain, want everything just so. That ryparoc in the triplex, he make me come back three times today to remake his bed.”
This was a piece of luck. One of the people on Pendergast’s list—Scott Blackburn, the dot-com billionaire—had taken one of only two triplex suites. “Do you mean Mr. Blackburn?” she asked.
Nika shook her head. “No. Blackburn even worse! Has own maid, she get linens herself. Maid treat me like dirt, like I
maid. I have to take that triplex also, thanks to Juanita.”
“He brought his own maid along?” Constance asked. “Why?”
“He bring
along! Own bed, own rugs, own statues, own paintings, own piano even.” Nika shook her head. “Bah! Ugly things, too: ugly and ryparoc.”
“I’m sorry?” Constance feigned ignorance of the word.
“Rich people crazy.” Nika cursed again in Greek.
“How about his friend, Terrence Calderon, next door?”
“Him! He okay. Give me okay tip.”
“You clean his stateroom, as well? Did he bring his own things?”
She nodded. “Some. Lot of antiques. French. Very nice.”
“The richer they are, the worse they are,” said Lourdes. She spoke excellent English with only a faint accent. “Last night, I was in the suite of—”
“Hey!” a voice boomed right behind them. Constance turned to see the supervisor standing behind her, hands on copious hips, glaring.
“On your feet!” the woman said.
“Are you speaking to me?” Constance replied.
“I said, on your
!”
Calmly, Constance rose. “I haven’t seen you before,” the woman said in a surly tone. “What’s your name?”
“Rulke,” Constance said. “Leni Rulke.”
“What’s your station?”
“The Deck 8 cabins.”
A look of bitter triumph came over the woman’s fat features. “I thought as much. You know better than to eat here. Get back down to the Deck D cafeteria where you belong.”
“What’s the difference?” Constance asked in a mild tone. “The food’s no better here.”
Disbelief took the place of triumph on the supervisor’s face. “Why, you impudent bitch—” And she slapped Constance hard across her right cheek.
Constance had never in her life been slapped before. She stiffened for a moment. Then she took an instinctive step forward, hand closing tightly over her fork. Something in her movement made the supervisor’s eyes widen. The woman stepped back.
Slowly, Constance laid the fork back on the table. She thought of Marya and the pledge of secrecy she owed her. She glanced down. Marya was staring at them, her face white. The other two women were looking studiously at their plates.
Around them, the low murmur of apathetic conversation, which had stopped for the altercation, resumed. She looked back at the supervisor, committing her face to memory. Then—cheek burning—she stepped away from the table and left the cafeteria.
21
FIRST OFFICER GORDON LESEUR FELT A RISING SENSE OF CONCERN as he stepped into Kemper’s monastic office. The missing passenger had not shown up, and the husband had demanded to meet with all the senior officers. Commodore Cutter had been cloistered in his cabin for the last eight hours, in one of his black moods, and LeSeur wasn’t about to disturb him for Evered or anybody else. Instead, he’d assigned the watch to the second officer and rounded up the staff captain, Carol Mason, for the meeting.
Evered was pacing back and forth in the cramped confines, his face red, his voice shaking. He looked like he was teetering on the brink of hysteria. “It’s past four in the afternoon,” he was saying to Kemper. “It’s been eight goddamn hours since I alerted you to my wife’s disappearance. ”
“Mr. Evered,” Kemper, the chief of security, began. “It’s a big ship, there’s a lot of places she could be—”
“That’s what you all said before,” Evered said, his voice rising. “
“Let me assure you—”
“To hell with your assurances! She could have fallen somewhere, be hurt, unable to call out or get to a phone. She could have . . .” He stopped, breathing heavily, savagely brushed away a tear with the back of his hand. “You need to contact the Coast Guard, contact the police, get them here.”
“Mr. Evered,” Staff Captain Mason said, quietly taking charge, much to LeSeur’s relief. “We’re in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Even if the police or the Coast Guard had jurisdiction—which they don’t—they could never reach us. Now, you must believe me when I say we have time-tested procedures for dealing with this kind of situation. The chances are almost one hundred percent that, for some reason, she’s unwilling to be found. We have to consider the possibility that she may be in somebody else’s company.”
