She couldn’t really see his face—not with the glasses he wore and the baseball cap that sat low on his forehead. Despite that, she could tell he had heavy dark eyebrows.
“Just vacation,” he said. “And I’m from the great Commonwealth of Virginia.”
“Virginia!” Dirk said, and broke into, “Carry me back to old Virginny.”
They continued with the festivities, Jack hauling out a pirate chest next and providing young and old alike with trinkets. Handing a pack of chocolate doubloons to a small child, Abby noted the Virginian had left his seat and was chatting with crew members.
Then he disappeared down the steps into the galley and snack bar below.
A passenger asked her a question about Dirk’s pirate flag and she took the time to explain how pirates created their own flags. When she could, she slipped toward the steps and made a quick getaway to the deck below.
There was a counter at the far end. The price of the cruise included one glass of grog or soda and chips; hungry passengers could buy hot dogs, hamburgers, veggie burgers or salad—and beer or other beverages if they weren’t fond of grog. There were tables alongside a central shelf that held pirate flags, eye patches, “doubloons” and other souvenirs. She glanced at the tables, which were empty. People tended to gather there while the ship moved out to the river and back, rather than during the height of the pirate festivities.
No one on either side.
Abby walked up to the man tending the snack bar and asked, “Hey, I just saw one of the passengers wander this way. Did you see where he went?”
“Um, yeah, below, down to the magazine. Of course, we don’t really carry any powder or guns down there now. It’s food storage, mostly,” he said cheerfully.
“Why would a passenger go down there?” Abby asked.
“Oh, Wiley—one of the crew—was talking to him. This guy owns a similar outfit up in Myrtle Beach and was fascinated to hear about Dirk’s bilge pumps. They’re probably down there by now.”
“Thanks,” Abby said. She headed to the side of the counter, where a velvet rope blocked off the stairs down to the level below. She walked into the vast magazine. It was piled high with all manner of supplies, not just food but costumes, giveaways, makeup and wigs. There were bunks against the inner hulls, as well; Dirk let his workers sleep on board when they needed a place to stay.
“Hello?” Abby said. No one answered. She hurried up and down the length of the magazine. The place was deserted. Searching as she went, she found the hatch to the bilge below and opened it, climbing down the little ladder that led to the lowest area of the ship, where the two sides met at the keel. The bilge was dry. She could hear the pumps working.
No one was there.
Frustrated, she returned to the action topside. She didn’t see the man who’d said he was from Virginia—and who had then disappeared.
“Where ya been, lass?” Dirk roared over to her. “’Tis time to make certain we’ll be getting the ransom from this lot of landlubbers!”
He was playing a pirate captain; he was supposed to sound gruff. But she thought he was irritated with the fact that she hadn’t been on deck—and in sight.
“Captain, we’ve gotten the ransom for all of them!” she told him.
“We did?”
“They paid it before they got on board!”
“Aw, well, then, I guess we’ll be bringing them back in,” Dirk said.
A little boy jumped up and cried out, “No! I want to stay on the ship and be a pirate!”
Dirk was good. He walked over to the boy and pulled an eye patch from his pocket. “There you go, laddie! Now you’re an honorary pirate!”
The Black Swan returned to the dock. Abby kept up her act—but kept looking for the man in the baseball cap, too. She didn’t see him. Had he somehow disappeared off the ship?
Was that what had happened to Helen?
They reached the dock, and the Black Swan was tied up at her mooring. The passengers—all happy—said their goodbyes. Dirk reminded Abby that they’d leave again at three. He seemed to be impatient with her, but he didn’t ask her where she’d been. She was a gift horse, after all.
She walked down the dock and pulled out her cell phone, placing a call to Malachi Gordon. He answered after the first ring.
“Have you found out anything?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Where are you now?”
“Behind you.”
She turned around. She saw him on the phone.
He was the Virginian tourist with the baseball cap and sunglasses.
4
Once again, Abby Anderson stared at him, her frown intense, her manner completely unnerved and highly irritated.
“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded in a harsh whisper, coming up to him.
He arched one of his heavy dark brows and felt the spirit gum on it tighten. “You said you thought it was important to be on the ship. So I thought that it was important, too.”
“You were supposed to be investigating the murders—seeing your friend, David Caswell, and finding out what’s going on.”
“I did see David,” he told her. “I met him for coffee at eight. Weird situation. He’s investigating the murders, but the other detective—the man you met last night—has been assigned the missing-person situation. So he’s asked that he be paired up with Ben Peters. All the stations and all law enforcement officers in the area have been alerted about the murders, but my friend David is the head of the task force. I learned a great deal today—before boarding the ship.”
That didn’t seem to make her happy. “Why are you in this ridiculous getup?” she asked.
“I’d met Dirk. I didn’t want him to know I was on board, observing.”
She turned around and started walking toward the end of the dock.
He followed her. “Hey!”
She spun on him. She made a good wench, he thought. A pirate hat with little pearl strings attached sat over her forehead. She wore boots, black leggings, a long-sleeved blouse, fitted red vest and frock coat—male attire, which certainly might have been chosen by a woman who found herself sailing the seas. She had long shapely legs and the boots added to her height. The color of her eyes was so rich and deep a blue that it was mesmerizing, especially when framed by the near-ebony darkness of her hair. He was surprised to feel something stir in him. But she stirred more than his senses; she seemed to touch something deeper than the simple lust that biology and nature dictated. She had passion. She seemed to breathe vitality.
“Do you enjoy sneaking up on me, playing dress-up?”
He cast his head to the side with a small, amused smile. “I often worked undercover when I was in New Orleans and, quite frankly, I used disguises in my work as a private investigator. As a matter of fact, Jackson Crow actually mentioned that some members of his unit have found their acting talents to be of use. In a way, acting is part of human behavior. I’m sure you’ve learned that criminals, especially psychopaths, have a tendency to act incredibly sane and rational. We need to be able to play certain parts, as well. And while you’re busy commenting on me, you might take a look in a mirror. I think you’re dressed up, too?”
“Not to make a fool of anyone,” she muttered.
He frowned. “I wasn’t trying to make a fool of you, Ms. Anderson. I was trying to take a ride on the high seas—or river, as it may be—and get a take on the man who owns the ship. A man you might not see with open eyes because he’s been a friend for so long,” Malachi said.
