Denis had an uneasy expression on his face. He was thinking, would Sydney continue her vacation if I died? At least, that was my interpretation. I wouldn’t go on with my vacation, I thought. I’d bury you right away, Denis, I promise.
Captain stood at attention as we exited the freezer. When I passed him, I felt a distinct pinch on my bottom. Turning, I caught his eye, and he winked at me. Has this man no shame? I thought. One of his passengers is dead and has been on ice for, what, two minutes, and he’s already hitting on me. Oh, what the hell. I blew him a kiss.
Tea for Two
THAT NIGHT, BEFORE DINNER, I asked Carleen to meet me for tea in the dimly illuminated Crystal Cove. The Tiffany Line, in an act of pure genius, lit its rooms with special pink-tinted bulbs that made anyone appearing in their soft glow look ten years younger—instant face-lift! Naturally, they sold the bulbs in the gift shop. That’s what I love about the Tiffany Line. No detail is too small.
Carleen was on time, wearing a vintage black chiffon Poiret with a skirt depicting the jungle designs of Henri Rousseau in white pearls, seed beads, rhinestones, and silk embroidery. It was the kind of important piece I would love to showcase in our museum if I didn’t get fired. The Met had already done a Poiret exhibit, but we could show it as part of a different theme, maybe designers inspired by art of the twentieth century. If we did it in conjunction with MoMA, we could exhibit paintings right next to the dresses they inspired. Just last fall, I recalled, Marc Jacobs showed his line in Bloomingdale’s windows with Jean Claude Wouters’ photographs hung behind the mannequins. Yes, this was an idea with legs. But back to the business at hand—enlisting Carleen’s help in getting the fuzz off my back.
“Carleen, you are chic, chic, chic,” I marveled.
“Thanks, darlin’. Priceless gowns become me.”
I leaned into her. “I have something really important to tell you,” I whispered. “But it’s a secret.”
“You’re a lesbian! I knew it.”
“No, that’s not it,” I said. “Why would you say that?”
“Your short haircut.”
I sighed. “Carleen, seriously, this is very important and you have to swear not to tell anyone. If you do, I could end up in big trouble, jail even.”
A soft gasp escaped her lips. “Then, darlin’, don’t tell me,” she said. “I can’t be trusted. I’ll forget and blurt it out at dinner or write about it in my memoirs.”
“Carleen, please, I need your help.”
She raised her hand and snapped her fingers twice. “Waiter, drinks.”
“You don’t want tea?” I said.
“I’ll take something stronger.”
I lowered my voice and leaned forward, explaining that there would be a new man at our table who was investigating me for a crime I didn’t commit (it’s true—I was hand delivering those costumes, not stealing them, and they were supposed to be knockoffs, not originals). I asked Carleen to get to know him and to distract him from watching me. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Holly, I may be old, but I’m not dead. Of course I can.”
“I knew I could count on you. His name is Frank Flannagan. He claims to be an orthodontist, but he’s really with Interpol.”
“Interpol,” Carleen said. “Sounds like James Bond.”
A waiter in a tux offered us antipasti from a silver tray. I took a piece of shrimp wrapped in prosciutto.
“Flannagan’s cute for a cop,” I said. “My butler pointed him out before you came. Looks about sixty, olive skin, deep brown eyes, very dark hair—in fact, he seems hairy all over.”
“Mmm, I like ’em hairy,” Carleen mused. “Aston had the hairiest chest. Did you notice that when he was lying in state? Why is it always the hairy ones who die young?”
“Carleen, his heart gave out.”
“Yes, darlin’, but I read in USA Today that hairy men die earlier than their bald counterparts. It’s because of progesterone.”
The waiter came by and brought us each a glass of wine. We didn’t specify what we wanted. The ship kept track of each passenger’s preferences and served them before we even asked. Talk about service that delights and astonishes.
“To Aston,” I said, clinking my glass with Carleen’s. “A good man, a hairy man.”
OUR CELEBRITY CHEF, ENRICO Derflingher, prepared that night’s feast. Naturally, the Tiffany Line spared no expense, flying in ten members of his staff to join the ship in Athens. The dining room had been transformed to resemble a romantic Italian palazzo illuminated by thousands of tall flickering candles, casting a mellow golden glow. We started with risotto served alla pescatore (with seafood), followed by fillet of turbot, lobster, or lamb. (I went with medium-rare leg of lamb, hoping it had been taken out of the freezer before Aston was interred.) Dessert was a mascarpone cheese tart with fresh whipped cream. It wasn’t chocolate, but it was tasty. In deference to Aston’s passing, Captain joined us even though it wasn’t technically a formal night. Plus let’s face it; no one wants to miss a meal prepared by Chef Derflingher. As was the custom, Captain sprang for the booze. Whoo-hoo!
Later, as we were meandering over to the Saloon, I sidled up to our newest tablemate. “Excuse me, Frank. I’m wondering if you can help me with something.”
“Of course,” he said.
I whipped my headgear out of my bag. “Do you know what this is?”
“Sure, it’s a headgear.”
“Yes, well, it got bent and I’m wondering if you could adjust it for me.”
“Gee, I didn’t bring my tools with me,” Frank said. His left eyelid twitched as he spoke.
I knew it, I thought. First he called it a headgear instead of by its professional term, appliance. Then he came
