Like Yvonne, Celia declined, explaining that she had to prepare for her lecture. Back in her suite she allowed herself to think about the possible consequences of Steven telling People magazine that she was involved in his theft.
He is such a liar, she thought. He was born lying. Everything he told me was a lie.
The press coverage immediately following Steven’s arrest at their rehearsal dinner had left her shell-shocked. Then it got worse. His father, a wealthy oil and gas investor from Houston, called her and explained that Steven had been disowned by the family. He also said that Steven had a wife and child they were supporting in Texas.
Carruthers had spoken to her about taking a leave of absence when the scandal broke nearly a month ago. She had suggested, and they had agreed, that she would take several weeks of unused vacation time to allow matters “to sort themselves out.”
Who knows what will happen after they see the article tomorrow? she wondered.
She did not sleep at all that night.
14
Yvonne and her friends enjoyed an after-dinner drink together in the Prince George Lounge. It was late when she returned to her suite, and Roger was not there. He probably couldn’t wait to get to the casino, she thought. She was sure he had rushed down there as soon as Lady Em left for her room. He had always been a gambler, but now it was getting worrisome. She didn’t care what he did with his time, just as long as he continued to support their lifestyle.
She was already in bed, but not yet asleep, when the door opened and he came in, smelling heavily of liquor.
“ ’Yvonne,” he said, his voice unsteady.
“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake up the dead,” she said sharply, then added, “Did you lose again tonight? I know you were dying to get down there.”
“None of your business,” he snapped.
On that cordial note, Roger and Yvonne Pearson finished their first evening aboard Queen Charlotte.
15
At Willy’s suggestion he and Alvirah decided to skip the entertainment this evening. Instead he wanted to give Alvirah the ring he had bought her for their forty-fifth anniversary.
Back in their suite, he opened the bottle of champagne that had been their “Welcome Aboard” gift. He poured two glasses and handed one to Alvirah. “To the happiest forty-five years of my life,” he toasted. “I could never live a day without you, honey.”
Alvirah’s eyes misted. “No more than I could live a day without you, Willy,” she said fervently, then watched as he reached in his pocket for a small wrapped box. Now, don’t tell him that he shouldn’t have done it, and it was too much money, she warned herself.
When he handed the box to her, she unwrapped it slowly, then opened the lid to see an oval-shaped sapphire surrounded by small diamonds.
“Oh, Willy,” she sighed.
“It’s going to fit,” Willy said proudly. “I brought along one of your other rings to be absolutely sure. You saw the gemologist who helped me select it at the next table tonight. She was that very pretty girl with the black hair. Her name is Celia Kilbride.”
“Oh, I did notice her,” Alvirah breathed. “How could you miss her? Wait a minute, isn’t she the one whose boyfriend cheated everyone with his hedge fund?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Oh, that poor girl,” Alvirah exclaimed as she took a sip of champagne. “I’ve got to get to know her.”
She slipped on the ring. “Oh, Willy, it’s perfect, and I love it.”
Willy let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t ask me how much it cost, he thought. But it wasn’t that bad at all. Ten thousand dollars. Celia told me it was one that a woman sold after her mother died. It would be worth much more, except that it has a scratch you can only see under a microscope.
Alvirah had a new thought. “Willy, that poor Devon Michaelson. I predict that Anna DeMille is going to try his soul. She heard that he has his wife’s ashes to scatter into the ocean. My guess is that she’d love to toss them over for him. She’s going to haunt him every day,” Alvirah continued. “Of course, I can understand why she might want to get married again, and he’s an attractive man. But she’s going about it the wrong way.”
“Honey, I beg you, don’t start giving her advice. Stay out of it.”
“I’d like to help, but you’re right. However, I do intend to get friendly with Lady Emily. I’ve read so much about her.”
Willy did not try to dissuade Alvirah this time. He knew perfectly well that by the end of the trip, Alvirah would be Lady Emily’s new best friend.
Day Two
16
The 7 A.M. activity the next morning was a yoga class. Celia had barely begun to doze but had forced herself to get up and attend. About twenty people had shown up.
She was not surprised to see that the teacher was Betty Madison, a famous yoga instructor who had written a bestselling book on the topic. No amateurs on this ship, she thought, as she unrolled her mat and settled in place. Nor on any of the other cruise ships on which she had lectured. On those trips she had invited her close friend Joan LaMotte to accompany her. This time she had not dared to ask her. Joan and her husband had lost two hundred fifty thousand dollars in Steven’s fund.
Same amount I lost, Celia thought, but I was the Judas goat who led the lambs to slaughter.
There were so many signs, she thought. Why didn’t I see them? Why did I always give him the benefit of the doubt? Steven and I enjoyed doing things together: museums, movies, theater, and jogging in Central Park. When we did things with other couples, they were always with my friends. His friends from his early years, he explained, had stayed in Texas. And Steven believed it was good practice to not socialize with his work colleagues outside the office. “More professional” was how he described it.
With the benefit of hindsight it was abundantly clear why they hadn’t socialized with Steven’s friends. He didn’t have any. The small number of his “friends” who came to the rehearsal dinner knew him from an evening basketball league he played in one night each week and from his workout class at the gym.
When the yoga session was over, Celia went back to her cabin and ordered breakfast. The ship’s daily four-page news digest had been slipped under her door during the night. She feared that in the Wall Street section there might be an item about the interview Steven gave People. It would surely be a sensational piece of gossip. She opened it and was relieved to see that there was no mention of Steven.
But wait until tomorrow when People hits the stands. It was a recurrent thought, like a drumbeat in her head.
17
Captain Ronald Fairfax had sailed with the Castle Lines for twenty years. Every one of his ships had been top-of-the-line, but Queen Charlotte surpassed them all. Instead of following the lead of other cruise lines, like Carnival, building many supersized vessels that held more than three thousand passengers, on Charlotte the number had been limited to one hundred, far smaller than the old first-class ships had been.
That, of course, was why so many celebrities were on board, anxious to be counted as exclusive guests on the maiden voyage.
Captain Fairfax had gone to sea the day after he finished college in London. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a full head of pure white hair and a somewhat weather-beaten face, he was an impressive man. He was widely regarded as a superb captain and a marvelous host who walked easily among the most exalted guests.
Anyone in the know eagerly awaited an invitation to be a guest at his dinner table, or to be at one of his private cocktail parties in his beautiful and roomy suite. The invitations were kept for the crème-de-la-crème guests. Handwritten by the purser, they were slipped under the door of the recipients fortunate enough to make the cut.
None of this was on Captain Fairfax’s mind as he stood on the bridge.
It was no secret that the expense of building and outfitting this extraordinary ship had ended up being nearly double the original projection. For that reason, it had been made clear to him by Gregor
y Morrison, the owner of Castle Lines, that absolutely no hitch was permissible. The tabloids and social media sites would be hungry for stories about anything that might go wrong on this all-important maiden voyage. They had already seized on the reference to the amenities of the Titanic. In retrospect, it had not been advisable to publicize the ship that way.
He frowned. There was already one indication that they might be sailing into a storm a day and a half out of Southampton.
He looked at his watch. He had an extremely confidential appointment in his quarters. The Interpol agent known to the other passengers as Devon Michaelson had requested a secret meeting.
What could Michaelson possibly want to speak to him about? He had already been told that the so-called “Man with One Thousand Faces” might well be on board.
He turned from the bridge and made his way to his suite. A few moments later there was a tap on the door. He opened it. He had identified Devon Michaelson by knowing he was at the same table as the ambassador’s son, Ted Cavanaugh.
Fairfax extended his hand. “Mr. Michaelson, I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are with us on this ship.”
“I’m glad I am here as well,” Michaelson said courteously. “As I’m sure you know, over the past several weeks the so-called ‘Man with One Thousand Faces’ has been dropping hints on various social media sites suggesting that he would be on this voyage. An hour ago he sent a message that he is on board, enjoying the luxurious surroundings, and stating that he was looking forward to adding to his jewelry collection.”
Fairfax felt his body go rigid. “Is there any chance that someone may be putting out these messages as a joke?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not, sir. They have the ring of truth to them. And it is consistent with his track record. For him it is not enough to just steal what he wants. He derives extra pleasure from dropping hints about what he plans to do, and then poking his finger in the eye of law enforcement as he carries out his plan.”
Fairfax said, “It is worse than I imagined. Mr. Michaelson, I think you can understand how important it is that this voyage must have no hint of scandal. Is there anything that I or my staff can do to help prevent a calamity?”
“I would say only be alert, as I shall be alert,” Michaelson answered.
“Very good advice. Thank you, Mr. Michaelson,” the Captain said as he walked him to the door.
Alone with his thoughts, Fairfax took comfort knowing that an agent was on board. Security Chief John Saunders and his team were very good at their jobs. Saunders had a fine reputation in the business and had served with him on previous Castle Line voyages. The security chief could deal discreetly with unruly passengers. Fairfax was confident that the ship’s employees, from over fifteen countries, had been thoroughly vetted before they were hired. But the challenge posed by an international jewel thief was different.
The realization of what could go wrong weighed heavily on him as he made his way back to the bridge.
18
Like Celia, Yvonne went to the early yoga class. Nothing was more important than maintaining her trim figure and youthful appearance.
Roger had been asleep when she left but was gone when she returned to the suite. Probably chasing after Lady Em and hanging on her every word, Yvonne thought disdainfully.
She showered, ordered a light breakfast, slipped on a sweater and slacks and went to the spa. In advance, she had made appointments for several different types of massages and customized facials. These would be followed by late afternoon makeup sessions.
She was already becoming accustomed to the amenities on the ship. But even so, she was happily surprised by the beautiful appointment rooms and the treatment at the hands of the highly skilled estheticians. It was approaching lunchtime when she settled in a deck chair and was immediately tapped on the shoulder.
“I’m Anna DeMille,” the woman to her left said to introduce herself. “But unfortunately no relation to Cecil B. DeMille. You remember him, of course, and the great story about him? He was directing a battle scene with hundreds of actors and was delighted with the way the scene went. Then he asked the cameraman, ‘Did you get all that?’ And the cameraman answered, ‘Ready when you are, CB.’ ” Anna laughed heartily. “Isn’t that a great story about my non-relative?”
Dear God, Yvonne thought, how did I get stuck with this one?
She forced herself to engage in a brief conversation, then stood up. “Nice chatting with you,” she lied.
Seeing her leave, Anna turned to the woman to her right, who looked to be in her early sixties and had just closed her book.
“I’m Anna DeMille,” she said. “This trip is so exciting. I would never be here except that I won the grand prize at my church’s annual raffle. Imagine, an all-expenses-paid trip on the maiden voyage of the Queen Charlotte! I still can’t believe it!”
“Very understandable.”
Anna ignored the chilly tone in the woman’s voice.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Robyn Reeves,” was the crisp reply, as the woman opened the book she had just closed.
Nobody is very talkative this morning, Anna thought. I’ll take a walk and see if Devon is anywhere around. Poor man.
He must feel so alone being here by himself with his wife’s ashes.
19
Yvonne had lunch with her friends Dana Terrace and Valerie Conrad in the small restaurant that was decorated as an English tearoom. They had mutually agreed that their husbands were welcome to make their own plans. The reason was that they wanted to gossip, and what they had to say would be boring to men.
“Hal is on the squash court,” Dana announced.
“So is Clyde,” Valerie said indifferently.
Yvonne did not say anything. There was no doubt Roger was in the casino. She was in secret awe of both Dana and Valerie. They both had the backgrounds that she longed for. Dana was a direct Mayflower descendant. And Valerie’s father was not only well bred, but a successful investor.
Since childhood, she had had one goal in mind: marry well, not just for money, but also for social standing.
Yvonne’s father and mother, both high school teachers, had thankfully retired to Florida after she graduated from her local state college. When she spoke of them, she promoted them to having been full-time college professors. Using her excellent command of French, she had taken one semester her junior year at the Sorbonne, and now referred to that as where she went to college.
Dana and Valerie had gone to the exclusive Deerfield Academy prep school and had been classmates at Vassar. Like Yvonne, they were in their early forties and very attractive. The difference was that they had always had a secure background, while she had to plan her way to the top.
Yvonne had met Roger Pearson when she was twenty-six and he was thirty-two. And he had fit the bill. Good-looking enough, at least when she had met him. Like his father and grandfather, a graduate of Harvard, and he also had been a member of the university’s most exclusive clubs. Like them, he was a CPA. Unlike them it had turned out that he was not particularly ambitious. He liked to drink and was a gambler. Both of these traits he had kept carefully hidden. What he could not hide was the considerable paunch that he had developed over the almost twenty years they had been married.
It did not take long for Yvonne to see the real Roger, and that he was lazy. Five years ago, after his father’s death, he had become president of the family’s wealth management firm and had persuaded many of its clients, most importantly Lady Emily, to stay with him. She named him the new executor of her estate.
In Lady Em’s presence Roger was a different person, speaking with authority about global finances, politics and the arts.
Together he and Yvonne kept up the appearance of a happily married couple and attended the social affairs and charity galas that they both loved. Meanwhile Yvonne had been on the lookout for a newly divorced successful man or—even better—a widower, but neither had appeared on her horizon. Her two
best friends, Valerie and Dana, had both successfully remarried divorcés. She longed to join them.
Now over Prosecco and salads, they discussed the amenities of the ship and the people on it. Valerie and Dana knew Lady Haywood and, like everyone else, were in awe of her. The fact that Yvonne found her boring was fascinating to both of them.
“I’ve heard her twice-told tales, make that twenty-times-told tales, about her late great Sir Richard, more than I can possibly tell you,” Yvonne confided, as she daintily removed a tomato from her salad. Why can’t I remember to tell the waiter that I don’t like tomatoes? she asked herself.
Valerie had a copy of the daily activities. “We can listen to a former diplomat who will dissect the history of troubled relations between the West and the Middle East.”
“I could not think of anything more boring,” Dana said as she took a large sip of her wine.
“Okay, we’ll skip that one,” Valerie agreed. “How about this? A master chef will demonstrate his quick and easy technique to add a gourmet touch to even the simplest meal.”
“That might be interesting,” Yvonne suggested.
“Valerie and I have live-in chefs,” Dana explained. “We leave the cooking to them.”
Yvonne tried again. “Here’s one that might be fun: ‘Emily Post’s Classic Book About Etiquette: The manners of the nineteenth and early twentieth century.’ Why don’t we go? I’d love to hear about the way they did things in those days.”
Valerie smiled. “My grandmother told me that my great-grandmother lived by the society rules of that time. Her first home after she was married was a brownstone on Fifth Avenue. At that time, people left calling cards with the butler. I understand that when my great-grandfather died, they draped the home with mourning cloth. The butler in his day clothes would answer the bell with the parlor maid standing close behind him until a footman secured black livery for the staff.”