I called Rosie’s cabin. No answer. I started at the top of the ship, checked the sundeck, then returned to Deck 10. I strolled past the computer area to look over the scattering of leather chairs and small tables that faced the huge windows at the bow, affording a panoramic view of the sea. Only a few places were taken, a woman knitting, her hands flashing with grace, an elderly man in a shabby tweed jacket and baggy trousers studying the morning news digest compiled by the ship personnel.
I took the promenade to the stern area and stepped into the library. Every chair was taken. There was the hush of good manners, only an occasional rustle of sound to mark the turning of pages. Had I truly been on a holiday, I too would have browsed the collection of histories, travelogues, and guidebooks.
I returned to the promenade and walked down a curving outside staircase. Swimmers splashed in the pool. The deck glistened from a recent wash. The informal dining room aft was closed except for the coffee and tea bar. Rosie wasn’t in that short line. The hamburger stand near the pool hadn’t opened yet for lunch. Most of the wooden tables were filled with lounging travelers enjoying the fresh air.
I scanned the ranks of deck chairs on either side of the pool. Despite the brisk breeze, hardy sun lovers lay supine, eyes closed, bodies glistening with lotions and oils. Toward the end of the last row of chairs on the starboard side, Evelyn was cocooned in a blanket. She held a book, stared down at it, her face somber. I watched for a moment and she never turned a page. I crossed to the port side, though I doubted Evelyn would look up. She had withdrawn behind the book.
The forward area was divided among a card room, spa, fitness center, and beauty salon. In the fitness center, Kent was working out on a treadmill, back glistening with sweat, muscular legs striding fast. When I stepped into the beauty salon, I heard Madge’s sharp voice: “…Cut a little more off the back…” A haughty blonde leafed through a fashion magazine as a manicurist worked on her other hand. At the spa, I told the smiling attendant I was looking for Rosie Riordan, she’d said something about a body wrap…The answer was swift: “No, ma’am, Miss Riordan hasn’t made an appointment yet.”
I took the lift down to Deck 5 to check the remaining public areas, the shops and Diogenes Bar and the rather remote deck chairs on either side of the ship. I made a cursory trip to the reception lobby on Deck 4, then took the lift to Deck 6 and walked swiftly to my cabin. Apparently Rosie Riordan was not spending this lovely sunny day at sea taking advantage of the ship’s amenities.
The steward had already serviced the cabin, the fleur-de-lis-patterned spread, white against a soft blue, in place on the bed, fresh towels in the scrubbed bath, bottled water on the desk. I glanced at the phone. It was my last hope of contacting Rosie this morning. I was thoughtful as I brewed a cup of tea. I would have only a few words to persuade her to meet with me. I had to get her attention, get it and hold it. I hoped Jimmy would understand what I was about to do. Since Madge had overheard our confrontation with Sophia, it would not be long before all the Riordans knew why I was on board. Possibly an awareness that they were under suspicion might provide protection to Sophia.
Whether that proved true or not, whether Jimmy approved or not, I was determined to make an effort to respect Vic’s death. It wasn’t any business of mine, but I knew only too well, now and forever, the sorrow of the soul as another year is marked. I didn’t understand why one of the Riordans hadn’t spoken up. Evelyn seemed to be on good terms with Sophia yet she’d remained silent. Should I go up to the pool deck, ask her to speak to Jimmy?
I almost turned to go, then shook my head. I didn’t want to ask Evelyn to give a message to Jimmy. Evelyn seemed too indecisive to interfere. Rosie would have no difficulty if she agreed to help me.
It seemed odd that apparently none of the Riordans had asked Sophia to reschedule her birthday dinner, but I couldn’t see why they would object to Jimmy making that request.
Even self-centered Madge was worried about tonight. I was sure Jimmy would agree that every possible effort should be made to lessen the strain between Sophia and the Riordans. An excellent start would be to move the party to tomorrow night.
I sipped the tea, wished its warmth could dissipate the chill I felt. Maybe it was time to admit to myself that I had a hunch. Hunches are nothing more than the subconscious fluttering of a warning flag. Hunches are ignored at our peril. It was as if I’d heard the distant crack in snowy stillness and knew an avalanche threatened. I could not in good conscience stand aside, do nothing.
I found Jimmy’s note where he’d listed the cabin numbers and dialed Rosie’s cabin again. No answer. I hung up without leaving a message. Rosie might be anywhere on the ship, perhaps in someone else’s cabin. I was sure she was not with Sophia and Jimmy. Was Jimmy still trying to persuade Sophia to dissolve the trusts to remove any possible motive for her death? Or had Jimmy and Sophia settled for an uneasy truce, Sophia mollified that I was no threat to her marriage yet stubbornly dismissive of Jimmy’s fears? Evelyn was quite likely still staring at her unread book. Madge was in the beauty salon, Kent on the treadmill. Alex? He was probably still in bed, avoiding the world. Val? What would she be doing on the anniversary of her twin’s death? I pictured her sunk in sadness in her cabin. That’s where Rosie was. I dialed the cabin number.
“Hello.” The voice was tight and grim.
“Rosie?” I wasn’t certain.
A pause. “Who is this?”
“Henrie O Collins. I need to talk to you about Vic. I’m in Cabin 6012.” I hung up.
Within minutes there was a sharp knock on my door. I opened it, stood aside for her to enter.
Rosie hesitated at the threshold, her gaze sharp and questioning. Despite the plainness of a navy turtleneck and age-faded jeans, she could easily have graced a fashion runway and captivated everyone in the audience. The spill of light in the entryway brought out the fiery shade of her Titian curls, but illuminated too the purplish shadows beneath her eyes and the sadness of her face. One hand fastened tightly on the doorjamb. “What about Vic? How do you know about Vic?”
I gestured toward the balcony. “Please come in. Let me tell you what I know. And why.”
“This isn’t a good day to talk about Vic.” She spoke slowly as if every word cost effort.
“I know. I understand.”
Her eyes flared in disbelief. “Do you? I doubt very much that you understand, Mrs. Collins.” Her tone was bitter.
“Please come in.” I wished Evelyn were there to wrap Rosie in her arms. I couldn’t provide the comfort she needed. “I want to help. Perhaps I can help.”
Rosie’s lips twisted. “That would take a miracle you can’t provide.”
“Give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking.” I met her gaze.
Perhaps she saw echoing sadness in my eyes. She moved past me, lithe and lovely except for the hands clenched in tight fists.
On the balcony Rosie stood straight as a sentinel, her face guarded.
I stood too, the two of us facing each other on that gay balcony, both of us a world away from the arching blue sky and dark blue sea. I started at the beginning with Jimmy’s call. I told her everything, his conviction some hand shoved a boulder down the cliff at Sophia, Evelyn and the sherry, my reluctant acquiescence, the dossiers Jimmy provided—
A bright flush stained her cheeks. “You’re a spy. You must have laughed when I accosted you at breakfast.”
“No. I enjoyed our breakfast—”
There was no answering warmth in her face.
“—but I didn’t forget why I was here. I continued to gather information about your family and I learned about Vic. I’m sorry.”
“Sure you are.” Her voice was hard. “Everybody’s sorry when a kid dies. Being sorry doesn’t matter.” Her eyes glittered with unresolved pain.
I held her gaze. “I know that. My son was eleven when he died in a car wreck on a winding mountain road in Mexico. We were on that road because I’d insisted we go to a festival in Toluca.”
The anger seeped from her face. “Okay. You hurt. I hurt. Val hurts. But why do you want to talk about Vic? Would it help if I asked you about that car wreck?”
I pushed away the memory of headlights sweeping around a curve. We’d had so much fun at the fiesta. I’d bought Bobby and Emily straw animals, hers a hen, his a donkey. Bobby was alive until…“I don’t want to talk about Vic. I want to talk to you about tonight. Why haven’t you or Evelyn spoken to Sophia—”
“Don’t be a fool.” Rosie’s face hardened. “I’d rather die. Sophia would be graceful, but she wouldn’t cancel the dinner. She’d turn it into a remembrance of Vic, probably ask each of us to make a tribute. Come, sisters and brothers, stand up and talk about Vic. Remember her that summer, big lost eyes in a thin face. That last night she ran upstairs, like a ghost, running away because nobody helped her. Not her dad. Not me. Not Val. Not her brothers. Nobody.”
Tears streamed down Rosie’s face. “Do you think we ever want to hear Sophia say Vic’s name? Not now. Not ever. Do you hear me?” Her voice shook. “That would be worse, worse than going to the dinner and seeing Sophia. She killed my baby sister. Damn Sophia’s selfish soul to everlasting hell, she killed Vic.” Rosie turned and stumbled across the balcony to open the sliding door and blindly rushed through my cabin.
As the door closed behind her, I had my answer. Sophia’s party was fated to happen.