I lowered the champagne bottle and held it against my chest. “And you are?”
“A friend of Dede’s.” The stranger tossed the dishtowel onto the dining room table and offered me his hand. He was tall, with greying blond hair, silver-rimmed glasses, and slim. I pegged him to be about my age, or maybe slightly older—mid to late forties, and based upon the ease with which he navigated the apartment, non-threatening. “I apologize if I’ve frightened you. Finn, your butler, let me in. I assume you’ve met?”
I nodded.
“I forgot that this was the week Dede had agreed to sublet her cabin. You must be the journalist.”
“Yes, I am.” I put the champagne bottle back on the dining table.
“I stopped by to restock Dede’s spice shelf. She and I enjoy cooking and experimenting with different spices when I’m on board. Her late husband Walter and I used to consider ourselves food aficionados. But you mustn’t worry. I won’t let myself in again. I promise.”
“You have a key?”
“No, I don’t need one, I—”
“Own the ship.” I stepped back and stared at my intruder, impeccably dressed in his white slacks and light blue collared polo shirt, as another more formal, professional picture came to mind, along with his bio. Neil Webster. Head of one of London’s most successful investment funds and heir to a South African diamond mine estimated to be worth more than five billion dollars. “You’re Neil Webster, the Neil Webster. I didn’t think you’d be on board.”
“I’m not ordinarily, but I wanted to be this week. My Aunt Ida is celebrating her birthday Saturday, and I didn’t want to miss the celebration.”
“Ida Churchill?”
“You know her?”
“I had High Tea with the Churchill sisters this afternoon. Ida and Irene.”
“Yes. Lovely ladies. They’re like family to me. I met Ida and her sister Irene years ago when I attended Eaton College for boys in London. When they retired, I suggested they take up residence on board the Athena rather than live a solitary life in soggy old England. I gave them a suite, and they’ve been aboard since the first day.”
“That was very kind of you.”
“It was the least I could do. The Churchill sisters were very good to me. Right after I started Eton, my mum and dad were killed in a plane accident in South Africa. My only living relative, my uncle, had no interest in taking me in and was content to have me away at school. Neither Ida nor Irene had any family of their own. The war had taken away any chance either would ever marry. They were spinster schoolteachers who took me under their wing, and we adopted one another. I think of them as my aunties. They’re like family.”
“And now, here you are. Ready to help celebrate Ida’s birthday.”
“I am. However, selfishly, I wanted the time away from work. London’s been hectic, and Athena and the Med have always been my Happy Place. One day, maybe I’ll be able to retire and spend my days sailing into the sunset like every other resident on board. But don’t worry, if it’s any consolation to you, I won’t disturb you again.” Neil reached for the dishtowel he had tossed on the table and folded it neatly across his arm. “Unless, of course, I can ask you to have dinner with me one night?”
I couldn’t believe my luck. A Mediterranean cruise. A handsome captain. And now, a dinner invite with one of the most successful and sought-after investment gurus on the planet. “I’d love to.”
“Good. However, I’ll warn you, my dinner invitation isn’t for an interview, at least not about me. Forbes, The Wall Street Journal, Barrons, and Fortune have been after me for years for a story, and I prefer to keep my personal life out of the news. So, if you promise not to grill me about my company or ask for any investment advice, I’d welcome the opportunity to chat with you about Athena. So why not? It’ll give me a chance to get to know you better.”
I bit back a smile. I didn’t think for a minute that Neil’s idea of getting to know me better was any type of come-on. From what little I knew about the man, he had never been married, nor did he have a reputation as a playboy. In fact, I was certain Neil wasn’t interested in me as a woman, or any woman at all, for that matter. But as far as an interview with Neil Webster went, I was plenty interested. And, if I was careful, I’d walk away not only with a story about Athena but Neil Webster as well, and every financial publisher in the Western World would be knocking on my door for the inside scoop on one of the world’s wealthiest men.
“Sounds fair enough. But, on one condition.”
“And what might that be?”
“You said you’re a food aficionado. You like to cook. Make dinner for me. Something I can write about for my magazine. And if I like what I eat, with your permission, I’ll include something about your culinary skills.” I held my hand up to wave off any objection. “Nothing about your business, I promise. Just something a little folksy my readers will enjoy.”
Neil smirked. I was making headway.
“Alright, you’re on. My apartment. Wednesday night.” Neil brushed past me to the front door and stopped. “Come hungry. But remember, no questions about my business or my personal life. It’s off limits.”
“No problem.” I closed and locked the door behind me and did a celebratory fist bump. If I could get Neil Webster to cook dinner for me, I could convince him to give me an interview.
Chapter Three
Iwas still thinking about Neil and how I would tell Sophie he had agreed to cook one of his special meals for me when I noticed a small black crocheted handbag on the table next to the door. I had missed it when I came in the night before. The apartment had been dark, and the door had hidden the small table behind it when open. But now, in the light of day, with the door closed, there it was, a woman’s handbag abandoned, as though forgotten.
I couldn’t imagine the bag belonged to Dede. What woman would go off and leave her purse behind when going into a foreign country? Unless, of course—I was already kicking myself for the thought—she had gone overboard like Ida believed—either accidentally or otherwise.
Captain Byard and Chief O’Sullivan thought Ida and Irene were lovely old ladies, but a bit daffy and known to amuse themselves with conspiracy theories. Consequently, I refused to entertain any thought of Dede’s demise. There had to be a more obvious explanation. Perhaps Dede had changed out her purse at the last minute, or maybe the bag belonged to one of Dede’s lady friends who had come to visit and forgotten it as she hurried out the door.
I should have left it at that. But I couldn’t let go of the idea that a woman wouldn’t leave her handbag behind any more than I could unsee the bag on the table. It was as though it were calling me. I debated whether I was within my rights to look inside. If this wasn’t Dede’s bag but some other passenger’s, I’d be doing them a favor by learning the owner’s identity and returning it.
The bag won out.
I moved it to the dining room table so I could better look at what was inside and found a thin, medium-sized red wallet, a small, grey flip phone, keys, lipstick, and a palm-sized English-to-Italian dictionary. I opened the wallet, hopeful I would find another woman’s I.D. Instead, staring back at me was a Colorado driver’s license with Dede Drummerhausen’s photo prominently displayed on the left side. Round face, short curly red hair. Beneath her picture, her address, and her date of birth. June 2, 1933. Eye color: Green. Height: Five foot five. Weight: 165.
I placed the wallet on the table and stepped back. Okay, Dede Drummerhausen, where are you?
As a journalist, I had reported from enough crime scenes to know there were always clues left behind. I’ll never forget my first homicide. A young couple had gone to park beneath the stars, been dragged from their car, and shot point blank beneath a Palo Verde tree. When I arrived, the bodies had been removed, but the Inspector was still combing the scene for evidence. I asked what he was looking for, and he pointed to scuff marks in the sand and fibers from a pink ribbon hanging from the tree. He taught me to read the scene. The young girl had tried to run but to no avail. From that day on, I knew no matter the crime, there were always clues. One just had to learn how to look for them. I scanned the living room for signs of an argument or a disturbed mind.
Dede’s quarters included maid service, which presented a problem. Aside from my unmade bed in the guest room, everything appeared to have been swept clean. On the surface, I could see nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of a struggle or disarray. The living room, or great room, a combination living-dining area, with its cream-colored walls and overstuffed furnishings, included a couch, coffee table, two oversized swivel chairs, and a formal dining table, all set against a wall of floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that lead outside to the deck, The kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances and highly polished aluminum counters, didn’t have so much as a smudge. Everything, from the books on the coffee table to silver-framed pictures on the buffet, including several of Dede, one with her sitting in a golf cart with a man who I assumed might be her husband and another of her holding a bottle of Champagne and christening Athena, suggested a very organized and comfortable lifestyle.
I was about to stuff Dede’s wallet back into her bag when I heard a tapping on the cabin door, followed by a man’s voice. “Knock. Knock. It’s your butler, Ms. Lawson.”
I still couldn’t get used to the idea of a butler and gathered Dede’s bag into my arms as though it were my own. Finn entered the apartment, cabin keys in one hand, dry cleaning in the other.
“Sorry to disturb you. I’ve Ms. Drummerhausen’s dry cleaning. I’ll just be a moment.” Finn disappeared into Dede’s bedroom. I put Dede’s bag back on the table and followed Finn as far as the bedroom door.
