A Death in Geneva (7 page)

“You are looking absolutely charming, Miss Renfro, the belle of the Towerpoint ball.” His admiring gaze took in the pale blue shirt and matching espadrilles, the white skirt and familiar shell necklace. He scanned the waterfront, spotted a kelly green hull with gold scrollwork and waved the skipper over. Tooms was pleased to have Leslie Renfro in tow. He valued his psychological insights; they helped in his game. He had savored the impact of her harsh words, had played with the language in his mind since their first conversation on the hotel terrace. Throughout the day he had been toying with various roles for her in his new scheme. None had fully crystallized, but there had been a place for her each time, and it had worked well. This was the extra facet of Tooms's character that Tommie Starring valued. Starring expected, demanded, that he keep pulling rabbits out of hats. Tooms was looking forward to showing off the young mermaid to the boss.

Leslie stepped lightly into the dghajsa. Tooms eased himself down into the small craft with a grunt. “You have a seaman's manner, Miss Renfro, and that's said as a compliment. Have you been on the high seas today or back at the front office sorting through your investments?” He waved his cigarettes toward her knowing she would decline and took one for himself, pausing to give directions to the dghajsa skipper before flicking his lighter.

“I have had a good day, Dr. Tooms. Two couples, three children, have booked for a week's cruise. They are neophytes, here for a fortnight, and in a hurry to get under way. Actually, it is much easier with the beginners, no ingrained errors to correct. I sent them into the city with a shopping list, and my crew and I have spent the day outfitting the ketch. We sail tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“West, along the north coasts; circumnavigate Gozo and Comino; skin diving; a night at anchor in the Blue Lagoon; a side excursion to the Blue Grotto Caves; good variety. I would invite you, Dr. Tooms, but we are already at full capacity. Do you speak again at the conference? I will miss the closing session.”

“God forbid, God forbid! You ought to book some of the grantees, Princess, let them work a little
mal de mer
into their next presentations. As for me, there'll be time. I'll make time—your cruising invitation's accepted.”

The dghajsa's long oars, lashed with heavy line to the wooden peg oarlocks, continued their rhythmic splashing sweeps through the water. As the taxiboat pushed further into the harbor, the port bows and hull of the
Towerpoint Octagon,
flagship of Starring's Towerpoint International, loomed before them riding at her black iron mooring buoy.

“It's an ugly ship.”

“The very finest in the world, Miss Renfro, a sweetheart, an able ship; the best oceangoing research platform you or I will ever see.” Tooms turned to the taximan. “The accommodation ladder's rigged on the outboard starboard hull, skipper; take us once around before we board.”

More than a flagship, the
Towerpoint Octagon
epitomized Tommie Starring's determination to prevail, displaying his defiance of the general decline of sea power in America. An oceangoing catamaran, she ran some three hundred feet from bow to stern. Her twin hulls were divided by a thirty-five foot well, giving her a maximum beam of more than eighty feet. The hulls were a glistening midnight blue with
TOWERPOINT OCTAGON
painted in eight-foot block letters of gold on each outboard hull. The octagonal superstructure was white, with the twin stacks taking up the blue of the hull, each with the corporation T in gold.

Leslie Renfro scanned the ship's profile.

“One of a kind, custom-built, alive with machinery—helo platform aft.” Tooms leaned back, one elbow on the dghajsa's thwart, following the line of her observations. Her skin glowed golden in the sunset's rays, a filmy down on the arm raised to shade her eyes. “Massive overhead crane, submersible, no . . . yes, two of them, buoys on the forward decks . . . built for underseas support.”

“Damned good,” Tooms growled. “You have a keen eye. She's a converted submarine rescue ship,
Neptune
class.”

“You mean a warship.”

“She's civilian, alright, but don't let the paint fool you. She's was laid down for the Navy. Starring built her in his yards, one of a new class—one too many as it turned out. Starring kept the Navy's feet to the fire, wouldn't let the brass hats cut corners on quality. The
Neptunes
were built to handle rescue missions for the nuclear missile subs. He wanted them to be as good as the submarines. There were God-awful contract disputes, entire armies of lawyers maneuvering
on the Potomac flats, more budget cuts wringing more money out of the Navy's hide. Then—they put a hold on the entire class, no more construction while the folks in Washington read their bones. Starring laid them flat, Miss Renfro, knocked the air out, left the Pentagon, White House, Capitol Hill, and points east gasping. With the last of the hull plates not even welded, he renegotiated, closed out the contract, took over the ship as she stood in the ways and finished the job with Towerpoint money—quite the sensation at the time.”

“I do not share your admiration, Dr. Tooms. Either the man is a megalomaniac squandering millions, or he is engaged in military support.”

Tooms gave a burst of laughter, “Spoken like a deckhand, Princess. I am increasingly bewitched by your diplomatic lilt.”

A Maltese customs launch was pulling away from the accommodation ladder as they rounded the starboard side. The president of Malta, a diminutive figure in dark suit with his straw hat crushed in one hand against the rail of the launch, gave a farewell wave in the direction of the catamaran. With the departure of his boat, the Maltese flag was struck from the
Towerpoint Octagon
's signal yard. Two ship's launches and a flock of dghajsas that had been circling off the catamaran moved in to collect the first wave of Oceanic University conferees leaving the reception.

The sun's evening rays had turned the walled city of Valletta into soft, glowing amber, a scene framed in the long triangle of signal flags dressing the ship, running from the jackstaff up to the mainmast platform ninety feet above the waterline, aft down to the ensign staff at the fantail. Tooms was struck at once by the spectacle and by the effect it seemed to have on his companion. She was silent, facing the hulking
Towerpoint Octagon,
deep in thought, slowly turning a fine silver ring on the little finger of her left hand, her expression questioning.

“Okay. You board now.” The dghajsa skipper maneuvered the taxiboat to the ship. Two deckhands in crisply laundered uniform—white shirts, blue shorts, white calf-length socks, and deck shoes—manned the landing float at the foot of the ladder. The taximan waved off their offer of assistance, allowing his port oar to skim along the top of the float and brake him. He held the boat fast with a sculling motion of the starboard oar.

“Thanks, Skipper, a fine cruise.” Tooms's adrenaline was flowing with excitement of the party. He pressed two more notes into the taximan's hand. “Hope your folks let you stay out after dark, Skipper.
Keep a weather eye on that helo pad. When the last cork pops we'll be needing a return lift, like to give you the business.”

The taximan laughed, rubbed his gray stubble, “
Sahha, sahha,
I will be here.”

At the top of the ladder, they were met by the ship's second officer. “Mr. Starring has been asking for you, Dr. Tooms. You and your guest are expected on the helicopter deck.” He saluted and turned to pick up the ship's phone.

“This way, Princess; Maritime Academy. They don't teach them how to laugh anymore. You two could have a dandy evening together.”

She avoided his hand as he guided her aft. In six steps, they were in the waist of the ship. A thirty-six-foot waterjet speedboat rested in a cradle on the starboard side of the center well. Above it, the powerful, girdered structure of the well bridge crane dominated the ship. A teardrop submersible, midnight blue with golden sail and diving planes, hung suspended from the crane, its twin portholes peering down like myopic eyes. She studied the rig. The crane's controls were forward in a glass-enclosed operator's booth two levels above them.

“Like one for the ketch?” Tooms was beside her at the guardrail. “Powerful, built to move the width of the ship, starboard hull, to center well, to port hull and back, with load positioning fore and aft the length of the well.

“The way Starring operates this ship, one-third yacht, one-third research, one-third commercial operations, she doesn't carry everything she was built for. If she did, these decks would be packed—two of the deep-rescue minisubs, the personnel capsules, and the new compression chambers. We don't have the minis; we carry that teardrop, have two good work chariots below decks, one capsule and one decompression chamber. The
Octagon
has had some major work below decks, work shops, storage compartments reduced, relocated to make space for the boss and his guests. We'll get to that in good time.”

From the main deck, they climbed to the 0-1 level, to the helo deck. Starring sprang from a cluster of white deck chairs, “Oats, where in God's name have you been? You missed a good reception. The conference is a success; your ears should be burning. Your speech was excellent, by all accounts.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you. This is Leslie Renfro, conferee.” Tooms took satisfaction from Starring's obvious approval. They joined the
circle of chairs. Starring was beginning to relax. For two hours he had stood accepting condolences for his sister and praise for his gifts to Malta. The words had sat well, but the chatter had been a bore. He had accepted each utterance, clasped each hand, his eyes unblinking, locked on each speaker. With the reception over, he was reinvigorated by Tooms's arrival. “My friends, I believe you all know Dr. Oswald Tooms—Oats, and his lovely guest . . .”

“Miss Renfro, Tommie, Miss Leslie Renfro, a native, a conferee, a mermaid—”

“Yes, Leslie, my friend,” Starring continued, “my wife Tina, Dr. Joseph Ghadira of the University of Malta, and Mr. Gus Anderson of Oklahoma City.” The men rose.

Tina smiled at the newcomer, tapped her ivory cigarette holder into the ashtray at her side, then turned her attention to Tooms who had crossed to her chair. “What have you brought us this time, Oats?” she murmured.

He chuckled, planted a kiss on her cheek. “Strictly business, madam, strictly business. You're looking marvelous as always.”

Tina Starring was a stunning woman. Her well-defined features had pouted from many a magazine cover and billboard poster. Blonde, slender, taller than her husband, with graceful, tanned arms, ankles, and neck at the extremities of her white satin cocktail suit. The flimsiest of extravagant silver-strapped high heels had been chosen for the evening. One heel burrowed into the great Persian rug spread on the flight deck. The other danced on her crossed legs, its performance highlighted by a golden ankle bracelet wrought of links as fine as horsehair.

Modeling had presented her beautiful face to the world, had led French actor Jean Montpellier to her. Their love affair had been exotic in its passion. His adoration and influence had provided the entree to the setting of her dreams, live theater.

The beauty, sexiness, and presence of Tina Montpellier leapt from the covers of magazines to the footlights and the growing love of audiences in Europe and America. The crush of so many thousands, their love, took her from Montpellier. His psyche rebelled at such sharing. He sought solace, the beginning of their separation, in four-months' on-location filming in China. The hurt of his departure was soothed by the excitement of her youthful success. Their final separation was little more than a year old when she won her
greatest acclaim in a leading role at the National Creative Arena. The Directors' Night performance had stunned Tommie Starring. He had returned a second and a third night to watch Tina Montpellier perform, and to decide that she must become Tina Starring.

Stewards in white linen jackets appeared with additional chairs, and the circle, defined by the rug, was enlarged to admit two more. Starring swept in behind Leslie. “Have a seat, my friend. Relax; enjoy this finest of evenings.”

Her husband's hovering over this new girl caused Tina to give Oats Tooms a long stare and a mock, reproving smile. If there was jealousy, the feeling was lost to her, buried deep beneath enduring scars of their marriage. The courtship and wedding had burst on the social pages as the most exciting matchmaking of several years. Their first months together had been a succession of joys culminating in her pregnancy.

Starring had been crushed, first by concern for her and then by self-pity, when her physicians had advised that the pregnancy was outside the womb, in the fallopian tube, and would have to be terminated. Deep within him, Starring had resented her abortion as an act of failure, an act which mocked his power. He had been white as chalk when she had been wheeled from surgery into the convalescent suite. His journey through the hospital's corridors, the strong medicinal odors, the sight of so many pale, prostrate forms on stretcher beds, had brought on the uncontrollable reaction of fear and nausea that the world of medicine had always inflicted on him. Weak as she had been, Tina had been alarmed by his appearance. Beneath his pallor, she saw the look of betrayal, which was to haunt her for months. The outward tokens of love and affection returned soon enough, a reflection of Sullivan's—not Starring's—tasteful hand. Starring had left their marriage bed at the start of her convalescence. Long after she had physically mended, he had not returned. From his rebuff of her first enticements and the predawn tempest of her injured fury and screaming recriminations that had swirled from the master bedroom through two floors of the town house, there had not again been mention by either of the physical estrangement. She had summoned their personal attorney that same day, her mind throbbing with the imperative of divorce. For weeks she had resisted his caring, velveted counsel, had fought against the future often raging aloud during a seemingly endless succession of sleepless nights. For weeks
longer, she had measured that counsel, with its powerful underlying argument of ledger, of her remaining Tommie Starring's wife.