Day Four (11 page)

Maddie checked the time on her cell: ten past eight. She and Celine were booked on an early afternoon flight back to La Guardia, so there was still a chance they’d make it if the ship got going in the next hour or so. She stretched until she felt her back muscles twang, then got to her feet, stumbling as she was forced to adjust her balance. Christ, the ship was now listing slightly to the left – not a good sign that the situation was under control. She padded to the bathroom door. ‘Celine? You in there?’

She peered inside, a faint trace of Poison, Celine’s perfume, wafting out at her. No Celine, but her make-up bag was in disarray – the box containing her false eyelashes was open next to the sink – so she must be feeling better this morning. Still, it was strange for her to go anywhere on the ship alone: who knew when a Friend could approach and ask for an autograph or an impromptu reading? She couldn’t have gone far, just to the pool or main decks, the only places on the ship with wheelchair ramps. Unless she’d decided to walk, which would be a first. And that wouldn’t explain the missing wheelchair.

Maddie avoided looking in the mirror (she’d had enough bad news for one morning), splashed cold water on her cheeks, squirted a pea of toothpaste on a fingertip and rubbed it over her teeth. The ever-present headache continued to nag, and she dug in Celine’s vanity case for the extra-strength Tylenol. Next, get coffee. Find Celine. Find Ray, who was noticeably absent last night. Head down to her cabin to shower and change. Then check on the Friends, something she should really have done last night.

She stepped into the corridor, narrowly avoiding colliding with an overweight couple who were barrelling towards the stairwell. Maddie mumbled an apology, although it was hardly her fault. She’d encountered them before in the elevators a couple of times, and she’d never yet seen them smile. This morning, in an act of passive-aggression that Maddie reluctantly approved of, they were both wearing oversized ‘I *heart* Foveros Cruise Lines’ T-shirts.

‘What do you think about this, now?’ the man grumped at Maddie. ‘I tell you,’ he carried on, before she had a chance to answer, ‘this is typical Foveros. No answer from room service.’ He waved his breakfast card. ‘Six a.m. I wrote down here. Six a.m. No one showed up to fetch it.’

‘If the electricity is out, they might be having issues in the kitchen,’ Maddie said.

‘Huh. It’s unacceptable. We have a flight back to Galveston at one thirty.’

‘One thirty exactly,’ the woman echoed. Maddie assumed they were married, but with their similar short haircuts and large builds, they could be brother and sister. ‘Heads will roll if we miss it.’

Helen poked her head out of her door, saving Maddie from answering. ‘Oh, it’s you, Maddie. I thought it might be Althea.’

With a curt nod at Maddie and Helen, the couple waddled off to the stairwell.

‘Is Celine feeling better today?’ Helen asked.

‘She must be. She’s not in the stateroom. You haven’t seen her, have you?’

‘No. Elise and I have only just woken up.’

‘Thanks again for all your help last night. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

‘It was nothing.’

Elise appeared at Helen’s shoulder. ‘Oh hey, Maddie. How’s Celine doing today?’

Maddie repeated what she’d told Helen.

‘I’m glad she’s up and about. Maddie, may I ask you something? It’s going to sound strange.’

Maddie almost laughed. ‘I’ve been working for a medium for three years, strange is my middle name.’

‘Last night . . . Helen and me, we had a very strong feeling someone else was in the cabin.’ Helen nudged Elise and told her to hush. ‘There’s no harm in mentioning it, Helen,’ Elise tutted.

‘What do you mean?’ Maddie asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

‘Well . . . this is going to sound kooky. But we heard music. Someone singing. Helen thought it might be coming from one of the other cabins. I can’t get it out of my head.’ She hummed a tune that sounded very much like the one Celine had sung just after the ship stopped – the tune that reminded Maddie of Lizzie Bean, Celine’s less vocal spirit guide. Celine’s guides made quite the pair of stereotypes (her boss was anything but subtle): Archie the tragic Cockney urchin, and Lizzie the tragic 1920s socialite who could have tumbled out of the pages of
The Great Gatsby
. And then there was Papa Noakes, although Maddie had never actually heard his voice coming through. An ‘ex-slave from Mississippi’, Papa Noakes had dropped out of Celine’s repertoire years ago – Maddie only knew about him at all from a first edition of Celine’s memoir (he’d been eradicated from the e-editions and reprints). She thanked her lucky stars he’d been shelved before the Internet boom; she could only imagine the field day Celine’s army of detractors would have with him. Then again, Celine had put on that awful voice last night, embarrassing everyone, especially the doctor, but she’d never exactly been politically correct. Occasionally, Maddie wondered if Papa Noakes was the real reason Celine had hired her; having an assistant of mixed race might offset any possible accusations of racial insensitivity.

‘Perhaps Celine was humming it,’ Maddie said. She was surprised they hadn’t thought of that explanation.

Helen shrugged. ‘Perhaps. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it was just our imaginations working overtime.’

‘Were you two planning on flying home today?’ Maddie changed the subject.

Elise sucked in a breath and she and Helen exchanged a glance Maddie couldn’t read. Maddie had been too stressed last night to dwell on the relationship between the two women. They clearly weren’t related – for one thing Helen was British and Elise was American. Perhaps they were lovers – there was definitely a bond between them that went beyond friendship.

‘Let us know if there’s anything else we can do,’ Helen said.

‘I will. Again, I really appreciate all your help.’

Maddie walked carefully to the end of the hallway, peered over the glass balcony and down into the atrium. A queue of grumbling people snaked from the Guest Services desk to the cocktail bars. Several of the complainants were still dressed in their fancy dress – beer-bellied men wrapped in white sheets, women in gold sandals and blond wigs, the odd devil here and there. The brother-and-sister couple had joined the end of the queue, adding their voice to the chorus.

She could see from her vantage point that the Catalina Coffee outlet was shut, which meant she’d be forced to drink the free vile brew served in the Lido buffet. She cut through the photo gallery, where garish signs begged her to remember that ‘Memories Last Forever!’ and pushed through the glass doors that led out onto the pool deck, breathing in salty air tinged with diesel. She clanked down the spiral staircase and out onto the main deck, which was far busier than it usually was at this time of day. Every sun-lounger held a body, and cleaning staff darted to and fro, scooping up trash and handing out bottles of water. Most kept their eyes lowered to minimise interaction with the passengers, moving furtively like soldiers creeping through land mines.

She picked her way past the groups gathered around the Jacuzzis and exterior stage, scanning faces for any sign of Celine. She tended to hold her breath to avoid the foul gust of broiling hotdogs and boiled tomatoes that blasted out of the interior seating area 24/7, but there didn’t appear to be any hot food on offer. Only one of the buffet stations was operational – a line of sweating chefs slapping sandwiches together. People stared at her resentfully as she squeezed through them to the coffee station, closing ranks and clutching their plates to their chests. The coffee sputtered into the cup. She could tell immediately it was cold. She carried her cup back outside, stepping over discarded water bottles and what looked to be the jellyfish body of a used condom, and headed down to the Tranquillity deck. It was doubtful Celine would have made it to this level, but it was worth a look.

If anything, this area was even more populated, the Jacuzzi stuffed with a crowd of rowdy British men.

No Celine.

She was about to backtrack, when a dark-haired man sitting on a lounger next to the towel station caught her eye: the blogger from last night. Head bent, he was fiddling with his iPhone. Fuelled by a surge of resentment, instead of moving on, she found herself saying: ‘Feeling better?’

‘’Scuse me?’ He looked up, and she stared at her reflection in the twin lenses of his retro aviator glasses.

‘After last night. Celine’s event.’

He looked her up and down. ‘You were there?’

‘I’m Celine’s PA. So yeah. Hope you’re happy.’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. Been sick as a dog pretty much since I came on board. Still not feeling great.’

‘Oh, what a pity.’

‘The PA, huh? Do you write her excuses for her as well?’

Maddie was scrambling for a retort when there was a beep signalling another message from Damien: ‘G’day, this is your cruise director Damien speaking. It may not be the greatest start to the New Year, so how about we shake off the blues with an extra game of Bingo?’

‘Thank God for Damien,’ the blogger said. ‘What the fuck would we do without him?’ He gave her a sardonic grin, taking her off guard. ‘Can you believe this shit?’ He waggled his phone. ‘No signal. No Internet. Can’t log on.’ There was the sound of a squeal and Maddie looked over her shoulder to see two women in bikinis jumping into the Jacuzzi on top of the men. ‘You don’t think it’s weird we haven’t seen anyone?’ the guy continued. ‘Like a helicopter or another cruise ship? They should have sent something by now. I was up here most of the night. The Gulf is lousy with drilling rigs, but nothing. No lights. Nada. Zip. Something’s going on that they’re not telling us.’

‘Foveros gets a lot of bad press. They’re probably trying to keep it quiet. Avoid it being splashed all over the news.’

‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Nice. You got me.’ She’d asked for it. What the hell was she doing talking to this guy anyway? If he’d bothered to book himself onto the ship, he must be one of the tenacious debunkers who spent hours trying to lure Celine into responding to him on FB, Zoop and Twitter. Maddie, who ran all these accounts, never bothered to engage with them, or refute or comment on any of their blogs. The Friends had that covered. Time to move on.

‘Hey! Hey wait. I’m sorry.’ She hesitated, then turned back. The guy took off his glasses. Dark-blue eyes, fair lashes – his hair was definitely dyed. ‘I suppose an interview is out of the question.’

‘You suppose right.’

‘You’re from England.’

‘You’re sharp.’

Another wry smile. ‘How long you been working for Celine?’

‘I said no interview.’

‘Off the record then.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘Look, I’m just doing my job. You got to admit, what happened with Lillian Small was fucked up. It’s proven without a shadow of a doubt that Lori and Bobby Small died on Black Thursday and yet Celine—’

‘Like Celine says, she can only use what Spirit tells her.’

He grimaced and Maddie took a step back. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurl. That was my gross-out face. I don’t get it. Why do you work for her?’

Because no one else in their right mind would employ me
. ‘None of your business.’

‘She’s a predator. Preying on the grieving.’

‘She brings hope and closure to people,’ Maddie said automatically.

‘Does she? Did she bring hope and closure to Lillian Small?’

‘I don’t need to listen to this.’

‘You’re right. You don’t. But don’t you think you should? Celine has made a goddamned fortune feeding off the grieving.’

‘People want hope. They need to know—’

‘That there is more than this? That there is an afterlife?’

‘Yes.’

‘That I can understand. But telling a mother her daughter and grandson are still alive after there’s incontrovertible proof otherwise? C’mon.’

‘It’s not foolproof.’ Maddie mentally winced.

‘That’s no defence and you know it. Admit it. It’s all bullshit.’

‘Maybe I do believe she has a gift.’

‘I don’t buy it for a second. You’re too switched on for that. You don’t look like the type of person who’d wilfully deceive anyone.’

‘Nice try.’ The appeal to her ego was a smart move. He wasn’t to know that her ego had gone the same way as her self-respect a long time ago. ‘I think we’re finished here.’

‘Wait. What’s your name?’ He grinned, disarming her once more. ‘Just so I know who I’m bad mouthing.’

‘You first. Just so I know who to sue.’

‘I go under the name Xavier.’

‘You “go under” the name Xavier? What are you, twelve?’

He laughed – a low grumble that she wouldn’t have expected from him. ‘You don’t think it’s cool? Stripper-name cool? It’s my real name, by the way.’

‘Sure it is. Enjoy writing your story. Looks like you might have a real one this time.’

He laughed again, and she found herself smiling back. She wasn’t a moron. She knew that she’d be ripped to shreds in the guy’s next blog, but their exchange had made her feel oddly buoyant. ‘Catch you later,’ he said.

‘Don’t count on it.’

She walked back through the interior buffet seating area. Celine had to be on this level somewhere. Unless . . .
Shit
. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She could have left the suite and fallen ill again – perhaps she’d been taken to the medical bay. Ray. It was about time the bastard pulled his weight. Like her, he was ensconced in one of the cheaper cabins in the bowels of the ship. She dredged her memory for his cabin number, then padded down the stairs, past the entrance to the Promenade Dreamz deck, the casino and the art gallery. The neon lights had been disabled, and without them the interior of the ship looked drab; an ageing showgirl scrubbed of her make-up. She jogged down several flights of stairs, trying not to breathe through her nose. The air down here was a foul humid broth, seasoned with a tinge of effluence. She made her way along the corridor that led to the odd-numbered staterooms, and knocked on what she hoped was Ray’s door.