Sailing to Capri (21 page)

“Well, there you go then.” Bordelaise raked her fingers triumphantly through her shaggy hair. “He’s interested all right. You’ll see on the cruise: moonlight on the water, champagne, soft Mediterranean nights …”

I could almost see her plotting. Still, her scenario sounded pretty romantic, even to me.

“Maybe,” I said, cautious as ever, making her groan again and sending Rats, who was sprawling on my bed, running anxiously to make sure she was okay.

She sleeked back his ears and peered through her glasses into his soulful brown eyes. “My, you are a good dog, aren’t you?”

But Rats had turned away. He was staring hard at the door. It was half-closed; nevertheless, I felt that sudden cool breeze blow over me.

“Did you feel that?” I asked.

“Feel what?”

“That sort of breeze that just blew through the room.”

Bordelaise shrugged. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“I don’t know what it is,” I said, “but it’s been happening quite a lot lately. It’s like a wind blowing around me, but the
doors and windows are always closed. I thought it might be Bob—you know, sort of coming back to check on me and Rats …”

Bordelaise’s eyes popped. “You’re
crazy.”
She stared nervously at the door and the empty hallway outside. Don’t tell me you believe in
ghosts?”

“Maybe,” I said, because I was beginning to think that, after all, maybe I did.

But Bordelaise made me get up and check the apartment, then lock the bedroom door before we went to sleep. I knew it was all right though, because Rats was back on my bed and already sleeping. He would never do that if Bob was around. Still, it was a long time before we fell asleep that night.

At three hundred feet long with a forty-five-foot beam,
Blue Boat
was one of the larger yachts afloat. Built in the Bremen shipyards of the great German yacht builder Lürssen, she could correctly be described as a megayacht. Technically, with her sleek steel hull and two powerful KHD-MWM diesel engines, she could reach a speed of twenty knots, with a range of six thousand nautical miles. She could easily cross the Atlantic but was most often based in Mediterranean waters, where her owner, an American woman friend of Bob’s, an oil heiress, liked to spend her summers.

Towering five decks high, with wide side decks and with a thirty-foot cigarette boat invisibly tucked in the tank deck to port and a pair of vintage wooden Chris-Craft tenders tucked starboard, there was nothing to spoil the yacht’s beautiful lines, not even the eight-seat silver-blue helicopter perched on top.

A swimming platform aft could be lowered hydraulically,
and the yacht’s “toys”—Jet Skis, water skis, scuba tanks, and snorkel gear—were stowed there.

Above the lowest deck—the tank deck—were accommodations for the thirty-six crew members, with their own dining room and lounge. On the deck above were the guest accommodations, with four lavish suites and nine staterooms. Above that was the main deck, with its soaring central atrium, inlaid marble floors, soft ivory couches, and ebony tables banked with flowers, and a glass elevator and a crystal staircase behind. There were comfortable lounges, a library, a media room/theater, and a spacious dining room. A hair salon and a small gym and spa were cantilevered over the top deck.

The large afterdeck was equipped for sunbathing, with big square padded lounges, a plunge pool, and a long oval table that could seat twenty for dining under the stars. The foredeck had informal seating and a bar, and shady areas for just sitting and talking or reading.

On the very top, behind the bridge, which of course was equipped with the very latest technology, was a glass-enclosed piano bar, which slowly revolved to take in the view.

The palatial bedroom of the owners’ suite had wide-window views and a fireplace for those chilly, or perhaps just romantic, nights. The adjoining sitting room was paneled in dark walnut to match the overhead beams set in an ivory ceiling, with creamy carpeting and rich fabrics.

The yacht itself was not painted your usual naval cobalt blue. Her color had been personally chosen by the owner—a woman in love with the Mediterranean—and was the palest aquamarine, the exact shade of the shallow sea where it curved
inshore, just before the tiny waves hit the sand. This color scheme was carried throughout the ship: pale aquas, a tawny sand color, ivory, and taupe. On deck the soft furnishings and awnings were blue, and even the towels were that same pale aqua, embroidered with seashells in sand color.

No detail had been forgotten, either in the construction of the yacht, the cost of which was rumored to be close to a hundred million dollars, or in the interior design, by one of the world’s best in the yacht trade. And needless to say,
Blue Boat
was the apple of not only her owner’s eye but also her captain’s.

Captain Jurgen Anders was Norwegian and had lived near or on the water all his life. He’d attended Naval Academy and served his apprenticeship first in the Navy, then on cruise liners. He was proud to be the master of one of the best and most beautiful yachts afloat, proud to work for a woman whom he admired and who treated him as a friend, and he was proud to show off his ship to those who were privileged to charter it, at what was said to be almost half a million dollars for a single week. But of course, if you had to ask the price, you couldn’t afford it.

Today, he had personally inspected the yacht to make sure everything was shipshape, and now he marshaled his officers and crew on deck to await the arrival of the guests.

The sun blazed down on Monte Carlo, and the air smelled of mimosa and jet fuel. A sleek mahogany-and-steel vintage Chris-Craft was waiting to take us to the ship, manned by pair of good-looking young officers who saluted us, then helped us onboard.
Our luggage was loaded onto another tender, and we set off at a fast clip across the harbor to where
Blue Boat
lay at anchor.

The captain and his officers and crew were lined up to greet us. “Royalty must feel like this every day,” I whispered to Bordelaise.

Captain Anders was blond and good-looking and I noticed Bordelaise’s appreciative glances at him as he showed us the heart of his ship, the bridge, gleaming with screens and instruments and radar and all things nautical, about which I knew nothing.

We met the master chef and saw his immaculate steel kitchen and the wine cellar with every major château represented, as well as my favorite simple rosé from Saint-Tropez. The chef told us he shopped the local markets at every port of call for the freshest and the best, and the local fishermen knew to call him about the latest catch.

We were shown to the flower-filled owners’ suite; the spacious sitting room had windows all around, and the bedroom had walk-in closets and his and hers bathrooms. I noticed a Picasso nude on one wall and a Matisse on another, but when I was told this suite was for me, I said I thought Bob would have liked Rosalia to have it.

We took the glass elevator down to the other guests’ accommodations, and I was given a forward suite, smaller but equally lovely, with a large window that looked onto the deck. It was filled with roses and Casablanca lilies, and this time there was a Klimt on the wall, of a tall woman in what looked like a patchwork dress made up of scraps of lace and silks and velvet.

Bordelaise was given a stateroom farther down the hall, smaller but perfect. The furniture was built in around the walls
in pale woods, and there were no angles and corners, everything curved.

I left her to unpack with the help of a pretty Scandinavian stewardess called Camille, combed my hair, put on lipstick and straightened my rather creased yellow linen dress. Then I took the glass elevator up to the main deck to find Montana and greet my guests.

There he was, cool in black pants and a white linen shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled to below the elbow showing the mysterious tattoo, slightly sinister with his hawklike face and cropped hairdo. I realized anew how much I fancied him.

Smoothing my creased yellow linen, I wished I’d changed into something fresher, but it was too late now, he’d spotted me in the glass elevator.

“Like an angel from above,” he said mockingly. But then he took my face in both his hands and planted a firm kiss on my lips.

“Good to see you,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I missed you.”

“Are you always going to mix a compliment with a put-down?”

“Not always.” He grinned. “Anyhow, you look pretty good for a detective.”

“Hah, Daisy Keane, Girl Detective. That’ll be the day.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, that day has arrived. Or it will with the arrival of our first guest.”

We didn’t have to wait long, and the first was Lady Diane Hardwick.

Diane stood on the dock, eagle-eyed, watching the porters manhandling her Vuitton luggage, groaning as they dropped the heaviest piece. She proceeded to tell them exactly what she thought of them and their clumsiness, in the same colloquial working-class French they spoke.

She stared approvingly at
Blue Boat
as the tender swept her toward her destiny. It was a pity this was going to be Bob’s wake and she was going to have to put up with the Keane woman, who anyway she suspected of being her husband’s mistress, and with whom she therefore did not intend to spend any more time than absolutely necessary for appearances’ sake. She wondered who her fellow passengers were. If they were friends of Bob’s then they were sure to be rich and that suited her just fine.

She’d dressed carefully for departure, correct in a white linen suit with a straw hat, wedge rope-soled espadrilles, and
an expensive Bottega Veneta tote, and when she stepped from the tender onto the yacht, the smiling captain greeted her like royalty. He escorted her himself to the atrium where he said Miss Keane was waiting. Captain Anders was rather handsome and she gave him her most charming smile. Satisfied, she felt she was back where she belonged.