Stowaway (3 page)

My guess is the
rocks are real, on both her and the dog. If so, the old woman is crazy.

She’s pretty bold,
walking around wearing obnoxiously large jewelry like that, especially as frail
as she is. Even someone as inept as Mike could take her for everything she has
got. I look around for some kind of personal security guard, but find none.
Odd.

“I said, you must
have been here for quite a while,” she is saying, louder this time, snapping my
attention back. “You are getting pretty crispy.”

“Oh,
yeah.
Yes, ma’am. Guess I’ll have to find someplace that will stay shady
next time I fell asleep.”

“You know, maybe I
should call the doctor. That could get pretty bad.”

“No! No doctor.”

“Right.
You know, they always do charge an arm and a leg for a simple headache pill.
Here, come with me. I’ve got some anti-inflammatory medicine and aloe in my
cabin. That should help.”

At first, I think
I should be suspicious. But she is a 90-year-old woman, and looks respectable,
even if she is eccentric. So, I follow her toward the main exit leading back
into the promenade.

“Miss Rose,” a
crew member says reverently, as he holds the door open for us. He nods as she
steps forward and smiles when she pats his arm like the Queen of England or
something.

“I’m Rose
McConnell,” she says, gliding past him in her expensive-looking pantsuit.

“Um, Maggie Swift,”
I answer, trailing behind.

“Short
for Margaret?”

“No,
ma’am.
For Magnum.
My father was a firearms
salesman. I have a brother named Remington.”

She looks
surprised,
then
throws her head back in laughter.

“And a sister
named Winchester, maybe? Do you call her Winnie?”

I feel the
familiar heat flush up my neck. I hate introducing myself.

“Oh, I’m sorry for
teasing you. I think I’d like your father very much,” she says kindly. “The
best times I had with my own dad
was
when we were
hunting pheasant in the back pasture.
Pleased to meet you,
Maggie.”

She throws a
concerned glance down at my ripped jeans, but is polite enough to say
nothing.
 
However, I feel obligated to
speak.

“It’s the trend
these days,” I say, lamely. I make sure to turn the underside of my arms away
from her so she doesn’t see the faint bruises just starting to form there. They
are the other unhappy reminders of my morning.

To her credit, she
simply nods and starts cooing at her little dog. I gather it is named Sir
Chipperley
.

We walk from the entry
into to the promenade, passing the bartender I met earlier. A crowd that looks
like a family cheers him on as he juggles a bottle and glass. Then, they clap
heartily when he pours a kid’s soda with a flourish.

As I follow Rose
down the center of the promenade, I realize just how much larger it seems
standing smack inside the middle of it. Live trees line tower over the walkway
and frame the colorful shop entrances on either side. The centerpiece is a
beautiful fountain of metal and multicolored glass.

At the far end, we
veer, following a sign marked “Elevators” to the right. Rose apparently knows
where she is going, because instead of continuing to follow the signs through
the congested main route, she cuts around a pillar into what appears to be some
sort of art gallery.

It is quiet in the
gallery, and I can see on the far side there is a door that will spit us out
right by the elevators. Through the picture display window my left, I see a
little boy who has a finger deep inside his nostril in the hall just outside.
Gross. His mother is right there. Why doesn’t she say anything or hand him a
tissue?

“Beautiful, isn’t
it? I am thinking of bidding on it later this week.”

“Huh?”

Oh. Rose thinks
I’m admiring the painting just off my shoulder. She didn’t notice the boy, who
has, by now, moved on with his mother.

I focus on the art
for the first time. The painting is hideous. It is smallish, mostly dark blue
and totally depressing. The only thing recognizable is a lion with wads of
swirling golden mane that is wearing a pale yellow dress. It is fishing in what
appears to be a stream. Or, maybe it’s
a fluffy
bear
fishing, not a lion. I can’t tell.

“Um,
yeah.
It’s great!”
For a fourth grader
, I add silently.

“It’s from
DuPorte’s
blue period,” says a voice behind us. It’s a man
in a crisp, dark suit with a sharp, brass name plate that says: Art Curator,
Charles Willoughby. He greets Rose warmly, as if they are old friends.

“Ah,” I say,
unsure of what to say. Rose notices my discomfort.

“Maxwell
DuPorte
was a master with color and had a very unique way
of applying his paint,” she explains. “Willoughby here has been teaching me a
lot.”

“Alright.”
The painter certainly mastered the globs of blue in this one. Did he apply
them with a spackle knife? Stop thinking
snarkily
, I
reprimand myself.

She can still see
that I don’t get it, and they both fail to register that I don’t care. My face
is radiating heat from the sunburn now. I really just want a pain killer and an
ice pack.

“In his last
decade, he only produced four types of paintings,” the curator continues. “Each
type has a specific color, and represents a season. The seasons are a metaphor
of a person’s life.

“This
painting,
Blue
, represents winter, or the final season of life.
He created several pieces depicting the other phases, but this is his lone
representation of winter. In fact, it was his final gift to the world. He died
just one week after completing it. We are very privileged to have it as the
centerpiece of this trip’s auction, which will be held on the final morning at
sunrise. Of course, we hope to see you both there.”

“I hear there are
several bidders excited about this one, because it will complete their
Seasons
collections,” said Rose. “Bidding should be ferocious.”

“Yes,
madam.
We have several serious collectors sailing with us this week
specifically for a chance at acquiring it.”

I snap a quick
camera phone picture of the piece. I am supposed to be a light-hearted tourist,
after all. I better show some interest in the highlight of this cruise.

“How do you keep
it protected, then?” I ask. “You know, from thieves or vandalism.
Since it’s so valuable.”

“We have 24-hour
personnel surveillance,” he answers. “Also, we have cameras monitoring each
exit, so it would be very difficult to walk out with something like that.
Besides, even if it did somehow go missing, there are precious few places on a
ship to hide something as large as a framed painting. So, we feel very secure.”

Chapter 3

“What’s the lion
stand for?” I say, searching for something less confrontational to say. My head
is throbbing now.

Willoughby and
Rose look at each other, confused.

“Ok, maybe it’s a
bear?
That thing.”
I say, impatiently pointing at the
creature that is fishing.

“Oh, you mean the
little girl,” says Rose. “She’s supposed to be an angel. You know, hope for a
golden end, someone waiting to pull you out of the winter into the eternal
spring of the next life.”

“Like going into
the light at the end of the tunnel you always hear about and hoping your dead
Aunt Maude is waiting?”

I lean closer to
the monstrosity, trying to see what she does. Meanwhile, Rose grimaces at my
statement, like I’ve just watered down her favorite fancy drink. The curator
glances protectively at the painting, so I back off. I guess it’s his job to
mind the tourists, at least until the auction is over.
Especially
around this thing.

Finally, we move
on. The other art that fills the room past
Blue
is even less impressive.
As we follow the stodgy, grey-haired man, we pass a giant white canvas that is
so large it could be a wall. Splatters of paint are sprinkled across it.

I stop, stare at
the painting.
Nothing.
I try crossing my eyes, waiting
for a picture to emerge from the chaos until Willoughby explains it’s not that
kind of art. It’s just splashes of yellow, blue and green paint that, according
to the curator, are supposed to be metaphors for ozone pollution in Asia or
something.

Just before the
exit, I see a giant mound of rusted junk that is coated in dented hubcaps,
looking something like a squatting armadillo. I don’t bother to ask about the
philosophical meaning of this one, but do take a peek at the estimated price. I
definitely need to learn to weld when I get home.

In the elevator,
I’m closest to the buttons, so I ask Rose which level to push.

“The
top.”

“The
suites?
What do you own this ship or something?”

She smiles.

“No, but I might
as well. Break a hip, honey, and they fall over themselves so you don’t sue. I
only paid for steerage.”

I haven’t noticed
her limping, or needing so much as a cane.

“You get around
pretty good for someone with a broken hip.”

“Oh, that was ten
years ago. I live here. Have for the past twelve years.”

“What? Isn’t that
expensive?”

“My kids told me
back then that I was too old to live alone anymore. When my accountant put pen
to paper, it was cheaper for me to live here than in the disgusting retirement
home they were going to stick me in. I never had time to travel before, but I
always wanted to.
Especially after Frank died.
So, I
sold my farm and moved here.
Heh
,
heh
.
Didn’t
give the kids a dime.”

“Really?
And it’s worth it?”

“Of
course!
I don’t miss my greedy kids and the crew treats you wonderfully
on a ship. They clean your cabin daily, the food is gourmet and if you have any
complaints, like I said, they fall all over themselves to fix it.
With an apology.
There is a full medical staff on call
whenever I need them, and I get to travel somewhere exciting and warm year
round. What’s not to like?”

Wow. I want to be
her someday. That is my new retirement plan. If I ever get out of jail in time
to retire, that is. No wonder the staff greets her the way they do when they
see her. She’s probably been here longer than a lot of them, and is as much a
fixture as the ship itself. I realize it’s because of her status as the honorary
crew grandmother that she can flaunt her diamonds without protection. Every one
of them is watching out for her.

Halfway up to her
floor, a shaggy musician joins us, along with a gaggle of female admirers. He
is in his thirties and they are decades older, but they prattle on like
love-sick teenagers meeting Elvis. As he boards, he smiles politely to Rose and
me, then continues to answer their stupid questions with clipped sentences.
Finally, he shoves his instrument case between himself and the women in an
effort to get some sort of distance from them.

He looks tired,
and I’ll bet he wishes he’d chosen a staff-only transport instead. They must
have that, because this is the first time I’ve seen a crew member hop on a
public elevator. He soon exits with his entourage, leaving me and Rose alone
again.

When we reach
Rose’s floor, her room is the biggest within sight, with magnificent views of
the ship and ocean. A maid is just placing a mint chocolate on her pillow, and
then scampers out. At Rose’s insistence, I am quickly stretched out on a bed,
sipping iced tea and eating free room service. Thirty minutes later, the pain
pill is kicking in and my face has stopped throbbing. I caught it early, so I
think the pain will all just be a bad memory tomorrow.

Soon, I feel
better and am up playing a game of checkers with Rose in the main living area.
Before I know it, it’s getting late and Rose is yawning. I feel bad keeping the
older lady up, so I excuse myself and thank her several times.

“Meet me at the
spa tomorrow?” Rose asks as I am leaving.

I agree, although
I know it’s an appointment I won’t be able to keep. I have no money for that
sort of thing. Even if I did, according to the brochure sitting on Rose’s table,
most of the paid onboard activities require a ship ID card to scan so they can
bill your room. They don’t accept direct cash transactions.

I feel bad as I
bid her goodnight, but there is nothing I can do about my guilt. Why
is it
that one lie seems to just lead to another? I’m just
going to have to disappoint this nice woman and I feel awful about it.

It’s quiet this
first night as I wander aimlessly around the promenade again. It is still
packed, but the crowds are thinning as passengers retire for the night after a
frenzied day of travel and settling in. By midnight, most of the people are
gone. I hear two men heading to the elevators talking about a moonlight madness
poker tournament at the casino just below and a karaoke contest a few levels
down at the retro lounge.

I am still feeling
good from my poolside nap and the rest at Rose’s, but don’t feel like crowds.
So, I keep strolling the ship’s vast spaces until I think I will draw attention
by continuing to pace. I finally collapse at the library to settle in with my
book for a while.

After a few hours,
my attention wanders to the window. I feel restless and just can’t concentrate
on the romance I’ve found. So, I part the heavy curtains a crack and peek out
for the umpteenth time. There’s nothing going on down below, but I like staring
out at the sleepy area from my dim, secluded room. It’s like the ship is all my
own for right now.