Chapter Ten
The rest of the crossing was uneventful. There was a discreet flurry of activity outside Lazarov’s suite the next day and Natalie kept us updated by peering through the peephole of our door at the various crew members passing by. I’d expected the body to be found the previous night since the butler had still been in the suite, but he must have steered clear of the bathroom.
“The butler just hurried past with the doctor,” she said. “Oooh, and here comes another officer. He looks stern.” She glanced at us and waggled her eyebrows. “I do love a man in uniform.”
I half expected the captain himself to turn up given Lazarov’s prominence, but if he did, he slipped through the back door of the suite up on deck ten. That must have been how they took the body out because although a few crew members trotted past with a collapsible stretcher, they never made the return trip past our door.
“You don’t think they just left him there, do you?” Helen asked, wide-eyed.
Mary Alice shook her head. “They couldn’t. Too warm, even if they turned the air conditioning way down.”
“Naomi confirmed there’s a morgue on board,” I reminded Helen. “In the lowest part of the ship. They’ll stash him there until we reach Southampton. And they probably won’t take him off until most passengers have disembarked.”
An hour later, the butler came back past our room, his expression solemn. Maybe he actually liked Lazarov, or maybe he was mourning the tip he wouldn’t get at the voyage’s end. I made a note to slip something extra in an envelope for him and leave it with the purser.
For the next few days, we kept our disguises on, our profiles low. We skipped the gala nights and eluded the ship’s photographer every time he popped up. Nat and I spent a lot of time reading on our respective balconies while Helen pinned kitchen pics from Smallbone to her Pinterest board and Mary Alice knitted like a fiend.
“What are you making?” I finally asked. “If that’s for Akiko, it’s going to be a crop top.”
She held up the tiny garment with its alternating rows of green and yellow yarn. “Sweaters for Kevin and Gary. I did Fair Isle for Gary, but Kevin needs stripes. They’re slimming and he’s carrying a little extra winter weight.”
I was sorry I’d asked. And I was tired of keeping my head down. On the last night, I slipped out of the room and headed for the Commodore Club. I slid onto a barstool and ordered a glass of black Shiraz. I had just taken my first sip when someone heaved himself onto the adjoining seat. He lifted an empty glass towards the bartender, who gave him a tight-lipped smile but poured him another.
“Your nightcap, sir,” the bartender said as he pushed it towards him. The tone was clear—he was cutting off the man next to me, and I didn’t have to look at him to know why. He reeked of booze, and not the expensive stuff.
I raised my glass to take another sip just as the newcomer reached for his. His elbow jostled mine and a little of the dark ruby liquid pooled on the bar.
“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. He tried to mop it up but ended up just spreading it around into a sticky puddle. The bartender hurried to clean it up with a towel and refill my wine.
I thanked the bartender and turned to the fellow next to me. I might have guessed. Of course, it was the bodyguard. Still dressed in black with “henchman” written all over him. But he looked truly miserable and against my better judgment, I gave him a sympathetic look.
“Alright there?”
His eyes were bleary and his face was tearstained. “Yes,” he said, nodding as if to convince himself. It came out “yesh” and I realized he was far drunker than he seemed. No wonder the bartender was cutting him off.
“Sure about that?” I asked.
“No,” he admitted. “My boss just died. It was a very good job, the best I ever had. Now I am unemployed.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I told him in a consoling tone. “I’m sure you’ll find something even better.” I slipped off the barstool to find another seat, but he grabbed my wrist. Instinct flared, and I very nearly flipped him onto his back and drove a barstool leg into his eye, but I resisted the impulse. He was no threat to me. He was just sad and drunk and more than a little pathetic. He had no idea who I was, I realized. He just needed somebody to talk to and I was the most convenient ear.
I sighed and remounted the barstool. The bartender gave me a questioning look from down the bar, but I shook my head, waving him off.
“Please stay,” the bodyguard pleaded. “Just for a little while. I buy drinks.” He gestured towards the bartender, who walked up looking distinctly displeased.
“Water for both of us,” I said firmly. “Big glasses. And maybe something to eat.”
“Of course, madam,” he said. He filled two huge tumblers with water and even a little ice. He set them in front of us and produced a bowl of mixed nuts. He edged away again, but he kept an eye on things, wiping out glasses that were already spotless. It was sweet. I mean, how was he to know I could have smashed a bottle of Grey Goose and slashed both their jugulars in less than ten seconds? He saw a big guy who was on the verge of losing control, pushing his attention on a much smaller, much older woman and drew the logical conclusion that I might need an assist. I had long since given up being frustrated by that. Being underestimated is your superpower , the Shepherdess had always told us.
I settled more comfortably onto my stool and waited. It didn’t take long.
“My name is Grigory,” the bodyguard said, extending his hand. It was meaty and clammy, two of my least favorite things, but I shook it anyway.
“Bianca,” I told him.
“That is beautiful name,” he said, tearing up again.
“So, how long did you have your job, Grigory?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A few years. Before this, I was a policeman in Sofia.” Bulgarian after all, then.
“Why did you leave?” I asked him.
“I did not like the work. Too many drunks.”
“Pot, kettle,” I murmured into my Shiraz.
He didn’t hear me. He was too far gone into his story. “So I went to work in private security instead. I am bodyguard to very rich man,” he said, puffing out his chest and thumping it.
A piss-poor one, but far be it from me to criticize. I took another sip. “Your English is very good.”
“My boss, he liked to speak English. He was Bulgarian, like me, but he liked the English.” He subsided then into a few remarks in his native tongue that seemed tinged with bitterness. My Russian is dead fluent, but I’d never learned Bulgarian. Why bother? Nobody speaks Bulgarian except Bulgarians and most of them know a second language anyway.
“And now he’s dead,” I prompted.
“Yes.” He leaned close, blowing boozy breath into my ear. “On this ship. He is there,” he added, pointing down.
“Hell?”
He snorted, but whether out of shock or to cover a laugh, I couldn’t tell. “The morgue. Although hell, this is possible too. Who knows what happens after we die.” He sobered a second, holding his head sideways as if thinking hard had thrown him off-balance. That should have been my cue to leave, but I realized this tipsy lout was giving me the perfect chance to do a little digging. The crew was keeping Lazarov’s death under wraps for now, and as far as we knew, nobody had been questioned. But we had no way of knowing how much they suspected about the cause.
“How did he die?” I asked.
Grigory’s face puckered. “He had big heart attack and drowned in the bathtub.”
“Wow,” I said, raising my brows in a stab at surprise while inside I did a little fist pump. “That’s terrible.”
He nodded morosely and thumped himself in the general region of his heart. “I blame myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not know he has a heart condition. The doctor on the ship says these things can be very quiet for many years. My boss never tells me. Maybe if I know, I can do something.”
“It’s nice that you wanted to save him,” I said.
“This is easiest job I ever had,” he confided. “Best job. The boss, he liked me to show myself a little, let people see the muscles.” He bent his arm and flexed. The muscles were big and taut, but the veins in his throat popped—the sure sign of a dehydrated steroid user. As I had expected, he had been employed for show, and those heavy gym-tortured muscles would be less than useless during a fight. He might look intimidating at first glance, but I’d have wagered cash money that he had clumsy feet and reflexes like molasses on a winter’s day.
He nudged his beefy shoulder into mine, nearly knocking me off my barstool. “I was meant to get bonus. Very big bonus. My boss has very large deal almost finished. Now?” He shrugged. “I get nothing. Is very sad, I was going to open shop for bubble tea in Sofia. You like bubble tea?”
“Love it,” I lied with a smile. I was only half listening anyway. Bells were ringing too loudly in my head. “You must have been a big help to your boss with his deal if he was going to pay you a huge bonus.”
He shrugged. “I watch his back is all.” He laid a finger next to his nose—at least he tried. It landed about three inches off and he poked himself gently in the eye. “You cannot be too safe with Montenegrins.”
I leaned in and pitched my voice low. “Grigory, you can’t say that about people. It’s racist.”
He stared at me a long minute with a befuddled expression on his face, as if trying to process what the words meant or trying to figure out the square root of a prime number. He must have given up because instead of replying, he changed the subject. He shot his sleeve back and showed me a discreet Patek Philippe—vintage, I’d have wagered, and not bought with his own money. “I took this when I was packing his things. I will not be paid, you know,” he added. There was a belligerent expression in his eyes and I think he expected me to take exception to his light-fingered ways.
I tapped the elegant alligator band where it was cutting into the meat of his wrist. “Make sure it doesn’t have an inscription if you plan to pawn it. Watches like that are traceable.”
His mouth went slack and it took him a whole minute to process what I’d just said. “Oh, you are a clever lady.”
I shrugged. “Common sense.” I took another sip, wondering if there was anything helpful at all sloshing around in that brain of his. “Too bad about your boss,” I ventured. “I’m sure his family are going to miss him.”
He shook his head slowly from side to side, like a bear trying to clear away a serious hangover. “These drinks are very good.”
“Yes, they are. So your boss was alone on the ship? No wife or girlfriend?” I pressed. There was nothing subtle about my questions at this point, but Grigory didn’t seem to notice.
“He has no women. No men either,” he added with a leer as he elbowed me in the ribs.
“Careful, Cujo. I bruise easy.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a rough and raucous sound that attracted the bartender’s attention. I rolled my eyes and the bartender stayed where he was. I turned back to Grigory. “Sounds like your boss had a lonely life.”
“He was rich,” Grigory countered. “Rich men can buy anything they need.”
“But not everything,” I said. “?‘All your money won’t another minute buy.’?”
He gave me a blank look and I sighed.
“Kansas. ‘Dust in the Wind.’?” I hummed a few bars and he got excited.
“Yes! I know this song, but I prefer another.” Without preamble, he launched himself into the opening of “Carry On Wayward Son.” The bartender shut him down immediately by whisking away the glasses and giving us a pointed look.
“I’ll handle it,” I told him. I put an arm under Grigory’s and hefted him off the barstool.
“You are very strong lady, Bianca,” Grigory said. The last round must have hit him hard because he was slurring worse than ever. Sssssshtrong. And “Bianca” came out sounding like a breath spray.
“Grigory, you have no idea.” I helped him to the elevators just outside the club, bundled him in, and hit the button for deck two. “You’re on your own now, chief. Sleep it off.”
He lurched forward, blocking the door from closing. “You are beautiful woman, Bianca. You are old, but I will overlook this and make love to you anyway. I invite you to my cabin.” He threw his arms wide, finishing on a belch.
“I’m going to RSVP ‘no’ to that gracious invitation,” I said. I put a fingertip to his forehead and pushed. He stumbled back and landed against the rear wall of the elevator, mouth gaping open as if he were about to say something. Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slid to the floor just as the doors closed.
I could have recalled the elevator. I could have followed him down to deck two and wrestled him to his bed. I could have flagged down a passing crew member and alerted them to the drunk passed out in the forward lifts.
Instead, I turned and made my way back to my own cabin, whistling the first few bars of “Carry On Wayward Son” as I went.
—
The next morning we steamed into Southampton. We were in no hurry to disembark, so we dawdled outside, keeping an eye on the lower decks. Eventually, when the first hubbub of arrival had died down, we noticed a stretcher being discreetly loaded into an ambulance with its lights off. Lazarov. I’d filled in the others that there seemed to be no loose ends left thanks to Grigory’s drunken gossiping.
“If anything, he’s made himself a suspect by taking the watch,” Helen pointed out calmly. “Lazarov was easily wearing twenty-five thousand dollars on his wrist, and for a bodyguard that would be a tidy little motive.”
“Grigory did us a favor,” I agreed. And he’d done me one as well. Given his preoccupation with his own unemployment, he probably hadn’t noticed the missing diary. I’d thought once or twice about chucking it overboard, but in the end, I never did.
We went through all the usual disembarkation business before picking up our hired car. Natalie and Mary Alice had ditched their canes and wigs, and the four of us were in high spirits as we headed to Benscombe, the house where we’d trained. It had belonged to our mentor, Constance Halliday, and hadn’t been properly lived in for a couple of decades after her death. Helen and her husband had eventually bought it, and we had used it as a safe house during our last outing. It had been in shitty shape then with crumbling floors and wallpaper hanging off in strips. The shootout and small fire we’d set hadn’t helped. Since then Helen had been living at Benscombe, slowly renovating it back into shape, and this was the first time the rest of us were getting to see her progress. The drive from the port wasn’t long—less than two hours—but we weren’t in a rush. We made several stops. The first was the New Forest so we could stretch our legs properly now that we were on land again and the horizon was no longer bobbing up and down. Helen and I laced up our sneakers and ran for a few miles to loosen up our muscles while Nat and Mary Alice drove to the nearest village to pick up picnic supplies.
After we’d eaten our body weight in sausage rolls and sandwiches, Helen wanted to stop at a raptor center while Nat and Mary Alice argued about the inspiration for the Hundred Acre Wood in the Winnie-the-Pooh stories and whether it was within driving distance.
I turned to Helen. “A raptor? Really?”
She shrugged. “I have a pigeon problem at Benscombe. I’ve heard keeping an owl or falcon around would scare them off.”
Mary Alice finally proved her point to Natalie—thank you, DuckDuckGo—and we headed for the raptor center. By the time we’d consoled Natalie with a very long pub dinner and stocked up on groceries, the sun was setting as we approached Benscombe.
We were listening to Mama Cass—“Make Your Own Kind of Music” is basically our anthem—and singing along at the top of our lungs when Helen slammed on the brakes and said a couple of words I’d never heard come out of her debutante mouth.
I looked to where she was pointing and said a few choice words myself. Against the soft purple twilight sky, the house we’d trained in—Constance Halliday’s childhood home—was silhouetted, the shadow of the facade moving strangely. A pillar of smoke rose from the bricks, and sparks shot skyward.
Benscombe was burning.