Alicia Farris answered the door. She wore a sheer pink robe and dark glasses and smoked a very long cigarette.
"I take it you're not room service," she said to Tobin. He wore a white shirt and blue blazer and gray slacks and black socks and cordovan loafers. He smoked a cigarillo.
"I'd like to talk to you and Jere."
"Who the hell is it?" Jere said from the deep interior shadows.
"You can see what pleasant company he is in the morning. Why don't you stop back?"
"Why don't you close the door and get some clothes on him and then let me in?"
"What's going on?"
"I've figured it out."
"Figured what out?"
"Why all these people are getting killed."
"You're turning asshole on us, aren't you, Tobin?"
"I'm getting to the truth."
"How noble."
"Tell him to screw off," Jere Farris shouted from the bed.
"I'll be waiting," Tobin said, "and I don't want to wait any longer than two minutes." She slammed the door.
Tobin walked down to the edge of the deck and leaned on the rail and looked at the green water and the blue sky and the white gulls. In the distance there were other boats. Tonight they would be docking. Everything needed to be concluded by then.
He was lost to his thoughts when he heard somebody say, "Don't you hate morning light? It has no pity."
He turned and saw Susan Richards next to him. She wore a festive red scarf over her black hair and a white pleated blouse and tight black slacks. With her red mouth and shades she looked very Hollywood. She was a pleasure to look at.
All this was ruined by the fact that she was drunk. He knew it by the smell of booze on her and by the way she weaved when she spoke. Hadn't she gone to bed? Had she spent the whole night drinking? She must have tried to sober up by showering and putting on fresh clothes. It hadn't worked.
She said, "But then so few things do these days."
"Hmmm?"
"Pity. There's so little of it these days."
"Oh."
"You're aware I'm drunk."
"Yes."
"Perhaps I have a problem in that area. I've been told by three husbands and four shrinks that that may well be the case."
"I'm sorry."
"I like you, Tobin. Have I told you that?"
"No. But I certainly accept it as a compliment. And I like you."
"Wouldn't it be ducky if we could do something about it?" She paused, tossed her head as if it were something she wanted to be rid of. "I don't mean just go to bed. I mean… have a relationship or something."
"That would be very 'ducky.'"
"I used that word because you use it in your column sometimes."
"It's when I'm trying to be British, I suppose. I'm not sure it ever comes off."
She laughed. She sounded miserable. "We're a lot alike."
"How's that?"
"No confidence in ourselves. You're always putting yourself down, and I'm always fearing the worst."
This time when she started to stumble backwards, he had to catch her by the wrist. It was a slender wrist, a lovely wrist.
He said, "Would you do me a favor?"
"What's that?"
"Would you go back to your cabin and lie down?"
"I came here to tell you something."
"Just sleep for a few hours and then maybe we'll have lunch together."
She slid her glasses down to the tip of her nose. "Do you have some pressing business or something?"
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I do."
"No wonder I'm so insecure. I practically ask you to marry me and you tell me to lie down. Alone."
He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She was weaving and wobbling again. He waved to a white-jacketed steward.
"Would you walk with Miss Richards to her cabin?" Tobin said, pressing a five-dollar bill into the steward's hand.
"I really need to talk to you," Susan said but by then the steward had taken her arm. He seemed very good and very practiced at this sort of thing. Within moments they had disappeared around the curve of the deck.
Tobin went back to the Farrises' cabin.