Dark Passage by Marcia Talley

while being served tea and crumpets, but knitting with champagne sounds way more fun.’ I winked. ‘It’ll cut into my hot tub time, of course.’
    Chin down, Liz murmured,
sotto voce
, ‘Don’t look now, but here comes David. What’s his last name, Cliff?’
    â€˜Warren.’
    â€˜He sits with us at dinner,’ Liz continued. ‘He’s a bit odd.’
    â€˜Odd in what way?’ I asked while looking casually over my shoulder to see if I could spot some guy acting strangely.
    â€˜Doesn’t talk much,’ Cliff offered.
    â€˜No, it’s more than that, Cliff. He’s nervous, edgy. Almost like he’s being stalked. And always scribbling in a little notebook he keeps in his breast pocket.’
    On
Islander
, diners were pre-assigned to tables of two, four, six, eight or ten. My sisters and I shared a table for four, so breakfast and lunch were the only opportunities we had to dine with strangers. ‘How many are at your table, Liz?’
    â€˜Four. We also sit with a retired schoolteacher from Washington State, but she and David
definitely
aren’t travelling together. She’s a hoot, but frankly, we don’t know quite what to make of David.’
    Several groups had trooped by our table by then, but I hadn’t noticed anyone who looked particularly nervous or distracted. I kept my voice low. ‘Which one is David?’
    Liz jerked her head, indicating a table for six several feet away. ‘Over there. In the blue blazer. Just sitting down.’
    David Warren was the only passenger within a hundred nautical miles wearing a sports jacket rather than a polo shirt, so he was easy to spot. Under the jacket, he wore a pale yellow button-down Oxford shirt. When he picked up a menu, a signet ring flashed on the pinky of his left hand. He had a full head of dark hair, streaked with gray, which he combed straight back and kept neatly trimmed around the ears. He looked like a banker, or maybe a stockbroker.
    â€˜What does he do? Did he say?’ I asked.
    â€˜Real estate.’
    â€˜That covers a lot of territory,’ I said.
    â€˜Real estate! Territory!’ Georgina snorted.
    I shot her a dirty look. ‘You know what I mean.’
    â€˜I think David deals in commercial properties,’ Cliff said. ‘He mentioned a shopping center.’
    â€˜He’s obviously on his own,’ Liz said. ‘I heard him ask Elda – Elda Homer, that’s the schoolteacher – if she’d be attending the Solo Travelers Lunch today.’
    â€˜A widower, then, looking for love.’ Georgina is an incurable romantic.
    Ruth must have been standing behind the door when the Good Fairy handed out the gift of curiosity. ‘None of our business, is it?’ she said, stirring sugar into her coffee.
    But soon, it would become very much our business.
    We finished our breakfasts and excused ourselves, with me promising to meet Liz later that afternoon in the Oracle, yarn and knitting needles in hand. Back in our stateroom, I extracted the plastic bag that contained my knitting from the drawer where I’d stashed it, then settled down in the chair to read the ship’s schedule, grandly titled The Daily Programme. From the programme I discovered that
Islander
was travelling in a north-easterly direction; the sun came up at 5.24 a.m.; clocks would be set back one hour overnight; and dinner that night was formal. At 11.00 a.m. there’d be a talk on skincare by a famous, plump-lipped, blemish-free actress I’d never heard of; bingo in the Trident Lounge at 2.00 p.m. and yoga in the fitness center at 3.00 p.m., if you weren’t already taking ballroom dancing lessons from Ted and Lisa. And if I
still
didn’t have anything to do, a crossword puzzle and a Sudoku had thoughtfully been printed on the back page.
    I scanned forward to the evening’s activities. The show that night was a comedian followed by a magic