Serial Fiction - "The Cruise" - Week 7

“Camille Rappaport?" Genevieve Hunter didn’t trust her eyes – she was tipsy. But the three whiskey sours had  been weak and watered down, and the insufferable Rappaport woman was wearing her trademark silver eye-shadow. It really could not  be anybody else. "What are you doing here?" she hissed. "I thought we’d seen the last of you when Charles signed that restraining order!" 

The "raven haired beauty" with the silver makeup stared at Mrs. Hunter, dumbstruck. Finally, she began to chuckle. "Ah, Genevieve, it's been a long time, has it not? I almost didn’t recognize you, poor woman. Your Charles and his adorable restraining order provided such amusement at the yacht club that summer. Every time he saw me, his pinched face would go quite pale..." She smiled as if she found this memory particularly sweet. "Unfortunately," she continued, "if you were hoping to avoid me forever, you should not have booked a cruise aboard the Mallory."

Genevieve shook with rage. "How dare you!" she snapped. "You act unconcerned, but we have the power of the law behind us! At this very moment, there are a dozen law enforcement officers on board."

The other woman laughed in her face. "Actually, I am unconcerned, cherie," she purred. "This quaint restraining order of yours -- you say that it expressly forbids any type of contact with 'Camille Rappaport'?"

"You know that it does!" Mrs. Hunter spat.

"Well, then," her adversary smiled, pulling a flat gold box from the zippered pocket of her otherwise-empty YSL purse, "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised to find there will be no possibility of any such contact." She slid a card from the small case. "And if you disagree, be sure to speak to your law enforcement friends. Anyway, I simply must run now, darling. Call me for lunch—here’s my number..." Leaning in for a pair of air-kisses, she left the stunned Mrs. Hunter staring at her twitchy little backside as it disappeared around the corner. Finally, Genevieve dropped her gaze to the card she’d been handed by her husband's worst enemy, Camille Rappaport. The innocent-looking white rectangle read,

~~~~~SUSANNA OZIER~~~~~

.....Legal Counsel to the Stars.....

~specializing in issues of identity~

**********

Finally back in her cabin, Sherri Lee slumped into an oversized chair. God, she was tired. She hadn't eaten today, wasn’t thinking clearly. Between her athletic regimen and her medical condition, it was imperative she pay close attention to her physical health at all times because any disturbance could send her into a physical and emotional tailspin. But even now, as she began to register vague hints of alarm, she became more disoriented. And yet she could not will herself to head to the dining room for a snack, or even move to the bed so that she could lie down. These matters were Alex's provenance, and there she relied on him completely.

Glancing at the black bag next to the mini-fridge, she wondered, absently, when she had last taken her medications. Was she late for her next dose? Or should she have eaten something to counter her last one? Alex would know. She yawned and shifted around in the big chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Her hands were shaking now, as trickles of perspiration ran down her face and dripped onto the cushions.

So sleepy... where… was... Alex?

**********

"Alex, where are you? Tell me what you're seeing." Agent Lawson spoke quietly in the small office, his tone soothing and hypnotic. Maybe Alex Nimilov knew something he didn't know he knew. It was always worth a shot, and Lawson had a reputation for being good at putting people under.

"Dark hallway," Alex murmured. "Smell of decay -- sweet, sickly—always reminds me of her now. Between the front door and those rosebushes, past full bloom—smells like a funeral home." He covered nose and mouth, coughing, and his voice became a little muffled. "I'm about to knock, but I see movement through the window, so I look inside and see her. She has her back to me and she's barefoot, pressed against the wall with a big shoulder-bag, creeping slowly. She's holding--hard to see in this light! Wait -- the moonlight—“ He gasped and went silent.

"Tell me what you see.” Lawson's molasses voice came dark and slow. Alex continued to watch the scene unfold, the clouds parting, the light sliding over the woman in the window.

"She's looking back over her shoulder, holding some kind of—wow! It's…kicking? A big bird, like a—well, it looks like—a penguin. That's what it is, definitely."

Agents Fischer and Lawson shared a startled look. Lawson tilted his head, questioning, and Fischer shrugged, tilted back: could be, why not? He's hypnotized, right? If he says penguin, then maybe. He's not lying, right? Lawson squinched his mouth sideways in a sure-why-not? expression and scrawled in big letters on the yellow legal pad in front of him: "P E N G U I N".

“What else, Alex?”

“In her other hand, it looks like--” He broke off momentarily with another gasp, then continued,“—it's a gun. Oh! The cellar door is opening and--

**********

[cue sound of door creaking; creepy violin music swells and fades out]