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“What is her background?”
“She is self-educated.”
A loud guffaw of laughter from the next table caught Mayles’s ear. It was Scott Blackburn, the dot-com wunderkind, with his two sycophantic buddies and their hangers-on, all in Hawaiian shirts, slacks, and sandals, in utter disregard of the ship rules and the sartorial traditions of First Night. Mayles shuddered. On every crossing there seemed to be at least one group of rich, loud businessmen. Very highmaintenance. According to their files, Blackburn and his group had been on a wine tour of the Bordeaux country, where they had spent millions of dollars creating instant wine cellars. And, as billionaires frequently were, they were demanding and eccentric: Blackburn had insisted on redecorating his extensive suite with his own art, antiques, and furniture for the seven-day crossing.
Mrs. Dahlberg was still talking to Pendergast. “And how did she happen to end up as your ward?”
Miss Greene interrupted. “My first guardian, Dr. Leng, found me abandoned and wandering the streets of New York City, an orphan.”
“Heavens, I didn’t know such things happened in modern times.”
“When Dr. Leng was murdered, Aloysius, his relative, took me in.”
The word
murdered
hung heavily in the air for a moment.
“How tragic,” said Mayles. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yes, it’s a tragic story—isn’t it, Aloysius?”
Mayles detected an edge in her voice. There was something going on there. People were like icebergs—most of what really went on, especially the ugliness, was submerged.
Mrs. Dahlberg smiled warmly at Pendergast. “Did I hear earlier that you’re a private investigator?”
Oh no,
thought Mayles.
Not that again.
“At the present moment, yes.”
“What was it you said you were investigating?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t say.”
“Investigating?” Brock, the dealer, said with an alarmed look. He apparently had missed the earlier conversation.
“How deliciously mysterious.” Dahlberg smiled and laid a hand on Pendergast’s. “I love a good mystery. Do you read murder mysteries, Mr. Pendergast?”
“I never read novels. I find them ridiculous.”
Dahlberg laughed. “I
adore
them. And it strikes me, Mr. Pendergast, that the
Brita
would make a splendid setting for a murder.” She turned to Mayles. “What do you think, Mr. Mayles?”
“A murder would be splendid, as long as nobody got hurt.” This witticism elicited a round of laughter, and Mayles once again prided himself on his ability to keep a conversation at a charming, superficial level, where social etiquette demanded it remain.
Pendergast leaned forward. “I can’t promise a murder on the voyage,” he said, his voice like honey, “but I can tell you this: there
is
a murderer on board.”
11
PENDERGAST RELAXED IN THE SALON OF THEIR SUITE, LEAFING THROUGH the Brita
On the second floor of the suite, a door opened. Constance emerged from her room and came down the stairs.
Pendergast shut off the television and put the wine list aside. “I had no idea the ship’s wine cellar was so extensive,” he said. “One hundred and fifty thousand bottles laid down. Their selection of pre-1960 Pauillacs is particularly impressive.”
He glanced up as she came over. She had changed out of her formal di
“You helped pick it out,” she replied, settling into a chair opposite him.
“You were rather sharp this evening,” he said.
“So were you.”
“I’m trying to smoke out a killer. What were you doing?”
Constance sighed. “I’m sorry if I was difficult. After the monastery, I find all this opulence—dispiriting.”
“
Be in the world but not of it
.” Pendergast quoted the ancient Buddhism maxim.
“I’d rather be in my home, reading a book by the fire. This”—she gestured around— “is grotesque.”
“Keep in mind we’re working.”
She shifted restlessly in her chair and gave no reply.
Privately, Pendergast noted that a change had come over his ward in the past few weeks. Her time in the monastery had worked wonders on her. He was glad to see she had continued her Chongg Ran discipline in her stateroom, rising at four every morning and meditating for an hour, meditating in the afternoon, and not overindulging in food and drink. Most importantly, she was no longer listless, drifting. She was more purposeful, relaxed, more interested in the world around her than she had been since the death of his brother. This little mission of theirs, this unsolved mystery, had given her a new sense of direction. Pendergast had high hopes she was well on the way to recovery from the terrible events of March and the procedure at the Feversham Clinic. She was no longer in need of protection from others. Indeed, after her sharp display at di
“Very little, alas. Except for Mrs. Dahlberg—there’s something attractively genuine about her. She seems interested in you.”
Pendergast inclined his head. “I’m not the only one who made an impression.” He nodded at a slim manuscript that lay on a side table, entitledCaravaggio: The Riddle of Chiaroscuro . “I see that Dr. Brock wasted no time sending his monograph over to you.”
Constance glanced at the manuscript, frowned.