She picks up the pen. “Alright, Major Halliday,” she says, sweeping the nib of the fountain pen across the page in a scrawling signature. “Make a killer out of me.”
He reaches for the form, smoothing it neatly before retrieving his pen. He screws the cap on slowly and gives her a knowing smile. “My dear Miss Webster, that is rather the point. We don’t make killers. We simply find them and point them in the right direction. We know what you are.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mary Alice and I were bunking together while Helen and Natalie shared the cabin next to ours. Both were elaborate balcony staterooms, and our deck （“the elegant Nereid deck, designed for maximum privacy and serenity”） had a small pool and bar that serviced just ten cabins. We made a plan to meet there the next morning for breakfast before heading out on our first shore excursion. I hoped exploring St. Kitts would rouse Helen’s interest. Mourning a spouse was one thing, but Helen seemed broken, as if her spirit had died right along with Kenneth.
I said as much to Mary Alice when we disembarked the next morning in Basseterre, but she flapped a hand at me as she rubbed sunscreen into her face.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” she said, leaving a big white stripe down her nose.
I pointed ahead to where Helen was walking with Natalie. “Mary Alice, she is not fine. Even her hair seems sad. How would you feel if it were Akiko?”
“Well, that’s not going to be a problem. Akiko and I have a pact. Whichever one goes first is going to haunt the shit out of whoever is left. And remarriage is not an option. I’ve already told her if she finds a new wife, I’ll go full poltergeist.”
She handed me the tube of sunscreen. “Here. Your nose is already going pink. And stop worrying about Helen. She’ll get there in time.”
Mary Alice pushed me down the gangplank and we spent the day shopping and exploring, eating grilled lobsters and sharing war stories late into the night. Helen perked up a little, which might have been the work of her second mai tai. Between the sea air and the white wine, I slept like the dead, waking to the sound of the gentle chime that indicated the announcements were imminent. The captain came on to greet the passengers and give a rundown on the weather and water conditions, complete with longitude and latitude. There was a detailed map in each room, and I could see that we’d sailed from Basseterre, around the bottom of St. Kitts, shooting the gap between that island and Nevis, a body of water called The Narrows. We had passed the swanky new Park Hyatt resort nestled in Christophe Harbour and were heading southeast now for Montserrat, the captain told us, with a leisurely day at sea ahead of us.
I dragged on a new black swimsuit that promised to hold everything in and smooth everything out. I tied a cotton pareo over it and headed to the pool. Mary Alice was already there, staking out an overstuffed lounger sofa. She was knitting something complicated, her expression intent as she counted stitches. The pattern was next to her, anchored by a stack of magazines and a novel whose cover featured two adorable men in Regency clothing making out enthusiastically.
“I didn’t know Mr. Darcy was gay,” I said, dropping my pareo and bag next to her.
“Anyone can be gay,” she advised as she turned a row. “It’s called retconning.”
I smiled and slipped into the pool. It was heated salt water and felt like heaven as I plowed through it, lazily racking up laps until my fingers pruned and Mary Alice beckoned me out.
“Food’s here,” she called. She gestured to the low table in front of the sofa spread with baskets of miniature pastries, bowls of Greek yogurt, tiny pots of honey and jam, and plates of intricately carved fruits. Pitchers of mimosas and Bloody Marys stood at either end and I motioned for her to pour.
Nat and Helen joined us just then and we toasted the morning, helping ourselves to the food. Helen waited to eat, reaching instead for an osteoporosis pill that she choked down with orange juice and a grimace. Nat’s favorite porter, Hector, acted as waiter, bringing out heaping plates of poached eggs with a spicy relish on top of corn cakes.
He winked at Nat as he set them down and she peered over her sunglasses, watching his ass as he walked away.
“What do you think my chances are there?” she asked.
“Maybe he has a geriatric kink,” I said, shaking out my napkin. “Dab a little Metamucil behind each ear and go get him, cougar.”
“No, no,” Mary Alice corrected. “She’s too old to be a cougar. She’s a saber-tooth tiger.”
Natalie flipped Mary Alice off while I started on the fruit salad. We worked our way through breakfast at a leisurely pace. I took three bites of the spicy eggs and sat back, cursing.