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Authors: Rhys Bowen
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to be doing in America?”
“I’m just keeping my mother company. She hates to travel alone,” I said.
“And what is your mother going to be doing, I wonder? Traveling without the handsome German? Isn’t he still in the picture or is she on the prowl again?”
“Max is busy with his factories in Germany and couldn’t get away,” I said. “That’s why I was called upon.”
“So is this just a little pleasure trip? I heard you might be traveling out West? For what reason?”
I remembered the gossip on deck earlier in the day. “Pretty much the same reason that you’re traveling alone, I should imagine,” I said.
She looked at me, eyes narrowed, wondering how much I knew. “I’m just going to settle some financial affairs,” she said. “I wondered if your mama’s trip had something to do with a movie.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I hear that someone is anxious to make a movie of her life story.”
She gave her characteristic brittle laugh at this. “My God. Wouldn’t that be something. The censors would never allow it.”
Dinner went on. I was rather proud of myself. I was no longer tongue-tied in the presence of people like Mrs. Simpson. I really was growing up at last. The handsome Juan joined us in the bar afterward and danced with Stella and Mummy. I watched Cy’s face when Stella was dancing and saw a deep frown between his eyebrows. Just what was his relationship with Stella, I wondered. Hadn’t a Mrs. Goldman been mentioned?
T HE NEXT DAY dawned bright and clear. The steward appeared with tea before Queenie staggered into my cabin, still looking rather green.
“You can’t be feeling seasick now,” I said. “The sea is perfectly smooth. It’s a lovely day out there.”
“I still feel it going up and down, up and down,” she said.
“What you need is a good breakfast,” I said. “I’ll dress myself. You go and put eggs and bacon in your stomach.”
She groaned. “Don’t mention food to me, miss. I don’t feel like I’ll ever want to eat again.”
“Well, that will save on the food bills,” I said, maybe a little uncharitably, as I was feeling remarkably well myself. “Buck up, Queenie. Go out into the fresh air. Walk around the deck once and then eat something, if it’s only some tea and toast. I promise you’ll feel better.”
She staggered off and I bathed and dressed. Mummy was a notoriously late riser so I went up on deck and immediately saw my American friend, among a group of younger men, playing quoits again. “Come and join us,” he called.
I was glad to see no Tubby Halliday among them and went over to them.
“I say. You’re Georgiana Rannoch, aren’t you?” one of them exclaimed.
Oh Lord. Not another newspaper reporter, I thought.
He was tall and gangly with hair that flopped forward across his forehead and a rather silly, vacant-looking face. He bounded toward me like an over-keen puppy. At the very moment I realized I knew him he said, “I’m Algie. Algie Broxley-Foggett. We met at a hunt ball during your season. At the Windermeres’.”
“Oh yes, I do remember now,” I said. “Didn’t you set the curtains on fire?”
He grinned. “Oh that. Silly little accident with a cigarette I thought I’d put out. No harm intended, what? I’m afraid things just seem to happen to me. Accident-prone, y’know.”
He took the quoit that was handed to him and hurled it at the peg. Instead it went sailing up into the air and struck an elderly military-looking man, taking his constitutional around the deck with his wife, in the back of the head.
“What the devil?” he demanded, spinning around.
“Sorry, and all that,” Algie said with an apologetic grin. “Sudden gust of wind, don’t you know.”
He turned back to us again. “See what I mean? The pater says I’m an utter disaster. That’s putting it a bit strongly, I think. I’d say more like a disappointment, or maybe even a hopeless case, but not a complete disaster. But he got a bit
“I’m just keeping my mother company. She hates to travel alone,” I said.
“And what is your mother going to be doing, I wonder? Traveling without the handsome German? Isn’t he still in the picture or is she on the prowl again?”
“Max is busy with his factories in Germany and couldn’t get away,” I said. “That’s why I was called upon.”
“So is this just a little pleasure trip? I heard you might be traveling out West? For what reason?”
I remembered the gossip on deck earlier in the day. “Pretty much the same reason that you’re traveling alone, I should imagine,” I said.
She looked at me, eyes narrowed, wondering how much I knew. “I’m just going to settle some financial affairs,” she said. “I wondered if your mama’s trip had something to do with a movie.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I hear that someone is anxious to make a movie of her life story.”
She gave her characteristic brittle laugh at this. “My God. Wouldn’t that be something. The censors would never allow it.”
Dinner went on. I was rather proud of myself. I was no longer tongue-tied in the presence of people like Mrs. Simpson. I really was growing up at last. The handsome Juan joined us in the bar afterward and danced with Stella and Mummy. I watched Cy’s face when Stella was dancing and saw a deep frown between his eyebrows. Just what was his relationship with Stella, I wondered. Hadn’t a Mrs. Goldman been mentioned?
T HE NEXT DAY dawned bright and clear. The steward appeared with tea before Queenie staggered into my cabin, still looking rather green.
“You can’t be feeling seasick now,” I said. “The sea is perfectly smooth. It’s a lovely day out there.”
“I still feel it going up and down, up and down,” she said.
“What you need is a good breakfast,” I said. “I’ll dress myself. You go and put eggs and bacon in your stomach.”
She groaned. “Don’t mention food to me, miss. I don’t feel like I’ll ever want to eat again.”
“Well, that will save on the food bills,” I said, maybe a little uncharitably, as I was feeling remarkably well myself. “Buck up, Queenie. Go out into the fresh air. Walk around the deck once and then eat something, if it’s only some tea and toast. I promise you’ll feel better.”
She staggered off and I bathed and dressed. Mummy was a notoriously late riser so I went up on deck and immediately saw my American friend, among a group of younger men, playing quoits again. “Come and join us,” he called.
I was glad to see no Tubby Halliday among them and went over to them.
“I say. You’re Georgiana Rannoch, aren’t you?” one of them exclaimed.
Oh Lord. Not another newspaper reporter, I thought.
He was tall and gangly with hair that flopped forward across his forehead and a rather silly, vacant-looking face. He bounded toward me like an over-keen puppy. At the very moment I realized I knew him he said, “I’m Algie. Algie Broxley-Foggett. We met at a hunt ball during your season. At the Windermeres’.”
“Oh yes, I do remember now,” I said. “Didn’t you set the curtains on fire?”
He grinned. “Oh that. Silly little accident with a cigarette I thought I’d put out. No harm intended, what? I’m afraid things just seem to happen to me. Accident-prone, y’know.”
He took the quoit that was handed to him and hurled it at the peg. Instead it went sailing up into the air and struck an elderly military-looking man, taking his constitutional around the deck with his wife, in the back of the head.
“What the devil?” he demanded, spinning around.
“Sorry, and all that,” Algie said with an apologetic grin. “Sudden gust of wind, don’t you know.”
He turned back to us again. “See what I mean? The pater says I’m an utter disaster. That’s putting it a bit strongly, I think. I’d say more like a disappointment, or maybe even a hopeless case, but not a complete disaster. But he got a bit
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