Ransom at Sea Read online

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also by Fred Hunter

  Copyright

  For Tony

  1

  “Can you tell me how to get to the sea?”

  The startled shopper came to an abrupt halt, the red-and-white paper bag she had tucked under her left arm nearly slipping away. The stranger who had approached her so brusquely in the middle of her Michigan Avenue spree was young and wiry. His face was pale and glistening with sweat, and tiny pupils quivered slightly in his anxious, bloodshot eyes. His hands were clutched around a disreputable-looking brown paper parcel tied with a length of twine.

  “The sea?” the shopper asked blankly as she clumsily tried to rearrange the errant bag, a difficult proposition since she was grasping shopping bags with both hands.

  “The lake, I mean,” the stranger said. “The lake. I’m supposed to be at the lake.”

  “Oh. Well, if you go that way,” she replied, swinging the bag in her right hand toward the east, “you’ll run right into it.”

  He glanced uncertainly in the direction indicated. “And … and from there, I’ll be able to get to the pier?”

  “Navy Pier? Yes. Once you reach Lake Shore Drive—which is two or three blocks away—you’ll be able to see the pier and where to cross over to it.”

  “Okay … okay…”

  He hurried away without so much as a thank-you. The woman secured the red-and-white bag under her arm to her satisfaction, hoisted her shopping bags, then started down the street. She clucked her tongue noisily, thinking of a time when Chicago was cleaner, safer, and not quite so overrun with tourists.

  * * *

  From her vantage point on a low slatted wooden bench, Emily Charters could take in a great deal of the activity going on around her. The structure at the heart of Navy Pier was basically a long hallway enclosed behind garagelike doors with neat rows of windows. The doors had been thrown open to admit the unexpectedly fine weather, and most of the souvenir carts had been rolled out onto the promenade so that the owners could enjoy the sunshine. Some of the booths were still closed, their proprietors preferring to put off the daily grind until the noon hour brought heavier traffic.

  Emily mentally noted that the late risers were surely losing money. Though it was not quite eleven o’clock on Monday morning, the cement promenade that makes up the pier was already bustling with activity: young women, all clad in pastel shirts and shorts, aimlessly pushing strollers; youngsters (as Emily thought of them) with pierced body parts and frantic hairdos Rollerblading in clothes so baggy Emily wondered that they didn’t catch in the wheels and send the skaters sprawling. A group of impossibly young sailors clad in white bell-bottomed uniforms noisily made their way past a booth selling paste trinkets and stopped at another boasting elephant ears and funnel cakes, apparently drawn there by the heavy scent of deep-fried batter. Once they’d made their purchases, they continued down the promenade, blocked from Emily’s view by a long, rectangular kiosk whose front advertised events on the pier, and whose back was blank.

  On the water to the left of Emily’s bench was the Ophelia, a soaring white ship with lines of portholes that stared out like perfectly round, black pupils. The ship was so vast it looked more suited for a transatlantic crossing than the simple dinner cruises it maintained. To Emily’s right was Ophelia’s sister ship, the Orrington. It was the former’s equal in both size and purpose.

  Directly in front of Emily, dwarfed by the twin titans, was the boat on which she would be traveling for the next four days: the Genessee. It was shaped like a garden trowel, broad in the aft with its forward tapering to a point. It had three levels: the top was devoted to the wheelhouse and a spacious observation/sundeck; the second was a dining room and lounge, and on the third were the staterooms. The decks were reached by twin staircases on the port and starboard sides, about two-thirds of the way to the aft. The boat had recently received a fresh coat of patriotic colors, the top level painted white, the second red, and on the third, resting in the water, a deep blue spotted with stars.

  It’s rather like an oversized toy boat, Emily thought.

  In the elderly woman’s eyes the Genessee was a much friendlier vessel than its bloated betters. It looked large enough to be comfortable but not so large as to be imposing. Unlike the ships that surrounded it, the Genessee seemed like a proper boat.

  “You aren’t too hot sitting in the sun, are you?” asked Lynn Francis.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “At my age the sun can only be a benefit.”

  Lynn pushed a stray strand of damp, tawny hair back from her forehead and laughed. “I don’t know why I ask! You never complain about anything.”

  “There seems so little point,” Emily said.

  “Still, it’s awfully hot for this early in June.”

  A man came out of the wheelhouse and onto the deck of the Genessee. He was tall and exceptionally straight backed, had dark brown hair with a rime of frost, and was dressed in a white shirt and white pants. He strode purposefully around the wheelhouse to the front of the boat and rested his hands lightly on the railing.

  “From his bearing I would say he is the captain,” Emily said. “Captain Farraday, I believe the brochure said.”

  Emily’s attention was drawn by movement on the second deck. At the foot of the stairs was a small nook with a window looking into the dining room, and a door beside it. A woman emerged from the door and lit lightly up the stairs to the top deck. She had long, dark hair gathered at the nape of her neck with a gold clip. She wore a white sundress cinched about her slender waist with a thin belt of black patent leather. Her face and arms were deeply bronzed by the sun and heavily freckled.

  She paused at the top of the stairs and quickly scanned the deck, then crossed to the captain with an easy, fluid gait. When she reached him, she slipped her left arm through his right and rested her other hand on his forearm.

  “I assume that’s Mrs. Farraday,” said Emily.

  “She’s at least ten years younger than him,” Lynn said without inflection.

  “At least.” There was a twinkle in Emily’s eye.

  Lynn looked down at her seated friend and grinned. “I was making an observation, not a judgment.”

  “Oh, I know, my dear, I was thinking something quite different.”

  “What?”

  “Look at them.”

  Lynn turned back to the couple. The captain remained as stiff as a mast, while his wife rested her head against his shoulder.

  “What about them?” Lynn asked.

  “They look so completely different, and yet … they look as if they belong together, don’t you think?”

  Lynn drew her lips to one side. “Yes, I do.” Her attention was caught by an approaching figure. “Is that one of your friends?”

  “I wouldn’t say any of these people were my friends,” Emily replied, craning her neck to the west. “They are acquaintances from church. I’ve rarely seen any of them outside of there, and even that has only been at church functions.”

  The lady in question was walking down the center of t
he promenade. She was thin and rather tall, but it was her bearing more than her height that made her seem statuesque. As she neared the two ladies, Lynn noticed that although the woman’s face was narrow, with prominent cheekbones, the lower part of her face was running to jowls, so that she resembled a well-appointed, underfed basset hound. Her hair was conspicuously tinted ash blond and atop it was a sunhat with a broad brim decorated with a wide band the same color as her suit.

  “Good morning, Claudia,” Emily said.

  “Emily,” Claudia Trenton replied with a slight dip of her head. She continued past them and stopped three benches down. She had been followed closely by a teenaged boy with long, greasy blond hair with dark roots. He carried a large suitcase and a shoulder bag that she instructed him to place beside the bench. She dipped her hand into the jacket pocket of her beige jacket, extracted a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the boy.

  “Thank you, young man,” she said dismissively.

  He took the bill, murmered something unintelligible, and stuffed it in the pocket of his tattered jeans as he ambled away. Miss Trenton lightly touched each of her bags, much in the way a diffident trainer would give a steadying pat to an animal that has had a potentially jarring experience, as if counting them to make sure they were both there, then arranged herself on the bench with elaborate care.

  Emily and Lynn had watched the proceedings dispassionately. When Claudia had finally posed herself, Lynn shot Emily an amused glance.

  “Do you know who all is coming on the cruise?” the young woman asked.

  Emily shook her head. “No. The church arranged it for seniors. It was mentioned in the church program. All we had to do was call Miss Warren—she’s the church secretary—to express an interest. I haven’t really spoken with anyone else about it, so I have no idea who’s coming. I suppose if I’d asked Miss Warren she would’ve told me, but it really didn’t make a difference to me, and I think that would’ve been rather like being invited to a dinner and not accepting until you know who the rest of the guests will be.”

  Lynn laughed. “Always faultlessly polite.”

  “Not faultlessly,” Emily said with a broad smile.

  Next to arrive was a gentleman with a high forehead and sharply receding hairline. What was left of his hair was light gray. He walked slowly, keeping his back erect, which seemed to take an effort. He looked quite out of place in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt that had huge white flowers printed on it. He wore this over a pair of navy blue dress pants. In his right hand he carried a large brown suitcase.

  The man slowed to a stop about three yards from Emily and Lynn, who noticed for the first time that his dull blue eyes had the blank, confused look of the perpetually disoriented. His gaze traveled uncertainly from the women to the Genessee and back again. Then he hesitantly came up to them.

  “Excuse me. Is this the ship for the seniors’ cruise?”

  “Yes,” Emily replied.

  “Oh. Thank you. I just wanted to make sure.” He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back to her. “I’m … my name is Jackson Brock. I believe I’ve seen you at church.”

  “Yes. I’m Emily Charters.”

  There was an awkward silence during which Brock appeared to be trying to think of something else to say. His mouth opened and closed once or twice, then finally he said, “Yes. Well, thank you.” He crossed to the bench between Emily and Claudia, laid down his case, and sat beside it.

  “Shipboard romances never last,” Lynn said quitely.

  Emily smiled, absently straightening the white lace trim on her collar and muttering something that sounded like “tut.”

  “Don’t fuss me, Becky!” a voice rang out crossly. Emily and Lynn turned to see two women approaching. The elder was a large woman in a shapeless floral print dress in various shades of tan, brown, and yellow. Her face was puffed from exertion and her cheeks flushed. Although her dark gray hair was cut fairly short, it fanned out from her head in an alarming fashion. She looked the way Lynn had always imagined a Valkyrie would, lacking only a horned helmet and spear to complete the picture.

  The other woman looked to be in her late thirties. She had long auburn hair that framed an oval face. Her eyes were brown and noticeably sad, and there were anxious lines at the corners of her mouth.

  “I’m not fussing,” the young woman said lightly. “I didn’t want you to trip. There was a crack in the walk. I didn’t think you saw it.”

  “Nothing wrong with my eyes!” the old woman replied. There was an edge to her tone, as if she had sensed an implied accusation.

  When they reached Emily and Lynn, the young woman said, “Excuse me. Would you mind if my aunt sat with you?”

  “Not at all,” Emily said. She shifted further to one side of the bench, though there was already plenty of room.

  “Thank you,” the old woman said as she lowered herself onto the seat.

  “You are Marcella Hemsley, aren’t you?” Emily asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “And who is this nice young woman?”

  Miss Hemsley started to reply, then stopped and looked up at her companion.

  “I’m Rebecca Bremmer,” she said hurriedly. “Her niece.”

  “Let me introduce Lynn Francis,” Emily said. “She’s being kind enough to accompany me on the cruise.”

  “Oh,” said Rebecca, shooting a glance at Lynn that looked almost relieved.

  “Will you be accompanying your aunt?” Emily asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I thought it best.”

  Miss Hemsley sat staring straight ahead. Her mouth had hardened into a thin line, her lips all but disappearing, but she said nothing. It was apparent that she either didn’t relish the company or didn’t appreciate the implication that it was needed.

  Lynn was at a loss as to how to bridge the awkward gap in the conversation that followed, but the moment was rescued by Emily.

  “Ah! Here come the Millers.”

  Lynn turned and saw the approaching pair. The Millers were one of those couples who, after decades of living together, had come to resemble each other to the point of blood relations. The man’s head was the shape of a pie plate and crested with hair so thin that from a distance it couldn’t be seen at all. He was stocky but not fat, and his nose skewed very slightly to the left. An expensive-looking camera dangled from a large black strap around his neck. The wife was the same size, shape, and coloring as the husband, and though she had shoulder-length hair, it too was thinning markedly. Their incautious bearing was identical, making them appear as if they might at any moment make contact in the area of the hips and be sent careening way from each other like human bumper cars. They each carried matching suitcases and shoulder bags.

  “Good morning, Emily,” the man said amiably. “Looks like a good day for it, doesn’t it?”

  “Good morning. Lynn, this is Martin and Laura Miller. Martin, Laura, my friend Lynn Francis.”

  “How do you do?” said Martin, jutting a paw at the young woman.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Lynn said, shaking his hand and then his wife’s.

  “Take a seat over there, why don’t you, Laura?” He gestured toward the bench where Brock was sitting.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Laura replied. The two of them crossed to the middle bench, dropped their bags to the ground and sat heavily on the bench. They noisily greeted Mr. Brock, whom they appeared to know in passing. Brock visibly stiffened at the voluble recognition.

  The next to arrive was a very thin gentleman with powder white hair and a florid complexion. He wore a dark gray suit and tie and a smile that twitched as if its owner were putting a brave face on oral surgery. His head hung down and his shoulders were slightly raised, which gave him a predatory look. He muttered greetings as he passed the three benches, choosing to stand off to the side by the kiosk. In one hand he held a leather briefcase, in his other was an olive green vinyl suitcase.

  “That,” Emily whispered to Lynn, “is Stuart Holmes. He was once a l
awyer, I believe.”

  Lynn peered over Emily’s head at the old man. “Of the type that could be found in one of your friend Ransom’s favorite books.”

  Emily laughed in a quiet, ladylike fashion.

  Holmes’s arrival was followed closely by that of another man, this one the antithesis of the lawyer. He was thick around the middle and had damp black hair streaked with gray. His face was heavy, his cheeks sagging so much they appeared to be losing the war with the law of gravity. He wore a canary yellow shirt, lime green checkered pants, and white shoes. He made straight for the first bench.

  “Why, hello, Miss Charters!” he said expansively. “So glad to see you this fine morning! Didn’t know you’d be coming on this little trip!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Driscoll,” Emily replied primly. “Lynn, this is Bertram Driscoll. Mr. Driscoll, my friend Lynn Francis.”

  “Glad to know you. And what’s all this Mr. Driscoll and Bertram stuff? Just call me Bertie!”

  Emily made a doubtful noise.

  He continued. “I really am glad to see you here. I can’t tell you! ’Least I know there’ll be some good company on the trip!” This statement was aimed over Emily’s head in the general direction of Claudia Trenton, who ignored it. He looked back down at Emily. “Yes, I’m certainly glad to see you here.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “The trip is a birthday present from a dear friend.”

  “Well, that’s nice! That’s very, very nice. This everybody, here?”

  Emily did a quick survey of the assembly. “I seem to remember the church bulletin saying there would be space for twelve. We’re a couple short.”

  “That’s always assuming they actually got twelve people to join in this shindig.”

  “Quite.”

  “Didn’t have all that much notice.” He aimed the explanation at Lynn. “This here boat doesn’t usually go out this early—preseason, they call it. But the weather’s been so good that our preacher—”

  “Reverend Hurley,” Emily interjected.

  “—struck up the deal with the owner. I’d still be surprised if they filled up the tour. Most people our age are dead!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.