Authors: Pat Murphy
It was an experiment. When she started the sentence, she had intended to say “my friend,” rather than “my fiancé.” But she wanted to discourage this man if he was thinking what she was afraid he might be thinking. And she didn’t want to insult him if he was just a helpful fellow with no ulterior motives. Max had said she needed to learn to lie, so she was giving it a try.
The man laughed sympathetically. “Your fiancé will get used to it. My wife is late all the time.” His tone, when he mentioned his wife, was affectionate.
Susan returned the man’s smile. He was married; she could relax. “Maybe yours turned out better,” she said, glancing at the photo wall.
He shook his head. “I doubt that. Haven’t had any luck finding it anyway.”
She turned to the photo wall to see if she could spot his picture. Instead, she saw a photo of Max. He was standing by the cardboard palm tree, looking extremely uncomfortable. He hadn’t even bothered to smile. “There’s Max,” she said without thinking.
“Your fiancé?” The man peered at the photo and frowned.
“Oh, no. That’s Max Merriwell. He’s teaching a writing workshop on board. He writes books as Max Merriwell, Mary Maxwell, and Weldon Merrimax.”
“How interesting,” the man said. “Are you attending this workshop he’s teaching?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’re a writer, then?”
She shook her head. “No, I just thought it would be interesting. I love Max’s books.”
The man glanced toward the Alehouse and Susan realized that the singing had stopped. “Sounds like the musicians are taking a break,” he said. “Its safe to get a beer.”
She laughed. “Low tolerance for lounge music?”
“Low tolerance for cruise ship entertainment in general,” he said. “My wife is watching the magician. Card tricks and bad jokes.” He made a face. “I told her I’d meet her in the bar when he was done. So where’s your fiancé? What’s he thinking, letting you wander around by yourself?”
“He’s a little under the weather.” She didn’t hesitate to lie a second time. Maybe Max was right. There were times when lying was a fine idea. It was fun—and she was starting to feel a bit like a woman with a fiancé. She remembered how wonderful it had been to be engaged. Everyone had been so happy for her.
“He’s seasick?”
“Just a little queasy. I stayed with him for a while, but I got restless.”
The man nodded, studying her face. “Let me hazard a guess about something and make a suggestion. Maybe you’d like a drink, but you know that if you go into the bar unattended you’ll get some guy hitting on you and you don’t want that. If you let me buy you a drink, I’ll protect you from the other guys and you can keep me company until that magician pulls the last rabbit from his hat and my wife comes to claim me.”
Susan blinked, startled at how well he had guessed her thoughts. “That’s a very good guess,” she said slowly.
“So will you join me for a drink? You can tell me about this writing workshop.”
She smiled with the confidence of a happily engaged woman, almost believing for a moment that that’s who she was. “All right. But only if you let me buy the drinks. After all, you’re serving as my bodyguard.”
The Alehouse wasn’t crowded. They found a table that was near the fireplace and as far as they could get from the stage and the dance floor.
“So tell me about Max Merriwell’s work. You seem to like his books.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve read all Max’s science fiction novels. Rollicking adventures about people blasting off across the galaxy. And I’ve read all the books he’s written as Mary Maxwell. Great action adventure stories about young women.”
He nodded. “And the books by Weldon Merrimax?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t read any of those. They’re gritty, urban thrillers. Not my sort of thing.”
“Not your sort of thing,” the man repeated. The firelight flickered over his face. He frowned. “But you like the rest of his work so much. I would think you’d at least give Weldon’s work a try.”
She shrugged. “I’ve taken a look at some of the books. But they’re all dark and depressing. All about sleazy criminals cheating people and committing crimes. I don’t want to read about that.”
“You’d rather read about people blasting off across the galaxy.” Susan thought he sounded angry. But that didn’t make sense. Why would he care that Susan hadn’t read Weldon Merrimax’s work. “So tell me about this writing workshop,” he said. “What have you learned?”
“Well,” she said hesitantly. “There’s only been one meeting so far. Max talked about the creative process. He talked about how the writer creates his own world. He’s a god in his own universe. He said that the advantage of writing science fiction is that you have to make everything up. And the disadvantage is that you have to make everything up.”
“Interesting,” the man said.
“And he told us that a writer has to be a good observer. He told us that we needed to watch the people around us, to consider their gestures, their body language. We need to learn to read them so that we can describe them in our work. He gave us that as a homework assignment.”
“Have you done your homework yet?” the man asked.
Susan laughed. “Not yet.”
“Well, I’ve always thought bars were great places to watch people.” He looked around the room, then jerked his head toward a couple sitting two tables away. “So what do you make of them?”
Susan glanced in the direction he had gestured and saw a heavy set man with dark hair sitting with a thin blonde woman. They were both in their mid-twenties. She was wearing a silk shirt and a skirt that matched and he was in a Hawaiian shirt and Dockers. The waitress had just brought their drinks: a beer for him and a frothy pink drink with an umbrella and a shish kabob of fruit for her. The man smiled at the waitress as she walked away; the woman sipped her drink.
“I don’t know,” she said. “A young couple on their first cruise, I guess.”
The man smiled. “Oh, I think we can figure out more than that. Take a look at their hands.”
Susan glanced at the couple again. The woman was laughing at something the man had said. She was playing with her wedding ring, twisting it on her finger. “She’s playing with her ring,” Susan said. “And she has a nice manicure,” she said.
“His nails look nice, too,” the man said. “I’d guess they’re just married. A wedding is about the only time most men will let themselves be talked into a manicure. She suggested it so his hands would look nice for the wedding pictures.”
Susan glanced at the couple again: his nails did look nice. “You can tell that she comes from money,” he went on.
“She is dressed nicely,” Susan said. That silk shirt wasn’t cheap. “Here’s a tip: Don’t just look at her clothes,” he said. “It’s the shoes that tell you the most. Hers are top quality. That woman is used to nice things. Now look at his shoes.”
He was wearing athletic shoes of a brand she didn’t recognize. “He shops the sales and doesn’t care about appearances, as long as the shoes are comfortable.” The man shook his head sadly. “I’ll give the marriage two years, tops.”
Susan was suddenly painfully aware that her own shoes could use polishing. She was starting to feel a little guilty at the way the man was passing judgments on the other couple. “You think their marriage is going to fail because he doesn’t buy the right shoes?” she asked in dismay.
“The shoes are just a part of it,” he said. “Look at how the two of them are sitting. No body contact; no connection between them.” The woman had her legs crossed; she sat at an angle on the chair, gazing at the fire. The man was leaning back in his chair, staring toward the stage.
“Now consider the way she’s eating that cherry.”
The woman had taken a small bite from the cherry on the fruit shish kabob.
“That’s no way to eat a cherry,” the man said. “A woman who would eat a cherry like that has no enthusiasm for sex. I’d guess that within a year she’ll be spending more money than he makes and he’ll be flirting with a waitress who can tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue.”
Susan blushed, glad that she had ordered a beer so that her cherry-eating would not be analyzed. The frightening thing was, she suspected the man was right about that couple. The woman was laughing again, tossing her blond hair back. Susan suspected it was a gesture the woman had practiced in front of the mirror. “You’re good at this,” she said. “Max told me this morning that cops and writers pay attention to things that other people don’t. So if you’re not a cop, you must be a writer.”
The man laughed. “I’m certainly not a cop. I’ve written a few books.”
“Really. What’s your name? Maybe I’ve seen your work.”
The man shook his head. “I don’t think it would be to your taste.” He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a superior smirk, as if he knew something she didn’t. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”
Susan frowned. He seemed to be enjoying himself. He knew that he was making her uncomfortable, and he liked that.
The man was still talking. “But that’s not the real reason I’m good at reading people. You see, I used to tell fortunes for a living. Reading people was an occupational requirement.” Suddenly, he leaned across the table, taking her left hand in both of his. “I’ll tell your fortune now,” he said.
His hands were large and strong and crisscrossed with old scars. She laughed awkwardly and tried to tug her hand free. He gripped her hand harder, so hard it brought tears to her eyes.
He wasn’t looking at her hand ; he was staring at her face, studying her with unblinking intensity. “I can tell a lot about you,” he said. “I can tell that you’re a liar. That’s easy to see.”
She tried again to pull her hand away. This time, he let her go. “You’re the sort of person who would lie to a perfect stranger for no reason at all.”
She stared at him, unable to speak.
“You don’t have a sick fiancé. You’ve been lying to me since we met. My guess is that you’ve been married, but you recently got dumped and you’re still dealing with that.”
“But …” Susan started to protest.
“Don’t dig yourself deeper,” he said, waving a hand. “You’d better practice more if you’re going to make a habit of lying. First, never hesitate before you lie. You gave yourself away right there.”
She clutched her drink, feeling like a fool. “I just …”
He ignored her attempt to interrupt. “No ring,” he said, tapping the ring finger of her left hand. She flinched at his touch. “That was another sign. And you didn’t bother to look for your fiancé’s photo.”
“I … I didn’t think you’d be interested,” she said weakly. He shook his head. “No happily engaged woman would miss a chance to point out her fiancé’s photo.” He studied her for a moment. “Besides, if you had been telling the truth, you wouldn’t be blushing and stammering right now. You’d be indignant.”
She sat up straight in her chair, trying to muster a little dignity. “I don’t see…”
“I know that. But I see.” He stared at her. “I see right through you.” He pushed back his chair. “But you probably don’t even realize that I started lying to you as soon as you started lying to me. I don’t have a wife.” He stood up. “But unlike you, I know how to lie.” He walked away, leaving her sitting alone at the table by the fire, stunned and confused.
The piano player returned to the stage. The woman singer took the microphone from the stand and began a line of easy patter about what a wonderful night it was, what a wonderful audience they were. The singer was halfway through her first number when Tom Clayton tapped Susan on the shoulder.
Tom had been shutting down a noisy party in the crew quarters when he got the call from Frank Bender at the Alehouse saying that the fellow who called himself Weldon Merrimax was in the bar. It had taken Tom a few minutes to make his way up to the Promenade Deck and forward to the Alehouse. By the time he arrived, Weldon was gone.
“He left about ten minutes ago. He was sitting with that lady there,” Frank said. “She bought the drinks, so I didn’t see him at first.”
Tom recognized Susan, sitting at a table alone. There was a glass of beer in front of her, and an empty glass in front of the chair across the table. She looked upset and confused; she looked as if she might be ready to burst into tears. “Thanks, Frank.”
Tom got on the radio and advised Don, the security guard who was patrolling the sector that included the Games Room, to check that room for poker players. “If Weldon Merrimax shows up, I’d like to have a word with him,” Tom told Don.
Susan was staring into space and she didn’t notice Tom until he touched her shoulder. Then she jumped, startled.
“Hello, Susan.” He slid into the seat across from her.
She blinked at him. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged. “Looking for trouble. It’s my job.”
She managed a tremulous smile. “Is there trouble here?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” he said. “I had a few questions about the gentleman you were drinking with.”
She frowned at him. He had her attention now, he thought. “He was no gentleman,” she said.
“Really? What happened?”
She told him a rather confusing story about meeting the man in the photo gallery and lying about her fiancé. Max had told her she should practice lying and she had decided to give it a try. Watching her, Tom knew she was a rotten liar.
“I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea,” she said. “But he said he was waiting for his wife—and he invited me for a drink.” She flushed then, looking down at her hands. “I figured it would be okay, since he was married and I was engaged—or he thought I was engaged. But then he got really angry.”
Tom nodded. All this was beside the point. He really just needed to find the man and ask him about a few things. But Susan seemed to need to talk. “What was he angry about?” Tom asked.
She shook her head, still frowning. “I don’t know. We were talking about Max’s books. I said something about Weldon Merrimax. And then he told me I was a liar and he left.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
She shook her head again. “Even if he had, I wouldn’t put much stock in it. He admitted he was a liar—he didn’t really have a wife or a daughter. He seemed okay until we started talking about Max’s work. I said I hadn’t read the books Max had written as Weldon Merrimax because I’d heard they were too depressing. And then he got downright mean. It was weird. Why are you looking for him?”