Murder On the Cappella

By Michael Paulson

Whether you believe it or not, there’s no better place to escape one’s past than at sea. Or so I learned after an impulse put me aboard the freighter, Cappella.
My name is Kyle Parker. I’m a litigator from Austin, Texas. My adventure started after I accompanied my Brazilian stepmother’s mortal remains to Sao Paolo. Upon completion of her internment, my intention was to take the first flight home. However an overheard conversation, between two Portuguese women, changed those plans - and my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Paulson
• Release date: Oct 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370493166

Michael Paulson

Michael Paulson lives in Austin, Texas and writes hard-boiled mysteries set in the streets of Austin and surrounding parts of Texas. Paulson grew up surrounded by crime and crime families and draws on his own background in creating the colorful characters and criminals who feature in his stories.

Book preview

Murder on the Cappella

By

Michael W. Paulson

Copyright 2017 Michael Paulson

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this story are imaginary. Any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is coincidental

CHAPTER 1

Whether you believe it or not, there’s no better place to escape one’s past than at sea. Or so I learned after an impulse put me aboard the freighter, Cappella.

My name is Kyle Parker. I’m a litigator from Austin, Texas. My adventure started after I accompanied my Brazilian stepmother’s mortal remains to Sao Paolo. Upon completion of her internment, my intention was to take the first flight home. However an overheard conversation, between two Portuguese women, changed those plans - and my life.

Eunice, declared the younger Portuguese woman, I want no part in it.

The speaker was tall, mid-twenties and slender with a clear, tanned complexion complimented by a wealth of wavy dark hair. Her eyes glittered like tuxedo buttons. A shade of scarlet, painted her full lips. Her nose was exquisite.

There’s no choice, Deidre, the older woman returned.

She was plump, sixtyish, gray and stern with a mottled complexion and a drinker’s nose.

Once this is past, Eunice continued, we’ll have everything our hearts desire.

A binding gray skirt and a white top encased the older woman’s ample proportions. The shoes on her feet could have passed for combat boots. Jewel-encrusted rings decorated her bloated fingers.

Perhaps you’ll forget what’s to come on the Cappella, said Deidre, but I shan’t.

The young woman wore sandals, blue jeans and a red blouse. Lots of gold chain encircled her neck, and wrists.

Deidre, what must be must be.

The arguing couple were in my hotel’s lobby, secluded within an alcove. I was standing a few yards away, at the registration desk, settling my bill. Although, the women conversed in their native tongue, I had no trouble understanding. Portuguese was my second language thanks to my nurturing stepmother.

Eunice got to her feet. It’s time to leave.

I can’t.

Deidre, we will board the Cappella. We will see this through. Then, we will be very rich.

To my keen observer’s eye, neither woman epitomized the adventuress. Both looked too soft and well-heeled. So why would they prefer the meager lodgings on a freighter to the luxury provided by a cruise-ship? Based upon the amount and quality of their jewelry, ticket price didn’t enter their travel decision.

Eunice, please? Deidre begged. Don’t make me do this.

Damn you, girl, there’s no backing out!

Make her do what? An arranged marriage? Perhaps. Prescribed nuptials were the norm, in Sao Paolo. But usually not exchanged aboard a freight. Or did the young woman’s protest indicate a more sinister situation? Was Deidre already married? The older woman had mentioned becoming very rich. Was Eunice bent on murdering Deidre’s husband once they got him out to sea? Spousal killings occurred quite frequently in this part of the world. Particularly, when insurance proceeds were in the offing.

Eunice abruptly grabbed Deidre by the arm. Then, the older woman forced the younger woman to stand before propelling Deidre out of the hotel.

As the clerk slid my credit card receipt across the desk for signature, I noticed a third woman. She trailed languidly behind the exiting pair, apparently with no affiliation. This one was petite and about thirty years of age. Her hair was black, cropped short. Her figure was boyish. She had a beautiful Nordic face.

I signed the hotel receipt and pocked my credit card. Then, I checked my watch. It was several hours before flight. I could wait at the airport, in complete boredom. Or I could satisfy my curiosity. I decided upon the latter. With suitcases in hand I strode out of the hotel, to a waiting taxi.

Minutes of horn-honking later, the cabbie was double-parked in front of the Sao Paulo Travel Agency. I was inside putting questions to a skinny woman sitting in front of a computer screen. The plastic nametag on her blouse read: Tatiana.

The Cappella is a steamer of the freighter class, she explained. The travel agent’s eyes darted back and forth across the screen. It’s registered in Monrovia.

Is that good or bad?

It’s convenient. Captain Finley is the ship’s Master; a man of extensive experience. The Cappella has a crew of nine.

I gave her a concerned look. How old is this ship?

Seventy eight years. Tatiana’s shoulders bobbed. A long time for a ship. She tossed me a reassuring grin. Don’t worry. Ships have a very long lifespan.

That’s reassuring, I’m sure.

The Cappella has four passenger staterooms.

Private accommodations?

One passenger to a cabin, unless otherwise arranged. Her stare returned to me. A once in a life time chance.

So, there’s still time to buy a ticket?

She nodded. The ship departs in four hours.

How long will the trip take?

Barring the unforeseen, the Cappella will arrive in Galveston, approximately seven days from today.

Unforeseen?

Oh, you know. High winds and heavy seas.

Sinking?

That would qualify as an unforeseen. But, it’s very unlikely.

After Galveston what?

In Galveston, she said, the Cappella will offload part of its cargo before continuing to Japan. Would you like to continue the voyage there?

I shook my head. What’s the cargo?

She took another look at the computer screen. Electronic components.

Circuit boards, that type of thing?

It doesn’t go into detail. Tatiana offered an entreating smile. Shall I book you as far as Galveston?

If you should talk to anybody who knows me, and asked them to describe me, the one thing you would not hear is ‘risk-taker.’ I have always taken the safest path. Even as a child, I preferred watching my peers skirt danger, rather than join them at risky play. Nevertheless, the idea of cruising home on a freighter held an irresistible allure.

Sounds like the trip of my dreams, I responded.

The Travel Agent’s fingers clattered across the computer-keyboard for a number of seconds. Then she said, I’m afraid there’s only one unsold ticket. So if you’re traveling with a companion…

No. I’m alone. I wetted my lips, as a bolt of dissonance flashed through my brain. You said the Cappella could carry any type of cargo…

I misspoke. The Cappella is fitted for dry cargo, only. She extended her hand, palm up. If you’ll give me your credit card, I’ll make your dream come true.

With heart thudding, and lips trying to spread into an eager smile, I passed over the plastic.

Austin is just a few hours from Galveston, I mused. I’ll pick up a rental after the ship docks. No problem with taking a week off. But I’ll have to call my office to explain the delayed arrival.

I can take care of that for you, Mr. Parker.

As the Travel Agent keyed my name, address and other pertinent data into the computer, she provided additional information.

Your compartment is on ‘B’ Deck, Mr. Parker. The staterooms are described as modern. But don’t expect anything extravagant. It’ll probably be the size of a walk-in closet. Meals are communal and taken in the ship’s mess. It’s not fancy fare, but it’ll be good. Bathing is allowed every third day; this, due to limitations on fresh water. Alcohol is served, but only during evenings. You could, however, purchase a bottle at one of the duty-free shops.

Can you cancel my flight reservation? I asked.

My pleasure.

As I signed the credit card receipt I told her the name of the airlines and my flight number as well as the telephone number to my law office.

I hope you have an unforgettable voyage, Mr. Parker.

Back in the taxi, I was giggling like a kid holding his first puppy. However, during the drive to the wharf, where the Cappella was docked, my enthusiasm shifted from elation to despair. What if there was an unexpected delay? The travel agent had mentioned 'unforeseens.' Of course she had put that in the context of storms while boohooing the prospect of sinking. But what if the ship’s engines broke down? It could take a week or more to make repairs. Then there was the risk of pirates. What if they attacked the ship? News reports are always disclosing stories about pirates holding passengers and crew for ransom. Even as a kid I was never good at walking the plank. What if the damn thing sank? Although the travel agent had said it was unlikely, the Cappella was pushing a hundred. Then there was the crew to consider. What if they murdered the passengers? Sailors are always carrying things that are sharp and pointy.

Driver… I began, intending to send him back to the travel agency.

But before I finish my request, there was a stiffening of my spine. Realistically, what was the worst that could happen? A little seasickness? Maybe a jolt of dysentery? It’s not like my world would fall apart.

Never mind, Driver.

Thirty minutes later, my renewed optimism disintegrated.

Are you certain this is the right dock? I asked the taxi driver.

He and I were standing on the Cappella’s quayside.

Sim, Senior, the driver replied with a determined nod.

I looked past him at the rusting hulk listing next to the quay. That can’t be the right ship!

He pointed at the nearly unreadable letters near the ship’s bow. There is only one Cappella, Senior.

The weary vessel was barely two hundred feet long. Its main deck looked to be less than a pole vault above the waterline. Its beam appeared to be about forty feet. But, more to the point of my concerns, that ship looked to be the salvaged remains Mary Celeste!

I hope you’re a man of prayer, Senior, the driver said as he took my luggage from the taxi. Because if you are getting on that ship, you will need God on your side.

I paid the driver and the taxi drove away.

Get a grip, Parker, I told myself. As bad as that tub looks it made it all the way from Japan, under its own power – presumably.

I picked up my suitcases. Then, with shoulders squared, chin held high and buttocks clenched, I headed for the ship’s gangplank. If I had never been a man of prayer. But, from the rust pooling in the water around the Cappella, I soon would be - at least for the next week.

You’re a passenger on the Cappella?

I stopped and turned around to face the female voice. Hurrying toward me was the boyish woman I had noticed following the Portuguese pair out of the hotel.

Impulsive, I know, I responded, as she drew near. In fact, I’ve never done anything like this. I set down my luggage. And, now, seeing the ship… Dear God! The peeling paint… Sweet Jesus! The way it lists… Mary, mother of Christ! My arms rose and fell, my voice despairing. You probably think that I’ve suffered a momentary lapse of sanity. I let go a nervous laugh. I know, I do.

She held out a hand. My name is Felicia Johnston.

Kyle Parker, I returned, wrapping my fingers around her soft offering.

Although her English was perfect, Felicia had a slight Scandinavian accent.

Are you another of the passengers? I asked.

I had hoped to. But, surprisingly, all the tickets had been sold.

There are a lot of unstable people in Sao Paolo.

Would you like to sell your ticket?

No offense intended, I said. But are you out of your mind?

Mr. Parker, you might say it’s a matter of life and death that I get on board that ship.

I tilted my head toward the hulk. Are you sure you don’t mean suicide?

Mr. Parker – Kyle – I’m prepared to offer you a substantial profit if you would sell me your ticket.

My eyes closed in relief and I thrust my chin toward the heavens. Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Shall we say five hundred Reais over the purchase price? Felicia Johnston suggested.

My brain rattled through the currency conversion tables. She was offering a handsome profit. I started to agree. However, the memory of the arguing women, and the mystery of what lay before them, caused the return of my flagging courage.

As tempting as your offer is, Felicia, I’ll have to decline. The trip will have its disagreeable moments, I’m sure, hopefully nothing involving involuntary shark-feeding.

Seven hundred Reais?

I know I’ll regret this – especially if I’m butchered by pirates. But I’m afraid not.

Twelve hundred Reais? Please, Mr. Parker? It is imperative that I get on that ship.

The woman was a godsend! Her offer would cover the expenses for my entire trip! Again, I started to accept. But a split-second later I wagged my head.

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, I explained. No amount of money will convince me to forgo it. I am sorry.

Abruptly, Felicia turned and stalked off.

I grabbed my suitcases, and faced the ship. You can do this, Parker, I told myself. It’s only a week – assuming the hulk doesn’t founder. Keep a positive outlook. Dutch courage will be served, nightly. Drink your fill.

CHAPTER 2

Your first trip on a freighter, Mr. Parker?

His name was Geoffrey Higgins. He was the ship’s Purser. Higgins was about five feet four inches tall. He wore a white uniform with shiny brass buttons. He was eying my ticket and passport with confused surprise.

Yeah. My nose twisted at the stench of diesel fuel. And from the smell of things, I’m wondering if I made a mistake?

Spillage, Sir. Nothing to worry about. But, ‘til we hose down the decks, no smoking. His eyes went to mine. We weren’t expecting another passenger.

A suicidal impulse.

He nodded, agreeably. I’ve had one or two that took me near the wedding alter.

I winced, again sniffing. From the stench, that must’ve been some spill.

My luggage was heavy. The weight made my shoulders ache. Nevertheless, I hung onto my suitcases. I was afraid the oily mess soaking the deck, would impregnate the luggage and saturate my clothing.

A hose ruptured during fueling. Higgins folded my ticket and stuffed it into a pocket. One of the disadvantages of fuel oil. Of course, it’s cleaner than coal and a lot less bulky. Then his voice took on a suspicious tenor. What is it you do, Mr. Parker?

"I’m a