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The Cunning Cruise Ship Caper

By Sally Carpenter

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LOS ANGELES 1993
Chapter 1: Little Sister

It was bad enough that I unwittingly got my sister involved in a murder investigation; but first I had to lie just to get past her front door. I stood on the porch of her tiny rented bungalow, tucked away on a congested side street in the not-so-affluent part of Canoga Park. The din of cars driving by and kids yelling filled the air. Some of the nearby houses sported peeling paint and yards filled with trash and brown grass. A couple of stray dogs roamed the cracked sidewalk. Some unsavory-looking teenagers hung out on the corner, their faces seeming to challenge anyone walking by. The neighborhood had deteriorated since I’d last visited some years ago. Just goes to show how out of touch I was with my family.

I pressed the intercom button beside the front door of my sister’s house.

"What if she says no?” My agent, Marshall Ellis, was such a pessimist.

"That’s why I brought you along, Marshall. If anyone can talk my sister into doing something, you’re the man. You could charm a parka off an Eskimo. You talked me into appearing on that dreadful sitcom last week, didn’t you?”

“I’m sure you don’t appreciate all the exposure that guest spot landed you.”

“Yeah, and I almost landed in the morgue, thanks to a friendly neighborhood killer.”

“All I did was secure the role for you. I never told you to snoop around into something that was none of your business.”

Marshall took a silk handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers suit and blew his nose. An autumn breeze—or what passed as fall in Southern California—stirred up dust and pollen that made his allergies kick in. He repocketed his hanky. I was more leisurely clad in a polo shirt and jeans, not that my sister would notice.

“Honestly, Ernest, you take the prize as my most difficult client.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to know I’m an expert in something.”

A female voice crackled over the wall speaker. “Who is it?”

I hoped that the cheap audio system would distort my voice. “It’s your brother.”

“Warren?”

I made my voice a little deeper that normal. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Marshall Ellis, my agent and mother hen, started to speak. I motioned for him to keep quiet. I didn’t need him blowing my cover.

“But you usually call first,” she said.

That sounded like something my ingratiating brother would do. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”

A pause. “Give me a minute.”

The intercom clicked off. I exhaled in relief.

Marshall shot me a look. “Celeste won’t be happy when she finds out you tricked her.”

“That’s the only way she’ll let me inside. Either that or I kick the door in.”

“I’ll wait in the car. I’m not getting involved in your family fights.”

From the other side of the door I heard footsteps. “Stay here, Marshall. If my sister kills me, I’ll need you as an eyewitness.”

First came the sound of locks unlatching and then the door opened. My sister, the baby of the family, still looked like a doll at age thirty-three (five years younger than myself), despite the threadbare blouse and slacks she wore. She was pretty, not in a fashion model sense but in a girl-next-door way. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, much the same way I wore my long hair. When it came to looks, my family was blessed with good genes; brother Warren was ruggedly handsome, and I had ended up as the cute teen idol pin-up boy.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “I just finished making some coffee cake.”

I stepped inside so she couldn’t slam the door in my face. I spoke in my natural voice. “Hi, Sis. It’s good to see you. You look great.”

She looked confused and angry. “That sounds like Ernest.”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“You didn’t tell me Ernest was with you.”

“Warren isn’t here. That was me on the intercom. I’m sorry, but I thought you might not want to see me.”

Her lips went into a tight line, and she clenched her fists. “You never stop, do you? You used to pull that trick on me all the time, pretending you were Warren. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Sis, please, will you at least listen to me? I have something important to ask you.”

“I don’t want to do anything for you.”

Marshall came inside, his leather shoes hitting the hardwood floor with quick thuds. “You should hear him out, Miss Farmington.”

“Who’s that?” Celeste raised her voice. “How many people did you bring here?”

“It’s all right. He’s okay. It’s Marshall Ellis, my agent. He’s the only other person here.”

My agent leaned in and took my sister’s hand in a firm shake. “Hello, Miss Farmington. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Ernest has told me so much about you. I’ve enjoyed listening to your records from the ‘70s.”

“Oh. Those old things.”

I said, “Look, Sis, I want to patch things up between us. Just give me five minutes, that’s all. Then if you still say no, I’ll leave. Please?”

“Miss Farmington, Ernest has a good job offer that would benefit you a great deal. I’d recommend that you at least give him a chance.”

Her shoulders sagged as she let out a sigh, but her face still looked hard. “All right, Ernest. Come in and let me have a look at you.”

I stepped up to Celeste, took her hands, and placed them on my face—that’s how a blind person “sees.” I closed my big baby blue eyes as she ran her digits across my features.

“You shaved off your beard.”

“It was itchy.” Truth was, Marshall made me whack off my overgrown whiskers recently when I set out on my first public appearance in years.

She patted my pudgy cheeks. “Have you gained weight?”

“A little.” I’d been out of work for so long I’d let myself go flabby.

“May we sit down?” Marshall asked.

“Oh. Yes,” she said. “There’s the sofa.” She gestured toward a worn, tan-upholstered couch in the middle of the sparsely decorated room.

He sat on the sofa. “I heard you say something about fresh coffee cake. May we have some?”

I glared at him. My sister said, “Sure, I suppose so. I’ll go get it.”

“Can I help you, Sis?”

“No. I can manage—like I have for years.” With that she left, striding with confidence along a well-memorized and unobstructed path across the bare tile floor and into the kitchen.

As soon as she was out of view, I sat beside Marshall and whispered, “You really take the cake. Soon as you come in, you’re feeding your face.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said in a low voice. “People relax when they’re eating. If you sister is noshing on comfort food, she’ll be more receptive to what you have to say.”

“So that’s why you’re always eating when you’re at my house. You’re manipulating me into doing something for you.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

“I should warn you that my sister isn’t used to having visitors, so she’s lacking a bit in the social graces.”

“Apparently that runs in the family.”

Good thing I liked my agent or I’d have been offended.

Marshall pointed to the small TV set on a metal stand in one corner. “Your sister watches TV?”

“Mostly the news and concerts on PBS. She likes old movies, you know, musicals and the ones with lots of dialogue. And before you ask, she made those.” I was referring to the small abstract clay sculptures that filled the otherwise empty built-in bookshelves.

“She did? That’s amazing.”

“She does it by feel. She’s sold a number of her works, although I think most people buy them for the novelty of having something made by a blind girl.”

Celeste returned with two small plates holding slices of still-warm coffeecake and two forks. I stood and took the plates.

“I’ll serve this to Marshall,” I said.

“Did you take my piece as well?” she asked.

“I thought this was for me.”

“I didn’t know you wanted any. I’ll have to go back and get another—”

“No, here, you have it.” Anything to keep her happy. I put the second plate and fork back in her hand. “I wasn’t hungry.” Now that was a lie. The cake smelled delicious. The food reminded me that all I had had for breakfast was a cup of coffee and a bowl of sugar-frosted cereal in milk.

“I suppose you want a beer,” she said.

“I don’t drink any more.”

“Since when?”

“It’s true, Miss Farmington,” Marshall said. “He’s been sober since shortly before Labor Day. I can vouch for that.”

“That’s a surprise. All right, then.” She sat on a tattered upholstered chair facing the couch and took a bite of her snack. I resumed my seat. We made small talk about her latest ceramics show—along with a barb about my absence at the artist’s reception—and the gang bangers living on her street. I regretted not asking for some coffee cake, as it looked fantastic.

I noticed an empty spot in the room. “What happened to your piano?”

“The only way I could make any money from it was to sell it.”

Either Celeste was in desperate financial straits, or she’d given up on music forever.

Marshall said, “This coffee cake is delicious, Miss Farmington. Very moist.”

“Thanks. I was trying out a new recipe.”

After Celeste set her empty plate on the coffee table, Marshal said, “Are we ready to discuss the business at hand?”

“All right. Ernest, what was it you wanted?

“Well, Sis.” I rubbed my hands together. “Marshall, why don’t you tell her?”

My agent set his plate and fork on the coffee table and straightened his tie as he shifted into his negotiating mode. I eyed his piece of coffee cake. Would he notice if I pilfered it while he talked?

“Miss Farmington, your brother has an offer to perform on a cruise ship, a five-day trip with stops in Key West and Nassau. Two sixty-minute shows per night for four nights in an intimate lounge.”

“I thought I was on for five nights,” I said.

“The last night at sea is a Halloween costume gala. I told the organizers you were not interested in providing background music for parties.” Marshall returned his attention to Celeste. “As I was saying, Miss Farmington, the organizers want another singer to perform with your brother.”

“They don’t think the mighty Sandy Fairfax can pull off a show all by himself?”

Sandy Fairfax was the nom de plume given to me by my former manager in 1974, and also the source of much friction among my relatives who never understood why my given name wasn’t good enough for the public.

To save face, I said, “Most of my songs had backing vocals, so for the concerts they’ll sound better with another voice.” Truth is, I never knew who sang on my albums. The SuperTonic label hired anonymous session singers to provide the backing tracks after I recorded the leads.

“So you want me along just to prop you up?” she countered.

“No, no. You can do a solo or two if you want.”

“A song or two? That’s all?”

Marshall said, “Miss Farmington, you have to understand, these are short concerts. There simply won’t be time for both you and Ernest to do a full set apiece.”

“Why wasn’t I asked to headline?”

Some questions have no right answers—this is one of them. Unfortunately, Marshall chose the honest answer.

“Because your brother is the bigger name.”

“And whose fault is that?” Celeste stood, made a beeline for the living room window and crossed her arms. She wasn’t looking out the window so much as turning her back on me.

I walked over, stood behind her, and lightly put my hands on her shoulders. “Look, one reason I’m here is so I can apologize. I realize that a long time ago I acted like a jerk. Maybe I should have done more for you at the time, but I was under contract and the studio had me on a tight leash.”

“Baloney!” she said, or words to that effect. My sister doesn’t swear often, but when she does, she’s furious. “You could have pulled strings if you wanted to. You used to brag about how the studio pampered you and gave in to your demands.”

“That was on my TV show. The record suits were another matter. SuperTonic wasn’t so generous.”

She returned to her chair. I sat back on the sofa and pushed the contrary cowlick out of my face.

“Sis, I can’t get in a time machine and change history, but now it’s 1993 and I’m offering you a chance to sing again. You can write some new songs for the show if you want. This gig will get your name out there again.”

“Four nights on a cruise ship? Isn’t that where oldies acts go when they can’t fill stadiums or get airplay?”

“The money’s good, Miss Farmington,” said Marshall, the walking cash register. “You’ll have first class accommodations and plenty of perks.”

“C’mon, Sis, you need a vacation, get out of the house. See some new sights, have fun. You might even meet some of your old fans.”

“I wasn’t around long enough to have fans.”

I got off the sofa and dropped to one knee beside her chair. “This would mean a lot to me personally. Remember how we used to sing together when we were kids? We made a great team. Why don’t we make an effort to start over?”

“I don’t know, Ernest.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired. Let me think about it.”

“We don’t have much time, Miss Farmington,” said Marshall. “We need to sign the contracts right away. The cruise is only a few weeks away.”

“Ernest, if I say no, will you still do the shows?”

Her reluctance was irritating me. “Are you going to say no just to keep me out of the limelight and so we can both be failures?”

Marshall gave an exaggerated cough. “Ernest and I need to be going. If you’ll excuse us, Miss Farmington.”
He stood, grabbed my shirt collar, and lifted me to my feet. I glared at him and opened my mouth to reply, but he held up his hand and gave me a look to stop me. Good thing my sister didn’t see our exchange.

“Thanks again for the coffee cake,” Marshall said. “Think about the offer and give me a call. I’ll leave you my card.” I shook my head at him—his cards didn’t have Braille printing. “On second thought, would you remember my phone number if I tell you?”

“I can call Ernest.”

“Please give us your answer by tonight. I hope you will say yes. I know you’ll enjoy getting back on stage. We’ll see ourselves out.”

I gave Celeste a quick goodbye before Marshall pushed me out the door. On the sidewalk, we both put on our sunglasses against the bright SoCal sun.

Marshall couldn’t wait to scold me. “What were you doing, antagonizing her like that? After that last crack, she wasn’t going to listen to anything else we had to say.”

“She was the one goading me.”

“Sometimes, Ernest, you talk too much.”

“She’s going to say no just to spite me. I know it. If she can’t have a comeback, she won’t let me have one either.”

“Come on, let’s not argue here. I need to get back to the office and, besides, you’ve parked on a red curb. Ernest, you’re lucky you didn’t get a ticket.”

“From the looks of this street, the police have more important things to deal with than parking tickets.”

We hopped in my car, a 1964 poppy red Mustang convertible with bucket seats, spoke wheels and palomino interior. Street parking is impossible to find near my sister’s house, so Marshall and I had carpooled from his Beverly Hills office. I had the top down and my side window rolled down. I’m left-handed, so I steered with my left hand and rested my right atop the gearshift knob. Traffic was sluggish on the 101 Freeway. Sitting among stalled cars wasn’t helping my foul mood, so I hit the nearest off-ramp and sped the Mustang along the surface streets. Even with the top down, we didn’t generate much of a breeze in the car. Just as well—Marshall hates when his dark curly locks get mussed up.

“I’ll find you another girl,” he offered. “I know some bright young singers you’d enjoy working with.”

“I don’t want another girl.”

“What if Celeste says no?”

I kept my eyes on the road and frowned.

“What’s the history behind you and your sister? What haven’t you told me?”

“She accuses me of sabotaging her singing career so I could be the only celebrity in the family. She thinks I deliberately set out to wreck her.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not! No, not intentionally. I don’t know. Things were so crazy in those days. I could barely keep up with what I was doing, let along run herd on my sister’s life as well. She’s always been unpredictable. One minute she wants to do everything herself, and the next she’s helpless.”

“In that case, is it such a good idea to hire her? What if she folds up in the middle of a show?”

“Celeste is okay once she’s in front of an audience. It’s just that she has these habits that help her cope, so don’t ask her to change her pattern. It’s a bear trying to push her out of her comfort zone. If this gig works out, maybe she’ll take responsibility for her future and stop expecting me to do it for her.” I stopped at a red light and shifted into neutral.

“Did she have a bad manager? I’ve heard her records, and she had the talent to go far. She could have easily been one of the top folk rock stars of the ‘70s.”

“You know how this business is, Marshall.” The light turned green. I shifted and roared forward, passing the slowpoke ahead of me who was only going the speed limit. “A lot of talent gets squashed along the way. She begged me to get her on my TV show. For some reason, that fell through the cracks. She wanted to open for my concerts, so I asked my handlers. They said no, my audiences wouldn’t appreciate her type of music. I didn’t argue. Maybe I should have pushed harder. Maybe I could have done more to promote her. Maybe if I hadn’t opened my big mouth to that reporter . . .”

“The one who quoted you as saying Celeste was a ‘poor little crippled blind girl?’”

“Stupid tattler took it out of context. Back then I was always joking around, saying silly stuff I didn’t think anyone took seriously. I don’t remember exactly what I said at the time but I never meant . . . anyway, the idiot made me sound like a monster and, of course, Celeste heard about it. She’s still sore about that.”

When I reached a certain office building in Beverly Hills, I pulled down a side street and into the parking lot in back. I took a ticket from the parking attendant in the booth, parked, and got out of the car.

Marshall closed his side door behind him. “Are you coming inside?” He sounded surprised.

“Yeah. I want to use your phone.”

We rode the elevator to Marshall’s third-floor office that he shared with other independent entertainment agents and managers. He stopped at his secretary’s desk to pick up his messages while I went inside his office, perched atop his pretentious mahogany desk, picked up the receiver, and punched a number into the phone. I didn’t have to wait long before someone answered.

“Hello, Farmington residence,” said a heavily accented voice.

What was the name of my parents’ maid? I’d only met her once. “Hi, Imelda, it’s Ernest. Is my mother home?”

“Sí, one minute.”

After a pause, a familiar voice came on the line. “Ernest, darling. I was just thinking about you. I’m so glad you called. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Mother.”

Marshall stepped into the room, closed the door, and mouthed the words, “Your mother?” I motioned to him to shut up.

“Look, Mother, I have a favor to ask you.”

Marshall pushed me off the desk and picked up the file folder I was sitting on. He occupied his oversized leather executive chair and fussed with some paperwork. I resumed my desktop seat.

“Mother, I have a new job. I’ll be doing some concerts onboard a cruise ship to the Bahamas.”

“How lovely. Your father and I loved our trips to Nassau. You’ll have a wonderful time.”

“The problem is, I want Celeste to perform with me and she won’t do it.”

“That’s a pity. Why not?”

“I don’t know. You know how she gets in a snit sometimes. I really want her to come with me.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. Celeste isn’t comfortable in crowds or strange places.”

“Mother, she needs to get out in the world. She’s cooped up in that little house like a recluse. She needs to meet people and have fun. She’s just shriveling away.”

“I don’t know, Ernest. It’s hard for her to get around.”

“I’ll be there to help. I’ll wait on her hand and foot. Mother, will you talk to Celeste and make her change her mind?”

Marshall snatched the phone receiver out of my hand and whispered, “Ernest, are you out of your mind?”

I grabbed the phone back and said to my mother, “I know she’ll get a kick out of singing again.”

“Celeste is quite happy with what she’s doing. She hasn’t said anything about performing again.”

“She’d said nothing because she’s scared.”

“Really, Ernest, don’t you think your sister’s old enough to make up her own mind?”

I should have known mother would take Celeste’s side. She always did. “Here, I want you to talk to my agent.”

I shoved the receiver into Marshall’s hand. First, he looked at the phone and then at me and sighed. For a moment I thought he would hang up. Then he put the receiver to his ear and adopted his best wheeling-dealing attitude.

“Hello, Mrs. Farmington, this is Marshall Ellis. I’m your son’s agent. I believe this opportunity would help Celeste re-launch her singing career. It’s a small venue, friendly audience, low-keyed atmosphere. During the day she’ll have time to relax. We’ll have a top band and put on a quality show that will make her proud.” He listened for a moment and handed the receiver back to me. “She wants to talk to you.”

I took the phone. “Mother, this gig means the world to me. I’ve always wanted to do a show with Celeste. Remember how we used to sing duets when we were kids? I know she’ll enjoy it too. It’ll be like the old times. Please, Mother?”

“All right, Ernest, I’ll see what I can do. But you know how stubborn your sister can be.”

That may be true, but whenever my mother made a request, we children always obliged. “Thanks, Mother. I owe you for this. Call me back soon as you talk to her, okay?”

“Of course, dear. Bye, now. Love you.”

“Love you too, Mother.” I hung up.

Marshall didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “Will you get off my desk?”

“Why, am I ruining the finish?”

He eyed me. “Shouldn’t you go home in case your mother calls?”

“Okay, but I know you’ll miss my company.”

As I was halfway to the door, Marshall added. “Ernest, I have to give the cruise line an answer tonight. If your sister won’t do the gig, they need to line up another act PDQ.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll let you know.”

“Do you still want the shows without Celeste?”

“I don’t know.”

I didn’t mean to slam the door on my way out. Marshall knows me well enough not to take my outbursts personally. I stopped at the secretary’s desk long enough to validate my parking ticket and then headed to my home in the Hollywood Hills. I puttered around the house, hoping Celeste wouldn’t force me to decide to do the shows without her. If she said no and I went on ahead, she’d once again claim I was trying to show her up. If I stayed home, my own sputtering career would sink even further. And if she joined me and screwed up the show . . .

The phone rang.


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