Working Title: "Slow Boat, Bitter End."

A Rony Boston Mystery by RJ Stewart

(TO MY READERS: I invite you to comment on this work in progress. You can use the “chat” icon at the bottom of the Substack app on your phone or just send me a note. One reason for doing this is to involve you, my family, friends, and strangers/followers in a creative exercise. Thank you in advance for any comment you have. — RJ Stewart)

IN ADDITION TO GRISELDA and me, three other fellow travelers had not yet introduced themselves. Apart from the ill-chosen clothing of the Wyoming couple, I had barely noticed any of them. They had been quiet, drawing little attention. When I focused on them the word average came to mind -- average height, average weight, average facial features. They had not chimed in during the light introduction conversation, nor had they smiled, laughed, coughed or sneezed. They were members of that group of people who at any gathering are quickly forgotten, while the other more notable ones are remembered, often for years. When Gungor finally brought them to our attention, they looked straight ahead as if about to have their mug shots taken at the police station. Not that they suggested malfeasance; on the contrary they presented irrelevance. The only thing that stood out about them was their odd clothing.

We have not heard from our guests from Wyoming, Gungor said.

How he knew their home state, I did not know, but later I would learn that the ship’s manifest included the names, passport numbers, and some personal details the investigators would find helpful. For now, we let them quietly introduce themselves.

Neil, the man said.

And I am Barb. We are so happy to be a part of this voyage. We’re from out West, near Cody, Wyoming. We have never been abroad. We are buying property in Turkey.

Gungor stepped in. He said the couple were his guests because he also represented the developers of a beautiful resort community unique to Turkey called Rüya şehri.

It means Dream City and it certainly is! This fortunate couple is among the first to purchase there.

It’s a dream for us, Neil began. We are country people. My family homesteaded, farmed, and ran cattle in northern Wyoming since the late 1800s. We’ve worked hard, saved up, and now we will realize a dream in this Dream City Gungor has shown us.

They are fortunate, said Gungor. Few have been able to buy in at the lowest prices. The Kilgores have made an excellent choice and by purchasing early, they enjoy the best location and the most luxurious floor plan.

It sure seemed odd to have the conversation suddenly turn to real estate, and to have our guide talk like a shill about a Turkish land development. What is this dream city about? I began to wonder if I was in Arizona or Southern California. Questions began to swirl in my head, and Neil and Barb began to speak as if they had been prodded by one of those electric devices that ranchers use to get the cattle moving. I quickly realized just how appropriate the simile was.

It really is a dream, said Barb. We’ve had so many years – all our lives – on the Wyoming grasslands, running our cattle.

We had more than 6,000 acres, Neil added.

We called it the Sleepy K and that’s our brand – a letter K lying on its side. It has been Sleepy K since my great granddad homesteaded it in the 1870s, but down through the years we bought up more land. Everybody seemed to want to move away, but we stayed. Liked it fine but …

Barb took over:

We just got to the point that we wanted something different, so we put it on the market, and some wealthy guy from Atlanta bought the whole thing. So, we bought a place down in Colorado …

In Aspen, Neil added.

Will be there in the summer months, spend our winters here in Turkey.

They have made an important choice, Gungor said.

Perfect for us, said Neil.

In hindsight, I realize Griselda distracted me. Gungor smiled along until one thing changed. His eyes. I can recollect it now, but I did not notice at the time. Realize, I am one who has trained to notice details. Eye movements, hand movements, nervous finger-tapping – these can provide details that make otherwise dry journalism come alive. Griselda hijacked my attention, and I had almost missed a revealing detail.

He turned to the man, spoke, and it was only then that I turned from my furtive attention to Griselda. Gungor’s normally bright eyes turned dark; his brows dipped.

And you, my friend?

The man’s appearance could have suggested heavy industrial work, an iron worker or diesel mechanic, even an armored car driver. His very narrow forehead, deeply furrowed, managed to separate his eyebrows from his hairline by the thinnest of margins. He wore his hair brushed tightly back as men often did a hundred years ago. His sunken and mysterious eye sockets surprisingly housed light green and gray eyes, remarkably luminescent. As he slowly turned his head toward Gungor, he seemed simultaneously charismatic and frightening. He wore a white shirt open at the top and drawn tightly across his large chest. The short sleeves strained to contain his bulging biceps. His chiseled forearms, sparsely haired, reminded me of a weightlifter’s. He could be described as swarthy, dark, hulking, and mysterious. But he also presented a businesslike demeanor. His cheekbones were high, his nose pinched near his eye sockets, his chin cleft. His lips were full and locked in an expression of preparedness. He did not smile. He sat stiffly upright and daring, at the ready. His trimmed mustache wrapped the contours of his mouth like guardrails on a cliff-side highway. He said his name was Vasil.

Gungor went silent. A stillness spread across the gently rocking stern of the gulet. The sky dulled as the sun sank lower, and just beginning to rise off the starboard bow in the direction of the port from which we had come was the ivory glow of a rising moon.