Santa Cruise Page 4

  “Minus one,” the Commodore said grimly, not knowing he was actually plus one. “I just hope I won’t have to pitch in and wait tables myself.” Standing with Smith, who hadn’t done anything stupid yet, the Commodore felt his good humor begin to return. Every maiden voyage has its ups and downs, he realized. The Commodore had been disappointed by the anguished expression on Eric’s face when he was told he had to give up his room and move in with his uncle. He seemed so anxious to share this time together when we visited last night, the Commodore thought. One would think that he’d be happy to be even closer to me. We’d have more time to share. Oh well.

  The Commodore turned to see how many people might be standing at the Peek-a-Boo window, which allowed passengers to watch the captain as he steered the ship. Another disappointment. There was only one observer, Harry Crater, a sickly looking fellow. In fact, he looks like he’s about to keel over, the Commodore thought. When I chatted with him at the cocktail party, it was a relief to hear that he owned a helicopter, and if he had a medical emergency, he would send for it immediately. I wouldn’t wish him hard luck, but perhaps a passing medical problem requiring the helicopter would be a newsworthy item. It would highlight our ability to respond to emergencies by having our own landing pad. He made a mental note to point that out to Dudley.

  The Commodore waved and saluted.

  At the Peek-a-Boo window, Harry Crater waved back. It was the feeble movement of a powerful arm that was being concealed by a jacket two sizes too large. He didn’t care about anything except the heliport, and that was obviously satisfactory for his plan.

  Remembering to lean on the cane, he shuffled away.

  The Commodore watched him depart. His health may be failing, but clearly his spirit has not been broken. I just hope this cruise is of benefit to him. I wonder how much good he did for the rest of the human race this year. I must ask Dudley, he told himself.

  “Would you like to push the button?” the captain asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Indeed!” the Commodore replied. Like a baby with a toy steering wheel, he slapped his hand down on the toot button.

  Tooooooooot! Tooooooooot!!

  “We’re on our way!” the Commodore cried joyfully. “And there’s no turning back!”

  8

  Regan and Jack’s stateroom was at the opposite end of the passageway from Luke and Nora’s. It was a deck below where Alvirah and Willy would be staying.

  The six of them had checked out both of the Reilly rooms, found them satisfactory, and went up to Eric’s former quarters together. They were all dying of curiosity. The room was in a separate section of the ship, down the passageway from the Commodore’s suite, not an area where passengers would normally stay.

  The door to the room was open.

  “Hello,” Alvirah called as she reached the doorway.

  A straight-backed, balding man in a dark steward’s uniform was running a cloth over a night table. “Good afternoon, Madame,” he replied with a slight bow. “Are you Mrs. Meehan?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “My name is Winston. I will be your butler on this voyage. It will be my pleasure to ensure your absolute comfort. I am prepared to serve you everything from breakfast in your suite to a hot chocolate at bedtime. May I add my apologies for your inconvenience because of a reservation mishap?”

  “No problem,” Alvirah said heartily as she walked inside and looked around admiringly. “You guys have nice rooms,” she told the Reillys, “but this one really takes the cake.”

  “It’s terrific,” Regan agreed. She had not missed the expression on Eric Manchester’s face when he was told he had to give up the room. I can see why he wouldn’t be happy, she thought. But it was more than that. He seemed agitated.

  The closet door was open. Nora glanced into it. “The closet is practically a room unto itself,” she commented.

  “With all Alvirah’s luggage, she needs whatever space she can get,” Willy said. “Oh, here are the bags now.”

  An out-of-breath porter had arrived at the door.

  “We’ll clear out and give you a chance to get settled,” Luke said. “Remember, there’s a lifeboat drill at five o’clock.”

  Winston gave a quick last-minute inspection of the room, then shook his head. “How did I miss these?” he said under his breath as he leaned over and picked up several squashed potato chips from the floor by the couch. “I thought Eric was such a health nut . . .” As he straightened up, he said, “I think everything is shipshape for you now. Anything else you need, just pick up the phone please.” He looked at the Reillys and sniffed. “Shall we leave the Meehans to unpack in peace?” His voice was at its most plummy and British, like a maritime Jeeves.

  “We shall,” Jack said dryly. He calls himself a butler, he thought. Give me a break. We don’t need to be told it’s time to go.

  “Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” Luke mumbled.

  “We’ll meet you downstairs after the lifeboat drill,” Alvirah said quickly, attempting to smooth over Winston’s arrogance. “Isn’t it wonderful that we’re on our way?”

  As the others followed Winston out the door, the porter struggled to hoist Alvirah’s suitcases on top of the bed. Willy’s garment bag was a marvel of efficiency. Except for one other smaller bag, everything he needed was in it. Alvirah opened the drawer of the night table next to her side of the bed and placed calcium pills in it. She had heard they were better absorbed if you took them at night. A deck of playing cards was inside the drawer.

  “Ohhhh. Look at these, Willy. Remember how we used to like playing cards? We’ve gotten away from it these last few years.”

  “That’s because you’re too busy solving crimes,” Willy commented.

  The cards were held together with a rubber band. Alvirah picked them up.

  Willy glanced at them. “I’ll ask that guy Eric if they’re his. Bad enough we took his room.”

  He stuffed them in his pocket. “If they make us sit too long at that lifeboat drill, we can always play Hearts.”

  9

  While Regan was putting away the last of her clothes, Jack hooked up their computer. They had agreed that neither one of them wanted to be out of touch with the outside world for long. Even though they’d only left New York this morning, they already felt that their normal life was a million miles away.

  The headlines of the day flashed on the screen.

  “Famous Felons Flee!”

  Jack whistled as he read the story:

  Mob boss “Bull’s-Eye” Tony Pinto and white-collar criminal Barron Highbridge are among the missing. The two men, from different worlds, were both due in court this morning. They were allowed to spend Christmas with their families, but obviously did not stay for leftovers. At Pinto’s palatial home in Miami, authorities found his wife asleep in bed, wearing his ankle bracelet. “I don’t know how it got there,” she explained. “I’m a heavy sleeper. Where’s my Tony?”

  At Highbridge’s estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, the Christmas tree lights were still burning, but no one was home. His eighty-six-year-old mother, whom he had claimed was terminally ill, was vacationing on the French Riviera with a group of her girlfriends. “We’re having such a good time. We call ourselves ‘The Golden Girls,’ “she chirped over the phone. “It was a dreadful mistake that the jurors found my son guilty. He’s got a good heart. He’s made a lot of money for people over the years. . . . I feel fine. Why do you ask?”

  Highbridge’s longtime girlfriend is in Aspen with B–list actor Wilkie Winters. “I won’t have anything to do with a convicted felon,” she said piously, flashing the jewelry Highbridge is known to have bought for her.

  Regan was reading over Jack’s shoulder. Her fingers played with the necklace he had given her for Christmas. “I hope I’m never going to have to say that about you,” she joked.

  Jack gave her a look and they both continued to read.

  Based on his wealthy family’s impeccable reputation, forty-four-
year-old Highbridge was able to attract numerous gullible investors in his Ponzi scheme. He was convicted of stealing millions of dollars from them. He was about to be sentenced and was expected to receive a minimum of fifteen years in prison. The trial of Bull’s-Eye Tony Pinto, charged with ordering the murder of rivals in the construction business, was to have begun on January 3rd.

  Jack shook his head. “Those guys both knew their goose was cooked. I had dealings with Tony when he was up in New York, but we could never get enough evidence to present to a grand jury. I was glad to see one of his guys ratted him out.”

  Regan sat on the bed. “They’ve got to be headed someplace where there’s no extradition. But they’d have to have surrendered their passports as a condition of bail.”

  “With security so tight they won’t get away with phony passports,” Jack said. “I’ll see what the office knows about it.” He picked up his international cell phone and dialed. Keith, his number one guy, picked up on the first ring.

  “Jack, you’re supposed to be on vacation,” he said when he heard his boss’s voice.

  “I am on vacation. I’m also looking at the Internet. I see Bull’s-Eye Tony has flown the coop. I’ll never understand why they didn’t keep him in jail. If anyone’s a flight risk, he’s it. Have you heard anything about him or Barron Highbridge?”

  “An informant claims that Pinto was trying to make contact with someone who could get him out of the country. The Feds have the airports covered. It’s possible that either or both of them might be heading to one of those places in the Caribbean that has no extradition treaty with the United States.”

  “Is Fishbowl Island one of them? That’s our only stop.”

  “I’ve got a list,” Keith said. “Let me take a look.” He laughed. “Guess what? Fishbowl Island is on it. So keep an eye out for Tony.”

  “We will. Anything else going on?”

  “No, Boss. Relax and have a good time with your bride. How’s the cruise ship anyway?”

  “Don’t ask,” Jack said with a laugh. “One of the waiters jumped ship while we were still in port. He was arrested for nonpayment of alimony. And the cruise director fell off the rock-climbing wall.”

  “Sounds like you’ll be safer on your skis this weekend.”

  “Maybe so. Keep me posted about anything I’d want to hear.”

  “Which is everything,” Keith cracked. “I’m sure we’ll be hearing lots more about Pinto.”

  Jack stared at the photograph of Pinto, which had just come up on the screen. “I’d hate to see him get away. He’s as bad as they come.”

  As he closed his cell phone, an announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Attention Santa Cruisers! Commodore Weed here. We are about to have a mandatory lifeboat drill. All passengers must attend. No excuses. The life this drill saves may be your own. Grab your life jackets, and please don’t trip on the belts. Crew members are ready to direct you to the dining room, where you will receive general instructions, then be led to your lifeboat station. Let’s not have any Nervous Nellies—this drill is just a precaution.”

  Regan opened the closet door, pulled out the two life jackets, and handed one to her husband. “Do you think this is the only time we’ll be putting these on?” she asked jokingly.

  “With the way things are going, I wouldn’t count on it,” Jack said as he helped pull Regan’s life jacket over her head. “You even look good in fluorescent orange.”

  “You liar. Let’s go.”

  10

  At least the lifeboat drill had gone well, Dudley thought, as he stood in the supply room, waiting to hand out the Santa Claus suits. Except for that idiot who thought it was funny to keep blowing the whistle on his life jacket.

  I wish that the safety instructions didn’t have that new advice that if you can’t reach a lifeboat, you should put one hand over your mouth, hold down the shoulder of your life jacket with the other hand, and pretend that you’re just walking off the ship as you jump into the water. It was ridiculous. Walk or jump you’re still hitting the water in a most unpleasant way. That kind of talk scares people—I know it scares me. I can just see myself standing on the rail with the ship going down, and trying to delude myself I’m out for a stroll.

  Dudley shrugged his shoulders. There was enough to worry about without borrowing trouble. If anything else goes wrong I may be walking the plank anyhow, he thought. I cannot believe the Commodore was so mad at me this afternoon. Was it my fault that that waiter didn’t pay his alimony? No. Was it my fault that that first prong on the rock-climbing wall fell off? No. The Commodore should have been thrilled that I escaped with only a few bruises on my buttocks. I could use a good soak in a tub, he thought, but of course my room doesn’t have a tub. I’m lucky it has a sink.

  But I did hire the waiter, he admitted to himself. And the screwup on the room was an honest mistake. When I received the letter from Mr. Crater’s nurse showing me the receipts for all the money he had given to charity this year, and saying that his final wish was to be with good people like him on this cruise, how could I refuse? I just wish I had written it down when I gave his name to the reservations people. Maybe I didn’t get the final count straight, but it’s their fault for assigning two people to the same room!

  “Okay to come in?”

  The first Santa Claus had arrived. “I’m Ted Cannon,” he said.

  He’s one of the quiet type Santas, Dudley thought. He doesn’t seem like a barrel of laughs. I can’t picture him saying, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

  “Great to see you, Ted,” he said in his most enthusiastic voice.

  The Santa Clauses had been told that as a condition of coming on the cruise, they’d be expected to wear a Santa outfit at the first and final dinners at sea. Dudley was turning over in his mind how best to present the Commodore’s newest idea—that he’d love to see them wearing the outfits as often as possible. The Commodore wanted his passengers to enjoy a festive atmosphere, having no idea that Santas all over the ship at all times would more likely drive his guests out of their minds.

  The other nine Santas arrived within the next two minutes and crowded into the supply room. In those two minutes, Dudley had perfected his speech. Don’t let them think they’re doing us a favor, he reminded himself—let them think they’re being honored by being chosen to work.

  He felt relief as the men began to smile when he told them how proud the Commodore was to have them all aboard. “He wants to put the spotlight on the good you have all done to create warmth and joy for so many people during the holiday season,” Dudley explained, thinking that some of the Santas probably promised kids presents they didn’t get. “Because the Commodore understands how much love you provided to children of all ages when you wore your Santa outfits, he was hoping that you’d want to spread that love as often as possible during the cruise by wearing these outfits.” Dudley pointed to the rack. “As often as possible,” he repeated. His voice rose. “Morning, noon, and night.”

  The smiles vanished. Bobby Grimes, the rolypoly guy from Montana, who looked as though he should have been the cheeriest of all, said, “I thought this was supposed to be a free trip, thanking us for all the work we already did. Some thanks. When I work as Santa Claus, I get paid Santa Claus wages. This is a rip-off. What you call a breach of contract.”

  The troublemaker of the group has just identified himself, Dudley thought. I wouldn’t put it past him to make a ship-to-shore call to one of those lawyers who advertise on TV. “Did you fall? Or almost fall? Maybe you suffered psychological damage when someone gave you a dirty look. We’ll sue for you. You deserve it.”

  Some of the others were nodding and agreeing with Grimes.

  “I’ve been wearing a Santa costume since Halloween,” one of them griped. “I’m sick of it. I wanted to sit in a deck chair in a pair of shorts, not spend all day in a hot, scratchy suit.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” another Santa chimed in. “I was a volunteer Santa. I didn’t get a nickel for traipsin
g around lugging a heavy sack over my shoulders.”

  Ted Cannon felt sorry for Dudley, but the last thing he wanted to do was wear the costume every night at dinner. In the two holiday seasons since Joan died, the Santa appearances were painful reminders that she was gone. She had always accompanied him to the nursing homes and hospitals, and afterward they’d go out for dinner together. Joan had laughingly insisted on paying for dinner those nights, he remembered. She’d said that Santa deserved a good meal after squeezing down so many chimneys.

  “I agree with Bobby,” Nick Tracy from Georgia drawled. “I’ll wear the suit tonight and the last night, and that’s it.”

  Ted saw the look of desperation on Dudley’s face and decided to help out. “Come on,” he urged the others. “We’re enjoying a free trip. What’s the big deal about putting the suits on for an hour or two a day?” He pointed to them. “They’re even lightweight.”

  Dudley wanted to kiss him.

  “But look at those beards,” Rudy Miller from Albany, New York, pointed out. “We’re supposed to eat with them on? Are we on a liquid diet?”

  “You can take them off while you eat,” Dudley promised. “What we really want to do is let people take pictures with you.”

  Ted Cannon walked over to the clothes rack and began to check the sizes of the outfits. “These look as if they’re cut pretty big,” he commented. “I guess I’m a long.” He removed one hanger, folded the contents over his arm, then took a beard, stocking cap, and sandals from the boxes next to the rack.

  “I like wearing a Santa suit,” Pete Nelson from Philadelphia piped up. “I was always a bit shy, but wearing the suit made it easier to talk to people. My therapist said it was like being an actor. He said that many actors are really very shy when they’re not playing a part.”

  “He sounds brilliant,” Grimes snapped. “Who cares whether actors are shy? Most of them are overpaid jerks.”

  “I resent that,” Nelson said. “I’m just trying to share what my therapist is teaching me.”