Santa Cruise Read online

  Dudley felt a faint fluttering in his stomach. He hadn’t had the courage to go to his office and read his e-mail. He was grateful for the fact that most of the time local TV stations weren’t picked up by the ship’s communications system. He knew that the Commodore’s business office in Miami had probably contacted him about any coverage of the incident that had broken on the evening news. I’m like Scarlett O’Hara, he admitted to himself ruefully, I’ll think about it tomorrow. He was able to answer Alvirah honestly, “I haven’t heard anything else. As the Commodore announced, his offense was of a domestic nature. The man was way overdue on his alimony.”

  Ivy wagged her finger. “That’s one good thing about never meeting the right person. I’ve never had to worry about a deadbeat ex. When I was little, Papa gave his paycheck unopened to my mother every Friday night, and she handed him his allowance. It worked just fine until he asked for a raise.” She smiled at the waiter as he placed an apple martini in front of her. With great anticipation, she took a sip. “The things they can do with apples . . .” she exulted. “Oh, I should have waited until you were all served. I’m so wound up, but I feel safe with all of you.” As soon as everyone had their drinks, she held up her glass. “Let’s have a toast!”

  “Cheers,” they chorused as rain suddenly began beating noisily against the windows.

  “I wouldn’t want to be out there,” Regan commented as the ship suddenly rolled from side to side. “Listen to that wind! It’s starting to howl. This storm moved in pretty fast, didn’t it, Dudley?”

  “As I said, the sea is an unpredictable lady,” Dudley pronounced as he clutched his glass. “I’ve been through many such storms that have caught us by surprise. If this is like most others, it will go as fast as it came. And that’s what I predict.”

  “As long as there are no icebergs out there,” Ivy said cheerfully. “I’ve had enough surprises for tonight. Well, here comes Benedict Arnold.”

  “What?” Regan asked, puzzled.

  “My roommate, Maggie.”

  Maggie Quirk was crossing the room toward them, followed by Ted Cannon, who had removed his beard and cap. “Whoa!” Maggie cried as the ship suddenly lurched again. She grabbed Ted’s arm.

  “The ship didn’t roll, Maggie!” Ivy called out sweetly. “You just imagined it!”

  Maggie smiled as she approached the table. “Ivy, I’m sorry. At first, we all thought you staged that scene because you wanted so much to have a murder mystery on board. Now everyone knows that something really frightened you.”

  “There certainly is something going on,” Jack agreed, as he and Dudley stood. Introductions were made and extra chairs pulled up to the table.

  “Ted knows I’m your roommate, so he asked me about you,” Maggie explained.

  Alvirah noticed the cap in Ted’s hands. “That’s where it came from!” she exclaimed.

  “Where what came from?” Regan asked.

  Alvirah fished in her pocket. “The little bell we found in the chapel. It’s the same as the two on the tip of Ted’s cap.” She turned to Dudley. “How many bells are supposed to be on those caps?”

  Dudley hesitated. “Two.”

  “Dudley,” Alvirah said, “we should check the eight caps the Santas are wearing and see if they all still have two bells. If they do, then it looks as if someone who had one of the stolen Santa suits was in the chapel.”

  Regan stared at Dudley. He would certainly have recognized the bell as coming from one of the caps. He hadn’t mentioned it before. Clearly, he doesn’t want us to think that the person or persons who stole those outfits is wandering around the ship in them. And if that were the case, were they somehow connected to whatever it was that Ivy saw?

  Another rolling motion of the ship knocked their glasses over.

  “Time to call it a night,” Jack said as they all pushed back from the dripping table. “Be careful, everybody. This storm feels as though it’s getting worse.”

  Trying to be cheerful, Dudley proclaimed, “Don’t worry, everyone. You’re snug as a bug in a rug in this old tub.”

  The psychic’s warning flashed into Alvirah’s mind. “I see a tub. A large tub. You are not safe in it. . . .”

  21

  This is nuts!” Bull’s-Eye spat out the words as he and Highbridge huddled behind the barn, driving rain hitting them from every direction. “We’re getting soaked. When it gets light, what are we going to do? Even if it’s stopped raining, we’re gonna look like a couple of drowned rats. There’s no way we’ll be able to walk around in these Santa suits.”

  Highbridge longed for his Greenwich estate with the wonderful bubbling Jacuzzi in the master bathroom and its view of Long Island Sound. I had so much family money I didn’t even need to cheat investors, he thought. But it had been so much fun. Now, as he sat miserable and wet, wearing a scratchy Santa suit, he realized he should have gone into therapy and worked out his criminal instincts. And all the money he had wasted on his gold-digging ex-girlfriend who was now schussing down the slopes of Aspen with someone else. If he didn’t get to Fishbowl Island there was one thing he could count on—she’d never qualify for a cruise like this by visiting him in the clink. The thought of trading his Armani wardrobe for an orange jumpsuit riddled him with even more anxiety, if that was possible.

  “Eric’s got to be looking for us,” Highbridge said. “It’s his neck, too, if we’re found.”

  Suddenly the blades of a windmill on the ninth hole, which had been spinning wildly, came loose and went flying through the air. They landed inches from their sandaled feet.

  22

  Eric knew that if he ran into Alvirah Meehan on an isolated deck, he’d toss her overboard. If it weren’t for her, Bull’s-Eye and Highbridge would still be safely in his stateroom, and he’d be that much closer to his big payoff. The way things were, they had told Eric they wouldn’t give him the second half of his money when their people picked them up off Fishbowl Island. And he’d be lucky if one or the other of them, once they were safely outside the United States, didn’t write a letter explaining to the authorities exactly how they fled the country.

  Eric had another thought. If he came across Dudley on an isolated deck, it would be an even greater pleasure to throw him in the drink. All this was coursing through his mind, as he was temporarily forced to abandon the search for his two charges and check on Crater. Grabbing on to the bannister, he hurried down flight after flight of steps to the medical facility in the bowels of the ship. With each descending flight, the rocking of the ship lessened somewhat, but even so he had to steady himself along the guardrail of the passageway outside the infirmary.

  Expecting to find an empty waiting room, Eric was disagreeably surprised to find it filled with queasy passengers demanding ear patches for their seasickness. Bobby Grimes, whose drunken outburst had been the talk of the cocktail party, was holding his head in his hands. When he spotted Eric, he barked, “I knew I should have stayed home.”

  I wish you had, too, Eric thought, as he crossed the small reception area and opened the door that led to Gephardt’s office and the treatment rooms. The nurse behind the desk was sorting medication. She had the aura of a guard dog. Looking at Eric, she frowned in disapproval.

  “My uncle wants me to speak to Crater,” he told her. “Which room is he in?”

  “Second on the right,” she answered crisply. “Dr. Gephardt is with him.”

  The door to Crater’s room was open. Gephardt was beside the bed. Eric heard him say, “This shot will definitely relieve those back spasms, Mr. Crater. It should also help you sleep.”

  “I want to go back to my room,” Crater protested, his voice drowsy.

  “Not tonight,” Gephardt said firmly. “Your back is bad, and we’re in a storm. The last thing we need is for you to fall again. Down here you’re in the calmest part of the ship, and we can keep an eye on you.”

  Crater tried to sit up but fell back immediately, moaning in pain.

  “See what I mean!”
Gephardt said triumphantly. “The medicine will start to work in a few minutes. Now just relax.”

  Eric tapped the door to announce his presence and walked over to the bed. “Mr. Crater, we’re so sorry about your accident. But you’re in good hands with Dr. Gephardt.”

  “Those miserable kids,” Crater moaned. “Who stuck me at that table?”

  “Never mind,” Eric said soothingly. “From now on you’ll be seated at the Commodore’s table. He’s wonderfully entertaining.”

  “That’s right,” Gephardt agreed. “Mr. Crater, you said yourself these back spasms don’t last long. We hope to have you up and about as soon as possible. But you absolutely cannot move now. Of course, we can always summon your helicopter when the storm passes, if you feel you’d be more comfortable at home.”

  Crater’s face darkened. “Where’s my cell phone?” he asked as he drifted off to sleep.

  Gephardt nodded to Eric, indicating they should step outside. Eric followed him into his office. A lightbulb had gone off in Eric’s head.

  “He seems alone,” Eric said solicitously. “Is he traveling with anyone?”

  “No,” Gephardt answered slowly. “He really puzzles me. His back is certainly in spasm, but he’s not as sickly as he appeared. His body is surprisingly muscular and all his vital signs are perfect. I can’t understand why he was wearing a grayish makeup on his face. Underneath it, his skin is ruddy, but that stuff makes him look like a cadaver.”

  Eric glanced down at Gephardt’s desk. Crater’s chart was right there, his cabin number next to his name. “You’re definitely keeping him here overnight?” Eric asked.

  Gephardt nodded solemnly. “At least overnight. I know he’d prefer to be back in his own room, but with that shot I gave him he’ll be lights out until tomorrow morning.” He then smiled. “Can you believe the Deitz children’s mother already had them make Get Well cards for him? He tore them up unopened.”

  Eric laughed, pretending to share a moment with Gephardt.

  “Now, Eric, if you’ll excuse me, I have a waiting room full of patients,” Gephardt said briskly.

  For a split second Eric was angry at being dismissed by a nerd like Gephardt when he was dying to get out of there anyway. But the anger passed quickly. Now at least he had a plan.

  Moving even faster than before, he hurried back up the companionway to the Lido. It was nearly empty. “Not too many takers for the buffet tonight?” he asked one of the waiters.

  “Not with this weather.”

  “I thought I’d see some of the Santas up here,” Eric said, trying to sound casual. “So many people were talking to them at dinner, they didn’t get much chance to eat.”

  “Two of them came up here really early. We weren’t even set up yet. They took some grapes and cheese.”

  Eric’s pulse quickened. That had to have been Bull’s-Eye and Highbridge. “Did they sit in here?”

  “No, they took the food with them and went out the back.” The waiter turned his attention to the buffet table. “We’re starting to put everything away early. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Eric answered quickly. “See you around.” He knew the waiter would think he was insane if he went out the back door into the rain. Instead, he took the inside archway that led to the bank of elevators, strode past them, and exited through a side door that opened onto the deck. A driving rain immediately soaked his uniform. Getting on his hands and knees so the waiters wouldn’t see him walking around in the rain like a lunatic, he headed toward the back of the ship. If Bull’s-Eye and Highbridge were hiding out there, he’d have to let them know he was in the vicinity.

  He waited until he got to the sports area before he started singing, “Santa Claus is comin’ to town.”

  23

  Regan and Jack escorted Alvirah back to her room.

  “Get right to bed, Alvirah,” Jack said. “The way this ship is rocking, it would be very easy to fall.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Alvirah said. “For forty years I stood on wobbly tables to dust chandeliers. I always said I could have been a tightrope walker.”

  Regan laughed and gave Alvirah a peck on the cheek. “Take Jack’s advice. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Alvirah let herself into the room and was comforted by the sight of an almost invisible Willy wrapped up in the blankets and the sound of his rumbling snore. The desk lamp was on. I’m too wound up to sleep, she told herself. And anyhow, I want to record everything that happened today while it’s still fresh in my mind. My editor, Charlie, said if I could get an exciting story out of this cruise, he’d be interested, but he didn’t want a travelogue or just a feel-good piece. “I appreciate all the good deeds these people have done,” he had said, not sounding particularly appreciative, “but it doesn’t sell papers.”

  Well, some pretty interesting things have happened today, Alvirah thought as she retrieved her sunburst pin with the hidden recorder out of the safe and settled down at the desk.

  “When we arrived at the ship, they didn’t even have a room for us,” she began, her voice soft.

  “Mmmmmmm.” Behind her, she heard Willy stir. Sometimes he could sleep through a fire alarm, but with the way the ship is moving, I might wake him up if I talk in here, she realized. I’ll stand outside the door.

  In the passageway, Alvirah grasped the railing with one hand and with the other held the sunburst pin close to her lips as she recounted every detail of the day’s events. She ran down the list of what had happened: the room mix-up, Dudley’s fall from the rock-climbing wall, the waiter jumping overboard, the missing Santa suits, and Ivy spotting a ghost. She paused and added one more detail. “It’s funny that Dudley didn’t explain immediately where that bell we found in the chapel must have come from. He had to have recognized that it was from one of the Santa caps. That really is something to think about.”

  Alvirah clicked off her recorder and went back inside the room. In the bathroom, she removed her makeup, brushed her teeth, and changed into a nightgown and robe. She crawled into bed next to Willy and was about to flick off the desk lamp from the bedside switch when she noticed the cards that Willy had been playing with were resting in a furrow of the blanket. She picked up the deck, intending to put it in the night table drawer, when something caught her eye.

  “That’s funny,” she said aloud. The top card was the jack of hearts but there was something unusual about it. What was it? Around the head of the jack there was a frame with what looked like an abstract design. Alvirah studied the design closely. Acting on a hunch, she carried the cards into the bathroom and turned on the light. A makeup mirror with a magnifying glass was attached to the wall by the sink. She held the jack of hearts up to the mirror. The seemingly abstract design, as reflected in the mirror, was actually a series of numbers.

  “I thought so,” she murmured triumphantly as she quickly glanced through the deck. It soon became clear that only the royal cards were marked with the abstract design. She separated the jacks, queens, and kings, and one by one held them up to the mirror. All twelve contained a different series of numbers. What do those numbers stand for and who do the cards belong to? she wondered. When we showed them to Eric, he was so brusque and dismissive I was sure he’d never seen them before.

  Hmmm. Alvirah again reviewed the day’s events and remembered how Winston was surprised to find potato chips on the floor of Eric’s room. Now a mysterious deck of cards was found in his drawer. Had someone else been using Eric’s room? Could this have been the unofficial break room for some of the workers who were getting the Royal Mermaid ready this week? I wouldn’t blame them. Next to the Commodore’s suite, it’s the best accommodation on the ship.

  But as Alvirah got into bed, her instinct told her that it wasn’t workmen who’d been in the room.

  There’s something else going on here, she thought, and I’m going to find out what it is.

  24

  Bianca Garcia had been a reporter with a local Miami televisio
n station since September. Young, fiery, and ambitious, she was determined to make a name for herself in the industry. So far, she had only been assigned to fluff pieces, most of which were given about thirty seconds of airtime. She had gone to cover the Santa Cruise, expecting a boring afternoon with zip, zero, nothing to report.

  But when the waiter jumped ship and Bianca’s crew recorded it all on tape, she knew she had the kind of segment that might have legs. When it didn’t make the six P.M. broadcast because of a breaking story about an overturned tractor trailer that had spilled its load of dairy products all over the highway and tied up traffic in every direction, Bianca had been chagrined.

  But as it turned out—like her grandmother always said—“Sometimes when you get stinkerooed, God has a reason for it.” Good old grandma. At eighty-five, she still was Bianca’s best sounding board.

  Sure enough, after the six o’clock broadcast, the producer had said, “Bianca, I’m sick of the scrambled-eggs story. I can give you more time on the ten o’clock show.”

  Bianca had stayed in close touch with her contact at the police department all evening to learn if there was anything more to the swimming waiter than the fact that he was behind on his alimony checks. To her delight there was.

  She also spent time researching the history of the cruise ship. In anticipation of reporting what was now a much juicier story than what she had had for the earlier broadcast, at quarter of ten Bianca touched up her makeup and brushed her long dark hair. During the commercial break, she sashayed across the newsroom, climbed up on the stool at the right of the anchor’s desk, and crossed her shapely legs.

  “Hello, Mary Louise,” Bianca said sweetly to the woman who had considered the ten o’clock broadcast “The Mary Louise Show” for the past decade. Bianca intended to occupy her seat before too much longer, then move on to bigger and better things.