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  DROWNED UNDER

  The Second Cyd Redondo Mystery

  “The passenger list in Wendall Thomas’s Drowned Under is a cavalcade of randy former nuns, gigolos, stowaways, near-extinct marsupials...and one brilliantly sexy disaster of a globetrotting travel agent named Cyd Redondo. Thanks to her wildly creative mind, the fruits of which produce frequent affronts to her dignity, Cyd is easily one of my favorite amateur sleuths in fiction today. Thomas’s writing flows effortlessly, and her plotting is complex but perfectly tied together. This is a remarkable novel in what is shaping up to be an exciting and hilarious series. Don’t miss Drowned Under or its predecessor, Lost Luggage. You’ll love Cyd, perhaps the funniest heroine out there. Highest recommendation.”

  —James W. Ziskin, Anthony and Macavity Award-winning

  author of the Ellie Stone Mysteries

  “Bravo. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel, is at it again. What a wonderful sequel to Lost Luggage. With her clever mind, tart comebacks, and Balenciaga tote bag, Cyd is a fearsome force. I love her pluck, the way she digs her way out of trouble, and her willingness to do everything she can—even die—for her clientele. What a heroine for the modern age. Do not miss this!”

  —Daryl Wood Gerber, Agatha Award-winning,

  national bestselling author of the Cookbook Nook and

  French Bistro Mysteries

  “Drowned Under is laugh out loud funny. With its finely tuned timing and zany, emotional protagonist, this novel puts Thomas in a class with Carl Hiassen and Janet Evanovitch.”

  —Nancy Tingley, Lefty-nominated author of

  the Jenna Murphy mysteries

  LOST LUGGAGE

  The First Cyd Redondo Mystery

  2018 Macavity Award nominee for Best First Novel

  2018 Lefty Award nominee for Best Debut Mystery

  “Thomas makes a rollicking debut with this comic mystery featuring an unconventional protagonist who proves to have the skills of MacGyver. With its sexy overtones, this fun, character-driven novel will appeal to Janet Evanovich fans.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Thomas packs a whole franchise’s worth of adventures into her heroine’s debut...”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Laugh-out-loud funny and enchantingly ridiculous...highly entertaining...”

  —Jessica Howard, Shelf Awareness

  “A breath of fresh air in a world gone mad...my vote for one of the best new characters in mystery/crime.”

  —The Reading Room

  “I’ve been waiting for years to find a successor to Janet Evanovich, and I’ve finally found one.”

  —Kittling Books

  Drowned

  Under

  A Cyd Redondo Mystery

  Wendall Thomas

  Copyright © 2019 by Wendall Thomas

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  Cover images © Valentyna Chukhlyebova/Shutterstock,

  Sashkin/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging 2018959448

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  SB 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  Drowned Under

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  More from this Author

  For James Bartlett, my irreplaceable, ever-patient husband,

  who first told me about the thylacine, laughed at my jokes,

  and helped me with every aspect of the book.

  It would not exist without him.

  And for all the tigers—past, present, and future.

  Acknowledgments

  Everyone says the second book is tough. This one was, but it would have been much tougher without the profound generosity, support, and kindness of the following people.

  First, thanks to my sister, Kim Thomas Stout, for the cruise stories, the “instant” reads, and her lifelong support of my writing. Thanks also to my Sisters in Crime—Rochelle Staab and Tammy Kaehler—for early reads and invaluable notes, to Ray Stout for the info on Narcan, and to my CHHS compatriot and travel agent extraordinaire, Debbie Clark Kaiser, for keeping me honest.

  I am grateful to all of my friends and family, but particularly to Keith Sears, Carol Bartlett, Smith Richardson, Michele Mulroney, Nancy Tingley, Daryl Wood Gerber, Jim Ziskin, Hallie Ephron, Kate Carlisle, Rick and Carter McGarry, Mary Lou and Jack Cass, and my dad, Grady Thomas. Special thanks to James Utt and Daryl Cameron for their friendship and for the title. Jeff Koeze—you asked for it.

  I cannot say enough about Tasmania and the wonderful people there. Mark Hosking, of the Maritime Museum of Tasmania, took time out of his busy schedule to help me with my research, and the Thylacine Gallery in the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery provided both location and inspiration. The Tasmanian Marine and Rescue Services and the Hobart Police were enormously helpful and nothing like their fictional counterparts. Everyone I met, from the hotel
staff to local limo drivers, contributed to the atmosphere of the novel. I hope they will all forgive me for taking considerable artistic license with their gorgeous city and its historic buildings and institutions. Continued thanks to Gerry Morris and the wonderful Chadwick’s in Bay Ridge. They may not have a real Tiki Night, but they do have the best crab cakes in the Northern Hemisphere.

  This year I had the privilege of meeting a host of booksellers, librarians, and reviewers. Their support for Lost Luggage kept me going during book two. They are all fighting the good fight and often don’t get the recognition they deserve. I owe them a huge debt, as we all do. And of course, I am so grateful for all my kind and generous readers.

  Finally, thanks to the staffs at Twist Eatery, Maggianos at the Grove, El Coyote, and the dearly departed Xiomara, for all they’ve done to keep me fed, sane, and writing.

  Chapter One

  December 2006

  It was Tiki Night at Chadwick’s. A dusty neon palm tree—sporting a Santa hat—pulsed behind the bar. Fire hazard, I thought, as I flashed a holiday-watt smile at the Wednesday regulars, most of whom had moved down the bar to get away from me.

  I was currently both the most loved and most hated woman in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Mostly most hated. The drinker sitting three stools down, swaddled in a crusty L.L. Bean field jacket, considered it my fault he’d lost his job. Maybe, but it was not my fault he had overdone the whole Catholic thing and fathered seven kids. In my opinion, moderate birth control displayed good citizenship, akin to recycling. I told the bartender to put his next three drinks on my tab anyway. Call me Cyd Redondo, Secret Santa.

  I’d just jabbed myself in the eye with the pink mermaid in my Winter Windjammer Special, when a polar draft slammed through the padded swinging door.

  “Cydhartha!” There was nothing like an eighth-grade nickname to ruin a girl’s night, especially when it was bellowed across the bar by her ex-husband.

  Barry Manzoni and I, like most Catholic school survivors of our generation, had endured Sister Ellery Magdalene Malcomb’s obsession with Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha. During one of her dramatic readings of the German classic, Barry had christened me with a spitball and I’d been “Cydhartha” ever since, except, thank God, during sex.

  He shook off his overcoat to reveal he’d lost about forty pounds since he’d married Angela Hepler. I’d always considered her a succubus, so it made sense. He had the same oversized, slightly bugged eyes and the same dimpled chin I remembered, but hitherto hidden pecs had emerged and there were new worry lines around his mouth. I’d won exclusive Chadwick’s “visitation rights” in the annulment, so what the heck was he doing here?

  He sidled beside me onto one of the four empty bar stools, gestured for two of what I was having, then stared at the drunken reindeer napkin the bartender set down.

  “Make yourself at home.” I said, and waited. “What? What is it?”

  “You know my parents went on a cruise to Australia?”

  I took a long pause. “I heard.” It was a sore subject. After we split up, his parents, their extended family, and half of the Masonic Lodge had taken their travel business to my arch rival, Peggy Newsome—a pit viper disguised as an advertisement for plastic surgery. So I’d not only lost a husband and lifelong friend, I’d lost fifty Redondo Travel clients. “Did she get them the free excursions? Because you know, I could’ve.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” Barry rapped his fingers on the bar, then shot his drink—no small feat since it was blended.

  “Spit it out, Manzoni.”

  “They’re missing.”

  I really hoped the Captain Morgan’s rum was affecting my hearing. “They’re what?”

  “Missing, Cyd. My parents are missing.”

  I texted my Aunt Helen to say I’d be late for dinner, mostly to avoid Barry’s panicked expression. I recognized that look. It was the same one he’d worn walking out of that Wedding Chapel in Atlantic City three years ago.

  “How long?”

  He gestured for another drink. “Two days.”

  “Two days?” How did I not know this? News in Bay Ridge usually set land speed records.

  I instantly forgot all the times Barry’s mom, Sandra, had mentioned my weight or my inability to conceive in the three seconds Barry and I’d been married. However they might have treated me, the Manzonis were senior citizens, they were missing, and they were at best a twenty-two-hour flight away and, at worst, shark bait in the Bass Strait.

  I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed Barry’s hand, then dropped it. “Peggy Newsome is their travel agent. What has she done about this?”

  “Nothing. I can’t reach her. I guess she’s gone for the holidays.” Typical Peggy fricking Newsome, I thought. Barry looked down into his empty mug. “I know it’s a big ask, but will you help me?”

  It was a big ask, considering. “Of course.” I looked him in the eye. “We go back.”

  I wrote down the name of the cruise ship and we caught up on our mutually disastrous lives for a minute, then I ordered a round of drinks for my detractors at the bar and told Barry I would call him with an update.

  It was a shock to see him. I’m not going to lie. I still had some residual affection for the man. After all, I’d known him since I was four and had named my Madagascan chameleon after him. Mostly, though, he inspired sadness and regret. And fury re: Angela Hepler.

  My Charles David kitten heel boots slid through the grainy, gray-black “snice” that had been mushing up our sidewalks for weeks. I pulled my Dooney & Bourke silver quilted jacket (eighty percent off with coupon at Century 21) closer. The red and white icicle lights around the Redondo Travel sign gave it a rosy glow. I breathed in the frigid air. The smell of soon-to-be-uneaten fruitcake baking in every house almost masked the ever-present tang of truck exhaust and garlic.

  I locked the door behind me, sat down at my desk, and switched on the computer. Someone was already lurking in the machine, going through my files.

  Chapter Two

  My Uncle Ray was at it again.

  He had a history of intervention, starting with taking me and my mom in after my dad died in a crash on the JFK Expressway. I was four, the youngest of the ten cousins, and the only girl. Ever since then, he’d been my surrogate father, my travel agent mentor, my landlord, my employer, and a million other things until a month ago, when he entered a Martha Stewart-esque minimum security prison for a two-year stretch.

  The whole thing was a touchy subject, as half of Bay Ridge thought I’d as good as put him there. I’d uncovered an endangered animal smuggling ring in Tanzania, not knowing he’d been a part of it on the Brooklyn end. He’d used the proceeds of his crime to save our floundering travel business. In the end, to protect his equally guilty son—my “brousin” Jimmy—he’d turned himself in.

  Before he did, he’d signed Redondo Travel over to me, impending bankruptcy and all, saying it would be safe in my hands. Still, the benevolent, old school sexist part of him couldn’t quite trust me to handle things on my own. He saw his bi-weekly spying as “protective.” I saw it as likely to provoke ten minutes pulverizing the punching bag I had hanging in the supply room.

  I changed the password for the forty-eighth time (thank God Linda Ronstadt had a huge catalogue), settled on PoorPoorPitifulMe!2, closed the computer down, and did a few roundhouse kicks, pretty much evenly divided between fury and guilt. I loved my uncle. He was still the reason I tried to go above and beyond in my job, but he had broken my heart. And right now, I wanted to punch him in his substantial gut. Everyone has repressed anger toward the ones they love, right?

  The first time Uncle Ray brought me to the office to help, I’d been ten. And nervous. After I’d alphabetized all the files, swept the front steps, and cleaned the coffee machine, I stood near the door, staring at the Orient Express poster and bouncing from one leg to the other.

 
“Cyd! Don’t just stand there, you’ll drive me crazy.”

  “What should I do?” I was terrified of being sent home.

  “Find out what time it is in Cairo.”

  I spent the rest of that afternoon memorizing all the international time differences, with and without Daylight Savings. Just about everything in the world had changed in the last twenty years, except Greenwich Mean Time. It was eleven in the morning, tomorrow, at the Darling Cruises corporate offices in Sydney, Australia. The Manzonis had been on one of their ships, the Tasmanian Dream. I kept seeing Barry’s crisis face. I hoped, for his sake, they were okay. I gave the bag one more punch, then headed back to my desk.

  There was no point in calling Peggy Newsome. Not only would she refuse to help, she would find a way to blame the whole thing on me. Better to keep her out of the loop and catch her red-handed, slathered in incompetence. Or kickbacks. It was easier to break into her files.

  I guess hacking ran in the family. To be honest, it wasn’t the first time I’d breached Peggy’s Patriot Travel security. I rationalized this particular misdemeanor as “researching your competition.” It helped that I had arranged a free trip for the IT guy at our travel server, so he could pick up his Ukrainian bride. Comping IT guys was always worth it, but to be honest, I could have figured out her password myself—DameDiana#1—as she fancied herself a cross between Princess Diana and Diane Sawyer.

  I found Peggy’s Manzoni file, clicked on it, and swore. The woman’s irresponsible travel agent behavior never failed to astound me. She hadn’t even arranged travel insurance for them. I, of course, included it in everyone’s original quote. There was no way I was letting my clients die of sepsis or be buried in an unmarked grave in Belize because the family couldn’t afford to get the body home. I’d had enough clients encounter emergency situations to know how much they could cost.

  I swore again. She’d charged them the full fare, then given them the discount package. This meant that they would spend the cruise thinking everything was included, then owe thousand of dollars for drinks and extras, which had to be paid before they were allowed off the ship. Peggy must have a kickback with Darling Cruises or with someone on board.