Drowned Under Read online

  She shook her head.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be in here, either, but someone might have murdered my friend and I’m trying to figure out who. If you can keep a secret, so can I. Okay?”

  “Your friend is in there?” She pointed at the morgue drawers with a shudder.

  “She’s supposed to be. Were you here when they brought her in?”

  She nodded. “That was a close one.”

  “I bet.”

  “They kept hitting the coffin, trying to jam her in.”

  “I don’t need to know that.”

  “The truth hurts.”

  Teenagers. Was there an Australian equivalent of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet? If so, I bet she’d read it.

  “Would you mind if I look?”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  She got behind me.

  “How old are you?”

  She gave the eternal cry of the underaged. “Old enough.”

  I put one hand over her eyes and eased out the drawer with another, feeling that heavy shift again. I closed my eyes for a minute, then opened them to see three bags of red potatoes.

  I reached for the drawer below and pulled again, anticipating Yukon Golds. So I wasn’t prepared for Harriet’s perfectly manicured toes. I gave a small squeak and slammed it shut again. Esmeralda was even paler than before.

  “Get back in the coffin. I mean, I’ll help you turn it over, just get back in for a few minutes.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I have to really look at her and take pictures and she didn’t know you. It’s a privacy issue. Out of respect for her. Wouldn’t you want your friend to do the same for you?” She stood there rigid, staring at the wall. “What is your problem? You were in there before. Go on. Also, that way I’m the only one who’ll get caught if anyone comes in.”

  Esmeralda shrugged and backed up. I grabbed one of the waiter’s jackets and handed it to her. “For padding,” I said.

  We lifted the coffin back up and once she was in and it seemed stable, I closed the lid most of the way.

  “I have air holes,” she said. “I’m not an idiot.” She pulled it shut.

  “Right.” I turned once to see if she were peeking, then turned back to the sliding slab.

  It made a creaking sound as I tugged on it and released a darkroom smell. God knows what they kept in there before her. Harriet’s slim body was covered with a sheet at least. Even dead, she looked better at thirty-two than I did. It took everything I had not to shut the drawer again. I thought about Harriet, and what she would do if our roles were reversed, then folded the sheet off her face.

  “What happened to you?” I moved a piece of hair off her forehead.

  I replayed my conversation with Dr. Paglia. After I’d talked to Frank, I’d used Uncle Ray’s satellite phone to track him down in a coffee shop beside his office. He wasn’t happy to be disturbed over his hangover and crullers.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Your favorite travel agent.”

  “I thought you were in Australia.”

  “I am. Frank said he explained the situation, right?”

  “I vaguely remember something.”

  “The cruise company says my friend had an accident and hit her head. I think she was murdered.”

  “What does the M.E. think?”

  “There isn’t one. Not really. There’s a possibly dodgy ship doctor and a staff a little too eager to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Frank said you’d run some samples for me?”

  “The doctor’s giving you samples?”

  “He’s got three thousand people to look out for. So I was thinking I could save him the trouble.”

  “Cyd.”

  “Look. This is a totally screwed-up situation. She was my friend. And it might have something to do with the Manzonis being missing. Come on, where’s your Christmas spirit?”

  “1964.”

  “Yeah, well I hear you. Mine too. Why do you think I’m here and not at Chadwick’s? I’m trying to redeem myself and save the company, okay? Besides, who else is going to rotate your criminal activity?” Dr. Paglia was known for counting cards. I made sure he spread his “luck” around enough casinos that he didn’t get caught. “Now, what do I need?”

  “Nothing you do is going to hold up in court.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re sure you’re up for this? It’s not really a girl kind of thing.”

  I was about to throw three female medical examiners in his face, until I realized they were all fictional. I let it go.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Good girl. Okay, this is what you’ll need…”

  “Hey!” said the coffin. “You done yet?”

  “No!” I jerked the sheet back over Harriet. “What, you made it three days and now you can’t stay in there for three minutes?”

  “Hurry.”

  That seemed unlikely. I put my purse on top of the cocktail napkin box and pulled out my camera and the tool kit I’d hobbled together. He’d said to take the photographs first.

  I didn’t want to, but I made myself. I couldn’t stop tearing up every time I looked at her, though, so two or three of them might have been blurry. Someone had cleaned up her head—probably Doc. But that let me get a better picture of the wound. Dr. Paglia told me to open her eyes and check for any broken blood vessels. This was the hardest thing so far—not just because I had to touch and move her dead eyelids, but also because it was really hard to hold them open and take a cell phone picture. They didn’t look red to me, but he would know better. Harriet did give off that weird smell, but it wasn’t almonds—I knew from Agatha Christie an almond smell indicated cyanide. I found two bruises on her upper arms and then what looked like a tiny mark. Could it be an injection site?

  I took pictures of everything I could think of, from various angles, then moved on to step two: blood samples.

  I put on the gloves. “Oh, God.”

  Dr. Paglia had said “It’ll be a breeze, it’s not pumping. And it won’t be bright red, because it isn’t getting oxygen, so pretend it’s grenadine or something.”

  “Hey! What’s going on out there? Why can’t I come out?”

  “You can only come out if you know how to draw blood.”

  I heard the coffin lid creak.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m diabetic.”

  “You have insulin in your coffin?”

  “Of course.”

  I covered Harriet back up as Esmeralda grinned and climbed out. She looked at my supplies and picked up one of the syringes. “What are we putting it in?”

  I handed her the nail polish bottle I’d sterilized with the teapot in my cabin. It was glass, under three ounces, and might fool an idiot, which, given the odds, worked in our favor.

  “Okay, don’t look. Fainting is loud.”

  I obeyed her. About a minute and a half later, she handed me the nail polish bottle. “Are you sure this is enough? Sometimes they need a few vials.”

  “Any ideas?”

  We dug through shelves and found a box of mini ketchup and mustard jars. We did our best to sterilize them with the cleaning products at hand. Just as Esmerelda filled the second one, the footsteps went past again. This time they stopped.

  “Shit,” I said, inching Harriet’s drawer closed. I crammed Esmeralda back in the coffin, grabbed my bag, and climbed in with the potatoes. It was the first time I’d ever been happy to be short. There was a knock on the door.

  “Es? It’s me.”

  I recognized that voice.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Esmeralda, let me in.”

  By the time the Koozer had entered and made out for a minute with what I hoped was hi
s girlfriend, I’d manipulated my hands enough to get his keycard into my bra, just in case.

  “What’s going on?” he said. I waited on tenterhooks. Would she give me up? Where was the blood? In plain sight?

  “Nothing,” she said. Just about to do my nails.” God bless her. “Going a little stir crazy. That’s all.”

  “Sorry I’m late. I know you need to eat. I brought you all the leftovers I could find.”

  “Perfect, thanks. Can we take a walk, just around the cargo hold? I’m really stiff.”

  “Absolutely.” Would he see my shawl under the door?

  “Thanks.” I heard him kiss her again. As soon as the door thudded, I slid out, grabbed the condiment-sized samples, retrieved my wrap, and eased the door open. I could hear them at the end of the hallway. When they turned the corner out of sight, I sprinted for the stairway, or sprinted as much as I could in my misshapen flats.

  Back in my cabin, I decided to put the samples in my cosmetics case, since a quick glance wouldn’t give them away as what they actually were. I was trying to tell my stomach that, especially as we hit a patch of rough water. I walked out onto the deck just in case I had to hurl again, and held onto the doorjamb for balance.

  Because it was later in Europe, and my satellite phone was working, I called Oceania Cruises and sorted out Sister Ellery’s transfer to the Tasmanian Dream. It cost me. I had to agree to send ten people their way in the New Year to pull it off, but they were fond of her, so it worked out. Then I called her travel insurance company and adjusted her itinerary, as I didn’t want her going ashore without full coverage. To be honest, I didn’t really want her doing the Electric Slide without full coverage, even though, at this point, her replacement hips were younger and more indestructible than mine.

  I figured out a plan for the morning, mostly eager to get on land and get the samples off to Bay Ridge. I had an account with FedEx, though I hadn’t used it since a faux FedEx driver kidnapped me in Africa. That wasn’t really FedEx’s fault, but it had left a bad taste in my mouth and I’d been sticking with DHL.

  On that thought, I tried to fall asleep. But I kept seeing the morgue and Harriet’s face and my nephews sitting on the landing on Christmas morning without me. I had to remind myself I was doing this for my family’s reputation (and ability to attend holiday events) and for Barry Manzoni, unemployed almost-father, who, at the very least, would always be my first and maybe only husband.

  Although Barry and I had known each other since preschool and shared school lunches and dodgeball blows, he was one of the few boys in Bay Ridge I hadn’t actually dated growing up. We’d just been buds, bound by our secret love for adventure novels and peach ice cream. Then, three years ago, I had snuck out of Bay Ridge to attend my first Travel Agents’ Convention in Atlantic City.

  Out from under Redondo surveillance for once, I wore the little leopard skin dress I’d been hiding in a recycled ink cartridges carton and went bare-legged in a pair of Stuart Weitzman peep-toe pumps. I got enough second looks to know it was a success. But the few men who chatted me up were businessmen. Businesswomen kick ass, but there’s nothing more boring or patronizing than a corporate man. Look around.

  The second night, I wound up at the craps table with a few hysterical dental hygienists who didn’t get out much either. I noticed a cast of unlikely characters exiting the ballroom at the top of the escalator. There was a lecherous purple Barney groping a shockingly tall Pippi Longstocking and a woman dressed as a bottle of St. John’s Wort. Behind them trailed the pirate of my Caribbean: floppy hat at a rakish angle, Captain Hook wig and mustache, buckled shoes, one peg leg and crutch, and a plastic parrot pinned to his shoulder. He jerked out his plastic sword and aimed it at a cardboard cutout of Dr. Phil.

  “You, sir, are a simpleton,” the pirate said, offering a parry which knocked the oversized, flabby, paper psychologist right over the railing and onto the casino floor, bald head first.

  I guess my snorting laughter cut through the casino noise. The culprit looked down at me, grinned, then struck a pirate-like pose, accidentally backing into a passing Cruella De Vil, complete with a real cigarette holder. He turned to apologize to her while I handed my chips to the squealing woman beside me and headed for the escalator.

  The pirate started down, but his peg got caught in the moving steps and he lurched forward, his crutch flying. He arrived at the bottom, hard, then struggled to get up, repositioning his peg leg and wig. As soon as he was stable, I grabbed a drink off a passing cocktail waitress’ tray and threw it in his face.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “What the hell?” He shook his dripping wig and swiveled the soaked eye patch to the middle of his forehead, then saw the melted, still-smoking parrot, hanging by one claw and a safety pin.

  “Oh. Thanks, Cydhartha.” Barry Manzoni said. “You look fricking gorgeous. Can I buy you bottle of rum?”

  “Yo ho ho.” I said.

  Maybe it was the costume, or maybe it was because casino cocktails had hosed the heavy film of the neighborhood off both of us, but it wasn’t long before the pirate hat was on top of a bottle of champagne and my leopard skin dress was over the lamp. Five hours later we stood in dark glasses, holding hands, in front of the Forever Wedding Chapel. Usually you needed three days for the license, but I knew a guy.

  “You sure you don’t want to just date or something?” I was still a little wobbly on my peep-toes.

  “Cyd, we’ve known each other since we were five, we’re both about to hit thirty, it’s too late to date, doncha think? But if it’s a bad idea, just say the word. No harm, no foul.”

  I’d looked at Barry Manzoni, solid good guy, one of the last men in the Borough who wasn’t already paying child support. He was right, he knew me as well as anyone. If he thought I was marriage material, who was I to argue? He leaned over and kissed me. He was a good kisser, he had that going for him.

  “How do you feel?” he said.

  “Lucky. I feel lucky.”

  Or I did, until I heard banging on my cabin door and remembered I was still on the Tasmanian Dream. In death cabin 710.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Just a minute.” I put on my wrap and went to the door. It was Doc. He wore a worn Hawaiian shirt and a sleepy grin. He held out a bottle of seasickness medicine and a green apple.

  “Just in case,” he said. “Sometimes it’s worse on the second day. Did you sleep?”

  “I tried. What’s your plan for the day?”

  “Working until we dock, then kayaking in the Bay. Any interest?”

  “Can I let you know? I may take it easy, just a walk into town. There is a town, right?”

  “I think they believe they are a town,” he said.

  “Great. I better get dressed. I’m meeting Sister Ellery in ten minutes at the buffet.”

  “Take those,” he said, and left, sparking additional guilt for stealing the pills from his office. I threw myself together, made sure my eyelashes were on straight, and headed toward the Wallaby Buffet.

  A cruise ship was like a floating planet. People from everywhere, celebrating every possible end-of-year holiday, were rammed into one place and the cruise line aimed to please every one of them. Everywhere I looked, I found wreaths, holly, and Santa hats beside menorahs for Hanukkah, kinaras for Kwanzaa, and drinks umbrellas and buffets for everyone. My guess was, whatever the culture or the holiday, guilt and overeating were involved. Guilt especially.

  Sister Ellery was there when I arrived. She was still favoring a blinding shade of tangerine for her tank top, but this morning it came with a turquoise baseball hat which read “I pitch for Jesus.”

  I was still provoking whispers everywhere I went, but I decided to take a page from her book and not give a damn.

  “So. The doctor?”

  “No way. We are not starting with me. We’re starting with the Manzonis.”

 
Over hash browns and pancakes, I finally got to fill her in on the whole story and how I was worried Harriet’s death was tied up in it all. She’d always been a good listener. Too good.

  “So why did you really come in the middle of Christmas vacation? It’s not all Barry Manzoni, that’s for sure.”

  “Of course it’s all Barry.”

  “Cyd Elizabeth Sarah Redondo, don’t you dare try to lie to a woman of God.”

  I sighed. “I am doing it for Barry, and for the Manzonis, which I admit is ironic, but they’re too clueless to get themselves out of trouble. Bickering is their only skill.” I shrugged. “But you’re right, it’s not just that. It’s my family.” I told her about the Bay Ridge holiday boycott. “It’s already my fault Uncle Ray and Jimmy won’t be there, so I thought if I left town, at least a few things could be normal for them.”

  “It’s your Uncle Ray and Jimmy’s fault they won’t be there, not yours, but okay, that’s better. So let’s help.”

  “I have pictures of them in the disco and Ron was in a few. What did he say?”

  “He said their finales were always sloppy.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No, he said they were spending time with a couple who was very excited about this place, The Fountain. It’s an exclusive spa resort, seniors only. He didn’t remember the couple’s name, but I can ask around, see if any of Ron’s buddies knows anything else. I play poker with them sometimes.” Of course she did.

  “That would be great. Okay. This Ron guy. Spill.”

  “I know he’s paid to dance with the old gals. But he gets my jokes, we read the same books, and he’s a kickass dancer. He’s funny looking, but he has a good heart. That’s worth its weight in gold at my age. And getting engaged means other people buy you champagne. Plus, he has a great children’s charity that he wants me to help with.”

  Oh, please. Not that old chestnut. I saw her hard-won savings floating toward Antarctica. She patted my hand. “Really, don’t worry about me. You find the Manzonis. You know, they were always very sneaky. I’d be surprised if they were dead. Ron and I have a two-hour rehearsal coming up, but we’re going to the Cruise-In movies later. Why don’t you join us and you can grill him?”