Drowned Under Read online

  She kissed me and ran off. Charity, my ass. I was going to have to check him out. As soon as I checked in with Margy the Cruise Director and Captain Lindoff.

  I circumvented an art auction on Deck Six and ducked into the elevator going up, wondering what to ask Margy about the Manzonis. Then I stopped myself. Harriet had been asking questions and she was dead. If it was murder, whoever killed her was probably still on board. Perhaps I needed to be more subtle. Especially with the Cruise Director. She’d been nice to me, but she also booked all the excursions. The one the Manzonis hadn’t come back from.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I finally found the Excursions Desk on Deck Eleven, beside the Photo Studio. I was in luck. Margy was at the desk, talking to two couples in matching outfits. All four of them matched. She looked up and smiled at me. I nodded and signaled I would wait next door. I had a few more questions for Elliot Ness.

  There was a wall display in the Photo Shop, full of shots from a place called The Fountain. No one was under sixty-five, or less than enthusiastic. It must be the place Sister Ellery mentioned. I didn’t see Sandra or Fredo in the pictures, though.

  On the opposite wall were last night’s photos from the Captain’s Table. They’d obviously adopted the Disneyland “Splash Mountain” approach—get them when it’s fresh in their minds. It was a reminder to the Captain’s guests and created Captain’s Table envy in everyone else. It probably made them more likely to join the Premium Gold Club for their next voyage.

  It was a smart move and I realized what good advertising a photo of me and Sister Ellery at the Captain’s Table might be, sitting on my desk at Redondo Travel, even if it wasn’t of my best side. Commerce over vanity, I thought, as I noted the photo number and headed inside.

  Inside the studio I found another wall of Captain’s Table photos. They were remarkably similar in pose, and to be honest, content. There was always one couple dressed as if for the Met Gala and one husband in an ill-advised jacket, his face looking like he’d happened into a water treatment plant. Ron Brazil was a frequent attendee, with a steady row of partners—one more reason to check him out before things got any more serious with Sister Ellery. As I followed his hairstyles down the wall, I spotted a particularly ugly and familiar tie.

  It belonged to my former father-in-law. I knew that because I’d bought it for him, after he took back the blender he and Sandra bought me and Barry as a wedding gift. His logic was, if it’s annulled, it never happened. It seemed particularly low, especially given we got an annulment so Angela Hepler wouldn’t have to marry a divorced man.

  Barry’s dad was a sucker for any kind of flattery and fancied himself a player. I’d found the most hideous, tacky pattern I could find and told him it was rocking Wall Street. Even in the photo, a woman was giving it a look. A dog would give that tie a look.

  Sandra was in a yellow, ruffled, off-the-shoulder dress, made for someone who actually had shoulders, rather than just a neck which became her torso. She looked like the top half of a tostada bowl. In the shot, Captain Lindoff was on one side and Ron Brazil, with yet another hair-do, on the other. The Captain had said she didn’t remember them. I guess she met a lot of guests, but it had only been five days ago. I would have to refresh her memory. I approached the chirpy college student at the photo counter.

  “I’d like two of 103 and one of 734 as well, please?” She smiled and disappeared into the back room. While she was there, I took a quick picture of the Manzoni photo and a few on either side of it myself, just for reference. It was a good thing I did. She came back through the tasteful curtain with an envelope, an apology, and the slick photographer from last night.

  “Here are the first two,” the woman said, “But I’m afraid one of our computers is down and I can’t access the files for the last journey. This is Hal, he’ll help you.”

  He held out his hand. “You’re Ms. Redondo. We have several lovely photos of you from last night’s dinner. Oh, I see you’ve found one. Would you like to put a few on your account?”

  He laid four more photos on the counter. Sister Ellery looked happy. Doc was scarily photogenic. I looked worried and pale. I was particularly sensitive to looking like death warmed over, since I’d seen it firsthand last night.

  “You think this is a lovely photo of me?”

  He considered it. “We can Photoshop. Although you look better than most Americans who’ve just arrived,” he said. “Seriously.”

  “And you don’t have the other photo? Could I buy the one on the wall?”

  “Oh, we never sell those. You can always check back with me later. Was there any reason you wanted that one in particular?”

  “I just liked the photo. Thanks.” I put the pictures on my tab, since I was low on cash. “Is Elliot around?”

  “Who?”

  “Elliot Ness?”

  He laughed. “Is this one of those ‘do you have Sir Walter Raleigh in cans’ kind of joke?

  “No. I met him last night. He said he was the ship photographer. I assumed there were two of you.”

  He and the college student shared a look. “Nope. I’m the only official photographer. Sometimes we get scammers. With this many folks on the boat, it can be hard to keep track. You didn’t give him any money, did you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said, damning jet lag for my weakened scam-o-meter. “Never mind, I’m sure he was just joking around.”

  What the hell? If Elliot wasn’t the ship’s photographer, who was he? Just a pervert? Was there even anything on the flash drive I’d paid five hundred dollars for?

  “What did he look like?”

  “I’m probably just confused,” I said, as I took my photo and left.

  Margy touched my shoulder. “Ms. Redondo. How are you doing?”

  “To be honest, I’ve been better,” I said. “Can I sit down for a minute?”

  “Of course.” She pulled out a chair behind the counter. “I know it’s hard to think about having fun after…you know. But Harriet said you were so excited about seeing Australia, I know she’d want you to. We have a couple of great excursions for Wineglass Bay. Everything from kayaking to hiking, to a private wine tasting.” She held out a few pamphlets. “Right now, I still have plenty of spots left for singles.”

  “I have a few things I’d like to mail. Is there express mail on shore?”

  “I’m sure the Bursar can take care of that for you. They take all the ship’s mail in on the stop. It would be a shame for you to waste your day dealing with errands.”

  “That’s great to know.” I had no intention of entrusting my blood samples to a cruise ship employee, but I let Margy think I might.

  “And what about excursions in Hobart?”

  “Harriet might have already booked the two of you on something. Let me look.” She shook her head. “She probably had a special treat in mind and booked privately.”

  “Do you know the driver she might have used? It’s the holidays. I would feel terrible if someone lost a job or time with their family because we didn’t cancel.”

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart? I wish more travel agents were like you. God, I wish more passengers were like you. I keep the private stuff in the back. You understand, we always like to offer our trips first. I’ll be right back. Feel free to look through anything that’s of interest.”

  I took her at her word, grabbing her log and excursion book and taking quick snaps of them, barely shoving them back in place before she came back.

  “Here. Once you figure out what you want to do, I’d be delighted to help.”

  “Margy, you’ve been a huge help already. I really appreciate it. Did you get to spend any time with Harriet on the way to Melbourne?”

  “We had a quick drink in the Crow’s Nest. Talked men, of course.”

  “We used to do that, too. Look, she told me she was traveling alone, but my cabin stew
ard said she was here with her husband.”

  Margy swung toward me. “He was here? On the boat?”

  “Who?”

  “Her ex. She didn’t say anything to me.”

  “What ex? She told me she’d never been married.”

  “Wishful thinking. She didn’t like to talk about it. I’m sorry, do you need anything else? I need to make a call.”

  She disappeared before I could even get up. I took a few more pictures of her desk, then decided to take the elevator up to the Captain’s area and bypass Lisa the hostess altogether.

  Unbelievably, I caught Captain Lindoff in the elevator. She was still tall, still Nordic, and wearing another pair of stilettos, these gold patent leather, I guess to match her stripes. She was my hero. I asked if I could watch her in action, hoping I could slip in a few questions on the side. She didn’t look happy about the request, but was too gracious to refuse. I said I couldn’t imagine the pressure of being only one of two female captains in the whole cruise world.

  She shrugged. “I have to walk a fine line between delegation and control. I’m probably more hands-on than some captains might be, especially when we’re coming into port.”

  We arrived at the Bridge, which reminded me of a top-flight Manhattan bar, with blinking machines rather than stools. It had a curved bank of tall windows and the best view ever, if you liked an endless expanse of water. Being a non-swimmer, I had mixed feelings about the vast wetness on offer. For a second my seasickness returned in the form of a tiny burp. She noticed and grinned, then introduced me to the seamen at various controls.

  Staff Captain Bentley scowled in acknowledgment, then went back to work. The Captain leaned over the Engineer to make some adjustments and we stood at the back for a few minutes, just long enough for her presence to be felt. Then she walked me to her office.

  “Do the crew know someone’s died? Do the passengers?”

  She gestured me into a low chair across from her desk and closed the door. She sat down across from me and I could see how my low chair could give her an advantage with the male crew. I was pretty much below desk, as it were. She leaned forward.

  “To be honest, if they’re not related to the deceased, and it’s an accident, as the crew assure me it was, we try to keep it as private as possible. Everyone is here for a holiday. I hear that you specialize in senior citizens, surely you’ve had clients pass away on vacation before?”

  “I have, of course. It’s just. It was Harriet.”

  “Yes. She was one of the good ones. We didn’t have a lot of contact, but she sent me a lovely note when I got my commission.”

  “Yes, she was like that. Look, Captain, I was the one who found the body. And I have to say, it really didn’t look like an accident. One of my cousins is a detective in Brooklyn.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Ten.”

  “I only had three older brothers, but I can identify.”

  “It toughens you up.”

  “Yes.”

  “So anyway, I took a few pictures and he said she wouldn’t have landed that way if she’d knocked herself out.”

  “You took pictures? Ms. Redondo. Cyd. You’re a woman in a man’s world, just like I am. It’s only my second voyage. All these accusations—missing passengers, a murder—surely you can see how they will use this against me? And as a travel agent, how it could hurt the whole cruise line?”

  Wow. She’d said that out loud. “I do. And the last thing I want, as a fellow woman, is to make things any harder for you than they already are. But you’re in charge of the ship and everything that happens here. Don’t you want to know what really happened?”

  “We will absolutely investigate and I will help you in every way that I can, but if you can just not mention this to other passengers, I would appreciate it.”

  “Fair enough,” I lied. “Have you had any luck finding out who she was traveling with?”

  “There is no record of anyone but you booked into the cabin. The steward met a man who introduced himself as her husband, but that could have been subterfuge.”

  “Doesn’t it make sense to have Mr. Koeze try to identify the man before we dock and he has the chance to escape? I could talk to the authorities in Wineglass Bay?”

  “No. There’s no real law enforcement body in Wineglass Bay. Tomorrow morning I will alert the Hobart and the Tasmanian police and I will discuss this with them. But if there has been a crime, for which there is no evidence at this time, it likely occurred in international waters, so there are jurisdictional issues.”

  Then she said she needed to return to the bridge.

  “Just one more quick question, then,” I said. “Have you remembered anything about the Manzonis? It turns out they were at your table on the last cruise.”

  She rose. “I respect all our passengers, Ms. Redondo, but most of them are not as memorable as you.” She opened the door and made it clear I should leave.

  I had a lot to process. I looked at my watch. Sister Ellery had said she and Ron Brazil were practicing until eleven—just enough time for me to do a quick scan of his room. If I just knew where it was.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I found a house phone and called the operator.

  “Ron Brazil’s room, please.”

  “He doesn’t appear to be in. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No. He was kind enough to loan me a handkerchief last night, I just thought I’d return it. Can I just leave it outside his room or with his steward? That’s Deck Five, correct?”

  “Cabin 510.”

  “Great, thanks.” It wouldn’t have been hard for the murderer to find Harriet.

  I figured on the keycard still working, as the Koozer wouldn’t want any extra scrutiny when he had a stowaway girlfriend in the morgue.

  The door had a Do Not Disturb card in the lock. I checked the hall. A man in Bermuda shorts and Dockers with no socks walked toward me, so I knocked again. As I waited for him to pass, I wondered why Ron Brazil made me so suspicious. It made sense that I would want to protect Sister Ellery, but this felt like more than that. I broke it down in my mind. There was the gigolo thing, there was the age difference thing, but most importantly, there was the nausea thing. Technically, that could be seasickness, but I didn’t think so. Plus, no straight man danced like that, did they? When I heard the elevator go, I checked for cameras, then swiped the keycard, pushed the handle, and yelled out an additional “Hello!” just in case.

  The ship escorts needed to maintain the illusion of being guests, which is why Ron Brazil was in an interior guest cabin rather than below deck, where most of the staff got their two hours of sleep a night. So the room was small, but not unlike mine—except there were Dancing with the Stars-esque trousers and ruffled shirts on every surface. The congealed room service trays meant the Do Not Disturb sign had been on for awhile. The room had another strange, chemical, and somehow familiar smell. It reinforced my déjà vu, mainly consisting of dread.

  As I moved toward the bathroom, I glimpsed a head in the mirror and froze.

  “Hello! Hello? Sister Ellery thought she might have left her watch.”

  No answer. I’d sworn the room was empty. Then I heard scrabbling.

  “Hello? Mr. Brazil? It’s Cyd Redondo. Redondo Travel. Sister Ellery’s friend. We met downstairs?” Nothing.

  I peeked around the door and saw the heads.

  Four of them, floating on white Styrofoam like decapitated Beatles on a bad day. Who, beside RuPaul, had four wigs? Not just wigs. Ugly wigs. One of them was a blond bowl cut. My stomach turned over. A fifth synthetic head was empty. Was Ron Brazil bald? Maybe he was bald. Was it baldist to think that?

  Still, no one who wasn’t in a one-man show had this many costume changes, not to mention makeup, press-on tattoos, and a straightening iron. Who was this guy?


  That’s when I heard the baby crying. Actually, it sounded more like a baby coughing. It was coming from the closet.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I got closer. The noise stopped, then started again. Scrabbling was up there with scurrying, in my opinion. It belonged in horror movies, not on four star cruises. I didn’t need any more horrible surprises. But what if there were someone hurt or tied up in there? I had read about a serial killer doctor who murdered women on cruise ships in the 1920s. And there was always the Lindbergh baby. Or Rosemary’s baby. It definitely yowled like a mutant spawn. I looked at the closet. It was a standard cheap “slat” model, which folded in.

  I grabbed Brazil’s straightening iron and pressed on the middle of the door. It only went halfway—something was blocking it. I edged around on the right side. I eased in and looked down. No damsel in distress. Instead, under the hanging clothes, was what looked like a small pet carrier. The scrabbling and crying was coming from inside.

  Was this Ron Brazil’s secret? Sneaking a pet onto the ship? It was obnoxious, but hardly a felony. Was this why he didn’t let housekeeping into the room? Was this why he wouldn’t look me in the eye?

  I squished down and sat on the floor, then closed the door again to give myself room. I peered in through the metal squares of the carrier door, but could only make out a dark shape. A tiny claw pushed through one of the holes and poked the air.

  “Hi, there,” I said. The creature yelped. The claw retracted.

  “Well, you’re scared, of course you are. I’m Cyd. I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I’m probably your only chance, given the weirdo who put you in here.” Just as I was about to unlatch the carrier, someone knocked on the door. Ron Brazil wouldn’t knock on his own door.

  Shit. I wasn’t supposed to be in here. If I didn’t answer, a steward might come in and find me. If I did answer, how was I going to explain myself? I jerked the closet door shut, put the pet carrier on my lap, provoking another yelp, and pulled myself as far behind the hanging clothes as I could, praying this wasn’t a dry cleaning delivery. I could see a little through the slats, but not the whole room. Someone opened the door, closed it, and clicked the lock.