Drowned Under Read online

  Footsteps that sounded heavy, even on carpet, moved to the bed. Then the figure started a whispered, one-sided conversation. “You really think he’s stupid enough to keep it in his room?…Hobart…Naw, she’s expendable.”

  Who was expendable? The speaker ended the call. I could see snatches of Bermuda shorts through the slats. The snatches moved to the bed.

  Shit, my Balenciaga was there. I watched as he lifted the purse, dug through it with his fat fingers, then dumped everything out—including my nail polish and ketchup blood samples—and tossed the bag on the floor.

  So, when he got to the closet and got the door partway open, I didn’t regret driving my stiletto through the madras cotton, right into his balls. When he doubled over, I hit him on the head with the hair straightener, waited until he hit the carpet, then slammed the closet shut. I waited the longest ten seconds ever, then put down the pet carrier and eased it to the floor.

  I guess I didn’t notice that the metal door of the carrier had come open, because something small and brownish shot out, sharp claws swiping my Stuart Weitzman nude patent heels on its way. I spotted black marks on the creature’s back before it disappeared.

  It seemed dog-shaped, but I’d never seen a dog move that fast. Its speediness was definitely cat-like. I only knew this because of my best friend Debbie’s cat, Monster, who held the land speed record for escaping from their back door on 77th Street and shooting down to the river. I couldn’t count the times we’d squirmed on our bellies through the aqueduct tunnel calling his name. Cats are discerning, self-contained, and not bound by social convention or unconditional love. Cats just don’t care. That’s absolutely the greatest thing about them.

  The cabin door was shut, so I decided to let the poor thing calm down while I tied up the unconscious bad guy with a couple of particularly hideous ties. Ron Brazil’s closet resembled a close-out from Paramount Studios wardrobe department.

  I pushed aside the seventies suits, a vintage Armani tuxedo, two sixties Hawaiian shirts, and a FedEx uniform, which provoked another wave of nausea. There was information here my body knew, but I didn’t have time to figure it out before the intruder came to, and Ron Brazil came back to change for Wineglass Bay.

  It wasn’t easy, but I rolled the Bermuda shorts guy on his stomach and turned his head toward the wall, so he couldn’t see me if he woke up. I returned the scattered contents to my purse, then got down on my knees. I figured the scared cat/dog had taken refuge under the bed. I mean, I would. I sent up a silent thanks I hadn’t worn the La Perla garter belt and stockings I’d considered in the morning.

  Of course, the bed was bolted too, so there was no moving it. I wondered if I had anything that would be tempting for it to eat? I usually had an emergency protein bar in my purse, but I’d removed it for the Qantas weight limit. There was a piece of bacon on one of the dirty plates. I didn’t want to make the creature sick, but cats ate live bird carcasses. Cooked pork had to be more sanitary, no matter how long it had been out of the fridge. I held the limp bacon bookmark just under the mattress.

  A damp, pointy nose on the end of a long, narrow face with goopy brown eyes nudged my hand. It didn’t look like a cat, more like if a Dachshund mated with a baby giraffe. It whimpered, nipped me, then grabbed the bacon and disappeared back under the bed. It had serious teeth for something that was half the size of a banana bread. I heard chewing.

  It stuck its head back out. It looked sad. And exasperated. Like it was engaged to Madeline Kahn and knew, somewhere deep inside, it should be with Barbra Streisand. Its eyes were the spitting image of Ryan O’Neal’s Howard Banister, musicologist.

  “Howard?” I said hoping it was a male. One of its little ears perked up. I decided I should make sure it was a boy before I christened it. I’d made that mistake before. But we weren’t really at the “check the genitals” stage in our relationship yet. I found more bacon and took it to the pet carrier. It loped after me. I still couldn’t figure out what it was. It moved like a cat, was shaped like a hyena, had symmetrical black stripes on its back, and cried like it had too much phlegm.

  This was Australia, maybe it was one of those baby-eating dingoes. I hoped not. I felt terrible shutting the carrier again, especially when he did the cough/cry, but Ron Brazil would be back any minute. I wanted to finish searching the room before I snuck out. I headed to the shelves and drawers. I discovered a World Wildlife Fund duffel bag, just like the one Roger used on our ill-fated trip to Tanzania. This one, though, featured an international “No” sign through the logo drawn in what looked like blood. Then I found it. The toy.

  It was a small, fluffy, lavender seal, with a massive club bashing its head, and blood red stitching dripping down its adorable little face. It had a tiny tag which read “Planet Reality.” I’d seen one of these before—when I was tied up in the back of a hijacked FedEx truck. Suddenly my déjà vu nausea made sense.

  Oh, God. Sister Ellery Malcomb, my second- and eighth-grade teacher, former nun, serial monogamist, and Herman Hesse and Tantric sex enthusiast, was engaged to international fugitive Grey Hazelnut, aka the Unavet.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Grey Hazelnut was an extreme animal rights activist, a crusader for endangered and mistreated animals everywhere, who took no prisoners. When I’d been on the trail of animal smugglers in Tanzania, he’d impersonated a FedEx driver, knocked me out with a chloroformed Handi-Wipe, and trussed me up like a Cornish hen—and we were on the same side. Over the last ten years, he’d kidnapped an animal researcher, trained as a butcher so he could do an exposé on slaughterhouses, and sprayed Lauren Bacall’s sable coat with red paint. He’d also started a maimed stuffed animal business because “children should know the truth.” Hence, the fluffy clubbed seal. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been carted off by Interpol.

  I had to warn Sister Ellery right away. She would be devastated, but better to be devastated before someone stole all your money, than after. It left you with mourning options.

  “Ahhh!” Great. Mr. Unfortunate Shorts was awake. He moaned and gripped his nether regions. Good, I thought, heels don’t lie. He was still turned away on his stomach. I wanted to keep it that way. I crept up behind and conked him again with the straightening iron. He shut up. This was quite a device. I considered hair appliance larceny, but it would put me over my flight weight limit.

  I looked in on Howard and realized he didn’t have any water. Who wasn’t thirsty after bacon? I searched in vain for a bowl. Nothing. Finally, I decided to fill the ice bucket up with bottled water. I’d have to let him out of the carrier again, though, as it wouldn’t fit through the metal door. I looked at my watch.

  I should be long gone, but I couldn’t leave Howard parched. Actually, I didn’t want to leave him at all, given his current guardian. I dug out the ice bucket, filled it with bottled water, set it on the floor of the closet, closed the door for containment, and unlatched the carrier.

  For a second, the striped puppy/kitten hovered inside. Then he sniffed his way out, finding what, for him, was probably the equivalent of a group Tiki drink. He balanced his miniature paws up on the edge of the bucket and started lapping. While he slurped, I tried to locate a gender indicator. All I saw was what looked like a pouch on his underside. A pouch. Like a kangaroo pouch. He wasn’t a kangaroo, so what the hell was he? Or she? Didn’t only females have pouches?

  I was concentrating so hard on this unexpected development, that I didn’t hear the door.

  “Bloody hell!” I peered through the slats to see bow legs running to the semi-corpse on the floor, right in front of me. There was swearing in about six languages, three of which I understood, including Danish. I tried to pick up Howard, but he nipped me. I glared at him. He did it again.

  Then, the closet door slammed open and Grey Hazelnut alias Ron Brazil, senior gigolo, still in his sweaty dance practice togs, switched to English.

  “You! You, yo
u bad penny bimbo! No, you’re worse. Do you have any idea how many of my operations you screwed up in Tanzania alone?” He grabbed his hair. It slid sideways. “But not this time. Not this one. Oh, God. The Antichrist was supposed to be a man.”

  “That’s incredibly sexist. Are you saying a woman isn’t capable of destroying the world?”

  “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? Yes! Yes, there is a woman capable of ruining the entire world. You! You are the Apocalypse.”

  The puppy/kitten gave a whimper and nudged my hand.

  “Hey, Hazelnut,” I hissed. He flinched. “Stop it. I just got him calmed down. Or her. Is it a her?”

  “Don’t ever call me Hazelnut. Ever. For this mission, I’m Ron Brazil, period. Even in your head. Never say Hazelnut. Only Brazil. Ron Brazil. Say it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ron Brazil.”

  “Again!”

  “Ron the psycho Brazil. Why should I cover for you?”

  “It’s not for me, it’s for Sister Ellery. And for him.” He pointed at Howard, who was curled up against my thigh. “It’s important. Is he okay? He’s not hurt?”

  “No, of course not. So it’s a he. Why does he have a pouch?”

  Brazil squatted down and examined Howard, who nipped Brazil too. “There are two species of marsupials that have male pouches.”

  “But what for? Do they co-parent?”

  “For God’s sake, it’s there to protect their penis from getting caught in, I don’t know, spiky vegetation or something. Why are you in my closet and who is that on the floor?”

  “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me why you are toying with my favorite nun.”

  “I’m not toying with her. She’s the only reason I’m not bashing your head in right about now, which is what you deserve for stealing that rhino horn.”

  “I stole it for evidence. I may have messed up your little FedEx thing, but in the end, I’m the one who took down Bunty’s boss in New York—that witch Eileen Fisher. I saved a lot more animals than I endangered, thank you very much.”

  He stood up and looked down at me. “No way. You don’t have the skills.”

  “You know nothing about my skills.”

  “How then? How did you do it?”

  “I trapped her with bird lime.”

  He actually stopped scowling, which I guess for him was smiling. “Poetic.”

  “Yeah, except that I got shot.”

  “Shooting is nothing. Try getting stabbed with a poison dart.”

  Drama queen. I rolled my eyes. “And, if I hadn’t been here today, Mr. Bermuda Shorts would have taken Howard, so I’m two for one.”

  “Who is Howard?”

  I held up the tiny marsupial. He growled a little. “Howard.”

  Brazil shook his wig. At least I assumed he was wearing the one from last night with pompadour potential. “What are you talking about?”

  “He reminds me of Howard Banister in What’s Up Doc? You know, Ryan O’Neal and Barbra Streisand?”

  “If he looks like Ryan O’Neal, why don’t you call him Ryan?”

  “He doesn’t look like a Ryan. What did you call him?”

  “Patient Zero.”

  “No wonder he was crying. Come on, really? Even in private?”

  He looked down for a long time. “Shackleton. I called him Shackleton.” Howard gave a little yelp and looked up at Brazil. I looked down at the creature’s pointy head.

  “Seriously? You think he looks like a Shackleton?”

  “It was more of a conceptual thing. Please put him back in the carrier so he’s safe.”

  I opened the door and placed him in. He nipped me one more time with his razor teeth. I wanted to believe it was with affection. I stood up and looked at the guy on the floor.

  “I don’t know how much longer he’s going to be out,” I said.

  “What did you hit him with?”

  I held up the straightening iron. “Is this European?”

  He grabbed it. “Did he actually see the tiger?”

  “No. What do you mean, tiger?”

  “Nothing. Did the guy see you?”

  “I’m not sure. Back up.”

  I partially closed the door. “Can you see me?”

  “No. But he must have seen you when you hit him?”

  “I stilettoed his balls first, to make him bend over.”

  He nodded. “Give me the shoe.”

  “I’m not giving you my shoe.”

  “I just want to see how memorable it is.”

  “Memorable enough to cost five hundred retail. No fricking way.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “No.” I aimed it at his head.

  “Don’t wear them. Hide them in your luggage. For your own safety. These guys don’t mess around. If they know you can identify them or think you’re involved, you’re dead.”

  “Over a marsupial?”

  “It’s not just any marsupial. I’m serious.”

  I could still see Mr. Unfortunate Shorts going through my Balenciaga. I decided not to mention it. I mean, most women had a red purse, didn’t they?

  “Anything else you remember about his being in here?”

  I told him what I’d overheard. He spewed a new list of Eastern European obscenities, then turned the man over and stared at him.

  I came out of the closet. “Do you know who he is?”

  “No. But I know what he is. And if he knew enough to find me, then Shackleton’s not safe here. These guys usually travel in pairs. You’re going to have to take him.”

  “Me? No.”

  “It’s only for a couple of hours. I’m delivering him to a trusted associate as soon as we dock in Wineglass Bay.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” I pointed at the guy on the floor.

  “Throw him overboard and hope for sharks. Which are endangered, by the way.”

  “You can’t. Look, as far as accessories go, I’m strictly a purse and shoes girl. No murders.”

  “Well, we have to keep him tied up and quiet at least until I can get the cargo off the boat. You have any better ideas?”

  “There’s a morgue drawer available on the cargo deck.”

  He stared at me. “Too complicated.” He moved to the dresser and pulled out a huge syringe—exactly the kind I wish I’d had last night—and jabbed it into the man on the floor. “Horse tranquilizer. He won’t wake up for hours, and even if he does, he’s not going to know your name or room number.”

  I considered this. I felt for poor Howard. And alias Ron Brazil had spent time with the Manzonis. And maybe Harriet. He was lunatic scum. But he might know something.

  “This is the deal. I will help you. But you’re going to have to help me too. Quid pro quo or nothing. Once Howard is safe, you’re mine. Or I’ll tell Sister Ellery. And Interpol. I have Graham Gant’s personal cell number.”

  “You are the Antichrist.”

  “The AntiChristine.”

  We decided the pet carrier was a dead giveaway, so Brazil would keep it as a decoy and I would take Howard in my purse, then lock him in my bathroom until we docked. My priority then was getting my photos and blood samples back to Dr. Paglia.

  “You can’t let anyone see him. Or tell anyone you have him.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m giving him to you of all people.”

  “Look, you chloroformed me. I can’t believe I’m helping you either.”

  He took the carrier out.

  “What have you been feeding him?” I asked.

  “Rats.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In his natural habitat he eats rodents. Or wild pigs.” That explained the bacon. Brazil handed me some beef jerky. “He’ll probably be okay with this until I get him onshore.”

/>   “He’ll be safer if you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing. Just be careful and meet me on Deck Seven by the photo shop at eleven forty-five. The busier it is, the less likely someone will notice.”

  “Does Sister Ellery know about this?”

  “Of course not. What kind of arsehole do you think I am?”

  “A huge one.”

  He shrugged and handed me Howard. I looked into my purse. It was a mess, post-molestation. I went into Brazil’s bathroom, took two hand towels, lay them over the contents, then deposited Howard on top. I petted his head and hoped to God I’d tired him out, as that cough/cry was going to be hard to explain. At least we had a plan.

  Until I got back to my room to find the door wide open.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I peeked around the door. At first I thought the place had been ransacked. The sheets were pulled off the bed and the balcony door was open. I heard whistling.

  A tiny woman in a housekeeping uniform and a cleaning rag in her hand came out of the bathroom. I was mortified, because I hadn’t taken the time to pre-clean the room like I usually did in a hotel. She smiled anyway.

  “Hello, Miss.”

  “Hello. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” I held out my hand, hoping it wouldn’t provoke a yelp from Howard.

  “Maria. Is there anything special you need today, Miss?” A shot of tequila, I thought.

  “Just extra water bottles would be great, thanks. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “Not long.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back.” I did an automatic dive for my wallet to tip her, and stopped myself just in time. “Will you be doing the room tomorrow as well?” She nodded. “I’m out of cash right now, but I will get more on shore and make it up to you then. Is that all right?”

  “It’s not necessary.”