Drowned Under Page 14

  “Of course it is. I won’t forget.”

  I had at least twenty minutes to kill. Part of me wanted to go straight to Sister Ellery, but I didn’t want her more involved in this criminal enterprise than she already was. Where could I go where no one might hear Howard? I passed another room service tray with some untouched toast. I wrapped it in a napkin and headed toward the service stairs. Doc was coming out.

  “Hi,” he said. “I was just coming to find you.” As usual, he was marginally gorgeous, this time in an untucked navy blue Cuban shirt over linen pants and Dockers. It made me wonder whether the thug in the bad shorts had woken up yet. So I wasn’t paying attention when Doc pressed me against the wall and bent down to kiss me. With enthusiasm. And pressure. Enough to squeeze Howard. My stowaway gave a high-pitched cough. Damn. I started coughing in unison, to cover.

  “Sorry. Think I might be coming down with something. Rain check?” I squeaked, as I bussed him on the cheek. He smelled like expensive aftershave and Herbal Essence shampoo. Even his half-kiss had made my knees turn to fresh burrata. I wanted to lean up against him for about five hours.

  “I’ll take you up on that.” This really would have been a moment if there hadn’t been a male marsupial under my armpit.

  “The kayaking offer is still open.”

  The whole “I can’t swim” thing on a cruise was as lame as the whole “I’m a travel agent who’s never been farther than New Jersey” thing. I’d figure out a way to get out of it later.

  “Great. I have to express something to the U.S., work stuff, first.”

  He kissed me again and left. I fell against the wall, then headed for the morgue.

  “Esmeralda? It’s me, Cyd.” Howard started scrabbling and cry/coughing just as the teenager emerged. I hoped it wasn’t from smelling Harriet.

  Esmeralda stared at the moving bulge in my Balenciaga. “What is that?”

  “I’d tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “That’s not a funny joke to make in a morgue.”

  “Right. I’m serious, though. Here.” I handed her the toast.

  “Thanks. What are you doing here? More forensics?”

  I needed to stall. “Just wanted to check on you. Find out if I could help. Are you a refugee or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Come on. I just brought you sourdough toast.”

  “It’s cold.” She took a big bite. Howard was keening again and getting squirmy.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you have an animal in your purse.”

  “You first.”

  “Fine. I am a refugee. From single-ness. I’m a fiancée.” She held out her left hand, which bore the tiniest, sweetest engagement ring I’d ever seen. If you blinked, you’d miss it. With any luck, with the tips I’d been giving the Koozer, he could upgrade it to visible.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Come on, I have lipsticks older than you.”

  “Nineteen. I’m legal.” This was a stretch, but I gave it to her.

  “I mean he’s cute, but do you really want to marry a man who stores you in a coffin? This is supposed to be the honeymoon period.”

  “We just wanted to spend our first Christmas together. We couldn’t afford a ticket, and the staff can’t have guests. So he snuck me on in one of the coffins. The crew and staff sneak things in that way all the time. No one checks. Usually it’s liquor, drugs, or some other contraband.”

  “Which in this case is you?”

  She nodded.

  “So, what’s in the purse?”

  “A banned substance.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it isn’t happy in there. Can it even breathe?”

  She was right. Ron Brazil had made me promise not to let anyone know about or see Howard. But he really didn’t sound happy.

  “Look, I took an oath. Could you finish your toast in the coffin, so I can give him a little air? Please?”

  She crawled back in. Just to be safe, I leaned against the coffin lid to keep it closed and unzipped the main compartment. Howard’s pointy head jutted out. I went to pet him and he nipped me, then leapt out of the purse, just as the Koozer opened the door. The cabin steward froze at the door. Before I could even yell for him to close it, Howard was through it and gone.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I sprinted after Howard. How could something so little be so fast? I searched the hallway in both directions, then ran back to the morgue door and the Koozer.

  “I know about Esmeralda. I won’t tell. As long as you return the favor.”

  “What was that thing?”

  “That’s part of the favor. I can’t tell you and you can’t tell anyone that you saw it. Ever.” I held out a five. “Are there rats on this ship?”

  “What do think? It’s a miracle they’re not doing somersaults on the Oasis Buffet.”

  “Where’s the best place to find them?”

  “Are you doing an exposé?”

  “God, no.”

  “Someone should.”

  “Alright, I’m doing an exposé. Where?”

  “In the cargo hold or in the trash section next to the crew kitchen. They don’t like stairs, so they tend to stay down here. It’s just easier.”

  “Gag. So, if there were a kind of, well, rat hunter, it would gravitate there?”

  “Rat hunter? Like a python? We’ve had three pet pythons go missing and never be found. Let me amend that, we’ve found skins a couple of times.”

  All I could see was a hangry python opening its jaws and Howard running right in. “Are either of those places on this deck?”

  “The cargo hold.” He pointed down the hall to a door propped open at the end. I went to the door and peered into the creepy cavern, stacked with crates.

  “Howard?” If he weren’t already embarking on a rat buffet, I might be able to lure him back out with food. I only had thirty minutes until I was supposed to hand him off to Brazil.

  “Koozer. If you want me to keep tipping you the GDP of Tonga, I need bacon. Lots of it. Right away. Now!”

  I took a deep breath, pulled out my emergency mini flashlight, and crept into the hold, closing the door behind me to limit the search area.

  “Howard?” I turned on what was essentially a penlight. There was clanging and, just as I stepped into the dark, a jolt and a shudder. My seasickness came back with a vengeance. I grabbed a green apple I’d put in my purse and used it to “chew down” a seasickness pill.

  It wasn’t easy to squat in the INC skirt I’d gotten on loan from Debbie until she went back down a size. But squattage was necessary, as it was hard to imagine more crevices and corners where a small, rat-sized creature—or python—could hide. It resembled the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, but dirtier.

  There were cobwebs everywhere. In doing Australian research for my clients over the years, I’d discovered that, of the ten most lethal creatures in the world, ten of them were in Australia. Including the three most deadly spiders. I always included a “watch out for” newsletter for my clients, wherever they were going, and “AVOID COBWEBS!” was one of them for Australia. I looked on the bright side. Maybe I’d find Fredo and Sandra stashed down here. I chastised myself for my uncharitable thoughts and kept looking. Nothing.

  Finally, the Koozer returned with a napkin’s worth of bacon bits.

  “Bacon bits! How am I going to lure him with those? They’re too small to even smell!”

  “I was thinking a Hansel and Gretel type of thing. It was the best I could do. The breakfast buffet’s over. This was all they had on the salad bar. You haven’t met those Balkan chefs. They hold grudges.”

  I took the napkin. “Okay, find Ron Brazil and tell him to meet me down here right away. You have to act like you don’t know w
hy. Don’t mention bacon. In fact, let me write him a note. You can say I buzzed you in my cabin.”

  I pulled out my notepad and wrote. “Delay. Meet me in cargo hold. Deck Three.”

  “I’m supposed to be checking the cabins right now.”

  “Would you rather be checking toilets in prison?” This was pretty much an empty threat, but it worked.

  I crept deeper into the bleak, pungent space, sprinkling bacon bits as I went. The hold was full of cargo for Hobart. I guessed the line made extra money for transport. Any island was screwed. Whatever they couldn’t produce, they had to pay through the nose for, and everyone made money on the way, including, I guessed, Darling Cruises.

  I looked harder to distract myself from vomiting. I wished Harriet were around so I could ask her about this freaky non-kangaroo marsupial. She’d been my guide to all things Australian and it was just one of the reasons I missed the hell out of her and resented Brazil for keeping me from tracking down her killer. Anyone who watched television knew that after the first forty-eight hours, the trail went cold.

  I sprinkled more bacon around a large section where the cargo was addressed to a Pierce Butler and stamped The Fountain. Where had I heard that name before? I moved my light over the boxes. Most of them seemed full of eucalyptus candles, waffle robes, and massage oil—except for the one that was labeled Dolophine. That one looked partially open. But before I could investigate, the ship bounced, then made one final lurch and shudder, as did my stomach. When the motion returned to a gentler, vertical bob, my internal organs stayed on lurch. We were docking. Dammit. Even if I had Doc’s number, I couldn’t get any bars down here. Where was Ron Brazil? This was in the running for worst Christmas vacation ever.

  I had just sat down on a crate of sporks when a slit of light appeared at the end of the hold. “Don’t open it too wide,” I yelled. “He might get out.” A bullet whizzed by my head.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Okay, it was officially the worst Christmas vacation ever.

  I ducked behind the stack of eucalyptus candles, as I thought they might slow the bullets, and prayed to God Howard’s survival instincts had him low to the ground. Who would shoot inside a ship? Wasn’t it like shooting in an airplane? I heard a scuffle, too loud for rats. Then, the sound of dragging.

  My seasickness joined forces with my panic. I vomited beside a carton of cotton puffs.

  “Hey, AntiChristine! You in here?”

  “Over here,” I yelled, “But I wouldn’t get too close.”

  “Then come help me.”

  I followed the voice and found Brazil standing over another guy in shorts knocked out on the floor, this one with red hair.

  “Don’t worry about him. Give me Shackleton. I’m about to miss the handoff. And they won’t wait. We agreed if I wasn’t there, that meant it was too dangerous.”

  “I don’t have him. I mean, he’s in here. I just don’t know where.”

  “Me cago en todo lo que se menea!”

  “I understand Spanish, you know!” Sort of. It sounded like he’d said “I shit on everything that wiggles.”

  Brazil picked up a nearby hand truck and flung it against the wall, making a crash that could probably be heard in Melbourne. He swore again, this time in Italian.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you?” He just shook his head. Then he sat on a carton of Metamucil and started to cry.

  I pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to him. “You don’t remember my name, do you?”

  He blew his nose. “Why should I?”

  “So that you don’t scream out AntiChristine in public and get carted off to an insane asylum. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” I started to tell him what had happened and he held up his hand like a referee to stop me. He picked up the bad guy’s gun and put in his waistband.

  “We look while we talk.” He headed down an aisle, muttering. “Bimbocile! Leave it to you to lose the last thylacine, ever.”

  “The last what?” I ignored “bimbocile” and decided to save it for use on others in daily life. I ducked down with my penlight and shone it in a section I hadn’t checked yet.

  “The last thylacine. The last male anyway.”

  “Could you say that in English?”

  “I am. Thylacine. Tasmanian tiger, you half wit. The last Tasmanian tiger.”

  “Tiger? I thought you said it was a marsupial. And how come I’ve never heard of it?”

  “Because you come from a country where nobody reads or has a passport.”

  “Except Sister Ellery.”

  “Except Sister Ellery, exactly. People call it a Tasmanian tiger because of the stripes, but it’s a marsupial. And a carnivore.” He looked down. “Wait, those might be droppings.”

  “Nope. Bacon bits. It was all I had.”

  “You’re just feeding the rats. The thing you don’t understand, the reason that you have not only ruined my life and the entire planet, is that everyone thinks the Tasmanian tiger is extinct.”

  “Like Dodo extinct?”

  “Yes. Like Dodo extinct. Well, technically, it’s listed as “functionally extinct.”

  Like my love life, I thought, or Jello 1-2-3.

  “The last documented one died in the Hobart Zoo in 1936. That’s after the dimwit Australian government paid people to kill them because they were a threat to sheep farmers. Bastards. Like there aren’t enough sheep. And we shouldn’t be eating sheep anyway. So there are always ‘sightings,’ but no proof.”

  “Until Howard?”

  “Until Howard’s mom.”

  “Keep talking. It will motivate me.” I shone the penlight down another crevice.

  “About two years ago, one of my compatriots actually tracked a male and female in the bush in South Australia. He knew if he told anyone it would bring every psycho poacher and collector and news crew—especially since last year some puta magazine offered a million and a quarter dollar reward for anyone who came forward with evidence—so he hid them and by some kind of miracle, they bred.”

  Brazil got on his knees and peered into an empty box.

  “The male died about a month ago, but the female produced three joeys, two females and a male. So this little guy is it. End of the line. There might still be others, but these are the only ones we know about for sure, the only ones we thought we could save. Until you showed up.”

  “Can I just remind you again that I stopped the Bermuda shorts guy from taking him, and who’s that other red-haired guy, anyway?”

  “Hench guys travel in pairs. He followed me down here.”

  “So now you have two unconscious guys to hide?”

  He shrugged. “Details. Right now, we keep looking. Even if I miss the handoff, we have to find him.”

  I shone my penlight down a row of flower vases. “So if it was a complete secret, how did these guys know?”

  Brazil walked over and turned on the lights. Various things scattered. “That’s what worries me. Only three of us knew. That’s why we’re moving them. We all took one each and we’re supposed to meet to take them to Maria Island.”

  “Why there?”

  “It’s a wildlife preserve and I have a compound.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going to be too late.”

  So I’d just functionally killed a species by opening my purse. Now I was the one who felt like crying. Brazil moved toward the cotton ball/vomit area. “I wouldn’t go over there,” I said, following him around the corner.

  We both stopped dead. There was Howard, lapping up the remains.

  “No, Howard! Bad tiger!”

  Chapter Thirty

  By the time we’d cleaned up Howard (something I insisted on before he went back in my Balenciaga), tied up the second Howard-poaching hopeful, and gotten to the departure deck, most of the passengers were already on shore. I told Brazil I’d help
him get Howard into a duffel, so we went to his cabin. Mr. Unfortunate Shorts was gone.

  “I can’t worry about that now.” He packed up more beef jerky.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The less you know, the less likely you’ll screw it up.”

  “I never thought I’d say this, but good luck. Howard, you are a freaking miracle, so don’t forget it. Mr. Brazil is a son of a bitch, but if anyone can save you, he can.”

  I kissed Howard’s strangely scratchy head and watched the two of them go. Then, I went in search of Doc, but the Infirmary was closed up and the stewards said he’d already gone ashore. I stood, taking in the deep blues and greens of Wineglass Bay and wished I were taking a mini cruise past the white beaches instead of rushing to find a FedEx outlet because I didn’t know how long blood would keep.

  The shore crew directed me toward the town. The sign read Population 495. Given the gossip potential, I was surprised Brazil had chosen here for his handoff. I hoped he hadn’t been too late. I tried my phone as I walked. The reception kept going in and out, even on land. I found a tiny sweet spot and sent Dr. Paglia the morgue photos.

  Finally, I spotted a convenience/liquor store with a Post Office sign. The harried woman inside said my package—over which I’d written Fragile about fifty times—would get to Brooklyn before Christmas Eve U.S. time, as long as I was willing to pay one hundred fifty dollars. Along with fruitcake, holiday gouging seemed to be universal. Air miles, air miles, I told myself, as I pulled out my Visa card.

  The post mistress said there was one pay-by-the-hour computer in the coffee shop on the other end of town, i.e., half a block down. The clerk there said I had to buy a flat white, whatever that was, to use the Internet. I hoped he didn’t hear me gasp, or see tears pop up in my eyes when I found two emails from Harriet in my inbox.

  The first one was dated while I was in the air between LAX and Melbourne.

  “Hey sister. Peggy Newsome’s been sending a lot of her folks on private excursions to this place called The Fountain in Hobart. So that’s probably the first place we should check out.”