Drowned Under Read online

  I sat on the bed, fluffing feathers onto my outfit. Although I was really here because Uncle Ray had broken the law, part of me had to face that I’d also come because I was a coward.

  It was true I didn’t want to ruin things for Ma and Aunt Helen, and that Barry needed my help, but the real reason I’d jumped at the chance to flee was because I just couldn’t stand the idea of a Christmas without Uncle Ray. So, I’d done a runner. It was selfish. As I used my mini lint brush on my behind, I renewed my vow to find the Manzonis, find Harriet’s killer (and Elliot’s), and save Howard, to make up for it.

  I had two more things to do before I left the ship—check on Sister Ellery and ask Storr Bentley about the Manzonis. I wished I could leave Howard in the room, but it wasn’t safe. And I couldn’t have him jumping out of my Balenciaga and blowing our cover, either.

  I put everything in my bag into various Tupperware containers, or secure pockets, then lay a towel over them. I dug out the seventh-grade friendship bracelet I kept in my purse for luck and loosened it until it fit over Howard’s head. Then I tightened it just enough to stay there, tied it to a navy blue J. Crew sash, and tied that to the handle of my Balenciaga. At least this way, I’d have time to catch him if he bungee jumped again.

  Then, the final indignity. I hated to do it, but I reached in my bag for a scrunchie. I petted Howard’s head as I whipped it over his nose and mouth, hoping it might work as a gentle muzzle. I figured if it was soft enough not to break off sun-damaged hair, it wasn’t going to hurt him. I hoped not, anyway. I looked around, grabbed the flash drive and my collapsible sun hat, then sat on the part of the bed with the least feathers. Howard scrambled up. I petted his head, secured his training pants, and patted the Balenciaga. He jumped in.

  “Good tiger,” I said.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I could hear passengers in the hallway. I’d been on the boat for two days and I hadn’t met any of my neighbors/potential clients. I guessed now wasn’t really the time, given what was in my purse, so I waited until I heard four heavy treads fade away. I put the Do Not Disturb card in and Howard and I ducked out.

  I went by Sister Ellery’s room and tapped on the door. I didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping. No answer. I left a note under her door with my BlackBerry number and headed up to corner the Staff Captain. As I reached the elevator, I heard my name. Kind of.

  “Cyd Gepetto. Would Miss Cyd Gepetto please report to the Staff Captain’s office on Deck Eleven? Miss Gepetto.” I felt Howard stir in my purse. Was this a passive aggressive, pre-emptive strike? Could Storr Bentley be Harriet’s murderer? Technically, I could ignore the page, given the name snafu, but I needed to find out what he knew. I had to risk it.

  When I reached Deck Eleven, I passed Margy, who gave a cheery wave. “Did you find a driver, sweetie?”

  “Yes, I’m all set, thanks for the numbers.”

  “Great. I signed you up for dinner at the Drunken Admiral tonight. It’s a Tasmanian tradition and it’s right on the dock. You’ll love it. Eight o’clock!” Her verbal exclamation marks were exhausting, but they were part and parcel of her job. She might be as tired of them as I was. As a person who worked in sales and service, I tried to be perky, but there was a limit.

  I found the door which read “Staff Captain Storr Bentley.” I’d left my purse slightly unzipped so Howard could breathe. His tiny nose was pushing the zipper open. “Howard!” I hissed. “Stay down, okay? It’s not safe. Seriously.” I let him sniff my hand, then pulled the zipper most of the way, careful not to snag the scrunchie and leaving just enough room for air and for the sash. I threw my linen scarf over the top of the purse and knocked.

  “Enter,” Bentley said.

  I cracked the door. “Hello, sir. You paged a Cyd Gepetto, but I think you meant me, Cyd Redondo?”

  He rose, stiff as a board. His face was red. “Hmmm. Redondo. That sounds incorrect. Are you sure that is your name?”

  This was going to be torture. “Yes. I am sure of my own name. Sir.”

  He shrugged. “Names are unimportant.”

  “As long as you don’t feel that way about navigational coordinates,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Ah. A joke. Harriet said you were humorous. Sit.” It was like he couldn’t speak without making it sound like a command. It worked. I sat.

  I kept my Balenciaga on my lap and tried to pet/soothe Howard through the leather, as though I had a nervous tick. Now that I was closer, I could see that it wasn’t so much that Bentley’s face was red, as his eyes.

  “So, Harriet mentioned me?”

  “She did.”

  “You spoke to her on the first day of the cruise. How did she seem to you?”

  “Angry,” he said. “We argued.”

  Then he threw his head into his hands.

  Oh God, was this a murder confession? My BlackBerry, with voice recording, was somewhere under Howard. So were my tissues. I reached over and patted him on the shoulder. He finally looked up.

  “I loved her. You knew her. You know how wonderful she was. Too good for me, of course. She could never love me, I knew that. But to bring that man, that cretin, onto the boat, after everything. It was just too much.”

  “So. So, you killed her?”

  “No!” He jumped to his feet. “You are appalling to suggest such a thing! You lower onto the ship in a most discourteous manner, you force me to see my beloved dead on the floor when I am in an official capacity and cannot show emotion, and now accuse me of hurting the person I loved most in the world? How dare you! Get out!”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry. Wait! I apologize, Staff Captain. For all of it. I had no idea you two were, well, involved.” Actually this was a lie. I guess once I met him I couldn’t see it being true.

  “So, she never mentioned me?” When men cried, it was either really fake or scarily real. As his outburst including gasping and snot, I figured it was real. It was like when nice people finally snapped and wound up taking someone out with their car. Apparently, when repressed Marine officers let go, they just unhinged all the way. I grabbed paper towels from the wall and handed him a stack. He took them without looking up.

  “Harriet was very discreet.” I eased back down so as not to frighten Howard. “In fact, she never even told me she’d been married. And her husband was on the boat? Who is he?”

  “He’s a monster.” He gave a shudder, then started a sharp, hiccoughing sob. “A profiteer.”

  Wow. I didn’t think I’d heard that word since Gone With the Wind. It was a good word.

  “So who is he?”

  “Butler. Pierce Butler.”

  No way. He was a profiteer and his last name was Butler? What were the odds? Pierce Butler. Wasn’t that the name on the packages for The Fountain? Harriet was married to the man who ran The Fountain? Where all the seniors flocked when they went onshore? Where the Manzonis might have gone?

  “Do you think he murdered her?”

  “I thought it was an accident.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m trying to find out. Do you want to know what happened? Really know?”

  “Of course I do. It will allow me to kill the person who did this. People say Swedes are cold. I am not cold. I am a Scorpio.” He looked up. I looked at my watch.

  “Then can you tell me why you told Cabin Steward Nylo that he didn’t have to worry about the Manzonis’ things?”

  He stared at me. “I was told they wouldn’t be returning.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I do not recall. I will look back at my files. I have a request, as well,” Bentley said. “You were Harriet’s friend. I do not want her taken to this strange place alone. Will you assist me and accompany the body onshore?”

  It was no more than Harriet deserved, though it was going to make my Howard handoff tight. “Of course,” I said. “It’s
very kind of you to include me.”

  “I am going now to the morgue to see her moved and brought up properly,” Bentley said.

  Oh God, I thought. Esmeralda. “Would you like me to handle that? It could be very upsetting for you. You’ve been through enough.”

  He rose. “That is very thoughtful of you. Yes, I was dreading it, seeing her in that awful room. If you are truly willing, I will meet you on the deck.”

  Howard, please be asleep, I thought.

  I needn’t have worried. The Koozer was in the morgue. He’d stashed Esmeralda somewhere else, or she’d already disembarked for what I hoped would be an illicit romantic getaway. They were just lifting Harriet’s coffin when I arrived at the door.

  Doc was standing outside and shook his head when I tried to go in. “There isn’t room. I made them promise to be careful.” I wondered whether he’d checked the body before the move and noticed the new needle marks.

  I’d grabbed a handful of one of the multiple flower arrangements in the lobby, and placed a small bouquet on top of the coffin. It was a sad procession, the Koozer and a contingent of what he had called “the Filipino mafia” stewards as uniformed pall bearers, the sad flowers on top, the noticeable odor of morgue, and the crunch and grind of the service elevator when the door opened.

  Doc and I waited as the stewards went in, then squeezed in behind them. As the elevator jolted, the flowers went flying. Doc caught them and handed them to me, then leaned against me in a junior high move, which I appreciated.

  By the time we arrived on the departure deck, most of the passengers were already moving down Macquarie Wharf. The ship had docked next to the peeling, wooden, warehouse-esque Cruise Terminal. The rest of the city, however, didn’t disappoint, even from this angle.

  Hobart had a charming harbor, with piers and wharves of various lengths fanning out from its center. I could hear the slap of fiberglass against wooden pilings, as fishing boats and yachts anchored and shivered there, amidst the restaurants and pubs. Hobart’s equivalent of the food truck, a deep, squarish blue boat with a bright yellow banner, bobbed to my right, promising fish and oysters right out of the water.

  The city itself started at the sea and climbed uphill all the way to Mount Wellington, which seemed close enough to touch. Stately Victorian buildings scaled the incline, stuffed beside harbor warehouses and newish restaurants and hotels with an excess of glass. Directly in front of us was the Hotel Grand Chancellor, where I had sent my favorite Tasmanian travelers. Dorcas, in sales, always helped me out. I would have to stop in and say hi.

  I was obsessing over the scenery because I didn’t want to think about Harriet in that box. We started down the ramp where Staff Captain Bentley, in full whites, stood waiting. He saluted then fell in with me, behind the procession. I replaced the flowers and he gave me a grateful look. Doc had run ahead to a waiting ambulance. He signed the paperwork and, as Bentley and I stood behind, the stewards lifted my friend into the back.

  “I will take it from here. Thank you for your kindness, Miss Gepetto. And you, Doctor,” the Staff Captain said, and climbed in.

  It drove away without a siren. Howard was awake. I noticed his nose poking out of the zipper again, probably sniffing for wharf rats. I eased it back in when Doc wasn’t looking and dropped in a piece of bacon I’d been saving in the outside pocket. It would help distract him from the rats and, besides, he deserved it. It was heartening to know his survival instincts hadn’t been bred out of him.

  I needed to find Brazil and get the thylacine out of my purse as soon as I could. How could I ditch Doc without looking suspicious? I decided on the Manzoni excuse. Which wasn’t really an excuse. I needed to find them as much as I needed to get Howard, undetected, to safety.

  “What happens now?” I asked Doc.

  “She’ll go to the city morgue.”

  “For an autopsy, hopefully?”

  “If there’s no evidence of anything but accidental death, no. They’ll contact the family and, depending on their preference, will either deal with a funeral home here, or arrange to have the body flown back. The ship isn’t equipped to deal with a body that’s more than a few days old. Sorry,” he said, “I know she’s not just a body to you.” The ambulance turned up the hill.

  “Has this happened to you a lot? Bodies?”

  “Define a lot.”

  “Every other cruise?”

  “Not quite that often, but you’re a travel agent, you know the statistics.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “From my reading, two murders per five-day cruise is high.”

  “Cyd, I know what you think you saw. But last night you were pretty manic. And I talked to the department heads. None of them remembered an Elliot Ness.”

  “But you said there were pictures on the flash drive I should see. Isn’t that proof?”

  “That might be proof that he existed. But not that he’s dead. The Captain was pretty upset that you’d even suggested it. I think she feels like you’ve been put on board to sabotage her.”

  “Oh, God no. Why would I do that? I’m all for female captains.”

  “She’s had a hard time.” There was something in the way he said it that made me wonder whether they’d been involved. Or were still involved.

  “The pictures?”

  “There are a few people looking like you described, having an argument. Near the railing.”

  Maybe Fredo really had pushed Sandra overboard, then had Nylo get rid of her things.

  “I have to go,” I said. “I’m going to check in with the Hobart Police and then meet the Manzonis’ driver. Thanks for helping with Harriet.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. “Sure you don’t want company?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but this isn’t your problem.” He looked down and I felt awful. “Are you going to the Drunken Admiral dinner?”

  “If you are,” he said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be caught dead there.”

  “Well, that’s an endorsement. I’ll see you there, if not before.” He gave me a look, but I could feel Howard wiggling so I started backing away.

  “The police station is about four blocks up,” he said.

  I waved and headed down the dock. I passed The Drunken Admiral, which did in fact look like a tourist trap with its whitewashed brick, and elaborate, extended sign. I happened to look up toward the hotel and thought I saw the two thugs who’d been after Howard walking down the next wharf over. Brazil had said he thought there were three. Where was the other one?

  And where was Ron Brazil? I couldn’t keep carrying Howard in my purse. It was too hot, for one thing. He would need water and, although I didn’t like to think about it, another diaper.

  The Grand Chancellor would have a lobby restroom suitable for my needs. I’d just headed that way when someone grabbed my arm and jerked me behind a tattered warehouse.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  My years of self-defense, kickboxing classes, and brawls with my brousins had all been channeling me toward this moment. Of course, I didn’t anticipate having the last male, and sperm, of a species in my purse, but my reflexes kicked in anyway, happily with my heels rather than my Balenciaga. I landed a half-roundhouse-strappy-sandaled kick right in my attacker’s jaw, forcing him to loosen his grip. I turned, about to give him an extra kick in the balls.

  “For the love of Christ! No!” It was Ron Brazil. I stopped mid-kick. Years of pummeling an imaginary Peggy Newsome in stilettos helped me keep my balance, as planned. He stumbled back and leaned against the wall. “That hurt!” His Travolta wig had spun sideways, creating Cousin It bangs.

  “It was supposed to. Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you just say ‘pssst’ like a normal person? You scared the shit out of me.”

  “I didn’t want the shorts twins to see me.”

  “So what did you think I was going to do, blindly follow some rand
om arm? I’m responsible for Howard.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He was until that. Let’s see.” I eased the zipper open and Howard’s nose immediately popped out, then his tongue.

  “Oh, thank God,” I said. “Hi, Howard.” I petted his nose, but kept the zipper mostly closed. I was a girl who learned her lessons, at least most of the time. “Are you going to take him?” He nodded. “In what?”

  “That.” He pointed at my purse.

  “Oh, hell no,” I said. “This purse and I do not part company, ever again. Why didn’t you bring a duffel bag or something?”

  “Because I didn’t want to look like I was carrying anything, you nimrod.” I wondered how old Ron Brazil actually was.

  “Let’s head to the Grand Chancellor. I’m sure they have a gift shop. I’ll go first, then you meet me in the women’s bathroom in five minutes.”

  I exited the alley as though entering it had been my choice, then waited for the walk sign, crossed the busy street, and climbed the front stairs of the hotel.

  It was twelve stories high, boxy, and like most hotels, didn’t quite look like its professional photos. That didn’t diminish my relief at the possibility of entering a four star lobby restroom. The lobby was hopping, full of tourists and locals having excessive holiday drinks. You could feel the family tensions that would explode two days from now, resulting in burned roasts, smashed wineglasses, tears, and the lifelong emotional scars that went with them.

  The hotel had floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the harbor, with wreaths and fairy lights around them. Even the berries on them looked exotic. Dammit, I wanted to see Tasmania. But for now, I’d settle for the gift shop. First, I headed to Reception.

  “Hi,” I said, holding out my card to the receptionist, who was too tired, or too hungover, to be perky. “I’m Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. Is Dorcas around, by any chance? She’s helped countless times with clients coming to Hobart. I wanted to thank her in person.”