Drowned Under Read online

  Now, I had just over an hour to try to figure out what was going on before I had to meet Doc at the Drunken Admiral. The Manzonis were alive. At least I could check that off my Christmas list. But I still hadn’t convinced anyone that Harriet’s death was a homicide. Maybe it wasn’t. Dr. Paglia was the only person who could put my mind at rest, if he wasn’t down five hundred by now. I looked up his itinerary on my BlackBerry, then made a stupidly expensive international call to Atlantic City.

  “Trump Taj Mahal, this is Aaron from Winnetka.”

  “Hi Aaron, Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. May I have Dr. Paglia in 1571 please, and if there’s no answer, can you come back to me?”

  “Absolutely.” The phone rang and rang. I tried not to think about how much it was costing. Aaron came back.

  “Any chance you could page him in the casino?”

  Another fifty bucks in telephone charges and the two times through the extended version of “There’s Got To Be a Morning After” later, I heard a familiar growl.

  “Hi, doll. I was gonna call you. I just got the labwork back a couple of hours ago.”

  “But you were up at the time?”

  “Naturally. Now I’m down. So much for the holidays. Your friend, was she in rehab?”

  “Not that I know of. I highly doubt it.”

  “Well, she had a crazy amount of methadone in her system. It’s not really used for anything else. I can’t be sure it was the cause of death because I don’t have the body, but from the amount of blood around the wound, I’d still say she was dead before the head wound. If she had a methadone overdose, that would make sense. First one of these I’ve seen though.”

  “Methadone? You’re sure? Can you tell which brand?”

  “Yeah, that pops right up on the vial.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. I’m serious. I saw a box of Dolophine in the hold. The ship’s doctor said it was a brand name for methadone.”

  “Can you link the box to your suspect? Methadone makes it suspicious, but as I said, your nail polish blood container isn’t admissible.”

  “Can’t you make a call to the coroner’s office here and ask them to do a proper autopsy? Don’t medical examiners have a secret code for something’s fishy?”

  “Yes. It’s called vodka. Your best bet is to have a next of kin request it. Sorry, kiddo.”

  “Thanks so much, at least I know I’m not crazy. Hope you win big.”

  “From your mouth to, well you know. Hey, by the way, who took your mom’s picture for Catholic Blend? She looks hot.”

  “You’re on Catholic Blend?”

  “I’m a fifty-five-year-old man who looks sixty-five. I’m on everything.”

  “Bullshit. You don’t look a day over sixty. Love you. Merry Christmas.”

  I needed to call my mother or at least get my IT guy to take her “hot” Catholic Blend profile down. But family obligations would keep her occupied for the next couple of days, so Pierce Butler was my priority.

  As Harriet’s ex-husband and a pillar of the community he might have pull with the M.E.’s office. Then I remembered that the methadone I’d seen was addressed to him. Had he killed Harriet? How contentious was their breakup? Certainly Margy had sounded shocked that Harriet was seeing him, and Harriet herself had lied to me about it. And he did wear khaki, I thought, remembering the tiny piece of fabric caught on the balcony I’d sent off to Frank.

  But still, why kill Harriet? Why would a person so visible in this world do something so risky? Jealousy? Could she reveal a secret he wanted kept? Did it have something to do with The Fountain? I had been so sure her murder had to do with the Manzonis’ disappearance, but if they were fine, it couldn’t, right?

  If Butler were the murderer, asking him to request an autopsy might get me killed too. Still, he wasn’t the only suspect— no one could actually confirm he’d been on the ship. Since the door to the cargo hold had been open, as had the box of Dolophine, pretty much anyone on the crew could have gotten to it.

  What would the killer need? A syringe? Did the drug come in pill form? Could you put methadone in soup or a hot beverage? I would have to ask Doc. Maybe now he would talk to the Hobart Medical Examiner. Except then I would have to tell him that I’d gone behind his back and taken the blood sample. That didn’t seem smart. I looked at my watch, hoping Howard and Mandy were safe. I had another half hour before I needed to meet Doc.

  I decided to look at my photos of The Fountain guest book. If Butler was involved, maybe there was a clue there. I still didn’t know why every guest had a number circled beside their name. I grabbed the printout of Harriet’s email and looked at the numbers again. What did the Captain’s Table have to do with The Fountain? Why did Harriet want me to have this code?

  I found the Manzonis on The Fountain sign-in sheet. There was a “two” circled by their name. What did that mean? And then I saw a name that made my blood run cold, someone who’d checked in not fifteen minutes before Doc and I’d been there: Sister Ellery Malcomb. She hadn’t been asleep in her cabin, she’d been on her way to the methadone spa. And she was, apparently, a “four.” Dammit. Why didn’t she tell Brazil she was going?

  I thought about the Captain’s Table photos. The Manzonis had dined at the Captain’s Table. So had Sister Ellery. I wondered whether the other couples who’d gone missing had too. But what could that have to do with anything? I pulled up their names on my BlackBerry. The first couple was in the guest book from two weeks ago. There was a “three” by their name. But that was as far back as the pages I’d photographed went.

  I didn’t like the idea that Sister Ellery might be there. Since the desk clerk owed me, I had her find the fax number for The Fountain, and then send a quick fax from me, addressed to Sister Ellery care of the spa, saying I hoped she’d had a good day and I was looking forward to seeing her at eight at the Drunken Admiral. At least they’d know I knew she was there, in case anything strange was going on.

  I understood why detectives had a sidekick. They could talk all their crazy ideas through and have assistance for things like breaking into The Fountain for the rest of the records. It was time to meet Doc. Maybe I should reconsider him for the position.

  The restaurant was just across the street. I stopped on the hotel steps and looked at the harbor. This time of year in Bay Ridge, it got dark around three in the afternoon, so I wasn’t used to the combo of Christmas lights and daylight both bouncing off the water. It was gorgeous, with no snice in sight. No thugs either, as far as I could tell, though I looked both ways about fifteen times as I crossed the street and walked onto the wharf.

  The Drunken Admiral was the sort of place you passed and told your friend or family member, “we have to go there!” The long, whitewashed, three-story stone building had a fourth story jutting up just at the end. The square, wooden windows were trimmed in a weathered Chinese red, and above the door a painted wooden torso of a sailor in a blue jacket and tri-cornered hat saluted to everyone and no one. Flanking the massive oak door were a black cannon and a black cauldron, large enough to boil several children, or a hell of a lot of grog. With the thick, jet-black antique serif font sprawled across the building (I printed a lot of brochures, I knew my fonts), the overall feeling was comic and a bit sinister.

  I was going to inch open the door, but it weighed about eight hundred pounds. I had to shove it with my hip instead and stumbled into what I could only describe as a room where Disney’s “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride and one of the more upscale Red Lobsters had been shackled together in the belly of a nineteenth-century ship.

  If you adored rust, men in yellow fisherman slickers hiding in barrels, unsubtle painted joke signs, and a skeleton skittering back and forth at the helm, the Drunken Admiral was the place for you. Massive platters of fish, oysters, and lobsters passed by, garnished with muskets and rusty keys. This was the place to take your nephews for their ninth
birthday, if it weren’t so expensive. I was glad my trip was all inclusive.

  “Can I help you, matey?” a pert blond woman yelled. “Just kidding. We don’t have any tables until two weeks from Friday, but you could eat at the bar.”

  “Thanks. I’m from the Tasmanian Dream? I think we have a reservation or something?”

  “Oh, absolutely. They’re in the back, just push on through. Mind your head.”

  As if I weren’t doing that already.

  I elbowed my way through the four-deep crowd at the bar. It was not a place where you could make a quick getaway, I thought with a shiver of panic. It was too late to tunnel out, so I kept going until I parted the passengers around Margy.

  She had her hand on the shoulder of a handsome, oversized white-haired man in a billowy yellow linen shirt which hinted at his beer belly. He was sitting with Mary Lou and Jack, my British friends from the Captain’s Table. The man threw his hands in the air at the end of whatever story he was telling. Everyone laughed. Mary Lou gestured me over and introduced me to Cal Langston.

  “Cal is the friend we told you about. He’s flying to Sydney tomorrow for the yacht race.”

  We exchanged a mutually impressive shake. “That’s so fabulous, Mr. Langston.”

  “Cal, please. Have you been on a lot of boats, Ms. Redondo?”

  “Call me Cyd, please. No. I actually don’t know how to swim, so it would be like booking a ski vacation when you didn’t have health insurance.”

  “But worse.” He grinned. “I bet you’d do okay if someone just threw you in. You look like a scrapper.”

  “I’m scrappy as hell, Cal.”

  “I’ll bet you are. You could come with me, you know, give up this whole tourist business and fly to Sydney with me.”

  “That’s a very generous offer. But I’m looking for a friend of mine and can’t really abandon her. I may take you up on your offer someday, though.”

  “Good. If you fall overboard, just give me a ring and I’ll swing by and pick you up.” He handed me his card. Everyone laughed. I tucked his card into the “dry bag” I kept in my purse in case of hurricanes or puddles. It had been too small for Howard.

  “Margy, have you seen Sister Ellery? I thought she was going to rest today, but then I heard she might have gone to The Fountain.”

  Margy frowned. “She must have done a private ride hire. I’m surprised. Ron has a problem with Pierce Butler. I’m sure he wouldn’t be happy to hear that.”

  “Have you seen Ron?”

  She shook her head and handed me a small printed menu. “Pick one from each category and order at the bar. The lobsters go fast.”

  “Thanks.” I said my goodbyes to the table and went in search of Doc. But it wasn’t until I stood on a chair that I finally spotted him, talking to Lisa Callahan, the Captain’s hostess.

  Were Doc and Lisa an item? If so, why was he blatantly flirting with me? Maybe I should “mind my head,” as the perky blonde had said. But the Koozer was sure CT meant Captain’s Table and Lisa was in charge of that, so I stuck out my elbows and headed into the fray. She saw me coming and arranged her face into a cruise-worthy smile.

  Doc gave me a real one. “Hungry?” He held out an oyster. Fine, I thought, torture me. I tossed it down without incident and took a second one.

  “Hi, Ms. Callahan. It must be nice to have a night off from hosting.”

  “We’re always hosting, even here.”

  “Oh, of course you are, sorry.”

  “Let me get you both a drink. House specialty okay?”

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  I watched her make her way to the back bar. “She hates me, right?”

  Doc laughed. “She likes me and I like you, that’s all. How was your afternoon?”

  “Complicated. You haven’t seen Sister Ellery or Ron, have you?”

  “No.”

  “She was on The Fountain register. Weird, right? I’m a little concerned about her. She doesn’t have a cell phone.”

  “Let’s get out of here, it’s too hard to talk.” I still wanted to talk with Lisa, but this probably wasn’t the place. Then she arrived with our holiday drinks and it was rude not to share them with her. Once we’d knocked them down, Doc cleared a path for me and we made it out to the wharf.

  Just then, my BlackBerry beeped with a text from Mandy:

  SOS

  “Shitfire,” I said. “Hang on a minute.” I walked away and called her.

  “Howard doesn’t seem well. Really listless. He’s panting a little. I’m not sure what it is. He might just be dehydrated. I’ve tried to make him drink but he won’t. Have you heard from Mr. Brazil?”

  “No.”

  “I know it’s too risky to call a vet, even if I could find one tonight. I’ll see if I can find any info online.”

  Doc was watching me. “Mandy? Hang on. I’m on my way.”

  She gave me the code for the basement door. I walked back to Doc.

  “Hey? The vet thing. Was that a joke? Seriously? Was it?”

  He looked down. “No.”

  “You’re a vet? A real, qualified vet?”

  “I went to medical school too, most of it. I’m sorry, the cruise line doesn’t encourage honesty in this situation.” He looked up, ready for a slap or something.

  “No. No, it’s great. Theoretically, if a young, dog-like animal is listless, is that normal?”

  “Dog-like?”

  “Yeah. Dog-like. Just no energy. A little panting.”

  “I can’t really say without an exam, but it sounds like dehydration.” Of course, the one thing my Balenciaga didn’t have. A water fountain.

  “That’s what we thought.”

  “Who is we?”

  “It’s not important. Do you just give it more water?”

  “Usually by that stage it needs an IV of fluids. What is this about? Have you acquired a pet in the last few hours?”

  “Sort of. I can’t really explain. I just need your help.”

  “Well, I have all the stuff on the ship. Do you want me to get it?”

  Howard, and any potential offspring he might have, were my responsibility. If it were a choice between Doc knowing or Howard dying, I’d pick Howard every time.

  “Yes, get it. Please. And bring a blindfold if you have one.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  “Okay, put this on,” I said. We were standing outside the basement door of the museum. Doc had a proper doctor’s bag. Or maybe it was a proper vet’s bag.

  “Cyd. I already know we’re at the museum. Are you really expecting me to put an IV in a small, dog-like creature with an eye mask on?”

  I considered his point. “I have to think about it. Wear it for now.”

  I took his arm and helped him up the first three stairs. He promptly tripped.

  “Sorry. Are you okay? All right, we’ll put it back on when we get there.”

  We got to Mandy’s office door and I put the eye mask back on Doc, then knocked.

  “It’s Cyd. Don’t open the door yet.” I could hear her moving toward it. “Is he better?”

  “Not really.” I could feel her stress through the door.

  “Okay. I’ve got a vet with me. He’s blindfolded. Should I bring him in?”

  There was a long silence. Footsteps moved across the room, then back. Mandy eased the door open and evaluated Doc, who, even I had to admit, looked pretty silly. He’d forgotten the blindfold, so I’d resorted to the signature brown-and-white-striped Henri Bendel sleep mask from my purse.

  “Hi,” Doc said. “I have no idea what is going on, but if there’s a sick animal in there and I can help him—it’s a him?” We nodded, forgetting he was blind. He waited.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I feel compelled to help him. It’s that Hypocritical
Oath thing, Cyd.”

  Mandy gave me a questioning look. I nodded. She opened the door. I helped Doc in. I could hear Howard doing tiny little pants. They made my heart hurt. I ran over and put my finger through the cage. He looked at me, but didn’t move.

  “Is there any way you can tell one of us what to do?”

  “I’m a taxidermist,” Mandy said. “I’m pretty handy.”

  “I’ll bet,” Doc said. “You’ll be a great assistant, but if you’ve never put in an IV on an animal, do you want to take that chance?”

  I had a flash of splattered thylacine blood on the half-finished emu. “Okay.” I took the eye mask off and put it back in my purse.

  Doc moved toward the cage. Then stopped.

  “Bugger me. Is that a…I mean what the hell?”

  We nodded. “Don’t ask,” I said, “just help him. His name is Howard.”

  “Cyd, seriously. If I’m right, that’s not a dog-like creature, it’s a marsupial, so it’s more kangaroo and possum-like. That might make a difference in treatment.”

  “It’s marsupial-like.”

  He sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t know if I can do this. What if I mess up?”

  “Like you said, better you than us.”

  Mandy had a sink where we could all wash up and everyone decided, since Howard knew me best, I was the one who should hold him while Doc delivered the fluids. I would have to keep my eyes closed, so my needle phobia didn’t end the species with inadvertent crushing.

  Poor Howard. I understood why Mandy had been concerned. He could barely hold his pointed head up. I’d dragged him around in a pocketbook. This was all my fault. I picked him up and held him to my chest. For the first time, he snarled. He really didn’t feel well.

  “I’m so sorry, Howard.”

  Doc let Howard get used to his smell before he started his examination. “It’s going to be fine, Howard. I’m going to make sure it doesn’t hurt. You’ll be fine, you’ve already survived that purse of hers.” I fell in love with Doc a little just then. “I think it really is just a lack of fluids. He seems fine otherwise. This should fix him up.”