Drowned Under Page 25

  I called home. It was Christmas morning there. Frank answered, barely audible over the laughter and ripping wrapping paper. I figured Uncle Leon was sneaking looks at PBS, Aunt Helen was bent over, shoving around olives, and Mom wasn’t quite finished polishing the champagne glasses. I could hear them squeaking when she picked up the phone.

  “Are you eating anything?”

  “When I’m not nauseous, yes,”

  “Oh God. You’re seasick. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I’m fine, Ma. I just called to say I love you and I’m sorry I’m not there. Hug everybody, okay?”

  She paused, then told me to give her love to Sister Ellery. She also said that Roger Claymore had called to wish me a Merry Christmas. He’d try again on New Year’s Day.

  I could have used Roger at this moment. I’d always been braver around him.

  Restless, I paced on my balcony until I heard rousing cheers. The yacht racers were early. Many of the gorgeous boats were neck and neck, while a few straggled behind. I assumed one of them was Cal. It was time to get suited up, though I still hoped Gant might get here before I made my descent into international waters.

  I put my hair in a bun. I didn’t want it floating into my mouth. Then I put a fluorescent green scrunchie around it, for extra visibility in the water. I saw why the wetsuit had been left behind—it had a huge bloodstain and a tiny tear. My hot pink duct tape didn’t match, but with any luck it would keep the water out long enough for me to be rescued.

  I hooked the life jackets over my wetsuit and put the dry bag with my phones in the pocket of the one on the inside. This widened me about five feet, and with the duct tape, I resembled one of Brazil’s brutalized seal toys. I hid my Balenciaga in the closet with a note and left everything else on the bedside table.

  I’d arranged to meet the Koozer on Deck Four at four o’clock sharp, while the sun was still high. It was too bad the yacht racers had passed, but I could feel the engines slowing, right on time. At least with the quarantine, I wouldn’t have to worry as much about being spotted in my unflattering attire. The hallway seemed empty, so I sprinted for the stairwell, wetsuit squeaking all the way. The Koozer and Nylo were waiting for me in their face masks.

  “You sure? This is batshit crazy,” Nylo said.

  It was. And I wasn’t sure. But then I thought of Harriet and Sister Ellery and all the senior citizens I would send on bucket list holidays. I wanted Pierce Butler out of commission. Besides, I had a million-dollar medical, emergency evacuation, and corpse repatriation policy, so there would be no costs for my family or Redondo Travel. And I only had to float half a mile to be in Scott’s jurisdiction. If he could drop me, he could pick me up. It worked for astronauts. I wished I’d been able to kiss Doc goodbye, but right now he was a norovirus incubator, so maybe it was just as well.

  I made the mistake of looking down. The white slope of the ship was Alps-like and slippery. The distant water smashed against it about every half second. To steady my stomach, I looked at Nylo instead. He explained they’d positioned a small raft on the side of the ship that I could either hold onto in the water, or get into once I was down. They’d lower it after I fell, instead of before, so it wouldn’t float away without me. I felt better.

  “Nylo, you’re getting a vacation too,” I said. “But no more drinking on the job.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I’d just grabbed the rope when we heard it. The chopper. Scott or Gant, it didn’t matter. The cavalry had arrived. I was so relieved I actually cheered. Nylo rolled his eyes.

  The cabin stewards had just run down the deck to get a better look at the helicopter, when I smelled Esteé Lauder Pleasures and felt a sharp shove.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Before the jab even registered, my feet were higher than my head and all of me was flipping over the railing. I reached out and just managed to grab the bottom rung with my right hand.

  Someone in khaki pants rammed their heel into it.

  Before I lost my grip, I strained with my other hand for the rope Nylo had tied to the raft. Maybe I could rappel down and hold onto that until I could call for help. Thank God for second grade gymnastics.

  I didn’t have to look down to know, despite my previous plan, I absolutely did not want to go into that water. I had to get to the raft. I kept my eyes on the rope and headed down, hand over hand—just like Sister Alicia taught us—for twenty feet, until the ship hit a wave, jolted, and I lost my grip.

  I knew I should turn my fall into a dive—I’d be less likely to break my legs. But my reptile, non-swimming brain sent me the other way—Wile E. Coyote style. I spun my arms, and hit smack on top of the two life jackets—just as I reached for the inflation tab.

  I probably injured a rib or two, but the jackets softened the landing enough to keep me from breaking my back. The fall still knocked the wind out of me, though. My face stung in the salt water. A wave sent me tumbling under.

  I was glad I’d written a will.

  I needed air. I might not know how to swim, but I knew I couldn’t open my mouth until my head was out of the water.

  I looked up. All I could see was my cousin Jimmy, pressing my head down in the bathtub and in the swimming pool. This was all the times I woke up as a little girl gasping for air—times a billion. It felt like one time too many.

  I was freezing, my ribs hurt, my lungs were going to explode. And I was sinking. I wheeled my arms again, ramming my mouth shut so I didn’t yelp from the pain. It was pointless. Finally, I stopped trying. At least if I drowned, the shark bites would be post-mortem.

  Besides, everyone had gone to greet the helicopter. No one even knew I’d gone overboard. Except the killer.

  Whoever heaved me over had killed Harriet and Elliot Ness. That really pissed me off. If I drowned, they’d never pay for what they’d done.

  I had to find the surface. I tried to remember how Nick Nolte and Jacqueline Bissett did it in The Deep. Then I remembered the second life jacket. I jerked the tab. As it filled, it sent me in the right direction. I fluttered my feet to push upward. It took longer without flippers. Two more seconds and I was going to pass out.

  Then, I was up, gulping air, before I got bashed by one wave, then another. At least thanks to the life jackets, I was bobbing— toward and away from the hull. I scanned the deck and glimpsed Lisa “Lele” Callahan, that boarding school bitch, leaning over the railing.

  She waved and disappeared.

  Where was the Koozer? Where was Gant? I tried yelling, but I couldn’t even hear myself over the ship’s engines.

  I swore, gagging down a disgusting wash of salty sea. The Koozer had told me the ship’s “treated” waste spilled right into the ocean and I couldn’t spit it out fast enough. It was the first time I wished I could yell through my nose. I screamed one more time—trying to keep my mouth above water—knowing no one would hear me, maybe ever. I started feeling crazy cold. Was I dying of hypothermia? No, the duct tape had detached and tiny daggers of frigid water were shooting through the tear in my wetsuit.

  I missed Frank, who’d risked his job to help, and Eddie, who still owed me bail money, and even Jimmy, that pathetic delinquent. At least when he waterboarded me, he eventually let me breathe. However suffocating they’d been, they’d always had my back. Unlike my brousins, the Bass Strait was not accountable to my Uncle Ray.

  The ship was still moving at a steady pace. Away from me.

  I couldn’t see anyone else on board. I flailed my arms and legs.

  At that moment, it felt like my whole life had been nothing but flailing—marrying Barry, running away to Africa, the Keto diet, learning Farsi, trying one cockamamie scheme after another just to show my family I was grown up. All I’d done was make it easier for some ruthless cruise hostess to shove me over a railing.

  Why was I still trying so hard? Maybe I should stop. Lots of peop
le did and they didn’t wind up in the sewage treatment vortex of the Southern Hemisphere. They just kept their heads down, did what they were told, and plodded on, with a mortgage, an SUV, and eventually, cancer. If I’d done that, at least I wouldn’t have to explain my various international crimes to my mother, or see her lovesick over some slick, pot-bellied widower from Queens who smelled like socks.

  God, my mom. It had taken her twenty-eight years to get over my dad. I was all she had left of him. I couldn’t put her through that again. Besides, if I was listed as a suicide—however “assisted” it had been by Lisa Callahan—I’d be excommunicated and my name would never be mentioned again in the Redondo family, just like cousin what’s-his-name. I was not going to let that happen.

  My ribs made it hard to move. Could I get the dry bag out? I imagined Jimmy was daring me to do it and gulped down the pain as I reached for it. Once I had hold of it, I flapped my legs back and forth and yelled in agony again as I tried to unzip the bag over my head.

  To keep the phone above water, I had to dial with my nose. It took six tries before I hit Cal’s number. My legs were turning to rubber. Even kickboxing couldn’t prepare a girl for this. The waves got higher. I wasn’t going to be able to keep the phone dry. Then, from six inches above my head, I heard a voice.

  “Cal here!”

  I shouted up toward the phone. “Cal? It’s Cyd Redondo. Are you still losing?”

  “What, love?”

  “I got pushed off the ship. I’m floating about fifty yards from the Tasmanian Dream. Any chance you’d be willing to turn around and pick me up?”

  “Turn around? I haven’t gotten there yet. Hang on!”

  A vicious wave knocked me farther from the ship and for a few minutes, I couldn’t see anything. My legs were about to give out. I tried to blow the life jacket back up, but only filled it with water.

  Then, there it was, the world’s slowest moving yacht. Finally, I could read its name: Le Tortue. Like zucchini, tortoise sounded better in French.

  Cal pulled me, drenched and shaking, onto the boat and, like the gentleman he was, gave me towels, brandy, and dry clothes. He managed to get through on his radio to the ship’s bridge and convinced them to hoist me back onto the ship.

  It took a while, as I couldn’t really take pressure on my ribs, so they had to send down a chair-like hoist for me. Yesterday it would have scared me senseless, but Dr. Paglia had taught me something about odds and it was unlikely I’d fall twice in one day.

  On the way up, I waved goodbye to Cal, hoping the “Sailor rescues American gone overboard” story, which I intended to plant with various international news outlets, would make up for his last place finish.

  Once I disentangled myself from the hoist, I saw Gant had Butler in cuffs. The Interpol agent came forward in the same shiny Eurotrash suit and with the same limp handshake he’d had in Tanzania. I told him about Lisa.

  “Yes, get her. She killed Harriet,” Butler yelled. “I didn’t know until today, when I saw the flowers I sent Harriet in Lele’s office. She admitted it. Said if she couldn’t have me, no ex-wife was going to.” If I hadn’t seen Lisa at the railing, I might have thought this was another one of Butler’s charming lies.

  I remembered the documents. They could prove her involvement. We ran to my cabin. The papers were gone. Unless she had gone overboard too, she had to be here somewhere.

  The ship seemed larger and more sinister with all the passengers quarantined. I told the Koozer to take cover and Gant and I started to search. This gave me a new appreciation for the housekeepers. There were a million doorknobs to polish. From the forward deck, I saw a scuffle going on in the Bridge. We worked our way up the stairs and edged open the door.

  Lisa had a gun to Captain Lindoff’s head. The crew were frozen.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Ms. Redondo,” Captain Lindoff gasped.

  “Redondo’s a lunatic bimbo,” Lisa said. “Out of her mind.”

  I had a few retorts ready, but instead I looked at Gant for guidance. I didn’t want to be the reason the first female captain died at sea. I assumed he didn’t either, for the PR alone.

  Apparently, neither did the norovirus, as just when Lisa started to back out of the room with the Captain, Storr Bentley projectile vomited into her face, giving me and Gant a chance to grab the psychotic hostess.

  She had Butler’s papers down her khaki pants.

  We were all quarantined together for another hour, as the Captain returned to navigate the ship into Port Melbourne. That gave me time to tell Gant the whole story. Miraculously, my BlackBerry still worked, so I emailed him Butler’s confession, gave him Gary’s cell phone number, and listened as he called his supervisor. It seemed he had enough evidence, as Scott met him and the prisoners at the dock. He blew me a kiss.

  I hoped maybe Doc and I could manage one night in town together before I flew home, but we only got a quick, non-touching (in every sense) goodbye, as he was dressed like someone out of Outbreak and still had a full infirmary. He had cleared up the drug cabinet situation with Captain Lindoff, and had just gotten word that he was being promoted and sent to their more prestigious Chinese route.

  He said he would write. We could both hear a voice moaning behind the door. “Sorry, it’s that Hypocritical Oath thing,” he said, and disappeared.

  Sister Ellery was also otherwise engaged. I tried not to visualize that. Her new infatuation, plus some residual trauma from the methadone, had convinced her to come back to Bay Ridge, at least for awhile. I arranged for her to keep a credit with the cruise line and told her she could have Mrs. Barksy’s apartment. I’d waited a long time to move out of my family’s house. I could wait a little more.

  Somehow, I’d managed to get us all home on the same flight. Barry was waiting for us at JFK. “Cydhartha.” He didn’t have to say anything else. I knew it meant we’d finally put our disastrous marriage behind us.

  Sandra, Fredo, and I said goodbye at the curb, so they could get home to Angela as if nothing had happened. Whether they could pull it off or not was not my problem. Barry had asked me to find them, and I had. As they got into the cab, I slipped Fredo the cashier’s check he’d given to Butler. It was Christmas. My work was done. He gave Sister Ellery a wink behind Sandra’s back. Yeah, this was going to last.

  While I installed my favorite nun in Mrs. Barsky’s apartment, I realized I’d forgotten to tell Gant about Elliot Ness. Had Lisa killed him too? Why? Had he photographed her going into Harriet’s room? I’d never had a chance to check his flash drive. I headed down to the office.

  The lights were on. Maybe Eddie was there. I unlocked the door and walked in.

  It wasn’t Eddie.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Squid.”

  I gave myself a minute not to start screaming, as it might alarm Sister Ellery. My brousin Jimmy, who had been involved in Uncle Ray’s smuggling ring, had been banished from the family for his own safety two months earlier and was supposed to be in Fresno, laying low.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Eddie said he needed somebody to run the office, seeing as how you bailed. Real sensitive, with Uncle Ray in prison and your mom going off the rails. Good work.”

  “Get out,” I said.

  “You’re not the boss of me.” I really was home.

  “Get out!” I took off one of my heels and he headed for the door.

  “Wait. Before you go, have there been any issues?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  That’s what I was afraid of. That, the inevitable disappearance of the two hundred fifty-seven dollars I’d left in the petty cash drawer, and the sanctity of my new ergonomic chair.

  I brushed it off, took the flash drive out of my purse, and pulled up the photos on my screen, hoping to find a motive for Ness’ murder. I flipped through his shots. There were t
he Manzonis doing the Cha Cha; there was Harriet talking to Captain Lindoff; and there was Howard. There were five pictures of Howard in the cruise cabin closet. The final one had a hand over it, as though the photographer had been caught in the act.

  Oh God, I thought. Hazelnut.

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