Drowned Under Read online

  I was able to combine my credit card frequent flier points, travel agent discounts, and three coupons to upgrade Harriet’s coach seat into Premium Economy for both legs, round trip, with the potential for an upgrade to Business if someone rich didn’t show up. This was great, as I could now tell my clients for sure whether that extra two grand for Premium Economy was worth it. It gave me a rush to be using all my travel agent skills for myself, for a change.

  I tried to not freak out about the cost. The cruise was comped, but I would need to buy maximum travel insurance. I knew what could go wrong—missed connections, slip-and-falls, noroviruses, emergencies that required airlifts, “disappearances,” etc. The cruise lines used freelancers and subcontractors to weasel out of most lawsuits, so insurance was mandatory. So was cash for tips on the ship and enough room on my Citibank card to cover on- and off-board expenses. I put an IOU in the Redondo Travel “foreign currency” drawer for the Australian dollars I lifted.

  Of course my passport was current, with a well-lit photo. I kept an emergency travel kit, cosmetics ziplock, and pre-packed carry-ons for hot and cold weather in the upstairs apartment next door. Technically, the late great Mrs. Barsky of Pet World had willed the apartment to me, but there was still an international manhunt on for her executor son. For now, I just kept it clean and hid a few things there I would prefer my family didn’t know about. Like birth control pills. It was a cruise, after all.

  I had six hours and too much to do. I printed all my clients’ itineraries, put them in my BlackBerry, and emailed them to myself and Harriet. I would wait to send out a mass email about the office closure until I was safely in Pacific Standard Time. Otherwise, the whole neighborhood would be calling my mom in the middle of the night.

  I peeked out the front door. The street was empty save for a snowplow shoving gray blobs of snice onto the sidewalk, where it could do the most damage. One door down, I slipped into the former Pet World. No amount of Glade could remove twenty-five years of bird droppings and fish food. Until it became a crime scene, it was where every kid in the neighborhood got their hamsters and parakeets. I missed Mrs. Barsky every day. I crossed myself in her honor and headed up the back stairs.

  I unlocked the door and went straight into the bedroom, a designer’s bowl of sherbet, with its hot pink chenille bedspread, electric orange pillows, and lime green curtains—vintage Barsky all the way. I opened the closet door and yanked my “hot weather” carry-on bag onto the bed. I removed the navy polka-dot bikini (Donna Karan at Loehmann’s), as the bullet scar in my waist was still puffy and I didn’t have the heart or time to try it on. Who in their right mind would do that to themselves in December, especially if they’d been ingesting stress Oreos?

  I checked for my emergency black sequin, boatneck, backless mini dress, for anything formal, then pulled out my luggage scale. Qantas had a serious weight limit—only two carry-ons in Premium Economy, neither weighing more than fifteen pounds. I’d gone heavy on the chiffon. Chiffon had to be dry-cleaned, but it weighed nothing and masked a host of ills, especially around the upper arms, where I was suffering from worry wings at the moment.

  My tiny cosmetic bottles were always filled. I squished them, my makeup kit, my BlackBerry, and my Balenciaga into the smaller carry-on, then weighed the bags. One was still eight ounces over, but I could carry the extra half pound on my person at vital weighing points.

  Beep. There was a text from Harriet:

  I found one person who saw them in Hobart. Maybe they just missed the boat and decided to stay—it is a great town. Can’t wait to show it to you, decimate my drinks allowance, and maybe meet a Christmas fling. I’ll meet you at the terminal in Melbourne. Safe travels. Xxxxx.

  I couldn’t wait to see her.

  I lugged my bags downstairs, locked up Pet World, and caught sight of the crocheted Christmas tree in the bookstore across the street.

  My stomach hurt. It would be the first Christmas, ever, I wouldn’t be home. My best friend, Debbie, and I always had lunch on Christmas Eve, but she was off to warmer climes herself, care of free coupons I’d gotten her, so she wouldn’t miss me. And I wouldn’t miss going to the annual potluck, because Mr. Malmon always touched my ass, then, after I decked him, said, “I like ’em sassy.”

  I tried not to think about Christmas morning and all the years I crept down three flights of stairs to look at the Christmas tree and pre-open all my presents, then got caught by Uncle Ray. He never told anyone, he just helped me rewrap them. Well, I wouldn’t be missing that, at any rate, as he would be keeping secrets for white-collar inmates instead. I flicked a stupid tear off my check as I rolled the bags back into the office.

  I was about to close up when I heard a key in the lock and Eddie walked in. He was the oldest of my brousins, tall and still skinny with the exception of a beer belly the size of a dodgeball. Lately, he looked like someone had winged his jet-black hair with Silly String and there were smudgy purple bags under his eyes. Since the FBI had closed down my uncle’s import business, Eddie had been picking up daywork at the docks, but he had an ex-wife, two kids who were about to graduate from high school, a new wife, and another baby, so money, always tight, was positively constrictive. I knew he slept in the office sometimes, but we’d never talked about it.

  “What’s with the luggage, Squid?”

  I’d taken a gunshot. It was time he understood I was thirty-two, not twelve. “None of your beeswax. Want a drink?” I got out mini vodkas for us.

  He took a swig. “You know the Manzonis are missing.”

  “Yep. Barry came by Chadwick’s.” I took another drink. “I thought I might go look for them. You know, make myself scarce so the parish doesn’t have to punish the Redondos.”

  “You didn’t need my permission last time.” I had withheld information the last time I’d asked him to cover for me, like that I was running away to Africa with a man I’d only known for two days.

  “I’m just telling you, so, you know, you can keep an eye on everyone.”

  “Are you telling them?”

  “Are you insane? They’ll feel like they have to guilt me into not going, even if they really want me to, and I’ll lose all the frequent flier miles I just spent on the ticket. Check into the office once in awhile, could you do that? Oh, and maybe check up on the other Barry? Use my name.” I had gotten a lifetime membership to the Brooklyn Zoo when I’d donated a pregnant, endangered chameleon.

  “You sure about the cruise thing given, you know, your situation?”

  I was not sure about it. At all. “Absolutely.”

  He raised his eyebrows, then kissed me on the head. “Okay. Watch yourself.”

  Chapter Six

  Back when we were fifteen, Barry Manzoni and I used to sneak out to go ice skating on Wednesday nights. We had a “pebble” code we used on each other’s windows. Throw one handful, count to three, then two handfuls. I have no idea why.

  As it was now three in the morning, I was hesitant to call the house, or even Barry’s cell. Angela Hepler wouldn’t appreciate it. Not that I cared what his wife thought, but I didn’t want Barry to have to pay for it, given he was already stressed out about his parents. And Christmas. I wondered whether he still suffered from the “worry-triggered” insomnia he’d had during our brief marriage. If he did, he’d be up, watching QVC. His starter home was only a block away. I had ordered a town car from a new, non-Borough company, to avoid broadcasting my escape, and I just had time to swing by Barry’s and back before my ride arrived.

  A slit of Christmas tree light flashed between the curtains at the front of the house. Perfect. But where were the pebbles? Of course Angela had to have the perfect lawn, with pine straw rather than gravel around the boxwoods. I could have just knocked on the window, I guess, but I was sentimental.

  I reached into my bag and found one of my boxes of Tic Tacs. I portioned a few out in my hand, got right up against
the window, and threw. I couldn’t even hear it and I was two inches away. I tried one more time. In the end, I threw the roll of emergency quarters in my bag. I saw a shadow and Barry came to the window. I waved. He held up his finger. A few seconds later, the outside lights went out, the door opened, and I heard a whisper.

  “Cyd! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Did you or did you not ask for help with your parents?”

  “Yes, of course I did. Sorry, I just don’t want Angela to think anything.”

  “What could she possibly think?”

  “Well, she has kind of a thing about you, you know, as my first wife.”

  “Why? You’ve been married six times as long as we were. I mean, according to the Vatican, we weren’t even married at all.”

  “I don’t think it actually went all the way to the Vatican. Come on, it felt like we were, didn’t it? For a little while?” If Barry had still been single, this might have warranted an answer. As it was, it didn’t. “It’s just, right now she’s more paranoid than usual.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You know, now that she’s pregnant.”

  I froze. Angela Hepler, chronic high school organizer, was having my baby. First, how did I not know this? In this neighborhood? People couldn’t even keep their hemorrhoids to themselves.

  “We were waiting to tell everybody until, you know, we got through the first semester.”

  “Bar, this isn’t Junior Year Abroad, it’s a baby. How come you didn’t tell me this?” He threw his hands in the air. Okay, I guess I understood why.

  “Well, congratulations. That’s great news.” It was, for them. For me, not so much. This Christmas positively sucked so far. “I’m here because I wanted to leave you info on your parents before I go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To Australia. To find them.”

  “Seriously?” He took a deep breath. “God. Thanks, Cydhartha.”

  “Keine ursache.” That was high school German for no problem. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Oh, just try it, you slut. What, you think because I’ve gained a little weight it’s open season?” There was Angela Hepler in what could only be called a granny gown. Yikes.

  “You haven’t gained any weight, honey.”

  Angela had seven inches on me to start with. At the top of the stairs her height advantage was super unfair. She also had a seven iron. It missed me, but took out a plastic Santa on their porch railing, which ricocheted off the Pinskys’ elf cutouts and rolled down their driveway, activating a host of motion detector lights. I moved into the shadow of a mammoth oak tree. Motion detector lights are not flattering to anyone. I looked for a hefty fallen branch, just in case. Then I remembered she was pregnant, and pulled a flat, lime-green Tupperware container out of my Balenciaga instead.

  “Go find your own husband, you worthless slut,” Angela yelled. A few neighborhood lights came on.

  “Not if it means I’m going to wind up wearing flannel nightgowns.”

  “This is Ralph Lauren!”

  “Really? Let’s see the tag.” I could tell at fifty paces it was a Lanz from ten years ago.

  She moved back. “I cut my tags off. They irritate me.” We both looked at the seven iron, which was midway between us. Angela looked at Barry. “Right, honey?”

  I saw her spot the Pinskys, leaning out of their upstairs window. Angela Hepler loved an audience. “At least I don’t live with my parents. It’s easy to parade around in lingerie when your mother does the dishes.”

  “My mother does the dishes because I’m supporting my entire family.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  That hurt. “At least I work. I don’t just parasite off my unemployed husband.”

  “My what?”

  Crap. When we were at Chadwick’s, Barry had confided that he’d lost his job. Apparently, he hadn’t told his current wife.

  She glared at him, then ran down the steps in her bunny slippers. I sprinted for the seven iron in my kitten heels. We met in the middle. Just as she went to slap me and I raised my defensive Tupperware, we heard the brief, paralyzing bleep at the beginning of a siren, and a cop car pulled up.

  “That’s enough, ladies,” came the loudspeaker. “And this isn’t a show, Babs Pinsky.” The Pinskys’ window slammed shut. A few more opened up. “Really, Cyd?” the cop loudspeaker boomed.

  Shit. When you had relatives in the law enforcement, towing, taxidermy, and plumbing services, chances are one of them was going to show up when you weren’t at your best.

  This time, it was my brousin Frank, recently demoted from detective to patrol cop since his father—my Uncle Ray—was indicted right under his nose. He got out of the car and walked toward us, armed utility belt clunking. I kicked the seven iron out of Angela’s reach.

  “Hi, Frank,” Barry said.

  “Great, one of your relatives to the rescue again.” Angela hid behind Barry.

  “Look,” Frank said, “someone reported a disturbance. I came out. I’m not thrilled that Cyd started it either.”

  “I didn’t start it! I’m here because Barry asked me to help find his missing parents. If Angela doesn’t trust her husband, that’s between them. But for her information,” I said, moving so she could see me, “I barely had sex with him when we were married. I have no intention of doing it now. Right, Barry?” I saw his face fall. Could I possibly do anything right today? I could. Leave. Which is what I was doing.

  “Yeah, well, why didn’t you just call?” Angela yelled.

  “Because nobody needs their beauty sleep more than you!”

  She headed toward me again.

  “All right, all right, ladies. Barry, you really going to let this happen?”

  “What am I gonna do? You can’t stop it and you’re a cop. I’m just a guy.”

  “You’re not just a guy, honey, you’re fifty times the man any Redondo is. They’re all a bunch of lowlifes,” Angela yelled.

  I felt Frank stiffen. “That’s enough, Angela. Just because your dad greases everybody’s palms at the docks doesn’t mean you’re above a ‘drunk and disorderly’ charge.”

  “What?”

  “I can smell the rum from here.”

  “That’s eggnog! We had eggnog in our own house. Holidays don’t count.”

  “Tell that to the breathalyzer. Now, are you going to go inside? Barry?”

  Barry put his arm around Angela Hepler and started to guide her up the steps. She turned.

  “What about her?”

  “Is that her seven iron?” Frank asked. All of us looked at it.

  “No. It’s mine,” Barry said.

  “Then I’ll consider Cyd was operating in self-defense,” he said, “and take her home.”

  “Wait,” I said. “I need to give him this.” I handed the Tupperware to Barry.

  “Look, my contact thinks it’s likely they just stayed in Tasmania. Here’s all the info you need and all the contact numbers for the cruise line and local police. By the way, Angela, I have my name taped on the bottom, so you can return my Tupperware when he’s done.”

  She had once kept one of my prime pieces after a wake, saying she had no idea it was mine and how could I prove it? The hag. Fine. I would walk away, take the high road, be the generous ex. I reached into the boxwoods to retrieve my roll of quarters.

  Barry started to push Angela inside. She yelled past him. “Low rent pygmy!”

  “Rebound wife!”

  Frank couldn’t quite hide his grin as he propelled me toward the police car. I looked at my watch and panicked. I had missed the town car.

  “Sorry,” I said to Frank.

  “Don’t be. That’s the most fun I’ve had all night. If I didn’t hate Barry Manzoni’s guts so much, I might feel sorry for the guy. Now what’s going on?
”

  I considered lying, but the Tupperware was pretty much out of the bag and I figured I owed him that much, so I spilled. “Now I’m late and I might miss the plane.”

  “Not if Officer Frank Redondo can help it,” he said. “If they’re going to stick me in a fricking patrol car, I’m damn well gonna use it.”

  Five minutes later, sirens blazing, I was on the way to departures at JFK. We made it in twenty minutes, mostly passing on the right. Frank had honed his driving skills at Eldorado Bumper Cars on Coney Island.

  “Christmas won’t be the same without you, Squid,” Frank said as he lifted my carry-ons out of the cruiser.

  “Yeah, well this year it wouldn’t be the same with me, either,” I said, thinking of Uncle Ray and Jimmy. I hugged him, hard. “Stay away from the sausage balls and don’t let Mom date a serial killer, okay?”

  “On it,” he said.

  He did a short burst of the siren for me as he drove off, like he used to do when I was ten.

  Chapter Seven

  Fewer than ten hours after I’d agreed on impulsive international travel, I was in my window seat on the first leg of the flight. It was the only one that left on time.

  While we were stuck on the ground in L.A., I texted Harriet. She replied:

  No worries. You have a five hour window once you land. Some interesting developments here. Xxx.

  I needed to be out of the continental U.S. before I talked to my mother, but Uncle Leon should know I wouldn’t be covering his bets until the New Year.

  He perked up at the mention of Tasmania. “I know a girl there name of Amanda Heep,” he said. “She knows the truth.”

  “The truth about what?”

  “About the tigers.” He gave me the number and hung up.