Drowned Under Page 5

  Chapter Ten

  The weight of my rolling bag forced me back and, for a second, I was free-falling.

  Finally, after about a quarter of my life flashed before me, the S-clamp jerked me up. My rolling backpack was half on, half off and I was swinging in a large circle, too close to the copter’s landing gear. I could hear Scott yelling, but he was drowned out by the Poseidon Adventure level of screaming below me.

  The lifeguard held out his arms and I decided, at worst, his significant torso would break my fall. I apologized to my mother in my head, waited until my swinging slowed, then unhooked the clip.

  My stomach flipped and I blacked out for a second. Then I felt strong arms around me before we both smashed a padded lounge chair onto the damp, concrete deck. The force of our fall swung the wheels of my backpack into my rescuer’s face. The entire deck full of passengers burst into applause. I looked up at Scott who shook his head, saluted me, and swooped off.

  A pack of life-jacketed tourists surrounded us, like aggressive Cheetos. I tried to get my backpack off the lifeguard’s face. One of the straps was around his arm too. When I pulled on the strap it put our faces about an inch apart. He had blue eyes, or at least one blue eye, the other was rapidly swelling closed.

  “You first,” he said, using his free arm to help me out of my strap and then wiggling out of his.

  “Oh, God, you need ice on that.” I stared at his eye.

  He felt it and winced. “Just a flesh wound. Are you okay?”

  I stood up. I thought I was. “Yes, thanks so much. That was pretty valiant.”

  “Darling Cruises, for all your travel needs.” He bowed his head, looked at his watch and said “Gotta go. Thanks for dropping by.”

  He pushed his way through the spectators, as a disembodied, echo-y voice said, “Will all new passengers please return to their muster stations to complete the safety briefing.”

  The puffy passengers eased away and gathered back under large, hanging lifeboats. I wanted to hear the safety briefing too. I was just heading for the nearest lifeboat, or what the loudspeaker was calling a “survival craft,” when someone grabbed my arm and swung me around. He was short, with dyed white-blond hair, beady black eyes, and a mustard stain just above the three stripes on his otherwise pristine uniform.

  “You! Don’t move.” His tag read Staff Captain Bentley. Given the stripes and his hostility, I took him to be the ex-boyfriend Harriet had complained about.

  I held out my hand. “Hello. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.”

  “You’ve totally disrupted the supplemental muster.”

  “The what?”

  “The safety briefing for passengers who joined us in Melbourne.”

  Harriet had implied Bentley might know something about the Manzonis. I decided to be diplomatic. “I apologize for the excitement—Harriet arranged for the helicopter when my plane was late. I assumed she would have told you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Harriet?”

  “Harriet Archer. Darling Cruises’ Travel Agent Liaison? In corporate? I’m her guest on the cruise.” I reached into my bag for my blue Tupperware, ripped off the duct tape, and handed him my travel documents. I had forgotten my eyelashes were stuck to the front, like tiny awnings. I gasped as he brushed them off and they took flight toward Tasmania.

  “She said I would be with her in cabin 710?” He ignored me as he went through my paperwork.

  The loudspeaker crackled again. “This now concludes the Darling Cruises muster drill and I wish you a wonderful journey with us.”

  A few guests hovered around, watching me, but most had decided they’d rather drink, shop, or swim, and had dumped their safety gear and run to the nearest bar or buffet. I spotted a fair number of seniors hobbling away. Great. I might be able to generate some much-needed business while I was here.

  Finally, Staff Captain Bentley looked up. “Miss...Gepetto, you bypassed the security check. That is absolutely against the rules. We will have to keep you and your luggage in the brig until this has all been cleared.”

  I was about to remind him of my real name when a brisk woman in a uniform with two stripes and an old-fashioned, honest-to-God Gidget flip hairdo, came running toward us.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sir. Ms. Redondo sends us business all the time. We have one of her clients on the boat now.” They did? Who? I must be slipping.

  “She’s here as the cruise line’s guest.” The woman turned to shake my hand. “Margy Constantinople, Cruise Director. Harriet told me all about you. Mr. Koeze? Will you get Ms. Redondo’s bags?” A boy who looked about twelve, with a pronounced cowlick and jet black eyes, started toward me. The Staff Captain stopped him.

  “Miss Constantinople. It is standard policy to check the travel documents and do a security check. I’m surprised you would flaunt cruise standards in this way. Things like that do not look good on an end-of-year review.”

  Margy sighed. “Welcome to the nation state. All right, go ahead.”

  The Staff Captain took out a metal detector from his pocket (which seemed weird) and ran it over me. My bobby pins set it off, so I took them out. Finally, I was beep-free.

  “Is Harriet here?” I asked Margy.

  “Yes. I haven’t seen her much. Embarkation is a hectic time for us.”

  “I can see that. I’m so sorry to have inconvenienced you both.”

  “Absolutely not a problem. I’ll have your trip packet sent up.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said.

  “Seven-ten,” she said to the steward.

  “Right away, ma’am,” he said, then gestured for me to follow. I could feel the white-haired Staff Captain’s eyes boring a hole in my back, and passengers whispering as I passed by. I couldn’t wait to tell Harriet about this little encounter.

  Maybe it was because of Titanic, but I always thought of cruise travel as class all the way. I guess it depended on what you saw as class. The Tasmanian Dream’s classic white exterior, black funnel, and gleaming railings hid garish fluorescent rooms, swirling carpets, and chairs in every Crayola color. Finally, we arrived at a gold-plated (or more likely faux gold-plated) elevator.

  I turned to the steward. “How do you spell your name?” I hated to get names wrong. I rummaged through my change purse for my vital, opening “over-tip.”

  “It’s K-O-E-Z-E,” he said. “Jeff. But everyone calls me the Koozer.”

  “Thanks so much for helping me, Koozer. I’m sure you have a million requests on the first day.”

  “A million and thirteen,” he said. “So far.”

  “I’m pretty self-sufficient.”

  “I kind of got that,” he said. “It makes for a change.” The elevator came and went. Another cruise guest in ill-fitting active wear arrived. That time, we got on.

  “May I ask why we waited?”

  “We’re not allowed to be in an elevator alone with a single woman.”

  “How do you know I’m single?”

  “No need to feel bad. A lot of women go on a cruise after a breakup.”

  “A lot,” the Lycra-clad guest said, nodding.

  Damn them.

  We reached my deck and its Shining-esque corridor. I felt claustrophobic and slightly nauseous already. The hallway was splattered with ominous sconces, teak-esque doors, and carpet with a half-hearted diamond pattern in gray and brown. I guess it was understandable when you thought about what had been tracked, dragged, spilled, and possibly spewed onto it. No wonder it smelled of air freshener, chlorine, stale rum, and something else I didn’t want to know about.

  I was grateful, though, that Harriet had put us in the middle of the ship, which was supposed to be the best for seasickness and what I always recommended for my clients. I hoped I wasn’t susceptible, as I couldn’t ask for advice. Admitting this was my first time at sea would hurt my credibility on all leve
ls. I’d just have to wing it with the nausea and everything else. I vowed to take as many photos and notes as possible while I was here, for my clients’ sake. And, if the Manzonis didn’t show up, for evidence. I was anxious to know what “developments” Harriet had uncovered.

  The Koozer took out his keycard.

  “We should knock first.” After having teen-aged boys banging on the bathroom door for my whole childhood, I appreciated privacy above all. I knocked once, then harder. No answer. “Harriet?” I shrugged. “I guess it’s okay. She must be out.”

  “I did see her with a blond guy earlier.” The Koozer put his keycard in the lock. It went green and clicked. “I’ll bring your room cards right up, but you may as well get settled.”

  “That’s great, thanks.” I handed him a twenty. Was it enough? For maximum service, you always wanted to give just a touch more than they could reasonably expect. The Koozer’s grin said the twenty was adequate, for now. As there were lots of seniors on fixed incomes on this particular ship, I might qualify as a big spender. Fantastic.

  I let him go first, as he had the bags. The sliding door was open and the curtains whipped back and forth, hitting the balcony railing in a steady rhythm.

  The Koozer jerked still and let go of my bags. They fell backwards. Then, so did he.

  He was out cold. I looked down and saw why.

  Chapter Eleven

  I gasped, frozen, then blinked, sure I must be having some kind of jet lag nightmare.

  My friend Harriet lay on the floor between the bed and the open window, in a white linen dress. She was face up, her legs splayed unnaturally, her now sad Miu Miu flats crooked and halfway off her feet. One arm was stretched out, as if reaching for the balcony. There was blood seeping into the diamond-patterned carpet under her head and drops of it on the bedside table above her.

  I left the Koozer on the floor and rushed to her. This couldn’t be happening. I had just gotten a text from her. I prayed she’d have a pulse, but I couldn’t find one anywhere. At least I hadn’t let my brousins scare me off from the First Aid course at the Y.

  In, out, in, out and all the pressure I could manage on her chest, for four full minutes, but I got no response. I needed help.

  The Koozer was still unconscious. I got up, grabbed one of the complimentary bottled waters, and poured it onto his head.

  He sat straight up so fast that he bumped his head smack into my left knee, then looked frightened.

  “Oh, God. Did I pass out? They’ll send me back to Papua New Guinea and I’ll be selling chicken parts again in the street market. You know what that means.”

  I had no earthly idea how to respond to that, except to point at Harriet. His knees started to go. I grabbed his arm.

  “Please don’t faint again, they only gave us one bottled water. Can you get the ship’s doctor? And the Captain, and anyone else who might help? As fast as you can. Please. Hurry.”

  “Is she dead or just gravely injured?”

  “Get a doctor!”

  He pulled a walkie-talkie out of his pocket. “Bright Star Rising! Bright Star Rising!” I just stared at him.

  A scratchy voice answered. “Where?”

  “Cabin seven-ten.”

  “Get Doctor Mathis.”

  The Koozer ran out the door. I heard him thud down the carpeted hallway. I looked down at my friend. All I wanted to do was to lie down beside her and sob. Crying was not going to help her. Breathing might.

  I started over with the CPR, even though part of me knew it was useless.

  We had only spent one weekend together, but Harriet and I had worked together for seven years and, in lots of ways, she was my role model. Well, until now, as I had hoped to get through my thirties at least. Where was the Koozer? And the doctor? I kept trying, then looked at my watch. It had been almost seven minutes. It hadn’t worked. She was completely cold.

  I held her frigid hand and, finally, let myself cry. When I couldn’t breathe anymore, I reached for my tissues and noticed that the Koozer had dropped his “master” keycard when he fainted. I put it in my purse to give back to him later.

  I looked out at the balcony and saw a two- or three-inch piece of khaki fabric caught and flapping on the railing. I looked back at Harriet. Khaki didn’t seem like her style. Frank always said the most important thing in a homicide was to secure the scene, without adding your DNA. I reached into the waste basket, slipped the plastic bag over my hand, and opened a drawer. Lots of linen, but no khaki. The laundry basket was empty. Whose was this? Did it have something to do with Harriet’s death?

  I took pictures of the fabric, wondering where the hell the doctor was. I knew I should leave the evidence, but I took out my plastic nail clippers and cut a tiny piece of the khaki and put it into a spare ziplock. I heard someone at the door. I went to shove the plastic bag under the bed and glimpsed a piece of paper there. There was no time to grab it before the door opened and a figure moved toward me.

  He was dressed in a tux with no tie and a ragged pair of brown suede Pumas. He had a black eye. The one I’d given him. It was my lifeguard.

  “Hello again. I’m Doctor Mathis,” he said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She was like this when we walked in. I tried CPR, but can you try again?”

  I stared at him until he knelt beside me and felt for a pulse. I caught a whiff of sea air, antiseptic, and Gillette aftershave. He gestured for me to do the mouth-to-mouth while he tried to get her heart started. Finally he shook his head and pulled rubber gloves out of his pocket.

  “I’m sorry. She’s gone. You know her?”

  “It’s Harriet Archer, she’s the Travel Agent Liaison for the cruise line. I was coming to room with her. What do we do? Call the police? Coroner?”

  “For all intents and purposes, I am the Coroner.” He leaned back on his heels.

  “What about the Harbor Police? I mean clearly, it’s a homicide.”

  “Is it? I haven’t had a homicide before.”

  “Well, can we find someone who has?”

  He went to lift her head and I squealed. “Wait! Don’t touch anything until someone photos the scene.”

  “Calm yourself, Cagney.”

  “You just said you have no experience. My brousin is a homicide detective. Trust me, we need photos. Just move back.” Grateful I’d splurged on the new BlackBerry Pearl 8100 with camera, I snapped everything I could as he watched. There was a sharp knock on the door.

  Staff Captain Bentley elbowed his way in. He took one look at me, then Harriet, and slammed the door. “You, again! What have you done to her?”

  What ever happened to ‘the customer is always right’? “Look, this is my friend. And your colleague. She was like this when the steward showed me in. She’s clearly been murdered. Why is everyone just standing around? Whoever did this must still be on board. Do something!”

  The Staff Captain couldn’t quite bring himself to look at the body. “Perhaps she was just clumsy and fell. People often suffer from dizziness on the first day, don’t they, Doctor?”

  The doctor gave a hesitant nod. “There are a few possible scenarios, Staff Captain.”

  I couldn’t believe this. Were they serious? Dizziness? I had always heard that cruise lines minimized passenger deaths, but this was ridiculous. I mean, she was part of their team. It was hard not to throttle both of them.

  Bentley looked toward the balcony. “I’m sure it was an accident, but we should talk to her husband. Has anyone seen him? Perhaps he can shed light on the situation.” He picked up his walkie-talkie. “Koeze, report to cabin seven-ten, please.”

  I wanted to point out the ripped khaki on the balcony, but this guy didn’t deserve my help. I could only hope the harbor cops would get here and find it. Bentley looked at the wall, then toward the balcony.

  “I suppose it might be a domestic in
cident,” he said. “Do you agree, Doctor?”

  I looked at the doctor with raised eyebrows.

  “I suppose the husband might have hit her, became overcome with guilt, and jumped off the balcony,” the doctor said.

  “Let’s not scream ‘overboard’ until we’ve searched the ship. There’s no need to traumatize our guests over something that’s purely speculation. And if it is a murder-suicide, we should respect their privacy at this difficult time.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re just going to brush a murder-suicide under the carpet?”

  “Doctor, it seems Miss Geppetto is overtired. Perhaps you can attend to her in the infirmary until we can accommodate her?”

  “I don’t need to go to the infirmary. I want to know what you’re going to do about this. Who you’re going to call?”

  Bentley turned to Doctor Mathis. “As I said, infirmary. Clearly she’s suffering from shock.”

  Shock? Of course I was in shock. There were so many things wrong with this scenario, I was speechless. To start with, Harriet didn’t have a husband.

  Chapter Twelve

  There was no way I was leaving my unmarried friend in the hands of these idiots without at least halfway securing the crime scene. I wasn’t the patron saint of the 68th Precinct for nothing.

  “Gentlemen? Before I go, I wonder whether you might give me just a minute to sit with my friend?” I gave them my most ridiculous girly pleading look—the one that never worked with my Uncle Ray, Frank, or Eddie, but did with bouncers and Barry Manzoni.

  “It’s not within regulations,” the Staff Captain said. His forehead crease screamed disapproval. He didn’t want me alone in there. That made me more determined to stay.

  “There are standard regulations about murdered passengers?” I asked. “What are they?”

  “Sir?” The 007 doctor stepped forward and reached for the handle of my rolling bags. “Surely we can just give her a minute? Out of respect. I know you have things to attend to. I’ll take her downstairs once she’s done.” I gave him a grateful look and made sure to hang on to my Balenciaga. He used my luggage to force the Staff Captain out. Walkie-talkies crackled through the door.