Drowned Under Read online

  I looked down at Harriet. I still couldn’t believe she was gone. I couldn’t go all weepy or comatose, not now, not when I had five or six minutes, max. I apologized to her and got to work. First, I wanted to know what was under that bed. I had a penlight in my bag and shone it under the bolting that held the bed in place. My arms were too short, so I took off my shoe and used the heel as a hook. I snagged a balled-up piece of paper. And a champagne stopper. I put them in plastic bags and kept looking.

  Harriet and I had once had a somewhat drunken discussion about the best place to hide anything valuable in a hotel room. Neither of us thought the safe was safe—every housekeeper had the master code and the batteries were always half-dead.

  My favorite, for anything flat, like cash, was under the television. Most people wouldn’t bother to lift it. But now every hotel had a flat screen on the wall. It was still possible to tape something on the back of the TV, but there was nothing there, taped or otherwise.

  For short-term hiding, Harriet favored cushions. I reached behind the one on the armchair and pulled out her purse. Thank God it was a clutch and fit into the side pocket of my bag. I pushed it in, along with the plastic bags, and kept looking.

  Harriet’s favorite longer-term hiding place was up inside the lamps. Most lamps had a hollow base that was at least six inches high. It was easy to secret things up there—cash, papers, a flash drive—to avoid detection. It might have worked this time, if everything on a cruise ship—and I mean everything—wasn’t bolted down.

  I tried the plastic mini-screwdriver I’d managed to get through security with a mascara top, but it was no match for the oversized screws. I could hear rattling at the door. I managed a few loud wails and the rattling stopped. I shot more crime scene photos, then put a tiny bit of Blistex under my eyes, which made me tear up immediately. Taking another look at Harriet, I needn’t have bothered.

  “I will find out who did this,” I promised her with all my heart. I gave her cold, slim hand one more squeeze, kissed her on the forehead, then took out a tissue and opened the door.

  Doctor/Lifeguard Mathis stood there with my luggage.

  “What do I call you?” I asked.

  “Doc.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, you could call me Dr. Mathis, but after what we’ve been through, that seems a bit formal.”

  “Please don’t try to make me laugh. Do you have a first name?”

  “Maybe.”

  I sighed. “How do you go from a Speedo to a tux in five minutes, anyway?”

  “Practice. Come down to my office and you can tell me more about Harriet.”

  I took hold of my bags. I had been nervous without them. He took my free elbow in his remarkably warm hand and gestured me toward the elevators.

  “What are they going to do to her body? Just leave it there? Can I cover it up or something?”

  “Best to leave it. Once the investigators are finished, we have a morgue on the second lower deck. I know this is tough, but the body shouldn’t be your problem.”

  Shouldn’t it? Well, I’d done everything I could right now. I took one look back at cabin 710, then followed him.

  The hallway seemed even creepier now. He took me down another elevator and another narrow hallway and unlocked a door labeled “Infirmary.” There was a small waiting room with a desk and three closed doors. He opened one and gestured me into a small, well-appointed office with tasteful New England-looking sailing prints and a medical certificate hung just too high to read.

  He reached for a silver thermal coffeepot on his desk. “It should still be hot—I was just making it when I got the call.” He offered me a Darling Cruises mug, which I took, and a container of powdered creamer, which I declined. He proceeded to dump half the tube into his cup and sat down behind his desk. He picked up a limp ice pack and put it on his eye.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  “Do you usually see patients in a tux?”

  He grinned, then got up, grabbed his lab coat, and put it on. “Happy now? Look, are you all right?”

  “No. I’m not even close to all right. Would you be?” I just kept thinking of Harriet’s body lying there all alone. She had been investigating on my behalf. Was that what had gotten her killed?

  “Would you like a sedative or anything?”

  “God, no.” Actually, it sounded great, but I realized I’d completely forgotten the Manzonis were still missing and, especially now that Harriet had been murdered by an imaginary husband, I needed to keep my wits about me. I had to believe they were still alive, or I would really lose it.

  Doc was sucking down his coffee and poured another cup. He held out the pot.

  I was about to decline when I remembered that I’d been up for seventy-two hours. I grabbed it and topped myself off.

  “You want to explain the whole lifeguard/ship’s doctor thing?”

  He held out his hands. “Saving lives wherever I go.” He grinned. “I’m certified. I fill in sometimes for a pay bump, if there aren’t any patients.”

  “But aren’t you on call?”

  “I’m never more than a towel and four decks away.”

  “Do a lot of crew double up on jobs?”

  “Only the freelancers. Most crew members don’t have time. They only sleep about three hours a night as it is. Speaking of lack of sleep, you look like you could use some.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I’m speaking as your temporary physician. And landing pad. Want to explain the whole dropping from the sky thing?”

  “The trip was last minute and I had a tight connection coming into Melbourne. I didn’t make it, so Harriet arranged to make sure I got to the ship.”

  “She must have been a pretty powerful woman. I’ve seen plenty of people lifted off, but you’re the first S.W.A.T. team level arrival so far.” He leaned forward. “Seriously, are you all right? Jet lag is bad enough without the sort of shock you’ve had. Where did you fly from?”

  My track record with medical adjacent personnel, like chiropractors, was not great. But I had to trust someone.

  “Look, before I tell you my life’s story, could you maybe check something for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “There’s a couple that started out on the last cruise, the Manzonis. Fredo and Sandra. No one’s seen them since the ship docked in Tasmania. Their son asked me to inquire after them while I’m here. Actually, Harriet came out to meet me so we could look for them. Can you find out if they’ve returned to the boat? Or if the cruise line has any information?”

  He handed me the coffeepot and said he’d be right back.

  As soon as I heard the elevator ding, I stood on my chair to check out his medical certificate. “Henry M. Jones Medical School of the Bahamas,” it said. With the exception of Johns Hopkins, I didn’t know how many medical schools were named after a guy.

  Then, I tried to check my messages, but I was too low in the ship for reception. I was just about to unball the paper from Harriet’s room when Doc came back.

  “I’ll give you any information I get. Did you say your brother was a detective?”

  “Cousin. Yeah, Frank. He’s a straight arrow. Great at his job. Under-appreciated,” I said as I thought of him on patrol. Maybe he’d have time to give me advice about Harriet’s murder. I needed cell reception. I wondered if my phone would work on the main deck. Suddenly, I felt a little bit dizzy and put my head between my knees.

  “Any chance of some food?” I asked.

  “On a cruise ship? You’ve got to be kidding. Hey. I don’t mean to be pushy, but I think you could use either a chaplain, a B-12 shot, or both. I can at least supply the latter.”

  “Are you an M.D. or a therapist?”

  “Neither.” He picked up a syringe. “I’m a veterinarian.”<
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  That’s the last thing I heard before everything went black.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I woke up disoriented and rumpled under the covers of a cabin bed. I cracked my eyes. There was a bedside table and a sliding glass door leading to a balcony on my left. To my right was another table and a closet. Just like Harriet’s. I guessed most of the cabins looked the same.

  Still, how did I get here? Who took my shoes off? What day was it? Or night? The sun was casting long shadows under the balcony railing. These questions became irrelevant when I ripped off the bedclothes and sprinted for the tiny bathroom. The notes of bleach and stale rum in the enclosed space didn’t help. Neither did the tiniest hint of vomit in my mouth. I had heard about how miserable seasickness might make you, but apparently cruise lines had colluded to sugarcoat the reality.

  I tried to hold my hair up and out of my face. I had gotten a new, shoulder-length bob last week to cheer myself up. Why, why, why had I agreed on long bangs? It seemed like hours by the time I finally sat back against the tub. I was too weak to get up off the tiled floor, which vibrated with the boat engines and seemed unstable. That was probably just me.

  I lay down beside the tub. The cool tile felt good against my face. I woke up to banging on the cabin door. I grabbed the toilet for a help up, attempted to scrub my collar and my mouth, then staggered to the peephole.

  There were two men standing in the hallway. I got a bad feeling. Their hair was too perfect. I looked down. My crinkled ensemble hardly screamed “travel professional.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  Where were my shoes? And my luggage? I breathed a sigh of relief to find the bags in the closet and my shoes on the floor. I slipped them on and opened the door.

  “Miss Redondo?” The taller of the identical, suited men, looked down at a piece of paper. Then assessed me. Apparently I did not pass the assessment.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re from Risk Management. We need to check the room.”

  “My room? Why?”

  “To make sure there’s nothing here you can trip over. After the unfortunate event that happened here, we want to be sure you’re safe.”

  “That happened here?” I looked up at the door number in horror: Cabin 710. They had turned around the murder room and put me in it. I emitted a small squeak and stumbled out, bumping into the second, shorter Risk Management man.

  “Wait—they put me in Harriet’s room? Are you kidding me?”

  “According to the Staff Captain, we are at full capacity. Unfortunately, it’s the only one we have available. Has it not been cleaned to your satisfaction?”

  “Cleaned? I hope to hell not. It’s a crime scene.” And I had accidentally been throwing up all over it.

  “Nonsense. Mrs. Archer had an unfortunate accident and we are here to insure that you don’t have one as well. May we come in?”

  As they entered, I stole a look at the carpet beside the bed. It was pristine—no sign of blood there or on the bedside table. Had they replaced the entire wall to wall? I glanced out the balcony window. The scrap of khaki was gone too. They began to poke around, taking notes and photos.

  “But she was clearly hit on the back of the head. Have the police come and gone? Is that why someone drugged me?”

  “Drugged you? Miss Redondo, there’s no need for hysterics. We understand you just arrived from the United States. It’s been scientifically proven that crossing the International Date Line, combined with a lack of sleep, can wreak havoc on the neurological system. We often have guests who hallucinate on their first few days at sea.”

  “Do you?” I figured there was about a thirty-second window to stop myself before I kneed one of them in the balls. “Of course. Well, in that case, I should go right back to bed. Thanks for checking on me and for your concern.” I gestured toward the door and finally had to partially push the shorter one out. “As a travel agent, it’s always nice to experience a cruise line firsthand, so I can give a realistic review to my clients.” I slammed the door and smacked the latch closed. Bastards. They knocked again.

  I faked vomit noises until the knocking stopped. It would have helped at this moment not to be jet lagged, nauseous, or heartbroken, but I was just going to have to gut up.

  I turned on all the remaining lights and started examining the room. How had they managed to replace the entire carpet? How had they had time? How long had I been asleep? I panicked for a minute about my Balenciaga, then found it on the dresser. It appeared undisturbed. I turned on my BlackBerry. No reception, but at least it came on. The time read seven p.m. Thursday. Thursday? Had I been out for a whole day?

  No. It was seven p.m., Thursday, December 21, Australia time. I was a day ahead of Bay Ridge. I’d only been asleep for two hours. Well, that was still too long. I’d done nothing to find the Manzonis. Or Harriet’s killer.

  The first time Harriet and I’d had drinks together, the bartender at the Plaza asked if we’d grown up together. We laughed, but it’s funny how sometimes, with certain virtual strangers, it feels that way. We had so much fun, I dragged her to Coney Island the next day, where we pigged out on Nathan’s chili dogs and then got nauseous on the Tilt-A-Whirl. She admitted she envied me my suffocating family—she was an only child with no cousins—and I envied her all the exotic locations she’d managed to explore in her job. She assured me it wasn’t as glamorous as I thought. We’d had a memorable few days, giddy on champagne and hot mustard.

  I felt a stab of hot grief behind my eyes and would have benefited from a long, wailing, can’t-breathe-for-the-snot kind of cry, but I didn’t have time.

  The immediate sanitizing of the room and the appearance of the Risk Management twins made me even more convinced that the cruise line was hiding something. I had to see if there was anything the “cleaning crew” might have missed and needed professional advice. I dug through my carry-on and found Uncle Ray’s satellite phone. I’d charged it in L.A. and, to my delight, it worked.

  It was the middle of the night in Bay Ridge, but Frank had a baby, so he was used to getting up.

  Unfortunately, his wife, Madge, answered. I was pretty much persona non grata with her, since she blamed me for Frank’s demotion.

  “Miss Fancy, on your cruise. Nice little holiday in the sun while the rest of us have to slave for a living.”

  “Cut the crap, Madge, I need Frank.”

  “Running off and leaving your poor mother alone for the holidays.”

  “My mother is fine. I’m sitting here in the middle of a murder scene and I need Frank, so put him on the fricking phone or I am never, ever babysitting for you again. Or holding a place for you at Century 21.” Our only connection was love of a bargain and, as a mother of small children, she wasn’t up for the four a.m. MegaSale line. I can’t tell you how many times I’d protected her place against violent housewives.

  “Get him. Seriously.”

  I heard yelling, then infant crying, then a long male sigh. “What?” Frank said.

  “Hey. Thanks for the ride, by the way. You know my friend who arranged the trip and was helping me look for the Manzonis? Harriet?”

  “Yeah. Is there a point?”

  “Yeah, there is. I tripped over her body when they let me into her cabin. They gave me a sedative, sanitized the room, and put me back in it. They’re calling it an accident, but someone bashed her head in.”

  “Jeez, Squid, you haven’t even been gone a day.”

  “So? Sorry the timing of my friend’s murder is inconvenient for you.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a slip-and-fall? Those things happen all the time on ships. Was there blood anywhere else?”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “The side of husbands who were trying to sleep.”

  “Hang up, already!” Madge yelled in the background.

  “What do you expect
me to do? The Australian Ocean is not exactly my jurisdiction.”

  “There is no such thing as the Australian Ocean. We’re in the Bass Strait.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the Ass Strait, I can’t do anything.”

  “You can tell me what kind of evidence to look for. What could the cleaning staff miss? Is there anything I should try to collect? The cruise line is clearly trying to cover this up, and Harriet was my friend. She was only here to help me look for the Manzonis. Do you think that’s what got her killed—asking questions about the Manzonis?”

  “I always told you the Manzonis were trouble. But did you listen? No.”

  Frank’s disdain for Barry Manzoni was not exactly a news flash. I heard another sigh, but it was shorter than the first one, so I was getting somewhere. Frank was a natural homicide detective and I knew he hated being sidelined from the action. I just had to convince him there was a mystery here. I told him about the ripped piece of khaki on the railing and the things under the bed. “Look, Frank, something horrible happened to her. I have to try, right?”

  “No, you don’t. I don’t understand why you have to turn every vacation into an episode of The Closer.”

  “The Staff Captain—who keeps calling me Miss Geppetto, by the way—said it might be a ‘domestic disturbance’ between Harriet and her husband. But I know she wasn’t married. The steward said he saw her with a blond man, but I don’t know whether he belongs to the khaki, and if so, did he jump overboard or is he still here? Come on, Frank, help me. If Harriet was attacked because of the Manzonis, I could be next. And you were the one who drove me to the airport.” I let that sink in for a long moment. “What if it was Chan Lu lying in a pool of blood?” Chan Lu was Frank’s partner.

  “Do you have any rubber gloves?”

  “Of course.” I always had a pair or two of extra hair dye gloves in my purse for assorted unpleasant tasks.