Drowned Under Read online

  “And any plastic bags?”

  “Yep. I picked up the other stuff with the plastic bag from the wastebasket. There are a couple more of those and unused laundry bags in here.”

  “Good. Okay. Here’s what you do.”

  By the time I’d hung up, he’d talked me through a full-on search, as well as how to use my large makeup brush, “Something Shady” eye shadow, and Scotch tape to lift a few fingerprints. I got one clear thumbprint and a few partials on the balcony railing. I photographed the prints, then secured the strips of tape in the place men were least likely to search—my tampon case. I was just finishing up my CSI work by checking all the curtain hems, when there was a knock on the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was another knock, this one louder.

  I hid my evidence and checked the peephole.

  It was the Koozer. I opened the door.

  “Ms. Redondo, hello. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just wanted to leave you these and see whether there was anything you needed.”

  He was holding a tray with a bowl of green apples and a creamy, embossed envelope.

  “The apples are for seasickness. Some passengers say they help.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate it. What’s this?”

  “Message from the Captain.” Then he stood there, I guess waiting for a tip. I dug out a ten, then held it in my hand.

  “Can you tell me what they’ve done with Harriet’s body?”

  “I believe it was moved to the morgue.”

  “How? When?” Then I had a horrible thought. “You weren’t the one who brought me here and put me to bed, were you?”

  “God no. I mean no, ma’am.”

  “Do you know how I got here? Or how they got this room cleaned up so fast?”

  There was a long pause. “Darling Cruises is an organization of consummate professionals.”

  “Professional crime scene cleaners?”

  His lack of response said it all.

  “Christ on a bike. So this happens a lot?”

  Again, he said nothing. I realized I should have started with fives, as now the ten in my hand was a demotion. I took another ten out of my wallet.

  “We have a lot of elderly people. Some of them die.”

  “Die as in ‘are murdered’? You don’t think that was an accident, do you? I mean that was a lot of blood, you saw it.” We both looked at the place the blood stain should have been.

  The Koozer took the other ten. “Have you ever seen a dead body before? I mean, you seemed to know what to do.”

  “I have. I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Someone you knew?”

  “Yeah.” I would have given anything to be sharing a watery decaf with Mrs. Barsky right now. She’d have had some unsolicited advice on this whole situation, for sure.

  “I’ve only seen them in coffins, not in life.” What the heck did that mean? He looked out the window, then turned and tried to smile. “Oh, I almost forgot, here are your keycards. Your travel packet should be in the desk.” He turned to go.

  “Thank you. Seriously, Koozer.”

  He nodded. “Anything you need, Ms. Redondo. Formal wear, anything.”

  “Actually, you could do something for me. Was the blond man you mentioned staying with Harriet? In this cabin?”

  “It looked like he surprised her—he brought flowers.” The Koozer looked around. “I don’t know where the flowers went.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him?”

  “Six feet? Blond hair going gray at the temples. Wore a light-colored suit, I think.”

  Light-colored as in khaki, I thought. “Thanks so much.” I was about to let him go when I remembered the Manzonis.

  I felt horrible. I’d been here for hours and done nothing to find them. At least they might still be alive. “You weren’t by any chance the steward for a couple called the Manzonis on the last cruise, were you?”

  He hesitated, thinking. “I think they were on Deck Nine,” he said. “They would have been Nylo’s, I think.”

  “Could you maybe arrange for me to speak to him when he has time?” I handed him another ten. I heard his walkie-talkie crackle and shooed him out. I remembered I had his master keycard, but by the time I checked the hall, he was gone.

  What had he meant about coffins? Had he lost a family member? Or several? I flashed on being six and seeing my grandmother Redondo in her silk-lined coffin, every gun metal hair in place, like it had never been in life. She looked unconcerned, which bothered me. Wasn’t she sorry to leave us? Or past caring? I’d never know.

  I sat on the bed and opened the envelope.

  “The Captain of the Tasmanian Dream requests your company at the Captain’s Table this evening. Formal attire. Nine p.m.”

  Wow. According to my clients, this was a real honor. I imagined in this case, it might just be strategic. I was a travel agent who knew a lot of other travel agents, and my first experience on board had been tripping over my murdered friend.

  Maybe the crew just wanted to keep an eye on me. I don’t know why I was so convinced Harriet had met with foul play. Maybe it was the speed with which Darling Cruises was trying to cover it up. Maybe it was because Harriet was a lot of things, including a former ballerina, and I just couldn’t see her losing her balance in that particular way. It had to be the “husband,” but who was he? And where was he? Did the khaki mean he had jumped overboard? Or just over one cabin? And had Staff Captain Bentley actually alerted the Coast Guard? No one had turned the ship around.

  Harriet implied she and Bentley had dated. That meant at some point there must have been one thing good about him, at least. Was he as unmoved by her death as he appeared to be? Or had he murdered her himself? Is that why he was trying to avoid an investigation? My last conversation with Harriet had been just before I took off from JFK. She said she was getting pushback from an upper level staff member on the ship, but she hadn’t said which one. Was it the Staff Captain? Or someone else? She’d also said the Manzonis weren’t the first seniors not to return from Tasmania, and that she was trying to get the old records, but I hadn’t found them in the cabin. Had the killer taken them?

  The dinner might be helpful. The crew would be forced to be polite. Even if they were in denial about Harriet, they couldn’t ignore me about the Manzonis too. It would just be rude. Plus the wine and drinks at the Captain’s Table would be free—an important consideration, since the Koozer was quickly eating up my liquor budget.

  Nine p.m. That gave me two hours to get ready, make friends on the ship, and see what I could find out. As I reached for my carry-on, I started to make an amateur cop to-do list, though my jet lagged brain was likely to forget half of it.

  I needed to talk to Koozer’s friend, Nylo. I needed to talk to the Cruise Director, Margy, to double check the Manzonis hadn’t registered for any excursions on Tasmania. If they had, I should book the same ones. I needed to send all the crime scene pictures and evidence to Frank somehow, but the Wi-Fi was too weak in the cabin to send any data. And I needed to charm the Captain, as he was the only crew member who ranked above the annoying Bentley. I had heard ninety-five percent of all cruise ship captains were Italian. And handsome. For that, I needed a shower and formal wear.

  As I stood under the low-pressure shower head, I tried not to think about where the water was coming from or where it was going. I had read in cruise ship crew memoirs that the lower you went in the ship, the dirtier the water was when it arrived. There were five decks above me, so I kept my eyes and mouth closed—a practice I had perfected in Tanzania. My formal dress had a boatneck in the front, but was backless to my waist. I exfoliated to make sure my sweaty back wasn’t harboring any dead skin, then shaved, moisturized, and diffuse-dried my hair. There wasn’t enough room to put everything on the counter and I had to divide my beauty products between
the toilet lid and the now-damp floor. I felt I needed another shower by the time I was done, but I hoped people would see me as “glowing” or “moisturized,” rather than “post marathon.” I reached for my nighttime eyelashes, loaded them up with Create Your Own Awning mascara, and I was ready to squeeze into my dress.

  I escaped to the relatively spacious stateroom and pulled out my Felicia low-back bustier (clearance, Loehmann’s) and my waist-to-thigh Spanx. To be frank, the whole dress pretty much served as Spanx-wear, since it was made of Lycra, covered in sequins, and squeezed you everywhere. The extra Spanx just made sure it didn’t squeeze in the wrong places—as in out. I was glad it was black, as it also served as mourning-wear for Harriet.

  For a second, I saw Harriet’s body on the floor again and sank onto the bed. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to blame it on the Spanx, but it wasn’t the eighty-four percent nylon/sixteen percent Lycra blend—it was guilt. I couldn’t help thinking that her death had been my fault. Well, partly Barry’s fault, and his parents’ fault, but most mostly mine. If I hadn’t asked for her help, if she hadn’t been asking questions, she might be swilling mojitos and scowling at Santas on the main deck right now, instead of lying all by herself in the ship’s morgue. I couldn’t bear to think of her there.

  I felt a knob of despair just under my ribs. Redondos don’t do well with despair. We’re more comfortable punching someone in their solar plexus or reporting them to the IRS. We always choose flame throwing over therapy. I knew what my Uncle Ray would say—wallowing in self-pity wouldn’t do me, or Harriet, any good. I needed to find her killer, which meant I had to get up. And find the right shoes.

  I decided on my strappy silver Donna Karan sandals, anchored my secondhand diamond studs, and I was ready. Just as I put a couple of green apples in my purse, I remembered Harriet’s clutch and the balled up paper from under the bed. I pulled them out. The paper first. I unwrinkled it. It was smudged. There was a word that looked like Fort and then a list of letters and numbers, mostly illegible. The items on the list all started with CI or DT—I wasn’t sure—and were followed by numbers and dashes.

  I had no idea what the Fort was. Did she mean Port? Port Arthur? Could the rest be a phone number? I would check both of them out as soon as I could get online or get reception on my BlackBerry. I needed to save the satellite phone for emergencies.

  I reached for Harriet’s clutch. I was relieved it was still there, as the purse had been out of my control while I was unconscious. There wasn’t much in it—only Harriet’s business cards, a few Australian dollars, her Darling Cruises I.D., and a tube of Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick in Curious Orange. I took off the top and rolled it up. Harriet’s lipstick had a flat top, with a tiny dip at the front. It made me want to cry. Where was her passport? Her phone? Had someone taken them out while I was asleep? Or did the murderer have them? And was he/she overboard, or at the buffet?

  I put the Do Not Disturb sign on my cabin door and stepped into the hallway. I thought it might be worth checking to see if anyone in the adjoining cabins had seen or heard anything suspicious. I knocked on cabin 708, hoping folks were back in their rooms to rest before dinner. No luck. I would ask the Koozer about them when I saw him next. I put a ten in my bra in preparation.

  I moved to the other side, 712, and knocked. This time, I heard a crash and an unintelligible curse, but no one came to the door, even though I knocked twice more. I was too tired for extended obstruction. I leaned my head against the wall.

  Buzz. Click. I turned to find a skinny, miserable-looking man in a too-tight suit aiming his camera at me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I raised my Balenciaga, ready to whack the stealth photographer with it.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  He bowed. “Capturing your fantasy.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m the ship photographer. I try to get a few candid shots of each guest. There was something about you standing there, in that dress, leaning against the wall that screamed ‘Art shot!’”

  “And that’s supposed to make me remember my happy vacation?”

  “It’s not uncommon for a woman who loses her man to seek the solace of the sea. Or perhaps a replacement? What happens on a cruise ship…”

  “Gets recorded. Obviously.” I was about to stomp off, but he might have recorded the Manzonis, or Harriet and her “husband.” I changed my tone to friendly, though I couldn’t quite manage flirtatious.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Elliot Ness.”

  “Come on!”

  “I know. But, seriously, it is. My father was an extra on The Untouchables and I was born during pre-production. I think he thought Kevin Costner might want to be my godfather, but alas, that was not to be.”

  I moved closer, but not too close. He reeked of Listerine.

  “So you’ve been taking pictures since Sydney?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “And how about the last voyage? The one that returned Thursday?”

  He hesitated. “Sure. Yes. I was on that route. Why?”

  “I’m interested in purchasing photos as gifts. Do you have anything of Harriet Archer, I’m sure you know her? She worked for Darling Cruises? Black hair, pixie haircut, blond husband? And I also had family friends on the last trip. The Manzonis? Older couple from Brooklyn. The man is bald, big chin, usually wears a dress shirt with cuff links, but untucked. Like he’s just eaten? She has a bad perm and usually wears a bright, overdone print.”

  “Not sure about the first woman, but the couple? Yeah. I think they won the Cha Cha contest.”

  “Really?”

  “Against some pretty mean competition. We have this one guy—one of the ship gigolos—who’s a monster dancer, but they beat him out. Boy, was he pissed.”

  “Their son is a friend of mine and I know he’d love to see them. I’ll be happy to pay.”

  “The older cruise shots are all in my computer, in my cabin. You could come with me now.” There was something a little bit creepy about his tone.

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble. I know the crew has rules about being alone with single female guests.”

  “So you’re single, then?”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “Oh, right. Yes, we aren’t supposed to host guests in our room. But I need to pull the old pictures up and make sure they’re the right ones, then I can print copies for you. I don’t bite. Come on.”

  I followed him down the stairs. When we stopped, I wondered if he’d noticed I had assumed a basic kickboxing stance, my left leg slightly forward and my back leg about a foot and a half behind. I was a righty, so you always saved your back side as a surprise power punch/kick.

  The berth was a mess, with photographs everywhere. I stayed in the doorway while he leaned over his laptop, then brought it to me. There they were, the Manzonis, with plastered grins on their faces and a sort of fake bonhomie. There was a man behind who looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  “Great, that’s definitely them. Thanks, Elliot. I’ll take any shots you have of them. And of Harriet arriving on this voyage, if you have them. Should I come to the photo shop later?”

  “I’d prefer not, since this is off the record. I’ll meet you in the Castaways Bar at midnight.”

  I got directions to the main deck and headed down the hallway, passing a few crew members who all said “Hello, Ms. Redondo.” I guess the gossip mill was already grinding.

  I looked on a map and stopped by the Cruise Director’s office, but it was locked. Was anyone doing anything about Harriet? I knew better than to try the Staff Captain. I figured I would try to meet some of the cruisers, in hopes they’d seen her.

  I took the elevator to the main restaurant deck. The door opened. It looked like my options were Calypso, Karaoke, or Carols. I could hear “The Christma
s Song.” It was tough to remember baby Jesus’s birth when the air reeked of SPF 50.

  And no matter how many wreaths were splattered on every surface, all I could see was Harriet, eating a Nathan’s hotdog, with mustard on her nose.

  I felt even more heartsick than I had on Thanksgiving, after I’d found out my Uncle Ray was an animal smuggler. I could still see the horror on Frank’s face the first time my mother handed him the electric carving knife.

  That reminded me, I needed to send him the photo attachments. I checked my phone. Still no bars.

  I walked out to the railing. The setting sun gave a caramel-y glow to the light sparking off the water. Where were we? And what was that bit of land out there? Was it the mainland, or our destination, Tasmania? I had no idea how to navigate out here.

  I moved back from the railing and reached deep into my Balenciaga for the silky suede bag that held the one part of my father I always had with me. It was a Wilcox Crittenden compass, made in 1929, the brass needle inside still shiny. It had belonged to my Grandfather Guido and then to my dad, Johnny, who’d given it to me on my fourth birthday, a month before he died. He’d told me as long I held onto it, I would never be lost.

  The compass had been, though, confiscated by Interpol when I was in Africa. My plus one, Roger, had stolen it back for me, then had lied straight to my face. I still couldn’t trust him. Of course, when did trust have anything to do with attraction?

  The needle was facing north, so the dark shape was the tip of mainland Australia. I must be standing backwards. Maybe that was why I felt nauseous. I put the compass back into my purse and turned forward. That didn’t help. I grabbed a green apple out of my bag, ate a few bites, then promptly threw up over the railing.

  “Sorry!” I yelled to everyone below, as I backed away.

  I spun and banged right into Doc, now wearing a black tie with his tux. He smiled. I threw my hand over my mouth, waved him away, and ran for the ladies’ room. After brushing my teeth with my emergency travel toothbrush three times, and reapplying both lipstick and Chanel No. 5, I opened the door, hoping I could make a clean getaway.