Drowned Under Page 8

  Doc was still outside. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” He stepped forward.

  I slapped him as hard as I could.

  “Ow! What the hell? I caught you when you dropped from a helicopter!”

  “Yeah, and then you drugged me and did God-knows-what-else before leaving me in a murder room.”

  “What?” He looked around, as a few people seemed to have noticed the altercation. He pulled me down the hall. I jerked back.

  “The last thing I remember is you coming toward me with a syringe. The next thing I know it’s two hours later and I’m back in the death cabin.” Passengers were listening in. After arriving by helicopter and vomiting over the railing, I figured it was too late to be subtle.

  He stared at me. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was going to give you a B-12 shot, but you collapsed before I could. I wasn’t sure if you were needle-phobic or just exhausted. I called Margy Constantinople. She’s the one who came to get you.”

  “Well, how did she get me upstairs? On a stretcher?”

  “Wheelchair. She didn’t want to alarm the other guests, especially in light of…you know. She arranged to have your bags sent up and when I checked with her, she said you were sleeping. I figured that was the best thing for you. I was actually on my way to check on you.”

  I assessed his story. I wasn’t inclined to believe the man who even countenanced the accident theory of Harriet’s death, but I did believe that Margy Constantinople, who’d been so lovely, and whom I’m sure was also desolate about Harriet, might have helped me.

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess.” I slumped against the wall.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Ever?”

  “You’re not going to make it easy, are you?”

  “Probably, eventually.”

  “Really?”

  “If it involves shrimp,” I said, suddenly starving.

  “Shrimp,” he said, “is my specialty.”

  “I’m supposed to have dinner with the Captain in an hour.”

  “The over-the-top service at the Captain’s Table really slows those five courses down. I’d suggest an appetizer. You don’t want to wind up shoving down bread or having some kind of episode, do you?” How did he know me this well?

  He offered his arm. “Madame?”

  “That’s Ms. Redondo to you, and I don’t need your arm.”

  “It’s for me. Fewer slip-and-falls, less work. More time for shrimp, for example.”

  The way he said shrimp sent a drop of sweat down my bare back.

  It got worse when he placed his hand on my hip and moved me toward the Oceana Buffet. I was looking forward to a momentary distraction, since I couldn’t do anything about Harriet until dinner. Cruise buffets were legendary and I had always found salad bars soothing. And, just when I had been suffering from a lack of holiday spirit, there it was: an eggnog bar.

  I unhooked myself and practically leapt onto the buffet host. Two eggnogs—heavy on the nutmeg and easy on the rum—later, I felt almost human.

  I looked longingly at the carousel of crab’s legs.

  “No,” Doc said. He handed me a green apple. “Give yourself at least a day before you binge. Did they really put you back in that room?”

  “The Risk Management guys said it was the only room available. Could that be true? Or does the Staff Captain just want to torture me?”

  “The Risk Management guys?”

  I told him about their visit. He shook his head.

  “Hey, you haven’t heard anything about the Manzonis yet, have you?”

  “No, not yet.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve got time before dinner. Want to look around?” I did, on my own, but I couldn’t figure out an easy way to dump him. Clearly nausea didn’t work as a repellent.

  “Sure.”

  I stopped to look at the Evening’s Events calendar. There would be Carolers in Victorian garb in the “Cock and Bull” pub, which seemed unfortunate on so many levels. I just couldn’t quite put the idea of bonnets, thongs, and “The Little Drummer Boy” together. There was also a Seniors “Saturday Night Fever” Dance Competition on in the Disco Lives! Lounge.

  “Let’s do that.” I was homesick. Saturday Night Fever had been set and shot in Bay Ridge. My dad had been one of the Barracudas in the rumble scene.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We could hear “Boogie Shoes” pounding from above. Doc gestured me up the stairs.

  “Is this all right? An employee accompanying a guest to a bar?”

  “I’m accompanying you as your physician, to make sure you don’t have a bad reaction to the pills.”

  “You gave me pills?”

  “No. But nobody else knows that. Besides, everyone on the boat’s been asked to be extra nice to you, given the circumstances, so I’m just following orders.”

  “That’s why I’m invited to the Captain’s Table tonight?”

  “Probably.”

  We arrived at the Disco Lives! Lounge, complete with a floor of blinking, primary color squares right out of the film. The lounge host nodded at Doc and moved us to a table near the action. I could feel and hear people whispering as I went by.

  “Are you sure you should drink?” Doc said. “Speaking as your physician.”

  I guess he didn’t know me that well. Normally, I would have a shot or two of Jack Daniels, given the day I’d had. It was a cruise, though. Maybe I should have a Planter’s Punch. Or, given the state of my digestive system, a green apple martini. But before I could answer, a waiter sat a double shot of bourbon in front of me.

  “Miss Redondo. Good evening and welcome. My name is Julio. I took the liberty of bringing you your favorite drink.”

  How did he know my favorite drink? Had the Risk Management guys done a background check?

  “Miss Archer was kind enough to inform us of your preferences,” Julio said. “But of course, if you’d like something else, I will get it immediately.”

  I looked at Doc, then Julio.

  “Thank you, Julio. This is perfect. It is a lovely tribute to Ms. Archer. I appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure. And, may I add, many other patrons have offered to buy a drink for our own female Bruce Willis, so I am at your service.”

  Doc snorted, then ordered a Scotch and a Planter’s Punch before Julio bowed and headed back to the bar. I could feel more tip money floating out of my wallet, all because of runway construction at LAX. I turned to Doc.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “I have a feeling that wouldn’t be very easy.”

  “Hey!”

  “You just don’t strike me as a lightweight.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said.

  “I grew up with ten male cousins who picked on me about everything, including drinking like a girl.”

  “Don’t worry, the Planter’s Punch is for me.”

  I laughed for the first time since I’d left the office. Well, except for during Little Miss Sunshine on the plane.

  “Does the staff not know Harriet’s dead?”

  “We try to keep gossip to a minimum.”

  “On a ship? With three thousand people? Good luck with that. Bay Ridge has eighty thousand and no one can buy an EPT kit without getting a baby shower.”

  “Cruises are all about appearances. Hey, they’re about to start the Early Bird round.”

  I watched as a man in a powder blue three-piece suit, an obvious toupee, and a microphone, moved to the center of the dance floor.

  “Welcome, Cruisers! We’re thrilled to offer a chance for all those on board who remember and love the disco era to show off their moves. Let’s give a hand for the lovely couples who are her
e to win!”

  We all clapped. The flashing floor went berserk and a thunderous, and perhaps ironic, “Stayin’ Alive” roared through the speakers while ten sets of partners, two with walkers, made it onto the dance floor.

  In my experience, when it came to any kind of organized dance, seniors had it all over us. They seriously knew what they were doing. They could jitterbug, swing dance, they’d been through the Rumba and Cha Cha crazes of the sixties. They knew how to move with their partners, lead and be led, in a way that people my age weren’t comfortable with and usually sucked at.

  So, despite a certain arthritic stiffness, there was some serious moving going on, and suddenly I understood the whole cruise thing. The Grey Panthers might have a dance once or twice a year. This was every night. This was a place travelers of a certain age could actually show off their serious skills and feel young again, without embarrassment or judgment. I loved it. Doc caught me smiling and grinned back.

  “It makes you feel young, doesn’t it?”

  “And not in a good way.” I turned back to watch the dancing line.

  The next couple came forward. The man was shorter than Travolta, but had his swagger. He suffered from pronounced bow legs, which made his flared pants swing in. He was smooth, though, and I appreciated that he was careful in the big dips, supporting his older partner’s arthritic neck. She had purple streaks in her white bob and an orange halter dress that looked like a vintage Diane von Furstenberg.

  “Who is that?” I asked Doc, pointing at the gold-laméd mystery man.

  “He’s one of the ‘escorts.’ I don’t remember his name.” He gestured for Julio, who returned with another Jack Daniels and a flourish.

  Julio grinned. “That is Monsieur Brazil. He is staff. The cruise line employs certain eligible senior men to make sure all the single women have partners. It is a kindness.”

  This was something I didn’t know, and a great added benefit for my widows.

  “How many are there on the ship?”

  “Twelve. I only know this because I am responsible for their drinks.”

  “Was Monsieur Brazil on the last passage to Tasmania?”

  “Yes. I believe so. He is often here during the holidays.”

  When the song ended, “Monsieur Brazil” swirled his partner out and froze, one arm flung up, legs akimbo, creating a horseshoe a three-year-old could get through. She shimmied forward and threw up her arms. I gasped.

  It was my former teacher, Sister Ellery Magdalene Malcomb, admirer of Herman Hesse, who was eighty-one and currently wearing orange platform shoes. Just before I graduated from middle school, Sister Ellery met the widowed father of one of her students at a Catholic raffle and decided to bet on men and sex instead of God. The relationship hadn’t lasted, but she’d never looked back. As a vested Bride of Christ, she had her retirement, and it turned out she was actually from a wealthy, dead family, had funds galore, and was “Up for anything.”

  “Cyd,” she told me the first time she came in to book a dirty weekend, “you don’t know what hell is until you’ve taught a class of seventh graders. According to the Archdiocese, I’m headed back there when I die, so in between, I’m going to have fun.” She’d decided life was not worth continuing without “Sex with someone who knows what they’re doing. Stamina’s important too, at my age.” These are things you really don’t want to hear from a nun, much less the one who taught you to write cursive.

  Still, there weren’t a lot of people she could talk to, and since she’d “retired” and become a regular client, we were friends. Between us, we’d worked our way through every eligible man in Bay Ridge. After my Aunt Noni died, Sister Ellery asked whether my Uncle Ray might be interested in a woman who felt younger than her years and up for lots of sex? She’d held her tongue so long for the Archdiocese, she clearly relished her newfound frankness, which often resulted in TMI. As a former student, there was a certain glee in seeing her that way, so I always looked forward to a visit. By now, she’d had multiple romances, two husbands, and one hip replacement. I’d planned both her honeymoons, one in the Caribbean and one in Hawaii, as well as an “ashes scattering” off the Isle of Wight.

  After her second husband died, she’d been wary of living alone. I’d figured out a year-round cruise would actually be cheaper—and more fun for her— than a retirement home, so I’d booked her trip. The only thing was, she was supposed to be in Greece right now.

  She took a bow and popped up. I waved and her face lit up. She shuffled toward me, her arms in the air. I braced myself. All of those years with no physical contact had turned her into an awkward and over-enthusiastic hugger. She could never quite pull it off normally, either bruising your ribs, smearing your makeup, or stepping on your feet like a bad prom date.

  This time her platform heels rammed into my exposed toes, but I hugged her back just as hard. I was so glad to see her.

  “Cydhartha! This is Kismet, certainly. ‘Alas, we will meet again, ere long.’”

  She turned to her dancing partner, who’d followed her over. Although I was sure I’d never met anyone with a working pompadour or a gold lamé seventies suit, there was something about him, around the eyes, that seemed familiar.

  “Cyd Redondo, meet Ron Brazil.”

  Ron Brazil. Really? I held out my hand. He hesitated, then gave it a limp shake.

  “This is so perfect, isn’t it, honey? That she’s showed up on this cruise? Cyd, would you be my Maid of Honor?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  If there was one thing Sister Ellery Malcomb insisted on, it was manners. She said, if nothing else, they gave you time to get control of your face. I wasn’t sure it was going to work this time, but I loved her, so I tried.

  “Congratulations! To the two of you? This is some news!” I hugged her again, then turned to Ron Brazil. “She couldn’t be more special. You’re a very lucky man.”

  “I am.” He still didn’t look me in the eye.

  Sister Ellery grabbed his hand. “A very lucky younger man. See? I’ve learned my lesson. No more old men.”

  He kissed her hand. “They couldn’t keep up with you. My dear, you must be parched, shall I get you a Campari and soda?”

  “That would be wonderful, darling.”

  “I’ll help.” Doc followed Brazil to the bar.

  Sister Ellery grabbed my arm. She might look frail but she still had the grip of a Bride of Christ, circa 1981.

  “So, the doctor, is it? And you’re the one who landed on him? Nice shot.”

  “You heard about that?”

  “Everyone heard about that, my dear. Think Bay Ridge, times twenty. Any injuries?”

  “Just my pride.”

  “Pride is expendable. At least you’re giving yourself a vacation.”

  “Not exactly.” I looked behind me. Our escorts were still waiting at the bar. I told her about Barry and the Manzonis.

  “I have to say, after the way they treated you, I’m not sorry.”

  “Sister!”

  “Please.”

  “Were you on the trip with them?” I prayed she could be my informant.

  “No. Ron was, though.” She leaned in. “He’s a monster in bed.”

  “Sister!”

  “I never pegged you for a prude, Cyd.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re supposed to be in Greece. What happened?”

  “Ron, of course. We met during a Tango competition on The Equator just off Santorini. He had to come back here, at the last minute, and, since we were practically engaged, I decided to surprise him. He’ll have met the Manzonis, for sure. They thought they were good dancers.” She made a sound that was remarkably like a harrumph.

  “You know you could lose your deposit?” I said.

  “It’s worth it,” she said, looking at Ron. His pompadour was starting to deflate in back.

&nbs
p; Before I could tell her about Harriet, her disco boyfriend returned with a Campari and soda and what looked like a Jack Daniels, straight up. I stared at him. “Here you go,” he said, then looked at his watch. “That took longer than we thought. Doc says you’re at the Captain’s Table too? Maybe we should take these back to the room, all get dressed and meet there?”

  I nodded as Doc walked back with a couple of beers. Ron took one. I took the JD, shot it.

  “Thanks, Mr. Brazil.”

  He gave an acknowledging nod, but still avoided my eyes.

  “We’ll see you upstairs, then.” Sister Ellery leaned forward and gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  “Absolutely.” I watched her wobble off with her bow-legged Romeo.

  Doc turned to me. “I assume there’s a story there?”

  “There are about fifteen.” I gave him the short version. “She promised me she wouldn’t get married again. I have to say, I don’t like the looks of this guy.”

  “Ron? He’s a regular on a few Australian routes. European ones, too, I think. He’s all right, a little odd sometimes.”

  “Does he get engaged a lot?”

  “Do you?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  He pushed his ample hair off his forehead. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. If he does, it’s not common knowledge. Technically, it’s against the rules. Although romance has definitely blossomed before between the widows and escorts in the past. What harm can it do? She seems happy.”

  “She does.” I hesitated. “That’s the problem. She has a trust fund. Big one.”

  “Ah,” Doc said.

  “Any info on him you can give me, I’d appreciate.”

  “His blood pressure isn’t great.”

  “That might come in handy. I’m going to freshen up. Deck Twelve, right?”

  I did a quick trip back to the room for fresh lipstick and mascara, and to figure out if I could bring up murder and kidnapping with the Captain over appetizers, or if I had to wait until the main course. I saw the time and decided to take the stairs. When I got to the restaurant entrance, Sister Ellery was waiting, a shawl tossed over her gaping halter top and dangly earrings hanging from her equally dangly lobes.