Drowned Under Read online

  “Welcome to La Courgette,” she said.

  “It’s amazing how anything French sounds fancy, even zucchini.”

  She winked at me. “I asked Ron about the Manzonis. He said I was the second person to ask about them. A woman with short black hair asked, too.”

  “Harriet Archer, my friend?”

  Sister Ellery shook her head. “Maybe. He said she looked familiar, but he didn’t know her. She was talking to some of the crew about them. That’s the friend who brought you over?” What does she say about it?”

  I looked down. “I wish I knew. She’s not... Sister, she was lying dead on the floor of our cabin when I got there.”

  “Holy Mother of Christ.” Sister Ellery crossed herself, then shook it off. “Sorry. Old habits. No pun intended.”

  “And the question is, if word travels at Bay Ridge-speed on a ship, how come you don’t know that?”

  Before she could answer, Doc arrived, still in his tux, still in his Pumas, still cute. He offered Sister Ellery his arm. He got points for that.

  “I saw your date on the way up, Ellery. He said he would be right here and to go ahead.”

  “Great, it would be rude to be late,” I said.

  “Yes, it would,” Doc offered me his other arm. I caught up and moved with them into the room.

  A woman in her late twenties with honey-blond hair stood behind the host stand. She had extraordinary posture, with an undernote of fury. I pegged her as the product of a boarding school she’d hated. She stared down at her clipboard until we approached, then her smile snapped to. I gave her my best Redondo Travel one in response.

  “Hello. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. This is Sister Ellery Malcomb. We’ve been invited to the Captain’s Table tonight.”

  “That’s fantastic. And such an honor on your first trip on our line.” She smiled at Sister Ellery, then nodded at Doc. She made a few marks on a cruise line clipboard. I wanted one of those. It looked sturdy.

  “I’m Ms. Callahan, the Captain’s hostess. We’re delighted to have you. Please follow me.”

  As I walked through the restaurant toward a heart-stopping view of the water, I thought maybe it wasn’t so bad, being confined with strangers. There was peace in anonymity—or there was until I heard the whispers “helicopter girl,” “thong,” and “tramp.” I might as well have been surrounded by a thousand Aunt Helens, judging my dress, my arrival, and my dinner dates. It was very important right now not to trip. I wished I’d worn my four-inch heels rather than the kitten heel sandals. I was always unstable this close to the ground.

  We arrived at the head table. It was beautifully appointed with snowy, kangaroo-shaped napkins, plates bearing the Darling Cruise Line’s logo, and glasses and silverware designed for maximum light reflection. Doc placed his hand on my back, giving me an electric shock, as he moved ahead of the hostess to pull out my chair. The hostess glared at him, then smiled at an Icelandic-looking woman standing at the head of the table in full whites, four black-and-gold stripes on her shoulder. She towered over all three of us. I checked her shoes. They looked suspiciously like five-inch Louboutins. I wouldn’t know for sure until I saw the red soles. As a feminist, I loved the confidence of wearing spike heels when you were already six feet tall. But as a shrimp, I felt it pressed an unfair advantage.

  “May I introduce Miss Cyd Redondo.” Miss? Seriously?

  I held up my hand. “Redondo Travel. Ms.” I added. She reached down. I glimpsed the beginning of an anchor tattoo on the inside of her wrist. She had a strong handshake. But so did I, thanks to Eddie’s arm wrestling training when I was five.

  “Captain Lindoff, at your service. Thank you for joining us.” I detected a slight Scandinavian accent. A woman. How fantastic.

  “Such a pleasure to meet you, Captain.” I wondered whether I should call her Ma’am or Your Excellency. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  “My pleasure.” She leaned down. “It’s the least we could do, under the circumstances. I am so sorry for your loss. I would like to discuss the situation, but as you can appreciate, this is not the place.”

  “I understand.” So much for the appetizer questions. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Speak to Lisa and she will make the arrangements.” She turned to the handsome couple already seated. They rose.

  “Cyd Redondo, this is Mary Lou and Jack Cass. Cyd is a travel agent from America. Mary Lou and Jack are Silver Platinum Members on the Darling line. They’re from London.” I smiled and shook hands with the couple, who were dressed to the nines and looked fabulous. Mary Lou had a stylish short haircut I could never pull off and which reminded me of Harriet. Jack actually knew how to wear a tux without the cummerbund pooching out. I liked them immediately and wondered whether they booked their own travel.

  Mary Lou leaned over, winked, and said “Watch out for that one. She’s a killer.” My eyes went wide. “Bridge. She never loses.”

  “You must know her well.”

  “She’s one of our favorites,” Jack said, winking. “We’ve watched her since she was a Chief Engineer, then Staff Captain. We tried to get on her first sailing as Captain, but it was sold out, so here we are.”

  “It’s a very big deal, isn’t it, a female Captain?”

  “Yes. And lonely,” Mary Lou said. “There are certain crew members, who will remain nameless,” she looked directly at Storr Bentley, who was hosting one table away, “who are not pleased. I believe the staff are freezing her out a bit.”

  “Let me guess. The men?”

  “Of course the men. I have the only good one left, apparently.” She grinned at Jack, who grinned back. They reminded me of the Giannis, my favorite clients from Bay Ridge, who had the same affectionate shorthand that I feared at this point I would never have with anyone.

  Mary Lou nodded toward the Staff Captain, who was pouring wine for his guests.

  “Storr,” Mary Lou said. “He’s the worst of the bunch. See, he can barely look at her.”

  Jack chimed in. “He is not chuffed to be second in command.”

  “His name is Storr?”

  Mary Lou raised her eyebrows. “Storr Bentley. Sexy, yeah?”

  I almost spit out my water and Storr looked over. I wondered whether I should apologize to stay on his good side. Then I remembered he didn’t have a good side.

  “This is my first cruise, so perhaps you two can be my experts?”

  “Anything we can do, luv.”

  By that time, Ron Brazil, now in an ill-fitting and shiny tux, his pompadour deflated by another hour of gravity, had arrived, and was seated between Jack and Sister Ellery. She beamed at him. As before, he avoided looking me in the eye. I felt that familiar nausea again.

  I’d heard from clients that the Captain’s Table was the one place on the boat where the alcohol was both free and abundant. Although I knew it was stupid to drink when I was this jet lagged, seasick, and had already mixed eggnog, bourbon, rum, and a corpse, I figured I was sick anyway. Why not? I asked for a Jack Daniels, neat. The Captain turned when she heard my order and asked for the same.

  Then she asked where everyone had been just prior to the cruise. As the guests chimed in, the waiter appeared with two bottles of wine for the Captain to okay. She put on reading glasses, stylish as her shoes, to read the labels. She sampled the white, then asked me to try the red, unaware that in our family, Chianti Classica was about as deluxe as it got. The red tasted a little bit bad, which in my experience, meant it was expensive and likely to make everyone go “ooh.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I wanted to apologize for my chaotic arrival.”

  “No need. Harriet alerted me.”

  “So, you knew her?”

  “We met at a few cruise line functions. She was lovely, it’s such a tragic accident.” My eyes widened. “But again, perhaps we can discuss this tomorro
w?”

  “Of course.” I added the Captain to the list of everyone Harriet had talked to before she died. I’d finish it when I got back to the room. I realized Mary Lou was talking to me.

  “Did you say yacht race?”

  “We wondered if that’s why you’re doing the Christmas cruise? For the Sydney to Hobart yacht race?”

  “No,” I said. “I just got tired of the snow. Is it a famous one?”

  “Very. Starts in Sydney on Boxing Day every year and winds up in Hobart the day after. It usually goes right past us on the way back.”

  “That sounds exciting.”

  “It is. For us, it’s not Christmas without it. We’ve even got a friend entered this year. He’s not very good. I think he’s just doing it to have us cheer him on from the deck.”

  That made me think about my mom and Aunt Helen, cooking up a storm at home for the E.Coli Potluck. I wondered if Aunt Helen was making Eggplant Parmesan. She mixed Parmesan, ricotta, and fresh oregano in with the breadcrumbs. There was nothing like it.

  The appetizers arrived. Oysters. Great. The waiter explained the oysters were from Blackman Bay, Tasmania’s best. Oysters had always creeped me out. Enough so that I’d never actually eaten one. They always looked like a viscous version of the snice I’d just left. So this is what I’d been missing in world travel—eating slime. I hesitated, waiting for the Captain to begin.

  “Guests first.”

  Everyone turned to me, including Doc. Could I plead vegetarianism? Fruitarianism? It would be fine. I just needed a lot of horseradish. I would have given my Balenciaga for some ketchup. Most things were a delivery system for ketchup, in my opinion, and with enough of it, I could pretty much get anything down. I went heavy on the condiments, then upended the oyster. It just hung there, swinging by a stubborn tendon, dripping salty slime onto my tongue. Doc snorted. I re-scooped it and lowered it to my plate, daunted.

  Mary Lou leaned in “You have to detach it,” she said. “And use the other end.”

  “Bless you.” I chopped off the “arm” and tried again. This time, it went right down.

  It felt like cream of mushroom soup and tasted like spicy salt. Delicious, spicy salt. There, I could say I’d had a Tasmanian oyster and actually enjoyed it. Sister Ellery was sucking them down like the Cape Cod native she was. Ron Brazil abstained.

  The Captain poured me a glass of red. It was still awful. “Gorgeous,” I said.

  I had to hand it to Captain Lindoff. She was charming, made sure everyone’s glass was filled, and in no time had us confessing our family holiday traditions. My stories about sitting on the landing with my Uncle Ray while we waited for everyone to wake up seemed pretty pedestrian, though everyone seemed to appreciate how it felt to be the grown up, sitting there with my brousins’ kids. Doc said he and his brother used to leave cookies and milk for the Christmas “lions” in South Africa.

  We finished the meal with a traditional Australian dessert called a “Pavlova,” named after Anna Pavlova the ballerina. It was so completely covered in whipped cream that I didn’t even care what was inside. Whipped cream was second only to ketchup in improving the world, one bite at a time. Just as I finished lapping up the last few swipes of white, Mary Lou said she was heading to freshen up before the photographs.

  “Photographs?”

  “It’s one of the perks of a night at the Captain’s Table. You get a complimentary picture with the Captain and with your fellow guests. They post them in the photography studio, so I’ve learned it’s worth a quick check before.”

  “In case you’ve eaten off your lipstick.”

  “Exactly. Coming?”

  I nodded and we made our apologies and headed to the ladies’ room. I was dying to ask her if she’d talked to Harriet, but I felt I should wait at least twelve hours into our friendship.

  When we returned the photographer was chatting with Doc. He turned and smiled. It was not Elliot Ness. Well, surely there was more than one for two thousand guests. Probably on day and night shifts. Which reminded me, I was due to meet him at midnight. I had twenty minutes. I leaned in between the Captain and Mary Lou for the photo, trying not to smile too much, as my eyes always disappeared. He was smart enough to make sure he had at least one good shot of everyone. People always choose the group picture where they look the best, even if it’s a nuclear incident for another participant.

  I thanked the Captain, told Mary Lou and Jack I hoped we’d see each other again, and hugged Sister Ellery. “Gotta go,” I said.

  “Shall we have breakfast? Early? Ron and I have a Cha Cha refresher class at eight.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll meet you at seven.”

  As I headed for the exit, Doc jogged up beside me. “Do you need an escort upstairs?” He offered his arm.

  “I have a date.”

  “Already?” He shook his head. “American girls.”

  I kissed him on the cheek and asked Lisa, who was back at her post, how to find the Castaways Bar. She was good with directions, I’ll give her that. But when I asked for an appointment with the Captain, she said it wasn’t possible, she was fully booked tomorrow.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just as I hit the elevator, Brooklyn time finally started to work in my favor. It was five past twelve, which was ten in the morning at home—prime Redondo time.

  I hurried down two decks, past a series of passengers who were taking full advantage of not having to drive home. At least I hadn’t been the only one retching over the railing in the past few hours. I wondered who cleaned it all up.

  I pulled a shawl around my sequined dress, and headed into the Castaways Bar. It was “bar” dark, but I could still make out fake palm trees, coconuts, and fishing nets. There was even a life-sized version of Barrel of Monkeys hanging from the rafters. One of the plastic arms dinged my head as I entered.

  The clientele resembled more Gilligan’s Island than Cast Away. I kept forgetting my memorable ship arrival, but no one else had. I braved the whisper/staring gauntlet between the door and the bar, where I spotted someone who might be Ness. He was too close to a wobbling woman, who looked eighteen at best.

  “Has anyone ever told you, you could be a model?” He leaned closer.

  “Hey, Mr. Ness!” I yelled, striking a blow for female solidarity.

  I took his arm, moving him away from his target. Then waved at his under-aged date.

  “Hi. Cyd Redondo. Redondo Travel. Would you mind if I steal him for a minute? And by the way, I took you more for an astrophysicist than a model.” That would give her something to chew on. If she remembered it when she was sober.

  “Really, Elliot? Jailbait? Aren’t you on duty?”

  “She said she was twenty-one.”

  That was too stupid for even an eye roll. “Everyone in the world either says they’re twenty-one, twenty-nine, or thirty-nine. How old did you tell her you were?”

  “I was building up to that.”

  “To thirty-nine, you mean?”

  “What business is it of yours, anyway?”

  “I’m a travel agent. I put people on this cruise line. I’d like to be able to tell my clients that their underage granddaughters aren’t going to be hit on by the ship’s photographer.”

  “Fair enough. Can I say something? Purely as a photographer who specializes in portraits? You don’t look so good.”

  One of the fake palm trees was nearby. “Cover me,” I said.

  He stood in front, as I dry heaved into the palm. He even cleared his throat and coughed to cover the sound, then handed me a cocktail napkin. For a moment, he restored my faith in humanity.

  “Thank you. I apologize. I was at the Captain’s Table and five courses is too many for my first night at sea.”

  “Yeah. Usually they only do that to people they want to torture.”

  “I thought they
were just keeping an eye on me.”

  He shrugged. “I assume you don’t want a drink, then?”

  “I would kill for a ginger ale.” Elliot noticed everyone staring at us and moved me into a darker corner.

  “What? Is drinking with me not good for business?”

  “In a word, yes. Or I mean no. It’s not good. Yet. But I do have a few shots of a new passenger descending that might improve my reputation.”

  Great. “Can you see my thong?”

  “Cosabella?”

  “Dammit. I’ll buy them, but only if I watch you delete all copies.”

  “The cruise line won’t let me do that.”

  “Why? It’s all digital, right?” We looked at each other for a long moment. “Deleting is not optional. How much? If you throw in the rest of the shots of the last trip?”

  “Five grand.”

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  He shook his head.

  “How bad are they? Five grand buys a lot of photos in Brooklyn.”

  “A man’s gotta eat.”

  “All your meals are comped. I’ll give you five hundred. Come on, bulk discount?” He shook his head. I always preferred bartering to threats, but certain vendors just gave you no choice. “Elliot. I just had dinner with the Captain. She likes me. Do you want her to know you were hitting on a sixteen-year-old?”

  “U.S. dollars, not Australian.”

  “Fine, put it on my cabin.”

  “No can do. This is off the record.”

  “Do you take credit cards?”

  “Would you?”

  Seriously? I hadn’t even been here for twenty-four hours and I was already almost out of cash. “Only if you throw in one more thing. Any photos of Harriet Archer.”

  “She worked for the cruise line, right? Audrey Hepburn type.”

  “Exactly. She got on in Sydney. Anything you might have with her, foreground or background?”

  “Why don’t I just give you my back-up flash drive and you can look for yourself? It has the last four trips. All the photos are dated. That would make it six hundred, though.”