Bon Bon Voyage (18 page)

“Maybe tomorrow night, sweetie,” I said to Beau. “You just about wore me out last night.” Of course, Beau liked that.

“Isn't that pretty,” Carolyn was saying as she viewed a tall goblet thing with white, red, and dark brown layers of stuff inside.

“Double chocolate raspberry mousse, ma'am,” said the waiter. “It's one of our best desserts.”

About time we got something decent with this meal, I thought, and dug in. Obviously the chef, who'd found the corpse of Mrs. Gross, hadn't had a hand in this course; it actually tasted good. Carolyn sure thought so. She said it was “superb” and after finishing the mousse ordered the Marmalade Delight.

26

The stewards ate while the passengers were eating upstairs, so Hartwig and Patek chose that opportunity to visit the dining room with their cache of seasick pills. However, Hartwig came upon a scene that interested him, so he held the chief steward back in order to listen.

“You should have examine it,” cried Herkule Pipa. “Is called double-chocolate and berry mice. So handsome. I almost whimper—Is good word, no? Mean cry—almost whimper I have no taste for me.”

The other stewards, weary after a long day, with more hours to work before they would see their own beds, stared balefully at the dishes of Jell-O that they had picked up from the buffet line. “You'd think they'd give us some of the good stuff, considering how hard we work,” said one. “In United States, workers get more money for more hours than eight.” Rumbles of discontent rose around the table.

“Follow my lead,” hissed Hartwig, and strode toward the stewards' table.

Herkule, spotting him first and, more important, Umar Patek with him, said, “But gelatins is very tasty.”

“In my opinion, you guys have got it right. You're overworked, badly fed, and underpaid,” said Hartwig.

Herkule wanted to object to
underpaid.
He thought his take-home pay was wonderful and wished he'd said nothing about the mice dessert. After all, he never went hungry aboard the ship, for which he said prayers of thanks every day. But he was afraid to say a word to either of the two men now standing at the table. What were they doing? Some trick to get the stewards fired so the line could hire cheaper stewards who didn't complain?

“You ought to declare a work stoppage. Just quit doing the rooms and running errands for the passengers until the line agrees to shorter hours and better food. That's what American workers do, and the line is American owned, no matter what third-world flag we fly under. Don't you agree, Umar?”

The chief steward frowned but said nothing. The stewards looked confused and apprehensive. “Big ship men not listen to us,” said Herkule hesitantly, while visions of sumptuous desserts “danced in his head,” a phrase he'd read in an English language book about sugar plums and someone named Santa-clots. A passenger had left it behind. Since many Albanians, Herkule included, were Muslims, he was unfamiliar with that tradition but liked it very much. Imagine some nice person coming down the chimney and leaving delicious things to eat. It would never happen in Albania.

“Sure they would,” said Hartwig. “With two hundred passengers making their own beds and not getting their towels changed for a couple of days, the line would fall over its own feet to meet your demands.”

“And who of us would make such demands? We don't even know how to telephone big ship men,” said another naysayer.

Hartwig laughed. “So that's the problem. Well, Patek and I know how, and we'll do it. It's something that needs to be done.”

“Like alms for poor?” asked Herkule, looking toward the head steward. Patek claimed to be a Hindu whose family had immigrated to an island, but Herkule was almost sure the chief steward was Muslim. Herkule had caught Patek once praying to Mecca in his office and had stolen away. If he was right, and Patek agreed, then it would really be done, the calls, the good food, and the shorter hours. It would be Patek's duty as a good, if mean, Muslim.

“Right, Umar?” said Hartwig, nudging his fellow officer.

“Yes,” said the chief steward.

“So, you guys want to vote on the work stoppage?”

“I say yes,” cried the first man. Others, excited at the prospect of asserting themselves in the American style, agreed, even Herkule.

“Okay, tonight's your last night on duty until they agree. Sleep in tomorrow. And by the way, we'll all want to sleep in tomorrow. Big storm coming tonight after midnight.” Hartwig pulled out the containers of pills. “Warn them and give one to each of your passengers as they come back to their rooms. Tell them to be sure to take them. Doctor's orders.” He laughed. “After all, you don't want them puking all over themselves tonight. Americans support work stoppages, but they won't feel too happy about it if they have to clean up their own vomit.” The stewards laughed appreciatively because they'd cleaned up plenty of vomit when the weather got rough. “Better take some yourselves,” Hartwig continued. “You don't want to miss the good meals that are on their way.”

So it was settled. The stewards were chatting happily over their Jell-O as Hartwig and Patek left the room. Once in the corridor, Patek's hand closed over his fellow officer's arm, hard enough to leave a bruise under the white cloth of the uniform. “What was that about?” he demanded. “If you stop service to passengers, they rebel.”

Hartwig shrugged. “We're armed; they're not, and they'll blame the stewards, not us. We'll just be keeping the peace in a difficult situation.”

“And we call line tomorrow morning and ask for money and perks for stewards? Miami won't take us as serious men.”

“Who said we're going to mention the stewards? All we have to tell the stewards is that we did it, and that the executives are considering their demands. By the way, the entertainers jumped ship at Las Palmas. The company that sends them called them in because we cut Russell Bustle. Of course Marbella thinks he's getting a new bunch at Tenerife—local dancers and that sort of crap—but then he doesn't know we won't be putting in at Tenerife. So with no entertainment and the casino and bars closing at midnight because I'm going to alert them to the coming storm at the last minute, everyone will be in bed, dead to the world, by twelve thirty. That gives us plenty of time to round up my security people and the officers who aren't in on this and lock them in the brig. Then we search the passenger rooms for cell phones, computers, and weapons, if any.”

“And why do the rest of us not know about these decisions?” Patek demanded angrily.

“Because I had to improvise, my friend. We didn't expect to take the ship until tomorrow night, and we wouldn't have had to if you hadn't killed the Gross woman.”

They parted company at the end of the corridor, Patek returning to his own quarters to think out how these new plans would affect plans he himself had, he and the brothers in Malaysia. Soon he would be acting in the name of Allah and of the Prophet Muhammad, doing things more important, more satisfying, than working undercover on a ship of infidels.

27

Because the entertainers had taken off, mad about Russell Bustle was what I heard, I headed back to the room, following Carolyn. Might as well get it over with about Mrs. Gross. Vera and Barney had gone to the bar; guess the bartenders hadn't jumped ship at Las Palmas. “Hey, Carolyn, I need to talk to you,” I called, catching up with her at the door to our suite. She shoved her key card into the door, and I chased her right in.

“I'm tired,” she said. “I appreciate your breaking up my conversation with Vera—imagine her accusing me of being unfaithful to Jason. I may never speak to her again—but I don't feel like talking. I want to go to bed.”

“This will only take a freaking minute, Carolyn, and it's about Mrs. Gross. You'll want to know.”

“What about Mrs. Gross?”

“She's dead.”

Carolyn sniffed. “I imagined as much.”

“And you don't care how I found out or what happened to her? Well, okay. I was going to say I'd help you chase down who killed her, but since you're not interested, I'll just to spend the night with Beau. He invited me, but I said—”

“Murdered?” Carolyn interrupted. “I'm sorry, Luz. Don't go. Sit down and tell me. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, but you might want one.” She fixed one for both of us anyway. Some fruity thing that was pink. Tasted like Kool-Aid to me, but I didn't say so. “The chef was looking for lamb in the walk-in freezer. Instead he found Mrs. Gross in a plastic bag marked
lamb
, which explains why he wasn't cooking tonight and we got such crappy food.”

“The dessert was nice,” said Carolyn, sounding very subdued. “How do they know she was murdered?”

“You mean she wrapped herself up in a plastic bag and committed suicide in the freezer?”

“Don't be sarcastic, Luz. I'm—I'm upset.”

“Yeah, sorry. Beau said her neck was broken, and it wasn't an accident, which is pretty obvious anyway, because why put her in the freezer if it was an accident?”

“Was she wearing her brown dress?” Carolyn asked.

“Right, brown dress, but no emeralds, so maybe someone killed her for jewelry.”

“Maybe Mr. Patek. That's who she was looking for.”

“Right. Well, we'll start nosing around tomorrow.”

“I don't need your help, Luz, but I do thank you for the offer,” she said, all prissy again. “Now that you've told me, you'll want to join Beau. Oh, poor Mrs. Gross!” She burst into tears and ran into our room, where she stripped off her clothes, dumped them on the floor, and crawled into bed.

At a guess, I'd say Carolyn
never
drops her clothes on the floor, which meant she was pretty upset. Guess I'd have to stay. Just about then there was knocking on the door and that voice: “Is me, Herkule Pipa.” He had three pills on a little tray and the news that we were heading into a storm and really rough weather. “Is for keeping no vomit when ship is pitch back and forth. Take before bedtime for good night slumbering.”

“Okay, but you'd better leave four in case Vera brings home a friend.”

“Is very old, old Mrs. Blue,” said Herkule dubiously, “but okay. Vomiting on sheets not good.”

“Right. You'd have to clean it up.”

He went away; I entered our room and fed the first pill to the sobbing Carolyn—maybe she really did have PMS like Vera said. She took it like a good little girl and reburied her head in the pillow. I then had a hell of a time staying awake to pass out the other two to Vera and Barney. Vera said thanks and took hers, and I took mine, but Barney said that, being a Navy man, he didn't get seasick. So I put the last one into a funny bowl on our table that looked like someone had smashed it and glued it back together. I figured one of us, like me, might wake up needing another pill, or even the commander might want to sneak out and get it when he started to feel like puking.