Bon Bon Voyage (19 page)

Although Captain Marbella was loathe to be hauled away to the brig and put up a good fight, shouting oaths and threats about the penalties for mutiny until they taped his mouth shut, everything else went easily and as planned. The passengers had been drugged and notified of cruise changes with formal letters pushed under their doors. The chef, not yet recovered from his unexpected meeting with Mrs. Gross, had been afraid to protest when informed that all meals were to be served buffet style, passenger menus to the crew, crew menus to the passengers, until the work stoppage was resolved.

The crew, so excited to find that they'd be eating fine food, acquiesced easily to the new regime and began planning their own work stoppages. Officer Froder took over the captain's duties and changed the ship's course away from ports and crowded sea-lanes, while his subordinate took over the engine room, none the wiser. Cell phones and computers were confiscated and locked away, and the computer room closed to everyone but Patrick O'Brien. Then last, Patrick sent a message to the home office that caused great consternation and many anguished meetings.

It was decided by executives high in the line's pecking order that the hijacking of the
Bountiful Feast
was to be kept quiet. Considering the value of the ship itself and the terrible publicity, they had to get it back without trouble, but they did have several days to negotiate a ransom of less than fifty million dollars. Once the ship was retrieved, the passengers could probably be kept quiet with promises of free cruises in return for signed agreements to say nothing.

Then the line would quietly pursue, to the ends of the earth, the criminals who had stolen the ship, and mete out justice in a way that would attract no notice.

Exhausted and dismayed by the amount of money I had spent, I stumbled off my plane at Gatwick Airport in England, having been held up by an unexpected landing in Newfoundland, the result of some worrisome engine problem. Heaven only knew whether I'd be able to find and catch the flight to Tenerife, and in fact, after a search for the gate made at a dead run, the door was closing, and I had to beg a soft-hearted airline person to allow me aboard so that I could spend Mother's Day with my wife.

It had been a terribly embarrassing ploy, but I was put on a bus headed for some other plane and dropped off at the stair to the Tenerife plane with a cheery “Good luck, mate,” from the bus driver. Since the last passenger was at the top of the stairs, I then had to leap upward, shouting at the astonished stewardess and waving my ticket. Even then there was no guarantee that this plane would get me to the Reina Sofia Airport on Tenerife in time to find the harbor at Santa Cruz de Tenerife before Carolyn's ship sailed.

I fell into my chair, heart pounding, gasping for air—yet another embarrassment for a man who ran almost every morning of his life—vowing that I would never again let my wife travel by herself, lest I find myself in another such situation. Of course, I could have stayed on in Canada to the end of the meeting and flown home to El Paso, but Carolyn, the love of my life, who evidently did not like bonbons, might never have forgiven me, which would have made the last thirty or forty years of our marriage exceedingly uncomfortable. A man not that far away from his fifties valued the prospect of a happy marriage that would accompany him into old age; such were my thoughts as I drifted into exhausted sleep.

28

When I woke up the next morning, I was surprised to see through the curtains that the sun was up. I was even more surprised at how horrible I felt—groggy and nauseated when I opened my eyes, wobbly when I tried to stand. Then I vaguely remembered Luz giving me a pill because a bad storm was coming. Had we tossed about all night without my waking or throwing up? I glanced at Luz's bed and saw that she was fast asleep, snoring, in fact, something she hadn't done before. Even that hadn't awakened me. And she hadn't gone back to Beau's room, although I'd told her to. I also remembered about Mrs. Gross, dead in the freezer of a broken neck, wrapped in plastic and labeled
lamb.
As a native Texan, Mrs. Gross probably had hated lamb. And I had told Luz I didn't need her help finding the murderer. Stupid me.

Sighing, I showered, dressed, and left the room quietly to begin my investigation. Alone. I saw evidence that the commander had been here last night and probably still was. My mother-in-law, in my opinion, should be ashamed of herself. Maybe she did have a right to male companionship, being long unmarried, but she didn't have to carry on in the same suite with me, and she certainly had no right to accuse me of— what was that? I'd spotted a white envelope on the floor. The outside read:

It had obviously been pushed under our door. What now? I bent to pick it up and experienced a wave of dizziness. That must have been
some
pill, or a terribly rough night. The following message had been tucked into the envelope:

Well, that's no problem,
I thought.
I only change the linens once a week at home.

What? No Tenerife? No mummies? No Virgin of Candelaria?
I was very disappointed, unless they planned to sit out in the ocean negotiating by Morse code or whatever, and then proceed to Tenerife. I supposed I could wait a few days for the mummies and the Virgin.

What did that mean?

No loss there,
I thought, remembering Russell Bustle and the chorus girls. The abrupt departure of the entertainers was probably my mother-in-law's fault.

I put the message back in the envelope, leaned it prominently against the pretty, cracked-glass bowl on the table, and tiptoed out. The hall was empty. Everyone sleeping in, I guessed, after a wild night that I couldn't even remember. At least we hadn't been thrown out of our beds. Before I could get on the elevator, a little voice scared me out of my wits. “Is me, Herkule.”

“Good heavens, Herkule. What are you doing here? I thought you were on strike.”

“Strike? As hit a person or not hit a ball?” he asked, obviously puzzled.

“Strike as in work stoppage,” I replied.

“Ah.” He took out his little notebook and wrote busily. “Many thank. I think this morning, Mrs. Blue. Your food writing. Herkule is very sorry, but I describe for you everything I eat. Hokay? You not gnashing teeth at Herkule?”

“No, of course not. Everyone has a right to decent working conditions. I hope your demands are met. I have to say, I wondered why you were always on duty.”

“Oh, most magnimousy madam!” he exclaimed. He threw his arms around me, then backed off hastily. “Sorry. Arousing Albanian.”

He wiped his eyes and dashed off, leaving me to wonder if
arousing
was really the word he wanted to use (surely he didn't find me arousing or expect me to find him attractive), and why had he offered to describe his food to me?
Food.
Food reminded me of Demetrios, poor man, traumatized by finding a body in his freezer. Perhaps I should call on him and sympathize. Maybe if I were sympathetic enough, he'd give me the recipe for the double chocolate raspberry mousse.

Accordingly, I pushed the elevator button to the kitchen rather than the dining room. Much to my astonishment, Officer Fredriksen got on at the next floor. I hardly recognized her. She was wearing fatigues, instead of her pretty white uniform, and carrying a large gun, sort of midway between a rifle and a pistol, but with a fat barrel. I'd never seen anything like it. And she wasn't wearing her usual high heels. “Why are you carrying a gun and wearing those clothes?” I asked uneasily.

“We officers have to be on the alert for trouble,” she replied.

“It's only a little strike,” I protested.

“Strikes can be violent,” said Officer Fredriksen, “and passengers may prove to be very resentful of the situation. We're ready to break up any standoff between the two sides.”

Goodness, the woman was either crazy—perhaps as a result of having no sleep during the storm—or unduly excited at the thought of being charged with a military responsibility rather than her usual hotel duties. “The stewards have always seemed very peaceable and pleasant to me,” I said soothingly, “and why would anyone be upset about having to sleep on the same sheets and use the same towels for a few days? I'm sure you have nothing to worry about, Miss Fredriksen.”

“Speaking for my fellow officers, ma'am, we appreciate your tolerant view of the situation.” Then she actually saluted and stepped off on the dining room floor. As I continued to the kitchen, I wondered whether she had expected me to return her salute, the way the president does when wearing his civilian clothes and confronted with a general. Ah, the kitchen!

No one was on strike there. The place bustled as always. I spotted Demetrios and headed in his direction, hoping he wasn't still irritated with me, especially since I was going to ask for another dessert recipe. “Maestro,” I called, “I'm so glad to see that you have recovered from your shock. How terrible to be expecting a nice spring lamb and instead find poor Mrs. Gross. I'm here to express my sympathy and to tell you that dinner wasn't the same without you at the helm. Señora Vallejo's medium-rare steak was well done, something that would never have happened under your direction.”

The chef grasped my hand and shook it vigorously. Evidently he had forgiven me. “You are too kind, madam. No one but you has thought to express sympathy for the horror I underwent yesterday. As for your friend, Señora Vallejo, I would make up for that detestably overcooked steak if I could.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will. Here.” I removed the edited copies of my columns on his menus and turned them over. “I thought it might cheer you up to see some of the articles I have written on your superb cuisine.”

Beaming, Demetrios accepted the printouts and flipped through them. “Ambrosial potatoes? Tilapia perfectly cooked with a salsa never to be forgotten for its delicate spicing. Ah, madam, you are too kind.” He shook my hand again. “When the horror returns to me, I shall retire to my office and read these over to soothe my soul.”

How interesting,
I thought.
He's lost his accent.
I'd love to have asked him where he came from, since it obviously wasn't Greece, but I still wanted to get that mousse recipe. “You have been so kind to provide me recipes. My readers will all want to take your cruise to see for themselves what fine food really is. Unfortunately, last night the only superior thing we had was the mousse. I did enjoy it, but I couldn't help thinking that the pastry chef was not as sensitive a man as you. I could not have made a mousse after the horror of yesterday afternoon.

“But then, as he refused to give me dessert recipes, even when you told him to, I might have known nothing would bother him. A Frenchman, isn't he? They can be a cold lot unless they are actually born on the Mediterranean.” As I said all this, I was praying that Demetrios had been showing dislike of the pastry chef rather than the fact that I asked for dessert recipes.

“Alas, you are correct, madam,” said Demetrios. “Our Jean-Pierre produces a fine dessert, which is why I hired him, but he is a man of no sentiment, no sensitivity. I cannot believe that he refused you recipes. If I must, I will rip from his miserly hands the recipe for the mousse. If you will wait here just a moment.”

Demetrios strode off, wearing a thunderous expression. I, meanwhile, saw that someone had abandoned a slender, very sharp knife, not large, on the counter beside me. Remembering the hotel manager with her dangerous-looking gun, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea for me to have a small weapon of my own. I glanced around furtively. There was no one at the table with the abandoned knife, and all eyes followed Demetrios's charge toward the other side of the room. My slacks had pockets, so I slipped the knife into one and covered its outline with my handbag. I pride myself that by the time Demetrios returned with the recipe held triumphantly aloft, I was looking quite innocent, and not at all like the thief of what I took to be a filleting knife, or possibly a long grapefruit knife, although it didn't have the usual beveled edge.

The chef bowed and presented the recipe, and I cried, “Ah, you are so kind, Maestro, a true conductor of haute cuisine.” I wanted to be sure he understood why I was calling him Maestro. “The Giuseppe Verdi of enchanting gastronomy,” I added for good measure.

“And you, dear madam, are the queen of cuisine reviewers.”

So, that went well,
I thought as I tripped off to the elevator. Maybe he'd send up something truly wonderful for breakfast.