Bon Bon Voyage (21 page)

“Thing is, the pills are evidently all gone. Beau asked Patek what they were, and Patek was very vague; he said medications the ship stored for force-something-or-other winds, and they'd all been passed out last night.”

“Why weren't they in Beau's office instead of the chief steward's care?” I asked.

“Beau wanted to know the same thing, but Patek said they were the same sort of pills they keep behind the desk downstairs in case any of the old ladies start feeling like they might puke. Only stronger.”

“Well, I didn't take mine,” said Commander Levinson. “Beau can have that one if you remember what you did with it, Luz.”

“My goodness, are we thinking that the stewards tried to poison us?” I asked. “Herkule would never do that.”

“It's on the floor with the broken glass from the bowl I knocked off,” said Luz. “I'll have to give it to Beau.”

“You might consider sweeping up the glass as well,” said Vera, “or are you waiting for the stewards to do it?”

I gave my mother-in-law a look and said, “I'll do it. Just consider it my contribution to friendly labor relations.” Then I put my spoon down. “This
is
a fake whipped-cream substitute. Really, I consider this the last straw.”

31

Patrick was almost enjoying himself when he searched out Hartwig to tell him Tenerife had been notified that the
Bountiful Feast
wouldn't be docking that day. “I said we're afraid we've got Legionnaires' disease among the passengers.”

“I thought that came from bad air-conditioning. Are you sure it's contagious?”

“How the hell would I know, Bruce? They probably won't know either. But I was looking through people's e-mails in the computer room, and guess what I found?” Hartwig muttered something sarcastic about pornography, and Patrick laughed and retorted, “Nothing so innocuous, me boyo. It seems Mrs. Blue has been sending out e-mails to your state department, not to mention your embassy and consulate in Morocco. She told them that Mrs. Gross has gone missing and they need to find out what happened to her.”

“That interfering bitch!” muttered Hartwig. “I'm going to have to do something about that.”

“No problem,” said Patrick gaily. “I'll just send off an e-mail to all of them saying, ‘Re: Correspondence from Mrs. Carolyn Blue. Mrs. Gross found. Thanks for your attention.' No need to mention
how
Mrs. Gross was found.”

“You do that,” Hartwig agreed, and walked off.

S
hould I check out the spa first or go directly to the crew quarters?
I wondered, and decided I'd better go downstairs while the crew and officers were still gorging themselves on wonderful food that
I
should have been eating. I'd been putting off the search because the prospect made me nervous, but I had a perfect alibi as long as I wasn't caught in someone's room. I didn't know what I'd say about that. Maybe the truth, which wouldn't be popular, accusing someone of killing Mrs. Gross and stealing her emeralds, but at least I'd be identifying myself as a public-spirited person instead of a thief.

So I took the elevator down—happily no one was on it— and strolled along the corridors checking out doors, which were, I was happy to discover, conveniently labeled: STEWARDS' DORMITORY. WAITERS' DORMITORY. (Lots of those.) KITCHEN WORKERS' DORMITORY. (No wonder these people were striking. Not only did they work awful hours, but they had to sleep in dormitories.) WOMENS' DORMITORY. (Ah. I turned a corner and found the officers' quarters. One for each.) MR. FRODER. MISS FREDRIKSEN. (I wondered where the captain slept. In fact, I wondered where the captain was. I hadn't seen him today. Maybe up on the bridge, steering the ship away from Tenerife.) Unmarked door. MR. PATEK. MR. HARTWIG.

Suddenly there was an arm around my neck and a hand over my mouth as someone with a white sleeve dragged me backward. Weren't they even going to give me a chance to say why I was here? The arm kept tightening until I couldn't breathe, and although the hand came away from my mouth, I couldn't speak either, and I was dragged through the unmarked door, still unable to see who had grabbed me. My lungs burned, and I saw red light behind my eyelids. Then a cell phone rang. A voice muttered, as I was losing consciousness, “I'll have to take care of you later.” Then, nothing.

The plane got in early. I found a cab without even waiting to see if my bag had made it to Tenerife with the plane, and the driver understood that I wanted to go to the port. Fortunately, I'd picked up some Spanish since moving to El Paso. What he didn't understand was that his driving was the worst, the most dangerous I'd ever been subjected to. I couldn't even complain. I had to get there before Carolyn's boat left. The driver took me straight to the dock reserved for the
Bountiful Feast
; he evidently took passengers there every time it docked. But there was no cruise ship in sight. My God! It had left without me.

There were people loitering around the dock, and I said to them. “Where is it? Why did it leave early?” Non-communication ensued until someone produced an English speaker to whom I could ask my questions and be understood. By then I was more disheartened than frantic—sure I was stuck on this benighted island, peopled by vehicular mad-men, while my wife sailed away to a city beset by rioting religious fanatics.

“Ship no come in,” said the English speaker. I just stared at him. “No
es
here. No come to Tenerife.”

“It's the
Bountiful Feast
,” I explained. “It should have been here hours ago, but it's not time for it to leave yet. Maybe it's at another dock.”

“No come,” insisted the man. He wore a white suit, a straw hat, and a mustache that looked waxed and yet bedraggled. “Come. Come with me.”

I shook my head. “I have to find my wife's ship.
Mi esposa.
”

“
Si, su esposa.
On
Bountiful Feast. Si
? Come with me.” So I went, thinking he was taking me to the boat. But no, he took me to a building and explained something to a fellow in uniform, a man who nodded and nodded, seemingly half asleep.

“
Bountiful Feast
never come here,” said the officer at last. “Not today. Should come, yes. But not come.”

“Why not?” I asked wearily.

He shrugged, smiled. “Maybe get lost.”

“That's ridiculous. Has there been a storm that might have driven them off their course?”

“No storm here. No storm on radio. Very strange. But not here. Maybe tomorrow. Yes? Maybe some mixed up. Go to Casablanca. Not leave Las Palmas. Who knows? Very strange.”

“Can you radio Las Palmas?” I asked. If they were coming in tomorrow, I'd have to find a place to spend the night.

“Sure, Yankee,” said the officer cheerfully. “I radio.” He went off, and I sank into a chair to wait. And worry.

He came back frowning. “Las Palmas say ship leave yesterday, come here today. But they no come. Very strange.”

“Can't you radio the ship?”

“Sure, but they no answer. I radio. No answer.”

“My God, could they have sunk?” The thought of Carolyn drowning was too much to bear. “I'll call the cruise line. I have their number.”

“Sure,” he said, but he wouldn't let me use his phone.

32

I woke up in the dark, neck aching, throat burning, sprawled on an uncarpeted floor, with my hands secured to what—a pipe? And secured with what? Because I have long fingers, I was able to bend them and probe my bonds. Plastic. A handcuff-like thing. Perhaps similar to the device Luz had used to capture the Barbary ape on Gibraltar. Too bad I wasn't a protected species. If so, someone would have had to free me. Then I recalled vaguely the voice saying, “I'll have to come back for you,” or something like that. How long ago had that been? What did he plan to do with me when he got back? And who
was
he? A crewmember? An officer? The murderer?

Panic-stricken, heart thundering in my ears, I managed to force myself into a sitting position, which pushed the tip of my little filet knife against my leg, although, strangely, I didn't think that I'd been cut. Realizing that I had to get loose before he returned, I saw the knife as my only hope. I might be able to cut the plastic handcuffs and escape. Of course, I might cut my wrists instead. Tears were running down my cheeks by the time I got to my feet, lowered my hands to waist level, and began twisting my body in an attempt to make my hands meet my pocket and the knife handle.

Five minutes of effort earned me a cramp on one side of my back, which elicited more tears. I sniffed bravely and tried again, wrapping the non-knife-side leg around the pipe and risking dislocation of my shoulder to get my hands in position. And I had it. Well, at least I could feel the handle beneath my slacks. Drawing a deep breath through my nose because there was tape over my mouth, I felt for the edge of my pocket by dint of crushing the pipe into my chest, forcing the opposite hand down as far as the cuffs would allow, and then bracing it from above with the nearside hand.

Success. With my fingers curled around the handle, I drew the knife upward—and I heard voices in the hall. Oh heavens! Two men were coming for me. One was Patek. I recognized his strange accent. The other? Maybe the Irishman, who had tried to see what I was up to in the computer room. Had one of them been the man who choked me and dragged me in here? If so, I was doomed. I couldn't even decide whether to push the knife back in place so that they couldn't find it.

If I did that, I might find an opportunity to attack if I were released. But I had the sinking feeling that I'd never be able to push a sharp knife into the flesh of another person, even a small knife and a horrid person. And then there was the sound of one door closing, then a second, and silence. I yanked the knife free, only to find that the panties were still clinging to it. A silky flutter brushed my wrist. Probably the foam tip from my manicure scissors was in place as well. I leaned my head against the pipe and sniffled. Now what?

I had to scrape the protective coverings off the knife, so I raised my hands high over my head and rubbed the knife against the pipe. Success, of a sort. The panties fell on my head and covered one eye, just when my eyes were adjusting to the dark.

All right. Now for the handcuffs. Although I twisted both hands one way and another, chafing my wrists, there seemed to be no way to get the knife between my wrists. I did manage to inflict cuts, and my wrists and hands became wet and sticky. For all I knew, I might be bleeding to death. I couldn't tell in the dark with my panties covering one eye. And every minute that passed brought the return of my captor that much closer.

Pure desperation gave me an idea. I would clamp the knife handle between my teeth, hold my head to one side of the pipe, and saw the handcuffs over the knife. Easier said than done. First, I had to peel the tape off my mouth by rubbing it against the pipe. When I got the handle up to my mouth, I had to move my hands down the handle. Naturally I cut my fingers. If I'd gasped, I'd have dropped the knife, which was now between my teeth. Fortunately, I clenched my teeth in pain rather than gasping. Now I had to hold the knife blade gingerly between my slippery fingers while attempting to reposition it firmly between my teeth. Got it.

I clamped down on that handle as if my life depended on it, which it probably did. Then I positioned my wrists and began to saw. Gingerly at first, lest I knock the knife to the floor, but gingerly didn't seem to do much good, so frustrated and frightened, I pressed the plastic harder against the knife and got in three sweeps before knocking the knife out of my mouth. In its fall, the tip caught my thigh, but by then I was immune to the pain of new cuts and stab wounds.

My last chance was gone. I'd never get the knife up off the floor. Furious with frustration, I yanked the cuffs against the pipe and—flew backward into the door, against which I slid down into a sitting position on the floor, giggling hysterically. If someone heard the thud and came to find out what was happening in the closet, I couldn't have done a thing about it.

I'm not sure how long it took me to calm down. Oh, for a watch that glowed in the dark, something I had always thought very tacky. I removed the panties from my head and used them to wipe off the blood I assumed was seeping everywhere I hurt. Then on my hands and knees, I searched cautiously for the knife, which I found on the other side of the pipe. I wiped that off too, helped myself up by clinging to the pipe, and cautiously slipped the now unsheathed knife into my pocket.

I had to leave. I must have looked a fright, but I had to leave. Hide somewhere. Never let my unidentified attacker find me until the ship docked. I certainly couldn't trust anyone on the crew. Possibly I couldn't trust the passengers. I couldn't go to my suite. He'd know where to find me. I couldn't use the elevators. But no one used the stairs! So I needed stairs and a ladies' room. I needed a place where no men went. The spa! Women only. Robes, showers. And I could ask, while I was there, whether Mrs. Gross had actually gone to the spa the morning she disappeared. Of course, she was already dead. Maybe I should just concentrate on staying alive.

Luckily for me, my attacker hadn't thought to lock the door. I peeked out, saw no one, scanned the corridor, and spotted a lighted sign that said EMERGENCY EXIT. Emergency exits led to stairs, so I ran faster than I had ever run in my life. Well, maybe not any faster than I'd run in Barcelona one dreadful night, but let's say I made good time for a woman who dislikes exercise, such good time that I skidded right past the door when I tried to stop.