Bon Bon Voyage (24 page)

“The dead woman's cabin?” Bev shuddered. “I don't think I can—”

“She didn't die there,” I assured Miss, or possibly Mrs., Crossways. Even sopping wet and in the dark, they did look like siblings. “We don't think she ever got back to her room. She was still wearing the brown dress when she was found in the meat locker.”

“I don't know why this is happening to us. We're—we're just adjunct professors at—”

“Horse hockey!” snapped Owen. “You're SOTS. You want to go around targeting cruise lines, you have to expect trouble. Now let's get you to the empty cabin before Hartwig finds out that you didn't drown. Carolyn, stuff the life jackets under the tarp of the lifeboat and take the emergency stair down to my room. Here's my card. I hope you've got that master on you. I'll get them into Gross's room.”

Because I was afraid to be left on deck by myself and to make the journey to his room alone, I was tempted to tell him that I'd left the master card behind. However, if I wanted to think of myself as an adventurer, an idea that had been growing on me lately, I really couldn't do that, so I took his card and handed him the one I'd transferred from my robe pocket to the pocket of my slacks. Then I found myself alone on the deck and realized for the first time that I couldn't possibly reach the lifeboat. Why hadn't Owen seen that? It was hanging over my head. So where was I to hide the life jackets? And there was the rope. It had to be put somewhere, perhaps even unknotted. Not to mention the fact that Hartwig might return any minute—once he got over his fit of temper—to be sure the Crosswayses had drowned, if for nothing else.

I bit my lip and looked hopelessly at the rescue implements that had been left in my care. Then it struck me. I'd just return the life jackets to their places. I pulled the caps on the blowing tubes and stepped on both jackets until the air leaked out, but then I couldn't figure out how to secure them to their places at the rail. Therefore, I carefully positioned them in such a way that they looked natural.

The rope was another matter. The knots were wet. Everyone knows wet knots are impossible to get loose. So I simply heaved the whole, heavy lifeline over the rail and hoped that it would sink as fast as possible.

36

I woke up abruptly in the middle of the night in a strange room with the uneasy feeling that I'd forgotten something important. What? I'd bullied the port authorities in Tenerife and called the cruise line without learning anything useful relating to the whereabouts and condition of my wife. What if she was one of those who had Legionnaires' disease? The very thought was so daunting that I got up and plugged my computer into the telephone jack to search the Internet for information on the disease. What I found was not reassuring, but there was no mention of outbreaks on cruise ships.

Then I checked my e-mail since I was up and online, finding the usual scientific communications, which I didn't bother to answer. However, it did occur to me that Carolyn must have had e-mail service on the ship, because that column on bonbons had come out so promptly and been passed on to me. What if she'd e-mailed me in the hope that I'd check my inbox? I went back over the list but found nothing from Carolyn. Although under ordinary circumstances I would never dream of reading my wife's mail, I did know how to access the accounts at home, even Carolyn's personal account.

These were not ordinary circumstances. I logged into her account, checked her inbox, and found nothing about the cruise from friends she might have e-mailed. There was, however, one alarming communication from her contact at the syndicate, asking why she had sent no more columns after the first three. The e-mail ended, “Hope you're not sick, Carolyn. Everyone knows how those stomach viruses race through cruise populations. Take care of yourself,” and so forth. I would have welcomed news of a stomach virus, not that I wished it on my wife, but they were over in a few days. Legionnaires' disease wasn't.

Finally, feeling like an eavesdropper, I pulled up her sent list and scanned for the dates of the cruise. There were six e-mails, three to the syndicate that obviously contained the three columns she'd written and sent. The other three were to the American embassy and consulate in Morocco and the State Department in D.C. Why in the world—well, I had to look. She could have been sending a cry for help to the government. So I clicked on the first one, and the second, and then the third.

A passenger had disappeared after the stop in Tangier, and Carolyn wanted the government to institute a search for her, to harass the Moroccan government on this Mrs. Gross's behalf. Obviously, my wife suspected foul play, as well she might. People kept dying on her trips, and she always felt obligated to find out what had happened. With a sinking heart, I closed the computer and returned to bed. If this Mrs. Gross hadn't disappeared in Tangier, there might be a murderer of women on board, as well as Legionnaires' disease. I couldn't sleep, so I calculated time differences and called Miami again.

“We know nothing about Legionnaires' disease,” said the man at the cruise line's corporate offices. “There must be some mistake.”

“The ship is missing. If everyone is sick, it could be drifting aimlessly at sea. Furthermore, my wife sent e-mails to various offices of the State Department several days ago to report that a cruise passenger had gone missing around the time of the port call at Tangier. Has the woman been found? What do you know about that?” I demanded. The news about the State Department connection got me transferred to a vice president named Balsam, who steadfastly denied any knowledge of any of these alleged problems but took my number in Tenerife and promised to call me back.

Am I making progress?
I asked myself. I had no idea.

I managed to return safely to Owen's cabin, but I was badly shaken. He'd left his Scotch bottle on the desk, so I poured myself a bit in the squat glass I'd used before and sat down at the desk. Perhaps a few more chapters of his book would calm me down, so I pulled up chapter fifteen, donned my nightgown and the spa robe while I had privacy, and tried to concentrate, but without much luck. My thoughts kept returning to the scene at the rail. If Owen and I hadn't stumbled into it, two more people would be dead. That would make four— Mrs. Gross, the two Crosswayses, and Mr. Marshand, whose death would not have happened if they hadn't passed out those pills—pills that had nothing to do with seasickness. Quite possibly there hadn't even been a storm. And Mr. Hartwig had been willing to kill two people rather than let them make what he thought were calls to the outside world. Add to that the complaints I'd heard from people who were missing cell phones and who resented the closing of the computer room, and I had to deduce that this was more than a work stoppage.

I was in hiding because someone was possibly ready to kill me. Mrs. Gross was dead of a broken neck, and none of these deaths and attacks profited the stewards that I could see. Presumably, the stewards and those who joined them would want their story told to gain public sympathy and put pressure on the cruise line. When known, the deaths would be counterproductive to any solution of their labor dispute. So who profited? And how? The people carrying guns and resorting to violence for whatever reasons? That was my best guess.

I jerked to attention when the door opened, but it was only Owen, saying, “You'd think people going around trying to cause trouble for powerful corporations would expect trouble in return. Those two are still clueless, can't figure out why anyone would throw them overboard when they're acting in the public interest and all that rot.” He picked up the Scotch bottle, eyed the level and my glass with a grin, and said, “Getting a taste for it, are you, love?” Then he poured himself a drink.

“I don't think this has anything to do with stewards unhappy with their work hours,” I said abruptly.

“I think you've got that right, love.”

“I think the ship has been hijacked,” I continued, “and would you please stop calling me
love
? It makes me nervous.”

“What would you prefer?
Sweetheart?
That's more American.” He tipped his glass up. “Or
honey bunch
? Southern, isn't it? You're from Texas, so—”

“I think we're going to have to take the ship away from them,” I interrupted.

“Bloody good idea. Course they've got the guns. How do you plan to do it, oh intrepid lady, mistress of my heart, holder of my deepest admiration?”

I glared at him. “Well, they drugged us. Why don't we drug them back?”

“Which ones?” Owen poured himself the last of the Scotch.

“All of them. The whole crew. That would be the safest thing.” Then, much to my astonishment, I yawned. “We can start planning it tomorrow.” At last I'd become sleepy. Perhaps it was all the physical effort I expended in pulling the Crosswayses to safety.

“Your wish is my command,” said Owen, bowing gallantly. “And now if you'd kindly turn your back, my dear Carolyn, I sleep in the nude and am ready to retire to my lonely bed. That is unless you've had a change of heart about joining me there.”

I dove into my own bed and stuck my head under the pillow. Only after the lights were out and Owen was breathing deeply in sleep did I realize that I'd gone to bed still wearing the spa robe, which was bulky and hot under the covers.

I awoke again after only two hours, and my immediate decision was to call the State Department, so I went online again and got a number—an emergency contact number. Carolyn had used the emergency contact e-mail address. When I got through, I was told that the number was used only for after-hours calls. In no mood to be put off by nitpicking bureaucrats, I told the person at the other end of the line that my wife had reported an American citizen missing in Tangier but received no answer from their after-hours emergency contact person, and now my wife was missing, along with the cruise ship, its passengers, and its crew, lost and unaccounted for somewhere in the Atlantic between Las Palmas de Gran Canaria and Santa Cruz de Tenerife, where I was waiting to board a ship that had not appeared.

“The cruise line insists that there is no problem, while the harbor authorities had a message about Legionnaires' disease aboard,” I said angrily. “Don't you think it's your business to investigate immediately the disappearance of a group of American citizens lost at sea and possibly dying?”

The State Department person assured me that he thought it was the business of the department and took down all the relevant information—the name of the ship and line, the dates of the e-mails my wife had sent about the missing woman, the name of the port authority officer to whom I had spoken at Santa Cruz de Tenerife, and last, my name, present place of residence, and telephone number. The official promised to start an investigation immediately.
Which is all I can really ask,
I told myself.
So why don't I believe him?

37

I felt like a frigging ingrate when I woke up. Poor Carolyn was hiding out in another cabin in danger of being killed if she showed her face and too straight-laced to enjoy a little fun on the side while she was with Owen. Not that I, generally speaking, approve of adultery, but her husband
had
sent her off on this rotten cruise by herself because he was more interested in whatever it was he did. And Carolyn took it hard, too. She may have acted like she wanted me to come along with her, but she was really pissed off about the Mother's Day thing. No husband to share it with her, and now no Mother's Day at all. When was it, anyway? Yesterday? Today? Good thing I'd arranged to have flowers sent to my mother before I left.

Meanwhile, Beau was sleeping in Carolyn's bed, looking like a happy man. I sure as hell had to get those sheets changed before she returned to the suite. And Vera and Barney were shacked up in her room because neither of them wanted to stay in the room where Greg died. So we were having all the fun, even if the food had changed from great to slop, and Carolyn—well, I felt guilty, which didn't keep me from giving Beau a poke. He woke up all confused and cute with curly hair in his eyes. “Wake up, Dr. Beau. You're supposed to pay a house call on my friend downstairs.”

“Can't I pay a house call on you first, sugah?” he wanted to know, but he got up and dressed and picked up his bag of doctor stuff from the sitting room. We met Vera coming in the door with a boutique bag in her hand, Barney behind her carrying his own bag. They were out early.

Beau left, and Vera handed me the bag. “Here are the glasses Griffith wanted for Carolyn, but I'm not paying for them. I expect to be reimbursed.”

Barney produced a black wig with a whole lot of hair. “Courtesy of a fellow Jew,” he said. “She was happy to help. Seriously excited would be more like it. She evidently reads detective fiction and likes a good intrigue. She recommended some California writer to me, Rochelle Krich, who has an orthodox female detective. Maybe you could pass that on to Carolyn, the recommendation. I don't read detective fiction myself.”

“Carolyn already knows about her,” I answered, taking the glasses out of the bag and trying them on. “She recommended the books to me as an example of good writing and a truly believable amateur sleuth, not that I read detective fiction either. Now true crime, that's another—”

A knock at our door interrupted the conversation, and we all hurried to stow the stuff for Carolyn's disguise out of sight in case it was Hartwig or one of his cronies looking for her. Because it was Owen at the door, we dragged the stuff back out and passed it over. Owen was pleased. “Perfect,” he said. “Who'd recognize her with hair like that and silly looking glasses?” He perched them on his own nose, where they looked pretty bizarre, and went over to the sliding door to watch them get darker in the sunlight.