Final Sail (24 page)

Helen stripped the bed while she muttered to herself. “I can’t believe I felt sorry for you, bimbo,” she said, pulling off the duvet.

“I hope he screws you blind.” She ripped the pillows out of their cases.

“You deserve to live with Blubber Bucks until you’re so old you have to pay young men to get in your bed.” Helen yanked off the sheets.

“You had an accident in bed, all right. You crawled between the
sheets with that cigar-smoking snake.” Helen had stripped the bed. There was no wine on the mattress.

By the time she’d carried the mountain of laundry into the crew mess, Helen decided that living with Scotty was punishment enough for Pepper. When I’m in bed with Phil, I’ll think of you with your flabby old coot. No, I won’t. I’ll think of Phil. My man’s good in bed. You made your bed, Pepper. Now lie in it and grovel.

Helen treated the red wine stains. Mira had said the sheets were custom-made and cost about twelve hundred dollars a set. If she couldn’t get the wine out, would she have to pay for the sheets, too? She’d wind up owing the yacht owners before she finished this job.

Helen still hadn’t a clue who was the smuggler. When Andrei was passed out, she’d missed her chance to search the cabin he shared with Carl. She should have checked the first mate’s bulging backpack. She’d been so sure Andrei was the smuggler. Then she’d talked to Phil and her terrified sister, and her night was consumed by other worries. She was too—

Frantic barks came from the aft deck, followed by a curse, then a crash of glass and china. Apologies poured from Beth. “I’m so sorry. Do you need to see a doctor? Do you need stitches? Can you work?”

Work? Beth was apologizing to a crew member?

Mira radioed Helen. “Come out to the aft deck,” she said. “Help me clean up.”

The outdoor breakfast was chaos. Earl was blotting spilled coffee with a napkin. Scotty was yelling and waving his cigar. Rosette and Ralph had backed away from the table. Pepper had stopped stuffing her face with a blueberry muffin.

Beth, in mustard-colored cotton, gripped Mitzi, who struggled to get free. The poodle wore a topaz collar and had blood on her muzzle. Beth tried to hush her little dog, but Mitzi would not stop yapping at Andrei. She must have bitten the engineer on the ankle. Helen saw blood seeping through his white sock.

A coffee cup and Baccarat glasses were overturned. Mira was carrying away a platter of bacon swimming in orange juice.

“For chrissakes, shut that damned dog up,” Earl said, his voice tight with fury.

“I don’t know what got into Mitzi,” Beth babbled. “She’s never bitten anyone. Ever. She’s such a good dog.”

She still is, Helen thought. And a brave one. Mitzi had attacked the man who’d kicked her. The blood spot on Andrei’s sock was the size of a quarter, but he acted as if he’d been savaged by a pit bull.

“Perhaps I should see a doctor,” he said. “For stitches. Or a shot. Sam or Matt can take me.”

“They have to clean the boat, Andrei.” Carl, the first mate, had been called to the crisis. “I can put a Band-Aid on it. Doesn’t look like such a little dog could do much damage.”

“She did,” Andrei said. “She has powerful jaws.”

Mira, who was clearing more plates, snorted and tried to turn it into a cough.

“I can’t spare anyone to take you to a clinic,” Carl said.

Beth put her hand over Mitzi’s mouth to silence her barks and growls. Was she worried Earl would banish the dog from the yacht?

“Atlantis has a hotel doctor,” Beth said. “They can take care of you. Mira, call the hotel and have them send a cart to fetch Andrei. You can ride in a golf cart, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Andrei said, a little too cheerfully. He turned his face back into a mask of pain. “I’ll manage.”

Helen gathered up the coffee cups and carried them into the galley.

“May I bring you any more food?” Mira asked the guests. “Would you like fresh coffee? Juice?”

“I want to head to the casino,” Scotty said. “What about you, boys?”

“I’ll take the girls to the spa as soon as I speak to Suzanne,” Beth said. “Helen, are you afraid to watch Mitzi?”

“No, she’s a good dog,” Helen said. She carried the poodle into the galley and fed her a peanut butter treat, while Beth relayed her instructions to the chef. “We’d like lunch at three o’clock. Make something local, Suzanne.”

The guests and owners never returned for Suzanne’s lunch of Caribbean lobster curry. But they did turn up at eight that night with four friends from another yacht, expecting dinner for ten.

Somehow, Suzanne made the food appear. The crew ate the lobster curry for dinner, and Earl and Beth’s guests raved over the chef’s spiced pork and pigeon peas and rice.

The day passed in a blur of work for Helen. While she cleaned staterooms and heads and folded laundry, she tried to make her sluggish brain run through the list of possible smugglers.

Andrei was out. Helen had watched Mira unpack the costumes, so it wasn’t the head stew. Sam didn’t seem to think about anything but rum and girls.

Dick the second engineer kept to himself. He was worth watching. So was Matt the bosun. And Suzanne. The chef brought boxes and bags aboard every day they were in port. It would be easy to hide the emeralds in those packages. She had five days to accumulate a stash.

As the day dragged on, Helen got her second wind—and an inspiration. Mira said that Louise had jumped ship carrying a bag.

Helen thought it was risky to board a strange fishing charter. But what if Louise already knew the captain? That was the easiest way to get those emeralds into the States. Especially if Louise knew Captain Swingle was on to her.

The missing second stew would be easy to find. Bahamian officials were pursuing her. Captain Swingle had her Fort Lauderdale address.

Once Louise arrived, Helen and Phil could track her down.

CHAPTER 28

“T
he girls are tired of champagne,” Beth said. “What else can we serve for cocktails, Suzanne?”

Helen nearly dropped her duster when she heard that request. She was cleaning the plantation shutters in the main salon while Beth planned tonight’s dinner with the chef.
Bored with champagne
: That seemed to sum up life on a yacht.

Beth looked like a tall, cool flute of champagne with her golden hair, pale gold silk caftan and glowing topaz jewelry. Mitzi wore a matching jewel-studded collar.

“Something island-y,” Beth prompted the chef.

“I could make planter’s punch,” Suzanne said, “or strawberry rum sliders.”

“Sliders look pretty,” Beth said. “Let’s do those. I want a special dinner, a real taste of the Caribbean.”

“We could start with salmon tartare, made with fresh Atlantic salmon,” the chef said.

“No, Scotty complained about the sushi at Nobu. Better go with a cooked appetizer.”

“How about seared scallops with fingerling potatoes and then
callaloo soup?” Suzanne asked. “We’d need meat for the main course. Niman beef tenderloin with mushrooms.”

“Very festive,” Beth said. “The boys will like the beef, but the girls will want chocolate for dessert.”

“A bittersweet chocolate soufflé with cinnamon and caramel sauce,” Suzanne said.

“Perfect,” Beth said. “Have Mira call the dockmaster’s office for flowers. Don’t let the florist make the table arrangements too tall. I want my guests to see one another when they talk. Use the candles and my best china, the Royal Copenhagen. Dinner at eight, then.”

Mitzi yapped a greeting when she saw Helen, and Beth smiled at the lowly stew. “Oh, Helen, watch Mitzi while we shop,” she said. “Look how she runs straight to you. No, no! Mitzi, that’s the carpet, not your puppy pad. Oh, well, looks like you don’t have to walk her after all. See you at eight.”

She sailed out, oblivious that her dog had whizzed once more on a custom-made carpet and that Helen would have to clean it on her hands and knees. Mitzi rubbed her nose against Helen’s forehead while she attacked the spot with an enzyme cleaner.

“It’s a good thing I like you, pooch,” she told the dog. “Otherwise, I’d drop-kick you over the side.”

Mitzi wagged her tail.

The last few days had passed in a blur of work. Helen had cleaned the heads and staterooms and done laundry. She’d checked the bilges and talked to her coworkers, hoping to find out something, anything, that would help her find the emerald smuggler.

Helen was grateful she’d have turndown service and head cleaning tonight, instead of serving Beth’s grand dinner on seven-thousand-dollar-a-setting china. She was so tired, she was sure she’d break something. She felt like she was sleepwalking as she mopped the floor in the Bimini stateroom head. Mira popped in and screamed, “What are you doing?”

Helen was instantly awake. She knew she was using the right cleaner for marble. She’d checked. “Mopping the floor,” she said.

“You never put a bucket of soapy water on a marble floor,” Mira said. “Never. It leaves a ring.” She snatched up Helen’s bucket and moved it to the commode lid.

“There,” she said, and managed a smile. “No harm done. I caught it in time. I stopped by to give you our good news. The yacht owners and their friends will spend all day tomorrow at Atlantis. They’re letting the crew take the tender and the toys—the Jet Skis and the WaveRunners—to a cove where we can swim and play.”

“Wonderful,” Helen said.

“We need to have all our work finished before noon tomorrow.”

“Sounds like fun, but I’ll stay on the boat,” Helen said. And call Phil and search for those emeralds, she thought.

Mira looked disappointed. “Oh, Helen, you need your fun or you’ll burn out,” she said. “The only way we stand these brutal hours is if we get to play.”

“You go ahead,” Helen said. “I need my rest, too.” She faked a yawn.

“How much rest?” Mira asked. “Do you want to sleep the whole afternoon or would you like to make a little extra money? Andrei and Carl always pay a stew to clean their cabin. Louise did it, but she’s gone. You’d be doing me a favor if you took the job.”

“I’d be delighted,” Helen said. She was, too. She’d wanted to search that cabin since she’d seen Carl board with his mysterious backpack.

“You won’t thank me when you clean the boys’ shower,” Mira said.

“They can’t be any worse than Ralph,” Helen said.

“I’ll throw in a load of laundry for you as a thank-you present,” Mira said.

The day passed quickly. Helen caught a glimpse of the splendid table before the glittering guests sat down to dinner at eight. The
soft candlelight warmed the honey oak table and made the crystal sparkle like fine jewels. The centerpiece was delicate seashells and small, exquisite flowers.

“It’s lovely,” Helen said as she hurried off to clean the guest head. Scotty had turned the bathroom into an ashtray. How did he get ashes on the sconces? And did he have to stub out his cigar in the marble basin?

The harder she scrubbed, the more the cigar residue turned into a streaky paste. I’m not cut out for this job, she thought resentfully. Phil’s working for a hot, horny widow and I’m swabbing toilets like a drudge. I’m sure my husband isn’t interested in a woman like Blossom. Well, pretty sure. But I’d feel a lot better if I could go home and make sure. And I can’t do that until I solve this wretched emerald case.

Helen gave the basin one last swipe. There. The cigar ash was gone. She sprayed the head with vanilla air freshener to get rid of the cigar stink and slipped downstairs to fold more laundry and finish the guest turndown service.

After dinner, Ralph, Scotty and Earl knocked back the last of the thirty-year-old cognac. At three in the morning they stumbled off to bed.

Helen helped Mira clean the upper aft deck. All the men had been smoking cigars, and Helen was dusting away the ash.

“Did I tell you my good news?” Mira asked, gathering up the cognac bottle and glasses. “I got a text from my boyfriend. We’re going to New York as soon as we get back to Fort Lauderdale. The yacht gets in about eleven and the crew should be finished by noon. Kevin and I are booked for a three o’clock flight to LaGuardia that afternoon. Four days in Manhattan.”

“Bet you can’t wait to see the Broadway shows,” Helen said.

“I can’t,” Mira said. “But Kevin has a chance to try out for an off-Broadway show. Well, off-off-Broadway. But it’s still a New York theater credit.”

“Congratulations,” Helen said. “That’s—”

Crash!

“Was that coming from the galley?” Helen asked.

“Sounds like it,” Mira said. “I hope Suzanne didn’t drop any Baccarat.”

The crash was a disaster. Suzanne had broken a Baccarat snifter and an entire place setting of the rare Royal Copenhagen. More than seven thousand dollars would be docked from her pay.

The chef was picking up the pieces from the galley floor. Long strands of dark hair had escaped their clip and her face sagged with fatigue. Her fingers trembled as she cleaned up the broken pieces. Helen thought she saw tears in Suzanne’s sad brown eyes.

“I’m sorry about that,” Helen told her.

Suzanne shrugged. “Those are the breaks, no pun intended,” she said. “I’ll roll with it.”

Helen wasn’t sure she believed her.