Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise (3 page)

“Graham’s one of the ship’s Gentlemen Escorts. You know, the men they hire to dance with the single ladies.”

“But my heart belongs to Cookie,” Graham said, kissing her lightly on the lips.

“It’s true,” Cookie beamed. “Graham’s heart really does belong to me. See for yourself.”

She lifted a pendant from her generous cleavage and held it out for me to inspect.

It was a gold half-a-heart, engraved with her initials, with a jagged line where the heart had been divided in two.

“Graham’s got the other half. Go on, Gray. Show it to her.”

He pulled out a matching half-a-heart from under his blue-and-white-striped sport shirt. Like Cookie’s, his pendant had been personalized with his initials, engraved in a fussy curlicued script.

“See? They fit,” Cookie said, putting them together. “It’s a symbol of our commitment to each other. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Very.” Any sweeter, I’d need a diabetes shot.

“C’mon, darling,” Graham said. “We’d better get a move on.”

Because elevator use was forbidden in the safety drill, we had to clomp up about a zillion stairs to where our passenger group was meeting in the Tiki Lounge. If this was what I’d have to endure in an emergency, I’d opt for going down with the ship.

The Tiki Lounge was done up in an ersatz Hawaiian motif—complete with fake palm trees, tiki masks on the walls, and a thatched canopy over the massive bar.

We put on our unflattering life vests and listened as one of the ship’s officers, standing under a stuffed marlin, lectured us about emergency evacuation procedures. Thank heavens they let us sit in the lounge’s booths while the officer droned on. I was sitting there watching Cookie and Graham play kneesies under the table when I became aware of a strange-looking guy at the next booth giving me the eye.

You should know that about me. Somehow I always seem to attract life’s weirdos. This one had a long, greasy ponytail and an unbelievably bad Sunkist Orange bottled tan.

Quickly averting my gaze, I went back to watching the kneesies action.

At last the lecture was over, and we started to go. I hadn’t taken three steps when I was cornered by Mr. Ponytail.

Up close I could see he had a stud in one of his nostrils.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with an oily smile. “I’m Anton Devereux, Professional Ice Sculptor.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, wondering if the stud hurt when he blew his nose.

“Of course, ice isn’t the only medium where I ply my artistry.”

Ply his artistry?
It looked like somebody was a bit full of himself.

“I do it all—clay, granite, sand, and sometimes when finances are tight, chopped liver at bar mitzvahs.”

“How interesting,” I lied.

“You must come to one of my poolside demonstrations. In fact, perhaps you’d care to take a stroll on deck right now. I can tell you about the time I carved Venus de Milo out of tuna salad.”

“Sounds like fun, but I’ve really got to go back to my cabin to finish unpacking.”

And before he could say another word about his tuna fish Venus, I was out of there.

Needless to say, I’d lied to Mr. Ponytail. I did not go back to my cabin. Instead, I made my initial pilgrimage to the holy grail of cruising, the twenty-four-hour buffet. What with climbing all those stairs, I was feeling a bit peckish.

I already knew what deck the buffet was on. It was one of the first things I memorized when I got my cruise information packet in the mail. I was trotting down the hallway, wondering if they had hot fudge sundaes on tap, when I heard someone call my name.

I turned to see Paige McAllister, the ship’s social director, heading in my direction.

I’d met Paige when I first came to the Holiday offices for my interview. A preppy blonde with shoulder-length hair swept back in a headband, she hadn’t seemed all that impressed with my resume.

“You write toilet bowl ads for a living?” she’d asked, her perfectly plucked brows arched in disbelief.

“Toiletmasters happens to be one of the leading suppliers of plumbing fixtures in the greater Los Angeles area,” I’d replied with as much dignity as I could muster.

“Is that so?” she’d said, with a dubious smile.

Frankly I’d been surprised when she’d called to offer me the gig.

She advanced on me now, clutching a clipboard.

“Welcome aboard, Jaine!” she chirped. “So glad you could join us. Just wanted to let you know you’ll be meeting with your class in the Galley Grill Restaurant.”

“We meet in a restaurant?”

“Yes, we often use our restaurants as lecture halls in the day to accommodate the crowds. Now remember. Our passengers are looking to be entertained. So keep it lively. Up and bubbly, that’s our motto!”

“You bet!” I said, trying to put some bubble in my voice.

“And one more thing. I’ve got your dinner seating assignment.”

“But I didn’t request assigned seating.”

“It’s part of the job, Jaine. Many of our passengers like to be seated with the ship’s celebrities. I’ve put you with the Pritchard party in the Continental Dining Room. The maitre d’ will know where to seat you.”

As flattered as I was to be thought of as a “celebrity,” this whole dinner thing was a bit of a curveball. I hadn’t expected to be eating with other people watching me. I guess that meant no doubles on desserts.

“And don’t forget,” Paige was saying, “tomorrow night is Formal Night. You do have something appropriate to wear, don’t you?”

Not unless she considered elastic-waist jeans and a
Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
T-shirt appropriate.

“Not exactly,” I murmured, sans bubble.

True, I’d packed a pair of slacks and a few blouses for my classes, but I had nothing remotely formal. At the time I figured I’d be eating most of my meals at the casual buffet.

“No problem,” she said, with an airy wave of her hand. “You can rent an outfit in the ship’s rental shop. It shouldn’t run you more than a hundred dollars or so.”

A hundred bucks? It looked like the cruise wasn’t going to be free after all. Oh, well. It was a small price to pay for seven heavenly days at sea.

After I assured Paige that I’d show up on Formal Night dressed to the nines, she told me with an insincere smile how marvy it was to have me on the Holiday team and then trotted off, clipboard akimbo.

Free at last, I took the elevator to the Baja Deck, home of the twenty-four-hour buffet. The room itself looked like an upscale cafeteria, with the buffet in the center, and tables on both sides looking out picture windows onto the open seas.

I gawked, openmouthed, at the vast cornucopia of chow on display: fresh-from-the-oven rolls, panini sandwiches grilled to perfection, rosy shrimp nestling in a bed of ice, barbequed chickens, honey-glazed ham, roast beef, and broiled salmon. Not to mention a mammoth salad bar and an overflowing fresh fruit basket.

And there—in the dessert section next to the apple pie, cherry cobbler, and chocolate éclairs—there in all their glory were fresh-from-the-oven brownies.

No doubt about it. I’d died and gone to calorie heaven.

I grabbed some shrimp for Prozac’s dinner, and then, in a moment of restraint that was sure to go down in the next
Guinness World Records,
I took only one brownie for myself. This cruise was clearly going to be a floating snackfest of Olympic proportions, and I’d have to pace myself if I wanted to survive without busting my buttons.

Back in the cabin, Prozac and I scarfed down our chow eagerly. (I am happy to report my brownie was divine: moist and chocolatey, studded with nuts, and covered with a thick layer of frosting.)

When Prozac had finished inhaling her shrimp, she curled up on the fought-after pillow.

Wake me when it’s time for the midnight buffet.

I rinsed out the bowl her shrimp had been in and filled it with water.

“Here’s some water, Pro.”

She eyed it balefully.

What? No champagne?

“It’ll be in the bathroom, your majesty.”

Leaving her purring like a buzz saw, I headed up to the pool deck, where, according to my copy of the ship’s newsletter,
Holiday Happenings
, the Set Sail Party was scheduled to take place.

It was already in progress when I showed up, a gala affair, complete with free leis and strolling mariachis.

As if on the Holiday payroll, the sun was in the midst of a spectacular sunset, sinking into the horizon in a blaze of glory.

I gazed out at the mass of gray heads surrounding me. True, there were a few honeymooners and couples with kids, but as Lance predicted, most of my fellow passengers were dedicated AARPsters.

But what did it matter if I was the only single woman on board with functioning ovaries? Not for me the shallow pursuit of romance. No, sir. I had my priorities straight.

I was content watching the sunset, smelling the sea, and eating my brownie.

(Okay, so I stopped off for another one.)

Chapter 3

S
omehow I managed to cobble together a decent outfit for dinner that night: black slacks and a buttercream silk blouse I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom, topped off with a pair of simple pearls. I was going for an air of chic sophistication befitting my “celebrity” status.

“How do I look, Pro?” I asked, pirouetting in the few feet of space between our twin cots.

She peered up at me from where she was still encamped on the cabin’s only pillow. I’d long since given up hope of ever resting my head on that thing again.

“So what do you think?”

She yawned a cavernous yawn.

I think I’d like a tuna melt.

Ignoring Prozac’s pointed lack of interest in my outfit, I gave myself a final spritz of perfume and set out for the Continental Dining Room, eagerly awaiting my first free meal on board ship.

When I checked the menu posted outside the restaurant, my eyes zeroed in on one entrée: the “succulent filet mignon grilled to perfection, served with buttery mashed potatoes and creamed spinach.”

No doubt about it. That was the dish for me.

Inside the restaurant, I was greeted by an unctuous maitre d’ in a shiny white dinner jacket straight from the wardrobe department of
Casablanca
.

“
Bonsoir, mademoiselle,
” he crooned, in a thick French accent.

The oily smile that had been plastered on his face disappeared, however, when he checked my name on his seating chart.

“Austen, huh?” he said, his accent suddenly gone bye-bye. “You’re being comped, right?”

“Yes, you see I’m giving a series of lectures on—”

“Whatever. Just don’t order the filet mignon.”

“Was he kidding? My salivary glands went into shock.

“We save the steaks for
paying
passengers.”

Accent on “paying.”

Grabbing a menu, he led me into a cavernous banquet hall of a room echoing with the excited buzz of people who hadn’t yet been disappointed by their vacations.

As I weaved my way among the tables, I caught a glimpse of a happy passenger digging into his steak. Damn, it looked good. Charred on the outside, pink on the inside. Just the way I liked it. I felt like swooping down and snatching the fork out of his hand, but I figured that wouldn’t exactly fit the image of a “celebrity” guest.

The maitre d’ deposited me at a round window table where the Pritchard party, my assigned dinner companions, were already seated. One of them, I was surprised to see, was a tan, lanky guy in my age bracket.

“Mademoiselle Austen,” the phony Frenchman announced with a flourish, his accent back in action.

Sad to say, I didn’t get the celebrity greeting I’d been hoping for.

A sour dame with thin, grim lips and horn-rimmed glasses frowned at the sight of me.

“You’re not Professor Gustav Heinmann, the Arctic explorer.”

“No, I’m Jaine Austen, the writer.”

“You can’t be Jane Austen,” she huffed. “She’s been dead for centuries.”

“That’s Jaine with an
i
,” I explained. “J-a-i-n-e.”

“I don’t care how it’s spelled. I specifically requested to have Professor Heinmann at our table.”

At which point, a sweet-looking old gal sitting next to her piped up.

“Now, Leona,” she said. “I’m sure we’re all thrilled to have a real writer at our table. Come, Ms. Austen, won’t you have a seat?”

She patted the empty chair next to her, and I sat down, relieved I wasn’t stuck next to the horn-rimmed gargoyle.

“I’m Emily Pritchard,” she smiled. With her Wedgwood blue eyes and headful of soft gray curls, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

“Let me introduce you to everyone. First, my nephew Kyle.”

A slick fortysomething guy in designer togs nodded curtly.

“And this,” Emily said, pointing to a faded blonde at Mr. Slick’s side, “is Kyle’s darling wife, Maggie.” The blonde—who, like me, was packing a few extra pounds under her pantyhose—shot me a shy smile.

“And this is my other nephew, my adorable Robbie.” Emily nodded at the lanky guy with the tan.

He was adorable, all right, with startling green eyes and a most appealing lopsided grin. I felt myself blush as he waved hello.

“And finally,” Emily said, gesturing to Miss Congeniality in the horn-rimmed glasses, “my companion, Leona Nesbitt.”

The sour dame barely managed a grunt.

“Every year I take my little family on a cruise,” Emily gushed. “I adore cruising, always have ever since Daddy took me on my first voyage when I was eighteen years old.”

“And we all appreciate your generosity, Aunt Emily.” Kyle smiled, exposing small, sharklike teeth.

“But enough about us, Ms. Austen,” Emily said. “Now you must tell us all about yourself and the wonderful books you’ve written.”

Before I had a chance to tell her that the only book I’d ever written was
You and Your Garbage Disposal
for Toiletmasters Plumbers, the waiter came to take our order.

“And what will madame have?” he asked, starting with Emily.

“I’ll have the steak. It looks simply divine.”