Santa Cruise (12 page)

As she wrapped up her piece, Bianca asked excitedly, “Is Commodore Weed right? Or is it possible that Angus ‘Mac' MacDuffie is back on the high seas with the Santa Cruisers? If so, his favorite drink, the gin and tonic, will not be served to him by the waiter whose problems with the law sent him overboard, leaving a river of champagne and broken crystal in his wake. We'll keep you updated on the progress of this ‘Do-Gooder' cruise. Maybe you're lucky you didn't do enough good this year to win a spot on this trip!” With an amused expression and a practiced wink, Bianca leaned forward slightly. “Don't forget. I always love hearing from you out there. My e-mail address is on the bottom of the screen.”

“Thank you, Bianca,” Mary Louise said condescendingly. “Now, Sam will tell us what's going on with that storm in the Caribbean. From what we can see, those Santa Cruisers must be experiencing at least the tip of it. . . .”

When Bianca returned to her desk, she checked her e-mail. She had distributed her card liberally at the Santa Cruise cocktail party with the hint that any gossipy items would be much appreciated. She clicked on an e-mail from a Loretta Marron, who was one of the Oklahoma Readers and Writers, and who had tried to tie up Bianca with a long story about being editor of her high school newspaper forty years ago.

Dear Bianca,

News flash! One of the members of our group, Ivy Pickering, swears she saw the ghost of Left Hook Louie, the author we are honoring on this cruise. He was in the chapel jumping up and down as though he were getting ready for his next fight. I've enclosed his picture, which you can download. At first we thought she was joking. But now a lot of us are wondering—is the ghost of Left Hook Louie wandering around this ship? Already two of the Santa suits mysteriously disappeared from a locked supply room. Did Louie have anything to do with it?

I'll keep in touch. Just call me Brenda Starr!!!!

Loretta

Bianca was salivating. She had learned in Journalism 101 that everyone loved stories about the paranormal. And now she had one—and she'd already set the stage for it by talking about old MacDuffie. Quickly, she downloaded the picture of Left Hook Louie and gasped. He was a heavy-set man sitting at a typewriter, wearing only tartan shorts and boxing gloves. Bianca grabbed the picture of the heavy-set MacDuffie perched on the deck in his tartan shorts, holding his binoculars. He said he'd never give up the ship. Forget Left Hook Louie. Mac is the ghost on that ship!

She was already formulating her follow up story.
“Is there at least one extra passenger who doesn't belong on the Santa Cruise?”

D
udley was barely inside his room when his beeper sounded. He did not need to look at it to know it was the Commodore. Glancing at his watch, Dudley saw that it was just eleven o'clock. When he was in port, Dudley loved to watch the local news. Tonight he was glad the news was not available on the ship. He didn't even want to
think
about what the reporter from the local station in Miami who'd attended the party this afternoon was saying about the Santa Cruise. He'd find out soon enough.

He picked up the phone from the night table and dialed the Commodore's suite. The Commodore grunted a hello.

In Dudley's best fake cheery voice, he chirped, “Commodore Weed, your favorite cruise director here. What can I do for you?”

“This is no time for levity,” the Commodore grumbled. “Get up here immediately. I've been
getting distress calls from land about the television coverage of this cruise and that loathsome waiter you hired!”

“I'll be right up,” Dudley promised. “We'll get this all squared away, sir—”

The Commodore had already hung up.

Dudley hated his room but now looked longingly at the bed. To get undressed. Wash his hands and face. Brush his teeth. Floss. Get under the covers. It was not going to happen for a long time. If ever, he thought.

Winston answered the door of the Commodore's suite wearing a solemn expression, which immediately got under Dudley's skin. So Pluto isn't a planet anymore, Dudley thought sarcastically. Get over it. He sailed past Winston into the living room. The Commodore was in his admiral-of-the-fleet stance, shoulders rigid, hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window. When he turned around, Dudley was shocked to see that there were tears in his boss's eyes. The Commodore pointed in the direction of Miami. “They're snickering, Dudley. They're all making fun of us. I've received four calls in the last few minutes. You know what they're saying? ‘You lose if you go on the Santa Cruise.' You lose!
I'm
losing. Lots of money. And now your big idea is a bust. That waiter is telling the cops that
this ship is a joke.” Commodore Weed's voice tightened. “They even showed a video of you falling on your bum at the rock-climbing wall. The newscaster had the nerve to call you the ‘sports director.' “

Dudley was aghast. “They showed that video? Wasn't the coverage of the waiter swimming away enough?”

“Apparently not. We have entertained the city of Miami, and God knows where else the segment has been broadcast. Those kind of recorded moments are played and replayed on the Internet
millions
of times.”

I'll never be able to go to my next high school reunion, Dudley thought. “But, sir . . .” he began. “Sometimes they say that any publicity is good publicity.”

“Not in this case! Where's Eric?”

“I don't know.”

“He's not answering his beeper. I want him here.”

“Sir, I have a question.”

“What?”

“They didn't mention Miss Pickering's hallucination, did they?”

The Commodore's misty eyes bulged. “No. But I'm sure that will be on the morning news. How many of our do-gooders are on cell phones at this
very moment reporting on every last thing that has happened since we left Miami?”

“Sir, most cell phone coverage has faded by now. Only if you have a special world phone can you make and receive calls.”

“Then they're calling from their rooms! I'm sure someone will get through! Summon Eric! We have to be ready with a dignified response to this disgraceful gossip.”

D
o you hear what I hear?” Bull's-Eye asked Highbridge, who had curled himself into a fetal position.

“This is no time for Christmas carols,” Highbridge snapped, as the rain relentlessly pelted every inch of their bodies.

“No, you idiot. I think Eric is singing a Christmas song. Listen.”

“Who could hear anything with this wind?”

“Shut up. He must be looking for us.”

The faint sound of Eric's voice was drifting toward them. Highbridge strained as he made out the words Eric was singing. It was a line from “Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town.”

“He knows if you've been bad or good . . .”

“He's off-key,” Highbridge muttered.

“At least he's trying to find us,” Bull's-Eye snapped. “What do you want him to do, call out our names?”

The two men struggled to their feet and peered around the side of the barn. Eric was standing at the first hole, singing his heart out.

“Pssst. We're here,” Bull's-Eye called to him.

Eric hurried over to them. “I've looked everywhere for you.”

“Well, you found us,” Bull's-Eye said. “Now what?”

“Some guy had an accident in the dining room and is in the infirmary. He'll be there at least overnight,” Eric told them. “I have a pass key to his room. Follow me, but we have to be careful. They're cleaning up the buffet in the Lido and we can't let them see us. We'll have to crawl past the windows.”

Three minutes later, as thoroughly drenched as if they'd been swimming in the ocean, the trio, traveling fifty feet apart, finally made it to Crater's room.

Highbridge ran into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. Bull's-Eye peeled off the wet Santa suit and stood in the tartan shorts that Ivy had described. He grabbed a bathrobe with the insignia of the Royal Mermaid from the closet and put it on. He then yanked a blanket from the bed and wrapped himself in it. “I'm going to get pneumonia. Is there a bar in here?”

Eric's beeper went off. He glanced at it. “It's my
uncle. He's been trying to reach me. There's a minibar in the cabinet. I'll be back.”

After Eric left, Tony poured a miniature bottle of scotch into a glass and sat down on the bed. He had the feeling that Highbridge was going to use up all the hot water on the ship. As he took one strong gulp of the scotch, he looked around the room and noticed a remote control on the bed. He flicked on the television, not sure if he'd find anything other than a lecture about Fishbowl Island or a safety video explaining what to do if the ship was sinking. But when the screen lit up, Tony was shocked to see his mug shot staring back at him.

“Authorities are questioning Bingo Mullens about his association with Tony Pinto, who disappeared from his home on Christmas Day. Pinto is believed to be trying to flee the country, and an informer has told the FBI that Bingo Mullens was making inquiries to find someone willing to smuggle him out.”

The scotch burned a hole in Pinto's gut. Bingo might give me up, he thought. He'll end up in Podunk in the Witness Protection Program, pretending to be a shoe salesman.

“Bingo, if you rat on me,” Tony said aloud, “I'll kill you. The last guy who ratted on me has gotten away so far. But you won't. I swear to you, you won't.”

W
hen they got back to their stateroom, while getting ready for bed, Regan and Jack chatted about their first day at sea.

“I can't believe Alvirah talked us into this,” Regan said, standing in the doorway of the bathroom as she was brushing her teeth. “I can just imagine what my father is saying to my mother.”

“We both know that Alvirah is a magnet for trouble,” Jack said as he kicked off his shoes. “But I will say that for a cruise that's supposed to be a tribute to the ‘milk of human kindness,' there's a lot of strange stuff going on.”

“I agree,” Regan said. “If one of the crew members had problems with the law, that should have been discovered before he was hired. Who knows who else might be on board this ship? Whoever stole the Santa suits is obviously still with us, and if Ivy did really see someone, he obviously doesn't want to make himself known.”

“Tomorrow morning, I'll see if I can get a passenger and crew list from Dudley. The office can do a quick check on everyone to see if any red flags come up.” Jack flipped on the television. The news segments that were fed to the ship repeated over and over. A photo of Bull's-Eye Tony Pinto came up on the screen again. “Regan,” Jack said. “Come here.”

Regan stepped out of the bathroom. “What?”

They both listened as it was reported that Tony Pinto's fellow criminal, Bingo Mullens, was suspected of being the one who arranged his escape. “Look at his face, Regan,” Jack said. “Bull's-Eye certainly does look a lot like that prizefighter author, doesn't he?”

“He sure does. And he's on the loose.” Regan raised her eyebrows. “Maybe he's the one Ivy saw tonight.”

They both laughed.

The ship gave a particularly strong lurch. “If he is on board, I hope he doesn't run into Alvirah,” Jack commented. “Let's go to bed.”

Regan smiled. “An offer I can't refuse.”

N
ot dripping but still thoroughly wet, Eric let himself into the Commodore's suite, fully expecting a frosty reception. He had not responded to his beeper immediately, as his uncle always expected him to do. Worse, he had not responded to three separate summons, which he knew the Commodore would consider outright mutiny. He had his explanation ready.

The Commodore and Dudley were seated on the couch. They both gave him a dirty look when he entered the living room. Eric could tell that Dudley was thrilled he was in trouble.

“Uncle Randolph—” he began.

“You look like a drowned rat!” the Commodore barked. “You're hardly the spit-and-polish appearance I expect of every officer on the
Royal Mermaid.”
He paused. “As long as I can keep it afloat.”

“Sir, I'm soaked because of my concern for our passengers. I heard people talking about how
much fun it would be to sit outside in the storm. I scoured the decks to make sure no one was that crazy. I know how foolish people can be, not realizing how dangerous that is.”

“Did you find anybody?” Dudley asked in a montone, his eyebrows raised.

“Thank God, no,” Eric answered vehemently. “I feel so much better knowing everyone is safe on board. The passageways are empty. Everyone is tucked in for the night, hopefully being rocked to sleep in the comfort of the
Royal Mermaid,
a protective cradle in this stormy sea.”

The Commodore raised his hand. “I didn't realize you were that poetic, Eric. Get out of those wet clothes and get back in here. On the double. We have a crisis on our hands.”

“Everyone was warned that it was not safe to go out on deck in the storm. That should have been enough,” Dudley said primly.

In his room, Eric quickly peeled off his clothes and put on a jogging suit. When he returned to the Commodore's living room, his uncle was staring at the locked glass cabinet on the wall opposite the couch.

“Eric,” the Commodore said, pointing to the cabinet, “I didn't tell you because I wanted it to be a wonderful surprise. We have an extra passenger on this voyage.”

Eric's knees turned to water. “An extra passenger? Who?”

“Grandma.”

“Grandma? Grandma died eight years ago.”

“Your grandmother's ashes,” Dudley injected. “They're in the silver box in the glass case.”