Santa Cruise (17 page)

“Commodore Weed,” Dudley said brightly, “I sent out a press release last night and another this morning. I'm sure they will turn everything around.”

“Did you get any responses?”

“Not yet, but . . .” his voice trailed off.

The Commodore shook his head. “My poor mother,” he sighed as he picked up the china coffee cup. “Her ashes must be spinning inside that box.”

Dudley stared at the glass case. The silver box
with the ashes was perfectly still, but something in his mind began spinning. He turned to Winston. “Thank you, I
will
have a cup of coffee, Winston. Then if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to the Commodore in private.”

Winston's body stiffened. “I'll have to go out to the galley and get you a mug,” he sniffed. “I know that's what you prefer,” he added condescendingly.

“Winston, you notice everything and forget nothing,” the Commodore said. “I was so lucky to find you.”

“Good help is always hard to find,” Dudley opined.

A moment later, Winston placed a mug on the coffee table in front of Dudley, and filled it from a sterling silver coffee pot. When Dudley picked up the mug, he was sure that Winston must have run it under ice cold water. The handle was freezing. When Winston disappeared out the door, Dudley cleared his throat.

“First of all, sir, where's Eric?”

“He was here a little while ago. He got up early to check on Mr. Crater, then came back, showered and dressed, and went out again to check on the other passengers. He's such a hard worker. He told me about what happened to Mrs. Meehan, but how did the news reporter find out so quickly?
I wonder who on this ship is providing her with information. And which of our Santas was so uncaring.”

Dudley could tell that Eric had not told his uncle that Dr. Gephardt believed someone had tried to suffocate Crater. He felt it was his duty to let the Commodore know. It would make the suggestion he was about to make to him more palatable. He bit the bullet and told the Commodore of the conversation Alvirah had overheard.

The Commodore was aghast. “Why didn't Eric tell me this?”

“I suppose he wanted to protect you, but my feeling is, knowledge is power.”

“Eric is so good,” the Commodore said. “But what if this information leaks out?”

“I can guarantee neither the Meehans nor the Reillys will say anything. I am giving Jack Reilly the passenger and crew list—he requested it. His office in New York will run the names to see if there is . . .” Dudley paused, “a troubled person among us.”

“Whoever is talking to that reporter is roaming my ship right now looking for gossip,” the Commodore said disgustedly. “And they're getting a free cruise! I just can't win!”

“Yes, you can! And your sainted mother is going to help you!”

“My mother?” the Commodore asked, his voice rising.

“Yes, sir. I bet that newswoman would be interested in the heartwarming story of you sending Mother Weed's ashes to the sea from this cruise ship.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. But you can't wait till tomorrow morning. We need to make tonight's news.”

“But tomorrow is Mother's birthday! That's the day I wanted to bury her at sea.”

“What time of day was she born?”

“At three
A.M
.”

“Wasn't your mother born in London?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was still December twenty-seventh in this part of the world.”

The Commodore considered this. “You think we'd get a nice story out of her burial at sea?”

“I'm
sure
of it. Trust me, sir. More and more people are going on cruises to dispose of their beloveds' ashes. This dreadful newswoman would just love a film of the ceremony. Her viewers would definitely be intrigued. We can have the ceremony at sunset today. And believe me, you'll get a lot more people to show up in the evening than if you invite them for dawn tomorrow.”

The Commodore looked over at the glass case. “What do you think, Mother?” he asked.

Dudley almost expected the box to spring open and a head to pop out.

“You say more people would attend?” the Commodore asked Dudley.

“Many more, sir. We'll have the ceremony out on deck at sunset. Your remarks will be poignant and brief, then we will sing hymns and finally have a champagne toast after you drop Mother Weed's remains overboard.”

The Commodore hesitated. “Isn't this exploiting my mother's burial for my own gain?”

“She's your mother,” Dudley answered quickly. “She'd be so happy to know she was helping you out of this mess.”

The Commodore considered that. “I know she would,” he said. “She was so unselfish. You said we should have the ceremony out on deck. What about that lovely chapel I built for just such a purpose?”

“It's too small. I'm going to make sure everyone on board shows up this evening. We'll put up notices, make announcements over the loudspeaker, and at lunchtime when everyone is together we'll go from table to table, reminding our guests that they won't want to miss the ceremony.”

“All right, Dudley. I think I'll spend the day
alone with Mother. I only have nine hours left with her and—” his voice caught, “I'd like to make the most of them.”

“You really
should
be at lunch, sir. Your presence is a statement that all is well.”

“You're right again, Dudley.” The Commodore stood up. “High time I showered and dressed. Even when I was a lad, Mother never liked it when I lounged around in my pajamas.”

“I'm on my way to prepare the announcements and alert the staff.” Dudley said. “I'll disturb you only if it's absolutely necessary.”

C
rater was frantic. It was bad enough that someone had tried to kill him, and he was greatly relieved that those annoying kids had returned his cell phone, but now his briefcase with all the cash and his several passports was missing.

Someone had definitely been in his room when he was gone! How could he report the theft? If someone was just after the cash and then tossed the briefcase, he'd be better not having people look for it. Anyone who saw all the passports would know he was up to no good. But more important, would whoever had tried to kill him try again?

Crater placed a call to his henchman and tersely explained why the kids had the phone. “You're still set to arrive at dawn tomorrow?” he asked. “I certainly won't have a problem faking a medical emergency now.”

“We're set to go,” he was reassured. “We've seen
television reports about problems on that ship. Do you think it will affect our mission?”

“So someone thought she saw a ghost!” Crater snapped. “Forget it. That's the last thing I'm worried about. You guys better be ready to move fast when you land on board tomorrow morning. We won't have much time. And we'll be a lot better off if nobody gets hurt. Don't screw up,” he warned.

Crater thought he could be sure of the personal loyalty of the three men who would be arriving in the helicopter. After a moment's debate with himself, he decided to say nothing about the attempt on his life. The guys who were coming had no idea that he wasn't the big boss on this job. They didn't have a clue that she even existed.

And that's the way she wanted it, he reminded himself. He was getting a big enough piece of the action to go along with her wishes. He just wanted this job to be over with, to collect his pay, and ring in the New Year on dry land.

He turned on the television and caught a piece on the news feed about Bull's-Eye Tony Pinto and the false sightings of him in Canada and Mexico. Crater's mouth went dry at the sight of Pinto filling the screen.

The words his would-be killer had whispered ran through his head: “This is what you deserve.”

Bull's-Eye swore he'd get me after I ratted on his father, Crater remembered. It occurred to him that there was a strong resemblance between Bull's-Eye and that writer whose posters were plastered all over the ship. Wait a minute, he thought. When I was working with Pinto Senior didn't I hear something about his wife's brother being a boxer who started writing after he retired? I think so. . . .

A torrent of thoughts ran through his head. That woman screaming that she'd seen the writer in the chapel, someone trying to kill me; Bull's-Eye looks a lot like the pictures of that writer, and there's a good chance they're related. . . .

“This is what you deserve,” echoed in his head.

Crater suddenly felt sick to his stomach. The news people had it straight. Bull's-Eye wasn't in Canada or Mexico.

Crater knew in his bones that Bull's-Eye, the man who had sworn to track him down, was hiding somewhere on this ship.

T
he Lido was quickly filling up with guests. Afraid of being overheard, the Reillys and Meehans had gone to Alvirah and Willy's cabin so that they could talk and Alvirah could lie down on her bed.

“I'm safer here than in that infirmary,” Alvirah declared, “but who knows if anyone is safe on this ship? I'm just sorry I got you all into this.”

“No, you're not, Alvirah,” Nora said, smiling.

“You attract trouble, and you enjoy it,” Luke agreed.

“I'll admit it makes me feel alive,” Alvirah said, then wished she hadn't nodded, as a sharp pain shot across her forehead. “I always preferred working in houses for people who were a little off,” she declared. “It was so much more interesting than just cleaning up after your average slob.”

“You're not even safe with Santa Claus,” Luke commented.

Alvirah cleared her throat, anxious to get down to business. “I know we don't have proof, but it sounds as if someone really tried to kill Crater. Why him, and why is he denying it? If it happened, that means there's a would-be killer on this ship, who might strike again. The thing is, you can't tap someone on the shoulder and ask if they tried to suffocate Crater.”

“Dudley promised he'd get me the passenger and crew list right away,” Jack said. “My office will have it checked out in a couple of hours. They'll find out if there's anyone of interest on the list, and we'll see what Crater's all about.”

“Something else,” Alvirah said. Trying to ignore the aching in her head, she pulled open the drawer and reached for the deck of cards. She explained how she had discovered the peculiar markings on the royal cards in the deck and what happened when you held them up to the mirror. “Willy found the cards in the drawer of this room, which was Eric's, but Eric didn't seem to know anything about them when we tried to return the cards to him. I think they might be a clue to whatever's going on around here.”

Alvirah's phone rang. It was Dudley. Alvirah put him on speakerphone. “I'm meeting all the Santas in fifteen minutes in my office and I have the passenger and crew list!”

“Jack and I will be right there,” Regan said.

“Okay.” Dudley hung up.

Jack picked up the deck of cards as they got ready to leave Alvirah's cabin. “My bet is that these belong to a card shark. I'll see if I can check those symbols out. There's a guy in my office who specializes in gambling fraud and might have an idea of what these numbers mean, if anything.”

Alvirah wanted to go with Reagan and Jack but knew she would be voted down if she made the suggestion. With regret, she watched them file out the door.

“I'll keep my thinking cap on,” she called after them. “I can promise you that.”

T
he ten Santas, eight of them in costume, were standing shoulder to shoulder in Dudley's small office. It was easy to do a quick check of the outfits. All eight caps were fully belled. The story of Alvirah's accident had spread quickly and the fact that she had been ignored by someone in a Santa outfit had united the Santas in righteous indignation, even Bobby Grimes.

“That guy's giving the rest of us a bad name,” he said piously. “Like I said last night, we'd all better be on the lookout.”

Dudley glanced at Jack, who took over. “We need your help,” Jack explained. “We all agree that whoever has those outfits is either a passenger or a crew member who probably has some sort of practical joke agenda. However, as we've seen with Mrs. Meehan, jokes can cause accidents. The ten of you can be very helpful, provided what we're saying here doesn't go out of this room. For
the rest of the trip, please keep your eyes peeled for a Santa who only has one bell on his cap. We need to find him.”

“With my luck, the bell's going to fall off my cap,” Bobby Grimes complained.

“We know who you are,” Jack assured him with a smile.

“Who would do this?” Nelson asked rhetorically.

Dudley shrugged. “Your job as Santa Claus was to find out what people wanted for Christmas. The job we're giving you today is to help us catch this troublemaker.”

“The problem is you'd have to see the back of this Santa's head to notice how many bells he has on his cap,” Ted Cannon observed.

“We thought of that,” Dudley said. “That's why I'm giving you the
Royal Mermaid
souvenir pins now, instead of as a good-bye present at the end of the cruise. Wear them on the front of your Santa Claus jackets and that will identify you as an official Santa Cruise Santa Claus.”

“We've all been watching television,” Nelson said, shaking his head. “This ship has certainly been getting a lot of attention.”

“Mountains out of mole hills,” Dudley replied airily. “And it all comes back to our practical joker.”

“Was the waiter who jumped overboard a practical joker?” one of the Santas asked. “Who are his friends? Maybe one of them is pulling this.”

“That's my job,” Jack said. “We're checking him out.”

“I do want to remind you that you are the Commodore's special guests on this trip,” Dudley said earnestly. “I'll be perfectly honest. The unfavorable publicity could mean the end of the Commodore's dream—this ship. On the other hand, if you help to create an atmosphere of good feeling among the passengers, you really will be giving the Commodore the one thing he has always wanted in life—the chance to run a successful cruise ship, on which people can forget their troubles and be happy.”