I wouldn’t. I climbed back onto the chair and examined the wood paneling beneath the photo. No latch. I scanned the shelves. There was row after row of books by Twain, collections of his work, essays on his writing, biographies. One by one I pulled them down to see if a bookcase would swing open.
“Franki, baby!”
I jumped, and the chair arm separated from the frame. I fell, and a leg jammed into the exact spot on my back where Ruth had whacked me with the oar.
Bruno knelt so close that his nose hair tufts almost brushed my cheek. “Speak to me, doll.”
I couldn’t. The wind had been knocked from me in a gust.
A light went on his dark brown eyes when he realized I couldn’t talk. “Let’s just have a feel to see if anything’s broken.”
I bent his fingers backwards.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.”
When he’d backed off, I sat up.
And I saw the man with the facial scar who’d pushed Luigi into the limo. He’d exited a stateroom and was heading toward us.
I sucked in a panicked breath. He would recognize me since I’d run to the limo door. I jumped up and did the only thing I could to hide my face. I wrapped my arms around Bruno and locked lips—mine, as I pressed them to his.
He broke out in an instant sweat. “I haven’t been able to get you outta my head since you stripped to solve that case.”
Would no one let me forget that? I peered through my lashes and saw the man going down the grand staircase.
I pushed Bruno away. “I feel better now, thanks.”
He came back at me, all arms and hands. “I’ll make you feel even better.”
The guy was as bad as Sullivan.
Nonna exited her stateroom, and I saw my opportunity. “Oh, God. My nonna’s coming.”
Bruno did what every nonna-fearing Sicilian male would do in that situation. He ran like a baby, probably to call his mamma.
Nonna pursed her lips as he sprinted down the grand staircase. “I see you already scared-a him away too.”
Little did she know. “I just saw the man who pushed Luigi into the limo.”
“What-a? Where-a?”
“He came out of the stateroom across from yours.” I took off down the hall and led her to the room. “Cover me.”
She nodded.
The door was locked, but the knob was old and cheaply made. I inserted my cabin key, and after some jiggling, the door opened.
Nonna and I exchanged a look, and I slipped inside.
The room was terrifying. A floral bedspread in pinks and blues that matched the wallpaper, old-fashioned wall sconces, and a white-and-gold armoire. I went into the bathroom, which looked and smelled like something out of a state mental hospital—a sterile white sink, toilet, and tub with no shower curtain.
My hands shook as I opened the medicine cabinet.
Nothing.
I went back into the room. I didn’t see any luggage, so I checked under the bed and the pillows. I stuck my hand under the mattress and touched something small and plastic. I pulled out the item and stopped breathing.
A hearing aid the size of a quarter.
I’d only seen one that big—on Luigi Pescatore.
“Buongiorno. It’s-a nice-a day for a cruise, no?”
I stiffened. Nonna wasn’t nice to strangers, or anyone, for that matter.
“Yeh, real nice,” an irritated male replied. “Now if you’ll, uh, move, I need to get in my cabin.”
The thug.
I shot to my feet. If he found me in his room, he would kill me and Nonna.
“Give-a me a minute. I don’t-a move-a so fast no more.”
I scoured the room, but there was no way out. The windows didn’t open, and there was no closet to hide in. Frantic, I looked at the door and broke into a Bruno-style sweat.
The handle was turning.
The thug was coming in.
19
The door opened, and the thug spotted me near the bed. But his black eyes didn’t widen. They fixed on me with a dead stare.
He closed the door and leaned against it.
My pulse kicked up a notch.
“I’d love to hear why you’re in my cabin.” His voice was soft but lethal, like toxic gas seeping into the room. “And it had better be good.”
“Galliano crew, sir.” I pointed to the bedding that I’d pulled back and to Bruno’s Butterfinger on his pillow, hoping he didn’t notice my arm trembling. “I’m here for turn-down service.”
His eyes narrowed to slot machine-sized slits. “It’s not even nine a.m.”
“Y-yessir, we’re short staffed, so we have to get the rooms done before we start dining service. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to report to Chef Scalino.”
At the mention of Alfredo, his hard squint eased up. He rubbed his jaw and licked the corner of his mouth. Then he moved aside and gestured for me to go.
My arm hair stood on alert as I walked to the door.
“Hold on a second.”
The hair on the nape of my neck joined my alarmed arm hair.
“Take this.” He grabbed the Butterfinger from the bed and slapped it into my hand. “I’m a diabetic.”
“I’ll note that in your guest file.” I opened the door and lunged into the hallway, where I inhaled a deep breath of freedom—that was promptly knocked from my lungs.
By Nonna’s handbag.
“Owwmmm.” I semi-swallowed my cry after my shoulder took a hit from the weight of whatever was inside her purse. Fortunately, the thug had closed the door behind me, so I didn’t think he’d heard.
With my one good arm, I pulled her to the Victorian fainting couch by the backgammon table. “What did you do that for?” I whisper-hissed. “You saw me coming out.”
She slipped her purse onto her forearm. “I had-a to swing-a early in case you were the thug-a. But since it happened, that’s-a for getting Bradley arrested.”
The pain from my broken heart and oar-whacked back were enough, I didn’t need a shoulder injury to add to it. I rotated my arm socket and then leaned in to tell her what I’d discovered—but not too close because the woman was a wild card. “I found Luigi’s hearing aid.”
“Brutto criminale!” She raised her handbag and rushed the “ugly criminal’s” door.
I covered her mouth and pulled her back to the couch.
And she bit me.
I ground my teeth and kicked myself for the tactical error. I’d tussled with Nonna long enough to know that when it came to getting her way, she was lowdown and bitey.
Marian came out of the gift shop at the stern of the boat. Her brow arched and then downturned, and she returned inside.
I took that as my cue to go to work. “Nonna, I’ve got to report to the galley. Please do something safe and normal while I’m gone, like keeping an eye on things in the casino.”
“I’m-a here to find-a Luigi, not-a to gamble.”
I didn’t want her poking around where the wrong people could see her. “Fine, then search the backstage area. The captain has a map of the ship that makes me think there’s either a secret room or a compartment under the floor.”
She rose from the couch, but I blocked her.
“One more thing. Do your searching when Glenda’s backstage before her performance. And help her get ready so no one suspects what you’re up to.”
“What’s-a there for me to do? She’s-a not gonna wear any clothes-a.”
True. “So brush her hair, or something.”
“Bah!” She shuffled to the grand staircase.
And I sprinted to the mid-ship stairs. On my way down, I sent a text to the group warning them about the thug and returned Veronica’s call. The line dropped after one ring. I wasn’t sure what was going on with the phone service, but it didn’t portend smooth sailing for a cruise emergency.
I exited the stairwell into the empty dining hall, and the galley door opened. I took cover in a dark corner by the stage.
Tim emerged with a
plate of croissants and went to the stairs. I wondered whether the food was for Luigi, but more than likely it was for the captain in the pilothouse.
I rushed into the galley expecting an earful from Pat. She wasn’t around, so I slipped on my bib apron and went to my “workstation.”
My phone vibrated. It was a text from Wendell that a man with a scar under his eye had just entered the dining hall.
Was the thug coming to tell Alfredo that I’d been in his stateroom?
“What’re you doing on your damn phone?”
I jumped at Pat’s voice and shoved my phone into my back pocket.
She was in full Sea Hag mode in a black ensemble with a matching scarf on her head. “You’ve got shrimp to peel and depoop.”
For once, I didn’t take issue with the icky term. I sat on the bucket with my back strategically turned to the door and put on my hairnet. But I ignored the latex gloves. If Sullivan wanted me to wear them, he’d have to shove them on me himself.
Pat halved red potatoes for the crawdad boil with a rhythmic knife whack.
“Is the chef in?” The thug’s silky serial-killer voice was unmistakable—and unnerving.
She didn’t miss a whack. “In his office.”
I reached for a shrimp and lowered my head as he walked past, but I felt his dead eyes drill into my back.
After a moment, the two men began talking. Their voices were low, which was telling, even though I couldn’t make out a word they said.
Minutes elapsed, and the tension in the galley mounted. Pat glanced at the hallway as though waiting for something bad to happen, which heightened my fear that the delinquent duo had discovered who I was.
“Pat!”
We both jumped at Alfredo’s bark.
She spat into her phlegm rag and limp-loped to the hallway, and I strained my ears to listen.
“You called, Chef?”
“Obviously,” he snapped. “Change of plans. We’re serving bananas foster for dessert, so we’ll dock in White Castle to pick up some Galliano.”
“What about the lemons for your sorbet?”
“Go to the pantry.” His speech had slowed, and his tone had lowered an octave. “Tell me how many boxes of bananas we’ve got.”
“Right away, Chef.”
I pulled out my phone and texted the group about the unplanned booze stop. Wendell replied immediately, and I wasn’t surprised by his answer. No one had asked him about his Galliano stores, and given the name of the steamboat, he’d stocked enough for two gambling cruises.
The text reminded me of Nick’s—Galliano gold. The chef’s unplanned stop was a ruse to deliver the suitcase of gold bars that Tim had collected from the Southampton Spitfire.
“Attention, guests and staff.” Ruth’s voice blasted throughout the galley on loudspeaker. “It’s your Cruise Director, Cruisin’ Ruth.”
That nickname made her sound like she was looking for a sex partner—or a bruising, which I would’ve happily supplied. I put away my phone and grabbed a shrimp while I waited for her announcement.
“We’ve got so much fun planned for our inaugural voyage that you’ll wish you could stay on the Galliano forever.”
“There is no amount of fun that would keep me on this ghost trap,” I said as I ripped off the shrimp’s tail.
“In fifteen minutes, we’ll kick things off on the main deck with a mandatory safety drill. After that, the staff will head back to work—I’m talking to you, Franki.”
I paused the peeling to shoot the finger at the ceiling speaker.
“Then I’ll lead the guests to the dining hall where we’ll square dance to Mississippi River-themed karaoke. When our toesies are too tired to do-si-do, we’ll recharge with some fruit punch and blackout bingo.”
With fun like that, my toesies would do-si-do back to the galley to work. But the safety drill was the opportunity I needed to make myself scarce before the thug emerged from Alfredo’s office. I tossed the shrimp into the bucket, pulled off my hairnet and bib apron, and hot-footed it from the galley.
My shoes screeched to a stop as soon as I stepped into the dining hall.
On the floor outside the door was a candy wrapper—not from a Butterfinger but a Bit-O-Honey.
Gigi “The G-Man” Scalino’s favorite candy, and it didn’t come from the diabetic thug.
“Line up for a fun safety drill, people.” Ruth smiled and directed an elderly couple farther down the main deck. “I need you silent and single file with exactly one foot between you, no more no less.”
Her smile went south when she spotted me leaning on the boat railing. She marched over and raised a bullhorn to her lips. “What is it about the word safety that you don’t understand?”
I moved to the center of the deck, but what I wanted to move was her Fun Meter—to Min.
She lowered the bullhorn, checked to make sure no one was listening, and turned her horned-rims on me. “Like I said on the loudspeaker, this drill is mandatory. And who are the two no-shows? Why, your family. Go figure.”
Nonna was probably searching the backstage area, even though I’d asked her to wait. And if I knew my mother, she was investigating whether the Galliano had spa services. Nevertheless, I made a show of scanning the guests, who were mostly retirees. And judging from their canes and walkers, they didn’t look like they’d be do-si-doing to karaoke. “You’re right. I don’t see them, but I’m sure they’re on their way. There’s no way they’d miss all of this fun order and discipline.”
The chains on her glasses shook. “I run a tight steamship, missy. If they’re not on deck in five minutes, they’re off the boat.”
“Really?” For the first time since Nick’s murder, I broke into a smile. “Awesome.”
Ruth raised the bullhorn. “Move those tootsies, now.”
Against their will, my tootsies entered the casino. As I passed the gaming tables, I wondered whether Cruisin’ Ruth had scheduled time among all her fun to let the guests actually use them.
The dining hall door swung open, and Marian emerged, clipping a nametag to her pale green cardigan. “Shouldn’t you be going the other way?”
“Oh, uh. Right.” I couldn’t tell her about my family, so I happily abandoned the search. It was no skin off my aching back if Ruth shipped them back to shore. In fact, it would probably save my skin and aching back if they went home.
I followed Marian to the main deck and lined up beside her.
Sullivan stood by the gangplank in dark sunglasses, a black windbreaker, and matching slacks. He looked the part of a security guard impassively observing the scene. But I knew he was on the Galliano for another reason.
To get me, somehow.
What I didn’t know was whether Gigi Scalino was on the steamboat too. The Bit-O-Honey wrapper could’ve been dropped by a guest. But if not, I feared the worst. If The G-Man had come onboard so soon after having his appendix removed, it was to take someone out, and possibly Luigi.
A frigid gust of wind blew across the deck, and I crossed my arms for warmth—and self-comfort.
Marian buttoned her cardigan. “A cold front’s coming in.” She pressed her lips as tight as her bun. “I hope that maniac cruise director doesn’t keep us out here too long. Otherwise, we’ll all be covered in frost like Nick.”
I shivered, more from analogy than the chill.
“Franki, baby!”
I cringed as Bruno sidled up beside me and pressed his hip against mine.
“You look cold, doll.” He tilted his head toward my ear. “When you’re off duty, I can keep you warm.”
As could a shot of whiskey, which I was in desperate need of.
“Between you and me,” he whispered, “I got some beer from my concession stand in my cabin.”
I would almost rather drink French Quarter floodwater, but his concession stand gave me an idea. “Did you happen to bring any Bit-O-Honey on the boat?”
“No, but I brought plenty o’ peanuts.” He reached into his pocket. “And I
found this Butterfinger outside my stateroom.”
It must’ve been the one I dropped when my Nonna purse-whacked me.
He widened his eyes and his nostrils. “I can’t believe whoever dropped it didn’t pick it up. You should see the candy prices in that gift shop upstairs. And I say that as a concession-stand man.”
The gift shop. If Marian sold Bit-O-Honey, then whoever dropped that wrapper could have bought it onboard. I turned to ask her, but she was gone, probably driven away by Bruno’s charm, and in her place stood Ruth, tapping the toe of her Keds.
“I ask you to do one thing, and instead I find you makin’ a play for a new man.”
Bruno beamed, and I glowered. I worked hard to constantly remind that he wasn’t Bradley’s replacement, so I didn’t need Cruisin’ Ruth to put the promise of sex into his head.
She jerked the bill of her sun visor. “If you don’t find our missing guests ASAP, I’ll inform the captain that you volunteered to run a five a.m. Zumba class tomorrow.”
I was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea—or rather, the deep brown river. But if I had to choose between being on the boat with my family and early morning exercise, I’d opt for the former because I could avoid them.
“Be back in ten.” I dashed through the casino and up the grand staircase. But before I looked for my mom and nonna, I planned to make a pitstop at the gift shop.
The door was closed but unlocked. The creepy krakens seemed to watch me from a shelf above the wall of books as I checked the candy selection at the counter.
No Bit-O-Honey.
I turned to see if I’d overlooked any other candy displays, and I toppled a stack of Steamboat Galliano hat pins in packages by the cash register. I picked them up and looked behind the counter to see if I’d missed one. Sure enough, I had. I reached for the package.
But I retracted my hand.
On the floor next to a shelf labeled “New Orleans History: Mafia” lay a Bit-O-Honey wrapper.
No doubt about it. Gigi Scalino, notorious mob boss and sicko who was into shoe stripteases from strippers, was on the Galliano.
“Make like a shrimp cocktail and chill,” I said to my reflection in the cabin bathroom mirror. “You’ve investigated plenty of dangerous homicides, so you’ve got this. Besides, there’s safety in numbers, and especially after Cruisin’ Ruth’s fun safety drill.”
Galliano Gold (Franki Amato Mysteries Book 5) Page 22