“If this mutual admiration session is over, ladies, how about we figure out who owns this tub,” Jan teased. She moved to a chair, pulled her laptop from a side table and her fingers flew over the keys.
“Stop!” I yelled, startling her. “Are you on the ship’s internet?”
“Surely you jest. Hell, no, they could hack me. I’m on my own jetpack. While you were making whoopee with Jenks, I had one sent in from the States. It’s fast, and secure.”
“Dang, all I have is that rented pocket Wi-Fi. Okay, we’ll have to use yours.”
Rhonda piped up. “I have a jetpack as well.”
“Well, aren’t you two just the techie babes. Good.”
“Okay,” Jan said, “here’s the dope. According to this site, Malta is a popular registration destination for owners dodging taxes and remaining anonymous. Let’s hope this boat’s owner is just a tax dodger.”
While Jan did her thing, I went into the head, shut the door and turned off the lights. Pulling up the shade over a porthole, I peeked outside to see we’d pulled away from the quay. The humming port bow thruster turned us slightly and the captain put on a couple of turns as he corrected our position. We glided forward for a few minutes, and I watched harbor entrance lights go by. Then we were out of port and headed out to sea.
After we picked up considerable speed, the boat took a wide turn. I whipped out my phone, brought up a compass and went back to join Jan and Rhonda.
“We’re heading south-ish. Jan, can you pull up a map of the area? I’m gonna get our co-ordinates and speed from my phone’s GPS. I don’t have nautical charts loaded in here, but I can track us on land. How’d you do on finding out the owner’s name?”
“Squat.”
“What about that crew? The ones we met spoke with a British accent, but I don't think they're Brits,” Rhonda said.
“Me neither,” Jan added. “To me they look like A-rabs.”
Rhonda and I exchanged a glance. Miz Jan can be even less PC than moi at times, and Rhonda, being indoctrinated by an education system scared to say anything even slightly politically incorrect, seemed nonplussed.
Jan looked up at our uncommon silence. “Oh, fer cryin’ out loud. Lighten up you two. I just mean they look kinda like, well, Middle Eastern.”
I nodded in agreement. “Ditto. You remember the crew on Golden Odyssey?”
“Sure do. And Prince Faoud? You were afraid I was gonna end up in his harem or somethin’. Talk about your stereotyping.”
“You were sloshed and I was protecting your honor. Not that you have any, mind you. But that was before we got to know Faoud and found out he’s a prince of a prince. And now he and Jenks are roomies in Dubai.” I hit my forehead with my palm. “Duh! Whaddya bet this baby belongs to the Prince?”
Rhonda, her head whipping back and forth as she listened to this exchange, held up her hands in a T. “Whoa! Time out. What on earth are you two talking about?”
We told her about being caught in a nasty hurricane in Mexico and making friends with the people on the other boat holed up in Magdalena Bay with us. Turned out the big yacht was owned by a Saudi prince, and we became friends.
“So, we know Princey Poo has a two-hundred-and-ten footer named Golden Odyssey and a sportsfisher named Odyssey's Child. So let's say the O is Odyssey. OXL. Odyssey Extra Large? Odyssey what?”
“Forty.”
Once again we stared at Rhonda and she shrugged. “Roman numerals. Forty. Maybe he got it for his fortieth birthday or something.”
Jan was already banging keys. “Bingo! Odyssey XL, Maltese registry, 110 feet, Med-based. Available for charter. No owner named. God we are so freakin’ brilliant. Is it too early for champagne?”
“It’s four in the morning,” Rhonda said primly.
“Then we need champagne. How do we call room service on this tub?”
“Try that,” I said, pointing to a red and gold rococo telephone straight out of a 1940's movie.
Chapter Eight
Jenks called my cell before we had a chance to use the gaudy house phone to order up that four a.m. champagne. “You all settled in?” he asked.
“Yep, did you get the photo of the Dove sisters I sent you?”
He laughed. “Sure did. Wish I could post it on Facebook.”
“You’d better not! So now that we’re here on Prince Faoud's boat, you wanna tell us where we're going?”
There was a full thirty-second lull on his end, making me wonder if the call had dropped, but then he said, “It’s painfully clear that you and Jan haven’t lost your snooping edge. How did you figure it out so fast?”
“Duh, you think you're playing with kids here?”
“Not for an instant. Look, Hetta, I know it’s against your nature, but just this once, try not being so...clever. You’re not being paid to be Nancy Drew.”
“If you’d tell me stuff I wouldn't have to suss it out.”
“Yeah, sure, that’ll work.” Despite his warning, I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“So? You gonna save us a lot of time and just come clean? Like maybe tell me where we’re going, and why?”
“Soon enough. Gotta go. Catch some sleep. Love you. Bye.”
“No clues, huh?” Jan asked.
“Nah. Jenks is still being annoyingly cryptic. Okay, let’s give that gaudy phone a try and order—.”
A light tap on the door cut me short, and a purser rolled in a breakfast cart heaped with pastries, cheese, fruit, and champagne. At this rate, we were all going to need more veils.
“I swear they have us bugged,” Jan whispered, looking suspiciously around my suite. “I’m gonna have to sweep the cabins...after breakfast and a nap. I’m beat.”
“I’m quite sure on a luxury yacht like this one they have domestic help to sweep the floors and that sort of thing,” Rhonda said.
Jan and I cracked up. That gal had soooo much to learn.
Despite our earlier snacks, we still put a dent in our breakfast fare and that bottle. Jan and Rhonda dragged themselves to their cabins for some much-needed sleep.
There is nothing more soporific for me than a moving boat, so I was in a near coma when Jan rushed into my bedroom just a little over an hour after I crashed.
“Something’s happening,” she said. “Wake the hell up. They’ve cut back the engines.”
I crawled from between bajillion Euro sheets, grabbed my phone and cheaters, and pulled up the GPS. What I saw woke me right up. “Cannes! Betcha buck to a peso we’re going into Cannes.”
“Magnifique!” Jan cheered.
A sleepy-eyed Rhonda joined us in time to hear me. “Cannes?’
“Yep. Get ready to shop ‘til you drop, kiddo. I left a few stores unturned when Hetta and I were here, and now we can correct that oversight. You think you got some good stuff now? Just you wait.”
But Rhonda, instead of being delighted at the prospect of even more new duds, had turned a greenish pale and looked like she was about to barf.
“Are you sea sick?” I asked. I’d seen this shade of green before. On my boat I’d be rushing her outside to upchuck overboard, but we were confined to quarters. I grabbed a waste paper basket and shoved it into her lap.
“Nuh, no. I just got...scared. What if Rousel—”
Jan shook her head. “Returns to the scene for the crime, so to speak? Listen to me. The rat is histoire. He is incarcerated. Like, forever. Not sure if there is an equivalent to Guantanamo here in France, but if there is I’ll bet you anything he’s a guest.”
“I know. It’s just...I don’t know who I’m more afraid of. Him, or me. If I could make such a bad decision just a few weeks ago, what’s to keep me from repeating myself with some other guy?”
“Hetta and me, that’s what.”
“Who,” the schoolmarm corrected, then managed a weak smile. “Thanks. I’m still furious with myself for being such an idiot.”
Jan flapped her wrist. “Naw, just a life lesson you learned a little late. Lo
wlifes like him are pros, honey. They know how to manipulate women, and nice ones like you are just a little easier. Hetta, who was nice once upon a time, is living proof. Look at what happened with Jean Luc. Just thank your lucky stars her subsequent long history with bottom feeders paid off when you needed it. Hey, at least you didn’t sleep with him.” She gave me a meaningful nod. I shot her a meaningful finger.
“I would have, you know,” Rhonda said quietly.
I grabbed the last pain au chocolat from a plate and waved it in the air, checking to be sure no one besides Po Thang wanted it. “Last chance. Look, Rhonda, that sex thing was one of the ways he manipulated you. He withheld sex, using “pure” love as an excuse. Sucker’s probably impotent. I sincerely hope he’s making up for his lost sex life at the whim of a very large and mean fellow inmate about now.”
Rhonda tittered. “You have a mean streak, Hetta. I love it.”
Jan snatched the pastry from me and took a large bite, then, spitting a few crumbs, said, “Yep, she sure does. I think we should volunteer her for the witness un-protection program.”
“Speaking of which, what if someone in Cannes recognizes me? Like that friend Rousel was with when he was scouting me out? Or the waiter at the beach café who was surely responsible for letting Rousel know where I’d be going next, since he’s the one who recommended the hotel in Gruissan. They make quite a team.”
“More like a pack.” I gave her a long head-to-toe once-over. “And recognize you? Are you kidding me? Your own mother wouldn’t know you if you bumped into her on the street, may she rest in peace. Besides, what are the odds we’ll even see either of Rousel’s Cannes co-conspirators. I’d be surprised if they weren’t keeping Rousel company in prison for being complicit in a conspiracy to commit terrorism. The French take a real dim view on that subject.”
The engines slowed more, and I picked up the red phone. When someone answered I asked, “Hey, can we come out yet? Without the veils?”
“Of course. We are scheduled to dock within the hour. Arrival attire is on its way to your suite. Please join me on the bridge when dressed appropriately.”
I hung up. “Arrival attire is on the way? What the hell does that—”
There was a brief rap on the door. Jan yelled, “Come on in,” and a nattily dressed crew member placed three large boxes on a side table.
After he left, Rhonda took the lid off one with her name on it and laughed. “Look familiar?” she asked, holding up a navy blue jacket, tan khakis, and a crisp white shirt with the boat’s logo embroidered on the pocket. The outfit was a duplicate of what the delivery guy wore. Also enclosed was a tan, unstructured bill cap with OXL embroidered in blue.
My box held the same uniform and hat, but Jan pulled out a huge straw chapeaux, a fabulous Hermes silk caftan, and a smaller box, labeled DOG from hers. Dog got a fake-diamond collar, a cravat to match Jan’s dress, and a leather leash that fairly screamed hand-tooled designer dawg dud.
Evidently, of the four of us, Rhonda and I were the chopped liver.
In our “appropriate attire,” we all joined the captain on the flying bridge just before entering Cannes. He was dressed exactly like the rest of the crew, nary a hint of scrambled egg embroidery on his hat bill to give him status.
I admired the plethora of lights, buttons, and instruments on the mahogany control station which, unlike my boat, was an electronic marvel. I could tell this was not a new boat, but the bridge was state of the art. I watched as he expertly maneuvered the yacht without use of the steering wheel as we glided through the harbor entrance.
Goose-bumps rose on my arms as I recalled watching an old film clip of Grace Kelly telling reporters of the thrill she felt when arriving at Monaco aboard the Constitution for her royal wedding to King Rainier III.
Except in our case, Miz Jan was the closest thing to Grace, and I was a deck hand. Have I ever mentioned how crappy I look in any kind of cap?
But never mind, Mediterranean coastal cities can’t be beat for a special kind of morning light unlike anywhere else on earth. The only thing close, in my experience, is arriving by boat into Istanbul just as the sun rises behind the minarets and calls to prayer waft out on an offshore breeze.
“Hetta, isn’t this just fabulous?” Rhonda trilled, unfazed by being relegated to hired help.
“Yeah, just fab. Gosh, as soon as we get docked, we can grab a mop and swab the decks.”
“And Jan can sweep—oof,” Rhonda said as I elbowed her.
The captain overheard us and chuckled. “You will not really be required to care for the ship, ladies. It is our custom on the Prince’s boat that we all dress alike for security’s sake. As you saw when we first met in Mexico.” Evidently someone had clued him in that we’d figured out who owned this tub.
I looked closely at him. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. I thought you looked familiar. But you’re right, even the prince was dressed as crew.”
“So, as you can see, our little subterfuge works. We will execute a complete crew change in Cannes, so we ask everyone to stay in uniform until that happens. It will facilitate keeping any early morning curiosity seekers from distinguishing one of us from the other. Even then, there are locals whose main occupation, it seems, is to spy on yacht inhabitants, but even they don’t deem crew as at all newsworthy.”
I looked around the decks. There were six of us, counting me and Rhonda, all dressed identically. And then there was Grace.
“So how come Jan is dolled up and stands out like a sore toe?”
“We need someone for everyone to stare at so the rest of us become invisible.”
I tried not to be insulted, but it wasn’t easy being relegated to wallpaper.
Jan, elegantly draped in the bright pink and orange caftan, blonde hair peeking out from under a fuchsia-colored hat the size of a beach umbrella, and sunglasses like saucers, was doing something akin to a queen wave to the few people out so early on the quay. Po Thang barked and ran from deck to deck, drawing attention to himself as well. Show offs.
No one, and I mean no one, either at the harbor entrance, walking the quay, or working on the boats we passed, gave those of us in uniform a single glance. One obviously American elderly couple I instantly dubbed Gladys and Harry, were loudly arguing over which movie or television star Jan was, and whether they should ask for an autograph given the chance.
Marina workers were standing by to take lines and, once tied up, we all gathered in the dining room for brunch, then the captain bid us goodbye and left Rhonda, me, Jan, and Po Thang alone on the yacht.
“Well, hell, who’s gonna do these dishes?” Jan asked, eyeing the cluttered table with dismay. “The captain said we’re getting a new crew, but did you notice they left one by one and didn’t carry any luggage?”
“He told me they didn’t want to draw any attention to themselves, and they’re danged good at it.”
“Hey, now that we can go ashore if we want to, let’s walk that hound of yours. His eyes are crossing.”
Po Thang looked at me and whined, but I shook my head. “And leave this boat unattended? We don’t even have a key to…anything. Or a dock pass, for that matter. I don’t see a quarantine flag, at least, but I’d think we have to clear Customs and Immigration or something.”
“Good point. We’ll wait.”
Po Thang whined again. “Well, hell, can’t you hold it?”
He stuck his tongue out at me and re-whined.
“Okay, okay. Lemme change clothes and I’ll walk you, but someone,” I looked pointedly at Rhonda, “has to stay on board to let us back in, okay?”
“Gladly,” Rhonda said. “I’m not ready to go into town yet. I know, I know, Rousel won’t be anywhere near, but give me some time to get over my irrational fears. I’ll do the dishes or something.”
“Hetta, you go and I’ll catch up with you at that beach café we like so much. I gotta sweep for bugs before the new crew arrives.”
Rhonda’s eyes widened. “Y
ou really can do that? I thought you were kidding.”
“Have you forgotten we bugged your boat on the Canal du Midi when we were stalking that rat you were with?”
“Oh, yeah, you did. Thank goodness. Can I watch?”
“Sure. Okay, Hetta, go ahead and take that dog ashore before he bursts.”
“You got it.” I pulled a light-weight sweater over my uniform and fluffed my hat hair. “Come on, Po. Let us mingle with the rich and infamous.”
“See you in an hour. I wanna window-shop for later. I wonder if I get to keep this?” She twirled and at least a thousand bucks worth of silk billowed.
“I’d think so. You gonna wear that for our walk?”
“Mais oui! When in Cannes, and all that stuff.”
I bowed. “I’ll walk three yards behind you with the doggie pooper scooper, your Grace. Don’t want to soil your image.”
It was still a little early for the crème de la crème to be out and about on the beaches of the South of France, what with so many late-night doings available to the rich and randy. After Jan found us, as planned, we had a café au lait and I handed her Po Thang’s leash. Only worker bees and a few runners were around to ogle the loverly Jan and her bejeweled and regal furry companion. As promised, I lagged far behind and tried to look like I was out for the exercise, and not attached to them.
After an hour or so of admiring all the stuff we could spend Rhonda’s money on, we returned to the marina and called out for her to let us in the gate, but she didn’t respond.
“Jeez, she had one job to do,” I groused.
Jan shrugged. “Maybe she’s in the shower. Never mind, I’ll get us in.” She waved to a guy polishing the gleaming stainless steel rails on a boat that probably never had a speck of dirt on it since it was launched. “Yoo-hoo! Can you let us in? We don’t have our card with us.”
The man shook his head.
I told him, in French, that we were from the Odyssey and needed to get back to our yacht, but forgot our key card. He sighed, put down his rag and plodded to the gate.
Just Follow the Money Page 5