Spooning Daisy

by Maggie McConnell

  She cracked a smile at her reflection. Yep, that was Max’s style, all right. If only she knew why he was here.

  She pulled her brush through her hair, fluffing the curls. He wasn’t here because of her . . . was he? She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Just how spiteful was Max Kendall? Had he discovered her plans for Alaska? Had her lawyer said something to his lawyer? Too distracted by her life to deal with something so outlandish as Max Kendall’s lawsuit, she’d left everything to her attorney.

  “Probably just a frivolous nuisance,” her attorney had assured her, accepting her $3,000 retainer. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Now she wished she’d taken a little more time. But she never ever, ever, ever thought she’d see that man again. Her face scrunched as her brain scrambled. What did she really know about Max? Maybe he was more of a loon than anyone suspected. Maybe his mother was a loon, too. Maybe the Kendalls were a whole family of loons!

  “Stop it!” She would never leave her cabin while those thoughts swam in her brain. There was undoubtedly a logical explanation for Max Kendall’s presence aboard this ship, and it had absolutely nothing to do with her!

  Besides, she had an ace in the hole. Her very handsome doctor would surely come to her rescue if needed. As a matter of fact, they had a dinner date for tonight. Adam and all his officer buddies would keep Max from threatening her. It was like having her very own navy.

  But just in case, she would keep her pepper spray handy.

  “I’m going to breakfast, sweetie,” Daisy cooed to Elizabeth as she put her in the compact shower stall for a little safe exercise. In one corner, she placed her food. “I’ll bring you some lettuce. Yum-yum.”

  But Elizabeth seemed unimpressed with the promise as she slowly ate her pureed peas and minced beef.

  Daisy went for her purse, sitting atop her sweaters in her opened suitcase. Spotting the open zipper, she pulled the bag wide and gasped. Where was her wallet? She rummaged in the side pockets. And her hidden stash of extra cash? She scrambled for her second pair of shoes—gold flats—and took out the socks she’d stuffed in the toes.

  Her eyes popped, her mouth gaped. “Oh my God!” she squeaked. Then, as the situation registered, she inflated with rage. “That lying, thieving, miserable rotten bastard!”

  Chapter Eight

  “I’ve been robbed!”

  The seasoned purser lifted her eyes from her computer screen and considered the frantic woman who’d just stormed the office. “Are you all right? Try to relax. Are you all right?”

  “There’s no time for questions! He’s getting away!”

  “Ma’am, we’re at sea. There’s no place for him to go. Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine. Mad as hell, but fine.”

  “I’m calling security.” The purser punched in numbers. After a short conversation she hung up the phone and focused on Daisy, who paced the utilitarian office, one short fuse from exploding. “Ma’am, what’s your name?”

  “He broke into my cabin while I was sleeping! Can you believe that?”

  “Maybe I should call the medical officer—”

  Daisy abruptly stopped. “Yes, please.” It would be nice to have Adam’s arm to lean on when she confronted Max Kendall. “Call Dr. Bricker.”

  An understated gray brow lifted slightly. “You want me to call Dr. Bricker?”

  “I know it’s not really a medical emergency, but it is an emergency, and he does know me.” Daisy spoke as if spilling a secret. “We had dinner last night.”

  “Oh,” the purser answered, as if the request now made sense.

  “I’d feel much better if he were here. If he’s not, y’ know, saving someone’s life.”

  “I doubt that.” The purser lifted the phone from its cradle. “And your name, ma’am?”

  “Daisy Moon. Adam knows me.”

  “Adam?”

  “Adam Bricker,” Daisy said.

  “Adam Bricker?” Now both her brows were raised.

  “Yes,” Daisy confirmed, fearing that this polite, grandmotherly type was losing her faculties. “Dr. Adam Bricker.”

  “Isn’t Adam Bricker the doctor from The Love Boat?”

  Daisy reflected back on the ’80s television show she had occasionally caught in reruns during the wee hours of the morning after coming home and winding down from the restaurant. She had bought the series DVD for her mom, who loved the sitcom as much for the G rating as for the old movie stars who made guest appearances—Van Johnson was her favorite.

  “Huh. No wonder the name sounded familiar,” she said, more to herself than the purser. She shook off the coincidence. “Would you please call him? Now?”

  “What’s the extension?”

  Daisy’s face contorted, her hands flailed. “How the hell should I know? Don’t you people have a phone list?”

  The purser eased back. “What’s his cabin number?”

  Daisy cocked her head at the daft woman. “Just call sick bay or the infirmary or whatever you boat people call it. He’s probably there.”

  Easing back a little farther, the purser punched in the numbers for the medical office. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll find your Dr. Bricker.”

  Two uniformed men, one older and relaxed, one younger and intense, arrived at the office.

  “Sorry for the delay.” The older man introduced himself as Chief Security Officer Stone and his taller assistant as Deputy SO Keller. “We had something come off the wire as we were leaving. Now”—he addressed Daisy—“you were robbed?”

  “Yes! And I know who did it. If we hurry, we can catch him in the cafeteria making tomato soup!”

  “Tomato soup?” Stone questioned.

  “Or maybe not,” Daisy reconsidered aloud, oblivious to Stone. “He’s probably eating in the dining room with my money!”

  “If we could take this one step at a time, Ms.—?”

  “Moon,” the purser interjected.

  “Daisy Moon,” Daisy confirmed. “And we have to hurry or he’ll spend all my money out of spite. He might even throw it overboard!”

  “I know this is very upsetting, Ms. Moon, but we need more information. Start at the beginning. When did you discover the robbery? Did you see the man—”

  “His name is Max Kendall,” Daisy interrupted. “And I didn’t need to see him to know he stole my money and credit cards!”

  The two men exchanged glances. “You know the man who robbed you?”

  “Yes! Well, not exactly. Kind of. In an odd sort of way.”

  Stone took a deep breath while Keller pulled out a pad and pen from his shirt pocket. “Please, sit down, Ms. Moon,” Stone requested. “I’ll have Purser Smith check the passenger list for a Max Kendall.” The grandmotherly woman moved to her computer screen. “Now, Ms. Moon, take a deep breath and start at the beginning.”

  Daisy sat down on the vinyl sofa, took a deep breath, and started from the beginning. The very beginning, from when she first met Max and his mother at her garage sale, then detailing her date with Max and his subsequent lawsuit, before moving on to his surprise appearance on the ship and finally ending with the theft of her wallet and the cash which had been tucked inside her shoe—“a leather basket-weave in matte gold.” She even mentioned Otter Bite and her new job at Wild Man Lodge so they would understand why she was on the ferry in the first place. When she was done, the two men shared an uneasy look.

  “I think he’s stalking me,” Daisy finally suggested.

  “It’s certainly coincidental,” Stone said ambiguously. “And you’re positive the man you saw this morning is the same man from your garage sale?”

  “Chief?” the purser interrupted. “I found Max Kendall on the passenger list. No cabin. But he’s on a wait list. I remember him now,” she added, intimating just how memorable she thought Max was. “He’s in a full leg splint and those lounge chairs are pretty hard on him.”

  “Told you,” Daisy said, ignoring the purser’s sympathy for an undeserving thief.

  “But
there’s no Adam Bricker,” the purser added. “Anywhere.”

  “Adam Bricker?” Stone asked with suspicious eyes.

  “Yes. He’s a friend of Ms. Moon’s. They had dinner last night.”

  “He’s not my friend,” Daisy countered. “I mean, he is my friend, but first he’s the medical officer. I can’t believe you people don’t know your own crew.”

  Stone and Keller quirked their heads in unison as if they shared the same light bulb.

  “Believe me, Ms. Moon, we do know our crew,” Stone informed her. “Now tell me about this Adam Bricker.”

  Picking up the ominous tone in the chief’s voice, Daisy looked first at Stone and then at Keller. She started to speak when a figure in the doorway caught her attention. Her eyes widened and her right hand flew into a point. “Oh my God! That’s him. Right there! That’s him!”

  All eyes shot to the doorway and lighted on the dark-haired man with stubbled cheeks and a mix of dread and disbelief on his face.

  Stone mustered an imposing stance. “Are you Adam Bricker?”

  “No!” Daisy squawked. “He’s Max Kendall—the man who stole my money!”

  Fifteen minutes later, Daisy stared at a fax with a fuzzy photo of Myron Porter, aka Dr. Adam Bricker, aka Captain Merrill Stubing, and aka Julie McCoy.

  “Julie McCoy?” Daisy asked incredulously. Apparently, women were not Myron’s only victims—whom he typically drugged with sleeping pills so he could safely rob their cabins.

  Stone shrugged. “In this work, after a while you see everything. So, Ms. Moon, is that the man you had dinner with last night?”

  Daisy returned the page to Stone. “I think so. Damn.” An officer, a gentleman, and a cross-dressing felon.

  “All we can do is alert the Canadian officials and hope they find him. At least he left your passport and travel documents. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope for recovering your money or finding your Lexus anytime soon.”

  Tears welled in Daisy’s eyes. “But he was wearing a uniform.” Her lower lip quivered. “And he knew what the M/V stands for in front of Columbia,” as if that made her trust in a stranger seem doubly reasonable.

  “I’m afraid, Ms. Moon, it’s not a maritime secret that M/V stands for motor vessel.”

  “Motor vessel?” she squeaked.

  Max Kendall turned away from the pitiful sight. “Can I go now?”

  “Not so fast,” Keller said, obviously sympathetic to Daisy.

  “What Deputy SO Keller means is—”

  Max held up a palm to halt further explanation. From his wallet, he presented his Alaska driver’s license. Stone looked at it and handed it to Keller.

  “You won’t be insulted if we verify this?” Keller returned the plastic to Max.

  Max stuffed his ID into its slot. “Can I go?”

  “Of course, Mr. Kendall,” the security chief told him, shooting a warning glance at Keller. “Sorry for the mix-up. But I’m sure you can understand how Ms. Moon—”

  “No,” Max tersely interrupted. “I don’t understand how Ms. Moon does anything.” He struggled to rise on one leg from the seat he’d been forced into while defending himself against Daisy’s accusations.

  Yes, it was coincidental that he and Daisy were on the same ferry. But the ferry he originally booked—with a cabin—sailed three weeks ago, and three weeks ago he was in the hospital, he’d informed them as Daisy averted her eyes from his accusatory stare. He was on the ferry now because he’d bought a truck in Seattle and was taking that same truck to Alaska, departing the ferry in Haines. He didn’t elaborate on his final destination, figuring the less Daisy knew about his life, the better, and by then Stone seemed satisfied that Max Kendall was just an innocent bystander in Daisy Moon’s mixed-up world.

  Why Daisy was on the Columbia, Max didn’t know. But he’d stopped himself from asking. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in Daisy’s life. He didn’t care what her latest turmoil was or what tragedy had caused her to flee Seattle. The woman was an albatross.

  “What am I going to do?” Daisy asked to no one in particular. “I have no money, no credit cards, no Lex-us,” she lamented, her breath in little hops. “My pots and pans, my knives . . . my recipes,” she added, just now realizing what the theft of her Lexus meant.

  Max turned a deaf ear to Daisy’s plight; he had troubles of his own.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Moon, we’ll get you back to Bellingham,” Stone assured her. “Tomorrow, when we dock in Ketchikan, we can put you on a ferry going south.”

  “But . . . I’m not going to Bellingham.”

  “If you continue, what will you do when we reach Haines?” Stone asked. “You’ll be stranded. We arrive Saturday and the banks will be closed. Even if money is wired to you, you won’t get it until Monday morning. Where would you stay the weekend? You have no vehicle, no way to keep going—”

  Daisy’s gasps grew stronger and louder as she tried to keep her tears in check. She’d been so certain of Max Kendall’s guilt that she’d overlooked her missing keys. If only she’d checked her purse earlier. If only Max hadn’t been on this ship. If only, if only . . .

  “—You must go back to Bellingham,” Stone insisted. “If you choose to continue, we can’t be responsible.”

  Daisy buried her face in her palms.

  Max glanced in her direction, shook off his sympathy. Trying to skirt Daisy’s disaster, he hobbled toward the door, unaccustomed to the burdensome splint immobilizing his knee.

  Stone put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “At home, it will be easier to put in your insurance claims and get new credit cards. That’s hard to do at sea.”

  Daisy inched her eyes above her fingers. “But my job . . .”

  “I’m sure your employer will understand. In the meantime, Ms. Moon, Purser Smith will accompany you to sick bay for something to help calm you.”

  “I . . . I would rather just go to my cabin. At least I still have that.”

  Cabin? Max stopped outside the door. Of course, she had a cabin. The woman was a nitpicking control freak. She’d probably booked passage a year ago. Too bad she wasn’t as particular about the men she dated—present company excluded. Max peeked around the jamb, instantly regretting it. God, was Daisy pathetic, with her eyes puffed and her face splotchy and her nose shiny red like his new pickup. And hair falling this way and that. But she did have a cabin. Which meant she had a bathroom and a shower and—thank his lucky stars—a bed.

  He didn’t know how, Max decided, peg-legging like a pirate down the corridor, but by hook or by crook, he was getting into Daisy Moon’s bed.

  Chapter Nine

  What now? Daisy wondered at the persistent knocking. She dragged herself off the bed and opened the door. “Oh, great.”

  Max held up two plump white paper bags and cocked his head. “Is that a black eye?” he asked of the mottled shadow beneath her right eye.

  Daisy looked at the bags, then at Max. “Yes. And . . . ?” She shot a questioning glance to the bags.

  His brow furrowed. “From . . . that night?”

  “Yes, and . . . ?”

  “I brought lunch.”

  Daisy’s green eyes brightened, then quickly narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because I’m a decent guy.”

  “Yeah. That explains the lawsuit.”

  “That’s business.”

  “It feels personal.”

  “Do you want the food or not?”

  Daisy hesitated. It was either swallow her pride or swallow Elizabeth’s dog food. She took the bags. “Thank you,” she grumbled.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Anything else?” she asked when Max remained.

  “I thought maybe I’d join you. Unless you have another date. Jack the Ripper?”

  Daisy clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes into venomous slits. “After my date with you, anyone would be an improvement.”

  “That explains Dr. Bricker.”

  “As a matter of fact, it does.�
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  Max huffed. He felt like shutting her up by telling her she looked like she belonged in Les Misérables, but he didn’t want the door slammed in his face. “Can I come in, Daisy? Please.” The please felt like a root canal.

  Daisy huffed right back at him. “Is that really necessary?”

  “If I go, the food goes.”

  “I guess being a decent guy has its limits.”

  Max lifted his brows.

  “Fine.” Daisy stepped aside.

  “It must be hell being you.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “All that pride, all that self-righteousness . . .” Max nudged her suitcase a few inches, then helped himself to the sofa. With a satisfied moan, he eased into the cushions and relaxed his imprisoned leg.

  “I certainly am not—”

  “For someone up an ocean without a Lexus you could be a little nicer.”

  Daisy clutched the bags of food to her chest. “I am nice. I’m exceedingly nice. I’m one of the nicest people I know—”

  “—And then you’ve got that indignant, Victorian thing going on.”

  “Victorian?” Daisy screeched, before deciding better of sparring with Max. Setting the bags on the small vanity, she spread them open one at a time. “I don’t see how you’re in any way qualified to discuss me.”

  “I have the battle scars, remember?”

  She looked squarely into his eyes. “You think you have battle scars? Sweetheart, you don’t have a clue.”

  Maybe it was the intensity of her expression or the electricity in a pair of eyes that had intrigued him from the start—or maybe it was the sultry, hard-edged, Angelina Jolie way sweetheart had flowed across her lips—but whatever combination it was, Max thought he might’ve been trumped. It was a very odd sensation that inconveniently started his blood flowing in the most unexpected place. “I brought turkey sandwiches,” he said, trying to ignore his misbehaving appendage.

  “No mustard, I hope.”