Playing for Keeps

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  I was so embarrassed I almost groaned aloud.

  Ricky chuckled. “I have never eaten caviar, but I shall follow your good example, Mrs. Marstead.”

  Glory blushed slightly, and Mrs. Duncastle laughed. “You’re one up on us, Ricky, chomping down on caviar at your young age. Out in west Texas we had no idea what caviar was until the seventies, when our husbands all made it big in the oil business.”

  With the tip of the small knife on her plate Glory added some caviar and chopped egg to a toast round. “Why don’t you tell us what life is like in Cuba, Mr. Urbino?” she asked.

  “You come from Cuba?” Mrs. Betts asked.

  “Yes,” Glory answered before Ricky could. “I believe you saw his photograph on that flyer we passed around yesterday.”

  Mrs. Applebee gave a little shriek. “The photo? The murderer! That’s why you look familiar!”

  “Ricky is not a murderer,” I told Mrs. Applebee. “Those flyers were an attempt to frame him for a crime he didn’t commit. The captain is satisfied that Ricky is innocent.”

  Anthony Bailey, smooth in a designer tuxedo, suddenly loomed over my chair. I jumped at the unexpected bellow of his voice behind me. “No matter if he committed a murder or not, the reward is for the young man’s return to Cuba,” Mr. Bailey said. “Someone might be interested in collecting that reward.” I twisted and looked up at him. Mr. Bailey certainly had no need for the reward money, yet he was staring intently at Ricky.

  “Who?” I asked. “Ten thousand dollars is not such a big reward.”

  “Ten thousand dollars plus the perk of getting onto the Cuban government’s good side,” Mr. Bailey said, and chuckled. “That could make the value shoot over the top.”

  I gripped the arms of my chair tightly and tried to stay calm. “The captain is going to turn Ricky over to the INS when we get to Miami,” I said. “Ricky’s going to ask the United States for asylum.”

  “That won’t work,” Mr. Bailey said to Ricky, “no matter how much influence you think you’ve got going for you. They call it wet foot–dry foot.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Betts asked him.

  “Our government’s rule of thumb. If Cuban refugees are caught on land, they can ask for asylum. If they’re caught at sea, they have to go back.”

  For the first time Neil spoke up. “This ship we’re on is hardly a makeshift refugee boat, so there are no wet feet here. It’s registered in Norway, and the captain is the absolute authority while we’re at sea.”

  Mr. Bailey continued to look directly at Ricky. “It could be worth your while to go back to Cuba.”

  “To collect the reward for myself?” Ricky said, and I could hear a touch of bitterness in his voice. “It would be hard to spend in prison.”

  “Not all those who return are sent to prison,” Mr. Bailey told him. “Deals can be worked out. Favors can be called in. Mark what I say: In the future, when all embargoes have been lifted, Cuba’s going to be a top tourist center for travelers from the United States. Flashy casinos and great beaches. It’s a winning combination. A job with a casino could pay well.”

  Ricky eyed Mr. Bailey without wavering. “Not for a baseball player,” he said. “Especially one in my position. Major Cepeda made that very clear.”

  Mr. Bailey’s voice grew even more gruff. “Major Cepeda did not have good sense. And he certainly had no vision. It is just as well that now he has no say in the matter.”

  What did Mr. Bailey mean by that? I sucked in my breath, picturing him when he’d first come to our table to be introduced. He had been wearing a light blue shirt.

  “Major Cepeda accused me of a murder I did not commit,” Ricky said.

  This time Mr. Bailey dropped his chin to study me. “I heard why,” he said. “I’m sure the Cuban authorities would see the illogic in the frame-up the major invented—just as this young lady did. Think about it.”

  Then, as though we’d been chatting about the weather, Mr. Bailey smiled, wished us all a happy evening, and left.

  Mrs. Applebee continued to stare at Ricky with a scared fascination. “Who was the man they said you murdered?” she whispered.

  “Now, Winnie,” Mrs. Duncastle began, but Glory interrupted.

  “Yes, do tell us,” she said. “I believe, from what Rose said earlier, that the murder victim helped you escape from Cuba.”

  “Glory,” I said as our appetizer plates were whisked away and replaced with salads, “please, let’s just eat.”

  Ricky surprised me. “I will be happy to tell the story,” he said, and went through the entire sequence of events from the time he left Havana until he joined the ship at Bonita Beach.

  The waiter took our empty salad plates, except for Ricky’s, which was untouched.

  “You haven’t told us yet about the murder,” Glory said.

  Neil broke in. “Let Rose tell us that part,” he said. “She’s the one who first realized the murder couldn’t have happened the way Major Cepeda said it had.”

  I didn’t give Glory a chance to object. I threw Neil a look of gratitude, and while Ricky gulped down his salad, I told everyone what had gone on in the captain’s office.

  All the women at the table made little sounds of sympathy. Mrs. Betts patted Ricky’s hand, and Mrs. Duncastle said, “I’d like to meet your uncle, Ricky. I remember his glory days with the Cincinnati Reds.”

  The waiter brought our filet mignon, and I began to relax. I cut a small slice of the steak and had it halfway to my mouth when Glory suddenly asked, “Mr. Urbino, something puzzles me. You said you had taken refuge in Neil’s stateroom, but the ship’s chief of security did not arrest you there. Where were you when you were apprehended? And how did Rosie happen to be with you?”

  Ricky didn’t hesitate. He looked right into Glory’s eyes and said, “Perhaps I was foolish to leave the Flemings’ suite. Neil had been very generous to offer me shelter there. But the ship had sailed. I was sure the authorities searching for me had left. I telephoned Rose, who had proved to be a good friend, and asked her to meet me on the open deck.”

  He stopped and smiled, as if what he had said completely answered her question. Knowing Glory, I was sure there’d be more, so I held my breath, waiting.

  “On the open deck,” she said.

  “Yes. On the deck,” Ricky repeated.

  “Please pass the salt,” Mrs. Norwich said.

  “Now, Betty, you know you’re supposed to cut down on salt,” Mrs. Applebee told her.

  “Medical science still hasn’t agreed—”

  Glory concentrated on her steak, not looking up. I didn’t like waiting for what might come next. All I wanted was for dinner to be over.

  10

  AFTER A PARADE OF WAITERS CARRYING TRAYS OF BAKED Alaska, Glory finally spoke to me. “Rosie,” she said, “I’m going to take Eloise to the talent show and give you and Neil the chance to visit Star Struck. I understand they’ve got a band and dancing tonight.”

  Glory made it sound as if she’d overheard a random conversation in the passageway, but I was sure she’d found the information by calling the desk. I couldn’t argue with her—not after she’d given me this expensive trip. I suddenly wondered if the way I felt at that moment was the same way Mom felt every time she did what Glory wanted.

  “Thanks, Glory,” I said politely. “Julieta has been trying to get us to Star Struck ever since we first met on the ship.” I turned to Ricky and smiled. “We’ll all go.”

  We said our goodbyes and watched Glory and her friends enter the elevator going down. Instead of waiting for one going up to Star Struck, I pulled Ricky and Neil into the next elevator going down. We got off on seven and went straight to Glory’s stateroom.

  “We have to talk about Major Cepeda’s murder,” I told them.

  I sat on the bed and waited for Ricky and Neil to make themselves comfortable on the small sofa. Then I repeated to Neil everything Ricky had told me, while Ricky listened. Neil looked stunned.

 
; “Martín Urbino is left-handed,” he said.

  “I know. That’s the problem.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he said. “Not if the killer is right-handed.”

  “The officers in the fishing boat said the wound was on the left side of the head, which probably meant that the killer was left-handed.”

  “If he struck him from the back. I don’t think he did.”

  I stared at Neil for a moment. Suddenly the same idea hit me. “The pocket,” I said.

  Impatiently, Ricky sat forward. “What are you talking about?”

  “A piece of light blue fabric was twisted in the fingers of the major’s right hand. The officers who were at the pier said it looked like part of a shirt pocket,” I explained. “That means the major may have struggled with someone. They’d be face to face. If that was true, then if the murderer struck out with something, and he was right-handed, he’d hit the left side of the major’s head.”

  Ricky looked at me accusingly. “So we are not looking for a left-handed murderer.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to ask you those questions,” I told him. “And we’re working it out, just as I told you we would.”

  Ricky stood and walked to the door. “Come with me, por favor,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “To my uncle’s stateroom. We will find the blue shirt. You will see that its pocket hasn’t been torn.”

  “Ricky, I believe you,” I said.

  “Come,” he repeated.

  “Let’s go,” Neil said. He held out a hand and tugged me to my feet. “He wants to convince himself as well as us.”

  Nervously, I glanced from left to right, but no one was in the passage as we crossed it and entered the Urbinos’ stateroom. The room was a twin of ours, even to the muted colors and the prints of ships at sea, but because it was an inside room, it lacked the ocean view and outside light and air.

  Ricky pulled a light blue polo shirt from one of the drawers. He unfolded it carefully and held it up. I could see the surge of relief on his face. I felt the same way. “This is my uncle’s shirt,” he said. “As you can see, the pocket has not been torn.”

  It was a designer shirt, with an initialed logo in a tiny white crest embroidered on the pocket. But I couldn’t help noticing that the label inside the neck had a thick black ink slash across it. I wondered why.

  Ricky saw where I was staring. “Neiman Marcus’s final sale,” he said. “My uncle likes to shop their sales. Sometimes he has sent clothing to Tía Ana and to me. But the salespeople draw a big slash across the labels with permanent ink so what is bought can’t be returned. Do you think I should tell the authorities that when they ask to see the shirt?”

  “You don’t need to tell anyone anything—at least not yet,” Neil said. “Fold the shirt again and put it back in the drawer. If the ship’s officers ask you about it, you can show it to them. Otherwise, just keep quiet.”

  “What should we do?” I asked.

  “Find out who committed the murder by taking it one step at a time,” Neil said.

  I sighed. It sounded like an impossible task. “How are we going to do that?”

  Neil shrugged. “We could look for the torn shirt. It may still be in the murderer’s possession.”

  Ricky shook his head. “If he tried to get rid of the shirt, it’s in one of the trash bins, which will be carted off for disposal when the ship docks in Cozumel.”

  The idea that we could solve Major Cepeda’s murder seemed more and more impossible. “I’m not going to give up,” I blurted out. “None of us will. We’ll keep thinking about it. One of us is bound to get an idea.”

  We looked for Julieta at the entrance of the dining room, where people were arriving for the late seating. Julieta was so glad to see us she skipped dinner with her parents so she could go to the club with us. “They’ve always got stuff to eat up at Star Struck,” she said. Looking like a magazine cover model in a clinging pink formal, she took Ricky’s left arm and Neil’s right, leaving me to trail behind.

  The cruise director, Tommy Jansen, looked at me as I entered the room. “Hi,” he said. “Want to be useful? Take these and hand them out.” He shoved a stack of printed yellow sheets at me.

  I shivered as his hand accidentally brushed mine. I remembered what he’d said about getting Major Cepeda out of the way, and I also remembered that the first time I’d seen Mr. Jansen he had been wearing a light blue polo shirt. Was he the murderer?

  He glanced at the others but did a double take when he saw Ricky. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but he didn’t say anything.

  Julieta didn’t even notice. She began telling Ricky and Neil about the karaoke contest the night before. I wasn’t interested, so I idly looked down at the yellow sheets. They were copies of a list that had been handwritten in a round, easy-to-read script and labeled “Scavenger Hunt.” Underneath the title was a list of odds and ends. At the top of each page was the next day’s date.

  Something in my mind suddenly clicked, and I stared with fascination at the list. What a good excuse to go poking around the ship. What a positively great excuse!

  I scanned the list again and smiled. There was something I could add—at least to the lists the four of us would have.

  Against the left wall was a table. From my evening bag I took a small pen and added an item to the list on the top four pages, copying the handwriting.

  When I finished, Julieta was still hanging on Neil and Ricky and talking to them and to Mr. Jansen. I interrupted by handing her a copy of the list.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “We’re having a scavenger hunt all day long tomorrow,” Mr. Jansen said enthusiastically. “Lots of fun. Great prizes. Be sure to sign up.”

  “What are we supposed to find?” Neil asked.

  “Here,” I said, handing him one of the sheets. “Have a list.” I gave one to Ricky, and then I took one and shoved the stack back at Mr. Jansen. He took it and turned to two girls who had just stepped through the open door to the club. He handed the stack to them.

  “This is great,” I said. “A scavenger hunt is exactly what we need.”

  “Don’t knock it. It can be fun—with the right partner. It’s always done in teams of two.” Julieta glanced from under her lashes at Neil, then at Ricky, and beamed her smile in both directions.

  “I’m not knocking it,” I answered, wishing the guys weren’t being quite so responsive to her. “I mean it. A scavenger hunt will be perfect. We can go all over the ship and have a good reason for doing it.”

  None of them seemed to get it yet, so I waved my list at them. “Like searching for a photo of a blue shirt,” I said, pointing to the item I’d written in at the top of the list.

  “A photo of a blue shirt?” Julieta asked. “That’s on the list?”

  Neil and Ricky stared at me. I could see that they’d finally both figured out what I was talking about.

  “I have a camera and you have a blue shirt, don’t you?” I asked Julieta.

  She made a face. “Oh, that old thing? Not anymore I don’t.”

  “I saw you wearing it on Sunday.”

  “That was Sunday. It was old and it tore, so I tossed it.”

  “When?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  There was no point in making an issue about it. I just shrugged and said, “Never mind.”

  Neil walked over to where Mr. Jansen stood in the doorway. “Where do we sign up for the scavenger hunt?” he asked.

  Mr. Jansen held out a clipboard with a pencil attached. “Right here. Two to a team.”

  Neil scribbled something, and handed the board to Ricky, who picked up the pencil to write, then looked at Neil. “You and Rose?” he said, startled. “But I wanted—” He turned the pencil to the eraser end, rubbed it on the sheet of paper, then smiled at Julieta and me. “It would be unfair of us not to let you ladies choose your partners for the hunt. You first, Rose. Who do you want to be your partner?�
��

  He knows I’ll want to choose him, I thought. My heart gave an extra thump because he was so right. But the scavenger hunt was not a time for romance, and the way I felt about Ricky, I knew I would easily be distracted.

  But what if Ricky were paired with Julieta? Maybe the little green jealousy monster got in my way, but I was positive that combination wouldn’t help our cause one bit.

  As I looked at Julieta, I kept thinking of her hatred for Major Cepeda—a man she’d never even met—and the blue shirt she’d worn and discarded. I needed to find out more about her.

  “I choose Julieta,” I said.

  The three of them stared at me, dumbfounded.

  Julieta was the first to speak. “It works out so much better if it’s boy-girl,” she carefully explained.

  “Maybe, if nobody cares who wins, but I’m playing for keeps,” I said.

  “Rose,” Ricky began, but I cut him off.

  “We’ll start in the morning,” I told him. “Then we can get together for lunch, see what we’ve found, and maybe change partners. Trust me.”

  He gave me a long, searching look. Then he nodded and turned to Neil. “I guess you and I will be partners,” he said.

  Julieta’s mouth opened in astonishment. “You’re going along with this?” she asked. She turned to Neil and asked complainingly, “Neil? Don’t you want to be my partner?”

  Neil looked uncomfortable. “Sure, but Ricky asked first,” he said. He scribbled all our names on the sign-up sheet and handed the clipboard to Mr. Jansen.

  More kids began arriving at the club, pushing past us to enter the main room. The four band members began setting up, the lights in the room were lowered to a soft glow, and soon music bounced off the walls.

  I folded my scavenger hunt list, tucked it inside my bag, and joined in the fun.

  Julieta wasn’t just a good dancer. She was a great dancer. And Neil surprised me. He actually had some pretty good moves.

  “I watch MTV,” he explained.

  Ricky had his own way of dancing, but he was terrific during the slow numbers. In spite of the fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds on the floor, who tackled every number with wild energy, every now and then the band played a slow, melt-together kind of tune.