I nodded, and she smiled. “Then why don’t you keep it for yourself and give the scarf to your mother?”
I closed the jewelry box and tucked it away in the drawer. “I won’t. Because I love my mother very much, and I chose this gift for her myself,” I said.
Glory drew back, her hurt feelings showing. “I was only trying to do something nice for you,” she said.
I put an arm around her. “And nice for Mom,” I told her, “which is good, because I love both of you.”
Glory was sharp. She got my message. But she didn’t give up easily. “Ever since you were born, I’ve loved doing special little things for you,” she said.
“You have, and I’m grateful for them all,” I answered. “And Mom is too.”
I shouldn’t have added that last remark, because Glory turned away, swept the scarf back into its box, and climbed into her bed.
“Goodnight, Glory. Sleep tight,” I said.
I bent to kiss her cheek. Sometime I’d have to tell her that when I was little and heard people singing “Glory, glory, hallelujah” from “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” I thought they were singing about my wonderful grandmother. Gifts had nothing to do with my love for her.
By the time I climbed into bed, my thoughts were once more on what we would find in Cozumel. I had the awful feeling that something terrible was planned for Ricky the next day, and I had no idea how to stop it.
13
THE EARLY-MORNING SUN WAS ALREADY HIGH AND HOT as Julieta and I hailed a taxi, following Mr. Jansen into the shopping area of San Miguel. On our left, lush bushes of red, pink, and yellow hibiscus decorated the seawall. On the right were buildings whose shops and contents were every bit as colorful. I realized that business hours had been set by cruise ship schedules. This would probably be a busy day for the merchants of San Miguel; three cruise ships had already arrived in port.
As we reached the plaza, I saw Mr. Bailey enter a shop with large signs in Spanish and English cluttering the window: FAX MACHINES HERE. FOTOCOPIAS 4 CENTS.
Before I had time to wonder what Mr. Bailey was doing, Julieta leaned forward. “Stop here!” she told the driver. She quickly paid him and we climbed from the cab. Pointing at a large joyería with impressive necklaces, bracelets, and rings in the window, Julieta said, “Tommy Jansen just went into that jewelry store.”
Stopping at the doorway, we cautiously looked around, careful not to let him see us. We spotted Mr. Jansen talking to a woman behind a counter at the back of the store, so we made our way toward him through a number of busy shoppers and clerks.
As we came close, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large gold ring. “This should be worth a lot,” he told the woman. “In dollars. American dollars.”
She held the ring high, turning it around as she studied it, so I was able to get a good look at it.
Shocked, I shouted, “Julieta! That’s Major Cepeda’s ring!”
Mr. Jansen tightly gripped the counter and whirled toward us. He opened his mouth to speak, but was only able to make a gargling sound.
I stepped forward, facing the woman. “That ring belonged to a man who was murdered on our ship,” I told her. “Please call the police and ask them to contact Mr. Wilson, the chief of security.”
Julieta had blocked the aisle, but Mr. Jansen didn’t try to run. He just sagged, leaning against the counter as if he needed it to hold him upright.
Fear was in the woman’s eyes as she held the ring out to me. “Take it. I want nothing to do with it,” she said.
As I reached for it, she shoved it into my hand with such force it hurt.
“Ouch!” I said. I opened my hand and saw the red C-shaped mark the initial had made in my palm. Into my mind came the photograph of the beaten and murdered Raúl with C-shaped bruises on his face. So Cepeda was a murderer murdered in turn. I shuddered.
A firm hand was placed on my shoulder, and a familiar voice asked, “Rose? Are you all right?”
I looked up at Neil and nodded. “I’m glad you’re here,” I told him.
It took only a moment for uniformed policía to arrive. They took Mr. Jansen, Julieta, Neil, and me to a small white stucco building, the comisaria de policía, and heard the story of the ring and the murdered Major Cepeda.
We repeated our story several times, to a number of people in and out of police uniform. Mr. Jansen interrupted every so often to claim that he had simply found the ring on the upper deck of the ship when he led the early-morning jogging group and had not killed the major.
Finally, someone in authority in San Miguel decided they wanted nothing to do with the matter because it hadn’t taken place under their jurisdiction. Two officers drove us back to the ship and escorted us to the captain’s office.
“Everyone, please sit down,” the captain ordered in a no-nonsense voice. He thanked the Mexican policía, who left when Mr. Wilson and his two assistants arrived.
We had to tell the story again, and once more Mr. Jansen interrupted to claim he knew nothing about the murder.
I hated to admit it, but I began to think he could be innocent. I remembered Major Cepeda fiddling with his ring and how I’d thought it was so loose that he could lose it. If he’d struggled with someone on deck before he went overboard, it was certainly possible that his ring had fallen off and Tommy Jansen—first on the scene at daylight—had found it.
“What are your orders, sir? Do you want me to confine Mr. Jansen to the brig?” Mr. Wilson asked.
“You can’t do that!” Mr. Jansen answered. “Tomorrow we’ll be at sea all day, and there’s the miniature golf tournament, the sixties quiz for the baby boomers, the finale for the Broadway show, and the—”
The door to the captain’s office flew open and Anthony Bailey stood in the doorway. Without paying the slightest attention to the rest of us in the room, he walked straight to the captain and held two sheets of paper out to him.
“What’s this?” Captain Olson asked.
Mr. Bailey looked smug. “It’s a signed release from Mrs. Beatriz Urbino, grandmother and official guardian of the minor child, Enrique Urbino, giving me the right and power to return her grandson to Cuba. This permission was faxed to me less than an hour ago.”
I took a deep breath and stood. “Captain Olson,” I said, “before you make any decisions, I think Ricky’s attorney should be present.” Frantically, I turned to Julieta. “Glory said she’d be relaxing by the pool. Find her! Tell her what happened!” I clutched Julieta’s arm. “Say I trust her promise to do anything I ask, and now I’m asking.”
“Okay,” Julieta said. She slipped out the door and was gone.
The captain didn’t look too happy. He kept rubbing his temples. But he said, “Very well. We will continue our discussion after Mr. Urbino’s attorney is present.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Bailey protested. “I have the papers. I have the official permission to return Enri—”
“Please be silent!” the captain thundered. “As I told you, we will wait until Mr. Urbino’s attorney arrives. Now, please have a seat.”
I was sure the captain welcomed the chance to think about all that was happening on his ship, which was supposed to involve his passengers in nothing more than a pleasure cruise.
As we waited, I took a good look at him, and I nearly hyperventilated. Mr. Bailey was wearing a light blue polo shirt with a tiny logo embroidered in white over the breast pocket.
I whispered to Neil, “Look at the shirt Mr. Bailey’s wearing. I think it’s Martín Urbino’s shirt.”
There was a polite knock at the door before Glory and Julieta walked in. Glory, in a gauzy white cover-up over her one-piece black bathing suit and red flip-flops, walked straight toward the captain and held out her hand. “I’m Gloria Marstead, attorney for Enrique Urbino,” she told him. “I believe I understand the situation, and I also believe that the proper jurisdiction for any action on the part of Enrique Urbino is with the Immigration and Naturalization Service in the Un
ited States.”
Glory didn’t look much like an attorney, but she sounded like one. The captain looked relieved. “My thoughts exactly,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” Mr. Bailey protested.
He began to rise from his chair, but the captain scowled and said, “Sit down, Mr. Bailey. We will resolve this problem in an orderly fashion.”
Mr. Bailey didn’t give in easily. “I have the right to remove the minor, Enrique Urbino, from the ship immediately and take him to Cuba. You saw the papers I gave you.”
“May I see them, please?” Glory asked.
Captain Olson handed them to her, and she quickly read through them. She looked up and said, “At first glance, they seem to be in order. However, since they are faxed, there is a question about their authenticity. I suggest that when we land in Miami, these papers be turned over to the INS for evaluation.”
“I agree,” the captain said.
Mr. Bailey jumped to his feet and grabbed Glory’s arm. “Now, you listen here!” he began.
He didn’t get a chance to continue. Mr. Wilson, his men, and Neil grabbed him, dragging him away from Glory.
I got into the mix-up, too, because I had to see the label on that blue polo shirt. I snatched for the back of the shirt collar and gave it a twist as Mr. Bailey was dumped back into his chair.
“Sit down!” the captain demanded. “Everyone— sit down!”
I did what he said, but I asked, “Captain Olson, did you get my letter with the description of Martín Urbino’s blue polo shirt?”
“Yes,” he said. “I gave it to Mr. Wilson.”
“Mr. Bailey is wearing that shirt,” I said, and I told them about the ink slash on the label. “Mr. Bailey substituted his torn shirt for Mr. Urbino’s shirt to make you think Mr. Urbino had killed Major Cepeda. Then he phoned you to tell you where the shirt was—didn’t he, Mr. Wilson?”
Mr. Wilson addressed the captain, not me. “Yes,” he said, “but when we searched Mr. Urbino’s stateroom, we did not find the shirt.”
“I know where it is,” I said, “but first, will you answer an important question? Was Mr. Bailey the one who let you know where you could find Ricky when you arrested him?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Bailey is the murderer,” I said.
“You can’t prove anything,” Mr. Bailey said.
“You wanted to ingratiate yourself with Castro and the Cuban government officials so you can build your supercasino in Havana,” I told him. “That’s what you wanted—not the reward money. You approached Major Cepeda, but he wouldn’t cooperate with you. Those flyers he handed out were to turn people against Ricky and intimidate him into returning. I would guess there was no reward at all. Major Cepeda wanted the glory of bringing Ricky back, and he wouldn’t let you share it. Isn’t that right? So you decided to get the major out of your way.”
“Prove it,” Mr. Bailey growled.
The captain looked from me to Tommy Jansen. “But Mr. Jansen was in possession of the major’s ring,” he said.
“The ring was loose on the major’s finger,” I said. “You saw him fiddling with it when we were all here in your office. I believe Mr. Jansen. I think he really did find it on deck while he was jogging.”
Mr. Bailey kept glaring at me, and I saw Glory watching him with a frown. She said to the captain, “If you’ll accept my suggestion, sir, for safety reasons I’d incarcerate Mr. Bailey until we land in Miami and he can be turned over to the proper authorities. And since there’s a question of ownership, if I were you I’d impound the shirt he’s wearing.”
She pinned me with a stern look and added, “Along with Mr. Bailey’s torn shirt, which my other client, Rose Ann Marstead, is going to give to your chief of security. The Miami police should be able to establish the rightful owners of both shirts and determine whether the pocket that was found came from Mr. Bailey’s shirt.”
“Done,” the captain said.
Glory didn’t miss a beat. “For the continued safety of my client, Enrique Urbino, I would suggest that he remain confined under guard until we reach Miami.”
“Glory!” I cried out.
“With permission for his three friends to visit him at various times during the day while we are at sea tomorrow.”
The captain nodded, then turned to Mr. Jansen with an expression of relief. “While we are in port, you will be confined to the ship,” he said, “and will continue your duties until we reach Miami. “As for your further employment with our cruise line—”
“I’m fired,” Mr. Jansen said. He looked relieved too.
“That’s correct,” Captain Olson told him.
As we left the captain’s office, Glory put an arm around my shoulders. “You understand why I want Ricky kept under guard,” she said. “I’m concerned for his safety. This is a very large ship, and there may be others besides Mr. Bailey and Mr. Jansen who will be tempted to try something.”
“I understand,” I said, and hugged her. “Thanks for helping Ricky.”
“And helping you,” she reminded me. “You may find you’re in enough trouble with the INS authorities when we arrive back in the United States. Whatever you do, don’t get involved in any other scheme concerning Ricky.”
I didn’t answer Glory. I couldn’t promise. Glory couldn’t begin to understand that I had to do everything I could to keep Ricky, the one and only love of my life, from being sent back to Cuba.
14
ON OUR LAST DAY AT SEA, NEIL, JULIETA, AND I FAITHFULLY visited Ricky during each half-hour period the captain had allowed us. It wasn’t enough time.
Glory and her partner didn’t win the bridge tournament, but she didn’t seem to care. It was obvious that she was enjoying working as an attorney again. She met twice with Captain Olson and the chief of security. Things were once more happy between us, and she loyally reported to me.
“The captain wants as few passengers as possible to be around when the INS officials arrive to take charge of Ricky,” she said. “He’s going to start disembarking proceedings immediately upon docking, and once all the passengers have left the ship, he’ll allow the INS officers to come aboard.”
I couldn’t see through my tears. “I want to stay with Ricky as long as possible,” I said. “He needs someone to be with him when the officials come.”
“Rosie, you know you can’t remain on board,” Glory said. “You have to leave with the other passengers.”
I sighed. “As Ricky’s attorney, can you stay with him?”
“Yes,” Glory said. “I should be on hand to make sure his arrest is handled properly. I’ll wait for the INS in the lounge, but I want you to leave the ship with Eloise and Neil and wait for me in the terminal where our baggage will be collected.”
A tear ran down my nose and I rubbed it away. “Ricky can’t go back to Cuba,” I pleaded with her.
“That will be up to the INS,” she answered. “To be honest with you, since Ricky is a minor and he hasn’t set foot on U.S. soil, there’s a good chance he’ll be sent back.”
I let out a sob. I couldn’t help it.
Glory patted my arm and smiled encouragingly. “On the other hand, if his uncle can manage to stall things in the courts, Ricky will reach his eighteenth birthday in less than two months and will be free of that custodian-guardian control. There’ll be plenty of supporters for his cause. I suppose you know that.”
“No,” I said. “What supporters?”
“Ricky’s uncle has a great many friends in the Cuban population of Miami. The captain has been warned that there will be demonstrations at the pier, along with a large number of media people. The Miami police are going to set up barriers to keep them from the pier itself.”
“Will the demonstrations and publicity help?”
Glory shrugged. “Who knows?” She hugged me and said, “Don’t look so mournful, Rosie. There will be other loves in your life.”
“Not like Ricky.”
“Remember Rose Calvert in the movie?
She had a granddaughter, which means that after she loved and lost Jack, she married and had children.”
“But did she love her husband?”
“Maybe even more than she had loved Jack. Life didn’t end for her. She had spunk. She kept going.”
And so would I, I knew, because there were things I had to do. I had to keep Ricky from being sent back to Cuba. I’d figure out how. I knew I would.
On Sunday morning we docked in Miami at eight-thirty, but we had all awakened much earlier and eaten a quick breakfast. Our luggage had been placed outside our doors and collected the night before, so we were left with only our carry-ons.
All passengers had been ordered to report to the main lounge at eight-thirty sharp, so at eight Neil, Julieta, and I met in the passageway outside Ricky’s stateroom. I had on the jeans and T-shirt I planned to wear on the flight home, Julieta was in a pink shorts-and-shirt outfit, and Neil was again wearing his awful long-sleeved nylon shirt with the pink flamingos, his straw hat jammed firmly on his head. He looked like a candidate for the worst-dressed tourist of the month. He looked like a nerd. He looked like Neil. I sighed and squeezed his hand. No matter what his appearance, he was the nicest kind of guy.
Stepping up to the guard at the door, I said, “We’ve come to say goodbye to Ricky.”
“The captain didn’t say—” the guard began.
Julieta began to cry. “He’s our friend. We’ll never see him again. You have to let us see him.”
“Just for a few minutes. Please?” I begged.
The guard looked uncomfortable. “I don’t have today’s orders, but . . .” His forehead puckered, and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Okay,” he said. “No more than ten minutes. I’ll open the door when you have to leave.”
“Okay,” Neil said. “Thanks.”
We filed into the room, where Ricky was sitting on the edge of one of the twin beds. He was wearing slacks, the cruise line’s T-shirt, and his straw hat. “It wouldn’t fit in the suitcase,” he said when he saw me looking at it.
We all sat with him, and a couple of tears I
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