Killer Cruise

by Laura Levine

  When I checked the menu posted outside the restaurant, my eyes zeroed in on one entrée: the “succulent filet mignon grilled to perfection, served with buttery mashed potatoes and creamed spinach.”

  No doubt about it. That was the dish for me.

  Inside the restaurant, I was greeted by an unctuous maitre d’ in a shiny white dinner jacket straight from the wardrobe department of Casablanca.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he crooned, in a thick French accent.

  The oily smile that had been plastered on his face disappeared, however, when he checked my name on his seating chart.

  “Austen, huh?” he said, his accent suddenly gone bye-bye. “You’re being comped, right?”

  “Yes, you see I’m giving a series of lectures on—”

  “Whatever. Just don’t order the filet mignon.”

  “Was he kidding? My salivary glands went into shock.

  “We save the steaks for paying passengers.”

  Accent on “paying.”

  Grabbing a menu, he led me into a cavernous banquet hall of a room echoing with the excited buzz of people who hadn’t yet been disappointed by their vacations.

  As I weaved my way among the tables, I caught a glimpse of a happy passenger digging into his steak. Damn, it looked good. Charred on the outside, pink on the inside. Just the way I liked it. I felt like swooping down and snatching the fork out of his hand, but I figured that wouldn’t exactly fit the image of a “celebrity” guest.

  The maitre d’ deposited me at a round window table where the Pritchard party, my assigned dinner companions, were already seated. One of them, I was surprised to see, was a tan, lanky guy in my age bracket.

  “Mademoiselle Austen,” the phony Frenchman announced with a flourish, his accent back in action.

  Sad to say, I didn’t get the celebrity greeting I’d been hoping for.

  A sour dame with thin, grim lips and horn-rimmed glasses frowned at the sight of me.

  “You’re not Professor Gustav Heinmann, the Arctic explorer.”

  “No, I’m Jaine Austen, the writer.”

  “You can’t be Jane Austen,” she huffed. “She’s been dead for centuries.”

  “That’s Jaine with an i,” I explained. “J-a-i-n-e.”

  “I don’t care how it’s spelled. I specifically requested to have Professor Heinmann at our table.”

  At which point, a sweet-looking old gal sitting next to her piped up.

  “Now, Leona,” she said. “I’m sure we’re all thrilled to have a real writer at our table. Come, Ms. Austen, won’t you have a seat?”

  She patted the empty chair next to her, and I sat down, relieved I wasn’t stuck next to the horn-rimmed gargoyle.

  “I’m Emily Pritchard,” she smiled. With her Wedgwood blue eyes and headful of soft gray curls, she looked like she’d just stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  “Let me introduce you to everyone. First, my nephew Kyle.”

  A slick fortysomething guy in designer togs nodded curtly.

  “And this,” Emily said, pointing to a faded blonde at Mr. Slick’s side, “is Kyle’s darling wife, Maggie.” The blonde—who, like me, was packing a few extra pounds under her pantyhose—shot me a shy smile.

  “And this is my other nephew, my adorable Robbie.” Emily nodded at the lanky guy with the tan.

  He was adorable, all right, with startling green eyes and a most appealing lopsided grin. I felt myself blush as he waved hello.

  “And finally,” Emily said, gesturing to Miss Congeniality in the horn-rimmed glasses, “my companion, Leona Nesbitt.”

  The sour dame barely managed a grunt.

  “Every year I take my little family on a cruise,” Emily gushed. “I adore cruising, always have ever since Daddy took me on my first voyage when I was eighteen years old.”

  “And we all appreciate your generosity, Aunt Emily.” Kyle smiled, exposing small, sharklike teeth.

  “But enough about us, Ms. Austen,” Emily said. “Now you must tell us all about yourself and the wonderful books you’ve written.”

  Before I had a chance to tell her that the only book I’d ever written was You and Your Garbage Disposal for Toiletmasters Plumbers, the waiter came to take our order.

  “And what will madame have?” he asked, starting with Emily.

  “I’ll have the steak. It looks simply divine.”

  Did it ever, I thought, still drooling over the hunk of red meat I’d seen on my way in.

  “Do you think that’s wise, dear?” Ms. Nesbitt piped up. “You know how steak disagrees with you. Let’s get the chicken, shall we?”

  She shot the old lady a steely smile, and I could tell it wasn’t so much a suggestion as a command.

  “But surely, just this once…” Emily entreated.

  “I don’t think so, dear,” her companion said firmly.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Emily sighed in resignation. “I’ll have the chicken.”

  Under no restrictions from the eagle-eyed Ms. Nesbitt, Kyle and Robbie both ordered the steak.

  “Rare but not too rare,” Kyle instructed the waiter, “or I’ll send it back.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The waiter nodded.

  Ten to one, he’d be spitting in Kyle’s food before the cruise was over.

  “Oh, dear,” Maggie said when it was her turn. “I can’t seem to decide. The steak looks wonderful, but then, so does the halibut. And yet, you can never go wrong with chicken.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Maggie,” Kyle snapped at his wife. “Make up your mind. You’re keeping everyone waiting.”

  Maggie blushed and ordered the steak.

  “And you, miss?” the waiter asked, turning to me.

  I looked down at the menu, my eyes lingering on the filet mignon. Never had I wanted a steak so badly. Aw, what the heck? I’d order it. There was no way the maitre d’ could find out. Not with this huge dining room full of passengers.

  “I’ll have the filet mignon,” I said in a burst of defiance.

  “Are you certain, madame?” The waiter shot me a warning look.

  Oh, phooey. Clearly he’d been clued in on my second-class citizenship. If I ordered the steak, he was sure to rat on me to the maitre d’.

  “On second thought,” I sighed, “I’ll have the chicken.”

  “Now Ms. Austen,” Emily said, as our waiter trotted off with our orders, “you really must tell us all about your exciting life as a writer.”

  What on earth was I going to talk about? My ad campaign for Big John, the extra-large commode for extra-large people? Or my award-losing slogan for Ackerman’s Awnings (Just a Shade Better)?

  “I’m afraid it’s not all that exciting.”

  “I’m sure it must be!” Emily beamed me an encouraging smile. “We want to hear all about your books.”

  “I haven’t exactly written any books. I write advertising mainly.”

  “How marvelous!” Emily gushed. “Did you write Got Milk? I just love that!”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “So what have you written?” Nesbitt challenged.

  “My clients are mostly local Los Angeles businesses. You’ve probably never heard of them.”

  “Go ahead,” Nesbitt said, fixing me in her steely glare. “Tell us anyway.”

  She wasn’t about to let this go. She liked seeing me squirm.

  But I’d be damned if I’d let her intimidate me. So what if my credits weren’t all that impressive? What could they do to me? Banish me to the buffet?

  I squared my shoulders and began reeling off the names of my clients: “Toiletmasters Plumbers, Ackerman’s Awnings, Fiedler on the Roof Roofers—”

  “Good heavens!” Emily exclaimed. “You wrote Fiddler on the Roof? Why that’s one of my favorite musicals!”

  “No, you don’t understand—”

  “We saw that on a theater cruise to London!”

  And before I could straighten her out she was off and running about her c
ruise to London. It was pretty much that way throughout dinner, Emily rattling on, lost in memories of past cruises. I never did get to talk much about my life as a struggling writer of toilet bowl ads, and for that I was grateful.

  When my chicken showed up, it was tasty enough, but I couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the filet mignons around me.

  Every once in a while Emily’s stories were interrupted by Kyle snapping at his wife. (Must you eat so fast? Do you really need another helping of those potatoes? For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve spilled gravy on your blouse.) By the time dinner was over, I was ready to bop him with my butter knife.

  Maggie ate her meal, eyes downward, absorbing his barbs, saying nothing. Across from her, Ms. Nesbitt polished off a disgustingly healthy vegetable plate, pausing only to shoot me a fish-eyed glare when I asked her to pass the rolls.

  But most disconcerting was Adorable Robbie. Every time I glanced over at him, I saw him eyeing me appraisingly, grinning that lopsided grin of his.

  Honestly, I was so discombobulated, I almost ordered the fruit cup for dessert.

  Finally, the meal was over. Believe it or not, I hadn’t eaten much. I’d felt awkward digging into my chow with my usual gusto, not with Robbie watching me like I was a contestant on The Bachelor.

  “It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said to the others when we got up to go.

  I was about to take off for the buffet to make up for lost calories when Robbie asked, “How about joining us in the lounge for an after-dinner drink?”

  Whoa! Was this cutie actually interested in me? Or had he only asked me along because I was one of the few women on board not yet in menopause?

  Whatever the reason, no way was I getting involved with him. After thirtysomething years on this planet, if I’ve learned one thing it’s this: The cute ones are dangerous. Sooner or later, they’re bound to make you miserable. And not only was this guy cute, he was Bad Boy cute. And they’re the most dangerous of all.

  Yes, red flags were waving. Klaxons were sounding. It was time to make my excuses and head for the buffet. For once in my life I’d do the smart thing and play it safe.

  The words that actually came out of my mouth, however, were:

  “Sure. I’d love to go.”

  What can I say? As my thighs would be the first to tell you, I’m seriously deficient in the will-power gene.

  We all trooped over to the Sinatra Lounge, a dimly lit mahogany-and-leather affair, where Cookie, decked out in a spangly floor-length evening gown, was singing with a three-piece combo. Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, a few gray-haired couples were showing off their Arthur Murray dance moves.

  The six of us grabbed seats near the action and gave our drink orders to a red-vested waiter. Emily, under the watchful eye of Ms. Nesbitt, ordered a Shirley Temple, as did the battle-axe herself. The rest of us opted for a wee drop of alcohol.

  “I love listening to the old standards,” Emily said when the waiter left, her feet tapping in time to the music. “They just don’t write songs like they used to. Remember the time we met Johnny Mathis on our Caribbean cruise? Such a nice man! I still have his autograph on a cocktail napkin. I’ll never forget what he wrote. To Emily. Best wishes, Johnny Mathis. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”

  “A real Pulitzer Prize winner,” Kyle muttered under his breath.

  “And Jaine, you’ll never guess who we met on our cruise through the Panama Canal.”

  But I didn’t get to hear who they met, because just then Cookie’s boyfriend, Graham, glided up to our table.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?” he asked Emily, in his velvety British accent.

  No wonder the cruise line hired him. He cut quite the dashing figure in his blue blazer and perfectly creased slacks.

  Emily looked up and flushed with pleasure.

  But before she could reply, Nesbitt butted in.

  “I don’t think so, dear,” she said, with a stern shake of her head. “Best let your dinner settle first.”

  “Oh, go ahead Aunt Emily,” Robbie grinned. “Have some fun.”

  Emily hesitated a beat, looking first at Nesbitt and then at the handsome Gentleman Escort. Then Graham shot her one of his dazzler smiles, and the deal was sealed.

  “I believe I would like to dance,” she said, taking Graham’s hand and beaming as he led her onto the dance floor.

  “Honestly, Robbie,” Nesbitt huffed, bristling with annoyance. “Your aunt shouldn’t be dancing so soon after dinner. It’s bad for her digestion. You know what a weak stomach she has.”

  “Her stomach’s fine, Leona. You’re turning her into an old lady before her time.”

  “I think it’s very sweet,” Maggie piped up as Graham led Emily in a courtly fox-trot.

  Kyle groaned in exasperation.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie. It’s not sweet. It’s obscene. The man is young enough to be her son.”

  “It’s just a dance, Kyle,” Robbie said. “Lighten up. Oh, wait, I forgot. You’re constitutionally incapable of that.”

  Then he turned to me and, gesturing to the dance floor, asked, “Shall we?”

  Once more, I warned myself not to get involved, and once more I caved like the marshmallow I am.

  Out on the dance floor, Cookie was belting out “Just in Time,” smiling indulgently as Graham twirled Emily around. She winked when she saw me with Robbie.

  My temperature scooched up a few notches as he took me in his arms. Up close he was even cuter than he’d been across the dinner table. And he smelled like baby powder. I don’t know about you, but I’m a sucker for a guy who smells like baby powder.

  “I’m a big fan of your work,” he said, his bad-boy grin back in action.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters! I’ve seen it on bus stops all over town. I’m assuming you wrote that.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “No, really. It’s very catchy.”

  “If you’ve seen my ad, you must live in Los Angeles.”

  “In Santa Monica,” he nodded. “The others live out in Pasadena. I’m the rebel of the clan.”

  “I’ll bet you are.”

  “I never joined the family brokerage firm like Kyle. Instead, I moved out to the beach and got a job as a lifeguard. Now I make surfboards for a living.”

  Not exactly a captain of industry, but who cared? I’d long since given up trying to resist him. We finished that dance and started another. And another. I was floating around on a dreamy cloud, awash in a puddle of melted resolutions, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.

  I turned to see who it was and my heart sank.

  Oh, crud. It was Anton, the ice sculptor, decked out in Bermuda shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt, his ponytail specially greased for the occasion.

  “May I steal this lovely young lady for a dance?” he asked Robbie.

  Say no, say no, say no, say no! I pleaded silently.

  But my prayers went unanswered.

  I gulped in dismay as Robbie shot me a rueful smile and turned me over to Anton, who instantly clutched me in a death grip and dragged me around the dance floor, mauling my toes with his two left feet, yakking about some swans he’d carved out of kielbasa sausage for a Polish wedding.

  I counted the seconds till the song was over. But then, to my horror, I realized it was just the first in a medley of tunes, one song leading to another. And so I was trapped with Anton and his two lethal feet through a fox-trot, a mambo, and—horror of horrors—a jitterbug.

  At last the music stopped and the nightmare came to an end.

  “That was fun, wasn’t it?” Anton asked in all seriousness.

  “Yes, very.” Like childbirth with a crowbar.

  I couldn’t wait to get back to where I’d left off with Robbie. But when I looked around the room, there was no sign of him.

  So much for shipboard romance.

  “So,” Anton asked, “how about a moonlight stroll on dec
k?”

  Not if he were the last ponytailed, sausage-sculpting bad dancer on earth—which he may well have been.

  “Thanks, Anton, but I’m exhausted. I think I’m going to turn in.”

  And before he could stop me, I scooted to the exit. The last thing I saw as I headed out to freedom was Emily Pritchard out on the dance floor, still tripping the light fantastic with Graham.

  It looked like dancing was good for her digestion after all.

  I wasn’t lying when I told Anton I was exhausted. After all the tumult of my first day at sea, I was in serious need of a tranquilizer or three. When the heck was the relaxing part of this vacation going to kick in?

  I hurried along the corridor, checking over my shoulder to make sure Anton wasn’t following me. Then, with the unerring accuracy of a homing pigeon, I returned to the buffet, where I picked up some roast beef for Prozac and a restorative dose of brownies for me.

  It was too bad about Robbie ditching me, I thought, as I stowed my booty in some napkins. He probably saw a better-looking pair of functioning ovaries and decided to make a play for them. What did I tell you about the cute ones? Trouble with a capital T.

  Banishing all thoughts of the beach bum with the bad-boy grin, I took the elevator down to my cabin in the Dungeon Deck.

  I was feeling a bit guilty about leaving Prozac alone for so long, stuck in that tiny closet of a room. But it was her own fault, I reminded myself. Nobody asked her to sneak into the trunk of my car.

  As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about Prozac being lonely. Because when I opened the door to my cabin, I saw she had company.

  There, sitting in the cabin’s only chair with Prozac on his lap, was my steward Samoa.

  “Good evening, Ms. Austen,” he said, with a sly smile.

  After recovering from what I’m certain was a mild coronary, I managed to squeak, “What are you doing here?”

  “Samoa came to turn down bed.”

  Oh, rats. I’d forgotten to call housekeeping and cancel my maid service.

  “Such a pretty kitty,” he said, stroking Prozac.

  I only hoped he didn’t come from a country where she was considered an entrée.

  “Such a pity,” he said, “if kitty winds up in quarantine.”