Killer Cruise

by Laura Levine

  She sat down next to Max and smiled up at me. Thank heavens this one seemed pleasant.

  “Now I want each of you to write about a first in your life. Your first date. Your first job. Your first day at school—”

  “Can I write about my first colonoscopy?” Max asked. “It’s where I met my second wife.”

  Talk about your love connections.

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Wait a minute,” Rita piped up, poking a finger through her wiry curls to scratch her scalp. “Aren’t you going to talk about your books?”

  I refrained from telling her that, aside from You and Your Garbage Disposal, I had no books to talk about.

  “No, Rita, I’m afraid not.”

  “But Mary Higgins Clark told us all about her books,” she pouted.

  “She sold her first book,” she said, turning to the others to spread the news, “when she was widowed with five children!”

  “How interesting.” I forced myself to keep smiling. “But as I’ve already explained, this is a writing course.”

  “But I thought we’d be hearing stories,” Rita whined.

  “The only stories in this class will be yours,” I said firmly. “Now, let’s start writing, shall we?”

  Rita’s hand shot up.

  “Are we going to be graded on penmanship?”

  “There are no grades. Just write.”

  By now, I was thisclose to giving her a wedgie.

  Nancy and David, the married couple, picked up their pens and started writing with gusto. The others were a tad less enthused. A lot of ceiling-staring and what I suspect was doodling ensued. But at last I saw pens crawling across paper. The writing process had begun.

  The only one who wasn’t writing was the old lady who’d come in after the class began. Instead, she’d taken a pair of knitting needles from her tote bag and was clacking away at what looked like an argyle sweater.

  “Aren’t you going to write anything, Amanda?” I asked. “It’s fun once you get started. Just pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend.”

  “Oh, no thank you, dear.” Another sweet smile. “I’ve already written postcards to my friends back home.”

  “Don’t you want to write about your life?”

  “Oh, no, dear. Living it was enough for me.”

  Clearly the woman was not operating with a full deck, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to see a smiling face.

  For the next hour I continued to swim upstream with this bunch. Rita kept punctuating every assignment with tidbits from the Mary Higgins Clark files. In a stage whisper that could be heard all the way to Cabo San Lucas, she kept up a running commentary on how much more famous and entertaining Mary Higgins Clark was than yours truly.

  At first I was gratified to see Kenny, the teenager, writing industriously, but when I peeked over his shoulder I realized he’d been busy perfecting his pornographic cartoon skills.

  Max nodded off somewhere during the second writing assignment, his jackhammer snores echoing in the empty restaurant.

  But on the plus side, you’ll be happy to know that Amanda got a lot of work done on her argyle sweater.

  My only shining lights were the married couple, who attacked their assignments with gusto.

  At last, sixty painful minutes had come to an end. Not a nanosecond too soon.

  “That’s all the time we have for today,” I said, hoping they couldn’t hear the relief in my voice.

  Kenny’s hand shot up from the back.

  “If there’s homework, I’m not coming back tomorrow.”

  “There’s no homework, Kenny. Just bring in what you wrote today, and we’ll take turns reading aloud.

  “See you all tomorrow!” I said, smiling my most appealing smile. As motley a crew as they were, I couldn’t afford to lose a single one of them. “Any questions before we go?”

  My sweet, white-haired lady raised her hand.

  “Just one, Professor Heinmann,” she said. “When are you going to tell us about your Arctic explorations?”

  Chapter 5

  Talk about your demoralizing experiences.

  I wanted nothing more than to trot over to the Tiki Lounge and bolster my sagging ego with a frosty margarita, but it was only 11 A.M. and I simply could not justify glugging down tequila at that hour of the morning.

  Besides, I needed to keep my brain cells perky for their upcoming bout with Samoa’s masterpiece.

  So I trudged back to my cabin, where I found Prozac clawing on a cashmere sweater she’d dragged from my closet. Several pieces of my underwear were also scattered gaily on the cabin floor.

  “I’m glad you’ve been having fun,” I snapped, picking up the mess. “I’ve been through utter hell.”

  She scampered to my side and sniffed my ankles, then looked up at me with big green eyes that could mean only one thing:

  So where are my snacks?

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Pro, you ate enough ham this morning to feed an NFL quarterback. I’ll bring you something later.”

  After scribbling a note to Samoa, asking him to pretty please bring me another pillow, I grabbed his manuscript and headed up to the pool deck. I found a spot in a secluded nook far from the frolicking crowds at the pool and settled down to do battle with Do Not Distub.

  The less said about Samoa’s opus the better. Let’s just put it this way: I’d read better plots in my DVD manual. I spent the next few hours gritting my teeth in frustration, trying to decipher his minuscule scrawl.

  All the while I could hear the happy shrieks of vacationers splashing in the pool.

  For a mad instant, I considered tossing the whole ghastly mess overboard. But sanity prevailed and I slogged on, breaking only for a late lunch at the buffet (a heavenly roast beef panini, with just the weensiest chocolate chip cookie or three for dessert).

  When at last my eyeballs were begging for mercy, I packed it in.

  I was heading past the pool en route to my cabin when I heard someone call my name.

  I turned and saw Emily Pritchard surrounded by her entourage: Kyle and his wife, Maggie; the formidable Ms. Nesbitt; and, of course, Adorable Robbie, who was looking particularly adorable in cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt.

  With a jaunty wave, Emily beckoned me to join them.

  As I made my way across the deck, I became aware of someone else in the Pritchard party. Cookie’s boyfriend, Graham, dashing as ever in his nautical blazer, was standing at Emily’s side. I hadn’t seen him at first, so engrossed had I been in Robbie’s cutoffs. But there he was, his hand resting most chummily on Emily’s elbow.

  How odd. I didn’t think the hired dancers were allowed to fraternize with the passengers off the dance floor.

  “Jaine, how lovely to see you.” Emily beamed as I approached.

  “Is that a manuscript you’re carrying?” Nesbitt asked, catching sight of Samoa’s masterwork in my arms.

  I nodded wearily. I preferred to think of it as recyclable waste, but I suppose technically it was a manuscript.

  “How marvelous!” Emily gushed. “We get to see your new book before anybody else.”

  Clearly she hadn’t glommed on to the fact that I was not a famous author.

  “Actually, this isn’t my book. I’m editing it for a friend.”

  “How exciting! Isn’t that exciting, everybody?”

  “Oh, yes!” Maggie said, as Kyle stifled a yawn.

  “Do Not Distub?” Nesbitt sniffed at the cover page as if it were a dead rat.

  “And what have you guys been up to?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

  “We’ve had such a fun day,” Emily said. “We’ve been busy shopping.”

  Indeed, I looked down and saw they were all carrying shopping bags from the Holiday gift shop.

  “I always like to treat everybody to little souvenirs of our cruises.”

  “Really, you shouldn’t, Aunt Emily,” Maggie said. “You’re much too generous.”

  “I’ll say,
” Kyle snapped, darting a none-too-subtle glance at the shopping bag dangling from Graham’s wrist.

  “Yes, my dear,” Graham said in his velvety British accent. “It was much appreciated—but most unnecessary.”

  “It was my pleasure, Graham,” Emily said, beaming up at him.

  Up to this point, I’d been avoiding eye contact with Robbie. After the way he’d ditched me last night, I was determined to play it cool. But now I couldn’t resist taking a peek at his face. And the minute I did, he hit me with his bad-boy grin.

  Oh, rats. Why did he have to be so darn cute?

  I stiffened my resolve to be cool and distant and unattainable.

  But before I got a chance to give him the snub he so richly deserved, our peppy social director, Paige, got on the mike and announced that an exciting ice sculpture demonstration was about to begin.

  Sure enough, I turned to see Anton seated at a table not far from us, with some ice picks and a big block of ice.

  “Ooh, let’s watch!” Emily said, with childlike enthusiasm.

  “I’m afraid I can’t, my dear,” Graham said. “I’ve got some important business matters to attend to.”

  “What a pity.” Emily’s face fell.

  “But I hope to see more of you later, sweet Emily.”

  Then he took her liver-spotted hand in his and kissed it. Wow, this guy was Cary Grant and Hugh Grant rolled into one.

  Emily stared after him, dreamy-eyed, as he walked off.

  Kyle was staring after him, too, with the wary, calculating look of a pit bull whose turf has just been threatened.

  “C’mon,” Ms. Nesbitt said, grabbing Emily’s elbow. “Let’s go see that ice sculpture.”

  “Yes, let’s!” Maggie seconded, hustling us over to get a better view.

  I tried to stay in the background, off Anton’s radarscope, but unfortunately he saw me in the crowd and waved.

  I smiled weakly and waved back.

  I have to admit, Anton lived up to his own hype.

  He wielded his ice picks with dramatic flair, picking and chipping away with the deftness of a neurosurgeon. Oohs and ahs erupted from the crowd as a bust of George Washington gradually emerged from the ice.

  He finished with a flourish, and the crowd broke out in applause. He was so proud of himself, I was surprised he wasn’t joining in.

  It was then that I heard Robbie’s voice in my ear.

  “So how’s it going?”

  I turned to face him, and in spite of myself, I felt my heart do a two-step.

  “You all set for Formal Night tonight?” he asked.

  Oh, rats. I’d forgotten all about that. I still hadn’t rented an outfit.

  “Maybe afterward,” he was saying, “we can go—”

  I never did hear where Robbie wanted to go, because just then Anton, ignoring the people who’d gathered to chat with him, came barging between us.

  Before I knew it, he had me cornered, his bright orange face just inches from mine. I watched helplessly as Robbie shrugged in defeat and backed away.

  “So, Jaine,” Anton said, “when am I going to get to do your bust?”

  Some other lifetime, mister.

  “Seriously, doll, I’d love for us to get better acquainted.” He smiled his version of a sexy smile, exposing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “How about we rendezvous at my cabin tonight and I’ll show you my instruments?”

  Oh, wow. This guy was about as subtle as the bubonic plague.

  “Sorry, Anton, I’m not interested.”

  “C’mon, baby. All the ship’s employees fool around with each other. It’s a nautical tradition.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to carry on that proud tradition without me.”

  “Whattsa matter? You married? No problemo. I am too. What happens on board stays on board.”

  This said with a most nauseating leer.

  “So how about it, sweetheart? You ready for a ride in my love machine?”

  Oh, puh-leese. The only thing I was ready for was a barf bag.

  “Sorry, Anton. Still not interested.”

  “That’s okay, babe,” he said, eyeing me like a sirloin in a butcher’s case. “I like a challenge.”

  On that ominous note, he slithered away.

  Alone at last, I looked around for Robbie, but once more, he was gone with the wind.

  Chapter 6

  “Omigod. I look just like my grandmother.” I was standing in the ship’s Formal Wear rental shop, staring at my reflection in a three-way mirror. And I swear I was wearing the same outfit my grandmother wore to my cousin Joanie’s wedding: a long funereal black skirt, topped off with a matronly gold beaded twinset.

  “Isn’t this a little on the dowdy side?” I asked the saleslady helping me.

  She was a tall, regal dame with her hair pulled back in a bun so tight I was surprised it wasn’t coming out at the roots.

  “You just need to accessorize it,” she said with a brittle smile.

  With what? A walker?

  “Don’t you have anything a little snazzier?”

  “Not in your size, I’m afraid.”

  Well, excuuuse me for not being a size two.

  “How about this one?” She held out a blob of dreary black lace.

  “Wasn’t Queen Victoria buried in something like this?”

  “Very amusing.” But like Queen Vicky herself, she did not look the least bit amused.

  I stared at the gold-and-black number I was wearing and sighed. It was Dowdy Central, but at least it was better than Queen Victoria’s shroud.

  “So what’s it going to be?” the saleslady asked, more than a hint of impatience in her voice. “You going to take it?”

  I took it, all right. And paid a hundred and twenty bucks for the privilege.

  I trudged back to the cabin with my granny outfit, stopping off at the buffet to pick up some poached salmon for Prozac. (Okay, and some peanut butter cookies for me. After an afternoon with Do Not Distub, I deserved them.)

  When I opened my cabin door, I found Prozac pacing restlessly.

  “Hi, sweetheart!” I crooned. “Mommy brought you dinner!”

  She shot me a dirty look.

  It’s about time.

  She practically knocked me over when I put her plate down, so eager was she to bury her pink nose in the stuff.

  I was just about to hang my rented togs in my closet when I heard voices raised in Cookie’s cabin next door.

  Now I realize someone of your high moral caliber would never do something as tacky as eavesdrop, but I had no such compunctions. In no time flat, I had my ear glued to the wall.

  “Are you nuts,” I heard Cookie saying, “spending the day with the old lady like that? You know you’re not supposed to socialize with passengers off the dance floor. You could get fired.”

  “Don’t worry, darling.” Graham’s velvety British accent was unmistakable. “They’ll never fire me. I’m very good at what I do.”

  “A little too good, if you ask me,” Cookie huffed. “Why did you have to spend so much time with her, anyway?”

  “Oh, sweetheart. She’s a lonely old lady looking for a little companionship.”

  “Lonely? She’s traveling with her own posse.”

  “Surely you’re not jealous? Besides, I told her all about us.”

  “You did?” Cookie’s voice began to soften.

  “Absolutely. In fact, she gave me the name of a wonderful jeweler in Los Angeles who’ll give us a good price on our wedding rings.”

  “Wedding rings?” she gasped.

  “Of course, darling. That’s what one usually buys when one gets married.”

  I have to admit, I was a tad surprised. After the way Emily had been mooning over Graham, it was hard to picture her playing matchmaker for another woman.

  “Oh, Gray!” Cookie’s voice was all melty now. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, you always change the subject when I bring up marriage. I was beginning to think—well, no matter. I was wrong. I�
�m sorry I made such a fuss about the old lady. It’s just that I hardly got to see you all day.”

  “That’s why I’m here now, sweetheart,” he purred. “To make up for lost time.”

  At which point, I heard the faint whine of bedsprings. Uh-oh. Looked like things were about to get X-rated. My cue to head off for the shower.

  At home I like to soak away my cares in a strawberry-scented bathtub. No such luxury here on the Dungeon Deck. All I had was a shower the size of a phone booth. I spent the next ten minutes trying not to impale myself on the soap dish, all the while breathing in the heady aroma of Prozac’s litter box.

  I dried myself off with a threadbare towel not much larger than a dishcloth, then slipped into my robe and undies. I took my time moisturizing and perfume-spritzing and blow-drying my hair.

  But then I could avoid it no longer. The moment of truth had arrived.

  I took a deep breath and put on my rented togs.

  “What do you think, Pro?”

  She sniffed at the hem of my skirt much like she sniffs our garbage back home. Not a good sign.

  I forced myself to look in the mirror, and once more I saw my grandmother looking back at me. Oh, crud. What would Robbie think when he saw me looking like a poster girl for PoliGrip?

  I was standing there wondering what the penalty was for showing up on Formal Night in a pair of sweats when I heard a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” I called out cautiously.

  “It’s me. Cookie.”

  I opened the door and saw her leaning against my doorjamb in a short satin nightie.

  “Oh, Jaine,” she said, drifting into my cabin on a cloud of post-whoopie bliss. “I had to share the good news with you! Graham was just in my cabin.”

  So I’d heard.

  “And he asked me to marry him!”

  “That’s wonderful! When’s the happy day?”

  “We didn’t exactly set a date, but Graham said he knows a place where he can buy our wedding rings.”

  She plopped down on my bed and sighed.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am. Before long, I’m going to be Mrs. Cookie Esposito Palmer III!”

  I smiled weakly. Something told me Cookie might have been jumping the gun a wee bit. Just because Graham knew where to buy a wedding ring didn’t mean he was actually prepared to slip it on her finger. And I wasn’t sure I even bought that wedding ring story in the first place.