Killer Cruise

by Laura Levine

  Talk about the Queen of Denial. Just because Robbie had a great tan and a seductive grin, I’d ruled him out as a potential killer.

  But not anymore.

  It was time to rein in my hormones and do something I should have done ages ago: break into his cabin and search for Graham’s missing cuff links.

  And so first thing the next morning I tracked down Samoa on his housekeeping rounds and threw myself on his mercy.

  “Please, Samoa,” I begged as he swabbed down a bathtub, “you’ve got to let me borrow that passkey.”

  He got up from the tub and clamped his arms resolutely across his chest.

  “Samoa has two words for you, missy—Im Possible.”

  “I swear I’ll bring it right back.”

  “Samoa no can do,” he said, now swabbing the sink with gusto.

  He sure as heck never cleaned my bathroom this well. I was lucky he brought me toilet paper.

  “But it’s a matter of life and death,” I wailed, exaggerating just a tad.

  “Samoa no can do,” he repeated firmly.

  I spent a few more minutes groveling, but he stuck with his “no can do” mantra.

  What a pill. After all the editing I was doing for him, you’d think he’d let me have the stupid passkey.

  Finally, I gave up and left him arranging towels on the towel rack. Which, I couldn’t help noticing, were a damn sight fluffier than the car-wash rejects he brought me. I headed back out to the corridor and, in a moment of rebellion, swiped a couple of shampoos from his cart. That’d show him!

  Oh, well. Who needed his silly passkey anyway? I’d just have to think of a way to break into Robbie’s cabin without it.

  But before I could break into Robbie’s cabin, I still had one more class to teach.

  I dreaded showing my face after the Nancy and David Shaw fiasco, but I had no choice. I had a contract to honor. And we Austens always honor our commitments. Unless, of course, we can think of a really good excuse to get out of them.

  I dragged myself over to the cavernous restaurant that served as my classroom.

  All that was left of my original crew were Max, the napper; Amanda, the knitter; and Kenny, the Scarlet Letter scholar.

  On the plus side, I was thrilled to see that Rita wasn’t there.

  At last, a ray of sunshine.

  A ray that was quickly snuffed out when my wiry-haired nemesis came ambling in at the last minute with her two buddies—senoritas Marilyn and Judy.

  “I brought my friends along,” Rita informed me as she breezed past me with her gal pals in tow. “They had an hour to kill before Jazzercise.”

  “Actually, Rita, only enrolled students are permitted to take the class.”

  “You certainly have the space,” she sneered, gesturing to the empty restaurant.

  “Oh, all right,” I sighed.

  By now, I was a beaten woman. I’d given up all hope of teaching memoir writing to this bunch anyway. My only two eager students were long gone and, thanks to me, now on the brink of divorce.

  With faint heart, I proceeded to hand out a series of writing exercises. All of which were pretty much ignored as Amanda knitted, Rita gabbed with her posse, and Max caught up on his naps. On the plus side, I think Kenny got a lot of work done on his Scarlet Letter book report.

  And to tell the truth, I wasn’t exactly concentrating either.

  All I could think about was that my shipboard romance, along with my apartment, had gone up in smoke. (Yes, once again I had been foolish enough to read my e-mails.)

  I spent most of the hour (a) trying to figure out a way to break into Robbie’s cabin and (b) kicking myself for not buying renter’s insurance.

  At last fifty-five minutes had crawled by and the class was drawing to a close.

  “Any final questions?” I asked.

  Kenny raised his hand. I perked up. Was it possible that my class had inspired the lad in some small way?

  “Yes, Kenny?”

  “I wanna know, does Scarlet have one t or two?”

  So much for inspiration.

  “One t,” I sighed.

  “How about ‘letter’?” my budding scholar wanted to know.

  Did these kids learn nothing in school?

  I checked my watch and saw that it was time to put an end to my misery.

  “Well, everyone, it looks like our time is up. I want to thank you all for participating in our little workshop. I hope it’s just the beginning of your adventures in the wonderful world of writing. Now would somebody please wake Max up?”

  Kenny nudged Max awake, and the two of them filed out of class together.

  “Cool class,” I heard Kenny saying on his way out. “Especially the fight the other day. I shot a video of it on my cell phone. When I get home, I’m gonna put it on YouTube.”

  Oh, great. Just what the Shaws needed. A worldwide audience for their breakup.

  Then, much to my surprise, Rita approached with her posse.

  “Would you mind signing this?” she said, handing me a paper cocktail napkin.

  “You want my autograph?” I asked, stunned.

  Maybe I’d won her over after all. Maybe somehow I’d managed to gain her respect.

  “In case you ever get famous,” she said, exchanging smirks with her buddies. “It might be worth something on eBay.”

  I smiled stiffly and scribbled out my name on the napkin, leaving out the i in Jaine.

  If I did get famous someday, I’d be damned if she’d make a penny.

  By now, only Amanda was left in the class, still busy knitting.

  “The class is over, Amanda,” I called out to her.

  “Just one minute, honey. I’m almost through.” With that, she took out a pair of tiny scissors and snipped off the yarn, completing her handiwork.

  Then she gathered her things together and walked over to me.

  “I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your delightful class,” she said. “Especially that interesting play we saw last week. About the couple getting a divorce. So very lifelike!”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Amanda.”

  “And as a token of my appreciation I hope you’ll accept this little present.”

  With that, she handed me what she’d been knitting: a bright red pot holder.

  “You made this for me?”

  “You can use it around the campfire on your Arctic explorations,” she nodded.

  “Oh, Amanda!” I said, wrapping her in a hug. “This is the nicest thing that’s happened to me on the whole darn cruise.”

  And it was. So what if the woman’s porch light was a little dim? She was the one passenger on this ship who appreciated me!

  I watched her walk away and came thisclose to crying. But I had to pull myself together. We part-time semi-professional P.I.s do not bust out crying over hand-knit pot holders.

  So without any further ado, I blinked back my tears, squared my shoulders, and set out to trap a killer.

  I’d come up with a plan. Somehow I’d get Robbie to invite me to his cabin, and once we were there, I’d miraculously think of a way to get rid of him and search for the cuff links. True, I hadn’t worked out all the details. But it was better than nothing.

  Unfortunately, my plan got off to a dismal start. I scoured the ship from stem to stern, but there was no sign of Robbie anywhere.

  Finally, I gave up and sought solace at the buffet.

  And that’s when my luck turned. Just as I was scarfing down a most delicious ham and cheese panini, I glanced up and saw Robbie hurrying toward me.

  “Jaine! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  “Mmfff,” I said, my mouth full of panini.

  “Ms. Nesbitt told me I’d probably find you in the buffet stuffing your face.”

  Okay, so he didn’t say the part about me stuffing my face, but you can bet your bottom Pop-Tart that Nesbitt did.

  “I’ve been so worried about you,” he said, sitting across from me. “Are you okay?”
<
br />   He looked at me with such concern, for a minute I wondered if I was wrong about him. Maybe he was nowhere near me in the water. Maybe Miguel was right. Maybe I did cut my hose on a rock.

  Then again, maybe he was just a damn good actor.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m afraid I overreacted yesterday.”

  “It’s all my fault. I should’ve never let you out of my sight.”

  “It’s okay. Really.”

  “Are you sure? Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

  Time to launch Phase I of my plan.

  “Now that you ask, I wouldn’t mind some company this afternoon. I guess I am a bit shaken.”

  “Of course you are. And I insist on hanging out together.”

  He hit me with one of his lopsided grins, but for once, my heart did not go into meltdown mode.

  “So what do you feel like doing?” he asked.

  “Hey, I know!” I said as if I’d just thought of it. “How about a game of Scrabble?”

  “Sure! Scrabble sounds great.”

  “Okay,” I said, faking a smile. “Let’s do it!”

  “This should be fun,” he said, as we got up to go. “But I’ve got to warn you. I’m a killer player.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

  We made our way over to the game room, looking like just another happy couple on vacation. Hah. If people only knew.

  “Here we go,” Robbie said, reaching for a Scrabble set.

  I thought back to just a few nights ago when we were here in this same room hiding out from Anton. All I wanted then was to be alone with him, to have him take me in his arms and kiss me.

  Now my palms were clammy at the thought of being stranded with him in his cabin.

  “You want to play out by the pool?” he asked.

  “It’s so noisy out there,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Why don’t we go up to your cabin?”

  “Um, sure.”

  He blinked, surprised. I could tell he was taken aback. Maybe he thought I was using Scrabble as an excuse to get frisky. Best to nip that thought in the bud.

  “We can play out on your verandah,” I said. “You do have one, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  I figured he would, being up on the big-bucks deck.

  “Wonderful! My cabin doesn’t even have a window, and I’d love to spend at least one afternoon on a private verandah before the cruise is over.”

  “One private verandah coming right up!”

  “Terrific,” I said, as we took off for his cabin.

  Phase I of my plan had been a success.

  Now all I needed was a Phase II.

  Chapter 22

  It was another glorious day at sea, the sun glinting off the water, a gentle breeze wafting through the air.

  Out on Robbie’s verandah, I gazed over at my murder suspect, who was busy turning Scrabble tiles blank side up, his sun-bleached hair flopping onto his forehead, his knees knobby in cutoff jeans. And once more, I began having doubts.

  Try as I might, it was hard to picture him as a cold-blooded killer. That caring look in his eyes when he saw me at the buffet seemed so genuine. Was he really that good an actor?

  For a fleeting instant I was tempted to abandon my plan and just enjoy the afternoon playing Scrabble. But no, I had to hang tough. I couldn’t let a pair of floppy bangs and knobby knees stand in the way of my investigation. I had to find out once and for all if Robbie was guilty.

  The question was: How?

  “Jaine? You ready to play?”

  Robbie’s tiles were already lined up on his rack.

  And then it came to me. I knew what to do.

  “Gee, Robbie,” I said, with an apologetic smile, “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not really in the mood for Scrabble after all.”

  “Oh?” He looked up, surprised.

  “I’d much rather play gin rummy. Would you mind awfully going back to the game room and getting a deck of cards?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  I could tell he thought I was a bit of a ditz, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading into the cabin.

  The minute I heard the door slam, I jumped up and dashed inside, making a beeline for the safe in his closet.

  Okay, this was it. My golden opportunity. All I had to do was punch in the override code—

  Omigosh. The override code! What the heck was it?? It had totally slipped my mind! How could I have been so stupid not to bring it with me? I wracked my brain trying to think of the mnemonic device I’d come up with to help me remember it.

  Did an 89-year-old man marry a 36-year-old woman and have 2 children?

  Frantically I punched in 89362.

  No luck. Maybe a 36-year-old married an 82-year-old and had 9 children. No, that didn’t work either. Okay, maybe a 28-year-old married a 93-year-old and had—

  “Jaine! What are you doing?”

  Oh, God. It was Robbie.

  I whirled around and saw him standing behind me. I’d been so engrossed in my silly mnemonic device, I hadn’t heard him come in.

  “What are you doing back so soon?” I sputtered.

  “When I got to the elevator, I realized I had a deck of cards in my desk drawer. But that’s beside the point. The question is: what are you doing at my safe?”

  By now his eyes had turned icy cold.

  How on earth was I going to get out of this? What could I possibly say? Just trying to convict you of murder?

  “I was…um…I was looking for the bathroom,” I said, skittering past him, praying he wouldn’t whip out a hidden ice pick.

  “The bathroom is over there,” he said, pointing clear across the room.

  “No wonder I couldn’t find it. I’ve got such a terrible sense of direction. Honest. I can’t even figure out where I am in the YOU ARE HERE signs.”

  But Robbie wasn’t interested in my fictional lack of navigation skills.

  “I think you’d better go now,” he said.

  “Yeah, I guess I should. Hope I can find my way to the elevator, ha-ha.”

  I smiled feebly.

  A smile that, needless to say, was not returned.

  Something told me I’d seen the last of his lopsided grins.

  I slinked off in disgrace, kicking myself for messing things up so badly. For crying out loud, even Prozac could have done a better job.

  Trudging down the corridor to my cabin, I glanced up and saw that the door to Cookie’s cabin was open. I peeked inside, and there she was, laying out some clothing on her bed.

  Omigosh, they’d let her go! The captain must’ve found the real killer. In spite of my botched investigation, Cookie was a free woman!

  “Cookie!” I cried as I raced to her side. “They’ve let you go.”

  “Not exactly,” she replied, nodding to a fireplug of a security guy who’d squeezed himself into her tiny armchair. “They’re just letting me pack my things before we dock tomorrow.”

  Then she reached into her closet and took down a suitcase.

  “Oh.” My heart sank.

  “Tony,” Cookie said to the fireplug as she plopped the suitcase on her bed, “give us a minute or two alone, okay?”

  “I dunno,” he said, his brow furrowed in what I was certain was unaccustomed thought. “The captain said I should stay with you.”

  “Give me a break, Tony. What do you think she’s going to do—help me tunnel my way to freedom?”

  “Oh, okay.” He reluctantly pried himself from the chair. “But I’ll be right outside.”

  The minute he lumbered off, Cookie turned to me eagerly.

  “Well? Did you have any luck? Did you find out who really killed Graham?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said, feeling about as clever as Tony.

  “Oh.”

  “I have my eye on someone but I have no proof.”

  She forced a smile. “Oh, well. At least you tried.”

  I
stood by helplessly as she started tossing clothes into her suitcase.

  “I hope it hasn’t been too awful for you in the brig.”

  “It’s not so bad. The pillows are no lumpier than the ones here on the Paradise Deck. But I suppose it’s the Taj Mahal compared to what it’s going to be like in jail.”

  “I feel so responsible for all this,” I sighed. “If only I’d done a better job, you wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

  “Are you kidding?” She looked up from her packing. “You tried to help. I was the one crazy enough to get involved with Graham.

  “When I think of all the years I wasted on that bum,” she said, hurling a handful of underwear into the suitcase. “Never seeing through his lies, loaning him money for his silk shirts and his Botox shots and his Italian loafers. What an idiot I was.”

  Join the club, I felt like telling her, thinking of what a sap I’d been to fall for Robbie.

  “Look, Cookie,” I said, picking up a pair of panty hose that had fallen on the carpet, “I promise I won’t give up when we get to L.A. I’ll keep on investigating until I find the killer.”

  I smiled bravely but it was all a front. I’d pretty much given up hope.

  If Robbie knew I suspected him of murder, he was probably tossing those cuff links in the Pacific at this very minute.

  Chapter 23

  I spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in my cabin hacking away at Samoa’s manuscript.

  With an iron will, and a couple of Tylenol, I managed to make it through the chapter where our intrepid hero, ship’s-steward-cum-secret-agent Samoa Huffington III (son of a colorful native hula dancer and a British earl), disarms a nuclear bomb with a toilet bowl plunger from his steward’s cart.

  See? All along I told you this stuff was beyond belief, and you scoffed. You thought to yourself, she’s got to be exaggerating. Now you know.

  By the time Secret Agent 12 1/2 (which also happened to be the size of his ginormous private part) had saved the world from nuclear destruction, it was time for dinner.