Princess Charming

by Jane Heller

  “It is International Night in the Palace Dining Room this evening,” said Ismet. “I am recommending the Wiener schnitzel.”

  “No way,” Rick protested. “I didn’t get all dressed up in this monkey suit to eat hot dogs.”

  “Wiener schnitzel is breaded veal, Rick,” Brianna seethed.

  “Then why didn’t Ishmael say so, huh?” said her husband of only a week.

  “Rick?” Brianna said.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Shut up,” she said and told Ismet she would be having the veal.

  While Rick brooded, the rest of us gave the waiter our orders. When Ismet departed, Pat began to pass around the “memory book” she’d bought in the ship’s gift shop. It was a small, hardbound volume, the cover of which featured the Princess Charming’s logo and the date of our cruise, the inside of which was filled with blank pages.

  “I hate to impose during mealtime, but I do hope that each of you will take a moment to write your address and phone number down in my little souvenir book,” she said. “I think it would be lovely if we could all exchange Christmas cards through the years.”

  “Hey, Pat. I’ve gotta remember that memory book thing the next time I want a guy’s address and phone number,” Jackie said, slurring her words, her face flushed with the champagne.

  She’s getting smashed, I realized when I checked out the bottle of Dom Perignon. It was half empty, and we hadn’t even had our first course yet. Obviously, Kenneth had been refilling her glass at regular intervals.

  “Kenneth, would you or Gayle mind jotting down your address and phone number in my book and then passing it on to the others?” Pat asked, handing the book across the table to him.

  He deferred to Gayle. “Darling? Do you want to do the honors?”

  “No, Kenneth. You go ahead,” she said, not bothering to stifle a yawn. “You have better penmanship.”

  Kenneth took a few minutes to scribble in Pat’s book, then passed it on to Brianna, who scribbled in the book and passed it on to Dorothy, who scribbled in the book and passed it on to Simon, who scribbled some made-up address and phone number in Albany.

  Ismet brought our dinners, Jackie polished off several more glasses of champagne, and Simon and I kept glancing at our watches, wondering when—and whom—the hit man would strike. We were fidgety now, on edge. We barely touched our Wiener schnitzels.

  At one point, there was a loud commotion coming from a nearby table, and we all craned our necks to see what the trouble was.

  “Look. It’s Lenny Lubin,” I said, nudging Simon. “He’s so drunk, he probably doesn’t even know he tried to unzip the dress of the woman sitting next to him.”

  “He probably doesn’t feel that slap she just gave him either,” said Simon.

  “I think they’re asking him to leave the dining room,” said Pat, as we all watched the maître d’ scurry over to scold Lenny. There was a heated exchange, which ended with the maître d’ telling Lenny to go back to his cabin and sleep it off. “If you’re still hungry in a few hours, there’s always the midnight buffet,” he consoled him. Lenny rose shakily from the table, staggered past us, and exited the room.

  And I’d suspected him of being the hit man, too, I thought, marveling at how off-the-mark I was. Mr. Lube Job was too busy hitting on women to murder one.

  Things settled back down after Lenny’s departure. I leaned over and said to Simon, “Before Ismet comes by with the dessert cart, I’m going to make a quick trip to the Ladies’ Room.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, getting right up.

  “They don’t usually let men in Ladies’ Rooms,” I pointed out.

  “I’ll wait outside,” he insisted. “You’re not going anywhere alone. We’re down to the wire here, don’t forget.”

  “I guess I was trying to,” I admitted.

  Simon and I excused ourselves and headed for the rest rooms. “I’ll only be a minute,” I said before opening the door to the Ladies’ Room and discovering that there was a line, as there inevitably is in Ladies’ Rooms. I considered leaving and coming back later, but nature really was calling so I stuck around until a stall became available—one that was operational, that is. Simon had been waiting about ten minutes when I finally emerged.

  “Why is it that men can be in and out of public rest rooms in no time and women are forced to make a whole day of it?” I asked.

  “That’s one of life’s great imponderables,” Simon said and then kissed me on the mouth, suddenly, passionately.

  “Ummm,” I said. “Would you mind doing that again? I’ll be more prepared this time.”

  He obliged.

  “I want you to know something,” he said when we broke apart. “In case anything happens, I mean.”

  “Yes?” I said eagerly, hoping Simon was about to say those three magic words.

  “I want you to know that I…I’m grateful to you, Slim.”

  “Grateful?”

  He nodded. “It sounds so trite, but you’ve brought me back to life. I didn’t care about anything until I met you. Now, every day is an adventure.”

  “Simon, I’m happy if I’ve helped you. Really I am,” I said. “But trying to prevent a murder from being committed on a cruise ship is an adventure. It’s just possible that it’s the high drama of the situation that’s brought you back to life.”

  He shook his head. “You’re underrating your own specialness,” he said. “You make every day an adventure. I love being around you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  Hey, love was love. Simon hadn’t said he loved me, exactly, but I wasn’t about to split hairs.

  “We’d better go back to the others,” I suggested. “If tonight’s my last night on this earth, I’m not missing dessert.”

  We returned to the dining room and sat down at Table 186. I quickly noticed two things: that Ismet hadn’t come along with the dessert cart yet and that both Jackie and Kenneth were not in their chairs.

  “Where’s Jackie?” I asked Pat.

  “She said she was a little tipsy from the champagne and needed some fresh air,” Pat explained. “She went up to the Promenade Deck.”

  “By herself?” I said, feeling my heart race and the moisture in my mouth dry up.

  “Elaine,” Pat smiled tolerantly. “Jackie will be perfectly fine. She wasn’t that tipsy. Besides, she’s not up there alone. Kenneth went with her.”

  “Oh, so that’s where he is,” I said, relaxing slightly. Kenneth wasn’t a bruiser like Rick or a tall drink of water like Simon, but he could probably fight off the hit man if the need arose, I figured. Jackie would be safe with him, wouldn’t she?

  “My poor, deprived husband was dying to go on deck and actually smoke that cigar he’s always chewing on,” Gayle said, rolling her eyes as she fingered her pendant. “He said he wouldn’t be gone long, though. He asked me to order him a fruit tart when or if Ismet ever shows up with that dessert cart.” She frowned. “The help on this ship really isn’t what it should be.”

  Gayle’s remark led to a rather lively debate over the quality of Ismet’s service and how much everybody should tip him. I listened but sat rigidly in my chair, clutching Simon’s hand, waiting anxiously for Jackie to rejoin us.

  “Elaine? Sam?” Pat said when there was a lull in the conversation. “Would you both like to have a look through my memory book while we’re waiting for Ismet to bring the desserts? Everybody at the table contributed.”

  “That’s nice, Pat, but we’ll look through it later,” I said, begging off.

  She persisted. “You really must see the page where Kenneth wrote down the Cones’ address,” she said. “What a craftsman! He took an ordinary ballpoint pen and created a work of art! The way he scripted the letters.” She shook her head in amazement. “He’s as talented as those choreographers that do wedding invitations.”

  “Calligraphers,” I corrected her.

  She giggled. “Calligraphers.”

 
; Calligraphers. The word hung eerily in the air, like an organ chord in a minor key. There was no doubt in my mind that it had a special significance—a sinister significance. I knew I had used the word recently. In connection with the hit man, in fact. If only I could remember where or when.

  And then, of course, it dawned on me. On Simon, too.

  “Pat,” he said tightly. “Give us the book. Right away.”

  Looking perplexed by our change of heart, she nevertheless handed the book to Simon. He set it down on the table between us and flipped to the first page, Kenneth’s page.

  Gayle and Kenneth Cone

  Two Thistleberry Drive

  Short Hills, New Jersey 07078

  Simon and I looked at each other in horror. We didn’t have to be handwriting analysts to notice that the capital T’s in the Two and the Thistleberry, finished off as they were with distinctive little curlicues, matched exactly the fancy capital T’s that had caught our attention in the nursery rhyme—the nursery rhyme that had been slipped under Jackie’s stateroom door.

  “My God. I hope we’re not too late,” Simon said, bolting out of his chair and tearing out of the dining room.

  “Wait for me!” I yelled, chasing after him.

  “Where are you two going now?” Gayle called to us. “Ismet still hasn’t brought the dessert cart!”

  26

  “We’ll take the stairs,” Simon said when he saw that there was a swarm of people waiting for the elevator.

  I nodded, even though the four-story hike up to the Promenade Deck would be a major undertaking in my Ferragamo sandals. I removed them.

  “What do you think he’s doing to Jackie?” I said as we raced through the corridors.

  Simon didn’t answer.

  “What do you think provoked someone like Kenneth Cone to become a hit man?” I asked.

  Still no response.

  “Do you think Gayle is in on it too?” I tried again.

  “Slim, let’s find the damn stairwell and then worry about the rest of it, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  We ran and ran and ran, frantically searching for a door with an exit sign, trying our best not to knock over all the old people in walkers.

  We finally found the stairs and mounted them, several at a time. Dear God. Please let Jackie be all right, I prayed as we climbed.

  Deck 2. Deck 3. Deck 4. Deck 5. Forget all that StairMaster bullshit. Try taking four stories at a gallop if you want a real workout.

  By the time we got to Deck 6, Simon and I were both sweating profusely.

  “Do you think they’re still up here?” I said as we charged through the double doors onto the Promenade Deck.

  “I don’t know,” Simon said breathlessly, “but we’re about to find out.”

  We moved onto the running track, where he and I had spent such pleasant, carefree mornings together. The night was dark, with only a sliver of a moon, and the wind was bracing, as if to remind us that we were heading north, en route home to a frigid New York winter.

  There was hardly a soul on the Promenade Deck, what with the six-thirty seating still in the dining room and the eight-thirty seating waiting to get in. As we made our lap around the track, we came upon a straggler or two, but for the most part the deck was deserted.

  “Where could they be?” I said after we had just rounded the bow of the ship and hadn’t seen any sign of Kenneth or Jackie.

  “This is a big boat,” Simon said. “They could be all the way back in the stern.”

  The stern, yes. A chill ran through me as I recalled the tight, narrow area of the ship where Simon and I had shared our first kiss. It was dimly lit and overlooked the churning, foamy wake created by the 75,000-ton vessel—a noisy wake that would certainly camouflage a woman’s screams; a tumultuous wake that would carry a body out to sea so swiftly and violently that no one would ever find it.

  We kept running, kept going, kept searching for my friend and her killer. The track seemed endless, our pursuit fruitless—until we finally got to the rear of the ship and spotted them.

  Jackie was in Kenneth’s arms, about to be tossed over the mahogany railing, her silhouette that of a bride being carried over the threshold if not for her flailing and kicking and beating on Kenneth’s chest.

  “Take your hands off her, Kenneth!” Simon shouted.

  Kenneth spun around to see who had found him out. He seemed stunned, confused, uncertain.

  “Put her down, Kenneth!” I pleaded with him. “You don’t have to kill her. Whatever Peter’s paying you, we’ll double it!” What a sport.

  “Peter isn’t paying him anything,” Jackie called out to us, appearing more indignant than traumatized by the situation, oddly enough. “Peter blackmailed him into killing me.”

  So I was right when I’d suspected that the hit man was being pressured into doing the job.

  “Don’t take another step!” Kenneth warned us, holding Jackie closer to the railing, seemingly prepared to drop her into the shark-infested waters if we did or said the wrong thing. “I’ll kill her. I swear I will.”

  Now I understood why he had ordered the bottle of champagne for her at dinner, why he had tried to get her drunk: so she’d be less likely to resist.

  But she was resisting, despite the Dom Perignon and her recent illness, and Kenneth was taking some serious shots to the shins.

  “We’ve got to do something!” I said to Simon. “We’ve got to get her out of this!”

  “I’ve got a plan,” he said in hushed tones. “You keep Kenneth talking, keep him distracted. I’ll do the rest.” He started to back away from me, slowly, stealthily. When I was about to ask him what he was up to, he put his finger to his lips, indicating that I should just do as he’d instructed.

  “So Kenneth,” I said, trying to strike up a casual conversation with the man who had my friend’s life literally in his hands. “Maybe there’s a way to get Peter off your back without killing Jackie. For instance, you could call him tonight and tell him that the job was all taken care of. Then, the minute the ship docks in Miami tomorrow morning, Jackie could go and live in Newfoundland or someplace like that. Peter would never be the wiser.”

  Kenneth shook his head. “Forget about it. I’m not calling Peter.”

  “Okay. Then Simon could call him and pretend to be you,” I suggested.

  “Who’s Simon?” Jackie said, momentarily halting her attacks on Kenneth’s body.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you on our next vacation.”

  “Shut up. Both of you,” Kenneth demanded, getting back to business.

  “Kenneth,” I said in my most soothing voice. “You’re a stockbroker with a wife, three Shih Tzus, and a 6,000-square-foot house that’s undergoing renovation. You don’t need this shit. You really don’t.”

  “You don’t know anything about my life,” he said, still dangling Jackie over the water.

  “Only what you’ve told me,” I said. “Is there more?”

  He smiled wistfully. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “There comes a time when it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “You matter,” I said, flattering him. “The person who doesn’t matter is Peter Gault. He’s obviously got something on you, but if you turn yourself in, I’m sure the police will grant you immunity, or whatever it is they grant, and Peter will be the one they’ll put away. The slime ball.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Jackie agreed, “only I never knew how big a slime ball.”

  “Tell me, Kenneth,” I coaxed, hoping to lull him into a confession. “How did you meet Peter and how did he talk you into committing murder?”

  Kenneth wasn’t biting, but Jackie piped up.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said. “Kenneth spilled the whole story just before he announced that he was going to kill me.”

  “Go ahead,” I said quickly, eager to hear everything before Kenneth snapped and threw Jackie overboard.

  “They were introduced by a friend of Trish’s,
wouldn’t you know,” she said, “after Peter decided he needed a ‘financial advisor.’” Her tone was mocking.

  “I was an excellent financial advisor to Peter,” Kenneth said defensively. “I put him in blue-chip stocks, T-bills, a nice mix of growth stuff. I made a bundle for him, but that wasn’t enough. Nothing’s enough with that guy.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Jackie said, speaking from experience. “To cut to the chase, Elaine, Peter got a statement in the mail from Kenneth’s company one day—a statement with some other man’s name and account number on it. Most people would have written the whole thing off as a clerical error, but not Peter. Why? Because the man whose statement he got by mistake was making more in the market than Peter was. A lot more. Peter was pissed, so he checked around and guess what he found out: the man didn’t exist.”

  “Didn’t exist?” I said.

  “It was a dummy account,” said Jackie. “It was set up as a front—a way to launder money from Kenneth’s other business.”

  “What other business?” I asked, thinking perhaps Kenneth dabbled in the importing or exporting of gems, given Gayle’s collection.

  “Kenneth is the brains and bucks behind one of New York’s most profitable prostitution rings,” Jackie said.

  “Escort services,” he corrected her.

  Prostitution rings? Escort services? Kenneth Cone? I was dumbfounded.

  “Hooker operations,” Jackie said, in case I needed yet another translation.

  “I get the picture,” I said, absolutely amazed. I had read about such things, of course—seemingly respectable, decent people engaged in illegal and rather seamy business ventures. Congressmen did it. Show business types did it. And let’s not forget the Mayflower Madam. It was in mankind’s nature to fuck up. Still, it confounded me every time it happened. I mean, Kenneth Cone had it all—money, a successful career as a stockbroker, an attractive if not hopelessly shallow wife—and yet he had to risk it all to be a pimp on the side. Just had to. As if life weren’t fraught with enough risks.

  “So Peter told you he’d blow the whistle on you unless you did his bidding, is that it?” I asked Kenneth. I was aware that Simon was lurking somewhere behind me but I was trying to concentrate on the task he had given me: to keep Kenneth talking and Jackie alive.