Final Sail dejm-11

by Elaine Viets

  “Helen! Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “He’s so drunk he’s in more danger of hurting himself than me,” Helen said.

  “Don’t hang up,” Phil said.

  “Sh!” she said. “He’s aboard now, crashing around the lower aft deck. I’ll stay up on the main deck.”

  Helen heard knocks, thunks and a curse as the Bulgarian engineer made his way to the crew mess. Then she heard a tremendous crash and a yip. What if that brute kicked the poodle?

  “I think he hurt Mitzi,” Helen said. “I’m going downstairs to check. I’ll keep the phone on.”

  “Helen! What do I do if anything’s wrong?”

  “Call the captain’s cell phone. You have his number.”

  Helen slipped her phone into her pocket and cautiously made her way down to the crew mess. Mitzi was cowering behind a laundry basket. The Bulgarian engineer was gobbling cold leftover pasta out of a plastic bowl. Next to him was a backpack with a square bulge.

  “Helen!” His smile revealed yellow teeth. His accent was thicker when he was drunk. “Have surprise for you. You like chocolate, no?”

  “Yes,” Helen said.

  “Good. I bought big box of chocolate liqueur. Gourmet chocolate bottles filled with Jack Daniel’s, Grand Marnier, Cointreau, Baileys Irish Cream.” He patted the backpack. “You have some with me?”

  “Sure,” Helen said. She wanted to see what was in that backpack.

  “All ladies like chocolate,” he said, and exposed more teeth. Andrei would have to drink his women into bed, Helen thought.

  Andrei stood up. “I take piss first. Then we open chocolate and be friends.”

  Classy as ever, Helen thought.

  Andrei opened the hatch to the crew cabins and stumbled down the passage.

  Helen could hear Phil sputtering and shouting, even though the phone was in her pocket. She took it out.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Phil shouted. “He’s drunk and you’re on that boat alone with him.”

  “I have my cleaning caddy with me. I can shoot him in the face and blind him. I have to hang up now and see if Mitzi is okay. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  She hung up over Phil’s furious protests.

  CHAPTER 25

  Helen heard hoggish grunts and swinish snorts coming from a crew cabin in the passage. Andrei, she decided. She slid open the door. The Bulgarian engineer was sprawled motionless on the lower bunk, mouth open, left arm flung out. His chest wasn’t moving. Maybe he was in a coma. Or dead. She’d read about death from alcohol poisoning and Andrei had drunk a lot in a hurry.

  Helen moved closer to check. She wasn’t losing a crew member on her watch. The engineer erupted in a loud snort and an explosion of alcohol fumes. She leaped back and softly shut the door.

  Andrei was dead drunk, not dead.

  Time to open that backpack he’d abandoned in the crew mess. The boxy bulge inside tantalized her. It was the right size for a haul of emeralds. Helen wanted Andrei to be the smuggler. He was the most dislikable crew member. Once she caught the smuggler, this case was closed. She’d stay as a stew until the boat docked in Fort Lauderdale, but then she’d be free.

  A whimpering Mitzi met Helen at the crew mess hatch. She was limping slightly. Helen picked her up. The poodle was warm, soft and light as a powder puff. As she petted her, Helen gently felt the tiny body for bruises or breaks. Mitzi didn’t yelp when she touched her.

  “Good girl,” Helen said, gently setting the little dog back on the floor. “What meanie would kick you?”

  She fetched Mitzi another peanut butter treat. Mitzi sat up and danced.

  “I think you’re okay, girl,” she said. “I didn’t see Andrei kick you, but I’ll let the captain know he has a possible puppy abuser on board.”

  “Yap!” Mitzi said.

  “Sh! Don’t wake him. I’m trying to get him arrested for smuggling.”

  The bright-eyed poodle wagged her tail. Helen quickly unzipped the backpack. She saw green. Lots of green.

  A huge dark green box marked “Fine Chocolate Liqueurs.”

  No! That couldn’t be. There must be some mistake. There had to be. The box was shrink-wrapped with plastic, so she couldn’t open it. Helen rattled it.

  That was not the sound of loose gemstones. Helen’s heart sank. Andrei was no smuggler.

  She took out her phone and checked her messages. She had one from Phil with an attachment and twenty-six from her sister, Kathy. She listened to Kathy’s first message. Her little sister was crying with fright. “Helen, it happened. I knew it would. You have to call me now! Please. I don’t care if it’s two in the morning.”

  Helen didn’t bother listening to Kathy’s other messages. She could almost see her sister anxiously pacing in her homey kitchen. I did this to you, Helen thought. You had a perfect life in the burbs until I married Rob and put you on the road to worry. No wonder your hair is getting grayer.

  Kathy must have been sitting next to the phone. She answered on the first ring in a heartrending whisper. “Helen! What took you so long? Never mind, Phil told me. You’re in the Bahamas. You have to come home now, Helen. He’s alive and he wants thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Who’s alive?” Helen asked.

  “Rob!” Kathy’s voice was a stifled shriek, the sound of a mouse caught by a bird of prey.

  “How do you know?” Helen asked.

  “Because he talked like Rob. He used that voice-changer thingy again, but only Rob says those things.”

  “Kathy,” Helen said. “Slow down and tell me exactly what was said.”

  “Okay, okay. He called right before Tommy came home from school. He said, ‘Tell Sunshine if she wants to keep her nephew out of the newspapers, I need sixty thousand.’ Rob always called you Sunshine.”

  “It’s a common nickname, Kathy.” But Helen felt the panic clawing her insides. Rob couldn’t be alive.

  “He also said a good Catholic like Mom would be happy that her favorite son-in-law was buried in the church. It’s him. I know it’s him.”

  “Kathy, that proves nothing,” Helen said. “The blackmailer saw us bury Rob in the church basement. The whole neighborhood knows Mom was super devout.” Inside, the panic broke loose and scrabbled up her rib cage, trying to crawl out. Helen had kept this secret too long.

  “He said you owed him thousands and he was going to collect every nickel,” Kathy said. “It’s Rob.”

  It sure sounds like my greedy ex, Helen thought. But Kathy and I tried every test we knew to make sure Rob was dead. There was no movement, no detectable heartbeat, no breath. How did he survive?

  Because he’s Rob. If the nation was nuked, only Rob and the roaches would crawl out from the ashes. Her mind was racing. He was alive.

  “Helen, are you there?” Kathy asked.

  “Kathy, this is good news,” Helen said. “If Rob is the blackmailer, he can’t call the police. Ever. He’d have to admit he was blackmailing us. If he made it out of that basement alive, he should have told the police right away. Instead, he acted like Rob and started demanding money from me. Don’t you see, Kathy? This is good news. Tommy is off the hook.”

  “Unless I’m wrong and it’s not Rob,” Kathy said. “Then we’re in trouble. Can’t you come to St. Louis?”

  “No, honey,” Helen said. “I’m out of the country. I won’t be back for at least four days.”

  “What should I do? He wants the money tomorrow.”

  “Pay him,” Helen said. “We knew this might happen. That’s why I set up the joint accounts. That’s my share of the money from the sale of the house Rob and I had. I’ve lived without it so far. It will buy us a little peace of mind. Get thirty thousand in cash and give it to him.”

  “And then what?” Kathy’s voice trembled. “He’ll call again and he’ll want sixty thousand dollars. He doubles his demands each time. You don’t have that kind of money.”

  “We’ll catch him next time,” Helen said. “I promise. Just p
ray it really is Rob. Then Tommy will be free—we’ll all be. I have to hang up, Sis. You’ll be okay.”

  “Promise?” Kathy sounded younger than her four-year-old, Allison.

  “Absolutely. I love you,” Helen said. “I have to call Phil.”

  Boy, did she have to call Phil. He’d left ten messages while she’d talked to her sister. She opened the attachment first. It was a good shot of Blossom, with silky black hair, red lipstick and skintight jeans.

  Helen tried to head off Phil’s anger by a rapid-fire announcement: “It’s me, I’m fine. Kathy’s fine. Andrei is not the smuggler.”

  “But—” Phil said.

  Helen didn’t allow him an opening. “Cut the lecture,” she said. “You don’t need to protect me. If I’m your partner, you have to trust me.”

  “Trust you!” Phil yelled. “Partners keep each other informed. What you did was—”

  Helen heard a clunk and checked the security camera. A short young woman was coming up the gangplank, carrying a huge load of something. Blankets? Clothes? Helen could see only her blond hair and muscular legs. Mira.

  “The head stew is back,” Helen said. “Love you.” She hung up.

  Mira seemed to be hauling a bale of sequins, chiffon and ruffles. Her small, pretty face looked more doll-like than ever surrounded by taffeta and satin.

  “Can you help me carry this?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Mira plopped half the pile into Helen’s arms.

  Evening dresses, Helen thought. With grimy hems, grubby trim and a slight scent of sweat and mildew.

  “Where did you get the fancy clothes?” Helen asked.

  “Little secondhand shop in Nassau,” she said. “I can’t wait to show my boyfriend.”

  She held up a formfitting red evening dress that looked too long for her. Then she pulled out a shopworn rainbow—green, gold and blue—sparkling with sequins, jewels and bugle beads. There were filmy formal skirts and a passel of ruffled petticoats. Some of the dresses were bedraggled. Others had split seams and missing beading.

  Helen searched for some tactful words. “Where will you wear them?”

  “Oh, they’re not for me,” Mira said. “I bought them for my boyfriend.”

  “And he’s a—?” Cross-dresser? Helen wondered.

  “Actor in a Fort Lauderdale theater company,” Mira said. “They’re doing a production of Rain. The real production, not the watered-down version like that movie where Sadie Thompson was a nightclub singer. In Kevin’s production, she’s a whore with flashy clothes. I got this whole lot for twenty bucks. The clothes need a little work, but the company has a seamstress who can fix anything. They’d cost a fortune in Fort Lauderdale, even in this state. Good, the crew mess table is cleared. I can sort them there.”

  Helen’s stomach turned at the thought of eating off a table that had held those dirty clothes. “Can we put down something first?” she asked.

  “Good idea. Use the drop cloth in the cabinet.”

  Helen put her pile on the floor, then spread out the drop cloth. Mira dumped her mound of gaudy dresses on the table. Helen heaped hers next to them. A worn red velvet gown with fake rubies at the neck slid off the table. Mira caught it, folded it neatly and started another pile.

  “It must be fun to date an actor,” Helen said.

  “It is,” Mira said, folding a clingy black dress. “I like Kevin’s job and his friends. Even though they’re actors, they’re more real than the people on this yacht. The owners and their friends, I mean.”

  “Sounds like you’re tired of your job,” Helen said.

  “I am. It’s no secret. I’ve been a stew for five years,” Mira said. “I’m nearly thirty. It’s time for a change. The money is good and I’ve managed to save some. I’m going to invest in Kevin’s theater company. They’re short of money, like most companies, and if they don’t get a cash infusion soon, they’ll close. Kevin would be lost without his theater. I want him to be happy.”

  “Is this your last trip on the Earl?” Helen asked.

  “No, I have one more and then my contract is up. I can’t wait to collect that last paycheck. Then I’m outta here. What about you? You have a boyfriend, right?”

  “Phil,” Helen said, and smiled. “I can’t wait to see him when we get back.”

  “I can tell by the way you smiled this dude is the one,” Mira said, folding a pale blue gown with sparkles on the full skirt.

  “He is,” Helen said.

  “Good,” Mira said. “Then I don’t have to deliver the lecture about island men I give the new stews.”

  “Tell me anyway,” Helen said.

  “A lot of island men are good-looking. They have pretty accents and lovin’ ways. The girls think what happens in the islands doesn’t count. So they have an island boyfriend or two and think the dude back home won’t ever know. But some of those handsome men give our young stews souvenirs—the kind that are hard to cure.”

  “Got it,” Helen said.

  “It’s not just the stews,” Mira said. “I’ve known a wife or two who told her husband she was spending the afternoon at a spa. It wasn’t a facial that gave her that glowing complexion.”

  Mira folded the last dress, a grimy white formal with a rhinestone bodice. Now she had a stack nearly as tall as she was. “These are too bulky to keep in my cabin,” she said. “I share with Suzanne and we can barely move around.”

  “Want to keep them in my cabin?” Helen said. “You can put them on Louise’s side of the closet.”

  “That’s very generous,” Mira said. “But I’d better not, in case they have fleas or roaches. Lots of critters in the tropics, and some of them hitchhike home. Suzanne nearly dropped a plate when a big spider crawled out of some bananas she brought on board.”

  “Ick.” Helen shuddered.

  “I’ll pack these in a waterproof duffel and store it in the bosun’s locker.”

  “Aren’t you afraid someone will take them?” Helen asked.

  Mira laughed. “If the boys unzip this bag and see ruffles and sequins, they’ll drop it like it’s hot.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Sam was drunk as a sailor.

  At three in the morning, the deckhand staggered up the gangplank with a bottle of rum, stumbled through the aft deck and tumbled down the steps into the crew mess. He stayed flat on his back, not moving. His sun-streaked blond hair hung in his eyes. His mouth hung open.

  Helen, who’d been nodding off over a mug of coffee at the table, was instantly awake. “Sam, are you hurt?” she asked. “Say something.”

  “Oops!” he said, and waved the half-empty rum bottle in the air.

  Okay, his right arm isn’t broken, Helen thought.

  “Can you sit up?” she asked.

  “Don’t wanna. Room keeps spinnin’,” he said.

  Then he sat up and cradled the bottle. “Saved the rum. Save the baby rums. They’re en-endangererer—in trouble!”

  “Right,” Helen said. “Let’s get you to bed. You have to get up at six.”

  “Cap’n back yet?” he asked.

  “Everybody’s here except the owners and guests,” Helen said, taking his arm. “We don’t want them to see you. Come on. Time to go to your cabin.”

  Sam grabbed the crew mess table and pulled himself upright, swaying as if the yacht were plowing through heavy seas. Helen put her arm around his waist and guided Sam down the crew passage.

  The deckhand was at that stage of intoxication where he loved the world. “You’re nice,” he said. “You got a boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” Helen said.

  “Thought so. Nice girls all got boyfriends. The good ones are taken. That leaves the bad ones for me.” Sam gave Helen a lopsided grin. “Lots of those. Mira’s a nice girl, too.” He hiccuped. “An’ she has a boyfriend. We’re friends. Just friends. Me and Mira. ’Cause Mira’s a nice girl. She’d do anything for Kevin. She said she’d steal for him, even kill for him. She loves him that much. She tole me.”

  “Good f
or her,” Helen said, sliding open the door to the cabin Sam shared with Matt. The bosun was curled up asleep.

  “Sh!” Helen said, and pulled back the blanket on the lower bunk. Sam fell on it, fully dressed. Helen pulled off his deck shoes. By the time she’d covered up the deckhand, he was asleep, his arms wrapped about the rum bottle like it was a teddy bear.

  Helen’s radio crackled at her belt and she hurried out before she woke up Matt and Sam.

  “I need you to help set up,” the chef said. “Mira will serve and you’ll clean.”

  Helen was groggy after nearly two days without sleep, but she didn’t break any gold-rimmed china.

  Mira reported to the galley puffy-eyed, her face scrubbed clean, her blond hair drooping. She struggled to hide a yawn.

  Suzanne seemed surprisingly alert, as if working in her galley invigorated her. The chef’s white uniform was fresh and her long dark hair was neatly tied back. The galley was far cleaner than Helen’s kitchen.

  The late-night feast was ready for the final preparation: The onion rings were battered, the fries were cut and the grease was bubbling in the deep fryer. Thick, marbled steaks rubbed with garlic waited for the grill. The lobster and avocado salads chilling in the fridge looked like pink and green abstract art.

  Helen’s stomach growled when she saw them. “They’re gorgeous,” she said, shutting the fridge door.

  Suzanne was whisking something in a saucepan with sure, swift strokes.

  “Do I smell chocolate?” Helen asked.

  “Sure do. That’s a chocolate lime rum cake on the counter,” Suzanne said. “I’m finishing the sauce—it’s caramelized sugar, dark rum and lime juice.”

  “That cake looks moist,” Helen said, hoping Suzanne would get the hint.

  “It is,” the chef said. “It’s also for the owners and guests.”

  It was nearly four o’clock when Beth, Earl and their guests returned. The men’s tuxes looked rumpled and Scotty’s jacket was sprinkled with cigar ashes.