Don't Rock the Boat

by Cathie Wayland

  I raised my hand to signal a stop in the long-winded prediction. The truth? I believed all those projections would become a reality; yes, it could happen, but probably not for the reasons Mike had in mind. Lord knew how many times the two of us had found ourselves over our heads in a dilemma. We’d wallowed in the mire of one catastrophe after another back in our St. Bart days. Why, we had warrants for our “arrest” made out by more than one nun, who’d suffered our eccentric humor and ill-timed practical jokes and pranks.

  I snapped back to reality. Hermione Haalstrom would take the stage in less than forty-five minutes. “We’d better hustle, kiddo, or we’ll miss Hermione’s opening number.”

  “Be ready in ten minutes, Bernie, or I’m leaving without you.” Mike exclaimed as she dashed toward her cabin for a quick inspection of her shiny nose and tousled hair.

  “Make it five minutes Mike.”

  Mike made a very childish, most unbecoming face.

  TWENTY

  Hermione’s extravaganza was everything it was advertised to be, and much more. The colors and sounds, the pageantry and showmanship y took our breaths away. What an entertainer. What a spectacle. What a spectacle of an entertainer.

  She/he took the stage with confidence and poise and three hundred plus pounds of charisma and charm. Her glittering silver dress reflected the twinkling lights like an immense disco ball, and millions of tiny sequins had given their lives to bring this vision to life. She sang and danced—amazingly light on her feet for such an enormous person.

  The appreciative crowd roared their approval, screaming for more after each song. Even through the inches-thick makeup, Hermione’s face glowed with delight, and it was obvious to everyone in the performing arts center that she thrived on being an entertainer.

  Several elaborate costume changes later, complete with wigs and outrageous hats, the amazing show came to an end. Amazing.

  I was stunned when Mike poked me in the side and stage whispered, “That could be me, you know.”

  “What?” I raised my voice to be heard above the noise, not quite sure I’d heard her correctly.

  “That could be me.”

  She was serious. She loved to perform in little theater groups back home in South Carolina; she’d once played Mother Superior in The Sound of Music, but this revelation was a shocker.

  I recalled with a grin the time she’d convinced Joe to go along with her on a tryout for their town’s staging of Annie. After the audition Mike was sure she’d nailed the Miss Hannigan role, but instead, ended up with a more modest part…a maid, I think. But Joe? Now that was another story. He happened to be in the right place at the right time, and had very reluctantly agreed to be cast as President Roosevelt, since they hadn’t enough males auditioning. Then? You guessed it. The fool stole the show. It was his photo in the newspaper the morning after opening night. I can imagine how well that must have set with my little actress. Just another chapter in Mike’s fascinating twist-and-turn approach to life. Nothing ever, ever went the way it should have, or would have…but happened anyway.

  “I can do that,” Mike prattled on. “I can do all those things. I can sing and dance, and I know I could make people laugh. Yes. Yes, that could be me up on that stage.” Mike almost elevated off her chair.

  Mike’s always enjoyed a rich fantasy life and a vivid imagination. I couldn’t help the chuckle that worked its way up my throat. Mike heard it and frowned. “Stop laughing at me, Bernadette. I could do it, and you know it. What’s more, you could do it, too.”

  I swallowed another rising chuckle. “Yes, Sweetie, you are very talented—”

  “So are you.”

  “Yes, so am I, but I, of all people, know how much you love to entertain. And I know you’re once again caught up in the moment and see yourself up on that stage, thrilling patrons beyond belief, signing autographs, nailing unreachably high musical notes, memorizing reams of script. However,” I reminded her, “you are a former middle school English teacher, a current wife, and a future detective. That should be enough for one woman—for one lifetime, at least.”

  My chum’s deep sigh reflected her acceptance of playing the hand she was dealt. I reached over and patted her shoulder. “But, hey…maybe there is something more ‘in the cards’ for Michaela Mercer Rosales.”

  With a huff, she bounded to her feet. “Okay. Enough of that nonsense. Let’s go. I’m bushed. Way past my bedtime.”

  Making our leisurely way along the crowded decks back to our cabins—confident we now knew the way—we chatted about our little token clues one more time and argued about the concept of suspecting everyone and trusting no one. Who among the 1500 passengers were destined to prove themselves suspicious, or corrupt, or maybe even a little bit make-believe dangerous?

  Once settled in my cozy cabin, I could hear the familiar voice of Michaela Mercer Rosales, born-again diva, in the room next door. Most likely performing before her mirror, singing and smiling and waving and blowing kisses to her adoring fans. Her vast repertoire of songs had been thoroughly reviewed, and she was called back out on stage for one last encore for the evening. My ear to the wall, I could just pick up her snappy rendition of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”.

  Now that was an appropriate selection. We were having fun. Weren’t we? I mean, who cared if bags played musical chairs? Who cared if a heavyset woman had it in for the petite, albeit plump little Mike? We’d a pot of gold at the end of our rainbow and we meant to get it. We’d solve the mystery—whatever it was—and win the whole damn contest.

  If we didn’t die trying.

  TWENTY-ONE

  As if on cue the following morning, Mike and I collided in the narrow hallway as we barged through our cabin doors, hell-bent for our respective meeting places. Yes, the day had come. The hour had arrived. The moment was at hand. “Well…” I massaged the hip I’d bumped against the human dynamo. “Good morning to you, too.”

  Mike grinned. “Good morning. I’m so excited. I can’t wait to hear what they’re going to divulge. Think we’ll get the same spiel?”

  “Never having experienced something like this before, I haven’t a clue—no pun intended,” I replied.

  “None taken—pun, I mean. That one was weaker than cooked spaghetti.”

  “Well, I’m fresh out of clever thoughts this morning so I’m gonna dash. See you when we’re finished. We’ll compare notes.” Before she could answer, I headed for the elevator.

  Mike followed, humming snatches of tunes from last night’s amazing performance, still enthralled with the prospect of resurrecting her first love: entertaining on the big stage. It sure didn’t take much to distract her from our mission. Still, I wouldn’t want to squelch her fun or her fantasies, so I slowed my pace, allowing her to forge ahead. Both content, until we arrived at the ship’s laundry room.

  “Crap. How are we going to discover clues and solve crimes if we can’t even find our way to the upper deck? What happened to the magic of yesterday? I thought you’d nailed this problem. What happened to that infamous sense of direction?” The only logical thing to do in a situation like this was to blame Mike.

  “This isn’t my fault, Bernadette. Be quiet for a sec.” Like a hunting dog at point, she froze in her steps.

  Strains of a melody playing out in metallic rhythm and pulsating beats came from the top deck, so we simply followed the music. With the skill of seasoned travelers, we twisted and turned up and down hallways, rediscovered the elusive elevator, allowed it to whisk us upward, and came face-to-face with a veritable explosion of color and sound.

  The sun was brilliant. The bright red, yellow and blue triangular flags flapped in the brisk morning breeze. Since 8:45 a.m. was drawing near we beelined to our destinations. Wouldn’t do to be late for the initial information, the clever clues, the sinister scene, the calamitous crime—you get the picture. Clutching the compass in my left hand, I waved good-bye to Mike, who veered off at the Dolphin King Pool to meet up with her group. With mere moments to sp
are, I charged into the Voodoo Lounge. To my sheer and utter amazement, I was alone. No other team members, no mysterious concierge…nobody to direct and tease my group with a plot and a crime and a clue or two.

  Feeling frantic, I looked around hoping to find someone, anyone, who’d know why I was here, alone. Discouraged and disappointed, I perched on the edge of a bamboo barstool. The stool could only hold one cheek, so I shifted to get comfortable. Five heartbeats later, a tall elegant gentleman dressed in spotless white shirt and slacks sidled up to me. He leaned with feigned nonchalance against the bar, his elbow supporting him as he struck a poised yet casual Bogart pose.

  “Ms. Bernadette?” he inquired with a subtle though unfamiliar foreign accent, reminiscent of a 1940s grade-B movie.

  “Ye-e-es?” I responded, wary but intrigued.

  “We need to talk.” The gentleman flashed a dazzling white smile, which sparkled, from his handsome tanned face. He glanced from side to side, as though checking out the security of our cozy environment, then whispered, “We are…alone.”

  That did it.

  “Well of course we’re alone! Do you see anyone except for us? Just what is this all about? Aren’t you the mystery director—Fernando Something?” I demanded, scarcely allowing the man of mystery to respond. “Where is the rest of the group? And how come Mike and I are separated?” I took a breath and added, “What in the hell is this all about, anyway?”

  “My card.” The dapper gentleman offered an ivory-colored business card, embossed with a tiny golden palm tree in the left corner, and inscribed with a vaguely familiar name: Senor Hernando de Vega. Sure. Of course. Why not.

  With a sudden cold chill, I remembered the poignant phrase on the letter in my clue box: Trust no one. Could this be a test? Should I trust this debonair tropical charmer, or should I gather my wits and make a break for the door? Too crazy, too unreal, and too cool. No, I wasn’t going anywhere right now. I wanted to hear what Sr. Hernando had to say.

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later, I slipped into the vacant chair next to one Michaela Mercer Rosales. With her attention fixed on the podium in front of the small enclave, my little pal didn’t even notice my presence. I nudged her and she jumped a foot.

  “Wh—” She stared at me as if I were a perfect stranger then refocused. “How did you get in here without a golden ring? What’re you doing here?” she continued as a tiny, round, nattily dressed older gentleman, who reminded me of fairly respectable impersonation of Hercule Poirot, strode up to the makeshift podium. With him was the dapper Hernando, Master of Mystery, who’d greeted us as we came on board the Mermaid and who’d just left me breathless in the Voodoo Lounge. Beside Hernando, an exotic raven-haired woman dressed in fuchsia minced forward and flashed a toothy smile at the small audience.

  My ever-vigilant pal sucked in air as recognition hit. “Whoa…that studly dude’s the guy who greeted us yesterday.”

  “Yes, it is. Hernando is his name, I believe.”

  Swiveling in her seat, Mike looked at me through narrowed eyes. “So…back to you. Why aren’t you at the Voodoo Lounge? You’re not supposed to be—”

  “Shhhhh,” I hissed. “I’ll tell you later.”

  We focused on the master of ceremonies and his lovely assistant, Juanita. For just a brief moment, we forgot all the trials and tribulations we’d endured up to this particular moment in time. We were here. It was time. This was it. Bring it on. Mystery Cruise, here we come.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Cardelle Carson, Hernando’s dapper little associate, introduced himself to the group, which numbered around fifty. He rambled on for five minutes, selling us on the minute details of the very cruise package we’d already purchased. Losing patience, our fellow amateur sleuths began to twist and squirm and stretch in their flimsy deck chairs, anxious to begin.

  We all checked each other out, trying to discern who among us was the fittest, the strongest, and the most patient, intelligent, perceptive clue-seeker.

  When Hernando took over, we perked up. He reminded us that the little black mystery boxes were an integral and vital part of the process in solving the crime. He explained that several of us had identical clues. He admonished us that, even though we were among friends, it was every man or woman for him- or herself, and that it was imperative and absolutely essential, that we suspect everyone, trust no one.

  Rather redundant, if you ask me.

  “Okay, okay,” Mike muttered. “Is this ever going to begin, or are we doomed to endure hours of lectures and subtle hints leading nowhere, and innuendo and veiled threats and dire warnings and…”

  “Shhhhh. Hernando is waxing eloquent. I want to listen.”

  Mike clamped her mouth shut, glared at me but swiveled in her chair to refocus on our debonair host.

  “I am confident,” Hernando crooned, “that you are enjoying this beautiful, sun-kissed morning aboard our luxurious ocean liner.” He paused for effect. “You have been content to walk about, enjoying the sights and the sounds of your first glorious day at sea. Am I correct?”

  A low murmur of assent from the crowd produced a dazzling though brief smile. “Unfortunately,” Hernando raised a well-manicured hand. “I must shatter your calm and peaceful existence. A tragic and most amazing event has occurred. One of the ship’s passengers has disappeared. Yes, my friends, we find ourselves in a most serious dilemma. A cook’s assistant signed on to work the cruise, with impeccable credentials and references from his former employer at Broadway Bistro in Miami. He came on board with the rest of the crew, a day before the passengers arrived. His name was—is—Benjamin Browning.”

  Of course Mike’s elbow jabbed me in the ribs at this point, but her eyes remained on our speaker.

  “Benjamin,” Hernando continued, “seemed to get along nicely with everyone. He was a jovial, amenable fellow and had, in fact, earned the nickname, Santa due to his resemblance to the merriest of Christmas personages. Yes, dear people, he was a jolly fellow. Then, the unspeakable happened. Our merry, good fellow disappeared. Yes, you heard correctly. Well out to sea, with nowhere to go, he, nevertheless, is nowhere to be found. We have searched everywhere on board the ship—in his cabin, the galley—everywhere! To the shock and surprise of the crew and ship’s security, it is most apparent that our cook’s assistant, Benjamin Browning, has indeed, disappeared—has completely vanished from the ship.”

  Our long-winded Master of Mysteries paused to catch his breath, and also, I suspect, to lend more dramatic effect to the story. Of course, we were enthralled and anxious for him to continue. Several of our fellow passengers busily scratched notes on paper, but Mike and I both possessed minds like steel traps. Once a piece of information entered the vault, it was sealed in forever.

  I mean, how complicated could it be?

  Hernando continued. “It is your task, my dear friends—your quest, if you will—to discover the answers. You will be given clues along the way, but your very first task is to determine what, exactly, has happened.” Hernando rambled on in a voice tinged with melodramatic portent. “You must wear your Mystery Cruise buttons at all times so those guests aboard the Caribbean Mermaid involved with our little escapade will feel comfortable speaking with you, thus providing the information you seek.

  “Feel free to talk to crew and staff for some of them may be quite helpful. Most will know nothing about the incident, to be sure, but a select few will have the desired answers to many of your questions. It is up to you to ferret out the secrets. On our final day at sea, we shall gather together once again to determine who among you, if anyone, has discovered the truth. That person or team shall be declared the winner.” Hernando dabbed at his brow with a white handkerchief. He flashed a diamond-bright smile then added, “Thank you, friends, for your avid attention. Good luck to every one of you. And now, I bid you adios. Let us solve the mystery.”

  Mike and I grinned at each other.

  “Oh, man. This is gonna be so much fun.” Mike bounced in her chair.
“And, with so many people checking out all the same information, how tough can it be?”

  I shrugged. “Yes, but you’re forgetting that we won’t all have all the same clues. Who knows, there may even be more than one crime interwoven here.”

  The melodious strains of the Macarena pulsated in the background, punctuated with barks of laughter from the swarming crowd on deck. Mike’s face brightened into an enormous smile, and she leapt from her chair and swayed and bounced in almost a full-blown Macarena.

  “Ohhh, I can’t wait to solve this mystery. You and I are going to find Mr. Benjamin Browning. Oh, yes, we are. Look out Ben ’cause here come Cagney and Lacey.”

  “Cag—oh, for crying out loud. Michaela, settle down before you break something. And stop rocking the damn boat.” I peered at the sun wondering if I needed to drag her into the shade. “Sit down and let’s order drinks,” I cooed in my best calming voice. “We have plenty of time. No need to get your underdrawers in a bundle—assuming you are even wearing underwear today.” I winked.

  Mike ignored that and grinned wider, hips gyrating to the music in the background. As if on cue, the drop-dead gorgeous Ramón appeared. Mike shut her mouth and fell into her chair. We placed our drink order, and in minutes, our waiter offered each of us a frosty fishbowl containing a frothy designer drink, complete with the obligatory umbrella and pineapple and cherry. With a wink, he left, hips swaying to the rhythm of the Caribbean band.

  Even the drink and her embarrassment didn’t distract Mike for very long. “Whoa. This is so nice.” She took a long a sip from her straw, just missed sticking the umbrella up her nose, then continued. “So. What happened to poor Benjamin? Remember meeting him down by the elevator yesterday? I hate to think of anything bad happening to him. Did the poor fellow somehow fall overboard, or did someone push him into the brink? And, if so, who? Or should that be whom?”