by Elaine Viets
“I’d be delighted,” Helen said. She was, too. She’d wanted to search that cabin since she’d seen Carl board with his mysterious backpack.
“You won’t thank me when you clean the boys’ shower,” Mira said.
“They can’t be any worse than Ralph,” Helen said.
“I’ll throw in a load of laundry for you as a thank-you present,” Mira said.
The day passed quickly. Helen caught a glimpse of the splendid table before the glittering guests sat down to dinner at eight. The soft candlelight warmed the honey oak table and made the crystal sparkle like fine jewels. The centerpiece was delicate seashells and small, exquisite flowers.
“It’s lovely,” Helen said as she hurried off to clean the guest head. Scotty had turned the bathroom into an ashtray. How did he get ashes on the sconces? And did he have to stub out his cigar in the marble basin?
The harder she scrubbed, the more the cigar residue turned into a streaky paste. I’m not cut out for this job, she thought resentfully. Phil’s working for a hot, horny widow and I’m swabbing toilets like a drudge. I’m sure my husband isn’t interested in a woman like Blossom. Well, pretty sure. But I’d feel a lot better if I could go home and make sure. And I can’t do that until I solve this wretched emerald case.
Helen gave the basin one last swipe. There. The cigar ash was gone. She sprayed the head with vanilla air freshener to get rid of the cigar stink and slipped downstairs to fold more laundry and finish the guest turndown service.
After dinner, Ralph, Scotty and Earl knocked back the last of the thirty-year-old cognac. At three in the morning they stumbled off to bed.
Helen helped Mira clean the upper aft deck. All the men had been smoking cigars, and Helen was dusting away the ash.
“Did I tell you my good news?” Mira asked, gathering up the cognac bottle and glasses. “I got a text from my boyfriend. We’re going to New York as soon as we get back to Fort Lauderdale. The yacht gets in about eleven and the crew should be finished by noon. Kevin and I are booked for a three o’clock flight to LaGuardia that afternoon. Four days in Manhattan.”
“Bet you can’t wait to see the Broadway shows,” Helen said.
“I can’t,” Mira said. “But Kevin has a chance to try out for an off-Broadway show. Well, off-off-Broadway. But it’s still a New York theater credit.”
“Congratulations,” Helen said. “That’s—”
Crash!
“Was that coming from the galley?” Helen asked.
“Sounds like it,” Mira said. “I hope Suzanne didn’t drop any Baccarat.”
The crash was a disaster. Suzanne had broken a Baccarat snifter and an entire place setting of the rare Royal Copenhagen. More than seven thousand dollars would be docked from her pay.
The chef was picking up the pieces from the galley floor. Long strands of dark hair had escaped their clip and her face sagged with fatigue. Her fingers trembled as she cleaned up the broken pieces. Helen thought she saw tears in Suzanne’s sad brown eyes.
“I’m sorry about that,” Helen told her.
Suzanne shrugged. “Those are the breaks, no pun intended,” she said. “I’ll roll with it.”
Helen wasn’t sure she believed her.
CHAPTER 29
At eight the next morning, Helen saw the chef stumble through the galley door, loaded with cloth bags and cardboard boxes of fish and produce. A coconut teetered atop a bag of lettuce, limes and lemons. It tumbled off as the chef crossed the threshold.
Helen abandoned her cleaning caddy and caught the coconut before it hit the floor. Suzanne didn’t acknowledge her timely catch.
“Here, let me help you,” Helen said, taking a bag overflowing with oranges. “Where are the boys?”
“Working,” Suzanne said. She sounded impatient. “We’re all working so we can swim this afternoon. They have to wash the boat before we can go.”
The chef unwrapped a fat silvery fish, so fresh it smelled like the sea. In another bag, Helen caught a flash of glittering green. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” the chef said. “I have work to do. So do you.”
Dismissed.
As she left with her caddy, Helen saw the chef stow the bag with the tantalizing glimmer in a cabinet. Helen would investigate later.
The guests were up shockingly early this morning, eager to go to Atlantis. The crew would be gone in a few hours. Helen couldn’t wait. She even looked forward to cleaning Andrei and Carl’s cabin. The first mate had acted oddly with that backpack. Helen had to know why.
Shortly after eleven o’clock, the crew was at the swim platform in their suits, bodies shiny with sunscreen, beach towels slung over their shoulders. Mira climbed aboard the tender and issued a halfhearted invitation. “You’re sure you won’t come with us?”
“Go!” Helen waved them away. “You’re wasting party time.”
“Listen to the lady,” Sam called, popping a beer and toasting her.
Helen ran back into the yacht. She was alone, except for the captain. She found her cell phone, then ran up to the bridge and tapped on his door.
The captain was frowning at paperwork. “You’ve found the smuggler,” he said.
“Not yet,” she said. “I need your help with another case. Do you recognize this woman?”
The captain studied the photo on her cell phone, then said, “Her name is Blossom. She was a guest about a year ago. Scotty brought her.”
“Is she a hooker?” Helen asked.
Josiah hesitated.
“Our conversation is confidential,” Helen said. “This woman may have murdered a man in Florida. She has an outstanding warrant for prostitution in California. We’re trying to trace her movements before she met the victim.”
“I believe she’s a prostitute,” Josiah said. “She dressed like one and her behavior upset the women. Scotty shipped her back to California after the cruise.”
Helen noticed that “shipped” made it sound as if Blossom were defective merchandise. “Did she steal from him?” she asked. “You’re not breaking any confidences. I heard Beth say so.”
“Yes,” Josiah said. “She ran off with about fifty thousand dollars in cash and jewelry. Scotty refused to report it.”
Helen nodded. “She surfaced in Lauderdale about a month ago, newly married to another rich older man. His family believes she killed him. But Blossom has completely changed her appearance.”
“Not completely,” Josiah said. “I recognize her.”
“You know the rich better than I do,” Helen said. “Let me run a theory by you: Blossom wanted to marry a rich man. She latched onto Scotty, but made major mistakes. Scotty wanted rid of her. She stole from Scotty and used his money to land another prospect.”
Josiah nodded. “That could happen.”
Yes! Now ideas zinged through Helen’s brain, sparking thoughts and creating connections.
“With Scotty’s fifty thousand, Blossom could buy a new identity and the right wardrobe,” Helen said. “She was aboard the Earl long enough to know how women in this world dress. She could have hired a personal shopper. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” Josiah said. “It’s possible she learned from her mistakes and caught another wealthy man. But I’m paying you to catch my smuggler.”
“I should have something for you by tomorrow,” Helen said. In fact, I’m on my way to catch the smuggler now, she thought.
Helen headed straight for the galley where Suzanne had stashed the bag with the fascinating flash of green. Please let it be emeralds, she thought. Smuggling would explain why Suzanne had laughed off the abandoned late-night dinner and shrugged away seven thousand dollars’ worth of broken china.
The chef had the ideal setup for smuggling. She had to go into town every day to buy fresh food. She talked to strangers in the marketplace and fishermen in port. She and the deckhand carried boxes and bags back to the yacht daily. Cute, ditzy Sam would never search them unless they were loaded with free beer.
And pulled out a T-shirt trimmed with fake green jewels and the slogan IT’S BETTER IN THE BAHAMAS.
Emeralds, indeed! Helen threw it down in disappointment. Then she got a grip on herself, folded the shirt, put it back in the bag and slammed the cabinet shut. The chef hadn’t been hiding anything. She was simply in a sour mood this morning.
So am I, Helen thought. I need to work off this anger. Time to clean the boys’ cabin. She threw in two more loads of laundry, then grabbed her caddy, prepared to face Andrei and Carl’s mess. She snapped on a fresh pair of disposable gloves.
When she opened the cabin door, the fug was a slap in her face. The room smelled like old socks and stinky feet. She couldn’t see the floor for the dirty uniforms and mildewed towels. At least the two had made their bunks. Helen threw their soiled laundry into the passage and tossed their empty beer cans. Removing the sticky drink rings on the oak chest took real elbow grease.
The boys had managed to beat Ralph in the competition for filthiest onboard head.
Helen scrubbed furiously at the fixtures, the mirror, the furniture and finally the floor.
She would not search for Carl’s black Prada backpack until this cabin was clean. The backpack would be her reward for hard work.
An hour later, the cabin smelled of lemon polish and Scrubbing Bubbles.
Helen was ready to claim her prize. It had to be in the closet, but the door was jammed. She struggled to wrench it open, felt it give, then ducked. Out tumbled smelly shoes and a landslide of girlie magazines. She wondered if the Bulgarian engineer was the one excited by Big Booty Women.
Carl’s backpack was wedged in the far corner, a black Prada boulder. Helen pulled it free. Please, be what I’m looking for, she prayed, as she shoved aside the debris, then sat on the floor to unzip the backpack. It was so overloaded, the zipper kept sticking. She eased it open, inch by inch.
At last, she could see what was inside: gold and white cardboard boxes, like the ones for jewelry. Yes!
Helen opened the first box and saw dull black. A women’s Gucci leather wallet, still in the box.
What?
She opened another box. A slim Fendi wallet. Then a red Miu Miu cosmetics case. Helen counted some thirty wallets, cosmetic cases and clutch purses. They weren’t fakes. These were designer labels.
From her time in retail, Helen estimated the first mate had about twelve thousand dollars in designer wallets stashed in that backpack.
The captain had a smuggler on board, but not the one she was hired to find. She’d tell Josiah, but she’d have to keep searching.
Wrong again, Helen thought, as she refilled the backpack and shoved it in the corner.
I’m useless on this trip. She dumped smelly shoes back into the closet and heaped the magazines after them. I’ll have to clean my way to the Bahamas and back again, if I don’t find the emeralds—and fast. We leave for Lauderdale tomorrow evening.
I may be a partner in Coronado Investigations, but I’m not Phil’s equal. Being a private eye had sounded so romantic. At worst, I expected to be bored on a long stakeout. Hah. I’ll be the only PI with dishpan hands and housemaid’s knee.
She checked her watch. Two o’clock. The crew wouldn’t be back for three hours. Time to face another failure, Helen thought. I have to call my sister, Kathy, and find out if the blackmailer took the cash. That was my fault twice: first for marrying Rob, then for trying to catch the blackmailer alone. The last time he made a demand, I staked out the money drop—and fell asleep. I’m a real Samantha Spade.
Helen braced herself and speed-dialed her sister. Kathy answered on the first ring, jumping into the conversation without a hello. “Rob took the money,” she said. “I left thirty thousand dollars in a grocery sack on the same Dumpster—the one in the abandoned strip mall. Then I went to Target and when I got back, the cash was gone.”
“Either the blackmailer got it,” Helen said, “or a homeless person hit the jackpot.”
“It had to be Rob,” Kathy said. “He hasn’t called since. But he’ll want more. What are we going to do when he doubles the money again? You can’t pay him sixty thousand next time.”
“I’m not going to,” Helen said. “I’ll bring Phil with me. We’ll do a stakeout and catch him.”
“But you can’t! You promised.” Kathy’s voice was shrill with panic.
“I promised I wouldn’t ruin my nephew’s future,” Helen said. “But if the blackmailer really is Rob—and you’re convinced he is—then it’s time to call in Phil and end this charade. I’m not lying to my husband anymore, Kathy. It will ruin my marriage. You can do what you like about your Tom, but I’m bringing in a professional detective. We can trust Phil to protect your boy. He’ll be angry at me, but he’ll help. I just hope I don’t lose the only man I’ve ever loved.”
A chasm seemed to open before Helen. Life without Phil would be unbearable.
Kathy’s frantic plea interrupted Helen’s vision of her lonely, loveless future. “What do I do the next time he calls?” she asked.
“The blackmailer only calls your landline,” Helen said. “I’ll send you a telephone jack and a pocket digital recorder. Hide them near the phone. When he calls, stick the suction cup on the receiver and record his call. When Phil catches the blackmailer, we’ll have a recording for the police. Rob will be trapped. Tommy will be saved.”
“I’m not good with mechanical things,” Kathy said.
“Then you’d better learn,” Helen said. “I’ll send you the recording equipment. Set it up and call the time and temperature recording every day. Do it until you can slap on the jack’s suction cup automatically.”
“I’ll try,” Kathy said.
“No,” Helen said. “You will practice until you don’t have to think about it. It’s the only way to save your son. Promise?”
“I promise,” Kathy said. “Are you sure this will work?”
“You know I’d do anything for Tommy,” Helen said. “I love you, baby sis.”
After Helen hung up, she realized she hadn’t answered Kathy’s question.
She still had time to call Phil before the crew returned. She hoped he could answer his cell phone at work. She didn’t exhale until he said, “Helen! I can talk for a minute. I’m outside checking the pool.”
“I have news,” Helen said. “The captain confirmed the shady lady dated a yacht guest.” She repeated their conversation, minus any names.
“Good work,” he said. “Have you found the smuggler?”
“No,” Helen said. “The boat doesn’t get back until the day after tomorrow. We’ll finish our chores about noon.”
“Plenty of time to catch a crook,” Phil said. “You’ll find him. I’m always right.”
“I won’t waste time discussing that. What’s happening with our other case?”
“Lots,” he said. “I can’t say more on a cell phone. I found out what killed our man. But I can’t connect it to the lady yet.”
“Has she been meeting with Surfer Dude?” Helen asked.
“Yes and no,” he said. “They met once and I followed them. The second time Surfer Dude had a fatal accident.”
“He’s dead? She killed him?” Helen asked.
“The police aren’t sure, but I am. He died in West Hills. Our friend Detective McNamara Dorsey is on the case.”
“She’s good,” Helen said. “She’ll figure it out.”
“If she doesn’t, I’ll give her a little help.”
“Did the lady kill him the same way?” Helen asked.
“No. I’ll keep looking for the method.”
“Be careful, Phil. I love you and I don’t want to lose you.”
Helen heard a thunk and laughter. The crew was back. She sleepwalked through her work for the rest of th
e day. The owners and guests returned at two a.m. and went straight to bed. The staff was free.
Helen showered and dried off in her narrow bath. She banged her elbow on the wall and noticed she was nearly out of toilet paper. Helen found a spare roll and took the cardboard core off the holder. The spindle sprung apart. Inside was a tightly wound wad of bills.
Hundred-dollar bills.
Helen counted them. One. Two. Three … on up to ten. One thousand dollars.
She stared at the money while the thought formed in her buzzing brain. Louise didn’t buy a trip home on the charter boat. The thousand-dollar stash was still in her cabin.
CHAPTER 30
Mira had lied. Louise hadn’t left the yacht on a Miami-based fishing charter.
Helen staggered out of her steaming bathroom with the thousand dollars still clutched in her hand. She sat on her bunk, stunned.
Why did Mira lie? What did it mean?
Was Louise washed overboard? What was she doing out on deck? And why didn’t Mira report her missing?
A wave of sickness flooded through Helen. Louise was dead. There was no way she could have survived that violent sea. And Mira had kept silent. Louise’s death must have been Mira’s fault somehow. Either Louise fell overboard—or she was pushed.
The head stew didn’t want to admit her responsibility.
It was two forty-eight in the morning. Helen didn’t want to wake the captain at this hour. He couldn’t save Louise now. This news could wait another three hours.
Louise is dead. She’s dead. Dead.
Helen couldn’t stop thinking about it. She’d seen the wild water from the safety of the yacht. She’d felt it slam the ship. Poor little Louise, lost in the ferocious waves. She could see her hopeless struggle as the ship sailed away.
The second stew’s death added to Helen’s sense of failure. Louise was dead and Helen had failed to find the smuggler. Now she’d have to work another week on the yacht. Life aboard the Earl had lost its charm. It was dreary and deadly.
Helen needed sleep. She put a pillow over her head, but couldn’t smother the pictures flashing through her mind. She saw Louise disappearing in the crashing waves. She felt the stew’s hopeless struggle. Despair seemed to seep into the cabin like damp.