Bon Bon Voyage

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “Sure they would,” said Hartwig. “With two hundred passengers making their own beds and not getting their towels changed for a couple of days, the line would fall over its own feet to meet your demands.”

  “And who of us would make such demands? We don’t even know how to telephone big ship men,” said another naysayer.

  Hartwig laughed. “So that’s the problem. Well, Patek and I know how, and we’ll do it. It’s something that needs to be done.”

  “Like alms for poor?” asked Herkule, looking toward the head steward. Patek claimed to be a Hindu whose family had immigrated to an island, but Herkule was almost sure the chief steward was Muslim. Herkule had caught Patek once praying to Mecca in his office and had stolen away. If he was right, and Patek agreed, then it would really be done, the calls, the good food, and the shorter hours. It would be Patek’s duty as a good, if mean, Muslim.

  “Right, Umar?” said Hartwig, nudging his fellow officer.

  “Yes,” said the chief steward.

  “So, you guys want to vote on the work stoppage?”

  “I say yes,” cried the first man. Others, excited at the prospect of asserting themselves in the American style, agreed, even Herkule.

  “Okay, tonight’s your last night on duty until they agree. Sleep in tomorrow. And by the way, we’ll all want to sleep in tomorrow. Big storm coming tonight after midnight.” Hartwig pulled out the containers of pills. “Warn them and give one to each of your passengers as they come back to their rooms. Tell them to be sure to take them. Doctor’s orders.” He laughed. “After all, you don’t want them puking all over themselves tonight. Americans support work stoppages, but they won’t feel too happy about it if they have to clean up their own vomit.” The stewards laughed appreciatively because they’d cleaned up plenty of vomit when the weather got rough. “Better take some yourselves,” Hartwig continued. “You don’t want to miss the good meals that are on their way.”

  So it was settled. The stewards were chatting happily over their Jell-O as Hartwig and Patek left the room. Once in the corridor, Patek’s hand closed over his fellow officer’s arm, hard enough to leave a bruise under the white cloth of the uniform. “What was that about?” he demanded. “If you stop service to passengers, they rebel.”

  Hartwig shrugged. “We’re armed; they’re not, and they’ll blame the stewards, not us. We’ll just be keeping the peace in a difficult situation.”

  “And we call line tomorrow morning and ask for money and perks for stewards? Miami won’t take us as serious men.”

  “Who said we’re going to mention the stewards? All we have to tell the stewards is that we did it, and that the executives are considering their demands. By the way, the entertainers jumped ship at Las Palmas. The company that sends them called them in because we cut Russell Bustle. Of course Marbella thinks he’s getting a new bunch at Tenerife—local dancers and that sort of crap—but then he doesn’t know we won’t be putting in at Tenerife. So with no entertainment and the casino and bars closing at midnight because I’m going to alert them to the coming storm at the last minute, everyone will be in bed, dead to the world, by twelve thirty. That gives us plenty of time to round up my security people and the officers who aren’t in on this and lock them in the brig. Then we search the passenger rooms for cell phones, computers, and weapons, if any.”

  “And why do the rest of us not know about these decisions?” Patek demanded angrily.

  “Because I had to improvise, my friend. We didn’t expect to take the ship until tomorrow night, and we wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t killed the Gross woman.”

  They parted company at the end of the corridor, Patek returning to his own quarters to think out how these new plans would affect plans he himself had, he and the brothers in Malaysia. Soon he would be acting in the name of Allah and of the Prophet Muhammad, doing things more important, more satisfying, than working undercover on a ship of infidels.

  27

  Hijacked by Night

  Luz

  Because the entertainers had taken off, mad about Russell Bustle was what I heard, I headed back to the room, following Carolyn. Might as well get it over with about Mrs. Gross. Vera and Barney had gone to the bar; guess the bartenders hadn’t jumped ship at Las Palmas. “Hey, Carolyn, I need to talk to you,” I called, catching up with her at the door to our suite. She shoved her key card into the door, and I chased her right in.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I appreciate your breaking up my conversation with Vera—imagine her accusing me of being unfaithful to Jason. I may never speak to her again—but I don’t feel like talking. I want to go to bed.”

  “This will only take a freaking minute, Carolyn, and it’s about Mrs. Gross. You’ll want to know.”

  “What about Mrs. Gross?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Carolyn sniffed. “I imagined as much.”

  “And you don’t care how I found out or what happened to her? Well, okay. I was going to say I’d help you chase down who killed her, but since you’re not interested, I’ll just to spend the night with Beau. He invited me, but I said—”

  “Murdered?” Carolyn interrupted. “I’m sorry, Luz. Don’t go. Sit down and tell me. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, but you might want one.” She fixed one for both of us anyway. Some fruity thing that was pink. Tasted like Kool-Aid to me, but I didn’t say so. “The chef was looking for lamb in the walk-in freezer. Instead he found Mrs. Gross in a plastic bag marked lamb, which explains why he wasn’t cooking tonight and we got such crappy food.”

  “The dessert was nice,” said Carolyn, sounding very subdued. “How do they know she was murdered?”

  “You mean she wrapped herself up in a plastic bag and committed suicide in the freezer?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, Luz. I’m—I’m upset.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Beau said her neck was broken, and it wasn’t an accident, which is pretty obvious anyway, because why put her in the freezer if it was an accident?”

  “Was she wearing her brown dress?” Carolyn asked.

  “Right, brown dress, but no emeralds, so maybe someone killed her for jewelry.”

  “Maybe Mr. Patek. That’s who she was looking for.”

  “Right. Well, we’ll start nosing around tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need your help, Luz, but I do thank you for the offer,” she said, all prissy again. “Now that you’ve told me, you’ll want to join Beau. Oh, poor Mrs. Gross!” She burst into tears and ran into our room, where she stripped off her clothes, dumped them on the floor, and crawled into bed.

  At a guess, I’d say Carolyn never drops her clothes on the floor, which meant she was pretty upset. Guess I’d have to stay. Just about then there was knocking on the door and that voice: “Is me, Herkule Pipa.” He had three pills on a little tray and the news that we were heading into a storm and really rough weather. “Is for keeping no vomit when ship is pitch back and forth. Take before bedtime for good night slumbering.”

  “Okay, but you’d better leave four in case Vera brings home a friend.”

  “Is very old, old Mrs. Blue,” said Herkule dubiously, “but okay. Vomiting on sheets not good.”

  “Right. You’d have to clean it up.”

  He went away; I entered our room and fed the first pill to the sobbing Carolyn—maybe she really did have PMS like Vera said. She took it like a good little girl and reburied her head in the pillow. I then had a hell of a time staying awake to pass out the other two to Vera and Barney. Vera said thanks and took hers, and I took mine, but Barney said that, being a Navy man, he didn’t get seasick. So I put the last one into a funny bowl on our table that looked like someone had smashed it and glued it back together. I figured one of us, like me, might wake up needing another pill, or even the commander might want to sneak out and get it when he started to feel like puking.

  The Hijackers

  Although Captain Marbella was loathe to be hauled away to the brig and put up a good fi
ght, shouting oaths and threats about the penalties for mutiny until they taped his mouth shut, everything else went easily and as planned. The passengers had been drugged and notified of cruise changes with formal letters pushed under their doors. The chef, not yet recovered from his unexpected meeting with Mrs. Gross, had been afraid to protest when informed that all meals were to be served buffet style, passenger menus to the crew, crew menus to the passengers, until the work stoppage was resolved.

  The crew, so excited to find that they’d be eating fine food, acquiesced easily to the new regime and began planning their own work stoppages. Officer Froder took over the captain’s duties and changed the ship’s course away from ports and crowded sea-lanes, while his subordinate took over the engine room, none the wiser. Cell phones and computers were confiscated and locked away, and the computer room closed to everyone but Patrick O’Brien. Then last, Patrick sent a message to the home office that caused great consternation and many anguished meetings.

  It was decided by executives high in the line’s pecking order that the hijacking of the Bountiful Feast was to be kept quiet. Considering the value of the ship itself and the terrible publicity, they had to get it back without trouble, but they did have several days to negotiate a ransom of less than fifty million dollars. Once the ship was retrieved, the passengers could probably be kept quiet with promises of free cruises in return for signed agreements to say nothing.

  Then the line would quietly pursue, to the ends of the earth, the criminals who had stolen the ship, and mete out justice in a way that would attract no notice.

  Jason

  Exhausted and dismayed by the amount of money I had spent, I stumbled off my plane at Gatwick Airport in England, having been held up by an unexpected landing in Newfoundland, the result of some worrisome engine problem. Heaven only knew whether I’d be able to find and catch the flight to Tenerife, and in fact, after a search for the gate made at a dead run, the door was closing, and I had to beg a soft-hearted airline person to allow me aboard so that I could spend Mother’s Day with my wife.

  It had been a terribly embarrassing ploy, but I was put on a bus headed for some other plane and dropped off at the stair to the Tenerife plane with a cheery “Good luck, mate,” from the bus driver. Since the last passenger was at the top of the stairs, I then had to leap upward, shouting at the astonished stewardess and waving my ticket. Even then there was no guarantee that this plane would get me to the Reina Sofia Airport on Tenerife in time to find the harbor at Santa Cruz de Tenerife before Carolyn’s ship sailed.

  I fell into my chair, heart pounding, gasping for air—yet another embarrassment for a man who ran almost every morning of his life—vowing that I would never again let my wife travel by herself, lest I find myself in another such situation. Of course, I could have stayed on in Canada to the end of the meeting and flown home to El Paso, but Carolyn, the love of my life, who evidently did not like bonbons, might never have forgiven me, which would have made the last thirty or forty years of our marriage exceedingly uncomfortable. A man not that far away from his fifties valued the prospect of a happy marriage that would accompany him into old age; such were my thoughts as I drifted into exhausted sleep.

  28

  A Groggy Awakening on a Bad Day

  Carolyn

  When I woke up the next morning, I was surprised to see through the curtains that the sun was up. I was even more surprised at how horrible I felt—groggy and nauseated when I opened my eyes, wobbly when I tried to stand. Then I vaguely remembered Luz giving me a pill because a bad storm was coming. Had we tossed about all night without my waking or throwing up? I glanced at Luz’s bed and saw that she was fast asleep, snoring, in fact, something she hadn’t done before. Even that hadn’t awakened me. And she hadn’t gone back to Beau’s room, although I’d told her to. I also remembered about Mrs. Gross, dead in the freezer of a broken neck, wrapped in plastic and labeled lamb. As a native Texan, Mrs. Gross probably had hated lamb. And I had told Luz I didn’t need her help finding the murderer. Stupid me.

  Sighing, I showered, dressed, and left the room quietly to begin my investigation. Alone. I saw evidence that the commander had been here last night and probably still was. My mother-in-law, in my opinion, should be ashamed of herself. Maybe she did have a right to male companionship, being long unmarried, but she didn’t have to carry on in the same suite with me, and she certainly had no right to accuse me of— what was that? I’d spotted a white envelope on the floor. The outside read:

  Important Notice to Passengers

  It had obviously been pushed under our door. What now? I bent to pick it up and experienced a wave of dizziness. That must have been some pill, or a terribly rough night. The following message had been tucked into the envelope:

  The officers of the Bountiful Feast regret to inform passengers that, after a vote, the stewards have elected to unite in a work stoppage until such time as the line agrees to a new contract giving them higher pay, shorter hours, and better food. Until this labor dispute is settled (no doubt a matter of only a few days), passengers will not have linens changed or cabins tidied.

  Well, that’s no problem, I thought. I only change the linens once a week at home.

  Nor will the ship put in to port.

  What? No Tenerife? No mummies? No Virgin of Candelaria? I was very disappointed, unless they planned to sit out in the ocean negotiating by Morse code or whatever, and then proceed to Tenerife. I supposed I could wait a few days for the mummies and the Virgin.

  Otherwise, little will change aboard, although meals will be served in a simpler fashion.

  What did that mean?

  And there will be no evening entertainment, the entertainers having left the ship at Las Palmas.

  No loss there, I thought, remembering Russell Bustle and the chorus girls. The abrupt departure of the entertainers was probably my mother-in-law’s fault.

  We regret the inconvenience and will strive to make your cruise as pleasant as possible. Passengers who wish to organize their own entertainments are welcome to use the Grand Salon. The Library will remain open.

  I put the message back in the envelope, leaned it prominently against the pretty, cracked-glass bowl on the table, and tiptoed out. The hall was empty. Everyone sleeping in, I guessed, after a wild night that I couldn’t even remember. At least we hadn’t been thrown out of our beds. Before I could get on the elevator, a little voice scared me out of my wits. “Is me, Herkule.”

  “Good heavens, Herkule. What are you doing here? I thought you were on strike.”

  “Strike? As hit a person or not hit a ball?” he asked, obviously puzzled.

  “Strike as in work stoppage,” I replied.

  “Ah.” He took out his little notebook and wrote busily. “Many thank. I think this morning, Mrs. Blue. Your food writing. Herkule is very sorry, but I describe for you everything I eat. Hokay? You not gnashing teeth at Herkule?”

  “No, of course not. Everyone has a right to decent working conditions. I hope your demands are met. I have to say, I wondered why you were always on duty.”

  “Oh, most magnimousy madam!” he exclaimed. He threw his arms around me, then backed off hastily. “Sorry. Arousing Albanian.”

  He wiped his eyes and dashed off, leaving me to wonder if arousing was really the word he wanted to use (surely he didn’t find me arousing or expect me to find him attractive), and why had he offered to describe his food to me? Food. Food reminded me of Demetrios, poor man, traumatized by finding a body in his freezer. Perhaps I should call on him and sympathize. Maybe if I were sympathetic enough, he’d give me the recipe for the double chocolate raspberry mousse.

  Accordingly, I pushed the elevator button to the kitchen rather than the dining room. Much to my astonishment, Officer Fredriksen got on at the next floor. I hardly recognized her. She was wearing fatigues, instead of her pretty white uniform, and carrying a large gun, sort of midway between a rifle and a pistol, but with a fat barrel. I’d never seen anything like i
t. And she wasn’t wearing her usual high heels. “Why are you carrying a gun and wearing those clothes?” I asked uneasily.

  “We officers have to be on the alert for trouble,” she replied.

  “It’s only a little strike,” I protested.

  “Strikes can be violent,” said Officer Fredriksen, “and passengers may prove to be very resentful of the situation. We’re ready to break up any standoff between the two sides.”

  Goodness, the woman was either crazy—perhaps as a result of having no sleep during the storm—or unduly excited at the thought of being charged with a military responsibility rather than her usual hotel duties. “The stewards have always seemed very peaceable and pleasant to me,” I said soothingly, “and why would anyone be upset about having to sleep on the same sheets and use the same towels for a few days? I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, Miss Fredriksen.”

  “Speaking for my fellow officers, ma’am, we appreciate your tolerant view of the situation.” Then she actually saluted and stepped off on the dining room floor. As I continued to the kitchen, I wondered whether she had expected me to return her salute, the way the president does when wearing his civilian clothes and confronted with a general. Ah, the kitchen!