Bon Bon Voyage

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Jason

  I booked a room in a hotel near the harbor and bought a spyglass from a ship chandler so I could keep an eye on the dock assigned to the missing Bountiful Feast. Then I called to report the missing cruise liner to the line’s Florida offices and was told that they had no reports of problems on any of their ships, that the Bountiful Feast was on schedule and following its itinerary. “You idiot,” I shouted, “I’m here, and the ship isn’t.” They hung up on me.

  Thirty-five minutes later, the harbor officer called to tell me that the Bountiful Feast had radioed that they thought they had Legionnaires’ disease aboard and were awaiting a more definitive diagnosis before soliciting entry to a port that would accept them.

  “Accept them? You didn’t tell them you’d take them here?”

  “Señor Blue, is contagious disease, I think. I have call Santa Cruz hospital to see. Health Department must say yes to coming of ship. Maybe even must consult Madrid.”

  “Madrid?” I groaned. “Legionnaires’ disease kills people. My wife is aboard that ship. You have to get those people into port and into a hospital.”

  “I will call you when we hear from proper authorities. Have a good day. Is American saying, no?” The port officer hung up. I sprawled on my palm-tree-bedecked bedspread and clapped my hands to my head. I felt a headache coming on.

  Luz

  “Vera, have you seen Carolyn?” I demanded when we met in the suite before dinner.

  “Not since lunch. I think she’s avoiding me. Doesn’t want to help with the strike. I’ve talked the women in the spa into joining up, and I’ve made some headway with the gym people next door.”

  “Why don’t you go after the kitchen help? Then we can all starve to death,” I snapped. “Listen, I’m worried about your daughter-in-law. I’ve looked all over the damn ship, and I can’t find her.”

  “She’ll be there for dinner. Even if the food is nondescript, Carolyn never misses a meal.”

  So we took the elevator to the dining room. Everyone was grousing because the only main dish was meat loaf. I happen to like meat loaf, but then my mother puts long green chili in hers. This stuff didn’t have anything but meat and soggy bread as far as I could tell. I don’t consider myself much of a gourmet, but I had to wonder what the crew was getting. It had to be better than this. And Carolyn didn’t show up. Beau did, nice guy that he was. He could have eaten with the crew, but he sat down by me and whispered that he’d identified the mystery seasick pill we’d all taken the night before the work stoppage. “It’s a powerful sedative. Not much prescribed anymore.”

  “How did you find that out?” I asked, my interest caught.

  “When you handed over the pill, I just looked at pictures in the pharmaceutical desk reference until I found it. Have to keep one in my office. People come in sick and can’t tell me the names of their medications. If they have samples, I can usually identify them.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Not really,” Beau responded, frowning. “This stuff is powerful enough to cause heart failure in someone who has a weak heart, and people don’t always realize they have heart problems. I think it probably killed Marshand. If you want to help me, I can do an autopsy. The nurse went on strike when I suggested it.”

  “Can’t you just take a blood sample or something? Autopsies have never been my thing, and helping with one? No way.”

  Beau sighed and said in that case, he’d send the body to the freezer for later inspection, if and when we got into port, but with two probable murders on board and officers running around with guns while the crew got drunk, he was beginning to wonder how this cruise would end.

  “Me, too,” I agreed, and told him that Carolyn had disappeared. Beau skipped some soggy-looking bread pudding and went off with me to search the ship again. We planned on top to bottom, but we weren’t allowed in crew quarters or the engine room. Froder’s assistant said no one was allowed in the engine room, especially women, so I had to hope that meant Carolyn wasn’t there. The Viking hotel manager in the guerilla outfit said that, under the circumstances, it might not be safe for passengers in crew quarters. I couldn’t figure out why. We were the ones who weren’t getting our money’s worth from this cruise. Looked like the crew was actually having some fun instead of working their butts off.

  Carolyn

  When I finally woke up in the capsule, I couldn’t believe I’d done that. The machine was off, my body was chilled, and my robe damp with sweat, but I felt totally relaxed. What a wonderful television spokesperson I’d make for the comfort machine. I could imagine myself saying, “In a time of great danger and abject terror, the comfort machine not only calmed and relaxed me, but it also put me to sleep.”

  I felt around for the safety latch, pushed up the lid, and climbed out into darkness relieved only by the night sky outside the windows of the room. I must have had quite a nap. But obviously if people could get in here looking for me, this wasn’t my safe haven. I went to take another shower and find a clean, dry robe. Then I rewrapped my hair in a dry towel, after using the spa’s cosmetics to turn my face and neck darker and blacken my eyelashes and eyebrows. To that I added an ugly, dark lipstick, and that was about the best I could do to disguise myself. During my transformation, I decided to impose myself on Owen Griffith, a man who would be fascinated by my plight and might have some creative ideas about how to hide me from my attacker. Had the attacker been one of the men who came in searching for me? I didn’t know.

  With one last look at the new me, I ventured out into the hall, Herkule’s card and lock box code in my bathrobe pocket, and walked boldly, in my bare feet, toward an emergency exit. Fortunately, Owen had told me his cabin number; fortunately, I remembered it; at least I thought I did. I took my time going downstairs, hoping he’d be in his room instead of at one of the various bars, hoping he’d let me in. If he wasn’t at home, I’d have to retire to the emergency stairway to wait.

  I took a deep breath at his floor and stepped out into the corridor. An older couple came walking toward me, and their mouths dropped open when they caught sight of my outfit. I gave them a cheery smile and said, as I had planned, “The spa’s open. No attendants on duty, but I just had a lovely twenty minutes in the comfort machine. You ought to go up if you haven’t tried it.”

  They scurried off, and I continued down the hall to Owen’s door, where I knocked softly. No answer. Rats! I knocked harder, and, thank goodness, he opened the door, peering out cautiously.

  “It’s me,” I whispered. “Let me in.” I glanced nervously up and down the hall, fearing that the louder knocking might have aroused one or more passengers. Owen was still staring, perhaps surprised to find a dark-skinned lady in a bathrobe at his door. “It’s Carolyn,” I hissed. “Now will you open the door? Surely a thriller writer like yourself isn’t fooled by a little makeup.”

  Owen blinked and opened the door. “I think it was the bathrobe more than the makeup that threw me off,” he said, as I scooted inside.

  34

  A New Identity

  Carolyn

  It was such a relief to get out of the corridors and stairways. I fell into Owen’s desk chair, where on the desk his laptop was open, the screen chockablock with text. Was he writing a new book? Wait until he heard my adventures; they should give him inspiration. “Could I have a drink?” I asked, wrapping the robe tight around my knees and calves.

  Owen opened his bar and studied the contents. “Wine?” he suggested and turned to me. “That’s a great costume. Did you rush right from the shower to tell me something fascinating?”

  “Women don’t come out of the shower wearing this much makeup,” I replied. “And I’d like some sort of whiskey. Something with a jolt.”

  “Good girl.” Owen grinned at me approvingly and filled a squat glass with ice cubes over which he poured Scotch. “Are you here to seduce me?” he asked cheerfully. “I’m easy prey in case that’s your plan.”

  I took a sip of the Scotch and sighe
d. It still tasted like mothballs to me, but lacking a tranquilizer, I felt that I needed it, no matter what it tasted like. “I’m here to ask for sanctuary and advice,” I replied, and told him the whole story—being dragged into the closet, throttled, and handcuffed to the pipe, my kitchen utensil escape, which I illustrated by pushing up the terry sleeves of the robe and displaying the palms of my hands and my wrists. I kept the leg wound from the falling knife to myself since I had found no underwear in the spa.

  “Bloody hell!” Owen exclaimed. “Where did you get all the plasters, and who was the bloke who—”

  “I don’t know. He was always behind me. I took the fire stairs up to the spa and cleaned up, hid my bloody clothes, and then had to jump into the comfort machine when someone came looking for me.” I had to explain the comfort machine, and Owen thought it was hilarious that I’d fallen asleep in it while people were prowling around in search of me. “Then I disguised myself as best I could and came here in the robe, which was all I could find to wear. I can’t go back to my suite because that’s the first place they’ll look.”

  “You’ve got that right,” he agreed, throwing down the liquor in his own glass and picking up the bottle with a questioning glance at me.

  I shook my head. “I need to calm down, not pass out.”

  Owen poured himself a second drink—he didn’t bother with ice—and stared into the liquor between sips, presumably deep in thought. “Righto. Here’s what we do,” he said at last. “You’ll stay here because they won’t look for you here, and I’ll go out and tell your roommates you’re alive. By now, they’ll be wondering where you’ve got to. I’ll bring back clothes and whatnot. They’ll know what to send. What we need is a wig. And some specs. Wonder where I’d find those? Well, I’ll have to suss that out. Will you be all right here on your own while I’m gone on an outfitting rummage? Take the spare bed. You can have a nap.”

  “As if I could sleep,” I retorted. “I slept in the comfort machine. Now I’m all jittery and worked up.”

  “In that case, I’ll just stay and—”

  “Please don’t go in that direction. I appreciate your help, but I really—”

  “Course, love.” He put his hand over his heart. “Your virtue is safe with Owen Griffith. On my word of honor as a wild-eyed Welshman.”

  Not an oath I found reassuring, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky.

  “So I’m off. Turn on the telly, why don’t you? That’s good for a bit of calming down, right to the point of stupor. Or pull up the book I’m writing.” He waved toward the computer beside me on the desk. “If I didn’t lock it up at night, some bastard would have nicked it. That’s what happened to all the other computers on board. Now be sure to start at chapter one. You won’t want to miss a bloody word.” Was my computer gone? I wondered.

  Luz

  We’d searched the frigging ship from top to bottom and hadn’t found Carolyn, and she hadn’t come back to the room. Beau and I were worried. Vera insisted Carolyn was probably having a rendezvous with the Welshman, but if she was, I couldn’t get his room number so I couldn’t check that out. I did get the ombudslady to put through a call to his room for me, but no one answered. Probably out drinking with the crew. The bars were full of them, so we’d gone back to the suite, Beau and I with Vera and Barney, and were playing poker when someone knocked at the door.

  Vera got there first and said, “What are you doing here? You’re not welcome.” She tried to close the door in his face, but it was Owen Griffith, and he damn near knocked her over pushing his way in.

  I thought she was going to hit him with a lamp, but Barney grabbed her as Owen said, “You want to hear about your daughter-in-law, old lady, or do I need to look for help somewhere else?”

  We all calmed down, while Griffith sprawled on the couch and told us the whole story. “She can’t stay in your room,” said Vera when he was finished. “She’s a married woman.”

  “So where do you want to put her? Back in the bloody comfort machine, whatever the hell that is? Or maybe here where they’ll come looking for her? Or maybe they’ve already been here.”

  We stared at each other. “Patrick, the Irishman who runs the computer room, asked for her a couple of hours ago,” said Beau. “He asked Luz while we were searching, and we said we didn’t know where she was. Then Patek, the chief steward, came here to the room. He said he’d heard she was missing and wanted to know if she’d shown up.”

  “Well, there you go. Next will be Hartwig. My bet is he’s the one who dragged her into the closet and handcuffed her. She thought the man was too stocky to be Patek, Froder, or O’Brien. So what would your son rather, Mrs. Blue? A dead wife, or one who has to hide out in my room, where I’m at least able to defend her if I have to? Not that I care what you think. She stays with me. Now, I need some clothes for her and whatever else she’ll want, preferably not her own clothes since someone might recognize them. Dark makeup. She’ll have to take a shower sometime, and there goes the stuff she plastered on her face in the spa. A wig and glasses would be good. Anyone know where I can get those?”

  Barney knew a woman who had a several wigs with her, something about her religion. I said that Carolyn had clothes she’d never worn during the cruise, so no one would recognize them, and I had makeup that I was happy to pass on. I hate wearing makeup and was glad to lend it out, and I knew for a fact that the boutique carried glasses that turned color depending on the light. I’d pick some up tomorrow, but they weren’t going on my charge card. “You can pay for them, Vera,” I suggested. Beau was worried about the possibility of infection in Carolyn’s cuts and promised to slip in with his doctor bag the next morning.

  “And how are you going to get back to your room, Mr. Griffith, carrying an armload of women’s clothes?” Vera demanded.

  Owen produced a bottle from under his jacket. “I’m going to stagger down the halls carrying my Scotch in one hand and the clothes over my arm, telling anyone I see that we’re having a costume party tomorrow night in the Grand Salon, men dressed as women, women as men.”

  Carolyn

  I’d read my way to chapter fourteen by the time Owen reeled into the room, waving a bottle, carrying an armload of my clothes, and calling over his shoulder, “Now don’t miss the party. And remember: you don’t wear the right costume, you don’t get in. We’re calling it the cross-dresser’s ball.”

  “Are you drunk?” I asked once he’d closed the door.

  “Not a bit of it, love. Here’s your wardrobe.” Under the clothes he held a cosmetic case, all of which went onto the other chair.

  “This is a wonderful book,” I told him. “As soon as I hang up my clothes—do you have enough room in the closet?—I want to read some more.”

  “It’s two a.m., Carolyn. You’ve got a nightdress in that pile. Put it on, and go to bed. I promise I won’t peek if it makes you feel any better.”

  “But I’m not tired,” I protested. “What I’d really like is to get out of this room. Take a walk out on the deck or something. After all those hours in the closet and the comfort machine, I’m absolutely claustrophobic.”

  “Or else you’re afraid to go to sleep in the same room with me.”

  “Possibly,” I admitted.

  “Bloody hell,” Owen grumbled.

  35

  Rescue at Sea

  Hartwig

  The chief security officer was prowling the deck, sleepless and highly irritated. He didn’t doubt that he’d pull off the hijacking and pick up his share of the fifty million in Zurich, maybe more than his share if his confederates didn’t get their acts together. He sometimes felt that he had to arrange everything himself, do all the thinking, solve all the problems. And there was something about Patek’s attitude. He was an arrogant little wog, or whatever it was the English called people of color. Well, he’d be rid of all four of them soon enough.

  Froder would begin moving the ship toward Casablanca tomorrow when the Miami people realized there’d be no
dickering about the payoff, not with the explosives aboard. Patek did seem to know his stuff in that area. And the helicopter was arranged for. It would arrive the third day, because the Moroccans wouldn’t be paid if they didn’t show up, and they knew it. Then he and his colleagues would split up and make their separate ways to Switzerland. Each one had part of the number sequence to the account in Zurich, so they, at least, thought there could be no cheating. Hartwig knew better, but he wasn’t planning to scam them as long as they did their parts.

  That left the damn Blue woman. They’d all scoured the ship for her without any success. Other than the blood on the floor of the closet, in the corridor, and on the stairs, she seemed to have disappeared at the next emergency door up. O’Brien had put together a heat-seeking gadget to track her down in deserted places. Nothing. Vanished into thin air, the bitch. He should have been getting some sleep, while the damn crew was sleeping off hangovers. Instead, he was out here on deck looking for a fucking food columnist who had got away in a spray of blood—unless someone else got to her in the closet. But why would anyone not part of the hijacking want to kill a food columnist?

  Hartwig felt like punching his fist through a wall, but he had himself under control. Stupid displays of frustration wouldn’t get him to Zurich and then away from there to live the wealthy life he felt he deserved after years as a mercenary in rat-trap countries and then his fucking, midlife career in cruise-line security. He exited to another deck and went outside. No one around. One more turn and he’d—ah, voices! He moved quietly toward the sound and spotted those two ass-holes named, so they said, Crosswayses. They were at the rail.

  Saviors of the Seas. He’d figured that out early on and run a check on them. They thought he and other crewmembers hadn’t seen them dropping flasks down into the water to take samples, fishing up turds, petroleum waste, and chemicals with cries of triumph and slipping them into marked baggies. He’d have had them in the brig at this point if he hadn’t planned a better use for the brig. It now held Marbella and the members of the security team, kept gagged and on short rations.