by Maddy Hunter
Tilly handed over the journal. “An antique bachelor’s chest willed to me from a cousin who lived in England for many years. Marion’s grandson found the hidden compartment quite by accident when they were visiting last week. He was pretending the chest was the control panel for the Starship Enterprise, and when he turned a knob to reverse engines, the compartment opened up. A charming youngster, young David,” she said stiffly. “So” — she searched for the right adjective — “energetic.”
Nana shook her head. “In the last year he’s went from action figures to farm machinery to spaceships. His mother thinks he’s got Attention Deficit Disorder. Or Hyperactivity Disorder. Or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. They sure got a lot a names for normal five-year-olds these days. You got grand-kids, Professor?”
Smoker opened the journal, his eyes skimming the first page. “I’ve never married,” he said offhandedly. “I’m afraid I’ve made my career my life. This journal is in extraordinary condition for a book that’s over two hundred years old. Excellent ink pigment. Minimal deterioration of the paper. Legible handwriting. It’s almost too good to be true.”
“My sentiments entirely,” Tilly agreed. “Not to mention that your typical seaman in the eighteenth century couldn’t write.” She cocked her head. “Yet if you read a few pages, you find a certain element of authenticity about it.”
“The twentieth century gave rise to forgers who knew their profession well,” Smoker asserted. “I’d need to read the complete journal before I could make any kind of determination, but at first blush, Professor Hovick, I’d deem it a well-crafted hoax.” He closed the book and attempted to hand it back.
“I feared as much. But still…” Tilly leaned on her walking stick, her eyes registering a sudden decision. “I invite you to read the complete journal, then.”
The book seemed to weigh more heavily in Smoker’s hand. “It could take days. Are you comfortable entrusting it to me for that long?”
She nodded assent. “However long it takes, Professor. If you’re able to resolve its true origin, I expect it will be well worth the wait.”
“I can’t promise any startling results, but please consider it on my front burner. What’s your cabin number, Professor Hovick? I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
While Tilly and Dorian Smoker exchanged cabin numbers, I observed two young women standing by the door at the back of the room, watching us and each other with icy glares. One was a statuesque brunette with a milk white complexion that looked as if it had never been zapped by an ultraviolet ray. She wore a skimpy pink halter top and belted white short-shorts that bared a pierced navel and abdominal muscles so flat, you could probably bounce quarters off them. The other woman had long blond hair the texture of straw, a too-dark tan that screamed of a tanning bed, and a colorful tattoo that hugged her shoulder. She was dressed in a skintight tank top enhanced by a push-up bra and wore a black micro-miniskirt that was the size of a candy wrapper. They looked like Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders waiting for a football game to break out someplace.
“You don’t got a business card I can have, do you, Professor?” Nana asked Smoker as she eyed her crumpled list again. “It’s on account a the scavenger hunt. We’re s’posed to ask perfect strangers to give us really stupid stuff, and that’s s’posed to break the ice.”
He smiled as he slipped the journal back into the plastic storage bag that Tilly handed him. “You’re in luck, Mrs. Sippel.” He reached into the pocket of his shirt and removed a small case. “I always carry extras when I’m lecturing. You never know who might want to visit my website, or make a contribution to the university.” He plucked a white card from the stack and offered it to Nana. “Will that do?”
Nana gave it a quick glance before stashing it in the oversized leather pocketbook that was her signature piece. “Penn State, hunh? Go Nittany Lions! You don’t happen to have a couple a blue M&M’s on you, do you?”
“Afraid not. You might try a vending machine.”
“I haven’t seen none on board, but then, I haven’t been lookin’. Good idea.” She looked suddenly worried. “I only got a few more hours before the hunt ends, and if I can find a few more things, I got a good chance a winnin’ the grand prize.”
“Which is?” asked Smoker.
Nana read from her paper. “ ‘A priceless memento that celebrates the uniqueness of the Hawaiian Islands.’ I’m thinkin’ maybe a free ticket to that luau they’re offerin’ on Maui.”
Better that than a book contract with a five-figure advance. A little chill tickled my spine. Been there, done that.
Bailey Howard tapped her watch to catch Smoker’s attention. “It’s about that time, Professor. We’re supposed to vacate the room by four.”
Smoker gave us a devilish wink. “You see what I mean about her being organized and efficient? She’ll be dean of the College of the Liberal Arts before long. Ladies, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.” He graciously shook hands with all of us, which, I figured, was our cue to leave.
As we ambled toward the exit, the two cheerleaders charged toward us, eyes locked, teeth set, like early-bird Wal-Mart shoppers the day after Thanksgiving. “I bet the professor’s celebratin’ a birthday today,” Nana said as they brushed by.
“You think?” I peeked over my shoulder, watching the duo greet Smoker in the same way cannibals might greet a wayward traveler.
“Yup. Them two gals are dressed like they just popped outta one a them X-rated surprise birthday cakes. You s’pose they got a naughty bakery on board?” She paused in thought. “I wonder if they do special orders?”
Whether it was his birthday or not, the good professor certainly looked surprised, but not in a good way.
In the corridor, Tilly nodded back toward the lecture room, a knowing look in her eye. “I saw this all the time when I was teaching. Sexual misconduct is rampant in academia, especially with the more high-profile professors. He’s probably slept with both those young women.”
“No,” exclaimed Nana.
“Yes,” assured Tilly.
Nana peeked back into the room, stunned. “He sure don’t look like no studmuffin.”
“A man doesn’t have to be good-looking for a woman to find him sexually attractive,” Tilly maintained. “They’ve conducted studies. Position, authority, knowledge — to a woman, these are much more powerful aphrodisiacs than good looks.”
“Who done that study?” asked Nana. “Someone at Iowa State?”
“I read it in Cosmo. The sad thing is, those girls probably signed up for the cruise hoping to surprise Smoker, and instead they ended up surprising each other. Did you see their faces? The shock? The anger? The humiliation? Classic reactions for women who learn they’ve been deceived by a philandering lover.” Tilly shook her head. “Smoker had better be prepared to do some fast talking. You know what they say, ‘Hell hath no fury…’”
“Blue M&M’s,” said Nana, spinning in a bewildered circle. “Which way to the Coconut Palms Cafe? It’s located aft, but I don’t know if that’s left or right.”
I didn’t know either, but I did know one thing. If what Tilly said was true, I was glad not to be in Dorian Smoker’s shoes right then.
The Aloha Princess boasted thirteen decks, three swimming pools, two five-star restaurants, a miniature golf course, a climbing wall, a world-class fitness center, an exotic spa, and thirty-two kinds of ice cream — but nowhere within its luxurious chrome-and-glass interior was there a blue M&M to be found. Striking out at the Coconut Palms Cafe, we ventured to the casino on deck six, where we ran into the rest of the scavenger-hunting Iowa contingent, their voices raised in complaint as they brandished their lists.
“They don’t have vending machines on this boat,” whined Bernice Zwerg in a voice that scratched like coarse-grade steel wool. “How are we supposed to get our hands on those over-priced packets of M&M’s without vending machines?” Bernice had undergone emergency bunion surgery on both feet last June, but she’d bounced b
ack in time to book a last-minute reservation on our cruise. Lucky me.
We were gathered near the front of the casino, opposite the glassed-in cashiers’ windows, where a coin-counting machine rattled like a faulty race-car engine. Reflective disco balls hung from the ceiling. Slot machines hunkered in military formation on the floor. Gaming tables flanked the perimeter. Digital sound effects rang out like a chorus of off-key kazoos, joined by the hoots, hollers, screams, and laughter of the casino’s patrons.
“Did anyone try the General Store on deck five?” asked Dick Teig, hitching up the belt of his size 52 waist Italian knit trousers. I’d discovered a killer in Italy; Dick had discovered couture. “They should have M&M’s in the candy section.”
“Osmond and I checked,” announced Alice Tjarks in her KORN radio voice. “All they have is Skittles.” She waved into the lens of Osmond Chelsvig’s camcorder, then gave him a big ‘I’m on vacation’ smile.
“Skittles?” crowed Helen Teig, Dick’s wife. “I love Skittles. Did you buy any?”
“At three dollars a bag?” Alice shot back. “Who’s got money like that?”
“I do,” said Nana. Nana had won millions in the Minnesota lottery, so she had money to burn. “But I’d rather spend it on them midget Tootsie Rolls. The fresh ones don’t even stick to my dentures.”
Ding ding ding ding ding. A victorious shriek echoed out from the depths of the casino.
Helen Teig rubbed her eye, accidentally wiping her left eyebrow off her face. “So what else are we missing besides M&M’s?”
Lucille Rassmuson raised her hand. “I can’t find a balloon. I even checked the florist shop. They don’t do balloons, only flowers.”
“I found a balloon!” enthused Margi Swanson. This was Margi’s first trip with us. She worked part-time as an RN at the medical clinic in Windsor City, but she said she was reaching the age where she needed to start spending some of the money she’d spent a lifetime earning. She’d recently lost seventy-five pounds on the “Eat Everything in Sight and Still Lose Weight” diet, so as a reward to herself, she’d signed up for the cruise.
“Where’d you find a balloon?” Lucille asked suspiciously. She was wearing her favorite piece of jewelry pinned to her sweater today — a quarter-size campaign button with her deceased husband’s cigar-smoking face stamped on it. Her good friends, the Teigs and Stolees, had surprised her with matching earrings for her birthday. I guessed next would come coffee mugs and calendars. In today’s marketplace, the possibilities were endless.
“It’s not actually a real balloon,” Margi said in a stage whisper. “I’m using a condom.”
Gasps. Wheezing. Choking.
“What size?” asked Nana.
“Jumbo. It blows up to the size of a beach ball.”
Nana’s eyes lit up. “You got any more?”
“Plenty. I stocked up at the clinic. If rampant hanky-panky breaks out aboard ship, I can hand them out to the masses.”
Suppressing a grin, I turned toward Nana. “Why do you need condoms? George isn’t even here.”
“Them jumbos are hard to find, dear. I’m stock-pilin’.”
Nana’s boyfriend, George Farkas, Windsor City’s only resident with both a prosthetic leg and hardware the size of a SCUD missile, had planned on cruising with us, but he’d come down with a sudden case of shingles and been forced to cancel. His doctor didn’t know what had triggered the episode, but there was mention of stress. I figured the thought of being the focus of Nana’s romantic notions for ten days had finally gotten to him. I mean, he’d barely escaped with his life in Italy, where the beds had been stationary — he’d probably been plagued by nightmares about what could happen on the high seas. No wonder he’d gotten stressed.
“Did anyone find a rock?” asked Osmond as he adjusted one of his double hearing aids.
“I did,” said Bernice, pulling it out of her Aloha Princess tote. “In the spa. There was a whole bunch in one of the rooms I toured, so I borrowed one.”
A cocktail waitress with a tray of tall, icy beverages skirted around us, offering free drinks to the people camped before the dollar slots.
“Which way is the spa?” asked Lucille.
“That way,” said Bernice, pointing right.
“That way,” said Dick Teig, pointing left.
“Three decks up,” attested Alice.
“One deck down,” corrected Margi.
Uff da. What was happening here? Iowans never got lost. Ever. Since the beginning of time, no Iowan had even taken a wrong turn! The fact that no one knew how to get anywhere revealed an incredible phenomenon: Everyone’s natural directional system apparently stopped functioning near large bodies of water. Either that, or the new souped-up metal detectors at the Des Moines airport had caused the first incidence of group dementia ever recorded.
“Show of hands,” Osmond shouted. When there was a vote to be taken, eighty-eight-year-old Osmond always did the honors. “How many of you found a paper clip?” All hands went up. “A map without advertising?” Five hands went up. “An eraser?” Nine hands went up.
“Mine’s attached to a number two pencil,” confessed Margi. “That won’t get me disqualified, will it?”
Ding ding ding ding ding.
Seated on a high stool before a shiny one-armed bandit behind us, Grace Stolee let out a scream and pointed to the circular white light atop her machine. If the dings and flashing indicated a winning jackpot, Grace had just hit it big.
“Don’t move!” instructed her husband as he leaped off an adjacent stool and aimed his camcorder at her. “This is Grace winning a big jackpot aboard the Aloha Princess.” He shot a close-up of the coins pouring into her tray. “Quarters.” He panned higher. “Flashing light.” Then lower. “Three winning sevens.” Dick Stolee kind of had a thing for stating the obvious.
“What’s the payout, Grace?” he asked, zeroing in on the payoff chart below the window.
Osmond Chelsvig abandoned the group to film Dick Stolee filming Grace. Alice Tjarks dug her camcorder out of her tote and positioned herself to film Osmond, filming Dick, filming Grace. What was it with these guys and the infinity shots?
Grace stabbed her finger at the payoff chart. “Three sevens, three quarters, that’s —” She screamed again. “TWENTY THOUSAND QUARTERS!”
“How much is that in real money?” asked Dick Teig.
While the majority of the group hurried over to surround Grace, I nodded to Nana and Tilly, indicating that I was ready to head out and explore some more. I’d had enough of the casino’s gaming tables and slot machines. Gaming tables reminded me of chemin de fer. Chemin de fer reminded me of Italy. And Italy reminded me of Etienne, who’d won an unexpected fortune while visiting his family and had gotten his memory jogged enough to ask me…
My heart started thumping in my ears.
…to have the gall to ask me…
My face grew hot.
…to have the absolute effrontery to ask me…
Nuts. I was not going to think about Etienne right now. I refused to let him spoil my holiday. But I needed to get out of the casino, and fast.
Inhaling a calming breath, I headed out the door, with Nana and Tilly hot on my heels. “Where to, ladies?” I asked, digging a floor plan of the ship out of my shoulder bag. “A spin around the Promenade deck, which is…let’s see…one deck down? Or would you prefer a round of miniature golf on the putting green on deck thirteen?”
“I’ve never played miniature golf,” Tilly admitted. “The closest I’ve come to it is playing croquet with a tribe of Pygmies in the Andaman Islands.”
“I’d like to hit the spa and borrow a rock like Bernice done,” Nana said. “And while I’m there, I’m gonna sign up for one a them Ionithermie treatments. It costs a hundred and twenty dollars, but the flyer promises you can lose up to eight inches a ugly cellulite in the first session. And it’s not real complicated. They plaster you in seaweed and wire you up like the Frankenstein monster, and that detoxifie
s your fat cells and firms you up real good.”
“I underwent a similar ritual in New Guinea,” Tilly recalled, as we approached the elevator. “Only they plastered me in jungle foliage instead of sea vegetation, and I wasn’t sure if their goal was to cleanse me or eat me. Cannibals are oftentimes quite hard to read.”
When the door to the elevator slid open, we stepped into a cylindrical glass tube that overlooked the atrium at the center of the ship — a huge column of open space between decks four and eleven that was rimmed by tiers of balconies and overhung by a crystal chandelier that looked like a giant upside-down sno-cone. I punched the button for deck eleven then clung to the safety rail as we glided upward on the barest whisper of air.
“I’ll be,” Nana marveled, her nose pressed to the elevator glass. “This is like bein’ inside a hypodermic needle.”
I looked down at the elegant champagne bar on deck four, where a staircase of illuminated acrylic risers spiraled toward the next floor. That would be the perfect place to have the group pose for pictures on Halloween night, when we were all expected to dress in costume for the masquerade gala. I hadn’t decided on a costume yet, but I figured I could rent one at the clothing shop on deck five. They were supposed to have a good selection in a variety of sizes.
“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” mused Tilly, as we peered outward through the ship’s glass walls. The gleaming waters of the Pacific Ocean appeared calm as bathwater. There was no land in sight, only blue sky and open sea. “Balboa first named this ocean the South Sea, but Magellan changed the name to the Pacific, no doubt for the calm waters that greeted him after a harrowing passage around the tip of South America. Can you feel the stillness, ladies? The wonderful calm? This must be the same calm that Magellan felt.”
A bell pinged. The elevator door shushed open.
“MAN OVERBOARD!” shrieked a woman as she banged through the door from the outside deck. “Man overboard! Help me! Somebody help me! PLEASE!”
It was Bailey Howard.