by Maddy Hunter
Uh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this.
When the floor leveled out a few degrees, Duncan made a mad dash across the floor and slid onto the sofa beside me. “Thanks for…meeting me,” he choked out, his voice low and raspy.
I eyed him speculatively. “Are you all right? You look a little…how should I say this…seasick.”
He shook his head. “I don’t get seasick.”
Of course he didn’t. That was why his complexion was the color of old pavement.
“I apologize for last night, Em. Balmy English.” He leaned back on the sofa, looking glad to be off his feet. “I’m not sure what they put into that vault, but from the way they were acting, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be a transcript of the eighteen deleted minutes from the Nixon tapes. They didn’t finish signing documents ’til after midnight. Those two really know how to stifle a guy’s love life.”
Recalling the hit list on the back of Percy’s business card, I wondered if Duncan’s love life was the only thing the two Brits had stifled recently. “Duncan, remember when you suggested yesterday that I should do myself a favor and not ask the Brits about their society affiliation? Well, I didn’t, but now I wish I had. So, what’s the big deal with the Sandwich Island Society?”
He massaged a spot on his forehead as if he were willing away a migraine. “They’re zealots. One-issue fanatics. No sense of humor. If you don’t share their beliefs, they’d just as soon —”
“Kill you?” I said in a preemptive gasp.
He lowered an eyebrow at me. “They’d just as soon back you into a corner and talk at you until you decide to change your point of view.”
“My point of view about what?”
“About Captain James Cook. They blame him for everything from the rise in oil prices to the disappearance of Elvis. They despise him for destroying the culture of the Sandwich Islands and for contaminating every South Sea island he set foot on. They claim he introduced disease and political strife and created social unrest where none existed. They’re happy to tell you that because of Captain James Cook, the Sandwich Islands lost their true identity. According to Percy and Basil, they would have done a much better job of preserving the culture.”
“Get you something from the bar?” the bartender asked as he approached our table. “Beer nuts? Popcorn?”
Duncan waved him off, looking as if he could easier stick pins in his eyes than entertain any thought of snack food. He backhanded a line of sweat from his upper lip and shifted position on the couch.
“Are you sure you feel okay?” I asked skeptically.
“Maybe I’m a little queasy,” he confessed. “Too much Tabasco in my Bloody Mary.”
Right. He was a little queasy like some women were a little pregnant. “Duncan, maybe you shouldn’t be here tonight. I wouldn’t mind taking another rain —”
“So you met Percy and Basil,” he cut me off, twining my fingers with his. “What did you think of them? Entertaining, huh?”
I frowned at his question. “Why does the name Broomhead sound familiar to me? I know I’ve heard it before, but I can’t remember in what context. Did he invent something, or sue someone, or get his name in the Guinness Book of World Records for some oddball reason?”
Duncan shrugged. “I think Basil is related to some famous Englishman, but don’t ask me who. I try not to listen when they start dragging out the family crests. It gets to be so overblown.” He drew my hand to his mouth and kissed each of my fingertips, causing darts of electricity to needle my arm. “I’ll tell you what, the next time I see him, I’ll inquire.”
“Would now be too soon?” I checked the time. “It’s not too late. He might still be up.”
A pause. “Are you serious? Now?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
He fixed me with a puzzled look. “Just so you know, neither Basil nor Percy was at dinner this evening. I suspect that means they may both be incapacitated, in which case, I’m not going to make the mistake of disturbing them.”
Incapacitated…or gone? Now there was an intriguing concept. Had they gotten out of Dodge before anyone could shake them down about Professor Smoker’s death? Could they have missed dinner not because of illness but because they were no longer aboard the ship? Euw, boy. “Were you on the same excursion as Percy and Basil today?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t seen them since last night. I took a big group to Smith’s Tropical Paradise today. I don’t know what they did.”
Gears started grinding in my head. Could they have gone back to the Secret Falls in search of another windfall? Had they found something again today? Or had something or some one found them first?
The dead body on the trail loomed large in my thoughts as we plunged into a trough and bucked out again. I grabbed my margarita and steadied it as the floor slid up and down. Back and forth. Left and right. Twitching my mouth at the annoyance, I stared hard at Duncan. “Okay, here’s the thing. What would you say if I told you that Basil Broomhead and Percy Woodruffe-Peacock have created a hit parade of —”
“I’msorryEmily,” he choked, clapping his hands over his mouth. As we belly flopped into another trough, Duncan raced across the floor and ripped through the doorway like an Iowa twister, leaving me to stare dumbly after him.
No! He couldn’t leave! We hadn’t even touched on the important stuff yet. What about my upgrade? My flowers? My proposal? I NEEDED TO KNOW! Was it him or Etienne?
Damn. Pouting at my missed opportunity, I raised my glass into the air to signal the bartender for a refill. I should have known better than to insert murder into the conversation.
I’d been way too subtle.
The computer room was tucked away on deck four, opposite the business/copy center and conference rooms. I staggered left and right as I negotiated the corridor, my steps governed by the pitch and yaw of the bucking ship and not, I told myself, by the two margaritas I’d polished off in the last half hour. Reaching the computer room entrance, I grabbed the doorframe to steady myself and peeked inside.
It was a small interior room whose banks of overhead lights looked down on four rows of buffet-size tables equipped with the latest flatscreen monitors, split keyboards, and tower CPUs. I suspected that the place was usually busy twenty-four/seven but tonight, it was as dead as the rest of the ship.
Unlatching myself from the door frame, I shuffled off-balance to the nearest workstation and sat down, feeling a little daunted by all the spiffy hardware. Computers weren’t my medium. I could turn them on and off, all right. It was the stuff in between the “on and off” that sometimes gave me hives. I did much better with a catalogue and a phone. But this Basil Broomhead thing was driving me nuts, so I was going to get to the bottom of it in the only way I knew how.
I’d Google him.
I swiped my room key through the proper slot, encouraged when I gained instant online access and thrilled when the screen I called up actually appeared. I typed the words “basil broomhead” into the search field, and seven-tenths of a second later saw that my inquiry had produced two hundred and six hits. All right! Now we were getting somewhere.
I scrolled slowly down the page, discovering a Broomhead dance page, a University of Sheffield calendar that included someone named Broomhead, an article from Horse & Hound that quoted Basil Appleyard, several genealogical sites for people named Broomhead, a Broomhead Gallery and Museum, various awards and prizes offered by men named Basil, a listing for a block of new flats that had been built in Broomhead Park, but no Basil Broomhead. I clicked on the next page and sighed. Ten down. Only a hundred and ninety-six to go.
Twenty minutes later, having scrutinized all two hundred and six listings and finding diddly-squat, I decided to broaden my search. I typed the word “broomhead” into the search field and two and two-tenth seconds later was looking at a grand total of —
I winced at the number on the screen. Please tell me that wasn’t right. Twenty-two thousand eight hundred
hits? I’d be there until I was eligible for social security!
I heard a door slam shut in the corridor but ignored it as I tried to figure out how best to attack my problem. I needed help from a computer whiz. Someone with expertise in advanced searching techniques. Someone who could hack and find as easily as I could cut and paste.
There was only one solution.
I needed Nana.
I cocked my head as a muted, rhythmic humming filled the corridor. Photocopier. Geesch, I guess Etienne wasn’t the only workaholic. Hard to believe someone would be up at this time of night slaving away in the business center. This was a cruise! Those of us who didn’t have our heads stuck down a toilet were supposed to be having fun!
I clicked the “Start” icon to turn off the computer, but paused when another idea hit me. Hmm. Maybe a back door approach would prove more successful. Returning to the Google screen, I typed in the words “Sandwich Island Society,” accruing a total of fifty-five hits in five-tenths of a second.
I scrolled down, finding websites that listed officers, purpose, and conference sites, but nowhere on the websites nor on connecting links did I find any information that expanded what Duncan had already told me. Nuts. While I was at it, I typed “World Navigators Club” into the search field and was given the opportunity to explore twelve thousand eighty-seven possible connections.
Right. Like that was going to happen.
I scanned the information on the first page, pausing when I ran across the name Nils Nilsson, and a web address with a snippet of text that read, former president of the World Navigators, arrested on suspicion of assault with intent to…
Eyes glued to the screen, I clicked on the address and zipped through an Associated Press article dated five years ago. Oh, my God. According to the article, Nils had been taken into custody for assaulting Dr. Hiram Quilty, a respected Boston College history professor, with a baseball bat. Euw. But even though there were witnesses to the assault, the professor refused to press charges, explaining that he never really got a good look at his attacker and was hesitant to trust eyewitness accounts of men who’d been drowning their sorrows over another Red Sox loss in a pub on Boylston Street. Nils was subsequently released and no formal charges were ever filed. The police suspected that Nils’s friends might have used strong-arm tactics to influence the professor’s decision, but they could never prove the allegation.
I stared wide-eyed at the screen. Nils Nilsson had clobbered a history professor with a baseball bat? His friends might have threatened the man further? Who were the friends? Ansgar and Gjurd? A tingle crawled up my spine. Was it just me, or did I see a pattern linking Nils Nilsson to the foreshortened life expectancy of university history professors? And I bet I knew what kind of history.
I brought up the home page for Boston College and clicked on the faculty/staff directory. Aha! Just as I’d suspected. Dr. Hiram Quilty was a professor of world history, the Early Explorers Period, from 1400–1799. And dollars to doughnuts, he pushed the theory that Christopher Columbus had discovered America, and that James Cook had been the penultimate explorer ever to sail the seven seas.
I powered down the computer, my heart thumping in my throat. I was paired up for dinner with a man who was not only suspected of assault with intent to kill, but whose favorite hardwood was a baseball bat.
I zigzagged to the door and into the corridor, where the sounds of the photocopier continued to hum. As I passed the glass window that fronted the copy center, I saw a familiar head of blond hair hunched over the copy machine and felt a little embarrassed when Jennifer French gazed up to find me looking at her. I flashed her a smile and gave her a little finger wave.
Not surprisingly, she didn’t wave back.
As I headed for the elevator, I wondered what was so important that she’d be copying it close to midnight on a stormy night at sea.
Nana answered her door on my second knock, opening it a crack to peek out. “Emily! Come in. Come in, dear.” She threw the door wide. “Isn’t this storm somethin’? I never seen nothin’ like it. And lookit you. You’re not even curled up in a ball wishin’ you was dead.”
That’s what I loved about Nana. No matter the day, the hour, or the situation, she was always happy to see me. “I’m sorry for the surprise visit,” I apologized as I crossed the threshold, “but I have a favor to ask. How would you feel about doing a late-night computer search? I started the process, but your advanced search skills are more refined than mine. I’m looking for information on a name: Basil Broomhead. I got twenty-two thousand eight hundred hits on the last name, so I need you to whittle it down to something more manageable. I’m not sure if Basil Broomhead has any connection to Professor Smoker, but I kinda think he might, so your search could really help.”
“AAAGHHCKK! AA-AAGHHCKK!”
I stared at the bathroom door, cringing at the sounds. “Oh, no. Tilly?”
Nana nodded. “She says she done okay in some typhoon in the South China Sea some years back when she was escapin’ a boatload a pirates, but this here storm has done her in. You okay, Til?” she asked, tapping on the door.
The toilet flushed with a wall-vibrating WHOOOOSH.
Nana nodded with satisfaction. “Yup. She’s okay.”
“Tilly encountered pirates in the South China Sea?” I marveled as I seated myself on the sofa. “Real pirates? I didn’t realize pirates were still around.”
“Oh, sure. But more typically, they’re wearin’ business suits and workin’ on Wall Street.” She sat down on the sofa beside me. “This storm’s leveled everyone. You shoulda seen ’em at supper. They was staggerin’ back to their cabins even before the entrées showed up. Old folks, young folks. Even Bailey’s sick. I seen her earlier in the evenin’ when I went to her cabin to give back the tube a sunblock she lent me today, and she looked worse’n Tilly, if that’s possible. Kinda like she could be dead by mornin’. They could all be dead by mornin’.”
“AAAGHHCKK! AAAAAAAGHHCKK!”
Nana shook her head. “This whole thing has got me to thinkin’, Emily.”
“About what? Not signing up for any more cruises?”
“About the wave machine I was thinkin’ to buy for the new Senior Center pool. Maybe I should go with the waterslide instead.”
I nodded. “A waterslide would be nice. So you’re not sick?” I asked switching gears. “Not even a twinge?”
“Nope. But between you and me, dear, all this buried treasure business has got me pretty antsy. I could really use somethin’ to take the edge off.”
Even though I’d only been on the job a year, I was seasoned enough to know that it was a bad sign when the holiday grew so exciting, the guests started having nervous breakdowns. “Do you want me to take you down to the infirmary?” I asked in concern. “I bet the doctor could prescribe a low-dose tranquilizer that might calm you down.”
“A pill?” She scrunched her face up like an apple doll. “I don’t want no pill. I was thinkin’ more like a good stiff Shirley Temple. With extra cherries.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Them extra cherries give it a real kick.”
“AAAGHHCKK! AAAAAAAGHHCKK!”
I winced at the bathroom wall. “Poor Tilly. Is there anything I can do?”
“Well, if you want me to check out that fella’s name on the internet, you could stay here until I get back. I don’t wanna go off and leave Til by herself.”
“Deal.” I gave her a high five. “Basil Broomhead. See what you can dig up.”
She bustled around the cabin, changing into her sneakers and grabbing hold of her pocketbook. “What have I forgotten?” she asked rhetorically as she stood in the middle of the room.
I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out my wallet, and handed Nana a twenty-dollar bill. “Buy yourself a couple of Shirley Temples while you’re at it.”
“You don’t need to do that, dear. I’m filthy rich.”
I smiled affectionately. “Don’t stunt my generosity. Drinks on me.
Okay?”
She flashed me a smile as she removed the bill from my hand. “I don’t know if the bars handle cash, but I’ll try. You’re a good girl, Emily. I’m glad your nice young police inspector has woke up enough to realize that. And to do somethin’ about it.”
“But he hasn’t done anything about it!” I tossed my head back and dug my fingers into my scalp. “He…he’s left me in limbo!” Which was not a preferred destination for any Catholic these days, since its existence had been struck from the books.
Nana speared me with a quizzical look. “Wasn’t it him what got you upgraded to that nice Royal Family Suite with balcony?”
“I’m not sure now! It could be him. It could be Duncan. And no one has said anything about the roses.”
“What roses?”
“Don’t ask. It’s too frustrating to even talk about. Etienne hasn’t returned my phone call. Duncan’s seasick. I don’t know what to do! How can I choose between them? I’m so confused.”
“Maraschino cherries,” Nana said with quiet authority.
“Excuse me?”
With a little spring in her step, she came to sit beside me. “Back when I was a girl, my pa hired a couple a young men to help out on the farm during the summer. Real nice fellas. Good-lookin’. Hardworkin’. Polite. And not to toot my own horn or nothin’, but they was both a little sweet on me.”
I inhaled a patient breath. “Is this a parable?”
She fluttered her hand to quiet me. “Anyway, my ma used to make the best homemade ice cream, so for dessert at our noon meal, she’d serve us all ice-cream sundaes with nuts, chocolate sauce, and one maraschino cherry to top it off. Them cherries was a real delicacy back in them days. And we all liked ’em so much, we’d save ’em to eat last. Yup, them cherries made it reeeeal easy to know which one a them fellas deserved a second look.”