Santa Cruise

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Well, most therapists are overpaid jerks as well,” Grimes countered.

  Nelson frowned. “I really don’t think you’re cut out to be a Santa.”

  “You’re right. This was my last season.”

  Maybe next year he should play Scrooge, Dudley thought. We’re off to a great start. Why did I ever think up this Santa Cruise? This will turn me into a confirmed landlubber. He began to hand out the suits. By the time four of the Santas had taken them, there were only four left on the rack.

  “I can’t understand it,” Dudley said, his voice alarmed. “We’re missing two suits. Mr. Grimes, unless I can track them down, you will be relieved of your obligation to spread good cheer on this cruise.”

  “What?” It was clear that Grimes was caught off guard. The truth was that he loved dressing up as Santa Claus.

  Ted Cannon sized up Grimes as the type who always complained no matter what. “Maybe we can rotate some of the suits. I’m in the cabin next to Pete. We’re about the same size. We can share one.”

  “My therapist would be proud of you,” Pete Nelson said with a smile.

  “Mr. Grimes, if you wish you may share a suit with Rudy. Or you won’t have to wear one at all, if you don’t want to,” Dudley sniffed.

  “Whatever. I’ll work it out with Rudy,” Grimes said begrudgingly.

  When the Santas left, eight of them carrying outfits, Dudley scoured the supply room. Not only had the two suits vanished into thin air, but the sandals, beards, and stocking caps to go with them were also definitely gone. Why would anyone else want them, and how am I going to explain having only eight Santa Clauses to the Commodore?

  Who could have gotten into this supply room? It was always kept locked, so it had to have been someone with a key.

  Dudley got nervous. I didn’t have that waiter checked out, he thought. As a matter of fact, I didn’t check anybody’s references. We all know that most references are given by people who are forced to do a favor for their unemployed friends and most résumés are a pack of lies.

  Someone on the ship was up to no good. Dudley didn’t know whether it was a passenger or a crew member.

  What Dudley did know was that if something else happened, it would be his fault.

  All of a sudden, walking off the ship didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  11

  Oh, I sail the ocean blue, and my saucy ship’s a beauty,” the Commodore sang, as he looked in the mirror over the couch of his sitting room and smiled at his reflection. His new uniform, a resplendent midnight blue tuxedo with gold-braided epaulets on the shoulders to match the buttons on the jacket, struck exactly the note he was hoping to achieve. He wanted his guests to view him as both a commanding presence and a genial host.

  But it would be nice to have another opinion, he decided.

  “Eric!” he called.

  The door to the guest room was closed and locked, a gesture the Commodore felt was a trifle unfriendly. After all, he reasoned, with this large living room between the bedrooms, it’s not as if we’re crowding each other. Closing the door was one thing, locking it another. Certainly Eric couldn’t think I would barge in on him? When I tapped on the door a few minutes ago and got no response, I only wanted to peek in to see if Eric had been catching a cat nap. I simply wanted to warn him that it was getting late. But the door was locked, then Eric called out in a very cross voice that he was stepping out of the shower and what did I want?

  Maybe he should have taken a nap, the Commodore thought. He looked terribly tired today, and he certainly was cranky. Well, I know that he shares my concern that the voyage goes well from now on despite a few bumpy patches at the outset. . . .

  There was a knock on the outside door of the suite. The Commodore knew it would be Winston with his plate of fancy hors d’oeuvres. I much prefer enjoying them here in my suite with a glass of champagne than munching on them while I’m shaking hands and posing for pictures with the guests, he thought. Nothing worse than a crumb on the chin or a dab of mustard on one’s cheek when posing for a photo. People should feel free to point out offensive particles of food stuck to another person’s face, no matter how exalted the position of the stuckee.

  “Enter, Winston,” he called out.

  Winston entered the room in dramatic fashion, a tray with an open champagne bottle, two glasses, and two plates of hors d’oeuvres held over his head. A small smile played on his lips, indicating that he was very pleased with himself. But then he always was. He placed the tray on the coffee table and ceremoniously poured a glass of champagne for the Commodore.

  The Commodore inspected the selection of hors d’oeuvres—tiny potatoes sprinkled with caviar, smoked salmon, baked mushroom puffs in pastry shells, and sushi with dipping sauce. His face darkened.

  Winston looked alarmed. “Are you displeased, sir?”

  “No pigs in a blanket?”

  A horrified expression came over Winston’s face. “Oh, sir,” he protested.

  The Commodore slapped him on the back and laughed heartily as he settled on the couch. “Only jesting, Winston. I know you would drop dead before you would ever serve such a middle-brow item. But they are tasty.”

  Winston didn’t comment, but he obviously didn’t agree. The same selection of hors d’oeuvres had been placed in all the guests rooms, a gesture that Winston felt was surely unappreciated by most of the cruisers. They’d probably have preferred popcorn, he thought. He placed one plate of hors d’oeuvres on the table and picked up the tray. Then he turned and began to cross the room. Before he had gone six steps the door of Eric’s room opened. Pulling it closed behind him, Eric gave the Commodore a blinding smile as he hurried to sit beside him on the couch.

  “Sir, I hope I didn’t sound unpleasant a few minutes ago when you called me.” He tried to laugh. “Fact is, I stubbed my toe in the shower. I’d just been muttering something I won’t repeat when I heard your voice.”

  “That’s perfectly all right, my boy,” the Commodore assured him as he bit into a mushroom puff. “It did enter my head that you sounded a bit cross, but a stubbed toe is the very devil.” A slight frown creased his forehead. “You’re not dressed for the evening. You’re running rather late, aren’t you?”

  Winston placed the second plate of hors d’oeuvres and a glass of champagne in front of Eric. I wonder if he’d rather have more of his potato chips, Winston thought disdainfully. I’ll have to inspect his room when I turn the bed down. The last thing I want is him ruining the Commodore’s guest bedroom with hidden junk food. It’s also interesting, Winston thought, that for someone who claimed to have just stepped out of the shower. Eric had put his daytime uniform back on. “Mr. Manchester,” he said, “Is there a problem with your dress uniform? Does it need pressing? I’d be happy to take care of it for you.”

  “No,” Eric snapped. “I haven’t showered yet.”

  “But I thought you stubbed your toe when you were showering,” the Commodore said.

  “I was getting ready to shower when I stubbed it,” Eric corrected himself quickly. “I knew you were waiting to have a glass of champagne. I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

  “Very well.” The Commodore turned to Winston. “That will be all, my good man.”

  Winston’s bow was pointedly aimed at the Commodore. “You have but to beckon, sir.”

  The Commodore beamed at Winston’s departing figure. He drained his glass of champagne and stood up. “I must run,” he declared. “Try not to be too long, Eric. I count on you to charm our guests.” He winked. “Especially the ladies.”

  Eric did not miss the note of admonition in his uncle’s voice. He knew he was being told that he ought to have been ready to join the passengers now. He also didn’t miss the way Winston had eyed him with nosy curiosity. “I won’t be but ten minutes, sir,” he said. He stood up and made a gesture of starting toward his room. Then as soon as the Commodore left the suite, he dumped the two hors d’oeuvres his uncle had not eaten onto his plate.
r />   Bull’s-Eye had been complaining about being hungry. Maybe this will hold him over, Eric thought, with increasing desperation. It was safe enough to leave those two in my room during the boat drill. But now I’ve absolutely got to get them out of here until Winston has turned down the bed and changed the towels. What a dope I was to say I had stubbed my toe in the shower. Winston can tell I’m nervous. He’ll be sure to poke around in my room. And I can’t leave Bull’s-Eye and the Bean Counter in my bathroom. If Winston found that door locked he’d send for the engineer pronto.

  These were the thoughts torturing Eric as he raced into his room to meet the cold stare of his two stowaways. Both of them, still wearing the Santa Claus outfits but without the beards and stocking caps, were sitting side by side on the bed.

  Eric handed the plate to Bull’s-Eye. “As far as food goes, this is the best I can do for now. I’ve got to get you out of here right away.” The tone of his voice was somewhere between a direct order and a plea for understanding.

  Both men just stared at him.

  “I have a place for you that’s sure to be safe.” Eric’s words were tripping over each other. “The Chapel of Repose is on this deck. Nobody will go there. Then, after dinner I can sneak you back in before my uncle comes upstairs.”

  “You call this dinner for us?” Bull’s-Eye demanded as he reached for a piece of sushi.

  “No. No, I’ll get you more. I promise. Please, we’ve got to go. Winston has a TV in his pantry. If I know Winston, he’s in there polishing off the rest of the champagne and watching Jeopardy! That’s what he does in my uncle’s house. He’s a nut for Jeopardy! Took the test to get on the show and almost made it. Come on!”

  “Your price for getting us out of the country just went down,” Highbridge snarled. “You’re not getting another dollar from either one of us.”

  “And if anything happens and we don’t get to Fishbowl Island safely, the orders to my people are to have you whacked.” Bull’s-Eye’s tone was calm. He might have been saying, “Pass the salt.”

  Eric opened his mouth to object, but the protest died on his lips. Why did I ever listen to Bingo Mullens? he asked himself as his mouth went dry and his hands went clammy. He told me he knew an easy way to make big money. What had Bingo said? “Your uncle has a boat. He trusts you. I figured out a no-brainer.”

  Bingo had been arrested for illegal gambling in Miami last year and had met Bull’s-Eye in the lockup before both men posted bail. A month ago he’d contacted Bull’s-Eye and told him he had a safe and sure way of getting him out of the country before his trial started. Bull’s-Eye went along with it, to the tune of one million dollars. Bingo’s cousin was a gofer for Highbridge in Connecticut. That’s how Eric had made that connection. Now they’re both sitting in my room, and unless I can keep them hidden we’ll all be arrested, and that will be the least that will happen to me, Eric thought, his heart racing.

  He had to keep the two men hidden for the next thirty-three hours.

  Knowing that his very life depended on that gave Eric courage. “Put on those caps and beards,” he ordered briskly. “Let’s go!”

  Eric checked to see if the coast was clear. The corridor was empty. He waved to the two of them to follow him. His final instructions were whispered with a nervous tremor that made his voice come out as a squeak. “Remember, if people see you, they expect to see Santas roaming around the ship. Don’t try to run away from them.”

  Highbridge cursed under his breath.

  He’s changed, Eric thought. There was something in his voice that was both chilling and threatening. Eric’s instinct was immediately justified when Highbridge said, “My people will get you if Tony’s don’t do the job. Count on it.”

  It took less than a minute but felt like hours before they were in the corridor that terminated at the Chapel of Repose. Eric pulled open the heavy wooden door, flicked on the light, and glanced inside. The chapel was the Commodore’s pride and joy. It had an arched ceiling with stained-glass windows on either side. A carpeted center aisle separated six rows of white oak pews and led to a raised area suggesting a sanctuary. The altar, a long table covered by a floor-length velvet cloth was the focal point. An organ was off to the side.

  “Get in,” Eric said quickly, then shut the door behind them. “Go sit on the floor behind the table. If you hear the door open, scoot under it. I’ll be back as fast as I can after dinner.”

  “Make sure you bring food when you get back,” Bull’s-Eye ordered as he ripped off his beard.

  “I will. I will.” Trying not to break into a run, Eric turned off the light, left the chapel, and hurried down the corridor.

  Alvirah and Willy were waiting for the elevator. “Oh, glad to see you, Eric,” Willy said. “Alvirah found a deck of cards in the night table by the bed. We were wondering if they were yours?”

  “No, they’re not,” Eric snapped. Trying to soften his tone, he moved his lips in an attempted smile and said, “Even as a kid, I was always an outdoor guy. I could never sit still long enough to play cards.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ll see if I can get a card game going on the ship,” Willy said.

  Five minutes later when he was in the shower, a thought hit Eric like a thunderclap. Bull’s-Eye had slept in the bed. By any chance did the deck of cards belong to him?

  And if so, would he want them back?

  12

  The predinner cocktails were being served in the spacious Grand Lounge adjacent to the dining salon. At the entrance, a photographer had set up his camera and a backdrop showing the railing of a ship against a star-spattered sky. There, at eight P.M., the Commodore would begin to pose for pictures as the cruisers filed into dinner.

  The walls of the lounge were decorated with a variety of framed articles and photographs, all of which were a testament to the philanthropic efforts of the honored guests. One woman, Eldona Dietz, had been chosen because the newsy Christmas letter she sent out detailing every single activity of her children’s lives for the past twelve months had won an award from a family magazine. An enlarged and framed version of the letter was displayed prominently on the wall. To make sure no one missed it, a smaller version was a centerpiece at all the cocktail tables.

  The Commodore was speaking in a low voice to a flustered-looking Dudley, and it was obvious he was not happy with whatever Dudley was saying.

  “The reason we only have eight Santa Clauses here is because two of the suits are missing, sir.” Dudley had planned to try to find the perfect moment to break that news, but unfortunately the Commodore had already counted the bearded and costumed figures Ho-Ho-Hoing through the room and instructed Dudley to tell the other two to hurry up and get in there.

  “How could two suits be missing?” the Commodore demanded. “The door to the supply room was locked, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was the lock picked?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then unless I’m delusional, someone with a key entered the supply room and stole the costumes.”

  “That would seem to be the case, sir.” Dudley watched as the Commodore made a visible effort to control the outrage that was making his eyes send out sparks.

  “My feelings are hurt, Dudley. Someone is trying to ruin our Santa Cruise. My blood is beginning to boil. This should have been reported to Eric if you couldn’t find me.”

  “Sir, by the time I knew the suits were missing you were dressing for dinner, and I haven’t seen Eric since the lifeboat drill ended.”

  “He was in my suite. I don’t know what’s keeping him now. He should be here. Not a word of this to anyone! I don’t want the guests to get wind of the fact that we have a thief in our midst. They’ve already witnessed one of our waiters trying to escape arrest. Where did you hire these people from? A penal colony?”

  “Yes, sir, I won’t discuss this and no, sir, I didn’t hire our employees from a penal colony. . . .”

  Across the room, the four Reillys were sitting at
a cocktail table. Regan was observing the byplay between the Commodore and Dudley. “I think Commodore Weed is giving the cruise director a hard time,” she commented.

  “He’s the guy who fell off the rock-climbing wall, isn’t he?” Luke asked.

  “Yes, and I gather he was in charge of hiring that waiter who jumped ship.”

  “How did you find that out already?” Jack asked.

  “When we were sitting around waiting for the boat drill instructions to start, you and Dad were debating who would be the nominees in the next presidential election. I overheard a couple of the junior officers talking about the guy who took the dive off the ship—”

  “And I thought you were hanging on my every word,” Jack said.

  Regan ignored the interruption. “Those junior officers said the hiring was a joke. Dudley never did the hiring on the other cruise lines where he worked. It’s not the job of the cruise director. They said he had to do it because the Commodore’s nephew, Eric, the guy whose room Alvirah ended up in, was supposed to handle it and didn’t. Dudley got stuck with finishing the job at the last minute on top of having to handle the guest list.”

  Jack pulled the newsy Christmas letter from the centerpiece. “The guest who wrote this must be really interesting. ‘In the last twelve months it’s been so exciting to watch Fredericka and Gwendolyn blossom into lovely young ladies. Violin lessons, gymnastics, singing, dancing, bird watching, etiquette classes, baking organic fat-free pies, etc., etc. . . . But all their activities have not prevented them from being conscious of their fellow man. We have a number of elderly neighbors whose doorbells they ring every morning to make sure they survived the night. . . .’

  “Thank God they don’t live in our neighborhood,” Luke drawled. “These kids aren’t on the ship, are they?”

  “Don’t look now,” Regan muttered as two young girls ran past their table, a matronly woman in pursuit, calling out, “Fredericka! Gwendolyn! Give Mommy and Daddy back their champagne glasses!”