Bon Bon Voyage (22 page)

Also I was leaving a trail of blood scuffs behind me. I'd obviously walked through my own blood, and crawled through it. I noticed when I glanced down at myself that I had blood all over my clothes. I could faint any moment from blood loss if I didn't get up those stairs to the spa floor. Yanking the door open, praying it didn't have an alarm, I let it close behind me and started to climb. And I got smart.

At the first landing, I turned toward the door, then took my shoes off and tucked them under my arms. When he followed me he'd think I exited here. Then I climbed another flight, after which I
had
to rest. After several more flights and rests, I exited and headed for the spa. No one was in the halls. Where were the people? Had the strikers thrown everyone overboard?

Don't be silly, Carolyn,
I told myself.
You're just woozy. That's all.
Of course, the door to the spa was closed and locked. In tears again, I leaned my head against the locked door, and remembered Herkule's master keycard, which worked like a charm—like a gift from heaven, or a gift from Albania. I wiped the blood smudge off the door, whirled in, closed the door, and crumpled to the floor with relief, waiting for a kindly spa lady to come forth and take care of me.

Silence. There was no one here. They must have joined the strike. So I'd have to take care of myself. Fine. I glanced back at the door, saw a lock handle, and turned it. Safe at last with all the spa's facilities at my disposal.

I luxuriated in a shower. I bundled my bloody clothes, including the shoes, together and stuffed them into a covered wastebasket. With no one on duty, no one would be emptying wastebaskets. I wrapped a towel around my wet hair, donned a spa robe, slipped my feet into spa slippers, and went in search of medical supplies. Yes, yes, yes! The medical cabinet in the hair salon was well stocked. Dabbing and wincing, I saw to my cuts. They were many, but they were not life threatening. I applied Band-Aids that promised to be removable without pain. I fixed myself a cup of herbal tea in the kitchen, a brand known for its soothing properties, and nibbled on some stale ladyfingers coated with chocolate.
Get yourself together,
a less befuddled self told me.
You're free.

Now I had a decision to make. Should I try to stay here, or—what? I couldn't go back to the suite. He'd find me there, and I'd endanger Luz and Vera. Where could I go? I wandered from room to room trying to decide what to do. And then my time was up. I heard men's voices coming down the hall, stopping at the door.

Wild with terror, I spotted the white capsule, flung up the lid, climbed in, pulling my robe belt behind me, and yanked the lid down. Oh God, were my slippers still on my feet? I could hear the door open, men's voices, one saying, “You think the lass would have come here?” It sounded like the Irishman, and then I heard no more because the capsule turned on and swamped me with warm air and perfumed aromas. I was trapped in supposedly blissful comfort, and they'd hear the blasted machine and capture me.

I trembled with fear; I perspired; I pressed on the ridge between my nostrils because the perfume was triggering my sneeze reflex. If they didn't notice the machine, they'd hear the sneeze. Minutes, hours passed. And I fell asleep.

33

What'd you do with her?” Hartwig demanded, grabbing the chief steward by the arm as he hurried toward the elevator.

Umar Patek whirled on the security chief and retorted, “Get your hands off me, Hartwig. I do nothing with anyone, but I am paged now because stewards are drunk in bar and jump in pool with clothes on. If you did not told them to stop work, they be too busy to drink alcohol, swim in passenger pool, and make sex moves on women from spa, who have stop work, too. Now passengers complain of drunk servants and no service in spa, and Sechrest woman chases me asking what to do.”

“Christ,” snapped Hartwig. “Maybe she's hiding in the spa.”

“Who? Hanna disappears?”

“Not Hanna. She's marching around with her gun, stupid woman. I caught Mrs. Blue in crew quarters trying to get into your room. I dragged her into the closet, but then I was paged about the fight in the kitchen, so I had to handcuff her to a pipe and tape her mouth, the interfering bitch.”

“So get her from closet. You want to leave her in freezer? Did not work last time.”

“I can't leave her anywhere. She was gone when I got back. Blood all over the place. You should take this more seriously, Patek. Patrick found e-mails from her to the State Department telling them about Mrs. Gross's disappearance, and she must have been down below looking for evidence about who killed Gross, which was you.”

“So, was me. Blood everywhere? Maybe someone kill her and throw her overboard. Now I go herd drunk stewards to dormitory.”

“We can't count on that. We need to find her. I'll check the spa. If she got loose she may have gone there because I told her I'd heard Mrs. Gross—”

“You should keep mouth shut, but is your problem. I got mine.”

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.

“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.

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

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 sighed. 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.