Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise (14 page)

Marissa gives him a kind of pinched look. “Uh … we just met him yesterday? And this is Sammy’s first cruise? And it’s her
birthday
today? So …”

He gives a little wave. “I get it, I get it. And I’m sorry for asking.” He turns a half-watt smile on me and says, “Obviously, enjoy your birthday.”

And I guess I’m feeling bad about not jumping at the chance to babysit Kip, because I have this urge to
explain
, and out of my mouth comes, “I was thirteen twice, so today’s actually kind of a big deal for me.”

He cocks his head a little. “You were thirteen twice?”

I shake my head. “Long, complicated story.”

“Well, it sounds like you may have more in common with Kip than you know.”

Now, he says this as he starts for the stairs, and it makes me all curious. So even though Marissa tries to hold me back, I chase after him, going, “What do you mean?”

“The orphanage claimed he was eight, but I’ve always suspected he was older. Maybe ten? But he was undernourished and such a scared little guy.…”

He’s going up the stairs two at a time and
fast
, so I’m having trouble keeping up. “How long ago was that?”

“It’s been seven years.” He bounds up another half flight,
boing-boing-boing
, then says, “It’s too bad that good fortune is mostly wasted on those who have it.”

I can’t keep up, so I just stop and
look
up as he switchbacks onto the half flight above us. “But …,” I call, “Kip seems to really appreciate what his grandparents have done for him.”

He looks down at me with a wry smile. “I wasn’t referring to Kip.” Then he disappears to the next level.

Marissa stops next to me. “So Kip’s either fifteen or sixteen or
seventeen
?”

“He’s not seventeen.”

“But how weird not to know!”

“Tell me about it,” I grumble.

“No, Sammy. That is way worse than thinking you’re one year older than you actually are. Plus you were never undernourished or in an orphanage.”

I try on a wry smile of my own. “Maybe my good fortune was wasted on me.”

She laughs. “Maybe!” Then she says, “But that doesn’t mean I want to waste any more of your birthday with any ungrateful or hotheaded Kensingtons.” She grabs my arm and drags me to the next landing. “Deck 5. Promenade. Let’s shop.”

I groan, “Nooooo,” but it turns out we actually have fun. Marissa drags me into a hat shop where we try on everything from cute little caps to huge feathered monstrosities. “They wear these in England,” Marissa whispers as she balances a ridiculous green one on my head. Then she steps back and giggles. “Your head, at least, is palace ready.”

So I turn and look at myself in the mirror, and after I shriek, the lady behind the counter escorts us out.

That kind of sets the tone for the ten-dollar jewelry store, where you can buy old-lady beads and crazy fake diamond rings and bangles galore … and nothing’s over ten dollars.

We wind up getting escorted out of there, too.

So we try to be a little more civilized when we go into the perfume store, and keep it on the down low, even when we get into a spray war with the sample bottles.

But then Marissa notices something. “Look at these!” she whispers. “It’s the Kensington line!”

The bottles are in a hexagonal shape, and the stoppers are, too. They all have chains around the necks, which hold
tags with the names of the perfumes, and the tags are in the shape of two connected hexagons, with lines etched parallel to the edges of every other side.

Like how Ms. Rothhammer diagrams molecules.

I pick up a bottle that has a tag that says R
EACTION
. “I never really thought about perfume being chemistry related until Kip said something about it.” Then I laugh and say, “Oh, this is really clever!”

“What?”

“There’s a
chain
attached to the tag?”

“So?”

I grin at her. “Chain reaction?”

“Oh!” She laughs, then takes the bottle from me and studies it. “The question is”—and then she gets a totally bratty look on her face—“how does it smell?”

So yeah, I get sprayed, and yeah, that does start a chain reaction, which, yeah, gets us escorted out.

The only store we didn’t get kicked out of was the Logo Shop, because one short tour through it and we left without any, you know,
encouragement
. Everything had the ship’s logo on it, and let’s just say, if you’re not gray, stay away!

We finally wound up at Le Petit Café, where little sandwiches and desserts are served round the clock and the tables are set up so you can watch people walking by, which is always entertaining.

And yes, we were entertained!

“Have you noticed,” Marissa asked as we watched people walk by, “that there are different categories of people on the ship?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like those guys,” she said, nodding out at a family wearing Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and sandals. “Those are family-vacation cruisers.” Then she gave a sly nod at a small group of women walking by. Lots of makeup, fancy fingernails, silver jewelry, and rotisserie tans. And they were all squeezed into clothes about two sizes too small and about ten years too young for them. “Cougars,” she whispers. “On the prowl.”

We watch them strut by, and then I point out the obvious. “The biggest category is old people, but what’s weird is they’re nothing like the ones in the Senior Highrise.”

“Right,” she laughs. “These are hipster seniors!”

“But a lot of them seem to be on the prowl, too,” I whisper, “which is kinda creepy.”

“Like her?” Marissa says as a woman wearing a black velour sweat suit and a long string of fake pearls comes out of the Logo Shop. She is walking with a cane, but she’s obviously trying to look young, because her hair’s way too black for her age, and she’s wearing sunglasses.

“Why do people wear sunglasses inside the ship?”

“So you can’t tell they’re watching you!”

“Are you serious?”

“Or they want to look stylish? Or they didn’t have time to do their makeup?” We both watch the velour lady a minute, and as she gets closer, Marissa whispers, “No wedding ring. And see how she’s scoping people out? She’s definitely on the prowl.”

I study her as she goes by. “I don’t think she’s gonna get any takers with that mole on her lip.”

“Yeah, scary, right?”

I sigh and shake my head. “I never want to be her, okay? Never let me turn into
that
.”

She gives me a funny look. “What kind of crazy thought is that for you to be having on your birthday?”

And that’s when I see that it’s past three o’clock. “I’m late!” I cry, jumping up like the White Rabbit.

“Oh, right!” Marissa says, and we scurry up to Deck 8, where Darren is already in the library, sitting in front of a computer. He’s wearing a backward ball cap and nerd glasses, so he looks really different, but I recognize him anyway.

Now, even though it’s a “quiet zone,” we sort of gust in ’cause we’re late and, you know, out of breath. So yeah, we’re a little loud, and yeah, there are other people there—including that same woman working on that same puzzle—but it sure doesn’t seem like we deserve the extreme look and finger-to-the-lip
shh
that Darren gives us.

Besides, it’s very old lady–like and not at all rock ’n’ roll.

But then he does a little point between computers, and I see that there are two people huddled around the monitor that’s backed up to his. I can’t see their faces, but the tops of their heads are both blond.

Kensingtons.

I give Darren the oooooh look, letting him know I get it, and he does some hand signals—first a hand push telling us to take it easy, then a little come-here wave.

So Marissa and I hold our breaths and ease forward, then crouch in next to him.

Darren puts his finger to his lips again, then taps his ear with a little grin. So I give him a got-it nod and grin back, and then we strain to hear the whispering that’s going on at the other computer.

It’s a man’s voice, and I’ve heard it enough times to recognize that it’s Lucas’, and I can tell that he’s reading something off the computer. “ ‘After seven years from the date of the last known contact with the individual, persons who have just cause can file a petition in state court to have the missing individual declared legally dead.’ ”

“Seven years?” a woman’s voice chokes out. “Seven
years
?”

So okay. It’s definitely JT’s parents huddling at the computer, and it’s pretty clear that they’re talking about Kate.

Lucas continues reading, “ ‘If the individual disappeared under unusual circumstances—for example after a threat was made upon their life—then the process becomes even more complicated, especially when it relates to insurance benefits and other financial matters.’ ”

“Oh my God,” LuAnn gasps.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Lucas says, “This is not good.”

They’re quiet for at least a minute, and then LuAnn says, “Maybe if there was a note?”

“A note?”

“You know … a
note
,” she hisses.

Again there’s a short silence, and then JT’s dad says, “Let’s go.”

I give Marissa an uh-oh! look, ’cause if they glance over
the computer bank and see us, they’ll know we’ve been listening, no matter how much we pretend to be looking at our monitor.

Darren must have been thinking the same thing, because he rolls his chair back just a little, and does a move-it-now double point. And, boy, do we! By the time the Whispering Blonds are standing up, we’re crammed under the table, with Darren’s chair running block.

Luckily, there are no other people seated in our row. So when Lucas and LuAnn are gone and Darren rolls back, I get out and whisper, “Did they recognize you?”

He shakes his head. “I kept my back turned and my head down.”

“Wow,” Marissa gasps. “That was incredible.”

Darren whispers, “I saw them sitting there, and you could just tell—they were wound tight and ready to pop. So I thought I’d slip in and give a little listen.”

“Wait, whoa,” Marissa says, staring at him. “You planted yourself here so you could snoop?”

“You thought I landed here by accident?” An eyebrow arches above the nerd glasses. “And I prefer to call it information gathering. For you two, of course.” He grins at me. “And I did good, huh? Those two sound like they’re up to their golden eyebrows in this disappearance thing.”

Marissa’s jaw drops, and she looks from me to Darren and back to me. “All this time, I thought snooping was something you did for survival. But no. It’s genetic!”

I laugh, but something about what she’d said was more than just funny.

Better
than just funny.

It made me feel … happy.

Which also made me stand there all tongue-tied and awkward until Darren says, “All right—let’s get you online.”

So he shows me how to access his account, and in no time, I’ve sent Casey a quick “Hey, are you there?” message. Casey doesn’t message back, though, so I write another, longer note that’s half news and half mush, and log out.

“That’s it?” Darren asks, ’cause I was pretty quick.

“He wasn’t online, so I’ll try again later, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.” He turns to Marissa. “Want to touch base with your parents?”

“Nah,” she says. “They’re not expecting it, and what am I going to say? Sammy’s dragged me into a murder mystery?”

“Shh!” Darren and I say at the same time, because she hadn’t exactly whispered it.

She stares at the two of us a minute. “Unbelievable.”

Darren and I give each other a little one-shouldered shrug, then he asks me, “You hungry?”

“Starved!”

“But we just ate!” Marissa says.

“It’s the stairs,” Darren tells her.

“Definitely the stairs,” I agree.

“And eavesdropping.”

I nod. “It always makes me hungry.”

“Unbelievable,” Marissa grumbles.

So off we go, first to Deck 9 to wake Marko up from a nap, then up to a fifties diner on Deck 12. It cost extra to eat there but Darren joked that we were hiding out from Kensingtons, and Marko seemed jazzed to be someplace where burgers were delivered by girls in poodle skirts. And since Marko was way behind on
everything
and Darren was clueless about our little adventure backstage at the Poseidon Theater, we caught them up on the Kensingtons.

“So you think the dame’s really dead?” Marko finally asks.

I bust up. “What’s with this dame stuff all the time?”

“
Dame
seems very appropriate,” he says back. “Conjures up visions of cigars and daggers and trench coats, don’t you think?”

Darren nods. “And a dank, cluttered office.”

Marko acts like he’s pulling a cigar away from his lips and growls, “She walked into my office with a bottle of booze and an attitude so bad, she coulda killed with it.”

Darren fakes like he’s got a cigar, too, and hunkers down a little. “And maybe she had. From the blood on her hand, I knew whoever’d crossed her was sleepin’ in a pool of sticky red sorrow.”

Marko nods. “So I told her to sit and said, ‘Honey, what brings you to the corner of Fifth and Scotch?’ ”

“ ‘Desperation,’ she snarled. ‘Now get me a glass.’ ”

Darren and Marko give each other fist bumps and little-boy grins, so I go, “Wait, that’s it? I was just getting into it!”

“Hey!” Marko cries. “You know that game lounge near the casino? Do you think they have Clue? Because right now I am jonesing for an old-school game of Clue.”

“Are you serious?” Marissa asks.

“I’ve never played,” I tell him.

“No!” they all three cry, and let me tell you, their eyes are totally bugging out.

“It’s the classic whodunit game,” Marko says, and Darren goes, “You know”—he drops his voice and looks around—“it was Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick!”

“I challenge that!” Marko cries. “I say it was JT in the hall with a lead pipe!”

“No, no!” Darren cries. “It was Ginger! In the dining room! With a revolver!”

Marko scowls at him. “You already made a prediction.”

“What
are
you guys talking about?” I ask.