Santa Cruise (23 page)

“Regan!” Nora screamed.

“Grab that box!” Brevers cried. “It's priceless!”

An exhausted Alvirah, who always knew the value of a dollar, reached out and with a mighty stretch of her arms caught the box as it hit the water. A moment later, Regan was pushing the life preserver in front of her. “Hang on to this, Alvirah,” she ordered.

Alvirah passed the silver chest to Regan, then wrapped her arms around the life preserver that read
SANTA CRUISE
in bold lettering.

“This is what I get for giving to charity,” Alvirah tried to joke, attempting to catch her breath. “I told you this trip would be exciting.” Her arms were so numb and cold she felt herself starting to slip. “I don't know whether I can hold on—”

A strong arm encircled her waist. “I've got you, Alvirah,” Jack said.

“You two never let me down,” Alvirah breathed. “Is Willy all right?”

“He'll be a lot better when we get you back on the ship,” Jack answered.

Alvirah felt faint. “One more thing,” she whispered urgently. “Bull's-Eye and Highbridge are in
a dinghy at the back of the ship, trying to get away. Eric is their accomplice.”

Relieved that she was in the safe hands of her good friends, and that justice would be served, Alvirah allowed herself to pass out.

T
hree days later, the Santa Cruise, minus all the known criminals who had been on board, was sailing into the Port of Miami.

Alvirah and Willy, Regan and Jack, Luke and Nora, Ivy, Maggie, Ted Cannon, Bosley Brevers, and Gwendolyn and Fredericka, accompanied by their doting parents, were having a farewell visit with the Commodore in his suite. Dudley and Dr. Gephardt were also in attendance.

The Commodore looked at the glass cabinet where once again his mother's ashes were reposing. They were in the original urn, which he had kept inside the silver chest. The policemen who had swarmed onto the ship an hour after the melee had been in the waters nearby investigating a potential drug smuggling operation. They had been given a false lead and were about to head back to Miami when they received the call about the Santa Cruise. Aside from all the assorted lawbreakers,
they had also taken charge of Cleopatra's jewelry box. On loan to the Boston museum when it was stolen, the priceless antique would soon be on its way back to Egypt.

“I'll keep Mother with me until the next cruise,” the Commodore said for the umpteenth time in the past seventy-two hours. “It's clear she wasn't intended to go yet. But how she would have loved to have known she was resting in Cleopatra's jewelry box!” He shook his head. “My mother never did cotton to Eric. And quite frankly, much as I tried, neither did I. It really hurt me when I found out how thoroughly he betrayed me. A good stint in prison will make him realize the error of his ways. But I
really
cannot believe that my ex-wife Reeney, to whom I was
most
generous, was the one who planned the heist of the silver box, even going so far as to plant Winston in my midst. It is absolutely galling! I knew she liked antiques, but to think that she was the brains behind a gang that had been buying and selling stolen antiquities for years is unbelievable! She never blinked an eye when I showed her the silver box and explained that I just happened upon it when I was rummaging through that lower cabinet in my suite and released some sort of spring that opened a panel. All she said was that it was a cute little box. ‘Cute!' she said. She called it cute!”

Fredericka jumped up and put her arm around the Commodore, effectively halting his narrative, which by now was familiar fare to the others. “Don't be sad, Uncle Randolph. We're your family now.”

“Forever!” Gwendolyn cried.

“I know you are,” the Commodore said gently, his voice breaking.

Some more than others, Alvirah thought as she saw the tender look he exchanged with Ivy. She also noticed that Maggie and Ted's fingers were entwined as they sat side by side on the couch. This ship has turned into the Love Boat, she thought happily.

Dudley jumped in before the Commodore could get started again. He held up his glass. “I propose a toast. To all of you who have made this cruise so special, so memorable,” he began.

Willy looked at Alvirah. “Memorable?” he muttered. “Is he kidding?”

“Afraid not,” Alvirah answered, smiling at her husband. He hadn't left her side since she was plucked out of the water three days ago.

“I heard that,” Dudley laughed. “It has been memorable. Memorable, yet wonderful. Wonderful to have you all as our new friends. I'm sure the Commodore will agree that you are always welcome as our guests on the
Royal Mermaid.”

There he goes again, the Commodore thought with amusement. Giving away what isn't his.

“But make your plans fast,” Dudley continued. “With all the excitement, reservations are pouring in. Our first four cruises are already totally booked.”

Regan caught the expression on her father's face. She smiled. She knew what he was thinking: “Lucky for us.” She turned to Jack. He winked at her. She could tell he was thinking the exact same thing. Well, we are lucky, Regan mused. Lucky about a lot of things.

Twenty minutes later they were standing on the sun-splashed deck as the pilot boat guided them into the dock. A beaming Bianca Garcia greeted the Santa Cruise, an adventure that had launched her onto the national news scene. Her station had hired a small band. As the ship glided to a halt, the band began to play “Auld Lang Syne.”

The passengers, all of whom had enjoyed an unforgettable trip, joined in song.

“We'll drink a cup of kindness now. . . .”

The voyage of the Santa Cruise had come to an end—and a new year was about to begin.

Simon and Schuster
proudly presents

I HEARD THAT SONG BEFORE

By Mary Higgins Clark

Scribner
proudly presents

LACED

By Carol Higgins Clark

I Heard
That Song
Before

by

MARY HIGGINS CLARK

M
y father was the landscaper for the Carrington estate. With fifty acres, it was one of the last remaining private properties of that size in Englewood, New Jersey, an upscale town three miles west of Manhattan via the George Washington Bridge.

One Saturday afternoon in August twenty-two years ago, when I was six years old, my father decided, even though it was his day off, that he had to go there to check on the newly installed outside lighting. The Carringtons were having a formal dinner party that evening for two hundred people. Already in trouble with his employers because of his drinking problem, Daddy knew that if the lights placed throughout the formal gardens did not function properly, it might mean the end of his job.

Because we lived alone, he had no choice except to take me with him. He settled me on a bench in the garden nearest the terrace with strict instructions to stay right there until he came back. Then he added, “I may be a little while, so if you have to use the bathroom, go
through the screen door around the corner. You'll see the staff powder room just inside it.”

That sort of permission was exactly what I needed. I had heard my father describe the inside of the great stone mansion to my grandmother, and my imagination had gone wild visualizing it. It had been built in Wales in the seventeenth century and even had a hidden chapel where a priest could both live and celebrate Mass in secrecy during the era of Oliver Cromwell's bloody attempt to erase all traces of Catholicism from England. In 1848 the first Peter Carrington had the mansion taken down and reassembled stone by stone in Englewood.

I knew from my father's description that the chapel had a heavy wooden door and was located at the very end of the second floor.

I had to see it.

I waited five minutes after he disappeared into the gardens and then raced through the door he had pointed out. The back staircase was to my immediate right, and I silently made my way upstairs. If I did encounter anyone, I planned to say that I was looking for a bathroom, which I persuaded myself was partially true.

On the second floor, with rising anxiety I tiptoed down one carpeted hallway after another as I encountered a maze of unexpected turns. But then I saw it: the heavy wooden door my father had described, so out of place in the rest of the thoroughly modernized house.

Emboldened by my luck in having encountered no one in my adventure, I ran the last few steps and rushed to open the door. It squeaked as I tugged at it, but it opened just enough for me to squeeze through.

Being in the chapel was like going back in time. It was much smaller than I'd expected. I had pictured it as similar to the Lady Chapel in St. Patrick's Cathedral, where my grandmother always stopped to light a candle for my mother, on the rare occasions when we shopped in New York. She never failed to tell me how beautiful my mother had looked the day she and my father were married there.

The walls and floor of this chapel were built of stone, and the air I was breathing felt damp and cold.

A nicked and peeling statue of the Virgin Mary was the room's only religious artifact, and a battery-lit votive candle in front of it provided the only dim and shadowy lighting. Two rows of wooden pews faced the small wooden table that must have served as an altar.

As I was taking it all in, I heard the door begin to squeak and I knew someone was pushing it open. I did the only thing I could do—I ran between the pews and dropped to the ground, then ostrichlike buried my face in my hands.

From the voices I could tell that a man and a woman had entered the chapel. Their whispers, harsh and angry, echoed against the stone. They were arguing about money, a subject I knew well. My grandmother was always sniping at my father, telling him that if he kept up the drinking there wouldn't be a roof over his head or mine.

The woman was demanding money, and the man was saying that he already had paid her enough. Then she said, “This will be the last time, I swear,” and he said, “I heard that song before.”

I know my memory of that moment is accurate. From
the time I could understand that, unlike my friends in kindergarten, I did not have a mother, I had begged my grandmother to tell me about her, every single thing she could remember. Among the memories my grandmother shared with me was one of my mother starring in the high school play and singing a song called “I Heard That Song Before.” “Oh, Kathryn, she sang it so beautifully. She had a lovely voice. Everyone clapped so long and shouted, ‘
encore, encore.
' She had to sing it again.” Then my grandmother would hum it for me.

Following the man's remark, I could not hear the rest of what was said except for her whispered, “Don't forget,” as she left the chapel. The man had stayed; I could hear his agitated breathing. Then, very softly, he began to whistle the tune of the song my mother sang in the school play. Looking back, I think he may have been trying to calm himself. After a few bars, he broke off and left the chapel.

I waited for what seemed forever, then I left, too. I hurried down the stairs and back outside, and, of course, never told my father that I'd been in the house or what I had heard in the chapel. But the memory never faded, and I am sure of what I heard.

Who those people were, I don't know. Now, twenty-two years later, it is important to find out. The only thing that I have learned for certain, from all of the accounts of that evening, is that there were a number of overnight guests staying in the mansion, as well as five in household help, and the local caterer and his crew. But that knowledge may not be enough to save my husband's life, if indeed it deserves to be saved.

LACED

by

CAROL HIGGINS CLARK

Monday, April 11th

I
n a remote village in the west of Ireland, a light mist rose from the lake behind Hennessy Castle. The afternoon was becoming increasingly gray and brooding as clouds gathered and the skies turned threatening. Inside the castle the fireplaces were lit, providing a cheery warmth for the guests who were already anticipating a wonderful evening meal in the elegant eighteenth-century dining room.

The massive front doors of the castle opened slowly, and newlyweds Regan and Jack Reilly stepped out onto the driveway in their jogging clothes. They'd arrived on an overnight flight from New York, slept for several hours, and decided a quick jog might help alleviate the inevitable jet lag.

Jack looked at his thirty-one-year-old bride, touched her hair, and smiled. “We're in our native land, Mrs. Reilly. Our Irish roots lie before us.”

Anyone who saw the handsome couple wouldn't have questioned those roots. Jack was six foot two, with sandy hair, hazel eyes, a firm jaw, and a winning
smile. Regan had blue eyes, fair skin, and dark hair—she was one of the black Irish.