Santa Cruise (4 page)

T
he Welcome Aboard Santa Cruise cocktail party had been in full swing for more than an hour. Most of the four hundred guests had had a second glass of champagne, some had had a third glass, and a few even more. You can tell who
they
are, Ted Cannon thought as he put down his own untouched flute. The band had been steadily playing holiday music. They swung into “Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town” for at least the fourth time. Here I am all alone, he reflected sadly. Ted had gone around to hospitals and nursing homes playing Santa Claus in Cleveland for fifteen years, something he'd been talked into doing by his late wife, Joan. She had been gone for more than two years now, but as a tribute to her he'd kept up the practice. Then someone had entered his name in the Santa Claus drawing for the cruise, and he'd been one of the winners. He still found it hard to believe.

Ted always closed his accounting office in Cleveland the week after Christmas, and in the old days he and Joan used to go on a vacation after spending Christmas with their son, Bill, and his family. Ted had been with them for the last few days. When he'd won the cruise, they had urged him to take it.

“Dad, Mom would want you to go out and have some fun. With nine other Santa Clauses on board, you'll have something in common to talk about. And if there are any single ladies on board, ask someone to dance. You're only fifty-eight, and you haven't even glanced at a woman since Mom died.”

But now, standing in the midst of all these strangers, Ted felt desolate. He wondered if it was too late to grab his bags and get off the ship. He gave himself a mental shrug. And what would I do then?

Snap out if it, he told himself, and picked up his glass of champagne.

*   *   *

Ivy Pickering had just read the guest list and was thrilled to learn that Alvirah Meehan, Regan Reilly, and Nora Regan Reilly were all going to be on the ship. She had a glass of champagne in her hand and had positioned herself so that she'd see them the moment they arrived at the party. She
wanted to introduce herself so that later on, when everybody got settled, she might be able to spend some time with them. She had been a fan of Alvirah's ever since Alvirah had started writing a column in the New York
Globe
after winning the money in the lottery. Ivy was so fascinated by Alvirah's account of how she and Regan and Regan's new husband, Jack, had worked together to save Regan's father when he was kidnapped.

Ivy was a new member of the year-old Oklahoma Readers and Writers group, whose members volunteered their time teaching people to read. Many of the writers were in the mystery field. Ivy was one of the readers. She always said she'd make a good detective but not a good writer. There were fifty in their group and they'd been written up in a magazine because of the amount of time they gave to literacy programs. That's why they had been invited to join the cruise.

For fun, the group had decided to have a ghost of honor, Left Hook Louie, an Oklahoman mystery writer who—after he retired from the ring as a heavyweight prizefighter—had begun punching out words. He'd written forty mysteries featuring a retired boxer turned sleuth. Louie had died in his sixties, and his eightieth birthday would have been two days from now, which was why they had decided to honor him. They planned to hang
posters of his battered, smiling face, his hands in boxing gloves, resting on the typewriter, throughout the ship.

Ivy had never been on a cruise before and intended to explore every inch of the
Royal Mermaid.
Her eighty-five-year-old mother didn't get around much anymore but loved to hear all the details of Ivy's adventures. They lived together in the house where sixty-one years ago Ivy had been born.

*   *   *

As the Commodore led their group to the deck where the party was being held, Alvirah was looking forward to getting her first glimpse of the rock-climbing wall that had so intrigued her in the brochure. She was momentarily startled when a small, birdlike woman darted out at her and put a hand on her arm.

“I'm Ivy Pickering,” the woman volunteered eagerly. “I'm such a fan. I've read your columns and every single one of Nora's books. I cut out pictures of Regan's beautiful wedding and saved them. I just knew I had to say hello to all of you the moment you got here.” She beamed at them. “I won't keep you.”

You
are
keeping us, Commodore Weed thought, but he wouldn't dream of offending one of his benevolent guests.

“I want to get a good place along the railing to watch as the ship begins to sail. But I wonder if sometime in the next day or two I could pose for a few pictures with you to show my mother when I get home?”

“Absolutely,” Nora answered for all of them. Ivy Pickering nodded happily and rushed away.

A man with a camera on his shoulder was being led in their direction by an energetic young woman with a microphone. Her first question was for Nora. “What do you think of the idea of Commodore Weed honoring people who do good?”

Regan could swear she heard her father murmur, “She's against it.” She knew that if there was one thing her father couldn't stand it was a stupid question.

Nora was saved from answering by the arrival on deck of two police officers. They were heading straight for the waiter who was approaching their group with a tray of champagne and a dorky smile. When the waiter saw the whole group staring, he turned his head to see what was of such interest. When he caught sight of the policemen, he dropped the tray, spun around, and ran down the nearest companionway to the lower deck. Before his pursuers even reached the companionway, they all heard a loud splash.

“Man overboard!” Ivy Pickering yelped.

The Commodore looked down at the mess at his feet. Why did I waste my money on the good stuff? he wondered mournfully.

Everyone ran to the rail to observe the activity below.

“Boy can he swim fast!” someone remarked.

Seconds later the wail of an approaching police boat suggested that no matter how fast the former waiter swam, he would be plucked from the water before he could make his escape.

Other waiters were rapidly scooping up the broken glass and mopping the deck. The Commodore hurried across to where Dudley, enveloped in a safety harness, had been about to give a demonstration of the rock-climbing wall. “I don't know what the problem could be,” Dudley stammered. “He wanted the job
so
much and said that he used to work at the Waldorf.”

“For all we know he's an ax murderer,” the Commodore snapped. “Who else did you hire on faith?” The microphone where he had made his welcoming address was in front of the rock-climbing wall. He picked it up.

“Well, well, I promised you an exciting cruise . . .” But it took a few minutes to get everyone's attention. They were all fixated, watching the progress of the escapee. The Commodore repeated himself and added, “And we certainly
seem to be embarking on an exciting cruise, heh, heh, heh.” He paused. “Yes indeed,” he finished lamely.

A young officer approached the Commodore and whispered something in his ear. The Commodore's worried frown began to ease. “I see. Perfectly understandable. Some women have no patience.” He turned to the crowd. “The poor fellow was a bit behind on his alimony payments, it seems. No threat to anyone. He took a chance on love, and, oh well, 'tis better to have loved and lost . . .”

The Commodore had to restore the feeling of conviviality. “Now let's refill our glasses and turn our attention to the rock-climbing wall behind me. Our cruise director, Dudley, will demonstrate for us the fun you can have as you imagine you're climbing Mount Everest.”

With a flourish, he turned to Dudley. “Reach for the stars,” he ordered. Dudley bowed as deeply as he could, considering the fact that he was in the harness. The crew member assigned to hold the safety rope picked it up with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Dudley put his right foot on the lowest prong attached to the wall and began his climb. He reached above his head, grabbed another prong, and started to pull himself up.

“Don't
you
try that,” Willy whispered to Alvirah.

“Right foot, left foot,” Dudley muttered to himself as he started to break a sweat. His right foot was searching for the next prong when he felt the one supporting his left foot start to wiggle like a loose tooth. “This can't be,” he moaned.

But it was.

As he tried to hoist his weight onto his right side, the left prong gave way and fell to the floor. Both of Dudley's feet lost contact with the wall, and he began to sway back and forth on the rope like a would-be Tarzan.

The crowd yelled their encouragement. He attempted to smile, looked over his shoulder, then landed with a thud on the deck as the crewman let him down too quickly.

Nora and Regan did not dare look at their husbands.

A
fter he learned that he had to vacate his room, Eric's feet barely touched the gangplank as he rushed back onto the ship.

He could have strangled Alvirah Meehan!

“Take your time packing.”

Sure, lady. He
had
no time! He knew that that jerk Dudley was thrilled that he was being displaced. All this was Dudley's fault. He had messed up the room count. Now Dudley, cruise director extraordinaire, would be sending an army of stewards to complete the eviction process. I
know
he hates me, Eric thought, especially since I got a bigger room. Dudley had a small room without a balcony, but if only I had that room now, I could make do. Eric realized that he was scared to death to face Bull's-Eye and give him the bad news.

Not wanting to wait for the elevator, he bounded toward the companionway.

How am I going to hide them?
Where
am I
going to hide them? How can I possibly keep them in my room in Uncle Randolph's suite for
three days?
That guest bedroom is so small. And so is the closet.

All I know is that I have to get them out of my room, and fast.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Eric!” one of the passengers called to him. “When do I get my Santa Claus suit?”

“Ask Dudley!” Eric snapped, as he hurried past. Then a thought occurred to him. He should get his hands on two of those suits. Bull's-Eye and the Bean Counter, Barron Highbridge, could put the Santa suits on, and nobody would become suspicious if they ran into them in the passageway.

Where
were
the suits? They had to be in the supply room on Deck 3, he decided. All of the Santas' staterooms were on Deck 3. The people who gave of themselves got lesser accommodations than the people who donated money. The way of the world.

Do I have time to go there? Before he could make a rational decision, Eric found himself heading for Deck 3. His set of master keys included a key to the supply room. Please let the suits be there, he prayed.

Eric could hear voices in some of the staterooms
as he passed them. He must not be seen near the supply room. Passing the luggage that was still piled outside various stateroom doors, he pulled the keys out of his pocket and turned a corner. Way down the corridor he could see two people, but fortunately their backs were to him. He took giant steps to the supply room, put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the door.

To his delight, the Santa suits were hanging on a clothes rack. He quickly picked two of them that looked as if they might fit a short, portly Bull's-Eye and a tall, thin Barron, two people who only gave gifts to themselves. He grabbed two white beards, two stocking caps, and two pairs of black sandals. The tropical Santas, he thought. In a cabinet he found a stack of black plastic garbage bags. He jammed all of the Santa paraphernalia into one of them. Time was running out. He was already sweating profusely.

He left the supply room and raced up the companionway to the Boat Deck. He made it to his room without having to explain to anyone why he was carrying a trash bag. The
DO NOT DISTURB
sign was still there. He opened the door and braced himself for the stowaways' reactions.

Barron was stretched out on the pullout couch watching television and eating from a bag of
potato chips. “Shhhh,” he warned Eric and whispered, “Tony just fell asleep. He's been very cranky all day.”

“Well, he's going to get a lot crankier,” Eric snapped. “I've got to move you two.”

Tony's eyes flew open. “What?”

“There was a screwup. They're one cabin short. A couple of passengers are moving into this cabin.”

“How cozy!” Bull's-Eye snapped. “Do you have any bright ideas about where you're going to put us?”

Barron sat up, a look of terror on his face. The bag of chips flipped over, scattering on the sofa bed and on the floor. “You told us this was going to be so easy. That we'd just stay in your room.”

“You
are
going to stay in my room. The new one is down the passageway.”

“Down the passageway?”

“In my uncle's suite.”

“As in ‘I love you, Uncle Randolph'?” Tony growled.

“The very one.” Eric dumped the contents of the garbage bag on the bed. “Put these on,” he said, his tone desperate. “Then we'll go into the suite. My uncle's not there. If someone sees us they won't be suspicious because there are ten Santa Clauses on this cruise.”

There was a knock on the door. “May I assist you with your packing, Mr. Manchester?”

Eric recognized the voice of Winston, the pompous butler whom Uncle Randolph thought would give this operation some class. “No thank you,” Eric called out. “I'll be another fifteen minutes or so, then you can prepare the room.”

“Very well. Just ring for me when you're ready. Cheerio.”

“Does he think he's in Buckingham Palace?” Tony hissed.

The imminence of possible discovery propelled both felons to move fast. They quickly undressed and pulled on the costumes. Eric handed them the beards and the caps. The sandals were loose fitting with adjustable straps. They looked ridiculous.