Kidnapped / I Got You Babe

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Mr. Germaine produced a cigarette-pack-size cellular phone and put it to his ear. He shook it, tapped it and pushed the buttons frantically. Several other guests, Melanie noticed, were doing the same thing, with equally unsatisfying results.

  In the corner, Noreen Pushkoshky stopped trying to undress and squinted at Rita. “Wasn’t she—didn’t she—”

  “It is I who organized the cruise,” said the blackhaired woman, with a vague attempt at a British accent “And I take full responsibility for getting to the bottom of this.”

  Melanie supposed that, at this point, she ought to reveal what she knew about Rita. On the other hand, if she did, she would have to explain that she herself was a reporter, a disclosure that might not sit well with Hal’s buddies.

  Or with Hal.

  She was mulling over the merits and demerits of telling all, when she found a pair of raccoon eyes trained on her. Rita’s face mirrored shock, dismay and calculation.

  Okay, so the woman hadn’t expected to see Melanie here. But did she have to look so outraged?

  Rita’s next move, however, was disarming. “Until we can nab the evildoers,” she announced, “I shall make myself useful.” With a purposeful stride, she cut across the room. “How can I be of assistance?”

  Melanie rallied. “You could help me get more fruit cups.”

  “Certainly!” A mass of dark hair swished by, but halted as Pixie emerged from the kitchen with a tray of that very item. The two cooks also came out, carrying slotted spoons and industrial-size cans of refills.

  “Splendid!” Rita grabbed some bowls and shoved them at Melanie. Under her breath, she gritted, “I told Hal to get rid of ya. Now keep yer mouth shut or he’ll do it for real!”

  I told Hal to get rid of ya.

  If someone had punched Melanie in the nose, it couldn’t have hurt more. Puzzle pieces chink-chinkchinked into place like cherries on a slot machine.

  So this was Hal’s motive for sweeping her away. He’d done it to keep her from getting on board that ship. He’d done it for Rita.

  Had sleeping with her been part of the bargain? She doubted Rita would ask her boyfriend to go to bed with another woman. In fact, it was apparent that Rita hadn’t expected to see Melanie on this island at all.

  That was small consolation. Hal Smothers had used her. From the very beginning, his motive had been to please this ripoff artist.

  What had he meant when he offered Melanie a contract? He obviously didn’t plan to marry her, although he was well known to enjoy walking down the aisle. Most likely he wished to keep a tootsie on the side while he claimed Rita as his bride.

  It was the worst insult Melanie had ever endured.

  When she gained enough control over herself to meet Hal’s puzzled gaze, she could feel herself thrumming with rage. This was war.

  8

  RITA HAD NOT WASTED a moment in blabbing, Hal could see. Judging by the expression on Melanie’s face, she had learned why he really brought her to this island, and she would never forgive him.

  He wanted desperately to be forgiven. He yearned to yank open his chest and reveal the sincere beatings of his heart, like some ancient Aztec captive. Come to think of it, things had not gone so well for the Aztec captives, but he was game to try.

  However, there was another, more pressing matter that he must sort out. That was the subject of Noreen Pushkoshky.

  In her current inebriated state, the Beverly Hills socialite was making little sense to anyone. It would only be a matter of time, however, before she became coherent enough to remember a piece of Hal’s personal history that he profoundly wished would remain hidden.

  How could a man get into trouble with so many dames at one time? Hal supposed it might be a record of some sort. It was not the type of record that one wished to see inscribed in the Book of Guinness, however.

  At that moment, to his horror, Noreen’s expression cleared, as if a pair of windshield wipers had scraped away her inner fog. “I remember now!” she cried, and pointed directly at him.

  There was a rustle as everyone in the room turned to stare. Hal’s heart sank.

  Slowly and stiffly, the leader of the Beverly Hills elite swiveled, her finger sweeping the room until it aimed at Rita. “She poured the wine!” declared Noreen. “And she’s the only one who didn’t get sloshed!”

  “You had better be careful, Mrs. Pushkoshky,” warned Rita. “You could be sued for slander.”

  Apparently, whatever drug had been imbibed along with the wine was beginning to wear off all around, because the first officer, after plucking a strand of seaweed from his shirt, announced, “I saw her too! Row, row, rowing out of the purser’s office as we gently hit the rocks! Merrily, merrily, merrily patting her purse as if it were a dream!”

  “The man’s out of his mind.” Rita took a step backward, which put her next to Melanie.

  “Let’s have a look in your purse then,” said the purser.

  “All in favor?” The captain gazed blearily around the room. All hands went up.

  Beneath her makeup, Rita’s face turned white. In that moment, Hal saw how utterly and coldheartedly he had been used.

  Rita had never had any interest in him. Her goal in this business had been, not the raising of charitable moneys, but the acquisition of stolen property.

  He could not fathom why she had wanted him to remove Melanie, but he would figure that out later. Right now, the most important thing was to restore the stolen goods to their rightful owners.

  And, thank goodness, Rita was opening her purse compliantly. Even smiling a little—

  —as she whipped out a pearl-handled revolver, pressed it to Melanie’s temple and said, “If any of ya jerks move, I’ll plug the broad fulla lead.”

  Everyone froze, except the captain, who was barfing quietly into his cap. Horror and dismay transformed the faces of the passengers, while Bone Crusher and the Swamp Fox registered repugnance at Rita’s actions.

  She yanked her hostage backward, and the two of them disappeared through the swinging door. Suddenly, to Hal’s astonishment, all his other troubles evaporated.

  Compared to saving Melanie, nothing else mattered.

  AS RITA SHOVED her into the kitchen, Melanie noticed things that had never seemed important before.

  Such as the fact that Drop Dead had fortified this place as a last refuge in case he ever got cornered. Not only was the back door sealed up, but there were bars on the windows and three dead bolts to secure the swinging door. There was even a peephole through which one could survey the activities in the dining room.

  It made sense that, if a gangster had to hole up, he would do it in the presence of food and drink. Luck certainly seemed to favor Rita, that she should have chosen this one place into which to flee.

  But if there was no way in, there was also no way out. Rita couldn’t escape, and neither could her hostage.

  It was fabulous. Melanie had been trying for weeks to get an interview, and now her subject was stuck with her for the duration.

  “Would you quit pressing that gun into my temple? You’re giving me a headache,” she said.

  “Ya been givin’ me a headache for weeks!” snarled the dark-haired woman, her ersatz British accent forgotten. After a moment’s reflection, however, she released Melanie and waved her backward with the gun. “How’d ya do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk Hal outta killin’ ya?”

  Melanie wondered if the golf ball might have had lethal intentions, but such a method in so public a place didn’t fit with Hal’s reputation for subtlety. Nor had he forced her to make the long swim to China when he had the chance.

  She sat at the scarred table, smoothed out a crumpled bit of butcher’s paper and took a pencil stub from a cracked cup. “Why would Hal want to kill me?”

  “Like I said, I told him to get ridda ya.” Rita pressed her eye to the peephole, then whirled as if expecting to find Melanie creeping up from behind. “What’re ya doin’?”
>
  “Making you immortal.”

  “Immortal? Ya mean incarcerated, don’t ya?”

  “Well, you did try to have me killed,” Melanie said.

  “Ya brought it on yourself, ya pest,” Rita told her. “Ya shoulda expected somebody to put out a contract”

  “You paid him?”

  “Naw. He don’t do hits for a living no more.” Tossing her mink over a coatrack, Rita revealed a busily patterned pantsuit with a clashing vest. Upon close inspection, she still resembled a collection of mismatched parts. “I like the guy, though. He’s my kinda man. A crook.”

  Melanie jabbed the paper so hard she tore a small hole in it. “So you two are—” she could barely force herself to say the word “—lovers?”

  “Whaddaya take me for, a chump?” Rita blew air disdainfully from her cheeks. “Nobody sleeps with the Iceman unless they wear the white dress first. Everybody knows he’s a sucker for doin’ the honorable thing.”

  He certainly hadn’t tried to do the honorable thing with Melanie, but she couldn’t afford to think about that now. “How come you drugged the crew? Didn’t you realize the ship might crash?”

  “I was countin’ on it.” Opening the industrial-size refrigerator, Rita surveyed its contents. “Do they got any bagels and cream cheese around here?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Melanie said. “You mean you wrecked the ship to cover the fact that you were sneaking jewels out of the safe?”

  The woman removed an enormous jar of pimientostuffed olives. “Is it my fault Cha Cha was stupid enough to hire an honest crew? I never figured on that.”

  “Is that where you got the combination to the safe? From Sammy Adams?”

  “Well, he’s the owner, ain’t he?”

  So Cha Cha had been involved in ripping off his own passengers. He obviously hadn’t expected to lose his ship in the process.

  “How do you plan to get out of here?” she asked.

  With her fingers, Rita fished out a couple of olives. “Cha Cha better figure out a way. He’s in this up to his neck, ya know.”

  “Isn’t he more likely to strangle you?” Melanie asked. “Besides, everybody knows you took the jewels.”

  Setting aside the jar, the woman went hunting through the pantry until she returned with a large can of marinated artichokes. “I got enough stashed to hold me for a while. But it’s too bad about Hal lettin’ me down this way. I was thinkin’ maybe I could work in a temporary marriage and get fixed for life.”

  “He asked you to marry him?” It doesn’t hurt, Melanie told herself without conviction.

  “He was workin’ up to it, I could tell.” Rita stopped searching for an opener and attacked the can with an ice pick.

  Someone pounded at the door with resounding thuds. It appeared to be more an expression of frustration than a serious attempt to break through, however.

  Was that Hal? Melanie wondered. And who was he more worried about, her or Rita?

  “He’s in love with you?” she asked.

  “Love?” A series of tiny holes in the can lid oozed vinegary marinade. “Naw. He wants kids. See, I got one that’s stuck away in a boarding school, so he knows I can do it.”

  “Hal wants kids badly enough to marry you?” No wonder he’d brought up the subject of children to Melanie. But he hadn’t offered to marry her for them, not that it would have made any difference.

  “Yeah. As if I’m stupid enough to go through that again!” With the help of a knife, Rita pried open the can and began digging out artichoke hearts. “I’d rather have some lug shoot me than go through labor!”

  Melanie paused with her pencil in midair. “Really?”

  “Ya want any of these?”

  She was about to refuse, but they smelled good. Besides, Melanie was famished. “Sure.”

  Only after she said it did she remember that Rita hadn’t washed her hands. Melanie might have ingested her share of dirt over the years, but something about the other woman struck her as particularly slimy.

  To her relief, Rita used a large slotted spoon to remove the contents and dropped the artichokes onto plates. “Mosta them dames is too finicky to eat like this.”

  “If it isn’t in a can, I don’t recognize it as food,” Melanie said as she dug in with a bent fork.

  “I’m almost glad Hal didn’t ice ya,” Rita said.

  “Thanks,” said Melanie. “Now tell me about childbirth.”

  THE ARRIVAL OF Cha Cha, near-hysterical and drenched from the storm, threw a monkey wrench into Hal’s attempts to organize a large-scale rescue effort for Melanie.

  The captain and first mate were stumbling over each other trying to explain how Rita had drugged them so that no one was at the helm when the storm hit. Bone Crusher and the Swamp Fox stared in dismay as it became clear that their buddy, while nearly deranged over losing his ship, showed no surprise about the robbery.

  Their chum had not only stolen from charity, he had been partly responsible for bringing a bunch of outsiders onto their secret island. It was a betrayal of almost unthinkable magnitude.

  As for Noreen Pushkoshky, she gave Hal a broad wink and retreated to the comforting arms of her friends, the Germaines. He could take a small amount of comfort in the fact that she chose not to betray him.

  But his main concern was Rita. What was she doing to his angelic lady inside the kitchen?

  A dame who would stoop so low as to rob a charity cruise would not hesitate to plug an innocent woman. He had to rescue Melanie, even if she refused ever to speak to him again.

  He had brought her to Paraiso de Los Falsarios and thus was responsible for her. Worse, he was discovering with every passing moment how much he loved her.

  Hal could not rely on his distracted friends for assistance, nor on any of these shivering, griping passengers, either. Even the captain and first officer, presumably men of action, remained too befuddled to be of use. He must dope out a solution himself.

  The dining room was part of a larger building, which included the shop and the front lobby. They were connected by an attic, Hal presumed, but how did one access it?

  As surreptitiously as possible, he beckoned to Pixie. In her matron’s uniform of a black blouse, full-length black skirt and white apron, she resembled a deranged Puritan far more than a former madam, but she moved at once to his side.

  “How do I get into the attic?” he asked quietly.

  Her rheumy eyes brightened. “Follow me!”

  They slipped out of the dining room. A portico deflected the bulk of the downpour as they made their way to the gift shop.

  Thanks to the storm, the air had become even mustier than before. Pixie switched on the single overhead bulb, picked up a flashlight and led Hal through a labyrinth of freestanding metal shelves.

  The shop, narrow and deep, resembled a storage room more than a store. Hand-lettered misspellings announced the contents of the upper level of boxes: Umbrellas. Sun Gasses, prescrip. Sun Gasses, desiner. Sun Gasses, plane.

  “Why so many boxes of sunglasses?” he asked. He doubted the guests would need them in the perpetual fog.

  “Oh, Grampa brought ’em,” said Pixie. “He was always complainin’ about all the lost-and-found stuff people left at his emporium. Drop Dead figured we had plenty of extra room. Might as well fill it with somethin’.”

  “I don’t suppose you sell many gifts here, anyway,” Hal mused.

  “Naw,” she said. “I suggested startin’ my own cathouse. You know, crooks get lonely, too.”

  They reached an inky recess. A cord hung from the ceiling, indicating a trapdoor to the attic.

  “I trust Drop Dead did not approve,” said Hal, who would prefer to see misguided young ladies given honest employment

  “He don’t care, but I couldn’t find nobody to come live here,” Pixie said. “We don’t even have a hostess at the front desk on account of most women can’t stand the isolation.”

  “I can see their point.” Hal pulled on the cord and open
ed the trapdoor. Unfolding the attached ladder, he said, “You would not by chance have a chart of where the other outlets are, would you?”

  “There’s a way out in the kitchen,” Pixie said, handing him the flashlight “But I don’t know exactly where.”

  “I have not noticed it, either.” Hal had a habit of inspecting ceilings because armed thugs had been known to drop from them. “However, it may very well be tucked away in some corner. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “No problem.” The elderly woman smiled. “I’ll tell the others you’re takin’ a leak.”

  “Only if they ask,” said Hal.

  “THAT BAD, huh?” Melanie said when Rita was finished.

  She had never imagined that labor and delivery could be so exciting. Or that a hospital could feel so much like a war zone.

  This opened new vistas for her. Not that Melanie was ready to relinquish the possibility of parachuting into countries so remote they had to steal their cable TV. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t expand her scope of operations.

  “Hal don’t understand,” Rita explained. “He thinks the kids just pop out and look cute. He wants to be a daddy.”

  “You think he would play with his children?”

  The woman shrugged. “Even gangsters have weaknesses.”

  Melanie remembered how gently Hal had carried the baby from the shipwreck. And the tenderness with which he’d lifted her from the tilted conference table, and, earlier, comforted her in the railroad car.

  Melanie’s own father had been overworked and uninvolved. Although she knew that families could be warm and loving, she’d also read that children were often doomed to repeat the patterns of their upbringing.

  She’d never allowed herself to imagine having a real home, cradling babies, then watching them take their first steps and stumble into their daddy’s arms. What if it was possible? What if that Daddy might be Hal?

  But he hadn’t offered her marriage; he’d made a business proposition. Melanie might not have much experience with happy families, but she knew they weren’t based on financial contracts.