Cooks Overboard

by Joanne Pence

  Ah, Professor Luftenberg. A colleague. He gave a forced chuckle. You could never be too careful. No, you couldn’t. Not with these people. He glanced fearfully toward the door again, then shook off the feeling.

  He put the big envelope aside. Unbidden, his thoughts turned once again to the street musician in Berkeley, the tall blond fellow singing Norwegian songs. The contact to whom he’d passed the microfilm with his formula. He rubbed his brow. Had he made a mistake taking that route? But if he wanted to be someone, be noticed and admired for once in his life, what choice did he have?

  If only he didn’t have the eerie feeling that he’d been followed. Who would follow him, though? Why would anyone bother? He’d made the transfer. The deed was done. It wasn’t as if he could take it back now, even if he wanted to. It was gone. Out of his hands. He’d made a deal with the woman and the big-money interests she represented. No one else was involved, so there couldn’t possibly have been anyone following him. Could there?

  He walked slowly back to his desk, feeling suddenly much older. Still standing, he called the special number he had been given in the Caymans. Before long, he was put through to a banker. After giving the coded information previously agreed upon for his account, he said, “I want to make sure the denomination of the money is clearly indicated. U.S. dollars.”

  “Of course, Professor,” the tinny voice came over the line.

  “And the amount? No question about it, is there?”

  “None at all, sir. The amount is five million United States dollars. It hasn’t been placed in the account yet, you understand. It’s still awaiting final authorization to be moved.”

  “That’s fine. That’s as it should be. I understand,” he said.

  Tomorrow, though, the bank’s message should be quite different. If it wasn’t, well…he had his backup plans. He was a good scientist. Even though it appeared he had destroyed his paperwork, all his formulas, as a good scientist he could always replicate his experiments.

  That was what differentiated science from mere miracles.

  3

  Angie stood on the bridge deck at the top of the deckhouse as the Valhalla steamed under the steel girders of the Golden Gate Bridge toward the open sea. Although the sky over Oakland Harbor, where they’d boarded, had been clear, once they passed Alcatraz, it had turned gray and overcast with a breeze so cold she had to put on a down jacket and scarf. As the freighter nosed through the choppy waters, the faint outline of the isolated Farallon Islands in the distance gave them the appearance of rocky sentinels guarding the passage to the bay.

  Although ugly containers stretching to the bow somewhat destroyed the romantic image of a tramp steamer or a slow boat to China, she wasn’t about to complain. Not after what she’d gone through to get Paavo on this cruise in the first place.

  She leaned forward, her elbows on the railing, her chin propped in her hands. Considering how difficult it had been to lure him away from his job, she couldn’t help but wonder about his sudden decision to leave the police force altogether.

  She remembered how, from the moment she’d learned he had a two-week vacation coming, her main purpose in life had been to find a way to spirit him far from his partner, his co-workers, San Francisco homicides in general, and have him all to herself. She’d been determined to find a way to make him pay sufficient attention to her that he might propose—or at least consider it.

  Her plan of attack had been to move him far from any place where a murderer might lurk. A cruise ship had seemed ideal. Not many dangerous people were likely to commit murder in a spot from which there was no easy means of escape.

  That decided, her first step had been to suggest an article for Haute Cuisine magazine, an article to be called “Dining Out in Acapulco.” It was accepted. That, of course, meant she had to go to Acapulco for research. What better way to get there than by taking a cruise?

  To her amazement, Paavo had flatly refused the idea. For some reason, the notion of being packed like a sardine with hundreds of strangers, plus having a social director plan his days and nights, appalled him.

  But Inspector Smith hadn’t considered travel by freighter. Actually, Angie hadn’t considered it either, but when she was complaining about Paavo’s stubbornness to her cousin Sebastian, who knew everything there is to know about the travel business, he had said, “Angie, no problem.”

  The very next day he had her and Paavo booked on a Norwegian freighter bound for South America, leaving in ten days.

  “Paavo, your wish is my command,” she had told him that evening. He pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, so she added, “You said you would only go on a cruise if it didn’t have a lot of people. I’ve found one for you.”

  “I never said I wanted to go on any cruise,” he countered.

  “Trust me,” she replied with blithe confidence. “You’ll love it.”

  He’d been involved in a homicide investigation right up until almost the time to board. Last night, she had thought she was going to have to go to his house to pack for him, but he’d made it home on time.

  His case was finished. He’d found his man and arrested him, and now he should be feeling good about himself and his work.

  Good enough to quit. What was wrong with this picture?

  She studied him as he stood beside her, his hands gripping the cold steel railing. He was a tall man with a broad-shouldered build. His face was thin with high cheekbones, his nose slightly bent from more than one break, his mouth firm, and his eyes a sky blue color Angie found absolutely beautiful. Those eyes were now peering hard at the ocean while gusts of wind sprinkled with a fine sea mist tossed his dark brown hair askew. His mind was clearly miles away. Probably back at the Hall of Justice, mentally saying good-bye.

  She reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. He glanced at her and his mouth curved into a small smile.

  His eyes were bleak with weariness, though, and his shoulders slumped. Last night, after finishing work, instead of sleeping, he had probably spent the entire night packing, catching up on mail, paying bills, and—she was sure—thinking about his decision to leave, which couldn’t have been easy, no matter what he said about his reasons. “Why don’t you go and lie down?” she said softly. “Maybe sleep a bit?”

  He shook his head and pushed back off the railing. “Once I go to sleep, I’ll need more than a short nap. I don’t want to miss anything. I’ll get some coffee. I’ll be okay. Is there anything you’d like?”

  “Perrier, if they have it,” she replied.

  “Be right back.” He gave her a quick kiss. She watched him walk down the stairs toward the deck with the passenger lounge.

  “Hey there!” a woman’s voice called out.

  She turned to see two people behind her. The man was tall and lanky, with a wrinkled, bloodhoundlike face, fuzzy white hair in tight little curls, and on his chin a beard, scraggly in a way only very old men or as-yet-undeveloped teen boys possess. He wore a Stanford sweatshirt, Birkenstock sandals, heavy wool socks, and baggy jeans—baggy in the way of old men who have no behind to hold them up, not in the way of punk teenagers.

  His companion was also dressed like an over-the-hill college student. She wore an I SEATTLE T-shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, and penny loafers. Long steel-colored hair was pulled into a knot at the top of her head, with wisps flying about her face and neck. The skin on her face was paper-thin, stretched back from a long nose that dipped down to a pointed, fleshy tip. She was the younger-looking of the two.

  Angie knew that freighters that carried twelve or fewer passengers, like the Valhalla, weren’t mandated to house a medical staff. Travel guidelines required that passengers meet a certain level of agility, plus an age limit of seventy-five or eighty years. She wondered if these two had faked their way on by trying to look younger than they were. Sort of the opposite of being carded at age twenty-one.

  “Hello,” Angie said, smiling. “I’m—”

  “Ruby Cockburn here,” the woman sai
d. Her voice could have doubled as the ship’s foghorn. “Said hey, not hello. Wondered what you were up to.”

  “Nothing.” Angie was taken aback. “I was just looking at the view.”

  “Not much to see yet.” Ruby waved her thumb in the old man’s direction. “That’s my husband, Harold.”

  “What?” Harold said.

  Ruby jabbed his arm, and he reached out his hand to meet Angie’s.

  “Angelina Amalfi,” she said as they shook hands.

  “Odd name,” Ruby said. “Are you an American?”

  “Why, yes—”

  “Good. Lots of foreigners on this ship. Whole crew is foreign, from what I’ve seen.” Ruby looked over one shoulder, then the other.

  “Well, it’s Norwegian registry and—”

  “Hope the captain knows what he’s doing. Should be simple, though. Follow California south, along the coast of Baja. Then to Cabo. Harold and me, that’s where we’re headed. I’ve never been to Cabo. You been there, Miss Amala-whatever?”

  “Amalfi. I’ve been there. Cabo San Lucas is quite nice.”

  “Good. You going there?”

  “Not on this trip,” Angie said. “My friend and I are going to Acapulco.”

  “This trip? You been on the Valhalla before?” Ruby asked.

  “No. I meant, I’ve been to Cabo other ways before. This time, though, I’m going to Acapulco.”

  “But the freighter goes to Cabo San Lucas.” Ruby turned to her husband. “It goes to Cabo San Lucas, Harold. That’s what we were told. Did that travel agent lie? Shifty eyes on that one.” She scrutinized Angie, as if trying to determine if her eyes were shifty. “Learned that in the military. The WACs. None of this namby-pamby co-ed modern stuff.”

  “What?” Harold asked.

  “You’re okay,” Angie said. “This boat will stop at Cabo and then I’ll go on to Acapulco.”

  “Oh. So you have been on the Valhalla before,” Ruby said. “Thought you said you hadn’t. Make up your mind. Or you lying about it? Why? Something wrong with this boat?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with it, I’m sure,” Angie said.

  “Then why won’t you admit to being on it before?”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it,” Angie said. Why argue?

  “Hello!” A tall, blond-haired steward came up to them. “You have already met, I see.” He turned to Angie. “I am Sven Ingerson, at your service. You must be Miss Amalfi.” She held out her hand to him and they shook.

  “I am.” His hand, she noticed, was fiery hot and damp.

  “I’d love an iced tea, young man,” Ruby said.

  “Gladly,” he murmured, and took out his handkerchief to dab his temple. “Would anyone else like something?”

  “Mr. Ingerson,” Angie said, “are you sure you’re feeling well enough to be working? Why don’t you sit down? You look feverish.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I insist.”

  “He does look ill,” Ruby said. “You got a sick bay? Think you need it, son. I’ll pass on that tea. Got to get yourself shipshape.”

  “Go ahead,” Angie urged.

  “Thank you,” he said with a nod. His gaze met Angie’s. “You’re very kind.”

  As Angie watched Sven leave, Paavo stepped up with her Perrier and introduced himself to the Cockburns. He was acting almost jovial. She couldn’t stand it.

  “Let’s go to the other side of the ship and look at the pelicans,” she said, taking his arm and turning him from Ruby’s inquiring gaze. There were too many strange birds on this side.

  4

  “Sven!” The Hydra called out his name in a harsh whisper as she marched up to where he lay sprawled across three chairs placed side by side in a dark corner of the passenger lounge. Except for him, the lounge was empty. “Are you insane? What in the hell are you doing?”

  He clumsily turned his head to face her. Although the grimace that twisted his lips lasted less than a second, she noticed it.

  “Get up!” she ordered.

  “The passengers can see I’m sick,” he said with a whine. “Miss Amalfi said I should lie down.”

  “When Miss Amalfi runs this ship you can listen to her. Until then, get your butt off those chairs!” She watched him struggle to sit up, then press his arm against his forehead. Was that perspiration on his brow? Now it was all over the sleeve of his uniform. What was wrong with the man? Who would want a steward who had been sweating all over himself?

  She tried to swallow her irritation as she stepped closer and spoke, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Give me the microfilm. Quick.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in my cabin. I didn’t want to carry it around. It’s too valuable—right?” He stared at her.

  “It’s…it’s of some value. Of course. But that’s none of your business. Your job was to get it and pass it to me. Now, do your job.” She hated working with fools, but they tended to take orders better than the smart ones.

  “Maybe I’m not quite ready to do the job you paid me so little for,” Sven said. He was sitting, his hands gripping the seat of the chair to steady himself. “Maybe that microfilm is worth a lot more than you’ve given me. Maybe it’s time we renegotiate our deal, or I find out who else is interested in that film.”

  “You miserable excuse for a man! You think you can threaten me? Remember, Ingerson, you’re just a steward.”

  “Well, you’re just a—”

  “Shut up, Sven! Do as I say, and without argument, or you will live to regret it, I promise you that.”

  “Why did the cook try to jump off the ship?” Sven asked abruptly.

  “How in the hell should I know? The man was crazy. All men are. So are you. Get moving. I’ll follow behind you. I want that microfilm now.”

  Sven opened his mouth to argue but then seemed to think better of it. His legs were shaky as he stood and crossed the lounge to the door. He had almost reached it when Angie Amalfi appeared.

  “Oh, how lucky to find you,” she cried. “I was just looking for some coffee. My friend is trying to keep awake, but it’s a losing battle. I was hoping there might be some already made here in the lounge.”

  “Miss Amalfi! Uh, yes. There is usually a pot going, but it’s empty now. I’ll make some.”

  “I’ll help. You still look a little peaked, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re much too kind. But I think we—” He turned around, his hand out as if to indicate someone with him.

  Behind him, the room was empty.

  5

  Paavo sat on a chaise longue next to Angie’s, a cup of coffee at his side, and stared out at the ocean. He didn’t have to do a single thing if he didn’t want to. It felt strange. When Angie suggested they not bother to unpack, yet, but simply sit and talk, he had imagined it would be easy. It wasn’t. His mind raced with what was going on back in Homicide, with what would be happening there tomorrow, and with all he’d been ordered to stay away from.

  With all he’d decided to leave behind.

  Now if he could only stop thinking about it, he’d be fine. He had to turn his attention elsewhere. To Angie, to their future.

  Once he’d understood how much their vacation together meant to her, he’d bought the tickets himself. The cruise was his gift to her, a gift he hoped would show her what he was so bad at putting into words: that he loved her.

  He took a deep breath and reached for her hand, feeling how delicate it was, how soft her skin was, the steady rhythm of her pulse. He lifted her hand and kissed it. Big brown eyes flashed at him and she smiled in that secret way that told him she loved him and wanted him, just as he did her. He shut his eyes, trying to relax in her glow, her warmth. Trying to unwind. Trying to forget all that he didn’t like about the world.

  Trying to forget that just before he had left the city, his life had gone to hell.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, he opened his eyes again. Julio Rodriguez stood before them.
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br />   “Dinner will be served soon,” Rodriguez announced with a click of his heels. “Captain Olafson requests the honor of your presence at his table.” He helped Angie to stand as she picked up the big tote bag she’d started carrying soon after they boarded. In it she had put her wallet, passport, sunglasses, and the myriad other things that Paavo couldn’t begin to understand why she, and many other women, seemed to think they needed to cart around with them.

  Julio held out his arm to Angie. “With your permission. Mr. Smith, I will help Miss Amalfi, since the ship is rolling quite a bit. Señorita?” The courtesy, from his lips, sounded far too much like a caress to suit Paavo. Besides, he hadn’t noticed the ship swaying any more forcefully than earlier, and Angie had been able to walk just fine.

  He stepped forward. “That’s all right. I’ll see to the lady.”

  Julio took one look at Paavo’s expression and scurried ahead.

  In the dining room, Captain Olaf Olafson greeted Angie and Paavo, a glass of vodka in his hand. Paavo noticed that it didn’t appear to be his first. The captain’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes overly bright. He wore a black uniform that fit a bit too snugly, with slightly bedraggled gold epaulets.

  Julio introduced them, then seated Angie and Paavo at the table, with Angie on the captain’s right. The room was surprisingly small and cozy, with one large round table covered with a white cloth and set with white china. The crew ate in a separate mess. Already seated at the captain’s table were Ruby and Harold Cockburn.

  “I shall introduce your traveling companions, ja?” Captain Olafson said grandly, waving his vodka glass at a couple across the table. They greeted the Cockburns, then the captain turned to another couple who had just entered the dining room.

  “This is Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Nebler, also from the U.S. of A. I have the honor to introduce Miss Angelina Amalfi and her companion, Mr. Paavo Smith.” Paavo stood to greet them.

  This couple, too, was clearly pushing the age limit.