Cooks Overboard

by Joanne Pence

  “I’m Nellie.” Mrs. Neblar held out her hand to them. She was wearing a yellow and green floral print blouse with starched yellow Bermuda shorts, rolled bobby socks, and white sneakers. Ghost-white arms and legs jutted from the clothes.

  On her head she wore a big, bouffant, golden blond wig with the hair shellacked into place.

  “How nice to meet you,” Angie and Paavo said.

  Her husband spoke. “I’m Marvin, once Marvy Marv of automobile fame.”

  “Really?” Angie said. Marvy Marv was a short, round man, with thin wisps of dyed reddish brown hair and beady brown eyes. Angie tried not to stare at his hair, but the color and texture looked a lot more like the result of shoe polish than of Grecian Formula. His loud red and white Hawaiian shirt was fashionably unironed, as opposed to Nellie’s starched Bermudas, but with it he wore dark brown gabardine trousers—the sort usually found as part of a suit.

  “Yes. ‘Buy the best used cars from Marvy Marv, Burlingame and South San Francisco.’ I’m sure you’ve heard that radio commercial.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. Sure she hadn’t, but who was counting? “How do you do?” Angie held out her hand to Marvy Marv himself.

  He stared at it, as if unsure what to do with it, then gave her and Paavo a quick shake before stuffing his thick hands into his pockets.

  She sneaked a glance at her hand, wondering what he’d found so objectionable. He was a used-car salesman if ever she saw one. Except for the handshake. Maybe that’s what used car salesmen did when they retired—they stopped shaking hands.

  As they sat, Marvy Marv caught her eye and said, “Ruby Cockburn told us you’re the expert on this ship.”

  “I’m not an expert—”

  “She’s lying again,” Ruby announced. “You’ve got to watch her. She’s been on this ship a lot. Knows the whole itinerary. But she likes to keep it to herself.” She gave Angie a hard stare. “Soldiers were court-martialed for less in my day.”

  “There’s been a misunderstanding, I’m afraid,” Angie said. She glanced at Paavo, expecting to see some reaction from him, some defense of her honor, but he sat there smiling pleasantly at the group.

  All this smiling was starting to get on her nerves.

  Just then, Johansen, the first mate, joined them with apologies for being late.

  Soon wine was poured, and the meal was served.

  Captain Olafson stood, holding a wineglass in the air. “This is a goot day for the Valhalla, bringing us so many fine people to be our guests. I propose a toast to your goot health.”

  They all raised their glasses, and soon the typical small talk and light laughter of a dinner party began.

  The meal was uninspired—roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and peach tart for dessert. Compared to the lavish meals Angie had had on other cruises she’d taken, this was a definite downside to freighter travel.

  “So, Miss Amalfi,” Captain Olafson said. “Tell us about yourself. What brings you to the Valhalla?”

  She met Paavo’s gaze and held it, as if to remind him, as she answered. “Paavo and I are here for a long-awaited vacation.”

  “What do you do in San Francisco?”

  The question sliced through her. “What do I…do?” This was a sore point. As much as she had tried to find an interesting, important, and well-paying job, nothing had worked out the way she’d expected. She’d been a newspaper columnist, a talk radio assistant, a culinary adviser for an inn, and a chocolatier, and she had even tried her hand at TV. Each had failed.

  She did have her assignment for Haute Cuisine magazine, though—it’d pay all of three hundred dollars, if and when it ever got published. She decided to ignore the time and expense of getting to Acapulco and paying for big meals in a number of fine restaurants. “I’m a restaurant reviewer,” she announced. “An international restaurant reviewer, in fact.” She could lay it on as thick as the best of them.

  “Ah!” the captain cried. “I must warn our cooks to do well or they will find themselves with the black mark. Maybe zero forks, ja?”

  “This dinner is very nicely prepared,” Angie said, then added, “For simple, basic food. It’s good someone else was able to take over after what happened to the cook…whatever it was.” It would be impolite to come out and ask, even if she were dying of curiosity.

  “That’s so sweet,” Nellie interjected. “To write lovely articles for wonderful magazines.”

  “When I buy a magazine, it ain’t for the articles,” Marvy Marv said, waggling his eyebrows.

  “Marvin, really!” Nellie said.

  Angie tried again. “Captain Olafson, about the cook—”

  “Never did cook much myself,” Ruby said, pushing around a piece of peach that seemed to be sticking to her plate. “I let the boys assigned to KP do it. I had real work to do. Anyway, she doesn’t look like a cook to me. Too skinny.”

  “I think Miss Amalfi looks just right,” Olafson announced with a self-satisfied smile, as if pleased over his charming ways with women. “And you, Mr. Smith. Do you work?”

  He caught Paavo in the middle of a yawn.

  “Paavo’s a hom—”

  He squeezed her hand—tightly—stopping her words. “I work for city government,” he said with a smile. “Just a bureaucrat.”

  Angie stared at him. He’d been practically comatose since the meal started, and now awoke to call himself a bureaucrat? And to smile about it? Was this the new Paavo?

  “I don’t believe he’s telling the truth, either,” Ruby announced.

  Paavo gawked at her.

  “He looks too tired to be one of those people,” she said. “They just sleep on the job. Right, Harold?” She prodded her husband.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “Harold used to work for the Department of Education,” she said, then shouted. “Know all their tricks, don’t we, Harold?”

  Captain Olafson chuckled. “Ah! No wonder Mr. Smith wanted to ride on our big boat. The bureaucrat’s life is very dull, ja?”

  Paavo nodded and smiled.

  Angie gave up trying to talk to any of them. Including Paavo.

  As soon as Marvin finished his last bite of dessert, he announced it was his bedtime, although it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet.

  “Oh, my, this has all been so fascinating,” Nellie cried as she stood up. “It’s all so very…cosmopolitan. Good night, dearies,” she said to Angie and Paavo. Then she turned to Marvin and added, “Young love is so sweet!”

  Angie’s eyes jumped to Paavo, expecting to see him cringe.

  To her amazement, not only was he nodding and smiling that smile she was growing really sick of, but he was wishing them pleasant dreams as well.

  6

  Professor Von Mueller looked at the big clock over his desk. Eight o’clock. He really should be thinking about going home. But what did home offer him? He thought of the small, sterile apartment. Nothing. Soon, though…

  A villa along the Riviera would be nice. He’d always wanted one. Or maybe something smaller, like an apartment in Venice. On the Grand Canal.

  He got up, put his flat brown cap on his head, took his cane in hand, and hobbled toward the door. He was about to shut off the light and leave when his eye caught his unopened mail. It couldn’t be anything that would interest a man soon to possess five million dollars, but nonetheless, he had some curiosity about it.

  He took off the hat and sat down at his desk, listening to the creaking of his joints as he did so. Adjusting his glasses, he picked up the large envelope from his colleague and studied the address once more. He hadn’t heard from Professor Luftenberg in years. In fact, it seemed he’d been told the man had died. Obviously, his memory was faulty in that area.

  Not in all areas, though. Not where it mattered. He thought once more about his discovery. About his formula.

  He tried yanking the envelope open, but it was one of those self-stick Tyrek packets. He soon gave up and grabbed a pair of scissors. This was truly a wonder
product. How something so light and simple could be so airtight and strong was quite amazing. He almost wished he’d invented it, but then dismissed the idea.

  A man who had come up with the discovery that would revolutionize the world, would change the future of mankind, had no business wasting his time with packaging material.

  Whistling tunelessly, he cut the envelope. When he pulled it open, a puff of powder billowed out at him, tickling his nose. He sneezed, then drew in his breath and sneezed again. As the powder settled into his mouth and lungs from his deep inhale, he began to feel a tingling sensation, then nothing.

  His mouth, his nose, his tongue turned numb, then grew paralyzed. Panicking, he opened his mouth, trying to speak, to cry out for help. No sound came. His tongue seemed to slide back into his throat, cutting off his air. He clawed at his mouth, his fingers reaching deep into the back of his throat as he pressed his tongue out of the way.

  But his lungs wouldn’t work; they wouldn’t inhale. He was suffocating…and he knew it.

  His arm hit the cane, knocking it aside as he stumbled toward the door. His glasses fell from his face. He could scarcely see. Where was his grad student? His helper? Susan! His mind shrieked for her, but his voice was still. He needed air, needed to breathe.

  He reached the door, and yanked it open.

  The hallway was empty. No one, no help…He stepped into the hall and fell to his knees, then onto his back. Susan!

  The only movement on his face was a single tear that rolled down his wrinkled cheek.

  7

  “Sven! You bastard, I’ve been looking for you all night.”

  He cringed. The Hydra. He wished she were dead.

  He was curled up on a deck chair, covered by a blanket. He no longer felt nauseous; instead the pains in his stomach were so bad he couldn’t even drink water. His legs and arms had turned almost numb, and now this monster was yelling at him. He’d thought he’d be safe from her up here on the bridge deck. Passengers came up here only to watch the freighter sail into and out of harbors, but their next stop wasn’t until Cabo San Lucas. “I’m trying to get a little peace and quiet,” he whispered. It hurt to talk. “I’m sick. And sick of everyone hassling me.”

  “And I’m sick of you and your whining.” Her contorted face pressed close to his. If he’d brought a knife, she’d be fish food.

  “Give me the microfilm and be quick about it,” she demanded. “I don’t want anyone to see us together.”

  The microfilm. That was all she cared about. Not him, not his illness. “I can’t.”

  “Now what? What did you do with it, you fool? I swear you’ll never work for me again. Do you hear me?”

  He rubbed his forehead. The microfilm was in his pocket. He could give it to her and be done with her and her temper. But then she’d win and he’d lose. “I wasn’t able to go get it yet. I’ve been too sick.”

  “I don’t believe this! Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you at all. You are so worthless.” She paced around. “Listen, too many other crewmen will be milling around your quarters this time of night. I’d better not go with you to get it. The first chance you get, I want you to bring it to the galley. Anyone can go in there day or night for a soft drink or a snack, so it won’t look suspicious. I’ll be waiting for you, but if I’m not there for some reason—or if someone else is and you can’t pass it to me—put it in an open sack of sugar.”

  “Sugar?”

  “No, wait—if any water or perspiration got on it, it might get sticky, and that might ruin it.”

  “I don’t want to be around food.” He groaned.

  “I’ve got it. Put it in a tin of baking powder. It’ll stay dry, and no one will pick it up and use it by chance. I don’t think we have anyone who’ll want to bake while on board.”

  “I’m too sick.” He started to lie down again. “I can’t go down there.”

  She grabbed his shirt with both hands and yanked him upright, her face only inches from his. “Your cabin is down there! If you didn’t leave the microfilm—” She stopped and looked around. She must have realized how loud her voice had become. “If you hadn’t left it in your cabin, none of this would have happened! You’ll go to your cabin, get the microfilm, and bring it to the galley. If I’m not there, put it in the open tin of baking powder. Is that clear?”

  He nodded sullenly, unwilling to let her see his fear.

  “Do it tonight,” she ordered.

  A stabbing pain hit his stomach so fiercely he doubled over, clutching it and moaning. She let go of him and jumped back, as if afraid he’d contaminate her.

  “Remember—baking powder. Hide it in the baking powder.”

  “I heard you.” He could barely speak.

  “And hurry up! I don’t want you to die before you’ve put it where I can find it.” She headed for the stairs.

  “Slut,” he murmured as he watched her go.

  In her cabin, Angie took a bottle of vintage port and two stemmed glasses from a padded and lined wine-bottle carrying case she’d bought in the Napa Valley. She’d been warned ahead of time by her cousin Sebastian that on a freighter everything was bare bones and generic, so if you wanted any special treats, you had to bring them yourself. She had brought a bottle of white wine, one of a vintage port, and one of champagne, plus fancy stemmed glasses to drink them out of. She had planned to spend some romantic evenings with Paavo on this cruise, even if she had to set them up herself. But now they had a big reason to celebrate.

  She was sure she’d get used to Paavo the civilian, smiling and friendly around strangers, rather than Paavo the cop, who was constantly serious and cautious. The change was a shock to her, but a welcome one.

  She put on a heavy jacket, as did Paavo, and, leaving everything else behind, they carried the port and the glasses from the cabin down the hallway to the small outdoor area on the fourth deck.

  As she stepped out the door, she saw the blond steward leaning heavily against the rail.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, then, swaying slightly, headed for the door she and Paavo had just stepped through. He seemed to have trouble finding the door handle, but he finally made it into the hallway.

  Frowning, Angie stared after him a moment. When he didn’t come back out, she guessed he was all right. Being ill, he must have decided to take the slow elevator to his room instead of the stairs, the way most people did.

  Turning her thoughts from the sick man, she poured some port into each glass, then handed one to Paavo.

  “Salute,” she said.

  “To us,” Paavo responded. “And to our future,” he added meaningfully.

  They clinked their glasses together, her gaze locking with his as she took her first sip. Los Angeles might have been out there somewhere, but she couldn’t see it and didn’t even care to search. All she cared to look at was before her.

  Moments later, the door to the deckhouse banged open and, wraithlike, Sven Ingerson appeared. He was gasping for breath and his face had a greenish tinge. “I can’t….”

  They ran over to him, each taking an arm. “You need to sit down,” Angie said.

  “No. My cabin…” Ingerson swayed slightly as he rubbed his forehead. He seemed to have trouble focusing. “I did…powder…powder…I can’t…”

  “Powder? Medicine? Is that it?” Paavo asked. “Do you need some medicine?”

  “Yes, medi…God, my head!”

  “Angie, let’s get him to the chair,” Paavo said, leading Sven toward the chairs they had been using.

  “No!” He lunged for the railing, clutching it tightly as he started mumbling incoherently—but it was probably Norwegian, because it didn’t make any sense at all.

  “He needs a hospital,” Angie said, now really worried about him. He seemed out of his head.

  “No! No hospital,” he cried, leaning over the railing, pushing it hard against his stomach.

  “Let’s get him away from this railing,” Paavo said, “then I’ll go get help.”

  A
ngie nodded. “Please,” she said gently to Sven, trying not to upset him any further. “Let me help you to the chair. You need to sit. Or, even better, you can lie down in our cabin. It’s just down the hall.”

  “No, no, no. Mr. Reliable. Tell them…” Then he cried out in pain and dropped at her feet.

  “My God!” Angie cried.

  Paavo swiftly kneeled at the man’s side and lifted his eyelids. “He’s passed out. Go find the captain or first mate quick.” He began loosening Sven’s collar.

  Angie ran up the stairs toward the bridge deck, where she hoped to find someone in charge. As she reached the sixth deck, she saw Julio at the top of the stairs. “Julio! Thank God! Get help. Mr. Ingerson, the steward, just passed out. He’s on the fourth deck.”

  Julio ran down the flight of stairs and grabbed her hand. “Never fear, señorita. I will find someone for you.” He turned, stumbled over a post that held up the stair railing, then ran back upstairs to the bridge and pilot house.

  In no time, Captain Olafson burst out of the pilot house and hurried down the stairs. Angie directed him to the fourth deck. Other crewmen, drawn by the commotion, had already gathered. Olafson’s eyes widened when he saw Paavo bending over the steward. He turned back to Angie who had followed behind him. “What’s wrong with him?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Angie said.

  He stepped a bit closer to Paavo, giving a cursory glance at the unmoving steward. “How is he?”

  “Scarcely breathing,” Paavo said, “and burning up with fever. He needs a doctor.”

  The captain backed up. “Do you think it’s contagious?”

  Mr. Johansen, the first mate, ran over to them and knelt at Ingerson’s side with a medical kit.

  “I’m a trained medic,” he announced. “I can handle this.” But he soon realized he could do nothing to help the steward but apply cold compresses. “We’ll have to dock,” he said to Captain Olafson.

  “But we can’t.” Olafson was wringing his hands.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Angie asked. “The man needs help.”