by Joanne Pence
The electric current wasn’t the problem.
“Are you all right?” Angie asked.
“Sí, señorita.” He sounded a little uncertain.
“Let’s forget about the lamp. This new one is too big anyway. The smaller one will be fine.”
“I will keep searching. Anything for you, señorita.” He put the small lamp back, on the table and plugged it in.
“Thank you, Julio. Here you go.” She handed him back the huge lamp.
He didn’t turn around, though. Instead, he started backing out of the room, a toothy smile on his face, his longing gaze on her the whole time. At the door, he turned too quickly and crashed the lamp into the door frame. Blushing fiercely, he whispered, “Adiós, señorita.”
“Adiós, Julio,” Angie said, then folded her arms and glared at the offending, still-remaining, too-small lamp.
“Is that walking destruction derby coming back soon?” Paavo called from the bedroom.
“He’s just trying to be helpful,” she said, joining him. “Although I must admit, he might be more helpful if he were less trying.” She sighed.
“What was it that fell off the lamp?” Paavo asked.
“It was a little round disk.”
“A disk?”
“That’s right.” Suddenly, her eyes opened wide and she spun toward him. “When Julio stepped on it, it broke open and had tiny wires. Paavo, it looked like a bug!”
His mouth wrinkled. “A bug?”
“A listening device, not an insect! What if our room was bugged?” She flung her arms in the air. “First someone goes through our bathroom cabinet, then they bug our lamp! What’s with this place?”
He held his hands up, palms outward. “Angie, calm down. Now, tell me, do you know about lamp parts and wiring?”
“Well, no. But so what? I—”
“It was probably just a normal piece of the lamp.”
“Let’s find Julio and get it back. Then you can look at it and see for yourself.”
“Not now. I think I’ll read after all.” He picked up his book.
“But Paavo—”
Obstinately, he shook his head. “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Angie. Relax. Enjoy the cruise. Nothing is going on.”
“How can you say that? Didn’t you notice how whenever I ask about Sven or the cook, people change the conversation?” she asked.
“I think you were the one who was changing the conversation,” he said.
“Me?”
“Come over here.”
She crossed to his side. He took her hand and let his grip tighten, unable to hide the need he felt for her. He drew her onto the bed and she snuggled against him, the scent of her new perfume—a mixture of lilac and lilies—wafting over him. He kissed her, lightly at first, then deeply as his thoughts of how important she was to him enveloped him once more.
“I don’t think—”
“You’re changing the conversation again.” As he pulled her down among the pillows, she wrapped her arms around him, returning his kisses as fast as he gave them.
“You taste so good,” she whispered then smiled impishly. “Maybe this is the Good Ship Lollipop.” She licked his ear.
He felt as if fireworks exploded all around him. “As long as it’s not the Titanic.”
Someone knocked on the door.
“It is the Titanic,” Paavo groaned, flopping onto his stomach.
“Forget it,” she said, running her hands over his shoulders.
The knock sounded again.
“If you don’t go see who it is, you’ll be wondering about it all night.” He pulled the pillow over his head.
She was already off the bed. “It can’t be anything serious.” She walked to the door and opened it. To her amazement two men, one tall and the other short, stood in the dark hallway.
“Angie Amalfi?” the tall one asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“We heard you’re a restaurant reviewer,” the short one said.
“Why, yes.” She’d heard of calling on doctors late at night, but never restaurant reviewers.
“We’re the cooks,” the taller one said. “Mike Jones here.”
Mike Jones—what a simple name, she thought. Jones was a tall, slim, sandy-haired man, disarmingly handsome, wearing jeans and a blue pullover. He held out his hand. She took it and he gave her a strong, enthusiastic handshake, more like someone trying to sell Amway products than a cook.
“Andrew Brown,” the short one said. “But I’m only Mike’s assistant.” He was young, short, and slender, with black hair and a peaked, almost washed-out look about his eyes. He, too, held out his hand in a firm handshake.
“You’re both American,” Angie said, unable to hide her surprise.
“That’s because most of the passengers are,” Jones explained. “We cook simple meals, but we’d like to cook something more. Pete Lichty was the experienced cook, a Dane, but since he’s gone now—”
“That’s why we came to see you,” Brown added.
Did they expect her to cook? “Oh, well, I don’t—”
“This is our free time—we don’t have to cook for anyone at night—and we were wondering if you’d join us for a drink in the lounge.” Jones smiled at her. A deep dimple marked his right cheek and its crease worked its way to his jaw. Young Andrew Brown seemed more washed out than ever by comparison.
Before she had a chance to reply, he quickly added, “We’d really enjoy talking to someone who knows good food and good cooking.”
“Well…” She glanced over her shoulder. “One second.”
Something told her not to call out Paavo’s name as she walked back into the bedroom, and sure enough, his even breathing confirmed what she’d suspected might have happened—lying on the bed, he’d fallen asleep. Most likely, he’d be out for the night. He was still catching up on much-needed sleep. She hoped he’d catch up soon and again be the curious inspector she knew and loved.
Wait…where had that thought come from? He was giving up all that dangerous curiosity, and she was glad of it. She had to keep in mind the old saying about curiosity and the cat, and be glad of Paavo’s new-found acquiescence.
She glanced at her watch. It was only nine o’clock. Heck, she might as well go to the lounge with Mike and Andrew. She certainly wasn’t ready for bed. The only ones on board who were in bed this early were probably the Neblers, the Cockburns…and Paavo. She grabbed her tote bag.
“Let’s go,” she said, pulling the door quietly shut as she stepped into the hall.
They went down to the second deck, to the passenger lounge. In the ship’s brochure, the room had been referred to as the “Panorama Lounge,” even though there was nothing in the least panoramic about it. It had Formica tables, padded chairs, and large windows facing the sundeck, where the pool was found. Mike sent Andrew down to the galley, which was located below the main deck, to get some cold beers from the refrigerator.
Mike found a table in a dark corner of the room where, he said, they could sit and not be disturbed by anyone. Angie wasn’t sure who might disturb them, since the other passengers had apparently gone to bed and the room was empty. As they made small talk about the chilly weather, Brown returned and put three cans of Budweiser on the table, without glasses. “We don’t have anything fancy on a ship like this,” he said. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Angie popped the top.
“So,” Jones said, sitting back after drinking some of the beer, “tell us about cooking beef Wellington. Just how do you get the meat to cook inside a pastry shell without burning the pastry to a crisp in the process?”
Angie was amazed at the question. That wasn’t the sort of cooking tip she would have expected from beer-drinking freighter cooks. But if that was what they wanted to know…
Despite Angie’s curiosity about how two such nice-looking young men had ended up working on a freighter, they had kept her talking almost nonstop, not only about beef Wellington, b
ut about how to get the greatest height possible in a soufflé. How to make a dependable white sauce that could be counted on to work every time. How to apply the glaze to crême brulée.
“Enough already,” she said with a laugh. “You’re giving me a headache!”
“We’re sorry,” Jones said. “When we found out about your background, well…”
“Tell me about yourselves,” Angie said. She turned to Andrew Brown. “You look very young to be working on a ship like this.”
“I guess I am,” Brown said, then glanced shyly at Jones and bowed his head. “I only got the job because of Mike.”
“He needed work,” Jones said matter-of-factly. “When I met him, he was eating out of the Dumpsters behind restaurants so that he wouldn’t get sent to another foster home. He was willing to learn, and I needed an assistant who spoke English. I got tired of trying to communicate in anything from Norwegian to Chinese on these freighters. Not many Americans are involved in shipping anymore. So I told Captain Olafson we were a package deal—an inexpensive package deal. He took us on.”
Angie faced Andrew. “So, is Mike treating you well?”
He gave a half smile. “Yeah, he’s okay.”
“And I take it,” Angie continued, with sudden insight on how the young man would have had to escape the courts and child protective services, “Andrew Brown isn’t your real name?”
Even in the dark corner, Angie could see Brown’s eyes meet Jones’s a moment before he looked down at the tabletop. “You could say that.”
Angie smiled smugly as she turned back to Jones. “And you, Mr. Jones, how did you get started in this line of work?”
He grimaced. “I guess it was because of a woman. My ex-wife. After the divorce, I was cleaned out. I couldn’t even get back on my feet because of alimony and child support payments—and they weren’t even my kids. So I joined the ranks of deadbeat dads, or in my case, deadbeat cuckolded spouses responsible for other men’s kids.”
“Whoa, talk about a bitter speech,” Angie said, surprised at the man’s vehemence.
“Talk about a bitter man,” he replied. “Say, Andy, maybe we should have another round of beer.”
“Sure,” she said. “And then you two can tell me about something I’ve been curious about since I got on this ship.”
“Oh? What’s that, Miss Amalfi?” Jones asked.
“Why the cook went running off. He seemed so anxious to get away, he even tried to jump! Working in the galley can’t be that bad, can it?”
“He was always a comedian,” Jones said. “It was just a joke. He’d planned to leave for some time.”
“I hardly knew him,” Andrew Brown said as he stood up. “Excuse me. I have to get up at four-thirty. The crew is served breakfast at six, well before the passengers eat.”
“My goodness,” Angie said. “I didn’t realize that.”
“You’re right, Andy. I’d better come along, too.” Jones stood as well. “Good night, Miss Amalfi, and thank you for all your help.”
With that, they both left.
Angie stared after them. Was it something she’d said?
14
He saw the small white house again. He was standing beside Yosh, and it was too quiet. He should have said something. The quiet bothered him. Something was wrong. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, to warn them. But no sound came out. He tried to yell, but he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried to tell them to get back, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry out.
He opened his eyes but still couldn’t shake the vision of the house in the distance, and directly in front of him, the shoulders of men in dark blue, easing closer, closer to the house, just as they’d planned.
Then the blast.
And red…red oozing against the dark blue.
He felt again the hands that pushed him back, out of the way, out of the line of fire.
Paavo sat up. His heart was pounding from the dream, from the memory of the shoot-out, of Ed Gillespie being hit. He looked down at his arms, his hands. But the blood that had sprayed all over him when Ed was shot was gone now.
He stood and ran his hands over his eyes, through his hair.
Today the city would be holding a funeral for Sergeant Ed Gillespie. A police officer’s funeral. Grand, poignant, and unbearably sad.
He walked out into the sitting area and sat down on the sofa as the scene replayed yet again, as vividly as the day it happened.
Hours passed. As the sun rose, Paavo felt the ship’s engines begin to vibrate. He went to the window and watched as they slowly left Long Beach harbor.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before the creaking of the bed told him Angie had awakened. Quickly he sat down and opened a book.
“Good morning,” she said sleepily, stumbling into the sitting area.
“Good morning to you, too.” He held out his hand. She walked over and placed hers in his and he pulled her down beside him on the sofa. Her hand tightened and she smiled, then yawned.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, lightly touching her face, her cheek.
“Quite well. What about you? Have you been up long?”
“Since five or so,” he said, putting his arm around her back and drawing her head to his shoulder. She felt warm and cuddly. “I fell asleep early.”
“So I noticed. Still, that’s much too early to get up,” she declared, running her hand over his chest, his stomach. His nose pressed against her hair, and he breathed in her warm, musky scent. He could feel his body come alive, his nerves tingling, taut.
“Maybe you need to go back to bed and start the day all over again,” she added.
“You may be right,” he whispered. Just then, his gaze caught his watch—eight-thirty. Ed’s funeral would start at nine.
He suddenly felt cold and all but dead inside. His gaze met Angie’s for a moment, then he turned his head away and shut his eyes. Damn!
He stood. “I think I’ll go try to find out how Sven Ingerson is doing. I’ll be back soon.” He forced a smile. “It’s day three of our vacation, after all. Time to get up and enjoy it.”
15
Angie sat on the sofa after Paavo walked out the door.
She wasn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, everything he said and did was in keeping with a man on vacation, a man who didn’t want other people’s troubles, issues, and strange behavior to interfere with his life.
In other words, he wasn’t acting like a cop. Terrific. Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted? She’d always thought that was what she wanted. But now that she had it, she couldn’t say for sure that the new Paavo pleased her—especially when there was something strange happening on this ship. Not anything very serious, she supposed, but something, nonetheless.
More than once her belongings had been handled, moved around a bit. Or so it had seemed. It couldn’t be her imagination, could it?
Everything should be fine once they reached Acapulco and the beautiful villa she’d arranged for them to use while there.
One of her father’s friends owned an ocean-side estate just a little south of Acapulco, and rarely used it. So she’d told her father all about her “Dining Out in Acapulco” magazine assignment, and then asked if he thought the villa might be available for a few days.
“Stay a week, Angelina,” Sal had said. “A month. Longer if you want. There are lots of restaurants in Acapulco, you know.”
Angie knew his motive. He wanted her far away from Paavo. Sal didn’t like the idea of his youngest daughter falling in love with a cop and hoped she would get over it quickly. He seemed to think a doctor or a lawyer—even a politician—would be a better choice for a husband. He’d find a way to free up the villa if he had to buy it himself.
So she hadn’t told him Paavo would be joining her.
Sal got her the villa.
But thoughts of Acapulco weren’t helping her here and now. Suddenly a solution came to mind. Even if Paavo wouldn’t listen to her. Captain Olafson would.
She quickly dressed and ran up to the pilot house to talk to him.
First Mate Johansen was standing on the bridge, staring out at sea. He turned at her approach.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I was looking for Captain Olafson.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “The captain is indisposed. May I help you?” He showed Angie into his office and left the door open.
She sat in the chair he indicated, and studied him as she tried to come up with a way to begin. “I came to alert you to something strange. A bug may have been placed in my room. A listening device, not an insect.”
“A bug?” Angie had the distinct feeling Johansen thought she was crazy. She was getting that reaction far too often to suit her. “May I see it?” he asked.
“Your steward, Julio, took it away.”
“I’ll ask him if he can retrieve it, then we can both determine exactly what it was.” Johansen stood. “I’m sorry if our accommodations are not what you expected, Miss Amalfi. We’ll do what we can to make the rest of your journey more pleasant.”
Angie also stood. “By the way, how is Mr. Ingerson doing?
“Sven Ingerson?” Johansen’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I didn’t think a case of food poisoning would interest the passengers. We think that’s all that’s wrong with him. He was taken to the hospital. The paramedics took all the particulars about his home address and the company representatives that they should contact. Unfortunately, it isn’t unheard of for seamen to get sick or hurt and have to go to hospitals on shore. We have no sick bay on board, only first aid. It’s not as if the ship can wait for them to get better. We just sail on and do the best we can. I hope this doesn’t seem too unfeeling to you.”
“Well, I suppose I understand your reasons.” There was nothing more to be said. “Thank you for your time.”
“Have a pleasant voyage. Miss Amalfi,” Johansen said, almost as an afterthought.
“I’d like to speak to one of your patients, Sven Ingerson, please,” the Hydra said into the telephone.
“Ingerson…Ingerson,” the hospital receptionist repeated softly. “Oh, here he is. I’m sorry. He’s in intensive care and unable to take calls.”
