by Laura Levine
I knew this because Prozac had been clawing my thighs for the past half hour.
Once more, I steered clear of the dining room and brought back chow from the buffet—baby back ribs and mashed potatoes for me, and Chilean sea bass for Prozac.
It was all very delicious. Things taste so much better, I find, when you’re not sitting at a table full of murder suspects.
After dinner, I took a quick shower and changed into my jammies, then hunkered down to tackle the final fifty pages of Do Not Distub, wherein Secret Agent 12 1/2 decimates a vicious band of international terrorists with a bottle of Windex.
At last I’d finished. Samoa Huffington III had driven off into the sunset in his Samoamobile with his true love, a buxom nuclear physicist named Passionata Von Cleef.
With Herculean effort I’d slogged my way through nine hundred pages of the most nauseating goop to come down the pike since the Valdez oil spill.
I decided to celebrate with one final brownie run at the buffet.
Too lazy to get dressed, I threw a raincoat over my PJs. Ten minutes later I was back, bearing brownies and shrimp.
“Look what Mommy brought, Pro! Yummy shri—”
But I was talking to thin air. Prozac was nowhere in sight.
I knew she wasn’t hiding because Prozac never plays hard to get when it comes to snacks. I checked out the bathroom, hoping I would find her kicking sand around in her litter box. But she wasn’t there either.
And then I noticed that Samoa had been in to turn down the beds. Dammit. He must’ve left the door open again. For crying out loud, he knew there was a cat in my cabin. Couldn’t he remember to shut a simple door?
Sure enough, I saw a note from him propped up on my night table:
Cat mising. Sneke out when I com to tun down bed. Your very sinserly, Samoa
Disgusted, I crumpled the note and hurled it across the room, then dashed out into the corridor. I spotted Prozac right away, a few cabins down, inhaling leftovers from a room service tray.
I raced over to her, but when she saw me coming, she took off like a shot. I watched in horror as she headed for the elevators.
Oh, Lord, I prayed, please don’t let her get on an elevator full of people.
My prayers were answered. Sort of. She didn’t get on an elevator. Instead she sprinted up a flight of stairs just opposite the elevators, her tail swishing with glee. She was loving every minute of this.
I huffed up the stairs, my coat flapping open behind me, racing past an elderly couple who stared openmouthed at my rubber duckie pajamas.
(Did I not mention my pajamas had rubber duckies on them? Well, they did. They were a Shopping Channel gift from my mom, who sometimes labors under the illusion that I am still a fifth grader.)
“Pajama party on the Aloha Deck!” I cried, then resumed chasing Prozac, who had abandoned the stairs and was now charging down a corridor.
I was delighted to see her run into an alcove.
The little devil was trapped!
Or so I thought.
When I got there I saw an open door in the alcove. And Prozac’s tail disappearing behind it.
I followed her into what was clearly the crew’s passageway.
Gone were the carpets and fancy wallpaper. Here, it was linoleum flooring and pea-green paint on the walls.
Prozac, having been cooped up in a cell-like cabin for the past six days, was not about to be taken back into captivity. She sprinted down the corridor in a joyous game of Catch Me If You Can, leading me and my pounding heart into a stairwell up several more flights and then down a byzantine maze of corridors.
I ran after her as fast as I could, garnering more than a few slack-jawed reactions from passing crew members.
Some of them tried to catch Prozac, but she evaded them all with impressive skill.
Others tried to stop me.
I had no choice but to lob them with the shrimp I’d hurriedly shoved in my raincoat pocket as I’d dashed out of my cabin. Which turned out to be quite effective. Nothing quite stops a person in his tracks like a flying shrimp.
At one point, a burly maintenance man jutted in front of me and blocked my path.
“No passengers allowed in crew quarters,” he scolded.
By now I’d used up all my shrimp, so I was forced to pelt him with one of the brownies I’d shoved in my other pocket.
Man, I hated to lose that brownie. But on the plus side, I managed to slip past him as he wiped chocolate frosting off his nose.
Seconds later he was back tugging at my coat sleeve, but I wriggled out of the coat and charged ahead. It was amazing, really, how fast I was running. As you well know from my little episode on the jogging track, I was not exactly in tip-top aerobic condition. But I guess I was like the ninety-nine-pound woman who lifts a car to save her child. Somewhere inside me I summoned the speed to evade my would-be captors.
Unfortunately, though, my encounter with the maintenance man had slowed me down. By the time I broke away from him, I’d lost sight of Prozac.
I kept running anyway, hoping I’d catch up with her. And then suddenly the corridor came to a dead end. I stood facing a large, dark, curtained-off area. Probably some sort of storage facility. In the middle was a table with black cloth draped over it.
And there—thank heavens—leaping onto the table was Prozac!
I brushed past a shadowy figure in black and dashed over to where Prozac was now busy licking her privates.
She looked up at me and yawned.
My, that was fun!
So happy was I to finally see her that I refrained from giving her the stern shriekfest she so richly deserved.
Instead, I scooped her up in my arms.
And just as I did I heard a deep voice booming from above:
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the one, the only—The Great Branzini!”
I looked around and suddenly became aware of ropes and cables and overhead klieg lights.
Holy Mackerel. This little cul de sac I’d wandered onto wasn’t a storage area—but a stage! And that shadowy figure in black was The Great Branzini!
I was in the Grand Showroom!
Before I knew it, the curtains were parting and there I was in my rubber duckie pajamas, clutching Prozac in front of three hundred astonished passengers.
Prozac blinked out at the audience.
Anybody out there got tuna?
Minutes later two beefy security guards were escorting me and Prozac to Captain Lindstrom’s office.
Needless to say, the good captain was none too pleased to see us.
“You smuggled a cat on board ship?” he cried, aghast at the sight of Prozac in my arms.
“Well, technically, she smuggled herself on board; by the time I found out, it was too late to do anything about it.”
“You smuggled a cat on board ship,” he repeated, ignoring my argument for the defense.
Then he proceeded to launch into a recap of my many sins.
“You’re responsible for two of our passengers getting a divorce. You tried to cheat another passenger out of first prize at Musical Men. You were caught stealing sand from our sandbox. And now you show up on stage in the Grand Showroom in those ridiculous chicken pajamas!”
“Actually, they’re not chickens,” I pointed out. “They’re rubber duckies.”
Once again, he chose to ignore the technical side of things and continued ranting about my many shortcomings as a lecturer, a passenger, and a pet owner.
It’s all too painful to repeat in detail, but the gist of it was that I was persona non grata on Holiday—and probably every other cruise line on the planet.
Finally, the good captain ran out of steam and glanced down at Prozac in my arms, who was purring like a buzz saw. She had no idea what hot water she was in.
“So what’s her name?” he asked.
“Prozac.”
“Very appropriate, considering her owner.”
Then he added, in a somewhat more mellow tone of
voice, “She is a cute little thing, isn’t she?”
Prozac, sensing she was being talked about, launched into her Adorable Act: big green eyes, tilted head, tail wagging saucily.
The sap fell for it like a ton of bricks.
“Come here, sweetheart.”
He plucked her from my arms and plopped her into his ample lap.
Prozac, the shameless hussy, rubbed against his belly with wild abandon.
“It’s never the fault of the animal,” Captain Lindstrom cooed into her ear. “It’s always the owner.”
She looked up at him with her baby greens.
Yes, she is impossible, isn’t she?
“Maybe we don’t have to put you in quarantine,” he said, scratching behind her ears. “After all, it’s just for one night. How would you like to stay with me, in the captain’s suite?”
By now she was rubbing against him with such fervor, I feared she’d soon be giving birth to Scandinavian kittens.
“You wait here while I get her settled,” he snapped at me, “and I’ll be back with a release form for you to sign.
“Come on, Strudel Face,” he cooed to Prozac.
Strudel Face?? And this man was in charge of a one-hundred-sixteen-ton ship??
“Let’s go set you up in Uncle Karl’s suite. You hungry, darling? How would you like a nice filet mignon from the kitchen?”
She purred in ecstasy.
Extra rare, please.
Oh, for crying out loud. I’d been dying for a steak all week, and now Prozac was the one getting it!
Then he carried her out, murmuring a most nauseating stream of baby talk.
If I’d known she’d be fawned over like this, I would’ve turned her in days ago. All that sneaking and worrying and delivering her meals—not to mention editing Samoa’s god-awful manuscript!
Oh, well. On the plus side, at least I could sleep with a pillow tonight.
I sat back to wait for Lindstrom to return with my release form. He sure was taking his time. Probably busy giving Prozac a massage.
After a while, I got up and started nosing around, thumbing through Lindstrom’s date book and checking out his screensaver (the sinking of the Titanic, in case you’re interested). I even peeked into his private bathroom.
And after the cavalier way he treated me, I have no compunctions whatsoever about blabbing to the world that Captain Karl Lindstrom of Holiday Cruise Lines is the proud owner of Volumes I–VII of Jokes for the John.
Finally, I wandered over to gaze at the historical photos on the walls. My eyes lingered on the picture of Emily, the one taken so long ago, when she was just a girl. She was so young, so hopeful, in her shirtwaist dress and penny loafers and locket around her neck—
Wait a minute. Now that I looked closely, I saw it wasn’t a locket.
I squinted to get a better look.
Holy Moses. It was a half a heart!
Just like the half a heart Graham gave Cookie and dozens of other women over the years.
But he couldn’t possibly have given that one to Emily. When that picture was taken, Graham was just a child.
Or was he? Just this afternoon Cookie said that she’d loaned Graham money for Botox shots. What if Graham had been a lot older than he looked? Was it possible Graham was Emily’s first love, the one who’d broken her heart? Robbie told me her lover was a member of the ship’s crew. And yesterday at lunch Kyle said Graham had been a steward all his life.
And hadn’t Robbie also said that her lover had accepted a bribe from Emily’s father to disappear from her life? Was Graham the one who’d accepted that bribe and deserted her all those years ago?
No doubt, he forgot her as soon as the next cruise set sail. But maybe Emily never forgot. Maybe she’d been harboring a resentment all these years. And then they met again. She’d changed so much since that long-ago picture, Graham probably didn’t recognize her. But she recognized him. Women rarely forget a first love, especially one who’s been Botoxed into perennial youth.
All the old hurt and pain must have come flooding back. Her life had been lonely and unfulfilled. And here he was, still handing out the same phony love tokens to unsuspecting women.
It was all too much for her.
So she decided to seek revenge with a stolen ice pick.
Oh, Lord. It all made sense.
I was staring into space, dumbstruck, when Captain Lindstrom finally returned with the release form.
I signed it in a daze.
“You can pick up your cat when we dock tomorrow,” he said. “Do you think you can manage to stay out of trouble until then?”
The answer, as it turned out, was a resounding No.
Chapter 24
I stumbled out of Lindstrom’s office in a daze. Sweet Aunt Emily—a killer? I had been wrong so often in this case; was I making yet another mistake?
There was only one way to find out. Somehow I had to break into Emily’s cabin and search for Graham’s missing cuff links. After my recent fiasco with Robbie, I dreaded the thought, but I had no other choice.
And then I remembered that Emily was being sedated every night. If she was in a deep enough sleep, I’d be able to snoop around without waking her. The trouble was—how to get rid of Ms. Nesbitt? Robbie told me she’d been spending the night with Emily, sleeping on her sofa.
The answer came to me in a flash. I’d dangle a carrot in front of her. A carrot named Kyle.
I hurried back to my cabin, garnering my fair share of boggled looks. You’d think no one had ever seen a pair of rubber duckie pajamas in an elevator before.
After a quick change of clothes, I made my way to Emily’s suite, praying she’d already been sedated.
Nesbitt came to the door in a flannel bathrobe and granny nightgown, her horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. Quite a difference from the Hubba Hottie outfit she’d worn for her sexcapade with Kyle.
“Yes?” she snapped, ever the charmer.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Leona, but I just ran into Kyle, and he said he needs to talk to you.”
“Then why didn’t he call?” she asked, peering at me over her glasses.
Oops. Hadn’t thought of that.
“Um…he was afraid of waking Emily.”
“Oh, she’s dead to the world.”
Good news indeed.
“Anyhow,” I said, “Kyle’s waiting for you in the Tiki Lounge. He must be worried about one of Emily’s investments. He said something about trouble with a bank account in the Cayman Islands.”
Her lips clamped shut in a thin, angry line. I could practically hear her thinking, There goes the love nest.
“Look, do you mind watching Emily for a while?”
“Be happy to.” I forced a genial smile.
“Great.” She volleyed my phony smile right back at me and dashed off to get dressed for her nonexistent rendezvous.
I headed into the sitting area of the suite and saw the indentations on the sofa where Nesbitt had been lying, a romance novel she’d been reading splayed open on the coffee table.
Then I slipped through the archway to Emily’s bedroom, where I was reassured to find her lying on her back sleeping soundly, her chest moving up and down in regular intervals. In the light from the sitting area, I could see her parchment skin crosshatched with wrinkles, her thinning silver hair forming a lacy nimbus on her pillow.
She looked so sweet, so frail. Would she even have had the strength to go after Graham with an ice pick?
Time to find out.
I hurried to the safe in her walk-in closet. This time you’ll be glad to know I remembered to bring the override code.
I punched in the numbers and cringed at the sound of the beeps. In the tomblike quiet of the cabin, they sounded like cannons. I peeked out into the bedroom and sighed with relief to see Emily still out like a light. I had to stop being such a nervous Nelly. The woman was on serious sleep meds. She wasn’t about to wake up.
I returned to the safe and took a deep breat
h.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
The light in the closet was dim, but I was able to make out what was inside: A string of pearls. Matching earrings. A cameo broach. Passport and wallet.
But no cuff links.
Oh, well. It was possible she stashed them somewhere else in the cabin, so I started snooping around.
At one point, as I was pulling open the door to one of her bedside night tables, she stirred in her sleep. My heart began racing. What on earth could I possibly say if she woke up?
But thank heavens, she just rolled over on her side and continued breathing deeply.
I searched the suite as thoroughly as I dared, but there was no sign of the cuff links. Finally, I threw in the towel and admitted defeat.
I was just about to slink off into the night when I passed the coffee table in the sitting area. There in the center of the table was the bowl of wax fruit I almost bit into the night of Emily’s cocktail party.
How strange, now that I thought about it. Most people don’t tote along a bowl of wax fruit on their travels.
And then it hit me. What if it was some sort of security device, like those phony rocks people use to hide their keys? Emily might not want to trust her valuables to a rinky-dink safe that an amateur like me could break into.
One by one I checked out the pieces of fruit, shaking them to see if they were hollow.
But they were all just what they seemed to be: wax fruit.
Then I reached the final pear at the bottom of the bowl.
I picked it up and felt a frisson of excitement when I realized it was lighter than the others.
I shook it and heard rattling inside.
When I held it under a lamp on the end table, I was able to discern a faint line running around the circumference, dividing the pear in half.
I could feel my heart pounding as I twisted the two halves apart.
Then I said a little prayer and peered inside.
Bingo. There they were: Graham’s diamond cuff links.
At last I knew who the killer was. And I had the evidence to prove it.
I was tempted to take the cuff links with me, but that would be tampering with state’s evidence—a bit of a no-no in legal circles. So I reluctantly left them behind and set out to find Captain Lindstrom. Somehow I had to convince him to conduct an official search of Emily’s cabin.
