A Dinah Galloway Mystery
The Mask on the
Cruise Ship
Melanie Jackson
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Praise for the
Dinah Galloway Mysteries:
“...fun and witty...delightful characters...for mystery lovers everywhere!” —Resource Links
“With writing as delicious as the fresh tomatoes Dinah loves to munch, Jackson weaves a lively mystery. The book is often hilarious, but touches on serious themes.” —Quill & Quire
“…engaging and highly readable...a fast-paced tale that keeps the reader guessing until the end.”
—Vancouver Sun
“Jackson spares no artistic expense in either The Spy in the Alley or The Man in the Moonstone, both of which are set in Vancouver’s East Side. She knows how to write a full-bodied scene, gauges correctly that it’s worth her time to drolly title her chapters (“Sour notes with Piano Man”), crafts worthy subplots, and delivers strong characterizations of even second-banana players.” —The Horn Book
Copyright © 2004 Melanie Jackson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data:
Jackson, Melanie, 1956-
The mask on the cruise ship / Melanie Jackson.
(A Dinah Galloway mystery)
Electronic Monograph
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 9781551438108(pdf) -- ISBN 9781554695034 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Jackson, Melanie, 1956- . Dinah Galloway mystery.
PS8569.A265M38 2004 jC813’.6 C2004-905221-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2004112464
Summary: As the ship-board entertainment on an Alaska-bound cruiseship, twelve-year-old Dinah Galloway is on the trail of a stolen Native artifact.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Department of Canadian Heritage’s Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP), the Canada Council for the Arts, and the British Columbia Arts Council.
Cover design and typesetting by Lynn O’Rourke
Cover illustration by Rose Cowles
In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4
In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
07 06 05 04 • 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Bart and Sarah-Nelle Jackson
With thanks to:
My editor, Andrew Wooldridge, for giving
Dinah her chance in the limelight
My former boss, Shelley Fralic of the
Vancouver Sun, for permitting me to adapt
information from her May 2001 series on her
own Alaska cruise
My friend Ruby Best, for helping me with
Dinah’s website,
http://www3.telus.net/dinah/spy.htm
Table of Contents
1 Mr. Trotter ought to relax
2 The Raven and the stepsister
3 Attack of the brussels sprouts
4 A simply smashing launch
5 A whale of an encounter
6 Not exactly in the swim of things
7 Lavinia, she went a-courtin’
8 Talk about your bad-hair days
9 A chilling experience
10 A memory in the deep freeze
11 Dinah’s doom-and-groom attitude
12 Lavinia makes like a clam
13 Musical chairs on the scenic tour
14 The true snakewoman, revealed
15 The Raven and the professor
16 Now you see Dinah —now you don’t
17 Gooseberry Eyes, the less-than-ideal host
18 The unexpected rescuer
19 The end of Lavinia’s courtin’ days
20 The Raven and the songbird
Chapter 1
Mr. Trotter ought to relax
To me, it resembled a fat white bar of soap.
“Oooo, yes. Our lovely Empress Marie,” gushed Mr. Trotter, program director for Happy Escapes Cruise Lines. He’d scurried over to stand beside me at the office tower window. Far below us, in the blue-green waters of Vancouver’s inner harbor, the fat white bar of soap — er, the Empress Marie — gleamed in the May sunshine.
Mr. Trotter clasped his hands beneath his chin. “You’re such a fortunate young woman, Dinah Galloway. Imagine — performing on one of our ships at your tender age and experience!”
Sighing, he raised his eyes to the ceiling, his round, apple-red cheeks glowing over his curled and waxed mustache.
“I’m twelve-and-a-third, and my experience is nothing to sneeze at,” I objected. I opened my mouth again to continue my comments at some length. Namely, that I sang in radio commercials for Sol’s Salami on West Fourth: Pastrami, Baloney, Not An Ounce That’s Phony!
It was a great song, which I loved belting out, and Sol gave my mother, my sister and me tons of free samples. Num.
Plus, I’d been in a play last November. A musical, The Moonstone. “This freckle-faced, red-haired kid sang her heart out — and stole mine,” a critic wrote. Not bad, huh?
But a frown from my agent, sitting by Mr. Trotter’s desk, stopped me from explaining all this. Dignified, iron-gray-haired Mr. Wellman had advised me to stay fairly mum at our meeting with the program director. To squash my personality. “I love your enthusiasm for life,” Mr. Wellman had assured me. “Mr. Trotter, though, is the nervous type. If the slightest thing about a performer upsets him, he won’t sign them for a Happy Escapes cruise.”
And I did want to go. A cruise to Alaska and back, the first one of the season! The chance had come up because one of the performers who’d already been booked, a china-cup juggler, had backed out. Mother and Madge would go with me, we’d see fjords and glaciers, and there’d be food, food, FOOD. I beamed at Mr. Trotter.
“Why, what a pleasant child,” the program director exclaimed. Unclasping his hands, he patted me on the head, then scurried back to his desk.
Where he promptly assumed a worried expression. Patting his mustache curls to ensure they were in place, he fretted to Mr. Wellman, “I need to know that none of my performers will cause any fuss. We don’t like fusses at Happy Escapes.”
Mr. Trotter paused as if the next words were almost too unbearable for him to utter. Then he continued, “I did read about Miss Galloway in the papers…about that play she was in…She stopped the show partway through, I understand. There was a lot of shouting and a couple of young men came to — ” Mr. Trotter’s apple-red cheeks paled — “blows.”
“That was hardly Dinah’s fault,” Mr. Wellman pointed out. “There were jewel thieves in the theater.”
“Ye-es.” Mr. Trotter shuddered. “I suppose the uproar couldn’t be blamed on a mere twelve-year-old.”
“At the time, I was only eleven,” I corrected him. “I have one of those late birthdays, after everyone else has had theirs. You know, in December.”
Happy that I’d been able to help, I plunked down in the chair beside Mr. Wellman.
My agent spoke soothingly to Mr. Trotter. “You may be interested to learn that the play took in huge receipts, what with the good notices Dinah got.”
I nodded wisely
to show that I understood what receipts meant: profits. As the men talked, I swung my feet, ponk, ponk, ponk, against the chair legs. As well as a late birthday, I seemed to have late growth. I was shorter than most of the kids in my class, which was why, as now, my feet often didn’t make it to the floor.
Ponk, ponk…
I realized Mr. Trotter and Mr. Wellman had stopped talking and were looking at me. Mr. Trotter was massaging his right temple.
Then I got it. “Oh, the feet thing. It’s because I’m short,” I explained, glad to be of help a second time. “My sister Madge is tall and willowy,” I told the program director. “But y’know what? She was short in grade seven, too. So there’s hope. I may not always be shrimp-sized.”
Sharp intake of breath by Mr. Trotter. He stood and glared.
Uh-oh. Before, I’d been too busy concentrating on the view of the Empress Marie to notice something.
Mr. Trotter himself barely grazed five feet. Not much taller than I was.
Unable to think of anything to say, I bared my teeth at him in the trademark phony smile I used at school when in trouble with the principal.
“Um, Dinah,” said Mr. Wellman. “It occurs to me that contracts aren’t the most fascinating topic for a twelve-and-a-third-year-old. Lionel, is there another room our Dinah could wait in?”
I felt better. I liked the way Mr. Wellman said our Dinah. It showed me that he wasn’t going to give up on me, no matter what my bloopers. My bared-teeth smile relaxed into a real one.
“Another room … ” Mr. Trotter patted his mustache nervously. “But I’m not sure about Miss Galloway … ”
“You’re lucky, on such short notice, to get a talent like Dinah,” my agent reminded him. Then Mr. Wellman shrugged. “Still, if you’re not interested — ”
“Wait,” the program director protested. Perhaps he was reflecting that a loudmouth pre-teen who showed up for work was, after all, more reliable than a china-cup juggler who didn’t. “Another room,” he said again, only in a much friendlier tone. “One where the young lady wouldn’t be with us … ye-es … Come along, Dinah.”
Mr. Wellman winked at me. I got up and followed the ever-scurrying program director to a door behind his desk. He opened it to reveal a cozy room with sofas, a coffee table and a TV. And, through one wall of sheer glass, another drop-dead stunning view of Vancouver’s sparkling harbor and the blue-violet mountains looming beyond.
Mr. Trotter gave each of his mustache curls a nudge upward in case they were drooping. “Enjoy!” he said, with false jolliness. I had a feeling he wasn’t over my remarks about his shortness. “Oh, and I always keep treats in here for my guests. Help yourself! Enjoy!”
Slam.
Nope. He wasn’t over the shortness thing.
I stood on my toes and stretched my arms as high as they would go. I sure wished I would get taller. I saw my reflection in the glass and thought, Face it. You’re a Madge wannabe.
But how many girls could look like Madge? With her creamy skin, burnished red hair and vivid blue eyes, Madge had once earned lots of money modeling.
That was before she’d decided modeling was too shallow and she’d rather concentrate on drawing and painting.
I grimaced at my freckled, bespectacled self in the window. In my opinion, you had to be pretty, like Madge, in order to dismiss an emphasis on appearance as being shallow.
And why couldn’t my hair be a burnished red? It was more of a washed-out red, like a Canadian flag that had been laundered once too often.
Oh well. That was the advantage of keeping one’s hair messy, I decided. The color wasn’t so noticeable.
Shrugging, I shifted my gaze to the coffee table. Ah. Food. The treats Mr. Trotter had mentioned. Some mints in a bowl, a box of chocolates and — hmmm. A Styrofoam container.
Inside the container was, num!, a huge egg salad sandwich. Now, I should be clear about this. My favorite sandwich, bar none, is banana–peanut–butter–honey. But I wasn’t about to complain. This mega-sandwich, in thick sourdough bread, was crammed with pickles, tomatoes, onions, green peppers and lettuce. I was practically swooning as I chomped.
Farther along the coffee table, some files were stacked. Paper-clipped to the top file was a scribbled note on Happy Escapes Cruise Lines stationery — deep blue, with a drawing of a fat white ship in the upper left corner.
I always like to read when I eat alone, so I picked up the note.
Mr. Trotter —
Borrowed the contents of this for a while. Hope you don’t mind.
— Peabody Roberts
I checked the top file, which was labeled “Empress Marie Passenger List.” Empty. I tossed note and file back on the table. That certainly hadn’t been interesting reading.
I was just licking the last bit of egg salad off my fingers when the door opened. Mr. Trotter had his hand on the knob, but in response to something Mr. Wellman had said he was looking back over his shoulder. I sat up straight, prepared to thank him very nicely for the sandwich.
“No, thank you, I won’t join you and Dinah for lunch,” the program director called back cheerily to Mr. Wellman. “Today I’m treating myself to my favorite sandwich — egg salad with all the trimmings — from the deli downstairs. I appreciate the invitation, but I’ve been anticipating this scrumptious delight all morning. Really,” and here he giggled, “I’ve been counting the minutes till I take that first, heavenly bite.”
OH NO. In panic I eyed the now-empty Styrofoam container. Why hadn’t Mr. Trotter explained to me that the “treats” he kept in here for his guests didn’t include sandwiches?
“I’m so glad you’ve decided on Dinah,” Mr. Wellman was saying. “You won’t be sorry.”
Mr. Trotter wagged a playful finger. “So long as there are no disruptions, Wellman. No disturbances. I value calm above all else.”
This was awful. There wouldn’t be a shred of calm left to Mr. Trotter once he discovered his lunch was missing. In fact, the only shreds would be my contract — after he’d ripped it up. No Alaska cruise for Mother, Madge and me.
Gulp. My palms were now so clammy that the Empress Marie could’ve just about floated in them. Then —
I noticed again the note that was paper-clipped to the top file.
Mr. Trotter —
Borrowed the contents of this for a while. Hope you don’t mind.
— Peabody Roberts
After a last giggle at some remark of Mr. Wellman’s, the program director started to turn.
I grabbed the note, slapped it on top of the Styrofoam container and weighed it down with the paper clip.
“Come back in and join us, my dear,” smiled Mr. Trotter. “We’re all done … Hope you helped yourself to some chocolates.”
“Um,” I said, but Mr. Trotter wasn’t listening. He was patting his mustache curls, I guess to make sure the smile hadn’t dislodged them in any way.
Mr. Wellman and I waited at the elevator.
“You’ll love the cruise,” he assured me. “I know someone else who’s going: Julie Hébert. Julie’s the stepsister of a client of mine, Professor Elaine Hébert, a renowned expert in First Nations culture. I book speeches and TV appearances for Professor Hébert.
“Anyhow, the prof’s sister will be transporting a valuable Tlingit Nation mask to an art gallery in Juneau.”
“Hey, we studied Tlingit masks this year,” I exclaimed. “Shamans, who were people with special powers, put masks on to drive evil away. Ravens, eagles and other animals were the spiritual helpers the shamans called on. When the shaman wore a mask of one of these animals, it meant the animal was right there, helping him.”
I flapped my arms and ran back and forth in front of the elevators. I thought it’d be exciting to be a shaman, able to battle the dark spirits.
“Er, Dinah.” Mr. Wellman caught me by an arm. “Maybe you should come in for a landing. Remember, Lionel Trotter is into soothing surroundings.”
“Oh, right,” I said and stopped flapping. “S
o what’s with the mask that’s going on the Empress Marie?”
“Professor Hébert had borrowed the mask for an exhibition at the University of British Columbia. She was planning to return it herself, but then she got invited on an archeological dig in northern B.C. So the prof gave the cruise ticket to her stepsister.”
“Lucky Julie,” I commented.
“Not so lucky,” Mr. Wellman said thoughtfully. “There’s been something rather sinister — ”
However, I wasn’t to find out about Julie and the sinister something just yet. Mr. Trotter burst out of his office into the hallway. His apple cheeks had reddened to a dark beet color. He was quivering so much with indignation that his thick mustache curls were dancing, like the “Waltz of the Flowers” scene in the Nutcracker ballet.
Talk about being possessed by evil spirits. Mr. Trotter, I thought, could have used a shaman himself about now. He bellowed at the receptionist: “WHERE IS PEABODY? I’M GOING TO TAKE HIM APART LIMB BY LIMB!”
Chapter 2
The Raven and the stepsister
Julie Hébert lifted the box’s lid. A scarlet flame jutted out at us.
I grinned.
Mother jumped.
Madge, who loved using bright, bold colors in her art, smiled delightedly. “It’s a beak, Mother,” she exclaimed. “It’s … ”
“It’s the Raven,” I said, as Julie drew the bubble wrap away from the fierce, vivid mask. “He’s in so many First Nations legends, but my favorite is the one where he captures the light.”
“Me, too,” nodded Julie, whom Mr. Wellman had brought by to meet us. “When the Raven wants something, nothing stops him.”
My friend Pantelli Audia and I had done a project on the Raven for school. According to legend, in the beginning the whole world was dark. A rich man and his daughter selfishly hoarded all stars, the moon and the sun in three bags hanging on their wall.
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