Don't Rock the Boat
Page 19
Mike released a deep sigh of relief. She had a huge smile on her face, no doubt picturing Loretta under house arrest. We continued to inch our way toward the ship, and after what seemed an eternity, set foot safely aboard the Mermaid. With just minutes to spare, too. The ship’s piercing whistle blew loud and long, signaling imminent departure from St. Maarten.
The final port of call had been exciting and exhausting, sort of like this entire cruise. But we wouldn’t change a bit of it. No sir. Except maybe paying for all the broken souvenirs…oh…and the grueling hike up the mountainside and…well, maybe the rickety rusty bus ride…but, no…come to think of it…not a darn thing.
FORTY-EIGHT
By the time we reached our cabins, perspiring and fatigued, we nevertheless felt the need to figure out what to do next. We ducked into our rooms for showers and clean clothes, since dinner with the gang would be at 6:00 p.m. By now, I looked forward to catching up with our motley assortment of dining companions—not that any of them had truly been escalated to the position of friend. Still, it’d be fun to hear about their adventures and mishaps, and I knew we’d delight the crowd with our own personal anecdotes and tales of glory.
I took a moment to check out the ship’s newsletter and see what type of entertainment was available, should we have a shred of energy remaining after dinner. A salsa dance contest scheduled to begin at 9:00 p.m. in the main hall. That delightful female impersonator Hermione Haalstrom would be doing a final show at 9:00, also. But my mind continued to wander to Loretta’s remark about a meeting that evening. I couldn’t help wonder what was going on, since Mike and I hadn’t a clue what the meeting was about. Or, if Mike did know, she hadn’t let me in on it. She’d learned her lesson about leaving me out of any mystery-related information or clues, but… Damn. Nothing about the mystery made sense, so anything could happen. Whatever and I wouldn’t be surprised. Much.
We went all out dressing for dinner that evening and took the breath away from all we met as we strolled along the deck, headed to dinner at the Sea Monkey. Passengers turned and stared at us as we made our way along the promenade, and several even snapped our photos. Yes, it’d been a great idea to wear identical outfits in shimmering pink floral silks that flowed from halter-tops, tied at the neck. Since we’d no appropriate bras to accommodate the backless style, tonight we were both free spirits. Yes, the diaphanous, flowing material was light and airy and beautiful. We felt elegant and stylish and downright classy. We felt sophisticated and attractive.
As we neared the restaurant and caught our reflections in the full-length windows, however, we made another amazing discovery. The delicate floral design on the pink, floating, ankle length dresses disappeared in the bright sunlight on deck, and the dress material became transparent. Yes, you read that right. Transparent. As in see-through. Horrified, we stood and stared at our reflections, mouths slack in horror and embarrassment. Yes, our granny pants showed through all right, and so did our unencumbered bosoms. As if on cue, we turned and bolted for our cabins, almost running over poor Ramón, who stared, transfixed by the amazing vision.
We didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as we barged into our cabins, slamming the doors. We both had to find something else to wear—at a moment’s notice, mind you—and get back to the Sea Monkey before we missed dinner. When we met again in the hallway, I noted Mike’s choice of lightweight black pajama slacks, black and white tunic top, and almost non-existent sandals. I’d donned a boring pair of mauve slacks, matching tunic, and huarache sandals. Yes, boring but at least modest and presentable as we rode the elevator back up to the restaurant. I prayed nobody from our table had witnessed yet another error in our normally sound judgment.
At the restaurant, we saw no familiar faces, and nobody burst out laughing at us along the way. Just when we thought we were home free, dear Ramón sidled up to us and winked. The nerve. The young whippersnapper. What did that wink mean?
“Oh, Lord…” Mike moaned. “Did you see—”
“Yes, Michaela. Put a lid on it.”
“I’m gonna die of embarrassment,” she whimpered.
“Oh no you’re not. Stop rocking the boat, for crying out loud.”
“That makes absolutely no sense, Bernadette, and you know it.”
“Hush.”
Mike huffed and puffed a little, muttered and murmured, and wore her discomfiture like a neon sign. But who was I to point that out? Even I couldn’t hide my beet-red face from our observant dining group. Stan and Melanie looked a bit alarmed and asked us if we were overheated. And Charmaine and Veronica just looked us up and down, and then turned to each other to make some snide comment about how people just didn’t seem to know how to dress for dinner anymore. Now, this remark came from two roly-poly women in Lycra tank tops, wrap-around skirts and flip-flops. Of course, they did have spangles in their hair, and enormous flamingo dangling earrings, so I guess they had dolled up for the occasion.
Sweet little Clarice couldn’t have sat any closer to Dr. Kingston Connolly without jumping into his lap. She stared at him in complete awe and admiration, which meant there were two at our table who thought Kingston was a gift from the gods to all womankind. Clarice hung on every word he uttered, smiled at every witticism, nodded in agreement with every observation. A perfect match for him, since they both shared their love of the clever doctor. I rather liked seeing Clarice so smitten, enjoying the emotional roller coaster of love for the first time in her sheltered life.
To our enormous surprise, the headwaiter brought two additional guests to our table. We’d long since decided the two seats would remain empty throughout the cruise. Mike and I stared dumbfounded as the newcomers nodded to us. The man made the introductions.
“Good evening,” he purred, “this is Senora Margarita Conchita and I am Senor Marco de Guacamole. May we join you?”
“Please, do,” I murmured, while Mike kicked me twice under the table.
The Senora and Senor sat, placed their napkins on their laps, and smiled at one and all.
Mike wriggled and squirmed, no doubt anticipating the conversation we’d enjoy with these two legendary people, while everyone else at the table acknowledged them with little more than brief words of welcome and cordial, disinterested nods. Mike and I, on the other hand, couldn’t take our eyes off them. What tremendous luck. What good fortune. What an amazing coincidence. Then it hit me. No luck or good fortune or coincidence in the arrival of Marco and Margarita. Just part of the whole diabolical scenario. Had to be. Actors taking part in this well-choreographed mystery. Only Mike and I knew they were charlatans.
Or did we?
Marco and Margarita had taken their seats without blinking an eye or twitching a lip. If they recognized my friend and me, they didn’t tip their hands one little bit. Casually, and very cleverly I might add, I dug deep into my pants pocket and retrieved the tiny compass I’d received a lifetime ago. I twirled it about on the white tablecloth, tumbling the teensy instrument end over end with one hand. I pretended to be uninterested in their reactions when they noted that little clue, since I was certain it held great portent in the game.
Mike twisted the tiny golden ring on her finger—her subtle way of reminding the two new diners of her involvement. Marco and Margarita, however, continued to chat with everyone at the table, even Stan and Melanie.
An amazing turn of events to have these two key players at our table. If we wanted to solve the puzzle, Mike and I mustn’t let this opportunity slip through our fingers. As the diners left their seats to line up for the buffet, Mike and I lingered in order to speak with Marco and Margarita.
“Well, isn’t this nice,” Mike gushed as soon as the others had left. “I thought we’d never get a chance to speak to you two alone.” She smiled. “I’m sure you remember me and my friend Bernie from the beginning of the mystery cruise, when you were explaining about our respective mysteries?”
Marco and Margarita seemed puzzled, yet remained polite and gracious. “Perhaps you
have mistaken us for another couple?” Marco spoke in an easy-going manner. “I would have remembered two lovely ladies such as yourselves, had we met earlier.” Reaching over to take Mike’s hand, he bestowed a gentlemanly kiss on its back.
Mike did a double take and her cheeks reddened. “Oh…well…” She squirmed in her seat. “I don’t mean to contradict, but…well, you do know us. I know you know us. We haven’t much time. Please tell us. What in the heck is going on? Is there some sort of meeting tonight? We heard there was a meeting but weren’t told about it for some reason or other. Did Hernando say anything to you about it?”
“Hernando?” Marco asked, looking at Margarita, and shrugging as if to say he’d no idea what Mike was talking about. “Do we know a Hernando, my dear? I think I would have remembered if we did.”
Margarita mimicked his shrug and rolled her eyes. “I have never heard of him.”
“Well, I know you have,” Mike exclaimed, her voice rising in volume as her frustration set in. “And you know you know him, too. You were with him at the start of the cruise when you first explained about our quest to solve a mystery or a crime or a caper, whatever you wanted to call it. Now you act like you don’t know him…or us, for that matter.” Mike’s ire escalated.
“Wait just a minute,” I said, scrunching my eyes to stare at the couple in a new light. “Let’s get this straight. You’re acting now like you don’t know what’s going on. That can only mean one thing: you are up-to-your-necks involved in this whole crazy story. Maybe you’re even the persons of interest we’ve been seeking for almost a week now. Hmmmm?”
“No, no, Miss Bernie,” Marco replied. “Margarita and I are simply tourists like you and Miss Mike. But you are correct in one thought: the truth is under your very noses, and has been since before you began this cruise. Now, please, join the line or you will miss your lovely dinner. We must say good night. It has been a long day; we are both very tired. We can catch a bite to eat at a snack bar. I believe we will leave you both to your thoughts and conjecture. Come, my dear,” Marco added, extending his hand to the demure Margarita, who smiled, shrugged then averted her eyes.
As our dining companions arrived back to the table, plates laden with an enormous variety of wonderful treats, they looked around for the two newest members of our little group.
“What happened to Mark and Margot?” Charmaine inquired through a mouthful of shrimp salad. “You two scare them off already?” She and Veronica laughed out loud while Stan and Melanie stood quietly by, watching Margarita and Marco leave the restaurant. Clarice and Kingston made no comment, being so wrapped up in each other, they hadn’t even noticed the two strangers in the first place.
Mike and I rose from the table in as dignified manner as possible and headed for the tables laden with extraordinary buffet offerings. Confused? You bet. Annoyed? I’ll say. Intrigued? Does Holland have windmills? But for now, we were hungry. Our stomachs took precedence. After dinner we’d talk this out. The siren song of an opulent dinner buffet distracted us once again from any attempt at solving the mystery.
I couldn’t help but feel all the answers would fall into place, but when that would happen, and how and where and why…that was yet to be seen.
Balancing plates heaped with food, we returned to our table and sat. Mike dove into her dinner like she’d been fasting all week, while I dug into steak, asparagus and a dozen other delectable items with abandon. Like I said. We’d worry about the mystery later.
FORTY-NINE
Fabulous dinner as always. Almost mind-boggling to imagine how the ship’s chefs managed to make every single dining experience original, delightful, and delicious. We chatted with the others throughout dinner. More than once, I caught Stan and Melanie watching us, although they made valiant attempts to do so on the sly. I’m sure we all had many of the same thoughts that evening—the evening before our last day on board this ship.
My mind wandered. I wrestled with Loretta’s behavior, her ranting at Hernando, and her reference to a meeting of some sort, related to the mystery. I had a feeling Mike stewed over the same dilemma. We both knew we had to find out more, or at least determine why we weren’t apprised of the event. As we finished our second and third desserts, I decided to bring up an idea I had.
The others were caught up in their own private conversations so I leaned toward Mike and whispered, “After dinner let’s ask the cruise director exactly what he knows about Loretta’s meeting.”
Mike’s eyes lit up. “I was thinking the very same thing.”
“Good. We need to know where it’ll be held, what time, and most importantly, why.”
“Okay. I’m through now. Let’s go.”
We excused ourselves, smiled to one and all but nobody paid us a smidgen of attention. Veronica and Charmaine had returned to the buffet line for additional desserts; Stan and Melanie were passive companions at best, elbows on the table, hands cupped on chins, gazing around the room, avoiding each other’s glance as well as ours. Clarice and Kingston whispered and murmured, giggled and blushed, and either didn’t hear us say goodbye or just plain didn’t care.
As we pushed back our chairs, a murmur waved through the dining room. I looked around to see what had caused the fuss. Hermione Haalstrom. In person. In all her magnificent, radiant and exaggerated glory. The entertainer had arrived on the arm of our captain. Hermione had a way of garnering attention. As female impersonators go, I’d never seen a better one: flashy and bright, bold and bawdy, endearing and annoying all at the same time.
Mike and I glanced at each other then dropped back into our chairs, which protested our change of plans. No way we wanted to miss seeing this celebrity work the room. Busy busboys and alert waiters scurried ahead of Hermione and our dashing captain, shuffling chairs and providing a wide enough aisle for the two to stroll side by side. Hermione shimmered in a silver lamé number that draped her wide shoulders and cascaded across her enormous bosom. I admit I’d enjoyed the quality of her many impersonations, but I was downright mesmerized by the quantity of her many attributes. Never in a million years would anyone mistake Hermione for a male, especially in tonight’s dazzling dress and jewels. Yes, she shared every detail of a plus-size femme fatale. As she and the captain traversed the entire length of the room to the best table in the place, every eye followed her.
“You know,” Mike whispered, “if the two of us made an entrance like that, bulging and shining and waddling, people’d be laughing and making snide remarks. Yet, because she is a man pretending to be a woman, and a very large woman at that, everybody treats her like a glamorous movie star. Now, I call that bizarre.”
I nodded—sort of listening but somewhat lost in my thoughts. My mind backtracked at full speed to Hermione’s amazing performance of several nights ago, and I wished we’d taken the opportunity to see every one of her shows.
“Unbelievable,” I said on a release of air.
“What? What’s unbelievable?” Mike asked, twitching and squirming in her chair for one more glimpse of the radiant star.
“Amazing and unbelievable,” I repeated, as we stood once again to leave. “Does she ever have a chance to go anywhere or do anything around this ship? I mean, without being mobbed. She can’t spend every spare moment in her balcony suite, no matter how spacious and beautiful it is. Yet, I do believe this is her first public appearance…outside of a performance, that is.”
“You don’t really know that, Bernie,” Mike answered. “This ship is enormous. I’m sure there are passengers we haven’t seen at all, and we’ve been here almost a week.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s true. Still…I can’t help but wonder.”
“Just add it to the list of questions we’re incapable of answering,” Mike quipped. “I believe we’ve forgotten more than we knew when we came on board. I believe the most obvious conclusion is that our missing guy, Mr. Benjamin Browning has probably been here all the time, holed up in his room, eating bon-bons. ”
“Well, that’s a possi
bility. I have nothing better to offer. There’s more than meets the eye on this cruise. Just what, I haven’t the foggiest.”
We made our way to the exit, skirting tables and waiters, and glancing over our shoulders more than once. For a brief moment, my eyes met Hermione’s across the room. I could’ve been mistaken—probably was—but for a second the famous celebrity seemed to glare at us. I swear I saw her—er, him—wrinkle his/her nose, lean over and say something to the captain. I swear they both frowned.
I needed some fresh air. Lack of oxygen, no doubt. Hallucinating. Or too many eclairs.
FIFTY
We’d taken maybe a dozen steps when I remembered our only chance to salvage what was left of our involvement in the mystery on board the Mermaid was to locate the Cruise Director. That dynamic, energetic, enthusiastic coordinator of events never seemed to sleep. He’d choreographed every event and supervised every detail of every minute of every day of our cruise. Ask him anything and he knew the answer…until now.
“No, ladies, I’m really sorry,” he apologized. “You see, the Mystery Cruise is sort of a subcontracted event on board the Mermaid…neither planned nor facilitated by any of our crewmembers. They have their own staff and simply enlist our aid on occasion to provide assistance in planting clues. Sure, we apprised them of certain passengers’ room numbers—you participants signed a waiver, remember—that’s why you wear Mystery Cruise buttons, so the rest of us know you are involved in this game. I assure you they are very security-minded, and only involved their own patrons, though occasionally an innocent bystander is drawn into a circumstance or event and…” He took in a deep breath. “I guess I’m not providing you with an answer, right?” He flashed his charming, white-toothed smile, waved at a familiar face in the distance, and turned to melt into the throng.