Santa Cruise

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Keith,” Jack said to his assistant, “this is probably a long shot, but see if you can find any connection at all between Bull’s-Eye Pinto and Barron Highbridge.” He paused. “Besides the fact that they’re both on the run.”

  45

  At the insistence of their mother, Fredericka and Gwendolyn had gone for a swim in the pool. “A sound mind in a sound body,” Eldona trilled as she sat at the water’s edge, her feet dangling in the pool, two pages of next year’s Christmas newsletter already written. “Here we are on the maiden voyage of the Royal Mermaid, and the kindliness of my girls is already the talk of the ship. . . .”

  When the girls had finished their required laps, they had a water fight, which succeeded in splashing people sunning in deck chairs around the pool. “The energy of the young gladdens the heart,” Eldona continued as she wiped her glasses.

  Word of the Commodore’s mother’s service was being spread by the stewards who were already serving Bloody Marys and Margaritas. Needless to say, Fredericka and Gwendolyn got wind of the impending ceremony. They climbed out of the pool.

  “Mommy,” Fredericka said breathlessly. “Did you hear about the sunset service?”

  “Yes, dear. And you may attend. It will be very beautiful.”

  “Maybe we can sing at it, like we do in church.”

  Eldona’s eyes glistened with tenderness. “What a lovely idea. I think the Commodore would appreciate that. But you should make sure. Why don’t you run and put on a play outfit and ask him yourselves?”

  “Yeaaaahhhhhhhhh.” The two girls clapped hands and jumped up and down. “Where did Daddy go? Let’s tell Daddy!”

  “Over there in the corner,” Eldona pointed to her husband, who was sprawled on a lounge chair, a magazine covering his face. “He moved to the shade. You know how careful he is of his health. He’ll be so happy to hear about your thoughtfulness.”

  “I’ve got a better idea, Mommy. Let’s make it a surprise for him when we sing tonight.”

  “Whatever you want, darlings. Run along now.”

  * * *

  The Commodore and Ivy were on their third cup of English Breakfast tea. He had tenderly placed the silver chest with his mother’s ashes on the coffee table. When Winston brought in the tray with the teapot, strainer, cups, and saucers, he had set it on the table, then started to pick up the box. The Commodore had sternly reprimanded him. “That is only for my hands, Winston. Leave it there. Mother always enjoyed a cup of tea.”

  “My mother loves tea, too,” Ivy said. It was a thrill to be in the Commodore’s suite. When she first met him, she had been intimidated. He was such an imposing, rugged manly man. The kind of man her mother would call “a fine, big fellow.” But sitting talking to Commodore Weed made her realize that he was a real softie inside, that like so many people, he was someone who wanted to be loved.

  Now, as the Commodore refilled her cup, he said, “Ivy, as I told you in the chapel, you make me feel so good about this cruise.” He laughed. “I had three ex-wives who married me for what they perceived I could give them. My last wife, Reeney, and I are actually still quite friendly—”

  Ivy felt a pang of jealousy.

  “—but we just couldn’t agree on so many things. She wanted to go antiquing all the time. She fancied she had an eye for value, which I can assure you she did not. But the worst thing was she hated boating—”

  “I love boating,” Ivy cried.

  “Me, too. But Reeney helped with a lot of things, I must admit. She’s a great organizer. She helped me decorate the house in Miami that I bought after our divorce. She even helped me find Winston. She told me I didn’t need another wife, I needed a butler. Someone who wanted to take care of me.”

  Ivy had to clamp her lips together to keep from blurting out, “I’d love to take care of you!”

  “You say you’ve never been married, Ivy?” the Commodore asked her, a tone of wonder in his voice, unconsciously calling her by her first name. “An attractive lady like you?”

  Ivy felt a warm glow. She was having such a wonderful time! She didn’t want it to end. She started to murmur, “Ohhhhh, thank you,” when a loud banging at the door startled them both.

  “What now?” the Commodore asked, as he got up and impatiently crossed the room and opened the door.

  Fredericka and Gwendolyn curtseyed to him. “Good morning, Commodore Weed.” Without being invited, they dashed past him into the room. “Good morning, Ma’am,” they said to Ivy, curtseying again.

  “Hello, girls,” Ivy said, thinking the curtsey was the ultimate irony since the two of them had forced their way in.

  “Ohhh, how pretty,” Fredericka said as she reached to pick up the silver chest.

  Ivy was too quick for her. Her hand clamped over it. “That’s the Commodore’s,” she said firmly.

  The Commodore had almost passed out at the sight of his mother’s ashes being jostled by this pushy child. “What can I do for you girls?” he asked, trying to conceal his feelings.

  “We heard about the special service for your Mommy tonight. We’d love to sing a special song,” Fredericka explained.

  “We’re in the children’s choir at home,” Gwendolyn chimed in.

  God help me, the Commodore thought.

  “There’s a song that we learned in school that we thought would be perfect. We just changed one word. ‘My Mommy lies over the ocean! My Mommy lies over the sea . . .”

  Ivy watched them in disbelief.

  “Thank you,” the Commodore said. “That would be very nice. Perhaps at the end of the service. Now go practice,” he said, his voice husky.

  “Goody!” they cried. “We’ll tell everyone on the ship they have to come!” They ran out the door.

  Gwendolyn turned to Fredericka. “Now let’s go see how Uncle Harry is. We’ll tell him about the service. We can reserve a seat for him and help him get to the deck. I’m sure he won’t want to miss it.”

  46

  The only time Eric had left the chapel all morning was to run outside and use the house phone to call Alvirah Meehan to ask if he could pick up the cards. Eric knew that he could not leave the chapel unguarded until lunchtime, when he could sneak Bull’s-Eye and Highbridge into his room in his uncle’s suite. Once he got them there, they could hide safely in the closet until four A.M. tomorrow morning.

  At that point, the plan was that Eric would lead the two men to the lowest outside deck where they’d blow up the inflatable dinghy Eric had hidden on board, toss it over, and wearing life jackets, they’d jump in after it. Their people would be hovering nearby, ready to rescue the men when the Royal Mermaid was a safe distance away. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes—their wet shoes—Eric thought, but it’s better than spending a good part of your life in prison.

  As he sat in the third pew, he had plenty of time to worry about what would happen if Bull’s-Eye and Highbridge were discovered. Highbridge was the type who cleared his well-bred throat unconsciously, a sound that reverberated through the still chapel. But it had only happened once. Eric had run up the aisle to shush him, but Bull’s-Eye had already clasped a pudgy hand over Highbridge’s mouth and warned him that he’d kill him if he did it again. Eric didn’t doubt for a moment that it was a serious threat. Bull’s-Eye Pinto was a killer, first and foremost.

  Eric was counting the minutes until twelve o’clock, when he knew his uncle would go down to lunch. At eleven, a steward came in to dust and vacuum the chapel.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Eric said.

  “But I was instructed to make the chapel sparkle. People may want to come here before your grandmother’s service.”

  “Wait until this afternoon to clean,” Eric ordered. “And bring some fresh flowers for the altar.”

  “Of course.”

  Eric felt beads of perspiration on his forehead. The steward would undoubtedly have lifted the altar cloth to vacuum. He could only imagine the brush of the vacuum cleaner hitting Bull’s-Eye.

 
At twelve fifteen, the Commodore opened the chapel door and stood in the doorway. “What a surprise to find you here,” he said.

  “I just stopped by to say a prayer for Grandma. She is so in my thoughts today.”

  “Oh, how I share that with you! But come now. I want you to join me for lunch. Ivy—I mean, Miss Pickering—will also be at the table. A very sweet woman indeed.”

  Eric knew that was a warning not to ignore Ivy again. “I’ll take a moment to freshen up,” he said. He walked with the Commodore to the elevator bank, pushed the DOWN button, and waited until he had seen the back of his uncle’s head before he dashed down the corridor. As he feared, he bumped into Winston, who was on his way to his room. He had a two-hour break at lunchtime.

  “Anything I can get you before I leave?” Winston asked.

  “No, I’ll be heading to the dining room in a few minutes.”

  Eric opened the door of the suite and stood just inside until he was sure Winston was gone. Then he hurried back to the chapel. “Come on. I’m going to stand outside the Meehans’ door. If they come out, I’ll divert them. You make a dash for the suite—quietly, if that’s possible. The door is open.”

  The precaution wasn’t necessary. The two felons entered the suite undetected. Eric followed them in. “We can’t take any chances. Grab whatever drinks and snacks you want from my refrigerator. Then get in the closet and stay there. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t forget to get my cards,” Bull’s-Eye warned him.

  Eric splashed water on his face and combed his hair. This time when he left the suite, Alvirah and Willy were coming out of their stateroom.

  “Hello,” he called to them. “Is it okay if I grab those cards before you close your door?”

  Alvirah admired the way Willy could think on his feet. “Eric, do you mind waiting until after lunch? I’m in the midst of a game of solitaire and I’m actually winning,” he joked.

  Eric tried to laugh. “Oh sure. This afternoon would be fine.”

  But it didn’t feel fine. There was something wrong, he could tell. They knew he wanted the cards back, so why had Willy started another stupid game of solitaire?

  He didn’t believe the story, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  The memory of Alvirah saying she was a good amateur sleuth nagged at him as they rode down in the elevator together.

  47

  Harry Crater sat in the easy chair in his stateroom, his nerves jangling. The bruises on his neck had turned dark purple, and spread to the tissue around them like wine stains. The nightmare that had turned into reality kept playing on his mind. I’ll stay in my cabin and have my meals sent in, he told himself. I only have until daybreak. Nobody can come in here while I have the door double-locked.

  He had devoured most of the breakfast he had ordered. The sight of the empty plate, which had contained scrambled eggs and bacon, was another reminder that he was lucky to be alive to have eaten breakfast this morning. He was worried about Bull’s-Eye, and in his gut he was sure that the big boss had placed someone else on the ship. Who was it? And what would he or she do after the helicopter landed?

  He reached for the coffee pot, hoping there were a few sips remaining. A staccato banging at the door startled him, so much that his hand jerked and the last of the coffee ended up on the tray.

  “Uncle Harry!”

  “I’m in bed, go away.”

  “We have an invitation for you!”

  “For what?” he called.

  “We’re going to sing at the ceremony when the Commodore throws his mother’s ashes into the sea.”

  Harry paled. He got up and hurried to open the door.

  Gwendolyn and Fredericka beamed at him. “We just visited the Commodore,” they said, interrupting each other to convey the important news. “You have to come tonight. You have to. We’re going to sing. We’ll come and get you. We’ll have a chair for you.”

  “He’s throwing his mother’s ashes into the sea tonight? I think you mean sunrise. Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tonight!” said Fredericka firmly. “It’s tonight.”

  “I’ll be there.” He spat out the words, shut the door, and raced to get his cell phone. When the call went through he snapped, “We’ve got to move up the plan. You’ve been keeping up with us, I trust. How far away are you now?”

  “We’re on Shark Island,” was the reply. “It’s two hours flight time. We have an extra tank of fuel to get us back here, if we need to leave now.”

  “Get moving! The Commodore has moved up the ceremony. It’s taking place at sunset. I knew we shouldn’t have counted on him to wait for his mother’s birthday. We can’t take a chance that he’ll change the time again. Once you’re here, I’ll say that I don’t want to leave until after the service.”

  He added sarcastically, “The Commodore will be so touched. You three ‘medics’ can be the honor guard surrounding my wheelchair.” He listened. “Don’t tell me to take it easy. Someone tried to kill me last night. And I’m pretty sure I know who it was.”

  He slammed down the phone.

  48

  The Oklahoma Readers and Writers seminar had been in full swing since nine A.M. Groups had lively discussions about the art of mystery writing, dating back to such famous writers as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Dame Agatha Christie.

  At eleven thirty, Bosley P. Brevers, the author of an exhaustive biography of Left Hook Louie, was scheduled to lecture on his favorite subject, and show slides of Louie’s life in the small theater near the dining salon.

  Regan and Jack had run into Nora and Luke on the deck, and they’d all decided to attend. Regan had confided to her parents their growing suspicion that Tony Pinto might be a stowaway on the ship.

  In the audience, they spotted Ivy Pickering and Maggie Quirk sitting a little to the left in the row behind them. Regan’s eyebrows shot up. Ivy, who had seemed like the type who never bothered with so much as dabbing powder on her nose, was wearing becoming makeup and a blue linen jacket that set off her cornflower blue eyes. What a difference from the way she had looked last night when she’d come screaming into the dining room, Regan thought.

  On the stage, Brevers was being introduced. The director of the seminar praised Brevers’s five years of scholarly research on his subject and noted he was also the principal of an award-winning high school at the time he was working on the book. Brevers, a small man in his midsixties, with a slight frame and white hair, approached the lectern. He made the usual comments about how honored he was to speak and what a thrill it was to be on the Santa Cruise, especially since there was a possibility that the ghost of Left Hook Louie was present. He waited for a laugh that did not come.

  “Yes indeed,” he continued with a cough. “Let’s get started.” He cleared his throat. “Born into the poverty of Hell’s Kitchen,” he began, showing a slide of a two-year-old sitting on the steps of a tenement with his mother.

  “Rags to riches,” Luke whispered to Nora. “Here we go.”

  Nora made a face at him.

  The first ten minutes of the lecture included a series of slides showing Left Hook Louie earning money at whatever job he could get, starting at age eight. In one photo, he and his sister, Maria, had set up a shoe-shine business on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Forty-third Street in New York City. Maria was proudly holding up a sign that read FIVE CENTS A SHOE. WILL LOOK LIKE NEW.

  Luke whispered, “A budding entrepreneur. Most people wear two shoes.”

  More slides followed. “Here’s twelve-year-old Louie delivering a massive piece of ice. He had to drag it up five flights, but never a whimper,” Brevers explained. “The brave little fellow didn’t know that he was developing the muscles that would make him a champion boxer. While others, including his boyhood chum, Charley-Boy Pinto, turned to a life of crime . . .”

  As one, Regan and Jack leaned forward in their seats. “Pinto?”

  “Louie was very disappointed when his beloved sister, Maria, at
age eighteen, married Pinto. Neither he nor his parents ever spoke to her again. Charley-Boy spent the last fifteen years of his life in a federal prison. But before that, he had taught his son all about his ‘business.’ That son, Anthony, became the well-known mobster Bull’s-Eye Tony Pinto, a dangerous man you may have been hearing about in the news recently. Although he probably never met his uncle, the champion boxer-turned-bestselling author, he bears a remarkable resemblance to him, as you’ll see.”

  Their photographs appeared side by side on the screen.

  Regan heard two audible gasps behind her. She turned as Maggie and Ivy got up and made their way to the door.

  The four Reillys followed them.

  Ivy was trembling and Maggie’s face was pale.

  “There’s a small lounge over here,” Nora said. “Let’s slip in there.”

  “I don’t want to start trouble,” Ivy said. “This would be terrible for the Commodore. I knew whoever I saw looked like Left Hook Louie. But when I see their pictures side by side I can see the difference. Tony Pinto is definitely the man I saw in the chapel! He’s a mobster? What is he in trouble for now?”

  “He ran away from his house in Miami to avoid going on trial,” Regan explained.

  Ivy went weak at the knees and grabbed Maggie’s hand. “You saw him, too?”

  “I believe I did,” Maggie said quietly. She looked at Regan and Jack. “What are you going to do?”

  “If word gets out, we may have a panic. We aren’t positive Pinto is on board, and if he is, we don’t know if he’s armed. For the sake of the safety of everyone on the ship, what we know must stay right here,” Jack said firmly.

  “Why on earth would he be on this ship?” Ivy asked.

  “Because if he makes it to Fishbowl Island, he can’t be sent back to the States for prosecution,” Regan told her.

  “Then we’d better turn around and go back to Miami,” Ivy squealed.

  “They can announce the ship needs repairs,” Nora suggested.