Terns of Endearment

by Donna Andrews

  “I think that’s technically known as mutiny,” I pointed out.

  “No,” Mother said. “If the crew did it, it would be mutiny. What I have in mind is more of a revolt against a tyrannical and incompetent dictatorship.”

  “I think calling it a consumer protest might be less fraught,” I suggested. “We, the Pastime customers, protesting unsafe and unsanitary conditions and treatment by the ship’s management that amounts to outright abuse.”

  “That’s the ticket.” She looked at her watch. “It’s a quarter of seven. We need to convene a meeting. Do you think an hour will be sufficient time to notify all the passengers?”

  “Some people might still be asleep.”

  “In this heat? I doubt it. We’ll need to send messengers, of course.”

  “I can recruit some,” I said. “But a meeting about what? What do you want the messengers to say?”

  “That if they’re dissatisfied with what’s happening on board the ship they should come here to the main dining room at eight o’clock for a discussion of what we, the passengers, can do.”

  That didn’t sound unreasonable. If nothing else, people might feel better after airing their grievances. And maybe there were a few things we could do, if Mother was serious.

  “I’ll find some messengers,” I said aloud.

  I glanced around the dining room. Normally I’d have sent the boys, but now—not unless I teamed them with at least one adult.

  I spotted the writers at a nearby table, stoically munching on dry cereal, and went over to join them.

  “May I enlist you for a project when you’re finished eating?” I asked.

  “Won’t take long.” Kate swallowed hard. “What do you need?”

  I explained Mother’s idea for an all-passenger meeting, and they responded with enthusiasm. They wrote down our official invitation text on four sheets of paper torn from Janet’s spiral-bound notebook and then took off. Since there were four decks with passenger cabins—decks two through five—they were planning to take one floor each.

  “We’re going to run into people with mobility issues,” Janet said over her shoulder from the doorway.

  “Note the cabin numbers,” I said. “I’ll see if I can recruit some burly guys to carry down anyone who wants to come but can’t make it under their own steam.”

  Wim and Guillermo readily agreed to serve as human porters and hurried off to start at the top, on deck five. I scanned the rest of the people in the dining room. Most were middle-aged or even elderly, and looked as if they’d already completed their day’s exercise getting down to the dining room in the first place. Then again, the passenger list did skew rather older.

  The Stooges. Two of them were sitting at a table, glumly chewing cornflakes—Bart Evans, of the thinning reddish hair, and Hal Burkhart, of the five o’clock shadow. I strode over to their table. They looked alarmed when they noticed my approach, and Bart choked slightly on his cornflakes. I didn’t waste time on formalities.

  “How would you like to do something useful?” I omitted “for a change” but they probably heard it in my voice. I explained about the proposed meeting.

  “Lots of little old people on board,” Bart said. “Some of them couldn’t do the stairs even if they wanted to.”

  “We’ve been taking meals up to these two little old ladies across the hall from us,” Hal said. “Both of them on walkers. The crew ought to be doing something for them. And I’m not looking forward to breaking the news that this is breakfast.” He waved at a small stash of cereal boxes on the table beside them.

  Okay, so maybe the Stooges weren’t completely unredeemable.

  “That’s excellent,” I said. “We all need to do a lot more of that kind of looking out for each other. Right now, I need a few burly guys to help or even carry anyone who can’t make it down here on their own.”

  They both perked up slightly at the word “burly.”

  “Go up to deck four,” I went on. “You’ll find a lady there going from door to door, inviting people to the meeting. Introduce yourselves to her and let her know you’re the muscle for anyone who needs help. When you finish with deck four, see if they need help on two or three. Oh, without power we’ll have no microphone; if you notice anyone has hearing aids, try to get them to sit near the front.”

  “Can do,” Hal said.

  “Okay if I drop off breakfast with our ladies on the way up?” Bart asked.

  “Not only okay but excellent,” I said. “And if they’re in the mood to be carried down, bring them first.”

  Bart strode off, probably glad I didn’t seem bent on using him for a punching bag again. Hal lingered.

  “Um … I heard that there’s a doctor on board. Do you know who he is? Or she,” he added quickly.

  “My dad,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Any chance he could do something for our buddy Barry? He’s still sick as a dog. We didn’t want to leave him alone so we’re taking turns sitting with him.”

  Ah. I’d wondered where Victor was.

  “I’ll see if Dad can drop by and check him out,” I said. “What cabin number?”

  “He’s in 208. Thanks!”

  He hurried off to catch up with Evans.

  At this rate, I would definitely need to find something other than Stooges to call them.

  I decided to make myself useful. I grabbed a trash can, started at one end of the buffet, and began throwing away anything that looked or smelled suspect.

  People begin streaming into the dining room. Wim, Guillermo, Rob, Horace, and the three no-longer-Stooges appeared from time to time carrying an older passenger, pushing someone in a wheelchair, or hovering in mother-hen fashion behind a passenger on a walker.

  Dad showed up, and I dispatched him to room 208 to check on the ailing Barry. Janet and Kate reappeared—evidently they were doing decks four and five, which had fewer cabins and more public deck areas. They settled down at a table together with their laptops. I peeked over their shoulders and discovered that they were creating a central list of who was in each cabin, with notes on which ones had needed assistance.

  “Great idea,” I said. “We can expand on that later. Add any useful skills they might have.”

  Aunt Penelope and Rose Noire had raided the cleaning supply closet off the passageway and joined my efforts to clean up the buffet area, not only trash-bagging the suspect food, but also stacking the dirty dishes and attacking the tables with spray cleaner—one that contained bleach, I noted with approval.

  Occasionally one or the other of the two doors separating the dining room from the kitchen would open a foot or so and a crew member would peer out. Then they’d pop back inside the kitchen and slam the door shut again, as if they feared we’d begin using them for a game of live Whac-A-Mole.

  Not that some passengers weren’t tempted.

  “You think they’ve noticed that we’re doing their job?” Aunt Penelope asked, glaring toward the kitchen door.

  “I’m getting very bad vibes from the kitchen right now,” Rose Noire intoned.

  “We’ll deal with the kitchen later,” I said.

  “Have to get in there first.”

  “Leave that to me,” I said.

  “Ooh—I can’t wait to see that.” Aunt Penelope was probably expecting to see me batter the door in with a fire axe. She’d probably be disappointed when I pulled out Anton’s Pastime card.

  Then again, maybe the fire axe wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe I should keep the card a secret. Because once we finished doing whatever Mother had in mind, I planned to use the card to invade the crew-only spaces and poke around. Even if I didn’t learn anything relevant to Desiree’s alleged suicide, Trevor’s apparent disappearance, or why someone had murdered Anton Bjelica, at least I could satisfy my curiosity about what all the crew were up to down there.

  Mother was circulating among the arriving passengers, greeting the ones she’d already met, introducing herself to the ones she hadn’t yet, and visibl
y charming and cheering everyone.

  Pretty soon, nearly every chair was taken, and the crowd seemed … remarkably cheerful, as if the mere idea of having a meeting to figure out what we could possibly do had restored their good spirits.

  Eventually, Wim and Bart the former Stooge appeared in the back of the room with yet another senior citizen. They gave me a thumbs-up sign. I went over to see what that meant.

  “Everyone who’s coming is here,” Wim said.

  “And that’s pretty close to every passenger on the ship,” Bart added. “Cranky little old lady in 512 doesn’t want to come, and we have two down with seasickness, 232 and 208.”

  “Excellent. Have a seat, and I’ll tell Mother we can get started.”

  I returned to the end of the room where Mother was sitting and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Your public awaits,” I said.

  Chapter 26

  Mother stepped up onto the small stage and beamed at the assembled passengers. An expectant murmur rose from the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Fellow passengers.” She knew how to project, so even without a microphone most of the passengers would be able to hear her, and with luck I’d have managed to steer the hard of hearing to the front row. “Thank you for coming. I think we’re all concerned that this cruise is not turning out the way any of us expected.”

  People nodded, and a few chuckles rippled through the crowd.

  “I would like to suggest—”

  “What’s this then?” First Officer Martin burst through the door behind Mother—the one leading in from the back deck—and strode toward the small stage. “We can’t have this. I suggest all of you—”

  “Mr. Martin,” Mother said. “This is a meeting of the passengers. We’ll let you know if we have any questions you can answer.”

  Martin had reached the stage and put his foot on the lower of the two steps leading up to it. At least half a dozen of the men seated nearby—Dad, Michael, Rob, Horace, Wim, and the provisional non-Stooge Hal—leaped to their feet and took a step or two toward him. Martin probably didn’t even see them. For once he wasn’t smiling, though he didn’t look threatening. He had the sick, despairing look of someone suddenly realizing things are far worse than he imagined. Mother had turned toward him, hands on her hips, looking like the most immovable object imaginable. Martin flinched slightly, pulled his foot back, and turned to the audience.

  “Now, folks,” he said. “I know everyone’s a little upset about the delay, but—”

  “Mr. Martin.” Mother didn’t shout or increase her volume at all—just hit him with the Voice, accompanied by a gimlet stare and the tight-lipped expression that suggested she, like Queen Victoria, was not in the least amused.

  He shut up in mid-sentence and stared at her.

  “If we feel an irresistible urge to play another game of charades, we’ll let you know.” Mother articulated each word with icy precision. “For now—isn’t there something useful you could be doing to help get this ill-fated vessel back on course?”

  Martin looked around at the hostile faces turned toward him. He attempted a rather ghastly version of his usual smile and then fled through the nearest door, back onto the tiny rear deck. He didn’t reappear, so either he was lurking out there, working on a comeback line, or he’d chosen to take the outside stairs to wherever he was going.

  Or maybe he was spying. He was welcome to.

  Once the door shut behind him, Mother bestowed another gracious smile on her audience and went on.

  “I know many of us are dissatisfied with the current state of affairs on board the ship.”

  Murmurs of agreement.

  “The captain and his officers have not been forthcoming about why we are stranded here, far too close for comfort to the Bermuda Triangle.” She glanced over at where Caroline and Rose Noire were standing. I suspected Caroline had briefed her on Rose Noire’s fixation and the need to avoid setting her off. “Nor have they given us any idea of what they are doing to remedy the situation or how long it will take. Many of us are also dissatisfied with the quality of the service we are receiving. Obviously we cannot expect to enjoy the same level of comfort we were promised when we contracted with Pastime for this cruise. But increasingly, many of us are suffering discomfort, even hardship, because no one is even attempting to ensure that our basic wants are met. I don’t blame the crew—”

  Some dissenting murmurs arose at this.

  “No, I don’t blame them. While obviously there are some crew members who are more diligent and helpful than others, it has become clear to those of us who have begun to investigate the situation that the ship has been deliberately understaffed—to a degree that may not even be legal.”

  “Shame on them!” someone called out, and there was a smattering of applause.

  “While things were going well, the crew, by means of exhaustingly long shifts, were for the most part able to keep the inadequate staffing level from affecting our comfort. But they were already at the breaking point when the current crisis happened.”

  A man raised his hand. I recognized him as Ted Lambert, the attorney who’d done so much research on cruise law before embarking. Mother nodded at him.

  “Do we know exactly what’s wrong with the ship? And do we have any idea whether the ship’s inadequate staffing levels contributed to the problem?”

  “To answer your first question: we have been informed that the ship’s navigation system has broken down, and they have turned the power off for the safety of the workers who are repairing it. Having been given the same excuse for over twenty-four hours, we now plan to take steps to determine whether there’s any truth to it. As for the second question—we don’t yet know that understaffing contributed to this disaster, but I consider it highly likely.”

  This set off a round of exclamations and side conversations. Mother waited for thirty seconds or so, and then raised her hand for silence.

  “We have already had one tragedy aboard this ship.” She paused for a moment, with an expression of stoic sorrow on her face, and I could hear scattered sniffles from the audience. “We cannot do anything about poor Ms. St. Christophe—but I, for one, think it’s time we took action for our own safety. In fact, to take over some of the ship’s functions that are being done badly or not at all.”

  Back to murmurs of agreement, and scattered applause.

  “And for that purpose, I’d like to turn this meeting over to my daughter, Meg Langslow, who has been developing plans for dealing with our situation.”

  Loud applause as Mother gestured for me to come to the stage.

  I’d have to wait till later to kill her. Or at least give her a piece of my mind. Or mention that I could think of a few things we might want to be doing did not constitute a plan.

  But something needed doing, and if I didn’t want Mother’s efforts to fire up the rest of the passengers to go to waste …

  “Thank you, Mother.” I opened up my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe to a blank page and set it on the podium so I could pretend I had a plan written in it. I took out my pencil, too, to write down whatever I was about to pretend I was reading.

  “First of all, I want volunteers to help create a detailed list of everyone on the ship,” I said. “Obviously, Pastime has this—or would have it if they could access their computer systems. But neither we nor they have access to that information now. We need to know who’s in each cabin. We need to know who has mobility issues that make it difficult for them to get meals with the elevators not running. We need to know who has medical issues that could cause them problems. We need to know who has skills that might help us deal with this crisis.” And while I wasn’t going to say it aloud, we needed to know if anyone else had disappeared since we’d set sail. “If you’d like to volunteer to help with the census, please see Caroline Willner after the meeting—Caroline, would you raise your hand?”

  Caroline not only raised her hand, she waved it vigorously, no doubt to assure me that she did
n’t mind being drafted.

  “If there’s anyone here who has medical skills, please identify yourself after the meeting to my father, Dr. James Langslow.”

  Dad leaped up and did a sort of Rocky-style two-fisted victory arm pump, to the applause of the crowd.

  “Anyone who’s got skills in engineering or computers or any other area of technology that might be useful in restoring the power and helping the crew get this tub moving again, please see Delaney McKenna after this meeting.” Delaney jumped up and waved her arm with enthusiasm.

  “And last—for now, at least. The kitchen.” A mixture of groans and cheers. “Maybe I’m fussy,” I went on. “But the last couple of buffets they’ve thrown out on the tables haven’t exactly been gourmet spreads, and I suspect I’m not the only one who’s begun to worry about food poisoning. We need volunteers to take over the kitchen, clean it up, throw away anything that could have gone bad through lack of refrigeration, and come up with the most appetizing meals we can manage with whatever unspoiled food remains. But first, cleaning—no skill needed, just elbow grease. If you’re game, see Mother after the meeting.”

  I pointed in her direction, and Mother responded with the Royal Wave.

  “That’s it for now, folks. If anyone has questions that need answering or suggestions about what else we could be doing, come up and see me after the meeting.”

  Caroline, Dad, Delaney, and Mother each moved to one corner of the room, and I was delighted to see that at least half of the people in the room were flocking to one of the corners.

  Of course, the other half were crowding around me.

  Within fifteen minutes I’d filled another whole page in my notebook. Fortunately, most of the notes were about either people volunteering skills I hadn’t asked about or problems I could easily refer to one of the four lieutenants I’d just drafted.

  I put Horace in charge of finding out who had devices that needed recharging—not just phones, tablets, and laptops but everything from battery-powered toothbrushes, shavers, and hair dryers to wheelchairs, oxygen compressors, and mobility scooters—and setting up a procedure to ensure that the more mission-critical devices got top priority.