I rolled back to last night and remembered telling Phyllis about Tantig’s disappearance. Of course, that was before Romero had called with the news that they’d found her on land. And since Phyllis had fallen asleep before I could deliver that news, she was running with the former. Which in the end happened to be the most accurate since Tantig’s reappearance was a case of mistaken identity.
I watched Clive in his black Speedo duck away from Phyllis’s sweeping gestures. Then I glanced back at Max. “Who’s Carmen Miranda?”
He whipped out his phone, tapped the screen, and held it out to me. “Brazilian singer-actress from way back when, known for her fruit-salad hats.”
I stared from the photo of the actress to Phyllis. Another costumed masterpiece.
I shook my head and went back to thinking about her statement that Clive wasn’t as dumb as he looked. “Clive can barely stand on his own two tiny feet. How does she suppose he could’ve abducted Tantig?”
Max reached for a magazine. “Lovey, I’m trying to enjoy my time by the pool. Up until a minute ago, I was doing just that.”
“Oh, so I’m being a pest.”
“Not a pest, but you do seem peeved. Care to share?”
Share? Did I tell Max how anxious I was over Tantig’s disappearance? My fears about Molly and Polly? Or the football guy who had his lips glued to Sabrina’s face and who happened to have a snake tattoo, the same snake tattoo that appeared in the New York Post at a crime scene in front of Lucy’s shop? And that was just the half of it.
Did I reveal that I planned to tell Romero to hit the road once the cruise was over? Was that even what I wanted?
My stomach tightened into a knot at the thought of saying goodbye to the man I once called Iron Man, but it was for the best, my best. I wouldn’t stand on the sidelines while Romero had his fling with his female partner, even if she was climbing her way to the top. I had standards, too.
No, I didn’t feel much like sharing. “Another time.” I targeted my stare at Phyllis—another worry—nose to nose with Clive. And when did she start caring about Tantig? Last night she was fed up with old people. Today she was Florence Nightingale.
The country song died in the background, and the cruise director stood on her platform and held a hand in the air. Everyone was getting good at following her lead, and instantly there was silence.
“What’s going on?” I whispered to Max.
“Julie McCoy’s playing Name That Beauty Tune with the crowd. They’re mostly old hits from way back when.” He smiled. “So far, Clive’s answered all five wrong. I can’t wait to hear what he slurs this time.”
“All right, everyone.” The cruise director had an optimistic smile in place. “What was the name of the last song? And who was the artist?” She asked this like it was the million-dollar question. I even thought I heard a drum roll.
Clive swung his stool away from Phyllis and threw his limp, gauzed arm in the air, ice cubes clinking in his empty glass. “Thath eathy. ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ by the Rolling Stones.”
The crowd snickered. Max snorted punch through his nose.
“Uh, no sir,” the cruise director said, probably wishing Clive would go drown himself. “It was ‘Stand by Your Man’ by Tammy Wynette.”
“Clothe enough!” Clive saluted. “That song don’t even have the word beauty in it. What do I win?”
“Uh, let’s try another,” she said.
Another oldie piped through the speakers. Clive cocked his ear, nodding harmoniously, his bandaged arm resting on the bar, finger waving in the air.
I watched him for a moment, then turned back to Max, curiosity getting the better of me. “Know why Clive’s wearing a bandage on his arm?”
Max shrugged. “Nope. Haven’t gotten close enough to ask.”
I bit my bottom lip. Probably a cut. Or maybe he had stitches or had a mole removed.
“Boy, is she a sucker for punishment,” Max giggled, shaking his head at the cruise director.
“Speaking of”—I hoisted myself off the lounger—“I better go see what Phyllis is up to.”
“Aww. And spoil the fun?”
I looked down at Max and, for a second, saw double. Probably the hot sun. I needed my own punch. I gave him a smile, then went up to the bartender and ordered one.
“What kind of punch?” he asked.
I whirled around and pointed to Max, who was holding up his glass in a toast to me. “One like the guy over there is drinking. With a twist of lime, please.”
The bartender craned his neck past me. “The guy with the yellow trunks and water wings?”
“Yes.”
“The guy with the stack of magazines and a rubber duckie?”
“Yes.”
“Lady, that’s not punch. Your friend’s drinking a Long Island Iced Tea. And judging from your size, a punch is exactly what it’ll do to you if you drink one. Kapow! Right between the eyes, followed by you crashing to the deck.”
“I’ll have one.”
His eyebrows went wide.
“Without the liquor.”
I glared at Max, and he gave me one of his looks that said What? Mr. Innocent.
A moment later, the bartender handed me a drink. “And here’s your twist of lime.” He spread a wedge of lime on the rim of the glass.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. “Hey! This tastes like cola.”
“Exactly. Without the vodka, gin, rum, tequila, and triple sec, that’s what you’ve got.”
I did an eye roll and slapped a tip on the counter. Then I slid over to Phyllis and Clive.
“Hey there.” I clinked Clive’s glass, trying not to look at his gaunt little frame, sagging pecs, or, God forbid, anything lower.
“How are ya?” He gave a simple smile and scratched his head. “Have we met?”
“Yes. I’m Valentine Beaumont.”
“Nice to make your acquaintanth.”
I nodded at Phyllis. Her feet were puffy, a nausea patch was stuck behind her ear, and her shoulders were peeling in long, blistery strips. True, I’d fallen in a lifeboat, almost died in a steam room, and endured a swordfight with Kashi, but Phyllis was a walking disaster. Better take it easy on her. “What’s up, Phyllis?”
She tapped her toe like she was a prosecutor in a courtroom. “I’m asking Clive what he knows about Tantig and the murder.”
Clive smiled dopily from Phyllis to me. I turned my back slightly to him. “I think you should leave him alone.”
“I thought you wanted to find her.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be bothered.”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep last night because of it.”
“You? Couldn’t sleep? Who was setting off the earthquake in our room?” So much for taking things easy.
“Maybe I slept a little. But I got to thinking about Clive and how he was dancing with Tantig in the lounge the other day.”
The hairs on my neck stood on end. “What? When was Clive dancing with Tantig?”
“I don’t know. The other day.”
“What other day? Saturday? Sunday? Yesterday?”
“Lemme see. Lemme see. It was after I got back from the tour of Nassau. I stopped to get a bottled water and peeked into the lounge. Tantig and Clive were holding each other up on the dance floor.”
I bit my lip, processing this. “That was Sunday.”
“Okay. Sunday.”
Clive had lost interest in eavesdropping. Smart man. He’d swiveled back toward the bar and ordered another drink.
“So, I put two and two together,” Phyllis continued, “and figured Clive was guilty.”
“Tell me how you came up with that ’cause you lost me.” I sipped my drink, thinking I was in for a long explanation.
“After they were done dancing, he persuaded Tantig to go back to his room where she’s now handcuffed to a bed, stark naked.”
Cola spritzed through my mouth and sprayed onto Phyllis.
“What the—” She wiped soda off her arm an
d threw her hands on her hips.
“Phyllis, do you hear yourself?” I grabbed a napkin off the bar and dabbed my lips.
“What! Dr. Phil had a guest last week, and she was a victim of date rape, like Tantig.”
I looked at Clive, arms flattened on the bar, head barely up. It’d be a miracle if he walked a straight line, let alone led Tantig into a cabin, stripped her naked, and tied her to a bedpost. And from what I’d already seen of our shrunken friend, I didn’t want to visualize him in anything less than a Speedo. I already knew I’d have nightmares from that image.
“Tantig didn’t go back to Clive’s room, Phyllis. She was with my parents at the captain’s dinner that night. And my mother sent her for a walk the next morning. That’s the last time she saw Tantig.”
“If she didn’t go back to Clive’s room,” Phyllis said, “then who could’ve taken her?”
“I don’t know.” I looked down at my cola. “I’d need more than a virgin Long Island Iced Tea to figure that out.”
“I know who took her,” Clive piped. Then he stared at me with a slobbery grin. “How are ya? Have we met?”
Phyllis yanked Clive’s willowy beard. “She’s Valentine!”
“Thought she looked familiar.” He hiccupped.
“Clive,” I said. “Who took Tantig?”
“It was that beautiful Rita Hayworth doll.”
“What’s he babbling about?” Phyllis asked.
“Rita Hayworth,” I said. “Redheaded actress from the forties or fifties.” I motioned for the bartender to bring Clive a coffee. Then something struck me. I was trying not to get ahead of myself, but panic was beating me to it. “Do you mean Sabrina?” I asked Clive. “The redhead from the contest?”
“Could be.” He breathed out alcoholic fumes, and I backed away. “I’m not too good with names.”
Or faces. The coffee came, and I cajoled Clive into sipping some.
“Blech!” He sputtered. “Whaddya trying to do? Kill me?” He cranked his head to the bar and held up his glass to the bartender. “Fill ’er up.”
The bartender followed orders.
“Okay, Clive.” Impatience tickled my neck. Much more of this, and I was afraid I’d lose my cool. “How ’bout you answer my questions, and then have another drink.”
“Whas in it for me?”
“If you answer my questions”—I took a frantic search around for an incentive, my gaze stopping at Carmen Miranda beside me—“Phyllis will give you a kiss.”
Clive gave Phyllis and her fruity hat a frightening look. Phyllis dropped her jaw.
Okay, dumb idea. “If you answer my questions, I’ll, uh, buy you another drink.”
“Deal!”
“Now, what makes you think Sabrina took Tantig?”
“I saw it with my own two eyes.”
I peered into his bloodshot, bleary eyes. And I was considering anything he had to say as gospel? “When did you see this?”
“The other day.”
Here we go again. “What day?”
“Yesh-terday.”
Without looking, he reached out for his fresh drink, but I slid the coffee cup in his hand instead. He took a hearty slurp and choked it back up. “Hey, that wath nasty.”
“You promised to answer my questions.”
“Whaddya wanna know?”
Brother. “Clive, what did you see?”
“I was lying right over there on one of those lounge thingys, waiting for the bar to open.” He gave a peaceful smile. “I like to get a head shtart on the day.”
“And?”
“And that’s when I shaw her. Rita Hayworth. She came jogging down the deck with all that glorioush red hair bouncing in the breeze, and she met up with Tantig. I shaw them talk, then Tantig shuffled off with Rita.”
Something was wrong with this picture. Sabrina jogged by the other morning right before I saw Tantig scuffing her feet aimlessly. But it wasn’t yesterday. Yesterday was Monday. I was in bed with Jock on Monday. Anxiousness swirled in my stomach at that thought. I rolled back another day and saw it clearly in my mind. Sunday morning, early, before everyone had disembarked for Nassau, I was walking the deck when I saw Sabrina and then Tantig.
“Are you sure it was yesterday, Clive? And not Sunday?”
“Yep.”
Phyllis crossed her arms, eyes on Clive. “How can you be so sure?”
I glared at Phyllis playing the heavy cop.
Clive leaned off his barstool. “I got a lot more going on up here than you think.” He tapped his skull at Phyllis like he wasn’t going to take her abuse. A second later, he did a nose-plant to the deck. Whump. Out cold.
I grabbed his drink and splashed his head. Nothing. Then I dumped my drink on him. Finally, he stirred, hoisted his tiny butt in the air, and attempted to get up. Phyllis and I scooped him under his armpits and heaved him to a standing position.
“Thath better.” He shifted himself onto the stool and gave me a blurry-eyed stare. “I shaw them Sunday, too. Hic. Kinda liked watching Rita’s routine.”
Maybe Sabrina knew Tantig’s routine, and she’d decided on a good time to nab her. But why? What possible reason could she have had to abduct Tantig? On top of that, unless she’d hidden Tantig in her cabin—which she didn’t because I’d already searched it—she would’ve had to hide her somewhere where no one would find her. And this would require knowing the ship inside out. Which would rule out passengers. There were so many places off-limits to guests. Somebody unfamiliar with the ship would be taking a huge chance kidnapping someone without a clue of where he or she was going. That left the crew. And that could be anyone from a cabin boy to a store clerk. Though this was all true, something still nagged at me.
I turned back to Clive. “Did you see where they went?”
He blinked. “Won’t do you any good.”
“Why not?”
“Only I know where it is.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I looked straight into Clive’s eyes. “Then you’ll take us.”
Phyllis harrumphed. “Are you crazy? He can’t even stand up.”
This posed a problem. I looked around for inspiration. A pair of stilts the cruise director had used in a contest sat by a trunk of life preservers. No good. Skateboard? Another contest. Nope. In the corner of the deck, two wheelchairs sat folded into themselves. I asked the bartender if they were free to use.
“Be my guest,” he said with a wave.
I left Clive with his head on the bar, then dodged for a wheelchair. I popped it open and wheeled it back over. “Okay, Clive, get in.”
He rolled his head up, focusing a bloodshot eye on me. “In what?”
I jiggled the wheelchair. “This!”
He twisted around in his stool. “What for?”
“So you can take us to wherever it was you saw Sabrina take Tantig.”
“Hic. Who’s Sabrina?”
“Do you get the feeling you’re going around in circles?” Phyllis twirled her index finger around her temple where a plastic apple was loosely hanging from her headpiece.
My life with Phyllis was a constant maze of circles. And she was pointing fingers.
“Rita Hayworth,” I said to Clive. “You can show us where Rita took Tantig.”
“Sure.” He fell into the wheelchair. “Leth go.”
We left the pool area, and Clive directed us to an elevator to the bottom floor, the last floor accessible to passengers. We traipsed off that elevator into a dark, foreboding area where we stopped in front of a service elevator marked Off-limits.
“I’m not getting in that.” Phyllis folded her arms in front. “It says Off-limits.”
I wasn’t in any mood to coddle Phyllis. “Then stay here.”
She looked around the shadowy area. “Unh-uh. I’m not staying here, either.”
We piled into the elevator and rode down to the next level. After navigating further down several metal ramps, we finally came to a high-ceilinged, noisy engine room with over
head pipes, massive ductwork, and turbo generators. The air had a faint, damp smell, and there was endless wiring and machinery divided into smaller watertight compartments. Some compartments looked like they housed air-conditioning systems while others produced sounds like giant pistons hissing steam.
We huddled in the corner and looked down at half a dozen crew members busy at workstations. I glanced to the wall on my right. Hmm. A schedule for staff engineers, utility men, and other crew members. To the right of that was a sign stating unauthorized personnel would be fined if caught trespassing. Great. Another problem. We’d never get past this group of workers. Nothing but a dead end.
I took a defiant breath. This wasn’t going to deter me. Maybe the captain thought Tantig was back in San Juan. But what if she wasn’t, and I could locate her and set her free?
I thought about Holly’s warning that there was a maniac loose and to watch my back. Then my gaze rolled to Clive, and I wondered if I should’ve reported the lanky little guy’s theory. Right. He smelled like he was fermenting. Who’d believe him? I glanced from Clive to Phyllis and held back a groan. Like it or not, Valentine, you’re on your own.
Turbulent waves rolled outside, and I could almost hear propellers whir under my feet. Clive leaned back and pointed above, trying to be heard over the pounding engines and whistling fans. “From here, you gotta take the ductwork.”
I looked up at the 3’ x 3’ panel on the wall. “Take it where?”
He rotated his head in a big circle. “Down there. It’s the only way you’ll get past the workers, and it’ll take you right to the secret room where the lady’s being held hostage.” He gazed up at me. “No matter what the schedule tells ya, there ain’t no workers in that area.”
I scrutinized Clive. He was barely coherent, and I was seriously believing every word he said. “And you climbed in the ductwork and made it down there.”
He dropped his chin to his chest. “Yep.” He pointed down at the bottom of the sixty-foot descent where the ductwork ended. There was a stack of huge crates beside what looked like unused old equipment. Behind all that was a barely visible gray door and a virtually unnoticed ceilinged-off room. “She’s in there.” He swung his head back at me.
Murder, Curlers, and Cruises Page 19
