Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise (17 page)

Of course, things didn’t go quite that smoothly. Lolong hovered over the safe, trying to block my view.

But he didn’t realize who he was up against.

I, Jaine Austen, happen to be an ace snoop. Reading over my neighbor’s shoulder is a skill I perfected years ago on crowded airplanes. I’ve been known to read entire novels without ever turning a page.

So it was easy-sneezy, as Daddy would say, to peek over Lolong’s shoulder and read the override numbers as he punched them in.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was five feet three inches, tops.

The code was 89326. Immediately I came up with a mnemonic device to help me remember it. An 89-year-old marries a 32-year-old and they have 6 children. 89326.

“All done, miss.” Lolong gestured to the open safe door, where I’d stashed some cheap costume jewelry.

“Thank you so much!”

“Not a problem. And next time, go easy on the mai tais.”

“Oh, I will, Lolong! I will!”

I followed him to the door, feeling enormously proud of myself. Really, one of these days I had to get myself a P.I. license. I just hoped they gave them to people who’re afraid of guns.

Then, just as I was patting myself on the back for a job superlatively done, a plaintive wail erupted from the bathroom.

Darn that Prozac. She must’ve finished her salmon.

Lolong stopped in his tracks.

“What was that?”

“Oh, the plumbing’s been making strange noises all morning,” I said, putting on my tap shoes.

He reached for a walkie-talkie hanging from his belt.

“I’ll get the plumbers here right away.”

“No!” I screeched. “I mean, don’t bother. I already called. They should be here any minute. Honest, it’s not a problem,” I added, hoping he’d be convinced by his own mantra.

“Okay, then,” he nodded, “I guess I’ll be going.”

And at last he headed off down the corridor.

Limp with relief, I raced over to the Holiday notepad on my night table and wrote down the override code.

Then I let Prozac out of the bathroom.

She shot me one of her patented
How could you?
looks and shuffled across the carpet like she’d just done a seven-year stretch in Siberia.

Lord knows there’d be hell to pay. She’d punish me for this somehow.

But I’d worry about that later.

Right now, I had some breaking and entering to do.

Chapter 15

A
rmed with the override code and the cabin numbers Samoa had given me, I set out on my investigation.

I figured I’d start with my Number One Suspect—Kyle Pritchard.

I found his cabin easily enough. But as bad luck would have it, just as I was about to let myself in, a silver-haired couple came out from the room across the way. Oh, phooey. What if they’d gotten friendly with Kyle and Maggie? What if they put two and two together and figured out I was neither Kyle nor Maggie?

Then I realized that the top I’d thrown on in my haste to get dressed was my
Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
T-shirt. Why on earth had I chosen something so tacky to wear here on the high-rent Capri Deck? It practically screamed interloper.

“Hi, there,” I said, trotting out my most confident
I-belong-here
smile.

Inwardly I cringed, waiting for suspicious stares and muttered responses, but those darling people smiled broadly and returned my hello.

“Oh, we love Cocoa Puffs, too!” said the woman, in a molasses-thick Southern accent.

“Y’all have a nice day,” her husband chimed in as they started down the corridor.

What a relief. I should’ve known Kyle wasn’t the type to make friends.

Alone at last, I let myself in with the passkey and entered the promised land.

Although not as grand as Emily’s palatial suite, Kyle and Maggie’s cabin, with its roomy sitting area and sweeping balcony, was pretty darn swellegant. And thank heavens it had already been cleaned. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about their steward busting in on me.

Getting down to business, I made a beeline for the safe and punched in the override code.

Voila, it worked!

I blinked at the sight of the bling inside: a diamond brooch, a honker citrine ring, and a Rolex watch that cost more than my Corolla. If this stuff was real—and I had no reason to doubt it wasn’t—it looked like Kyle and Maggie had a high standard of spending to maintain.

I rooted around among the baubles, but alas, there were no diamond-studded cuff links.

Fighting back my disappointment, I proceeded to search the rest of the cabin, rifling through drawers, under the mattress, between sofa cushions, and in the mini-fridge—where I came
thisclose
to nipping their macadamia nuts.

When all was said and done, I came up with nothing more interesting than a bottle of Grecian Formula and enough Ralph Lauren polos to open a boutique in Bloomie’s.

Finally, I had to admit that Kyle’s cabin was cuff link-free.

So I set out to investigate my second-favorite Person I’d Most Like to See Behind Bars—Leona Nesbitt.

I was just about to barge into Nesbitt’s cabin when it occurred to me that she could be inside. I doubted she and Emily had gone off kayaking, not with Emily so unhappy.

So I knocked tentatively. If Nesbitt answered the door, I’d just tell her I was worried about Emily and wanted to find out how she was doing. But, fortunately, there was no answer, so I let myself in with my handy-dandy passkey and hustled over to her safe.

Alas, it yielded nothing of interest. Just a passport and a string of pearls.

Nosy parker that I am, I couldn’t resist taking a peek at her passport photo. Now I know nobody looks good in a passport photo, but this one made mine look like a
Cosmo
cover. Nesbitt glared into the camera, her mouth set in a grim line of disapproval, clearly annoyed at the U.S. government for making her sit through this folderol.

Next I checked out her closet, where her Easy Spirits were lined up like a row of orthopedic soldiers. I rummaged through her clothing, marveling at how one woman could own so many puke-green outfits.

It’s when I started searching through her shoes (always a good hiding place) that I was in for a surprise. Stowed away in the back of the closet was a pair of five-inch wedgie stilettos, the kind seen in strip joints and on questionable street corners.

Hello. What was the battle-axe doing with hooker wedgies?

Things got even steamier when I opened her lingerie drawer. There, among her bunion pads and support hose, was a treasure trove of underwear that would make a Victoria’s Secret model blush: lacy bras and thong undies and X-rated teddies with cutouts in strategic places.

Not to mention a jar of edible body chocolate.

For a minute I wondered if I’d let myself into the wrong cabin.

I was in the right place, all right. A fact that was about to be verified with startling clarity. Because just as I was busy examining a leopard-skin thong, the door started to open.

Frantic, I looked around for somewhere to hide. The only place possible was the closet. I’d just managed to jam myself in among her Easy Spirits when Nesbitt came into the room.

And apparently she was not alone.

“Oh, darling!” I heard her gush. “I’ve missed you so!”

Darling? Who the heck was she calling darling?

“Me, too, sweetheart,” a familiar voice replied.

Omigosh. It was Kyle! What was he doing here? He was supposed to be kayaking.

I guess Nesbitt was wondering the same thing.

“How did you ever manage to get away?” she asked.

“Easy,” Kyle said. “I faked a migraine on the tour bus.”

“How clever of you,” Nesbitt cooed, her voice all soft and gooey.

“It sure was, sweetcakes. Now put on something sexy for your studmuffin so we can have some fun.”

Sweetcakes? Studmuffin?
What alternative universe had I wandered into?

“And don’t forget your high heels. You know how they turn me on.”

High heels? Lord, no! I stared at the hooker wedgies in the corner of the closet. Any second now, Nesbitt would open the closet door and see me. I’d be hauled off to the brig so fast my head would be spinning.

But then I heard eight little words that brought joy to my heart:

“Not today, hon,” Nesbitt said. “My bunions are killing me.”

“Oh, all right,” Kyle pouted. “Just bring the body chocolate.”

Nesbitt proceeded to don “something sexy” and the next thing I knew mattress springs were squeaking, body chocolate was squishing, and the two of them were moaning in ecstasy.

Holy Moses. The stuffy investment banker was having an affair with the uptight companion. Neither of whom was the least bit stuffy or uptight now.

This is a family novel so I’ll spare you the details of their sexcapades, but let’s just say they started out with a game called
Willy’s Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, a nauseating caper the sounds of which haunt me to this day.

I spent the entire afternoon trapped in that awful closet, squatting on a pair of sweaty sneakers whose Odor-Eaters definitely needed replacement.

Finally, having exhausted themselves (and the mattress springs), the lovebirds fell silent. One of them began to snore. I was betting it was Nesbitt. I opened the closet door and peeked out; sure enough, they were both sound asleep, Nesbitt snoring like a stevedore.

And I took advantage of this lull in the action to get my sweetcakes the heck out of there.

It wasn’t until I was in the elevator on my way down to the Dungeon Deck that I began to think about Ms. Nesbitt’s sweaty sneakers. I remembered what Eddie Romero said about how it had rained the night of the murder. That’s why he got up and went back inside.

And then it hit me. Maybe it wasn’t sweat I’d felt under my tush all afternoon. Maybe it was rainwater. Maybe Nesbitt’s sneakers got wet while she was out on deck in the rain sticking an ice pick in Graham Palmer’s heart.

Chapter 16

“S
amoa is very distub.”

I found my not-so-genial steward waiting for me when I limped back to my cabin, his arms plastered across his chest, still doing Yul Brynner in
The King and I
.

For a little guy he was pretty darn intimidating.

“You were supposed to be back at three o’clock. It’s now five. Samoa waiting three hours.”

Looked like his math skills were as stinky as his English.

“I’m so sorry, Samoa, but I got unavoidably detained.”

Best not to go into details about my afternoon hiding out in Nesbitt’s closet. Something told me he would not want to hear how close I came to getting busted with an illegally obtained passkey.

“Samoa very distub,” he repeated, snatching the passkey from my hand.

“I don’t suppose I can borrow it again?” I asked, with a hopeful smile.

He didn’t even bother to answer that one, just strode out the door muttering something unintelligible about a note he’d left me.

“You should probably check the mattress in Leona Nesbitt’s cabin,” I called after him. “I think the springs might be broken.”

Then I shut the door and turned to Prozac.

“You wouldn’t believe the ghastly afternoon I just had. I got trapped in a ridiculously tiny closet, forced to listen to sexual acrobatics that would make Masters and Johnson blush. It was hell, I tell you. Hell with smelly sneakers!”

But if it was sympathy I was after, I was barking up the wrong kitty.

She glared up at me from her perch on my pillow.

Do you realize how long it’s been since my last snack?

Then she jumped down and began doing her patented Feed Me dance around my ankles.

With a sigh, I trudged down to the buffet to load up on poached salmon.

“You really like salmon, huh?” the guy behind the counter asked as I helped myself to a chunk. This was only about the seventeenth time I’d gotten it.

“Love the stuff. It’s packed with vitamins and essential omega beta carotene fish oils,” I blathered, making up nutrients as I went along.

Back in the cabin, I gave Prozac her food and dragged myself to the bathroom, yearning to soak my weary limbs in a nice relaxing bubble bath. Seeing as I had no tub, however, it looked like I was going to have to settle for a tepid phone booth–sized shower.

And even that was not to be. Because the first thing I saw when I stepped into my bathroom was that note Samoa had mentioned, propped up on the vanity counter:

Samoa axidental spil liter box. Nut wury. All klene now.

For those of you not fluent in Samoan (by now I was an expert), that meant:

Samoa accidentally spilled the litter box. Not to worry. All clean now.

I looked over at the litter box and groaned. Samoa had cleaned the litter box, all right. The darn fool had carted away all but about five grains of sand. Unless Prozac’s bladder had shrunk to the size of a thimble, it looked like I was going to have to raid the kiddie sandbox.

For a minute I considered waiting until after dinner, but I couldn’t risk it. There was no telling where Prozac might poop, and I was not about to add a “new carpeting” charge to my ever-growing bill.

So I threw on the clothes I’d just thrown off and headed out in search of the sandbox. I found it on the pool deck in the rear of the ship. By now it was almost six and I figured it would be deserted.

I figured wrong. There, plopped in the center of the sand, was a towheaded toddler, building what was either a castle or a giant boob.

Oh, for crying out loud. What was he doing here at this hour? Shouldn’t he be in bed? Or at least having his dinner?

A woman I assumed was his mother was stretched out on a nearby chaise, dozing. And thank heavens she was the only other adult around. I’d be able to sand-nap without any witnesses.

I approached the sandbox with a sappy smile on my face.

“Hello, little boy.”

Having no children of my own, I haven’t quite mastered the art of conversing with little ones.