Santa Cruise (20 page)

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.

H
arry 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.

T
he 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.

“Then people will get nervous that it'll sink!” Ivy protested.

“Not if you say it's a simple but necessary adjustment to the engine,” Nora explained. “Half the major ships have had at least minor problems on their maiden voyages. People will understand.”

“The only problem,” Luke said, “is that if Tony Pinto
is
on board and counting on getting to Fishbowl Island, when he realizes we're turning around, what might he do?”

There was no answer to that question.

“There's Dudley,” Regan said suddenly and hurried out to stop him. “We need to talk to you right away. We're right here in the piano lounge. Where's the Commodore?”

“The Commodore is at the entrance to the dining salon inviting people to the sunset service.”

“Get him.”

Dudley knew better than to ask why. “Right away, Regan,” he assured her as he dashed off. A moment later, Dudley was entering the lounge followed by the Commodore and Alvirah and Willy.

Regan wasn't surprised to see Alvirah. Like a bloodhound, she could track down a trouble spot.

The Commodore's face brightened at the sight of Ivy, a look that lasted only seconds when she blurted out, “I'm sorry, Randolph, but the man I saw the other night is a criminal, and he's on this ship!”

“What?” the Commodore asked as the color drained from his face.

Regan closed the door to the lounge and apprised everyone of the situation.

“We'll never live this down!” the Commodore said. “But we must consider the safety of the passengers first. What do you suggest we do?”

“We really must go back to Miami, have the passengers disembark, and then the police will make a thorough search of the ship without the danger of some innocent person being hurt,” Jack answered.

“What do we tell the passengers?” the Commodore asked him.

“That there's minor engine trouble, we are returning to Miami for a replacement part for the engine, and then we'll cruise the local waters off Miami until Thursday.”

“We can always promise the passengers another free cruise,” Dudley volunteered hysterically.

“Bite your tongue,” the Commodore snapped. “You and your free cruise idea got me into all this trouble. From now on, keep your suggestions to yourself!”

Dudley wilted. “I just thought . . .” he began. “I was just trying to be helpful. . . .” He longed for the moment when he had thought falling off the rock-climbing wall was going to be the worst thing that happened to him on this ship. He wondered if other cruise lines would be hiring after the New Year.