Anchors Aweigh - 6 (12 page)

“You talk about compost,” Mo declared. “This whole story smells like compost!” First fish. Now manure. Ah, the attractions of a luxury cruise. “And she sure as hell should know me,” Mo said. “She’s engaged to my nephew.”

Kimmie gasped. She stared at me, and I could see her trying to connect the dots in her head. It made me dizzy to watch.

“You’re engaged?” she squealed. “When? How? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh my goodness! You’re Rick’s aunt?” Kimmie turned to Mo and put out a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“You lost your compost mentis, too?” Mo asked. “ ‘Cause I ain’t related to that rogue ranger. I’m Marguerite Dishman. My nephew is Manny. Manny DeMarco. Tressa and Manny got engaged last fall,” she said. “I came on this cruise to plan us a wedding.”

Poor Kimmie. She looked as if she’d just been told she was expecting Rosemary’s baby.

“Manny DeMarco? The tattooed bad-boy biker Tressa bailed out of jail last summer? The one who looks like a bodybuilder? That Manny DeMarco?” Kimmie responded.

“Search me,” I said with a shrug.

“This can’t be true,” Kimmie said. “Tressa is going to marry Rick.”

“I am?”

“She is?”

Kimmie nodded. “Absolutely. It’s her destiny,” she said to Mo and turned to me. “It’s
your
destiny.”

“It is?” I frowned, fairly certain I hadn’t yet received that particular memo.

She nodded again. “It’s your karmic fate!” she said. “It’s written in the stars. It’s the product of intelligent design!”

“It is?” I queried.

“Yes! It’s
my
design!
My
plan. My husband’s best friend marries my husband’s sister. It’s been my dream for years. You two were meant to be, dammit! And I’m not giving up on my dream. Do you hear? I am not giving up on my dream!”

“You sure you weren’t the one who addled her pate?” Mo said to Kimmie. “ ‘Cause you sure got it all wrong. Tressa here is gonna make
Mo’s
dream come true and marry the man of
Mo’s
dreams, toots,” Mo snapped. “And I got seniority.”

“She can’t even remember your Manny,” Kimmie pointed out. “So how can she marry him?”

“Oh? Well, if she really did go and lose her memory, then she don’t remember Mr. Ranger Romeo either,” Mo countered. “So I guess that leaves him out, too.”

Kimmie’s face crumbled. She looked deflated when she turned back to me. “You seriously can’t remember Rick?” she said. “Not at all? You can’t remember the time he snuck into your bedroom and tied all of your sports socks in knots?” she asked. “Or the time he left a rubber snake in your underwear drawer? Or dressed Butch and Sundance in Iowa State Cyclone outfits? Or when he smashed his truck through the Dairee Freeze door and probably saved your life? And how he tried to make you jealous by flirting with Taylor at the fair last summer so you’d finally come to your senses and realize how you really felt about him?”

I did a pretty good job of appearing to be unmoved by Kimmie’s trip down memory lane—right up until her last revelation, that is. I could feel a wad of something heavy form in my chest and slowly expand as it made its way into both arms and lodged in my throat, and I was fairly certain the only outlet for release was to let loose with an eardrum-bursting, glass-shattering, jaw-stretching, horror-movie-queen scream.

“He did what?” I managed to hiss.

“Snakes in underwear drawers? Sounds like one sick puppy to me,” Mo said.

“He saved your life, Tressa,” Kimmie repeated, her eyes filling with tears as she reached to take my hand. “How can you not remember someone who loved you enough to drive his prized 4 × 4 pickup through the wall of a fast food restaurant?” She sniffled.

Loved me?
Loved
me? I shut my eyes. This was way too much for a bruised brain to consider.

“It don’t matter dink if that ranger thinks he loves her,” Mo said. “She’s in love with my Manny. And, memory or no memory, Mo ain’t letting her forget that.”

“Then it appears we’re at cross-purposes, Mrs. Dishman, because I don’t plan on letting her forget her feelings for Rick or his feelings for her,” Kimmie said.

Now this was a first. Not only was I the object of some desire between two men, but I also had two women playing tug-of-war over me.

Kinky. Yet novel.

“Mo’s determined to see this wedding happen,” Mo said, a hint of challenge apparent in the stubborn set of her jaw.

“And Kimmie here is equally determined her baby will have an Uncle Rick and Aunt Tressa doting over him or her.” My sister-in-law lifted her chin.

“That’s how it is, huh?” Mo asked.

“That’s how it is,” Kimmie responded.

I blinked. What had I missed now?

“Baby? What baby?” I asked. Then, “Do you have a baby?”

Kimmie shook her head. “Not yet. But I’m working on it,” she snapped.

“You’re
working on it? By yourself?” I asked, wondering if Kimmie had succeeded in her yearlong campaign to convince my brother, Craig, that he was ready for fatherhood. He’d been somewhat reluctant to commit to Kimmie’s family plan, and it had caused some waves in their marriage.

“Haven’t you ever heard ‘Sometimes the best man for the job is a woman’?” Kimmie asked. “Oh, sorry, of course you wouldn’t remember, would you? Well, take my word for it. You want a job done on time and done right? Give it to a woman. We have our ways.”

“Wicked ways if you ask me,” Mo interrupted. “Getting your hubby’s best buddy, Ranger Rick, to tie the knot with little sister here just so you can get your man to grow up and settle down and become a daddy,” she pointed out. “Don’t tell me you ain’t got no pony in this race, missy.”

“How dare you question my motives!” Kimmie said.

I slowly got to my feet.

“Where are you going, Miss Tressa?” Mo questioned. “We ain’t set no date yet.”

“I need to clear my head,” I said. “Too much information. Or rather, not enough.”

“You best be clearing your calendar instead of your head, Tressa Jayne,” Mo warned, wagging a polished nail in my direction, “because we have a wedding to plan.”

“Care to make a friendly wager on that, Mrs. Mo?” Kimmie countered.

Mo’s eyebrows united in a marriage of their own. “They don’t call me the Bingo Bandit for nothin’,” she said, putting out her hand.

“So, what are we wagering?” Kimmie asked, and I hovered for a moment to find out how bad it was going to be.

“Loser has to serenade the groom at the reception,” Mo suggested.

“Oh? And sing what? ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’?” Kimmie asked.

One of Mo’s brows jumped.

“Mo was thinkin’ more along the lines of ‘Celebration,’ ” Mo said. “Wearing a Cupid costume,” she added.

“Cupid?” Kimmie’s right eye twitched. “As in the diapered baby who shoots heart-tipped arrows? That Cupid?”

“Yeah. That Cupid,” Mo said.

“You got yourself a bet, Mrs. Mo,” Kimmie said, but not nearly as gung-ho as before. “And may the best Cupid win.”

Me? I walked away thinking either wedding party was bound to be one even a drunken party crasher would regret crashing. No matter how tasty the buffet.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I needed to think, to plan my next move in Operation: Amnesia. I needed to figure out how to chart a course through the jagged rocks and reefs of ambivalence and uncertainty that prevented Tugboat Tressa from enjoying smooth sailing on the seas of love and devotion. For this kind of heavy lifting, I needed food. Real food. Brain food. And I needed it now.

I drifted from one deck to another, rejecting each healthy food choice I came upon with an increasing sense of desperation. Or maybe that should be deprivation.

I stopped and stared at a gigantic bowl of melon balls on ice. I liked melon—especially when I got to spit watermelon seeds. Even though this fare was sans seeds, I decided to serve myself a heaping helping of the assorted melon balls and grapes, when I got one of those “I’m being watched” feelings. I looked around and thought I caught a glimpse of my folks hurrying away. I frowned. Nice that they thought enough of me to interrupt their vacation to check on the welfare of their poor, injured, amnesiac daughter.

I stabbed a ball of watermelon with a fork and popped it in my mouth, followed by another and another and another. So not filling. My stomach gurgled and I winced. Much longer without real sustenance and I wouldn’t have to worry about discovering my feelings; I was gonna die of starvation well before I ever figured out who or what I wanted. Right now, the only hunk I was interested in was a hunk of triple-chocolate strawberry cheesecake. Hold the strawberries.

I thought with nostalgia of Dr. Baker’s Burger King-like offer to have breakfast my way, and how Taylor had nuked that opportunity. Still, it occurred to me that somewhere on board this ship was a kitchen—or galley, or whatever they called it—with the capacity to prepare food that tasted like food with ingredients like real butter, sour cream, starch, sodium and fat. If I could somehow find my way to the kitchen.

As it turned out, I found myself wishing all my quests could be this much of a piece of cake. Yeah. I was back to thinking in terms of food again. I roamed the hallways outside cabins until I eyed a porter carrying a tray that smelled suspiciously like a Philly cheesesteak making his way down a narrow corridor along a long row of staterooms. The scent of grilled onions as he passed me from the other direction almost made my knees buckle. I had to manually shove my salivating tongue back in my mouth with my fingers to escape notice.

I looked on while he delivered said food, then stuck to him like Swiss cheese melted over grilled beef as he made his way back to the food service area of the ship. The clattering of pots and pans pinpointed the spot where—if I was lucky—I’d discover some sort of treasure of the deep-fried kind. I wasn’t particularly picky about what lie beneath the deep-fried coating, either. Mushrooms, mozzarella or cheddar cheese, cauliflower, even zucchini would assuage my hunger pains.

I looked down at my shorts and top and frowned. No way would I pass for kitchen help this way. I put a hand to my buff-covered head. This I could probably get away with. Weren’t kitchen workers supposed to cover their heads when preparing food? Didn’t chefs wear big white hats? And what about hair nets?

I opened the door to what I thought was part of the galley and peeked in. It was a huge room, all shiny stainless steel and fluorescent lights, with a cafeteria-style line taking up one complete wall. Large tan trays with bright white place-mats much like the one the room service steward had delivered waited in line for orders. Several white-coated workers were busy nearby preparing various drink orders while others put together sandwiches and salads. Each worker wore a white-linen turban-style hat. I was about to close the door when I noticed a row of hooks next to the door. On the hooks were several white coats and busboy hats.

I thought about the wisdom of what I was about to do for a full one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three count but—shocker here—hunger won out over wisdom. I reached in, grabbed a coat and hat, and shut the door quietly.

I stuck the white hat on over my buff and hurriedly shoved my arms though the sleeves of the white coat. The book bag over my shoulders beneath the coat made me look like I had one heck of a dowager’s hump, but there was nothing I could do about it. If all went as planned, I’d need both my hands free for stuffing my hands and face. And pockets.

I wandered a few doors down and saw a door marked
Food Station,
opened it, and stuck my head in. A cafeteria line similar to the other one ran the length of the long, narrow room on one side, refrigerated units located above. On the other side of the room were various food stations outfitted with the items necessary for that particular meal item, each area looking almost like a mini kitchen. Bewitched, I found myself entering the room as if in a trance as assorted aromas teased my olfactory sense.

Wide-eyed, I stared at the walls of the galley, a virtual rogue’s gallery of gastronomical creations, from crème brulee to baked Alaska, crab legs to caviar, all perfectly photographed so kitchen workers could see exactly how each creation should look. In my case, the effect of the victual visuals was the equivalent of water-boarding as I passed picture after picture of the palate-pleasing productions I’d expected to experience on this cruise of a lifetime.

It was then I saw it.

My tongue flopped back out of my mouth. My nostrils flared like a bloodhound’s. My mouth filled with saliva. I stared as the white-jacketed chef removed the biggest, most perfect T-bone steak this side of the Missouri River I’d ever seen from a Texas-sized grill and placed it carefully on a clean white plate. He added some colorful garnish to the plate, looked up, saw me, and just like that, handed it over. I just stood there, the plate shaking in my hands, my eyes feasting on the sheer magnificence of the meat.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the meat magician asked, passing me a slip. “Get it covered and get it on the room service tray.”

“Yessir, chef sir,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

And I would. Just as soon as I found a quiet corner somewhere. Utensils? I come from a state whose fair concessionaires have learned how to jam just about anything on a stick and make it taste delicious. Utensils? I don’t need no stinkin’ utensils!

I grabbed a stainless steel food warmer, stuck the steak beneath it, and was about to make off with my beefalicious booty when I noticed a gray-haired gentleman, garbed much as I was, standing over a deep fryer. There was something familiar about him, about the way he moved. I looked downward, and when I caught a look at the white Reeboks matched with white tube socks that reached to just under the knee, the jig was up.

“We need a jumbo order of rings and the appetizer assortment, pronto!” I barked at him. “Boy, are you busted,” I added.

Joe Townsend’s jump would have impressed NBA scouts. He whirled around, wire basket in hand, his face flushed from the fryer heat or, perhaps, embarrassment at being caught with his hand in the appetizer jar. Or both.

He scowled when he recognized me.

“Don’t you know better than to come up like that behind someone manning a deep fryer?” he asked.

Recalling I was minus a memory at the present time, I shook my head. “Apparently not,” I said. “Sorry.”

His fierce frown mutated into something I wasn’t sure I liked. Kind of like the look my gammy’s cat, Hermione, got on a cold winter day as she sunned herself on the back of the living room sofa licking her chops and looking out the window at my labs, Butch and Sundance, jumping up and down and barking their heads off at her.
Rrrearr!

“Apology accepted,” he said, leaving me even more uneasy.

“Really?” I asked. “Because I wouldn’t want to hinder you in your work. You see, nobody told me you were a chef on
The Epiphany.”

“That’s because I’m not and you know it,” he said.

“I do?” I asked.

He nodded. “That plate you’re holding, the dilated pupils and the wide-open nostrils, not to mention the drool on your jacket there tells me you’re here for the same reason I am, girlie,” he said. “Survival. Of the not-so-fittest.”

I blinked.

Joe must be in bad shape. He wasn’t even trying to talk his way out of this.

“Now the way I see it, we can both pretend we’re here for a tour of the galley or to make sure the kitchen area is up to CDC standards of cleanliness, or we can join forces and gorge ourselves as God intended folks on a cruise to do,” Joe stated.

A bell sounded, and Joe turned back to the fryer, lifted a big basket of thin, crispy golden brown onion rings out of the oil and let it drain. “I’ve got mushrooms, cheese balls and zucchini,” he said. “What about you?”

“A T-bone steak three inches thick and a plate wide,” I responded.

“You in?” he asked.

I hesitated. My past collaborations with Joe had a dubious record of success. Most bordered on the absurd.

“You should get a look at the bakery down the hall,” he said, delivering the sucker punch—in this case a knockout. “Pastries, cakes and confections as far as the eye can see.”

I shook my head. “You’re lying,” I said. “I was told this is an eat-your-way-to-good-health cruise. Why would they have all those sweets around?”

“The crew has to eat, don’t they?” he asked. “That’s over a hundred mouths to feed who aren’t counting calories. They even have brownies,” he said. “Frosted and without nuts.”

The plate in my hands began to shake again, the stainless steel top banging against the plate.

“Hey! You still haven’t got that steak upstairs?” This bark came from the Master of Meat, the Sultan of Steak, the Chairman of the Charbroiled. “Sam Davenport’s gonna chew you and me a new one if his steak is cold when it gets there,” he said. “So move! The rest of the order is ready and the wine’s already chilled and ready to go.”

I stared at the slip he’d handed me. Davenport’s name and cabin number were on it. I checked the order again. Tressa’s dream dinner: Steak. Baked potato with the works. Side salad. A slice of chocolate cake. I frowned. The order also called for a grilled chicken salad, low-cal dressing and a diet drink. Apparently, Security Chief Sam was not dining alone.

“Make that order to go and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I told Joe, setting the steak on the tray meant for Davenport and motioning to another with two covered dishes. “Dump the deep-fried goods on that tray and let’s get the heck out of here,” I said.

Joe’s expression looked puzzled, but he quickly complied, upending the fryer baskets onto the tray. He picked it up and we hurried out the door and into the hall.

“Reminds me of the good ol’ days,” Joe said, his skinny legs keeping pace with me.

“It does?” I asked.

“That marina madness you dragged me into last summer. Remember?”

I did. But I remembered it the other way around. The guy was harder to pry loose than a barnacle.

“Can’t say that I do,” I responded, “so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“That’s a first,” he mumbled. “Say, where are we going?” he asked.

“We just have to deliver this tray first, and then we’ll find a nice, safe place to dine in style,” I told him.

“Deliver the tray? Deliver the tray! What do you mean, deliver the tray?” Joe asked. “What do you want to do something like that for?”

“I don’t,” I responded. “I want you to.”

We stopped at the employee elevator and I hit the up button.

“Me? Why me?”

“Because I don’t want to be seen,” I told him.

“Seen? By who?”

“By the people we’re delivering the tray to, of course,” I replied.

“Why don’t you want them to see you? I thought you didn’t know anyone,” Joe said, sharp as always.

“I know him,” I said. “He’s the security chief He came to the sickbay to, uh, question me earlier.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t want his steak to get cold,” I said, knowing that made absolutely no sense but deciding making no sense was probably to be expected from an amnesiac. Right?

The elevator dinged and the door opened. I walked in and punched Davenport’s level.

“Why do you care if his steak gets cold?” Joe said, following me, doing his best bulldog impression. Once he got hold of something, he didn’t let go.

“I don’t know why I care!” I finally shouted. “I just do! And guess what? So do you.”

He looked at me. “Me? Why should I care?”

I hit the stop button on the elevator. “Because, little man, if you don’t help me deliver this tray, I’m going to tell that lovely woman you’ve married that you raided the
Epiphany’s
galley and didn’t even think to bring her a doggie bag!” I told him. “Got it? Granddad?”

Joe looked at me. His fear was palpable.

“It’s for her own good!” he yelled. “She can’t eat grease!” he said. “It gives her gastritis! She toots all night!”

As if he was telling me, who’d lived with the woman for the last eight months, something I didn’t know.

“Then we have an understanding?” I asked.

“What do I have to do?” he asked.

I smiled. “You are no longer a deep-fry cook,” I told him. “You have been promoted. You are a room service steward. All you have to do is knock on the cabin and deliver the food. Oh, and try to see as much of the inside of the cabin as you can. You know. Be nosy. Check out the occupants. But don’t be obvious about it.”

“Aren’t I a little on the old side to be delivering food on cruise ships?” he asked, and it struck me that this was the first time Joe had ever alluded to his age being a factor in anything. Before, he’d always maintained he had the constitution of a man twenty years his junior. Obviously, he was having serious doubts about attempting to flim-flam the head of security.

“You ever order room service?” I said.

He nodded.

“So, do you take the time to look at the delivery guy?”

He shook his head. “I generally grab the grub, say a quick thanks, and pass ‘em a tip.”

“There you go,” I said.

“I hope you aren’t planning to make me split the tip with you, because I refuse,” Joe said, as I turned the elevator back on.