Anchors Aweigh - 6 (13 page)

“You’ll have earned it, laddie,” I told him. “Just to be safe, we’ll smash your hat down over your hair to cover the gray.” I set the tray down and yanked Joe’s hat down. His ears stuck out at weird angles.

The elevator opened onto Davenport’s deck and we exited. I checked the cabin numbers for the right direction.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go down,” I said, as we walked the short distance to Davenport’s cabin. “I’ll be standing to the side of the door so Davenport doesn’t see me. I’ll hold the tray like so.” I raised it high, like I’d seen countless waitresses and waiters do. I’d never really mastered the technique, but figured I could hold the pose for the minute it took to deliver the goods. “You’ll knock on the door. He’ll open it. You’ll pass him the tray and try to look into the room. Don’t forget the crack in the door. And look for mirrors on the wall. You’d be amazed at what you can see reflected in a mirror,” I told him.

“You’ve done this before,” he accused.

“I have?”

He shook his head. “Just give me the damned tray,” he instructed, and we switched loads.

“You know, you won’t get much of a tip if you snap at the passengers like that,” I pointed out. “They expect courteous service.”

“And you won’t find out who is in that room with the security guy if you don’t pipe down,” Joe said.

“Remember, just hand him the tray, take a look around, but don’t be too obvious about it, and whatever you do, don’t make eye contact!” I warned.

“You sure haven’t forgotten how to boss people around,” Joe grumbled as he straightened his jacket and hitched up his shorts.

I positioned myself to the right of the door, tray at eye level. Joe rapped on the door.

“Room service,” he called out.

I smiled. So far, so good.

Just as the door started to open, I felt something cold and hard hit me in the side. I looked down and spotted the bottle of Chardonnay meant for Davenport. I frowned, and Joe jabbed me with the bottle again, harder this time. I grabbed the bottle from him with my left hand and struggled to keep the tray balanced.

The door opened.

“It took you long enough.” Sam Davenport’s deep voice reached me. “I was just about to make another call.”

“So sorry, sir, but we got a bit behind on our orders,” Joe said. “Apparently some of the passengers are already tiring of their diet regimes, and are craving the more conventional cruise fare,” he said. I applauded his calm aplomb.

“I can understand that,” Davenport replied, as the tray was transferred from Joltin’ Joe to Security Sam. “Here, take the tray,” he instructed someone in the room. Davenport fished in his pocket for a gratuity. “Here you go,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your meals,” Joe responded, and as tight as Joe was, I half expected him to unfold the bills Davenport had given him and count them right then and there. I released my breath as he pocketed the money without looking at it.

“Wait!” a voice called out. “The wine! They forgot the wine!”

It was a voice I recognized. In a place it shouldn’t be.

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry,” Joe apologized, checking the room service receipt. “It appears you’re right. I’ll see to it personally,” he promised.

“Never mind,” Davenport said. “We really don’t have time to drink it now, anyway.”

“Very good, sir.” Joe was sounding more like a valet than a room service steward. “We’ll make sure your bill reflects that refund,” he promised. “Good afternoon.”

“But I was looking forward to a glass of wine!” The protest came from inside the room.

“Better not,” Davenport said. “Good afternoon,” he bade Joe, and shut the door.

I shoved the bottle of wine at Joe and lowered the tray from my aching shoulder and hurried back toward the elevator. “What was that all about?” I hissed as we waited for the elevator door to open.

“What? What was what about?”

“The wine!” I said. “Why did you pinch the wine? If he’d have gotten on the phone and called down to complain, our cover would have been blown.”

“Cover? You make it sound like this is some kind of deep undercover operation,” he said, and I felt the muscles of my face tighten as the blood vessels widened. A warm blush soon followed.

“You’re getting all red in the face,” Joe charged. “You’re blushing.”

“Overexertion,” I explained. “Too much too soon,” I added.

The elevator dinged and the door opened.

“Uh-huh,” Joe said, eyeing me closer than I had that thick cut of beef earlier. “Well, forgive me for liking a glass of wine with my supper,” he said.

And being too tight to pay for it himself, I suspected.

“Well? What did you see? Anything interesting?”

“That depends,” Joe said.

“On what?” I asked.

“On whether you consider seeing a woman in dishabille interesting,” he responded.

I looked at him. “Well, that depends,” I said.

“On what?” Joe asked.

“On what dishabille means.”

Joe shook his head. “Haven’t you ever read a book?” he asked.

My eyes narrowed. “Apparently not the kind you have.”

“It means that someone is partially unclothed,” he said. “Undressed.”

“Unclothed? As without clothing—i.e., naked?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If a towel counts as naked.”

“A towel?”

He nodded. “A big one.”

“So, Coral LaFavre was in Security Sam Davenport’s cabin in ‘dishabille,’ ” I murmured. “What do you know?”

“What’s that? What did you say?” Joe asked.

“I said, I’m starving,” I replied, thinking I had already said too much.

“So, where are we going to dine on this forbidden feast?” Joe asked. “Your cabin?”

I shook my head. “Not a good idea. I understand my sister is prone to motion sickness, and the smell alone would probably send her over the edge. Not exactly my idea of a congenial dining experience.” Besides, I wasn’t up for the ensuing tiff with Taylor should she walk into our little deep-fry fest. “And your stateroom is out due to other gastronomical issues,” I said. “That leaves only one place I can be assured of eating this meal in peace and without being judged,” I told Joe. “One place where a lovely thing called doctor-patient confidentiality trumps well-meaning familial interference and know-it-all-itis. A place I’ve stayed at before and give high marks for cleanliness and so-so marks for hospitality.”

Joe nodded.

“Sickbay,” we said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was dark when I awoke. Symphonic snoring from the cot next to me pulled me out of a dream state that had me sipping frozen margaritas on a soft blanket across a white sand beach with Captain Sparrow and Will Turner and nary an Elizabeth Swann in sight. Of course, in my dream my bikini-clad body had more in common with Knightley’s twig of a frame than my more robust, farm-girl bone structure, but get real. Who puts themselves in a bikini in front of two aesthetically appealing pirates and—dream or no dream—gives herself a muffin top? Not this dream lover, that’s for sure.

In my blissful dream world, Jack had just handed me his frequently malfunctioning compass, formed, rather cleverly for a dream, I thought, in the shape of a heart.

“Open it,” he’d instructed, his dark eyes sporting more mascara than a working girl behind on her rent, locked on mine with an intensity that sent chills down my bare arms.

“Why?” I asked, finding my gaze drawn to his.

“You know why,” Orlando Bloom aka William Turner whispered, his breath hot on the back of my neck.

“I do?”

“Open it,” Orlando/William urged.

“What will I see?” I asked both men. “What will I see?”

“Why, the thing you want most, love,” Johnny/Jack replied. “The thing you want most in the world.”

I’d been about to lift the top of the heart-shaped compass, my eyes glued to the needle as it pointed out my heart’s desire, when a loud sucking sound so not in simpatico with hot sands and hotter men pierced my dreamlike state more effectively than an urgent bladder issue that carries over into your dream state and you find yourself looking for a loo in lala land.

“Ever heard of Breathe Right?” I asked the codger in the next bed as I sat up in the darkened room and swung my feet over the side. “If you haven’t yet, I’m sure your lady wife will bring them to your attention as soon as we hit port,” I said, pulling my buff off my head and putting a hand to what I was sure could best be described as a shock-and-awe do. “I thought someone was after me with a buzz saw when I woke up,” I told him, putting my fingers gingerly to my keepsake goose egg, and pleased to find it was now the size of one of those twenty-five cent bubblegum balls out of the machine at the video rental store—the one that never failed to drop a rancid white gumball every time I put my quarter in.

I flipped the bedside lamp on.

“Yeah, well, you pretty much keep up a running dialogue, complete with sound effects,” Joe said. “I felt like I’d been caught in a time warp and was back listening to radio theater,” he said.

I frowned. “I talk in my sleep?”

“Talk? No. Chatter like a mad hatter? Yes.”

“What did I say, exactly?” I asked.

“It was kind of hard to tell,” he said. “Between all the giggling and cooing,” he added. “What were you dreaming about, anyway?”

“A pelvic exam,” I snapped, still bearing a pretty big grudge because I’d been left in lover’s limbo by nasal interruptus.

“It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor along with your memory,” Joe said, and his reminder came just as I was about to make some smartass crack about how his timing had always sucked and provide examples of the same.

“It’s good to know I’ve had a sense of humor all along,” I replied. I looked at my watch. “Criminy It’s after eight!” I said. “I bet the family is frantic. Why did you let me drink that wine?” I said, pulling on my shoes.

“Let you? I don’t remember you asking for permission. I no sooner had that bottle open than you had your cup handy.”

Cup? I cringed. Clarity was returning.

“Tell me we didn’t use urine specimen cups to drink wine out of,” I begged.

“Okay,” Joe said.

I frowned. “Okay, what?”

“Okay, I won’t tell you we drank out of urine specimen cups,” he agreed. “But it’s not as if they were used. As a matter of fact, those cups are probably the most sterile thing we could have drank out of. Granted, the threads at the top of the cup posed a challenge to avoid dribbling initially, but after the first glass it was a breeze.”

I winced. Okay. That was it. I was swearing off wine. No more wine.

“They’ve probably put out a security alert on the both of us,” I told Joe. “And what are we going to say—’Oh, we just decided to impersonate food-service workers and raid the kitchen for appetizers, chicken wings and wine and drank too much and fell asleep in the infirmary’?”

“We’re going to say we met up by accident, decided to have a bite to eat, stopped by the medical clinic, the doc thought you should rest, you did and I sat with you like a loving grandfather should,” Joe said. “That’s what we say.”

I looked at him. “You’re good,” I told him.

He winked at me. “I learned from a master.”

I nodded.

We policed up and down the area, gathered our things, and checked out of the clinic. A young girl at the desk gave us a bewildered look as we left. I couldn’t blame her. We gave a whole new meaning to the term “odd couple.”

I bade farewell to Joe in the hallway outside my cabin, letting myself in. Taylor was out again. Two nights in a row. A record for my sister. Miss Wang Chung Tonight she wasn’t.

I dropped my bag on the desk when a gold and silver gift-wrapped box caught my eye. A card was stuck in the ribbon. It read:
Tressa.
I turned the envelope over and opened the flap and withdrew a small card. On the front was a horse’s head.

Figured you could use these right about now,
the card read, a single
M
the only signature.

I set the card down and picked up the package. I put it to my ear. No ticking. I shook my head. I’d seen way too many bad spy movies. Hands visibly shaking, I unwrapped the package slowly, my heart rate picking up speed as I tore the paper off. I tossed the paper aside and stared at the box of assorted—and pricey—Godiva chocolates. A gift. From Manny DeMarco. The first—and only—gift Manny had given me. Well, if you didn’t count the demolition derby car he’d given me for the powder puff derby at the state fair.

But this gift? This gift was different. This gift was telling. This gift meant something. Holy Poseidon adventures! I was being courted by Manny DeMarco. In earnest! Talk about your complications. I needed to think.

I stripped and lathered up in the sarcophagus-like shower. I figured my legs were still good to go from the previous day’s attentions. Besides, the chances of me seeing any action when I wasn’t supposed to know Mr. Right from Mr. Rogers were slim to none. Unless…

I shoved all thoughts of chocolates and bad-boy bikers out of my head. As I stood beneath the hot steamy water, rinsing my body, I found my thoughts drifting to my earlier dream. Dreams had meaning. Subconsciously, they had significance. In my case, I suspected my dream had more relevance than I cared to admit.

Johnny/Jack and William/Orlando. Two sexy, desirable, gorgeous men. And both of them were hot for my body. (Okay, my head on Keira’s body. Mere details.) And in my dream, there was a choice to be made.

I bit my lip. Could it be true? Was it possible? Was I really in lust with two men?

I turned the shower setting to cold and let the frigid water beat down. Lover’s limbo, indeed, I thought as I let the stinging drops of moisture punish me. Try coward’s quandary, I thought, shutting off the shower only when my backside felt like a block of ice.

I wrapped up in a towel and sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the box of chocolates.

“Open it and you’ll see the thing you want most in life.”

Fairy tales and hokum. And too much red wine. And I was not going near that chocolate!

Once I’d dried off, dressed in blue jeans, a wide pink belt, a crop-top white polo and white wedges, put on a face that wouldn’t scare little children and braided my hair in a tight braid, I felt somewhat better about things. I was suffering from amnesia. I couldn’t be expected to make major decisions concerning my future.

Of more immediate concern than my freak show of a love life, however, was this honeymoon harbinger of death I’d stumbled into. Every minute that went by, somewhere out there a woman could be walking arm in arm with her beloved mate, completely unaware he was waiting for the opportune moment to place a hand in the small of her back and send her tumbling overboard into the deep, dark waters of death. I shivered, cold again.

I thought about what I’d learned that afternoon—about Sam Davenport and Coral LaFavre. I wondered where Coral’s husband had been while she was having a late lunch/early dinner/honey-nooner with the security chief. I recalled the vibes between Coral and David hadn’t seemed all that lovey-dovey, newly wedded blissful to me. In fact, Coral had hit on Manny right in front of David. If Davenport and Coral were having an affair, I had to wonder just how long it had been going on and why Coral had married David Frazier Compton so recently if she had genuine feelings for Sam Davenport.

I shook my head.

It was worth keeping an eye on.

Two eyes.

I was just getting ready to leave the cabin when the phone rang. I picked it up. “Hello?”

“Tressa?”

“Yeah.”

“Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”

“Taylor?”

“Who else?”

“Where are you? I can hardly hear you.”

“We’re in the Fish Bowl lounge,” Taylor said. “It’s a karaoke bar. You’ve got to get up here. Our grandmother is bound and determined to perform. I need someone to help me talk her out of it.”

I made a face. Little Miss Party Pooper was back. Maybe she needed to be set up with her male counterpart on board ship, Leo the Laugh-killer. Why shouldn’t our grandma cut loose with a little karaoke? She was on her honeymoon, after all.

“I don’t see the big deal,” I told Taylor.

“Tressa. She wants to sing Madonna’s
Like a Virgin”
Taylor said.

“I’m on my way.”

I grabbed my Javelina bag and room key card, took one long last look at the box of chocolates and left.

Cruise ships are like huge, floating resort communities. Almost any service or entertainment you can imagine is within walking distance. Photo galleries, shops, movies, golf lessons, casinos, spa treatments, hair salons, music and dancing, Vegas-style shows, even body art is available.

I hadn’t gone far when I felt uncomfortably certain I was being followed. I glanced behind me several times but didn’t notice anyone suspicious.

I was passing the Casino Royale when raised voices got my attention.

“What are you thinking, Courtney? We’re not made of money. We had to cut corners to afford this cruise in the first place. We’re on a budget here, remember? And we didn’t budget for the level of gambling you’re doing. Or the losses.”

I looked up to find Steve and Courtney Kayser standing just outside the casino. Steve ran a hand through his hair. Hands clenched in tight fists at her sides, Courtney’s anger with her husband was apparent.

“I’m sick of living on your budget,” Courtney hissed, “with you telling me what I can and cannot buy or do or have. I’m sick of it! Do you hear? Sick, sick, sick! This cruise was supposed to be fun. You don’t hear Ben harping on Sherri every time she spends a dime.”

“We’re not talking about Ben and Sherri. We’re talking about you and me. And we’re talking dollars, not dimes, here, Courtney. Lots of them. I thought you wanted to save toward a bigger house. You’re always complaining about how small our home is. I’m trying to make that happen. But I need your help. It takes two, babe. Two of us committed to our future. And I’ve got to tell you, lately I’ve begun to question the level of your commitment, Courtney,” Steve said.

I watched the scene with some empathy. I’d been a frequent passenger on the S.S. Past Due, the sinking ship of financial fortunes, a time or two. And I’d read somewhere that money—or rather lack of it—was the number-one cause of problems and breakdowns in marriages. Sex? It was way down the list.

Steve’s words seemed to have an effect. Courtney’s fingers loosened up from their earlier tenseness. She paused and seemed to be considering her next words carefully.

“You’re right, Steve,” I heard Courtney respond. “You’re right. I’m being selfish. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve had to watch what I spend most of my life and I guess I got carried away by the whole luxury-cruise experience.” She took his hand. “Forgive me?” she asked.

“Always,” Steve replied.

I felt the sting of tears as I watched the couple embrace. There was a lot to be said for having someone handy to help bail the water out of a leaky boat. Teamwork. That’s what it amounted to. Teamwork.

I walked up to the couple. Steve’s arm rested on Courtney’s shoulder.

“Hello again,” I said to Courtney. “Remember me?”

She smiled. “I’m not the one who lost her memory,” she replied with a weak smile. “Remember?” she added with a wink.

“Courtney told us what happened,” Steve said. “Tough break.”

“You have no idea,” I said, “but thanks.”

“You look much better than you did this afternoon, Tressa,” Courtney observed. “How are you feeling? Any progress in the memory department?”

“No news there yet, I’m afraid,” I told her, “but I’m actually feeling not bad. I took a catnap this evening, so that probably didn’t hurt.” While the wine probably didn’t help.

“Where are you off to?” Courtney asked.

“Karaoke at the Fish Bowl.” I nodded my head in the direction I was headed. “I guess some of my family is hanging out there. You’re welcome to come along—if karaoke is your thing, that is,” I said, figuring the invitation was one way of getting Courtney away from the casino and the temptation of the slots and blackjack tables.

Steve smiled his appreciation. “What do you say, Court? We haven’t done karaoke in a long time.”

She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. She patted his arm. “You go on, Steve. I just want to run to the cabin and freshen up first,” she said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a finger. “I’ll meet you there,” she promised.

“Okay,” Steve said. “If you’re sure,” he added.

Courtney walked off and Steve sighed. He looked at me. “Marriage is hard work when both partners are rowing in the same direction,” he said. “When they’re paddling against each other?” He shook his head. “Sometimes you can be dead in the water.”