Anchors Aweigh - 6 (6 page)

“Yeah. And your word is ‘unpredictable,’ ” Ranger Rick responded.

Nice.

“Enjoy the rest of your soy whopper there,” I said. “Feel free to finish mine if you like.” Then I hurried away.

What the devil had I committed to now?

I made my way back to my cabin, keeping a pair of dark glasses on as I traversed the decks and corridors, half expecting Aunt Mo to suddenly appear around each corner. I felt like I was in one of those scary video games where you maneuver your player cautiously through a series of passages, ever on the lookout for zombies ready to jump out at you and suck out your brains. (No comments about how blondes like me have nothing to fear from the undead, then. ‘Kay? Let’s play nice.)

It occurred to me to wonder why I hadn’t noticed before how many of the passengers on the ship were…of a certain body type and weight. So much for this ace cub reporter’s powers of observation. Of course, there was the glare from Joe Townsend’s legs to consider. It had been blinding.

I made it to my cabin, gray matter intact. Taylor’s life-jacket was on a chair, but Taylor was nowhere to be found. I wondered if she’d yet discovered the getaway glitch that placed us bunch of meat eaters from Iowa trapped on this smart-choice ship. Still, knowing Taylor, she was probably in healthy-balance heaven—and preparing to enjoy the entertainment factor of watching the rest of us junk-food connoisseurs drafted to fight in the battle of the bulge.

I jumped in the shower and loofahed, buffed and polished, dried off and slipped on a set of hot pink matching undies. I pulled on a pair of low-cut denim Capri pants with a wide, white belt and wriggled into a pink T-shirt with a big heart on the front that featured silhouettes of a cowgirl resting her forehead against her horse’s head. The slogan read:
Treat you like I treat my horse? You wish.
Vintage cowgirl attire.

I took more time with my makeup than usual, adding extra mascara and eyeliner to make me more alluring. Okay, and slightly slutty.

Hair was next. My hair is always a challenge. A cross between a lion’s mane and an SOS scouring pad, I’d learned long ago that taming this particular beast required the skills of Siegfried and Roy. Or Merlin the magician. I decided to be bold and daring and wear it down for a change. Most days I stick it back in a ponytail or braid it. With generous amounts of gel, I manage to keep the frizz factor under control. Wearing it down is always risky. On a good hair day I can just about pull off a blonde Lindsay-Lohan-on-a-bad-hair-day look. On a bad hair day? Well, let’s just say if Bozo the Clown was interviewing for a missus, on a bad hair day I’d be shoo-in.

Giving my head a final spritz of tresses tamer, I checked my reflection one last time, grabbed a white denim jacket and Harry Javelina and headed out the door.

“Tressa Jayne! Yoo-hoo!”

I turned to discover my grandma and her new groom, arm in arm, heading in my direction. My gammy was garbed in a mauve dress with a lightweight, lacy sweater jacket; Joe looked spiffy in dress slacks and a dress shirt.

“Well, shiver me timbers, if it isn’t the infamous Captain Hook, Line and Stinker, and his lady love, Hellion Hannah!” I observed, remembering both Joe’s distaste for my pirate prose and his foul deed concerning a couple stowaways. “To what do we owe yer finery? Ye be suppin’ with Captain Steubing?”

Joe flashed me an irritated look. I raised an eyebrow. After all, he’d thrown down the gauntlet—in a six-foot-three form that was impossible to ignore—so as far as I was concerned, the game was on.

“We’re invited to a honeymooner mixer!” Gram announced. “It’s for people taking first or second or third honeymoons. I’m thinkin’ that’s a good thing. Right?” she said, seeking verification.

I nodded. “You’ll have a chance to mix with other honeymooning sweetheart couples,” I explained. “Arrgh! ‘This a fine time ye’ll be havin’,” I added, about to include a warning about the stingy caloric count of the cuisine, then deciding to let the unsuspecting couple make that priceless discovery on their own. Joe was as much of a junk-food addict as I was, if not more so. And with the rapid-fire metabolism he was always touting, when he discovered a “plate worse than death” at dinner, I could only imagine his reaction. It was almost worth the suffering I would go through to see the mischievous mutineer in the same balanced-food-group boat.

“Too bad it doesn’t include engaged couples,” Joe said, giving me a pointed look. The perverted little puppet master.

“You think what I’m wearing will work okay?” Gram asked.

I smiled. “Aye,” I said. “Ye’ll be the purtiest wench at the mixer.”

Gram frowned. “How come you’re talkin’ like that?” she asked.

“Ask Gilligan there,” I replied.

“Gilligan?”

“Your new hubby. It’s my nautical nickname for him,” I explained. “Cute, huh?”

“So, what do you have on your itinerary for this evening?” my gammy’s Little Buddy of a groom asked me. “Hide and seek? A date in a dark casino corner with a one-armed bandit? Solitaire in your cabin?”

“How about a game of battleship with an ancient mariner?” I suggested, giving Joe my best hoistin’-the-Jolly-Roger look.

“Funny,” Joe said. “Let’s leave your granddaughter to an exciting evening of in-over-her-head, Hannah,” he said.

“Is that some kind of gambling?” Gram asked.

Joe gave me a sharp look. “Sure is,” he said. “A big gamble. With a lot riding on the next play, I’m thinkin’.”

I shook my head. “Give my regards to the other honey-mooners, Captain Kidd,” I said—and then realized what I’d just said. Honeymooners? As in,
honeymoons long overdue?
As in, an opportunity to possibly meet and greet a villain who was plotting a lost-at-sea scenario as a belated wedding gift, maybe?

I rubbed my chin. A mixer, huh? I knew how to mix. Circulate. I could chat up all the other grooms and see if I might recognize something about the individual I’d overheard in the hallway outside my cabin. If not, I could always drop a rather broad hint to the hims in each happy his-and-hers couple that I was on to them. Perhaps I could startle him into an admission of sorts, or at the very least make him rethink his plan—buy some time to narrow the field and, in the process, buy his wife a reprieve.

Okay. As a plan, it wasn’t much, but I’d started with less in other investigative endeavors. And no way could I bring myself to sail away unconcerned while there was a possibility a fellow passenger was about to be liquidated by her lover.

“Uh, where be this celebratin’?” I asked, and Gram handed me the ship’s daily program of events.

“In the Stardust Lounge,” she said.

I made a face. It sounded like a cheesy Vegas casino.

I checked out the ship’s diagram. The Stardust was right next to Pirate’s Cove, where I was supposed to meet Town-send. Still, if I went to the honeymooner mixer, I would require a husband. If I explained to Townsend first what I’d overheard, perhaps I could get him to help me out in my quest to save a damsel in distress. After all, hadn’t Townsend badgered me to open up to him, to trust him? To include him in my life? How, then, could he refuse my request?

I smiled.

A handsome ranger. A star to sail by. A mystery to unravel. What more could an intrepid reporter want?

My stomach gurgled and then growled. Joe looked at me.

What more could a girl want? A meat-lover’s pizza, a side of cheese bread, onion rings and a big bottle of grog. Hold the water.

CHAPTER SIX

I trailed my grandma and Joe to the Stardust. Joe kept turning around to give me puzzled looks, which I ignored. I imagine he didn’t think it was safe to turn his back on me after the stunt he’d pulled bringing Manny and Mo onboard to vex my voyage. I imagine he was right.

It was five of eight when we reached the lounge. Approximately half a dozen couples of various ages were gathered there. Joe gave me another weird look as he and Gram moved into the dimly lit room.

I hovered in the doorway, eyeing each couple, trying to eliminate them one by one based on my brief glimpse of the desperado. Husband number one seemed way too short. Husband number two: too black. When I came to couple number three, I blinked. The two men stood together—both of considerable size and girth—and one had an arm around the other’s waist. I looked away quickly, in case I got caught staring. I reckoned I could count them out, too. The rest of the couples were viable possibilities—with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Joe Townsend, of course. I’d have recognized Joe’s chicken legs anytime, anywhere.

I was about to go grab Townsend and explain my dilemma and enlist his aid when a heavy arm dropped over my shoulder.

“Manny’s been looking for Barbie.”

I turned and cast an eye up. And up.

“He has? I mean, you have?” I asked, sucking in a deep breath at the warmth of Manny’s body and getting a snootful of a divine, musky scent exuding from the man in exchange.

“Manny’s disappointed.”

“Oh?” I said.

“He didn’t get to give Barbie a bon voyage kiss.”

“Oh!” I said again.

“Manny felt real bad.”

“Huh?”

All of a sudden the music was jacked up and a rollicking version of “Here Comes the Bride” began to play. The hostess congratulated the honeymooning couples and welcomed them to the social hour.

Manny looked confused. “What’s Barbie up to now?” he asked, and I debated how much to tell him. We’d indulged in a little quid pro quo in the past to our mutual benefit, but I didn’t see anything in this little intrigue for Manny. “I thought Barbie’d be hanging out with Rick the Dick.”

I winced—for several reasons. First off, Manny’s nickname for Rick always prompted this reaction. Second? His remark reminded me that Townsend, who was cooling his heels in an adjacent hotspot and waiting for yours truly to take a turn on the deck, was blissfully ignorant of the fact that my make-believe fiancé was not only on board the ship but mere steps away, his muscled arm hugging me to him.

Shite.

“Townsend, uh, met an old friend from college,” I evaded, which was true.

“Yeah? So what’s Barbie doing at a just married’ get-together?”

I wondered whether a finely crafted fib would work best or if I should go the truth-is-stranger-than-fiction route. Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon or Townsend would think I’d chickened out in earnest.

“Would you believe I’m trying to figure out which one of these grooms is hoping to disembark
The Epiphany
a wealthy widower?” I asked, quickly relaying much the same story I’d shared with Custom Cruise Security Chief Sam Davenport.

Manny shook his head. “What are the odds?” he said. “So, what’s Barbie’s plan?”

I then explained my long-shot idea to meet and mingle with the couples and work my “I know who you are and I know what you want to do” magic on the grooms—even though I had no idea who any of them were or what had, individually, brought them on this cruise. At the same time, I told Manny, I’d planned to subtly imply to the brides to watch their backs.

Manny smiled. “Barbie
subtle?”
He nodded. “Right. Right.”

I frowned. “Barbie can do subtle,” I maintained.

He raised a dark eyebrow. “Barbie’s about as subtle as an iceberg.” I winced. “Give Manny the ring,” he ordered, and lost me.

“Ring?”

“Tressa’s engagement ring,” he said. “Give it to me.”

I could feel my breath hitch in my throat before I expelled the contents of my lungs in a huge, heavy, loud breath.

Oh. My. Gawd! This was it! Finally! The long-awaited breakup! Hallelujah and pass the bubbly!

I unzipped my bag and retrieved the über-carat ring from a small side pocket and handed it to Manny. Whew. I let out another long sigh. I felt like Frodo Baggins relinquishing possession of the Precious. Relief flowed over me. For all of three seconds. That was about the time it took for Manny to grab my left hand and slip the ring on my unsuspecting third finger.

“We should fit in now. Sweethearts. Remember?” he said, and grabbed my hand and pulled me over to a group of three lucky couples.

“Ahoy! Congratulations! Best wishes!” Manny broadcast, and snared a glass of what looked like champagne from a nearby waiter. He handed one to me and took a second. He raised his glass. “To new beginnings!” he toasted.

I stared at him. This was also a side of Manny I’d never seen. Exuberant. Social.

Out of his element.

Out of his gourd.

“Hear, hear!” That came from one-half of the same-sex couple. He gave Manny an appreciative look until his partner gave him an elbow in the ribs.

“Name’s Manny. This is Tressa,” Manny said. He still had my left hand and raised it to show off the ring.

“To Manny and Tressa!” a man in his late twenties or early thirties and who looked like the adorable Pillsbury Doughboy announced. “I’m Steve Kayser. This is my wife, Courtney,” he added, putting an arm around a short, chubby, blonde woman. “That’s Ben and Sherri Hall,” he said, pointing to another larger-than-life pair of similar age. “The four of us are celebrating our anniversaries. We had a double wedding five years ago and decided, as a group, we needed to make a dramatic change in our lifestyles, starting with diet and exercise. This cruise offered us a chance to do that.”

“Sherri and Ben have been our best friends since high school,” Courtney Kayser explained. “We live in the same town on the same street! We figured this cruise was custom-made for us,” she added with a giggle.

“Misery loves company, huh?” I said, and she giggled again. Cute, blonde and bubbly, Courtney had an energy and zest about her that her dark-haired friend, Sherri, didn’t possess. Ben was friendly and slapped Steve on the back a lot, while Sherri was quiet and pensive. I guess opposites do attract.

Introductions were made all around. In addition to Steve, Courtney, Ben and Sherri, there was Vic and Naomi, who had just missed making
The Biggest Loser
last season and wanted to show the network they could lose the weight without its help; and Tariq and Monique, actors tired of just getting the fat roles. There was also Dolph and Major, who were on a voyage of self-discovery and identity following a civil union ceremony.

I shook my head. None of these couples seemed like candidates for a murder-for-profit conspiracy. Still, I’d learned not to take anything at face value.

“You look like a personal trainer, Manny,” Major, the fellow who’d eyed Manny earlier, observed. “Am I right?”

Manny smiled. “Bodies by DeMarco,” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard of it. I’ve been on
Oprah.”

I looked over at Manny. God, he was good. Or maybe he had lots of practice at fibbing on the fly. I still hadn’t managed to figure out just what he did for a living. I’d convinced myself I was better off not knowing.

“Bodies by DeMarco! Oh, wow! Sure. I’ve heard of you. Awesome!” Major exclaimed. “Right, Dolph? Will you be one of the trainers working with us this week, Manny?” he asked, his eyes growing large at the possibility.

I did an exaggerated I’m-not-believing-this-B.S. eye roll.

Manny smiled. “You never know,” he said.

“So, what do
you
do?”

I stood mute until I realized Courtney was speaking to me. “Oh? Me? I, uh, sell insurance,” I blurted. “Life insurance.”

The group as a whole gasped and took one step back. Geez. A profession more hated than prying, snoopy reporters. Who knew?

“Yes, yes, I sell life insurance. I don’t suppose any of you might be in the market for a great policy,” I said, and witnessed another collective step back. “Oh, I know. I bet you all think you don’t need life insurance and that you’re going to live forever, but one never knows what could happen from one moment to the next. Especially on a cruise ship. You know, out on the high seas. Far from home. Unfamiliar surroundings. Changing jurisdictions. Anything could happen. You’ve seen the tabloid stories. Disappearing spouses. Wheelchairs overboard. Stingrays jumping into boats. A person must always be on their guard. Remain alert and vigilant and at all times be aware of your surroundings.”

I stopped to get my breath before continuing: “So? Anyone here have a good, hefty life insurance policy with reasonable premiums they’d like to brag about, because I guarantee I can beat your agent’s price and benefits. Come on. Anybody? Anyone at all? I’m here to tell each of you that what I know could be a real lifesaver.” I gave each couple a long, considering look. An awkward pause followed my sales pitch improv

So much for subtlety.

“Easy, sweetheart, easy,” Manny squeezed my hand. “All work and no play makes Barbie…scary,” he said.

The group laughed and seemed to relax.

“Haa haa.” I joined in the laughter, draining my glass of bogus bubbly, feeling like the Midwestern version of Bridget Jones. I looked up and caught Joe’s speculative eyes on me from across the room.

Ohmigawd! Rick!

I slapped my drink in Manny’s hand. “Sorry! Call of nature!” I said. “Back in a flush!”

I shook my head. I’d jumped from Bridget Jones to Mrs. Doubtfire in less time than it took my gammy to scurry out of sight when the minister came to call.

I hurried out of the Stardust, checking my watch as I jogged towards the Pirate’s Cove. Eight-fifteen. Fashionably late. Still, early for me.

I discovered Townsend at a booth several tables back. “I am so sorry!” I said, sliding into the booth across from him. “It took longer to pull myself together than I anticipated,” I explained. “The hair, you know.”

His gaze slid over the top of my head, down to my
Pretty in Pink
T-shirt, and back up to my face, settling on my eyes. His own were bright and feverish, I thought. His expression was appreciative.

“You’re well worth the wait,” he said, his scrutiny intense.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I replied, feeling an intense attack of nervous stomach. Nervous, empty stomach.

“Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.

I thought about the kaka champagne and was ready to pass when I saw his foamy drink. My mouth flew open.

“Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

“It depends on what you think it is,” Townsend responded.

“Is that…beer?”

Rick nodded.

“Real beer?” I said.

Rick nodded again. “Well, light beer,” he clarified.

I grabbed his glass and put it to my lips and started to drink. After three long swallows, I stopped and belched and wiped the foam from my mouth. “I’m surprised they allowed beer on a No Carnivores Allowed Custom Cruise,” I said, belching again.

“Well, technically they don’t,” he said. “But I have contacts, remember?”

The pleasure of the brewski was dimmed by the discovery of the patroness. “Brianna,” I said.

“Actually, I just happened to mention I could kill for a beer and, voila! Beer!”

Voila! Since when did Townsend speak French?

“I don’t suppose you happened to mention it to that cute brunette serving wench with the rather large, er, treasure chest over there?” I said.

He smiled. “I prefer a sleeker schooner myself,” he said, reaching out to take my hands.

I suddenly remembered Manny’s ring gracing my left ring finger. I snatched my hands out of Rick’s grasp, placing them in my lap. Townsend stared at me.

“Anything…wrong?” he asked.

“Wrong?” I said, desperately trying to pull the ring off my finger. “What could be wrong?” I was cursing the genetics that had given me fat knuckles.

“You just seem…rattled,” he said.

“No. I’m fine. Really!” I said, yanking on the ring so hard I thought I was going to pull the digit out of its socket. “It’s all—gooood.”

“I brought you something,” Townsend said, picking up a perfect, long-stemmed red rose and handing it to me.

I felt my heart begin to thump in my chest. “It’s beautiful,” I said, reaching out with my right hand to take the rose. “Just beautiful.”

“Then you and the rose have something else in common—besides the occasional thorn, that is,” he said with a wink. He caressed my hand with his thumb, his right hand poised to take my left one. I hesitated. “Your other hand, Tressa,” Townsend urged.

Holy harpoon. What in Calypso’s name was I going to do now?

I jumped to my feet.

“Call of nature!” I announced. “Back in a flush!” I jogged toward the exit, tugging on the friggin’ ring. After this I would never, ever be able to watch
Mrs. Doubtfire
again.

I hoofed it back toward the Stardust, tired and winded. I met Joe on the way.

“Oh, there you are, girlie. Your fiancé was wondering what was taking you so long in the john. He was about to come looking for you. What’s the deal? Not enough fiber in your diet?” he asked, turning the tables on me.

I took hold of his elbow and pulled him behind a fountain with potted shrubs.

“Okay, Blackbeard, what the devil are you up to?” I snapped. “Why on earth did you invite Manny and Mo on this little customized cruise from the bowels of hell?” I asked. “What are you trying to do? Screw me over?”

Joe freed his arm from my grasp. “How about to get you to fish or cut bait, girlie?” he said.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“You, missy. I’m talking about you,” Joe hissed. “You’ve been pussy-footing around your feelings for my grandson for over a year now. Frankly, it’s brutal to witness. It’s time you decided once and for all how you really feel about Rick.”

I stared at him. “And you thought bringing Manny DeMarco and his marriage-minded Aunt Mo along for the ride would help me decide? Are you senile? How is that supposed to help me?”