Hula Done It? (6 page)

"So, what exactly do World Navigators do? I mean, do you have some kind of credo or something?"

"Credo. Yah." He hoisted his shirtsleeve to his shoulder and flexed his biceps to reveal a colorful tattoo of a Viking helmet accompanied by the words
Nils Nilsson, World Navigators Club
. "We all have credos," he said proudly.

Okay, no global atlases. I wondered if they'd nixed the idea because of the ever-changing geopolitcal situation, or problems with too much chest hair. Either way, I'd been close. "Credo," I corrected Nils. "Mission statement. Like the United Nations? The Campfire Girls? It states the purpose of why you get together."

"Why we get together? Yah. We drink good, strong beer. We sail in regattas. We discuss the greatest navigators in history -- Bjarni Herjulfsson, Eric the Red, Leif Ericsson."

"Not James Cook?"

"Bah! Cook was a fraud. He followed in the wake of others more skillful than himself and accomplished nothing besides getting himself killed. Where was the challenge? He had bigger ships. Sturdier sails. Better supplies. Chronometers. Five chronometers on every voyage! Herjulfsson sailed without instruments in more treacherous waters. The so-called experts have made too much of Cook. That must change."

I shot him a puzzled look. "You said earlier that the reason you signed up for this cruise was to attend Professor Smoker's lectures. Why did you spend so much money to hear someone lecture about a fraud?"

He hesitated before offering me an odd half smile. "We are not narrow-minded. We understood Professor Smoker was a most influential and respected man. We wanted to hear his version of history, study him in person, and accompany him on his many island excursions before we decided what tack to take to prove his views wrong."

Hmm. Had they made their decision and acted upon it already? Euw, boy. Whether they were involved in Professor Smoker's death or not, though, the demise of the ship's academic headliner presented a scheduling nightmare for the guest relations people. "Do you suppose the entire Cook program will be canceled because of what happened? I imagine some of those excursions will lose their appeal without Professor Smoker there to provide the narrative."

"What of his assistant?" asked Nils. "She could take over at the helm, yah?"

Was it me, or was he having a hard time keeping the anticipation out of his voice at the prospect of Bailey's substituting for the professor?

"You can forget the assistant," Margi declared. "I heard it straight from Bernice. That girl will probably have to stay in the infirmary for the rest of the trip because she's on the brink of a nervous breakdown. She saw the person who pushed the professor overboard, and it's got her all upset."

Bernice? How had Bernice found out? She wasn't supposed to know that. No one was supposed to know that!

"Someone got pushed overboard?" Jonathan choked out.

Margi nodded. "They still haven't found the body."

A chorus line of waiters banged out of the kitchen and charged toward our table, trays of appetizers balanced on their palms and shoulders. Down went the trays onto serving tables. Up flew dishes artistically arranged with pink salmon, ripe melon, and something that resembled Meow Mix. Down went the plates before us, consuming every inch of table space available. Off sped the waiters again, all elegance and efficiency.

My gaze drifted over the array of food, dazzled by the color, the variety, the presentation. Even the Meow Mix looked appetizing.

"My lettuce looks tantalizing, doesn't it?" Margi commented.

"This is all my fault," Jonathan wailed. He buried his face behind his one good hand and shook his head. "If I wasn't aboard, that person might still be alive. I have to do something. I can't go on like this. Don't try to stop me, anyone." He shoved his chair away from the table and sprang to his feet. "I have to confess everything to the captain!"

As he bolted away, my fruit cup suddenly skated across the table after him, accompanied by colorful plates of pate, prosciutto, oysters, salmon, and Margi's hunk of bib lettuce.

BOOM!
Tinkle
. CRASH! Splat.

Shrieks throughout the dining room. Gasps. Nils spat what sounded like a Norwegian cussword and leaped out of his chair, knocking it over with a
BOOM
that vibrated the floor. Gjurd let out a Viking yell. Ansgar glowered at the smorgasbord in his lap and growled something that needed no translation. Our appetizers lay splattered across the carpet like refuse from an all-you-can-eat buffet. Oh, my God. What just happened?

I glanced at Jonathan, who stood awkwardly in the aisle, yanking at the umbilical cord of tablecloth that was tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Oh, yeah. This guy was cursed big-time.

Margi fished a small packet out of her purse. "Moist towelette, anyone?"

The mess was cleared up and our meals reordered with polite enthusiasm if not speed. The Vikings ripped apart platters of Alaskan king crab with their bare hands and left without ordering dessert. Margi bypassed a main entree in favor of sampling everything on the dessert menu, then left halfway through to stake out a good seat for the evening's entertainment in the Bali Ha'i Theater. My medium-rare prime sirloin arrived looking like a used engine part so I sent it back to the kitchen, and by the time they got it right, some early birds from the second seating were pacing beside the table, checking their watches and giving me dirty looks.

So much for leisurely dining.

I stood up, thanked Darko for all his trouble, apologized for leaving my meal uneaten, and knew I was doing the right thing when instead of looking disappointed, he looked relieved. I scooted down the aisle with my stomach growling from hunger, but the good news was, the dinner buffet in the Coconut Palms Cafe didn't close until midnight!

I skirted around the waterfall at the entrance of the dining room and as I made my way down the corridor to the elevators, spied a familiar face walking away from the desk in the guest relations cove, though considering the sluggishness of her gait, I questioned whether she should be on her feet at all.

"Bailey?" I caught up to her in a half dozen steps. "Shouldn't you be in the infirmary?"

She regarded me for a dazed moment before waving the plastic card in her hand at me. "I had to replace my room key. It's so strange. I put it in my pocket earlier" -- she poked two fingers into the shallow pocket of her knit vest -- "but it's not there anymore. I must have lost it, but that's so unlike me. I never lose things. Ever."

"Can I walk you back to the infirmary?"

She gave her head a slow, loosey-goosey shake, as if it were attached to the rest of her body by a flimsy rubber band. "I'm not going back there. It was so noisy down there with people coming and going, I checked myself out. I told them I'd get a better night's sleep in my own cabin." She slapped her palm over her mouth and yawned. "I'm so sleepy. But I need to stay awake long enough to pack."

"Pack? Are you leaving?"

"Right after I give a statement to the Kauai police tomorrow. The only reason I was on this trip was to assist Professor Smoker. After what's happened" -- she swallowed a sob -- "I don't think I'm quite up for the carnival atmosphere on the
Aloha Princess
. Virgos have an almost compulsive need to plan ahead, so I guess I'll fly home and figure out where I go from here."

I couldn't fault her there. After my marriage ended, I'd gone home to regroup, too, but unlike Bailey, at least I'd had a family waiting to give me support.

"So I guess this is good-bye." She offered her hand in a formal handshake but looked uncomfortable when our palms made contact. "Hey, it was nice meeting you, Emily. I just wish it could have been under more pleasant circumstances. Hope you enjoy the rest of your cruise."

"Um --" I stood there awkwardly, caught between the classic rock and hard place. "I don't want to frighten you, but I think you should know that some people on board know you're the person who witnessed Professor Smoker's murder."

Bailey shrugged. "Doesn't surprise me. I suppose it was bound to get out."

"Yeah, but if that's the case, wouldn't you be safer sleeping in the infirmary tonight? I'm not implying that you're a target, but if you are, I'd think you'd be better off in a place where there are lots of other people around." People who were sick, lame, and drugged, but people nonetheless.

Her eyes narrowed pensively. "I actually gave that some thought while I was lying in my hospital bed. After what you implied this afternoon, every time someone passed by my door, I jumped a little, wondering if --" She paused. "Like I told you, there are way too many people down there, any one of whom could slip into a room undetected and take care of any business that needed finishing up. That's one of the reasons I decided to leave. Unlike my infirmary room, my cabin has a dead bolt, and I intend to use it. The only way anyone will get at me tonight is if they beat the door down."

That made me feel better. I loved it when people opted not to be stupid. "Do you need an escort to your door? It's my specialty."

"You're a professional escort?" She regarded my scoopneck tee and walking shorts with a critical eye, looking confused and disillusioned. "Aren't escorts supposed to dress scandalously hot? You know -- fishnet stockings? Stiletto heels? Sequins?"

"I
am
dressed hot, for Iowa." I smiled good-naturedly. "Actually, I'm not that kind of escort."

She arched her brows, still skeptical. "If you say so. Anyway, thanks again for everything."

She disappeared amid the crowd of casually dressed couples who were queuing up to smile for the camera prior to their first dinner aboard the
Aloha Princess
. I envied her being able to escape the mandatory Kodak moment. Margi and I had tried to sneak into the dining room without having to pose for our official photo, but the photographer had turned into the "picture police" by corralling us near the doorway and posing us like manikins in front of an ugly clip art panel of the ship. "Say cheese," he'd instructed with drill sergeant exactness.

I'd looked into the camera and forced a smile, but the word I mouthed had nothing to do with "cheese."

With four hours to go until the buffet line closed, I maneuvered my way into the elevator and zipped up to the welcome quiet of deck eleven. To my left was a glassed-in area set up like a backyard patio where guests could dine at wrought-iron tables near windows that allowed them to experience both the warm Pacific breeze and the high humidity. To my right, beyond the glass partition that marked the gateway to the open deck, endless rows of adjustable chaise lounges flanked the adult swimming pool like vacant theater seats.

I heard a splash.

Banks of floodlights illuminated the pool and twin Jacuzzis, but I could see little beyond the phalanx of lounge chairs. Hunh. My curiosity piqued, I ventured through the sliding glass doors, wincing when a blast of humid night air and chlorine hit me in the face. As I skirted the perimeter of the pool area, I craned my neck to see who else was up there with me, but I continued to see nothing...until the solitary swimmer climbed out of the pool and stood up. He threw a towel over his head to dry his hair, so I couldn't see his face, but what I
could
see caused a little flutter in my tummy.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with well-defined sinew snaking down his arms and across his chest. His skin was taut, his stomach flat, and as he dried his hair, I saw a flex of muscle that hinted of physical power. Water clung to his breastbone and ribs, then trickled down his bare flesh toward --

I lowered my gaze to the slash of spandex that rode daringly low on his hips and gave myself a quick mental slap. Whoa! What was I doing? I was in love. I shouldn't be ogling another man. Oh, my God -- this could only mean one thing.

I failed the test. My wandering eye was proof that my love life was on the rocks, that Etienne and I were all washed up, that I was so deprived romantically that I could stoop to unabashed voyeurism without a twinge of conscience.

I angled my head to regard the stranger from another perspective and sighed my appreciation. Man, the last time I saw a body that ripped was during my nephews' Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure phase.

He whipped the towel off his head and tossed his hair back, then zeroed a look straight across the deck to find me gawking like a teenage groupie at a rock concert. His face was as beautiful as the rest of him, his smile shamelessly cocky, and as he strode toward me, I realized he was no stranger.

"Hello, pretty." He looped his wet towel around my neck and drew me close, covering my lips in a long, languid kiss before nuzzling the corner of my mouth and whispering, "I've missed you."

I
teetered off-balance as my legs unhinged at the knees. "Duncan?"

He seized my elbows to steady me. "Easy there." He gave me one of those piercing looks that bored through my skull like a dumdum bullet, then flashed me a slow, assessing smile. "You're looking good, Em."

As well as could be expected for someone whose lips had gone suddenly numb. Whoa! I tested my lips with my tongue, feeling as if they'd been injected with a lethal dose of Novocaine. I didn't even know if I could talk without slurring my words. "What...what are you doing here?"

A mischievous twinkle lit his coal dark eyes. "I thought that was obvious. I'm pursuing you."

Duncan Lazarus, the Oxford-educated tour director who'd guided us on our recent trip through Italy, had rolled into my life like a Sherman tank and been in hard pursuit ever since. According to Duncan, Lazarus men were doggedly single-minded about the women they wanted, and the woman Duncan wanted was...me.

He grasped my left hand. "Still no engagement ring, I see." He'd informed me that he considered me fair game until I had a ring on my finger, and over the past four months he'd been bombarding me with phone calls and emails from all parts of Italy in an effort to chip away at my resistance. "Are you sure your Inspector Miceli is part Italian? From what I've observed of Italian men, they're much more fervent in their pursuit of the women they love."

"Etienne is fervent," I defended. Unfortunately he was also Swiss, which diluted the fervency thing to some miniscule part per million.

"Etienne is clueless." Duncan trailed a lazy thumb along the curve of my jaw. "God, you're beautiful."

"Duncan!" I wiggled away from him, ducking under his towel and inching a safe distance backward. "I...You...We..."

His mouth curved in a slow grin. "Take a deep breath. It'll help you get something out of your mouth other than pronouns."

"What are you doing here?"

"You mean, in addition to pursuing you?" He sluiced water from his shoulder and chest with a careless hand, scattering droplets onto the little Italian-made Speedo that was straining its seams to contain him.
Oh, God.

"I'm working. Temporary reassignment, actually. My counterpart in England was supposed to head up the Pacific islands tour, but I made him an offer he couldn't refuse, so, here I am."

"You...you
arranged
to be here?"

He gave me a sheepish palms up. "Guilty."

"You knew you were going to be here, and you never bothered to mention it to me?"

"I didn't want to spoil the surprise."

What was it with the men in my life and surprises? Geesch! I shook my head, sighing, but deep down inside, I was grateful that at least Duncan hadn't shown up in spike heels and lipstick, like my ex had in Ireland. "So what did you offer your counterpart in England that he found impossible to refuse?"

"Two weeks of my personal leave allotted to him, plus the phone number of a sexy Hollywood starlet who's renting an apartment in Rome."

My eyes widened with shock. "You're giving up two weeks of vacation to be on this cruise?"

"You're missing the point." He smiled into my face, gracing me with one of his patented steamy looks. "I get to be on this cruise...with you."

Aw, that was so sweet!

The sliding glass door
whooshed
open behind us. "There you are, Mr. Lazarus," called a man with an aristocratic English accent. I glanced toward the voice to find an elderly gentleman in a tweed sports jacket and vest shuffling onto the deck. "We've run into a spot of bother in the dining room. Would you be so kind as to lend us some assistance?"

"I'm on it," Duncan responded, then to me, "The curse of the chronically employed. Duty calls." He kissed his forefinger and touched it to my lips. "Mark your calendar. We'll continue this conversation later." He gave me a sassy wink, then strutted off toward the Englishman, the floodlights illuminating his too-long hair, his Mediterranean tan, and all six feet two inches of his wet, muscled flesh.

"Duncan!" I called at his retreating back.

He turned.

"Nice bathing suit."

He flashed me an evil grin before shaking out his towel and wrapping it around his waist. "I'm in cabin seventy-five-oh-five, just in case you get lonely."

I stared after him, assaulted by embarrassing waves of emotion, lust, guilt over the lust -- and most disturbing of all, envy.
His stateroom was on deck seven?
Man, Landmark was a lot more generous with its employee accommodations than the Windsor City Bank.
Deck seven?
Damn. That was even above the waterline.

I sampled all the goodies from every food island in the Coconut Palms Cafe before returning to my cabin in the bilge. Okay, it really wasn't the bilge, but the dimly lit corridor, the uncarpeted floor, the painful creaks and groans from the bulkhead, and the steady thrum of nearby engines gave it the feel of the third-class passenger deck on the
Titanic
. I opened my door and flipped on the light, illuminating a narrow, windowless cabin half the size of Nana's. If I sat down on the side of the bed, I'd practically skin my knees on the opposite wall. I sighed with nostalgia. This place had "Four Star Swiss Hotel" written all over it.

As I closed the door, I noticed a sheet of white paper lying on the floor and bent down to pick it up. Tilly's treasure map of Kauai. She must have photocopied Nana's map and slid it under my door so I'd have it for our big day tomorrow.

Stashing my shoulder bag on the vanity, I grabbed my Hawaiian Islands guidebook and sat down at the foot of my bed. I found a map of Kauai and compared it to Tilly's. No doubt about it. Griffin Ring's drawing was the island of Kauai, but would we actually find buried treasure in the place where he'd marked his huge black X?

One thing was for sure. We'd have to be on the lookout for other people searching for buried treasure, because if someone else on the kayak adventure flashed a copy of Griffin Ring's map, dollars to doughnuts, we'd be staring into the eyes of the person who killed Dorian Smoker.

"I don't want my picture taken," I announced to the photographer the next morning. I'd made it as far as the end of the gangway before I'd noticed him lurking in front of a huge painted sign that identified our first destination as the island of Kauai.

"It's not an option," he informed me, barring my way. "If you're a passenger on this ship, you have to have your picture taken. Read the small print in your cruise documents."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I'll say this very calmly. I overslept. I haven't had time to apply my mascara yet.
No one
takes a picture of me without my mascara. Get it?"

He aimed his camera at my face and pressed the shutter. "Got it. You'll find this posted in the picture gallery on deck five later today. You can purchase copies for fifteen dollars. That's a real bargain, lady. Kahuna Cruise Lines charges twenty."

A lightbulb went on over my head. A cruise ship was like a movie theater. The real money wasn't in the price of admission; it was in the concession stand items. The alcoholic beverages. The spa services. The photographs. "You make a killing on these photos, don't you?"

The photographer smiled broadly. "It's what keeps us afloat. Next please."

We were docked in Nawiliwili Bay, a protected cul-de-sac of a port surrounded by mountains whose lofty, razor-sharp edges were softened by waves of lush, tropical vegetation and infested by insects that would probably make an Iowa rootworm look as cuddly as a pet hamster. I was stutter-stepping down the quay behind a group of slow-moving women when I saw a man in an orchids-gone-wild Aloha shirt hold up an event sign that said
KAYAK ADVENTURE
, with an arrow pointing toward a corrugated steel building that looked like a converted warehouse. Since I was running late, I scooted around the women and scurried toward the warehouse, passing long-haired girls in grass skirts who were swishing their hips to a tune strummed by two guys with ukeleles. I hadn't had any success contacting Nana and Tilly this morning, so I hoped they'd been able to get tickets for the excursion and were already on the bus. I wasn't sure I could handle the whole buried treasure thing all by myself.

As I entered the building, I wondered if all two thousand passengers had signed up for shore excursions, because the place was more crowded than the annual tractor pull at the state fair. People scurrying left. People scurrying right. People standing in one spot, mouths hanging open, looking confused.

I checked my watch: 8:15. By Iowa standards, I was already late for the 8:30 departure.

"Hey, pretty, tell me you're taking the Allerton Garden tour so I can fawn over you all day."

I wheeled around at the sound of Duncan's voice and shuffled back a self-conscious step when I realized he was practically on top of me. I gave him a quick once-over, from sandals, to shorts, to polo shirt, then smiled up at his sun-bronzed face. "You look a lot taller with clothes on." I waved my ticket in the air. "Wailua River Kayak Adventure."

"Damn. That was my first choice. How'd you talk your group into kayaking? I tried to convince mine it might be exciting to step outside their comfort zone, but the only kind of water-related activities they participate in are those that involve garden hoses, sprinkler systems, and birdbaths. Hard making inroads with people whose idea of intense excitement is an audiophone tour of an Oriental garden. Thank God for the Sandwich Island Society members."

My ears perked up like antennae. "You have Sandwich Islanders in your group?" The same Sandwich Islanders that Bailey Howard accused of wanting to kill Professor Smoker?

"They're real pistols. I think some of them may even have signed up for your kayak adventure. But do yourself a favor and don't ask them to explain anything about the Sandwich Island Society."

"Why not?"

"Because they might tell you."

Hmm. How handy was that? "How will I recognize them? Are they wearing name tags?"

He fought to suppress a grin. "They're Brits. You'll know them when you see them, with or without name tags." Linking his fingers with mine, he angled my arm behind my back and pressed me against the length of his body. "Meet me for a drink in the Anchor Bar tonight, Em. Ten o'clock." He lowered his head and whispered softly against my ear, "Don't make me beg."

I paused, hoping that something soulful and profound would accidentally pop out of my mouth.

"Allerton Garden tour!" shouted a woman who was bulldozing her way through the crowd, brandishing her event sign in the air. "We leave in five minutes. All aboard! Bus number twenty-six. Allerton Garden tour!"

"That's me." Duncan kissed my cheek and released me, then aimed a stern forefinger at my nose. "Ten o'clock tonight. Anchor Bar."

"I --"

"I'll be waiting." He took off without another word, sucked into the swarming chaos like a dust bunny into a Dirt Devil.

I stood moored to the spot, battling the sensation that the ground was seesawing beneath me. Palpitations. Dizziness. Oh, God. Was this a sign that Duncan was getting to me? Was his sexual magnetism wearing down my defenses? I ventured a cautious step forward. This couldn't be animal attraction. It had to be water on the brain, or a punctured eardrum, or some other aberrant physiological anomaly.

Turning a wide corner, I exited the building and spied a row of small eight-passenger vans queued up like boxcars in the parking lot. I squinted at the signs identifying each one.
NA PALI COAST ZODIAC RAFT RIDE. WAIMEA CANYON TOUR. HILO HATTIE'S SHOPPING EXTRAVAGANZA. WHALE WATCHING EXCURSION. FERN GROTTO CRUISE. KAUAI HELICOPTER TOUR. WAILUA RIVER KAYAK ADVENTURE.
Bingo
.

I hustled over to the van and flashed my ticket at the woman holding the event sign. "Kayak Adventure. That would be me."

"You and everyone else," the woman said, laughing. "Forget the van. We had to call for reinforcements." She nodded at the full-sized, fifty-five-passenger coach parked behind the last van. "Ten people is a good day for us. Today we have forty. I've given up trying to figure it out."

Forty people?
Uff da
. This wasn't good. How was I supposed to keep track of forty people?

I quick-stepped over to the bus and got in line behind a young couple in matching
Aloha Princess
T-shirts who couldn't keep their hands, or their lips, off each other. Honeymooners, no doubt. I pretended not to notice the young man kiss his wife's neck, and sighed as my thoughts flew back to Duncan. Damn. Duncan was the guy who wanted to marry me without even introducing me to his family, for crying out loud. Was I being fair to him? Was loyalty to Etienne making me cut off my nose to spite my face? Would a permanent relationship with either man ever allow me to experience anything more meaningful than chronic frustration and heartburn?

I felt a polite tap on my shoulder from behind. "Sorry to trouble you. Is this the queue for the kayak adventure?"

I turned around to find a man dressed in Burberry plaid knickers with a matching slouch cap. He looked to be somewhere in his fifties, all pressed and proper, with a pleasant face, and a black umbrella tucked under his arm. If the accent hadn't given him away as one of Duncan's Brits, the outfit would have. "You're in the right place," I said, smiling, and extended my hand in greeting. "I'm Emily."

"Basil Broomhead." He gave my hand a hearty shake before raising his umbrella high in the air and bellowing, "This way, Percy! Do be quick!" Then to me, "He's still adjusting to the time change. This is his first trip across the pond."

"You're dressed rather grandly for a day on the river," I commented, eyeing his knickers.

"Am I? The brochure recommended casual attire." He fixed me with a look of sudden self-doubt. "Oh, dear. Are you telling me casual meant something other than no tie?"

Basil Broomhead
. Why did that name sound so familiar? And why did it seem important that I remember? "You'll be okay," I assured him. "I think kayakers have a pretty flexible dress code. Pants and a paddle, probably."