Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise (25 page)

Like … maybe
Ginger
was in the will.

Maybe she was fed up with being her rich sister’s sidekick and wanted to finally get her mitts on some money of her own!

And maybe Noah was helping cover things up! Maybe
he was sick of the whole lot of Kensingtons—especially since it was obvious they thought he was a doofus.

So yeah, my brain was whisking around ideas and they were getting pretty frothy. And really, all it did was make me worry about Kip. Where
was
he? If he trusted Noah, and Noah turned out to be in the middle of a desperate murder cover-up, maybe Kip
was
in danger. Maybe he’d figured out the code and …

And
what
?

What were those stupid codes about?

Who had slipped them under the doors?

And why
codes
?

The whole thing was maddening and stupid and didn’t add up!

Then, somewhere in the froth in my mind, I hear Darren ask, “Thinking about Kensingtons?”

“Huh?” We’re walking through the casino now, but I sure don’t remember getting there. “Oh. Yeah.” I try to smile. “Guilty as charged.”

“Do me a favor,” he says, studying me. “Stay away from that Noah character, would you?”

I avoid looking at him, because the way he said it was real … intuitive. Like he can tell something’s up. I do nod—a serious I-get-you nod—but what I really want to do is blurt out what I’d done up in the Royal Suite. I don’t, though, because a) I don’t want him to worry, and b) I’m afraid he’ll think I’m stupid.

Not to mention reckless and psycho.

So I just keep walking.

And then he says, “And maybe take the captain’s advice?”

I nod again, and then a grin kinda steals my face and what comes out of my mouth is, “You mean, enjoy my fjamily?”

That makes him laugh really hard, which makes me laugh, too. And then, from behind us, Drew calls, “Hey, me and Cardillo are gonna hang in here for a while and play some slots.”

“Let’s have a band meeting over breakfast,” Darren says. “The buffet’s on Deck 11, way in the back.”

“Noon?”

“Sounds good!”

So the two of them veer off and the four of us keep going, until Marko spots the casino bathroom and says, “I’ll be quick!” and hurries through the door.

Five seconds later, he’s back. And I’m thinking, How is that even possible? when he tells Darren, “Boozer with a bruiser,” and now they
both
hurry inside the bathroom.

I look at Marissa and go, “Boozer with a bruiser?” and she shrugs and says, “Got me.”

A few seconds later Darren and Marko come out of the bathroom dragging a man along the floor by his armpits. Marissa and I move in closer while Marko lays the guy down and snatches up a ship phone, which is mounted on the wall between the women’s and men’s bathrooms. “Holy smokes!” I gasp. “That’s Bradley Kensington!”

“It is?” Darren asks, which is understandable, ’cause the body sprawled out on the floor is not looking too Kensington-esque, if you know what I mean.

I look closer and nod. “It sure is. What happened?”

“He looks passed-out drunk to me,” Darren says. “Smells it, too.”

“Is he breathing?”

“I wasn’t interested in getting that close.”

Bradley
is
looking really ripe, but still, I put my fingers up to his neck to check for a pulse, and when I feel it, I nod and go, “Tick tock.”

Marko joins us. “A guy named Dr. Wadham is on his way,” he says, then asks, “Did I hear you say that’s Bradley Kensington?” And when I nod, he says, “For such a hoity-toity guy, he sure is wasted.”

I’m about to stand up, but then I notice that there’s a corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the pocket of Bradley’s coat.

The paper’s white.

With no lines.

And I’m sorry, but I just can’t help it.

I pull it out.

It’s a sheet of notepaper folded over once, and when I open it, what I see is a handwritten message.

I gasp and show it to Marissa, who gasps and shows it to Marko, who says, “Dude!” and shows it to Darren.

Trouble is, now I see the corner of another piece of paper sticking out of Bradley’s pocket. And when I pull it out and unfold it, what I see is …

Only it’s written about six times in a row.

I gasp and show it to Marissa, who gasps and shows it to Marko, who says, “Dude!” and shows it to Darren.

So now I
dig
through his pocket and discover a handwritten letter signed by Kate Kensington, plus Bradley’s coded note, which is still clean—like he’d barely even looked at it, let alone tried to figure it out.

“Dude!” Marko says. “The worm was forging a suicide note from his own mother!”

I look over my shoulder and see a man carrying a Red Cross bag coming toward us. So real quick, I put the practice forgery note and Bradley’s coded paper inside my purse, then jam the other papers back in Bradley’s pocket.

Marko covers for me, intercepting the Red Cross–bag guy by sticking out his hand and going, “Dr. Wadham, I presume?”

I stand up in time to see the doctor give Marko a curious look before saying yes. Then he gets right to work, checking Bradley’s heart and breathing. “He’ll be fine,” he says after a minute. “You related?”

“No,” Marko tells him. “I’m just the lucky sucker who found him passed out in the bathroom.”

Bradley starts groaning, which is our clue to hightail it out of there. “Thanks, doc,” Marko tells him as we abandon ship, but the doctor doesn’t seem to mind. “No, thank
you
,” he says, then gets on his walkie-talkie.

“What are you going to do with those papers?” Marko whispers.

“I’m not sure,” I tell him. And I’m not. But I know that talking about seeing forged notes and actually
having
them are two completely different things.

One’s proof.

The other’s just the fantasy of an annoying teenager.

And I can’t deny it—something about having a copy of the coded note is making my brain feel … electric.

We’re late to the show, so we’re hustling to get there—I think partly because we all want to disappear for a little while. But as we’re hurrying along, we pass by the Lute Lounge, where a jazz trio is playing an upright bass, a little sparkly drum kit, and an electric guitar. And suddenly Marko and Darren are craning their necks around like a couple of kids watching the ice cream truck go by.

“Dude!” Marko says. “That’s a sixties Ludwig black pearl four-piece!”

Darren gasps, “And that looks like a bone-stock fifty-seven Les Paul!”

Now, I can tell they’re dying to stay and watch the trio, but they don’t even ask. They just follow along to the Poseidon Theater.

The theater is already packed because the show is about to begin, so it’s hard to find four seats together and we wind up sitting two and two near the back.

Almost right away the lights come down and a woman bounds out onto the stage. “Good evening!” she says into a microphone. “I’m Christie, your assistant cruise director, and I want to know: Are you having a good time?”

Marissa and I look at each other, and while Christie’s warming up the audience, I whisper, “So where’s Noah?”

“Sometimes the assistant opens the show,” Marissa whispers back. “Don’t start reading stuff into it.”

But I can’t help thinking that maybe the captain is talking to Noah at that very moment. That maybe what I’d said has gotten him in trouble. And that if it
has
, I’ve definitely inked myself onto Noah’s hit list.

Music Across the Ages
turns out to be a stage show with pre-recorded music and a lot of dancing. And after we’ve survived the fabulous fifties and the psychedelic sixties, I look behind me at Marko and Darren and can tell that they’re miserable.

“Let’s go,” I whisper to Marissa, and before she can argue, I’m excusing myself down the aisle, waving Darren and Marko along.

Marissa keeps whispering, “What? What?” like she has no idea why we’re bailing.

Darren and Marko don’t even question it. Marko just shakes his head when we’re outside the theater and says, “Dude, we are gonna bomb tomorrow.”

“Yup,” Darren says, and he’s looking really uncomfortable.

“Why?” Marissa asks. “And why did we leave?”

We all kind of stare at her. And finally I say, “Because Darren and Marko would rather be watching that jazz group—”

“Way!” Marko cries.

“And I’d rather be … anywhere else.”

Marissa stares at us a minute, then says, “I thought there was an
emergency
.”

Marko, Darren, and I look at each other, and at the same time we all say, “There was!” and then crack up.

Even though the Lute Lounge is a bar, no one kicks Marissa and me out. But while Darren and Marko are acting like they’ve died and gone to heaven, it doesn’t take long for me to realize that I don’t get jazz any more than I get dorky singing and dancing.

Plus, I can tell that Marissa is dying from boredom.

So finally I tell Darren, “You guys stay. Marissa and I are gonna head out.”

“Where are you going?” he asks, like he can’t believe I’m bailing on watching a guy noodle around on an old guitar.

“To message Casey and, I don’t know—cruise around?”

“Tomorrow’s kinda booked,” he says with an apologetic little squint. “We’ve got the band meeting at noon, then we’ve got sound check and the two shows.”

“We’ll be fine,” I tell him.

I can see him thinking. “How about we meet at the rooms at five tomorrow and regroup?”

“Sure.”

So I start to take off, but he stands up and says, “Hey, hey, hey!”

“What?”

He puts his arms out.

“Seriously?”

“You’re not getting out of here without one.”

So I laugh and give him a hug, and he kisses the top of my head and tells me, “Have fun.” And as we’re leaving, Marko calls, “If you see the Kipster, tell him I’ve got sticks!” and waves with them.

When we’re far enough away, Marissa gives me a big, gusting, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, I didn’t get it, either.”

“So, first stop, the library?”

“Do you mind?”

“As long as you don’t take forever!”

I laugh. “I just want to check in with Casey and tell him Darren thought my high-tops were cool.”

“Promise?”

“Promise!”

Which, of course, turns out to be another promise I just can’t keep.

Our walk up the stairs to the Lido Library is quiet until we reach the Deck 7 landing, where Marissa suddenly stops and goes, “That was
today
?”

I turn around to look at her. “What was today?”

“That we went snorkeling?”

I stop now, too, and rewind the day in my head. “Whoa.”

“No wonder I’m so tired!” she says, catching up to me.

And she’s right—all of a sudden, bed sounds really good.

“I hope the Puzzle Lady’s not there,” Marissa says as we go up the last flight.

“Me, too.”

She eyes me. “Only because you were pretty rude to her before.”

Which, ouch, I now can see is true. “Maaaaan.”

She laughs. “If she’s there, just tell her you’re sorry.”

Even thinking about doing that made me feel better. Plus, I was remembering that Marko had said he’d seen Teresa talking to her. It’d be nice to know if it had been
about Kip, or if she had seen him since I’d wagged my flip-flops at her.

Anyway, by the time we reach the library door, I’m really hoping the Puzzle Lady
is
there, but it turns out she’s not. And there’s no Kipster in the corner sweating over codes, either.

“Rats,” I grumble.

“You can apologize tomorrow,” Marissa tells me, then waves me over to the puzzle table. “Check it out.”

The puzzle’s about three-quarters done and the picture hasn’t gotten any less weird. There’s the guy and the laughing skull in the tree, and under them are now two men digging up a treasure chest.

At least that’s what it looks like to me. It’s actually kind of hard to say, because the puzzle is like a faded photograph. You know—one of those black-and-white pictures that’s turned a yellowy brown? And with all the little puzzle cuts, it really does look like a cracked and crinkled old photograph.

Then I notice that the rest of the pieces are nowhere. Not on the table, not in the table drawer, not in a box, nowhere.

“What are you looking for?” Marissa finally asks.

“The rest of the pieces! It’s a whole section, so it’s not like all of them can be missing.”

“She probably took them with her, don’t you think?”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want some upstart coming along and finishing it after she’s done all the work?”

“Some upstart? Who would that be?”

Marissa shrugs. “Oh, anyone who might come to the library at, say, midnight when the rest of the world is either in bed or having actual fun somewhere.”

I sit at a computer and log on. “Well, I think someone who spends their whole cruise working on an ugly puzzle that isn’t even theirs and then hoards the pieces so no one else can work on it is missing more than a few pieces of her
brain
.”

“Ah,” Marissa says.

I whip around to look at her. “That was not funny.”

“Was so,” she giggles. “Actually, it was hilarious.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, and really, I don’t want to think about the Puzzle Lady. I want to message Casey. So I send him a quick “Are you there?” and wait like a waggy little puppy at the back door. Trouble is, there’s nobody home. And then I just sit there, staring at the screen, not knowing where to start.

“What’s wrong?” Marissa asks when she notices that I’m not doing anything.

I shake my head. “I don’t know what to say to him.” And while I’m looking at her, it suddenly hits me that
she’ll
be moving away soon.
Far
away. And if I’m having this feeling of a big gap with Casey after only four days, how in the world are Marissa and I going to stay connected over
years
?