Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise (28 page)

It makes me feel safer that there are quite a few other
people in the library, and I’m secretly relieved that the Puzzle Lady’s not one of them. “The note’s still there,” Marissa tells me as I scope out a place to work. “And the puzzle’s the same as it was yesterday.”

It flashes through my mind that it would be nice to be able to ask the Puzzle Lady what she and Teresa had talked about, and confirm that Teresa had used a computer, but I tell myself to get my mind off the Kensingtons until I can talk to Darren and figure out what to do.

So after I’ve logged Marissa on to Darren’s account, I get situated at a table and force myself to focus on Ms. Rothhammer’s work sheet.

It hadn’t been that long since I’d done the first six problems, but the awful thing was that when I read the next one, I couldn’t remember how to set it up, and I found myself getting frustrated all over again. What did I care what the molarity of 750 milliliters of a solution containing 25 grams of potassium bromide was?

What did
anybody
care?

I went back and tried walking through the work I’d shown on the problem before, and it
sort of
brought back how to do it, but it was still feeling kind of fuzzy, so I dug up Kip’s notes.

Just seeing his writing made me feel bad. I didn’t want to think about where he might be, or how he probably had no idea why everyone had turned on him.

Not that
I
knew for sure, but when something makes everything else make sense, it’s probably true.

Anyway, I shook away those thoughts and focused on Kip’s step-by-step notes. And pretty soon a kind of calm
Aaah
swept over my brain.
That’s right
, it murmured,
first find the atomic mass
.

So I took the periodic table and went hunting for potassium. Which turned out to be like hunting for gold—tricky. Instead of potassium’s symbol being a P—which apparently phosphorus got dibs on first—it was a K.

That’s right, a K.

Don’t ask me.

Bromine was also tricky—first, because it was
bromine
and not
bromide
that I had to look up, and second, because although it did start with
B
, there were a lot of other elements that did, too. Like boron and beryllium and barium and bohrium and bismuth! And if you’ve ever seen the table you know that the elements aren’t anywhere
close
to being in alphabetical order. They’re just randomly scattered around.

Well, okay, they’re grouped by
type
of element, but not knowing whether bromine was a gas or a metal or a
transition
metal or whatever made it really hard for me to find.

But eventually I did.

It’s a halogen, by the way.

And a liquid.

Or just element 35 on your periodic table, in case you ever have Ms. Rothhammer.

Anyway, I followed Kip’s notes and when I’d finished the first two problems, I was feeling better. So I tried to do the next one on my own. The problem had lithium sulfate in it, so this time the first thing I did was check Ms. Rothhammer’s little chemical key for the formula, which turned out to be Li
₂
SO
₄
.

Lithium was easy to find because when I search for an element, I start at number 1, hydrogen, and read my way back and forth across the chart. And since lithium is the third element, I didn’t have to read very far.

I already knew where oxygen was because I’d used it a lot, so that was a snap, and I spotted sulfur right under oxygen—no hunting required!

So I wrote out

And I was getting ready to multiply lithium’s 6.94 by 2 and oxygen’s 16.00 by 4, so I could add their products to sulfur’s 32.07 and calculate the molecular weight of lithium sulfate, when a little
click
happens in my brain. And that little click starts what feels like an
earthquake
inside of me. At first it’s a rumbling. A rolling of cells starting at my core, moving outward.

Then my body starts to tremble.

And my hands start to shake.

“Holy smokes!” I gasp, and then start scouring the periodic table.

Sure enough, there is no element L.

Only Li.

I write out
LIONN
, and above the
LI
I put lithium’s atomic number: 3.

O is oxygen—element 8. So I write an 8 above the
O
. And N is nitrogen—element 7. So I write 7s above the
N
s.
Then I check the periodic table for any other possible combinations in
LIONN
that might stand for elements. Like Io or On or Nn.

There are none.

Using the periodic table as a decoder, the only possible translation is the number 3877.

My heart’s whacking away because it feels like I’ve discovered the secret formula that will explain all the Kensington madness.

The real test is, will the number combinations translate into words?

When I’d returned Marissa’s purse after our dinner with the captain, I’d stuffed Bradley’s forgeries and the coded message paper into the little front pouch of my backpack for safekeeping.

So now I scramble to dig out the coded note and go straight for the first combination: 90 – 49 – 19.

90 on the periodic table is thorium, Th.

49 is indium, In.

And 19 is potassium, K.

My heart’s going crazy, because what I’ve just decoded is definitely a word.

Think
.

“Marissa!” I hiss across the room. “Pst! Marissa!”

“What?” she says, coming over.

I’m already busy on the next set of numbers: 4 – 39 – 8 – 60, and above each number I write the letters of the element it corresponds to.

Be – Y – O – Nd.

Beyond
.

Marissa gasps. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I’ve only got the next group of numbers translated to Mo and Ne when Marissa gets all excited and whispers, “Money!”

And she’s right. The 39 is yttrium, which is Y.

She is totally excited now and whispers, “It’s obvious, now that you’ve figured it out—they’re chemists!”

“Well, the father was anyway.”

“And Noah’s into bad chemistry jokes.”

I nod. “And Kip’s a chemistry wiz.”

She sits down next to me, all excited. “Let’s do the rest!”

So we do, and in the end the message decodes to:
Think beyond money—kindness is essential. Find clarification in cabin 3877
.

“Wow,” Marissa whispers, and after we both stare at it a minute, she says, “What does this
mean
?”

“It means we should go to cabin 3877.”

“Us?” Her eyes get all big. “Sammy, this is not our mess! It’s Bradley’s and Teresa’s and Lucas’!”

“Fine,” I tell her as I pack up my stuff. “Let’s have a convergence of Kensingtons.”

“A convergence of—Sammy, no!”

But I’m already out in the elevator area, making a beeline for the ship phone.

“Sammy, please, can we
think
about this?”

Which, yeah, probably would have been mature and, you know,
prudent
, but I was only three days into fourteen and not used to the responsibility yet. “I’m going to tell them to come here, okay? We’ll stay in public.”

She shakes her head like crazy as I punch in 9584 and wait as it rings.

“Rats,” I say, putting down the phone.

“You can’t expect them to be in their rooms.”

“What else are they doing but hiding from each other and waiting for the cruise to be over so they can escape?” I think a minute and say, “Fore is minus two in cabin numbering, right?”

“What?”

But I’m sure it is, so I pick up the phone again and punch in 9582—Lucas and LuAnn’s cabin number. And my heart is really jackhammering now because I’m remembering how I’d mouthed off at them this morning.

“Sammy,” Marissa pleads, “we really need to wait for Darren and Marko.”

There’s no answer, which leaves Bradley’s room. And there’s no way I’m going near
that
—or the Royal Suite.

I look at Marissa. “How do you dial guest services?”

She looks relieved. “Dial zero and just ask.”

So I do, and when there’s someone on the line, I go, “Can you connect me to the Royal Suite?”

Marissa moans, “No!” but two rings after I’m transferred, the phone is snatched up.

“Ginger?” I ask, because there are loud voices in the background, but I didn’t actually hear anyone say hello.

And then, even though I can tell there’s a hand over the receiver, I hear Ginger’s voice screech, “QUIET!” Then she comes on the line with, “Who’s this?”

I twist the phone a little so Marissa can hear, too. “It’s Sammy. We figured out the code.”

There’s dead silence for a minute and then over the receiver she calls, “Kip’s friends figured out the code!”

“Who has?” I hear in the background. It’s a man’s voice. I think Lucas’. “Are you talking about those horrible girls?”

“Come over!!” Ginger says to me. “We’re all here!”

Marissa shakes her head like crazy, and even burning with code-cracking fever, I know she’s right. “There’s no way I’m coming up there,” I tell Ginger. “You guys need to come down to the Lido Library on Deck 8.”

Then I hang up the phone.

Marissa covers her mouth with both hands. “I’m scared.”

“As long as we’re in public, we’re okay,” I tell her. Only we’re all alone and already we hear feet pounding down the steps.

“No!” Marissa gasps, then yanks me toward the library door.

Only it’s not a stampede of Kensingtons.

It’s Darren and Marko. “Just got your note,” Darren pants, and Marko’s got his sticks together in one hand like a sword. “What’s going on?”

“The Kensingtons are coming!” Marissa cries.

And there really is no time to explain, because now there
is
a stampede coming down the stairs, and Bradley’s actually elbowing his brother back to get to us first. “What’s the message?” Bradley demands, and he’s looking like he never took a shower or even changed his clothes.

I kind of gulp, ’cause he’s big and angry and ugly.

Like a pig-eyed, hungover, balding bull.

“I’ve got it right here,” I tell him, trying to make my voice steady as I hold up his sheet. “But first you have to tell me where Kip is.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” he says, zeroing in on his name on the back of the paper. “How’d you get that?”

I pull it back a little. And since Darren and Marko are flanking me, I guess I’m feeling kind of brave, ’cause I tell him, “Guess you shouldn’t pass out in public places. Stuff might fall out of your pockets. Like this and, oh, forged suicide notes.”

Lucas and Teresa look at him with darts shooting from their eyes, and then Bradley comes at me like he’s going to throttle me.

“Back off, buddy!” Marko says, jabbing him in the gut with his drumsticks, and Darren’s fist is cocked and definitely not locked.

Bradley backs down but he’s still pawing at the ground, and when I ask about Kip again, Lucas tells me, “It’s a family matter,” and Teresa has the nerve to say, “And your meddling is not appreciated!”

“Oh, really,” I tell her. “Is that because you’ve deciphered the note yourself? Or is it because you’re afraid I’ll find out what happened to Kip?” I stare her down a minute, then decide to just go for it. “Because you know what? I figured it out—he’s
not
your son. He’s legally your brother. You wouldn’t adopt him, so your father wound up doing it. Which means Kip gets a fourth of the inheritance. Which means the three of you have to share with a Kensington who doesn’t look or sound or act like any of you.”

“He’s
not
a Kensington!” Lucas shouts.

“Tell it to the judge,” I snap back. Then I add, “And if you guys have hurt him? We’re gonna make sure you wind up paying.”

And yeah, I’m totally shooting from the hip, and no, I don’t know how we’re gonna make sure they wind up paying, or
prove
anything, for that matter, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Darren and Marko. They just stand there on either side of me, rock solid.

Then Marko growls, “So where’s the Kipster?”

The Kensingtons give him a kind of blank look, and then Lucas says, “I have no idea.”

“Neither do I,” Bradley says.

So everyone turns to Teresa. “Me? I had nothing to do with it!” She looks at Bradley. “I thought
you
did.”

Bradley looks at Lucas. “I thought
you
did.”

“Did what?” Marko asks, then steps up with a stick in each hand. “If you idiots so much as laid a hand on him, I’m gonna do more than call the cops!”

“I didn’t touch him!” they all cry, and although it’s pretty clear that they all thought he was missing because one of the others had bumped him off and were just
fine
with that, none of them looks guilty.

“Now give me my paper!” Bradley bellows.

I squint at them. “Seriously?” And maybe I should have just told them to go look up a periodic table online and have at it, but suddenly I
got
that Marissa was right about the Puzzle Lady taking the last handful of pieces with her.

She’d done all the work.

She wanted to finish the job herself.

And then something else hits me. “Where’s Ginger?”

The Kensingtons look back at the stairs, but if Ginger was coming, she would have been down ages ago.

My mind flashes to her being in the horde of people waiting for the elevator the morning we’d gone to Cabo San Lucas.

“Can she do stairs okay?” I ask.

“She does them
fine
,” Teresa says, all full of disgust.

My mind goes back to that morning in Cabo San Lucas again.

Why would anyone wait an hour for an elevator to take them from the Schooner Buffet on Deck 11 to the Royal Suite on Deck 10? It’s
down
one little flight of stairs.

And, like a tidal wave, it hits me.

She wasn’t going to the Royal Suite.

“You know what?” I tell the lousy lot of them. “I know where she is.”

“Where who is?” Lucas asks.