Stowaway (13 page)

“What?” she
replies, “I can’t just walk around wearing the jewelry I do
unprotected.
The
staff allow
me some liberties for my own safety.”

I am stopping my
phone recording to save battery when Luke and Smith run up.

“Rose!” says Luke.
“We have been looking for Maggie and thought we heard her yell over this way.
Have you seen her or Mike?”

“Um, what’s going
on with this guy?” adds Smith, pointing to the now mercifully unconscious Carl.

“Maggie is up
there, and this guy kidnapped and tried to kill her. From what I understand, he
did murder poor little Mike. He’s up there, too.”

Smith frisks and
handcuffs Carl with some zip ties for good measure, then follows Luke up the
ladder.

“I’m fine!” I say
when the reach the top. “Check the storage room. You’ll also find Teresa,
Carl’s nurse, dead in there.
Along with Mike.”

Hot tears spring
into my eyes as they nod and run off. Mike saved my life. Granted, he tried to
steal from me multiple times first, but in the end, he was a good guy.

“Hey, can you
guy’s call me a nurse?
Preferably a pretty female one with
good bedside manner?”

It’s Mike’s
nasally voice. Luke appears at the storage room door.

“Rose! Mike is
alive. Get help!”

“Oh honey, the doc
on this ship gave me
a one-touch alert necklace years
ago.
Already done!”

Ten minutes later,
Mike is gone, whisked away by what did turn out to be a team of soothing,
pretty nurses. The medical team confirmed on site that he was lucky to be
alive, but should recover nicely. It didn’t appear that Carl hit anything major
with the knife.

A few of the team
stays behind. While one examines to my breathing with a stethoscope and another
pumps up a blood pressure monitor on my arm, I see Luke quietly direct two
others into the storage room. A doctor immediately pronounces Teresa as
deceased and they carry her away.
Poor woman.
She was
just trying to do her job and help an ailing old man. Too bad she got tangled
up with Carl.

Suddenly, I
remember.

“Excuse me?
Sir?”
I say to a passing crew member as I jam on my missing
shoe. “Is the auction still going on?”

“Uh, I think so,
but you are really in no condition…”

“Luke, Smith!
We’ve got to go!”

I stand for the
first time and start to fall over. Both of them jump to support me, and finally
decide it will take both of them to guide me. I wince as Luke grabs my tender
right elbow. If it’s not broken, it is severely bruised.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.
Let’s go.”

They both just nod
as I shoot them a look that says I’m not backing down. By the time we reach the
gallery, I see Willoughby, is just directing the crowd’s attention to
Blue
.
The excitement in the air is electric, even to a non-enthusiast, like me.

I start shoving my
way through. I need to see if Carl was telling the truth about the switch. My
arm aches, my neck throbs and I generally feel like I’ve been mowed down by a
truck, but I don’t stop. Luke and Smith do what they can to clear the way.

“It is finally
time, folks,” the curator is saying. “I know you’ve all been waiting for this
one. No introduction needed for this painting. Shall we just get the bidding
started on the
DuPorte
? Do I have one million
dollars?”

I’ll never make it
in time. I can’t see the painting or curator at this point. However, I must
stop this.
Now.

“Wait!” I scream.

The hushed crowd
turns toward me in confusion, as I make my way to the front.

“What is this?”
whispers Willoughby angrily.

With Smith and
Luke’s help, I find the pictures saved on my phone. First to cue up is the one
I just snapped of
Blue
.

“Great. Now flick
over to the original one you took the first day,” says Luke.

I do, and
Willoughby looks skeptical.

“Ma’am, there’s no
difference. No tampering. See?”

“Let me zoom in
closer.
To the girl.”

As I do, first on
the original, then the most recent photo, I pray Carl was really telling the truth.
Willoughby gasps when he sees it.

“The colors!” he announces,
“They are switched.”

Immediately, the
crowd goes from silent to a roar as everyone talks over each other in a jumbled,
confused mass.

I turn on the
recording of Carl’s confession, which Luke, Smith and Willoughby have to lean
in to hear. At the end, Smith speaks first.

“I’m going to need
that for evidence.”

I nod.

“I think the
question now is, where is the authentic
DuPorte
?”
asks the curator. “It’s the last lot we have to auction today.”

“And, we dock in
an hour,” says Luke, looking worried. At least now, there is a greater chance
of finding it or speaking to the passenger who might have seen something.
All that vanishes when we disembark.

“Have someone
search the suspect’s cabin. And, for God‘s sake, I want you to personally
detain him someplace secure!” Smith shouts above the fray to the closest
security team member. “No one leaves this ship until that painting is found.
Notify the port, we may not be docking as scheduled, due to unforeseen delays.
That’s all you tell them for now. Got it?”

The man nods,
then
gathers a team. Luke goes with them. There is nothing
left for me to do but wait, so I sit slumped between the two nurses, waiting for
Carl’s cocktail to fade away.

“Ladies and gentlemen,”
announces the curator, “there will be a slight delay with the
DuPorte
auction. Please remain in your seats, and we will
get our final piece up for bid shortly. Thank you for your patience.”

….

Thirty minutes
later, the jittery crowd knows something is up. Despite Willoughby’s periodic
reassuring statements, they have seen crew members darting in and out in a
panic.

Most bidders have
left by now to wander around until the auction is back on, but several are
still gathered in the gallery to watch the action. A young crew member briskly
wades through them to Smith, who has been in a tense, whispered conversation
with the ship’s captain off to my right.
Too quiet for me to
overhear from my perch.

I still have a
flock of medical experts hovering around me. No doubt the staff is worried
about extra law suits.
If they only knew.
But right
now, no one is checking passenger manifests or asking for my room information.
I am safe, so I lean back, let the nurses do their jobs and unabashedly
eavesdrop.

“Excuse me, sir,
Captain,” the young crewman says, nodding at Smith and the captain. “We have
located the painting.”

He holds it out.

“Where was it?”
asks Smith.

“Inside
a fuzzy stuffed banana.
It looked like an unused pet toy. It was covered
in plastic and sewn in with the cotton filling.”

“Let me see it!”
shrieks someone excitedly from behind the crowd. Willoughby pushes his way through
and rushes up to the plastic-wrapped painting the officer holds. He snatches it
away, and gingerly unfurls it on his podium. With obvious relief, he leans
forward into the microphone.

“Everyone, we’ll
be getting started shortly. The authentic
DuPorte
has
been located. It will be cleaned, authenticated and reframed before we offer
it. We will allow a few minutes for review of it by the crowd, and then bidding
will get underway.”

He hands the
painting off to an assistant for the promised polish,
then
steps down. He is obviously relieved.

“Uh, Willoughby is
it?” says Smith. He has extracted the painting back from the assistant and is
carefully handling it with gloved hands.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for
identifying this stolen art work. However, I can’t allow you to sell this
painting today. It’s evidence in an investigation.”

“What? No, you
don’t understand.
Blue
is the reason many of our guests have joined us
this weekend. If it doesn’t go on the auction block, the consequences will
be…bad. The refunds passengers will demand and the damaged reputation of it all
will be irreparable for the line!”

“Sir,” Smith
replies tersely, clearly annoyed, “this painting is the reason for multiple
homicides and attempted murder. The liner’s reputation is already damaged. So,
there is no way I’m letting some rich whale waltz out of here with it. Announce
that the auction is off,
then
get everybody out of
here!”

Willoughby pales,
but has no reply. As much as he wants to, we all know he can’t disobey law
enforcement. His mouth forms a tight, straight line, but he nods and returns to
his podium.

“Ladies and
gentlemen,” he says wearily, “I’m afraid the
DuPorte
will not be auctioned at this time after all. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.
You may take any grievances up with the purser at the Guest Services Desk.”

The crowd, which
has grown since his original update went out, turn on him with a roar of
discontent. He puts his hands up to quell the uprising, but drops them just as
fast. Then, he crumples to the ground. Carl’s cane handle juts from his chest,
and his face has somehow become paler and taken on a sickening shade of grey.

Screams fill the
room, as terrified passengers and crew scramble for cover. I am no exception,
huddling beneath the table on which I was just relaxing. Where was the handle
thrown from? Carl is nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 11

“Maggie!”

It’s Smith. He and
a doctor are tucked behind an overturned table next to me. I join them.

“We have to help Willoughby,”
he continues. “Carl must have gotten free. You know him better than anyone else
on this ship. Where would he be?”

I honestly have no
idea. I only met the real Carl an hour ago. But, he’s right. I know him best.
Think, Maggie, think. Carl is not one to hide with the crowd. No, he’d be
close, but out of sight.

The
metal sculpture.
Yes, I see movement behind it now. I motion to Smith,
who subtly follows my line of sight. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, and
signals the security team to sweep in from behind.

I see Carl pull a
small pistol, shoot at the nearest guard, then into the crowd. Two others on the
force fire, and he goes down. Turns out the pistol is empty, was never loaded.

“Good job,
Maggie.” It’s Smith.

“Why? Why would he
do that? He was so outnumbered.”

“That’s the point.
He knew it was a suicide move. He was a coward, and got to choose his own way
out. That’s more than he gave any of his victims.
And, for
what?
A stupid painting.”

“Smith!”
It’s the Captain. “We have one casualty.
A bystander.”

“Who?”

“Our most elderly
guest, a long-time resident of the ship named Rose McConnell. She is seriously
wounded and we’re trying to get her to shore now.”

That’s all I hear.
My ears fill with a buzz and everything goes numb. There, I see her now, lying
on the floor in the rows of chairs, surrounded by medical staff. Sir
Chipperley
is circling, barking wildly. I take in the sight
clinically, feeling no emotion. She is covered with a sheet, one forearm
extended out, the wrist circled with a signature diamond bracelet. Then, I
remember. She said she’d be here for the
DuPorte
bidding. I really wish she hadn’t. I take it back. I don’t want to retire on a
ship like her, after all. I’d be happy if I never stepped foot on another one
again.

I walk into the
promenade for some air. Around me are puzzled passengers, most of which came
for the auction, but left before it really got exciting. They have no idea what
just went on. I hear snatches of their confused conversation, rumors flying, yet
feel no pull to join in, to explain things. Instead, I wander farther away.

I finally sit on
the edge of the reflecting pool, which is colored alternately with lights in
peach, red, purple and blue hues. Soothing most times, it just seems out of
place now. Everyone I have touched on this cruise has been hurt because of me.
Mike and Willoughby stabbed, Rose possibly dying. Even Agent Smith probably
faces stiff career consequences when he gets home.
And, Luke.
Poor Luke.
He may be physically fine, but I have not
only disrupted his life, I got him accused of double homicide and probably
ruined his future as a cruise ship musician forever.
All that
in less than three days.

I suddenly realize
I have not seen Luke since he left with the security team. Is he safe? Then, I
see him, running toward me.

No, he’s running
from something. He doesn’t even notice me here, hear me shouting his name. He
dives straight into the pool, and emerges in the middle near the fountain.
Colored water splashes down as the horde of women catch up. They are younger
this time. Not like the middle aged ladies in the elevator. No, these are
groupies, fawning fans that don’t see the water as a barrier.

“Oh my God!”
screams one girl. “Who would have thought Luke
Ledgely
would be on a ship like this!”

“I know!” shrieks
the crazed fan next to her. “Bands like that NEVER do gigs like this. Wonder
where the rest of them are?”

“Don’t know, don’t
care. He’s the best one,” says a third, shoving the first two aside and
plunging into the water straight toward Luke.

The rest of the
pack follows her, like wolves on the hunt. They tear at his clothes and hair,
until he scales the sculpted metal and glass fountain to its precarious top. I
see his hands are bleeding from the sharp edges.