Cooks Overboard Page 7

  “It’s very important. A matter of life and death. I must speak with him immediately.”

  “Let me put you through to the nurse in charge.”

  She drummed her fingers, waiting for the transfer to be made. The phone rang.

  “ICU. Nurse Patel.”

  “This is Dagmar Ingerson—Sven Ingerson’s sister. I’d like to speak with him, please.”

  “I’m sorry, but he isn’t able to speak at the moment. Have you talked to his doctor?”

  “Not yet. I really just need one moment with Sven. It’s an emergency. I won’t disturb him again after this, I promise.”

  “I’m sorry. You must speak with the doctor.”

  “Please, Nurse,” she tried to make her voice tearful. “Ten seconds. I’m really desperate.”

  “I’d help you if I could, but your brother…he’s very serious. Critical, I’m afraid. He wouldn’t be physically able to speak with you even if it were permitted.”

  16

  That night, Angie approached the bed wearing the beautiful negligee she’d bought especially for this romantic vacation. Some romance! Paavo had been distant all day, smiling and pleasant—and completely out of character. He’d even teamed up as Ruby Cockburn’s partner in a game of bridge.

  The sea had grown rougher throughout the evening, so bad that the captain ordered cold sandwiches for dinner. He didn’t want any cooking going on in the galley, or any chance of hot food being spilled on anyone’s lap. Now, the ship’s rolling made her lurch awkwardly from side to side. She wanted to swing her hips, not her whole body.

  Paavo was sitting up in bed waiting for her, a blanket covering him from the waist down. The area below his left shoulder held only a faint shadow of the scar from the gunshot that had nearly killed him soon after they first met. She proudly remembered how she had stopped the gunman from firing a second shot as Paavo lay wounded…and she’d been in love with him ever since.

  Standing by the doorway, she slowly removed her dressing gown, revealing a negligee of silk and lace, antique gold in color, that fell unfettered from her shoulders to the floor. By the time the gown dropped, Paavo’s large blue eyes burned with desire. In that area, at least, he was still the man she knew and loved. She walked toward him, step by step, trying not to stumble, and reminding herself of how beautifully the material glimmered as she moved. He seemed to hold his breath.

  When she reached him, he took her hands in his. “You’re beautiful, Angie. I could spend hours doing nothing but look at you.”

  “Sorry,” she whispered, then bent forward and kissed him. “Not good enough.”

  Angie was dreaming she was on a roller-coaster ride. On the roller coaster with her was Sven Ingerson, Dudley Livingstone, Julio Rodriguez, and the mysterious cook who’d tried to jump off the ship when she first arrived. She should have followed his example.

  She woke up to find the dream was scarcely an exaggeration. The storm was making a terrible racket; rain and waves pounded the ship and the wind howled. Crushed between the high padded edge of the bed and Paavo, she had to practically fight her way to a sitting position. The fact that he didn’t wake up indicated just how tired he still was. She couldn’t help but wonder if this constant fatigue didn’t have something to do with his decision to quit his job—not that he was physically ill, because he seemed otherwise healthy, but simply because it was weighing on his mind.

  God, but she felt sick. She clutched the side of the bed, hanging over the edge. She had no idea such a huge ship could bounce around this way. She imagined it looking like a toy boat in a bathtub with a little kid smacking the water.

  She groaned, her stomach feeling queasier with each roll of the boat way, way up, then way, way down.

  Maybe some water would help. She reached for her negligee at the foot of the bed, slipped it on, then, holding onto the furniture, lurched her way into the bathroom.

  She took a sip of water, then turned to go back to bed. Just then a stronger roll of the ship sent her reeling across the bathroom floor. As she stumbled past the medicine cabinet, she caught sight of her deathly pale face in the mirror.

  She clutched her rapidly worsening stomach. She needed to go back to bed and lie down immediately. On the other hand, she didn’t think it would be a good idea to get too far away from the bathroom.

  She worked her way back toward the bedroom and looked at Paavo. He was now stretched across the bed catty-corner, still sleeping soundly.

  Then she remembered the wall bed. At least there she could lie down and be near the bathroom—which, her stomach told her, was becoming increasingly necessary with every roll of the ship.

  Bracing herself, she lunged toward the wall bed, flipped up the two metal clamps that held the lengthwise bed against the wall, and tugged on it, lowering the bed all the way down. Then she hurled herself on top of it, clutching the thin mattress so she wouldn’t fall off. Just lying down on her stomach that way helped her feel a lot better. She spread her arms so that her hands gripped the edges of the narrow mattress.

  As the ship tossed about, the bow of the ship dipped. Her feet went up, her head down. She hadn’t been this far upside down since she tried taking a yoga class and had to stand on her head. Then the ship crested and her head rose high in the air, pointing toward heaven, her feet toward the other place. She felt like a little kid playing airplane. She’d heard that tropical storms were furious but short, and prayed it was true. This one had gone on long enough already.

  She tried to relax. She shut her eyes and willed herself back to sleep. Unfortunately, her thoughts were of past cruises she’d been on—ships with stabilizers, with tremendous varieties of gourmet food, with dancing, big swimming pools, even hot tubs. Her breathing deepened. Miniature golf, boutiques, a sauna. She let go of the mattress, turning on her side to go to sleep. A deluxe stateroom with a deep bath…

  As she began to doze, one side of the ship rolled upward in a long, slow climb, higher and higher, and suddenly she felt herself slide right off the mattress and against the wall. And still the boat climbed. She couldn’t even think of being seasick now, certain the ship would flip over and they’d be upside down in the water. She really didn’t want to be here any longer.

  The far side of the ship began to lower itself and she began to breathe again, although still tucked against the wall. But then, once more, it began to rise.

  The edge of the bed rose higher and higher.

  Suddenly, the bed itself, free now of her weight spread full on it to hold it down, suddenly bounded upward, right off the floor, and swung up into the wall, squashing her against it like a fly.

  The Hydra dialed the familiar number. “It’s me.”

  “You!”

  She smiled at the sound of fear in the man’s voice. It was exactly what she wanted to hear. That meant she could take care of this matter quickly, then go to the galley and do another quick search of a few things. “Listen, the Valhalla is supposed to dock in Cabo San Lucas tomorrow. I don’t want it to.”

  “What’s up?”

  “There are some people on board who I don’t want getting off the ship. They’ve got something of mine, and no one is leaving this crate until it’s in my hands. You’ve got to help.”

  “Hey, I can’t perform miracles.”

  “I don’t want a miracle, just a bribe. I don’t care who you get to—the harbormaster, the head of the dockworkers, some politician, but whoever it is, they need to tell the captain that there’s a strike going on and no one is available to load or unload his containers. Tell him that the people he sees working are scabs, and the union is ready to start gunplay if any more scabs are hired. The one doing the hiring might be the first to get shot. I know this captain. Believe me, he won’t think twice about docking if he thinks there’s any danger possible.”

  “A strike?”

  “I don’t care who you get to give him the news, but it had better be good.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “Ten th
ousand, max.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Done.”

  Angie pushed hard on the mattress, and as the ship rolled in the other direction, the mattress lowered with a whump.

  She sat up on it. Her hair was standing on end—probably from the fury she felt. She would have been even more angry about this whole miserable trip except that she was too busy brushing dust off herself and running her hands over her face and arms and through her hair.

  That had been one of the most horrible experiences of her life. Holding onto walls and furniture, she got off the wall bed—she had never thought they were called that because you could get walled up inside one—and went to tell Paavo all about it.

  To her complete amazement, he was still asleep.

  She put on her robe and slippers to go to the galley and find something to settle her stomach. She felt parched, seasick, and generally miserable. Being shoved into a wall by a mattress will do that to you.

  17

  Where was the galley? She’d been told it was just below the main deck, near the crew’s mess, but she’d never been this far down in the ship before. She thought she was on the right deck, though. Maybe she should have taken the elevator instead of the stairs, but the elevator was so slow. She’d expected there would be a large sign on the door, something like the kitchen sign in a big hotel.

  There seemed to be nothing but closed doors down here. The galley wouldn’t have regular doors. They’d be swinging ones—or so she hoped. Things weren’t that different on a freighter, or were they?

  The decks below the main deck were larger than those that rose above it in the superstructure at the rear of the freighter. But even here, in the hull of the ship, most of the space was taken up by massive containers.

  She turned a corner and saw two large doors up ahead. It had to be the galley—with double doors large enough to roll carts of food out to the mess and up the elevator to the passenger’s dining room. She walked up to it and pushed the door open.

  A flashlight blinded her, then went off. Startled, she froze momentarily, then turned to run when a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the dark galley. “No!” she screamed as she was flung into the room.

  She stumbled forward, banging into a rack of pots and pans. They fell over with a loud clatter, and so did she.

  She lay without moving. The only sound she heard was the swishing of the galley door back and forth until it stilled.

  Was she alone? She waited, scarcely breathing, listening for any sound that might tell her that her assailant was still in the room.

  Nothing except the heavy pounding of her heart.

  She inched her way toward the door and was ready to run out when she heard a plop-plop-plop sound in the hallway. She scooted back to where she had been and found what she wanted—an enormous cast-iron frying pan.

  Now that her eyes had grown used to the dark, she could see the narrow line of light from the hallway beneath the galley doors, so she knew where her assailant would be coming from. She carefully, quickly eased to the side of the door, the frying pan hoisted over her shoulders like a baseball bat.

  The door was pulled open slowly, then stopped. From the dim night-light in the hallway a hand reached into the galley. She was sure she was going to faint.

  A long gown floated against the door’s opening. It was either a woman or a ghost, she thought. But there were no such things as ghosts, so it had to be a woman. Must be Nellie or Ruby. No problem. Although it seemed a little tall for Nellie…even for Ruby.

  Maybe she should call out, greet them.

  But what if she was wrong?

  Something rubbed against the wall, up and down, up and down. Then it stopped. She gripped the frying pan tighter, raising it higher.

  Suddenly the lights came on.

  Angie screamed.

  Julio screamed.

  Julio?

  Angie kept the frying pan raised, not sure if she could trust him or not. The steward stood before her wearing a long nightshirt and slippers with no backs, the kind that flopped when you walk in them.

  “Señorita, you scared me!” he cried. “What are you doing here in the dark? In the middle of the night? With a frying pan?”

  “Someone attacked me.”

  “Madre mia! Are you all right?”

  She slowly lowered her arms. “Just a little banged up. I came down here because I felt seasick,” she said. “But someone was here ahead of me. With a flashlight. Did you see anyone in the hall?”

  “No, señorita, no one at all.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Me? I wanted some warm milk. I could not sleep with so much trouble—first the cook leaving, then my friend Sven getting sick. I am troubled.”

  “You’re not the only one,” she murmured.

  “Where is Mr. Smith? Why are you here alone?” he asked.

  “Paavo’s sleeping like a baby.”

  “Then please join me. I will have my warm milk, and you can have your soda, and we will wait out this storm together.” He pointed at the frying pan she still held. “I think you can put that down now.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “I’ll put it down…but I’ll keep it in easy reach.”

  Paavo became aware, in a semiasleep state, that the storm was much worse than anyone had expected it would be. The best thing to do was to try to sleep through it, to ignore the roar of the sea, the banging of rain against the windows, the almost human cry of the wind through the ship.

  He reached out to Angie. She wasn’t there. She must have gotten up to use the bathroom. Maybe her getting up was what had awakened him. He rolled over to go back to sleep.

  When he awoke again, the sun was peeking over the horizon. He turned over to check on Angie, but she still wasn’t beside him. Was she up already? That wasn’t like her. He remembered a terrible storm last night. He sat up, suddenly wide awake. Where was Angie?

  He got out of bed and hurried to the sitting area. Empty. The bathroom door was open. Empty.

  The wall bed was down. What was that supposed to mean? Had she tried sleeping on it? Had she grown so out of sorts with him that she didn’t want to sleep with him anymore? Things had seemed okay between them last night. He remembered her talking…she was talking about writing a cookbook again…and he remembered getting more and more sleepy…he must have…oh, hell.

  Christ, where was she? His heart began to race. He couldn’t see her leaving the cabin on her own. She never got up this early on vacation. She never got up early, period. A cold, ugly dread seeped through him. He was ready to run out, then realized he was in his pajamas. He needed to put on his shoes and pants at least. God, what if she’d been hurt? She’d been curious about this ship, about the strangeness going on here, but he’d dismissed it, ignored the danger. That was what civilians did, he’d supposed: ignore danger, then rush headlong into it.

  He tore off his pajamas. Before leaving the city, he’d decided he was through with police work, through investigating, through having to deal with all the grief caused by men who went bad.

  Yet, early in the cruise he’d begun to develop an uneasy feeling about this ship. Like Angie, he’d noticed that things had been moved around their room as if it had been searched; he’d noticed Livingstone’s strange questions, Sven Ingerson’s strange words and illness, even the way everyone seemed to be constantly watching Angie. Most of those things were explainable and clearly meant nothing ominous. But not all of them were.

  He put on underwear and his jeans. The damnable part was that he hadn’t allowed himself to differentiate the serious from the trivial. He’d chosen to ignore them all instead of trying to find out what the hell was really going on here. And now he didn’t know where Angie was.

  He pulled a sweater over his head. In a flash, his mind filled with all the horrible possibilities of what could happen to a young woman on a ship like this, in the middle of the ocean. That was the t
rouble with having been a homicide inspector. He’d seen people’s worst nightmares come true.

  She had to be all right. He had to find her.

  His head pounded with the effort of pushing away his grisly thoughts. Where were his shoes? Everything was topsy-turvy in the cabin. He was ready to tear something apart—

  Just then the door opened. Angie came waltzing into the room, and when she saw him, she smiled. “Well, look who’s awake,” she said cheerily. “Good morning.”

  He stared at her. That was all? Just good morning? She was still wearing her night things, her robe. She looked happy, dammit, while he’d just aged ten years. “Where the hell were you?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I couldn’t sleep. I was with Julio. And I’ve got so much to tell you!”

  Had he heard right? “Julio! At this time of night?”

  Her eyes narrowed ominously. “It’s morning now. Anyway, I wanted some 7-Up to settle my stomach, and—”

  He stepped closer, suddenly furious. “You called him in the middle of the night?”

  She gaped at him, acting shocked that he was talking to her in that tone. Well, what did she expect after what she’d done? “I didn’t call anyone! I went to the galley.”

  “How innocent. And he just happened to be waiting?” Even he hated the way he sounded, but for the life of him he couldn’t stop himself. “I suppose he offered comfort. And you took it!”

  Her cheeks flamed. “Thank goodness he was there,” she yelled. “All things considered!”

  So she was glad! She did like the man! “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Angie lifted her chin, clearly every bit as angry as he was. “We sat in the galley and talked. Julio is a nice man. Very nice, in fact. He’s planning on going back to school and becoming a geography teacher. This is his field research.”

  “Sure it is.” At least the weaselly twerp hadn’t said he needed field research to become a gynecologist.