Hula Done It? Part 14

Gasps. Shouts. Wails.

The floor seemed to tilt as the group struggled to their collective feet. b.u.mping. Shoving. Hysterically out of control. "How did that happen?" cried Helen. "It's a quarter past six! We'll never make dinner on time!"

Not only had my group lost all sense of direction, they seemed to have lost all sense of time. Wow. Folks back home were never going to believe this.

They rushed toward the door, jamming up in the tiny entryway like jellybeans escaping a narrow-necked bottle. "My camcorder!" d.i.c.k Stolee called back to me, extending his arm through the crowd.

As I attempted to depress the b.u.t.ton to stop the replay, I stood motionless for a heartbeat, my eyes glued to the display screen as Bailey Howard's image stared back at me in the final frame. Oh, geesch! How could I have forgotten about Bailey? I was happy to see she was still alive.

The most disturbing and baffling question now was...who was dead?

Chapter 11.

With the elevator being hogged by the dinner crowd, I took the stairs back up to my cabin, my mind churning with unanswered questions.

If Tilly and the gang had found Griffin Ring's treasure, what had Percy and Basil found that needed to be stored in the s.h.i.+p's safe? What had Nils and the boys dug up that Ansgar had taken off with? Did I dare believe anything that Jennifer or Sh.e.l.ly had told me? And what about Bailey? Was she the dedicated grad student she appeared to be, or an ambitious killer with a flair for hip eyewear? The real problem for me was, whose version of the truth was I supposed to believe when everyone seemed to have an ax to grind?

I hit deck ten sucking in air like a Hoover WindTunnel. Inserting my room key into its slot, I realized this was the result when your only cardiovascular activity of the day was a protracted scream in the c.o.c.kpit of a cras.h.i.+ng helicopter. And a protracted scream might not even be cla.s.sified as cardiovascular. It might be pulmonary.

I pushed open my door, puzzled by an unexpected smell. I sniffed the air suspiciously. What in the --? What in the --? I punched the light switch on the wall, then stood paralyzed as I gazed around the interior of my Royal Family Suite. I punched the light switch on the wall, then stood paralyzed as I gazed around the interior of my Royal Family Suite.

Roses. On every surface. In every s.p.a.ce. An ocean of color in coral and pink, cream and red, lemon and blush. I looked from arrangement to arrangement, feeling as if I'd either stepped into the Secret Garden, or the Serene Reflections viewing room at Heavenly Host Funeral Home. Sweetheart roses. Long-stemmed roses. Tea roses. Miniature roses. Damask roses. In sprays and bouquets, vases and baskets. On the floor. On the counters. On mult.i.tiered pedestals that stretched from one end of the suite to the other. If there were any roses left on the islands of Hawaii, I'd be very surprised.

I inched my way into the room, s.h.i.+fting flower stands here and there to create a path, overwhelmed by the fragrance, the color, the sheer number of arrangements. If these were fruit baskets instead of flowers, we'd be saying good-bye to world hunger. Halfway into the room, I noticed a particularly elegant arrangement set on a high pedestal by the baby grand -- a tall gla.s.s vase filled with a sweeping bouquet of deep pink roses, baby's breath, and lush greenery...with a white envelope taped to the vase.

Handwritten on the front of the envelope was a solitary word that I suspected was Emily. Emily.

I tiptoed awkwardly through the forest of flowers and ripped the envelope off the vase. I didn't recognize the handwriting on the front, but felt a trill of antic.i.p.ation as I lifted the flap and removed the card. My hand shook as I read the neatly printed words: Will you marry me?

My stomach executed a little somersault. My feet tingled. OH, MY G.o.d! This was so...so unexpected. So romantic! So wonderful!

My gaze dropped to the signature.

There was none.

No signature? I flipped the card over. Still no signature. I flipped the card over. Still no signature.

Okay, so who had popped the question? Etienne or Duncan?

My stomach roller-coastered to my ankles.

Oh, no. This was terrible.

"I'll have the broiled tenderloin steak," Margi Swanson told Darko half an hour later, "but I want it without the guacamole sauce, the smothered onions, the hearts of palm, or the choron sauce. And I'd like extra bacon bits on my potato, no chives in the sour cream, and b.u.t.ter on the side. And for dessert, I'll have the Grand Marnier cake." She closed her menu, but snapped it open again a moment later. "Or do you think I should order the Rock Cornish game hen? What's a game hen anyway? Is that like a dwarf chicken?"

I'd tackled bovine reproduction in Switzerland and poultry reproduction in Ireland, so I'd let Darko handle this one.

He bowed his head to Margi and smiled. "How would you like your steak?"

Good comeback. I suspected Darko had been asked this question before.

As he finished taking her order, I looked around the empty table, wondering where the rest of our dinner companions were. I'd been twenty-five minutes late for dinner, but I'd still beaten Jonathan, Nils, Gjurd, and Ansgar. Margi had been so happy to see me, she didn't even ask if I'd washed my hands before coming to the table.

Darko appeared at my side, pencil and paper in hand. "Madame?"

"I'll have the chocolate mousse, the parfait Rothschild, the almond kiwi cake, the chocolate eclair, the cherry pie, and the Grand Marnier cake."

He didn't bat an eyelash. "And for your entree?"

"That is my entree."

He clicked his heels as if he were wearing a pair of ruby slippers and dashed off to the kitchen.

Margi wagged a finger at me. "If you ignore the food pyramid, you're going to end up looking like the d.i.c.ks."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "I'm in the midst of a romantic crisis. The only thing that's going to make me feel better right now is comfort food...or hallucinogens."

"I had a romantic crisis once," Margi confessed in a wistful tone. "You might find it hard to believe, but back when I was your age, I had two men vying for my hand." She slapped her hand over her heart. "Clyde Converse and Virgil Stump. Clyde pumped gas at the old Sunoco station, and let me tell you, his technique was something to behold. No one pumped gas like Clyde. The way he handled that hose -- whipping it off the boot, sticking the nozzle in your gas tank door, depressing the trigger...It gave me goose b.u.mps." She flattened her hand on my forearm. "And you wouldn't believe what he could do with winds.h.i.+eld cleaner and a squeegee."

I frowned as I felt a subtle s.h.i.+ft in the s.h.i.+p's motion, as if we'd just hit a dip in the road.

"Virgil bagged groceries at the IGA. The fastest bagger ever recorded; d.i.c.k Stolee timed him once. And he never so much as cracked an egg. He was the most versatile man, Emily. He could carry on a regular conversation at the same time he was separating your canned goods from your bakery products. That man could walk and chew gum at the same time. Both Virgil and Clyde were such gentlemen, and they never seemed to mind one bit that I was a little overweight. They understood about inner beauty. Clyde b.u.t.tered a dozen ears of corn for me at the annual Corn Festival, and you know what a messy job that is. Virgil bought me half a pig when the IGA overordered, and he had the bacon cut thick, just like I like it."

She shook her head dreamily. "They were so thoughtful. It was a real dilemma for me. They were both such nice young men. How's a gal supposed to chose between two fellas when they're both wonderful human beings?"

I sat with bated breath. Was Margi about to solve my romantic dilemma with a simple parable from her youth? I stared at her, waiting for an answer.

She dug out her hand sanitizer and began cleansing her hands. "I touched that menu, didn't I? Lord only knows who handled it before me."

I waited for her to finish.

She stashed the sanitizer back into her pocketbook, leaned back in her chair, and smiled casually.

"So who did you chose?" I practically screamed into her face.

"Oh! Neither one, actually. Clyde came down with a bad respiratory infection after he serviced a swine truck and died real unexpectedly." She gave her head a grief-stricken shake. "Prolonged exposure to ammonia fumes. Sad thing is, he might have been okay if the driver had needed half a tank instead of a fill-up."

"And Virgil?" I asked hesitantly.

"Well, the year Windsor City first started its Winter Carnival, the IGA sponsored an ice sculpture contest, only instead of ice, the contestants were supposed to use canned goods. Alice Tjarks won hands down with her version of the KORN radio tower, built exclusively from sixteen-ounce cans of French-cut green beans and one can of chopped pimento. The pimento was supposed to represent the red light at the top of the tower, but a lot of folks thought chile peppers might have been a better choice. Anyway, Virgil got taken out when he was dismantling Lars Bakke's replica of the family grain elevator. Buried under two thousand cans of creamed corn. They tell me he died instantly."

I studied her for a long moment, lost for words. "Oh, my G.o.d, Margi. That's so sad. How did you get through it without completely falling apart?"

"Cake and powdered doughnuts. In times of emotional crisis, carbohydrates are a great blessing. And some good came of the whole thing."

I regarded her hopefully. "You met someone else?"

"The Sunoco station went self-serve. And the IGA replaced all their sixteen-ounce cans of creamed corn with ten-and-three-quarter-ounce ones. That in itself probably saved a lot of lives."

That, and the fact that the Winter Carnival had gone the way of Grampa Sippel's old Edsel.

"I hope your romantic crisis turns out better than mine, Emily. But if it doesn't, you come see me. I don't have hallucinogens, but I've got the next best thing." She dipped her head toward mine and said in a guilty whisper, "Little Debbie Hostess Cakes."

"Hi, ladies. I'm sorry I'm late."

We glanced up to find Jonathan circling the table to his chair. "I didn't leave myself enough time to dress. Tomorrow I'll have to start earlier. Have you ordered yet?"

He stood stiffly beside his chair, his head perched on a cervical collar like a three-minute egg on an egg cup. Both his arms were immobilized in casts and slings, and his oversized Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt hung miserably askew.

I clapped my hands over my mouth, gasping. "Jonathan! Oh, my G.o.d! What happened to you? Your arm! You broke your other arm?"

"The ulna." He dropped his gaze toward his left arm. "I'd never heard of an ulna before yesterday. But it's not so bad." He elevated both arms slightly. "I kind of like the symmetry."

Margi flicked her finger toward his waist. "You missed a b.u.t.tonhole."

"If I stopped to fix it, I never would have gotten here."

"What about your neck?" I asked, wincing at the foam rubber doughnut circling it.

"They think I might have suffered a little whiplash when we got rammed yesterday, but it's not a big deal. On a scale of one to ten, the pain is only a nine, and I hardly know I'm wearing the collar. It's pretty comfortable, actually." With a self-sufficient gesture, he braced his calf against the rear leg of his chair and coaxed it away from the table, his attention focused directly on me. "And speaking of yesterday, I want you to know how grateful I am for what you did for me. If you hadn't muckled onto me when you did, I might --"

The chair tottered sideways and crashed to the floor with a resounding boom. Jonathan cringed at the sound and flashed an apologetic half smile. "I guess I need a little practice moving dining furniture with my leg."

I rushed around the table to set the chair upright, then helped him get seated properly.

"What I was saying about yesterday," he continued, as I returned to my chair, "I would have drowned if you hadn't clamped your hand under my chin and hauled me to safety. I really owe you, Emily."

"It was only four feet to sh.o.r.e," I said in embarra.s.sment. "And you were wearing your lifejacket."

"Don't be fooled by her modesty," Margi admonished. "She specializes in water rescues."

"About your hat," I hedged. "I'm really sorry about --"

"Forget the hat. That stupid hat nearly got both of us killed. I'm better off without it. In fact, when I get back home, I'm going to trash all my Microsoft stuff and buy a Mac...once I find a new job, of course. Take that, that, Mr. Bill Gates." Mr. Bill Gates."

Wow. He actually sounded like a normal person. Was that possible? I slatted my eyes, scrutinizing him. There was something else different about him, too. Aside from the new confidence and determination in his voice, I detected a subtle physical change. Something different in his appear -- "You're wearing new gla.s.ses!"

Gone were the c.o.ke bottle lenses in the klunky black frames patched together with hunks of duct tape. Tonight he was wearing frameless eyewear in a s.p.a.ce age design of platinum and polymer that showcased sleekness and s.e.xy angles. These weren't ordinary correctional lenses. These were the kind of gla.s.ses Hollywood trendsetters with twenty-twenty vision bought just to look cool.

He grinned extravagantly and blinked for effect. "Sergio Tacchini. From Lenscrafters designer line. Nice, huh?"

"They're not nice. They're spectacular!" Leave it to the Italians to do for eyewear what Victoria's Secret had done for cleavage. I stared at him, amazed. "And your hair's different! It's...it's..."

"Razor cut and streaked with amber highlights. They tell me highlights are the latest thing in men's hair care." His smile dazzled me with its sudden brightness. "I even had a facial."

And maybe had his teeth whitened? I hoped his newfound confidence hadn't gotten the better of him. Facials and teeth-whitening systems were expensive, even for people with full-time jobs. But there was no doubt about it. Jonathan Pond looked and acted like an entirely different person. He should have gotten rammed by a tour barge years ago.

"That's some impressive team of psychiatrists you saw while you were in the hospital," I acknowledged.

Jonathan blinked his eyes in a simulated nod. "They gave me some dynamite advice."

Margi perked up, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Excuse me, but I'm part of the medical community. Would it be too rude of me to ask what kind of advice they gave you? I might be able to pa.s.s it on to some psychotic in Windsor City someday."

"Oh, sure. They told me I didn't have to return my volcanic rock to the actual field where I found it to have the curse lifted. I could return it to any island, so long as it was Hawaiian soil. So I dumped it in the shrubs outside the cruise terminal. What a rush -- I could actually feel the curse being lifted! At first I thought it was my jockey shorts riding up, but then I remembered I was wearing boxers. It was surreal. I felt like such a new man when it was over that I decided to have a makeover. What a great day!" He smiled boyishly. "And I know it's only going to get better."

The room seemed to dip again as Darko appeared with a menu for Jonathan. "Wooo." Jonathan sank back into his chair. "Did you feel that?"

"Bad weather ahead," explained Darko. "But we have big stabilizers. Very big. Pffft Pffft. You will feel nothing."

He s.n.a.t.c.hed more menus off the sideboard and presented them to Nils and Gjurd, who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Nils nodded politely as he lumbered to his seat. Gjurd sat down without making eye contact. I glanced over my shoulder, then back at the two men.

"No Ansgar this evening?"

Nils peered at me over the top of his menu, his expression guarded. "He will be here. Shortly." But there was enough doubt in his voice to merit a question mark.

"The three of you sure left the Secret Falls in a hurry yesterday," I said conversationally. "You missed all the excitement."

Gjurd looked at Nils. Nils looked at Gjurd. They both looked at me. "What kind of excitement?" Nils asked, distractedly.

"We found Bigfoot," said Margi. "But it wasn't the real one. I think the real one's in Was.h.i.+ngton or Oregon."

I smiled at the two Vikings. "So what did you guys find? Beer cans? Arrowheads? A few misplaced weapons of ma.s.s destruction?"

Nils's bearded face became a blank. "We found nothing." He rapid-fired some Norwegian at Gjurd, who rapid-fired some back. "Gjurd says we found nothing, also."

Oh, right. They were high-fiving each other to celebrate the fact that they'd come up empty. I don't think so.

Darko checked his watch as he hovered over them. "Your other companion," he said to Nils. "He will be joining us this evening? Yes? No?"

Nils cast a long look down the main aisle of the dining room. "Yah, he's aboard the s.h.i.+p. His name was in the computer for reboarding earlier, but we don't know where he is. He's not been back to our cabin."

Gjurd uttered a few incomprehensible sentences, causing Nils to nod agreement. "Gjurd says perhaps Ansgar found a woman and is taking up residence in her cabin instead of ours." The two men elbowed each other conspiratorially. "Ansgar is very pretty so this is entirely possible, yah? It could mean that tonight, he will be ordering room service."

The floor of the dining room suddenly pitched right, eliciting screams, gasps, and a clattering crash of china from the kitchen. Menus jetted off the sideboard and went airborne. Saltshakers and pepper shakers tumbled over. Jonathan turned white. Margi turned green. In the next instant we lurched symmetrically to the left, eliciting more screams, gasps, and a tinkling of shattered gla.s.s.

Clinging to the table, I remembered Darko's claim that the s.h.i.+p had big stabilizers. As I watched the water pitcher on a neighboring table skate off the edge and crash to the floor, I found myself making a rash prediction.

They weren't going to be big enough.