Bianca Garcia had been a reporter with a local Miami television station since September. Young, fiery, and ambitious, she was determined to make a name for herself in the industry. So far, she had only been assigned to fluff pieces, most of which were given about thirty seconds of airtime. She had gone to cover the Santa Cruise, expecting a boring afternoon with zip, zero, nothing to report.
But when the waiter jumped ship and Bianca’s crew recorded it all on tape, she knew she had the kind of segment that might have legs. When it didn’t make the six P.M. broadcast because of a breaking story about an overturned tractor trailer that had spilled its load of dairy products all over the highway and tied up traffic in every direction, Bianca had been chagrined.
But as it turned out—like her grandmother always said—“Sometimes when you get stinkerooed, God has a reason for it.” Good old grandma. At eighty-five, she still was Bianca’s best sounding board.
Sure enough, after the six o’clock broadcast, the producer had said, “Bianca, I’m sick of the scrambled-eggs story. I can give you more time on the ten o’clock show.”
Bianca had stayed in close touch with her contact at the police department all evening to learn if there was anything more to the swimming waiter than the fact that he was behind on his alimony checks. To her delight there was.
She also spent time researching the history of the cruise ship. In anticipation of reporting what was now a much juicier story than what she had had for the earlier broadcast, at quarter of ten Bianca touched up her makeup and brushed her long dark hair. During the commercial break, she sashayed across the newsroom, climbed up on the stool at the right of the anchor’s desk, and crossed her shapely legs.
“Hello, Mary Louise,” Bianca said sweetly to the woman who had considered the ten o’clock broadcast “The Mary Louise Show” for the past decade. Bianca intended to occupy her seat before too much longer, then move on to bigger and better things.
Mary Louise was no dummy. She had gotten rid of other ambitious newcomers, some of whom abandoned the field of journalism after a brief stint at the station. Mary Louise had already begun the process of putting the skids on this annoying snip. Her smile was thin. “Hello, Bianca. I understand you have a cute little cruise ship story for us.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” Bianca promised as the producer pointed to Mary Louise, indicating that the commercial break was over.
“It’s holiday time,” Mary Louise began, “and our gal on the scene, Bianca Garcia, went to the Port of Miami today to wish a bon voyage to a special group of people sailing on a—” Mary Louise held up her fingers and indicated quotation marks, “ ‘Santa Cruise.’ Bianca, I hear you had some excitement out there today. . . .”
Bianca smiled brilliantly at the camera. “I sure did, Mary Louise. This was no ordinary bon voyage party . . .” She gave a quick background of the Santa Cruise and how it was a celebration of people who had done good deeds during the year. One group—the Oklahoma Readers and Writers—is celebrating what would have been the eightieth birthday of legendary mystery writer Left Hook Louie. Talking about mystery writers, there’s a famous one on board: Nora Regan Reilly. A shot of the Reillys and the Meehans flashed onto the screen, as Bianca identified the celebrity passengers on the ship.
Then with great intensity, Bianca went into the story of the waiter, Ralph Knox, who had tried to escape from the police by jumping off the ship. “The passengers rushed to the rails and were taking bets on whether he could escape from the harbor police. Rest assured, he didn’t.
“At first it was thought Knox was just being pursued for not making alimony payments—many of you ladies know what that’s all about,” she said, then nodded toward the anchor’s desk. “Right, Mary Louise?” Without waiting for a reaction, she continued, “It turns out Ralph Knox is also a glib con artist who specializes in ingratiating himself to wealthy women on cruises. There are seven warrants out for his arrest. He is accused of persuading victims to invest hundreds of thousands of dollars in surefire investments that never materialized.”
Bianca paused for breath. “As if that wasn’t enough excitement for the embarking passengers, the sports director, attempting to demonstrate the rock-climbing wall, fell when a prong attached to the wall snapped under his foot and the handler let go of the rope attached to his harness.”
Footage of Dudley landing with a thump appeared on the screen.
“Ouch,” Bianca editorialized. She then briefly sketched in the background of the cruise ship’s two previous owners. The ship had been built for Angus “Mac” MacDuffie, an eccentric oil baron from Palm Beach, who had promptly fallen on hard times. Even though he couldn’t afford to maintain the ship, he refused to let it go. Instead, he hauled it into the vast backyard of his crumbling mansion, the bow facing the sea.
A photo of MacDuffie came up on the screen, his yachting cap pulled down over his forehead, his face half-covered with dark glasses, his tartan Bermuda shorts and sneakers his only apparel. “MacDuffie spent the last few years of his life sitting on the deck, scanning the horizon with his binoculars, and barking orders to a nonexistent crew,” Bianca continued. “When he breathed his last, he was exactly where he wanted to be. On deck. His frequently uttered statement that he would ‘never give up the ship’ fueled rumors after his death that his ghost remained aboard.
“The next owner was a small corporation intending to use the yacht for entertaining clients. They did just enough restoration to make the ship seaworthy, took it out for a shakedown sail, and, alas, ran it aground. The corporation was disbanded soon after. The board of directors all blamed each other for purchasing it, but defended themselves, issuing a statement saying, ‘MacDuffie put a hex on that ship. He doesn’t want anyone else to enjoy it. We wouldn’t be surprised if he’s haunting it right now.’ The next and present owner is Commodore Randolph Weed, who, ignoring the history of the ill-fated ship, has proclaimed it to be a ‘once proud lady who only needed tender loving care.’ “
As she wrapped up her piece, Bianca asked excitedly, “Is Commodore Weed right? Or is it possible that Angus ‘Mac’ MacDuffie is back on the high seas with the Santa Cruisers? If so, his favorite drink, the gin and tonic, will not be served to him by the waiter whose problems with the law sent him overboard, leaving a river of champagne and broken crystal in his wake. We’ll keep you updated on the progress of this ‘Do-Gooder’ cruise. Maybe you’re lucky you didn’t do enough good this year to win a spot on this trip!” With an amused expression and a practiced wink, Bianca leaned forward slightly. “Don’t forget. I always love hearing from you out there. My e-mail address is on the bottom of the screen.”
“Thank you, Bianca,” Mary Louise said condescendingly. “Now, Sam will tell us what’s going on with that storm in the Caribbean. From what we can see, those Santa Cruisers must be experiencing at least the tip of it. . . .”
When Bianca returned to her desk, she checked her e-mail. She had distributed her card liberally at the Santa Cruise cocktail party with the hint that any gossipy items would be much appreciated. She clicked on an e-mail from a Loretta Marron, who was one of the Oklahoma Readers and Writers, and who had tried to tie up Bianca with a long story about being editor of her high school newspaper forty years ago.
Dear Bianca,
News flash! One of the members of our group, Ivy Pickering, swears she saw the ghost of Left Hook Louie, the author we are honoring on this cruise. He was in the chapel jumping up and down as though he were getting ready for his next fight. I’ve enclosed his picture, which you can download. At first we thought she was joking. But now a lot of us are wondering—is the ghost of Left Hook Louie wandering around this ship? Already two of the Santa suits mysteriously disappeared from a locked supply room. Did Louie have anything to do with it?
I’ll keep in touch. Just call me Brenda Starr!!!!
Loretta
Bianca was salivating. She had learned in Journalism 101 that everyone loved stories about the paranormal. And now she had one—and she’d already set the stage for it by talking about old MacDuffie. Quickly, she downloaded the picture of Left Hook Louie and gasped. He was a heavy-set man sitting at a typewriter, wearing only tartan shorts and boxing gloves. Bianca grabbed the picture of the heavy-set MacDuffie perched on the deck in his tartan shorts, holding his binoculars. He said he’d never give up the ship. Forget Left Hook Louie. Mac is the ghost on that ship!
She was already formulating her follow up story. “Is there at least one extra passenger who doesn’t belong on the Santa Cruise?”