In the living room of his suite, still clad in his blue-and-white striped pajamas, the Commodore was sitting cross-legged on the floor in an attempt to achieve inner peace. He was also bracing himself for the local news from Miami, which was about to appear on his specially equipped satellite television. At this point, inner peace was a pipe dream. He had imagined that owning the Royal Mermaid would bring him the solace he’d craved after three unsuccessful marriages and the passing of his beloved mother. No such luck.
The Commodore hadn’t eaten a thing yet this morning. Eric had returned to the suite and told him about Alvirah Meehan’s accident just as Winston was rolling in the breakfast cart. What else can possibly go wrong? the Commodore wondered. As if to answer his question, the insistently dramatic theme music of the eight o’clock news erupted from the television.
“Good morning, everyone,” a handsome anchor with a Botoxed face said buoyantly, smiling at the camera. “It’s December twenty-seventh. At the top of our news this morning is the widening search for Bull’s-Eye Tony Pinto. There have been several reported sightings of him near the Mexican border and in Canada, but they all have turned out to be false leads. His wife, at home in their Miami mansion, keeps insisting that she’s very worried about ‘my Tony,’ as she refers to him. She claims that she woke up yesterday morning, and he was gone. She’s afraid that the stress of his upcoming trial has broken his spirit, that he may have blocked out his past life, and is wandering around in need of help. She’s offered a reward of a thousand dollars for anyone with information leading to his whereabouts.”
“A thousand dollars! Give me a break,” the Commodore muttered. There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” he barked.
Dudley entered the room, and the Commodore motioned for him to keep his mouth shut.
“—Mrs. Pinto is having flyers passed out all over town with a photograph of Bull’s-Eye holding up the Distinguished Citizen’s Award he received from an unknown group.”
Will I have to run away and hide to escape my troubles? the Commodore wondered glumly. I thought spending my days at sea would be so carefree and rewarding. . . .
“And now,” the anchor continued, “Bianca Garcia is back to tell us more about the Santa Cruise that sailed from the Port of Miami less than twenty-four hours ago. Bianca?”
The camera swung to Bianca, who despite only getting a couple hours of sleep, had never looked more bright-eyed. In her mind she was already at Rockefeller Center hosting the Today show.
“Let me tell you, Adam, that is some strange cruise going on out there on the high seas, and the unexpected storm that rocked the boat last night is the least of their problems. . . .”
The Commodore started to get up, but pins and needles had developed in his legs and feet. He lost his balance and slumped clumsily to one side.
Bianca briefly recapped her earlier story. “. . . And last night after the broadcast, I heard from one of my contacts on the ship. There was more excitement. Two Santa Claus suits were stolen from a locked supply room, and a woman from the Readers and Writers group came screaming into the dining room during dinner, swearing she had seen the ghost of Left Hook Louie in the chapel! Moments ago, I heard that the famous lottery winner Alvirah Meehan slipped and fell on the deck this morning while she was trying to catch up to one of the Santas on the cruise, who was apparently running away from her. How rude! I thought there was supposed to be a bunch of do-gooders on this cruise! What’s going on? Last night, I said that maybe the ghost of the original owner, Angus ‘Mac’ MacDuffie was on board. This woman claimed it was Left Hook Louie she saw.” Pictures of the two men appeared on-screen. “Can you believe it? They were both big men who wore tartan shorts. Personally, I think it must be the ghost of MacDuffie on board.
“Let’s face it, MacDuffie was eccentric. He spent all his time on that ship, even after it ended up in the backyard of the family estate he had inherited from his parents. His mother and father were out-of-control collectors. They loved anything old, from a Greek sculpture to a battered washboard, and they never threw anything away. The house was so cluttered it was considered a fire hazard. The yacht was MacDuffie’s escape. He loved being at sea, enjoying the wide open space. He said he never wanted to leave that ship, and I say he’s still on it!
“Which of these two men is haunting the ship? Left Hook Louie, who is being honored, or ‘Mac’ MacDuffie, who claimed the yacht would always be his? E-mail and let me know what you think. As my spies continue to report from the Caribbean, I’ll keep you posted. . . .”
Winston had come in the room during the newscast. He’d brought the Commodore a fresh pot of coffee and two pieces of whole wheat toast, hoping his boss’s appetite would return.
“She is pounding nails in my coffin!” the Commodore cried.
“There, there, sir,” Winston said soothingly. “You’ll see things differently after you have a cup of coffee. You know how your morning coffee always makes you optimistic and happy.”
“Winston, you always know what I need,” the Commodore said, glaring at the television screen, which now was showing a commercial for air freshener.
“Commodore Weed,” Dudley said brightly, “I sent out a press release last night and another this morning. I’m sure they will turn everything around.”
“Did you get any responses?”
“Not yet, but . . .” his voice trailed off.
The Commodore shook his head. “My poor mother,” he sighed as he picked up the china coffee cup. “Her ashes must be spinning inside that box.”
Dudley stared at the glass case. The silver box with the ashes was perfectly still, but something in his mind began spinning. He turned to Winston. “Thank you, I will have a cup of coffee, Winston. Then if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to the Commodore in private.”
Winston’s body stiffened. “I’ll have to go out to the galley and get you a mug,” he sniffed. “I know that’s what you prefer,” he added condescendingly.
“Winston, you notice everything and forget nothing,” the Commodore said. “I was so lucky to find you.”
“Good help is always hard to find,” Dudley opined.
A moment later, Winston placed a mug on the coffee table in front of Dudley, and filled it from a sterling silver coffee pot. When Dudley picked up the mug, he was sure that Winston must have run it under ice cold water. The handle was freezing. When Winston disappeared out the door, Dudley cleared his throat.
“First of all, sir, where’s Eric?”
“He was here a little while ago. He got up early to check on Mr. Crater, then came back, showered and dressed, and went out again to check on the other passengers. He’s such a hard worker. He told me about what happened to Mrs. Meehan, but how did the news reporter find out so quickly? I wonder who on this ship is providing her with information. And which of our Santas was so uncaring.”
Dudley could tell that Eric had not told his uncle that Dr. Gephardt believed someone had tried to suffocate Crater. He felt it was his duty to let the Commodore know. It would make the suggestion he was about to make to him more palatable. He bit the bullet and told the Commodore of the conversation Alvirah had overheard.
The Commodore was aghast. “Why didn’t Eric tell me this?”
“I suppose he wanted to protect you, but my feeling is, knowledge is power.”
“Eric is so good,” the Commodore said. “But what if this information leaks out?”
“I can guarantee neither the Meehans nor the Reillys will say anything. I am giving Jack Reilly the passenger and crew list—he requested it. His office in New York will run the names to see if there is . . .” Dudley paused, “a troubled person among us.”
“Whoever is talking to that reporter is roaming my ship right now looking for gossip,” the Commodore said disgustedly. “And they’re getting a free cruise! I just can’t win!”
“Yes, you can! And your sainted mother is going to help you!”
“My mother?” the Commodore asked, his voice rising.
“Yes, sir. I bet that newswoman would be interested in the heartwarming story of you sending Mother Weed’s ashes to the sea from this cruise ship.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. But you can’t wait till tomorrow morning. We need to make tonight’s news.”
“But tomorrow is Mother’s birthday! That’s the day I wanted to bury her at sea.”
“What time of day was she born?”
“At three A.M.”
“Wasn’t your mother born in London?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was still December twenty-seventh in this part of the world.”
The Commodore considered this. “You think we’d get a nice story out of her burial at sea?”
“I’m sure of it. Trust me, sir. More and more people are going on cruises to dispose of their beloveds’ ashes. This dreadful newswoman would just love a film of the ceremony. Her viewers would definitely be intrigued. We can have the ceremony at sunset today. And believe me, you’ll get a lot more people to show up in the evening than if you invite them for dawn tomorrow.”
The Commodore looked over at the glass case. “What do you think, Mother?” he asked.
Dudley almost expected the box to spring open and a head to pop out.
“You say more people would attend?” the Commodore asked Dudley.
“Many more, sir. We’ll have the ceremony out on deck at sunset. Your remarks will be poignant and brief, then we will sing hymns and finally have a champagne toast after you drop Mother Weed’s remains overboard.”
The Commodore hesitated. “Isn’t this exploiting my mother’s burial for my own gain?”
“She’s your mother,” Dudley answered quickly. “She’d be so happy to know she was helping you out of this mess.”
The Commodore considered that. “I know she would,” he said. “She was so unselfish. You said we should have the ceremony out on deck. What about that lovely chapel I built for just such a purpose?”
“It’s too small. I’m going to make sure everyone on board shows up this evening. We’ll put up notices, make announcements over the loudspeaker, and at lunchtime when everyone is together we’ll go from table to table, reminding our guests that they won’t want to miss the ceremony.”
“All right, Dudley. I think I’ll spend the day alone with Mother. I only have nine hours left with her and—” his voice caught, “I’d like to make the most of them.”
“You really should be at lunch, sir. Your presence is a statement that all is well.”
“You’re right again, Dudley.” The Commodore stood up. “High time I showered and dressed. Even when I was a lad, Mother never liked it when I lounged around in my pajamas.”
“I’m on my way to prepare the announcements and alert the staff.” Dudley said. “I’ll disturb you only if it’s absolutely necessary.”