The Oklahoma Readers and Writers seminar had been in full swing since nine A.M. Groups had lively discussions about the art of mystery writing, dating back to such famous writers as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Dame Agatha Christie.
At eleven thirty, Bosley P. Brevers, the author of an exhaustive biography of Left Hook Louie, was scheduled to lecture on his favorite subject, and show slides of Louie’s life in the small theater near the dining salon.
Regan and Jack had run into Nora and Luke on the deck, and they’d all decided to attend. Regan had confided to her parents their growing suspicion that Tony Pinto might be a stowaway on the ship.
In the audience, they spotted Ivy Pickering and Maggie Quirk sitting a little to the left in the row behind them. Regan’s eyebrows shot up. Ivy, who had seemed like the type who never bothered with so much as dabbing powder on her nose, was wearing becoming makeup and a blue linen jacket that set off her cornflower blue eyes. What a difference from the way she had looked last night when she’d come screaming into the dining room, Regan thought.
On the stage, Brevers was being introduced. The director of the seminar praised Brevers’s five years of scholarly research on his subject and noted he was also the principal of an award-winning high school at the time he was working on the book. Brevers, a small man in his midsixties, with a slight frame and white hair, approached the lectern. He made the usual comments about how honored he was to speak and what a thrill it was to be on the Santa Cruise, especially since there was a possibility that the ghost of Left Hook Louie was present. He waited for a laugh that did not come.
“Yes indeed,” he continued with a cough. “Let’s get started.” He cleared his throat. “Born into the poverty of Hell’s Kitchen,” he began, showing a slide of a two-year-old sitting on the steps of a tenement with his mother.
“Rags to riches,” Luke whispered to Nora. “Here we go.”
Nora made a face at him.
The first ten minutes of the lecture included a series of slides showing Left Hook Louie earning money at whatever job he could get, starting at age eight. In one photo, he and his sister, Maria, had set up a shoe-shine business on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Forty-third Street in New York City. Maria was proudly holding up a sign that read FIVE CENTS A SHOE. WILL LOOK LIKE NEW.
Luke whispered, “A budding entrepreneur. Most people wear two shoes.”
More slides followed. “Here’s twelve-year-old Louie delivering a massive piece of ice. He had to drag it up five flights, but never a whimper,” Brevers explained. “The brave little fellow didn’t know that he was developing the muscles that would make him a champion boxer. While others, including his boyhood chum, Charley-Boy Pinto, turned to a life of crime . . .”
As one, Regan and Jack leaned forward in their seats. “Pinto?”
“Louie was very disappointed when his beloved sister, Maria, at age eighteen, married Pinto. Neither he nor his parents ever spoke to her again. Charley-Boy spent the last fifteen years of his life in a federal prison. But before that, he had taught his son all about his ‘business.’ That son, Anthony, became the well-known mobster Bull’s-Eye Tony Pinto, a dangerous man you may have been hearing about in the news recently. Although he probably never met his uncle, the champion boxer-turned-bestselling author, he bears a remarkable resemblance to him, as you’ll see.”
Their photographs appeared side by side on the screen.
Regan heard two audible gasps behind her. She turned as Maggie and Ivy got up and made their way to the door.
The four Reillys followed them.
Ivy was trembling and Maggie’s face was pale.
“There’s a small lounge over here,” Nora said. “Let’s slip in there.”
“I don’t want to start trouble,” Ivy said. “This would be terrible for the Commodore. I knew whoever I saw looked like Left Hook Louie. But when I see their pictures side by side I can see the difference. Tony Pinto is definitely the man I saw in the chapel! He’s a mobster? What is he in trouble for now?”
“He ran away from his house in Miami to avoid going on trial,” Regan explained.
Ivy went weak at the knees and grabbed Maggie’s hand. “You saw him, too?”
“I believe I did,” Maggie said quietly. She looked at Regan and Jack. “What are you going to do?”
“If word gets out, we may have a panic. We aren’t positive Pinto is on board, and if he is, we don’t know if he’s armed. For the sake of the safety of everyone on the ship, what we know must stay right here,” Jack said firmly.
“Why on earth would he be on this ship?” Ivy asked.
“Because if he makes it to Fishbowl Island, he can’t be sent back to the States for prosecution,” Regan told her.
“Then we’d better turn around and go back to Miami,” Ivy squealed.
“They can announce the ship needs repairs,” Nora suggested.
“Then people will get nervous that it’ll sink!” Ivy protested.
“Not if you say it’s a simple but necessary adjustment to the engine,” Nora explained. “Half the major ships have had at least minor problems on their maiden voyages. People will understand.”
“The only problem,” Luke said, “is that if Tony Pinto is on board and counting on getting to Fishbowl Island, when he realizes we’re turning around, what might he do?”
There was no answer to that question.
“There’s Dudley,” Regan said suddenly and hurried out to stop him. “We need to talk to you right away. We’re right here in the piano lounge. Where’s the Commodore?”
“The Commodore is at the entrance to the dining salon inviting people to the sunset service.”
“Get him.”
Dudley knew better than to ask why. “Right away, Regan,” he assured her as he dashed off. A moment later, Dudley was entering the lounge followed by the Commodore and Alvirah and Willy.
Regan wasn’t surprised to see Alvirah. Like a bloodhound, she could track down a trouble spot.
The Commodore’s face brightened at the sight of Ivy, a look that lasted only seconds when she blurted out, “I’m sorry, Randolph, but the man I saw the other night is a criminal, and he’s on this ship!”
“What?” the Commodore asked as the color drained from his face.
Regan closed the door to the lounge and apprised everyone of the situation.
“We’ll never live this down!” the Commodore said. “But we must consider the safety of the passengers first. What do you suggest we do?”
“We really must go back to Miami, have the passengers disembark, and then the police will make a thorough search of the ship without the danger of some innocent person being hurt,” Jack answered.
“What do we tell the passengers?” the Commodore asked him.
“That there’s minor engine trouble, we are returning to Miami for a replacement part for the engine, and then we’ll cruise the local waters off Miami until Thursday.”
“We can always promise the passengers another free cruise,” Dudley volunteered hysterically.
“Bite your tongue,” the Commodore snapped. “You and your free cruise idea got me into all this trouble. From now on, keep your suggestions to yourself!”
Dudley wilted. “I just thought . . .” he began. “I was just trying to be helpful. . . .” He longed for the moment when he had thought falling off the rock-climbing wall was going to be the worst thing that happened to him on this ship. He wondered if other cruise lines would be hiring after the New Year.
“Dudley, get Captain Smith,” the Commodore ordered. “I know he’s already in the dining room.”
Once again Dudley dashed off. Less than a minute later, he returned with Captain Smith, whose expression did not change when he heard the saga of the probable stowaway.
“I remember on one of my ship’s maiden voyage we lost all power during a particularly vicious storm and were battered unmercifully by the waves for two days—”
“Yes, yes,” the Commodore interrupted impatiently.
Dudley knew that only the Captain could match the Commodore in relating every last detail of an event that had happened years ago.
“So it is feasible that we could have an engine failure that could be temporarily corrected,” the Captain continued. “I will go directly to the bridge now, begin to slow the ship, then toward the end of the lunch hour bring her to a complete stop. Then I will come up to the dining salon to ostensibly report the problem to you, Commodore.”
The Commodore was thoughtful. “At which time I will explain what is happening to the passengers. I will also make the announcement that in view of the circumstances my dear mother’s ceremony will begin at two thirty.”
“I thought you wanted to have it at sunset?” Dudley interrupted.
“Not anymore! If we are turning back this is the nearest spot to where I had planned to leave Mother.”
With a brief nod but without speaking, Captain Smith left them.
Alvirah was debating. Should they warn the Commodore not to say anything to Eric about Tony Pinto? But what would the reason be for it? Should she explain that Eric was looking for a deck of cards and might possibly be connected to Tony Pinto? That there were traces of mysterious potato chips on the carpet of his room that he never would have eaten? We can’t tell him that, she decided. If Eric was guilty, his uncle would find out soon enough.
The Commodore squared his shoulders. “Our guests are beginning to have lunch. I must join them. Ivy, there’s a place for you at my table.” Taking her arm, he steered her to the door.
The others watched them leave.
“That’s a classy guy,” Luke commented.
“This could be the ruination of his cruise ship,” Dudley said sadly. “His back is against the financial wall.”
Nora sighed. “Well, we’d better go inside.” She turned to Maggie. “Why don’t you sit with us?” With a wry smile she added, “You’re our coconspirator.”
“Thank you, but Ted is planning to sit at my table for lunch.”
“Jack and I will be right back,” Regan said as they started walking toward the door.
“I have to call the office and let them know what’s going on.” Jack’s voice was crisp.
“Bring the cards back,” Alvirah directed them. “Eric is bugging us for them.”
“We will,” Regan assured her.
Regan and Jack turned toward the elevators. The others walked into the dining salon. Fifteen minutes later, Regan and Jack were hurrying toward the table.
“What?” Alvirah asked before they even sat down.
Regan’s voice was low. “We just learned that there is a close connection between Bull’s-Eye Tony Pinto and Barron Highbridge, the classy crook from Greenwich who ran a huge investment scam and was about to be sentenced. Highbridge disappeared last week, and his ex-girlfriend is sure he called her from Miami. His gofer is a cousin of Bingo Mullens, the guy the police are sure arranged Bull’s-Eye’s escape.”
“What does Highbridge look like?” Alvirah asked.
“Tall and thin,” Regan answered.
“Like the one-belled Santa who left me high and dry on the deck!” Alvirah cried.
Jack took the cards out of his pocket and slid them across the table. “You can give the cards back to Eric,” he said. “My office is pretty sure these are numbers of Swiss bank accounts. They’re working on it and will know soon.”
Alvirah said flatly, “The big question is, ‘What were those cards doing in Eric’s room?’ ”