“Terrific,” Helen said, her heart sinking. She wasn’t even a seagoing Cinderella, condemned to kitchen drudgery. She had latrine duty.
“Is Mitzi a nice dog?” she asked.
“She never bites,” Mira said.
“That’s not an endorsement,” Helen said.
“Beth loves her,” Mira said, “but the dog is spoiled and yappy. The captain banned her from the bridge and the crew areas for safety reasons. He said Mitzi might get hurt if we stepped on her. She is underfoot when she’s on board. Be careful you don’t trip over her.”
“What are the guests like?” Helen asked. “Do they bite?”
“Pretty undemanding,” Mira said. “Ralph and Rosette are Earl’s age. Ralph belongs to an old Chicago family. He doesn’t have Earl’s business success. Rosette and Ralph have been married thirty years. She can be snobbish but she’s not rude.
“Scotty and Pepper are newly married. She’s wife number four, I think. She used to be a cocktail waitress. Scotty is about seventy and gives Pepper anything she wants, as long as she does what he says. Scotty will probably get tipsy. Pepper is maybe twenty-five. She may say something ugly to you if she’s had a fight with Scotty. She’s pretty and Scotty is jealous. They fight a lot.”
“How will I know if they’ve been fighting?” Helen asked.
“You’ll hear them,” Mira said. “We hear everything on this ship. There is no privacy.”
We hear everything, Helen thought. Will I hear the rattle of smuggled emeralds? The sound of the smuggler opening a bilge or the bosun’s locker late at night?
Mira glanced at her watch. “It’s seven twenty-eight,” she said. “You have an appointment with the captain at seven thirty. He’s a stickler for time. I’ll take you up to the bridge. You can meet the other staff later.”
Helen followed Mira up the crew mess stairs and through the galley, where the dark-haired chef was chopping a red pepper at a counter. “Hi, Suzanne,” Mira said.
Suzanne smiled a hello and waved.
Mira walked briskly along the narrow teak deck to the front of the yacht and knocked on the bridge door. “Captain?” she called. “Helen Hawthorne is here.” Mira told Helen, “I’ll leave you here. I have to go back to work.”
Helen thought the bridge looked beautifully useful. The walls and ceiling were paneled in that same honey-colored wood. Six inward-slanting windows gave panoramic views of the muddy New River and the shining white yachts in the marina. The bridge windows had giant wipers, like car windshields. Over the windows were huge built-in monitors. Under the windows were radar screens, electronics and various controls.
Smack in the middle was the pilot’s wheel in sleek steel and wood.
Captain Josiah Swingle strode through a side door in his white dress uniform with four bars on the shoulder.
“Welcome aboard,” he said. Captain Swingle sat down on an upholstered bench that was taller than a regular couch. Helen stayed standing. “Mira has explained your duties?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Helen said. “I’m hoping to catch the smuggler on this trip, but I wonder if the person has stopped.”
“Why would he?” the captain asked.
“I talked with a man who used to be an emerald smuggler. At least, I think he was. He was definitely familiar with the business. He told me a tackle box full of emeralds could be worth thousands—even hundreds of thousands—of dollars. I wonder if your smuggler made enough money and quit.”
“Smugglers never make enough money,” the captain said. “There’s no telling exactly how much he got for that box, but I doubt he made anywhere near its full value. Smugglers are fueled by greed and live for risk. This one won’t stop. I read where the price of emeralds has gone up. Even so-so stones are selling for twenty-five percent more this year.”
“Why the increase?” Helen asked.
“The rich are nervous,” he said. “The market is unstable and they’re putting their money in gold, diamonds and colored stones. If their securities tank, the stones are still worth something. If nothing else, their wives can wear them. You’ll see our guests wearing fortunes.
“We aren’t carrying a full complement of guests this time, so the smuggler will have more free time. He may grow bolder. If you don’t discover him on this trip, you’ll work the next one.”
“I’ll get him this cruise,” Helen said. If she needed an incentive, she had it: Catch the smuggler or more hard labor on the Belted Earl.
“It’s about time for me to pick up the owners and their guests at the airport,” he said.
“Let me remind you: None of the other crew knows why you’re here. This is my ship. You answer to me. If you have any suspicions about my crew, you come to me. Don’t act on your own. Catching a smuggler can get you killed. Understood?”
It was the third time today Helen had heard that warning.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
CHAPTER 19
Three black Lincoln Town Cars silently rolled through the marina, stopping in front of the Belted Earl. Dark-suited chauffeurs popped the trunk latches, then jumped out and opened the rear passenger doors on noiseless, oiled hinges.
Captain Josiah Swingle stepped out of the first car. He’d met the yacht owners and their guests when their private plane landed. With his sun-reddened skin and air of confident command, the captain was a handsome introduction to the Belted Earl.
The other men weren’t as ornamental. Two wore silk Tommy Ba-hama shirts and beige pants. The third man wore a white polo shirt and navy linen pants. Helen noticed all their pants were wrinkled—proof the fabric wasn’t adulterated with polyester.
Next, a tanned and toned blonde slid out of the first car. Helen guessed her age somewhere south of forty. Her long gauzy green caftan looked almost edible. She wore a savage gold necklace set with emerald nuggets. More emeralds dangled from her ears. Her outfit was outlandish and otherworldly. Helen couldn’t guess the designer, but the clothes and jewelry shrieked money.
This must be Beth, the former model married to Earl Briggs.
Beth’s dramatic entrance was spoiled by the yapping white furball she cradled like a baby. Mitzi, the miniature poodle, Helen decided. The dog had a green bow in her curly white hair and a collar of dime-sized emeralds.
Beth took the arm of a portly fellow with a majestic belly and a noble forehead. Winged black eyebrows underpinned that great expanse of brow. Earl Briggs, the yacht owner.
Beth didn’t walk in her high-heeled sandals. She strutted. The world was her runway. Earl looked proud to plod beside his exotic spouse. He wore the satisfied smile of a man who had everything.
Beth and Earl walked arm in arm up to the captain. “Evening, Captain,” Earl said in a flat Midwestern accent.
“Yap!” said the poodle, then erupted in nonstop barks.
Earl fought to drown out the noisy dog. “I assume we’re leaving at nine tonight?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, sir,” Josiah said, over Mitzi’s yips and yaps. “We may want to delay our departure by a few hours.”
“Why?” Earl asked. “It’s a beautiful night.” The eyebrows took wing and a frown flitted across his wide brow.
“Yap!” Mitzi said.
The frown deepened.
“Yip! Yap!” Mitzi barked louder. Helen saw the dog’s pink tongue and tiny sharp teeth. The poodle wore enough jewels to pay the crew for a month.