Don't Rock the Boat Read online

  Don't Rock the Boat

  by Cathie Wayland and Theresa Jenner Garrido

  Published by L&L Dreamspell

  London, Texas

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  Cover and Interior Design by L & L Dreamspell

  Copyright © 2011 by Cathie Wayland and Theresa Jenner Garrido. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.

  This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.

  ISBN- 978-1-60318-243-0

  Published by L & L Dreamspell

  Produced in the United States of America

  Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com

  * * * *

  To John, my one and only, confidante, cheerleader, and best friend.

  —Cathie

  To Jerry, whose enthusiasm never wavers. Thanks for putting up with my eccentricities.

  —Theresa

  ONE

  Crammed into an economy seat on American Airlines Flight 1137 to Miami, I sat—body numb, feet swollen, elbows in my lap, and mind racing through the details of the last few whirlwind weeks. Just last summer, my best friend, Mike, and I’d spent a wonderful ten days together in Edisto Beach, South Carolina. We hadn’t seen each other in twenty years, and then, on a whim, had decided to resurrect our somewhat dormant and comfortable cyber-friendship with a glorious two weeks at the beach. Just us girls, no husbands allowed.

  We talked and laughed and cried and remembered old times just as if it was yesterday that we were the best of friends, teaching together is a tiny country school. We ate too much, talked too much, gossiped and joked and teased each other non-stop. Then, to our utter amazement, we stumbled onto a real, honest-to-goodness mystery, right there in quiet Edisto Beach.

  We also encountered some extraordinary personalities along the way, suspecting everyone as we went about solving our “mystery”. We enjoyed every feverish minute, declaring we’d have to do it again.

  Mike researched cruise options for a Caribbean getaway that her hubby Joe would never, ever agree to and, to her great excitement, saw an advertisement for a cruise that boasted an on-ship mystery package, similar to a dinner theater mystery. However, the mystery would unfold throughout the cruise, with cryptic clues and realistic drama, peculiar characters—we should fit right in—and a reward for the super sleuths who finally solved the secret “crime”. An amazing opportunity to relive our excitement as private investigators in support hose—totally harmless—but filled with the promise of lots of fun and clues and a victim, and…well, you get the idea. Happily, we signed-on for a cruise aboard the Caribbean Mermaid.

  So, here I was, on the plane Miami, to meet Mike, while she’d fly in from her home in South Carolina. A Midwest girl in Florida? What was I thinking?

  Groping for the elusive lap belt, I inadvertently made the acquaintance of the portly gentleman in the window seat. “Oh, ’scuse me,” I muttered, a trifle embarrassed that my belt had somehow become wedged beneath Mr. Grump and his arm rest, which technically was my armrest, anyway. I twisted and flounced, attempting to adjust the stylish capris that bunched beneath my…well, beneath me.

  The ancient female flight attendant—made up in the garish cosmetics of her youth—stalked up and down the narrow aisle, dark red lips pursed. On the lookout for scofflaws who’d smuggled in bottles of water, failed to place their trays in the upright position, or, God forbid, whispered frantic last minute messages into teensy cell phones. She reminded me of a former school principal, Sr. Scholastica, who’d taken fiendish delight in reprimanding teachers and students alike for even the most miniscule of rule infractions.

  Although twenty-five years had passed since “Sarcastica” wrote me up because the shades in my classroom windows were not at equal distances from the dusty windowsill, I still cringed at the audacity of the cartoonish administrator. As the attendant barged down the narrow passageway, that squeamish feeling sprouted in the pit of my stomach, convincing me that somehow I’d incurred her criticism and wrath, regardless of my innocence.

  Arching a painted eyebrow above a cerulean blue eyelid, the flight attendant zeroed in on me, still struggling to comply with the flashing light in the console warning me to buckle up or suffer the consequence—this dynamo, being the dreaded consequence.

  “Having a bit of a problem with our belt, are we?” the woman hissed with forced politeness and a hideous curving up of crimson lips. She stared at me, somewhat annoyed, somewhat amused. Placing hands on hips so that elbows blocked the narrow aisle, the woman—“Vera” from her lapel badge—sighed, displayed not the least shred of sympathy.

  “Perhaps a belt extension would help?” she inquired, loud enough for most of the passengers to hear since they all twisted and strained to see the offending, plus-sized passenger.

  Mortified, I glared at Vera with a look that should’ve warned the attendant that she was on a collision course with destiny. Brusque, rude, and unaware of her impending doom, Vera reached across me to wrest the hidden buckle from beneath Mr. Grump. Succeeding with a mighty yank, she popped the belt free. Mr. Grump yelped his displeasure with an epithet that would have earned him a trip to the principal’s office back in my teaching days. Yes, it was going to be an interesting flight.

  TWO

  Could I have been more miserable? The ridiculous seats had been designed for the cast of the Wizard of Oz—that meaning the Munchkins—who would’ve fit quite comfortably into the allotted spaces provided for each and every customer without discrimination or concern with breadth and width and girth. I, on the other hand, had to cram almost six feet of body, arms and legs into the same space as the annoying four-year-old whose feet thumped the back of my seat.

  Yes, it was my seat that was rhythmically and repeatedly whacked again and again. I attempted all the subtle teacher maneuvers I’d perfected over the years, such as glaring over my shoulder, as though to determine what could possibly be causing the annoying, repetitive sound. That didn’t work. Then I attempted to lean the seat back a bit, hoping the child would find it difficult, if not impossible, to kick the chair. Nope. The target had just moved closer to the attacker.

  Next, I conjured up The Look. I caught the child’s attention and blasted him with my very best teacher-stink-eye. At that point, the child burst into ear-piercing screams and sobbed to his mom that the big lady with all the hair was making ugly faces at him. I felt the accusing eyes of everyone on board. Who would stoop so low as to upset a little innocent child?

  With resignation, I realized the flight hadn’t even reached altitude, and I was uncomfortable, miserable, and a tad angry. Although I’d not yet determined how or where or even why, I vowed Mike would pay for this. After all, it’d been her idea to come to Miami in the first place.

  After an interminable three hours and twelve minutes, my plane skidded to a bumpy arrival at the Cruise Capitol of the Universe. Weary, cantankerous passengers clicked off seatbelts, fired up cell phones, flipped open overhead compartments, and retrieved bags and satchels and gifts and laptops. As passengers crammed the narrow aisle, the swaying conga line inched its way toward the exit door, desperate to be rid of the memory of the awful flight.

  I couldn’t wait another moment to escape the little horror that had tormented me the entire trip. Besides the interminable kicking, the annoying little brat had jabbed me in the head with his plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex, and tossed raisins over the headrest a
nd onto my stylish new wedge haircut. Precious Aidan—everyone on the plane knew his name since his Mom repeated it so often, usually followed by “don’t”—had screamed non-stop about God-knows-what for the final forty minutes of the trip. His mother seemed unwilling or incapable of appeasing him, and it was obvious that this one was destined for numerous trips to the time-out corner and the principal’s office in years to come.

  Mere inches from the exit door, relief flooded me, seeing light at the end of the tunnel. Almost home free when two pudgy little arms wrapped themselves part way around my leg as the demon spawn rubbed his chubby cheeks into my wrinkled but fashionable slacks, back and forth, back and forth, across the generous expanse of cottony material.

  “Awwww,” his mother sighed, “look at little Aidan. He certainly has taken a liking to you. He is never, ever this affectionate with strangers.” His mother beamed. Aidan grinned.

  At that instant, I realized the little twerp had been wiping his gooey little face on my pricey coral slacks and had left behind something that resembled peanut butter—or worse—all across one leg. I glared at the child, then gaped at his hapless mother, then back at the tyke. Little Aidan stuck out his purple-brown tongue, stuck a grungy finger up his nose, and bolted for freedom. His frantic mother shoved past everyone ahead of her in line, in hot pursuit.

  I sighed and forced a smile. Yes, it was comforting to know that airport security personnel are well trained and prepared to deal with terrorists of any age.

  When Michaela finally emerged at Gate A-17, I was already there…tapping one sore foot, leaning against a pillar to support a travel-weary body.

  “For God’s sake, Mike,” I almost shouted, sidestepping the traditional, more congenial greetings. “Do you have to be the absolute last person off the plane? I’ve been waiting for you for hours. And then everyone else got off the plane, and you still weren’t here and then you finally get here and—” I stopped to peer into Mike’s crimson face, her eyes glossed over and wild looking, nose shiny, neck twitch in full-blown recital.

  “Mike? Are you okay?” My standard amused grin was coming to the fore.

  “Sure,” Mike exclaimed. “I’m great. Can’t you see I’m just great? I mean, anyone can see that I’m great, right? Go ahead. Just ask anyone…anyone at all. Am I great? Of course I am.” She grimaced. “Ohh, that awful woman.”

  “So, I see you didn’t get around to taking your medications before leaving Greenville, hmmm?” Sensing Mike was a bit traumatized, I knew I had to take care of her, poor little thing. Sometimes life just dealt Mike some tough hands to play. This appeared to be one of those times. “You can fill me in about ‘that awful woman’ later.” Grabbing her elbow, I plunged into the crowd, cutting a swath in the surging humanity that parted to provide a pathway. Even perfect strangers seemed to sense the foolhardiness of coming between us and our designated destination…in this case, baggage claim.

  THREE

  I looped my arm through Mike’s shoulderbag strap and dragged her toward the awaiting luggage carousels. Whatever had happened on that plane seemed to have pushed all of my soul mate’s buttons. I mean, it’d been almost a year since we’d seen each other. I had a great new hairstyle, and we were really, truly about to go on a cruise ship together, and, well, she was tumbling in some emotional cyclone or other. I decided to get to the bottom of it, whatever it was, right then and there.

  “Mike.” I yanked so hard on her bag strap that I lifted her off the ground. “Whatever is the matter? Talk to me. Whatever it is, I’ll listen. I promise.”

  Mike glared up at me. Her face contorted with impatience, annoyance, and—what? A hint of embarrassment? When Mike got her hackles up, she was a force to reckon with. I thrived on teasing her. An integral part of our long-time friendship. But like all friends connected at the heart, there comes a time and a situation when funny isn’t funny. I sensed that this was one of those “give her some space” moments.

  “Do not…I repeat, do not ever talk to me about that…that…it was the most…she…and then I…I…and then all those people…and then my strap pinched my neck…and I couldn’t reach the little clasp to get free…” Mike rambled without making a bit of sense, flailing her arms to punctuate the emotional tirade. “And Loretta. That…that despicable woman.”

  Glancing at the bemused travelers, swarming around us, I attempted to mollify my near hysterical pal. Draping my arm over her shoulder, I tried to reassure her that everything would be okay, and that she should try to settle down just a tad. Forget Loretta Somebody.

  “Shhhh,” I stage whispered, smiling and nodding at the individuals who’d paused to witness the meltdown. “You’re making a scene.”

  Mike opened her mouth to speak, but words wouldn’t come. Took too much energy to explain. Time to forget about the awful plane ride and whatever else. Time to get to our hotel and take off shoes and other restrictive articles of apparel.

  We made our way through the throng toward the baggage carousel that “claimed” to belong to Mike’s flight. I’ve always thought that baggage claim was a perfect name for the ordeal. The word claim has such a hopeful ring to it, sort of like staking a claim during the gold rush, or claiming to be a success.

  Mike and I jockeyed for position, bodies primed, eyes glued on the merry-go-round of vinyl and canvas and leather parcels of all shapes and sizes and colors. All desperate to make a claim and be done with it. Within minutes, I spied Mike’s giant rolling valise, cleverly marked with a stripe of fluorescent green tape. We struggled and wrestled the case over the edge of the carousel, yanked up on the handle, released the wobbly wheels, then hustled to my carousel. Another five minutes went by before I spied my monstrous suitcase, just as garish with its neon pink ribbon looped around the handle.

  Pulling our luggage behind, catching our heels every other minute, we headed for the taxi kiosk on the curb. The blast furnace of hot air outside the lobby seemed to calm the churning volcano better known as Mike. She stopped, sucked in a deep albeit shaky breath, then coughed and complained about the diesel fumes. After half a minute of sniffing, throat clearing, and grimacing, she regained her composure and smiled.

  I realized for maybe the zillionth time how much I enjoyed every minute with her. Months had elapsed since we last stood in an airport, saying goodbye after a great vacation in Edisto Beach. Here we were finally. Who knew what kind of excitement or catastrophes—or both—we would encounter? Yet, nothing was more delightful than just being together…that particular moment in time, regardless of heat or diesel fumes or the chronic confusion that haunted us like an ever-present chaperone.

  Determined to return to some semblance of normalcy, my friend wrinkled her nose, smiled then frowned as she remembered a story she was dying to share.

  “Bernie,” Mike rolled her eyes. “You won’t believe what my Joe did right before I was ready to leave. I guess he was a little unnerved that I was taking off on another adventure with you, once again, leaving him behind.”

  I smiled, already anticipating another remarkable Joe story. I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed.

  “Well,” Mike continued, “I mentioned to him that my driver’s side car door had a little rattle, and asked if he could take it in to be serviced while I was gone.” Mike took a deep breath, rolled her eyes again and plunged ahead. “So, he decided he could handle a little rattle, and that he could save a bundle by repairing it himself. He took the door totally off the car and took it all apart, with teensy weensy parts all over the place, neatly lined up in what he considered some sort of order. He was sure, from staring at all these random parts, that he could tell which one was broken, although they all just look the same to me, dirty and greasy, just like Joe. Well. He toodled on over to the parts department at the dealership, bought some widget or grommet or whatzit, and attacked the door, full of purpose and confidence. Then, after hours and hours, decided he just didn’t remember how to put it all back. Can you just see it? Lord, help me.”

  I lau
ghed, picturing her greasy-handed Joe, scratching his head, under his nose and elsewhere as he studied the puzzle.

  “So,” Mike continued, “since he couldn’t remember how it went back together, he took off the other door to have a look at it to remind himself how it was done.”

  The two of us convulsed with laughter. Now Mike had a genuine clown car waiting for her after the cruise. When we’d swallowed the last snort and chuckle, Mike beamed at me. “Oh, that felt good,” she sighed. Yes, the kind of laughter you only get to enjoy with a kindred spirit.

  “I can hardly believe we are really, truly, actually here, together, you and I, in Miami.” Mike sighed again, eyeing our surroundings with unveiled appreciation. “And we’re going on a cruise, my very first ever cruise,” Mike gushed. “And it’s a mystery cruise, so we should have the advantage over everyone else since we’re experienced detectives. Right?”

  “Oh, indubitably.”

  Of course, Mike was referring to the goings-on in Edisto Beach during our last summer’s vacation. We’d actually become involved—no, immersed—in a real-life mystery, complete with undercover agents, a possible kidnapping, and a crazy, seemingly harmless, senile old lady named Melba. And we were right there when the authorities cracked the case—excited, befuddled, amazed and bewildered. I know, that describes us on most days, but it really, truly was a hoot. If we could only re-create the exhilaration and intrigue, and the feeling of achieving success among a veritable gaggle of amateur sleuths, then our cruise was destined to be a blast.

  I was glad we’d decided to arrive the night before our cruise departure, considering our delays and our obvious need to recoup, repair, and refresh. Our next hurdle would be to check into the hotel, catch up on a year’s worth of gossip and family stories, and plan our week aboard the Caribbean Mermaid.