Final Sail (12 page)

“A
hoy!” Helen called, as she stood at the back of the yacht. Was that the right way to hail a ship’s crew?

From the rear, the
Belted Earl
was about thirty feet wide and looked like a triple stack of elegant porches. The lowest deck was tea-colored teak with rattan furniture upholstered in the colors of the Caribbean Sea: light blue, azure, turquoise and navy. A clear plastic railing was a shield against the workaday world.

Half a dozen white yachts were anchored at the concrete dock on a branch of the New River, protected by an open metal-roofed shed. Helen saw uniformed staffers polishing brightwork and carrying cases and crates aboard. She thought the sleek
Belted Earl
made the other yachts look tubby.

“Hello? Anybody home?” she tried again.

The deck doors burst open and a slim blonde in white shorts and a polo shirt waved and said, “Hi! Are you Helen?”

She flashed a cheerleader’s smile, ran lightly down the gangplank and held out her hand. “I’m Mira, chief stewardess of the
Belted Earl
. I’ll show you where you’ll be working and sleeping—if you get any
time to sleep. We cruise at nine tomorrow night and the captain will see you at seven thirty.”

Mira had small, doll-like features and a muscular, compact body. Her blond hair was pulled back with a two-toned silver barrette. Helen followed her along the narrow teak deck until Mira opened a door. Helen stepped over the raised threshold into a kitchen bigger than her own.

“The galley is the chef’s domain,” Mira said. “Suzanne cooks for the owners and crew. We eat well.”

“She must have a terrific view from this window when you’re at sea,” Helen said.

“She’s so busy, I doubt if Suzanne has much time to admire the view,” Mira said. “When we’re in port, you can see the crew washing the boat next door. They’re pretty scenic.” She winked. “And single.”

“I’ve got one, thanks.” Helen had removed her wedding ring for this assignment. Her finger felt naked without it.

“Just because you’re on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t look at the menu,” Mira said.

She giggled, then turned serious. “This is the dining room and wet bar. The main salon is beyond the oak divider.”

Helen liked this floating mansion better than the gloomy barrel-tiled monstrosity on Hendin Island. The yacht’s rooms were comfortably roomy, not dark, intimidating caves. They were brightened by big windows and warm honey-colored wood.

“Beautiful wood,” she said.

“Custom-carved oak,” Mira said. “You’ll dust and polish it twice a day.”

Now Helen noticed the room was unnaturally dust free. “I guess I’ll vacuum this carpet, too,” she said.

“The captain said you’ve worked as a hotel maid, so you’re an experienced cleaner,” Mira said. “You know to stay in the tracks.”

“Tracks?”

“We don’t run a vacuum over the carpet every which way,” Mira said. “We vacuum the way you mow a lawn, so there aren’t random tracks.”

Mira opened a door off the main salon. “This is the on-deck head,” she said. “We have ten heads for the guests, including their stateroom baths.” This one made the Coronado bathrooms look like outhouses. The commode was a beige sculpture. The granite sink had gold fixtures. Two fluffy hand towels embroidered with
THE BELTED EARL
hung on a brass rack.

“The heads are cleaned after each use,” Mira said. “That will be mainly your job.”

“Every time?” Helen tried to hide her disbelief.

“Yes,” Mira said. “I’m sure you cleaned toilets at the hotel.”

“Yes,” Helen said. She doubted the men on the yacht had better aim than the hotel guests. If they missed on land, how steady would they be on a shifting ship?

“You’ll also clean the sink, the counter, the mirror, and empty the wastebasket. The toilet paper has to be folded into points after every use. It’s stowed under the sink.”

She opened the carved oak cabinet doors to show stacks of TP, towels and bars of deliciously fragrant Bvlgari soap.

“The labels on the toilet paper rolls should face out on the shelves,” Mira said. “Towels are changed every time. They’re kept folded with their labels facing the same way. Most guests use the liquid soap, but if a bar is used, we put out a fresh one.”

“Bvlgari is twenty dollars a bar,” Helen said.

“Fifteen,” Mira corrected.

“What happens to the used bar?”

“The crew gets it,” Mira said. “One of our perks. Don’t expect to load up on fancy soap. You’d be surprised how many people don’t wash their hands.”

“How do you know if a guest has used the head?” Helen was proud she’d remembered the nautical term.

“We keep in touch by radio.” Mira pulled a two-way radio off her belt. “You’ll get one, too. If I’m serving in the main salon and you’re doing laundry, I’ll radio you, ‘Guest X is coming back, used the on-deck head,’ and then you’ll clean it.

“The master stateroom and baths are forward on this deck,” she said.

Helen wanted to sink into the depths of the cushiony azure bed piled with dark blue pillows. It faced a sixty-inch television. Who’d watch TV when they had a bed like that? she wondered. She caught herself before she said anything. Mira didn’t know she was a newlywed.

“Most rich people’s homes are either fussy or gaudy,” Helen said. “I could actually live here.”

“All you need is twelve million for the yacht and another million a year to run it,” Mira said.

“I’d better start buying lottery tickets,” Helen said.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Mira said. “The crew quarters and guest rooms are on the lower deck.”

Helen was grateful they walked down an ordinary tile staircase instead of climbing a ship’s ladder. “This room is the crew mess and galley,” Mira said.

A beige wraparound booth and table took up the port side. Above it, a wall-mounted TV was tuned to the news. The dock and the yacht interior were displayed on four screens.

Across the room was a small galley. Mira opened a fridge stocked with food, soda and bottled water. “What do you drink?” she asked. “I run on Red Bull.”

“Water’s fine,” Helen said.

“We’ve got a whole shelf,” Mira said. “Help yourself. Any allergies or food you don’t like?”

“Liver,” Helen said.

“Never serve it.”

“Do you really care what I like?” Helen asked.

“When we cruise, you may work twenty hours a day. If the owners come home at four a.m., we have to be ready to serve them drinks and sandwiches or an early breakfast. It’s a demanding job. We try to keep you happy in little ways.”

Two stacked washer-dryer sets churned and hummed next to the galley. Helen noticed the washers were on the bottom and stifled a groan. She’d have to stoop to load them.

“We do laundry from six a.m. till midnight,” Mira said.

“I guess so, if you change the towels after one use,” Helen said.

Mira barged ahead. “We also do the guests’ laundry and ironing, including their underwear.”

“You iron underwear?” Helen didn’t own an iron.

“We have to stop washing and drying at twelve so the crew can sleep,” Mira said.

How am I going to find an emerald smuggler if I’m working twenty hours a day? Helen wondered. If my heart sinks any lower, I’ll need a salvage company.

“You must carry a lot of water to wash clothes eighteen hours a day,” she said.

“The yacht makes its own freshwater,” Mira said. “It pumps seawater.” She turned a metal wheel about the size of a steering wheel. “The secret passage and crew quarters are through this hatch.”

Helen followed her into a narrow, windowless hall. Mira slid open a door. “You’ll share this with Louise, the second stewardess.” The cabin was big enough for two bunks and a three-drawer cabinet. The narrow bathroom was no bigger than Helen’s, but much cleaner.

“Who cleans our rooms?” Helen asked.

“We do,” Mira said. “Some of the boys pay a stewardess to clean for them.”

The passageway grew smaller and lower. Helen bumped her head on a wheel in the ceiling.

“Ouch.” Mira winced. “Are you hurt?”

Helen shook her head no.

“You found the escape hatch,” she said. “It leads to the bosun’s locker. If there’s an emergency, that’s how we get out belowdecks.”

The bosun’s locker, Helen thought. Where the captain found the emeralds.

Mira climbed a metal ladder and twisted the hatch and Helen followed. She saw a gray-painted area the size of a toolshed with neatly stowed boat gear.

They backed down the ladder. Now the narrow passageway made a slight jog. The port side was lined with white plastic caddies and cleaning equipment. “You’ll have your own caddy. Here’s where we go through the looking glass.”

Mira opened a door to a hallway with thick beige carpet. Helen saw the other side of the door was a gold-framed mirror. “That way the guests don’t see us,” she said.

The four staterooms named for Bahamian islands—Andros, Paradise, Bimini and San Salvador—were almost as luxurious as the master suite. Mira opened a louvered door in the Bimini stateroom and said, “You’ll help unpack the guests’ luggage and put away their things.”

Helen saw enough towels in the guest baths to stock a linen store. “Do we clean these baths after every use?”

“Same routine. If the guests take a shower, we wipe down the stall, clean the bathroom, change the towels and soap. We hate people who shower more than once a day. We also restock the soda and bottled water in the guests’ fridges, labels facing out.

“The beds are turned down at night and we put on the sleeping duvet,” Mira said. “The sheets are changed every two days.”

“Good,” Helen said. “That will save a little work.”

“Not much. We iron the sheets on the bed so they look fresh. We dust the hangers and make sure they all the face the same way.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “Dust the hangers?”

Mira shrugged. “The owners want it.”

Helen said nothing. She couldn’t. She’d not only walked through the looking glass—she’d fallen down the rabbit hole.

“You’ll see the rest tomorrow night when you start work. Wear your dress uniform. Remember, no flirting, no nail polish and no makeup.”

“Not even pink lipstick?”

“Nothing.”

Helen realized Mira’s face was makeup free. She didn’t need it with her clear skin.

“And no jewelry,” she said.

“What about your silver barrette?” Helen asked.

“That’s allowed. It keeps my hair out of my eyes, and when I serve dinner, I put my hair up in a twist.”

“Mine slips out of a barrette,” Helen said.

Mira unclipped her distinctive barrette with the slashes of smooth and frosted silver. “Try this one,” she said. “It’s a Ficcare. About forty bucks online at Head Games.”

Helen whistled.

“You’ll save the money on makeup,” Mira said. “You’re not to compete with the women on the yacht. It can cause problems with the guests. This is the serious part, so listen carefully.”

Mira locked eyes with Helen. “The guests are always right. That’s why you’re getting nearly forty thousand dollars a year for an unskilled job. You cannot make a scene. If one of the men gets handsy, let me know. Some of the women can turn nasty.”

“How nasty?” Helen asked.

“These are the wives and girlfriends of rich men. The men give these women everything—except freedom. They feel angry and helpless. The only power they have is to lash out at the stewardess. They may insult you or scream at you.”

“What do I do?” Helen asked.

“Nothing. These women live in pain and pass it on. You’re paid to take it.”

CHAPTER 14

H
elen burst through the door of Coronado Investigations and found Phil frowning at his computer screen, barricaded behind a stack of foam coffee cups. His gray metal desk was awash with printouts. All signs her partner was working. But Helen was facing a week of hard labor. She felt trapped and resentful.

Phil smiled when he saw her. “How is the job with the ocean view?” he asked.

“Some view,” Helen said. “The only water I’ll see is in a toilet bowl. I’m working twenty hours a day washing clothes, scrubbing, vacuuming carpets. I have to stay in the tracks. You can wipe that smirk off your face, Phil Sagemont. Unless you want to sleep alone on our last night together.”

She paced their office in tight, angry circles.

“Come here,” he said, softly. “Sit down and talk to me.”

“I can’t sit,” Helen said. “I’d rather keep moving.”

“I’d rather hold you.” Phil caught her as she passed him, and pulled her onto his lap. She struggled briefly, then stayed there, enjoying the comfort of his strong arms. She inhaled his soothing scent of coffee and sandalwood and sighed.

“Tell me what you’ll be doing on the yacht,” Phil said, “and why you’re vacuuming in the tracks, whatever those are.”

Helen explained, detailing her duties. “Talk about pointless work. If these people were any cleaner, they’d live in plastic bubbles. How can I find a smuggler when I’m a seagoing Cinderella?”

“A well-paid Cinderella,” he said, kissing her eyelids. “I’ll be your prince.” He kissed her nose next.

Helen pushed him away. “I didn’t tell you the best part. I’m supposed to be a verbal punching bag for bimbos. I won’t take it.”