your things right now,” said Mariah. “Then I’m afraid I have some work to do.”
• • •
The crew quarters were not as cramped or as depressing as I’d been led to believe. True, at the doorway leading down into the ship’s bowels, all the nice carpet and woodwork stopped and were replaced with thin green carpeting and steel walls and, as Mariah had warned me, no windows.
The narrow corridors were lit by overhead lights and wound around oversized pipes and other bits of ship machinery I couldn’t begin to figure out. As Mariah led the way with one of my bags, I followed with the other and worked hard at remembering each twist and turn.
We passed only two other crew members. Mariah said hello but didn’t introduce me, and no one asked. Good. We soon came into a series of corridors with dozens of cabin doors on each side. Mariah used her electronic key card on one of them.
Our cabin was perhaps half the size of the guest cabins, painted a cheery light yellow, with a ceiling that curved gently over a pair of bunk beds. Mariah, I could see, had taken the upper, probably in deference to Giselle, the eightysomething accordionist.
“Is the bottom okay for you?” she asked.
“Perfect,” I said. “And I just want to thank you again for coming to my rescue.”
“No problem. If you want to know the truth, I miss having a roomie. Giselle was a hoot. Did you know the song ‘Lady of Spain’ was written by Englishmen? It’s true.”
Despite the close quarters, the built-in cabinets had hooks and drawers for everything—a Winnebago was wasteful by comparison—and I had no problem squaring myself away. Mariah ended the orientation by handing me Giselle’s key card, coded to open both the general crew passage and our cabin.
Mariah checked her watch, the fifth time she’d done it since we arrived. “I gotta go,” she said, sweeping her long copper hair back over her shoulders. “Make yourself at home. You remember the way out?”
“Of course,” I said, meaning
maybe
.
“Good. I’ll see you at dinner.” She spent the next ten seconds checking her hair and freckled face in the mirror.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Just business,” she said over her shoulder. And she was gone.
Why didn’t I follow her, you’re probably asking. Stupid Natalie. Or warn her. I could have sat her down on the edge of my bunk and explained what I’d overheard at the beach club. But I knew how she would have reacted to such a crazy warning. And as for following her, I tried.
After the door closed, I counted to three, then eased it open and turned right down the corridor, retracing our steps. I went as quickly and as quietly as I could, making all the turns just as I remembered them, seeing all the landmarks I’d noticed on our way in: the crew lounge, the cafeteria. But as quickly as I walked, I never found her.
When I got to the stairway going up, two cabin stewards were blocking the way, chatting in Spanish. They stepped aside as soon as they saw me, not in the least curious about this unknown intruder in their private space.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Did Mariah come by here? Mariah Linkletter? Cruise director? Red hair? Did you see her?”
Both of them seemed to understand. And both of them shook their heads.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Monk and the Alibi
“I t only took two hours to get everything cleaned. And I only used two maids. Two maids plus me, so I guess that’s the equivalent of four maids.”
I felt a little insulted. “Adrian, I spent all of one night in that room.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I’m surprised it only took two hours. Can’t you take a compliment?”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and I’m sorry you spilled a bottle of Chanel No. 5. I know how expensive that is.”
“I didn’t spill anything. I used a drop or two last night behind my ears. Is that a crime?”
“Getting rid of the smell took the maids half an hour. Don’t worry, I paid for
• • •
The crew quarters were not as cramped or as depressing as I’d been led to believe. True, at the doorway leading down into the ship’s bowels, all the nice carpet and woodwork stopped and were replaced with thin green carpeting and steel walls and, as Mariah had warned me, no windows.
The narrow corridors were lit by overhead lights and wound around oversized pipes and other bits of ship machinery I couldn’t begin to figure out. As Mariah led the way with one of my bags, I followed with the other and worked hard at remembering each twist and turn.
We passed only two other crew members. Mariah said hello but didn’t introduce me, and no one asked. Good. We soon came into a series of corridors with dozens of cabin doors on each side. Mariah used her electronic key card on one of them.
Our cabin was perhaps half the size of the guest cabins, painted a cheery light yellow, with a ceiling that curved gently over a pair of bunk beds. Mariah, I could see, had taken the upper, probably in deference to Giselle, the eightysomething accordionist.
“Is the bottom okay for you?” she asked.
“Perfect,” I said. “And I just want to thank you again for coming to my rescue.”
“No problem. If you want to know the truth, I miss having a roomie. Giselle was a hoot. Did you know the song ‘Lady of Spain’ was written by Englishmen? It’s true.”
Despite the close quarters, the built-in cabinets had hooks and drawers for everything—a Winnebago was wasteful by comparison—and I had no problem squaring myself away. Mariah ended the orientation by handing me Giselle’s key card, coded to open both the general crew passage and our cabin.
Mariah checked her watch, the fifth time she’d done it since we arrived. “I gotta go,” she said, sweeping her long copper hair back over her shoulders. “Make yourself at home. You remember the way out?”
“Of course,” I said, meaning
maybe
.
“Good. I’ll see you at dinner.” She spent the next ten seconds checking her hair and freckled face in the mirror.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Just business,” she said over her shoulder. And she was gone.
Why didn’t I follow her, you’re probably asking. Stupid Natalie. Or warn her. I could have sat her down on the edge of my bunk and explained what I’d overheard at the beach club. But I knew how she would have reacted to such a crazy warning. And as for following her, I tried.
After the door closed, I counted to three, then eased it open and turned right down the corridor, retracing our steps. I went as quickly and as quietly as I could, making all the turns just as I remembered them, seeing all the landmarks I’d noticed on our way in: the crew lounge, the cafeteria. But as quickly as I walked, I never found her.
When I got to the stairway going up, two cabin stewards were blocking the way, chatting in Spanish. They stepped aside as soon as they saw me, not in the least curious about this unknown intruder in their private space.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Did Mariah come by here? Mariah Linkletter? Cruise director? Red hair? Did you see her?”
Both of them seemed to understand. And both of them shook their heads.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Monk and the Alibi
“I t only took two hours to get everything cleaned. And I only used two maids. Two maids plus me, so I guess that’s the equivalent of four maids.”
I felt a little insulted. “Adrian, I spent all of one night in that room.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I’m surprised it only took two hours. Can’t you take a compliment?”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and I’m sorry you spilled a bottle of Chanel No. 5. I know how expensive that is.”
“I didn’t spill anything. I used a drop or two last night behind my ears. Is that a crime?”
“Getting rid of the smell took the maids half an hour. Don’t worry, I paid for
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