Mask on the Cruise Ship Read Online Free Page B

waxed mustache agitatedly and snapping out orders to every ship’s steward he passed. Such as: “Make sure the Helpful Hints suggestion box is polished every day!”
    â€œWhat if Julie’s masked burglar follows her on board?” I demanded.
    I leaned on the railing and surveyed the two thousand or so people sardined into Vancouver’s cruise ship terminal below. Being a performer, I’d got to board early, bringing Mother and Madge with me. Like Jack, for this one week I was a member of the Happy Escapes Cruise Lines staff.
    The regular passengers faced a longer wait, what with checking in their luggage and getting through U.S. customs. I could tell they were growing impatient; a lot of the faces below me were scrunched into grimaces.
    But was the masked burglar anywhere among those faces? All I knew about him was that he was slight, about five nine — and had gooseberry-colored eyes.
    And that he loathed brussels sprouts.
    After showing up at our house, the police had found one witness, the next block over, who’d spotted a man in black hobbling into a battered Volkswagen van. The man had, the witness said, been chewing something — with his mouth pursed in utter distaste.
    Okay, so his taste buds were normal even if his morals weren’t, I thought. I scanned the crowd, admittedly a useless exercise since I couldn’t see eye color from here.
    â€œThat and the sea air will soon put our masked trellis-breaker out of your mind,” Mother was saying — not without a certain pleading note in her voice. She knew me too well.
    I hadn’t heard the first part of what she’d said. “ What and the sea air?” I demanded.
    Madge treated me to a sweet, sadistic smile. “Why, the swimming lessons Jack’s going to give you, Di. He’s signed you up. A private half-hour lesson every day of the cruise.”
    At long last passengers were being allowed up the gangway. I’d intended to scrutinize each of them for gooseberry eyes, but this horrifying pronouncement distracted me.
    â€œWHAT? No way. You know I have a phobia about water.” And I did. With my glasses off, everything was a frightening blur, the sides of the pool vanishing while the water engulfed me.
    Mr. Trotter had bustled to the top of the gangway to greet passengers. “You’ll love it here,” he assured them. “At Happy Escapes we pride ourselves on the soothing quality of our vacation.”
    â€œEveryone should learn to swim, Ms. Dinah-mite,” Jack was saying.
    â€œWe offer card games, afternoon movies …” Mr. Trotter went on.
    â€œAn important skill,” Jack continued to me.
    â€œHot chocolate, massages … ”
    â€œSadism,” I corrected Jack, scowling.
    Mr. Trotter nodded happily at the oncoming passengers. “Sadism … WHAT!?” He whipped round, mustache curls bobbing, to glare at me.
    Jack grinned. “Sorry, Mr. T. Dinah was just complimenting me on my poolside manner. In her own jesting way, of course.”
    The program director narrowed his rather beady black eyes at the four of us. “No trouble,” he said through gritted teeth. “Is that understood?”
    Then he jabbed a forefinger close to Jack’s freckled nose. “And NO HUMOR, young man.”
    â€œRight,” said Jack.
    Mr. Trotter reminded me of the producer of the play I’d been in last fall. He’d been humorless too. And he definitely hadn’t liked me. I seemed to have trouble with authority figures.
    A heavily perfumed and made-up woman in a mink coat stepped off the gangway. Mr. Trotter put on his most fawning smile, clapped his hands and oozed, “So sorry not to pay attention to you, Mrs. Figg. I was trying to deal with one of my performers. Sometimes they’re not quite … ” He tapped the side of his head and shrugged.
    â€œPreparing to sing?”
    A man with shiny black hair tied into a ponytail was