Playing for Keeps (10 page)

It took little more than five minutes for our bus to return to the parking lot near the dock. Tired and sticky from the humidity, I trudged after Glory across the hot asphalt, with Neil at my side and Julieta bringing up the rear.

A fishing boat, pungent with the smell of fish, was tied to the side of the dock near us. Clustered on the dock above the boat, staring down into the hold, were a number of bystanders.

“Must have a big catch,” Glory said. “What would they fish for here? Snapper?”

“Could be shark or barracuda, to draw that much interest,” Neil answered.

“Let’s go and see,” Julieta said. She snatched at Neil’s hand and took a step forward.

“Why? It’s hot, and I’m sticky. Besides, I’m not that interested in fish,” he told her.

“If it’s a big shark, I want to see it,” Julieta said. She hurried ahead, tugging Neil after her.

I walked behind them, squeezing into an empty space at the side of the dock next to Glory, and stared down into the open hold of the boat.

There, bent over a tangled web of netting, stood two uniformed men who were probably local police, one man in a business suit, and two officers from the ship. One of the ship’s officers, who had been down on one knee, got to his feet, and the others moved back.

“Did you get the piece of fabric that was twisted in his right hand?” the ship’s officer asked one of the uniformed men.

“Yes.” The man held up a scrap of light blue cloth, then dropped it into an envelope. “It looks like a pocket from a shirt.”

“Torn off in a struggle?”

“Could be.”

“Do you think it could have been robbery?” the ship’s officer asked. “His wallet’s in his pocket, but his jewelry is gone. As I remember, on the ship he wore a large gold ring with his initial on it.”

The man in the business suit said, “As you see, the bruise is on the left side of the head. Must have been a left-handed assailant.”

Someone else spoke but I didn’t hear what was said. My attention was riveted on the body lying in the fishing nets. Even with the dark bruise that discolored the left side of his head, it was easy to recognize the Cuban military officer, Major Carlos Cepeda.

9

I STIFLED A CRY AND TURNED, HURRYING AWAY FROM the edge of the dock. Glory, Neil, and Julieta followed me.

Glory’s face was pale, and she clung to my arm. “How awful,” she whispered. “I heard them say that man was on the ship with us.”

“He’s the officer who came aboard to arrest Ricky and take him back to Cuba,” I answered. “He’s the one who left those flyers offering a reward for Ricky.” I gulped, fighting the queasiness that rolled in my stomach. I couldn’t erase from my mind the dark, sightless eyes that stared upward.

“He’s Major Carlos Cepeda.”

I wished there were a place to sit down. My legs wobbled, and the air seemed thick and hard to breathe. “When did this happen?” I wondered aloud.

Julieta shrugged. “Probably early this morning. The fishermen found his body about a mile out.”

I stared at Julieta. “How do you know?”

“The men were talking. Didn’t you hear them?” Julieta shrugged again, as if the question were unimportant, but two pink spots burned in her cheeks.

“No, I didn’t hear them,” I said.

“Then you should have been listening—like I was.”

Glory turned to Julieta with interest. “What else did you hear about his death?” I was thankful to see that color had returned to her face. The frail, shaken woman had disappeared, and she looked more like the strong, in-charge Glory I was used to.

Julieta paused for a moment. “Nothing,” she answered. She looked at me and added, “The major should have stayed in Cuba, where he belonged.”

“The guy’s dead. Don’t sound so bitter,” Neil told her.

“I’m not bitter,” Julieta said. “I just think the major got what he deserved. It’s because of Castro’s people, like Major Cepeda, that I never saw my grandparents.”

It suddenly occurred to me that Julieta hadn’t been surprised when I’d told her who Major Cepeda was. “You knew he had come to arrest Ricky,” I told her.

Julieta met my stare. “I told you not to keep secrets from me. I find out everything.”

Neil sheepishly cleared his throat. “Julieta asked me where Ricky was, and I told her he was under house arrest, so she asked why. It wasn’t exactly secret knowledge. With those flyers out offering a reward for his return to Cuba, most of the people on the ship would have known about him sooner or later.”

“Neil is right,” Glory said. She patted his arm. “We can’t do anything here. Let’s get back to the ship.”

I dutifully walked with the others down the long pier toward the ship. Glory and Neil were talking about the climb up the falls, but I didn’t join their conversation. I was aware that Julieta was just as silent. Maybe the sight of Major Cepeda’s body had disturbed her, too.

I had been shaken by the photographs of Raúl’s body, but the lifeless body of Major Cepeda was even harder to take. There was no way his death could have been an accident. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to fall from an upper deck. There were plenty of barriers and railings. Even though I wanted to believe that Major Cepeda had simply fallen, hitting his head on the way down, I knew the police and ship officers were right. It had to be murder. In the darkness, before the faint morning light would draw out the early joggers, someone had probably struck the major, killing him or knocking him unconscious, then dumped him over the railing, sure that his body would never be found.

But who would lure the major to the top deck? And how? From what I’d overheard, it was a left-handed person wearing a light blue shirt. Among nearly three thousand passengers, how could that person be found?

I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that Ricky had been under guard the entire night. There was no way he could be a suspect.

But what about his uncle, who had left the ship and taken a taxi to the airport? Had he abandoned Ricky? Had he run away?

Was Martín Urbino a murderer?

No!
I told myself.
Don’t even think like that.
Ricky’s uncle is going to do everything he can to
help him reach freedom, not hurt his cause.

As I stepped onto the ship’s gangway, I hoped with all my heart that Ricky’s uncle Martín had already returned.

If the major had been pitched overboard, it was a good guess that the weapon had been too. No weapon. No eyewitnesses. As I followed Glory to our stateroom, I tried to think of what would happen next. A murderer was on this ship, and no one knew who it was.

Glory opened the stateroom door and stepped inside, but I had a question that still needed an answer. I walked over to the guard at Ricky’s stateroom door. “Were you on duty here last night?” I asked.

He nodded, so I went on. “Could you testify that neither of the Urbinos left the stateroom during the night?”

He sat up straight and really looked at me for the first time. “Could I testify? What are you talking about?”

“What you know to be true. That neither of them left the stateroom until this morning.”

He frowned, studying me. “I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

I was pretty sure he hadn’t heard yet about the major’s death. I wasn’t going to tell him. I just wanted an answer to my question. “You’re guarding the stateroom. You would have kept Ricky Urbino from leaving at any time during the night, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. That’s my job.”

“What about his uncle?”

“That’s not my job. He has the freedom of the ship.”

“Was he in the stateroom all night too?”

“Sure.” The guard nodded.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling with relief.

But he added, “Until about four A.M. He told me he couldn’t sleep. He was going to the library to read. He was gone for over an hour.”

“Thanks,” I said again, although it was hard to speak. The guard would have no way of knowing whether Mr. Urbino had really visited the library or had gone to the top deck to meet Major Cepeda. No one would know except Mr. Urbino himself. I needed to talk to Ricky.

According to the ship’s schedule, that evening’s dinner was black-tie, so I showered and then dressed with care in my creamy satin formal. After I had swept up my hair in what my mother called a French roll, I added the pearl earrings and necklace Glory had given me for my sixteenth birthday.

Glory took one look at me and said, “Wow! You look gorgeous! Neil’s going to be knocked out.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Glory, I’m not interested in impressing Neil.”

“Why not? He likes you. I can tell.”

“You’re imagining things. He’s just a nice, polite, friendly guy.”

“Just what I told you in the beginning. The right kind of date for you. I’m glad you’ve come around to my way of thinking.”

Frustrated, I tried to explain. “Glory, I haven’t come around to your way of thinking, and I don’t need anyone to find dates for me. Neil is . . . well, he’s just Neil.”

“And you’re involved in some silly romantic notion about a boy who is soon going back to Cuba,” she said, her eyes flashing.

This was not a contest I could win—not without an argument, and there wasn’t going to be one. Glory had been supergenerous to take me on this cruise and to do so many nice things for me. I picked up my small beaded handbag and walked to the door. “You’re right about Neil being a nice guy,” I said. “Are you ready to go to dinner?”

But Neil wasn’t just Neil . . . not in a tuxedo. Even though the lapels were a little too wide and the sleeves too short, he still looked terrific.
But
then,
I reminded myself,
what guy isn’t handsome
in a tux?

He looked surprised as he glanced at me. “You look different all dressed up,” he said.

“Should I take that as a compliment?” I asked.

For a moment he looked totally puzzled. Then he said, “Well . . . yeah.”

It was kind of funny, in a weird way. Being able to spout baseball scores would have impressed him more than the way I looked in my formal. Not that I had any interest in impressing him.

Across the way I saw Ricky walk into the restaurant alone and sit at the table assigned to him and his uncle. He wasn’t wearing a tux, but over his slacks he had on a dark sports coat, white dress shirt, and tie. Even without the glamour of evening wear, he looked wonderful to me.

I glanced from Ricky to the empty chair across our table. “Where’s Mrs. Evans?” I asked.

Mrs. Duncastle leaned across Neil to tell me, “Poor Myra is worn out from the shopping tour we went on. She has no stamina—at least not as much as I had at her age.”

“She won’t be here for dinner?”

“No. She’s having room service.”

“Rosie,” Glory began.

I heard the caution in her voice and knew she was mind reading, so I spoke a little more loudly, hurrying to ask everyone at the table, “Would anyone mind if I invited a friend who’s alone to join us for dinner?”

Our waiter arrived, cheerfully greeting everyone as he handed out the evening’s menu. All the women smiled and nodded at me and told me they’d be glad to meet my friend. Glory alone was silent, the expression on her face telling me that she wasn’t pleased with what I was doing.

Pretending I hadn’t received her message, I pushed back my chair and hurried to Ricky’s table.

As he looked up at me, his eyes widened, and he smiled. Rising to his feet, he stumbled, catching my hand for balance. “You are a most beautiful Rose,” he said. He raised my hand to his lips.

Knowing that everyone at our table was probably watching, I breathed deeply, forced my heart to slow down, and took a step back. “Will your uncle be joining you for dinner?” I asked.

Ricky lowered his voice. “Uncle Martín has left the ship.”

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere in the United States by now, I hope.”

I clung to Ricky’s hand, suddenly frightened. “Why did he leave you? Was it because . . .” I couldn’t finish.

Ricky didn’t seem to notice. “He has friends with connections. He is hoping to gather some strong support for me so that I will not be detained and returned to Cuba when I reach the United States.”

“Then it wasn’t . . .” Again I stopped in mid-sentence.

“Wasn’t what?” Ricky looked puzzled.

It seemed obvious that he hadn’t heard about Major Cepeda, and there was no way I could break the news easily. “Ricky,” I blurted out, “Major Cepeda’s body was found by some fishermen.”

“His
body
?” Ricky sat down suddenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“There was a large bruise on his head. He either fell from the ship, striking his head on the way down, or he was . . . he was . . .”

“Or he was murdered,” Ricky said. “Isn’t that what you are trying to say? Rose, my uncle would never be guilty of this.”

“I didn’t say he was.”

He looked up at me. “Don’t even think it. Neither Uncle Martín nor I had anything to do with Major Cepeda’s death.”

“I believe you,” I said. And I did. I took him at his word, but there were questions I needed to ask.

“Ricky,” I said, “last night you were confined to your stateroom. With a guard at the door there was no way you could have left during the night. But according to the guard, your uncle left the stateroom to read in the library between four and five this morning.”

I could see the wheels turning in Ricky’s mind. His expression changed from defensiveness to concern. “My uncle
did
leave,” he said in a low voice. “He awoke before dawn. He was restless. He had told me his plans to fly to the United States, and he could not sleep. He wanted to read for a while without disturbing me.”

Taking a deep breath, I quickly said, “Don’t get angry with me for asking. I want to make sure your uncle won’t be accused of the crime. Was he wearing a light blue shirt?”

“I don’t know what he was wearing,” Ricky said.

“Does he have a light blue shirt—maybe a polo shirt with a pocket?”

“Yes.”

Feeling even worse about the answers, I came to the last question. “Is your uncle left-handed?”

Ricky smiled. “Neil could answer that for you. Uncle Martín was famous as a left-handed batter.”

At the moment all I could think of regarding baseball was “three strikes and you’re out.”

Ricky watched me intently, his eyes filled with hope. “Were these the right answers?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. Maybe Mr. Urbino was responsible for Major Cepeda’s death, and maybe he wasn’t. The only way to find out was to discover who really had committed the murder.

I couldn’t do it alone. I needed help from someone who would think logically and not be biased one way or the other. Ricky would definitely be biased. Julieta, with her hatred for the Cuban government, would too. Only Neil could be objective— Neil, who was a reliable, nice guy. Yes. I’d talk to him about it as soon as I could.

Motioning toward our table, I said, “Ricky, this is no time for you to be alone. Please join us for dinner.”

“You are right,” Ricky said. A faint smile flickered on his lips. “I need to be with someone. I want to be with you.”

He stood, and I realized I was still holding his hand. Was I comforting him, or was he comforting me? “Rose,” he said, again sliding softly over the sounds in my name, “Uncle Martín will do what he can to help me gain political asylum.”