A Deadly Silver Sea, page 1
part #4 of Zack Chasteen Series
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Praise For Bob Morris And His Mysteries
BERMUDA SCHWARTZ
“Likable characters and an evocative setting…a book to be taken seriously.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Gets its heft from crackling dialogue and Zach’s equal-footed and realistic relationship with his paramour…a series that will bring Morris even more fans with subsequent installments.”
—Baltimore Sun
“A briskly paced, engaging story full of fun tidbits on Bermuda’s culture and history. His humor, too, keeps us entertained.”
—Miami Herald
“Wry humor and engaging Bermuda history help propel the plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A Bermuda idyll that mixes three parts rum to one part Da Vinci Code.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“As brisk and refreshing as a summer breeze with a gusty strength that sustains the story.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
JAMAICA ME DEAD
“[A] zany sophomore effort.…The tropical backdrop and Zack’s wisecracking commentary make for another crackling whodunit for Morris.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Good-natured…the Jamaica background the biggest plus.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A year-round summer read…thanks to smart, polished prose; an affable narrator; swift, straightforward plotting in bite-sized chapters; and [a] fun, exotic setting.”
—Booklist
“The splash that Morris made with last year’s Edgar-nominated Bahamarama becomes a tidal surge with his highly entertaining second novel. Briskly paced…Morris joins the ranks of Florida authors such as James O. Born and Claire Matturro whose second novel is even stronger than the first.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“Bahamarama is no fluke. While Morris can’t be called the Carl Hiaasen of South Florida—there already is one—he comes closest to what fans of comedic mysteries are looking for when they hear that comparison.”
—Flint Journal
“A bumpy, tightly wound ride, with enough cliff-hangers and red herrings to satisfy even the most jaded mystery buff.”
—Sarasota Herald-Tribune
“Great characterizations, a thorough knowledge of his locales, plus an easy-breezy style that’s hard to resist make Bob Morris’s Jamaica Me Dead another must-read. A new mystery series that’s smart, funny, and slightly off-klitter.”
—BookLoons
BAHAMARAMA
“I was wondering when Bob Morris would finally get around to writing a novel, and it was worth the wait. Bahamarama is sly, smart, cheerfully twisted, and very funny. Morris is a natural.”
—Carl Hiaasen
“Bob Morris, a terrific writer and Florida boy, has created a marvelous tale that perfectly captures the nation’s strangest state. Like Florida itself, Bahamarama is wild, weird, unpredictable, populated by exotic denizens—and funny as hell.”
—Dave Barry
“Chasteen makes a fine hero, one who lives by his own rules…a highly enjoyable way to pass an afternoon.”
—Miami Herald
“Morris captures the islands and local people well…a great bullets-and-beaches book to pack on your next trip.”
—Caribbean Travel & Life
“This book stands out. It’s a fun and engrossing read from an author who expertly knows the lay of the land and the sea.”
—Michael Connelly
“Bob Morris is as tough and fast as Elmore Leonard.”
—Randy Wayne White
ALSO BY BOB MORRIS
Bermuda Schwartz
Jamaica Me Dead
Bahamarama
A DEADLY
SILVER SEA
Bob Morris
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A DEADLY SILVER SEA
Copyright © 2008 by Bob Morris.
Excerpt from Baja Florida copyright © 2009 by Bob Morris.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
EAN: 978-0-312-56743-9
Printed in the United States of America
Minotaur hardcover edition / December 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / December 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For the crew: Debbie, Bo, and Dash
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The research, that’s the fun part. And in the case of this book, I am grateful to Trish Reynales and Marika McElroy, editors at Virtuoso Life, who offered me a couple of plum assignments to travel aboard small, luxury cruise ships and write about it for that fine magazine. First came the Seabourn Spirit, a three-week cruise from Hong Kong to Vietnam, Thailand, and Singapore. Next was a ten-day sojourn on the Silver Whisper, part of the Silversea fleet, through the eastern Ca rib be an. In both instances, the experience was nothing less than stellar and neither of those most excellent ships should be mistaken as a model for the Royal Star and the hell that ensues in these pages. Still, as anyone who has spent time on cruise ships might similarly testify, there were some passengers who deserved killing.
I am forever indebted to Fred Brock, of Fernandina Beach, a veteran of several cruise-ship lines and a man who possesses a seemingly endless knowledge of their inner workings. Not only did Fred create “A Cruise Ship Primer for Mystery Writers” just for me, he was on call during the months it took to write this book, always available to answer questions like “What kind of ceiling tiles are in the crew cabins?” and “How do you lower a lifeboat?” If I got anything wrong, and that’s a distinct likelihood, then it is all my fault and not Fred’s.
As always, I relied on the expert knowledge of several sources at the U.S. Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). As always, they asked not to be identified. Actually, demanded is more like it. Anyway, they know who they are and I thank them.
Marc Resnick, Sarah Lumnah, Harriet Seltzer, Andy Martin, Sally Richardson, Hector DeJean, and all the good people at St. Martin’s Minotaur indulged me as this boat of a book took its own sweet time to reach home port. Ditto with Joe Veltre, of Artists Literary Group, who is too much of a gentleman to ever begin a conversation with “So when are you going to finish the damn thing?”
As for my wife, Debbie, she asked me that almost every morning. But she’s my first reader, my sounding board, my compass. And she can get away with it.
Thanks all.
ULTRA-LUXE CRUISE SHIP
LAUNCHES WITH GLITTER
AND GLAMOUR
By Tom Wallace
Miami Herald Staff Writer
MIAMI—The 430-foot Royal Star, hailed as the most exclusive cruise ship in the world, sails today from the Port of Miami on its much-anticipated inaugural voyage. On board—250 cases of $100-a-bottle champagne, 100 pounds of beluga caviar, and a star-studded guest list.
“It will be a week-long floating party,” said Heissam “Sam” Jebailey, the Florida entrepreneur who spent a reported $400 million building the Royal Star.
The ship’s itinerary has been kept secret—not even its glitterati passengers know where the Royal Star is going.
“I call it Sam’s mystery cruise,” said interior designer and society maven Marie Lutey, one of just 100 invitees. “It’s fine by me if we never set foot in port. The ship is fabulous, a waterborne Taj Mahal.”
An exaggeration, perhaps, but only a slight one.
In addition to its plush suites, the Royal Star boasts a luxurious spa and four restaurants. For recreation and diversion, guests can shoot trap and skeet, exercise with personal trainers, gamble in the casino, or take out a Jet Ski, part of a fleet of 30 personal watercraft in the ship’s onboard marina. Guests will be waited on by their own private butlers and can take advantage of 24-hour concierge service.
“With a 120-person crew, we have the highest crew-to-passenger ratio in the industry,” says Captain Thorvald Falk. “This is far and away the finest ship I’ve ever had the pleasure to be at the helm of.”
It’s also a relatively green machine. Unlike standard cruise ships, which rely on diesel fuel, the Royal Star employs state-of-the-art turbine engines. And an onboard wastewater treatment facility purifies any discha rges while the ship is at sea.
The Royal Star would seem to reverse a trend that has led the cruise industry to create larger and larger ships. At the top of the heap is King of the Seas, a 1,500-foot-long behemoth that can carry more than 5,200 passengers with a crew of almost 2,000. But exclusivity comes at a price. The average cost for a week aboard King of the Seas is about $2,200, while a week’s passage on the Royal Star will run about $10,000.
“The Royal Star is for those who expect and deserve the best of the best,” said Jebailey. “I guarantee our passengers will have the time of their lives.”
A DEADLY
SILVER SEA
BON VOYAGE
1
The topic of conversation was boob jobs. And Barbara Pickering thought the bejeweled matron sitting at a table next to ours was too old for one.
“I mean really, she must be every day of seventy,” Barbara said. “It looks creepy.”
“Like someone erected a pup tent on her chest,” I said.
“Probably brand-new. Bought just for the cruise.”
“Safety measure,” I said. “The ship goes down, she can use them as flotation devices.”
We were two hours out of port aboard the Royal Star, chugging across the Gulf Stream, Miami just an insolent glow on the pistol butt of Florida.
The bon voyage bash was in full swing. Much popping of champagne corks, much nibbling from long silver trays offered by tuxedoed waiters, much merry buzz from passengers gathered on the main deck.
All in all, a pretty swank crowd. Not that I was much good at recognizing A-list types. That was Barbara’s job.
She pointed out an actor or two or three. A fashion model who had just married a tennis star. A film director chatting up a brand-name heiress. A famous lawyer, a famous artist, a famous somebody else. And a scattering of corporate tycoons who, even though the suggested attire for the evening was something called “casual elegant,” had shown up in suits anyway. Some guys are just like that.
A waiter moved in with a long silver tray. Barbara took a big dab of caviar. She scooped up some tempura prawns when they came around a few minutes later. An enthusiastic eater, Barbara. Just one of many things I love about her.
I was saving my gluttonous self for the tray of stone crab claws that was slowly heading in our direction. Much too slowly, in my opinion. We were two days into stone crab season, October 17 to be exact. You couldn’t get claws much fresher than the ones on that tray. Not unless you pulled the pots yourself.
The waiter serving the stone crabs was a compact fellow of Asian extraction with shiny black hair and busy eyes. He stopped at Pup Tent’s table. He saw me watching him and smiled, lips parting just enough to reveal a shiny gold tooth.
Pup Tent and her pals helped themselves to the claws. They spooned out pale yellow sauce from a bowl on the tray, the same mustard sauce they serve at Joe’s in South Beach. Colman’s dry mustard, Hellmann’s mayo, A1, Worcestershire, and just a bit of heavy cream. I had the recipe down cold, often used it with boiled shrimp. It is the kind of sauce you can dip your finger into and happily gnaw it to the bone.
I began making room on the table. I managed not to drool, but I did let out a few anticipatory grunts. I do love stone crabs.
But it was not to be. As the waiter started our way, he was intercepted by the maître d’, a short, dark, heavyset man with a mustache and slicked-back hair. The two of them huddled for a moment, then the maître d’ waved for the other four waiters and they all disappeared through a set of double doors.
I thought about chasing them down, but my focus was broken when Pup Tent stood up. She strolled past our table. Everything about her—eyes, cheekbones, boobs, butt—defied gravity. It was like staring at a car wreck. Couldn’t help but.
“Really,” Barbara said. “One shouldn’t be terrified of a tiny bit of sag. It’s only natural.”
I looked at Barbara. More specifically, I looked at her breasts.
“I like natural,” I said.
Barbara smiled. She sat up straight, all the better for me to admire her.
“And what is your position on sag?”
I observed her breasts some more. Lately, there had been an increasing amount of them to observe.
“With you, it is not a matter of sag.”
“What would you call it then?”
“I would call it fullness. I would call it abundance. I would call it plentitude.”
“And I would call you quite full of it.” She stroked my cheek. “But in the best possible way.”
The band was one of those cruise-ship ensembles that can play just about anything and, in the process, suck the soul right out of it. They started in on “What a Wonderful World.” The lead singer was no Satchmo. Didn’t really make any difference. It’s one of those songs that no matter how badly the band plays it, you want to reach out and hold the one you love.
Barbara took my hand.
“Let’s dance,” she said.
We were the first couple on the floor. I held Barbara close. Well, as close as the situation would allow. Dancing cheek to cheek was out of the question. But belly to belly worked just fine.
Barbara flinched.
“Ooh,” she said, “did you feel Critter kick?”
“I did,” I said. “Must like the oldie-goldies.”
Another kick. And then another.
“Critter’s dancing,” said Barbara.
“A regular Rockettes chorus line.”
“Which would indicate a girl.”
“Not necessarily so,” I said. “Boys can grow up to dance in chorus lines.”
“And that wouldn’t bother you?”
“What?”
“To have a son who danced in a chorus line?”
“Not in the least,” I said. “However Critter comes out is fine by me.”
“Me, too.”
The band kept playing songs we liked, and we kept dancing. I could waltz through hell with Barbara Pickering and it would be just fine with me.
Truth was, being on a cruise ship, even the world’s most luxurious one, came pretty close to my personal vision of hell. For Barbara, it was just another day at work. She is owner/publisher of Tropics, the best travel magazine in the world. Not that I’m prejudiced in such matters. But such is her standing in the business that she was the only media type invited to join the Royal Star on its maiden voyage. Copies of the most recent issue of Tropics adorned all the tables, the Royal Star gracing its cover.
I’m Barbara’s husband, her chattel and helpmate. I was along for the ride.
My name is Zack Chasteen. And my résumé would include abundant use of the word “former.” I am a former football player (Florida Gators, Miami Dolphins, blew out a knee), a former inmate of federal prison (subsequently pardoned on all counts), and a former charter captain/fishing guide/dive-boat operator (gave it up when I decided that trying to make money on the water was ruining my love for it).
Nowadays, I am owner and head flunky of Chasteen’s Palm Tree Nursery in LaDonna, Florida. I grow and sell rare specimen palms. It’s a business I inherited from my grandfather, and it includes thirty-some-odd acres along Redfish Lagoon, just south of Minorca Beach, where I make my home.
Let me rephrase that. It’s where Barbara and I make our home. I’m still enough of a newlywed that the whole collective pronoun thing throws me for a loop sometimes.
In any event, on the evening the Royal Star set out from Miami, bound for ports unknown, Barbara and I were celebrating our six-month anniversary. And she was roughly eight months pregnant. If that upsets your sensibilities, I have three words: Get a grip.
The band segued into “Slow Boat to China.”
“I’m glad we came,” Barbara said.
“Me, too.”
“You’re just saying that. You hate being on a cruise ship.”
“I don’t hate being on a cruise ship with you.”
